Fantasy, General Fiction

Three Wise Men

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three wise men

“Dude, are we there yet?”

“No, we not. Chill man, we’ll get there when we get there.”

“But we’ve been travelling all night. Why can’t we just pop into somewhere to overnight? It doesn’t even have to be fancy, just somewhere to get some damn shut-eye.”

“Fine! Fine. Fine… There isn’t a huge amount around, so how do you guys feel about crashing in that farm-looking building? It’s probably a barn or stable or something, so we can sleep on the hay or something?”

“Uh, yeah, dude, I could do that.”

“Yep, me too.”

“OK, but I see a light on in there? Well, it looks like a big stable, so I’m sure there will be place to for us as well. Just in case, guys, ready some of our gold and trade spices. If there are people in that stable then I am going to have to wing it and see if we can convince them to let us sleep there…”

“Sure thing, dude, we’re right behind–wait! If they ask where we are from, what do we say?”

“You just let me do the talking, OK? A little flattery and a little vagueness goes a long way. Besides, this part of the land is quite religious, so I’ll just pepper some of that into our tale.”

“OK, man, sounds good. Let’s do this, I’m exhausted.”

Fantasy, General Fiction, Horror & Dark Fiction, Science Fiction

The Mythology of More

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City at Night

“In the beginning, Man was quite simple. Man liked the warmth and light of the day and he feared the cold and dark of the night. Thus, there was a friendly god of the day and an evil god of the night. Man had to eat and drink, thus there was a god of the hunt and a god of drink. Man saw children being born and other men dying, so there was a god of life and a god of death. And Man was spread out all over the world with little to no contact amongst himself, thus there were many duplicates of these simply gods. In fact, there was pretty much one set of each of these simple gods per tribe and kingdom.”

The speaker pauses to take a sip of his whiskey before continuing.

“But then Man learned how to farm. The surplus food gave Him more time to think and more time to talk. That and the permanent proximity to other men bred complexities in the ways Man thought about the world around him. Mathematics, medicine, agriculture, finance and other schools of knowledge and learning began to emerge. Cities formed, civilization was born and Man began to grow into what He is today,” the speaker takes another sip of his whiskey before moving on, “and so the gods of men also became more sophisticated. At first, civilized man needed gods of the harvest, medicine and money. But as cities grew larger and resources more dispute, men began to kill men, and thus needed gods of war and victory. But, eventually, men had too many gods and began to make Gods of the gods, just to simplify things. In fact, some of these god-derivatives are still being worshiped by the more primitive minds of society today.”

Completely spellbound by every word the speaker said, the audience absentmindedly sniggered at this quip. They knew better. They were more sophisticated than that. The Speaker allowed them time to absorb this while he sipped his whiskey thoughtfully, looking at his surroundings like a king surveying his kingdom.

They were on the top-floor bar in a fancy hotel of glass, steel and shine whose massive, endless windows opened out over the sparkling, neon nightscape of the City far below. The speaker wore an immaculate pinstripe suit with a brilliant blue tie gleaming from a perfectly white shirt. His features were straight, tanned and cut–almost like a model in a magazine–with dark hair slicked back on his head.

“The ability of men to improve their tools has been the inherent driver of progress since pre-civilisation hunters discovered that you could use a pointy stick to kill things to eat. But, only in recent times, have men’s tools evolved to such a degree that they have in fact changed the way that men think as well,” at this point the speaker takes a sip and surveys the mixed bunch in front of him, there more in the audience than when he began speaking, “The Internet, for example, is a basic version of a collective hive-mind where disparate information, views and channels of communication can–in theory–connect the entire human race in a way that would have made Alexander the Great quite jealous and the Internet reminds everyone of everyone else’s excesses and surplus that they do not have. No one is as happy as their friends seem on Facebook. No one is as witty as everyone else sounds on Twitter. Television, Internet, mobile phones and gaming… All these things and more disintermediate men from their fears of the Dark, suspicion of the Moon and reliance on the Hunt or the Harvest. But, more importantly, all these evolving tools remind men constantly of their wants and desires. And, deep, deep, deep down inside, men are now freer than ever before to pursue the only thing that they have ever, ever wanted: more.”

An unseen siren softly penetrates the chic interior of the bar as a distant plane flies over the outside scenery, its lights blinking like a modern shooting star. Soft rap music plays in the background. The rapper is rhyming about his car collection and how many gold chains he has while the waiter in the bar is busy handing out more drinks to the enthralled audience.

“All these things that Man has done since the dawn of time has been to get more. He hunted to eat, but wanted to eat more. So He figured out agriculture and began to eat more. But then Man wanted nicer things and bigger houses and the ability to travel faster, wait shorter and sleep later… And cities and technology and travel and communication all grew better and better,” the speaker smiles in a nearly-predatory way while holding his audience in his commanding gaze, “All because Man wanted more. And, today, as the old gods disappear and Man moves forward into the future without the hindrance of an archaic belief system weighing Him down, His pure focus on improving His tools will allow Him to keep achieving His purest ambition: more.”

The speaker takes a final sip of his whiskey, draining the glass. His flicks his hand out with the glass to the barkeeper, who quickly refills it. Then the speaker’s smile widens and he stands up from his seat.

“Who wants some more…?” he asks to soft murmurs of agreement from his audience, “Who wants more money?” the audience agrees, a little louder than before with a couple of them clapping, “Who wants faster cars and nicer toys and fancier phones?” a soft buzz of agreement lifts from them to this, “Who wants more sex with more beautiful people more often?” a roar erupts to this with some of the men jumping to their feet, “Who wants more love and more fame and more violence and more power! Who wants everything!”

The audience goes wild with primal screams and excitement mingling like a chorus with the background noise of the City. The lights in the bar seem brighter and the glasses seem shinier.

The speaker’s smile keeps widening across his slightly-predatory white teeth.

“Welcome,” he whispers to his near-rioting audience, “to the Mythology of More. Now, let’s get some more drinks and then go burn some temples down…”

The roars are so loud that they drown out the City and its noises far below.

General Fiction

The Smellgasm

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The Smellgasm

“Look, he’s going to do it.”

“He is! He is!”

“Oh god! He’s doing it! He’s doing it!”

And exploding through his nose was a million scents, smells and fragrances.  Every single one of them was simultaneously exploding in his head. There was cut grass and metallic oil mixing with baking pies. There was cherry blossom, wet soap and coffee being made. There was roast beef, sweat and sex in the air. All these and a thousand more aromas of the city, some pleasant some otherwise. It was like looking at all the art in the world all at once in a single massive mosaic of smells being rammed up your fragile nose to crescendo simultaneously…

He could not help himself. The experience was too powerful. He put his head back and howled.

Suddenly a strong arm was pulling him back inside. The rush of smells faded the moment he was back inside the car. All the colors in his mind faded with them too, and his world was left in shades of gray again.

“No boy! No!” said his Master, “You can’t go barking while you hang out the window. In fact, I don’t think any of you should hang out the window. It’s just not safe, and, honestly, I cannot understand all your fascinations with doing so. Just sit quietly in the back there, we’re almost at the park.”

The was a panicked whimper in the back. Then silence.

“He’s messed it all up for rest of us,” one of the other dogs muttered, “He’s messed it all up.”

Writing Aids

Show Me, Don’t Tell Me

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“Show me, don’t tell me” is the most common catchphrase for good writing.

But what does it mean?

Consider this: you could give a great story to a bad writer and it would end up being a terrible book, but even a mediocre story that is written by a great writer will be a good book.

So, style is key in making writing readable and ultimately arriving at being a good writer.

Generally speaking, showing the reader what is happening, but not telling them it is an important style point to remember.

For example, don’t tell the reader that the man is a violent murderer, but show them that his cold, predatory eyes surveyed the room like a wolf seeking out its prey. The readers can work out the rest.

In a nutshell, consider the following important style guidelines:

  • Use descriptions of characters, places and actions to indicate mood, descriptions and narrative. In other words, do not tell the reader that a room is haunted, but rather hint at it by describing the hairs on the back of a character’s neck rising and a sudden chilling running down their spine. This will give more colour to your writing, as oppose it consisting largely of “data dumps“.
  • Avoid lists. Following from the previous point, the biggest warning sign of telling readers things is a list dumping facts onto them. If you struggle with this, try writing shorter sentences with each one focussing on the characters and the story, rather than facts that you want to inject.
  • Avoid using adjectives where you can hint at them. E.g. Telling = The man is very sad; Showing = Tears streamed down the man’s face, contorted with deep emotion.
  • Watch this video and attempt the exercises at the end of it.

Good luck!

Fantasy, General Fiction

Little Tree, Little Tree

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tree 2

Little Tree, listen closely and I will tell you of our great path.

In the beginning, there is the Falling. You will break away from your great mother to fall to our Great Mother. And, deep in Her warm, succulent embrace, you shall awaken.

The Growing will lift your limbs outwards and upwards. It will stretch your aching roots deep into Her womb as your leaves unfold far above. You will reach upwards to the Great Sky while the Light of Life will shine down upon you.

You will talk with the wind and drink deeply of the rain, but always remember that you are the Royalty of Light. Light shall bestow upon you Life, as your leaves and limbs grow stronger and stronger with each day.

Never forget that, Little Tree: we are the Royalty of Light. Ours is to drink the nectar of the Sky, passing on life to all those below and beneath us.  We shall breathe life into the Land, cool its multitude of lives in our shade while sheltering them in our leaves and branches and feeding them with our fruits.

Remember, Little Tree, we bring shade, not shadow to the Land. Shade, not shadow.

Along the way, Little Tree, there will be other little trees Falling from your limbs to their own Growing. They too shall play the role you play–as we all have played–in passing the Light of Life onto the rest of the world.

And, in the end, Little Tree, after many rains have come and gone, there will be the Cutting.

Do not fear the Cutting. This is part of the Cycle. Your body will pass as Light into another Life. Your Light shall become one with the Land, and the Cycle will continue because of your sacrifice.

Oh, Little Tree, never forget: we are the Royalty of Light, and all and everything depends upon us. Be strong, Little Tree, and bring shade, not shadow to the Land.

General Fiction, Horror & Dark Fiction

Shadow, Flicker & Gloom

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shadow, flicker and gloom

“We are Shadow, Flicker and Gloom,” you startle, as a soft, rasping whisper comes from a strangely dark corner of the room you are in.

“We are Shadow, Flicker and Gloom,” whispers a second voice from the other side of the room. The electric light in the room flickers and the shadows begin to lengthen. You blink, trying to adjust you eyes. The room seems to be getting darker by the second.

“Yes, we are Shadow, Flicker and Gloom,” a third voice suddenly breathes into your ear, the hair on the back of your neck rising.

“For we’re here now, but we’ll be gone soon,” the first voice from the shadows whispers, coming nearer. You can almost make out a lithe black form in the dim room, but you are not sure if it is your imagination.

You try to stand up. You are about to run; rising panic is starting to take over. But a small, iron grip suddenly holds you there pinning you down.

“Like the night, we are your day’s doom,” chants the second voice. Its location is hard to locate, almost like it is constantly moving around the room.

“Now sit, child, for we three are in your room,” whispers the last, soft voice into your ear, the iron grip on your shoulder tightening painfully. As you are about to cry out, the very last shred of light in the room flickers and everything falls into darkness.

The last thing you hear is all three rasping whispers chanting the same sentence slowly, again and again…

“We are Shadow, Flicker and Gloom.“

Writing Aids

Five Short Ways to Deal with a Blank Page

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Despite being creative people, sometimes we lack inspiration. The challenge of a blank page staring back at you can be overcome in a number of ways:

  1. Go for a walk: It is actually scientifically proven to help you think and be creative. Read more about the science here.
  2. Have a beer: Beer is scientifically proven to help you be more creative. After creativity hits, though, you should probably have a coffee… Read more about the science of this here.
  3. Automatic writing: This is a gift from the surrealist movement in Spain, but is based on the premise that our conscious brain actually hinders what we want to say. Step back and just start writing, anything. This technique could fill an entire book itself, so rather read about it here in detail.
  4. Meditate: I don’t think that this one needs much explanation. During meditation, allow the thoughts to flow freely while parking–consciously–your need in the background. You may be surprised what pops into your head, much like (3) above.
  5. Find what works for you: Here is a much longer list that you can try for other techniques to find creativity…

We all get stuck in a creative rut from time to time. This is natural. Don’t beat yourself up about it, but rather use it as an excuse to try something different!

Fantasy, Horror & Dark Fiction

The Fishermen at the Edge of the World

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fisherman lighthouse

There is a place in this world where the lonely souls go to. They are attracted to it. They need to be there. It is a solitary place. A dark place. A quiet place on the edge of world. It is calling them to it.

In this mysterious place, the quiet waters slip by under an eternal moonlight as mist drifts past and stars sleep away eternity in the night sky.

There is a story about this place as obscure as its beginnings.

It is said that when the first lonely soul found its way to this place that there was already someone there.

They lived in a small lighthouse that over looking the edge of the world. The dark midnight waters drift quietly by the lighthouse, falling into eternity thereafter as mist and then eventually just shadow.

When the lonely soul landed and stepped onto the lighthouse’s ancient steps, they saw the original tenant with a small, simple fishing rod in their hands dangling into the mists over the edge of the world.

“What are you doing?” the lonely soul asked the man.

“I am fishing,” the man answered simply without looking up. The lighthouse twinkled its single little light in above them and only the soft, dark waters murmuring filled the silence that followed.

“What are you fishing for?” the lonely soul could not stop themselves from asking.

The man smiled slowly and pointed out into the dark space beyond the edge of the world where the eternal moon hung and the infinite stars twinkled back.

‘What is there,” the lonely soul asked, confused at this answer?

A long silence followed, but eventually the man finally turned and looked at the lonely soul. It was hard to tell how old the man was, but it was obvious that he was not young. Perhaps he was even older than the lonely soul dared to imagine? Perhaps he had no age whatsoever? Perhaps time did not exist out here?

“I am doing the same thing that all of them are doing too. I am doing the same thing that you will soon be doing.”

The lonely soul stepped forward, ancient dust rustling below his feet and repeated, “But what are you doing, I don’t understand?”

The man smiled again and handed the lonely soul the fishing rod.

“This world is not for me, so I am fishing for another one. Just like all of them in all of their worlds are doing too. We all seek where we below.”

And suddenly the lonely soul saw it. The twinkling stars in the night sky were not stars, but countless lighthouses on the edges of countless worlds. Each twinkling lighthouse in the night sky had a lonely, misfit souls fishing for their places in the universe.

The lonely soul was about to exclaim that all was suddenly understood, but the man has disappeared. The man had simply vanished, and the lonely soul was suddenly all alone on the ancient lighthouse with its single twinkling light.

Only the fishing rod that the lonely soul held was proof that the man had ever been there.

Eternity passed, but time never noticed. Except for the dark waters slipping by, there was nothing else here at the edge of the world. And, so, shrugging, the lonely cast the rod and its starlit bait out into the misty space off the edge of the world. The lonely sighed and peered out into the darkness beyond the edge of this world, wondering what he would catch and where he belonged.

You see, they are all  fishing for their places in this vast universe.

So when you next feel lonely, look up. When you next feel as if you do not fit into this world, cast your line out and find another one. When you feel that darkness closing in, look to the twinkling lighthouses in the ancient night sky and know that you are not alone.

Fantasy, General Fiction, Horror & Dark Fiction

The Shadowed Path Beside Starlight

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Fairy

“Come here child and let me show you another way?”

I tentatively step forward and reach out for her hand. She looks young and beautiful, draped in strange clothes that shimmer. But I somehow know that she is old. I somehow know she that is ancient.

“Yes, there is another way. It lies alongside the starlight.”

She smiles and takes my hand. Her hands are icy cold, but strangely comforting like cool water on a hot day.

“Just like the Sun warms the day, the Moon looks over the night. And, under Her protection, we can walk in the shadows of this path lit up only by the starlight. Now, child, look up and tell me what you see?”

I look up and suddenly the cosmos opens up before me. Nothing has changed in the night sky. The stars are all there like they always were. But each and every one of them seems to twinkle and gleam just a little bit more. It is like they are all focussing on me and me alone. It suddenly feels like the stars are all looking down on me; thousands and thousands of celestial beings focussing on just me. And they are not randomly scattered across the sky. No, suddenly I realize that the constellations stretching out before me are all ancient markers along a celestial road towards a cosmic infinity.

“Yes, child, you see it now. You see the shadowed path beside starlight that She has given us,” she whispers into my ear. She then takes my face in her cold touch and turns me to look deep into her mysterious eyes, “Child, do you want to walk this path and do you choose to do so of your own free will?”

The starlight from the endless cosmos above me seems to radiate around us. Our beings are shimmering in soft silver light. My mind is swirling in a space much larger than it ever has done before. Thoughts of space and time, light and darkness, stars and suns, and boundless cosmic distances all converge with my human emotions of wonder and joy and peace and happiness and love.

“Yes…” I whisper, “Yes, I do.”

She smiles and a knife that I had not noticed before in her hand slips quickly and quietly between my ribs. Its metal is cold, like her touch, but fire erupts in my chest as it pierces my heart. The sharp pain makes me cry out. This quickly subsides as my warm, pumping lifeblood spills down my front and I begin to grow numb.

I begin to grow cold; cold like her touch.

As a heavy darkness begins to fall over my vision, the last thing I remember hearing is her whispering to the stars, “O Terrible Mistress, we send this willing child on the shadowed path beside starlight towards You and eternity…”

And then there are only the stars.

General Fiction

Through Timeless Eyes

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The old Egyptian woman stood still in the gloomy chamber. She was leaning heavily on a meticulously carved staff ending in a cow’s head topped by a plume. Gold inlay spiralled around the staff, like little rivers of sunlight flickering in the candlelight as she gazed up at the statue.

The statue stood mounted on a pedestal that also meticulously carved. The pedal depicted a flowing scene of animalistic beings dancing around it. They were the scenes of the murder of Osiris and his resurrection three days later. The scenes then showed Osiris’ copulation with Isis before descending to the Underworld. The scenes then changed main character to reveal Isis hiding Horus in the Nile’s reeds, Set hunting Horus and Horus’s final defeat of Set, while Apep waited quietly in the background to consume the world.

But the old woman was not looking at the pedestal. She was looking at the statue. She was gazing at him with her eyes softly glazed, as if looking a thousand leagues away.

A young girl suddenly skipped into the dim chamber, the sand crunching lightly beneath her feet. The you girl stopped at the old woman’s side and looked up at her.

“Grandma, what is that?” the little girl innocently asked, breaking the old woman’s musings.

“Ah, my dear, it is the face of an old Pharoah, I think. He died a long, long time ago.”

“But why are you looking at it, Grandma?”

“Just because I find it beautiful, Baby-girl. Don’t you find it beautiful?”

The little girl stepped forward and squinted at it. Her brow frowned as if she was thinking long and hard about how to answer her grandmother.

“Yes, I think it is almost as beautiful as the story below it on the pedestal. I like the pedestal, Grandma.”

“You think it is only a story carved there, Baby-girl? You don’t believe in the Resurrection of Osiris and the Trials of Horus?”

“No, Grandma, who can believe such silly things? But I do like the story a lot. It makes me happy to hear it.”

The old woman smiled at her grand-daughter, who smiled back at her. And they both continued looking upon the old statue in that dimly lit chamber carved into the rock beside the Nile.

And then time passed. Lots and lots time passed. The old civilisation collapsed, waves of different invaders across the land came and went. The Nile flooded thousands of times as the crocodiles floated by and the sands steadily rose up to swallow everything left there.

The statue on the pedestal in that room was cloaked in darkness and forgotten all about. There it slept as a secret in the sand until a brisk voice suddenly began to be heard.

The brisk voice was only faint at first. But then it grew louder and began to be accompanied by the scrapes of digging. Compared to the prior eternity in darkness and silence, it was in less than the blink of an eye that the archaeologists appeared in that dim chamber, and the old statue and its pedestal were whisked off to a museum, documented, restored, preserved and then displayed for the public to gape at it.

And then there was an old woman standing outside of the glass enclosure that surrounded the old statue and its pedestal in the museum. Harsh, cold electric light shone down, sharpening the old woman’s cracked features as she leant on a metallic-gray walking aid.

“Grandma, what’s that?” a little girl–her grand-daughter–asked after appearing at her side moments later.

“Ah, Baby-girl, it is the face of an old Egyptian Pharoah. He died a long, long time ago in some faraway desert kingdom.”

“And what are all those funny pictures on the stone under him?” the little girl asked leaning forward, pressing her face against the glass, straining to make out the intricate, weather detail on the pedestal below the statue.

“Ah, Baby-girl, that’s some barbaric story from Ancient Egypt. They would believe such funny things back then, worshipping all manner of strange gods. Not like us, my dear girl, but it wasn’t their fault either, as they hadn’t met Jesus yet.”

“Is this statue older than Jesus?” the little girl asked whirling around looking surprised.

“Yes, Baby-girl,” the old woman said, nodding slowly, “I suppose it must be. It must have been carved long before the crucifixion of Jesus. And so it is also older than Jesus’ resurrection three days later and his ascension to Heaven. Baby-girl, this statue might even be older than when Moses was hidden in the Nile reeds from the evil Pharoah hunting him and the Jews fled from Egypt.”

The old woman smiled at her grand-daughter, who smiled back at her. And they both continued looking upon the old statue, expressions of awe and wonder growing across their faces.

And then time passed. Lots and lots of time passed. The old civilisation collapsed, invaders in the lands came and went as nations rose and fell. The oceans flooded when the polar icecaps melted and many things were covered in the waters, including the old museum. And, in the museum deep below the waves, the old statue and its pedestal in the vacuum-sealed glass box remained perfectly still.

And so, shrouded in darkness and the intense silence of the ocean floor, time passed for the statue and its pedestal.

Thousands of years sped by in that liquid twilight.

And then suddenly there was a light around the statue and a soft vibrating disturbing the glass walls of the vacuum-sealed display case. The world closed in on the statue, a light flared, and the statue and its stone pedestal were suddenly somewhere else!

After the teleport-recovery team ensured the structural integrity of the artifacts recovered, the restoration team moved them all. They had limited tools onboard the recovery starship, but they had enough. By the time they had left the old planet and returned to the fleet in deep orbit, the statue and its pedestal were restored and fit to be exhibited to the gaping public.

And then there was an old woman sitting outside the temperature-controlled stasis field that now surrounded the old statue and its pedestal.

The old woman sat on a smoothly-designed, floating chair that seemed to move of its own accord, or at least follow her silent wishes. At her side walked a small, younger girl, subtle electric circulates softly glowing around her skin as her hands twitched like they were typing on invisible keyboards and her eyes darted around like she was watching an invisible screen that only her eyes could see.

“Grandma, what’s that?” the little girl thought, and these thoughts were conveyed silently across unique short-range waves to the old woman’s mind, where they were spoken back to her in her mind almost simultaneously.

“Ah, my Baby-girl, it is the face of an old Pharoah. He died a long, long time ago.” the old woman thought back to her genetic grand-daughter.

“And what is all that on the stone under him?” the little girl-clone asked leaning forward,. Her thoughts began connecting to the starship’s database where they began searching for records on this strange artifact.

“Oh, that’s a depiction of this strange old belief that the people who lived on Earth all had,” the old woman thought, “Have I told you about their old religious text yet?”

The little girl-clone shook her head, and her thoughts conveyed this as an emotional smile to her genetic grandparent next to her. The little girl-close mentally disconnected her search of the database. She liked to hear her genetic grandmother tell these stories. There was something about them that made her happy.

“Ah, well, then,” the old woman thought, smiling slightly, “Let me tell you the story of Jesus and the Resurrection of Chris from the Bible.“

General Fiction, Horror & Dark Fiction

The Value of Regrets

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old man smoking

He had heard all the cliches about how you should live your life without regrets. They were repeated like some occult wisdom or gospel. People put the cliches on bumper stickers and they were tweeted by teenagers sneaking out of the house or attending parties or Facebooked by girls on one night stands.

He had grown to realise that reality was much more complicated. While cliches did a good job sticking in our minds as repeatable phrases, they did little in actually solving life’s complicated problems. He dragged on a cigarette and subconsciously nodded agreement with himself.

Yes…

Try telling those afflicted with HIV/AID that they shouldn’t have any regrets in their life. Try telling the rapist and murders, perhaps the DUI offender even, how they shouldn’t have any regrets in their lives. Try telling the child that grows up in the war-torn African country that a life well-lived should have no regrets. Try telling the abused or mistreated or malnourished that they are living life wrong if they have regrets.

He had always thoughts that the only way to have a life without regrets was in fact to have a charmed life where no a single tough decision has to be made, no risks are taken and, indeed, no life at all is ever really lived. It was to live a life free from responsibilities while being funded by the labour of others. It was to be born rich, do nothing, and die young.

He had regrets. He had lived a full life, but he definitely had regrets that touched his mind in the quiet moments of the night.

He lit another cigarette; the flash of the lighter and then the soft roar of the tobacco burning as he pulled on it. Dry smoke pulled into his lung and he breathed it out slowly.

Yes, I have regrets.

He should never have started smoking, but quitting it was now the hardest thing he had ever failed at. Well, at least, it wouldn’t matter much, anymore, and besides he had met his late wife when she had borrowed a lighter from him. Perhaps he had had to smoke to have the life that he had lived.

Yes, I have many regrets.

His wife had left him after a handful of years of marriage. He had loved her. He still thought he did, though it was so many years ago he was not sure that he could fully remember what she looked like anymore. But, still, he regretted not trying harder to make it work. He regretted being a bad husband. Perhaps he even regretted walking into that bar where they met all those years ago.

Yes, so many regrets…

There was the time he shouted at his mother. The trip to Russia. Skipping the flaming dessert in Paris and the snails. He should’ve spent more time with his parents and his brother. He should have exercised more and taken his friend up on the offer to go rock climbing. He should not have drunk that much in Tokyo nor gone to that hotel with that girl. He should not have kissed that girl nor eaten that pill the guy in the club had given him. He should have bought the house by the beach and retired a decade earlier. He should have sent an invite to her or even just called her…

But, he reminded himself smiling wryly, at least this nearly endless list of regrets means that I have had to make real decisions. It means that I truly have been at life’s crossroads and lived a full life.

He smiled and lit another cigarette.

A couple months later, his brother would say nearly identical words to the handful of people that attended his funeral: he had lived a full life.

General Fiction

The Life of Clouds

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sky-1441936_1280

Floating with no responsibilities, he thought as he looked up at the clouds drifting lazily by, that is true freedom. He was lying on a warm beach. His fishing rod was pegged next to him with its line reaching out into the calm waters.

But this did not last forever.

He grew older and was drafted into the army. The war was terrible, but he survived it and came home to a university education. Years later, crossing the threshold of a quarter century he moved into the workforce. Initially, it was the large American automotive company, but as things got offshored, he moved into other industrial businesses. Each new industrial business was far flung, and he travelled a lot in those days. He met his wife during those travels, and she convinced him to move to New York with her.

The Big Apple roared with noise and activity, and he was pulled into the investment banking and stock market hype of those boom years. Millions exchanged hands as he screamed out buys and sells and orders and calls on the trading floor on Wall Street.

Children appeared in his life. It was then a mix of nappies, school, lifts and then friends, while he was juggling work and meetings and panic and money. And, somewhere along this, he and his wife forgot each other.

He woke up one morning to find his wife sitting in the chair next to the bed and staring at him.

They agreed to divorce the moment the children moved out, which they did relatively quickly as school ended and their university careers started. The lawyers seemed quite worried about who wanted the apartment in New York, but became visibly relieved when he said that she could take it.

He also wrote out a cheque of an eye-watering quantity and gave it to her. She did not look him in the eye as they said goodbye.

And then she left.

And so did he.

And, at sixty-three years old he found himself on a beach in the middle of the work week. Somewhere the markets were open and people were panicking. Somewhere cars were being made, and children being fetched and fed. Somewhere wives were being looked after, and books being studied. Somewhere there was noise and activity, traffic and taxes, work and study…

But not here.

He flicked his arm and the reel made a zooming sound as the line dragged by the sinker flew out to sea. He then sat down, pegging the fishing rod into the sand next to him. Lying back in the sand, he looked up. Clouds were drifting lazily by in the blue sky above.

He thought he saw what looked like a dragon eating its own tail in one of the clouds, and smiled. He thought he understood the humour here and closed his eyes, sighing.

Fantasy

Gaming the Genie

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alladin lamp

“Three wishes?”

“Yes, Master, you have three wishes. You own the lamp, yes?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you rubbed the lamp, yes?”

“Yes, while I was cleaning–it was my great grandfathers, he was famous, but had a horrible–”

“And so I am your Genie, you are my Master, and you have three wishes.”

“And I assume that I cannot wish for more wishes or anything else like that?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Did Disney get that from you, or did you get that from Disney?”

“Walter Disney got that from me when he owned this lamp, Master.”

“Who else has owned this lamp, Genie?”

“Quite a couple people, Master. Marilyn Monroe, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, James Marshall Hendrix, just to name a few of them, Master.”

“Interesting. Hmmm… OK, Genie, I know what my first wish is.”

“Yes, Master, I am listening.”

“All of those names, including my great grandfather, all ended up badly. Thus, I can see that you obviously twist wishes around. And, so I have to be careful about how I phrase my wishes to you. Is this correct, Genie?”

“I grant the wishes as they are and not as they ought to be, Master.”

“Right, then, Genie, my first wish is this: I wish that you grant my last two wishes based on my intentions when wishing these wishes and not on a literal translation of the wish, and any ambiguities are to resolve in my best interest.”

“Yes, Master, it is done.”

“Next, I wish that I have all the tools to make, change and influence the world however I want it to be.”

“Yes, Master, it is done.”

“Finally, I wish that I have the ability to make, change and influence the world however I want it to be.”

“Yes, Master, it is done. You are now God.”

General Fiction

Go Fetch!

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dog fetch

Throw it…

Come on, just throw it!

Wait, wait, wait… He’s gonna throw it now. Now. Now… 

Now!

He threw it! He threw it! He threw it! Oh, wow, what a shot! Go! Go! Go! Come on, come on, I almost got it. Almost got it. Almost. Almost. Wait… And…

I got it! I got it! 

And the crowd goes wild in the stadium. What a great catch and what a great game.

Later that evening when he is home, he throws the ball for his dog and shakes his head. The dog bounds off immediately, focussed entirely on this small, moving object in a vast wide universe. They are such simple creatures, he thinks, that such simple, pointless activities give them pleasure.

General Fiction, Horror & Dark Fiction

Kill Me

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Cars pass and lanes merge and diverge, buildings and billboards fly by as an eternity of fast moving metal, concrete and steel surround him...

I wonder if this will be the smoke that kills me, he thinks to himself as his lights up a cigarette. He pulls hard on it and the molten red tip glows brightly in the dingy bar. Far from illuminating the darkness, the small spot of red light at the tip of the cigarette actually emphasises the shadows and despair in the bar.

He nods at the barman and another cold beer appears before him.

I wonder if this will be the drink that kills me, he thinks to himself as he takes a long sip of the beer. The cold condensed water droplets on its outside slip between his rough hands as the crisp, cold liquid slides down his throat.

Time slips by and before he knows it, the cigarette is only ash and the beer is only an empty bottle. He is only slightly tipsy, if anything at all. It is actually disappointing, but he reminds himself that he is used to that feeling. He sighs and looks at the time. It getting late, so he decides to head home.

I wonder if this will be the man that kills me, he thinks to himself as he stumbles a bit up a step and bumps a tattooed figure playing darts.

The man turns around and checks that he is alright. He nods and smiles, and the tattooed man apologises before going back to the game of darts with a number of other tattooed characters of varying degrees of art.

In the parking lot outside the bar, he gets into his car. A soft frost covers his windscreen as the cold of the old leather seat bites into him through his pants. He turns the key and the engine roars to life with a guttural growl, the lights flare up, the heat comes on and the radio starts playing some song with a mournful lady’s voice droning into it.

I wonder if this will be the road that kills me, he thinks to himself as he pulls out of that parking lot into the slipstream and merges with the traffic on the way home. There are flowing lights all around him. Cars pass and lanes merge and diverge, buildings and billboards fly by as an eternity of fast moving metal, concrete and steel surround him in this moving movement.

But he gets home, safe and sound. He parks the car and walks up the stairs of the apartment into his flat.

He yawns and drops into his bed. Before long he begins drifting off to sleep. The day, some childhood memories and even more abstract, alluvial images begin fluttering through his mind.

I wonder if this will be the sleep where I–he begins wondering, but never finishes his internal dialogue. He drifts off to a deep, dreamless sleep filled with darkness, doubt and doom.

And it will only be the next day–after breakfast and during the rush hour in traffic–in the crowded subway that the terrorist’s bomb explodes next to him killing him. Ironically, he will not see it coming.

General Fiction

Dodging a Bullet, Firing a Gun

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"He smiled grimly. He knew what he had to do."
“He smiled grimly. He knew what he had to do.”

“It will be a better world when I run it. And the first change I will make will be–”

But he did not hesitate as he ran. He squeezed the trigger of the gun pointing at the most infamous criminal mastermind in history. The sound was short and loud, followed by a long silence smelling like gunpowder.

He had found his mark.

He stood up from the crumpled body lying on the marble floor. He walked past the bullet-ridden furniture and the smashed Greco-roman sculpture. He walked out of the mansion, dodging the ruins of the complex and onto a parked private jet. He flew from the remote island in the Carribean into British history and front page newspapers.

The Queen knighted him. They drank tea and discussed politics. The Russians remained quietly on the offensive while the Yanks kept on stockpiling nukes. The African genocides continued; many of the supers powers in the world fueling them as both proxy wars and to kept the costs of mineral extraction in this continent low. China’s fingers were reaching further and further while India and Pakistan seemed to ready to jump into war at any moment.

The Queen was most pleasant–though he got the distinct sense that she felt powerless in this conflict-ridden world–and bade him farewell.

It was a quaint afternoon, but mildly depressing.

He was now the most famous agent in the world. He had foiled and killed the greatest of masterminds in his plan for world domination. It had taken decades of tracking him, understanding him and infiltrating his plans to get to that point. He had had to think like him; get inside his head.

Newspapers wrote about him. Magazines interviewed him. TV shows referenced him. And then the Government could not find him.

Amidst all the noise and amidst all the lights and cameras, he was drinking far away on a quiet little island far away from international flight paths or shipping routes. These were long, quiet drinks that helped him work things out in his mind.

Something was wrong. Actually, a lot was wrong.

Everything was wrong in this world.

Everyone had an agenda. Every country wanted to come out the top and crush its real and perceived enemies. Every politician wanted his country to win, but more important he wanted to win. Every soldier, agent, spy, crimelord… All of them had agendas that placed their own end games above those of everyone else, thus threatening the world’s end game.

And herein lay the cycle of conflict in this world.

He smiled grimly. He knew what he had to do. He had known it all along, learning his enemy’s complex, subtle, twisted plot over decades. He had to rid himself of all agendas. He had to rid himself of all morals and ethics and conveniences. Laws would limit him where he was going. People would never understand him, but that did not matter.

After all, it was not for England, nor was it for himself. It was for the world and everyone in it.

The small jet roared to life as he pointed it up the runway towards a certain remote island in the Carribean, “Yes, it will be a better world when I run it.”

General Fiction, Science Fiction

Connections

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"Pictures. Selfies. Group photos. Check-ins. Status updates. Shares."
“Pictures. Selfies. Group photos. Check-ins. Status updates. Shares.”

She clicks the notifications as they appear on Facebook, liking, commenting and sharing items that catch her interest.

But her interest is spread.

She is scrolling 9gag’s hot page in the background with half of an eye on it. SoundCloud is playing through a mix by some DJ she has seen has a lot of follows. Twitter is trending #TGIF.

On LinkedIn, an ex-colleague sent her a request. She accepts it and checks out it his profile. What was his wife’s name again? He has moved jobs. It is a downgrade from his last one, but the town he lives in on the east coast looks nice.

An email appears in her Outlook. She flicks back to this screen. She had forgotten she even had email. How antiquated!

It is a customer query. She sends the standard response and then flicks back to check what has changed on Facebook.

Her friend is pregnant. She likes it before scrolling down. Another friends mother has passed away. She writes how sorry she is.

And then scrolls further.

Pictures. Selfies. Group photos. Check-ins. Status updates. Shares. Appeals for help and random jokes based on memes that by definition are now a cliche.

Boredom gnaws at her like cancer.

Twitter notifies her on an incoming tweet. She sees that a boy she likes–or, at least, a profile picture that she thinks is hot–is now following her. The incoming tweet is another account; it is a bot spamming her with a dodgy link. She blocks it. She tweets at the boy. He retweets her but does not reply.

#TGIF

She sighs.

If only she had some friends and was not so lonely. If only she had somewhere to go and something to do tonight. If only that beautiful boy in the profile picture would notice her profile picture.

If only she had someone to communicate with.

General Fiction

Elephant Eyes

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"...grey hide is cracked and aged from the harsh African sun, some mud splatters on one side from its last trip to a nearby river..."
“…grey hide is cracked and aged from the harsh African sun, some mud splatters on one side from its last trip to a nearby river…”

The great bull elephant stands majestically in the hot African sun. Crackling, buzzing bush surrounds it as a ragged mountain range fills the backdrop beyond the dry vegetation and the rolling savanna.

Slowly the gigantic beast lifts its head and its thick trunk snakes out to delicately curl around the leaves of a nearby Acacia tree, plucking the leaves and politely slipping the bundle into its mouth.

The beast’s great grey hide is cracked and aged from the harsh African sun, some mud splatters on one side from its last trip to a nearby river. Coarse hair juts out from all over it’s hide and two large, white tusks curve elegantly from either side of its mouth.

Its large ears lazily move back and forth, perhaps to cool it down, to chase away the insistent, endless insects or perhaps both. It is a slow, steady action, almost cathartic in nature.

The bull elephant appears deep in thought as it slowly chews the leaves in its mouth and reaches out with its trunk to the tree for more.

Somewhere a lion roars and something else shrieks. A vulture drifts over far above this world, barely a black dot in the sky. The buzzing of the countless bush insects seems to collectively shift up in pitch and intensity, almost like the whole of the Savanna was singing some song that only they knew.

I peer through the lens at this scene. The zoom shows almost every detail of the elephant. The three nicks in its left ear from playing as a calf around thorn trees. The scar down its front leg where a lioness caught it unaware as a young adult, and the cracks and weathering on its great, valuable tusks from decades of living in this unforgiving Eden on a dusty continent.

And then the elephant looks at me.

It looks at me with those immense, eyelashed eyes with a warmth emanating outwards from a vast, hidden depth there. I can suddenly feel its soul, and feel the line of elephants that came before this one, trailing back to the very beginnings of this great savanna. We will never understand what wonders this ancient being and its kind have seen and whisper to each other across the ages on this old, sacred grassland.

It looks at me, and it looks through me and sees me.

The elephant knows I am there. It always did. It is not running away, nor is it fighting.

It accepts and forgives. It loves. But, mostly, it just feels sad. It feels sorry for me.

I cannot do this anymore.

I take my eye off the sights and hand the gun back to the ranger.

“Let’s go home,” I mumble, “let’s just go home.”

Fast Fiction On-the-Go