Christine and I have a new post on Hijacked Amygdala.

hijacked amygdala

Chris R-0249-2 Image by Christine Renney

I follow the other travellers across the car park and toward the rest area. They reach the doors and they push their way through but I stop and hover in front of the entrance, where people step around me, hardly seeing I am there so intent are they on getting inside.
I move close to the plate glass and peer in at them under the bright lights and although what they can do in there is limited, so very, very limited, they falter. It is fleeting but they are disoriented and unsure, if only for a few seconds and then they are able to re-focus and move again. It is a glitch and I realise that this is how I feel, that I am unsure, but for me it isn’t a glitch.
I step away from the entrance and begin to pace in front of the…

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Chris R-0712

I found Weird Mask Zine and submitted some of my work which was accepted. There are some excellent contributors and stories by H.P. Lovecraft, Conan-Doyle and Edgar Rice Burroughs alongside the new work. It is a Zine which is going from strength to strength and am really pleased to be a part of it. My thanks to Matt Wall, Editor and Magician and Pulp Fiction Afficianado. More info here:
Weird Mask


Christine and I have a new post on Hijacked Amygdala.

hijacked amygdala

Chris R-0153 Image by Christine Renney

The room was dirty. It hadn’t been cleaned, at least not properly. She wanted to complain but Pete was so exhausted he pleaded with her, tried to talk her down, convince her to let it slide.
He sat on the end of the bed. She hadn’t noticed the empty beer cans stowed beneath it and he realised of course that, if she did, they wouldn’t be sleeping in the room; probably wouldn’t be staying in this particular motel.
She slumped down beside him and, laying back, he heaved a very audible sigh.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but I’m not getting inside the covers and I’m not taking off my clothes.’
Turning onto her side she groaned and Pete could tell she was just as tired as he and could no longer fight it. Reaching out he fumbled for the light switch and closed his eyes.

Pete awoke…

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Chris R-0130 Image by Christine Renney

Harris picked up the envelope along with others that lay on the doormat. He sifted through and on seeing it was instantly intrigued. It obviously wasn’t junk mail or a credit card statement. He opened it first, pulled the single sheet from inside and, unfolding it, he thought, ‘Oh, it’s one of those letters.’
People had been talking about them for months but Harris hadn’t really listened. He had seen one before – a colleague from work had brought a letter, just like the one in his hand, to the office. He had shown it to everyone but Harris, uninterested, had barely glanced at it.
‘It’s just a hoax,’ he had said.
‘But why me?’ his colleague had asked.

Harris looked down at the undecipherable block of letters. He wanted to screw it up and throw it in the bin but he didn’t. His eye was drawn to his own name and address in the left hand corner. It seemed, above the dense brick of letters, so clearly defined.
Harris folded the top section of the page over so as not to be distracted. Looking down again, this time in earnest, Harris studied the code if indeed that was what it was. He was all too aware that many others had already tried, and failed, to break it.
He started to transcribe, leaving a space between each letter because it seemed like a logical way in which to begin, to break it down, lessen it. Harris was only four lines into it and already he felt the throb of a headache beginning. He could see quite clearly that the whole alphabet was here many, many times over. That the potential to make words and to form sentences was huge. Now he was ready to screw it up and bin it.
Harris unfolded the top section of the sheet and realised that the letter contained a few numbers, right there in the postcode. One, five, seven. He counted them off and in the first line wrote out Y O U.
Harris felt a little wave of exhilaration – perhaps he was onto something. He tried the second line and the third and the fourth. But there were no words. The letters were just random. Perhaps these were the ones that mattered, where the answer lay. But the block was identical in all the letters and they had been sent out all over the country, to different postcodes, so how could that be, how could that work?
Harris pushed the letter back into its envelope. He needed to show it to someone but he couldn’t share it at the office, not after he had been so dismissive. He had a meeting after work, he would show it to the others over tea and biscuits. Harris wondered if anyone would be as high and mighty as he had been.

Looking up at the clock Harris sees he has missed his bus. He sits at the table and reaching out he pulls the envelope toward him and gazes down, toying with it.