Last Days

by Adam L.G. Nevill

‘Eh? Is this it, mate? Is this the best we can do? After millions of years of evolution, we start stupid cults of celebrity and feed the egos of maniacs until they take our money, fuck us in the arse, and then cut our throats. We should be cutting their throats!’ Kyle felt his rage deflate.

Arthur Machen took rooms a few doors down. Machen wrote The Hill of Dreams. The actual hill, Notting Hill, was Machen’s hill of dreams.

He had to get inside; had work to do. A new outline for an edit to compose. And an insert to film: a final piece to camera for the rough cut of a documentary he doubted he would live to see aired. But it would be broadcast, and in the great public theatre of his age; that unregulated market of braying narcissists, that Wild West of disinformation and fraud, that infinite sea of piracy, the great electorate where the constituency of billions voted their approval with a click of a mouse. The internet. It brought governments down and rewrote history; so his film should be right at home.