Andrew Hall's Blog - Posts Tagged "post-apocalyptic"
Tabitha: Prologue
Slick petals writhed in the darkness.
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
Glowing. Feeding. Creaking open in their seeding.
The plant-mass burst in a bloodcloud. A newborn horror scrambled free. It was caught in a capsule; encased in jagged rock. A nightmare seedling; some cellular monstrosity. Carried at once to the firing ducts.
Beyond vile chambers and dim-lit arteries, past its ribbed walls and lurking labyrinths, a living spacecraft slid through the galaxy. A colossus; dark as the void and cloaked in shifting shadows. Crawling on towards a far blue-green world.
The ship’s limbs unfurled in awakening. Among its sea of vast scales, from a sudden small opening, shot a chunk of rock in a spurt of phosphorescence. The seedling.
It was viscous violet. Viral-violent. Nestled inside it,
Death.
[Sample continues in Amazon Kindle Store]
The most important thing I ever learned about writing
The most important thing I ever learned about writing came from a Tokyo sushi master.
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
In the documentary Jiro Dreams of Sushi, we follow the singular passion of Jiro Ono, an 85-year-old chef and restaurant owner, whose premises in a Tokyo subway station seats only ten.
But the man himself attracts fans, chefs and food critics from all over the world to dine at his seated bar; some wait almost reverently as their food is prepared and served. And while the quality of the ingredients and preparation are paramount, it’s really all about Jiro’s lifelong approach to his craft.
Read the following words from Jiro, as he talks about his role as shokunin (meaning craftsman, artisan, and worker; but also “someone with technical skill and the right attitude; possessing social consciousness; having a deep-seated obligation to fulfil the requirement of their role”).
To me, the following reads like poetry, because it’s so damn simple and sincere:
“Shokunin try to get the highest quality fish and apply their technique to it.
We don’t care about money.
All I want to do is make better sushi.
I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
Even at my age, after decades of work…
I don’t think I have achieved perfection.
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love making sushi.
I’ve never once hated this job.
I fell in love with my work and gave my life to it.
Even though I’m 85 years old…
I don’t feel like retiring.
That’s how I feel.”
In these locked-down days, there’s no shortage of distractions to take our mind off things – including those things that truly matter, and that even fulfil our richest purpose and potential in this life.
But when I read Jiro’s words, and think of writing in this way, I’m filled instantly with envy and passion and peace, and simplicity and perfectionism and instant inspiration to start work immediately. I know I’ll never reach the peak of this profession, but I have to try. This is the only work that matters to me, and suddenly all I want around me are the tools of my trade, and some coffee steaming in the sunlight.
And I’m compelled to throw all distractions away, because suddenly all I aspire to is endless hours of writing and rewriting, and choosing only the most perfect words and punctuation for each line. To create the best possible stories I can. All else becomes immaterial.
When we can do that, we feel that elusive flow. There will always be struggle and worry, and the call of those distractions is a never-ending racket around us. Until we get into our writing, and only that.
When I remember to, I like to make certain practices a part of my daily routine. I’ll often forget them, but with that comes the joy of rediscovery – like the time I first heard of Jiro.
Today, I’ve just remembered him again – so I had to write his thoughts down. His words just seem too important to forget, and they feel to me like the most important thing I’ve ever been taught about writing. (By someone who, sure, isn’t a writer… but a craftsman all the same.)
(Also, if you'd like to know more about my stories, you can find them here in the Kindle store.)
I just want to share these following words with you, in case they’re helpful in your practise. Even better if you can make note of them, and try to read them every day. I’ll try too.
“I do the same thing over and over, improving bit by bit.
There is always a yearning to achieve more.
I’ll continue to climb, trying to reach the top…
But no one knows where the top is.
I may never achieve perfection,
But I feel ecstatic all day.
I love writing stories.”
Alex sweeps the floor.
Alex watched him from ruined office windows, a couple floors up. The guy moved fast between the car-wrecks, with a practiced precision. Pulse-pounding pace; perfect pistol posture. Ex-military maybe. Armed to the teeth, from the looks of it. The kind who survived this apocalypse shit, and with good reason. Alex could practically smell it on him. That man was a killer.
…Serious guy, Alex told himself thoughtfully, as he turned from the blown-out window and wandered silently away. Strong. Laser-focused. Multiple weapons. Hungry look. Possible warrior archetype; a model soldier. Weakness: trait openness. Strategy: misdirection through incoherence. Mentally disarm with whimsy. Go with Sage archetype.
* * *
‘Drop it,’ the stranger growled loudly from the doorway. Assault rifle aimed as he crept inside. Glancing around the vast sun-rayed office for any traps.
‘Are you familiar with the practice of zen mindfulness?’ said Alex, as the man stalked in cautiously.
‘…What?’ he grunted. ‘You ain’t got a gun?’ He watched with a puzzled look as Alex swept the floor peacefully with a beaten old yard brush.
‘It’s the ability to do Just What You’re Doing Right Now,’ Alex continued. ‘A pure meditation on breath, thoughtlessness, and the interconnectedness of all things through the negative space between us. You and me, we’re interconnected. We are all One. A beautiful way of seeing the world, don’t you think? …The serenity of enlightenment is right here with us, if we only focus ourselves entirely on the present moment.’ Alex continued to sweep ash from the tiled floor; attentive in his work until he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
The man with the rifle simply watched in silence; searching for a handle on what the hell this was.
‘…Sorry,’ Alex added pleasantly. ‘At this point, I’m just craving conversation.’ He paused for a moment; carefully adjusting the mustard-yellow rags that he wore like a grand mantled scarf. ‘It’s been taking a while, to get this place clean. I apologize. Birds, mostly. They gossip about me, you know. I don’t know why I keep feeding them.’
‘You are one crazy bastard, you know that?’ the man replied. Alex glanced at him, and replied with a gentle smile. Searching the ruined ceiling for a few moments, for his answer.
‘…The ability to make order out of chaos is our most ancient and valuable skill,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘Our immediate environment is a direct reflection of our thoughts and behaviours. What could be more true? I was once buried in the ash and rubble of chaotic thoughts, when all of this happened. The End of the World. But now, I feel… swept clear. Untroubled.’ Saving his bullets, the man pulled a machete as he closed in on him; searching all around to check that Alex didn’t have a gun or a blade to hand.
‘Look, just give me all the supplies you got, you crazy fuck. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit.’
‘Have you ever heard of a bo staff?’ Alex pondered, as he continued sweeping peacefully. ‘It’s a very versatile principle. How about Vlad the Impaler?’ In the fleeting second that the puzzled man lunged at him, Alex stomped on the broom head, snapped off the wooden handle and speared its splintered tip clean through the man’s stomach. Snarling and straining, gripping the broom handle in both hands, he hoisted the man screaming over his head. Brought him down hard with a dustcloud smack on the floor tiles, and pulled out the broom handle to strike the man’s head with it in a sudden stunning crack. Dazed for a second, the man screamed a bloody gurgle as Alex drove the pointed handle through his throat.
‘…Resourcefulness,’ Alex said thoughtfully, as it occurred to him. Watching the man squirm and bleed out on the floor. Taking every weapon he had. ‘That would be the best thing I’ve learned from meditation. You should try it. Really. See you in Reincarnation, pal.’ With that, he pulled out the broom handle in a spray of spattered scarlet.
Smiling down hungrily, Alex drooled at the flesh-scent as he watched the man die.
* * * * *
…Serious guy, Alex told himself thoughtfully, as he turned from the blown-out window and wandered silently away. Strong. Laser-focused. Multiple weapons. Hungry look. Possible warrior archetype; a model soldier. Weakness: trait openness. Strategy: misdirection through incoherence. Mentally disarm with whimsy. Go with Sage archetype.
* * *
‘Drop it,’ the stranger growled loudly from the doorway. Assault rifle aimed as he crept inside. Glancing around the vast sun-rayed office for any traps.
‘Are you familiar with the practice of zen mindfulness?’ said Alex, as the man stalked in cautiously.
‘…What?’ he grunted. ‘You ain’t got a gun?’ He watched with a puzzled look as Alex swept the floor peacefully with a beaten old yard brush.
‘It’s the ability to do Just What You’re Doing Right Now,’ Alex continued. ‘A pure meditation on breath, thoughtlessness, and the interconnectedness of all things through the negative space between us. You and me, we’re interconnected. We are all One. A beautiful way of seeing the world, don’t you think? …The serenity of enlightenment is right here with us, if we only focus ourselves entirely on the present moment.’ Alex continued to sweep ash from the tiled floor; attentive in his work until he couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction.
The man with the rifle simply watched in silence; searching for a handle on what the hell this was.
‘…Sorry,’ Alex added pleasantly. ‘At this point, I’m just craving conversation.’ He paused for a moment; carefully adjusting the mustard-yellow rags that he wore like a grand mantled scarf. ‘It’s been taking a while, to get this place clean. I apologize. Birds, mostly. They gossip about me, you know. I don’t know why I keep feeding them.’
‘You are one crazy bastard, you know that?’ the man replied. Alex glanced at him, and replied with a gentle smile. Searching the ruined ceiling for a few moments, for his answer.
‘…The ability to make order out of chaos is our most ancient and valuable skill,’ Alex said thoughtfully. ‘Our immediate environment is a direct reflection of our thoughts and behaviours. What could be more true? I was once buried in the ash and rubble of chaotic thoughts, when all of this happened. The End of the World. But now, I feel… swept clear. Untroubled.’ Saving his bullets, the man pulled a machete as he closed in on him; searching all around to check that Alex didn’t have a gun or a blade to hand.
‘Look, just give me all the supplies you got, you crazy fuck. I’m not here to listen to your bullshit.’
‘Have you ever heard of a bo staff?’ Alex pondered, as he continued sweeping peacefully. ‘It’s a very versatile principle. How about Vlad the Impaler?’ In the fleeting second that the puzzled man lunged at him, Alex stomped on the broom head, snapped off the wooden handle and speared its splintered tip clean through the man’s stomach. Snarling and straining, gripping the broom handle in both hands, he hoisted the man screaming over his head. Brought him down hard with a dustcloud smack on the floor tiles, and pulled out the broom handle to strike the man’s head with it in a sudden stunning crack. Dazed for a second, the man screamed a bloody gurgle as Alex drove the pointed handle through his throat.
‘…Resourcefulness,’ Alex said thoughtfully, as it occurred to him. Watching the man squirm and bleed out on the floor. Taking every weapon he had. ‘That would be the best thing I’ve learned from meditation. You should try it. Really. See you in Reincarnation, pal.’ With that, he pulled out the broom handle in a spray of spattered scarlet.
Smiling down hungrily, Alex drooled at the flesh-scent as he watched the man die.
* * * * *
Alex dresses by the mirror.
(A character study.)
* * *
…I am more product and project than person. Something I’m immensely comfortable with, and something from which I derive great pleasure in engineering meticulously. Fine Art is my religion.
I cannot understand the sin or concept of vanity. All I can equate this to is the process of adoring optimisation. I have a singular obsession with the passive, primal and perennially persuasive power of Smelling Good. This mind-numbingly simple tactic has never failed me.
I work out every day to the point of muscular failure. Socrates once said that it’s a great shame for a man to grow old without first knowing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable. Well-developed core muscles allow me to maintain a perfect classical posture, which when combined with my above-average height and testosterone, a practised smile, tailored suits, masculine facial symmetry and a full head of hair, has granted me enough in the way of workplace promotions and female attentions to infuriate any reasonable, rational person who ever attempted success by mere merit and competence alone. Because people aren’t in fact the logical, insightful entities they give themselves credit for. They are shallow; visual; emotional. Superficiality protects their sanity. People are selfish instruments, who exist to be learned and played. Thus are we managed. Thus are we led. Thus are we marched, we Infallible Tribes, into the Holy War Eternal. Your cause, your team, your brand: all religions.
…As part of my daily training routine I’ve memorised the Jungian Archetypes to the point of deliberate brainwashing. These opposing mythological personas exist on a colour-coded wheel in my mind’s eye, which I shift between like the clicking of a thermostat dial. Social costumes, perfected in a warren of mental dressing rooms. At any given moment I can be Hero or Magician; Creator or Destroyer. All-American Everyman. Ruler and Lover; Sage or Jester. Each role with its own Shadow, dosed invisibly into the mix whenever necessary.
Once I know what someone truly needs, and how I stand to profit, I pour the empty, staring presence of myself into the relevant persona to leverage the situation in my favour. Financially, professionally, or sexually. Whether by my own subtlety, or the collective ignorance of those around me, no-one to this day is consciously aware of my performance. They simply know, deep down in their instincts, that I am somehow That One Person they most need me to be. Thus the sale is closed; the superior appeased; the supermodel of a mind to invite me in for coffee. Beneath these masks, these tools, these illusions of a person, I am something more akin to a joyous void. Look in my eyes and you won’t truly see Someone Like You gazing back with my smile. More the carefully hidden, purely utilitarian sense of vision one might glimpse in the black-hole stare of a shark.
Through practise and observation I’m able to look, sound and express myself in a spectrum of spontaneous emotional colour, as others naturally do. Beneath this artifice, I’m what many would consider to be… monochrome. I exist primarily between the states of vicious joy and profound disgust, where a pendulum-sense of detached and fearless intrigue compels me towards risk and reward. It drives me solely to sate a kind of spiritual starvation; a nihilistic curiosity; a restless will towards power and attention.
Put simply, I am evolved to kill and win. And, uninterested by the former, I’ve devoted myself to the latter. I have no more interest in killing than the social outsider has interest in sports. Financial murder is invisible, acceptable and unpunishable. My personality exists on trait-spectrums and bell-curve distributions like anyone else. I am nowhere near the extremes.
I didn’t choose to be this way; I’m just one of Nature’s alternative strategies. I’m in the subspecies of warlords, high priests and conquerors. Nations survive upon our shoulders.
My gene-type have always lived among you. You think that vampires, werewolves and mind-bending sorcerers are mere fictional monsters, and not the meta-kabuki of ancient, very human cautionary tales. You can’t possibly imagine how different my thoughts are to yours.
Because if I have Everything, and you’re left with just a decimal of a percentage of next-to-nothing, I will not rest until I’ve taken it from you. I am enraged, horrified, that you be left with anything. If you don’t owe me, or belong to me, you’re a threat to me. So I starve you.
That’s the truth of me that I keep in check, and hide from polite society.
My name is Alex Hansen. I don’t want bloody murder. Just every last penny you have.
* * * * *
* * *
…I am more product and project than person. Something I’m immensely comfortable with, and something from which I derive great pleasure in engineering meticulously. Fine Art is my religion.
I cannot understand the sin or concept of vanity. All I can equate this to is the process of adoring optimisation. I have a singular obsession with the passive, primal and perennially persuasive power of Smelling Good. This mind-numbingly simple tactic has never failed me.
I work out every day to the point of muscular failure. Socrates once said that it’s a great shame for a man to grow old without first knowing the beauty and strength of which his body is capable. Well-developed core muscles allow me to maintain a perfect classical posture, which when combined with my above-average height and testosterone, a practised smile, tailored suits, masculine facial symmetry and a full head of hair, has granted me enough in the way of workplace promotions and female attentions to infuriate any reasonable, rational person who ever attempted success by mere merit and competence alone. Because people aren’t in fact the logical, insightful entities they give themselves credit for. They are shallow; visual; emotional. Superficiality protects their sanity. People are selfish instruments, who exist to be learned and played. Thus are we managed. Thus are we led. Thus are we marched, we Infallible Tribes, into the Holy War Eternal. Your cause, your team, your brand: all religions.
…As part of my daily training routine I’ve memorised the Jungian Archetypes to the point of deliberate brainwashing. These opposing mythological personas exist on a colour-coded wheel in my mind’s eye, which I shift between like the clicking of a thermostat dial. Social costumes, perfected in a warren of mental dressing rooms. At any given moment I can be Hero or Magician; Creator or Destroyer. All-American Everyman. Ruler and Lover; Sage or Jester. Each role with its own Shadow, dosed invisibly into the mix whenever necessary.
Once I know what someone truly needs, and how I stand to profit, I pour the empty, staring presence of myself into the relevant persona to leverage the situation in my favour. Financially, professionally, or sexually. Whether by my own subtlety, or the collective ignorance of those around me, no-one to this day is consciously aware of my performance. They simply know, deep down in their instincts, that I am somehow That One Person they most need me to be. Thus the sale is closed; the superior appeased; the supermodel of a mind to invite me in for coffee. Beneath these masks, these tools, these illusions of a person, I am something more akin to a joyous void. Look in my eyes and you won’t truly see Someone Like You gazing back with my smile. More the carefully hidden, purely utilitarian sense of vision one might glimpse in the black-hole stare of a shark.
Through practise and observation I’m able to look, sound and express myself in a spectrum of spontaneous emotional colour, as others naturally do. Beneath this artifice, I’m what many would consider to be… monochrome. I exist primarily between the states of vicious joy and profound disgust, where a pendulum-sense of detached and fearless intrigue compels me towards risk and reward. It drives me solely to sate a kind of spiritual starvation; a nihilistic curiosity; a restless will towards power and attention.
Put simply, I am evolved to kill and win. And, uninterested by the former, I’ve devoted myself to the latter. I have no more interest in killing than the social outsider has interest in sports. Financial murder is invisible, acceptable and unpunishable. My personality exists on trait-spectrums and bell-curve distributions like anyone else. I am nowhere near the extremes.
I didn’t choose to be this way; I’m just one of Nature’s alternative strategies. I’m in the subspecies of warlords, high priests and conquerors. Nations survive upon our shoulders.
My gene-type have always lived among you. You think that vampires, werewolves and mind-bending sorcerers are mere fictional monsters, and not the meta-kabuki of ancient, very human cautionary tales. You can’t possibly imagine how different my thoughts are to yours.
Because if I have Everything, and you’re left with just a decimal of a percentage of next-to-nothing, I will not rest until I’ve taken it from you. I am enraged, horrified, that you be left with anything. If you don’t owe me, or belong to me, you’re a threat to me. So I starve you.
That’s the truth of me that I keep in check, and hide from polite society.
My name is Alex Hansen. I don’t want bloody murder. Just every last penny you have.
* * * * *
Tabitha
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ "What a brilliant book. I spent three quiet days in a cabin by the sea, no tv, just reading this book & it kept me gripped. Great characters & easy reading. Highly recommended, totally different from anything else I have read in this genre."👉 http://amzn.to/3HYgqDa
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