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 sheer choreography of this high-power revision.
Even so, it looked tight to the deadline. These editors were tough S.O.B.s, but the words were giving a tempestuous backchat. We were far from clear of the verbiage yet. Truth is, those editors were in serious danger of