Escape from West Norwood Cemetery

There's nothing quite like heading out for a day trip somewhere nice, especially on one of those rare bank holiday weekends with good weather. I have a soft spot for monumental cemeteries, and since living in London, I've made it my mission to visit each of the Magnificent Seven (Wikipedia, for those who don't know). This weekend was the turn of West Norwood, a 40 acre cemetery in South London which first opened in 1836.

The train gods were against me the whole way there, and I should have listened to them, for all was not as it seemed once I walked through the cemetery gates. Thankfully, I had my trusty camera with me, so I could record the story as it unfolded.

Escape from West Norwood Cemetery (pdf)

Obviously I made it out alive, and not even slightly possessed. I might take a vial of holy water next time I go grave-watching, though.



[On a more serious note, I highly recommend all the Magnificent Seven cemeteries (or rather, the five I've been to) for quiet walks and impressive sepulchres. Most of them are free, they're not haunted in the slightest, and there's generally a famous person or two to hunt for. I found Henry Tate (art and sugar) and Gideon Mantel (a famous palaeontologist). Or you can sit and keep an eye out for exciting fauna that you don't tend to see elsewhere in the city. Just be advised - they are still working cemeteries, so watch out for funerals, and be respectful.]

Happiness wine and the joy of spontaneous poetry

It's not often that I venture forth from the house after I get back from work. This evening was an exception - my summer shoes are officially d.e.a.d, having a great big hole in each sole that I can fit my hand through, so I mounted a short expedition to a popular brand-name supermarket to pick up a cheap replacement pair.

On a seemingly unrelated note, I had a glass of wine with dinner. Everyone tells me that I get giggly when I'm tipsy, but it took this expedition to really drive home the cheerfulness that comes over me after a nice glass of Pinot Grigio.

The evening was lovely. The air was cool, the rain had passed, and the sun was hidden by just enough fluffy cloud to keep it shining in my eyes as I walked. The people on the bus seemed happy and sociable. The drivers in the well-known brand supermarket were friendly and let me cross at the crossing (this is a first - I was surprised). And as I walked, I looked up and saw this.

You can't tell from this photo, but that *tiny* black dot in the centre is a balloon, forlornly drifting through the London skies. I smiled when I saw it, I sympathised with its lonely journey, and then, for no reason other than wine, I wrote a little haiku about the thoughts that went through my head watching it go by. A haiku that is on the cutting edge of current events. This one speaks to me. It's a little frightening.

*Ahem*

Black balloon floats by.

I grab my phone and chase it.

But it's not Gastly.

And on a final note, I may be playing Pokemon. We can debate what counts as 'too much' Pokemon, and we can throw around words like 'turn that damn game off', 'do some work', or 'get out of my back garden', but what would we gain from that? Let's all just be happy that I'm happy. And let's all drink wine.

OUT NOW - Title Not Included

I'm definitely on the late side with this, but injuries have suspended play for a little while. Better late than never, then, I present to you...

Title Not Included: An Ensemble of Short Stories, available on Kindle (UK and US) and in paperback (UK and US). The versions are, unfortunately, not linked on Amazon due to things and stuff (in fact, I'm not rightly sure why they're not linked, but I'm going to put it down to technical issues and move on), but the links above should take you to the relevant pages.

Contributors include Lauren K. Nixon, G. Burton, Jessica Grace Coleman, H.R.H Allen, Hannah Burns, Philip Lickley, Cynthia Holt, and Liz Hearson, as well as myself. Follow through to their websites/blogs for a look at what these guys are up to.

While you're clicking on links, take a quick gander at my Goodreads author page here. I'm new to Goodreads, so I'm slowly figuring out all the things you can do as an author there, but it looks pretty exciting so far. And if you're into that sort of thing, you can also add Title Not Included to your 'to read' list. If you've already read it, a review or two wouldn't hurt, although if you are that way inclined I'd humbly ask if you could add the review on the Amazon paperback page as a first stop, since numbers of reviews seem to count for something (I didn't deal with the publishing side, so I don't quite understand what) and we're at risk of splitting reviews between the different book formats. Even if you don't write anything, click on the little stars and give us a mark out of 5. We're in the market for as many little stars as we can get.


That'll do for the publicity push. If you missed it, check out my previous post with an excerpt from the book, and then head on over to Amazon to buy yourself a copy. I will personally guarantee* you won't regret it.

*Personal guarantee worthless. Never trust an author.

Matchbox Full Of Memories

Burning.

Memory in flames.

I remember every bonfire night I ever had. The people, the food, the smell in the air and the nip of the cold. I close my eyes and it's all still there, as real as the present. Burnt into my mind.

I remember barbecues as well. Old fashioned holidays in the country, smoking behind the PE shed at school, restaurants with more class than sense, cooking at university. Moments of pinpoint clarity in the haze of my past life. All of them clear in the flames that accompanied them.

I remember, specifically, the moment of realisation. Revising for some exam or other in school. Nothing worked - every fact I learnt turned to haze in a matter of minutes, drifting away with the same lethargy that my memories had always had. No matter how hard or how long I studied, I just couldn't learn.

Exams taken and, unsurprisingly, failed. My teachers couldn't understand, my parents couldn't understand. Everyone was so angry I picked up my books and ran off. All my effort, and for what?

I sat in the corner of the park that evening, tearing pages out of my books and burning them. Each one slowly shrivelling, charring, fluttering madly in the flames, and then gone, crumbling to ash. I burned every school book I had, page by page, and then I went home again.

Eventually, the resits came. My chance to redeem myself for the failures, and to justify the expense of the burned books. I dreaded it. I barely looked in my new books. What was the point, if I couldn't learn? So I put them out of my mind, watched tv, played games. Then the exams were on me, and I entered the hall with as little revision as if they had been sprung on me the day before.

Same situation, but this time something different. Each question reminded me of a page in my book, a page full of detail. Sentences, diagrams, all lay behind my eyes, exactly as they had been as they went up in flames.

Suddenly, it was easy. Every question as simple as I could dream. I finished in record time, left early. Parents and teachers cross again, thinking I wasn't taking it seriously, but then my results came back...

Cheat.

Top marks, more or less. A few points lost to stupid mistakes - typos, missing information, misreading the question. But only a few. Highest marks of anyone in my year, in all subjects, and all they could say was...

Cheat.

I weathered it. With no proof, there was little they could do. But I had the knowledge now. I've aced every exam since, jumped through every hoop, won every prize. And I told no one, not even my parents. It's been expensive, of course. Extra copies of books, photocopies, printouts. Matches. And of course I couldn't just set fire to things at home. I spent a lot of time in the woods about a mile from the house. Not ideal, but a limited field of view, no passers-by. Slowly, I learnt what I could do, and took advantage.

Skip to now. Good job, good house, good friends. The job was easy - freelance researcher with a reputation for speed and accuracy. The house was essential, full of bookshelves, a photocopier, and a large, functional fireplace. The friends...

I keep them at arms length. Not that I dislike people, but it's difficult. I had a girlfriend at university, but she hated me disappearing, feared me when she found out. Afraid of fire. I hadn't thought it would be such a problem for us. I miss her now. She was lovely, and I remember her perfectly.

It's not quite the idyll it sounds. Sure, I've been happy, probably more than most people. I enjoy my work, and I'm good at it. I have a comfortable existence. But there's the shadow over me. Flames always create shadows, and the bright points of my life had their dark counterparts.

I found footprints in the flower bed outside my house the other day. Sometimes I look outside and fancy there's someone looking back. I used to think it was paranoia, but there's a face I see in the crowd, and he always seems to be there when I go out. It's been over a month now. I think he might be a private investigator.

It worries me. Someone out there thinks they need to have me followed, have my life reported on like a criminal. I can feel the gnawing in my stomach, the fear that my life isn't private anymore. I can't tell you how many times I have been through the rooms of my house, looking for anything that might look suspicious, that might be used against me somehow. People are so afraid of fire that they judge before they know the facts.

Fire is the only honest thing in this world.

I'll have to confront this snooping PI at some point, before he does any harm. I hope I can make him understand the truth about me, make him see that my fires aren't to be feared or doused before their time. They're part of my life, the best part of my life, truthful and purifying. I hope he can see that. I'm haunted by the memories, crystal clear, of the people who couldn't embrace the flames as I hoped they would. Their cries break into my dreams. But they're free now, and I visit them when I can, in my clearing in the woods.

I'll visit them tonight, let them know about the PI. I'm sure they'd be glad to see another freed as they are, free of fear and hate. I'll prepare his spot under the trees, and then I'll commit him to memory.

Title Not Included

Exciting things are afoot. Spawned from the synaptic pathways of fellow writer Lauren K. Nixon, what you see above is the glorious front cover of our first anthology, Title Not Included, featuring the literary and artistic talents of Lauren herself, G. Burton, Jessica Grace Coleman, H.R.H Allen, Hannah Burns, Philip Lickley, Cynthia Holt, Lina Martindale, Shaun Martindale, Kim Hosking, Liz Hearson, Karelin Turing, and, of course, yours truly, and edited by Lauren K. Nixon and Abigail Ash. The stories themselves are all based on the same set of twelve prompts, but there the similarities end. Whether you're looking for long or short read, poetry or prose, real-world fiction or sci-fi horror, our humble book has it all!

There endeth the plug. The final thing to add is that we are currently in the formatting stage, so I hope to have a publication date for you soon. While we're waiting on that, though, I thought I'd give you all a glimpse at just a little part of the content. Take a peek at the next post for my take on the prompt 'Matchbox Full Of Memories'.

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Gargoyle

Light! It had been so long. The moss was scraped from one eye, and through the growth over his ears, he heard a voice close by.

“Aearry.” It said unintelligibly. “Kumavalucathiss.”

Fingers took the moss from one ear, then started on the side of his face. A moment later, there was another voice.

“Kool.” It said, just as cryptically as the first. “Wahsit?”

“Iyduna. Buhits gottafaess.”

“Wau.” Moving into view, the fingers became parts of hands, attached to arms. The geometry of them made him realise he was lying on his side. What had happened to him?

“Isa Gargoyle.” The second voice stated. That was a word he recognised. Gargoyle. They knew what he was. Were they here to return him to his post?

“Koool!” The first voice sounded awed.  “Buhits lyindahn. Leztandimup.”

Fingers began prying under his face, straining, levering. Despite their size, and his, the Gargoyle was being lifted.

“Itsevy.” The second voice complained.

“Werneerlithur.” The first encouraged. Another moment, then gravity took hold, and the Gargoyle rocked to his feet.

Quickly, the remainder of the moss was cleaned from his face.

The view he was used to hadn't changed - two hills to the north, trees and fields between - but something must have happened to the abbey.

“Thisusgrate” The second voice was panting slightly.

“Itsabitskery.” The first commented.

With unobscured eyes, he saw his rescuers were two young boys, strangely dressed, about twelve or thirteen. Different from the people who had lived at the abbey. They chattered like children always had, though, and words were beginning to form from the gibberish.

“It aintskerry. It's kool.”

“Whaddu we do now?”

What do we do now? Did these children not know what to do with him? Perhaps there was nothing left for him to do. How much time had passed? Was the abbey still standing? If it wasn’t, what was his purpose? What was he supposed to do?

“Lezgoend find Philip.” The second voice said. “Eelneva believe this.”

Their laughter faded as they ran off. Soon, all was silent again.

Unobserved, the Gargoyle slowly began to stretch his stony wings. They creaked as they unfurled, but aside from the noises they seemed okay. His legs weren't as healthy. Weather and roots had done their work, and as he stood, his rear right leg crumbled under the strain. Carefully, he shifted his weight to his three remaining legs, and shuffled in a circle to look behind him.

There was the abbey, lying in ruins, nothing but stub walls and holes where doors used to soar. His plinth, cracked and buried next to him, barely recognisable any more. His protectorate, reduced to a handful of stones. Nothing he could have done to prevent it. Was there any point in staying?

He gave an experimental flap. The years had not been as kind to his wings as he had first thought – they were chipped and cracked, the moss making them stiff and unwieldy – but he thought they would hold him. He removed the worst of the greenery with his beak, then looked around one last time. The two boys were not returning.

He crouched and spread his wings as far as they would go. With all the strength of his damaged legs he leapt upwards, then beat his wings so that their tips nearly met under his body. Another beat and he was gaining height – now above the ruins, now the trees, now the birds. Inactive for who knew how long, he still remembered how to work with the wind. A twist of one wing, and he was circling, seeing the world anew.

There was the sea to the south and east, and nothing but grass to the west. He knew the two hills to the north, but now, from his height, he saw towers that glinted like silver. Stone had never shone like that, nor risen so high. Those were buildings that needed a Gargoyle. That’s where he would go and make his home, so high that the people on the ground would never notice him.

Voices drifted up from below.

“Sowersis Gargoyle then?” The newcomer demanded as the three small figures ran through the ruins.

“Itwos just over ere.” The owner of the second voice replied.

“Werisit?” The boy who had first found him sounded confused.

“Itwos just ere!” The second voice objected. “Look, atswer it was lying.”

“Itaint there now.” The new voice sounded bored. “You avinmeon?”

“Someone mustavaddit.” The first voice growled. “It was right ere.”

Above, the Gargoyle beat his wings, propelling himself north. The movement made him ache, and he felt stone crumbling from the stump of his leg.

"Ey. Stop throwin stones at me."

"Werent me! Look, itzthat bird."

Spotted, the Gargoyle opened his beak and cried. His voice was fluid, bubbly, an echo of the rain he had once channelled.

“Wah is it?”

“Dunno. Loogat it go!”

They watched in silence. Then one boy grabbed a handful of moss and threw it at another. The three of them ran off riotously. The Gargoyle cried once more, a thank you for his freedom, as he flapped towards his new home.