"I was a Communist when I was a kid, I'm not sorry..."

I read the Communist Manifesto when I was ten or eleven, something like that; don't know when exactly, but I was still at little school. I went to some sort of fancy dress extravaganza at that same school dressed as a guerilla, wearing red bandanna, carrying a red flag (home made hammer and sickle), anything else that seemed appropriate, and of course was appropriate. I've slipped in many ways since then, what with my decadence and all, but there's zero doubt about my end of the political spectrum. I don't know to what degree it was the influence of what I read back then and to what degree it's a whole host of other environmental factors (and it's innate for all I know), but I definitely say, GET 'EM YOUNG.

(For the record, if I were to define my current political outlook, I would define it as anarcho-syndicalist, some days plain old anarchist, though, that said, always syndicalist, and frequently sexual. Always humanist.)

Hapless Girth and His Pilchard Mane

Pour it yourself, Tonsils. That’s a potato in his hand. Take this as fair warning. Beyond that, take it as far as you can. But remember what was said about Book Sound:

‘I’ve never heard a book make that sound,' he said, grazing an eye.

Took him by surprise. You shouldn’t shoot up without me. He didn’t say that. Later the poor boy came by without the change, but it was arranged he’d pay back something but unkind.

‘Say a little anthem for me, I’ll slit your belly. Twist your neck, poor boy, and I can of beans you grotty urchin. Where’s the change?’

‘No change, master.’

It was wordless what he did with needle and thread. The poor boy never drank Tokay like it through the straw in his little throat. Twine and wood glue through his lips, sewed up nice and bloody red. No better than a pickpocket.

‘No change? Scream if you want to.’

The poor boy cried a bit.

‘I’ve never heard a book make that sound before,’ he said, grazing an eye, ‘Now piss off.'

But the poor boy wasn’t a book.

Take him anyway you like, back front front back, and leave a little something with the registrar.

Hapless Girth, you fickle fool, settle on a buzz cut fish gut; without pilchard mane you’ll mind far less and won’t keep spinning.

True Storybook

Retiring from the dancefloor, Darla was checking that he remembered when she’d asked “Do you think it’s possible to be someone who’s supposed to be a storybook but they’re born in the body of a girl?”
Mr. Bingley had said “No.”
“But people who are supposed to be boys are born in the bodies of girls. What if this book was just trapped in the wrong object?”
Mr. Bingley said “That’s completely different and you know it.”
Now, Darla had an announcement to make, and she had brought the old conversation to his attention.
He said “Yes, I remember” (a little exasperated).
Darla said “I knew the answer all along – it was one of those type of questions”
“Those type of questions should really have a different name – TESTs, perhaps?” (a little theatrically infuriated).
“Yes! With a different marker, maybe – an upside-down question-mark at the start of the sentence…?? Anyway. I knew the answer all along. You were quite wrong. I gave you several chances to reassess your judgement. I asked it many times when I’d had a bit to drink, didn’t I?”
“Yes”
“ – so it must have been an important question. Each time, you reaffirmed what you said the first time. And you were wrong. And I knew for sure.”
Mr. Bingley put his arms around her waist in an attempt to knock some sense into her.
But all of a sudden, what he held moved like waking up with a hard object from your dreams when your hands collapse into each other. And a book fell onto the floor. Mr. Bingley was stunned, but he didn’t say anything to the book.
It was a storybook about waves, salt and perfume, and scratching messages into hard surfaces. It had a very nice cover of smooth rubber made-to-the-touch like soft leather. It wasn’t entirely new but it wasn’t old. Mr. Bingley kept it on one of his shelves for many years. It never changed back into the girl, which was a shame, because Mr. Bingley had just decided he quite fancied her.