// JADED against

humankind, we turn to machines for guidance. Complete messes: the planet, our bodies, our friends and families. Let the ROBOTS guide us. Tell us who we know, how best to express our gratitude for their friendship. Let them into my blood and make me in and out of steel. Fight my wars. Fly low over a village and blast ten women ten children ten innocent men and one enemy general to shit. Float a flotilla churning sea salt into the air above warming oceans, cool my atmosphere and save MY Polar bears. I need the bears to look at, to have well educated British octogenarians speak softly over high definition three-dimensional footage of them playing with their pups. Let the ROBOTS into our schools, teach our children to be smarter than the insecure messes who taught us. Let them scan me when I am sick, prescribe and administer me the dosage, correct to the atom. I want them driving me everywhere, interacting with each other and no human hand touching a wheel, drunk drivers become the drunk driven. Anticipate human behaviour in computerised city planning, computerised city policing. Know crimes before they occur and stop me being burgled, mugged, stamped and spat and stabbed on by other balls of sweat and feeling. Deny and go numb. Layer a soft film of metal and carbon-fiber over every difficult part of my life so that the joyous bits shine and go luminous. Write me my favourite songs. Recommend me my favourite books. Feed me. Blast water into me and make me clean. JADED and jagged we are from too much rubbing of shoulders far too human. Iron out those kinks and make life good and well and simple and honest AGAIN. ROBOTS align and enter my life. COME. BE.

EMIT. /

~AJP / /

/ /

holyshitfuckingfuckf

uckshit

~ HANNAH LEVENE /

With one final rusty

swallow Megalomaniac54

completed his chicken

sandwich and felt content

to die. He wheeled over to

the window and looked out

at the world below: they

were re-laying the

aluminium on the high

street. He pondered for a

second whether this was

enough reason to live. It

was not. The large sheets

that wobbled into place

caught the sun and

reflected pure light into

his eyes. Is this it?,he

thought. It was not. There

was only one way a

Meglomaniac54 could die.

He rolled backwards the

length of the sofa and shut

off his vision. Then, from

zero to full speed in the

shortest time he could

possibly achieve he headed

straight for the window of

his fifty story apartment.

He hit the glass. It

shattered. Not instantly:

it seemed whole until he

was completely through it,

as if he had passed through

a worm hole and the air had

reformed around him. Then

it sneezed a gigantic

sneeze into the expanse and

millions of shards of

Meglomaniac54 s window’

followed their previous

inhabitant as he plummeted

through the sky.

The sheer speed at which he

hit the air ripped all his

extremities from his body.

The wind rushed through the

holes left in him: it

entered his left side

silently and exited through

his right tuned to a

perfect B#. Inside, his

organs let go. His bowels,

if he had been given any,

would have released every

inch of every part of him.

Instead, thousands of cogs

and gears began to rattle.

They panicked, throwing

themselves against the box

of his skin they thunked

and thunked until his body

became a cliff edge and his

organs smashed against each

other over and over. But he

could not die. There was

only one way for a

Meglomanic54 to die. Each

robot was given their own

self destruct password at

production. It was assigned

to them and saved in the

info-cloud which surrounded

them; the quasi-

subconscious ready to

reveal itself when the will

to die became too strong.

Meglomaniac54 plummeted

through the air deformed

under the forces of both

outside and in. He immersed

himself in the cloud. He

cried out a nameless sound:

a screech of metal gears;

the friction of his own

self on the sky. His hard-

drive cracked through his

body and zoomed away from

him. Everything he ever

knew was gone; each cog and

wire and gear flew out

after it. He was completely

empty but for his final

words as if his self-

destruction was all he had

ever known; his will to end

became every part of him, a

metal shell around his

ability to die and he

opened his mouth and let it

fall from him

holyshitfuckingfuckfuckshit

he screamed and a flame

ignited inside his ragged

remains and his body ripped

its final rip and the sun

hit the aluminium and

blinded the world below and

the world above.

Meglomaniac54 turned to

ash; soft, formless and

gentle and he did not land.

/ /

/ / Jack and Bolts

~ CHRIS STEER /

Jack sits in his beige,

tattered armchair by the

window. A cup of cold tea

sits on a discoloured,

mahogany coffee table. The

floors of this room are

wooden and stained and the

yellowed walls are bare.

Jack barely moves. There is

only a slight quivering in

his white wisp of a beard

as he breathes. Like the

table and the armchair, he

spends his days collecting

dust.

He catches his

reflection in the window.

His skin looks like

wrapping paper, creased

tight around his skull. He

glances down at his clothes

and his hands and decides

he has been sitting by this

window too long. He too has

faded in the sun.

Through the window,

beyond his reflection, Jack

stares out to the road. It

used to be that cars raced

past his house all day and

night. Now the road is

empty. He can t recall when’

he last saw a car with

tyres.

With great effort

Jack leans forward. He can

almost hear his muscles

creaking as he reaches out

his hand. He flicks the

latch and heaves the window

open. Flakes of paint tap

down onto the windowsill.

He leans outside and looks

up. The sky is full of the

black specks of cars flying

in every direction. He can

hear their engines; a

constant buzz that

disappears once he closes

the window.

Jack hears the

jangle of keys in the door.

His new help must be here.

His family arranged it for

him before they left. It

has been more than a week

since they hugged him

goodbye to live off-world.

His daughter-in-law said

they will try and visit

within the next couple of

years but no-one expects

him to be alive then. When

they return to Earth, it

will surely be for Jack s’ funeral.

Jack looks to the

doorway of the living room,

waiting for his helper to

appear. He hears heavy

footsteps plodding down the

hallway, accompanied by a

mechanical whirring.

The helper comes

into view and stops,

standing in the doorway. It

is an impressive sight and

barely fits through the

door. It must be well over

six feet tall.

Jack tries to

remember how tall he is

himself. He knows he must

have been measured as a

child, with a tape measure

and a pencil against the

wall. He knows he must have

done the same with his son.

He knows but he does not

remember.

The helper is even

paler than Jack. Its

plastic skin is cream in

colour. Over its chest the

skin is thick, a deeper

cream. Over its arms and

legs the skin is thinner

and Jack can see through it

to the helper s plastic’

bones. They twist and dance

beneath the surface. The

bones are light blue, or

maybe they are darker but

the translucent skin

softens their colour.

The helper s hands’

are little more than claws.

Two pairs of metal pincers

on each hand. They are

currently opening and

shutting quickly,

fidgeting. Jack holds his

own hands up to his eyes.

His fingers are bony and

seem just as sharp.

The helper s head is’

oblong. Two huge eyes shine

delicately near the top.

They shimmer like puddles

of mercury with blue pixels

swirling beneath the

surface. The helper has no

other facial features yet

somehow Jack decides it is

a sad face.

Hello, Jack, says“ ”

the helper. No mouth or

speaker is visible. The

voice hangs in the air. It

is supposed to sound human

but it rustles with static.

Slowly, Jack wets

his lips. Good morning.“ ” His voice cracks and

wobbles in response. It is

a broken whisper of a

voice.

May I approach you?“ ” asks the helper.

Yes.“ ”The helper clomps

over to Jack and towers

over him. Jack can only

strain his head back so far

and roll his eyes up so

much. He can t see the’

helper s eyes.’Please can you bend“

down?”The helper

immediately begins a

strange routine that

reminds Jack of the classic

image of a snake dancing to

a charmer s melody. The’

helper writhes and rocks

its way down to the floor

until it is kneeling and

…PURCHASE @

TERRAFURMA.

TICTAIL.COM

…PURCHASE @

TERRAFURMA.

TICTAIL.COM

/ / Sex Robot

~ AIMEE BEA BALLINGER /

Everyday I wake up, take a

shit and eat breakfast.

Sometimes I watch the news,

try to think about girls

and money but mostly I just

get depressed. It s always’

the mornings that I really

feel the burden of being

born human.

All we do is eat down into

the earth shitting out

carbon monoxide, leaving

trails of detritus until we

finally decompose.

I m not an activist, or’

scientist or poet or

political speaker. I m too’

lazy. I m a maggot like the’

rest of them, leaving my

shit-trail like everybody

else, I just never got a

chance to multiply.

I spend my afternoons

projecting dirty movies

onto the ceiling so that I

don t have to sit upright,’

watching girls getting

themselves off with relics

of the old-world;

corkscrews, torches,

nutcrackers. Half the time

they don t look like they re’ ’

enjoying themselves, which

makes me feel like I m’ probably not either but I

always keep watching right

up until they come.

I ve been ticking off’

reasons to leave my

apartment from the second I

moved in. I don t eat as’

much since the operation

even though the pain has

stopped. I m nearly all’

machine and surgical rubber

from the waste down. A

macerator stomach implant

isn t unusual for a man of’

my age. Everybody s cyborg,’

some of them out there in

the new world have never

experienced a natural human

body. They call it positive

change. Progression,

keeping us trudging on and

on in these silicone

caverns they call bodies.

My parents died a few years

ago both in their late

eighties, too young really.

They rejected the cyborg

ideal, preferring instead

to die as a result of a

natural failure of their

organic organs. First their

hearts played up, then

their bladders went and

just before the onset of

cancer in my fathers small

intestine they were gone.

They went on the same

night. There was no way of

accurately telling how much

time existed between their

individual deaths. I think

that they both went at the

same time. Lights out all-

together like when I was a

kid. One couldn t have’

lived without the other

anyway. It sounds beautiful

but it was pretty fucked up

and sad. After their death

I moved out of my shitty

bedsit and into the home

they had shared since their

early twenties, before the

smog, before the metal,

before macerator stomachs

and scaffold arteries.

Petra came into my life

because I finally became as

lazy as everybody else. I

got bored with wallowing in

the old days, sick of

laying in filth. I d let’

the apartment slip into a

wasteland of my own making;

sheets beyond soiled,

washing up bowl perpetually

belching dirty dishes until

they spilled over onto the

floor. Something had to be

done, I sat up for the

first time in days, letting

the dirty movie swing down

onto the opposite wall and

realign itself with my

vision. Blinking it off I

opened a new browser and

spoke into the bleakness:

‘SEARCH:HOUSEBOT:

SELECT MODEL:

YOU HAVE SELECTED:

PETRA’

One giant leap from my

cesspit of the past into

realtime.

Petra arrived a few days

later, cutting though the

grime like acid. For days I

watched Petra move around

the flat, mesmerized by the

fluidity of her movements.

Each time I dragged my eyes

away light would bounce

over the smooth metal

exterior, drawing me back

in. My life became calmer,

quieter. I found myself

relying less on the girls

in the projections.

I made her a her, Petra my

she. Being around Petra was

like standing next to a

mannequin in a clothes

shop. Feeling the presence

of somebody next to you

even though they re not’

real, not human. I started

wearing a towel out of the

shower. I didn t want to’

make Petra uncomfortable,

though I wasn t entirely’

sure she could see me. She

didn t have eyes, only’

sleek smooth metal with

quick, long arms and a

glowing red bulb filling

…PURCHASE @

TERRAFURMA.

TICTAIL.COM

/ / Leika~ GARY GREEN /

Another day, another

dollar.

That s one of the niceties’

my makers programmed me

with, even though they're

incredibly far away. For

reasons unknown to me,

computer jargon isn t’ supposed to be particularly

effective conduct in

conversation; instead,

phrases such as the whole‘

nine yards , and up shit’ ‘

creek without a paddle are’

just some that I was

presented with during my

programming. I assume it's

in my maker's hopes that I

will begin understanding

such odd sayings, but I ve’

yet to discern what they

mean. Meaning - what

meaning do such

colloquialisms bear out

here, where there's no one

else to hear them?

During this thought

(one of many to keep my

cognitive functions

healthy), I m rolling’

across the barren terrain

of a world six hundred

light years from where such

phrases come. I'm sampling

soil and rocks, scanning

for any sign of

extraterrestrial life to

relay back to my own

planet. My tracks are

irredeemably dirty, my

chassis plating is pecked

with scratches, and tiny

cracks have formed in the

most embarrassing nooks and

crannies. It's a tough,

nomadic profession, to be

sure it takes a certain–

gusto (another one of my

maker's bizarre turn of

phrases) to simply keep on

going, and going, and going

more. Out here, it's just

desert, desert and more

desert. And me, scuttling

across its horizon.

I ve been here for quite’

some time now, and there

has been no positive

identification on any of my

samples. How many must I

have taken now?

Five thousand, two

hundred and twenty nine.

I'm not sure why I

asked myself that question.

Maybe it's to do with this

unknown urge I'm

developing; I keep finding

myself wishing that if I

stumble on a life form -

which would fulfil Priority

One, and make my makers

very happy - me and it will

become 'friends', that

bizarre thing where you

actively enjoy the company

of another localisation of

thought processes. This is

of course improbable. If I

do find anything, it'll

likely just be puddles of

bacteria, which I'm led to

believe aren't fantastic

conversationalists. So

instead, I'm starting to

wish there were someone

else like me. Perhaps I

could talk with them. Just

for a little while. We

could exchange data,

compare telemetric

equipment.

But there was only

ever a single unit deployed

here which was me. It s a– ’

shame they couldn t have’

anticipated this

unexplainable feeling. But

luckily, today I have a

distinct mission to keep my

cognitive functions busy:

I m heading toward the base’

of IO481, less a mountain

and more a monolith of rock

wreathed in faint cloud.

It's the largest mountain

my makers have recorded on

this type of planet, which

is impressive - and it's in

view a few miles dead ahead

of me. It may hold secrets;

if it's a volcano -

obviously a dormant one -

it could show traces of a

magnetic field, too weak

for me to pick up with my

equipment. And a magnetic

field is needed to support

a sustainable life system.

I may find a friend.

And if I do, I hope they'll

like me.

IO481 looms ahead, closer

now than several hours ago.

Weather and humidity are

constant, and the terrain

is proving smooth. It

strikes me that this odd

journey, traversing the

depths of space, is just

for a scraping of microbial

life at the very least. It

seems almost ridiculous -

then I recall my new

feeling. What if my makers

too want to find someone

else, just like them?

During my

programming, which now

seems a very long time ago,

I came across a

psychological defence

mechanism that my makers

would activate in similar

circumstances: sometimes,

when one of their children

had no one to play with,

they would conjure up an

imaginary friend . In many‘ ’

cases, they seemed to adopt

imaginary friends when they

were adults, too. A lot of

the time because they were

'sad', and wanted someone

to talk to.

I recall my chief

…PURCHASE @

TERRAFURMA.

TICTAIL.COM

/ / FeelBook

~ AJ PRENDERGAST /

I look at Robyn Pince. She

has been so very busy this

week! I take great joy in

turning her profile over

and up and down and - ! -

She became friends with

Terry Shulah! I am already

friends with Terry Shulah!

This means that my

friendship with Robyn Pince

and Terry Shulah is more

meaningful; more thoroughly

connected. Terry Shulah

likes a music festival and

for a moment I consider

liking it as well, just to

celebrate my newly

discovered extra-special

friendship with Terry

Shulah. But then I hit one

of those blank walls and I

turn around in my thoughts.

I check my Private

Messages. None today.

'Here we have a transcript

of Ling overstepping in a

category one. She didn't

get far enough along the

thought process for it to

be a problem and she was

able to step back, retreat

to the private section of

her profile and then

continue.' The people in

the board-room nodded. Some

of them made notes on the

eSurface of the table. The

notes darted back and forth

amongst the attendants of

the meeting, white lines in

dull green.

'In this next

transcript we will see Ling

hit category two and then

allow it to develop into

category three. At this

point she makes some

erratic decisions and

starts scrolling dumbly up

and down her feed. This is

comparable to logging off.

Effectively comatose.'

A real-time capture

of the FeelBook profile

appeared in front of

everyone at the table. The

people, some dressed as

stiff scientists: shirts

unbuttoned at the collar

and some in the height of

designer-fashion: blank

kimonos and LED hair-

extensions, lean further

into the table and look:

What is Pauli Herring up

to? Her time-line spreads

out across me and I take

joy in submerging into her

life. When she was fifteen

she was in a relationship

with a (then) twenty year-

old boy called Philip

Carter. I remember being in

a relationship. I remember

the great joy I felt in

checking the box so that my

profile read: Ling Zero-One

is in a relationship with

Jiu Zero-Four. I made sure

to like more of Jui Zero-

Four's activities from then

on, at least until I

decided I didn't want to be

in a relationship with Jui

Zero-Four any more. I like

Pauli Herring and Philip

Carter's relationship from

those years ago. I am shown

various pictures of Pauli

Herring and Philip Carter.

Pauli Herring is kissing

Philip Carter and someone

has commented: Hope you

didn't break the law Phil

you creep! I ponder for a

moment. There is something

that troubles me. Law. Law.

Break the law. I think for

a moment more but my mind

is all fogged and messed

with this 'Law'. I remember

something, a fragment but I

am so lonely in this memory

and the memory of this

loneliness hurts me. I feel

uncomfortable and sad so in

order to feel better I

return to my feed and

celebrate the friends I

have now. In a moment I

like everything they have

all done within the last

five years. I also comment

on all of their 5, 500

profiles. 'I thank you for

your company! You are a

valuable aspect of my

life!' I almost feel

better. I check my Private

Messages. None today.

'So. The word 'Law' and the

idea of 'Breaking Law'

evidentially caused an

issue for Ling. She

appeared to recall, through

association with the

concept of 'Law', her life

before being plugged into

the FeelBook server. When

we were utilising the

FeelBook advertising and

profile algorithms to

create Ling, who it might

be worth reiterating was

the very first AI profile

we created, we spent a lot

…PURCHASE @

TERRAFURMA.

TICTAIL.COM

/images in order of appearance -

/ Machine (Cover/Backcover)~ Fred Vernon/fredvernon.tumblr.com

/ Heavy Metal~ Tom Dunn/ kidswithpuns.tumblr.com

/ Robot Fast~ Amanda Baeza/ mrspoqui.com

/ Organism~ Archie Edwards/ themagicheadache.tumblr.com

/postcards -

/ Robot Sale~ Fred Vernon/ fredvernon.tubmlr.com

/ The Robot That Ate the Planet

~Arthur Hamer/ arthurhamer.co.uk

/stories in order of appearance -

/ holyshitfuckingfuckfuckshit~ Hannah Levene/ neutralnorway.tumblr.com

/ Jack and Bolts~ Chris Steer/ chrissteerscribbles.wordpress.com

/ Sex Robot~ Aimee Bea Ballinger/ aimee-bea.tumblr.com

/ Leika~ Gary Green/ filmontrial.com

/ Feelbook~ AJ Prendergast/ terrafurma.tumblr.com

/ edited

~ Alfie J Prendergast

/ printed

~ crumbcabin.tumblr.com

/ many thanks

to Joey Fourr, Percy

Currie, Neutral Norway

and Crumb Cabin

/ special thanks

to all of the

contributors

/ this issue is

dedicated to Falmouth.

/ GO

terrafurmazine.tumblr.com

and follow

@terra_furma

for info on

terra_furma

ZINE #2

SPACESHIP //“ ”