• 1. ‘Amy Winehouse would be a great Doctor’ | Media | The Guardian
  Davies on leaving Doctor Who and a shameless attempt by The Guardian to boost their SEO by a lame reference to Amy Winehouse. Now you’d never catch me doing that. Oh no.
  (tags: DoctorWho Guardian TV Interview RussellTDavies)
• 2. Charlie’s Diary: Urgent: Phone your MEP. Now.
  An important message from Charlie.
  (tags: charlesstross online privacy humanrights europe IP)

• 1. Bobbie Johnson: After the Google-Viacom court ruling, the question is: who knows what about you? | Comment is free | guardian.co.uk
  Digital paranoia returns once more…along with the assertion that IP is the key to identification - gee I wish they’d told all those digital agencies before they invested millions in Javascript tracking.
  (tags: guardian scaremongering online security)

Blink
By Neil Beynon

Matt had always been angry.

No one was sure why, least of all him. It would well up inside him, bubbling higher and higher until like a kettle it tripped a switch and suddenly he would be calm again. Wondering why he had reacted like that. Trouble was: the size of the kettle kept growing.

It was a Tuesday when it first happened. Matt’s anger settled on him like an iron cloak, pulling his neck and shoulders tight, his head spinning with the strain of it. He closed his eyes as a last attempt at grabbing at some self restraint.

When he opened his eyes the object of his anger was gone.

The man – his name was Jeff, he had twin baby girls called Sally and Sarah, and a wife called Alison who was rumoured to be having an affair with Nick from Accounts – had been talking about the need for rationalisation. He had been in mid flow. Now he was gone. There was no sign of him at all.

Confused, Matt waited a few minutes before wandering from the room, reasoning that Jeff had finished and left whilst Matt zoned out. Matt zoned out frequently, it was a way to cope with the dull monotony and so it was not an unreasonable supposition.

But it was wrong.

As he discovered when queuing for the train that evening, the heaving conga pushing him this way and that. Matt’s mobile was knocked from his hand, shattering and drawing stares from those around but not from the person who had knocked it. Matt seethed. He closed his eyes to count to ten and then –

They were gone. Everyone in the station concourse: passengers, guards, shop attendants, cleaners, tramps, all gone. Frightened Matt ran out of the station towards the street. People still walked around, buses still ran, there was nothing untoward. Still the station was empty.

Matt got the bus home.

Matt was calm for a long time after that. Maybe as long as a month but eventually the memory faded to the sepia tones of something he’d imagined rather than something that had happened. After all, people don’t just disappear?

It was a Saturday when he finally lost control. They went to a supermarket, they being Matt and his girlfriend Anne. Matt did not like supermarkets, insisting if he were to come that they leave early to avoid the rush but half the city had the same idea, it was after all sale season. Instead of arriving in good time they had to queue for an hour to get in the car park and wrestle with a man from Finchley, who stank vaguely of urine, to get a trolley. Really it was a miracle Matt lasted until they got to the marmalade section.

In the marmalade section, Anne talking about some trip she had booked, Matt tried to make a decision but it wasn’t easy. The supermarket had stacked enough marmalade for half the western world: orange, lemon, lime, prune, thin cut, thick cut, traditional, finest, gourmet, home made, free range, super-size, medium, small and, of course, not one was the actual jar he was looking for.

He picked up a jar to look at it and, so tightly packed was the shelf, the jar toppled from the shelf, meeting the floor with a loud crack as it shattered, spilling its sugary innards across the lino. Everyone looked.

“You’ll have to pay for that,” said the attendant behind Matt, the same attendant who had just over-stacked the shelf.

His heart was pounding in his chest like a mule kicking for freedom; over the sound of it he could hear Anne berating him. Aware that hitting the attendant was not a good idea Matt closed his eyes.

Silence – and then he remembered.

Matt’s eyes snapped open. It was too late: the supermarket was empty. No attendant, no staff at all, no shoppers and no Anne. Matt ran out into the street, a cold hand twisting in his gut, bile in the back of his throat as looked for Anne. In the car park people went on with their daily business.

Back in the supermarket: silence.

Matt sat down on a pile of tins. The cold fear was slowly subsiding, along with the shock and in their place some other emotion was rising, at first in small bubbles and then with increasing violence. Matt was angry, angry with the supermarket for being so busy, with Anne for bringing him here, with the world for making him angry and with himself for being so angry.

Matt screamed long and hard until his throat was raw, spittle flecking the side of his mouth. When he was done the supermarket was still empty. People from the car park ambled cautiously towards the shop to see what all the noise was about and Matt reached a decision.

He closed his eyes.

Afterwards no one could say what happened. The people who came in from the car park asked about the screaming but no one in the supermarket had heard anything at all. Other than a lady who was convinced she had lost something – although she had no idea what – there was nothing else out of the ordinary that Saturday.

Carefully Anne stepped over the marmalade that had been spilt on the floor. Some people, she thought, have no idea how to clean up after themselves and she left the marmalade section. After all, she didn’t like it anyway: too bitter.

• 1. The Presence wins a Welsh book award | News | guardian.co.uk Books
  Dannie Abse wins a well deserved award. Damn fine poet, damn fine writer. Period.
  (tags: wales poetry literature prose)

• 1. Cory Doctorow gives it to copyright holders…
  Cory Doctorow delivers a challenge to copyright holders to think before they act. I agree.
  (tags: online copyright cory doctorow guardian)
• 2. Google: to cool for its own good?
  Interesting blog post about Sergey Solyanik’s reasons for returning to Microsoft.
  (tags: google microsoft online idealogy enterprisesoftware)

It’s been a little while since I posted on this.

I’m still finishing off the structural rewrite. There was not much that could be salvaged from the end other than the very loose skeleton of the story and so it’s taking longer than expected, despite me working on it every day. I’ve also had to add in some crucial extra scenes in order to pace the action better. It’s tricky work but I’m getting there - chapter twenty is nearly in the bag.

It remains to be seen whether it will be of commercial length or indeed more importantly worth.

Once that’s done it’s going in a virtual draw for a couple of weeks while I write some shorter material for the Arvon course I’m attending and then it’s back to it. I have to finish by August as I have the first draft of my second novel, Forever, sitting in a draw demanding to be turned into a second draft.

That’s where I am at the moment.

In the 1880’s it was said that Jesse James was the most famous American after Mark Twain. A point noted in the film. On April 3rd, 1882 Jesse James was assassinate in his own home by a man he knew. Jesse is still famous today, as much for how he died as how he lived and a popular subject for filmmakers.

It would be easy, I suppose, to state the film was about Jesse’s death. After all, it’s there in the title and there is indeed a brutal recreation of the murder. Still that would be wrong.

Starting with his last train robbery, the film focuses in on the last few months of Jesse James’ life and his relationship with his eventual killer, Bob Ford. Rather than a grisly examination of his murder what is offered is a gritty drama about hero worship and obsession. The real lead is not Brad Pitt as Jesse but the green, Jesse worshipping, gun hand Bob Ford and his obsession with stepping out of Jesse’s shadow.

The film features an interesting and competent performance by Casey Afleck (as Ford), a casting choice that seemed a touch ironic. There is of course Brad Pitt who, despite moments of nuance, pitched James a bit too close to Tyler Durden for this reviewer. A choice underlined by some of the costume choices. However, for me, it was Sam Rockwell as Bob’s older brother stole the show with a captivating turn as a man hopelessly trapped in a situation that he knows will ultimately destroy him.

The writing is good, and like Brad Pitt’s performance, actually moves into brilliant in places. Handfuls of genuine insight: where Jesse calls on an old friend who is less than pleased to see him, where Bob watches Jesse in the bath and when Jesse gives Bob the gun that will eventually kill him. Yet in other places it just clunks, breaking the spell.

The film’s major let down is the dreadful voice over that seemed superfluous to requirements. Perhaps it was intended to give the film the feel of folk lore but all it did for me was break the narrative structure and take me away from the film’s characters. The film’s premise is also diluted by the bloated runtime.

Overall it’s a gritty, hard drama with a strong cast and solid writing. It could have benefited from a nip and a tuck but, if you like this sort of Western (I do), it’s well worth a look.

Hopefully this marks the end of my very specific writer’s block around Flash Fiction. Feedback, as ever, is welcomed. Enjoy:

Descent
By Neil Beynon

I keep having a reoccurring dream:

I am standing on grass, a short distance from an airport. It’s not a real airport and I only recognise it because on some level I know I’m dreaming. That I’ve stood here before.

I look up at the sky and planes drop from the blue like oversized snowflakes, rising on the occasional gust but ultimately crunching into the ground. There is nothing cold about the landing, the flames giving way to rolling mountains of thick black smoke that chokes.

There is no sound. That’s how I know I’m dreaming.

I have dreamt this for the last eighteen months on and off. Sometimes Mary is there, sometimes she isn’t. I’m not sure what it means. I’m dreaming it now as my body hurtles along at 500mph, strapped to a metal tube that is all that keeps me from falling.

The sound of a glass being set down on my seat tray shatters my dream, leaving me clambering through the shards for the memory of where I am. It doesn’t take me long to find it.

Mary is next to me. She is fidgeting with her hair, eyes fixed on the window, mind lost on the clouds. I never figured her for a nervous flyer, that’s more me. Still it only takes one bad thought. Or dream.

I take a pull from the scotch in front of me, its amber fire scores my throat on the way down. I’m really awake now.

“You OK?” I ask her.

She nods.

She shakes her head.

“I’m leaving you,” she says.

And just like that I’m falling.

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Assuming of course you’re shooting a film involving a bespecled, bearded chap dressed like a tramp and sporting a full set of luggage under his eyes.

Apologies for the lack of bloggage. It’s been a bit frantic this week with family stuff (Niece being born), work and my stuffing up my time management due to last week’s trip to Wales and thankfully I have tomorrow off. Which, judging from the amount of soy sauce I just spilt down my white shirt, is a good thing.

I have a list of things to be posting about that are backing up and so expect some content to be coming your way soon. Just caught a glimpse of myself in the monitor.

Oh lord, I look frightening today:

Not so much web 2.0 today as Hobo 1.0.

Things I learned this weekend:

- If feeding family home cooked ham with sticky bits it’s best to stand back
- Pineapple eaten whilst bouncing on a pink ball following a long walk induces labour
- A golden retriever can hear a banana being peeled at fifteen paces
- You don’t want to know what a sweep is
- Be careful what you leave lying on the kitchen counter
- Never ask G to navigate unless you like adventures in the valleys
- It is not possible to ask a question to which the answer “sticky bits” does not produce instant innuendo
- In the event sticky bits doesn’t work just ask my sister, E, how she likes her peri peri