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Christmas Terror

Somehow, and from somewhere, another edition of the original Essex Terror magazine has surfaced. This is possibly the greatest archaeological find since the Dead Sea Scrolls.

David N. Guy

Read the full Christmas Essex Terror magazine here

Essex Terror

I found this the other day while searching through my loft. Its possibly the only known copy of the short lived Essex Terror magazine from the late 1980s. All the others were destroyed in a moralistic purge by the authorities in 1990, and everyone involved mysteriously disappeared for the next 15 years, and many of them are quite possibly dead.

David N. Guy

Read the full Essex Terror magazine here


When reluctant London photographer and journalist Elvin is sent into deepest Essex to cover an annual New Year's Festival he is not sure what to expect. But he could never have expected to meet

Get all of McBluebeard from here


I stepped carefully into her bathroom and quietly locked the door behind me. Turning my head slowly from left to right, I took in the scene. My palms began to feel sticky. My pulse quickened; I could feel it in my temples. Walking over to her sink, I picked up her toothbrush and put it in my mouth like a lollipop. I sucked at the bristles, hoping to get a taste of her. I put it down, foiled, and stroked the bar of soap next to the hot tap. I rolled it over in my hands, inspecting it closely. Nothing.

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I dream of Julie

I kicked the door open and schlepped my bags across the threshold. Something stirred in the artificial darkness of the hallway. �Fuck off, Agamemnon, you heap of bastard � you�ll trip me over.� Onwards to the kitchen I strode purposefully, gratefully dumping the bags on the floor once there, and lifting my hands to inspect the welts of fat between where their taut plastic had cut into my flesh. �Nothing as bad as what Dad had to put up with, Julie!� I rebuked myself as I started to unpack and place my items in the cupboards, eating a sausage roll as I did so, and reflecting further upon the misery wrought upon millions like my father � heroes who had died tiny, insignificant deaths under the oppressive yokes of bourgeoisie. The former shackled until the end by the latter�s vulgar, formless notions of superiority, hidden beneath the repulsive veil of a stiff upper lip. (Like the veils worn by Muslim women, who are really totally oppressed, and yet we protect their foul abusive husbands in the name of liberalism!!!)

Read more of Julie's ramblings

The boy who had too much blood

Simon was a young boy, much like any other. The sort of child you can hardly see, sometimes. If Simon had not suffered from a rare affliction it is doubtful that even his parents would have remembered his name, or his face.

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The complete online journal of Ted Vaaaak

Ted Vaaaak, reported dead in 2005, stunned the literary world last summer when he reappeared on egosalve website . Possibly forgetting he was dead, or maybe communicating with us from beyond, Ted Vaaak's diary ran for an enigmatic few months, before withering away in front of our very eyes.

No one was able to actually contact the shadowy creature during or after this brief explosion of activity, and ever since there has just been an eerie silence. What this means only the Gods can know.

To read the complete journal click here my friends

Love in the 90s

He was aware of her mouth, flapping like a singing sock puppet, but it took one, maybe two seconds for his brain to process the sounds emitted from her knotty flap. It wasn't "If You're Happy and You Know It", that's for sure. Hell, it wasn't even "Thanks for the Valentine's gift."
"It's over between us, Jack, O-V-A! You suck, Jack! You suck so bad, you suck wet farts from dying pigeons!"
He got the feeling this evening wasn't going well.
His name was Jack.

Read the whole of this touching love story

Search inside

Adventures in text #1 - Operation New Life

You are in the lounge.


You can see smoke.

>Look closer

You peer through the thick, acrid smoke. You can see your twelve-year-old brother lying on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. You can hear your sister coughing upstairs.

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The Diary of Paul Ruskan

25th April, 2005

"Gav" from CrittyRecords emails me.

Hi Paul

I�ve heard some of your music, and think it is just the thing that CrittyRecords needs. How about we meet, and we�ll discuss putting together a recording contract.



A&R CrittyRecords (Subsidiary of AllOneWordIndustries)

I read the email and consider replying. I decide to make myself sound slightly more important and busy than I actually am.


Thank you for your interest in my music. I am glad you enjoyed the aural treats which I slaved over for many an hour, often whilst in severe need of a haircut and coffee.

Sadly, I cannot meet with you at the moment, as I am in Florence, creating musical instruments from various to-hand materials. Did you know you can make a harmonica out of the more sturdy types of pasta? I didn�t!



A&E Department, Florence General Hospital

Read Paul's complete diary

David Copper Field (fiction)

'Go you below, my love,' said Mr. Murdstone. 'David2000 and I will come down, together.'

When we two were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on a chair, and holding me standing before him, looked steadily into my optical sensors. I felt my own circuits attracted, no less steadily, to his human eyes.

As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again to hear my cooling fan whirring fleet and loud.

'David2000,' he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them together, 'if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with, what do you think I do?'

'I don't know.'

'I beat him.'

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Chocolate and the Charlie Factory, by Jonesy (fiction)

It never struck me as a derogatory nickname, at least not until I was much older. I was too young when they gave it to me, too innocent to view it as anything other than a term of endearment. Other kids wore theirs like a badge of belonging: Stilts, Jumbo, Dobba - there were enough pet names at St. Telegraph's Primary School to qualify the place for a zoo. That isn't its real name either, of course: another title bestowed by a former pupil - yours truly, in fact, 15 years after being ferried out of the place for the last time at the tender age of 11, in a Range Rover Discovery (a prototype "Chelsea Tractor", as they'd later come to be labelled).

When the 'old Man' ran out of the closet and away with his solicitor, Daniel; when he blipped off our radar for six months without so much as a goodbye, before turning up in Puerto Benus, naked, purple and swinging from the tan leather belt mum bought him the Christmas before, he didn't just take all our money and the respect of our so called 'friends'. No, he also robbed Mum and me of our Middle England identity cards; without them, we were never going to get back in. And for that I'm eternally grateful.

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The Further Adventures of Iorek Byrnison, by Jonesy (fiction)

This morning I watched Sally's Caught on Tape: Shocking Moments! It featured a woman being attacked by a shark, live on home video. Personally, I'd have shot it differently. At least I would if the industry wasn't such a fucking sham. Got a letter back from Ian Gastor at Fox today: liked my show reel but they don't have any 'suitable projects' for me right now. Grrrr! Suitable fucking projects. Wankers. I can turn a paw to one of their shit mini series without even breaking sweat. Bastard may as well have written "we're not interested in hiring your sort."

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Thrilling Stories (in 30 words or less)

Travelling Home, by Emma Eaton-Smith

The orangutans waited paitently at check-in, their suitcases full of souvenir shortbread and decorative teatowels. They looked disapprovingly over at the caribou, who were being drunk and obnoxious in WHSmiths.

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Mortality, by Fran Read (fiction)

They lie side by side, sheets pulled up tight to their chins. Twin butterbeans, their skin papery and wrinkled. In the failing light of the previous afternoon, she had listened as her husband's breathing rasped and clicked and eventually, painfully, stopped...

Boys and girls come out to play, by Fran Read (fiction)

In the summer, the roads are filled with the shrieks and screams of children playing, the thud of balls on tarmac and the patter-slap of soles slapping the pavement. As the moon hangs pale in the sky and the sun grazes the horizon, the voices bounce off the walls between the terraced houses, echoing in shrill scales and tinny abuse, the throaty edge of tearfulness and the backdrop of bubbling laughter...

And so you tell me, by Raz (fiction)

And so you tell me. And I wait. And I try to understand.

Outside the glow intensifies, and some of the revellers move away from the boulevard and over to the viewside. I look to you for a moment, and you give a shrug, and then we go too.

I feel like I should be hurting around now. I feel like I should be feeling something...

Ice, by Fran Read (fiction)

The freeze erodes flesh and burnishes skin dull red. The people here are all angles, jutting cheekbones and collarbones and pelvises, elbows like blades. There eyes are wide with dazzle and in the dull light of their homes their pupils stretch huge and dark....

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