Tim Reed's Blog, page 5
August 22, 2012
Under Antarctica Extract
Have you ever wondered what really happened to Oates on Scott’s fateful expedition to Antarctica? Well, we believe we may have found out, more than seventy years later…and completely by accident. My name isn’t important, my profession tedious, but a frozen piece of paper miraculously stored in a bottle − fatefully discovered in a drill sample − has shot me and Antarctica into the public eye.
I have seen penguins casually walk towards desolate mountains and their deaths, and icebergs the size of Sicily, but nothing has had more impact on me than this seemingly innocuous scrap of paper, the following words of which are eerie in their suggestiveness, frustrating in their briefness, but utterly beguiling and wrapped in a shroud of mystery. Read it, make your own mind up, and wonder what really lurks beneath the ice of our ‘forgotten’ continent.
‘I write this in haste and despair – though I thought despair had departed me in my lifting of the tent-flap. My illness is forgotten now I am here, and my sacrifice meaningless, though part of me wishes I was face down in the snow above. Such is the spectacular nature of the cave that I feel the blizzard’s numbness dissipating completely, but instead I am filled with wrongness and dread – as well as wonder. Something unholy lurks here, of that there is no doubt, and it means me death – which I’m strangely not now ready to concede. I sense it, feel it, but cannot see it, for it moves in invisibility and is cloaked in another dimension…don’t ask me why I know this − I would rather not − but its power is so extreme that it smothers me like smoke. But as yet it walks parallel to the cavern, so it cannot physically touch me, though I hear a voice whispering from the walls. I smile in recollection of…’
The next few lines are worn away, with only the words ‘near’ and ‘chasm to the left of my foot’ visible. After that, the script turns spidery and harried, as if Oates was struggling to control some fear. We just don’t know. It begins again with this:
‘…And the foolscap glitters with diamond dust. The ceiling is ripe with stalagmites, but the rock is just underneath, and you can see it has been mined. Scott would have revelled in this place. He always loved the mystery of the world, and this place is like something from Elysium. But it’s an Elysium laced with darkness, and it is a foreign darkness that is disguised by the whiteness of the ice. Already it works on me, befuddling my thoughts as I sit on a carved block, embroidered miraculously with jasper and jade. Actually worked into the ice! Extraordinary! And that’s not all. There is an underground library, with golden books I can’t pick up, and markings and arrows on the ground next to the chasm, pointing to something in its depths. That is the mystery – and it is everywhere − but the horror is the skeleton in the corner with no lower jaw, and the green book on the plinth. In there is a picture that makes me fear for humans and their future, but try as I might, my hand will not write what it is, nor my mind recall it from memory. Yes, I could go and look again, but damn! My legs are done! The cave is making me drowsy and I know the fiend is sucking me dry, but such are those who are hungry I guess. They work subtly on their prey to wear them down – like the cheetah running for miles with the antelope. In the end, persistence pay dividends, and my feeble human will is no match for the fantasy around me. I would gladly go if I could sit back, close my eyes and relish the heat of my unnaturally warm surroundings, but such a fate is wishful thinking.’
I have seen penguins casually walk towards desolate mountains and their deaths, and icebergs the size of Sicily, but nothing has had more impact on me than this seemingly innocuous scrap of paper, the following words of which are eerie in their suggestiveness, frustrating in their briefness, but utterly beguiling and wrapped in a shroud of mystery. Read it, make your own mind up, and wonder what really lurks beneath the ice of our ‘forgotten’ continent.
‘I write this in haste and despair – though I thought despair had departed me in my lifting of the tent-flap. My illness is forgotten now I am here, and my sacrifice meaningless, though part of me wishes I was face down in the snow above. Such is the spectacular nature of the cave that I feel the blizzard’s numbness dissipating completely, but instead I am filled with wrongness and dread – as well as wonder. Something unholy lurks here, of that there is no doubt, and it means me death – which I’m strangely not now ready to concede. I sense it, feel it, but cannot see it, for it moves in invisibility and is cloaked in another dimension…don’t ask me why I know this − I would rather not − but its power is so extreme that it smothers me like smoke. But as yet it walks parallel to the cavern, so it cannot physically touch me, though I hear a voice whispering from the walls. I smile in recollection of…’
The next few lines are worn away, with only the words ‘near’ and ‘chasm to the left of my foot’ visible. After that, the script turns spidery and harried, as if Oates was struggling to control some fear. We just don’t know. It begins again with this:
‘…And the foolscap glitters with diamond dust. The ceiling is ripe with stalagmites, but the rock is just underneath, and you can see it has been mined. Scott would have revelled in this place. He always loved the mystery of the world, and this place is like something from Elysium. But it’s an Elysium laced with darkness, and it is a foreign darkness that is disguised by the whiteness of the ice. Already it works on me, befuddling my thoughts as I sit on a carved block, embroidered miraculously with jasper and jade. Actually worked into the ice! Extraordinary! And that’s not all. There is an underground library, with golden books I can’t pick up, and markings and arrows on the ground next to the chasm, pointing to something in its depths. That is the mystery – and it is everywhere − but the horror is the skeleton in the corner with no lower jaw, and the green book on the plinth. In there is a picture that makes me fear for humans and their future, but try as I might, my hand will not write what it is, nor my mind recall it from memory. Yes, I could go and look again, but damn! My legs are done! The cave is making me drowsy and I know the fiend is sucking me dry, but such are those who are hungry I guess. They work subtly on their prey to wear them down – like the cheetah running for miles with the antelope. In the end, persistence pay dividends, and my feeble human will is no match for the fantasy around me. I would gladly go if I could sit back, close my eyes and relish the heat of my unnaturally warm surroundings, but such a fate is wishful thinking.’
August 10, 2012
'The Song at Twilight' Extract
A growling car prowled past, and a part of me lifted off, seeking the driver in his old banger, wondering what dark errand kept him on the road so late. Was he returning home from visiting relatives? Was he a drink driver? An insomniac? I found an image of a man, face shadowed, cigarette glowing in his hand, and thought ‘ah, he is the one. He is the prowler.’ But my description seemed harsh. This was a true night owl, relishing the early hours, alone with nature around him, unafraid of smothering silence.
‘Now you start to see. Tell me, boy, who is he?’
I frowned, confused. “I...can’t see. His face is blacked out.”
‘That’s right. He is the nobody of human civilisation – an outcast from the racket of achievement, culture, and toil.’
Father sounded both amused and bitter, but as I clung to the drifter’s image, the meaning of his words became clear. The man lived apart, in silence, unable to fathom society’s love for brazen noise, rudely constructed. He didn’t want to experience rush hour, nor to work to the bone for most of his life. Children were the true heralds of imagination, but he got to be one for only a small fraction of his life. The rest was dedicated to ‘rush’, and that held no appeal.
So he put on a mask, played his part to a minimum, and spent the rest of the time free, alone, and unburdened. Nature was the grail, open spaces his home, and all the time – over months and years – he trained himself to truly listen to the trees...to embrace the symphony of existence.
His profession was an obsolete one – he was a Listener to the Gods.
‘At last we come to it. Who is that man, you say? I name him the proper scientist of Earth, the magi of the past, a philosopher of the unknown.’
‘Now you start to see. Tell me, boy, who is he?’
I frowned, confused. “I...can’t see. His face is blacked out.”
‘That’s right. He is the nobody of human civilisation – an outcast from the racket of achievement, culture, and toil.’
Father sounded both amused and bitter, but as I clung to the drifter’s image, the meaning of his words became clear. The man lived apart, in silence, unable to fathom society’s love for brazen noise, rudely constructed. He didn’t want to experience rush hour, nor to work to the bone for most of his life. Children were the true heralds of imagination, but he got to be one for only a small fraction of his life. The rest was dedicated to ‘rush’, and that held no appeal.
So he put on a mask, played his part to a minimum, and spent the rest of the time free, alone, and unburdened. Nature was the grail, open spaces his home, and all the time – over months and years – he trained himself to truly listen to the trees...to embrace the symphony of existence.
His profession was an obsolete one – he was a Listener to the Gods.
‘At last we come to it. Who is that man, you say? I name him the proper scientist of Earth, the magi of the past, a philosopher of the unknown.’
August 5, 2012
Dreams That Forsake Their Host Extract
Half an hour disappeared, with us scrambling forward, our excitement building with each step. The rainbow now loomed almost above us, and – unlike most of its kind – hadn’t diminished in hue. In fact, it fairly dominated the sky, blazing like a gemstone necklace adorning a God.
“Captain,” said Irvin, breathing hard. “You still haven’t taken any pictures.”
I stopped climbing momentarily and looked at my camera. “So I haven’t. Hmm…it seems almost too pure a thing to try and capture on film.”
My poetry surprised me, but Irvin instantly nodded in understanding, lunging past me into a narrow ravine. He quickly disappeared from view, and I heard a sharp exclamation. “Ah! Captain, I don’t believe it! We’ve found the base. My God, what a sight!”
His excitement was infectious, so I ran after him through the rocky passage and out into a strange, silent place. Irvin stood to my left, staring at the rainbow with tears in his eyes, and beyond him was a dip in the plain, like a giant step. Below that was a small stream, that passed us from west to east, intersecting our passage like a medieval moat. Beyond…well beyond was the rainbow, or at least the part of it that sank into a patch of ground more fertile than any I’d ever seen.
“What the hell is this?” I ghosted up to Irvin, who still stared, struck dumb by the spectacle. “Irvin? We’ve found one…I didn’t expect it to be quite as glorious as this!”
“We shouldn’t be here.” His voice was peculiarly afraid. “We really shouldn’t be witnessing this, captain.”
I laughed, incredulous. “What are you talking about? This is great − a once in a lifetime opportunity.” I took a step forward. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”
The rainbow called me – this sweeping anomaly of Nature was so pure that it was irresistible to us ‘tainted’ humans. I wanted to sit and bask in its glory forever, to drink in the colour until my soul was full. But again Irvin’s voice cut into my wonder, and it sounded full of dread.
“Don’t. You’ll regret it.”
I barely heard him. The rainbow was almost above me as I skipped over the stream, and with the bridging of the moat, there came a noticeable change in temperature. “Irvin, come! It’s as balmy as a Caribbean beach over here!”
Heat emanated from the rainbow, creating distorted air similar to a desert’s, and I also heard a faint humming sound. The base smelt of wet earth and was surrounded by alert bluebells, leaning away from the rainbow’s aura as if in deference.
“Come back, fool! This isn’t something to be trifled with!”
Irvin’s voice was bordering on madness, and I knew I should take heed, but something held me in thrall to those vibrant colours – so alive! “Just a little closer…”
I put out a hand, so close was I to the every streaming kaleidoscope, wondering what I would feel, if anything.
“Look at the colours, captain! They’re not right. They’re inverted!” I looked up and saw the truth at last. Violet was top, red at the bottom, and something about that order seemed so wrong. But it was too late. My hand caressed the rainbow, I felt a tingling sensation, and then something flew into my mind. I turned around and saw Irvin backing away, naked terror twisting his features into something almost monstrous. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Captain…goodbye.”
His gaze was riveted on my outstretched hand as he backed further away, whimpering like a scolded child.
“What’s the matter?”
He didn’t reply, just turned tail and ran. I stared after him for a moment, bemused, and then looked down at my hand. For just a moment I saw something inexplicable, but whether a trick of imagination, a vision borrowed from the rainbow, or my own unease manifesting itself, I had no idea. But what I saw was this – a semi-circular ring attached to my hand, running from my index finger to the top of my wrist. It glowed brilliantly, and contained the inverted colours of the rainbow, shrunk into a majestic microcosm.
Then it vanished.
I turned, feeling nauseous, and my last thought before passing out was one of confusion…that the rainbow behind me was gone.
“Captain,” said Irvin, breathing hard. “You still haven’t taken any pictures.”
I stopped climbing momentarily and looked at my camera. “So I haven’t. Hmm…it seems almost too pure a thing to try and capture on film.”
My poetry surprised me, but Irvin instantly nodded in understanding, lunging past me into a narrow ravine. He quickly disappeared from view, and I heard a sharp exclamation. “Ah! Captain, I don’t believe it! We’ve found the base. My God, what a sight!”
His excitement was infectious, so I ran after him through the rocky passage and out into a strange, silent place. Irvin stood to my left, staring at the rainbow with tears in his eyes, and beyond him was a dip in the plain, like a giant step. Below that was a small stream, that passed us from west to east, intersecting our passage like a medieval moat. Beyond…well beyond was the rainbow, or at least the part of it that sank into a patch of ground more fertile than any I’d ever seen.
“What the hell is this?” I ghosted up to Irvin, who still stared, struck dumb by the spectacle. “Irvin? We’ve found one…I didn’t expect it to be quite as glorious as this!”
“We shouldn’t be here.” His voice was peculiarly afraid. “We really shouldn’t be witnessing this, captain.”
I laughed, incredulous. “What are you talking about? This is great − a once in a lifetime opportunity.” I took a step forward. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”
The rainbow called me – this sweeping anomaly of Nature was so pure that it was irresistible to us ‘tainted’ humans. I wanted to sit and bask in its glory forever, to drink in the colour until my soul was full. But again Irvin’s voice cut into my wonder, and it sounded full of dread.
“Don’t. You’ll regret it.”
I barely heard him. The rainbow was almost above me as I skipped over the stream, and with the bridging of the moat, there came a noticeable change in temperature. “Irvin, come! It’s as balmy as a Caribbean beach over here!”
Heat emanated from the rainbow, creating distorted air similar to a desert’s, and I also heard a faint humming sound. The base smelt of wet earth and was surrounded by alert bluebells, leaning away from the rainbow’s aura as if in deference.
“Come back, fool! This isn’t something to be trifled with!”
Irvin’s voice was bordering on madness, and I knew I should take heed, but something held me in thrall to those vibrant colours – so alive! “Just a little closer…”
I put out a hand, so close was I to the every streaming kaleidoscope, wondering what I would feel, if anything.
“Look at the colours, captain! They’re not right. They’re inverted!” I looked up and saw the truth at last. Violet was top, red at the bottom, and something about that order seemed so wrong. But it was too late. My hand caressed the rainbow, I felt a tingling sensation, and then something flew into my mind. I turned around and saw Irvin backing away, naked terror twisting his features into something almost monstrous. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Captain…goodbye.”
His gaze was riveted on my outstretched hand as he backed further away, whimpering like a scolded child.
“What’s the matter?”
He didn’t reply, just turned tail and ran. I stared after him for a moment, bemused, and then looked down at my hand. For just a moment I saw something inexplicable, but whether a trick of imagination, a vision borrowed from the rainbow, or my own unease manifesting itself, I had no idea. But what I saw was this – a semi-circular ring attached to my hand, running from my index finger to the top of my wrist. It glowed brilliantly, and contained the inverted colours of the rainbow, shrunk into a majestic microcosm.
Then it vanished.
I turned, feeling nauseous, and my last thought before passing out was one of confusion…that the rainbow behind me was gone.
July 30, 2012
Summons Extract 2
There was a pulse of magic, the Sphinx’s teeth flared from bright red to magnificent gold, and Dragma staggered backwards. I felt a ‘tear’ in the atmosphere. The Sphinx was free. But it wasn’t retreating; it was setting itself to pounce. “Master, look out!” I shouted, instinctively throwing myself in its path.
The Sphinx sprung forward and I brought the sword up just in time, the metal hitting the beast’s teeth with a reverberating clang. The impact knocked me back against the passage wall, perilously close to the Nebula, and pain lanced through my back. The Sphinx shook its head, before re-setting itself for the kill.
Desperate, angry and terrified, I didn’t think, relying on instinct to guide my hand to the Boar shield. Ripping it free, I cast it at the Sphinx, shouting some unintelligible curses as I did so. And with that one action, all fight drained from me. I was a spectator to an inevitable massacre, afraid – a child.
As the shield hit the floor, a vision flashed through my head – a snuffling snout, rummaging amongst bones. I felt a wave of indignation, followed by the hollow sound of hooves thudding through mud. The shield vanished, and in its place was a globe of sickly yellow light, dancing around the tunnel before fanning out in front of me – revealing the Mound Boar, thundering around in a tight circle, three-quarters formed.
The Sphinx dropped back on its haunches, visibly astounded at the presence of a beast similar in majesty to itself, yet its smile remained fixed, causing a paradox of outward calmness with inner doubt. The Boar sniffed the air, faded into view, and fixed its baleful gaze on me – awaiting instruction.
Despite my desperation, I hesitated.
“What are you doing, Teepo?” hissed Dragma. “Command the thing!”
His voice spurred me into action. “Attack!” I snapped, trying to think clearly. “Defend! Er…subdue it!”
The Boar gave me a murderous, disdainful look, before ripping its green gaze away, stamping its flaming hooves, and facing off with the Sphinx.
The Sphinx sprung forward and I brought the sword up just in time, the metal hitting the beast’s teeth with a reverberating clang. The impact knocked me back against the passage wall, perilously close to the Nebula, and pain lanced through my back. The Sphinx shook its head, before re-setting itself for the kill.
Desperate, angry and terrified, I didn’t think, relying on instinct to guide my hand to the Boar shield. Ripping it free, I cast it at the Sphinx, shouting some unintelligible curses as I did so. And with that one action, all fight drained from me. I was a spectator to an inevitable massacre, afraid – a child.
As the shield hit the floor, a vision flashed through my head – a snuffling snout, rummaging amongst bones. I felt a wave of indignation, followed by the hollow sound of hooves thudding through mud. The shield vanished, and in its place was a globe of sickly yellow light, dancing around the tunnel before fanning out in front of me – revealing the Mound Boar, thundering around in a tight circle, three-quarters formed.
The Sphinx dropped back on its haunches, visibly astounded at the presence of a beast similar in majesty to itself, yet its smile remained fixed, causing a paradox of outward calmness with inner doubt. The Boar sniffed the air, faded into view, and fixed its baleful gaze on me – awaiting instruction.
Despite my desperation, I hesitated.
“What are you doing, Teepo?” hissed Dragma. “Command the thing!”
His voice spurred me into action. “Attack!” I snapped, trying to think clearly. “Defend! Er…subdue it!”
The Boar gave me a murderous, disdainful look, before ripping its green gaze away, stamping its flaming hooves, and facing off with the Sphinx.
July 22, 2012
'What is the Calacorm?' Extract
What is this wretched word I have found wedged in my literature? Some misprint? An editor’s scrawl? Or perhaps some devious child’s handiwork from a previous era? But no, I have lived alone for thirty years, and nobody besides Jack or Lacey has ever visited me. And yet that damn word has appeared in bloody lettering amongst the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit.
Exasperated, I slipped the book back on the shelf, waited a few seconds and then opened it up again at the relevant page − still there, bold, crimson, and unfathomably inserted mid-sentence.
‘Calacorm’.
I hurled the book away − sending it clattering to the back of my library − and tried to forget about it, but even the promise of a quiet weekend without the pressure of work couldn’t shake my unease. That one word seemed to drip with meaning, unknown and forbidden − I just knew it! I scratched my chin, accessing my memory banks to see if it bred any familiarity, but I felt it was a teasing word, at the edge of my knowledge and yet alien to it.
“To hell with it all! Feeble, irritating word!” I snapped.
The brandy decanter was my next port of call, and I poured myself a generous double and slumped into my armchair, looking into the bookcases where the discarded book stood, spine up against the far wall, spreading itself, almost saying – ‘I dare you to pick me up and look again…you know it will still be there!’
“Maybe so,” I muttered, “but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just an errant word.”
In response, something tapped at my window − a sound so invasive it caused me to spill my brandy in fright. Cursing my wet trousers, I looked over, but although the sun shone, the frosted glass obscured any definitive shape outside. I thought about investigating but convinced myself it was a tree branch or some such object projected by the wind into the pane −or even my imagination.
“Spooked by a word and the wind,” I said, forcing a strained laugh. “Nonsense, bloody nonsense.”
A second tap at the window got me up in a rush, slamming the brandy glass down in a temper and striding over to the offending window. I fumbled with the lock and figured I saw a shadow pass outside, but when I finally got the window open there was nothing but the sun throbbing into my eyes − and the house opposite. I leant outside, dusted the windowsill, and then shut it with a bang, but as I turned something black flapped in my face. Disorientated, I screamed, but the buffeting only lasted a second and then something fluttered away into the room, leaving me cowering like a wreck against the wall.
“What on God’s earth!” I roared, instilling bravado through rough words.
Lunging forward, I saw that the invader was only a moth. It flew briefly around my lamp before heading towards the bookcases. Something about it didn’t seem quite right, however, so I cautiously followed, watching it alight on the cursed book I had just read. Fear pricked me – a coincidence? But what a coincidence that it immediately made for the object of my unease; I noticed bold markings on its back, black and dreadful – a patchy skull with two vacuous eyes – and vaguely recalled seeing something similar before in a butterfly book. It was something along the lines of a Death Hawk Moth, or a Devil’s Hawk Moth, but either way it was intimidating as it slowly shook its wings − like two hands inviting me forward, pulling at an invisible fishing line.
Exasperated, I slipped the book back on the shelf, waited a few seconds and then opened it up again at the relevant page − still there, bold, crimson, and unfathomably inserted mid-sentence.
‘Calacorm’.
I hurled the book away − sending it clattering to the back of my library − and tried to forget about it, but even the promise of a quiet weekend without the pressure of work couldn’t shake my unease. That one word seemed to drip with meaning, unknown and forbidden − I just knew it! I scratched my chin, accessing my memory banks to see if it bred any familiarity, but I felt it was a teasing word, at the edge of my knowledge and yet alien to it.
“To hell with it all! Feeble, irritating word!” I snapped.
The brandy decanter was my next port of call, and I poured myself a generous double and slumped into my armchair, looking into the bookcases where the discarded book stood, spine up against the far wall, spreading itself, almost saying – ‘I dare you to pick me up and look again…you know it will still be there!’
“Maybe so,” I muttered, “but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just an errant word.”
In response, something tapped at my window − a sound so invasive it caused me to spill my brandy in fright. Cursing my wet trousers, I looked over, but although the sun shone, the frosted glass obscured any definitive shape outside. I thought about investigating but convinced myself it was a tree branch or some such object projected by the wind into the pane −or even my imagination.
“Spooked by a word and the wind,” I said, forcing a strained laugh. “Nonsense, bloody nonsense.”
A second tap at the window got me up in a rush, slamming the brandy glass down in a temper and striding over to the offending window. I fumbled with the lock and figured I saw a shadow pass outside, but when I finally got the window open there was nothing but the sun throbbing into my eyes − and the house opposite. I leant outside, dusted the windowsill, and then shut it with a bang, but as I turned something black flapped in my face. Disorientated, I screamed, but the buffeting only lasted a second and then something fluttered away into the room, leaving me cowering like a wreck against the wall.
“What on God’s earth!” I roared, instilling bravado through rough words.
Lunging forward, I saw that the invader was only a moth. It flew briefly around my lamp before heading towards the bookcases. Something about it didn’t seem quite right, however, so I cautiously followed, watching it alight on the cursed book I had just read. Fear pricked me – a coincidence? But what a coincidence that it immediately made for the object of my unease; I noticed bold markings on its back, black and dreadful – a patchy skull with two vacuous eyes – and vaguely recalled seeing something similar before in a butterfly book. It was something along the lines of a Death Hawk Moth, or a Devil’s Hawk Moth, but either way it was intimidating as it slowly shook its wings − like two hands inviting me forward, pulling at an invisible fishing line.
July 12, 2012
FREE Review Copies of Neutron Star Available
For a limited period, am giving out FREE review copies of my e-book short story 'Neutron Star.' Decided to do this as it sits as my ugly duckling on Amazon, bereft of reviews. 'Running Free' is still selling great, 'Melody's Room' and 'Bakerloo Line Train' solidly, but Neutron could do with a kick. So anyone looking for a great sci-fi shortie to read, please message me...of course, feel free to buy this, or any of my others should you prefer...they're all top notch! :) Thanks all!
July 7, 2012
Short Story Extract: 'The Dream House'
The following is the opening from my weird tale short story, entitled 'The Dream House'. Enjoy!
‘I walk around the Dream House, wanting to escape, but all I find are nightmarish rooms’. That is my mantra – my ironic rhyme − as I continue to walk, skidding across the floor, checking door after door, twisting handle after handle, desperate for release.
How long have I been here? I have no idea, but the place frightens me. It is a ‘heavy’ construct, saturated by memory, its walls dripping with blood, laughter, and loss. Every room is its own escapade, sometimes to draw me in with wonder, but always to terrify me by the end. And yet there is meaning in these visions, I am sure of it!
“Thinking again, monsieur?”
Thoughts are dangerous; they give ammunition to the shades, or whatever dark malevolence controls my prison, but they are impossible to stop. I want to know who I am, what my history is, and how I came to end up in here. More importantly, I need to find the exit…before my sanity departs.
“Maybe,” I reply.
No, I am not mad, answering my own questions. I have a companion in this nuthouse. In fact, I have two, though only one can speak.
“Thinking is dangerous,” mutters the said companion. “Thinking is toxic.”
“And yet it keeps me sane.” I shake my head, determined to convince myself that this is so. “If I didn’t think, or reason a way to rid myself of this place, then I would be lost forever.”
My companion chuckles – a harsh, dry sound.
“But have you reasoned an escape yet?” he says. “What good has it done you, except to deepen your misery?”
“It has kept me sane.”
So we go round in a circle, him and me, as we always do – a habit we daren’t break. I look across at him, sitting smugly on my shoulder, and wonder how a human skull can talk, much less attach itself to my collarbone.
When did he join me?
“Thinking yet again,” he chimes, his lower jaw creaking like a portcullis. “Does it matter? Does any of it matter?”
His penchant for mind-reading irritates, and again dark thoughts creep in. Is he really a help, or a mole, planted by the Dream House to break my resolve? I sigh – I have seemingly known him forever, yet know nothing about him, save his name.
“Cranium.”
“Yes?”
“Nothing…just thinking aloud.”
Again he chuckles, this time twisting his bony head towards mine, black sockets like a brace of ink pots, infinitely deep.
“Thinking aloud is even more dangerous than thinking in mind.”
“Oh…be quiet!”
Mercifully, he is, lapsing into pensive silence as I stride through a hallway, trying to remember which doors I have already tried. Memory eludes me, details scattering like confetti, so I do as usual, trusting to some fading instinct that the room I try will be no room at all this time, but an exit.
“Clack.”
Eyebrow raised, I look down at my second companion, who circles my feet.
“What? You don’t trust this one?”
Of course, he doesn’t answer, just looks up at me with those lizardine eyes, snapping his alligator mouth as he slides through my legs, rickety wheels – serving as legs – spinning on hinges rusted by time. I see him as a type of pet, and again I don’t recall when he joined me, only that he seems to know old Cranium…and that they don’t get along.
“Pah!” says Cranium, on cue. “When has Clack ever been right, monsieur?”
“I’ve followed his instinct before,” I reply. “There have been many I haven’t entered.”
“Indeed, and they could’ve led to the exit, had you tried.”
“No.” I shake my head – an effort with the talkative skull on my shoulder. “They felt and smelt bad. Really bad − like they led to the central malevolence itself!”
Cranium snorts, but I sense his unease. He is as terrified of the Dream House as me.
“Which door then?” I ask.
“Third left has promise,” replies the skull.
With my instinct doused, I follow his advice, expecting little, but hoping against hope that this time I will find escape. A yank, and the wood creaks inwards, leaving me staring into muddy darkness, tinged brown.
“Doesn’t look like the exit,” I mutter, without entering.
As if to negate my doubts, a warm breeze whistles past my ears, and hope rises.
“Smells terrible,” complains Cranium, but I barely hear him.
“Smells like freedom.”
‘I walk around the Dream House, wanting to escape, but all I find are nightmarish rooms’. That is my mantra – my ironic rhyme − as I continue to walk, skidding across the floor, checking door after door, twisting handle after handle, desperate for release.
How long have I been here? I have no idea, but the place frightens me. It is a ‘heavy’ construct, saturated by memory, its walls dripping with blood, laughter, and loss. Every room is its own escapade, sometimes to draw me in with wonder, but always to terrify me by the end. And yet there is meaning in these visions, I am sure of it!
“Thinking again, monsieur?”
Thoughts are dangerous; they give ammunition to the shades, or whatever dark malevolence controls my prison, but they are impossible to stop. I want to know who I am, what my history is, and how I came to end up in here. More importantly, I need to find the exit…before my sanity departs.
“Maybe,” I reply.
No, I am not mad, answering my own questions. I have a companion in this nuthouse. In fact, I have two, though only one can speak.
“Thinking is dangerous,” mutters the said companion. “Thinking is toxic.”
“And yet it keeps me sane.” I shake my head, determined to convince myself that this is so. “If I didn’t think, or reason a way to rid myself of this place, then I would be lost forever.”
My companion chuckles – a harsh, dry sound.
“But have you reasoned an escape yet?” he says. “What good has it done you, except to deepen your misery?”
“It has kept me sane.”
So we go round in a circle, him and me, as we always do – a habit we daren’t break. I look across at him, sitting smugly on my shoulder, and wonder how a human skull can talk, much less attach itself to my collarbone.
When did he join me?
“Thinking yet again,” he chimes, his lower jaw creaking like a portcullis. “Does it matter? Does any of it matter?”
His penchant for mind-reading irritates, and again dark thoughts creep in. Is he really a help, or a mole, planted by the Dream House to break my resolve? I sigh – I have seemingly known him forever, yet know nothing about him, save his name.
“Cranium.”
“Yes?”
“Nothing…just thinking aloud.”
Again he chuckles, this time twisting his bony head towards mine, black sockets like a brace of ink pots, infinitely deep.
“Thinking aloud is even more dangerous than thinking in mind.”
“Oh…be quiet!”
Mercifully, he is, lapsing into pensive silence as I stride through a hallway, trying to remember which doors I have already tried. Memory eludes me, details scattering like confetti, so I do as usual, trusting to some fading instinct that the room I try will be no room at all this time, but an exit.
“Clack.”
Eyebrow raised, I look down at my second companion, who circles my feet.
“What? You don’t trust this one?”
Of course, he doesn’t answer, just looks up at me with those lizardine eyes, snapping his alligator mouth as he slides through my legs, rickety wheels – serving as legs – spinning on hinges rusted by time. I see him as a type of pet, and again I don’t recall when he joined me, only that he seems to know old Cranium…and that they don’t get along.
“Pah!” says Cranium, on cue. “When has Clack ever been right, monsieur?”
“I’ve followed his instinct before,” I reply. “There have been many I haven’t entered.”
“Indeed, and they could’ve led to the exit, had you tried.”
“No.” I shake my head – an effort with the talkative skull on my shoulder. “They felt and smelt bad. Really bad − like they led to the central malevolence itself!”
Cranium snorts, but I sense his unease. He is as terrified of the Dream House as me.
“Which door then?” I ask.
“Third left has promise,” replies the skull.
With my instinct doused, I follow his advice, expecting little, but hoping against hope that this time I will find escape. A yank, and the wood creaks inwards, leaving me staring into muddy darkness, tinged brown.
“Doesn’t look like the exit,” I mutter, without entering.
As if to negate my doubts, a warm breeze whistles past my ears, and hope rises.
“Smells terrible,” complains Cranium, but I barely hear him.
“Smells like freedom.”
July 3, 2012
Lovecraft-inspired 'Red Letter Day' Extract
‘Today will be a Red Letter day’. After finishing the title, John smiled grimly to himself and then added the following sentence; ‘and that is a deliberate term – red denotes blood and we all know the power of letters, when put into words.’
“And what dreadful words will bring on the apocalypse?”
He chuckled – a touch madly – and looked at his surroundings, half-expecting a horror to enter at any moment. But he was alone in his shack, hiding in the darkness, back to the kitchen wall. On his lap lay his diary. THE diary – intended to document the past, present and possible future to anyone sane enough to find it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything positive to write – in other words, no lies – so he began with the truth, knowing time was running out on his Red Letter day. An hour or two and the tatters of the world would be fed to the wolves.
“And what awful wolves we have summoned.”
John shuddered, cursing being privy to knowledge best left in the distant past. Now that dim time was returning, coming full circle through the sludge of human achievement, and part of him welcomed it – it would be a fitting end to humanity’s ignominious reign.
But first, his mind sought the past.
‘Throughout the twentieth century, and in the early years of the twenty-first, humans craved war…'
John broke off, thinking he heard a noise from the study. Cautiously, he rose, holding his breath, but a peek through the door showed that he was alone. Or was he? Grey evening light filtered through his curtains, but he knew that it wasn’t yet midday. His clock was broken, his watch binned a year ago, but one thing that hadn’t left him was instinct.
Something internal told him when to get up, wash, eat, and when to barricade the doors against approaching nuclear storms. When those howling gales roared around his house, he would cower and weep. Why? Because it reminded him of the past, and also that humans could no longer rely on Nature to protect and serve. But it also painted a vicious picture in his head – crying, inhuman voices, wailing in anticipation of a future return.
Wearily, John trudged back to the kitchen, brushing his hand over the Repeater that lay – loaded – on the table. The back door stared him in the face as he sat down, and he knew that was the weakness − being partially destroyed when next door fell into ruin over four months ago.
“Too weak…no locks.”
John bit his lip, afraid of his own voice. It was the sound of a lunatic, but one with REAL reason to be mad. A sudden, irrational fear almost consumed him then, and in a panic he took up paper and pen, determined to continue his account.
‘In the early twentieth century, there was a writer called H P Lovecraft. Many classic authors came before and after, many are remembered better today, or achieved greater fame, but none were “portentous seers”.'
John broke off as he heard a dull thump in the living room. Silence followed, but John still grabbed his Repeater and crept into a room he feared as much as cherished. A thick layer of dust covered everything, but strange objects filled his mantel, and staring at them, he found that one had fallen to the ground.
“And what dreadful words will bring on the apocalypse?”
He chuckled – a touch madly – and looked at his surroundings, half-expecting a horror to enter at any moment. But he was alone in his shack, hiding in the darkness, back to the kitchen wall. On his lap lay his diary. THE diary – intended to document the past, present and possible future to anyone sane enough to find it. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything positive to write – in other words, no lies – so he began with the truth, knowing time was running out on his Red Letter day. An hour or two and the tatters of the world would be fed to the wolves.
“And what awful wolves we have summoned.”
John shuddered, cursing being privy to knowledge best left in the distant past. Now that dim time was returning, coming full circle through the sludge of human achievement, and part of him welcomed it – it would be a fitting end to humanity’s ignominious reign.
But first, his mind sought the past.
‘Throughout the twentieth century, and in the early years of the twenty-first, humans craved war…'
John broke off, thinking he heard a noise from the study. Cautiously, he rose, holding his breath, but a peek through the door showed that he was alone. Or was he? Grey evening light filtered through his curtains, but he knew that it wasn’t yet midday. His clock was broken, his watch binned a year ago, but one thing that hadn’t left him was instinct.
Something internal told him when to get up, wash, eat, and when to barricade the doors against approaching nuclear storms. When those howling gales roared around his house, he would cower and weep. Why? Because it reminded him of the past, and also that humans could no longer rely on Nature to protect and serve. But it also painted a vicious picture in his head – crying, inhuman voices, wailing in anticipation of a future return.
Wearily, John trudged back to the kitchen, brushing his hand over the Repeater that lay – loaded – on the table. The back door stared him in the face as he sat down, and he knew that was the weakness − being partially destroyed when next door fell into ruin over four months ago.
“Too weak…no locks.”
John bit his lip, afraid of his own voice. It was the sound of a lunatic, but one with REAL reason to be mad. A sudden, irrational fear almost consumed him then, and in a panic he took up paper and pen, determined to continue his account.
‘In the early twentieth century, there was a writer called H P Lovecraft. Many classic authors came before and after, many are remembered better today, or achieved greater fame, but none were “portentous seers”.'
John broke off as he heard a dull thump in the living room. Silence followed, but John still grabbed his Repeater and crept into a room he feared as much as cherished. A thick layer of dust covered everything, but strange objects filled his mantel, and staring at them, he found that one had fallen to the ground.
June 30, 2012
Three Magc Trees excerpt
Mum’s words still rang in his ears as he trudged back towards the wood. He had made up some excuse about feeling sick, only for the feeling to pass when he got to the front door. Mum didn’t buy it for a second, but neither did she realise the real reason he had scampered back home like a scared rabbit. He had seen something in the wood – something weird, and terrible. It was a mere glimpse, he knew, but a terrifying one nonetheless. There had been eyes, strangely pink and slanted, staring at him feverishly for a moment before melting away into the trees.
It could have been a squirrel, badger, something like that, but he didn’t think so. There was intelligence there, and – scariest of all – invitation to venture deeper. “Ok Jared, just get in there and grab the phone.”
The trees hissed, whispered, but Jared blotted them out as he re-entered. The moon was un-obscured, thankfully, as he no longer had any light source of his own – he daren’t ask Mum for a torch – but the tree branches were still just grasping shapes, thick and sinister.
He looked down at the floor, trying to spot his phone, but it wasn’t where he thought it might be.
Hesitantly, he moved deeper.
There were no visible paths that he could see, but it wasn’t long before he staggered into a small clearing with a large tree stump, and the rotting remains of a bench beside it. Jared smiled – so people had been in here before. He let out a relieved breath and sat down on the stump, scratching his chin. The phone might never be found in all these fallen leaves and hollows, and he hadn’t come this far in before. So what was he doing here?
Jared didn’t want to admit it, but the truth was that he half-wished to see those eyes again, even if it did turn out they belonged to nothing more than a squirrel.
‘Hiss…hiss…hiss.’
The trees whispered excitedly, branches swaying, pointing this way and that, but they seemed slightly less threatening than before. Jared thought that he had been given some sort of acceptance in the last few minutes, by whatever lurked in the wood. Those slanty eyes were watching somewhere too, waiting for the right moment to approach...and perhaps invite him into the depths.
He waited…and waited, growing disappointed, thinking that he should maybe go back home after all, and face Mum’s wrath. Then, presently he heard a familiar sound – his ringtone.
It was muffled by the trees, but was unmistakeable, its tinny tune echoing, somewhere off to his left. “Okay…that’s strange.”
As if his voice was a mute button, the ringing stopped, only to start again, slightly closer. Jared’s heart leapt into his mouth but he found himself getting up, moving deftly into the undergrowth. The sound repeated, once, twice, three times, not going to voicemail like it should, and sounding so close that he thought he might step on it at any moment.
And then…there it was, lying in the roots of a massive tree!
Jared gingerly picked it up, before looking up into what he guessed was an ancient oak, such was it size. He had never seen anything like it. It was massive, with huge, thick roots glistening in the moonlight. He stroked one; it was rough to the touch, with little crystalline blue stones throbbing on its surface.
Jared raised an eyebrow, knowing that wasn’t normal. It was strangely beautiful though, giving the surrounding area an eerie blue haze, pulsing gently as if stars shone close overhead. Not only that, but they reflected off the base, which was covered with a forest of purple-looking mushrooms, spread in great, fan-like clumps. “God, what a tree.”
It could have been a squirrel, badger, something like that, but he didn’t think so. There was intelligence there, and – scariest of all – invitation to venture deeper. “Ok Jared, just get in there and grab the phone.”
The trees hissed, whispered, but Jared blotted them out as he re-entered. The moon was un-obscured, thankfully, as he no longer had any light source of his own – he daren’t ask Mum for a torch – but the tree branches were still just grasping shapes, thick and sinister.
He looked down at the floor, trying to spot his phone, but it wasn’t where he thought it might be.
Hesitantly, he moved deeper.
There were no visible paths that he could see, but it wasn’t long before he staggered into a small clearing with a large tree stump, and the rotting remains of a bench beside it. Jared smiled – so people had been in here before. He let out a relieved breath and sat down on the stump, scratching his chin. The phone might never be found in all these fallen leaves and hollows, and he hadn’t come this far in before. So what was he doing here?
Jared didn’t want to admit it, but the truth was that he half-wished to see those eyes again, even if it did turn out they belonged to nothing more than a squirrel.
‘Hiss…hiss…hiss.’
The trees whispered excitedly, branches swaying, pointing this way and that, but they seemed slightly less threatening than before. Jared thought that he had been given some sort of acceptance in the last few minutes, by whatever lurked in the wood. Those slanty eyes were watching somewhere too, waiting for the right moment to approach...and perhaps invite him into the depths.
He waited…and waited, growing disappointed, thinking that he should maybe go back home after all, and face Mum’s wrath. Then, presently he heard a familiar sound – his ringtone.
It was muffled by the trees, but was unmistakeable, its tinny tune echoing, somewhere off to his left. “Okay…that’s strange.”
As if his voice was a mute button, the ringing stopped, only to start again, slightly closer. Jared’s heart leapt into his mouth but he found himself getting up, moving deftly into the undergrowth. The sound repeated, once, twice, three times, not going to voicemail like it should, and sounding so close that he thought he might step on it at any moment.
And then…there it was, lying in the roots of a massive tree!
Jared gingerly picked it up, before looking up into what he guessed was an ancient oak, such was it size. He had never seen anything like it. It was massive, with huge, thick roots glistening in the moonlight. He stroked one; it was rough to the touch, with little crystalline blue stones throbbing on its surface.
Jared raised an eyebrow, knowing that wasn’t normal. It was strangely beautiful though, giving the surrounding area an eerie blue haze, pulsing gently as if stars shone close overhead. Not only that, but they reflected off the base, which was covered with a forest of purple-looking mushrooms, spread in great, fan-like clumps. “God, what a tree.”
June 26, 2012
Melody's Room Extract
The below is an extract from my recently published novella, entitled 'Melody's Room'. Story is available to purchase on Amazon.
The scorpions raised their pikes in unison and then thumped them on the ground. “This is the next test. No mistakes are allowed.”
Thumping their pikes a second time, they vanished in a puff of smoke, and in their place appeared three massive butterflies―one blue, one red and black, and the third a glittering green with golden spots. They hovered enticingly in tight circles, leaving trails of glitter in the air, and Gilgamesh heard whispering coming from them―high and feminine.
“Talk to the butterflies,” said Rax’s disembodied voice, floating around him. “Find which is telling the truth. No mistakes are allowed, human. To err is death.”
“What truth am I seeking?” There was no answer, so Gilgamesh strode up to the first butterfly, feeling his tugging, reluctant shadow. He tried to focus on the insect, ignoring his curse. “Hello?” he said.
The butterfly turned his way, the throb of magic surrounding it slowing time to a crawl. “Hello,” it replied uncertainly. “I speak the truth, you should know.”
Gilgamesh blinked. “Really?”
“Do you want to hear my truth?”
“Talk, butterfly.”
The butterfly imperiously flapped its wings. “I am justice. I know the truth and the truth is, that back in Uruk, your friend has snapped in mind, broken his bonds, and attacked your uncle. Yes, Dumuzid has been murdered by Enkidu, who believes you were sent to your doom. It is a vengeance killing, but murder all the same.”
Gilgamesh felt coldness enter him, picturing Enkidu, knife in hand...but his friend was weak, in no state to kill anyone. “I find that hard to believe,” he muttered. “And yet…”
The butterfly’s blue wings flickered like topaz. “Is that your choice? To accept the truth before hearing the lies?” it said. “Wise to listen to me, human, if that is so.”
“No, not yet,” replied Gilgamesh, remembering the other butterflies. He felt in a dream, completely alone in the wild. And for the first time in his life, he felt like a child, fumbling in darkness. “I have yet to listen to the others.”
The scorpions raised their pikes in unison and then thumped them on the ground. “This is the next test. No mistakes are allowed.”
Thumping their pikes a second time, they vanished in a puff of smoke, and in their place appeared three massive butterflies―one blue, one red and black, and the third a glittering green with golden spots. They hovered enticingly in tight circles, leaving trails of glitter in the air, and Gilgamesh heard whispering coming from them―high and feminine.
“Talk to the butterflies,” said Rax’s disembodied voice, floating around him. “Find which is telling the truth. No mistakes are allowed, human. To err is death.”
“What truth am I seeking?” There was no answer, so Gilgamesh strode up to the first butterfly, feeling his tugging, reluctant shadow. He tried to focus on the insect, ignoring his curse. “Hello?” he said.
The butterfly turned his way, the throb of magic surrounding it slowing time to a crawl. “Hello,” it replied uncertainly. “I speak the truth, you should know.”
Gilgamesh blinked. “Really?”
“Do you want to hear my truth?”
“Talk, butterfly.”
The butterfly imperiously flapped its wings. “I am justice. I know the truth and the truth is, that back in Uruk, your friend has snapped in mind, broken his bonds, and attacked your uncle. Yes, Dumuzid has been murdered by Enkidu, who believes you were sent to your doom. It is a vengeance killing, but murder all the same.”
Gilgamesh felt coldness enter him, picturing Enkidu, knife in hand...but his friend was weak, in no state to kill anyone. “I find that hard to believe,” he muttered. “And yet…”
The butterfly’s blue wings flickered like topaz. “Is that your choice? To accept the truth before hearing the lies?” it said. “Wise to listen to me, human, if that is so.”
“No, not yet,” replied Gilgamesh, remembering the other butterflies. He felt in a dream, completely alone in the wild. And for the first time in his life, he felt like a child, fumbling in darkness. “I have yet to listen to the others.”
