‘Attack of the 50-Foot Verbose Mutant Killer Fountain Pens From Mars’ is the unlikely banner for a collection of short fiction and prose.
THINGS were getting serious.
I was fresh out of fags.
The coffee had congealed. And the beer was definitely off.
Yes. Out it went, through the door, slithering along like an oversized amber slug.
Always sensible in any crisis, a pint, but I was in no state to follow course and sup the bitter dregs of retreat. So, in the thick of all this chaos, I went for the less-than-heroic option and made like The Scream.
They were coming in thick and fast all around. Porting in through the hollow points in the quantum-foam-wash of real space like, well, like hollowed out bullets bludgeoning through flesh.
The doors of perception were being well and truly gate-crashed. What was to be a rather gentile soiree of a literary persuasion, was turned into a cyber-boot-stomping montage of fearsome verbiage. There were words everywhere. They merged into one writhing, putrescent orgasm of frenzied composition. The cascading babble deafened right down to the bowels. The walls and windows were drenched in spilled ink, the floor was awash in black and bubbled with more words emerging like ectoplasm ghouls to eat the flesh of literary taste.
It was horrible.