Comic book stories:

 

Sepia - Set in a dystopic future, where environmental issues are tools of oppression, and artists are outlaws.

 

Antediluvian - Tales from before the Great Flood and the time of Noah, Nephilim and Unicorns. 

 

SHORT STORIES:

 

1) Zhe Zhi

2) Gumballino

3) FanTansMagoria 

 

ZHE ZHI by Tim Macavoy

 

She made the paper.

It started white and it was beautiful.  Not because of purity; but potential.

She gazed upon it for five thousand years, then slowly took one corner and folded.

A scar.  There was character.  There was a story.  There was life.

She heard a distant calling and longed to bring it closer.  She folded again.  And again.  It was a song.  It had no shape, so she gave it one.  I feel, she thought.  But what?  There were no words then.

Later she would reflect that it was peace, and it was beautiful.  More beautiful than potential.  Than nothing. 

And that is how she made the dove.  White and simple as it was.  It flew from nowhere, to nowhere, across land and skies of white.  It could not be seen.  But she knew it was there.

And that is why she made.  After that first time.  It could always be good.  Everything is better than nothing. 

So she creased the land and gave it texture.  She ran her fingertips over mountains, valleys, fields and enjoyed the bristling sensation.  But the dove, who could not see the mountain, white as it was, flew into a rocky outcrop, on its way to nowhere, and died.

She could make more.  But it did not stop her crying.  She wept on the mountain-top, and the tears washed down into the valleys below, making the first rivers. 

She smiled at her sadness, for the rivers were beautiful.  She understood that good things can come from bad, and that life is not white, but many shades and colours.

cacophony of voices.  It longed to be touched, and kissed, and loved, and raped. 

But she was always making.  Because everything was better than nothing.

So she made people.  That they might hear the voices and tune the land into a melodic chorus.  She did not give them her ears, for she heard everything and this would have driven the people mad.  She did not give them her eyes, for the colours of the world dazzled her.  She did not give them her hands, for they were always folding, folding, making.  But she wanted them to understand.  So she gave them her heart, and died.

 

The land wanted to grow, and sang this to the people.  They understood, because their hearts told them to make, to work and create.  But the people did not have the hands or the knowledge for paper folding, Zhe Zhi. 

So they made tools and began to work.  They ploughed the land and sang to each other to make the workload lighter, and the days shorter.  They were always wishing time away.  The songs got louder and the days got shorter and the people could no longer remember who they were working for. 

The land had long since given up communicating with the people, and fell silent.  It dreamt of clean white paper, and a raised, tentative hand.

The people felt alone.  They grew scared and built homes to keep everything out.  Although they knew that everything was better than nothing.

There was no more white.  The colours began to fade.  And the land was scarred with living.  The people built their houses towards the sky, but felt, in their hearts, there were new spaces to be filled.  Clean, white spaces.

One night, a young man dreamt that his hands were not his own.  They were delicate and powerful.  They danced in front of his eyes and he could not see what they held.  But he remembered the feeling of paper, and held every fold in his heart.

The next day, the young man built a boat.  And his village set sail to a new land.  They wanted a fresh start.  A clean sheet.  To make of the land what it wanted and leave behind the old ways.  But they could not forget their traditions.  Their habits.  They remembered everything.  Thinking everything was better than nothing.

It was not the way of the people; to live with nothing.  It was always in their heads to create.  And when there were no tools, and no material, they would tell stories.  And because they were afraid the stories would be forgotten and return to nothing, they wrote them down.

 

On the third floor of the seventh nicest building in Beijing, a young writer stares at a blank page.  She thinks she has writers block.  She takes a deep breath and marks the page.  She doesn’t know what story she is about to tell.  But anything is better than nothing.

 

THE END

 

GUMBALLINO by Tim Macavoy

 

The boy with the domed, shiny head was in fact a piece of confectionary.  Created by the kindly sweet shop keep, Grandfather Picklejam.  Grandfather Picklejam had no children of his own, even though he had many grandchildren.  Lonely in his colourful corner store he set about to create a prodigy in his own style – a bit like Frankenstein, but with golden syrup.  He worked day and night.  Well from about 3pm to 9:30pm; which is technically true.  Grandfather Picklejam experimented with strawberry sourz, fudge, peanut based chocolates and liquorice laces (but these reminded him too much of black people).  After many failed half boy, half sweet hybrids, howling in pain as they struggled to breathe before being re-melted into the sugar spinner, Grandfather Picklejam finally created his ideal boy – Gumballino.

Gumballino was a Gumball that thought he was Italian.  “Papa!” cried Gumballino – a bit like those annoying puppets from the Dolmio advert.  “I love you Papa.”

It was the first time Picklejam had ever been called anything other than Grandfather since the day he was born.  He was so happy.  Positively bursting with happiness, like a balloon filled with sickly syrup.  Papa Grandfather Picklejam lavished so much attention on his sucker son that his business failed.  Also, most of the neighbour children had turned to their cake shop rivals ‘Soggy Biscuit’.  It wasn’t long before Picklejam and Gumballino were living on the breadline.  Except they didn’t have bread, just the remnants of the sweet shop.  Riding a never ending rollercoaster of sugar highs and vomitousness took its toll on the family of two.  Wide eyed, they searched every crevice of the shop for dropped dusting sugar like shameful smackheads until they had licked their tongues bloody.

Both father and mutant son were wasting away, there was nothing for it, Picklejam ate Gumballino!  Gumballino was a substantial gobstopper and Picklejam knew it would keep him alive for some time to come.  The down side for Gumballino (apart from death, obviously) was that this meant his demise would take some time.  And it did.  Seven agonising hours Gumballino disintegrated within the mouth of his once beloved “Papa”.  With his last ounce of glucose, Gumballino cursed his life and its progenitor.  And you know what?  It worked.  Grandfather nee Papa Picklejam got severe diabetes and died alone.  The policeman who found his body (it was his first day) noted that the corpse had a lingering sweet aroma...

 

FanTansMagoria by Tim Macavoy

 

Shelley was going to the annual Miss WoolWitch competition, and this year, she was going to win.  It was basically a Halloween party at her local in Woolwich, but also sponsored by ‘Fleece You’, a leading knitwear catalogue.  The winner got a year’s modelling contract with the catalogue, and the girl that won in ’96 made it big at Argos.

Shelley had asked her gran to knit her a woollen bikini, sure it chaffed a little, but she looked hot.  All she needed to top it off was a freshly sprayed tan.  Shelley entered Wu Tan Klan, the most prestigious tanning salon on her high street.  The bakery next door was filled with ghostly biscuits, pumpkin cakes and green gelatinous desserts.  In fact the whole high street was strewn with festive decoration, except the salon.

“This place is like well drab innit?” whinged Shelley.  The girl at the counter glared at her.

“They run out of pumpkins in Netto”.

“Give us a tan then, I’m gonna be this year’s Miss WoolWitch.

The girl nodded towards a booth. “ Take off your clothes and try not to breathe.

Shelley took everything off, without bothering to fully close the modesty curtain, and stepped into the booth.  The door slammed shut behind her and the machine whirred into action.  Tanning solution was sprayed all around her.  Shelley posed with her arms above her head, then bent over so that all her crevices were covered.  After a few minutes of continuous spraying, Shelley called out.

“I only wanted a light tan, I ain’t foreign”

But there was no response.  Shelley felt for the doorhandle, but it seemed there was none.  She was choking, losing air, the booth filled tanning spray, as though it had been made airtight.  It was going in her eyes now as she tried to look for an emergency stop button, a way out.  Her head was swimming.

And then the door opened.

“Sorry I was on the phone – you done?”  asked the girl innocently.

“You daft bint, I almost died in there” screeched Shelley as she struggled for air.  “Let’s have look then?”  Shelley stood in front of the mirror, bleary eyed and bright orange.  “You cow, I look like a fruit!  I look like a pumpkin!”

“Happy Halloween,” said the counter girl, as the picked up a pair of hairdressing scissor and stabbed Shelley in the throat.

It took the girl a couple of hours to snip all the way through Shelley’s neck, then scoop out the brains and eyes.  She placed a cinnamon scented tealight in her mouth, then arranged hew newly made Jack O Lantern in the salon window.  She admired her work.  “Very festive,” said the girl.

END