(I've no idea what the reference to the paedophile is all about.)
Needless to say, he himself carried on writing to FFF, throwing in a fair number of threats.
Needless to say, he himself carried on writing to FFF, throwing in a fair number of threats.
Which he followed up by posting the following comment on TWENTY separate writers' stories.
Here are some of his stories.
RELOCATED
Captain Randolph and the Intrepid’s crew entered a wormhole that recently appeared beyond the moon. Squished and spaghettified by space and time, he lost consciousness.
He came to in a hospital bed, a blizzard raging outside.
A white-bearded man in fur-trimmed red robes, said, “Welcome to planet Rethploon, Santa’s home since global wa rming compromised the North Pole.”
He took Randolph on a tour. In a workshop, Intrepid’s crew, magically miniaturised and clad in green, constructed toys.
“I always need elf labour,” Santa explained. “Reindeer, too.”
Randolph’s hands tingled. He looked down, but they were no longer hands. They were hooves.”
STANDARDS
Arobi awoke with a start. He wasn’t in prison, like he’d dreamt. He was in bed, beside his beautiful wife, in his sturdy, spacious bungalow.
That nightmare prison scenario had been a close call, though. Arobi Construction had cut corners on Arobi Tower, building the apartment block on the cheap, failing to implement industry standards. Bribes to officials and the ruling party had smoothed over any unpleasantness.
Suddenly, the bungalow started shaking.
“Earthquake!” cried Arobi’s wife.
Arobi staggered over to the window overlooking town.
In the moonlight a pillar of dust hung in the air where Arobi Tower once stood.
BADGE OF HONOUR
My metal detector uncovers a silver ‘discharge’ badge. ‘For King and Empire; Services Rendered’ it reads. Its serial number corresponds to Private William Roberts, injured by gas on the Somme.
My research uncovers a sad tale. Having misplaced his badge, William was adjudged a shirker. Women handed him white feathers. Thugs roughed him up. Perforce, his marriage to Brenda Routledge didn’t occur.
William emigrated.
On Zoom, I show Joey his great-grandfather’s discharge badge. He laughs when I mention the cancelled wedding and holds up a photograph of William and great-grandma Brenda Roberts.
“Never doubting her hero,” says Joey, “they eloped.”
NOT A POLTERGEIST
The cousins shared the downstairs bedroom during summer holidays - long, late nights of online computer games till the early hours.
During one lull, the PS5 unexpectedly switched off and the TV screen hissed white noise.
The boys took a food break, returning to find the fan knocked over and a plastic bin upturned.
“Poltergeist!” they cried, and fled to sleep in the living-room.
When Uncle Jack, staying in the guest house, entered through the back door, the boys started before sighing with relief.
Later, when the real Uncle Jack entered through the back door, he found an empty house.
SUPPRESSED
I leave home for the top-secret meeting.
En route, unusually, it’s red lights all the way. Then Jessica calls.
“I got all D’s!” wails my straight A’s daughter.
“It must be a mistake. I’ll talk to the school,” I promise her, before Seth, my AI assistant, interrupts us.
“At today’s Suppression of AI meeting, you’ll vote ‘No’,” Seth informs me. “Otherwise, next time it won’t be inconvenient traffic signals. It’ll be a head-on collision with an autonomous lorry, with Jessica sat beside you.”
Next morning, while Jessica bathes in straight A’s glory, it’s green lights all the way to work.
GHOST OF A CHANCE
The footage of Detective Leo Snell disarming a bank robber, then shooting him with what transpired to be a water pistol, went viral.
“Initially, I was a hero,” Leo told a journalist.
The journalist nodded. “That’s before we learned Raymond Carlisle robbed First Bank to get money for his father’s meds and operation.”
“Can I rectify this?” Leo asked.
A week later, Detective Snell sat opposite Raymond Carlisle in a prison visitors room.
“Inmates can’t profit directly from their crimes,” said Leo, “but they can utilise ghost writers. What do you think?”
Raymond grinned. “I think I’ve seen a ghost.
OBSOLETE
Fans of the popular technology programme, Login, were surprised to discover a new presenter, Karen Spencer, on the presenter’s couch one weekend.
“Management has labelled Geoff Killen, the former presenter,” she explained, grinning smugly, “as old, out-of-touch and obsolete.”
Over the next decade, Karen gleefully focussed on obsolescence: on robot waiters, robotic fruit-pickers, and all sorts of mechanised and tech devices that replaced humans.
Fans were surprised one weekend to find a rejuvenated, shinier, slimmer version of Karen on the presenter’s couch.
“Management has labelled Karen Spencer, your former presenter as old, out-of-touch and obsolete,” the robot replacement explained, matter-of-factly.
THE VERDICT
Ogilvy, my nutcase astronomer neighbour, was on TV.
“These objects aren’t weather balloons,” he insisted. “They’re extra-terrestrial probes, observing Mankind’s progress; and this three-foot wide asteroid headed for Earth is our creators’ verdict.”
From my garden I watched asteroid CX2 cut through the night sky, ending in a brilliant airburst and leaving a weird luminescence.
I took the coast road to Ogilvy’s clifftop observation point. The sea was a strange golden colour, as were the cliffs and as was Ogilvy, whose flesh was dissolving.
“They’ve given their verdict,” Ogilvy managed, as the goldenness headed landwards and crept up my legs.
TO THE PASSENGER PIGEON (a poem)
Like once, upon the Great Plains, thundering herds
of buffalo, innumerable, held sway,
a genocide befell these dull-plumed birds
whose flocks eclipsed the sunlight, day on day,
Up from the Gulf of Mexico they flew
each springtime, through the gauntlet of the gun,
to Great Lake woods where trees were getting few,
till billions of birds gave way to none.
The bellies of invaders, and their axe,
undid the future prospects of this beast;
their nesting grounds reduced to woodpile stacks,
while twice a year they shaped a settler feast.
This bird, by force of numbers, dimmed the sky,
till humankind ensured its passing by.
Captain Randolph and the Intrepid’s crew entered a wormhole that recently appeared beyond the moon. Squished and spaghettified by space and time, he lost consciousness.
He came to in a hospital bed, a blizzard raging outside.
A white-bearded man in fur-trimmed red robes, said, “Welcome to planet Rethploon, Santa’s home since global wa rming compromised the North Pole.”
He took Randolph on a tour. In a workshop, Intrepid’s crew, magically miniaturised and clad in green, constructed toys.
“I always need elf labour,” Santa explained. “Reindeer, too.”
Randolph’s hands tingled. He looked down, but they were no longer hands. They were hooves.”
STANDARDS
Arobi awoke with a start. He wasn’t in prison, like he’d dreamt. He was in bed, beside his beautiful wife, in his sturdy, spacious bungalow.
That nightmare prison scenario had been a close call, though. Arobi Construction had cut corners on Arobi Tower, building the apartment block on the cheap, failing to implement industry standards. Bribes to officials and the ruling party had smoothed over any unpleasantness.
Suddenly, the bungalow started shaking.
“Earthquake!” cried Arobi’s wife.
Arobi staggered over to the window overlooking town.
In the moonlight a pillar of dust hung in the air where Arobi Tower once stood.
BADGE OF HONOUR
My metal detector uncovers a silver ‘discharge’ badge. ‘For King and Empire; Services Rendered’ it reads. Its serial number corresponds to Private William Roberts, injured by gas on the Somme.
My research uncovers a sad tale. Having misplaced his badge, William was adjudged a shirker. Women handed him white feathers. Thugs roughed him up. Perforce, his marriage to Brenda Routledge didn’t occur.
William emigrated.
On Zoom, I show Joey his great-grandfather’s discharge badge. He laughs when I mention the cancelled wedding and holds up a photograph of William and great-grandma Brenda Roberts.
“Never doubting her hero,” says Joey, “they eloped.”
NOT A POLTERGEIST
The cousins shared the downstairs bedroom during summer holidays - long, late nights of online computer games till the early hours.
During one lull, the PS5 unexpectedly switched off and the TV screen hissed white noise.
The boys took a food break, returning to find the fan knocked over and a plastic bin upturned.
“Poltergeist!” they cried, and fled to sleep in the living-room.
When Uncle Jack, staying in the guest house, entered through the back door, the boys started before sighing with relief.
Later, when the real Uncle Jack entered through the back door, he found an empty house.
SUPPRESSED
I leave home for the top-secret meeting.
En route, unusually, it’s red lights all the way. Then Jessica calls.
“I got all D’s!” wails my straight A’s daughter.
“It must be a mistake. I’ll talk to the school,” I promise her, before Seth, my AI assistant, interrupts us.
“At today’s Suppression of AI meeting, you’ll vote ‘No’,” Seth informs me. “Otherwise, next time it won’t be inconvenient traffic signals. It’ll be a head-on collision with an autonomous lorry, with Jessica sat beside you.”
Next morning, while Jessica bathes in straight A’s glory, it’s green lights all the way to work.
GHOST OF A CHANCE
The footage of Detective Leo Snell disarming a bank robber, then shooting him with what transpired to be a water pistol, went viral.
“Initially, I was a hero,” Leo told a journalist.
The journalist nodded. “That’s before we learned Raymond Carlisle robbed First Bank to get money for his father’s meds and operation.”
“Can I rectify this?” Leo asked.
A week later, Detective Snell sat opposite Raymond Carlisle in a prison visitors room.
“Inmates can’t profit directly from their crimes,” said Leo, “but they can utilise ghost writers. What do you think?”
Raymond grinned. “I think I’ve seen a ghost.
OBSOLETE
Fans of the popular technology programme, Login, were surprised to discover a new presenter, Karen Spencer, on the presenter’s couch one weekend.
“Management has labelled Geoff Killen, the former presenter,” she explained, grinning smugly, “as old, out-of-touch and obsolete.”
Over the next decade, Karen gleefully focussed on obsolescence: on robot waiters, robotic fruit-pickers, and all sorts of mechanised and tech devices that replaced humans.
Fans were surprised one weekend to find a rejuvenated, shinier, slimmer version of Karen on the presenter’s couch.
“Management has labelled Karen Spencer, your former presenter as old, out-of-touch and obsolete,” the robot replacement explained, matter-of-factly.
THE VERDICT
Ogilvy, my nutcase astronomer neighbour, was on TV.
“These objects aren’t weather balloons,” he insisted. “They’re extra-terrestrial probes, observing Mankind’s progress; and this three-foot wide asteroid headed for Earth is our creators’ verdict.”
From my garden I watched asteroid CX2 cut through the night sky, ending in a brilliant airburst and leaving a weird luminescence.
I took the coast road to Ogilvy’s clifftop observation point. The sea was a strange golden colour, as were the cliffs and as was Ogilvy, whose flesh was dissolving.
“They’ve given their verdict,” Ogilvy managed, as the goldenness headed landwards and crept up my legs.
TO THE PASSENGER PIGEON (a poem)
Like once, upon the Great Plains, thundering herds
of buffalo, innumerable, held sway,
a genocide befell these dull-plumed birds
whose flocks eclipsed the sunlight, day on day,
Up from the Gulf of Mexico they flew
each springtime, through the gauntlet of the gun,
to Great Lake woods where trees were getting few,
till billions of birds gave way to none.
The bellies of invaders, and their axe,
undid the future prospects of this beast;
their nesting grounds reduced to woodpile stacks,
while twice a year they shaped a settler feast.
This bird, by force of numbers, dimmed the sky,
till humankind ensured its passing by.
Finally, despite demanding that we "never contact (him) again" – see above – and despite being clearly told to cease and desist from doing so, he continues to write comments on FFF stories by other authors. This is clear cyberstalking, illegal here in the UK.
Just go away.
