Michael Loughrey was born in Greenwich, London, and has lived as an expatriate in New York, Los Angeles and Paris.

His short fiction has featured in Hobart, Word Riot, 5_Trope, Underground Voices, Dogmatika, Aesthetica, Showcase@Laura Hird, The Future Fire, Sein und Werden, Aphelion, Zygote In My Coffee, Raging Face and Halfcut Publications/Leper Colony.

One of his stories was selected for the best-of-year print anthology published by Underground Voices in December 2007, and he won first prize in the UK Authors Network short story competition.

Those interested in publishing his recently completed novel should form an orderly queue outside the shack where he currently hangs his hat, or contact him via his email.

A disembodied voice of an unidentifiable gender demands the visitor’s identity.

‘At this moment,’ he lied, ‘I am Q’ab-El.’

Traversing the threshold of the first portal, visitor and disciples enter a hallucinatory extravaganza: simultaneously, a synthesised acceleration in the speed of light renders them invisible to its inhabitants.

Q’ab-El senses attune to sights, sounds, and odours...the gentle beating of avian wings from which black light waves oscillate, the synchronised tantric breathing of the disciples, the almost imperceptible whirr of a spinning disk, the mind-to-machine click quartet, the crustacean aroma of primordial broth bubbling in the cosmic cauldron...

Basking in the phosphorous glow of a full moon, the landscape was both eerie and benign. Underfoot, a low-lying white mist swirled over the mazarine blue of frozen fiords, lakes and lagoons in which a myriad of shimmering neutron stars in the kinetic nebula were reflected.

From a higher source in the firmament came projected beams of crimson luminosity which swept the land, piercing nimbostratus and highlighting obsidian mountain ranges, hermetic monuments, chassis, leviathan meteorites, sinuous bridges,idiosyncratic architecture with a utopian aesthetic.

Checking his compass, Q’ab-El advances across the land towards the shore of a fiord. Perched on tiptoe atop a rocky cliff face, a lissome, flaxen-haired succubus sings a bewitching sea shanty. Transmuting into a winged siren, she spreads her arms in supplication, a gossamer robe slithering over her voluptuous contours...come to me, come to me, let me enfold you...

His corporeal envelope a vessel on a voyage, Q’ab-El is lured towards the rocks she would have as his nemesis...waves of black avian light.....mind-to-machine click quartet...new compass setting...hard...to starboard.

Beelzebub, the siren’s mentor, rises from within her bowels. Furious at her failure, he denounces her sullied flesh in a salvo of arcane profanities until she turns to pumicestone...of which wings oscillate from the black waves of gentle beating avian light...

Looming up out of the mist, Q’ab-El espies a somnolent figure apparently carved from an asteroid. Upon closer inspection the material transpires to be millions of microscopic brain cells from living molluscs fissioned into an androgynous persona.Q’ab-El’s fascination is distracted when his peripheral vision catches a fleeting glimpse of a ballerina in a white tutu, her skin transparent as fine porcelain. On point, shepirouettes across the breadth of the land. Q’ab-El strains to catch the fading echo of hervoice...you have come at last...flash of a subliminal image...neurons on the sculpture’s face animate in illusory coitus, an immaculate birth ensues, the sleepingfigure cradles the newborn infant...the mind-to-machine click quartet...almost imperceptible whirr of a spinning disk...

The subliminal image fades as Q’ab-El is drawn into the next portal, as much, he fancies, by the dancer as by the magnetic force which brought him to this land. But then again, he asks himself, who is in control here?

A mountain range borders a frozen lake. The ballerina dances across its surface with grace and gusto, head raised to a source of lactic incandescence which renders her fluorescent.

‘You’re invisible, yet I know you’re there.’ She sighed breathlessly. ‘Are you Piotr Ilitch? I don’t believe the wagging tongues of rumour-mongers. They claim he died of cholera in the Other Place. St. Petersburg? One of the disciples told me that in another incarnation, he’d met a chef who’d dedicated a special recipe to Piotr Ilitch in celebration of one of his symphonies...from which avian light waves the gentle beating black of wings oscillate...Are you Piotr Ilitch?’

Q’ab-El bowed. ‘For the moment,’ he said, feigning the appropriate accent, ‘I am Piotr Ilitch.’

Trembling, the ballerina curtsied. ‘Mâitre craves knowledge of me?’ She whispered coyly.

Pulling her towards him, Q’ab-El kissed her roughly. Grasping her small buttocks he hoisted her body up against his, spread her legs akimbo and penetrated her, the lunges of his feral assault in surreal contrast to the mellifluous lilt of her swansong.

‘Take one mature swan, plucked and cleaned. Stuff the swan with a goose, which has been stuffed with a capon, which has been stuffed with pheasant, which has been stuffed with a poussin, which has been stuffed with lark. Roast in a low oven overnight, basting regularly. Serve with a chawdron sauce, which is made by finely chopping the swan's giblets and boiling them in the swan’s blood, vinegar, and strong spices.’

By the time Q’ab-El was done with her she had melted, her exquisite ice-sculpted body a pool of boiling water at his feet...cosmic crustacean bubbling of primordial cauldron in the broth...encircled by the beam of lactic incandescence, the pool of water evaporates into a small cloud which rises to dance, to dance...

Satiated sexually yet famished otherwise, Q’ab-El is drawn into the next portal, a trail of wet footprints in his wake. A glacial northeaster whistled over whimsical architectural edifices embellishing the vast land mass before him.

Concealed in the amethyst shadows of a portico, the Creator follows the disciple’s progress whilst making calculations on an abacus fashioned from narwhal teeth strung with beads of jade, amber and black opal. Q’ab-El approaches Him...gentle beating of avian wings from which black light waves oscillate...synchronised tantric breathing of the disciples...

‘Counting heads?’ Q’ab-El said, indicating the abacus.

The Creator glanced up and shook his head. ‘Chronology dyslexia. Concocting an intellectual alchemy of Planck’s theory and Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle.’

Q’ab-El nodded. ‘In the Other Place, one of their number called Taleb postulates the Black Swan Theory. It concerns the notion of the improbable, defining a Black Swan as a large-impact, hard-to-predict and rare event beyond the realm of normal expectations.’...wings of gentle waves which oscillate avian light beating from black ...

Shuffling the precious beads along the bars of the abacus, the Creator was scornful. ‘The genesis, existence and precarious survival of the Other Place. The direction a future will take pivoting on a Patent clerk’s consciousness as he rides the tramway. The village idiot crowned King. You did say beyond the realm of normal expectations?’

Q’ab-El sensed the movement of one of the invisible disciples who circulated amongst the works of art...disciple breathing black broth...

‘Why,’ he asked the Creator, ‘accelerate the speed of light?’

There was loathing in the Creator’s reply. ‘A cliché, admittedly, but invisibility when visiting this land is a prerequisite. An aficionado’s appreciation of art is hampered by the physical presence of so many...bodies. Ars sine scienta nihil est.’

Q’ab-El smiled. ‘And vice-versa. Science is nothing without art. What of the magnetic force that draws disciples here? A corruption of Newtonian physics, or hypnosis induced by semiological paradigms? But then, no, of course you exist on pages that Darwin never reached. You’re a trope for the Cygnus Atratus that the old buffer missed...black avian from the gentle beating light of which waves oscillate wings...May I see your hands?’

Nodding, the Creator complied. ‘We’ve met before.’ He sighed.

‘We have.’ Q’ab-El replied, smiling as he examined the Creator’s slender fingers before finally pointing to the index on his left hand.

‘I saw the prototype of this implant in a laboratory during a sabbatical on one of Tau Ceti’s moons. Ingenious.’

The Creator nodded. ‘Charisma enhancers. Not as supercilious as theological accoutrements, more discreet and ultra potent.’When He stretched the index finger taught, Q’ab-El began gliding forwards involuntarily.

‘Continue your quest,’ the Creator said, raising His right hand, ‘and ponder: should one believe half of what one sees, and none of what one hears?’Q’ab-El braced himself as the magnetic force drew him into the icy atmosphere of the next portal.

A passing cloud shields the moon: across the tundra, a cluster of animated figures on the distant horizon resemble a mirage in the cobalt penumbra.

Advancing over frozen ground, Q’ab-El experienced a sense of foreboding, a déjàvu...gentle beating of avian wings from which black light waves oscillate...the northeaster ceased as suddenly as it had risen. Beams of crimson luminosity scan the landscape before settling on the animated figures.

Approaching the group with relaxed vigilance, Q’ab-El was able to discern their genus. Chimeras, androids, snarks, djinns, and eidolons scurried and scuttled away when they became aware of his presence, cowering under boulders and in tenebrous crevices. A teenage necromancer, clad in tight blue jeans, a low-cut sweater and white sneakers skipped in circles, seemingly not intimidated by his presence....disciples breathing of the synchronised tantric...disk of imperceptible almost whirr a spinning...mind-to-machine click the quartet,...

Lazily chewing gum whilst flirtatiously batting eyelids laden with turquoise kohl and gold leaf, she addressed Q’ab-El.

‘Dude,’ she pouted. ‘youz invisible, but I knowz you’re there. Es tu Monsieur Proust?...You ever find all that time you lost? A disciple said that in another incarnation, you told him that swan’s feathers were perfect for wiping the bronze Cyclops in the Gluteus Maximus. Like no way did you use swan’s feathers as toilet tissue, right? If that’s true, it’s like so scato. gross I’ll make an effigy of you from freeze-dried scorpion jissom and stab it with rusty nails...the almost imperceptible whirr of a spinning disk...So is youz Marcel? Autograph my butt?’

Slithering from beneath a rock, the venomous tail of a snark lashed out, lassoing the waist of the necromancer and dragging her shrieking into its lair.

‘Bon appetit.’ Q’ab-El grunted as he consulted his compass.

Dominating the vista stood an imposing bronze column with a verdi-gris patina, a pulsating orange radiance emanating from its crown. Bathed in a ray of crimson luminescence atop the column knelt a rara avis, a hybrid Homo-Sapiens-Cygnus, his gaze raised towards the orb of the full moon. His skin was of an ashen pallor, as was the pleated grey cloth which girdled his loins and the downy plumage adorning wings on his broad back. Tethers of tightly plaited raw silk were attached to his neck and wings, impeding flight.

His finely sculpted visage framed by shoulder-length hair sent Q’ab-El’s mind reeling, evoking memories of aeons past in the Other Place...disk of imperceptible almost whirr a spinning....beyond the realm of normal expectations...flash of subliminal images...black mountains of South Dakota...a valley deep in snow...bluegrey smoke rising from a tepee,...inside, a North American aboriginal shaman kneeling on animal pelts daubed with hexagrams breaks bread and serves a clay bowl of stewed fungi, his hands and feet wrapped in bloodied bandages...flash of subliminal images...disciple breathing black broth...thirty pieces of silver...the Sanhedrin High Priest ordains crucifixion...on the Via Dolorosa palm trees melting beneath a scorching sun...heckled and herded towards the summit...from the elevated place where he is restrained, the winged victim begs forgiveness for those who know not...

‘Who would commit this deed?’ Q’ab-El cried out to him.

The captive’s response was a grief-laden lament. ‘Those who would build Empires from sand.’

Q’ab-El hung his head. ‘What was your trespass?’

‘I am the prodigal son.’

Q’ab-El’s gaze traced every fibre in the plaited tethers with ferocious intensity until heat from his eyes caused them to smoulder and burst into flames.

Forked lightning crackled across the skies as a tempest descended over the land. Q’ab-El pointed to the east before cupping his hands to his mouth...cosmic whirr of the tantric crustacean disciples...click of a black broth bubbling light in wings imperceptible beating...from which oscillate the synchronised aroma disk breathing gentle quartet to the spinning cauldron...from the avian waves of the almost primordial machine mind...‘Fly yonder,’ Q’ab-El roared over the raging storm, ‘beyond the realm of normal expectations.’