The following pieces of writing are Jame Dignan's attempts at poetry, prose and parody. Many of them were written for various amateur publications such as Warp and Aotearapa.

Poetry (and related strangenesses)

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Meeting Tennyson

"Tell me of one, polemic or tropical," I gave to him.

"I will that I can what you say. I am Algy Lord Tenniselbow, and you shall but hear mine, political AND topographical! Perchance partake you of my daisywheels?"

"Nay, but I am not."

"Here it be then:
I blundered lumpy as a sock
That bobs and weaves and posts no bills
When all at once I caught a clock
A crust of painted window sills
Inside a snake between the seas
Buttering and counting honey-bees!"

"But sire, be that nary a Whirldwork posy?"

"Ay but ee be a sharpened one sorr. In that garb here is one that I was a writing of about: 'The church of the line parade'!
Half a league, bath a beagle, Arthur Begonia
All of them, Sally and Beth were the Sin sundered;
'Four were the line parade, cars with the buns!' he said
Into the Wally and Fred wrote the self-hindered.
Gammon was the fright of them, salmon was in Lesson Ten,
Tannin in a junta den, gollied and blundered
Scorned with a knotted bell, bodily they rowed in gel
Into a jar of meths, Tin-tin just south of Wells, roamed the sire bundled..."

At this point in the junction he fell overwards, and leaving him to be poemry and mused I left him to his own encumbrance and wondered home to Porlock.

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Imran Khan (by Samuel Taylor Cowdrey)

But oh! The Aussie's errant cut was slanted o'er the brown sward athwart an extra cover;
A Malik ran, and both big feet he planted as e'er beneath a spinning ball was taunted
By rabble cheering, full of cricket lovers.
And from this mob with ceaseless turmoil seething, as if this Earth in fast thick pants was breathing
A mighty bellow momently was forced amid whose great half-intermitted burst
Some beer-cans vaulted like rebounding hail or outfielders beneath the slogger's flail.
And 'mid these dancing ockers once and ever
Was flung up momently the shout of horror

Five miles descending with a pace erratic from wood to man the leathered globelet ran
Then reached the gap betwixt the hands of man and sank defiant to the lifeless paddock
And 'mid the turmoil Imran heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying Waugh...

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Haiku

Most of my Haiku are fairly serious, but a few silly ones were written deliberately for the 28th issue of my fanzine Amoeba:
 
 

A new apazine Called Amoeba twenty eight Writ for you to read (9/95)	This Amoeba's full Of thoughts, opinions and jest And weight just eight grammes (9/95)	Squatting on the page The evil, ill-shapen words Bespake "Amoeba"! (9/95)
James first span his web Across these printed pages With no real forethought (9/95)	Twenty-eight? Oh Lord I hoped that he would end it With twenty-seven! (9/95)

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Two of Cups

I enjoyed tonight - just us two,
     Hours that pass like minutes, or was it
          Minutes that pass like hours?
Just a friend, but my thoughts turn from the Platonic.

Why am I here?
     Your invitation, flatmates conveniently out -
Did you want just a friend (you make no play for me)
     Or did you expect me to make a pass at you?
          If only you knew how close I came to you,
               But backed away

     I'm like an old ex-alcoholic sitting in a pub
     Been shown the bottles, smelt the booze
     Only one sip of you and I could fall again

     Do I take the risk - the rewards could be so great
     But if I fall there are no more chances
     No more love, maybe no more friendship
     You scare me. I scare me.

I need your friendship, so my hands stay close to me
     I will keep my faith this time

And so I go home, alone
     I have my friend
          My dream
               and a cold bed

My hopes and dreams survive again
     Until the next time.
 

Great Minds

Car. Open countryside.
Open road stretching out to meet the horizon.
To the left, a slumbering sea; to the right, a barren hillside.
Soft white ceiling of cloud.
Gravel flying as the car barrels down to the beach below.

Space. Inky night.
Hard brilliance of stars stretching out to meet forever.
To the left, a sheer wall of ocean; to the right, an empty infinity.
Soft blue curve of atmosphere.
Metal heating as the ship tumbles down to the globe below.

The car comes to a halt.
Gulls stand, or pick their way among the rocks.
The air is calm and clear.
The driver gets out of the car, stretches, smiles,
 and breathes the clean salt air.

Not far away,
       across the water,
             another holidaymaker is enjoying a similar view.
 

Second Time Around

I held your hand against my face, I turned my eyes away,
The feeling deep within my heart was more than I could say.
I held you near, I felt you warm, your body close to mine,
But somewhere down inside I knew, that I had had my time.

And far beyond our searching eyes, beyond the prayers of mind,
A distant people looking down, found all they knew to find,
They judged the ones that came from life, they needed not explain,
And one by one, the souls of men returned, to start again.

And then I held you once again as I had once before,
I seemed to sense that early time, but could not know for sure.
Familiar eyes in other guise, a face I held so dear
As dreams returned, like lines unlearned, yet solid and ice-clear.

And far away the distant race concluded, to my cost,
That I should never now return to things I once had lost.
And so you went, your passion spent in one farewell embrace,
And all I have of you to keep is echoes of your face.

So they looked down from where they stood, and smiled at jobs well done;
And left to hurl their meteors and guide the moon and sun.
But they had left too hastily, for clear, in my mind's eye;
Your face remained before me, and I knew my destiny.

I harnessed all my waking thought, and took off on the trail
Of searching for that visage that I knew would be my grail.
Awake, your image taunted me, to see you as my bride;
In sleep my anguish haunted me, I saw you as you died.

But far beyond our searching eyes, beyond the hopes and fears;
A distant people looking down weighed carefully our tears,
They judged the ones that still had life, who still had much to learn -
And men and women's souls which all were destined to return.

And then I found a face I knew, which I had known before;
She seemed to sense that early time, but could not know for sure.
But as I looked, and as she looked, the veils all slipped aside,
And now we hope for days as sweet as those before we died.
 

The Treasurer's Reports

Scientific journal article
John Lennon (or Stanley Unwin perhaps?)
Dylan Thomas
Geoffrey Chaucer
James Joyce
A.A.Milne
William McGonagall

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Journal of pretty strange research

Bunting disproved: Lucozade not an effective predictor of G-amino-boutrosghali activity

An attempt to support Bunting's contriversial (1937) research into Neuropoliticotextronics led to us getting seven subjects to buy bottles of lucozade. We studied their EEG readings and facial expressions under a variety of conditions and then locked them in a broom closet. Our results failed to confirm Bunting's research findings.

Method
Seven subjects (3M, 4F) were given electroencephalogram tests. All were first-year students who were required to complete an experiment as part of their course requirement, and who thought they were going to see a one-day international cricket match. They were wrong. During the course of these tests, averaged neural responses were recorded under a series of six conditions, when, as follows: 1) subjects were at rest; 2) subjects were asked to count sheep; 3) subjects had bright lights flashed in their face; 4) subjects had Barry Manilow music played to them; 5) subjects were shown a picture of politicians smiling; 6) subjects were locked in a broom closet. All subjects were then taken down to the local supermarket and asked to buy a bottle of lucozade.

Results
 Our EEG findings showed that under normal circumstances, GLC GD systems for our subjects had a resting equilibrium of approximately 955.89 mg/mmol. Our first four conditions each had the effect of raising this level by 20.00 mg/mmol, and this rate was additive, in that after the completion of these four stages, overall GD levels had risen to 1035.89 mg/mmol. The smil politician presentation, however, led to a major setback of approximately 211.00 mg/mmol (similar to that expected from the presentation of the accounts of Warp), and the broom closet also elicited an inhibitory effect on GD production, its level falling by a further 4.85 mg/mmol to a new resting level of 820.04 mg/mmol. The long term effects of this treatment are unclear, as the university forced us to release the subjects from the cupboard and take them to the supermarket to buy some Lucozade. This seemed to return their GLC GD levels to approximately pre-test levels, and they all looked happy and smiling, much more so than they had when presented with the picture of politicians or the recording of Barry Manilow.

Discussion
 More research is necessary to elaborate on our findings that Lucozade and broom closets are at least as relevant to this field as Bunting's possibly artefactual findings relating to G-amino-boutrosghali. Particular care should be taken in future research that a wider range and larger number of subjects is used, and a stronger lock is put on the broom closet.

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Natural Assassination Treasures Repast

Once upon a once in a timeline there lifted a swerling silver city called Duningthing in a country that was. This kitty was fulled of dwards and spinters with names of Dones and MacCrunchy and Dingy and Dubloon and Crook and Tonsil and Caterwaul and so say all of uz. And they all were on committed NAAFI comintern. With them were Smitings from Christmas and even Crash Click from Walkathon and other popes from other parties of these great Untied Notions of Nude Sealing. All were happily happy except when they weren't, which came as a great relief of Mafeking. The shunned shone brighter than Sudso and the birds fell from the trees coughing sweetly in delight, you see.

A few hours later it caned to pause that monies were there for NIFF to have and to hold in richness and in richness in the name of our blessed loaf Albert Tatlock amen.

Once upon a bus lived a man in a shiny coat. The coat had strange prosperities which made it look as if it was going to rain.

"Who's been sleeping in my sandwich?" asked the man with one leg called Brian, and another leg called Margery. He looked in his hat, under the hamster and in the yelling pages, but he could not fondle the missing bits. "I'm sure that when I wont to bet we had a hundredandthirteentyone donalds and mumblypeg senses, but now we are poorly drowned with not even one after 909 doughnuts! Oh my many wombs but what has becrusted us? Not since the fambled Headstand Hilary and the fateful Sherbert Tennyson stood on Mount Albert have we been so crabled!" He sat, slowly ricking, his body bent by a very table Lindsay of Perigos. "Something is definedly afoot!" he said, looking at his shoe.

"None of these mysterious my lad! Pull your bits together!" said little Sara - also known as the merry window. "Be it nose hentforce that we pained one hunter and fortunate donnas by Warts 87, and tent more for other printers, and we replated Reck Tomtom appropriately two humpdread to reply a loan he maiden for badgers. That means," she continented, "that means we played up for three hungry and fitful fort dollops and factory form tents!" She waltzed over and heaped his knees concludingly.

The man smiled, whistling a poem he'd learnt from his grandpappy's knee (which was famous for it). Tappling his teeth slyly he looked down at the sun and said "no Wanda our cosh decriminalised then. Our outtakes were manifold, but our intakes were carburettor. The import was only accosted by sick mentalships and four Warns which were for sail full steam ahead. Total, one tree through dullers. Nothing gets rights righter than 'Dirt'. We lusted for two tutus and some scent."

"Any entry, my dear Washington," sliced Sara notingly, with a secret glance at the handles. "And it's the quite tomb of the year around Christsake, so you wouldn't be expecting." And she was right, which only goes to show.

Sara and the man in the shiny soot lifted harpily every artichoke and had many offsprints and bedsprings. They wharfled together briefly, and despite being crimbly and not voting, they soon became famed and celebrated. Happy Birthday.

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UNDER MILK CHOCOLATE

NARRATOR:
To begin at the beginning.

It is dark drizzled night in Dunedin, tar slick and ocean wet. The cafés are closed now, gorged musicians and students disgorged through the cluttered, shuttered, smoke-tinged, rust-hinged, noticeclad and paintglad doors of the night. Roads are silent, save for the lurk of patrol car and the grouch of refuse truck. And in the sleepy valleys and rolling breakers of yestertown night rains supreme. The shops are dead as the hills tonight, though the hills still watch with us, or as dead as Robbie Burns there on his central platform, staring sadly down Stuart Street to the railyards, the peninsula and the slatebacked, weight backed, great, black ocean of night. And all the people of the benign and dripping city are sleeping now.

Hush. You can hear Night - moving above the late last tick of the town hall clock down past the quarry tailings and wrought iron railings, the neon horses and watercourses of the town. You can hear Night's velvet fingers massaging Dunedin's muscle and bustle and love and anger and despair and fancy and laugh and cry and child's plastic toy. Only you can watch the fingers move, sneaking past the copshop and the banks, singing bawdy in the churches and the libraries, laughing in the graveyards and joyfully trampling bowling green and flowerbed.

Listen. It is Time, drifting like winter woodsmoke across Mount Cargill and down, darting along the stream banks into the deeps of the valley. Past the loft where Jones the President lies dreaming soft of a deceptive delivery with enough pace to beat the Aussie bat. Past crypt-muted University and shroud-loud main street; past the Civic Centre, where soon McCarthys will study maps and Cooks will pound, cursing, at their keyboards.

A possum stirs in its furtive waking, looking across from the town belt at the night, as if to welcome an old friend.

Come closer now. Only you can hear the streets breathe, deserted even by the cats. Only you can see behind the blinkered shops and into the slumbering lives beyond. The discarded undies and creaking bedsprings, black mirrors reflecting black, dressers and untidy wardrobes and tatty calendars still keeping vigil for a long dead April. Only you can hear the ego and id battle for control of resting minds, and see their conjured carnival and fanfare and peace and war and rocketship and loved-one and rugby match of their dreams.

From where you are, you can hear these dreams.

James, the retired editor, tosses fitful in his bed in the ramshackle, haphazard, book-surrounded room that is his, dreaming of...

SECOND VOICE (JAMES):  ...nubile young fans at an ErotiCon, never such as appear at a local meeting, moving with me through the night - or a last minute goal in some nevermet F.A. Cup final. And of a ghostly long-forgot day where time stands still and things are as they once weren't.

GHOSTLY VOICE: Remember me, James?

JAMES: You're from the AGM. You asked me to write Treasurer's reports!

SECOND GHOSTLY VOICE: And me? Smiling Rexy the Postman? Went to Wellington, came back with the dreaded convention nomination?

JAMES: Aye, I remember.

FIRST GHOSTLY VOICE: And what was in that Treasury, James?

NARRATOR:
And James dreamhands him a candyfloss thought of paper, stating a balance, an income, and an expenditure. As the light of the excess of income over expenditure and the closing balance steal deftly across the phantasm's long-cold eyes, a smile slight as a bride's blush crosses its features, and it fades into the inky silence.

But wait, the old night stretches. A grey of soot, black by light, but brilliant in the pitch of Dunedin night, cracks the plate of Otago slumber. Dawn thunders to the squawk of annoyed, relieved, bird life as houses add a third dimension to their silhouettes of shadow. And in some nameless kitchen, the earliest-before-light kettle joins its note to the song of welcome for this, the new, spring day.

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Treasurer's Report:  August 1292

Whan that Iuly brang her sotherne chille
Tis time to stop and look at all yon bille,
That lie unclam'd since AGM's dark dread
Which maks committees soure and tak to bedde;
Tham billes did ring fram Warpe and librerie
And they wer there sore plauntiful to see,
But keepynge tham in check war membershypes
That alle of the billes ther did wont eclyps.
Fram far sweet Caunterbury they did cam
And other place that haue soch foreign nam,
As Walingkton, Tourenga and the Hut -
Fram Doniden ther cam an awfol lote;
Fram evry shire in New Zelonde cam coyne
Of menne and womyn fennedome for to joyne,
Four and twanty cam they thar to mixe
With dolleres foor honderd and eighty sixe.
Victoria of Crage a score gav to oure bankes
For which we give oor meny meny thankes.
Sals of Warpes Fenn Guides and oor new badge
Added seven tens moore onto that pledge
Untille gathered for NESF so moche was number'd,
As seventy six dollares aboue fife honderd.
Bifel that in that season after May,
Pryntinge costs for Warpe bifor us ley,
One hunderd six and fifty dollers then,
Departed to the lande off pryntinge menne.
And fore moore than that foor librerie liste wer gifed
And too thar printers that was sore delifr'd
A farther five and ten did the librarie gain
That once som bokes be sold com bak agen.
So ouer alle balances go oppe not doune,
And thar wall be rejoycinge inne this toune;
Nine hunderd strang, and nine and twenty more,
With sonderie cents our vaults they doth ensure.

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WIDDERSHIN'S FAKE

As the lizard of the Negev longs for its beebybawb in the dusk, Marys loosing of their choicers bellydown deep in the longdraw, and who that significated for them are gone, gone. Flub and flub, devil him that is in the nethergiven. Gone in the dust to dust of the gravelelegy light. Upstare, knickerbait! Risen, slimesearchy! Zabadak, Zardos, Zinzan, Zinberdoo! The agony of essence, broken like a tram on the Sandymount run. Quantum ille canis, preserve his twisted soul, est fenestra? Oh and he might wonder, he with his looms and clankers. He with the anxious thumbs and the heavy seat. 'Tis good when the tide oothspggghhhrrssssssss in the mornin. Go, take yer mad Dane wit you. Up soon, to the braketoast and jaundoed slibberslip and marleyfruit, or the crakecop, beanzoot, cobbytee, craunch in the pot peptsctsctsctsctsct. Gerout to the street of sad valedictor. Blankverse space and bloodied ferroconcrete. Ay and we have ours too. No welhoofen lankylouts preeving alane of the outskirts. Skat!

All but the ballybounce. Nuvilia among, her silmenspinny limened down from above. Gad but for the times. I would but scary my eighteightsix for the maschellated concavions of her blemishing. Nux and nevermore, her brazening ever for the Pursued Perceit Perseid, and I drop a thirtyone. The beauty and imagine of the softzing. Darling childycloud. The claver and clinch of the seedymain. Oh to fake hime to a hardygarb and splate that man in the skrivers. Ah, but the cost, the cost: Strawberry feels for Heather.

By the grazycowp beeskneesmon wit voise crawkygarp in tellingcom handypiece. Yah yah waiter called but its not rainin. Good for the game. Radandblacks in town to meet blue lustyboys in battle of mudskippers. A tussle. See them all there, O'Brien, O'Shaugnessy, Braionen an Suillebhan, go bragha! Never such as since the Blackies stoffed our goodfriends from the big place. Ha! That'll scaridise them in the wetpoints. Who'd bet with a cuckoodardle that they'd hardly. Culd rain o curse. But if so, rain, drain, crang and mungbean all comeover they will. In the smuggy flasky. By fifty and fifty they flimmer and gone skutakutakutakutakeeee!  Down pas the vairsity whar my spectrograph waits. Gone and gone and gone and. Leas the coffin's havin eflect now (tingtangtongtungting in the brains of the man).

There's Seamas! Ay the man, I knew his sorts, but not as I knew his saisters, back in the findleparts where none but the curlews know the wind. Drope in the groon, skarlin and warlin. Is it so exalted? Why reel and scrane against when faltered all would want? None but the fennyboy rasers know the otherside both of the coyn. Lucky bogstarers.

Ah my friends, trickledown by and by the shary of it: in tota manus pluribus unum. And all for all and none for a penny. One six nine for the sapestains and the kneemarks. Mr. Creepyshirt, old blinter, snaugerwait, snapegrater and farleyfraud! Pah! Meticulous borderer, him and the dirty ninny and the severed wharfs. In our ward there were fiftyfive of them, and they all could. Shirty Dougall took the cheerypie. In the mean the street has shrunk by, varavar past Kelly lane and Lima bean in the scar-fierce bloodgame of the earlyday rise.

Would that I car in the forfellers, the feeters, the flathing riser! Parp it like a curse, like a twoside-tape, like an etruscan, like a mumpywump peedlepawdle Belgian! Fie allofya! Would you not in the mornin? Even the lizard would! Mormoniser!

All and neverandyon that. We passeth. Our coverdad and clother, over the clairyloudcloud - halloo to ye. Come wit three punts over an makle it. Here and there. Amat amas ammunition. Your food, should we stray. M'aidez! M'aidez!  In your lengthyroom. Electricity and sham pain. Andever et spiritu. For our men. For all of them. In long and winding the

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The Treasurer at Pooh Corner

"What's the point?" he said. "Why bother? But they think it's important, I suppose." He turned, and looked down the sunny path towards the bridge, and saw Christopher Robin and Pooh approaching.

"Hello, Eeyore," said Christopher Robin and Pooh, "how are you today?"

"Hello, Christopher Robin, hello, Pooh Bear. I'm all right really. This is as good as it gets, I suppose. Pathetic, isn't it?"

"What's pathetic?" said Pooh. "It seems a happy enough day to me."

"Ah, but there you go," said Eeyore. "To you it might be fine, but I've got all these sums to do. They've made me treasurer."

Christopher Robin frowned. "Who are they?" he asked. "And what are you treasurer of?"

Eeyore sighed. "It's not important, " he said gloomily. He looked at the piece of paper again.

Christopher Robin sat down next to Eeyore in the shade of a big elm tree and looked at the paper. A rough line was drawn down the middle of it, and on each side of the line was neatly written a column of numbers. On one side, there were five numbers, and on the other side there were seven numbers. Next to each number was a note, explaining what the numbers meant. At the top, the big word COUNT was scrawled roughly in pencil, and under that, side by side, the words IN and OWT. Christopher Robin was impressed. "Did you do all this, Eeyore?" he asked.

"I went and saw Owl, and Owl wrote in the words and the numbers. I designed the columns and wrote the big words at the top."

"What do the different things on the list mean?"

"They are money and where it came from and where it went to. Incomes and outcomes, Owl called them. The first column is money that has come in. If you're a treasurer, you have to keep your money in a locked set of scales, called a balance, and when you write your counts, you open it. That's what the first thing on the list says. The other side is the outcomes.  That's where the money comes out. Once I'd put the money in and taken the money out, I locked what was left back in the balance."

"Where did the money come from?" asked Christopher Robin.

Eeyore sighed. "From memberships, of course," he said darkly, "but I don't really know why they bother."

While all this had been happening, Pooh had been thinking. Numbers and sums always made his head spin, as he was a bear of very little brain, so he had started to write a little song. No-one seemed to be taking any notice of him, so he decided to sing it to himself. This is how it went:

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Lines Written as a Treasurer's report

Of members we have gained nine, which is two less than eleven
Bringing to us two hundred and seven dollars and twenty seven
And it is good to have these members, and their joining I will applaud
Especially since one of the memberships is from abroad
It was converted from American money for our bank account
(Which explains why it seemed to be such an odd amount)
There was donated (thank ye, bonnie Maree)
Five dollars of money which she gave towards our library
And sales, returned loans and interest has been brought in
That came to fifty six dollars and cents seventeen
Our income then was two six eight, fourty-four
Which surely will keep the wolves away from our door
And thus stand the incomes for the two months up unto
The ninth of November in the year 19 hundred and 92

Against yon amount of two hundred and such
Is a gross expenditure of not nearly so much
For all that we financially have needed to fix
Was a bill for some postage and for Warp issue number eighty six
O, the postage came to a mickle nine whole dollars merely
But, alas, the costs for the Warp were one four seven fifty-three
Even then flash! crash! was another battle of the budget won
With a net gain of one hundred and eleven dollars and ninety one
Added to the balance of one thousand and twenty dollars, we hence
Have  eleven hundred and thirty seven dollars and ninety one cents
The fearful catastrophe of excess costs have been put to flight
And NASF's committee members can all sleep happy and sound at night
For thus stand the accounts for the two months up unto
The ninth of November in the year 19 hundred and 92

O beautiful silvery National Association
That I can justifiably claim without ostentation
Helps spread the word about science fiction
Accept if ye will this poet's benediction
Your membership stretches from the North to the Foveaux
Through towns and suburbs with names like Miramar and Opoho
And also across wide water without fear of failure
To the United States of America and to Melbourne, Australia
And I shall meet all your members too numerous to mention
When next I decide to take myself to a national Convention
And thus will I conclude for ye my lay
For after all I have told ye all what I came here to say
And told ye the accounts as I intended to do
As at the ninth of November in the year 19 hundred and 92

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Other fiction

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Mikhail Glevunov

Convalescing at a friend's home, and looking for a new place to study, Glevunov had a strange dream, in which he saw an aardvark waltzing merrily to some unknown music. Rushing to a piano, he suddenly realised that what he heard was an as yet unwritten violin concerto. Rushing from the piano to a violin, he began to write.

This was to prove to be the beginning of a long period of productive work for Glevunov. Two piano concertos, two more violin concertos, a symphony, two opera (The Truffle-seller of Minsk and The Enchanted Carrot), and a series of twenty variations on a theme inspired by blowing down a rusty drainpipe during a rainstorm. It is, however, for the première of his third violin concerto that Glevunov is best remembered.

Glevunov's third violin concerto in D major was composed and arranged to be played by the whole orchestra except for the violin section. The world's first performance of this seven hour epic (in 1828 by the Sverdlovsk Symphonia) was marked by unprecedented scenes of violence when the violin section - who had not even been invited to the performance - stormed the concert hall using muskets and a light cannon borrowed from a nearby military academy. In the ensuing battle, one person was seriously injured when he was shot in the percussion section, and twelve were slightly injured when a massed charge was mounted by the woodwind and brass sections during the third movement - the infamous "Charge of the piccolo brigade" (sempre maestoso).

Shocked at the response to his work, Glevunov stopped writing for many years. Indeed he spent much of his later life hiding under a table. It wasn't until 1861 that his long awaited Charcoal Symphony was first performed, but it was instantly hailed as a success. A contemporary report stated that it was "an aural delight. The second movement, with its counterpoint of staccato strings and soaring flute builds on the foundation laid by the constant motif of the Aeolian cadence, leaving the listener close to tears. Such is the Charcoal Symphony's emotional impact. It's not bad."

Glevunov died in Baku in 1867, three days before the first public performance of his most famous piece, the Fish Symphony, which was performed entirely using fish as musical instruments.

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Thomas Covenant meets Servalan

Covenant, his mind wrenched by the pain that wracked his fevered and febrile frame, attempted the arduous task of focusing his energy, his will, and his squint on the land in front of him. His feet plodded, step by agonising step - and the ground remained unchanged as if to mock him. Bare rock, scalded by the rays of the sun. Dust and sand, eddying soundlessly as he passed. Hip-high leather boots, freshly oiled and...

Hip-high leather boots? Covenant stopped. Refrulgulent whims celerambulated jarringly across his anabatic psyche. His mind, surely, must have finally given up and gone to Majorca for a holiday. He looked again, barely able to contain the feelings of hope that welled within - hope that could so easily be dashed by the absence of any cognizable hide footwear.

"Who are you?" she asked.

She was there! A military figure, or one used to handling dangerous machinery or people. No other possible reason could there be for the clothing that she wore. The leatherwork on her lower torso was obviously functional, and it had clearly taken her many hours to robe. That was evident from the large number of buckles, straps, and clasps. Yet above this...high fashion? Lycra'd, laced, and sequined. Covenant took a step back, momentarily confused by the polarities and hidden possibilities of the costume and the situation.

"I asked you a question!" she spat.

"I? I? You ask who I am? I could but wish that you could not but want an answer to that. I? That word has little meaning to me."

"But you will answer," she spoke now with calm menace, "one way or another. You will come to know that my demands, my questions," - then gently - "my desires, MUST be obeyed!"

"I am the one they call the Lord Foul's Bane." Covenant replied. "You cannot but know the suffering involved in carrying that name."

"No. You're right," she said philargically, "Beats me why I asked in the first place."

She turned as if to go. "Guards! Take him away and feed him to the slobberbeast of Thargos!"

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An alternative history of The Beatles' later career

What if Brian Epstein hadn't died in 1967? What if the Beatles has vented their steam with solo albums in the late '60s, then got back together? The following may be a bit simplistic, but 'twas fun to write.

Early the following year, the Beatles returned to the movie screen with their third film, Strawberry Fields Forever, and affectionate and psychedelic trip around Liverpool, interwoven with a tale about the search for Ringo’s fictional sister, who had been adopted out at a young age. Largely disillusioned by the idea of Beatles movies, the fab four did not appear on screen for much of the film, and the plot was largely irrelevant. Many sections of the movie consisted of psychedelic animation sequences which wove in earlier songs such as Eleanor Rigby with newer pieces such as the title track, Penny Lane, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, and Woolton Days.

The film met mixed reviews. Many of the public were turned off, expecting something more in line with the zaniness of the earlier movies A Hard Day’s Night and Help!  Others were turned on, as the film found a ready audience with its drug references and psychedelia.

As the year wore on there were clear rifts within the Beatles circle. The pull of domesticity and new marriages of Paul and John led to friction, with both creative partners finding less to interest them in their old gang. It was only through the persuasion of manager Brian Epstein that they agreed to start work on their new album, tentatively titled Music For a Doll’s House.

As work progressed on the album, however, the old team started firing on all cylinders again. Freed from the movie contract which had been hanging over their heads, and no longer pressured by touring, the album (which by now had had its title changed to simply The Beatles, due to the release of another album with a similar title to their original choice) proved to be a way to heal some of the rifts which had formed over the previous few years.

Some thirty songs were recorded to a rough stage ready for selection for the album - enough that it could have been a double LP if they had so wished - and many of those which did not make it to the final album were released either by the Beatles themselves on later albums or by the members of the band on their solo side-projects. One or two, such as Hey Bungalow Bill and Good Night remain officially unreleased, although they are well known to collectors of bootlegs.

The album, when it appeared, was greeted as a distinct return to form. Although the Strawberry Fields album had had many good songs, there was distinct filler as well. Honing down a long list of songs to the thirteen that appeared on The Beatles left a very strong group of songs, and the double A-side Blackbird/While My Guitar Gently Weeps became the biggest hit of mid 1968. The album’s cover art also became an instant classic — four separate staring portraits of the band (also provided as separate posters with the album) on an otherwise plain white cover simply embossed with the word “Beatles”.

No new Beatles album was to appear for over a year, until the Abbey Road album of late 1969. In the interim, the four members of the band took time off to record their own work — solo (in the case of George), with their wives (in the cases of Paul and John), or with a one-off band of friends (in the case of Ringo). These albums provided a mixture of excellent songs and experimental noodlings. Both George and John filled half of their album with experimental sound collages and electronic effects. George — working partly with the assistance of his friend Frank Zappa — produced The Wonderwall Suite of electronic bleeps and whooshes, but also produced some memorable songs (notably It’s All Too Much, Transmutation, and Long Long Long) for his Karmarama album.

John’s experimentation took the form of two long tracks of sound collage collected with his wife Yoko Ono: Revolution 9 and Two Virgins. The ‘song side’ of the Make-Peace album contained three classic Lennon compositions, I Am The Walrus,Give Peace A Chance, and Blistered Hands, the first two of which made it into the charts. Sales of the album were, however, harmed by the reluctance of many record stores to stock an album featuring the two songwriters nude on the cover.

Paul and Ringo both released conventional albums of songs. In Ringo’s case, these were largely covers showcasing Ringo’s interest in rockabilly and country music. Several of the tracks were recorded in Nashville with the help of seasoned country musicians, but the Ringo’s Ring Of Fire album hardly set the world alight.

Paul however was always a more heavyweight contender than Ringo, and it was no surprise when the Paul and Jane album produced the first number one hit for a solo Beatle, with the song Fool On The Hill. In retrospect this collection is wistful but distinctly lightweight, with fluff such as Martha My Dear (a song rejected for the The Beatles album) and Mother Nature’s Son filling in around such admitted classics such as Sweet Talker. The only real power comes from the rocker which closes the first side, Birthday.

It was clear that the Beatles were enjoying their time apart, and it is probably from this point on that the Beatles story starts to wind towards its close. Although there were four further Beatles albums — Abbey Road (1969), Get Back (1970), Applejunk  (1971), and Shellac (1973) — it was clear that Paul and John in particular were continually weighing up whether to release their songs under the collective name or under their own name.

That they stayed together as long as they did is no doubt in part due to the guiding hand of Epstein, but he had been drifting from a position of authority with the band for years. In any case his stable of artists had grown considerably from the early Liverpool days. In addition to his longstanding managerial position with the likes of Cilla Black, Gerry and the Pacemakers, and other artists of the original Merseybeat boom, he had wisely kept an eye out for overseas trends, and now had artists ranging from New York’s Velvet Underground to Australia’s Gibb Brothers. His untimely death in Pamplona in 1974 left a gap in the music industry which took some time to be filled.

When Epstein and the Beatles finally parted company in 1971, the end was in sight for the Beatles. Their decision to take on their own management duties left them more disenchanted than ever with being Beatles, and it took two years for their final album, Shellac to be completed (although this was partly due to John’s arrest in 1972 for incitement to riot and public nudity). The album, though a mere shadow of the Beatles’ finest, did contain memorable tracks such as Band On The Run and Photograph, and the Beatles’ final chart-topping single, Mind Games.

In the meantime, however, all of the band’s members had found time to record their own albums - notably John's 1972 album Imagine -  and it was no surprise when the end finally came.

The Beatles have been perhaps the biggest single influence on the music of their time and of the years that have followed their split. Artists from Hüsker Dü to Crosby Stills and Nesmith, and from the Crucial Three to the Artistics have acknowledged the debt they owe to the Fab Four.

Beatles - Applejunk (1971)

Side 1: Another Day; Oh My Love; What Is Life?; Back Seat Of My Car; Oh Yoko; Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey; Love

Side 2: Mother; If Not For You; Working Class Hero; Every Night; Maybe I’m Amazed; Give Me Some Truth; My Sweet Lord; Power To The People
 

Beatles - Shellac (1973)

Side 1: Let Me Roll It; Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth); Helen Wheels; No. 9 Dream; Dark Horse; My Love

Side 2: Band On The Run; Whatever Gets You Through The Night; Jet; Photograph; Live And Let Die; Mind Games
 

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