Eye of the Beholder

   Carla was impressed. The way the artist had captured the hesitancy of the creature, as it cautiously stepped from beneath the overhanging trees, dappled sunlight patterning its flanks, was breathtaking. The detail was amazing too. She could see each individual hair on the creature’s coat, the small soft wrinkles along the lips, the soft delicate eyelashes surrounding the deep brown eyes.

   Behind the creature, in the depths of the wood, shafts of sunlight from the canopy above struck motes of dust, or possibly small insects, giving the whole picture a sense of realism that was usually lacking from this type of art. It was almost as if the artist had stepped into another world, armed with a digital camera, and taken photos of the wildlife.

   But that was impossible, as the creature depicted in the picture was a unicorn and they do not exist. Yet, the picture almost made you believe that they did and that they should…

   The rest of the pictures in the gallery were similar, each showing a creature of myth or legend, depicted in such a way that it was like walking through a room of windows, with each picture showing a different view of a world not our own. Here a faun perched on a tree stump, his face ruddy with drink, proposing a toast with an overflowing tankard to a group of shadowy figures gathered round a campfire. There a scaled wyvern curled protectively and alertly around a clutch of eggs, their shells the colour of a summer sky…

   The exhibition was called ‘From Life?’ and, according to the pamphlet she had been given by a girl wearing too much make-up on the door, ‘showcased the amazing skills of an artist who has mastered the nuances and subtleties of the medium of digital art.’ As she had meandered about the gallery, examining the pictures, she had overheard the phrase ‘photo-realistic’ mentioned several times. She had to admit, the phrase fitted.

   Whilst she had admired each picture individually, there was something about the unicorn that kept drawing her back. She stepped closer, her lips pursed.

   A deep male voice interrupted her thoughts, ‘I’m guessing that you quite like my picture, then?’ it asked.

   Carla turned. Standing behind her was a tubby, bearded man in an obviously hired suit. He looked slightly uncomfortable, as though he was not used to talking to women, or people, for that matter.

   ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do. It’s perfect. Exactly what I imagine a unicorn would really look like. You’re very talented.’ The man looked even more uncomfortable.

   ‘It’s nothing, really’ he said, flushing slightly, ‘Anyone could have produced this picture, with the right equipment.’

   Carla turned back to the picture.

   ‘But to actually produce a picture like this, and the others on show here, takes more than just “the right equipment”.’ She said, ‘You have to be able to see something in your mind, before you can transfer it into another medium, surely?’

   The man looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible, and started to nervously sidle away.

   ‘Sometimes, they just come to me…’ he muttered, before making a hasty exit.

   Carla turned back to the picture of the unicorn. Yes, she decided, I must have this…

 

   At the front desk, an eager young girl in a baggy white t-shirt explained that ‘due to the versatility of this particular digital art form, whilst the artist keeps the original files, we can produce copies of the artwork at any size and for considerably less cost than buying an original piece of art’. She then launched into a detailed explanation of the type of computer equipment necessary to produce work of this nature.

   Carla gritted her teeth as the techno-babble washed over her. She thrust her credit card like a talisman at the eager young thing, an action that caused the girl to finally stop talking and produce a typed order form.

   Carla selected the size of her copy, chose the type of frame and arranged delivery.

   Her apartment was sleek and clean, almost utilitarian, and a picture like this would offer an ideal counterpoint to the modernistic space she dwelled in. Besides, she had a large blank wall space that needed filling.

 

   A few days later, the picture arrived and, true to their promise, the people form the gallery professionally mounted the picture exactly where she wanted it. She stood back and admired it, which at 6’ x 4’, was considerably larger than the one shown in the gallery. It suited the space perfectly, looking like it had always meant to hang there. Now it looked like her fourth-storey apartment had a window into a sylvan glade, occupied by a mythical beast.

   Who needs a wardrobe, she thought, smirking.

 

   Over the next couple of days, every time she passed the picture, she paused. There was something about the picture that was niggling at her, like a loose tooth. Something out of place, slightly off kilter, like a warm toilet seat in an empty house.

  But, for the life of her, she could not work out what.

 

   Night after night, she found herself sitting pensively in a chair opposite the picture, scouring it with her eyes, trying to see what her mind was trying to tell her was wrong…

 

   Finally, after spending many sleepless nights tossing and turning, as it preyed on her mind, it came to her. She quickly threw back the covers and padded barefoot into the lounge. Flicking the lights on, she rummaged through her desk drawers, searching until she found what she was looking for. A magnifying glass.

   Moving across to the picture, she dragged an armchair close to the wall beneath the picture and clambered up onto its soft, yielding surface.
   The eye. There was something different…no, not different…more…about the unicorn’s eye. Balancing unsteadily on the arms of the chair, Carla peered through the magnifying glass at the picture. There was a shape there, very small, but she could just make out what it was…
   Realisation struck her like a blow and the magnifying glass fell from her now numb fingers. She slowly collapsed into the soft embrace of the chair, hugging her knees tightly.
   She then recollected the exact words the artist had said to her, what seemed like such a long time ago, and realised that every word he had spoken was true.
   For what she had seen, reflected in the eye of the unicorn, was the tiny figure of a bearded man, holding a camera…             

Behind the Lines - A Bad Day for Murakh T'arr

As previously promised, this particular post will provide background details on the genesis of the story, so if you haven't read it yet, go and do that now, as this contains SPOILERS!

So, back in the late 80's, when hair was big, shoulder pads were acceptable for both sexes and the height of fashion was the tea-bag t-shirt, I was a younger cove, prior to becoming all grown-up and semi-responsible. During this period, both myself and my group of friends were very much into role-playing, as in gathering around someones table, rolling dice and pretending to be something that we weren't, such as cool.

As I had no real financial responsibilities and fancied one of the girls who worked for TSR UK, I was a regular attendee at Euro GenCon, which was held in the ex-Prisoner of War camp known as Pontins at Camber Sands. Due to it's isolated location, once you were on site, your pretty much had to stay there, so evenings were spent playing games, eating chips and hanging around in the bar.

On one such evening, I was at a loose end, as the group I had come with were all involved in some kind of live role-play event (En Garde, I think) and as this involved prior knowledge of events that had been occurring since the beginning of the Con, I couldn't really get involved.

I was sitting nursing a pint in the bar on my own, with a notebook and pen and the idea for "A Bad Day for Murakh T'arr" just came to me. I started writing and a couple of hours later, the story was complete. What you've just read is almost exactly as it was written, bar a little tidying up.

As the majority of heroic fantasy is underpinned by coincidence, such as the right person being in the right (or wrong) place at the right time, the simple premise of this tale was what happens if the right person is in the right place, but at the wrong time? Initially, rather than the guards, I was going to have some kind of magical answering-machine, but the dialogue just sort of wrote itself.

Having recently re-read "Final Reward" by Terry Pratchett, from his collection of short stories A Blink of the Screen, I can see the influence that Mr Pratchett had on my earlier fiction, which is perhaps why my Dad referred to my writing as 'Pratchett Lite'. I can live with that. This story also has the distinction of being the first of my stories to be rejected, by Interzone, no less, who said "A bit too D&D-ish. Have you tried one of the gaming mags?" Ironically, in their very next issue, they published a story my a certain Mr Pratchett...

Yes, it's silly and a little daft, but it's supposed to be. Even now, it still makes me laugh and I know what's coming.

A Bad Day for Murakh T'arr

  “I’m afraid I must press you for an answer, dear boy,” said the Sphinx politely, continuing to sharpen its talons on a convenient outcrop of basalt, “I haven’t got all day, you know.”

  Murakh T’arr, barbarian Hero, Prince amongst his people, the savage Bear Nomads of icy Tengia, and fully paid-up member of the Professional Adventurer’s Guild of Shist, shuffled his fur-clad feet and muttered an oath not fit to be printed.
  Standing just shy of six feet tall and almost as wide, Murakh T’arr’s heavily muscled form gleamed in the feeble illumination cast by the winter sun. Criss-crossing his body, like a street-map of a large city, were the many scars associated with his chosen profession. There were so many scars that the goose-pimples caused by the extreme cold had given up, having no space to work with.
  Clad in only a bearskin hold-all with matching boots, he should have been freezing, as the wind blew due South from the arctic wastes to the North, bringing with it the promise of snow.
  But he was a barbarian from the North, and Northern barbarians never felt the cold and, even if they did, would never admit it. They were a proud and noble people, blessed with strength, fortitude and courage, but sadly lacking in the brains department.
  This was why Murakh T’arr was having so much difficulty with the Riddle.

  Sphinx love to pose riddles, especially long, complicated and devious riddles, as if the questionee got the answer wrong, the sphinx got to eat them. This was job satisfaction at its most basic.
  As one of the many guardians of the Citadel of the Faceless One, Undying Lord of All Evil, the riddle this particular sphinx had been assigned was one of the most fiendish and convoluted ever to crawl out of  the twisted psyche of the Faceless One himself. Consequently, this sphinx was one of the most well-fed of its species.
  A voice, the sort of voice that would require the invention of a totally new type-face, full of jagged lines and sharp edges, to properly record its tonal quality in print, screeched metallically into the contemplative silence, “I WANT TO EAT YOUR HEART!”
  “Shut up,” came the automatic reply from Murakh T’arr, glancing down at the bejeweled pommel of the sword sheathed at his side. He was getting fed up with that bloody sword.
  In fact, he was getting fed up with this whole damn stupid quest. But it was his own fault.
  As a Hero, he was expected to behave in a prescribed way in certain situations, such as always rescuing a damsel in distress. But he had let the side down. He had, (he broke into a sweat, just thinking about it), Run Away, losing his magical axe, Whalekiller, in his haste to get as far away as possible.
  True, he had been fighting one of the Unspeakable Elder Gods, namely Great Cthunda, the Star Elephant, who would have sucked his brain out through his nostrils and used his empty cranium as a novelty ash-tray, but that was beside the point. It was just… Not Done.
  So, to atone for his misdeed, and assuage his guilt, he had first replaced his magical weapon with another, the ever-hungry and vocal demon-possessed broadsword, Fishblight, as no barbarian hero should ever be without a magical weapon of some sort, be it ever so lowly as an enchanted salad fork.
  He had then come to this blasted rock, the Isle of Sheol, which could only be described as an island by the sheer fact that it was sticking out of the sea, to slay the Faceless One, Undying Lord of All Evil. How you actually slay a being reputed to be undying, he had not quite worked out yet - but something would turn up. It usually did.
  However, it was not going very well. First, there had been the fisherman...          

   “What do you mean NO?” Bellowed Murakh T’arr at the small wizened form standing on the jetty in front of him, “I’m a bloody Hero, you have to give me your boat!”

  Over the aged fisherman’s shoulder, enshrouded in mist, lurked the dim shape of the Isle of Sheol. The village of Evight was the closest human habitation to that accursed isle and the closest place to get a boat to take Murakh T’arr there. If only this fisherman would listen to reason.
  “No, I don’t,” said the old fisherman, his wrinkled face impassive. Murakh T’arr towered above him, waving his massive arms about, his jaw muscles creaking as his jaw flapped, no sound issuing forth.
  The sight reminded Old Eli, for such was the fisherman’s name, of a large fish he had caught last Soulsday. The fish had claimed to be magical and would grant Old Eli a wish, if only he would throw it back. Old Eli had never had any truck with magic, especially talking fish, and had dispassionately clubbed it about the head until it had stopped talking and, finally, moving.
  “Besides,” said Old Eli, “how do I know you’re a Hero?”
  Murakh T’arr grinned and began to rummage energetically through the small pouch at his side. With a cry of triumph, he pulled out a small white rectangle and thrust it in Old Eli’s direction, a smug grin on his face.
  Old Eli gingerly took the rectangle from Murakh T'arr’s outstretched hand. He was convinced that this man was, in the local parlance, a ‘Nutter’. He was sure he had heard him say “I WANT TO EAT YOUR LIVER!”, then “Shut up”, both in different voices. In the village of Evight, they knew how to deal with Nutters. You took them up to Arvod’s Bluff, tied large stones to their feet and threw them in the sea, where they could not bother anyone anymore.
  Old Eli looked at the rectangle he had been handed, which was made from some curious flexible material, smooth to the touch, which he was unfamiliar with. Probably some invention of the Gnomes, he thought, as everyone knew they were far too clever for their own good. On the front of the rectangle were some squiggly black lines, which he assumed was that new-fangled thing called “writing” and a small, colour portrait of a man.
  The face in the picture looked as though it had been hit repeatedly with a large, heavy, blunt object, like a wardrobe. From a gold hoop atop the otherwise bald head, came a long tail of hair, like the straggly bit at the top of an aged spring onion. The man who had posed for this picture had obviously been trying to look proud and noble and had succeeded, in the same sense that a one-legged man is a sure bet in an arse-kicking contest. It did bear a passing resemblance to the man standing in front of Old Eli, but only if the distances involved were very great.
  “What’s this then?” Said Old Eli, suspiciously.
  “That’s my HeroCard™, that is,” said Murakh T’arr proudly. ”‘Means I’m a Hero.” He inflated his chest, preening. Old Eli stepped back, quickly. He had seen fish do a similar thing, just before exploding. The last time it had happened, he had to buy a new boat and he stank of fish for the next three weeks.
  “That’s you, is it?” Asked Old Eli, from a distance, “only, it doesn’t look much like you, does it?”
  “Of course it does!” Bellowed Murakh T’arr, striding forward and snatching the card. “Look, see the noble brow, the firm, jutting jaw, the steely eyes, the classic nose. No mistaking that face.”
  “If you say so…” Said Old Eli diplomatically. Old Eli usually had no truck with Nutters, especially barbarian Nutters, but he had run out of jetty and one more step would plunge him into the icy embrace of the sea. Old Eli had lived a very long time and planned on living quite a bit longer if he could help it. So, taking early morning dips in the icy, cold sea were right out.
  “So,” said Murakh T’arr, “are you going to lend me your boat or not?”
  “No.”
  “Arrgh!” Screamed Murakh T’arr, “Why the Abyss not?!”
  “Because,” said Old Eli seriously, “you are obviously a Nutter. Only a Nutter would want to go to the Isle of Sheol and I've a strict policy against lending my boat to Nutters, on account of them being, well… Nutters really.” Old Eli crossed his arms and gazed impassively up at Murakh T’arr.
  “Is that you’re final word on the matter?” Asked Murakh T’arr.
  “Yes.”
  “Well, old man,” said Murakh T’arr, “I will respect your wishes then and...BY THE GODS, WHAT'S THAT?”
  Old Eli dropped soundlessly to the swaying jetty, a lump forming on the back of his head. Murakh T'arr shook his hand, blowing on his knuckles.”Ow.” He muttered.
  He then clambered into the boat and cast off, casting a final glance at the recumbent form of the old man.
  “Bloody peasants.” He growled as he began to row out to sea.
   “I WANT TO EAT YOUR LUNGS!” Screeched Fishblight.  
  “Shut up.”

   Now, of course, he was facing....a Riddle. He had already got the Sphinx to repeat the riddle twice, the second time more slowly, occasionally stopping to get the Sphinx to explain a word he did not understand, but he feared the Sphinx would guess that he was stalling. As far as Murakh T’arr was concerned, brains was the gray stuff you wiped off your sword.

  “Well”, said the Sphinx, examining its now razor-sharp talons, “Time’s up, I’m afraid. I have given you rather a long time to cogitate, which was jolly sporting of me, don’t you think? But, it’s time to pay the fiddler, as the saying goes.”
  Murakh T’arr frowned, but this did not help. Neither did licking his lips nervously. What he needed right about now was, not just a plan, but a Plan.
  “I do hope you get it wrong,” said the Sphinx, “Nothing personal, you understand, as you do look rather appetizing and I haven’t eaten in, oooh, ages!” It licked its lips in anticipation.
  “So, do you have the answer, then?” It asked.
  Got it, thought Murakh T’arr.
  “Yep.” He answered.
  “You have?!” Asked the Sphinx, a little taken aback, “Well, let’s hear it then.”
  “No.”
  “No? No? I am so sorry, my dear chap, but it doesn’t work like that.” Said the Sphinx, “So, it looks like I get to eat you anyway.”
  The sphinx tensed, ready to pounce. “Nothing personal, of course.”
  “What I meant when I said ‘no’”, said Murakh T’arr, raising his hands defensively, “was that I wasn’t going to shout it out for everyone and his mother to hear!”
  The Sphinx paused and looked around. Black, cracked basalt as far as the eye could see, was all that greeted it gaze.
  “That’s not very likely, is it?” Said the Sphinx, testily.
  “True.” Said Murakh T’arr, “But are you prepared to take that chance?” The Sphinx’s eyes narrowed in speculation.
  “How do I know that you know the correct answer?”
  “You don’t,” said Murakh T’arr, grinning, “But what if it is?”
  “I suppose you have a point,” said the Sphinx slowly. It had a feeling that this Barbarian chappie was up to something, but wasn’t sure what. That would be a moot point soon, as there was no way he would guess the correct answer. “What exactly do you suggest?”
  “Well,” said Murakh T’arr, “I’ll come over and whisper it in your ear. That way, if I do get it wrong, you won’t have so far to go.”
  “I say!” Said the Sphinx, “That’s awfully decent of you. Come on then.”
  Murakh T’arr walked over and stood just to the right of the Sphinx’s head.
  “Could you lean down a bit?” Asked Murakh T’arr, “I can’t quite reach.”
  “Oh. Sorry,” the Sphinx leaned down. “Is that better?”
  “Yes, yes, that’s fine,” Murakh T’arr’s hand crept towards his belt, “The answer is...”
  “I WANT TO EAT YOUR BRAIN!”
  “I say,” said the Sphinx, toppling forward, Fishblight’s pommel just visible inside its tawny ear, “That was a bit below the belt.” Then its eyes glazed over and it expired.
  Murakh T’arr withdrew Fishblight slowly from the Sphinx’s head. Fishblight was humming to itself, sated for the moment. Murakh T’arr waited until the sword had absorbed all the blood, then re-sheathed it.
  “I may be a Barbarian,” he said, “but I’m not that bloody stupid.”
  Whistling a favourite Barbarian drinking song, he turned and headed up the path making for the mountains, where the Citadel of the Faceless One hung like a parasitic barnacle to the side of the cliff.

   “COME ON OUT!” Bellowed Murakh T’arr, “I WANT TO SLAY YOU ALL!”

  He stood before the huge black, metallic gates of the Citadel, which loomed over him like a very large, castle-shaped looming thing. He had seen activity on the walls as he had approached, but now all was quiet. Too quiet.
  “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!” He shouted, “COME OUT AND FIGHT LIKE MEN!”
  In the silence that followed, Murakh T’arr could hear nervous muttering and whispering coming from behind the crenellations. After a brief whispered conference, in which a decision must have been made, a voice called down from the castle walls.
  “Who is it?”
  “It is Murakh T’arr, Barbarian Hero, Prince among my people, the savage Bear Nomads of Icy Tengia and,” he paused for breath, “Smiter of Evil.”
  “Oh.” Said the voice. The whispering started up again, then stopped. “What is it you want, exactly?”
  “I want to fight my way through this Citadel, slaying indiscriminately, until I reach the sanctum of your evil master, The Faceless One, where after much boasting and posturing, I will best him in mortal combat and slay him, forever freeing this realm of his evil stain.”
  Murakh T’arr struck a pose, sword held high and smiled, a stray beam of sunlight catching his teeth, *ting!*, just right.
  The whispering started up again, this time more frantic, then a face peered over the wall and looked down.
  “You did say `Faceless One’, didn’t you?” Asked the head.
  “Yes.” Answered Murakh T’arr.
  The face retreated and the whispering resumed. Murakh T’arr frowned, tapping his foot impatiently. The face reappeared.
  “You’re sure you want The Faceless One, Undying Lord of All Evil?”
  “Yes.” Said Murakh T’arr, testily.
  “Only,” said the man, “He’s not here right now...”
  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S NOT HERE?!” Screamed Murakh T’arr, finally losing his temper.
  “Well,” said the man leaning on the parapet. Murakh T’arr could now see the distinctive black and gold uniform of the Faceless One’s personal guard now the man had revealed himself. From the insignia, this guard was a sergeant.
  “It’s winter, isn’t it?” Continued the sergeant, “His Undyingness always goes away in the winter. ‘This Citadel may be imposing and steeped in wickedness,’ he says, ‘but it’s bleeding draughty come winter. You lads hold the fort, as it were, ‘cos I’m off to sunnier climes.’ And then he buggers off on that big black, flying horse of his. So you see,” continued the sergeant, apologetically, “he’s not here right now. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll be sure he gets it when he comes back. Sorry.” Then he ducked back out of sight.
  “HOW DO I KNOW YOU’RE TELLING ME THE TRUTH!” Bellowed Murakh T’arr, “THIS COULD BE A TRICK!”
  The sergeant reappeared, his face flushed with anger.
  “LOOK MATE!” He bellowed back, “DO YOU THINK WE ENJOY SITTING AROUND FREEZING OUR ARSES OFF, GUARDING THIS HEAP OF MOULDERING STONE, WHILST HIS NIBS IS OFF GALLIVANTING AROUND THE WORLD AND DRINKING THOSE FANCY DRINKS WITH PAPER UMBRELLAS IN? WELL, DO YOU?”
  “Cocktails,” said a second voice from behind the wall.
  “WHAT?!” Exclaimed the sergeant, turning to face the speaker.
  “They’re called cocktails,” volunteered the second voice.
  “What are?” Asked the sergeant.           
  “Those fancy drinks with paper umbrellas in.”
  “Why?”
  “I don’t bloody know!” said the second voice, “They just are!”
  The sergeant disappeared from sight. Murakh T’arr waited. Voices carried over the wall.
  “So, think we’re clever, do we?” said the sergeant’s voice, sarcastically, “Knowing what cocktails are is clever, is it, Private Thurg?”
  “No,” said the second voice, “I just thought...”
  “WE DON’T PAY YOU TO THINK, PRIVATE THURG, WE PAY YOU TO GUARD! DROP THOSE CARDS, COLLECT A SHOVEL AND PAIL AND GO AND CLEAN OUT THE STABLES! NOW!”
  “But it’s Molov’s turn...,” whined the second voice. There was the sound of someone being hit, then a scream, followed by a distant thump. After that, there was a brief silence.
  “You’ve knocked him off the walkway, Sarge...” said a third voice in hushed tones.
  “I know, lad,” said the sergeant, “I didn’t mean to hit him quite that hard...”
  “You know what this means, don’t you, Sarge?”
  “What, lad?”
  “Someone else is going to have to clean out the stables now...”
  “I’ll dice you for it...”
  “You’re on...”
  There was a brief period of silence behind the walls, interspersed with the faint sound of dice being cast and muttered curses, until Murakh T’arr became fed-up again. This was not supposed to happen. They were supposed to rush out, swords flailing, into the waiting engine of destruction that he became during his battle frenzy. None of this skulking behind walls crap. He came to a decision.
  “OI!” he shouted to the guards, “WHAT ABOUT ME?”
  “Does he want to clean out the stables?” asked a voice from behind the walls,”Is that what he’s asking?”
  “Naahh!” said a second voice, “Heroes don’t do that sort of thing.”
  “What about that dead famous Hero?” said a third voice, “He cleaned out some stables.”
  “Which one was that then?” asked the second voice.
  “Cor! Fancy you not knowing,” said the third voice, “He was dead famous, he was. Name was...er...um...Harry..Something. Not important, anyway. Did it with a river, he did.”
  “Did what?”
  “Cleaned the stables.”
  “Why didn’t he use a shovel and pail, like everyone else?”
  “Dunno. Probably because he was a Hero and you know what they’re like...”
  “Yeah...”
  “EXCUSE ME!” bellowed Murakh T’arr, plaintively, “BUT AREN’T YOU GOING TO LET ME IN?”
  The sergeant reappeared, a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth and a steaming tankard held in his hand. He leant forward, and addressed Murakh T’arr.
“‘Look, mate,” he said, “As I told you before, he ain’t here. Now,” he took a drag on the cigarette, “I could get one of the lads to dress up as his nibs...”
  “Not me!” said the second voice.
  “Nor me!” said the third voice.
  “Shut up, you two!” snapped the sergeant, “As I was saying, I could get one of the lads to dress up as his nibs, but it wouldn’t be the same, would it? I mean, where’s your sense of achievement, eh? ‘I beat up somebody dressed as the Faceless One.’ I mean, anyone could do that, couldn’t they?”
  “I suppose so...” said Murakh T’arr, crestfallen.
  “Best thing to do then is, go home and we’ll send a messenger when he gets back, okay?”
  “Okay.” said Murakh T’arr, his voice so small, it was almost non-existent.
  “Bye then,” said the sergeant, “Nice meeting you.” then he stepped back from the wall and was lost from view.
  Murakh T’arr heaved a big sigh and started plodding back down the path.
  “I WANT TO EAT YOUR LOWER INTESTINE!” screeched Fishblight.
  “Oh, Shut up!” snapped Murakh T’arr.

  Far away, on a sun-drenched beach on one of the Ait Islands, the Faceless One, Undying Lord of All Evil, replaced his crystal ball, with which he had been observing Murakh T’arr’s misadventures.

  He snapped his fingers and a dusky, island maiden brought him a fresh cocktail, complete with paper umbrella, his last one having grown tepid in the heat. Sipping from the glass, he placed it on the table beside him and relaxed in his chair. A smirk crawled onto what passed for his face, then a grin and he began to laugh.
  He did not stop for a very, very, very long time. 

Unicorn Variations

The whole purpose of starting a Blog is to share your thoughts, interests or opinions with like-minded people, anywhere in the World. So, you need to choose a Blog title that not only conveys the content, but is sufficiently unique so that it is easy to find. However, due to the fact that the World Wide Web is World-wide, this can prove a little tricky.

For example, the title of this post was intended to be the title of this Blog, until Google helpfully high-lighted the fact that what I thought was a unique and never-used-before phrase was actually the title of both a short story and short story collection by Roger Zelazny. Which is where I probably subconsciously picked it up. Which meant I had to come up with something else...

The purpose of Needing Unicorns is to share the speculative and fantastic fiction I have written with a wider audience. Initial feedback from people who have had the chance to read my stories has been positive, but as yet I have not had anything published, though not for want of trying. The usual response I receive is that the particular story was not what they were currently looking for. As most writers receive innumerable rejections before their work lands in front of the right person in the right frame of mind on the right day, I have not been discouraged by this, especially when looking at some of the self-published fiction available. These authors can create fully-realised fictional worlds, fancy covers for their "books" and have the technical know-how to self-publish, but appear to have a blind-spot when it comes to the fundamentals of writing, such as grammar and spelling. Whilst I cannot claim that what I present on this Blog will be free of such errors, I will endeavour to use only the finest words, locally sourced for freshness and sustainability, carefully packaged to ensure a smooth and enjoyable reading experience.

Furthermore, taking a leaf from Neil Gaiman's book, each posted tale will be followed with an additional post, detailing the genesis of the story and this will be noted in the posts' title. That way, if you want to know the story behind the story, you can, or you can just read the stories.

Either way, welcome to the contents of my mind and I hope you like what you find.