New Shoot

I’m staying in a hotel. I’m working with friends. My room is a mess, the floor strewn with bits of white bread and pΓ’tΓ©. My clothes are everywhere. I tidy the floor. The landlady comes in, and I apologise for the remaining mess. 
I take a bath. The water is dirty. Insects live in it. Black grit lines the bottom. My white towel is grey at the edges, from rubbing in dirt. I get out of the bath, disgusted at the state of it. I want to move back home, although I know that area is much more dangerous. 
I meet my friends. They lie in clear roofed pods, game sites strapped to their heads. I join them in the game. We fly X wing fighters over a model city. As we get close, VR takes over. We become immersed in the game. I fly wing for a friend, watching his back, then break off. In a park, I shoot the enemy as the fire on me from the base of a tree. A crowd gathers for an event. I fly just above them, firing at an actual mr big, who towers over them. He surrounds himself with civilians, I can’t get a clear shot. I try to outflank him, but the people are as dense as bamboo shoots. I hear nature spirits demanding rights. 
A woman visits a boat ride that she loved as a child. She’s scared now, and choses the easier option. 
I fly overhead, and glide just above the water, manoeuvring through metal gates and other obstructions on the river. Finally, I land, and take a train. Kids have deep scarred names on their hands. One is called “New Shoot”, she tells me how the big boss has some giant Japanese fighting robot armour, and how he is undefeated. 
“We’ll see about that”, I think to myself. 



WKD Disease

I’m in a foreign city. It looks modern, well developed. The rule of law has broken down. It’s a dangerous place. Somehow, I get on board a final flight out of the place. The other passengers all seem to know one another. I wonder if they are all spies. There’s no working seatbelt, and the door is open as the pilot takes off. I look down into the city. 
Armed police fight running battles with armed civilians. One side begins to win, then the other. The civilians are mixture of all ages and genders. There is no mercy here. I realise it is Rwanda. I take photos of people dying in gunfights. I’m glad to have escaped. 
I’m back on the ground, in the city, with the other passengers. They swarm towards the quickest route out of the city. I know we will die if we go that way. We are unarmed. Large gangs of armed civilians are along that route. No one listens to me. A woman slides a heel from her shoe. She has a tiny beretta pistol hidden there. I follow her. At least she’s armed. We talk about how her little dog may have WKD disease. I win her trust. She asks me to hold the gun while she does something. I turn on her. I explain we have to go a different route. She won’t listen. I leave her to it, but keep the gun. 
I walk past a garage. A man is in a queue. He looks like a reporter. I don’t trust him. I leave that scene. 
I climb across concrete structures, rooftops, and along deserted main roads. I come to a dark park. Crossing it, I meet someone from work. We enter a cafe together, where we will be safe. 


Invisible Water, Beautiful Balcony, Masked Teacher

Walking home in just acing, white, shirt. Invisible flood waters make it wet at the bottom. Cats look up through invisible waters. I stop to stroke one. People from work are behind me. I just want to be alone. K is in a doorway, wearing a brown leather coat, with a huge dog paw print as a front motif. I turn  into a stone tunnel by the road. At the end, it is partially blocked. I push the blockage aside. I see a train carriage with tank track bogeys, converted to be a caravan, and a huge tractor to pull it. I climb aboard the tractor, trying to figure out how to close the double door, and wishing it had been designed for someone smaller. I get it started and it becomes a mini estate. I race off, followed by a gang of young guys in home made vehicles that are all propane bottles, and shopping trolley wheel. We race. In the dust and confusion, one of them is hurt in a crash. I talk to him. He’s Australian. In court I have to take my test again. 
I’m in a toilet cubicle. In a bar. Outside, two guys are waiting for me. They think I owe them money. They have the wrong guy. They bang in the door, then wait. After a while, they peer over the top of the cubicle. I slash them with a long knife. They leave, threatening me. 
I come out of the loo. I’m sat in a rococo styled balcony, overlooking the bar. Below, armed police wait to catch the guys coming to shoot me. A detective asks me about damage to the artworks. I say I hate see such things. I love the balcony, it’s where I go with friends to escape the rabble below. 
I’m in a class. The teacher has a pink cloth mask, that covers his head, with small, dark, holes for eyes. He’s teaching us about sleep. He’s not a great teacher. He leaves us to discover things for ourselves, but offers no guidance. I’m sat near an attractive woman. I type on an iPad with a shiny gold keyboard, attached to a harmonium style box, with harp strings inside. Each letter plays a note, the rhythm of my typing a tune. I walk around the room. A student, with a similar mask to the teachers, steals my chair. It annoys me, but there are plenty of others free. I research sleep deprivation in prisoners. I have trouble typing. The gold keyboard looks good, but is shit. 


Death by a Thousand Cuts

I’m in a public school. We have kidnapped George osbourne 
We beat and threaten him. He tries to reason with us. I switch to using a small scalpel, and an old razor blade on a stick. I slash his arms and face, until his shirt is a bloody mess. He likes the pain. I hate violence. I hate to do this. But I have to kill him slowly, the way he’s trying to kill us, with the death of a thousand cuts.