Friday, 30 November 2012

Because sometimes life can be really shit.

I write fantasy, horror, even steampunk. A lot of stuff to escape the harsh realities of life. Well sometimes even the most fantastical escapism is not enough, because, very often, life can be really shit.



 “Hey! Wake up, you can’t sleep here.”


“Come on, up!”

“Okay, okay, give us a sec’,” he said, wiping sleep from his eye.

“I’ve told you before you can’t sleep here. If I catch you again I’ll arrest you. Understand?”

He pulled himself up into a sitting position and nodded. He glanced up quickly at the uniformed police officer and looked away quickly, unwilling to make eye-contact. It was not just the uniform, he rarely made eye-contact with anyone anymore.

“This is a public park not a doss house, how do you think it looks to a young mother with little kiddies coming for a play in the park, only to find you sprawled all over a bench?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled an apology.

“Look at the state of you, I could smell your stink before I saw you.”


“Five minutes… if you’re still here when I get back I’ll have your sorry arse before a judge.”

He nodded once, but the policeman had already turned on his heel and moved on. His head throbbed, his throat was parched, his stomach felt queasy. It was a warm summers day and yet, despite wearing a heavy winter coat, he shivered from the cold. He brought a hand up to his temple, it came away sticky with blood. How had that happened? he wondered. A fuzzy image came to mind of being heckled and pushed around by a gang of faceless youths, dressed in hoodies and tracksuits.

His arms, legs and back ached, a cramp knotted in his stomach and lower abdomen, he wasn’t sure if he needed to eat or shit, or both. He reached for the bottle beside him, cooking sherry, he held it by the neck and tipped it back, he wretched and then drank some more, draining the bottle.

“Eww! Mummy, that man is so smelly.”

He no longer flinched with shame when young mothers pulled their children out of his way. It hurt at first, cutting him to his very core, especially the little ones, the fear and disgust in their eyes. Blocking out the memories was the first thing he had to do, the booze helped with that.

“Keep walking, you’re scaring the kiddies.”  The policeman was back. He nodded and shuffled on his way, keeping his eyes low. He wondered where he would sleep tonight, best not come back for a day or two.

He walked on, leaving the calm and peace of the park behind. All around him the sounds and smells of the city assaulted his senses, buses and trucks belched out noxious fumes, people hurried past all giving him a wide berth. A car screeched to a halt, the driver shouting and gesticulating at him, before he realised he was in the middle of the road. He shuffled on, not answering, not looking back.

“Oi, you, fuck off!”

He looked up from the skip, a man dressed in a chef’s aprons had come out of a doorway into the alleyway and was shouting at him, he dropped the leftover food back into the bin and moved on.

He rummaged through the on-street bins for whatever he could find, scavenging whatever food he could get his hands on or anything he could use. A piece of cardboard he dragged from one bin would make sleeping on the cold streets a bit more bearable.

Dizzy and disorientated most of the time now, his body ached for food and sleep, his mind craved drink. Drink to take him away, drink to help him find the oblivion he constantly sought.

“Malone?” He looked up from the bin. “Jesus, Malone, is that you?” A man dressed in suit and tie addressed him.

Malone? That was his name once. Not anymore. He shrugged off the man and shuffled on. The man followed.

“It is you, Malone. What the hell happened to you?”

He pushed him away and tried to move on, but the well dressed man was persistent.

“This used to be my boss,” he laughed, turning to his friends.

“Come on, Freddie, leave him alone, he stinks,” a woman’s voice said.

“Seriously, this was my manager at the bank. He got fired when he came into work drunk one day and told all the customers to go fuck themselves. Apparently his wife had taken the kids and buggered off with another man.”

“Please, Freddie, I want to go.” He could hear the fear in her voice.

“Jesus, Malone. Here,” the man said and shoved a tenner into his hand.

He looked up when the couple walked away, tears blurred his vision. He looked down at the ten pound note, he wanted to run after them and tell them to keep their bloody money, tell them he didn’t need it, or them and tell them to go fuck themselves. He scrunched the note up tightly in his fist, his knuckles turned white. A sob escaped from his throat, a harsh guttural noise, a mournful wail of despair.

He wiped away the tears and snot and unfolded the note, calculating how much booze he could get with it.

He wanted to forget.

Sunday, 4 November 2012

An excerpt from Tribesman

In the beginning there was only the Benouin. They farmed the fertile land nourished by the Great River. Their herds and flocks grazed on the lush green pastures. Golden corn, wheat, and bounteous fruit trees flourished in the dark, rich earth. The women of the Benouin were just as fruitful and the people swelled in number. The cantankerous god of thunder, Dourab, provided them with precious metals from his lofty mountain home; iron, tin, and gold.
They formed communities, building villages and towns. Their numbers and wealth grew, and they thrived. A king ruled over them, a wise and just ruler, his name was Sarouk Ur-Dal. He took a wife from one of the villages and his wise men advised him he should get her with child and produce an heir.
And so, Sarouk’s power and fame grew. He built a city that would be the capital of a growing nation. He named it Azral-Laldra; the City of Light. People flocked to build their homes within the confines of  its walls. His wise men advised him to build an army and make weapons from the bounty of Dourab’s rocky mountain peaks.
“Who should we make war on?” Sarouk asked.
“Whomever shall oppose us,” they answered.
“And who shall oppose us?” The king asked.
“Let us go forth and find them,” they said.
The armies of the Benouin poured forth from the gates of Azral-Laldra conquering all before them. An empire was born and the wealth of the people, together with their arrogance, grew. The once wise and merciful king listened to words of false praise and flattery whispered in his ear and as a result became vain and cruel. His councillors called him a God and had statues fashioned in his honor. The people knelt before his image and worshiped him.
The gods of the Benouin are many and guard jealously the prayers of the faithful. They were not inclined to accept another to their ranks. The priests and mages of King Sarouk gathered in the great city with the sole intent of challenging the gods and replacing them with their Lord.
King Sarouk was a god in name only. All the gods of the Benouin came together and they scattered the people on the wind. They tore down their cities and ripped up their crops, cursing them to forever wander across the burning sands that were once lush meadows and rich earth. Sarouk and his council of mages were trapped within the jewel of the empire to linger there for all time. Azral-Laldra became Azral-Murbo, the City of the Dead.
You can buy Tribesman, an epic fantasy novel on