I do work, sometimes, it’s true.

Paradise Hotel

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A follow-up to Festival of Martyrs, this is a large work in progress. The size of a large novel, the scope of several universes, but at the moment the coherency of a Southern Baptist on crack. You can download some early episodes here.

Politics, religion, dead celebrities, futility, the Isle of Wight, an atheist god, gypsy sing-alongs, one hundred and forty-four steps to oblivion and a concrete car park that smells of urine: the afterlife is no walk in the park.

Festival of Martyrs

Before escaping to a modest suburban existence in the East Midlands, Martin wrote a short whimisical collection of nightmares, observations, narratives and dubious histories set in the peculiar village of Stockett, where they celebrate the coming of the mysterious Festival Bringer with a series of all-night parties and other more visceral pleasures as the Gypsy Fair sets up camp on the village common. Unexplained deaths, practical jokes, car crashes, gothic horrors and a virtual reality avatar adrift in a digital ocean of uncertainty (and that’s just when the village broadband is working) are the daily grist of Stockett during the Festival of Martyrs.

The village of Stockett shelters from the worst vagaries of the world by nestling itself discreetly in the gentlest slopes of those English foothills which become Welsh mountains. Here, just one wrong turn away from a clearly marked A-road on the Ordinance Survey, bitter reality coagulates into denser material: a mulch, sweetly fragrant and fertile; undeniably rotting; iteration of life at one remove. Like a bluebottle in the dewy gossamer of a Huntsman’s web, I am stuck here. I stumbled into Stockett eight years ago, and now I am caught. Paralysed by an unseen sting, waiting for the inevitable.

This Small Volume of Words is a partial recording of the gently ringing chime from the network of fronds that Stockett has woven for it’s trap. Heed them and drive on by.