Sam Redlark

image generated by Craiyon George Klynman was a casual acquaintance of mine over what was roughly a two-year period. I assume that our unlikely crossing of paths was the result of our names having found their way onto one of those off-the-peg guest lists that do the rounds among PR firms. For a while, we seemed to be continually bumping into each other at social functions. He is a tall man – I believe 6ft4 – and well-built; not an easy person to miss in a crowd. He is gregarious to boot. Though I liked him a lot, I came to dread his intimidating, wall-like smile broadcasting his recognition from across the room, followed by the raised glass of fizz and the over-friendly cry of “alright there Redders,” which I did not appreciate. This would be followed by a restrained slap across the shoulders that, despite his efforts to rein-in his strength, I always had to brace for, to avoid being knocked over. The repeated experience has left me with a greatly enhanced respect for anyone who has ab

image generated by Craiyon “Earlier, I saw from the window of my room, your men loading a quantity of barrels onto one of my wagons,” said Sir Echarde. “I counted eight in total.” His fingertips absently probed a dewy rosette of deep-pink petals, forcing the flower head down under his touch. He continued to dawdle along the brick fringe of the earth bed until his trailing hand strayed from the rose. The stem sprang back to its approximate original position, oscillating stiffly, hither and yon, between converging poles, shaking off old raindrops. A blackbird, that had been hopping around on the damp topsoil, silently took to the air. “Shale from the Norwegian fjord beds, preserved in its own water,” said Southwell. The blackbird alighted as a silhouette on the wiry branch of a nearby quince tree, where it scattered a rising alarm call across the ornamental gardens. Southwell was a fellow of the Unified Wells. Two years before, he had been made a Knight of the Loft in recognition of his

image generated by Craiyon The massive hull of The Nore Croft was fashioned from half-metre-thick glass that had been clouded with aqueous salt, rendering it opaque. It was named after a ramshackle navigational marker, formerly a small cottage, that once occupied a brackish peninsula at the mouth of the Thames Estuary. The heaped rubble of the smallholding, around which sheep had once grazed, with strands of green seaweed straggling their fleeces, was commonly lit as a beacon during inclement weather. By the end of 1918, it had been swamped by rising tide levels: “Displaced by the bodies of those fighting men whose lives were claimed by the sea,” according to Rose Kirtley – the writer of a hugely-popular, but now largely forgotten, volume of self-penned meditational verse, titled Tea Breaths: Poems for Secretaries . I have, on my desk in front of me, copies of the notes for an unwritten autobiography that were made by the architect of The Nore Croft – one Leonard Shapland. He recalls t

image generated by Craiyon The fog of prehistory disperses to reveal a likeness of Britain that is net yet called Britain. It is known by older names – Albion or Pretannia, both fabrications of foreign tongues, gifted to the island by the scholars of more advanced nations. An unknown soldier of this era licks the loose red thread of what could have been a more serious wound, and surveys the field of battle in the aftermath of a victory, or else crouches down in the ferns, among the trees, as a remnant of a defeated force, hiding from the voices of those who would gladly add his name to the roll-call of the dead. He detects, in the congealing blood, the taint of the weapon that caused the injury – the same iron that he has perhaps witnessed being drawn from a bloom of slag metal and its own spongy cast-offs, either in a pit, or at the foot of a clay chimney. He also tastes salt – the lifeblood of the sea – the crucible of his unknown origins. When salt is added to certain foods, it has

image generated by Craiyon It is misleading to say that Victoriana Primaria – the Great Star of the Equatorial South – appeared in the heavens on the eve of the 24th May, 1819, hours after the birth of Alexandrina Victoria; who would later become Queen Victoria. Nonetheless, the claim is often repeated. In a world where received wisdom is increasingly favoured over hard evidence, there are many, no doubt, who believe it to be true. I will admit that there is something appealing in the idea that the organisation of the firmament is still beholden to the reign or kings and queen, as was reportedly the case during Biblical times. In fact, the star had been visible in the skies since the mid-1700s, with many ship's captains making mention of it in their logbooks. A century before, members of various First Nation tribes had noticed it as a faint, troubling presence in the Southern Hemisphere. These indigenous peoples are known for their keen visual intelligence. A particular arrangement

image generated by Craiyon “The Chinese Empire, which is the empire of the 21st century and the centuries that lie beyond, already extends a greater invisible reach than any other in the historical record,” said Gan Bai. He did not frame his claim as a boast, but more as an undeniable statement of fact. I was looking past him towards a gloomy cluster of champagne magnums. They had been pushed together into the tapering niche of a large, recessed window that faced onto the room at an unfriendly angle, seemingly against the grain of the table layout. Heavy drapes obscured a view of the Strand, deadening the sounds of the London traffic. The burnished gold labels on the sides of the bottles were garnished with giant oriental characters printed in glossy black ink. The lettering caught the light dimly, like puddles of dark liquid. The muzzle-braked bottlenecks were stoppered with enormous corks that gave them the appearance of artillery barrels. “The Chinese incursion has yet to reach Corn