The Red Sun (Short Story)


The Architecture of Wolverhampton was ‘Shit’. That was how we would describe it to somebody he personally couldn’t give a shit about upsetting. As he stood there in the Centre of the City the thought kept repeating itself in his head. Rolling around his mouth as he thought of the word. Saying it behind closed lips as he smiled at people he suspected wanted to pass the time of day.

The central shopping area was a bundle of Occult madness, set amongst the detritus of the modern town it was designed by those who would turn their eyes away from it, safe within their own quaint expensive village where the Architects were wont to rot away their own pointless existence. Their design echoes their own ravaged and defunct Souls. But, here and there he could see the blank façades of the Global darkness, here and there, subtle signs.

These signs were a cornice where a small Demon was added as a Waterspout, or the line of a building arced over another forming a twist of the vision. A trick of the eye where one would become slightly sick. The perspective skewed and driven into the watcher. He rolled a cigarette and sat at a bench to ruminate on the tricks they pulled. Even the Police walked around in a daze. Secure in their own indifference they rolled from side to side, watching, talking, being fucking cops. He didn’t really care for them much.

He raised his hands and rubbed his face as if tired of it all, and he was, a little. When the gutted spirit would sit and challenge its own eyes they are seen to do this, trying to awaken their own vision from the trickery and falsehood of the day. He laughed a little, pressing his eyes he saw a few spangled stars float across the scene. The Mander building a sixties monolith rose above him and he felt dizzy for a minute. There was a preacher shouting amongst the shoppers who ignored him.

“Let there be deliverance and redemption through Christ!” the Preacher shouted and brandished his Holy book as a shield against the silent shuffling hordes eyes turned towards windows, or ushering errant little bastard children to hand. The Preacher was speaking in a thick Caribbean accent. ‘Through’ became ‘Chroo’, and the Bible was again held in a tight hand in case somebody took it from him. The Preacher saw him sitting on the bench and came over smiling. Big happy teeth and slightly sweating he started again with a captive audience.

‘Believe!’ he shouted in the mans face. ‘Believe in disbelief’, he told the Preacher, who smiled again and blocked out the Sun a little as he moved closer. When one enters in a conversation with somebody lost in a Holy Book or a belief system, you lose some of your essence but the man didn’t care, he like Preaching. It made him giggle sometimes, if only they knew. But alas. He smiled back at the Preacher who gave him a Tract, there was a picture of Jesus on it. A happy Jesus who seemed to float over a gathered number of children and animals. Jesus had his hands aloft in some strange way as if to say, “Hey, dudes”. Floaty Jesus man, excellent, he thought. The Preacher carried on quoting scripture now, no need for a conversation, a two way flow of debate and rhetoric, no. When you are being preached to there is no way you may tangle and weave the words of the Lord. No fucking way.

The man took his hands away from the bench and placed them on his knees, an unconscious move designed to placate his mind, to seek protection from these followers of Gods.

Behind him upon the marble steps of the Prince Albert Monument a small group of young Muslims and a scattering of protesters. The Israelis were bombing the shit out of the Gaza strip again. There was anger, vehemence as they sipped their Coke and shouted, ate their Subways and pronounced their own anger to the indifferent crowds. Other books held aloft, different books but all the same. The Preachers voice was raised as he was close to the monument now he had approached the bench. The Protesters weren’t interested in forgiving Gods, they enjoyed the anger of their own. These Desert tribes loved the vengeance of Gods, it made their own lives have meaning, the need to suffer and the grinding hell of their own existence given sense and order.

The man watched the angles of the roads converge within the Square. They twisted and heaved traffic into the relatively small space and echoed engines from the building, the Banks and the Pound shops. The voice of the Preacher fell and raised again as the Protesters took up some chant. It held no power. They were a people left behind by the progression of their Gods. Would the Gods recognise them? No, two thousand years of hate and bitterness they inflict upon themselves was lost on lofty deities. The stink of Diesel fumes and the stink of their fucking religions combined and the man thought he would drop from the bench and to the cool concrete slabs underfoot spotted with old chewing gum, spit and spilled liquids.

Rant on dear friends, take part in the madness you made for yourselves, the Circus is in fact in town. They milled and swarmed in their madness, their inability to see as he did. These Masonic castles built by stern faced Victorians, twisted by the magic that the Masons possessed looked upon the scene as much as the faces of their magical builders. Sternly, indifferent, unaware perhaps of the complicated sufferance they had designed for themselves. Victory for Empire, but not one for flags and comradely songs, not for Kings or for Builders, the Factory owners or the Slave holders.

For themselves, the Magic in the mortar and the brick, the slabs of Marble from Italy, the Limestone faces of the statues made for purpose, for the magical environment they make for themselves. As we exist within the stink of these places the man remembered the Prime, the Sigils and the scratched Pentagrams of his Youth. Lost in the sense of the place his head reeled again as the Magic coursed through him. Lit by the fires of redemption and forgiveness, although no forgiveness offered for him. Hold tight to floating Jesus, this simple scrap of paper. The Preacher screamed high pitched at the sky and a few stopped to watch him, thinking an event or a pantomime to start. A puppet show that’s all.

The Man rose at last, the spittle from the Preachers lips fell to that stained ground, the solidity of evil men, their ways and their lax systems of belief laid flat for people to tread upon. Happy now that he had seen the weaving of the Masons and the degrees they suffered for the art. Happy that it had presented to him the answers he needed that particular day. The energy now gathered into him for more investigation and a clearer bell to mark the division of the magical days.

This place was a knot, a tangle. He revealed a sharp knife and cut the Masons knots. The blood fell on the filthy slabs, somebody screamed. A spot of blood on the tract just behind the right shoulder of Jesus looked like a bright Red Sun.

Black Glass Choked


Press your hands into the Black glass atop the wall
Feel the acid sink and stutter through the flesh
Ragged hearts bless often and at will
but the fires you lit have made me ill
Fire up the Heathen fires and burn as Witches
Scream obscenity and the Judges wicked and tired
our Father who aren’t in Heaven, Shallow be his name
Thine Murder comes, and never done
Burn the Earth as you did in Heaven
Give up this Day our loved and our dead
and forgive nothing

The Lost Smith of the Heavens

As you sit and ponder your exile
think of us and weep not, but raise a hand
part the fogs of the Eigen for us that we may know
the greater things aloft and away from our hands
should we ponder your release at last
to break those chains that hold thee to the rock
spread your wings and feel thy Holy blood fill them
Let us throw ourselves down at your Majesty
watch the Heavens Mighty Smith of old
raise your scarred hammer high
cast it among those who lead you here
the Desert fools who shy away from battle
the figured Roman Popes of old
their Prophets from the desert will rot
torn and battered under the clear line from Ethur
Dont be stern with us who believed forever
we suffered the blows in your exile, we hated and loved
Do not cry Lord, say to us ‘Come’

“To the East the blood filled books of hate”
“To the West the blood soaked Gold”
“The South the Children of the Sun”
“The North, where all is begun”

The Snows around us whirl and spins as we laugh
the icy rocks sure underfoot with your grace
The Gathering place of the storm clad legions
the Black Hordes of Granite borne
Our lightening fires the coldest hearts to battle
swing sure Master and show them us revealed
through the cursed Roman hearts the guile of those who count
let their mass of Empire count for nothing
let brethren burn and leer at faint promise
let their Gods kneel to you my Lord

What did you do in the Lizard Wars Grandad?


What Did You Do In The Lizard Wars Grandad?
Beautiful Somerset, even more beautiful since the Farming and Agriculture went away and the Tops of the hills and the fields were covered by vegetation, young Trees, you could walk from Bath to Shrewsbury now and never see the sky. Unless obscured by gently moving limbs of the Tress full of leaf. He walked as he did very morning before starting the days chores, which meant chopping wood or some Electrical work on the Solar panels. He would wander around happy for once, forgetting for a moment those days lost in the past. Through the smoke and fire of his Youth, a Baptism of pain and understanding. In a Hedgerow a patch of Blackberries, he eased himself down to double check, his eyesight, now he was in advanced years not so good.
He shouted out ‘Helen! Blackberries!”. From a little way ahead, a young girl, maybe Twelve or so years old ran from a gap in the Hedge and down the overgrown lane, the Tarmac now only small pieces of bleached greyness among the sprouting vegetation. She ran to the old man, “Grandad!” she looked alarmed and the old man gently placed the small handwoven basket he carried to the ground quickly scanning the surrounding area. She ran to him out of breath her lips stained with the fruits of the countryside. She had beautiful Chestnut curls, she was so like her Grandmother it stopped his heart for a moment. She tugged at his sleeve, up the lane a way, just around the corner they hurried. Among the overgrown hedge the remains of a Helicopter. Its fuselage was smashed as it had obviously rolled down the hill after crashing many years ago. Faded markings on the shell were still just about visible.
“Its a Copter isn’t it?” she asked and went to climb into it. “Stop Helen” the Old man said. It wasn’t safe to explore, not in his mind, not yet any way, and perhaps it would always be the way. Excited she ran around the rear of the craft. Its rotors had long gone but from the hatch still poked a rusted and bent Machine gun mounted to the fractured floor. Webbing hung tangled with Ivy and other Vegetation. It was obviously a previously undisturbed crash site. As time went on more and more discoveries like this, now it was safer of course. Inside, there, between the seats of the Pilot and Co Pilot, bones. Not the Bleached bones of a Soldier or the discovered corpse of a Civilian, no.
“Helen, to me!” The Old man shouted, she was halfway into the cockpit through the vacant staring Cockpit window. She obeyed him but before she did there was that same old need to discover, and she hesitated, weighing up the consequences of punishment versus further discovery. So like her Grandmother and so unalike but….
The Bones inside were not Human. They were the same as us practically of course. Their camouflage was brilliant owing to having the basic physiology of a Human. Tangled in the rotten webbing and the detritus of the crash he saw two sets of remains. A female and a Male. The Female known by the cleft in the Jaw, the Male had none. Alien because of their colour. Iridescent Gold that shone through the myriad of Lichens and algae that had settled on them. He leaned into the Cockpit and grabbed one of the Skulls and brought it out into the sunshine. Helen next to him reached out her hands to help and without though she grabbed the skull from him as he tried to get the old muscles and bones into some sort of order and he unbalanced struggled to extricate himself form the opening.
“What is it? Don’t tell me I know, I think!” she giggled and shouted. She found a small clearing further into a former crop field and sat down with the skull in her hands. She had cleaned away some of the Greenery that had covered it and it shone even brighter. The Old man noticed the basket of Hedgerow fruits next to the wreck and grabbed a hold of it. He walked to his Granddaughter now sat in the sun holding the skull. She looked up at him with absolute delight. She loved these relics, these bookmarks of time that scattered the Countryside around Glastonbury where they lived. But nobody really spoke of them, or the Human Skulls that always turned up under a Spade or the Plough, the new foundations of a House or simply scattered in the open air.
“You know what it is I think” He said, his old Midland accent flattened the ‘You know’ into ‘Y’know’. He sat down next to her and took the skull from her for a moment. Similar to a Human skull and yet so different. The ‘Bone’ was a Silicon matrix that had precious metals ingrained within it. Silver, Gold and within that precious stones which shone in the Summer Sun. The Eye sockets were slanted giving it a distinct Reptilian look. She had never seen a Reptile of course, too young, and most of the books gone now.
“You can show everybody at School what you found if you like” he said. But it was the wrong thing to say and he stopped himself. Usha Bains who taught at the School would not let it into his small House by the Brook where he taught the Children of the Village. Usha would probably fall to his knees and look at the Sky, then he would emit a keen of grief like an Eagle screaming. Remembering and grieving again. Nobody would stop him, but they too would sink to their knees next to him, wrapping their arms about him they too would cry, if they remembered.
“I know some things..” Helen said. Her eyes a beautiful chestnut like her hair, big eyes that would bore into you like Magical things. “I know about them, some people don’t like to speak about them, Mother especially but I like to, I like to discover things”. Her voice floated on the heat a little, always chatting as young girls are wont to do. He passed the Skull back to her and she delighted in turning it in her hands and watching the Sun reflect off its surface. He was somewhere else of course as all the Old people do, minds flung back into different times when things were sadder, more horrifying. Hands gently touching memories and then only gently, not remaining too long but recollecting like wandering down a Hedgerow in deepest Somerset searching for Fruits to take back home or to gorge oneself on them and just lie down in the Sun and grass looking at the clear Blue sky above.
“I know you don’t like to talk about it, nobody does.” She said staring into those evil sockets of the skull in her palms. “But today is a special day I think, one for talking I think. You have scars you never talk about, and when the cold comes you walk with a limp and they say you saw them and fought them.” She turned the Skull around in her hands as she spoke and the Sun glinted into his eyes like…
“What did you do in the Lizard Wars Grandad?” she asked. But he was lost again in those deserted Streets of Birmingham. The blasted windows of the office blocks in the City center were like eyeless sockets but at one moment the Sun came out and reflected onto a rare unbroken pane of glass, into his eyes. There was Gunfire ahead…

The Bombing of Bristol 2019

From the safety of Wales we watched the arcs
of the rockets as they landed on Bristol
it was quiet in the soft grass and we lay back
as they rumbled overhead like strange dragons
twisting and dropping through the atmosphere
you laughed as i tickled you with a grass stalk
the sounds of the explosions were like thunder
we felt them in our stomachs and our hearts
we tried to care but were lost in that Summer
the UnCivil war the greatest of crimes i think
but we stay away as we do and travel North
to escape the fighting, catch a boat maybe
get to Scotland or Cumbria away from this shit
back to the Van we pass the burning Helicopter
inside there are two men on fire twitch and crackle
they look like burned Monkeys in the wreckage
but thats ok as its nothing to do with us
and as you laugh i see the tears and the pain
that runs through you in senseless seams
the anger and abandoned dreams
they took away when the little boys
played with their hellish Toys

The Black Heaven

So you are here then, in the darkness with me
standing in the filth and the sorrow
we can choose not to breathe the air
if we don’t want to, but we still do
but stop looking at your phone
at look inside yourself instead
you see the filth inside that will never rest
we fuck senseless and fired we rise above
and the flies that beat foul wings sink
and Suns rise, they fall sickened
your Black Wings are magnificent
they cover me and settle my beating heart
for the nearer to fall the closer we laugh
angered perhaps the distance great but dont fear
the Eris of Magnificence the sinner suffers
i bow down, i kneel and pray at your feet
bless Black Winged heaven sent slut

‘What Did You Do In The Lizard Wars Daddy?’

He held on tight to the Yew post
and fiddled with his programming
while they hustled away the day
bathing in the trickle down time that fell
like a bomb through the Eigen
‘bless him let him settle’ the night free
blasted and conceived by three of thee at least
the art fails again and the sudden ache
lets the fears in and the press of people
who chatter and lie
take a chance and break the threshold
subvert the infamy and narrow down the choices
send letters of hate and secret message
let them know we seek their secret
as they suck in circles known to them
press the Eigen back and see
what the Lizards do to you and me
bring them forwards so we can judge
the fears and the lack of sympathy
what Gods they suffer we do not know
we just plant the bombs and fire
a gentle push at platforms edge
a subtle knife you fell and bled
but we know you now your masks have slipped
the finest silks hide the scales well
and we plot your end as that is our right
an Englishman will always fight
we see you brazen and suck the teat
battered in the heart the head and feet
we string you up for all to see
put placards on your chest, a sacrifice
here swings a Lizard we caught last night
in a whores bedroom seeking wet delights
she phoned us and we rattled around
caught him in the bedroom
his pants fully down
grabbed and wrestled we drowned him
in the bath while she slept in his venom
dragged him outside and hung him up
to a road sign that pointed West again
his feet twitched as we pulled him up
and gargled something in their language
we laughed as God didn’t care
his existence neither here nor there
I robbed him for the petrol home
and kept his House of Commons ID
in the future they asked her what I did
and she gathered them around her in the Garden
‘He was very brave that night, to fight’
and they listened with proud delight
An Englishman you see, will fight regardless
in the end, fearing not his own end
but that of his Brothers
Don’t scare easily Soldier and Rebel
but always think
better to die and remain free
than never answer the question
‘What did you do in the Lizard Wars Daddy’