Cursive Discharge

We look out onto the sea of faces. An undulating mass of bobbing heads, hands rising above the...

soulmech — Mon, 09 May 2011 23:18:00 +0100

We look out onto the sea of faces. An undulating mass of bobbing heads, hands rising above the surface and falling back down, the staccato punctuation of camera flashes like lightning. Faces rise to the forefront, then fall back to be replaced by shoulders, shoulders fall back to be replaced by chests, elbows, faces. The crowd is roaring, an unending two-tone dirge, felt low in the chest like the boom of waves, high like an incessantly screaming wind, a single babbling voice of madness scratching away at the wall of our sanity, the noise grows increasingly more powerful and laden with anticipation.

Our eye is caught as a figure is propelled above the waves, caught by grasping hands–a girl in black, surfing the crowd. Hands reach up, propel her along. At the front, a burly security guard waits. The front of the crowd presses up against the barrier; teenage girls take photos of each other with camera phones, crushing their faces together; young men throw half empty plastic cups into the air; a woman is drenched in beer, curses, but can’t see where the projectile liquid came from. Crowd surfers are lowered over the barrier, hustled towards the exit. At the back, individuals stand against a wall quietly sipping drinks. A few people slip out through double doors to visit the bathrooms or the bar. A man holds a mobile phone to one ear, a finger in the other, shouting as loud as he can. The person on the other end can’t hear a word, the shouter might as well whisper. Overhead, lights begin to dim. The noise falls to silence, motion slows to stillness. Stage lights ignite. The first note is struck. The crowd erupts.

Mike headed home, headed to bed, sleep. A sound behind him–leather on concrete. He moved: over a...

soulmech — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 12:10:47 +0000

Mike headed home, headed to bed, sleep. A sound behind him–leather on concrete. He moved: over a low wall, ducked down. A thunder crack–a puff of brick-dust—a shot just missed.

“Give it up, I’ll do you clean”.

Mike crawled along behind the wall—hands and knees—no cover but the wall. Trapped. Popped his head up, eyeballed, ducked. Vinnie stood across the street—a .45 in his hand.

Crack/Brick-dust.

Slow–had a chance.

Mike drew his .38: checked the load, cocked it.

He hefted a chunk of brick: small, too light. Another: bigger, just right. He threw it along the wall. A shallow flight–crested just above the wall top, then fell.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

He went over the wall, .38 leading. Vinnie saw the move, tried to turn back—

Slow slow slow–no chance.

Mike drew a bead, fired.

Science!

soulmech — Mon, 21 Mar 2011 12:08:07 +0000

I invented it almost entirely by accident. Originally it was meant to be a new type of tumble dryer, using a small Tesla coil to generate an ionised plasma field. No moving parts, you see?

Well it wasn’t working and I was pissed off… and a bit pissed. I’d been drinking ethanol cut with orange juice and I might have popped next door and borrowed some of their ether.

Anyway, that’s when I decided to see what would happen if I put the cat inside.