It was long ago reported in this journal of the extent to which exposure to the venom of a certain species of wasp caused people with the correct cerebral receptors to be able to internally warp time and space to find themselves drawn to the centre of the galaxy.
It had long been assumed that the galaxy concerned was the Milky Way, the barred spiral we call our home, but it is not. It is far further away than even the unimaginable distances to our own galactic centre.
The galaxy concerned is The Wasp Galaxy, where wasps are formed and transported to earth via portals into and out of the 11th Dimension.
This explains the human race memory that wasps have no evolutionary place on Earth. They are right. They are not from here. They are formed from giant galactic clouds of dust and gas and are in fact light years long. Strange relativistic effects and the dreams of higher dimensional creatures make them smaller in our universe. In other universes, they are the size of clusters of galaxies.
It is said the nature of people who can envisage the wasp galaxy through their venom is evil. This may not be true. They may just be different.
When a wasp stings you, you are being stung by a galaxy entire.
Copyright Mulberry Lightning 28.02.17
I am a great lover of Hammer Horror, and whenever I visit my favourite local late night establishment, I love to turn on Channel 70 on Freeview and seeing what’s on there.
As there is another Hammer lover who is a regular who can identify the movies by the music alone, it’s always good to be able to find a classic movie from the studio.
I like to take stills of the movies, with all of the random pot luck of how fast the shutter is, and the decor and surroundings. Here, I missed the scenes of Charles Grey bothering goats with a sharp knife, but got a car chase with his demonic eyes summoning a woman to an appointment with the devil…
Moon-a-mucks are not real, but I wish they were and so does everyone who ever read about them.
I created them a long time ago, I think when I was studying a course on moons; our own Moon of course played a prominent part, geology thereof, vulcanism, impact crater formation, the Tycho rays stretching across the surface, glittering vitrified beads making the moon glow.
As interesting as it all was, I wanted there to be something alive up there, something making the moon more than just lava and dust. So I conceived the idea of the moon-a-muck, a creature that hoovered up crystals of quartz and assorted spars, and in return for this lunar nourishment it was able to sing, through a vacuum at that, to the moonflowers that deposited them as a sort of seed, and thus make them grow through a sort of quantum resonance process.
Then there was Lord Moth, who was the lord of all moon-a-mucks. He sent them across warps in space time to earth, and there the moon-a-mucks sang in dreams to people, for the gain of I know not what.
The joy of it, perhaps.
Then I realised this was all rather remote, and decided to team up a single moon-a-muck with Aristophanes Brown, my late Victorian sort of detective, inventor and theatre critic bon viveur and his companions Lady Alexia Laplace, and Carina, walker of moon-a-mucks. And in my London of then, they work together solving improbable crimes and doing improbable things.
Copyright Mulbery Lightning 05.01.16
Be honest. You’d all worry if I got one of my little meeting reports out even vaguely on time, after all I have a life of writing about small birds and attempting to run the wildly fluctuating weight off my hide to live. As well as drinking sugarless tea with a side serving of packets of biscuits.
I know, my life is a massive set of counter intuitive paradoxes.
Well, you want to see the pictures and I have sugarless, joyless tea to drink before I go to my bed.
“One gets a sense of perspective up here, I find” said Aristophanes Brown, as he surveyed the London he loved so much from a relaxed slouch.
“That phrase, Ari, is a cliche now, was a cliche before and will be a cliche long into the future of this pitiful planet.”
“Well often cliches are cliches because they are true. I love looking at the West End from up here, puts me in my rightful place above the sycophants and cretins of Theatreland!”
“Anything you say” sighed Lady Alexia Laplace as she went back to minding the compressor controls. “I’d hate for anything to take you off your lofty perch,” she muttered, before giving a swift twist to a valve, causing Aristophanes’ chair to lurch drunkenly back and forth.
“Ow! Stop that!” he said from his eyrie about the roof of their warehouse.
He was sat, in smoking jacket and rather raffish striped trousers cut for him by Sieberg of Chelsea, in his favourite garden lounger, some 15 feet above the parapet of their building. A flexible india rubber tube of some length reached up to the chair before splitting into four just before the legs, whereupon they were directed downwards to provide upward thrust. A device with little practical purpose other than to act as an ego trip for the dandy theatre critic, it was far too earthbound top ever provide an easy form of transportation.
And as Aristophanes found when he looked back down to find Alexia gone inside, it’s lack of onboard controls were a nuisance.
Copyright Mulberry Lightning 07.07.15
How fabulous are these. Too bad I’m a little old for the second coming of space travel
“Ari, you must be careful. You may use this device only twice in a year, my analysis has concluded.”
It wasn’t just Lady Alexia Laplace who was concerned. Carina sat in a corner, nervously arranging posies. The moon-a-much hooted nervously, perhaps more at the sight of Aristophanes Brown, his fair hair concealed underneath an odd silvery helmet with a somewhat rough and ready gladiatorial feel. Two inputs entered at the back, stepped down from the power source that fed the Poincare machine, and two outputs, rather thinner in cabling, exited from the temple.
These cables wound along the floor in a rather haphazard fashion, before leading up a wooden table leg to encounter a series of cunning actuators and pistons. One set to a crudish mechanical claw, the other to a set of hinged metal joints terminating in pseudo fingers, wracked with seeming metalloid arthritis, clenched round the grip of a kitchen knife.
“Close your eyes, and have a vision of what you want to do,” went on Alexia. “But if you feel any discomfort, you must tell me immediately so I may cease the experiment. I have no wish to damage your brain.”
Aristophanes, eyes hidden within the helmet but messy strands of fair hair edging the headpiece like a feathered nest, nodded.
“Very well” said Alexia softly. “I’m turning on the power.”
She threw a large dipole switch. A crackle of power fused the air into smoke, and Aristophanes jerked.
Upon the table, the metallic hands began to tremble and clench. What was visible of Brown’s face below the nose was a gargolye of seizure. The moon-a-muck looked terrified.
“Concetrate man! Envisage the knife in your hand!” shouted Alexia.
Brown’s nod was a collapse of his neck into his shoulders, head tilted at a terrible angle. “Increase power” he managed to strangle.
“NO!” countered Alexia. “You must increase thought!”
Sparks were dancing between the inputs. Carina leaned forward.
Upon the table, the knife was raised. Aristophanes managed to stretch his neck back out like a waking tortoise, and the knife drunkenly straightened up in the grasp of the metallic talons. In the other “hand” a carrot was held firm, the forces upon it limted artificially for fear it would have been crushed out of existence.
“Nyyyyeeeeaarggghhh” groaned Aristophanes Brown, and the knife descended upon the vegetable in a sweries of hesitant, jagged sawing motions as devoid as smoothness as a cactus.
Both ladies stood on tiptoe, breath held.
The sound of organic matter. The sound of organic matter being rendered. Being cut. Being sliced. The knife lifted again, the process was repeated. Hesitant and clunky to be sure, the carrot was indeed being sliced up as the ladies turned virtually blue, and sweat turned Aristophanes Brown’s morning clothes to a swamp of sweat. He kept going for as long as he could, straining for every breath as the visions in his mind were made into the motions of the knife. But eventually it was all too much, and he fell forward, making a slicing moment with his hand as he did so.
Alexia ran forward, and helped the adventurer out of the helmet. His face was white, and where the power inputs had entered the helmet, his hair had been scorched the black of anthracite.
“You’ll wear those marks for a while yet, Ari” she said, doing a good job of hiding her relief. Brown didn’t even have the strength to nod.
Meanwhile at the table Carina was examining the vegetable of their labours. The carrot had been cut up as if by a sickly beaver, and its orange flesh too was scorched in places.
“It’s a major achievement, to be sure, but it seems an awful amount of effort for the world’s most hopeless salad…”
Sharp, sharp and withering glares from Alexia.
“I think your flowers are wilting, Carina” was all she said.
The moon-a-muck emerged from hiding, and hooted joyfully that the noise and fuss were all over.
Copyright Mulberry Lightinng 22.02.15
Half an hour’s work after thinking about slicing up salad with the power of the mind