It’s November the 30th, 1944, and The Catalina Islander reports on a terrifying possibility. There is a very real fear, the paper writes, of “robot attacks on the American Atlantic coast”.Read more "Yesterdays future, today!"
Hopkinsville is a quintessentially ordinary town. Green, flat, and rural as can be. The Hopkinsville police must have been positively anxious for something extraordinary to happen. I imagine a touch of eagerness in their faces as they watched two cars speed into town on August 21st, 1955. How anybody manages to fit five adults and […]Read more "Peculiar Planet – The Hopkinsville Goblins"
There was once upon a time a boy who loved Christmas, and he loved it more than life itself. He loved the snow, and he loved the presents, and he loved the cosy warm fire that his grandma always kept alight through the winter months. But the thing about Christmas that he loved the most, and the thing that was, in fact, the little boy’s most favourite thing in all the world, was the North Pole sky.Read more "The North Pole Tunnel – A Family Fable"
“I’m talking about him, with his big fat tip tap typing fingers. That’s what this is, you know. It’s some weird puppet show so he can watch us fuck. Well it’s not happening. It doesn’t matter what he does, I’m not-“Read more "Various failed attempts to begin a script"
I’m sitting on a rough ledge, dusted white and overlooking a sheer drop. The sun is warm against my back, which is a truly unexpected kind of hug, especially here in the U.K. Wind roars past in frantic gusts, drowning out the periodic buzz of the crickets. When I catch the sound, like the spokes of a bicycle spinning as they catapult someone across the world, I think about the twisting roads that snake around these endless, sloping mountains, and how perfectly terrifying they would be to race along.Read more "Getaway"
The website Rainymood is a recent addition to my arsenal of heavy duty anti-sadness firepower.Read more "Rainymood"
He walks with a peculiarly relaxed kind of purpose, taking the time to glance back at his dog and let out brief, regal mutterings. He puts down his book, takes off his hat, and reveals a distinct lack of any meaningful hair on his head.
”I’ve got to speak one or two words, and just try my voice I understand?”Read more "Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in motion"