The Coming Apocalypse

When it began, we – of course – were ready.

Nearly.

As is the way of these things, popular culture had prepared us well for the threat. Everyone who’d watched a film or some TV, played a computer game or read any genre fiction was well-prepared for the immanent zombie apocalypse.

So, when word of the apocalypse spread, building rumour upon rumour, everyone was ready. We all expected the streets to be thronged with legions of the undead, thirsting for the fresh brains of the living.

Ah… if only it had been that easy.

Everyone had been wondering, well, quite a few people anyway, just why the world need quite so many celebrities. Of course, if is a well-known tenet of media theory that the world’s tabloids need a constant fresh supply of young ladies falling out of their dresses at various high-profile celebrity events. But that alone could not explain just why there were now so many so-called reality TV programmes churning out a constant stream of these new celebrities, most with the media half-life of a fatally-irradiated gnat.

But, as some conspiracy theorists pointed out, every army needs its infantry, its cannon-fodder.

Then everyone laughed at the paranoid imaginings of the conspiracy loonies.

Until it was too late.

No-one is laughing now.

Not now the brain-destroying celebrity hordes are on the rampage down all our High Streets. There they surround innocent people going about their own business. The celebrities then force the ordinary people to engage in mass inane conversations about trivia and banal minutia until their brains explode. Then the ravening celebrity zombie hordes can feed and gorge until it is time to seek out the next victim.

And people used to laugh when some warned of the dangers of celebrity culture for our precarious civilisation.

Who is laughing now?

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Contemporary mathematics

Spindizzy Legobrick is probably the UK’s leading contemporary mathematician. He is famous for solving both Goldfinger’s Postulation and the world-famous Cheese Imponderable first formulated by Gödel during a slow Wednesday afternoon.

As most mathematically-literate people are aware Goldfinger’s Postulation claims that each number can be written with either straight lines (such as 1 or 7), or with round curvy bits (such as 6 and 8). 2 of course features both a curved bit at the top and a straight bit at the bottom, and 5 has the straight bits at the top and the curve at the bottom as Legobrick proved.

Gödel’s Cheese Imponderable however is not so straightforward to resolve. As first stated Gödel’s contention that in an infinite universe there must be some chesses that are not very nice does seem uncontroversial. Especially to those who have not performed any in-depth mathematical analysis of not only the cheeses that do exist, but also of the cheeses that could exist in an infinite universe.

For example, even though it runs counter to common sense, in an infinite universe it would be possible to make cheese from all manner of ingredients. Ingredients from car tyres through to geography teachers. Surely, Gödel argued, in his paper introducing the subject, some of those cheeses would not be very tasty. By using certain equations that go beyond the scope of this article he proved – at least to his own satisfaction – that a cheese made of 17th century wardrobes fittings would be very nasty indeed.

There the subject rested until the invention of computers. With computers of a significantly powerful processing capacity such as today’s supercomputers Legobrick argued it would be mathematically possible to model several million cheeses. A sufficiently-powerful computer, he argued, could find many – but not all - palatable cheeses made from a whole gamut of ingredients in the time it takes to make a decent serving of cheese on toast.

This paper, by Legobrick, was presented to the Proceedings of the World Mathematical Cheese Society early this year and met with both wild acclaim and peer approval. Straight away, several mathematicians with access to such computers rushed off to see if they could come up with a cheese made from ingredients that contradicted both Legobrick’s thesis and were still quite tasty.

However, as this article goes to press it seems that Legobrick’s contention that most – if not all – such cheeses made from ingredients not usually used in cheese making only a finite quantity of them would indeed be edible still stands uncontested.

It will be interesting to see if cheese mathematicians of the future ever do come up with a non-standard cheese that is as tasty as a nice bit of Stilton and thus disprove Legobrick’s solution to Gödel’s great Cheese Imponderable.

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The Superhero Saves the Day... Probably

Then… suddenly…!

No… hang on….

Then with all the haste and alacrity of a Public Inquiry she strolled into action.

He trembled in terror. Well, there was a frisson of irritation. ‘Yet again,’ the supervillain, Upstart Naughtyman, snorted, looking down. ‘Yet again have you thwarted my plans for world domination. Curses!’

Fixed-Penalty Notice Woman stood for a moment, arms crossed, as she glared down upon Naughtyman as he tried to find something in the sub-clauses of the fixed Penalty that would enable him to evade justice yet again. ‘It says here I have to pay a fine for attempting world domination without the necessary permits?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled to see him cower and tremble in the face of the notice. ‘There are…’ she added, ‘also some concerns about the health and safety standards at your secret volcanic island lair.’

‘What? How did you discover all this?’ Naughtyman felt his plans crumbling all around him.

‘You had to apply for planing permission for your secret island, didn’t you?’

‘Curses, foiled again.’ Naughtyman knew there must be some way he could complete his plans for world domination without some interfering superhero thwarting him. Last time it had been VATInspectorman and his sidekick PAYEboy who stopped him. Thwarting his plans to build a secret nuclear-missile submarine base in Tewkesbury, when they discovered inconsistencies in his VAT returns. Also that he’d been paying his horde of devoted minions less than the minimum wage. But, now this…. He looked up into the uncompromising eyes of Fixed-Penalty Notice woman and he knew he’d failed again.

‘My job here is done!’ Fixed-Penalty Notice woman said. ‘So, if you’d just countersign this receipt for my legitimately-incurred expenses. I can be on my way to fight for truth, justice and the bureaucratic way!’

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Into the Storms

She came back to me through the rain that night, looking like someone who’d just come back from a war. Like someone who had just survived some great catastrophe. We hung on to each other through that dark and stormy night like two storm-tossed survivors of some great wreck. Around us the world we knew tore from the reality we understood and set adrift on these wilder waters of some stranger possibility.

Until that night, I was sure of reality. I felt the great weight of it anchoring us to this world around us. That night, though, we clung to each other as we saw the world outside our window slip, break, crack and fall. The world we knew became this new, strange place we could not understand or even name.

For a while afterwards, neither of us was sure if we were alive or dead. We did not know whether we had slipped through some crack in what we once regarded as the real. Or, if – somehow – we had slipped free of the living world altogether.

Each night, from then on, as we searched these twisted, changed streets for some sign of the familiar. Seeking somewhere where we could be safe as we dodged and evaded those strange creatures that had merged from the cracks in all that was once real. All while we wondered if we would ever see our familiar old world ever again.

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Smoke on the Breeze

Shirena was weary; she'd been up late the night before with the old woman, treating a sickly calf. Now she'd been out wandering the woods since it had been light enough, searching for the herbs to replace the ones they'd used treating the calf.

Shirena dropped her basket to the ground and slumped back against a tree trunk. No doubt, she thought, the calf will be snuggled up against its mother, while she was out here in the morning-cold woods.

It had taken Shirena hours longer than she'd hoped to find the plants the old woman needed. There were none in the usual place, so she'd had to go deeper into the woods, further than she'd ever been before.

Now, she wanted to rest for a while before going back to the village.

She awoke, she didn't know how long later, smelling smoke on the breeze. She wondered if any of the men had ventured into the woods to hunt or gather building wood.

Sighing, she got to her feet, picked up her basket and headed back to the path that led to the village.

There was smoke and... well, little else of the village left when she tuned the corner out of the woods. Shirena just stared, her basket dropped and forgotten.

She ran for the village, stumbling over something, which turned out to be old Toma, the oldest man in her village. She had treated his cut hand a few weeks ago, and now as she looked down, a silent scream caught in her throat. She could see he was beyond her healing ability, beyond the healing ability of even Beena the old woman.

Nothing remained, except smoke and bodies, the bodies of the men and of Beena too. Shirena half-smiled to see the old woman had died with her knife in her hand, its blade bloodied.

There were a few strange bodies too, wild-haired men, their hair as pale as that of hers and her fellow-villagers was dark, lying where their drying blood soaked into the ground.

Then a hand grabbed her by the hair and dragged her away, screaming past more of the strange pale-haired men, laughing gangs of them, all taking turns picking out which ones they wanted from the women of the village.

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One from Shelter 15

Everyone said those from shelter 15 were the best. I’d worked hard, got my promotions and saved every single penny from working as many extra shifts as I could. I knew I deserved the best, so only one from Shelter 15 would be good enough for me.

A lot of those on my shift, first when I was just another worker, and then as I rose up the supervisor ranks said I was a fool waiting so long. Others though, those who knew, said I was doing the right thing and one from Shelter 15 would be ideal for me.

Then I heard market day had been put back for a month. Even when I had the money and I could afford – finally – one from Shelter 15, it seemed the fates conspired against me.

I thought maybe those who prayed to the old gods were right and maybe I should learn how to pray too. But they didn’t seem to have better, or worse luck, than those of us who never prayed. Anyway, I’m not sure if their god would approve me praying for one from Shelter 15. From what I can see that god doesn’t approve of much and wouldn’t approve of anyone trying to buy some happiness.

Anyway, eventually the storms cleared and the word came down from the administrators that the Shelters had all agreed the next market day.

So, a week before the market day, I withdrew all my money from the bank, to smiles all around and people wishing me luck, I set off for the market green.

It took a few days for me to get there across the Nowheres.

It still amazed me to see all the stalls from all the shelters spread out across the valley under the bright purple sky.

Once in the market itself, I took a deep breath, took a tight grip on my money belt and strode straight over to Shelter 15’s stall.

‘Yes?’ the stallholder said, smiling because he knew why I was there.

‘I’d like to buy a wife please.’ I dropped my moneybag onto the table.

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The Entrance to the Lair

He prepared himself and took a firm grip on his lance, ignoring the smirk from the peasant. ‘Are you sure this is it?’

The peasant nodded. ‘In here… definitely.’

Sir Gawain studied the cave entrance. ‘It’s a bit small.’

‘Are you worried your lance is too big to fit in the hole?’ The peasant smiled helpfully.

The squire snorted and doubled over.

‘Squire!’

‘Sorry, sire… I… er… sneezed.’

‘You’ll do more than sneeze when you get in there.’ The peasant seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Go on, then.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’ Sir Gawain fiddled with his visor.

‘No… I’ve got…..’ The peasant looked around the mist-shrouded landscape, what they could see of it. ‘It’s harvest time.’

‘What, this time of year?’ Sir Gawain knew little of farming. In fact the only thing he knew about agriculture was not to fight a battle in a field recently vacated by livestock… it was a bugger to get those sort off stains off armour. The latter thought made him wonder just how fearsome a dragon could be. He didn’t want to be trapped in a suit of armour with those sorts of smells on the inside.

‘Shall we go, then Sire?’ The squire helpfully stepped to one side holding her flaming torch up just inside the cave entrance.

‘Peasant. I order you to go first!’

‘Fuck off… I’ve got a harv….’

Sir Gawain swapped the lance to his other hand and drew his sword.

‘Oh, bollocks,’ the peasant said, grabbed the flaming torch from the squire and stopped into the cave. ‘Come on then.’

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The Land of Tears

It was not raining… for once. We came out into a dry morning. The clouds hung low in the sky, heavy and foreboding. But the rain had stopped.

Maybe we would manage to get back to our beds this time without getting soaked. Everything was wet; everything that wasn’t wet was damp. That which was no longer wet or damp had rotted away.

I smiled – for a moment – as I remembered Jed saying something about the rain in this country. Then I remembered Jed was no longer with us, and then I remembered how he’d died and I stopped smiling.

The woman saw my smile disappear and she ducked down under my arm. She gathered some wood and kindling out of the box we used to keep the wood dry. She was still struggling into her clothes – such that they were – as she hurried to light the fire.

For a moment, I wished I knew her language so I could ask her name. I’d heard her crying in the night, last night, as she lay with her back to me, her naked skin damp against mine. I’d thought about asking why she cried, then remembered she could not tell me even if she knew what I asked. Then I remembered about the cold, the constant rain and how Jed died. I knew I’d probably die the same way too before too long.

Then I’d wondered why I hadn’t asked myself why I wasn’t crying too.

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[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Supermarket Eroticism

Only then could we see just why she needed the tin of pilchards. Notwithstanding – of course – all the usual reasons a lady of her... inclinations engages in such a blatant – and full-frontal – display of full-on shopping.

Of course, in a society that doesn't like sex, but loves porn, such a display of uninhibited purchasing of domestic staples is bound to bring on a certain sexually-charged frisson. Especially if the young lady in question is more than averagely attractive and has a massive pair of shopping lists.

Of course, there are many who will take only one list on their shop. But such - known as 'vanilla' or 'ordinary' shoppers - to full-on supermarket fetishists, know little of the illicit sexual thrill having an extra shopping list can add to the experience. After all, at the top of most people's shopping sex wish-list is a desire to experiment with threesomes. For many people, that means the standard, 'buy two get one free' offers. For others, though, it can be more inventive. Right up to and including setting off down the aisles with two shopping trolleys. Of course, the dexterity, let alone the desire, needed to control two wayward and independently-minded shopping trolleys is of course not all that usual in our repressed society. We cannot deny it exists, at least, judging by the number of specialist websites displaying shopping women – and sometimes even men – in erotic poses with two – or even sometimes more – shopping trolleys.

Of course, the usual self-appointed moral guardians and religious leaders have condemned erotic shopping and all it entails. But we have to ask ourselves how many of them have ever felt the sudden overwhelming need to go out and buy a can of pilchards?

I know I have.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

A Cure for Politics?

Pilchard Defenestration is, of course, the UK's current most popular anti-politician. As we all know the rest of the population has grown increasingly disenchanted with both politics and the politicians who inflict it all on us. Consequently, there has been increasing interest in such election candidates as Defenestration. They are the candidates who oppose all the current political parties and their cynical electioneering. All of them hold out a promise to voters that they will – somehow – be different.

Although, as most people not infected with the political virusknow, anyone who takes even an anti-politics stance can become infected with politics. Especially if they get too close to anyone carrying the virus.

Although many people are immune to politics, it is always possible for them to catch a new strain. Particularity, if they have not – over the years – learnt to inoculate themselves against infection. Hence the sudden popularity of the Liberal Democrats during the 'I agree with Nick' TV debates a few years ago. Many people who had regarded themselves as immune to politics found themselves – often against their will and better judgement – feeling a need to vote Lib Dem after those broadcasts. Despite them having a contempt for the other two parties they thought would grant immunity to the political disease.

Of course the same happened when, recently, the UKIP and Liberal Democrat leaders attempted a debate. Many formerly immune to politics suddenly, in the days afterwards, found themselves considering voting UKIP.

Although, it must be said that, for most people, a dose of politics, although possibly worrying for friends and family of the infected person, soon passes. It goes, leaving nothing but a headful of meaningless statistics that prove nothing and a small scar on the memory.

It therefore remains to see if Pilchard Defenestration and his anti-politics stance are really all he claims. Is he a cure for politics or a carrier of another mutation of the political virus? The same virus that has infected many people who previously thought themselves immune to the banal inanities of politics and the political process.

Doctors specialising in the disease of politics say it is too early to tell if Pilchard Defenestration and his followers are really carriers of some new political virus. Or if they are – as they claim – the cure that mankind has been longing for ever since Aristotle was one of the first to warn the word about the disease he called politics.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Looking for Her

She was small, dark-haired and her eyes were in constant movement, watching everything and everyone around us. Her skin was a dark-brown, like finely polished wood. Later, when she undressed for me, I saw she had no tan lines. She’d never hidden any part of her body from the sun.

She led me away from the crowd, out beyond the edges of the town, out past the fields and back towards the woods.

‘I don’t want to be in the town,’ she said. An explanation that hid more than it revealed. As we walked away, she kept glancing back over her shoulder, watching for something. It was not until we left the last of the buildings and fields behind, and were inside the wood, that she relaxed.

‘Is someone looking for you?’ I asked.

She just laughed and looked back over her shoulder once more. She turned to face me. ‘Everybody is looking for me. You were looking for me.’

‘I found you.’

‘Did you?’ She laughed again and led me to a place at the side of the road. There was a break in the undergrowth. I would not have given it a second glance if I’d been riding through the woods. Beyond the road, behind the undergrowth there was a hidden path.

She tuned a few strides along the path and I saw a knife glint in the sunlight that found its way through the high trees. ‘This path is a secret.’

I nodded, my eyes fixed on the knife. ‘I know about secrets,’ I said. ‘I have too many of my own.’

She stared at me for a while and then put away her knife. She stepped towards me. I could smell something earthy, something wild about her as strong as the smell of wood smoke in her tangled hair. She grinned at me. ‘Come on then. Come with me and tell me all you secrets and I will show you mine.’

So I did… and later she did too.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Swordsman

‘So,’ she said.

‘Hmm,’ he said.

‘Is that it?’

‘Er… it must be the weather. It has been a bit cold.’

‘What has that got to do with it?’

He looked down at his sword. ‘It is a well-known fact that metal shrinks in cold weather.’

‘Really?’

He didn’t like the way she was looking at him. He shifted his feet and put his sword away. ‘I’ll be getting a bigger one soon,’ he said.

‘Oh, yes?’ She leant back against the low stone wall behind her, half-sitting on it and raised her leg to push herself onto the top of the wall. She sat on the wall with one foot resting up on it, her hands over her knee and her chin resting on the backs of her hands. ‘Do you wish you had a bigger one?’

‘Well,’ he could feel the heat in his neck spreading upwards. She was not looking at the size of his scabbard. He stopped himself turning away from her, or clasping his hands over his groin. ‘I have no complaints.’

‘But you do want a bigger one… need a bigger one?’

‘I….’ He looked around for some way out of this.

She laughed. ‘You’re new to the city aren’t you?’

‘Y… yes…. Is it that obvious?’

‘I’m afraid it is.’ She smiled, warmly this time and shifted her position, signalling for him to sit on the wall beside her.

He sat.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Just some village… days away.’

‘Oh, what was it called?’

‘What?’

‘Your village… what is its name?’

‘I don’t know… it was just home… the village. None of us ever thought of giving it a name.’ He sighed. ‘It was the only place I knew. I was happy there.’

‘So why did you leave?’

‘The foreigners… the invaders…. They came one day… and… well… the village is no longer there.’

She looked at him. ‘Come on,’ she said.

‘Where?’

‘I have a home… not much of one, but I’ll take you there.’

‘Why?’

She looked at him, head cocked to one side. ‘Let’s just say every sword needs a scabbard, shall we?’

Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Britain's Best-Known Solo Yachtswoman

Topsail Spinnaker is these days probably Britain's best-known solo yachtswoman. Only last year she completed spectacular solo journey where she sailed all the way across one of Birmingham's widest canals. A journey that took almost an hour. Now she is all set to – sometime in the next few years - attempt the task of sailing along a canal lengthways, possibly for several hundred yards.

Of course, Spinnaker began her solo sailing career mainly because those who had seen her sailing abilities always had something else to do on the days she asked them to go out sailing with her. Not only that, her local coastguard and the local RNLI crew both banned her from any attempt at sailing out to sea. This did prevent her attempt to sail solo from Tenby to Caldey Islandin what would've been a world's first for someone with as little sailing ability as Spinnaker. As her own proud mother once said, referring to Spinnaker's childhood exploits, Spinnaker 'couldn't even sail a boat in her bath without it sinking'.

It was only after the teenage Spinnaker first took driving lessons and ended up parking her instructor's car in the Irish sea that it was suggested that Spinnaker could have a natural seafaring aptitude.

Although, as some have pointed out Spinnaker does have a rare talent amongst solo yachtswomen of having an innate sense of direction when sailing. The only drawback being that direction is usually downwards.

Consequently, Spinnaker's sponsors and backers – mainly deep-sea salvage companies and wetsuit manufacturers – decided that perhaps Spinnaker's true gift lay in inland sailing. An area not usually associated with solo yachting and thus one – they felt – she could make her own. It would, they felt, also keep the rescue helicopters in base long enough for a much needed refit after her last seventeen attempts to get a yacht out of Tenby harbour without it disappearing under her.

Still, though after her circumnavigation of the UK's canal system next year there is talk of Spinnaker's name appearing in the New Year's Honours List. Mainly in recognition of her services to the maritime salvage industry. That is, of course, if she can manage to reach Buckingham Palace after crossing the Thames in London without drowning.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

Writer's Block

I turned.

Then I wished I hadn't.

There was a man, standing there in the doorway behind me. He had a gun in his hand.

I raised my hands.

'What are you doing?' he said.

'You've got a gun.'

'And?' He looked down at the pistol in his hand. It was a big one. The sort that Clint Eastwood would point at a street punk.

'And you are pointing it at me.'

'Oh, sorry.' He lowered the gun, but remained standing in the doorway.

'But... well, what's going on?'

'You... you're writing that story.' He nodded towards the computer on the desk.

'Well... yes. But what's that got to do with you?' I remembered about the gun. 'If you don't mind me asking?'

'It's that Raymond Chandler thing.'

'What Raymond Chandler thing?'

'Don't you know?'

I shook my head.

'But you are the writer?' He spoke as though it was something every writer should know. But, if he was so bloody smart then he'd know that writers don't know much at all, about anything. That's why there is Google.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, that story....' He pointed with the gun towards the computer. 'You are having trouble with it, aren't you?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, Raymond Chandler said once: When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.' He shrugged. 'So here I am.'

'Ah, right.'

'What?'

'I'm not entirely sure that is what he meant.'

'Oh.' The man slumped. 'Should I go then?'

'Yes. I think that would probably be for the best.'

'Oh, right.' He turned. 'Bye.'

'Bye.' I said. 'Oh... one thing...?'

He turned back eagerly. 'Yes?'

'How did you know I was having problems?'

'Oh, your muse told me.' He trudged off down the hallway. 'Bye, again.'

'Bye,' I called, but he'd already gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]

The Magic Wand

Then it happened.

Well… almost.

The stick, or - as Mercor insisted – the magic wand, fizzed a bit at the end like a damp bonfire-night sparkler and the frog glared back at me.

Mercor studied the frog for a moment. ‘Not exactly a princess, is it?’ He looked over his eyeglasses at me, raising a portion of his facial forestry, which on someone less hirsute would be in the vicinity of an eyebrow.

‘Magic is bollocks.’ I glared at the stick… wand… in my hand. I waved it around a bit, like a bonfire night sparkler.

Mercor ducked, surprisingly fast for someone of his age… whatever that age was. ‘Careful!’ He raised himself up from behind the workbench. ‘That thing is still charged.’

‘Rubbish, there’s no such thing as magic, I threw the stick down on the workbench. There was a dazzling flash. One of the nearby curtains caught fire. 

‘Shit.’ I said.

‘See?’ Mercor folded his arms, his hands disappearing into the sleeves of his gown. I thought about mentioning wizard’s sleeves, but he didn’t look like he’d appreciate the joke right now.

‘Magic does exist.’ He spoke as he picked up a bucket of water and doused the flaming curtain. Black smoke rose from the curtain as it dripped wetly on the floor.

He turned back to me, gesturing for me to pick up my sti… wand.

‘Now, the frog.’ He pointed.

‘Er…?’

‘What now?’

‘Shouldn’t frogs turn into princes, not princesses?’ I shrugged. ‘Y’know… traditionally?’

Mercor looked at me. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you were… that way inclined…. I’ll get you a male frog.’

‘No… no…. I want… like the female.’ I waved the stick at him. There was another blinding flash. ‘I’m more than happy with a female fro… Mercor…? Mercor?’

Where the wizard once stood, there was now a frog sitting on the empty heap of wizard robes next to the fallen wizard’s hat.

‘Oh, shit.’ I said.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

The Torture Chamber

‘No! Not the accordion!’

But it was too late, even though the man bound to the chair writhed and screamed there was no escape for him, not this time.

The man hidden in the shadows watched in silence, not moving as the accordionist went about his dastardly work.

Eventually the man bound to the chair could take no more, chewing his own head off from the inside rather than undergo any more torture from the deadly accordion.

When the man in the shadows was sure the accordion was silent, he pulled off his ear defenders. Then he stepped into the pool of light around the now headless, but rather bloody, remains of the man still bound to the chair. The man from the shadows sighed. ‘I thought he’d talk once we brought out the castanets,’ he said watching the torturer make the accordion safe before returning it to its music-proof cage.

The Musician-Torturer nodded as he cleaned his earplugs and placed them each in its own place in his velvet box, the box that had belonged to his father and his grandfather when they too were Musician-Torturers to the Emperor.

The man from the shadows, a shadow himself, dressed in black placed his thin white hand on the shoulder of the corpse, almost affectionately. ‘At least, he spared himself the bagpipes.’

‘He did talk though,' the Musician-Torturer said.

‘Yes,’ the man in black agreed. ‘But they all do… in the end.’

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Meeting Doom

Sometimes there is not that much that can be done. Sometimes it is better to turn away and go back to how life used to be. Back before all this chaos, trouble and disaster up-ended itself over your head like someone emptying the night-soil pot from an upstairs window as you walk the street below.

Other times, though, walking away is not possible.

Especially when there is a fire-breathing dragon in the way.

Especially when there is a princess with such huge… eyes, pleading with you to save her.

Trouble was Stan was not, as he claimed, Sir Stanley, Knight of the Storms. He was just Stan a poor peasant from a town with a great many upstairs windows. He didn’t know how to walk in armour and doubted it would be much use against a dragon; he’d seen what happened to metal in contact with heat at a blacksmith’s forge. So, he didn’t want to be locked inside this semi-articulated can when the dragon turned that flame on him. He had no idea how to get it off though, not without help.

As for the lance, he’d turned it over in his hands, looking for some indication of how it should be used. It looked flimsy, too flimsy compared with the dragon. The lance looked as though it could only annoy the fire-breathing beast, kindling and stoking up an appetite for a nice lunch of hot tinned man.

But the princess was begging him to save her and she had those huge… pleading eyes. She also looked like the kind of girl who could be very grateful.

Stan took a firmer grip on the lance, checked his sword was there in the scabbard at his side. He had to admit that so far his had not been much of a life, so losing it would not be that much of a loss, but it was the only one he had.

But she had those huge….

‘Right, dragon!’ Stan yelled as he lowered his visor and hefted his flimsy lance. ‘Prepare to meet my… your doom!’

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US)]

Dark Twisty Corridors

As so many times before the TV programme makers have – despite the odds – come up with another great example of the programme-makers art. Each episode of Dark Twisty Corridorsappears to be better than the last. 

Each week our heroes, sexy Doctor Improbable Chestbumps and her nervous sidekick Steve Questionable end up chased down several, seemingly never-ending dark twisty corridors. Chased either by a monster or an explosion, sometimes even both.

Although, the programme makers defied everyone's expectations for the three-hour long Christmas special. In that episode our brave adventurer and her nervous sidekick were chased down several extra-long dark and twisty corridors by an explosion right into the path of that episode's extra nasty (as befitting the season of peace and goodwill) monster. A monster with three heads and a deadly-poisonous elbow.

However, some critics have dared express even slightest reservations about the programme. Those that survived the multitudinous social media death squads hunting them down, revealed several plot flaws in the programme. Pointing out that it seems slightly improbable that, week after week, a person of Chestbumps intelligence would find herself stuck in dark twisty corridors, invariably with a faulty torch. Especially so, when it is known - usually – before they set off there is a monster down there and/or a chance of an enormous explosion. 

 It appears that each week there is an explosion at the end of the programme. Usually where they do that diving for safety hand-in-hand thing just as they reach the exit. Just as the billowing explosion of flame and smoke passes over, inches from their heads, just in time for Questionable's pithy, but apt, one-liner to end the episode.

However, the rest of us know the programme is sheer genius and thus look forward to the blinkered short-sighted TV network cancelling it too soon. Then we can take our justifiable outrage on-line until they reverse the decision as we knew all along they would.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]