Here's the link to sign up at Netgalley for a chance to read @jeffnoon.bsky.social's fantastic new novel, Moon Over Brendle.
"A transporting, generous novel, creating much to think on, and richly conjuring hopes and fears. It's an immersive and vivid adventure.”
Aliya Whiteley
bit.ly/4u1ncjA
Janine has two distinct personalities: one for daylight, and one for the dark. They meet at dusk as strangers might, passing on a desolate road.
My most treasured artefact: those few pixels I managed to save from Andy’s body before his resolution hit zero. They sparkle like moon dust.
The craft lay on its side in the mud banks, half-submerged, eaten away by rust, its metal hull staved in. Nearby a crooked sign read: VIEW THE FAMOUS SPACESHIP £5 ONLY. The fields were empty for miles around.
Lonely Variant 259 wishes to meet a Variant 170 for cross-mutation intermingling. Will also consider Variants 45 or 91 or even a 214 if GSOH.
This is my wound. I live here. I have a mortgage. I have documents. I have proof of ownership. Get your own bloody wound!
In all his 77 years of life Patrick Madison was photographed only once, and then by accident: blurry, out of focus, caught in the background as JFK was shot.
There’s only so far you can go before getting lost. Most people blame the new road system. Or bad maps. Or the fog banks. Or drugs. Or love.
In the aftermath, the hands of a clock fused together: a prayer at midnight.
The British Board of Shadow Classification has passed the following indistinct shape in the darkness as suitable for ages twelve and over. Parental guidance advised.
At the limits of the dog’s bark; at the blurred edge of the rainfall; at the point where the lark vanishes in the sky: I’ll meet you there.
I won an Arts Council grant to fade away. I did it so well, hardly anyone noticed. The gallery staff stood around the empty plinth, puzzled.
In the Museum of Night, sunlight is held in tinted jars, muted, just enough that vampires can stand and stare. Such a dangerous pleasure!
The Invisible Man and the Invisible Woman meet in the park, as unseen leaves fall from unseen trees, and unseen lips kiss at unseen lips. The Visible Voyeur sighs with pleasure.
This is a customer service announcement. Can NO meet YES at the front desk. Thank you.
Meanwhile MAYBE sits alone, waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting…
It was a Rothko night. We both had red and purple paint smeared on our fingers, where the edge of dusk crumbled into dark.
Bernadette uses lamps and mirrors to define areas of intense shadow. Doorways. In the hope that one day the air might tremble, and her long lost child walk through.
City Nocturne in blue and neon gold. Smoke, fever bass music, the pulse of blood and flesh. One android alone amid the crowd, fragile, lost.
"you have one notification"
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to find the Internet sitting on the bed, staring at me. Just sitting there, staring!
Average Number of Words Used Per Day
In waking life: 6,532 (spoken aloud to others)
497 (spoken to self)
On screen/paper: 1,204.
In dreams: 1 (indecipherable).
It was so windy and dark that day, our words were blown away. A few were caught in the fishing nets. The rest? Somewhere over France by now.
Don’t go dancing in glass slippers. Don’t steal porridge from bears. And ditch the red hood: too noticeable. Otherwise, have a safe journey.
The Daily Mail’s been complaining yet again about all the Proustitutes, Joyceriders and Wild Woolfs running amok in the city.
Leave them be.
Jackson, please stop Pollacking. The walls are spotty enough. The house, also. And the cat. And myself. Please stop!
Virginia Woolf’s final message to the world was written in first draft on paper, in second draft on the mirror, in third draft on the water.
British Museum
Fragment of ancient text (paper)
“...when a giant ogre rises from the swamp. Do you want to
A) Fight ogre [pg. 75]
B) Run away! [pg. 4]
C) Cast spell [pg. 98].”
Usage unknown.
How’s the new religion? What’s that “marvellous floating feeling” really like? I read some one star reviews on Amazon. Is it really worth the price?
Trapped in a cage, a song: birdless.
Saturday afternoon in the multistorey graveyard, wandering, wondering: where the hell did we leave our bodies?
