‘Silent Noise’: a dialogue-only experiment

This is experimental, it is a conversation between a psychiatrist and her patient, but they are not quite alone. The experiment is in the instruction at the end, if you would be so kind as to read on:


Please come in, Phil. Take a seat take a seat very neat over here look at him he’s walking funny lame bastard

Phil, talk to me, what brings you here today?

Piss off! What do you care? in her lair you walked in Walking.

Walking, Phil? Talk walk you’re an orc ha-fucking-ha What are you looking at?

You’re all the same, think you know I know you know we knows your nose Your nose is a rose. rose up crazy cow jumped over the moon loony high tunes

Fuck off out of it, crazy cow don’t talk to her she’ll knock you out lock you up look at her eyes devil’s eyes those are

Devil’s eyes. Devil’s eyes?



Whose eyes are Devil’s eyes, Phil? don’t tell her keep it secret we’ll know ho ho say it lo Secret.Tell me about the secret.


What’s the secret, Phil?



Secrets haven’t always been good things, have they? finish her off she’s sucking your mind out of your ears Ears. Shears. Cut them off. Very funny. out of your ears


go on do it Ears, Phil? she deserves it interfering old witch


look at him crazy as a loon loony lunatic tock tick

Piss off. cut them off Cut off. she deserves it witch bitch snitch Cut what off, Phil?

devil’s eyes devil’s ears Your phone? Did they cut your phone off? seeing through walls telling god devil’s tongue all rotten maggots for teeth

Your teeth are wicked. My teeth are wicked? What do you mean, Phil? maggots in that hole bet she eats shit bet she screws corpses bet she screws you Phil, do you need to stay with us again? I can find you a bed. Screw you. Succubus she’s going to suckubus the life out of you you’ll be dead dread bed Bed. Good decision, Phil. Let me just call the ward, get your life back on track.

your life give her the knife your knife take her life bitch witch

My life, your life, witch bitch. Who’s the witch bitch, Phil? Whose life are we talking about? life wife devil’s wife she’s got devil’s spawn in her cut it out evil bastard cut it out Cut it out.What do you want to cut out, Phil? Something bad? Bad is sad. Very sad. You’re sad? Sad is bad. poke it out cut it out devil’s cub slut whore mother mary Comes to me. Words of wisdom. Well, I think you’re very wise. It’s good you can say you’re sad, Phil. Maybe we can help. I need somebody. That’s good to hear, you’re not alone, Phil. see they’re all listening not alone walls have ears fears shears cut her open cut the devil’s whore rip out the antichrist Christ. Christ’s mother. Mary? is a scary fairy ha ha ha kill the bitch You’re carrying a bastard. What, Phil? What do you mean? Mother Mary comes to me with poison in her womb. cut it out cut it out get rid of the stinking pup and its bitch whore mother Bitch whore mother fucked the devil. Cut it out now, bitch whore mother. Bitch bastard double trouble




Don’t worry. Be happy.


Sitting with someone who is hallucinating means there are three people in the room. Unfortunately, the doctor or therapist can only guess at what the third entity is doing and how that influences their patient. Please now use your mouse to highlight the whole piece. 

(c) suzanne conboy-hill 2012


Space Station.jpg


Fliss compressed her short, squat frame further into the burned out hollow of the hull, shoving Hennessey’s evacuated carcass aside and flicking indeterminate debris casually off her weapons harness. She holed up to consider strategy.

Fliss was a soldier; a grunt on the peri-solar defence ring where killing aliens, not caring platitudes, got you through a shift. She looked down at her uniform, or what passed for one after this morning’s skirmish, and scraped off the residue it had collected from the blast that took out her unit’s communications array. Most of her squad had gone with it and some of the residue was biological but Fliss didn’t much care whose just so long as it wasn’t hers.  She kicked the mess away with her boot, checked out her shoulder mountings for ammunition and headed off into the silence that used to be the galley. One survivor, not human. She shot it without ceremony and moved on, disregarding the plea for help it had registered on its translation device.

Fliss was not given to social communication; few of them here were, thrust out onto the edges of civilisation. How long had it been? Ten years? And had any relief units been sent up? No!  A flicker of anger caught momentarily then disappeared under Fliss’s cold dismissal. She had avoided execution by taking this option and the company of like-minded ‘volunteers’ had proved physically and sexually entertaining. No hardship, she concluded, hefting aside the stinking morass that had been another invader and squirming through the gap in the bulkhead towards the bridge.  She opened a com channel and hissed a command. They’d better be there or she’d make them wish the bastard crawlers had got them. A slight smile curled up one side of her mouth, that might be an entertaining distraction if push came to shove.

The ship hummed and throbbed as its automated repair systems got started on reconstruction. Fliss wiped something viscous off her face and onto her pants and the fabric felt slick with – what? Blood? Vomit? No, lubrication oil, some of the life support gaskets must have blown – shit! She pressed on, the urgency was cranking up; if this tub was holed too seriously…

The bridge was empty. A huge gap in the far skin was sealed now by the emergency force field unit but not before what was left of the crew had been spaced. One body remained, the commander, an honest woman here out of duty. Fliss probed Mackenzie’s top pocket for her ID, lingering momentarily over a breast hardened with rigor – nice tits, shame – then ran the bio-chip through her scan-and-rip software and elevated herself to officer class. Might as well be her family got the compensation payout as anyone else’s she thought.  She stuck the tag into the sub light transfer unit and squatted down next to Mackenzie’s body to wait for the air to run out.

(c) suzanne conboy-hill 2012. First published on PowFastFiction,  October 2010. Sadly, PowFast is now closed so I had to find a new home for this nasty little psychopath before she ran out of aliens and crew-mates.

When writing makes a difference: Royal Mail & the Paralympians

Royal cipher used as part of the Royal Mail id...


Not mine, necessarily, but I’m very pleased to have been there with the Facebook commenters, the tweeters, the social commentators who raised a storm and blew away discriminatory thinking.


Last week, I was passed a tweet that suggested our Paralympic gold medallists would not be honoured with individual Royal Mail stamps as the Olympians had been. I re-tweeted, inviting Royal Mail to tell us this wasn’t true. After all, who could think that was reasonable? Who would put forward a proposal that acknowledged the outstanding efforts of one group and sidelined those of another? But it was true – Royal Mail, in a massive gesture of celebration, had been delivering individualised sets of stamps to Olympic gold medallists within 24 hours of their win, but it was proposing to offer the Paralympians group photos only. Why? Because they would win too many! The thinking behind that had to have been either extraordinarily discriminatory, or a simple matter of appalling after-thought. The aftermath was astonishing. Not least because the British Paralympic Association appeared to have gone along with the decision. One commentator spoke of his twitter stream hitting 10,000 during the evening of his first tweet, and about the discussions he had subsequently with Royal Mail. I went to Royal Mail’s Facebook page and began a discussion there but the response, albeit polite and engaged, was not promising. I wrote my own piece, summarising the arguments I had offered there, and I fielded re-tweets of my own, which gathered additional momentum. Then it went quiet as so often happens in social media. It was over, there were economic arguments, practical arguments, all sorts of arguments, it seemed, other than just ones.


But then yesterday came extraordinary news – Royal Mail had changed its mind! The Paralympic gold medallists would be honoured with individual stamps in the same way as the Olympians have been, and while their announcement makes rather more of their being the first to do this, and much less (none actually) of the hoo-hah that is likely to have prompted them, we have a victory. My hope is that the blinkered thinkers at the top of Royal Mail that appeared to have forgotten the Paralympians will have learned something important about equality. It means ‘equal’, that’s what it means, and all that writing made that clear as a clear round over an Olympic five bar gate.


‘Five Shades for Greg’ now loose on the blog

book cover 5 shades fkor GregFive Shades for Greg 

I pulled him closer, my hands almost greedily devouring his body. I had to get this right. I had to make these darned things fit around the bulging muscles of his arms and, oh my, the bulging muscles in his thighs. I would think about his bulging manhood later, right now I had to concentrate like I’d never concentrated before. I pressed my lips together into a hard line and rolled my eyes. It was going to be hard, very hard – and that was a promise! I smothered a smirk.

‘Stand up, Greg,’ I ordered. It felt very nice to be in control, but I was struggling to keep my breathing steady as I worked my arms over his head and wriggled the loops luxuriously down over his shoulders. Those manly shoulders – so delicious! I smoothed down the flimsy fabric of his lycra top with my hands, and couldn’t contain a tiny gasp as I anticipated running them later over the bare body that pulsed beneath.

‘Bend your knees,’ I murmured into his ear, ‘and breathe in.’ I skimmed the next layer down over his chest, hovering provocatively over his rock-hard nipples, and anchored it in place by its fine cord straps. I was standing over him and he peeked up at me under those hooded lids with the long, black, eyelashes that tickled like butterflies when I made him kiss my … I had to bite my lips quite hard to stop my mind from wandering, and now I was distracted by some very warm feelings ‘down below’. Jeez, this was such a turn-on! I gyrated my hips a little, just to remind him, to tease him. Then I shook myself and got back on the job – as it were.

‘Turn around.’ I said, my voice husky with desire. I didn’t know if I could bear this; that tight sheer material pulled across those exquisite buttocks. I took a deep breath, which pulled my white top with its distinctive grey markings tight across my breasts. ‘Now bend over,’ I instructed. He leaned forward over the coal black ring, thrusting his rear out towards me so that I gasped and almost had a you-know-what right there and then. I noticed how compliant he was, how malleable, how easy it would be to just … I wanted to resist, really I did, to enjoy this tantalising episode and make it into a fantasy for later on, but my hand somehow raised itself and flew forwards, smacking his right buttock with a loud CRACK! His face was already flushing crimson because the restraints of the top half of the contraption were digging into his abs, and now he wore a wicked grin that made me want to smack the left cheek to make it as red as the first one must be and match the cheeks on his face. I held back though, just.

‘Pull up the base by its straps and clip them to the leather band round your waist,’ I purred – and he obeyed, it was so very exciting! I took the straps at the rear and pulled them slowly, sinuously up over his legs and fixed them to the bottom of the contraption. He was so helpless in this rig! I thought about taking advantage, about putting him on a lead there and then and taking him home to give him more – well – detailed attention. But no, we had something else to do first. I pulled on the cord dangling from the back of the device, just where the arch of his spine met his beautifully curved coccyx. Presto! The layers dropped open front and back with all five in the right order: blue, gold, black, green, and red, all hooped and linked like lampshades on an exotic human vaulting pole. I picked up my replica torch and checked outside for the transport– we had a ceremony to get to.

(c) suzanne conboy-hill 2012

First published by Ether Books, August 4th, 2012 and placed third in the Ether Olympic flash downloads competition.

‘Five Shades for Greg’ Ether Books competition NOW!

Español: Composición del Reino Unido en el Fes...

Shameless bandwagoning, but then it’s a competition and I’m going as low as it’s possible to go! I don’t need to win, in fact I’m competing within the Ether stable for the WOTSA (the Worst Olympic Themed something or other I can’t recall). Frankly, I’d just like to avoid being the UK Eurovision entry with a download tally of nul points. So if you have an iPhone or an iPad, you could chalk up a couple of downloads for FREE and you don’t even have to read the blighter! You can get the iPhone/iPad app from Ether Books . The competition opens midday (UK time) August 4th and closes midday (UK time) Friday August 10th. If nothing else, you get a good excuse to download some badly written faux erotica, and that’s got to be worth a bit of bandwidth!

Up now: Ether Books App –>Authors–>Suzanne Conboy-Hill–>Five Shades for Greg. There, that was easy!