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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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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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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The Hunter, The Crow

1.

They brought her body down from the woods today and left it in the square, that curved mask still covering her face, those black feathers still hanging from her arms. A small crowd watches. They know no better. They do not avert their eyes.

The blood that spills from her robes and runs along the cobblestones is not hers but ours, yours, theirs.

2.

There are always those for whom the occurrence of this spectacle was their first time. Those that do not recognise who this figure is, this hunter, this crow. Who do not know how many times she has been caught, been killed, been left here to rot on the stone steps of the court.

3.

In the woods in the winter, in the years she is alive, she leaves no footsteps in the snow, casts no shadow beneath the sun, makes no sound beneath the moon. Only by the bounties that she claims do we know that she is there.

In the summer she stands upon the hill and is not seen to move. But move she must, for never does she stop. There are always those among us ready to atone.

4.

We spoke once, this hunter and I, this crow, here in this very room, her mask pulled up enough to reveal her mouth, her lips, her bloodstained teeth. I cannot recall her words, though even if I did I know better than to repeat them. She deserves her privacy as we deserve our own.

5.

I can see them out there still, the crowd in the square. Her killer plucks a feather from her wings, holds it up to the sky.

I could not tell you what they hope to gain.

6.

The hunter is always young, always fast, always alone. The crow is always old, always slow, always on her own. The hunter is the crow, the crow is the hunter. There is no distinction between the two.

She is always a woman, even when she is a man. She could be any one of us, but is always no one we know.

7.

I remember the crackle of the fire, the steam rising from the cup in her hands, a glimpse of her tongue with every word that she spoke. I remember the caress of her fingers through my hair, the cold of her claws against my scalp, the trickle of blood as each fresh drop rolled down my cheeks like tears.

8.

I killed the hunter once. I killed the crow. I was young enough then I think I expected praise. I was certainly not then old enough to understand the shame.

9.

They say that those who kill the hunter, those that kill the crow, cannot themselves be killed. They say those that kill the hunter, those that kill the crow, can never themselves become the hunter, can never themselves become the crow. No matter how much they might wish themselves to be.

10.

I still have the feather I plucked from her wing. It is older than this house. It is older than this town. It is older than the woods in which she walks even now.

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Notes:

1. Written on November 16th, 2021

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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.

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Prophecies Of The Future Recorded On Obsolete Media Formats

The videotapes are delivered to my door each day. I am not obliged to watch them, but I watch them. The things they show me have yet to happen, but are too close to stop. Moments of the future given some nostalgic VHS glow.

To be forewarned of the inevitable is a kind of torment.

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Notes:

1. Written on November 16th, 2021

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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!