This month's U3A creative writing challenge. Strangely it is also about event horizons.
I put it into this blog for safe keeping.
"
Keira and I often visited a pub in Camden called The World’s End. It truly suited us—a chaotic sanctuary where we immersed ourselves in rich, bitter ale, struggling to be heard above the overwhelming clamour. We both knew things were ending; our conversation was not merely challenging; it felt futile, so we treated those moments as sultry therapy.
Shrouded in half-light and neon slime at one end of the bar, a strobed doorway yawned open. It led to a staircase spiralling down into a place people whispered about with nervous grins. Some claimed it was the Gates of Hell, but we all knew it as the Underworld.
This twilight pulsed beneath the pub’s floorboards, where a growling bass shook ancient London ancestors’ dust loose. Metallic shrieks and overdriven wails seeped up the stairs like smoke, bleeding into the pub above. Below, the air was slick with heat and latex, bodies glistening as they writhed and preened under sickly light. The smell of sweat and solvent clung to every surface.
This wasn’t a club; it was a crucible. The stage—a sacrificial altar—hosted Rammsteinian bands wielding chainsaws, hammers, and scorched welding torches. Tools of construction became instruments of destruction, blasting their frequencies through towering Marshall stacks that could split the earth apart.
I don’t recall how Keira and I first found this. I’m not sure anyone did. One night, a band called The Ten Inch Screws took the stage, their sound so oppressive it felt like drowning in molten steel. Their lyrics—half-snarled, half-screamed—burned into my memory. They sang of a corrupted Earth’s slow demise, the death of reason, and humanity consuming itself in a blind frenzy until only ash remained.
Here’s what I can still recall:
“When logic rots and reason dies,
The earth will choke beneath black skies.
No gods to weep, no saviours born,
Just silence remains when the world is torn.”
Even now, I can hear the echoes from that night. The Underworld wasn’t just a club—it was a warning, a glimpse into the abyss. And we laughed as we danced ever closer to the edge.
And now, the unravelling free verse:
The sky splinters in muted chaos,
light bleeding softly into the void.
Certainty crumbles—
mountains bow, cities sigh,
oceans whisper secrets to ash-laden sky.
Beside you, Keira, this world feels less fragile.
Your hand in mine steadies the tremor
of earth’s final breath.
We stand at the edge of everything,
watching it dissolve,
a quiet defiance against the inevitable.
The end hums softly,
not in fury but in quiet surrender.
Your voice, steady in the fading glow,
anchors me—
a tether on this unravelling ride.
Your warmth burns brighter
than the dimming horizon.
In this twilight, we do not grieve;
we stand still together,
wrapped in the weight of what is and what was.
It is not an end but a becoming,
the last breath of a universe folding into itself.
"
I'll stick with my current one because it is largely unaffected by the likes of Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Wotzap, usw.
I'm in awe of those who have taken up Substack, which feels as if it would be my next preferred choice, although I'm not sure I'd have enough to post, so I'll still stick with my un-monetisable rashbre central.
Here's an interesting free review book offer from a fellow blogger:
A new historical novel, set in 1503 and beyond, spanning much of Europe: It's the Year of Three Popes. One of them commissions a typeface from a renowned Venetian printer for exclusive use by the Vatican. The resulting font is beautiful, but the type punches are destined to be stolen on their way to Rome.
Meanwhile, in the 21st century, a book collector who specialises in typographical first editions is trying to track the type's amazing journey.
Who was the type thief? It's an interesting road novel with many entertaining twists and appearances by historical figures.
And right now (for a short time) it's possible to get a 'Free' Advanced Reader Copy (sometimes called galleys), by following the link to R F McMinn's page: It's here with the simplest of instructions to obtain a paperback or eBook. Recommended!
This slipped into my inbox as a box set to watch. I liked the opening, which sucked me into a mysterious plot. Later, I realised that this series would be inscrutable, with many Killing Eve, Pulp Fiction and even Slow Horses references.
I suspect the cast were as confused as I was at the start.
Keira Knightley and Ben Whishaw portray two unlikely mercenary 'spies' thrown together. I was intrigued to watch more and decided to play that game - spot the trope - through most of the series. By the third episode, I'd started to notice the often wobbly moments and the humour of another two Pulp Fiction-esque female assassins: "You still got that rocket launcher?" etc. There was even a 'wake up from drug overdose' scene straight out of Tarantino.
It's a twisty, plot-driven comic-book style tale. Knightley played 'herself' for most of it, although she missed the part about her favourite Xmas movies when 'Love Actually (ft. Knightley)' wasn't listed. We still had a Nativity plotline, although it was more threatening than usual.
This, like Die Hard, is an Xmas movie. It had all the Xmas moments shot around a realistic portrayal of London. Well, except for the amount of shootings.
Popcorn advised.
I watched it all in one binge.
I just sent three small packages by Royal Mail, logged off, but then remembered I needed to send a couple more. When I log back on, I get a password fail message.
So I try to retype it, eventually give up, reset the password and then try to log on. "Maximum attempt exceeded."
Pah.
Not cool.
Back on the tube last week, I was musing about some changes. I remember the older tube stock, with its 'smoking' carriages, and the reveal at Leytonstone when a train arrived, and dense smoke billowed into the evening air. Ride the carriage and get everything smoked.
Also the era of newspapers. Everyone had a paper, mainly provided free at a local station. Latterly, there was the Stannit, but before that, there was even a choice between the Evening Standard (aka Daily Mail) and the usually thinner Evening News.
Of course, that subsided with the arrival of smartphones, but a smartphone with no connectivity still doesn’t work. It was later fixed, so now everyone can browse their favorite social channels all the way to Ealing Broadway.
Ties and suits have decreased but are not entirely eliminated; hybrid styles have taken over much of the attire. Some of it is Zoom-ready for conference calls.
There are still small tweaks in status, and many people carry A5-sized notepads. I guess they’re lighter than the once-obligatory backpack, which succeeded the briefcase. "I'm busy and have somewhere to be" is also useful for reserving spots in coffee shops.
And footwear. Gone are the shiny shoes for men. It's all trainers now or half trainers with technical uppers implying they are sporting, and with that all-important credibility logo.
