The Gods

The beaches were lined with bones and the bodies of the dead. That was until the Gods came forth from the ocean and the dead awoke screaming and terrified.

I had seen the footage on the News. Live footage. I remember that it had cut off halfway through; I remember hearing a woman’s scream and then nothing. And I had changed the channel and watched a sitcom.

I didn’t believe it was happening or rather, I didn’t want to believe it was happening. I told people that it was a gimmick, an advertisement, something to laugh about.

But I sort of knew it was real. Deep down. I felt it in my bones.

I heard people say that it was aliens. I didn’t laugh at that. I hoped it was aliens. Aliens were less terrifying than Gods. Aliens were nothing to do with me.

Graveyards filled with zombies. But only because the Earth had pushed up the bodies, turning them out of their graves and giving them back to the world.

I remember not being afraid. I was just deeply sad. The Gods were angry and everybody was being punished for it. There was no escape even in death.

I watched from my window as buildings fell and the sky filled with dust. In my city a statue taller than the highest skyscraper ran amok, ripping up roads, hurtling bricks and lampposts and cars. And people.

Some people said that it was robots. Giant robots built by man that had turned against us. Or perhaps it was alien robots from outer space.

I wished that it was. I tried to believe that it was but by now I knew...

It was the Gods.

Other people had known before me and as forests burned and seas froze over, more people came to realise.

I wish it was the media, or aliens, or robots, or monsters, or the military, but it was the Gods. And we had angered them.

I had angered them. I had...

I stood on a sea of frozen ice and watched as the sun exploded.

(First published in Everyday Weirdness in 2010)

Scrumping

It's my Grandma's birthday today so I went straight round to see her on my way home from work.

My bro's just gone out and bought a Lotus Elise () and he was already there when I arrived, showing my grandparents the motor.

We all go inside and have a chat and end up talking about the car and where it's safe to park it and things.

My Grandpa turns to me and asks if I heard about the taxi driver. I said I hadn't. Apparently, a taxi driver in our town was attacked and left for dead. A few weeks ago now, a girl was murdered and her car set alight with her body inside. This led my Grandpa to say that the town is, and I'll censor it, 'sh*t.' He clarified, 'well, it's always been sh*t but it was good sh*t and now it's bad sh*t.'

I agree.

He said, 'you know what I mean though, it used to just be things like scrumping.'

In case anybody doesn't know, 'scrumping' is when you go nicking fruit. Mostly apples.

My Grandma pipes up with a story about how my uncle and his mates went scrumping and she ended up with the owner of the fruit farm knocking on her door and accusing her son of nicking apples. She said she first of all tried to deny that it was my uncle, while he was hiding behind the sofa, and then went on to say she hadn't seen any apples, but she was very sorry.

She finished the story by telling us it was too late anyway, cos the apples were already in a pie in the oven.

I wish the town was good sh*t again.

The Hairdresser's (Of Doom)

I hate going to the hairdresser. I hate it more than going to the doctor or the dentist and I hate those things a lot.

Because of this, I only go about once a year. (Also, it's expensive).

Yesterday evening I had my yearly haircut. Now, I'm not keen on people touching me. I say 'not keen,' I mean 'venomously dislike.' I especially don't like people touching my head, so this is why hairdressers are a problem for me. In my salon, they offer a complimentary head massage. This is like torture. I always, always say no, but sometimes they don't give you the option, they just do it and you sit there, cringing, your skin crawling, beads of sweat popping on your forehead, while some woman is probing your scalp. Unpleasant.

Anyway, luckily, this time I was asked so I said NO BLEEDING WAY, MATE. Or words to that effect.

I never say yes to the free tea either. And I love tea and I love free stuff but I can't say yes to this. How do you drink it? How can you reach for your tea, when there's someone with scissors very close to your eyeball? Also, I don't like hairy tea.

I dislike other people washing my hair. Firstly, why do they wash your hair? My hair's clean, I cleaned it myself, but they wash it anyway. They could use a squirty bottle and spray it if they need it wet for cutting but nope, they like to torment you. They must think that we're dirty. So your head gets wrenched over the sink - which is made of rock and blades - and you sever the nerves in your neck. I read a story about a woman who had her hair washed at a hair salon, then died because they damaged her neck. I can't help but think of that every time. Plus they get water in your ears and I can't be doing with water in my ears.

So, I go into the salon and there's a young lad there and I'm weirdly put off even more just by the fact he's male and I really don't want him touching my head. I mean, what's that about? My doctor's male.

Anyway, apart from causing mass amounts of immense pain to my neck, the lad was actually all right and I had an actual conversation with him (which I never do with the girls cos they talk nonsense). We're chatting away about tattoos and rollerblades and free food, my brain's telling me that any second my neck's gonna snap and my head's gonna roll around in the sink, and I suddenly realise that he's managed not to get water in my ears. Awesome.

So I then go over to sit in front of the giant mirror and I'm left there, staring at my own reflection which again, I dislike very much. Both my reflection and the fact I'm plonked in front of it.

Then the hairdresser comes over and she asks what I want done and I say just cut a couple of inches off. She asks me how I want it styled.



She sees my confusion and asks if I want it blow dried and straightened and when I hesitate, she says 'go on, you're at a hairdresser's' so I agree.

She then starts cutting my hair and I'm sitting there trying not to stare at my own face or think about what she might be seeing on my head. I'm self-conscious, I suppose. I always think they'll be disgusted by my head, even though I haven't actually got a gross head or anything. She's talking about hair and styles and holidays and 'How long have you had your fringe?' Me: 'I was born with it.' (All right, my real answer was: 'Forever.') And she asks me how I style it and I say I do nothing to it, and she asks if I straighten it and again I say I do nothing and she asks if I put it up and by now, because I'm starting to feel like a Neanderthal, I just say 'oh yeah, I pin it back.' (Which is lies, all lies.)

Hairdressers are all so much prettier and female than me, I dread to think what they must think of me. I go in there like a yeti. I am unable to talk about babies and boobies and boyfriends.

Do you want a serum on your hair?

Um. I guess.

What is the condition of your hair?

Erm... sort of... hair like.

How would you like the layers done?

Ooh uh... like a cake?

How shall I cut your fringe?

With scissors, please.

Pure torture. They always give you a loyalty card so you can get £10 off every few visits. I took out my loyalty card and she threw it away because it was dated 2011.

M vs Grill

I don't cook. Me + household appliances = no. I don't have the patience or the concentration levels required for cooking. Things end up either raw or burnt.

Yesterday, I came home from work and discovered teacakes in the bread bin. If I see teacakes, I'm going to want teacakes. So I put the grill on.

The cooker's built-in in this new house and the grill isn't separate, it's sort of inside the oven. I've not used it before but how hard can it be to grill something, right?

Smoke starts spewing out of the oven. I don't know what that's about but it doesn't smell good and the dog's sneezing. So I discover there's a grill plus fan option. Great, I put that on and slowly the smoke gets sucked in and goes away.

Awesome. I'm gonna toast me some teacakes. I put the teacakes under the grill and wait.

Did I mention I was impatient? Nothing seems to be happening. I fiddle with some knobs (one breaks off so I shove it back on) and then have a brainwave.

I'll simply move the shelf, and the teacakes, closer to the grill.

You would think this would be a simple thing. But no, the shelf slips out of my grasp and gets stuck on the grill, the teacakes have fallen down the back of the oven, and I'm cursing like a sailor.

The dog's standing there watching me with his mouth open. Probably stunned at my bad language.

I'm now trying to force the shelf out of the grill.

In the meantime, the tea towel is on fire. I realise this when the smoke re-appears and my hand seems to be getting rather hot.

I extinguish the tea towel, curse, and resume trying to force the shelf out of the grill.

I manage to set the tea towel alight again and decide to give up with the oven.

I really want toasted teacakes. But I'm not touching those at the back of the oven - they've touched greasy stuff. Yuck. So I leave the shelf, and the teacakes, inside the oven, turn the thing off and slam the door to let it know exactly what I think of it.

I turn to the toaster. Our toaster doesn't work properly. The button you press to make the toast pop up does nothing. At the old house, we'd simply turn the toaster off at the mains.

I get a new teacake, slice it in half (trying to make it thin because I'm going to be ramming this thing into the toaster) and pop it into the toaster.

It takes about two seconds before there's smoke coming out of the toaster. I go to turn it off, but the button doesn't work and, in this house, the main plug is behind the microwave.

I get the knife. (I know, I know, don't stick knives into toasters). I rescue one half of a nicely browned teacake.

I go to open the door to let some of the smoke out, come back and the toaster has finished doing its thing and popped up. But the other half is stuck inside it (it's brown. There are burnt currants). Using the knife, I manage to gouge the bloody thing free.

I slather both slices in butter and scoff the lot. Yummiest thing I've had in ages.

Completion

I started The Kingdom of Malinas when I was seventeen and self-published it several years later in 2008. The second book in the trilogy, The Empress Graves, needed a rewrite and a whole sub-plot adding before it could be published on my birthday in 2010.

The third and final book in The Power of Malinas trilogy, The Barbarians' Key, has now finally been written. I started it years ago, after finishing the first draft of the second book, but I only got to chapter sixteen before I went on to do other things.

I picked it up after completing The Empress Graves and worked hard trying to remember what I had intended the resolution of the series to be! Luckily, I kept notes, so I looked through those - keeping some ideas, abandoning others, even deciding not to add in two new characters I'd created. The plot is far more complex than in the other two books, there is more happening and the action takes place throughout the country of Aldenland.

I have been through my first draft, tweaking and editing and correcting mistakes, and now the book is with a lovely beta reader who will let me know exactly which bits work and which don't.

I will then work on it again. And soon, I hope, I will release it on Lulu.

In the meantime, here is what the cover will look like:

The Barbarians' Key Progress!

I'm almost done. Sorrel and co are ready to face their final hurdle. I keep thinking about the ending and I have a vague idea of what's going to happen. I'm not sure how it will work but the only way to find out is to write it and see.

Once it's written it's still not finished. First, I'll go back through and look for mistakes. Sometimes our brains tell us we've written what we were supposed to write, when in reality we've used the completely wrong word. I'll look for missing words, typos and grammar problems.

Then, I'll make sure everyone is where they're supposed to be. And that certain objects haven't suddenly disappeared from a character's hands, and that the weather is consistent. I'll check that characters with accents keep those accents. I'll make sure that personalities aren't suddenly and dramatically altered. I'll add things, take things away, tweak sentences and make sure that everything is as good as I can make it.

And then I'll format the document. Change the fonts and the spacing and the page numbers. I have a cover all ready to go, so I'll simply get myself an ISBN and then, hopefully, put the book up for sale.

The Barbarians' Key, and the Power of Malinas trilogy, will be complete.

Hopefully before Christmas.

Rats, and why certain things annoy me...

I'm a big fan of rodents and rats in particular. Rats, along with dogs, are my favourite animals. I've been keeping rodents as pets for a very long time and it's only now that I have Beau that I'm rodentless.

Let's see, I've had three Syrian hamsters (Jaffa, Biscuit and Rue), three Russian hamsters (Cadburys, Galaxy and Flapjack), five gerbils (Crunchie, Jazz, Maverick, Tipsy and Circus), two guinea pigs (Dougal and Len), two degus (Brimble and Bramble), a Shaw's jird (Woody), a mouse (Harvest), and eleven rats (Mayweed, Togepi, Eevee, Peanut, Domino, Madder, Malachi, Mouse, Loki, Pancakes and Shae).

I've also worked with rodents. Fancy mice, spiny mice,striped mice, pygmy mice, fancy rats, edible dormice, chinchillas, degus, guinea pigs, Russian hamsters, Syrian hamsters, Roborovski hamsters, bushy-tailed jirds...

And let me say that out of all those, the scariest, most evil creatures were the edible dormice. You had to wear gauntlets (those big gloves for birds of prey) to handle them, and they would growl at you without you even being able to see them. Second most evil, were the hamsters.

Now, I don't understand why people think hamsters make better pets for children than, say, rats. Hamsters need to be trained to be hand tame (rats don't!), and even then they'll probably still bite. I have a scar on my thumb from my friend's aptly named hamster, Nibbler. I also have a scar on my finger from my gerbil, Jazz, but she bit me because I was breaking up a fight between her and Crunchie. I just got in the way.

I have never been bitten by a rat. Ever.

My mum had a cockatiel called Pringle and around that time I had my first rat, Mayweed. Mayweed was the best rat ever. He was intelligent (could open doors and knew his name), loving and gentle. Pringle the cockatiel would often try to pull Mayweed's whiskers. One day, Mayweed had clearly had enough of this and so grabbed a mouthful of the bird's feathers. Pringle, being a wind-up merchant, came back for more. This time, when Mayweed went for him, I put my hand between the two of them. My rat, not being able to stop in time, closed his jaws around my finger. But he did NOT bite me. He realised he'd gotten me instead of the bird and pushed me away with his paw. I've never experience anything like that with any other animal. He knew he'd made a mistake and he managed to stop himself in time - Jazz my gerbil, did not. Hence my scar.

Now, what really annoys me is when they use rats on 'I'm a Celebrity, Get me out of Here.' The celebrities screech and squeal and do the usual 'how disgusting' nonsense that people do when they see a rat and then, whenever they have to put a finger near the rats, will exclaim 'They're biting me!'

What utter, utter nonsense. You would know if the rat had bitten you, you'd have blood pouring out of your finger. Rats have sharp claws and yes, to idiots, I imagine this must feel like biting. I wish the producers of this show would inform the ridiculous 'celebrities' that rats do not bite.

Actually, I wish they wouldn't use rats in their show at all. It's cruel.

What also annoys me is people who think it's okay for them to tell you how disgusting your pet is, just because it's a rat. I detest cats and yet I would never tell someone that their beloved pet was disgusting.

I've heard people say they don't like rat tails. Rat tails don't move all that much. If you put your finger beneath a mouse's tail, the tail will curl around your finger. Do the same to a rat tail and it doesn't grip the same way.

I've also heard people say that rats are dirty and that they smell. Rats do smell, all animals smell. But they don't smell half as bad as hamsters. And in fact, mice are the smelliest rodent. If you've ever watched a rat, you'll notice how much time they spend grooming and cleaning themselves also.

Another misconception is that all rats are black, or brown. Yes, in the wild. But pet rats come in all sorts of different colours. I've taken my rats to the vets before now only to have people come up to me, peer into my clear pet box, and say 'oh what a pretty little thing! Is it a hamster?' and when I reply 'No, it's a rat,' I see the look of disgust appear on their faces.

Let me end with this picture below. Do this look like a dirty, smelly, evil creature that will bite your face off? I think not.

Pancakes