Despair

“Hey! Wake up, you can’t sleep here.”

“Huh?”

“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 uniform and looked away quickly, unwilling to make eye-contact. It was not just the guard, 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.”

“Sorry.”

“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 summer’s 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? 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 guard 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. He hadn’t even 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.

He felt 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 euro note, he wanted to run after them and tell them to keep their fucking 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 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.

paulfreemanbooks.com

So, my new novel is a story of the vampire apocalypse. Here’s what it’s about.



No one knew where they came from or why they chose that moment to crawl out from the shadows. In a devastating orgy of terror and violence blood-drinking monsters rose from the dark to gorge themselves on the blood of humans. Facing this threat, mankind turned on itself in a devastating wave of self-destruction.


Twenty years after the Fall and what’s left of mankind is eking out an existence in a post-apocalyptic world. With much of the Earth now a nuclear wasteland, civilization has been knocked back two hundred years. By day the remnants of humanity gather together in small groups drawing from the land what they can in their new technological wasteland. By night they hide behind walls and bank up fires in an attempt to ward off the evil stalking the land during the hours of darkness.


The world needs a savior. A hero unafraid to face his own fears and terror of the vampires. An ex-preacher disillusioned by the world and his god is not that man… or so he says.

And here's where you can buy it.

Amazon US click here
Amazon UK click here
Amazon CA click here
Amazon AUS click here
Amazon DE click here 

So there you go!

TAXI

 

So, from the time of writing this there will be only five days to go before Taxi will be published. It’s been quite the journey I’ve taken with Danny Coyne. Although I’ve had some fantasy and horror books published and contributed to a number of anthologies, Taxi was actually written before all of them. A Harper Collins editor commented that the best thing about Taxi was the writing, but it didn’t fit into one of their predefined boxes. Several agents made similar comments, ‘the writing’s good but it’s not  crime, it’s not a thriller….’ Blah blah blah…  Well Here it is. It’s gritty and raw. It’s real.

 Taxi is currently available for pre-order, so go pre-order it. From the 14^th of May it’ll be available for purchase, so go buy it then.

 

A moment in time, unforeseen, unavoidable, can change a life forever.

A Dublin taxi driver’s life pivots on a moment of insanity when a teenage girl loses her life.

 So begins a dark journey for Danny Coyne; he’s not responsible for her death, yet he carries the guilt. He seeks solace in drinking and pushes away those closest to him as he steps into the life of the dead girl and forms a bond with her best friend. His self control will be tested to the limit as he seeks to mete out justice on those responsible and fight his own inner demons.

 Every choice has a consequence.

 

 

 

 

 

Cover design by Selestiele Designs

Buy Taxi on Amazon.com here

                     Amazon.co.uk here

 

For a limited time, Tribesman will be reduced to $0.99!

A warrior in exile seeks a path home.
Banished from his homeland, a warrior of the Northern Clans grows weary of life in a harsh, alien land.
With the dark god Morrigu haunting his dreams, and a desert princess as a companion, Culainn, a warrior and champion sets forth on a journey north in search of a merchants daughter abducted by clansmen and taken back across the mountains. Through a land baked by a scorching sun, where bandits roam free and dark beasts stalk the night.
An ancient evil is rising from the desert. A Benouin myth of a ghost city inhabited by the souls of their ancestors, a bridge to the Underworld is unleashing demonic creatures on an unsuspecting world. Culainn and Persha, warrior and mage stand alone against a tide of darkness. All the while, Morrigu, the dark war god of the north seeks to use Culainn as her own tool, her own champion.

Amazon Kindle US
Amazon Kindle UK
Amazon Kindle CA
Amazon Kindle DE
Amazon Kindle AU

GIVEAWAY

What's this? A new yokey-me-bob? Thingy-ma-jig? Well it's a giveaway, a free book... my book no less. The sequel to my epic fantasy novel, Tribesman. It's called Warrior and you can win a free copy by entering the Goodreads giveaway. Just click the link on the right.

Here's what it's about:

The search for the merchant's daughter continues as Culainn crosses the mountains into the frozen north... home, to face his past and the many demons he left behind.

Striking a bargain with the witch-queen, Neeve, he agrees to fight her enemies, the Shadow Druids and Blue-Woads, in return for her aid in freeing the girl he seeks. Will she keep her word, or has she treachery in mind?

All the while, the dark god, Morrigu, continues to haunt Culainn's dreams, seeking to control him and make him her own champion.

If you can't wait until the giveaway is over you can buy a copy, paperback or kindle, now.

Warrior: Amazon US -      Paperback
                                           Kindle

Tribesman: Amazon US - Paperback
                                          Kindle

Warrior: Amazon UK -     Paperback
                                          Kindle

Tribesman: Amazon UK - Paperback
                                           Kindle

New year, new book

 

 

Yep this blog does exactly what it says on the tin... er... title. Today saw the release of the second book in my fantasy series, it's called Warrior and here's what it's about -

 

The search for the merchant's daughter continues as Culainn crosses the mountains into the frozen north... home, to face his past and the many demons he left behind.

Striking a bargain with the witch-queen, Neeve, he agrees to fight her enemies, the Shadow Druids and Blue-Woads, in return for her aid in freeing the girl he seeks. Will she keep her word, or has she treachery in mind?

All the while, the dark god, Morrigu, continues to haunt Culainn's dreams, seeking to control him and make him her own champion.

 

You can buy Warrior here:

Amazon US

Amazon UK

 

If you need to catch up with book 1 first you can buy Tribesman here:

 

Amazon US

Amazon UK

 

 

 

 

 



Healer's Touch Blog Tour.

 

 

 

 

 

I'm taking part in the blog tour for Healer's Touch, a Bandit Book Blogger's tour.

 

Healer's Touch, is a fantasy story in a Wild West setting, a nice change from the norm. Llew is an orphan living alone in a mining town, a girl disguised as a boy, for obvious reasons. She posesses a powerful gift/curse, she is capable of healing herself by absorbing the life and vitality of anything living she touches. You can see how this could get her into trouble. A wonderfully creative fantasy, full of adventure, magic and a little romance, from Deb E. Howell. Healer's Touch is published by Kristell Ink

 

Here's the blurb -

 

Llew, a young pickpocket who lives as a boy on the streets of a wild-west mining town, finds her real problems begin when she survives the gallows. Forced to run, she persuades a group of fighters escorting a young girl to her wedding to let her travel with them across the badlands. On the journey Llew faces hostile tribesmen, desperate bandits and, the enmity of her own companions should they find out who and what she is: a girl, a fugitive, and a feared Healer. One of the fighters, Jonas, possesses superhuman prowess as a warrior, and carries the knife able to ‘kill the unkillable’; the knife that can kill Llew. Despite being of races at war for centuries, they are drawn to one another.

During the journey, they encounter Braph the magician, Jonas’ half-brother and potential nemesis. He pursues them as they journey across the sea to the continent of Phyos and at the moment Llew finally feels safe, he abducts her. He begins to take what is most precious to him: her blood.

Healer’s Touch is a mesmerising mix of fantasy, steampunk and Wild West adventure – and even a dash of romance!

 

About the author -

 

Deb E was born in New Zealand’s North Island, but her parents corrected that within months, moving south to Dunedin and staying there. Childhood nights were spent falling asleep to cover versions of Cliff Richard and the Shadows and other Rock ’n Roll classics played by her father’s band, and days were spent dancing to 45 LPs. Many of her first writing experiences were copying down song lyrics. She graduated to scientific reports when she studied a fungus in the Zoology department of the University of Otago, trading all traces of popularity for usefulness... then traded both for fiction.

Deb lives in Dunedin, New Zealand with her family and a menagerie of pets.

 

Check her out here - Blog

                               - Facebook

                               - Twitter

 

Buy links               - Amazon US

                              - Amazon UK

                              - Smashwords

 

 

 

 



Just released, a zombie apocalypse like none you've ever read before!


"It is said that unto everything there is a season...these are the stories of a group of survivors during the season of the dead."

Four individuals fight to survive as the zombie apocalypse crashes over the world in a wave of terror and destruction. Color, creed, and social standing mean nothing as the virus infects millions across the planet.

Sharon: a zoologist from Nebraska, USA, has worked with the virus, and has seen the effects on the human mind. She knows more about the virus than nearly anybody alive, and far more than she wants to. Gerry: from Ontario, Canada, he gets his first taste of the virus from inside a prison cell. Locked up after an anti-government riot, his prison guard transforms before his eyes into a flesh craving zombie. Lucia: a chemist from Pittsburgh, USA, flees from a furry convention dressed as a giant squirrel, and escapes from the city in a Fed-Ex van. She's a girl who knows when to run and when to fight. Paul: thinks he can sit out the apocalypse in his apartment block in Dublin, Ireland, until the virus comes to visit, bursting his bubble and leaving him with no choice but to face reality or perish.

All four begin perilous journeys in mind and body as they face daily trials to survive: Four threads, four different parts of the world, one apocalypse!

Buy it here.

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Goodreads

 

AMERICA

 

 

 

They say my mother was cursed by a travelling gypsy the night she gave birth to me. I can see the truth in that. I gave her nothing but cause to despair from the time I could totter on two legs. My father was a liar, a thief and a black-hearted bastard. He made his fortune off the backs and misery of other people. I inherited his evil streak and nasty temperament, and my, long suffering, mother’s good looks. A combination that was to serve me well, but would lead to my ultimate doom.

Both my parents died just short of my nineteenth birthday. My father was beaten to death, in the street, by a jealous husband. No doubt he is even now supping with the devil, in an honoured spot at the right hand of Beelzebub. My mother died of shame. I was their only son, though I had three older sisters, they were the wrong sex, so I inherited everything. My family was the closest thing to gentry in a pitiful, windswept place at the edge of the world. A few miserable acres on the side of a rocky mountain rented out to desperate men, who dig in the hard barren soil, barely growing enough to pay the rent, let alone feed their families.

There is not a woman between the ages of sixteen and thirty, within sight of the mountain and beyond who has not had promises of love and a better life from me. I take what I want and leave nothing… well, save for a few unwanted gifts, who will likely as not look me in the eye one day and spit in my face. With a sneer and a look of contempt I turn from their tears. I am truly my father’s son.

I’ve never had a taste for strong whiskey… okay, that’s a lie, not the last you’ll hear uttered from these lips. That’s what I am, a fibber, a twister of truths, a bull-shitter, a bloody liar. Not the worst thing I’ve been called either, a rogue and vagabond, a cheat and blackguard.  All true. One lesson I’ve learned, and learned it the hard way, no matter how big of an evil bastard you are, no matter how strongly meanness and nastiness runs through you, there is always someone meaner.

I first saw her on stage, I was transfixed, bewitched, I had to have her. To this day I wonder did she cast a spell on me. She was a dancer with a travelling show, all the way from the US of A, bringing a taste of the Wild West to the villages and towns of this backward land. To me she was exotic, the way she looked, the way she danced, the way she sounded. I sold the family land for half what it was worth, despite the protestations of my sisters, and paid for passage to America. From New York to Chicago we danced and drank, we laughed, we fought and we fucked. It was passionate, explosive passion. She told me she loved me, I told her I hated her, we both lied. We followed the gold trail west, in search of easy money and an easier life. All we found were sad desperate people scratching in the dirt, much like home I suppose. The money ran out, my inheritance squandered on opium and liquor. “What should we do now?” says I. She shrugged and smiled and closed the door behind her.

I have nothing, even the shirt on my back was stolen from a drunken cowboy as he slept in a stupor. “Good enough for him,” I can hear them say back home. They’re right too. I’m stuck here now, where the summers are too hot and the winters are too cold, where the whiskey would rot your gut and every second person wants to steal the eyes from your head. I’ve burnt my bridges and can never return.

Sometimes I conjure images of home, I can almost feel the soft rain on my face, hear the whistle of the wind through the trees on a moonlit night, or smell the pungent earthy smell of a freshly tilled field or an open peat fire. What I usually imagine, what occupies nearly every waking thought and haunts my dreams, giving me no respite even in sleep, is the taste of peaches from her lips, the hint of summer meadows in the air when she passes by. And that is no lie.

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/deepsouthproject/3640982910/">weaver.</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

 

Captain Blood

 

 

           A dark shape crawled out of the water and dragged itself up the beach, not quite reaching the powdery white sand beyond the high tide mark. Like a large sea creature stranded on the shore, it raised its odd shaped head with great effort, slowly looked around before dropping back to the sand. It lay still for a long time, while white foam waves gently lapped at its feet and legs.

Nathaniel Alphonsus Spencer opened one eye, then the other before pushing himself up slowly. His two hands came out of the wet sand with a great sucking noise. He brushed sand off his black velvet coat, tugged at the over-sized cuffs, smoothed out his black velvet breeches, settled the tricorne hat, which miraculously still sat on his head, albeit a little soggy, before turning towards the sea and glaring at it.

A low growl rattled in the back of his throat as he eyed the great blue ocean that had dared to spit him onto this deserted strand. The great expanse of calm water ignored him, defying the black glare that many a man had not lived long enough to regret seeing. A look that could silence a brawling mob, could freeze the blood of a battalion of the King’s finest, a stare that could frighten God Almighty’s own heavenly angels. For Nathaniel Alphonsus Spenser, was none other than, Captain Blood, the most feared pirate ever to set sail in search of booty and adventure. The meanest, nastiest, most coldblooded, evil cutthroat ever to defy Davy Jones and spit in the eye of Beelzebub. To the Spanish he was El Diablo, to the French he was, Diable De Mer, to the English he was a nightmare, no ship was safe, no cargo sacred. Captain Blood the Sea Devil.

Blood, twisted the great leather belt strapped around his waist, until the large silver buckle was front and centre, settling the cutlass that hung from it, until it sat comfortably at his side. He pulled out his two pistols, streams of water poured from both barrels. Another dissatisfied rumble rattled in his throat.

The great expanse of blue, for so long his playground, mocked him. The calm peaceful water, glittering in the sunshine, mirroring the cloudless sky, belied the violent drama that had resulted in him stranded and alone on an uncharted, island paradise.

He thought of his ship, the vessel that had made him King of the waves, now a wreck, destroyed and sunk. He hawked and spat, his head ached, his parched throat burned. Not from his ordeal, not from a great sea battle with the Royal Navy, not from his miraculous flight from certain death. No, nothing quite so heroic, the feared Sea Devil was hungover. Rum, the very thought made him feel queasy. It had saved his life though.

He scratched at the coarse red bristles that covered his jaw. His crew were all gone, either lost in Davy Jones Locker or in chains aboard a Royal Navy frigate. He wouldn’t miss a single one of ‘em, rogues and rapscallions every last one. Slit your throat or cut out your eye while you slept for the price of a mug of ale. What hurt, though, what hurt more than Long John’s peg leg, in the towns, was the sight of his chests being manhandled over the side into launches and off to fill the coffers of his Royal Bloody Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland. A lifetime’s work, doubloons, gold sovereigns, chalices, precious stones, the treasure he had guarded so jealously. Gone, all gone. His lips quivered, a snarl escaped.

He thought back to his escape, not his most gallant hour. He had missed the fight, too drunk, he’d past out under the table in his cabin. He woke to the smell of burning wood, the sound of screaming men. Somehow he had managed to slip over the side unnoticed, not before he saw what was left of the crew being lined up one by one, by red-coated marines and his beloved Jolly Roger being hauled down.

He turned then, away from the sea. White sand and then a wall of green. What waited beyond the trees? Wild animals? Cannibals?

A good captain would have gone down with his ship. If he hadn’t been so drunk all night, he might even know where he was. He certainly would not have sailed his ship into the arms of the Royal Navy.

A curse on that bilge-sucking, first mate.

The trees parted and a line of black skinned natives strolled onto the beach. Some carried spears, others clubs that looked suspiciously like human leg bones.

Blood, straightened his coat, fixed his hat, loosened his cutlass. “So, ye land-lubbers, is it me hide yer after? Come on then… is it me ye’ll be havin’ for supper, or have you scallywags got a new king?” With a roar he charged.

One hundred and fifty to one. They didn’t stand a chance.

 

 

 

 

 

The Devil in the Quiet Man

 

 

Long ago, there lay a village at the foot of the Mountains of Mourne. A collection of drab, white-washed cottages topped with yellow and brown thatch, long since swallowed by the marshy earth, and mists of time. One day a stranger rode into town on a tall black horse.

“The name’s Flanagan,” he said in an exotic Yankee drawl, as he stooped to enter a smoky hostelry. He had returned to the old country in search of his relatives, he told the assembled patrons. None had heard of any Flanagans living locally. Save for one old boy, but he kept his whist, drained his whiskey and slunk out the door.

He had a memory of a Flanagan alright, Mary Flanagan. He was but knee high to a grasshopper at the time, but he still remembered vividly the night they dragged her, spitting and cursing from her cottage. Witch and Devil’s harlot they called her. His face was pressed to his mother’s skirts, lest he witness the black deed done that day. But he still remembered her screams and the thick cloying scent of burning flesh in his nostrils.

“Can I buy you boys a drink,” the tall Yank asked three local lads.

“Aye, sir. That’d be grand.” The three supped the pints of porter and small balls of golden malt presented to them.

“Do ye like a game o’ chance?” They asked the stranger, winking at each other, for they had a quare way of dealing a hand of cards, in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains.

“Why I like nothing better,” the stranger grinned, good naturedly, as he stroked grey, drooping whiskers. With neither a curse nor a frown the strangers pile of Yankee dollars crossed the table, while the boys drunk his black ale and gut twisting whiskey. “Well you’ve plum cleaned me out, I’ll grant ya that. I’ve not a dime left.” he said.

The local lads had done well, but greed is an awful thing and the accumulation of wealth is as frustrating to a young man as chasing its tail is to a dog. “Have ye naught left to wager, what about yer watch?” Asked one.

“Or yer gold cufflinks?” Asked another.

“Well I do have one thing,” the stranger grinned, fishing a gold sovereign, thick as your thumb, from his waistcoat pocket. “What would you boys stake for this little ol’ thing?” The three young men gawped, they’d never seen its like, doubted anyone within sight of the mountain, or the whole county even, save maybe the Lord Lieutenant, had cast their eyes on such a prize as was presented to them by the strange foreigner.  “Would you bet your immortal soul?” the man asked. The three boys, blinded by greed and coveting the treasure like nothing they had ever wanted before failed to notice the sly look cross the man’s dark eyes.

The old villager who ran from the inn reached his cottage just as a wind wailed across the rocky peaks, he shivered at remembered tales, from his youth, of banshees and malign spirits, ghosts of aggrieved ancestors riding the mountain winds.

The stranger put down his cards, four aces. The boys put down there’s one by one. All their cards were blank, not a mark, not a symbol. The man began to laugh, not the good natured rumble of before but a harsh, mocking cackle. The three young men of the village covered their ears with their hands, but nothing could drown the demonic howl.

The old man heard laughter in the air, a woman’s laughter. An image of Mary Flanagan’s dour, hard face came unbidden to his mind, sending a shiver of icy fear and feeling of doom piercing through him, chilling his veins.

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/himalayan-trails/4004181391/">Himalayan Trails</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RESOLUTION

 

“So, make any resolutions then?” I looked at her, mouth agape, her and her pretty little party dress, her and her big brown eyes, her and those stupid sparkler things in her hair.

Did I make any resolutions? Is she fucking nuts? The crowd move around us, a mass of swirling bodies all moving in time with the music, their hands reaching for the air as the count down begins. Did I make any resolutions? Yeah, I fucking did, I resolved not to cry myself to sleep anymore, not to contemplate flinging myself onto the tracks every morning I wait for the commuter train. Not to think of you every waking moment and dream of you when I sleep. To be prepared in the morning when the reality of my life without you comes crashing in when I wake, an avalanche of sorrow burying me in soul wrenching grief.

Did I make any resolutions? How about wishing, every time I wake, it does not feel as if some rabid animal is tearing my guts out with its claws. Or that my chest is burning whenever I think of the moments I shared with you, when I tenderly stroked your cheek, leaned in and kissed your lips tasting a hint of cherry. Whenever I think I will never share such intimate time with you again. Remember you said you loved me? Liar! We would always be together, that’s what you said. We were soul mates, inseparable, we would grow old together, die in each others arms. What happened to that?

My mind keeps replaying, over and over again, the first time I saw you with him, it still hurts like a physical blow. I thought I was suffocating, my breath came in ragged, hoarse gasps. All I could keep saying, over and over again was, how could you do this to me? It was like somebody had plunged cold steel into my chest. You gave me a little sheepish smile and apologetic wave and then snuggled up to his arm. I wanted to kill you… I wanted to kill him. Instead I left.

I walked along the canal, I stared into the still water, I could taste the frost on my tongue, feel the cold burning my cheeks. I’d left my jacket behind but I didn’t care. I just kept thinking of you and him. How he was in my place, it felt like my brain was trapped inside a cloud. How could this be – how could he be standing in my shoes? That should be my arm you are  holding. And then…then, to pile misery on top of horror, you turned to him when I started to approach. As if, as if you needed him to protect you… from fucking me! God that hurt. The rage I felt, I so wanted to hit you, I hated you at that moment.

“Do you want to dance?” She says to me.

Christ, love, you’re a good lookin’ chick, but can you not fucking see, I am not someone you want to dance with? “Yeah, okay,” says I. What the fuck am I at? I don’t want to dance, my insides are being torn to shreds. I pour alcohol onto the flame of my burning soul thinking it will douse the pain.

She snuggles in close. It doesn’t feel right. It’s wrong...wrong…wrong, cunting wrong. She’s too skinny, my arms enclose her tiny frame way too easy, her hair doesn’t smell right. I can feel tears welling in my eyes. She’s not you. If I close my eyes I can trace every inch of your body. I can almost feel my fingertips tingling as I imagine caressing your skin, running my hands over the curve of your hips and waist. I can feel your ribs before I reach the heavy flesh of your breasts. I imagine you inhale sharply as I flick my tongue on your erect nipples.

When I strolled alongside the canal, looking into the dark, still water, all I could think of was how peaceful it would be to slip below the waterline, to surrender and allow my lungs to fill with water. I imagined what your reaction would be when you heard the news. Would you mourn me? Would you scream and wail and cry it was all your fault?

Then I thought, what if I didn’t die, what if I only half drowned and was hauled to safety in the nick of time. Would you come and see me? Would you ask why I had done such a thing and when I said it was because I loved you so much, would you realise then, we are meant to be together?

She tries to kiss me, God knows why. I don’t want to but I do, she’s insistent. She slips her tongue into my mouth. Tears roll down my face. She’s not you…. She’s not you.

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/3719718801/">kevin dooley</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

 

 

 

 

 

 

A raid on the fat monastries of Ireland turns sour for three Norsemen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Curse of Summer

 

 

The door of the hut swung open. Wind howled in through the opening, blowing a swirling spray of snow into the dark smoky room. Bright yellow flames trashed wildly sending the shadows of the men hunched around the fire, dancing around the walls like a frantic, ritual dance of ghosts. Two figures entered, the last put his weight to the door and slammed it shut. Four of the five seated men looked up at the newcomers, who were now pulling off their heavy fur cloaks and caps and shaking the snow from them. The fifth, an old grey-beard, showed no signs of interest, his head remained bowed, his gaze fixed on the fire in front of him.

“Welcome, Bjorn,” one of the men said. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”

Bjorn nodded his thanks and clapped his companion on the back. “This is Erik Olafson, a trader from Birka.”

“You are welcome to share all we have, Erik.” Plates of meat and bread were quickly passed around to the two men, along with drinking bowls filled with ale.

“Will you give us a tale for our guests, Harald, tell us of the old days?” the host asked the old man. At first there was no reply, for a long while he did not even move. Eventually he shifted, he sliced a piece of meat from the haunch he held on a plate in his lap. He crammed the meat into his mouth, juice dribbled down his chin disappearing into the thick wiry hair of his beard. He rubbed greasy hands into his breeches.

“A tale? You would hear of heroes and adventure, of raids and great battles?” Although he spoke quietly, without even looking up, his audience was captivated, mesmerised by the voice that sounded like rolling thunder.

“Aye, Harald. Tell us of the old days, of the Viking days.”

Harald rubbed a hammer shaped amulet at his throat. “What was it to be a Viking? It meant being scared a lot, scared and drunk. Wondering what it would be like to have your guts spilling from your belly, or to have some ersling split your head open from behind with a sling shot. Wondering was it your neighbour in the shield wall that just shat himself or was it you. The smell of war is the smell of piss and puke. I’ll give you a tale, a fine Viking adventure.”

“It was the time of Sigurd Skull-Splitter; we sailed with three ships seeking plunder and slaves. The fat monasteries of Ireland were easy picking, so much undefended treasure with only a handful of fat old men to stand in our way. They put their faith in their White Christ. For a while, he abandoned them.”

“We attacked a church north of Dyflin, killed all the priests and livestock. Before we could load up the treasure, word came to Sigurd from one of the scouts that a local lord had gathered his men at arms and was heading our way. Fighting unarmed priests was one thing, but few of us had the stomach for looking down an eight foot pike with an angry Irish peasant on the other end. The call went out ‘back to the ships.’ So it became a race.”

“Sometimes in the confusion of flight it can be easy to become separated. And that’s what happened to me and two others, Halldor Larsson and Hrodgeir Rolfson. By nightfall we had not caught up with the main party and started to get concerned, what if the ships sailed without us? What if we had to face the Irish on our own?”

“Just after dark, we found a house on its own at the edge of a wood. There was nothing else there, just this house. A typical structure made from wattle and daub with a thatched roof. We crept up with caution, nothing stirred. We kicked in the door and burst in, three heavily armed Vikings, shouting and roaring.”

“There was nothing inside, except one cot and one sleeping figure on the cot. A woman! Halldor grabbed her and dragged her outside. We all laughed when we saw her in the moonlight, she was beautiful… More than beautiful, she was a vision, beyond compare. A gift from Wodan, we thought. The Norns were truly laughing at us that night. Hrodgeir kicked her to the ground, while Halldor pulled at her dress. But to our horror and disappointment she fell down dead.”  

“We left her body where it fell and made a camp, none of us wanted to sleep in the house. That night I dreamed of her, she came to me and woke me, taking me by the hand she led me into the trees, the sun was shining, the forest teemed with life, the wildflowers where extraordinarily bright, the beauty of her face brought tears to my eyes. ‘Harald you watched while the Queen of Summer died. By Samhain your world will be forever in darkness.’ I fell to my knees for I knew I had been cursed.”

“When I woke my face and beard were wet from my tears. I looked over to where we had left the woman, her body was still there, just as we had left it. Although none of us spoke about it I knew the other two had had similar dreams.”

“One by one I lost the others, first Hrodgeir fell from a cliff, we could tell his back had been broken, we left him there hearing his cries for help and his curses. Then we were attacked by a bear, both Halldor’s arms were ripped from his body. I ran, his screams ringing in my ears.”

“But you made it, you survived,” Erik said, his words coming out in a whisper.

Finally the old man looked up, Erik gasped, when he saw the milky white eyes, two sightless orbs sunk into a deformed face of criss-cross scars.

“No one escapes the wrath of the gods, boy.”

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/artiomp/4149503957/">Artiom Ponkratenko</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

 

 

 

 

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.

Despair

 

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

“Huh?”

“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.”

“Sorry.”

“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.

 

 

Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/simon_ingram/5406257798/">SPIngram</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>