An ode to the number 42

The pronic number of 42 is the second sphenic masterpiece,

To me it represents a perfect piece of molybdenum, set at the base of a perfectly angled rainbow, it is the asterisk to find everything.

The source of its power from the Orion Nebula, can sound like death in Japanese, is inevitably the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, and its me, the number of years on this planet.

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Captive Birth

This is a short story I wrote ages ago, but still one of the best things I have done so far.

Captive Birth

A Short Story

By James Hall

Shannon was shaking as she stood, amniotic fluid slowly traversing the contours of her thighs. A spasm shot through her abdomen, and tears leaked from her blood shot eyes. She sniffed up some escaping mucus and let out another sob; if only she could see the state she was in, but in the darkness, she could see nothing. Her boney fingers, undernourished, wiped the tears from her cracked cheeks. The wetness was becoming uncomfortable, and it felt like she was burning between her legs. In the darkness, her arms reached to find a wall, or perhaps the door, but she could neither find or see anything. Her swollen belly gave another kick, she knew it was soon time, and that the one thing in the world she needed right now was a hospital. Don’t be stupid, her thoughts told her, you’re on your own, and no one is going to help. She would have this baby, here, in the dark, alone, with risk of infection or even death, to both of them. Shannon had still not decided if she wanted the baby to survive or not, her thoughts torn between love and hatred for the child, and despair of bringing a child into her current, hopeless situation. Many a time had she thought of punching her stomach, hurting herself and the baby, to prevent any further suffering, but could never carry it out. As she shuffled forwards, each movement causing discomfort, her skinny protrusions fingered the wall; mentally cursing the fact that it was night-time, and that the only window was devoid of light. Her hands followed the wall, as she moved closer, looking for something to latch on to. A shriek of pain engulfed her thoughts as her left toe collided with the stone latrine. Trying to compose herself, she cautiously bent down and carefully lowered herself onto the makeshift toilet.

“Help me, you bastard.” she cried.

“Where the fuck are you”.

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Passing Man

This is a preview of a short story I am working on.


Forty years had passed since I died. My flesh has rotted, my skin has long since decompossed. Where once there was living tissue, blood and bones, now simply minerals and calcium deposits. The remains of the life I once had distributed between the earth, the family and the opportunists. My death was a painful one which I remember as if it was only yesterday, not forty years prior. I can still to this day feel the chops and the slashes of the blade which severed my limbs. The tightness around my neck as I was afixiated, even the feel of the needle prick as it punctured my skin and the cold pressure building up around the needles entry point as the cocktail of drugs swelled into my bloodstream. Yes, it certainly wasn’t my best day.