: Lloyd Markham
: Bad Ideas\Chemicals
: Parthian Books
: 9781912109890
: 1
: CHF 5.30
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 120
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Cassandra Fish believes she is out of this world, wearing her orange film-set spacesuit daily in the hope that her absent parents will return and take her back to her real planet. While she waits she accompanies her friends - frustrated musician Billy, the only open mic player in the town and the laddish, volatile Fox - from bar to nightclub - on one last great night out to drink, dance, take bad chemicals, have bad trips, have bad ideas, and do unthinkable things.

Lloyd Markham was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, moving to and settling in Bridgend, south Wales when he was thirteen. He spent the rest of his teenage years miserable and strange and having bad nights out before undertaking a BA in Writing at Glamorgan followed by an MPhil. He enjoys noise music, Japanese animation and the documentaries of Adam Curtis. His favourite book is The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. He operates synthesisers in a band called Deep Hum and has less bad nights out these days.

BAD IDEAS\CHEMICALS

LLOYD MARKHAM

PARTHIAN

Parthian

The Old Surgery

Napier Street

Cardigan

SA43 1ED

www.parthianbooks.co.uk

© Lloyd Markham 2017

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-912109-68-5

Cover design by Torben Schacht

Typeset by Syncopated Pandemonium

The publisher acknowledges the financial support of the Welsh Books Council.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A cataloguing record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

‘We are healthy only to the extent that our ideas are humane.’

Kurt Vonnegut

SPACE CRUISER ARMS\ORANGE SPACESUIT SCABS

Through the visor of her space helmet Cassandra Fish sees the mouldy, off-white ceiling of her bathroom.

Her parents haven’t come to pick her up.

As she lifts herself out of the tub, tepid bathwater sloshes on to the lime green tiles below. Unfazed, she sits on the edge of the bath and takes off her spacesuit. It is orange and although it resembles a crap film prop it can withstand long journeys through the void. Her space boots are similarly well-equipped.

Throwing her pants and bra into the laundry, Cassandra notices another blue bump like a small burrowing creature emerging from the sparse blonde grass on her thigh. This brings the total count of scratches, cuts, and bruises up to twenty-six – five more than the number of years she has been trapped on Earth. The bruises are unavoidable. The suit is not made for sleeping in. Neither is the bath. Or the boots. But these have to be endured if she is to get back home.

She eases off her helmet, wincing as hairs gummed to the inside with blood peel from her scalp. Then she lurches to the sink.

Cassandra’s cheeks have sunk deeper. Her hair, which is thin and brittle, is almost down to her eyebrows and will need to be shaved soon. The planet’s atmosphere is damaging her. She brushes her teeth. Then, taking a sponge and a bottle of special cleaning fluid, she sets about scrubbing the spacesuit with meticulous care.

She has a feeling that tonight will be the night her parents finally come to pick her up.

As she smooths the cleaning fluid between the fingers of her gloves, Cassandra envis