Lead me through the city
Through mist filled streets
Let the sharp edge of winter
Cut the fear from my skin

Wrap me in the darkness
Cocoon me from the sun
Let silence give me shelter
From the pounding in my head

Hold me through the spasms
Wipe away my tears
Say you’ll still be with me
When I surface once again

Take me from my comforts
Force my soul to feel
Let me drink in the moonlight
And remember what is real

Bring me to the water’s edge
Barefoot and alone
Stripped and pared back to the core
From here let me return

First up ‘City of Dreams & Nightmare’ by Ian Whates, published by one of my favorite publishers, Angry Robot. I often decide to buy books based on the fact that it’s an Angry Robot book… the books they publish are that good. Anyhow, I did what I very rarely do and read the first chapter of this online from the Angry Robot website. I much prefer proper books to online though I’m becoming more of a convert over time.

After reading chapter one I was hooked on the story of Tom from the City Below, the slums below Thaiburley, the City of One-Hundred Rows and dashed to my local Waterstones to buy a copy. The rest of the book did not disappoint and although it is the first volume of a series it managed to have a satisfying ending of its own.

Thaiburley is a multilayered metropolis with the wealthy and important dwelling in the upper tiers, workers and tradesfolk lower down and the street nicks and lower classes at the very bottom. Tom, a street nick, born and raised in the slums is sent on a mission to the very heights of Thaiburley. He never makes it. On the climb through the dizzying heights of the city rows he witnesses a murder. A murder no one was meant to see. As Tom races back to familiar ground he finds himself pursued by Kite Guards and assassins and at the centre of a plot that goes right to the top of the City of One-Hundred Rows. Finding allies in unlikely places, Tom is confronted by mechanical spiders, brainwashed street nicks and demon hounds and begins to display powers of his own that could well get him killed.

I won’t say too much more on the plot for fear of revealing too much. The world is deftly drawn and compelling and the variety of life held within the city works really well. Tom can sometimes seem a little passive compared to his guide, the very streetwise Kat, but for me that serves to illustrate his complete confusion at being caught in so much turmoil. There is definitely a lot more to come from the series and I’m looking forward to seeing how it progresses.

Highly recommended!

Ok.. technically that was the start of a post I drafted a while ago whilst bored at my desk. Unfortunately I never managed to finish it. However, the lady herself released her debut self-released album on Friday which gives me a perfect opportunity to review it. I’m trying to do more reviews and this is the perfect place to start.

Firstly an introduction. Casee Wilson is a York based singer-songwriter. She plays piano, she sings, she writes her own music. She records in one half of her front room, now known as Tiny Cat Studios. She has a website, two cats and writes about such diverse subjects as string, zombies and catnip. She is also beautiful, engaging and very very good live. She has just released Beggars & Blues which is available through her website, amazon, iTunes and cdBaby.

The album is 11-tracks long, starts with Beggars at the Feast and ends with Midnight Blues bookending the songs in between. I would, however, recommend letting the final track run until the cd stops spinning lest you miss a treat. The tracks flow together taking the listener on a journey from motherly advice and the joys of summer to heartbreak and betrayal via a very strange farm indeed. The mix of upbeat songs to those of more melancholy tone is pretty much perfect, never letting one mood or style dominate the experience. I’m not sure I could pick a favourite track as I have a soft spot for them all. I love the simplicity of Midnight Blues in which Casee harmonises with herself unaccompanied demonstrating just how good a vocalist she is. Sound Advice is all about breaking expectations and being who you want to be despite what other people tell you which resonates particularly with me. On Tim Burton’s Farm calls to mind piroutting cows (you’ll understand when you hear it) with the haunting flute enhancing the gothically magical feel. Did I Tell You and Fade to Grey both speak of broken relationships whilst I Don’t Want You Anymore takes a more positive stance. The music ranges from Tori Amos-esque girl-with-piano style to a more bluesy, sultry feel seamlessly with Casee’s voice equally confident, strong and full of depth no matter what the style. The harmonies are always flawless and I especially like those on False Alarm and Did I Tell You. This is an awesome showcase for Casee’s talent both as a musician and a songwriter and hopefully a sign of more great things to come.

Sleep

I watch you sleep
caught in the storm of your dreams
eyes twitching with each cresting wave
your breathing gusting like the wind

I want to reach for you
pull you from the maelstrom
into my arms, safe in my embrace
but I simply watch and wait

I watch you sleep
brow furrowed with thoughts unknown
your mind on a journey far from home
I wonder where you are

I want to join you
to reach deep into your dream
but it is not my place to intrude
your dream is yours alone

I watch you sleep
breath cool like breeze in summer
I imagine you a gull gliding over calm seas
whilst still waters run deep

I ache to touch you
run my fingers through your hair
caress your skin, watch you wake to me
but instead I watch you sleep

I feel somewhat like I should be drawing on the emotions somehow to produce some great works of literature, or even some teenage-angst bullshit (which at the age of twenty-eight is always a tad depressing) but either the emotions are too close or I just lack the energy to care any more. Of course, no one really needs to hear my woes in written form or otherwise anyway but still, I feel I’m missing a trick.

At least the llamas are going out tonight. Bugger the snow, bugger the cold, we’re taking our llamas for a walk. I just hope they behave themselves.

Bechstein’s bat goes out for the evening
In his favourite suit of pale brown and white
It may be said the his dress is unseemly
but he finds the conventional dj so trite

He flits around the woodlands and parklands
and stays away from the bustle of towns
He makes his home in south of old England
and likes to stroll the West Wiltshire Downs

Bechstein’s bat is cultural wee fellow
though he rarely frequents the opera or plays
He prefers to keep to historical hollows
and can often be thought to be absent for days

He likes the chatter of babbling streams
that trickle on by the place that he dwells
He rests by the shoreline and ponders his dreams
and listens to the distant tolling of bells

Bechstein’s bat has a small close knit family
His wife is pale with reddish-brown hair
His son can be found at Woodpecker’s Nursery
For his life as an adult, he has to prepare

Bechstein’s bat goes out for the evening
In his favourite suit of pale brown and white
It may be said the his dress is unseemly
but he finds the conventional dj so trite

Smoke curls it’s tongue and licks at the sky
as the daylight grey bleeds into the dawn
and the wreckage from the avalanche tugs at my heels
as I make my way down to the river again

Feverish current swirls black as a crow
the world bleached out into monochrome haze
I taste my own blood as it pounds through my veins
whilst the inky dark water caresses my skin

At the edge of my senses, it pulls at my mind
a vocalised thought I can feel more than hear
the sound of you calling me, taking my hand
coaxing me back to you, holding me close

The bank of the river kisses my toes
a love affair suspended till next time she calls
I pick my way back through the rubble and dust
and find myself waking safe and warm in your arms

*working title

Between the nettles and the laurel I will wait for you.

As the pale sky bleeds into dusk making shadows and silhouettes of the world until all I can see is the penumbrous outlines of buildings in the distance, the red of the sky and the deep green of the leaves before my eyes.

I am camouflaged here amongst the dense foliage, in my green jumper left over from the grunge rock days of my youth. A faded acrylic, torn at both cuff and hem, still smelling of cheap cigarettes and vodka after all these years. It is my security blanket, a constant from my past to my present, reminding me of who I was and where I’ve been. An evolution from the heady exuberance and optimism of youth to the person I am now. Someone I never thought I’d be.

I am hidden here, set back from the street, protected by a web of stem and leaf as early October rain starts to fall. I am unnoticed by the home-time commuters hurrying past me to their sanctuaries, barricading their doors against the cold and the dark with lamps and heat and well-cooked meals. I don’t exist to them. I am a nonentity, the only suspicion of my presence being a faint rustle in the leaves on the rare occasions I move. A noise immediately dismissed by those who register it as early evening autumnal breeze.

I am quiet here as the chill of the night starts to permeate my boots and settle in my toes. I shift position, my muscles cramping in the small space I allow myself to take up. The movement is nothing more than a stronger gust of wind through the undergrowth. Not enough to disturb the passers-by but enough to startle a blackbird who glares at me in disgust with his beady eye. An eye rimmed with orange and luminescent against black feathers and fast approaching darkness. I glare back, defiant, for this is my place, our place, nestled amongst the laurel and nettles. Not the most hospitable of places but that was part of our intention. A place no one else would want and not many would even notice, a place entirely of our own.

I peer out from the undergrowth, through the leaves and beyond the shadowy buildings to the first stars blinking into visibility, tiny pinpricks in the darkening sky. I allow my eyes to lose their focus, the faint constellations blurring and becoming indistinct as I recall another time and place, away from the sharp night air and the bitter smell of the earth. My muscles relax, the tension ebbing away as memories form in my mind. A smile plays across my lips even as tears prick the backs of my eyes.

I remember the last time we spoke, the way the afternoon sunlight caught the red in your hair setting it aflame like a beacon, a beacon calling me to you. I remember the catch in your voice and the coldness of your hand as your skin touched mine. We talked for hours without ever saying anything at all, using small talk as a defence against that which we were too afraid to say until the moment we parted. You kissed me softly, your lips slightly warmer than your hands, and spoke with passion for the first time that day. ‘Wait for me,’ you whispered in my ear as we embraced, ‘between the laurel and the nettles, wait for me.’

So here I am and here I’ll stay. Between the nettles and the laurel I’ll wait for you.

I’ve decided that rather than posting each piece of writing as a separate page, I’ll have a tag/category with which to find all my work. Be it poetry, short fiction or random prose of an indeterminate nature, it can now be found in the ‘pieces’ category.

I will upload by back catalogue over time so keep checking back and enjoy.