Martin Probert Davies's Blog, page 2

Enemy of the State

Deadline for Writers. 12 Short Stories in 12 Months – April– Prompt: Futile– Word Count: 500.

The commandant stared across the desk.

“Five hundred words? Are you having a laugh?!”

“Dr Brake,” he replied evenly, hands clasped, “if you are as innocent as you claim, that is more than enough. Keep going.”

“This isn’t about innocence!” Dr Terry Brake could feel his focus slipping—exactly what they wanted. “It’s about what’s right. How can I possibly explain everything in just five hundred words?”

“You are spreading misinformation,” the commandant said calmly, “and by doing so, you are undermining public trust in the government. That’s a criminal offence.”

Brake rubbed his temples. Thirty years in virology. Three decades of late nights, clinical trials, white papers, and public health work—all reduced to five hundred words. That was the limit the state had decided upon. Five hundred words to defend a lifetime of expertise. Five hundred words to stop what was coming.

“I’m not here to undermine anyone,” he said, quieter now. “But the virus is still spreading. It’s already in nearly 90% of the population, and we’ve begun seeing the mutation. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

“We have controlled the virus,” the commandant interrupted with a level of disdain, “We have an effective vaccine, and the symptoms are not severe in over 99% of cases, you and your other so-called experts agree.”

“Yes, that is now,” Brake explained, trying to remain calm, “But there is a genetic mutation that will make it deadly. Viruses adapt. It’s also changing the shape of the spike proteins—the very proteins our vaccines target. If the virus evolves further, the current vaccine will become ineffective.”

“Evolution is just a theory,” the commandant said flatly. “Spread by your universities and other enemies of the state. You’re asking us to panic based on a possibility. A theory. You’ve got no proof.  It is scaremongering Dr Brake, plain and simple.”

Brake’s mouth fell open slightly. “A scientific theory is something that has undergone vigorous testing, a well-substantiated explanation backed by an abundance of evidence. What you are describing is an unsubstantiated hypothesis or opinion…”

The commandant checked a small screen. “Dr Brake, do I need to remind you again that you only have five hundred words, of which you have already used a large percentage. In an online court, if you cannot explain yourself within that, your defence is insubstantial.”

Brake stood. “I’ve studied viral behaviour longer than most people have studied anything. How can I possibly explain it all in so few words? We’ve seen it, we’ve studied it, and we are telling you what’s going to happen – millions of people could die! Millions!”

“We’ve heard it all before,” replied the commandant, “and yet, here we are. A dozen or so deaths, mostly elderly. We humoured your scaremongering, spent vast amounts of money, and for what? I think the figures speak for themselves.”

“We said it was a possibility! If it evolved…”

“Last warning, sixteen words remaining.”

“But you don’t understand! It’s going to become deadly! It’s evolving! All it needs is one-

Case dismissed.

Control Plus Zed

Deadlines for Writers. 12 Poems in 12 Months – March– Prompt: Undo

Control Plus Zed.
It is often I’ve said,
That without you I’d never survive.
I remember the days,
When a slight keyboard graze,
Made me want to rip out my own eyes.

A whole essay gone,
A forever-lost song,
Just because I’d forgotten to save.
I would stare at the screen,
And internally scream,
And then head-butt the keys in a craze.

I’m much calmer now,
‘Cause I know that somehow,
My work is still magically there.
But often I’ve thought,
Would life be less fraught,
If that magic trick worked everywhere?

Perhaps to that time,
When I was about nine,
And I’d forgotten to go for a wee.
So short I was caught,
With the class on a walk,
One Control-Z – and no one would see…

Or when drunk in a whirl,
I went up to that girl,
And fell flat on my face at her feet.
And thought it’d be great,
To go eat my own weight,
In kebab, and then spew in the street.

Or that time I was mean,
To the girl I was seeing,
Just because I was hurt and upset.
And then pissed off some bloke,
And despite being broke,
Lost my wallet and pride to a bet.

There are so many things,
That I wish to unsee,
To undo, and start over again.
But what would become,
Of the good that I’ve done?
It’d be nothing of anything then.

There’s much I regret,
And wish to forget,
But much more that I wish to recall.
Perhaps it’s not true,
That this real undo,
Could correct my faults once and for all.

So thank you Undo,
For all that you do,
And for keeping me calm at my desk.
But perhaps that great key,
Should remain on the screen,
For the beauty of life is its tests.

Cafe Man

Deadline for Writers. 12 Short Stories in 12 Months – March– Prompt: Contract.

I’m afraid that I have had to cheat a little this month due to relentless work and family commitments. This is a character extract from a novel I wrote a few years ago, the character in question being a kind of Contract Killer who loosely fits with the prompt. I have edited a little to try and make the story more standalone. Hope to be back properly with something completely new and original next month.

This is an extract from my novel, Personal Effects, available from Amazon in physical or Kindle format HERE .

*******

It was a shame that it had to come to this.

Café Man stared down at the tablet with an unusual hint of trepidation. He wasn’t used to it. He had grown to respect her. He could see why she had been chosen, by both her organisation and the head of his, but even now, something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him.

But it wasn’t his job to think.

The result was predetermined. Become a terrorist, and you become a legitimate target. That was the crux of it. The job was second nature now, laying the traps, warming the trail. He knew how to grab people by the scruff of their weakness and pin them up against the wall with their pride. He didn’t get pleasure from it – he was no sadist – he just knew that it was sometimes necessary to maintain order in a world where the physical barriers of old seemed to be disappearing faster than the sun below the horizon. The world needed people like him. If it was all going dark, he’d be the one who would find a man with a torch and do anything to keep that light shining. Anything. Sometimes, it was all necessary – distasteful or not.

It was why they had put so much faith in him. He followed his orders efficiently and effectively, even if sometimes he didn’t really understand their reasons. The trust that had been put in him was reciprocated fully so it wasn’t his place to know the Doctor’s plan, though that didn’t stop him wondering sometimes if he was as clever as they liked to portray.

‘No choice mate, Doctor’s orders!’ as his partner Jones would say. It wasn’t funny the first time, and yet Jones perpetuated the quip with his ridiculous common tongue that made the colloquial sewers of the capital’s backstreets seem like the height of elocution. He despised the man if the truth be told and failed to see exactly what he brought to the table, but these were details that didn’t concern him.

‘Hmmm…’

Though right now, and not for the first time in the last few weeks, he found himself in the unusual position of questioning his orders. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but he obviously couldn’t see the whole picture. That’s all it was.

‘Wassit say, boss? We got another job?’

Café Man didn’t lift his eyes from the tablet but could feel the expectant puppy-like gaze from Jones behind him. Seriously, what had he done to deserve him?

‘Looks like a little trip to the capital may be in order soon Jones,’ he said to the tablet. ‘Can I trust that isn’t a problem?’

‘Na mate. Got to ain’t we? Doctor’s orders!’

The dispirited sigh was lost on Jones, as were most things. Cafe Man turned off the tablet and, ignoring Jones completely, turned to address the wall. He took off his thick-rimmed glasses and gave them a polish.

‘She’s getting close. Looks like she may find him soon.’

‘Finding ‘oo? Her?… So, she’s the target yeah? Take ‘er out?!’

He replaced his glasses, still looking at the wall.

‘Yes,’ mused Café Man as he squinted in concentration. ‘That’s Plan A anyway. That bit makes sense. Plan B, on the other hand…’

‘Look mate, I don’t care if it makes sense or not.’

Café Man turned and looked at the masticating Jones with thinly veiled disgust.

‘Of course you don’t,’ he said, before abandoning the room and leaving the vacuous flat-capped embarrassment to it.

Perhaps he shouldn’t either.

*******

Plan A hadn’t been possible. From his vantage point, there was no way he was going to get a clean shot, she was covered by the secondary target. Hopefully the Doctor would recognise there was nothing more he could have done for now. At least the secondary was neutralised.

It still irked him though. As he stood, looking at the rain hitting the window of his dank motel room, Café Man pondered his latest orders. It was a risk, taking people out in broad daylight like they had. Perhaps things were a little more urgent now than he realised.

‘So, what is our next move then?’

‘We wait.’ He pushed his glasses slowly back against his face in an almost choreographed gesture of contemplation. ‘She’ll be back. I’m sure of that. He’s here after all. He’s the one she wants. We wait Jones. We wait, and she comes to us.’

*******

‘We’ve had word, Jones? Regarding her movements?’

‘Yeah guv, latest comms came in yesterday, ‘ere you are, look…’

Café Man stared at the screen.

‘There’s an officer in government that needs protection I believe, she’s coming for him, Jones. I think it’s time we position ourselves ready for when she arrives.’

‘And we take her out?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Café Man. ‘As the Doctor dictates.’

‘Doctor’s Orders!’ cried Jones in his cheery, ridiculously proud tone. ‘Though it ain’t technically this time I suppose…’

Café Man’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, this one weren’t straight from The Doctor, some other geezer, but it’s all the same really ain’t it?’

That didn’t matter, the order had come through the normal channels. He didn’t know how far down the chain of command he was, but these weren’t things that concerned him. Completing his mission, that was all that mattered. He had to shut out the doubts, kill the emotion. He, and all the others like him left in the world, had to think clearly and maintain order.

One thing he was sure of, it was now time.

And she would come to him.

*******

‘So? What are you saying? You can’t protect me?! What the hell are you doing here?’

The disbelief in Richard Classer’s eyes was almost amusing. Government ministers were all the same. Café Man had always thought that it must be a difficult moment for these people, finding out that the power which they hold is completely meaningless once the abstract foundation that it is built upon disintegrates. He could have almost felt some sympathy for him if he wasn’t such a weaselly scumbag.

That was subjective of course. He knew that too. But still…

‘I’m afraid,’ he began patiently, whilst checking and reloading his firearm, ‘that it appears that you’re not nearly as important to the party as you thought you were.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?!’ If Classer was trying to sound authoritative, it was lost behind the breaking tones of his rather panicked voice, ‘I am a minister of government!’ he suddenly cried. ‘I command you to protect this facility!’

Café Man sighed with an almost sympathetic tone. ‘You can command all you want, but it’ll do you no good. Whatever authority you may feel you have is long gone, in fact, it’s surely questionable how much you actually had in the first place.’

‘How… how dare you! Who the HELL do you think you are!’

‘I don’t think that’s relevant,’ he replied as he removed his thick glasses to clean in preparation. ‘What’s more relevant, is who, or what, you actually are. You may try to hide it, but we both know what that is.’ He replaced his now pristine lenses. ‘Nothing. Not to me. Not to anyone. Apart from her, anyway, and that’s not a good thing…’

‘Fuck this, and fuck you,’ Classer replied, anger now clouding whatever judgement he had left as he turned to leave. ‘I don’t have to stay and listen to this; I’m going while I still can…’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

The minister looked back to see the now cocked firearm pointing directly at him.

‘Not if you want to keep those worn-out knees of yours.’

The anger in Classer’s face seemed to fade almost instantly to one of terror, followed by the stereotypical snivelling, with perhaps even a little resignation.

‘You just said I’m nothing. I’m nothing to you, to no one. Maybe you’re right, I don’t deny it, I am worthless. So why? I don’t understand – just, let me go? Please…?’

‘You’ve yet to serve your purpose,’ Café Man explained, as if talking to a slow and disappointing student. ‘But I only need you for the next few minutes. After that, do what you will…’

‘But she’s going to KILL me!’ Classer cried desperately. ‘Don’t you understand?! What the fuck am I going to do?!’

‘That,’ came the reply with a now impatient disdain, ‘is not my concern. Sit. Stand. Cower. Pray even. Do whatever you feel you need to do,’ he lowered his gun and looked straight into the man’s trembling eyes. ‘My only interest is the girl.’

*******

Grace Lillian wasn’t expecting Classer to have company. The man in the flat cap meant nothing to her, but the smarter one seemed familiar…

‘Oh God, oh God…!’ Classer stuttered. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please…. I beg you!’

‘Mr. Classer, really,’ the smarter of the company interrupted. ‘A man of your position should really maintain at least a basic premise of decorum.’

He removed his thick-rimmed glasses and gave them a polish.

‘I do apologise Ms. Lillian,’ he continued as he replaced them, ‘for our host’s somewhat hysterical demeanour. I realise you’ve come a long way and waited a long time for this moment, but I’m afraid it’s not going to go quite as you planned it.’

Grace just stood surveying the scene with a stunned hush. Classer moved in front of his extraordinarily large desk and sank to his knees.

‘Please. Please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘I didn’t mean, I really didn’t… it was tampered with. TAMPERED! I SWEAR! I wasn’t in control… I wasn’t…’

But Grace wasn’t paying any attention. She was looking at the smart man with the now quite visible gun.

‘I know you…’ she said. ‘You’re the café man!’

‘Indeed,’ Café Man replied. ‘Though not the superhero name of choice I would give myself. If I was more of a linguist, I would retort with some form of coffee-related pun, but it wouldn’t change the situation we find ourselves in now, would it?’

‘And what situation is that, exactly?’ replied Grace. ‘Is this how far the government go to protect their own is it? Personal bodyguards? Tailing me for weeks? Am I really that important? Is he?!’

Her disgust was undisguised as she flicked her head towards Classer.

‘I assure you,’ Café Man replied ever-calm. ‘I have no intention of protecting this man. I mean, look at him.’

He shifted his head up slightly towards the now pathetically drenched figure on his knees also failing to hide his disgust.

‘You know who I am, what I am,’ he continued. ‘You know what this is. In the exact same way that I know who you are, and what you are. Ms. Lillian, your country thanks you for your service, however, for whatever reason, and however you wish to justify it, it appears that it now counts for nothing. I know about your organisation. I know how you plan to undermine and terrorise the populous of this nation…’

‘Terrorise?!’ Grace interrupted, as she made her own firearm visible. ‘You may convince yourself of that Café Man, but you’re the only people doing the terrorising.’

‘Ah, that old chestnut, one man’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter. Please Ms. Lillian, save me the lecture,’ he replied in a strained, bored tone. ‘We have a democratically elected leadership, we have laws, we have order. Without these, we have nothing. I uphold those values. I admit, occasionally we are forced to step over certain lines, but only when deemed necessary. You, on the other hand, do your damned best to undermine them at every opportunity…’

‘You have no idea!’ cried Grace, unable to hide the slight panic now entering her voice. ‘You don’t have a clue! The system you’re protecting – democratic?! Ha! It doesn’t even exist! It’s a fallacy! There is no order! There’s only managed chaos, a chaos which doesn’t care who or what gets hurt – that’s what you’re protecting? That’s your justification?!’

‘Look,’ he said. ‘At the end of the day you are a member of a known terrorist organisation, and I stand here before you as a personification of the upheld law. We’ve tried to do this, discretely, both legally and surreptitiously, and I do confess, we were impressed at how your organisation manipulated your online trial, regardless of how convoluted it was. However, we do now find ourselves here. What are we to do?’

He paused. Grace remained impassive.

‘In the end Ms. Lillian, you have two, simple choices,’ he raised his gun. ‘You allow us to take you, and we all leave this room alive. Or… we don’t.’

The other tattier man at his side now smiled widely, nodding his masticating head in excitement.

‘You know I can’t do that,’ she said with a crack in her voice. Taking a breath to recompose herself, she looked back at Café Man. ‘I can’t do that.’

Café Man merely nodded with something resembling respect. ‘I understand, but…’ he continued, replacing respect with inevitability. ‘You know what this means…’

He had made his little speech. Made it look like he was giving her a chance.

He had known from the beginning. Just as she undoubtedly knew what his real orders were. Capture was not an option either of them had.

She wasn’t going to back down. She would charge. She hadn’t come this far and fought like she had to stop now, not with her prize so close.

‘ARGH!!’

It all happened in an instant. Grace let out a piercing scream, gun raised as she bolted across the floor.

‘Oh GOD! Please, PLEASE!’ Classer cried, desperately darting his gaze between Café Man and Jones. ‘DO SOMETHING! STOP HER! I… I COMMAND YOU TO…Please, please! I have a family… PLEASE! Oh God oh God oh God…’

He ducked as the first shot ricocheted over his head but looked to meet the terror of Grace’s eyes, screaming at him merely feet away.

‘FOR CHRIST’S SAKE MAN, DO SOMETHING! PLEASE DO SOMETHING!!!’

But Café Man wasn’t looking at him.

His focus was absolute. He followed her calmly, his barrel tracing her route as she ran screaming towards her target, her own firearm tracing the cowering mess squealing for mercy. He breathed deeply and slowed the world around him with sheer concentration, turning her crazed attack into a breath-taking ballet as she unleashed her destiny with a kinetic storm that showed no sign of abating. His expression remained calm at the top of his sights, watching her every move as she powered towards her target, her face contorted with rage and slowly drowning in tears. His focus was absolute. There was the muffled sound of two shots, maybe three, an irrelevant detail that didn’t matter. All doubts removed; it wasn’t his job to think. He was ready. It was time.

No choice mate, Doctor’s orders!

He pulled the trigger.

This Love

Deadlines for Writers. 12 Poems in 12 Months – February– Prompt: Cinquain

This love.
It is lost now.
It lingers as a flame,
That burnt far more than it lit up.
Red raw.

Life moves,
Away from you.
It’s for the best I know.
That wasted time I won’t get back.
Now gone.

And still,
I can’t let go.
It eats me up inside.
The hate consumes, the anger eats.
Within.

Deep breaths,
I must not fall.
I must remind myself,
I am better than this. Deep down.
I must…

This Love.
It was there once.
It took more than it gave.
Now gone, but never forgotten.
So long.

No Cheese

Deadline for Writers. 12 Short Stories in 12 Months – February– Prompt: Charge.

“I’m sorry?!”

Gerry stared across the counter at the gormless teenager—or perhaps a young man well into his twenties. It was getting harder to tell these days.

“You made an alteration, sir. That’s a £1 charge.”

He looked down at the receipt.

“Yes. I requested it without cheese,” he explained, enunciating carefully, as if attempting to negotiate with a malfunctioning toddler. “I ordered the House Special Burger, but without cheese.”

“Yes, this is it,” the server said, holding up the bag like a cat presenting a dead mouse. “So, it’s £10.99 in total, with the alteration.”

For a second, Gerry didn’t move. He just stared into the young man’s eyes, desperately searching for signs of recognition or even some basic brain function. He was disappointed on both counts.

“So… you’ve charged me a pound,” he said, “for… no cheese?”

“You made an alteration, si—”

“No, no,” Gerry interrupted. “I’ve removed it. You’re charging me for nothing. In fact, less than nothing. I’m being charged for negative cheese. Do you… do you not see how absurd that is?”

He looked around. A queue was forming, and judging by the glares, not a particularly supportive one.

“OK! Look, I’ll have cheese!” he cried. “I will have the cheese!”

“But it’s already made, sir,” the server replied, as if the kitchen had just finished constructing an interstellar probe and was now being asked to rebuild it from scratch using only a potato and a paperclip.

“So what?” Gerry gesticulated wildly, “Just grab a slice and chuck it in the bag! I’ll take it home with me. Even better—chuck in another ten, and I’ll get the burger for free!”

His sarcasm was completely lost on his adversary, whose face had contorted into a perplexed grimace. Gerry hadn’t even wanted a burger. He usually got Chinese on a Friday but had decided against it after receiving a £60 parking fine through the post. Apparently, the little car park he’d been using for years next to the takeaway had been annexed by a private firm, who now vindictively charged twenty-four hours a day. The photo was quite clear—there he was, driving away staring blankly ahead a full seven minutes after he’d arrived. Nearly ten pounds a minute to park seemed excessive, so he’d decided to go somewhere else.

And now he was being charged extra for not having cheese. Perhaps he’d get another letter later charging him for not using the car park.

“Well, I’m not paying for no cheese,” he said, slamming down a tenner. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir, that’s very generous,” the server said with the blissful sincerity of a man who had never known irony, “but… sorry. I need another ninety-nine pence. You’re short.”

“You’re hardly a basketball player yourself,” Gerry chuckled. He looked around, hoping for moral support, but was met with tired, impatient faces. “Look, I’m not paying to not have something. The burger is already outrageously priced without having to pay an ingredient removal tax…”

“It’s one pound per alteration. It’s not tax. That’s already included.”

“Oh, that’s good to know,” Gerry said, voice thick with derision. “At least the tax is covered. Amazing. Look, just ring it through again as if there is cheese in it. I won’t tell anyone you haven’t charged for the thin air between the burger and the bun. Call it a gesture of goodwill. I’ll tell everyone this takeaway looks after its customers! Free cheese removal! Maybe they’ll even remove the bun at no cost, who knows? You can even keep your penny tip—imagine the possibilities! Think of all the things you could not have for that!”

“Come on, mate, he’s just doing his job,” someone in the queue called out. “It’s only a quid.”

“Are you a little short?” asked a kindly older woman next in line. “I’ve got a pound you can have my dear…”

“No, NO! I mean, no thank you, that’s very kind of you, but…” Gerry looked down the line, “I have enough money, but that’s not the point. It’s the principle. Surely you can all see that?”

“Jesus, mate, it’s just a quid…”

“Yeah, come on, the football starts in a minute!”

Gerry grappled helplessly for some support. Could they not see the absurdity of it all? The worst part was that all of them were constantly being ripped off, every single day. But as long as they were back in time for kick-off, who cared? They certainly didn’t it seemed.

Just last week, he’d paid £2 to not swim at the local pool while his nephews splashed about. Two quid for a screaming acoustic hell. Two quid for the privilege of sitting on a hard plastic chair, sweating in a chlorine-scented sauna, drinking terrible coffee from a cup so flimsy it was one excessive sigh away from collapse. “It’s just the way it is,” the receptionist had said.

And last year, the real kicker. He’d gone to visit his mother in the hospice but had left his phone at home and had no cash. The hospice’s car park had been ‘outsourced’ and was now pay-per-hour with the dreaded automated cameras. He’d had to leave and park twenty minutes away. By the time he got back, he was told his mother had just fallen asleep waiting. She died not long after, and though he did see her a few more times before it happened, he still felt robbed of some of their last moments. And, of course, from that point on he’d had to pay for the privilege to have them.

Just this morning, alongside his parking fine, his council tax letter had arrived. Another increase. And right beneath it? Yet another letter saying bin collections were being reduced to once a month. Oh, but any extra rubbish will incur a charge. Where on earth was the money going?

Everywhere he went, he was being charged to not have things.

Well, not this time.

“I tell you what, stuff your burger,” he said, “but don’t charge me for not taking it. In fact, you have it. Might as well eat it—they’ll probably dock your wages if you try to throw it away, a pound for each ingredient you didn’t use…”

The server blinked in a way that suggested it was the most movement his brain had done all day. Gerry turned to leave, the glares of the other customers burning into his back as he exited into the street and headed toward the layby where he had parked.

He looked up to see a uniformed man standing over his car, writing something onto a bright yellow ticket.

“Sorry, mate. Twenty minutes max. You’ve been here twenty-five.”

Gerry looked down at his keys. He imagined taking the longest one, lunging at the man, and slitting his throat open, watching as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding with his bright yellow parking ticket. “That’s sixty quid, mate!” Gerry would shout as the man gurgled with panic, “Though that’ll rise to £120 if you don’t pay it before you bleed out!”

But he didn’t do that. He just sighed.

“OK.”

“Hey, just doing my job mate.”

The attendant walked away toward his next victim as Gerry stood there, wondering if he had any baked beans in the cupboard at home. Probably not. He’d had no pound for the trolley last time he was at the supermarket, so there was a good chance he hadn’t bought any.

At least the parking was free. For now.

Always

Deadlines for Writers. 12 Poems in 12 Months – January – Prompt: Shell

Trapped. Cloaked in darkness.
Encased in a shell of fear,
Like a cartridge shot.

I try to escape,
But the shells rain down on you.
It is not your fault.

I hope that one day,
Our shell will be beautiful,
And we hear the sea.

’til then, I love you.
I know it can be painful,
But I always will.Edit

The Good, The Bad, and The One

Deadline for Writers. 12 Short Stories in 12 Months – January – Prompt: Found.

The harsh lights flickered as The Good One re-entered the interview room, the heavy iron door clunking behind her with an echo that pierced like a migraine. The Boy sat behind the empty desk, staring as she walked towards him, her sensible middle-aged shoes rhythmically counting down towards her as-yet-unknown fate.

“Listen. We just need to know what this is and where you found it, that’s all.”

She flung the clear evidence bag down in front of him. It didn’t matter, bagged or not—he could still feel it. He wondered if The Good One could feel it too, but nothing about her essence suggested that was the case. Maybe it was just for him. Maybe, just maybe, he had been chosen. Maybe he actually had a purpose after all.

He had always tried to be good himself, and to be fair, he felt he had done quite well, all things considered. He had cared for his mother as best he could, but they didn’t have much, and once she passed away, what little they had disappeared completely. He found himself bouncing between homes and families that tried their best, but the system always seemed to be against him. He was still young, around fifteen, but he knew the streets far more intimately than a developed society should have found acceptable.

He had been rummaging for leftovers in the back-alley rubbish when he spotted it, nestled under a small weedy shrub. It shone with a beauty he had never believed possible, coaxing him with a beckoning melody that penetrated his consciousness. He picked it up, overcome with awe and tranquility, and could feel it infiltrating his innermost beliefs, even then. It was only the shout of the police officers that broke the spell. Reality kicked back in, and a reflex made him drop it and run, but more officers had been waiting around the corner. How could someone like him have such a thing of beauty? He could have explained it a thousand times, but his life was alien to them, and they would never listen. They would never understand.

The door clunked again, and they were joined by The Bad One. Jesus, The Boy thought to himself, this is such a fucking cliché. He knew what was coming. The bad-tempered, pitted face stomped over to them, snarling like a rabid bulldog trying to put the fear of God into him. He slammed his fists on the desk and screamed things like “There’s no way out!” or “You’re only making it worse!”—all the usual lines meant to intimidate and bully. The Boy just stared, grinning. He knew it was futile. He just needed to get his hand a little closer to that plastic bag…

The Good One was smiling now, faking a look of compassion, as if she could feel his anguish and make it all disappear. What does she know? He’d met a million versions of her in his short existence—parading themselves through life as good, the enforcer, the shining example of civilized development. But it was a lie. He was nothing to her, just like he was nothing to anyone.

Well, not anymore.

He had been subtly moving his left arm towards the evidence bag and was now within a hand’s width. It was all he needed. The contents began to glow, dimly and irregularly at first, but as he glanced out of the corner of his eye, he saw the light harden. The flashes began to pulsate and spark, forming a thin wisp of luminescence, dancing in a cloud of greens and yellows that drifted slowly towards his outstretched arm. Neither The Good nor The Bad flinched. The Bad One continued to pace and froth, The Good One sighed and pretended to care, but neither could see the fluorescent show. They were blind to it, just as they were blind to its power, just as they were blind to The Boy’s very existence unless a scapegoat or excuse was required.

The drifting cloud touched his arm and surged into his body. The Boy gasped. They did notice that. A flicker of apprehension passed between them, but nothing more. The Boy’s world was now a swarm of colour, a thick tide of warmth filling his limbs. The neurons of his mind ignited in an explosion of understanding; his senses heightened beyond the physical world. He felt he was flying between voids, floating on a sea of will in a swarm of complete understanding, a calmness of intelligence…

But most of all, he felt power.

For the first time in his life. The feeling of control, of complete and utter command, flooded his self. He was capable. He could change the world. Whatever this thing was, whatever magic flowed from it, it had the answers.

He looked across the table at The Good One. The momentary concern had passed, and she was back to pretending to care. Was she any better than her colleague? At least The Bad One had a level of honesty in his spitting bile. The power to fix the world was in The Boy’s hands, but right now, he felt rage. He could fight it. He could help people. He had always tried to be good. Always tried to do the right thing…

But then she smiled at him. That fake, paper-thin smirk masking the truth.

He wasn’t having it. No, not this time.

He smiled back and allowed The Good One to speak her final words.

She stopped suddenly, her eyes widening as her throat began to spasm. Her diaphragmatic convulsions became more panicked, and her face contorted and shook as if trying to expel the poison eating away inside, but she couldn’t look away.

“Goldstone? Goldstone?! What’s wrong? Jesus…”

The Bad One broke off from his rampage and grabbed his colleague by the shoulders, her sockets now bulging from her blue and bloated face. Thick veins groped her neck as she desperately struggled for air, but her eyes remained glued to The Boy across the desk.

“Shit! She’s having a seizure or something. Help! SOMEBODY! GO GET HELP, NOW!”

The Good One tried to speak but only managed a desperate grunt. With all the strength she had left, she slowly lifted her arm and pointed weakly across the table. The Bad One stopped and felt his head turn towards The Boy. His fiery eyes faded into disbelief and then fear. He felt paralyzed.

“You? No… you can’t… how? What is that thing? What… NO!”

The paralysis lifted and he lunged, but The Boy had anticipated it. He locked eyes, and with just the smallest of blinks sent The Bad One flying across the room. The officer hit the wall by the door with a sickening crack that instantly broke his neck. The Good One lay slumped on the desk, her unseeing, swollen eyes now strangely content.

The Boy stood up and walked towards the door, his treasure firmly in his grasp. He had always tried to be good, but now the power and rage mixing within him overpowered his better senses. He didn’t know what was going to happen now, but he knew they were going to pay.

All of them.

Wordsworth Dont No Shit

I wander lonely through the cloud,
And float on high upon pedestals,
When all at once I see a crowd,
A host of expert know-it-alls.
Obviously fake, far beneath me,
Stuttering and prancing in bullshit feeds.

Continuous are the stars that shine,
But not in NASA imagery!
Their stretched imaginations hide,
The photoshopped delivery.
Ten thousand times I say, no chance!
A man on the moon?!
I’m not that daft.

The waves don’t hide an Earth that’s flat,
No vaccine can deny the fact,
That my god says we can’t be gay,
And who needs science anyway?
I gaze and craze with little thought,
It’s common sense.
We don’t need your sort.

For oft, alone, on my couch I lie,
In vicious and defensive mood,
‘Opinions’ flash before my eyes,
I will not bow to servitude!
I have nothing else…
Just an ignorant will,
To fight these expert imbeciles.

A Note on the Coronation

‘Why do you hate the Monarchy? Why do you hate your Country?!’

Let’s address this. Firstly, I do not hate anyone or anything. I have nothing but respect for the late Queen, who devoted her life to service and conducted herself with the grace and dignity befitting the role. A role that she was not born to do until the abdication of her uncle, and one which she probably wouldn’t have chosen for herself. Charles seems to be cut of the same cloth and appears to be a reasonably decent guy for someone who grew up in castles. I certainly don’t hate them.

And I don’t hate the country – quite the opposite in fact. It’s an interesting accusation.

We often scoff at our cousins across the pond when it comes to gun control. How ridiculous, we say, that they’ve collectively coupled the ideas of individual freedom and personal firearm ownership. Absolute Insanity! And yet we do the same thing. In the US, it’s freedom and guns, here it’s patriotism and monarchy. It’s brainwashed into us from an early age that the country and monarchy are intertwined, essentially two parts of the same entity, and one cannot exist without the other…

And there’s a good reason for this. It’s not so much the concept of an unelected Head of State that’s the problem with Monarchy, but more the legitimacy it gives to the one thing that continues to hold Britain back in the 21st Century. It is the Keystone of the Class System. It is the solid foundation that legitimises the Lords and Ladies and the hording of resources and power by the chosen few.

You cannot support the Monarchy – the idea of a person being at the top due to birth and therefore anointed by God – without also supporting the very system that sustains it. By supporting the Monarchy, you also support the Aristocracy owning 70% of the land. You support the nepotism of the political class; the idea that some people are better than others purely due to birth; the institutions like Eton and other boys’ clubs that enable them; the suffocation of social mobility and progression; the talentless, intellectually void people that succeed purely because of their accents and connections. You support all this. It is enabled by your royal subjugation.

Do I hate the Monarchy? As people, no. I dislike what they represent, and the institutions and mindsets their existence supports and legitimises.

Do I hate my Country? No. I want it to be the best country it can be.

I want to have a country I’m proud of, that leads the world in social progress, not one that’s stuck in the past clinging on to some rose-tinted version of itself. I want to be proud of meaningful, positive contributions that improve the lives of millions, not jewel-encrusted crowns or any other shiny thing designed to distract the attention of the very people they were stolen from in the first place. The same people who continue to be pillaged and trodden over for the benefit of those lucky enough to be born into the ruling classes. Those who apparently have to accept that they are worse off now, whilst their Superiors cash in their recently uncapped city bonuses and lucrative government contracts, or even get to ride around in solid gold carriages. They’re better than you. They don’t count.

Whilst we continue to have a King, the Keystone that holds it all together, this can never change, and Britain will be forever held back. This doesn’t have to be. One day, I would love to wave my flag proudly.

Today is not the day.

Novel: Personal Effects, out now (finally!)

One thing I’ve always had on my bucket list is to write a novel. Don’t know why, just something I’ve always wanted to do. So, after five painstaking years, I’ve finally done it

Now, I am far from being a great writer and I don’t think the story is about to set the literature world on fire, but it’s out there, finished and available for all.

If you’re a glutton for punishment, or just find it really difficult to get to sleep at night, you can have a look for yourself. If you have a Kindle Unlimited subscription it’s free, so you wouldn’t even have to waste any money on it, failing that, it’s a few quid to stick behind your black mirror. There’s physical paperbacks too if you’re that way inclined (see the links below).

If you’ve ever tried to make it through one of my Facebook or blog posts, you’ll have some idea of the challenge ahead of you. Good luck, and I thank you whole-heartedly if you even consider attempting it.

LINKS

Kindle Version: Kindle Edition

Print Versions Available Here: Amazon Paperback

SYNOPSIS

‘One Nation under God, One Nation for All.’

In the near future, a country on the brink of collapse re-elects the austerity obsessed One Nation, but is it the people who have provided the biggest mandate in history, or is it a talking dog?

Finn Llewelyn, a talented programmer struggling to find meaning after a personal loss and fixating on the President and the apathy he believes is responsible, is head-hunted by Grace, a member of The Renaissance, a resistance group working undercover in a world of surveillance where the only place left to hide is in plain sight.

Together they investigate the Personal Group, a company shrouded in mystery, which having built a media-harvesting dating app to connect people and register sexual consent, now produces an automated voting tool with unexplained links to the President and a viral talking dog.

With some inside help they locate the Group’s now destitute founder, only to discover that his company has been seized by the enigmatic Dr Squirreltone, a genius intellect who has also managed to unobtrusively usurp the One Nation government using nothing more than a few popular social media memes, and install a new leader who, officially at least, doesn’t appear to exist.

As Squirreltone avoids detection, a deadly flu wreaks havoc on the increasingly deprived population. But what if the greatest threat isn’t natural? As the boundaries between reality and the virtual world start to disappear, Finn and Grace start to wonder who – or what – is actually in control, and to what lengths they will go to keep it.

With the country ravished by poverty and a weaponised disease, and on the verge of an artificial civil war where good and evil are inseparable, can order be restored and catastrophe prevented? Or perhaps that’s exactly what the Renaissance wants…