Wandering around the supermarket, encountering a pack of bacon stuffed onto the cereal shelf, or a loaf of bread precariously balanced amongst the lemons. I presume the miscreant shopper was so overcome by the special offer in question that they had no time to return the former object of their affections to its proper place. They clearly don’t understand the difference between leaving meat in a refrigerated and non-refrigerated aisle!
Most of us will be familiar with the idea of the Antichrist from popular culture and films. In Monty-Python terms, if Jesus is a very naughty boy, the Antichrist is very naughty indeed! There seems to be some confusion over the nature of the Antichrist however, with some suggesting it is a metaphorical reference to the sin in every man. If we supposed that the Antichrist was indeed a man (or woman), what might he be like? What might motivate him? What makes him fit for the job? Does he ever have doubts? Does he like ice-cream?
Sam simply stared. She lay on her back, spreadeagled, looking at the stars. Her bed was glowing softly in a blue-white light. The rest of her room had gone, leaving just her, her bed, and the vast starlit blackness. No breeze, sound, or heartbeat served to give any indication of time. In fact, the soundless vacuum denied every attempt to cough or speak. If Sam had the slightest interest in astronomy she may have noticed, or failed to notice, the missing constellations regularly adorning the night sky on earth. As it was, it all served to heighten the sense of detachment and strangeness of the moment. Her fingers twined uselessly in her sheets as her mind recoiled from the void stretching like a pit before her. It recalled childhood fantasies of falling upwards into the deep blue sky whilst lying supine on a summer’s day, alone in a grassy field with nothing but dandelions and pebbles for purchase.
This is an observation stemming from some comments overheard years ago by a self-proclaimed ‘black magician’ about how stupid ‘white magicians’ were to believe a ‘protective circle’ of chalk would do anything to protect them.
Fair comment. Here’s a story dealing with that.
This idea is all about spiritual love – specifically, what would happen if a couple of ghosts fell in love? What remains when the body is gone, and how could such love be consummated? How would they even date?
There was a guy called Charlie. That wasn’t his real name, and frankly, he could have been a she for all you know. Suffice to say, not much was certain about Charlie except for two things. Charlie had an imaginary friend, and they didn’t trust each other.
Another subconscious based story idea. Borrows from the H. P. Lovecraft idea of the Great Race of Yith who were capable of transferring their consciousness across time and space to exchange bodies with other lifeforms. In Riders, our heroine discovers that something is sharing her head, communicating with her in coded dream messages, automatic writing, art and other conduits.
This idea was prompted by a wonderful moment years ago in London, at the corner of a playground in Peckham, where I stumbled across a bunch of the most delicious, succulant and flavoursome blackberries in the universe. It made me think of transient moments of amazing coincidence or beauty, brief cloud configurations, moments of extreme passion or sorrow, basketball hoops scored from amazingly improbable positions and so on. Imagine an individual, or even a group of them, with access to advanced space/time travelling technology (or magic – whatever) that spend their time visiting and cataloguing these incidents, recording them for posterity or maybe some curious ‘Museum of Moments’. Dressed innocuously, possibly with flasks of weak lemon drink, hard-core anoraks waiting for hours in all weather conditions and all terrain for that second or two when the thousand-year bloom finally comes to flower, or the last butterfly of an endangered species lays down to die upon a rock.
Silent observers, we take a peek behind the scenes at their lives, and the ethical dilemmas they might face.
Softly, a single feather fell from Mattias’ right wing, and drifted across the room in a light breeze from the doorway. It lay on the floor, glowing faintly. The woman stopped crying, and slowly approached it. Making sure that he was not looking, she bent and palmed the feather. She stood for a moment stroking its warm softness, her face lit by the glow, gazing in wonder at the object of her desires. Then, carefully, she placed the feather in a small chest squatting in the corner of the room, closing the lid firmly.
Before long, a child’s cry emanated from the darkness of the adjacent room. The woman stood, glanced at Mattias as if to assure herself of his captivity, then moved silently towards the girl’s voice. A few hushed words, a soft melody, and silence returned. The woman returned, looking haggard and tired, and went about building up the fire without another glance at him.