Demon Hunter

  So it’s been an obscenely long time since I’ve posted something worth reading. Now anyone who knows any creative types knows that we all need the admiration of others to feed our fragile egos, that or their suffering we’re flexible that way. So in that respect I’m posting a little side project I’ve been working on. I hope you all enjoy it and I look forward to your comments. All criticisms accepted, so go nuts.

Demon Hunter

    I was sitting in a coffee shop when she finally approached. Don’t ask me which or where, after so long they all look the same. I’d chosen a seat at the back, my chair against the wall, the only door directly in my line of sight.

The coffee shop itself was near empty, only a few people at scattered about the room. Each absorbed in whatever was scrolling down the screen of their phones. It really was the definition of irony, all this technology to bring us closer together and yet they all sat as far from each other as they could.

But then was I much better? The only reason I was here was for the coffee. Funny how appetites leave can you as the years pass, but addiction only grows stronger.

    The door opened bringing with it a gust of air. Then she walked in, her dark hair a mess from the wind outside. She went to the counter and ordered whatever excessively sized coffee it was that she drank, pulling her purse out from a battered satchel. From the corner of my eye I watched her survey the room, not for an empty seat there were plenty of those, but for me.

    She’d been following me for a while now; wherever I’d gone she appeared. Always in the same coat, always carrying her beaten bag over her shoulder. She would enter whatever establishment I’d chosen, buy a drink and pick a seat across the room from me. Then she’d drink her drink, stand up glance back over at me and leave. I’d toyed with approaching her myself, but in truth I wasn’t that curious. Eventually she would either give up, come over, or as mortals often did, die.

    It seems today she had finally made her decision.

    ”Is this seat taken?” she asked coming to stand at my table.

    “If it was don’t you think someone would already be sitting there?” I didn’t even bother looking up from my coffee.

    “You could be waiting for someone.”

    “You and I both know that’s not true.”

    She dropped her bag to the floor beside the table and sat down across from me.

    “Who are you?” she asked leaning forwards, her brown eyes begging from behind her glasses.

    I finished my coffee and got up.

    “Please, don’t leave.” Again the pleading stare.

    “Give me one good reason I should stay.”

    “You…you don’t remember me?”

    What was it with women, always thinking they were something special, something to remember. “No.” I turned to leave.

    “I’ll buy you another coffee!” She said, clinging to my arm, “please, I just want some answers.”

    That’s the funny thing about addiction.

    I sat back down, she got up went back over to the counter and came back with a large heavy cup, foam spilling over the sides.

    “Extra-large cappuccino with a double shot of expresso, no sugar.” She recited as she placed it in front of me.

    “Observant aren’t we.”

    “Not really, I just asked for another of what you ordered already.”

    “I take it you expect to be here for a while?”

    “what makes you say that?”

“You didn’t order it to go.”

She looked down at the table, “I guess.”

“Well then, ask your questions.”

She reached for her bag and began pulling out tattered pages, spreading them out over the table. Some were newspaper clippings yellowing from age, others were printouts from the internet.

“Who are you?” she asked again. “What are you?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Well you’re old, and I mean very old.” She sifted through some of the papers, placing several pictures in front of me. “This one’s from five years ago,” she pointed to one of them, “and this one from fifty years ago, and these are even older, yet you’re in each of them. And you haven’t changed in any.”

“And what makes you think they’re me? They could be my ancestors.”

“Well yes I thought about that, but then I noticed they all have the same scar, the one above your left eye.”

“So you’ve assumed they’re all me?”

“Well who else could they be?”

I sat back, taking a sip of my coffee. She’d done her research, looked for evidence and come to the only conclusion.

“My turn to ask you a question.” I said, enjoying the slight flash of panic across her face.

“But…but you haven’t answered mine yet!”

“Do I really need to? You must have come to some sort of conclusion.”

“Well…yes…but, I mean…it’s not possible.”

“Why do you care?”

She froze, looking down at the table again and sifted through her papers once more. Pulling out one of the more tattered newspaper clippings and silently passing it to me. It had been folded so many times the ink was becoming illegible, its edges soft and fragile at the creases. Across the top the headline read, HORROR AT SUBBURAN HOME. The fading picture showed a cluster of emergency vehicles grouped outside a normal house. Police and paramedics were clustered around five large black bags stretched out across the lawn. The picture below showed a young girl with the same brown eyes smiling between to adults. And beneath the caption read, Melissa Jones, eight, sole survivor of home massacre. Culprit still at large.

The article itself speculated about how someone had apparently broken in to the family home and murdered both parents and three others in the dead of night, how the young girl had managed to survive by hiding inside the washing machine. And how it had only been discovered when a local paper boy had come to deliver the morning paper.

“They were wrong weren’t they, the police I mean.” Melissa said. “The culprits were already dead; they were lying next to my parents.”

“Were they?”

“You know they were, you killed them. You saved me.”


Late night thoughts. 

OK, so it’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything and a lot has changed since then. I’m now in a job that I love and my life seems to be moving forward and getting better. My relationship with my family has gone from strength to strength and in general I’m much happier. 

But that doesn’t mean that my thoughts never turn to the difficult times. 

Cheif of which are the events that led me to leave my previous job of nearly eight years. 

First a little bit of background. 

I won’t say what the job was, but suffice to say it took me in to some of the darkest parts of humanity. And though it was stressful it wasn’t the reason that I had to leave. 

No, that in the end was caused by two people who seemed to make it their mission to cause me as much pain, heartache and general difficulty as they could. 

On reflection I know I wasn’t always the easiest person to deal with.  But i always maintained that if I ever caused a problem then tell me, and I would apologise. Along side that, I suffered from a sweating problem, and in a closed windowless room which was always hot and airless could cause a literal stink. Coupled with the fact that I have next to no sense of smell it could really make things uncomfortable.

Still I asked people to inform me if there was a problem and I’d go even further to try and remedy it. 

Despite all this two people, I have named the Gruesome Twosome made it their mission to inflict as much pain as they could. 

Usually it would have been small things, a badly made cup of coffee (petty I know, but it was always obvious) all the way to fabricating flat out lies to report to management in order to try and get me fired.

Allegedly I made highly inappropriate comments, that were in truth innuendos of minor consequence. And despite the supposed discomfort that it caused them, they and others would go in to areas of humour ( both personal and otherwise) that I would never dream of with other members of staff.

One even went so far as to state that my disabled child was not actually disabled, (autistic along with a host of other extras for those who a curious. And an absolutely amazing child) but was just a lazy and bad child, and I was apparently nothing more than a scrounger and bad parent.

And so on. 

I had not one but two full break downs, nearly going so far as to cause myself serious harm to get out of work. I fought their false complaints and won each time, I put in a counter complaint against the pair of them but unfortunately the investigation was led by their friend. So despite an enormous amount of evidence and witnesses it was dropped.

I was sent far out of the way for several months to a different post that added over two hours travelling to my day. And when I was informed I was going back to my old area I was told that the Gruesome Twosome would allow me to work there but that they would not interact with me in any other way. Not so bad until you consider we were a team of four on a good day.

Oh and they’d out in yet another complaint against me, that I’d allegedly breached security by not locking the key safe. A dismisable offence. Oddly enough though they were the only ones to have witnessed that. 

That for me was the last straw. 

I soon found a new job and took great satisfaction in handing my notice.

Though they attempted to cause difficulties right till the last day. Actually refusing to let me in to collect my belongings on the final day. Going so far as to get security (run by a completely different company) to refuse me access to do so. And then coming out to refuse me more so. In fact it took the threat of police involvement to get my possessions back. 

It’s been nearly two years since then. And I’ve seen them about, they always look at their feet when they notice me. 

But still I sometimes I think about it, I guess it always comes down to that one question. 


I guess I’ll never know. 

And as to why I’m writing this. Well it a bit of advice I’ve given over and over again to others. 

Writing helps. 

Time to take my own advice. 

Flat Earth. Asgard! 

So there’s been some debate lately about whether the earth is actually flat.

Well people I’m here to set the record straight. In truth it matters not, as none of us are actually on earth. 

We, and all these who came before us are actually residents of Asgard! 

Yes you heard me right, Asgard. We  have for many many years now been living under the spell of the trickster Loki, who has as he usually does, decided to cause some mischief. 

Is this yet another plot to rule over us all? Probably. But due to how long the spell has been in effect it is now beginning to ware off. 

Of course due the this weakening of said enchantment those who are already feeling its effects are suffering under the belief that the earth (Mudguard) is flat. Where in fact they are actually awakening to the truth that we are on Asgard. 

Due to this those of us still under the spell now belive them to be crazy and or just plain thick. 

But in truth we have begun to awaken. 

Do not fight it, do not struggle soon we shall all remember. And have our vengeance against the trickster!! 

Why do I write in my Genre

Why do I write in my Genre


Ok, so an interesting question this week. As for the answer, well in truth I just don’t like reality. Why should I be bound by the rules of this world when I can change them to whatever I want them to be?

How many of us dreamt we could fly or had superpowers? How many of us has read a book or watched a film and wished we could visit that world? Well that’s exactly what I get to do when I write what I write.

I’m no longer bound to this reality and those that read what I write get to come along for the ride. One second I could be sitting in my cluttered office, with its badly painted walls the next I’m battling the hordes of evil on a blood soaked plain while great bests circle ahead. Or maybe I’m walking through h a forest listening to birds singing while tracking elves, the point is I don’t have to be where my body is, but rather where my mind and heart takes me.

The other side of the coin is a little deeper I guess. For six years I worked among some of the worst types of people, I’ve seen what drugs and alcohol can do to people and how it ruins lives. I’ve seen what’s left of the battered women and abused children. I’ve sat next to people who’ve seen no other way out and even on one who attempted to take that route. And to this day I can still see the patterns of blood over the room, I can still smell it taste it on the air even. I know the feel of a mans pulse as it slows, and how they willingly accept what they’ve done.

Worse yet I’ve seen true evil, not the Saturday morning cartoon type, or even the sensationalized religious type. But true evil, the soulless, remorseless skin crawling evil of someone who truly doesn’t seem to have that integral part that makes us all human.

So sometimes I write to escape from that, and others to make sense or even give some sort of reason to the darker parts of humanity. Because in truth, most of the bad in the world is truly senseless. And when I write It’s not just violence or cruelty for no reason. Heroes can exist in the way’s we all remember form when we were children. They can go through hell and back and somehow survive it all. Rescuing those that need saving with words, actions and magic, and defeating villains who make at least some sort of sense.

In the long run I guess I really write in my genre for me.

Thanet creative Writers

Thanet creative writers wordpress

The Sacred cult of Cecil

The Sacred cult of Cecil


For we are the sacred cult of Cecil. Within us all lays a Cecil, and through Cecil we may stand up and move. This is the first miracle of Cecil.

That Cecil exists is not is not faith, but fact. Something that even science cannot disprove. Even animals house a Cecil of their own. Though not as grand as those belonging to humans. This is the second miracle of Cecil.

Cecil protects and supports the squishy bits of us, and those of us who have faith in Cecil may leave behind a Cecil of their own when they leave the mortal realm. This is the third miracle of Cecil.

And through these miracles we have come to know Cecil and all that he does for us. And through that we know what we must do for him.

First, we must offer sacrifices of calcium, by consuming foods rich in the nutrient to keep the Cecil within us strong so that he may protect us.

Second, we must clean all exposed parts of Cecil no matter how small for most these will be found within the loathsome noise hole. And must be well looked after for the build-up of bull shit spouted by many can lead to the rotting of such sacred tools.

The youthful will find that these will fall out, do not fear as these are only there to serve you as practice, and will be replaced by the true tools. But even though these are to fall away they must still be treated with great reverence, and offered up to the Fairy of Teeth who toils long and hard on behalf of the Cecil collecting them so that he may judge you. If found to be worthy you shall be granted gifts of a monetary fashion. If not then the tools that grow to replace them shall come out crooked and painful.

Those that are especially wise shall be granted a further gift, and such beings can be known buy the extra teeth that appear, those that displease the Cecil shall receive something similar, but they will appear painfully and often grow in obtuse ways so as to punish the fools for what they have done.

Thirdly, there are things that must be avoided for they can harm the Cecil. Chiefly among them are such things as grapefruit. The Cult of the Pink Grapefruit are especially bothersome as none among their number will acknowledge their own involvement to such a depraved set of people. Though if you do suspect someone to, it will fall to you to prove and deal with them.

This can be simply done by forcing said person to prove their faith in the round pink devil for once it has been stated they cease to exist.

Fourthly, the thirty first day of the tenth month is the Cecilstice and should be celebrated appropriately. On this day you must go forth after the sun has begun to set dressed in your finest Cecil garments and walk through the streets, or attend a gathering of your brethren. The Cecil will pleased greatly by the young that participate in this and will guide others nearby to gift them with delectable treats.

And finally, an idol of Cecil must be kept within the confines of the dwelling at all times. This will allow you to converse with the Great Cecil whenever you must. And if you have earnt his favour he may choose to answer you.

In Cecil we keep our Faith.

Time Travel

So this week we’re time travelers. Simple enough, get in your time machine and off you go. Of course you need to watch out for those pesky paradoxes.

But what happens when you don’t know your time travelling.

Or for that matter if you’ve even got a time machine.

Well Artimis Blake is about to find out. Let me know if he handled it as well as you would have.

Time Travel, A Big Mistake

Artimis sat in his office; pondering over the latest drivel he’d spent the best part of the night writing. Disappointed and annoyed, he couldn’t even screw up the pages and hurl them across the room, as he would usually have done so, had he stuck to pen and paper. But instead he had gone straight to the computer, no planning or anything.

Rubbing the grit from his eyes he got slowly to his feet and stumbled out of the room thinking of nothing more than a hot cup of coffee. Judging by the light streaming in through the windows sleep wasn’t going to be an option, as the rest of the family would soon be up and demanding one thing from him or another.

Upon reaching the kitchen he wrinkled his nose at the stale smell of last night’s takeout, and resulting stacks of…well pretty much what you’d expect. Ignoring it all he went straight to the kettle and turned it on, then fumbled down the strongest coffee he had in the house from the top shelf. He grimaced at how light the jar felt, a testament to how many times he’d done this in the last few weeks.

Grabbing the only clean coffee cup he then made his coffee. Artimis added extra sugar and plenty of cream then carried it back to the office. Perhaps he’ be able to salvage something from the nights work before he had to give up for the day.

“Well Cecil, it seems I might be losing my touch.” He said to the full sized plastic skeleton sitting in the corner of the room. “I just can’t get my imagination to work anymore.”

Of course Cecil didn’t reply, being made of plastic. If he had Artimis would probably have thought he’d gone mad from exhaustion. However that had never stopped him from talking to the inanimate thing. Instead he closed his eyes, took a sip of the near scolding hot coffee, and enjoyed its overly sweet taste as it ran down his throat.

Exhaling, Artimis opened his eyes and instantly tried to figure out what the hell he was looking at.

Had the smallest inhabitant of the house been in the office again?

Had he been trying to watch something on one of the many streaming sites?

Because instead of his poor work he seemed to be staring at what appeared to be a T-rex.

A very realistic T-rex, 3D in fact. Which was impressive considering the computer was barely capable of playing anything more complicated than solitaire. Then there was the smell, a bit like what you’d get when you stepped in to the reptile room at the zoo, nothing at all like his office.

Setting down his coffee he took off his glasses and wiped them on the bottom of his shirt, putting them on he slid them slowly back up his nose.

Nope, the T-rex was still there.

But the rest of the office wasn’t.

Instead of his comfortable chair he seemed to be sitting on a rather large branch, quite a way away from the ground. Though that wasn’t nearly as puzzling as the fact he seemed to be outside. But then who would be sitting in a tree inside?

Of course he didn’t really have time to sit and try to figure this all out, because the large carnivore had suddenly noticed him and was regarding him with the same puzzled expression. And was probably thinking something along the lines of ‘I wonder what that thing is? Can I eat it? Let’s find out.’

Now sitting in a tree would usually be a good way to avoid being eaten, however in this case it happened to put Artimis at exactly, jaw level.

It made him easy pickings for the curious, hungry creature. Artimis, not really wanting to be eaten -though it would probably save him a lot of effort rewriting anything ever again- did the only thing that came to mind.

Panicking he threw what was nearly a full cup of not quite scalding coffee straight at it, then watched in amazement as it disappeared, smell and all.

Now of course a new problem presented itself, how on earth was he going to get home?

It was question that would stump even the smartest of people. Especially considering Artimis had no idea how he’d gotten there in the first place. The question was made even harder to answer now that he’d run out of coffee.

Wondering whether he’d done the correct thing, Artimis stared in to the bottom of the cup and his heart almost skipped a beat.

He saw there was maybe enough coffee for one last mouthful. He raised it to his lips with shaking hands and let the cold liquid slide in to his mouth, savoring what was might be his last taste of the stuff.

Sighing, he lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes lowered the glasses again then stopped.

He was back in the office, the same poor writing on the screen, Cecil still sitting staring at him from his corner. He was about to dismiss it all as a bad dream when he heard his wife calling out from the bedroom.

“Babe!” She shouted, sounding rather alarmed. “There’s a bloody T-rex in the street!”

“Just keep the windows closed and it’ll go away.” Artimis replied, confused all over again.

After setting his now empty mug on the desk he lent back in his chair and then shot straight back up.

Printed in bold capital letters across the mug were the words;


Cecil 1.

What gets me writing?

What gets me writing?


So, what gets me writing?

I’ve probably stared at this open word document for most of the week trying to figure out what actually gets me writing.

Could it be copious amounts of coffee? Or threats from the wife to actually finish something I’ve begun?

No. They’re reasons why I keep on writing, but what actually gets me writing?

So after looking in to the deepest parts of my literary soul and many long and very one sided conversations with Cecil (the skeleton who lives in my office) I’ve finally realised the most basic answer to that question.


Pure and simple, boredom is and will probably be the very origin of why I write. I hate being bored, so I write.

The next answer would be enjoyment of doing it, some people watch football, others play games I write.

I love putting down on paper or screen the stories, worlds and characters I’ve created. I love to see what I might put them through. Usually laughing manically as I do it.

And when ive sat back and looked at the result of these many hours tirelessly scratching away I love what’s appeared on the page. Months down the line I might look back at what id done and absolutely despise it, so I pick up pen or keyboard and begin again wanting to do better each time. Which probably explains why I’ve been working on the same book for so long now. But we’re all perfectionists at heart. Let’s face it if any of us actually get something published would we really want it to be substandard.

But back to the question at hand.

The final answer could really come under two things.

The first Disappointment. We’ve all read something somewhere that we’ve just had to put down from shear disappointment, for some it might even be this right now. And if it is then I don’t care.

The second would be determination.

Determination to do something better than that terrible, pointless waste of time, shouldn’t even be used to wrap chips in book. I actually keep copies of said books, so that when I’m being lazy, or blocked I can punish myself by perusing the terrible contents and fan the fire of my determination again. Or just to make myself feel better about whatever garbage I might have just written.

So, there we have it. What gets me writing. Basically as an exercise in stroking my own ego.


Simon Barnes

AKA Artimis Blake