Samuel and the f3quenZor

(The Biograph)

September 5-December 25 2014


Following the 2011 Quake CHURCH is a throwback to the Wild West. John or the Poet Soldier, a drifter and novice writer arrives in town looking for a fresh start. His day job as foreman for a painting company takes him inside the lives of locals who eagerly await the rebuild which will bring boon times for the region.

For Samuel aged 9 a child of the Quake, life is no different to what it was before the disaster hit. His recollections of his early years a morbid montage that start with who he believes to be his mother leaving. It ends with his dad also Sam and the women of the night who work out front of their house.

Young Sam’s resilience and fortitude causes a celestial occurrence, when he accesses the f3quenZor one night at his window while watching the moon, wishing on a star.

The f3quenZor is a telepathic relay used by the Network, a secret sect that connects the New World Order and the Underworld as medium for communicating during covert operations.

The Poet Soldier, who story has it, is a former Network Operative is one of the 3 Pillars of the f3quenZor (if you buy into the story) begins to write what he calls the GUIOPERA an online serial of web fiction. In keeping with the story, the GUIOPERA is a coded broadcast confirming information received via the f3quenZor for the Poet Soldier’s crew LMLA-ink and their associates around the planet.

Sam’s discovery connects him to Polina in the ‘90’s. Their real time connection warps reality sending them to the SenFenide Dimension, or the Dream Dimension.

Aleisha who left CHURCH following the 11 Quake returns to her hometown. Her connection with Sam is real, when she rescued the six year old who was wandering through rubble just after the quake hit.

The GUIOPERA whether it is or isn’t a cloaking device by the Network, documents Sam, Polina, and Aleisha’s stories like their ordeals and triumphs are the author’s only agenda.

The GUIOPERA a textual serial published almost daily from September 5 to December 25 2014 is a perpetual phenomenon for which the writer uses the story when he writes about readers indulging in the LATEST UPLOAD of the story, creating a cast of millions who read it.

Literary devices or writer/illusionist’s tricks aside, the GUIOPERA takes us on a covert operation that spans decades and worlds created by characters that fight for their lives in a neighbourhood close by.


CHAPTER: ACT I - 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 ACT II - 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | XMAS


September 5-December 25 2014



Published: Friday September 5th 2014



There’s an enchanting feeling in the air. It’s almost like there’s a temptress in the sky who orchestrates captivating and thought provoking movements in the ether using her fabulous fingers to motivate emotion. The enthralling notion circumnavigates the ruins of buildings, a reminder of horrific seismic events that rendered the commerce centre of CHURCH defunct. The enchantment by the temptress blossoms on a refreshing breeze, bringing hope when Christmas bells chime on the cusp of heart-warming promises of whims that these words are indeed the opening stanza of a Graphical User Interface Opera. Or for those who know the sound of his words by heart, the GUIOPERA.

Meanwhile, in a suburb a stone’s throw from the city and still in the red zone, Aleisha the heroine of the story-about-the-story–being-written or the SASBWAH, quietly readies herself for the period of time which begins today and ends on Christmas day.

In a 111 days’ time, or 2664 hours, also measured in 159,840 minutes, same as 9,590,400 seconds from now, the world will be a different place no doubt, for many reasons. One of them most definitely will be because of the web fiction textual series of our times written by a novice who has no idea that the world watches and waits on every word he spills onto a canvass that covers an adoring sea of readers across oceans and continents.

Aleisha Smith, an awkwardly successful gen y exponent can taste the savoured sweetness of it all from past seasons. Tis the season when time really does fly! When autumn, spring, winter and summer become one as those who read the novice’s work create a consciousness that soothes scorching suns as it warms hearts the planet over.

For Aleisha, now a moderately successful business woman, the trip home to CHURCH from WELLY had to be made, sooner or later. The Poet Soldier’s presence in CHURCH as his Facebook profile confirms, incidental or was it?

Aleisha stops listening to the eloquent narrative that streams like a brook in her mind, and pulls out her HUAWEI smartphone from her bag to see the words, written. She disconnects from the f3quenZor by taking a deep breathe through her nostrils and out her mouth and lets her eyes read the words that her naïve mind craves and hungry heart desires.

Propagating servers on worldwide networks communicate to deliver this year’s inaugural LATEST UPLOAD, the event in which the story is released to the internet for consumption as Aleisha logs on to read about what she’s up to, something which she still hasn’t come to grips with. This is her third appearance in a GUIOPERA type story by LMLA-ink (which the Poet Soldier is a member) and the novelty hadn’t yet worn off for the one time stripper. Aleisha screws up her nose in ungainly fashion and it appears onscreen in the ensuing line. Then the attractive woman maybe in her twenties or thirties wriggles her nose in bewitching manner, the gesture befitting the result which appears on page, onscreen. The uncertainty of her age from her appearance is because of a confidence she has that would surpass her twenty something indulgent insolence aura. To some, especially other women, it was just plain ol snobbery. To those who knew Anna Nicole, her stripper name due to her likeness of the late Playmate, it was all down to Aleisha’s class.

Outside the window, tradesmen and women of the rebuild who dismount vehicles and children on their way to school look up into the heavens as the skies open up. The down pour, an enlightenment to endorse the emotion in the atmos as prescribed in the story.

Snowflakes tumble. Music begins. Tears whelm and hearts melt as Michael Bublé’s voice helps vend pride, affordable by any means available to those with and without. You only have to be human, with an inkling of goodness inside and a vague understanding of what compassion is to understand and feel what it means for a true servant of mankind to be able to give more than he can take.

Mothers at the window, with their youngest on their hip wave goodbye to the older ones who vanish into a scintillating yonder framed by impassioned yearning that the scene onscreen of the GUIOPERA is real and not just surreal.

Aleisha lets herself be taken away by the strumming guitar that warms the single woman’s heart. The sight of her people responding to the Poet Soldier’s decision to perform his work in CHURCH overwhelming for the woman who had selfishly cherished her role as one of his few real life characters.

“Feliz navidad, feliz navidad,”

Aleisha sings along to the song on everyone’s lips.

A boy crossing the street reminds Aleisha of a certain child she thinks about from time to time. His undeniable courage was resounding, masked by his shyness from low self-esteem, which causes his head to hang, only when others are totally consumed by themselves does he raise his head to observe what he believes he doesn’t deserve. And soon his head is hanging again in a world of his own.

A notification bubble bursts and a comment from a guy who’d been chasing Ms Smith appears onscreen, covering the story Aleisha wants to continue reading. The retarded retort from a moron who Aleisha met in a bar to Aleisha’s comment on a mutual friend’s wall is enough for Aleisha to revert back to listening to the narrative in her head, via the f3quenZor. The sound is true surround sound, enveloping her, her body, soul and totally blowing her pliable mind.

“I wanna wish you a merry Christmas…” The chorus is here again.


Samuel marches down the wet street which glistens in the sobering sun that’s back. He doesn’t drag his feet from the cumbersome load of the life he’s been dealt. Nor does he strut in defiance of his circumstance. He walks in determined fashion that precludes what he’s left behind at home for the day.

He stops suddenly, and becomes rigid when he’s swamped by all the normal activity around him. Cars pull up outside the school gates, teachers in the car park beyond the fence with forced smiles at this time of the morning. Children like him, a universal grouping at a superficial level and an oxymoron to Sam in reality, step down onto the footpath from their mum driven carriages. Their neat clothes and bright smiles shine brighter than ever. Sam shivers for countless reasons, the happiness he witnesses the major cause, something he may or may not be conscious of. The humming sound sweeps over the poignant moment no child has to fathom. Sam clutches at his shopping bag with his breakfast and lunch, a 1.5 litre bottle of coke. His homework, which his dad ridiculed as “useless shit when it comes to real life…” before he screwed it up and chucked it at Sam, a ball in the bottom of the plastic bag which props up his nutrition for the day. Big Sam’s words echo in doldrums filled with ethicises from similar philosophies till lighter thoughts find their mark.

He could of sworn a snowflake landed on his nose, the thought quickly melts away with the humming as music comes to warm the soul.

The comforting humming subsides and Sam hears the music in the air. It reminds the grateful boy of how lucky he is, as a mother grabs her vibrating phone from her back pocket like it were the cause of her favourite itch as her children disappear into the school yard. The thirty something woman’s eyes light up on seeing on her phone, what Sam can already hear without the aid of electronic device. The narrative, some of it Sam has no idea of what it means is soothing for the child who managed to get a few hours’ sleep last night. Together with the mention of his name and the uplifting music that weaves its way in out of the paradoxes Sam will one day grasp, which without him, there would be no one to pin hope on.

The LATEST UPLOAD makes Sam smile, like the mother who waves her children goodbye, the narrative that lines her heart now and forever the sweet sinew that sugars her day. Sam is one of the reasons for the magic happening. Somehow the boy from CHURCH, a child of the Quakes knows this and it gives the unimportant child a sense of importance and self-worth beyond his wildest dreams. Something tells Sam, that he’s the star of the story that unfolds on the mother’s smartphone, and which he can hear and see vividly in his mind….

“I wanna wish you a merry Christmas…” The Christmas carol that keeps Sam grounded is early this year, and for good reason.


Sometime during the 1st or 2nd decade of the 21st Century…

Eyes bulging from holding her breath, hands straight down by her side, one would imagine that the beautiful looking young woman, rigid on her own bed was having a seizure of some sort. The fact that even in this unnatural state, one could still say that Polina Rada, late teens without the signs, was beautiful is confirmation that Lina to her friends was indeed hot. Not in a manufactured or even natural way but in interplanetary/deep arctic kind of way. That’s what makes this situation even more unbelievable that this well rounded and balanced girl was in this positional physical and therefore mental state.

Polina lies still on a bed of paper. Statute like, so hopefully the sheets of paper beneath her won’t crinkle. They’re letters from Alexvale Rokov III, now a matinee idol of Bieber magnitude. Alexvale, the twelve year old car thief from London town, stole Polina’s heart on the internet in the eBook WIPE—serenaded the naïve orphan from Moscow with a soundtrack that made girls swoon—in an epic saga that carefully dismantled the sense of an era and remodelled love as the answer for every problem in the world from depression, a personal battle to a global crisis. But that was nearly ten years ago.

Loud music outside on Neon strip cannot distract Lina from her focus, which starts to ease when her eyes stop bulging like olives in a bagel and a melancholy gaze into the abyss on the wings of their song by the Rogue Traders “In Love Again” transpires.

Outside on the strip the only place to be across all dimensions, Sam, a tourist from the MMD, that’s the MindMorph Dimension or in earth terms, the world, surveys with a beer fest kind of optimism the action at his or whoever’s behest. He was here! In the Dream dimension, or was it there? Depending whose dream he was in, Sam could make a famous grab for the gold and be gone before the cops came calling. The gold or prize could be anything. Absolutely anything! His dream job, a car, dozes of unheard of stds from hot horny sex with multiple Kardashians…you name it, it was available in the SenFenide Dimension (SFD).

Sam, a graduate of University had foregone his gap year. Having come from somewhat impoverished beginnings Sam decided he needed momentum to achieve his goal of a degree at the end of high school and kept going till he gained honours in his studies. This was The Guy’s chance to let off some steam before knuckling down to some hard yakka as it were, in his quest for a better quality of life than what his dad had.

Afanasy, the Head of SFD Control Unit, a mobile version of and a cross between NYPD, CSI and Judge Dredd surveys the events for the record through blood red tinted binoculars. He has to adjust the scope as Sam’s head is too big to see. Well at least he could confirm that Sam washed his hair, for it was silky and shiny even through his tainted lenses made for dramatization of a perfectly innocent scene in an Irish gypsy reality TV show.

Polina turns over onto her back forgetting she was already at the very edge of her single bed at the orphanage. She sails through the air, falling. Through clouds, time, events she remembers like the day she was adopted, and then her biological parents—them cradling her as a baby in the back seat of a car in the Siberian Mountains—their last breathe to keep her warm she can still smell, and feel on her cheeks. The moment when she was told that John Page, her adopted dad had died needlessly…the fall continues through a forest canopy to laughter as someone taunts her. “Alexvale’s been seeing me the entire time you two were together…” The hurtful statement didn’t make any sense. Was the nasty bitch seeing Alexvale while Lina and Alexvale were still a thing of the past? It was a double whammy for the mole who befriended Lina.

The ordeal worsens when Polina joins in, laughing at her own demise. Still falling, deeper into the bottomless pit, Page the Pirate, JRA the Cut-Throat Creative, Lazoo the Maestro, Metofeaz the Whimsical one and Le Mac all agonised over, fearing, that one day it would open up and Polina, one of the 3 Pillars of the f3quenZor would fall into it, or worse still take the plunge.

Down on the strip Samuel feels a sense of nostalgia, even though his adventure in the SFD had barely begun. Maybe it was residue on the shell’s memory bank? Or maybe he had been here before? Highly unlikely, when you consider his location in the midst of the crowd, so far away from Lina Rada in the sky, falling in a mare, a dream she’s having in the SFD that has linked with someone else’s dream and then looped.

Soft embers protrude through the sky and then they disappear. And then they reappear dotting Lina’s body giving her a diseased look, till the balls of light tare the sheath veneer of sky and begin to propel towards the city, not falling from the sky as they would in the MMD, but like soft projectiles moving horizontally, which messes one’s sense of ground. Sam feels himself falling as a new horizon juxtapositions preconceptions, ruining concepts as primal as right side up and upside down.

All Sam can remember thinking as he loses his footing and is being dragged away from what he thought was the ground, which has now curved up like a towering wave, by a force so strong, yet so supportive, is the look in Lina’s eyes as he comes face to face with her and then she floats off somewhere Sam cannot see her. And the music playing, oddly enough it was the Christmas carol that was playing when Sam woke on Christmas morning as a toddler to see his mother out the window leaving him and his dad for the very last time.  

The mingling of new imagery and sound to forge memory and calculate sensory perception is overwhelming to say the least. It must’ve been, as tears, not yet vetted or were able to be denied by the donor with this emotive capacity unselfishly shares and creates again, the catalyst for such an outpouring….


“My Old School”

Published: Saturday September 6th 2014


Aleisha hums along to the latest earworm. The avid music lover can’t quite put her finger on where she last heard the tune, one of the ones made more famous by the novice when he places a YouTube link, nestling a gem into the narrative, nonchalantly—because he can. That’s the premise if you’re looking for an explanation as to why and how someone could captivate an audience so easily by just posting a blog, which is essentially what’s happening, basically.

Aleisha runs over the first chapter of this year’s GO in her head. Dreamscapes and newfound landscapes where twisted self-loathing fuels the dark side of narcissism born of overinflated self-worth and an ego with ADHD which reside side by side in a rattling cage that hides an even darker soul in the farthest corner. Everyone get loose and admit your dourest hour and what was the seemingly gravest fear that pushed you when you were that close to the edge? The twig that dislodged the camel’s second lumbar spine vertebrae? Speaking figuratively of course on the eve of it all.

Truth is, if you haven’t been to rock bottom, you best sit back and let me help you take a peek at an upside of the true underbelly of the SystemSpectacular.

Aleisha’s phone in her bag alerts her that the LATEST UPLOAD is now in societal mainstream, infiltrating thinking as it’s dumped or absorbed systemically, even intravenously, heavens knows how?

In the reception area of one of the country’s largest construction companies, there are three women, a receptionist behind the glass monstrosity of a desk that resembles a continental shelf under the sea. And then there’s a younger woman, with cleavage to hide the shelf on the opposite couch, and there's our Aleisha.

The receptionist checks her phone and accidentally knocks the speaker button leaking the song Aleisha hums. The receptionist looks up at Aleisha as if to say, how did you do that?

“That’s the theme to the LATEST U! And you’ve been humming it! Oh my God! You’re not, are you?” The shrill of her voice lingers long after her assertion is laughed out of the room by Aleisha who used to be a stripper, remember.

“NO SHE’S NOT!” the busty one with a mousey voice snaps like the Mike Tyson of Who’s Real & Who’s Not! As if she was sure that Aleisha wasn’t the character from the story hoping someone might then suspect her of being Aleisha Smith from the GUIOPERA.

The door behind the receptionist opens and she hides her phone when a boss appears. “Ms Smith?”

Aleisha and the buxom babe both perk up, till the receptionist advises everyone, “Ms Smith, here for the job in the typing pool” at which point the “other” chick gathers her bag and wishes for the ground to open up and swallow her and her bosoms. Aleisha looks the other way, as the theme for the chapter paints the faces of those not her red and rosy with the mammaries of embarrassment.


Steely Dan in “My Old School” sails through the hallways and empty classrooms of CHURCH Normal School. The ‘70s fusion of rock n roll, jazz and cerebral east coast pop has a kick to it.

Samuel traces the dance steps through the corridors of the vacated school. A keen rugby player with the gift of speed and controlled aggression way beyond his young years, Sam liked his footwork. He liked the way his feet could carry him, around, through and across the face of defenders who clasped at thin air as he sailed past them. The truth be known, he had help from older Sam, his dad. Every time Sam came home drunk and extremely happy, young Sam could expect a lesson in self-defence. For the happier his dad would be, the worse he would become later, when he sat down in the corner where he continued to drink, till his miserable existence became so vivid it drowned the once promising Rugby player who could’ve gone all the way.

But for now, Sam was safe. In the empty hallways of his “Normal” school, with an emphasis on the word normal. Sam liked the idea that he attended not just any school. It gave him a sense of importance. It was due to administration mix-up, how he ended up at the normal school. He was meant to attend the school in his zone, for which his address was on the cusp, but for now he would make the most of the error. The janitor, also named Sam, would you believe it? Let Sam hang out after school, long after homework groups had finished, even after the teachers had gone. It was haven for the kid from the lonely home.

The dance steps he had learned in his dream last night came easy for Sam. Sliding across the polished floors in which he could see his reflection and then locking his joints for accent on an exclaimed musical notation, felt good for Sam….


Lina skips along Neon Strip on a path that opens as people step back and out of the way—in the air, “My Old School.” On the street, flash mobs from every page of a bitsa’s family album do their best to look like they were paid good money to be so serious about their cheesy dance moves. Casts from Bollywood and TV’s sitcoms perform for the selfie satellite eye in the sky. Selfless volunteers deliver a more than adequate imitation of life in the Dream Dimension creating an out of this world experience for tourists, the condemned, and those here to test their wits against the most prolific and vaunted players from all dimensions.

“Johnny Shawshank in Cameo Court” the sign hangs as a reminder, above the art deco awning of the Dive Bar in Vegas located at the seedier end of Neon Strip. Some say the sign stays up in case the Cut-Throat-Creative decided to return to Neon City, the capital and most definitely the jewel of the SenFenide Dimension. Johnny’s reign or season at Cameo Court coincided with the halcyon days in the now forgotten planet. And if ever, the dimension not so parallel but more of the proverbial take on the flipside behind the 2nd Horizon needed a REPRO to give the land of la-la a boost, it was now.

Behind the tacky and well-worn façade that wouldn’t look out of place in film noir is another world. The doors open for Lina, who coasts through the opening like she was born to perform on Broadway. Down a runway that goes on forever till it opens up into a massive stadium with a boxing ring on a stage down in the middle.

The crowd is buzzing in anticipation of Polina Rada’s arrival. Ms Rada a true star, who transcended the fourth wall as it were, the imaginary boundary, the divide that exists between the stage and the audience, which a few artists and performers have crossed seamlessly, taking with them the story, changing the plot as they go. Some believe that Lina possesses the power to entice the Cut-Throat-Creative back to the SFD, while her hard-core fans believed that Lina can conjure the CTC in her own spinoff of what is essentially his story or REPRO which stands for REPROGRAM, the function or the reason for the SFD according to CTC.

It’s a well-known fact that most tourists and visitors inhabit a shell for their stay in the SFD. You leave your body back at home and your entity or spirit is transported to the Dream Dimension on a cargo ship along with more than a billion other entities. On arrival the ship crash lands on the dock of the bay at dawn setting the entities free. Meanwhile, unsuspecting citizens gathered at the wharf for the dawn ritual become targets for the new entrants the size of a glass marble which shines golden when they are on the hunt for a body. Once the light dims the entity dies.

Polina on the other hand is here in her own shell, as it were, on a travel permit issued by the SFD Control Unit. This affords our star a little more than the average citizen who is essentially a vessel for travellers to use, whilst here in the Dream Dimension.

A binding force somewhere close by emits variable data of promising conclusions in the hypothetical.

“Sam,” is what the data unravelled amounts to.

The theme song restarts as the idea hangs around like a halo for Lina, who could use the company of a good friend right now.

The roar of crowd like a gale-force of contrived video imagery, old school special effects, top notch in an eighties B grade movie. Polina, brought up in Russia behind the iron curtain and had her first Big Mac at the age of 7 years and 351 days is comfortable with the low fi quality of her entrance into the STADIA of DREAMS. Just her and Steely Dan, and the Bollywood dancers and cast of so many TV sitcoms who make their way down the various entrance ways of the stadium.

“I remember the thirty-five sweet goodbyes / When you put me on the Wolverine / Up to Annandale / It was still September / When your daddy was quite surprised / To find you with the working girls / In the county jail…”



Published: Sunday September 7th 2014


From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia: A ghetto is a part of a city in which members of a minority group live, especially because of social, legal, or economic pressure. The term was originally used in Venice to describe the part of the city to which Jews were restricted and segregated.

From Merriam-Webster Online: jux·ta·po·si·tion :  the act or an instance of placing two or more things side by side; also :  the state of being so placed

Aranui, an important suburb of CHURCH is moved by the mention, and the sentiment. Worldwide, those empathetic with the plight of others housed in the ghettos of cities and towns know the feeling of being shunted into a corner, out of sight out of mind.

In the next suburb over, Linwood, Aleisha, in disguise takes a deep breathe. At the next table in the food court of Eastgate Mall, the Poet Soldier. The foreman for a painting company looks relaxed. The applicant for a job as painter is a dodgy looking bugger with a crooked smile. If the clown knew about the type of interrogation John carried out in his past lives, maybe he wouldn’t be broadcasting the interview via his cheap and extremely un-smart cellular phone he bought from a vending machine at a brothel.

It makes for good reading however as the transcript of the conversation appears on Aleisha’s HUAWEI. The editor obviously a fan of John’s paints a favourable picture of the Poet Soldier at work in his day job.

JOHN: It’s not an easy job. It’s about doing something for the community, if you can’t get your head around that one, then you shouldn’t be here….
APPLICANT: I’ve worked in tenanted homes before.
JOHN: It’s one thing to have done the work before, and it’s another thing to have done it properly. If you were so good at it, why do you want to work for me, we’re a small team and tight team of committed workers….
JOHN: If you like, it’s like the difference between doing something good and doing something “good.” If you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I mean then I cannot be of help….

Aleisha as Emoly, like Emily but in Emo is looking Goth and Emo as ever in the black wig and dark glasses to go with the black figure hugging mini dress over ripped fishnets and cherry red doc martins can’t help but smile, as the Poet Soldier’s statement coincides with the introduction of the chapter’s theme song, “Love Never Felt So Good.”

A kick drum that’s four on the floor, followed by a double up and then a cow bell that tickles your fancy, adds to the way this guy can make you smile. His passion, contagious, and as infectious as the theme that drifts on a current through the mall and out onto the streets of Linwood and into the surrounding districts….the sun which has come out for a second day in row, shines throw the high sky lights of the mall. The moral unravelling as it’s disseminated through a story that’s eloquent one minute and crass and clumsy the next—all of it on the back of one man—who carries us to the corners of his mind in his latest journey to the centre of the human psyche.


The comforting hum that warms him up buzzes around inside his head before it evades, a selfish boy’s clutches and infects the night air with supernatural delight, charging the area with an unearthly abundance of radiance and energy.

Sam pretends that the escaped afterglow of the f3quenZor has nothing to do with him. So he continues to hang his head as he makes his way home nearly 6 hours after school finished. He plays one of his single player games as he meanders the long way home, guessing the shadows that lay on the path, compliments of the new silvery moon that hangs like a masterpiece on a blue black wall of sky. Wee fluffy clouds piped into the scene for effect pass by. “Piping of white fluffy cloud” Sam dares himself to say it out loud and he does, as in the background the enigmatic sound of Michael lights up the street.

Hookers beneath lamp posts step down on the street looking around for where the all-encompassing music is coming from, so clear you can feel the particles on your skin, as clients in mercs and then imports with expired regos slow down for them to take a ride.

Sightseers in people movers cruise by. A bus drives down Sam’s street, tourists’ on-board eager to see the place where the story is most likely coming from. Flashing lights behind tinted windows run the length of the bus and then back again as it passes Sam, and then again when it reaches the two storey state house on the apex of a vortex of the action as cars pull up to the drug house across the street from Sam’s home.

Sam stops where the imaginary line is. The line that separates two zones. Zone E for those with “Everything to live for”, and Zone F “the Fucked Up Zone” as defined by the street that runs across the street he lives in.

At 9pm in someone’s world, whoever’s? Sam could no longer be bothered with what was happening in the so called real world, the one where he was beaten up every other night by his drunken dad,  laughed at by kids at school for not having been on holiday his entire life and of course for not knowing where his mother was. All of this reinforced Sam’s decision to become a loner, so he didn’t have to deal with people and their pettiness. Between Sam the janitor and Mr Patel the Dairy owner Sam managed to hold onto language, maintaining his ability to speak from their brief but meaningful encounters for Sam, whether or not the kind men knew how much their little chats meant to the lonesome boy from CHURCH.

The “Ladies” Sam’s name for the women of the night that line his street after dark, were nice to him and they always tried making conversation, which Sam thought was weird. The reason why a relationship probably never formed was due to most of them having witnessed him getting beaten by his father. So Sam did his best to avoid them and if he did have to talk to them it was a “hi” offered up out of pity that they too had taken a beating from his Dad. That’s usually how it happened. Big Sam would come home after work around midnight, on his arm, a new girl from outside the house. After a few drinks, he would start talking about his rugby playing days. Eventually the story would get around to how he got trapped by a bitch and baby, and then came the beating for young Sam. It was why Sam took his time getting home, so he’d be awake around beating time. There was nothing worse in this world than getting winded in your sleep by an angry drunk….

Sam winces out of self-pity as the narrative becomes solemn and sullen at his expense and then the brave boy remembers what the man on the internet said, “Shit happens!” Or was it the man in the story?

Sam steps down onto the street and over the demarcation line, from life to hell as it were. In the air music which felt like some kind of back up for the kid heading home to receive another beating.

Sam summons courage and decides that there was still time to kill and so a little fancy footwork on the street in recognition of the opportunity he had been awarded, as one of the stars of the GUIOEPERA, was in order.

Just like earlier in the day, the theme is revived for the sole purpose of furnishing the story with a teaspoon of sugar for our medicinal intake of the proverbial.


The party continues well into the night, word that MJ would make an appearance down in Legends Alley which is right outside the Dive Bar in Vegas raises the vibe to a fever pitch that will only be surpassed if the rumour comes true up in the SFD.

Back stage, Lina who is not quite sure of what her act will be looks around for any clues or cues. Singers, dancers, illusionists, comedians all inwardly focused for now in their warm ups. The mishmash of bellowing vocal exercises and odorous contorted bodies on the floor in yoga positions, their genitalia popping and protruding or intruding out of lycra thin costumes—not the calm serenity Lina needed to try and come up with a plan.

Along one of the many corridors in a maze, is Sam. The graduate passes by all sorts of happenings in the tunnels in which he searches for Lina or at least a way to get backstage, where Lina must be. In one hole in the wall there’s a dwarf with a brown paper bag over his head and a guy. The guy is speaking English to the dwarf who replies in a foreign language or dialect of some sort.

Sam vehemently shakes his head to rid his shell of the memory and keeps on going, searching the passage for the right door to the backstage. He begins to run, shaking his head to dislodge the grasp of what was seemingly a random event, or was it? And then the other events start to catch up with Sam sprinting as fast as he could go. The never-ending tunnel zooms by as Sam manages to leave the Omnipresence of his past behind. The metaphoric run from despair to hope becomes less rhetoric and more real when Sam sees the end of the tunnel. The exit sign shines as the door’s release bar becomes Sam’s only focus. Some way off from the door, Sam decides to take a leap at the door, similar to attempting a long jump. He launches himself, the feeling of sailing through the air is exhilarating, the nearing bar on the door has to be hit on the right angle, Sam tells himself, or else….his heel connects with the bar sending the door flying, not just open but off its hinges and into the night.

Sam lands on his feet. In the sky the door sets sail for the 2nd Horizon. In front of him a crowd of people wall to wall in an alleyway, they slowly turn around to face him, like they’d been expecting him. Then the crowd begins parting till another opening beckons Sam to enter. He scans the faces he’s never seen before as he takes cautious steps into the heart of the gathering which is still opening up for him as he quickens his steps in time with a familiar beat.

Four on the floor and then a double it up, till a cow bell to tickle one’s fancy, followed by easy lyric in a mellow delivery,

“Dance! / Let me see you move / C'mon!”

“Dance! / Let me see you move / C'mon!”

The crowd opens up fully, and in the centre there’s a child. No more than 9 years old, maybe 10 at the utmost. He’s in a school uniform, grey, with bleak connotations for Sam who thought he’d made his escape to the Dream Dimension as he recognises who the kid is. Young Sam, in his school uniform in the SFD dances the blues away just like he did on the streets of CHURCH as a child.

Placing two things side by side in pursuit of an aesthetic is feasible. Placing two things apart is segregation and not town planning.


Published: Wednesday September 10th 2014


Aleisha reads through the first three chapters again and then the LATEST UPLOAD. She reminisces about the days when she was none the wiser that she was Aleisha Smith. She does it with caution, as the grateful woman wouldn’t give back what had happened to her since accepting her role. But there were days when she wouldn’t mind not having every thought, action and mood recorded for the pleasure of so many people everywhere. Her reminiscing doesn’t last long, when she’s reminded that Metofeaz Litigatti was in town.

Whimsical had slipped into town over the past week. What he was doing here was a mystery. Maybe it was a hoax by the Poet Soldier to up the ante or create a stir for the sake of the story?

But for Aleisha the ultimate challenge still lingered from time to time. A womaniser to put it bluntly Metofeaz appealed to Aleisha, but only at certain times.  Right now was one of those times. She was single and looking for something low key with very little meaning. His ill repute as documented in manuscripts, transcripts of emotional techno fiction and the SASBWAH was fashioned after a classic trait of an anti-hero. As were all founding members of LMLA-ink.

It doesn’t last long though...the assigned ring tone for her latest stalker doing his best to maintain his lower than low rating as an excuse for a normal guy puts pay to any further fantasy involving one of the members of LMLA-ink.

The theme to the chapter doesn’t quite fill the atmos, as Aleisha lounges back for the evening. Maybe later in the play, the theme will reappear in one of the Poet Soldier’s rip roaring scenes in a back alley of Neon City complete with dancers and a cast of millions gyrating as they enact the epitome of indulgence without lifting a limb, or winking an eye?


Samuel tip toes up the driveway to the house. Such was the fear in him, that even though the place was empty, Sam’s response was automatic when it came to the thought of home and his dad. Along the long drive way, a prostitute appears with a guy in tow. “Sorry I didn’t mean to frighten you dear….” The tipsy woman apologises. Sam was more concerned about the place he calls home rather than someone jumping out of the bush at him in the dark.

“No problems,” is what Sam wants to say to the Lady, but he doesn’t feel like he will be able to get it out from inside him in time. Earlier in the day he wanted to tell Bella in his class to stop hitting him, “stop” is all he had to say, he realised later, much later. Sam reaches the steps to the front door and it dawns on him that the last part of the walk up the drive seemed less arduous than the first part. The distraction of whether or not he should acknowledge the prostitute took away from him the anxiety of the long walk up his driveway.

“Pōhutukawa” Sam smiles at the full blown shadow of the tree on the house. And then he turns and looks down the driveway where the clambering of the Lady’s stiletto heels is a comforting sound, “no problems,” Sam whispers. In the sky the bright moon begins to warm him, when the humming noise starts to drown out all elseanxieties and the concerns that needlessly cause them.


Sam takes another swig from the bottle. The tequila serum warms him up.  Everywhere the young man on holiday  for the first time in his life looks there’s skin, the insinuation and or simulation of intimacy is overwhelming—some of it appealing and some of it not.

After watching the kid dance the same way he used to on the streets, Sam now a scholar, compared to the lost child felt like he’d achieved something in his life already. He lets go of the feeling quickly as his dreams for the future line themselves up in a carousel in the air that circles his head. Seeing his goals and ambitions vividly Sam feels that they are more accessible to him than before. It forces him to take stock of the situation. He holds the bottle of serum out in front of him. The thought of getting pissed never interested Sam. More likely than not, it was to do with his dad and the abuse Sam suffered most of it while his father was pissed to beat the band.

Inside the stadia of dreams, down in centre ring, Lina wonders about where the crowd had gone as she looks up into the stands vacated in an instant when word reached inside that outside in the alleyway a star was born. In fact she knew where the crowd had disappeared to, but why? She was in the midst of preparing her act. And as a headliner whom people had paid good money to see, you’d think they’d at least hang around to see the start?

At the lip out of the alley way where it meets Neon Strip, Sam sways through the crowd obeying the effects of the contraband in his system. Liquor in the MMD, known as serum up in here distorts the view, making it hellish at times and remarkably ridiculous the next. The dwarf is back, he has a showgirl on his shoulders, and the curvaceous creature’s toes scrape the ground as the dwarf who looks Mexican straggles along the beaten path where many trying to shock the crowd have ambled, maybe not with a Vegas show girl straddling their neck however. The amusing sight is not enough to completely captivate Sam’s attention as up ahead, another interesting looking person is back. It’s the lass in the torn wedding dress.

“Imogen!” that’s the name, Sam recalls somehow, as a little girl around the same age as the dancing school boy appears through the crowd.

“Bella!” Imogen refreshingly normal sounding to Sam’s relief looks delighted to see the child who has brought with her the dancing school boy, “Imogen, this is Sam, he’s my new boyfriend and I’m his first and only manager, I mean love!” Then Bella cute as a button dressed as a Cossack stands back as Sam steps forward. “Please to meet you Imogen, I’ve heard so much about you, Ms Imogen…” At which point Bella steps forward and places a hand across the boy’s chest, “That’ll be fine. He’s a bit excited to be speaking to people Imogen, up till now, he’s only ever danced and been smacked around like a female puppy.”

Imogen, well familiar with Bella’s way with words and her unique charm bends her knees slightly and holds out a hand to Sam with a smile, “please to meet you Sam.”

Just then the side door to the Dive Bar opens and Lina appears. The law student in her final year of study spots the group of characters which everyone knows about but ignores, if you know what I mean. Lina remembered both Imogen and Bella from their REPRO together, which was documented in GUIOPERA IV *BeautifulDistraction* 2011 in the MMD. The Guy she nearly kissed while riding clouds is back and the dancing school boy has to be his little brother. Denzel and Doris, the dwarf and the showgirl coming this way and recent arrivals might know who the Guy is they might've travelled here on the same cargo ship with?



Published: FRIDAY September 12th 2014

One week into the maul of mayhem and miraculous comebacks, the story begins to spin, slowly at first till its malicious malware for the mind is nested, undetected. From a sobering start to an axis gyro-freaking that splits machinations, sensibilities and motivations amongst friends, foes and the fortunate, like a restaurant bill at a reunion.

Milieu for the ensuing instalment is more affable than previous…Aleisha reads a glossy mag as thick if not thicker and broader than the steak on a plate belonging to a suit at the next table.

“Would you like me to come back for your order?” “No stay please. That would be nice.”

The waiter, an Australian not from his accent but his smile about nothing waits while Aleisha decides on her order. Maye it was because of the lack of male company of late, but having one waiting for your order felt like the right thing to do.

Outside the window, a woman around the same age as Aleisha looks at the front of the café sizing it up, studying it and then referring to what looks like a piece of slate which she then pushes back up into the sleeve of her long dark and heavy looking over coat.

“Imogen?” The waiter blurts. “Excuse me?” Aleisha looks out the window and then back at the waiter.

“She’s looking at you,” the waiter informs Aleisha.

Aleisha does a once over of the woman incompatible with her surroundings. She even looks for signs of a tattered wedding dress Imogen’s hair shirt as it were, which she may well be hiding under the long coat, which is the main reason for her looking out of place on a glorious Friday in CHURCH.


“Come on slow coach, snails crawl faster than that,” Bella calls out as she comes to the next lawn with a For Sale sign. One house back is Sam, still looking at the house Bella advised, “smells like week old sock soup and junkies bread.”

Sam looks down at himself still in his school uniform and now he was looking for a home to buy. It was Bella’s idea. “People take you seriously when you walk out of a front door at the start of the day, more so than when you crawl out of a cardboard box….” It made sense.

“You can buy that one if you like the smell off fermenting maleness. Go on, try it. It’ll work! This is after all the SenFenide Dimension you can practically do what you wish as long as you’re willing to give it your all.”

Sam had some decisions to make—whether he wanted to buy a stinky house on his own? Or, move in with Bella who he’s only starting to get to know?”

Sam takes one more look at house that reminds him of a place, somewhere else, in another dimension. There’s a certain appeal to things that mould the way we are. In other words, stuff that hurt us! Stings our soul! Dents our pride, putting us in our place when we get too far above our station… “Well?” Bella’s sweeter than sweet voice, the one she calls upon to manoeuvre someone’s mind finds its way through the half decent bout of self-flagellation before it got out of hand. That in itself turns the tide in favour of Bella’s next suggestion, “let’s get hitched, tie the knot, walked down the aisle together…” Sam immediately zones out in search of reason and rationale, or “r and r” to combat joyous momentous in the offing. For a start they were children, he in a school uniform and her, his bride to be in a bear suit.

“If we can find—get hitched-knot tying-walking down the aisle—attire then yes, I say let’s do it!

His diversion is met with a cold baron stare.

“Typical male,” Bella’s voice and her tone become cutting, till in the distance glittering sounds of Friday offer a glimmer of hope for Sam. The wafting music perpetuated by millions of participants dressed all fancy singing to their hearts content TGIF washes over Bella, saving Sam’s bacon from further torment of silent treatment administered by eyes that could cut steel. “Come on lets go dance, and by the way this is a Cossack’s winter wear, not a badly made geriatric bear suit.”

The look on Sam’s face says it all.

To which an all knowing Bella responds, “You didn’t have to say a word, you’re a boy! A two legged animal! You have no appreciation for the finer things or any subtleties….” And with that Sam pops out for a piece of r and r on a fabulous Friday.


The mash up of music, memoirs and boding omens overstated in the narrative there’s more murmurs about than memes of the Hoff, Chuck Norris and Miley Cyrus combined comes out the other end as emotional techno fiction. It’s a rather eloquent mess. The oxymoron is created by characters suffering irascible trepidation while under extreme pressure to present alternatives for accessing our inner self or authentic self. The GUIOPERA continues to mesmerise the faithful, confident that once the stage is set, a story to remember will unfold as always.

Polina Rada lets the stream of consciousness flow, hypnotic test patterns, and Trojan torrents that hunt for invalidated virtual ports to nest data grenades are sent.

“Polina?” Lina looks up with a glazed over look which she’s well aware of. “Sam?”

Outside on Neon Strip the forerunners for the Friday festival take their places for the celebration to begin. Once again, all the fun to be had is the name of Charity, Humility and Positivity, the names of the SFD’s three moons, or daughters of the Warmth, the planet’s sun.

“Yeah, but you can call me Samuel. For me it’s bastard Friday. On this day, I want to be the biggest bastard in the world.”

Polina laughs, “Nice guy back home aye?” She points outside the window and Sam is already standing behind her chair at the ready.

Looking down on Lina, Sam can’t help but wonder how things will turn out. Only this morning, it was announced that Alexvale Rokov III was coming to Neon City for a one night only concert down Legends Alley. For now though Sam could definitely celebrate Friday with the Lady he’s met.



Published: SATURDAY September 13th 2014]


“Green Lipped Mussel Soup,” Aleisha finally makes up her mind. The newspaper held up by someone at the facing table says that it’s “Saturday September 13th 2014”.

Where had fabulous Friday gone? And where was Imogen? She was just outside the window a moment ago…Aleisha realises that the interior of the restaurant had also changed. It was no longer a stylish eatery designed by a minimalist…It had been replaced by a humming and vibrant atmosphere. Aleisha turns in the general direction of where the waiter should be waiting. When she sees the backs of patrons obviously seated at the counter of a Diner she looks back down at the glossy mag she was reading—once upon a time.

“Order up Imogen,” the voice of a man calling out from the kitchen to the woman busy engaging the diners  is familiar, as is everything about her new surrounds.

In the corner, there’s a personal computer from around the beginning of the millennium with a box VGA screen like the machine on which early transcripts of the Graphical User Interface Opera were transcribed or transliterated for the sake of mankind by a novice, who couldn’t string a sentence together to save his life. The screen saver disintegrates and music from the World Wide Web, streamed from YouTube permeates buffers and then the sound card to add pleasantries to the atmos so it didn’t matter if you’re alone, the vibrations were still great, and at optimum levels for good thoughts, and warm and fuzzy feelings.

Aleisha’s beaming smile is too broad for her to be embarrassed about it. It’s highly likely that the thick and flavoursome bass line which wanders in and out of titillating guitar riff and stabbing horns too proud to hide are the cause. It can be confirmed that the smile is brought on by witnessing the morphing of spaces a phenomenon in the MindMorph Dimension which is a cornerstone of JRA the Post-Modernist’s theories that the human mind is underutilised due to a physiological step which will happen as the next part of evolution as stated by Darwin and not due to a lack of trying or will which is only a thread of the mechanism for switching on the latent potential. The demo, if you like a preview into the “Mindful” or contextual Layer of the Dimension we call Earth.

The waiter must’ve been part of the previous scene or context? Aleisha muses. The music that will carry the sentiments and essence, flavouring the deep and meaningful in honey from a pot that could hide a dagger meant for the hands of brazen assassin, continues. Body and soul of a Chic Nile Rodgers and Bernard Edwards offering performed by Sister Sledge, the conduit for the message intended for the asset chosen to deliver an outcome. A servant so bold from commitment to the cause—he is the allegiant of love like the Poet Soldier himself—who will not lurk in the darkness of shadows but move with guile in the truest of light, Love!

The newspaper comes down at the facing table revealing that it’s the Poet Soldier himself as a handsome man in all black who came from the kitchen from the apron he unties like it were shackles arrives. A conversation meant for the memoirs follows…

METOFEAZ LITIGATTI: Man, you couldn’t find me another job other than working the stove, like in the painting business or something?
POET SOLDIER: You can always work the clients?

With abandon, Aleisha’s heart begins to race as does her mind as it skims through all of the possibilities and plot lines which she would be prime candidate as Litigatti turns his broad back in a hugging black t shirt to her as he takes his seat.

“He’s not on the menu by the way…” the words belong to a woman. The realisation once it catches up to Aleisha causes her to look up and see Imogen standing where a gay Australian male once stood waiting on Aleisha. Imogen, the waitress incarnation of someone Aleisha once idolised is in a waitress’s uniform more suited to a twenty something solo mum who had the pins and hips to suit rather than a back from the dead online soap star.

The words to the theme song hang in the air.

“I’m thinking of you and the things you do to me / That makes me love you, now I’m living in ecstasy / Hey, it’s you and the things you do to me / That makes me love you, now I’m living in ecstasy…”

Add to the music, the conversation at the next table between friends and important men, as far as the SASBWAH is concerned.

The adjoining conjuncture of a whimsical nature and evolutionary importance—a new revelation—for the human race as the story of stories nears it ascendancy of summits which will metaphorically overlook the Himalayas and the highest of minds.  A revelation of truth and hope made of love….


Deep in the SFD in the quarter reserved for fantasies belonging to those who for whatever reason did not get around to doing the mundane and real things in life back in the MMD, the babies of the REPRO, Sam an abused child and Bella also as herself the perennial orphan in these parts face the harsh realities after having bought their first mortgage.

Sam steps into the ring made by their new neighbours with their arms locked and smiles beaming in the late afternoon sun which shines to produce the perfect sheen in suburbia, especially on a Saturday afternoon. This time Sam was dancing to show his appreciation for a warm and hearty welcome to the neighbourhood for him and Bella, who swings her arms coyly having gotten her way—utterly and totally—a home run in every way she dreamt possible. It was almost like a pause in the play as the little red devil in a bad bear suit thinks of what else she would like to demand of her little man, who begins to perform small b-boy moves on the spot, before he fully immerses his soul in his dance of his self-expression as he always does. The locals begin to clap to the music seeping through the 2nd Horizon. Little Sam and Bella's new neighbours look more like a church youth group than possible swingers from next door as they move in proprietary unison, dressed in their conservative cloth, thinking straight and narrow thoughts about mortgages, tea parties and more mortgages for failed business ventures or holidays to Fiji. The dwarf is here too in a plaid shirt and khaki pants. Next to him the Vegas show girl fully transformed into a Stepford wife one could be proud of in both day and night—from the kitchen to the bedroom and then to the grocery store and back again—in a vicious cycle that leads to Prozac and gin & tonics at 11am. Sam looks down at himself (still in his school uniform) and then back up at the adults that have formed a boxing ring to congratulate him and his fiancé on their first home. He can see up most of their nostrils except for the dwarf of course, whom he comes face to face with. “I think I’ve decided on a business.” Sam turns to Bella. “Nose hair trimming,” Sam announces and Bella chimes in “Nasal Grooming Associates!”

Sam a b-boy of the highest order because that’s what gifted kids from ghettos become begins his dance of appreciation.

Bella a seasoned player who’s performed with the best of them including Jilted Imogen, the Maestro John Lazoo, Metofeaz Litigatti the Whimsical One, Page the Pirate, and of course the great Johnny Shawshank AKA the Cut-Throat-Creative just to name the cream, bows head in self-pity, whelming in disgust as it dawns on her, that she might well have be a manipulator herself. The consciousness of one, commonly known as guilty feelings, or more aptly described by one Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou better known as George Michael in a Careless Whisper, “Guilty feet have got no rhythm, a paralysis of the cold hearted warrior in the name of “who gives a toss?”

In the middle an adolescent from humble beginnings with nothing to prove gets into his work.

The last memory of the scene Bella has is, the next time she sees Sam (which will be at school tomorrow) is she must apologise for her behaviour.


Polina pretends that she doesn’t see the marching girls that pass by on the strip. The baton twirling troupe, part of the promotion for “The ALEXVALE ROKOV EXPERIENCE” make sure that everyone in the vicinity of Neon Strip knows that the guy who broke Lina’s heart was coming to town for a “ONE NIGHT STAND WITH ALEXVALE!” The multi-talented young single mothers scream as a bunch of tarts before they attempt another baton twirl and then a toss into the air, in time with their incy-wincy skirts that fly waist high, is no trouble at all.

Sam keeps his eye line straight and his heartbeat steady as outside a rotund fellow drops his pizza on the ground. Sam, a focused kind of chap calls on all his powers to keep looking into Polina’s eyes and not out the corner to see what he can imagine from the reflection of the marching girls he can see in Lina’s eyes. After all he did come here for a good time and not a romantic interlude that leads to nothing.  

“You want to look. Go ahead, have a good perv. In fact have a good long hard perv…” Polina then abruptly gets up from the table and leaves. It takes time for Sam to accept that he wasn’t the culprit. In realising that he was just a mere male and the chick was typical cyclone named Jane, which allows Sam to breathe easy for now. Recollections or regurgitation of events renders different accounts for Samuel however.

On the street, music seeping through from the 2nd Horizon coaxes softer feelings from Lina, who no one blames for her current—man hating basted with bitchiness attitude—which Sam who comes running out of the mausoleum has caught the sharp end of. The trashy troupe of part time hoes becomes a group of bitchy socialites, but at least they’re wearing Victoria Secret.

“Funny how things seem different from the outside,” Lina muses as both look back at the place where they thought they were. “Mausoleum of Narcissism” chiselled into the monument is another reminder of the morphing misfortunes of a dream that’s linked and therefore looped until such time the donors of the delusion are found by members of the SFD Control Unit.

Sam is well aware of what he’s doing when he places an arm around a despondent Lina, on the down turn of a roller coaster ride. Shadows cloud over the scene as the music fades.  At least Lina was in Sam’s arms for now.

It doesn’t take long for the music to return.

“Hear that?” Sam beams as the more than capable dancer spots his chance to impress.

“Go for it GIRL” Stepford Wives who exit the beauty spa and who can obviously hear the music from the 2nd Horizon (Soundtrack to the REPRO) shout out to Lina who rolls her eyes as her knight in shining armour as it would seem begins to do his thing.

Samuel of CHURCH who came to Neon City to relive the gap year he didn’t have because he came from Aranui 8061 holds his hand out to Polina Rada born in a Moscow orphanage where she was raised till the age of eight, when she was adopted by Network Operatives who took her to New York City takes Sam’s hand.

Images of her and Alexvale in the eBook fade as a voice in the atmos announces “THE ALLEGIANT of LOVE” promoting Sam’s chances of sweeping Lina off her feet.

Chic music with intent, the order of the day as all inhabitants of the dimension converge on the “Normal Quarter” of the Dream Dimension to wish Samuel of CHURCH and Polina Rada of NYC the merriest of times….

“I’m thinking of you and the things you do to me / That makes me love you, now I’m living in ecstasy / Hey, it’s you and the things you do to me / That makes me love you, now I’m living in ecstasy…”



Published: THURSDAY September 18th 2014


“Sunday morning rain is falling / Steal some covers share some skin / Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable…”

Aleisha opens her eyes to the sound of Maroon 5 as they serenade lovers and followers of the phenomenon the world over.

Outside, the avenues and streets of CHURCH respond in the way spring recants for a moment the dusty pot holes with blooming flowers that colour byways, roads and paths to here and there.

Thoughts of what happened when she went out for lunch on Friday cross her mind. Aleisha who when she was first cast in a GUIOPERA had difficulty with the vertigo effect of reading about each move, thought and what was happening to her relaxed and went with the flow literally. Fighting the sway of the story created a violent undercurrent that eventually pulled you in, under and then out into the murky depths of a whirlpool of a story.

Surreal as it might be and enviable as it may seem, being a character for the Poet Soldier was strenuous. The mental strain outweighed the physical demands on your body. The morphing, equal to years of hard labour, the anguish and the torque of all the quantum particles assembling and disassembling—at little or no notice—and then the loneliness, making for heartache and misery.

However when the LATEST UPLOAD hit the internet and followers downloaded the story, all the hard work and toil seemed worth it. Even more so this time as Aleisha realises that she had undergone her first Significant Transformation when the café she was in morphed with an inter-dimensional location of significance for the sake of the story. The elysian experience made edgy by the appearance of the Poet Soldier was obviously overwhelming for Aleisha. Figuratively speaking the first timer, as a lot of them do, blinked and she missed the entire Convergence of Sequential Essence which determines how lucid and seamless the experience will be, which it was, fully sustaining interpersonal relationships from two or more dimensions simultaneously.

A gush of emotion comes over Aleisha as she recognises another milestone in her development as a character. Somewhere a voice whispers, reiterating part of a promise which Aleisha had not forgotten, “Someday Sunday morning.” The melding of memory and possession of passionate pleas for happiness beyond betrayal and heart break is denser and heavier on the woman’s heart than ever. Dreamscapes of hope encompass her purpose along with a trillion other wishes and aspirations none more prevalent than the dream of true love, once more….


Sam wakes in one of his normal sleeping positions, seated on his bed, fully clothed in his school uniform. He touches his face, carefully at first and then he takes hold of his chin with thumb and index finger and moves it. No pain to speak of, except for an ache from previous beatings.

Outside the window, the sun peering through the Pōhutukawa fuels what at first is an almost forlorn frown which then relaxes with the known sounds of the neighbourhood, a mega mix of inner city suburban life… a misfiring lawn mower that syncopates with a medley of sirens, an endangered species of bird blessing the neighbourhood, the family next door packing themselves up for a picnic at the beach and in the distance a party still going strong in broad daylight.

Sam loved to watch and listen to people do things—normal things. The more mundane and real the shit was, void of any contrived drama the more Sam enjoyed it. The quiet boy loved people’s expressions, their mundane mannerisms that made them look uglier than they were. The quirks which helped defined what each person brought to the band of boring bedlam of special nothingness.

Sam has a decent stretch and then he gets up out of bed to check the yard from his first storey bedroom window, something he does each morning. The sound his shoes make when they hit the floor a reminder that he’s back on earth, and when he stands up his legs feel heavier than usual, or was it just his body’s response to being back in the MindMorph Dimension?  

From up here he could see everything…money, used condoms, stolen wallets, clothing, and a body. It was his dad, he was out cold in the unmown lawn in which he looked like just one of the many discarded objects left behind or tossed aside. For now his dad lay comfortable in the shade. It meant that he should safely sleep for another hour or so till the sun came across him at which time his reaction could be one of many….


Polina and Sam pass by a poster of ALEXVALE ROKOV III in the window of the eatery they were planning to eat at.

Sam grabs Lina’s hand and keeps on walking. Lina is grateful for Sam’s initiative and when he hails a horse and cart, Lina begins to forget what seemed like another ambush by Alexvale.

On board, “To the country, away from this rat race,” Lina can’t help but smile at the way Sam makes an effort to impress her. His English accent doesn’t even remind Lina of Alexvale, Lina realises this as the driver flaps the reigns for the horses to take off.

The hiding sun decides to show its face as the horses come close to a consistent canter which tugs as it nags at Lina’s lighter side to come out and play.

Once on the skirts of Neon City, the air of anticipation thins and the country’s eloquent ether ensures less verbose ramblings and a more languid air in which one can heave a sigh of relief.

Overhead skylarks returning for summer wash the heavens in a purple haze that moves the skies and the 2nd Horizon momentarily.

Grabbing Sam’s arm was becoming a habit for Lina, only this time it wasn’t out of need but because she wanted to feel his heartbeat next to hers. No sooner had she acted on the whim, a notation of her sentiment is heard—afloat upon the Summit of Consequencesmusic from the 2nd Horizon drifts like a fine mist down into the valley through which the horse led carriage breathtakingly flies….


Published: FRIDAY September 19th 2014


“Feelings Show” by Colbie Caillat infiltrates the atmos. It reminds Aleisha of infallible love that may have been one sided, as Aleisha takes a leisurely stroll down one of CHURCH’s avenues she walked along as a child. Old habits die hard when Aleisha insists on walking along the street instead of the footpath.

An apathetic post mortem of the pre topical Ms Smith which a big chunk of that era was spent as a stripper, says that Aleisha was looking for attention in all the wrong places. Not that her being a stripper had anything to do with seeking male attention. It was totally to do with being a dancer, and a little to do with making half decent dosh. The attention seeking was from a grave fear of abandonment so it only involved those Aleisha was close to.

Coexisting sentiments, not all of them concur especially when it comes to matters of the heart and the paradoxical workings of a sometimes over active mind, especially in spring, conspire with the awaited release of the LATEST UPLOAD.

The fervour of that much attention and all that data running through the pathways of the cerebral cortex of the planet, all of it in aid of his passion to fuel the fire and a consciousness that continues to be realised, with her at the helm, is again overwhelming.

With or without love, the opportunity to be the object of everyone’s curiosity was enough to fill the void, for now.


Today, Sam feels like he could strut his stuff. But on second thought he’d be best advised to save that spark or skip in his step for a time when he was in need of a boost or toe from trouble.

Sam had learnt early on that he and happiness were seldom company. His dad had made sure of that.

Bella’s car pulls up outside the school gates and the energetic person’s feet are already out the door less than nanoseconds after the car comes to a complete halt. Sam can make out Bella’s mother’s voice scolding the chipper child. It was one of those perfect storms, the elements, a daughter and mother so alike their signature traits the cause and reason for all their hyperbole interaction because neither one wanted to be outdone.

The prelude to another type of storm begins to build. The warm humming that is earthy but also rousing for Sam since he is privileged to receive the story the way he does. The theme song to the LATEST UPLOAD which Sam can see people all around him reading on their phones infuses the atmos with a promise, which women and girls get much easier than males do. Sam sees Bella’s feet dangling in between the car and curb. She’s stopped moving as her mother looks for her new iPhone so she too may witness the moment.

The music is catchy enough to go along with Sam’s responses which he’s rehearsing for when Bella spots him, which is right about now. “Heya Sam. What did you do on the weekend?” Bella springs into action like the star of a carefully orchestrated scene in a movie where only a single camera shot will do. Sam runs over his well-rehearsed answer one more time in his head.

“Yesterday, right after my dad woke up from a deep slumber under the tree, he asked me to break into our neighbours’ house. You ask me what for? And I tell you it was for liquor so he could get pissed. After that when all the tinnies were drunk. He wished for a smoke to go with his hair of the dog buzz. A marijuana smoke! So I visited the tinnie house across the street, not to be mistaken with the can of beer….”

“Well since your weekend experience is not forthcoming I will share with you mine Sam. Okay?”

More music for chicks and their dotting boyfriends or partners who pretend not to like the syrupy slop that pulls motives of feelings to the fore is in full unequivocal SFD sound. In the carriage Bella’s mother is too engrossed for the second in her iPhone to care that Bella had made a beeline for the boy she frowns at the mention of his name.


In a meadow the horses rest. Unbound they graze, as the driver, Afanasy who turns out to be the Head of SFD Control Unit, a role he does part time shares with Sam and Lina what they’ve come across.

“Sequential Meaning in the context of a Significant Transformation, most likely down in the MMD,” the cool and sophisticated middle aged man explains the holographic scene of diners made of blue light diffracted from the corners of oceans and blue skies, as the diners from another realm continue on with their meals.

Lina recognises Metofeaz, Imogen and the Poet Soldier, seeing them makes her smile but also teary eyed as someone else soon comes to mind.

“Aleisha? and I know that guy. I remember him from when I was a boy." Sam is proud to say.

But it was definitely Polina’s domain when it came to the characters from etfiction, pronounced e-t-fiction which stands for Emotional Techno Fiction, which she is one of the main ones, being one of the 3 Pillars of the F3quenZor.

“The Endethley Zone…” Polina decides to show off her knowledge of the work. She waits for Afanasy’s reaction to the place where John Page is more likely than not. But the laid back man starts to round up the horses, pretending he did not hear Lina mention the last place on the planet he wishes to discuss.

“How well did you get to know the Poet?” Afanasy asks Sam as he hands him the reins for one of the horses to hold as he links harnesses between the animals.

Polina, not one to prance, senses in Afanasy a despondent party when it comes to the Pirate AKA John Page. After all Page was responsible for breaking up Afanasy and Polina’s biological mother Silvia.

“Quite well in the end,” Sam has a broad smile to cover up any awkwardness when Afanasy continues to ignore Lina.

“Hear that?” Afanasy finishes binding together the brace of wild horses from the dimension forks.

A cantata full of amour entwined in the auspicious perfume of endearment, wafts like no other aroma—emanating from the 2nd Horizon—the love song finds its mark through torrents and torrid waves of denial, held up by all three characters who find themselves at the gates of the Endethley Zone….


“Fragments and Faux Pas of my Imaginarium”

Published: SATURDAY September 20th 2014


“My house in Budapest / My, my hidden treasure chest / Golden grand piano / My beautiful Castillo…”

The toe tapper by George Ezra resonates throughout the MindMorph Dimension. The acoustics of simplicity are both resounding and refreshing. The minimal accompaniment a testament to less is more—the reliable voice that says it all reiterates.

“…But for you / Ooh, you / Ooh, I'd Leave it all…”

Aleisha humbles herself to be with nature.  Mosaic fragments of someone’s life upon the ground, sand swept and wind scarred—the remnants of a transmutation linger in the afterglow.

Aleisha cannot help but smile as she looks out from the promenade over the ocean. Giant brilliant coloured kites of killer fish and aquatic birds tease the wind as sun seekers down on the beach pray the clouds away.

Aleisha’s decision to return to CHURCH was a gratifying one, which only gets better with each instalment of the story-about-the-story—being-written, the SASBWAH. The LATEST UPLOAD reminds us of the importance of facing ones’ fears and attacking them at every opportunity with intensity we’re awarded for being fearless! The result was momentum, from perpetual motion—the energy to keep going is from positive affirmation and its results.

Following her visit to the beach to taste the ocean breeze she will revisit the café in the city….


Sam looks up at the wall where the second hand does another lap of the sombre clock face. Ticking seconds arrested by minutes to work for hours and hours in the imperfect blue of ignorance amount to nothing for someone as thoughtful as Samuel—the boy from the other Zone. The lunch time bell comes to the rescue, when all else fails the boy with heavy eye lids.

The frontrunners in the class and the pacesetters bust through the door. The fresh air rushes over them to reach Sam at the back of the queue. The current carries a tune that harnesses energy from nowhere for an hour of freedom in fresh air.

“…My acres of a land / That I've achieved / It may be hard for you to / Stop and believe…”



The citizens are back. Juxtaposing in close proximity of each other, generating enough energy to light up Neon City named for its spectre like appearance in the baron wastelands that stretch from the Dimension Forks to the Endethley Zone. Vegas and Tokyo combined would still be a dim and dull comparison to the capital of the SenFenide Dimension during a REPRO.

The horses’ hooves in time with the song that rises from Neon City in the distance…search lights that scour the deep echoing sky, are for show. Through the clutter of signs, insignias and symbols channelling the people’s power a new motif stands out.


Travellers heading for Neon City line both sides of the highway. On everyone’s lips “THE ALEXVALE EXPERIENCE,” the sound of it, Lina had become accustomed to, thanks to Sam by her side.

Meanwhile down the highway, a quarter mile or so, the purr of the Jaguar e-type’s engine as it races the driver’s heart beat is spellbinding. Behind the wheel of the classic car is Alexvale Rokov III a superstar with the world at his feet which wasn’t enough. Alexvale always did his best to push every boundary he came across. If there was a limit or line, the car thief from London was bound to cross it. In pursuit of what? Who knows? Definitely not Alexvale…or there wouldn’t be the litany of destruction in his wake.

Reverberations from the engine’s revolutions that shake the vehicle’s body say Alexvale had pushed the pride of British engineering to its limits. Rokov eases his foot off the pedal as up ahead in the headlights the masses en-route to Neon City had spilled onto the road. In the middle of it a horse driven cart of all things. The road to the capital of the SFD had narrowed down to a single lane on which travellers from all ages in time had joined the procession which passed through the city gates, manned by Conan the Barbarian and his twin Locan the Librarian in a knitted woollen vest and coke bottle bottom glasses.  

“Fucks sakes, what is this? A monologue by a halfwit stuck in the past?” An exasperated Alexvale sounds more upper crust than his lowly beginnings in the East End of London. The line in response to the road being blocked could’ve easily been dialogue from a film about meaningful stuff like global warming or some debilitating disease for which there is no cure, and the outcome would be as bleak as the lighting throughout the autistic celluloid ordeal. Alexvale looks down at his crotch, the sock was safely in place, which gave him confidence. He grabs a handful of cock and bull and smiles into the rear vision mirror, the gleam from his pearly whites enough to whitewash a Soweto neighbourhood at dawn….

The hairs on Lina’s neck rise, and the attentive Sam is quick to pick up on the change in the air. In front of the horses a slow moving wall of people waiting their turn to enter through the gates of the city.

“Full blown. You Polina, Alexvale and you Samuel of CHURCH whoever you are, must’ve done the trick. Looks like a REPRO….” Afanasy turns to Lina and Sam in the carriage.

Inside the Jaguar Alexvale checks himself. Luckily for Alexvale Vale Rokov III the first singer-songwriter from Hertford, England with the stage name George Ezra is at the city gates welcoming all comers and aspirants….

“…You / Ooh, you / Ooh, I'd leave it all…”

“…Ooh, for you / Ooh, you / Ooh, I'd leave it all!”


Published: FRIDAY September 26th 2014


Aleisha isn’t admiring her reflection in the window of the diner. She’s thanking herself for returning to the scene of the lucid happening which she hasn’t spoken to anyone about, not that she has anyone to share her deepest and darkest secrets with.

Behind the glass, Imogen in a waitresses’ uniform—no sign of a tattered wedding dress. The unlucky vixen from the Dream Dimension as far as Aleisha was concerned appears to be in control inside the place that didn’t exist less than seven days ago. “You’re an over easy kind a guy. Am I right?” the patron a local nods his head as Imogen smiles while she puts the finishing touches to his order. Beyond the Formica counter that spans the Route 66 style diner on which customers perch waiting to cop a preview of cleavage or just an innocent free refill of coffee—Aleisha can see Metofeaz through the hole in the wall as he works in the kitchen. His head comes up when Imogen calls out the order for the sake of the client.

Aleisha becomes conscious that she is able to hear every last detail that’s going on inside the café behind the double glazed window forcing her to look away as Imogen turns and faces her.

“You look like a sunny side up kinda las. Why don’t you come in and sit down?” there’s no place for Aleisha to hide.

Luckily no one else seems to have noticed that Imogen was talking to her, or were they all in on it? Aleisha reaches for her hand bag for her HUAWEI as all around her mobile devices alert followers of the LATEST UPLOAD.

There’s no sign of the Poet Soldier who was seated at the table Aleisha stands in front of.

On screen the script Aleisha had to see for herself to believe declares the pseudo reality was happening.

“Relax,” the familiar voice is comforting but then the driving rhythm of “Sing” in the air upholds Aleisha’s fears that her presence is merely as a placeholder in a story about someone else’s salvation and not hers.


Today, Sam decided he would take the long way home. He didn’t much feel like being stuck inside on such a lovely day, whether it was inside his haven of the after-school’s empty corridors or worse still at home all alone just waiting for the inevitable to happen. He reaches the skirts of the CBD and a peculiar notion taunts the little entertainer. Vibes that something stupendous would happen in the city this arvo were abuzz.

He follows his feet to a place he doesn’t want to remember. But on arrival it appears to have changed. Gone, the deep ditches and trenches where concrete foundations once moored high rises that were levelled by nature on that fateful day a few years back. Instead, lush scenery of green pastures and neo classic architecture that grows out from one another, a seamless jointing of a perfect vision…“Relax.”

Sam looks around to see who the voice belonged to. Then he kicks himself as he puts two and two together and foresight is forthwith, the story Guy, the dude who is writing the story he can hear…that’s who the voice belongs to.

And poke me in the eye with a lamppost, there’s Aleisha who he’s been hearing about in the story. Last time Sam saw her, he was at a school without a uniform, the one in the zone he lived in. She’s window shopping, but at a restaurant? Sam didn’t really take much notice of the other parts of the SASBWAH, he preferred to be in the moment, living life to the fullest as opposed to listening to it being dictated to him.

He quickens his step as in the atmos, more progressiveness from an optimist, his creative cadence hums at optimum levels to conjure music.

When Sam reaches the front of the “DINER” drums in the air and on all mobile devices for all to hear loud and clear to a point where Sam has no choice but to begin dancing.’

“It's late in the evening / Glass on the side / I've been sat with you / For most of the night…”


At the top of Legends’ Alley, dead centre of Neon strip Ed Sheeran feverishly strums his guitar atop an ice pylon. The red flare is like a beacon for all dancing girls to gravitate towards. The Celtic-funk rhythm stirs innate feelings according to guilty pleasure. But for tonight the hefty beat which grounds the quirky and capricious tune ruptures the foundations of this society in the SFD.

And through the city gates travellers, partygoers, citizens, stowaways, and cast of the REPRO continue to pour.

Halogens and neon gasses flare up when a surge of visitors come through the gates. And when a visual of ALEXVALE ROKOV III behind the wheel of the e-type Jaguar appears in the sky, the roar from the crowd and the explosions of lights creates spine-tingling madness, which the fans came for. The music continues to pulsate in the dark as Neon City regenerates, sucking the energy from its new citizens committed to being the life source of the forgotten planet’s capital.  

Outside the gates, the horse driven cart with Polina, Samuel the gentleman and Afanasy at the reins is waved through by Conan.

“Sing! / Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…”



Published: SATURDAY September 27th 2014


In the LATEST UPLOAD Emotional Techno Fiction distributes newfound ardour for all things that stem from the concept of Love, even the darker side of the most noble of all emotions is pried open to discover its inner workings. And to assist with the transactional dissemination, music from YouTube provides a funky but savvy bed for the message to nest in the integral and within the membrane of every cell of every human the word finds.

The hypnotic beat pulsates, echoing deep within the soul for those who cannot see on the outer edges of the crowd that has gathered out front of the DINER in CHURCH’s CBD.

Centre ring is a kid. Aleisha looks around her, people of all ages bound by the child who had grown since the last time Aleisha saw Sam. The smiles on citizen’s faces beaming, on finding out that Sam really does exist. Something the naïve boy obviously hadn’t considered the ramifications of as with little thought of self-preservation he throws himself into another gravity defying move that fetches more loud cheers from the crowd that continues to grow as posts on social media brings more spectators.

Shrouded in more meaning than ever, Samantha James in the atmos stirs the ideal within us that we’re naturally bound by goodness. The Eric Kupper Mix of “Rise” rouses both patriotism for the true believers in LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT and sense of urgency against all things that threaten our freedom to serve Love.

“…In every way / You need to let go / You’ll see all your dreams will follow / In every way / You need to let go….”

Looking down on the gathering two people with more than a vested interest in the story-about-the-story—being-written, the SASBWAH, “how do you continue to conjure this kind a passion?” Metofeaz a noted scribe himself in war time asks the rhetoric question not many get to ask the Poet Soldier face to face.

“For the people…for me it’s pretty easy to get up for someone else…I guess…” The pensive and stock standard response is further proof that the Poet Soldier is serious about the cloaking device the Network relies upon for cues when to make moves in accordance with the moon, believe it or not?

Meanwhile down on the ground, Aleisha remembers why she came into town as the trance like dance track takes hold of the crowd, when everyone begins jumping as one when Sam rallies for one more move to please the crowd.

Aleisha is not sure whether to join in or not? A more than accomplished dancer herself who had studied dance for a year at University of CHRUCRH it wouldn’t be because she couldn’t it was more to do with not wanting to be identified as Aleisha Smith from the GUIOPERA, a guilty pleasure for her and her alone to enjoy. The indecision doesn’t go unnoticed by those looking down on their heroine.

“She’s ready. And Imogen will bring the best out of Aleisha.” The Poet Soldier’s assessment of Aleisha is well received.

Aleisha closes her eyes for her body to do what it does best….move to an alluring rhythm that drags her into the circle, the roar from the crowd as Aleisha unveils herself to adulation lauded with applause, whistling men and screams from women just like her.

Sam is euphoric by Aleisha who he hadn’t seen in year’s appearance spurring the unlikely dance pairing on the streets of CHURCH on to the keywords in the lyric on everyone’s lips.

“…People rise together / When they believe in tomorrow / Change the day to forever / This life keeps movin…”


Sam bows again as the last of the crowd leave. Aleisha’s smile beams as bright as the one Sam has when he comes back up. The echoing remnants of “Rise” still stirs deep inside as reality comes to spoil Sam’s party.

The fading light, from a sun that has almost totally disappeared behind the only skyscraper left standing in CHURCH reminds Sam of home time!

Aleisha has this ridiculous smile on her face, which makes anyone want to join her on the contagious phenomenon.

Sam, an observant child—a case of having to be—recognises the grey haired man who paints houses in their neighbourhood as he enters on the other side of a guy around the same age, but who looks like a movie star into the DINER.

“His name is John,” Sam says for whatever reason.

“He has another name, his real name,” Aleisha’s eyes light up as the still single woman finds herself pandering to the wants of a child.

“You don’t have to do that, talk to me like I’m a baby. Hells Leisha we just danced together,” Sam reminds Aleisha why he was like no other kid she had ever met.


Alexvale enjoys the attention, for what it’s worth especially the interaction it allows him to have with the fans that surround the car they push through the gates of Neon City. Rokov had decided on a gesture that would not only endear him to his existing fans but new ones. Since they were on foot, and he was in a car that collectively all their wages and lottery winnings would not be able to afford, he let them push the car into town. “People power, beats any other power known to man….” Alexvale repeats the classic line which will now be etched in the minds of his followers who now have a hands-on experience with Alexvale to remember and fortify their immaculate relationship by.  

In the sky a montage of Alexvale’s already stellar career—from Soap star to the role that catapulted him into super stardom—as “Lumla Inkadia” a homeless youth with multiple personalities who beat the odds to become the inventor of the zero gravity hairdryer used by Pus Audrina and the cast of SPAC-STATION.

Rokov shudders as he drifts back into the dreamscape which he paid good money for. There were recalls and there was time travel, and of course there were inceptions but nothing compared to a journey to the SenFenide Dimension as an entity who had to then find a body to live out their dream in. It mirrored the magic of life itself, where sperm find an egg in a game with similar odds.

To make things even more interesting for Alexvale, he was entering into a platform where he was essentially a villain after he broke Polina’s heart. A version of the story Rokov has another side to tell.

Newsflashes remind the hordes of people on Neon Strip of the stars that have been and the ones to come. Then an unknown pops up having registered on a playlist behind the 2nd Horizon. The subtle urging of a higher calling plateaus in the dream dimension where lucent thought and indemnity from criticism for emancipation is embodied in a song….

“…People rise together / When they believe in tomorrow / Change the day to forever / This life keeps movin…”


Published: SUNDAY September 28th 2014


Hints of good vibrations gifted by well-wishers furnish the atmos with echoing pleasantries…Aleisha looks at the child she saved from the rubble seated across from her in the DINER.

Thinking back it was probably the worst day of her life and likewise for most Churchans.  She could still taste the dust, which hung in the aftermath. Through the wall of dirt and ashes, screams of terror and cries for help. The sound of someone snapping their fingers rescues Aleisha from the nightmarish memory.

Back in the incisive and concise now as prescribed by the man who takes a seat at the end of the counter and finds a newspaper to conceal his concern, Aleisha bursts out laughing when she realises that it was Sam clicking his fingers to snap her out of the past.

“The look of love is in your eyes…”

Diana Krall with music from the early passages of etfiction blesses the steady stream of diners that come and go. But then the oddest thing happens. There’s hollowness as everything comes to a stop. Well almost everything. Sam, even though he’s an attentive child is still moving, his expressive eyes that watch hers. In the kitchen she can see Metofeaz still hard at work, and the Poet Soldier at the counter turns another page of THE PRESS. But all else including the TV on the wall had frozen, who had they? There was an eerie and obscene, almost evasive breach of privacy going on. And Aleisha couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Can you believe this?” Aleisha tries hard to keep a handle on things as she witnesses what she clicks to is the disassembly and assembly process of a Significant Transformation in etfiction.

Efficient and fleet footed workers in orange uniforms appear out of the walls and enter through the windows and then silently they begin to perform amazing feats of engineering, carpentry and then decorating as they quickly change the diner into multi-functional space made up of key elements from etfiction and the GUIOPERA. The DINER, in which Metofeaz waves out from the kitchen, and then in the expansion to right, “SIL HOUSE CAFÉ” the place where Lazoo rose to prominence and then the other side of the diner, the “OLD BAR in CHINATOWN” offices of the famed fraternity of hustler poets and creatives come spies for the Network publically known as LMLA-ink (Lazoo, Metofeaz, Le Mac & Afamasaga Ink)

“Significant Transform, means we’re pretty spesh.” Sam exudes. Aleisha has her biggest smile yet, as she witnesses another transformation. Sam’s fluid speech, which she doesn’t want to make mention of in case it affects Sam who has situation, rather than a condition, in which he may find it difficult to verbally articulate his thoughts in certain conditions.

“How can you confirm we’re spesh?” Aleisha then unconsciously locks eyes with the Poet Soldier sitting alone at the bar.

“Because we can see the orange workers, also known as the Facilitators of a Truth.” Sam is prouder than ever as he looks around at the other diners caught in pockets of time, as the work carries on without them knowing. “And by the way, he and my mother will end up together, once I find her.”

The child gives Aleisha another reason to laugh, but then his grim reality, the real and cynical backdrop to this all, the premise if you like, taps Aleisha on the chin. “How’s your Dad?”

The long agonising silence is when Aleisha realises she has most likely triggered his situation. It’s  enough for Aleisha to know that things hadn’t changed. Finally Sam manages to say something.

“Listen to the song…can…we?”

“…The look of love is saying so much more than just words could ever say / And what my heart has heard, well it takes my breath away…”


Metofeaz Litigatti one of the finest and most eloquent of confidence men in the Network adds finishing touches to the plates he’s about to take out into the dining room. Grated Pecorino Romano cheese sprinkled over steaming plates of Roman-Style Rigatoni alla Carbonara sets off a hearty aroma he samples, proving to himself he still had it.

The kid was certainly of the highest order. Equal to Lazoo in terms of creativity, would give Polina Rada at the same age a run for her money in adorability stakes and then on top of all that, Sam had that special something that a Poet Soldier possesses. The coveted and intangible x factor that binds promise, potential, work ethic and skill making it magical, whatever they said or did, enough to provide leadership to a diverse group of people.

Metofeaz checks that the transform had completely finished out front. He didn’t want to alter the design of the new location by being in the scene whilst the key elements for the Convergence of Sequential Essence was being calculated. The last of the orange uniforms walks through the farthest wall in the Old Bar in Chinatown. Behind the counter Imogen poised ready to take someone’s order, like everyone else, their functions, mental and physical ultimately their movements had been slowed down over a million times so it would take them 3 minutes to blink for example. Or had the core cast which includes Afamasaga, AKA the Poet Soldier, one of John’s many aliases, Samuel, Aleisha and Metofeaz’s life spans’ been shortened again, or their current existence sped up while the workers did their job? What about the music, which provided mood and atmosphere during the change in environment?

“They’re ready as a unit now,” the Poet Soldier’s confirmation that the scene was set out in the dining room is welcomed by Metofeaz.


“…A look your smile can't disguise…”

The words to one of the original sound tracks rings throughout the Dimension as in the sky, the leader writes in an LMLA-ink SESSION which Lina can recall as a child. It was also on a Sunday making it extra special for dedicated readers of the web fiction that keeps giving for all its many causes and reasons why it had become the GUIOPERA of the internet.

Passion and the pleasure from being able to provide inspiration that motivates so many, obvious as lines of the story pour out. Transposed upon the deep blue sky the snippets of the narrative actuates the Convergence of Sequential Essence from multiple times across various dimensions. The Cut-Throat-Creative had signed on from somewhere to compile the story so it can be shared, enjoyed and realised across multiple platforms, time zones and ultimately the three dimensions the AMD, MMD and SFD where all the action took place.

Sam had gone to get drinks from one of the many bars on the strip, leaving Lina to contemplate how it will go down. What will she be like when they come face to face for the first time since the breakup which happened in the online media?

“To this, that’s how it will happen,” Polina hears his voice, but it doesn’t register for her that it’s in the mystical ether of the SenFenide Dimension and not inside her confused mind, whatever that is when you consider that her presence in the SFD is due to being a character in someone’s dream, and whose dream? Another calculation of colossal magnitude, when you add to the equation, that both she and Alexvale were famous people.

She feels hands on her hips, like he used to reach for her just before he would kiss her on the nape of her neck—his breathe a warm and a hot prelude to an unforgettable moment in time.

“…I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you / How long I have waited / Waited just to love you, now that I have found you…”

Diana Krall’s voice swirls in an uncertainty which Lina could easily fall back into. In an instant!


Published: TUESDAY September 30th 2014


The swinging door moved curiously, as far as Aleisha was concerned. Mind you she had just undergone her first Significant Transformation no small feat. They say those who are lucky enough to be a part of a transform never quite return to their pre state. The strain on the body anatomically to remain assembled in what can be likened to a gigantic blender is immense. The little orange men are merely part of an augmentation layer to cover up some contorting that might be disturbing to some, especially prior to eating as was the case in this scene.

The door swings in the other direction and somehow when it swings back inwards, it brings inside the diner, two women Aleisha went to school with. They both have that galvanized look about them. No matter how pretty or unfortunate looking they may be, their social status gave them a standing above everyone else, regardless of their actuality. Both were on the arms of guys who also attended the same school. And when they spotted Aleisha there was a ritual for seeing someone they didn’t like at school all these years later….


“Pretty pretty girls all around the world / Pretty pretty girls all around the world…”

Trey Songz on the sound system makes Sam want to laugh as Metofeaz places the plate of food down in front of him. It coincides with two women who Sam instantly senses make Aleisha feel uncomfortable, as they enter the diner.

Sam checks to see what John up at the counter’s reaction is to what’s going on. The wily character who gives very little away looks over at their table, without looking at Sam. It’s as if to say be natural, the world is watching you.

Metofeaz swings into action, looking into Aleisha’s eyes when she flicks her hair and drops her head back into the most seductive smile possible in the presence of a child.

“Excuse me!” Sam holds a hand out for the utensils Litigatti remembers he has. “Shit sorry bud. Here you go.” Sam cuts his eyes at the player nearing the half century till Imogen arrives. “Is everything ok over here?” which Sam then continues to make the most of Imogen’s maternal side, something she was working hard to develop back in the SFD before she was seconded to be a bit player in the Convergence of Sequential Essence for the SASBWAH unfolding.


The scribings, an influential part of Lina’s formative years continue to spill out onto the sky. Citizens everywhere, down on the strip, or on their balconies, laze in a transcendent haze created in a sublime phase of the work, when the Poet Soldier is at ease, with all that life throws at the novice writer.

The aesthetic of enlightenment is never more palatable than when it’s fused with song. Silk sentiments on emotive tones seal deals with almost any heart.

Lina is adrift like so many around her…Mere shells, possessed by the spirit of someone according to someone else…tending to their concerns and preoccupations, swirling them around like tasting wine, in hope of defining one’s obsessions by aroma and then its sensations and aftertaste or—the fallout from an indulgence, if you like.

Polina has let herself go, falling into the arms of someone. Sam is the likely candidate. He definitely deserves the chance. Since arriving on the scene he had chased her through Neon City’s catacombs and had given up a career opportunity to be there for her.

“No need to imagine what it would be like…” the soft voice is the perfect foil for the strong arms Lina feels around her, supporting her as she no longer falls and is now being lifted up and carried....


Published: THURSDAY October 2nd 2014


Aleisha smiles as she waits for the green light at the intersection. The idling engine and the obscured sounds of the night, some of the things Aleisha had suddenly become aware of and appreciative of in an artistic kind of way. The radio switches itself on and it gets a glance from Aleisha and nothing more. It was approaching ten thirty and she had already witnessed enough otherworldly experiences for the evening. The radio could be nothing more than an electrical malfunction.

The music reminds Aleisha of someone. Meeting Metofeaz Litigatti ranked right up there with the highlight of her evening, which was seeing Sam again who appears to have tired and was quiet. But then Aleisha remembers where they were heading, and what awaits the boy not old enough to fend for himself—yet each night he has to defend himself from his guardian.

The light turns green in time with Aleisha’s decision that Sam was coming home with her for the night. It was her duty to look after the child at this time of the night, especially under the circumstances in which he was obviously neglected regardless if she was party to Sam being out this late. Sam had made it clear to her that as long as he was home before eleven it would be fine. She didn’t feel like ridiculing the poor thing in case it worsened his view of himself, or ate in to any resilience he had built up. For now though she would do her best to be there for Sam. Reporting his father didn’t help matters, if anything it made things worse.

“Do you like this song?” Sam’s question fogs up the window on the passengers’ side.

“It’s sad, but a doozy.” Aleisha admits as she does a U turn.


“Hold up.” Sam tells the driver.

“You’re coming to stay the night at my place. I’ll call him and let him know. And drop you off at school in the morning. Aleisha feels a weight being lifted as she lets Sam in on her decision.

For a moment Sam considers the worst that could happen to him and then he shrugs his shoulders and is able to actually relax for the first time this evening.

“Relax” Sam smiles at his reflection in the car window.


Serum in hand Sam wades through the chilled gathering to where he left Lina. As usual the amphitheatre of people that frame everything one does in a REPRO is there to cordon off something random happening. Only this time the ring of admirers is much larger than before. Sam steps into the ring that marks the spot where Polina Rada would be waiting. The circumference of the thing is made up of probably five hundred shells that look at him for his reaction and then their gaze leads him to a place at the north east arc of the ring. A guy about the same build as him with his back to Sam stands facing the Warmth on the 2nd Horizon. Sam can see that he has a woman resting in his arms. And it all begins to make sense….

Lina continues to float on a cloud. But for Sam it was a rude awakening seeing her in Rokov’s arms again, which wasn’t a complete shock having seen pictures and videos of the couple, which begin to appear in the sky. To which there is no reaction from the crowd, which decides the next turn in the tale and ultimately the possibility of a mind bending twist before the narrator finishes off the fable for this season.

It’s as if Sam Smith had seen and felt Sam’s disappointment, which is how the crowd feels, for Sam. And not in favour of a for old times’ sake interlude by ex-lovers who had devoured the faith invested in them by the citizens of SFD as their forever lovers in a perfect yonder.

Music to have your heart ripped out to transcends dimensions, despondency and any deliberation for the accused, cutting through the 2nd Horizon where pictures of the unpopular couple have been replaced by pictures of Sam and his story.

It makes Sam smile that the citizen’s felt that he had something to offer. SenFenites were astute judges when it came to who would make a good character in a REPRO the major contributor to their economy. And to have upstaged Polina Rada and the man of the hour, Rokov, was quite an honour in the land where dreams are made and nightmares are kept alive.

“You and me, we made a vow / For better or for worse / I can't believe you let me down / But the proof's in the way it hurts…”


Published: Sunday October 5th 2014


Showered and dressed in one Aleisha’s old t-shirts and pair of track pants, the kid from the other Zone looks like a different child all together. Gone are the worry lines that already frame every expression the child has apart from when he’s dancing, in which case the look is a cheeky smirk. He sits on his hands waiting for Aleisha to signal what happens next.

Aleisha uses her head, motioning to the open door of the room and Sam slowly gets to his feet. Aleisha can sense the anxiety in Sam explainable by what she knows about Sam’s past. She strokes the back of his head as he enters into the room and then pats him on the back to help him through the door. Aleisha then reaches out in front of Sam and finds the light switch turning it on, which Sam in a reflex reaction, swiftly turns off. “Ok” Aleisha sounds almost apologetic as she follows him into the room.

Sam walks to the window at the foot of the bed. And Aleisha stands back giving him some space.

The symbiology and etymology of gifted are the semantics of what’s weird and wonderful about the objectification of someone impoverished in one way and spectacular in another.  Still not autistic, Sam is endowed with an understanding or openness to what’s inconceivable, a state which happens when his fear becomes overwhelming—a state in which Sam is able to reach out far beyond this universe and its symbolic parameters and boundaries….


“The moon is out…tonight!” Sam’s speech becomes laboured, a stuttering affair that is hard work to follow. Sam’s eyes light up, his reflection in the window fascinating for Aleisha standing behind him.

“And what does that mean?” Aleisha looks up at the moon.

Sam’s speech becomes mumbled and punctuated by long pauses in which he tries his hardest to find his next word, the effect is staccato, “I….might hook…up…with Lina?” Sam’s eyes and body language do the talking when words fails him.

To his rescue, Frank Ocean with the medicinal melancholic song to prime the resolve so Sam may evoke the black and bleak universe he’s the ruler and commander in chief of at night in fear of his father.

“How about Bella at school, you mentioned that she’s always pestering you and hitting you, a number of times tonight?” Aleisha tries to be encouraging.

“How about Imogen?” Sam suddenly regains fluency.

“I’m not quite sure who Imogen is apart from what I’ve read in the GUIOPERA.”  Aleisha is forced to think about a situation she’s being avoiding since coming across Imogen in the diner.

The warm fuzz of the humming while someone connects to f3quenZor is like no other feeling, which is what’s happening as we speak.

Aleisha is a node and by definition she is a receiver of information, whereas Sam is a very important node and as we’re about to find out he is unique as up till now he is the only transceiver in the entire Network meaning he has the capability as a node to receive and transmit communication.


Sam meanders along Neon Strip. Zigzagging, not quite ataxia or drunk walking but close to it. His exaggerated oscillation of movement left to right and back again says that he has some control, and the serum hadn’t totally messed up all of his voluntary coordination. In fact Sam’s playing up to the #loserinlove tag his footage in the sky has been anchored with. One pretty girl after another holds out her hand for him to take, which he allows himself to hold for a moment or two then he’ll give the girl back her hand and carry on till he comes across a better one, asking less of a commitment.

Lina wakes from her nap in the arms of oblivion and sees the newly released footage of Sam in the sky. Looking up, she recognises the scar under the chin and it begins to make her feel queasy that she maybe in the clutches of Rokov the womaniser once more, while in the sky for all to see, there’s Sam acting up.

Frank Ocean in an overture from the inner workings of a mind, which might not be hers, confused to say the least. Say’s she must be “Lost.”

“…Now you're lost / Lost in the heat of it all / Girl you know you're lost / Lost in the thrill of it all…”


Published: SUNDAY October 5th 2014


First car in the middle lane of three across and a queue that lasts for over a kilometre—Chante Moore “Straight Up” oldskool style in the morning time pumps the bass bins in Aleisha’s trunk, hard. Once again the woman in her prime finds herself at an intersection waiting for the lights turn to green. At a crossroads in more ways than one, Aleisha ponders intricacies of isms that dictate the unformatted flow of dialogue that typifies the turmoil awash in her head at this moment. This way and then that a way, the oscillating will inside, a sumptuous wave of indecision that can almost justify murder, if that’s what’ll take for the way or path ahead to become clear to Aleisha.

Imogen, aging, chivalry’s dead, passed use by date…all these intolerable ideas circulating in the cranial cavity with eyes for monitoring and surveying activity which one must engage in so they might seem normal to society. Aleisha feels the tingling sensation all over her body, as the LATEST UPLOAD encroaches, meddles and needlessly offers her up as sacrificial lamb for the enjoyment of those around her. In their cars, the domino effect is action, checking mobile devices as the alert becomes surround sound in CHURCH. Heads nod to the beat, in approval and then some shake theirs at the notion of how the GUIOPERA, SASBWAH, end-to-end saga, whatever you would like to call the emotional techno fiction that attacks the mind which has captured their undivided attention, wishing their shaking heads in defiance will rid them of the effects of the greatest story alive, on the planet.

“Deep breathes, that’s it,” Aleisha says under her breathe as the lights turn green and her foot imparts frustration upon the accelerator forcing the engine’s revolutions into the red, spinning all four wheels….

“…Straight up I can love you forever yo / Cause you're the kind of guy I can settle for…”


“What you thinking about?” Sam wants to know what Aleisha’s thinking when she has that twinkle in her eye. The bass line to the R&B tune Sam can recall from when he was a baby shakes the foundations of his mortal coil, as he connects poignant and intricate detail that may be relevant to his plight in the sadistic seduction, he is party to.

“I feel like strangling someone,” Aleisha blurts out. Sam’s eyes widen as he tries to swallow the out of character response from Aleisha.

The screaming engine and drifting sensation of the vehicle as Aleisha plants her foot down hard on the gas pedal, much like his dad, Sam could recall from when his father picked him up in a “borrowed” car, as his dad would call them makes the boy smile. Smoke rising outside the car, more than his old man could create. “Coooool.”

“So what were you thinking about?” Sam has to shout above the noise. And then out of the smoke the wheels find traction and off down the road the vehicle flies leaving all them other cars in its wake. “Wow,” Sam is now totally satisfied with his sleepover at Aleisha’s.
“I was thinking about a lot of things, but I wasn’t able to wither it down to one thing that made me angry. So I wanted to strangle everything and everyone.” Aleisha exasperates in one long lasting breathe.

“Will you strangle Imogen first or last?” Sam asks even though something inside urged the normally thoughtful and benevolent boy not to, which Chante Moore in song will hopefully cover for….

“…Here's the number to my cell / Now hit me on the hip / Here's the number to my crib / Where I really love / Straight up…”


It was mooted yet in the end it was very much a muted affair—Alexvale and Polina’s reunion in the dreamscape! Rokov can tell by the way Lina’s body feels in his arms, almost like an awkward object that’s not heavy but it has a weird shape to it. Contorted somehow, which it’s definitely not from memory, slender but with perfect shape to her legs and more than enough of a mouthful… “Hush your mind Alexvale,” Lina’s eyes begin to twinkle.

“It’s either that or I drop you like a sack of potatoes babe….hell hon! Where in the fucking names of reincarnation of transformers and lab mice did we go wrong?” An exasperated Alexvale sounds like he may have been exposed to the same stuff the lab mice were for prolonged periods of time possibly in a very sterile environment? Like Vaseline for tight situations, music in the atmos signals a reprieve for Rokov and a distraction for the fickle citizens of Neon City as far as Rokov was concerned.

“I want you to let me go,” Lina tries her best not to sound angry. Since there was very little difference in her being fine and when Polina was annoyed the desired effect may not have been achieved.

Meanwhile across town, through the doors of a swank hotel and up an elevator with a cabin that makes most homes seem demure and modest, Sam, sans rancune (no hard feelings) rides the elevator with his head held high. Alone, but dignified nonetheless.  

The thumping bass that reverberates through the elevator shaft says outside on the streets there’s an almighty party going on. That’s what it was like in Neon City or all over the SFD for that matter. If one was less than ecstatic with their current situation, one could be made to feel very lonely indeed.

“…I'm not thinking 'bout them other chicks / Straight up / They ain't even coming close to this…”


Published: Sunday October 12th 2014


“Because you know / I'm all about that bass / 'Bout that bass, no treble…”

On a perfectly blissful afternoon in CHURCH, theme music to the LATEST UPLOAD, “All About That Bass” by Meghan Trainor tantalises sun seekers and sight seers from yonder alike. The catchy ditty brings all kinds out of the woodwork. From near and far—the seemingly perfect and self-confessed imperfect—converge upon the epicentre of the enthralling universe that evolves, part by part, chapter by chapter, arbitrary one would guess in how the sprawling tale touches every nerve known to a hater and the heart of the believer all at once, bringing all of them back for more.

From across the way Aleisha watches the location of the Significant Transformation in the MMD staking out the joint for any evidence that might incriminate the facilitator of matter across a manifold of layers of complexity, multiplicity and magnificent convergence that creates intuitive yet mind boggling storylines.  

On her HUAWEI Aleisha Googles “John Lazoo” as a ruthless but handsome looking man with an extremely attractive woman on his arm and a toddler in between them arrive. Next she searches for “Jon Le Mac” as an African American man and his stunning partner which could only be Arley Lévon enter into the hallowed space. Inside they swap greetings with Metofeaz and the Poet Soldier and then beneath the arced logo of “SIL HOUSE CAFÉ” LMLA-ink are reunited at their legendary window table.


The lunchtime bell is the greatest sound in all of the worlds which Sam has visited. His nodding head does an adjacent loop in the perpendicular to show his gratitude.

Outside fresh air and music from the adjoining dimension flushes out all lethargy. A poke in the ribs from Bella nearly causes Sam to do cartwheels, but then he decides on a simple step, he learnt from watching a rerun of Grease the other night. The cathartic words ring out around the playground, when Sam points to the sky as the place where he gets his inspiration from.

“…I'm all about that bass / 'Bout that bass, no treble / I'm all about that bass / 'Bout that bass…”

Word travels fast around the school that the “kid from the other Zone” was up to no good again—dancing his poor raggedy ass off for attention—which the other kids didn’t really mind as it gave them a reference point for the non-academically inclined from the lower decile, which they could look down on, one guesses.


Down on the strip, the BASS fuses skin and things that go bang and pop in figure hugging clothe. Dancing girls and really good looking guys sashay down the street,  and then the town’s folk follow the line imitating the over exaggerated orgasmic facial expressions and body spasms of the chosen few.

Sam surveys the carnage of moral civility from the balcony of his one thousandth floor hotel room. Dancing girls with flesh on show jiggle their “what’s in it for me bowsers” as they embellish their bit part roles as half naked females who work for half what their fully clothed male counterparts are being paid.

Meanwhile across town, Rokov watches as Lina walks off into the crowd that closes in behind her as if to protect her from him. In the sky Sam, who from what Rokov can gather is some sort of equal for Polina as far as the citizens were concerned….


Published: MONDAY October 13th 2014


Aleisha walks past the front of the diner, then the old offices and finally the café to see if there is any reaction to her presence. She reaches the door of SIL HOUISE and has already made her mind up that she will go inside, even if there’s a chance that it might disturb the unbelievable scene that has Lazoo, Genisis and LMLA-ink in CHURCH.

Inside SIL HOUSE CAFÉ the atmos is just how Aleisha imaged. It was vibrant and eclectic. The clashing yet complementing energy of the founding members of LMLA-ink in their natural habitat stirred emotion and piqued curiosity about what they were up to in CHURCH. Lazoo, the leader by default faces the Poet Soldier the leader elect. Lazoo speaks rapidly about a million topics all at once, to which the Poet Soldier responds, “yes,” “maybe,” “hell yeah…” While Le Mac interjects to lament salient points by Lazoo, “empathy is everything! Without empathy, nothing we do will mean anything at all…” To which the Poet Soldier responds in kind, while still listening and supporting Lazoo’s continuous monologue. Metofeaz who was about to offer his view point on world affairs gets the call from Imogen in the diner next door, “Orders are mounting up…”  

Aleisha passes through the lanes made of tables at which fans of the story pretend they do not know who she is. She almost prances until the mere ubiety of Genisis Jones at the table against the wall sharing her thoughts on the story thus far with Arley Lévon causes Aleisha to freeze in her tracks.


The bell rings bringing an end to lunchtime. Centre ring is Sam who bows to his audience which include kids who’ve never spoken a word to him, let alone acknowledge Sam when passing him by in everything they do. The applause is endless and when Bella jumps out from the crowd and stands next to Sam, taking his hand and holding it, the whole world seems to be an okay place for once.

The adulation is short lived when the children’s heads turn to see what the loud banging commotion on the street beyond the fence is. When Sam finally turns his head, he sees a pile up of cars four or more from his vantage point, with hoods bent back to expose motors that smoke beyond repair. And then it all comes crashing down on Sam, when inside one of the cars he can make out a driver in a white wife beater singlet, his father’s favoured attire, night and day, day and night all lunar year through. Whether or not the driver was big Sam or not, the idea of his father being anywhere near Bella, or for that matter any of the other children, who as far as little Sam was concerned knew nothing about his home life or the fact he came from the other side of the tracks sickened him.


“Hey you up there in your ivory tower…” Sam looks down from the balcony as if he doesn’t recognise the mocking voice. Way down on the ground is Polina who seems a tad anxious, for which Sam is too caught up in his problems to care about right now.

“Can I come up?” Lina’s voice rebounds of buildings, even the crowd that fill every nook and cranny on the street, footpaths, down the alleys or watching from their windows cannot absorb the aimless oscillation of her half-pied plea for forgiveness.

Sam retreats inside the room where he paces for the sake of killing time, and not because he is undecided about what to do, before he buzzes Lina in.

Outside on the streets of Neon City, you could hear a lock disengage and then footsteps on a marble floored foyer of the swank as hotel before the plush elevator lands on the ground floor into which Lina vanishes, spurred on the applause that begins and spreads throughout the dimension.

Down by Legends Alley, a dejected Alexvale stares dismally at the montage of Lina and Sam in the sky. Citizens glance sideways at headliner for tomorrow’s concert in the alley as they pass him by for a nobody from the MMD here on a gap year.


Published: TUESDAY October 14th 2014


Meticulous Randomness on par with nature’s intricate clockwork kick-starts a sequence of events conjured by the mind of a Poet using the determination of a Soldier.

Elusive dreams regurgitate nagging hypotheticals while winds get rid of nasty odours from rotting flesh abound in the wastelands, product of a perceptive but restless dreamer, who has already moved on to her next dream.

Aleisha can hear the alarm on her phone, somehow it blends in perfectly with the distant tune she can almost taste. One of the ones, she would wait for in the LATEST UPLOAD.

The tune disintegrates into screaming from a nightmare and then laughter offers momentary comfort till it descends into howling.

It’s enough to bring Aleisha up and out of the semi-conscious layer. Like a board on a spring hinge she is vertical all at once. Widened eyes, look for validation that this is real life, and not some entwined dimension offering an alternative when life becomes a drag...they blink before they stare down the wreck staring back at her in the mirror.


Irascible Trepidation, a condition diagnosed in the pages that predate the work at hand is more of a state that causes enhanced awareness amongst other things rather than a disorder. The only reason why it is classified as an ailment of sorts is because of the contradiction of terms in the name itself—Irascible (to be easily angered) and trepidation (a feeling of fear or anxiety) in the context of rising above the challenge using the conflicting concepts. And for those with the gift that sets them aside from the others the result of irascible trepidation normally brought on by pressure created in a storyline, IR is harnessed for immense results.

Clouds not in the forecast roll overhead as Sam surveys the old school grounds. Overgrown, the field, cracks in the concrete, rusting jungle gyms and dilapidated classrooms, where amorphous artwork still hang.

A gust from the plains dries everything in its path, hope, his mouth, and eyes. Still, Sam strains his eyes to see if he can spot the seam in the picture so to speak.

Waiting for him at home is Bella, his childhood sweetheart. Sam needed timeout from the pressures of normality and the grind of being needed and needing someone.

Today’s LATEST UPLOAD was of little or no comfort, the Poet with a Soldier’s single mindedness and very little empathy for those he commands by keystrokes, punctuating their lives with morbid abandon and mayhem was at his cutting best or worst depending on where you were in relation to the work, reader or character?


The Forlorn Chimera, in an elongated context can just about be anything one wishes for, regardless of whether they get it, or not? The act of dreaming is by nature the same as unconsciously hoping or willing something to happen, so a forlorn chimera is in this case is an embellishment, by the storyteller if you will.

Lina stares at the ruins in the mirror, a long silence that she savours prevails as outside the hordes are gathering. In the mix, the anchor man on TV…Alexvale Rokov is on the news again. This time it’s for drunk driving. Last time it was because of his philanthropic work. Who knows what it’ll be next time? The picture of the mangled e-type jaguar on TV sends shivers up Lina’s spine.

The sound of the shower and Rokov as he rehearses for a concert tonight is surreal sounding when you consider all that they have been through together.


Published: SUNDAY October 19th 2014


Traces of the song Aleisha has been waiting for in the air greets her as she hops out of her car. People everywhere bustling their way into the unrehearsed scene, for which there is a script—only no one has read it prior to the director’s call for action in the LATEST UPLOAD. Some of the crowd live vicariously through Aleisha Smith of CHURCH in the SASBWAH. While others are antagonising as they make their needless stinging remarks heard. “Bitch, what about us? Is she the woman in CHURCH?”

All of it adding to the cacophony that is the GUIOPERA as a row of cars over, JRA pulls up in the inconspicuous vehicle he uses to get from A to B.

The loveable rogue, pauses for a second as he takes in his handiwork at play. Young and old, who loathe and then love the Cut-Throat-Creative for all the wrong reasons muddle themselves in the moment as it becomes known that the writer of the story is in their midst.

Aleisha who still hasn’t made her mind up what she would do or say if the opportunity presented itself, fumbles with feeble attempts to sound composed, “…nice meeting you…great meeting you…it was a pleasure to meet you…she notices that she focuses on the parting statement, and not a greeting. Maybe that was it, a brief interlude memorable by its ending?


Bella, a public relations consultant, lounges on the sofa making most of the lazy Sunday, reading the papers and catching up on current affairs on TV, social media, and various podcasts.

Sam sneaks through the back door of the comfortable three bedroom home situated in an area of CHURCH unaffected by the quake. He treads carefully through the house not to disturb Bella’s peace. His concentration on being as quiet as a mouse is scattered by lapsing leases of another life and time that stain the peaceful day he tries to maintain inside his mind. Visceral alms pull at his heartstrings to have a heart. He fights back with all the excuses in the world, from not having lived to stagnant situation in check mate to clashing agendas.

Music that represents lost love and imminent liaisons which renders old love, spent, permeates the stifled air of lost communications. At first its crumbs of the lover’s curse as it circumnavigates sensibilities.

“Where’s that music coming from hon?” Bella calls out. It disappoints Sam that she heard him sneak in, instantly taking Sam to a place where he’d rather not be. Music? Sam retraces his tracks over the past seventy two hours, beginning on Thursday night after work….


Alexvale stares at the ground, willing himself out of yawning, in case someone in the press takes it the wrong way. Eventually he manages to inhale deep enough to feed the brain enough oxygen it needs to save him from any further ridicule without a piranha noticing.

Seated in front of the stage at the end of the alleyway—two rows of piranhas that hadn’t been fed—by the looks on their faces. Oh well, it sure beat a bunch of deadbeats from obscure websites that produced mindless fodder for bots to manipulate into web fodder.

Side stage, Polina Rada the media darling, not even Rokov and his wayward antics can ruin her relationship with the hounds of hell, waits to join him onstage.

To the mystical sound seeping through the 2nd Horizon, Rokov a superstar of unparalleled power steps forward to the mic. He taps the amplification device for a hollow thud, then he moves his lips to spew the words he uses so well to captivate those who still cannot guess what the secret ingredient is in his concoction of magnetism and mayhem. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen to my Imaginarium. It’s a humble abode, but it is mine nonetheless…Welcome…”


Published: FRIDAY October 24th 2014


Cadence and Intonation of his words more than imitate life’s bio rhythms, taking one’s breathe away in a sentence crammed with thought, both daring and provocative, from whichever angle one consumes a morsel.

Such is the fusion of song and word that dulls life as we know it, that the evangelical nature of the writings illicit feelings way beyond any other form of entertainment on the World Wide Web.

Aleisha makes her way through the car park, as extras rush the shopping mall from all directions. Their aim is to be noticed by Aleisha, and the ultimate goal is to get close to the star of the story.

Meanwhile in the atmos, due to Aleisha’s presence a piano perpetuates love sick feelings and then Michael Bublé’s voice can be heard. He poses ponderous lines one must consider in the pursuit of identifying their true feelings.

“I'm not surprised, not everything lasts / I've broken my heart so many times, I stopped keeping track…”

For Aleisha, the self-imposed exile in limbo had become a lifestyle. An unhealthy indulgence in morose pity of self and others. Under the canopy of an emo-esque existence, Aleisha flourished as person in the isolation, making the Transmutation easier than if she had various roles in a so called functional and normal life. From stripper to successful and legit businesswoman in less than three years—not bad for the girl most likely not to succeed as foretold by her school peers and teachers.  

The rhythm of life is in the annunciation of what matters most, and the forgetting and letting go of the sullen silences caused by the sadness of pain.  All else is the metronomic palpitations of many hearts that skip a beat when the mesmeric LATEST UPLOAD finds its way into mainstream. The effect is an offbeat drum to what mass media has to offer—formulaic, lame and pretentious without a hope of finding its mark, the flailing heart of the audience—compared to the second hand of the times we live in, the soothing and calming ticking sound of the Poet Soldier at work.

Aleisha finds hope in the lyric and strength in the omnipresent music, divinity and substance of his work she is the instrument, vessel and inspiration for.

“…Talk myself in, I talk myself out / I get all worked up, then I let myself down…”

Watching from a afar, lost in the midst of the mayhem that he creates when he nonchalantly lassoes the atmos for adjoining stories to cohere, the Poet Soldier almost feels woozy from when the dimensions move into alignment so time, space and matter are able to obey the novice writer’s wish. The gravity altering event is earth moving but not in a quaking motion. It’s best described as being on a carousel that receives a sudden push, swift and momentous for the good of all who can feel the all-encompassing shift in thinking, perception and their actions.

Aleisha a personal project of sorts for JRA is a transformation of biblical proportions—for both the writer and his heroine. Changing someone’s life via a story was unheard of, let alone one written by a novice writer who couldn’t of strung a sentence together to save his life back in 2006.
Aleisha’s smile as she quickens her step through the electric door is the real reward. Bublé’s music just for her could well be the reason for her seldom seen delight. The lyric is encouraging for the writer who keeps an eye on his leading lady until she vanishes.

“…And I know someday that it'll all turn out / You'll make me work, so we can work to work it out / And I promise you, kid, that I give so much more than I get / I just haven't met you yet…”


Skill and Guile, enough to rob anyone of their mind and dignity form the foundation of his repertoire. Lounging on the opposite sofa, Sam has a book up to his face so Bella, a noisy type cannot see that he’s on his phone.

Outside, the good folk of CHURCH have come out of their houses to witness the Elysian event reminiscent of the Halcyon days—the early days of the GUIOPERA when it was based in BRISAUS. The ethereal light is surreal to say the least. It shapes all objects in its astral hue, embossing the neighbourhood in a supernova cool one would never be able to recreate for its sublime qualities.

“I’m going to have a look,” Bella announces as she tosses aside paper, plastic and presumptions.

“Cool,” Sam tries not to sound concerned. After all he’s pretty sure that he’s the reason for the music everyone can hear. He Googles “schizophrenia,” “schitzo” and then “psycho” for something to do in an impossible situation. “Delusion,” “delusions of grandeur,” and its symptoms, Sam continues to vent in his unique and silent way. Reading the definitions for the different conditions which could explain what was happening (only it wasn’t in his head) helped. The neighbours on the street and Bella, the most ardent sceptic of them all were witnessing what he previously heard in his head, and read online. “Beautiful Mind, wouldn’t mind watching that again?” Sam throws it out there, to see if Bella would offer up a life line to free him from his intangible hell.

Outside snowflakes on a warm spring come summer evening is on another level, cosmic to say the least. The voice of Michael Bublé in the air is just what Bella needed. Of late things had become a tad tedious if the truth be said. Post honeymoon phase, mortgage free—for a couple so young—it was a rarity, especially for teenage sweethearts who had worked for all they had. There were no financial woes so there weren’t any arguments. She wore the pants and he happily donned the apron. She preferred pumpernickel and who was he to ask for his white bread and Vaginamite?

Sentiments versus experience overwhelm Bella…she starts to catch the snowflakes that feel like round feathers that melt into her skin, giving off a pleasant scent….

“…I might have to wait, I'll never give up / I guess it's half timing, and the other half's luck / Wherever you are, whenever it's right / You'll come out of nowhere and into my life…”


Agility and Determination to manoeuvre in and out of tight spaces are the hallmark of any great confidence man. Placing thoughts into the minds of those who have a need to compete with you is the crux of how one cuts-down anyone who knowingly or unwittingly looks to challenge you. Knowing this definitely made life easier. Alexvale, reared by the Pirate, Johnny Page himself, adopted dad of Lina was well versed in the ways of con-artistry. Inception by Immaculate Conception of ideals and not just a single thought, in short: brainwashing is fundamental in achieving any impossible feat. Agile thinkers will outthink most competitors. And determined players will outlast all their opponents. And the need to demoralise your opponent rounds out a true player’s kit.

From the press…

“Alexvale, how fast were you going when you crashed?” A female piranha is the first to snap at him. To which he baits the rest of them with meaningless eloquence.

“Ladies and tea cosies may I answer this frankly?” Alexvale tosses one of his own back at the underlings of the school of fish, to which there is not even a battered eye lid. He pauses for no longer than it takes for a fish to realise that he’s out of water and then Rokov dives into his work.

“Speed is irrelevant when the environment you pass by in great haste is fraught with the disdain of citizens forgotten and condemned to poverty….” Rokov gets the roar he was hoping for from the crowd outside, on the streets and everywhere throughout the dimension.

“You crashed and burned in a Jaguar. Does this mean you will go back to driving German cars?” The political nature of the goad by a male piranha differentiated by obvious markings on his belly he scratches is welcomed by Rokov.

“Depends on whether or not you will continue to ask weighted questions with little or no relevance to why I allowed this session?”

Side stage, Polina’s life begins to flash before her eyes for whatever reason. The fantastical but also alarming montage bites Lina in the dark. Parents who cradled her with their last breathe on a backseat of a car in the Siberian mountain ranges. Star pupil in a Moscow orphanage. Then being adopted by John Page the Network’s most notorious and at the same time one of its most successful operatives, to Page’s untimely death…when all was said done, Alexvale’s infidelity was a sideshow to her meteoric rise and sustained torture of public life….



Published: SATURDAY 25th October 2014

“I don’t Mind”


“Shawty, I don’t mind If you dance on a pole / That don’t make you a ho / Shawty, I don’t mind when you work until three / If you’re leaving with me…”

Usher in the air and he don’t mind that Aleisha dances for a living…the dim light of the club hides her aspirations and dreams of a life in suburbia behind a façade of a white picket fence…boozy clientele and overzealous teenage boys line the edges of the runway, spoiling Aleisha’s take off. So Aleisha focuses on Usher’s affirmation that she has to make a living. Handclaps, help her escape the here and now…Aleisha checks the distance from where she has to leap to where the pole is. First of all she has to negate the noise, not Usher and her beating heart though. Just the applause and whistling like a wall of draining unwanted adornment by the unwashed, uncouth and the incomplete who have come here to project upon her, their misguided fantasies.

Such is the concentration of energy on a particular spot in time that the convergence of stories and meta-stories complete with fibrous facts and prickly nuances are all the rage. From this dimension to right across all conceivable platforms and possible catalysts, the emanating dramatization of life as we know it, is the Pulp of our malleable existence as characters in a novice writer’s evolving and living memoirs. And for now, CHURCH located on the Mainland of Aotearoa is the epicentre of the thriving and throbbing organism that is most phallic and inappropriate at one of the most awkward of junctions in time….

Aleisha thinks she spots someone in the audience, a streak of grey in the coloured luminous spheres that protect her from the dark and dingy reality beneath her. Her outfit, a single piece swimsuit made of crotchet, meagre, perfectly cupping her assets—ticklish at times but ala natural, which is what counts as far as Aleisha is concerned.

“Shawty, I don’t mind If you dance on a pole / That don’t make you a ho / Shawty, I don’t mind when you work until three / If you’re leaving with me…”

Aleisha taps the ground in front of her with the toe of her stiletto, it brings the ruckus she requires to fend off the sleaze she despises.


Bella twirls the decorative vale she has to wear for her hen’s night. She wonders for a moment what Sam her adoring fiancé might be up to. He hadn’t decided on what he was going to do on his stag night with his best mate a chick, which no longer irks Bella a moderately possessive female. The fact that his best friend was Polina Rada, who he had met on the f3quenZor when Sam was a boy, does make things a little weird. Imaginary, she was definitely not! In fact, here she was and right behind her, was Bella’s groom to be in exactly two months from today.

Bella’s gal pals gather around after sensing their friend’s sudden apprehension when Polina Rada, a strikingly beautiful creature whichever side of ledger one is on makes her presence felt when she pushes in at the front of the queue, with Sam by her side. Ms Rada is most women’s worst nightmare when it came to their boyfriend purely based on looks. And then when one finds out that she is indeed the Princess of the New Global Realm from

Bella a ravishing and feisty woman pretends she doesn’t see Ms Rada the sultry siren who has her man by her side. The doorman is pleased to see Ms Rada, his expression is over the top to say the least. Word spreads quickly that Ms Rada fresh from her breakup with Alexvale Rokov III, which doesn’t sit easy with Bella, is here.

From inside the club, which Bella no longer thinks is the ideal spot for her and her girls to hit on a night like this, Usher propagates the arrival of Aleisha, a must see show when in CHURCH.

“…The ballers in here tonight, they gon’ buy a hundred bottles / As soon as you shake it I know they gon’ make it colossal in here…”


Identifying the source or the original dreamer in a compounding dream is almost impossible. First the dream has to be carefully documented and divided up into individual threads that stand alone from start to finish. Then, the decision has to be made about which dream came first….and which dream inspired  the next dream which then spawned an indictment of nightmarish proportions leading to the catastrophe without an apostrophe for the missing pieces of a puzzle, unique and unlike no other.

Alexvale Rokov III, checks out his fake ID which he made online at In front of him John Page, the father he never had. The pair wait in line to enter into the strip club in CHURCH.

At the door, Afanasy an acquaintance of Page’s from another life scans the queue for trouble. He spots the PIRATE, the alias by which Page is known in the Network. Afanasy a former underworld underling, who defected to the west by becoming an operative, ignores his adversary for the moment. The recruitment of Afanasy a lowly foot soldier in the Russian Mafia by a US funded a faction of the Network says a lot about Afanasy as a person and his skill but above all Afanasy’s integrity.

The scene at hand, whether it be real or fraught with frivolous fiction that is funkdafied? Or not? Is the starting point for the second act of the SASBWAH that unravels in real time, literally.

The line dwindles until the two rivals in more than a few contests over the years come face to face. Alexvale, no more than fifteen years of age peers from around Page’s back as his mentor begins talking in epic prose, “Opportunity knocks. Rattling a rascal in his cage for now, callous, confused at normality…” To which Afanasy’s response whilst continuously scanning the queue and surrounding areas for idiots is more conversational in his adopted nu yawk accent, not unlike a young De Niro in Taxi Driver, scattered but with unnerving control from a deep seated anger within… “Craving mayhem and a shallow grave, I submit to whims that have me see you in my arms. Sanity! I cradle the irascible soul, and it shall rest for trepidation’s expedient torrents…” Page begins to smile a crooked smirk and then he suddenly interjects, “that’s my line dude.” Afanasy finally bothers to look at Page. For a second there, anything could’ve happened. But in the end, peace and level headedness prevails and one of the few obvious feuds in etfiction is left to fester in the gut of both men. Afanasy steps aside and Page passes by followed by Alexvale who is beside himself when he deciphers the coded banter, well not quite. But he recognises where the lines came from. Page and Afanasy just recited Irascible Trepidation by Jon Pierre Solomon the Poet Soldier. It was as if the pair agreed to a truce in the course of the recital of the poem penned by JPS in France around the time of WW2 when he was sent to check out what Rozelle Zofen AKA Imogen—a driving force in the resistance—was up to.

Posters of Aleisha on the wall catches the youngan’s eyes. “We’re here to do work, young man. Keep your eyes on the headline surface of the crowd. If you see any sudden movement in the landscape, then create for me the biggest commotion possible. Then coolly and calmly get on your knees and crawl to the nearest exit and leave the rest to me,” Alexvale nods his head but his eyes are transfixed on the voluptuous woman whose eyes say something much more than her curves can ever say. “And don’t forget to play dead the second you hear gunfire…” Alexvale catches Page’s last bit of advice, “Play dead for a minute and then fire your gun, don’t forget…”

The doors open, and the still and stealth air, dense and dank for the alumni represented by the PIRATE, kid brother of Metofeaz and Lazoo’s twin, here to solve a mystery hits Alexvale.

Frame by frame the scene disentangles itself from the myriad of streams that beg to be taken. Alexvale recognises the phenomenon at work Convergence of Sequential Essence. It’s the bare facts from all collaborating dreams that fortify an ideal or reason for the season, as it were. In short, all that was happening was in slow motion for Alexvale and the kid recognised the difference between danger and dancing, friendship and friendly fire and the truth from the fallible.

Onstage, Aleisha a leggy blonde in her early twenties looks as if she’s about to take a step out into the unknown, for the first time tonight. She could have a twitch and the audience would go wild, which it does when Aleisha marks the spot with the toe of her stiletto. For Alexvale, the sound is a deafening drone due to the slo-mo effect in play as stories and pathways merge, intersect and meanings meld in the least verbose and seamless manner.

A quick surveillance of the strip club confirms for Rokov that a Significant Transformation was under way. Polina, his first and only love, regardless of his behaviour is here with Sam the kid JRA the Poet Soldier went to CHURCH to recruit. Bella, Sam’s first love looks sedate and demure for a woman who was meant to be in love. As a womaniser, Rokov already knew what the innate problem was. His diagnosis will not be well received by the fairer sex….

“…Shawty, I don’t mind If you dance on a pole / That don’t make you a ho / Shawty, I don’t mind when you work until three…”

Usher in the air, like a tantric trick for the elite without pompousness reminds the awestruck audience of the magic at play, unrehearsed and unpretentious a snotty nose kid from the nui, pieces together the puzzle as if his core role as the Network’s most prolific scribe wasn’t enough, he circumnavigates foes and friends sent to test him in the most anticipated story of all time. To that end, his heroine flies through the air, her bodice thin and infrequent hardly worth a mention, unlike her wish, her burdens and her penchant for his poetry….

Irascible Trepidation

Opportunity knocks
Rattling a rascal
In his cage for now
callous, confused
at normality
Craving mayhem
And a shallow grave
I submit to whims
That have me see
You in my arms
Sanity I cradle
The irascible soul
Shall rest
For Trepidation’s
Expedient torrents
To arrest the solemn
Yet restless mind


Published: SUNDAY November 2nd 2014


2AM particles by Adrian Marcel in the atmos. They’re the only matter in this world allowed to come in contact with her silk skin. The air Aleisha creates as she slices sphere and circumstance of the club leaves a whiff of the unobtainable. The wake of her passing by is an event for the desperate that line the edges of the stage to live off, for all time….

“Said it's 2AM / I, I, I—want it girl / Right now…”

Right now, at this conscious moment in time—there aint no other profession in the universe that could compare with dancing. The escape from reality, aided by the most glamorous costumes and characters imaginable is the penultimate fantasy. The ultimate one lies dormant in the archives, unachievable when the catalyst for the epitome for Aleisha failed her. He was her first and only love.

Older than she, but still a child in every way, the lost soul, Aleisha swore was her mate for life carved out a deep canyon in the plains of her being. So much so, a cavern the size of the entire dark side of the moon had become the unfillable crevasse—for which Aleisha blamed all dysfunction, malfunction and perforation upon—when it came to life.

Conscious or unconscious of her role in the amendable story that twists and turns more than a withering stream seaming like a long serpentine, Aleisha feels the rush when the LATEST UPLOAD hits the arterial routes of the world-wide-web which it was woven to wondrously travel till hearts and minds were found on the end of mobile and wireless devices. The energy is always overpowering, but then the type of energy depending on the masses—who will tell their grandchildren they witnessed the Poet Soldier at work—can deviate from a cloud high sensation to a dense and head spinning rush that renders one dizzy for more than a moment.

The oscillating sine of an inverse tangent reverberates on a spectrum unheard of before as the feedback when the LATEST UPLOAD of Emotional Techno Fiction is downloaded onto devices is astounding to say the least.

Leaks of the Poet Soldier at work suggest that finally a Love Theme for this year’s climax has been found.

As Aleisha soars through the air, conviviality amongst the antipodes of the mother ship prevails. Fluttering hearts dally on delirious as visions of global delight when the final chapters of this year’s GUIOPERA hit the internet.

But for now Aleisha stores away the anticipation that makes her tingly anxious and hot with desire at 2am in the morning whilst dancing her life away for the unclean, the unruly and the unrepentant of CHURCH that pack the club to the hilt—of their own moral condemnation.


Sam accepts the serum delivered on a tray by an Amazon with the most exquisite eyes. Sam takes the drink and smiles a wry smile to cover the effect of her eyes. Polina notices the effect the waitress has on a man close to the end of his freedom. “If this is freedom for you, then you shouldn’t be eyes wide open walking into a trap. That’s just plain fucking stupid Samuel…”  Sam is relieved that someone said something as he spots Bella and her friends across the bar and only heaven fucking knows how long they had been fucking watching him. Knowing his luck, his wife to be and her seven bridesmaids were probably watching when his tongue become heavy with drawl then it fell out of his mouth the size of his gaping eyes, at the sight of the buxom blonde with more liquor. The DJ intervenes to announce the next stripper and the roar is as impartial and inappropriate as the last one.

“Anna Nicole, ladies and gentlemen….” The curtain flutters in an elusive breeze to free Sam—not your average beer guzzling deviant from the skirts of civility regardless of which quarter of town one hailed from—from the sleaze pit he was quickly beginning to feel at home in.

“Aleisha Smith,” Polina mesmerised by the leggy dancer’s profile on a laminated menu she passes in front of Sam who catches the alluring dancer slip out onto the stage when the curtains parted in the subtle current, is excited as any red blooded male in the house.

“Alex-vale?” The name makes its way out of Polina’s gaping mouth still dropping to the floor. She nudges Sam, her best pal in the ribs, but then she can’t find Alexvale her pen pal who one day just vanished when Lina was just ten years old. “Vamoose, one minute we were childhood sweethearts, the next he was gone…”

“Wait, wait, wait…” Polina holds her temples as the energy from the story as its being absorbed by mankind when the LATEST UPLOAD is released and acted upon, vicariously, simultaneously, consciously and purposefully is overwhelming for one of the 3 Pillars of the f3quenZor, making Lina a transmitter of the story.

“Page?” Lina is even more lackadaisical as she utters the name of the only dad she knew.

Sam close to a state of comatose latches onto Lina’s arm, “I get it, all the men that meant something to you. Don’t worry, you’ll still be my best mate in the entire fucked up world, Lina….”


John Page, an apparent Poet Soldier himself at one time, surveys the work of an anointed one at play. The people parade by in a dreamlike state, having been inspired by the characters they read about in the GUIOPERA. Down through history there have been four Poet Soldiers, the first having made his mark therefore earned his title around 9 AD. The second reigned supreme as publicist and some reckon was author for some of the Bard of Avon’s work in 16th and 17th Centuries. The third, Jon Pierre Solomon was a spy for the Network. His contacts in media and the entertainment industry during the Golden Age of Hollywood and through the evolution of music highlighted by the birth of Rock “n” Roll, the beginning of the sexual revolution and World Wars one and two on-sold his brief to the true power brokers—writers, thinkers and artists—of his time.

“Polina, without you! Or I! In her life is a sight for sore eyes,” Page deals with the undercurrents and possible reasons for the recant of the original story he finds himself in.

“Yeah I saw her. I have shit show in hell at 15. So I moved on already…” Already on his knees is Rokov, a loser, born that way, and encouraged to be that way till he met Page at the age of twelve.

Page surveys the adequately seedy joint packed to the rafters. Aleisha Smith obviously had made such an impact on the Poet Soldier that her story was the leading thread in the dexterous tale made plausible by The Guy who decides to show his face. JRA approaching fifty still kept everyone guessing whether or not he was aware of what was going down, around him? He never mentioned a single word about the Morons, Idiots, Clowns, Extras and Retards (MICERs) sent to test him. Or the fact that he was the author of the most widely distributed story of all time. He just kept on being himself, the consummate confidence man….and to that end, his latest muse, Aleisha Smith of CHURCH AKA Nicole Smith, whose namesake was also a member of the Network Page had recruited in another story glides by in the extraordinary hue of elegance prescribed by a novice in the work that will mark the times we live in—at 2AM in the morning of our newfound consciousness.

“Said it's 2AM / I, I, I—want it girl / Right now…”



Published: FRIDAY November 7th 2014


Friday morning and strains of lost love and misplaced trust pack memories, triggered by the buzz around town that the GUIOPERA was in full swing. Pleasing and teasing readers, some who need translation of the work, something many who speak and read English as a native tongue also require, when the prose is dissected literally rather than relinquishing dialect and control for an eloquent ride upon the writer’s nib to once unimaginable ends of his unparalleled percept.

Aleisha brushes off enzymes of any self-consciousness that have a faint iodine like taste on the fringes of her sometimes fragile soul.  

Love songs frequent the atmos as betting begins on what the Poet Soldier has in store to captivate and then fulfil promise of another perplexing story he somehow narrows down to an ending to suffice both sceptics and avid readers who keep their fingers crossed that the untrained novice is once again able to lift his game to deliver a climatic ending that pleases the ardent and annoys the fuck out of the haters….

Snippets of popular and abstract examples adorn the populous band on which the f3qenZor operates. Earworm after infectious tune offer speculators plenty to mull over. From Sara Bareilles’ “I Choose You” to age old classics like “Always” by Atlantic Starr. The endless trail of possibilities causes Aleisha to tear up. She reclaims her solidarity in herself, her soul and sanity when she refocuses on her only mission this morning.

Her now firm grip on the steering wheel is indicative of her determination. On her way to a second interview as it were for the consultancy gig at the construction company she pitched for last week. The melding fusion of lustre and languishing in her life since she arrived back in her hometown, enough to send the mercury up and down blowing out each end of the thermometer.

To ease nerves and calm butterflies the woman who dances almost naked in front of lusting men turns on the radio. “Classic” by The Knocks, ditsy and undutiful is perfect.

The milieu for the skirmish to find out who holds the key to hearts and minds is still the internet, but the means by which plans and aberrations are shared by the chosen few, capable and strong enough to continue the now not so covert operation in full view of the world, is most definitely and still via the f3quenZor.

Aleisha shivers from the spine-tingling sensation when she hears the coded embryo of a nuisance relayed…. Being a conduit or character, a privilege she tells herself she was born to embrace for the sake of mankind. Their purpose steeped in the pursuit of LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT.

The frivolous lyric welcomed folly which is not by any means fodder for Aleisha….

“It was a summer time, that summer high / Oh what a masterpiece / The way your eyes met mine, sweet / Like apple pie, caught in your energy / The future came to me, I see…”


Sounds of summer time perpetuate good times for the citizens of CHURCH. Sitting in traffic, Bella hums along to the catchy tune on everyone’s lips. A mother at the crossing smiles as she waves to her twins across the street as they enter into the school gates. Tradesmen in pickup trucks tip their hard hats at the secretaries in short skirts that highlight their smooth legs and round butts with coffee for their bosses who make ten times as much as they do as the lovely smelling things sashay down the street to their offices. Married men in suits, straighten their ties as the slender bodied administrators with deep cleavage flash their assets in the morning sun that has activated certain chemistry on the streets of the once sullen city. The clumsy rendition of a buoyant mood altering morning is just what Bella, the less obvious romantic out of her and Sam wanted. Lingering thoughts of the other night at the strip club pepper Bella, who is not in a mood to be harassed, neither by a nagging idea or a windshield washer who steps into her view of the world. She raises hands in defeat as the boy with tattooed sleeve begins to outdo himself. Bella rummages around in compartments of the car and finally comes up with gold coins to pay her accoster at the traffic lights, who did a sterling and sparkling job in the end. Bella waits for the window to come down. Fresh air is welcome and anointing the morning with a blessed status, The Knocks and their instant hit “Classic” coming from other cars at the lights, and leaking from the window washer who is uncustomary early’s headphones.

“…Yeah, it feels so CLASSIC / You and me, the magic / And I know we have it / 'Cause it feels / yeah, it feels, yeah / It feels so CLASSIC….”


“Classic…” Page reinforces the ease with which the Poet Soldier generates feelings that will one day become nostalgia. Across the street at a sidewalk café Polina in dark glasses does a great impersonation of Jackie “O”.

A young Jacqueline Lee Bouvier who could see her’s and her loved ones' futile future ponders whether or not to accept her fate by dating the son of ambitious Joseph P. Kennedy. Jon Pierre Solomon drops off a copy of the New York Times… “Thank you,” a courteous Jacqui replies in a smile, the same one that won her over the world. The many imprints of various stories layer the pending scene about to play out on the streets of CHURCH which Page and Alexvale from another time and dimension watch from a parked car. From the Kennedy’s tragedy to the Cold War, to Desert Storm to the full blown assault on emotion and thinking by the current Poet Soldier, in order to balance the equilibrium in the ultimate distraction imaginable as the world recalibrates following the apocalyptic first decade to the 21st. Century. The landscape is littered as always with traces of promiscuity and promise of scandal to entice the hardworking yet vulnerable people. Prime evil still exists and will be duly culled once the financiers of the terror are bankrupt and demoralised.

In the here and now, Page checks the backseat of the vehicle in the rear vision mirror, and then he turns and leans over and touches the leather seat.

“Channelling an assassinated President’s wife must be hard,” Alexvale finds something to say to Polina’s dad next to him.

“It’s not so much as channelling per say as it is handling whatever comes up in the story,” Page is conscious of the heartache he himself caused Lina who sits alone across the street, a fate both he and Alexvale know they are responsible for in different ways.

“The carnivorous conscience of a fool will be the death of him,” Page mutters loud enough for Alexvale to hear, nodding his head in appreciation of the PIRATE’S articulation of his remorse.

“On a real level?” Page’s voice changes. He fiddles with his moustache trying to comb the irreverent edges flat in a hurry and then he comes clean in a tone and manner, which his teenage protégé a car thief from London’s east end is more akin to. “What if I fair told you?” Page pauses and points with a finger, “That JRA himself! Was in the back seat of the Cortina, moments ago” the Liverpudlian cockney of a bitsa mongrel from here, there and nowhere really is music to Rokov’s ears who in response, sings like a canary in a mine. “I fucking well thought so. Hairs on me neck hardcore standing on their razor’s edges as proof…”

The illuminati works in mysterious ways….On the most obtuse angle, the Poet Soldier an incarnation of many a crusader down through the ages, hides from the ones he’s created for the sake of mankind. Between slats of a wall of a dilapidated house in a meagre suburb of CHURCH the Poet Soldier watches some of his most influential characters as they question their purpose and existence when they’re abruptly torn from their natural habitat and loved ones in another life to carry out a critical mission. More likely than not, they’re here to rectify and amend oblong stories and grievances they are somewhat responsible for in some obscure if not damning kinda way.

“…What a summer time, when we lost our lines / Between the birds and bees / Buzzing in the blue sky, till the full moon rise…”



Published: SATURDAY November 8th 2014


“Hang all the mistletoe / I'm gonna get to know you better, yeah / This Christmas / And as we trim the tree / How much fun it's gonna be together, yeah, ha /This Christmas…”

Prelude to the climatic finale this year furnish the atmos. Christina Aguilera sings the GUIOPERA staple for the first time this season. The sidewalk is embossed in a caramel like embellishment of Aleisha’s Imaginarium…at the table outside the café, Polina Rada, alone and sedate when it comes to her feelings. Aleisha almost tip toes past the Princess of New Global Realm, who no doubt reminisces about that very special Christmas when she was young.

The town’s folk pass by in a rapid file pretending not to see the star unaware of the scene she is causing by being mortal in full view of everyone.

Aleisha nears the door of the café and reaches for the door to open it…unexpected recoil of the handle on the locked door when she grabbed it gives Aleisha a fright. It’s enough to give her nerves a bit of a flutter for a moment or two. A bit embarrassed Aleisha shields light on the glass and peers into the café…just when she thought it was safe to breathe a sigh of relief a loud blast of a horn, jolts the edgy woman again. Deep breathes follow in hope that the anxious moments post mild traumatic situation do not escalate. Aleisha focuses on a spot on the window which begins to polarise light that creates ripples on the glass. An Alchemy Glitch is a disturbance in the dimensions or even the story. Essentially it is when reality and fiction intersect.


Sam closes the door of SUZUKI Swift as on his HUAWEI the alarm is raised that the LATEST UPLOAD of the SASBWAH has already made it onto the internet and is creating Spark traffic and Vodafone data as humans post their pet peeves and skite their lives away on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Google+.

The bustle breaks through the preoccupation with how the story is going. Across the road behind the medium barrier a traffic jam from the rubberneckers dominates the scene, car horns and obscenities involved in mid-air collisions, the make-do havoc of a chaos in a bottle spread over the street corner on which Polina Rada the etfiction star acts like she’s at her wit's end. She sits oblivious to the machination which she is the fall guy. Or is she? Sam is miffed to be certain that this is happening in the MindMorph Dimension?

Then his priorities hit him square in the guts. The wedding in one month and two weeks from today is what he should be concerned about and not an imaginary friend from childhood who one day came to life. An event that turned Sam’s whole life upside down, but which he’s somehow managed to handle and cope with up till now.

A super loud truck horn on this side of the barrier, almost bowls Sam over, then the wind from the beast as it flies by nearly blows Sam back to the curb. After absorbing the shock, Sam sways for a bit and then hears the music. It was if the close call with the Mac truck was a wakeup call the shock to the system and reminder of one’s mortality. Back behind the SUZUKI, leaning back on it Sam massages his temples in search of clarity.


Alexvale raises his head that hung over the back of the front seat of the 1965 Mark 1 Ford Cortina all night. “Ouch!” Rokov massages the stiffness in his neck.

Stretched out on the back seat, Page, who insisted they tough it out in the Cortina, rather than pay $12.00 for a bed in a dorm with tourist chicks something like “penance for our sins” Rokov can recall…

In the surrounds of civility, humility regenerates itself. Luscious and moist feelings, warm and cordial emanate from the speaker in the sky.

“…Presents and cards are here / My world is filled with cheer and you, oh yeah / This Christmas / And as I look around / Your eyes outshine the town, they do…”

“Aarrghhh” Page in the back seat wakes with a snarl till the tune in the air registers. Rokov fans the PIRATE’s bad breath away.  “I says you’re better off as a ventriloquists for the moment…”

“ha-ha-ha, come give me a kiss you shit for brains two bob con,” Page, all breathy over exaggerates.

Out of nowhere, a loud blasting noise followed by the earth shaking as a truck zooms by nearly causes Page to go through the roof of the car. He hits his head when he jumps from the fright and then he sinks like a bag of cement missing the seat and ending up on the floor in between the front and back seats.  “Fuck me days! Please Ms Aguilera save me from this never ending torture….”

“See what happens?” Rokov jokingly taunts his mentor in agony jammed in behind the seat he leans back on for added pleasure. As Rokov loses himself in the fun of catching up again with Page the PIRATE, he senses something shift in the equilibrium. Maybe it was a real opportunity for him and Page to rectify the past or lay it to rest and move on as far as what happened to Polina? Page was merely a placeholder in someone’s dream. Most likely his or it could be a grieving Polina’s dream? Rokov decides to try and put a positive spin on the situation at hand. He looks over at the café and Polina is no longer there. At the door a woman, typical of the Poet Soldiers’ leading lady peers through the window which begins to bend and warp.

“Quick, its here…I mean over there.” Within seconds Rokov is on the sidewalk and opening the back door of the Cortina which Page falls out of.

The quick thinking kid spots someone else further down the street, “You here for no reason, just part of some crazy fucked up story?”

“Sam!” The response makes perfect sense. “Samuel?” Rokov shouts back for confirmation of the name he’s been hearing all the time.

“You just get a nasty shock or surprise of some sort?” Rokov fires another question at Sam as he pulls Page to his feet and begins running across the street, “follow me!”

To the yuletide airs by Christina in the atmos, Rokov an opportunist if you haven’t yet guessed seizes the opportunity to make himself invaluable, irreplaceable and above all instrumental in the cause he too was born to be a part of. Dodging traffic, with Page and Samuel of CHURCH in tow, Alexvale Rokov III of London town the first one to break Lina’s heart causes calamity on the highway similar to the chaos he delivered as a car thief on the autobahn. The concaving glass window of the cafe still ripe as the entry point into the Dimension Forks will at any second present a fissure of an entry point according to code confirmed on the pages of, cross referenced by headlines at and…car horns, screeching tyres and sliding cars that don’t actually crash into each other amass to mayhem in the name of a good cause….

“…Fireside oh is blazing bright / We're carolling through the night, yeah / And this Christmas will be, oh / A very special Christmas for me, yeah / And this Christmas will be / A very special Christmas for me, oh, oh…”


Published: SUNDAY November 9th 2014


The turnstiles of time at the Dimension Forks whir in a haze as they spin out of control, a sign that there has been a conniption of sorts in the fabrication or the recalibration of the Schedule of Sequences or the flow of scenes in the End-to-End Saga. Off the rails is another way of looking at what has happened. Something in the delicate and intricate handiwork of the manifesto written “live” has been altered by someone other than the creator of the work….


“…Gather people / Lady divine she sings / Spread your love / Give this whole world a smile…”

Aleisha takes her first step into the dimension she’s only ever read or dreamt of. Maurice White of Earth Wind & Fire fame is up in here. Merriment from his lolly pop Rhythm Blues for the children of the SFD—is sweet as molasses and dangerously infectious that one has to be immunised against the music’s deadly effect. The good feelings rain down on the streets where the citizens have turned out in numbers to revive the REPRO. Newsflash in the sky that Anna Nicole AKA Aleisha Smith of CHURCH landed in the latest cargo shipment and could well be among them, breaks to the people’s euphonious delight.

Introverted in many ways but extroverted in others, the tingling sensations of what she could get up to on her holiday in the dream dimension almost suffocates Aleisha in a mind boggling high. Scenarios better left to one’s imagination, or in this case behind closed doors of “Aleisha’s Imaginarium” the sign that’s being hoisted up the front of a building by workers in white overalls. The sight of her name on a building takes Aleisha’s breath away.

Meanwhile for as far as the eye can see from the top floor of the building where Afanasy watches the mayhem begin to gather latent energy from unfulfilled promise and threadbare and frayed storylines less than cliff-hangers when followers begin to descend upon the Oasis that is Neon City, now that the REPRO is back on….


Sam opens his eyes…he knows who he’s meant to be holding. The Alchemy Glitch had rendered the previous thread defunct like a tree stump in a baron wasteland laden with other tree stumps destined to a dwarfed existence. Speaking of which the dwarf as a cave man camouflaged by the many tree stumps, stumps Sam as to what he might be doing here…Sam has to detach himself carefully and slowly to see who he is being clingy with in this story. “Phew,” Sam exclaims he sees it’s Bella in his arms but Bella does not want to look up at him in fact she hugs him closer. “Just hold me please…”

Back in and amongst the stumps, the dwarf acts suspicious not aware that Sam has spotted him, the dwarf jumps from the base of one stump to the next.

“Oi! what ya doin?” Sam calls out to let the dwarf know he can see him.

“Feeling good about ones’ self. Not every day one’s taller than a tree.”

“But they’re dead, stumped, chopped down, unfair competition mate.” Sam is eager to engage the dwarf in an effort to find out what he might be up to and of course look for clues as to what he and Bella are doing here.

“Let me and my fantasy be and I promise I won’t mess with your thread of the story this time.” Immediately the dwarf offers up vital information that he tampered with Sam’s story.

“So you fucked with my story aye?” Sam laughs off the dwarf’s confession. “By the way, where’s the Vegas show girl?”

The dwarf stops still, frozen almost as if something serious or even offensive and non pc had been said. Or, had the dwarf horribly shart (a blend of a shit and a fart, according to the Urban Dictionary) himself beneath his cave man cloak?

“Don’t tell me,” Sam begins to mock the dwarf.

“No I did NOT shart myself…can you hear that?” The dwarf holds a hand up to his ear. In the distance a swarming front of harmony rises from the ground like a luminous sphere that engulfs the forgotten planet in an ebullient bubble of joy, preserved by the music aided by images from Neon City in the sky and the celebrations happening there….

“By the way, you’re taller than your average plant or blade of grass if you haven’t noticed.” Sam feels obligated to leave everyone he meets in a better mood than when they met him.

To which the dwarf snaps, “The show girl, she was from the Imaginarium. It all depends on what you want to see my friend,” the snarly little person is agitated to say the least.

“Who you talking to hon?” A weepy Bella with her head still buried in Sam’s chest asks.

“To myself hon. I’m practising my monologue for when we get to Neon City, and opportunity presents itself.” The optimist is peached to be perked on a fine day in the SFD, as described in the music that fills the once stagnant air of ignoramus….

“…Happy people / Life is a symphony / We're dancing on a cloud / Moving to every beat…”


Earlier that day, much earlier that unforgettable day, at the darkest hour of that memorable day—the moment just before the break of day Afanasy, a picture of cool limbers onto the dock at the wharf.

Up there in the stratosphere, the cargo ship or CS with entities from all over the universe begins its descent into the SFD. The spec which will become a fiery ball the size of small cargo ship i.e. the Falcon Millennium carries some of the most wanted and unwanted characters in the universe. Over 50 billion entities or souls in their embryonic state housed in a marble like encasing for inter-dimensional travel are on board the CS.

Afanasy whose job it is to ensure that the least amount of deviants, thieves, and no hopers get into the dream dimension a destination famous for its fantastical possibilities for holiday makers, film makers, dreamers and psychologists and their psychologists and their psychologists’ psychologists. In keeping to his brief Afanasy did his bit to help preserve the unequivocal paradise for the parasitic and the highly self-absorbed in a morose and hyperbole state of continuous surprise, epitomised by wide eyed statements like “Wow!” “Holy Non chaffing skinny jeans,” and the all-time favourite, “Skinny Latte with love heart swirly on top, not of my wretched one but of this young lovely’s whose life I’m about to ruin…” Whatever the banter, it didn’t change a thing for Afanasy the Head of SFD Control Unit. His job was to cull the cursed souls or entities before they inhabited, stole, hijacked a body or shell at dawn of the Dream Dimension.

Speaking of which, like moths to the flame or more aptly lambs to the slaughter the locals in their numbers were starting to arrive. The slow start to the dawn ceremony a reprieve for Afanasy who’s been dreading the news that on board the CS is the PIRATE AKA Johnny Page, a comrade of sorts from the bad ol days down in the MindMorph Dimension. Also a tourist with hopes of getting into the SFD is Alexvale Rokov III an associate of LMLA-ink, but not just any crony, but the one who broke Polina Rada’s heart.

On a typical arrival of a CS, half to three quarters of the 7 billion population of the SFD who show up will be possessed by entities aboard the CS. Of that number, only a handful of no more than a hundred are regarded as seriously ill minded outlaws who if they entered into the SFD undetected would wreak havoc on the sub-continent of the MMD.

Afanasy a foot soldier for the Russkaya Mafiya in his younger days before he defected via the KGB on a deal with Mr Businessman of the CIA relaxes himself through hypnosis. Meaning he will enter into a sub terrain of the sub conscious taking him two layers beneath the MMD, a contra-mirrored plateau of the state of euphoria making it inverse, obverse, converse, whichever way one chose to broach the topic of inverse dimensions—operatives of Afanasy’s calibre—differentiated and knew how to manage the layers of mind, combined with Afanasy’s appetite and prowess at hand to hand combat, it set him aside from other agents. So when he checked into the SFD when he checked out of the MMD, the role of Head of the SFD Control Unit was a perfect fit for the almost perfect agent.

In an almost pitch black spot away from where the citizens congregate Afanasy’s eyes roll back into his skull exposing the whites of his eyes and signalling the suppleness of a mind ready to accept and believe what’s necessary to win at all costs. His face is lit up by the flamed CS which is truly within the SFD’s atmosphere, it’s tale of gasses almost surrounds planet as it completes another orbit of the SFD.

In the moist and dewy early morning air, faint reprisals from the past—limerick and verse—adverse to the cause stir doubt and pose pity on oneself. Afanasy seeks affirmation from past situations in which he has triumphed over adversity. One instant in particular stands out. Flashbacks of the detail which put him near and close to Polina prevail. It was her eighth birthday party, her first in the US. And the Network sent Afanasy to ensure that everything was kosher. Dwindling seconds means he has to grasp a cloak and augment the here and now with that cloak….

The heat from the circling cargo ship as it nears the horizon is scorching. But the citizens sweat with joy that they are here to witness the birth of an eon in which a REPRO with a magnanimous and altruistic story with a happy ending could be in the making with the arrival of a befitting and above all benevolent star. The ensuing music, escapes from Afanasy’s recollection of the Polina’s eighth birthday party in the MMD. Maurice White sent to clear the path—his conscience, or the adjacent mirror over the sheath of guilt—for Afanasy as in the western skies the cargo ship skims the Alps at the Dimension Forks…

“…Family reunion / Hot fun in summer / We're jamming / We're under the starlight / Till the break of dawn..”


Published: FRIDAY November 14th 2014


“Help me / How would you gon' do love this way? / I work so hard for you every day / While you out late night do what you do…”

The driving force that is Paloma Faith pulsates in the pipelines of the dimension—data, sound, images and bytes of sic verbatim, encapsulated in homogenous quotation marks, the verifiable verbiage—verbose, vert and steeped in the naivety of this scripted concoction—conjured for the Warmth in the sky. Long story short, Paloma Faith and her song “Can't Rely on You” raises the roof and the temperature, the planet over. Never mind global warming, the future is expedited by the humbling and rumbling bottom end of the tune that melts façades and faces. It causes the citizens to break out in dance. In supermarket queues, in offices, on building sites the phenomenon spreads like wild fire, Paloma and her firebrand Brit Soul/funk populates the previous vacant souls of the citizens with molten larvae of a nu-kinda feeling with oomph!

“…I just can't rely on you / I just can't rely on you / Yeah, you got that good stuff but that don't last (no way) / So I just can't rely on you…”

Aleisha oversees the refurbishment of the Old Dive Bar in Vegas, which once belonged to Johnny Shawshank, a reincarnation of a Poet Soldier, who some say is Jon Pierre Solomon. The energising vibrations from the sweeping hysteria catches Aleisha off guard…the trained dancer innocently begins to move to the music, which doesn’t go unnoticed by the workers mostly new entrants into the dimension that arrived on the same cargo ship as Aleisha did. The pheromone like effect when Aleisha lets herself go is intoxicating for the male dominated crew from different dimensions here for several reasons. The rhythmic thrusting of pelvic parts in animalistic manner is contagious to say the least. Luckily the arrival of Afanasy the local kill joy or law enforcement of the day puts an ending to any amorous advances between the employer and her new employees.

“Dancing, aye?” Afanasy asks the rhetoric question in an unprepared rhetoric he hasn’t yet quite sorted out, so maybe he shouldn’t go accusing people of such condemning stuff like, “Dancing aye?” Aleisha paraphrases and waits for Afanasy to save himself from his self-made mire.

“Yes, it was dancing and not fully clothed mating and sexing that you were doing? Correct?” The nice guy of the story offers Aleisha and her workers a way out.

“Yes, it was dancing.” Aleisha sheepishly admits as in the background muffled by all the seriousness brought on by Afanasy, the music’s bass and bottom end beckon the vivacious woman and her Latin looking workers….


Sam puts his thumb out just to say he’d tried. And another car zooms by. Not even a glance in the rear vision mirror at Sam and Bella who have been walking for the entire night and now the best part of the morning.

“There you go babe, we’re nothing. Not even half decent folk who deserve a ride to civilisation or nearest township…” Sam bemoans the arduous trek along the outer regions of the Dimension Forks.

“God, your dramatic…it’s the freaking wastelands where the lepers and the God forsaken roam. And we’re dressed as cave men if you haven’t noticed.” Bella is condemning as usual, ridiculing him and his every move.

“I like to think that we’re Fred and Mildred or Barney and Betty babe,” Sam is eager to catch a decent wave of his wife to be’s fluctuating and tidal moods.

On the Second Horizon a deluge of corruption and deception rocks and disintegrates the fabric of society in a montage that spans the history of mankind from the prehistoric to modern man…disturbing as it may seem, it is treated with the disdain it deserves, like a snort of ammonia to make one cry so they might feel better?  To this tangent, Sam and Bella march unperturbed or bothered by the fact they are a long way from home wearing next to nothing walking down a foreign road to who knows where?

Oh! And to the theme song for this unfathomable fable at work, courtesy of Paloma Faith…

“…Oh, Lord / How am I to ever explain / How my melted heart went right down the drain? / 'Cause if you don't want me…”


“…I just can't rely on you / I just can't rely on you…”

Paloma Faith is here too at the dawn of another day in the delirium dungeon, doing her part for the cause a collective percipience, per se. Her driving beat a chronographic device and force in the evolving stouch between sensibility and custom.

Transferrable realities are a commodity redeemable and sometimes legal tender in various dimensions—a favour is forever and when you fuck someone over it’s for an eternity—Afanasy calibrates reckoning and estimation in consideration of the showdown between he and his old foe Page the PIRATE rumoured to be on board the CS that curtails its speed on its penultimate orbit of the planet before it comes in for the landing.

The cargo ship hurtles seemingly out of control towards the dock. Frighteningly no one in the sea of people that spans coast to coast is the least bit concerned about the out of control spaceship that is about to at any second now crash land into the wharfs of Neon City where the entire population of the forgotten planet is gathered for the ritual that happens on average in MMD or earth terms, up to twenty four times a day till a REPRO starts or is revived. Survivors of a foray into the SFD say a minute on earth is a lifetime in the dream dimension, turning a fleeting daydream in class or at work into an epic of classic proportions in the SenFenide Dimension.

 “…Yeah, you got that good stuff but that don't last (no way) / So I just can't rely on you…”



Published: SUNDAY November 16th 2014


Silhouetted by a glorious red and orangey sunset, two young women lean against the hood of a pick-up truck at the edge of a cliff. They look out over the vast ocean which is like a glass table top for the magnificent sky screen on which the virtuoso and final iteration and therefore gospel of the story unfolds…maybe….

Aleisha Smith and Polina Rada kindred spirits rock out to the Eagles, the soundtrack to the REPRO in the sky. At the cliff’s edge overlooking the Spangled Ocean of Shilling Faux Pas, the two farmhands can relax, just the two of them and their truck “Betsy.”

John Page the PIRATE and Silvia Rada the latest inter-dimensional imports for the sake of the flagging economy trail blaze across the sky in true—Bonnie and Clyde, Mickey and Mallory Knox and Pumpkin-Ringo and Honey Bunny-Yolanda—style. The daring pair dumbfound their captive audience with their anti-societal behaviour. Their attraction can be attributed to love’s redeeming qualities, which the show’s announcer in a booming voice then quickly disclaims with a reminder for the folks at home, “Do not try this at home folks!”

Out of someone’s Imaginarium comes the latest story to grip the lives of those who dwell in the inverted reality of the SenFenide Dimension. The super pseudo-doco by the artist formerly referred to as the cut-throat-creative (one suspects) from its unheard of schizo-seesawing nature is the tonic or the catalyst for change, as it were. Challenging the norms and redefining what’s comprehensible as a “story” and conceivable as to have “happened” all making for a fantastical film based “actual events” the latest offering by LMLA-ink the discoverers of the forgotten planet is an offering of catatonic excitement for the once morose masses that fill every enclave and vantage point to get a better view of the story in the sky.


Alex Rockvale Jr from Kwip County, son of a famous rancher Alexander Rockvale Snr is transfixed by the guy his age in the sky. “Fake motherfucker,” Samuel, Alex’s best friend’s voice wakes Alex from a scenario in which he and Page the Pirate the outlaw are back to back, held up in some hide out down Mexico way. Outside law enforcement from another era have the place surrounded—all of this in the sky for the hungry citizens of the SFD to watch and remember him by.

“The guy’s a clown, who the fuck calls himself a pirate, and has nil paraphernalia? No stump leg, or eye patch, hook for hand. Motherfucker’s as pirate as my ass is white…” Samuel to his friends, isn’t exactly black, but nor is he white.

“He has the spirit of a Pirate,” Alex an A grade guy in every way shares with his pal Sam, also an A grade student what it is about the Pirate that makes him so endearing to the citizens of the REPRO.

“He epitomises Cavalier,” Alex suggests.

“If you fucking ask me he ate the fucking caviar and then proceeded to shit it out his anus, now you dumb white folk proclaim it cavalier. Truth is the caviar conman of all time is unrepentant and defiant as ever against detractors and those who defame him and his name…” Samuel realises that the more he talks about the Pirate the more he begins to sound as if he’s a follower and not one of the self-professed haters of John Page a stow away on the CS, who had overnight taken the SFD by storm. The sensation was amazing and cathartic almost—a deep eradication of the innermost soul-puss, if you like. With each word the feeling grew till it was an overwhelming sense of enablement and entitlement in one big bag of laughing gas one just had to inhale!

“Page is a motherfucker. So is the Pirate. Page is the Pirate so he is doubly a motherfucker of the massive proportions. Motherfucker’s such a motherfucker that ordained motherfuckers meet him and say, “Wow, now that’s a motherfucker…”” Samuel finds the antidote for his hate is freedom higher than helium and the heavens combined.


“John…P-page...” the kid no older than the story he’s about to hatch right before your eyes, stutters his name. In the background the Eagles, and the “New Kid in Town” an anthem of sorts for the vagabond who’s landed in his third big city in as many seconds. Out front of the roadside diner, a white 1970 Dodge Challenger almost an exact replica of the vehicle Kowalski was charged with delivering in the film the “Vanishing Point.” The Dodge would be the exact same car as in the movie made in the MMD, if it weren’t for the daring babe, with her arm hanging out the window. Silvia Rada, the daring babe waits patiently for Page.

Afanasy a cop with mid-range capabilities but with a sterling selection of morals, is tired of being the good guy. Up there in the sky screen, the Pirate an incarnation of an entity much worse than his nickname for the sake of the story being told in the REPRO, always has the last say and always gets the girl.

To be fair to the Pirate, he was a just an average guy with top of the line array of sensory skills and perceptive qualities and he had a nice way about him if the truth be said. Orphaned when his teenage mother was forced to give up one of her twin boys because she just couldn’t carry two babies on the streets of New York where she was homeless in the early ‘70s. In fact if you looked at the situation the young mother left John at the orphanage, a warm place where he would be fed and looked after, which could mean—she favoured him over James the son she took with her—and eventually the pair ended up in Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin.

Afanasy brushes aside any sympathy for the vagabond posing as a Warren Beatty kinda Olive Stone Tarantino esque loveable baddy as he thinks about calling for back up, but then he remembers that right now he’s the only one. Both his recently appointed deputies were on leave, one was on parental leave and the other was on maternity leave. And so the situation which could well escalate into a classic Mexican standoff at High Noon would have to wait for another day on which the SFD Control Unit was bettered manned. And for now, Afanasy would have to opt for a more covertish/stealthy approach to the festering situation with foetal implications for two seemingly unrelated issues, the economy and the mental wellbeing of the citizens when it came to rest and recreation for it is indeed the REPRO that satisfies both festering boils on the already blemished and scarred arse of this once standout stellar society behind the 2nd Horizon.


Published: SUNDAY November 23rd 2014



Aleisha, as the proprietor of “Aleisha’s Imaginarium” checks a final time that everything is sparkling and shiny for the guests that line up out front, down the street and around the corner…On the big screen down the front of the old theatre which has been restored, refitted and redecorated to Aleisha’s specification, the still image extracted from Aleisha’s memory. The picture of her and Polina Rada at the cliff’s edge leaning against the beat up pickup truck, is the backdrop for the evening. Déjà vu is not the issue here, but it is recurrent in a warm, safe and familiar way for the newest proprietor on the block.

Being invited to the SenFenide Dimension happens in two guises. The first is as a possible lead character in a plausible REPRO and the second is as a Vendor Offering Vast Appeal—VOVA. Of the two, the latter is the trickier option, considering that neither candidate/organisation is conscious of the decision until after their inaugural foray into the Dream Dimension which can be simulated in the cloaking device, or the GUIOPERA in the MMD. Meaning both are unwitting participants who however over the course of tests have shown high probability that they would, a) be a natural fit in a hostile environment, b) be a grounding if not calming influence on proceedings and environment, making themselves invaluable to all parties, and c) be able to provide expert unbiased analysis on events taking place, and above all, be loyal to their handler regardless of which side of the Network recruited them.

Aleisha a typical first timer in the SFD is none the wiser about her purpose in the REPRO that rages on in the streets of Neon City. The natural laws of the jungle govern the cycles of the streets, for every action there is a reaction, multiply that theory a thousand times and chaos rules supreme…deep in the mirth of a crowd a pickpocket makes a grab for his next victim’s wallet only for a vigilante dressed as a pirate to grab the thieving hand and chop it off with a machete. The falling hand is swallowed up in the concaving ground that opens up isolating the pickpocket who dives to save his hand…the only other way of controlling the once docile deciles of the forgotten planet is through the story of “Page Born a Pirate.” The title flashes across the sky above Aleisha as the crowds begin to enter into her open air coliseum.


Samuel wasn’t born a hater, he became that way when the haters got to him, which they do eventually. You see haters normally have nothing to live for. They’re aimless, looking for the next thing to knock or mock, never had the chance, or risked anything to advance themselves in the cauldron that is life. You can through a blanket over the haters and they’d happily suffocate in their own ignorance and drown in their sparkling sickly sweet spumante wine. No need to send a search party, their carcasses will spawn new haters to carry on their suffocating and self-effacing tradition….

Alex on the other hand, was born a hater who crossed the road, when one day he saw the light on the other side. It was no imaginary light it was in the form of a rainbow right after the rain that followed a ten year drought. Just so happens that his father was a farmer so the event was even more cataclysmic and an upheaval from his old ways.

Catatonically speaking the drift in the room was free but also whelming to an extent. The submergence of the mind in numbing substances was a slow seamless process. Down on the street citizens queued up in a circular strand that wound its way around Neon City. Followers and haters alike for the moment waiting side by side to get into the latest Imaginarium to emerge in the myriad of mindless aquariums filled with fodder, folly and foolishness, as far as Sam and to a lesser degree Alex was concerned.

Fully knowing the extent of his powers, Sam who came from humble beginnings wonders if he is able to effect change on proceedings. The PIRATE was in town, and so was ALEISHA a burlesque dancing entity who’s Imaginarium it was that townsfolk were flocking to en masse. To impose oneself on the natural flow of events of a REPRO is a meaningless act. It was as meaningful to fellow man as claiming the air that you breathe or laying claim to the time you perilously waste in vanquish of making fellow man believe that you are indeed an entity whose name should be capitalised or whose face and body should grace the blue black sky upon which all life gaze for inspiration.


“Just relax and look at me…” Page tells the cashier behind the counter, who would be categorised as shy MILF, as opposed to an aggressive Cougar …“I aint a robber…well, I am but I’m not. It’s just a part I’m playing. If you know what I mean…” Page continues with his listless lines, which the thirty something woman seems to be enjoying.

“Wow, girls! It’s the Pirate. Johnny Page from the Spangled Ocean of Shilling Faux Pas on dry land, I think he wants to hold me up ladies?” Trish from her name tag hollas out in her deep southern accent to whoever is out back behind the drooping curtain.

“I had you for an unsuspecting MILF, now I’m thinking seek em out Cougar from the Deep South,” Johnny always does his best to get down and parlez at a local level whenever he can.

A Data Pharaoh or holder of the key to an operational information gateway to the other side is hard to find. A Data Pharaoh is to Emotional Techno Fiction, what the Oracle is to the Matrix. And if one was so lucky to successfully identify one, then all the rewards that come with meeting one of the key figures of the concept shall be reaped.

Page a faithful servant of the cause regardless of his shortcomings and misgivings about what it is exactly that he and his fellow operatives fight for, doesn’t get to smile often in his line of work.

The sagging Technicolor curtain moves as a precursor to something imminent. It was all over for Page even before it had begun in this recant of the tragedy that is his wretched life.

The middle aged minx which Page had all wrong moves to the side of the curtain, which balloons and then the first shot protrudes and then rips through the unfathomable fabric that masks disbelief.

Page can only watch as a hole the size of football is made in his swaying torso. The flashing rebuff of failures and mini junkets of unholy triumphs—his life—cascade before his eyes. Silvia’s shrieking screams from the car park work their way into the pandemonium which only he and his woman are experiencing as the curtain moves again and another shot comes to sure up another PCWC deal by Tone Horroh with the east, that Page or for that matter, the rest of LMLA-ink were not aware of….In the distance, Christmas bells swell the pent up tides in the people’s eyes as Page manages to stagger to his resting place left of stage in the perfect mid-morning sky, without blemish, or a single proud cloud.


Published: SUNDAY November 30th 2014


Following an Alchemy Glitch the SenFenide Dimension shuts down momentarily. Some say it’s to mourn the loss of life, which in the SFD is a WIPE. As the name suggests the process involves wiping away a particular memory, normally something horrific or damaging that the entity needs to purge—impressions of a catastrophe or betrayal—so they may move forward in other dimensions. Looking down on Neon City and its surrounding districts, the post conniption procedure allowing recalibration and rejuvenation of both spirit and focus appears nothing more than lights out on a Sunday night, apart from a few that flee scenes of their crimes maybe?


Aleisha hurries out the front door of her fine establishment. The siren warning citizens of a pending glitch wanes in the wild. A lone wolf atop the horizon howls at the 2nd moon. A cracking sound causes Aleisha to cower and then cover her head—the sign with her name across the front of the building she flees—falls, luckily one side is still secure. Aleisha glances over her shoulder as she flees the place she put so much into and had grand plans for. …the sound of her sandals as they flap on the cobblestones bemusing when you consider, she was in heels when the siren sounded.

Aleisha notices the change in climate as she accepts that she’s much younger than in the last story. She keeps looking over her shoulder as she keeps running. Her gown and lingerie crumble into fragments before they return to the dust, from whence they forbiddingly came. Something’s prohibitive to her running action, a thing, fury and fluffy thing. It probably has a name as it is dressed for the occasion most likely in keeping with its personality. Aleisha’s eye sight catches up with her, and then he mind stops whirring as the wheels find traction and cognitive and creative powers congregate to drive the ensemble of Id, ego, and super-ego otherwise known as the psychic apparatus as defined by Sigmund Freud.

Ivory keys on a piano tinkle perfectly in the dusky hue overwhelming the Dream Dimension moments before life on the forgotten planet reconvenes. The resumption of play so to speak is always at dusk, which some commentators mistake for the break of day. But it is most definitely in the twilight of day during which recalibration for a new story happens, even though the ceremony for the arrival of the cargo ship takes place at dawn as far as the citizens are concerned. The tune is familiar to Aleisha who pauses to catch her breath. In her left hand a scruffy looking doll, “Bella,” Aleisha hears herself say the name as she recognises the Christmas carol sneaking up on participants, competitors, conspirators and consumers of the greatest story in the world. She holds the doll close, as she fights the tears of joy that she is once again relevant and important to the narrator. Aleisha closes her eyes as the recalibration of the planet begins in another Bublé moment for the ages.


Sam and Alex exit the plush hotel at the top end of Neon Strip. Up on the 1st Horizon sky screen, replays of the Pirate’s last fatal moments splatter realism upon proceedings. The images from 720 StratPhere cameras everywhere, from mites in borer holes in wood to head lice to nostril hair offer a morbid rendition of Page’s last breathe.

“Catch ya in another REPRO bro…” Alex grips Sam’s hand as the pals’ part ways before the recalibration of scenes is complete.

“Not if I catch you first bro…” Sam is thankful he got to meet a shell with on-board memory. “Likewise dude,” Alex pulls his good friend close and then he quickly turns and runs.

The secret is when the lights go out, is to get as far away as possible from where you were. This way you minimise the possibility of a “past” catching up with you.

Smidgens of a locum tale perpetuated by an unreliable narrator used to fool the masses while the real story was being hatched in close quarters with its truest and most authentic stars can be traced in the effervescent atmos that begins to change as Sam watches his friend disappear into the fading murkiness of the past. Christmas bells chime effortlessly in the cool airs of grace that effuses clemency. While behind him a whole new landscape transpires in gargantuan portions that dwarf the biggest name in the Dream Dimension. SAMUEL, the name purports prosperity in the sky, to which the citizen’s applause is unanimous.

Snowflakes linger in a stratosphere where dreams are forged on the abundance of faith and foresight on behalf of those who have fallen by the wayside in pursuit of their dreams. Michael Bublé articulates their fancies in song. Pipe dreams and aspirations mingled in moments of truth that the  sting of death cannot defeat, as utterance of remembrance a holy victory for those who have perished in physical dimensions but live on in the ethereal surrounds of the SenFenide Dimension.

“I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love / Even more than I usually do / And although I know it's a long road back / I promise you…”


Afanasy shakes his head profusely as he rids himself of any residue, which might manifest itself in guilt, doubt or even complacency. Images of Page in the sky dying, over and over again, just a placeholder as far as Afanasy was concerned. Time and Space Raiders or TASRs burrowed their way into the life layer or the surface of the SFD and managed to successfully hijack a promising REPRO. Trish a burrowing rodent virus and other torrents nested in Trish killed Page because that’s what multi-dimensional viruses do.

Afanasy blessed with on-board memory and enough processing capability to fathom, encrypt, decrypt and decipher what most well-adjusted humans at the age of twenty-three are able to, massages his neck and then he stretches the muscles left and then right. With this much clarity in such a languid and dense sphere Afanasy more or less created his own role in the Dream Dimension when he arrived on CS many eons ago.

The orbiting CS seems to be travelling a lot quicker than previous ships as it scrapes the mountain ranges to the west. Then the fledgling craft grazes more pasture before it descends to its ultimate destination where the masses, none of them recalling what has happened previously due to the WIPE, await the opportunity to be that shell that will house that special entity that sparks a tale for entire planet to marvel about.

Afanasy in his SFD Control Unit garb reminds one of Judge Dredd unmasked finds the “spot” in the middle of the dock, where a newly inhabited or possessed shell naturally gravitates to. It’s like for a moment as the spirit, soul and body become acquainted all else is lost. It’s during these precious moments that Afanasy gets to look deep into the staggering shell’s entity and decide whether or not they’re positive addition to society or negating factor in the bigger scheme, picture or plan…

From where he stands Afanasy has access to all the trouble makers, which doesn’t necessarily mean that the entity will turn out bad. The tourists from the MMD who just want to experience a vacation in the SFD will instantly inhabit a shell on touch down which Afanasy will never hear a word from or about them. They fairly much integrate into the fabric of the SFD society quite nicely. On the other hand, the troublesome or as far as Afanasy was concerned, the attention grabbing entities that are often rejected by the normal shells on numerous attempts end up in the spot where Afanasy positions himself.

For most of the time it’s a quick affair that serves several purposes. Watching Afanasy a fluid fighter with panache cull rogue entities is quite the spectacle. Secondly it reinforces control in the minds of the already placid citizens and it allows Afanasy to test out the capacity of each core cast member for the REPRO. Just because Afanasy challenges an entity doesn’t mean he is looking to cull them….

On the ground five entities that rebound like golden and molten marbles as their attempts to enter a body are rejected continuously, like pin balls that judder as flippers flip and they bounce from one shell to the next, every bounce bringing the entity perilously close to extinction.

Afanasy already has his strategy ready for if and when the remaining entities inhabit a shell. He will round them up as a herd of wild animals and treat them accordingly till they submit to the law of the land. This was his intention till the faintest of nuances—residue in the air—suggests that this crop of visitors will be different. Regardless if this intuition were correct or of folly the argument for a softer approach was fully supported by the music filtrating the dimension, citizens and their thoughts….

“…I'll be home for Christmas / You can count on me / Please have snow and mistletoe / And presents by the tree…”


Published: SATURDAY December 6th 2014


“I feel so bad, I've got a worried mind / I'm so lonesome all the time / Since I left my baby behind / On Blue Bayou…”

A fourteen year old Aleisha promises her rag doll Bella that if she got her chance in the REPRO, their theme song would be the one they dance to in her step mother—Imogen’s—full length mirror, dressed in her Dad’s “latest’s” clothes.

Linda Ronstadt’s hit song Blue Bayou sails through the house on an aptly marvellous November spring day down under. The blue sky and mellow spread of clouds permeate the will of the crying willow upon proceedings of the highest order, when the LATEST UPLOAD juts out from the rest of the dim-witted wallow on a literary skyline that has seen brighter days.

“Portentous beauty, sickening amount of attention,” the evident talk seeps undetected from Bella’s motley mouth and Aleisha holds her close to her so she might translate for those of us less communicative or sensitive to the arts of the forbidden—the hidden elements of their craft. Aleisha panders to Bella’s every whim, it’s what her dad does to Imogen and the long list of portentous beauties that came before Imogen—a nice enough person if you could only sutcha stitch her voluptuous lips together and permanently shut her smouldering eyes that twinkle in the dark. Aleisha in a smock dress fit for a mamma-cass smothers her rag doll in a purposeful pat that strokes the long haired idiot, her father brought back with him from his voyages abroad.

Thank God for Linda Ronstadt on the gramophone and that pesky little Sam on the f3quenZor which is in sleep mode at this time of day. Or else, Aleisha would go potty—a semblance of retardation—of the already autistic nature of the story that we cling to for hope, syllable by hock-able value of simile and stampeding rhinos that take passage right through the living room…Aleisha somehow snaps herself out of the slippery slope caused by her vomiting mind. She needs something to blame for her relapse, and so she holds the teddy bear dressed as a maid out in front of her, just in case someone was watching. The lyric in the offing, the gentle breeze on the rays of a forgiving sun bless this and that day in whatever state the offspring of the SASBWAH are in, today.


Polina folds the letter from Alexvale Rokov III. She enforces the crease in the letter she waited 28 days and 26 sleeps for. So excited, she couldn’t sleep a wink last night and the one before that. She uses a paper knife, blade facing down as she runs it along the crease ensuring the perforation is permanent.

Winter is the frozen curse in which time inflates itself for chilling effect. The snow painted window panes a glaring reminder of the stifling cold that embalms Polina in her bleak basement existence.

Polina’s rattling teeth bother her as the Mistress’ advice repeats itself, “No one’s gonna want an unattractive grotesque mini me, are they ladies?”

“…Saving nickels, saving dimes / Working til the sun don't shine / Looking forward to happier times / On Blue Bayou…”

Polina’s mind, adrift upon the ocean blue as prescribed by the song rendered in the yoked airs of lazy dreams and octanes of hope, buoys the doldrums of same old same old. The buoyant moments are few and far between so Lina has to put on her best concerned look which can wither in intensity perfectly into a dreamy faraway look in her eyes, so as to keep the prying Mistress at bay. Interplanetary ether folds concurrently—decisively differing the here and now from the dithering of its inverted reality—the heavenly shower flickers like fairy dust which smatters sprightly on Lina’s skin which already has goose bumps. The sensation is an out of body experience to say the least as Lina gets carried away with the fairies that hover casting definition upon the single ray of the silver moon that streaks from the heavens right into her room.


The white line of civility in the middle of the road dashes beneath the fast moving vehicle, whilst mist aimlessly folds over the hood of the 1950 Chevrolet convertible trapped in another time and place, purporting humility and solidarity in a mischievous misgiving of talent and pretension. The shiny chrome grill, the bumper, a headlight beaming in the misty conundrum and then a dead, blown lamp punctuates the opening title scene of this—the penultimate act of the only REPRO.

Behind the windscreen, an antihero moulded from casts of Brando, DeNiro, DiCaprio and only now maybe McConaughey? The coveted character solemnly steers his vessel in a story he vows he will bring to conclusion—climatic, cinematic and in clinical fashion—around which a heartfelt story can be innocently crafted.

Flapping irreverently in the mystic mist the photo of John Page, the PIRATE, pinned to the arm of the rear vision mirror. The PIRATE could well be the character that the narrator was referring to when he rattled of the opulent list of talent made up of Brando and Co in the previous stanza.

You see, heroes are made, and good guys are born. While cowards are downgraded and the dumb bad guys are your average bad guys without a hint of a howl on a full moon. Let’s be real everyone is born with a purpose, the sooner you figure out what that  purpose is in life, the better off everyone will be for it. You see, we live in an engaging, interactive and interdependent society and not a standalone pod.

Our story’s real hero has no name. He however has a theme song. And he drives a convertible at top speeds on open highways somewhere near the Dimension Forks.  Mythological murmurings or folklore of the Dream Dimension suggest that driver of the silver convertible is an anomaly in the circumspect script of the dimension—a ghost in earth terms which is impossible in the thin unsupported vapour of surreal impressionism. The hero who shall be referred to as HWAN (pronounced who-wa-a-n) which stands for Hero Without A Name, or High Speed Wan with end to end and peer to peer lateral architecture, or Hallucinations With Antibodies Nanoparticles that like it hard and fast in close confines, blah, blah, blah, I think you catch my drift—is also the ultimate conduit, independent of sanctioned comms lines, routing and vernaculars belonging to the powers that be….

In this familiar lonesome scene the antihero of many undilated scripts and unsubstantiated claims circumnavigates protocol and custom when he reaches for the radio. Twisting the turn knob clockwise he breaks with tradition, manually forcing the previously automated process—thus taking matters into his own hands, literally. He quickly seeks the frequency he remembers and on reaching his desired destination he is duly rewarded with a heart-warming reminder for all orphans across all dimensions.

“…I'm going back someday / Come what may to Blue Bayou / Where the folks are fine / And the world is mine on Blue Bayou…”

Coming into range on a periscope of paranoia that renders idle twitches as conspirators in a clandestine skit for art’s sake, a firearm waits to be touched on the passenger side of the front seat. Mat-gun-metal and a silvery-plated emblem promising serious damage on engaging a trigger mechanism. A hit man, is our HWAN, and still the folks on Blue Bayou welcome one and all with open arms—come what may…


Published: SUNDAY December 7th 2014


Aleisha dances a waltz with Bella to the elusive music in the air that has finally returned. Dim light from the space beneath the door lights the glint in her doll Bella’s eyes. Aleisha can’t quite make out all of the words to the song, something along the lines of Driving home for Christmas? The less than profound lyric however is floated upon a rather catchy melody which has the cockles of one’s heart warmed up in no time.

Downstairs Imogen and Aleisha’s dad enjoy after dinner drinks while upstairs the pubescent teen prefers the shadowy and sombre scenery flickering in the mirror, dancing unlit on her window sill—the hazy silhouettes of people a cast of ghostly players, comforting for Aleisha.

Aleisha recognises that the music is out in the open and not just in her head. She rushes to the window where she and her rag doll witnesses a transformation right before their eyes—a significant one. On cue, a falling star streaks across the sky and then a light clouded by fog cuts a beam in the opposite direction. The aerial spectacular continues when a shiny chrome grill comes into view and the music grows louder—loud enough to bring the neighbours out of their homes. The townsfolk of the modest slub on the skirts of Neon City congregate under the fantastical display in the sky, which the citizens in surrounding districts can also see, only difference is they see the show in the sky and the townsfolk of modest Ville as delivered in the REPRO.

“I'm driving home for Christmas / Oh, I can't wait to see those faces / I'm driving home for Christmas, yeah / Well, I'm moving down that line…”


Polina rushes to her window, the dusk that settles in the afternoon is perfect for the lonely orphan who prefers the whimper of the dark to the light of daylight. Abreast on a branch of the tree outside her window four birds of a colourful nature (even in this light). The breed is foreign to these parts, especially at this time of the year. The birds that frolic outside Lina’s room sense something Lina is not wise to. Lina’s eyes dart around the corners of the window seeking out a reason for the birds’ presence, and a possible cause or explanation for their excitement? Luminous spheres bounce around outside the window as Lina refocuses on what she remembers. The birds trill tweets lift her spirits as music fades in from the west. Wafting dozes of delight on the wings of birds sent to her with blessings.

Counting the days and nights till someone accepted one of her many applications for adoption had become a ho-hum affair for Lina. Counting the hours to when Alexvale’s next letter would arrive had definitely taken precedence over her need for any other kind of love.

The music that previously fluttered outside Lina’s window, had infiltrated the windows and walls of the orphanage on the skirts of Moscow. The blissful effect anchoring the sometimes determined child who waves goodbye to the birds and then she lays down on her bed making the most of the celestial moment, using the dreamy state she had incurred to peacefully send her to sleep.

“…And it's been so long / But I will be there / I sing this song / To pass the time away…”


Chris Rea’s "Driving Home for Christmas" on the radio, toasts bygone iterations, incarnations and Semi-Systems in the name of LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT. Some dialects and musings in consideration of the Maxim Axiom LTHR suggest that it was all in the name of lust, lies, levity and lunacy rather than it being a leading light in the darkest hours during the apocalyptic first decade of the 21st century following 9/11 then the GFC and through some of history’s most devastating natural disasters or Acts of God.

Dusted memories dangle in the rear vision mirror as ahead, delicate snowflakes float on whims and notions say the future is brighter than the bleak and lowly past and its pitfalls that flail by the roadside on which the convertible dashes to an ending that neither the driver, nor the patient passenger being carried along for the ride can resist.

Soon the snowy dreamscape is replaced by a parched landscape that is both bloodthirsty and unforgiving.

Lining the roadside of the wastelands on the skirts of the Dimension Forks, Lowlifes in all different guises prop up a lack lustre alternative to the narrator’s torque as he speeds along and on towards uncharted territories of an UltraIMAGINARIUM—a concoction conjured by a magnificent but not yet beautiful mind. With his right hand HWAN steadies the sawn off shotgun on his arm that steers the convertible and then he checks to see if the group up ahead in the middle of the road are who he suspects, or more accurately, fears, and if they are going to move out of his way?

In the searing heat of a desert, four characters occupy the middle of the road…Samuel Able runs his fingers over outlines of a fresh tattoo on the inside of his arm. Who he is? Sam a drug dealer has a fair idea of the soul of his being, or the essence of his entity. What he has become? Is an entirely different to him three other kids in their late teens to early twenties, dressed like men possessed, posing as their favourite role models from the movies. Sam doesn’t want to be the first to admit that he’s new on the scene so therefore he might be a little wet behind the ears. Sam runs his hand up his right arm but then he curls his shoulders forward at the same time he feels the piece below his left armpit he feels the support of the holster wrapped around his torso.

Alexander Cain a quick healer and hardnosed bounty hunter picks the dry but still sallow scab off his tattoo. “Steady on now Samuel Able, you’re my commodity at this minute. I have invested hard long hours in tracking your ass down. One wrong move and your brains are splattered on the grill of that car by virtue or on this here road we stand—circumstance of an unforeseen accident…Ya hear boy?”

Johnny Seth, a smooth operator from down under and chosen leader of the pack, “Unforeseen circumstance is you being born stupid Alex of thin vale. Accident could be us coming together as a unit. And by virtue I say you shut the fuck up and smile for the hidden camera in that there wild, wild-wild, rabbit’s arse…” Alexander turns to see where the rabbit is, it’s enough time for James still dressed for the month of Movember—porn star stache and a beige Salvo safari suit complete with red felt pen sale price still stapled to the short cuffed sleeve—and also an expert in hand to hand combat to step forward and nonchalantly place one measly finger somewhere on the unruly one’s shoulder, instantly putting Alex into a deep slumber of a sleep.

James Adams a benevolent soul, “Give me a hand,” James requests help from his three pals as Alex’s body slumps into James’ arms. “Here’s his meds,” Samuel searches for something in his pocket after the lines came to him. Johnny the middle man for everything already has his hand held out for the pills Sam doesn’t even know if he has.

Meanwhile back behind the wheel HWAN recoils from his stubborn status and his broad shouldered stance, bringing the firearm down to be by his side rather than a symbol of his approach as he passes by the four unlikely figures dressed in ripped and shredded black tie attire and one in a beige safari suit from the Salvation Army from the red felt pen price tag still attached to the cuffed sleeve. The likely lads represent LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT. The current crop of incarnations of the originals—Lazoo, Metofeaz, Le Mac & Afamasaga—are somewhat motely to promote slander mildly. HWAN fumbles for thoughts let alone words to describe the feeling of having seen the branded band of men that mark the times in which we dwell, swell as a race and quell most human instinct like no other time in the history of mankind. Most of it reflected upon in the populous and wordy work that works its magic on the spirit, way after the calamity of digesting the purposeful prose presented by the internet’s first true master of this still infant domain that is the worldwide web. With fables to boot of how he is responsible for the area network that spans society, sin and space, for no other reason other than one day a few decades back he felt like it.

The group slowly begin to disperse from the middle of the road as the convertible, like a bullet exits the heat wave that seemed miles away.

On the scorching tarmac a hot gush of air implodes in confides of a close proximity that is shared by a group of men who some say are bandits and others hold in high esteem. HWAN’s eyes widen as he spots the script “LMLA-ink” brazened on the softest skin of the new disciples.

The heavens—if there is such a thing in the Dream Dimension?—slowly subside and snowflakes in the middle of hell begin to tumble down to the music that envelops and therefore consumes the citizens of the once forgotten planet in post-apocalyptic passion from having endured wars of wars, tragedy upon tragedy, reminiscent of the Halcyon Days and its dizzying effects….

“…Driving in my car / Driving home for Christmas…”


Published: MONDAY December 8th 2014


“You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far / 'Cause you know it don't matter anyway / You can rely on the old man's money…”

Imogen, a thoughtful yet still a free spirited cavalier type, sifts through her day. The brat, Aleisha is her shadow down the main street of the outermost slub of Neon City. Just when the world and all its burdens felt like they had been thrown down in Imogen’s path, the DJ in the sky throws down a Hall & Oates ditty for the once young and upwardly mobile house wives of the eighties-esque environ and their gynaecologists to come together to. Never mind that they wore the same dress day in day out, due to dwindling fortunes of their husbands at the office, they were hapless in love with the one they’re with.

In Imogen’s case, her Burden Gown was in fact her bridal gown. One’s gown of burden was the uniform in the sexist enclave that is their basement existence which entraps a certain type of female in a less than flattering stereotype which there is only a handful of cliché labels, in keeping with their male creator’s limited spectrum of imagination when it came to enslaving the fairer sex. Previously it was thought that it was the woman’s hankering for status and acceptance that determined which dress she was condemned to forever.

Imogen, an attractive enough female, was runner up for Prom Queen, she was also vice-captain of cheerleading team and was back up to first choice Sharon who married Feeaz, whom Imogen jilted at the altar, which she now deeply regrets. Her Burden Gown has been with her ever since. The Grace Kelly wedding dress replica by Helen Rose had definitely seen better days. The bodice of lace was fused with wax like substance in places. The once vivid white dress was a Tabaco stained colour now. Gone was the silhouette, left a tight under bodice with a split up the back, the once intricately woven hem, matted and frayed. And for all the lavish gifts of dresses and jewellery that Aleisha’s dad and a long list of other men before he came along, heaped upon Imogen, there came a time every day when she would strip off the silk and cashmere textures from her skin and pull on her dirty and tattered old Burden Gown. Today was no different.

Across the street, Persil now married to the mayor of the outer city slub, in her Burden Gown, from her days as a hooker which is how she met the mayor. Coming towards Imogen, Shandy dressed in khaki shorts and top from her time as an assistant crocodile hunter down under.

“I think Shandy is the most dignified out of all you Burden Gown gals,” Aleisha can’t resist the opportunity, which she is sure the citizens watching would appreciate. Applause for miles can be heard. Imogen glances up at her image in the sky, she offers a sheepish smile because that’s the sort of thing her kind would do in such a situation…the backlash is a hissing and booing that sours the once promising day. The lyric is apt and the sickly sweet and syncopated tune truncates squeamish awkwardness that only a deep and wide crevasse in the surface of the planet could swallow at this particular time…

“…It's a bitch girl but it's gone too far / Cause you know it don't matter anyway / Say money but it won't get you too far / Get you too far…”


“Polina Rada!” Lina hears her name as the producer calls out for the next person in line to have their video profile recorded—a new strategy by the orphanage to improve Lina and Co’s chances of adoption—primarily targeting childless couples in North America and coastal towns of Australia. Music by Hall & Oates blares from a SONY ghetto blaster. It’s meant to instantly westernise the orphanage for gifted children of cold war operatives, situated behind the iron curtain.

“I see you, you see me / Watch you blowing the lines when you're making a scene / Oh girl, you've got to know what my head overlooks / The senses will show to my heart / When it's watching for lies and you can't escape my…”

Over by where the lights and cameras are set up, the Walking Talking Baby—a serious, smarter and fully clothed version of the dancing baby—steps down from the mantle box on which he perched like a porcelain cherub for his video as Lina nears the edge of the shag pile mat on which Max the American director and Lavenda female producer from New Zealand who doubles as a translator discuss the next orphan’s profile.

“протирать!” the stern faced mistress who hawks proceedings from a corner calls out and the producer interjects to silence the bitch faced mole in the corner. “This is a WIPE ladies and gents,” Lavenda looks the director in the eye to drive home the importance of what the mole of a mistress had just reminded them.

Lina ignores the huff and fuss over the filming of her profile by doing what she does, the kind and benevolent child diverts all attention from the foreign media and asks the baby, “How was it Walking Talking Baby?” In return, a middle finger is what the baby provides for Lina, who was his only ally in the place where children of Cold War agents killed in the line of duty ended up, regardless of which side of the iron curtain they came from. An echelon of the KGB made it its business to find the usually gifted offspring of agents and bring them here to the inner most slub of Neon City, a shanty town if it weren’t for its dwellers precociousness, whilst their counterparts with the initials CIA couldn’t care less about its agents’ orphans.


“What I want you've got / And it might be hard to handle / Like the flame that burns the candle / The candle feeds the flame…”

Strains of Darryl Hall & John Oates leak from the rickety establishment in the middle of nowhere.

HWAN pulls up to the roadside diner. He had lost count of how many greasy spoon hick town dumpsters he had eaten at in pursuit of the PIRATE. Bad skin and bouts of IBS commonly referenced in regards to sweaty undesirables as Irritable Bowel Syndrome the only reward for his conciseness, diligence and a liking of spicy Mexican food. 

HWAN checks himself in the mirror, and then the stubby shotgun, out the corner of his eye, on the seat beckons his attention like a woman looking for reassurance on a broken heel and bad hair day, to which HWAN opens the glove box and fetches one Glock 17, a switchblade and a M33 hand grenade. Once he had concealed the handgun, knife and grenade in regions of his attire, a pricey Armani suit he feels ready to face come what may inside another roadside dinner that may or may not be plumbed with clean running water?

Inside “SNAKES” Johnny places an order for food and drink, while Samuel watches for any sign of action out the window. Over by the jukebox Alex shares with James the finer points of Hall & Oates. The quilted clanging of cutlery, idle chatter and throw away lines by restless hustlers sets the scene for HWAN to show his wares…

Johnny Seth, the leader, “Four specials and green tea for all those who are relevant and involved please.” 

Samuel Able, the backup leader, “Lawman without a name, he’s finally arrived in all his unrealised potential…”

Alexander Cain, a compulsive liar, “‘Private eyes’ is about paranoia. Rich girl is about a rich chick, obviously. And Sarah is the rich chick I am told, who Darryl was paranoid about apparently. Needless to say that “I can’t go for that” was John’s retaliation to the one sided affair that was meant be a duo, they say….”

James Adams, the strong silent type, “Hmmm…very interesting take.”

“It’s not a take brah.” Alex an excitable individual becomes animated as he continues, “it’s first-hand information from credible source, dude!” Alex is adamant that what he says is gospel, and others should believe and therefore accept every word that spews forth from the noisy orifice that is his mouth, even though his actions fall way short of convincing in every way imaginable.

Meanwhile back at the counter.

“Waitress?” Johnny realises the pretty woman’s name tag is a generic one. The buxom blonde’s eyes twinkle like the stars from the line Johnny was about to pull before he saw HWAN in the mirror wall behind Waitress.

Outside in the dusty parking lot, HWAN closes the door of the vehicle as tumbleweed bounce over the car and continue on into an eternal abyss beyond the convention of time and matter.

HWAN, a dead ringer for GEE LEEZ AKA Le Bruce Gee (from the free eBook WIPE) who has uncanny semblance to the great Bruce Lee ambles towards the diner where a showdown is in the offing. Behind the uncharacteristically sparkling clean windows, figures recognisable by their posture, gestures and cocksure mannerisms loom. An automatic weapon could’ve come in handy, HWAN acknowledges as he kicks up dust with the heel of his boot.


Published: MONDAY December 15th 2014

“Christmas, Chimes, Change”


Bells that chime in time with whims and wonders deliver long awaited butterflies that accentuate the possibility of fervent fever in the near future.

The mystic airs of confidence can be forgiven as delayed response to—the golden weather post-quake. The quakes changed the landscape in every which way, from the physical foundations of Christchurch to how people there perceive themselves and others, especially outsiders.

Today, townsfolk and tourists alike shuffle their steps in the mid-morning sun that adorns their new piece of heaven on earth.

Waiting idle at the lights outside the Cardboard Cathedral, Aleisha feels the magic as it flows from the only press in either hemisphere of the bluest yet active planet in the milky way, that means a thing to subscribers of the most widely read and therefore accepted documentation of the seconds and milliseconds of our life in the universe as it were. It’s overwhelming as usual for the former stripper as the LATEST UPLOAD hits the broadband and makes its way around the world in less time it takes to say “OMG!” Smart phones truncate the process as retro phones dial the number for the narration of the story. Commentators and detractors, dumbfounded for the seconds it takes purveyors to fully fathom the enormity of the feat, the one man band has achieved, yet again.

“What?” Sam wonders what could’ve spooked the coolest person in the world he knows.

“Nothing,” Aleisha places a hand on the child’s knee to reassure him that a twist is only a mind bender if someone was following that closely that the bigger picture was overlooked in search of a crinkle in the crimp so to speak.


An ardent arm action, an assertive stride carries one away and down the street to a place where Mariah’s chimes beckons both young and old…John James Lazoo, the prototype hits the pavements covered with chalk outlines of destitute and depraved souls, contorted and unrecognisable in their final moments in the SFD on the seedier side of Neon City—the side of town that never wakes from its misery—drowning in the forever asylum, eon after eon, after eon.

“Neon-neon-neon, near on empty, near to the thug side, near on a down ride, my country heel on these pavements…” Lazoo reminisces as he minces words for the sake of the story, “Broadway and its marquees. He smashed their bulbs in his head and ripped posters and fed himself fodder of shredded words…” Like a rodent Lazoo hugged sidewalks till he had amassed the miles of ten thousand street hookers. Lazoo walked till the moon and sun sat next to each other in the bright clear and crisp blue sky. By coincidence, or was it? He finds himself outside a well fenced place somewhere in Russia from the coarse and roughened finesse of language, architecture and culture around him.

Snow sits in mounds atop red brick pillars that anchor wrought iron bars that confine a place where no one would want to enter. A dense darkness even on the clearest of days casts a less than welcoming air upon the place where death is common place, making it a hospital of some sort? But there is life behind the large windows. Children move about unrestricted, hindered by nothing but their own self-awareness.

Lazoo straightens the collars of his overcoat. A redeeming breeze offers hope on his search for answers. At the window a girl, maybe around the same age he was when he was taken away from his mother and thrown behind bars. Her yearning is clear but her will is faint….chimes in the outer sphere of Lazoo’s preoccupation with the plight of others lever mechanisms that flick switches till finally the right trigger does its thing and emotion is technically derived or conjured by the mere mention of her name….


Johnny, Samuel, Alexander, James and Waitress wait. All of them anxious but none of them willing to show it or admit that this is the case. You see, none of the occupants of the diner at this time believe that they are an entity with entitlement, in other words one of the core cast members of the REPRO. Outside in the car park, there is most definitely such a character, HWAN the law man sent by the narrator. Since Johnny and Co’s arrival in the SFD the three threads or parts of the story have been dominated by HWAN behind the wheel of the convertible. And well supported by Bella’s recant of Aleisha’s story about her relationship with Imogen another anomaly in the system like HWAN. Even though HWAN and Imogen’s presence is the author’s doing, the qualitative and quantitative value of their roles are defined purely on the counterweight as per article of evidence in the wash up, when the story settles and the use of each part and participle is realised.

Outside, more tumbleweed roll in on the winds of fortune, as it turns out—the inundation is dramatic completely clouding the entire road and car park of the roadside diner. The calamity is of an inconceivable scope as a wall of tumbleweed begins to rise in front of HWAN, prohibiting him from taking another step towards the diner.

Aside from an Alchemy Glitch, the only other real show stopper for a REPRO in the SFD are Discrepant Currents which is the term for when the Parallel, Mirror, Inverted and Relative planes fall out of sync with the MMD and the SFD. Imagine if suddenly a few of the planets’ orbits around the Sun changed from elliptical to straight. Basically the compatibility of the five planes of awareness and percept become at odds with each other. The result is chaos in the SFD which relies on an image or version of events from the MMD.

Usually when bells toll they clang and they jangle for morose reasons because of death. Instead the sound of chimes calms the districts that surround the epicentre of the disturbance of credence and a dogma that there is “Reality” in the MMD, a dreamscape in the SFD and four planes in between the—Parallel, Mirror, Inverted and Relative—which cater for every nuance of every last percept in the universe. The magic mist falls as it drifts in from the hinterlands that surround the Dimension forks, the effervescent charm settles for now on a cusp while infusions and allusive murmurings are considered as possible turns for the plot in the final and home straight for another year.

Usually it takes something convincing or an act by someone totally convinced that they are capable of influencing change to effect change. In the twilight of an eon, the effects that such people have on society will be realised, change will happen….


Published: TUESDAY December 16th 2014


Bella’s eyes bulge, more than usual as the coffin disappears into the ground. Aleisha takes a closer look at her rag doll for an update on what was happening graveside. Imogen’s grip on her hand tightens and Aleisha can tell that it’s not to extort a certain type of behaviour from her. Aleisha looks up. Under the fascinator a real tear belonging to Imogen now a moderately wealthy widow escapes and then it hangs on her jaw line till the droplet falls to the ground on which it explodes as the woman implodes.

Rain begins to fall, cleansing some of us, while disgracing and discolouring others. In no time at all mud and pools of murky water muddy the once firm ground on which Aleisha, Imogen, a clergyman and a rancid grave digger in shepherd’s garb whose stench becomes unbearable as the rain continues to dampen an already depressing situation for Bella. They are here to pay their last respects to the father Aleisha once knew, but that was years ago.

Soon, Imogen’s tattered wedding dress is soaked that it’s see through, clinging to her heaving body that fights to hold back the tears of loss. Aleisha cannot help but offer up deserving pity for a woman who came between her and her dad. Truth be known, there were others before Imogen just like her, maybe it was at an age when Aleisha who still clung to a rag doll had become conscious of the quality of her relationships. “I feel sorry for you that you feel the need to display your feelings in front of others…” Aleisha then turns and makes her way to where the butler dressed as Han Solo waits for her at the curb next to the limousine with mismatch coloured doors and missing hub caps.


Janine maims the feelings inside, hoping it will castrate any connection with the body that lies on the morgue table. The pale skin with purple patches causes Janine, twelve years old to shiver. The conniption, a biting reaction in her system—her mother is gone for good—and Janine is numb, as numb as she was, not that long after Janine walked out on her when she was less than three years of age.

Later, outside on the steps of City hall, Janine blasphemes as she curses the ground on which she stands without a penny to her name. In her hand the worthless piece of paper, a death certificate for her mother who was barely twice her daughter’s age and in her other hand a knapsack with two hand-bound leather books and a few knickknacks.

Across the street embossed in a hue quite like no other, contrasting the bleak swirl of life that hangs around a child’s neck, Jon Pierre Solomon, a TRUFUNK soldier as it were…The orangey manifestation of luck, love and decent dash of brilliance, the aura that only the third Network Poet Soldier since 9 AD enjoys.

Jon Pierre knew Janine’s mom well. The talented operative sent to seek out the PACIFICAN when Jon Pierre was first drafted from the minor leagues of the Network where JPS was an insignificant but profitable player specialising in small scale schemes that got him in the backdoor with some of the underworld’s biggest names, was special to Jon Pierre. And so was anybody to do with her.

Jon Pierre the master of the setup pushes the shopping cart with his foot and it rolls towards the curb. Up ahead on the one way street a car with its headlights on in daylight approaches, the driver oblivious to what JPS has in store. The shopping cart reaches the curb and tips over onto the street, spilling groceries mostly fruit and vegetables that roll in all directions bringing the car to a halt. The driver’s window comes down and out pops the head of middle aged black man looking for answers.

Atop the steps, Janine who had learned at an early age the secret sees an opportunity waiting to be seized. The elaborate scenario beginning to evolve nicely, if not perfectly for a worthy player willing to gamble everything on a single moment in time…Janine hears her heartbeat in time with quick steps she takes as she makes her way down the steps of City hall.

The African American driver is Le Mac from Janine’s letters in the hand-bound leather books. The debonair gentleman who appears out of nowhere is none other than Jon Pierre Solomon author of the treasured books, the girl tells herself, adapting names of characters therefore making the scene work for her. On reaching the car she reminds herself that a true player always has the right of way, as she places a hand on the handle of the back door and yanks it with all her might freeing the lock and almost taking the door off its hinges. She has to use all of her strength again to stop the door at which point she coolly and calmly hops into the backseat of the vehicle and closes the door behind her.


The plane’s wheels touch down on the tarmac. The crying child in the seat in front erupts in hysterics. Everyone else is fine and happy to have landed early in Brisbane Australia ahead of schedule, fifteen minutes early to be exact.

Time is merely an idea philosophically speaking and then a measurement. It’s an extremely pliable and bendable concept at that. It’s what happens, or the events that curl, freeze and speed up time that give time its value or worth. Fifteen minutes is a long time in the SFD. Minions are found, billions are made and zero to a trillion dreams are upheld or bypassed for a dreamier story that will capture your eye, captivate your mind and catapult your heart, above its flat line, beyond any possibilities you have ever felt!

Looking out the window, the novice writer who began doing what he does in Australia smiles as the pilot applies the breaks. The realisation of ground speed versus air speed with little or no reference points is also an interesting concept.

Tuft but green grass on the skirts of the runway says that precipitation is plenty.

Thirty odd years ago aged fifteen the novice or The Guy landed in Sydney and for the next two years he completed training by the Network which gave the high school dropout the core skills to carry out his life’s mission. Then nearly ten years ago the drifter returned to the land down under to upskill himself so he was able to implement the final chapter of his mission which this trip to “The Lucky Country” is the penultimate act.


Published: WEDNESDAY December 17th 2014


Within six months Aleisha found herself in boarding school. Imogen had hastily put the house on the market and then swiftly made off with the proceeds from the estate and a marginally okay art collection which included a number of fake pieces Aleisha’s dad was suckered into purchasing by the butler a huge Star Wars fan. Speaking of whom, the butler who had Dissociative identity disorder manifesting in two dominant personalities of—Han Solo if he was portrayed by John Travolta and not Harrison Ford and Luke Skywalker if he were played by Carrie Fisher AKA Mark Hamill—then resold the marginally okay art collection for a hefty commission on behalf of Imogen to his next master and employer.

Meanwhile in the hallways of high school Aleisha languished for three long lonesome years. The lack of role models for Aleisha offering healthy examples of relationships meant her time at boarding school was a lonely experience. Luckily the creative person showed interest in drama which lead to Aleisha discovering dance. A quiet student never wishing to draw any attention to her, Aleisha absorbed all she could and achieved higher than average results which allowed her to study performing arts at a university level.


Janine waits for someone to say something as the driver winds up his window and drives away from the front of City hall. The silence is intense as Janine waits for what happens next. The driver is neither critical nor complementary in his tone, which is a huge relief for Janine when he advises Janine who sits in the middle of the back seat with fists clenched beside her. “Mr Elton said we were picking you up from…” Janine recognises the address. It was opposite the orphanage she grew up in. “That’s okay—I’m here now aren’t I? Saves you driving all that way. Don’t it?” Janine massages situational communication, taking the initiative to smooth out any rough or inconceivable edges that may well jut out and therefore possibly snag a needless nosy mind, prying because it aint fully satisfied with the effort by said player in convincing said mark.

“My father he’s a good man….” The voice, younger than the driver’s is bias and for good reason. The profile of the person in the passenger seat is pleasing to Janine to say the least. Fine featured but dark in a European way, the male would be two to three years older than Janine. Well-dressed says that he’s a bit of a momma's boy, but not enough to turn a girl off.

Janine looks down at the way she’s dressed and decides that she’s the new maid for a well to do family….


Imagine New years’ eve fireworks overlaid on top of the Rio Carnival, add fever pitch of Super Bowl hype and you come close to the atmosphere and the buzz that brings Neon City to a standstill when a Cargo Ship lands on the docks of the wharf.

Blaring from the speakers in the sky, Prince “Take Me With You,” orchestrated for the occasion in line with the purple patches that condemn mediocrity and absolves authenticity depicted in prose with elongated contexts that stretch both what’s deemed possible and imaginable.

Bikini clad beauty queens with Doctorates in language and medicine displayed on their satin sashes sashay down runways and side to side on floats that pass by, leaving the awestruck citizens of Neon City breathless.

Meanwhile, upholding civility and order through all of this excitement and fantastical activity is the lone soul and voice of reason in the dream dimension—Afanasy—Head of SFD Control Unit as printed on his vest.

Golden marbles that encase souls, their entities fleeing the scene of the crash in search of refuge—a shell that would house them, console them and hide them from interdimensional protocol that seeks to eliminate—free thinking and expression of original, authentic thought, worthy of dissemination across all dimensions. The marbles scatter in every direction making the landscape seem and feel like it moves as a whole.
Desperate citizens longing to be inhabited by an entity with entitlement make mad dashes towards the hotbed of activity where their chances of being possessed increase dramatically. Falling over each other in hope of compatibility and a host of other factors cohere or bind to make the association of spirit and physical possible…crazed citizens climb over each other in a frenzy seldom witnessed in the mostly tranquil locale that is the SFD.

The Guy waits for Afanasy to approach the group of likely lads in the middle of the dock looking to be inhabited. Without notice or warning the fleet footed novice moves into place where he is ready to make the significant move required of him, in hope of creating a flourish capable of generating the perfect chemistry that a full blown REPRO requires. “Johnny…” someone calls out, and one of the hopeful candidates responds to the name giving the novice a target which he does not miss, collecting the rest of the group for good measure on his way through the crowd.

Afanasy takes a step backwards as an unknown entity obviously in transition makes its presence felt. Cutting down the suspect group of tourists he was about to test, and probably cull as a pre entry test on their profiles suggested. Afanasy remains still as he waits the substratosphere to react with the entity’s canonical form hopefully giving Afanasy a target. On the ground the clothing worn by the freshly culled shells disintegrate to dust, as more unsuspecting citizens emerge as probable vessels for inhabitation….


Published: THURSDAY December 18th 2014


Seated alone, front row of the auditorium Aleisha waits for the verdict—the outcome of her application to be accepted into university. Onstage the tutor a rather pompous looking individual with arse wipe written all over his mug waits for the footage of Aleisha’s audition to recoil on the screen above him so he may further scrutinise her form, poise and presence.

Several rows back, the successful ones…two rows of the mousy faced, anaemic looking droids in leotards, legwarmers over moccasins, sweat pants and oversized singlets wearing clones. They are the ones that have reached that supposed level in performance and are blessed with that something else—intangible—yet quantifiable in a feeling that comes over one when one lays eyes on one of these dancing drones. Or even just the mere mention of their name can evoke illicit fantasy made of limbs and manes. The hairs on the back of Aleisha’s neck rise to attention as the chosen ones’ eyes malign her every twitch, breathe and now thought.

Data—visuals and sound—in reverse, resemble all manner of mayhem from satanic verse to pulp being pulverised over bedrock. And finally the audition tape returns to zero on the counter, and up on screen for all to see, Aleisha, frozen mid motion, amidst mild contemplation in anticipation of exertion, action that foretells emotion and ultimately a story.


From the insufficiency of dried up wide open spaces that is the countryside to the idle airs of small town America, to the hustle and bustle of big cites. Janine watches out the window as the road trip takes them from New York through Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Chicago and then onto their final destination of Pleasant Prairie Wisconsin.

The twenty-two hour trip was plenty of time for the young woman to come up with a backstory, aspirations and a few segue options to juncture-maximise a number of instances or scenarios, not all of them flattering for the paraplanner of her own destiny and success as of now.

Max, the eldest of the Elton boys said very little leaving it up to the driver, Mason Clay a former slave who had been with the Elton family since the turn of the century, to fill the void with facts, fill em up faux pas to—stay well clear of—and titbits that’ll win Janine favours.

“Lady Elton, she don’t suffer fools and so all fools be on alert when she about!”

“Young Jessie Elton, he is salt of the earth as Max here is scholarly….”

“Mr Elton is the daddy of all daddies. He make Pa John Walton Sr seem childish…maybe foolish like a donkey even…if you know what I mean?”

The running commentary of the Elton’s family tree and business dealings was like a crash course in her new family. Since the age of six, Janine had moved from one foster family to the next. All in all Janine had been to twelve different families not counting a six month stint in JDC or juvenile hall, the place where she learnt most of what she knows about life.


Afanasy feels the unrelenting clamp around his neck. It happened so quickly that the assailant feels as if he has Afanasy totally wrapped up using more limbs than humanly possible even in the far-fetched surrounds of the SenFenide Dimension.

The killer choke hold that also numbs the entire body is better than the “look-see” a spinal cord severing move given its name for how the victim’s head spins almost 360 degrees when the hitman suggests to the target, “Look see how I take you down,” and then the head is twistered around giving the target one final view of the world, a panoramic one…“Where are the keys to the convertible my friend?” The chilling whisper of an arch entity that most likely has precise orders to illuminate dreams and possibilities for those who do not deserve the privilege is spine tingling for Afanasy.

Somehow Afanasy is able to recall a certain scene from a REPRO a few eons ago. The residue lingered in the accessible regions of archives of Afanasy’s shell. The scene was significant for many reasons.


Published: FRIDAY December 19th 2014


Aleisha twirls a lock of his hair for fun. His broad back becomes the next part of him that she indulges herself in by scraping her nails lightly over the muscles till she receives a grunt for her time from the dozing man nearly twice her age. The pompous looking individual was a chance for Aleisha to express herself like never before. A birthday present was her excuse for the madness that can get her kicked out of Uni in only her second year.

Assessments upheld by pass marks still meant little to Aleisha. The chance to study was a chance to dance. And that was all there was to it. Easily the most talented dancer in her class, to watch Aleisha dance was to witness the definition of emotion. The stage mattered little—it was the gambol or the escapade that Aleisha valued and treasured till she felt the need to indulge herself yet again—when it came to the need for intimacy, at least.

Outside birds begin singing as Christmas comes to mind. Carefully, Aleisha slides herself out of the king size bed and within seconds she has all her things rounded up in her arms and exits her tutor’s loft apartment still naked. It was for effect, a parting message as it were for her teacher who had been coming on to her for months.

“Oi! Where you goin? What happened?”


“Life is what you can get away with,” Mason reminds Janine as he pulls up to the house. This titbit was the single most useful piece of guidance that anyone had ever imparted upon Janine, now in her second year at Elton’s.

Janine a very astute student of life had become a trusted member of staff, and had even begun to help out in the office where her natural ability with numbers was realised.

Whereas O’Trisha McSlaught, or just plain o’l slut bag, margarine legs Trish the other maid, was in the final trimester of her pregnancy. She could give birth any day now. The stark contrast between the Trish and Janine was like black and white. Both girls came from rather wretched beginnings, but in Janine, there was a disciplined person and diligent worker who could hold a conversation on just about any topic, whereas Trish got by on her wickedly sly and trashy charms mostly administered whilst on her back with her legs open.

Mason turns the key, killing the engine, silencing the banter and making way for a scream from somewhere outside, which immediately sends Janine into action. “Oh my God, it must be time!” And with that she’s off looking for Trish. First she runs up the steps of the mansion built just before the civil war. But then another cry, “Help!” brings Janine back down and around the side of the house and down the path to the help’s communal rooms. Inside the old slave dormitory, which had been refurbished and now there was a table and chairs, a refrigerator and a radio was Trish. Seated at the table the almost fully ripe woman chugs away on a hemp cigarette, commonly referred to as a fat as motherfucker joint.

“Here…” Then Trish a brunette with ample pie, thighs and breast holds her breathe whilst holding out the joint for Janine to partake.

"Oh, pretty please it'll get you laid and knocked up just like me..." Trish had certain way with words, Trish did.

Janine takes the joint and places it somewhere in front of her nose and closes her eyes while she smells the aroma. Then, she abruptly turns and flicks the cigarette out the door where it lands in the pond under the bridge from where Max silently surveys the two women and their hilarious antics.

Trinkets of snow begin to float through the scene—cooling ailments and previous discordance and conflict, soothing frictions and forgiving malpractice between acquaintances and associates.


Afanasy’s body slumps onto the dock scattering a billion entities in every direction. The shrill sound of untold spirits as they squeal in pain gasping for life from a shell fills the once festive skies. The sight of citizens as they flee the wharves of Neon City secondary only to the cloud of vaporizing entities that coats the dawn sky in amber stained sheath of lucent skin.

Jack Doeman an unsuspecting kind of fellow who some would say is demure was out on an early morning jog when the story-about-the-story—being-written suddenly took an uncanny turn for our most unlikely hero ever!

Today Jack feels markedly good. Minor ailments aside, Jack was in good nick but today he feels extra good. About himself, life and the future, especially now as the sound everyone can hear are his footsteps as he makes his way down Neon Strip.

The shadow on the road is his. Hugging the sidewalk and escaping from smashed shop windows, looters it would seem.

Up further, cars overturned some of them burning like the flags outside a governmental looking building. On the steps extremist looking characters with the same old retarded and moronic mandate that has no vision of prosperity or community just death on their self-combusting agenda pose for the equally evil and narcissistic media who give the crazed idiots their platform for propaganda and recruitment. Jack passes by the scary clowns who were far too uncreative and unimaginative for face paint, in search of clues as to what his newfound purpose might be?

All his uneventful life, Jack, the dimension’s most ineligible bachelor had never wished to meet the Parallel, Mirror, Inverted or Relative versions of himself. The chance had presented itself once or twice, but safe as houses Jack wasn’t interested. Not in the slightest.

Recants of previous REPROs had left the SFD in disarray. Morbid Mayhem or MM was a previous form of disharmony permitted by the powers that be to maintain the equilibrium across dimensions and the four planes. Basically MM is a type of vigilantism dished out by whomever. More often than not it was by the psychopath with the most. The one who had the complete package—looks, talent, and some inconsolable grievance due to something that happened in their childhood—which spurred the imbalanced and delusional character, propelling the sick son o bitch onto greatness, mostly in his own mind, of course.

Jack Doeman was no vigilante. Jack was humble pie at a non-competitive Amish pie contest. Jack was the third wheel at table where only he and a woman were present. Jack was most things inferior or unimpressive.  

Aiding our atypical leading man in his endeavour, whatever it might be? the promise of yuletide in the atmos and stratosphere.


Published: SATURDAY December 20th 2014


“Nice to meet you / Where you been? / I could show you incredible things / Magic, madness, heaven, sin…”

Taylor Swift sensualises as she explains the luck of the insane. Upon this opus another female further caresses the theme for discussion without inhibition.

John James Lazoo sits front row in a spectacle that even he, the maestro himself could not foresee let alone conjure. Onstage, Aleisha Smith the femme fatale from the Land of the Long White Cloud begins to let her true colours show. Her tutor, still surly from what happened, arms crossed in an attempt to hide his contempt with his star pupil.

Across oceans and timelines and Lazoo witnesses a woman giving birth to twins, that was meant to divert the unwanted attention, misfortune and the random haphazardness of infamy, from him and his mom-Janine who stands at the head of the bed with a cold towel she uses to cool Trish’s brow. The doctor from the Indian subcontinent wearing an orange turban hands Trish the first born, “Alexander Cain McSlaught.” And then the smiley chap takes the second baby a nurse gives him and waits for the proud but tired mother to arrange Alexander in one arm so she may take her youngest baby, “Samuel Able McSlaught” the doctor announces in his jovial manner.

Across town, Chinatown comes to life as news that LMLA-ink are back in town. Limousines line front of the Old Bar as one by one the crew that can lay claim to biggest story in town show their faces. Sleek, slender and as dynamic as ever the cast disembark vehicles as they come together to bring the story home for their fans. Mr & Mrs John Lazoo and their boys, Little Lazoo and Page. Metofeaz Litigatti and Sharon Smith. Jon Le Mac and Arley Lévon, Missy and her new beau a RUGBY LEGION Football star from down under. The procession continues as people wait for one name to appear….

“...So it's gonna be forever / Or it's gonna go down in flames / You can tell me when it's over / If the high was worth the pain / Got a long list of ex-lovers / They'll tell you I'm insane…”


Published: SUNDAY December 21st 2014

“Love Don't Love Me”


The sorry and sullen grovel by Eric Benet in his element and groove “Love Don't Love Me,” is the sulky metronome for the day. Bass tweeters ricochet in the aftermath as pity pretends to give a damn. Litany of lies in ave of truisms and this dogma.

“Time / I still don't know the reason that for all this time / I'm all alone but see it comes as no surprise / it seems like I go left each time that love goes right / every time…”

The hypnotic beat drifts aimlessly in and out of cars that wait for the green light.

“Christmas bells chime for everyone” Aleisha tells herself as she tries to make sense of what’s happened. Her return to her hometown CHURCH had not gone to plan. Call it a flashback, recant or whatever you wish, but the surrendering and surreal experience she encountered in the course of this year’s GUIOPERA has left her shattered.

Dreams she relinquished years ago now haunt her again, while unanswered questions when it came to her father, hot coals that burn holes in her endeavours to move on with her life.

An alert on her HUAWEI about the LATEST UPLOAD wakes Aleisha from the vagary she has become prone to. Seconds later an email arrives. The notification says it’s from John Lazoo.


Online Polina finds a feed showing the gang as they arrive at the offices, Chinatown.

An email arrives at her Gmail account and she shudders to think who it might be from, given one of the streams in this year’s SASBWAH and GUIOPERA.

Polina shuts down her iPad in favour of a quiet moment alone before she has to face the world, at that time of year. The time of year when losses are magnified and relationships are put to the test.

Her iPhone flashes intermittently, she catches a glimpse of “LAZOO.” It goes someway in comforting Polina.

The melancholic mood is made perfect on the New Global Realm where Eric Benet passes blame for his unresolved issues.

“...By chance, something happens every time I get a chance / I feel the rhythm but I just don't know the dance / I want to move with you but something holds me back / I'm holding back, yeah…”


Ideologies and philosophies are polarised when its followers hypothesize using etymology designed to idealise a theory. In this case, the reality rarely lives up to its philosophical element as pre sold in the rhetoric.

Lazoo seats himself down in front of the machine that wakes from sleep mode in the last booth down the end of the bar before dancefloor. Onstage Junior and Page Lazoo’s sons hang around Jon Le Mac a successful and renowned hotelier in South America as Le Mac fiddles with his DJ equipment to calm his nerves.

Behind the bar, Metofeaz makes himself useful uncorking bottles and finding glasses he loads onto silver trays which Harry, Missy’s boyfriend is ready to take.

Onscreen above the stage, the Poet Soldier down under, vigilant and focused as ever as he scrawls across the pages of the New Global Realm a new beginning for Lazoo, Metofeaz, Le Mac & Afamasaga (LMLA-ink). One that will see the first ever installment of the SASBWAH being published in New York in July 2015. But for now, the season at hand is the priority for members and associates of LMLA-ink.

In the plush booth, twice the size of the other ones, dead centre of the bar, Genisis Jones and Arley Lévon catch up, as Missy fields another question from one of the fans on the New Global Realm.

“Will the GUIOPERA take place in the US?”

Onstage, Le Mac finds the record on everyone’s mind, for various reasons. He removes the vinyl from its sleeve and holds it up to the light to check for dust or scratches. Then to the sound of keys being played by the Poet Soldier as he puts finishing touches to another chapter, Le Mac places the disc down on the Technics turntable and then he takes the stylus and places that at the edge of the spinning disc till it finds the groove…

“...That it must be, love don't love me, love don't love me…”


Published: MONDAY December 22nd 2014

“Do They Know It’s Christmas?”


Distant and disenchanted by events of late, Aleisha forgets that it’s not normal for the radio to start tuning itself. The lights have remained red for an eternity and Aleisha is neither here nor there about the delay. She’s neither here nor there in regards to where she has to be in exactly five minutes from now—her third and final interview for the contract she so desperately wanted for her new consultancy company she formed back in WELLY.

The radio stops scanning the static wastelands and settles on frequency which takes a second for it to register. Aleisha’s nonchalant and blasé response to her own needs, is overwhelmed by a feeling nourished by the haunting intro to “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” by Band Aid 30. The opening lines to the Christmas carol about the Ebola plight in West Africa highlights an issue far greater than any single wish Aleisha might have this Christmas.

“It's Christmas time there's no need to be afraid / At Christmas time we let in light and we banish shade / And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy…”

Aleisha’s ordeal in the GUIOPERA was and still is very real. For someone without her resolve things could’ve gone horribly wrong as they have for various characters in the past. One only needs to think back to Lunar Bois and what happened to him following WELLY STORY 1—institutionalised in a psychiatric hospital for over a year. Tone Horroh, now on death row awaits execution after being written out of the script in 2010. The list of etfiction’s fallen stars is long and their demise can be ungodly.

On the radio the superstars of the music world continue their amazing work for worthy charitable causes. Their commitment unquestionable. Their power to influence and penetrate the intolerant and malevolent, unbeatable. The result is a consciousness.


At dusk Polina makes her way along the streets of New York. Her plan is to reach the offices in Chinatown where the reunion is before anyone knows she walked there, suprising the crew. Her Beats by Dre keep her ears snug and her iPhone keeps her up with the play.

Online, sentiment is overflowing for the cause. On the streets of New York, London, Paris...and Brisbane where it’s rumored that the Poet Soldier is holed up in a hotel room scribing the ending to this year’s SASBWAH, the feeling is electric. The theme song for the chapter spills out onto the pavements from shops and bars and from passing cars. People marvel at luminous spheres in the atmos mistaken for Christmas decorations—another sign of the mystic marvel at work when LMLA-ink and their TRUFUNK Soldiers come together on a worldwide stage.

Polina forgets her woes momentarily. The eclectic combination of the Poet Soldier’s Avant-garde work ( and the leading lights of the music industry, more than melt the heart and confirm goodwill for mankind.

Polina stops. Across the street, Times Square begins to fill with well wishers. In the air the song continues to gather momentum, a choir of hearts and minds worldwide…

“...Throw your arms around the world at Christmas time / But say a prayer and pray for the other ones / At Christmas time its hard but while you're having fun…”


Inside the Old Bar in Chinatown. A voice, precise and evenly paced, coerces someone—talking to them as if the entire universe relied on every word he speaks.

“A consciousness, is an awareness on a massive scale Polina. A consciousness Polina, is steeped in love and realised by the selfless actions of many. We have blood on our hands, the Poet Soldier included. In you Polina, we have a clean slate and a fresh beginning…”

Lazoo talks to Lina over the f3quenZor. As he does, he analyses the images of her on the big screen above the stage. Her posture was good and her shoulders relaxed. Her head down, meaning she wasn’t manic like on previous occasions when she ventured out on her own without notice. Security was on its way. But for now, the Princess of the New Global Realm was sitting duck for those with a vendetta against LMLA-ink. In the background, the feed from Lina’s headphones. Lazoo taps on the keyboard of the machine and brings up the YouTube source to the music playing. Then he taps some more and brings up a browser with Aliesha in Christchurch New Zealand driving in her car. Next he connects to the portal where the Poet Soldier in Brisbane Australia types out what Lazoo does seconds before Lazoo splits the screen with Polina in New York into three segments so Aleisha and the Poet Soldier appear alongside Polina.

Onstage Le Mac locates the iTunes download for the streaming YouTube video and soon the song that has the whole world thinking about one issue for a moment is crystal clear in the offices of LMLA-ink and around the world simultaneously.

The leading lights in a sometimes dark and desolate world in 2014: Bob Geldof, Midge Ure, Paul Epworth, Roger Taylor, Milan Neil Amin-Smith, Grace Chatto, Bono, Seal, Chris Martin,  Sinéad O'Connor, Rita Ora, Ellie Goulding, Ed Sheeran, Sam Smith, One Direction, Paloma Faith, Jessie Ware, Underworld, Dan Smith, Guy Garvey, Angélique Kidjo, Olly Murs, Emeli Sandé and many more.

“...Feed the world let them know it's Christmas time again / Feel the world let them know it's Christmas time again / Heal the world let them know it's Christmas time again…”


Published: TUESDAY December 23rd 2014


Aleisha grips the steering wheel with both hands as she decides now was as good-a-time as any to try out her new found status as etfiction’s latest  Femme fatale. Conjuring up her own thread in the story wasn't something Aleisha had planned on.

The HUAWEI in the passenger seat goes off reminding Aleisha of her role and responsibility. It also brings to mind the loss suffered by the other characters that make them fascinating but most importantly relatable and identifiable for the audience of the LATEST UPLOAD and GUIOPERA. In an instant Aleisha gets to experience what they feel, whether or not they’ve had their heart carved up and served to them on a plate,”heartbreak envy” is part of the etfiction attraction. It’s in the way the author depicts heroism in sufferance which creates an unparalleled catalyst for idealisms founded on the principals LOVE, TRUST, HONESTY & RESPECT. None more so than Polina who Aleisha reads is out walking the streets of New York. Whether the report is fact or fiction Aleisha gets that feeling of nostalgia that is always there when any of etfiction’s leading characters e.g. Lazoo, Genisis Jones, John Page and of course Polina are mentioned in the Metafiction story-about-the-story—being-written.

Dreamy scenes from bygone GUIOPERA flood memory banks, till the feeling materialises in song. An eighties classic by George Michael fills the freshly supple and fertile domains of a new agent’s mind. In due course the music will circumnavigate the physical boundaries of mortality, possible when Aleisha’s capabilities as a node on the f3quenZor kick in. The radiance and beaming light, a glow in the setting sun, two days out from the finale in CHAPTER XMAS of GUIOPERA VII—Samuel and the f3quenZor—(The Biograph).

“Last Christmas / I gave you my heart / But the very next day you gave it away / This year / To save me from tears / I'll give it to someone special…”


Polina heads south on Broadway, the momentum gathers as the groundswell builds. Festive cheer and Christmas carols continue to swirl in numinous bubbles of joy created by the writer of our times—a novice still—as he makes good on his promise to deliver an ending that is both climatic and heart warming.

The DJ in the sky then mixes in the next delight. This one, a favourite of Polina’s as a child.”Last Christmas” by WHAM, egg nog and Santa hats for Lina, Santina San Fé and John Page around the Christmas tree. The memory is still vivid and so was the pain made worse when the Network reassigned Ms San Fé not long after Page’s death, contrary to what was broadcast in the end-to-end saga and the GUIOPERA, which Lina has accepted is for the sake of secrecy and also for providing a cloaking device that is undetectable by factions of the Network and the enemy.

Lina dressed for the weather in a long woolen coat, strides out in confidence she gets from when people let her be. A wee smile, or just a nod acknowledging that they know who she is as they pass her by in the cool of the silly season, to music she and they will remember her immediate family by from now on.

“...Once bitten and twice shy / I keep my distance / But you still catch my eye / Tell me, baby / Do you recognize me? / Well / It's been a year / It doesn't surprise me…”


Onscreen Aleisha at the crossroads  ponders her next move—the traffic lights a metaphor. Her need for the lights to change, the all important switch or mechanism that will trigger Significant Transformation of her own initiative. The seemingly non eventful and ho hum storyline, an enveloping symbolism of how life can be a deterioration process, the slow creeping rot irreversible. Only affirmative action based on principles outlined can reset or recalibrate the story of one’s life for the desired plot.

Next to her, Lina wanders aimlessly on the streets of New York. Network minders and third party security teams were on their way. Their paths different coloured dots that converge on an icon on the map of New York.

In the final panel of the three pane browser by Preciousrelease.Com the Poet Soldier presses on with the final chapters of this his seventh GUIOPERA. The mix of insight and pop music on the back of characters from his eBooks continues to be a staple for many at this time of year. The leveler using the internet to propagate equality during a period  when the gap between the poor and rich is more obvious than at other times. Or when feelings of ineptness and worthlessness manifest in deeper than usual bouts of depression across the board around the planet, indiscriminately tearing up lives and breaking families apart.

Lazoo stretches his fingers anticipating when he might want to join the leader of LMLA-ink. In previous years Metofeaz Litigatti often wrote alongside JRA onscreen. But it was the significance of Lazoo co-writing with their leader, since Lazoo’s original character was supposedly illiterate due to a delicate plot line for cloaking a covert operation that ran for most eighties and nineties, only ending in 2006 when the novice released the eBook Lazoo, in which James Elton an ex-con changed his name to John Lazoo who was an illiterate poet...

Lazoo smiles as he reads the goad by their side of the Network’s mastermind, designed to stir things up, and push Lazoo for some sort of extraordinary response from the maestro who previously dictated all his input into the story.

Le Mac senses Lazoo’s apprehension, mainly due to Polina being out there on the street and promptly selects the theme for the chapter, resonating a theme for the faithful and the loyal followers of Lazoo, Metofeaz, Le Mac & Afamasaga.

*Merry Christmas*

“...I wrapped it up and sent it / With a note saying, "I love you," / I meant it / Now I know what a fool I've been / But if you kissed me now / I know you'd fool me again…”


Published: WEDNESDAY December 24th 2014

“I used to rule the world”


The waiting continues. Everyone’s seated watching Polina onscreen compliments of followers sending in images and video of her as she continues to evade numerous attempts by trained professionals sent to bring her in. Metofeaz in particular has an anxious look on his face. His concern doesn’t take long to appear in the script JRA down under produces in the next breathe. The documentation of the tense scene becomes part of history as it makes the LATEST UPLOAD. The adaptation of reality, or, is it the creation of reality? Whatever the case, everyone can breathe a lot easier when AFAMASAGA is on the case. Tiny orchestral musings of Viva La Vida by Coldplay tease the tense atmosphere in the offices of LMLA-ink, Chinatown New York, US. Metofeaz Litigatti the architect for Polina’s adoption and rescue mission sixteen years ago when Polina was only seven years old gets to his feet. All the waiting had gotten to the quiet guy. “Who’s coming with me?”  


The dust outside is thick and suffocating. Aleisha can almost taste the powdered grime. It begins sneaking through vents and gaps in the old Toyota Corolla. The ground, naturally one assumes in this case is where the rumbling is coming from. But it’s far too loud and frightening to be coming from just one place. It feels like the whole of nature has repelled all at once as another shake nearly tips the car on to its side. Thankfully “Nelly” lands on all wheels as the next wave of quakes come again, and again, and again….

It had been over five minutes since the last decent shake, Aleisha notices on her wrist watch.

Slowly—sirens, screaming and even moaning become clear, audible and now unbearable.

The crying and the yelling is the most distressing thing. Not knowing or being able to attend or help is debilitating.

Aleisha opens the car door. The sound of debris crashing to the ground and parts of buildings hanging on a thread threaten to send the woman back into her car. Aftershock after aftershock become the norm as she navigates her way through what a war zone must be like. Her mission is to help as much as it is heeding a call within to heal herself.

Music in the distance guides her to a source, maybe?


Polina darts down an alley in Hell’s Kitchen. The daughter of Russian agents Afanasy and Sylvia Rada (Polina’s biological parents) finds it intuitive if not easy to navigate using her Third eye. Her gift and percept an enhancement carried out during a Network project in which Lina’s embryo was one of the subjects. When LMLA-ink were assigned the mission of reclaiming US property—Polina whose IVF was performed by the Network making Polina literally a US asset—no one imagined that the crew of agents from the underworld would successfully integrate the only surviving agent of fifty created in the post Cold War project by the Network.

Polina stops at the mouth of the lane. She senses something special is about to happen. You can count it! It’s that time of year when the Poet Soldier is hard at work ensuring young and old, rich and poor, the sick and then healthy, the meek and also the mighty have something, they all can share, for little or no cost at all. Polina can bet her life on it! That at this very minute while she ponders her escape from her basement existence, JRA is doing all he can to make the moment unforgettable on the New Global Realm.

Conjuring Angels and mystical characters in fantastical scenes is not something one just learns to do. For Polina her first and only attempt was a huge success. It was the day of her adoption, which seemed like a lifetime ago now. In front of her, an alley way lined with cars. It's long. It’s also dingy and wet. But that doesn't deter Polina. Music is a priority! Without music, there is no soul. No universal language on which the prose is sold...Lina closes her eyes. Massaging her temples she begins to acclimatise to the surrounds on the Parallel plane where life is fairly much the same as the here and now (H&N) only difference is there is no intention or motive on the parallel plane. Next Polina finds the Mirror of all things we do, constantly firing back at us our actions, rapidly. So rapid you don’t want to hang around too long for fear of getting caught in some tirade of a loop. Then the even keeled young woman manages to decipher and differentiate between the final two planes Inverted and Relative. Inverted is where the intent of what we do is accentuated beyond reason, and in the Relative realm the result of our actions are celebrated or ridiculed proportionate to the result. Lina shakes her head and now for the f3quenZor—the telepathic relay which she used to communicate with the outside world while she was in the orphanage. Her ability to access and transmit data on the f3quenZor enhanced when receptors in Lina’s brain were also tweaked by the Network during the project. A flood of messages bounce, as Lina clumsily reacquaints herself with protocol of the f3quenZor. Frustrated she kills the connection and restarts. Shaking her head. She undoes her expensive woolen coat and lets it drop to the ground leaving her standing in the cold in just a white singlet and black trousers by CHARLEY STEVONSEN and silver sandals. She throws her arms out before she refocuses on connecting to the f3quenZor. Hands on her temples she brings her heart rate down to the required entry level. She breathes out and there the magical highway of information which less than two percent of the population have the ability to access and less than point five of a percent of all humans ever born (approximately 100 Million people) will ever get to use in a meaningful and productive manner as demonstrated by members of LMLA-ink in this an—exercise in humanity and secondly a show for entertainment.

“Consciousness” is a keyword. The message in Lazoo’s voice brings a smile. Then Polina who only has a law degree from Harvard assimilates the novice’s down under biorhythms and the neuron map of his brain, opening up his data capsule on the timeline of the f3quenZor.

In a matter of moments the text Lina can see as it spills out onto the page of the novice’s Google Drive becomes inherent in her, guiding her motion—the motors that drive her.

Music, familiar to her and her fans begins to flow throw through the alley way. Lina’s heart begins to race as Coldplay become apparent, their anthem Viva La Vida heralds her epiphany in an alley, classical JRA, homage to how humble the Cut-Throat-Creative remains. In turn an outpouring of emotion is realised from the pages of his work to every corner of the planet. The feeling is whelming as it is heavy but well received by Lina and her followers who begin to gather at the entrance of the alleyway behind her.

The swell is undeniable when Chris Martin reminds everyone,

“I used to rule the world / Seas would rise when I gave the word / Now in the morning I sleep alone / Sweep the streets I used to own…”

Lina begins to limber on the spot as if she were a dancer, or a runner ready to start a race. The feelings coming over her, indescribable as she surrenders all to the culpable but worthy leader of her heart.

Behind her the gathering of admirers is now at least three rows deep. She turns to find flashing phones and cameras that would normally mar the occasion. But this time Polina Rada Princess of the New Global Realm greets them with a brilliant smile only second to the sparkle in Polina’s eye that say’s she has something in store. It doesn’t take long before Polina shares with everyone what it is.

She turns and begins to run. The energy generated by the scene the world had waited for literally propelling Lina to express her feelings in the only way she can fathom at this time.


Arley Lévon, Polina’s surrogate mother follows Metofeaz out the door.

“Wait!” Lazoo calls out and Metofeaz and Arley turn to see new footage of Lina in the alleyway. The feed was from one of the third party agencies.

Lazoo then brings up a video link with the source of the footage.

“How is she?” Lazoo asks the agent.

“She’s fine. Never seen Lina in a better mood. And she ain’t manic either mate,” the agent’s Kiwi accent makes everyone feel warm and safe.

Lazoo gets up from his seat as everyone moves to the dancefloor to be closer to the action onscreen above the stage, where sounds and images of triumph begin to filter through.

Onscreen in the first panel Aleisha gets down on one knee in front of a child in the settling dust of the Christchurch earthquakes. The child no older than eight maybe nine at the most has something that dangles in his right hand.

Lazoo moves to be next to Genisis and his sons as its obvious the Poet Soldier is already tying up loose ends, dealing to discrepancies and already rousing the readers with suggestive notions that cause the audience to teeter on the verge of joyous tears.

In the middle panel, Lina’s body language in the alleyway is relaxed if not happy. Lazoo gives Metofeaz a knowing nod as Litigatti reaches the dance floor where the entire crew now watch and wait for what happens next as in the third and final panel, JRA.

The strain and pressure was beginning to mount. TRUFUNK Soldiers Chris Martin and Coldplay lend a helping hand in Viva La Vida…

“...I used to roll the dice / Feel the fear in my enemy's eyes / Listen as the crowd would sing / "Now the old king is dead! Long live the king!"”


Published: WEDNESDAY December 24th 2014

“Feliz Navidad”


In the low lying light that casts a glorious complexion on the penultimate chapter of the GUIOPERA, Aleisha’s eyes begin to swell with tears as she realises who the child Samuel is.

Standing in front of Aleisha, Samuel remains silent. He’s been like that for a while in which time, repairs to roads around them and the rebuild of CHURCH has begun.

Samuel has a knowing look in his eyes, way beyond his infant years. The empathy in his hazel green eyes shine brighter than ever in the orangey hue—a manifestation of success from immense sacrifice and perseverance through hardship—makes it even harder for Aleisha to hold back the tears. Samuel’s expression changes when an encouraging smile arrives as he holds out Bella, Aleisha’s rag doll for her to take.

“Imogen is her name, Bella is also her name. None of them matter any more Aleisha,” the voice is how Aleisha remembers her father’s voice. The moral of the story was beginning to resonate as a load is lifted off Aleisha shoulders.


Polina’s hair flies through the enlightened atmos in which it feels like she floats instead of sprinting her heart out which she can hear. Behind her and gaining on her, the followers that found Lina in the lane have decided to joined her. Their support amazingly satisfying and exhilarating all at once.

Polina rounds the corner and ends up on a road, she stops suddenly and is immediately surrounded by the followers. She’s not sure whether to head east or west? She pants as she regains her breathe, it has a rhythm which she can associate for one of the immersion processes that will hopefully take her into the subconscious layers. “Where to from here Lina?” The followers call out. In no time Lina finds the f3quenZor and decides that the time had come for her to put her full capabilities as one of the 3 Pillars of the f3quenZor to the test.

“Hear that everyone?” Lina calls out to the fifty or more people that encircle her, watching her like their lives depended on her. Polina waits for a response she is confident that she will receive.

A dozen or more people arrive and then more people find them, till the crowd spills out onto the quiet street.

Luminous spheres appear in the air above the faithful ones’ heads, at which they marvel till the promise of song became possible when a binding belief delivered gratification on the streets of the Big Apple for more than a hundred people who found Polina roaming the streets.

An acoustic guitar begins the final moments of the GUIOPERA. And then the voice of Michael Bublé in Spanish comes to confirm the blessing of those who witnessed Polina’s coming of age.

“a donde sea que yo este / tu corazon alcanzare / y una sonrisa en tu mirada pintare”

Lina, a tall woman looks out the crowd as the song echoes around the world.


Inside the Old bar, like everyone else around the planet, the crew is glued to the screen.

In front of Aleisha still on one knee, Samuel does a dance in the dusty but hopeful plains of Canterbury. His heels kick up dust that transpires into a mirage of things to come.

On the streets of New York, Polina has decided to keep running. The crowd now over a thousand strong was making its way up town at the last report.

And in the twilight of another global installation by the Poet Soldier he calls on help from another TRUFUNK Soldier with an abundance of that Christmas feel.

“...feliz navidad / feliz navidad…”


Published: THURSDAY December 25th 2014

“All I Want for Christmas”


Aleisha reads through the LATEST UPLOAD. The traffic lights are out, well almost out. There’s a dormant source that offers a glimmer of hope. Around her, people in their cars eager to get home to their families on Christmas eve, and here they are stuck at the lights. Because of her? Aleisha dares herself to believe that for a moment….


Polina cannot believe what’s happening as she leads the procession that’s over half a mile long, onto 47th St—the house number the Poet Soldier grew up in. Cars were pulling over to the side of the road to make way for her, and then the drivers and their passengers were getting out and joining her.

Polina stops her mob as they approach the corner of 47th Street and 5th Avenue. The eerie thing about this little escapade is apart from when she conjured Coldplay she hasn’t utter a word since. The people had just shown up and followed her on her squiggly line tour of New York based on the places Lina had walked with Page and Santina.

The lights at the junction up ahead holds a special place for Lina.

“Conjure the Pirate, Lina!” “Yeah Lina!” Some of the comments from the crowd were becoming ridiculous.

“It’s over!” Lina calls out. “I have to go be with my family now.” Polina continues, her voice echoes in the street...


At the wheel, Jon Le Mac navigates his way towards Times Square taking into account streets that have been blocked off due to Polina’s little episode. In the passenger seat Metofeaz Litigatti runs over in his head a few plausible scenarios which all include Polina receiving at minimum a traffic fine and at worst jail time, none of them will match what the Poet Soldier has in mind, “Damn it!” Litigatti blurts out.

In the back seat with his boys either side of him John James Lazoo watches on the limo’s media centre Aleisha in New Zealand, JRA holed up in a Brisbane hotel where it’s already Christmas day and Lina in NYC via video from a helicopter.

“Take Madison for the corner of East 47th and 5th” Lazoo advises Le Mac who was heading directly for Times Square on Lexington.

On East 47th Le Mac pulls over into a park facing the intersection just in time as the hoard with Polina at the helm appears at the intersection.

Lazoo accepts another message from one of the three agencies tasked with keeping an eye on Polina. Things were a lot easier now that mainstream media were on board, and their footage, which was late and depicted Lina as a lunatic nonetheless it meant Lazoo and Co had Polina in their sights.

“It’s over, she’s fine, she’s telling them to go…” Metofeaz is relieved as Lina points for the followers to disperse.

“I think you owe her one, mate” Le Mac looks at Litigatti and then Lazoo in the rear view mirror, who pauses for a moment and then he checks on the monitor for what the Poet Soldier might have in mind.

“L-O-L, ellipsis!” Lazoo laughs. “What the hell?” Le Mac wants to know what’s going on. “Ellipsis, three full stops. Meaning, whatever mate. Do you as you please, make it up as you go, dot, dot, dot.” Lazoo is as animated as he’ll ever be.

Litigatti already has one foot on the pavement. The swarm of people leaving the intersection is ideal for Metofeaz, covering him as he makes his way to where Polina remains in the middle of the intersection. By the time Metofeaz gets to her, he can sense reality and remorse have set in.

“Hey,” “Hey.” The pair exchange sheepish looks before Metofeaz explains the plan. “I’m your guardian. You’ve been under a fair bit of stress of late, actually a whole fucking truck load of stress…” Lina smiles, she has a dazed almost crazed look in her eyes from all the fun she’s had. “Do me a favour?” Lina interrupts Litigatti. “What?” Using her head she motions to the traffic lights.

Litigatti smiles as if to fob off the request. Then he raises his wrist, “Lazoo?” Metofeaz waits for a response in his ear piece. “Go ahead.”

“Lina wants me to cascade the lights,” Metofeaz almost sounds like he’s boy.

Inside the limo Lazoo reaches out to a contact while smoothing things over with the city who he has to put on hold while he arranges a few things for a few other things to happen…

Outside, the crowds who were leaving are coming back as news that LMLA-ink were about to cascade the traffic lights at the corner of 47th and 5th spread like wild fire.

In the middle, Metofeaz puts an arm around his brother Page’s daughter’s shoulder. “Now lets start this thing over again. I say.”

“What would you like for Christmas Polina Rada?” And you say?

In the air, the much talked about chimes of Mariah's “All I Want For Christmas Is You” as Metofeaz takes a step to the side and points up at the lights. The moment many had hoped would happen this Christmas had arrived as the lights begin to cascade red, orange, green, orange, green, red, and then green, green, green.

To be continued…

©2013 John Reyer Afamasaga