Scenes from a Memorypool I: Bitcoin Lore 2026-2106

Archival flash fictions orbiting The Black Hole of Money

The next few missives will be excavating some archival flash fictions from ‘22/’23, set in the world of 0xSalon’s theatre production The Black Hole of Money. These will eventually come out in a book collating my literary experiments, and out of respect for my publisher are behind the paywall.

The ones below began life as exercises based on Ursula Le Guin’s Steering the Craft, in those cases her prompts are included. I’ve also interspersed them with some sonic compositions and/or images from the Fau0x Salon card deck. You might notice them getting progressively more deranged, well, that’s me finding my feet and folding more of my CPRU-ish poetic register into the flow. Thanks to the STC writing group, held at Trust in Berlin in ‘23, for getting me going with this line of inquiry.

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Scenes from a Memorypool ::: Part 1 ::: Part 2 ::: Part 3

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ENDLESS RITUALS

write a paragraph to a page of narrative that's meant to be read aloud. Use onomatopoeia, alliteration, repetition, rhythmic effects, made up words or names, dialect - any kind of sound effect - but not rhyme or meter.

Their shoulders locked and knees quivering, Jorge and Sina finally found sufficient purchase to lift the large, crumbling limestone monolith from its resting place. A toppled edifice, glittering amongst the litterings of eras, both bygone and not so. SIM cards, crushed seashells, plastic bottles, thimble-sized clay figurines, tattered fragments of parchment, colourful feathers, shards of glass and flint. It had taken hours of sweat, bruises, and toil with their bare hands to get this far. Though it was only the slightest of physical movements in the end, a few feet or so, their speechlessness betrayed their awe and expectation. A sense that they had finally found what they had been looking for. A (w)hole greater than the sum of its parts.

The Sun stooped low in the evening sky, sinking beneath the canyon's shoulder as the sky painted the hazy hues of an arid dusk. The day's last rays traced a precise path into the newly revealed void, punctuated by reflections in pools of stagnant water close to their Rubicon. They knew that this was not by happenstance: it was solstice after all. Scrambling through the breach, with torches armed, the pair struggled to keep the sureness of their footing, slithering atop ensembles of the cavernous slimes of deep time. Sina stumbled, she gasped as her torch fell from her grasp. As it rolled away into the depths, its silicon gaze revealed new aspects. Past lives of carbon, coming to light. This was the place alright. A cavern, a canvas, a calendar, a carnival, a cathedral.

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POWER BALLARD

In a paragraph or so, describe an action or a person feeling strong emotion-joy, fear, grief. Try to make the rhythm and movement of the sentences embody or represent the physical reality you're writing about.

As if from nowhere, a blinding light overwhelms. Glitzkrieg. A flash of lightning, leaving my insulation in tatters. I was not built to withstand this. A quickening of the pulse. The skipping of a heartbeat. The conductor of my metabolic orchestra takes leave of his senses, his faculties, and his responsibilities. Meanwhile, a lightness, rising from my shoulders to my forehead. Delirium inclemens. Tar in my stomach, feathers in my throat, sand in my mouth. I try to speak, to steady myself, but I can barely muster a whisper. Dumbstruck. What is this sorcery? Surely not, I reason. No. It couldn't be. Not me. Not now. After all these years. And, yet. A self-consciousness rises within me, my skin glowing like magma. The vitality of death. Better immolate than never, I tell myself over and over again, knowing full well this makes no sense. My precious logic abandons me. My eyes scan, in utter desperation, for a distraction. For something to hold on to. Anything. Lest I be swept away by these elemental forces. A thrall to mine own desires.

“Love Language Models” card from Fau0x Salon deck.