fiction, men, war

the bullet found him

He ran in his dreams.


There was the recollection of his uncoiled youth. Slim and taut with muscle, even at twelve. It taints his memories of his youth with crude washes of horror and regret.


These dreams woke him, trembling and confused. It was a long time ago, and yet these dreams returned like a recurring complaint. He was a man who could have someone killed with a phone call, but in his dreams, he ran from the train with the snap of bullets passing by him.


He got up, poured himself a good measure of single malt, lit a cigarette and walked to the living room.


Benny stood up when he walked in, his mouth twisted into a knot of concern but Ernest waved him off. Despite wearing nothing but a robe, Benny responded to him like he were in an expensive suit, but Ernest sat down and looked at his employee with something close to need.


‘Do you ever have bad dreams, Benny?’ he said.


His voice was a thin, reedy whisper but Benny furrowed his brow and considered the question with great importance. He shook his head and emitted a small squeak of a no.


Ernest chuckled and took a sip of the whisky. He sat back and drew on the cigarette.


‘Is everything ok, Mr Wolfowitz?’


Ernest let his head tilt backwards as he blew out a plume of smoke.


‘I guess. You can sit down, Benny. I’m worried you can see my cock from there.’


Benny sat down fast enough to make the cushions jump and Ernest sat up to look across at him. He ran his tongue across his lips, left to right, before he let it settle in the right corner of his mouth. His eyelids were low as he took another pull on the cigarette before settling into the couch.


‘Thanks for not saying either way. I make you nervous, huh?’ he said.


Benny nodded and flicked a nervous smile. His moustache was sweating as he looked at his boss.


‘Just this is the first time I’ve sat across from you. You said, if I see you, it means something’s gone wrong.’ he said.


Ernest recalled saying it, and a small burst of regret singed his insides.


‘I meant, I need no interruptions, Benny. I’m not an asshole to you guys.’ he said.


Ernest set the tumbler down on the floor by his feet as he adjusted his robe.


Relax. We’re just talking,” he said.


Benny had never served, but he nodded in agreement again and say thank you. His reaction pleased Ernest, who picked up the tumbler again and took another appreciative sip. Its warm burn relaxed him as he blinked and chased it down with a puff on the cigarette.


‘I have this dream, Benny. The same dream, over and over.’



You know the worst thing?


How ordinary those men were. You think of them as monsters but it is too easy, gives you an out if you ever wonder about your own capacity for evil, Benny, I tell you. A unit of volunteers, police in their own country, but they volunteered to come and do their duty.


They came to the village at night. Pulled from our houses like vermin, gathered together in the square as they watched us, made sure we didn’t run away. My father had died last year, so I was the only man left in my family.


There was nothing I could do. Nothing at all. Twelve years old, and looking at those men, barbers and engineers at home but here. Gathering us up to take a train.


. They kept the men together, and packed us in so tight, Such a thing, I couldn’t breathe, but I was thin and so I moved to the sides, pressed to find any cool, clean air to breathe in. Each breath stunk of other people, all of us, soiled and doomed.


Such a thing to smell, Benny, I tell you.  


Escape? No, such a thing was a dream and I was very much awake.


But I didn’t stop looking. They were not smart men, who put us in these carriages. Some of them smelled of too much beer and looked at us like they expected us to tell them what to do. One of them was slack on securing the door. I watched him do it.


But I remembered, Benny, and when we got to the train yards, it would pass the woods outside my village.


The woods were my favourite place to play, I knew them well.


My hands shook as the train slowed down, ready to take on more passengers. My heart was in my throat but I made myself push the door open. The night air fell on me like a cool wave, and I cried out with a savage joy. There was a rough hand at my back then I was tumbling forwards, landing in the dirt hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.


I got to my feet, heard the shouts go up and then the guns firing at me.


Have you ever ran like your life depended on it?


It is not an easy thing to do. Part of you wants the defeat, like a wound which can never heal and it gives you a reason to be clumsy, Benny, but fight it when it comes.


They were not good shots. It was not a matter of pride for them, to be competent soldiers. It was to my fortune they missed me.


Others behind me, were not so lucky, but they died free.


Still, they died.


The worst thing is, I don’t dream about my mother or my sisters. My father had been dead for three years by then. None of those things bother me, Benny, but do you know what does?


In my dreams, Benny, I dream about them shooting me. Or worse, catching me and putting me onto the train again. What sort of man thinks about those things?


What sort of man dreams about the bullet which never found you?




Benny fought back tears as he coughed into his hand before he looked up at his boss.


‘We all have times when we think about how things could have gone down, Mr Wolfowitz.’ he said.


Ernest tilted his head to one side, curious despite his exhaustion.


‘But I didn’t get shot, Benny. I made it, and then from there to all of this.’ he said.


There was no need for a gesture, Benny knew. If you worked for Mr Wolf, you knew what he did to keep what was his and added to it with the same fervour. If James Brown was the hardest working man in show business, then Ernest Wolfowitz was the hardest working man in crime. One of the wealthiest too, and he had moved a lot of dirty cash in clean, legitimate vehicles but if you bought a dime bag, Mr Wolf made money from it.


‘I know, but we still think about it. If it makes you feel fortunate, then it’s God talking to you.’


Ernest frowned and picked up his glass.


‘He does not talk Benny. Not since he packed my family into the trains.’


Benny sat back, remembering how his girlfriend had told him to stay off religion or politics in polite conversation with anyone you didn’t want to piss off. He folded his hands and put them into his lap.


‘Sometimes he doesn’t say nice things, but he tells you the truth.’ he said.


Ernest watched him before he drained the rest of the glass and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. He got up, adjusted himself inside his robe and walked away without speaking. Benny stood up as he left, but Ernest did not acknowledge the gesture. Benny waited until he heard the click of the bedroom door before he sat down.


He wondered how much trouble he was in until dawn when the next guy came in to take over and he drove back to his apartment. When the phone rang, he heard Yanni, one of Mr Wolf’s lieutenants, tell him a car was outside.


Benny ran to the bathroom and vomited before rinsing his mouth out with water and throwing on a jacket as he ran downstairs.


Someone set a chess board up in the study. Mr Wolf sat with a crystal decanter of scotch and a welcoming smile which unnerved Benny as he looked at the empty chair opposite him.


‘Sit down, Benny.’ he said.


Benny sat down and looked at Mr Wolf.


‘Am I in trouble, sir?’ he said.


Ernest shook his head.


‘If you were, you’d know.’ he said.


This, Benny knew, was Mr Wolf. The old man last night, he wasn’t someone to mess with, but this man before him, although he wore the same face, held himself apart from everyone and everything.


Mr Wolf poured Benny a drink and handed it to him.


‘No, Benny, I thought it useful to talk about God with someone I trust not to tell anyone.’ he said.


Benny went to say like a confession but remembered his girlfriend’s advice and bit down on his tongue. The scotch stung him, but he kept his impulse under control.


‘Mr Wolf.’ he said.


Ernest shook his head.


‘No, Benny, call me Ernest.’ he said.


It was the start of a great friendship. They held one another’s confidence for five years before a stroke took out Mr Wolf and left him bedridden. Benny took half a million from the Garcia Cartel to hold a pillow to his friend’s face, but as he felt him relax. Benny was glad at the end, it was down to him. Tears ran down his face as he leaned over and whispered into Ernest’s ear.


‘The bullet found you.’  he said.


Benny recognised himself in the ordinary men who shoved Ernest’s family into the streets, and it had killed his own faith. As Ernest died, part of Benny died with him. The rest of it followed a week later when the Garcia Cartel decided Benny was too expensive to keep around.


It was on a train out of the city, Benny had sat in first class, which made him easy to find. When the three men, not much more than boys, closed the doors behind them, Benny smiled. They were competent, and they promised to be quick.


His bullet had found him, too.


He looked forward to telling Ernest about it.



beauty, fairy stories, short fiction, war, women

The Strange Knight (The Wild Man 7)

Previous episodes are here.

Once upon a time, the kingdom of Hearst celebrated the birth of Prince Roderick by declaring a war of expansion upon its neighbours. King Doran set out to expand his territory as a christening gift for his son.

Eilhu avoided Mirabelle but caught the whispers of war on the wind. He worked the garden when he knew she was away from her chamber and went out into the woods when she was there. His heart learned to shudder in the shadow of her absence. He grew tall and broad through the garden work, and he could sit with the older men, feel their blessing over their disdain.

Three days after the rumours of war became fact, Mirabelle stood with her father, Peter who addressed the court from his throne. He was a stout man, kind and generous in manner and he trembled with emotion as he spoke.

‘Doran has gathered a great host who gather on the borders of my kingdom.’ he said.

Eilhu stood at the back of the crowd. Peter’s voice carried, and he stood in shadow but his eyes returned to the princess. He tugged the brim of his cap lower and raised his chin.

‘My army is gathering. I call upon each able man to fight in its defence.’ he said.

The crowd fell into a deep, shocked silence. Eilhu’s heart pounded against his ribs. He stepped forward, raised his hand and shouted.

‘I’ll fight for you if you give me a horse.’ he said.

A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.

The king frowned and turned to a lieutenant, whispered to him.

Eilhu’s gesture prompted volunteers. They would raise an army but it would not be enough.

He stood at the stables for three days. It was dusk on the third day before the stable hand went inside. His armour was whatever he could find, a motley of materials in different sizes but he stood tall and true.

The horse was a chestnut stallion, it limped forwards and regarded Eilhu with sad, hopeful eyes. Eilhu fitted a saddle and rode it out with pride. The stable hand laughed, but it faded with each hitching step away.

At the edge of the woods, he called The Wild Man.

The Wild Man walked out of the woods.

‘What do you need?’ he said.

Eilhu gestured to the horse.

‘They gave me this to ride to war upon.’

The Wild Man laughed, a rich ringing sound which shook the branches above his head. He turned and walked back into the woods. Eilhu felt the rumble of fast approach and watched the trees shaking as something moved towards him and the lame horse.

It snorted, lowering its thick head as it emerged from the trees. A violent light glowed in its eyes, and the black skin gleamed like black water. The Wild Man had a suit of black armour slung over his broad, furred shoulder. Eilhu took it, shocked by how light it was.

The Wild Man tapped it with a finger.

‘Crafted by dwarves, it is light but hard.’

He handed Eilhu a sword, its edges gleaming as Eilhu took the hilt. Its balance was perfect, and he swung the blade in smooth arcs before he stuck it into the ground and changed.

The rumbling intensified as men clad in iron marched in perfect columns, swords flashing in the twilight.

The horse came to Eilhu and lowered itself. He stroked the lame horse and thanked it before taking the saddle off and mounting the war horse. His heels struck the horse and he galloped to war, the columns of men moving to match his pace.

Doran had forced Peter’s army to the brink of defeat. Broken bodies laid in mud churned into frozen brown waves of earth, small groups of Peter’s men struck at the bristling tide of soldiers. Eilhu rose in his saddle, drew his sword and yelled for the men to attack.

The Wild Man’s armies charged as one. Blades rose and fell in perfect rhythm as Doran’s armies broke apart. Eilhu charged, swinging his sword against anyone in range as Peter gazed upon the turn of events with disbelief. Eilhu struck a soldier across the bridge of his nose with his sword, saw the spray of blood and bone chips as he rode past. Peter yelled for his men to attack, seized with a savage joy as they ran towards the retreating enemy.

Eilhu circled the field of battle and heard the horns of Peter’s army declaring victory. His body throbbed with exultation, perspiration dripping down the inside of his helmet as he saw Doran’s soldiers running. He grabbed the reins and took the war horse back to the woods.

The Wild Man petted the lame horse with a delighted focus. He smiled at Eilhu.

‘What do you need?’ he said.

Eilhu told him.

Mirabelle ran to meet her father. His face, streaked with blood and dirt and eyes wide with disbelief but he sat up in his saddle.

‘Father, congratulations on your victory.’ she said.

She wept with relief as he got down from his horse. He shook his head.

‘The victory was not mine.’ he said.

She clutched at her father as he kissed her on the cheek.

‘Another army came to our aid, led by a strange knight. They drove Doran’s armies away and then -‘ Peter sighed and shook his head.

‘What?’ Mirabelle said.

Her father lowered his chin.

‘I did not see him or his army.’ he said.

Intuition flared in Mirabelle’s heart, a candle lit against the darkness of mystery. She kissed her father again and ran to the garden.

The head gardener stood, grafting a bud of apricot to an apple tree when she asked him where his boy was. He bowed and fought the urge to laugh.

‘He’s just come back on that lame horse of his. Wearing his patchwork armour.The lads have been taking the…I mean, they’ve mocked him for cowardice, your highness.’ he said.

Mirabelle’s cheeks burned with heat.

‘And what did he say?’ she said.

He scratched his chin and chuckled.

‘He looked each of them in the eye and said he helped turn the tide. Boy’s got a way about him, I’ll give him that.’ he said.

Mirabelle thanked him. She went to the stables, heard the laughter ringing out as she approached. The sight of her killed it and when she asked to see the lame horse, the boys exchanged nervous glances before obeying her.

She stroked along its neck and sent the boys away. She put her mouth to the horse’s ear and whispered.

‘Where did he take you?’ she said.

Within her thoughts, she wondered who she was asking.





beauty, love, war, women, writing

A Sparrow’s Song


Loviisa held the rifle to arms, narrowed her eyes to focus on the deer in her sights. The glare of the sunlight made her head hurt, but she went away inside herself, to the cool perfect zero that enveloped her in the moment before she pulled the trigger.

She had learned to find comfort in pain and exhaustion before during and after her mandatory year of military service. Otso, her fiancee had died whilst she was out on exercise, whilst building the farm they would raise cattle and children on. She had wept herself into exhaustion, but the work of building then maintaining the farm became a way to absolve herself of her grief and guilt.

Her parents wrote letters, alternating between pleas and admonitions. They asked her to come home, but she told them in the plainest way possible she was home. It stung her, that they could not see how hard it had been for her, that she was making the best of it.

On the days she could not lift her arms above her head to undress, she believed herself incapable of it, but in time, she had built a fine smallholding and all of it her own work down to the last nail. She hunted as much for the reward of the hunt itself as the meat it allowed her to store. The cows were stubborn, the chickens stupid but the rifle never let her down.

She wore her white suit, furred on the inside with her finger on the trigger and all the world’s fate determined on a few ounces of pressure. She took in a deep breath, held it and pulled the trigger.

The deer collapsed the ground. She slung her rifle, unsheathed her knife and went over to it. She made a good, deep incision and pulled the intestines and anus with a good, hard tug that stained the snow a deep red beneath it. The upper organs joined the rest before she dragged the carcass back to the farm.

Let mother and father see how I struggle, she thought.

She had the carcass hanging from a hook in the larder before sundown. Her hands steamed and shone with blood. The act of death and birth was the same to her. Blood. Pain. Such thoughts led back to Otto and she left them in the dark of the larder.

She lit the fire to boil water and make dinner. Her back and thighs had ached when she heard the birdsong and went to listen.

A high melody always drew out the girl in her, even smeared in deer blood and sweat.

The sparrow sat on the branch of a fir, singing without a care in the world. She envied it but still stood there with the door open, listening to it and smiling to herself.

The song was a precious stone mounted on a bed of velvet silence. Its sweetness drew a dull blade down her side but she bore it without complaint.

Sparrows, Otto had told her, were psychopomps. Emissaries to and from the land of the dead. Its fragile courage gave truth to the idea, Loviisa thought and she wished she could sing her own joy to it. They might have been friends.

Joni crashed through the trees, with his left hand pressed to his shoulder, his raw lean face tight with shock.

He was sweating and unsteady on his feet as he approached her. He had time enough for two words before falling away into a deep faint.

‘The russians.’ he said.


Loviisa dragged him inside. He was lighter than a carcass, but she took him into the cabin rather than the larder.

She cleaned his wound, bandaged it and he ate a bowl of elk stew whilst he relayed the news to her.

Stalin had ordered Finland to cede territories along its border.

Territories like the land she owned and farmed.

Her land.

The Russians would come through here. Through her.

‘You must come with me. It’s not safe here.’ he said.

Loviisa helped herself to another bowl of stew and shook her head.

‘This is my farm, I cannot just leave it.’

Joni meant well, but he spoke the same words as her parents, just from a different place and time. She smiled and blew across the surface of her stew. She whistled a little, and it sounded like the song of a bird.

A bird of prey.

She told Joni that he could stay the night and then leave in the morning. His feet were blistered and raw from his run, fortunate to survive his encounter by more courageous patriots and telling him to run.

Loviisa awoke before dawn. She broke down and cleaned her rifle, wrapped up whatever rounds she had in her parent’s letters to keep them dry and clean and packed whatever tins of food she could fit into her kit bag. She repeated the maintenance and cleaning routine with a sub-machine gun, an ugly but reliable souvenir from her time in service.

Joni watched from beneath the covers. Loviisa was a, robust woman but as she packed, her purpose lent her a beauty terrible in its power. He hated the Russians for what they had come here to do, but looking at her, he feared for them too.

Loviisa kept her promise and escorted him to the edge of the forest. She walked slow, precise and quiet. Joni worried that if he took his eyes from her, she would fade into the woods.

He stopped, fighting for something to say.

‘What are you going to do, Loviisa? You cannot fight them’

She walked over and planted a warm kiss that would haunt him into his dotage.

‘No, Joni, but I can hunt them.’

She turned and walked away. A sparrow sung overhead and as he watched her walk away, he thought he heard her whistling.

She hunted Russian soldiers through six feet of snow in temperatures of minus twenty.

Seven hundred and five Russian soldiers dead by the time the war was over.

They called her ‘The White Sparrow.’

ambition, short fiction, war, women




The train sat, a dying king over a ruined kingdom, scarred with a million journeys and covered in a mosaic of graffiti, each one the manifestation of a singular intention.

Mostly to be seen, but other intentions were captured there.

Now, look at this one. Looks like it was done for practice, but if you see the lines here and how they converge into those curlicues, you’re actually looking at something far more interesting.

No, don’t touch it. Trust me.

There are roughly sixty-three thousand homeless people in New York. A chunk of them are families, which always makes me call bullshit on the idea that people choose to be there. There are those who see it as an opportunity, their own self-interest merging with the pretense of indignity and finding a mutual benefit.

It isn’t hiding out on a tropical island, or a bunch of papers with your face but not your name. It is however, one of the most effective ways for someone to disappear and remain that way.

So, this my padawan, is the work of Veronica Imogen Cathcart. She had eighty million dollars in offshore trusts but chose to live on the streets. She framed it in the context of a ritual sacrifice when Odin hung upside down from the tree to gain hidden wisdom. It was mostly for the shock value though when some testosterone flushed asshole tried to intimidate her and she would give him a verbose tongue lashing or deliver a curse in fluent Enochian that would send him straight to the psych ward. She owned a lot of the streets she slept on.

Now, this one next to it is interesting.

It is a ward designed to counteract the effects of Vic’s strike. That is reflected in the interlocking colours used. Someone had studied the impact of astrology, which the consensus determines as bullshit, but there’s power in it, so they made this at roughly four am on March 31st. Aries. So it’s designed to push back against whatever’s sent against it.

Now let’s go back to Vic’s work?

Yeah, Vic. Not in Victoria, but in her initials. Veronica Imogen Cathcart.

So look at it again, defined by what opposes it. It is not a collection of lines and curlicues; it is a statement of will. Intention focused into a single point and then driven.


Straight into someone’s heart.

Now the ram here is the work of Pyotr Davidovitch. It wasn’t his real name, anymore than Vic’s was. You never reveal your true name to anyone you’re unsure of. It’s like giving your heart over to someone who is careless with it. Or cruel.

Yeah, six months now. Why do you ask?

Ah, smart ass here. Excellent, means I won’t have to explain the dry stuff.

Now duels like this and it was a duel, conducted with the dry familiarity of ritual have to be carried out in secret. You know how people like that English kid with the glasses and the scar, expelli-something? Yeah, now those people, if it was explained to them that there was an entire school of physics with real world, tangible applications, they would be screaming in the streets.

Stake burning.


You’re with me so far? Now, that lends us all a kind of power. Power is not money in the bank or property, or influence. It is the ability to move, to make decisions without considering their impact. It is about the ability to impose your will however you see fit.

Add that to the things that we already know how to do.

Now see why some people choose to live off the grid entirely?

Ugh, no. I like Netflix and a good wireless connection. I like restaurants and shoes without holes in them too much to pursue that path. I do pretty well with what I have.

Pyotr and Vic were too much alike to see how they were reflected in one another. When siblings fight, normally it’s sort of pathetic.

It’s sad, really. They really did bring out the worst in one another.

So, you’re thinking, it was over money?

No. It was about a book. Of all things, a fucking book.

It was translated from the Sumerian tablets by an entire monastery in Bruges. Once it was complete, two things happened to it.

One it was bound and covered with the skin of the last monk to translate it. It was sent to the patron who commissioned it after it had been cured and tanned to the consistency of leather.

Once word had been received, then every single person in the monastery committed suicide.

Now, who wouldn’t want a book like that, huh? Dangerous equals powerful.

Pyotr got word of its arrival in the US first, started bidding for it with his share of the family money. Vic got wind of it, initially concerned at what her accountant told her.

Yeah, I know. Imagine the amount of air freshener she had to use afterwards. Probably put another hole in the ozone layer.

Then she started to bid for the book herself. They had words. Not a conversation because these words were vandals at play in the physical world. Their arguments broke windows and set off car alarms eight blocks away.

Nothing was resolved and both of them continued to bid for the book.

Then Vic sent an elemental to steal it. Pyotr banished it and took the book for himself.

He would have said it was his plan.

Which was when Vic challenged him to a duel. WIth the prize being the book.

The loser, well you figure it out.

It went on for five years. Some people think it might have contributed to the financial meltdown, all that back and forth fucking with bystanders on a psychic level. Prescriptions of anti-depressants went up twenty percent and the crime rate soared in any area that their work featured.

So, these are marks of a personal, bitter war between two people who shared blood with one another.

Now, it’s inside that we see the final outcome.

Yeah, no matter what they use, the smell never really goes away.

That stain there, looks like an oversized Rorschach blot?


That might look like someone spilt a quart of crude on the floor there, but if I told you that said stain was worth eighty million dollars, you would nod and agree, yes?


They met here, having grown frustrated with the perfect interdependence of their magic and their antipathy towards one another. They would have had tattoos made, I think, judging by the force of the respective blows.

Sad, isn’t it?

The book? It’s not that exciting. Would probably make a good movie if you got the right director. Guillermo Del Toro or Nicholas Winding Refn.

Now, let’s take photographs and bounce.

Photographs? Yes, because we are going to use these for our own purposes.

It’s an election soon.

(Thank you for reading this far. Please like and comment)



fiction, short fiction, war, women

In Country

Homeless people aren’t supposed to exist. Much like veterans of unpopular or obscure wars, we’re the equivalent of flatulence after a good meal. Expected, logical, organic but to some people, we’re an embarrassment. We shouldn’t exist because we remind others of frailty and mortality. It’s why there are more movies about military power than sacrifice.
Women in combat, too. So forgive me if I suffer from a little bit of a complex about it. If I were to look at it from a positive perspective, it taught me to value what good things came my way. They were seldom in coming, but I knew enough to hold them close until they left.
Which they did.
Sometimes, they were taken from me.
Like Zeke.
We were both living at Camp Bravo. We had been there when it was on tribal land, held on when it got moved. Now, you might think that we were talking about being on deployment, which we sort of were. Camp Bravo was just off the freeway near Mesa. We stood firm against the ADOT when they tried to move us as well. It was home, for us, sure it was canvas tents but it was better than trying to huddle under cardboard or in a dumpster. Zeke had been infantry, did two tours in Iraq and came home to a ‘Dear John’ letter armed with a headful of fears and trauma that meant he liked to be where it was quiet. He was gentle, had a kind word for everyone he met and turned every cheek he had. He had been my guide when I got there, six months testing the good will of my friends to breaking point and with a headful of my own shit to fling around like an ape at the zoo.
Zeke took me under his wing. Two broken birds, only one of whom still believed that they could fly. He helped me get clean, staying up with me as I wretched and shuddered my way through withdrawal, wiping the junkie sweat from my head and telling me that I would make it. He reminded me of my strength again. There was a quote from Ernest Hemingway that he would say to me when I lost my way and started to think that everything was going to be shit forever.
“If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these, you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”
He remembered it word for word. Spoke it like a psalm, and I remembered it too.
He would pause before saying ‘no special hurry’ and smile to himself.
It wasn’t all gutter philosophy and stoicism. He showed me what were good dumpsters, which restaurants threw away the best food. It was not a good life he showed me, but an existence that didn’t want to kill me any faster than life would. When he helped me sort out a tent, it was the first roof I had slept under and not spent the night worrying if I would be asked to leave. My night terrors were absorbed by the open sky, and in time, they faded to a soaked sleeping bag once in a while.
It was Zeke and I, then Donnie who’d lost a leg in Kandahar started to hang with us and he brought Paulo with him. We would play cards, help newcomers and work with the agencies who started offering help. We wangled a food truck to stop by, medical check ups and although it wasn’t perfect, it was a small series of bright reminders that the world wasn’t always at war, strung together like christmas lights.
Until Zeke got caught in the wrong part of the town.
We weren’t informed of what happened in the direct, considerate way that you would learn if you were a relative. The police did not tell us, until a pair of detectives came out to the camp, bemused and surprised by how organised we were.
They cut him. They beat him. They burned him.
They did not know who had done it. The why did not matter. Zeke was a homeless man, someone to avoid eye contact with, to be embarrassed about. His death barely made the paper, but for the three of us, it was a world ending and we mourned him around the fire, shivering and speaking bitterness.
‘We have to find out.’ I said.
Donnie narrowed his eyes, scratched his whiskered chin and drunk his coffee. Paulo glanced between the two of us and nodded in agreement.
We stopped thinking like victims.
We remembered our training.
A principle of guerilla warfare, insurrection is that you make your weaknesses your strengths. If you are limited in numbers, then you are small and are able to react faster than a larger standing force. If you don’t have a lot of equipment, then you steal what the other guys have and use it against them.
No one wanted to see us, so we played that up. We found where they burned Zeke, walked around, asked questions of the street people who were there, part of the environment but not acknowledged.
Someone always sees. If it’s not a CCTV camera, it’s a pair of eyes. We learned that the latter was always better.
College kids. Bright, happy murderers.
A person with a little faith in human kindness might see this as a horrible incident, an act that would manifest in ulcers and nightmares, therapy sessions that end up in tearful confessions without any true justice applied to it.
We knew that the world didn’t work that way. They would go on to graduate, work good careers, raise children and die in their beds without a single care that they took the life of a man who gave his body and mind defending their right to be sociopathic assholes.
They liked to bar hop. When they were soaked in liquor, they would rough someone up. Three of them to one guy and Zeke had served as an escalation of the adventure. A plateau reached, and we all figured out that once was not going to be enough.
We knew that much ourselves. Not that we enjoyed killing. A good shot was one that meant you got to go home, or you kept your buddies from being shot. These guys were the ones who had learned a taste for it. We ran recon into the city, at night and keeping watch on the places near where they would drink. It was a fortnight before we saw them. They did not start anything, but they had that hungry, ugly need growing in them. Their throats rising and falling with the inability to keep it reined inside them.
We were ready by then.
One fact about America is that it’s easier to get a gun than it is to vote or get a driving license. We needed three of them. Handguns. Revolvers because they were easy to pick up casings. Simpler and less likely to jam. A pack of band-aids on the handle to avoid leaving fingerprints. Disposable too.
They could not help themselves. They chased down a young girl for two blocks. Donnie laid in wait at the end of the alley, on account of his prosthetic but Paulo and I, followed close and when Donnie stepped out from behind the dumpster, we had them in a perfect triangle.
One of them, a blonde corn fed fuck machine wannabe who would have caught my eye in better times laughed at him until Donnie pulled the gun from his coat. The other, with a braying laugh and a gawky overbite turned white when we saw us slip in behind them. It was the third one, shorter than the other two but with the smile that a shark would show before it bit into you. He was the one to worry about.
I shot him first. Paulo drew down on the kid with the overbite and Donnie limped forward, emptied all six rounds into the blonde kid until he was pulling the trigger.
Click. Click. Click.
Our ears would have been ringing with the volume in such proximity but we had all worn foam earplugs. A lot of the clubs handed them out at shows and they floated in puddles outside. It was quite something to see what people threw away.
Countries did much the same thing.
We tossed the guns down a storm drain. Made it back to the camp before dawn.
The tragic deaths of three young men with bright futures made the news. Three young people who took and took until they took too much mourned with a fervour that made the three of us feel angry and sick with it.
It was a good trade.
Redemption was not easy in coming for the three of us. To wipe a slate clean seldom removes the stain.
Then we saw the girl who had run from the three of them turn up in camp. Her name was Raine. She didn’t recognise us but we all knew who she was. She didn’t say much, but seeing her made things easier to bear.
She would come and sit with us by the fire. We told her stories, about the wars, the boredom, the things that we lost along the way.
The things that we found to replace them.

(inspired by this

beauty, short fiction, war, women

All The Merry Men


‘The art to diplomacy is to subdue an opponent without direct conflict.’ Asra said.

I lowered my chin to my chest to avoid the sentiment that arose in my face. She gave a dry laugh.

‘Yet most of your stories involve direct conflict. How would you explain that?’

To ask Asra such a question, in light of what I had heard thus far, took a courage that I had not believed myself capable of.  Yet she lowered her goblet and brushed a lock of hair back underneath her hijab whilst looking past me.

‘There is the world as we would wish it to be, and the world that is. Sometimes you build bridges between them.’

She folded her hands in her lap and fixed me a frank, challenging look.

‘Sometimes, you burn them so that whatever is on the other side does not cross.’

I refreshed the quill in the inkpot and quoted her words with a flourish.

‘There is another question, perhaps the most obvious?’

She tilted her head, studied me with her lips pressed together. Her face had turned red beneath her olive skin before she took in a deep, slow breath through her nostrils.

‘Obvious to whom?’

I set my quill back into the pot.

‘Forgive me if I have offended you. If I am to write an accurate record of your service, then the reader will ask these questions. Should we not answer them?’

She picked up her goblet and took a sip.

‘Should we have to? My service has its own voice. The Caliphate endured through some tumultuous times due to my actions. At my father’s behest.’

I gave a swift nod in agreement, reluctant to speak for fear of offending her further. She had told me about decapitating two Staggus warriors with one swipe of her scimitar a few minutes before, so there was no doubt that she could dispatch me with any number of objects.

The goblet.

The carafe.

The tray that it sat upon.

My quill.

That was before I considered her bare hands. I decided that a change of subject proved an act of diplomacy that she might appreciate.

‘You were one of the first of the Caliphate to meet the Under Tribes?’

She set her goblet down and ran her tongue over her lips.

‘Ah, now there’s a story.’


I had freedom after a fashion. My father did not require my presence to command my actions. The established trade routes worked on two levels. There were those that featured on every map available, that took in The Plait and The Southern Islands, the House of The Staggus and The Pagoda Lands. They served as the arteries that kept the heart beating, transporting goods and people where they were needed.

Beneath those were another set of arteries. Set points where I could send and receive messages. Caches of supplies should I need them. If necessary, I could spend months without hearing the call to prayer anywhere outside of my heart.

It was at one of those that I found the letter from him. A simple message, but much like the system, it worked on two levels. The letter spoke of ordinary sentiments, a father expressing pride and concern for his daughter rather than a Caliph instructing one of his agents.

It was an agent that the hidden message referred to. Written in starch, and revealed with a few brushes of hibiscus, the words here were less formal and more aggrieved.  

Hajj Dal-Bah had gone missing.


To further the point you made about us being tools, Hajj Dal-Bah was a blunt instrument, a club left bloodied and clotted to show how many skulls it had cracked open. He served as a clear symbol to the friends and enemies of the Caliphate.

Mostly, our enemies, if we are being honest, and for the sake of biography, let us say that I am.

Hajj was the Bastard of The Caliphate. He was sent as a message. A statement. He needed no disguises or excuses. If he came to see you, he was the last thing you saw in this world. His name translated into ‘The Pilgrimage of Ritual Slaughter.’ He was built like a boulder, with long moustaches that swung from his face and bleak, cold eyes that absorbed the light and held it with a rapacious hunger. His body was covered with scars from battle, and his muscles were bulging plates beneath his dark skin. His voice was seldom used, and it carried the low rasp of disuse but he spoke poetry and prayer with the passion of the devout.

The letter read that he had not made contact after being sent to deliver a punishment. A band of brigands had ambushed and murdered a courier, leaving his body hung by its entrails from a tree. One of the brigands was the disgraced son of a nobleman who held a position of influence that allowed the excesses to go relatively unpunished. They would send troops into the forest to flush them out, but returned empty handed.

The courier was a citizen of the Caliphate, his messages related to the accounts of a gold mine earmarked as a gift to a reluctant ally in order to buy his favour. Such an insult could not go unpunished. In the spirit of expediency, Hajj was sent. He travelled into the dense forests of Share Wood and had not returned.

Hajj Dal Bah always returned. It was the will of Allah, and in turn, of the Caliphate.

My mission was to follow his trail and find him, then finish his work or aid him.

A cache had been left for me. Robes and furs, leathers and gauntlets, a long bow and a quiver of arrows as well as pouches of herbs and roots suitable for painful deaths and basic nutrition. I changed and left my travelling clothes wrapped in oilcloth. I spent the night at an inn, ate and drank alone, deflecting the curious stares with polite indifference before riding out until I found myself on the outskirts of Share Wood.

The wheels of wagons had worn the ground smooth, and the stumps of the trees sacrificed to ensure the trade routes were blanched from the exposure to the sunlight filtered through the branches.  I retrieved the letter from the saddle which repeated the instructions that would have led him to the last known hide out of the brigands.

I saddled the horse and set off on foot. My trail craft was not as practised but I sought out the broken branches, the leaves that had been pushed aside so often that they surrendered, leaving a visible route to whoever was careful enough to see it.


The whistle of the arrow saved my life.

I rolled forward and came up, holding my breath with my hands on the hilt of my scimitar to keep them from trembling. A glance over my shoulder revealed that the arrow had punched into the trunk of a tree a few feet behind me. It was black, fletched but not with feathers.

It resembled a fungus, a bubble of grey-emerald flesh that pulsed with malign life. I crawled forward, taking great care to avoid revealing my location.

There were voices. A squelching, bubbling litany of sounds, like the lungs of someone afflicted with a summer cold, where each breath was fought for. No human spoke in such a manner, and my ear for languages was as honed as my sword hand.

My movements were slow, deliberate, and I circled around the source of the conversation. I gauged at least two voices, one low and wet, the other drier and sharper. I crept closer, my heart pounding in my ears.

Whatever lay before me, was unknown and no matter how experienced I was, it was wisdom to approach such things with caution and reverence.

I approached nonetheless.

There was no substitute for experience. The finest education might prepare you for any number of things, but the raw nature of witness and contact was the finest and most brutal teacher.

They were no more than four feet tall, with waxy, glistening skin and plates of ebon chitin protecting their chests and thighs. Their faces were hidden beneath swatches of shimmering cloth but they looked about them without any hindrance.  One of them wielded a short black blow with an arrow ready to fire whilst the other held a pitted short sword and a buckler shield made of the same material as the armour they wore.

These were men of the Under Tribes. I use the term loosely, for you because they are not men, although they walk upright and communicate.

In my tuition, I was taught that they had a structure akin to the insects they resembled.

A hive. These were warriors, bred and taught all the skills of war, enough sensation to move and fight but able to resist grievous injuries and pain that would cripple a human. The cloth of their faces was woven from a moss that grew deep in their underground caves, able to filter out the riot of sound and sight that would assail their sensitive and highly attuned faculties. Most of the direct experience came from encounters with the warrior caste but there were those brave or insane enough to parlay that into explorations which revealed more of the structure that these beings emerged from.

Ibn Al-Alhazred had been the itinerant son of a sahib, thrown to education and excess to ensure that titles were passed to a more suitable relative. He had found the entrance to a hive and managed to effect entrance without being slaughtered. He wrote about his experiences, and the books formed my curriculum upon them.

They were gardeners and miners, all of which were carried out by drones grown from unfertilized eggs, communicating in a language composed of chemical signatures and high droning songs that were brought into being by membranes in their throats and soft palates.  They grew mosses that produced acids to carve out the bedrock into structures of breathtaking scale and beauty, lit by phosphorescent growths and fed on the minerals that littered the air. It took all the poetry within Al-Alhazred’s soul to do it justice and the effort broke his mind, but his verses had an eloquence that drew tears from the hardest heart.

The Under Tribes had exiled themselves after the First Djinn War, having lost many hives in order to send the djinn back to their realm. It was the last combined effort of all the different kingdoms and the attendant lack of respect shown in the division of spoils had caused their retreat.  

My sense of wonder and my survival instinct held a conversation before deciding that the diversity of life did not outweigh my desire to live.

The bodies littered around them spoke to the lessons that encounters with the unknown truly taught the unwary.

All the Merry Men were corpses.

It was the sight of Hajj that prompted my decision to fight.


He laid upright against the trunk of an oak, punctured with arrows and an expression of amusement as his burial mask. His twin jewelled scimitars were in his hands, blessed weapons that could cut through plate steel and djinn flame with the same terrible zeal but they were covered in the scarlet blood of the Merry Men rather than the green humours of the under-warriors. It had taken eight arrows to bring him down.

I wiped away a tear and retrieved my spear from its sling on my back.

It rested perfectly in my palm against my thumb. I was close enough that I could not run to add velocity so I had to rely upon my core strength to lend it impetus. My desire to avenge my fellow agent sharpened my focus as I took a deep breath and twisted around.

The element of surprise was enough, but even with that, the warrior with the bow still managed to raise his bow before my spear punched through the veil and it fell backwards, limbs twitching with the insult of the penetration.

The second warrior turned, raising it’s chitin shield and pulling back the sword and bringing it to shoulder height. It skittered towards me, giving a wet cry of anguish. The most pragmatic action would have been to draw my scimitar and engage with it. It was what my training had taught me was the most effective means of resolving the altercation with a higher chance of survival.

A more malicious compulsion overrode my training and instead, I darted past it, running towards Hajj’s swollen corpse.

It was fitting that I would use his weapons to avenge him. I had time to slip them from his fingers. The poison held off the calcifying effects of death enough that it was a matter of picking them up and sliding the handles into the meat of my palms. I pivoted on my heel and crossed them in front of me.

All living things know fear. We are born only with a fear of darkness and heights. The under warriors were borne to the former and inured to the latter, so my instruction, my final terrible lesson was to teach this bipedal maggot the cost of defying the will of Allah.

I struck with the scimitar in my left, which it caught with its shield and used the blade in my right hand to clash against the sword in order to deflect the straight stab it made at my midsection. My personal touch was to bring the ball of my left foot and punch it hard into the centre of the plate that protected its gelid midsection.

It fell backwards, and I turned the blades then crossed them before swinging them around, both arriving to cut into either side of its head with a wet thud. It dropped the blade in its hand and hung loose from where its flesh adhered to the perfect edge of my blades.

I pulled my scimitars apart and wet portions of its skull came with it as it fell to the ground.

Here, I will admit that I continued to slash at it until it was in several pieces. Professional pride can be forgotten at such times. My tears were the concession I made to excuse my actions. When the fever of battle had left me, I surveyed the scene and investigated what might have happened.

The Merry Men had found a cairn in the woods, and in their playful greed, sought to open it in the belief that there might be treasure to plunder. No doubt, some of it might have made its way to the poor but in hindsight, they were better off without it.

It was a forgotten and sealed entrance to a hive. The act of exploration would have triggered a fungal alarm, sending a burst of warning chemicals into the lungs of dormant warriors, left with one terrible purpose.

To ensure that it remained undiscovered and unknown.

They would have made short work of the Merry Men.

The stout monk with his staff.

The stocky man, nearly as tall as Hajj in life, but in death, cut into handy sections.

The noble’s relative, clad in forest green and his goatee beard turned dark with blood.

Hajj had followed and been surprised. It was an ignoble end for a great warrior and once I had the lay of scene, I dug him a grave and said prayers over it.

I took his scimitars and buried mine with him.

The sound of weeping made me turn and from a copse of bushes emerged a pale redhead who dabbed at her eyes with a dirty handkerchief and a tale of enforced confinement that was aimed to negotiate desire between the noble’s relative and her.

I took her back to her castle and spent several nights there. She proved her gratitude with as much fervour as her inexperience and her need for secrecy allowed. I sent word back to the Caliph and burnt the robes. I rode back to the Caliphate in order to tell Hajj’s family of how he had fought and died in the service of Allah.


I had no words and my forearm ached from the need to transcribe her words with as much accuracy as I could.  She lapsed into a contemplative silence until I returned the quill to the pot.

‘Men and women die much the same way. For all of Haj’s skill and strength, he was taken by surprise. It is the work of the imam’s to discuss whether such a thing was the will of Allah or Shaitan, but I know this. What matters is that I was there to avenge him and to ensure that his mission was completed.’

She leaned forward and rested her chin in her cupped hand.

‘Now tell me where my sex features in that?’

I had no answer for her.


creative writing, fiction, flash fiction, short fiction, short stories, strength, touch, Uncategorized, war, wildness, women, writing

A Bridge For The Furies:Inventory


Cara rolled her eyes in dismay at Gloria.

Gloria picked up her drink and took a sip and shuddered with the strength of it.

‘So you don’t question intelligent gas clouds, but you question a simple hack?’

It’s false nails and a set of contact lenses. You’re talking about some fucking Galactus level event and I go up against it with haute couture?’

Cara sighed as Olivia shifted in her seat, added to her ever growing mental list of questions about what or who was a Galactus. Drea wanted to punch the air that something was said that she actually understood. She ached for John and consciousness with a pang of deep, palpable longing that normally ended up in John’s hands getting the good kind of mean with her. Here, she took another drink and listened to the reserved bitching that characterised the failure of womankind to dominate society. Especially smart, white women but she kept that to herself in favour of enjoying the free show.

Cara gestured to the box.

‘Pop them in and on.’

Gloria sneered again but picked out the index fingernail, pearlescent and when she pinched it between her fingertips, it hummed pleasantly like the vibrator that laid gathering dust, hollow without batteries, much like her heart. It changed consistency, a warm plasticity as it looped over and adhered to her fingertip. A low charge ran up her forearm. The other nails leapt from their casings, with a graceful glee and the symphony of purpose used her body as the orchestra. The lenses elongated as they left the casing and attached themselves to her eyes, plasticized tears in reverse.

Gloria, in the healthy spirit of youthful experimentation, had experimented with hallucinogenic drugs for recreational purposes and the earnest, slightly grim spiritual ramifications. Peyote, psilocybin and lysergic acid had formed the river of her consciousness raising. The combination of the lenses and nails made it look like baby aspirin or the candied gummy vitamins that had characterised her sickly childhood.

Gloria had been given access to the operating system of the universe, a drop down menu floated in her vision like sunspots and she sat back in her seat, dumbstruck with a quiet awe. Olivia was fascinated by the shifting spectrum of colours that overlaid Gloria’s eyes even as the trembling posture of reverence unnerved her.

Gloria clicked on a free floating icon marked ‘tutorial’. Cara chuckled and sat back, gestured towards her with her glass.

‘She’s going to be a while.’

Olivia grew pale and gestured to Gloria.

‘What did you do?’

Cara furrowed her forehead and rolled her glass between her palms.

‘She can change things.’

Olivia swallowed and glanced between Gloria and Cara, concerned at what she might be gifted. She liked her own mind, even the distasteful streaks of self loathing and guilt were hers, goddamn it. Cara touched her hand, Olivia experienced a moment of raw satori and smiled at her.

‘I get it. You’ve put us together with the right tools for the job.’

Drea recoiled in her seat. She had seen the gesture, reminded of when John would use the quasi-hypnosis, social engineering tricks that took nervous young men and divorcees back into the dating arena with the confidence of bull studs.

‘Don’t do that to me.’ she said.

Cara smiled at her, eyes glittering as she picked up her drink.

‘Again, you mean. After all, you’re still convinced you’re dreaming.’

Drea gritted her teeth and forced a stoic expression onto her face to hide her disquiet.

‘So, what do we get?’ Drea said.

Cara clapped her hands together.

‘You two get to do something really spectacular.’

Olivia and Drea had grins appear on their faces in perfect symmetry.


Gloria, meanwhile, studied the physics of a falling leaf, the beauty of a broken hip and the pressures of being a good girl with a god’s eye for the sheer gift of it all.

Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3 and Part 4