3 Jun 2015

Greetings, oh Patient Ones

Hail readers!

Firstly, I take it you have been acquainted with me and my friend’s musings on education herewith? If not, do take a look.

In any case, I have news. Important news—but that’s what I always say. Chiefly among these: exams. Yes; our dear friends. Though I’m pleased to say I have already undertaken the majority (they proved a reasonable enough endeavour) I do nevertheless have two left. These are Physics (to be undertaken tomorrow) and mechanics. You will, I am sure, forgive me for my less-than-keen blogging henceforth.

But onto more pleasant matters! I have another installment in the Fallen Saga available for your perusal. Its name? Lucifer. You shan’t be surprised to hear of this, I might think—the Saga is, after all, of a war between angels and demons—but you may be surprised to know that, rather than focusing on Lucifer’s discontent through the more traditional means (Lucifer’s pride, God’s totalitarianism) this work takes a different interpretation: Lucifer as a born warrior.

’Tis a sad fate, for any warrior: to be confined to impotence and subservience for millennia; to fight wars, briefly, ingloriously; and to then be relegated to the post of obedience.

The element of plot, you may notice, only manifests itself towards the end. In some ways, war is an inevitable consequence of disempowerment… and also, perhaps, the only way to gain justice. But war can be fought for many a reason, and for the warrior, release is often reason enough. But can release lead to salvation?

‘Alex!’ you cry; ‘give us the damn poem already, instead of all this analytical bullshit.’ That I shall do. This time, the poem is inline—blame this on my currently limited school software. (And on revising for exams.)

You have been called many names
Oh great warrior:
You have been called Bearer
Of the Light; you have been
Known, too, as
Bequeather of the Dark.

Neither Heaven’s white fire
Nor, indeed, Hades’ sepulchral depths
Could vanquish your warrior spirit.

The Warrior—’tis well known:
He knows no true master; no puppet, is he,
To those of ambition great.
For he, the eternal soul, has been pledged not
To but fickle dictator desire, nor to ephemeral
Empire. Nay: the Warrior is pledged to Battle.

Battle! Is it in the gleaming armour;
The greedy battle-sworn sword; is it still
In the cries of the Fallen—the eternal, but forgotten?

Nay: for a Warrior
As you, oh Dark One, know so well
Has been pledged to fire. Even in peace—so
Cold, and yet so warm with promise—the Warrior,
He doth go restless; o’er fallen comrades, he walks
Ever keen to join, finding no solace among the living.

Was that, dear Lucifer, your curse?
You are too great, to be but temporal in life;
Only Battle’s age-old cry, can rouse you from false succour.

He rules, does Lucifer; rules in that throne
Forged of fire and blood, paying homage
To old Horace’s time-worn lies.
Though delighting in sweet wine (bless,
Dionysus, your protégée) Lucifer
Can but lust for release.

’Tis said that the greatest of rulers
Know their friends close; their enemies closer.
Poor Lucifer!

No matter your magnificence;
No matter your magnanimity;
You are without master, ever the quintessential Warrior.
And what cruel Creator! To bring to life
A being destined for death.
What fickle a whim must Creator carry!

But Lucifer! Come, oh great deceived;
There is yet hope; yet majesty
For one so injustly fated.

Pax, pro devotos;
Spiritus est temporalis.
Aye! There is yet hope for those doomed.
The Warrior, he is pledged to Battle; let thus
Battle commence.
It shall be the greatest of all; for such is the end.

Further analysis I shall give to you at a later date; so too will I make available a nice, updated PDF.

EDIT: an updated PDF (and a slightly revised Lucifer) are now available on the Poems page.

Finally, I have news on books. (Yes; those.) Firstly, I have reviewed a number of them recently—the Reviews page contains the latest. I have also just finished reading Prince of Fools (by Mark Lawrence, a favourite of mine) to which I shall provide a review in a reasonably prompt fashion.

You, however, likely don’t read this blog of mine merely for my critiques. My own works—the Necromancer, the Sandman, a novella I have kept quiet on, and my upcoming novel, the Ark—have of course not been forgotten. With regards to what is published, I shall release a marketing push after these wonderful exams of mine. The focus will be on reviews (for I am ever so vain), but a giveaway is also on the books. Keep following.

With regards to yet unpublished work, writing will commence in full; after, of course, exams. Details, alas, are short at this stage. My novella—the Vampire Eirik, a work concerning an unfortunate hike with the eponymous vampire and his human friend—will likely be released sometime this summer. My grandparents have promised me more cash for this endeavour; thank them.

The Vampire Eirik is not the piece d’resistance, of course. The Ark—a tale possessed of the potential that graces all inchoate works—is the one you ought watch out for.

I shan’t be too forthright with the detail (for it is bound to change) but know that it is of the struggle of two lovers in a world that has so little patience for love, and yet so much need of it; that there will be pain, and joy, and surprises both beautiful and terrible; it will be… the Ark.

There’s something strange about it; something implausible in that ludicrous size, those impossible angles and shapes, something strange—indeed—in the sheer ambition of the thing. History has taught us that war, not salvation, is man’s greatest achievement. As for the Ark: who can tell? It has enough firepower to blow this country off the map. It can only succeed. And yet equally, it can save millions from damnation. It can only fail.


I’ve often wondered at love. In younger days, I thought it a feeling inside—a squeezing of the heart; a hope, a flower, too beautiful to ever bloom; I thought it curious, overpowering, empowering. Today—in wiser days—I know that love isn’t just a feeling. Love is what you get when the universe aligns, and the other person feels the same same way about you.


Years ago—centuries past—man’s greatest lie was in believing he could control his fellow man; that, by virtue of his status, or position, or wealth, other men could only bow to his will. Later, man’s greatest lie was in believing nature subdued—as if, instead of being fragile, ephemeral creatures no more relevant to the machinations of the universe than some inconsequential speck of dust, we were instead Gods, posessed of some divine faculty of intuition and greatness.

Today man has deceived himself into believing he is a traveller of the stars. We are doomed. Our existence was a fluke; a brief dawn of kindness in Fate’s cruel heart.

Some have called me a pessimist. My take on it? Sit back and enjoy the popcorn. It’s gonna be one hell of a ride.

I have spoken at great length. I would write more still—indeed I would set to work on the Ark, for these writer hands of mine grow impatient—but, alas, I have not the time. May the stars watch over you. And stick with me. You might just find there’s happy ending to this roller-coaster ride.

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