fredag den 29. juli 2011


    Once, there was a dog. Like most dogs, it started out as a puppy. It was small and black and white and grey. It had floppy ears, ink-black eyes and a tiny little nose. It had a brother called Thor (who was a chubby little guy), a sister called Freja (who was very eager for attention) and several other fluffy siblings that all ran around in their little patch of dirt.
    The puppy around whom this story revolves was chosen by a family. They picked him up and put him in the back seat of their car with their ten year old son and the puppy was so scared. Besides having lived right next to a busy highway for its entire life, the puppy proved to be completely terrified of cars. It would remain so for a very long time.
    When the family and their puppy came home, it proved too much for the little creature and it peed on the floor. The mother of the family didn't know much about handling small, scared animals, so she chased it around the house, yelling "Bad dog!" at it. It eventually squeezed itself under a tea trolley, shaking in fear.
This made their son cry. What right did he have to a dog? How could his mother - who had shown nothing but love for him - prove to be such a monster to a scared and confused puppy who needed the family to love him? Confronted with doggy snacks, the puppy forgave all, and the mother learned to take a gentler hand.
    They considered many names for the puppy. The boy suggested "Batman" and "Zorro". In the end, they settled on "Buster". Buster was very happy. Buster and the boy was very much alike. Just as the boy shied away from other people, so did buster shy away from other dogs. Neither of them were aggressive. Neither of them ate whatever was put on their plate. They both liked red meat, cold weather and fresh air.
    Buster grew up. He became a real dog with a gentle demeanour and a bark not unlike that of a very large wolf. He and a member of the family went for walks twice a day. In the summertime, Buster would trot along, tongue out and head down. During the winter, however, he was like a dog reborn. He would run and jump and roll in the snow. One winter it was so cold that every whisker and eyebrow It made the boy happy.
    Like all dogs, Buster had some problems. He ran away once or twice. He had a scrap with a local German shepherd that left him a little more aggressive. He contracted mange for a while and chewed himself bloody. He was absolutely terrified of water.
    He led a long and happy life. He barked at the mailman. He chased rabbits. He learned to fear cars a little less. His ears got pointy. He was petted and fed and loved. And in the end, he died.
    And I love him.

onsdag den 27. juli 2011


    'Professional demon worshippers. For those who want the benefits of demon-worshipping but can't be bothered to go through the bothersome work of worshipping.'
    'Home-proofing against zombies, witches and werewolves. Complete with silver window frames, garlic in the door handle and AB guns.'
    'AB guns?'
    'Anti-Broom. For the witches.'
    'Ah. No.'
    'Golem-Enablers. For those golems who just aren't quite up to snuff.'
    'No. Can't we just get jobs as plumbers or something?'
    Ashford fixed his brother with a piercing stare. 'Don't be ridiculous.'


Love, once afire, is a flame not easily snuffed.

fredag den 15. juli 2011


    It's twilight in the Yorkshire dales. A young man stands next to his father. They are surrounded by rolling hills that look gray in the dimness of early night. A cool breeze makes gentle waves in the leaves of a red beech. The young man is almost cold. Should have brought a jacket, he thinks.
    Bats (or is it only one?) flitter around the young man and his father. They are so small and fragile. He can just make out the flap-flap-flap of their tiny wings as they skim over his head. He desperately wants to touch one of them, but he knows he can't. They're too fragile. If he tried to grab one, he would probably hurt it. And that would break his heart.
    He is a little afraid.

søndag den 10. juli 2011


    'Hello, I'm Jonathan Strange. What's your name?'
    'Fuck you!'
    'That's a weird name.' Jonathan slammed the man's bleeding face into the wall. 'Hello, I'm Jonathan Strange. What's your name?'
    The man spit out a couple of teeth. Blood dribbled from his mouth. 'Fuck you,' he said. His battered and bruised face did not make pronunciation any easier, so it came out fahk ooo. 
    'That's a weird name. Fahk Ooo, meet Wall. Wall, Fahk Ooo.' 

torsdag den 7. juli 2011

Small Victories

    It was Saturday night, and Jax was afraid. To be sure, this is not an uncommon occurrence. Saturday comes around about once a week, and Jax tends to be afraid most of his waking hours.
    In most cases, he had good reason to be afraid. He had more enemies than anyone would rightly want, and trouble had a tendency to drop into his proverbial lap like a grand piano filled with dynamite and assassins. The noise that came from inside his house was his current cause of concern. He stood outside his house, back against his front door. From the other side came a muffled cacophony of sounds that seemed so inappropriate that the sensible part of Jax's mind had made a "Pfff" sound and thrown up its hands in defeat. It was the sounds of stomping feet, flashing blades, stampeding horses. Mostly, though, it was the sound of Mongolian war cries. 
    Jax wasn't sure exactly how the Mongol hordes of Genghis Khan had ended up in his little suburban home, but he was glad that they hadn't quite grasped the concept of doors yet.
    Small victories, you know. 

mandag den 4. juli 2011

Phone Call, cont.

    'When you get asked to do a fucking job, you fucking do it properly. Did you forget the fucking rules? You do not make a mess. You do not leave any trace of yourself. And you definitely do not leave any fucking survivors!'
    Ramirez waited for Jack to answer. Jack didn't. As has already been established, Jack was the master of loaded silences.
    'I was reassured that you were the best of the best, that you've never done a half-assed job.' Ramirez said. 'Why the fuck would you start now?'
    'Well, pardner,' Jack began in his thick Texan drawl, 'I see that you're awfully upset, and for that I apologize.' He knew how Ramirez would react.
    'Apologize? You apologize? I'll f-'
    'But we both know apologies don't make no difference in the unique branch of the global business that we are part of. So consider the following: Perhaps I left a survivor for a reason. Perhaps I made him watch the hell-fire I wrought on them other goons. Perhaps I made him listen to their screams. Perhaps he'll bring those screams to his superiors. And won't you know it, perhaps I just handed the entirety of the eastern baronies to you on a shining silver platter.
    'You have a good day now.'
    Jack hung up.

søndag den 3. juli 2011

Phone Call

Jack's old rotary phone rang four times before he answered it. He wedged the receiver between his cheek and shoulder, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. He flicked the match across the room and breathed in his own personal kind of painkillers.
    'Yeah?' He said. Smoke curled out between his lips.
    'Is this line secure?' Ramirez, Jack thought. One of the local bosses.
    'I s'pose.'
    'The fuck does that mean? Is it secure or not?'
    'I s'pose.'
    A silence followed. Jack waited for Ramirez to give in. He knew he would. Jack was the master of loaded silences.

lørdag den 2. juli 2011


    Jax was in a chase that should for all intents and purposes be accompanied by Benny Hill music. Slipping in mud, running around the same tree four times in a row, stumbling into a badger-orgy, this chase had it all. But there wasn't any Benny Hill music. There was panicked breathing, muffled cursing and many, many gunshots.
    Jax shook a pair of wildly copulating badgers out of his hair before falling off a cliff. 'SON OF A B-' he said and crashed through the lake's mirror-like surface. His head smacked against something very hard, and suddenly he felt a little unconscious.

fredag den 1. juli 2011


    Under sickly green moonlight, Michael walks the pier. The boards creak and groan under his feet, and he secretly wishes that they would snap underfoot, sending him down to join those who already dwell in water. They don't. So he won't.
    He pulls his coat tight to ward off the ever-present west wind that carries with it the tangy smell of salt, smoke and corpses. Once there were people here, but now there are not.
    The waves lap at the shore. A pale and water-bloated body of a young child with empty eye sockets bumps against the base of the pier.