Beer drinkers & hell raisers

Right, so the girl had disappeared. No problem. Girls come and go all the time. Fish in the sea. So what? There was no point looking for her. If she’d decided to do a runner, that was her decision. For whatever reason. Nothing much anyone could do about it. I certainly wasn’t going to run after her and try to “win her back.” No chance. Not me.

If she ever turned up again, we’d see what happened. But she’d be the one crawling back to me. If I was in the mood. Yip, that was the way to handle this. Put it all behind me, and move on. Preferably as soon as humanly possible. And everybody knows that the best way to get over a woman is to find another woman. Or to get horribly drunk. Or all of the above, in no particular order.

So the drinking part was well underway. And there were a couple of likely candidates right in front of me, with obviously nothing better to do on a Monday afternoon than entertain good-looking young headbangers. Should I? Shouldn’t I?

I’d managed to drink away the worst of the previous night’s hangover, along with whatever it was that my ex had given me. Rehydrated, it was time to offload some of the excess liquid. Rehydrated, but certainly not feeling my normal carefree self. Must have been acid in that cap, I thought to myself as I swung my feet off the chair and swiveled away from the dancefloor. Always got this nasty aggressiveness when I came down from an acid trip. Like the rest of the world was there just to annoy me. And who’s to say that wasn’t true?

They were certainly in the way as I sauntered to the bar. All I wanted was to get my hands on another beer. Not much to ask. And these bastards were deliberately standing in my way. But hey… I’m a nice guy. I try to avoid trouble when at all possible. Especially when cute little gnomes ask me to behave myself. So I squeezed in between an old fart who was chatting up an even older hooker, and some shriveled stick insect who seemed to be either dead or asleep, and I managed to attract the barman’s attention by giving him The Stare. He saw the empty bottle in my hand, and had a new one in front of me before I had a chance to wave it at him.

Not bad service. He was probably in cahoots with the gnome.

I raised the bottle to my lips for a quick swig before heading for the restrooms, but it wasn’t to be. The old fart (not the dead one, the other one) chose that moment to jerk backwards in his chair with what sounded like a whoop of laughter. Beer spilled over my face, pouring onto my clean shirt and even my colours. Not a drop reaching my mouth.

While I looked down in horror, he half turned on his barstool and waved at me. Then he turned back to his professional companion and laughed again, shrugging and using the moment to place a sweaty hand on her wrinkled knee.

The room suddenly receded on all sides, everyone in the bar vanishing from my sphere of consciousness. There were only me and him left in the world. And, hazily, the woman at the end of his arm. But she was merely a blur as time slowed and blood started to pound in my ears. I could feel each heartbeat, distinct and separate from the others, blotting out all other sounds.

This was it. The final humiliation. I’d been chased. I’d been drugged. I’d been dumped. I’d woken with a hangover. And now I’d had beer poured over me. My own beer, at that. The line had just been crossed.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Also now available from Walmart, of all places… https://www.walmart.com/ip/Burning-Roses-eBook/213541267

Till next time. Cheers.

Smells like teen spirit

Clouds. Cotton wool. A comfortable numbness. That pleasant warm swirling sensation, like you’re back in the womb. Such a wonderful feeling. Then the killjoy drudges of reality have to ruin it by making their presence felt. Voices in the distance. Cold, hard floor pressed against your skin. The incessant buzzing of Beelzebub’s minions as they explore exposed flesh to ascertain whether or not you are dead and edible.

Then your own body aligns itself with the opposition. Head starts to pound as blood surges back into oxygen-starved brain cells. Arm finally complains that it can’t bear the full weight of your body for more than a couple of hours. Face realizes that the carpet it’s making love to doesn’t smell so good from such a close proximity. And then the final betrayal – the worst of all. The one you can’t ignore. It starts as a dead feeling in the pit of your stomach. Then it kicks. Then it adds a few interesting sound effects, just in case you missed the tactile message. Another kick. Call it a heave. The surge of saliva at the back of your throat. Head still spinning, so you wonder what you should do with all this accumulating liquid.

Then a blaze of light as your eyes snap open and you sit up, gasping, hand over your mouth, looking for a receptacle. Gotta be close. No time to search. There – a dustbin! Throwing yourself across the room. Crouching on all fours. It kicks again. You try to let it out, give it what it wants, but it resists, toying with you. Feeling that you could explode from the pressure. Something has to give. And then it does. And you wish it would stop.

*

She was gone. One look around the room could have told me that, but I kept looking anyway, hoping that I would find some indication that she’d be coming back. Her handbag draped across the back of a chair, perhaps. Or a hastily scribbled note – “Off to buy breakfast.” But there was nothing of the sort.

I hated those mornings when I’d wake up wondering who it was lying next to me, what her name was, where I’d met her, and how she’d died. Fortunately, this wasn’t one of those.

Nevertheless, I still felt terrible. On so many levels. I’d finally stumbled across the perfect woman, only to let her slip through my fingers. I’d been played like a foolish child, like a friendly puppy willing to do anything to please its new master. And of course, my head and belly were still aching.

And the stench in the room! Unbelievable! You’d have thought that university students would take a bit more pride in their surroundings. I decided to do my bit for the environment. Searching through the chest of drawers closest to me, mainly a storage space for the standard student stockpile of two-minute noodles, I found some deodorant and aftershave, still in the gift box it had come in. Liberal doses of both sprayed and poured into the dustbin seemed to take the edge off its new flavour, but I’d lost interest in my temporary accommodation. Making sure that I hadn’t left anything behind, including the room’s key which was tucked safely in my pocket, I was about to take my leave when I saw a box of matches lying innocently on a shelf next to the door. Well, it couldn’t make things any worse…

As I closed the door behind me, the dustbin was nicely ablaze in the centre of the room. Fire was such a cleansing tool. I was sure the two first-years would appreciate my friendly gesture.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Also now available from Walmart, of all places… https://www.walmart.com/ip/Burning-Roses-eBook/213541267

Till next time. Cheers.

Werewolves of London

On this night, while mist prowled through the village, and rain beat down on the roof of the police station, thirteen men stood in a circle about the altar, their hands raised above their heads, their heads flung back in supplication. For these were the chosen ones. They had worked towards this night, preparing themselves physically and spiritually, cleansing their bodies as they fortified their souls. Now they were ready to begin the rites, to initiate the ancient ritual which would awaken the dark one from his ages-long slumber, and set him loose once more upon the earth.

All preparations had been completed: their clothing had been cast aside, and their bodies smeared with animal blood. The sacrifice had been made ready on the altar – Steve Denny lay there, unconscious, his naked body daubed with arcane symbols, his mind no longer present. Steve Denny was, in fact, no more. What lay on the altar was a living, breathing corpse. A receptacle awaiting its new master.

Outside, the mist seemed to gather momentum, roiling and crawling more furiously than before. The rain beat down with renewed force, as if trying to match the mist in its anger. Thunder roared across the sky. Lightning flashed.

In the basement, seven candles, the only illumination, flickered as one. The movement broke the trance-like state into which the thirteen had drifted. Their eyes snapped open, but glowed dull, lifeless. Their arms descended till they could grasp hands, forming a ring around the altar. One of their number detached himself from the others, moved towards the lifeless body lying on the slab. This one stood at the foot of the altar, his arms raised, looking down on the body formerly inhabited by the farmer’s son.

“Let us begin.”

The twelve dropped to their knees. Their leader began a low, whispered chant, which was picked up by the others, building in volume as it progressed. The chant was in an ancient, half-forgotten tongue, only hinted at in dark legends and in a few rare manuscripts.

The candles flickered again. The moment was nigh.

“Oh Nameless One,” called the thirteenth man, “hear us, Your servants! From Your ancient slumber we call upon You to awaken and come forth once more to walk among us! Hear our call, oh Mighty One, as we recite the words set down by Your most faithful devotees, in days long past, when last You ruled over men!”

“Hear us, Ravager of Life, as we speak the words to break Your imprisonment, to end Your banishment, and to restore You to Your rightful place among, and yet above, mortal men! Hear us, Scourge of the Light, as we bid You… awake!”

The candles leapt into agitated life, flickering to twice, three times their former height. Outside, the rain redoubled its efforts, hammering at every surface in sight. Thunder cracked and lightning whipped the storm, while down below the mist seemed to pour from the very air. Dense banks of vapour invaded the town, obscuring gardens and buildings as once it had obscured wet patches on the road.

On the altar, the body of Steve Denny began to stir. His breathing became deeper and more rapid, and his veins began to pulse again with life.

The chanters reached a climax, the alien language echoing around the chamber. Their leader threw back his head.

“Hear us, Nameless One! Come to us!”

The body before him jerked spasmodically. The hands stiffened into talons, then, as the nails grew long and pointed, and strong fingers grew even stronger, they became claws. Similar changes were taking place at the feet. The whole body seemed to be swelling, growing, hardening, feeding on the darkness and becoming something that was more than human. Or something that was not human at all.

Steve Denny’s face was changing, too. His mouth was widening, the teeth inside becoming longer, sharper. His ears were growing, becoming pointed at the top as the lobes vanished.

The chant went on. The candles danced ever higher, casting strange shadows on the walls. Twisted creatures seemed to move in those shadows, slinking or capering as the whim took them. They seemed to add their voices to the chant, as it grew ever more frenzied and commanding. Outside, the storm had reached its peak. The night was ablaze as mist embraced the lightning which filled the sky, and the thunder formed a constant backdrop of crackling, booming sound. The time was ripe. Something had to give.

In a basement below the police station in the main street of Wilton, something opened its eyes. Yellow slits gleamed in the semi-darkness. Yellow slits with vertical, black slashes for pupils.

The chanting stopped.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.

Dirty deeds

Only a week past, there had been two rather disturbing occurrences in Wilton. First, there had been the two dead cows. No cause for alarm, certainly, although Tam Denny, the farmer who had owned the beasts, had been understandably upset. What had gotten to the villagers was the fact that both cows had been drained of blood.
The second thing playing on the villagers’ minds was the disappearance of Steve Denny, the farmer’s son. Steve had been out in the fields, the night after the cows had been found, making sure that nothing happened to the rest of the herd. Steve had been a strapping lad, the champion of the local boxing club, and he had taken his father’s shotgun with him, just in case. He’d been planning to go see the Rockin’ Vicars that weekend, but had considered this more important. Sometime during that night, Steve had disappeared. There was no sign of a struggle. No blood on the grass or shreds of clothing. Nor was there any sign of the farmer’s son.
The local constabulary had been put on the alert. Throughout the region, posters were distributed, descriptions were given. Tam Denny had even posted a five hundred-pound reward for information as to his son’s whereabouts. But, so far, nothing had come to light.
Now, a week later, the streets were empty. Some of the villagers were tucked away in bed, seeking the safety that comes from knowing that nothing can harm you once the blankets have been pulled over your head. Others, more courageous or more foolish, were still awake, but safely indoors. Their lights blazed defiantly, warning the creatures of the night that they were no helpless victims. As a further safeguard, their black and white television sets were turned up to full volume, in an attempt to frighten the night-stalkers with the sounds of car chases, gun shots and screams of terror. The noise also served to hide the suspicious creaks and moans which came from the old buildings, and which had been known to keep more than one villager awake at night.
But that did not account for all the inhabitants of Wilton.
For thirteen men were not buried under their bedclothes. Thirteen men were not glued to the square box which dominated living rooms all over town. Thirteen men were, instead, gathered in a basement under the police station.
This basement held no prisoners, or supplies, or anything within the normal day-to-day experience of the rest of the townsfolk. This basement held an altar. It was of black granite, standing strong and cold in the center of the room. The altar, like the basement itself, had been there long before the police station had been built above it. It had been there long before the village had been patched together by the local inhabitants. It had been there, some whispered, since the beginning of time, in those unimaginably remote ages before man had crawled out from the swamps, when dark beings had stalked the earth and carved lairs for themselves from the living rock.
*
“You don’t want to maybe bring in a touch of melodrama here instead?”
“Just write it down.”
“Can we go back and start with ‘It was a dark and stormy night’?”
“Remember when I said I wasn’t going to eat you?”
“Writing it down. No problem.”
“Whose round is it?”
“Must be yours. I’m very busy at the moment, writing things down.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.

Prologue

Mist crawled along the main street, concealing puddles made by the incessant rain. Swirling tendrils drifted off into side streets, making their way silently, like messengers from another world. The mist flowed outward as it went, ever expanding, now bubbling and rolling as if it were a living thing, now spreading evenly like a river of blood. No place was safe from its approach. Fences were ignored, walls were climbed, even doors and windows were breached. There was no sanctuary in the little town of Wilton, nestling sleepily on the edge of Salisbury Plain. But then, the mist, in itself, posed no danger.
*
“Do we really need to include this bit? I’m not even in it. And this is supposed to be my story.”
“We discussed this. They need to understand where it all started. This is bigger than you now.”
“You’re not making this up? I’ve had enough people lying to me recently.”
“I’m not making this up. I never lied to you. Not my fault if it sometimes takes you a while to put two and two together. Hey, don’t swear at me under your breath. I can still hear you. Now carry on.”

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick. Available from www.amazon.com/author/burning

Till next time. Cheers.