P2 : 59 minutes remaining

P2: Different Ps (59 minutes)

The first thing that became obvious was that there were three of him. Three Ps, at least.
The first one was able to make his body parts move; so that he was able to move his eyes and look at the clock, for instance, or pick up the black oblong object from the table and push the side buttons.
(Ah, yes – a mobile – telephone – device.)
Then there was the second P who knew stuff – who remembered stuff, like just now: had access, as it were, to a store of knowledge.
Finally, there was a third one – a third P – which kind of overlooked everything that he was doing [just like he was doing now], which might be considered the super-P: the Overseer.
But it was access to the second P he most needed right now, he realised: the one which stored memories and, hopefully, provided him with enough information to make decisions based on that knowledge.P
His life might depend on it.
So, a mobile telephone device. How did that help him?
He switched it on again.
The small white dot of light in the upper left corner turned red. That probably wasn’t a good sign. A square made up of numerals ranging from 0 to 9 lit up in the centre. A prompt required a PIN.
The good thing was that he could recognise numbers and letters of the alphabet and could understand what was required from him.
That part of his memory remained.
The bad thing was he couldn’t recall this particular anagram: P.I.N. PIN. Pin. What did that mean?
He remembered ‘pin’. To pin something. Or a sharp pointed object. A safety-pin. A drawing pin.
A safety pin.
A drawing pin.
A safety pin.
PA safety pin!
A safety pin.
A safety pin. Something to keep your pin safe.
A PIN number.
A P – I – N.
A Personal Identity Number.
What was it, his PIN? He had no idea.
The mobile’s screen had gone blank.
Without the number he could not access the data it contained.
Was that a bad thing?
What could the phone tell him about himself?
Contact numbers, of course. He could contact somebody and ask them if they knew what was happening, who he was.
He would say, ‘Hi there, this is me, P. Do you know me?’ And they’d say, ‘Hey, I thought this was X, or maybe they’d say, ‘Hi, X’, when they picked up.
And maybe there’d be his own contact details stored on the phone already. Maybe he’d recognise his own name if he saw it. Remember who he was and where he lived.
And then there was other information available, he remembered, like Google and Google maps so that he could at least find out where on the planet he was located.
Then again, his intuition and capacity for lateral thought seemed to be kicking in pretty well now and maybe that would be the best way of recalling just who he was.
Maybe a more authentic ‘him’.
Actually, anyone would do right now: a Google him or a real him, it really didn’t matter.
The main thing was that he saved his life.P
And this was probably the fourth P, he realised. The unthinking P. The P that wanted just to exist in some form at all costs.
The primeval P, if you like. The sub-P.
He was wasting time. A look at the clock told him another minute was almost up. Only another fifty-eight minutes remained before he was extinguished entirely.
If only he could remember that damn PIN…

Audio: the previous instalment (click below)



NOVELS by Glyn F Ridgley @ Amazon & bookstores worldwide

Background to ‘P – a Viral Story’

P – a Viral Story, is the original tale of someone who wakes up to discover that they can remember nothing at all about who they are or where they live: not even their name.
All they seem to know is that they have one hour to recount all this information or they will be completely obliterated as a human being.
The full story is broken into each remaining minute of the narrator’s life while they try desperately to figure out their unknown identity in the time available.
Each new – as yet unwritten – instalment of P will be posted at midnight GMT on Fridays with the text of the narrator’s painful and almost unendurable attempts to discover the information which will save their life.
Any comments will be appreciated – they could even inform the final narrative structure unless the commentator explicitly states otherwise (no worries).
An audio version of the previous instalment will be available at the end of each freshly posted text.
By pressing the FOLLOW button your own identity remains anonymous, however it ensures that you receive each instalment of P at the moment it is posted.
As a backfill to the completed story you may wish to visit other posts on this ever-evolving blogsite which add to the composition of the – as previously stated, not yet written – tale of P.

NOVELS by Glyn F Ridgley @ Amazon & bookstores worldwide


P – a Viral Story for our time

He had woken from a dream and forgotten his name or where he lived.

At the same time, a voice in his head told him that he had just an hour to recount this information or he would be dead.

One hour. To save himself from obliteration.

He looked at the round disc hanging on the wall; a white background in a wooden frame ringed with a series of black Roman numerals going from I to XII and A Newgate written in an elaborate script with LONDON designated bold and square below. An inner ring was marked with five dashes between each of the numerals. Three pointers – or arms – radiated from a black point at the very centre of the circle: one moved as a thin black line and at a rate he could see (alarmingly). Another arm about the same length was of a more elaborate design and pointed to the XII; as did the shorter arm, of the same elaborate shape.

On the low wooden table before him was a thin black rectangle, which he picked up. On the side of the contraption was a long button and a shorter one. He pressed both. Almost immediately the whole front shone with white luminescence, words shot out, and the word Android remained in green for a moment longer.

Android, android, android…

“City black, encase the time

World full of men, who all are blind

Who walk and talk and say as one

‘Androids are we, heir to no son’

Adjust me

Adjust me

Adjust me

Adjust me…”

Androids. A memory. That was good, wasn’t it?

A memory?

The face went black then re-illumined and four white digits showed – 00:07.

A quick glance revealed they matched the fast-moving hand on the round disk which had moved past the I symbol-numeral and pointed to the second dash within the segment leading to the II symbol.

Then to the eighth dash, matching the figure 8 on the illuminated screen

8 seconds.

Now he remembered.

Analogue and digital

Hands and numbers.

Eight seconds had been removed from his life.




Quickly think.

Think quickly.

That’s twelve seconds.

Sixty minutes. Minus twelve – no, thirteen seconds.

The circle. Twelve numbers. Divided by five. What did they mean?

Twelve fives equalled sixty.

Sixty seconds.

360 degrees in a circle.

Sixty into three-hundred and sixty = six.

Was this meaningful?

Could he count his life by degrees?

Or would seconds be better?

From the clock face he could count in degrees or seconds; from the rectangular square digits only time, numbers, no shape.

60 seconds. One minute. Sixty minutes. One hour. He had fifty nine minutes and forty-three seconds to remember who he was and therefore to maintain his existence, to save himself.

PHe would call himself P to save time.

P for person – and he would designate P also as the place where he lived, P from the Land of P, since P also signified people. For he was sure there were other people around even though he wasn’t aware of any right there and then.

So, for now, he – for he was sure that he could remember his gender – was P from the Land of P.

But who was he, really – and where was he?

He rubbed the rectangular screen with his thumb and a numbered grid of numbers appeared. They looked familiar. A shape.

Then the rectangular screen glowed and a recurrent sound rang out. Two circles appeared: red and green. Arrows emanated from the green disc. He pushed the green circle in that direction. A voice spoke although he couldn’t understand what it said.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Your package is ready for collection. At the pharmacy.’

‘Thank you . I – ‘

The back rectangle fell silent and a red button glowed at its base. He prodded at it disconsolately.

“At the pharmacy.”

The pharmacy.

The pharmacy.

Yes, the pharmacy! He remembered it. Another green symbol, in the shape of a snake. Two snakes, on a pole.

The pharmacy. Yes, that was it. The pharmacy.

They had a package for him.

What package?

He would find out.

He looked at the clockface. The fast-moving hand – the second hand – was approaching the XII symbol; the other long hand – the minute hand – was nearly on the first dash.

A minute had passed.

Fifty-nine more remained.

NOVELS available @ Amazon and bookstores worldwide

Next part available every Friday midnight GMT

How to Unlock the Universe

universe (n.)

1580s, “the whole world, cosmos, the totality of existing things,” from Old French univers (12c.), from Latin universum “all things, everybody, all people, the whole world,” noun use of neuter of adjective universus “all together, all in one, whole, entire, relating to all,” literally “turned into one,” from unus “one” (from PIE root *oi-no- “one, unique”) + versus, past participle of vertere “to turn, turn back, be turned; convert, transform, translate; be changed” (from PIE root *wer- (2) “to turn, bend”).  – etymonline.com


The Universe is a massive lock. Yes, it contains many secrets and by way of those secrets the difficulty of opening the lock may make it appear impregnable. Yet, it is a lock in itself. You do not unlock the door to the Universe. You unlock the Universe itself, and thereby discover what exists on the other side – beyond.

The Key of Love provides the means for opening the lock.

The discovery of the Key of Love is merely the beginning of the procedure, and you will find out how to obtain this Key through the blog, the extended writings – the projected videos – and, most importantly of all, your own mental processes.

No matter how far advanced you are in the discovery of the Universal secrets, the Key of Love will aid in the final realisation.

There is no picking of the lock. One final turn with the correct key is the only possible manner of opening the whole. Then – and only then – will what lays beyond be revealed to the inquiring mind.

NOVELS BY GLYN F RIDGLEY @ Amazon and bookstores worldwide

Two buddies on a road trip through Arizona get to grips with the Key of Love


the evolution of a blog

Well, and so, this blog has been continually evolving – the only permanent feature has been a desire to make sure that all my novels are brought to the attention of anyone who may be interested in reading them. Without the backing of a large publisher it isn’t easy to let people know they are out there. No ‘3-for-the-price-of-2’ at the entrance of Waterstones for my writing.

That has long been inevitable ever since I understood what the literary agents wanted from me in the way of fiction and I made the decision to follow my own lights regardless. You can read a potted view of this in the Bio Page on this blog.

The Blog Page reflects pretty much what has been said above.

The Day I Died is taken from DOSTOEVSKY’S PLACE, largely recounting a day I spent at the English language centre in the UK where I worked on and off for ten years, and came to my mind when I had to travel back to my hometown for a scan that might well have revealed some life-threatening condition. Happily, that didn’t come to pass; although I am now on anti-viral drugs to stave off an almost certainly potentially fatal future disease, as a result.

The Serpentine Myth Page relates to my latest publication.

This book ought to be the final volume in a decate of inter-related novels that have taken up at least half my life so far.

For the future, I foresee a Vlog coming on. A camcorder has just been delivered and a project is underway to be made available on YouTube.

COVID-19 has brought about a great deal of suffering to many individuals, but for those who survive and live on the time is ripe for making a positive change to the institutions and systems which govern our everyday existence.

The final outcome is down to us.


Please note this link is to the Amazon UK Author’s Page, yet the novels are available from various outlets worldwide

“The future beckons – always.”

Easter 2020

With each subsequent year I get the feeling at Easter that we are celebrating a dying god reborn with the emergence of spring. That is to say, the cyclic nature of life. Maybe I am just becoming a pagan.gill christ At any rate, the weather in this part of Portugal is rather wet right now. Even if visitors weren’t forbidden to come on account of coronavirus, they wouldn’t have much joy by way of sun-worshipping on the beaches. Not that nature minds. The rain and increasing heat means that seeds we planted a short while ago – beans and peas, lettuce and spinach, radishes and artichokes – are all working their way up from the soil into the light. Meanwhile, back in Bucks you may find this carving made by a pupil of Eric Gill hanging high and hidden in the beech forest near Hughenden Valley.


A Gardener’s Song

“In the Garden” lyrics by Van morrison

After a summer shower when I saw you standing
In the garden wet with rain

You wiped the teardrops from your eye in sorrow
As we watched the petals fall down to the ground
And as I sat beside you I felt the
Great sadness that day in the garden

And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul
And you did open that day you came back to the garden

The olden summer breeze was blowing on your face
The light of God was shining on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you
Sat beside your father and your mother in the garden

The summer breeze was blowing on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden

And you went into a trance
Your childlike vision became so fine
And we heard the bells inside the church
We loved so much
And felt the presence of the youth of
Eternal summers in the garden

And as it touched your cheeks so lightly
Born again you were and blushed
And we touched each other lightly
And we felt the presence of the Christ
Within in our hearts
In the garden

And I turned to you and I said
No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the father in the garden

Listen no guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father and the
Son and the Holy Ghost
In the garden, wet with rain
No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature and the Father
And the Son and the Holy Ghost
In the garden, in the garden, wet with rain

No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father in the garden

Novels by Glyn F Ridgley

Valley Independent Publishing

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A Mushy Brain

There is a funny kind of leakage when you’re a writer…I mean of the genuine kind as opposed to the manufactured beauty queens of the media industry. Nearly all the time you are poised to commit pen to paper – typeface to computer screen – in a trembling and tremulous desire to issue forth a pointed little piece of prose that will somehow encapsulate what is happening within and around you at that particular moment of articulation.

What you also learn is that you are in possession of a mind-linkage and rhythmic style which enables you to put together a pattern of language that may or may not be wholly concise.

I would say, most of what you find at the opening of modern day bookshops consisting of literary creations is almost anything but – or, in fact, exactly that, as you wish. Whether or not your brain turns to mush is pretty much based on your own selective process at the point of entry. You could maybe just ignore that which is laid before you. I don’t know.

What does happen high up in the mountains is that you discover a high-altitude discernment of staggering proportions.

“Sunlight on a rockface reveals distinction.” – Heidegger

I am inclined to add that this saying pertains all the more on a privileged morning when one is drinking coffee in a high street book store.




In the Thrall of the Mountain Thing

All gardens are cosmic (relying on Helios for warmth, while many gardener’s refer to an almanac for the lunar cycles when planting). Ours is especially so because it is at the top of a village which is itself at the top of a mountain, so that the cosmic rays are less mitigated than those nearer sea-level. The soil is particularly fine, friable and therefore full of molecular space. Which is probably why we had some unexpected visitors coinciding with the clocks going forward. As a result of a concomitant power-outage and gravity field diminution, the video recorder failed to operate and only still images were obtained. Still, these were pretty impressive, as you can see.

Hawkwind HotMG
The view from our garden yesterday evening
Hawkwind - Hall of the Mountain Grill (Front)
This is what landed
hawkwind mofu image
This is what emerged


Valley Independent Publishing / Daffodil (VIP)

hawkwind sr alternative
This is the lasered image we witnessed.
stacia priestess
This was the High Priestess


Valley Independent Publishing / Daffodil (VIP)

hawkwind man image
And this appeared in the sky!

We are now in lockdown and these images are our only communication