The December Club


Nighttime. A main road. I’m singing with the Four Seasons. We hold hands and levitate.

This transforms into a 3d flying musical drama exercise with students involving gathering into layered groups, those at the back attempting to put off those at the front with ironic mistimed finger clicks, forgotten words and bad singing.

I’m at college, in a shopping centre. Everyone’s wearing black. Piles of clothes are on the floor. I can’t find any thing that fits me. I pick up an enormous leather jacket, the buttons are silver steel death’s heads. I try to put it on, it’s so big the best I can do is an elephant impression in the style of Playschool’s Derek Griffiths.

On a down escalator, I make a radical suggestion. We should wear a different colour each, like Captain Scarlet‘s organisation, Spectrum.

My boss is in a wheelchair. I help her dock to refill with compressed air. It’s like docking a space station. Everyone from work is going on holiday. I need to find a holiday where I can take my dog, and my games console.

I remember. I don’t have a console anymore.

No consolation anymore.
No one to console me anymore.
No console games anymore.
No consolation prizes.

It’s a winter night. The roads curve away downhill. A grass verge between them. Lights appear on the grass, an ephemeral filigree of light. Showgirls appear, all blue sequinned top hats, tails and tights. They are The December Club.

They sing and dance and serenade me, lead me to fill a huge pair of shoes, I slide downhill through the glowing grass, I sing along as I plummet into unknown darkness.

👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾👾

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Scared of Freedom


The biting, scared fox. He comes through a hole in a fence, a lead and collar on. He bites my sleeve, eyes pinched in desperation, shaking. I reassure him. I see other animals beyond the fence, unleashed, happy. My fox is terrified of them.

I lay on my bed in the grass, comforting the fox until he releases his grip and stops shaking. Overhead, a jump jet flys low and oddly silent. I await the sound of engines, but it never comes.

We walk through the gap in the fence. The other animals are overjoyed to see him. Unleashed and unafraid, he plays with his friends.

I turn a corner into a road uphill. Disabled people overflow from a bus stop, miserable and delayed in the drizzle of dependence on others. At the top of the hill I help an old lady with a visual impairment use speaking furniture. She explains that she could figure it out herself, if the manual wasn’t a YouTube video

Alien Stag Beetles


We are being invaded. Giant alien stag beetles rush from street to street, devouring everyone they catch. The military help them, flushing people out of their homes, like spaniels at a shoot. The invasion is so fast and thorough, people on the next street don’t know it’s happening until it’s too late. There’s no time to communicate or explain, only to run or die.

I wonder why the military are helping them? They are only delaying their own inevitable death by being complicit In the deaths of others. When everyone else is dead, they too will die.

I run onto a bridge above a river. I wonder if they can swim. A man drags himself from the water, warning me to stay out, it’s full of aquatic beetles. There’s no choice, I jump in and hope for the best.

A Load of Balls


A bank. I work here. A colleague and I sneak in trying to avoid an early morning Customer. We just manage to avoid them. Inside two black dogs are fighting, their jaws unable to bite one another.

The bank becomes a sports shop. Footballs are everywhere. We joke about the business being a load of balls. The owner calls, his son is coming over, I am the new manager. My friend, and a strange hybrid snake-dog creature struggle to get the shop prepared. I hang up some football shirts. They are black with neon panels, with text about making plastic crap and exporting it to the developing world, because that’s just what they need.

The owners son arrives. He’s joined by other staff, all wearing the same hideous shirts. One is blue skinned, another grey. I banter with them, asking if he’s in the blue man group, his grey friend laughs, I ask if he has argyria.

A woman is snooping near the open cash drawer, I ask if she needs assistance. The owners son laughs, I’ve passed the test.

I’m amazed that such basic skills are all it takes to work here.

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