More shaken tea dust put to good use here. I feel reasonably certain that it will appear as a view or background in a future Earplug Adventure. The water effect is sunlight shining though a glass vase on to a window sill. The rest is…well…tea dust. Nice tree.
Long before those adventurous earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.
On this occasion I feel that I should present an excerpt from the first in the series – that being The Where House. And here it is…
As things transpired, Lionel still hadn’t actually fashioned his ultimate plan to thwart the advancing menace that was The Overmind: But he’d formed the beginnings of an idea inside his fluffy little head that should, he hoped, free The Where House of its bio-electronic tyranny.
“So what shall we call this thing?” Lionel inquired as he held the artefact aloft for all to see. “It’s a bit dull to look at, isn’t it!” He added as he turned it over in his paws beneath a stuttering light in the lower latrine.
Indeed the artefact was a bit dull. In fact it was exceedingly dull. On a scale of visual languor it would have scored ten out of ten with consummate ease. So, as a consequence, not one single hamster present could summon up an idea for a suitable moniker.
All, that is, except Boney. “How about we call it ‘Arse Wipe’?” he half-suggested – not thinking for one second that anyone would take him seriously.
Ten eyes – eight of them real: Two totally artificial, all swiveled to regard him. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw pity reflected in at least five of them.
“Well I mean,” He quickly realised that an explanation for his outrageous suggestion was required, “it’s gonna be about as useful as a bog roll in a hail storm when we confront The Overmind with it – aint it!”
Lionel continued to stare: ‘Could the ageing rodent be right?’ He thought to himself in that frozen moment, ‘Should this potential battle-winner be named ‘Arse Wipe’? If nothing else, it was original’.
“Oh, Boney,” Fanangy scolded, “How can you be so untrusting of Lionel’s abilities? Of course the Arse Wipe will be of more use than a bog roll in a hailstorm. Obviously Lionel’s plan is going to be ingenious: Success is certain. But Arse Wipe does have nice ring to it: I once had an Uncle named Arse Wipe – though of course he pronounced it Arssay Wippay. His wife was named Ringpiece. She had cruel parents. They were put to death for their crime – or so the legend goes.”
“So,” Colin felt duty-bound to step in and halt the pointless banter, “now that we’ve sorted that out – what are we going to do with it?”
Up until now Sergeant Tonks had remained quiet; and Major Hardcourt-Gymp appeared to be almost comatose with silence. But suddenly the Major’s aid spoke. She said, “Yeah – what are we going to do – like now? Emphasis on the now.”
This seemed to galvanise Gymp. “Indeed: Well put, Sergeant. We must cease this prevarication, and act. Hand me the Arse Wipe: I shall activate it once more; and we shall be about our business, which of course is my reinstatement as a sentient hamster that is fit to once again lead the Tadgerstone Rifles.”
“But you don’t know what to do with it.” Lionel whined as he realised that the situation was slipping from his tenuous control. Then a steeliness came over him, and he pulled the artefact to his puny chest, adding, “No – leave it alone: It’s mine.”
“Yes, that’s right, you big bully.” Fanangy instantly sided with her beloved Lionel, and snarled at the military officer in such a way that he blanched beneath his military-regulation facial fur, and began to wonder if being sentient was all it was cracked up to be.
“Will you lot stop all this yakking!” Boney roared as best he could with his age-clogged lungs, “All the time we’re stood about doin’ nothin’ – that thing upstairs is takin’ over more an’ more of my business.”
And of course he was right – and Lionel knew it. “Right then.” He said in his most authoritative voice, “To the elevator!”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2012
Now isn’t that one seriously silly tale? It – and the other five stories – are available as e-books at most e-book retailers. If you take a look at the sidebar you’ll discover access points to several of them. Be curious.
I know that most of my blogs feature either silly tales or half-way pleasant photos, but every once in a while I’ll post a snippet of my more serious work: and this is one of those ‘every once in a whiles‘. I’ve chosen to present an excerpt from this book/e-book…
Yes, that’s right: I also write under the ridiculous name of Clive Thunderbolt. It’s to differentiate between the family friendly stuff of Paul Trevor Nolan and slightly more violent and vaguely sexual stories, such as the above tome. Don’t blame me for the pen name: my son thought it up.
Anyway…to the excerpt…
Wozniak couldn’t help himself interrupting again: He was used to telling stories – not listening to them, “Yes, yes. There’s a theory in quantum physics that suggests that everything that can exist – does exist – somewhere. It’s just the matter of accessing it where the problem lies.”
“That’s right,” Katherine nodded her appreciation. It seemed that this lecture was more for Janice’s benefit than anyone else’s’, “All potential events and decisions – every possible twist and turn of our lives – takes place somewhere – in some dimension – with vastly varying consequences. From what I understood from the necessarily brief induction I received in Wycksford, it seems that in one reality a rock may fall from a cliff: In another it may remain in place for another hundred years. The ramifications of that event in one world may result in a world vastly different to the one in which it failed to take place.”
Wozniak was off again, “Exactly. In one dimension a Prince may get brained, and the kingdom falls to a barbarian horde…”
To his surprise it was Janice who, in turn, interrupted him, “In the other he passes by in ignorance, builds a huge castle nearby, and founds a dynasty that lasts for a thousand years. What a brainteaser. You know this really is quite fascinating. But is it real? I mean – this is all very nice in theory – but where is the evidence to prove that it really exists?”
Wozniak indicated Katherine with a backward slant of his thumb. “You’re looking at her.”
Janice pursed her lips, and answered, “The jury is still out on that.”
“Well let’s allow the principal witness her time in court, shall we?” Wozniak suggested.
Katherine nodded her polite gratitude, and took up where she had left off; “Wycksford accessed multiple alternate states two years ago. It was a very hush-hush affair: Only a small knot of people knew anything about it – even the existence of the theory. Peter Wozniak – the other one, that is – was one of that small group. Naturally – being a mere secretary – I was not. Well, very quickly they realized that they had a tiger by the tail: To say that they grew fearful would be the understatement of the year. Can you imagine what might happen to a society if anyone got hold of such a working technology? Well just not anyone: How could you trust your own government with such technology? Nowhere would in inaccessible. Enemies of the State: Terrorists: Criminals: If they operated LLD, there would be no defence against them. Absolute anarchy would rule. Civilized society would collapse. And perhaps miscreants would soon be crossing into societies throughout all inhabitable dimensions. As a worst-case scenario – in the wrong hands – perhaps religious extremists, or ethnic supremacists – it could result in the destruction of civilization everywhere. And I don’t mean everywhere in the world: I mean everywhere – with a capital E!”
“In which case, I for one, sincerely hope that this is just a theory, and has no place in reality – any reality.” Janice opined in a shocked tone.
“But it isn’t.” Katherine sounded desperate to convince the doubtful woman who stood before her. If Janice was to be of any genuine help with her task, it was of absolute importance that she believed the truth. There would be no time for hesitation. “Wycksford took the only logical course of action.” she continued, “Despite the vociferous arguments from Peter Wozniak: They destroyed the only operating machine, and incinerated every piece of data pertinent to it. Short of mass suicide, they effectively erased it from history.”
Giving Janice and Wozniak a moment to assimilate this, Katherine continued her lecture.
“Everybody thought that was that. Job done. Game over. To use a mixed metaphor, they’d bottled the genie, and capped the well. Now all they had to do was sit back and wait for all the members of the team to pass away in the fullness of time, as nature intended, and the threat would be over forever. Then two days ago I never turned up for work. I had some important papers on me at the time. They searched high and low for me – but of course they didn’t find me for hours – and I was in a state of shock when they did. Of course I had no idea what had happened to me. First I thought I was having a nightmare, from which I’d soon wake up. When I didn’t, I actually thought that I’d gone mad. There I was driving to work in the early hours, then suddenly it was mid-morning, and everything had changed. I was still on the same road, but the turns were different. There were suddenly many more trees lining it. Brambledown was different too. There were no border guards or check point. I was becoming hysterical when I raced for Wycksford – only to find no trace of it. At this point I was in danger of becoming seriously unhinged. So I hid in the woods until dark – when suddenly I was sitting in a field just outside Wyksford. I could see my car was parked in a nearby lane. I didn’t try to comprehend what had happened to me: I just cried with relief. A returning search party found me shortly afterwards.”
“And your bosses?” Wozniak enquired. “How did they react?”
“I think you could safely say that the sky fell on them. They understood completely what had happened to me. LDD was back – and they didn’t control it.”
“Correction:” Wozniak spoke gravely. “They don’t control it. Present tense.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013
If you quite enjoyed that, you’ll be thrilled to learn that the e-book is available just about everywhere (see side bar for access to a few well-known stockists) and as a book via the publisher, Lulu.com, which is accessible by clicking the Lulu logo on the side bar.
Every so often someone (who knows that I write the Junior Earplug Adventures) will have a creative moment of their own and, in doing so, will see the fantasy/comedy potential in an object that they may have stumbled upon. Amazingly they will then present me with their discovery. I have yet to turn one down. The fact that they have gone to such trouble means that I will always include their idea in a subsequent Earplug Adventure. And sometimes they’re darned good ideas too. Anyone recall the brass Time Machine and its operators?
That wasn’t my creation: that was an Earplugger’s work. And now – inspired by the stage show aboard the K T Woo (in whichever book it appeared)…
…comes a daïs, a microphone, and a singer/orator…
To think that two grown, married men in their fifties, got together to create this, pleases me no end. It’s ridiculous, really; but it’s also fun. Everyone should be so silly. The world would be a better place.
Long before those rumbustious earplugs appeared upon the scene, my comedic desires were pleasantly assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.
For this excerpt I have cunningly chosen a snippet from The Abduction of Wetpatch Wilson…
Well naturally enough, after being thrown from his lobster-shaped saddle on several occasions, and having his antennae crushed against the ceiling repeatedly, the captain of the Federation Council Stealth Vessel S.S Bargebutt had no choice but to quickly regain control of his emotions. It took a while longer before he was as successful in recovering the ship from its headlong dive, but eventually the creaking submarine levelled off, and the egg sisters – Blur and Sprightly – released a simultaneous sigh of relief at having survived their own sabotage.
In the lounge meanwhile all was pandemonium. Several pirates had been knocked unconscious by the violence of the descent, and even Sally had managed to poke herself in the eye with a wayward nipple.
Ludwig was furious: Several energy weapons had discharged by accident, and the décor was in ruins. He was also in pain – due entirely to his own weapon discharging, and badly singeing his cod piece. Conversely Bootle had rode out the calamity inside Cringe’s multi-layered dress uniform very well, and now strode amongst the injured pirates, pressing his tiny heel against their private parts, and grinding them with all his might – which, unfortunately, wasn’t very mighty at all.
The aforementioned Cringe lay spread-eagled across the upturned sofa, and groaned quietly as his face began to puff up, and bruises appeared through his facial fur.
Only Wetpatch appeared unfazed by the situation. With the Mind-Cap still firmly attached to his head, he had passed through the maelstrom of furry agonies untouched. Rather like a drunk falling down stairs, Wetpatch’s disconnected body had rolled with the metaphysical punches. He had become limp and compliant. His limbs had become supple, and his flesh yielded to the demands made upon it in much the same way that wet soap slips from even the most tenacious grasp, disappears from view beneath the foamy water, and then mysteriously embeds itself inside the bather’s unsuspecting arse crack.
“Recalculating course changes required to arrive at the Crustacean Collective Council chambers.” Sally heard Wetpatch say to no one in particular.
At first the middle-aged catering assistant felt full of wonder at the child-hamster’s ability to navigate without instrumentation or any fore-knowledge of his destination. Then she realised that if Ludwig were to fall silent from all his teeth gnashing and incoherent roaring, he might overhear the youngster’s stupidly high-pitched voice. So she did what any quick-thinking rodent in such a situation would do: She whipped off her knickers, and stuffed them into Wetpatch’s mouth. Then, after making sure that Ludwig’s back remained turned to her, she knocked the Mind-Cap clean across the room with one mighty swing of her handbag, then chased after it, kicking it into submission, before depositing it in the waste reclamation chute.
Ho, meanwhile, had hidden inside the dumb-waiter that carried meals from the galley to the lounge. And because it was padded with aroma-sensitive insulation, he survived the encounter with near-death with nothing more than a scraped elbow where he’d caught it upon the door handle.
“Hey,” he cheered as he emerged, “we survive good. Well most of us anyway. If anyone interested – Ho cook celebratory dinner.”
In the security camera office, Roman, Amy, and Branston were only now regaining their unsteady legs. The Security staff did likewise, and for some while there was much prodding of damaged soft tissues followed by bitter complaint.
Although Roman remained somewhat shaken by recent events, Amy had the presence of mind to quickly check the multitude of monitors.
“What do you seek?” The diminutive Branston inquired, as he rubbed a swollen knee.
“The Disemboweller.” Amy gasped her reply. “If the transfer conduit was perforated, then it’s odds-on that Professor Desmond Squealch and his manservant, Tutu, succumbed to a most hideous death.”
But Amy needn’t have worried. Pirate submarine umbilicals were legendary for their strength and durability, and although looking battered to within a micron of serviceability, the pirate vessel remained both intact and attached to the Bargebutt. She breathed a sigh of relief: With Hamster Heath’s most famous inventor alive, they still stood a chance of returning home intact, and with their mission completed.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013
What is your favourite e-book supplier? Don’t answer that; the question was rhetorical. I asked it, merely as an excuse to mention that this book (and others) are available at most suppliers, which probably includes your favourite. Check out the sidebar for access to some of the better-known ones. →
Long before those delectable earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.
The following excerpt erupts, like a literary volcano, from Fanfare for the Common Hamster…
Nobody likes a sore loser, and there was surely no loser of more intense soreness than the Law Master of Weasels Pit – after once more losing her quarry – this time in a vast sump of slurry. Feeling utterly defeated she returned to the Rancid Maggot Inn where she resumed her copious imbibing, and entertaining those few lawmen who could be bothered to join her by showing them her latest piercings. Slowly, as the rough ale took its revenge for having been wrenched from the sanctuary of the beer cellar, Perfidity’s thoughts slowed, and the exalted feeling of being one with The Wheel seemed to putrefy, releasing the very beast within her that, under normal circumstances, she would have most dreaded: In short she got all horny.
Naturally Quentin Blackheart had already slipped from the scene, and was enjoying a bowl of steaming night time gruel in his little cabin beside Lake Effluence, so could not begin to assuage her needs.
‘Bet he was probably hamster-sexual anyway’, she thought morosely.
And the others now lay upon the floor, snoring in a most unmelodious way. It took a few moments for her brain to fully acquire the next thing that she looked at; but when she recognised the stairs for what they were – the way to Tybrow Mooney’s bedroom – she put aside her feeling of revulsion and loathing, and sent herself reeling towards the door.
Now it’s quite possible that in the event of the Law Master bursting into Tybrow Mooney’s private sanctuary – smelling something evil, and swaying like a rhubarb frond in a hurricane – the potential recipient of a really good rogering could have been forgiven for clutching his night dress to his shallow chest, and screaming shrilly until either his eyes watered, or he ran out of breath. But this did not happen. This did not happen because Tybrow Mooney was very conspicuously absent.
“Ugh?” Perfidity grunted as she whipped back the sequined duvet that covered the solitary bed. Then she staggered in confusion: She could clearly hear the skinny hamster’s snoring; but of his body there was no sign. “Ugh?” she repeated.
Then, as is the way of well-trained Law Masters, her ability to overcome drunkenness kicked in: Rational thought returned. She replaced the approaching third grunt with, “What the f…?”
Then she noticed that the candle beneath her outstretched arm was not burning her fur in the time-honoured way of candles: Instead it was making it stand on end, and giving her tingling feelings in places that she didn’t know existed.
“Tis the Axle’s candle!” she boomed like a wounded fog-horn, “Be extinguished!
With that she attempted to snub out the flame with a thumb and finger.
Naturally the sole result was that she was flung across the room by the resulting electric shock.
Stunned back into full intelligence she decided to avoid the problem of the Axle’s candle for the moment, and concentrate upon the invisible snoring. Well it didn’t take long for her to discover the hidden speakers, and then trace the wire to the bedside cabinet in which the old-fashioned cassette tape recorder lay. Of course she had no idea what she held in her paws as she turned it over and over in a close inspection: But she knew that it was a device, not of Prannick, but of somewhere else entirely. She also conjectured that it was evil incarnate.
“Hmmm,” she hummed as she replaced the items, then tidied the mess that she’d made whilst flying across the room. “Hmmm.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013
If, by chance, you’d like to view this wondrous e-tome, you can do so by visiting the pertinent book covers upon the sidebar to the right side of your screen.
Sadly my genius does not extend to patio-building – as this chihuahua cross will attest.
Long before those little-sod earplugs appeared on the scene, my comedic desires were assuaged by stories about sentient hamsters that lived in a parallel universe to our own. Hence the Hamster-Sapiens series of e-books.
For this excerpt of Hamster-Fiction, I bring you a sample from the best of the five: The Psychic Historian…
Taking his pistol from its holder, he eased the door open – only to be assaulted by the sight of a youthful male hamster as he rode his foldaway stunt scooter over a series of artificial jumps. Upon these he would perform various ‘tricks’ like heel-clickers, naks-naks, nose-twirlers, and, most spectacularly, a mid-flight willy-wave. And all by lustrous candle light. He culminated the run with a perfect back-flip – before landing safely beside an Germanic officer who not only stood awkwardly as he dunked a bratwurst into a huge flagon of rose hip wine, but who also appeared to have the sort of face that Caruthers would gladly have slapped from dawn ‘til dusk.
“Ach, it is being you!” The officer bellowed as he spotted Caruthers over the top of his tankard, which he quickly passed on to the puzzled youngster – before adjusting his monocle in a most fastidious fashion, and growling. “My men are being chased away, and my mission looted – and it is by none other than you!”
The shock of recognition turned Caruthers’ paws to jelly, and he dropped his sidearm to the hardwood floor, where it clattered alarmingly.
“B-b-b-but you’re dead.” He managed as he unplugged his ears. “I saw you fall to your death. I heard the impact.”
Manfred Stenchlinger hobbled forward. “You are not having so much the luck, Hamster Britisher.” He sneered with a hatred that seemed to permeate the air, and frighten the stunt scooterist. “Sure enough I was falling to my death, but my storm troopers bravely fell before me, and were cushioning my fall. My only injury occurred because I was falling upon the helmet of my sergeant, and the spike was going right up my jacksey. I was always hoping that we would be meeting upon the field of battle – where I could slay you, and grind your genitals into the ground. But it was not to be. We are meeting here – where I am defeated – and you are wearing the dirty underpants.”
Caruthers quickly retrieved his weapon, and wished that he could retrieve his trousers too: He couldn’t take the risk of the mad officer doing something unpleasant. He indicated the room in which all three hamsters stood. “What is this place?” he demanded.
Stenchlinger’s eyes seemed to scan the room as though seeing it for the first time. “This,” he said, “is being the home to my family.”
Caruthers cast a glance in the direction of the young hamster who stood stock-still in a most perplexed manner, and who only allowed his eyes to make any movement. “Is this your son?” he inquired gently lest he frighten the youngster any more than necessary.
“Ja, he is being my son.” Stenchlinger replied as he pulled up a stool and painfully lowered his weight on to it. Then the merest hint of a smirk appeared at the edge of his mouth. “Would you care to meet his mother?”
Caruthers didn’t particularly care to meet anyone else; Stenchlinger had been enough. But he was a very polite hamster, particularly when in someone else’s home. “Is she pretty?” he asked in the time-honoured fashion.
“Ja, I am thinking so.” Stenchlinger now openly sneered in the way that only a truly unpleasant bastard can. “I think you will be feeling much the same when you see her.”
He then called to someone in an adjacent room, “Oh darling, could you be coming into the stunt scooter display room? I am having someone here who is wishing to meet you.”
If Caruthers had thought that his incredulity could be stretched no further – then he was desperately mistaken and utterly wrong. This is because the pretty female hamster who nervously entered the room was obviously none other than Amelie De Pottage herself! Her name caught in Caruthers’ throat, and he almost gagged upon his own oesophagus.
“Bonjour, Caruthers.” She spoke with a voice that indicated infinite patience and the acceptance of the inevitability of fate, and with an accent that would have made Caruthers’ trousers flap if he’d been wearing any. “ ‘Ow are you?”
“Amelie?” Caruthers asked stupidly. Stupidly because the years had done nothing to diminish his former love’s beauty, and she was instantly recognizable – even wearing a crimson caftan and wading boots: And even more stupidly because he was well aware that Amelie had no identical twin, and that, as yet, cloning was merely the product of the fevered imagination of the occasional science-fiction writer.
“Oui, it is I.” she replied gently. “ ‘Ave you come to rekindle our passion after all these years?”
In truth this had been just about the farthest thing from Caruthers’ mind: But now that the recipient of his bodily fluids stood across the room from him, the contents of his underpants began to alter his perception.
“Well…” he began awkwardly.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2013
My wife decided that it was time for her ancient (and incredibly rattly) Toyota to take the final drive to the scrap yard. Having recently endured an injury that left her temporarily one-handed, she asked me to empty out the rear compartment of the car, prior to its disposal. I expected a couple of shopping bags and (this being Britain) an umbrella or two. What I didn’t expect was…
…enough ‘stuff’ to hold our own garage sale! Where did she put the shopping?
Late for work, I grabbed the milk for my breakfast cereal from the fridge. But when I took a moment to look, I discovered that it was…
…radio-active! Argh! Black coffee, anyone?