The order of St Oswalds


I returned to the chapel. More than four hundred years had passed since I left on my personal crusade of righteous revenge. Funnily enough, as I stood at the door of the ancient church I looked up. The sky was overcast and threatening.  I thumped on the huge door once more. Rain was coming, I could smell it. The barren land to the side of where I stood echoed with the horror of the flames that engulfed my home. Or what was…now, it has been erased from existence. I felt moisture on my cheek. I looked up again and saw no rain, then I realised, I was weeping! I pounded the door with my clenched fist and left dents in the sun bleached paintwork of the plain red door.
I turned away and headed back up the stone slabbed path. I wanted to turn back and walk over the earth that raised me. I hoped that the well still stood. Probably not, probably destroyed. 
‘Yes?’ Called the weary voice from behind me. I turned and looked into the eyes of the old pastor whom remained half hidden behind his door of isolation. He opened his door wider and a knowing smile spread across his face as he walked toward me. I paused and actually felt a little unnerved by him. He looked like he knew me and even looked happy to see me! I thought of turning and leaving again, but something he said stopped me dead in my tracks. A simple statement that felt like home. And as the rain began to pour so too did my own tears as he softly said;
‘You have returned’


I don’t know why but I always associated it with royalty. Regal and majestic, almost…no, it is. Magnificent and superior to the rest of us. It holds the colour of nobility, the impression of decadence and ultimate luxury.  That was until now. I looked down at the horror stricken face, the gaze that looked past the fabric of current affairs and saw straight into the great beyond. I wish, no I hope, to one day see what lies beyond this…reality. Purple. She looked back up at me, not directly but you get the picture. The tone of her pimpled and imperfect mask of whoresomeness.  This will be the last time…it must. I must rid myself of these spirits that will commandeer me almost at will. I must seek answers. I must return to my place of…discovery and consult the brother hood, or what remains of them. But not yet. First I must dispose of this body, of her body. Legend of the ripper had grown and spread like a viscous plague. It must be stopped. I must be stopped. Maybe I knew this, even whilst in my states of absent possession. Maybe that was why I wrote the letters. Maybe,  huh! Maybe not. I am a monster. There is no place for me in this world or the next. I deserve everything I become.



I awoke again sticky with dark blood. It hadn’t yet dried but it was coagulated and congealed in clumps down the front of my apron. I sat up. My face felt funny, tight almost. My stomach was heavy, oddly, as I did not recall eating anything before I…I was back in my bed-sit. the nape of my neck tingled, why does this happen to me? I cursed the still and empty room with my sour thoughts. I knew they hadn’t left me. I could feel their eyes all over me. My skin prickled and raised like goose flesh.
I fetched for the mirror to see what made my face feel so peculiar and noticed a smeared red plate, a pot of what looked like blood, a quill and parchment on the bedside cabinet. I wasn’t even aware that I owned a writing station!
I peered into the mirror, the room was dark but I angled it so my face was illuminated by the white light of the moon. My stomach turned and threatened to burst as I realised it was dried up blood on my face. My stomach full. The bloody plate on the side…my head began to swim as saliva filled my open, drooling mouth. I dropped to my knees and noticed a crumpled piece of parchment beneath the table. I reached out and opened it whilst trying to keep the contents of my stomach from deserting me, whatever that may be…I think it best stay there.

Dear Boss,

the letter began. I started to read the opening line but the ink, or blood, had smeared. I could make out a few words though. One in particular that made me vomit blood…the letter was ruined all except one word. Right at the end like a signature in fact. One word, as chilling as the the night is black, a word that lives in infamy, a word that stalks the streets of Hell…


Not just a Game: The Spice Girls Fallacy


I just happened to stumble upon this little gem. I had almost forgotten writing this. Happy days

Originally posted on Henry's Games:

red herring

Ahhh, at last, he’s back! Who’s back? I’m back, ain’t I? errrr…The Spice Girls fallacy. So, do you remember the Spice Girls song, the one about that rampant rabbit? 

No, do I hear you say? Well I do. I was just sitting there one day, not too long ago, when on the radio, cometh the song; “Stop right now! Thank you very much…” Now you’re thinking, ‘well come on then, get to the point Game!’ Ain’t ya? Well, as the rest of the song goes, it seems to me pretty damned obvious. I cannot believe I didn’t pick it up before. so for clarification I will enter the text below, in sections with my interpretations attached and when you have read this I am telling you now, you will see things the same way I do;

‘Stop right now, thank you very much’ [Ok pal, that's enough now, I've had enough!]

‘I need…

View original 133 more words



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Many years passed by and the harrowing memories of what did, or did not take place, in that village south of Germany, still stalked my nights relentlessly.

I had learned through a surviving member of the brotherhood that my ‘possession’ was nothing more than a mob of angry spirits, or spectres, as he professionally refered to them as. He told me that they (spectres) are usually very angry at some great wrong doing, apparently. And that I, being in the right place at the right time, had just happened to stumble into them…says it all really, doesn’t it?
Even now when I sit still and listen, I can hear the melodical haunt of a flute in the distance. I reckoned though, by now, that all that shit was behind me…I reckoned wrong

I had travelled far and wide but always I returned to mother England. This time I settled into a nice quiet place in the east end of London, “the greatest city in the world”
The bloody shitiest city more like it! Anyways, as I was saying, a cosy little spot where I spent my time secluded from the powers that be. Whitechapel it was called, lovely place. That was till I felt that unusual cold sensation biting at the nape of my neck.  Next thing I knew, I came to in a carriage.  Covered in blood again! Except this time, for reasons that I have never concluded,  I was wearing an apron.



Its the one thing we’ve always got;
The thing we’re always lending.
Its the one thing we’ve always lost;
The thing we’re always spending.
Its the one thing that never stops;
The thing that’s never ending.

Regardless of whether it’s a fallible illusion, invented by mankind to control the world,  or not, it is by far the most valuable thing in all of our lives. It has to be. Because without it, we do not exist. Nothing can live outside its jurisdiction.

It is currency. It is treasure. It gives you the windows of opportunity.  It haunts you. It helps plaster over the cracks of a broken heart. It brings wisdom. It brings fear. And guess what?
We are all born with the same amount in front of us, or in the bank, so to speak. We are all born as RICH as kings and queens. But when we let it tick away through our fingers like insignificant grains of sand dropping through the hands of a child, we take it for granted. And so we should!
But, at some point you realise that really, this is all we have. Don’t forget that. Treasure it.

Trust in your self and follow your heart
Imagine your dreams can come true.
Make your own luck.
Enjoy the life you make, no regrets.

The forest.

Image courtesy of

I awoke to the stillness of death. Not even the forest dared to breathe. No birds flew overhead and no flower blossomed my way. I felt…well, I felt deflated, abandoned almost. The last several hours had forsaken me and now I lay almost completely saturated in blood and surrounded by dead bodies. And I am by no means squeamish but, believe me when I say that this was a horrifying site to behold.
Bodies lay scattered all around. Some limbs had boldly managed to half climb the silver birchs to the west of the clearing. The sun was setting. Whatever had brought me to this place had obviously and unceremoniously dumped me and left. Belatedly, I searched for the flute I vaguely remembered, or did I dream it? Anyway, my moral compass still pointed east. Blood soaked or not I still had to get back home. I needed answers! Perhaps the brotherhood would help me? I thought back to that overcast day so long ago. The image of my father falling…
Gingerly and confused I clambered out of the tree line and on toward the  French boarders. I scratched at the nape of my neck, still confused but certain that I was responsible for all this death. A thin tendril of smoke rose from a nearby village. I paused for a split second before continuing. Any questions I had would have to wait. This place was giving me the creeps.


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