New Video

I have just posted a video of a new chapter of 'The Black X', this time from Rosie's perspective. Take a look:

http://youtu.be/VsAs2N3e9ts

Enjoy!

A Different Story: The Boy Gets Onto The Train In London

So you will no doubt have noticed I haven't posted here since last year. Oh well.

I recently wrote this new story (unrelated to The Black X) , about a boy on a train circa 1900.

Have a read, see what you think:

 The policeman got out of the cab and started carrying the boy’s single, shabby case into the station. The boy looked up. It was one of the London Stations, but he couldn’t remember which. He had barely slept in the past two days, and through the haze in his eyes, the brickwork, the arches, the smoke, the wind, the cold and the wet made everywhere look the same. Not home. The boy wiped at his eye with his gloved hand, and followed the inspector. The pair walked in silence through the crowds towards the platform.

            “Oh, you will probably be needing this,” the inspector said, turning to the boy and handing him his train ticket. The boy took it and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

            “You know where to get off?” the inspector asked him. The boy nodded slightly. He had never made the journey alone before, but he had done it.

            “Good. Your uncle will be waiting for you at the other end.” The inspector turned to leave and then added, “I’m sorry son.”

            With that the inspector disappeared into the throngs of people, and the boy was left alone. He shivered as he stood on the platform, and pulled his thin jacket tighter. It wasn’t built for this kind of winter. He wasn’t built for this kind of winter. I should be at home in front of a roaring fire.

The guard indicated the train was ready for boarding. The boy scurried aboard, bustling with the masses of dark grey coats and hats for a seat. They’ll all get off soon, he thought. And sure enough, within a couple of stops they did. The boy shivered again, the train seemingly no warmer than outside with the draft blowing around his legs. He picked up his feet and put them on the empty seat next to him, pulling them as close to his body as he could. If he had a shell, he would have been well inside it.

For an hour or so after the hats and coats had left the train, nothing really happened. People would get on at one stop, and off several later. The boy was still sat, curled into a ball, shivering uncontrollably. The ticket inspector came by, he recalled, but he didn’t look up. He just handed over the ticket, not looking at the destination, and then took it back again. Torn. As he listened to the clattering of the wheels on the track, and the roar of the steam engine, the boy thought about trains.

            Everybody thinks trains are stuck on their tracks, with no free will to choose where they end up. Get on the train in London, you already know where you are getting off. But trains don’t have to be like that, the boy thought. You can reach near anywhere in the country by train now. I got on the train but I have no idea where I am getting off, where I am going, what will happen on the way, or what will happen when I get there. It’s like life, the boy thought. There are those who believe that everything is meant to be, everything, whether good or bad, happens for a reason. They give it a name, be it the stars or the gods or fate. Then there are others, others who would say that the very idea that you have no choice in life is soul destroying. These people believe in chance and choice and free will, open tickets with no recollection of their destination.

The boy realised he had been staring at the chair opposite for almost an hour; his back ached and he couldn’t recall blinking. He moved to fix this, shifting around and stretching. The train slowed and pulled into another station. The night was black outside, and he could barely make out the name on the platform. Not there yet. What would happen when he got there? What would life be like now? The boy struggled not to think about what would happen once he got off the train.

            When he turned back from looking out the window, a man had taken the seat next to him. The boy cursed in his head. The man was wearing a coat and hat – both wet - the same as all the other men that had gotten on and off of the train. He’ll be gone soon as well, thought the boy. But he wasn’t. Station after station passed, men came and men left, but the man next to the boy was still there.

            Time passed slowly, and the boy had no watch and no idea of the time. It could have been another hour, or even two. The lady with the trolley of food and drinks came past again; it was the second or third time. Previously she had passed straight by, but this time the man stopped her.

            “A coffee please,” was the first thing the boy heard the man say. “Want one?” he asked, turning to the boy.

            The boy was caught off guard, not prepared to deal with people. His throat was raw, his lips dry and cracked, and any attempt to respond verbally failed him.

            “Two, please,” the man said, confirming his order to the lady, who happily poured another coffee. She took the man’s change and continued down the carriage. The man took a sip of his coffee, made a satisfied groan, and then offered one to the boy. The boy was wary to accept but the thought of something hot inside of him was too tempting to resist. The boy took the mug, hot in his frozen gloved hands, and held it close to his chest. He managed a grumble which might have been “thanks”, or it might not. The man turned back away from the boy, staring down the train, looking at nothing. The boy breathed in the steam and aroma of the coffee, and then took a sip of the drink, the warmth causing him to shiver violently. His nose ran a little, and he wiped it idly on his glove. 

            The train stopped. It happened every now and then, seemingly for no reason the boy noticed. This time seemed longer than the others. The man next to the boy fidgeted in his seat, glancing towards the front of the train, and then backwards over his shoulder.

            “Do you mind?” The man only half asked as he leant across the boy to look out of the window, to try and determine what the cause of the hold up was. The boy smelt the damp and the coffee. The man’s breath steamed up the window. He gave up, and sat back in his seat.

            “This won’t do. This just won’t do. I said I’d be on time this time. We really must get going.”

            The boy couldn’t tell if the man was trying to talk to him, or if he was talking to himself. He wasn’t interested either way. He fought to keep his convulsions under control.

            “Nippy boy? I’d offer you my coat but it’s dripping wet. That wouldn’t do you much good now would it?” The man chuckled to himself, then stopped when he noticed the boy wasn’t laughing, seemingly disappointed his attempt to connect had fallen short.

            “How about another coffee? If I see that fine young lady with the trolley I’ll get you another coffee. I would worry about keeping you up all night, but you don’t look like you’re intending to sleep anytime soon.”

            The boy shifted awkwardly, hoping the man wasn’t going to pursue his mood. After a pause, the man continued.

            “Who could sleep in this train anyway? Too bloody cold isn’t it. It gets colder when the train stops. Not many people know it, but I do. You notice these things more once you know them.”

            The man seemed like he could have a perfectly good conversation with himself, the boy thought.

            “Mind you,” the man continued, “this is like a summer heat wave compared to the frozen corner of Scotland I’m off to. It never rains up there, they tell me. That’s ‘cause it’s too bloody cold I say.  I wouldn’t be surprised if sheets of ice fell straight out of the sky.”

            The boy chuckled a little at the ramblings of the bizarre man sat next to him.

            “There you go that wasn’t so bad was it.”

            The boy felt himself go shy, as though embarrassed for his laugh. What right

did he have to be laughing? The man noticed the boy’s smile fade.

            “Never mind, it’ll soon warm up once we get going again, I tell you.”

            Moments later, the train started rolling forwards again, and slowly but surely picked up speed, until once again, the man and the boy were roaring through the English countryside in the dead of night. The boy noticed that it did seem to get a little warmer, more condensation formed on the cold glass window. The boy pulled down the blind.

When the trolley lady, who if anything was certainly not young, came past again another hour later, the man offered to buy the boy another cup of coffee.

            “I have money,” the boy managed, his voice still weak. It was the most he had managed to say in hours. It didn’t feel like his own voice, usually so full of vitality and vibrance.

            “So have I,” said the man, handing over a couple of coins, swapping the two

empty cups for two full ones. The boy took a sip. The man, as weird as he seemed, seemed to be trying his best to be nice. The boy felt bad. And he didn’t need to feel any worse.

            “So you’re going to Scotland?” he asked, hoping to spark another rant by the man sitting next to him.

            “Yes.” The man replied. Dammit, why does he rabbit on and on but when I ask him a question he barely bothers to respond?

            “Why?”

            “Why does any man go anywhere?” The man asked. The boy got the feeling the question was rhetorical, and sure enough, the man continued on with his own answer.

            “There are only two reasons why a man, or a boy, would go anywhere. He is either going towards something, or else he is going away from something. In both cases, I’m afraid more often than not the man will be disappointed with what he finds when he gets there.”

            “What are you going towards?”

            “Who said that I am the one of us going towards something?” The man smiled. He answered the boy anyway.

            “Rather predictably, a woman. Although perhaps not in the way you might think.”

            “Are you going to ask me what I’m trying to get away from?”

            “It’s not my nature to ask you anything you don’t want to tell me. If you prefer, we can sit in silence?” The boy did not prefer it, having the man talk to him was a nice distraction.

            “No, I would like to hear about this woman. I’m afraid my own story is not one I am interested in telling.”

            The boy and the man sipped their cups of coffee, conversation and the blind shutting out the cold, the boy’s shivers all but stopped.

            “When I said I was heading to a woman, no doubt you first thought I meant a spouse or a lover, or at least a woman I was interested in making one of these. Yet earlier I badgered on about being late, and complaining as though I were going to be in trouble, as though the woman might be a mother, aunt, or grandmother. Any ideas?”            

            “Men can get in trouble with their wives the same way a boy can with his

mother.”

            “A wise young lad you are. Yet, I am afraid to tell you, you are wrong. You are wrong because I did not give you all of the facts. The woman I am travelling to see is not my wife, or my mother, though god have mercy on any man who has to call himself her husband or son. The woman I am travelling to see is in fact my patient. You see, she is quite mad.”

            The boy smiled to himself again, at the fact that this bonkers man could have the audacity to call someone else mad.

            “I know, I know, but it’s true.”

            “So you’re a doctor then?”

            “Of sorts, yes. I heal the maladies of the heart and mind, and for those who have the maladies and the money, no train journey is too far.”

            The boy shifted uneasily, bringing his cup to his mouth to take another gulp of warmth.

            “Don’t worry. I’m not going to try and heal you, unless that is what you want,” The man said, and then after judging the reaction on the boy’s face added, “clearly not. How about we reverse our little conversation then? Just because a man is heading towards something, does not mean that he is not also leaving something behind. If I tell you where I come from, would you care to tell me where you are heading?”

            The boy nodded. Anything to keep the man talking for a few moments longer.  The sound of the man was soothing somehow.

            “Firstly, as I am sure you noticed, I am not from London like you.”

            “How did you know I am from London?”

            “Your accent, the smell of the smoke on your clothes, the fact that you

managed to get a window seat.”

            The boy involuntarily sniffed himself, but could smell nothing. The fact that the man knew things about him worried him a little. Maybe it meant he was good at his job. The man continued, apparently oblivious to the boy’s discomfort.

            “I’m from a little town called Stratford-upon-Avon, in point of fact. You will have heard of it, I am sure, as the birthplace of one William Shakespeare several hundred years ago, and indeed, nothing of merit has happened there since. These visits to my patients across the country are the most interesting things I have going on. That is, I mean to say, that I do not have any wife or children back home waiting for me to come back.”

            This last point struck a nerve with the boy, causing him to flinch from the pain rushing back into his heart. The boy turned away from the man quickly, and tried to steady himself. He didn’t want to cry in front of the man he had only just met.

            “Not for want of trying, I might add.”

            The boy chuckled, the way of the man’s speech, the sincerity with which he spoke, soothed the boy.

            The train started to slow once more, and pulled into Birmingham station. As the train rolled to a stop, the boy spotted his uncle standing on the platform, dressed all in black.

            “is this your stop?” The man asked, moving to get up and let the boy out.

            The boy hesitated for a moment. It was his stop. But it wasn’t where he wanted to go. This place wasn’t his home. He had no home now. The boy new his uncle about as well as the man sat next to him, and he was nowhere near as gentle and funny. I can’t stop going yet, the boy thought. It’s still too close. The boy’s uncle on the platform started to look around, concerned, as the various other passengers alighted and went their separate ways.  

            Eventually the trains horn hooted and the train pulled away from the platform. The boy didn’t stop looking back until he could no longer see the station. Then he felt two sensations, almost entirely simultaneously. He suddenly felt free, for the first time in days, he had been shuffled from one person he didn’t know to another. At the same time, another flood of thoughts rushed through the boy’s head. Where will you go? Who will look after you? How are you going to survive? It was the voice of his mother.

            “I take it that it’s your first time here. It is a lovely station. Shame about the place.”

            It wasn’t the boy’s first visit, but he didn’t bother to correct the man. As for the station, he couldn’t remember at all what it had looked like.

            “So, now by our deal, you can tell me where you are going to.” The boy fished in his pocket for the ticket. As he found it, he hesitated before pulling it out.

            “Earlier I came up with an idea, that train journeys can lead you to wherever you let them. They don’t let a little restriction like tracks and platforms and tickets stop them from taking you where you need to go.”

            “And where is that?”

            “Where is your patient?”

            “She owns a castle, near Loch Lomond. I’ll be getting off there.”

            The boy pulled out his ticket, not looking at the destination, and then said, “well it looks like I’m coming with you then.”

            “I’m sorry, did you just say she owns a castle?” The boy exclaimed, confused and excited. “Who owns a castle, other than The King. “

            “She does.”

            The boy smiled, wondering if he had done the right thing.

Thats it for now, although I am still working on 'The Black X', and continuing this story.

Simon

The Black X Begins!!

This is the first 1000ish words of my superhero story, The Black X.

I always hate it when you read fantasy or science fiction or thrillers written in 1^st person. Part of what I love about these genres is all of the action, and the most gripping part of that for the reader is fear for the main character’s life. Only, you kind of always know he is going to live. There will be some framing story where they are holed up in an attic writing their memoirs whilst avoiding fascists, or telling tales of their past heroics to their grandchildren. I’m not in Miss Franks’ attic, I’m in my life. This isn’t my written memoirs or anything like that, this is just the voice inside my head. Voice inside your head? I hear you asking. Every self respecting sane person has one. It’s the part of me that narrates what is going on in my life, even though I know what’s going on. I have eyes! I’m the main character in this story, of course. Of course  I am, it’s my head.

Only, I’m not really the main character, am I.  As I sit here in uni not really listening to the lecturer I think about the Black X. Not in a gay way, I’m straight, although I have heard he is pretty muscular. He must be, the way he pounds those drug dealers and gun runners. For some reason the police don’t like him. They make statements saying that someone is going to get hurt and completely gloss over the fact that he saved some teenage girl from becoming the next knife crime statistic. He doesn’t really get a chance to explain himself either, seems as how no one without broken ribs and a concussion has ever seen him for longer than a split second. I know he is a superhero though, and I’m going to find him. Why? You ask. Voice in my head, we are being rather inquisitive today aren’t we. I always wanted to be a journalist when I grew up, but I thought I would have more respectability if I studied a “real subject”, and so I’m doing English Lit. Hence the me sitting here talking to myself whilst my lecturer drones on about some book I got bored reading. Don’t get me wrong, I love reading, I do, but I think I should have just kept it as a hobby rather than trying to do it as a degree. Where was I? Oh yes I was explaining that I wanted to be a journalist, and I believe that my perfect opportunity would be if I could help The Black X tell his side of the story, like Lois Lane does for Superman. That sounds gay again doesn’t it . I’m not making a very good first impression. Anyway, I do it for all of those reasons, that and I think that superheroes are fucking awesome and I would love to meet him. End of lecture now, the walk home is always a good chance to talk through things with myself. It’s not a very long walk, or even an interesting one. It’s just 10 minutes walking through the suburban streets of St. Anne’s not looking twice at what under privileged families might think was a gross over indulgence in comfort. Detached whitewashed houses with multiple 4X4’s parked on the perfect asphalt driveways, separated by bright strips of green, green grass. I did that thing again where I was going to think about something but then got distracted by some cars and thought about something completely different. Does that happen to you? I wonder if it’s my subconscious trying to make me not think about things, or maybe I just have the attention span of my grandparents when they try to ask what I am doing at university. The Black X. I was telling you about The Black X. The last time I went hunting for him was a couple of  days ago when he blew up a drug palace across town.

I was sat in my room flicking through the music channels screaming bloody murder with Sum 41. I heard my Dad calling up the stairs.

“Hey James, have you seen what's on the news?”I flicked over to the news channel.

“. . . latest reports are suggesting this attack could be linked to the terrorist known as The Black X”

They’re still calling him a terrorist. So naïve. My dad opened the door to my room and came over to sit beside me on my bed, as we watched the news.

“ . . . eye-witnesses at the scene have told police that a black figure was seen leaving the area moments after the explosion, which occurred on the Terrance estate just outside of central St. Anne's at around 3 o'clock this afternoon. . .”

The news channel continued on with their degradation of previous Black X “attacks”, before flashing up a highly blurred image of a dark shape, the sort used to “prove” the existence of aliens or big foot. They claim it was taken by a member of the public just seconds after the “attack”. The member of public in question was nowhere to be seen.

By this time I was already up and getting my things, including my leather riding jacket and my digital SLR camera. I also stuffed the usual phone-wallet-keys combination into their respective pockets in my jeans.

“Dad, I'm going to go check this out” I half told and half asked my dad, as I ran down the stairs towards the garage.

“Be back for tea!” He called after me as I entered the garage. He understands that this means a lot to me and so he doesn’t mind too much about me rushing out. I think he worries about me going out to places like this alone sometimes. Even if it’s just because mum’s not here to tell me to “be careful” herself.

“I will Dad.“ I called back and jumped onto my motorbike. She is a real beauty. A racing red Kawasaki Z1000, given to me by my uncle for my 18^th birthday. Wow, I really owe that man, the drink I bought him as thanks still doesn’t seem enough. I always like to think that the thrill I get from riding it every time goes some way to showing him my appreciation. I blazed out of the garage, the engine roaring its bestial roar. The sound alone is enough to give you a funny turn (must have been another gay day) , let alone the speed. I flew down my street and around the corner. Soon I was on the freeway feeling the usual thrill as I turned the throttle up to full and clung on for dear life. The roar was now a high pitched whine reminiscent of an F1 car flying down the home straight. My open leather jacket whipped around in the breeze created as I blasted past company men on their way home from work in their comfortably slow sedans. I was on the way to my work.

Readings of this story, along with updates, can be found at www.youtube.com/3CheersForVirgins

Just Sway

It seems ridiculous how much one episode of a TV show I hadn’t seen in over 10 years could have affected my life. I just re-watched the season 2 finale of Buffy The Vampire Slayer and for all of its emotional turmoil which still tugs on my heartstrings, the moment at the very end with Buffy leaving on the bus struck me the most. This scene must have resonated in some way with my younger self because throughout my life, if I have ever been sat on a bus leaving home to go away on my own, I will feel this scene. Especially the music. Not the song in the scene itself but the way that the situation seems to bring so much emotion and sadness out of the song. If I am ever sat listening to my iPod and a semi-sad song comes on, such as the song that has just come on now (Sway by Lostprophets – Ian Watkins wrote it about his Dad dying), I suddenly connect with the song and the vocalist in a way I never normally would have thought possible. And all of this because of the last 30 seconds. This in itself doesn’t actually have that much to do with Three Cheers For Virgins but this episode does. Obviously Buffy is a huge influence on Three Cheers, and Joss Whedon’s storytelling is a big inspiration to me. I never realised until re-watching this episode how similar my planned climax to Three Cheers was to it. Right from the start of the climactic scene with Buffy beheading the first Vampire guard to the love interest being sacrificed to save the world. Hopefully Three Cheers is different enough and original enough that nobody will notice this. But that’s who Leya is. She’s a really pissed off Buffy, because that’s the character I fell for back then. Hell, I still fall for her now.

First Post

It seemed like a good idea, at this late hour after a long hard Monday, to set up this blog. Partly because the cool kids are doing it. But mainly as another outlet for some of the random thoughts that deserve a better place to live than buried in my head. Posts here will most likely consist of snippets and zero-th drafts of stories written solely for me. Plus I thought it would be kinda cool.