s williams

Bees

Lionel dressed immaculately. It took him up to 3 hours each morning to bathe and don his clothes. By the time he walked out of his front door he had no time for school. All he had time for was a quick pose up and down the high street, before heading off to the fashion houses to see what was new.

Out of all the clothes Lionel owned, his pride and joy was his coat made from the skin of baby foxes. No-one he knew had one. Everyone he knew wanted one. He didn’t know very nice people.

When the stupid animal rights groups began to get their way Lionel was devastated. Almost overnight it became impossible to wear his coat.

Then one day Lionel had a brilliant idea.  That night he snuck into his neighbour’s garden and gassed all their bees.

Night after night he went about the area, sneaking up to beehives and sticking in his hosepipe, then pumping the gas.

After a week he had gathered enough. Showing his plans to the owner of an illegal coat factory that employed immigrant children, a deal was struck.

Each of the bees was stripped of their fur and the little bodies tossed aside. Then the skins were sewn together, eventually making a magnificent full length coat.

When Lionel saw it he was absolutely ecstatic.

There was no society for the prevention of cruelty to insects.

Lionel could wear his coat with pride.

Each morning he would step out of his house, with his nose in the air, and promenade down the street in his beautiful coat of bees.

One day when he was out showing off he noticed a tiny black cloud in the sky.

“I must get home before it rains and the water ruins my coat,” he said.

As he walked briskly homeward it seemed that the cloud was following him. In fact not only did it appear to be following him, but it seemed to be bigger, too.

And giving off an angry buzzing sound.

Too late did Lionel realise that it was not a cloud at all, but rather the biggest swarm of bees that had ever been seen.

It swooped down on Lionel just as he passed the illegal clothes factory. The owner, seeing his best customer being attacked rushed out to help.

“Yes,” said the other, clutching her doll tightly. “But he’s not.”

Dolly Mixtures

Cuthbert was a boarder at St Michael’s School for Medically Gifted Boys and Girls.

Even by the high standards of the school he was not a nice child. He despised his parents for not letting him practice surgery on the servants at home. That was one of the reasons they sent him to boarding school. He hated his teachers for not being as clever as he was. He loathed his classmates for their attention to rules.

The only rule Cuthbert followed was one he made up himself: always keep the knives sharp.

Out of everybody, Cuthbert hated the girls at his school most.

They were always playing ‘doctors’ with their dolls: always putting bandages on them and taking their temperature. Watching them made Cuthbert feel ill.

“They’re not real!” Cuthbert would shout at them, “They’re not alive! You’ll never learn anything.”

One day Cuthbert decided to teach them a lesson. While they were all out at an accident unit learning how to plaster broken legs, Cuthbert sneaked into their room. After half an hour of work he was satisfied.

When the girls returned he was sitting in the common room reading a magazine. It was two minutes before the screaming started. The girls came storming back in.

“What have you done to our dolls?” they demanded.

“I just played a game of Dolly Mixtures,” said Cuthbert, smiling at them.

All the doll’s arms and legs had been taken off and mixed up.

So had their heads.

Some arms were attached to necks. Some heads were attached to thighs.

The girls were not happy. They called Cuthbert lots of names.

Cuthbert laughed and took himself off to bed.

When he woke up in the morning he could tell something was wrong.

He couldn’t move his arms.

He couldn’t move his legs.

Try as he might, he couldn’t move at all.

There was something in front of his eyes, stopping him from seeing anything.

Then someone pushed it up, away from his eyes.

It was a hat.

He was in a shop window. He could see his reflection in the glass.

He was made of plastic. That’s why he couldn’t move.

Someone had removed his brain and put it in a showroom dummy.

The hat had a feather in it.

He was wearing a dress.

Outside the shop staring at him, were two of the girls from school.

Dinner Lady

Mrs Gruffle was an exceptionally ugly woman, but there was a reason for this.

Not only was Mrs Gruffle the school cook, but she was also a goblin.

None of the children or staff knew she was a goblin. They just knew that she was a fantastic cook, and that she lived alone.

They thought perhaps she had suffered some terrible accident when she was a child.

She was bent almost double, and wore a turban on her head to hide her ears. She used to bath in cheap perfume to disguise her goblin scent.

You could smell her coming from miles away.

All the children loved her. She knew every one of them by name, and was always especially nice to those that needed a little extra loving.

The ones that didn’t have many friends.

The ones from the orphanage.

Every day Mrs Gruffle would hobble into school, muttering merrily to herself.

“Hello, Mrs Gruffle!” the children would say.

“Hello my little nibbles!” she would reply back. That was just what she called them.

A term of affection said by a lonely woman.

Both staff and students looked forward to Mrs Gruffle's lunches.

Often it was a steaming stew.

Sometimes it was a meat pie.

Mrs Gruffle did do a vegetarian option, but it was very rarely taken up.

Her meat dishes were so delicious.

Sometimes there were spongy dumplings.

It really helped the children to have such a yummy meal. They needed something warm and comforting in their lives to help them get over the sadness.

Children had gone missing.

Two or sometimes three children seemed to go missing every year.

Everyone was at a loss.

There were patterns, of course.

Many of them were loners.

None of them seemed to have many friends.

A large proportion of them seemed to come from the orphanage.

They all seemed to be vegetarians.

It was a great sadness to the whole community.

The police had been into the school, and told the children about ‘stranger danger’.

The vicar had been involved in setting up the “don’t be late, walk with a mate!” initiative.

The PTA had issued every child with a whistle.

Even Mrs Gruffle had done her bit.

When she found a child alone in the street, she would, after a quick check that no one was around, get them to carry her herbs and spices home for her.

Just so she could keep an eye on them.

That was just her way.

Cupboard

Joseph’s parents didn’t believe in the cupboard monster.

He told them again and again but still they didn’t believe him.

Joseph’s dad was a dentist and Joseph’s mother did something with money in a bank.

Every night his parents would be woken by a blood-curdling scream coming from Joseph’s room. When they rushed in they would find him staring goblin-eyed at his cupboard with arm outstretched, shaking fingers pointing.

He told them that a monster lived in there, and it had said it was going to eat him all up.

His dad stroked his brow, thinking perhaps one of his teeth needed a filling.

His mum stroked his cheek, thinking perhaps she should decrease his pocket money.

He was obviously spending it on sweets; the excess sugar giving him nightmares.

One thing appeared odd to them. Each night Joseph insisted on wrapping his lucky scarf around the cupboard handles to keep it shut; but every time they came in when he screamed, it was wrapped tightly around his neck.

Joseph’s parents consulted all the doctors they could find. One said to play whale music to relax him before sleep.

They did. It was awful.

One said to light scented candles.

They did. Joseph still screamed.

They were getting to their wits’ end. The cat had taken to sleeping outside.

Then Joseph’s mother had a brilliant idea.

“That’s a brilliant idea!” said Joseph’s dad.

That night they told Joseph they had a plan to stop the monster coming forever.

Mum got her toolbox, and went upstairs into Joseph’s room.

There was the sound of hammering. Joseph was so happy.

His parents were nailing the cupboard shut, he thought. He ran upstairs to watch.

Joseph couldn’t believe what he saw.

His mother had hammered the doors open.

Wide open.

She said that this way Joseph could see that there was nothing in the cupboard, apart from shoes and clothes.

They were very pleased with themselves.

Joseph begged them to shut it again.

They would not.

Joseph went to bed crying.

The parents were sad, but knew they were doing the right thing.

They locked the door.

When they went into Joseph’s bedroom the following morning, he was nowhere to be found.

The cupboard door was shut, with the nails neatly lined up on the floor.

Teeth

One day Tom’s tooth came out. It was one of his milk teeth.

“You’ll have to put it under your pillow for the tooth fairy,” said his mother. “She might leave you a pound!”

“A pound?” thought Tom. “That’s not very much! I can’t get a bucket of sweets with that.”

Tom was quite a greedy boy.

After staring at his tooth awhile, an idea came to him.

“What if I write a letter to her saying that I’ve had all my teeth out, but have lost them all except one?” he thought to himself. “That will be worth almost an entire sweet shop, I bet!”

Tom felt very pleased with himself, and started composing the letter to the tooth fairy. It took him awhile, and there was lots of crossing out, but at last he was satisfied.

When he went to bed he did not tell his parents what he had done. He put the note, his tooth, and a large bag under his pillow in anticipation of all the money that was going to be left for the teeth. Then he went to sleep.

In the middle of the night Cowslip, his tooth fairy, magically flew in through the window. She settled on the side of his pillow and reached underneath and pulled out the lone tooth. She also pulled out the note.

Cowslip read the note.

Cowslip was a little short sighted. She read the note again, and looked at the solitary tooth in her hand.

“He wants me to take all his teeth?” she said, amazed. Then, shrugging her tiny shoulders she covered Tom with fairy dust, and got out her tools.

First, she yanked out all the loose teeth with a pair of pliers. It was not easy. She had to brace her legs against his nose for leverage.

Then she got her little fairy sledgehammer.

Over and over she swung, smashing the teeth out of Tom’s mouth.

She worked up quite a sweat

After she had hammered out all she could, she got out her power drill. Carefully she drilled out all the roots, until there were no teeth left in Tom’s mouth at all.

Sadly, because all the teeth were damaged, they did not have much re-sale value, so cowslip could not leave him any money.

Whistling a merry tune Cowslip flew out of the room and on to fairy land.

Hi all

As promised, here is my audio on book envy

Enjoy!

Mary was feeling lonely and so decided to make a doll.

First she tore some rags off a rainbow.

She got a strip of every colour

Then she knotted them together to make her rag doll.

She filled the inside of the doll with acorns.

This gave the doll its shape.

The doll needed buttons.

Mary sewed pearls on her doll.

The doll needed a heart.

Mary put the thorn of a rose in her doll.

Now the doll had a heart.

The doll needed some hair.

Mary got out her loom and weaved hair out of a golden spider’s web.

Now the doll had hair.

Mary and her doll went to play in the meadow. The sun was out and Mary fell asleep.

While she was asleep a butterfly fluttered onto her hand.

‘Oh how sad I am!’ said the butterfly. The doll, who had been sleeping, woke up.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she said.

‘I have been flying in the sun all day, and he has stolen my colours!’ cried the butterfly.

The doll undid one of her rags and soaked it in a pool. All the colours of the rainbow came out into the water.

‘Please Mr Butterfly, wash yourself in this pool. My coat was cut from a rainbow, and I am happy to give you my colours.’

The butterfly washed himself in the pool.

His wings were all the colours of the rainbow.

‘Thank you, sister!’ he said, and fluttered away.

The doll began brushing her hair with a thistle.

As she was doing this a squirrel came hopping along.

‘Oh how sad I am!’ said the squirrel. The doll, whose head had been down whilst she brushed, looked up.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she said.

‘My mother sent me out to find food, but there is none to be found!’ cried the squirrel.

The doll reached inside of herself and pulled out some acorns.

‘Please Mr Squirrel! I gave my colours to a butterfly; let me give you my acorns.’The squirrel took the acorns and put them in his cheeks. He was very happy.

‘Thank you, sister!’he said, and hop- hopped away.

The doll felt a little tired, and so went to sit down under the shade of a willow tree at the edge of the meadow.

The doll was feeling quite hot, and so fanned herself with a fern leaf.

As she was doing this a spider fell on her lap from the branches above.

‘Oh, how sad I am!’ cried the spider. The doll, which had closed her eyes while she fanned her face, opened them and looked out.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she said.

‘A wind blew me to this tree. It blew so fast that I did not have time to bring my thread with me so cannot make a web!’ wept the spider.

The doll reached up and pulled a strand of her hair.

‘Please Mr Spider. I gave my colours to a butterfly; I gave my body to a squirrel; Let me give you my tresses!’

The spider took the golden thread and spun it into its sack.

‘Thank you sister!’ he said, and scuttled away to make a golden web.

The doll was feeling quite tired, and so to revive herself went to lie beneath the heads of a rose bush. The scent was so soothing that the doll began to drift off to sleep

As she was lying there she was woken by a gentle crying. She opened her eyes and looked up. Above her tears of dew were falling from a beautiful yellow rose.

‘Oh how sad I am!’ cried the rose. The doll, tired though she was, stood up.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ she said.

‘A bird stole my thorn to use as a beak, and now my sap is running out as a river, and I will die!’ sobbed the rose.

The doll reached inside and pulled out the thorn.

‘Please, Mr Rose. I gave my colours to a butterfly; I gave my body to a squirrel; I gave my hair to a spider; Let me give you my heart!’

Saying that the doll placed the thorn on the rose, and it was healed.

‘Thank you, sister!’ he said, and raised his head up high.

The doll, feeling very tired, walked back to Mary and lay down, fast asleep. The very longest sleep.

Just then Mary woke up and saw the doll lying next to her.

She picked it up and gave it a hug.

Loss stares at the fire in the sky, but only sees the blizzard in his heart.

Loss sits on the step looking out at the patch of concrete that is his garden. Concrete garden. London is reflected back at him in the night sky but he doesn't see it. All he sees are tiny images, fracturing his vision, breaking through the white noise in his head.

It’s one of those nights. Like London is on fire. The clouds have formed a roof over the city and they are glowing red, lit by a million street-lamps. Loss sees them but doesn't see them. He sees the red London sky, but a thousand years ago. He sees the red sky of when his daughter was young. He sees them in a flat with no air conditioning, melting in the summer night. He sees them dragging an old sofa onto the flat roof of the flat, laughing with the absurdity of it, and sitting up there drinking coke and eating chicken Shawarma with pickles and hummus. He sees them staring at the radioactive sky with his arm around her, sat on the sofa with her curled into him like a promise.

Suzanne.

‘I love you daddy.’

All gone. Buried under years of pain and regret and locked in rooms in his mind he barely knows the way to any more.

Drink me

There are doorways all over London.

Sometimes they have “No Entry” written on them in peeling red letters.

Sometimes “24 hour Access required!”, litter from a hundred bad-choice food products papering the foot of the alcove.

Sometimes just a hard-core, zero-tolerance padlock and a scarred veneer.

You just never know which one of them leads to the other London.

The hidden London.

The London below and behind.

The ghost stations, some still with ghost trains, preserved for the silent commuting dead.

The citadels, remnants of a country at war, kept clean and dimly lit, tidy and neat, as if The Bomb dropped, and nobody made it.

The secret telephone exchange, it’s ceramic switching units seemingly poised for the new cold war.

The row of houses, where all the doors are fake, and behind the front facade is the entrance to a different world.

I could show you these places, and more. I could take you by the hand and lead you down the spiral stepped rabbit hole to a subterranean cityscape of tunnels and wires; sewers and electrical conduits big enough to drive through.

It’s easy, once you know how.

Well maybe not easy. Maybe quite hard, if you don’t want to get caught, or lost, or injured.

Maybe we could call it research?

Maybe if we took a camera, or an ipad, or a hand-held, we could pretend we’re doing reportage.

But we’re not, are we?

we’re going into Narnia.

Victorian-industry, cyber-wrenched inter-bled electro-spark Narnia, sure. But Narnia never the less.

And it’s not safe.

We’re not alone down here.

I’m not talking about the animals; the bats and the rats and the wild packs of blind dogs. The foxes and the crabs and the unique, never found elsewhere, variety of mosquito.

Although they’re bad enough. Meet some of those when they’re hungry enough and you've just fallen 15 metres down a shaft and you’ll know about it.

I’m not even talking about the homeless and dispossessed, the people who have place-hacked themselves under London’s skin, trying to make a life out of the neverworld below.

I’m talking about the ghost-girl. The girl who walked straight out of my head, dressed in tatty black streetwear with a soul full of anger and as face full of pain, and disappeared into the systems beneath the street.

The vengeance girl

The girl with the moral code of a cracked record; scratched and jumping to a messed up beat.

I’m talking about Tuesday.

No. Best not to go down there for real.

Better to do it through a cypher.

Better to download her. Try and control her and contain her on our devices.

Although I doubt it will work.

I’d imagine that when you’re reading about her on the tube.

Thinking about her as you stare out of the window.

You might ghost-see her beside you.

With her army shirt and it’s ripped collar.

With her fuck you hair and her scuffed DM’s

grinning.

The beginnings of Tuesday Falling

When I was six I got into trouble for smashing a hole in the back of my cupboard with my dad’s hammer,trying to find Narnia.

It wasn’t a lot of trouble, me being only six, but me being only six, meant it made a big impression!

For years after that I tried, wholly unsuccessfully, to live in just one world.

Then I moved to London

Going down into the underground is going into a different world.

The air is different, hotter and dryer, gusting round corners unexpectedly, or suddenly dying away.

Noise behaves strangely. The busker’s accordion that can clearly be heard, but not seen. The sub-sonic rumble of trains in tunnels below or beside you; unseen but felt directly through the body.

The sheer size of it. The feeling that one can go anywhere under London, just popping up in an entirely different part of the city.

Somehow it feels secret.

And then there are the closed off walkways, with their sliding metal gates. Where do they go? Why are they closed off? And when one looks out of a tube window, into the tunnel, the ghost image of someone not quite you staring back. Then suddenly the wall outside the window disappears, revealing an alcove, or a padlocked door, or another tunnel, with sparks fracturing the distant image like it’s hiding something.

What does it all mean?

When I first moved to London I worked under Oxford Street for one of the big department stores, warehousing their surplus stock in tunnels that came off store basement like snakes.

The warehouseman seemed like he was made out of paper, all dry skin and uniform pallor.

It was him who told me about all the tunnels under London

All the old rivers and the victorian sewers.

The Royal mail mini-railway and the disused stations.

The telephone exchange tunnels and the private bunkers.

How, during the second world war, there were special stations for the government, and secret tunnels where the nation’s art was stored.

The blitz and all that.

Some years later I was having a drink with a friend round the back of a well known West End theatre. There was a pop up, for one night only, bar; almost certainly illegal. All it consisted of was a man dressed up in a dark suit, waiter’s apron and bowler hat, serving gin and tonic in plastic glasses, ice glittering in a stainless steel wheelbarrow by his side. It was a narrow alley with everyone sat on the floor (no care of London dirt for the young!). From grates in the wall, presumably due to kitchens in the buildings that made up the alley wall, steam leaked out into the night, and the whole thing had a magical quality.

Or it could have been the gin.

Anyhow I was telling my friend about all the tunnels under London, and she told me about a group of people, urban explorers, who actively look for ways into this hidden world and document it.

I was fascinated. I had no idea there was a whole movement out there. Apparently, she told me, there are loads of secret ways into this subterranean ‘other London’, from old doorways at the end of tatty alleys with nothing behind them except spiral steps leading down into the depths, to tunnels branching off the main, current system connecting to whole abandoned, yet still intact, stations.

After our drink I walked to Piccadilly underground to catch a tube home. On the platform I noticed a girl, a teenager, slim, slightly indy, with stay-away clothes and never go to bed hair. She was sitting on the platform floor, her back against the wall, and it was as if there was no-one else on the station.

Anyhow there was a gust of wind, a kind of pushing and pulling at the same time, and i looked in the tunnel and saw the single eye of the approaching train.

When i looked back the girl had gone, nowhere to be seen.

There’s so many secret places down here.

Secret, or forgotten, or unremembered.

Like I want to be.

Like Loss wants to be.

This one is like a secret I keep from myself. It’s a forgotten spur off the Thames foot tunnel, built in 1830. The tunnel itself is used for electrical conduits and stuff now, but no-one knows about the spur. It’s 15 meters long and coffin thin. I think it must have been locked away soon after the tunnel was built. The door is blocked off by piping and ventilation ducts, steam spitting out like the place is alive. The door will only open 10 cm, so anyone much bigger than me would have no chance.

This is where I come when I want to cry.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t cry. All my tears evaporated in rage and pain and a heart broken into a thousand three years ago, but this is where I come when I want to cry.

I can’t cry, but here, well I can let the space cry for me.

Once I’m in and the door is closed it’s like I imagine a womb must be. I can hear the water from the river, the noise it makes like a caress. There’s an unstoppable low hum from the machines beyond the door that is almost subsonic, and a muffled swishing from whatever the current is pushing or pulling beyond the walls.

This is where I let the blizzard in my head turn into gentle snowfall.

There's a narrow shelf half way up where I’ve got some candles, and I bring my photograph of Suzanne and me and my daughter and I just curl round it and don’t cry. I look at the flickering images lit by the candles, making them seem in motion and I feel my body melt a little. I stare at my daughter and don’t cry and don’t cry until I can’t see the picture outside anymore. Only inside. Inside my heart. Inside my head. Pushing the blizzard away.

Filling me with a gentle nothing, like the softest wind through my soul.

Brydges Place; Like walking through to another world. The entrance is only 15 inches wide, and leads into a narrow ginnel with steam seeping from the walls. After 20 feet or so it opens up into a little courtyard with tables and chairs belonging to the pub The Marquis of Granby, which has a door backing into the alley. There is only a narrow slit of sky to be seen between the two buildings that make up the walls of the alley. The strip is bruised with blue blacks and brown yellows, fracked by spikes of lightning. There is no rain yet but it feels as if the moisture is already held suspended in the air. There is a small busking band made up of accordion, double bass and hi-hat. They are all dressed in black waistcoats with white shirts, black trousers and black hats. A bowler, a fez and beret worn Rasta style on the back of the head. A pavement artist is just packing away her chalks. Her face is not visible due to the black keffiyeh. She has on black Moroccan trousers, silver DM’s and a grandfather shirt. As she walks away she drops some notes into the busker’s accordion case. The pavement drawing is of a group of gang boys, in their uniform of hoods, drop crotch trousers and phones, dead and laid out in a row. Next to them is drawn a wheelbarrow full of drugs, knives, guns and crack pipes. Underneath the picture is written ‘boys and their toys’. Above the picture is written ‘Tuesday Calling”

Loss and Stone walk onto the Sparrow estate. The sun is brutal, bleaching the air and turning up the contrast on the day to white-out. All the d-boys are out on their pedal bikes, delivering their little packages of poison to whomever has stolen enough or sold themselves enough to afford it. Half the windows in the identi-flats are cateracted with metal shutters to stop the squatters or pop up crack houses. There are clotheslines on balconies and hard looking men with dead eyes and multi-phones smoking outside the estate pub. They look at Loss and Stone as if they are nothing. Less than nothing. Antibodies to a disease that doesn’t exist. The detectives walk up the stairs to the first floor landing. There are bits of foil everywhere, and the remains of cheap plastic lighters. The whole place smells of piss and hate and failure, and the walls are graffiti’d with messages of loathing and pain. It is a relief for them to come out onto the landing; to be blinded again by the day. From across the war-zone patch of grass below them masquerading as a park comes the sound of an old punk tune. Something from a past that never went away, just became more relevant. A reminder that history just gets richer with age.

The Music of Tuesday Volume 1

It could be late at night. It could be early in the morning. Down here in the underground time is storied, not mechanical. You are standing at the top of the escalator. There are not many people around, and those that are, are busy in their own heads. The steps of the escalator appear and form below you out of the ground, the ridges shining dully in the overhead lighting. There is the constant low ebb of air being pushed and pulled along the lanes of the tunnels. The escalator is old, and vibrates slightly as it moves.

When deciding on what weapons would suit Tuesday I had to think carefully. I wanted them to be cool, stylish and completely unavailable. The last thing I wanted was to get a phone call about some copycat murder.

‘I pull the 1934 Russian PB 9mm silenced pistol from my thigh holster and point it at the top of the escalator , feeling very Resident Evil.’

Beautiful, aren’t they? The PB (Pistolet BesshumnyJ) was not actually developed until 1967, and was based on the earlier Makarov PM Pistol.

I liked the look of it so much that I transported the make date back a few years and put it in the hands of Tuesday. It has a two part detachable silencer and can fire 8 rounds. Lovely!

‘I shoot Mr Hood-down through the right eye. His right, not mine. There’s no sound because I’m using a crossbow pistol. The bolt leaves the mechanism at a million miles an hour then buries itself in Hood-down’s brain. Or what passed as his brain.’

This particular version, as used by Tuesday, was made by Frederic Siber In the early 19th century. It is currently on display at Morges Military Museum. Because of its rarity I felt on much safer ground, and did not feel the need to change its date of construction.

‘Danny’s not doing a whole lot right now, except maybe twitching a bit. I take out the flare gun and shoot the other two in the face.’

1941 Dated German Luftwaffe Double Signal Pistol - Flieger Leuchtpistole by Krieghoff, Suhl.

This one I particularly like. Sub-zero cool cross between Dirty Harry and some alternative steampunk gig. You can imagine it round the back of Candy’s, the magnesium light from the flares whiting out the walls and fire-flowering the two gang-boys.

‘Have a nice day, boys. I open up the satchel and pull out two curved scythes. I stand up and walk towards them. Swish swash. It doesn’t take long. It never takes long .’

Ah, the hand scythes. The tube. The stuttering emergency lights and the screaming. This example is from 1910 and is Laotian Nep, Burmese or Northen Thai.

Whatever, it’s a horror show waiting to happen.

Hope you have found this interesting.

x

#tuesdayfalling

Audio feed demo for new book, Stitches, recorded by J Atkin