Female Kill Machine (slight edit edition)

For reasons unrelated to anything but my own diligence and professionalism (and also the only review of this on goodreads being 90% about the typos made me feel all self-conscious), here is a slightly updated version of last year’s smash hit super sensation of the literary world, Female Kill Machine, which is still, I’m afraid to say, an ultraviolent cyberpunk atrocity of a novel.

Available now on Amazon (£2.99, or free on kindle unlimited) and Ko-Fi (pay what you want).

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The Strange Folk

The pond at the end of my garden is a portal to another world.

I’ve seen them, the strange folk, climb into it at night, slip down deeper than they should, until they’re entirely submerged. I’ve waited for them to rise again, exploding up out of the depths in an ecstasy of joy, relief, taking in great chest bursting gulps of air, masses of water and moss and lily pads and water weeds dripping from their hair.

But they never do. The strange folk slip slowly in, do not ever return. Wherever it is it leads, this portal, it’s entrance only.

Maybe they emerge in other ponds, in other gardens, feet first, like spiders from a hole. Maybe they turn into fish, snails, tadpoles, toads. Maybe they just dissolve, become ripples on the surface, rainbows, moonbeams, seafoam, salt.

I still don’t know who the strange folk are, why they come here late at night, creeping between the trees to bathe in our pond. Where are they from? Why are there so many of them? Don’t they have anywhere else to go?

And will they take me with them, if I ask, take me with them to wherever it is they go.

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Notes:

1. Written on June 13th, 2022

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The Day The Queen Came Round For Tea

The queen came round to our house for tea once. She wasn’t invited, she just turned up. Apparently she has the right. She didn’t even take her shoes off in the porch, just shuffled right in without a care in the world. Mum was furious but she didn’t say a word. I think she was more upset because she knew that from now on whenever she told us to take our shoes off we’d just say, “But the queen never did,” and she was right, we did all say that, for years. Kids are awful, really. Kids are the worst.

There was some cake in the cupboard but the ants had got in there again so all Mum had for the queen was some of those pink wafer things you don’t seem to get anymore but you used to get back then. Not exactly a queenly gift, but well it was all we had. If she wanted better she should have phoned ahead really. Not that the queen seemed to notice. She didn’t even touch her tea, let alone the biscuits. Snooty bitch.

When dad got in from work we all told him about how the queen came round for tea but she was gone now and he’d missed her, and he was quite upset because apparently the queen doesn’t have the right after all and we’d all been taken for mugs. Mugs.

“And which of you little brats has been traipsing mud all through the hall…”

He was really quite irate. Stupid dad.

Anyway, the queen never came round for tea again, and dad got rid of the ants somehow. He wouldn’t tell us how. Then Mum ran off to Germany with a prince and that was the end of that.

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Notes:

1. Written on June 3rd, 2022

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If you like the things you've read here please consider subscribing to my patreon or my ko-fi.

Patreon subscribers get not just early access to content and also the occasional gift, but also my eternal gratitude. Which I'm not sure is very useful, but is certainly very real.

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And They Were Not My Words

And They Were Not My Words is a small collection/zine of cut up fiction experiments, in which I’ve tried creating new works from old pieces by Jorge Luis Borges, William Burroughs, the Brothers Grimm, Daniil Kharms, and Haruki Murakami.

Download (contains both PDF and EPUB versions): And they were not my words (.zip)

The collection also contains fully annotated versions, so you can check on my work if you want to see if, when and where I cheated.

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Notes:

1. The Borges cut-up pieces were made in December 2021
2. The Burroughs cut up pieces were created in August and September 2019
3. The Brothers Grimm pieces were made in February and March 2020
4. The Daniil Kharms pieces were made in December 2020
5. The Haruki Murakami pieces were made in December 2021
6. And the copyrights were not my own, etc etc

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If you like the things you've read here please consider subscribing to my patreon or my ko-fi.

Patreon subscribers get not just early access to content and also the occasional gift, but also my eternal gratitude. Which I'm not sure is very useful, but is certainly very real.

(Ko-fi contributors probably only get the gratitude I'm afraid, but please get in touch if you want more).

Thank you!


What Haruki Murakami Talks About When He Talks About Women

1.

I’d like to tell a story about a woman. 

She was a small, slim girl. More cute than beautiful. The kind of face that, if you saw her on the street, you’d forget as soon as you passed by. A wide forehead, beautiful straight hair, her ears on the large side for her build. A small nose, out of balance with the size of her mouth. 

She was wearing a sleeveless white dress and her hair had a citrusy shampoo scent. Her accessories and makeup, too, were low-key yet refined. Plus, she wore thick glasses.

She practiced yoga every other day at a gym and had a flat, toned stomach. One afternoon I kissed her small yet full lips and touched her breasts through her bra. Her breasts weren’t particularly big, or particularly small. When she smiled, two charming little lines formed beside her lips.

She reached out and gently took my hard penis in her hand. Her vagina was wet, and moved smoothly, naturally, like some living being. She was on the pill, so I could come freely inside her. She had four orgasms in total, every single one genuine, if you can believe it. 

While we had sex we hardly said a word. When she looked at me, it was as though she was ignoring the outside (granted it wasn’t much to look at anyway) and could see right through me, down to the depths of my being.

I think what makes me feel sad about the girls I knew growing old is that it forces me to admit, all over again, that my youthful dreams are gone forever.

[Taken from the following works by Haruki Murakami: the short stories On A Stone Pillow and With The Beatles; and the novels Killing Commendatore and Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki And His Years of Pilgrimage]

2.

This first girlfriend of mine was petite and charming. 

There was nothing special about her face. Her features were not unattractive, but her face lacked focus, so that the impression she left was somehow blurry. She had really strong, healthy-looking teeth. Her large, protruding ears were like satellite dishes placed in some remote landscape.  Dressed or undress, she looked five years younger than she was, with pure white skin and beautifully rounded, modestly sized breasts. 

That day she wore a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and pink sneakers. Her black hair tossed about, supple as a willow branch in a strong wind. It was hard to believe that this girl – small, bony, with a not-so-great complexion – was the same girl who, the night before, had screamed out passionately in my arms, in the winter moonlight.

[Taken from the following works by Haruki Murakami: the short stories With The Beatles, Scheherazade, On A Stone Pillow and Drive My Car; and the novels Killing Commendatore and Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki And His Years of Pilgrimage]

3.

The waitress had mammoth breasts, the buttons on her uniform ready to burst. She was a housewife from a provincial city well on the road to middle age and running to flab (in fact it looked as if every nook and cranny had been filled with putty), with jowls and lines webbing the corners of her eyes. The rolls of fat started just below her ears and sloped gently down to her shoulders. No matter how you looked at her she was hardly a beauty, and there was something off-putting about her face, as Oba had suggested.

She was watching me and waved. Her long hair was a silky lustrous black. She had on a white blouse with a round collar and a navy-blur cardigan. It always surprised me, the variety of clothes mature women wore. 

Her legs were beautiful, and her stockings matched her black high-heeled shoes. She had on very simple white panties. But, when she took them off, the crotch was damp. It was so beautiful I had to look away.

[Taken from the following works by Haruki Murakami: the short stories Scheherazade, Hunting Knife, Drive My Car, Where I’m Likely To Find It, and Yesterday; and the novels Killing Commendatore and Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki And His Years of Pilgrimage]

4.

The first woman I slept with was in her late twenties. She wasn’t exactly a standout in terms of looks. 

My guess was she had recently had plastic surgery. Stuck up, flat-chested, with a funny-looking nose and a none-too-wonderful personality. A detailed examination of her face from the front revealed that the size and shape of her ears were significantly different, the left one much bigger and malformed. Her eyes were big for the size of her face (with large pupils, which made her resemble a fairy). Ten years earlier, she might well have been a lively and attractive young woman, perhaps even turned a few heads.

The mere sight of her sent a violent shudder through me. Which, in turn, conjured up vague memories of oral sex. I may have felt that way because I really did have shame and guilt in my heart.

[Taken from the following works by Haruki Murakami: the short stories Where I’m Likely To Find It, Yesterday, Scheherazade and With The Beatles; and the novels Killing Commendatore and 1Q84]

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Notes:

1. These were put together on December 15th, 2021
2. From various works by Haruki Murakami (as noted beneath each vignette)
3. For other similar cut up experiments to these, please see In The Terminals OF Minraud (a William Burroughs cut up trilogy), The New Brothers Grimm, Five Tributes To The Works Of Daniil Kharms, and Five Entries Recovered From Jorge Luis Borges’ Imaginary Book Of Beings.
4. Every sentence here is taken verbatim from the original source, the only changes being a few changes from third person to first person, or vice versa.
5. No two consecutive sentences from the same piece are used
6. Although occasionally two non-consecutive sentences from the same piece are used

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Support An Accumulation Of Things

If you like the things you've read here please consider subscribing to my patreon or my ko-fi.

Patreon subscribers get not just early access to content and also the occasional gift, but also my eternal gratitude. Which I'm not sure is very useful, but is certainly very real.

(Ko-fi contributors probably only get the gratitude I'm afraid, but please get in touch if you want more).

Thank you!