The Road Less Travelled

I'm really not entirely certain what is compelling me to post every piece of fiction and poetry I've ever written (well, the ones that I still have copies of and that don't make me want to puke halfway through the first line at least). Anyways, here's a poem I apparently wrote at some point. I think it is strong evidence as to why I should stick to prose, essays, and technical writings...


Fiery knife,
Story o’my life.
A heartbeat away,
From going astray.
Into the wood,
Where it could.
Up the hill,
Looking for a pill.
Where the magic,
Stops the tragic.
Where the load,
Meets the road.
And the mad,
Meet the glad.

Up the hill,
To find the pill.
Search to the end,
Without the mend.
There is no magic,
To stop that tragic.
There is a road,
With a load.
A load to bear,
And still be fair.
To make the choice,
And to rejoice.
To take the path,
And to laugh.

Fiery knife,
Story o’my life.

Untitled

In the ruins of the once proud and majestic city of New Avalon sat a child.
Admist the desolated landscape torn by death and decay sat a small child her
head buried between her knees.
In the burnt out ruins of a family's home, admist the burnt bodies of a young
family sat a small child her head buried between her knees as she gently rocked
back and forth.
Admist the stench of death, next to the starved, radiation poisoned body of a
young man sat a small child her head buried between her knees as she gently
rocked back and forth. And she wept.

Admist the ruins of the once proud and majestic city of New Avalon a child wept.
In the desolated landscape torn by death and decay a small child, her head
between her knees, wept.
Admist the burnt out ruins of a family's home, next to the burnt bodies of a
young family a small child, her head between her knees as she gently rocked back
and forth, wept.
In the stench of death, admist the starved, radiation poisoned corpses of young
men a small child, her head buried between her knees as she gently rocked back
and forth, wept. And she wept tears of blood.

She wept. She wept for the dead. She wept for the land. She wept for the city.
She wept for the living. She wept tears of blood.

But mainly, she just wept.


Amongst the grand structures of the great city of Futuna stood a man.
Admist the silent streets and howling winds in a city filled with guilt stood a
young man with a haggard face.
On the majestic, curving streets of a guilt-ridden city, amongst the shocked
people, stood a young man with a haggard face and aged eyes.
Admist the sullen victors of a long war, in a city that did not celebrate the
victory of a long war stood a young man with a haggard face and aged eyes. And a
tear ran down his face.

In the grand structures of the great city of Futuna a tear ran down the face of
a man.
Amongst the silent streets and howling wind of a city filled with guilt a tear
ran down the face of a young man with a haggard face.
Admist the majestic, curving streets of a guilt-ridden city, with the shocked
people, a tear ran down the face of a young man with a haggard face and aged
eyes.
Amongst the sullen victors of a long war, admist a city that did not celebrate
the victory of a long war a tear ran down the face of a young man with a haggard
face and aged eyes. And his tear was blood.

The tear ran down his face. The tear ran for the living. The tear ran for the
city. The tear ran for the land. The tear ran for the dead.

But mainly, the tear just ran.


The man stood and the child sat.
The young man with the haggard face stood and the small child sat, her head
buried between her knees.
The young man with the haggard face and aged eyes stood and the small child sat,
her head buried between her knees as she gently rocked back and forth.

The two looked at each other. Their eyes locked and pain shined from them. The
man slowly, sadly, painfully shook his head. Slowly, tears brimming in her eyes,
painfully the small child nodded her head. The man opened his mouth to speak.
Stopped. And closed his mouth. The small child slowly, understandingly,
painfully nodded her head.

The small child sat her head between her knees as she gently rocked back and
forth and the young man with the haggard face and aged eyes stood.
The small child sat her head between her knees and the young man with the
haggard face stood.
The child sat and the man stood.


The dead laid. The dying died. The living wept. The ground shook in sorrow and
heaved with pain. But the world spun and circled it's sun. And the universe
carried on without a care.


Yet a man stood and a child sat. And He stood and She sat in sorrow. And She sat
and He stood in pain. And He stood and She sat for all eternity. In sorrow and
in pain and in guilt He stood and She sat. Always.

Wanderer I: Nowhere, Everywhere

The darkness was all encompassing. Peacefulness washed through Xavier. Despite the pervading blackness, despite the unique sensation of weightlessness, Xavier felt truly at peace for perhaps the first time in his life. He wasn’t sure where he was, or how it was possible, but somehow it felt right. Everything was slow, relaxed, simple, and unworrying. As thoughts placidly wound their way through his mind it occurred to him that he should be disconcerted, if not outright terrified by his current situation. Total darkness, floating weightless in a complete void. There was no light, yet he could see himself without difficulty. His mind thought he should be confused and disconcerted, but all he felt was safe, peaceful, and relaxed. He tried to remember how he got here, but he drew nothing but blank memories. He was Xavier, but he didn’t know who that was. He had a family. They loved him, yet he couldn’t remember their faces or their names. He knew he lived somewhere, but he remembered neither where it was nor what it was like. He knew he had a life, somewhere, but he had no recollection of anything but floating in the void. Slowly, as he contemplated the weirdness of the situation he recalled a memory. Distant, yet vivid, surreal and objective, like an observer watching a masterful movie. There was wetness on his face, and a distant feeling of pain in his cheek. He reached and felt sticky wetness, where he touched was painful yet muted, as if a far greater pain overwhelmed it. He looked at his fingers and saw blood. He felt as though he should be frightened, but he felt peace and calm, as though he was merely an observer in someone else’s conscience aware that all around him was an illusion.

The darkness seemed to lessen. Slowly receding, like the gradual lifting of layers of a veil, unhurriedly revealing the image beneath. The scene slowly resolved itself. A city, draped in the yellow and brown light of a heavy hanging moon, its face the picture of a mourning father. The city was dark, shrouded in mist and misery. The view rolled back. Rising from the outskirts of the city, overlooking the sterile sky rises and fetid parklands, were lush hills, tainted in darkness. Xavier sensed, rather than saw, the man standing on the edge of the hill, peering out over the city. The scene solidified further, and Xavier became aware of the falling rain, the biting chill of the wind, and the ill-boding stench. It was like no odour he had encountered, vile and repugnant, it seemed almost to be the essence of an evil death and decay. The wind howled, reverberating through the entirety of his essence. A detached, disembodied sense of fear, overshadowing pain, and despair flooded through Xavier. Stark clarity struck him as the man stepped forwards. Time slowed, the instant it took the figure to step off the ledge grew to an eternity. Realisation spread through Xavier. The figure, the man about to hurl himself to his demise was Xavier. He remembered standing there, he remembered casually stepping off the ledge, and the bittersweet rush of falling to the rocky river below. Dissonant waves of cacophonous terror and silent calm ricocheted through his intangible essence. His mind reeled with confusion, disbelief, and wonderment. Blackness consumed Xavier as his meagre mortal mind failed to cope with the overwhelming enormity of his transformed existence.

Wanderer: Prologue

The giant yellow and brown face of the moon stared down over the cheerless, bitter city with the wretched, despondent look of a wounded father, as oppressive rain beat mercilessly down on Xavier. His waterlogged hair, matted with bloodied mud, whipped across his wounded face in the driving wind, each stroke bringing pain that played a perfect counterpoint to the anguish that tortured his mind. His glistening eyes betrayed his joyless heart, as his gaze reached out from the hillside, forlornly searching the hazy cityscape. His mind tumbled. Over and over. The images flashed past. Every time they played out as they had the time before, and every time he felt the anguish, the horror, the helplessness. Every time he remembered the poignant stench of her wounds, every time he saw the lifeless look in her eyes, eyes that seemed to call out to him to save her, to blame him. Disjointed and chaotic they came at him, never in order, always mocking, always casting blame, with harrowing accuracy the thoughts and memories battered him. He fought to forget, to escape the baleful weight of his tragic action. Wordlessly he screamed to the heavens. Screamed for whatever worthless god inhabited the heavens to undo the past, to take his life in her place. His mind tumbled, his thoughts raced. Again the memories played, incoherent yet with vivid clarity. He watched, helpless, as he sped down the slippery hill. He saw the headlights of the truck. The lights blinding him. The feeling as his car ploughed into the tree. The agonising sensation as the car spun about the tree, the horrid sound of buckling metal, the searing stings from the countless shards of glass. Again and again the memories came. The sharp crack from his ribs, the excruciating pain that shot through his abdomen, the terror he heard in Sophie’s final scream. Incessantly the memories repeated. The slippery corner, the blinding light, the screeching metal, her dying cry. Bitter tears ran freely down his face, mixing with the mud and the blood. Turning and lifting his eyes from the view down the hillside, he saw the signs of damage on that fateful tree. The memories cleared. So little remained to mark the spot. Mere days had passed. He had lost count of the number. The hospital, the funeral, her brother’s baleful hatred, the constant ache in his stomach. He could never forget, never forgive, never be forgiven. The city just cleaned up, nature simply regrew. Nothing cared. The memory of the onrushing tree through the rain soaked windscreen flashed through his mind. The terrified look of surprise on her face. The images crashed into him again, like waves relentlessly beating the shore. They wore him down until he was numb to the world. All he felt, all he experienced, all he knew was sullen pain. Bitter pangs stabbed through his gut, the agony and anxiety overwhelmed him. His mind reeled, lamenting its actions, lamenting its loss. As if stepping on to a train, Xavier casually stepped off the side of the hill, unnoticed by man and forgotten by nature. As he plummeted downwards, towards the engorged river and its unpitying rocks, the memories played one final time.

Fragments IV: The Village Slaughter

The young boy peered through the branches of the bush he was hiding in. He could see naught but smoke until a harsh, piercing breeze tore through the clearing and the smoke was dragged along with it, revealing the burning remnants of his village. As he watched one of the black clad raiders that his mother had told him to run and hide from, dragged a screaming woman from a blazing hut. He couldn’t recognise the woman from this distance from her features but as her screams tore through the air, he recognised her as the mother of his closest friend, Jakob. She was struggling with the raider, kicking and screaming for help. He pulled her along by the hair as she lashed out with her feet. One of her kicks connected with his knee and he stumbled, nearly falling. As she broke free of his grip he tore a chunk of her bright red hair from her head, causing her to unleash a howl of utter agony. She started running towards the forest, heading towards where Michael hid. She had taken a scant five steps when she was thrown forward and to the right by the impact of an arrow on the left side and towards the middle of her back. She hit the ground and stayed there. Michael willed her to stand and keep running, she didn’t move. She wasn’t even screaming anymore. The radier who had been dragging her walked to where she laid and knelt down near her. He rolled her onto her back, snapping the protruding arrow and looked her over.
“She’s dead. You killed my catch.”
The archer replied shortly, “She was hardly your catch, she was getting away.”
“I would’ve caught up to her soon enough. You’ve ruined her now”
“She’s still warm, you can use her once”
The raidier glanced in the direction of the archer, as he considered the archer’s idea. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad an idea; she certainly had been a beautiful catch.
Michael was still watching, tears streaming down his face, as the soldier raped the lifeless corpse of Jakob’s mother.


Michael stayed hidden long after he had seen the raiders mount their brutal warhorses and ride off. It had been dark for several hours when he crept from the bush he was hiding in and started searching for others in the gloom of the new moon through the thin layer of clouds. He found his father near the smouldering ruins of their shack, his head was lying on the ground several feet from his body and he had a series of deep slashes to his chest and belly. His sword was still held tight in his hands. Michael turned and vomited until he could no longer vomit, tears rolling down his face. He stumbled around the village searching for his mother and Jakob. He searched the village without success and headed towards the small clearing by the creek to see if they were hiding there. There he found his mother She was tied to pegs in the ground, naked, with numerous cuts, bruises and slashes on her. She wasn’t breathing. Michael’s knees gave way and he sank to the ground, the tears streaming down his face faster now as he began to sob loudly.


He was still crumpled there, unmoving, when the knights rode into the clearing the next morning. The captain dismounted and cautiously approached him, not wanting to scare him. The other knights also dismounted and set about searching the clearing. The captain looked at the boy, he appeared to be eight, or maybe ten. He was a slim boy but he looked as if he would fill out substantially. He removed his gauntlets and placed them in his belt, as he knelt next to the boy, the boy was trying to cry, but had long ago ran out of tears. The captain placed his large, warm hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, comforting him.
“What’s your name boy?” the captain quietly inquired.
The boy did not respond at first and the captain was about to ask again when the boy stammered his reply “M-Michael, My Lord”.
“Is this your mother?”
“Y-yes, M-My Lord”
The knight nodded his head gravely in sympathy as he pulled his water canteen from his belt and offered it to Michael. Numbly, Michael clasped the flask and drank deeply. For the first time, he looked up at the captain, staring into the captain’s caring blue eyes. He thanked him for the water and sat there, numb to the world until the captain asked him where to bury his mother. At this Michael burst into tears again, stammering out over several minutes that his mother had always loved swimming in the creek and lying on its bank, so it should be there that she was buried. The captain ordered two of his men to dig the grave as he set about undoing the bonds holding the boy’s mother.


The Captain escorted Michael back to the knight’s fortress. There he ordered a novice to take Michael to the kitchen and provide him with a meal and to then organise a bed for Michael for the night. The novice introduced himself to Michael as Tyson as he led the apprehensive boy to the keep’s kitchen. There Michael ate several helpings of a hearty venison stew. Michael was provided a hard, utilitarian but relatively comfortable bed in Tyson’s quarters. A fellow novice had occupied the bed until a week earlier when he had died raising the alarm as marauders, agents of Chaos with no care but for battle and the destruction of all, attacked the fortress.

The following morning, the captain asked Michael if he would tell him about what he had seen at the village, after a large breakfast of warm porridge. Michael told him what he had seen and the captain became enraged with the disgusting acts the boy had been forced to witness by the raiding marauders. The captain vowed to Michael that those responsible would be hunted down and sent to Sigmar to receive judgement for their atrocities. Michael begged to be allowed to accompany him, the captain steadfastly refused this wish. He led his forces out the next day, leaving less than half of the garrison to guard the fortress. Tyson was ordered to ensure that Michael did not attempt to join the knights who hunted the marauders. The hunters returned nearly two moons later, their mission complete and the captain’s vow fulfilled. Michael had remained in the fortress the entire time and was now determined to become a knight himself, so he could rid the world of the threat of the marauders. At first the captain refused, but after Michael’s fifth request, he relented, saying that he would vouch for Michael’s petition to join when he was two summers older. Satisfied with this Michael asked if he could remain within the keep in exchange for working within the keep. The Captain allowed him to do so, making him a stable hand.

Fragments III: Sweetest Sadness

The sweetest sadness consumed the young man as he sat incapable of speech. The light of the room belied the darkness of the night and the deep melancholy within his soul. He sat and he pondered, as great men have been wont to do. He pondered on the vastness of existence, and of the infinitesimal life he would lead. A brief moment lying between two eternities, engulfed in a vast and desolate nothingness. He pondered the slow pounding in his chest and the ease with which it could be silenced. That it could be stilled as though one were but extinguishing a candle, a mere indistinguishable one amongst millions. His thoughts were the deepest black. His slow breathing and calm demeanour belied the inner anguish, a pain that coursed through his veins, through his life, through his very existence. Inescapable torment consumed his very essence. He sighed. It was not a loud sound yet it seemed, for but the briefest moment, to fill the room. The air swirled and for that moment the room seemed to have life. His chest heaved with the sigh, not a sudden movement nor a violent movement and yet, had there been one there to observe they would have been shocked by the enormity of it, infinitesimal in motion and yet all-consuming to the room. It was the man’s first movement in a seeming eternity, an eternity that stretched back further than he could remember and that had been but an instant in arriving. His downward cast face pointed his stare at the floor just beyond his outstretched feet, a stare that never went anywhere. His eyes where open but they did not see, they merely looked. His mind saw bleak emptiness and naught but the sweetest sadness.

A noise broke his reverie. Outside, in the cold and swirling mist a falling branch struck the ground. The crack of the branch resonated throughout the still night, the snaps of the twigs rattled in harsh counterpoint. The man’s head snapped up, a violent and jarring motion, his now-alert eyes swivelling in the direction of the sound. His body tensed, prepared to leap to action. He let himself relax as he heard no other sounds through the chill of the winter’s night. Bitterly he shook his head. He was angry. Angry that he had fallen into such careless and useless melancholy and angry that he had been jolted from its enthralling sweetness. He discarded the notion of returning to its alluring embrace, knowing that it would be but a hollow after-taste of its former agony. He sighed again and stood, folding his dark grey cloak about himself to ward against the icy air.

Fragments II: The Apothecary's Apprentice

Fragments is a collection of unrelated stories that I started writing, never really finished, and probably never will.

The ornate blade slid effortlessly into Michael’s belly, a gasp of pain escaping from his lips as he pushed it deeper into himself. He felt his warm, sticky blood ooze down the blade and over his fingers. His vision blurred as his life force ebbed out, his grip weakening on the blade as he felt more of his tainted blood gush across his hands and spill onto the already blood-soaked dirt beneath his feet. He took once last glance around him, at the scene of the massacre that he knew he was responsible for, before his vision clouded again and then cleared. He seemed to be standing in a shadow of the world, everything gray and wispy as time seemed to stand still. Before him, stood a young man he recognised from long ago.
"Martin? But it can't be. You can't be..."
"Quiet Michael. I've come to help you. There is still time. If only a preciously small amount. Trust me Michael, it cannot end this way. It cannot."
Martin started to fade from view and Michael turned at the sound of a cough from behind him. There he saw a ghostly apparition of himself, half standing, half falling in slow motion as he passed his sword through himself. Beyond himself stood a tall, broad shouldered man wearing the black robes of a priest of the Death-God. The priest's eyes locked with Michael, and for the first time in years Michael felt fear. The priest's eyes were a swirling maelstrom of raw force and power, they seemed to be as deep as eternity and everything that fell under their gaze was instantly seen in it's truest form. The priest seemed content to stand and stare at Michael as the ghostly form of Michael slowly died between them.
"What do you want?" Michael inquired of the priest. The priest chuckled before responding, "It is not a question of what I want, but what you need my son. I have no wants, I am here because your friend begged that I come and give you another chance. I agreed to come. As for the chance, whether that will be received remains to be seen."
"Chance? A chance for what?"
"So many questions. A pity you did not question things so in the mortal realm."
"The mortal realm? Where are we?"
Stepping through the shadow of Michael the priest responded "We are in the realm between realms. The shadow's you see are shadow's of what you would call the real world, the mortal realm. The shadow of you dying is you dying."
"But..."
"Do not interrupt me, boy. I will have no more of your questions. Your time is limited and mine is valuable. How did this happen?"
"How did what happen?"
The priest glared at Michael, and Michael realised that the priest referred to his own imminent death. "I pushed my sword through myself."
"That is not how this happened. How did this happen?"
"I saw what I had done and decided that there was no choice but to fall on my sword."
"Again you have not answered my quesion. How did this happen?"
"But, I did, I saw what I had done and fell on my sword. What more do you want?"
Shaking his head like a benevolent mentor does when a student can not grasp an obvious concept, the priest replied, "The beginning, Michael, start at the beginning."
"There was a battle between my forces and those of Lord Argemmon's, I caused the massacre of hundred's on each side. At first I was oblivious to what I was doing, the pain I caused, but then my eyes were opened and I could no longer live with my deeds and thus I fell on my sword."
"Still you do not start at the beginning. There is no helping you if you cannot even recognise where things begin. I know you know where it begins. In your heart the beginning screams to be heard. But you have suppressed it, refused to listen to it for so long you no longer hear it's call. Open your ears and hear. Tell me the beginning."
Michael's face creased in puzzlement, and then understanding, closely followed by anguish crossed his face.
"It began about a dozen years ago."
"To the day. It began exactly a dozen years ago to the day."
"If you know the story this well, why must I tell it to you?"
"Because my son, whilst I may know this story, it is evident that you yourself are not fully aware of it. Perhaps by relating the story in it's entirety will allow you to begin to see. If it cannot then there can be no saving you from your fate."
"My fate?"
"Questions are for the mortal realm and your own actions and thoughts, not for those such as me. Start your tale."

"Twelve years ago today I sat in my uncle's shop. He was an apothecary, I was his apprentice. It was the middle of a dry, dusty summer and as I worked hard to crush the juja beans that I had picked in the dark caves to the east the day before, I became increasingly bored and wished I could tear off my sweat soaked tunic and dive in the cool creek that ran through our town. I dreamed of seeing Alise and of fishing under the shade of the coorabah trees with Martin. I hated crushing juja beans, and I hated the careful extraction of the juice from the delicate oran flowers. To me that didn't seem like the true work of an apothecary. Whilst I crushed beans my uncle got to travel to the homes of the ill and treat them, help them. To me this seemed to be the be all and end all of been an apothecary. How naive I was. I can remember the afternoon clearly and the night even more so. That afternoon a squad of the King's Finest rode into our sleepy little town, disturbing our market and kicking many traveller's out of the inn's, forcing them to camp under the stars. Decree's started popping up around town that all males of fighting ages were to assemble in the town square the next day at lunch time. Those who did not would be executed and hung from the town walls for all to see their shame.

At my mothers insistence my father bade me to hide for the next few days, until the King's Finest had rode out of town. They didn't want me to be forced to join the army, and I was as eager for me to avoid that fate as they were. Except that I didn't want to look like a coward in front of Alise. A foolish thing, had I not gone to see her that night I would never have gotten into this trouble. Still I do not regret it. Better that this has happened than I have not stopped what nearly happened that night. I snuck out just after curfew to talk to Alise and see what she thought of my going, or more accurately of my not going. As I neared her house I heard the high pitch scream of a woman and it soon dawned on me that it had been Alise who screamed. Forgetting the need for stealth I sprinted to her house and scrambled up the lattice that held the beautiful icola vines. Fortunately her shutters were not barred and I pried one open whilst balancing precariously on the creaking lattice work. Sticking my head in the window I saw one of the so-called Finest holding Alise on the bed by her throat, choking the life out of her as he had his way with her. In a blind rage at the Finest's desecration of my beloved I threw myself through the window and landed behind the bed. Thankfully he was too engrossed in his own pleasure and Alise's pain to hear my awkward landing. I pulled his dagger from it's sheath on his belt and without even considering the implications of my actions I slid the knife under his ribs, angled upwards and pierced his diaphragm. Pulling him off the bed, I stood over him as he slowly suffocated, unable to breathe. I ground what passed for his manhood beneath the heel of my boots and watched with a small sense of satisfaction as his eyes bulged in pain and panic as he slowly lost consciousness and slipped into death.

Alise was sobbing on the bed, gently rocking back and forth.

Fragments I: Kahlia

Fragments is a collection of unrelated stories that I started writing, never really finished, and probably never will.


With a weakening grasp, Kahlia clung to Yves’ mane as he galloped across the open field. His hooves carved a path through the grass as he stretched his stride harder and faster than he had ever sprinted before. Barely conscious, Kahlia battled to maintain her one-handed grip on Yves’ mane, whilst her other hand vainly struggled to staunch the flow of blood from her belly wound. Sensing her life slipping slowly away, Yves renewed his valiant struggle to carry her to safety. His mind raced with terror and desperate conviction. Though he had lived many of Kahlia’s lifetimes before they bonded, he could no longer envision existence without her constant companionship. Part of him wanted to curse himself for letting her be wounded so, to blame himself for her death, but the better parts of him shouted down his darker demons. She was not yet dead he told himself, he could yet save her life. All he had to do was get her to the temple of Isayyla, the Goddess of Winter and Icy Death. She would surely exact a high price for the deed, but Kahlia had led them deep beyond the tamed lands, and no other temple was close. With a shrill whistle, an arrow flew past Yves’ head, missing him by mere millimetres. Yves looked for trees, or rocks, anything to hide behind, to lose their pursuers, but he saw naught but endless grass. Kahlia had slipped into unconsciousness on his back, and he could not fight the pursuers without throwing her. Desperate to save her life, he redoubled his efforts to flee, whilst trying to awaken Kahlia across their telepathic bond.

Kahlia was floating in black nothingness; it was a peaceful slumber, an oblivion of thought and physical pain. She became dimly aware of an urgent calling. Someone was shouting to her, calling her to help. Dazedly, she strove to answer the call. She fought to rouse herself, and slowly became aware of the rhythmic pounding of hooves on the ground, of the grass that whipped by, of the dark shapes that chased her. Some part of her realised that she would die if she did nothing to stop them; that she would fail at her mission, that she would condemn a friend. Feebly she drew on what few reserves she had left and summoned a voice from deep within her. It resonated across the open field, stunning some of her pursuers with the mere idea that such a powerful voice could come from such a small, crumpled, wounded woman. Those that stumbled in their pursuit out of confusion and surprise were the lucky ones. At first Kahlia’s voice was incoherent, a simple throb of meaningless sounds as she struggled to control herself. Slowly coherence formed.
Rhodanthe Agais Tor Impresa Nirs Huras! Iseana Sigaras Tor! Iagos Limisan Tor!
The words tore from her chest and power flowed in their wake. Momentarily startled by Kahlia’s plea, Yves hesitated before he realised the power and destruction that was about to descend. Leaping ahead, he avoided the first wave of destruction by barely a hairsbreadth. A ghostly apparition sped from where Kahlia had been. With impossible speed its ghostly sword effortlessly cleaved the closest pursuers in half. Those that were behind turned and fled as the ethereal figure gave pursuit.

Solitary II: The Lion Sleeps Tonight

As you approach the house, it is immediately obvious that something of note has occurred here. A half dozen police cars line the narrow laneway, with a young male officer directing civilian traffic away from the site. On the lawn in front of the small house two officers, one a young man barely from the academy and the other a hardened old sergeant, are doubled over, their hands resting on their knees as they try not to vomit on themselves. In front of them are pools of sickening, foul smelling vomitus, a testimony to the grotesque nature of the carnage inside the house. As you walk up the well-maintained, neat path that meanders its way through the front yard, passing the stunning, meticulously attended rainbow of rose bushes, you again hear the officers vomit across the neat grass, only now they no longer vomit, having long ago emptied the contents of their stomach. As you reach the carved wooden front door, it is thrown open from the inside and a young yet experienced female constable, lurches towards the garden, her handing covering the lower half of her greening face. Her feet squelch as she hurries, looking down you see her once black shoes have been turned a horrid shade of blood red. Whilst behind her she leaves a trail of bloody footprints. As she reaches the roses her hand flies from her face and she vomits forcefully at the base of the bushes.

You enter the house, noting several sets of bloodied footprints coming from a room to the left, through another door. Aside from the bloodied footprints, the room seems warm and inviting, pictures of a young family, a husband and wife and a young daughter, line the room. There are memorabilia and valueless trinkets that add to the homeliness and carry an aura of sentimentality about them. A deep blue vase houses a set of roses and another matching vase holds a pleasing arrangement of chrysanthemums. A small handcrafted wooden bear sits between them, a carving on its belly declaring Mary-Anne as Patrick’s beloved. Other symbols of young love bedeck the room along with photos of extended family and the pair on holiday. The door from which the bloody footprints emerge seems ominous under the lights and the faint odour of human blood seeps through from beyond.

As you open the door you are assaulted by the overwhelming odour of human vitae. The Beast surges towards the surface as you fight to control your baser instincts. The cream-white plush carpet has been stained a ghastly red, and the precious life blood has been splattered across the room. The walls seem to have been painted with the blood. As you take a step into the room, your attention is drawn upwards as a drop of blood falls from the ceiling fan and lands on your shoulder. Even the roof has blood splattered across it. The once pristine couch, adorned with comfortable cushions and the old cracked leather recliner are soaked by the fluid, glistening in the reddened light emitting from the blood-stained globe. A pale faced officer tries to guard the door to the next room, but his green-tinged appearance and weeping eyes betray him. Again you have to fight the Beast, pushing it down into the deepest recesses of your mind, as it is drawn ever forwards by the constant odour of the freshly spilt blood and the red that assaults your vision no matter which way you turn. In the corner of the room is a collection of small toys, obviously belonging to the young child in the family, they too have been spattered with blood. Once again the Beast rises towards the surface, this time at the thought of the young infant’s blood.

The woman lies in the middle of the room. A tattered, torn and blood-soaked book lies beside the body. An old, well-used bookmark still rests within it. The body itself is contorted and torn apart; her face is one of the few parts still recognisable. Somehow, that only adds to the horror and draws the Beast ever closer. Her clothes have been reduced to shreds and you can see deep viscous wounds on what you assume were once her arms, presumably where she tried to defend herself from the monstrous beast that caused this. It is impossible to tell what colour her clothes once were, let alone their design, all they now resemble is a shredded pile of blood red cloth. Her right leg has bite marks along its length. Almost as if something feasted on it after it brutally tore her apart. Her left leg is bent behind her at an impossible angle, and it too seems to have been partly eaten. Her belly and chest have been torn open, and amongst the soppy, red flaps of skin and fat organs are recognisable. Her liver, shredded by large claws, her intestines chewed and gnawed on. Her heart crushed under the weight of the beast’s foot. Yet despite the graphic horror of the blood spattered remains of the poor woman, the view of her mutilated, eviscerated body is nothing compared to the horror on her face, contorted in a look of so much pain as to be near unbelievable. Where her left eye should be is a bloody, oozing pile of flesh that looks far too much like her eye exploded under too much pressure. Her right eye seems to stare up at you, unliving yet pleading for the pain to stop, pleading for death and release from the living nightmare, pleading for the excruciating pain that tears through her body as the beast rips chucks out of her legs and gut to sate it’s hunger. And at once pleading that through some miracle she survive this atrocity, that someone rescues her and returns her to her loving husband and their precious baby. It is a continuous fight now to stop the Beast from breaking through to the surface as it revels in the destruction and horror that is before you. What reviles and disgusts even the most hardened of cops, sending them running for the relative peace of the front yard, running to empty their stomachs and be haunted for their pathetic little lives by nightmarish visions of the carnage that is this room, stirs but one true emotion in what remains of your undead heart. Lust. The Beast lusts to run rampant through the streets recreating this nightmare scene a hundred times, each more horrendous and disgusting than the last.

As you force the Beast back into the cage that supposedly keeps it in check, you cross the room to the other door. Opening it you see bloodied paw prints across more cream-white plush carpet, ending at a lion. The lion looks up at you as you enter, and recognising you as a fellow predator it merely yawns and licks a large, bloody piece of Mary-Anne off of its paw and settles back down to snooze in the comforting warmth of the room.

Solitary I: Freedom through Damnation

The ritual takes place in a dark room. Darker than rooms could normally be, the blackness is oppressive and if you didn't know that the room was a scant 3x3 you'd be forgiven for believing that it stretched on into eternity. A flicker of light suddenly breaks the oppressive dark, followed by the light of a candle. It takes you some seconds to realise the oddity of the candle. It doesn't flicker and it's light doesn’t' seem to reach far beyond itself. Even the floor at the base of the candle is only scantly illuminated., the wall, which can be no more than a metre from the candle remains invisible. The candle itself is made of thick black wax and has a pair of red crosses on it. One on the side facing the wall and the other on the side facing the centre of the room. Again there is a flicker of light and another candle, identical to the first becomes visible. Another 6 flickers occur, 6 more identical candles lit. A red circle is now illuminated on the floor, strangely nothing else is visible. The solid red line on the floor and the candles are all that is visible. You can't even see your own hand. Aware of it only when you pass it in front of your face and it obscures the vision to the circle and candles.

The Mystic, or at least a figure in brown robes that seem to absorb the light and yet reflect it all at the same time, steps into the circle and starts chanting. It's a rhythmic chant that seems to draw attention into itself. Even if you tried you would be unable to ignore it, it seems almost as if the words themselves are things of mighty power. The room seems to shrink, such that the only thing that exists is the circle, the candles, the robed man and the words. Even though you know you stand in the room, it seems to you that you are not, if you were able to dwell on the idea you would come to the conclusion that you were not standing anywhere, that you did not exist, the only things that exist are the red line that marks the circle, the candles, the robed man and the words.

The chant increases in tempo and volume. The words seem to draw power from all that surrounds them. Suddenly a sharp pain screams at you from just behind your forehead, a stabbing sharp pain as if something in there is desperately trying to tear it's way out. Without knowing why you step into the circle. The world seems to ripple around you as you pass the red line. And then pain abates. The chanting continues, growing louder and more frantic. Something wet and sticky drips across your cheek and it is with some shock that you realise that your forehead bleeds from no apparent wound.

A wooden chalice, previously invisible in the centre of the circle, is lifted up by the robed man. His chanting has stopped but the world seems to reverberate with the power of the words and their faint after echo remains. He holds the chalice above his head with both hands and speaks a trio of words that though spoken softly and delicately seem to scream like thunder and tear through your eardrums. He lowers the chalice and within it you see a crystal blue liquid, it seems to shine and contains a hundred thousand specks of light, that are both specks of light floating within the liquid and merely reflections of the starscape above you at the same time.

He holds the chalice in his right hand and reaches towards your forehead with his left. He scrapes his fingers along your forehead, his palm perpendicular to your face and moving from left to right he collects much of your seeping blood. He passes the bloodied hand over the chalice and squeezes much of the blood into the liquid. We're it hits boils silently for a moment and seems to spread a midnight blue ink throught the fluid shattering the lights, distorting and hiding them behind the darkness that glows. Offering it up to your mouth with both hands he pours it down your throat. It tastes sublime on your tongue, better than the freshest, most potent blood you have ever encountered. It tastes rich like it is more than just a drink, like it is more than mere liquid. It's a thick fluid that vitalises yet exhausts every part of your mouth that it touches, and thick as it is it flows readily, down your throat without you having to swallow. As it passes down your throat you raise your head to the sky and half scream, half howl as the liquid sears your throat. A pressure seems to build up inside you, as your forehead starts to bleed anew, forcing the unwanted blood out of you. The pressure increase until your eyes feel as if they are going to explode, your throat burns worse than any flame you have encountered and the world seems to collapse in on itself as the pain grows to extravagant heights. Your vision dims and finally blackens, your last thoughts encompass nothing more than the exquisite pain.

You have no idea how long has passed when you awaken. Your forehead shows no marks, and the only indicators that anything has occurred is the loss of some blood, the slight burning after taste of the liquid and the loss of your infatuation with Luke Miller, something that has been replaced purely with a desire for revenge.

Ripples of a Darker Nature II: A Stitch

Sonya’s hands flowed rhythmically up and down, the white flowing dress seemingly coming into existence, into life, beneath her measured cadence. Had it been possible for an onlooker to follow the course of events, they would have watched the fabric of the dress weave itself into a pattern of sublime perfection. A pattern of utmost beauty destined for utmost horror.
The dress seemed to weave in synchronised harmony with the soft, angelic melody that subtly filled the glade within which Sonya sat. The soft touch of the damp grass beneath her bare, green-stained legs, the sweet fragrance of a gentle rain and the blissful aroma of fresh cut grass. The silent rustling of the leaves of the eucalypts that guarded the circular glade, the ever-present face of the silver moon bringing tranquillity and peace to the mother’s glade. Every sensation overwhelmed the absent onlooker, reason was impossible, all that existed was the ever-growing peace and calm.

Beneath the calm and the peace, conflicting emotions battled for control of the onlooker. Reason demanded they remember their purpose, remember their need, remember the desperate determination that brought them to this most impossibly dangerous place. Desire and emotion fought need and determination. Animal lust and primal instinct thought reason and knowledge. The sweet vanilla scent of Sonya, the unblemished skin of her bared thighs, her perfect nature, her perfect innocence consumed the primal onlooker. The preternatural attraction fought reason for all control. Ultimately, both lost to the overwhelming sense of calm, peace, and sedate tranquillity that suffused the very atmosphere of the glade.

The onlooker sat beneath a eucalypt and watched with rapt expression the sublimely rhythmic manifestations of Sonya and the white dress. In the subliminal peace the universe revolved through eternity in the space of a single heartbeat. Time lost meaning and the onlooker watched, oblivious to their failure to fulfil their desperate need.

One of the manifestations of Sonya stood gracefully and smiled sweetly to herself as she regarded the primal onlooker. She walked calmly and slowly out of the circle, past the onlooker’s tree. As she stepped beyond the onlooker, her hand barely trailed along his shoulder. He quivered and lent back against the tree, closing his eyes as his life left him. In the merest instant his body collapsed, the flesh taken by nature, the bones fell to dust and there was naught left to speak of the onlookers visit to the green glade.

Ripples of a Darker Nature I: A Chase

Sharon sprinted down the never-ending hallway. Her tattered and blood-stained, once-white loose dress rustled as her bleeding feet struggled to take the next step. The hospital-white walls seemed to loom over her, filling her vision in horrifying totality. She had been running for an eternity. It was still pursuing her.
She could not stop to take breath, she could not pause for a moment’s rest. It was behind her. It was chasing her.
It existed solely to consume her.
Her bruised legs screamed in agony and her lungs tore at her constricted chest. Her mind was consumed only by thoughts of the monster that pursued it.

She continued in her endless sprint down the hallway, primordial fear and base instinct driving her to reach its end. Had she been capable of reason she would have known that there was no end to this corridor. It continued forever. If reason were possible in this place, Sharon may have had the slimmest of hopes against the coming darkness.

Her ankle gave way beneath her as she sprinted around yet another of the infinite corners in this interminable tunnel. Sharon issued a guttural, primeval scream as she crashed to the floor. Terror, beyond even the most imaginable fear, welled within her as she struggled to rise to her feet. Collapsing back to the floor before she could even raise herself to one knee, she desperately tried to claw her way forward. As the fundamental terror overwhelmed her last remaining senses, she felt the monster leap on her back. It howled in in primal supremacy as its blackened form prepared to plunge its razor-sharp claws into her, to draw forth its sweet sustenance. Her consciousness ceased to exist as the monster devoured her life-blood and her very soul.

A John Blakewell Journey III: A Passage

John did not remember the drive from the airport to the hotel. He was jolted back to reality by the taxi driver’s curt observation that they had reached their destination. Tired and apathetic, John thrust a twenty dollar note in the driver’s general direction and ambled into the hotel lobby. Blinking as his eyes slowly adjusted to the brighter lighting, John paused before approaching the check –in-desk. The young, twenty-something attendant looked up at John expectantly, boredom etched into her attractive face. John glanced up, his eyes wandering across her name-tag. He was taken aback. Alison.
Confusion swam through him. This was not Alison. This girl was too young and too blonde. Her hair framed her alabaster face and bright blue eyes in a post-modern mockery of Alison’s down-to-earth, natural blonde. John shook his head in a futile attempt to wipe the memories from his fatigued mind,
“Can I help you, Sir?”
John, stuttered his reply, “I… I… should have a reservation. Uh,… John Blakewell”
The not-Alison typed something into her computer as John struggled to stop comparing her to his Alison.
He was once again jerked out of his reverie, “Ah yes, room five-one-four. Here is your swipe card. Check-out is 10am. Did you require anything, Sir? A wake-up call, perhaps? The restaurant is closed now, but I can have the kitchen send something up to your room if you would like.”
John’s reply was slow as he fought the urge to say the kitchen should send her up.
He shook his head in reply, before reconsidering, “Actually a seven am wake-up call would be good.” He paused as if struggling with a decision he knew the proper answer to, “and have a bottle of bourbon sent up. The best stuff you’ve got.”
John turned away without waiting for a reply and strode towards the elevators. The ride in the lift was interminable, the Christmas carols that played seemingly incessant in their insidious cheer.

He had been in his room for maybe five minutes. Just long enough to take his jacket and shoes off and to loosen his tie. He had just sat on the edge of the bed, his weary head cradled in his trembling hands.
Suddenly, a loud knock reverberated throughout the room. John was halfway to his feet, adrenaline pulsing through him, his heart rising to his throat, when he realised that it was most likely just his bourbon. Trying to calm himself, and feeling foolish for his reaction, he slowly walked to the door. He opened it just enough to snatch the bottle of bourbon from the service boy’s hands and bid the boy a curt thankyou. He closed the door hurriedly and grabbed a glass from the bar stand.

John sat on the end of the bed for what felt like an eternity, staring at the unopened bottle. It was probably foolish to drink tonight. Still, it wasn’t like he was doing it because he had to. His father had just died. He was well within his rights to drink himself into oblivion and back again. It was a harmless way of forgetting today’s events, if only for a few short hours.
The crack that emanated as he broke the seal on the bottle was as sweet a sound as John had ever heard. It sent a shiver through his body. He savoured the anticipation of his first taste of the perfect bourbon. He breathed deeply of the fumes before taking a mouthful straight from the bottle. It had never tasted better. Men wrote of the sweet taste of freedom, John thought, he didn’t need the sweet taste of freedom. Bourbon was more than enough. He savoured the first mouthful, extracting every ounce of the burning flavour. The second mouthful followed a few scant seconds later, and was nearly as invigorating. By the end of the third mouthful, John was ready to just swig the entire bottle.

He sat there, vainly trying to drown his sorrows. Steadily he became drunker and drunker. After an entire conversation with the near-empty bottle in his hands and another with the lamp that he could not quite work out how to switch off, he crawled up the bed to put himself to sleep. He wrestled with the quilt, trying to get under it and failing the miserable fashion that only a drunk can accomplish. Entangled, he gave a roar of pure frustration and cast the quilt onto the floor. It took him with it, cracking his head on the bedside table as he fell. Reaching up to the source of the drink-blunted pain, he drew back a bloodied hand. Dazed and drunk, he slowly extricated himself from the tangle of quilt and sheet. Dragging himself back onto the bed, he collapsed in an exhausted heap. Sleep and unconsciousness slowly claimed his drunken mind.

John’s breath caught in his throat as he abruptly halted in his hurried passage to the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Fear and disbelief stole action and movement from him. He stood there watching, without seeing, the streams of people coming and going through the sliding doors. A hundred thoughts rushed through his head. Why had it happened? Hell, what had actually happened? The phone call had replayed itself in his mind a hundred times in the twenty minutes it had taken him to run from the police building halfway across the city proper.
“John. It’s Dad. You Mum’s in hospital. It’s not good. Get here soon.” That was quickly followed by the click of his father hanging up. A hundred questions, a hundred worries, shot through his mind. He had staggered backwards and fallen into his chair. His colleagues looked at him askew as they tried to work out what was happening. Before they could think to ask, he had stood again and was sprinting for the front doors, a sea of confused faces watching him run.

Except, that was not how it had happened.
Memory and truth fought within John’s drunken, tormented mind. He’d been younger. Much younger. Only thirteen. He was at school when it happened. It had been lunch time. The principal had come and found him. That is what he remembered. That is what had happened. Hadn’t it?

He was sitting on the bench he always sat on, chatting about the latest TV show, or playing marbles, or trying to avoid Steven, the class bully. Whatever it was he normally did in a normal lunch time. It was normal.
He did not see Mr Menzies coming until he was above the boys, interrupting their cheerful discussions.
“John. I need to talk to you in my office right away, son.”
John sat there confused. He didn’t remember misbehaving. Certainly not badly enough to warrant the principal. There was something in the way Mr Menzies was talking that didn’t seem quite right. He was softer than usual, perhaps even concerned.
Sighing and muttering under his breath, John followed Mr Menzies to the office. Curiosity started welling within him. All the adults were looking at him like there was something wrong with him. The office ladies were all sad, one was crying. They looked worried. John started to feel uncomfortable.

Mr Menzies closed the door behind him and sat down. He pulled his chair closer to the other as he motioned for John to sit in it. As he sat, John looked at Mr Menzies, fear openly shown in his eyes.
Struggling to find the courage, Mr Menzies took a couple of false starts before he finally spoke.
“John. Your Dad rang me a little while ago.”
Mr Menzies paused in fear, before the words tumbled out too fast to be fully understood, “Your mum has been taken to hospital. She’s very sick. He’s on the way back from Sydney now.”
Again, Mr Menzies paused, struggling to find words that didn’t seem empty, “He,… he,… John, he asked me to tell you that your mum is very, she probably.” The pause was longer this time, “John, she probably isn’t going to live. I’m so sorry John.”

John sat there in stunned silence, unable to believe what Mr Menzies was telling him. He remembered all the words and none of the words. It couldn’t be true. His mum would never die. She promised she would always be there for him, that she would always look after him. It could not be. Mr Menzies was lying.
“I’ve asked Mrs Milne to take you to the hospital, John. She’s ready as soon as you are. Your Dad will meet you there and I think your grand parents too. Mrs Milne will stay with you until your Dad or grandparents arrive. Okay? I’m so sorry John. I’ll, I’ll give you a few minutes. Mrs Milne is right outside when you’re ready.
John sat there in silence a moment more. His mind trying to comprehend and accept what it had been told. It was not working. At first his mind refused to believe. It could not be true. There was no way it could be true. It just wasn’t possible. Something inside him clicked. He knew it was true. Je knew, somehow, that he would not make it to the hospital in time. That she was already dead. It was almost like she had somehow already said goodbye. Without knowing how or why, John knew that this all made some sort of sickening, horrible sense. He was furious about it. He launched himself at the retreating figure of Mr Menzies, screaming about the unfairness, screaming about the cruelty. Largely, John’s screams were incoherent and animalistic. Mr Menzies was caught off guard by the first punch that John threw. It caught him on the left eye with surprising strength and nearly knocked him over. Once a state football player, Mr Menzies was easily able to restrain John. Holding him until the frightful anger passed into sobbing. Tenderly, he lifted John, cradling him in his arms, and carried him to Mrs Milne’s waiting car.

John passed the car trip oblivious to anything but his own pain and terror. He regained enough control to be led to the emergency room, tears still rolling freely down his face. After Mrs Milne’s enquiry, the nurses led the two of them in to a side room. With amazing empathy and tenderness, they explained that John’s mother had passed away a short time before.
John would not learn until after his father’s arrival that she had killed herself.

John remembers clinging to Mrs Milne much as one would cling to a life raft in the middle of the tempestuous ocean. It is a vivid memory. A certain memory. There is no doubt about it. He remembers her as a kind lady, with a kind-face that showed her fifty years with tenderness. He remembers her as tall, thin and graceful. Mostly he remembers her compassion, an aura that seemed to envelop him in tender mercy. He remembers her holding him and comforting him for the hours it took his father to arrive.

Some years later, John spoke to his father about Mrs Milne. No one but John had any recollection of her. His father found him in the hospital room where the nurses had told him and Mr Menzies about his mother’s passing. John had spent the day alone, hugging a pillow, the concerned nurses watching over him as best they could.

A John Blakewell Journey II: An Argument

“Commissioner Blakewell?”
A hand shook John awake. Groggily, he looked up as his eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness of the Darwin terminal. An attractive blonde woman in her early twenties stood above him, the hint of a faint smile touched her lips as she waited for him to awaken. He struggled to shake the grogginess off.
“What time is it?” he sleepily asked.
“It’s nearly nine p.m., Sir. Your flight has been delayed again. I’m afraid it won’t leave until morning. I’m sorry about the inconvenience. We’ve organised a hotel room for you at our expense. There’s a taxi ready to take you. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the way.”
John slowly stood, at six foot tall, her was nearly a head taller than the airline attendant. He followed behind her, his mind drifting in dazed melancholy. He found himself thinking of how much she reminded him of a more youthful Alison. Wistfully, he considered the possibilities he could pursue if his father’s murder was not hanging over his head. Of course, if that had not happened he would not be here. He mused that he should probably dismiss it all as a moot point. He struggled to focus on something, anything that would take his mind off the recurrent images of his long-standing argument with his father.

“You’re an alcoholic, John.”
John nearly leapt out of his skin. He had not heard his father come into the lounge room of the small three bedroom house they shared in the inner-suburbs of Adelaide. He certainly had not been prepared for his father’s accusation. His mind slightly slow from the effects of the half-empty bottle of bourbon in his hands, he swung himself up from the couch to combat his father’s words.
“You can barely stand,” his father interjected before he could speak, “And you’ve been this way all week. And every week-end for as long as I can remember, since before you dropped out of uni and fucked your life up.”
John recoiled at the mention of his decision to leave university. It had not been for him. He was not the studious type. He preferred action, though he had not seen much of that lately. And anyway, regardless of what his father said, his life was not fucked-up now. He had heard that line too many times to care anymore. The alcoholism was a new one though. Just because he liked to drink every now and then, and just because this was the second (or was it the third?) time this week that he had gotten drunk alone at home… These were not reasons to accuse him of being an alcoholic. He was better than that. He was still in control of himself, not like those pathetic bums or coons he saw in the park lands.
“Do you even have anything to say for yourself?” His father interrupted his stream of thoughts, breaking the lengthy silence that had permeated the room.
John stood there silently as he tried to formulate the words to explain to his father that he was not an alcoholic, that he did not need the booze, and that he chose to get drunk. That he chose to drink because, well, because it was more fun than sitting around watching more painful reality TV shows. Besides it was the only to silence those other thoughts.
“You’re a disgrace, John. I’m ashamed to call you my son. Clean up your act or get out of my house.”
Shocked and aghast, John’s immediate reaction was disbelief and horror. Rapidly this turned to anger and resentment.
“What right have you got to tell me to clean up my act, old man?” he screamed at his father, “You who stood there and watched her agony? You who did nothing to help her? You who drove her to her death? You who weren’t even there when she died? You have no right to be ashamed of me. I should be ashamed of you. Father.”

John’s father physically recoiled from the assault, infuriated by the accusations of his complicity in his wife’s death. Without thought he stepped towards John, his fists clenching at his side.
“You don’t mean that, John. You know as well as I do that there was nothing any of us could have done to save her. Imagine what she would think if she was still here. She’d be horrified. She’d blame herself for your incompetence. She’d be ashamed of you.”
John stood in mute terror as the image of his mother crying over his actions assaulted his drunken mind. His father stood, paused, struggling to regain control of his temper.
“Get out of the my house, John, and don’t come back until you’re sober.”
John shouldered his way past his father, slamming the door behind him. He strode off into the night with only his half empty bottle of bourbon as company. John’s father slouched against the wall. Shock, anger, and sorrow flooded his consciousness, as he slid down the wall, tears welling in his eyes.

A John Blakewell Journey I: A Call

There is a particular sadness, an internal sorrow, a certain resignation to the futility and misery of life. On rare occasion the astute observer could see this internal pain reflected through John Blakewell’s cynical frown. More often, his carefully tended mask projected an aura of quiet optimism and empowering confidence. At a clean six foot tall, John’s frame neatly filled out his perpetually dull suits. Always dark grey or black and rarely featuring any embellishments, his suits never failed to contrast starkly with his garishly coloured ties.

It started innocuously enough. Damian, his civilian aide, stuck his head into John’s personal office in the Australian Police Headquarters of the Satroan Islands. The Embassy needed to speak to John urgently. He contemplated going for lunch before heading over to there, suspecting that this was just another in a long line of public relations nightmares. The newly elected Labor party was desperate to find an excuse to pull the Australian police out of the Satroan Islands, John was determined not to give it to them. For the first time in his thirty-six years, John actually felt that he wanted to stay, that he belonged in this job. He had finally found a position that suited him, where he would not quickly grow bored. Australian Police Commissioner to the Satroan Islands. It was a bit of a mouthful, but the job provided a never ending variety of work, from investigative street work to endless politicking. For John, the highly stressful and overbearing workload was essential. It allowed him to feel alive.
Damian stood expectantly in the doorway, awaiting his response.
“I’ll head up and see Matthew after I’ve had some lunch. I’ve been summoned up there too many times this week. It’s about time they learnt that I have a job to do here and it isn’t going to get done if they summon me up there every time the prime minister gets a little shaky about the latest polls.”
“Ah, sir… They aren’t summoning you. Consul Green is here, in person, himself. Right now. He says it’s too urgent to wait.”
John’s eyebrows raised in questioning surprise. What could possibly be so urgent as to warrant the consul’s personal attendance? Short of a military coup, or an attack on the Australian Embassy. But he would undoubtedly already know about either of those and, anyway, Matthew Green would never have waited to see John in person, let alone for John’s aide to clear the way.
John strode to the door, and ushered the familiar face of Consul Matthew Green into his office as he shooed Damian out. Matthew face was an intriguing, concerning, and awkward mixture of sadness and terror as he closed the door behind him.
“John. I, I think you should probably sit down for this. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you John. Your father died yesterday.”
John half-sat and half-fell in to his large chair, numb and speechless. How could this have happened? He had not spoken with his father in a number of months, maybe a year, but he had been in good health when he had last done so. Surely, he would have heard if his father had been ill. Yes, there was bad blood between the two of them, and worse between his brother and him, but surely had his father been ill he would have heard about it. His father was still young, barely sixty, to just fall over and die was unthinkable. This could not be true.
“John. They need you to go back to Australia straight away. It’s more complicated than you might think.”
“My father’s dead Matthew how much more fucking complicated can it get?”
“He was murdered, John.”
John fell back in his chair, his mind reeling and unable to focus coherently.
“He was found in his yacht yesterday after the owner of the vessel in the neighbouring moor reported hearing a struggle. The New South Wales police want you to fly back down there and help them with their investigations. I’ve already organised some emergency leave, and there’s an air force flight that leaves tomorrow morning for Darwin with a connecting commercial flight to Sydney almost straight after. I’d put you on commercial all the way, but you’d have to catch a couple of planes to get to Kuala Lumpur first, which is just too time-consuming.”
“Thanks, Matt. I appreciate it. Gimme a minute will you.”
Matthew nodded tersely as he walked out of the office, wondering what was going through John’s mind. It was a bizarre set of circumstances. He had neglected to mention that the police were having difficulty locating John’s brother and that, even more puzzlingly, John’ s father had left some sort of cryptic death-bed message for John that the police had been unable to decipher.