THE JESUS CODE
He finally stood in the chamber.
It has been a long but rewarding quest. The journey had taken him round the world, and along the way he’d cracked many codes; dug many a site. And as an archaelogist he had been in his element.
In many ways he was never truly convinced he would find it. But now here he stood in the ancient cavern, the Holy Grail in his hand.
He smiled – at its simplicity, but also its beauty. And, of course, it’s mystique.
Questions had been asked for centuries. Did it exist? If so, what WAS the secret?
Would it prove to be the famed chalice of the Last Supper, or were the conspiracy theorists right that it signified the blood of Christ?
Well, in a way they had both been right. And now he scraped out the dried blood of the spear wound. And the geneticists were ready for the Second Coming.
It was bad. Fighters appeared from everywhere and we had to be ever alert. Danvers drove us on through the mountains, and it was clear there was a covert objective we knew nothing about.
I’d heard of him before – a previous mission. His cavalier ways. The trap. He lost all six of his men that day, and they say he carries the guilt always. But it didn’t show.
We moved deeper into the heartland and soon we found ourselves facing a major redoubt. And it was Danvers who took it out – single handedly – charging as if he was invulnerable to the bullets. But he wasn’t. A burst ripped through his chest and he fell.
I held him as he died, and in those last seconds serenity appeared on his face, which seemed to say: mission accomplished.
To be dug up from my grave was liberating. I know the female should not be liberated. It is a world of men. But he dug me up from my grave.
Mother had chosen him – he seemed right for me; good expectations. He was dark, handsome … almost aristocratic. But there was another – of lower class. And he was such fun. At first.
My first love never meant to be a rogue. He aspired for better things. An orphan, he was useful to our neighbours – on the land; with the horses. Beaten often as a child, he was my age, and we’d meet secretly and play.
Of course, those games increased in daring – in lust?
He took me with the ease he would steal from the neighbourhood.
It was not his fault.
It was not my fault.
It was the life etched out for us. And when he finally left, I felt dead.
So my mother’s chosen one dug me up from a symbolic grave – offered me an afterlife.
We wed; my expectations good.
Until that first night.
Maybe if I’d bled.
The chosen one changed then, knowing he was not the first. With me he was cold, and it soon became apparent that he went out at night in search of blood.
How many women he took on his nightly vigils, I do not know. And then, returned, the smell of blood upon him, he would take me … terribly.
At first, I felt sorry for myself, but then I realised this horror was upon so many.
I sought them out.
They were not hard to find. They were like me – like zombies, wandering through life but not experiencing it.
Eventually we decided his fate. As a group, we confronted him – cornered him. And with the cross of righteousness, we burned him.
His screams echoed through the night, and we no longer lived in dread. Yet, we were still the unLiving.
Until we were dead.
It’s like this. The monkeys didn’t realize just what they were doing when they moved out of their natural area. They should have realized when they found the giant footprints, but no, they were curious.
Eventually the man appeared, towering above them – and a giant hand swept down and took up the female.
They gave chase, and when they caught up, there was a mammoth battle, and eventually, through guile, they brought him down.
Tying him up, they dragged him back to show the rest what they had found. But the man was not to be subdued for long.
He broke free.
Another mammoth struggle followed and the man was eventually driven up a tree. Hurling stones at him, he finally fell to his death …
The writer finished the synopsis and looked up to the movie producer.
The orang utan shook his head. Said:
‘No, it’s just too silly.’
WE MUST DO
It had been so long. It seemed like years. Years of being shot at, bombed … Gassed. But now?
We’d made it. At least, I had. And behind me? A line of fallen, blooded, contorted comrades.
I felt the pain – in the mind as well as the body – as I observed the final target.
WMD. That’s what it was all about. Weapons of Mass Destruction. Get to them before they could be used.
Well, I’d got them. Me alone. I looked, once more, at my deaf comrades behind me. We must do what we must do. For what?
For the war to go on. We must do …
The countdown began
We must do
I froze, decided.
We Must Do
Ch 1. The Past: Stonehenge; towering stones say nature is mother. The Present: Towering banks say man thinks he’s king – light into shadow.
Ch 2. The stones soak up nature spirit, create Eco-Warrior as one day he’ll be needed as man leaves the natural cycle & advances – destroys.
Ch 3. Today: nature designed by man; mere greenery. Good to smell but he doesn’t know that if petals were sharp they’d bite off his nose.
Ch 4. Afraid. People leave home-box in car-box for office-box; forage in shop-box for food-boxes. Fear of nature has them boxed in.
Ch 5. Our villain is a metaphor for the bastards who pollute. Mr BigBiz sits in his office, greenery nowhere. Boxed in more than most.
Ch 6. Tick Tock Men serve him. They used to be human but now are machine-like. It’s no conspiracy. When minds think alike they act alike. Blind.
Ch 7. Lost souls of dead things belch from exhaust & chimney, but now they gather, choke, as Eco-Warrior returns with the wind & the heat.
Ch 8. BigBiz is taken – poured into a pipe, mixed with air (low carb diet?) & pistons pound & explode; vomit him out as the oily slime he is.
Ch 9. But Eco-Warrior is not yet finished. Fuel rods expel & heavy water seeps into every molecule & a mini-sun radiates, pulling atom from atom.
Ch 10. Now BigBiz is part of nature himself – not greenery but real as tendrils climb & trees sway, branches – tentacles – wrapping him in fear.
Ch 11. Chain-reaction now as hypermarkets erupt, junk food forming slime as shoppers forget therapy & sink, celebs popping as the zits they hide.
Ch 12. And banks evicerate, their wealth pointless now, their high towers turning to stone as nature declares bankruptcy of man; loan terminated.
Ch 13. Standing stones taller now. Triumphant. And Mother Nature nurtures child in her womb. This time the umbilical cord will remain.
AFTER THE SHOW
He knew the drugs had been folly, but how else does a celebrity survive with such an overbearing, often hostile media?
The pressure to conform to an image was just too powerful. But sometimes he just wished he could have been ordinary.
Rehab helped, of course, but it was meeting Jenny that really sorted him out.
‘I just don’t know who you are,’ she said after several weeks together.
They searched for him in the videos of his shows, but he was not there. They relived the films and the interviews, but he was nowhere to be found.
‘We’ve got to go back to your roots,’ she said; yet it was hard when all he had been was image. But they both knew there was a human being to rebuild.
THE STRANGE CASE OF PREJUDICE
How to decide who to marry. Does my mother know best? The man she has chosen for me is nice, with good expectations. But can I love him?
You see, on a night I meet another. Where the chosen one is kind, the other can be cruel; but whereas the chosen one is boring, the other is exciting. I can take the cruelty if it guarantees the excitement.
And the cruelty rubs off on me. I find myself teasing the chosen one – sending gifts to give him the idea I will marry him. Eventually he proposes outright and I feel sick. I tell him I cannot and he tries to kill himself.
He survives. Shuns me – which I do not like.
Until I am with the other, and the excitement takes away any guilt.
Recovered, the chosen one seems to know what is going on. He hints that I have another. But how could he know?
Eventually, he threatens to kill the other and I am horrified.
I try to see him, to warn him, but as I search for him, my path is drawn to the home of the chosen one.
How can this be?
In his study, I find strange potions and a diary. I read the diary and discover the chosen one and the other are one, the latter the chemically induced dark side of the chosen one – but he will live that life no more. He cannot be him again.
The chosen one enters the study. Sees me. I remonstrate. I need the other. But still he refuses.
In desperation I take the drink myself, and in an uncontrollable rage, I kill him. And afterwards, I realise I have killed both.
Three die that night, unbetrothed.
THE HOT WAR
The letter sat before him. He wished he’d left it unopened – guessed what it would contain. And next to it, the executive order he’d so recently signed.
He was a captain of industry – a CEO who had risen high, and that flair for getting things done had been inherited by his daughter.
There’d been opposition to the plant in the jungle – it would damage the local environment; add to climate change; it was carcinogenic. He sneered at the latest report, propped against a coffee mug on his desk.
Why couldn’t people understand that advancement has collateral damage?!!
His daughter had been there, gotten involved – in the protests (damn her!) – she got things done, see. Became a …
He read the letter again, written quickly – painfully – from her death bed. Then he filed it away – with the order to send the unit in.
She was twenty and beautiful.
Slowly, she walked forward – seductively.
She stared at him, sitting there – pouted – another button unfastened, her cleavage inviting …
He was seventy, expectation rising with every step she took.
How lucky he felt – knowing what was going to happen. After so long, fulfillment.
She took another step, another button undone, the whole thing enacted as if in slow motion.
HE began to feel the emotion of the moment – exultant and, in a way humbled.
He never dreamed such a moment would occur.
They had met so recently, it seemed, and to come to this …
She took another step – more awkward this time – and as saliva dripped
– and as she hobbled on her sticks –
… and her dressing gown nearly fell …
… he stood up, wrapped it once more around her and kissed her gently on the cheek.
The memory had now faded, but in her eyes he saw, again, the beautiful, loving soul he had first took fifty years ago.
an Adventure MicroNovel
Ch 1. When the secret was stolen the Mandarins wondered who it was. Panic hit the heart of Conspiracy & it was no wonder I was called in.
Ch 2. I was with Wonder at the time, having a wonderful time, but it would be good to be in action again. The order had come from the Top.
Ch 3. Mandarins, you see, answered to Politicos, who answered to Fat Cats, who answered to God – at least, that’s what they called the voice.
Ch 4. I investigated. A man in shadow, they all knew me, tailed me; the Fleming Effect. But I tailed them as they tailed me. We all got dizzy.
Ch 5. ‘Twas a Boy’s Own adventure for men who will be boys; & there was only one answer. To protect the secret I had to kill them all …
Ch 6. … & they had to try to kill me. Wonder came with me – there’s no story without a beautiful girl; & an assault rifle under my jacket.
Ch 7. I turned over every stone looking for the secret. All I got were words. I had to play them at their own game & the clues were cryptic.
Ch 8. Turning point came with a firefight. I killed 100s – ah, the beauty of the game; a ballet of blood, opera of screams; Dante’s Inferno.
Ch 9. I was cornered; sent Wonder as a diversion. They killed her. Another arrived. ‘Are you Wonder?’ ‘If you like.’ She had a wonderful tail.
Ch 10. We escaped in a fast car; swapped for a speed boat; hid in a sub; stole a plane, hijacked Branson’s orbiter – slingshot round the Moon.
Ch 11. Then only the spy. Predictably it was ‘Y’, ‘cos a question follows ‘X’. I led him down a twisty road. Smoke confused & mirrors dazzled.
Ch 12. It was done, the secret safe – ’til Wonder held up a gun. I’d wondered if she’d had a twist in her tail. Smiling, I disarmed her.
Ch 13. I reported to Mandarin. The secret was safe. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder what it was. Mandarin smiled. ‘Does it matter,’ he said.
He was in denial.
As he scrambled down yet another sand dune, he forget about the actions that brought him to this.
They weren’t far behind him now – he could sense them, aware of the weapons they carried.
He was an ecologist. He was aware of nature, if not human nature – and also about geography.
And as the smuggling gang stalked him across Africa, he knew the desert was the answer.
The desert had special powers, he knew – moral, even. And he knew it was more like the sea than land.
Constantly changing – sand moving like waves, creating eddies that suck you in – drowning in sand.
Finally he found what he was looking for – the lie of the sand was just right.
He stopped running. Watched the gang approach. Exposed his position.
Maybe, if they’d realised the intent in his laugh, they’d have been cautious, but hatred fuelled stupidity.
They thought only of the friend he had killed as the sand came upon them and swallowed them up.
He stopped laughing now, alone. He didn’t mean to kill her. She had cheated him, and he lost control in a sea of emotion.
And as the wave continued towards him, his last thought confirmed that the desert was, indeed, moral.
THE WRONG STORY
I’d often asked if I could ever have control of my existence. I know, I’m not supposed to ask – not even capable of asking. My existence isn’t my own and my destiny is in another’s hand.
In one way this is perfect, but I rebelled – found myself elsewhere. My existence, you see, had been snared up for too long.
Well, ‘elsewhere’ was strange. I didn’t recognize any of it. Nothing worked like I was used to – gee, there was even a baby in a cradle in this place, and I don’t do babies. I’m a totally different kind of guy – not into this social guff.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, my rebellion soon came to an end.
I saw the shadow first, and then it came at me from above – this huge missile-like thing. I should have guessed it was a pen, and as it made contact it scrubbed me out totally. And I soon found myself re-written into a story where I belonged.
THE SILAS CHRONICLES
I cannot say I was happy with my mother’s choice of husband for me. He was lowlier than we; and much older. But he did an honest day’s work and never spent. Hence, he had a sizeable pot of gold.
We married, and soon after, my husband decided we would move from our more agricultural south to the industrial north. His workload increased, and so did my unhappiness.
It was when he was doing some work with the Church that the accusation of theft arose. I could not believe it of him. Yet the issue became of importance to the election of the new Dean. It was to do with morality and forgiveness – on the outside, at least. But the reality is, the sleazy Mr Creep was manipulating the issue with a word here, a word there, hoping to increase his position in the Church.
As the issue raged, I ventured out a great deal, and one day I came upon a dispute outside a local mill. It seemed at one point the workers were about to assault the young mill owner.
I intervened. He was grateful. And although he was often cruel to his workers, I saw a spark of goodness in him, if I could only civilize him.
Our relationship went too far. Ashamed, I’d return from him to my husband, and felt wretched at my actions, but also with my husband’s neglect of me. His only happiness seemed to come as he counted his pot of gold.
Mr Creep – all knowing Mr Creep – did, of course, discover my regular assignations, and word got to the mill owner that his relationship was with a married woman.
Horrified, he confronted me at our next meeting. I admitted my deceit, yet told him of my husband’s cruelty, and that we could be together if we really desired it.
He loved me, and realised he could not be without me, and thus I directed him to my ‘husband’, Mr Creep.
Without the manipulator, the contest for the new Dean was advantageous for my husband. The moral was not ideal, but forgiveness won over morality, whether he was innocent or not. We do live in an imperfect world – though Mr Creep’s funeral WAS perfect.
Yet that imperfect world manifested in my guilt ridden mind. It drove me to my suicide. Yet as I atoned, my husband seemed happy with his pot of gold, alone.
I guess I knew it would happen. It had to. Jung would have called it Synchronicity – meaningful coincidences are bound to happen – with a hint of Serendipity if you really want them to. And I wanted that nurse.
So many times I’d tried to chat her up but every time my hopes vanished. It wasn’t that she didn’t like me, I was sure. After all, we know these things. No, it was more a matter of my reputation.
I guess I’d made a lot of noise in certain quarters – a bit of a villain. But the night finally arrived. It was a nasty arm fracture. A lot of pain, but I’d made it to casualty and I’d had it set and plastered, and now here I was in the waiting room, waiting for discharge, my nurse hovering close, hushing about, doing her work – and I’m sure her occasional looks my way suggested she was feeling for me.
Anyway, that’s when the louts came in – started knocking the place about, threatening my NURSE.
Well, broken arm or not, I went into action, and soon they were running off, bloodied. And the nurse?
Well, she fell into my arm. Yep, Jung would call it Synchronicity; though I’d call it £200 for the louts and a lot of courage, breaking my arm like that.
He dived as soon as the shooting started.
He was getting used to it. But at sixty, he knew he was too old.
The soldiers forced him on – special forces; they had to be, and they knew the jungle well, even though they were European.
Although he preferred to call it a reign forest.
His reasoning was simple: there were more dictators in such climes than anywhere else.
More shooting – he was beginning to dive before they pushed him now. He’d decided they were on his side, at last.
The firefight was the longest so far. Regime troops had flooded the area, searching for him.
He’d come to the country thirty years ago – it was perfect for his talents.
Soon he was cozying up to the regime; proved himself an invaluable administrator.
Back to reality, one of his guards did the death dance, blood spraying him as he watched him fall.
From out of the jungle, four regime soldiers charged towards him …
Of course, it wasn’t long before money began to disappear. But it couldn’t be him, could it …?
Another guard popped up and the soldiers fell. But now it would be more difficult to escape.
More and more troops were flooding in …
The president never believed it was him – he’d invested too much trust in him. And anyway, he was a good investigator, too.
And another opponent was framed …
The fighting was fierce now. He asked why they were defending him, but never got a reply.
All he could decide was that his country of birth wanted him for something
– intelligence? Doing the dirty on the president …?
When the money kept disappearing and there was no one left to blame, even the president decided it had to be him.
And now the regime troops were closing in, but …
So, too, were reinforcements – and the border got ever closer …
To cut a long story short, they made it. He was free – and he found out why.
All those schools, hospitals?
A rare thing, an honest man.
A PsychoSoap MicroNovel
Ch 1. Should I confess? Should we all? I’m Greed; wanted it all. My girl, Desire, was too narrow-minded. Money was good, too, so I left her.
Ch 2. People aim for wealth, celebrity. Forget it should come with talent. Ego had it so I took it. Yet he consumed me. It was a potent mix.
Ch 3. For a while I had Joy, but I confess I ruined it. When we split she felt Sad; which was the start of a great couple. But I had problems.
Ch 4. I’d upset too many & Vengeance was stalking me. I went to Desire for help but she’d moved in with Joy & Sad, who was slowly dissolving.
Ch 5. Desire was such a cheat. Joy really knew herself now. Yet as they walked they avoided the big ‘L’ in the lake – hadn’t to fall in Love.
Ch 6. Meanwhile Sad clung to me. I’d thrown away Joy & Desire for wealth, with Vengeance on my tail. Ego ran off, then. Confidence is a con.
Ch 7. I had to survive to succeed. I confess I tricked Vengeance – set him up with Desire. Both fanatics, it was a stormy time. Ended bad.
Ch 8. You see, Vengeance was never alone. He worked with Hate & soon Hate turned on everyone who was touched by Desire. Emotions ran wild.
Ch 9. After that, no one had Desire – too much Fear – & she seemed to die. Which left it all in my grasp! Greed was out! What I’d Desired.
Ch 10. But more than that, Sad left me. She went back to Joy, permanently, but Joy was never the same. Sad infected everyone she touches.
Ch 11. When Hate crept up on me, I’m not sure. He’d killed off Desire but he wore my face. I realised Greed can never survive, untouched.
Ch 12. So this is my confession – good for Soul. Greed eased, we all came together in the cerebral bedsit & lived happily ever after.
Ch 13. Except … that’s when Ego came back. I was passing big ‘L’ & fell in Love with my image. Oh, & Joy & Sad adopted. A boy. Bi-Polar.
I thought of those words by Albert Camus: ‘Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.’
I often thought I walked alone.
Here was I, experiencing life, but outside. The existential nightmare was my reality. Alone – absurd. Life was a surreal dance around my body, but never touching – or so I thought.
I had choices, you see; and those choices were mine and mine alone.
My friend – my only friend – tried to make those choices come right for me. My aspirations seemed to work through him. But I thought wrong – that surreal dance did touch me.
It touched me always, out of the blue, catching me unawares – until I realized the choices of others were valid to my life. So now I’m neither lion nor mouse, neither leading nor led, and my friend – my inner being – walks beside me.
I now know I am me because of them. How can I be absurd?
FIND THE MOLE
The Square. How did Brand end up here?
It was a normal square – shops, cafes, people milling around – which ones would kill him? He’d been sent in to find the Mole – get him out before he was compromised. But as their agents closed in on him quickly, Brand realized it was maybe too late. Except …
Well, he was an optimist, and even if the Mole had been caught – was being interrogated – he’d have left a path to the information. And sure enough, as he played ‘spot the spy’ in the square, he knew all the signs on his dangerous investigation led here.
And it had certainly been dangerous, nearly cornered twice, shooting his way out of trouble. And as he surveyed the square, he felt the cold comfort of his gun. Soon sure he had identified the agents he began to watch the shops.
Was it to be one of those? He thought.
Of course, he eventually worked it out – broke cover as he moved forward, his disguise hopefully fooling the agents. And as he walked into the taxidermist’s, he found the information – in the mole.
THE DRUNKEN SANTA
I felt ashamed after he’d gone.
There I was, well into the second bottle of Christmas spirit when a fall of soot heralded Santa’s arrival in my house.
Yes, I know I should have been in bed, and once he’d got over the shock, he told me off.
‘Aww,’ I said, ‘here, have a drink.’
Well, it seems Santa was a little flustered as it was – new Elf and Safety regulations were becoming a burden – so he decided, why not?
Well, he left after the third bottle of Christmas spirit – which was very, very bad for all the kids in the world. You see, he was so drunk, no one got the right present, leaving me – as I said – somewhat ashamed.
The kids opened their presents … looked at them … realised they hadn’t asked for that … temper tantrums shook the very core of the Earth … then …
‘Hey, this isn’t so bad. It’s fun.’
And one by one the kids picked up their presents and realized the secret of Christmas once more. Surprise.
ANGELS & MONSTERS
I wanted to be pure when I married, but infatuation rises, and I was so infatuated with that aristocratic fellow who came, surreptitiously, into my life and took me. Afterwards, I felt unclean, and was determined to earn my right of purity once more.
My mother chose a young science type for me, thinking his work would eventually lead him to intellectual glory. Yet, science was a strange pursuit.
He was infatuated with the creation of life. Secretly, he would acquire body parts – attempt to create a creature, enhancing electricity to bring life to the monster.
Of course, his experiments never worked, but his failure just drove him on.
Money became a problem, and he found his answer in selling me over and over again.
Where now my purity, prostituted for the advancement of science!
My release came when the locals realised his experiments and were fearful of a monster within their domain. Hence, with torches ablaze, they attacked our home, destroyed everything, including him.
I fled. One of those who I had been ‘sold’ to took me in for a while, but in my pursuit of purity, I eventually found an Angel.
What a beautiful man he was. Our relationship blossomed. But it was inevitable he would hear things of my past. And when the full horror of my impurity arose, he abandoned me.
I became the mistress of the aristocrat who first deflowered me. My life was so impure. I longed for my Angel to return.
He did! We became as one once more! But the weight was so terrible for him. I could see it was destroying him. I may not be pure, but he was, and I couldn’t bear it.
Eventually, I released him at the point of a knife.
I found solace in the wilds, and by a stone circle I was eventually arrested.
I hanged for my crime. My purity had gone, replaced by an impostor.
My first husband had certainly created his monster.
They thought it was complete intellectual laziness. After all, what was the point? The psychologist thought it useful, if for nothing more than finding out if hypnosis CAN overcome a subject’s moral responsibility for action. And even though his words made him gloomy, the small gathering looked on.
The subject had been hypnotized and stood in the street, a gun in his hands. The instruction had been given: to kill the first person to walk up the street. Of course, the person selected was wearing body armour, but unbeknown to the subject.
As if on cue, the target rounded the corner and began to approach the subject. Those gathered could see the increasing anxiety on the subject’s face as he fought his moral values. But then, decision made, he fired …
There was shocked silence for many seconds, and then they rushed to observe the body on the floor. Who had won the argument was irrelevant now.
The subject had shot the sign – which had duly dropped on the head of the target.
PC newspeak: aesthetically challenged.
Basically, she was ugly – and everyone knew it, except her … and her conquests, of course. A lot of them.
I said to her friend, Sorrow: why can’t you do that?
– I don’t know.
Which was crazy. She was beautiful – and in that pretty kind of way. But her friend …?
Her friend …
She had more than beauty. As I told Sorrow – she has an absolute belief in herself; and nothing is more important than belief –
And, boy, did she use it.
Whereas Sorrow did not. Sorrow contorted that beautiful face with a grimace
… and a shroud of self loathing …
… which could only end one way.
– yet she was such an ugly girl – they said.
Trapped in her own self loathing … and now trapped in her coffin.
He remembered the meadow; a beautiful, tranquil place.
Of course, farming was eventually wiped out. Bad for the planet, they said, with all that methane; and what was red meat doing to us?
Not to mention cows’ rights, and respect for nature in general.
And so the cows were ‘saved’ – let free to roam the meadow – lost their use – became extinct – erased without a trace.
And what of the meadow?
Well, the synth factory stood there now, belching its fumes in its race to feed us.
Of course, the alternative feeding program was also under way. Eco friendly, they stood around waiting to be farmed.
Kill two birds with one stone, they said. Respect nature and solve the population problem. And we humans DID produce less methane.