Benny Hill, God of Gods - Prologue: "Renaissance of Trylan"

I had a stint when I was about 10/11, which continued through my teenage years, when I was fascinated with mythology. I put this largely down to the game 'Age of Mythology' [which I have recently bought for my Mac. That's what student loans are for, right?!]. I quite fancied the idea that there are Gods from some ancient civilization that still exist, watching us all, interfering in our lives, blessing and cursing us. This is where Benny Hill came from.

I must apologise for the names of the Gods. I struggle to create iconic, memorable and, well, decent fictional names! So take the names with a pinch of salt, for they will be changed! Enjoy:

The great oak doors flew open. An equally great figure marched through. He was sturdily built and his stride across the empty hall he had entered commanded great power. His eyes, piercingly blue like the waters of the Arctic, were transfixed with anger on no place in particular. A spot he had created in his mind that represented all that caused the fury. And yet, his eyes also showed forlornness.

A smaller and nimbler fellow, who hastily shut the oak doors behind him, followed him. He had electric blue hair, coolly swept back. He trotted to keep up with the great, striding being but hopelessly failed. He resorted to jumping into the air and fluttering alongside what could only be his master by utilising a pair of winged sandals

The master came to a throne; golden, magnificent and standing alone in the empty room. With a great sigh, he collapsed into it. He closed his eyes, his head buzzing with information and circumstance. The fluttering fellow landed and stood before his master, waiting. All time and space seemed to be irrelevant in the single pause. “It is over, Spike,” he finally announced, not opening his eyes. “I have lost.”

“It can’t be, Trylan! It can’t be! Not after everything!”

“So many gods are now against me. They’ve joined sides with my enemy.”

“Yes, out of fear of Blazon, not disrespect for you!”

Trylan chose not to hear. “My reign over the Universe has ended. Blazon will sit in this throne after he has killed me.”

“There are still deities faithful to you!”

“Too few with too little power. Cease your attempt to make me feel better…nothing can help me.”

“You’re going to give in? Just like that?”

“Five years I’ve been fighting him, Spike!” bellowed Trylan, standing up with such noise it made the floor tremble. “I’ve had enough of fighting!” There was a pause, and Trylan sat down again. “I’m too old and tired to fight anymore.”

“Fighting is not the only strategy.”

“What else can I do? There is no choice in the matter.”

Spike seemed to become smaller as he exhaled, in desperation for the state of mind of his master. He turned his back on Trylan. “There is no point in trying to convince you otherwise, is there?” Trylan did not respond. “You’re steadfast on what you believe, aren’t you?” Still no response. “You are not the god of war. You’re the god of gods, with so much power at your fingertips.” Spike walked away back towards the doors. “Why don’t you use it?” he concluded as he closed the door behind him.

Trylan was left alone with his pessimistic thoughts, only conjuring thoughts of even more pessimism. He turned in his throne and swept his arm before him, looking at the marble floor. The floor seemed to melt away. He looked down and saw the world. The world he had created with his brothers and sisters. He had so much power back then, all of those years ago. And now it was under threat by a cocky offspring.

He continued to look down. It looked good, from this height. Peaceful, happy and serene. The humans, a fine creation, had progressed so much. Such buildings, such technology. It was a fascinating world. Trylan wished he could have experienced more of it than he had.

An idea struck him. “Of course,” he muttered. With a wave of his arm, the marble floor returned. Trylan was up, off the throne, calculating. “I escape. I run away. I’ll become a mortal and encounter the world first-hand, all the while staying out of reach of Blazon.” Trylan clapped his hands in success, only to find a drawback. “I can’t successfully end my immortality and not forget about who I truly am. I wouldn’t know anything about gods or deities or my true identity. And Blazon would win, and take the throne. And I would lose, and die a mortal. Ugh, how depressing.”

Then Trylan began to work things out. Calculating years and chances and probabilities and various occurrences. It could work. There was the slight possibility that it would actually work.

Suddenly, there was a great knock at the door. “Trylan! It’s me, Blazon! I’ve come to kill you!” Blazon cackled through the door. “I’ll give you ten seconds to come out and surrender, then I’ll come and blast your head off! Ten.”

Trylan’s mind had never run faster. He darted to the back of the throne, placing his hands on the top of it.

“Nine…”

He closed his eyes.

“Eight…”

He opened his eyes.

“Seven.”

He ran round the throne so that he was standing directly in front of it.

“Six.”

He began writing in the air with lightning with his index finger.

“Five. Four.”

Trylan looked round the hall one last time. His eyes rested on an alcove in the wall – it seemed to be empty. Trylan smiled and repeated, “How depressing.”

“Three. Two. One.”

Trylan disappeared from the hall. The doors burst open with a burst of fire. Blazon, a young god with long dark hair and heavy eyebrows, swaggered into the room. His eyes were black as black could get, yet seemed to be burning with a dark fire. The smirk on his face vanished as he read the message Trylan had left him:

COME AND FIND ME, IF YOU CAN.

YOU HAVE 20 YEARS.

THEN I’LL BE BACK FOR YOU.

Blazon couldn’t believe his eyes. He began quaking in his black, leather war boots. Then the message changed. “20 years” changed to “19 yrs: 363 days: 23 hrs: 59 min: 59: 59”. Then “19 yrs: 363 days: 23 hrs: 59 min: 59:58”. It was a clock, counting down. Blazon roared with fury, fire blazing around him as his anger increased. The other gods and goddesses who cowered behind him, looked at the clock, relieved. There was still hope for them and the life they knew and loved best.

On Earth, Mariah Hill was lying on a bed in a hospital ward in Central London screaming. Her legs were astride and a host of nurses surrounded her. They were all egging her on. “Come on, dear. Push him out! You can do it!” Mariah did not care what the nurses were saying. She felt like she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t the child just stay inside? Surely children can grow within the womb? She mustered her strength and gave it all she had. She screamed her loudest – the pain was extraordinary! And it was over. She’d given birth. She had a baby.

The cord was cut and the baby was wrapped up in blankets. A nurse passed him over. Mariah smiled and looked down at her son, with deep brown eyes. And then, his eyes shut. He stopped breathing. “What’s happened?” Mariah asked, fear rising in her voice. “What’s wrong with him?” A nurse took the child from her and they hurried him out of the ward. “What’s going on?” Mariah cried, hysterically. A nurse did her best to console her, but failed. Mariah was frantic with agony and anguish.

And then, the child was brought back in. “He’s alright,” a nurse announced. “He’s back.” The child was delivered back to his mother. It was definitely him. But something was different from before. He had the same tuft of blond hair. The same chubby cheeks. But now, his eyes were piercingly blue like the waters of the Arctic. “What’s this little guy’s name then?” the nurse asked.

“Ben,” Mariah said. “My little Benny Hill.” She smiled down at her newborn son and kissed him on the forehead.

High above in the heavens, Blazon roared at each and every God. “Where is he?” he snarled, his black eyes blazing. “Any God or Goddess that knows where Trylan is will tell me now!” he commanded. There was no response. No one new anything. “Spike! You were the last to see him! What’s he done?”

Spike, a major witness and suspect, was being held by Gruntley, the God of War. “I don’t know. I left him before he said or did anything.” He spoke in such a way that was regretful and melancholic. “Even if I did know, I would not tell you. I would never betray his trust.”

Blazon sidled up to him and stared him in the eyes. Black into blue. “You will be loyal to me now.”

Spike spat in his face. “Never!”

Blazon wiped the saliva from his face and smirked. “Take his precious shoes,” he ordered. “And burn them!”

Spike gasped. “Not my sandals! You can’t do that! They were made specially! You can’t just destroy them!”

“I think you’ll find that I can.” The sandals were passed to Blazon, who, without so much as a hesitation, ignited the sandals with his very touch.

A tear crept from Spike’s eyes at the loss of his most valued possession. “I won’t. I’ll never be loyal to you. I will never betray the trust of Trylan, our true master.”

Blazon snarled. “Lock him away. Lock him up so that he will never escape!”

Later on, a platinum-blond Goddess came into Blazon’s private quarters. She was a very beautiful woman with straight hair. Her eyes were very pale and soft. She approached her brother who was sitting in an armchair with a cigarette between his lips. “Brother,” she greeted.

“Good evening, Lyla,” Blazon formally replied.

“Are you alright?”

“Five years I’ve been fighting. Five years, and now, as soon as I am on the verge of winning, he pulls a fast one and disappears.”

“It’s really not fair on your part,” Lyla said, carefully. She knew how easy it was to disrupt her brother’s temperament.

“Why are you here, Lyla?”

“I wanted to make sure that you were ok. I know how much this has meant to you. Today hasn’t been easy for you.”

“You’re lying, sister. Why are you here?”

“Please, Blazon. Don’t be angry with me.”

“Tell me now, and I will be less angry with you.”

Lyla hesitated. She braced herself for what might happen. “Was it really necessary? Destroying Spike’s sandals, throwing him into the depths of the Underworld? Did you really need to do all of that? It seemed very harsh.”

Suddenly, Lyla found herself up against the wall, Blazon’s hand around her neck. “Necessary? Of course it was necessary!” Lyla found her neck burning from the angry heat from her brother’s palm. “I need to make it known that I am in control or they will walk all over me!” Lyla tried to nod in agreement but her bother’s grip was too strong. “I have had this position of power coming to me since the beginning of time since we were born! I will not lose it now! Do you hear me, Lyla! I will NOT lose it now!” He released Lyla, who feel to the floor clutching her blistered neck. She gasped for air.

“Forgive my questioning, brother. It was out of place for me.”

“You are forgiven, my sister. When I have that throne, we will rule together. Fire and Light with complete power.”

Lyla did not like the idea of ruling. She was far too shy to be given the limelight, but she daren’t argue with her brother. That was far too dangerous. “What will you do about Trylan?”

“I will find him and he will perish in fires of ever-lasting burns and sores.”

Down below, the baby Benny Hill slept peacefully with the power and knowledge of the God of Gods’ locked away to be released twenty years later.

Wandering Through York [Poem]

I do not often do poetry. This will become evident! So in my life so far, there have, inevitably, been some low points. And when I am low, I write about it. It helps me to work through it and try to make some sort of sense out of the whole thing.

So this poem came after a very depressing piece. I wrote in whilst sitting in Little Bettys in York. By reading this piece, I am sure you will realise that poetry is not for me!!!

Dedicated to All I Know, and All I Care, and All Who Know and Care in Return.

I wander through the streets of York

My mind a great kerfuddle

Of shopping lists, of tasks and things

To do and all flailing round in a muddle.

Alone I walk. Alone I stroll

Down the streets of York.

My mind a-running, the sun a-shining

And to myself I talk.

I am not sad, despite my solitude.

On the contrary I am quite content

With my situation in life

And the blessings God has sent.

I smile, I’m warm,

I’m giddy with glee.

Alright, maybe an exaggeration

But here, right now, no one can ever sadden me.

I’ve done the bitter moodiness,

The depression, the melancholy.

But now I’m awake, seen the Light of day

And see those times as folly.

I have no need to get depressed.

There’s so much in my life.

Family, friends, God and love.

They woke me, showed the Light.

So thank you, friends, all of you.

Both close and far away.

Both that I know, and sort of know, and barely know at all.

I couldn’t ask for better friends, corny but that’s what I wanted to say.

Lord and Lady Hamperton: Prologue

I cannot place where this idea sprung from, but it is another epic fantasy type. But I think it has something that most epic fantasies don't. I think it is a little more modern (i.e. more late 1800s/early 1900s Britain, maybe) and I think it focuses on a part of society that is often neglected: the aristocracy. The older aristocracy. Somewhat contradictorily, I haven't read a lot of epic fantasy so I am very happy to be proven wrong!

So, something funny about this piece... Well, when I first started to write the novel I thought the word 'aristocracy' and 'bureaucracy' were synonymous. Bad writer! *slaps wrist* But I was corrected and I now know better! Enjoy:

Lady Marjorie Messerton was lounged upon her chaise longue, with a glass of white wine in her hand. It was in her drawing room where she lay: a truly elegant room with ornate patterns in the ceiling and along the skirting board. The walls were a goldenrod yellow, and displayed portraits of family members long dead and recently passed away trapped within fancy, golden frames. There were gas lanterns at certain intervals around the room that ebbed a dim light, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, shining brightly like a star on a clear night.

Lady Messerton listened to a soothing piece of classical music that flowed from the phonograph. It was calming her mind that she believed was over-stressed from acting as a perfect social lady. It was incredibly tiring organising fetes and parties for the aristocracy of Harlun. It was also very energy consuming trying to keep the ‘riff-raff’ out. Though the last social event had been six days ago, she was still recovering.

Lord Messerton walked through the door. He was clad in a white shirt and black trousers; he didn’t have to be entirely smart when he was not acting the host. On his head, he wore a grey powder wig. “Hello, Marjorie! How are you?”

“Perfectly happy. But, I had to fire Sally. I gave her the choice of two frocks for me to wear and she chose one that was perfectly unsuitable, and I was in a great rush to meet Lady Kinkersham. But, her carriage was late picking me up, so I had a lot of time really. Still, no harm done. I tell you what though. Sally was wearing these chicken feathers and one cockerel tail feather in her hair. They looked quite dreadful. She said she found them on the driveway. I told her that I would never let such filth settle on my driveway.”

“Quite right. How is Lady Kinkersham?” Lord Messerton said, uninterestedly.

“Not good. She’s isn’t recovering well from her husband’s murder.”

“That’s a tragedy. That assassin left her with two children and no income to speak of,” Lord Messerton recited from the morning paper’s article on the piece.

“I don’t understand what persuaded them to have children in the first place. Nasty, little things,” said Marjorie, emotionlessly.

“Well, they carry on their family name, don’t they?”

A bell started ringing. It was a high-pitched tring that echoed through the house from the hall downstairs. “Oh, there’s someone at the door,” Lord Messerton stated, obviously.

“I do hope it’s no one important. I am in no condition to act the happy hostess…”

A gunshot erupted through the corridors: a great noise that caused the husband and wife to look at each other in shock. Marjorie dropped the glass of wine. The glass shattered into millions of pieces. The white wine leaked across the floor. The maids and servants in the kitchen dropped what they were doing. They could guess what was happening. They hurriedly made for the kitchen door that led to the courtyard in a mass exodus. “What was that, Percy?”

“Come on, Marjorie. We have to get out of here.”

“But, what’s happened?”

“Just come on, you silly woman,” Percy said angrily.

“Don’t be so common, Percy.”

Lord Percy Messerton was forced to grab his wife’s wrist and drag her out of the drawing room to make her obey. He ran down the corridor that would lead to the mezzanine overlooking the hallway. They arrived and bounded into the barrier that prevented anyone from falling. On the marble, which coated the floor of the hall, lay the butler, Mantle. His white shirt and blazer stained red.

“Mantle?” Lady Messerton shrieked. She started to head for the stairs, but a gunshot stopped her. It just missed her as she tripped as a heel on her expensive shoes broke. She collapsed with a scream. Percy ran up to her and quickly helped her up. He heard cursing and swearing as the assassin was forced to reload his pistol. He picked up Marjorie and threw her over his shoulder. He hurried along the mezzanine with his wife screaming in his ear. He ran through a door and looked behind him. A quick glance told him that the assassin was an unshaved man in a heavy brown coat and hat. He started to aim his gun again.

Percy panicked. He slammed the door and ran down the corridor he had entered. A gunshot hit the door and the wood splintered. Percy carried on running, past bedrooms behind closed doors. The door swung open and the assassin followed them on a top speed chase. Percy swerved through a door and shut it behind him. He locked it, after discovering the key was in the keyhole. The corridor he had run into was dark and dusty. He vaguely remembered this as the passage that led to the attic, though he had not been up there in years. Lord Messerton supposed he must have been a boy when he was last up there. It had only been servants on very rare occasions since he had come into possession of the house on the death of his father. He reached a staircase and quickly climbed it. He heard the doorknob turn, and a few seconds later the assassin’s foot against the door.

The staircase ended up in a dark, dusty room filled with old furniture, ancient portraits and small knickknacks. He looked around for an exit, but there was none. He was trapped. He put down Marjorie, who had pretty much recovered by now, but she was still very shaken up. “Percy, what do we do?”

Percy didn’t answer. He was busy looking around the attic. Dusty, ornate vases, broken tables and chairs, trunks filled with paperwork. No weapon or exit to speak of. Suddenly, something caught his eye. It was a skylight. It was dirty and grimy with neglect of many years. He started to try to open the window. The assassin’s kicking at the door was getting louder and loud cracking noises told them the door was giving way.

Percy couldn’t open the window. Age and dirt had stuck the ancient lock. He pushed and pushed, but it didn’t open. “Hurry, Percy!” Marjorie urged.

“Pass me that fire poker!” Lady Messerton obeyed and passed the iron rod to her husband. Percy took it and smashed the window with it. Light flowed through and into the room, illuminating a fragment of the attic. He continued to smash the skylight until there was a gap big enough for them to climb through. “Come here, Marjorie. I’m going to pass you through the window.”

Marjorie stepped up onto the chair, let her husband take hold of her and be raised through the broken window. The door smashed and the running feet of the killer echoed through the attic.

Marjorie climbed onto the roof to hear a gunshot from below. A shout of agony from her husband told her that the bullet had hit Percy. She moaned and peered through the skylight. She saw Percy lying on the dusty floor with his murderer standing over his corpse. The assassin looked up abruptly and Marjorie spun along the roof. She stood up and nearly fell over, due to the high wind speeds at that height. She ran along the roof, pulling up the hem of her dress to give her greater speed. She turned around to see the assassin climbing out of the skylight.

She continued running. She slipped, and skidded several metres down the roof, along with some tiles. She saw the courtyard below her. She wasn’t good with heights and scrambled back up the roof like a frightened lizard. She staggered to her feet to be confronted by the barrel of a gun. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Blacklight,” replied the assassin. He pulled the trigger. Lady Marjorie Messerton died instantly as the bullet pierced her skull and fried her brain.

Her body buckled and rolled down the roof. This time, she could not stop and her spinning corpse tumbled over the edge. It fell through the air, gaining speed and quickly heading for the cobbled courtyard.

It hit the ground with a stomach-churning crunch. The staff of Messerton Hall looked upon the corpse from the courtyard, whilst the assassin watched, satisfied, from the rooftop.