Attack Of The 50-foot Verbose Mutant Killer Fountain Pens From Mars

Attack Of The 50-foot Verbose Mutant Killer Fountain Pens From
Mars
Selected Words of Literary Adventure & Aspiration
by Mark Cantrell

This Edition Published October 2006
By The Author
Copyright (c) 2005/2006. Mark Cantrell. Some Rights Reserved.
Released Under Creative Commons
THIS anthology has been released by the author under a creative
commons license. It may be downloaded for personal use and otherwise
distributed, provided it is not distributed for commercial purposes. The
author must be credited and no revisions or alterations are to be made
to the text of this PDF document. Extracts, such as those for review
purposes, may be used subject to the normal restrictions of fair usage.
For any other usage, contact the author.
Publisher: Mark Cantrell, Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, UK.
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.tykewriter.supanet.com
Cover art 'The Womb' by Phil Wainman. Used by permission of the
artist. www.surrealdreams.co.uk

Attack Of The 50-foot Verbose Mutant Killer Fountain Pens From

Mars
Selected Words of Literary Adventure & Aspiration
by Mark Cantrell
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
From Way Outa Here To Somewhere Over There
IN THE BEGINNING THERE WAS... A WORD OR THREE FROM
OUR SPONSORS...
Penning The Altered States Hunters Of The Untamed Idea Dance With
The Muse And Write To Dissent It Just Got Harder! Primal Expression
Don't You Dare Publish My Collected Works!
THE STORY WAS... THAT AFTER THE FRIVOLITY... THERE
CAME...
A Walk In The Woods The Ghost Of Sarajevo The Rise & Fall Of
Sisyphus Sinners In Streaming Video Joe's Last Meal Time Changeth
The Man You Looking At Me? - The Almost True Story Of Paddington
Bear Shopping For Katie Nathan's Friend To Heal The World Deadly
Night Shade
IT IS TIME... TO FACE... THE ARTICLES OF FAITH...
Writing A Living Memorial Taking Bradford By Storm The Naked
Verse Poetry Bridges The Pond Scrawling On The Megalith Poets
Launch Peaceful Dissent Not In This Pensioner's Name!
Mild-Mannered & Foul-Mouthed Genetically Modified Muse The
Horror & The Ecstasy: Poets Commemorate The Victims... Asylum
Seekers Speak Out Hostess With The Mostess Mayakovsky's Pants A
Tragedy Of Ego Over Idealism
WAIT THERE'S... ALL THESE LEFT OVER BITS...

There Is No Sanctuary The Pestilent Script Have You Ever Done It
Whilst Being Stood Up? Synapses Of The Soul
BIOGRAPHY:
The Literary Life & Times Of A Tyke In Exile

INTRODUCTION: From Way Outa Here To Somewhere Over There
THINGS were getting serious.
I was fresh out of fags.
The coffee had congealed. And the beer was definitely off.
Yes. Out it went, through the door, slithering along like an oversized
amber slug.
Always sensible in any crisis, a pint, but I was in no state to follow
course and sup the bitter dregs of retreat. So, in the thick of all this
chaos, I went for the less-than-heroic option and made like The Scream.
They were coming in thick and fast all around. Porting in through the
hollow points in the quantum-foam-wash of real space like, well, like
hollowed out bullets bludgeoning through flesh.
The doors of perception were being well and truly gate-crashed. What
was to be a rather gentile soiree of a literary persuasion, was turned into
a cyber-boot-stomping montage of fearsome verbiage. There were
words everywhere. They merged into one writhing, putrescent orgasm
of frenzied composition. The cascading babble deafened right down to
the bowels. The walls and windows were drenched in spilled ink, the
floor was awash in black and bubbled with more words emerging like
ectoplasm ghouls to eat the flesh of literary taste.
It was horrible.

It was
The Attack of the 50-foot Verbose Mutant Killer Fountain Pens From
Mars.
And try saying that in a bookshop without getting funny looks.
It was all my fault too. I just wasn't capable of controlling my pen. I let
it prod and probe where pens were not meant to ponder, and cracked
open a splurging orifice of psycho-babble into an unprepared universe.
With those words flooding into this doomed world, and me out of
chemical inducements, I figured there was only one thing left to do.
Make like a writer and delete the scene, but the only part of me capable
of running was my bowel.
Fortunately there was a deafening flash of inspiration and the
ink-blinded windows imploded. Black-clad figures, straight out of an
action flick, chased the cascading shards like a punctuation expletive. I
managed to duck as they abseiled into the narrative flow with the
[full-]stopping power of a full-metal-colon.
The Editors were here to save the paragraph.
Red pens flashed like maser-death. They scythed through the invaders.
Dismembered clauses floundered on the ink floor bubbling a death
rattle tattoo as the editors hacked and butchered these babies. Streams
of high velocity tippex wiped their asses clean off the face of the Earth.
I just ducked under a table and admired the