Saturday, September 17, 2005

"BRAM STROKER'S COUNT LICKULA" is a fast fiction that finds its inspiration in this splooge of perversion...

amelias magagazine serge
Serge Seidlitz is a force of nature kind of talent who probably leaves behind amazing images of nuns with forked tongues simply by staring at any blank space for more than a couple seconds. Marvel at the wonderments on his site.



On the surface of his smiles, Phil Terringer is extremely debonair and charming. If tickets were sold to view his shimmering smile, scalpers could make a decent living by constantly lingering behind him. Hidden in the grey mush of his brain, however, is an industry of lust that manufactures image after image of perversion.

"Okay we'll just get you in there and begin the scanning. Don't worry you won't feel a thing," the technician says with a comforting look. Her hair is pulled back into a cute ponytail. Phil wants her.

"It's a shame they don't make these to fit two," Phil says. She giggles a shy giggle.

He imagines that he is a penis and the CAT scan that he's sliding into is her vagina. His gutter of consciousness slowly floats from that to a legion of other images of nipples and open vaginas and stroke magazines from his youth. A pornographic version of Dracula suddenly begins to unfold in his mind's eye.

But his concentration is soon broken by the cute technician's scream. She has seen the rated-R results of the CAT scan of his brain.

And he certainly won't be able to charm his way into the sack with her.

Friday, September 16, 2005

"STREET FIGHT RIOT RIGHT" is a very fast fast fiction that'll punch you right in the face for simply being a smiling spectator.

It's based on an image by I Braineater, a fixture of the Vancouver underground music and arts scene, a nuclear powered lightbulb socket in a very dark basement with mohawked rats scurrying around the corners. Yeah, that's what he is. My first memories of going downtown on my own as a little trench-coated and army booted teenager in the mid-80's include drooling over the I Braineatter t-shirts at the Underground which was on Granville Street. That was my art gallery.

I was lucky enough to be able to purchase one of I Braineatter's pieces some years back: a handmade raygun that also functions as a radio. Ask me about it next time you're over at my place for a party.


"Dickweed !"

"You cock-sucker. I'll fuckin' rearrange your face and then you'll have to smash a mirror and look into the broken sharks to get a semblance of the original organization of your face."

"Hold it. Hold everything," the director walks into the crowd of rioters. "What the hell was that ?" the director yells from some hidden reserve of energy. The ten weeks of rehearsals have nearly exhausted him. "I told you a little improv to keep it loose. Don't go making monologues. Keep it simple. Okay, from the top of the scene.'

While progress slogged along at a snail's pace, everyone was confident that
the historic re-creation of the Robson Street Hockey Riot on Hastings street was a stroke of genius and would help to revitalize an impoverished part of the city.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

"TEAPOT YOUR PISS" is an accelerated fast fiction that races through a nursery rhyme theme park faster than you can say "the cow fe fi fummed over the moon".

Once again visual inspiration comes from Pieter Frank de Jong.


"And if you look over to your right you'll see..." He pauses to wait for a swell of nausea to pass. The tiny group of blank faced tourists stare at him.

Drake Sanders is dressed in a teapot costume. During one glorious phase of his life he treaded the boards as a Shakespearean actor for five consecutive years but after having entered the world of television and having exited with a drinking problem, he was forced to take a job as a teapot.

This morning he's drunk.

Someone takes a picture of the green faced teapot.

In the flash of the snapshot he snaps.

"Oh yeah I'm a little fuckin' teapot and you're a fuckin' nobody who needs to watch fucked up actors trapped inside this bullshit. You try to perform the words of the Bard for five years and then suddenly find yourself burping out diaper commercials. That would fuck up anyone, you fucks." He waves his arms around the edges of the teapot."

The adult theme park of washed up actors who might throw a tantrum once again proves to be a success. The tourists have stories to tell when they get back home.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

"JAMES TRIES TO TEACH HIS HEADLESS CAMEL HOW TO FETCH" is a fast fiction for camel lovers all over the world.

Today's visual inspiration comes from
Fiona Ackerman whose show at antisocial gallery runs until the 29th of this month. Bring a camel head and get a free beer. Bring two and get two beers. Bring three camel heads and get thrown out on your ass for taking a simple little, silly idea and turning into the excessive slaughter of three innocent animals.


"That was an amazing show. Your sister has told me a lot about you," Andrew shouts in a panic, shaking the Performer's hand with the force of someone whacking a club on a deadly animal. Andrew is high-strung.

"Andrew was moved to tears near the end of the show," Susan adds. She wants her brother, the Performer, to like Andrew who had in fact been moved to tears of boredom. (Her brother legally changed his name to the Performer after embarking on a career in theater and was so adamant that people called him by his new name that he once ignored their grandmother for five years after she accidently uttered "Stephen".)

"Well, truth be told, I think my game was off tonight." The two hour performance consisted of leaps and rolls and indecipherable gestures timed in some mysterious way to sounds of car tires crushing tape recorders playing sound recordings of traffic accidents. The only two things that seemed to be related in any way were the backdrop image of a headless camel and the title of the show.

"Neverthless that was powerful," Susan smiled.

For reasons unknown to anyone alive, their grandmother had bequethed her fortunes to the Performer. Everyone in the family made sure the Performer knew they loved him.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

"ADRENALINE PROSE" is recommended reading for anyone a) trapped in the fridge, b) doing dental research on living piranhas or c) running for their life. In short, anyone trying to save their skin will delight in the misadventures of the heroine in the following fast fiction.

ADRENALINE PROSE was an idea that sprang forth from this image by Andi Watson:
Andi asked that I alert my readers to a book entitled I WAS SOMEONE DEAD by Jamie S. Rich which can be purchased at onipress . Andi illustrated the book and you should buy it.



Janet's interest in surreptitious reads grew in leaps and bounds over the course of her life. As a child she had not only read comics beneath the covers but -just to raise the stakes - she would read by candle light. Her sheets caught fire only once.

For several months as a teen, her readings were limited to books stolen off of classmates. Unfortunately, as the students who read the most were far from threatening, the experience lacked a certain vitality, the toughest kids in the school tending to be semi-illiterate.

It was during that phase of her life that Janet started to break into book stores to spend an entire night between the covers of a book that wasn't hers. Before the day began she would sneak back out of the store and into the world unnoticed. Bags beneath her eyes were her only punishment.

At the age of 23, she stowed herself away in a shipment of Gideon Bibles to Algeria. Although she was an athiest, she still wanted to feel the literary force of the Good Book through eyes and fingertips charged with adrenaline.

She was funny that way.

We never heard from her again.

Monday, September 12, 2005

"PROPHET TRIPPING ON THE GATES OF REALITY" is an extra special fast fiction inspired by Vancouver's very own Jaret Penner.

Have you been in the Pen ? On the streets of Vancouver this question is beardo slang which means, "Have you been in the mind of Jaret Penner? Have you seen any of his works ?"

I also once heard a suit on Robson Street ask this very question with an enlightened twinkle in his eye.

Yes, people from all walks of life agree that Jaret Penner's work is fucking enthralling.


Two teens are sitting on the gob littered curb in front of a 7-11. Usually they guess what the people going in are going to buy. Divination based on body weight. But today something special is in the air and their conversation turns to the prophets:
"I mean I've never seen them but sometimes just before dawn, some people claim to see this collection of swirls and patterns in the distance. These guys give off a glow like a sunset. You can only hope you'd be so lucky to actually see them. They are so weird. Fuuuuuuck." He spits.

"I've heard they hold hands. Are they fags ?"

"They hold hands to keep the conduit closed. They're simply reflecting patterns in the universe." (Yes, he is a year older and reads nothing but Beat poetry.) "They don't give a cock-sucker-fuck what people call them. But what they really hate is when people mistake their search for the ultimate truth with something like looking for a contact lens. They spin and swirl around in their cosmic dance a lot. So sometimes people say shit like, 'Are you looking for a contact ?' Fuuuuuuuck. They wear glasses for Christ's sake."

"They're not fags ?"

"Fuuuuuuuck. They're prophets. They're fucking finding the truth of reality."

One of them spits on the yellow border of a parking spot.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

"HARK THE TEST TUBE SINGS IN FILTHY BUBBLES !!" is a special fast fiction which has found its inspiration in an installation at the Helen Pitt Gallery. Here's a still from the show:
Scott Evans, Emi Honda and Jordan McKenzie have created a cybernetic bower of pastoralism, vintage junk and circuit boards. You have until October the 8th to make a pilgrimage from wherever you are in the world to this beautifully warped distopia.



After lunch at the Buddhist Burger joint where a couple seconds of a Tibetan chant announced the completion of every order, the afternoon took an unexpected turn.

"Some friends of mine recommended this exhibit, eh ?" He smiled shyly beneath a beard that billowed sideways like a dirty cloud. His eyes were crystal clear with blue and made up for his polluted appearance. Jewels offered as an apology for everything else.

"An Exhibit," she bite her lip. "Exhibit A in what kind of crime ?"

He was from a small town in the interior of British Columbia and spoke in clipped tones that clung to certain stereotypes.

"Okay, now that's got to stop, eh ?"

She turned her hand up to officially identify what had just come out of his mouth.

She was up from San Francisco studying at a Vancouver university and her eyes were lit up in a constant state of wonder which naively lead people to believe that she was naive. Her smarts ranged from the book type to the street type and back again.

Their date was progressing in fits and starts.

But after they stepped into the art gallery and they wandered their way into a green hut, they found a new ground to approach each other on. Inside the hut a fish tank full of green liquid was siffoned away through a maze of tubes into awaiting jars. They speculated that this acted as a kind of engine to power a moss coated television screen which displayed pixels of some dead video game.

And in this new world their tongues touched in a two minute kiss.