A Solitary Lunchtime

This piece was written when I was in Year 13 at Northallerton College. In perfect honesty, I did not have a fantastic time there. It was very stifled time for me, and I found myself wandering around alone most lunchtimes. Partly because I couldn't find anyone I wanted to hang out with and partly because I quite enjoyed being on my own. And one lunchtime I bought my lunch and then settled down under a tree with a lovely aspect over the field. And this is what I saw, this is what I wrote. Enjoy.

Small clusters of friends lounging in the sun, couples entwined together - close, affectinate, the odd kiss, staring into each other's eyes, holding hands. Laughs from the groups fill the field like a coloured gas entering a bottle - contagious and beautiful. The latest songs pulse along the streams of wind from a car stereo. Summer at college is a heart - a beating sensation of thrill and friendship. How could someone not look at this sight and not smile? Not enjoy themselves? Not wonder at the power that goes hand in hand with the union of friends and summer?
     Two boys, well, two young men, kick a ball, a girl puts on an over-sized pair of sunglasses. A larger group of students, male of course, kick a ball about. The intention of the activity is difficult to make out. Does it need a purpose? Of course not. It's there to bond them whilst girls chat and listen to a musical student strum the intros to songs on a guitar. A frisbee game starts between two girls - the yellow disc soaring on the wind and the falling to the floor or into the hands of the addressee, mostly the former, but again, that doesn't matter. Why should it when a strengthened friendship is the result? Usually, more people would have joined in by now. It's not the in-thing this lunchtime. The game resembling football has, however, grown, with more competitive males.
     Sparkling teeth, heavenly giggles and eyes with the fond creases of a good time. It's beautiful and perfectly life-affirming. Life is an amazement at times like this. There is good in the world.
     A-ha! New additions to the game of frisbee. The guitar becomes a subject of conversation between the original player and another musically-talented student. Cameras click, capturing a single moment in the summer haven forever. Comments on the photographs are expressed: groans and denials, and laughter and expression of splendor.
     But whatever, the field, in short, permeates with love, life and laughter. Games, giggles and gossip take place here. The field in summer is a symbol, standing for fun, friendship and family.

Underneath a tree sits a lonely observer. Armed with paper and a pen, he scribbles down all he sees, all he hears, all he senses. His friends are around somewhere, but he's happy writing of the happiness of others in the shade of the towering tree. Sure he's not interacting with his peers, he's not enjoying the pleasures of relations, but he's happy. Who is the solitary spectator? He is a writer, practicing his work on description, but he's forgotten to describe smells. Oh well. It doesn't matter. It's still a good piece of work, considering his description work has been weak. But it's good. He is pleased. Who is he? Why, he's me.

I've had to just type that out from a piece of paper I found, and as I did so I realised how rubbish it is. I don't like it.

Bridget Jones: The Horror Version (Yes, that's right!)

This was another English Language exercise; we had to translate a passage from Bridget Jones' Diary from its romantic genre into another. So I chose horror! This was really good fun, but pretty much the only creative writing we did on the two-year course! I was somewhat disappointed.

As you will discover, I have shifted the narrator from Bridget to Daniel [I had to look that up!] and, well, yeah, you should be able to see what I have done language-wise. Enjoy.

She was sitting at her desk. Just sitting there. She terrified me. And yet the sorceress intrigued me. Her commitment was… unnatural. Something wasn’t right. I panicked! What should I do? She showed no interest in me. I could feel a cold sweat on my forehead. This was critical. I knew I couldn’t talk with her. That would only bring about my destruction. But I had to talk to her! I couldn’t explain why; I just had to.

I eventually decided that the safest way to communicate with her was via email. I quickly typed a message and sent it to her. No response. No reaction whatsoever. Not even a flicker of her gorgeous eyelashes. I sent another email. Still no reaction. My heart was racing, drumming against my ribs.

The sorceress’ apprentice left. She was alone now. Her seductive power was at its strongest. I had to resist. I had to be strong! The smooth contours of her body tantalised me. The temptation was incredible. I couldn’t just sit there whilst she sat there on her perfectly formed behind. I stood up, my legs quaking beneath me like those of an elderly man. What was I doing? I felt a fool, but my body was divided. My mind told me to stay behind and resist the enchantress. But my body wanted her. The siren’s fairness sang to me with its soft song of seduction. My legs started moving. I approached her. She still refused to give me the attention that I sought. I collapsed before her, hopelessly. There was no going back now. “My love,” I cried to her, unable to control my tongue. “Why do you ignore me?”

Driving In Nairobi - It's A Jungle!

This is from an activity that we had to do in English for my A-levels. I drew on my life experience from the three years I spent living in Nairobi, Kenya. There was a 100 word word-limit.

I just found it lurking in a folder and I am proper getting into this posting thing, so here it is! October 2009 is going to be disproportionately large next to the months yet to come.

Weathered cars who have seen better days chug their way around burrows in the wild, unruly tarmac. Displeased engines growl savagely as rude, painted matatus squawk like fluorescent, obnoxious parrots as they cut impatient queues. “Keep death off the roads. Drive on the pavements.” People leap for their lives as they’re parted by arrogant rhinos of metal charging through the city as if they’re the next big thing.

Outside the caging gates of the shopping centre, hawkers prowl. Cheap and tacky merchandise are thrust against the glass of cars. Staring faces of the natives watch the pale-faced invaders.

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.

The Elemental Stones: Prologue - The Nothingmen

This is the prologue to my pride and joy - so you'd better enjoy it! The Elemental Stones has been my literary baby since I was about 13. But the world goes back to when I was 12, probably. I started to write a book about a boy called Tim, and I knew that there would be a series of his adventures. And then I knew that there would be a trilogy [The Elemental Stones] where his son would have his own adventure and Tim would take a backseat. As it turned out, I was more excited about the son's story.

Throughout its existence, The Elemental Stones has undergone many evolutions and drafts. Originally, the villains were evil twins called Vekuiah and Vokuiah. What can I say, I was 12! As I grew older and matured, so did the story until its form here and now. Enjoy:

They were savages now. Dependent on anything they could find. Food was becoming more and more scarce in the dark, barren wasteland, aptly renamed as “Nothing”. It really was a nightmare for the civilization. But the past for these human beings, though now they were barely human or being, was far from great or powerful.

The older “Nothingmen” told stories to the younger ones, before they were eaten. Stories of tyrannical queens with powers beyond belief. Powers over the natural forces. Elemental powers.

“They were tyrants,” the old men would say, in cracked and husky voices. “They ruled over with a fist of Jumbantine. But at least we were fed and watered.”

The old men would then sigh, dreaming of those days when life consisted of heat, woods, water and winds. Then they would speak of the revolution.

“We were angry. Furious at our oppression.”

The old men recounted the stories of the angry mobs that gathered at the base of the Temple of the Queens, shouting for freedoms. The youths of the civilization sat around the fire, listening to the elders. They daren’t interrupt. The longer the story took, the longer it was until it was time to eat.

“The Queens did not react kindly.”

The old men could remember the outrage in response to the action the Queens took to suppress the revolution – to create a new land, a mirror image of the original.

“Further riots led to the degradation of our home, and the enhancement of the twin.”

As the Queens removed their power, forests had withered, lakes and rivers had drained away, the sun and stars stopped burning, and the air stood still, dry and stale.

For many, the extreme suppression of food, water and happiness was too much. They abandoned the protection of the community and wandered away into the darkness. “We could remember from our glory days what lay beyond the darkness – mountains, that we rarely crossed. We had no reason to before – we were in paradise!” But that paradise had long since gone, and many felt that nature may still exist beyond the peaks and left us. The remaining community, stayed in their cove in the corner of the land surrounded by mountains and the walls of the world.

“All the beautiful qualities of our home…were gone.”

The elders always seemed to weep at this point, and who could blame them? The Nothingmen had been belittled to little more than rats and pests living in sewers. The Queens had continued to live there, gloating in their palace that continued to be filled with wonders and life.

“We made sure that it wouldn’t last.”

A group of rebels had been planning this move for months and it was finally ready. They had created four orbs – one for each Queen. They had made a crude fire with what dry wood still existed and had melted the sand and dust from the ground with the titanically strong metal, Jumbantine. This coarse and crude mixture was the material that made the orbs. The rebels had stole into the palace and, through a process lost through the years, imprisoned the Queens within the orbs. The orbs began to glow with the life of the elements and what life had existed within the palace walls died.

“We sent three of the orbs away over hundred year periods, over the mountains to be scattered and lost.” It would only be at the reunion of the four orbs at the summit of the palace that the Queens would be released to restore their powers.

“Now, the fourth and final orb, the one we decided we would keep as a symbol of our victory over the Queens, is gone as well.” It had been sent away after fears it was sought after to be stolen. A stranger asking questions. Simny, she called herself. A ginger-haired woman. A bright colour we hadn’t seen in our land for so long. She wanted the Orbs. She never gave a reason. She just wanted them. “We didn’t want anyone outside our species to take the Stones. What if our fears came true?” But the fourth orb is gone, and with it the unanswered questions and the woman.

“We entered a time of even greater and desperate need – the state that we are in even now. Resorting to cannibalism for food and petty raids upon our homeland’s twin for everything else.”

The Hall had not suffered. The Queens, sly in their actions, had each invoked their power into a single being – a creature that would keep the Hall full of elemental life. This creature would taste the pleasures and displeasures of immortality until the reunited Queens so decided. “We do not intend for the Queens to be reunited though. The damned creature will live for always through war and famine and disease.”

The traitor to nature was amongst the first of the inhabitants of the Hall, and will be the last as well. The Birds command ultimate power over both lands. “They have grown careless, however, and have forgotten about us, despite our continuous raids on their land.” The old man sat up straight and stared into the darkness. “There, you have our story. Devour me.” And he was no more.

Want to carry on reading? Follow the link on the right-hand side of this page.

Crowning Glory: Prologue

This has been my latest adventure in writing. I can't quite pinpoint where the idea came from. It might have been a dream, but I think it just popped into my head. I sat down at my laptop and just typed. And this is what emerged and evolved. And I like it. It is semi-parodic of the epic-fantasy genre, and I hope I can keep the style going.

As I write this story in particular, I just go with what my creative instinct tells me. I let is flow out spontaneously. The style changes and rambles from first person to third, from past tense to present, and there are a great deal of surprises in store for you! Enjoy.

A land of kings and queens, princes and princesses, suitors and pretenders, warlocks and hags, royalty and peasantry, heroes and villains. But above all this are the Crowns. Hooked yet?

Now the thing about crowns is that there are so many out there. You know, the ones tha

t royalty wear. A circular headdress worn by a monarch as a symbol of authority. At least, that is what everyone is told.

I mean, there are crowns. And then there are crowns. You get me? A king could wear a crown and it would just be a lump of gold sitting on his head. On the other hand, the king could wear ano

ther crown and it would grant him the power of prophesy, yes? There are crowns, and then there are Crowns.

The history of the Crowns is interesting and hazy. Myth and legend has, inevitably and irritatingly, had its way with the truth. And who can differentiate the truth from the myth? But this is what we do know: the Crowns were fashioned hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago for the children of the hag Hunn.

The legend tells us that she had fifteen daughters and fifteen sons. They were going to a ball where betrothals and marriages were arranged for the royals and nobles of the land and Hunn wanted her children to look something special. Hunn and her children were, officially, of royal blood. Her father had been King “Ironically Named In My Opinion” Faithful and her mother, the kingdom’s witch doctor, Phrellovane. Hunn was the offspring with her twin.

The ball was a disaster for Hunn and her children and they were cast out. Furious, Hunn had each of the crowns enchanted over the year. The crowns gave Hunn’s children special abilities when worn.

The next year, Hunn’s children returned to the ball wielding their new powers. But they were overthrown and imprisoned, their Crowns removed. Many were executed within the week. Those who survived were either too young, too innocent or too good as escaping. The story of Hunn, her children and the Crowns fades away here. Apparently, Hunn continued to live but retreated to a cave where she remained for the rest of her days. But throughout history and mythology, stories of individuals wielding powers and magical diadems echo down the ages. Somewhere out there, dispersed across the many lands and kingdoms, are twenty-nine powerful crowns.

From very early on in the Crowns’ history, a secret society was created. They called themselves “Crowners of the Light”, which makes me personally feel sick; they could not be any less stereotypical of a secret society. Each member is branded with the symbol of a crown on the left shoulder blade. They meet biannually in a secret basement under a deserted palace of old and they discuss what they have each found out about the history of the Crowns and the possibility of their present whereabouts. Oh, and they open with a ridiculously cringeworthy song. They have remained silent since the beginning (thank goodness because that song would truly violate the world of music), and so there is only the faintest whisper of a rumour of their existence on the street. But that is soon to change. They are about to risk everything in pursuit of their goals and this worries me.

Me? Well, I am a druid, and part of the Crowners of the Light’s antagonistic society, the Keepers of the Crowns (we at least attempt to set ourselves apart from stereotype). We have intended to protect the whereabouts of the Crowns. I have infiltrated the Crowners of the Light for seven years now, enough time to be trusted and be fully made aware of their ultimate plans. They intend to use the Crowns as a means of power and domination, and they will rule this world tyrannically (they prefer the word ‘nobly’ - pah!). They believe they know what is best for the world. None can know that.

There are only three of us - Keepers of the Crowns. It has not been easy. Our goal now is to find the Crowns and to preserve them. So already there are at least two rival groups after the same thing. You can tell it’s going to be fun! Oh the joy (insert sarcasm).

But it will not be easy for any of us. It has not been easy. It’s been a thousand years minimum and none of us are any closer to finding the twenty-nine Crowns.

Like what you've read? Follow the link on the right to carry on reading!

The Valley of Death

A lot of my inspiration comes from dreams that I have had. I do have some brilliant dreams - vivid, random, epic. I love them! This is definitely one of my favourites, that I had the night between the 19.09.2008 and 20.09.2008. When I adapt a dream I, of course, stumble across issues such as what happened before this, who are the characters, and, most frustratingly, what happens next! It is a tragedy, sometimes, that we must wake from dreams and never know the ending. Also, one needs to fill in the gaps.

Since having written this dream, I have tried to find a way to incorporate it into a larger storyline, but I can't. It's tricky. It's such a weird, stand-alone piece. I have got references to our world and culture so it can't be a created world, unless I can justify that somehow... It may come to me at some point, but for now it is a piece on its own. Enjoy.

As we came around the side of the dry mountain, we saw a vast, barren wasteland. The whole landscape was dominated by a dry, dirty ochre colour. There were heat waves shimmering what seemed to be everywhere. Snaking through the desert was a great valley with steep sides and a flat bed. It looked like it had once been a thriving river and I commented so. But I was wrong. “This is not a dried up river. It’s a tectonic plate margin. Although there used to be a smaller river in the rift. But that has dried up. It disappeared long ago.” I followed the rift valley along with my eyes, until it came to a mountain. But this mountain appeared to be somewhat different. It looked like a giant termite mound, and it had flaky sides that looked like they would crumble with exposure to the slightest breeze, of which there was none. At the foot of this mountain there was a dark cavern opening. I asked what it was. “The mouth of hell.”

“And is this the valley of death?” I joked, remembering my Tennyson.

“Precisely,” our guide said, stone-faced.

We continued our descent down the mountain and then down into the valley. We were all apprehensive of what we might find in this valley. All of our clues had been leading here. What was here that we were supposed to find, save or destroy? Was there anything? This landscape seemed to hold nothing of importance. None of us dared say it, but we all had the gut feeling that we would end up on the wrong side of the ‘mouth of hell’.

The sun was high in the sky and merciless to us weary travellers. The heat waves blurred our vision of what was ahead. But we could slowly see a city emerging. It too, like the fearful mountain, was dry and crusty, but instead of looking powerful and frightening, it seemed small and pathetic. Our guide informed us that this had once been a powerful city, a force to be afraid of. The old city had, like the sun on us, been merciless on surrounding settlements, crushing them and taking the leftovers. But now, they were nothing. Nature had sucked the civilization dry.

As we entered the city, we found it to be dead. There was no one and no thing. But so many buildings! They were all dome-shaped, and had been made by slapping mud and grasses over a wooden frame. But the mud was dry, thin and flaky after years of heat and neglect. They all looked desolate and fragile, as though the sound of a pin dropping would cause them all the collapse - we all found ourselves treading as lightly and gently as possible.

We reached the main hut. It was larger than the others and elevated, positioned upon a mound of sand and dirt, which I suspected hid a stone podium of sorts, buried under years of sandstorms.

Within the hut were three men. Their skin was the colour of milky coffee and their hair that of ash and snow. They were cast in an imposing red light, caused by scarlet drapes hung over the many gaps in the crumbling mud ceiling. The men looked pitiful, victims under a red regime. Heads hung, hands slowly and repetitively writhing, their resigned posture earned my sympathy momentarily. But they didn’t deserve my pity. I had heard all about their cruel and dark past - the fist of fiery brimstone, crushing and scorching neighbouring civilizations and mercilessly murdering passing nomadic tribes, unaware of the dangerous lands they had dared to venture across. No, these men deserved nothing from us.

They slowly raised their heads as we entered. “Travel on, strangers,” one said. “We can offer you nothing. Not even death anymore.” They spoke in a foreign language that we did not understand, but our guide translated for us.

“What happened?” my companion, Rosie, asked. There was sympathy in her voice. Bless her. Naive, innocent Rosie.

She received no reply.

“You were asked a question!” our guide said angrily.

“We choose not to answer,” another man answered. “Our suffering is too strong and deep. Worst of all, we know that we deserve all we that have been subject to.”

“We are on a journey,” I said, frank and to the point. “It has led us here, but we do not know where to go next.”

“There are two ways,” the first man said. I looked at the third man. He had not raised his head, and continued to stare at the table before him. He was angry. No doubt about that. “Backward,” the first man continued, “and onward.” There was a melancholic pause. “Both bring death.”

“So we head for the mountain down the valley?” Rosie asked.

Silence again, until the brooding third man spoke. “Accursed mountain,” he muttered. “The mountain ended our glory days. Accursed, damned mountain!”

All of us wondered how this mountain could have changed the course of history for this once powerful, once tyrannical culture so drastically. An enquiry into this was responded to by silence. Our guide led us out of the hut leaving the men to their vow of self-pitiful silence in the scarlet light. “A waste of space, the three of them,” he grumbled. “Despite the degree of their degradation, they still have an overwhelming sense of pride. We go on to the mountain down the rift.”

The mountain was directly ahead of us as we left the broken city. It certainly was an oddity. It rose out of the ground and peaked above the walls of the valley. It looked as though a giant had picked it up from somewhere else and dropped it there. The words of our guide echoed inside my head. ‘The mouth of hell.’ I cast this comment aside for a while. Any force that had destroyed the evil civilization, whose history now lay behind us, couldn’t be bad. Surely not. But I’m glad to say I dismissed this naive thought. There is more than one force of evil in the world.

As we slowly made our way down the scorched valley, we noticed a slope climbing the vertical side of the rift. It reached the top of the valley at the point the mountain was parallel to the ridge of the valley. Apprehensively, we stepped closer and closer to the ‘mouth of hell’. The opening was giant, dwarfing us all. And it was dark, extremely dark. Only the dirty, desert ground could be seen for little more than a few metres. We continued to approach until Rosie screamed.

Within the ‘mouth of hell’ were two giant jaws. They hadn’t been there before; they had just appeared. The upper chomped down, and the lower soared up. There was a loud rumble from the depths and the darkness. Rosie scuttled back, her voice moaning in a quavering whimper. The rest of us stepped back. The jaws snarled and ground together without a sound, only the deep deep rumbling from beyond. Eventually, after what felt like an age, the jaws retreated from each other and disappeared into shadow. “And I suppose they are the jaws of death,” I said, my ribcage sending quivers up and down my body.

“Precisely,” our guide said once again. I felt discomforted to hear his own voice faltering in that single word. I had always seen him as a fearless warrior, but the latest sights and sounds had struck fear into all of us.

John, the silent one among the four of us, stepped forward again. “Don’t!” cried Rosie. We all turned to see her on the ground, weeping. John stopped, nodded and then sat down beside her. We all sat together for a few minutes, all in silence. But we could still feel the fearful rumbling echoing through our bones, though it had ceased long ago now.

Finally, our guide spoke and announced that he was going to climb the slope we had seen earlier. Just to see if he could find anything. He requested that we stay where we were. We were only too happy to oblige him. Rosie was still quivering in John’s arms, and my heart was still racing. So he left us, walking back up the valley and then up the slope. And then he disappeared behind the mountain, or over the top of the rift. I could not tell where he went after he vanished from view. But I prayed so hard for his safety.

Many minutes passed. Possibly an hour. Maybe two. And we didn’t leave our posting out of fear. We spoke little. It is hard to converse with a mute, and Rosie had not yet recovered. I imagined that in her mind she could see the jaws snapping at ten times the original speed, noise and overall fear level. “Do you think he’s alright, John?” I asked.

He shrugged, and I said no more. Then he began to write in the ground. I watched. ‘Dead?’ was what John had written, by brushing away the little sand on the rift floor. I looked at John. Somehow his silence had given him a strong confidence in my eyes, but I saw his true self in that single word. I bit my lower lip. We were both thinking the same thing. Our guide was not going to come back. “Do you think we should follow him, or go back?”

“Please let us go back,” Rosie whimpered.

John shook his head and then wrote in the dirt. ‘Follow’ he wrote. And then another word. ‘Hope’. That word had brought us onto this forsaken quest in the first place. The hope that life could be better. The hope that we could fix everything. I looked to Rosie, whose spirit had collapsed. “I suppose we must,” she said, and she got up resignedly.

We climbed the slope, in desperate hope of our guide’s safety, our hearts throbbing again in fear of what we might find. We reached the top of the slope and came across a surreal sight. There was a wall to our left, blocking our view of the desert wasteland. We continued ahead down a walkway, blind to where we where were going.

Eventually we came to a dusty parapet, built from sandy-coloured stone. We went in. We might as well have done as we had no other plan. It was empty and small. John looked through a small, thin window. He gasped - the loudest noise I’d heard him make. He stepped back. I rushed over to see what he had seen. Rosie attempted to pursue, but John held her back. I looked through and covered my mouth with my hands. There was our guide, lying in the dust. Bloody and shattered, he lay broken on the sand. Vultures, eager for fresh meat, circled and dived towards his dead or dying body. I turned away, flinching. “Is he dead?” Rosie asked. I nodded, feeling the tears stinging my eyes.

She breathed in heavily. “So we are alone.”

Yes, we were alone. Alone and clueless as to know what to do or where to go next. We were in way over our heads. Lost in a strange country surrounded by confusion and desert dangers of which to fear and be aware. And what were we to do? Our guide was dead and we were alone in the desert. “What do we do?” Rosie asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “John?”

John nodded and told us all to hush by putting his index finger to his lips. Both Rosie and I stopped talking and hushed our breathing. John stepped to the archway entrance to the parapet without a sound. He peered up and down the pathway and then waved his hand for us to follow. With trepidation, we stood behind him. He crept out of the doorway and we stealthily sneaked down the pathway. Whoever or whatever had killed our guide, who had remained unnamed for the whole time, was likely to kill us too if we were discovered. We came to another parapet, and we ducked into it. We repeated this system a few times and found that the wall began to circle the mountain. The fourth parapet we entered, Rosie strayed from the back of the line and looked out of the window. “Guys,” she hushed. “You’d better see this.” John and I made our way to the window and we were astounded.

We were overlooking the rest of the rift; this section had been blocked from view by the mountain before, but now it was exposed to us. The sight before us was something that we never believed we would see here in this type of terrain. There was so much green and bright colours - pinks, yellows, reds and oranges. So many different plants! There were so many varieties of grasses, flowers and trees. There were vines and climbers growing over wooden frames and wrapping themselves round trees. And there were statues and monuments. Of what I couldn’t tell; I was too far away, but I could imagine that they were remarkable. But something that made it all so breath-taking was how organised and arranged everything was. The whole positioning of the various gardens and paths was beautiful, and all the water! Artificial rivers, fountains and various water features brought further beauty to the secret paradise.

My awe at this sight soon began to dissolve. Where had all this come from? We had been walking through the desert for days and we had seen so much desolation caused by the conditions, and yet there was this Eden, the glorious garden slap bang in the middle of it all! It seemed selfish that whoever could live here and enjoy this oasis in the desert was not sharing it.

Then again, these could be the people strictly oppressed by the dead city we had walked through. In that case, they deserved their paradise. But they had killed our guide. So they didn’t deserve their riches. I grew bored of debating myself over ethics and decided that maybe it was still bad not to share. I turned around, forcing myself away from the heavenly sight. And I was greeted by another sight - another person.

He stood in the doorway staring at us. He was dressed in armour, not too different from Roman armour, I remembered. A red cape, a shining breastplate and leather sandals. But this was all superficial next to the sheathed sword in his hand and the questioning, startled look on his face.

“John. Rosie,” I said simply, not taking my eyes off the soldier who stared back quizzically. They both turned round, and Rosie gasped. The soldier said something in a foreign language, but with our guide gone we could not understand. He unsheathed his sword and took a step forward. I backed away and stood beside Rosie, with John on the other side of her.

Suddenly, in a swift movement, John took a step forward and fluidly snatched a dagger from his foot, concealed from us all by his trousers. In another gliding movement, he flicked the knife from his hand straight towards the guard. It all seemed to happen so quickly, though I saw it all in slow motion and all my other senses were heightened. I could feel the sun’s warmth on my skin. Maybe I was burning. I could smell the plants and the water below us. I could hear the water trickling, my heart beating and ladies singing in the distance. I felt a strange chill climbing up my spine and pressure on my ribcage as I choked on my own breath. The dagger span through the air and struck the guard in the middle of his neck. I felt Rosie’s hand grab mine, but I was only half aware of it. I was too stunned at what our companion had done. It turned out this silent man was deadly as well. And suddenly I feared him.

The guard fell to his knees. His eyes stared at John with disbelief. And then he looked at me imploringly. My heart went out to him and I began to cry for him. And then his eyes were looking at nothing, and his body hit the ground with a dull thud.

Slowly John approached, rolled the body over and withdrew his dagger. He cleaned it on the guard’s cloak and returned it to its hiding place beneath his trouser leg. He turned back to us. Half of me wished him to be emotionless towards the act he had committed - it would be easier to hate him and fear him. But he was quivering. A tear crept down his cheek and I could understand his tragedy, to an extent. A reluctant warrior. A man expected to kill and hurt and not blink an eye, yet every life he had taken had been a like a bullet to the brain for him too. He was a tragic figure.

Rosie stepped over to him and outstretched her arms. John collapsed into them and silently wept. And Rosie wept. And I wept. All of our stories were tragedies. We seemed to have very little to live for, and now our guide was dead our lives had become so much less. What were we to do? What was to become of us? Our frightful situation had caused two innocent people to die. If we continued, how many more would be a victim? And if we didn’t continue? The whole thing seemed hopeless. The obstacles in our way were just too much.

We sat down, holding hands. We knew not what to do. Maybe we would just stay like this forever, and in a thousand years there would be three skeletons sitting in a circle. And maybe archaeologists would try to come up with a reason why we were like this. An ancient burial ritual, they might guess. Or that we were a family huddling together in the final moments of life. Or maybe we would never be discovered and we would remain undisturbed for the rest of eternity. Unlikely, I scoffed to myself. We sat there for not very long, but long enough for us to feel comforted and at home. “We need to do something,” I said.

“What are we going to do?” Rosie snapped bitterly.

“I don’t know, but we can’t stay here. We have to make some kind of effort.”

“But what is the point?”

A pause. I couldn’t answer her question. And then he spoke. He hadn’t spoken at all since we’d met him. We’d assumed he was a mute, but now he opened his mouth and sound came out. “The point is that life mustn’t be wasted, else it wouldn’t be given to us. And if we don’t continue, more life may be wasted.” And then he said no more. Rosie’s question was answered, but that didn’t matter anymore.

“You can speak?” It was a question we both had at the front of our minds now. But John wouldn’t reply with words. He nodded in response. “Then why don’t you?” John didn’t say anything. “Is it some kind of vow of silence?” John’s facial expression told us ‘sort of’. “Is it a military thing?” He shook his head. “Do you prefer saying nothing?” He nodded. “Why did you speak then?” He said nothing.

I proposed that we continue our way down the walkway and that John lead the way. He nodded and we all continued our way down the walkway met by no one. And soon, we came to a fork. “Great,” Rosie commented with heavy sarcasm. The left opened out into the desert. Would that route take us to our guide? Maybe he had left us some kind of message or clue? The route to the right would take us into the mountain, something that none of us wanted to do. And the route ahead would take us further along the walkway. I proposed we take the left route, and both of my companions agreed. The walkway to the left had high walls and was therefore cast into shadow.

The sun was setting now, and in the shadows it was cooler. We reached the desert as the sky was darkening and a cool breeze echoed across the sands. Our shadows were long before us, and the whole atmosphere was haunting, accentuated by the search for a mauled corpse. It was silent. The desert made no sound and the mountain and its inhabitants said nothing. Even our footsteps made barely a noise, muffled by the sand. And then, not too far from us, we saw him. He looked larger, with his shadow extended but as we began to differentiate between body and shadow we realised how small he really was. He looked tiny and pathetic here in the dark. And he had been treated severely. Beaten, bloody and savaged. He was a sad example of the power of violence that outsiders were treated with in this civilization. It seemed crueller, even, than the empty city but for the three old men we had visited earlier in the day.

John knelt beside the body. He put his middle and index finger on his right hand together, kissed them, and then gently placed them on our guide’s forehead as a sign of respect.

I looked for our guide’s bag, but it wasn’t there. His murderers had taken it from him and kept it. There was no sign or clue for us. We were as lost as we were before. But then Rosie called us over. She was kneeling by our guide’s right arm, which was outstretched. John and I went to her. She pointed out something written in the sand. We all looked and saw two vertically parallel zigzag lines and three letters: an S, either an E or an F, and an X. We all looked to each other, all of us hoping another would understand. “Is that an E or an F?” I asked.

“I can hardly see what intercourse has got to do with all this,” Rosie replied dryly.

“And I can hardly see how the letters S, F and X are connected and could be a clue,” I said bitterly. Rosie and I glared at each other. “What could the lines mean?”

“I’m no cryptographer, thank you very much!” And we glared at each other again, not breaking eye contact.

“From where I come from, the letters SFX stand for Special Effects in the media industry,” John said, breaking Rosie and myself from our stares. “These lines could be the jaws from the entrance. And so our guide has told us that those jaws are nothing but Special Effects to scare away unwanted visitors. The jaws will do us no harm.”

And so we found ourselves standing in front of the giant mouth of the mountain, each of us quivering with terrified anticipation. John started to walk forward first. I took Rosie’s hand and we followed, dreading what we might find in that darkness...