I know some people who prefer instrumental music because they don’t like most lyrics or think the voice ruins the music, but I have to disagree on occasion. Music, for me, needs a good combination of beat and melody and lyric and voice; there’s nothing worse than having someone with a terrible voice but brilliant lyrics, or a wonderful voice wasted on rubbish lyrics. I like a lot of music, though – not as much as some people, but I have about 9000 songs and they cover all sorts of different genres. Some are guilty pleasures, some are genuine love.

Snow Patrol are one of my guilty pleasures, if I’m honest, but it’s a mix between guilty pleasure and genuine love. I’ve known about Snow Patrol for a while, ever since Run (from their album Final Straw) was released, and I didn’t like the song at first, but it’s grown on me. I’ve only heard their three “mainstream” albums – Final Straw, Eyes Open and A Hundred Million Suns – and I like bits and pieces of them. I think, out of all their songs, Somewhere A Clock is Ticking is my favourite, because it’s got that level of atmosphere that isn’t necessary for me to enjoy a song, but I fucking love it if you can get it in. Seriously, chills, hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, all of that.

Anyway, the point of this post was that I wanted to talk about A Hundred Million Suns, their most recent album. Why? Because I love it. It’s undeniably beautiful and it’s a mark of how much I love lyrics, how much I love people who can write good lyrics. It’s a positive album, really; Lightbody wrote the songs about being in love without sounding cliche, and while he had much difficulty with writing them, he believes they’re honest, and… you know, I think they are.

I don’t know where to start, really. I’m not a music critic, I can’t review an album the way Hele can. I love most of the album, though – there are songs where I tune out, but I do that with everything, and it’s a brilliant album to curl up under the covers on a cold winter’s night and fall asleep to. It’s beautiful. I can’t fall asleep to anything that’s not relaxing and warm and inviting and — well, that’s a lie, actually, because I’ve fallen asleep to 30 Seconds to Mars and Def Leppard before, but it’s much, much easier to fall asleep to Snow Patrol. Oh dear, this is implying they’re boring – no, I find it easier to tune out to mellow things rather than angry or excitable loud things, which I think is understandable.

The album opens with If There’s a Rocket Tie Me to It, which hits my long song title love in one go, and it’s a really lovely song. It’s a little upbeat and it’s (probably) about missing a loved one, albeit not because they’re dead or because of a break-up, simply because they’ve had to go away for some reason. It’s really nice, actually, and I’m afraid, as much as I hate the empty adjective that is nice, it’s probably going to be relevant here. There’s a feeling that comes with nice, empty as it may be, and I think it applies. It’s a good feeling. It’s a good song. There’s the hint of longing and loneliness to it, but I think there’s something overwhelmingly good about it too, perhaps knowledge that the missed one is going to come back?

The next song is Crack the Shutters, and if this isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard then I don’t know what is. I’ll send you to the lyrics, because they are what make this song. Lightbody said it’s the purest love song he’s ever written and… I can’t argue with that. I can’t, because it’s true. I suppose it helps that I’ve got characters I can imagine with the song, and that might be what intensifies it for me (because heaven knows I’m incapable of feeling that way about someone myself), but you have got to listen to this song. It’s wonderful.

And then there’s Take Back the City, which I’ve got to get you to hear as well. It’s a love story for your hometown, so Lightbody says, but I think there’s an overwhelming sense of optimism and “get out there and live your life” to it. It’s a song that makes me want to live, makes me want to go out and love all the imperfections of my hometown because, dude, it’s my hometown. Some people hate where they grow up. I like my hometown, even though it’s quiet and kind of small and boring, but it’s my hometown, you know? But I love Take Back the City for a thousand different reasons, so listen to it:

I’ll skim over Lifeboats because I’ve listened to it, and I like it, but it’s not something that sticks with me as much as the next song does. It is a lovely song, though, and there’s some lovely imagery in the lyrics – I’ll link you to them, because I can’t choose a favourite. But the next song, The Golden Floor, is… wowsa. It’s a beautiful song and the imagery, again, is wonderful, and I can apply to a set of characters again, but damn. It’s got the atmospheric quality to it, too, and you’ve got to listen to it because I can’t explain quite how beautiful it is:

I quite like Please Just Take These Photos From My Hands – it’s where the title of this post comes from, for the record – but I won’t go into too much detail with it. It’s about nostalgia, though, if you can guess, and it’s also very good. My mind seems to skim over Set Down Your Glass, the Planets Bend Between Us and Engines, so I can’t comment, but I’m sure they’re good as well – Gary Lightbody’s an amazing lyricist, and I’m sure those songs prove it as well. I will talk about Disaster Button, though, because it’s a wonderful song – it’s a song about getting a little bit too over-excited in your youth, but it’s amazing nonetheless; you get the sense of excitement and thrill within it, and it’s a very upbeat song. Just listen to it.

And I’ve saved the very best for last, because holy shit is the only way I can describe the Lightning Strike. It’s an epic sixteen minute long song comprised of three different parts: (i) What if This Storm Ends?, (ii) The Sunlight Through the Flags and (iii) Daybreak. They’re different songs in their own right, but they all meld together to bring this seamless, beautiful finish to the album. And I think What if This Storm Ends is my favourite, but the other two are brilliant, and Daybreak brings a last, uplifting ring of hope to the album. Here’s the lyrics. Here’s the song:

Well, thanks for sticking around, folks. I’m aware there wasn’t much of a point to this post once I got down to it, but I just wanted to show you the work of whom I think is a brilliant lyricist. Seriously, I love this album.

What to talk about? I could sit here and talk about 30 Seconds to Mars and Them Crooked Vultures and the World/Inferno Friendship Society, but music isn’t my strong point. I will tell you to go out and listen to all three of those bands, most noteably 30 Seconds to Mars’ new album and definitely Them Crooked Vultures’ debut album and whatever you can find of W/IFS, because it’s all amazing, but I’m not going to talk about them.

Oh, okay, I’ll sum them up. As briefly and as best as I can.

This is War is, without a doubt, utterly amazing. There’s a very powerful emotion to it that speaks to me and the imagery that it summons forth is brilliant and beautiful. It fits, very strongly, with the idea of an impending, necessary war – but not war between two countries. Not a war between two different factions. But a war between the people – humanity – and the society that we finds ourselves in. That’s the running theme throughout the album, but it does it in such a brilliant way. It’s hair-raising, it’s awesome, it’s something that makes you want to stand on the edge of everything and fall, fall into battle for your soul and your right and your humanity and your freedom and everything that we should be and everything that we’re not. There’s a strong likelihood that you’ll have seen Kings & Queens by now, and if you haven’t – go and watch it. The video’s a beautiful piece of film-making and the song’s utterly fantastic. Escape, Vox Populi and Stranger in a Strange Land are other noteable songs from the album, although you ought to listen to it play through. It’s amazing.

As for Them Crooked Vultures, what can I say? They’re a supergroup and possibly one of the finest, comprised of Josh Homme (Queens of the Stone Age), John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin) and, my personal favourite, Dave Grohl (Nirvana and Foo Fighters). I can’t even begin to describe how brilliant it is, but all three of them are fantastic together – Homme’s voice and guitar, Jones’ bass, Grohl’s drumming – and the album’s pure and raw and wonderful. It’s completely dirty, filthy, even downright smutty – the first song, No One Loves Me & Neither Do I, is essentially sex in musical form. And it’s fantastic. I have to say that Elephants is undoubtedly my favourite, but Caligulove and Gunman are other favourites – and the entire album is probably one of my favourite albums ever. You oughta let this one play through, too – there’s so much variety, and they’re all brilliant songs. I’m pretty sure Interlude with Ludes takes the title of ‘creepiest damn thing I have heard all year’, too.

And I don’t know where to start with the World/Inferno Friendship Society other than that it’s brilliant. They’re cabaret anarcho-punk, and they’re just so happy and uplifting and a lot of fun to listen to. My noteable favourites are Addicted to Bad Ideas and Only Anarchists Are Pretty, but I’d say that you give anything you can find a shot. They’re definitely worth your time and your ears.

Whelp. I think I’ll leave it for now – I might be back with some writing, I might be back with a review of the year, who knows? Who’s even listening? I just like talking to myself.

The first one is about dragons and the second one is about superheroes; I am being tongue-in-cheek with my mockery in the second one, so don’t be offended?

Hurr

When I am a dragon, I will hoard gold
And silver and jewels and other precious things
But not socks, because they’re flammable
And get caught on my claws
I could wear armour, but only ornate pieces
Because my scales are more than enough
And they’ll be blue and purple
And green and brown
And yellow and orange
So I can hide in the sea and the earth and the sky

You can be a knight and chase me, relentlessly,
Across the land and over the hills and far, far away
But you’ll learn that to me you’re a canned meal
Your tin casing and your little stick mean nothing to me

I’ll steal your sheep and scorch your fields,
And that’ll bother you and your people,
But a dragon needs to eat as much as you do, my boy,
And I’m not too fond of virgins;
I wish I knew why you wrapped them up in flimsy cloth
Instead of metal

But for now, I am an egg,
Wreathed in flame and covered in soot
But I like it that way,
And you won’t know what I am, not yet,
Not until the day you hear that small, soft
Hurr.

When I am a Superhero

When I am a superhero, I will not wear spandex
Or Lycra, because nobody really wants to see that
I will not dress like a bat,
Because a bat does not strike fear into the hearts of most men
I will also not call myself Super
Because that’s a bit presumptuous
And I won’t wear my underwear on the outside

I won’t be bitten by a spider, especially not a radioactive one
And I won’t have an adamantium-coated skeleton
Because they’re both a bit silly, really
I won’t make myself a metal suit, especially not one powered
By the very thing that’s keeping me alive
And I’ll make that this A on my forehead won’t stand for anything,
Because there won’t be an A
And those wings are a little silly too

I won’t name myself after a forgotten king,
Nor a psychiatric test,
And if I won’t become an anarchist,
Nor use more Vs than necessary in my speech
I won’t be a force higher than God or an abstract concept,
And I definitely won’t have a name beginning with D
I won’t mess around with the occult
Whether I’m big and red or just a Scouser

I won’t mess up my body with gamma rays,
Although you still won’t like me when I’m angry
And I won’t get killed off every month
Only to come back thanks to a mythical firebird
I won’t act like the messiah or forget the small picture
Just because I come from the future
And I won’t be a Genre Savvy Cloud Cuckoo Lander
Breaking the fourth wall in the name of chimichangas

Because you see, when I am a superhero
Everyone will know my name
And I will go about my everyday business
I will not hide things from my loved ones
And I’ll deal with the villains beforehand
For you see, to be a superhero
I must be me.

I hate breaking into houses. On second thoughts, scratch that, it makes it sound like I do it regularly enough to be some twisted sick masochistic hobby that I continue to do because I get perverse pleasure out of how much I hate it. Uh, maybe I should just get on with this, right?

It isn’t some sort of hobby, but I’ve had to do it once or twice – maybe a few more than that, I don’t really keep track – in my life. I’m pretty good at it, ‘though, but then it’s hard not to be when you’ve got psychic powers and your best friend’s the Devil.

Actually, that’s a lie; my best friend’s Lucifer, and he’d like you to know he’s not the same as Satan.

What? No, I’m psychic, not psychotic. What do you know about the afterlife, anyway? Yeah, well, you’re wrong, okay? Come back and tell me when you’ve had communion with the beast and the morning star. Especially at the same time; all they do is bitch at one another.

Okay, okay, I broke into that house. I’ve broken into a few before, and no one’s ever noticed me, because I’m sneaky and sly and Luci’s always looking out for me, aren’t you, Luci? Oh, come on, you’re a paranormal being, it’s not like they can do anything to you. Fine, whatever. Sorry, guys, Luci doesn’t want to talk, and he doesn’t mind the nickname that much, honestly. You think I’d still be here if he did?

But, yeah, I broke into that house. Guess I wasn’t on my game that night, huh? Wouldn’t be here if I had been, but the honest truth is I was annoyed. Actually, no, I was downright pissed off.

It’s hard to be a psychic, you know? Actually, no, you wouldn’t, forget I said that. I mean, it’s pretty rare, we’re hardly even on document, so it’s not like we can just sign up for Psychic 101. When you figure out that something’s a little weird, you can’t just ignore it, either – you start hearing things that people haven’t said, start catching inanimate objects moving of their own accord, start remembering things that haven’t even happened yet – and then you realise it’s you that’s the problem.

It just escalates from there, believe you me. I don’t know who the most powerful psychic is ‘cause I couldn’t even find one; a lot of them are frauds, but I’m told there are some real ones out there. Don’t have the money or resources to find them, though, but I did have the money and resources to summon a great beast from the pit, and I ended up with Luci.

Yeah, yeah, you’re terrifying when you want to be, sure, but nobody’s afraid of a beautiful man except homophobes, Luci. I wasn’t implying you were gay! I was just making the point that you’re more attractive than you are scary. What? No! I don’t fancy you! That would be weird, man, you’re my best friend.

Anyway, Luci here – yeah, yeah, you can’t see him, I know – gave me this amulet in exchange for my soul. Sounds girly, doesn’t it? Well, it is a bit, but no one really seems to care, so whatever. Long story short is that we became really good friends, even though Luci likes to pretend we aren’t, but I’m the first person he’s ever met that doesn’t quail in fear or faun over his beauty – stop preening, man, you’re the watchful overlord of Hell, you’ve got a reputation – and can manage to hold a decent conversation, so he stuck around. He’s got stuff to do, but he comes and sees me fairly often.

Basically, I got mugged, and I was pretty pissed off because, spidey-sense and all – what? You don’t know who Spider-man is? Lame. Oh, shut up, Luci, you didn’t make a deal with Spidey, he’s a fictional character. Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted by somebody, I got mugged despite everything I got going for me, but to be fair I’m a bit of a weakling. You guys didn’t have much trouble taking me in, did you?

I didn’t get beat up though! I’m way too easy to comply if I can see the benefit, and the benefit here was I was not going to get hurt and murdered if I just handed over my money and, hey, what’s that shiny thing around your neck? So this bastard got my amulet as well. Pretty sure it was the dustbins rattling that scared him, ‘cause he’d gone by the time they’d started floating.

Luci trailed him for me, and I guess he must have dampened my psychic outburst, too, but that’s Luci for you, always willing to help when he feels the need. We followed the guy to a pawn shop and he flogged the amulet, but I couldn’t get it back because he’d stolen all my money too, so we decided to break in. Okay, I decided to break in, but Luci helped me. He checked everything out, told me when the coast was clear and little bit of a telekinetic push, hey presto, I was in.

Breaking in is so much easier than just confronting people. No fighting, no pain, and no one even knows you were there. Just break in, take whatever they took, and take a little something else as, y’know, a reward for a job well done. A pat on the back. Like that extra punch. I knew this was going to be a breeze.

Only, y’know, someone had completely neglected to tell me that this guy who ran the pawn shop was some sort of crazy Chinese super monk who a) knew some crazy magic and b) was really good with a broomstick. There wasn’t even a battle, ‘cause the morning star’s a pretty shit weapon, if I’m honest – fuck you, Luci, you told me I was in the clear, when I clearly wasn’t, dipshit – and I didn’t even find the amulet before the crazy old man knocked me out and called you guys. I got a bad headache right know, y’know, but no, interrogation first, right?

So, yeah, that’s the crazy shit I do for fun, officer. I suppose you want to put me in the loony bin right about now, right? It’s not like I can prove Luci’s real, the smug bastard, but he sure as hell is.

Although I gotta say, for someone who clearly thinks I’m missing a few screws – but hey, who isn’t, right, Luci? – you’re clearly coping with this psychic stuff with the greatest of ease. Didn’t even realise I got this gun to your temple without you even batting an eyelid, did you?

It is a bit of a creeper piece.

You’re beautiful.

Do you know that?

You’re the most radiant thing I’ve ever seen.

No painting, no photograph could capture your essence the way that I do when I map your skin with my hands, my tongue, my eyes.

Yet you shiver when I run my finger down your back, and I do not know why.

You’re beautiful when you’re spread-eagle on my bed, your murmurs mumbled by the pillow you bury your face in.

I would smother you to capture your beauty immortal, if I thought it would help.

But it won’t.

You constantly amaze me, dear, with your ever-changing, ever-shifting splendour.

I do not know why you cannot see how much I love you, how much I give you.

I do not know why you flinch from my touch, why you do not meet my eyes, why you choke back the love I know you want to return to me.

I do not know why you ask for release after I bring it to you, ask for things I have already given you.

I do not know why you don’t like my presents, my gifts, the things I bring to you between our lovemaking.

You did not like the butterfly that I brought you, trapped in a crystal cage.

We do not get many butterflies here, but they remind me of you, because they too are beautiful.

They are not as beautiful as you, dear, but perhaps you thought I thought they were?

You told me to get rid of it, so I did, but you do not understand why I smothered it in cigarette smoke.

You do not understand that beauty must be immortalised, and only in death can that happen.

Oh, my dear, you too will face that soon, before your beauty is forced out by age.

But don’t worry, my butterfly.

I won’t gas your cage yet.

There are still parts of you to be worshipped.

Oh, you are beautiful, butterfly, but you’re not going anywhere.

There’s too much of you left to worship.

———————-

And here’s the video!

That Time

Okay, so, before I begin, I have to tell you one thing: this is not a love story. This is a story about love. There’s a bit of a difference. This is also a story about anarchy, friendship, dreams, idealism, freedom, and a lot of other stuff that sounds like it’s lifted right off the page of a Disney movie. Uh, not that you can do that, but mostly, this story is about Charlie and Claire. It’s not about the ones from LOST. Although Claire does like peanut butter, but – okay, sorry, backtracking.

I’m not really cut out for this narrating business. I don’t even know where to begin.

I suppose I should start my introducing myself. Hey, the name’s Charlie, and I have landed the role of your illustrious narrator tonight… or whenever you’re reading this, honestly, I don’t know. So, hi, how you doing, blahblah. You know, Claire hates that- oh boy, there I go again, off down the wrong track.

So, I suppose you’re expecting this whole boy-meets-girl, girl-meets-boy, boy-and-girl-start-an-easy-going-friendship-and-become-really-good-friends, boy-or-girl-realises-he-or-she-is-falling-in-love-with-girl-or-boy, boy-and-girl-confess-feelings-and-start-or-don’t-start-a-relationship-depending, boy-and-girl-overcome-obstacles, and boy-and-girl-continue-with-a-very-strong-relationship, and everyone-gets-a-happy-ending. God, that’s an awful thing to read, sorry.

Well, yeah, everyone loves that sort of thing and the quirky teenage indie films are monopolizing that, sure, but I’m not here to make money out of you. I’m not one of those ‘filthy capitalist pig-dogs’ or whatever we’re calling them this week. Well, the name stays the same, but the adjective gets switched around a bit. Look, I should just start this story, shouldn’t I? I guess this isn’t the best job for me; I’ve got tangent syndrome.

It began in a bar. Actually, I suppose, really, it began when I was born and when Claire was born but for us to have been born our parents would have to have been born and the whole thing is completely redundant so, for sake of simplicity, it began in a bar.

I was pretty down on my luck, this week. I’d lost my apartment, I had the clothes on my back and all my worldly possessions crammed into a couple of bags, and I was spending the last of my money in this bar I’d found at random. It can’t have been particularly popular because it wasn’t very busy, but I don’t really remember the day of the week or the time or anything – I was pretty inebriated.

Yeah, drinking to drown your sorrows? Never a good idea. Especially not when you were down to loose change in your coat pocket as your only finances.

So, there I was, on the raggedy edge, and I was pretty certain I’d stopped paying for the drinks at some point and was getting free top ups. Maybe someone was buying them for me. Mind you, the bar was pretty quiet, and no one buys drinks for the homeless person on the verge of tears in the corner of the room. I spent a long time in that corner, and the only thing I can remember through the haze of tears and waitresses and awful jukebox songs was Claire.

I didn’t know she was Claire at the time; I’m not psychic, as much fun as that would be (or maybe it wouldn’t – who really wants to know what goes on in other people’s heads?), and I didn’t even really register her at first. By this time, I think the bar was much down to the last customer, which was… well, me, come to think of it, and this bartender had come over to me.

She wasn’t much to look at, really. Mind you, I was plastered, and she was just some girl in a uniform, so I didn’t really look at her. Maybe if I wasn’t so drunk, I would have been eyeing her up – or maybe I’d have made a move on her, but I wasn’t thinking about sex at the time. I wasn’t really thinking about anything, to be honest.

“Hey,” she said, “you’ve got to go home.” I must have stared at her for a while, because she added, “it’s closing time. You can’t stay here.”

“Can’t,” I said, or slurred, or something.

“Yeah, can’t stay here,” she said. Now that I think about it, she looked uncomfortable – maybe dealing with drunks wasn’t her strong point. Hell, is it anyone’s strong point? Except for bouncers, I suppose, ‘cause that’s their job, but they’re usually the bald or shaven blokes in suits who give you a long, hard stare and make jokes that are supposed to be funny but they come off as threatening because you never know if they’re going to abuse their power – sorry, sorry, that was a tangent, wasn’t it?

“Can’t… can’t go…” I couldn’t think where I couldn’t go. The pub, maybe? No, I was there. Shit, I didn’t know. I just knew I couldn’t go, wherever I couldn’t go.

Now, if Claire had been a bouncer, she probably would have kicked me out of the bar without a second’s hesitation. The good thing for me was that she wasn’t a bouncer, so instead she gave me a really funny look that should have only had one raised eyebrow, but she didn’t have that kind of control so I got two raised eyebrows.

“Can’t go where?” she asked. She sounded softer than before. Maybe this was concern but, as I say, I was out of it. “Hey! Hey, listen to me. Where can’t you go?”

I waved a hand, vaguely, as if that answered everything, and almost slumped forward. She frowned, I think, or her forehead just had a moment of going really wrinkly, which I don’t think happens but I don’t look at foreheads so I don’t know, and tried again.

“Where’s…” She waved her hand in the exact same manner that I had. Well, not exact, but… okay, look, I’ll just get on with it: I didn’t answer her. I didn’t know. Her forehead got even more wrinkly, which probably means she frowned even more, and then must have pieced it together. “You can’t go home?”

Yeah, that sounded about right. “Yuh-huh.”

Her forehead did a weird wrinkly thing where it stopped being wrinkly and then was wrinkly again and one eye went a bit squinty, so I suppose that was a moment of confusion and nodded.

“You can’t go home?” I don’t know why she asked it again. I nodded. “Why not?”

“Hmm… lost it…” I told her. I think I told her that, anyway. “It… vanished. Inna puffa logic.”

Claire, who I still didn’t know was Claire at the time, did the weird confused thing again with a weird laugh that was a bit like a snort, but like the air coming out of her nose. “What… like God?”

“Mmm. Yeah. QED and that… zebra crossing…” I think by this time I was almost asleep on my arms.

“Yeah?” She prodded me, or maybe it was a bit more of a push, but I think the general idea was to get me to not sleep. It worked, or at least it got my attention a little bit more. “You need a place to stay?”

“Mmm,” was my general response. “Yeah.”

She looked at me for a while, although without the forehead wrinkles that implied she was confused, and came to a decision with what was a smile I still haven’t worked out. I think it meant she was impressed or I met her standards or something.

“Yeah, okay,” she said. “Come with me, I’ll find you a place to stay.”

I remember her getting up and shouting, “hey, Sue! I gotta make sure this guy gets on his way, can you shut up? Thanks!” After that, she managed to pull me up from the table until I was standing, even though I was wobbling a bit.

She slung her arm under mine and around my back. “These your bags? Can you get one?” She grabbed one of the suitcases. “You’re gonna have to take the other one, I can’t hold you and both bags.”

Somehow, with what must have been tremendous effort and co-ordination for someone who I know doesn’t have much, the bartender-I-would-know-as-Claire managed to drag me out of the bar and to her car. She loaded me and my luggage – my possessions – into the car and got in herself, fumbled a bit, and managed to succeed in starting the car.

“You okay?” she asked. Slumped against the passenger window, I nodded.

“Mmm,” I said.

“Okay,” she said, and then I think she started driving. The car was in motion, anyway. “Shit, it’s cold.”

She turned a dial and pressed a button or did something with the bit of her car that let her ask it to warm up, anyway. I don’t know. I’ve told you, I was drunk. It got a bit warmer, eventually, and then she gave a weird laugh, “shit, I forgot my coat.”

“’sokay,” I muttered, because she was giving me a ride to some place I could crash for the night and I wanted to reassure her that it was okay, she could go back and get it another time. I think. Maybe I wanted to reassure her I wasn’t going to kill her, because hell she was gutsy – ballsy – brave, that’s probably the best word, for doing something like this. Who the hell takes strangers somewhere they can go sleep for the night? Maybe she took pity on me, I don’t know.

“Yeah,” I remember her saying. “It’s just a coat. I don’t really need it.”

I don’t remember how far we drove – not far, I later learnt, but still – but we stopped when the car was comfortably warm and I was near enough asleep in the seat.

“You awake?”

“Mm, yeah,” I muttered. “Kinda.”

I suppose I thought I might be hallucinating in a drunken stupor, or I’d fallen asleep in the bar, and I was going to wake up and find she was going to kick me out on the street. But she didn’t; Claire helped me and my luggage out of the car and, somewhere in my fuzzy brain, I registered we were outside a really big house.

“It’s a little shabby on the outside,” she told me, “but we’ve fixed it up pretty well on the inside.”

She semi-carried me and my luggage to the door and then, propping me up against the wall, she fumbled with her key in the dark and managed to unlock the door.

“Be quiet,” she added, as she pushed open the door. “The others are probably sleeping, and I don’t want to wake them.”

I should have asked about who the others were at the time, but I didn’t really even think about it – this girl was letting me into her house, and for all she knew I could have been a crazy rapist murderer intent on getting sick, perverse pleasure out of her. She didn’t seem bothered by this and helped me and my worldly possessions, still crammed into the suitcases, into the house.

“I’m really, really sorry, but none of the spare rooms are, uh, spare,” she said. “They need clearing up really badly and I feel awful but is it okay if you sleep on the couch? I’ll get you some blankets and pillows and stuff and, uh, we’ll sort stuff out in the morning but unless you want to crash on the floor or sleep with a load of rubbish it’s the best that I can do right now.”

I stared at her for a while. “What?”

“Sorry!” she said. She was clenching her fists and unclenching them and had them at her face level and was waving them around, like she was going through a moment of complete uncertainty.

“’Sfine,” I told her, realising that’s what she wanted. “’Sfine, really. ‘Sokay.” I tried my best to smile at her, but it seemed to come out as a grimace. It must have encouraged her, though, because she led me to the couch.

“Here, make yourself comfortable,” she said. “I’m really, really sorry, but this is the best I can do right now, and I know it’s not enough but I hope it can be, just for tonight. I’ll go get you some pillows and a blanket.” She turned to leave, heading towards the stairs, before glancing back and adding, “I’m Claire, by the way.”

“Charlie,” I muttered, as she jogged up the stairs. I flopped down on the couch, laid my head against the arm, and closed my eyes. I was out like a light; by the time she returned, I was dead to the world.

I haven’t got a lot to offer you, but I do have some more writing! (And the crowd goes wild… not.) This was written for another challenge, this time transformation, and it has space pirates in it. Yay, space pirates! I don’t really like it as much as the others, but I haven’t written anything in a while… actually, I have something else to share with you, now that I think about it, but I’ll get that to you in the next post.

Elise stands on the deck of the White Nova and prays, silently, for someone to help her.

She is not religious; anyone who has grown up and survived in the slums and backwaters of the ‘verse knows that gods, if they do exist, care nothing for the little people. Even in her most desperate moments, Elise had never sought comfort in the spiritual, because she has always had someone solid and real to help her.

Right now, Elise has nothing. If she believed in hell, this would be it.

Actually, there is one thing that she has left. Surrounded by pirates, her crewmates incapacitated, Elise has the blaster in her hand and the orb in the other: one of these will buy her freedom; the other will buy her life.

She doesn’t need to see Teddy – his arms looped with chains and kept on his knees through the efforts of three pirates – to know that he’s staring at her; he doesn’t need to say anything for her to know he’s screaming “it’s better to die on your feet than life on your knees.”

But, Elise knows, Teddy is on his knees; Micah is even worse, and his injuries need attention now.

No matter what Teddy wants, both he and Micah are her responsibility – they’re her crew, and she’s their captain, and she can kill them for the sake of pride or sell herself for the sake of their lives.

Captain Gwyner – Elise’s own personal devil – watches her leisurely from the opposite side of the deck and asks, in guttural tones, “Well?”

Elise has to make a decision, now.

“You’ll let us go?” she asks.

“Of course,” responds the captain; she’s wearing a shit-eating grin that makes Elise want to throw all caution to the wind and simply shoot her.

“Without chasing us?” asks Elise. “You’ll let us go back to our ship? You won’t stop us?”

Roshi Gwyner rolls her eyes. “Yes, yes! I want the orb, not you or your tiny boat!”

“Promise,” says Elise; she makes it sound like a threat.

The pirate captain sighs. “May my crew slit my throat and steal my boat if I go against my word. I promise you’ll be fine.”

Elise narrows her eyes, tries to block out the knowledge that Teddy hates her for what she’s doing, and tosses the orb to Roshi.

In one swift movement, the captain has the orb, and Teddy, released from his bonds, darts across the deck to tear Micah from his captors and holds the battered body close to him; Elise doesn’t have to look at them to know Micah looks like a ragdoll and Teddy looks like a feral animal.

Instead, she keeps her eyes on Roshi Gwyner; even though Elise has won another day for them to live, she feels like she’s lost everything.

She watches the captain, tossing the orb lightly and paying no attention to the three of them, until she can take it no more, and turns to follow Teddy back to their own ship, the Tristan.

They don’t talk: Micah can’t; Teddy doesn’t at the best of times, which this certainly isn’t; and Erisa feels like she’s lost her voice as well as her pride and the orb and her wellbeing.

The ship is silent when they return, and the volume doesn’t increase. Teddy takes Micah to the med-bay; Elise sits in the cockpit and stares into the star-scattered abyss.

She remembers a time when that encounter would have gone differently – knows that they’d never have let Micah get taken, that Teddy would have torn them apart and Elise would have shot the devil between the eyes.

She’s become soft, she realises, soft and comfortable – too much, in fact. The paranoia and hardness of their early days have worn off; her devil-may-care and me-myself-and-I attitude has chipped away thanks to the security she feels with her boys.

Elise doesn’t know how long she’s sat there, but she sees Teddy in the doorframe eventually, and they don’t say anything – she’s too busy trying to think of a way to apologise, and then hating herself for what she’s become, because she shouldn’t have to apologise.

“How’s Micah?” she asks, and cringes straight away, because it sounds so weak.

Teddy doesn’t say anything for a while, because he never does, and then, “that’s not how we play the game.”

He leaves as soon as he’s said it, but she knows, damn it, she knew that anyway.

She knew they had to break their rules to get away with their lives.

She knew she had to change, she just didn’t think she’d hate it this much.

People are always asking me, did I know the sun god?

Yes, I knew the sun god; I knew him as Apollo, Helios, Phoebus, Sol, whatever you wanted to call him. It was bloody hard not to know the sun god, thundering around in that chariot of his as if he owned the place just because he made the sun rise. Oh, except for when he found something that he fancied more, like listening to bathing ladies sing. Without their permission, I may add.

Don’t look at me like that; the whole cross-species thing isn’t a problem for gods. We’ve all heard the stories about Zeus’ ius primae noctis, his droit de seigneur, and his, ah, fetish for exercising such rights by turning into animals and, occasionally, rays of light. They’re legendary, if you’d pardon the redundancy.

My point is it was pretty hard not to know the sun god when he was ogling me nearly every morning. I put up with it for a while, hoping that he’d get hint I wasn’t interested. Like all men, he didn’t seem to get the hint. I knew better than to go around getting myself mixed up with gods, but sometimes you have to remember that they’re only blokes with super powers, and they do need the occasional push in the right direction.

Look, I said to him after my bath the next morning, whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.

He didn’t seem to get the hint even then, but maybe metaphors and similes are a moral thing. I don’t suppose gods need to go around comparing their might to Zeus’ or their wisdom to Athena’s. They’ve got all those bases covered.

So I told him, you’ve got to stop watching me in the bath.

He seemed to get it that time.

“But your voice!” he protested. “It is the most beautiful thing I have heard since Aphrodite herself!”

See what I mean about the metaphors? They’re completely incapable of using them without meaning them literally.

You don’t need to watch me bathe to hear me sing, I said.

“I have been watching you because I wish to make you my consort,” he said. “You could sing for me and me alone, night and day!”

Yes, because most men find their wives by watching them bathe, and most girls appreciate being offered the chance of becoming a caged nightingale. We all know how that one worked out, don’t we, ladies?

No, I said, I suppose some might find that an attractive offer but I’m afraid I must decline.

“I could give you riches beyond your wildest dreams!” he told me.

What would I do with riches? I asked him.

“I could give you your heart’s desire!” he tried.

Well, thank you, but I’m not sure what that is yet, I said, if that’s all, I think I’ll leave now, if you don’t mind, and don’t let me catch you around here again, mister.

“I could give you immortality!” was his last attempt.

I stopped.

Immortality? Funny, I thought this was supposed to be other way around, I said, what with me being a woman and we oh-so-well known for seducing you men.

“So you’ll do it then?” he asked, hope springing eternal in his eyes.

Men are a bit silly, aren’t they?

No, I told him, I’m not doing anything for a bloke that likes to sneak up on bathing ladies. I’ll find someone more compatible.

He laughed at that, as if it was funny, and he might have continued his stupid, persistent questioning had I not fled the scene.

Things were a bit quiet after that. I say they were a bit quiet, but that sun god was charging around in his chariot again, bringing forth the dawn chorus more frequently than I ever remember. I didn’t see him around a lot anymore; I caught him once or twice, trying to sneak a peek, but not to the extent that it had been before.

Either way, the years rolled by without incident; when I next saw him I’d grown older, much older (but it is never proper to ask a lady her age), and he looked the same as before, although younger now, in comparison to my reflection.

I asked him, what do you want?

“I wondered if you would take up my offer,” he said. “Even after almost five hundred years, the offer still stands.”

What a fool!

I asked, what makes you think my answer will be different?

“You’ve precious time left,” he answered, “and you haven’t found anyone more compatible.”

Why, the nerve of him! In all these years, and he has such audacity to a woman clearly his elder!

How would you know I haven’t found anyone more compatible? I asked him. Have you been watching me all this time?

He laughed at me – me, of all the people he could have chosen – and said, “it’s obvious to anyone who so much as looks at you. Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle, my dear; there is time, and I can still make you immortal.”

I stared at him hard and asked, how? I am the only one.

“Come with me, my dear,” he said, holding out an arm for me to take.

I took it. Yes, women can make mistakes too, even in this frail old age of mine.

“Sing, my dear,” he said, “for me.”

I did so, although with hesitation.

“Your voice is the finest I have heard,” he told me, “even now, after many years.”

Flattery will get you nowhere, I told him.

He laughed and led me to a clearing, where he instructed I sit in a nest made of myrrh branches.

I’m not sitting in that, I told him, it looks mighty uncomfortable for a lady of my age.

“Please,” he said, “sit in it and sing, and you will be immortal.”

Well, I wasn’t going to be immortal any other way, I said, so this had better work, sonny boy, or there’d be hell to pay.

He smiled at me.

I gave him a long, hard glare that suggested there had better be none of this godly funny business, and began to sing.

As I sang, I felt heat rise from within me and around me, lighting the nest and immersing me in a ball of flame. Fire flared on every part of my body: my wings; my plumage; my tail. Yet none of it hurt, not whilst I sang. Instead I felt the age stripping from my body, my youth returning, the elderliness falling like ash around me.

This was beautiful and magnificent; I had never felt so alive in my entire life. This was ecstasy; for a moment, I wondered if this was not the sun god but his brother, Dionysus, Bacchus, the god of revelry, wine and madness.

“Stop,” commanded the sun god.

He smiled at me, standing in the ashes of my age and revelling in my newfound youth.

People are always asking me, do you know the sun god?

Departure

Helen is not surprised when the young man stands before her without a request for audience and announces vehemently, “I have to leave.”

The boy – for no matter how old he might be, she can think of him as nothing but a youthful creature – has never been her most favourite nor often praised and applauded, but she has always held a fondness for him. Most, if they could voice their opinions without fear of repercussion, would think her addled or insane for such affection for him.

“What if I don’t want you to leave?” replies Helen, lacing her fingers together so that she may rest her chin on them.

The young man purses his lips, straightens his back and stares at her with such ferocity that Helen would swear she could see hellfire in them, if she knew what it looked like. “I would leave anyway.”

Helen smiles; she expected this too. He could have left at any time he wished but, she knew, it is unlike Ryan to sneak away in the dead of night. He was unhappy if he couldn’t create a commotion; Helen suspects that this is a product of spending too much of one’s time locked up with dusty books and ancient tomes.

“What if I forbade it?” asks Helen, continuing to stare at him without betraying any emotion. She was good at that; she’d had a lot of time to practice it.

“I would fight,” says Ryan. He tenses but does not clench his fists; instead, he makes sure everyone knows the claw-like blades attached to his fingers are there. Throughout the entire conversation, he has not broken contact with her.

“Even me?” she asks, leaning back in her chair and arching an eyebrow.

“Even you, my lady,” he answers. Their audience, composed of those that would gladly give their afterlives for her, cease their murmurs and stiffen in anticipation.

Helen doesn’t miss a beat. “And if you succeeded in killing me and you became our leader?”

“I would… I would…” Ryan hesitates; she has thrown him a curveball he was not expecting, “I would appoint another.”

“When they would hunt you down and decapitate you in revenge?” Helen’s internal smile turns a tad crueller at his discomfort; it is always comforting to see someone with such arrogance brought down a notch in his own verbal spar. “I believed you to have more intelligence than that, but now I would forbid you leave for fear your flawed plans would leave you in a worse situation than you must find yourself in now.”

She notices the brief flicker of uncertainty as it dashes across his face, but his resolve strengthens once more.

“I know what I’m doing,” Ryan replies, although his headstrong onslaught has lessened a little.

“Do you?” replies Helen, raising the eyebrow once more. “Do you know where you’re going? Are you leaving us for another coven?”

“Yes,” says Ryan, before deciding on, “no. I… I have my- my own.”

Helen does not miss the hesitation and the falter; she had known there was more to this than first seemed apparent, but now she can see it coming to a head.

“Your own?” she repeats. “Of course you have your own; it is here, with us.”

Helen notices that Ryan cannot look her in the eye and he lowers his head, shaking it; his courage has momentarily abandoned him.

“No,” he says, “not really.” He hastily glances back up at her, apparently horrified that, even now, he may have insulted her in some way. “Not that it’s been a nightmare or unpleasant; you’ve left me to my own devices, unless you had particular need of me.” In the middle of this, Ryan regains the courage to meet her gaze. “I’ve never really fit in here, have I?”

“So what you’re trying to tell me,” says Helen as she rises from her seat, “is you’ve found somewhere that you do fit?”

“Do you find it hard to believe?” he asks, his usual impudence having returned. She laughs as she approaches him; a genuine, honest laugh that hadn’t been heard in some time.

“Perhaps,” she replies, “but I do not find it impossible.” She rests one hand on his dark cheek, caressing it in a way a mother might. Ryan does not recoil at her touch, but she can tell he is uncomfortable with such affection.

“I would not have deterred your departure,” Helen tells him, “not even if you had chosen to leave without even informing me of your decision. I am glad that you informed me, however, as now I can say goodbye.”

She kisses his forehead with her red lips, bright against her pale skin, and says no more as he heads for the door; she knows who the boy – even with his two hundred years, she still thinks of him as a boy – is going to meet and she does not disapprove of the situation in any way. Instead, she has sent him with her blessing.

Before he leaves, the young man turns at the door and gives her one quick, fleeting but genuine smile, something that she had never seen before, and she takes that as her own blessing from him.

Helen lingers for a moment after he leaves, before turning and heading towards the opposite end of the room.

“Haven’t you got something better to do?” she asks the crowd as she moves; the vampires exchange glances and, silently, leave the room.

Alone, Helen smiles to herself in the shade of the hall. All things have an end, and this one has been better for them both.

E.S. Posthumus are, according to Wikipedia, “an independent music group that produces cinematic style music. It is a form of epic classical that fuses intertwined drum beats with orchestral and electronic sounds. Their music is inspired by the Pythagorean Philosophy which states that “music is the harmonization of opposites; the conciliation of warring elements”. The E.S. is an acronym for “Experimental Sounds” while Posthumus is a word that represents “all things past”.”

As far as I am concerned, there is no way to accurately describe how epic their music it is: it truly is cinematic style and epic classical. Unearthed is the album that I’m not so much reviewing as asking you to listen to (and I’m about to link you to the entire album via YouTube, so you don’t have an excuse!). It is epic. A lot of the tracks have, incidentally, been featured in a lot of films. “Videos” are beneath the cut:

Unearthed, in the order that they appear on the album:

And for an added bonus:

You may recognise this song from Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes trailer, which you should go and watch if you haven’t already. I mean, this music in combination with Robert Downey Jr. is like a match made in my idea of heaven.

So, basically, THAT IS HOW AWESOME E.S. POSTHUMUS ARE.

I’m sorry that all I’ve done is pimp these guys out this post but THESE KNIVES! MY HEART’S EXPLODIN’!