So January rolled around, I went back to work after the Christmas break and then term two, casual-like, walked into view with classes starting back on the 24th January(!) I try not to remind myself how much this education is going to cost me, embrace the wonderful student pace again, and tell myself, this is not work. This is not work.

So, to workshopping¹. We’d had a taste of it in term one, but this is the real thing. A whole module just workshopping. I’ve been told by full-time students and lecturers alike, that workshopping is where the shit is. The blood of the party. The literary foxhole. Workshopping is the art crit of writing (my only reference point from my Art ‘A’ level and many years in design). The way it works, your writing gets reviewed by your peers and they give you constructive criticism. And you there’s. And it’s mandated. I was kinda stoked about it.

There are rules to workshopping, and there’s not a matter of Fight Club about them. However, finding my class in the maze of ‘villas’ that make up the School of Humanities does give it the whiff of ‘First rule of workshopping is you do not find workshopping.’ But after the first term, I was prepared. And students had already formed WhatsApp informant groups. So none will get left behind this term. Incidentally, my go-to group is called ‘Oldest.’ It sounds very literal. Almost anti-creative. I like it. And the chatter on the channel too.

So to workshopping. The rules are (broadly):

• Work to be shared by ‘Sunday tea-time’ (our class is on Wednesday)
• Each student is to write a few paragraphs of their thoughts and observations for each piece being ‘workshopped’
• Don’t write to the person (‘Oi Dave’), write to the anonymous author
• Focus on what you liked and didn’t like. Be subjective, and not personal
• In class, if your piece is being workshopped, you gotta shut up and can only take notes. You are not there²
• If you are a reviewer, you take turns and read out your paragraphs
• Then you discuss it with the group. In front of whoever is getting ‘workshopped’ (see kick-in). And they are not there²
• Once done, they will invite the author ‘back into the room’
• And — this is really important — you DO NOT defend your work, but take the kick-in (or praise) simply and with a few words only²

And that’s it. Oh, 5000 words a fortnight. Go!

Additionally, I had a small palaver³ as I’d suggested writing a novella, which knocked me ‘down’ into the short story group. Words were exchanged, and MT said ‘I’m going to need to keep an eye on you I can see.’ Then MT pulled me into her class. That’ll teach me. And further punished (advised me) that the story I’d spent the Christmas lining up was probably not right for me. For info, it was a 1990s London, dotcom entrepreneur getting in trouble with mind vampires kinda thing. ‘Let's get back to that sci-fi from last term eh’ and ‘Come on, you gotta push yourself you wimp.’ I paraphrase.

So what did I do? Well I wrote and I wrote. Made some pictures (like the one above). I plotted and re-plotted. I dug DOWN DEEP and reminded myself how much this education was gonna cost me and embraced that wonderful student pace again.

I couldn’t stop my juvenile self from popping out though. I wrote a scene with my protagonist masturbating in a bar. That was a worry taking to class. But hey, I’m discovery-writin’-here.

And workshopping, what’s it like? Scary, revealing, and probably an effective way to highlight what you’re doing wrong. So, there’s that.

¹ Workshopping. For anyone involved in the design or almost any workplace endeavor where you have workshops, this is not like that at all. It does feel similar to an art crit, but also very different as the students around you are criticizing and discussing your work. Not just the teacher or lecturer.

² You are not there. Yes, I struggled like a right ranty-little, struggling thingy in my first session. Had to be told to shut up multiple times by MT

³ Palaver is ‘unnecessary work and trouble’ (Cambridge Dictionary)

Author’s note: a diary of sorts across my course, an MA in Creative Writing. I’d pretend it’s in the Week Notes vain, but I can’t seem to bash one out every week. For more, see my Uni Days Diary.

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It’s Called Workshopping was originally published in Writers Daily on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Jan 2024 | Diary entry from a Master’s in Creative Writing

I loved my first term.

I got it. No, I didn’t get it. But I got through it.

My first module, ‘Critical Issues in Contemporary Literature’, is done. I managed to complete it, and even turn in an academic essay evidencing something called literature analysis, plus some creative writing that has been marked.

To University standards. Which I wanted to know right? To have my writing assessed and labeled. To inform you how good am I? More on that in a mo.

Across the weeks of my first term, we were asked to consider important topics like class, ecocriticism (it’s a thing), and queer theory. And each week, the job was to wrap my writing around these themes. 1500 words a week, please.

But what did I learn?

I read a lot. Or skim-read I should say. A critical skill. And much of it is way outside my comfort zone. From the reading list of novels and essays. In my investigations. Luckily, the first book we were asked to read — Venomous Lumpsucker — I loved it. Just read chapters 1 and 2, they said. I read all the way through.

As the weeks went by, I found myself ranging. In fiction, I discovered a sub-genre of system novels, which took me from David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest to Burrough’s Naked Lunch. The latter I got about halfway through via an audiobook and decided, OK I get it. And with Infinite Jest, I didn’t read it, instead admiring the Footnotes. And they were stupendous Footnotes, hundreds of pages long and some footnotes had their own footnotes too. Which got me thinking, and gave me ideas well above my station. And then, of course, there was much non-fiction to read, analyze, and consider. After all, this is the literature analysis module. And so I did feel compelled to collect the odd journal article, and a paper of two to reference.

Some topics I gravitated towards, like Class. One came to consume me, Ecocriticism. But some I fought against.

I’m still quite a juvenile spirit at times. Or maybe we all are, we each just need the right prod. My prod came in the shape of a theme called, ‘own voice.’ The consideration of whose voice you should write in, and which culture are you emulating, appropriating, sensationalizing, or manipulating. Sadie Smith wrote a great article that told me I could. An American author — famous, white, and female — made another argument which demonstrated as my tutor pointed out, ‘she didn’t get it.’ I thought she did. But Professor Sunny Singh (which is an awesome name) kinda nailed it so I could be in no doubt with words like ‘Why do you want to write this? What is your motivation? Can someone else tell this story better? Is it someone else’s story to tell?’

I got into writing so I could write about others. Other worlds, other people, other stuff.

So what did I do to reject the rules from the Man (see lovely not-man lecturer and poet)? I wrote a story about a young woman, firing a remote-controlled herd of cows down Whiteladies Road* at a conference. A conference for suppliers of a migrant theme park. The setting was near future Bristol. And, I re-wrote the story in prose poetry and submitted it. See Sprint 3 post for an example of my prose poetry. Or better yet, try Nudibranch by Irenosen Okojie, or Bernardine Evaristo’s The Emperor’s Babe. Far, far better.

My piece was juvenile and silly, but I felt better.

*It's a long street in Bristol with a nice gentle slope to it, nothing too extreme. It's also in the posh end of town.

University lecturers don’t mind being interviewed. After spending years doing research (in my day job) and wandering around our country, and a few others, asking people questions, I got to a point where I realized, I needed to go interview some academics. They know about all this shizz right? And they did.

Now, this isn’t statistically significant, I only interviewed two. But they were really helpful, both in testing my assumptions and encouraging me to go further down some of the paths I’d wandered down. Which in reflection, isn’t so surprising, but it does suggest the next point.

Universities have useful assets. Like libraries, access to lots of other library resources. And humans with lots of knowledge. I am paying ten thousand pounds to join this club, for a two-year membership only. Which is near twice the price of a Soho House membership (just saying. I like spas alright). So yep, I gotta make better use of this membership. Sift and strain it for all my needs.

As an aside, the university has a great indoor pool which I use once a week on school days.

The age of a student is a thing. This ‘difference’ in the age of students — some students are in their 20s and just finished their degree, while others are returning students in their 50s — the difference is obvious at times. Like men and women, and our different sensibilities. Or the feminism of some staff and students.

Sometimes it's as you’d expect. Missed pop cultural references of the different ages. ‘You don't know!’ and ‘You have heard of! But then sometimes it arrives oddly. Reading Venomous Lumpsucker, most oldies on the course found it funny, whereas the younger students were turned off by it. I found it hilarious.

You gotta get lost in it. Gotta let the study consume you. And it did. My notes got notes, got structured. I hated writing that damned essay, the academic paragraph structure blah blah. But then frustration gave way to a sheer need to embrace it, to get it down. And by the end, I found myself not enjoying it but stretched. Which is the point I know.

But don’t take my word for it. One of the many rabbit holes I joyfully headed down concluded with Morton’s Hyperobjects, quite awesome definition of reality. Though rather than listen to my half-assed version of it, here is Morton himself:

There’s plenty more learning, but that’s enough for ta diary entry.

I got marked and I did alright. So obviously I’ve embraced my mark label. And accepted, I must be a writer now, cos I’ve got proof. But the months of reading and writing and teaching and discussions, that was the real deal. That’s what I paid for.

Author’s note: a diary of sorts across my course, an MA in Creative Writing. I’d pretend it’s in the Week Notes vain, but I can’t seem to bash one out every week. For more, see my Uni Days Diary.

Write for Writers Daily

Sprints Over — End of Term One—  Reflections was originally published in Writers Daily on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Oct 2023 | Diary entry from a Master’s in Creative Writing

We interrupt this diary transmission for a side trip to Japan! With my son. During reading week (mostly).

The land of the rising sun (sounds kinda cool) is both same same and astonishing, antiquated and modern. As far as I can tell, after a mere week here. Let’s break that apart like a westerner wandering into an Onsen: eyes open, dick out, respectful like.

Same same
When I’ve thought about going to Japan in my head — its been about two decades, the last one quite seriously — I definitely fantasised about how clean and tidy it would be. Fetishised towards ‘oh teach me your ways.’ And it is, in many ways and places. Like at Austrian levels. Or Corporate-property levels. But not everywhere. I’ve been looking. Street gutters have weeds, Tokyo side streets have clutter — ‘no way’…‘way.’ And our capsule hotel in Shinjuku definitely had repair issues — ‘well I’…‘I know.’

‘It looks like Devon.’ Rae (my wife) once said. We were on holiday in Spain or somewhere. Started as a joke, but it’s become a benchmark, a baramic guide for all foreign places for me. So when I walk through the Japan countryside and see somewhere that looks like Devon* — ‘we got weeds and trees like that’ — well it’s same same eh.

*We’re in the northern hemisphere, similar latitude blah blah.

Astonishing
However, the camera pans left and there’s these bastard-big peaks, a few wearing white hats. Camera continues to pan, and ‘oh my that’s a monkey! Look, there’s a whole troop of them.’

The orderly queue waiting for the Shinkansen (bullet) train, via markings laid out on the platform. The bullet train’s seats (block of two or block of three) that have a lever you can depress, and the whole unit spins around! 360, as much as you like. Purpose, unknown. Youths fascination with dressing up as Victorian vampires. A 40-foot high billboard of a naked fantasy manga girl. On a main road, in the daytime. Standing on the 45th floor of the Metropolitan government building, looking out to the horizon (on every side) and seeing human buildings all the way. Tokyo’s size is astonishing. I once flew over LA. Like that.

Sushi. The way it is prepared, the attention to detail, the flow, the speech, the casual exactness. I get it now. Jiro Dreams of Sushi showed it some, but now having been to a Sushi restaurant, and eating those prepared morsels. I’m onboard, I’m in it, I’m converted. Sushi is astonishing.

Antiquated
There’s these maddening moments when Japan is antiquated and you wonder ‘how can you still be doing this?’ Like standing in a long queue waiting to exchange your JPass for a ticket you can use in the train stations. WTF? Where’s the app, in English, allowing me to book my travel and schedule seating? (Note: there’s apps, automated turnstiles in stations, QR codes abound etc etc). And cash, everyone wants you to carry and use yen. I spent over 12,000 yen at the sushi restaurant last night. Cash please. The numbers are heart-palpitatingly high. 12,000 for dinner! That’s actually £66. Oh. For that meal, in those surroundings, with the chef right in front of you preparing the food, I’d have paid triple that. More. I think I love sushi.

A couple of years ago I worked with a few others to sell ‘digital transformation’ (see automation) to a large Japanese corporation. Like a really big one. It was a year of so after COVID and they really wanted to start selling online. But they had ‘reseller’ issues, infrastructure issues. But more than anything, they had Japanese ways-of-working issues. Their workers are unionised, those wearing white-collars and blue-collars. Automatically (though not contract and temporary workers obvs. Same same). This means they will go out of their way to protect their workers. Have to.

So it’s ‘antiquated’ here and there. I saw workers working jobs we’ve automated like at temporary traffic lights for road repairs. Yep, a uniformed worker helping ‘navigate’ traffic, when the light goes red or green (actually the light goes blue, but you get the point).

And obviously, they really respect their old ways from architecture to food to family. Like I said, think Austria.

Modern
Robot delivery at the airport. Toilets which play gurglingly sounds to cover your no2s and other things besides. Squished Cube cars, all the major manufacturers have one out here. High-speed internet on trains. On the Metro. In tunnels under mountains. Hot bottled coffee from vending machines. And that interface design that really helped navigation (quite blew me away). And much more.

Yep, Japan is same same, astonishing, antiquated and modern. And we’re only one week in.

I’m writing too ‘I laugh at you jet lag!’ Submitting me uni homework, obvs. Here’s a clip (had to try writing Verse Novel style):

We Enders have a saying,
When we meet in secret corners of this Net + that Net.
SKIP
TO
THE
END.

So let’s. I’m ready
to play my hand. Lay it down, a full house. ONE HUNDRED COWS.
Ho-ho-ho!

All four-leggy, milk-
making machines. Each trauma-patched, doped. Eyes sky-wide.
Repurposed.

Why? Yesterday, thirty
nine degrees in October. Just saying that aloud, I’d be told
Liar!

But thems your cards.
You rigged the table, weighted the dice, fiddled the deck.
Gotta live, right?

Twenty-nine million souls
Brislington to New Chepstow, holed up in our TEMPORARY Stacks.
No Hail Marys.

Outside red lights, the
estuary lights, like old Xmas lights, wink + nudge me.
To action.

Tomorrow they’re coming
for you. Before the morning light. One hundred bovine bullets.
Gonna be big.

Skip to the fucking end.

The above passage is from a world I’m developing. Been playing around with the idea of a Utopia set after the apocalypse of the Climate Crisis. Temperatures rise to 12+ degrees, and everything south of the Tropic of Cancer becomes a wasteland.

Out of this chaos comes a new religion, presided over by a prophet who calls for a dramatic solution: the forced rewilding of the earth and the humans left (1B) shift into purpose-built mega-cities. These great utopian wonders fail, and we’re left with one broken city, London-One (population:100M). The last of the human race. And that’s where I want to set a future story.

Author’s note: a diary of sorts across my course, an MA in Creative Writing. I’d pretend it’s in the Week Notes vain, but I can’t seem to bash-one-out every week. For more, see my Uni Days Diary.

Oct 2023 | Diary entry from a Master’s in Creative Writing

Had to do homework this time. To a noon deadline! Church bells signal.

Burgeoning chats this week with NP, CL, C and others. Histories and ages compared. What actually is the homework assignment: 1500 words? Midday Monday? Coupled with a background fear of showing your work to each other. Well, that's what CL said. The kind you can taste. Savour even. She’s right. Whatsapp chat channels sprouted.

Age is still a thing, dividing, framing, like some of us have daemons, some of us don’t. Maybe it’ll pass. But I think not.

Halyard’s voice* — or the narrator who did Halyard’s voice — the Australian exec-who-doesn’t-give-a is now my mental voice-over on everything from reading a recipe to work meetings over Teams. It would be a problem if it wasn’t so funny. Even as I write this, I can hear his bloody voice, I mean as it’s not enough that the bloody Lumpsucker is extinct, but I didn’t even get to fucking eat it. You’ll have to read the book*.

Clip from my first assignment:

MJ: My friend knew something was up. [Error: Incorrect object on conveyor], followed by [Alert: Undetectable objects found on conveyor]. On repeat. We saw Deborah’s bloodied badge, and uniformed body roll past our sensors, only to jolt to a stop. [Alert: conveyor blockage. Halt counting].

Then one lone chick crested the prostrate figure of Deborah, marching onwards. Sensor beams lacing the scene, we watched other chicks join the frontrunner, walking a trail of red stars across Deborah’s white shirt.

Then nothing.

AH: What? Why?

MJ: My log file stops. Their device had detonated in my server room.

*Venomous Lumpsucker, by Ned Beauman, Book 1 of the course.

Author’s note: a diary of sorts across my course, an MA in Creative Writing. I’d pretend it’s in the Week Notes vain, but I can’t seem to bash-one-out every week. For more, see my Uni Days Diary.

First class** this week.

The directions or acronyms to find the classroom were kinda funny. And pointless. A little like the app I downloaded to self-discover the university buildings and sites. Like an old-Flash interaction. A pretty map with graphics of buildings, and pointless for the task at hand. Overall though, this left me with a sense of endearment not annoyance. I must want this bad.

My classmate and tutors were of a broad-ish range. 16 students. Two tutors. Range of ages: 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s (three of us). 70/30 split women/men. But not very diverse racially. And a few happy to say-out-loud Neurodivergents. Which was surprising. Maybe not – we’ve moved on. Some recent grads too, but most were not.

The weekly cake and tea get-together was nice. Who will I meet? What will they discuss? Questions like this pressed buttons in me as I walked into the basement office. I was OK as the course lead kept it simple and we discussed the merits of DC’s new Blue Bettle, which the good Doctor-course-lead thought was as good as Thor Ragnarok. Well Great Scott, this really will do.

Did I feel old then, going back to uni? Yes, standing in a queue to collect my student pass. A long queue in the rain where everyone was no older that twenty. Couldn’t have been. Me, standing in queue waiting for a pass? How many times have I done this on entering new companies? In four star hotels? In how many countries. But now moi, was in a bloody queue in the rain? Yeah, felt old and entitled then. Almost laughed if it hand’s been pissing it down. And how were the younguns? None were griping about it. None. Take note oldies, shut-the-fuck-up and don’t be so entitled. I also ran away from a common room when I saw lots of young people sitting round having their lunch. Like I needed to. Have to build up the courage for that one.

The thing with the neurodivergency discussed. The ‘we have the highest number in creative writing don’t you know’, the behaviours discussed, the powers neurodivergence gives you, and the flaws. Kept thinking it was like some action heroine. You gotta have your flaws right? And all the while I’m staring at my simian-hands. Knowing how I’ve gotten about my writing. The 5AM*** daily starts. The must hit 14-hours writing a week. Wanting more and more to dive into the deep-end. Think I missed the point of that discussion.

And the homework for this week? Like a hook. I even tried putting it off. Managed till Sunday morning. And then I started reading Venomous Lumpsucker. It was like it was fucking handpicked for me. Bastards.

If I could just offload the Catholic-guilt about my weekly day-off, reckon I might like it here.

Author’s note: Going to (try) and keep a diary going across my course, an MA in Creative Writing**. And decided to make it public, make it accountable and all that.

*I always liked the action-speedy nature of the word ‘Sprint,’ a label used to define a week or two week block of work by a team. Its part of nonclementure of Agile, a wonderfully-fascist approach to project management used in software design and development. I’ve always considered myself a liberal, but in the workplace, I’ve found that what I’d hate to see being used to run a country, seems rather useful. And anyone that’s worked inside an Agile team or project, knows the fascists I’m talking about. Oh how (we) love our ‘ceremonies’ no.

**In this year of our Lord 2023, I start my Masters in Creative Writing. At a university, with classrooms and libraries and all. Not remote nor hybrid. For two years I will be able to demand criticism of my writing from external humans (not family members) and am given writing assignments. Assigned. I’m still kinda surprised they let me in.

***Its 4.45am, but 5am sounds better. And I usually hit the snooze once or twice. Although right then, when I awake, an idea, a world will wrap around me, its folded edges flattening out as I traipse about before even I see any folds.

Neumann stood on the rooftop in the heart of London, waiting for his master to land. It was the Spring of 1910, and the light from the horizon smoldered in the early evening, blossoming like a line of fire. “Aus dem feuer kamen sie” or “Out of the fire they came”. Those words came to mind as Neumann stared out across the city. How many years had it been since that infamous headline stood stark across Berlin, then London, and beyond? When Jörmunwyr and his kind appeared, clawing themselves out from under Iceland, changing not just his life but all human affairs forever.

Worry gnawed at his stomach — not simply rolling like at sea, but a stabbing feeling, like some unseen thing scratching on the other side of his bedroom door in the dark of night.

He’d served his master faithfully for nearly twenty years. Just as his father before him and his father had. As Neumann’s son would too — if only he had one. But no, he had but one daughter, now nearly of age and ready to join society. And there would be no more children now. No more would the old Wyrm be able to confide in a Neumann.

He sighed and stopped wringing his hands. So that was that. He tapped absently again at the letter of resignation folded in his pocket and knew it was the right decision. He would even help find a new Major-Domo for his master. But what then?

A dark shape appeared across the fading red blush on the horizon, moving in from the west, as always along the path of the river Thames. From his vantage point, he watched its blurred edges take shape, wings beating, a long tail rippling in their wake. No human, even one borne into his service, couldn’t feel awe watching the magnificent creature, as it swung lazily over the gothic rooftops and smoking chimneys, huge wings the size of a tall ship’s sails, beating a dance as it came to land atop the mansion. Once known as Queen Anne’s mansion on the corner of Petty France, everyone called it Wyrmhouse now. Even his master didn’t mind the nickname.

“Papa,” said a small voice behind him.

Neumann turned and saw his daughter. He tried to smile but only his eyebrows moved. Her gaze remained fixed on the sky, to her fate which winged its way towards them both. So she’d come, he thought. This will be easier now.

The great dragon, impossibly large, hung in the air above the rooftop, then shimmered mirage-like before them. Suddenly it dropped, its shape billowing like a flare in reverse, clouds forming and rippling as it folded in on itself. In seconds a graceful polished shoe and then a suit leg landed gently on the rooftop and the human form of Jörmunwyr was striding across the rooftop towards them. Six feet six tall and wearing a worsted three-piece, he looked every inch a politician if you ignored his red hair, bright like a bonfire, swept back and shoulder length.

“Neumann, my man. Is everyone here?” Jörmunwyr began, smiling to his Major-domo while pulling a pair of gloves off.

No matter which way you looked at it, thought Neumann, those gloves hadn’t existed until seconds previously. But he knew his master tried hard to go through the forms as he would say. He was quite like the royals in that — two of whom waited on him downstairs with the other guests.

“Yes master,” he replied.

But Neumann didn’t move. His heart began to race up a hill to catch up with his thoughts, which were spinning and colliding now, far ahead.

Jörmunwyr cocked one eyebrow and swiveled his gaze towards the young lady standing beside Neumann.

“Hello Delphy,” he remarked casually. He would have gone further, but sensing Neumann’s racing heart, waited on Neumann, who clearly had something on his mind. Manners were just as crucial to old Wryms, more so even. It was how one stopped mutual destruction.

“Master…” Neumann began, but faltered.

“Neumann, you want to ask me something, yes?”

“No master, tell,” he replied somewhat breathlessly.

The old wyrm pursed his lips, then said “Know that while we stand on this rooftop, you may speak freely. Unless mention of my siblings of course.”

At the mention of ‘siblings,’ the shadows lengthened around them and the dragon’s great shaggy red hair darkened. But a wide smile appeared on his face, a smile that Neumann knew meant well, but could just as quickly indicate a malevolent force strong enough to stop sinners and nations.

“Master, my family has served you for three generations,” Neumann said.

Jörmunwyr reached forward and placed a hand lightly on Neumann’s shoulder, and looked from father to daughter. “Your father believes this sale a mistake,” he said, a grin curling his mouth. “Well, I am done with it. But not with your family.” Young Delphyne continued to look the old wyrm direct and hold his eye, no mean feat.

“Ah, I see. I am wrong,” Jörmunwyr added, quietly, sensing an unusual taste in his mouth. Surprise.

“Master, my wife could not bear me a son,” Neumann said, blinking, his eyes suddenly moist.

“I know,” said the old Wyrm.

“Well, the thing is…” he’d reached inside his breast pocket but hesitated to pull out his resignation letter.

“Neumann,” added Jörmunwyr “I expect you to select and train the best of your protege” keeping his gaze on Delphyne and placing his other hand on her slight shoulder “and they will, I’m sure do everything in their power to make you proud.”

Neumann couldn’t believe his ears. How could even such a thing be possible?

He cast a quick look at Delphyne, who for once actually looked demure and proper.

“But, but Master” Neumann looked between Jörmunwyr and his daughter, confusion shaping his features. “For two generations it has always been. Well, you see Delphyne is — ”

“What, I’m a woman?”

The great hall melted from the vision in the pool, to be replaced by a view of a great waterfall, high up in the mountains. Then the view lurched and they were hurtling towards the great sheet of water. As they felt themselves hit the waterfall, they and the image crashed through into darkness. Both Neumanns held a hand out to each other, to steady themselves from the Dragon’s vision. It was like nothing Delphyne had ever seen.

Then, from within the darkness, flecks of light glinted across the circular pool. Then brightness flared like a hundred thousand city lights suddenly switched on. Laid out beneath the light, piles, and piles of gold glittered across a huge cavern and more riches beside. The young Neumann simply gasped, but the older Neumann did not. He frowned and then just as quickly kept his face bland.

“And my final question. What would you do with all this Delphy?”

She turned from the horde of unlimited wealth and looked at the dragon, her eyes wide, her heart hammering.

“This is not my final answer mind, I’m just thinking out loud,” she began, looking back at the vision adding “But I’d not give it to any of them downstairs Master.”

Jörmunwyr gave away nothing, but it was the first time she’d ever called him master. Then tilting her head, she looked back at him, one eyebrow raised. “This isn’t real. It’s just a memory isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

The old Wyrm grinned and waved a hand casually, and an image of a huge warehouse appeared, one filled with stacks and stacks of boxes of all sorts of shapes, with shadows for edges. One corridor between the crates she could see, stretched off as long as the street outside her home, disappearing into the darkness.

“How many of these do you have master?” she asked.

Jörmunwyr turned his gaze to Neumann, who looked between his master and daughter. She was doing very well, he thought, and fought to keep pride from his voice.

“273 in continental Europe, 97 across Africa, 24 I know of with various parties in India,” it was Neumann’s turn to return an enquiring look to his boss, who looked away, not embarrassed, but pained again. “And there are 14 now in — ”

“Thank you, Neumann,” said the old Wyrm and placed both hands behind his back, looking now more like a professor than a politician. “You see Delphy, I’ve tried hard to modernize since my return. But I must go much further, I must stop, well hoarding. But all my instincts fail me…” he looked tired, pained even, and a desperate look came over him.

Then with a casual flick of his wrist, the vision was gone and the water slowly trickled back into itself, a simple puddle among many on the rooftop.

“Do you know my story Delphy?” Jörmunwyr’s voice sounded all vulnerable to Neumann, who was reminded of the range of emotions his master would often flick through — a far greater range than any human.

Delphyne simply nodded.

“It was 1783 and a previously unheard spot in Iceland blew up,” she began, quoting the story every adult and child knew. “Across a whole week, the land under Laki rolled, and great volcanic explosions rocked the land. A terrible spew of sulfur dioxide covered the sky with a dark portent.” Delphyne spoke in an unhurried voice, her words clear to her audience of two on the night-shrouded rooftop.

“Out of the fire and ashes, four nightmares from myth strode the earth’s skies. One flew north and was never seen again. One flew east, across Russia settling his great girth around Beijing’s palace and telling everyone he met his story. A story so powerful, that he became an Emperor that night.”

“My brother does have a way with words” added Jörmunwyr. Delphyne looked at him enquiringly, but he waved for her to carry on.

“One flew west”, she continued, “across the ocean and fell on Mexico and there spread herself across the region, and those countries flocked to her banner. The region became known to one and all as Quetzaco. And the final of the four to appear flew south. Into Europe and the bosom of the great British Empire and remained. He did not bend its rulers to his will, instead moving among them, wearing their trappings and — ”

“May I take up the story?” Jörmunwyr asked suddenly, his voice quiet. At such times it felt like it arrived directly into your mind, bypassing one’s ears. Delphine fell silent.

“That first year” he began, “I witnessed many of your human affairs. Affairs that reminded me of my previous adventures among your kind. Then it was chieftains that played King or Queen. But this time around, I’ve fallen for your love of progress! Your curiosity driving such change, it’s all so infectious.”

Closing his eyes, almost whispering he continued. “It was 1783 the year we returned, you are right. The Orient Express — such a pretty invention — spun itself to Constantinople.

“England recognized the independence of those boisterous Americans. The signing was in Paris. It was a fine warm day outside the hotel. I left early and watched the leaves redden as if the trees too celebrated the end of the war as much as the season.

“The Montgolfier brothers’ went up in the first hot-air balloon, which I missed. And Mozart wrote his Great Mass, which I did not. That first year, 1783 was a very good year.”

He opened his eyes and turned his gaze on Delphyne, sadness clear in his eyes.

“Unlike my brothers and sister who would rule, I will not go that way. Delphy, you humans have all the power. Truly. We are but four, whereas you are billions. You burrow into every crevice of our mother earth, demand to count and know every star, but worse still, would harm one another well beyond anything my kind can bring you.”

He paused, then went on “There is a darkness coming. A terrible one, I can sense it.”

“This darkness master,” asked Dephyne “will it affect many here in London?”

“Yes Delpy, I believe it will affect many millions, across Europe and blight your kind like never before.”

“Then use your wealth to stop the darkness,” she said simply.

“I will not rule Delphy, that is not my way.”

“No I mean,” she groped, then pausing and straightening her skirt, and said, “Master, I have my final answer.”

Neumann stood on the rooftop, waiting for her master. She leaned on a simple wooden stick, remembering another rooftop and her entry into Jörmunwyr’s service many years ago. She didn’t regret not having children, nor a lifetime devoted to her ‘uncle’ the old Wyrm. But she did at times miss her father. She was the last of the Neumanns now.

What had started as her simple idea, just a focus for Jörmunwyr’s wealth had become a powerful machine that demanded attention — all of hers and the dragon’s. Over the years they’d been accused of many things: a secret society, a shadow government, the architects behind saving our world, and the perpetrators behind so many wars, more than she could count. In truth, quite a few of the better tales they’d concocted themselves. Such propaganda had been necessary to get behind a few closed government doors. She still disagreed with them going public in 1954.

The thing is, a dragon’s horde buys you a lot of ‘runway’, as the new kids in Silicon Valley would say. And Jörmunwyr wanted to divest himself of all his wealth and buy something for humanity.

Whenever she thought of him now, it was with a smile; stalking his London mansion office in his human guise, his great flush of red hair signaling his mood. Or lying in his cave in the Highlands, his magnificent wings folded around his long dragon’s bulk, his eyes intently watching the many screens he had on display. She would always stand, giving her account of his affairs. They were his, not hers, she just nudged and shepherded things.

He’d been gone now 23 years, the day after JFK died. He’d blamed himself the silly fool. At times, it felt like Jörmunwyr was with her just yesterday.

She looked towards the setting sun, wanting to believe that he’d simply appear over the horizon today. His great wings billowing before he’d land. And then he’d pick back up this damned burden he’d left her.

“Ma’am, they are ready for you,” said a quiet voice behind her. It was her secretary.

With one final look across the long roof of Palais des Nations, beyond the tops of the trees, and Geneva Lake, she concluded: no, he was not coming. So she turned and leaning on her stick, left the roof. Delphyne Neumann, President of the Bilderberg Group headed back downstairs to her offices, inside what was more commonly called the United Nations. There was work to be done.

Author’s note: this was written for all those who played and loved Shadowrun, the greatest tabletop RPG the world has ever seen. And for a writing competition.

1910 was originally published in Total Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Fiction — part 5

About series: This is the story of violence, a story so old it is in our very blood. And while a few of our sisters feel its pull, for many of us born to the Y chromosome, a violent act lies just beneath the surface, ready to hand like sword and shield. Read part one first.

10. SALES

“The novice cannot pass through these layers of increasing intensity of danger without sensing that here ideas are governed by other factors, that the light of reason is refracted in a quite different way from that which is normal in academic speculation” (Carl von Clausewitz, On War, 1832)

“I don’t trust a word out of that Henry Clarke,” said Heather, shaking her head at the screen.

Heather like many others had tuned in after dinner for the Today/Tonight show to hear the discussion on the government’s controversial STOP pilot. Some of the things she’d read about it in her feed on Facebook were getting downright worrying.

“Why watch it then,” said Brandon sitting on the couch beside his wife, feet up on the leather pouf, staring at his laptop.

“Aren’t you worried about STOP?” Heather turned to her husband, reaching for her cup of tea.

“What’s STOP?” Brandon asked but didn’t look up, continuing to skim-read the report he was trying to wrap his head around.

“You’re kidding right?”

Brandon turned to look at his wife, quickly eyeballing the TV opposite them — clocked the show — and turned to look back at Heather. She was wearing that who am I married to? look. And he thought but didn’t say, the one who pays the bills, love.

“I don’t watch the news, you know that,” he replied. Smiling he closed his laptop adding “OK, what is it?”

“Well STOP stands for Stronger Together Outreach Plan–”

“That doesn’t even mean anything. So why is it important?” cut in Brandon.

“They say that it will stop violence in society–”

“Stop the violence!” Brandon cut in again. “Ha! And what evidence are they touting?”

Heather placed her tea cup back down on the side table, and stared hard at Brandon “Are you going to let me answer you? You never let me finish. Its–”

“That’s not true!” Brandon added.

“You just did it!”

At that moment, Brandon’s mobile, perched on the arm of the sofa began to ring. Brandon instinctively picked it up and then showed the screen to Heather. It said Jerry (Boss), the mobile ring tone becoming insistent.

Heather slouched, twisting to her side, and turned back to the television.

Brandon sighed, heaved himself up, and answered the call.

“Evening Jerry” he started, exiting the room and stepping into their cluttered kitchen. He could well imagine why his boss was calling him.

Jerry ‘The Rocket’ Henderson, was Head of Business Development in Defence Solutions at EAB Securities where Brandon worked. And while Brandon fulfilled a range of roles in his job, right now he was going to be, a PowerPoint designer again.

“It’s Heather Jerry. But yes, she’s well.” Yep, he wants something, thought Brandon. Jerry always asked about people’s partners before he asked for something. Or sold them something. He was at least predictable.

“I thought you were going Thursday?” And then after a pause, “You’re at the airport now?”

Brandon opened up his laptop and started firing up the presentation he’d been working on with the team. He knew where this was going.

“Which slides Jerry?”

“Jerry it’s OK,” Brandon gave a forced and practiced chuckle. “You’re the one who’s going to have to play golf with them.” Brandon thanked the Gods again he didn’t play golf.

Jerry would do anything to move the sales pitch out of the office and into just about anywhere else: golf course, squash court, or airport first-class lounge. Jerry was old school through and through. He’d been selling military hardware all over the world for twenty-plus years and he brought in the deals. EAB loved him. He was solid gold to the bigwigs.

“What? When you say you want it bigger, d’you mean–” Jerry stared hard at the flat graphic of the stats he’d spent hours working up in Tableau.

“I can’t just make it–”

“No, I understand that Jerry. It’s just that the ballistic error modeling is that.” Brandon pushed the mute button. “Fuck!” Brandon couldn’t believe where Jerry was going.

“What?” Heather called out from the living room.

“Nothing hun,” and he unmuted the phone after a long slow breath. “Jerry” Brandon began and spoke slowly so Jerry could follow him, “I can’t just change the lethality numbers like that. The AMPVs are firing 120 mm mortar rounds in a suburban domain Jerry. It’s not a tank but they are still civilians!”

I have a Ph.D. in bloody Middle Eastern Economics, Brandon reminded himself. And he wants me to–

Brandon paused, listening to Jerry.

“Oh, OK, you don’t mean to change the actual numbers, just the size they appear on the slide.”

Brandon felt a little foolish.

“Well yes it is a screenshot from Tableau” he began. “But, but no, you can’t just cut and paste the numbers, its, PowerPoint and….No, no, Jerry it’s fine. I can sort this.”

OK I can do that, thought Brandon. It’ll be a right pain, but fuck it. Brandon thought he’d wanted him to change the actual numbers. It was Jerry after all.

“No worries Jerry. By the time you land, it’ll be sorted. What? You want…?”

Brandon tilted his head at the screen and flicked through the slides of the presentation. “Pictures of women? Not soldiers, but civilian women. Well, how many? I guess so. OK, go get on your flight. Bye.”

Brandon hung up and stared at the presentation slide on his screen. A bit bloody odd at the end there.

“Er, Brandon, you really should come and look at this!”

“I gotta work hun. It’s a–” he trailed off. He began to copy and paste numbers one at a time from one piece of software to the other on the screen. This will take bloody hours! I need a beer.

Brandon stood and stretched, and put his head round the door to the living room.

“I’m getting myself a beer. Do you want–”

Brandon paused, staring at the television. “What the hell are they doing?!”

Heather was sitting up on the couch, hunched over her legs, staring intently. She reached out a hand and gripped Brandon’s arm.

“That’s what I was telling you!” Heather replied, her voice breathless. “Look at them. Everyone is fighting! They’re all going nuts.”

On the screen, two men in suits rolled across the floor, and several other men kicked at them. Again and again.

END

Author’s notes: whatever you are going through, there’s someone willing to listen. If not a friend or family member, then a local organization. In the UK, we have the Samaritans.

My Name is Mr. Anger series parts:
Part 1 — boys will be boys
Part 2 — Professor Barbara Tuesday offers a solution
Part 3 — a not-so-chance encounter
Part 4 — a TV panel show makes fireworks
Part 5 — presenting the facts

My Name is Mr. Anger was originally published in The Lark on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Fiction — part 4

About series: This is the story of violence, a story so old it is in our very blood. And while a few of our sisters feel its pull, for many of us born to the Y chromosome, a violent act lies just beneath the surface, ready to hand like sword and shield. Read part one first.

9. PANEL

And so these men of Indostan Disputed loud and long, Each in his own opinion Exceeding stiff and strong, Though each was partly in the right, And all were in the wrong! (John Godfrey Saxe, The Blind Men and the Elephant,1872)

The popular tv show, Today/Tonight, started out as everyone expected, with the greying host introducing the panel.

“Also, we have not one but two MPs this week, David Barnaton for Labour, an outspoken critic of the STOP Plan.” Except this week, the show was being televised live. “And Henry Clarke for the Conservatives. And this is our panel.”

As the applause rang across the TV Studio, hoots and even shouts joined in the noise. Everyone knew that tonight’s show was going to be divisive.

That evening’s subject was the up-and-coming pilot of the new Stronger Together Outreach Plan, giving over 18s the free injection that was having a real impact on crime rates across Finland, Denmark, and New Zealand. But to many — boys and men typically — this new state-sponsored drug was beyond a civil rights abuse, it was simply anti-men.

“Look at the stats already!” said Jesse, a senior production assistant on the show.

Jesse was standing with the other show staff in the production room, pointing at a screen on the wall. The large screen showed the new sentiment-tracking dashboard. Several bars and graphs were displayed, and a list of keywords they tracked across Twitter, Facebook, and other social media sites.

“Come on, look alive! He’s through the intros,” said the insistent voice of Emma, Head of Production, into the headsets each of the production crew wore. “Right, first one’s up. Marcus, when you’ve got a reaction shot from the crowd, don’t wait…”

Jesse’s attention was pulled back to the large bank of monitors in the production control room. Camera two was duplicated onto the main monitor, the live feed that viewers saw. The camera showed just the head and shoulders of one of the audience. A middle-aged man, articulate, opinionated, someone’s Dad. Someone’s ex. Gotta be divorced, thought Jesse.

“My question is for Henry Clarke. How can this supposed inoculation program against violence be seen as anything more than the government pandering to the Woke press?” The shot closed in even tighter on the angry face, the studio lights rendering well the reddening face. “This is simply anti-men and I’m ashamed to call you my MP. I voted for you!”

“Oh very good Doddie, he’s perfect!” said Jesse.

Off to one side, sat in front of a computer screen, Doddie threw Jesse a big smile. One of Doddie’s roles was to short-list audience questioners for Emma, including order recommendations. With the first questioner, it wasn’t just about setting up the theme for the evening’s entertainment, but it was about getting the show’s tone just right. And this audience member looked molded for tonight.

Jesse looked back across the bank of screens showing each of the panel members: two MPs, one bishop, an entrepreneur, and one professor who made all this possible. Two against STOP, two for STOP, and one for the government rolling it out.

“So is the government’s pilot program” the host began, as always re-stating the question “which includes the new inoculation against violence — which is having so much success in Scandinavia — is driven by certain press?” He turned and looked at the panel member to his right.

“Henry Clarke, MP for Ashford,” said the host.

Henry took a deep breath. Tonight was an important night for him. It was a gamble, but if he could handle this show, then it would really accelerate his trust in the real power in his party, the Whips. He just mustn’t let David trip him up. Even if he’d been assured the bastard wouldn’t be here. Focus, he reminded himself.

“Let me first say to both our audience here in the studio and those watching at home, this is merely a pilot,” Henry began.

“The government runs many, many pilots across the country. It is a safe and sensible way to test new ways of working and living. From trialing ways of removing congestion on our roads to recruiting into new digital workplaces.” Leaning forward on the curved panel desk he continued “Again this is simply one of many pilots this government, or any government across the democratic world are running all the time. It is quite safe. You can take that from me.”

And he returned a big beaming smile.

But there was only a smattering of claps from the packed audience. And none of them were men.

“David Barnaton, Labour MP for Dagenham and Rainham,” said the host, turning to his left, the camera panning to where he looked.

“Well, I think my honorable colleague for Ashford shamelessly ignored the question that was put to him,” David began with practiced ease. “This government is in a tailspin, you just need to look at the polls. They are desperate to gather new voters — given so many are running to our side — and this pandering to women voters in such a divisive way, well it is really quite awful. And this gentleman in the audience — like so many others — has seen right through it.”

Hearty applause broke out across the audience, predominantly from the male side of the audience.

Pausing briefly, David turned in his chair and started jabbing the air with his finger.

“And what’s worse, Henry Clarke is clearly using this campaign to launch his own political career in something he no more believes in than…congestion reform!”

Now the applause was clear.

The host waited for it to quieten down and then turned back the Henry.

“Mr. Clarke, to Mr. Barnaton’s points,” said the Host. “Why are you backing this program? Or have you merely come onto this show as a mouthpiece of the government?”

Henry didn’t wait to respond. “Am I the mouthpiece of the government as you put it? Yes of course I am,” he replied. “My party — the Conservative Party — have the majority in the House and have therefore been given the mandate by the people to govern our country. Am I here as a representative of this government? Yes, I am.”

Always, always state facts — if you can — loudly and clearly. Exactly the same as with lies, he’d been taught.

After a somewhat pregnant pause, the host added “But why are you, backing this program?”

Henry appeared to squirm in his chair, but this next bit he had practice multiple times in front of the mirror. He took a gulp, and unknown to him, the camera pulled in closer to him.

“Where I grew up in Stratford in East London, there was always violence around. It was every day, normal even. Just part of life. A mate’s mother at home getting it from his dad, Firms at the footie, the casual indifference to anyone that wasn’t from ‘round here.”

David picked a black lady from his target demographic in the audience — female, working class — or as he imagined she was.

“And by that, I don’t just mean people of color. No, I mean anyone not from our territory, our neighborhood.” He looked down, then back up. “I saw the impact of violence.

“I campaigned for change well before I joined the Tory party, working through the Kick Start charity in Stratford. So do I believe in this program? Yes, yes, and yes. I support funding a pilot and getting hard evidence that such a thing could be possible in England.” And then with a smile “And Wales of course.”

Applause and laughter were caught across the audience.

“Henry-bloody-Clarke? Well who’d a thunk it?” said Jesse inside the PCT room. “For such a toe-rag–”

“Martin, don’t cut to the Prof yet. Back to David Barnaton. He’s gonna drop the prison line” said Emma into her mic which went directly to the host’s earpiece too. Only Emma had control of his mic during the live runs of the Show.

The host, his eyebrows still raised, turned to his left. “David Barnaton, would you care to comment?”

David, his face a mask of shock, reshaped into one of anger. “It is often a thing of incredulity hearing Henry Clarke spout such lies and falsehoods, but this one beggar’s belief,” said David, lining up his barb to throw. “Henry Clarke served time in prison. Years in prison!”

“Two years and one month,” cut in Henry.

“That’s still years Henry” his voice dripping with easy venom, “be honest eh…” David waited for a reply, hoping for a response. The chance to attack Henry here, on live TV, he couldn’t believe the opportunity had come to pass. He found himself savoring every lovely moment. He wanted to smile and grin, but he kept all that hidden now. Now was the time to fling mud and he had the dirt.

“And while it was for fraud” he continued, “stripping assets and leaving a ‘wake of debt’ I hear the judge called it, your co-defendant was charged with harassment and intimidation.” David stabbed again in the air. “You were accused too were you not?”

Henry knew David would go there. God how he’d hoped he wouldn’t, but he knew he would. He really should have canceled going on this show. He could feel the sweat now dripping down his back. These bloody lights. But the Whips would have seen his weakness. Anyway, he refused to back down from David.

“Look, I did my time,” he replied. “I served my sentence. Do I have regrets? Yes. Do I wish what I knew then, what I know now? Who wouldn’t? But I learned my lessons the hard way. It’s why I plowed so much of my time into charity work, helping kids who might be headed down the wrong path like I had. And when people voted for me, someone who’d made mistakes but could honestly turn his own life around,…well maybe I could turn a community around, turn deprivation around–”

“Henry, do you really think you have changed? I know you–”

“No, you really don’t David,” said Henry, honesty ringing through his words. And a set to his shoulders, not on attacking or defensive. But passive.

David was caught off guard by Henry’s not-Henry way. He’d never seen him like this. What was his game?

He could not, would not ever forget that day in the shopping Mall and the way Henry had treated him. Then David was right back there, that night Henry and his mates had cornered him in the car park with his wife. As his heart rate rocked, the memories skipped. The week after, being fed via a drip. The vow he’d made in that hospital bed, his searching for a fight, any fight. Finding his way into a Firm for the same club he’d supported with his Dad. Then fighting with his Debs. Right then, there was no hiding his anger for this man. It was clear to everyone in the studio and the many millions watching at home.

The moment stretched then a voice cut through. “I think it’s time to bring in another of our panel,” said the Host. “Professor Barbara Tuesday. Could you tell the audience something about this pilot being trialed? This ‘vaccine against violence’ as it has been called in the press.”

“Of course,” replied Barbara Tuesday, professor of psychiatry at UCL. “First though, let us be clear. It is not a vaccine. Aggression is far more insidious than any virus, or dare I say even cancer.”

“In the male half of the humans you mean,” cut in Helena Stanovich, her face deadpan, her voice clear. There were cheers, a chorus of high voices.

“Barbarism!” muttered the Bishop, who sat next to the Professor on the panel.

Barbara paused and sighed inwardly. She had wondered why a technology entrepreneur was on the panel — but she’d guessed wrong. She was here to represent that growing segment of outspoken women who were driving the demand for the drug. For all the right and wrong reasons.

But Barbara did not see the signs. Nor the host, nor the production team. But Jesse felt it as she kept one eye on the sentiment tracker. The numbers were growing and growing. New keywords appeared, and Jesse’s heart began to skip.

She looked at Helena. And Professor Tuesday. Such strong women, she thought. And then at the men on the panel. The two MPs — both horrible men if she was being honest — and Martin Dempsey, yes ‘all hands’ Dempsey.

One keyword was taking over all else. It wasn’t even a word, but it made her smile. It made her heart skip.

#nomen.

No men.

Something was changing. Jesse knew it. The future — which had always felt so uncertain to her — was heading somewhere. Somewhere she felt part of, somewhere she wanted to go.

The host was trying to settle the audience. After a long minute, the audience hushed again and he nodded to Barbara.

“Now while this new drug is not a vaccine, the most recent evidence does suggest that tackling violence like a disease has proved to be a very effective way of reducing its impact. And if anything, that is the more innovative part of this pilot program and one I would welcome–”

“Thank you, thank you Professor Tuesday” cut in the host, pretending to stick one finger to his earpiece. Jesse looked at him shocked. He’d just cut off the Professor! That bastard. She looked around the studio but no one else saw it.

“Let us take another question from the audience,” said the Host, adding “Yes, there at the back.”

Maybe it was the studio lights. Maybe it was because the show’s guests were kept in a separate lounge away from the studio. Or that David and Henry had to be kept even further apart. But neither man realized just how many of their old football Firms were in the audience.

The leaders of the two Firms had come to an understanding in the previous months. Both saw that their way of life — to fight on matchday — was under threat. Both wanted to make a stand. And when one heard their ex-leaders turned MPs were going to be on a live tv show, well, they concocted a plan.

“Yes, the chap at the back. Yes, the one with the black pullover. What’s your question for the panel?”

As the mic on the long boom handle settled above Sean Harris — leader of the Stratford Boys Firm — both Henry and David spotted him for the first time. Puzzlement crossed both their faces. Their eyes began to scan the audience and then they saw members of both their old firms in the audience. In fact, there were at least twenty members from the two firms. They began to shift in their seats, worried expressions marking their faces.

Several of the production crew spotted the color draining from the two men. “Something’s not right,” said the Head of Production. “Who’s this audience member?”

But it was too late.

“My question is to Henry Clarke,” began Sean Harris, standing up. “‘Ello Henry. Long time,” his voice sounded like a fist grinding gravel. “If you believe in this new drug you of all people are peddling, would you take it?”

Henry looked out at the audience and held up a hand as if to shield his eyes from the studio lights.

“You must be from my constituency. Hello!” and tried to beam his now-famous smile, but failed. “I believe in this pilot and so does the Government, it’s why we shifted policy funds to support it. And throughout the process–”

“It was a simple question, Henry. Would you take it?” His voice cut across the studio like a falling stone slab.

“Well, like I said,” and now there was irritation in Henry’s words. “This is only a pilot, but one that has the government’s full support–”

“Henry Clarke,” cut in the host. “That is not what the gentleman is asking. He is asking — quite simply — would you, Henry Clarke, take this new drug?”

“What I would do is irrelevant,” Henry replied.

“So you wouldn’t take it?” Sean Harris stayed standing, his voice heavy in the silent studio.

“No!” Henry barked. “Course I would! But it’s not about me Sean…” Henry trailed off, his face flushed. The host and the other panel members looked at him. David couldn’t help but smirk as he looked on.

“Well then I guess you wouldn’t mind proving it,” said Sean, standing among the audience, “by taking that concoction live on TV then eh.”

“What?” Henry turned to look at the host and then back at the audience.

All the members of the two Firms — nearly twenty in all — stood as one, pulling on balaclavas and moving towards the stage. Ten others who had been loitering around in corridors at the studios, stormed into the production room.

David beamed and couldn’t believe his luck. This was more than he could have ever imagined.

“In fact, all the panel gonna take this fucking STOP drug now on TV.”

“What?!” David’s mouth dropped open.

The other panel members stood backing away. David tried and got tangled in his mic cable and stumbled. Each of the panel and host was grabbed by members of the two Firms and held down. The Bishop spluttered but Henry just sighed and didn’t fight.

In the production suite, Terry ‘Steel Hands’ Patel was controlling the room and keeping the feed live.

“All good in here Sean” came his voice over the studio speakers.

Sean nodded to one of his crew, who then opened out a small box and handed out the syringes.

While some of the audience had fled, many just stood, drawn to the spectacle unfolding before them. A few even shouted, but the men in black didn’t listen.

Sean Harris, only the whites of his eyes showing through his balaclava, looked down at Henry stretched out on the panel table. And then over at David too.

“We’re gonna run a little experiment lads.”

Sean had his back to the cameras, but they were still rolling and the mics on the table transmitted his words. “We’re gonna plug that shit into you both, and then we’re gonna have ourselves a little fight.”

He turned around, his eyes boring into the studio camera. “And every real man here in England’s gonna know, what to do with that STOP-shit when them doctors come knocking.”

“You can’t be serious–” began Henry. David shouted, “What are you hoping to prove?”

The big man rounded on the two MPs. “Shut it! And take your medicine.”

And then their old mates, grinning, set about injecting all the members of the panel live on TV.

Author’s note: read final part 5 of 5 — presenting the facts.

My Name is Mr. Anger was originally published in The Lark on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Fiction — part 3

About series: This is the story of violence, a story so old it is in our very blood. And while a few of our sisters feel its pull, for many of us born to the Y chromosome, a violent act lies just beneath the surface, ready to hand like sword and shield. Read part one first.

8. PARLIAMENT

The duel had lasted less than six minutes. “Enough,” my adversary had said. Quite! The sun had melted the morning mist and was now shining brilliantly. My one wound was beginning to make itself felt. My valiant adversary appeared to be bleeding from everywhere. There were three wounds in his arm, two in almost the same spot, and three in his chest. How I reached his body without hurting him seriously is a mystery, or a miracle, which I have never been able to explain. That evening, he and I drank champagne together. (Aldo Nadi, Olympic fencing champion after his first duel, 1923)

“Alright cunt, I think I’ll buy you a drink,” said a voice behind the shoulder that hit him.

Henry turned, his hand instinctively going inside his jacket, but there was nothing there.

“Ha!” In a whisper, the voice continued. “You're not really carrying here are you, Henry?”

He forced himself to relax. He wouldn’t bite, not to this one, nor here of all places, so he smiled and scratched at his balding pate.

“Ah David,” he replied. Of course, you would be here. “Fuck you very much.”

Henry leaned off the bar but continued to stare at his slimline tonic, readying himself. Both men stood in the Smoking Room, one of three bars inside the Houses of Parliament, that ancient seat of the British government lying beside the River Thames. The room’s lights were low pools of gold across a landscape of green leather and polished wood. Henry had been here only once before, and ever since that day, he’d promised himself he’d stand here again when he came back an official representative. Ironic given his fight with the drink. But many stupid decisions framed Henry’s life.

He turned and looked at David.

He wondered again how this man — more than any other besides Father Dominic or his old man — had shaped him. If circumstances were different, he should thank him. But Henry could never admit such a truth. Especially to himself.

He’d hated the man once. That night he’d watched David win his election on the little TV Tash had grudgingly let him buy. He’d stood up and left the house, Tash’s screaming a distant echo and walked and walked and walked till he left that life. Quit everything. Quit the booze, quit his job, quit Tash.

Feeling David standing there beside him was like a terrible magnet. Pulling him back into his memories, back into his old life. Back to the anger, and hurt. He felt his muscles flex, and his heart rate spike. Tasted iron, tasted the old hate. Felt himself pounding David’s head into the bar. He looked at the bottles behind the bar and hunger gripped him. He let go of his glass before he ground it to dust. Christ, give me strength.

No. Not here. This was like holy ground to them both, in their current incarnations.

Henry let out a breath. He turned instead and decided to share a drink with his very own demon.

David had gotten old. We both have, Henry realized. David’s hair had thinned well beyond the point where most men — proper men a chorus of memories concluded — shaved their heads. He wore grey worsted pinstripe trousers, his shirt sleeves already rolled up. How long had he been here, waiting for him? His left eye still had the red spider from their encounter outside the football grounds. How long ago was that? Ten years. How they both wore that decade now. And how far they’d both traveled?

“I want to congratulate you on following in my footsteps right into the Chambers upstairs,” David said. “How many votes did you actually win in the end hem?”

He was sure David knew exactly the margin he’d won by — maybe even before he had. And yes, 2,268 votes was a bloody tight victory, but a win was a win.

“Well David, I think I’ll stick to the Commons benches and steer clear of the river of shit you’re swimming through eh,” Henry said, now the one smiling. “Did I read there’s a possible prison stretch? Actually the idea of you inside…” he left the thought out there as bait.

“Got any tips, Henry? How long were you–”

“You know well David. Remember my interview prick?”

“Let’s not descend into–”

“Name calling?”

The two men looked at each other, sizing the other. Never had they been this close and not come to blows. Maybe it was the location, but it stayed their fists for now. Neither would care to admit it, but they were wearing the same clothes, doing the same job, becoming more than equals, they were becoming the other. Anyone entering the bar would assume they were old friends. And yet, their spirits had descended down different paths.

“Do you ever see anyone from your Firm?” David asked over his pint.

Henry narrowed his eyes. “Na. You?”

“No, our job, the optics. As you mentioned there is some scrutiny on me right now. But I miss them.”

“Why?” It just escaped from Henry’s mouth and he couldn’t retract it, so he plowed on. “You didn’t seem the type for a football Firm. You were–”

“A limp fuck eh” David replied. “Just as you followed me in here, well I…I needed to toughen up for our next encounter. I knew it would come.”

Henry turned his mind back to the offered memories. Both men smiled at their recollections. “When I saw you in the stands,” Henry said “your Firm all about you, us three-nil down, I couldn’t believe it. But then later, when we fought in the street, you were almost a Geezer…”

David looked back at Henry, now himself a little surprised, and put his face in his glass and drained it. “Well — ” David put his empty pint glass back down on the bar too quickly, the crack on the wood clear across the bar.

“This little chat changes nothing” David added quietly, steel knives back in his stare.

Henry watched the moment slip away, like a flimsy bridge collapsing, the gap between them stretching again. Henry felt a sudden sharp loss.

David stood, stepping down hard with one boot heel onto Henry’s toes. Henry welcomed the pain and kept his foot still. Instead, it was David’s face that turned red. Then his hand was around Henry’s chin, pushing him back against the bar.

But Henry didn’t stop him, just smiled and casually wrapped one oversized hand around David’s, saying “Holy ground Highlander!”

“Damn right!” said the barman. “Do you know where you are?” picking up their spilled glasses.

Henry pulled David’s hand away, and stepped back, straightening his jacket.

“Good luck with your trial David,” he said and left the bar, heading back to his office, repeating again his favorite litany. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…

Author’s note: read part 4 of 5 — our cast meets on a TV panel show and there will be fireworks tonight!

My Name is Mr. Anger was originally published in The Lark on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Fiction — part 2

About series: This is the story of violence, a story so old it is in our very blood. And while a few of our sisters feel its pull, for many of us born to the Y chromosome, a violent act lies just beneath the surface, ready to hand like sword and shield. Read part one first.

4. TED

“Many forms of violence may occur simultaneously, so they are not mutually exclusive. For example, intimate partner violence may involve psychological, physical, and sexual abuse, and collective violence often includes the use of rape as a weapon of war.” (Journal of Epidemiol Community Health, 2007)

Professor Barbara Tuesday looked down at the monitor at the edge of the stage. She had three minutes and twenty seconds left. Oh! Better skip to summing up, she thought.

Barbara had been surprised, flattered even, by the invite from TED to talk at one of their events. They were becoming unbelievably popular. How long had they been going now? And their format — a nineteen-minute talk — got millions of views on their site. So why had she hesitated? Even the Vice-Chancellor had called her office directly, cajoling her.

But she knew the reason she hesitated.

Her work would become soundbites. The efforts of her Ph.D. team would be forgotten, their painstaking work building the critical datasets, or even the months and months of studies they’d conducted. No, all anyone would hear would be that one conclusion that was already getting all the wrong attention.

She looked out across the studio TED was using.

“So in conclusion,” Barbara continued “levels of abuse towards women have remained the same in recent years. In the UK that’s 25% of all women aged 18 to 74 years. And here in the US, it’s one in three women.

“Secondly, feminist efforts to end male violence against women must be expanded into a movement to end all forms of violence for the sake of our communities. Men are at much higher risk of being victims of violent crime than women.

“Thirdly, recent advances in bio-markers using the MAO-A gene, known as the “warrior gene” in men and yes, the “happiness gene” in women, show evidence that a population can be monitored with a simple injection. While there are clear ethical issues surrounding the usage of bio-markers, small studies like the Hämeenlinna study in Finland, have enabled us to make leaps and bounds beyond the confines of animal studies.”

She paused, staring out into the lights and the crowd, waiting. No one shouted. But this wasn’t that kind of crowd now, was it?

“Fourth, Phenytoin — the well-known anti-epileptic drug used in clinical settings for 80 plus years — has since 1997 shown to be successful in combatting aggression. And, significantly reduced aggressive acts by 71% and the intensity of aggression by 60%.

“What does all this mean? Well,” pause, breathe, pause. “Our new drug, predicated on decades of successful clinical trials, will give us the means to curb violence in our societies — with just one injection.

“Now is the time for our governments, not just here in the US or Britain, but for all our nations to run trials and combat the epidemic of violence in our times. In our times.”

Several days later, Professor Tuesday landed back at Heathrow Airport in London.

Sat on the Tube train back into town, the feeling of jet lag already beginning to take control — she was a terrible traveler she told herself — a folded newspaper lying beside her caught her eye, showing a picture of herself.

Unfolding the paper, the article’s headline, all bold and capitals read, “Professor Tuesday demands forced sterilization of men.”

5. Grounds

“You shall not leave alive anything that breathes. But you shall utterly destroy them, the Hittite and the Amorite, the Canaanite and the Perizzite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite, as the Lord your God has commanded you.” (Deuteronomy 20:10–18, Bible)

The day after the riot, when the CCTV footage from both inside and outside the football ground was reviewed, it showed two groups were the cause of the incident. Two groups of fans from the opposing teams. An analyst even narrowed it down to two individuals, one from each of the two hardlines ‘Firms’ as the groups called themselves. But one senior officer knew they didn’t have the evidence to tie the events to these two.

“No, no, no,” he said, his strong Welsh accent chewing out the words. “There’ll be too many factors their bloody lawyers will use to confuse the prosecution.”

It rained hard on the football ground that day. The sky lay flat like a dark slate sheet above the lights of the stadium, blocking out the world beyond. Henry was praying his team would pull their finger out in the second half. They were two nil down and if they lost this match, relegation from the league was guaranteed. And they really couldn’t go down.

That just couldn’t be possible, Henry thought. We’re not going back there, no fucking way!

“My Garden Shed! Is bigger than this!” Voices rang out behind him.

He turned to see his mates’ smiles, and added his own voice to the chant, watching as the rest of the ground at their end of the stadium took up the chant.

“It’s got a door, and a window…but my garden shed is bigger than this!”

The chant rang out across the stands, and Henry found himself bouncing and jumping, the bright colors of blue and white — his team’s colors — rippling across the ground. Wave after heady, euphoric wave.

Suddenly the song crumbled, its tide vanishing. All eyes returned to the field of battle, as their blue and white knights fell back, retreating from the onslaught of the black and reds.

No-no-no, Henry was repeating, aloud and in his mind. The enemy’s knights were in the box, a line of them. The ball, now a white bolt whizzed from one enemy to another, his own team seemingly in all the wrong places.

“Come on! Defend! No one’s fucking marking Johnson!”

Voices all around him shouted, fists waving, hoping to have some effect.

But there was nothing they could do. Henry watched helplessly as a knight from the other side kicked the ball and it arced, streaking into the net behind their goal. Henry’s world dropped out beneath him. The score was 3–0 and they were seventy minutes in. He couldn’t believe it. They were going down. Relegation. He wanted to leave the ground. Now.

Then he heard them. Heard their chanting. The other side, words attacking his goalie knight. Bastards!

His gaze swung towards them. He wasn’t alone. His mates, his Firm, shifted too, like an extension of himself. And then they were up, moving, shifting, anger fueling the creature they became: a many-legged, many-armed monster-knight, with just one thought. Punish them.

Monster-knight couldn’t change the score. Couldn’t change their team’s descent into relegation and shame. But monster-knight would go down fighting. Its wounds open, clear for all to see. You cut me and I’ll fucking cut you, it’s only thought.

The creature collided with the fence, a high metal mesh that kept fans from the two sides separated. It crashed at it. Shook it, but nothing. All the while another monster-knight, one just like it, glowered and slathered on the other side of the fence. It’s enemy — the Flock.

Both creatures smashed into the fence, winding the other up, forcing them to spin on themselves. A face appeared from the body of the other Firm. Head shaved, red-faced anger unchecked, glowering, hating. Ready for a fight.

It was him! Mall-guy! David from the Mall.

And David was staring straight at him, eyes burning.

What!, thought Henry. Him, here? Henry couldn’t believe it. He was stunned.

“You! I’ll…” Henry tried to shout, but his mouth was suddenly dry.

“Yeah,” David’s mouth moved amid a growing grin. “You and whose army?”

He couldn’t hear the words amid the shouting and screaming, but he knew exactly what David was telling him.

“Outside! Outside!” words spilled from Henry. Then looking at his mates, “Let’s take ’em outside! Come on!”

The Firm looked inward, looked at Henry, nodding, pulling apart.

Henry pointed a finger at David.

“Sergeant Arms car park. Fucking Sergeant Arms!”

Then David Mall-guy did something which would eat at him for days, weeks even. He held his arm out and flicked his hand as if shooing him away and mouthed, “Run along little cunt.”

Why you — ! Henry nearly screamed. He drove his Firm out, hot rage eating him up, not even waiting for the end of the match — the result would only get worse. But now he had a way of keeping the team’s honor. And settling this new score. How fucking dare David invade his world? He couldn’t believe it. Well, he’d fucking teach him a lesson.

Hours later, sat in his mate’s lounge, nursing a beer and enough cuts and bruises that he should be in A&E, he thought about David. He had stepped up. Of that, he couldn’t deny the man. He was different. Changed. Harder. More of a geezer.

Smiling, he drained the beer from his can and grabbed another.

6. Bot farm

“Rage is a currency in today’s GOP. Think of all the culture-war tropes that rely on it, many of which have resulted in legislation: Rage against critical race theory, masks, vaccine mandates, COVID testing, shutdowns, unions, voting, trans people, abortion, Muslims. And that’s before you even get to the made-up stuff, like the War on Christmas.” (Molly Jong-Fast, The Atlantic, 2023)

TRANSLATED TRANSCRIPT FROM SUSPECTED BOT FARM NEAR NARVA, ESTONIA (SI/NOFORN/GCHQ)

MALE: Come on, can we please listen to something else? Anything else?

HELENE: What are you saying?

MALE: I’m saying Helene, just change it up some. It’s 2016, not 1996.

HELENE: Actually this song was released in 1984 to rave success.

MALE: Not here. And that’s like over forty years ago! They’ll all be dead–

HELENE: What does that have to do with anything? So no Mozart, Beethoven? No Aavik?

MALE: That’s not what I mean…who’s Aavik?

HELENE: Haha. Look, just listen to these lyrics–

MALE: You’re not going to play it from the beginning–

MALE: Is it actually going to start?

HELENE: Just listen.

MALE: Ok. I get it, I get it. “When two tribes go to war” blah blah. It is a bit blunt?

HELENE: What about this–

HELENE: cowboy number one, a born-again poor man’s son. On Air America, I modeled shirts by Van Heusen. Working for the black ga—

MALE: Who is this Van Heusen?

HELENE: Da, that doesn’t matter. They’re singing about Reagan and the failure of war and–

MALE: Who’s Reagan?

HELENE: Come on–

MALE: I’m kidding.

HELENE: Two Tribes was a seminal piece of eighties pop and Frankie Goes to Hollywood was clearly way ahead of their time. You can’t fault them.

MALE: I can. Look from that period, I just like —

HELENE: Test results are back.

MALE: And?

HELENE: It ran, with no bugs this time.

MALE: None?

HELENE: It’s my bash script in the S-S-H.

MALE: I wasn’t questioning that. Throw it up on the main screen.

MALE: Yes, yes, F-B-Cs on the stack are all level.

HELENE: I know right? The 10-k sample cleared. So, we going to run it?

MALE: Is your mother called Mary like mine? Ha!

HELENE: Who first?

MALE: Who’s on the backlog? Oh, the top four items are Facebook injects anyway.

MALE: Hem, that second one will be a [pede].

HELENE: Agreed. But we can repurpose the ad content from the test. Have you got the filtered set of target accounts?

MALE: Hold on…yes but only for the British audience.

HELENE: OK, we get this [ülikena] puppy up and out, rinse and repeat, and then we can repeat on Twitter.

MALE: Agreed. But can we change up the music?

HELENE: Ok, Ok. Madonna?

7. Confession

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, The courage to change the things I can, And the wisdom to know the difference.” (Serenity Prayer, Alcoholics Anonymous)

Henry looked back towards the closed door, hoping the Bishop wouldn’t join them. A smell of bleach and wood polish seemed to pervade Father Dominic’s office. But he’d never minded. In fact, increasingly this office, this church, seemed to be the only place that made any sense. And a lot of that was down to the man sitting opposite him.

“How is Natasha? Well, I hope?”

Henry turned back at the voice. There were more lines about the old priest’s eyes these days. A little more stooped as he sat, and the hair on his head was now white like a dove. But his eyes remained the same to Henry — bright and forgiving. Henry knew without this man, he would have fallen far. But instead, he’d been off the booze now for two years, three months, and one day.

Henry tried to smile but faltered.

Father Dominic smiled for them both. He leaned forward and reached out a hand, placing it gently on Henry’s. It was warm and soft and said you are safe here like no words could have.

Henry stared back and the tears came. He couldn’t stop them. Didn’t want to. He looked down, staring at the leather shoes beneath the hem of Father Dominic’s cassock, gulping as more tears flowed. The priest placed another hand on Henry’s.

“Father, I can’t breathe sometimes,” Henry began, his voice catching, sobs shaking the words that tried to get out. “It’s so hard. And I get this pounding here!”

Henry rubbed a hand across his eyes.

“I understand my son,” nodded the elderly priest as he listened to Henry’s confession.

“But I can’t do it! I can’t” he confessed aloud. “Every time I walk past a pub or an off-license I, I feel so — ”

“But you haven’t though have you? You are strong Henry,” said Father Dominic.

He looked up at the priest, whose eyes shone like two pin holes behind which lay the light of all the Heavenly hosts thought David.

“But what if I…”

“Hush now,” replied Father Dominic gently. “Let us pray together.”

Henry stared back and then simply nodded.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…”

Henry’s voice joined that of Father Dominic’s, and the two men spoke the ancient prayer together, their voices held from the world within a second-floor room at the back of an old church.

Sometime later, Henry was standing, smiling at the elderly priest, thanking him profusely. The door opened and a tall man wearing a black cassock like Father Dominic’s — but with a wide purple sash — walked into the room, without knocking.

Both men broke off their words to one another and watched the Bishop, a wide smile on his bearded face.

“Ahh Henry, so good to see you!”

His voice was too large for the room, too large by far, thought Henry. Henry looked briefly at Father Dominic, but the man gave away nothing of his thoughts.

Turning towards the Bishop and hiding his own wishes, he took a breath for a beat then smiled.

“Hello, your Excellency.”

“I wonder if we might have a word about this ungodly new drug program I’m hearing so much about. What’s it called?”

“It’s called STOP for short. The Stronger Together Outreach Plan” replied Henry.

Author’s note: read part 3 of 5 — a not-so-chance encounter between our two antagonists.

My Name is Mr. Anger was originally published in The Lark on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.