Eventide excerpt

   Humanity liked to imagine they’d known evil during their brief time on the Earth. They’d written about it, made movies about it, glorified it and, for many, endeavoured to become it.  They thought they’d seen iniquity in the eyes of murderers, cultists, witches and foolish youths labouring to be something they knew nothing about.  The world of vampires and werewolves had become pop culture, little more than adolescents with hairless chests hissing, growling and flaring their nostrils.  Folklore had been driven into despondency, etching what was once dark possibility into now clear and discernible signposts, which pointed towards shadows that held the hands of those who mocked what once remained unseen and unknowable.  The world had grown weak and its residents weaker still.  Maturity had bred fools and followers rather than those who might lead, and those who pretended to lead merely made fools of their followers.  The world and its denizens had little left to do now but wait for something they still knew nothing about.  Pompous, conceited and as hollow as the caves from which they’d crawled, Jabez had once wept at the very thought of spending another unwanted moment breathless with despair amongst them.  They thought they held the universe in their palms; in truth they still owned the hands of children...

Eventide excerpt

   She entered a cold, dark but generously furnished room.  Edna spared no expense for her guests since her husband had left her very much provided for.  A double bed for each of her three bedrooms, thick shag pile carpeting, Gabbeh rugs, acanthus lincrusta wallpaper and pitch pine double wardrobes. 

   The window was half open as always and the light had been turned off.  Mr Dresner, it seemed, had an aversion to any form of light and quite possibly owned a severe case of hyperthermia.  He stood motionless before the window, as was his wont.  This was a custom he had upheld since his arrival at the guest house.  Quiet but courteous was his way, but this was not even half way towards meeting Edna's needs.  She was a people person, and Mr Dresner was currently the closest thing she had to instant human interaction.  Edna needed to talk.

   He stood with his right palm resting upon the top of his left hand.  This was another custom of his.  Edna had spent the better part of three weeks learning his habits simply because she needed a project, something to take her mind away from the lacerations that had been left in the world.  She had subtly interrogated and remained observant and, in doing so, had ascertained the following:

 

   -  He was a retired accountant and also a widower. 

   - He had a daughter with whom he had not spoken for nearly twenty years.  He was in the process of finding her.

   - He would come down to breakfast at 9am and dinner at 6pm whereupon he would mostly eat silently, speaking only when spoken to.  His answers were succinct and were delivered calmly and congenially.

   -  He had a poor appetite, leaving at least a quarter of what was given to him each time.

   - He seemed persistently distracted and his brow was consistently beaded with sweat.  He checked his watch regularly and his eyes were forever flitting from left to right.  As a result he seldom smiled, but when he did she felt it was genuine.

   -  He left the house each night at 10pm to "take the air".

   -  He was left handed, owned three suits, disliked dogs and parsnips and was completely bald by the time he had reached the age of thirty.

 

   Aside from these facts and minor deductions Edna knew little more about her inhibited but nevertheless oddly pleasant guest.

   The first thing she wanted to do after setting the tea tray down upon the bedside table was to close the window.  She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist, inhaled a winter's breath and thawed it in her lungs before releasing a vaporous stream back into the air.  Mr Dresner appeared, as always, fixed to the vista beyond, watching, listening or whatever it was he did.  Only once had he turned his head slightly to hear her enter the room before returning his attentions to the surrounding forest and the distant but discernible glow, the corona of which roofed the woods and spat shards of light from within.  The unsettling and unending synthetic sun still managed to cast its apocalyptic saffron blaze over the horizon, smearing the line and raping nature until everything that once was beautiful seemed now so false and trifling; they were mere aimless wanderers amidst darker climes.  London had been razed to the ground...

Blog Hijack! An Apology From Santa

   Now I know why I didn't receive my Stretch Armstrong all those years ago! Sorry guys, he just appeared on my blog. 

Eventide: The trouble with writing large novels...

    For me there is an inherent problem with writing a novel that's so damn large it keeps you enclosed in your own secluded head space and away from everybody.  The result? People believe you're no longer writing at all, and this problem is made worse when it's someone like me writing it; you see, I like to take my time. I began writing Eventide about three years ago and, as a result, lost contact with many of the people I used to converse with on a daily or weekly basis.  This is my fault.  I've never really been the type of person to 'keep in touch', as they say, and I've never really considered myself a person of interest for people to seek out online. I'm just some guy who makes up stuff. Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely bursting with charisma and I have enough confidence to land a boot in Captain America's nuts any day of the week. I suppose I'm just simply more of a private person... unless Captain America criticises anything I write.

 

   Eventide was simply going to be a brief side project before I continued with the writing/editing phase of my Gothic saga, 'Words to the Wise', but things haven't turned out the way I planned.  Eventide was once called 'Chainstorm'.  It was a novella I originally wrote several years ago and it was my intention to re-edit it  before releasing it.  I did so in my own inimitable style, of course, by rewriting the entire wretched thing, changing the story completely, adding new characters, subplots and everything else that rendered it completely unrecognisable in relation to the original.  What, therefore, began as a novella soon turned into a really large novel, and then what became a really large novel turned into a really really large novel that's now close to 290,000 words... and I'm still not done.  Consequently I will be releasing it in three parts, most probably a week or month apart so as to at least give people a chance to digest each book individually. 

   With Eventide I decided to go for a modern day approach as oppose to the eighteenth/nineteenth century tongue I employed in the saga.  This means Eventide comprises modern  day vernacular and also a little modern day swearing accompanied by a few explosions and misdemeanors here and there.  Eventide isn't merely about the possibility of the world ending, though.  It's about people, normal people doing normal things before being thrust into this dark and dire reality, which also has a touch  of ancient myth and some rather startlingly unearthly discoveries that I hope will raise the hairs on the nape of every reader.   

   Anyway, I decided to post this just to let people know I'm still out there hammering away and that I intend to post updates a little more regularly than I have been.  In other words I shall now be posting updates. 

Harker out

Suicide Squad Review: A film about buggers

   This is a film primarily about buggers, absolute buggers.  The plot's as thin as an undernourished man who's seriously let himself go. Set in the aftermath of Superman's death after he took an enormous one in the chest, the world is apparently lacking any military defences and/or world leaders; at least that's how it seems.  No good bugger can do bugger all against any ruthless bugger.  It's because of this somewhat lack of skills from any military leader type buggers that an intelligence officer, who is herself a completely callous bugger devoid of smiles, deems it a great idea to form Team X - an expendable band of misfits - to undertake high risk missions for the United States government.  Of course this said band of misfits aren't too happy since they're forced into their new unwanted roles with the assistance of explosive charges injected into their necks, which can be activated remotely by another bugger, namely a stone-faced guy with a bad attitude who takes charge of the Suicide Squad.  Now, it seems that one of these would-be recruits happens to be possessed by a right bugger of a witch.  When this witch suddenly decides to take over her host's body completely and, in turn, tries to take over the world with her recently resurrected ancient superpowered bugger brother, bad stuff happens.  The Squad is brought in and, well, etc etc...

   So how does it all play out? It isn't terrible and it isn't great.  It could've been a lot better.  The majority of the characters are unfortunately thinly sketched.  One appears too late in the day to make any impact at all and hardly owns a line in the film, while another is dispatched so early on it makes your teeth ache.  Numerous, menacing and varied they might be, but the characters' sometimes brief back-stories unfortunately amount to an abundance of interrupting scenes that kill the flow rather than accentuate the narrative. Will Smith's 'Deadshot' and Margot Robbie's 'Harley Quinn' definitely steal the show here adding both empathy and humour to progress their characters, and yet they still seem to edge things forward only mere inches rather than help catapulting us through what should've been a barrage of character driven fun amidst impressive set pieces; and what about those set pieces? Well, I shan't bore you into bleeding from every orifice with talk of special effects.  In this day and age the majority of AAA movies have great effects, and quite why people still go on about them in regards to major releases is beyond me.  They should look good; these films cost millions! There are some exceptions to the rule, of course, but I'm not reviewing those exceptions at this time, not yet anyway.  That aside, set pieces are scattered throughout and they're well directed with quick fire camera work and two second shots that fuel the action, and yet still I couldn't help but think I've seen it all before somewhere, or rather everywhere. This was a film that I believe should've been based more on character interaction than on action.  The writers had everything at their disposal and nearly every box was ticked, actually too many boxes were ticked.  A band of misfits that don't get along? Check. A band of misfits coming together for the greater good? Check.  A band of misfits whose exploits will most probably lead to a film franchise? Check. But there was a box that should've been left empty, an impervious and utterly tickless box.  Actually the box shouldn't have existed at all. This is the point where I may come under fire from some when I state that The Joker shouldn't have been in the damn film until the end.  This was a story revolving around lesser known characters in the DC universe and, for me, The Joker really didn't have a place in it.  His reputation alone precedes him and yet here he takes a back seat in order to flesh out Harley Quinn's back(love/obsession)story.  I say thrust the big wisecracking painted profligate into the next film when all the characters are firmly established. 

   This review has gone on for longer than expected and I can't say I'm entirely pleased about that, and I've even left stuff out namely because I didn't want it to become longwinded, which unfortunately it has become.  I'll work on that.  So, in short, did I enjoy it? You'd think: "NO!" Oddly enough the answer is yes, but it could've been so much more by giving us so much less.  Less joker, more judiciously placed back stories, a villain that actually speaks a hell of a lot more, a villainess who can actually stand still without appearing as though she's recently soiled herself, oh and not so much walking around.  There seemed to be far too much of the latter without much occurring both in plot progression or character development.  For a city that was supposedly under siege by powerful entities there was an innumerable amount of quiet moments in which more reflection and character building should've been at the forefront.  My advice there would've been to use that time to flesh out the characters a little more beyond mere flashbacks and do it while blowing stuff up in the background! Blowing stuff up, or indeed buggers, in the background always adds to the ambience; it's a tried and tested formula that been generously passed down from one generation of film maker buggers to the next.  Damn those quiet moments without any major character development and their arresting flashbacks at inconvenient times.  Damn them, I say! Bugger this, I'm off.

 

Harker out

Forthcoming Content

   Ladies and gentleman, it's about time I began actually using the blog instead of leaving it to fester.  There must and shall be content, and content must and shall arrive in the form of, well, other stuff.  Aside from updates and excerpts from whatever it is I'm working on at the moment (in this case Eventide) I will also be covering extra 'fun' related content, and I'm not necessarily being sarcastic when I highlight the word 'fun'.  I do fun.  I watch films! I'm a PC gamer! So, I thought why not occasionally pop in and review something that I've seen or enjoyed playing? Why not indeed? That's the intention... let's see how it pans out.  What I won't be doing is venturing beyond the shallow depths of critique.  I shall write a no-bullshit approach when reviewing these things and tell you how it is, since that's really all that most of us care about.  Anyway... things to do.  I watched 'Suicide Squad' recently, so I'll soon tell you 'How It Is'. 

Eventide: Midnight Burglars

   "Now that's one ugly bastard," Phil announced as he stopped next to an old portrait of an even older looking man with balding white hair and spectacles sitting before a large desk in a large study.  "Why the hell do they always have to be sitting in front of book shelves?" he asked in an infuriated whisper.  "They always seem to think it makes them look intelligent if they're sitting down with an entire library of books behind them."

   "Perhaps he's read all of them," Hal suggested.

   "And what if he has? Anyone who can read can go ahead and read a book.  That doesn't make them any more intelligent than the man who prefers to observe the world."

   "Is that what you do, then, observe the world?"

   "I look at it with indifference," Phil answered as he continued scrutinising the painting.  The low lighting of Longchester House forced him to squint and strain his eyes.  "You can look at the world without observing it just as much as you can sit before a library's worth of books without ever having read them.  This man was probably illiterate.  He has the look of a lout."

   "He seems to have a lazy eye," Hal added.  "I wonder why he'd want that depicted in there? If he had a lazy eye in real life then he could've asked the artist to omit it in the portrait.  Those books look suspect as well.  Look at the spines.  Not one of them is thicker than my finger."

   "Children's books at best," Phil concurred.  "Although the inclusion of his lazy eye in a portrait may show a degree of pride.  It shows that he's not ashamed of who he is or what he looks like.  Unfortunately for him, though, he just looks like a gammy eyed prick."

   "Agreed," Hal said as they both moved further up the stairs.

   "Anyway," Phil continued as he chose his steps diligently, not wishing to step upon anything that creaked or grumbled beneath his feet, "this tale at the end of the book.  It was a soul searching thing for Longchester, who was in fact as mad as a carton of bollocks.  He believed there existed worlds beyond this one."

   "Hardly an original idea," Hal submitted.

   "It is when you believe that each of those worlds is accessible through a piece of furniture," Phil returned.  "Apparently there was once a hole punched in time and space a few hundred years ago through which things poured, all kinds of things, artefacts, furniture and all sorts that came from these neighbouring dimensions, and when the hole was mended..."

   "Mended by who?"

   "How should I know? A wormhole repair man, an oddjobber, someone passing by who happened to have a wrench on him? So when this hole was repaired," Phil continued, "all the things that had come through remained here in this world or dimension.  When these things were touched by certain people, who themselves were most likely touched, they could see into the universe whence it came."

   "Whence it came?"

   "Yes, that's the proper lingo for it," Phil replied, "'whence' is a good word.  It's this way," he added after looking from left to right down a barely lit corridor.  "Her room is on the right."

   The corridors of Longchester House were of the imposing and closing type, the kind that appeared always to narrow the further one navigated.  The older and more frangible residents had taken lodgings downstairs due to an increasing number of accidents in the night due to poor lighting conditions.  Upstairs was forever in the throes of dusk, while downstairs the magnificent bay windows ingested much of the daylight and a great many moonbeams at night.  Ultimately Longchester House was still a product of its time, a time when candlelight and oil lamps would fraternise with the shadows rather than subdue them.  Now occasional electric lamps surrounded by thick crimson shades on tables too wide for the narrow passageways did their best to alleviate the sense of unending palms of twilight, which pressed constantly against the all-too-small leaded windows that dotted the north passageway. Longchester House did indeed own a sense of character, but it was one that thrived too much on mystery for Phil.

   "Mind the candle holders," Phil whispered as he brushed past one of the many unused brass holders that jutted from both sides of the wall.  "Hit one of these full on with your shoulder and you'll have a mark for weeks."

   Hal navigated himself slowly past the ornate brass wall sconces, each one meticulously crafted into mythological beasts all owning claws, talons or open palms into which had been carved niches just large enough for a single resting candle to spend its slowly dissolving existence.

   "I thought Longchester was found dead in his chair," Hal whispered after a moment's deliberation.

   "He was," Phil returned, "but it was how he was found that wasn't disclosed to the community at the time."

   "And how was that?"

   "Mouth wide open," Phil said after turning around to face Hal, "and eyes wider than wide with drying blood trailing from the sockets to the cheeks.  It seemed as though something was trying to get out of him; either that or it actually succeeded."

   "Like what?" Hal asked while wishing for at least a miniscule amount of daylight at that moment.

   "The soul, Hal," Phil said.  "When I speak you must listen.  I already told you about Longchester's theory.  In his mind he saw something, another place in another time, and his soul left the body and travelled to that wondrous place."

   Hal fell silent.  With each possibility trampling upon the next, he suddenly felt a little nauseous, uncomfortable and desperate to vacate Longchester House with as much speed as his limbs would permit.

   "Look at you, you're like a schoolboy.  It's all bollocks," Phil assured him.  "I could tell you that my arse is haunted and you'd be checking me out for weeks afterwards."

   "Not very likely," Hal disagreed as he released a breath.

   "Longchester was a lunatic who drank too much, believed too much and did too little to snap himself out of it.  It was a good bedtime story, though, wasn't it?"

   "Campfire stuff," Hal agreed.  "You should've shone a torch in your face while you told it.  Do we have a torch?"

   "What for?"

   "It's dark."

   "Well that's kind of the point, isn't it?" Phil began.  "I've never understood the mentality of a burglar who breaks into a house during the dead of night under cover of darkness only then to switch on a torch.  Where's the logic? The first thing anyone is going to see from the outside is someone walking around a dark house shining a torch.  Look at this wallpaper," he added as he brushed his hand against the thin floral patterned wall.  "I bet this hasn't been changed in centuries."

   "Did they have wallpaper back then?"

   "Of course they had wallpaper.  Has the adult Hal suddenly stepped out of his body and fucked off? Are you having an out-of-common-sense experience?" Phil enquired with both palms held out.

   "There's someone at the other end of the corridor," Hal announced suddenly in a frantic whisper as he pressed his back up against the wall.

   "What the hell is the matter with you?" Phil asked.  "I asked you here for a bit of support in what's fast becoming quite an important moment in my life and you're acting as though you've just parted ways with your balls."

   "There's someone..."

   "Christ, it's like being in an Abbott and Costello movie!  It's a fucking full length mirror, Hal!" Phil whispered close to Hal's face.

   "Is it?" Hal asked.  "So it is," he added as he passed a hand in front of his face and observed his reflection in the mirror. 

   "I don't know who thought of putting a full length mirror at the end of a dark narrow passageway anyway," Phil mused.  "I swear they're trying to kill off the residents.  They have glints in their eyes."

   "The staff?"

   "The staff," Phil confirmed as he walked forward slowly and stopped short of the third door along.  "The residents should sleep with one eye open."

   "Like Popeye?"

   "No, it's just an expression, Hal.  And when did Popeye ever sleep with one eye open?"

    "When did Popeye ever have both eyes open?"

   "He didn't.  That's the way he was drawn.  His character...," Phil stopped himself.  "Why the fuck am I standing here discussing Popeye?! I never liked him anyway.  I've never trusted anyone who has one eye constantly closed; there's always something sinister being planned behind the lid."

   "Have you met many people who've had one eye constantly closed?"

   "I've met a few," Phil nodded slowly, "scheming bastards the lot of them." 

 

 

Eventide: Closer to the truth

   Each of the four walls was festooned with what resembled the crushed and scattered corpses of a thousand arthropods sporting broken, jagged or dismembered limbs and shattered chitinous shells that had seemingly come under the force of a hammer.  Many bore the likeness of tentacles each winding around the other to form dark and eternally snaking coils that gripped a thin trunk-like stem.

   Kelligan was correct; much of the world had never seen its like, but the few whose eyes had most recently studied the indecipherable scrawl had been left with irreparable injuries to the mind and soul that had never quite mended.  These permanent clefts had inevitably widened over the weeks and had left those newly affected few with chronic and repellent images of these asymmetrical and symmetrical shapes, which all at once resembled something and nothing.  Every day those same affected inhabitants of a small and secluded town had recalled those few minutes where curiosity had clashed with confusion to form lasting and revisiting intrigue in one, recurring and recalled fascination in the other and a sense of total and unnerving bewilderment in the last.  John, Daniel and Benson had indeed each seen those same symbols in that unfathomable room in that similarly unfathomable house at the end of that derelict road lined with previously uninhabited and derelict houses, and each would continue to do so.

   As the world watched and waited alongside those at Halligan's restaurant, so then did Kelligan observe rigidly the symbols on the walls as though they themselves were on the brink of disclosing momentous and monstrous secrets.  His eyes rattled in their sockets as they shifted rapidly from one wall to the next while he recalled the very moment he'd first seen the symbols.  In those recollections were ominous possibilities rising to the surface of an unfeasible past, clawing their way through worm infested ancient earth like grisly revenants bearing horrors wrapped in rotting skin.  Kelligan had seen these symbols before inscribed on parchment old enough to be Father Time's forebear.  Previously he'd discarded what his advisors and experts had labelled as probable and he'd instructed his soul to deem it impossible, absurd and nonsensical, but now here it was nonetheless encased and trapped with olden echoes that screamed their illogical truths into ears that still burned with disbelief.  For the first time in a long time Kelligan wasn't intrigued, he wasn't curious and he wasn't inquisitive... he was terrified.

Eventide: Christmas in New Wood

   Christmas had approached with a certain degree of stealth.  Its arrival had almost gone by unnoticed and its lodgings had been confined to the elements rather than the inner warmth of a family hearth and home.  It had been left to fend for itself in the snow and the sporadic winter winds that raged before resting briefly.  Christmas, it seemed, had been absent too long.  Upon returning it found that its once close and loving family had become strangers to the world and to each other until, in an unexpected and united gesture, New Wood's residents began rapidly rediscovering themselves and their voices in the sepulchral silence.

   It began first with just one meticulously wrapped present placed beneath the tree in Market Square, a single gift from an unknown person who had placed it there perhaps as a reminder to themselves that not everything was completely unsalvageable.  That one simple gesture begot another.  Under an hour later several more presents had appeared, and several hours later than that the amount had surpassed three hundred, a record number for New Wood.  The residents hadn't spoken to each other and neither had they hinted in any way that this time-honoured and hitherto forgotten tradition was to be honoured at all.  It had happened seemingly without forethought, without any prior discussion and without the pessimism that had plagued much of the townsfolk since news of Eventide's probable collision course with the Earth.  One resident followed the other, and sometimes two appeared simultaneously each with that same accompanying smile that had once been so painless to express.  One by one they placed their presents carefully beneath the tree and waited; they waited because they knew each other as well as they knew themselves.  They no longer looked up to the sky with the dread that had governed the majority of them these past few weeks.  Now they looked forward towards the tree, past the tree, into the heart of the town and into the hearts of their friends who they knew would soon arrive as they themselves had arrived with animated grins, presents and placid eyes that no longer housed fear.  New Wood's closed doors had opened again and from within had poured forth that temporarily misplaced sense of community. 

   Over the course of the next six hours several hundred people flocked to Market Square.  Longchester House had emptied and its aged residents had joined the younger, the youthful and the youngest each carrying presents, candles, decorations for the tree and, in George's case, a head full of Christmas carols ready to be voiced into the night.  It was a clear defiance of what lingered above.  Barbara was there also, clutching a candle and watching the flicker of flame leaving luminescent trails in the winter air as she moved it gently from left to right while searching for her son's face in the crowd.

   Upon hearing the growing congregation of voices close by, Mina had appeared at her shop door and had observed in stupefied silence as the crowd continued to grow.  She disappeared momentarily and returned seconds later with her own ornate candlestick sporting a rim of small and scrupulously carved fairies circling the base.  It was one of the first things she'd ever created.  She soon found her place in a crowd of people she'd known all her life as Hal handed her a candle from amidst the maturing throng of bodies.  He gently nudged his way through with a grin and hugged her tightly as candlelight continued to gleam into existence all around them.  Edna watched from a small distance away and couldn't detain her smile a moment longer.  She'd been one of the first to arrive and one of the first to place a present beneath the tree.  Now she stood holding a candle whilst looking around and trying to convince herself that this wasn't some fabricated dream.

   Faces continued to appear, some more unexpected than others.  Officer Benson had remained at the rear of the crowd before Daniel clipped him jokingly around the back of the head and pushed him forward.  Benson span around with a pre-planned look of contempt before releasing a chuckle that surprised both of them.  They moved inward amongst the other residents before each accepting a candle.  Although Daniel knew very few people there, it was enough to know that they all knew him.

   When Phil arrived several minutes later he appeared visually to condemn the proceedings.  He cast his disapproving eyes from one smiling face to the next before those same disapproving eyes found his mother standing amongst them clutching a lit candle.  He remained still for a time and seemed to withdraw from the moment, casually removing himself from everything and everyone around him as he watched Barbara socialising in her own inimitable way.  She half-smiled and leaned her head forward whenever anyone glanced her way.  It was an almost regal gesture.  When she turned her head and looked straight toward Phil he felt that same twinge tapping his spine, that same inexplicable sense  of unease that had governed most of his adult life whenever he saw her.  Even now he didn't know what to do or say, how to react or how to approach, but approach he did.  He hadn't expected to see her twice in one day.  He moved forward and readied his words.  He'd mention something about Christmas and the candles or he'd talk about how cold it was.  He'd speak about anything and everything if only to avoid those self-made silences he'd become so efficient at creating whenever his thoughts outweighed his words. 

   Within seconds of standing next to her Phil felt his mother's arm curl around his as another of Longchester House's residents handed him a candle and proffered a smile.  There'd been no need for words.  In fact very few people were speaking at all.  Aside from occasional whispers, handshakes and hugs, it seemed that the residents of New Wood were happy just to be there, to be outside amongst friends and family and without the burden of despair that had been circling their souls for too long.  It was enough... it was just enough.

Eventide: George

   "Snap out of it, lad," George said.  "If they see you looking like that in here then you'll never leave.  Where's your Christmas spirit?"

   "I drank it and pissed it away," Phil said as he shook George lightly by the hand.  "How have you been, you mischievous old bastard?  Still alive, then?" 

   "As far as I can tell," George replied.  "Won't be long now, though.  I have my eye on a plot of land over there by the water fountain."

   "You plan to be buried at Longchester House?"

   "Well of course I do.  Do you expect me to lie in some cold dark cemetery with the rest of the stinkpots? I'll be right here haunting the place."

   "As a zombie?"

   "As a ghost.  Zombies don't haunt people," George corrected him.  "You know, you youngsters are not quite the ticket."

   "Ok, well there's no graveyard in the grounds anyway.  But even if you were buried in the cemetery you could still return and haunt the place as a ghost."

   "Too far to walk," George returned.

   "You can float... and I'm forty years old.  I'm hardly a youngster," Phil added.

   "You're always young to someone."

   "Well who the hell calls you a youngster?"

   "Trees and tortoises," George nodded.  "I had a particularly informed conversation with an Oak Tree only last Tuesday.  Did you know...?"

   "I know enough to know that you've pulled my leg too many times for your own good," Phil stopped him.  "You have more wits about you than a fox.  You've gone beyond the boy who cried wolf too many times.  You're the old codger who lost his voice."

   "Heresy," George said.  "The day I lose this wonderful voice is the day these wits of mine lose their home.  How are you, Phil?" he chuckled.  "You wait until Christmas time to visit us? Just special occasions now, is it?"

   "Calling Christmas a special occasion is questionable at best."

   "Now that's going to have to stop, young sir?" George began.  "When one loses his mirth then one begins to wilt.  You should be out there meeting women, making merry and having children."

   "And look where it's got you."

   "It's not about where it gets you, it's about the journey you undertake to get there.  Very few people out there understand what life is really all about and even less know how to live it.  We all make mistakes.  We all have regrets and leave our woes dangling from our breast pockets like snotty handkerchiefs for all to see, but by God one has to look back, study the path he's chosen and be happy about it."

   "And are you happy about yours?"

   "Unfortunately my path forked. It's littered with mistakes, tears, sons that hated me and wives and daughters that continue to do so.  I suppose I should be looking back at that path and wishing that Nature would take its course and cover the damn thing in dead branches and fallen leaves, but for every fallen leaf there's always just one tiny flower amidst all the debris.  It's that one tiny flower that makes it all worthwhile.  However if you can't find that flower, well, just drink lots of brandy and to hell with it... in a hundred years no one will care anyway," he smiled. "She asked after you yesterday."

   "My mother?" Phil replied as he looked over George's thin shoulders.

   "Your mother," he confirmed.  "Strange that she should ask me.  Mind you there's a lot of strange goings on at the moment.  The planet has gone mad."

   "It doesn't seem as though anyone is particularly bothered by it in here," Phil observed as he cast his eyes over tables cluttered with playing cards and board games.

   "That's because they took away the television," George whispered as he gestured towards the empty bracket on the wall.  "A 50" plasma television constantly referring to the end of days was apparently upsetting some of the residents."

   "They can't take away the television."

   "Well they bloody well did," George raised his voice a little.  "There's no line drawn in here between being old and being dim-witted.  The aged are the ones to be protected now from all the nasty things in the world; these, of course, being the very same aged and apparently fragile people who fought in a world war and paved the way for future generations.  Everyone here knows about Eventide and most of us couldn't give a hoot about it.  We get on with our lives, play games, talk about old times and old memories while all the youngsters are out there murdering each other.  When we killed we were merely carrying out orders.  They do it because they feel as though there's bugger all left to do.  Hopelessness is a lazy, worthless and unproductive hobby, Phil.  I do hope people don't become too good at it."

   "For some it's a habit rather than a hobby," Phil replied, "although this Augustus Saccardi business seems to be keeping hope alive for quite a few people out there."

   "Piss and onions!" George declared brazenly.  "What do you think about this Augustus Saccardi business?"

   "Piss and onions, George, whatever the hell that means," Phil agreed.  "I can't see how trawling through this Mortuus place is going to help anyone feel any better about dying."

   "Now I never said anything about dying, young fellow," George said.  "We'll be fine.  The young can be so grim.  Look around you; it's Christmas.  We don't talk about dying at Christmas.  Actually this is a celebration of birth.  Of course some of us do die at Christmas.  Henry doesn't have long," he said with a nod towards a frail looking emaciated man in need of amusement and something more engaging to study other than his hands.  "Always tired he is.  Too much good living is my guess.  He was a gigolo, you know?"

   "Was he now?" Phil grinned.

   "Dirty fellow if you ask me.  Spent most of his life slapping his manhood around.  Still it takes all types, doesn't it? Have you ever thought about becoming a gigolo?  There's good money in it and it gets you out of the house."

   "I live on a boat... or in it... one of the two. Anyway it's not my style," Phil replied.  "You have to pretend to be somebody you're not."

   "You have to be charming at the very least."

   "Charm is something you have to work at.  I don't see the profit in it."

   "Profit? Oh to be young again," George started with a finger raised and wagging.  "Profit will always let you down.  It entices you and goads you into doing things you never thought you'd do.  It's a harlot, Phil, and you should keep away from it.  Profit and purity are like chalk and cheese.  Mind you there's some cheese that looks like chalk.  Have you ever tasted it? Vile stuff!  Give me mature cheddar any day of the week."

   "It makes my nose ache," Phil said.  "It's too strong."

   "I find it very appealing," George said, "much like Edna over there," he added as he nodded towards the doorway where Edna was standing and observing.  "Do you think she likes me?" he asked.

   "Edna likes everyone."

   "I don't mean like that," George returned.  "I mean do you think she likes me?"

   "In what way?"

   "In that way."

   "I think this conversation is drawing to a close."

   "Could you find out if she likes me in that way?" George continued nonetheless.

   "What are you, twelve years old? You'll have me passing love letters around the room next."
   "I could write her a poem," George said as he sunk into reverie.  "Nature, love, attraction... it's all connected."

   "I'm sure it is," Phil replied nonchalantly as his attention went once more to his mother, who had since turned to face him with a wide and incredulous gaze.  She was so happy to see him.

   "And it's all still working downstairs," George added.

   "In the basement?" Phil enquired after showing his mother a brief smile.

   "Behind the cloth," George whispered as his eyes rolled downwards.  "It never ages, you know?"

   "What the hell are you talking about you silly old bastard?" Phil enquired.

   "The penis, dear boy, the male penis," George answered candidly.

   "Is there any other kind?" Phil returned.  "Anyway, how is it we've gone from poetry and Nature to the subject of your dick? George, you never change.  More power to you," he added as he brushed past him and patted him on the shoulder.

   "Elephant's knees," George mumbled to himself as Phil stopped and turned back.

   "What's that?"

   "The foreskin is like an elephant's knees at birth and remains so until death finally whisks the genitals away.  It still looks pretty much the same as it did," he said as once more he gestured downwards, "but it just takes a little longer to speak its mind."

   "Well I'm more than certain Edna would be happy enough with your penis, George, and whatever said penis has on its mind."

   "I've never had any complaints I've taken notice of," George returned, "unless we count my second wife.  I couldn't help but take notice of her.  Incredibly loud vocal chords," he said tapping his throat.  "Always an echo," he added with a quizzical look.  "It didn't matter where she was standing, outside or inside... there was always an echo."

   "Well," Phil began awkwardly after a few seconds passed, "I'm sure Edna wouldn't be like that."

   "Yes," he agreed, "she'd be happy with my penis, as you say."

   "She'd be the envy of all women.  Perhaps you could wrap it up for her and give it to her for Christmas."

   "I could slip it into a sock, throw a blanket over myself, kneel down and push it through the gap in the dirty linen basket.  She'd think it was..."

   "Merry Christmas, George," Phil grinned and nodded.

   "And to you, young Philip," George replied with an accompanying schoolboy chuckle before casting his eye towards Edna, who continued watching him suspiciously from the doorway.  "And now to business," he added as he walked away with an air of confidence accompanying a leisurely gait...

Eventide: Madeline Decker

   Her father seldom heard her; her father seldom saw her.  When she was standing in front of him he rarely looked at her and when she spoke he rarely listened.  To him Madeline was someone who existed between blinks.  She was an occasional creak on the floorboards.  She was a fleeting breath in the breeze.  The only time he would begin to consider her was when he felt angry, and the only time he spoke to her was when he searched for someone to blame over something he had already forgotten about.  Nevertheless she was culpable.  Goaded by the scorn of her crippled and bitter mother, Madeline's father would frequently threaten his daughter first with eyes that narrowed and then with words that seemed to sharpen his knuckles, which would then continue to pummel her already purpled teenage torso.  He always made certain to avoid striking her face; it was his gift to her.

   Her father seldom heard her; her father seldom saw her, and yet at thirteen Madeline acquired two broken ribs resulting from 'a bad fall'.  At fourteen she suffered the pain of three broken fingers resulting from a 'silly accident', and at fifteen she discovered a festering dark unforgiving bliss that had long been maturing in the core of her developing and resentful soul.

   Her father seldom heard her; her father seldom saw her... and so her father never expected it. 

   Even the sun seemed sluggish that day. It lingered lethargically on the horizon and allowed the shadows to breed into those provisional pockets of black in which ill thoughts and vengeance hatch, and in which Madeline herself had been hiding for most of the night waiting and trembling.  She had concealed herself in the recess at the top of the stairs, an alcove just large enough for a young girl and just small enough to contain delicate wits close to tearing. 

   At 8am her mother called her from the downstairs bedroom; she demanded breakfast. 

   At 8:01am her mother's voice raised to a shrill.

  At 8:03am her father shouted at Madeline from the upstairs bedroom for being disobedient.

   At 8:03am her mother began swearing and threatening her.

   At 8:03am her father began swearing and threatening her.

   At 8:05am Madeline heard her father storm out of his room and across the landing before kicking her bedroom door open.  She wasn't there.

   At 8:06am he was standing at the top of the stairs wearing nothing but his underpants and screaming violently at his wife.

   At 8:06am his wife screamed violently in return.

   At 8:06am Madeline sprang screaming from the confines of the recess and hurtled towards her father.

   Her father seldom heard her: her father seldom saw her... her father never stood a chance...