From Cathedrals to Alternative Histories

Throughout the years, I have acquired an eclectic collection of knowledge both speculative and factual. I like to research and I like to study but what I enjoy most is taking ideas and theories I learn and extrapolating and conjecturing further with them, even modifying typical applications of them.

I have always liked cross-applying knowledge over varied subjects. In my work experience, I take what I have learned from one job and see if I can apply any aspect of it to my next. Creating, making, building, conceiving and implementing are my action words; the verbs of my existence. I once took methods I learned working at a corrugated box factory and re-applied that knowledge to making a massive dollhouse out of bristol board, masking tape and craft paint to house my daughter's dolls. It was light weight and sturdy as I used box design to accomplish my goal. She kept it until she outgrew it and it was still sturdy years later. I was proud of that dollhouse for many reasons but mostly because I had taken knowledge on my own and re-applied it to create something new. I would like to think I took a  step towards wisdom then. because isn't knowledge without use or application merely rote and memory. Intelligence is nothing if it isn't utilized.

Likewise, emotion is similar to knowledge in that sense. You can feel something but if you don't embrace it or understand or even just face it, it is just a feeling without validation or use. Wisdom can be learned from what you do with emotion just as you do with pure knowledge. Emotion is not just what you feel stemming from your interaction with others. It stems from your interactions with everything as well as everyone. Can not a sunset bring certain positive sensations to mind just as the gloom of an approaching thunderstorm sometimes bring less positive feelings?

It was a feeling such as that but deeper and longer lasting which came upon me in my late teens on a spontaneous adventure one weekend to the historic city that is Montreal, Quebec. I had quickly gotten lost there and ended being helped out by a young bilingual woman I had met at the bar the previous night when I had first arrived in the city and subsequently been separated from the co-worker I had come on the adventure with.

Despite, the girl's penchant for gin and dancing; she was also a devout Catholic and dragged me with her to Notre Dame Basillica the morning after we met. As I sat on the pews waiting for her to finish her business which I gathered was confession though she never really did confirm that, I took in the amazing setting I found myself in.

At that time, I knew much less of religion than I do now though I had already formulated certain opinions on the subject. I had also yet to really set myself upon the path of the spirituality I experience. I had however studied a bit about art history and architecture.

The church amazed me. I could feel the age of it; the creative lives that had been poured into its foundations and crafted into the vault of its ceiling. I could feel the essence of the congregation and each and every individual who had ever passed through its doors. It drew me through the stories of those who had worshiped there, those who had sought sanctuary there; and those who had come there not for themselves or their gods but for others at their bequest.

The stone, the wood, the windows and the furnishings emanated with the seemingly venerable age of the church and I learned later that Notre Dame Basilica is one of he oldest structures of its type in North America. The old stories that I heard from its walls captivated me and enchanted me.

I remembered reading the few pages of Richard Challenger's story I had written again not long after that, having come upon them in a box in which I kept far too many other seemingly random things. I remembered Challenger's desire to visit the ancient neolithic site we call Stonehenge. I remembered the feeling of age and history that had accompanied my visit to Montreal and the countless tales it had told me. I thought to myself then, if that was what I could sense from an edifice a mere few centuries old, what would it be like to stand among something thousands of years older. Richard wondered the same thing.

My visit to Montreal has been reflected in Richard's journey ever since then but the journey to the Standing Stones has changed and matured in its descriptions and what lessons it has taught the two us  since it was first conceived. No longer does a busty Morgan Le Fay try and seduce Challenger in a back alley in Salisbury. I think that part might have been a holdover from Richard's days as a blond detective with a porn-stache and my own hot-blooded youth.

Regardless, the basilica is a part of Richard Challenger's history now and forever will be. Parts of the story have been fleshed out over the years and this reality I live in has helped inspire other parts of Richard's life. They still do, though since this volume is about to be released; any new influences on this character's past will have to be added as backstory, possibly through flashbacks.

I think my wife just groaned inwardly at that. When you read my work, you'll notice I have a fondness for backstories and flashbacks as a forum to explain certain details of the story. Richard's mind, like my own, does not relate to everything in just linear time. Everything is co-related. The reasons I use this method of story-telling is explained a little more in the foreword found a the front of A Strand of Grey.

More recent influences have affected the re-writing and continued telling of Richard Challenger's tale. My original description of Richard's visit to Stonehenge included a vivid description of the ancient site. An issue with that came to light when I met my heart-mate and wife. She had been to Stonehenge and she had carefully informed me that I had got it wrong, not all wrong but wrong enough that anyone who had ever been there would realize that I hadn't... been there that is.

Hmm! Food for thought...

Studying books and, nowadays, doing online research, can provide a lot but experience is still the best teacher. Having been to a location is the best resource for accurately describing somewhere to others. A subsequent trip to England and Wales was an adventure of not only discovering and learning of my ancestral roots; it was also a research project. Being at the Standing Stones, cresting the top of Glastonbury Tor and exploring the ruins of the castles of Welsh Princes in the mountains of Snowdon provided both food and fuel for parts of Richard's story.

My love for my father's homeland of Wales grew exponentially and I learned that Richard needed to explore the land as well. Years, before I had used Richard as what is known as an NPC, a non-player character, in a role-playing game called Dungeons and Dragons which I ran. He had helped and motivated the characters my friends had created as their avatars within the game. I had initially set them in Robert E Howard's setting of Hyboria, the lands and time of the pulp fiction character most of as know as Conan the Barbarian.

Quickly, I realized that as a Dungeon Master, I was a story teller too and just as I had grown from telling fan fiction in my childhood to new stories of my own, I decided I wanted to do the same with my gaming. Thus a new world was born and nations evolved into existence in my imagination. This world became the world of Richard Challenger.... worlds even. The gaming campaign and Richard's slowly growing tale began to merge in the way of deeds and those he interacted with.

Richard Challenger's tale grew and became other tales of other characters. It also became the history of the Dominion of Cymri; sort of an alternative history of Wales in many ways but one in which it became an even more influential nation than on Earth. Other nations were birthed in my imagination, born of diasporas of other peoples to this world I had created, all influencing and helping develop a rich history of a new world but originating from Earth at some point in history.

The gaming influenced more than just geography. It influenced communication... it influenced dialogue.

Dialogue in writing is always tricky. Characters have to sound different, they need different voices and different personality traits. Otherwise there is little distinction between the players. As a writer, it isn't always an easy thing to make each character stand out from another. The developing personalities of some of them that were played by my friends began to help with that. They applied some of their own character traits to these new lives they had made and sometimes let their own creativity blossom and intuitively give original characteristics to these creations that I never have thought of on my own.

Returning to Challenger's story after publishing my first novel, Portrait of a Rivalry, I again used my own experiences to help colour Richard's. Recently, I began to learn a little about the ancient craft of blacksmithing. This might have had one of my most recent influences on Richard's tale. Early on, Richard experiences the elemental skills a man must master to work with metal in a coal-fueled forge just as I experienced them myself not so many seasons ago.

There have been many more influences upon this work; some I have forgotten the origins of, some I might not have even realized have occurred. All have helped shape the story I have written and in so doing, have shaped me as well.

More can be learned about Richard and me on my web-site, including how to get a copy of either of my novels. Both can be ordered from there as well

http://www.gomerrobinson.ca/

The Story of a Story
What's in a Name?
To truly find the roots of A Strand of Grey, one must travel back with me to my childhood and the earliest origins of my storytelling days. It began in a near idyllic setting, on a farm in a lush green land somewhere between the city and the wilderness. It began with solitude but not one that was resented; one, instead, that was embraced.
A small child gifted with an unusual name, a high level of natural empathy and no siblings close enough in age to provide real peer companionship, I spent much time by myself. My first real friend lived a ways away across fields and down country roads. Play dates, they weren't called such in those days, were few and far between. My imagination was my closest companion from an early age and reliving the stories that my father and my brother, Al, would tell me at night made the time pass each day.
I was weaned on the classic pulp fiction of the early twentieth century and in my dreams, I swung through the trees of the African Rainforest with Edgar Rice Burrough's Tarzan and with John Carter on the planet of Barsoom which we here on Earth call Mars. I fought wizards with Conan the Barbarian and slew Dragons in the company of Dwarves and Hobbits. I stood against alien invaders from a nearby planet and the Morlocks of the far future with the help of H.G. Wells tales and I shot laser guns at the side of Flash Gordon on Mongo. I flew in airships wih the original Buck Rogers against the Huns and I leapt tall buildings with Superman and struggled against omnipotent cosmic world devourers with the Fantastic Four. My genes gave me mutant abilities as I aided the X-Men against Magneto and I saw an android cry with the Avengers.

In the woods and meadows around the farm, I began to think up my own trials and adventures as I heroically slew the imaginary monsters around the area. When school took me into the field of creative writing, I began to write new stories and performed new deeds for my heroes.

It was in that time that the protagonist of A Strand of Grey was born. His story has changed drastically over the years but the name has stayed. He is the ultimate hero of my imagination; not omnipotent but holding the potential for great power; not omniscient, all knowing, but always learning always growing, usually from his mistakes and mine. The man he has become and continues to grow into is the culmination of our combined life lessons; influenced by the good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful we have met headlong in our tumble through existence, physical and existential.

He started as a name drawn from a history assignment given to myself and a classmate in Grade Seven. We were studying colonial times and the War of 1812 and we were asked to write a story through the eyes of a settler in Upper Canada. If I have to give credit where it is due, I believe the name was coined by my partner, Phil German, who has since become a High School English teacher, having, as a footnote, later serendipitiously taught my first wife for a semester when she was in school.

Jake Challenger, Jacob Richard Challenger, that was his first incarnation. He was a settler and a family man having fought both French and American soldiers to defend his home. He faced the trials of harsh winters in his attempt to make a home for himself in the New World.

His name did not end there although that story did. The man named Challenger refused to die. Jacob Richard Challenger became merely Richard Challenger and with Phil's permission to use the name, he became my protagonist for further adventures. In Grade 8 English, Richard Challenger became a private eye with a penchant for fast Italian cars of the exotic kind manufactured by Ferarri and Lambourghini and big handguns like Dirty Harry's .44. calibre. Magnum P.I. had nothing on this guy and there is no doubt Tom Selleck heavily influenced this character. Richard even had the requisite moustache but was a blond at the time.

High School arrived and the fast driving two-dimensional detective died, to be reborn as a long dark-haired rock star who loved Led Zeppelin and Steppenwolf. My love for Celtic history and the legends of the British Isles surfaced. A story by a favourite author that prefaced the idea of Standing Stones as portals to elsewhere inspired the beginnings of the tale that is now A Strand of Grey. To this day, that very first scene I wrote has survived in one form or another to become the Prologue of this novel. Maybe a couple dozen of the words I put down on paper back then have survived to make their way into this final version of the manuscript but the story I foresaw has finally come to be.

At fifteen, I let my mother read the earliest chapters of the novel and for nearly forty years she has waited, mostly patiently, to hear the whole story. Unfortunately, Richard Challenger's tale is not complete but the first book in the series that is his tale is complete and soon to be released. I placed a finished proof in her hands not long ago.

There have been other influences and inspirations for this story, or rather, stories. As with the pulp stories that these grew from, readers should stay tuned, for this Story of a Story is to be continued...

And, as always, a reminder that more samples of my writing on my web-site and both my novels can be ordered off the main page or in the books section which can be accessed from the menu.

Gomerrobinson.ca

The Process Itself

The Creative Process in itself is a work of art.

The Creative Process. We all follow one in everything we do, even those out there who don't feel they are creative. The method in which it plays out is at least a little bit different for everyone. Some are intuitive and impulsive in their approach, others systematic and detailed. Each may be a combination of some or all of these qualities.While one might often find similarities between how each of us follows our artistic path, the steps between Here and There might differ greatly as well. One thing holds form true to everyone when creating though. The process has structure, rigid or loose; it has structure.

There is a Beginning, a Middle and, hopefully, an End; though most of us have also reigned over the demesne of unfinished projects before. That in itself is an ending, just not the one we had initially hoped for.

The concept of the Beginning originates in the Here; it is the birthplace of the initial idea in any work of art. It is birthed in the Now, the Present. The Past might have contributed a seed to the idea but it only supplies the tools to inseminate that initial inspiration not the creation itself. It is Here that it becomes a child of imagination moving towards birth in shared reality. The Future is the There, the realm where your thought child has grown, learned and matured. There can be seen the result of that idea, that seed, as if you have seen a physical child grow to adulthood in the time it took to execute that initial idea.

The Middle is where the bulk of the work lies but it should not be viewed as tedious or the process of creating will bog down and sometimes stop before you have taken it to the There. The key is to keep the excitement going.

In my case, I plot loosely but see where the writing takes me as I form my idea into words and prose. This keeps things exciting for me. I know where the characters are going but not exactly how they are going to get there. I begin to anticipate where my intuition will take me as I am writing. That part of the process is like raising a toddler and younger child. Initially, you are directing their advancement as much as possible, teaching them about their existence. Yet, at some point as they develop, your ideas form their own identity, become truly a life of their own. It may follow choices you had not originally considered at least consciously. They begin to make decisions without that conscious guidance. That is when I let them go a little more and let the divine winds of inspiration and the collective creative consciousness do their thing.

I may share what I am doing with others. When I do that, it is like stepping out and having someone else babysit your child for a brief moment for the first time. I attempt to loosen the reins a little and let my art takes its own course. There have been times, I have looked down at the paper on the desk or up suddenly at the screen and been shocked to find that I had just written a handful of pages and not even realized it.

Eventually, your child becomes an adult, your idea birthed and grown into a result. It is then, that you will get There. That is the time that you should let your child go and wander out further into the world. Like a parent, you will always feel a responsibility to the creation you have brought into being but there comes a time to let it go.

It can be a hard thing, a really hard thing. Perhaps, you don't feel it is ready. When, often, in truth it is you who is not ready. You fear it will not stand on its own. Often, you may wish to keep it for yourself, if it has deep meaning to you. /you might not want to let it go. You want a reminder of what you have accomplished.

Great ideas and creations should be shared though.

Like a child entering the world outside its parents home, your creation must be free to make its own way, be criticized or praised. At that point, you are no longer in charge but you can still watch proudly as your child steps forth.

I recommend that everyone, especially creators who have difficulty letting go of their work, participate in something that involves disposable art. A few years back, I was invited to and participated in my first street art festival in my hometown. I was part of a group of individuals using pastel chalk to do works of art on the pavement of the downtown area. I knew that whatever I crafted would not stand the test of time. That wind and wear and water would erase it after my work of art was complete. I debated whether I could do that and even after acceping the invitation, I still did not know if I could do it. I spent three days on my hands and knees in the blazing sun in the middle of summer and I wept when I finished because I knew it was only as temporary thing.

Yet, as I looked down upon the fruition of my work, I knew I was There.

I had reached the point where the idea had been born, and grown and matured until it was its own thing not just a feeling or a vision in my head. I realized then that it was the act of taking an idea and forming it into existence that inspired me. That was what really did it for me. Sure, there was immense satisfaction in finishing the work and experiencing the end result but that wasn't everything for me. 

It was the Creative Process that really stirred my juices, made me want to give birth and raise a new idea to release out into the world. I realized that going from Here to There, the journey itself was what thrilled me the most. The greatest gift I received by going through my creative process was when There, after appreciating it for a moment, then became a new idea, and thus, became Here once more and a new tale lay before me waiting to be told.

So from Here to There to Here again where new inspirations germinate; that is the purpose of the Creative Process for me.

The Creative Process itself is an ever evolving work of art.

This is an open letter to Doug Ford supporters: 
I am usually one to combat ignorance, bias and plain old stupidity with attempts at tolerance, education and understanding. Today that does not hold true!
Warning: there maybe anger, hatred, intolerance, vitriol and acerbic sarcasm in the following blog...

I woke up a while ago, the day after Ontario's 2018 provincial election to anger, disappointment and the feeling that I was a minority in this province. I am a white anglosaxon male in his early fifties who believes in tolerance, acceptance, individuality and the idea that we are all inherently good and just and that we love the planet on which we were born. I shouldn't fell like a minority yet I do.

On that morning after Doug Ford rose to power with a majority in the provincial government, I felt, maybe perhaps truly for the first time, what a minority feels like. I know that the Wynne government made many mistakes but I already feared for the travesty of justice that the new government would form.

I watched as time passed and people I work with laughed and joked about the buck a beer promise while Ford cut extra funding promised to those who suffer from mental health issues; things like the basic income pilot project which gave hope to some that they could move beyond the station they had ended up with in life and tore apart the cap and trade agreements which were by no means perfect but at least took the damage to the environment we were causing into consideration and tried to do something about it.

So now we have lower gas prices but no controls or restrictions on what we are doing to the environment. The sad thing is, destroying our world is not even the worst of what this government is doing. They are destroying our humanity and decency as well.

I believe that love, true love is not bound by the gender you were born into. I also believe it is what gives our species anything resembling hope for the future. I love the love I see in people.

Unfortunately, what I feel right now is hate.

I don't hate the ignorant, prejudiced, callous supporters of Doug Ford. Most of you are aging white men with fragile egos and a lack of empathy who were raised in an era where men were told they should not show their softer emotions because it made them weak or  are young white priveledged boys who have been indoctrinated by those same old weak men to believe in a sense of entitlement and who are not actually strong enough or wise enough to see the truth. They are men who will never understand that a true man who is one who weeps at the birth of his child and takes joy in them finding love in themselves and with others no matter who it is with or what sex it is with or what sex they identify with.

No, I don't hate you, I feel sorry for you because you will never understand or admit that most of your feelings in those regards stem from those fragile egos and lack of empathy or even just your unwillingness to recognize and overcome your own ignorance.

I know some of you, quite well, having worked with you or dealt with you on professional levels. I know that some of you are extremely intelligent but intelligence does not equal wisdom. Wisdom comes from using your knowledge and continuously broadening your perceptions; recognizing and admitting when your view might be seen through a tunnel that limits your perceptions rather than across a broad expanse that reveals greater truths every day.

No, the hate I am feeling is directed towards those who merely travel from one end of the political spectrum to the other because they think that one evil is better than the other this time around. I hate those who do not look into the policies of those who they think to vote for. I hate those who are sheep and just blindly follow others because they do not do their research. I hate those who voted for Ford without seeing that he and his party are destroying the best hope we have for society...Love!!!

I hate those who realize they made a mistake and are not at least taking responsibility for those actions. I hate those who sit back and say nothing!

Now Ford and his weak, ignorant cronies have passed a bill that does not recognize gender identity! Wow! I remember saying that we have issues here in Ontario but at least we don't have Trump. Damn! It turns out we do and that is something I hate as well. My disappointment in my province has grown beyond boundaries now to the point that I consider what alternatives I have for the places I can live.

There is another group I hate right now too. Others whose ignorance I could forgive if they woke up, shook the cobwebs from their heads, removed their blinders and stood up and shouted, "THIS IS NOT RIGHT. PEOPLE ARE PEOPLE. THAT INCLUDES THOSE WHO IDENTIFY AS SOMEONE OTHER THAN WHAT PHYSICAL GENDER THEY WERE BORN WITH!!!

It is a point in fact that any person I know that fits the definition of TRANS is more of a person and more deserving of my love and support than those who I am hating right now. As one, each of them is more true to who they are than any of you who think you are wolves and are merely sheep.

I am not foolish enough to think I can change the minds of those who cannot admit to their ignorance. In truth, only you can change your mind. I do hope however that those of you who supported Ford and are now horrified but what he is doing and through extension what you have done will stand up and tell everyone, especially your MPPs that this is not right and must not be tolerated.

I do not like to hate! I do not want to hate! Yet. right now I do!!!!

This is a subject I hold strongly in my heart, my "warrior of the heart" heart. If one reads some of my previous blogs, one will realize this is a passion of mine that started long before the catch phrases in the title of this blog caught on and went viral.
I am sure I will repeat points from other blogs I have written but certain things need to be re-iterated time and time again.

One thing that I must state overtly and unfortunately though, "MEN ARE BEASTS!"

This is sad but true or at least it seems so at times. I know, I am a man too! I am pretty sure I have been a beast myself in the past, maybe not in terms of physical abuse but in terms of words and attitudes toward women but I hope to the Goddess that I never am again!
I said once that the problem with men is that they are not as evolved as women. This, of course, is arguable but what I meant is that Men, in general, are not as emotionally evolved as women. There may be reasons for that. Evolutionary traits can take millions of years to both develop and change. Maybe we were so busy out hunting and foraging, often a savage business, that we didn't have the time to confront and face our gentler emotions more while the females of our species had to adapt and face those feelings because they were the ones who nurtured, raised and fostered our young.
Millions of years ago, this separation of responsibilities may have been necessary for the survival of our species. It is not any longer and, truth be told, for some men at least, this has begun to change and there is signs of emotional evolution among some of us males of the species. 
It does not come without effort though. It is at a critical point in evolution for Men that Nurture versus Nature collides in many of us. Long traditions of control and conquer war with protect and support. Beliefs that this is the way we should be battle with knowledge of the way we need to be. It is not easy to face down our peers who follow the old ways and say to them, "No, this is not right. It is inappropriate!"

As much as many of us would like to deny it, Men have fragile egos and we fear standing alone among our fellows. We fear appearing weak to others. We value strength but do not always have the strength to embrace our own.

YET, WE MUST!

This is not a sign of weakness but, in reality, one of strength.

We must be unified with others who follow our beliefs but to do so we must stand apart from so many others of our sex. We must be strong alone before we can begin to stand together. This is difficult as many of us long for companionship and fear the solitude that taking a stand may bring upon us... but it is an illusory fear.

I have explored in my previous blogs what I believe it means to be a Whole Man rather than a Real Man but this is one point I may have not emphasized clearly....

A Whole Man must be willing to stand alone against "Real" Men and stand strong in that solitude and when that happens, other Whole Men will eventually appear and ally themselves with that individual when they see their like-mindedness. Only then will the change that is needed truly begin to manifest. Evolution then will start to take a step forward.
We must acknowledge where we were beasts before and let the female of our species know that we know that men are beasts and that we hear their pain and the wrongs that our sex has inflicted upon them. As they say "#metoo" and share their experiences so too must we say "#ihearyou".

We must make the change within ourselves and in so doing demonstrate to others what must be. This is adaptive conscious evolution and takes a strength of will that many do not care to find within themselves. It is easier to go along with others much of the time and one thing about the human race, male or female, is that we prefer to do things the easy way even if we don't most of the time.

These conscious changes will be difficult. I cannot emphasize that enough. Though Women have been patient for a long time now, those of us who are striving to change not only beg your forgiveness for the past but also your patience while we struggle to do right by you. We might not have earned that right thogh. I can understand if you do not have the patience. I do not know if I would, but we who are trying ask anyway....

Men need to break down everything they have built their image upon and rebuild from nothing and, unfortunately, there are also many who will not listen. We cannot change if we do not recognize the need to change. Yet, still, we must let even those who refuse to change know that their ways are not only inappropriate but inherently bad for the future of the entire species. Perhaps we cannot argue with them and convince them to change but we can choose to acknowledge the unworthiness of their actions and their words and stand beside those we support instead. We can choose to show our disagreement toward their ways and walk away. We can choose to defend those we love from those who do not understand.

I apologize to the Women in our lives. Like all forms of evolution, these changes will not happen in one generation, perhaps not even two, but eventually voluntary evolution will bring this upon the male sex and change will come. In the meanwhile, us Whole Men will strive to teach our young and those who can understand and adapt so that more people will hear the message of #metoo and say #ihearyou.

After escaping on a tangent because of recent shake ups in politics to the south of us, I want to return to the roots of what this blog is all about: educating others as to what being a Man should be all about rather than what the media, tradition or peer influence tells us. It is also about our roles and responsibilities in viewing and dealing with the members of the opposite sex, any sex for that matter and that definitely includes the gay, lesbian and transgendered individual as well. Opposite is such a misnomer in this case but that is a subject for another rant. For now, I want to show those different than me that we can all strive to be more than we are and that we can break the mold set for us and strive to grow into our own place in the sun.

In the end, it is all about who we are as individuals and how we treat others as individuals. Disliking or fearing a group of individuals makes no logical sense though if there were one group I did dislike that would be the white straight male group because looked at as a unit they are a bigoted entitled privileged entity that treats others with equal parts disdain and arrogance. Yes, at face value I am part of that group but I am an individual above all else and that is why I choose not to be a victim of that particular indoctrination.

I am going to touch on a variety of topics in this particular blog but I hope to go into more detail with some of them at a later point. Some things I am going to discuss, I have covered in earlier blogs and I hope you go back and read them. There may be ideas and philosophies that make some of you uncomfortable, that make some of you cheer but mostly, I hope there are things that make you go....hmmmm....I never thought of it that way. That is the true purpose of this blog, to hopefully begin a dialogue that makes us think and rethink how we view ourselves and others,  and how we act and react to others, especially those who are different than us. To begin that discourse, we must acknowledge that everyone.....EVERYONE...is different.

First, let us learn a little about ourselves. How do we feel about other sexes, races, cultures? How do we treat other sexes, races, cultures, religions even? If we don't like something about others, why do we not like it? When we dislike something in others, is it because of their differences or is it because they are a mirror, a reflection of something in ourselves that we dislike? 

If it is the differences we cannot reconcile in others, what is the source of that? Is it fear of those differences and, if so, does that fear stem from ignorance of those differences or a lack of understanding of those differences? We all don't have to agree on everything to live with each other but we should at least attempt to understand the other's viewpoint. Once you can see where another is coming from, you can agree to disagree and move on from there. Is it easy? Not always but what may help is finding a topic or view that you do share. Few of us completely disagree on everything. Once you take away the fear and ignorance behind your dislike of someone, it becomes easier to accepted the differences between you.

If our dislike of someone or someone's ways has a different source, then accepting that becomes even more of an internal journey. If someone does something that drives you crazy, irritates you or enrages you, stop for a moment and take a deep breath, or several if necessary. Now, comes a time for self-reflection, a time to really look at what is causing these emotions and admit to yourself if it is something in you yourself that you are seeing reflected. It is time to look in the mirror and determine if the actions of this individual whom you dislike is really just forming a another mirror, a mirror into your own soul reflecting a part or parts of yourself that you dislike about yourself.

This is not easy. Admitting to one's own faults can be the hardest of tasks for many of us. I know it is not always easy for me. Sometimes I have to take the time to really process a situation to realize where my emotional discomfort is coming from, to see who I am and not who someone else is.

Once again though, once that realization and acknowledgement does take place, once you have passed through the denial stage, things do become easier and such revelations can be used as fuel not only to accept the actions of another but it can be used as a catalyst to begin to change the parts of yourself you do not like.

I do not profess that reading this blog will change your life. I do not claim that it will increase your's or others' tolerance in others or ourselves but I do believe it describes some universal truths that apply to all of us, that it contains lessons I have learned and that make me a better person when I follow them. 

Another universal truth, is that I cannot change others, only myself and that truth can be applied to both sources of dislike that I have covered here. This does not mean that the changes I make within myself cannot help others though. We all must set an example to ourselves and sometimes, that example can be seen by others and inspire them to make changes in themselves. 

The mirror we hold up can show us greater depths within ourselves than we ever imagines. It is up to us to choose whether we want to show the good reflections or the bad.


​

Well...what can I say, other than you reap what you sow... and that's what the citizens of the good ole U.S of A have to deal with now after the results of last night's election. We now have the 45th President.

I'd like to say, "Thank God or Goddess that I am Canadian and wash my hands of the whole thing...but I can't!

The ramifications of this insane decision will affect us all!

Still, I refuse to succumb to depression or become a doomsayer. We all still have a choice in the matter. We do not have to go gentle in to that good night as the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas once said. We can rage, rage, against the dying of the light.

No, I don't mean storm down to Washington and burn the capitol like in the War of 1812. No, I don't mean storm down there and assassinate the ignorant racist misogynist jerk that has risen to power. Our own government and we have to keep an eye on what is going on down there for sure, We cannot let ourselves be blindsided by another Hitler.

Do not lose hope entirely in the US government. Yes, I know that is extremely hard but there are safeguards in place to prevent some of the new President's more radical campaign promises from being fullfilled. Many are so unrealistic that the process involved to make them happen cannot really forge ahead to their ridiculous goals.

It is a terrifying and unnerving time being the USA's closest northern neighbour. There are things that we as individuals can do to mitigate this situation to a small degree at least and, yes, I know some of you will claim that it is not enough but, in the end, it is something we all can do should we choose to.

For every minority, woman, member of the LBTG  community out there, and any one else outraged by the hate rhetoric that He Who will Be Unnamed and his followers have unleashed during this campaign, reach out to anyone you know in America and let them know they are not alone and that you support them...that there is love and compassion in abundance out there still. Use social media to continue to spread the message of tolerance and support and express your outrage at every inhuman atrocity that emerges forth from that deadly rhetoric the President Elect used in his campaign.

Most importantly, for those of you who are not one of the aforementioned groups above, do all of the above, and let those who are know that all white males in North America are not disenfranchised entitled misogynist racists. Stand up for these people who are being threatened by the ignorant populace that brought this man into power! Stand up for the rights of those threatened by this regime with words and, most importantly, actions and the way you conduct your own life! You cannot change other people's attitudes or their beliefs but you might be able to show them a different way and then they can choose to change themselves.

Show them the light within you!

iAgain, It is up to us, as the white males who do not believe they are disenfranchised and entitled and are not racist or misogynist to join with those threatened by such beliefs and stand with them, support them and fight for and with them when neccessary!

Make a difference by being the good men you can be!

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."
- Edmund Burke ​

the following is an excerpt from Greystrands, my second novel which I have just completed the rough draft; some characters and events and basic plot characteristics have been kicking around for thirty-five years or so...

PROLOGUE

Parallel Worlds are ever changing…
Time’s an abstract concept.
And life’s a constant cycle,
Where all realms intersect….

The last verse of the band’s grand finale faded into a tightly linked chain of ethereal rhythms, originating from the keyboard player and the faint shimmer of sound that the drummer was drawing forth gently from his cymbals. A bass undertone joined in while the lead guitarist paused in his playing. The lean figure reached up and grasped the microphone on the stand ahead of him and launched into the final chorus of what the band fervently hoped would be their last encore of the evening,

Powers within control the forces without…
An enchanting melody
A song of pain and grief
A double-edged sword
Forged of the soul…
All just part of the Strand of Grey
Spun from fates’ loom
Caught in the web of destiny…

Caught in the web of destiny
And lost in the maze of fate…

The voices of the other band members melded together and joined in, repeating the last line softly as the lean leather-clad figure at the forefront of the stage began to play his antique Fender Stratocaster once more. The fingers of his right hand returned unerringly to their former places on the guitar’s fret board while the fingers of his left caught up to the band’s rhythms and resumed control of the music before belting out the final line in one last intense refrain...

Caught in the web of destiny…
And lost in the maze of fate…

The melodic lyrics drifted off into an increasingly complex variation of chords and notes that screamed forth from the massive amplifiers towering to either side of the performers; a deep primeval music that danced entrancingly out across the tavern. As the music of his band mates died out completely; everything, and everyone, in the large tavern focused on the electrifying performer. The dark-maned musician seemed to float in a strange symbiosis with his guitar. Cheered on by the enthralled crowd, he continued to play, weaving his own web as if mirroring what he had sung of. It had become a mesmerizing pattern of intricate disarming song. The solo rose dramatically to a crescendo of phenomenal skill that enchanted all around him. Then, in unison with the rest of the band, as they joined back in alongside him, he ended the song on a long echoing note.
There was a hush in the crowd, long enough for the band to exchange quick worried looks with each other. A further momentary pause of awestruck silence seemed to thicken in the room, and then, the crowd stood in unison, applause erupting from them. The guitarist and his fellow musicians felt a surge of relief flow through them and they left the stage amid a long standing ovation. Beer mugs and wine glasses were raised in a boisterous blending of nearly unintelligible toasts. The excitement, accompanied by cheering and hollering, continued for several minutes until finally, it began to peter out and be replaced with the buzz of social conversation.
Behind the stage, the group of musicians wiped the sweat from their hands and brows; Greystrands had been their third encore. A couple of roadies, friends who’d volunteered to help them out for the gig, made their way throughout the sparsely furnished dressing room passing out icy cold brews as they went. There were a handful of other friends present too but no one else. That was the way the band liked it. Led by Richard Challenger’s intense moody riffs, they pored out their energy during their performances and generally didn’t wish to do anything but relax afterward. Already, Chris, the bassist had filled the bowl of a pipe with the weed he’d bought from a long-haired busker at Gatwick Airport. A moment later its heady aroma pervaded the room as he put flame to herb. Dave, the drummer took two beers, opening one for Melissa, the keyboardist, and the other for himself.
Chris looked up from the pipe, and from within his long dangling blond hair, spoke to their silent leader, “Rich, why so glum, man? We were real tight tonight, smooth…’ he paused inhaling deeply, “… as this shit,” he emphasized by hauling hard on the pipe. Unfortunately, he drew too hard and soon found himself coughing violently.
Everyone laughed and despite his own preoccupations, Richard Challenger couldn’t help his reply, “Yeah, I can see that!” and they all laughed again.
As the coughing subsided and Chris wiped the tears from his dancing eyes, Melissa spoke up, running her long pianist’s fingers through her short blond hair as she did so, “All joking aside, Richard, you do seem a little distant tonight. I know performances of yours like the one we just witnessed take you a long way away but I’d think you’d be a tad more, oh say...ecstatic, considering we inked a major record deal this afternoon.”
“I don’t know, Mel, something’s bothering me. Thing is, I don’t know what the hell it is. Bad dreams, I guess,” he moved his shoulders as if to shrug it off but everyone present knew it was still going to haunt him. When Richard’s mind was stuck on something, it was an immovable force.
Just then, a sudden noise from the nearby hallway drew all their attention. The door swung open and a tall lean figure darted through, microphone in hand. Through the doorway, they could see Paul, their sound and light man, and bouncer, holding back a cameraman and several other reporters. Word must have gotten out abot their record deal.
“Hi, I’m…” the intruder began but before he could identify himself, Richard had swept across the room and yanked the microphone from his stunned grip. With a deft flick of his thumb, the professional musician shut off the device.
“Get out,” he told the journalist softly.
“But…I’m just…” but before the man could speak further, the leanly-muscled guitarist grabbed him by the throat, stunning everyone in the room, and slammed him against the wall.
“I said...get out!” he shouted fiercely and proceeded to drag the man back outside. Returning, he slammed the door and turned towards the occupants, stopping abruptly when he saw the speechless surprise on their faces. He wasn’t one, despite his perpetual intensity, to lose his cool very easily.
“Sorry,” he said after a long pause while he sought to sort out his emotions. An expression crossed his face as if he had suddenly remembered something. He looked over to where his leather jacket hung on the wall near the rear exit. “I think I’d better go. I’ve got something I’ve got to do.”
Dave, the drummer stood up, “Wait a minute, man. Are you sure? This is going to turn into some party tonight. Hell, Rich, we’re about to make the big time. Shit! We've made the big time with this deal!”
Richard Challenger nodded, a look of seriousness darkening his already dour visage. “I know, Dave. That’s why I’ve got to clear my head.”
He pulled on his battered old jacket, pulling up the big metal zipper and buttoning it upwards from his narrow waist. Melissa approached him as he did so, a knowing look in her light blue eyes.
“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re going to the Stones?”
He nodded.
“What if you get caught?”
Richard grinned slightly out of the corner of his mouth, returning his own deep brown gaze, “Well, then, I guess the band will get some extra publicity. I have to do it though. I always told myself I would if I ever got the chance. It’s a promise to myself that I have to keep.”
Reaching up, he ruffled her short hair fondly. He smiled, a full warm smile. They’d been friends a long time, a lot longer than they’d ever been an item.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” he kissed her lightly on her high cheek and then he turned to retrieve his bike helmet and finally, the old twelve-string guitar in it’s battered case that he took everywhere with him.
“Whatever else it is that’s bugging you, Richard, I hope it doesn’t affect your music,” he heard Chris say as he left through the rear exit. Luckily, the reporters hadn’t made it to that door yet and he had a brief respite to collect his thoughts.
The thing was, it was affecting his music but not in ways that most people would notice. Their last song, he’d written just before this gig, just after the dreams had returned. He hadn’t been kidding to Chris about that part of it. He was having bad dreams, very disturbing ones. He’d written Greystrands in the middle of the night, having been awoken by the vividness of one of those dreams.
These days, he seemed to be in a constant state of confusion. The young musician, whose star seemed on the rise, didn’t even notice the slow heavy drizzle that had begun to moisten his long hair and old jacket as he walked quickly towards the motorcycle parked in the shadows at the back of the alley. So great were his distractions and his preoccupation with his dreams that sometimes he felt that he was that silken strand of grey from the song, involuntarily and uncontrollably being spun out on the web of destiny.
Richard stopped by the motorcycle and wiped off the leather seat before straddling it. It was a Triumph he’d rented in town here. Not quite the Harley he’d owned at home in Montreal but a good bike nonetheless. With his guitar case slung over his shoulder, he kick-started the old bike and wound out the throttle. Gently squeezing in the clutch, he put the bike into gear with his left foot and rode away.
As he headed north out of the town of Salisbury, he decided he’d do a quick reconnaissance of the area he was heading for before actually going in. He’d seen the place in pictures and even in his dreams before but he’d never actually been there. As he drove, Richard thought of the other dreams...

They always began the same with a brilliant explosion of light and colour. Then he’d see the mountain, it’s twin peaks towering over the nearby landscapes. He’d see it, as if through the eyes of some high circling bird, just as he’d look down and see himself as well, far below. Always, he was heading toward the mountain, sometimes on a horse, sometimes on his beloved Harley. A twelve-sting guitar would always be strung across his back, just as it was now. Sometimes, it would be the old one he carried on the bike and had rebuilt wth such painstaking precision.
Always though, there was the Sword. Whether he carried it in his hand or in a scabbard on his steed or even at his side or across his back, it was always there; as if it were part of his very soul. At that point, the dream usually varied. What happened then never re-occurred the same. The only thing that remained consistent throughout it all was his eventual assent of the mountain and the maelstrom of emotion that it stirred up, crossing over even into his waking hours, sometimes for days at a time.

It was only about an eight mile drive from town so it didn’t take him long to get there. Richard wasn’t sure when, during that time, that the rain actually stopped and the skies began to clear. Time and distance were but an annoyance in his current state of fugue.
A damp wet mist cloaked the benighted moors. It wasn’t very conducive weather to be playing in, he found himself thinking, as a familiar landmark rose up from the expanse. Ahead of him lay a circle of upright standing stones, three circles actually. Richard Challenger had finally arrived at Stonehenge and in so doing had fulfilled a promise to himself that he’d made years ago when just a street urchin busking on the streets of Montreal.

A lone figure had seated himself within the circular configuration of massive stones. He strummed experimentally on the twelve strings of his old guitar. The slender form seemed dwarfed by the four concentric ranges of megalithic monuments. Within the innermost horseshoe of upright lintelled stones was a horizontally laid slab of micaceous sandstone. The blue sarsen of the standing stones contrasted with the other stone whose origins were not quite as local. It was on this, the altar stone, that the musician was seated. One of the uprights had fallen across it an indeterminable time before but he still managed found a perch to make himself comfortable.
The man himself was not extraordinary in appearance, but upon close inspection, his deep brown eyes shone with intelligence and a strong vital inner will. The sparse growth of hair on his face, little more than a youth’s, was the same dark shade as his long tousled mane and neatly trimmed goatee. Tight faded blue jeans and a worn leather jacket accented the general shabbiness of his appearance. When standing, he was more than a couple of inches short of six feet, not especially formidable or intimidating to look upon. Yet, his lean mass of tightly compacted muscles sat itself proudly on the altar stone with a majestic mien that belied his pariah-like appearance. It was that same innate regalness that attracted his fans, a sense of self and confidence he did not even realize he carried but which was readily apparent to others when he was on-stage.
Cross-legged on the massive horizontal centre stone, he had his guitar in his lap. Richard Challenger, self-professed and self-taught student of the arts, wasn’t sure exactly why he had wanted to come and visit the ancient and mysterious Stonehenge so badly. It was a symbol, he supposed, a goal he had set for himself long ago.
It had been in an old cathedral in Montreal, where he had first felt the sensation one felt in the presence of antiquity. Notre Dame was one of the oldest buildings in North America and the energy had suffused him with a sense of ancient power...the power of history. Stonehenge was thousands of years older. It made his skin tingle; he felt himself swallowed up by the history of it all. Keen interest in the British Isles and all its long years had intrigued him from an early age. Richard had thought while in that cathedral that its history was nothing as compared to that of something like the great Standing Stones of Britain, its existence so brief in the scheme of history. Someday, he had told himself, he would go to Stonehenge and play his guitar at it’s centre, all the time feeding his creativity with the inspiration of thousands of years of history to spur him onward. And now on a dark night at the peak of the Summer Solstice, he lived the dream.
The moon had not yet risen fully and the earlier cloud cover hadn’t completely retreated. Darkness blanketed the chalk downs and the night air was still thick with moisture. Richard couldn’t even see the fret-board on the neck of his guitar but years of practice had eliminated any need to actually see what he was doing. Music was felt not seen. It was heard not spotted across a distance. Melded with the music on an intuitive level that even he didn’t understand, the words came to him, flowing freely from the collective consciousness…

The weight of ages lay upon them,
The eroding winds caressed their forms;
The blood of many still doth stain
The Stones of Power that still remain.

After a time, the young player paused in his song and thought once more of where he was. It was the height of the Summer Solstice and he was here, making music in one of the oldest constructions known to Man. In the morning, when the sun rose, it would appear to rise directly from the Helestone, a huge slab of standing stone which guarded the only way across a broad circular ditch that surrounded the original embankment. It was too bad that he couldn’t stay to see the sight; too bad he couldn’t stay much longer, as a matter of fact.
Two hours; two hours he had stolen from all the ages that mighty Stonehenge had seen. The security car passed by every now and then but they didn’t come in to the site and their headlights gave away their approach each time so Richard had more than enough time to hide each time they did. He'd heard that their presence was to deter any new vandals from defacing the stones since they had taken down the fence that had formerly surrounded the circle. The clever youth had hidden the Triumph in a grassy field nearby before approaching on foot. All he had on him was his guitar and his guitar case. Even the roach from the joint he’d smoked had been disposed of outside the grounds. This area had been desecrated enough already. He wouldn't add to it even with such a small piece of waste.
He began to pack up his guitar in its weathered but still sturdy case. He did it slowly, holding hard to the feeling of grandeur that being in the ruins brought to him. He didn’t want to get caught despite joking about it earlier with Melissa. He had no problem with the publicity part of it. Any press was good press when you’re a rising star. He just didn’t want to get grouped along with the crazy dirt-munchers and graffiti artists whose antics had forced the fence up around the stonework for years.
The graffiti was unforgivable. Would one place an insulting tattoo on the dead body of their grandfather and leave his casket open for all to see? What the ignorant bastards had done to the ancient stones was unforgivable. They had stood for longer than mankind had been recording their own history. They deserved their dignity. The neo-druids and crazy cultists were better than the vandals but not by a lot in some ways. Stonehenge predated even the Druids. It was born in the Neolithic age of man. It had been added to substantially by three distinct races of people. Modern man should have been trying to preserve and restore the great enigmatic construct; to be the fourth race in its creation, not its destroyer. Its very existence was a tribute to what man can achieve even in primitive times. It had other worth as well; among other things, it had proven to be a solar calendar of sorts, predicting solstices and solar eclipses.
He started to exit the inner circle of stones, took one last look behind him and would’ve left at that point had he not seen the play of lights on the road that ran closely by the Stones.. He could see a security vehicle, a small economy car but behind it was another vehicle, a cube van. Curious, he stepped back into the shadows beneath a standing stone within the circle.
The van drove up towards the causeway and halted just before the Helestone. The security vehicle reversed and drove away. At the Helestone, the rear van door slid open and a single figure exited. The door closed back up and the vehicle made its way around the great megalith and continued on toward the first circle of stones. If it were not for the time of night and a brief glimpse of the figure at the Heel Stone, Richard might have believed them to be government officials or a team of archaeologists but if so, when did dark hooded robes become government issue?
The Dodge halted once more, just yards away from where Richard crouched. Even in the darkness of that British night, the young musician could still discern the logo on the side of the otherwise plain white vehicle. Winged Courier Corporation it read, in black outlined letters on a background of silver wings. A private courier.
What could they be delivering to Stonehenge at his time of night?
None of it made any sense, which was even harder to deal with as he desperately concentrated on remaining unmoving and unseen. He willed himself not to shiver, even though the dampness had seeped through to his bones and there was something even further chilling about the whole situation.
What the hell was going on here?
Five more strangely garbed figures poured out of the van. Two of them held back momentarily to retrieve something from the interior of the vehicle. It was a long burlap sack filled with something not too heavy but not exactly light either. Richard Challenger found himself wondering as to the nature of its contents. As frightened as he was, he was still morbidly curious as to the truth of the scenario playing out before him. As he tried to discern any detail about the almost formless oblong shape within the bag, a strange uneasiness came over him.
Richard glanced around at the men. All wore the same long black robes, their features hidden by heavy cowls and the deep shadows of the night itself. One bemused sardonic part of his mind thought that they all looked like extras out of some cheap B-grade horror flick. Another, more superstitious part of the young artist wondered if they were the mad priests of some dark god. Whichever, or if they were even something else, they had both connections and money. He just couldn’t see the British government letting anyone drive up to one of their most revered historical sites in the middle of the night; unless they just bribed the security guards, which wasn’t beyond the realm of impossibility either. The strangers would still have to have some substantial resources though. The guards wouldn’t risk a fairly prestigious if sometimes boring job unless it was worthwhile to them financially.
Why go to the bother though? Richard couldn’t help but wonder as he reached up with one long fingered hand to wipe away the moisture gathering on his brow. Were they just some rich pagans performing some ancient Druid rite in hopes of inspiring fertility? Such things were often referred to in connection to the Mid-summer Solstice and in more than one ancient culture.
He knew he could not leave until he knew the truth. His curiosity and yearning for that truth drove him. Despite the artistic streak that that ran through the youth, he had a keen analytical mind, self-honed as part of his own self-education. Just because he had never even finished high school people assumed his knowledge was limited but most people did not understand the determination of someone like Richard Challenger.
Still, he had to admit, he hadn’t quite figured out what was occurring here.
One of the newcomers wore a wide crimson sash about his waist and a small satchel hung from it. There was a Celtic symbol on its face, a stylized sun. Whatever was going on, it was concerned with the solstice. The symbol seemed to confirm that. The robes were anachronisms of an earlier more primitive time and Stonehenge had long been home to many religious and spiritual rituals. Despite obvious trepidation, the rising star of Parallel Worlds found himself growing more intrigued all the time.
The two men carrying the burlap burden moved forward into the inner circle of upright stones and placed it on the exposed portion of altar stone. As they did so, Richard realized then what the contents of the sack might be. It was probably a sacrifice, a small sheep or maybe a pig. The druids and others who had performed rituals within these stones had often performed such deeds to please their gods and the powers of nature.
He felt a sudden concern for the senseless murder of some innocent livestock.
The other men were busy as well; two of them were busy lighting torches they'd brought with them. They’d been placed in the ground at either end of the altar stone. A third was busy sketching a chalk circle about twenty-five feet in diameter around the horizontally laid rock, trying not to let the one fallen across it impede the design. The chalk glowed as if mixed with some phosphorous substance. The man with the satchel had reached into it to remove something. For a brief moment Richard thought he saw a handle, like that found on some sort of ceremonial knife, but it was not this object that the man drew forth.
When the others’ tasks were finished, they retreated to the outer perimeter of the chalk circle where they were joined by the last man, the first out of the vehicle, who had completed his tasks, which included lighting another fire at the base of the Helestone. Having done that, he returned to his comrades. The first man moved forward and handed him what he had removed from his satchel. It was a mask, etched in metal; it’s features hidden as he accepted it from the man in crimson and black, holding it face down, carefully.
The man in the sash then stepped back and moved toward one end of the altar. Simultaneously, the others were removing other masks from their own robes. They too held them face down and Richard wondered if this was a symbolic gesture to ensure that no spirits were invoked before their proper time during the rite. The musician had read a lot of history, especially about the British Isles over the years but he didn’t know many details of the specific rituals of some of the more pagan cultures. He knew only enough to be fascinated by it just as he was now witnessing it.
The man farthest from Challenger whom the other had given the first mask to brought it upwards revealing the ornate face painstakingly crafted upon it. Even in the dim flickering torchlight, Richard could see the detail carved upon it. It was a depiction of a silver moon, human-like features personified upon it. The stranger placed it over his own shadowed visage and began to intone in strange ritualistic words.
“Though it be the peak of the Summer Solstice, the Celebration of Life, it will soon be the ending of its season and then the time of the Autumnal Equinox will be upon us. It is in wait of this that the Cold Moon now rises.” At that moment, the real moon broke away from its confining cloud cover and a brisk wind seemed to spring up from nowhere.
The hidden observer tried to shake it off as coincidental but the tingle of hair on the nape of his neck refused to go away. He turned his gaze toward the others who stood around the perimeter of the thaumaturgic circle. Each had placed a mask on their heads and thrown back their cowls. All were the same. All were grim bone-white masques of death, grinning skulls that made Richard shiver uncontrollable despite any rationale he attempted to maintain. As one, in a chant-like monotone, they too spoke.
“Let the coming of the Winter of Entropy envelop the land and all the myriad dimensions of existence.” They paused in unison as well and then raising their voices they shouted, “Slay the Sun! Slay the Sun!” They formed a chorus of this final line and more quietly, they began to repeat it, over and over again.
The man in the sash pulled his cowl deeper over his own unmasked features and reached once more into the satchel at his waist. A faint moaning seemed to arise from somewhere but Challenger had no time to determine its source before a blinding flash of lightning lit up the night and a roar of thunder silenced the groans and everything else in its rage.
None of the would-be druids, or whatever they were, even flinched at this. Richard however did not fare so well. He barely maintained his camouflage in the deep shadows of the standing stone as the six men aligned themselves across from each other, the one with the moon mask directly opposite the unmasked man who withdrew two objects from the seemingly bottomless satchel he had. He grasped the objects between the thumb and first two fingers of each hand. Delicately he brought them up above his head as Richard’s caught them in fine detail with his artist’s eyes.
He saw the thick calloused hands with their hairy knuckles wrapped around the red gold of two half-circles about the size, combined, of a dinner plate, a part of him couldn’t help but think ironically that the scene would make a great album cover; two hands clutching the two halves of an intricately wrought sun and bringing them up suddenly into the night sky.
“Yes!” the man who seemed to be their leader screamed. “Yes! Slay the Sun! But let it not be the death of eternal rest but rather the insurrection of Order and the reign of absolute Chaos. Let burn the light of the Shadowflame!”
The torchlight fluttered in the strong wind, illuminating the twin pieces of the sun and casting fluid shadows that made the objects seem to flow as if alive toward each other.
Then, Richard heard the sounds again. They were groans...louder this time. They were like the moans of one awakening slowly from a deep but troubled sleep full of bad dreams. Richard knew those sounds. He knew that feeling. He felt it almost every morning. Growing horror replaced the morbid fascination he had felt. He knew where the sounds were coming from.
As the stunned musician’s well-trained ears pinpointed the source of the sounds, his gaze turned slightly from the hands of the mysterious worshiper to the burlap sack upon the altar stone. It couldn’t be...but even as he told himself this, Richard Challenger knew that what his instincts told him was true.
It was a human sacrifice they had brought with them.
A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself but, not even then, did he truly believe that lie. Richard knew two distinct unchangeable things about his own character, even at such an early stage in his life. One, he was a survivor. Two, he was a realist. He knew what was before his eyes was no delusion, no drug induced hallucination. Christ! He’d only been smoking pot.
There were more sounds. This time they were words, muffled through the burlap but clear and concise enough to make out even at the distance that the youth was from their point of origin.
“Help me! Please! Help me! What is happening? What do you want from me?” the plea was torn desperately from a woman’s throat; young and frightened, if Richard’s keen senses were still as accurate as ever.
Every nerve in his body was afire with the desire to act...…but how?
There was a sharp crackle like that of electricity and the tiny fragment of time in which revelation had paralyzed the boy shattered into motion. The chain of action and reaction, propelling him inescapably toward a destiny he had never imagined for himself, drew his gaze to the glowing sun in the hands of the man that the young watcher knew now must be some whacked out fanatic. Richard started involuntarily as the golden disc rejoined for a moment then burst into countless tiny little metal fragments.
The one who had held the shattered device leapt back nimbly and unleashed a bestial cry of primordial hunger. He reached into the embroidered satchel at his hip one last time and removed the knife that Richard had glimpsed before. Its bony handle had been smoothed to fit the grip of a human hand. At a guess, it’s curved wickedly barbed blade stretched nearly eighteen inches from base to tip.
Awareness of what was truly about to happen began to dawn on Challenger. There were no camera crews. This wasn’t some fantasy film or documentary shoot. That wasn’t a lamb on the altar, at least not of the four-legged kind. It was a human sacrifice and the stunned musician was about to be an unwitting and unwilling witness to it.
Then, a thousand fragments of thought came together in a precise micro-explosion inside his skull. A choice, irrevocably, was made. He found his feet dragging themselves slowly out from underneath the lintel piece of the Standing Stone that had formerly hidden him. Unnoticed, his eyes widened as the would-be executioner slashed along the length of the burlap bag fiercely and swiftly but so deftly that the creamy flesh of the naked figure within was revealed in its entirety yet not a mark was left upon it by the flashing blade.
Everything slowed to an inexorable crawl. Richard saw the broad forearm of the man revealed in the dim light as he raised the dagger high above his head. The girl squirmed as she realized what was happening. A fleeting image of long-dark locks was all the young man glimpsed before he realized what he himself was doing. The next instant, he had rushed out and brushed past one of the men forming the circle around the altar, launching himself at the knife-wielder. At the same instant, a fraction of eternity before the killer recognized the presence of Richard Challenger’s intrusion into the ritual, he finished his incantation.
“ Master of Jet and Crimson. Accept my offered sacrifice.” He brought the blade down sharply and swiftly but it never reached its intended target as two long-fingered hands wrapped around the man’s thick wrists and deflected the blow just enough that it struck point first into the ancient altar stone instead.
Time seemed to slow around Richard Challenger as he instinctively sought to stop the fatal blow of the knife just moments before it should have struck its frantic victim. He had known for a brief instant what futility was all about, utter helplessness. There was no way he would reach the altar stone in time but a part of him would not accept that. And it was that part of him that reacted. He felt a blast of fiery pain through every synapse in his body which seemed to last for a lifetime and then, he seemed to move outside of time itself. The sensation lasted only the tiniest fraction of a moment, his body continuing to lunge toward the intended sacrifice but it was enough. The thick knuckled knife wielder had been thwarted. A spark of metal against stone and small fragments of both shot upward at the impact while the terrified woman looked on, her wide green eyes just inches away. As he moved, a trail of multi-coloured threads seemed to dance around him and then around the others. He felt energy pulse along them and he drew it into himself and it was that, somehow that gave him the strength and speed he had needed. He sensed this but had no time to process it.


As sudden as Richard’s appearance had been onto the scene, the knife-wielding fanatic reacted almost reflexively, annoyed at the interruption but still determined to finish the deed he had come to Stonehenge to perform.
“ I won’t be stopped,” he muttered, his silver-grey gaze focusing in on this unexpected intruder. The look in those cold eyes struck Richard Challenger to the very core of his being. From initial surprise to the irritated attention of a man about to swat some pest that had distracted him, the expression changed swiftly in those chilling orbs.
Separating the hands that had jointly grasped the sacrificial knife, the fanatic yanked them upwards, twisting his forearms just enough to break the hold the young musician had on them both. Desperately, though irreversibly off-balance, Richard managed to maintain his grip on the hand that still held the knife at the same time somehow managing to sprawl between his opponent and the bound struggling figure on the altar stone.
He managed to slow the inevitable descent of the knife once more but his foe literally had the upper hand, his leverage much greater through his superior positioning. Time slowed again but not as before. Whatever had occurred previously did not repeat itself. Instead, seconds seemed to crawl by as the robed man casually forced his hand downwards inch by inch. Richard’s wrist began to bend backwards and his forearm was pressed almost into his face when the razor sharp point of the knife pricked against his flesh and unnoticed by either combatant, several drops of the youth’s blood fell downward.
Only the young woman saw what occurred next twisting her leg just in time so that the blood fell on the stone beneath her rather than on herself…

It did happen again, that sense of dislocation he had felt before accompanied by strands of colour all around. It was as if he was stepping outside of reality and it was stronger than before; he seemed to shift beyond Time again and now Space as well. This time, though, he was not alone...
There was an explosion of blue light that infused all three figures. Lightning flashed downwards from the sky, striking the entire stonework in a surge of electricity before one powerful stroke struck the glowing forms over the altar stone and an instant later there was only a smoking massive block of stone embedded horizontally in the ground and laying pretty much as it had for the last few millenia. The other robed figures could only look on in astonishment and fear...

the following is an excerpt from Greystrands, my second novel which I have just completed the rough draft; some characters and events and basic plot characteristics have been kicking around for thirty-five years or so...

PROLOGUE

Parallel Worlds are ever changing…
Time’s an abstract concept.
And life’s a constant cycle,
Where all realms intersect….

The last verse of the band’s grand finale faded into a tightly linked chain of ethereal rhythms, originating from the keyboard player and the faint shimmer of sound that the drummer was drawing forth gently from his cymbals. A bass undertone joined in while the lead guitarist paused in his playing. The lean figure reached up and grasped the microphone on the stand ahead of him and launched into the final chorus of what the band fervently hoped would be their last encore of the evening,

Powers within control the forces without…
An enchanting melody
A song of pain and grief
A double-edged sword
Forged of the soul…
All just part of the Strand of Grey
Spun from fates’ loom
Caught in the web of destiny…

Caught in the web of destiny
And lost in the maze of fate…

The voices of the other band members melded together and joined in, repeating the last line softly as the lean leather-clad figure at the forefront of the stage began to play his antique Fender Stratocaster once more. The fingers of his right hand returned unerringly to their former places on the guitar’s fret board while the fingers of his left caught up to the band’s rhythms and resumed control of the music before belting out the final line in one last intense refrain...

Caught in the web of destiny…
And lost in the maze of fate…

The melodic lyrics drifted off into an increasingly complex variation of chords and notes that screamed forth from the massive amplifiers towering to either side of the performers; a deep primeval music that danced entrancingly out across the tavern. As the music of his band mates died out completely; everything, and everyone, in the large tavern focused on the electrifying performer. The dark-maned musician seemed to float in a strange symbiosis with his guitar. Cheered on by the enthralled crowd, he continued to play, weaving his own web as if mirroring what he had sung of. It had become a mesmerizing pattern of intricate disarming song. The solo rose dramatically to a crescendo of phenomenal skill that enchanted all around him. Then, in unison with the rest of the band, as they joined back in alongside him, he ended the song on a long echoing note.
There was a hush in the crowd, long enough for the band to exchange quick worried looks with each other. A further momentary pause of awestruck silence seemed to thicken in the room, and then, the crowd stood in unison, applause erupting from them. The guitarist and his fellow musicians felt a surge of relief flow through them and they left the stage amid a long standing ovation. Beer mugs and wine glasses were raised in a boisterous blending of nearly unintelligible toasts. The excitement, accompanied by cheering and hollering, continued for several minutes until finally, it began to peter out and be replaced with the buzz of social conversation.
Behind the stage, the group of musicians wiped the sweat from their hands and brows; Greystrands had been their third encore. A couple of roadies, friends who’d volunteered to help them out for the gig, made their way throughout the sparsely furnished dressing room passing out icy cold brews as they went. There were a handful of other friends present too but no one else. That was the way the band liked it. Led by Richard Challenger’s intense moody riffs, they pored out their energy during their performances and generally didn’t wish to do anything but relax afterward. Already, Chris, the bassist had filled the bowl of a pipe with the weed he’d bought from a long-haired busker at Gatwick Airport. A moment later its heady aroma pervaded the room as he put flame to herb. Dave, the drummer took two beers, opening one for Melissa, the keyboardist, and the other for himself.
Chris looked up from the pipe, and from within his long dangling blond hair, spoke to their silent leader, “Rich, why so glum, man? We were real tight tonight, smooth…’ he paused inhaling deeply, “… as this shit,” he emphasized by hauling hard on the pipe. Unfortunately, he drew too hard and soon found himself coughing violently.
Everyone laughed and despite his own preoccupations, Richard Challenger couldn’t help his reply, “Yeah, I can see that!” and they all laughed again.
As the coughing subsided and Chris wiped the tears from his dancing eyes, Melissa spoke up, running her long pianist’s fingers through her short blond hair as she did so, “All joking aside, Richard, you do seem a little distant tonight. I know performances of yours like the one we just witnessed take you a long way away but I’d think you’d be a tad more, oh say...ecstatic, considering we inked a major record deal this afternoon.”
“I don’t know, Mel, something’s bothering me. Thing is, I don’t know what the hell it is. Bad dreams, I guess,” he moved his shoulders as if to shrug it off but everyone present knew it was still going to haunt him. When Richard’s mind was stuck on something, it was an immovable force.
Just then, a sudden noise from the nearby hallway drew all their attention. The door swung open and a tall lean figure darted through, microphone in hand. Through the doorway, they could see Paul, their sound and light man, and bouncer, holding back a cameraman and several other reporters. Word must have gotten out abot their record deal.
“Hi, I’m…” the intruder began but before he could identify himself, Richard had swept across the room and yanked the microphone from his stunned grip. With a deft flick of his thumb, the professional musician shut off the device.
“Get out,” he told the journalist softly.
“But…I’m just…” but before the man could speak further, the leanly-muscled guitarist grabbed him by the throat, stunning everyone in the room, and slammed him against the wall.
“I said...get out!” he shouted fiercely and proceeded to drag the man back outside. Returning, he slammed the door and turned towards the occupants, stopping abruptly when he saw the speechless surprise on their faces. He wasn’t one, despite his perpetual intensity, to lose his cool very easily.
“Sorry,” he said after a long pause while he sought to sort out his emotions. An expression crossed his face as if he had suddenly remembered something. He looked over to where his leather jacket hung on the wall near the rear exit. “I think I’d better go. I’ve got something I’ve got to do.”
Dave, the drummer stood up, “Wait a minute, man. Are you sure? This is going to turn into some party tonight. Hell, Rich, we’re about to make the big time. Shit! We've made the big time with this deal!”
Richard Challenger nodded, a look of seriousness darkening his already dour visage. “I know, Dave. That’s why I’ve got to clear my head.”
He pulled on his battered old jacket, pulling up the big metal zipper and buttoning it upwards from his narrow waist. Melissa approached him as he did so, a knowing look in her light blue eyes.
“You’re going to do it, aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re going to the Stones?”
He nodded.
“What if you get caught?”
Richard grinned slightly out of the corner of his mouth, returning his own deep brown gaze, “Well, then, I guess the band will get some extra publicity. I have to do it though. I always told myself I would if I ever got the chance. It’s a promise to myself that I have to keep.”
Reaching up, he ruffled her short hair fondly. He smiled, a full warm smile. They’d been friends a long time, a lot longer than they’d ever been an item.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” he kissed her lightly on her high cheek and then he turned to retrieve his bike helmet and finally, the old twelve-string guitar in it’s battered case that he took everywhere with him.
“Whatever else it is that’s bugging you, Richard, I hope it doesn’t affect your music,” he heard Chris say as he left through the rear exit. Luckily, the reporters hadn’t made it to that door yet and he had a brief respite to collect his thoughts.
The thing was, it was affecting his music but not in ways that most people would notice. Their last song, he’d written just before this gig, just after the dreams had returned. He hadn’t been kidding to Chris about that part of it. He was having bad dreams, very disturbing ones. He’d written Greystrands in the middle of the night, having been awoken by the vividness of one of those dreams.
These days, he seemed to be in a constant state of confusion. The young musician, whose star seemed on the rise, didn’t even notice the slow heavy drizzle that had begun to moisten his long hair and old jacket as he walked quickly towards the motorcycle parked in the shadows at the back of the alley. So great were his distractions and his preoccupation with his dreams that sometimes he felt that he was that silken strand of grey from the song, involuntarily and uncontrollably being spun out on the web of destiny.
Richard stopped by the motorcycle and wiped off the leather seat before straddling it. It was a Triumph he’d rented in town here. Not quite the Harley he’d owned at home in Montreal but a good bike nonetheless. With his guitar case slung over his shoulder, he kick-started the old bike and wound out the throttle. Gently squeezing in the clutch, he put the bike into gear with his left foot and rode away.
As he headed north out of the town of Salisbury, he decided he’d do a quick reconnaissance of the area he was heading for before actually going in. He’d seen the place in pictures and even in his dreams before but he’d never actually been there. As he drove, Richard thought of the other dreams...

They always began the same with a brilliant explosion of light and colour. Then he’d see the mountain, it’s twin peaks towering over the nearby landscapes. He’d see it, as if through the eyes of some high circling bird, just as he’d look down and see himself as well, far below. Always, he was heading toward the mountain, sometimes on a horse, sometimes on his beloved Harley. A twelve-sting guitar would always be strung across his back, just as it was now. Sometimes, it would be the old one he carried on the bike and had rebuilt wth such painstaking precision.
Always though, there was the Sword. Whether he carried it in his hand or in a scabbard on his steed or even at his side or across his back, it was always there; as if it were part of his very soul. At that point, the dream usually varied. What happened then never re-occurred the same. The only thing that remained consistent throughout it all was his eventual assent of the mountain and the maelstrom of emotion that it stirred up, crossing over even into his waking hours, sometimes for days at a time.

It was only about an eight mile drive from town so it didn’t take him long to get there. Richard wasn’t sure when, during that time, that the rain actually stopped and the skies began to clear. Time and distance were but an annoyance in his current state of fugue.
A damp wet mist cloaked the benighted moors. It wasn’t very conducive weather to be playing in, he found himself thinking, as a familiar landmark rose up from the expanse. Ahead of him lay a circle of upright standing stones, three circles actually. Richard Challenger had finally arrived at Stonehenge and in so doing had fulfilled a promise to himself that he’d made years ago when just a street urchin busking on the streets of Montreal.

A lone figure had seated himself within the circular configuration of massive stones. He strummed experimentally on the twelve strings of his old guitar. The slender form seemed dwarfed by the four concentric ranges of megalithic monuments. Within the innermost horseshoe of upright lintelled stones was a horizontally laid slab of micaceous sandstone. The blue sarsen of the standing stones contrasted with the other stone whose origins were not quite as local. It was on this, the altar stone, that the musician was seated. One of the uprights had fallen across it an indeterminable time before but he still managed found a perch to make himself comfortable.
The man himself was not extraordinary in appearance, but upon close inspection, his deep brown eyes shone with intelligence and a strong vital inner will. The sparse growth of hair on his face, little more than a youth’s, was the same dark shade as his long tousled mane and neatly trimmed goatee. Tight faded blue jeans and a worn leather jacket accented the general shabbiness of his appearance. When standing, he was more than a couple of inches short of six feet, not especially formidable or intimidating to look upon. Yet, his lean mass of tightly compacted muscles sat itself proudly on the altar stone with a majestic mien that belied his pariah-like appearance. It was that same innate regalness that attracted his fans, a sense of self and confidence he did not even realize he carried but which was readily apparent to others when he was on-stage.
Cross-legged on the massive horizontal centre stone, he had his guitar in his lap. Richard Challenger, self-professed and self-taught student of the arts, wasn’t sure exactly why he had wanted to come and visit the ancient and mysterious Stonehenge so badly. It was a symbol, he supposed, a goal he had set for himself long ago.
It had been in an old cathedral in Montreal, where he had first felt the sensation one felt in the presence of antiquity. Notre Dame was one of the oldest buildings in North America and the energy had suffused him with a sense of ancient power...the power of history. Stonehenge was thousands of years older. It made his skin tingle; he felt himself swallowed up by the history of it all. Keen interest in the British Isles and all its long years had intrigued him from an early age. Richard had thought while in that cathedral that its history was nothing as compared to that of something like the great Standing Stones of Britain, its existence so brief in the scheme of history. Someday, he had told himself, he would go to Stonehenge and play his guitar at it’s centre, all the time feeding his creativity with the inspiration of thousands of years of history to spur him onward. And now on a dark night at the peak of the Summer Solstice, he lived the dream.
The moon had not yet risen fully and the earlier cloud cover hadn’t completely retreated. Darkness blanketed the chalk downs and the night air was still thick with moisture. Richard couldn’t even see the fret-board on the neck of his guitar but years of practice had eliminated any need to actually see what he was doing. Music was felt not seen. It was heard not spotted across a distance. Melded with the music on an intuitive level that even he didn’t understand, the words came to him, flowing freely from the collective consciousness…

The weight of ages lay upon them,
The eroding winds caressed their forms;
The blood of many still doth stain
The Stones of Power that still remain.

After a time, the young player paused in his song and thought once more of where he was. It was the height of the Summer Solstice and he was here, making music in one of the oldest constructions known to Man. In the morning, when the sun rose, it would appear to rise directly from the Helestone, a huge slab of standing stone which guarded the only way across a broad circular ditch that surrounded the original embankment. It was too bad that he couldn’t stay to see the sight; too bad he couldn’t stay much longer, as a matter of fact.
Two hours; two hours he had stolen from all the ages that mighty Stonehenge had seen. The security car passed by every now and then but they didn’t come in to the site and their headlights gave away their approach each time so Richard had more than enough time to hide each time they did. He'd heard that their presence was to deter any new vandals from defacing the stones since they had taken down the fence that had formerly surrounded the circle. The clever youth had hidden the Triumph in a grassy field nearby before approaching on foot. All he had on him was his guitar and his guitar case. Even the roach from the joint he’d smoked had been disposed of outside the grounds. This area had been desecrated enough already. He wouldn't add to it even with such a small piece of waste.
He began to pack up his guitar in its weathered but still sturdy case. He did it slowly, holding hard to the feeling of grandeur that being in the ruins brought to him. He didn’t want to get caught despite joking about it earlier with Melissa. He had no problem with the publicity part of it. Any press was good press when you’re a rising star. He just didn’t want to get grouped along with the crazy dirt-munchers and graffiti artists whose antics had forced the fence up around the stonework for years.
The graffiti was unforgivable. Would one place an insulting tattoo on the dead body of their grandfather and leave his casket open for all to see? What the ignorant bastards had done to the ancient stones was unforgivable. They had stood for longer than mankind had been recording their own history. They deserved their dignity. The neo-druids and crazy cultists were better than the vandals but not by a lot in some ways. Stonehenge predated even the Druids. It was born in the Neolithic age of man. It had been added to substantially by three distinct races of people. Modern man should have been trying to preserve and restore the great enigmatic construct; to be the fourth race in its creation, not its destroyer. Its very existence was a tribute to what man can achieve even in primitive times. It had other worth as well; among other things, it had proven to be a solar calendar of sorts, predicting solstices and solar eclipses.
He started to exit the inner circle of stones, took one last look behind him and would’ve left at that point had he not seen the play of lights on the road that ran closely by the Stones.. He could see a security vehicle, a small economy car but behind it was another vehicle, a cube van. Curious, he stepped back into the shadows beneath a standing stone within the circle.
The van drove up towards the causeway and halted just before the Helestone. The security vehicle reversed and drove away. At the Helestone, the rear van door slid open and a single figure exited. The door closed back up and the vehicle made its way around the great megalith and continued on toward the first circle of stones. If it were not for the time of night and a brief glimpse of the figure at the Heel Stone, Richard might have believed them to be government officials or a team of archaeologists but if so, when did dark hooded robes become government issue?
The Dodge halted once more, just yards away from where Richard crouched. Even in the darkness of that British night, the young musician could still discern the logo on the side of the otherwise plain white vehicle. Winged Courier Corporation it read, in black outlined letters on a background of silver wings. A private courier.
What could they be delivering to Stonehenge at his time of night?
None of it made any sense, which was even harder to deal with as he desperately concentrated on remaining unmoving and unseen. He willed himself not to shiver, even though the dampness had seeped through to his bones and there was something even further chilling about the whole situation.
What the hell was going on here?
Five more strangely garbed figures poured out of the van. Two of them held back momentarily to retrieve something from the interior of the vehicle. It was a long burlap sack filled with something not too heavy but not exactly light either. Richard Challenger found himself wondering as to the nature of its contents. As frightened as he was, he was still morbidly curious as to the truth of the scenario playing out before him. As he tried to discern any detail about the almost formless oblong shape within the bag, a strange uneasiness came over him.
Richard glanced around at the men. All wore the same long black robes, their features hidden by heavy cowls and the deep shadows of the night itself. One bemused sardonic part of his mind thought that they all looked like extras out of some cheap B-grade horror flick. Another, more superstitious part of the young artist wondered if they were the mad priests of some dark god. Whichever, or if they were even something else, they had both connections and money. He just couldn’t see the British government letting anyone drive up to one of their most revered historical sites in the middle of the night; unless they just bribed the security guards, which wasn’t beyond the realm of impossibility either. The strangers would still have to have some substantial resources though. The guards wouldn’t risk a fairly prestigious if sometimes boring job unless it was worthwhile to them financially.
Why go to the bother though? Richard couldn’t help but wonder as he reached up with one long fingered hand to wipe away the moisture gathering on his brow. Were they just some rich pagans performing some ancient Druid rite in hopes of inspiring fertility? Such things were often referred to in connection to the Mid-summer Solstice and in more than one ancient culture.
He knew he could not leave until he knew the truth. His curiosity and yearning for that truth drove him. Despite the artistic streak that that ran through the youth, he had a keen analytical mind, self-honed as part of his own self-education. Just because he had never even finished high school people assumed his knowledge was limited but most people did not understand the determination of someone like Richard Challenger.
Still, he had to admit, he hadn’t quite figured out what was occurring here.
One of the newcomers wore a wide crimson sash about his waist and a small satchel hung from it. There was a Celtic symbol on its face, a stylized sun. Whatever was going on, it was concerned with the solstice. The symbol seemed to confirm that. The robes were anachronisms of an earlier more primitive time and Stonehenge had long been home to many religious and spiritual rituals. Despite obvious trepidation, the rising star of Parallel Worlds found himself growing more intrigued all the time.
The two men carrying the burlap burden moved forward into the inner circle of upright stones and placed it on the exposed portion of altar stone. As they did so, Richard realized then what the contents of the sack might be. It was probably a sacrifice, a small sheep or maybe a pig. The druids and others who had performed rituals within these stones had often performed such deeds to please their gods and the powers of nature.
He felt a sudden concern for the senseless murder of some innocent livestock.
The other men were busy as well; two of them were busy lighting torches they'd brought with them. They’d been placed in the ground at either end of the altar stone. A third was busy sketching a chalk circle about twenty-five feet in diameter around the horizontally laid rock, trying not to let the one fallen across it impede the design. The chalk glowed as if mixed with some phosphorous substance. The man with the satchel had reached into it to remove something. For a brief moment Richard thought he saw a handle, like that found on some sort of ceremonial knife, but it was not this object that the man drew forth.
When the others’ tasks were finished, they retreated to the outer perimeter of the chalk circle where they were joined by the last man, the first out of the vehicle, who had completed his tasks, which included lighting another fire at the base of the Helestone. Having done that, he returned to his comrades. The first man moved forward and handed him what he had removed from his satchel. It was a mask, etched in metal; it’s features hidden as he accepted it from the man in crimson and black, holding it face down, carefully.
The man in the sash then stepped back and moved toward one end of the altar. Simultaneously, the others were removing other masks from their own robes. They too held them face down and Richard wondered if this was a symbolic gesture to ensure that no spirits were invoked before their proper time during the rite. The musician had read a lot of history, especially about the British Isles over the years but he didn’t know many details of the specific rituals of some of the more pagan cultures. He knew only enough to be fascinated by it just as he was now witnessing it.
The man farthest from Challenger whom the other had given the first mask to brought it upwards revealing the ornate face painstakingly crafted upon it. Even in the dim flickering torchlight, Richard could see the detail carved upon it. It was a depiction of a silver moon, human-like features personified upon it. The stranger placed it over his own shadowed visage and began to intone in strange ritualistic words.
“Though it be the peak of the Summer Solstice, the Celebration of Life, it will soon be the ending of its season and then the time of the Autumnal Equinox will be upon us. It is in wait of this that the Cold Moon now rises.” At that moment, the real moon broke away from its confining cloud cover and a brisk wind seemed to spring up from nowhere.
The hidden observer tried to shake it off as coincidental but the tingle of hair on the nape of his neck refused to go away. He turned his gaze toward the others who stood around the perimeter of the thaumaturgic circle. Each had placed a mask on their heads and thrown back their cowls. All were the same. All were grim bone-white masques of death, grinning skulls that made Richard shiver uncontrollable despite any rationale he attempted to maintain. As one, in a chant-like monotone, they too spoke.
“Let the coming of the Winter of Entropy envelop the land and all the myriad dimensions of existence.” They paused in unison as well and then raising their voices they shouted, “Slay the Sun! Slay the Sun!” They formed a chorus of this final line and more quietly, they began to repeat it, over and over again.
The man in the sash pulled his cowl deeper over his own unmasked features and reached once more into the satchel at his waist. A faint moaning seemed to arise from somewhere but Challenger had no time to determine its source before a blinding flash of lightning lit up the night and a roar of thunder silenced the groans and everything else in its rage.
None of the would-be druids, or whatever they were, even flinched at this. Richard however did not fare so well. He barely maintained his camouflage in the deep shadows of the standing stone as the six men aligned themselves across from each other, the one with the moon mask directly opposite the unmasked man who withdrew two objects from the seemingly bottomless satchel he had. He grasped the objects between the thumb and first two fingers of each hand. Delicately he brought them up above his head as Richard’s caught them in fine detail with his artist’s eyes.
He saw the thick calloused hands with their hairy knuckles wrapped around the red gold of two half-circles about the size, combined, of a dinner plate, a part of him couldn’t help but think ironically that the scene would make a great album cover; two hands clutching the two halves of an intricately wrought sun and bringing them up suddenly into the night sky.
“Yes!” the man who seemed to be their leader screamed. “Yes! Slay the Sun! But let it not be the death of eternal rest but rather the insurrection of Order and the reign of absolute Chaos. Let burn the light of the Shadowflame!”
The torchlight fluttered in the strong wind, illuminating the twin pieces of the sun and casting fluid shadows that made the objects seem to flow as if alive toward each other.
Then, Richard heard the sounds again. They were groans...louder this time. They were like the moans of one awakening slowly from a deep but troubled sleep full of bad dreams. Richard knew those sounds. He knew that feeling. He felt it almost every morning. Growing horror replaced the morbid fascination he had felt. He knew where the sounds were coming from.
As the stunned musician’s well-trained ears pinpointed the source of the sounds, his gaze turned slightly from the hands of the mysterious worshiper to the burlap sack upon the altar stone. It couldn’t be...but even as he told himself this, Richard Challenger knew that what his instincts told him was true.
It was a human sacrifice they had brought with them.
A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself but, not even then, did he truly believe that lie. Richard knew two distinct unchangeable things about his own character, even at such an early stage in his life. One, he was a survivor. Two, he was a realist. He knew what was before his eyes was no delusion, no drug induced hallucination. Christ! He’d only been smoking pot.
There were more sounds. This time they were words, muffled through the burlap but clear and concise enough to make out even at the distance that the youth was from their point of origin.
“Help me! Please! Help me! What is happening? What do you want from me?” the plea was torn desperately from a woman’s throat; young and frightened, if Richard’s keen senses were still as accurate as ever.
Every nerve in his body was afire with the desire to act...…but how?
There was a sharp crackle like that of electricity and the tiny fragment of time in which revelation had paralyzed the boy shattered into motion. The chain of action and reaction, propelling him inescapably toward a destiny he had never imagined for himself, drew his gaze to the glowing sun in the hands of the man that the young watcher knew now must be some whacked out fanatic. Richard started involuntarily as the golden disc rejoined for a moment then burst into countless tiny little metal fragments.
The one who had held the shattered device leapt back nimbly and unleashed a bestial cry of primordial hunger. He reached into the embroidered satchel at his hip one last time and removed the knife that Richard had glimpsed before. Its bony handle had been smoothed to fit the grip of a human hand. At a guess, it’s curved wickedly barbed blade stretched nearly eighteen inches from base to tip.
Awareness of what was truly about to happen began to dawn on Challenger. There were no camera crews. This wasn’t some fantasy film or documentary shoot. That wasn’t a lamb on the altar, at least not of the four-legged kind. It was a human sacrifice and the stunned musician was about to be an unwitting and unwilling witness to it.
Then, a thousand fragments of thought came together in a precise micro-explosion inside his skull. A choice, irrevocably, was made. He found his feet dragging themselves slowly out from underneath the lintel piece of the Standing Stone that had formerly hidden him. Unnoticed, his eyes widened as the would-be executioner slashed along the length of the burlap bag fiercely and swiftly but so deftly that the creamy flesh of the naked figure within was revealed in its entirety yet not a mark was left upon it by the flashing blade.
Everything slowed to an inexorable crawl. Richard saw the broad forearm of the man revealed in the dim light as he raised the dagger high above his head. The girl squirmed as she realized what was happening. A fleeting image of long-dark locks was all the young man glimpsed before he realized what he himself was doing. The next instant, he had rushed out and brushed past one of the men forming the circle around the altar, launching himself at the knife-wielder. At the same instant, a fraction of eternity before the killer recognized the presence of Richard Challenger’s intrusion into the ritual, he finished his incantation.
“ Master of Jet and Crimson. Accept my offered sacrifice.” He brought the blade down sharply and swiftly but it never reached its intended target as two long-fingered hands wrapped around the man’s thick wrists and deflected the blow just enough that it struck point first into the ancient altar stone instead.
Time seemed to slow around Richard Challenger as he instinctively sought to stop the fatal blow of the knife just moments before it should have struck its frantic victim. He had known for a brief instant what futility was all about, utter helplessness. There was no way he would reach the altar stone in time but a part of him would not accept that. And it was that part of him that reacted. He felt a blast of fiery pain through every synapse in his body which seemed to last for a lifetime and then, he seemed to move outside of time itself. The sensation lasted only the tiniest fraction of a moment, his body continuing to lunge toward the intended sacrifice but it was enough. The thick knuckled knife wielder had been thwarted. A spark of metal against stone and small fragments of both shot upward at the impact while the terrified woman looked on, her wide green eyes just inches away. As he moved, a trail of multi-coloured threads seemed to dance around him and then around the others. He felt energy pulse along them and he drew it into himself and it was that, somehow that gave him the strength and speed he had needed. He sensed this but had no time to process it.


As sudden as Richard’s appearance had been onto the scene, the knife-wielding fanatic reacted almost reflexively, annoyed at the interruption but still determined to finish the deed he had come to Stonehenge to perform.
“ I won’t be stopped,” he muttered, his silver-grey gaze focusing in on this unexpected intruder. The look in those cold eyes struck Richard Challenger to the very core of his being. From initial surprise to the irritated attention of a man about to swat some pest that had distracted him, the expression changed swiftly in those chilling orbs.
Separating the hands that had jointly grasped the sacrificial knife, the fanatic yanked them upwards, twisting his forearms just enough to break the hold the young musician had on them both. Desperately, though irreversibly off-balance, Richard managed to maintain his grip on the hand that still held the knife at the same time somehow managing to sprawl between his opponent and the bound struggling figure on the altar stone.
He managed to slow the inevitable descent of the knife once more but his foe literally had the upper hand, his leverage much greater through his superior positioning. Time slowed again but not as before. Whatever had occurred previously did not repeat itself. Instead, seconds seemed to crawl by as the robed man casually forced his hand downwards inch by inch. Richard’s wrist began to bend backwards and his forearm was pressed almost into his face when the razor sharp point of the knife pricked against his flesh and unnoticed by either combatant, several drops of the youth’s blood fell downward.
Only the young woman saw what occurred next twisting her leg just in time so that the blood fell on the stone beneath her rather than on herself…

It did happen again, that sense of dislocation he had felt before accompanied by strands of colour all around. It was as if he was stepping outside of reality and it was stronger than before; he seemed to shift beyond Time again and now Space as well. This time, though, he was not alone...
There was an explosion of blue light that infused all three figures. Lightning flashed downwards from the sky, striking the entire stonework in a surge of electricity before one powerful stroke struck the glowing forms over the altar stone and an instant later there was only a smoking massive block of stone embedded horizontally in the ground and laying pretty much as it had for the last few millenia. The other robed figures could only look on in astonishment and fear...

Love Me, for who I am; not for what I am or what I believe in.

Hate Me, for who I am; not for what I am or what I believe in.

Like me or dislike me for the same reasons. Judge me not for my race, sex, sexual preferences, my religion or my appearance. Judge me for who I am and how I treat others.

Like or dislike me as an individual not a part of anything else.

In recent times, world events and media and political manipulation of those events have done all the things listed above that shouldn't be done and in so doing, have created or contributed to the culture of fear, and as others have stated; have handed victory to the "terrorists". That is why they are called terrorists....terror is fear; and yes, people can be manipulated through fear but only for so long, until they either break from the fear or hit that limit where they draw a line in the sand and shout, "To Hell with you!" and fight back.

What really empowers people to follow is LOVE. The old adage about feeding a man a fish or teaching a man to fish so that he might feed himself holds true with love as well. Teach someone to love and accept being love and the energy that will fuel them becomes self-renewing.

Hate, like all negative emotions, is inevitably draining. It can sustain, even strengthen you in the short run, like adrenaline in our bodies, or nitrous oxide in an engine, but in the end, it will leave you weak and exhausted.

So, remember, when you hear the bigotry, the vitriol, the ignorance of others grouping all of one sex, creed or religion together, that they are hurting themselves and others and that you, as an individual, can pull away from that grip of self-induced fear and stand strong in the power of love....love of your neighbour, your brother, your sister, your co-worker and by doing so, create a self-renewing energetic that can power the world and our society within it. There is only one society, and all of us, whether we perceive ourselves in the centre of it or on the fringe, are part of it, like one gestalt organism. Like a single white blood cell fighting infection, you can induce others of like structure to fight the good fight as well.