'Another Day in Paradise' - An essay

Eventually, my studies in the art of the essay brought me to a final assessment. For this, I chose to talk about a subject which has enraged me my entire life (or at least for as long as I can remember). And as I post this on here, I am struck with a strange sense of sadness, as though it is more relevant today than it was when I original wrote it, almost a year ago now. Today, we live with a government which is incompetent and self-servicing at the best of times, but especially now is showing how little regard it actually has for the wildlife of our country. The abhorrant practice that it fox hunting seems to be at the top of the Conservative Party's manifesto. I hope that by reading my essay on the subject I can garner support for the plight of these innocent animals.

Imagine, if you will, standing alone in a spot of unspoiled natural beauty in the English countryside. The wind whistles through the trees. The sun beats its rays down upon the luscious, green grass. All sorts of creatures are walking or flying around you, but they are all harmless, beautiful things. There is really nothing more peaceful than this experience.

You come across a small, innocent animal. Its coat is a deep orange-brown. Its face, orange with a white outline and beady black eyes, holds no malice; it proposes no threat. It looks at you inquisitively. Its small, black nose twitches cautiously. This creature has done no-one any harm whatsoever. All it wishes to do is to survive.

What would you do if confronted with this creature? The most logical course of action to take would be to ignore it. It has hurt nobody. It does not think in a malicious way. You should have no quarrel with this animal.

And yet, inexplicably, many do. The creature I am referring to is, of course, the common red fox.

One of my earliest memories as a child is of holidaying with my family in a distant countryside location. I cannot remember exactly where, such is the nature of human memory. In this memory, I am about five or six years old. I recall sitting in the back of the small, off-white Rover 200 Coupé which was the treasured family car. After a while, we were brought to a steady halt. I look out the window and am faced with the sight of hundreds – or so it seemed at the time – of middle-aged men and women clad in red and gold regalia, all mounted upon powerful-looking steeds, stately and grandiose. The group canter across the short stretch of road in front of us and then break into a gallop as they dart across a wide expanse of field to the left. The horses leap over the wooden fence marking the perimeter of this field with ease, except for one, which catches the fence with its hind legs, smashing a section of it apart. They do not stop to observe the damage, but continue in pursuit of their quarry. I feel the exact location is irrelevant. The event is the key image in my mind.

At the time I had no idea as to what they were chasing, but was naturally impressed by the magnificent figure before me. What child would not be impressed by such fine clothes? Who would not admire someone on horseback? To me, I probably associated the image with royalty.

Now, older and, I hope, wiser, I am fully aware of what I had witnessed. One of the most baffling examples of human behaviour is, in my mind, the love many share of killing living creatures in the name of ‘sport’. And one of the most popular traditional ‘sports’ of England is the barbaric event that is fox hunting. The fox is not eaten after the hunt is finished. The poor little beast is chased by a group of ‘upper class’ men and women on horseback, led by a group of bloodthirsty hounds. The fox is chased mercilessly, with the most unfair odds imaginable – one fox against an entire hoard of scent hounds. The fox may run for a while, but eventually it will run out of steam, and when this inevitably happens, the hounds are upon him. The fox is torn to pieces. The group will then move off, satisfied that they have had a good day’s hunting, keeping up the good old English tradition of destroying those weaker than them.

After all, the quarry was only a fox, was it not?

These practices are, of course, a thing of the past. The Hunting Act 2004 outlawed the practice of hunting with dogs (particularly fox hunting, but also the hunting of other innocent creatures such as deer, hares and mink) in England and Wales from 18^th February 2005.

However, is this really the case? English and Welsh police forces have claimed that they see the enforcement of the Hunting Act as low priority. It seems that crimes against humans are considered far more important than crimes against animals. But when considered more deeply, surely the law seems increasingly absurd: for example, burglary in England carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment. The perpetrator, after the committing of his crime, may well spend the rest of his days locked away in a small cell, completely cut off from the outside world for all eternity (or at least fifteen years). And yet someone who puts an animal through as much fear, pain and suffering as members of hunts do may only be fined a maximum of £5000; there is no jail penalty for this crime. That is, of course, if the police even bother to take the criminal to task – there have only been nine attempted prosecutions where registered hunts are concerned and, more shockingly, only three have been successful, resulting in a grand total of five huntsmen having been convicted since the ‘sport’ became illegal in February 2005. There have been no convictions since January 2007.

It seems that the wellbeing of animals is of very little concern. Perhaps certain groups of people simply have a natural vendetta against these creatures. There have been numerous reports in the media which have attempted to smear the reputation of our foxes. I remember reading, about a year ago, of a local woman in Solihull who had woken up one morning to find her pet cat’s body lying outside her house. The cat’s head had been cleanly severed, and there were no signs of a struggle. She reported later that the fox who had committed this heinous act had since been destroyed.

I smelt a rat immediately. Firstly, I would question how a fox was able to cleanly sever the head of a cat. I do not wish to include stomach-churning material in this essay, but I must stress that the decapitation could not possibly be a clean slice, unless our foxes have evolved into a state of being where they are able to carry swords around with them with which to commit such acts (and even I admit that, if this were to happen, after the way humans have treated foxes over the centuries, it would perhaps be best for us to adopt the stance of kill or be killed). Similarly, it is highly unbelievable that there would be no signs of a struggle – there should have at least been scars (unless the cat simply lay down and took its punishment). And, finally, the fox was destroyed – but how are we to know that it was the same fox. No – a fox was destroyed. It was probably unimportant whether the animal killed was guilty of the crime or not, as long as revenge was served.

I do not intend to suggest that the entire story was a fabrication – the death of a pet in this manner would be very distressing – but it seems more likely that this would have been the act of a cruel human rather than a fox.

Recently, in another part of the smear campaign seemingly set up against these beautiful animals, it was argued that foxes carry lungworm – a parasitic worm that infests the lungs of vertebrates – and pass this on to other animals. Nationwide favourite lie rag the Daily Mail reported the following, in an article apocalyptically carrying the doom-laden title ‘DEADLY URBAN FOX DISEASE SPREADING TO DOGS’ and written by the famous journalist known as ‘Daily Mail Reporter’:

Dogs are at increasing risk from a deadly parasite spread by urban foxes, experts say. Cases of lungworm infection – an animal disease that causes breathing problems and internal bleeding – have doubled in recent years. The disease arrived in the UK 30 years ago and is carried by foxes, slugs and snails.[1]

The claims laid down here are, once research into lungworm is conducted, clearly false. A fox is a vertebrate, and it is vertebrates which are afflicted with lungworm; invertebrates – usually slugs and snails – are the carriers, and it is the act of sniffing or licking their trails which causes the egg to enter the respiratory tract of an animal. Cats are generally infected by eating birds who have themselves eaten the original host, suggesting that the only way a fox could infect another animal with lungworm would be to be eaten by said animal, and there aren’t that many creatures which actually eat foxes.

So what other arguments are there in support of this disgusting pastime? One of the arguments put forward by supporters of fox hunting is that it is necessary as a form of pest control. Foxes are considered to be vermin by some farmers, as they fear they may lose valuable livestock if foxes are allowed to stray onto their land. Foxes are believed to frequently commit acts of surplus killing, particularly towards chickens, but will only eat one of the many they have killed. However, I am sorry to say that the only creature on the planet which kills animals for useless purposes, i.e. for fun, are humans. Foxes do not have malicious intent when they commit acts of violence against other animals. They will, unless rabid, only attack in self-defense or for food, and provided it is not disturbed, the fox will take all of the chickens it has killed away from the site of death and conceal them elsewhere to eat later, when times are harder. It is understandable that these events can be very damaging to a farmer, and would naturally instil a hatred for these creatures within them, but if better security measures were put in place, these killings would be far less likely to occur. There are now many humane methods of fox-proofing a farm such as electric fences and ultrasonic devices. And besides, if they were always a pest species, it seems odd than many farmers consider them an ally in preventing the arrival of rabbits, moles and voles on the farms. And besides, there has been evidence in the past that farmers were encouraging foxes to breed on their land in order to provide foxes for sport – it seems quite strange that some farmers would actively encourage the presence of these ‘vermin’ on their land.

So immediately it is apparent that this argument holds no water whatsoever. Another – perhaps the main – problem with this argument is that male foxes are territorial animals: as soon as one fox is eliminated from a location, another will move in an take its place, and by only going after one fox at a time the ‘pest’ problem will never be dealt with effectively. So it is very clear that this is simply a feeble attempt at justifying the barbarous actions of these individuals. And, it must be admitted, if it was truly to do with pest control the so-called ‘exterminators’ wouldn’t be required to assemble on horseback clad from head to toe in ceremonial regalia in a manner steeped in tradition. Is it in any way realistic to imagine a pest control team chasing rats around a city with dogs blowing bugles?

The question which hangs in the air around all of this madness is as to who the real enemy is. Is it the hunters themselves, engaging in the sport for the sake of tradition? Is it the current Prime Minister, who seems unmovable regarding his desire to relinquish the ban on fox hunting? Or is it the media, reporting ‘facts’ to the public under the guise of ‘news’ whilst simply broadcasting their own political views? In my opinion, there is no one source for this enmity against our beautiful native foxes. We shall always find supporters of blood sports and we shall always find those who oppose them, just as we shall always find folk who enjoy football and those of us who wish it would simply go away. But I think it highlights a certain strange, sinister desire hidden deep within the psyche of the supporting side when they are happy to invent facts and transmit them to the public through whatever medium is at their disposal in a truly pathetic attempt to convert the opposing side to their point of view.

Can there ever really be any justification for this disgusting sport? I would be very surprised if, before the Hunting Act is once more voted upon in 2012, we do not hear even more arguments for the continuation of this ‘sport’, attempting to dress up what is clearly just a game to those taking part as some sort of necessary heroic culling activity. And I fully expect the ban to be repealed as so many seem to be against it. But it would be a return to a lowly, vicious state of being for mankind.

Surely we have progressed beyond such barbarism?

When I think back to that day, many years ago, when I first witnessed a hunt, my mental image is always accompanied by music. The song playing on the car’s radio was Phil Collins’ ‘Another Day in Paradise’. When I think back to what that fox must have been going through at the time, my father’s choice of music seems rather ironic.

2011

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[1] Daily Mail Reporter, ‘DEADLY URBAN FOX DISEASE SPREADING TO DOGS’, http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1373857/Deadly-urban-fox-disease-spreading-dogs.html, [accessed 10 April 2011].

'On the 3D Trend' - An essay

During my second semester at university, I took a module in creative non-fiction. During one of our many workshops, we discussed the writing of personal essays. What follows is my own first attempt at exploring that area of writing.

When it comes to modern cinema, special effects are widely considered to be of the utmost importance. Gone are the days where, without the power of the computer having been invented, monsters were simply men in silver tin foil, and any animated characters were the products of stop-motion or a hard-working artist’s drawings. Yet I now feel that, finally, special effects have gone too far, with the current fetish that is 3D.

Every single film trailer shown nowadays feels the need to end with the irritating tagline ‘at cinemas now – in 3D!’ It would appear that film companies find the concept that some people may not be interested in this new medium utterly baffling; why would anybody not want to go into a cinema and be able to look at it as if they were looking down a real-life street? Well, in my eyes, the answer is simple – if people want to view a 3D environment, then it would be easier to sit still, open your eyes and look directly in front of you, rather than spending almost £10 to get the exact same effect in a cinema.

3D, for a start, seems to be just another excuse for Cineworld to absorb even more money out of my wallet. The first time I went to my local cinema to see a 3D film was during all the hype about Avatar, whence I was charged the standard student rate of £6.50 – but then the catch was cruelly sprung upon me.

‘I’m sorry, we only show 3D films in the deluxe screen.’

Suddenly, my £6.50 went up to £9, followed by an extra charge of £1 for those charming magic spectacles.

I am further irritated by the way in which filmmakers treat 3D as some sort of 21^st century scientific breakthrough. Well, I’m afraid stereoscopic technology has been around since the 1950s, and all it really is is two images placed on top of one another with one image being moved sideways slightly. But it was once a niche market – if you saw something in 3D, it really was a treat. Now however, we’re having it shoved down our throats every single day, not just in films (where for 2011 I have counted no less than 33 three-dimensional titles, including Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides (which I seem to recall used no 3D other than occasionally hving a pirate stick a sword out of the screen in a this-is-supposed-to-be-threatening-but-really-just-looks-a-bit-crap kind of way), Captain America, and The Smurfs), but on television as well (does anybody remember Channel 4’s simply awful 3D night a couple of years ago?) and also in games! The Nintendo 3DS, which scientists suggest may be harmful to the eyesight of children. Personally, I can’t think of a worse idea for a handheld console.

But the worst part of the 3D craze is the way in which many of my friends absolutely rave about it: ‘wow, it looks just like the planes are flying towards you. I ducked because I was afraid they might crash into me.’ Well, unfortunately, that is still an impossibility. I refuse to believe that anyone will be fooled by the ‘futuristic’ ‘magic’ of 3D which, although allowing you to see actors on a screen in all their pop-out book style glory, is still just a flat image on a screen, meaning that pirate up there isn’t going to be able to run you through with his rapier, the giant winged things in Avatar aren’t going to fly out into the cinema and take you back to their nests, and if you are unwilling to pay even more money for the magic specs, you’re stuck with a grey, blurred image with pink and green fringes around every single object.

And what about when the film is released on DVD (which is being destroyed by the seemingly pointless craze of Blu-Ray, but that’s for another essay), where most films only see a 2D release despite the ‘incredible’ ‘depth-of-field’ they possessed in their original cinematic form? And on top of that, the few films that are released in 3D, once they enter the home entertainment environment, look absolutely appalling; gone are the Clark Kent-esque digital 3D glasses. Here we are forced to put up with flimsy cardboard glasses with coloured lenses resembling discarded Roses wrappers (recycling at its best). Not only do I find this method of viewing 3D the one most likely to give you a cataclysmic migraine, but the image suddenly becomes a sickly mixture of grey and pink – whatever that colour is called, it’s certainly not how it looked in the cinema.

Despite constantly being told how amazing it is, I still feel unable to understand the attraction of 3D. During the few 3D films I have willingly opted to see, I have found myself frequently removing those incredibly annoying glasses because, having never worn glasses in my life for longer than about half an hour in a drama class at school, I find three full hours of being fitted with them sheer murder on my ears and the bridge of my nose. And the most humorous thing about the glasses is the amount of people I know who have confessed to taking the glasses off just to see what the film looks like without them on. It seems very strange that people will go to see a 3D film but are in fact more interested to see how it looks in 2D. Why not just go to see a 2D film? And I imagine it must be murder on my friends who already wear glasses, having to wear 3D specs over the top of their normal specs; aside from being incredibly uncomfortable, I always feel they look somewhat like incredibly short-sighted nerds from the future.

But I am forced to wonder, with much horror, what we will be forced to deal with next. There are already 3D televisions. Well, that’s all well and good, but to me it sounds like another fad similar to HD which, unless you have incredibly acute eyesight, will look extremely similar to regular TV. And do any of us really want to see EastEnders in a way which makes us believe we are really there? Look out for Pat Butcher, she’s throwing knives out into the audience again! Do any of us really want to watch Pineapple Dance Studios just to see a larger than life Louis Spence flinging his arms out towards you as if he’s about to pull you into his insane and frighteningly eccentric and destructively deluded world of perfection and lead you in his definition of a foxtrot? I sincerely hope not. But with the way 3D is being consistently rammed down our throats I wouldn’t be surprised if before long we will be forced to put up with Prime Minister’s Question Time in the same medium. Imagine that; Clegg and Cameron, the Chuckle Brothers themselves, practically in the room with you. What joy.

But what do I know?

2011

'Jimmy' - A short story

Readers only ever seem to care about the heroes. Does anyone truly ever consider what it is like to be the villain? Did readers of Casino Royale ever stop to think about poor old Le Chiffre? Did anyone feel sorry for Pinkie in Brighton Rock? Did anyone consider Big Brother’s point of view in Nineteen Eighty-Four?

No. The villain is someone to be despised and booed at. Even in pantomimes, children are actively encouraged to hiss at the bad guy when he walks on stage. The same is as true in real life as it is in fiction. Such was Jimmy Ambrose’s line of thought on that miserable Sunday afternoon during the summer of 1965. As he walked down the dirty, litter-strewn street, he tried his hardest to catch the eye of anyone and everyone who walked past him. Women with perambulators; important-looking men with briefcases tucked under their arms; immigrants; mods; rockers – yet nobody seemed to think twice about the pale young man with the wide, staring green eyes and the thin, tightly-pursed lips. And, furthermore, nobody seemed to care that the hands buried deep in his pockets were still stained crimson with the blood of his latest victim.

Everyone knew who he was. Everyone wanted to ask him what it was like to kill a man in cold blood. Yes, they did. Everyone everywhere at every point in time wanted to know the story of Jimmy Ambrose. They would say they didn’t. It was as if it was some sort of taboo, wanting to know more about – even supporting – someone the police called a villain.

But Jimmy knew the truth. Everyone pretended not to know him, but they must do. They must. How could they not?

Jimmy turned and walked slowly down a seedy alleyway. The air smelt as though a truckload of rotten fish had just been dumped into one of the bins. Jimmy liked the stench. It reminded him of home. It reminded him of how his father had gutted fish all day long when he came in from his fishing trips. He had never been there while jimmy was growing up. He had even, on one occasion, called him ‘Tommy’. Tommy! Ha! It came to something when your own father didn’t even know your name, didn’t it? Yes. Yes, it was a terrible mistake for Michael Ambrose to have made. It was the last mistake he would ever have the privilege of making.

Jimmy had initially considered drilling holes in his father’s boat. As an experiment, of course. The aim was to discover whether the boat would still float. But it would have been pointless to do such a thing. How could he ever see the reaction on his father face if he were to drown in the middle of the ocean? Jimmy couldn’t go with him to watch. He would die too. And Jimmy Ambrose must stay alive. It would be wasteful for both father and son to find themselves trapped in a watery grave. He had wracked his brains for days upon days for a solution to his problem. How could he punish dear father? He came up with so many plans: hitting him from behind with an axe, poisoning his evening meal, and he even considered locking him in the garden shed and letting his starve to death. But no, that wouldn’t be right. It would be pointless. After all, if you are going to murder someone who has wronged you, they need know that it was you who killed them. There’s no point murdering a man if he doesn’t look into your eyes before he falls and thinks ‘oh, so this is why I am to die – because I wronged poor little Jimmy.’

In the end, he had stolen a shotgun from the shed, and had confronted his father in the living room. His sister and mother had been there too. Jimmy could still remember the looks on their poor little faces. It was hard. But it had to be done.

It was only a year later, but there were still far too many villains in the world. Jimmy wasn’t the villain! Everyone thought he was, but he simply wasn’t. He was one of the goodies, righting wrongs and punishing the wrongdoers. Yes, he liked killing. But isn’t it simply a divine gift if one can truly enjoy their work?

‘Hey, mate.’ The voice called out from the shadows. Jimmy turned slowly on the spot to see where the sound had emanated from. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘Yeah, you.’ The person speaking was a young man of about Jimmy’s own age. He wore a long brown coat and sunglasses, and jimmy saw that a thin white stick had been placed in the boy’s mouth. What was it? Ah, of course. One of those foul smelling sticks that people breathe through to make them cough. He had never understood why you would want one.

‘You got a light, mate?’ the boy asked.

Jimmy just stared at him. A light? What on Earth did this strange young man mean? Was he...? Yes, he must be. An enemy. This person knew all about Jimmy’s mission to rid the world of Evil. And he had been sent by Evil to stop him. Yes, there was only one way to save himself. The boy would have to die.

Five minutes later, and Jimmy found himself sitting on the ground in front of Big Ben. The last kill had really taken it out of him. He felt ill. His whole body ached. His hands were still soaked in blood. He brought them out of his pockets and started intently at them. Yes, they were still crimson. It reminded him a Shakespearean line he had once heard and very much liked. What was it? This my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red. Never was a truer word more fitting for a moment in time than that one was now. Could it be that the boy had really been an ally? No! He couldn’t trust anyone. Jimmy Ambrose had no friends, so how could anyone ever really be kind to him. To make friends you had to go out, and drink, and touch people. You had to be sociable, and hug other men and – even worse – women. Argh! Women! He hated them more than anything. His mother had been a woman. All he knew was that women were cruel, and shouted at you for no reason, and beat you, and took orders from snakes, and got you in trouble by making you eat apples off trees when you’d been told not to. And if you did find yourself unable to stop yourself from liking them, they laughed at you when you asked them to go out with you. Yes, they thought Jimmy Ambrose didn’t know, but he did know. He knew all about how a woman could make a man’s heart break like glass without physically doing anything to it. It was an evil power. An unearthly power. And he was sure if your heart broke you would die. And Jimmy Ambrose had to stay alive at all costs. Whether we fall by ambition, blood or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust. Webster. He had also known exactly what he had been talking about.

He looked up, and noticed that everyone walking past him was looking right at him. Yes, go on. Stare. You all know me. You know who I am. You know what I do. You know why God created me. Love me! Fear me! You could be next!

But what was it in the eyes of the passers-by that unnerved him? Of course! They were looking at him accusingly, as if he were a common criminal. Or maybe they all just thought Jimmy Ambrose was a sick boy. ‘I’m not!’ he screamed at them. ‘I’m not mad!’ Now everyone had stopped walking. In fact, there was no-one there anymore. The street was deserted. Had he imagined the whole thing? No! He couldn’t have! That would mean he was crazy, and Jimmy Ambrose was not crazy!

But what was that? A shuffling? Over to the right. Turn your head. Yes, there was someone there. A short, hunched figure, little more than a silhouette, was wandering up the street towards him. He carried a large bag at his side. He was another kind of person jimmy had learned about. The tramp. Relatively harmless, but could he really take the chance? He could be another enemy agent. He too would have to die. Jimmy waited quietly for the figure to approach. He would have to time his attack just right, before the tramp had the opportunity to strike first, but when he was close enough for Jimmy to be sure he would not miss.

He waited a little longer, until there was only about a metre between them. Now! Jimmy pulled a knife out of his pocket and thrust it towards the figure. He felt it pierce the soft skin, and warm blood began to rush over his cold hands. The body let out a sigh and crumpled to the floor. It lay there, totally motionless. Jimmy bent down and opened the tramps bag. It was filled with dirty clothes. Could it be possible?

The man had not been an enemy. It was as clear as crystal. The tramp had been just that, a tramp. Nothing more.

It was then that Big Ben began screaming. It shouted out into the night sky. A loud, metallic clanging shout. And it kept on shouting. ‘Shut up!’ Jimmy screamed. It had seen what he had done, and it was alerting everyone nearby to it. The clock was telling the whole world. They would surely be able to hear it in Australia! ‘Be quiet!’ He was desperate for the shouting the stop! Soon he would have a mob on his hands if the damned clock didn’t put a cork in it! He kept on yelling at the great structure, but nothing he could do or say could stop the clanging of those terrible bells. They seemed to go on forever. Jimmy couldn’t take it anymore. To stay here would be suicide. And besides, he was pretty sure the clock couldn’t run as fast as he could. It was far too big. If it chased him, he could easily outrun it.

Jimmy Ambrose turned and ran as fast as his legs could carry him away from the scene of his crime.

2011
http://splendidfred.com/2011/03/07/jimmy-a-short-story-by-william-green/

'The Ferryman' - A short story

When I finally came to writing my creative piece for assessment, I did not find it as difficult to come up with a good story within a 2000-word limit. Inspired by Greek Mythology and First World War poetry, I created the following narrative. It was only two marks away from receiving a first, an achievement I am very proud of for a first year English student simply taking a creative writing module as a means of winding down and alleviating stress. I hold this story in very high regard as one of my favourite pieces of writing.

‘We’ll all be home for Christmas, lads,’ the General had said three years ago.

The mud, the rats, the lice, the constant rain – all of it drove the soldier mad with rage whenever he thought about it, and there was rarely a time when he wasn’t thinking about it. Gunfire sounded incessantly all around him, the constant thudding sound boring deep into his brain. He could barely watch as his friends – his brothers – fell to the ground in front of him, never to walk again, systematically murdered by the enemy. Some who fell would be lucky. Perhaps they’d be sent home with a case of shell-shock. Or maybe they’d just be executed for cowardice. Either way, at least they’d be out of this nightmare.

But he kept on going. He played his part as the pawn, just as they wanted him to. He killed the enemy without thinking, barely registering the fact that they, like he, were young men with parents and children. None of them had been told the truth. Delusions of glory and honour had finally been washed away by the rain and mud, and the truth was too dark to even warrant contemplating. Only the war poets dared to speak the truth, and there was one poem the soldier liked in particular. Well, perhaps ‘liked’ was too strong a word, but it summed up his frame of mind perfectly:

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori.

‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!’ The words turned to venom as he mulled them over in his mind. ‘It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country’ – the person who said that had clearly never been asked to do so.

 ‘Home for Christmas.’ They were probably right. They just hadn’t specified which Christmas.

As he contemplated this, however, he suddenly realised he had lost his focus – a fatal error. He hardly noticed as he began to keel over, the world turning into a black haze as his vision was clouded by the dust and the smoke of the battle, which hung heavily in the air as though attempting to mask the death and destruction from God’s view. He felt pain shoot throughout his body. He tried to scream, but no sound emerged. He hit the ground with a dull thud, and lay there, paralysed, in agony, feeling the darkness close in all around him.

The soldier woke up some time later. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and was amazed to find, upon examining himself, that he appeared to be totally uninjured. In fact, he couldn’t find any physical damage at all. His legs were completely intact, his knuckles weren’t even so much as grazed, and his breathing – breathing! He couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard he tried, he found he was unable to draw breath into his body. Had his lungs perhaps been punctured? Maybe he wasn’t as undamaged as he had initially thought. He struggled, but it was hopeless. He was going to die anyway, and he knew there was no escape.

This agony continued for several minutes, before he finally registered that something quite unusual was happening. He forced himself to calm down. He had been in a state of panic for a good five minutes and yet, when he placed his hand against his chest, his heart rate had not increased in the slightest. In fact – and this is what disturbed him more than anything – he could feel no heartbeat whatsoever.

He had no heartbeat. He could not breathe and yet he continued to live. He felt numb all over, and his skin was icy to the touch, as if his blood had ceased to pump around his body. Confused, he rose to his feet, and looked around him.

The fighting still raged on, but none of the soldiers who raced past him so much as glanced at him.

It was then that he felt something hit his chest at speed and, looking down, he noticed a large bullet wound had appeared.

But he felt no pain. No blood seeped from the hole. He was astounded. He seemed to be immortal! But how could this be possible? This was the ‘war to end all wars’, not some sort of fairytale. Whatever had happened to him, it was very, very surreal.

At that moment, something, almost like a voice carried on the wind, told him to look to his left; as he did so, he saw, at the bottom of a hill, a river running fast and free. He was sure that river had not been there before. The soldier walked down the hill to investigate and, as he came close to the edge of the water, he saw a tall, thin figure gently rowing a small boat towards him. As he came closer, he noticed that he was in fact a hooded old man, with an ashen face as white as chalk, very few teeth left, an untidy, matted white beard, and a long, hooked nose. He carried a large wooden stick to row the boat with, but he saw he rarely dipped it in the water; the boat simply glided towards him as if of its own free will, seemingly uninfluenced by the rapid flow of the water which would certainly have pulled any Earthly boat away down the river.

The boat stopped just short of the bank, and the man held out a wrinkled, wart-covered hand with long, spidery fingers and dirty, rough fingernails. ‘Come,’ he croaked, in a hoarse voice which was barely a whisper. ‘It is time.’

The soldier didn’t know why he felt so willing to go with the man, but something told him he had to. Something told him that he didn’t have any choice in the matter. He took hold of the man’s hand and stepped timidly into the boat, which automatically began to carry them away down the river, slowly and steadily.

‘What river is this?’ he eventually asked. Then, uncontrollably, all of his questions came flooding out of him. ‘Who are you? What’s happened to me? This river wasn’t here before, was it? Where are you taking me?’

The man held up his hand for silence, and the soldier obeyed. He leant on his stick, thinking, and sizing him up with a pair of small black eyes. Eventually, he spoke.

‘It is called the River Styx,’ he said with pleasure, smiling as he finished speaking the name. ‘My name is Charon, the ferryman. It is my job to take the dead to where they belong.’ As if his last statement did not make it clear what had happened, he continued with ‘you, my friend, have died.’

‘Died?’ He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. He screamed the word at Charon again. ‘Died!?’

‘Yes, died.’ Charon spoke matter-of-factly, as if he felt no sympathy for his situation. ‘Ceased to exist. The breath has left your body. Your spirit comes below with me whilst your body remains above. Do you understand now?’

He could have passed out. It all made sense now. He looked around him, and noticed thousands of men, all of them dressed similarly to him, along the sides of the riverbank.

‘Who are these men?’ he asked of Charon.

‘Those like you,’ was his simple reply. Charon cackled. He beat his staff on the floor of the boat, and he felt the thump as they hit the side of the bank and stopped moving. Charon motioned for the soldier to step off, and he did as he was told.

When he looked back, he noticed Charon had remained on the boat. ‘I can go no further. Hades is through that door.’ He pointed at a pair of large wooden doors which looked as though they concealed the entrance to some sort of temple. ‘Watch out for Cerberus,’ he added. ‘He hasn’t eaten today.’

‘Cerberus?’ he asked, fearfully.

‘A many-headed hound,’ he said, in a tone which suggested he felt this would be common knowledge. ‘Guards the entrance to Hades; makes sure no-one who crosses the Styx returns, that sort of thing.’

It was then that the soldier looked longingly over the water, eyeing up the other side, desperate to return the way by which he had come.

And then he fancied he saw the outline of a little boy on the other side. Yes, he was certain he was there. He was transparent, and seemed to glow in the moonlight, but he was definitely there. He was moving his mouth silently. He strained his ears to listen. He fancied he could just make out one phrase.

‘Daddy, please don’t leave.’

The words tugged at his heartstrings. He knew he had to get back somehow. Charon was leaning on his stick, watching him.

‘You wish to return home?’ He sounded genuinely surprised. He scrutinised him minutely with his beady, black eyes. ‘I sense that you would be willing to do more than most to achieve this goal.’ He smiled: a large, toothless grin. Then he seemed to make up his mind. ‘I can make you a deal, my friend.’ He spoke the words slowly, as though thinking hard about what he was saying. He nodded to show that he was willing to do whatever it took for him to get home to his little boy. Charon thought for a while, before continuing. ‘I have been the ferryman here for fifty years. In that time I have never had a day’s rest. The ferryman can only change if the staff is taken willingly by the new ferryman. I was tricked into doing so. I wanted the boat to go faster; the ferryman at the time told me I should row the boat myself. And, thus, I took his staff but, upon reaching the underworld, I discovered I could never step off the boat. I was bound for all eternity to take doomed souls across the river, and I knew I could never enter the afterlife until someone took the post from me, willingly.

‘Once you have been a ferryman, you receive powers which can never be taken from you. Forever, I shall have the ability to take life... or to give it.’

He knew what the bargain was to be before Charon even spoke the words. ‘You want me to become the new ferryman,’ he said at last.

Charon nodded. ‘Until you are able to find a new volunteer and, once you have done so, I will work my magic to send you home.’

He didn’t have to think twice. He nodded his agreement, and took the staff from Charon. It was cold and wet against the palm of his hand, and try as he might, he found he could not let go once his skin had made contact with it.

Charon stepped off the boat, and smiled. But it was not malicious. He was a man of his word. He looked back at him and, stepping forward quickly, embraced him. ‘Thank you, my good sir.’

He nodded. He felt no sense of grief at the years – or decades – which lay ahead of him. Only joy, for he knew that one day he would be home.

‘Once you have found the next ferryman,’ Charon said, you must follow the tunnel into the underworld. Here you will see two rivers: the right one is the Phlegethon - a stream of fire, which coils round the earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus, which you must not follow under any circumstances, lest you wish to spend eternity in Hades – and the Cocytus on the left. Follow the Cocytus, and you will find a blinding light. Walk into the light, and you will be free. Thank you once again, my friend. I am ever indebted to you for your kindness.’

*

No-one knew how the soldier made it through his injuries. But made it he did, and it wasn’t long after that he was stepping off the train once again, and smelling the fresh country air of his homeland.

And it was then that he heard the cry of a child. But it was a different sound to all he had heard the past three years. This wasn’t a cry of pain. This wasn’t even a cry of anger.

It was a cry of joy.

He turned towards the sound, and his face lit up in a wide grin when he saw where it had come from. At the other end of the platform stood a tall woman, grinning with happiness at the sight of him and, running towards him, the source of the noise, was a little boy. The boy ran into his arms, weeping, and screaming ‘thank you for coming home.’

The soldier never spoke of his experiences that day. He lived to ripe old age and died, peacefully, in his bed, surrounded by his family. It was said that in his final moment, he would look towards the open window of his bedroom, smile, and raise a hand in acknowledgement of the presence of someone he clearly recognised.

His final words were, ‘it is good to see you again, Charon, my friend.’

2010

'The Good, the Bad and the Olives' - A short story

This story was written at a point further into my first year at university, during the point where my writing style had become, to my mind, rather stagnant. Try as I might, I never felt any of my work could live up to what I felt I had achieved with 'Appointment with Fate'. I did not want to become a 'gothic writer', preferring to write a more diverse range of material more akin to my greatest inspirations - Chaucer and Shakespeare aside, I am a devoted fan of the intellectual crime fiction of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the humorous absurdities of P. G. Wodehouse, the subtle wit of Oscar Wilde and the great social commentary of Charles Dickens and George Orwell, amongst others. It was with this thought it mind, that I made an attempt at writing comedy. This is, without a doubt, the silliest, most bizarre piece of fiction I have ever created, but it has proved very popular amongst those who have read it, and as such I have decided to include it here, despite my own reservations about it, as an example of my early work which will doubtlessly be held in high regard by future generations (fingers crossed).

             Raymond Chandler and Ian Fleming must be turning in their graves...

An angry Olive can be a horrific thing. Aside from their terrifyingly foul taste and their fearful texture, each Olive harbours within its soul a dark desire; no-one knows this desire but them. They are trusted not only by the Humans, but by both the Fruits and the Vegetables. Each gang believes that the Olives work for them, and this “double agent” status is made all the easier to maintain by the fact that no mortal being truly knows whether an Olive is a Fruit or a Vegetable anyway.

But Olives do, in fact, belong to their very own category. They are to this day the only known Evil food. They may have taught you at school, dear reader, that all food was neutral. I am sorry to inform you that they lied.

It was on the 86^th day on January, in the year 1947, that I first learned the truth about the Olives. I was sitting alone in my armchair, in my office on the corner of 666^th Street, minding my own business, and cradling a dish of those treacherous Fruit-Vegetables in my large, calloused hands, when I heard a knock on the door. It was a gentle knock. It was, furthermore, an incredibly timid knock, as if the person on the other side of the threshold had simply brushed their nails against the wood.

The woman entered the room upon my invitation. She was young and incredibly beautiful, possessing a chalky white complexion and a head of thick, blue hair which fell heavily down her back and trailed behind her on the floor. I determined from just one glance at her – such was my skill as a private detective – that she was in dire need of a haircut, and had potentially suffered an accident involving hair dye or food colouring at some point in her life.

It seemed to me as though she was about to faint. I considered for some time whether or not I should allow her to use of a chair; however, there was only one in my small office, and it was, I regret to say, situated directly beneath my firm and perfectly rounded buttocks.

By the time I had decided that I would indeed give up my most comfortable seat to her, she lay unconscious on the floor of my office, and I then realised it would be pointless now. I continued sitting, and waited for her to wake up.

As I sat there, attempting to finish he reading of a most fantastic novel – which, incidentally, was the most wonderful detective story of all time: The Adventures of Sherlock Hound – and at the same time attempting to finish writing my own novel while avoiding the use of vowels (as a phobia had gripped me in its iron fist ever since the alphabetti spaghetti incident in my early childhood) she incessantly mumbled in her sleep (or whatever you call it when someone’s unconscious). I heard two words repeated over and over again – Ollie and Viv. Sometimes, chillingly, the two words seemed to fuse into one disyllabic sound – 'Olive'. The mention of the Fruit and/or Vegetable made me uneasy, and with great anger and frustration, I threw my own Olives into the corner of my office.

I know what you are thinking, dear reader. Why did I throw my Olives away when it is common knowledge that they are highly volatile, and can spontaneously combust if not treated with great care. I have often wondered at my actions too, ever since that day. But it was too late to retrieve the lost Olives. They exploded, and a fire steadily spread throughout the room.

I quickly snapped to my senses, and ran out of the door. The corridor was ablaze. I turned back and noticed posters had been stuck all over the walls of the building. Each displayed the same image of two bright green Olives, each with a martini in hand, smiling out at the world. Below them ran the caption: 'Ollie and Viv – building a brighter future.' I smiled contentedly at this news, but I had exceptionally sharp eyes, and it only took me an hour before I noticed the small print at the bottom of the poster: 'there will be no bright future for Humans; Humans must die.'

It was the most terrible coup since the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand; since the murder of King Snow Patrol; since the banishment of Lord Bon Jovi.

I ran back into my office and began slapping the unconscious young woman frantically across her face, hard. I had to take my frustration out on something, after all. After a few minutes, she came to, and I began to grill her mercilessly. She claimed the Olives had been in power for three whole weeks, and I cursed the day I had decided to spend three weeks indoors playing that game of intense physical and mental skill, “The Tower Game” (or “Jenga” as these new “hip” youngsters call it nowadays). The building continued to burn, and as the flames began to lick at my door, I knew I had to exit the room the only possible way – by diving out through my window. I knew it could be the end of me, but I had to try and get out. I took a running jump and dived through the glass. I plummeted an entire foot to the ground, and hit it with an almighty thump.

I had always thought it was a smart move to have procured an office on the ground floor. It was as I lay there, feeling the bite of the air – it was, after all, a cold, bright day in January – that I remembered the woman. Could I go back into the building and save her? I looked back into my beautiful, burning office. She lay at least three feet away from me. I cursed. She was too far away.

And it was then that I saw them. Hundreds of thousands of millions of Olives were roaming the streets. It was truly a terrible sight. Some carried people out of their houses and dumped them in the gutter. In the corner of the street, two Olives mercilessly skinned a helpless Banana. A car crashed into a streetlight, and the Olive that had been driving staggered out, laughing manically, and swinging a bottle of Chris de Burgh ’72 around.

It had begun.

I felt the tears of anger welling up in my eyes and, before they spotted me, I snuck into an art studio nearby.

The studio was filled with the rich odour of Olives. In a large, black chair at the desk at the far end of the room sat Viv (I recognised her from the poster). Her legs were outstretched and resting on Ollie’s back, who crouched on all fours in front of her, and she stroked a young Orangepip sinisterly with her long, spidery fingers.

'Well, Mr. Unnamed Detective Hero Of This Story,' she said mockingly, 'welcome to my lair. I must say, you’re not the Bond-style hero I was expecting.' She threw her head – if indeed olives have heads – backwards and let out a shrill, overexcited cackle.

I thought for a moment how to respond to this arch-villain. Eventually I said 'I have friends who talk about the pleasures of the Bond fantasy. But what that really boils down to is a bald bad guy, a girl in a bikini and loud bangs in a foreign country.' I paused, and felt satisfaction as the smile was wiped from her face at the cool way in which I spoke, expressing no fear and no agitation.

I continued: 'And given that he was already a thirty-something man when he first appeared, I feel he ought by now to be hobbling around on a Zimmerframe.' Viv had by now dropped her Orangepip and allowed it to scurry away across the floor.

'Have you anything else to say, my dear?' Her voice was snide, arrogant, and barely concealing her anger.

I felt it would be best to keep quiet, but I blurted out 'with built-in Martini-shaker' before I knew what I was doing.

'Are you mocking me?' she asked, kindly.

I felt the urge to enter into a lengthy conversation with her regarding the many continuity errors I had picked up in films and books over the years but, dear reader, I shall spare you the further anguish of having to pay attention to that part of the proceedings.

'No ma’am,' I answered.

Ollie and Viv stood up, and both drew long scythes from their... I suppose the best word is pockets, if you can imagine an Olive with arms, legs and pockets. I myself, sensing a potential threat, drew out my assault rifle from my own pocket, and prepared to do battle for the freedom of mankind.

I could describe the entire battle to you, but that would be a waste of time. After all, as I am the narrator of this story, I think the outcome must be obvious.

I won.

‘The Great Olive Cleansing’, also known as the ‘Olive Chainsaw Massacre’, occurred that year led, of course, by me. Naturally, we had traitors in our midst, who attempted to rescue the Olives (the most famous attempt was made by my dear friend Billy Schindler, who hid Olives away in a broken-down lift in order for them to escape their inevitable punishment (these events are told of in my finished novel, Schindler’s Lift). But none did escape. The human race prevailed. The new age had begun. Only the clinically insane would continue to treat Olives as a healthy and respected food. The rest of us never forgot, and we certainly never forgave.

And, finally, what of the girl in my burning office? I could never finish my tale without a reference to her. Did she make anything of herself in life? Did I ever discover who she was?

No. She died of course.

2010

'Appointment with Fate' - A short story

This was the first piece of work I ever submitted to Splendid Fred Magazine. I wrote it in my third or fourth week of university life, if memory serves. It was initially started as a potential candidate for the final piece I would have to submit for my Fictional Writing module, inspired largely by my love of Edgar Allan Poe, and by the story 'The Rain Horse' by Ted Hughes, which I had recently come across in the course of my studies, and which I had been particularly captivated by: I strongly suggest everybody with a love of the gothic reads it - it can be found as part of The Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories, compiled by Malcolm Bradbury - aside from 'The Rain Horse', the others stories contained within are also well worth the read.

             However, I soon decided it would be impossible to rework it to word count of 2000 without damaging it as a story. As such, I elected to submit it to the magazine, and it is the publication of this which set me off upon the road towards literary greatness (yes, that is how I like to think of it). Written when I had very little time (and perhaps should have been doing other things), I feel it stands up rather well to scrutiny, especially considered it was my first serious piece of work. It goes without saying that I am ever indebted to Glenn Fosbraey for accepting this; I have never given up writing since, and I hope you enjoy reading as much as it gave me pleasure to create it.

The young man walked swiftly and surely through the dense black leaves of the forest, his cape billowing behind him in the strong, fearsome wind. His footsteps made a deep crunching sound as he walked over the crisp Autumnal leaves littering his path. After several minutes, or perhaps it was hours, he stopped and, gazing up at the full moon which cast an ominous and eerie glow over his journey, he stood there, framed in the light, a giant, black figure, breathing heavily, but otherwise not moving a muscle. He was listening intently to the world around him, his ears pricked up like those of a fox. Suddenly, he snapped his head round and, with a startled, almost terrified look, surveyed the winding path down which he had just traversed. He pulled a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his sweating brow. He couldn’t hide it any longer. He was terrified. His nerve broke. He turned and ran as fast as he could, forever gaining speed until he was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. Although his legs felt as though they would break, and his diseased heart was beating at his breast as if in an attempt to escape from the confines of his ribcage, he didn’t stop until he had run up to the top of the hill upon which his mansion – old, ruined, and grandiose – stood majestically, a silhouette against the backdrop of the brilliant night sky.

 He bolted the large, oak doors behind him as he ran into his haven. He burst into his bed chamber, and flung himself down onto his bed. He opened his eyes, and saw three shadows hovering over him, brandishing swords, laughing shrilly. He turned his head to the side, screaming, and saw blood dripping off the bedside table next to him. Oh, so much blood!

And then, sweating profusely, almost not daring to ever open his eyes again, he woke up.

For Young Sir Charles Winter had been plagued his entire life by the ability to see the future. It had led him to the point he was at now; living alone, in an inherited house he could not afford to maintain, with an inherited title, and no-one to share his great wealth or, indeed, his great loneliness, with.

Because people were afraid of him. Everyone he had once been acquainted with was now under the impression that, if one got too close to Sir Charles, he would soon know far more about your future than you could possibly know yourself.

And nobody seemed to particularly like this.

Charles often thought it quite surprising – in fact positively baffling – that people were constantly clamouring for his attention, demanding to have their fortunes told, their palms read, or whatever the current gypsy trend was nowadays. Maybe human beings didn’t like to think they weren’t in control of their own life. But none of us are. Charles knew this for a fact. Everything is predetermined, and once he saw your future, there was no away of escaping your fate.

But last night, Charles was sure, he had seen something unlike anything he had ever borne witness to before. He had seen it as clear as he now saw the candle he had just lit flickering feebly before him in the darkness of his bedchamber.

He had foreseen his own death.

He had foreseen his own murder.

But who in this green and pleasant land would want to kill him? And why? He had never harmed anybody. It was true that he had no friends, yes, but that did not necessarily mean that he had any enemies, either.

Sir Charles rose from his bed, shaking uncontrollably, and wrapped his dressing gown around his large form. Hell! There was an enormous hole in the side. He had known there were rats and moths in his home. It was with great anger that he reflected he should have endeavoured to get rid of them when he first started having suspicions.

He looked through his entire wardrobe, but it was no good. The beasts had devoured part of every item of clothing he owned. This couldn’t be possible. But his eyes told him that it was.

But soon he found something that seemed to have been untouched. His old, black silk cape! It was a flimsy little thing, but it would have to do until he could procure some more garments.

As Sir Charles marched from his bedroom, he suddenly stopped. He gazed down at what he was wearing in horror. The cape! It was the same one from the dream! Had he been dreaming? No. He knew the difference between a vision and a dream by now. He leaned against the banister for support. He began shaking once again. He felt as though he was about to vomit. He now understood why all his old friends had deserted him. No-one wants to know their future, especially if it’s as unpleasant as this was.

Sir Charles gazed out of the window, and saw another fragment of his vision. The forest, normally shrouded in darkness, was illuminated by the light from the moon. The moon was abnormally large tonight, and brighter than he had ever seen it before. It swathed the entire forest in its glow. The rain beat heavily against the window, and lightning exploded all around as it made contact with the ground.

Sir Charles began to descend the steps once more, slowly, gingerly, carefully. He fancied he could hear voices coming from downstairs, but he shrugged it off as a figment of his imagination. The events of the evening had made him nervous, that was all. There was nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing.

But he could still hear the voices. They were only faint murmurs, but they were there sure enough. They seemed to be coming from Sir Charles’ study. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he reached for the old copper bucket in which he kept his many canes, and proceeded to select one. Sir Charles had had a limp ever since he was a boy, and now had great difficulty walking for any long period of time without the aid of a stick. Today he had chosen a particularly well-crafted – and, more importantly, heavy – mahogany cane with an ornate, golden falcon’s head for a handle. The beak was particularly sharp, also, which made it predominantly useful for seeing off any unsavoury characters he may find lurking about his abode in the small hours uninvited.

Sir Charles held it firmly by the shaft and tiptoed into his office. He eased the door open and crept gingerly in.

Three men were standing by his desk, their backs turned on him, clearly rummaging through the large pot of money he always kept on his desk. He couldn’t afford a safe, so kept his sovereigns where he would always be able to easily find them.

They were chuckling in deep, monotonous tones. The sound of the laughter removed some of Sir Charles’ fear; the very hum of it sounded stupid, as if these people had a lower number of brain cells than they should be expected to have. He straightened his back and, still holding firmly on to the cane, began to speak.

‘Excuse me, good sirs, but I do not believe you are supposed to be in here.’ He was so confident up until now that he had wholly regained his composure, and yet his voice had still emanated from him quaking, filled with terror and timidity.

The three gentlemen stopped conversing, but still did not look round.

Sir Charles attempted to gain their attention once again.

‘You are not allowed in here! This area is off limits!’ he snapped, ferociously.

Slowly, sinisterly, they turned around. When their faces ultimately fixed upon him, Sir Charles let out a long, drawn out exclamation of horror.

They were hideous! They faces were deformed beyond all recognition as members of the human race. They seemed to have no eyes, or if they did they were completely hidden by their heavy brows. The thick, fat lips; the sagging skin; the rotting teeth which showed clearly whenever they grinned – they were, to put it plainly, absolutely monstrous!

Each of them looked daggers at Charles, and then began to chuckle mirthlessly, even murderously.

And he understood immediately.

These were thieves, and the worst kind: ruthless, inhumane thieves.

Each of them pulled a rapier out from under their long, black cloaks, and began to advance towards Charles menacingly, their eyes blazing with something akin to entertainment.

Charles turned and ran, as fast as he could, out of the house and into the woods. He ran until he could run no further, and then slowed to a steady walking pace, although he continued to move swiftly and surely through the dense black leaves of the forest. His cape billowed behind him in the strong, fearsome wind. His footsteps made a deep crunching sound as he walked over the crisp Autumnal leaves littering his path. After what seemed like an age, but was probably only a handful of minutes, a mere pebble dropping into the vast sea of time, he stopped and gazed up at the full moon which cast an ominous and eerie glow over his journey. He stood there, framed in the light, a giant, black figure, breathing heavily, but otherwise not moving a muscle. He was listening intently to the world around him, his ears pricked up like those of a fox. He waited, allowing the rain to fall gently on the rough skin of his battered, weary face, which looked old beyond his years, displaying to the world the hardships he had suffered in his lifetime. So this is what all his years boiled down to: death - dying alone, and in fear. He listened intently to the world around him, trying to hear the screech of an owl – that most majestic of birds – just one last time.

Suddenly, he snapped his head round and, with a startled, almost terrified look, surveyed the winding path down which he had just traversed. He pulled a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his sweating brow. He couldn’t hide it any longer. He was terrified. His nerve broke. He turned and ran as fast as he could, dropping his cane in the process, but forever gaining speed until he was sprinting as fast as his legs could carry him. Although his legs felt as though they would break, and his diseased heart was beating at his breast as if in an attempt to escape from the confines of his ribcage, he didn’t stop until he had run up to the top of the hill upon which his mansion – old, ruined, and grandiose – stood majestically, a silhouette against the backdrop of the brilliant night sky.

He bolted the large, oak doors behind him as he ran into his haven. ‘Sanctuary!’ he screamed with jollity, and listened with pleasure at the sound of the echo as it reverberated back at him. He burst into his bed chamber, and flung himself down onto his bed.

He had done it.

He was free.

Sir Charles kept his eyes tight shut, hugging the darkness to him. He reached for the bottle of red wine he always kept by his bedside, feeling his survival called for a celebration. He opened his eyes, and saw three shadows hovering over him, brandishing swords, laughing shrilly. He flinched, and knocked the bottle over. It smashed, and the liquid within that was its cargo leaked out all over the table and onto the floor. He turned his head back to where he had seen the shadows, and saw that it was simply the shadow of a raven, which had landed on a tree near his window. He laughed to himself. The events of the evening had made him jumpy. There was no longer anything to fear. He looked over to where the smashed wine bottle lay, and observed it, blood red, dripping off the bedside table next to him.

He laughed heartily. He laughed, and laughed and laughed...

That night, Sir Charles Winter died of a heart attack in his sleep, brought on by the exertion and fear he had subjected it to during the events of that fateful night. He died with an ironic smile on his face, almost as if he had realised, before the darkness swallowed him, that no man could escape their fate.

If a man misses his appointment with Fate, then Fate will always catch up with him at some other point, soon thereafter.

2010

http://splendidfred.com/2010/11/18/appointment-with-fate-by-william-green/