Aerial Fragment: ‘dead’



Ghost Codes 008

It goes like this: 2 years had gone by since the crash of the digital age, 2 years since the CPUs burned out en mass, simultaneously.

All the music of that era, the melodies we had composed, performed, recorded, coded into numbers, all this was lost seemingly forever.

And then the first of the drifting spirits appeared: the scattered ghosts of pop stars, their final traces still caught in the ether.

At dusk you could listen to the strange music. You might glimpse in the air a spectral glow, tiny dancing sprites of colour.

Sparkletown was a prime site; ghost collectors gathered there. A few got rich. Most went crazy. One or two killed themselves.

Some of them got so hooked into it, the spirits took them over completely. Their bodies were found at dawn, their dead mouths singing.



20110912 by temp_user9





Ghost Codes 018

For the next few nights Break could not sleep properly. Dreams would lull him, only to drag him back awake. The dead singer whispered, always on the edge of hearing.

He could take no more. He left his room and went up to the roof of the block. All was dark, the streets empty. He felt the ghosts as tingles on his skin.

Was this his true calling, to be a guide for Dixie, nothing more than a compass? A waste of his gifts, surely, but what else could he do?

In dreams he caressed the neonglow air with glittering feathers, taking flight across the Haze Towns. Joining with his brethren…

Renegade angels working the night sky, buzzing with fire at their wingtips, all the scattered songs theirs for the taking.

Break opened his eyes. He felt he could step off from the building’s lip and ride the updrafts, floating easy with arms outstretched.

Was he dreaming now? His feet moved closer to the edge.



20111110 by temp_user9





The Fog Catchers 003

The fog rolls in, the fog rolls out. And as it passes through the nets, images linger like dew from all the scattered memories.

Edits from film and video, mobile phone footage, digital uploads, all caught in the tracery. Objects, landscapes, people. The dead…

It’s cool. The world before I was born. Way before, most of it. I like that kind of weird connection.

So we head back down, captures in my backpack. Just a single half-decent image, a few other scrapings. But they feel so precious.

And that’s how the story begins. My life. Up early each day, attend the nets, then school. Home, to see dad working on the transfers.

Me helping, learning, getting in the way. Making shimmercasts, smokepods, vapouramas. Anything that could hold an image in place.

And then every Saturday, we’d head down the Sparkle Market, making sales. That’s important. Because that’s where I met Jake.



20120107 by temp_user9