Though the Sun will be turned into darkness, and the Moon into blood, it is not the Lord’s Day. I am here to repay evil, for God takes too long. He could not save Jackson Tait, and He will not save me. Heaven has no place in my heart and no space for my soul. My anger, my rage is of this world. I cannot turn my cheek, nor rest until eyes and teeth are taken. The devil that built this house left his mark upon me when I was only eight years old and now I’ll return it. The pillars of smoke are the sign of his end, and the flames the things we shall all become. It is I who am clothed with the Sun, with the Moon beneath her feet. It is not the Lord’s Day. This day is mine, and mine alone. Continue reading “Land of the Frontier Saints – Chapter 1: Ending”
A small Mediterranean island is populated by a few dozen English families. Having grown sick of life in a mainland Britain that has become alien to them, they exist in splendid isolation, with only a handful of TVs, radios and boats to connect them to the outside world. In an attempt to recreate an idealised version of their homeland, the residents adhere to a strict charter for living, and an elected committee determines who is allowed entry onto the island.
Fear begins to spread among the inhabitants when warnings arrive of a deadly, and highly infectious airborne virus that is sweeping across mainland Europe and their neighbouring islands. Having taken a vote to close off the borders of the island, the residents slowly begin to lose control of reality, and each new threat from unwelcome guests feeds a spiral of panic, distrust, and slaughter.
What arrives on the island when it has all but destroyed itself is not what the last residents expect.
‘Sunday Sunday’ is the (only slightly) fictionalised memoir of my time in England’s most shambolic, rag-tag, and sometimes brilliant amateur football team. All names have been changed, though any likeness to real people is entirely the point…
In the corner of my eye I saw Robert Johnson standing on the curb. Cigarette drooping from a sneering mouth, he shook his head at the dumb white boy before him struggling along the street. Around me the pubs had spewed out those destined to spew the contents of their evening in one way or another, but off licences were still open and cashing in on the early morning bright ideas to keep drinking.
‘Sunday Sunday’ is the (only slightly) fictionalised memoir of my time in England’s most shambolic, rag-tag, and sometimes brilliant amateur football team. All names have been changed to avoid both potential prosecution, and the wrath of several ex-girlfriends…
“Outcasts may grow up to be novelists and filmmakers and computer tycoons, but they will never be the athletic ruling class.”
A fierce sun hangs over the marshes. I convince myself that my skin is already turning a spiteful pink, so I roll down my sleeves and make the choice to swelter rather than burn. Around us, the pitches are recovering from the near endless barrage of the worst winter in years. The layers of snow and ice that anaesthetised tackles, and saw grown men refuse gloves, have finally retreated; the miniature lakes that saturated the surface and left us feeling soaked for days have evaporated.