Do Dai Coelacanth’s contributions to Radio On evolve into a sci-fi radioplay, a discardable walkman’s alternative to all paytv’s series? Be your own detective. Read his words. Maybe they sound familiar.
Susan had joined a show band. I was asked to play trumpet. Not in the band. They wanted me to stand in a shop doorway. They liked my tone. They said it was undecipherable. We had been on the planet for twenty years and had failed to establish ourselves. We were there. We were alive. We were regressing. Susan’s husband Keith had forgotten how to speak. He was forgeting how to walk. We put him out front with a microphone strapped to his face. He crawled around grunting. Susan had painted his rags an obnoxious purple. He looked the part. It didn’t make sense. The planet was home to the Veeweevarvar. Advanced civilisation. Beautiful shops. They had always completely ignored us. They had no interest in us from the moment our rocket landed. They didn’t look too dissimilar to us. Slightly taller. Small angular heads. I had a feeling that they perceived us as a kind of lichen.