Lure

“Can you smell chocolate?”

“What? No.” Charlie frowned, “I was trying to explain how magic has evolved, pay attention.”

Elizabeth paused. She sniffed at the air.

Charlie continued, “People still think of magic as it was in the middle ages.”

“I’m sure of it.” Elizabeth muttered. “I can. Now I really want chocolate.”

Charlie took hold of her chin and examined her eyes. He sighed and looked upwards.

“Hey, you,” he shouted at the rooftops. “Not this one.”

The wind carried soft laughter, and a swish like a fishing line being recast.

“It’s gone,” Elizabeth sniffed. “What were you saying?”

Epic

a trilogy

one

“No! Leave him alone!”

Rian shoved the white-robed Waabuleh priests away from his father’s corpse. The blue-skinned godlings trilled their incomprehensible language but he ignored them, hunching protectively over the charred remains.


two

Rian curled up on himself in the mud. His father’s murderer, Brattak, emperor’s wizard, turned his back on the squire and walked away.

The wizard’s spittle felt heavy on Rian’s face.


three

Rian charged Brattak; he was drenched in the demon wyrm’s still-warm lifeblood and the wizard’s blackfire spells rained impotently against it. He drew his father’s sword, forever his father’s son, and swung.



Dedicated to the memory of James Miller, who led us on many an epic adventure; who embarked upon that final, greatest adventure far too soon.

Bespoke

“That word doesn’t mean what you think it means.”

“Oh, so just cos I ain’t a city boy I don’t know what I mean?”

“You know what you mean. I know what you mean. ‘Bespoke’ is not what you mean.”

“So now you know me business better than me?”

“No, but... my signs are bespoke; chickens... are not.”

“Listen, kid, poultry farming ain’t what it used to be. If I says me chickens are bespoke, they’re bespoke.”

“But, they’re chickens. Chickens happen, you don’t tailor-make them.”

“I do. Guaranteed to the millimetre, to the pantone. Bespoke chickens. It’s the future.”

Starlight

A billion suns and I get lumbered with this one.

Stroking his ego and stoking his flames all the endless day. There is no respite for me, no eclipse or turning the other face. No night.

Mama Void and Papa Dust cast us together and their dictates are final. They are not indulgent of their children, they brook no quarrels. Not to suggest they are uncaring, but unwavering, certainly.

He lashes out, plasma exploding in a burst of magnetic energy which settles across me warmly, tenderly. He is showing off, showering me with particles and radiation, kisses of fleeting eternity.