Nav Logan's Blog, page 13
June 13, 2015
Black Magic Sacrifice
I was caught in a trap, mesmerized by the dance. My mind told me that this was all nonsense, but my soul could sense the drawing power. The hairs on my arms stood up, and I could barely breathe as I watched the jerky movements of the dancers. They mimicked the flames of the bonfires that lit up the beach.
Hair knotted and braided with feathers and beads, bells chiming as they jerked about, the dancers followed the rhythm of the drums; the crash of the waves.
Dressed in rags, castoffs, things that only a madman would wear, the dancers drew forth the power of the elements around them and filled the dance with the chaos of nature.
The wind off the coast responded, picking up pace and blowing inland with a gusto. Sparks flew from the fires and whirled through the air like madness. The steady crash of the waves grew louder, until each beat could be felt in the pit of my stomach.
When I thought the pressure could not build anymore, the medicine man appeared in a puff of smoke, and thunder rumbled overhead, as if on cue.
Strapped firmly to the stake, my struggles were futile as I watched the old man creep closer.
Lightning crackled, momentarily blinding me. When the stars left my eyes, I noticed the silver blade, an extension of the shaman’s hand.
Terror filled me as he pressed it to my flesh.
A sharp pain filled my belly, and I watched in horror as blood poured down my leg.
The crazy old man reaches inside me, his hands dirty with grime and charcoal. I felt an intense twist of pain and before I knew it, the medicine man had pulled his hand free.
Blood coated his long fingers, talon-like nails, even up as far as his wrist. Within his grasp I saw some bloody flesh; my flesh, still warm with my body heat.
This, he cast into the nearest fire. Flamed leapt skyward and the thing was consumed.
Light-headed, I passed out.
When I awoke, the shaman was standing over me, reading from a chart. Now, however, he was clean and dressed in a white gown. Still bleary, I watched as he placed a stethoscope against my chest.
“He seems to be recovering well,” he assured. “We managed to remove his appendix before they burst.”
My mother’s voice could be heard, as if far away, “He still looks pale, Doctor.”
“He reacted badly to the anesthetic, but I’m sure he felt nothing.”
“The nurse said that he screamed and struggled …” protested my mother.
The shaman frowned briefly, possibly cursing the nurse to unknown evil for her slack tongue, before smiling his assurance. “That’s quite normal, Mrs Brown, I assure you. In a day or two, he’ll be right as rain.”
Hair knotted and braided with feathers and beads, bells chiming as they jerked about, the dancers followed the rhythm of the drums; the crash of the waves.
Dressed in rags, castoffs, things that only a madman would wear, the dancers drew forth the power of the elements around them and filled the dance with the chaos of nature.
The wind off the coast responded, picking up pace and blowing inland with a gusto. Sparks flew from the fires and whirled through the air like madness. The steady crash of the waves grew louder, until each beat could be felt in the pit of my stomach.
When I thought the pressure could not build anymore, the medicine man appeared in a puff of smoke, and thunder rumbled overhead, as if on cue.
Strapped firmly to the stake, my struggles were futile as I watched the old man creep closer.
Lightning crackled, momentarily blinding me. When the stars left my eyes, I noticed the silver blade, an extension of the shaman’s hand.
Terror filled me as he pressed it to my flesh.
A sharp pain filled my belly, and I watched in horror as blood poured down my leg.
The crazy old man reaches inside me, his hands dirty with grime and charcoal. I felt an intense twist of pain and before I knew it, the medicine man had pulled his hand free.
Blood coated his long fingers, talon-like nails, even up as far as his wrist. Within his grasp I saw some bloody flesh; my flesh, still warm with my body heat.
This, he cast into the nearest fire. Flamed leapt skyward and the thing was consumed.
Light-headed, I passed out.
When I awoke, the shaman was standing over me, reading from a chart. Now, however, he was clean and dressed in a white gown. Still bleary, I watched as he placed a stethoscope against my chest.
“He seems to be recovering well,” he assured. “We managed to remove his appendix before they burst.”
My mother’s voice could be heard, as if far away, “He still looks pale, Doctor.”
“He reacted badly to the anesthetic, but I’m sure he felt nothing.”
“The nurse said that he screamed and struggled …” protested my mother.
The shaman frowned briefly, possibly cursing the nurse to unknown evil for her slack tongue, before smiling his assurance. “That’s quite normal, Mrs Brown, I assure you. In a day or two, he’ll be right as rain.”
an entertaining read
Fifty Odd Shades of Monochrome by Tony Spencer
I love the clever title of this collection of short stories, despite its similarities to ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. Thankfully, you will not find any poorly written erotica within this collection.
By far my favourite story in the book is ‘Not Passing Go!’, and I was a little saddened that this collection of short stories was not completed. I will have to wait for the next collection to be published to find out what happens next. This is a really good story, and promises to be worthy of becoming a novel in its own right. It is sharp and gritty, with some great characters, a good plot and steady pace. I can’t wait to read more of it, and hopefully, Tony will focus on finishing it and releasing it as a novel.
There are also some other clever short stories included in the collection such as Hell on the Highway, an autobiographical piece that reminds me of my own childhood, as well as some corker Drabbles and even some worthy poems.
In short, this is a good collection of tales, and there is possibly something for everyone, unless of course you were hoping for a repeat of Fifty Shades of Grey, in which case you might be slightly disappointed.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fifty-Shades-...
I love the clever title of this collection of short stories, despite its similarities to ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’. Thankfully, you will not find any poorly written erotica within this collection.
By far my favourite story in the book is ‘Not Passing Go!’, and I was a little saddened that this collection of short stories was not completed. I will have to wait for the next collection to be published to find out what happens next. This is a really good story, and promises to be worthy of becoming a novel in its own right. It is sharp and gritty, with some great characters, a good plot and steady pace. I can’t wait to read more of it, and hopefully, Tony will focus on finishing it and releasing it as a novel.
There are also some other clever short stories included in the collection such as Hell on the Highway, an autobiographical piece that reminds me of my own childhood, as well as some corker Drabbles and even some worthy poems.
In short, this is a good collection of tales, and there is possibly something for everyone, unless of course you were hoping for a repeat of Fifty Shades of Grey, in which case you might be slightly disappointed.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Fifty-Shades-...
June 9, 2015
Normal Services Cancelled
I crept down the tracks and into the station; my shotgun cocked and ready. There were no signs of life that I could detect, but dusk was not far away. An underlying reek of rotting flesh permeated the broken platform, but I couldn’t detect the source of the stench.
Somewhere, amidst the broken clutter that inhabited the platform, or within its surrounding buildings they were lurking. In the nearby darkness, the zombies would be hiding ... waiting for the sun to give up the ghost and flee.
Then, the world would belong to them.
I needed someplace secure to hide.
Somewhere, amidst the broken clutter that inhabited the platform, or within its surrounding buildings they were lurking. In the nearby darkness, the zombies would be hiding ... waiting for the sun to give up the ghost and flee.
Then, the world would belong to them.
I needed someplace secure to hide.
A Moment’s Consideration Please
They must think I’m blessed with divine gifts, that I can see through obstacles, or even behind me. I only wish I had such super powers, but sadly, that’s not the case.
My beleaguered comrades are equally bereft of awesome characteristics, though some hide their flaws better than others.
There are a few tricks of the trade that help us with our challenging job, but in reality we are but mortal men. We have the same flaws as everyone else.
So please remember this when you sit there in judgement, critiquing every decision we make.
We are referees, not gods.
My beleaguered comrades are equally bereft of awesome characteristics, though some hide their flaws better than others.
There are a few tricks of the trade that help us with our challenging job, but in reality we are but mortal men. We have the same flaws as everyone else.
So please remember this when you sit there in judgement, critiquing every decision we make.
We are referees, not gods.
June 6, 2015
A Grandmother’s Wisdom
In hindsight, the clown’s outfit might not have been a good idea, but it was a stag night after all, so I decided to let my hair down and go wild, (or to be more accurate, wear a silly red wig and go wild).
It was only when I arrived home in the early hours of the morning that I realised I’d lost my key. I couldn’t get into the house.
It was a Saturday morning, and my folks wouldn’t be up for hours yet. They treasured their lie-ins at the weekend, and would not be at all happy to be woken up by their drunken son at 6.a.m.
That left my dotty old grandmother. She was an early riser, and might be up shortly, but I’d never hear the last of it if I woke her up. You could put money on it that she’d remember this and bring it up on a regular basis.
Had I been sober, I probably would have curled up on the porch and gone to sleep, but alcohol does strange things to a person’s mind. They think the most stupid ideas are pure genius.
One of those ideas came to me now. It was climbing up the guttering onto the roof to the attic and letting myself in through my bedroom window. After all, I’d regularly climbed up and down the drainpipe to sneak out when I was grounded, or sneak back in again afterwards. I knew that the guttering was sound.
Of course, I hadn’t taken into account the facts that I could barely stand up, let alone climb, or for that matter, the problems of climbing in a pair of clown’s shoes.
I made it up to the roof eventually, with a lot of huffing and puffing and the occasional pause to catch my breath. When I finally stood on the roof slates, I felt a surge of adrenaline and almost whooped aloud, so pleased was I with my success. I only had a few feet to go to reach my bedroom window.
Sadly, success made me overconfident. I’d barely crossed half the distance when my footing went out from under me on the damp slates. Before I could stop myself, I’d slid down the roof and had fallen over the edge.
My guardian angel must have been watching over me at that moment as I didn’t fall to my death. The right cuff of the clown suit saved me, catching in one of the gutter clasps. I’d sprained my right wrist when I slipped, but at least I hadn’t fallen into the front garden.
The problem was that I was now left dangling, suspended outside of my grandmother’s bedroom window. I could hear her nagging voice in my head, “Thank the Lord for small mercies.”
It was one of her common sayings.
Another one was, “Things could always get worse. Remember the poor starving black babies in them third world countries. Make sure to eat ya greens.”
At this point, I was far too frightened to give any thought to Rwandan orphans. Desperately, I reached up and grabbed the gutter with my left arm, wincing with each jolt of my right wrist. I tried to grasp the guttering with my right arm and pull myself up, but the pain was far too much to bear. Pulling myself up with my weaker left arm was not possible either, so I was left dangling there, unsure what to do next.
It was then that I realised I had another problem.
The clown suit that I’d rented had been a bit large, but it was the only one available on short notice, so I’d taken it anyway. My trousers had been sliding down all night, and I’d been constantly pulling them back up. Now though, I didn’t have a free hand to correct my clothing, and I could feel them inching over my buttocks. I tried wriggling, but that only made it worse.
Another of my grandmother’s stupid sayings came to mind, “Always wear clean underwear, just in case ya get knocked down.” As usual, I hadn’t taken her advice to heart. In fact, I was currently going commando style.
I could feel the cold breeze on my ever-growing builder’s bottom, and it was only a matter of time before the weight of my wallet and mobile phone pulled my trousers down further. My deranged grandmother was in for quite a shock when she opened her curtains this morning. The old dear was liable to have a heart attack when she saw a clown dangling off her roof, with his trousers around his ankles and his wedding tackle dangling in the wind.
I had to think of something, and fast.
Just then I heard the jingling of an alarm clock. Grandmother was awake … then came her ritual coughing. She always started the day with a good cough. She was a fifty-a-day woman, and had smoked since she was a girl. She certainly wasn’t going to give it up now, at her age.
The coughing went on for some time. It was the sound that usually woke me each morning, that phlegmy raspy hawking that made me wince. Sleeping directly above her bed, it was hard to ignore the sound, and I usually gave up on sleep soon after it began.
In my mind I pictured her sitting on the edge of the bed, wheezing her lungs out and turning purple in the face. Soon, she would stand up, scratch her arse in a most unladylike fashion, and potter over to open the curtains.
My father had complained about the stench of tobacco in the house, and eventually, after many a heated row, she had promised to only smoke out on the porch.
She had lied, of course.
I heard her every morning, so I knew. She would always sneak a quick cig in just after getting up. She would open up her window and lean on the ledge, and take her first hit of the day.
My trousers decided that now was a good time to give up the ghost, and they finally gave up the struggle with gravity and slid down my legs.
“This is it!” I thought. “I’ll never live this down. The old battle-axe will bring this up whenever I bring a girlfriend over, and at every Sunday lunch …”
Frantically, I assessed my options. They were grim indeed.
I could hear the creaking of floorboards inside my grandmother’s bedroom. She was on the move!
I watched as the curtain stirred.
“Any second now”, I thought …
I only had one option open to me.
Taking a deep breath, I yanked hard on the cuff of the clown suit and thankfully, the flimsy material gave way.
I caught a quick glimpse of the bewildered face of my grandmother as I fell. She had opened the curtains just in time to see me falling.
The last thing I remembered was the crack of my shinbone as it hit the concrete, and then blissful oblivion.
*****
Later that afternoon, I woke up in a hospital ward. My left leg and my wrist were both covered in plaster cast.
I looked around, still hazy on the medication they had given me. My gran was sitting beside the bed. She noticed that I was awake and gave me a knowing grin.
Outside, I could see my parents talking to a doctor.
“Sorry, Gran,” I mumbled.
“I’m just glad ya didn’t kill yourself, ya wee idiot! By the way, I did warn you about wearing clean underwear, didn’t I?” she scolded, half-heartedly.
I flushed with embarrassment, unable to answer.
“Don’t worry, lad. Ya secrets safe with me,” she added, with a cheeky wink.
My gran went up in my estimations that day. She had taken the time to pull up my trousers before she had called the ambulance, or woken my parents.
It was only when I arrived home in the early hours of the morning that I realised I’d lost my key. I couldn’t get into the house.
It was a Saturday morning, and my folks wouldn’t be up for hours yet. They treasured their lie-ins at the weekend, and would not be at all happy to be woken up by their drunken son at 6.a.m.
That left my dotty old grandmother. She was an early riser, and might be up shortly, but I’d never hear the last of it if I woke her up. You could put money on it that she’d remember this and bring it up on a regular basis.
Had I been sober, I probably would have curled up on the porch and gone to sleep, but alcohol does strange things to a person’s mind. They think the most stupid ideas are pure genius.
One of those ideas came to me now. It was climbing up the guttering onto the roof to the attic and letting myself in through my bedroom window. After all, I’d regularly climbed up and down the drainpipe to sneak out when I was grounded, or sneak back in again afterwards. I knew that the guttering was sound.
Of course, I hadn’t taken into account the facts that I could barely stand up, let alone climb, or for that matter, the problems of climbing in a pair of clown’s shoes.
I made it up to the roof eventually, with a lot of huffing and puffing and the occasional pause to catch my breath. When I finally stood on the roof slates, I felt a surge of adrenaline and almost whooped aloud, so pleased was I with my success. I only had a few feet to go to reach my bedroom window.
Sadly, success made me overconfident. I’d barely crossed half the distance when my footing went out from under me on the damp slates. Before I could stop myself, I’d slid down the roof and had fallen over the edge.
My guardian angel must have been watching over me at that moment as I didn’t fall to my death. The right cuff of the clown suit saved me, catching in one of the gutter clasps. I’d sprained my right wrist when I slipped, but at least I hadn’t fallen into the front garden.
The problem was that I was now left dangling, suspended outside of my grandmother’s bedroom window. I could hear her nagging voice in my head, “Thank the Lord for small mercies.”
It was one of her common sayings.
Another one was, “Things could always get worse. Remember the poor starving black babies in them third world countries. Make sure to eat ya greens.”
At this point, I was far too frightened to give any thought to Rwandan orphans. Desperately, I reached up and grabbed the gutter with my left arm, wincing with each jolt of my right wrist. I tried to grasp the guttering with my right arm and pull myself up, but the pain was far too much to bear. Pulling myself up with my weaker left arm was not possible either, so I was left dangling there, unsure what to do next.
It was then that I realised I had another problem.
The clown suit that I’d rented had been a bit large, but it was the only one available on short notice, so I’d taken it anyway. My trousers had been sliding down all night, and I’d been constantly pulling them back up. Now though, I didn’t have a free hand to correct my clothing, and I could feel them inching over my buttocks. I tried wriggling, but that only made it worse.
Another of my grandmother’s stupid sayings came to mind, “Always wear clean underwear, just in case ya get knocked down.” As usual, I hadn’t taken her advice to heart. In fact, I was currently going commando style.
I could feel the cold breeze on my ever-growing builder’s bottom, and it was only a matter of time before the weight of my wallet and mobile phone pulled my trousers down further. My deranged grandmother was in for quite a shock when she opened her curtains this morning. The old dear was liable to have a heart attack when she saw a clown dangling off her roof, with his trousers around his ankles and his wedding tackle dangling in the wind.
I had to think of something, and fast.
Just then I heard the jingling of an alarm clock. Grandmother was awake … then came her ritual coughing. She always started the day with a good cough. She was a fifty-a-day woman, and had smoked since she was a girl. She certainly wasn’t going to give it up now, at her age.
The coughing went on for some time. It was the sound that usually woke me each morning, that phlegmy raspy hawking that made me wince. Sleeping directly above her bed, it was hard to ignore the sound, and I usually gave up on sleep soon after it began.
In my mind I pictured her sitting on the edge of the bed, wheezing her lungs out and turning purple in the face. Soon, she would stand up, scratch her arse in a most unladylike fashion, and potter over to open the curtains.
My father had complained about the stench of tobacco in the house, and eventually, after many a heated row, she had promised to only smoke out on the porch.
She had lied, of course.
I heard her every morning, so I knew. She would always sneak a quick cig in just after getting up. She would open up her window and lean on the ledge, and take her first hit of the day.
My trousers decided that now was a good time to give up the ghost, and they finally gave up the struggle with gravity and slid down my legs.
“This is it!” I thought. “I’ll never live this down. The old battle-axe will bring this up whenever I bring a girlfriend over, and at every Sunday lunch …”
Frantically, I assessed my options. They were grim indeed.
I could hear the creaking of floorboards inside my grandmother’s bedroom. She was on the move!
I watched as the curtain stirred.
“Any second now”, I thought …
I only had one option open to me.
Taking a deep breath, I yanked hard on the cuff of the clown suit and thankfully, the flimsy material gave way.
I caught a quick glimpse of the bewildered face of my grandmother as I fell. She had opened the curtains just in time to see me falling.
The last thing I remembered was the crack of my shinbone as it hit the concrete, and then blissful oblivion.
*****
Later that afternoon, I woke up in a hospital ward. My left leg and my wrist were both covered in plaster cast.
I looked around, still hazy on the medication they had given me. My gran was sitting beside the bed. She noticed that I was awake and gave me a knowing grin.
Outside, I could see my parents talking to a doctor.
“Sorry, Gran,” I mumbled.
“I’m just glad ya didn’t kill yourself, ya wee idiot! By the way, I did warn you about wearing clean underwear, didn’t I?” she scolded, half-heartedly.
I flushed with embarrassment, unable to answer.
“Don’t worry, lad. Ya secrets safe with me,” she added, with a cheeky wink.
My gran went up in my estimations that day. She had taken the time to pull up my trousers before she had called the ambulance, or woken my parents.
June 5, 2015
So Near and Yet So Far
“I wish I’d never started this!” I muttered to myself. I repeated that mantra often throughout the climb. Inch by grim inch, I made my way upward. There was no going back. I was too far up the cliff to change my mind, or so I believed. I certainly wasn’t going to look down again to find out. I’d done that once, about an hour ago, and it scared me half to death. It took me five minutes just to get moving again. Finally, I reached the cliff’s summit and lay there catching my breath. I was nearly home now.
June 2, 2015
The Fickle Wheels of Life
Life is like a shopping cart. You find yourself trapped with some seriously dodgy idiot and abandoned out in the rain, or maybe you’ll end up lying discarded at the bottom of a river.
Then, there are the times when you know where you want to go, but that fickle wheel keeps dragging you off in another direction. You end up spinning around or going down the shopping isle sideways, just to stay on course.
You think life is bad, and then you see someone coming the other way with two dodgy wheels, and life isn’t that bad after all.
Then, there are the times when you know where you want to go, but that fickle wheel keeps dragging you off in another direction. You end up spinning around or going down the shopping isle sideways, just to stay on course.
You think life is bad, and then you see someone coming the other way with two dodgy wheels, and life isn’t that bad after all.
June 1, 2015
The Sea Monster
Out of the morning mist I see the monster’s head emerging out in the lough. His gnarled head, mighty horns, and demon eyes freeze me to the spot, unable to yell a warning to the rest of the village as it draws silently nearer.
It glides across the water, coming closer, and all I can do is soil my clothing in fear.
A fine lookout I am, to watch over the village and the monastery beyond, but in truth I am barely old enough to shave.
Finally, I find my courage and yell to awaken the village. “Raiders! Arm yourselves!”
It glides across the water, coming closer, and all I can do is soil my clothing in fear.
A fine lookout I am, to watch over the village and the monastery beyond, but in truth I am barely old enough to shave.
Finally, I find my courage and yell to awaken the village. “Raiders! Arm yourselves!”
May 31, 2015
Book Review
Dark Tidings by Ken Magee
This Urban Fantasy blends the Olde Worlde with the modern cyber age with a dash of dark humour. Tung and Madrick are your stereotypical once-powerful mage and village idiot, lumbered together by ill luck. They have only one thing in common. They are both awaiting death, and it will arrive with the dawn. In desperation, they decide to unite despite their differences, and the outcome is an amusing tale. Added to this, we have Michael, a young man driven by the need for revenge against a faceless heartless regime. Here is a young man determined to stick it to do the right thing, but despite all of his careful planning, will he be successful? Although filled with dry wit and crazy humour, this book also takes a hard look at the modern world, and the ancient one for that matter. It delves deeply into the darker aspects of the human nature and doesn’t pull its punches.
An enjoyable read on many levels and I look forward to reading what happens in Book Two: The Black Conspiracy.
This Urban Fantasy blends the Olde Worlde with the modern cyber age with a dash of dark humour. Tung and Madrick are your stereotypical once-powerful mage and village idiot, lumbered together by ill luck. They have only one thing in common. They are both awaiting death, and it will arrive with the dawn. In desperation, they decide to unite despite their differences, and the outcome is an amusing tale. Added to this, we have Michael, a young man driven by the need for revenge against a faceless heartless regime. Here is a young man determined to stick it to do the right thing, but despite all of his careful planning, will he be successful? Although filled with dry wit and crazy humour, this book also takes a hard look at the modern world, and the ancient one for that matter. It delves deeply into the darker aspects of the human nature and doesn’t pull its punches.
An enjoyable read on many levels and I look forward to reading what happens in Book Two: The Black Conspiracy.
Strip Charades
The new Doctor Who, a dwarf named Malachi, stood in his portaloo on the edge of Brighton Pier. His assistant, Sile, sat on the only seat watching him.
Malachi thought for a moment and held up three fingers, then changed his mind and showed only two.
“Two words?”
Pointing to indicate that she was correct, he made a box shape.
“TV series … The X-files! That was easy, Malachi, now lose your shorts.”
“How the hell did you get that?” he protested.
No matter what game they played, he always lost.
“Easy. You’ve still got the hots for Gillian Anderson.”
Malachi thought for a moment and held up three fingers, then changed his mind and showed only two.
“Two words?”
Pointing to indicate that she was correct, he made a box shape.
“TV series … The X-files! That was easy, Malachi, now lose your shorts.”
“How the hell did you get that?” he protested.
No matter what game they played, he always lost.
“Easy. You’ve still got the hots for Gillian Anderson.”
