Tuesday, 2 December 2025
Tuesday, 25 November 2025
Saturday, 22 November 2025
Tuesday, 18 November 2025
Monday, 17 November 2025
Running Up The Hill
The ragged breaths tore through my lungs, each gasp a ragged, desperate plea to the indifferent night. The hill, slick with dewdrops and the slicker residue of something I didn't want to identify, fought my every step. My worn boots slipped, my knees buckled, but an unseen force, a primal terror, propelled me onward. Up, always up, towards the jagged silhouette of the old abandoned observatory that clawed at the bruised, moonless sky.
I wasn't running to safety. I was running from it. Or rather, from what held safety captive, and demanded a price I could no longer afford.
The whispers started again, a chilling chorus woven into the rustling of dead leaves and the mournful sigh of the wind. “Join us… it’s peaceful… no more fear… just stillness.” They were the voices of those who had already paid.
My hand, slick with sweat and something warmer, fumbled for the tarnished silver locket hidden beneath my torn shirt. Inside, a faded photograph of Anya, her smile like a sunbeam trapped in amber. Anya, who had been so curious, so brave, so foolish enough to come with me on that first, ill-fated night. Anya, whose laughter had been silenced, her light extinguished, by the same thing that now hunted me.
I reached the crest of the hill, the observatory looming like a skeletal finger pointing at the void. Its iron door, rusted and warped, hung ajar, revealing a gullet of impenetrable darkness. I remembered the ritual, the desperate bargain whispered in the flickering light of a dying ember. A life for a life. A soul for a soul’s reprieve.
But the bargain wasn't about my escape. It was about someone else’s… or rather, someone else’s exchange.
Anya had been my first payment. I had found her wandering near the woods, her eyes wide with a fear I now understood intimately. I had offered her solace, a warm place, a promise of safety. And then, when the time came, I had… presented her.
The memory was a phantom limb, a searing ache I couldn’t escape. I saw her small, confused face as I pushed her towards the observatory’s maw. I heard her faint cry, swallowed by the silence that fell afterward. And then, relief. A cold, hollow, sickening relief that had lasted for a terrifyingly short time.
Now, the hunger was back. Stronger. More insistent. The whispers weren't just promises anymore; they were threats. The thing within the observatory, the ancient, insatiable thing that fed on fear and life, had been appeased, but never satisfied. It had given me time, a temporary reprieve, in exchange for a taste. It always wanted more.
And it was coming for me. I could feel its presence, a cold, suffocating miasma radiating from the observatory’s open door. It wasn't a physical entity, not entirely. It was a void, a hunger that seeped into bone and marrow.
My legs felt like lead. The whispers were louder now, more urgent. “He’s coming… the offering… make it quick…”
I stumbled towards the entrance, my mind a battlefield. Anya’s face swam before my eyes, her childish innocence a stark contrast to the horror I had become. I had traded her to save myself. And now, myself was no longer worth saving.
But the pact was binding. The hungry thing demanded its due. And I, the broker of terror, had to fulfill my end.
Just as I reached the threshold, a flicker of movement at the base of the hill caught my eye. A solitary figure, small and silhouetted against the faint starlight. They were walking, slowly, deliberately, towards the observatory. Towards me.
A young woman, her head bowed, her gait unsteady. She looked lost, vulnerable. Her… her youth was a beacon, a scent on the wind.
My heart, a traitorous organ, thudded with a sickening mixture of dread and… something that might have once been hope. The whispers surged, a triumphant chorus. “Another… another… send her in… escape the jaws…”
My breath hitched. The woman was closer now, close enough to see the pale curve of her cheek, the way her shoulders sagged under an unseen burden. She was heading straight for the observatory. Straight towards me.
An idea, a vile, desperate, unholy thought, began to bloom in the fertile ground of my terror.
I turned, not to flee, but to face the unseen entity within the darkness. My voice, a brittle, cracking thing, echoed in the oppressive silence. “I… I have another,” I choked out, the words tasting like ash. “But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand.”
A low, guttural rumble emanated from the observatory, a sound like grinding stones. It was the sound of anticipation. Of hunger.
I looked back at the woman, who was now only a hundred yards away. Her head was still down, but I could see her moving faster, her curiosity or her own fate drawing her inexorably.
My hand trembled as I reached for Anya’s locket. The cold metal felt like a brand. I had nothing left but this, this hollow shell of a life bought with blood.
I began to descend the hill, my steps no longer frantic. They were measured, deliberate. I was no longer running away. I was running towards.
The woman looked up as I approached, her eyes widening with confusion, then with a dawning, primal fear. I forced a smile, a ghastly rictus that felt alien on my own face.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whispered, my voice dangerously smooth. “You shouldn’t have come up here alone. It’s dangerous.”
She took a step back, her hands instinctively clutching her thin jacket. “Who… who are you?”
“Someone who can help you,” I lied, my gaze flicking to the dark maw of the observatory. The rumble from within intensified, a palpable vibration in the very air. “Someone who knows the way to safety.”
I gestured behind me, towards the ominous structure. “It’s just up there. The old observatory. They say there’s shelter inside. Warmth.”
Her eyes, wide and innocent, followed my gesture, a flicker of hesitant hope warring with her fear. The whispers were a deafening roar in my mind now. “Take her… take her… the offering is ready…”
I extended a hand, my fingers curled loosely. “Come on,” I urged, my voice a honeyed poison. “Don’t be scared. I’ll go with you.”
She hesitated, her gaze darting between my face and the looming shadows. But the allure of warmth, of a supposed sanctuary, was a powerful balm against her fear of the unknown darkness of the night. Slowly, tentatively, she began to walk towards me, her eyes fixed on mine, her path now irrevocably leading her to the awaiting hunger.
I watched her approach, a cold, deadening calm settling over me. I had found someone. I had paid my debt. The relief was not mine to feel. It was the observatory’s.
As she drew closer, I stepped aside, my movements fluid, practiced. Her eyes, filled with a dawning terror, locked onto the gaping darkness behind me. The rumble became a hungry growl. The whispers ceased, replaced by a single, immense intake of breath.
I felt a tug, a familiar, icy pull from within the observatory, drawing me back. But this time, it wasn't a demand for my own life. It was a satisfied sigh.
The woman screamed.
And then, silence. A profound, echoing silence that swallowed her cry, swallowed everything but the pounding of my own empty heart.
I didn't run. I didn't look back. I simply stood there, the wind whipping around me, the knowledge of my latest betrayal a cold, hard stone in my gut. The locket, Anya’s locket, felt heavy against my chest.
The darkness of the observatory remained, a silent promise of more to come. I had bought myself more time. But at what cost? The answer was etched into the desolate landscape, whispered on the wind, and reflected in the vacant, soulless gaze of my own reflection in the tarnished silver of Anya’s locket. I would always be looking. Always be running. And always, always finding someone else to take… my place.
Tuesday, 11 November 2025
Tuesday, 4 November 2025
Forever Young
The advertisement had been discreet, almost an echo in the shadowed corners of the internet Elara frequented in her darkest hours. "Reclaim your prime. Defy time. Forever Young." Her reflection, a roadmap of encroaching entropy – crow’s feet etching deeper, the jowls that gravity claimed, the dullness in eyes that once sparkled with insolent vitality – had become a torment. She was fifty-two, and the world had moved on without her.
Desperation was a potent anesthetic for common sense. The clinic was nestled in an unnamed valley, a brutalist structure of smoked glass and steel that hummed with a low, inscrutable energy. Dr. Alistair Finch, a man whose age was as indeterminate as his ethical compass, greeted her with eyes that promised salvation. Or damnation. Elara chose to believe the former.
"The process is simple, but irreversible," Finch had purred, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "We stop the intrinsic clock. Your cells will cease their programmed decay. You will exist in a state of perpetual youth. Twenty-five, to be exact."
The price was exorbitant, her life savings, every inheritance, every scrap of financial dignity. But what was money when pitted against the relentless march of time? She signed the waivers, a blur of legal jargon she barely comprehended, her mind fixed on the image of her younger self.
The procedure began with an injection, a needle thick as a knitting pin, plunging into her sternum. A fiery cold spread through her veins, followed by a sensation akin to being drawn backward through a tightly stretched membrane. Her vision blurred, then sharpened. A cascade of images, memories, sensations rushed past, not in orderly procession but a chaotic maelstrom, like a film reel reversing at warp speed. She felt her skin tighten, her muscles regain their forgotten spring, the ache in her knees evaporating.
When she awoke, the air in the sterile recovery room tasted like pure oxygen. She stumbled to a mirror, her breath catching in her throat. Staring back was her. Elara, twenty-five, vibrant, unblemished. Her hair, once streaked with silver, now possessed the rich chestnut hue of her youth. Her eyes, once tired, now gleamed with a ferocious, hungry sparkle. It was real. She had done it.
The first few weeks were an intoxicating dream. She bought new clothes, danced until dawn, rekindled dormant passions. Every glance, every compliment, every moment was a validation. She was beautiful, she was young, she was back.
Then came the nick. A careless brush against a kitchen knife, a tiny slit on the pad of her finger. She watched, mildly annoyed, as a bead of ruby blood welled up. It should have clotted, then scabbed, then faded. But it didn't.
Instead, the cut pulsed. The edges of the wound didn’t knit. They warped. The skin around it seemed to stretch, then retract, a microscopic battlefield of conflicting cellular directives. It was as if her body was trying to heal, but couldn’t decide how. The cut remained, a livid, weeping line that refused to close, yet also refused to deepen. It just… was. Forever. A grotesque, living scar that wouldn’t scar.
A chill snaked down her spine. Finch's words echoed: "Your cells will cease their programmed decay." But he hadn't said they’d heal normally.
The next call from the clinic was not a check-up. It was a summons. "Maintenance session, Ms. Vance. Necessary to ensure cellular stability."
She arrived to the clinic, the same cold edifice, but now filled with a different kind of dread. In the waiting room, she saw others. They were all young, incredibly so. Yet there was a hollowness in their eyes, a subtle wrongness to their skin – too smooth, too perfect, like polished plastic. One woman had a faint, iridescent ripple across her cheek, like oil on water. Another had eyes that seemed just a fraction too wide, too black.
Finch greeted her with a smile that showed too many teeth. "Right this way, Elara. We have a rather unique… nutrient delivery system."
He led her to a processing chamber, gleaming with chrome and glass. In the center was a reclining chair, equipped with a series of tubes and needles. But what drew her gaze was the adjacent room, visible through a one-way mirror. Inside, strapped to a similar chair, was a person. Young, terrified. Two technicians in biohazard suits were preparing them.
"To maintain cellular stasis," Finch explained, observing her horrified expression with detached interest, "your body requires a constant infusion of… fresh biological catalysts. Your cells are no longer designed to simply age. They are designed to be young. But that requires a continuous supply of intrinsic vitality."
He pressed a button. A whirring sound filled the air. In the next room, the technicians attached a series of suction cups and tubes to the donor. Elara watched, transfixed in a horror she couldn’t articulate, as the donor’s skin paled, their body convulsing faintly. A thick, viscous liquid, faintly pink and shimmering, began to flow through the tubes, into a central reservoir, and then, inexorably, into her own waiting intravenous line.
She felt it then. A jolt, a surge of energy that was not her own. It was cold, yet invigorating. It was hungry. She felt her cells, her borrowed youth, drinking deeply, greedily, of the stolen life force. Her cut finger pulsed violently, its edges trying to un-cut themselves, forcing new, raw tissue to bloom, only to wither and be replaced by something equally alien.
The session ended. Elara stood, feeling refreshed, but utterly, irrevocably defiled. She was not young. She was a leech. A parasite. Her "forever young" was a constant, excruciating battle against her own body's natural state, fueled by the living essence of others.
Years bled into centuries. The world outside changed. Empires rose and fell. But Elara remained. Forever twenty-five.
The tiny cut on her finger never truly healed. It remained a perpetual wound, a testament to her arrested decay, a locus of agonizing, impossible regeneration. Other injuries appeared over time – a broken arm that knitted itself into a grotesque, calcified mockery of a bone; a burn that left a patch of skin permanently molten-looking, yet unpained. She couldn't die. Her cells stubbornly refused the oblivion of necrosis. Even a bullet to the brain would simply result in a chaotic, agonizing attempt at cellular reconstruction, forcing disparate tissues to knit themselves back into a semblance of function, leaving her a drooling, twitching mess before slowly, agonizingly, she would reform.
She had tried to abstain from the "maintenance sessions," to embrace death. But the withdrawal was a thousand times worse than any physical pain. Her body, starved, began to unravel. Not age, but disintegrate. Her skin would slough off in translucent sheets, only to regenerate an instant later, raw and screaming. Her organs would fail, her blood curdle, only for the parasitic impulse in her cells to force them back into abhorrent function. Hunger, a gnawing, existential void, would consume her, making her a ravenous, mindless beast until she surrendered to the clinic's macabre nourishment.
Elara sat now, in a hidden corner of a city she no longer recognized. Her face was flawless, her body a perfect sculpture of youth. But her eyes held an eternity of unspeakable torment. Inside, she was a screaming, living charnel house, her cells eternally fighting an impossible war, drawing strength from the misery of others. She was forever young, forever beautiful, and forever damned. A living horror, trapped in a perfect, unaging cage, with no hope of escape, no mercy of death, just the endless, agonizing nightmare of being.
The Day
I woke up with a peculiar hum in the air, a silent tremor that vibrated not in my ears, but in my very bones. The sunlight slanting through my window seemed to possess a different hue, a touch more golden, perhaps, or a shade more insistent. I dismissed it, of course. Mondays had a way of playing tricks on the senses, a residue of weekend liberation clinging stubbornly before the mundane tide inevitably swept in.
I went through my morning rituals, the familiar clatter of the coffee maker, the rustle of the newspaper, the worn smoothness of my favorite mug. Everything was in its place, yet the subtle anomaly persisted. The aroma of coffee was richer, the headlines seemed to leap out with a sharper urgency, and even the gentle warmth of the mug felt… amplified. I found myself pausing, listening to the usual symphony of distant traffic, the chirping of birds, but they seemed to be playing in a slightly different key, a chorus of the familiar sung with an unknown melody.
At work, the oddity intensified. My colleagues, usually a boisterous bunch, were quieter, their conversations hushed, their movements more deliberate. Sarah, who normally greeted me with a booming "Morning, sunshine!" offered a demure nod and a soft smile. Mark, usually engrossed in his spreadsheets, was staring out the window, a faraway look in his eyes. I tried to engage them, to break through the strange, almost reverent atmosphere, but my questions felt like pebbles dropped into a deep well, their impact swallowed by an unnerving silence. They would answer, yes, but their responses were clipped, their focus elsewhere, as if a hidden conversation was unfolding around me, one I was not privy to.
The day wore on, a tapestry of the ordinary woven with threads of the extraordinary. I completed my tasks, attended meetings, responded to emails, all the while feeling like an actor on a stage, performing a well-rehearsed play while the audience was riveted by something happening just beyond the wings. I searched my mind for an explanation. Had I slept poorly? Was I coming down with something? Was there a major news event I had somehow missed? But no, the world outside my immediate perception seemed to be chugging along as usual. The news feeds showed the predictable cycles of politics and entertainment. The weather forecast was mundane.
It wasn't until the late afternoon, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in streaks of bruised purple and fiery orange, that the realization, sharp and sudden, struck me. It was a Tuesday. Not just any Tuesday, but the Tuesday.
The hum, the golden light, the hushed tones, the faraway gazes – it all coalesced into a blinding clarity. Today was Amelia’s departure day. Not a farewell in the dramatic, tearful sense, but a quiet slipping away. She was moving across the country, a new job, a new life. We had spoken about it, casually, weeks ago, a distant possibility that had now solidified into reality. I had even promised to call her before she left, a promise I had mentally filed away under "later."
But "later" had arrived, and I had been so caught up in the subtle shift of the ambiance, the intangible feeling of difference, that I had failed to connect it to the most significant difference of all: her absence. The world hadn't changed; I had simply been too preoccupied with its superficial alterations to notice the profound emptiness that was beginning to bloom. By the time I remembered, her flight had long since taken off, and the silent hum of the day was, in retrospect, the quiet ache of a space that had been filled, and was now, irrevocably, empty. And the reason why it felt so different, why the light seemed so strange and the voices so muted, was because a part of the familiar tapestry of my life had already been removed, leaving a void I was too slow to recognize.
Science Fiction and the Alchemy of Apocalypse
Science fiction is often perceived as the literature of endless possibility—of starships vaulting across nebulae, of cities built on distant moons, of technological utopias. Yet, within its expansive boundaries resides a darker, more intimate obsession: the story of the End of the World.
This narrative subgenre, spanning from the slow, agonizing decline of the Dying Earth tales to the immediate, fiery annihilation of atomic catastrophe, is not merely a morbid curiosity. It is arguably the most essential function of modern science fiction: to place humanity under an existential pressure cooker and observe what precious, fragile qualities remain when the scaffolding of civilization is violently stripped away.
The science fiction "end of the world" story—whether it’s apocalyptic (the moment of destruction) or post-apocalyptic (the aftermath)—offers us a unique form of rehearsal. It is the ultimate thought experiment, asking: What is the fundamental human worth when all systems fail, the internet goes dark, and the rules of law are replaced by the laws of thermodynamics?
The Mirror of the Method
The specific mechanisms of the world’s end in SF stories are themselves profound reflections of the anxieties dominant in the era they were written.
During the Cold War, the end was swift and radioactive. Authors like Walter M. Miller Jr. in A Canticle for Leibowitz used thermonuclear war as the crucible, arguing that the greatest disaster was not the bombs themselves, but humanity’s inherent cyclical stupidity—its tendency to continually rebuild just to destroy itself again. The focus was on preserving knowledge against the inevitable cultural amnesia.
Today, the apocalypse has become slower, stickier, and more insidious. Contemporary SF often posits an end wrought not by sudden terror, but by slow-burn inevitability—a Malthusian collapse driven by climate disaster, engineered pandemics, or the unchecked hubris of biotechnology. Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake, for example, explores a world where unchecked corporate science leads to catastrophic genetic collapse, leaving beautiful, artificial creatures to inherit a broken planet. This shift reflects a contemporary fear that the end won't be a sudden bang, but the gradual, painful failure of our shared environment.
The common thread is that SF uses the rigor of scientific or technological premise—whether quantum entanglement, ecological feedback loops, or biological warfare—to lend a sense of chilling inevitability to our demise. The science provides the how; the resulting narrative explores the humanity.
The Landscape of Loss
The true power of the genre resides not in the spectacle of destruction, but in the intimate grief of the aftermath. Post-apocalyptic SF strips the narrative down to its brutal essence.
Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, while often called literary fiction, operates on a distinctly science fictional premise—a vague, world-altering catastrophe that renders the Earth gray and sterile. Here, the story stops concerning itself with empires, nations, or ideologies and focuses entirely on the desperate, burning ember of the relationship between a father and son. SF, in this context, becomes a hyper-minimalist literature, where everyday objects—a can of peaches, a functional zipper, a dry pair of socks—become relics possessing immense, symbolic value.
In the ruins, moral clarity is paramount. The end of the world is the ultimate test of human ethics. Will characters cling to the old codes of civilization, or will they devolve into tribalism, cannibalism, and ruthless self-preservation? Stories like Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery (or even the darker strains of Robert McCammon’s Swan Song) reveal that the institutions we create are merely thin veneers over deep, savage instincts. By showing us the collapse, science fiction forces us to define what we believe is truly worth saving.
The Comfort of the Last Page
Why do we keep returning to stories of the world’s dissolution? The answer lies in a strange, transformative alchemy.
The apocalypse in SF is simultaneously the most pessimistic and the most constructive motif. By imagining the absolute worst-case scenario, the genre offers a peculiar form of comfort: the knowledge that even after utter collapse, there is still possibility.
These narratives are not prophecies; they are stark warnings and urgent calls to action. Every time an author sketches out a dust-choked future, they are implicitly highlighting the beauty and fragility of the present moment. They compel us to value running water, functioning infrastructure, and social cohesion—the things we take for granted until the moment the skies forget their color.
Ultimately, the end of the world story in science fiction is less about global death and more about human rebirth. It is a literature of resilience, illustrating how hope can germinate in the cracks of broken pavement.
When the last survivors gather around a flickering fire amidst the ruins of a collapsed highway, their story becomes more important than ever. It is the story of defining civilization anew, not based on old mistakes, but built upon the fundamental, unbreakable desire to tell stories, to seek community, and to look up at a sky—even a sky thick with ash—and dare to imagine a better tomorrow. Science fiction ensures that even if the world ends, the human narrative does not.
Scary Horror
It's not the blood, though the crimson tide can turn a stomach. It's not the monster, though fangs and claws can send shivers down the spine. It's not even the jump scare, though the sudden shock can make you leap.
No, scary horror is something far more insidious.
It's the whisper that wasn't there, the faint brush against your skin in an empty room. It's the shadow that moves just as you blink, the distortion in the periphery of your vision that resolves into nothing when you focus. It's the slow, creeping realization that the familiar contours of your home are subtly, irrevocably wrong. The creak in the floorboards isn't the house settling; it's afootfall. The silence isn't peaceful; it's heavy, pregnant with a presence.
Scary horror is the erosion of certainty. It's the moment your sanity becomes a threadbare tapestry, each fraying strand a doubt planted by an unseen hand. It's the chilling suspicion that you are not alone, that you are being watched, studied, and that the watcher understands you better than you understand yourself. It preys on isolation, turning an empty house into the most terrifying prison, your own mind into the most unreliable witness.
It's the mundane twisted into the monstrous: a child's laughter echoing with malevolent intent, a beloved doll with eyes that follow you, a reflection in the mirror that isn't quite yours. It's the violation of the sacred, the defilement of innocence, the unsettling knowledge that the rules of your safe, predictable world have been overwritten by something ancient and uncaring.
The most terrifying horror leaves you with an ice-cold dread that permeates your bones long after the credits roll or the last page turns. It's the fear that lingers when the lights are out, when the logical brain tries to dismiss the illogical, but the primitive core of you screams against the encroaching darkness. It's the frantic thump of your own heart, the primal urge to cover your eyes yet the morbid compulsion to peek.
Scary horror isn't just about what happens; it's about what could happen. It's the gaping maw of the unknown, the existential terror that we are small, insignificant, and utterly vulnerable to forces beyond our comprehension. It's the revelation that the monster isn't outside the window, but within the house, perhaps even within yourself, dormant, waiting to be acknowledged.
It's the quiet, cold dread that settles in your gut, the prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden, overwhelming urge to check the lock on the door one last time. It's the enduring echo of a scream you didn't hear, but felt. It's the unsettling taste of pure, unadulterated fear, and the haunting realization that some horrors, once glimpsed, can never truly be unseen.
Friday, 31 October 2025
Tuesday, 28 October 2025
Thursday, 23 October 2025
Tuesday, 21 October 2025
Tuesday, 14 October 2025
Sunday, 12 October 2025
Friday, 10 October 2025
Dr Who Unaired Pilot episode - An Unearthly Child Script
(A foggy night, and a policeman is patrolling his beat past I M Foreman's Scrap Merchants at 76 Totter's Lane. Inside is an assortment of items, including a Police telephone box.)
[School]
(The bell is ringing for end of classes)
BARBARA: Wait in here please, Susan. I won't be long.
[Laboratory]
(A man is tidying up after the class)
IAN: Oh? Not gone yet?
BARBARA: Obviously not.
IAN: Ask a silly question.
BARBARA: Sorry.
IAN: That's all right. I'll forgive you this time.
BARBARA: Oh, I had a terrible day. I don't know what to make of it.
IAN: Oh, what's the trouble? Can I help?
BARBARA: Oh, it's one of the girls, Susan Foreman.
IAN: Susan Foreman? She your problem too?
BARBARA: Yes.
IAN: You don't know what to make of her?
BARBARA: No.
IAN: How old is she, Barbara?
BARBARA: Fifteen.
IAN: Fifteen. She lets her knowledge out a bit at a time so as not to embarrass me. That's what I feel about her. She knows more science than I'll ever know. She's a genius. Is that what she's been doing with history?
BARBARA: Something like that.
IAN: And that's your problem, eh? Whether to hand over the class to her
BARBARA: No, not quite.
IAN: No? What?
BARBARA: Ian, I must talk to someone about this, but I don't want to get the girl into trouble. And I know you're going to tell me I'm imagining things.
IAN: No.
BARBARA: Well, I told you how good she is at history. I had a talk with her and told her she ought to specialise. She seemed quite interested until I said I'd be willing to work with her at her home. Then she said that would be absolutely impossible as her grandfather didn't like strangers.
IAN: He's a doctor, isn't he? That's a bit of a lame excuse.
BARBARA: Well, I didn't take too much notice but then recently her homework's been so bad.
IAN: Yes, I'll say.
BARBARA: Well, finally I got so irritated with all her excuses I decided to see this grandfather of hers and tell him to take some interest in her.
IAN: Did you indeed? And what's the old boy like?
BARBARA: Well, that's just it. I got the address from the secretary, 76 Totter's Lane, and I went along there one evening. Oh Ian, do pay attention.
IAN: Sorry. You went along there.
BARBARA: There isn't anything there. It's just an old junkyard.
IAN: You went to the wrong place.
BARBARA: Well, that was the address the secretary gave me.
IAN: The secretary got it wrong, then.
BARBARA: No. I checked. There's a big wall on one side, houses on the other and nothing in the middle except this junkyard. And that is number 76 Totter's Lane.
IAN: Hmm. That's a bit of a mystery. Well, there must be a simple answer.
BARBARA: What?
IAN: Well, we'll have to find out for ourselves, won't we?
BARBARA: Thank you for the we. She's waiting in one of the classrooms. I'm lending her a book on the French Revolution.
IAN: What's she going to do, rewrite it? Oh, all right. What do we do? Ask her point-blank?
BARBARA: No, I thought we could drive there, wait till she arrives and see where she goes.
IAN: All right.
BARBARA: That is, if you're not doing anything.
IAN: No, I'm not. After you.
[Classroom]
(Susan is listening to music on her transistor radio. She looks a little elfin, like Audrey Hepburn)
BARBARA: Susan.
SUSAN: Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Wright. I didn't hear you coming in. Aren't they fabulous?
BARBARA: Who?
SUSAN: It's John Smith and the Common Men. They've gone from nineteen to two in the hit parade.
BARBARA: Not bad.
IAN: John Smith is the stage name for the Honourable Aubrey Waites. He started his career as Chris Waites and the Carollers, didn't he, Susan?
SUSAN: You are surprising, Mister Chesterton. I wouldn't expect you to know a thing like that.
IAN: I have an enquiring mind. And a very sensitive ear.
SUSAN: Oh, sorry. (turns the radio off)
IAN: Thank you.
SUSAN: Is that the book you're lending me, Miss Wright?
BARBARA: Yes.
SUSAN: Thank you. It will be interesting. I'll return it tomorrow.
BARBARA: Oh, that's not necessary till you've finished it.
SUSAN: I'll have finished it.
IAN: Oh, where do you live, Susan? I'm giving Miss Wright a lift home, I've got room for one more.
SUSAN: No thank you, Mister Chesterton. I rather like walking in the English fog. It's sort of mysterious.
BARBARA: You say that as if
IAN: Then we won't deprive you of that romantic pleasure.
BARBARA: Well, hurry home, Susan. And be careful, the fog's getting thicker. We'll see you in the morning?
SUSAN: I expect so. Good night.
BARBARA: Good night.
IAN: Good night, Susan.
(They leave. Susan takes a piece of paper, drops paint onto it, folds it in half then draws a hexagon around it before starting up, guilty)
[Totter's Lane]
(Ian and Barbara are parked up)
BARBARA: Over there, where the policeman is.
IAN: The fog's cleared. We're lucky.
BARBARA: She can't have got here yet. I suppose we are doing the right thing.
IAN: You can't justify curiosity.
BARBARA: But her homework?
IAN: It's just an excuse, really. I've seen far worse. The truth is we're both curious about Susan and we won't be happy until we know some of the answers.
BARBARA: You can't just pass it off like that. If I thought I was just being a busybody, I'd go straight home. I thought you agreed she was a bit of a mystery.
IAN: Yes, well, I expect there's a very simple explanation to all this.
BARBARA: Well, I don't know how you explain the fact that a fifteen year old girl does not know how many shillings there are in a pound.
IAN: Really?
BARBARA: Really. She said she thought we were on the decimal system.
IAN: Decimal system?
[flashback to classroom - the other pupils laughing]
SUSAN: I'm sorry, Miss Wright.
BARBARA: Don't be silly, Susan. The United States has a decimal system. You know perfectly well that
SUSAN: Yes, of course, the decimal system hasn't started yet.
[Back to the car]
IAN: I suppose she couldn't be a foreigner? No, doesn't make sense. Nothing about this girl makes sense. For instance, the other day I was giving a talk about chemical changes, I'd given out the litmus paper to show cause and effect
BARBARA: And she knew the answer before you'd started.
IAN: Not quite.
[Flashback to laboratory classroom]
SUSAN: Yes, I can see red turns to blue, Mister Chesterton, but that's because we're dealing with two inactive chemicals. They only act in relation to each other.
IAN: But that's the whole point of the experiment, Susan.
SUSAN: Yes, it's a bit obvious, isn't it? Well, I'm not being rude, but couldn't we deal with two active chemicals and get on with something else? I'm sorry, it was just an idea.
[Back to the car]
IAN: She means it. These simple experiments are child's play to her.
BARBARA: You know, it's almost got to the stage where I deliberately want to trip her up.
IAN: Something like that happened a couple of weeks ago. I'd set the class a problem with A, B and C as the three dimensions.
[Flashback to classroom]
SUSAN: It's impossible unless you use D and E.
IAN: D and E? Whatever for? Do the problem that's set, Susan.
SUSAN: I can't, Mister Chesterton. You can't simply use three of them.
IAN: Three of them? Oh, time being the fourth dimension, I suppose? And what do you want E for? What do you make the fifth dimension?
SUSAN: Space.
[Back to the car]
BARBARA: Too many questions and not enough answers.
IAN: Stupid or just doesn't know. So we have a fifteen year old girl who is absolutely brilliant at some things, excruciatingly bad at others and, well, just inexplicable at the rest.
BARBARA: There she is. See her?
(Susan is at the gates to the junk yard)
IAN: She looks around like somebody who's afraid she's being watched. Or is my imagination working overtime?
BARBARA: Look, can we go in now? I hate to think of her alone in that place.
IAN: If she is alone. Look, she is fifteen. She might be meeting a boy. Did that occur to you?
BARBARA: I almost hope she is.
IAN: You do?
BARBARA: Well, it would be so normal. Isn't it silly? I feel afraid. As if we're about to interfere in something that is best left alone.
IAN: Come on, let's get it over with.
(They get out of the car)
BARBARA: Well, don't you feel it?
IAN: I take things as they come. Come on.
[Junk yard]
(Ian has a small torch in his hand)
IAN: What a mess. We're certainly not looking for her under all this.
BARBARA: Over there?
IAN: Ow. (he trips) I dropped it.
BARBARA: What?
IAN: The torch.
BARBARA: Well, use a match.
IAN: I haven't got one. Oh, never mind.
BARBARA: Susan.
IAN: Susan? Susan! Mister Chesterton and Miss Wright. She can't have got out without us hearing her.
BARBARA: Ian, look at this.
(She's found the police telephone box)
IAN: It's a police box. What on earth's it doing here? They're always in the street. Feel it. Feel it. Do you feel it?
BARBARA: It's a faint vibration.
IAN: It's alive! (he walks around it) It's not connected to anything, unless it's through the floor.
BARBARA: Look, I've had enough. Let's go and find a policeman.
(A sound of coughing)
BARBARA: What if it's her?
IAN: No, wait. That's not here. Quick.
(They hide as an old man in Astrakhan hat, and scarf enters the yard. He goes to the police box and turns the lock)
SUSAN [OC]: Oh, there you are!
BARBARA: It's Susan.
IAN: Shush!
(The old man opens the box door, and we hear pop music playing. Ian comes out from the hiding place)
IAN: Excuse me.
DOCTOR: What are you doing here?
IAN: We're looking for a young girl.
DOCTOR: We?
BARBARA: Good evening.
DOCTOR: What do you want?
IAN: One of our pupils, Susan Foreman, came into this yard.
DOCTOR: Really? In here? Are you sure?
BARBARA: Yes, we saw her from across the street.
DOCTOR: In this light?
IAN: Quite clearly.
DOCTOR: You were spying on her? Who are you?
IAN: We heard a young girl's voice call out to you.
DOCTOR: Impossible.
BARBARA: It came from in there.
DOCTOR: You must have imagined it.
BARBARA: I certainly did not imagine it.
DOCTOR: (leading him away from the box) Young man, is it reasonable to suppose that anybody would be inside a cupboard like that?
IAN: Is it, therefore, unreasonable to ask you to let us have a look inside?
DOCTOR: You have no right to be here. You're hiding and trespassing. I suggest you see this young child tomorrow instead of bothering me.
BARBARA: But won't you help us? We're two of her teachers from the Coal Hill School. We saw her come in and we haven't seen her leave. Naturally, we're worried.
DOCTOR: It is no business of mine. I suggest you leave here.
IAN: Not until we're satisfied that Susan isn't in there. And I don't understand your attitude.
DOCTOR: Yours leaves a lot to be desired.
IAN: Will you open that door?
DOCTOR: I will not.
IAN: Why not? What are you afraid we'll find there?
DOCTOR: Go away.
IAN: Open the door!
DOCTOR: I certainly will not. Pushing your way in here.
IAN: Then I think we'd better find a policeman.
DOCTOR: Very well.
IAN: And you're coming with us.
DOCTOR: Oh, am I? I think not.
BARBARA: We can't force him.
IAN: But we can't leave him here. Doesn't it seem obvious to you that he's got her locked up in there? Why, look at it, it's got no handles. There must be a hidden lock somewhere.
BARBARA: That was Susan's voice.
IAN: But of course it was. Susan! Susan! Susan, are you in there? It's Mister Chesterton and Miss Wright, Susan.
DOCTOR: Don't you think you're being rather high-handed, young man? You thought you saw a young girl enter the yard. You imagine you heard music or her voice. You believe she might be inside there. Not very substantial, is it?
BARBARA: But why won't you help us?
DOCTOR: I'm not hindering you. You intrude here and start making accusations and implications. If you both want to make fools of yourselves, I suggest you do what you said you'd do. Go and fetch a policeman.
IAN: While you nip off quietly in the other direction.
DOCTOR: There, you see. More suspicions, more insults. I shall remain here. There's only one way in and out of this yard. I shall be here when you get back. I want to see your faces when you try to explain away your behaviour to a policeman.
IAN: Nevertheless, we're going to get one. Come on, Barbara.
SUSAN [OC]: What are you doing out there, Grandfather?
DOCTOR: Go back inside and shut the door! Shut that door!
IAN: Barbara!
(Barbara goes inside the box as Ian and the Doctor struggle)
DOCTOR: What are you doing, young man. Come back.
[Tardis]
(Barbara finds herself in a very big room, with chair, hat stand, various other pieces of furniture, and Susan standing at a six-sided console in the centre. She is dumb-founded. Ian follows, then the Doctor. The doors close)
DOCTOR: These people are known to you, I believe?
SUSAN: What are you doing here? They're two of my schoolteachers.
DOCTOR: Is that your excuse for this unwarrantable intrusion? You had no right to invite them here. I blame you for this, Susan. You would insist on going to that ridiculous school. I warned you.
SUSAN: But, Grandfather
BARBARA: Is this really where you live, Susan?
SUSAN: Yes.
DOCTOR: And what is wrong with it?
IAN: But it was just a box.
DOCTOR: Perhaps.
BARBARA: But it can't be.
IAN: It was. You saw it.
DOCTOR: You see, I knew this sort of thing would happen, you stupid child!
BARBARA: Maybe we should leave now.
IAN: Just a minute. Now that we are here, I'd just like to. I know this is absurd, but. But I walked all around it.
DOCTOR: Don't expect any answers from me. You wouldn't understand anyway.
IAN: But you saw me, Barbara.
BARBARA: Yes.
DOCTOR: You see. I warned you. You see what you've done?
IAN: It's an illusion. It must be.
SUSAN: You shouldn't have come here.
IAN: This is a trick.
DOCTOR: It is no trick, young man! You both forced your way into the ship. I did not invite you. I see no reason why I should explain anything.
IAN: Ship?
DOCTOR: I use your own outdated terminology for any craft which does not roll along on wheels.
BARBARA: You mean it moves?
SUSAN: The Tardis can go anywhere.
BARBARA: Tardis? I don't know what you mean, Susan.
SUSAN: I made up Tardis from the initials, Time and Relative Dimension In Space. Well, I thought you'd both realise when you came inside and saw the different dimensions from outside.
IAN: Just let me get this right. A thing that looks like a police box, stuck in a junkyard, can move anywhere in time and space?
SUSAN: Yes!
IAN: Oh, Susan, don't be ridiculous.
DOCTOR: They'll never understand, my child.
SUSAN: Why won't you believe us?
BARBARA: We just want you to tell us the truth.
DOCTOR: (Taking off his cloak and scarf) You have heard the truth. We are not of this race. We are not of this Earth. We are wanderers in the fourth dimensions of space and time, cut off from our own planet and our own people by aeons and universes that are far beyond the reach of your most advanced sciences.
SUSAN: It's true. Every word of it's true. You don't know what you've done coming in here. Grandfather, let them go now. Don't you see they don't believe us? They can't do us any harm. I know these Earth people better than you. Their minds reject things they don't understand.
DOCTOR: No.
IAN: You can't keep us here.
BARBARA: Susan, why do you insist upon lying to us?
SUSAN: I'm not lying! I loved your school. I loved England in the 20th century. The last five months have been the happiest of my life.
BARBARA: But you are one of us. You look like us, you sound like us.
SUSAN: I was born in the 49th century.
IAN: What? Now, look, Susan. I've had enough of this. Come on, let's get out of here.
SUSAN: You can't get out.
(She's right. They can't open the door. The Doctor laughs)
SUSAN: He won't let you go.
IAN: You pushed something when we came in here. It was over here. (on the console) Now, which is it? Which is it? Which is the control that opens the door?
DOCTOR: You still think this is a trick?
IAN: I know that free movement in the fourth dimension of space and time is a scientific dream I didn't expect to find solved in a junkyard.
DOCTOR: For your science, schoolmaster, not for ours. I tell you, before your ancestors turned the first wheel, the people of my world had reduced movement through the farthest reaches of space to a game for children.
IAN: Unless you open that door and let me take Susan and Miss Wright out of here, I'll
DOCTOR: Don't threaten me, young man.
SUSAN: Grandfather, he doesn't understand. Let them go now.
BARBARA: What if it is true?
IAN: But it can't be, I tell you. Are you going to open that door? All right. I'll have to take a chance for myself.
DOCTOR: Very well. I can't stop you.
(He touches a button)
SUSAN: Don't touch it! It's live!
(Ian gets an electric shock)
BARBARA: Ian, are you all right? What do you think you're doing? How dare you behave like this?
SUSAN: Oh Grandfather, let them go now, please.
BARBARA: But you must. You can't keep us here.
SUSAN: Grandfather, let them go. We'll go somewhere else. Some other time. I won't object. I promise you I won't object.
DOCTOR: My dear child, you know very well we cannot let them possess even one idea that such a ship as the Tardis might be possible.
SUSAN: But Grandfather, don't you see? If we let them go now they can't
DOCTOR: Look, see how they watch and listen as we talk. If they leave the ship now, they might come to believe at last all this is possible. Think what would have happened to the ancient Romans if they'd possessed the power of gunpowder. If Napoleon had been given the secret of the aeroplane. No, my child. We both know we cannot let our secret loose into the world of the 20th century.
SUSAN: But you can't keep them prisoners here!
IAN: You can't keep us prisoners anywhere.
DOCTOR: I cannot let you go, schoolteacher. Whether you believe what you have been told is of no importance. You and your companion would be footprints in a time where you were not supposed to have walked.
IAN: If I have to use force to get out of here, I will, you know.
BARBARA: Maybe we've stumbled on something beyond our understanding.
DOCTOR: You see? The first faint glimmerings.
SUSAN: Why did you come here? Why? Grandfather, no!
(The Doctor is walking back to the console. Ian grabs him)
IAN: No, you don't!
SUSAN: Let him go!
DOCTOR: Let me go!
SUSAN: Stop it!
DOCTOR: Let me go, I say!
SUSAN: Stop it!
(The Doctor breaks free and activates the console. The centre piece starts moving up and down. Sound and visual effects later, Ian and Barbara are out cold, while the Doctor and Susan are standing rigid. The police box is no longer in the junkyard, but in a desolate landscape. The shadow of a humanoid figure is seen on the ground).
Tuesday, 7 October 2025
Sorry
Sorry old links to most of posts that use to connect to my old YouTube channel Ghostman Radio Station don't work it because YouTube cancelled my account on being spam
Saturday, 4 October 2025
Tuesday, 30 September 2025
Monday, 29 September 2025
Saturday, 27 September 2025
Tuesday, 23 September 2025
https://audiomack.com/mark-antony-2/song/storytime-8
https://audiomack.com/mark-antony-2/song/storytime-8
Sunday, 21 September 2025
Twlight
The other day whilst going For a walk I defected on my journey with weights which started in the year 1984 in Essex .I used to train 3 days a week and walk roughly a mile there and back to get to the gym.it's here I did a power lifting competition in 1987 in which I came last.T hen through to present day I have done various forms of weights,a few times I could not due to various reasons.I am know in the twilight of my weights journey and to come to that conclusion was a hard decision but I shall do what I can until no longer able.
best deadlifts s-330 lbs -245 lbs for 2 reps
in local leisure centre gym I could do full stack of all the machine s -80-90 kg
dumbbell up to 30 kg
due to various reasons I don't go to local leisure centre gym anymore I am at a different place with different set of of thought
I do train at home although the weight is limited .
I don't believe my own bullshit about being strong with good muscle anymore as I realise this was is just my own ego boost.
New Dawn
The city was a skeleton, picked clean by fire and fallout. Twisted rebar clawed at a perpetually bruised sky, and mountains of pulverized concrete and shattered glass formed a new, treacherous landscape. A perpetual twilight hung heavy, the sun a distant memory swallowed by the ash and dust that coated everything.
Elara led the way, her silhouette a grim, determined figure against the backdrop of ruin. Her faded military jacket was patched in a dozen places, and the rifle slung across her back looked as much a part of her as her own arm. Behind her trudged Jonas, a man whose gruff exterior hid a surprising tenderness, clutching a battered first-aid kit. Lena, her face perpetually etched with worry lines, held the hand of Finn, a boy no older than eight, whose wide, innocent eyes absorbed the devastation with a terrifying, silent acceptance.
Their destination: the old Central Library's underground vault, rumored to be blast-proof and deep enough to offer respite from the lingering radiation. It was a twenty-mile trek across what used to be a bustling metropolis, now a necropolis.
"Are we close, Elara?" Finn's voice, small and reedy, broke the oppressive silence. He tightened his grip on Lena’s hand.
Elara glanced back, her gaze softening slightly. "Close enough, Finn. Just a few more sectors." She didn't add that "close enough" meant another eight hours of hell.
Each step was a calculated risk. The ground was a shifting mosaic of glass shards and pulverized concrete. Buildings loomed like hollowed-out giants, their facades stripped away to reveal the intimate, tragic details of lives abruptly ended: a child's forgotten swing set on a balcony, a half-eaten meal decaying on a kitchen table, preserved by the initial blast's sterilization. The wind, when it stirred, carried the metallic tang of irradiated dust and the faint, sweet smell of decay.
Jonas pointed with a scarred hand. "Looks like a clear path through that arcade, Elara. Might shave off an hour."
Elara squinted at the skeletal remains of what had once been a glamorous shopping mall. The glass roof was gone, leaving jagged teeth of metal framing a treacherous descent into darkness. "Too risky, Jonas. Too many blind spots. Could be… anything down there." Her voice held a note of caution born from brutal experience. They’d encountered other survivors – some desperate, some animalistic – and the occasional mutated creature, a grotesque echo of the world that was.
They stuck to the main thoroughfares, or what remained of them. An overturned bus, its frame contorted into abstract art, blocked their path. Elara scouted ahead, her movements fluid and silent. She found a gap in the rubble, a precarious climb over a pile of twisted girders.
"Okay," she called softly, "one at a time. Jonas, you first, help Lena and Finn up. I'll cover the rear."
Jonas, despite his weariness, moved with surprising agility, his large hands careful as he guided Lena, then Finn. The boy, surprisingly nimble, scrambled up, his small face streaked with dirt but his eyes bright with the thrill of the climb.
As Elara prepared to follow, a sound ripped through the silence. A high-pitched, metallic shriek that echoed off the skeletal buildings. It wasn't human. It wasn't anything they'd encountered before.
"Down!" Elara hissed, pushing herself against a crumbling wall, rifle raised. Jonas and Lena instinctively pulled Finn close, shielding him.
The shriek came again, closer this time, followed by the clatter of something heavy scuttling over rubble. A flash of movement in the shadows of a nearby building. Too fast to identify.
Elara held her breath, her finger hovering over the trigger. Her mind raced, cataloguing threats. Was it a pack? A lone hunter? The urban environment, once their protector, was now their enemy, a maze of hiding places for unseen dangers.
The sound faded, replaced by the thumping of their own adrenaline-fueled hearts. Nothing else stirred. The silence returned, heavier, more sinister than before.
"It's gone," Elara whispered, though she didn't lower her weapon. "But it was watching us."
They moved faster after that, the unseen threat a palpable presence at their backs. The hours blurred into a haze of exhaustion and hyper-vigilance. Finn, uncomplaining, walked with a new, quiet determination. Lena hummed a tuneless lullaby to him, a desperate attempt at normalcy.
As the bruised sky began to deepen into a darker shade of charcoal, Elara spotted it – the unmistakable, reinforced concrete structure of the old Central Library. It looked like a tombstone, its grand entrance swallowed by debris, but its general form was intact.
"There," she breathed, a shard of hope piercing her weary resolve. "We're here."
Relief washed over the group, but it was fleeting. The front entrance was impassable. They spent another hour meticulously searching the perimeter until Jonas, leveraging a rusted crowbar against a loose slab of concrete, revealed a service tunnel entrance, half-buried but seemingly untouched by the main blast.
The air inside was stale and cold, smelling of damp earth and decaying paper. Elara led the way, flashlight beam cutting through the oppressive darkness, revealing shelves of moldering books, preserved records, and finally, a heavy, blast-proof door. It was locked, but a schematic pasted next to it showed a manual override.
Working together, their tired muscles screaming in protest, they cranked the heavy mechanism. With a groan of tortured metal, the door swung inward, revealing a deeper, darker void.
They stumbled inside, collapsing onto the cold concrete floor, too exhausted to light the emergency lanterns they carried. For the first time in days, the air felt still, safe from the unseen terrors of the ruined city.
Finn, nestled into Lena’s side, finally broke the silence. "We made it, Elara."
Elara, leaning her head back against the cold wall, closed her eyes. "We made it, Finn." But her voice was heavy. She knew this was just another temporary shelter, another pause in a never-ending journey. Outside, the city waited, a silent, ravenous beast.
As the echoes of their labored breathing filled the vault, Elara knew one thing had brought them this far: the fragile, tenacious spark of humanity, stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. And tomorrow, the fight for safety would begin anew.
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