Category Archives: Fiction

Excerpt from the Encyclopedia Galactica (443rd Edition)

SCAV  <skæv>

plural: scavs / slang informal contraction: scavenger

The so-called ‘Zone 4 Scavs’ are the sole intelligent life form native to the planet Zastor in the Pegasus Dwarf Irregular Galaxy. Originating from the genus vermicularis, the species evolved below ground to avoid the harsh glare of the planet’s twin suns, venturing to the surface only at night to scavenge; hence their pallid complexions and light-intolerant eyesight.

Upon becoming a more advanced species, the race developed protective clothing which allowed them to inhabit to the surface in daytime. Eventually, they ventured into space and continued their scavenging on neighbouring planets, hence acquiring their nickname. The word ‘Scav’ was originally a term of derision, but was reclaimed by the species to foster a more intimidating image.

Since voyaging further into space, the Scavs have garnered a reputation not only as scavengers, but also as amoral factotums, willing to undertake various tasks, irrespective of political or ethical standpoints, for the right price. They operate in small units of no more than 20, led by a captain and a second-in-command. Higher ranks are generally recognisable by extravagant accoutrements and accessories stolen from other cultures


Prelude to ‘Memory Failure’

To get you in the mood, here’s a specially written prelude to the new film Memory Failure, written by Paul Ferry

Dr Claire Wheeler, hypnotherapist, had had a very tiring morning.
Firstly, she’d had the client who wanted to quit smoking but smelled like an explosion in an ashtray factory; then there was the man who was desperate to remember where he’d hidden the letters he’d exchanged with another woman before his wife found them. Neither was the sort of thing that she had gone into hypnotherapy for.
By 11am, she found herself with no appointment on her books, so she’d gone for an early lunch. A coffee and a chicken salad sandwich at the cafe on the corner soon washed away the bad taste of the morning.
She could never have any inkling how strange her afternoon was going to be.
There was a man standing on the steps of the office when she returned. There was nothing particularly odd about his physical appearance; mid-40s, she guessed, shortish, slightly overweight and with a shock of prematurely grey hair. But his clothes were not the sort of thing you saw every day. He wore a sage green corduroy jacket with suede elbow patches and a silk waistcoat and tie in similarly autumnal hues. The overall impression was of a dotty schoolmaster in an Ealing comedy. All he really needed was a mortarboard to complete the ensemble.
He turned and smiled as Claire approached; “I’m looking for a hypnotherapist.”
“You’ve found one, she replied.
As she drew closer, Claire detected the finer points of the man’s outfit. He wore what appeared to be a pocket watch on an Albert chain, his pockets were baggy as if they were used to being stuffed with books and a battered enamel badge was pinned to his left lapel. And yet, there was none of the forced eccentricity that she was used to seeing about the town; nothing about this man was affectation – he was a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool oddball.
“I’d like to make an appointment,” said the man.
“I generally make appointments in the office,” Claire hitched her handbag onto her shoulder. “Rather than on the front steps of the office.”
The man seemed genuinely apologetic. “I’m so sorry. What must you think of me? You go in and get yourself sorted and I’ll follow you in five minutes.”
He did the smile again and Claire couldn’t help but smile back.
She let herself into the office, leaving the man on the steps whistling excerpts from Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf. By the time she’d taken off her coat, unlocked her drawer, touched up her hair and put the kettle on, the strange man was already in the waiting area, reading an ancient copy of Woman’s Realm.
“Sorry, I got a bit bored,” explained the man, adding; “There’s a delightful recipe in here for pineapple upside-down cake.”
“Indeed,” said Claire, for lack of anything else to say.
The man tossed the magazine onto a pile of similar on the coffee table and leapt to his feet. “Well, shall we get started?” he asked, clapping his hands together.”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Claire, feeling a bit like she was at the centre of a whirlwind. “Step this way, Mr…?”
“Smith,” beamed the man. “Doctor John Smith.”