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All The Children Shall Lead: Chapter 4

IV: Anti Ordinary

Noble men gather to debate
Journalists are introduced
And speculations run wild

The gates of the dome slid open with ease and allowed the slick black speed car to pass through and enter Londinium. It continued down the main street and halted outside the Protectorate. The building was an exact replica of the historic Parliament, but where the original was made of brick and mortar the center of the Commonwealth was constructed from black steel and tinted glass. There had been a plan from the early builders of the modern union to create something that at the same time harkened back to the past yet represented the space age in which they lived. That and the fact that brick were impossible to find, seeing as no one had bothered to bring them during The Exodus and finding a method to construct new ones was too arduous a task.

It was the seat of the governing body of the Commonwealth and sat at the heart of Londinium, a constructed capital that only housed official buildings. No one lived there and at night a skeleton crew of guards or officers inhabited the dome. Just like the Protectorate Londinium was the hub of the Commonwealth and the nations that were part of it were spread out around very much like a wheel across Venus.

Lords Wilcox and Moore stepped out of the vehicle, straightened out their suits and gave the driver, a rudo dressed in a black uniform with the Commonwealth crest stitched on his lapel, and walked towards the black building. Londinium was the smallest of the domes on the planet and the buildings and offices contained under it where snugly put next to each other except for the Parliament that had been given a generous amount of space to house a proper English garden spread out over several acres. The grounds housed a grand lawn suitable for Cricket, a pond and an area with herbs and flowers of typical British stock. The Commonwealth’s terraforming of the planet had been more successful than the attempts of other nations, at least in the field of grass and plants, yet proper trees and fruits still eluded the scientists. The atmosphere had also only been partially modified and the different areas on the planet had to be housed under giant domes to keep the inhabitants safe from the elements.

The inside of the building was teaming with activity, as it always was the minutes before Parliament was to convene. Runners were hurrying back and forth across the great hall making sure that their lordships were in possession of the information they needed for the upcoming debates. Lord Moore and Lord Wilcox were uninterested in the hustle and bustle and headed towards the main floor where the Lords of the realm would meet. They had done away with the House of Commons when the Commonwealth was built with the reasoning that most commoners now had become title holders and as the years turned into decades and centuries the new commoners were viewed as unreliable and too, well, common to understand the complexity of politics. As with most things the true meaning behind names in the new union meant nothing.

Suddenly a man appeared next to Lord Moore and fell in step with them. It was Lord Brandon Lafferty Earl of New Carrick. He wore his white hair long, tied in a ponytail at the neck, which was the stile amongst the Hibernian nobles and was in his official garb; dark green suit with an orange waist coat. Towering over the two other men, he was a perfect representative of his people in terms of height and build.

‘Lord Wilcox, Lord Moore it is nice to see you again Sirs’ Lord Lafferty said in a somber tone. The kind of tone Oliver Moore had become accustomed to since the disappearance of the S/S Jeff Lynne less than a fortnight ago.

‘Thank you Lord Lafferty’ Lord Moore replied and tried to match the somberness. ‘Back to work is the best remedy I find. It is what my father taught me.’ Lafferty nodded and gave a sound of approval.

‘So Brandon’ Lord Wilcox said with just the tiniest hint of a sigh. ‘Do you know what is on the docket for today?’ Making sure to change the subject.

‘Well naturally the main topic is the St. Odo Affair as it has come to be known’ Lord Lafferty went quiet as his two companions stopped to look at him. ‘Well, an unsavory name, I know. Trade business and The Young Lions have asked to present something or other.’

‘Bah, The Young Lions’ Lord Wilcox almost spat on the floor and Lord Lafferty felt as if he had dodged a bullet by mentioning the rebellious youngsters. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what they want, stirring up trouble and conflict within the ranks of the Commonwealth.’

‘It is enough to let them be heard during these sessions’ Lord Moore reflected. ‘There are other, more pressing matters to deal with and keep away from the media’ he nodded in the direction of the room that housed the journalists. ‘The noise of the Lions’ roaring drowns out the prowling of the leopard among the brush.’

‘Indeed’ Lord Wilcox smirked and puffed on his silver Vape pipe which he had produced during their walk. ‘The Diggers are doing their best to keep the incident out of the ears of the press and have so far managed well.’

They reached the large double doors that hid the Chamber of Commons and stopped. Two white clad men flanked the entrance and pulled the doors open and out stepped a man with long flowing whiskers and bushy eyebrows, dressed in a white suit and red vest identifying him as a nobleman of Anglia.

‘Lords Wilcox, Lafferty and Moore’ he revealed a smile under the mustache and nodded his head at the three men. ‘If you would be so kind as to wait I shall announce you presently.’

‘Naturally Lord Mahr’ Lord Moore replied and within a minute they were waved in.



‘That is odd’ Julia Bates said to herself and put her cup of tea to her mouth as she stared out of the great glass window that separated the press cantina from the Great Hall of the Protectorate.

‘What is that?’ said Rajit Kahn of The Indus Globe as he walked behind her.

‘Well if I’m not mistaken that is Sir Oliver Moore, Earl of New Crawford and by my count he has been absent from the Protectorate for two weeks.’ She swiped through her Nook Term to double check her facts. ‘And he was in the company of Lord Wilcox an unpleasant man during the best of circumstances.’

‘True’ Thomas Dansereau from The Explorer had sidled up next to her, apparently taking an interest in what she was saying. ‘The journey from New Essex to Londinium doesn’t quite go past Moore Manor’ he added.

Julia placed her cup on the windowsill and proceeded to tie her black hair in a ponytail, which she always did when she was getting down to business. She leaned up against one of the walls and continued to stare at the doors to the Hall of Commons as she let her fingers dance across the touchscreen of her Term. She pressed air through her tea stained teeth and traveled deep into her own mind.

‘What are you thinking?’ Dansereau sat down at a table behind her. ‘He was probably sick, it happens to the upper class as well.’

‘Do they though?’ She replied and returned her attention to the screen. Since the Exodus there had been great advances in medicine and most of the common illnesses, like the flu, the cold and the childhood disease had been eradicated, at least among the puros. Among the rudos, especially those who lived in the poorer and crowded parts of the nations were often afflicted by illness and often with devastating results since the doctor to patient ratio in those areas were several one to several thousands. Naturally sickness caused by a person drinking too much, eating spoiled food or even cancer still occurred, but was still fairly rare.

‘So he’s been absent for a fortnight, what does that matter?’ Dansereau was intrigued, she could hear it in his voice, but there was something else there; doubt with the slightest quiver of interest.

‘Lord Moore has never missed a day of the Protectorate being in session since his father passed away and he inherited the position.’ Bates continued to consult the Term. ‘In fact, the day his father was laid to rest he was here on the very same afternoon. For him to stay home fourteen days, well ten working days as it were, something must have been very important.’

‘And that would have been?’

‘What would keep a man of his stature home? Economic strife, maybe, servants acting up, unlikely, something with the manor, not very likely, then what? ‘

‘That would leave family matters.’ Dansereau tapped the coffee table with his long, unkempt nails. ‘His Lordship has two children and a wife, right?’

‘Correct.’ Bates looked at him. ‘A daughter and a son and there has been no mention of Lady Moore being ill or treated for an ailment.’

‘Actually.’ The baritone of Rajit Kahn joined the conversation and both Bates and Dansereau turned to him. ‘Lady Moore has been absent from several society engagements the past two weeks, including a gala dinner she herself had arranged right here at The New Savoy. Her husband attended though.’

‘Interesting’ both Dansereau and Bates replied in unison.

‘So is that the answer?’ Dansereau continued by himself. ‘He’s been caring for his ailing wife, who has been keeping her illness a secret from society.’ He placed his own cup on the table in front of him like an exclamation point, in his mind ending the discussion.

‘I don’t know about that.’ Bates raised an eyebrow. ‘I just can’t see a man of Lord Moore’s stature staying home on those grounds. Has he ever shown that kind of regard for anyone? We must keep in mind that the nobles rarely marry for love, to them it’s only business.’

‘So you’re saying that the nobility have no love in their hearts for their families?’ Dansereau leaned over the table and let his fingers glide across the rim of his cup.

‘Well I’m sure they feel some form of affection for their kin. Children probably more than partners, but I am highly doubtful that Lord Moore would stay home to care for his wife. I could be mistaken I guess…’ She drifted off as she continued to stare at the closed doors that kept her from the collected nobility of the Commonwealth.

‘I think you are.’ Dansereau grinned in a sly fashion. ‘Whatever it is The Young Lions have to say and the impact it might have on the Trade Council is more interesting than the comings and goings of a Calidonian Lord. Mark me, Griffiths and his cohorts will have our editors keeping us busy for the coming months.’

Jules nodded, but that feeling she got in her stomach when something wasn’t quite right was not convinced. There was a deeper mystery here and she had made up her mind not to rest until her curiosity was satisfied.

The Face of Fear: Chapter 3


Chapter Three

When young Anthony was four his mother fell ill. It wasn’t unusual that the western elite came down with some form of tropical disease, most likely fever and the outcome was often uncertain, they might survive, just as well as succumb to it. It began with a coughing fit one morning at breakfast. The night had been rough, tossing and turning in the humidity, wrapping around her form like a damp blanket. It was like something had stuck in her throat, as if food had lodged there and refused to go down or come up. She had appeared paler than her normal western visage at the breakfast table, with an oily complexion, slowly swaying as her eyelids seemed to be exceptionally heavy. Blood on the linen napkin in her hand confirmed that something was not quite right and the staff called for Mr. Hill, as well as the doctor.

Mrs. Hill was sent to bed and there she would remain for the duration of her life, except for the odd venture out on her beloved porch when her strength allowed. Doctors, who came to the islands to visit, were sent to her side to give their opinions, but to no avail, they could not figure it out and she grew weaker and weaker as the days turned into weeks and weeks into months and finally a year had passed without improvement. Mr. Hill stayed by her bedside as much as he could without neglecting his duties and the Governor-general allowed it. Little Anthony, who had already been assigned a governess a mild mannered young local girl the family named Patrice, since her true name was too difficult to pronounce, spent all his time away from his mother because his father could not bear to see the horror in his son’s eyes every time he saw his mother. This was the reason for her powering through and walking, with the support from the family butler, to her rocking chair so that she could watch her son play with the native kids and the Patrice.

As time passed, the doctors failed and the crimson stains on the sheets became more frequent and greater in size the staff whispered in the hallways and service areas. They knew what it was and where it would end and Patrice became more attentive of the young master, to make the separation that was imminent less traumatic. All in all Anthony was oblivious to the goings on in the house only noticing that his mother was more absent than usual and his father more present, so the spring morning when Mrs. Hill did not wake up and she was forever gone from his life sent immense waves through it.


Peter Swan was not your typical chief of police. He was tall and slight of frame, had a full head of tightly curled brown hair, wore a wispy mustache under a fairly pronounced beak of a nose and wore only various shades of brown. Added to this was the fact that he lived a clean life, no smoking, no drinking, he exercised regularly and was a vegetarian. A habit, he told Teague, he had picked up on a spiritual journey to the Far East, whatever that meant. When he spoke to people, he never became agitated or raised his voice; instead it more resembled an inner monologue that those he addressed were privy to than an actual conversation. He was the sort of man that never let anything get him down and he always had a smile to share with those around him and it made him a joy to be around, for those on the force as well as the politicians he was forced to interact with.

As Teague stepped into the station with his hat in hand he was approached by Swan who slowly sauntered over to him while scratching his chin and sporting a concerned look. Teague hung his coat on the rack, but kept his hat and produced his notepad, preparing for the debriefing.

“Garfield, welcome back.” He motioned for Teague to follow him and turned to walk towards his office, expecting the detective to fall in. “What have you got for me so far?”

“Not much, Sir.” Teague leafed through the papers. “Six bodies found, some cut and some in various forms of dismemberment; mostly a limb missing here or there. We have managed to identify one of the victims, a man known as Baz Peterson. According to our records he is a fairly well-known and high ranking figure in the Lehman crime family or was that is. Seeing as how the Lehmans were eradicated a few years back and of course Mr. Peterson is now deceased.”

“So, have the Lehmans returned maybe and are trying to regain their position in the city?” Swan pondered.

“Unclear. We have not managed to identify any of the other bodies. We can’t tell if we are dealing with rival gangs fighting over goods or one gang being taken out by another; one that left no trace. The men were all sliced up like some butcher handling a side of beef and that is unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.”

“A gang wielding sharp instruments, the Yakuza? Here? But why?” Swan was now deep in his own head. “It doesn’t make any sense that the Japanese would venture to this part of the country, but who else would use blades to attack a gang of men with firearms?”

“If I may, Sir.” Teague interjected. “The crates are en route to our storage facility on Spring and once they have been opened and the contents analyzed we might have a better idea of what happened, but there is another detail.”

“Is that so?” Swan replied and turned to look at Teague.

“There was a survivor. He was rushed to St. Mary’s before I arrived at the scene. I tried to talk to him, but he was well guarded and has refused to speak to anyone but you Sir.”

Swan raised an eyebrow and looked Teague over. His eyes fell on the cigarette case that had, for some reason ended up in his hands again. The Chief sighed and opened the door to his office. “You’d better step inside Garfield.” He said and stepped inside and after Teague had passed him he closed it and pulled the shade down over the window that had his name written upon it. “Listen Teague” Swan proceeded with more focus than he usually had. “There is more to this case than there appears to be on the surface. The man at St. Mary’s and refuses to talk to you is one of our own.” Teague raised an eyebrow in surprise. “His name is Martin Lindquist and has been undercover for the past year. When the Leahman’s went under a few years ago there was a void within the criminal underground and we began to hear from the FBI that someone had stepped in to fill it. Through our own clandestine investigation we found that Baz Peterson and some of the Leahman’s former cronies had jumped ship to this new organization, but we knew little more than that. Lindquist was fresh out of the academy and had the necessary Scandinavian roots to attract mobsters of a similar racial background, so we decided to send him deep undercover before he even set foot on these premises. He was clever enough to infiltrate the group through Peterson and he checked in with his contact a couple of times, but we were never given any meaty information.”

“So Lindquist is the key?” Teague scratched his beard.

“He may very well be. I will send word to him at the hospital to ensure that he talks to you.” Swan sat down at his oak desk, moved a statuette depicting a meditating Buddha and pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. “We best be quick, may be that whoever eradicated the mobsters might come looking for him as a means to eliminate witnesses.” He began writing when the door to his office gently opened and the head of a young dark haired girl with horn rimmed glasses appeared in the opening.

“Chief?” The head said.

“Yes, Hannah?” Swan replied while scribbling.

“A representative from WRJN is on the phone and wants to know if you can be a guest on the five o’clock news to answer questions in regard to last night’s killings?”

Swan looked at Hannah, then at Teague and then at his paper. “Sure, tell them I’ll be there.” He winked and smiled at her, then looked back at Garfield. “Hand this to the secretary at the front desk of St. Mary’s and they’ll give you free passage and then show it to the two officers standing watch outside the room. Once inside call Lindquist by his real name and then he will start singing like a bird.”

“Will do Chief” Teague put his hat on his head and grabbed the paper once Swan had finished writing.



The windows of the empire suite located on the top floor of The Racine Hotel were wide open and a warm breeze had blown in from the lake. It caressed the face of Paul Geert and lightly played with his tangle of light brown hair stained with the occasional streak of white. He was still wearing his night shirt, but had managed to pull on a pair of grey pin striped suit pants and his suspenders were hanging lazily from the waist. He rarely rose before noon as a rule. A lifestyle filled with expensive drinks, lavish meals and women of questionable morals took its toll, not only on his ever expanding waistline, but his routines as well. A young runner had knocked on his door at around eight a.m., an act he did with some caution, since rumors were abound that the last man who had done so had been fished out of the river a few hours later, and informed him of the bodies in the parking structure. The information had caused him to wake right up, but not to get up. The effects of the escaped of the previous night also came knocking and it had taken several hours and three strong cups of black coffee before he was ready to put his feet on the walnut floor boards.

Now the fresh lake air and the sounds of traffic below him soothed his nerves and he could begin to think more clearly. The hours he had spent awake in the King sized bed, between the satin sheets, staring at the ceiling caused him to reflect on the information he had received. It had made his head spin, more than the champagne and Cuba Libres. He couldn’t quite wrap his head around what might have transpired down there in the concrete structure. It was supposed to be a routine pick up, albeit with those Irish thugs from the other side of the tracks and they were nothing if not unpredictable, but from what the youngster had told him the mics had bit it too. If there was a third party in the city he, in his role has one of the main figures in one of the main crime organizations there, would have heard rumors of it through the grapevine, but this had not happened so he assumed that something else was in the works. What he did know was that whatever the explanation his boss was not pleased and the thought of that made him perspire.

He wiped the beads of sweat off his brow and proceeded to slip out of the nightshirt and into a clean white daytime version, avoiding to button the top button due to the width of his neck and after pulling up the suspenders he tied a red tie around his neck, hoping it would cover the open collar, it never did. Another knock indicated that his driver was waiting outside and he quickly slipped on his jacket, hat and downed a now cold cup of joe.

The black Lincoln smoothly drove into traffic and Geert fanned himself with his hat as he checked his pocket watch. It was one p.m., not great. The boss had not called on him, which was common practice, but Paul knew he was expected since news travelled fast in the underworld and an explanation from him was in order. This particular deal was his baby and he had arranged for his best and most experienced man to spearhead the pickup. He had laid the groundwork, made all the calls and planned every minute detail so that Peterson could just easily step in and get the stuff. His informants had told him that one the Peterson’s guys had survived and was now being treated at St. Mary’s, that was something he was going to have to deal with, before the police, ones who were not on his pay roll, got to him. Geert pulled out a small mirror from his breast pocket and examined his blood shot eyes, his unkempt hair, his damp forehead and untrimmed beard, he looked more like the hobos who lived under the sixth street bridge than the second in command of a major crime network.

He had tried to present himself in a more favorable countenance, but the lifestyle that came with his position made a Spartan living difficult. His family had originally emigrated from the Netherlands in the 1840s following Father Van den Broek and settled in the Midwest. From being farmers they had moved to the cities to work in factories and harbor towns until the depression came. Geert knew all too well what it was to go hungry. His family was catholic and he was just one of ten siblings sharing a three bedroom house, clothes and shoes. It was a miserable childhood and no matter how much his mother valued education she would send the children out to make money any way they could.

When his father passed away, at least that is what they thought happened to him, he walked out one winter morning to shovel the walks of the people on Main Street and never returned. Paul was 16 years old and as a middle child had a difficult time knowing where he fit in when it came to the grand scheme of the family. His older brother Jan introduced him to the Leahmans and so began a life of crime. It came easy to the young man, who started out as a runner, and he found that he could provide for his mother and siblings. Now he shuddered when he thought of those days and it made him colder and hungrier and he found that it was a chill and hunger that no amount of duvet covers, no matter how thick, or food, no matter how rich, could satisfy.

The Lincoln swung into an empty parking lot placed outside a red brick building and parked underneath one of the big windows made from thick glass and divided by lead mullions. He stepped out on the faded blacktop pocketed with sprouts and cracks from not being maintained since the twenties. Geert adjusted his jacket and snuck through the arched doorway. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the defunct factory, but having been through the building on several occasions he was well aware of its layout. Once he could see clearly he had already reached the main factory floor, an area filled with debris and scattered obsolete machinery and worn out conveyor belts. He scanned the place to look for activity, but there was none instead a noise came from the upper regions of the room. He spun around and raised his gaze to the balcony lining the upper echelon. In the south west corner sat an office structure made from the same red brick as the outside. The solid walnut door had been opened and in the light that shone from inside the office stood a slender figure and looked down at him. Paul moved slowly across the floor, kicking up dead leaves and papers littering his path until he came to stand right below the shape, straining his neck to see it properly.

“Mr. Geert, I was expecting you’d show up.”


Review: Breaking by Cold Wrecks










Breaking is the first album from the Brooklyn based band Cold Wrecks, well that’s not the whole truth. This is a new version of the band Eli Whitney & the Sound Machine, which leaned towards the Ska genre. In this new iteration the band has garnered comparisons to Modern Baseball, Weakerthans and Against Me!, but that is to simplify things a bit. This is not going to be a knock on the more or less repetitive world of modern American nondescript  punk, but there is reason to have it in the back of your mind while talking about Cold Wrecks. For bands that classify themselves as punk rock today, or the even vaguer term emo, it is easy to fall into the trap that is the aforementioned style and doing so one runs a risk of sounding more like Sum 41, New Found Glory or a myriad of other forgettable bands. To truly stand out in the world of punk bands just might need to look elsewhere to find inspiration and that might just be what the Brooklynites have done.

Th opening salvo of Breaking is called Price and is truly promising, a musical nod to British post-punk like Smiths, Joy Division and more modern counterparts like The Courteneers. Unfortunately it ends there. Most of the album falls back into a punk sound. It is the same problem bands like Fightstar’s album Be Human where the best track by no means represents the other songs. It’s as if Cold Wrecks don’t quite know what they want to be. The tracks on the album are everywhere without a real cohesiveness and with a disjointed feel. One could argue that the need for a unified collection of tracks is unnecessary in the digital age, where listeners concentrate more on individual songs than  the sum of its parts, but for new listeners consistency is key.

This said Cold Wrecks style of punk rock is by no means bland. There is heart here and a willingness to experiment with the form, especially when it comes to content and themes. It’s more than your run of the mill punk and deals more with heart ache and loneliness instead of high school angst or parties.

Cold Wrecks show that they are a band that have a bright future in front of them and if they continue to experiment they can go far.

– Andrew Tobias

Andrew Tobias is a music collector, musician and cultural scholar as well as the Guild’s resident music reviewer. His former girlfriends also describe him as perpetually broken.


Review: 4001 A.D. (Valiant Comics)








Writer: Matt Kindt

Art: Clayton Crain

Publisher: Valiant


In the vary distant future, New Japan is in trouble. The kingdom, these days orbiting earth, is ruled by the omnipotent artificial intelligence Father, who commands New Japan with an iron fist through various channels and pacifies the people. His son, Rai, incites a rebellion and after apparently being defeated by Father and believed dead his partner Lulu infects the A.I. with a virus. This cause Father to lose control and begins to drop parts of New Japan back to earth in order to get rid of the virus, killing thousands in the process. And that’s just the prologue…

As Lulu continues to fight the good fight while her section of New Japan is set for demolition and her parents beg her to turn herself in, Rai is still alive, trapped on Earth. With the aid of two companions and a mech-like ship the trio ventures back to the orbiting nation for a final confrontation with Father.

There is quite a bit that goes on in 4001 A.D. and at a very high pace. The few issues that the collection is comprised of tells a very compressed tale that flashes by in colorful art. It isn’t very intricate, the story, a science-fiction version of a trope we have heard before, but that in no way makes it dull. The context and society that has spawned it makes for very interesting social commentary. Father numbs the people of New Japan with entertainment, which makes them uninterested in the world around them, very much like the unnamed government in 1987’s Running Man. What Father’s motives actually are remain unanswered as such, but a misguided love, like the one Stalin might have had towards the Russians. He and Rai seem to be fighting towards the same end goal, but with a very different view of one best reaches it.

Rai, who like the monster in Frankenstein has been created by a mad entity, becomes confronted by humanity and love and that is what shapes him, that is what causes him to rebel and in turn inspires others to join the fight. There is much to be discussed between the pages of 4001 A.D.; friendship, loyalty, love and parenthood and as a reader one wishes, when it is all said and done, that there had been more, more to sink your teeth into.

As with most Valiant titles the artwork is beautiful, filled with vibrant imagery and intense colors. It moves the story along and hints at a bigger picture and a wider world. It makes the entire 4001 A.D. world more mysterious and interesting and even though the four issues only treat a small portion of the story, a quick glance of a greater whole, it becomes exciting and furious.

All in all, a book like 4001 A.D. really shows the strengths of Valiant as a publisher and universe.

C.M. Marry Hultman

C.M. Marry Hultman


The Face of Fear: Chapter 2


Chapter Two

It all started, like it always did, with a shipwreck. This one ended up happening in Indonesia, off the coast of Bali in fact. Johnathan Hill, who had been in the British navy, was a confident swimmer and easily saved his wife and their infant son and they crawled onto the beach and into the arms of the Dutch rulers of the island. Luckily for the Hills that they were headed to Bali as Mr. Hill had been sent there as a cultural attaché, so once they were cleaned up and leant clean clothes they were presented to the ruler of the Dutch East Indies. The family, which consisted of Johnathan, Patricia and little Anthony, were soon moved into one of the islands finer homes made from wood, with a wraparound porch and a straw roof held up by intricately carved pillars. The house was situated on a grassy knoll shortly after their arrival dubbed Busut Busut, Busut being Indonesian for Hill, and Mrs. Hill would sit in a rocking chair on the veranda gazing at the sun reflecting in the meeting of the Pacific and Indian Oceans before her. It was a perfect existence for her; the climate, the culture, the native servants there at her beck and call and she loved the food, which was surprising because of her sensitive digestion. It was a very different lifestyle than she was accustomed to, but had become more comfortable with it following her marriage. She was of a lower caste than her husband, who came from a long line of barristers and whose family was in great standing in London.

Mr. Hill spent most of his days in Batavia in close proximity to the Governor-General, assisting him in administration, but he managed to see his wife and son more than most government officials. All in all the first years of young Anthony’s life were filled with warmth, love and tropical adventure.


Garfield Teague stepped out of his car and tried to straighten out his coat in the process. He had never understood why his wife kept insisting that he have it pressed when it always creased as soon as he climbed into his vehicle. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his red hair; trying to make sure the part was in place, he had been very generous with the brylcreem this morning to ensure his coiffure stay in position. He fished a silver case from inside his blue pinstriped suit jacket, but thought better of it before producing a cigarette and let it slide back into the recesses of fabric. He walked over to the parking structure on the corner of Main and 7th and halted by one of the three black and whites parked on the curb, blue lights flashing almost indistinctly in the morning sun. Teague gently placed the fedora on his head and followed it by stroking his neatly cropped beard as his hand slid into a pant pocket.

‘Detective Teague’ a young officer called him over to the parking garage entrance.

‘What have we got here, Officer Boden?’ Teague asked as he approached and realized that he had taken out the cigarette case again.

‘Well it seems to be some kind of mob hit Sir’ the young man eyed his notebook. ‘Lang was first on the scene and is still down there. All I know is that there is blood everywhere, casings all over the floor and one survivor.’

‘Got it’ Teague replied and headed through the glass door and down the stone steps. His black patent leather shoes echoed in the stairwell and was slowly drowned out by chatter from the lower level. He toyed with the case and flipped it over in his hand, a nervous tick he had developed the same week his dying father had placed it in his hands. As he descended he watched his hand turn it from the back with its fleur-de-lis pattern to the front with his father’s initials; R.T.

Another street cop opened the door for him when he reached the basement floor and gave him a quick two- finger salute by touching his digits to the brim of his cap. Teague did not return the gesture, maintaining his reputation as arrogant. The otherwise so sparsely lit lower level was completely illuminated by various lamps and floodlights. In the center two vehicles were parked, a well-cared for Chrysler and a not- so- well tended truck of unknown make. They faced each other, like two lovers about to share a kiss and the symbolism made Teague miss his wife. The closer he got, the more sinister the scene before him became; Officers and medical personnel surrounded the silent cars that were both riddled with bullet holes and six white sheets littered the floor. Stains of various sizes and shapes cover a large area, reminding him of one of those Jackson Pollock paintings he had seen in the paper once. He wasn’t much of an art coinsure and most of what he had seen on field trips as a child had never tickled his fancy, but that painting, Cathedral it was called, had spoken to him. It forced him to think, like a crime or mystery that needed to be solved, he liked it, but the splatter across the grey concrete painted a very different mystery.

“It’s one hell of a scene Teague.” The voice woke him from the trance-like state he had ended up in. It was Detective Greg Glade, a rotund man wearing his brown beard and hair cropped to the same length and a nervous disposition.

“Glade,” Teague forced a smile. He had never been especially fond of the younger Detective, whom he found trying, mainly due to his defeatist attitude. “Where you the first detective on the scene?”

“Yessir. It looks like we’re working together on this one.”

“Great,” Teague turned to the rest of the scene instead and tried to survey the area.

“We’ve got six bodies laid out both here and there and that goes for the different parts as well.” Glade snickered as he mentioned that tidbit. “Most likely a mob hit or a drop off gone awry. Maybe buyer and seller couldn’t agree on a price.”

“So they took each other out?” Teague rounded the truck and inspected the crates, bent down and removed one the blood stained sheets from a body. He quickly rose and stepped back and dropped the fabric back on the headless shape. “Doesn’t seem likely” he stifled his urge to vomit. “The crates being left here would maybe indicate that, but this man was decapitated and unless you have found a sword, machete, axe or a large kitchen knife here something else is going on. Have you found such an item?”

Glade thumbed through his notebook. “Not that I can see.”

“Well then, something sinister is going on here. I would assume that all these guys pissed off the wrong person and paid a high price for it.”

“There is one survivor” Glade interrupted. “He’s at St. Mary’s I guess.”

“Right,” Teague flipped his cigarette case over in his hand again. “Not much more to do here, you stay here and spearhead the investigation on the bodies. I’ll head to the hospital.”



Tony Hill stepped into the offices of WRJN News Radio Station it was 11:30 a.m. He had thanked his lucky stars that he had managed to find a job that checked so many of his boxes. It was fun, challenging at times, allowed him to start later in the day and became a vital piece in the puzzle he was trying to lay. He slung his coat across his right arm and removed his hat, quietly placing it on the coatrack, followed by the coat.

“Good day Mr. Hill.” The sweet voice of the leggy Lindsey Jones greeted him as he turned around. “Here is the sheet for the one o’clock broadcast. Big things happening.” Tony raised an eyebrow and grabbed the piece of paper. “A shooting downtown, several dead.”

“Well our listeners will get their money’s worth today. Is there any possibility of getting a representative from the force into the studio for a word?”

“I don’t know” Miss Jones replied. “I will get right on it Mr. Hill.” She hurried off at a controlled pace.

Tony kept his eye on her for as long as he could, until she rounded a corner and was out of sight. He glanced at the paper again and ran his fingers through his blond hair, making sure everything was in order.

“Hill!” A burly man in a tight-fitting beige suit and vest with a red and white tie askew stepped in front of him and slapped him on his arm. Tony tried not to wince as the ham hock of a hand hit the spot where the bullet winged him the previous night. Vic Linden was the station manager of WRJN and answered directly to the owner. His management style could be described as rabid and his conversation always came screaming with a side order of saliva. “I see you have been given the five o’clock new report already. This is a big deal, shit is hitting the fan, mark my words; we are going to have a war on our hands mics and scandihoovians.”

“You think so Sir?” Hill replied while keeping his eyes on the sheet. Linden was a visage that would cause a nauseous reaction to anyone who stared at him too long. A face full of craters, a constant sheen of sweat and a tie that was never tied properly because he was unable to button the top button of his shirts.

“Details are still coming in. We don’t know exactly who has been killed, how many or why, but sources at the precinct say it’s a blood bath and that can only mean one thing: the mob.” Linden put a frayed cigar in his mouth and tried to light it, but couldn’t get his Zippo to ignite. He looked at Hill and shrugged at him in an expectant way, but Tony shook his head to show that he didn’t carry a light.

“Anyway,” the station manager said in a frustrated tone. “You need to present this report with all the gravitas it requires. Dig deep, speculate, you know, that whole spiel.”

“I have sent Miss Jones to inquire about the Chief of Police. Too have him on the show.”

“Excellent, we’ll have them glued to their sets as if it were the President’s State of the Union.” Linden once again tried to light his cigar, met with the same difficulties and then flung the Zippo into a nearby garbage can. “Make this good Hill, I’m counting on you.”

Tony waited for his boss to head down the corridor and then walked in the opposite direction towards his own office. Having the Chief on the news would serve him two ways. One, it would be great for the ratings, improving numbers that would already be stellar for the show based on the content alone. Two, it would give him the answers he needed to persue his next move. It was all going to fall into place.


Review: Of Sand and Malice Made by Bradley P. Beaulieu

of sand








Genre: Fantasy

Publisher: DAW Books


Prequels are an interesting cultural affair. In movies the have been used to extend the life of a franchise, maybe the actors are too old or just not interested in continuing, maybe it is a promise once made to fans that the background story will one day be revealed, only to fall short i.e. Star Wars 1-3 or Prometheus. In literature it is something different; a device an author might use to further explore their created world, to tell those tales merely hinted at in a fleeting moment between two characters or to widen the intrigue. In his Tales of Egg and Dunk, beginning with The Hedge Knight, George R.R. Martin gave his readers a taste of his world before A Song of Ice and Fire takes place. He explained those things his original series could not, for such a departure would have made little to no sense.

Bradley P. Beaulieu, perennial favorite at the Guild office, has now also released a prequel to his Arabian Nights fantasy Twelve Kings in Sharakhai and is therefore subtitled The Song of Shattered Sands 0,5.

In this book the reader is treated to a tale from Çeda’s past, before the events of Twelve Kings take place. She has already made a name for herself in the fighting pits, and is referred to as The White Wolf. Çeda becomes involved with an ehkreh, some form of demonic entity, by the name of Rümayesh who lures her into her lair in order to steal her memories. Çeda finds herself fighting to not reveal her inner secrets, ones that may very well ruin her, to the crowd that Rümayesh has gathered. She’s in luck and is saved by two godling children; Hidi and Makuo and that is where she thinks the adventure ends, but alas that is not so. The White Wolf finds herself drawn in deeper and an intricate part of the ehkreh’s destiny.

Of Sand and Malice Made is a fun foray into Çeda’s history. It hints at some of her secrets and the conflict within her and the community in which she lives. The world of Twelve Kings comes alive in a vibrant blend of smells, colors and sound that complements the first book in a wondrous way. Çeda becomes somewhat of a classic picaro in the desert landscape and guides the reader through her reality filled with mischief, dangers and exotic people, like a child showing off her new room to first time visitors. Beaulieu’s world complements his protagonist and she does the same to the backdrop that houses her. His descriptions of places and people has been his strength throughout his production and without it his fairly fairly simple intrigue would fall flat. He uses tropes more common in the setting of a 19th century coming of age novel and places it in a world foreign to that kind intrigue, taking a page from Stephen Donaldson.

To those who have read Twelve Kings Of Sand and Malice Made is a welcome return to the dry climate of Sharakhai and satiates the thirst whilst waiting for the next installment. For a new reader it may well be a good starting point before delving into the complexity of the Shattered Sands series. The book is shorter than most fantasy fair and the story less elaborate, but nevertheless enticing.

Of Sand and Malice Made cements Beaulieu’s position as the next big thing in fantasy and makes us hunger for more; more Çeda, more Sharakhai and more hot desert sun.

C.M. Marry Hultman

C.M. Marry Hultman



Artists You Should Know: The Hardy Boys


Between reviews of new music our intrepid music reporter Andrew Tobias would like to recommend an artist he believes you should know about.

If this had been anytime during 1990 to 2010 recommending the band The Hardy Boys might just seem foolish seeing how the band broke up in 1990, and you would be right. Although there is nothing idiotic about discussing a band, no matter when they disbanded, plenty of people will still talk about Nirvana or the Beatles, as long as the catalogue is timeless. Luckily for us this particular act reformed in 2010 and released their second album in 2011.

The Hardy Boys, not to be confused with the band/TV show of the sixties, were formed in 1985 in Greenock, Scotland and broke up due to problems within the band members in 1990, not long after the bands debut album was released. Songs From The Lenin and McCarthy Songbook  was a collection of the songs the band had produced from the inception and contained remastered recordings. The break up of the band did not diminish the interest from the public, rather the opposite and the they would become labelled as a cult indie act; a lot due to the oft cited fact that their 12″ single Wonderful Lie would sell on Ebay for quite the high sum. It seemed as if The Hardy Boys would forever be lost in the sea of bigger name Scottish acts from the same era.

But they returned, came out of indie obscurity and strengthened by the vocals of Karlyn King to release the second album British Melancholy on Bubblegum Records. They did release an E.P. in 2009 containing one new track called under The Picadilly Clock, so they had resurfaced a bit. I’m not here to write a review of the two albums, but there is an interesting aspect that needs to be lifted. With a span between albums of 22 years there is more of a difference between the first release and its subsequent follow up, more than you might see from other bands. While the first album strongly resembles The Smiths in composition with a quick melodic pace, but with a great deal of cynicism in the lyrics, dark music that one can dance to. A more polished Joy Division and a style that would dominate the American market in the mid to late nineties with bands like Everclear or Third Eye Blind. British Melancholy is slower and to quote singer King; The new album is a darker affair than “Songs from the Lenin and McCarthy Songbook”, exploring the meaning of the arts amid heartbreaking love. 

It seems as if the development that fans usually follow from one album to the next, the tweaking, the maturity in lyrics and vocals happened during the hiatus and that the follies, the experimental albums were conveniently skipped. Not saying that every band should leave fans hanging for two decades, but for The Hardy Boys it has worked and the transition is seamless.

 So why should you know about The Hardy Boys? It’s the collection of delicate lyricism, fueled by witty sarcasm at times and true feelings of heartache and being on the outside. They have managed to epitomize the music of the post punk of their contemporaries and brought it into the new era of music without compromising. They are a fine blend of The Smiths, House of Love, Joy Division and even Deacon Blue and they curate this mix like a wine aged to perfection. So make your way to Bandcamp or Spotify, for physical copies of the albums will be hard to find, and give them a try, I think you’ll be happy you did.

-Andrew Tobias

Andrew Tobias is an avid record collector and hobby musician who hasn’t read a single Hardy Boys novel in his life and was horrified by the TV-show he accidentally watched on Youtube.

The Face of Fear


On June 27th of this year (2016) Tim Ellis of CKRTLAB announced on facebook that he was interested in drawing some mashups based on Public Domain superheroes. He asked his followers to suggest two PD heroes every week and he would create a mashup to the best of his ability. One of these creations was Death Mask, a mashup of Matt Bailey’s The Face and Jack Binder & Jack Cole’s Daredevil. The image intrigued me and I immediately began thinking of a story to accompany this character. I will try to update this story as often as I can, but with All the Children Shall Lead and other writing assignments I am uncertain how often that will be, but for now enjoy…

-C. Marry Hultman 


He wasn’t nervous, that was what was odd about the whole thing, that he wasn’t nervous. Throughout the preparations and the decisions leading him to this point his heart had been racing. At night, when he lay on that lumpy mattress on his rod iron bed frame and the light from the neon sign filtered through the Venetian blinds, cutting the darkness of his studio apartment the pulsating of his blood played on his eardrums like an old man plays a Kendang. At first the lack of sleep and the stress of it all had affected his work, causing several reports to be late, him losing his train of thought when reading the news and his colleagues suspecting him of having caught the flu, it had even gotten so bad that the station manager, a Mr. Cosgrove, had called him in to the office to have a word with him. A weekend of R&R and the blowhard Johnny Summers filling in for him and he had been right as rain. The past week had seen him back to his old self, managing to work, train and put the finishing touches to his suit. He had finally managed to figure out what to do with the twin Kris he had decided to use. Traditionally the sheath, or warangka, stuck in a warrior’s belt, but he had found that the wave shaped blades only fell out when he moved around. He had constructed dual warangakas into the suit itself, placed on his back for easy reachability.

He leaned his back against one of the many thick stone pillars that kept the lower level of the parking structure from being crushed by the three levels above it and slowly slid down to a seated position. He placed the mask on the concrete floor next to him and sighed. The Face looked back at him, the grin with fangs protruding from the lower jaw, the red eyes and the horns on either side of the crown. It was as if it was challenging him; You do not have the fortitude for this endeavor. You do not have what it takes for what is to come. It seemed to say and he looked away in response to this attack on his person.

Then there was a sound, the unmistakable noise of a car reverberating through the empty level. He swung his head round the pillar, making sure most of his body was still hidden behind the safety of manmade stone. Two round headlights cut through the sparsely lit area and headed for the center of the structure where it came to a halt. The engine cut out and the lights faded as three men exited the Chrysler Imperial and headed to the front of it. They were all wearing trench coats and hats. It was hard to tell, but he was fairly confident that at least two of them were hiding machine guns, the others were armed as well he had no doubt. His fingers were twitching, he was ready to pounce, but had to bide his time. And then it came, the sign he was looking for; another vehicle cast its headlight through the gloom of reinforced concrete and painted outlines. It was larger than the Chrysler, the sound bouncing off the walls told him so and it was headed towards the waiting party, only fifty or so feet from where he was hiding. He cracked his knuckles and twisted his head from side to side, he had limbered up for a good hour earlier, but the wait had stiffened him some and he hoped it was not going to hinder what he needed his body to do in the coming moments.

As the truck swung around and stopped, facing the Chrysler he grabbed the face and pulled it over his head. He gently flattened it out over his scalp and tugged at the chin to make it sit comfortably and to make sure that it appeared flawless, like his second skin. He moved his jaw and the mouth of the face moved as his did and he could see perfectly clear through the eye sockets, heightened in fact. It was time. He gently patted his outside thighs for luck and bounded up the pillar to the rafters.


Chapter One

Peterson, Anderson and Camp climbed out of the Chrysler as soon as Hammer had cut the engine. Anderson pulled a pack of smokes from deep inside his grey coat and Camp made a similar motion, but instead produced a hand full of chew. Peterson eyed them both and raised a skeptical eyebrow, which he always did whenever something struck him as against his code of normalcy. He was wearing a fedora and with a thumb pushed it from his forehead so he could get a full view of the parking structure.

Hammer, the youngling of the group had climbed out of the driver’s seat and leaned on the hood trying to impress his elders by rolling his own cigarette, without success.

‘What the hell you doing?’ Anderson snarled at the young man with his own cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘You’re getting most of the tobacco on the floor.’

Hammer took off his flat cap and scratched his head. ‘My Pa always makes it look so simple’ he replied, noticeably flustered. ‘But I can never get the hang of it.’

Anderson held out his pack of Luckies and offered it to Hammer, who gladly accepted it, pulled one out and lit it. Camp patted the side of his coat and eyed the others. His hand touched the hard surface of an automatic carbine under the fabric, Anderson was carrying a shotgun while Peterson who was, for all intents and purposes, the point man on this particular operation had always favored revolvers. The kid was probably carrying something as well, Camp did not really care. He was not especially fond of that little punk; he was no more than a goon that Peterson had saved from the streets. He had been a hockey player of all things, a failed one at that. Trying to make his fortune on the ice, but had lacked the skills and more or less spent more time in the penalty box than on the skates. At least that was the word going round. What was the business coming to when any old kid could be picked off of the streets and welcomed with open arms, no questions asked? Camp spit on the ground and gave a snort.

Peterson picked up a pocket watch from his vest and eyed it carefully. It was just about one a.m. and everything was so far going according to plan. He tapped his wing tipped shoes against the stone floor and eyed his companions. ‘These late night pick-ups are going to be the death of me’ he ventured a smile in Anderson’s direction. ‘We sure ain’t as young as we used to be, are we Rosy?’ Anderson shrugged his shoulders and lit another cigarette on the butt already hanging from his thin lips. A wet splat echoed through the desolated building and Camp wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his beige coat.

‘So when’s the merch coming?’ he asked once he noticed that the others were eyeing his behavior.

‘Well if everything goes according to plan and they don’t get ambushed by the coppers or rivals they should be here any minute’ Peterson replied.

Before Camp could make a statement about the tardiness of others, he did have a wife and five young kids he would much rather be with then standing in a cold parking garage waiting for some micks with a truck, when he heard them approach. Anderson dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, placing a hand inside his coat, while Hammer snapped to attention and headed to the passenger side of the car in case he would need the cover. Peterson remained still, with a calm which can only come from a man with twenty years of experience with back alley drop offs and pick-ups, but in the corner of his eye he could have sworn that he saw movement deep in the dim recesses of garage.

The truck, it looked like an old farm truck from the 1930s, parked in front of them the headlights lighting up their forms and casting ghostly shadows on the back wall. Peterson fingered the snub nosed revolver holstered in the small of his back. He may be blinded, but if shit hit the fan he was damn sure going to take some of those bastards with him. The lights shut off and they were blind once again, their eyes now unaccustomed to the darkness.

Three figures appeared once sight returned to normal, two from the front and one leaping off the bed of the vehicle. They were all dressed in a similar fashion; black slacks with suspenders over white dress shirts and caps on their heads. Peterson rolled his eyes and whistled at the clichés walking towards him. The man who had stepped out of the driver’s seat stuck out his right hand in greeting and scratched the red stubble on his chin with his left one.

‘Hi there, buddy’ the man said in a low voice, Peterson nodded and took the outstretched appendage. ‘Name’s Flanagan and those guys are Norwood and Connors’ he threw a thumb in the direction of his companions, who touched their caps with a finger to acknowledge the introduction.

Peterson assumed he was to return the favor, but was uncomfortable using their actual names. ‘Hello, call me Baz, that’s Rosey, Asa and the guy behind the car we call Maury’ their nom de plumes were enough he felt. And Flanagan seemed pleased with it.

He pulled out an old chewed cigar and placed it between his teeth and smiled. ‘Baz, huh’ the crow’s feet around his eyes revealed him to be older than he looked, maybe close to forty. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

‘Most people this side of the underworld have’ Peterson smiled back and secretly hoped that he wasn’t revealing his age. ‘You got the stuff?’

Flanagan nodded and gently waved the trio to approach. He backed up with his eyes squarely on Peterson and moved towards the bed of the truck. The men named Norwood and Connors climbed in the back where a cloth tarp was covering most of the content. Flanagan snapped his fingers and Norwood pulled back the cloth to reveal wooden crates. Peterson eyed the boxes and then looked at Flanagan.

‘You wanna check the content?’ he said and produced a crowbar from beneath the tarp. Peterson took it and handed it over to Camp, who jumped up to the crates. With some effort he opened the top of the closest box and it let out a creak that reverberated through the building, very much like a groan. Anderson tossed him an electric torch and he proceeded to dig amongst the straw hiding the contents of the carefully nailed together container. He found what he was looking for, weighed it in his hand, put it up to his eyes and carefully assessed it. Peterson gave a short whistle to catch his attention and when he got it he shrugged and Camp threw the object back into the crate and gave a thumb’s up.

‘Well it seems as if everything is in order’ Peterson said to the Irishmen and this time stuck out his hand.

‘Completely’ Flanagan responded ‘Everything in exact order.’

Peterson called Hammer and the two others over to help unload the crates; they had a truck of their own waiting on the second level that they would load with the stuff. Once the bed of the truck was empty the men congregated around the stack of wooden boxes wiping the sweat from their brows with handkerchiefs and Anderson lit another cigarette. Then, all of a sudden they heard a light thud and noticed in the corner of their eyes how the truck dipped and in unison they turned to it.

At first it was impossible to tell what it exactly was. A shape, what appeared to be a curled up person in a mass of red and blue, was in the center of the bed and as the springs of the truck slowly stilled it rose to a standing position. Anderson froze as the figure, dressed in a tight body suit half red and half blue with a spiked belt around its waist, but it was the face that made his blood run cold. Red eyes, fangs and horns stared at them, but before he could get a closer look the micks opened fire.

The figure somersaulted over them as bullets ripped through the back of the vehicle. Camp and Peterson, who weren’t shooting, quickly turned around both with weapons in hand and held them at the ready. The figure’s eyes intensified with red fire and a roar came at them, momentarily paralyzing them all; Flanagan and Peterson, grizzled vets, where the first to recover, but it was too late. A flash of steel and Flanagan fell backwards screaming as his right hand landed on the ground, still clutching a Smith & Wesson. The demon faced person had slid across the floor and had clipped Peterson’s legs from under him with a swift kick, sending him hard into the floor. They were forced to spin around again as the figure leapt to a crouching position. Two lightening quick movements and Norwood and Connors collapsed on the floor with blood flowing from nasty gashes in the abdomen and face. Anderson could smell the pungent aroma of human waste as guts spilled on concrete alongside teeth and parts of a tongue. Camp let a cry escape his lips and with brown chew flying everywhere he unleashed his automatic rifle in a vicious spray at the enemy. Anderson followed with his revolver, but the figure flipped around avoiding every single bullet. It stepped off one of the pillars, spun in the air and planted a boot on Anderson’s forehead. It sent him flying a short distance in the air and he landed hard on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Camp reloaded his rifle as Peterson began to stir on the ground and Hammer came running from behind the Chrysler, revolver raised and firing as he moved forward. The figure dropped  down to one knee and swung his weapon low, slicing Hammer’s lower leg clean off sending the appendage one way and the owner of it another. The smoke from the gunfire enveloped the figure as it rose and turned at the same time and revealed two waved swords in each hand, blood dripping from the point of the one on the right. Peterson threw his revolver to the ground and came at it with a baseball bat, which he must have taken from the truck. He swung at the head, but the figure parried with the left blade and let the right one separate Peterson’s head from the rest of his body. Without hesitation Camp unleashed another barrage of bullets that tore through Peterson’s body as it fell, limply, to the floor, but the figure was already gone. It landed behind the inattentive gunman and let sharpened steel pierce him through the back.

Anderson, still on the floor, but now on his stomach, fired his gun and struck the figure in the arm, no more than grazing it. He continued to pull the trigger, but without results, he was out of bullets. The figure, that face, walked towards him, the eyes glowed at him and it felt as if they were burning two pinholes through his skull. There was a shriek and Anderson was no more.

Faceoffear1 (chapter one in PDF)



Review: Moving the Goalposts by Chewing on Tinfoil


“And despite, despite yourself, You’ll be the last good thorn on the rose.
And in time, in time you’ll see, You’ll make those fucking petals look like plastic shite you see in shops, Or graveyard bins. Where the pointless offers made to long dead lovers means nothing, To cold dead bones. You’ll be the last good thorn on the rose.”





  1. Charlene
  2. Give it up
  3. G’Wan So
  4. Stray
  5. Marching in time



It was in 2013 that the Irish punk band Chewing on Tinfoil released their last album; Marrowbone Lane and to satiate the fans they have now released an E.P. called Moving the Goalposts. The E.P. contains five tracks with the bands typical mix of punk, ska and rock. For those of us who enjoyed the previous release this one will not disappoint. Chewing on Tinfoil quickly show, on the first track Charlene, that they master the fine blend that is legacy of Clash-brand punk rock, Frank Turner- style folky rock and American third wave ska.

Like the mix of musical styles that the quartet displays so is the E.P. similarly blended in lyrical content. The listener is thrown between love and social criticism all in cleverly worded phrases and delivered with right amount of sentiment, anger and joy that the songs require.

All in all Moving the Goalposts is a perfect example of what Chewing on  Tinfoil can do when they are on the top of their game and should make fans excited about what might come next.

Moving the Goalposts is available to stream for free at or to download at your own price.

– Andrew Tobias

New Story Coming


It has come to this. While still working on All the Children Shall Lead I have decided to begin a new writing project, even though that project isn’t moving forward at the rate I would like. This tale, entitled The Face of Fear was inspired by Tim Ellis of CKRTLAB. On the company’s facebook page Ellis decided to put out a Public Domain Superhero challenge, allowing followers to name two PD heroes a week that he would then put together into one new hero. What peaked my interest were the mashups of The Face (my suggestion) and Golden Age Dare-Devil who became Death Mask. I have always wanted to write something that takes place during the 50s and have had a story in the works for a longer time, but this inspired me. So, by the end of this week the first chapter of The Face of Fear should be up, keep a watch for it.