I’ve been inactive on here for the past couple months as, last year, I was selected from thousands of applicants to join a team of researchers on their descent to the Mariana Trench. Not as anything important, really, just an extra pair of eyes and hands if they needed it.

A once in a lifetime opportunity - my dream come true, really. I took some time away from writing to prepare for, go on, and return from the trip, which was meant to be a month overall due to their swanky new submarine:

But something happened and I need to tell someone about it. I don’t even know if this will post from down here, but I just need it out and somewhere that isn’t my mind.

We had passed the Epipelagic Zone and were approaching Challenger Deep in the Hadalpelagic Zone when the lead researcher told the Helmsman to dock the sub so they could send out one of the divers for samples.

I watched from the communications room where we had a live feed from a camera attached to the diver.

At first, it was amazing. Somehow, despite the lack of sunlight and freezing temperatures, there was plant life everywhere. Plants that were healthy and had clearly reproduced somehow without photosynthesis. Brilliant.

Thankfully, the diver was conscious, if not a little dazed, and he was attached to the sub, so they managed to get him back on board easily. After that he was sent to quarantine for 24 hours, as per protocol.

This is where things get really odd.

About halfway through his quarantine period, I was in the Lab when there’s trouble down the hall. The supervising researcher and I found the rest of the crew gathered around the window into the quarantine room. We joined them and… Jesus it was bad. He was writhing around on the floor coughing and gagging. He looked so pale he was almost transparent.

We were banging on the window whilst the medic argued with the lead researcher when we watched him get on his

knees and throw up what, I swear to God, was a pile of small wet, glowing eels.

I was ushered away immediately. I kept saying “You saw that too, right?” but was ignored.

That was a few hours ago. Nobody has said a word since; I’ve tried to bring it up but every time I get immediately shutdown by the lead researcher. He’s claiming I’m in hysterics, that the pressure down here has sent me loopy, but I know what I saw.

I have no idea what’s happening to the diver, and I don’t know if I want to.

I don’t know what I would prefer: him being thrown out to sea if things get bad or being stuck on this sub with him.

Whatever new comes out on this expedition, just know that I was here, and if they tell you, it was an accident- it wasn’t.

Goodbye for now, wish me luck.

Posted by @deep_divrr.

As you – self-proclaimed beginners of the sea – would hopefully have taken it upon yourselves to find out, most deep-diving submersibles (if that’s not too much a mouthful) are going to essentially be harbingers of death for anyone on board if you’re loading your suicide mission (or following the orders of your humble and worthy superior of all James Cameron) with more than two people. So, imagine your surprise (horror) when you’re personally invited to do ‘maintenance’ (inevitable death prevention) on what is apparently simultaneously a deep-diving submersible and a cruise ship for the science obsessed. To those of you reading, nothing wrong with being a researcher, but struggling to find the correlation between gathering new information and spontaneously combusting prior to surfacing. Could be just me though, let me know in the comments.

Rationally, I was so inclined to decline, that it was only natural for me to receive multiple threats – from no named or existing private company with zero ties to the government of what I can imagine is only every region in whicI might tolerate my plain existence. And so, on to the SS Suicide Mission I have come. Which, now to think of it, is going to allow probably the worst and most excruciating death that land would not. Either that, or the most excruciating week with a bunch of make-a-wish researchers. The first person I spoke to on this ‘vessel’ is obsessively taxidermizing at all times, and they are the only person I can perceive as so at peace with the idea of dying that it doesn’t make me want to laugh to be around them. I’ve exchanged a variety of passing greetings with some of the others, but nothing that makes me believe that any of them aren’t living off of some strange delusion-based adrenaline (not the food, which of course is bland and endlessly unsatisfying).

As a write this, I am ‘eating’ some kind of grain slop which could as easily be a descendent of porridge as it could be of rice. I do not enjoy rice pudding. And as I close off this introductory entry, no doubt leaving you desperately hanging on to read my pre-emptive eulogy (somehow being published with Wi-Fi – I have given up on applying any scientific logic here), I find myself sitting next to a biologist who seems to care more about the nature of the rice pudding slop than whatever boring fish one might look to observe on the SS Falmouth. Impossibly, I am finding myself hoping that this misguided passion leads to some better meals, rather than the life-changing discoveries never to change the life of a living person.

I’ll try not to keep you waiting, but if I post nothing more, you can use your imagination. See below for a diagram depicting my gruesome end.

Rest assured, at least one other person, namely, me, has been in this situation. This blog will recount my findings attempting to feed a crew at the bottom of the ocean with limited resources, but Nemo be damned; you can make it work.

Poached Squirrel Blowfish

Unrelated to the squirrel fish, the squirrel blowfish is a deep-sea species of blowfish, named after the mammal for its comically large front teeth. Despite being edible, this fish is naturally extremely bitter, and so poaching it forces it to lose this unpleasant flavour. The recipe is as follows;

-          Carefully remove each tooth and poisonous spine. For extra precaution, wear gloves.

-          When cutting into the blowfish, HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE. If manipulated too roughly, its body will give in under pressure and explode, which may lead to a large stain or potential injury. Ensure your knife is of good quality; you may find my preferred equipment here.

-          Choose which liquid to cook the fish in. A personal recommendation, dry white wine. Helps the crew forget how ugly their meal used to look. ( It is not mandatory, but I like to add some lemon peel for an extra zing. )

-          Add the wine into the pan, and heat it until it reaches a low simmer, bubbles floating up to the top. Avoid boiling.

-          Place the fillets into the liquid, ensuring they are fully submerged.

-          Cover the pan with a lid and cook for 5 minutes. The thin slices of meat are cooked rather quickly, adjust time as necessary.

-          Once the fish attains an almost sickly purple, remove it from the liquid and serve.

-          Enjoy! It may look disgusting, but it is delicious(ly edible).

Deep-Fried Deep-Sea Trumpetfish

Despite a vast majority of trumpetfish living in shallow water, the Mariana Trench holds the world’s only species of deep sea-dwelling trumpetfish. Though typically arrow-straight, when taken into the submarine, the pressure difference instantly liquifies its skeleton, twisting it into an almost spaguetti-like shape. Cooking this curious fish is far more straightforward;

-          Remove the scales and teeth with care.

-          Boil a vat of your preferred deep-frying oil. ( Personally, I find rapeseed oil gives the food a lovely exterior texture without affecting taste. )

-          Allow the entire fish to fry for 3-5 minutes, depending on the thickness of the body.

-          Remove and eat. You’ll know it’s ready when it resembles an oversized curly fry.

Just because you’re at the bottom of the ocean doesn’t mean you can’t eat well! Hopefully this blog helped in your survival.

This is my last chance, my last attempt at finding the creature that will make my name. I refuse to be the first Marine Folklorist to never discover  a new species since the infamous Araminta Eyebright. Eccentric to some, an inconvenience to others. But to me? She was my mentor and the person I admired above all others.

Araminta went missing exactly 50 years ago, lost to the depths of the Mariana Trench. She was searching for a creature that no-one else believed existed: the Many-Winged Amethyst Reverie. I remember the way her eyes would sparkle with excitement whenever she described it to me: an enormous creature with diaphanous, amethyst-coloured fins, soft and fluttering in the way of angel’s wings. Ivory and silver patterns scattered like a handful of moon-dust across its back.

It was a gentle giant, she said, unlike so many of the deep-sea creatures that seized and grabbed and killed without remorse. She couldn’t wait to explore the depths of the Mariana Trench, to find the Reverie and prove its existence to the Marine Folklorist’s Cabinet. It was going to make her name; it was going to make her life complete.

But she never returned. I waited months and months for her to come back, hanging aimlessly around her London apartment like a Ghost-Of-The-Ruins fish. The Cabinet’s hatred for Araminta was already thinly-veiled; now she was gone, they let their true feelings out. They wrote obsessively about her legacy (or lack of) in the papers, scathing accounts from ‘the people who really knew her’ (though they never asked me, of course), obituaries full of scorn, and put advertisements in for a house sale as soon as they were sure she wouldn’t be back to haunt them.

Or so they thought. Araminta might not be back, but I am.

That was all a long time ago. It’s fitting, I suppose, that I find myself on the S.S Falmouth’s most recent expedition to the very place that swallowed her. I’m older now than she was when she embarked on that fateful expedition 50 years ago – and she wasn’t young when she went. So, it’s my last chance, the Cabinet tell me, to finally make myself useful, to make myself into something other than another one of Araminta’s failed spawn. The Marine Folklorist’s Cabinet have always been cruel and discriminating, but there is no other organisation left for Marine Folklorists like me. It’s fallen so out of fashion that the younger members of the crew have never even heard of Marine Folklore. They must think I’m a real old crone huddled here in my corner of the submarine, my hair bleached white like washed-out coral. Not that I’m a stranger to prejudice; whenever you go on these types of expeditions as a Marine Folklorist, you must prepare for every other faculty aboard the ship to snub you. They’ll call your profession child’s play, the type of research that involves ‘searching for phantoms, creatures that are made to entertain children and nothing more,’ to quote one engineer I had the misfortune to travel with.

None of that will matter when I find the Many-Winged Amethyst Reverie. And I will – watch this space.

I’ve created a new ‘about’ page for Araminta on the Marine Folklorist Cabinet’s website – no-one should be talked about the way she was – and I’d really appreciate you taking the time to visit it at: https://marinefolkloristscabinet.ac.uk/about/members/ARAMINTA EYEBRIGHT/. Thank you.

Yes, it’s finally happened.

After applying for funding for years, jumping through hoop after hoop, pestering, badgering, begging and pleading, The SS. Falmouth’s expedition to the bottom of the Mariana Trench is prepared to get underway. Over the next few months you’ll see writings from parts of a crew within the world’s most advanced submarine sahre their experiences. Designed to undertake a mysterious voyage to the deepest depths of the ocean, who knows what these braves folks may see and experience! Some are there to study sea life, others to chart the unknown and some… Well, we don’t know what they’re there for.

Stay tuned to follow along with the experiences of Falmouth’s Post-Digital Students as they respond to differing briefs and forms all following around this scenario!

NOTE: The S.S. Falmouth Submarine and following creative pieces surrounding it are all works of fiction produced in response to briefs set out in the WRJ325 Post-Digital Module.

First-Year Reading Lists 

As we’ve had a few inquiries about our first-year reading list, we thought we’d make a post addressing it. First, we believe that, in the current economic climate, we should keep the costs to you to a minimum, so we have arranged to be able to pay for and provide the majority of your readings across the degree. You’ll incur as few extra costs as possible. 

Our Creative Writing and English and Creative Writing Degrees have a shared first year, so all students take the same six modules across the year. 

In Study Block One, you’ll take: 

WRJ130 Writing: Craft & Contexts 

• All readings for this module are paid for and provided by the course. You’ll look at examples of short and contemporary fiction, non-fiction, poetry, scripts, and theory, and then produce your own of contemporary writing.  

WRJ120 Publishing Cultures 

• All readings for this module are paid for and provided by the course. This is module considers multiple forms of production, publication, and dissemination, as well as ideas like taste, cultural value, image, gaze, and spectacle.  

WRJ110 Exploding the Canon: Writing Then & Now 

• The Compulsory Purchases for this module are: 

• Beloved - Toni Morrison £10 (est.) 

• The Lesser Bohemians - Eimear McBride £7 (est) 

• Heartstoppers Vol 1 (graphic novel). - Alice Oseman £6 (est) 

• All other readings for this module are paid for and provided by the course, and might include fairy tales, nature writing, neo-Victorianism, or gods and myths.   
   

In Study Block Two, you’ll take: 

WRJ140 Breaking the Rules: Remix and Writing Back 

• Meander, Spiral & Explode - Jane Allison £13 (est)

• Blood & Guts in High School - Kathy Acker £10 (est)

WRJ150 Literatures of Revolution 

• All readings for this module are paid for and provided by the course. This module tracks revolutions in society and the texts that both depict and affect them, including subjects such as political overthrow, civil rights, gender, and sexuality, and the industrial, scientific, or digital revolutions. Texts may include Hamilton, Les Mis, Batman, Frankenstein, or others.  

WRJ160 Publishing Studio: Technologizing the Word 

• All readings and trainings for this module are paid for and provided by the course. This is a practical, hands-on module that sees your training in your choice of things like a lead-type printer, a risoprinter, InDesign, audio recording and broadcasting equipment, creative events, or interactive fiction. 

Our course has few things you must purchase, and nothing you have to read ahead of time, although you’re welcome to get started on the compulsory purchases if you’d like. Our reading assignments are designed to be a reasonable amount for week-to-week progression through the module. 

 Please let us know if you have any questions! You can contact us either through Unibuddy or contact the course leader directly at Adrian.Markle@falmouth.ac.uk

We’re looking forward to seeing you in September.  

Written by Bird Singer-Sargent

I ran into a professor on the street recently. He told me the review I’d done on Richard Siken’s Crush was the most popular piece on Falwriting. I thought it was quite bad. A few days later, I bought Richard Siken’s latest poetry collection, I Do Know Some Things. It wasn’t related to the conversation we had, it had just only released in the UK that week. I have some thoughts about it.

Six years ago, I said Siken’s poems were like a suckerpunch to the gut. It’s the only line in the review I stand by. While I was reading I Do Know Some Things, I shared the poem ‘Kitchen Window’ with a friend who said he couldn’t find words to express how it made him feel except oof. I told him Siken’s poems were like kicks to the stomach. I didn’t remember the Crush review; I’d graduated twice since then. 

While it is true that Siken gets it—continues to get it, twenty-one years after Crush was released—my relation to it has changed, because I have changed. I am no longer the bumbling, queer teenage girl I’d been in 2020. It had never been relatable to me, not really, I’d never been scared, I’d never wanted a man like that. I would probably have a completely different read of Crush now, one less cluttered with other media. The truth is I Do Know Some Things was relatable to me because I, too, am angry at the things I want. Because there is something attractive about masculinity and violence, but I’m not allowed to want it. I’ve been jumping through hoops to get healthcare to bend my way a little and start testosterone. I am tired of being ‘blisteringly invisible.’ I want everything Siken talks about: the outline of a man, and the sliced fruit, and the way light gets inside everything. 

I didn’t like War of the Foxes, his sophomore collection, as much as I like Crush and I Do Know Some Things. At the time I read it, I thought it was because it was less about his experience as a homosexual man. I Do Know Some Things also isn’t about that, as in, it is about it, because you can’t not talk about it when it makes up such an integral part of your identity, but it’s mostly about his family and his recovery from the stroke he had in 2019. 

I’ve never had a stroke, I don’t have dangerously masculine older step-brothers, my relationship with my parents is as healthy as a relationship with one’s parents can be; I Do Know Some Things shouldn’t have been relatable to me in any way. But I do believe Siken still has this pinpoint accuracy in his choice of words that makes me see the ugliness of my desires in his poems, like a mirror held up, broken and dirty. The thing about elders is that they sometimes have to be brutal to be kind.

Eighteen-year-old me would have said he had an uncanny ability, like it was accidental instead of a long and arduous process of reflection and editing. I used to believe poems came fully sprung on the page, a word-throw-up without rhyme or reason. That you had to get it perfectly right on the first try every time. I wasn’t very good at poetry. The truth is, there is a reason Richard Siken is a multi-award-winning poet, and I’m not. 

I Do Know Some Things puts things into perspective: Siken cares about words. Cares about order and meaning. Cares about syntax and structure and the silence between lines. He was left partially paralysed after his stroke, with memory loss and aphasia. None of the doctors he saw believed he’d had a stroke. Words no longer made sense; words were tools working against him. He made lists. One at first, a glossary of things rediscovered, then another one, ‘for venom and hard feelings.’ His friends stopped visiting him. His body was a ruin. His mind was a housefire. Things had broken in a way that wouldn’t ever unbreak. 

I Do Know Some Things stands as a testament to Siken’s recovery, a proof of his survival, a validation of his suffering. It is an arduous labour of patience and care and anger. It’s ugly and painful and violent and twisted and lonely and sometimes, just sometimes, the light shines through.

I Do Know Some Things is available to purchase in all UK bookstores and on Richard Siken’s website https://richard-siken.com/ Siken is also on Twitter @richardsiken where he is still delivering wisdom like a smack to the back of the head.

Written by Keith Butler

Elsie, a large, imposing matriarchal seamstress, is seated at her sewing machine. Her thick brown lisle stockings rolled down above the plaid slippered feet that waited on the treadle. Her grey hair was pulled back into a bun. A few escaped wisps fall over her eyes. The Woodbine inserted in her heavy jowl left to burn down like a joss stick. Her breath rasping as the ash grows into a gravity-defying curve and the smoke turns the wisps yellow.

She is in the back room. A miserly fire in the grate is surrounded by a wooden mantelpiece, home to a chipped porcelain shepherdess, a clock that wheezes and asthmatically chimes the hours, a vase holding a single pheasant's tail feather, and some strangely staring spaniels. 

Two large chairs, upholstered in the same bristly fabric that covers GWR carriage seating, brood by the fire.

A kettle whistles softly in the kitchen. A kitchen that smells of coal gas and cat food. The aroma enhanced when a large black saucepan boils for hours, making bran mash for the hens.  There is a larder under the staircase with a zinc mesh-covered window keeping food cool and flies out. 

Shelves of stony home-made plum or eerily green gooseberry jam. Higher up there are pickled onions, red cabbage, beetroot and fiery piccalilli. 

Sometimes there is tinned fruit and condensed milk, bayoneted with a wooden-handled tin opener, a sticky dribble down the side of the tin. A bottle of Camp coffee and a tin of Rowntree’s cocoa, each destined to be boiled in milk to mark time. Coffee, morning elevenses, cocoa, nighttime, nine o’clock. Two china jugs for milk, each carrying a faded, well-washed, bucolic scene. Tops covered with cracked saucers.

The kettle steams on a grey and white enamelled gas stove. At the rear of the kitchen is “the lavvy” and a coal store. A shelf runs along a wall towards a porcelain sink, above which is the Ascot, which moodily explodes to deliver spurts of hot water. On the shelf stands a brown glazed pot, holding crystals of washing soda. 

A bar of pale green Sunlight soap rests on the bristles of an upturned scrubbing brush, which, together with a packet of Reckitt’s blue, awaits Monday’s date with the galvanised Baby Burco boiler. In the backyard was a washboard, a zinc bath, and a fearsome bottle green cast iron mangle, the spokes of its winding wheel picked out in red. The wooden rollers washed white.

In the cutlery drawer of the scrubbed wooden table was mismatched, well-used, bone-handled cutlery, and separately, some matching fish knives and forks, which were never used, even on Fridays. A cream and green enamelled cabinet housed crockery, some chipped enamel white and blue basins, a bread bin and a tin for Elsie’s baking of eternal, everlasting, eponymous rock cakes.

Elsie baited her trap, “Our Keefy likes Granny’s rock cakes”.

Our Keefy trod warily around Elsie. She had once warned him, “Behave! Or I’ll thwack thy tweaker”, and whilst he wasn’t entirely sure what his tweaker was, he felt it best to leave it un-thwacked.

Photo by José Duarte on Unsplash

Written by Keith Butler

Written by Keith Butler

Written by Keith Butler

Written by Shakur Grant 

QUEUE INTRO MUSIC

JAMES - Hello, ladies and gentlemen, it's your host James. Hope you're having a great day today. Sun shining on this beautiful horizon. The moans of the zombies in the background, how lovely it is today. Now today, I thought we'd have a special guest, you know. Same old, same old, we keep getting those you know, those who moan, those who groan. So I found someone, a lovely man with such soul in his eyes. Let's give it up for Steve.

(CROWD CHEERING SOUND EFFECT)

STEVE - Hi, mate, thank you for having me. You know, it's been tough out of here.

JAMES - So, James, sorry, Steve, that's me. How have you enjoyed this experience?

You know, how have you felt during this tough time, as you would say, I mean, for me personally, it's been great. I've made so much profit. But you, how have you felt?

STEVE - Well, well mate I don't know really how to put it, but you know the other day I lost, I lost my son, I've lost him. We were walking around the mall trying to get some supplies. And out of nowhere. A Zombie pulls up and I just can't, I just can't get it, you know what I mean?

(WOMP, WOMP SOUND EFFECT)

Wait. mate, did you just.

JAMES - What? Sorry, what?

STEVE - Mate, did… did you just do a womp womp to my son fucking dying

JAMES - Sorry I don't know what you're on about. Would you like to carry on?

STEVE - I swear to fucking God, if you're taking the piss, about my son dying, I swear to God, I will get one of those zombies and I'll shove it right up your arse okay

JAMES - Um well must've been you know the team or something in the studio um this is, you know, a big podcast

STEVE - Studio mate, we're in a fucking living room in some dusty old apartment. What do you mean studio? What's wrong with you, eh? What you think this is a joke? Think it's a joke? We're struggling out there. We're struggling. Look at you, your little supplies in a shitty apartment. Me, you know what I've had to do I've sacrificed me fucking mother for this. I'm out here struggling day in, day out. And you can't even, you know, give me the sympathy. Give me give me that nice treatment, just to be a nice person. Like, who do you actually think you are?

(Womp Womp Sound Effect)

No, no, you've got to be taking a fucking piss. You've got to be I swear to fucking God.

JAMES - Yeah, I'm gonna keep it real of you. I really just couldn't care. We're here to talk about, you know, you know, the experience, the fun,

STEVE - What fucking fun? you think? I'm so sorry. I thoughtI was here to talk about my life story.

JAMES - No, we don't really care about your life story to be honest. This podcast goes out to people who actually, you know, want to have a good time and to be fair. Most of the people that listen to this, you know, they're above your class, as they would say. But anyway, so apart from, you know, the son dying, how would you say, you know, you've experienced the zombies themselves? Like, what have you learned from them?

STEVE - Well, I guess you could say survival. I'm a lot cleaner you know, I make sure I ain't got nothing of that infected on my hands. Yeah, honestly, honestly, that's, that's really it, to be honest, mate. Like I said, I lost my son the other day. It's pretty hard. I didn't actually even know why I’m here. It might be the grieving or something, you know what I mean, my heads fucking spinning, mate. I swear to God.

JAMES - Okay. Well, um. Yeah, uh, I don't really know what to say to that. Are you good up there? Are you okay?

STEVE - Um. Yeah, well, I'm fucking done with this. Like, do you want to give me your fucking food. Give me give me the food right now. Give me supplies. And I'm gonna fuck off. Give me a give me your food.

JAMES - No, no. Sorry, I can't be doing that. This is this is my show.

STEVE - Mate, I swear to God, don't give me that food right now. I'm going to fucking kill you.

JAMES - Okay, well, uh, we're having technical difficulties, so I'm going to have the end the podcast right here. I know it's short. Sorry, guys, but, you know, important matters. But anyway, thank you for having another listen to this incredible podcast and I'll see you next week.

OUTRO MUSIC

Written by Jessica Robinson-Jones

GAB:                   So, picture this. You’re fifteen, it’s the most turbulent

                             time of your life, and you just so happen to fall in love.

                             Teen romance can be confusing. Hell, any romance is. But

                             when you throw a zombie into the mix - that’s when things

                             start to get real messy. And when you’re trying to hide that

                             zombie in your room while your parents are downstairs?

                             Even messier. [T.S. 00:35]

[Thud]

[Zombie growling]

[GAB shushes the zombie] [T.S. 00:40]

GAB:                   Welcome to the shitshow that is my current situation.

                             [T.S. 00:46]

[INTRO MUSIC] [T.S. 00:51]

GAB:                   Now, don’t get me wrong. I love a good rom-com as much as

                             as the next person - but there are so many things that they

                             don’t prepare you for. Like, for example, how to deal with

                             the entrails your new crush has dragged all over your

                             carpet. Especially when you’re up against the clock.

                             [T.S. 01:11]

[Scrubbing noise as GAB frantically cleans the carpet] [T.S. 01:14]

GAB:                   Yeah. It’s pretty bad as far as starts of relationships go,

                             isn’t it? Sometimes I’m not even sure it’s worth the trouble

                             if I’m honest. I mean, look at him. He’s utterly brainless.

                             Couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag. Probably doesn’t

                             know what a paper bag is, either. [T.S. 01:36]  [Pause]

Maybe I’m being a little harsh here, but it’s true. Being in

love with a zombie sucks. It’s - [T.S. 01:45]

[Door creaks open]

GAB:                   Hey, what are you - get back in there! You’re not supposed

                             to - [T.S. 01:53]

[GAB wrestles the Zombie back into the wardrobe. It’s a struggle.]

[Thud. Bang. Clunk.] [T.S. 01:56]

GAB:                   It’s a pain in the arse. [T.S. 01:59]

MUM:                 (Downstairs) Gabriella? [Pause] Gabby? Is everything 

ok? [T.S. 02:05]

GAB:                   (Yelling back) Everything’s fine! Don’t worry! [T.S. 02:07]

[Pause]

GAB:                   Take this as a warning. If you’re thinking about getting in a

                             relationship with a zombie - just don’t. Don’t. You’re better

                             off forgetting about them. Or not falling in love at all.

                             [T.S. 02:21]

[Thud]

GAB:                   Easier said than done, right? That’s what I thought too,

                             and look where it got me. But luckily for you, there is a way.

                             [T.S. 02:31]

GAB:                   How? Well, for starters, drop that I-can-change-them

                             attitude. This isn’t your fantasy romance novel.

                             They’re a zombie for fuck’s sake, they’re dead. No amount

                             of hoping is going to bring them back to life and suddenly

                             make them more considerate of your personal space or

                             the fact that you, you know, need your brain. [T.S. 02:53]

GAB:                   Secondly - cease all communication with them. I mean 

it. Stop. It’ll only make them think they stand a chance.

Board up those windows, turn off those lights, shove

old newspaper under the door. They’ll try to break in, but

don’t let them. [T.S. 03:11]

[Sound of something being grabbed - a shovel]

GAB:                   Grab that shovel, hit them over the head, do

whatever you have to to keep them away. [T.S. 03:18]

[A giant crash, then a loud groan as GAB hits the zombie with the shovel] [T.S. 03:19]

GAB:                   Once you’ve done that, stay busy - distracting yourself is

the perfect way to get over an undead ex. Re-count your

                             emergency stockpile, watch those mandatory government

                             broadcasts, decorate your sledgehammer. Soon, you’ll have

                             forgotten all about them. [T.S. 03:36]

[Pause]

GAB:                   If you do find your mind wandering back to them, however,

                             all you have to do is remind yourself of their each and every

                             flaw. Remember the smell of rotting flesh, and the drool

                             that followed them everywhere? Yeah. Not so bad without

                             them now, is it? [T.S. 03:57]

GAB:                   At the end of the day, I can’t stop you if you want to go for

                             that cute-looking zombie across the street, but if you have

                             any brains left, you’ll remember my advice. Trust me. Don’t

                             make the same mistake I did. [T.S. 04:10]

[OUTRO MUSIC BEGINS] [T.S. O4:21]

[Zombie noises] [T.S. 04:26]

END

Written by Jessica Bragg

[SFX - Click of recording turning on]

Hello? Hello. I think that’s recording. I haven’t used this thing in years. I’ve been stuck in the house for 2 months now. I’m not sure if anyone normal still knows I’m here.

They do, though… the huddle.

I thought at first that it was some online trend, or that TikTok had finally gotten to the young people, or maybe drugs? Although this was a very nice neighbourhood before all of this started happening. But it could have been anything. I don’t know how it started or why; I’m just a newly retired nurse with one son in the city, who I can’t contact. I don’t know if he even knows what’s going on. Or if it is happening there as well. I hope not. He’s a good man; he can’t have turned into one of these creatures…

I’ve been keeping a diary, noting down what I have noticed about them. Initially, it was only a couple of young’uns from this street, but soon it grew and now I think the whole neighbourhood is out there. They rarely go anywhere. They just stand together, groaning and swaying. They look so sick. I stayed inside to protect myself, but I ran out of food (pauses to think) about a week ago. I know they know I am here because they came into the house when I had collapsed. They pushed through my locked door. I woke up after passing out, and it was wide open. I felt so weak before this. But I managed to barricade the door shut. They can’t get in again. They don’t seem to pay me any attention. But I’m doing okay. I’m actually feeling great. The pain in my back has gone, and I managed to move a lot of heavy furniture to barricade my door. Is that strange?

I haven’t eaten in a week? That can’t be right. Why do I feel so good? I can’t, maybe I’m losing it. This whole situation is enough to drive anyone mad. When I woke up after one of them had been in my house, there was a bite on my neck. What is wrong with them that they would think to do such a thing? Maybe I just imagined it? It feels fine now. I should check in the mirror.

[SFX – Footsteps as she walks to the mirror]

Oh, oh no. I mustn’t be as well as I thought. My skin, it’s grey. And my eyes, they are dry, my actual eyeballs; there isn’t a shine to them at all. No, no, no. I’m going mad. This isn’t happening. I feel great. I am okay. I am.

I just need help. I need to know what is going on out there, in the rest of the world. What is actually happening? How far has this madness spread? Hopefully, my lovely Antony is okay. He is all I have. He is all uhhh (groan sound).

What? What was I saying? Please help me. If anyone hears uhhh (groan sound). I am so alone. I am so scare-uhhh (groan sound). No, no n-uhhh (groan sound). Please no. Uhhh (groan sound). Please stop. Uhhh (groan sound). Stop. Uhhh (groan sound). STOP THIS. Uhhhhhhh (groan sound – longer). I can’t turn into one of them, I won’t-uhhh (groan sound). I can’t. Uhhh (groan sound) Stop it. Antony, if you hear this uhhh (groan sound) I love yo-uhhh (groan sound)

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh (groan sound- longest of them all)

[SFX Click of recording turning off.]

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