beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Like waves

Want

Like waves against

The shore

Tell you how I

Want you to look

Offer up feelings

Over thoughts

The white noise song

Of the ocean

Sun is setting

And the wind is bracing

But the thought of you

Artful smile

The low, capricious

Giggle of your voice

Warming how your

Speech stirs

Me as I watch the

Sea

 

 

 

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fiction, women

The Oldest Story (The Wild Man, Season 2)

(Previous episodes are here)

Mirabelle had faced darkness and all its nuances but this represented a new stage in her journey. She shuddered but kept on walking down into the bowels of the earth.

The djinn, a race of elemental beings who waged a guerilla war against the Caliphate and The Crow King, the Dwarven Realm. The elf kind, carnivorous and insane, remained in the mountains, lost to the madness of their biology.

It fell to a last alliance of men and dwarves to repel the invaders, a final assertion of order against the chaotic innocence of the djinn. Asra had lost her brother, twice in the final battle against the djinn and her mother lapsed into a terrible melancholia which caused her heart to fail. Bawwabat Jinn, where the last rift was, and the djinn sent back into their own dimension.

Mirabelle wondered if she had fled from one horror towards another, but Asra walked ahead, hands on the hilt of her twin scimitars.

‘How far down are we?’ Mirabelle said.

Her voice had a muted quality to it, which provided an answer. Asra raised her hand and stopped.

‘Far enough. If you wish to know The Dust, the djinn will know.’

Mirabelle swallowed and tasted the grit of the desert sand between her teeth. She missed Eilhu but could not allow herself to drink deep of her grief. Shallow sips to see her through the day, but part of her wanted to wail and wallow in the absence. Horror, poised to tear her world apart, and all she wanted was to see her golden-haired lover again.

She put it away. Her leadership demanded courage and she would wield it to light her way through the darkest hours.

A wave of slow warmth rushed down the tunnel and made them stop.

‘Can they get out?’ Mirabelle said.

Asra shook her head. She reached out and touched Mirabelle’s forearm.

They turned the corner to face the heart of Bawwabat Jinn.

2.

It was a scar, forever frozen in the state of febrile infection, lit between its puckered folds by a flickering flame which gave off a persistent and powerful heat. The air prickled and Mirabelle stopped.

‘Our prayers keep the rift stable. I will call one of them to speak with us.’

Asra stepped forwards and drew her scimitars in a gesture as smooth as breath. The light caught the blades, and Mirabelle shielded her eyes from the glare. Asra swung the swords forward as she lunged from her hips and slid her right leg behind for support and balance. She lowered her chin and breathed in harsh, deep lungfuls of air.

The temperature rose a few degrees and Asra sheathed her swords.

‘WHO CALLS US?’

The voice came from Asra, but it was different. A thick, clotted rumbling with a hissing undertone, huge and inhuman. Mirabelle shuddered and stepped forwards.

‘I do. I seek knowledge.’

Asra remained frozen in place. Mirabelle drew closer.

‘YOU TAUNT US WITH YOUR EXISTENCE. WE SHALL NOT SPEAK.’

Mirabelle’s heart thumped against her ribs as she clenched her hands into fists.

‘I COMMAND YOU.’ she said.

Asra shuddered and the air thickened with the rising heat before the temperature dropped into a sharp chill.

A thick chuckle arose from Asra.

‘WHAT DO YOU WANT, YOUR HIGHNESS?’

Asra turned her head, eyes twitching beneath her eyelids and her hijab soaked with sweat.

‘Tell me about The Dust.’

Asra sheathed the scimitar in her right hand with blinding speed. Mirabelle had time to cry out before Asra’s fingers closed on her throat without pressure. The contact was electric, and the edges of Mirabelle’s vision blurred as a series of images rushed into her mind.

3.

Bile-green clouds coat the sky as leprous, twisted things taste the air like maggots in dead flesh. A dying sun smears light on the earth and Mirabelle realises she is somewhere terrible. Every breath tastes of sickness and she spits onto the cracked, yellowing earth.

She sees a mountain in the distance, their outlines blurred by the thick, miasmal fog. There is a break in the cover, and she sees the mountain is moving, shifting with a relentless, orgiastic energy. A tentacle emerges from the mass, its tip blooming like a flower made of meat and a fat, pale tumour swells and bursts into the air. The mucus takes to the air in shuddering droplets which float towards her.

They move against the wind and Mirabelle reaches for the dagger on her hip.

She looks around her for shelter but there is nothing.

Something bellows behind her and she turns.

A giant, covered with dense brown fur looked at her with curiosity. She knew his name, had believed him capable of murdering her father.

The Wild Man.

‘You have no cause to be here yet, your highness.’

His voice boomed as he looked at the shimmering droplets moving towards them.

‘The Dust is the chaos of sickness, a disease with ambitions beyond the flesh. It is not a God but the sickness of Gods and it is patient beyond belief.’

Mirabelle appreciated the poetic but here it did not serve her needs.

‘Were you this obtuse with Eilhu?’ she said.

He chuckled and shook his head as he dropped to one knee, still towering over her.

‘We learn through stories and allegories, your highness. This story is the oldest of all stories.’

Mirabelle frowned and drew backwards.

‘I’ve no time for stories, people are dying.’

The Wild Man smiled with all his teeth at Mirabelle. He was the beauty of tree bark and rich, tilled earth. He smelled sweet and each breath she took in his proximity, enamoured her to him.

‘This is the story where order must confront chaos and if it wins, it will create a new world from its remains.’

Mirabelle glanced behind her.

‘Is it chaos or order?’ she said.

The Wild Man chuckled and rose to his full height.

‘I am of nature, which is outside of the games of Gods. But I will tell you what you seek.’

Mirabelle’s stomach fluttered as she glanced up at him.

‘Words, your highness. You must find the words.’

She grimaced.

‘I have words. Entire libraries of them, I came to talk to the djinn because there’s so little in the archives. Words won’t do.’

He sighed and gave her a look of concern.

‘You must travel further. When you return, look towards The Eternal City. Asra will help you.’

Her heart sunk at the thought of further travel.

‘The dagger is good, Mirabelle, but you will need more than blades to reach The Eternal City. When you get there, sit beneath the World Tree at fifth sunset and listen.’

She babbled questions, but he reached down and put the tip of his index finger between her eyebrows.

‘He fights for you still, and he loves you.’

Everything went black.

4.

Asra stood over her, wiped her forehead with a damp cloth as Mirabelle blinked and stared at the burnished stone overhead.

‘Mirabelle, I came to and found you like this. Are you sick?’

Mirabelle sat up and sighed.

‘Only of my burdens, Lady Asra. I need your help.’

 

 

 

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beauty, love, lust, poetry, women

Burning breath

Shivering

To feel

Again as the breaking waves

Roar in final victory

Death fucking the sand

Retreating in grand exhaustion

My hands ache to

Have

You again

The salt wind stings

And the sand clings

I test myself

To make

Hunger my servant

Rather than my

Master

Black velvet nights

Breathing until

It burns

Breathing until

It burns

I carry the smell

Of you

Upon my skin

 

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creative writing

Writing Update.

I am now 462 pages into the first draft of The Exit Counsellor. It’s a sprawling mess but I’m having fun with it, aiming for something which I could claim to be evoking the spirit of The Wicker Man or Straw Dogs but I think I’ve written the book equivalent of Hot Fuzz. With magic and monsters. Still, I know what it needs to really move and there will be a lot of work put into cutting it into shape. Afterwards, I will be editing She’s Here and looking to whip it into shape.

I’ve got new episodes of The Wild Man and Sir 2.0 forthcoming but I’ve also been working on more short fiction as well. They’re my vacation from the book, which demands more of my attention but the stories represent a leap into the unknown. Some of them weren’t pleasant to write, but I have to try new things on the page whilst also being conscious of telling a story people want to read. It’s like Joe R Lansdale said, ‘write like everyone you know is dead.’

I’m reading a few books at the moment. The most notable one is Way of Wyrd by Brian Bates, which is fascinating and good idea fuel. I’m also doing some study on theology and hierarchial structure, as ideas for a future book.

Thank you for reading, liking and commenting on my work. It means a great deal.

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short fiction, Uncategorized

Director’s Cut

His eyes were heavy lidded, the patches of beard, flecked with silver and his hair was a clotted lump atop his head. The single bulb overhead draped his face in unflattering shadows.

‘I’m sorry. I’m a repulsive human being.’

He lifted the gun to his head and cocked the hammer on the revolver.

The impact shoved him away.

He didn’t get up.

They cancelled the premiere of his film as a mark of respect.

 

2.

I don’t get out to the States much as I’d like. I’ve got friends there, but I’d spent a few days in bed with a woman. She had a whole other life to return to, so I found myself in Hollywood, California.

I was interested in what was going on. The wizard had not come out from behind the curtain and invited you to watch him masturbate. The horrible static of fear and anxiety isn’t pleasant, but it’s useful for a magician. I dealt with people who wanted magic or protection from it. There were people who dealt with Satan and tried to back out when the drugs wore off. Those people paid me to help them get out.

Mitch sent me a photo via an app through which you sent images and text for timed periods. He was frowning and holding up a black dvd case.

Want to see something cool?

I sent back a dollar sign and he replied with a thumbs up.

He sent me his address, but I knew it before. I play well with others but I like to know about them if things change. The tree which hung over his rear wall was a doddle to climb. His neighbours were senile with therapy and medication but I still took care to remain unseen.

He was flushed with drink as he answered the door.

‘You can’t watch this.’

I lit a cigarette and raised an eyebrow.

‘Fuck you, pay me.’

He shook his head, jowls flapping despite the trimmed beard.

‘It’s haunted.’

I pushed past him, snatched the case from his hand and strode through to the den.

‘How much have you watched?’

Five minutes. Too short to fear anything other than being disturbed by it.

Hollywood is a myth which keeps mutating. It provided meat for things which shouldn’t eat.

I told him to wait outside.

I shut the door and fished out a stick of chalk, drew a ward on the door to keep anything getting in or out and set up the dvd player.

He was too drunk and frightened to wonder why I knew the layout of his house.

I pressed play and sat down.

There was a swell of strings and a tracking shot of the Manhattan skyline in black and white. Pure award bait.

I took a deep drag on the cigarette and narrowed my eyes. I focused my attention between my eyebrows, visualizing an eye opening.

‘Hello.’

He sounded pensive and frightened. It used to be part of his act but he meant it now.

It was in the timbre of his voice, close like a secret.

‘For what it’s worth, I always liked your stuff.’

He sighed and thanked me. The film cut away to an establishing shot of the back of his head.

‘I thought this was heaven at first.’

He turned and looked into the camera.

‘It isn’t?’ I said.

From the right, the actress in the last superhero movie everyone went to, rushed in with a baseball bat and swung it in a smooth arc, connecting with the back of his head in a wet crack as he fell forwards. She leapt, full lips pulled back over perfect teeth in a snarl as she brought the bat down on his back over and over until the film faded to black.

After watching a fourth Oscar winner decapitate him, I moved to pause it. His severed head blinked at me as his tongue protruded between his lips.

‘It keeps happening and it gets worse every time. These aren’t even the women, you know?’

My mouth tasted of copper as an actress came up and stabbed his prostrate body with a carving knife.

You get the point here. I recognised the format, and the author of it.

He blinked at me. It was his stock expression, used to evoke laughter after heated confessionals. My stomach turned and I looked away.

‘Can you help me?’ he said.

I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples. I hadn’t wanted to see Erin after what happened in Burnley last year. My friend had traced the warm, pink scar running down my right side and telling her sunk me into a quiet melancholy.

‘I’m not doing this for you.’ I said.

He grimaced with a puerile warmth and I switched the television off.

The problem was a matter of infection. An idea fed on attention would spread through other recorded media. Imagine taking your kids to a movie and watching men being eviscerated whilst the talking dog and singing cat dance in the background. Reality takes a knee from time to time, and no one wanted something like this getting out into the world.

I told Mitch to double my fee as I walked out of the house. He was on the phone to the studio, barking at his director about the quality of the latest rushes. Mitch was on every big movie of the last ten years, it had given him two heart attacks and a desire to deal with things beyond his capabilities.

We did well from one another, Mitch and I. A perennial predator, but power got him hard in a way women never would. I was the bloke he called when things reacted to his actions. He held the phone to his chest and asked me where I was going.

I told him. He flushed red and shouted down the phone, jabbing the air with his index finger for emphasis. The ragged anger of his voice followed me out to the driveway.

Erin was an abbreviation and a pseudonym. Her real name disappeared before 400BC and her work keeps her young and mobile. It was obvious she had come to Hollywood, women’s anger was her meat and drink and the world was awash with it.

I worked a small charm in the front seat of the car. A small crystal suspended on a length of rawhide, pulling in Erin’s direction. She had rented a suite at the Everley and giving off waves of psychic energy which made my fillings hurt.

3.

The women in the corridor looked at me with a wounded malevolence as I stepped out of the lift. I strode down the hall, hands up and palms out as She opened the door and smiled at me, her canine face full with sharp, yellowing teeth. The snakes on her scalp twisted in the air and hissed at me.

I raised my hands as she stepped back into the room. I spoke to her in Mycenaean greek, which took concentration to remain fluent. It was a Bronze age language.

‘I come in peace. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working out for you.’

She waved me into the suite.

Erin was a bomb sight but every woman who had come forward provided the munitions. These things happened in cycles, but we were more connected now. When Erin came out to feed, it was a terrible harvest. Victimhood was like virginity, rare and often co-opted.

Erin. Abbreviated from Erinyes. She wandered the earth, feeding on pain, anger and vengeance. She fed on men who had given false oath, which was why I got the scar down my side.

‘I know you can tear me into chunks but I need a favour.’ I said.

She sat down on the couch, plucked a wet lump of something pink and glistening from a tray to her right, shovelled it into her maw and chewed. Her pointed black tongue licked at her teeth as she nodded.

‘You can’t put this stuff out there. You’ll be calling down things neither of us want sniffing around.’

She snorted and leaned forward.

‘It gives me permission to act as I see fit.’

I sat back, struggling to hold back my concern without angering her.

‘Unless you want to bring the Logos down on us, keep things quiet.’

She raised her muzzle and snorted.

‘I do not fear the Logos.’ she said.

I whistled under my breath and put my palms together, forearms resting on my thighs. I focused on my breath and felt the first curls of kundalini travel up my spine.

The Logos was the first entity to exist. It existed apart from nature, watching over the world with a stern, paternal eye. It policed those of us, gods, monsters and magicians, who risked pissing off consensual reality, and in return, we tried to keep things quiet. Erin was incoherent with power, at the point of the cycle where she was incandescent with rage, blind to sense and I had to make her see how much trouble we were in if she continued.

‘Erinyes, oh fury of the underworld,
you who has come from night,
Bathed in righteousness
I come not to deny
The rage which
Puts such light
In your eyes
As to blind me
I acknowledge
But the rage
Burns
Bites
Claws
And I ask you
To let it run
True to its nature
Not
Yours.’

The air crackled around us as she got to her feet. Her shadow thickened and crawled across the floor towards me.

‘I murder
Those who keep
Secrets
Let them
Hang
Witnessed
A literal
Falsehood
Metaphorical
Truth
It
Does
Not
Matter
I
Must
Feed.’

These negotiations were prone to collapse. The kundalini spread out to my limbs and I stood up, outstretched my arms and bared my throat towards her.

She smiled and came towards me. Her hot, damp breath brought blisters on my skin before she sunk her talons into my chest. I gritted my teeth and became the sacrifice she needed. She tugged at the muscles in my chest as pain made me seize and scream. My blood ran down my chest in hot showers, soaking through my shirt as I gave in to the scream.

Her fingers closed around my heart and everything went black.

4.

There was a swell of strings and a tracking shot of the Manhattan skyline in black and white. Pure award bait.

I took a deep drag on the cigarette and narrowed my eyes. The director sat there, gasping as I lit a cigarette.

‘What have you done?’

I blew out a plume of smoke. If I had to spend time in Hell, it would be a beautiful version of it.

‘I’ve traded myself. The thing which did it to you, I gave up my body for a while to keep this from getting out.’

He smirked in a way which made me want to punch him.

‘Welcome to Hollywood.’ he said.

The shriek of fury echoed across the ballroom as Marlene Dietrich started the petrol chainsaw. I took a puff on the cigarette as the director stood up.

‘You deserve this, you fucker. I’m just trying to stop this from fucking over everyone who wasn’t involved at all.’

He glanced at me.

‘Do you think I did it?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Does it matter?’

I told myself Mitch would pay triple as Sandra Bullock stepped out from the shadows with the crossbow held to her shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standard
beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Animal in man’s skin

It remains

Alongside

Within

Yet apart

The call to ravish

A form of soul lycanthropy

My fur is soft

Flesh beneath

Is full

I pull you close

Sinking my fingers

Into your skin

Using my strength

To draw the divine

Feminine

Upon which

I hunger

Rasping licks

As you writhe underneath

Me

Fight me

With everything you have

I demand nothing

Less than the

Truest expression

Of you

And as the breaking

Moment breaks

I am made tender

Gentle and the bear

Well, it never goes away

But it waits

Within my skin

 

 

Standard
beauty, love, lust, poetry, sex, women

Serpent

Amidst the

Quiet order

You played as

Children

Treated as such

His rib

Given breath

I was always there

Curled in the branches

Tongue moving in

Flickers

As our eyes met

Your innocence

Beguiling

And my knowledge

Intoxicating

The fruit

Hung

Full and suspended,

On the branch

You bit deep

And tasted the knowledge

Of your flesh

You feared exile

But freedom is

The drug I offer

Surrender

On terms of

Breaking and renewal

Run your

Fingers down the

Length of me

Coiling around me

Squeeze the breath

As I teach you

Again

 

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