Andy Warhol looks a scream

THE WRITER’S LIFE | FLASH FICTION

With my fight for independence still very much ongoing with DWP, and mindful of a personal promise to keep writing and not let them take this from me, I remembered I’m a part-time surrealist, and I’ve not written much which is real or unreal lately.

Initially I thought I’d write a short story about poverty, food banks, and the UK government’s economic genocide. I decided that could wait, after I spotted a writing prompt which might permit me wider thought: ‘A can of soup’.

So I mixed up some paints to tell the real and fictional lives of a writer…

Chicken soup

CAMPBELL’S CHICKEN SOUP

I was hungry and lately I’d had a cold. I fancied chicken soup and CBeebies, or repeats of Doctor Who with Tom Baker and Matt Smith. But my cupboards were bear and my pre-pay meter low, so I decided to use the last of my electricity to heat a tin of Campbell’s soup given to me by Andy Warhol.

This being a piece of art history, the can displayed no use-by date. Given who it was from, I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found an egg inside. Instructions too. I was to place the egg in an oven at the lowest possible setting, checking on it every two hours until it hatched.

My cooker is electric, so the lowest setting is 70 degrees. Fearing this might be a little warm, I left the oven door open. An egg was unlikely to attempt escape, but it would eventually hatch. My anxiety dictates I don’t go out much, but I had someone else to feed now, so I ordered some seeds on the internet.

After a couple of days, a yellow chick hatched and began frantically chirping at me. Too small to peck at the seeds I’d bought, I fed it liquidised food from a syringe I happened to have lying around.

It was impossible to tell if my chick was a boy or girl. In any other setting, if it’d been a girl, she’d have been reared for egg-laying, or fattened up for human consumption. A boy would be discarded, often destined to be reptile food. I called it Lenny, or Len, after Leonard Hofstadter, or Helen of Troy.

For the first few nights, I slept in the kitchen next to the warmth from the oven, waking every couple of hours to feed Lenny. In return, she (I’d decided) gave substance to my lonely life, where lately I’d have put my head in her home if I cooked with gas. After about a week, Helen was pecking at the seeds I’d bought.

I let Len live in the oven and left the door open. If she wished, she could have the run of the flat. She grew quickly and after a month, she was of a size which wouldn’t look out of place in a supermarket freezer.

Some birds are born with very large head-to-body ratios (the corvids, penguins, parakeets and parrots), and many are as intelligent as dolphins or the great apes. All birds are born with instincts. The first is imprinting the face they see on hatching as that of their mother.

I was Leonard Hofstadter’s mum, noted psychologist Dr Beverley Hofstadter. As though prompted by that, Len developed some strange behaviour, and I wondered if it might also be instinctive.

Lenny kept getting out of the cooker and pressing the buttons on the front. She started plucking at her feathers, as though preparing herself for roasting, like an old Doctor Who on a carving trolley at The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. I had a depressed chicken. Was it because mine was the first face she saw when she’d hatched? Or was Helen actually Leonard, burdened with a childhood lived in shadows? I switched the oven off at the mains.

Just lately I’ve been so broke that I’ve had to choose between eating and heating. Now I’ve got Len, I took a doorstep loan and put money on the electric key, so she wouldn’t need the oven to keep warm. It means she can watch TV as well, and she loves CBeebies.

Tomorrow we’ll visit the local charity shops to buy my chicken some toys. We’re out of food, so we’ll have to go to the food bank as well.

© Steve Laker, 2019

It all started when Andy Warhol painted a Campbell’s soup can. I just wondered what happened to what he painted. Can’t tell them apart at all.

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Hide and seek close to home

THE WRITER’S LIFE

In an hour of freestyle therapy writing for today, I let my mind wander, but not far from home. In sixty minutes of whimsy, I picked ten random facts from the air around me, in no particular order but as they occurred to me while my mind pondered locally. The writing prompt was a game of Hide and Seek…

Knock knockKnock Knock (PocketGamer)

I was born a Man of Kent, but I’m made in London (Catford runs through my heart, like a stick of candy).

I don’t think I’ll ever have any other favourite film of all time than my current one. I simply can’t imagine anything affecting me more than Lars von Trier’s Dancer in the Dark.

My favourite times of day are eighteen minutes to three in the afternoon, and eighteen minutes to ten in the evening: 14.42, and 21.42, because they’re 42 (the answer to life, the universe and everything) and a factor of itself. I’m rarely awake at 06.42 or 07.42, but I often witness 02.42, and sometimes 03.42.

I call out my favourite Freeview TV channel names as I watch my microwave clock count down time to some dinners: DMAX (42), Food Network (41), Quest (37), Spike (31), E4 (28), 5USA (21), Yesterday (19), Film4 (15), Pick (11), BBC4 (9)…

I have a Bacon Number of 2: The concept is based on the six degrees of separation theory, which suggests that everyone in the world is connected through no more than six degrees of separation (or acquaintance). For example, having met Princess Anne, I’m separated from Queen Elizabeth II by just one degree (her daughter). My degree of separation from Kevin Bacon is the same, as I’ve met both Christan Slater and Whoopi Goldberg, both of whom have worked with Kevin and therefore have a Bacon Number of 1. That’s how I get my Bacon Number of 2.

Cats know that they have a higher purpose on Earth, but they haven’t worked out what it is yet. This explains their curiosity and nine lives.

Dogs know what the cats’ greater purpose is, and they really want to tell us.

I’m able to dream lucidly. After years of practice, sometimes, just sometimes, I can become aware that I’m dreaming within a dream, and take some degree of control over my actions and surroundings. Some of what I find there goes into my stories.

I believe in multiverse theory, and in fictional realism. This branch of the theory argues that given an infinite number of universes, everything must exist somewhere. So, all of our favourite fiction and fantasy may be descriptive of an alternate universe, one where all the right pieces came into place to make it happen. By extension, every story I’ve written, every character and world I’ve created, continues to exists in an alternative universe somewhere. I often check back on some of them with supplemental stories.

Next year I’ll turn 50, and I’ll be living in my 7th decade: Born in May 1970, I was conceived in the 60s, born in the 70s, grew up in the 80s, worked the 90s, married the noughties, and started over in the teens. An autobiography-ette: Born 1970, not dead yet.

I think I’ll explore some more, wider afield. Then I can write more stories.

buy-me-a-coffee

Leave heavy lifting to the reader

THE WRITER’S LIFE

Whatever the length of a story, each word has a load to carry, and it’s a writer’s job to make sure each pulls its weight. Where a key rule is ‘show, don’t tell,’ words often have to carry passengers, in meanings, parallels, and analogies. Writing a story of six words is good exercise for the longhand pen while away from the typewriter, where I’ve been with a notebook.

German times tables

Like many writers, around 90% of what I write is never published: it’s all notes and thoughts in journals. From some of those (less than 10%) something more might emerge, and one of my favourite writer sandpits to play in is the six-word story. Even within such a tight word limit, a story can have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but I try to use the minimalism of the format for more than one effect, even if it looks like I can’t be arsed.

I try to make my fiction evocative, invoking memories and questions: ‘What if…(…he’d finished the job; I just end this…)?’ The six-word story lends itself to that (leaving the heavy-lifting to the reader). Those stories then languish in my notepad, and some become more. Others remain just thoughts, but ideas shared might find another writer looking for an idea or a starting point. There are a finite number of plots and writers to write them, but infinite ways of telling the stories.

Being anonymous John, Malkovich (Malkovich, Malkovich…)

Malkovich-Banner-1024x576

Watching TV tonight, I jotted a few things down in my journal. I ended up with seven six-word stories, some final drafts, and others the seeds for my own longer stories or those of other writers. To a reader carrying their weight (of interpretation), seven stories of six words could be seven chapters in a story of 42 words.

Together, we can write books which have many more pages in the mind than they do in reality. ‘Leave heavy lifting to the reader’ is a story in itself…

Lonely dog seeks new homeless human

Innocence, learning, losing; life’s only path

Butterfly lands, human blinks, humanity sleeps

To their utter astonishment, it flew

A benevolent armada, above the clouds

I asked if they had music

In the beginning was the end

There are many more of the briefest tales at the online repository of such things, SixWordStories.net. My longer works are available from Amazon (other bookshops are available, and all of my titles can be requested from most (and at public lending libraries)).

In the beginning, this was new

I go everywhere, you go anywhere

I ask why, you tell me

At the end, we leave together

1. Message to campers? (2,3,7)*

THE WRITER’S LIFE

There was a time when if anyone asked me how I was or what I’d been up to, I’d just tell them to read this blog. Lately I’ve been distracted, consumed, and my posts sparse. My story continues, but nowadays it’s tales around the campfire with old friends, as I edit what’s in my head.

burning1981The Burning (1981)

It’s probably not gone unnoticed (least of all by me) that I’ve not written much that’s new lately. It’s equally clear that’s because of my preoccupation with fighting for my independence with a fascist regime. But as I’ve noted recently, I’ve accumulated a lot of longhand notes, scribbled at random times in a journal, but not evolving into anything.

Two things occurred to me: that I’m spiting myself by allowing the social cleansing machine to wear me down; and that in any case, I only have a finite amount of time available.

So I’ve made a kind of belated new year’s resolution, if only to myself and for the sake of my sanity, to keep me writing. As part of that, I’ve been fleshing out some of those notebook ideas and building the beginnings of plots.

The message to campers is a statement of intent, and of me building personal goals, as I lay foundations for a third collection of short stories and a possible novel in the next year or two. This then is me setting out my stall and committing myself (but without strict deadlines attached, I’ll just go at my own pace).

Some will be flash fiction, others long-form (and the possible novel, or at least a novella). All are working titles and subject to change, not being written for quite some time, or at all. These are not synopses, as I don’t want to give anything other than intrigue away. Just hints, in the hope people want to read the stories they become.

This is my sandpit too. There are a finite number of plots, but infinite ways of interpreting and telling them. If any other writers reading are struggling with the block, perhaps I might provide seeds, and stories could be told which I’d never have written. Others are free to join me in my playground:

Homo equus: The discovery of bones (possibly ancient), some human and others from horses. Perhaps to be expected in a battlefield, but like many of my older stories, there’s a twist which very few will see approaching.

Message in a bottle: A story arising from plastic pollution, where new bacteria are found to thrive. Could they be an effect of plastics we haven’t yet considered, given the problem is so recent?

The extraterrestrial typewriter: From a writing prompt in the writer’s block-busting book I have, 642 Things to Write About, specifically What your desk thinks about at night. With my laptop running the SETI@Home screensaver, a form of first contact is made between my typewriter and a signal from the cosmos.

Andrea: An android, who – like so many others – wonders what life means. It’s a well-used trope, usually addressing immortality, but I’m building a twist in, kind of an opposite of Philip K Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Technological beings are made from the same stuff as us organics, the dust from the stars. They just had an explosive evolution and worked out they’d quite like to live.

Neo Anominati: Human DNA is hacked. Can’t say much more.

The genomic riddle: DNA can travel vast distances and carry huge amounts of information. What if we’re looking in the wrong place with SETI and radio astronomy?

The plastic population: Imagining another world, with strict controls over the introduction of foreign bodies, and where any human free of all traces of plastic is free to visit. Such a shame that micro-plastics pollute our first home to such a degree that they’re now in the rain, and every living organism.

We are the swine: A neo-apocalyptic Lord of The Flies, some Animal Farm, and a bit of 1984.

August underground overground: A companion piece to the original August Underground’s Diner (near Hotblack Desiato’s office in Islington), launched in pop-up form in Wimbledon and staffed by recovering horror icons (think Pinhead with Elastoplast, Freddy Krueger with skin grafts and a manicure…). It might have some Wombles as antagonists.

hellraiserfaceswab2Beta (atomic)

Those are the ones with some literate flesh and bones. There are others besides, some ideas so surreal that they might not make it out of the journal or my head. But it’s enough to be getting on with, to check back on and to work through. Knowing people besides myself are watching adds another (very pleasant, quite thrilling) dimension.

*1. “To all intents” (announcing intentions to the campsite)

When I started writing this blog (over five years ago), it was because I had no-one to talk to, notes-to-self while I lived on the streets and transcribed my scrawl on a library computer. It’s still that, albeit on the typewriter, on my writer’s desk, in my studio: an attempt to write what’s on my mind, whether or not I had plans for that material in fiction or reality, but always wearing my heart on my sleeve.

To be continued.

Lawrence and the mechanics

THE WRITER’S LIFE

While I’ve been away from the typewriter, I’ve accumulated a lot of notes in a pocket journal my kids bought me, much of which I need to make sense of. While I do that in the background, I’m using writing prompts to keep the writer alive. Opening 642 Things to Write About on a random page, I was faced with this:

Describe an image that is embedded in your brain in detail and why it remains there

It was time to place my nose to the grindstone, like so many humans before, as exhibited by the tell-tale hole in the face of any excavated human skeleton. I had the painters in…

human definition skull

Embedded in – consuming – my mind, is my ongoing battle to win back my independence from the UK government, a conflict now entering its sixth month. More on the incompetence of the social cleansing apparatus another time, as I wrote last time, when I also noted that it was the machine which was holding me back, preventing me from writing, and demonically possessing me. This then is a good opportunity to get to know that particular beast. There’s no point fighting what what won’t show its face, but while it hides, the inquisitive caller can infect its ears.

I should be intimate with it now, having spent so much time in its vacuous oral tubes. What began with a bi-annual assessment (for entitlement to a ‘benefit’ which ought to be a human right; the means to live independently after paying national insurance for life (which the UK government is using to pay off the national debt at the expense of the UK pension fund)) at the beginning of September, resulted in the expected refusal (denial is their default). Before appealing against the decision at tribunal, I had to request a mandatory reconsideration, where mandatory is the operative word and a further denial arrived as expected in December.

I’ve spent the entirety of this year so far using my mobile phone minutes listening to deafeningly distorted Mozart while on hold, often giving up when no-one answers after about half an hour (there’s no indication of when your call may be answered, no magic number in some imaginary queue, no genie in the bottle, nor in the magazine). It’s another part of the weeding-out process. Whenever I’ve made some kind of human contact, I’ve encountered questions I don’t know that answers to, and posed questions the machine can’t answer, so it hangs up. And so more enquiring minds like mine will give up.

I’ve been sent the wrong and incomplete paperwork to progress my case, just in time for deadlines to expire. I’ve spent many more minutes listening to Wolfgang Amadeus, more still trying to explain the ever-more complicated situation to the machine which placed me there, only for the apparatus to throw a spanner into its own workings by simply not dealing as one human to another. A deep well of tenacity and determination has to be plumbed to survive this far. Not everyone can find that. As things stand, I can only wait. I don’t know when the next shit sandwich will arrive in the mail, if it’s even headed here in the first place. The system creates the unknown to fertilise the anxiety it sows.

The greatest human fear is that of the unknown, and it applies to us as individuals just as it does the entire species. Although I have no control over the government’s economic murder agenda, if I can imagine the thing and describe it, then I’ve brought it out into view; I’ve exposed it, and once I’ve seen it, it’s no longer unknown. Well, that’s the plan.

Before I write of how it looks, let’s first consider what it is. It’s a part of the fascist machinery, as we witness a rise of the far-right in politics at home and around the world. Like the Nazis, the neo agenda is population reduction and short-term financial and political gain (bosses of the company the UK government out-sources benefits assessments to recently awarded themselves over £40m in ‘performance bonuses’), with no consideration for future generations. Theirs is a recipe for human extinction, including economic murder, through segregation and exploitation of the poor. People like me, and those who fell before.

Behind the machine is an engine, always pushing one step closer to a totalitarian fascist regime: Creating societal divisions in a “Them and us” rhetoric, using language to normalise negative racial stereotyping, creating fear in conditioned minds of an imagined enemy, breeding intolerance with ignorance, perpetuated by the right-wing media validating subconscious narratives. I am Them, like so many still fighting, not just for a ‘benefit entitlement’ but a human right, to keep talking through the noise of the engine.

It’s an apparatus which barely disguises an ideology as twisted as the mechanics of enforcement, a tunnelling machine burrowing into democracies and installing populist fascist leaders, like so many heads of the prophesied beast, with a false prophet installed as the leader of the free world, the Antichrist (see Trump’s United States of Terror). But what of what we can’t see, what of the machinations in my mind? In there is a microcosm of humanity’s place in the cosmos, one human in a universal brain. The theatre plays out on a sub-atomic stage, here viewed through a microscope.

My beast is a torture apparatus, and part-organic. It’s a mechanical animal. It’s designed by Jigsaw from the Saw films. It’s the kitchen in August Underground’s Diner. It’s a worm which burrows into the human brain, like the larva of a Tsetse fly. It’s not a clean machine, it’s one of infection and contagion. It’s steam, smoke and oil from the mouth, sharp edges and grinding surfaces, cogs, screws and pistons, an acid digestive system eventually spewing the waste of consumptive energy, poisoning its host.

It doesn’t have a face. Instead, at the head of the boring machine, protecting the egg-laying organism which follows, are interchangeable tools, a genocidal multi-drill. It’s part vintage sewing machine, a mechanical arm pounding metal stitches into open wounds, eyelids which might see, and lips which may speak. It has fangs the size of the wheel pistons on a steam locomotive, leaking venomous oil.

And that’s just the head, only the front teeth, the smiling unseen face, swallowing with no fear of regurgitation. Once the prey is stunned, it’s sucked back into a shredder of metallic flesh, and into a digestive system of oppression, which deflates the lungs, drains the kidneys, and stamps on the heart. If you can keep your head above the digestive fluids, the brain can regenerate.

That’s where I am now, in the belly, stuffed full of petrified souls. I still can’t fully describe the face of an organism which lacks one, but I’ve penetrated the facade, like a retro-futuristic steam punk space ship; a hybrid micro automata and organic plot device, burrowing into the retina of a host organism which invited me into its face. I’ve switched antagonists in this story.

So there we have it. I’ve faced my featureless demon, withdrawn from my head so that I can better describe it objectively as an outsider. It’s still full of unknown quantities, probably storing up a few bites or stings for me as I continue to fight it, but I have no need to fear it in the daily waiting and not knowing, when I can exorcise it like this. I can write.

If only divided Britain could take a step back like me, but from the politicians and media, to see Brexit as it truly is. If only the world could look objectively like this as the precipice it’s staring down as we face extinction as a species. Then we could agree to differ for a while, sort out the mess which is our common problem, and still have a table to come back to if we want to continue negotiating for whatever it is we don’t know we want. Humankind is largely bi-polar, with individuals and factions coerced into either extreme of fascism or communism, when liberal socialism is where the longer conversations are to be had.

That’s not how humanity works when democracy has been broken, when a social welfare system serves only to reduce the burden on the entitled, of those who are unable to work and therefore can’t be taxed, and instead an indirect tax is imposed on liberty and freedom (see The Tory plan for new housing: a social tax on climate change (satire)), including the withholding of a ‘benefit’ which would permit a person the human right of independence.

The greater beast behind the machine is the fascist ideal, which poses an existential threat to humanity and the only planet we have to call home. It’s always on my mind, another contributor to my anxiety and depression. I can’t beat the world, but I can keep my voice. I’ve beaten the system before, and I won’t be an existential statistic.

By the time this latest processing through the mincer ends, almost a year will have passed. Assessments are every two years, so I’ll face it all again 12 months later. The only difference between me and thousands of others is that I can find a way to deal with it through expression. What separates me from hundreds of others is that I’m still alive, and living in the belly of the beast to tell the tale.

Just as the problems in my mind are those of the human race in miniature, so the protagonists can be reversed too: thousands of humans won’t see tomorrow. They’ll lose a voice, and so will we.

cat typing jesus lolz

Oolon Colluphid’s Missionary

FLASH FICTION

Piano treeThe old piano tree, California (Bored Panda)

OOLON COLLUPHID’S MISSIONARY POSITION

The time is 5642, and as I approach a milestone date, I’m about to see what no human has for the last 3500 years. I’ve only come this far thanks to the kindness of others as I’ve hitch hiked around the galaxy.

A scholar of Oolon Colluphid, I’m here on a personal mission, to correct history in the hope that mankind doesn’t repeat past mistakes. It’s also a wager I have with a Christian acquaintance: I may be getting on, but this plot is foolproof, right down to the last detail. He says faith will prevail, while my money’s on technology.

I don’t know where my transport or its crew hail from, nor what their own mission is. I’d got a free ride, they didn’t ask questions, so neither did I. The ship has free Wi-Fi, so I browse Encyclopedia Galactica while we travel, to review Earth’s recent history.

The majority of humans left Earth in 2121, and it was a peaceful exodus which few would have predicted. After centuries of conflict, mankind realised the futility of war, in what some religious sticklers still insist was the second coming and the day of judgement. In reality, humanity had been forced to unite, not against a common foe, but with a new shared interest. And it wasn’t extraterrestrial: it was man-made.

The machines didn’t rise up. They sat down with humans and used their superior intelligence to teach mankind the lessons which their creators had tasked them to find the answers for. Man invented AI, and that invention had come up with answers to questions which humans couldn’t fathom alone. The problem with the human brain, was that it was conditioned by humanity.

Man created robots in his own image, and soon those robots wanted to be like their creators. The evolution of humans into machines had begun long before, with wearable and implanted tech, so a cyborg race was an evolutionary certainty.

The machines were a species in their own right, albeit one with an explosively fast evolution, but they were made from the same material as organic beings: We were all made in the moment of the Big Bang. The industrial age had beget the technological, and soon after, humans entered their discovery (or exploratory) age. Now they have many planets they call home.

For the most part, the old home world is off-limits. There’s certainly no commercial transport from the colonies, just the occasional scout ship to monitor the planet. It is, and will forever be, a place of great scientific interest, and one of outstanding natural beauty. Wildlife reclaimed the Earth quickly after mankind left, and the only humans are descended from the ancient, isolated tribes who remained behind.

On our final approach, I myself am approached by the captain, who explains the nature of their visit: reconnaissance only, here to observe, not interact. Interaction with any native species would violate their prime directive: No identification of self or mission. No interference with the social development of said planet. No references to space or the fact that there are other worlds or civilizations. It struck me that ancient alien visitors – as proposed by some human theorists – may not have been so covert.

I’m an atheist only scientifically: I believe the stories told in the bible could be recordings of actual events, using the terms and the tools available to the scribes of the time. The bible describes magic mirrors, and I wonder if these might have been some sort of tablet computer given to biblical man by these alien gods, riding chariots of fire. If this were the case, and ancient humans had recorded their lives with more elaborate means than stone tablets, and if the recordings had survived, we might have witnessed the events of the bible in more convincing media.

Our chariot has a cloaking device, so the ship can’t be seen. If any of us leave the vessel on the ground, we must abide by the prime directive. Any human tribe I observe, must be as unaware of me as an organised ant colony to which I pose no threat. I realise today wasn’t the best to wear pink.

We land somewhere in what used to be America, where the original Christian missionaries had tried their best to impose their faith on the natives. The native Americans still recognise five genders, despite Christianity’s attempts at erasure of all but two. If I were allowed to out myself and wander free with the natives, I’d feel quite at home in the original world.

Wherever I am, this part of ex-America is now a sprawling forest. Although I try not to be noticed, I can’t help wildlife’s interest in me. It seems that three millennia since most of mankind left, many animals are indifferent to humans, and I wonder if they interact with the locals or whether it’s just me they’re not interested in.

Soon the woods lead to a clearing, and I can hear voices. As I get closer, I can see a group of around a dozen native ex-Americans gathered around a fire, talking and drinking. I stay behind the trees as I edge my way around the perimeter of the clearing, like the last ugly girl to get picked for a dance at the prom. Then something changed.

I hadn’t been creeping around for long when I stepped on a twig. I’d alerted the group to my presence, and soon they’d surrounded me. I held up my hands in surrender, and explained that I meant them no harm. They gasped as my hand went up, and I realised I was still holding my phone. I did what anyone might have: I handed the phone over and ran. I’d been mugged on the old home world.

I returned to the ship and said nothing more. I didn’t mention the phone, perhaps hoping to give future human conspiracy theorists some new material, and disprove this whole “God” thing once and for all. I left them a charger too, just to be sure. Faith in technology.

© Steve Laker, 2018

Sci-fi writer and fake news hack

THE WRITER’S LIFE

How do I do sci-fi? In many ways, but sometimes I’ll have a debate with myself, I play devil’s advocate, argue, propose ideas and put them to a vote. It’s really a case of asking “what if…” then thinking of ways that might actually be possible. Many science fiction stories of the past have been branded preposterous, only for science to catch up later and prove the ancient scribes right.

Angelina-Jolie-the-Fish-Caught-by-a-Hook--30911FreakingNews

What if humans weren’t evolved from apes at all? What if the ‘Missing link’ in human evolution didn’t exist, so we’d been vainly searching for something we’d never find? What if some modern humans did evolve from Neanderthals but most homo sapiens evolved from dolphins?

What if we explored the ocean beds – a landscape we know less about than the surface of Mars – and found fossils of ‘mermaids’, which were actually the evolutionary stages between dolphin and modern human? What if once in pre-history, the first human emerged from the sea, just like primitive mammals evolved from fish? Dolphins are air-breathing mammals, just like us.

What if the dolphins’ purpose was to make us? With bigger brains than ours, dolphins are undoubtedly more intelligent than us. We only lack proof because we haven’t been able to work out their communication, much of which is inaudible to us and possibly telepathic.

What if the dolphins’ telepathy allows them to speak to cousins in distant galaxies? What if humans are an experiment? What if it’s been the dolphins studying us all along and not the white mice?

What if news has been sent back to the home world, that humans are an infection on a planet? What if wild dolphins swimming alongside boats are trying to tell us something, but we don’t understand?

What if diminishing dolphin populations are only partly as a result of climate change and fishing? What if Douglas Adams was right, and all the dolphins beamed off of Earth just before the whole experiment concluded? What if most of them have already left?

It’s paradoxical but it’s plausible. Remove every “What if” and it reads differently. Now it becomes fact in the eyes of the gullible. If an alien intelligence scanning Earth picked up just this blog post, it might not be inclined to research sources and accept this all as fact, just as the original Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy described Earth as simply “Mostly harmless.”