Moses Lawd woke to the sound of his grandmother’s voice. Except joined with it were the voices of yesterday. They had dissipated slowly the night before, as he lay in bed, waiting for sleep to come.

The anticipation was there also, excitement in his veins as he pushed himself out of bed.

“Tell old old Pharoah, To Let My people go.”

He was now thirty-three years old. He looked out at the sun rising over the hills. Yesterday’s strangeness had begun with the dawn.

As if to welcome the sight, that bright orb in the sky, the song in his head rose in exultation.

Moses turned away, and thought about eggs for breakfast. The phone rang, putting an end to that. It would be a long time before he ate food cooked in his kitchen. But Moses didn’t know that yet.

“Moses, it’s Ted.”

Moses waited, as per usual, but there was a different tone in Ted’s voice. Strained.

“They have Sue and the kids. They’re going to kill them if I don’t get you to come.”

Ted never joked about his family. This was serious.

“Ted, who has them?”

There was shaking on the phone, noises in the background. A muffled thump, bam, crash. Then another voice came on the phone. “Mr Lawd. You would be wise to stay at your home until my people arrive for you. Do not leave, we will find you. If you do leave, this man’s family is dead. As it is, they are nearing death. Perhaps it would be merciful to kill them.”

Moses heard Ted shouting, “Noooo! Moses, I don’t want them to die!”

This is crazy. What is happening?

“Stay where you are Mr Lawd. All will be well .. For them at least. Possibly for you, but time will tell us the answers.”

Another saying from his world, “Time will tell us the answers.” Allan James was fond of that. A father figure to Jesse, he died early in the stories. Giving his life for Jesse, who had betrayed the old man in the end. It had brought Jesse back from the darkness.

“Listen, what do you want? I’m just a writer, and Ted is just my editor. What’s the problem? Money? Is that what you want?”

The laughter at the other end of the phone-line was deep and abrasive.

“Fool.” Click.

The phone went dead. Moses wondered whether he should call the police.

And tell them what? But if I do nothing ..

He was dialing the number for the local police station when the doorbell rang.

Moses froze, hand halfway up from the phone. He waited, listening.

“.. Police Station, how can I help you?”

Moses put the handset down, cutting off the call. He crept along to the stairs. He looked down through the windows. There were no cars in sight, and a single old woman stood at the door. Something made him look across the fields that lay between him and the main road. Coming into view was a line of black station wagons.

What was that movie? Twister. Ha.

But he had the lady to deal with, and pushed the entourage of black out of his mind.

Coming to the front door, he brushed his hair back before opening it. Reaching for the handle, the song within him burst forth anew.

“Hello Prophet.”

It was Mischa. At least, a very old Mischa. Seventy years if a day.

“I have returned for you,” She looked back over her shoulder. “And you must come now. They are approaching.”

Movies, Books, People, Games.

Braveheart, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, X-Men, U2, the Bible, Beethoven, Brotherhood of the Wolf, Jim Carrey .. The list is long. Stephen King’s Dark Tower series. George RR Martin’s A Song Of Ice And Fire series. Robert Jordan’s super-epic Wheel of Time. The original Deus Ex game from Ion Storm, and the classic Planescape: Torment.

At this moment however, none of that was on Moses’ mind. He sat in the coffee shop, a startled look on his face. A woman had just walked through the main doors, and was coming over to him.

Mischa White.

She who Jesse King loved.

Surely this was imagination. Moses closed his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, then opened them. Before him stood Mischa. He’d gotten her name from an old teen soap.

D.C.? No, that’s the comics. Fruit, why fruit?

His thoughts were broken when Mischa spoke.

“Prophet.”

Moses looked at her eyes. They were the purest blue he had ever seen.

“Prophet.”

She was talking to him, calling him prophet. What did that mean?

“I’m not a prophet.” He said to her, and couldn’t look away. She was beautiful beyond his imagining. And indeed, it was his imagination that had created her.

Mischa smiled. “You are, and denial will not change the truth.” She glanced down. “You let your body waste away. This should not be.”

Forthright. Just as I wrote her.

“That is true Mischa,” The name came out different. “But you cannot exist. You are a character out of my mind.”

Moses shook his head, closing his eyes again.

She is still there. I can hear her breathing.

The excitement within him, the feeling of joy, or something, was reaching boiling point. There was a song, jubilant singing, in his ears. It reminded him of his grandmother.

“I am here Prophet. That is enough. I don’t know this place, or these people, but I am here nonetheless.”

“Go down, Moses. Way down to Egypt-land.”

Deep sonorous tones rang through him. A song sung on the cotton fields, and many other places besides. His grandmother had sung it to him as he fell asleep. Other songs too.

But this one I always remembered. It was about me.

“Prophet, you must come to Jesse’s land. Travel with me, for I have been sent to pull you to us.”

What is she talking about? None of this exists. Perhaps Jasmine put hallucinogens in the eggs.

He stood up, wanting to try and ignore this apparition and walk outside, run, escape his own mind. But she grabbed his wrist.

Real enough to stop me. And strong. Like I wrote her.

Mischa had many secrets, but probably the greatest was her parentage. Her father did not know he had a daughter. Her mother was dead.

At least, that’s the way it is in my head.

“I must leave now, the power of the Three is waning. But I will return again, and you must be ready. Ready to come. It may be tomorrow, or not. But be ready. Watch and ..”

Moses, who wrote the language she spoke, finished the saying for her. “.. And stay on guard for the dark.” He laughed. “This is too much. Whoever put you up to this is having a big joke. You’re a very good actor.”

But her words stuck in his head. Noone else knew about the Three. It was something that he had been developing in his imagination for some time now, and only vaguely hinted at in the last few books.

The stunning figure, the presence, the beautiful face of Mischa White departed from San’s Coffee House. Although they were unaware of it, people looked up, as though they were missing something.

She is as I wrote. When leaving the room, Mischa White takes part of her surroundings with her.

Moses put his hands up to cover his ears. The song now rose in volume. Not like a rock and roll band, but like a choir. Crystal clarity. It hurt his mind. But he found he didn’t care.

His own creation, a work of fantasy, was alive before his eyes. Like some kind of Stephen King tale, but more.

Because it’s me. Everything is changing.

A couple was in deep discussion as Moses sat with his crushed ice and coffee drink.

“We’re two sensible adults, and I realise it probably meant nothing to you. I just want you to acknowledge that you stopped calling me because of that other woman you left the party last night with.”

“Were you at the party?”

“No. Tabby told me.”

“Listen, Susan, I stopped calling you for a completely different reason.”

“Yes?”

The man grew a little flustered. “Listen, why the third degree? I thought we had something, I mean, I really like you.”

“The feeling is definitely mutual.”

The conversation continued.

What lives we lead.

It was amazing to see a girl, who had been hurt by a guy she might have fallen in love with, listening to the waffle coming out of the man’s mouth, taking it in. Perhaps she knew the lies and didn’t care.

“It’s up to you to decide who I’m going to end up with.”

This from Susan, the woman. Moses realised that there were two playing the game. Both hardened criminals in the prison that was love.

This is why I cast it aside. There is too much hurt involved. Pain and heartbreak. Better by far to write.

Moses had checked for the garishka when he left the Hendant building, but it had gone.

Or it was never there.

That was possible.

Moses probably would have filed it away after a few days, except that, as we know, this was the day that everything changed. And not just in the thread that was Moses Lawd’s life.

A third individual came and joined the couple, who seemed to have reached an agreed stalemate. There would probably be no clear winner. Which meant two losers. After a bit of chatter, they got up and left.

Moses sat and cleared his mind. The energy that was within him this day could not be denied.

I’m going to get fit. Lose weight.

Moses had never been one to kid himself, at least not for long. As mentioned, his honesty with himself was his greatest strength. But this felt right. He would get fit.

In the end, it wasn’t just a drive within him that caused fitness and weight loss. It was environment and events.

But it did happen. And much more on top of that.

Moses shook their hands in turn. Thomas Rein was tall and fit. His grip was strong. Evan Coolin was similar, although of darker complexion.

“Moses,” It was Thomas that spoke. “You have been writing Jesse King for some time.”

Moses nodded, not saying anything. It hadn’t been a question anyway.

“I’m not sure if Ted told you, but we want to ask you something.” Thomas looked at Evan, who nodded imperceptibly. “Have you thought of killing Jesse King?”

The question was phrased different than that given by Ted yesterday.

Moses didn’t really like the situation he was in. There was something happening here that bugged him, and he also felt a stab of fear.

The anticipation and excitement hadn’t faded though. In fact, it continued strong and stronger than before.

“I do not discuss that sort of thing, even with Ted.”

Ted nodded as if in agreement, but Thomas paid no attention. Evan shifted a little in his seat.

“I think it would be in your best interests to dwell on the matter. There are greater threads in movement than yours.”

What did that mean?

Moses looked the man in the eye.

“Thankyou for your .. Concern, but nothing doing.”

Thomas laughed. Evan gripped his hands together, arm and shoulder muscles straining underneath his shirt.

“I was told you were nothing like your protagonist Moses Lawd. It seems you do have some character traits in common.”

Moses didn’t think so. He wrote Jesse King the way he wanted to be, not the way he was.

The two men looked at each other and then stood up.

“We are very happy to have met you Moses Lawd. If you ever do decide to think on the question, ..”

Evan cut Thomas off quickly. Speaking for the first time, his voice soft but steady.

“You must do this Moses Lawd, for it cannot happen any other way. There are greater threads than yours.”

And with that, they left.

As the door was closing, Moses turned to Ted.

“Who were they?” The anger crept into his voice.

“Some powerful people who wanted to meet with you.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but Moses was done. He needed to get out and find someplace alone.

Moses began to get up, reaching for his watch. It was while doing this that he remembered.

The day of my birth. How sad.

But strangely enough, Moses didn’t feel sad. He felt a little bit excited. He felt anticipation, although he couldn’t work out why. He stopped his hand from getting the watch. He got up and walked toward the doors that led out onto a balcony.

The sun was now visible above the hills. There was a refreshing chill in the air. Moses stood back and sucked it through his nostrils.

Ahhh. What has changed?

It was his birthday of course. But more than this, it was the day that things did change.

As he walked into the kitchen, Moses thought he’d try something different. There was nothing but wheatbix in the way of cereal .. He always ate wheatbix. Always. But not today.

He opened the fridge and saw the eggs that Jasmine had dropped off yesterday. She loved him, that much was sure. Better than his own mother, that too was sure. Jasmine had looked after his house for the past nine years, and had taken to this shy skinny (although pot-bellied) writer man.

She was selfless in her efforts to take care of Moses. Once a week cleaning the house, but always keeping an eye on him, making sure the man still lived, still breathed. She had even invited him to Christmas dinner once, with her numerous family members, but that is another story.

Moses took the carton and went to the stove. Cooking eggs had once been a joy for him, like a lot of things. He found out that it still was, and had a wonderful breakfast of eggs, toast and some lettuce and tomatoes.

An hour later Moses was driving into the city, towards the offices of Hendent Publishing.

What is happening to me?

The feeling of excitement and anticipation had not dimmed since waking. In fact, it had grown, and was continuing to do so. His vision was fresh. The clarity of his senses was different.

Something has changed. Or is changing.

Perhaps that was it.

Maybe it is the present. I’m not sure, but it seems that way.

Moses parked as he always did, on the rooftop parking. It was further to walk, but he’d always tried to convince himself that it would do him good. More than that, today, he wanted to look out over the city.

Standing against the railing, Moses looked out across the expanse that was Jericho City. It hadn’t changed, except that it had. His eyes saw more, ears heard more, his mind took more in. It was alive like never before. Or perhaps,

Maybe it is me that is alive. What is happening?

As he turned away, for the briefest of moments, Moses caught a glimpse of gigantic walls surrounding the city. He stopped and looked back. They weren’t there. And all of this was very strange.

Travelling down to the bottom floor in the well-oiled lift, Moses wondered what it was Ted wanted him for. And why the question about killing off Jesse King? There wasn’t anything Moses could see, unless Ted was getting pressure from his superiors. Ted didn’t have many superiors, and why would he get pressure anyway? Moses Lawd’s books were selling more than ever. Time Magazine credited him with bringing back the love of reading into the population. People now read more than ever. And it had begun with him, or so they said. And other authors had written and called and visited, all with words of thanks.

The first event was close. Not so much an event, but a shaking of fabric. A rippled that foreshadowed something far greater. As Moses stepped outside, through the doors of the parking garage foyer, he looked upwards. Hendant Publishing was across the busy street. It was a few minutes wait at the lights. But Moses wasn’t thinking about that. He looked up, and saw the garishka. Straight out of Jesse King’s world.

The garishka were part of an ever-growing presence of evil in the world that Jesse King inhabited. They looked something like a gigantic bat, but also had been affected by Peter Jackson’s vision of the Nazgul.

In my mind, I see them .. But here, it cannot be.

It was. As Moses watched the garishka hover above the Hendant tower, it’s long sinewy neck moved around, and Moses knew it’s eyes were on him.

Moses had written the garishka as hunters, malevolent beasts that were driven by their need to feed. All the time. There wasn’t any downtime for these beasts, once a kill was finished, they went to the next. But the trick was that they wouldn’t attack people that didn’t run, or who weren’t afraid. What they truly fed off was the chase, the fear. And so, like the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal in Douglas Adams’ book, if you pretended they weren’t there, they would generally not even know you were there.

But this one knew. Moses’ only chance was to show no fear, and continue on his way. The garishka could cover the distance between the top of the tower and the street in moments. Propelled by gravity and magic.

What if the magic doesn’t work the same way here?

Moses waited at the lights for the green man. The Green Man. Another creature out of his books. Jesse King had met the Green Man on a couple of occasions. The symbol at the pedestrian crossing had nothing to do with this being, but it brought the remembrance nonetheless.

I mustn’t look up. I am no Jesse King.

Jesse King had looked into the eyes of a garishka and survived. He had taken the beast and beaten it down, forcing submission. The most recently published book had ended with the garishka at Jesse’s side, as he stood amidst the wreckage of burning cars and buildings, after the battle with Daerin Sarvant.

Daerin Sarvant.

The nemesis of Jesse King, Daerin first made small appearances in the books, but it soon became apparent to the reader that Jesse truly had an equal in Daerin Sarvant. He was a complex character, marked by his experiences as a child and a young man, and driven by his calculating need to become King. Not Jesse King, but King in word and deed. Ruler, Lord (not Lawd), and most probably to ursurp the place of God Himself.

The last book concluded with the general agreement that Daerin Sarvant was dead. Killed in the battle. But alas, his body could not be found, apparently burned to a crisp. It wasn’t the truth of course. Daerin Sarvant could only die properly when Moses was ready to finish the stories of Jesse King.

“Are you ever going to kill off King?”

All things were possible with storytelling, but this could not happen. Too many of Moses’ dreams had gone into the creation of Jesse King, creation and evolution into the character he was now.

I cannot kill off King any more than I can change who I am.

This may have been true, but Moses Lawd was soon to experience great change in his life. And so, anything was possible.

Moses was a loner. His breath was mostly terrible, and his physique was appalling. He ate a lot of fried chicken. Well, he ate the skin, the chicken was up for grabs.

His parents had never wanted him, and although their recent attempts at love touched him, it wasn’t enough to change his mind.

He was alone. Alone and lonely. Except for Jesse. Jesse was his companion, his comfort.

Jesse King could do anything, and Moses made it so. His avatar was famous. Since his first King novel, the letters had poured in, and they continued to do so, years later. Jesse King spoke to people. He was a rogue, but loveable. He battled against demons that people faced themselves, and he came out victorious, mostly because of his own strength.

It was funny how many letters were actually addressed to Jesse. It was as though people wanted to believe so much, they would suspend reality to continue that belief.

Our story, or at least, the story that is documented here, began the day before Moses’ thirty-third birthday. It was stark, this beginning. White and pointed. It stuck in the memory, and not just because of the blood and death. There was more. It was prophetic. Part of a greater story.

Moses knew he was getting old. His belly was a rubber tire of fat. He had no friends to celebrate birthdays with, not that he wanted to.

His house was tidy enough, just enough to be normal. Nothing out of the ordinary. An aerofit sat in one corner, in another some weights were scattered next to a bench. A television, old and battered, sat against the wall. A saggy couch lay in front of it, and there Moses was now. It was the kind of couch that was impossible to gracefully exit from.

The phone rang.

Moses looked up. The only people who rang him were his editor (Ted) and some other executives connected with publishing. Ted liked Moses the way he was. Reliable. Moses had nothing else to distract him, and so was the best and biggest seller that Hendant Publishing had in their books (so to speak). Moses understood this, and didn’t really mind. Ted was nice enough, and usually didn’t try small talk.

“Moses, it’s Ted.”

Moses waited, letting the machine catch whatever it was Ted wanted.

“I know you’re there. Pick up.”

He hauled himself out of the couch, and crossed to the phone.

“Come on Moses, pick ..”

Click. “I’m here.”

“Ahh, that is good.” Ted stopped a moment, then continued. “Moses, I need you to come and see me tomorrow.”

Moses stood still. “Why? I’ve got the new book almost done.”

“Yes I know.” He paused again. “Tell me, are you ever going to kill off King?”

Ted always called Jesse King by his last name. Never the first, always the last.

“Perhaps.”

“Moses. Think about it before you come tomorrow.”

In his heart Moses knew he would never kill off Jesse King.

“You might see me tomorrow Ted.” And he hung up the phone.

The death of King was something that Moses had thought about. He’d planned a number of different ways it could happen. And planned ways he could return again alive and hale. In his head, there were a multitude of scenarios, but they lay unused.

The truth was that Jesse King gave Moses purpose, and comfort.

I know this is true.

And he did. Moses was good at being honest with himself. He knew he was fat. He knew he lacked social graces. Without a doubt Jesse King was all that was good in his life.

Moses didn’t have the courage to kill Jesse King off, because there would be nothing more for him. King was his creation. His lifeblood. King was part of him, and part of his own. Over the years, his character had developed into something Moses saw as amazingly unique. Unique and special. Not boring, but special.

Why would I take that out of my life? Why remove the only thing that is joy to me?

Moses Lawd was lonely. But loneliness can be a precursor to something far more powerful. The greatest of us are marked by our nadir points, those events and times that are our lowest. What happens at those times define us. For Moses Lawd, his nadir was coming, although he wouldn’t have thought it.

His nadir was coming and the night would fall.

The first is quite obvious. It’s the BIG picture you see on every page.

Every single post has one of these images. If it doesn’t, then a “an image should go here” image will appear.

The idea with this picture is that for the stories, for each chapter, or however they are broken up, or singles as the case may be; This image is an important part (in my mind) of what is happening in that chapter.

The second is at the bottom of the site, the “Recent Stories/Posts” section.

Obviously, these are a timeline of the latest content on the site. However, the images themselves represent the Category of the content.

For example, a Blog post has the little man speaking through a mega-phone. A Short Story has a tiny little man amongst big tall folk. As more stories are added, new “thumb” images will appear in this timeline.

Thanks for reading!

Casar’s father had taught her that. He had lived with a hate so bright it became his all, lifeblood to one wishing nothing but death.

To forgive the living means to betray the dead, the memory of the dead.

Casar’s mother had died in a fire that left their house in ruins. Casar’s father had run towards the front door, but was beaten back by the flames, face and limbs burnt and bloody. They could all see Casar’s mother upstairs, yelling through the window, holding their newborn child. The crowd watched as the two went up in flames, and watched as the house collapsed.

The culprits were found. Cris and Lauri, two young boys from poorer families in the village. They had crept into the house, thinking it was empty. Casar’s mother surprised them, and in fright, Cris had spun with his wooden sword, catching her across the forehead, knocking her down. They fled the house in horror, tripping over a lamp, which flooded the room with fire in minutes.

Something had snapped within Casar’s father. His eyes deadened, and he did not rest until he found them. Before any around could stop him, Casar’s father had torn out Lauri’s throat. Cris bolted, running through the crowd, never to be seen again in Lithan.

To forgive is to betray.

They had travelled many years, searching for Cris, for a sign that he was still alive. Casar’s father would not rest, so consuming was his hatred. Her father became a madman, beating her when she refused to listen to him, when she told him he was wrong.

‘Forgive,’ Casar had told him. ‘This is harder than not. Believe me, I have had to forgive you many years of wrong.’

He had turned then, looking deep into her eyes. Flickering faint, she thought that in their hardness a small fire could be seen. An ever-so tiny light, struggling in the darkness that pressed ever close. Without saying anything, Casar’s father had gone to his bedrolls, and lain down. Later, when the night had stilled, she could hear him weeping.

Casar longed to go to him, but could not. Could not bear to see her father as he was. She too cried, softly, so that none but the stars heard. Cried for the dead that could not be laid to rest, for the living that could not be forgiven.

In the morning, Casar’s father was gone. She checked all around camp, stretching her search wider each circuit. On returning, voices were heard.

‘He was drunk Matan, he was weaving around like a top.’

The other voice answered. ‘No boy, not drunk, but bearing the weight of much wrong on his shoulders. This is Bradley Gerod, the Bradley Gerod. The Hater, the Hunter.’

The first said slowly, with great sorrow. ‘I know.’

Casar could not go near the wagon. She watched from the trees as the two soldiers took away her father’s belongings, her belongings. She watched the two of them talk over her bedroll, the younger looking around, the older shaking his head, picking up the bedding, and walking back to their horses. She watched as they left. She followed them to the village. Watched as they came to the other side of town, where a small yard of graves was kept.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, as she watched the older soldier place her father’s sword at his side, a crown of bay leaves on his head. A raven squawked as Casar watched the hole fill with dirt, stamped down so no predators could get at it. Watched the stones being placed across the top, marking the head stone with a red slash, for those dead by another’s hand. Watched Maten, the older man, placing his hand on the other’s shoulder. A younger man, he leant down and stuck a wooden sword in between the rocks on the grave.

To forgive is to betray. Casar heard these words. Yet to hate is to die.

It is harder to forgive than to forget. To forgive is not to betray,

To forgive is to live.

To forgive is to love.

I’ve told stories since .. Well, since I could run around the back yard pretending I was a knight. It’s such an awesome joy to create characters and worlds and Stories. 

I love it.

This site has been through a couple of iterations over the years. It started a long time ago, faded into the nether-ness, fired up again, and then fell back once more.

Thanks to the excellent Album theme for Wordpress, the site is far better suited to the art of story-telling. Or at least, the art of stu-story-telling, mad hatter that I am.

Enough blither. 

Enjoy!