Science says I am no more than seven steps from Kevin Bacon. Science also says I am probably no more than ten feet from a rat whenever I'm in London. Life, like writing, is full of strange connections.

 

Over the next few weeks (or maybe months) I will be revisited one of my earlier prose works, "The Magpye", for a serious re-edit. The updated version will be re-published on Amazon (and made available to anyone who already bought the book) and an updated set of sample chapters will be posted up to the website.

 

A lot of writers have day jobs. We don't talk about them much. They ruin the glamourous image people have of us - lurking in coffee shops, sucking up the wifi, using all the plugs, and making one small cup of tea last an eternity.  Personally I'm lucky in that I not only have a day job that I love, but it's also a day job that lets me use my creativity every day. I make my living with words, they just aren't always about superheroes or ghosts or robot-dinosaurs.

 

The library kept all of its books under lock and key, behind three-inch thick glass etched with runes from every major arcane school of thought, watched twenty-four hours a day. They weren't especially dangerous books, they weren't even magical in and of themselves, and they certainly weren't rare. However, they were dangerous. Since words had started to come to life, all books were dangerous.

 

The victim waited in darkness and silence. It was faceless and formless, without past or present. Yet, the victim infinitely preferred the nothingness of the void to what it knew inevitably come after. Time did not exist here, yet the victim was aware that the void would give way, must give way, to the other world and that the time of the other world was passing. And so, it came and would come inexorably after. In the other world they were moving; they were living and thinking their dark, soul-born thoughts. They were plotting, whenever and wherever they were... they never stopped plotting.

 
Category: Short Stories
Tags: murder writing