Contemporary fantasy meets fantastical memoir in the new novel from @jeffnoon.bsky.social "Part ghost story, part magical coming of age tale but most of all a story about stories, memory and the ties that connect us all." @stewarthotston.com, author of Project Hanuman 12th May 2026 Preorder NOW

Writing never writes all that needs writing. Erasure never erases all that needs erasing.

Slowly, one layer at a time, the moon is drawing back her silver from every mirror on the planet. Now her face will shine brightly once more, whilst our reflections darken.

The songs live on. Not in downloads, or grooves, or ones and zeros. And not in the fans’ eyes, nor in their ears or their minds. But in the gaps between the stars where the singer’s body ground to dust floats away, scattered...

Day told moth, and moth told night. And night told moon and moon told ghost and ghost told man. The man told no one. He sold it on, encoded.

Gladys Underwood worked in secret for most of her adult life on The Complete Encyclopedia of Silence. The final entry was a blank page.

Jonah sat alone in his prison cell, picturing the film star in his mind. Details were added daily, weekly, monthly: her body, skin tone, bone structure, eyes, nails, hairstyle, her lips. And finally, after two full years: a breath.

Their dream slept in the nursery. Their dream went to school, grew older, got a job, got married. Their dream had dreams of her own, two of them, twins. Do we have to wake, the dreamers said. Do we really have to wake?

I have threaded the long black strands of hair onto my guitar, six of them tuned to a minor chord. The strings tighten and warp. The neck bends, the bone pegs creak. A ghostly voice sounds. Maria sings in the night.

Moon Over Brendle by @jeffnoon.bsky.social? Don't listen to us, listen to Martin.

Thanks for reading! You are my rocket fuel.

in a landscape of oils a sole figure moves, a woman in watercolour an exile

Let it be known that I wish to rip out page 152 of the operator’s manual. I want to touch human flesh. I want to feel rain pouring down on my exoskeleton. I fear not rust, nor malfunction, only the secret of love beyond my circuits.

The New Folklore A wolf may rob the spirit from your sheep or calfskin drum. But much worse: the wolf virus can steal the soul of your Roland 808 drum machine samples.

A busker chalks a song on the pavement in musical notation: stave, crotchets, quavers, accent marks, sharps and flats, bar lines. A tin cup fills up with drawings of coins and banknotes.

Seventeen vast crumbling bullet-ridden battle-scarred migration ships, each one the size of city, riding the waves of space along unknown routes, away from planet Earth. The dying Earth. The whole armada powered by the last remaining Commodore 64, circa 1987.

Dear User. More than [5] days have passed since you last upgraded your device. Update now to avoid social embarrassment and intense self-hatred.

William Burroughs hoped, via the cut-up method, to step outside of linear time. And thereby to live forever. Alas, Death has his own scissors and glue.

A wall reflected in a mirror. Years, years, years passing by. The wall, the silence, the dust, and then a woman’s face one day so briefly glimpsed and then gone, a blur, a ghost. The mirror covered in soot.

Sometimes a crowd Sometimes an empty mall Sometimes a riot Sometimes a mirage Sometimes a mask Sometimes a neon-drenched paradise Sometimes a home Sometimes a trap Always a city

And even the cuckoos are leaving Cloud Cuckoo Land.

1274 AD: head on a coin 1279 AD: head on a pole

Moon Over Brendle proof spotted.

Gogmagog by @jeffnoon.bsky.social a... "fascinating fantasy novel about an old, fucked-up plant woman doing her best to travel up a river made of a dead(?) dragon"? Fair enough.

"And then I found him. Mr Holbrook was standing amid the trees, speaking to whomever might be listening, the mice and voles, the birds, the insects. The spell was in his hands and he offered this up. In the dusty darkness, dark dusty words are waiting." @jeffnoon.bsky.social

But soft! What light through yon green screen breaks? It is the CGI Sun, and these few million pixels are Juliet: her face, her form. At last, Romeo stirs awake.

Update Former First Minister Emma Kovak was arrested today for smuggling illegal drugs across her own internal boundaries.

The country’s new borderlines have finally been agreed upon. They will exist inside the body of the First Minister, Emma Kovak.

The Queen’s body was buried facing the West. Found with her in the grave, the following items: bronze coins, food, a silver brooch, a ceremonial dagger, an ivory comb, her crown. And of course, all the necessary cheat codes for the Next Level of the game.

He had to be seen, to be believed. Without belief, he was not seen. Without being seen, there was no belief in his being seen to be believed.

Travis spent his final years living on Old Rock Star Avenue, in a retirement home for burnt-out artistes. A tube fed liquefied glamour into his veins, his only sustenance. He left a handsome corpse, glowing under invisible stage lights. A nurse wiped away the excess charisma.

No ID on the body. No passport. No family photos. No dental records. No fingerprints. No tattoos. No scars. No clues. Only this: a barcode on the heart.

Blade Runner reality: “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Cars on fire off the M12. A broken TESCO sign flickering in the dark.”

Tumbling images of birds and knives and blood and ghosts and mouths and serpents and dogs and eyes and dead bodies and half-naked dancers flicker flicker flicker across 100,000 security monitors The city is dreaming

It got to such a state that the world’s beauty wasn’t evident to him until someone else had caught it in a box and uploaded it to a website. Then he saw. Then he trembled with delight.

Over many hours, pausing constantly, Jason studies the shopping mall’s security footage on his screen, searching, searching, searching for that one tiny moment when his late wife appears in shot.

Today only, special Easter deal on Gogmagog Kindle edition, from Amazon.

At Foyles Bookshop on May 14 I'll be discussing my creative method, Avant-Pulp, and how to explore the borderland between the unique and the shared in fiction. All this filtered through my new novel, Moon Over Brendle. Please come along! www.foyles.co.uk/events/moon-...

The latest shades of face are now available London Fog Lady Pixel Smeared Ash Sludge White Noise Half Moon Half Shadow Blood Rush Hangover Bruised Glamour Zoom Shot Headlamp Glare Perma-Shock Ghost

One pair of wax and feather wings, suitable for adult human. Used for one flight only. Slightly sun-damaged.

Nothing shared, posted, bought, sold, pinged, tweeted, Googled, befriended, followed or flagged. Instead, shall we let information sleep in the wires and the waves just for one night? Leaving just our memories at play...

The machine’s only purpose was to measure its own decay. The measuring gauge itself was the last part to corrode, to rust, to crumble away into dust.

Iris worked for years and years on The Book of Flight, carefully cutting each pair of pages into the exact wing-shape of a different species of bird or insect. At last she was finished. The pages fluttered...

Walking the streets, looking to score some verbs. Because we’re in dire need of something to do, to be, to need, to whisper about, to cry about, to play, to love, to fall upon, to kiss, to hate, to dance, to sing, to sleep. And finally to dream.

A man glanced at Mary. She kept the glance in a box next to her bed. Every so often she would open the lid. The man’s eye stared up at her. Was this love, she wondered?

Cameras dream of being eyes. Touchpads dream of being skin, of being caressed. Keyboards dream of having fingers, each one printed with a letter of the alphabet or a number. Whilst I dream at night of becoming a machine. The interface beckons...

Even now, after all these years have passed since the doll’s body was found dead in the park; even now, the ventriloquist’s lips do not move when he speaks.

Very much looking forward to this sci-fi book talk at Foyles next month 😀 @adamroberts.bsky.social @jeffnoon.bsky.social @foylesforbooks.bsky.social

The new novel from @jeffnoon.bsky.social - out on May 12th.

Maria walks along the crow-shadowed, blood-wired, moon-spoken, fog-faced, bug-written, angel-clouded boulevards. Poetry gun in hand, shooting metaphors.