THE FOREST OF WORDS

There once was a little boy who loved words so much he spent all his time in the forest of words, where words grew instead of trees. The little boy would pick words from the forest and press them into his little book where they made lovely patterns and formed sentences and paragraphs. One day the little boy got lost in the forest of words. It was a very confusing place and he could not find his way out. The little boy's beloved words were not much help. Some of the words said 'come this way' and other words from a different direction said 'no little boy, come this way'. Some other words that were in the forest didn't make much sense at all but the words that did make sense seemed to want the little boy to go in circles, around and around and around, forever. The little boy knew that he could not rely on the words to get him out of the forest. 'If I follow the words I will never get out of here and I might die', said the little boy to himself. The little boy felt betrayed by the words that he loved. He was very upset and missed his family and his dog very much.

Then the little boy had a very clever idea. 'I know', said the little boy to himself. 'I will leave a trail of shite and that way I will know if I am retracing my steps and going back into the forest'. Then the clever little boy pulled down his britches and deposited a tiny shite on the forest floor. The little boy continued to do this as he made his way through the forest. When he saw a shite or smelt one nearby, the little boy knew he had doubled back on himself and he would change direction. The little boy did not run out of shite because as he made his way through the forest the little boy picked and ate the words that grew there. Then the little boy would shite out the digested words, a bit like most people do when they are talking but the little boy made the shite come out of his little bottom instead of letting a load of shite pour out of his mouth.

The little boy eventually found that he was not in the forest of words anymore. This was not because the little boy had found his way out, oh no. This was because the little boy had eaten all the words in the forest and turned the forest into a big heap of shite that the little boy stood atop. This was the biggest heap of shite that ever was and from the top of it the little boy could look out upon the whole world. From where he was standing, the little boy could see words everywhere, telling people to do this and that and confusing them and playing tricks on them. The little boy called out to warn the people below but it was no use. The little boy could not be heard from way up on the mountain of shite that had all come out of his clever little bottom. This made the little boy sad and he began to cry. The little boy cried and cried and his tears made the shite soft and the little boy began to sink into it. 'Oh no', said the little boy, 'I am being swallowed up by my own shite', and so he was and the little boy was never seen alive again.

The mountain of shite then calcified in the hot sun and became so hard and stiff that the people of the world were able to build upon it. The people built a library on the shite and named it after the little boy who had vanished to where they knew not. They put all kinds of books in the library that had all kinds of words in them that said all kinds of confusing things. Little did the people know that the little boy would not have liked this because the little boy had learned not trust words and had decided that even shite is more dependable; as long as the shite doesn't go soft and swallow you up.

One day, the little boy's dog was sniffing around the mountain of shite and began digging a hole in it. The little boy's dog then discovered the little boy's skeleton and started to chew on the bones until the little boy's father discovered the dog and shot it in disgust. Then the little boy's father wept over the little boy's remains and later he wrote a book about the little boy's life and the book was full of words and do you know what readers? Yes, that's right. The book was a load of shite.

The End!

LONG PIG

I see you long pig. Head down. Hands in pockets. Negotiating an Edward Hopper meets Mike Leigh landscape. Another round fought to another split decision. You're going the distance but what a distance. You make eye contact with a weirdo who thinks you're a weirdo. You find a tenner but you lost twenty. There might be something on the telly tonight but you know that there probably won't be. The telly's broke anyway. Dieter and Annabelle have invited you to dinner but you're not going because they sound pretentious. A friend texts you to tell you that you're a 'miserable bollocks'. You text back 'so?'. Somebody asks you what time it is and you tell them that it doesn't matter. You'd arrange a protest march against the indifference of the Universe but you know that no one would show up. The Universe wouldn't care anyway. All that can be said has been said except for all the stuff that should be said but never will be. This is getting repetitive. But what's that noise from above? Everyone is standing in the road. Look up long pig. There are crosses in the sky. It's the end of the world ...again.

COINCIDENCE CITY!

I can tell what people are writing just by listening to the faint sound the pen makes when it scratches against the paper. It's the same with the sound of chalk squeaking off blackboards and so on. It's a talent but I'm not sure it's all that useful. It did get me on telly when I was a little boy though. I was all the rage for a while. I was in advertisements for stationary products and everything. You might remember me.

Things went really well until everyone got a bit fed up seeing me do my thing over and over. The bookings stopped coming in so my agent decided we should add a new element to my routine. That's when my agent announced to the press that I could tell what was written on a piece of paper just from listening to it go through a photocopier. That wasn't true but he announced it and I had to learn how to do it. I tried. I really did. But I couldn't. I cried a lot though. 'Those tears won't earn us a bloody penny', yelled my agent, 'now try again you pathetic little pansy'. My agent was the pushy sort. Very pushy in fact. So pushy that he had pushed to gain custody of me from my parents. And so pushy that he had succeeded. I was at the pushy bastard's mercy. I wasn't a happy child, despite the public adulation.

Anyway, I was booked to appear on some primetime show that everyone used watch but no longer remembers. I was stood there in front of a studio audience as a photocopier was wheeled out. Then the host of the show wrote something on a piece of paper and ran it through the copier. The copier started making noises and I listened. I listened in the vain hope that I would somehow be able to perform the trick. My agent was peering at me, mean eyed, from the wings. The pressure was immense. I was silently praying for divine intervention and some came but not in the way I'd expected. You see, as I was stood there hoping for a miracle, I realised that I'd heard the host's pen scratching against the sheet of paper as he wrote on it before placing it in the copier. I had heard what he had written! 'My wife doesn't understand me', I shouted out as the photocopy appeared out the other side of the machine. That was indeed what he had written and I was patted on the back and got a big round of applause. The show then closed with the host inviting his wife on stage to join us and serving her with divorce papers.

I was booked on many more shows after that and could be found endorsing photocopiers and divorce lawyers in magazines and all that. My agent was delighted but, needles to say, this second wind of fame also abated. That's when my agent started making a second round of untrue claims about my abilities. My agent released a press statement that said I'd developed the ability to tell what words were being projected by an overhead projector just by listening to the transparency being placed on the glass. This was utter bullshit. I hadn't a hope. My agent didn't care though. He had me practising every day. He roared and roared and roared at me and when I wept he roared some more. 'Them sissy tears won't land us any juicy new contracts you weak little fuck', he encouraged.

So, as I'm sure you've guessed, I ended up blindfolded with my back to an overhead projector that was pointed at a screen on some bloody show everyone loved watching but no longer recalls. The host of the show placed a transparency on the overhead projector's glass and a drum rolled. After a moment, the host asked me what words were being projected behind me. I had no idea. No fucking idea at all. But, I did have another idea. I had a really good idea about what I could do and what I did was this: I screwed up my face and began to sob. I began to sob and bawl and make bitter tears roll down my little face. 'What's the matter kid?', asked the concerned host and I answered him. I pointed to my agent who was stood in the wings and I shouted out the words 'that man touched my willy'.

Turned out that my tears earned me more than a penny that day, the result being that I was awarded the entire earnings made over the course of my career. I was also returned to the care of my parents. As for my agent, he became penniless drunk. He ended up on the streets and was eventually beaten to death by vigilantes for being a nonce.

And so we have a happy ending to this strange little tale that I invented and wrote in just over an hour (excluding checking for typos) as a challenge to myself. Amn't I great? There's more to me than just being able to tell what people are writing from the sound of their pens. Oh, and there's one more thing that I think I should add. You're probably wondering what words were written on the transparency the telly host placed in the overhead projector. Well, I'll tell you, ...and this is the best part. The words on the transparency read: 'that man touched my willy'. Seriously. What are the fuckin chances of that eh? Coincidence city!

LOVE THE MACHINE

A dirty stomp around the Earth. Chimneys, cogs, pistons, buckled conveyer belts, murk - chug chug chug. It stamps another nation into mud. Crater creator. Death Freighter. It pisses petroleum and fills lungs with dust. We love the machine although it HATES us back. We endure and then die in the underpass of its rank and leaking belly. We love the machine because it shits money. Money money money floating down from its rumbling rusty orifice into our clasping clamour. All hail the money machine. The fiscal fecal fuselage empties as it swaggers and kills. Rat a tat tat. We're living the dream. Rat a tat tat. We excuse it in its wake. We look at the dead infants and debris and yes it's worth it, of course it's worth it, what would we be without it? We are soft and weak and organic. We are collateral. We are the expendable. We are the meat in its jaws. It chews and grinds us. It makes us worthy masticated mince. What else would we be? What else is there? Let's salute it. Let's sing songs about it. Let's define ourselves by it. We turned it on and we've forgotten how to turn it off. There is no alternative. Love the Machine! Another war starts tomorrow. Run for cover and watch it on TV. Kathryn Bigelow made a movie and it's in 3D. SAFRAN Thales SAIC. Lockheed Boeing BAE.

THE FIRST WORD EVER

It's incredible what they can figure out about the past these days isn't it? Did you hear that they've discovered the first word ever? Just think, the first word ever used by our species. They found it plastered onto the walls of various troglodyte abodes. They carbon dated it and it predates the hell out of sanskrit. This first word was depicted by a single letter of sorts that was just a simple handprint. Seriously, the 'letter' looked like a basic outline of a hand. The troglodytes just had to daub their hands in pigment, slap them on the side of a cave, and they had written the word. They reckon that this handprint word was the only word used by early man for several generations. Early man never said anything else, just this first word, over and over. They've even figured out how the word was pronounced. Apparently it sounded like a bark. Just a big fuckin 'woof!'. Mad isn't it? Of course, this first word ever was eventually joined by other words, which led to sentences and grammar and a linguistic sophistication that allowed us to say complicated things to each other and drive each other crazy.

I've no idea how they know all this about the first word ever but the evidence has been peer reviewed and it all seems scientifically sound. It did take them a long time to figure out what the word meant but even that was eventually deciphered. For a long time it was assumed that the first word ever would mean something simple like 'danger' or 'hungry' or 'me' or even, as one sentimental anthropologist optimistically postulated, 'love'. But no, interestingly it turns out that the first word ever didn't mean any of these things. The first word ever meant 'pardon?'

ORDER!

Did you see the moon up there last night? It was like a discarded dirty plate and the stars were scattered about it like shiny white crumbs. I was looking up and I found it very messy. I found the sight slightly obscene. We'll put order on it one day. We'll line up the stars in neat rows, like the ones on the flag of the United States of America. We will look up and see a regimented, disciplined, and comprehensible night sky. We have brought order to our world and we will bring order to what lies beyond it. We cut the grass and trim the hedges. It's what we're all about. It's how we roll.

We even put time in order. We made it a series of numbers on a dial. When the pointer on the dial is at a certain number you know that it's time to get out of bed. When it points to the next number you know that it's time to leave for work. When it points to the number after that you know that you are late for work. A few numbers later and you know that it's OK to go home and watch the telly. Before us time was a sprawling mess, an intangible nuisance, but we captured time on a dial and when we put time in order we put ourselves in order.

Before time, humans were a messy. They just did things, all willy nilly and whenever. They would eat when their belly grumbled, sleep when they were tired, plant stuff when it was getting sunny and reap it when it was getting cold. Nothing really got done when it should be done and when it should be done is when we say it should be done. Proper order!

When we put time in order we put work in order and when we put work in order we put money in order. Yes, money. We gave designated times to the earning of money and with money we designated objective value to things. Before money value was messy and subjective and sentimental. Now it is certain.

We have order and we, ourselves, are defined by order. We ordered reality so it would order us. Without order there is only disorder. Have you ever felt disordered? Not nice is it? Scary isn't it? Did you know that there are those amongst us that hanker for the disorder that lies beneath order? Yes, it's true. Some actually feel an aversion to the numbers on the dial and to designated toil and objective values. These people are feeling the atavistic longing for a world before order. These people are subversives and seek to reinstate mess. These people are inhuman because to be human is to be ordered. These people must be put back in order so that they once again appreciate and obey order. You see, to stay ordered we must obey our orders otherwise we'd be a mess like the dirty plate and crumbs scattered throughout last night's sky. Without order we'd be an obscenity. An insult to human cognition. An anachronism. We'd be mad people or even criminals. Without order, well, we might not even exist!

There is no alternative. There is only order. We decide order and we impose order. We are order and we must have order and to have order we must obey order. So quit messing. That's an order!

This message was brought to you by the Society for the Maintenance of Chronological and Spatial Ontology, Kinnegad Main Street, County Westmeath.

STORY JAR

I've written a novel that contains an infinite variation of themes, narratives, and conclusions. The novel has a word count of about 80,000, the average length for these things, but these words do not come within grammatically ordered sentences in paragraphs on pages. No, the words of my novel come on separate pieces of paper in a jar. The jar also contains little pieces of paper featuring various punctuation symbols. The idea is that you shake the jar, pour out the words and symbols and arrange them. I have been very cunning in my selection of the jar's contents so that no matter what happens, no matter what order the words and symbols come out of the jar, you'll end up reading a story of some sort. The only thing that occasionally goes wrong is that you can end up with two punctuation marks or the same words next to each other or maybe a few in a row. If you are willing to overlook this and place the excess punctuation marks or words back in the jar you get a coherent narrative. It may be a comedy, a ghost story, a family drama or any other genre and it may or may not be to your liking. Whatever it turns out to be, you get a story. It might be the best story you've ever read or the worst or just OK. Like life, your enjoyment is mainly down to random luck combined with the attitude you adopt in reaction to this random luck. However, unlike life, if the narrative is a total pain in the arse or really boring you can give up, put the words back in the jar, shake it, and start again. There's also an app you can download that shuffles and selects the words for you should you want read the novel on your phone, Kindle, or computer. The app is quite good actually because it ensures that you don't get the repetition problem.

The story jar has been optioned by a major movie production company. The people running company are delighted to have the rights to the story jar as it means they'll never have to bother bidding for another book again. All the other production companies are fed up as they're bound to go out of business. Even if they continue to make films, they'll inevitably be done for copyright infringement because no matter what they make it will be a story that could very easily have come out of the infinite range available from the jar. The same applies to all publishing ventures in the future. All authors from this point forward will be done for plagiarism as whatever they come out with will be an exact duplicate of something that could have come from the jar. Of course, there's also some talk of the story jar being done for the same reason by the property holders of every novel that preceded it but our legal team will argue that you can't sue on grounds of potential semantic similarity. In short, the story jar can always plead innocence.

I use the story jar myself. Even though I've written the novels that come out of the jar, I've no idea what they're about or what is going to happen in them. I recently read a historical piece about a sasquatch that captained a whaling schooner off the coast of Nantucket in 1886. Then I put the words back in the jar, shook it, poured out the words again and read a science fiction story about a whaling schooner that Nantucketed a captain off the coast of sasquatch in 8618. Both stories were OK. Did I mention that sasquatches and whaling schooners feature in the all the stories you get from the jar? Well, they do. But this too is like life. Life, as far as I can make out anyway, largely comprises of sasquatches and whaling schooners. 'Hoist the mainsails', 'thar she blows', 'look at the size of that footprint' – this is the stuff of life.

I'm hoping to win the Man Booker this year and all the other prestigious awards in various genres for fiction for all ages. (I've already been awarded the Maltesers Honorary Philip Pullman Prize for deicidal children's fiction aged 8 to 12.) You see, no matter what my story jar novel is not about it's about that too and no matter how bad my novel may be it's also the best novel you ever read. Something for everyone. Unless you're not so interested in whaling schooners or sasquatches. If whaling schooners and sasquatches don't do it for you then you'll probably find the story jar a bit shit. Fair enough. Each to their own. ...wierdo.