Quantum mechanics unknot a cop’s weird innermost jaw. A razor floats in the tank’s fuckable cranial chocolate. “I look like a violent model,” the cop says. “Crusher of criminality. Curator of unspeakable, breathing material.” The evolution of random leaks in the tank’s event horizon into dark underground clouds, farty pornographic headaches impregnated by dead things. Like a clubbed mother asteroid, a baby seal plays dead in traffic’s organic wave-forms. Decrepit shelves fall away in Minecraft as spoons cluster-kiss the grave’s double slit. On the holodeck, a human taste rips through lifelike sculptures; i.e. from a ruptured diva exits an orange, negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard; i.e. Riker’s cartoon muscles spit black blood into this sweetened UFO, himself. And OkCupid nudges another pushpin into Frankenstein’s monster, even though he’s jacking off to Flickr.
I’ve been told to stay clear of symbolism, but I’m not sure I can…where does symbolism go when you have lines like ‘Negative Bartman with smug tits and patchy beard’?
What’s there to say if Bartman isn’t representative of something?
It’s clear that Bley means something, he has to…
Fuck it, let’s aim for emotionalism…is that the right term? I don’t know. What I want to say is…how do these non-symbolist reference-characters make you feel? Read more…
What is it?
Who designed it?
A Ferengi? A pervert? Someone who’d been rejected by a Vulcan?
What’s the story?
The player/pervert can choose the background setting of his choice. He usually plays a high-ranking person who has to deal with a lower-ranking Vulcan female. At first, they clash, but the pervert uses his superior logic and strength to overpower the Vulcan and make her his love slave.
There are three settings:
1 – Modern, rational, non-violent – this setting emphasises the ‘love’ part of ‘love slave’. The high-ranking pervert asserts his superiority, but doesn’t physically torture the Vulcan. They enter into a relationship, with the Vulcan assuming the more dependent, submissive role.
2 – Modern, but darker – The high-ranking pervert uses force and mental agility to subjugate the Vulcan. She is often portrayed as an enemy, to give validity to the pervert’s use of violence and dirty sex games. Read more…
Note: Usually we do these ourselves, but this one is different as we’ve only ever sent zines to Microcosm, we’ve never actually been there…that’s why we let Joe from Microcosm fill in most of the details himself…I guess you could’ve figured this out yourself when the answers start using ‘we’…
Name of place: Microcosm Publishing
Known for: Make Your Place, Henry & Glenn Forever, Grow, Making Stuff & Doing Things, Homesweet Homegrown, having a lot of fun, and being happy to help out a person who needs advice.
Is there a signed photo of Peter Falk above the door? Sadly, no, but we do have a “Stairway to Henry” with a shirtless photo of Henry Rollins from 1984 at the top.
A small, charming, and innovative publishing house, Microcosm Publishing specializes in work designed to make the reader feel good about being alive, take an active role in bettering their life, and impact the world around them. Microcosm has developed a reputation for teaching self-empowerment, showing hidden histories, and fostering creativity with topics like DIY skills, food, zines (yes, zines about zines, that’s meta people!), and art.
Do they actually publish zines or just collect them and stick them around their base?
Both! We have distributed about 3,000 different zine titles in the last eighteen years and have published about 350 more.
Aren’t physical zines pointless now? Read more…
A story from a couple of years back, still holds up relatively well I think…
The first eighteen years of his life, Oli never learnt a language.
There was French in high school, but that was accidental. Or not accidental, mandatory, but that wasn’t really it.
He never understood why he had to learn another language. He had a friend and a sister who learnt the grammar and the perfect and the irregulars, but he couldn’t ever imagine doing that.
The French teacher said one time, ‘the key is…to think in French.’
His sister said one time, ‘You’re stupid if you can’t do it.’
His friend said one time, ‘I wanna fuck a French girl
And there was German too, but that was cold. Way too cold for him. Yet, he thought later, there are, what, seventy million people in Germany who feel comfortable using these words.
But at the time, in those first eighteen years, he couldn’t understand how to do it. And he did wonder sometimes if he was stupid. And then counter-wonder if other people like his sister and his friend wanted him to think he was stupid. And most times, the counter wonder was dominant.
‘I’m not stupid. I got an ‘A’ in History. I wrote a story called J F Quaye. That’s not stupid,’ he would say to himself on his bed. But it was never definite. Read more…
On the 474th floor of the Burj Khalifa, Prince A.B.F.H. looked at the blood-orange sky, marmalade-cascading down on other inferior skyscrapers that glowed green and he noticed the curve of the horizon.
“Father,” he said. “Father! Are we flying on one of the bacteria, father?”
In a hall the size of a pile of a million skulls, or 5 swimming pools, the question bounced around for a bit. His father was eating concubine and not available to reply.
Later in his bedroom, on a pillow made of all the river dolphin scrota, he ate grapes.
He didn’t really get bacteria.
He rolled out of bed and accidentally bought a football club.
[In Eastern Europe, an hour later, a Pakistani shopkeeper was clubbed in the face in front of his daughter]
On the roof of the Burj Kalifha, where if you breathed in too fast the tissue paper moon trembled in the sky, he put on his jet pack. And away he flew. It was really mainly his balls that enjoyed this hobby. He often found himself doing it.
He looked down at the traceries of lights. The twinkling veins of the ground. The ground stars, Bioluminescence of old ladies, he imagined. The old ladies who washed your balls in the bath. They probably glowed as they crawled around on the ground outside the skyscrapers.
He walked into the room made of bottles of blood. His father was not there but, then again maybe he was, so he asked anyway. “Dad, do the bacteria get bigger when they come in the house. Is that a problem, dad? What if they get too big while you are fucking them or while they are helping me. Dad? Dad?”
When he woke up the next day his Dad was by the side of his bed. Drunk as fuck. His dad was huge. A smell of alcohol. His dad was a cloud of smell of alcohol filling a room. Huge as fuck. His dad had two eyes. Then no eyes. His Dad was bent low, about to drop a bottle. His dad was god.
His dad opened his eyes.
Two bacteria sat there.
This is a story I’m not particularly proud of.
I wrote it for a site called Clarkesworld, which pays quite well for sci-fi. All their stories have a distinct style that isn’t anything like mine, so I read a few and tried to adapt. ‘The Atheism Jab’ was a story I did years ago, but I went back, made it more Clarkesworld-y, and below is the result.
I figured I could get it published, get noticed by sci-fi publishers and sell one of my sci-fi novels more easily. I’m not desperate for cash, but what other way is there to make it in the sci-fi market?
You can keep making zines and printing your own novels + others’ novels and sticking them around the world, but it’s not gonna stop her from leaving you one day. Some sacrifices have to be made, and the first ones to go are always your principles.
Principles = trouble + enemy-makers
I compromised a lot on this story. There’s no real heart to it…a superficial heart, maybe, but it’s all bullshit really. For me, heart comes from my own experiences and actions. E.g. whatever I do in my life, even if I don’t understand it, shows some kind of behaviour or emotion more than anything I can make up so it gets written down. Real arguments become arguments in my fiction, and real scenes become fake scenes which are almost exactly the same as the real ones.
J J Abrams [a counter-example] doesn’t seem able to do this, so he has to make things up…it’s not heart you see in his films, it’s fraud, but because most of us have never been in command of a starship or stuck on a deserted island, we let it pass. Read more…