Category Archives: Fictions

Sheeple on Toast

Last night my house was assaulted by a possessed toaster and a few dozen browned, sharpened slices of bread. There were many casualties, both physical and psychic. Oh, and a film crew was there too. It got messy, including (but not up to) an actor replacing a perfectly reasonable line* with the word ‘potato’, resulting in the complete and utter abandonment of professional composure. Not that we had that in the first place.

Which is about par for the course for an I Am Tim shoot. As are the many, many puns (mostly condiment-related, natch).

I don’t want to give any spoilers away, but if you liked this:

Then you’re pretty much in for a treat with Episode 2.5: ‘Night of the Living Bread’.

Oh, and did I mention that 2.3 came out on Thursday? How silly of me. Here it is:

It’s essentially An American Werewolf in London by way of The League of Gentlemen, with a slight detour in Black Sheep country.

I’m sure you’ll figure out why pretty quickly.

[I realise I haven’t posted in a few days and that my output’s been pretty erratic of late. I’m trying to sort out my headspace and I hate announcing that ‘normal service’ will resume and never coming through on that front, so I’ll just say I’m doing my best…and that there WILL be a post tomorrow.]

*There are no reasonable lines in Tim.

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Red Flesh

Bob was going to have to do something about the sock.

He looked at it from across the kitchen as he washed his hands, velvet robe sleeves rolled up to the elbows: a long, limp tube with a tumescent bulge at the end, it looked like someone had sucked all the air out of a cloud before attempting to prop it up with a beach ball.

It sat in the centre of a dark puddle which flowed over the edges and dripped onto the pristine mahogany floorboards in stark contrast to the rest of the room – the whole house, even – which for months had remained spotless thanks to the tireless work of Mrs. Hernandez. Bob had let her go this morning, and the sight of an unmistakable stain with no-one rushing to clean it up was entirely refreshing to him.

He walked over to the table and picked the sock up gingerly. It was heavier than he’d anticipated, but Bob reminded himself that the last time he held it wasn’t a particularly lucid time for him. Besides, he was focused on more important things. Bob lifted it with one hand (it stretched downward) and reached inside with the other, focused as a man performing a piece of extremely unorthodox exploratory medicine. He produced a red apple and became confused by its colour as he returned to the sink, but the cloud lifted when a stream of cool water turned it green once again.

As the red dissolved into the clear liquid and swirled down the plughole, Bob knew he’d have to eat this apple. He took a seat in the lounge and turned the home cinema on; some atrocious action movie starring a pituitary case he had some recollection of firing from the set of Hot Bullets 3: Too Sexy To Die was playing. Bob chuckled to himself and dug into the fruit.

It was much softer than he had anticipated, but he wasn’t all that surprised; there was always going to be a bit of bruising. The apple’s juice was metallic and had a slight kick to it (must have had something to do with alcohol content) which Bob found rather pleasing, and as he chewed that first bite he noticed that the flesh was dyed completely red too.

The man stopped chewing for a moment and muted the TV. He stared at the fruit; it looked like a piece of pop art. He checked his watch – 3.30 – surely it wouldn’t too late to slide a meeting in? Felix had been at him for months about the studio not self-generating enough compelling product. Wait till he got a load of this.

Bob sat in the camaro, a fresh-pressed suit on. Adjusted the rearview mirror and smiled. He finished off the apple: core, seeds and stem.The boy in the trunk and the two girls in his bed could wait until the evening.

Bob had a movie to pitch.

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The Chrononaut

The professor’s face lit up as the machine whirred into life, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

Nobody knows what the past really looks like, because it only really exists in photographs and recordings and memories that are privy to emotions, nostalgia and other insidious elements like pop songs. The past thinks it’s the present just as much as the future does. The other thing they have in common is that they’re both a lot, well, bigger in person. You watch the Moon landing while listening to an Elvis record, you’re in outer space and Vegas simultaneously. Magic. Takes a little longer to get from A to B when your only mode of transport’s your own two legs, and that’s only if you’re lucky enough to still have legs after the jump.

I came back, but it wasn’t the same. I returned to the day, the hour, the moment I left. But I wasn’t me any more. I was no longer of my time. I belonged to no generation, had no great war, felt no changes because I’d been through too many. I was a part of every moment but owner of none; a historical witness with no need to testify.

If you ever travel to an age that is not your own – especially if you travel to more than one – and return to when you came one day, do yourself a favour and count the days you are gone. That sounds strange, doesn’t it? Without the context of consecutive days or a calendar, you’d think it wouldn’t matter.

The day I left and the day I came back were years apart. How many, I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t count. But I’m back now, and all these people have presents and candles and a cake for me. The prof thought I’d only be gone a few minutes – and to them, I was – but you don’t ‘test’ history by poking your head through the door and having a nosey. You become part of the fabric. I lived through floods, droughts, extinctions, massacres, inventions, wars, reigns and civilizations…all in the time it took my family to put up a party banner.

It was my birthday when I left. I’ll never know when my next one is.

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