Seriously late.

A lot of things happened this month that caused massive amounts of disruption – personal, romantic, occupational.

There is a set of stories and photos in hand but there is a need for new photos to finish February.

I’m going to an emergency fund for March.

Bear with me – it’s coming and we will get back on track.

If you write, though, and you want in – please mail because I could do with a break

The lumberjack rested on his axe and surveyed his work. It was a good morning’s worth of wood. His only problem is that it was mid afternoon.

He reached for his lunch, stretching out his muscles. He was getting on. He should be thinking about becoming a kindly grandfather, or a wise old storyteller. He knew he should be training the next lumberjack, or even the next huntsman, but no one was interested in those roles anymore. And the ones that were just weren’t up to the task.

Not that it might matter. No one was coming forward to deliver lunch to their grandparents. The queue for wizards and vampires, though? That ran round the block.

He sighed and checked the sun. He supposed if he hurried he could make Grandmother’s place in about an hour and a half. But then he’d need to heft some rocks so he should make it 2.

He started to pack his gear away when he felt the familiar tingle on the back of his neck. He listened for the wind that wasn’t there to move the trees and a distant pop.

He heard the familiar sound of the brush parting.

“Fenella. It’s always lovely to see you but I’m going to be a bit push for -” He turned and saw not his favourite witch, but another woman dressed like a pirate.

And a thief.

Next to her, but slightly behind, her was a..a thing… It was black and bulky, with a head that have protruding eyes and a tube for a mouth.

He looked back at the woman. And…maybe.. an outrider for a local noble.

The thing pulled its head off, which revealed it to be a mask and, beneath it, a man.

“Hi. See, Fenella is a little busy at the moment. She made me promise I’d say this, so when you see her next you’ll have to vouch for me.”

The woman had a strange accent that couldn’t quite place. The lumberjack nodded.

“She said, ‘Tell the Lumberjack I’ll come and see him soon. You don’t leave a man with a chopper that size waiting.’ I’m sorry.”

The Lumberjack grinned, blushed, looked away and then hefted his axe.

“What can I do for you…”

“You can call me Manzer.”

“What can I do for you, Manzer?”

She strode across the remaining distance. “I’ve brought you a new recruit. He needs to be trained.”

“What?” The man with her seemed surprised. Manzer turned to him, “Dude, you’re not going back there – they’ll smoke you for sure. And you sure as shit ain’t hanging with me and F. You’ll stay here, he’ll train you, you’ll pay your dues. THAT’S what you’ll do.”

The lumberjack was as confused about her accent as she was about the words she used. She turned back to face him. “I think he’d make a better Huntsman but that’s, kinda up to…you.” Her bravado failed with the terrible ending of the sentence. “You know?”

She turned back to the man, remembering herself. “Oh, you can call him Tony.”

“But my name-”

Manzer cut him off. “You are called Tony from now on. Do not fuck that up.”

“Actually. He’ll be called The Lumberjack, or The Huntsman. At the moment, he has no name.” The Lumberjack looked at the man. “Son, come with me. Let’s test you out.” He turned to Manzer. “Missy, you tell your Lady that I’d be very happy to have her visit so I can show her how I split wet pine.” He smiled, looking to his feet before glancing his eyes back up and her. “And I’ll ask her if you did.”

Manzer shook her head and walked back into the forest.

The two men stood, waiting. There was a pop, and a shiver.

“Come on,” said the Lumberjack. “I’ll take you to grandmothers. We need to get some rocks.”

Four days ago Aiden Walker did what he was best at.

What he was told.

He took a symbol and scrawled it on derelict door at a crossroads on a long dead street.

Since then he reverted to form and just filled his time. Today he was on board a ship, staring out at the water, wondering if that slipping over the edge was a better ending.

“It wouldn’t be. You’d be encoded here for a period of time. He’d come and get you. If you were lucky.”

He span round to see a man in a white suit in front of him. “Excuse me? I’m sorry…do I know you?”

“Not yet. But I came because you asked me to. I need you tell me what’s going on.”

***

They found a cafe and Aiden started his story.

“He took my girlfriend. I suppose this is where is all starts.”

“What did she ask for?”

“More time. She was dying but wasn’t ready. He gave her extra time and told her when he’d be back for her.”

The Old Man nodded. “When did he take her?”

“Last year. Valentine’s Day.”

“I see. And what happened?”

“She lived. It was as if she wasn’t even ill. She took control of her life, she traveled, she started to paint. Somtimes…sometimes it was like I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t really see the point, to be honest”

The old man, nodded. “And then he collected her?”

“Yep. I begged her not to go, but she didn’t listen. It wass like he changed her when she first made the deal, you know? She looked at me, calmly, and said ‘I made my deal. I’ve lived my life and now it’s time to face my death.’ She looked…she looked disappointed that I didn’t get it, somehow.”

The old man jotted down notes in a small book. “I hear that often. So, when did you make your deal?”

“The day after.”

“Of course you did. And you asked to -”

“To be with her.”

The Old Man thought for a while. “What did he say?”

“He told me to forget it. He didn’t want to make the deal at all.”

The Old Man looked surprised. “Really? That’s…not normal.” He scribbled some more notes. “So why did he?”

“I made him. He told me. You have 366 days to live your life. To make your peace. To fit it all in. Then I will be back and I will take you.”

“And what have you done?”

“Worked, lived my life. I missed my girlfriend, really, I just forgot about it and then, as her anniversary came up. I…I don’t want to go.”

***

They made their way back to the water.

“Can you help me?”

The Old Man walked to the edge of the boat, up to where they met. “The real question, Aiden Walker, is can I trust you?”

Aiden pulled up, “What? What do you mean?”

“You’re reneging on a deal, Mr. Walker. You made a deal, and now you’re pulling out. How do I know you won’t do the same with me?

“I..I..it’s”

“You see. I’m going to tell you – Do this, Mr. Walker. Do that. Be here – and I need to know that you will be there. That you will, do that.”

“I will!”

“How do I know that, Mr Walker?”

“Because I have anywhere else to go. Without you, I have no hope.”

The Old Man smiled.

“Well then, Aiden. I believe I can help you. You just go about your life, and I shall be there when you need me.”

“So where are we?”

“Somewhere else.”

“But, where?”

Saul sighed. This had been going on for a while now. They stopped on a bridge.

“Tell me. Where do you think you are?”

Ch-Spartacus looked out over the traffic. “Somewhere in America.”

“No.” Saul joined him at the side of the bridge. “You know – you’re taking this all very well. Not more than two minutes ago you were in a hotel. You walked from the 5th floor exit onto a street and all you’ve done is ask me where. Not how – just where.”

“I expect you to fuck with me. I’m not going to ask you how.”

Saul looked at his new…He struggled for the right word and decided on ‘witness.’ Saul felt a grudging respect for the youngster, but nothing more.

“OK,” Saul struggled, but managed to force out the name. “Spartacus. Where is somewhere?”

They looked back into the setting sun. Finally the answer came. “Southern California. Somewhere around LA.”

Saul smiled. “With the sun setting in the south? I don’t think so.”

Spartacus snapped his head round. “What?”

“Uh huh.” Saul nodded, and whispered, “South.” His hand dug around in his coat pocket and before Spartacus could get out the first syllable of a curse laden invective, threw him a compass.

Saul stepped backwards.

“That,” Spartacus started. “Iih.” He tried again. He felt his stomach tighten, flip over. He looked up from the compass to find Saul’s smiling face.

“South,” Saul said once more.

Spartacus dropped to his knees and threw up his breakfast.

For there are many routes, many forms, many worlds.

The Faerie Theatre rolled into town, rolled out again but other aspects of Faerie enter in other ways.

As a race, Humans never really got the hang of naming things and, with each civilization destroying the beliefs of the one that came before, many names were lost. One of them being the name of the creatures from Underneath.

They sought access directly throwing off the mystic ways of crossroads and theatres. In every age they found ways in – through subways, sewers and metros.

But their glory was The Archways. Ornate entrances standing on cursed land. Ancient and foreboding they were constructed to ancient dimensions that even the masons have forgotten.

Deliberately.

Through them They came and in many forms – some crawling, some oozing, some holding form to masquerade as Man. All were repulsive. All hungered for flesh, for subservience. First they demanded sacrifice. As humankind throw that off they resorted to abduction. Finally, recruiting the lowest of the low, the encourage ritualistic murder in their name. All to feed their steady, appalling appetite.

But nothing stays the same. Something happened and the world misaligned. The ancient pathways no longer held and those who Travelled had to learn new ways to access old grounds.

So the arches went dark.

Time passed and civilizations gave way, names were forgotten, the tales of monsters became kid’s stories before being lost forever. Slowly even curses were forgotten and towns and cities sprung up on the land that housed the Archways. The entrances swallowed up by the streets and buildings.

They archways stayed dark. Lifeless. Whole populations lived and died around them and none knew what lay in their midst.

Soon they were ignored, bill posted, graffitied. But never demolished, never redeveloped. It was as if there was a protection order on them, stretching down through the years.

Tonight, across the world, every Arch – buried in the hearts of bustling, thriving communities – turned on.

Spartacus ran through the station.  He had a train to miss.

It was 1 year, 22 hours and, he checked his watch. “Shit,” 27 minutes since Saul had left him.

He found a pocket of speed and picked up his pace, more to do with the time check, not the creatures chasing him. Sure, they looked human – two arms, two legs, head in the right place – and running, when no one could get a good look at them, they should have passed the test.

They didn’t.

People recoiled as they passed, shuddered without having to see there mouths, too wide and full of teeth, or catch the shape and make up of their eyes.

Spartacus took the escaletor steps 2 at a time breathing heavily. He wasn’t as young as he used to be.

Who was he kidding. He was never young enough to do this.

The things that were chasing him were tricky. They’d followed him across three shifts already. If he screwed up the next one, he was sure that there wouldn’t be a fourth for him.

He took a corner, felt his feet losing grip. He shifted his weight, pushing himself forward, but felt his coat tug. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder, the fettid breath told him what had happened. With a practiced shrug he was loose of the coat. He silently thanked Saul for teaching him that one, and was off again.

The anguished howl was probably a bad sign if they wanted to keep incognito.

He heard the scampering of nails on tile. They were on all fours. There was no matching them for speed now.

Round the next corner. Top of the stairs. His lungs burned and the muscles in his legs screamed at him. There was nothing left in the energy bank.

He pulled himself up the stairs to see the doors of the train start to close.

He forced himself to stop, to feel the fear, to know that he had missed the train and, with that, his life was forfeit. Then he hurled himself at the door, slipping through at the last moment, still sure he had missed it.

The three creatures slammed against the doors, the passengers gasped and moved away from the windows.

Behind him, Spartacus heard a slow hand clap and he turned to see Saul.

“Well – you’re on the train, my young witness. But is it the right one?”

Both trains jolted – the one he was in, and the other one – the missed one, the one he would never get on.

The one on the platform moved, the people all around Spartacus moved away, but he remained still. Saul, however, moved with the other train – sliding towards his former companion. Had he done it wrong? Had Saul fucked him up anyway? Spartacus figured he still had 2 hours to find him, but would have rather spent that time catching up.

Saul reached Spartacus and threw his arms around him, laughing. “You made it then! I was sure those three would have got you. You did good.”

“You knew about them?”

“I was warned it might be nasty here. Shall we get going? They can’t follow you on here, they don’t have a ticket.”

They took their seats and the train started.

“So, Spartacus. A year and a day, almost up. How have you been and, more importantly, tell me of your work.”

Irene pushed the cart up and down the aisles of the local supermarket.

It was that time, again. Her last guest hadn’t used up an awful lot of stuff, but she should keep well stocked up. Her books were remarkably full this week, considering how quiet it was the weeks before.

Her last guest was a nice man. So friendly, and so full of interesting stories of places he’d been, and things he seen. And the things he knew! What was the poet he kept talking about…Hilton? No..that’s not it…Malden?

She shook her head. She wants to watch that. Her memory used to be so much better.

Anyway – he had known about that stuff.

And now he was gone, Irene found herself less than content. Sure, she was the owner of a small B&B in a dead end town and he was a…a…

She thought. He never actually said what he did, but from the things he said he must have been a salesman.

Irene chuckled. “Or a debt collector.”

All she knew was which gin went with which tonic. And how to get stains out of linen.

She sighed, pulling a bottle from the shelf.

“And then something for Ms Tiddles.” She seemed so much happier since that nice man had gone.

Irene sighed. It wouldn’t be so bad here if something just happened once in a while.

“Maybe some fish.”

Martha stepped from forest.

From above her old town looked very small, huddled at the side of the coast, too scared to go into the water, to small to go out into the world.

The town was right to be scared. During the last month, forces that should never be cross paths have met, talked, and pulled others into the mix. Forces that leave a mark, that leave a scar – more than a thumb prick; more than milk souring.

Martha didn’t know that she had been ‘touched’ by Saul. Had no idea what that meant. She had no idea that the car she was watching, winding its way out of the city – making its escape – was driven by a woman looking for her.

***

Looking for Martha to have her make sense of why a man had left town.

Why a man – simple and shallow, but lovable – why that man, her man in all but word, and deed; why Chad had left with a cruel, beautiful man who had made him cry.

Sonya, driving out of the place she had come to know as home, had heard about what had happened to Martha. Seeing a man over the counter. A man who had stared at her, made her faint.

The same man who made Chad cry – just by looking at him.

The man who Chad had followed.

Her only chance of finding Chad, so Sonya thought was meeting Martha. To ask her why she had left town.

And if it had anything to do with the man Chad had left with.

***

Chad, of course, had left the building.

He wasn’t the center of adventures, not in the same way that Martha was.

Saul was being uncharacteristically kind, breaking the new boy in gently. Showing him things he could, at least, try and understand.

Saul had a plan for Chad. He had laid it out for him – Chad was to be his witness. Of what, and why, however, had not yet been revealed.

***

“Manzer. We have to go. We need to get back.”

“I’m coming.” She watched the car leave, wishing the driver good luck before turning and walking into her new home.

She didn’t look back.

The clean up team was hard at work. A sect of Trolls had slipped through a gateway under a bridge and, absolutely terrified, had sought shelter in an abandoned building.

The team had been told that all attempts to dislodge them had failed and the building needed to be cleaned.

Trolls, it should be noted, are not the large, blood thirsty warriors of popular fantasy fiction. They are more the meerkats of their world. Tribal, nervous, protective.

And regenerative.

Clean up teams of old tried shooting, stabbing, dropping buildings on them.

Herding them back to their own world was far too time consuming. So a better method was needed. And one was discovered – burnt troll flesh doesn’t regenerate.

Fire was the choice of troll cleansing.

And trolls scream when burned.

When the shard shook its way though the worlds, it touched all those who might have been sensitive to it. Especially a clean up operation.

A blink of an eye was all it took. The teams natural disinterest, their ability to carry out orders was ripped away. Every job – every murder – they had carried out came flooding back.

The screams of the burning trolls could now be clearly heard.

***

They all sat around the destroyed building. One lay on the floor, bleeding, his ears torn out. Another body, charred and smoking, lay at the bottom of some stairs.

He had raced in, trying to help.

Most cradled the burnt bodies of the trolls.

A second clean up team was on their way.

The first knew that it was their turn to be cleansed. They were now a liability.

No one moved. It was all they deserved.

They could head the helicopter circling overhead. It needed a safe zone to set down. To release the guards, black-clad and weapons hot.

There was a shiver in the air, and a faint pop. The trees shifted, groaning.

“Gentlemen. I am your last chance. Follow me if you want to live. If, however, you are sure that this is your time, give me the trolls. It’s not too late to save them.”

The team looked up.

A woman had walked into the ruined building. She was clad in a mismatched costume – contemporary jeans, a frilly shirt, knee high boots folded over at the top. At her side was a cutlass, obviously for show as it was slung in such a way that it would prove to be impossible to draw.

“Hurry, please. We don’t have long.”

They got up, slowly, moving with a disbelief the long thought was robbed from them.

As one of the men passed her, he asked her name.

She flashed him a grin that said “I’ve been practicing.”

“You, my good man,” she announced. “Can all me Manzer.”

The Librarian, for want of a better name, tapped on his keyboard.

He looked out, over the top of the screen. “If you’re going to refer to me, you can at least come up with a better name than ‘The Librarian.’ Do you see any books? Try that again.”

***

At the center of The Intersection is the Heart of the Worlds. The chamber through which everything passes.

“That’s not how it works.”

***

All things were noted at The Intersection. The transgressions especially. And there have been a lot of-

“Why don’t you let me do this?”

***

The fourth wall is the weakest. It is through here that things slip into readers’ minds and live their own lives. That wall is the best breeding ground.

From the time of the First Breach between worlds, something has been there. Never named, it watches, notes and totals all subsequnet breaches. Not all take corporeal forms. One is a raging storm, another houses The Intersection inside a mountain.

But this one, me, I have a form. And I type, collate data. I, we, across the intersection, watch for patterns. Wait for anomalies. Something is happening on his plane. Something that is a massive breach of protocol. A central point opening to many doors. A new intersection.

A rival intersection.

Across all planes there is a shiver. Those sensitive will note a sharding. A localised shearing in space, gone in a blink of an eye. A rival intersection, if left unwatched, could cause an irrevocable breakdown. And no one wants that to happen again.

But this is something that hasn’t happened for a very long time. In fact, never on his watch. This would be something new. And – he looks over his screen, out of the story – we are watching it.

Aren’t we.