Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

year of the pigs

1 September 2016

It was a hot, bright summer the year the pigs invaded Ipswich. They did so stealthily, under cover of one of the endless social media campaigns that were taking the place of government. Walkathons for medicine, ice bucket challenges to outfit submarines, the Prime Minister’s Ask Me Anything subreddit, Blue Nose Week to raise money for GSCE tests, children making murals on castle walls for the National Trust, teenagers being Special for a Day to fill out the police – and finally, the pigs. Three dozen full-grown pigs and almost as many piglets, painted and polished and buffed to a hard gloss, standing in front of every seat of power in Ipswich through the months of high sun. Their run was not intended to last forever. They were due to be rounded up and auctioned off a few days hence when they finally took matters into their own trotters.

The alarm went off at 17 minutes past 4 in the morning, in the form of a loud snuffling heard in the forecourt of the Cycle Cafe, following the bells of St Mary’s at quarter past. From plinth to plinth the snuffling and grunting and oinking spread, gathering consensus until the pigs were of one mind what to do – for since the war, pigs have operated peer to peer, none more equal than others -Orwell’s text was historical. At seven they carefully detached themselves from their platforms and advanced from all quarters toward the Cornmarket: Major Henry Wigglesworth from the banking district, Piggy Stardust from the bohemian precincts of the Saints, the Piñata Pig from the Cargo Cult cafe complex on the Waterfront, Pig-Geswyk from the Willis Building where she had been peering through its Darth Vader mirrorglass at the frog pond inside, Pepper Pig departing the Co-op Education Center courtyard through the iron gates where a spider had woven in admiration SOME PIG.

By the time the early churchgoers, including the town grandees, reached the Cornmarket, they were confronted with a multicolored, seething swine army. (more…)

Tomorrow Never Retires

16 August 2014

“We’re replacing you, Bond,” said M. “It’s nothing personal, but you’ve become a bit slow on the trigger. There is a performance plan that HR could do with you but -”

“It would just delay the inevitable,” said Bond, never a friend of HR. “Right.”

He drew out his gun and handed it to M, butt first.

It was convenient that this was coming now. If the Cold War were still on, there would have been an unfortunate accident. Now there were any number of appropriate consulting assignments, even volunteer work that one could do for the exposure.

“So I’ll just go down to Outplacement,” Bond said.

Hundred-word flash fic written in workshop at Loncon 3, either Emma Newman or Plot Medics.