Johnny Goodhero is tired. He’s been surviving for months since the cliché virus struck. His only friends a baseball bat and a 9mm pistol. One last plan, to get across a Zombie infested battlefield without being eaten, to the temporary safety of a nuclear bunker.
Johnny tries not to gag as he covers himself in rent zombie guts. The squishy noises sound like the the horrific noises that come from your parents’ bedroom at three in the morning when all you want is a glass of chocolate milk. A terrible set of bling begins to form, liver earrings, colon necklaces, a visceral survival suit.
He crawls. So slowly, the Somme of moaning and scratching all fogged around. An invisible orchestra takes up a beat, industrial timekeeping keeping pace with the undead hearts of his costume. He reaches forward to a key lying forgotten on the ground. Salvation named Chubb. Touching one side, it’s so close, an undead arm reaches for the other. Crescendos. Slow motions. A flesh-stripped face comes into view. Johnny raises his piece. Recognition and hunger leap at clean food. Trigger pressed. An explosion.
“Wake up. It’s already twelve and we have things to do!”
I really shouldn’t read the Walking Dead last thing at night.
I remember the first day I was old enough to be brought to the public library. I was luckier than most of the other kids in my neighbourhood in that I had parents that encouraged reading, but it wasn’t until I entered that dusty bastion of oak-wood and furniture polish that I really discovered just how wonderful books were.
It was in the local library where I discovered Enid Blyton, Asterix, the Moomins, Huckleberry Finn, and the Hobbit to the sound of a ticking grandfather clock and whispers of fellow readers. That hardened paper ticket was the gateway to a lifetime of learning, of enjoyment, and countless worlds.
During Ireland’s last recession in the 80s the building, which had been a public library since 1884, needed some work to be made safe and so was condemned as libraries in poor areas were considered luxuries. So we moved further afield and I found the many worlds of Clarke and Asimov, the joys of Adams, and had my noodle cooked by Ellison and Bradbury.
It was in a library that I met Roald Dahl. It was a library that started me programming. Libraries got me through school and into technical college and if it wasn’t for the groundwork laid there I’d never have made it through the Open University.
As Pullman points out, the fallacy of the market economy is going to drive out anything of worth in our society and it’ll be the less well off that will suffer. It is nothing more than greed and selfishness couched in the language of ideology and stewardship. A reduction to the lowest common denominator for those who can’t afford it, while the selfish classes get to keep more opportunities for themselves.
I got this free with Stanza in what I can only imagine is an attempt by the publisher to try and get people to buy the rest of the series – I still feel short changed. I don’t think I’ve come across a published book that reads as much like a bad teenage fantasy as this… and I’ve tried to read the Twilight ‘books’. If you want a bunch of bad deus ex machinae, wooden characters that all have the same voice, and some really bad semi-furry sex then read away. Everyone else, life’s too short
You’re standing at the urinal minding your own business while doing your business when you hear someone say, “Mmm wooo.” At the further urinal away a dead ringer for the lead singer from Hot Chocolate has just made strange noises. Ever feel like life is one big rabbit hole?
You wouldn’t think it possible with the weather from the past few days, but I’ve been persuaded to go Californian and buy a pair of Rollerblades.
After a boozy Friday night I crawled out of bed and made it to the rollerblade shop on Mill Rd and got a lovely pair of Cylon boots with detatchable wheels on the bottom. Meeting some people at the Beehive Centre proved too much like exercise so we gave up after an hour and went drinking again.
Two words to strike fear into the heart of adult and child alike: Root Canal.
I’ve had an abcess for a while ever since I had to get eight fillings in one go and decided to find an NHS dentist to take care of it. Little did I know that it’d involve five injections of anaestethic, much drilling, and a good looking dentist poking around in the soft tissue of my gum for fourty minutes all made worse by having my appointment at eight in the morning.
The only thing that kept me sane was munching on Ibuprofen for the rest of the day. I’m probably over my limit, but I’ve a low tolerence for pain and a high tolerence for drugs.
Six days rest not before I go back for more drilling. Good time to watch Marathon Man again.