July 30, 2017

Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide –

John Milton
Paradise Lost (Book IV)

write my own fears…

October 16, 2016


I’ll tell you now. That silence almost beat me. It’s the silence that scares me. It’s the blank page on which I can write my own fears. The spirits of the dead have nothing on it. The dead one tried to show me hell, but it was a pale imitation of the horror I can paint on the darkness in a quiet moment.

Mark Lawrence
Prince of Thorns


October 11, 2016


You know nothing. Hell is only a word. The reality is much, much worse.

Event Horizon (1997)
Written by Philip Eisner, with an unaccredited rewrite by Andrew Kevin Walker, and directed by Paul W. S. Anderson.


It was a sound and a movement that brought me back into myself. The great clock at the farther end of the room just then struck the hour of three. That was the sound. And the movement – ? I was aware that a figure was passing across the distant centre of the floor. Instantly I dropped back into the arena of my little human terror. My hand again clutched stupidly at the pistol butt. I drew back into the folds of the heavy curtain. And the figure advanced.

I remember every detail. At first it seemed to me enormous – this advancing shadow – far beyond human scale; but as it came nearer, I measured it, though not consciously, by the organ pipes that gleamed in faint colours, just above its gradual soft approach. It passed them, already halfway across the great room. I saw then that its stature was that of ordinary men. The prolonged booming of the clock died away. I heard the footfall, shuffling upon the polished boards. I heard another sound – a voice, low and monotonous, droning as in prayer. The figure was speaking. It was a woman. And she carried in both hands before her a small object that faintly shimmered – a glass of water. And then I recognized her.

There was still an instant’s time before she reached me, and I made use of it. I shrank back, flattening myself against the wall. Her voice ceased a moment, as she turned and carefully drew the curtains together behind her, closing them with one hand. Oblivious of my presence, though she actually touched my dressing gown with the hand that pulled the cords, she resumed her dreadful, solemn march, disappearing at length down the long vista of the corridor like a shadow.

But as she passed me, her voice began again, so that I heard each word distinctly as she uttered it, her head aloft, her figure upright, as though she moved at the head of a procession:

“A drop of cold water, given in His name, shall moisten their burning tongues.”

It was repeated monotonously over and over again, droning down into the distance as she went, until at length both voice and figure faded into the shadows at the farther end.

For a time, I have no means of measuring precisely, I stood in that dark corner, pressing my back against the wall, and would have drawn the curtains down to hide me had I dared to stretch an arm out. The dread that presently the woman would return passed gradually away. I realized that the air had emptied, the crowd her presence had stirred into activity had retreated; I was alone in the gloomy under-space of the odious building…. Then I remembered suddenly again the terrified women waiting for me on that upper landing; and realized that my skin was wet and freezing cold after a profuse perspiration. I prepared to retrace my steps. I remember the effort it cost me to leave the support of the wall and covering darkness of my corner, and step out into the grey light of the corridor. At first I sidled, then, finding this mode of walking impossible, turned my face boldly and walked quickly, regardless that my dressing gown set the precious objects shaking as I passed. A wind that sighed mournfully against the high, small windows seemed to have got inside the corridor as well; it felt so cold; and every moment I dreaded to see the outline of the woman’s figure as she waited in recess or angle against the wall for me to pass.

Was there another thing I dreaded even more? I cannot say. I only know that the first baize doors had swung to behind me, and the second ones were close at hand, when the great dim thunder caught me, pouring up with prodigious volume so that it, seemed to roll out from another world. It shook the very bowels of the building. I was closer to it than that other time, when it had followed me from the goblin garden. There was strength and hardness in it, as of metal reverberation. Some touch of numbness, almost of paralysis, must surely have been upon me that I felt no actual terror, for I remember even turning and standing still to hear it better. “That is the Noise,” my thought ran stupidly, and I think I whispered it aloud; “the Doors are closing.” The wind outside against the windows was audible, so it cannot have been really loud, yet to me it was the biggest, deepest sound I have ever heard, but so far away, with such awful remoteness in it, that I had to doubt my own ears at the same time. It seemed underground – the rumbling of earthquake gates that shut remorselessly within the rocky Earth -stupendous ultimate thunder. They were shut off from help again. The doors had closed.

Algernon Blackwood

face your own wickedness…

September 17, 2016


“Back, devil! Return thee to Hell!”

The beast rolled its eyes. “I am not a devil, fool. Do you ever wonder why you seek the Devil with such vigour? I shall tell you. Because you cannot face your own wickedness. The truth is there is no Devil making you torture, rape, murder, and sodomize one another, or making you destroy the very land that feeds you. There is only you. So look at yourself, for you are the only devil in this room.”

Krampus: The Yule Lord

all the way in

Diary 26th August – Just a fistful of fast, challenging, hot-wired mind-bites!

Yes, yes, she’s an angel. But she fucks with the combined fury of all the demons from hell. D’you know how many demons there are in hell? Go look it up in Johann Weyer’s Pseudomonarchia Daemonum. There are thousands of the buggers…But it’s Duke Sallos who makes men love women, and women love men. He alone rules thirty demon legions of hell! It’s all his fecking fault!


Like the sea at dusk, the waves rolling in only to retreat, slipping between your fingers, as elusive as an old lover. It’s like a song you know well, but have never heard before this particular moment in time.


Women are infinite mysteries, melodious, but sometimes spiteful as black widows. In the States S’s sister said to me: ‘You can’t leave that girl here…’

It was obvious to everyone that S had become besotted with her brother-in-law in the four weeks before my arrival. It was the hardest kind of betrayal. Her sister was trying to reconcile herself to her husband’s recent affair with a local woman. Rebuild their marriage. But S arrived and put paid to that…And she did it without a second thought.

Sympathetic to her sister’s plight, I brought S back with me that time. But it was too late, of course. The damage had already been done. Her sister left her husband in the weeks following. And she…? Well, she moped about like an unexpected return of winter in the middle of summer. She was in love, but not with me. She became a closed up secret, a locked diary that I could no longer read. And that, I guess, was the end of it…


If you’re doing it, and doing it without love, that’s okay providing you’re both enjoying it and no one is going to get hurt because of it.


So many people live the same year seventy-five times over, and call it life!


Is it true girls mature earlier than boys? Or do we simply excuse male immaturity for longer periods of time? Could it be more a case of society’s expectations, rather than any real difference between the sexes?


I keep confusing Donald Trump with Rumplestiltskin. I don’t know why, because I’m sure they don’t both eat babies? Although Forest Trump might , like dear Rumple, destroy himself in a fit of rage one day?


Sex games are fine until you lose the key to the handcuffs…!


‘What use is history,’ says El. ‘It’s over and gone. Not relevant…!’

‘Studying history,’ says Peedeel, ‘stops you believing rubbish – day to day you read in the press or hear in passing the same old myths, half-truths and outright lies churned out about the past. Of course most of our politicians, bless ‘em, want us to believe the rubbish. But you should always find out for yourself…The core task of the historian is interpretation, relating what was then to what is now. Hopefully, on a good day, it might even prevent us making the same mistakes over again – but I won’t hold my breath on that one!’



January 23, 2016

Les Edwards

It’s just possible that this planet is another planet’s hell…

Malevolent Demons

November 24, 2015


Witches – the truth…

October 10, 2015