Archive for the ‘Extracts’ Category

Today was results day from the OU. I got a grade 2 on my module, scoring well on the EMA. So here it is. There are no more chapters to this, although I know where it’s all going….

The end

Night still smothers the sea, although somewhere behind the landward hills the sky is beginning to lighten.  The coast road, winding along the edges of steep sea cliffs, is normally deserted at this early hour. Right now though, a wayward limousine is barrelling along it between the land and the Ocean, windows down, music blaring.  There is a woman driving it, her dyed black hair tangling with the air streaming in through the open windows.

She raises her voice above the music.  ‘Shut up, you bastard, just shut up!’ She yells into the unlit belly of the limousine. She’s clutching the wheel in one be-ringed fist, while cradling an open whiskey bottle in her lap.

Satisfied by the lack of response from the back,  she turns once more to the road. Drumming her fingers on the wheel in time to the music,  she takes a long swig from the bottle.  Presently, the song on the stereo changes.  She leaps for the buttons, making the limo to swerve wildly towards the landward edge of the road.  With a crash and a tinkle, a mirror is lost to a roadside tree. She doesn’t hear it.

She finds something she likes then settles behind the wheel again. When the vocals kicks in, she starts to sing along at the top of her voice.  She’s drunk, she’s loud, but she’s a real singer, with a powerful voice.  She sings joyously, throwing the huge car through the corners, losing herself in the music.

Then,  without warning, she stops abruptly.  She cuts the music off with ​her fist, leaving the lyric hanging mid-sentence, and slams her feet on the brakes. There is a heavy thud somewhere in the the darkness behind her. She turns in her seat, face distorted with rage. ‘No, you asshole! You don’t own my voice! You don’t own me! I’m not gonna let you pull that shit anymore!’

There’s no response from the darkness.

‘Fuck you! Don’t give me the silent treatment!’ she spits, but still the response is silence. ‘Fuck you!’ She sinks her foot to the floor. The limo leaps forward then dies with a violent shudder. It’s momentum sends it sprawling across both sides of the road. Showering the car in vitriol, she restarts it, struggling with her own co-ordination as she does. She slams the accelerator down again, and the limo shoots towards the cliff-side verge. She tries to grapple the steering wheel, but the verge is narrow, built on gravel and clinging sea grass. It gives the car no purchase. The front tyres are suddenly spinning on fresh air, the belly grinding against the febrile cliff edge.  The weight of the limo conspires against it, and the edge crumbles.

As the huge car tips toward the waiting ocean, the sky is beginning to flush with morning. Pinned to her seat by her belt, she watches the swirling colours of dawn spin by and melt into the inky ocean. A man’s long body tumbles out of the darkness and into the windscreen. He bounces, leaving behind cracks and streaks of blood, then his limbs tangle with hers. She starts to shriek. With a crunch, the sky stops sailing past and silence falls.

Chapter One

America, 2017

March 17th

Dearest darlin’ diary,

New tour, new diary! 13 already? Don’t time just fly by?

Bet you didn’t think I had a diary, did you? Y’all have seen the headlines and the Paparazzi snapshots.  Y’all think it’s all sex n’ drugs n’ rock n’ roll so there ain’t no room for shit as mundane as keeping a diary. Well, that just proves to me, dearest reader, that you know nothing about being a musician.  That’s right, y’all, a musician not  a “celebrity”.  That’s what I am, kid.  

Y’ know, David Bowie kept a diary.  In an interview I saw when I was a teen,  he cut a page up,  then rearranged the pieces into lyrics. I tried it with mine, but all I got was dreadful teen poetry.    I’m pretty sure if he hadn’t kept a diary, Space Oddity would never have made it into song.  

And somewhere under a pile on top of my piano at home, I have a copy of Kurt Cobain’s journals.  He wrote down every thought that went through his fucked-up head and you can totally see the beginnings of his songs in those pages. In some ways I’m kinda like him, what I call an Inside Out musician. Inside Out musicians use all the life experience and hurt they’ve collected inside to produce music. It ain’t always the most technical, but it’s raw, it’s heartfelt and people dig it easily. Outside In musicians, like my guitarist, Syrus, they take on all they can about how music works; key, tempo, phrasing, all that technical shit and internalise it.  They know what to use and when, so they can make music do whatever they want it to. It takes years though, so you gotta be keen.

So, Inside Out types like us need our diaries, just like Outside In types need their music theory.  I keep my little black book on me all the time and it keeps me looking for stuff to fill it up with. Y’know, turns of phrase, expressions, experiences, all that kind of thing. Anything that could be worth remembering. What did y’all think all the crazy, out of control, Rock Star shit I do is for?

March 18th

Last night was the first show of the tour.  We kicked off in Miami, and we’re gonna  zig-zag our way back out west to Cali over the next 3 months. I think this is our third tour round the States since the last album, but I could be losing track.  I should be in the studio already, but the management company want this tour while I’m still on their time.  Craig’s management company.  God damn, that son of a bitch is driving me crazy already.  

I am sure he was drunk at the Press conference yesterday. Normally that cold bastard does a good job of holding it together, but he just wasn’t really on it. He gave this big speech about how we were all looking forward to the tour and putting the past behind us and shit, but nobody was buying it. I blanked it out, listened to tunes on my phone, and let him bullshit away.

It didn’t feel to me like it was a first gig of a tour, but last night’s gig was still awesome.  I was dog tired right up till we stepped on that stage, but the way the fans roared  just zapped me full of energy.  I could hear them chanting even before we got out of the limo, and that had my stomach churning with nerves like it always does. I don’t strictly recall when I stopped being nervous.

Syrus was on fire, playing that guitar of his like a man possessed.  The boys were rocking and the crowd were jumping.  When they cheered after the first song, it made me feel so damn high I thought I was a goddess.  When you’re pumping full of adrenaline and adulation, it’s hard not to go a bit crazy. It pushed me to be superhuman on that stage, so I  pushed my voice right to the edge, just so as I could give those good people their money’s worth.

It was such a complete buzz kill to come bouncing off the stage and back into Fort Craig.  For this tour, he’s hired like three times the number of security people as he’s ever done before, and it already feels like being in prison.  I’m not sure where all that is coming from,  but the memo from the company told me there would be extra security because of “a heightened threat from terrorism in recent years”.  I’m calling bullshit on that, I think Craig’s just getting paranoid.

He was stone drunk when we got back stage, surrounded by his private army like some supervillain in a hollywood movie. Except he could barely fucking sit up right. The rider was piled up with mountains of junk food and gallons of hard liquor, way more than Craig had ever put on before.  It felt like a bribe to me, so we left early for a different party.  I ain’t playing Craig’s game on this tour, I’m done with that.

So now we’re back on the bus, heading on to the next show and I am back to writing my tour diary. Back on the old cycle again, going round in the same circles again.   I thought last tour would be the last I had to do with Craig, but apparently that was just wishful thinking. There’s six months left on my contract, and the management company are gonna squeeze every last drop of cash out of that bitch they can. I’m just gonna have to grin and bear it.

March 19th

The so-called gentlemen of the press are always pecking away at the same two questions.  ‘Where do your ideas come from?’ and ‘Who are your influences?’  The problem with these questions is they always want your opinion in bite size chunks.  I live my life, I write it down. Somewhere between the process of reading back over it, and just living my life some more, my songs start to take shape.    That’s how I get my ‘ideas’, but it never seems to satisfy them.  It’s like they think there’s some kind of magic I do to make it all happen.  Maybe I cut my wrists, bleed myself a contract with the devil and he teaches me songs. I don’t really know what they think, but they just don’t want it to be the same kind of process that other folks use to make music.  Maybe that’s my reputation, maybe it’s the shit I sing about, maybe it’s even all the black I wear, who fucking knows?

When Journalists ask you about your influences, what they really want is a list of like ‘your top five bands’.   I’ve tried to go in depth about it before, but they are lazy and don’t want to have to write all that stuff down. These days, I just give them what they want, but when I reel off the Doors, the Stones, the Beatles, Janis and Dylan as my favourite five acts, I know that doesn’t really reflect properly on the music I make. I started off trying to be The Runaways when I formed my first band, but I know there’s all kinds of metal, blues and even classical in the stuff I write.  No Rock Journalist wants to hear about how psyched you get listening to Bach.

I grew up on Granma and Granpa’s music and it was all blues, rock, folk and protest.  They fed me hippy food and taught me hippy principles, which made me a freak at my Internet Age High School. I am a throwback kid, born in the 90’s, but raised in the ‘60’s. It’s kind of a weird place to be, caught between two such different times. Music these days  is corporatised, commoditised, fetishised and micro-managed.  There ain’t no space for protest in it,   cos it might hurt those almighty profit margins, so we’ve become a generation without a protest music of our own.  The songs we hear, the songs we get to record, they are all team written, over-produced products of mega-corporations, just like it was in the 50’s and early 60’s.  Before the ‘Revolution’. We’ve gone back to square one, y’all, to the place where writing your own songs is practically rebel act.  

That shit always drove me crazy, so I started writing angry little punk songs about how all that shit drove me crazy.  When they started to take off, I actually thought I was beating The Man.  Turns out, that’s not how this whole ‘celebrity’ culture shit works.  If you try to stand up to The Man and people start buying it,  He don’t try to crush you anymore in this globalised world,  He just buys you.  

March 20th

It’s evening and I am watching the sun set out of the tour bus window.  We’re crossing miles of empty, flat countryside, somewhere in Georgia.  We ain’t got a show till tomorrow night, so we’re driving all night.  It’s hypnotic watching the big corn fields roll by.  It’s so changeless you get trapped in a loop of deja vu, just cornfields and fences, cornfields and fences.  We drove alongside a railway track for the longest time, past slow crawling freight trains that stretched out for miles.  It seemed to break up the monotony at first, but then after the hundredth freight car, it was really just the same.  

Now the colours are fading with the setting sun and only the sky is worth looking at.  It’s as wide as the land here is flat, and scattered with long banks of thick white cloud.  They are trapping the colours of the sunset, the details of their folds and bumps picked out by the golden light.  It makes them look ultra real, superimposed even, like a bad green screen in an old 80’s movie.  The contrasts of dark and light, superreal and faded make the view outside the bus seem disjointed.  It fits my mood.

Inside the bus is quiet.  Syrus is sitting in his bunk practising scales on his unplugged Gibson.  Steve and Jeff are playing cards.  Tonya and Letisha are curled up with their phones, talking occasionally.  Niall is in his bunk above Syrus, sleeping off last night’s party.  Craig, thank fuck, is not here.  Tours are crazy.  Tight schedules, interviews, record signings, sound checks, gigs, it’s all a carousel of people, noise and bright lights.  You soon learn to value quiet moments like this.

The sunset soon draws everyone, except Niall, to come look out the windows with me.  The first pale golds are deepening into orange and scarlet.  The clouds look ominous, with dark tops like stacks of reeking smoke and bellies on fire.  The land is nothing more than a thin silhouette, overshadowed by the burning sky.  Tonya says it’s an ‘apocalypse sky’, and we go off on a rambling discussion about the good folk of Georgia getting excited about the Rapture coming.  Jeff tells us all exactly what the bible says about the Rapture, Letisha thinks it’s very sad that people actually want the apocalypse to happen, I put in my two cents about believing the Christian Right are trying to cause it, Syrus tells us we’re all crazy for believing any of it and Steve wonders if there will be zombies.  


Courses, blogs and music, oh my!

Posted: 06/09/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, Ghàidhlig, Life, music, musings, writing

I’ve signed myself up for two very different courses to keep me busy and growing all winter long. In my thirst for self improvement I decided I need to revisit Creative Writing from a formal perspective, so I’m doing the first level course with the OU, starting next month. I’m also revisiting Scots Gaelic with an online course with the school in Skye. Between the two of them, they will probably tax my wee brain to it’s limit, so I will likely not be posting a great deal here for a while, although there are still a few exciting wee treats to come. 

I will be serialising Pearls on the Road for FTP (fuck the patriarchy) magazine, which is a new and exciting feminist mag covering the whole world of issues and culture with a bit of pith and passion. Once the Girls are go on the site, I will post links to the parts here!

The summer has been busy, largely with music and baking, but also with life. The winter will be busy with learning. As a sop, I’m posting a new wee snippet of Burn, since that’s been my main writing project over the summer. I will be sad to put it aside as Tighe has really grown on me as a character. Looking forward to checking back in with her and her boys next year.  Anyway, here’s their first gig!

I realise, just before the lights go up on the tiny stage we’re crammed into, that I have never been so fucking terrified in my life.  I have a dozen flashbacks; black and white freeze frame vignettes; the first time Dad put me in hospital, my first time as a hooker, my first cold turkey, my first beating from Shane.  It seems like just about fucking everything, including the crash that morning, all passing by my eyes as the stage lights spark into life and none quite measures up to the fear clutching my heart and squeezing my throat closed.  Oh shit.  We cannot afford to fail.  I cannot afford to fail, because I have to get out of the bullshit life that just flashed in front of my eyes.

Light floods the stage, my throat miraculously opens and I step up to the mic.

“How the fuck are you doing, people?” I yowl, wildcat like,  as Zack makes his guitar growl  behind me, echoing me.  I feel spikey, bitchy and dangerous and I am going to make these people pay attention to me.  The crowd, noisy and more concerned with drinking than music until then, goes suddenly hushed.

“That good, huh? I’ve had a shitty day too,” I chuckle darkly at them.  Zack makes his guitar snigger then howl like he can’t decide to laugh or cry.  I feel ears prick up all around the room.  Ché comes in then, on a low, soft chugging riff  under which Emilian creeps.  Zack gets pulled down into the growing  song by them and Jason snaps to, tumbling into the beat. I hear the song solidify and I know where I am.

“We are Tighe Blackheart and the Highwaymen.  Y’all oughta know this song,”

We’d argued all the way across the North District about the song we were going to open with.  Ché had been set on Welcome to the Jungle but after the shit we’d been through there was no fucking way I could start out singing that.  Ché had been busy arguing that Axl Rose had always sounded shit on his first song when Jason chipped in with For Those About To Rock. No fucking way I’d been about to exclaim when Zack and Ché both gasped “yes!”.  I suggested a dozen other songs, all pulled out of the air, and they were looking at me skeptically when Emilian suggested Crazy Train, which won the coin toss against some other song I don’t fucking remember now.  It doesn’t even matter, because we absolutely kill that fucker and the place is jumping.  

What can I say?  We’ve got Chémistry, and it doesn’t even matter that we haven’t had time to change out of our bloodied, ripped and filthy clothes, or that we’ve been to hell and back today, once we start playing together we play like we’re fucking possessed. It’s awesome, like the best drug you can buy and the only one you can really share.  

My voice warms up, the boys loosen up and the drinks start flowing our way.  We tear through our improvised set, playing by wire.  The stage is cramped, so I spend a lot of the night back to back with Zack, or wound round him, swinging my ass like a pole dancer while his fret board is smoking.  It must have been driving him crazy, because we had barely stepped off the stage before he was dragging me off to the toilets to fuck me against a wall.  Fuck it, I was more than ready for him.  All that grinding against those tight leather trousers of his had made me slick as a river and aching for him.  It gets me like that every fucking time.

When we stepped back into the walk in closet sized dressing room the party was already in full swing.  We’ve been around the world so many times now it makes my head spin, but we’re still living the same party that started after that first gig.  It had been a baptism of fire, which we’d survived and then kicked ass. Damn fucking right we wanted to party.

Ben Cuil – the forging of Scatha

Posted: 18/05/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, Tapestries, writing

I got into a discussion on twitter about Scatha(ch) recently. Scathach was the warrior woman/goddess of the Tuatha de Dannan who trained Cuchalain in Scots/Irish mythology.  Many years ago I wrote some stories featuring Scatha as a character. I thought I’d lost the majority of them in a “catastrophic hard drive failure”, but I  found this today. In this, Scatha is a hidden child living in a prison/arena owned by the Lord of the Hunt.

She hid in the shadows, her back pressed hard against the rough stone of the cell, her eyes wide and her breathing shallow.  She mustn’t be seen by the guards, her life depended on it.  If they knew she existed……
The guard captain, with his ugly, pig like face and filthy yellow tusks protruding from his mouth, threw open the cell door, scattering the other inmates to the back wall where she hid.  Quickly she ducked down onto her haunches, hiding behind the skirts of the doughty Irish woman who had raised her in this horrible place.
“We’ve been hearing rumours again! Where is the Dannan Witch’s child?” the Guard Captain spat, shining his torch on the pale faces before him, “Give up the bloody child, or you’ll all be in the ring with Taireanach!”
“There is no such child!” The Irish woman exclaimed, even as she hid her from view, “Throw me to the Dragon if you wish, but you will never find this child you speak of!”
“Lies! She has been seen stealing food from the guards store!  I will only spare you the Dragon if you give her to me now!” The Guard Captain snarled, his face inches from the Irish woman’s face, his fetid breath filling the air so that the woman choked on it.
Hiding where she was, the girl felt a sudden rush of fear for her brave guardian.  The Irish woman had kept her hidden for so many years, and kept her as safe as she could be in the bowels of Ben Cuil, but she could not let her give up her life in such a way.  She took a deep breath, stood up and stepped around her guardian. 
She was a tall child, for her eleven years, and skinny.  Her ragged mop of black hair spilled to her shoulders, which were broad and bony and squared to meet her fate.  She stuck her strong chin up and stared the Guard captain right in the face with her bright  green eyes.  Beside her the Irish woman whispered a plea under her breath with a shaking voice.
“Please no, Scatha, please no.  They will kill you my child,”
“By the blood of my father and the grace of my mother, I will fight before ever I shall die,” the girl said defiantly. 
“At last!” the Captain crowed, looking her up and down and ignoring both the Irish woman’s pleas and the girls defiance, “The Lord will have some entertainment from you! Oh yes indeed,” her turned and signalled to the three brutish guards who were standing  in the doorway behind him, “Take her to the Circus cells.  She can be the highlight of the Lords Spring Feast!”
She stood proud as the guards clamped manacles on her wrists and dragged her from the cell.  Behind her she could hear the sobbing of her guardian, and she offered a silent prayer for her to Dana, the goddess of her mother’s people.

Ben Cuil, the mountain of blood.  After the Romans fled the British Isles, the Lord of the Dance went to war with the Fair Folk and their allies, the Celts and Picts of Alba, Eire and Albion.  With his powerful Wild Magic, his hoards of Beserkers and the aid of the Crone and her armies of ghosts and Undead creatures, it was not long before the Fair Folk and their allies were beaten and forced into servitude. 
Of course there were those who resisted, and when they were captured, they were brought to Ben Cuil.  The Lord had been a great admirer of the cruel ways of Roman Punishment, and he had hollowed out the Ben and turned it into the most extravagant Circus that had ever been seen.  He gathered a collection of creatures of great diversity and evil to pit against those who displeased him, from African Lions and Russian Bears to Wolves, Gorgons, Ogres and, of course,  the Dragon, Taireanach. All these fantastical creatures had been taken from the Otherworld beyond the world of men, that had once been the home of the Fair Folk, and was also the home of the Lord himself.
This was where the girl, Scatha, had been born, amid the torment and suffering of the Lord’s enemies.  Her mother had been a Maiden Priestess of Dana among the Fair Folk. She had been powerful in magic and had fought in battles against the Lord’s creatures, but had been captured and brought to Ben Cuil to fight.  Her father had been a warrior chieftain of  an Irish tribe who had been the sole survivor of his Clan after a battle against the Lord.  They had met and fallen in love in the gloom of Ben Cuil’s cells, a love that they had had to keep secret from the sadistic Captain of the Guard.  But secrets are hard to keep in Ben Cuil, for there is always some poisonous soul willing to sell another inmate out for a little favour.  Thus is happened that they were discovered, after Scatha’s mother had found herself pregnant.
The Captain of the Guard, whose taste for evil knows no bounds, pit them against each other in the ring, but they refused to fight.  He sent in wave after wave of his own guards, beasts and finally a mighty Minotaur to destroy them.  Scatha’s father fought them all off, to the very last one, to protect his beloved.  The Lord grew bored of the show and dismissed them from the ring, but not before Scatha’s father was mortally wounded.  He died hours later, and Scatha’s mother was heartbroken.  She lived long enough to give birth to her child and give her into the guardianship of an Irish woman who had been a cousin of Scatha’s father, then took poison to be with her lover again in Elysium, the place of eternal summer, beyond the Otherworld.
So Scatha was raised in the shadows, hidden always from the Captain of the Guard to protect her from his cruelty.  He would think nothing of throwing a mere babe to Lions.  She had to learn stealth and silence from a very young age, which as she grew older she turned to the advantage of the other prisoners, stealing food and running messages between them.
There was always the chance that one of the guards would find her, so she learned how to use a knife, but she had never had occasion to use it.  Now though, as she sat in the tight confines of a circus cell, listening to the gathering crowd in the arena above, she clutched her small knife in her hands and prayed to Dana that she would have the strength to face her impending death with dignity.
A sudden burst of light made her snap open her eyes, and she found herself staring in amazement into the face of her goddess.
“Do not be afraid, Scatha.  You are not meant to die here on the bloody sands of Ben Cuil.  I intend much greater things for you than that,” she said, a gentle smile spread across her face.
Scatha opened her mouth to reply, but the goddess put a finger to her lips to silence her and then faded from view.  Then the door of Scatha’s cell  swung open.
“The Lord awaits ye, child,” said the gruff voice of the Captain.  There was no hiding the glee that dripped from his tone.
Scatha stood up, squared her shoulders and took a single deep breath.
“Lead on Captain, I am ready for whatever death ye wish to throw at me,” she told him, holding her dagger fast in her clenched fist.

As she followed the Captain out onto the sand, the crowd and howled.  The sound washed over her like a giant wave, threatening to smother her with it’s ferocity.  She was used to the shadows in the deep belly of the Ben and had never been close enough to the Arena to hear more than a distant ghost of the sound that assaulted her now.
She hadn’t even realised she had stopped until she felt the heavy hand of a guard land on her shoulder and shove her forwards.  She almost lost her balance, but fought it with a sudden surge of determination not to be humiliated before her enemies.  She recovered her balance, stuck her chin up, swallowed her fear and marched into the centre of the arena where the Captain now stood.
The Captain turned to the Lord’s private box and bowed deeply.  Scatha saw the Lord himself.  She had heard tell of his shimmering, feathered cloak and the proud white stags head he wore on top of his own, but what she saw when she looked into his face was a brown haired, brown bearded man with the soul of a devil peering out through his brown eyes.  Somehow he seemed smaller, and meaner, than legend had told her and she felt some of her fear fall away.
“My Lord, I present to you the highlight of this years Feast Program,” the Captain announced, bowing low to the Lord and indicating Scatha with a flourish.  Jeers erupted around the Arena and the Lord got to his feet.
“This is but a child, Captain!  We should have more entertainment throwing you to the lions!”  the Lord exclaimed, hiding nothing of his disdain.
The Captain had obviously anticipated the Lord’s reaction, and, exactly on cue, two handlers appeared with a number of rangy, black coated Wolf pups each on leashes.  Scatha eyed them warily as a murmur of interest began around the crowd.  These pups, who were perhaps a year old, were Black Wolves and were larger, stronger, faster and more wicked that their grey coated brethren. They were Otherworld creatures too, and had magic of their own that made their coats thick enough to turn a blade or any magic cast upon them.
“The child will not last five minutes against them.  Bring me something more worthy of my interest,” the Lord snarled, sitting himself back down with a look of contempt upon his face.
“But my Lord, this is no ordinary child.  She is the offspring of the Dannan witch Brigid and the Irish chief Finn. She has eluded us for many years and only last week she killed one of my men who stumbled upon her stealing from our stores.  Her lineage alone should make excellent sport for you, my Lord,”  the Captain explained while the crowd looked at Scatha again with interest.  The Lord leaned forward in his chair.
“Bring her before me so I may look more closely at her,” he decreed, and Scatha moved quickly to comply before one of the guards could lay a hand on her.
“She has the look of a feral beast but the eyes of the Dannan,” he said after looking her up and down for a few moments, “Very well, you may proceed, although I warn you that if I am not sufficiently entertained I will feed you to these wolves next,”
With a curt bow, the Captain and his guards retreated from the ring, leaving just Scatha, the snapping and snarling wolves and their handlers on the sands.
Scatha turned slowly to face them, counting them as she did.  There were  six altogether.  They were lunging and straining, trying to get towards her, their yellow eyes ablaze.  Most of them were frothing at the mouth and Scatha could not help but notice how thin they all were.  Obviously they had been starved to sharpen the viciousness of their tempers.  They looked just hungry enough to be desperate, but not hungry enough to be weak, and Scatha was under no illusions as to how dangerous they were.
The noise of the crowd was beginning to rise again, they were growing impatient for the handlers to loose the cubs.  Somewhere in her mind Scatha registered the noise, but it was no longer important.  All she could think about was how she was going to survive once the wolves were unleashed.  Yet as she stared at them, she realised she wasn’t really afraid.
She hefted her knife between her hands and watched her foes, looking into their eyes and sensing how they did not seem to like such directness. With a metallic “clink” the first cub was unleashed.  Instinctively, Scatha drew all of her thoughts in, focusing now solely on herself and her foes.  Around her the world seemed to slow so that the wolf cub leaping toward her with death in it’s eyes did so as if the air  had suddenly turned to treacle.
Scatha dropped into a defensive crouch and waited, seemingly forever, for the cub to close with her.  She feinted at it with her knife, expecting it to react, and found it’s fur with surprising ease.   For a second Scatha felt confusion flood through her.  This seemed far too easy, yet even as the confusion gripped her, her focus failed her and suddenly the cub was retaliating against her.  She twisted away from it’s claws but they still raked her arm.  The cut burned so intensely that she cried out.  The crowd, who she had forgotten, jeered.
By now all the cubs had been unleashed and they were circling her as she clutched at her injured arm.  Panic began to rise like bile from her stomach.  Any moment now the cubs were going to close in on her and tear her to pieces.  The last thing she would hear would be the roaring of the disappointed crowd.  But then, like an echo sounding in her mind, the words that Dana had spoken to her returned.
“Do not be afraid, Scatha.  You are not meant to die here, on the Bloody sands of Ben Cuil,”
Strength flooded back into her quailing heart and she looked directly into the eyes of the largest cub.  The sound of the crowd melted away into obscurity and again the world began to slow.  Energy began to flow through her limbs and the fiery pain in her arm died, as if snuffed by icy water.
This time she did not wait to be attacked, this time she leaped forward, plunging her dagger straight towards the wolf’s heart.  It yelped and rolled away, slowly, but it seemed the magic of it’s fur had turned the worst damage of her blade.  No longer willing to wait for a response, Scatha attacked again, redoubling the force of her blow.  This time the spark went from the cub’s eyes and it lay still.
Five still remained standing though and she had not forgotten them. She stood over the body of the one she had killed and waited for them to come at her.
For an eternity they held back and she did nothing but stand and breathe.  Then suddenly as one, and at a speed that surprised her, they attacked.  They had used some of their own inner magic to enter the same state of mind that Scatha had discovered.
In spite of her surprise, Scatha still managed to leap clear of them before their claws and teeth could mark her.  She landed in a crouch behind them and struck out low with her dagger at the hind legs of the nearest one.  It yelped and collapsed, falling under the paws of the others as they turned to face her.  Scatha was prepared for the rush this time and she sliced low with her dagger once again, cutting at the front legs of the cubs.  They fell back, wary, blood dripping from the forelegs of two of them.
Somehow she sensed the next attack before it came, and was prepared for the way the two remaining cubs tried to dart around her.  She stepped straight into the path of one and brought her dagger up under it’s chin where it’s fur was softer and shorter, and it fell instantly dead at her feet.  She spun away from the corpse, keeping her distance from the remaining cubs.
By now their wariness had become fear and Scatha could sense it in them.  Even so she had no thoughts of mercy for them.  Her life would only be spared by the Lord if she killed them all.  So she picked her moment, leaping in the air, twisting and landing hard on the back of one of the wounded ones.  A crack reverberated around the arena as it’s spine snapped and she grabbed it’s head and drove her knife into it’s throat.  It went instantly limp, as blood gushed from it, soaking the front of her clothing.
Without pause she turned on another, landing a kick on it’s jaw and knocking it sideways.  She leaped on it quickly and despatched it before it could get it’s bearings.  But then suddenly she felt agony lance up her already injured arm and found that the last able cub had sunk it’s teeth deeply into her flesh.  Her knife fell from her now gripless fingers.
She lashed out at it with her foot but didn’t manage to budge it.  She grit her teeth as the pain threatened to overwhelm her and brought her right fist round to smack it in the head.  While this barely stunned the cub, it sent shards of pain up along her left arm.  Her brain was racing now and she knew she had to think quickly.  She grabbed hold of it’s soft nose, smothering it in her fist and pulling it upwards.  With it’s mouth full of her flesh and blood it would either have to let go or suffocate.  It began to growl and and froth bloody foam from it’s mouth, so Scatha tightened her grip on it’s nose and yanked upwards with all the strength she could muster.
The cub let go, yelping and fell back, snarling, blood pouring from it’s snout.  Scatha looked around for her knife and saw that it had been kicked several feet away in the scuffle.  Before the cub could gather itself again and lunge at her she dived for the knife, but it sprang after her, this time sinking it’s teeth into her calf muscle.  She let out a roar of pain which caused several surprising things to happen at once.  Firstly, it reverberated around the arena so loudly that it caused the crowd to take a sharp intake of breath and the cub to let go of her leg as it shied away from the noise.  Secondly, and possibly more surprisingly, it whipped the air in the bowl of the arena into a sudden frenzy, causing it to whirl and spin as if a storm were passing through.  Seeing this brought the Lord of the Dance to his feet, a cruel smile playing across his face.
“Kill them now, Scatha daughter of Birgid, and you can have pride of place among my gladiators!” he said with a laugh.
Grimacing and more aware of the cub that had just bitten her than the words of the Lord, Scatha lunged at her knife and grasped it.  The cub was recovering slowly, it kept shaking it’s head as if it’s ears were still ringing.  Scatha dragged herself to her feet, tears standing in her eyes as she tried to put weight on her injured leg, and she hobbled towards the cub.  Still shaking it’s head it backed away from her, and she suddenly felt a surge of pity that quickly turned to nausea.  She knew she had no choice but to kill it, but killing it in cold blood seemed innately wrong to her.  Best to get it over with quickly, she told herself, so with another roar to take her mind away from the pain and the guilt, she launched herself at the cub and tackled it, bringing her knife to artery in it’s hind leg and severing it with a vicious thrust.  It yelped then went still, as it’s lifeblood poured out on the sand.
“And the last one, Scatha,” she heard the Lords voice say as she backed away from the corpse.  Confused and dazed, she looked around and saw the last one, the one whose hamstrings her knife had severed earlier.  It was crawling on it’s front legs away from her, it’s back legs useless.  Scatha closed her eyes and tried to steel her soul against the revulsion she was now feeling.  She wished suddenly to return to the familiar darkness of the Ben’s lower tunnels, and the tears began to flow freely down her muddied and bloodied cheeks.  She became aware of the crowd once more, urging her, in no uncertain terms, to kill the last cub.
“There is no mercy for those who refuse to do my bidding on the sands of Ben Cuil, girl,” she heard the Lords voice drift above the sound of the crowd.
Her feet carried her forward, although her heart burned inside her chest.  She knew that the cub would be killed anyway, it was no longer of any use, but it wasn’t making her feel any better.  She reached it and stood above it with her dagger poised to strike.  It looked up at her, and for a second she felt her heart quail and saw her hand begin to withdraw, but then it closed it’s eyes and lay down.  Scatha gulped and tightened her fist around the hilt of her dagger while the crowd roared her on, then with a swift strike she brought it down and buried it in the side of the cubs neck.  Then thankfully, everything went black.


Posted: 10/05/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, Tapestries, writing
Tags: , ,

Such beautiful weather, makes me want to take to the hills!  Think this old story about a Dragon flight round Glentrool will be as close as I’ll get today!


Sunset in Glen Trool


They were riding flat out, Aithne clutching tightly to Keir’s waist and giving her full trust for her safety into his hands.  His reactions were far beyond human and he took every twist and turn on the little country road at speeds that would seem like madness for a human rider. It was wildly exhilarating to see the road rush up towards her on every corner knowing that Keir was in total control.
Steep hills were rising either side of the road, with tightly packed pines filling any space in between.  They were heading deep into the Galloway Forest, looking for a well secluded spot.  Keir spotted a passing place and slid the bike to a halt smoothly at the side of the road.  He jumped off the bike and swept her from the pillion seat and into his arms in one fluid motion.  As the now familiar warmth of his body enveloped hers, he kissed her, leaving her breathless and tingling.  Mildly annoyed with him for toying with her, she let her power flow into him, knowing exactly how that would affect him.  He groaned and let go.
“You said there was something you wanted me to see,” she reminded him when he gave her a chastened look.
“We need to go up there,” he replied, pointing to the peak of a nearby hill.  It looked like quite a long climb up the steep sides to the top.
“You want me to climb all the way up there?” Aithne asked him, giving the zig-zaging path to the top a sceptical look.
“I thought you were a country girl, Aithne,” he chided her lightly, smirking.
“I’m an island girl.  My idea of a strenuous walk involves a long, flat beach,” she retorted.
“I’ll carry you if you get tired,” he offered, his smirk broadening and putting a bit of sparkle in his eyes.  He knew that would prick her pride and get her going, and he wasn’t disappointed.  She set her jaw and made off towards the hill without waiting for him.  He plucked the keys from the ignition on his bike and followed her.
The ground was still hard with frost as they wound their way slowly up hill, and their breath froze on the air.  In spite of this, Aithne was actually glad to be moving since it had been bitterly cold on the back of the bike.  But by the time they were halfway up the hill the biking leathers that had seemed insufficient protection from the cold on the bike had become stiflingly warm, so she undid the jacket and tied it’s arms around her waist.  She still had a jumper on underneath.  Keir seemed neither exerted by the climb nor affected by the cold.  He wore his leather jacket open the whole way up, showing the white t-shirt that was the only other clothing he wore.
They got to the cairn that sat perched on the top eventually, and as Aithne stood catching her breath and taking in the view, Keir came up behind her and closed his arms around her.  She snuggled back against him, letting his warmth  take the edge away from the icy breeze that was sweeping the brow of the hill.  The same breeze caught in her hair and made it stream behind them.
The view at their feet was spectacular, with hills rolling for miles down towards the silvery line of the Solway Firth, carpeted in a patchwork of blue-green pines, fields of winter bleached grass and the dark, flinty blue of the lochs and rivers that dotted the landscape.  The pale winter sun sparkled everywhere, on the surface of the lochs and on the patches of snow sitting stranded on the higher hillsides.  The only sign of the presence of humanity was the occasional farm house that could be picked out from this distance and the odd grey ribbon of road cutting through the browns and muted greens between the hills.
“This is amazing,” Aithne said once she had her breath back. 
“It is,” Keir agreed, “But it isn’t what I came up here to show you,”
“What is it then?” she asked, turning in his arms to look at him.  She saw genuine excitement simmering in those very dark eyes.  It gave her butterflies in her stomach.
“Watch,” he said mysteriously, before letting go of her and starting to take off his jacket.  He handed it to her, not meeting her puzzled stare, and began to pull his t-shirt off. 
“You brought me up here for an extreme strip tease?” she asked him, her eyes glued to the sight of his smooth chest, all of her interest in the view beyond him gone suddenly.  He smiled at her as he handed her his t-shirt, but infuriatingly he didn’t say anything, just started to kick off his boots and roll down his socks.  When he started to unbuckle his belt she found herself unable to take his silence any more.
“What are you doing Keir?” she demanded.  He glanced up at her from peeling the leather trousers from his legs.  He wasn’t wearing anything else, and coupled with the fire that was now burning in his eyes, sending flecks of red through the black of his irises, Aithne found it very hard to hold onto her irritation.  She licked her lips, finding them suddenly very dry.  He handed over his jeans.
There wasn’t a single sign of how cold it was any where on his naked skin.  It was still as smooth and pale as always.  Without thinking she moved closer to him, drawn by a sudden longing to run her hands all over him and feel that cool, silken flesh.  He put up a hand to stop her.
“You’ll need to stand back,” he warned her.
He couldn’t help but laugh when she pouted, but she moved back a pace or two, her arms full of his clothes.  When he was happy that she was far enough away, he closed his eyes and began to draw his power up inside.  He felt a little giddy again at the surge of it in it’s new, blood enhanced state, but he let that wash through him as he used it to reach into a part of himself that his own self-inflicted weakness had barred him from touching.  His excitement grew into a rush as he felt his true form begin to unfold inside.  As it grew, getting ready to burst out of him, he became incredibly aware of his link to Aithne and to how her power was rising in response to his.  He had to fight the urge to reach out to her and let his power join with hers. 
His eyes flew open, blazing with ruby red light in the instant before his true form burst out of him.  He had just long enough to see Aithne’s eyes wide with surprise, and the world shattered as his body exploded.
She stared open mouthed at the transition.  His body disappeared into what could only be  described as a cloud of black light.  The cloud expanded, while it’s colour grew deeper and more intense.  Suddenly it shot through with scarlet lights like shards of lightning and it began to take shape, forming a long sinuous line from tail-tip to nose and stretching out into wide, swept back wings that were raised high above the body.  As the light began to coalesce into solid matter she saw the long lean body and the glossy black scales that were shot through with veins of red .  His head was long and tapered like a slim arrow-head, with tendrils of red and black forming an intricate mane that swept back from his face.  The scar scoring through his left eyelid was a harsh white line against the deep black of his scales.  She could feel Keir’s presence radiating from his changed body far more powerfully that it had ever done in his human form.  Maybe that was partly his size, because he was nearly double her hight at his shoulder and probably as much as twenty five feet from nose to tail.  She wondered how large his wings would be when he stretched them right out.
When he was completely solid, he opened his eyes and turned them on her.  They were like two glorious, multi-faceted rubies shot through with veins of obsidian.  The light inside them was mesmerising.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathed, staring up at him.  His eyes seemed to shimmer and whirl.  He flexed his wings.
Let’s go fly, he said, his voice appearing in her mind.  She could feel the longing in him.
“How?” she asked, still awestruck.
With these of course, he told her, amusement rippling through him as he flapped his wings.  They seemed massive and the draft whipped her hair about her face. 
“I mean how do I get to fly with you?” she explained, somehow managing to articulate herself for him.
He crouched down and lifted a wing out of the way to give her the space to scramble up onto his back. Hastily she put his clothes in a pile by the cairn. When she reached out a hand to touch him, the warmth of their connection flowed into her.  His scales were smooth and slick to the touch, and cool but not cold.  Somehow though, she could sense the immense heat of his fire underneath those scales. Tentatively she put a foot on his outstretched leg and reached up to grasp at his shoulder.
You won’t hurt me, he told her when she hesitated for a second.
She swung herself up onto his back , then looked around for something to hold onto while they were flying.
I don’t have reins like a horse, he said, punctuating it with a derisive snort.  She could feel he wasn’t genuinely annoyed, but it still made her feel a little guilty.
“Sorry, I just thought it might be safer to have something to hold onto,” she explained, feeling sheepish.
You don’t need to hold on.  I won’t let you fall, he assured her, then added impatiently, Let’s go.
She felt the incredible coiled power of his muscles bunching as he crouched to spring.  Her heart leapt up into her mouth as he leapt into the air.  They rose with Keir pumping his wings to generate lift.  His magic was pouring into those powerful muscles and she could feel it as it moved through his blood just as clearly as she could feel the shifting of his flight muscles between her thighs as she straddled him.  He caught a thermal riding over the top of the hill and soared higher, gliding over the shrinking valley below.  The wind blew through her hair, streaming it out in an auburn curtain .  He span on a wing-tip, turning back towards the distant line of the sea.  She gasped and felt a thrill of exhilaration that made being on the back of the bike seem tame.  She let her power rise to join and twine with his, laying herself low along his neck so that she had as much of her body pressed against his as possible.  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel what he felt, to join in the sheer delight of his flight.
With her power flowing through him and augmenting his, he grew more confident.  He twisted and span in the air, as agile as a swallow in spite of his size.  The rush of wind and the sense of total freedom filled him with joy.  There weren’t words in any language to describe how much he had missed the sensation.  He soared upwards again, bursting through a bank of cloud and into the exclusive heights of commercial Dirigible space.  She saw an Airship flying slowly  southwards in the distance, twinkling like a star in the bright sunlight.  The oxygen was thin here, but with magic she could draw in plenty for breathing.  She felt laughter dancing through him as he suddenly closed his wings in tight and dropped into a headlong dive.  The speed was insane, faster by magnitudes than anything he could force out of the bike, but the excitement of it was so intense she found herself laughing with him.  They plummeted downwards, with the long, sinuous  shape of Loch Trool rushing up towards them at suicidal speed.  It took a large burst of magic to pull them up short, and then as they both caught their breath he glided the length of the loch, trailing his claws lazily along the water’s surface.
“What if someone sees you?” she asked, pointing at the houses among the trees and the cars parked along the edges of the water. 
They won’t believe what they are seeing. Even people with the Old Blood don’t believe there are Dragons still. So long as I am gone before they take a second look they probably won’t think about it again, he explained.
They came to the head of the loch and began climbing with the hills, terrifying a flock of sheep.  She felt him stamp on the urge to chase them, and the sudden spike of blood lust that went with it.
“I thought dragons only took human blood,” she said, curious.
Only human blood in human form.  It’s part of the curse put on us because of Edan.  In this form, any blood will do, but humans get angry about us stealing their animals, he explained.
“You’re afraid of humans?” she was surprised.
When they gang up on us and hunt down our lairs, of course.  A full dragon can sleep very, very heavily, and there aren’t many of us left now, he replied.
They did a loop-the-loop at the top of the tallest hill and then Keir sped down the north slope, keeping close to the ground.  Aithne let out a squeal as he dodged an old abandoned shepherd’s hut at the very last second by pulling sharply back up into the sky.
“Damn, that nearly gave me a heart attack,” she gasped as he levelled out and hovered a few hundred feet above the hut.  Somewhere in the distance  there was the roar of an approaching Raptor class Ornithopter.  They trained all over the Scottish wilderness, using the forests as practice for manouevers they wouldn’t actually risk against the Spanish over the rain forests in the Americas.
Sorry, he apologised simply.
“It’s OK now,” she retorted, her blood singing with adrenaline.  A second later the world went mad. There was a confusion of sleek black scale and dull grey-blue feathered steel, a roar that made her head feel as if it was exploding and then an equally sudden disconcerting silence accompanied with a sense of wide open space and the sensation of falling.  Air began rushing away from her, stealing itself from her lungs, while her bones ached agonisingly with the cold.  Her mind was simply refusing to work, although one part was telling her in an insistent voice about the rapidly rising ground below.  Blackness filled her vision unexpectedly, followed by the sensation of impact against something firm, but definitely not the ground.  When the warmth of their bond wrapped itself back around her, driving out the bone deep cold, she knew that she was safe, lying on Keir’s broad back.
“Don’t even say sorry,” she gasped as she felt his guilt pouring over her, “You saved me!”
I should have remembered about the Raptors.  I got carried away, he told her, refusing to excuse himself.
“God, so did I, Keir.  This is incredible,” she told him, her relief at being alive still turning back into full blown exhilaration, “You are incredible,” she added, managing to make herself sit up so that she could look at him.  His head was turned to look at her, his serpentine neck twisted fully round.  His eyes were whirling again, and small wisps of smoke were curling from his nostrils.  She could practically taste his concern. 
“Did you get hurt?” she asked him, trying to deflect his worry back to himself.
It didn’t touch me, but I turned so sharply I couldn’t hold on to you as well, he explained.
“And then you caught me.  You really are incredible,” she told him, forcefully radiating her gratitude to him.  If he’d done anything else they would probably both be dead.  She felt his guilt recede, so she asked the question that was nagging at her now.
“Can you really breath fire?” She felt silly and childish asking it, especially after such a near miss, but she just had to.  As an answer she felt a deep rumble inside him and a spike of magic that culminated in a huge gout of dark flame issuing from his long snout.  Even from behind she could feel the intensity of the heat of his flame, but she saw immediately that it was more like raw magic than actual flame.  She could feel how much it cost him in power to produce it.
“That’s not something you would do often,” she observed after her initial exclamation of delight.  It was rather impressive.
Not here in the Middle World anyway, he replied, I think we’d better head back to the bike now.  That was too close a shave and the Raptors will be back, he added.
“Did the pilot see you?” she asked, swallowing her disappointment. He was right.
He saw something, but he didn’t know what.  I heard him making a call about it. 
Keir started banking towards the ground, coming in to land by the cairn.   Aithne found herself going over his words in her mind.  The noise of the engines had been far too loud for her to think through, let alone hope to hear the pilot talking.  It had her wondering again at the powerful magic he contained, and the lesson in it that flying with him had been. 
She was still thinking about it as they pulled away on his bike.  She was still thinking about it when she lay in the dark beside him that night, listening to his breathing and letting the soft thrum of his sleeping power wash over her.
If Keir was so immensely powerful, what on earth was Edan like in Dragon form?  The thought finally articulated itself in her mind as she lay there.  She didn’t sleep that night.

If you enjoyed this story, you can find more at my dedicated site for this book series, Tapestries of the Veils .

Submission. …

Posted: 01/05/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, Pearls, writing
Tags: ,

Ok, so this weekend has twisted my brain completely out of shape. My lad has been terribly ill, the boiler for the central heating is on the fritz again and I’ve been desperately trying to pull together my Submission for Xponorth. Somehow,  in between all that I managed to organise a recording date for my music (more on that at a later date) and baked some experimental oatcakes (in Black Pepper and Garlic and Herb flavours ).
Well, this morning the boy is better, the boiler isn’t and I have managed to get my submission together!


After a touch of wrangling with filenames; they were longer than my tablet’s 50 character limit, I managed to get them uploaded!  *fingers crossed * and all that superstitious jazz.

A trip in the forest

Posted: 29/04/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, Pearls, writing

This is one of my favourite moments in Pearls. I’m working away at it, hope to have the first 50 pages edited by tomorrow for a competition. Warning : scene contains excessive,  lengthy description due to the narrator’s consumption of class a hallucinogens.


We dinnae find picnic tables and a car park, but we dae find a big forest clearin at the end ov a dirt track.  We dinnae hav tae look far fur firewood so we’ve soon got a wee blaze gaun in the centre ov the clearin.  Above us the stars are bright, although the edges ov the sky are tinged yellow on maist sides.  There’s a lot ov towns and cities aroun here, and that’s their sodium glare.  We take out the Acid bottle and carefully tear off two bits ov blotter paper frae yin o the sheets.  On the bonnet ov the car, while Ami is busy constructing a joint from a very dry but otherwise well preserved bit ov bud, Ah very carefully put jist yin tiny drop ov the acid on each ov the wee tabs.  It might be pish, dilutit tae water aw maist, but Ah know there’s enough ov a chance ov it bein quite the opposite that Ah want tae be careful.  Ah don’t really fancy havin a freak out in the middle ov a forest in a totally foreign country.  Let’s no even think about bein on the run frae the polis on top ov that.    Ma teenage experimentation did teach me somethin efter aw.  We take the tabs, Ami lights the spliff and Ah open the bottle ov whisky, and then we sit on the bonnet ov the car tae wait, watchin the fire burn and the stars shine.  The fire fascinates me, fire aways dis.  Ah love the way the flames are  curlin aroun the bits ov wood as they burn them, almost like liquid flowin in reverse.  Ah move oer and squat down beside the wee fire tae watch them closer efter a wee while, clutchin mah bottle ov whiskey but forgettin about it.  Ah hear Ami rumblin aroun in the boot ov the car, and then the radio comes on again, White Rabbit playin softly.  A great song for the come up.  Ami comes swannin roun the car wi the headdress on her head and mair scarves wrapped aroun her shoulders and airms.  She’s found flowers frae somewhere, dried roses and carnations, and wound them through the heid dress.  In the light ov the fire the raven black feathers ov the heid dress gleam and steal mah attention frae the flames.  Ah’m startin tae get that light, bubbly feelin inside, and there’s an extra layer ov sparkle descendin on the night.  Ah might burst out laughin any minute, in sheer relief tae be alive and intact tae see such a beautiful night.  Ah start singin along wi Grace Slick, fallin down the rabbit hole wi Alice even as Ah’m comin up.  Ami starts spinnin aroun, makin the heid dress flare out and the scarves trail.  The moon, as near as damn it tae fu, peaks o’er the top ov the trees and there’s silver threads and tassels, and silver bangles on Ami’s wrists; they flash and sparkle like the stars above us  in the moonlight.  Ah’m still singin, beltin out the words in a loose free way Ah havnae achieved in years.  The twinklin stars above start to fall like silver snow frae the sky.  We baith start laughin, spinnin aroun under the rain ov silver and trying to catch them on our tongues like we did wi flakes ov snow as weans. That’s when Ah realise Ah am totally trippin mah tits off.  The apocalyptic flourish at the end ov White Rabbit rings out through the night an frae mah lungs. 
Time changes, it stops flowin in a straight line frae minute to minute and jumps about so Ah get flashes ov things we are dain out here under the stars.  We’re dancin and singing roun the fire; we’re lyin on our backs on the bonnet ov the Porsche starin at the stars; we’re flopped inside drinkin and smokin and talkin animatedly about everythin; we’re pokin the dyin flames ov the fire and watchin the sparks fly up like little fiery imps escapin out intae the world tae dae mischief; we’re walkin through the trees, layin our hands on the trunks and feelin the life rush through them; we’re crouchin in the shadows ov the trees watchin the patterns on the cars paintwork move and swirl and animate while the car breaths gently in the night; we’re lying on the bonnet again, watchin feathered pink clouds stretch out through a silverin sky as the sun begins to come up; we’re crashin out inside the car, noddin, as the birds in the trees begin tae really sing for the mornin. 
Ah feel like utter shite when Ah wake up, an when Ah see whit’s left ov the whisky, (nuthin), the tequila, (also nuthin), and the rum, (a wee bit at the bottom ov the bottle), Ah realise why.  The day is well gone awready, Ah’ve been sleepin sprawled on the very cramped back seat while Ami has wound back the passenger seat and curled up on that as best as she can.  That’s another reason Ah feel terrible.  Aw ma limbs are stiff and aching frae lying curled up in this position, and ma spine feels twisted out ov shape.  Ah have tae crawl intae the driver seat tae get out and stretch, and this is a painful process made worse by Ami swearin at me an hittin me as Ah squeeze by her.  She’s still maistly sleepin  and has nae idea whit’s goin on.  Ah practically fall out ov the car, stumbling into the afternoon light with mah hands oer mah een.  Mah hair is aw oer the place, bleached blond waves that are  irritatingly bright in the sunshine.  With aw the bangles Ah seem to have accumulatit, and the scarves, the waistcoat, ma black skinny fit jeans and high heeled boots Ah know Ah look like a casualty frae a Glam rock band efter gig pairty, and Ah sure as fuck feel like wan.  As if on cue, the radio comes oan and Motley Crue’s “Girls,Girls,Girls” rudely awakens Ami frae her slumber.  She escapes the car as fast as her sore limbs and hangover will let her, slammin the door and cursing the car for wakin her up.  She’s still wearing the heiddress, and wi the long grey felt coat she usually wears she looks more hippy than glam.  She’s pullin off the casualty look as good as me though.  She staggers oer tae where Ah’m stanin, tryin to light a cigarette wi a shaky hand while still shieldin mah een frae the sunlight.

Life is Strange

Posted: 28/04/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, poetry, writing

Life is strange
Like in the way
Come at you again
And again
In different guises
And different voices
It tells you
Just the same things
You should have learned
Last time
Life is strange

Life is strange
Like in the way
Come to you again
And again
In different guises
And different voices
It offers you
Just the sames things
You should have grasped
Last time
Life is strange

Angel – Lyrics

Posted: 18/04/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, music
Tags: , , ,

I saw you smile
From the other side of the room
I saw you dance
Couldn’t take my eyes off you

In a room full of people
You’re the only one I see
In a sky full of stars
You’re the one that shines on me
Shine on me

No one else here
Affects me like you do
Makes me wonder
If I’ll fall in love with you

In a room full of people
You’re the only one I see
In a sky full of stars
You’re the one that shines on me
Shine on me

I have to ask you
If you’ll dance with me
And if I ask you
Will you be leaving with me?

In a room full of people
You’re the only one I see
In a sky full of stars
You’re the one that shines on me
Shine on me
Shine on me

By Aidan Rourke

The Interview

Posted: 18/04/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, Tapestries, writing
Tags: , ,

A Day in the Life……. Aidan Rourke
Anita Stackhouse for Rolling Stone Magazine
Publication Date: 23 April 2010

It was the tour from hell and one that many people were beginning to say Aidan Rourke wasn’t going to recover his career from. As the tour dragged on, some insiders were even beginning to whisper that it would be a tour that the Irish born Rock Star wouldn’t get out of alive. Then, just when we were all thinking there could be no more unpredictable twists, Aidan added young Glaswegian singer Tara Gordon to his band’s line up. He had seen her sing at a club in her home town. She sang her first gig with him in his native Dublin and nearly stole the show. Only nearly because what ever else people say about Tara’s addition to the band, no-one can disagree that on stage Aidan and Tara have lots of chemistry.
To be handed the exclusive of interviewing them both before and after their Barcelona concert at the Camp Nou is rather special because it’s the first real interview they have done since Tara joined the band. I’ve had the pleasure of interviewing Aidan Rourke on a couple of occasions and it’s always an unpredictable experience, getting hazy tot he end because Aidan can talk a Buddhist monk into drinking. After the first time I interviewed him I learned not to drive myself to interviews.
I meet them at the hotel bar where they are waiting for the limousine to take us all to sound check at the stadium. One of the very first things you notice about Tara is just how easily she competes with Aidan for attention in a room. She’s got presence, a wicked gleam in her eye and complete self confidence.
Inevitably there is time for a round of drinks before we leave, so as we sit down I address my first question of the day. to Tara.
“What’s it like to be thrust into the limelight so suddenly Tara?”
“Fun,” is her brief and unelaborate reply. She is sipping her drink through a straw. I’m not surprised to see she shares her drinking preference with Aidan. She doesn’t look like she is going to add anything to that, so I try another tack to get her talking.
“What’s Aidan like to work with then?”
“A pain in the arse actually,” she tells me with a smile. Aidan scoffs at this.
“You’re not all sweetness and light yourself,” he tells her, bantering back. They are going to do this a lot over the course of the day. They carry on for a minute or two now before I manage to bring them back with another question.
“So, has Tara joining changed the dynamics of the band much?” It seems an obvious question, but I want to hear Aidan’s own perspective on it.
“Totally, but I think it needed changing. I know there’s people who don’t agree, but I don’t think I could have gone on much longer the way things were. My life had gotten stuck into a groove, the music was suffering and I needed shaking up,”
“So I rode in and rescued him,” Tara interjects with a dark chuckle, and that sparks them off again, exchanging mild insults and witticisms that are far too rapid-fire for me to note down. Aidan is well matched by Tara in this little game.
At sound check I begin to appreciate the differences in Aidan and his band. When I interviewed him last, three months ago, he was losing interest in pretty much everything except partying. Today, although there’s bottles of whiskey distributed on the amp stacks, he’s keen and working hard with the band. It’s also the only time that he stops the playful bickering with Tara.
I get another chance to talk to them together with the rest of the band before they go on stage. Finn, the perpetually moving drummer, is burning some pre-gig nerves up on a set of bongo drums while Craig, the bassist, is watching and having a beer, looking relaxed. Paul and Aidan are going over some things with an acoustic guitar each while Tara nods and sings snatches of lyrics as she listens to them. I snatch a couple of moments with them as Paul restrings his guitar.
“So what was it about Tara that made you decide to add her to the band?” I ask Aidan, knowing that this could prove to be a tricky subject after some recent mutterings in some corners of the International Press. His reply is emphatic and sincere.
“The voice, it was always the voice. The first thing I heard her sing was Inferno, and she gave it something really special with that voice,”
“I didn’t even want him to come and hear me play. I thought he’d upstage me,” Tara adds with a wry laugh.
“I didn’t though, you were too good for that,” Aidan comes back at her with that charm of his. Tara seems to be mostly immune though. She launches into her own version of events with gusto. It’s the first time I really notice how strong her accent is.
“Oh, you did! You were the one who rushed the stage and begged me to join your band! Then you practically kissed me in front of the whole damn club! What a bloody uproar that caused,”
“You didn’t protest so much at the time,” Aidan retorts with sparkling eyes.
“Your silver tongue doesn’t work on me, Irishman,” Tara replies and they are ready to start another rapid exchange of fire, but I manage to interject that big question that everyone wants the answer to before it goes too far.
“Your relationship is purely professional then?” Tara answers me quickly before Aidan manages to get a word in.
“It’s a working relationship, not so sure about the professional thing,” she tells me with a bright smile. Aidan glances at her and stays uncharacteristically quiet. There’s a story here, I can smell it, but I’ve seen Aidan Rourke close up before so I don’t press. Maybe in the afterglow of the gig they will feel more expansive. Time to change the subject.
“Have you written any new material with Tara in mind?”
“We’ve written a couple of good songs together already, “Aidan tells me, “We’ve been chalking up new material for the next album,”
“Anything you’re ready to play live?”
“Soon. I want to polish things up a bit before unleashing it on a captive audience. Tara is going to be a big part of the new album so we’re working hard on it,”
“Are you looking forward to getting into the studio, Tara?” I ask her.
“We’ve got a wee mobile thing on the tour bus and we’ve done a few tracks on that, but yeah, I wanna see what it’s like to work in a real recording studio,”
“How easy is he to work with when you’re writing?” I ask, pointing at Aidan.
“Didn’t she already say I was a pain in the arse?” Aidan quips, drawing a throaty laugh from Tara.
“Is he really?” I press, laughing with her a the lock of mock affront on Aidan’s face.
“Well, he’s such a visionary and Paul is such a perfectionist it can be pretty hard to get heard between the two of them,” She’s smiling at the scowls both men are wearing now, “I wouldn’t do it any other way. They both really know their music and I’m just the new kid on the block,” I think she’s trying to placate them, but it’s hard to tell with that wicked gleam in her eye.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a perfectionist!” Paul exclaims. It’s rare for him to say anything in interviews, but I’ve noticed already today that he’s looking much happier that he was three months ago.
“So it changes the song writing dynamic with the three of you working together?” Paul nods so I continue, “Do you think it’s expanding the musical possibilities of the band having a female vocal?” He’s the trained and qualified classical musician after all.
“Well it always used to be “I like it but can we make it a bit more Rock N Roll” with Aidan, but now I have to contend with “Harder! Faster!” from Tara as well (Tara laughs in the background, another one of those throaty laughs that seem to draw the eyes of all the men in the room) I think she reckons we should be a thrash band,” Paul’s possibly unintentional innuendo is not lost on him, and neither is it lost on Aidan, who bursts out laughing while Tara pouts theatrically. She gets up, announcing that it’s time for her to go and get dressed and made up for the gig and leaves with a smile and a wave, and a glass of whisky pressed into her hand by Aidan. I have one myself. Paul goes off to have a word with one of the roadies and I get the opportunity to fire a couple of quick questions at Aidan.
“This seems like a much happier camp than the last time I was here. Has adding Tara to the band helped you regain your focus?”
“Nothing was about the music any more for me before. It was all travelling and partying and I was getting kind of lost. Tara has made me re-evaluate a lot about why I am doing this, reminded me what it was like before the lifestyle took over,” he explains after a couple of moments contemplation.
“And the rumours that keep flying around about the two of you?” I ask again, since I didn’t get his answer before, only Tara’s.
“What, that we’re a couple?” he shakes his head, “You’re not letting that go are you? We’re not a couple, not even close. I’m pretty useless at the whole relationship gig,”
I’ll wave the white flag at that. They certainly bicker like a couple, but I;m not going to deny Aidan’s admission of ‘commitment issues’.
The gig is amazing. The Camp Nou is bursting and jumping and loves it that Aidan is speaking to them fluently in Spanish. He even throws in a few phrases of Catalan for good measure. The concert is being graced by Countessa Sophia Maria Bourbon i Lioncourt, the Countess of Barcelona. In typically Aidan Rourke style, he serenades her with Angel. The papers the next morning ran with a picture of the Countessa blushing under the headline “Rourke melts the strongest hearts in Barcelona”.
The whole place ignites when Tara sings Inferno, the song which undeniably has become hers on this tour. Her voice seems to fill the whole stadium, where everyone inside is silent in awe of it. This is where she consistently proves her worth as an addition to the band. It really is hard to be untouched by the effect of it.
‘Fey’ is another major highlight in a fantastic performance. Tara whirls and spins hypnotically, acting the part of the girl victim of the Fey in the song. She plays off Aidan’s vocal with real presence in her backing vocals. They sound great together.
Back at the hotel, after the gig is over, the band get down to serious partying. The Countessa makes a brief appearance early on in the festivities, shares a drink and a conversation in Spanish with Aidan and then makes a gracious exit to allow the party to ramp up without restraint. I have to move in quick before Aidan’s persuasiveness with a glass of whisky steals my chance for a last couple of questions.
“The vibe of the tour seems to be really different, and you’re turning in some amazing performances now. Do you feel you’re silencing the critics?”
“Well, that depends on how nicely you’re going to write about me doesn’t it?” Aidan asks me, laughing. Tara is back to smirking and drinking through a straw.
“Seriously, I’ve never made a habit of reading the reviews because all I’ve ever been interested in is the reaction of the fans. Tonight was a blast and the vibe at the gig was amazing. Earlier in the tour the energy was lower, but it’s higher than ever now,” he replies thoughtfully. He’s still sober enough to be lucid and clear in his thinking obviously.
“I didn’t know you spoke such fluent Spanish, what other talents are you hiding?” I quiz him now.
“It’s only one of my many hidden talents that I will be practising later tonight,” he says with one of those patented Aidan Rourke charming smiles. Some woman is going to be lucky tonight, but judging by the disdainful sneer that crosses Tara’s face it definitely won’t be her.
“You are so full of yourself,” she tells him, and there is a playfulness to it that I don’t think is any more acidic than anything she’s said to him all day. It’s all part of the fizzing chemistry between them that is so obvious on stage. They start slinging insults at each other again now and it does get a little sharp, but I’d say it’s no more than a healthy friction that will keep them on their toes. maybe we are all drunker than I thought too, because this time there’s no way of bringing them back to the Interview and it’s over for the night.

A little more Burn.

Posted: 11/04/2016 by Alternate Celt in Extracts, writing

I watched the first episode of Vinyl last night. It’s gone into the past to capture the rawness of Rock n Roll. With Burn I’ve gone to a time where the act of rediscovery is rekindling that rawness.  Here’s a wee bit just because I’m thinking about it now.  As ever, this comes with an adult content warning.

I find myself staring in the mirror in the toilets. Women in all colours flow round me, chattering like a symphony of birds to my ears.  I am pretty fucking drunk, this I am fully aware of, but I’m still totally steady on my feet and more than notionally in charge of my actions. I need a bit of thinking time, I need to analyse what is actually happening to me tonight.  I have a sense of the pivotal nature of everything that’s happened today.  We found a musical vibe that I just know will blow away the kind of folks who hang at places like the Rainbow.  We are going to blow bands like the one still strutting their stuff on the stage upstairs out of the fucking ballpark.  I felt it in the way we gelled together and grooved together.  I felt it in the electric, erotic vibe between Zack and me.  I can picture us, back to back under a bright spotlight, my voice and his guitar twined into one sinuous, utterly sexual howl, turning on thousands of faceless bodies in a packed stadium crowd in front of us, and I know it’s going to happen.  But I can also picture us, in the hot darkness of the night, bodies joined, moving and souls burning together while the sweat is slick on our skin, and I know that is going to happen too. And I’ll tell y’all this now, I have never wanted any man like I’ve wanted Zack.
Yet, in spite of all my certainty, I’m afraid.  We can make magic, real fucking powerful magic that will change the lives of thousands of people, but I know it’s going to come at a cost.   The magic I can feel sparking like tinder between Zack and I is going to blow the whole fucking world away, I can feel that knowledge pulsing in my blood like it’s a fucking hormone; a rock n roll hormone that being near him floods my brain and body with. Still, I know that shit is going to come at a cost.  I wash my face in the cold water, trying to douse myself in clarity, but I’m burning up inside with the possibility.  I start to reapply my make up, trying to rebuild my sense of control with each stroke. My hands are steady, my heart is beating strong and slowly, but somewhere inside I’m trembling.     I just need to reach out now and seize my dream, but I’ve suddenly had my first glance at the bill and the price is scary.  I mentally close my eyes, take a deep breath and decide to say fuck it to fear.  The prize just has to be worth the cost. I look myself in the eye then and smile, proud of the ballsy bitch I am.  It’s almost a shame, when two minutes later, Zack completely fucking undoes me in a dark corner of the corridor.