Destination: Mars is a tale of exploration, love and strangeness on an odd and incomprehensible world (all 177 pages are contained below).
#1 — Destination: Mars
#2 — Location: Mars
#3 — Contamination: Mars
#4 — Evacuation: Mars
More things like this (as well as a wide variety of other entertainments) can be found at an accumulation of things.
And if you’d like to support me, please consider subscribing to my patreon.
There was a woman whose mother had died giving birth to her, and who thereafter lived alone with her father in a cottage in the woods. Although her father loved her very much, the sadness he felt for his lost wife whenever he looked at his daughter overwhelmed him, and for the rest of his life he never spoke to her without weeping.
On her 18th birthday, her father died and she was left alone. She ran outside and went into the woods and wept there under the stars.
While she wept a cat came down quietly from the branches of a tree and sat on her lap and said to her, “It breaks my heart to see someone so sad. Let me grant you a wish, so that you may know happiness.” …
After 2016’s incredible Star Trek: Beyond, it is somewhat of a surprise to find three years have passed and yet we seem to be no nearer to the release of a sequel. And so, instead, we have to make do with this strange spin-off idea, set over 100 years after the events of the previous three films and with an entirely new cast and crew.
In TREK! we find ourselves in the 24th century, a troubled time in which the Federation has become both increasingly decadent and frighteningly authoritarian. ‘Captain’ Picard (Vin Diesel) and his crew of irregulars fly around not in a single huge spaceship but in a fleet of souped up “runabouts” — personal shuttlecrafts that can zip around at frightening velocities and outmanoeuvre their larger counterparts with a hellish ease. …
they were playing snooker
waiting, i think, until everyone watching was dead
or at least dying
and something else that rhymes with crying and dying
and once everyone was dead they would put down their cues
and sweep the balls aside
and lay down on the table and hold each tenderly
more nervous now than any possible scenario of points and frames and the scattered spread of the reds could ever inflict
was this love
or something inbetween
and more beautiful than john virgo could ever be allowed to witness
I was sitting there, at the table, in the pub, alone, writing in my notebook, utterly absorbed in whatever it was I was writing, and a man sat down next to me and began to talk, to me, and I didn’t really want to talk, but I did, and I didn’t really want to leave my writing, but I had to, out of embarrassment at being caught, at being interrupted, in this shameful act of the mind, of the hands, and so I looked up, put my notebook away, and talked back, badly, as always, small talk, which I’m not very good at, nor any talk really, but I tried, I tried, and I felt bad at how bad the conversation went, felt guilty that it was all my fault that the conversation limped on, tediously, interminably, stumbling close to death but never actually dying, even though it was not my fault really, not my fault at all, I didn’t start it, I didn’t want it, although of course it was my fault to a certain extent, I suppose, in that I could have ended it, or engaged with it, or just been less of an awkward mess, and with every word that hung inert between us he looked so saddened, so pained and so appalled, as if I was being intentionally hurtful, my inarticulacy seen as calculated insult, my inability to think of anything to say as unforgivable rudeness, my tediousness as moral failing, my cowardice and confusion as I ran away to the toilets to hide and shudder at my inability to cope with normal human interaction a slap, sharp across his cheeks. …
The light was on in my office when I got back from the station. Pale light shone through the frosted glass and, rather than illuminating the corridor, seemed to throw it further into darkness, the shadows hardening against this intrusion into their privacy. The door was unlocked, and as I turned the handle and pushed it slowly open I braced myself for the inevitable blow from beyond.
A blow that did not come.
The light on my desk was turned towards me and as I squinted into it I could just about make out the silhouette of a woman beyond it. …
how did I get here how did I get here how did I get here how did I get here how did I get here how did I get here how did I get here how didi i get ehere how did i egt here how did ieget howdherit ehre
suffocating, screaming, pleading make it stop make it stop make it stop but it never stops
the pressure and the pain
until it feels
like I’m going to burst
as i die i wake
Sometimes I wonder if the only paths that exist are the ones that I have walked down. …
Some old film (and tv show) reviews from the days when I used to review films (and tv shows) for a living (2009–2016). They are presented in roughly chronological order (oldest first).
Production year: 1987
Cert (UK): Unrated
Runtime: 124 mins
Director: Sir Terald Vaakenheim
Cast: Ted Vaaak
Ted Vaak’s The Trip To The End Of Southend’s Pier, from 1987, is now getting a re-release and it’s pretty scary and entertaining stuff, though I always get the feeling that nothing in it lives up to the tremendous opening section.
It begins with Ted Vaaaak (credited inexplicably as Sir Terald Vaakenheim for his role as director, but as plain old Ted Vaaak for his acting and his writing) wandering muttering and confused down Southend Pier, early morning mist lending everything an unreal and apocalyptic air. Filmed in one unbroken 25-minute sequence, Ted’s stuttering, near heartbreaking, waltz along the deserted Essex landmark is a thing of genuine beauty, reminiscent of the climactic scene in Tarkovsky’s Nostalghia, and it is so affecting it often threatens to remove the very air from your lungs and constrict the muscles in your chest. …