Hole Punch Read online

  PERSPEX

  I sat in my bedroom and looked at the special lamp I had gotten for Christmas.

  If I turned the dial to the left a piece of green perspex moved over the light.

  If I turned the dial to the right a piece of red perspex moved over the light.

  Left = green.

  Right = red.

  Left = green.

  Right = red.

  Left = green.

  Right = red.

  I liked holding the dial halfway to create a half red or half green light.

  I liked turning it back and forth so that it changed colour fast.

  I liked how it clicked and how it changed colour.

  UNFIXED

  The city is swallowed deep in the walking anti-centre of the New Abstraction. The city is dead but it has living ghosts or fragmentary non-people. The warp an imposition through and over blurred architecture fragments of reason.

  They remember science, order, structure and logic. All of these are now crushed and stretched. Imploded and exploded. No more assumptions. They've been carved apart. They cannot be measured anymore.

  At random moments on the curve of the Clockwise Periphery, they hear something laughing backwards, a sidewards gash in the swirl of All-Sworling.

  NEW WORLD DISORDER

  The mobile phone shop was still there, standing intact between the other commercial derelicts. This was where Carlos had met his wife twenty years ago.

  Carlos remembered the sales assistant that gave him the best deal of his life: a marriage, two children and a new Samsung with sixty minutes of free phone calls per month and unlimited text messages.

  Carlos wiped away a tear with the stump of his hand.

  This shop was once a gleaming place of products, customer service and salesmanship. Now it was just a derelict. An empty nothing.

  Two teenage toughs stepped out of the empty nothing and grinned at Carlos. They had nose rings, dyed hair and swastika tattoos.

  “Hey old man, I'm Captain What You Doing Here and this is Corporal Hold Still Whilst We Kill You.”

  Carlos tried to run but his weak knees didn't take him far. Captain What You Doing Here shoved Carlos to the floor and punched him in the face. Corporal Hold Still Whilst We Kill You poured gasoline on him.

  “You can't outrun the New World Disorder!” laughed Captain What Are You Doing Here.

  As Carlos burned he tried to imagine a world in which consumer interests had been protected. A world where we can all hold hands and shop for shoes.

  LORD GOD WORM

  Lord God Worm was fat on muck and lived on the top of the sludge heap. All the other worms were hungry and beneath him.

  "Please help us get to the top.”

  "You can only get to the top if you follow your heart and not your needs," said Lord God Worm.

  The worms simpered and begged and tried to climb up to the top of the heap. They slipped back to the bottom of the heap. Over and over again.

  “How did you get to the top of the heap Lord God Worm?”

  “It is not for me to explain how. It is for you to understand. Search within yourselves,” said Lord God Worm.

  They tried to climb the sludge heap to get closer to Lord God Worm.

  “You need to listen more and speak less, you need to care less about work and more about each other.”

  These were words to climb by.

  "When you think everything is someone else's fault, you will suffer a lot. When you realise that everything springs only from yourself, you will learn both peace and joy."

  SERIOUS AND CREATIVE

  Dave Beard, a bartender of the most serious bar in the creative quarter, showed off his creative tattoo as he seriously pulled a pint of serious Hoegaarden. He seriously clonked the pint of Hoegaarden on the serious bar in front of his serious and creative colleague: Keith Tattoo, who was seriously showing off his creative, serious beard.

  "You working Saturday?" asked Dave Beard seriously, as he used his dishcloth to give the beer taps a creative but serious scrubbing.

  "I am working Saturday, but I can make it out afterwards," answered Keith Tattoo seriously.

  "Where are you working?" asked Dave Beard seriously.

  "I work here," answered Keith Tattoo seriously.

  "Where are you drinking afterwards?" asked Dave Beard seriously.

  "I'm going to drink here," answered Keith Tattoo.

  Seriously he swigged his serious ale. Seriously wiping away the foam from his mouth and in doing so showing off his creative, serious tattoo.

  WAR BRICK

  The Earth Empire War Brick pummelled through hyperspace. Sirens blared down its corridors.

  “IMMINENT EMERGENCE FROM THE HYPERFUNNEL!” announced the massive black speakers.

  “Oh crumbs.” said the wart dwarf engineer with his head in the fusion compartment. “I’m not sure I'll be able to fix these weapons on time.”

  “PREPARE ALL FUSION CANNONS FOR IMMEDIATE BOMBARDMENT OF THE WEAKLING, ALIEN FREAKS!”

  “Come on, come on,” said the wart dwarf engineer as he fumbled with some wires and loose parts.

  Green lights glared into life within the fusion compartment.

  “All systems go!” shouted the wart dwarf engineer.

  * * *

  Four hours later, the wart dwarf engineer stood with his mother: a tooth in a Petri dish. They looked out of their cabin window. It was a beautiful thing to see, the bombardment of an alien world. The wart dwarf engineer downed a shot Xerozine-Z.

  “Good thing they had me on this War Brick!”

  His tooth mother proudly decayed in her Petri dish.

  SECRET SANTA

  In the afternoon meeting today it is difficult to suppress my laughter as the news gets shared that ten people from "our team" will be made redundant in April. This will really ruin the Christmas cheer in the office.

  I look at them, sat around the meeting room table, their faces like cockroaches trying to attain human expression but achieving only a swollen cheeked inferiority as they absorbed their bad news.

  Leaning back in my chair, I shove another handful of snacks noisily into my mouth from my plate of free office meeting room food. The redundancy doesn't bother me. I'm a temp! So it's gratifying to see them feel the same way as me, to see them reduced to my professional level.

  Emmett Corcoran, the office manager, is up there now, showing some diagrams and graphs, all badly designed and lacking in context. They could mean anything, they could mean nothing, they probably mean nothing.

  "This shows that a large percentage of us don't need to be worried," said Emmett.

  I scoff loudly, bits of crab stick stuck to my chin. Emmett looks at me hatefully then carries on speaking.

  "We don't need to worry," repeats Emmett. "Those of us facing redundancy will be given four months’ notice. So let’s try to enjoy Christmas and have a look at our Secret Santa presents."

  I shove slice of prawn toast in my mouth.

  "I already looked at mine! Tacky and tasteless!"

  Everyone tries to ignore me. I look at Julie from accounts, pulling the wrapping off the little gift I found for her. I remember how I picked it up off the street, still hot and steaming.

  Why aren’t I laughing? Why am I suddenly ashamed of myself? Not for the dog shit in Julie’s wrapping paper but for playing along with their festive games in the first place! For eating their Third World abusing food!

  I spit out a mulch of crab sticks, Chinese snacks and half a cheese sandwich and wipe my chin with Emmett's new Secret Santa tie, tossing it on the floor.

  "I'm off outside to kill myself with solvents!”

  I light up a cigarette and stamp out of the room.

  At the stationary cupboard I hear footsteps behind me.

  "What do you want now Emmett?!" I ask him. "Don't you see I'm busy?"

  "You've gone too far," said Emmett. "You have to come back and apologise to Julie for the present you just gave her."

 
I grab all the permanent markers from the stationary cupboard.

  "I hope these are strong enough!” I turn to Emmett. “Do you have any lighter fluid or nail polish remover? I think they would be better to sniff than these marker pens?"

  Emmett looks at me all appealingly.

  "I said come back to the meeting and apologise to Julie," said Emmett.

  "Shove it!"

  I stamp out my cigarette.

  "Leave me alone, or else I'll tell them you've been sexually harassing me."

  CLONE MEATS

  A clone meat automaton sat on a bench and gazed mechanically.

  <“There is a house party this weekend. What will I wear? What will I wear?”>

  They arrive in small secure clusters at the front door of the house party.

  <“My name is , I work at , my age is .”>

  <“It is so nice to meet , have you met ?”>

  <“I like your

  A faulty brain is standing still.

  <“Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance? Why don’t you dance?”>

  Twenty-three years and eight months later, a clone meat automaton stares at a nearing death.

  <“It’s not worth worrying about, at least I had fun with my mates.”>

  BEACH

  Eight-year-old Jeremy looked down through the hotel window at the sunny beach. Jeremy saw people. Jeremy shuddered.

  “The utter trash of humanity,” he said.

  Jeremy didn't want to interact with them. He felt safe from his vantage point in the hotel. Safe from the fat, old, ugly, poor and stupid. A million greased warts on the fag-end sand.

  “Jeremy,” called his mother. “We're going to the beach. Have you got your bucket and spade ready?”

  “Fuck off won't you mother?”

  “Jeremy!”

  Jeremy pointed out the window.

  “Look at them mother. They are diseased. Why do you insist on degrading me? Please mother! I can't bear their existence. I don't want them to see me. It will merely serve as confirmation that I am one of them. A stinking, bleating animal dragged dumb and bludgeoned towards oblivion. Why would you do this to me? Your Golden Boy?!”

  “Where would you like to go Jeremy?”

  “Somewhere I can transcend!”

  SPLIK

  The children of the underground complex had been genetically and surgically modified from birth. Eyes, arms and legs removed and noses and ears plugged. Their brains repeatedly subjected to controlled gamma ray bursts. Their mutilated heads became throbbing, veined beach balls. Their jaws hung slack and toothless underneath their migraine-heavy brains. All of this achieving a higher state of consciousness. They would give the universe a voice with which to speak.

  Alpha One was the oldest of the children and the first to talk.

  “Bleugh blurggh blah blag splik,” said Alpha One.

  The scientists tried to ascribe meaning to Alpha One's words.

  For many years, Alpha One and his siblings spluttered sounds of a similar nature to the above. When their voices were all listened to at the same time, it was just like the static frequency of Big Bang radiation, the only difference being there was a lot less static and a lot more bleugh, blurggh, blah, blag and splik.

  ORBS

  I would have stayed indoors but I'd ran out of canned fish.

  The world outside didn't look any different but the people did. Instead of heads they had featureless metal spheres.

  I saw myself reflected in their orbs.

  In the supermarket I used the self-service machine.

  DULL GREY LINE

  Harry Dove was the manager of Environmental Services.

  “We are the dull, grey line protecting the public from noise pollution, food complaints, trading standard issues and impromptu planning consultations,” said Harry Dove.

  * * *

  Mr HW Soil picked up the phone and called Environmental Services. His eyes bulged with petty, pedant, pensioner rage.

  "Everyday and ONCE a day a car will park outside my neighbour's house! Instead of knocking on the door to let them know they've arrived, they beep their horn! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEP!!!!"

  "I am deeply sympathetic towards your issue," said the operator. "I will forward your concern to today's Environmental Protection Officer."

  "You said that last week!" shouted Mr HW Soil. "This is everyday! Once a day! BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEEP!!!!"

  * * *

  Somewhere else, a pregnant woman was tied to a tree and stabbed in the womb with a machete. Her and her husband were then shot in the head, but they had given up on life anyway.

  * * *

  "BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEEP!!!!" shouted Mr HW Soil. “Once a day! Everyday!"

  BARRIER

  Maggots hatch discreetly from his carpet: an implausible result from a lack of insects. They must live somewhere underneath the surface: the barrier of between spaces.

  He pours a pan of boiling water on the carpet but none of it reaches the floorboards. It absorbs into the upper layer of stains.

  The larvae blisters into a squelching stench.

  In the kitchen he turns off the oven.

  It looks empty but it isn't.

  INVERSIAX

  No one believes Inversiax exists but everyone has been there.

  Inversiax is behind all closed doors.

  Inversiax disappears when closed doors open.

  Inversiax is in every stammer and pause.

  Inversiax is in all of your misunderstandings.

  Misunderstanding tall and short.

  Can you see It?

  It's not hidden.

  Except where it is.

  I've been here for a long time.

  Here in Inversiax.

  Your reflection bent in glass.

  Thoughts you never admit.

  How is it for me when I walk the inversions?

  Sometimes a straight line.

  A measured perfection in contrast to illogic.

  Predictability will intrude in Inversiax.

  Inversiax will intrude on you.

  FOOTBALL MEN

  Garry Lavender, in his floral shirt and flamingo-pink suit, sat on the quiet, evening train. He was glad that the train was quiet as he was very nervous around people. It was dark outside now so he couldn't watch the landscape. That was okay because it gave him some time to write in his notebook.

  “Today in Buxton the flower show was…”

  He paused in his writing, thinking for the right word.

  “...resplendent.”

  It had truly been a resplendent flower show.

  Garry's solitude was interrupted, when the train stopped at Manchester Piccadilly and a group of football men boarded the train. They all wore football shirts. This was the uniform of the football man.

  Garry couldn't help but notice that the colour of their football shirts was the same blue as the feathers on forty-three of his pet budgies. The same phosphorescent glow.

  The men noticed Garry's staring and walked towards him with their cans of lager and bumpy scowls.

  “WHAT the FUCK are YOU!” said the one with the bumpiest scowl.

  Despite its structure this was not a question. Garry was familiar with this sort of human. Less than an animal. Garry would never forgive them for that evening fifteen years ago. The screaming death of pastel shades.

  “Think we found ourselves a queer!” laughed a football man as he sat next to Garry.

  Garry flinched backwards and looked out of the window to ignore the football men. Garry could see the reflections of the football men in the glass. Garry closed his eyes and murmured a long drawn out tone.

  “Have you
seen what he's wearing?” laughed one of the football men.

  Garry hunched up his legs and wrapped his arms around himself.

  “Self-expression is vital,” said Garry with his eyes shut. “In order to reach new levels of understanding, and sitting.”

  “He's mental,” said the football man next to Garry as he fumbled through Garry's notebook. “This is full of fucking pigeons.”

  “BUDGIES!” shouted Garry, eyes flapping open, he snatched the notebook from the football man.

  “THEY. ARE. BUDGIES!”

  The conductor appeared in the carriage and asked what all the shouting was about? The football men left Garry alone and found a table at the other end of the carriage. One of the football men muttered something about Garry being “tapped.”

  Garry returned his attention to his pen and notebook.

  “The unascended man is not evil, only primitive, he needs a shepherd.”

  A CASTLE

  The teacher leads me to the room between class rooms. Mark is there, on a large table he is constructing a castle out of little pieces of cardboard.

  The teacher explains to Mark that I have no friends and that no one will play with me. The teacher asks Mark if I could help him with his castle.