Friday Flash - Captain Karaoke

Tweet Here's my attempt for this week's Fiction Friday challenge on the Write Anything blog, also submitted to the Friday Flash collection. Prompt #169 was;

The note taped to the door said: See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar.

"Well I don't know about you, Thusie, but I've had a damn good night," said Captain Scarlight. He swayed along the quay towards their ship.

I do wish you wouldn't keep referring to me as Thusie. My name is Methuselah, said the parrot on his shoulder. Being telepathic, Methuselah didn't need to speak out loud. The captain screwed up his face as the parrot's words echoed around his brain.

"Don't talk to me in my head like that, you know it confuses me."

It is the only way we may maintain a conversation.

"Pah, I don't want to talk to you anyway," said the captain. "All you ever do is tell me off for drinking and being merry."

That's because all you ever do is drink and be merry.

"That is not true, not at all!"

The captain stumbled up the plank to the ship. He tripped onto the deck, driving his knee into the wooden boards. He yelped in pain.

Indeed, Captain, you are as sober as a judge.

The captain threw an evil look at Methuselah. He hauled himself to his feet and tottered up the steps to the next deck. A piece of paper fluttered against the door to his quarters.

"What's this?" he said. He pulled the paper from its pin, and squinted to read the awkward handwriting. The note simply said: See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar.

"Oh-ho! A karaoke bar!" Captain Scarlight grinned.

What on earth is a karaoke bar?

"It's just a pub with a house band. They play songs you know, and you get up and sing them," replied the captain.

I do hope you are not planning on attending.

"I have to! Look, I've been invited." The captain waved the note at Methuselah.

The captain spun on his heel and wobbled back down the deck. Methuselah flew past him. He let an air current carry him to a bollard on the quay. A karaoke bar sounded like his idea of hell, but he felt obliged to accompany the captain. Lord knows what might occur if Captain Scarlight went unchaperoned.

"Come on, Thusie, it'll be fun!"

You have already spent four hours in the local watering hole with your men. Why must you go elsewhere?

"Pah!" replied the captain.

Methuselah thought it best not to ask how the captain knew the location of the karaoke bar. It made life easier not to question, or even understand, his bizarre ways.

Wild Notes Karaoke Bar squatted at the end of an alley filled with trash. Ancient handbills papered its stone walls between narrow windows. The captain yanked open the door and sound poured out into the alley. Raucous laughter and bad music filled the air. The captain plunged into the sea of bodies.

A four-piece band stood on the small stage. They fought their way through an old sea shanty. What they lacked in ability, they made up for in boundless enthusiasm. One musician used a stick and three strands of rope attached to a box as a double bass, and he plucked the strings with gusto. A man lurched and rolled in front of them. His tuneless caterwauling hurt Methuselah's ears. He fluttered across the bar to land on the captain's shoulder.

"Ah, my kind of place!" said Captain Scarlight. He caught the barkeeper's attention and ordered a drink.
A young man sidled up to the captain. A gold ring dangled from his left ear, and a scar twisted up his cheek into his hair. Methuselah recognised him from the ship. The parrot looked past him and saw several of the younger crew members further down the bar. They gazed at the captain in awe.

"You got our note then?" said the pirate.

"Ah-ha! Jonno! I did indeed! Very good choice of venue, my boy," said the captain. He thumped Jonno on the shoulder and laughed. Jonno grinned, but rubbed his shoulder when the captain looked away.

"Rex met a wench at the last pub and she told us about this place. We thought you'd like it," said Jonno.

"And I do indeed. Have you boys had a go yet?" The captain gestured to the stage. The drunk man sat in a heap in front of the stage, his place taken by a swarthy man in red. He crooned an old classic, drowned out by the band.

"No, we're too nervous. But we wondered if you would?"

"Of course I will! Where do I sign up?"

"No need, sir. Our current customer was the last to volunteer. If you want to go next, just wait at the bottom of the stage," said the barkeeper.

"Splendid!" roared the captain. He pushed his way through the crowd to the stage. The boys from the ship loitered by the bar. Methuselah perched on a beer tap.

The crooner left the stage, shaking his head. The band helped Captain Scarlight up onto the stage. They conferred for several moments before the captain turned to the crowd. A hush fell over the bar.

"My good gentlemen, and lovely wenches!" said the captain. The crowd cheered.

Please, Captain, do not do this.

The captain glared at Methuselah across the bar. He held up his hand for silence. Methuselah stole a glance at the crew. They stood transfixed. The captain dropped his hand and the band broke into tuneless song. The crowd whooped and cheered as the captain shouted his way through the first verse. Methuselah shook his head in disbelief when the captain reached the chorus.

"Did you ever know that you're my heeeeee-rooooooo? And everything I would like to beeeeeeeeee? See, I can fly higher than an eeeeeeeeagle, and you are the wind beneath my wiiiiiiiiiings!"

* * * 

Captain Scarlight and Methuselah have appeared before in two previous Friday Flash outings! Check out Pieces O' Eight and Polly Wants A Cracker.

Einstein did say that time is all relative

Tweet

I follow an awful lot of blogs, and I have to admit that I'm a very big fan of Dan Goodwin's A Big Creative Yes blog. I love his writing style, and the fact that he manages to encapsulate such common sense advice that can be applied to so many creative endeavours. So when I came across his post about developing creative motivation, it really struck a nerve with me, for two reasons. Firstly, I feel like I don't do enough writing myself, and secondly, it seems like not many other people do, either.

I don't do enough writing myself
I write my Friday flashes and my ongoing serial every week without fail, and I sometimes even work on separate flashes or short stories on top of these. I'm also in the process of editing my first novel, Fowlis Westerby. Still, I feel like I could be doing more. I have the time to write, I just get easily distracted. My problem is not necessarily one of motivation, more one of attention span. Once I get into the "writing zone" I can keep writing until something intrudes, but getting into that zone is tricky. I've already talked about 'unplugging' before as a way to eliminate distractions, so I'm taking small steps towards utilising the time I have. But if I don't write, then I have no one to blame but myself.

You tell me you'd love to write, but don't have the time
I'm often struck by quite how many people I know want to write. Some of them are writers, and they work hard on novels, flashes and serials. They fit all of this in around day jobs, or busy family lives. They are writers because, quite simply, they write. However, many people tell me they'd love to write, or "get back into writing", but they don't have the time. It's a common complaint, but it just tells me they don't really want to be writers. They like the idea of it, but the theory is more attractive than the practice. They're "far too busy" to squeeze in ten minutes of scribbling. Doesn't sound like they really want to do it, if you ask me.

Snatch time
Yes, I know you have a day job. So do I. Australian writer Benjamin Solah tackled this very subject on his blog recently. Now, I have quite a draining day job, and I often find I feel too tired to write when I finally get home at 7pm, so I snatch time where I can. I have an hour's lunchbreak - sixty whole minutes of writing time! Half of my hour-long commute to and from work is spent simply sitting on a tube train, so I grab writing time then.

Get creative
To start with, you only need to fit in a short period of writing. Even ten minutes is enough to get you used to making writing a part of your daily life. If you use public transport, you can write there instead of pulling out a paperback. Write in short bursts during the advert breaks of your favourite TV show. Schedule a ten minute writing session instead of gossiping on the phone. Wake up ten minutes earlier, and write before you go out. Skip watching that trashy soap and use the time to write instead. Hell, even write on the toilet - at least you know you won't be disturbed (I hope).

Give yourself permission to write
If you were an athlete, or an actor, or a musician, then you wouldn't hesitate in giving up time to practice or train. No one thinks twice if someone gets up at the crack of dawn to go swimming for an hour before work, and if someone spends their Tuesday evenings at a drama class, no one thinks any the less of them. Hell, even artists are given the time and space to be arty without anyone giving them any grief. But writers often feel silly asking for the room to write. Why? Is it because, realistically, the only equipment you need is a pencil and a piece of paper? Are we somehow maligned because our chosen vocation can be done anywhere, therefore we don't need to be left alone to do it? Well, as silly or uncomfortable as you might feel asking not to be disturbed for half an hour, or trying to justify why you can't stay for that last drink because you want to go home to write, it's what you're going to have to do if you want to write. It's a sacrifice, but you never get anything for nothing.

It's only because I love you
Maybe this all sounds incredibly harsh, but I'm only being cruel to be kind. If you want to write, then you will. You'll find a way. If you still feel that you can't spare the time...maybe take up something else. Writing isn't something you'd like to do - it's something that you must do.

The image for this post is by Col Adamson, and can be found in its original home here.

Rude Britannia

Tweet

Spitting Image's Margaret Thatcher

I've been meaning to see the Rude Britannia exhibition at the Tate Britain since it opened, and I thought that as it only has a few weeks left to run (it closes on 5 September), I should probably make the effort to go. So off I trotted to the Millbank gallery to see their collection of satirical cartoons, exploring British comic art from the 1600s to now.

Despite the main focus being on comic art, the exhibition includes examples from a huge range of different media and styles that have been used over the past four centuries. Allegory and caricature abound here, as the work ranges from ceramics and prints to the comic books and strips we recognise today. Understandably, there is an emphasis on social satire and politics, since these were such rich veins for the comic artists of early centuries to mine.

From 'A Rake's Progress', by William Hogarth

Room 2 focusses on the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, particularly 'Social Satire & The Grotesque'. Consumer society as we would recognise it began to expand in the 1770s, due in part to industrialisation and Britain's growing Empire. The fashions and fads of this new consumerist boom provided rich fodder for the comic artists, who lampooned the greed and depravity in their grotesque satire. The British printmaker William Hogarth was particularly prolific in the 1700s, and he has been credited with the invention of the comic strip, due to his use of sequential art. One of his most famous works came in 1735 when he published A Rake's Progress, eight panels that tell the story of a foolish youth who squanders his inheritance, and spends the rest of his life sinking into debauchery and debt, only to end his days in Bedlam.

The third room deals with the political caricature. Ever since the eighteen century, everyone from politicians and royals to celebrities have been the target for comics, cartoons and strips. The battles between William Pitt the Younger and Charles Fox provide the most material for the eighteenth century, while Napoleon, Gladstone and Disraeli are the main focus for the nineteenth century. The room also displays some truly astonishing satire featuring Hitler, Margaret Thatcher and John Major. My own personal favourites are the works concerning Tony Blair, particularly a photo of him allowing George Bush to stand on his back in order to climb onto a horse. Says it all, really.

Sexual humour and the concept of the absurd are also featured, although to a much lesser extent. To be honest, I'm scarcely surprised. The supposed 'humour' of the 'Bawdry' room is beyond crass, while the material representing the Absurd is just pointless. I fail to see the point of a taxidermied cat in a glass case holding up a sign saying "I'm Dead". Anyway.

I think one of the reasons why satire has always survived in comic format is that the medium carries the visual weight required for the 'punchlines' to have their intended effect. Political or satirical fiction can occasionally run the risk of appearing sanctimonious or patronising at best, and downright impenetrable at worse, but the cartoon carries the point quickly and effectively. A great deal of detail can be included in a single panel, using recognised symbolism as a form of visual shorthand. A Rake's Progress perfectly epitomises this point, as the activities of those around the Rake hint at what has led him to the point at which we find him in each panel.

Another reason the comic panel proved so popular was precisely because it was visual. While many of the older examples contain a lot of text, and the comic as we know it today usually involves dialogue, it is still possible to understand what is going on without being able to read. Printing shops used to display the panels in their windows, and people of all classes could view them for free. The fact that they were visual democratised their consumption, as opposed to the books which were accessible only to the rich and the educated. In some ways, their subject matter intended them to be instructional to the masses, but as the bad behaviour on display in the panels continued to occur, then this aspect was clearly largely ignored by the viewers.

We still have comics today, although I would argue that the emphasis has shifted, and when people think of comics now, they're more likely to think of something like Iron Man or Batman than Punch or Viz. Satire has largely moved onto the stage and screen, with TV shows like Spitting Image and the many shows featuring impressionist Rory Bremner using the capabilities of TV to put out satire in sketch format. Even comedies like Blackadder set out to lampoon current affairs using historical events as a reference point. The purpose is the same, to highlight the absurdity and hypocrisy of politicians, royals and celebrities, and like their eighteenth century forebears, the TV sketches require little education, and nothing more than a passing awareness of current events.

Of course, the advantage that both the comic and the sketch have is that even if you don't agree with the politics or the subject, you can still find them amusing, due to the employment of humour, and it is this which I believe makes satire such an important aspect of culture in general. As Ivor `Jest-ye-not-madam' Biggun of the Standing-At-The-Back-Dressed-Stupidly-And-Looking-Stupid Party in Blackadder III so memorably put it... "If you can't laugh, what can you do?"

Friday Flash - Free

Tweet Teva scraped another line into the tally on her wall. One thousand, one hundred and seventy four scratches marked the small patch of soft chalk in the granite wall. She rocked back onto her heels. The guard would come in ten minutes time.

She hauled herself onto the hard mattress in the corner. A rusted spring squealed in protest. She stretched out on her back. She let her feet hang over the end. A spider scuttled around in the corner. Teva watched it renovate its web.

The battered door swung open. A grizzled man in a dark grey uniform stood in the doorway. He held a carbine rifle across his chest. Flinty eyes glared out from below the peak of his cap.

“It’s time.”

“I know,” said Teva. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up.

“I knew you’d know,” said the guard. “You know too much, that’s your problem.”

Teva knew the way to the grey room but she allowed the guard to lead the way. She followed him down identical grey corridors, her footsteps falling on cracked grey tiles. She wondered what might happen if she rushed the guard. She could try to steal the rifle. She knew she would not. She knew the guard expected that.

A door blocked the end of the corridor. The guard inserted a heavy key into the lock. The door slid to one side.

“Go on then, they’re expecting you,” said the guard. He gestured for Teva to go inside.

“I know they are,” replied Teva. She twisted her face at the guard, a final childish gesture. He gazed at her with disinterest.

Four people sat in the grey room. Men in smart suits occupied three of the four empty chairs on one side of a walnut desk. They all wore black armbands over their jacket sleeves. A man with a shaven head sat on a low stool opposite. A tattoo of a squid clung to his bald skull. Heavy manacles bound his wrists and ankles. He stared at a spot of dirt on the grey floor in front of him.

“Ah, Teva! There you are. Have a seat,” said one of the suited men.

“Now you’re here, we can get started,” said another.

Teva slid into the vacant seat. The three men turned to face the prisoner.

“You have been charged with attempted robbery, attempted murder, actual bodily harm and grand theft auto. You have also applied for parole,” said the third man.

“We’d love to grant you parole, really, we would. But we can’t do that unless we know you’re not going to be a danger to yourself, or others. It would be incredibly irresponsible of us not to make certain, and we don’t like being irresponsible,” said the second man.

“This is where young Teva here comes in. She is going to tell us if you will break your parole. Your freedom depends on her. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” asked the first man.

The prisoner nodded.

“Well then. Teva, it’s over to you.”

Teva looked at the man. She half-closed her eyes, and let her vision drift out of focus. She let her mind break loose of its moorings, and she drifted towards the prisoner. He squirmed when she ran her insubstantial hands over his head. She stroked the stubble. He whined.

Teva remembered herself, and walked her fingers around to his forehead. She brushed the skin above his eyebrows. She saw the world as he saw it. She saw the grey floor, and the walnut desk, through his eyes. She stuck out her astral tongue and flicked it through his aura. He tasted lonely. She detected an aftertaste of remorse and grief.

She opened her eyes, back in her own body. The prisoner looked at her. Sorrow filled his blue eyes. She turned to the three men in suits. They looked at her in expectation. She nodded once. The first man broke into a grin.

“Well, young Sid! This is your lucky day! Teva here doesn’t think you’re going to break your parole, so it is with a great deal of satisfaction that I can call you a free man!”

Another guard stepped into the room and unlocked the manacles. The men in suits burst into a round of applause. Sid looked at them. He hesitated.

“Go on, son! Get out of here before we change our minds!” said the second suited man.

The guard led Sid out of the grey room. Teva heard him sob. Freedom sometimes did that to people.
The suited men stopped laughing. They turned in unison and glared at her. One of the men snapped his fingers and the grizzled guard with the rifle walked into the room.

“Take the lovely Teva back to her room. We don’t want our prize asset wandering around, now, do we?”

The guard grabbed Teva’s arm and hauled her out of her seat. He marched her into the corridor. She glanced out of the window and saw Sid walk out into the yard. The guard would take him across the yard to the other side of the prison where he would be processed and released. For now, Sid simply tipped back his head to the sky. Sunlight caressed his face.

Teva turned her face to the shadows in the corridor. She ducked into her small cell and lay down on the mattress. The spider still scampered about in its web. Teva envied its freedom to create. She sighed. She still had one gift for mankind.

She would remain imprisoned so that others might go free.

How to use a video game to write fiction

Tweet

I posted an open call for suggestions for blog entries on Twitter, and the lovely Dan Powell came up with "Timesplitters". That was actually related to a Facebook conversation on Saturday about how I wished someone would open a Timesplitter theme park, and I tried to think of ways I could incorporate a video game into a blog post on a blog that attempts to be connected to writing.

This may or may not work, but I'm going to use Timesplitters 2 as a reference point for exploring story structure! I know, it isn't a perfect game, with its hammy dialogue and contrived plot, but for our purposes, it's ideal.

Background
For those who haven't played it, the game is set in the 25th Century. You play Sergeant Cortez, a space marine (who looks suspiciously like Vin Diesel). War is raging between humanity and an evil alien race known as the Timesplitters. They use time crystals to zip about in time, changing history to bring Earth to ruin (slightly more labourious than invasion, but there you go). Cortez heads off into Time to try and get the last few crystals. Each level is the time period he visits, and he takes the form to match those eras. My personal favourite is the bounty hunter in the Wild West - even if you fire your pistol in the air, the bullet still makes a ricochet sound. Brilliant!

A problem shared...
All narratives work best with some kind of problem that must be solved. The opening cut scene of the game sets out this problem - in this case, the Time Crystals are stolen by the evil Timesplitters, and Cortez must leap about in time looking for them. The good news is, you don't have to write sci-fi, action thrillers or even video game scripts for this to apply. Think of all those romantic comedies where the boy and girl must overcome some kind of hurdle before they can get together. Humanity is forever setting itself tasks or causing itself problems, so if you can think of a problem that must be solved, then you can think up a narrative (or have a reason to hire the A-Team - your choice).

...is a problem halved
Now, you can't solve your problem too quickly, or it'll be too boring. It's also not realistic. Imagine if the Na'vi had just sat down with the mining corporation and worked out an amicable arrangement over tea and biscuits. No Avatar! (I say that like it would be a bad thing...) Or what if Captain Barbossa realised Elizabeth was lying about being Bootstrap's daughter and let her go? No Pirates of the Caribbean! Marion Crane would have saved herself a whole world of trouble if she'd just put the money back in the safe, and not decided to spend the night at the Bates Motel.

Obstacles
So you need to put obstacles in the way. Political corruption, physical distance, differences in temperament, mutant abilities, a bank robbery gone wrong, a natural disaster - I'm sure you can think of something. Look at Tomb Raider - Lara Croft doesn't just waltz into a cave system and find what she's looking for within a few minutes. No, you have to guide her through an implausibly large labyrinth of puzzles before you can get anywhere near the ancient artefact. Whether your obstacles are literal or metaphorical, you need them. In Timesplitters 2, the obstacles are physical, in the form of the anonymous henchmen you dispatch throughout each level, as well as the 'puzzles' you sometimes have to solve. (i.e. pick this up, take it over there, turn that lever, go somewhere else etc.).

Aiding and abetting
It is rare that your character will have to "go it alone", and aid is often given in some form or other. In Timesplitters 2, you get information or maps from Anya. She randomly radios Cortez across the barrier of Time to tell him (and, by extension, you) what to do. You also get a second character as an anchor to the level, someone who's already up against the bad guys. In Rear Window, Jeff solves the mystery with the help of his girlfriend, Lisa. Even Harry Potter needs Hermione and Ron before he can get the job done. Try and think up good, solid supporting characters to help your hero or heroine along. They will often have abilities or skills that your hero lacks - without them, your hero or heroine can't finish the job. This isn't as bad as it sounds - your hero/heroine needs to have flaws if your reader is going to relate to them.

Location, location, location
Location is incredibly important to your story, and the time travel nature of Timesplitters 2 means that Cortez travels between a myriad of different locations and time periods. Costume and props (not to mention weapons) change to suit the era, and each level offers its own challenges. You can't exactly dodge flying robots in the Wild West, and you're unlikely to encounter angry 1920s mobsters in an Aztec jungle! Give a thought to setting, including basic iconography and costume, to ground your story.

The minor triumph
The episodic, level-based format of Timesplitters 2 also highlights the importance of the minor triumph. By all means set your character a major problem to solve, but if you give them smaller ones to deal with throughout the narrative, it keeps the reader hooked for the whole story arc. Look at Lord of the Rings - Frodo doesn't just have to get the Ring to Mordor, he has to make it through the Mines of Moria, survive various Orc attacks and avoid betrayal by Gollum. The completion of each mini quest takes him one step closer to his goal. It's the same with Cortez - every time you complete a level, you've collected a Crystal and mended the rift in Space/Time, but you still need all of them before you can defeat the Timesplitters. The minor victories give you the momentum to continue.

The Final Chapter
The levels progress in difficulty, just as the minor quests in your narrative should grow in difficulty and complexity. Look at the challenges faced by Perseus in Clash of the Titans - each of the smaller victories serves to teach the hero a new skill, or help them to develop an ability, before the final episode. In this 'cut scene' the problem is solved, and the narrative is resolved. In this case, Cortez retrieves all of the crystals, and manages to blow up the space station overrun by Timesplitters. Whether you have a happy ending, or a sad one, the problem will need to be solved in some way in this final scene...unless of course you want your reader to go away feeling unfulfilled and a tad bemused. Probably best to avoid this option, unless you're secretly James Joyce.

So there you have it! A video game can teach you a lot about story structure, so now you have an excuse to play them!

The Legend behind the Black Knight

Tweet

This week's Friday Flash, A Black Night In The Churchyard, seems to have captured a lot of people's imaginations. After the good reception that my post on Bunhill Fields cemetery got, I thought I would dabble in local history again and explain a little about the setting that inspired my flash.

In the heart of Newcastle upon Tyne stands St Nicholas' Cathedral (see left), the Church of England church for the Diocese of Newcastle. A church has stood on this site since 1091, although the original parish church burned down in 1216. It was rebuilt in 1359, and it became a cathedral in 1882. The lantern spire dates to 1448. In my humble opinion, it is one of the most beautiful ecclesiastical buildings in the entire country. Certainly, York Minster, Durham Cathedral or Canterbury Cathedral are impressive, but St Nicholas' smaller scale makes it seem almost cosy. I am not religious in the slightest but I still find the place quite welcoming (though that may be due to the friendly volunteers who'll take you around during the day to point out notable features).

Inside the Cathedral is a tomb. This isn't particularly remarkable due to the English insistence on burying their dead under the foundations of their holy buildings (although the great Christopher Wren wanted an end to the practice due to the subsidence problems caused by a combination of rotting flesh, noxious gases and early building materials). This particular tomb is believed to house an anonymous knight. Local lore has it that his lord gave him instructions to protect the Church, which he continues to do even in death.

Clanking armour and the sound of metal-clad feet on gravel have been heard, while people have also reported seeing a cloak disappearing around the corner, or through a wall. Alone in the Dark Entertainment run ghost walks and tours in the area, so I asked David Marshall, one of their guides, about the story of the boy who broke the window.

"A small group of chavs were sitting drinking some cheap liquor within the grounds when one of the lads started arguing with his female partner for the night. In a fit of drunken rage, he threw a bottle at the window, destroying centuries of history within seconds. Without a thought for what he'd done, the lad and his group continued arguing and shouting, eventually leaving the site and heading back to their homes.

"For days afterwards, the lad was plagued by dreams, waking up in a cold sweat with fading visions of swords being hung above his head and a dark figure chasing him through his sleep. The dreams grew worse and  in the coming weeks other things started happening. The TV would turn itself on and off, objects would be moved when no one was in the room, keys would disappear only to reappear weeks later in full view. On and on these events went, gradually getting worse and worse, to the point of things being thrown by an unseen source.

"The dreams continued, the sword, the dark shape from a darker place.. a warning.. Admit his sin or perish. The lad was taken to psychiatrists, where they could only suggest sleeping tablets. A team was called in to investigate the strange happenings at home, the poltergeist, the daemon, the angry spirit.
Nothing helped. The lad could take it no longer and travelled into the city, walked into the police station and begged to be locked up. ... He was taken to trial, all the while the torments continued, until the moment at which the gavel struck and the sentence passed. In that one instance, the torment ended. ... The boy slept safe and secure, penance paid, in his cell."

Given that it is unlikely a drunken hooligan would be aware of the Black Knight, it is therefore easy to discount the possibility of him "imagining" these events as a symptom of his paranoia. I've always liked this particular story, although it has since been left out of the ghost walk at the Cathedral's request. I wanted to celebrate the work of the Knight, and that provided the impetus to write the flash.

I admit that I did change a few details, since the Cathedral is far from being forgotten or dilapidated, although it is true that building work in the area has eaten into the churchyard and changed the level of the ground. The yard was also the site of grave robbing, and other ghosts have been seen in the area. I also took a little artistic license since the Knight of legend terrorises ne'er-do-wells rather than consuming their souls.

I do hope that the Knight one day manages to find peace, but sadly I think the descent of humanity into new levels of selfishness and degradation will mean he is needed more than ever.

* * *

If you're in Newcastle upon Tyne, then I highly recommend a visit to St Nicholas' Cathedral. I also recommend checking out the many tours and walks that Alone in the Dark Entertainment run. If you're interested in the dark tales of my home town, then Vanessa Histon's Nightmare on Grey Street and Ghosts of Grainger Town are both excellent places to start!

Friday Flash - A Black Night in the Churchyard

Tweet

A small rock scuttled across the medieval stones. A fox looked up from his foraging near the gate. His amber eyes saw the Black Knight sitting on a low tomb. The knight kicked his feet against the faded inscription, and fiddled with his gauntlets. He cast his gaze around the lurching gravestones. He no longer saw the names; he knew each and every one of them. He knew their dates of birth, and their dates of death. He occasionally invented stories for them to keep himself amused.

Drunken chatter drifted across the still air. He looked up, but watched in dismay as the four shrill girls continued past the gate. The churchyard used to be a popular thoroughfare between two busy streets. An office block now blocked the way at the northern end, its car park butted up against the graveyard wall. The neglected church sat as if invisible while the city grew up around it, a medieval island in a sea of modernity.

The knight knew what it was to be forgotten. He hauled himself off the tomb to roam the small churchyard. Years of local building development altered the yard, changing its boundaries and disturbing graves. He hoped a developer might find his grave by accident. Caught in limbo, he was confined to the churchyard until he knew where his body was buried.

The Black Knight had guarded the churchyard for eight centuries. In earlier times, grave robbers, murderers, rapists, gangsters, and thieves all tried to ply their trade in his yard. The oath he swore to punish the evildoer held as much sway in death as it did in life. He consumed their souls and left their bodies as shambling walking corpses. His reputation even prevented crime as tales of clanking armour and dark shadows carried far and wide across the region.

Times changed. No one believed in ghosts or justice any more. He patrolled his abandoned corner of the city centre, forgotten and lonely. Not to mention hungry. What was it, forty, or fifty, years since his last meal? The sun rose and set, and still he wandered among the graves. The wind whistled through the dilapidated church, while weeds grew rampant. In his earlier years, he tried knocking on the coffins. He got no answer. Their occupants had already sailed across the Styx, but Charon would not take him. Without his body, he had no payment for the ferry.

Glass smashed near the gate. The knight looked up. A fat youth threw a second bottle over the wall. Green glass shattered against a moss-covered gravestone. The knight's sacred duty to protect swelled in his chest as the youth pushed open the gate. The hinges squealed in protest. The youth staggered along the overgrown path. He lurched behind Mrs Martha Eddowes’ gravestone to relieve himself. The knight drew his sword.

The youth zipped up his trousers. He turned around to face the church. Only one window remained intact. The stained glass told the story of the Annunciation. The Black Knight guarded it with a possessive zealotry. Besides the church, that single window was the only thing on this ground older than him. Twelfth century glass, and still perfect.

The youth picked up a large stone. He tested the weight in his hand. The Black Knight growled. He didn’t like where this was going, but he could do nothing until the youth did something wrong.

The stone flew through the air, and crashed into the ancient window. The glass imploded inwards, raining down on the pitted stone floor inside. The Black Knight howled. The youth whirled around, startled by the sudden noise. He saw a black shadow, and heard metal sing as it split the air.

The youth’s body staggered backwards. The Black Knight stood tall and furious in the churchyard. He held his sword in one hand, the youth’s soul in the other. It writhed in his grasp, a roiling mass of deceit, violence and malice. The Black Knight took one last look at the gaping wound in the wall of the church. As the youth’s body stumbled toward the gate, the Knight sat down to devour the soul. Such a satisfying meal, but at such a price.

* * *

The image for this story is actually the abandoned chapel at the centre of Abney Park Cemetery in Stoke Newington, London, although the flash was inspired by the legend of the Black Knight, who is reputed to haunt the small churchyard attached to St Nicolas' Cathedral in Newcastle upon Tyne. The St Nicolas churchyard is not overgrown and the Cathedral is one of the most beautiful ecclesiastical buildings in the country, but it suited the flash better that the church be neglected, so I've taken a bit of artistic license. I'm also not sure why the Knight is stuck in the churchyard, but this made the most sense to me. It is true that someone threw a brick through the oldest window in the Cathedral, though what happened to the hooligan is anybody's guess...