#daniel luxton

“Ug,” said Bug. 

“Ug-ug,” agreed his brother Aarp, feelingly. 

The two homo sapiens gazed proudly at the drawing painstakingly scrawled by Bug onto the dank cave wall, a rendering in delicate blotches of plant dye and filth of an antelope in graceful flight as a sabre-toothed tiger pursued it over the edge of a cliff. 

“Gug!” said Bug, who was named not only for his favourite snack, but also for the way he could blend into the foliage while out hunting. 

“Ug,” nodded Aarp, who was named after his flatulence problem.

Bug turned to the shorter, squatter figure in attendance, and gestured at the wall with a hairy arm bristling with muscles and lice. “Urg?” 

“Well, I think it’s a particularly powerful commentary on the state of our current world, with some pleasingly abstract touches,” said Tarquin the Neanderthal. “I would worry that perhaps there is a hint of plagiarism from Ig-Pig the Nutsmiter’s early work ‘Tragedy of an Unfaithful Woman’ –although fortunately sans the rather politically incorrect attitudes and thoughts towards female cavepersons- but you really have put your own stamp on it, particularly in the brushwork- er, fingerwork.”

Bug drooled wisely. 

“It really does have an inspirational power, an energy. I can instantly tell your intention was to get the viewer to consider the apeman condition, the fleeting nature of life.”

Aarp passed wind and tried to focus on the conversation, having been distracted by the talk of politically incorrect thoughts about female cavepersons, which he thought sounded rather fun.

“But it’s the framing of the piece that says the most. You’ve painted a picture of an antelope in a cave, whereas of course- ha, ha!- antelopes don’t live in caves! Thus, it creates a sense of things being out-of-place, which serves as a powerful metaphor for our transitory way of life! I’m sure you agree?”

Bug contemplated Tarquin’s words, nodded once, then hefted his club and smashed the Neanderthal over the head, cracking open his skull and smacking his brains across the dingy cave, ruining any hope for future palaeontologists to determine that a smaller cranium did not necessarily mean a less complex neurological construction. This, sadly, did not unduly bother Bug, whose chief interests were sex, meat and poo, beating the scientific analysis of his activities and legacy by future generations into a depressing fourth place. 

“Uggin,” he told Aarp, and the two of them ambled outside to see if putting their hands into fire would hurt as much as it did the last forty-nine times.

As we move into 2014’s second quarter, Flashnificents is pleased to welcome on board our new Executive Producer, Orla Spilof.

Orla says: “I am overjoyed to be joining this great bastion of Tumblr’s writing community. I’ve been a fan of Flashnificents since they were talented, and I am looking forward to that free bottle of Limoncello Mark Wilkinson offered me by way of bribery.”

Ms Spilof, who readers will best know for her work, will oversee our exciting and dramatic new story arc set to unfold over our Spring flashes. According to Orla;

“April will see Flashnificents’ most recurring character, Dick Holden, originally created by Brendan Way, step into focus in intense new plotlines running throughout each writer’s stories, as he falls victim to some mysterious and brutal kidnappers. This storyline, entitled “Who Grabbed Dick?” draws on our assembled talent in one whodunit that’s sure to have our readers scratching their heads.”

Flashnificent stalwart Antosh Wojcik promises: “Thrills galore as Dick struggles against his mysterious captors, in this gripping investigation that leaves even DI Pride and DS Prejudice stumped. Who’s holding onto our Dick, and why won’t they let go? Are these kidnappers characters we’ve featured before, or new faces? Will Dick’s toughest case be his last? Buggered if I know. My stories just have him fighting mutant macaroons.”

Ideas behind new take on Shakespeare classic show a lot of balls, but despite captivating central performance, ultimately fails to kick-start them, writes our Arts Correspondent.

We all remember the anticipation leading up to the opening night of Shay Badgerworthy’s all-new production of W. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Perhaps not since the retirement of Harold Pinter has such a palpable eagerness hung over the Highlands. We here at The Ballachulish Post were just as guilty as anyone else of raising expectations, as indicated by our flurry of special features and amusing free gifts.

It seemed fully justified at the time. After all, who better than the award- winning director of Archbishop, Archbishop, Goose to bring something new to the annual North Scotland Shakespeare performance, breaking a twenty year spell of consecutive performances of The Scottish Play?*

Oh, how wrong we were.

Undoubtedly, this is a lavish presentation- it needs to be, given the central conceit of setting each scene of the play in a different period of history. But given that this design aspect is never actually referred to once in the play, perhaps this was an extravagance too far? Indeed, the situation makes it increasingly hard to follow a story already muddled by the cuts made by Badgerworthy, and the relocation of the famous balcony scene to the moment of Abraham Lincoln’s assassination was particularly tasteless, driving one audience member to walk out, and another to tut loudly.

Then again, perhaps we needed the distraction, given the range of abysmal performances on display. All eyes were naturally on Romeo, played by Benny Fluke, last seen leaving Casualty in somewhat reduced circumstances, and this is where we unfortunately hit the biggest snag of all. Fluke is a man who has always struggled with the tender side of the emotive range, and faced with portraying one half of W. Shakespeare’s young lovers, it appears he decided to give up completely. The sight of Fluke mumbling and bumbling through scene after scene doesn’t conjure up the spirit of doomed love, it conjures up memories of the actor’s aborted attempt at a rap career that spawned the single Momma’s Purple Secret, and no-one deserves to remember that.

The rest of the cast is equally as dreary. TV hardman Phil Cludfust’s turn as Friar Laurence is as ill-advised as his recent foray into panto, though at least no children have required counselling yet. On the other end of the volume spectrum, Oban’s own Al MacHeel is barely audible as Tybalt, his death scene in particular rating as one of the least exciting moments on stage I have ever witnessed, impressive given Badgerworthy’s decision to give it the backdrop of the siege of Troy.

There is, as always, an exception. Janet McHaste as Juliet proved that nothing can keep good talent down, providing a performance that was in equal measures funny, sad, and thought-provoking. With every second, McHaste’s awe-inspiring performance drew the audience in closer, each one of her emotions laid bare. Even though the ending is well known**, I, along with everyone around me, found myself praying for things to turn out differently, so invested were we in Juliet.

Ultimately, though, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they had, given the other changes Badgerworthy has made to this once- great piece. The only thing up to its usual quality from previous years was the ice cream in the interval. Janet McHaste is undoubtedly destined for greater things. The rest of the play, poisoned by its own incompetence. All that remains to say, because it can’t be said enough, is: Bravo, Juliet. Bravo.

Article by Patrick McHaste.

  *Macbeth.

The life of a pimp was not proving all it was cracked up to be.

It wasn’t as if times were tough: business was booming for my humble brothel, or, as the less tactful clients called it, the Ladybank. Nonetheless, hardly a day went by without one of my girls sashaying into my office with some ridiculous predicament they expected me to fix. This evening, as my secretary had just informed me, it was the charming Beverley who had an axe to grind.

I sat back and watched as her bosom preceded her into the room. I permitted myself a small smile: I was genuinely fond of Bev, and for more than just the way the light caught on those straining sequins. Even so, my smile faltered a little as I saw what else she had on.

“Does someone have a fetish for… Mother Teresa?” I guessed.

“Shut up, Dan. It’s for that creepy priest who’s round here every Saturday. He says he’s always fantasised about receiving Nunhead.”

“Bishopbriggs is one of our best clients,” I replied calmly. “He always donates a little bit extra to ensure we don’t go to the papers. Besides, I think the Whimple suits you.”

Bev glowered. “I should have known you’d start Taunton me. It’s your ‘little bit extras’ that I wanted to chat about.”

I sighed and gestured for her to take a seat. “Beverley, I know what you’re going to ask, but I just can’t afford to give you and the girls a pay rise, not now I’ve taken on those Seven Sisters from the countryside.”

“Oh, Weeley? And I suppose it was absolutely necessary to hire all of them?”

I shrugged. “Men from the city really go for the innocent farm girl look. They can’t get enough Shepherd’s Bush.”

“Innocent, my award-winning arse. Three of them have been vajazzled, two have tattoos, and the youngest has got a Liphook. And not on her face.”

“I’m sorry, Bev! I’m not giving you any more Ballymoney!” I snapped. “Besides, you’re lucky I’m not taking matters further over your anger management problems. You kneed that gentlemen right in the Nutfield last week!”

She smirked. “Word’s got around. A few of the less brave punters have started wearing Pollokshields. Like shagging the bionic man.”

“Why do you do it, Sugar Loaf?” I asked, forcing myself to calm down. “I treat you a darn sight better than a lot of women in your uniquely horizontal line of work.” She was shivering, so I leant forwards and wrapped my Scarva round her. “I thought you got on well with the customers.”

“Not to be too crude, Dan, but we’re at our happiest when we’ve had a good time. The punters aren’t ethnically diverse enough, for a start. It’s true what they say about Blackrod.” I winced. “Oh, sorry, Dan,” she continued. “Not middle class enough for you? Would you prefer if I called them willies? Williams? Should I call an erection a Williamwood?”

“Now who’s Taunton who?” I retorted. “What am I supposed to do about that? The more well-hung amongst us aren’t the type of people to walk in here, are they?”

“I’m sorry, Dan,” Bev sighed, crossing her legs in only the way someone of her experience can. “It’s just… the good times make the bad times stand out even more, you know? That posh pilot we’ve had in here- he weighs a ton! He almost crushed one of the new girls yesterday! And mentioning no names, but I’ve seen enough in my time to know it’s not normal when Acocks Green. I mean, how am I supposed to handle that?”

I shrugged. “Caerphilly?” I had to admit, she had a point, especially about our pilot friend. Even I’d started to wonder just how much Biggleswade.

Bev got to her feet. “Just when did you become so heartless, Dan?” she asked, heading for the door.

“Probably when I shortened my name. I was the picture of innocence when I still went by ‘Daniel.’ I’ve always felt when I dropped the second half, a piece of my soul was Lostwithiel.”

She tried to maintain her glare, but I caught a glimmer of her smile as she stalked out. I sighed, took in one last glimpse of her retreating thighs, and resolved to give her a rise in the morning.

Deep below the ocean swirl, a construct clung quietly to the seabed like a steel limpet. Within its reinforced walls, the men and women of the Academy of Quantum Understanding and Advancement worked and studied around the clock. And sometimes they didn’t. And sometimes, in a controlled environment where they weren’t being observed, they did both simultaneously, theoretically.

It was a theory that would undoubtedly make his students the envy of office workers the world over, reflected Doctor Olaf Sweet, turning away from the dark view beyond his window. If only the world knew about it. But the experiments AQUA worked on, experiments of potentially multiverse-shaking significance, meant that they had to remain secret. Top secret. That, Doctor Sweet thought, as he headed out of his office, was the reason behind this strange submarine existence, cut off from family, friends, civilisation…

Well, that, and nothing else would have fitted the acronym.

Sweet was used to his students calling him down to the testing chamber. After all, he was one of only a few authorised to sign off the paperwork that AQUA’s regular disasters incurred. However, Leo Garren’s message hadn’t been the usual. The young scientist had sounded excited, even… joyful. Not a fatality, then. Unless it had been someone Garren really didn’t like.

Garren rushed to meet Sweet as he entered the chamber, the younger man shaking so hard that his glasses wobbled alarmingly on the end of his acned nose. Sweet was aware of an excited buzz in the room, the other students chattering amongst themselves. Definitely not the usual sheepish, nervous, more-than-a-little-nauseous reaction he was used to. The doctor scanned the ceiling for blood- splatters, just in case.

“Doctor Sweet!” Garren was saying. “We’ve had a breakthrough!”

Sweet sighed. He knew it had been too good to last. “Alright. Is it the panthers? I knew we should have stuck to housecats for the Schrödinger trials.”

Garren looked confused “Sir?”

“Out with it, man. What have you released onto the base this time? It best not be another sentient dinosaur.”

Garren blinked rapidly. “No, sir, you misunderstand. A breakthrough. Not a breakout.”

Sweet scratched at his bald spot, unsure of what to make of the younger man’s enthusiastic grin. It had been a while since someone smiled at him. He didn’t like it. “You mean… you’ve found something?”

“Yes, sir. A discovery, of the scientific variety.” His grin grew disturbingly wider. “We think we’ve cracked the infinite monkeys!”

For a scientist never properly trained in what to do if he ever discovered some actual science, Sweet felt he rose to the task admirably. Tugging on his waistcoat, he set off towards the monkey cage. To his left, Schrödinger’s panthers prowled. To his right, a man stood against a wall, a gun aimed directly at his chest, the barrel jerking from misfire after misfire. Finally, they reached the monkeys, trapped in their brain-bending prison. Literally countless simians gibbered and jabbered and shat on an equally impossible number of typewriters. A huge stack of paper sat piled atop a desk.

Garren, still wearing that inane grin, reached over and handed the stack proudly to Sweet. “We’ve done it, sir! We set an infinite number of monkeys to an infinite number of typewriters… and this is what they produced!”

Sweet sat down, leafing through the tome in bewildered excitement. It seemed to be, bizarrely, a collection of plays. Olaf Sweet was by no means an artistic man- he’d studied Marlowe at school and that was about it- but even so…  He looked up. “This is garbage.”

Garren looked shocked. “Sir?”

“I mean, it’s impressive, but… half of these aren’t even words!” Sweet glanced at the page again. “What the hell’s a ‘scuffle’?” He flicked on further. “Or a ‘grovel’?”

“But just read one of them, sir!” Garren insisted.

Sweet did so. He was not impressed.

“So, do we ever find out if the ghost was real or not?” he demanded, tossing pages into the air. “Even for monkeys, this is bad!” He glared at Garren. “The idea was to come up with something that wasn’t half-nonsense, Leo. Start the experiment again.”

Detective Inspector Pride put his coffee down and sighed wearily, rubbing a hand across his massive blue face. “We’re missing something here,” he said.

Detective Sergeant Prejudice stepped away from the huge map of Misterland that covered the far wall, scowling as he hefted his triangular bulk up onto his desk. “I still say we made a mistake in letting Tickle go. He’s got form, and the attacks all happened within walking distance of his house.”

Pride shook his head- which took some doing, since his head and his body were basically one and the same- “Mr Tickle’s a pervert, yes, but he’s never been violent.”

Mr Prejudice snorted. “Scum like him are capable of anything, guv. He’ll do what it takes to get his slimy orange hands around his next conquest.”

“Tickle’s been warned- by me, personally. He knows what’ll happen if he breaks his ASBO.”

If he had eyebrows, Prejudice would have raised one. “You think that’ll stop him?”

Mr Pride stood and examined the markers on the maps, four of them, each a memory of a fresh crime scene. “Yes, I do, Sergeant. I know everybody in Misterland, and what they’re capable of. That’s why I’m an Inspector, and you’re not.”

Prejudice looked unconvinced. “So go on, then. Who’s capable of doing that to four Little Misses?”

“I don’t know yet,” Pride admitted reluctantly. “But I’ll find out. No-one outsmarts me.”

“Well, you’d better get cracking on finding out, before he strikes again.”

“That’s assuming he will strike again,” Pride pointed out. “He may not want to risk another attack- after all, he must know by now that I’m on the case. Now, let’s go back over the statements of the victims themselves. Little Miss Vain-”

Prejudice winced. “With respect, guv, can we really trust everything she says? You’ve seen the way she dresses. She knew what would happen if she went out on the town practically naked-”

“Prejudice, we’re the Mr Men. We’re all practically naked.”

“Whatever. Wouldn’t be surprised if she secretly wanted it to happen to her. After all, all women like a bit of rough sometimes, don’t they, guv?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m a happily married man, and proud of it.”

“What I’m saying is, she could be exaggerating what happened to her to spare her blushes.”

“Have you met Little Miss Vain? She’s always blushing.” Pride gritted his teeth, irritated by the disagreement with his subordinate. “Who do you suggest we talk to, then?”

“Go back to the first victim. Little Miss Princess. Now she’s a proper lady.”

Pride nodded, unhooking his top hat from the hatstand. “Let’s go. But let me do the talking, eh? I’ve got a… rapport with the aristocracy.”

“Don’t you worry, guv,” said Prejudice, deftly catching the bowler hat the Inspector tossed to him. “I know my place.”

“Good. The boss wants a result on this, and soon. In fact-” Pride turned to Prejudice. “-You know what he said to me the other day?”

“What?”

“He said that maybe we weren’t the right men for the job.”

“You what?” Mr Prejudice said indignantly.

Mr Pride chuckled as they walked out of the office. “Yeah, he said that maybe the case would benefit from a detective with a ‘more balanced point of view.’”

“Good luck finding one of those around this place.”

“Yeah- hey! I’m very proud of Misterland.”

“You would say that.”

It was perhaps inevitable that the recent publication of The Ballachulish Post’s annual list of “The 100 Greatest Films of All Time,” widely regarded as the definitive celebration of cinematography, would be accompanied by the usual flurry of indignant complaints.

Yes, the Number One spot has, for the 47th year running, gone to Sophocles’ Teeth, a film that many people believe should remain buried with the rest of the decade that spawned it. Maybe they have a point. Maybe it is time to take a closer look at director Herbert Guildenstern’s magnum opus, and see why it became such a divisive work…

As soon as Sophocles’ Teeth opens, it is at least clear to see why it has stuck in people’s memories for almost half a century. Traditional 1960s views of the future could be relied on, up until Guildenstern appeared on the scene, to include a mixture of skintight catsuits, miniskirts, bad wigs and crazy glasses. Women fared little better. Guildenstern’s decision to portray his characters wandering the Martian surface dressed in loose casual wear (disconcertingly predicting the existence of the hoodie several decades early), set a trend for realistic fashions in science fiction that can still be felt today. Who can forget the dramatic climax, in which hero Thrust Gumboot, played to perfection by vaudeville star Stanley Jerkback in his final role, slides to the rescue in a pair of heelies?

The ‘future technology’ on display is, again, like nothing seen before or since. Nine out of ten people can still identify a Polar Tickler or a Smile Fiddler on sight, while scientists grow ever closer to making the wildly popular Grunge Meddler a reality. True, feminist critics may have a point when condemning love interest Belle Ballast’s infamous “cleavage wormhole,” but such complaints have been brushed aside by actress Maud Mawde, who takes every opportunity in interviews to fondly remember Guildenstern’s “gentle touch.”

It’s not all down to the look of the piece (although Guildenstern’s insistence on the cast filming the entire second act in the nude is another striking statement against the filmic status quo). The soundtrack is guaranteed to stay with you forever: no man has ever, before or since, done so much with a kazoo as composer Brad Piccolo. As for the plot, with its eleventh hour twists that fans can recite word-for-word, well, the final word must go to Harold Pinter, who, as is well known, swore off writing forever on seeing Sophocles’ Teeth, memorably storming out of the cinema proclaiming “fuck this writing shit.”

Tonight was the night it changed. Tonight was the night history died, and the future began. Tonight was the night of the shifting of the times. He sat in his room, staring out at the panoramic gardens of the nursing home, the shadows of the trees stretching almost to infinity. He raised a hand to stroke his precise white moustache, then dropped it awkwardly back onto the arm of his wheelchair, exhausted by the effort. He was fighting a losing battle with his own body.

He had fought battles before. Once, many decades ago, he had fought a whole war. He didn’t remember much about it now. The noise of the guns. The screams of the dying. The pain of the shrapnel that cost him the use of both his left limbs. They had won that war. If that was how winning felt, he’d hate to have been the poor Jerry bastards who’d lost.

He sat back in his wheelchair, determined not to let his eyelids droop - not yet. He had decided he wasn’t going to die yet, and, because he had decided it, it would be so. His vast belly would continue rising and falling beneath the red silk waistcoat and tweed jacket, his vast brain would continue ticking beneath the wispy scalp.

The telephone rang. With a supreme effort, his frail, treacherous hand heaved upwards, passing briefly over the drawer which housed his medals, to the ‘phone. He picked up the oddly heavy receiver. “Hello?”, he barked, his commanding voice the one thing that hadn’t failed him. He listened, took in the news he had been waiting so long for. Long ignored muscles worked in his face, and a slow smile gradually creased the worn features. “I see. That’s excellent news. Congratulations, my dear. Goodbye.” He put the phone down. He had considered saying “I love you” to his daughter, but there are some sentiments that don’t need words.