Ascension by Mark Harris

This is a style of poem is called a villanelle, and it's my first attempt at creating one. It's a French form, consisting of five tercets followed by a quatrain. The rhyme scheme is ABA ABA ABA ABA ABA ABAA; it was a challenge to get everything to fit. The last line of each stanza ( and the last two lines of the last stanza) are repeats of the first and third line of the first stanza. It'll make more sense when you read it. 

Ascension

Fly, fly through the boundless blue

Hark to the call of the sun

So the world will remember you.

Look to the light, keep it in view

Soar through the sky ‘til time is done

Fly, fly through the boundless blue.

No choice but to continue.

Higher, higher, Daedalus son,

So the world will remember you.

Almost time to say adieu,

You climb too high towards the heavens.

Fly, fly through the boundless blue.

The wax of your wings will burn through

Blinded by light, Blind to reason

So the world will remember you.

Icarus, the one who flew,

Scorched by the flames of the sun.

Fly, fly through the boundless blue,

The world will remember you.

Guest Post - 'Memories of a Life', by Joshua Akinbami

Clinging to memories like leaves on trees;

In autumn, let them fall and rest to bed,

As a mind on regret cannot be free,

For if I worry they will wreck my head.

They cut deep like words from a loved one,

Nesting themselves in your very fabric,

Waiting for a moment to sing a song

Which vibrates to your very being, so tragic.

But you must dance with fate and meet your doom,

For within it is the beauty of Daphne:

Opium of the gods, so do not gloom,

Be joyous and happy for what now you see.

What lies in your mind is all poetic,

Deny this fact and live to regret it.

Morpheus - Scene 2 by Ben Garry

Here's the second scene of my Greek-style tragedy, Morpheus. If you haven't read the first scene yet, you can find it here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/morpheus-scene-1-by-ben-garry.html

JANE BLACK sits on a pile of small pebbles, facing out to sea. The sound of the waves breaking on the shore is clearly audible, and in the background, the faint sounds of people shouting and laughing in the city can just about be heard. An unopened guitar case is lying next to her at a skewed angle, with the handle facing towards her. JANE BLACK sighs but otherwise remains silent, lost in thoughts or dreams. She is wearing a short, black jacket that falls to her lower ribs, unzipped over a moderately low cut white vest top which is untucked from blue skinny jeans that give way at her ankles to bare feet. Strappy, high heeled shoes have been discarded about a metre away. Her hair is long, glossy and very dark brown. It falls to her shoulder blades in waves, not as tight as curls, but definitely not straight. Wisps of it continually fall across her faces, so she lifts her left hand absent-mindedly to brush them away while her right arm hugs her legs which she has brought up to her chest.

 MORPHEUS appears (wearing the same clothes as in Scene 1) just as JANE BLACK begins to talk, but it is unclear as to whether she is talking to him or to herself at first.

JANE BLACK – It’s so beautiful. The waves lap against the shore, yet not a murmur of their sound is lost to the noisy, dirty traffic of the day. (She sighs) I wonder what Earth was like in a time before machines left their mark on the world, when you could sit by the sea in summer and not think about anything other than the endless blue expanse in front of you. (Her gaze flicks up to the dim stars scattered across the cloudless sky) What was it like when the stars’ radiance could be seen clearly, without having to peer through a haze of smog and pollution?

She falls silent, still not acknowledging the presence of MORPHEUS. The god of dreams remains silent, watching her hair flutter softly in the wind, listening to the waves rolling against the shore. It is at times like these that the best dreams are woven.

JANE BLACK – I wish I could live out here, on the beach, without worrying about what life back in the city is going to be like. (She peers into her watch; the hands show her that it is 2:10 am). Ah, what’s wrong with me? (She shakes her head and smiles ruefully as she talks) I’m sitting alone on the beach at 2 o’clock in the morning, with work in a few hours. What sort of life is this? What’s the point?

MORPHEUS steps towards JANE BLACK, crouching down beside her. She finally looks over at him, but doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see him.

MORPHEUS – I think there’s more to your life than you realise, Jane. Your hopes and dreams do not have to be distant, untouchable things. Trust me, I’ve seen a lot of people who believe that their life is worth nothing, but no matter how dreary things are, you can always dream of something more, and those dreams can keep you going.

JANE BLACK – (Looking quizzically at MORPHEUS) Right. Um, who are you? How do you know my name?

MORPHEUS – I’m observant.

JANE BLACK – (Pushing herself away from MORPHEUS uncomfortably) Have you been stalking me? I could call the police, you know.

MORPHEUS – (Smiling and sitting down) You’re not afraid of me. I’m not threat to you, or anyone else.

JANE BLACK – (She purses her lips, but nods eventually) You’re right. I’m not afraid of you. I should be, but I’m not. I don’t know why I’m not. Who are you?

MORPHEUS – (Still smiling, as if Jane has said something amusing) Jane, how long has it been since you had a full night’s sleep?

JANE BLACK – I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.

MORPHEUS – No, I suppose there’s no reason why you would.

JANE BLACK – Anyway, you never answered my question: who are you?

MORPHEUS gazes into the distance for a few seconds, a thoughtful expression on his face. Before he speaks, he hesitates, unsure of how much to say.

MORPHEUS – My name is Morpheus. I don’t live round here, but I was visiting...family.

JANE BLACK – Morpheus? I don’t think I’ve heard that name before.

MORPHEUS – Ah, it’s an old Greek name. My parents were into that sort of thing.

He trails off, running his hands through his hair and scratching the side of his head. His gaze continually switches between JANE BLACK’s face and the ocean.

JANE BLACK – (Laughing) Well I like it. It’s different. I know people with all sorts of names round here; I’m not gonna judge you on something like that. So you’re just visiting?

MORPHEUS – (Smiling) Thank you. Yes, I move around a lot. My job means that I’m meeting people all over the place. I was in the area, so I couldn’t avoid seeing my brother, even though we don’t always see eye to eye. Anyway, you don’t need to know all that stuff! What are you doing out here?

JANE BLACK – I – (She hesitates) – I don’t really know...I guess I don’t sleep well and I like it out here on nights like this. It’s calm. For a couple of hours, I can almost imagine that I don’t live in a city, that the never ending mayhem of day to day life doesn’t exist. I’m a bit strange that way.

MORPHEUS – I don’t find it strange.

JANE BLACK – Well you’re in the minority, I’m afraid. That’s my excuse, what’s yours? Normally I’m the only one around here at this time of night.

MORPHEUS – Is it not enough that I saw you looking lonely and wanted to come over to talk?

JANE BLACK – Well, it’s a little bit creepy, but nice enough, I suppose. I thought you were visiting your family. Aren’t you staying with them?

MORPHEUS – I was. We, ah, we didn’t leave on the best of terms. I guess I came out here to clear my head.

JANE BLACK – Mm, the sea air is good for that.

MORPHEUS – You really aren’t bothered that I’m here, are you?

JANE BLACK appears startled for a moment, but she calms her expression before replying.

JANE BLACK – Should I be? I’m not afraid, but you already know that...

MORPHEUS – Not many people would have stuck around to talk to a strange guy in the small hours of the morning.

JANE BLACK – I did threaten to call the police.

MORPHEUS – (Laughing) So you did! But your hand didn’t even move to your pocket, did it?

JANE BLACK – No, it didn’t. Maybe I’m just too tired to care.

MORPHEUS – Well, yes, there is that.

They laugh together, sitting side by side and looking out over the ocean. They stay that way for some time, before JANE BLACK stands to leave.

JANE BLACK – I should be getting back to my apartment now; I have work tomorrow and I should probably at least pretend to get some sleep tonight.

MORPHEUS – (Standing up after her) No problem, I’ll see you around, Jane.

JANE BLACK – Thank you, Morpheus. It was nice spending this time with you. Though I must say, I’m still a little disturbed that you knew my name.

MORPHEUS – (Completely ignores that final comment) Maybe I’ll come down to the beach next time I 

visit.

JANE BLACK – I’d like that. (As she leaves, she calls over her shoulder) I hope you make up with your brother!

JANE BLACK walks back up onto the road, leaving MORPHEUS standing alone on the beach. He watches her walk away for a while, motionless. A small gust of wind whips across his shirt. MORPHEUS starts, turning to his left to see THANATOS standing there. The other god is still wearing the clothes that he wore in the kebab shop, but there is no pretence at friendliness in his expression.

THANATOS – So quick to ignore my warning, Morpheus?

MORPHEUS – (Scowling) You have no business following me here. Leave me be.

THANATOS – I have a duty to Lord Zeus. Do I need to explain myself again? I think not. You, Dreamer, are the one who will be required to explain yourself.

MORPHEUS – (Clenching his jaw) Leave me alone, Thanatos. Go back to terrorising mortals and leave me to my fate.

THANATOS – Fate is a strong word, Morpheus, I wouldn’t play around with it. I will leave you, for now, but until Lord Zeus orders otherwise, I will be watching you and that mortal. Remember Prometheus, brother. Not even gods are safe.

THANATOS fades away into the air, leaving MORPHEUS alone once more, but more troubled than he has been all night. MORPHEUS shivers. The scene ends with him sitting once more on the sand, legs crossed, gazing down at the ground. A single tear rolls down his cheek before falling noiselessly onto the beach. Nothing else stirs as the sea rolls on in endless motion.

The Tsornian from Stormsrock by Mark Harris

This is another one of the opening chapters of Stormsrock, but this time it focuses on a completely different character, Dreskar, an orphan who survives from competing in an arena, something like the Colosseum in Rome. However, it is not too long before his life is flipped upside down, and he embarks on a journey of epic proportions.

The Prologue: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-prologue-to-stormsrock-by-mark.html
Crooked Pass: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/crooked-pass-from-stormsrock-by-mark.html

The grinding cacophony of the heavy steel gates being raised was almost drowned out by the thunder of voices. Dreskar stood in stony silence, gripping the shaft of his spear tightly, his expression emotionless. How many people are watching? He wondered. Five hundred? Six hundred? After a certain point the numbers became meaningless, amalgamating into a single faceless entity, watching his every move. He had to mentally remove himself away from his surroundings, and concentrate purely on himself and his opponent.  Directly opposite him, he could see what he was up against. It was a tsornian, a reptilian bird-like creature, three feet taller than him. He had fought one before, but not alone, and the last time he did so he was left with a deep cut along his side. If he had been alone, he would have died for sure. Dreskar stepped forward into the arena, his boots sinking slightly in the sand. The roar of the crowd was almost deafening, but Dreskar could barely hear it. His eyes were fixed upon the tsornian, carefully watching its every move. The tsornian did the same to him, its red eyes following the tip of his spear. Dreskar knew that this would be a tough fight, his toughest yet, perhaps. Tsornians were a step above the mindless beasts that he usually fought, they were devious. The last one he fought had entered the battle pretending to be injured, causing him to be severely wounded, and his fighting partner, Rasha, killed. They had underestimated it, a crucial mistake. But he had never been more ready for this fight. The majority of his time out of the arena was spent training, and he was at peak physical fitness.

            This time Dreskar would not take any chances against his foe. He would need all of his concentration and skill to become triumphant. Their eyes still locked together, Dreskar and the tsornian began to circle one another. Strike first, he thought. The tsornian obviously had the same thought, as it charged forward, trying to catch Dreskar with its beak. It turned to face him, but by the time it had Dreskar had leapt underneath it, trying to stab its vulnerable underbelly. The spearhead pierced the flesh, but it seemed to have little effect on the creature. He ripped out the spear, and ducked underneath a swipe from one of its claws. The other claw came striking down from above, and Dreskar leapt to the side, and as the claw rose again for another strike, Dreskar’s spear was thrust deep into the creature’s arm. Die already! It might take Dreskar a dozen attacks to incapacitate the tsornian, but he knew that the creature would be able to slaughter him with a single well-placed claw. The spear was still firmly planted in the tsorian’s flesh, and when its arm rose into the air, Dreskar rose with it. The creature shook its arm violently, and Dreskar lost his grip on the spears shaft, and he felt a sudden feeling of weightlessness as he was catapulted into the air. He smashed into the roof of the cage, before falling back towards the ground. He hit the sand with a thud, but before the pain could register Dreskar was back onto his feet. Without my spear I’m in big trouble. The crowd was divided between looking onto the fight, horrified and in silence, and chanting voraciously for the tsornian to finish Dreskar off. They wanted bloodshed. That was what they came to the arena for. Seeing its opponent’s vulnerability, the tsornian charged once again. Again, Dreskar dodged out its way, but this time by less than an inch. Out of all of the arena fighters, Dreskar was one of the quickest, and he often used this to his advantage. But being quick won’t win me this fight if I don’t have a weapon. He needed his spear back. He let the tsornian approach him, his spear coming closer to his reach. The tsornian stopped in front of him. It’s either trying to lull me into a false sense of security, or it’s afraid I’m luring it into a trap. However, he had no secret weapon to use against the Tsornian. Combatants could only take one weapon into the arena with them, and it had to be approved beforehand. He leapt towards the spear, and tried to rip it out of the tsornians arm, but it was stuck fast. The creatures other claw came at him, and he managed to dodge the attack, but its claw caught the shaft of the spear, and broke it in two, the base remaining in the tsornians arm. Dreskar snatched his now significantly shorter spear out of the sand, and drew back, analysing his options. Now I can’t rely on staying out of its reach and dodging away when it gets too close. I can’t attack unless I’m right next to it. The tsornian’s scaled tail whipped round, almost knocking Dreskar to the ground. However, he managed to jump over it, and stab his spear into it as it came past. Again, Dreskar was carried by his spear, but this time he did not let go. Clinging on tightly, he started to work his way up the tail, and onto the tsornian’s back. He used his spear as a handhold, and as he past it, he wrenched it out of the tsornian’s tail and thrust it straight back into its back. The beast let out a cry of pain, but the shriek was drowned out by the crowd’s deafening noise. To his delight, it soon dawned on Dreskar that on the creatures back, he was out of its reach; its arms could not bend backwards and no matter how vigorously it shook, Dreskar would not slacken his grip. He twisted the spear around, feeling the spearhead dig through the creature’s body. It was evident from the amount of blood seeping from its back and soaking his white garment, and the noise the Tsornian made when the spear had entered its body, that he had pierced something important. He could feel the tsornian’s body grow weaker underneath him, and he pitied it. It doesn’t want to fight me. It was captured from the wild and brought here, just so that it could be slaughtered in front of all of these people. In that moment, he was disgusted by the jeering crowd, but also by himself. I’m more a part of this than any of them. I’ll give you a quick death, it’s the best I can do. He clambered further up the tsornian’s back, and swiftly finished it off with a final stab into the back of its skull. It dropped to the floor, dead. He had won.

Dreskar wrenched his spear out of the tsornian’s skull, and only now did his ears become attuned to the roar of the crowd around him. He took a quick bow, and with his head held high, exited the arena. He did not want to be amongst these people for any longer than he had to be.

As he exited the arena, he was greeted by a man, who reluctantly tossed him a small pouch of coins. Dreskar opened the pouch, and counted ten iron shonos. Elated, he strapped the pouch to his waist, the white cloth of his tunic soaked in the thick blood of the tsornian.

  “Don’t tell me you wanted the tsornian to win,” said Dreskar, noting the bitterness of the other man.

  “You don’t have to pay tsornians. At least I didn’t bet on you to lose.”

  “You didn’t? I’m flattered.”

  “Whether I like it or not, you’re an annoyingly good fighter. You’re through to the next round.”

  “When is it?”

  “Three days’ time, at sunrise. You’ll be fighting whoever wins tomorrows fight.” Dreskar nodded, before leaving. He was competing in the Gresvensgal Flaming Fist tournament, which attracted some of the best fighters locally and from all across the Peninsula. The tournament’s name originated from the first victor, who became triumphant by setting his arm on fire and beating his opponent to death. Dreskar was one of the favourites to win, and his performance against the tsornian supported his ranking. This year there was forty-eight entrants, but as Dreskar had not been paired up with another fighter, he had been pitted against a tsornian. That had been his third fight, and now there were only fifteen entrants remaining, and there would be twelve by the time he next fought. But he did not have to worry about that now. Now he could relax, for the time being anyway.

            The sky was entirely clouded over as Dreskar emerged from the underground, bathing the city of Gresvensgal in a gloomy light. The city walls were so high that they blocked out most of the sun, so even on the brightest of days Gresvensgal looked dull.  The monotonous grey colour scheme did not help improve the city’s appeal. But in truth, Gresvensgal was closer to a fort than a city, and it had been deemed impregnable by the city’s rulers. Dreskar did not believe this, however. Everything has a weakness. He had changed out of his bloody fighter’s garbs and into more casual clothes, and he had left his spear in his locker back at the arena, alongside his other weapons. The regulators forbid the possession of weapons around the city, but Dreskar had a small dirk strapped to the inside of his leg. It’s too dangerous to travel without one, especially now. There was always the chance that another combatant would try and take Dreskar out of the tournament early.

            He headed to The Burnt Fly, an inn where he had for two years rented a room for himself. As he entered, he glanced around for familiar faces. Almost immediately, he saw two men he knew, Jett and Hachi, and sat down beside them. Tonight, he could easily afford a warm meal, drinks, and a bed. As an accomplished fighter, Dreskar was rarely short of money, but it had not always been so. He could remember many cold nights living on the streets, constantly trying to find the warmest and driest places to stay that would not get him killed. It had all changed when he had been caught up in a fight against another homeless man, and he recognised that he possessed a natural flair for combat. The next day he had signed up for a fourteen-to-eighteen years age restricted tournament, and he became the champion almost effortlessly. Many saw the teenager fights as barbaric and cruel, but for Dreskar it had provided a much-needed lifeline.

  “You fought damn well,” Jett said, greeting him. “When you lost your spear I thought you were as good as dead, but you pulled it around. Let me buy you a drink.” Dreskar was reluctant, but Jett insisted. “It’s the least I can do; I made a small fortune today betting on you.”

  Dreskar courteously accepted, and Jett stood up, and stumbled towards the bar. Jett’s state of mind was hardly surprising, Dreskar could not remember a single time he had seen him sober.

  “Sounds like a terrific performance,” Hachi said, raising a flagon of beer to his lips.

  “You didn’t make it?”

  “I couldn’t get in. It was packed full. You know, you’re the first person since Halgor the Hunter to slay a tsornian by yourself in the arena. People are saying that you might win this thing, you know.”

  “I can’t let myself get overconfident, that’s when I’ll make mistakes, which could get me killed.”

  “Indeed. Who’s your next fight against, then?”

  “Whoever wins tomorrow morning’s fight. It’ll either be Falio of Solomsburg, or Jorren, who I’ve fought against before. One of the strongest men I’ve ever fought, but certainly not the quickest.”

  Hachi smirked. “Jorren calls himself the Skullcrusher, does he not?”

  “That’s right. But I don’t intend on letting that huge obsidian hammer of his come anywhere close to my head.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a serving woman approaching them. “Food, anyone?”

  “What’s cooking?” Dreskar asked.

  “Lamb and potato stew. Killed the lamb myself, yesterday.”

  “We’ll have three bowls.” Dreskar paid her and the woman left, just as Jett arrived back, slamming down a flagon of beer down on the table in front of Dreskar, so hard that some of the liquid jumped into the air and onto the wooden table.

  Jett raised his cup. “Here’s to Dreskar, the greatest fighter the peninsula has ever seen.” The three of them clashed their drinks together and drank deeply, and they continued to drink late into the night, only stopping when Jett passed out, so Dreskar and Hachi together hauled him into a bed upstairs, and then they too decided to retire for the night. 

Prologue of 'When Kingdoms Crumble', by Ben Garry (Part 2)

Introduction and Part 1, here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/prologue-of-when-kingdoms-crumble-by.html

The sun dawned golden and glorious on the first morning of the new age. General Cholem rose from his bed in the temporary quarters that had been allotted to him within the palace and crossed to the room’s floor-to-ceiling window, basking in the light. The cloudless daybreak was yet another good omen to add to the multitude that had saturated the Freedom Uprising from the start.

            The nobles from the surrounding area, most of them relatives of King Kaidezhe, had been brought into the palace over the course of the night, unharmed save for a few unavoidable flesh wounds. They were being kept somewhere in the far wing of the palace until their grand appearance later today.

            Cholem’s mind skipped from the prisoners to the forthcoming events of the day.  The rest of the Freedom Council should ride into the city in the next few hours, then, together, they would formally address the city’s population, the final step in establishing the new order in Jeshrual. After that, messengers would be dispatched to take their words to the other Jeshrulian towns and cities and they would be followed out by Freedom Council officials ready to take up local government posts in those areas. After years of bloodshed and struggle, the monarchy and its barbaric, ancient regime had been overthrown.

            A smile creased his strong, authoritative features, momentarily skewing his meticulously shaped beard. He slipped out of his night-shift before pulling on a set of simple clothes, the picture of humility, the embodiment of peace. With his head held high, he strode out into the palace corridors. A pleasant smell drifted into his nostrils. It would seem that his soldiers had encouraged the palace staff to prepare breakfast as normal. General Cholem’s smile broadened; today was a good day.

            In the suburbs of the city, supporters of the Freedom Uprising – and there were many – lined the street that widened out inside Horizon Mount’s inner circle to become the boulevard that led up to the jewel in the city’s crown, the King’s Palace. The people waved banners and shouted praise as the members of the Freedom Council rode past them, into the city proper. Each council member made a point of smiling and waving at the crowds from the backs of their beautiful stallions, riding regal and proud like angelic princes.

            They came from all corners of Jeshrual, the sowers of the seeds of sedition in cities from the north to the south and the east to the west of their country. Riding in pomp and finery, their status was clear to all and the people adored them as they had adored the kings of old, recognising the roles of these men in the shaping of their nation.

            Following the councillors up the street were ranks of Freedom Uprising soldiers, tramping in united solidarity, the heralds of a new order. The parade continued up the road to the palace where General Cholem waited to establish them in their power and thus complete the revolution.

א

            Jaish heard the rumble of humanity from beyond the palace walls and his heart became as stone in his chest. Had these people abandoned Adonai so readily? He turned to his wife, who returned his bleak gaze with a sad smile that somehow seemed all the more bleak than his own expression.

            “So this is what we’ve come to,” he sighed, crossing to their bed and sinking down next to her with a wince. He, along with his wife and child (who remained asleep in an adjoining room, exhausted from the previous day), had actually been given comfortable accommodation within his uncle’s palace. They could almost be considered guests of the Freedom Council but for the guards stationed outside the main door of their apartment.

            “Adonai’s will shall be done, always,” Dana said, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her loose black fall over his torso. She was vulnerability clothed in human flesh, but was he any different?

            “I just don’t understand,” he muttered.

            “Then don’t try. Just trust him.”

            Jaish pulled his wife even closer and kissed the top of her head, overwhelmed with love for the woman who was truly a blessing on his life sent straight from Adonai.

            He looked up at a knock on the room’s main door and watched as an armed guard entered without ceremony, grim-faced.

            “Nephew of Kaidezhe, General Cholem requires your presence on the palace steps,” the guard said, looking into his eyes without flinching.

            Jaish’s reply was measured, “I am not his servant to command.” He was aware of Dana’s cool hand on his arm and kept his visage controlled and neutral.

            “Don’t make this difficult for yourself,” the guard warned.

            Jaish exchanged glances with Dana, “I shall go.”

            “And your wife.”

            “What of my daughter?”

            “She may remain. A servant shall be sent in to sit with her.”

            Dana stood with Jaish and together they followed the guard out of the room.

            General Cholem stood with the other eleven councillors on the wide flight of stairs leading up to the palace. Assembled before them was an oceanic mass of civilians, almost the entire population of the city, interspersed with soldiers. They were the flock of the Freedom Council, the people of the new regime. He looked across the top of the steps at the row of councillors. They were a strong group, the perfect balance of youth and experience. They were the prophets of all the gods. They were the prophets of nothing.

            Silence gradually permeated the pores of the crowd. General Cholem stepped forward and began to speak.

            “People of Horizon Mount and all of Jeshrual, yesterday I addressed you to announce the fall of the old kingdom and the tyranny that it stood for,” he paused, allowing his voice to ring out around the trees and buildings that surrounded the crowd, allowing his words to settle into the minds of those gathered, “But today is not yesterday. It is a new day and it marks a new beginning for our nation. It marks the beginning of a time of peace and tolerance, a time of harmony and equality. And so, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you eleven of our nation’s finest men. They are visionaries and revolutionaries, men who joined with me in purging this nation of bigotry and authoritarianism, men who will now join with me in guiding Jeshrual along the smooth, hallowed path of peace. It is an honour for me to introduce to you Marlial, Chair of the first Freedom Council by a unanimous vote, and my great friend.” General Cholem stepped back into the line as a smattering of applause became a thundering. His heart swelled with pride as he surveyed the crowd before him, adoring and free.

            Marlial, a slim, tall, middle-aged man from the northernmost region of Jeshrual stepped forward now, dressed in a beautiful robe of blue. His black-silver hair reflected the sun’s light majestically; he was an impressive figure to behold.

            “People of Jeshrual, today you may consider me the harbinger of change for this nation. What I have to say may shock some of you and you may not believe me at first, so I ask you to open your minds and trust that what I say is the truth. Trust me, and your lives shall change for the better to an extent that you would never have believed possible. These three words shall be your salvation: Adonai is dead,” as Cholem had done before him, he paused. The quiet in the crowd was terrifying, “For centuries, the worship of Adonai has been the dominant religion of this land. It has always been the religion championed by one particular group of people: our kings. But in recent years, I, and others like me, have come to realise that not only is Adonai dead, but that he never lived. You may be wondering how I know this, so listening closely, people of Jeshrual. This great god, named Adonai, was never more than a creation of Jeshrual’s kings, am artifice that they employed to control you and bleed your money away from you, employed to make you think that there was hope for you as they taxed you again and again, more and more each time! Do you see now? Therefore, from this day forth, there shall be no more public worship of Adonai; we shall tear down his temple.” He paused briefly to gage the crowd’s reaction, “Furthermore, the Freedom Council has decided to rename this city ‘Liberteria’. No more shall this place be Adonai’s holy city, we proclaim it a city of freedom and choice, the flourishing heart of a free nation! You will no longer be punished for a failure to adhere to the laws that apparently come directly from Adonai, for we shall create new laws, fair laws. You are all different and your beliefs should be your own. Let us stop judging one another for what they believe, or don’t believe, and let’s stop feeling pressured into believing in something that doesn’t feel right to us. It’s time to discover our own truths in this world. I saw it again: Adonai is dead!” Marlial bowed his head and waited. It seemed that the silence in the crowd would never end. Then a lone person began to clap, the more people clapped, then still more, before eventually, applause sang out from the hands of well over half of the people in attendance.

            General Cholem moved forward to be in line with Marlial and raised a hand to renew the silence, “We appreciate that this is a monumental change and an uncertain time for some of you, so to demonstrate out good will in these circumstances, we have some of King Kaidezhe’s nobility here in the palace as our guests!”

            Jaish emerged into harsh sunlight at outside the entrance to the palace, his wife alongside him. They stood in a huddle with around ten more people, all relatives of the dead king and, by extension, himself. He recognised all the faces, but no one spoke as they waited to see what the Freedom Council had planned. All were known to be devoted followers of Adonai. They were led to the top of the steps by a handful of soldiers. The members of the Freedom Council parted to accommodate them. General Cholem and Marlial, still standing forward to address the crowd, turned in unison and smiled benevolently at the newcomers.

            “My friends,” Marlial began to speak, his smooth tones seeming to flow over both the nobles and the crowd simultaneously, “Let me first say that you are welcome here in shining Liberteria. Your presence at the palace brings joy to hearts of me and my fellow councillors. We know that you were a part of King Kaidezhe’s regime, ruling towns and cities throughout the region in his name, but that regime is gone. However, this does not mean that your lives are in danger. We will not make ourselves hypocrites by advocating freedom for the masses whilst condemning you all to death. After all, your service to the monarchy was a mere accident of birth and should not be used as a reason for your deaths. For sure, you shall be stripped of your titles and your authority, but you may return home in peace as friends of the Freedom Council.”

            Marlial beamed endearingly at the nobles, before turning to the crowd to show them his pleasure. This time, the people’s response was instant, unanimous applause.

            Jaish looked out over the city, sick. He knew with utmost certainty that being pardoned was far worse than being killed or imprisoned. There would be no heroic martyr’s death for him. Marlial had ensured that if he or his relatives opposed the Freedom Council in any way then they would be seen as the villains, repaying mercy with murder. It seemed as if a heavy fog was wrapping itself around his brain, suffocating his thoughts. He stared at the ground, lost, as the ceremony came to a close. When he looked up, he caught the gaze of General Cholem. He would never forget what he saw in that man’s eyes.

'The Parcel', Chapter 2 by Steven Hardy

Here is the first draft of Chapter 2 from my novella ‘The Parcel’. Enjoy!

Read Chapter 1 here: http://writersandlitlovers.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/the-parcel-chapter-1-by-steven-hardy.html

Alan was sweating, as he leaned back in his seat, though he was in no immediate danger, he felt on edge. As he looked around the cabin, all those innocent smiling faces, carefree laughs, it only made him feel a condemned man, a dead man walking.

‘Water or juice?’

‘Huh?’ Alan was caught unawares by the seductively dressed air hostess, ‘Water, please.’

She handed him the water - it was warm - and walked on. Time slipped away with Alan in a state of needless transfixed paranoia; he did not even watch a film, or sleep a wink.

‘Tsk – okay we are approaching London Heathrow’ the Captain gurgled through the PA system ‘Please fasten your seatbelt, and cabin crew please go through your final checks.’

 Alan in a robotic fashion obliged, and before he knew it they had landed in Heathrow. Alan retrieved his hand luggage and expressed his gratitude to the cabin crew, without ever meaning a word. Alan followed the throng of people through immigration control, where the gentleman behind the desk said, ‘Welcome home again’ and to which Alan thought is it? Is it really? In a solemn state Alan went to collect his luggage from belt six, and suddenly it dawned on him all he had to do was find Mr A. Gost give him the package, and it would be over, he would be a thousand pound better off, and all this worry would have been for nothing. He smiled.

Returning to his Mr Bean impersonation, with his grey hand held, without wheels luggage, he walked out to the arrival lounge. Confidently, he scanned the taxi men’s boards for his name, his heart skipped a beat when he could not find it, but trying to remain positive he walked to the group of taxi drivers.

‘Huh- hmm, excuse me, do any of you know Mr A. Gost?’ Alan asked,

‘Who?’ came the reply from a burly taxi driver, who seemed the same width as he was tall. 

I am looking for A. Gost?’ Alan repeated, to which the taxi drivers began to laugh at him.

‘So let me get this straight’ a tall, lanky Indian driver was talking now, in a strong Indian accent, ‘you are looking for a ghost?’

‘Yes, that’s right’ said Alan glad to be getting somewhere, but they laughed even harder this time. 

‘Get a load of this’ the Indian man continued ‘he really is looking for a ghost’ the drivers were on the verge of tears from laughing so hard, so after being made to look like a fool Alan stormed off. Frustrated and beginning to panic again, Alan suddenly realised why the taxi drivers were laughing at him, he was looking for a ghost. Oh how could he be so stupid he thought to himself, stretching his memory Alan tried to remember if Laos mentioned a first name, but he had not. Beginning to feel he was on the end of a stupid prank to find a ghost, Alan headed for the taxi stand, to end this nonsense. Walking out the terminals glass doors, Alan was suddenly hit by the chill of an English February afternoon, shivering he walked down to the line of yellow taxis waiting to pick up passengers. As he walked up to the first one, a small Chinese man leaned out the window, calling;

‘Hey, you, you wanna ride, I give good price, huh, huh?

‘Um – no thanks, do you know Mr A. Ghost?’

‘No, I know no Ghost. You want ride?’ the Chinese man responded.

‘Um – no thanks, have a good day.’

Essentially, Alan experienced the same sort of response from the next five drivers, however by the sixth he had a different response, an interesting one.

‘Hello, do you know a Mr A. Gost?’

‘Alexander? Yes’ said the taxi driver in a husky Russian accent.

‘Alexander Gost?’ Alan checked again.

‘Yes, I told you already’ the man in the taxi literally filled his cab, his head seemed to crane sideways just so he could fit in the vehicle, he certainly was not your average taxi driver, with a small cut down the right side of his mouth, and a small tattoo of a globe on the nape of his neck. Naturally, Alan was unnerved.

‘Um – okay – sorry, but where is he?’

                ‘Gone,’ the Russian monotonously replied.

‘Pardon?’ Alan must have misheard him.

‘I said gone,’ he repeated.

‘Oh, it is just that I have something for him,’ this seemed to capture the taxi driver’s attention.

‘What is it? He asked.

‘Oh – err- well I don’t actually know,’ Alan was back peddling now, seriously regretting ever telling this stranger about the package.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Err – no,’ Alan whimpered. They both locked eyes for what seemed like a minute, before he snapped out of this trance.

‘Look, Alan, let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ he spoke with an authority, which Alan was only too willing to oblige.

‘Yes – well, thank you, that is what intend to do.’

‘Good, you want a ride? I offer good deal?’ he spoke.

‘Um – no thank you, I have already booked a taxi’ and with that Alan walked away blushing, booked a taxi, what a white lie that was. Alan quickly strode over to the first Chinese taxi driver.

‘Err – change of mind, I would like a lift please,’ he said, as he opened the passenger door. The Chinese man smiled back at him.

‘Where to?’

‘Take me towards the south coast, I will give directions nearer the time’ Alan spoke with a confidence previously unbeknown to him; perhaps it was this unusual situation that required unusual measures. The Chinese man smiled back and nodded, probably a little confused as he pulled away from the taxi bay. Alan sunk down in his seat, and patted the package that nestled in his jacket pocket, what was he going to do with it now? Laos, will probably never know it was undelivered…maybe he should just bin it and forgot this situation. Feeling a little more relaxed, Alan played over the conversation he had with the Russian taxi driver, over and over, remembering his strange advice, ‘Look, Alan let me tell you some advice, go home fast, okay?’ The more Alan thought about this the stranger the advice sounded; of course he would go home, right? Where else would he go? But that was not the least of it, as Alan replayed the conversation in his mind it dawned upon him, that he referred to Alan by his name, yet Alan never told him his name. This chilled Alan to the core, the Russian man knew him, and was expecting him; maybe he was the reason Mr A. Gost had ‘gone’ mysteriously, that short period of relaxation had evaporated in thin air now, as Alan was now scared again, nay he was petrified. He felt as if he was a puppet, in someone’s cruel game, and what did they do to Mr Gost, kill him? No, no he was over thinking, Alan needed to calm himself, he felt he was suffocating in his own thoughts, so automatically wound open the car window and inhaled deeply, the crisp air cleared his mind temporarily, and he fought with himself for control of his body. The Chinese taxi man looked at him with an expression of concern.

‘You okay, mister?’

‘Yes,’ Alan had broken out in a cold sweat, but slowly began to calm himself.

‘You sure, mister?’

‘Yes fine, just please keep driving,’ said Alan almost inaudibly.

They drove for roughly an hour toward the south coast in stony silence, before Alan broke it to give directions. He lead the taxi driver through a quaint town, it appeared out of sync with the world, antique shops lined the high street, as did a butcher, and grocer, but no Sainsbury’s. The place seemed old fashioned and unassuming, one could argue derelict considering it was a Saturday afternoon. They turned off down a back road, two rights, a left, than another right, before they pulled into the driveway of a small bungalow cottage, with a neat garden, which sadly lacked blossoming flowers, however its tidiness was pleasing, nonetheless. A white cottage, with black tarred timber struts supporting its shape, it was not terribly fancy, but rather something your grandmother might retire in, nevertheless to Alan it was home, and there on his drive was his pride and joy, his silver Audi TT. Alan paid the driver, and tipped him too, he even waved him off as he pulled away. He smiled falsely, picked up his luggage and turned to enter his house.   

Conflagration by Mark Harris

Apologies for the delay since my last post, I've had a busy week. But today I'm posting something different than an extract from my novel. It's a (very) short story I wrote a fair few years ago. It was supposed to be for a fire-themed competition in a writer's magazine, but I never got around to sending it off. So I'm posting it here instead.

Conflagration

Amber flames lick at the smouldering night sky. I stand alone, watching in stunned silence as my workplace for the past seven months is torn apart in a withering torrent of fire. Nobody can stop it. Nothing can stop it. Not even the cascading floods of rain pouring from the heavens, nor the blistering wind.

It had been a typical Monday morning. I had been working alone on a presentation detailing potential advertisements for the company. We sold insurance. Not my dream job, but it was either that or the queue for dole, and I need all the money I can get to appease the debt collectors, to pay for a child-minder, and to buy Christopher the pinball machine for Christmas he’s been asking for since last January. It was going to be a surprise, but he found the receipt in the backseat of the car. That presentation was my first chance to show Jamieson and the rest of the board that I wasn’t a waste of space, and that I had potential. If they liked any of my ideas enough, I could have been looking at a pay raise. Few times in my life had I been so nervous. At least I’ll never have to finish that presentation now.

I have no idea how the fire spread so quickly, or how I managed to get out alive. Not everybody did. Some might still be in there, trapped within the burning building. Was this my fault? I was warned not to send anything to the second floor printer, but surely something as trivial as that couldn’t have started something like this?

I can’t go back now. It’s far too late for that now. The winter constellations gaze down upon the conflagration, shaming me for my cowardliness. I don’t deserve to live. The stench of burning fills my nostrils, and my eyes water from the choking smoke. Fiery debris soars through the skyline like tiny meteors, leaving behind them trails of incandescence. Salty tears and sweat pour down my smoke blackened cheeks, but my hands are paralyzed to my sides, and they refuse to wipe them away. I can feel the gentle warmth from the inferno, but I do not welcome it against the backdrop of the bitter night. Suddenly, I hear a stifled woman’s cry from within the burning building. Fear floods me. There’s no sign that the fire crews are anywhere nearby, and by the time they get here the structure might not be standing at all. Desperately trying to forget what I heard, I turn away.

It was for Christopher’s sake, that’s why I took the job at the insurance firm. At first I thought I would hate it, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected. The people were friendly, and from the first day I was invited to eat lunch with them, as if I’d been working there for years. It was nice. Right now that feels like an eternity ago.

 I can’t go back now. Or can I? I can’t wait here forever, what happened today will perpetually eat away at my insides. I push my rain sodden hair out of my eyes, and take a deep breath of smoke-filled air, breaking into a coughing fit. When it stops, I take a step towards the devouring fire, but then freeze solid, as my confidence falters. Against all of my instincts, I force myself to take another couple of steps. As I feel the intense heat grow, pure fear flows through me. But this time I do not waver, and I break into a stumbling run.

Christopher is my son. At least, I hope he is. I divorced his mother, Andria, a couple of years ago, after I discovered that she was cheating on me for the third time. Each time she swore that it didn’t mean anything, that it would never happen again, but it broke my heart. The only reason we didn’t end it sooner was for Christopher’s sake, but the third time was too much to bear. Andria left the country two days after the papers were signed, on the arm of an investment banker, a man who could afford her, leaving me with both Christopher and almost £10,000 worth of debt, from her incessant internet gambling. I was once told that finalizing the divorce was the best decision I ever made. That could be true, I suppose, but it doesn’t feel that way. I didn’t ask where she went. Somewhere hot and expensive, I imagine. Despite everything, I hope she has a good life, even if I can’t be in it. I really do.

This is it. I venture through the splintering doorway, and into a sea of flames. I am almost overwhelmed by the chaos, but now I move faster than ever. I pull my jacket over my mouth and nose, creating a barrier against the deadly smoke, the soft fabric rubbing against my rough, sweat-ridden skin. Again, I hear a scream from above me, and I set myself in the direction of the cry. My mind is vacant, except for untainted determination. I see a set of wooden stairs, and sprint up them, with adrenaline pumping through my veins, still not believing what I am doing.

Arriving at the peak of the stairs, I glance across the landing, to see a man’s corpse lying in front of me, covered in scorching fire. I recognise him; his cubicle was two away from mine, but I never knew him name. As I watch, the floorboards beneath him gave way, and he topples down onto the ground floor. The piercing scream again stings the smoke infested air, not far away now, but my body is starting to slow down, my reactions delayed.

Summoning up the last of my strength, I launch a mighty kick at a door, and it cracks enough for me to force my way through. Inside, I see a petrified woman, crouched underneath a computer desk. I don’t know her name either; but she’s a member of the board of directors. She’s here to watch my presentation. She wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. I rush towards her, and open my mouth to comfort her, but no words leave my lips. My throat was too dry to utter a single word. I grab the woman’s arm, and usher her towards the window. I try to open it but it only opens so far as to fit an arm through. I take a lamp from a table, and shatter the glass with it. Shimmering shards of glass tumble to the ground as smoke begins to seep through the floorboards. I am unsure whether the woman understands my intentions, but my doubts are dismissed as she clambers onto her feet, and prepares to jump. Her hands are pressed firmly to her stomach, and I realise that she’s pregnant.  Her eyes are half-closed, her movements subdued, and I know she will not last much longer if she stays inside the burning building. I grimace as I see flames creep into the room, peeling at the walls. It will not be long before the room is engulfed in the inferno, along with everything else. I manage a brief smile as I see her hang out the window, and then drop onto the tarmac below.

But now I feel the blackness creep over me.  Flames gently lap at my shins, and I drop to my knees. Toxic smoke fills my lungs, and my breathing deteriorates. I try to crawl towards the window, but in vain. My breathing ceases entirely. As I lie to sleep, I cherish the fact that I saved the woman and her future child from certain death. I never thought the end would be like this. I guess I’ll never be able to get Christopher that pinball machine. The last thing I see is his face, lighting up as he opens it from underneath the Christmas tree. I open my arms wide and he runs to me, but before he can reach me the scene fades to black. So much pain, I can barely feel a thing.