George Michael Fan Fiction Incoming

Good morning, Novel Dreamers!

Welcome back to another exciting month of writing. You should be seeing the wonderful LOVE pieces that the guys have been writing over January, just in time for Valentines Day next week, being shared about now! Why not go vote for your favourite(s)? Click here

With that being all tied up, we better start looking at February’s writing challenge! I’m asking our cracking writers to write about FAITH this month. They can write about religion, they can write about belief, they can write about Faith Hill if they really like! Whatever they come up with, however, shall hopefully come from some meaning or interpretation of that word. Or at least, I hope they do. It’s alright, I’ll just keep…

Yeah I’ll see myself out.

Below is this month’s example piece. Enjoy.

 

Come Join the Murder

It was a cold and dreary Thursday in the midst of an equally cold and dreary April. Gale force winds blew in northwesterly, and no sense of central heating or designer outfits could keep the weather from creeping into your bones. But this had not perturbed him; he had a job to do, and he’d be damned before he let his father hold his failure against him. Pushing through the trees and growth, he could hear the stream babbling somewhere ahead of him. He stopped for a moment, clouds puffing from his mouth like some volcano, not too sure if it were going to erupt or not. He took out his pocket watch and checked the time: 03:42pm.

This was meant to be an easy trek, you old bastard, he thought to himself. He started back up and found the weir just as a distant church bell struck four. It was all but lost on him as time seemed to be standing still in the middle of the woods.

“You never told me how you wanted this doing, old man!” he called out to the heavens. His face stung as the weather tried to freeze the tears welling up in his eyes already. The scene was picturesque. He knew it would be as it had been the picture hanging in the living room since he were a boy. His father constantly reminding him, in a semi-drunk state, that that’s where he wanted his ashes scattering when he were gone. He grimaced and looked at the slippery stones just breaking the water and remembered the once or twice the old man had informed him it were quite a dangerous thing to attempt; but this was his father’s last wish.

He dropped onto a log that sat on the bank, placing the metallic tub very carefully to his left, and pulled a small hip-flask from his inner pocket. He let the liquid slosh around a bit inside and turned to look at the urn holding his father.

“Three generations of miserable old cunts, hey?” raising the hip-flask. He immediately berated himself mentally for speaking ill of his grandfather, the original owner of the hip-flask in his hand. He opened it and took a sip. The warmth spread across his chest and throat instantly as the 18 year old Glenfiddich took hold of his entire being for but a moment. Knowing his father would heavily disapprove, he poured a dram over the bark in front of the urn. “You’re not allowed to drink and I’m only allowed 2 units, remember?” he scoffed, taking another pull.

A bark woke him from his daydream as a St Bernard came lolloping out of the brush and directly towards him and a bear of a man stepped out the hole in the trees seconds later. Leaning heavy on a walking stick with an ornate pair of ravens on perch at the top of it, the man was greying blonde with a scraggly beard and eye patch.

“Down, Chronos,” called the older man after his hound before turning to the younger. “Pardon him, he likes making friends and interrupting thoughts.”

The younger chuckled before gesturing to the log beside him. “Well if it’s friends you’re needing, I could do with the company this afternoon.” He turned to the dog, “That’s a very impressive name you have there,” he said as he reached out to pet the big bugger, only to be slobbered over rather enthusiastically.

“Oh he’s an impressive dog,” the blonde man said as he sat. The two shared a handshake and a drink before he spoke again. “The name’s Wednesday. What’s your’s, friend?”

The younger man barked a laugh and drank again, knowing full well he should have stopped two mouthfuls ago. “Oh this is happening is it?” Wednesday gave a half apologetic smile but said nothing. “My name is unimportant, sir.”

“Your father and his father might disagree with you there, boy” growled Wednesday, gesturing to the two metal containers.

“A fair point. Then you can call me Archer,” he said as he offered the hip-flask once more. “Could you take this from me for a moment, I’m not really allowed to drink and I think seeing a long dead God might be a warning I’ve already pushed the line to its limit.”

It was Wednesday’s turn to bark with laughter, joined after by both Archer and Chronos. After a few minutes, the laughter died and the two wiped their faces.

“You were never one for keeping your thoughts to yourself, lad.” came a third voice from behind them that caused Archer’s blood to freeze better than the weather ever had chance to. He turned to see his father stood, ginger-grey had closely cut and beard surprisingly tidy for someone who always screwed up the process of trimming it. He wore that same outfit that Archer thought of immediately when trying to think of his dad. He came and moved the urn out of the way and sat, looking over the stream ahead of them. “Trust you to actually do it, you stubborn git.”

The three sat in silence.

“Dad, we’ve never been religious. You had me baptised and you took me to church a couple of times as a kid but neither of us ever believed in God.” Archer offered out, trying to make sense of it all. “And yes, since I’d had the faculty to comprehend it, I have believed in the tales of Norse Mythology, but not as a devout believer. So why are we sat here with Wednesday?” He realised what he was saying after the fact and added, “No offence, of course.” Wednesday waved it aside and offered an answer before Dad could.

“Whatever faith, religion, colour, or creed, the idiom linked with death remains the same: Meet your Maker. For some, they we realise the full character of their parent. For others, they are welcomed by an angel through pearly gates. For all of humanity’s warring over it, there is but one God; they all just see him/her/they in a different light.”

Archer scoffed, “how very Tumblr safe of you, Wednesday.”

They sat in silence once more. Archer dropped his head into his hands and sobbed.

“You’re not real, are you? Either of you?” He said, finally raising his head. But no one was there. Just a cold metal container, and a hip-flask flung against the log opposite.

He steadied himself, collected the hip-flask, and then the urn. Rounding his shoulders, he stepped onto the bank and then onto the stepping stones leading across the weir. His hands shook in the cold, but also with the fear and reverence of the situation, as he hit the midway point and stopped. Carefully he turned the container lid and paused, trying to think of what his father would have wanted. It came to him in an instant, and through tearful eyes and a laugh at how stupid and cheesy the whole thing felt, he started to sing.

There’s a blackbird perched outside my window,

I hear him calling, I hear him sing.

He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers,

He sees all my sins, He reads my soul…

 

 


N.B.  My father is alive and as well as the grumpy old git can be. This is fictional, based off conversations we’ve had. Please do not read into this.

 

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