Below are the 4 most recent journal entries recorded in Ian Macdonald's Blurty:

Monday, April 19th, 2004
12:59 am	Samuel Logan: The Cross. Part One The blood-drenched moon tempts me from the heavens where it is lay upon a veil of silken cloud. I ride the winds of fate upon my silver triumph defying those demons of my life whom have thwarted my every footstep. I fly through the city streets the bike roaring its music towards Mount Olympus itself. The world itself becomes a blur of light covering the universe as I cut through the barrier of life and light the sound of “Otterley” by the Cocteau Twins smoothly playing into my skull. I ride consistently, looking into the darkest of alleys daring those spirits of my world to enter here and attack me until finally I reach my destination. I turn from the main streets and into a quiet dingy foul smelling street. Resting my bike I step from off it and look up towards the bar (if you can call it that). It in itself is nothing scary, sure the blackened bricks from soot and ash give a daunting look and the large foreboding oak door with a small ‘gangster slit’ within it makes the place a little intimidating but other than that, its general looks say its nothing special. The name ‘The Cross’ is lit up in red lights though the first ‘s’ no longer works and flickers on and off. As I enter the club I look around, the furniture itself is exquisite the atmosphere of the room itself warm and friendly. I continue forward, the club is empty neither man nor woman is there, the dance floor has been deserted and I stand alone listening to the music playing softly in the background. “You!” a voice calls out towards me, I stop dead in my tracks holding my own in the dimly lit club centre. I close my eyes and think of the past how he locked me within his steel box, enclosing me, hiding me from the world. I raise my hands and stroke my neck, I feel the burning of its steel once more, around my neck tightens up and once more my breathing is restricted I can no longer speak and slowly I can feel the pain return. “Do you have a reason for being here?” once more it calls towards me yet still I cannot answer. It seems closer this time though, is he walking towards me? I have no way of knowing and so still I remain as the darkness fades and the lights are switched on. I close my eyes attempting to hide my fear, hide my darkness from this man. He walks towards me slowly emerging from the darkness like a comic book hero would emerge from the flames. I bow my head and muster the first few words I have spoken in almost seven months. “Do not be afraid. I am not here to kill, merely to seek a friend…” the man, whoever he was stops dead within the light his pale completion makes him seem almost white within the room. His clothes tell his story, their creases showing the late hours that he works the bag under his eyes answering most men’s questions of him. “Who do you seek?” he asks his own question bluntly, his heavy southern accent pushing out the words with utter contempt as to who I may be. I regain my confidence slowly first but I can feel the power returning to my veins, allowing me the breath again. I walk toward him my head bowed down deeply my fists curled ready for an attack if needed. “Who are you looking for?” still I do not answer his question merely look at him as though he should already know. I stand before him and speak my words, “I am Samuel. This is mine…” I speak of the club, I wish it for my own and as a man I have requested it. “Well Mr… Logan, unless you happen to be ‘The Blue Coral’ which I highly doubt…” he knows my name. The expression upon my face seemingly changes in that instant, no man has spoken that name since the end but now another had spoken it and this by far had become his worst sin. I snarl at him and stare into his now frightened eyes and ask simply, “And if I were, The Blue Coral?” he shudders as I speak my own name, closing his eyes for a moment he seems to search for the right words, those which will leave him in little to no pain. “Then I would ask what he planned on doing about Caspian. Then… then I would give him the keys…” I extend my hand waiting for the keys, after a moment of his rummaging within his pockets they are dropped within my hand. I smile wickedly and nod my head in thanks, as I turn and begin to walk back the centre of my bar he calls out to me, I spin on my heel waiting for him to repeat his words, “What was that…?” I ask of him, merely waiting could have me here for too long, I wait for his reply. “I asked – What are you going to do about Caspian? – I mean, Lights Out came back… and, and you were booked…” I nod in acknowledgement and understanding. “Were I my brother Mr…” “Jones!” “Yes, well. Were I my brother Mr. Jones. I would merely say that Caspian were not my problem. Yet you shall see…” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, telling him to leave me be. Even now in my dreams I could see the lights fading, the end coming to a place of near perfection. Why it had gone I could not myself fathom, I did not understand the call of ownership even with the keys to this small place within my hands, I could not understand why any man would leave. Mr. Jones leaves quietly since my answer seemed nothing to him, had he persuaded me to talk a little longer I would have explained that Caspian didn’t matter, only I mattered any longer. My suffering was over because no longer would I care for them, I find a seat within the small bar and sit, resting my eyes I drift to sleep and once more, the dreams come… (22 Comments |Comment on this)
12:59 am	Samuel Logan: The Cross. Part One The blood-drenched moon tempts me from the heavens where it is lay upon a veil of silken cloud. I ride the winds of fate upon my silver triumph defying those demons of my life whom have thwarted my every footstep. I fly through the city streets the bike roaring its music towards Mount Olympus itself. The world itself becomes a blur of light covering the universe as I cut through the barrier of life and light the sound of “Otterley” by the Cocteau Twins smoothly playing into my skull. I ride consistently, looking into the darkest of alleys daring those spirits of my world to enter here and attack me until finally I reach my destination. I turn from the main streets and into a quiet dingy foul smelling street. Resting my bike I step from off it and look up towards the bar (if you can call it that). It in itself is nothing scary, sure the blackened bricks from soot and ash give a daunting look and the large foreboding oak door with a small ‘gangster slit’ within it makes the place a little intimidating but other than that, its general looks say its nothing special. The name ‘The Cross’ is lit up in red lights though the first ‘s’ no longer works and flickers on and off. As I enter the club I look around, the furniture itself is exquisite the atmosphere of the room itself warm and friendly. I continue forward, the club is empty neither man nor woman is there, the dance floor has been deserted and I stand alone listening to the music playing softly in the background. “You!” a voice calls out towards me, I stop dead in my tracks holding my own in the dimly lit club centre. I close my eyes and think of the past how he locked me within his steel box, enclosing me, hiding me from the world. I raise my hands and stroke my neck, I feel the burning of its steel once more, around my neck tightens up and once more my breathing is restricted I can no longer speak and slowly I can feel the pain return. “Do you have a reason for being here?” once more it calls towards me yet still I cannot answer. It seems closer this time though, is he walking towards me? I have no way of knowing and so still I remain as the darkness fades and the lights are switched on. I close my eyes attempting to hide my fear, hide my darkness from this man. He walks towards me slowly emerging from the darkness like a comic book hero would emerge from the flames. I bow my head and muster the first few words I have spoken in almost seven months. “Do not be afraid. I am not here to kill, merely to seek a friend…” the man, whoever he was stops dead within the light his pale completion makes him seem almost white within the room. His clothes tell his story, their creases showing the late hours that he works the bag under his eyes answering most men’s questions of him. “Who do you seek?” he asks his own question bluntly, his heavy southern accent pushing out the words with utter contempt as to who I may be. I regain my confidence slowly first but I can feel the power returning to my veins, allowing me the breath again. I walk toward him my head bowed down deeply my fists curled ready for an attack if needed. “Who are you looking for?” still I do not answer his question merely look at him as though he should already know. I stand before him and speak my words, “I am Samuel. This is mine…” I speak of the club, I wish it for my own and as a man I have requested it. “Well Mr… Logan, unless you happen to be ‘The Blue Coral’ which I highly doubt…” he knows my name. The expression upon my face seemingly changes in that instant, no man has spoken that name since the end but now another had spoken it and this by far had become his worst sin. I snarl at him and stare into his now frightened eyes and ask simply, “And if I were, The Blue Coral?” he shudders as I speak my own name, closing his eyes for a moment he seems to search for the right words, those which will leave him in little to no pain. “Then I would ask what he planned on doing about Caspian. Then… then I would give him the keys…” I extend my hand waiting for the keys, after a moment of his rummaging within his pockets they are dropped within my hand. I smile wickedly and nod my head in thanks, as I turn and begin to walk back the centre of my bar he calls out to me, I spin on my heel waiting for him to repeat his words, “What was that…?” I ask of him, merely waiting could have me here for too long, I wait for his reply. “I asked – What are you going to do about Caspian? – I mean, Lights Out came back… and, and you were booked…” I nod in acknowledgement and understanding. “Were I my brother Mr…” “Jones!” “Yes, well. Were I my brother Mr. Jones. I would merely say that Caspian were not my problem. Yet you shall see…” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, telling him to leave me be. Even now in my dreams I could see the lights fading, the end coming to a place of near perfection. Why it had gone I could not myself fathom, I did not understand the call of ownership even with the keys to this small place within my hands, I could not understand why any man would leave. Mr. Jones leaves quietly since my answer seemed nothing to him, had he persuaded me to talk a little longer I would have explained that Caspian didn’t matter, only I mattered any longer. My suffering was over because no longer would I care for them, I find a seat within the small bar and sit, resting my eyes I drift to sleep and once more, the dreams come… (Comment on this)
12:59 am	Samuel Logan: The Cross. Part One The blood-drenched moon tempts me from the heavens where it is lay upon a veil of silken cloud. I ride the winds of fate upon my silver triumph defying those demons of my life whom have thwarted my every footstep. I fly through the city streets the bike roaring its music towards Mount Olympus itself. The world itself becomes a blur of light covering the universe as I cut through the barrier of life and light the sound of “Otterley” by the Cocteau Twins smoothly playing into my skull. I ride consistently, looking into the darkest of alleys daring those spirits of my world to enter here and attack me until finally I reach my destination. I turn from the main streets and into a quiet dingy foul smelling street. Resting my bike I step from off it and look up towards the bar (if you can call it that). It in itself is nothing scary, sure the blackened bricks from soot and ash give a daunting look and the large foreboding oak door with a small ‘gangster slit’ within it makes the place a little intimidating but other than that, its general looks say its nothing special. The name ‘The Cross’ is lit up in red lights though the first ‘s’ no longer works and flickers on and off. As I enter the club I look around, the furniture itself is exquisite the atmosphere of the room itself warm and friendly. I continue forward, the club is empty neither man nor woman is there, the dance floor has been deserted and I stand alone listening to the music playing softly in the background. “You!” a voice calls out towards me, I stop dead in my tracks holding my own in the dimly lit club centre. I close my eyes and think of the past how he locked me within his steel box, enclosing me, hiding me from the world. I raise my hands and stroke my neck, I feel the burning of its steel once more, around my neck tightens up and once more my breathing is restricted I can no longer speak and slowly I can feel the pain return. “Do you have a reason for being here?” once more it calls towards me yet still I cannot answer. It seems closer this time though, is he walking towards me? I have no way of knowing and so still I remain as the darkness fades and the lights are switched on. I close my eyes attempting to hide my fear, hide my darkness from this man. He walks towards me slowly emerging from the darkness like a comic book hero would emerge from the flames. I bow my head and muster the first few words I have spoken in almost seven months. “Do not be afraid. I am not here to kill, merely to seek a friend…” the man, whoever he was stops dead within the light his pale completion makes him seem almost white within the room. His clothes tell his story, their creases showing the late hours that he works the bag under his eyes answering most men’s questions of him. “Who do you seek?” he asks his own question bluntly, his heavy southern accent pushing out the words with utter contempt as to who I may be. I regain my confidence slowly first but I can feel the power returning to my veins, allowing me the breath again. I walk toward him my head bowed down deeply my fists curled ready for an attack if needed. “Who are you looking for?” still I do not answer his question merely look at him as though he should already know. I stand before him and speak my words, “I am Samuel. This is mine…” I speak of the club, I wish it for my own and as a man I have requested it. “Well Mr… Logan, unless you happen to be ‘The Blue Coral’ which I highly doubt…” he knows my name. The expression upon my face seemingly changes in that instant, no man has spoken that name since the end but now another had spoken it and this by far had become his worst sin. I snarl at him and stare into his now frightened eyes and ask simply, “And if I were, The Blue Coral?” he shudders as I speak my own name, closing his eyes for a moment he seems to search for the right words, those which will leave him in little to no pain. “Then I would ask what he planned on doing about Caspian. Then… then I would give him the keys…” I extend my hand waiting for the keys, after a moment of his rummaging within his pockets they are dropped within my hand. I smile wickedly and nod my head in thanks, as I turn and begin to walk back the centre of my bar he calls out to me, I spin on my heel waiting for him to repeat his words, “What was that…?” I ask of him, merely waiting could have me here for too long, I wait for his reply. “I asked – What are you going to do about Caspian? – I mean, Lights Out came back… and, and you were booked…” I nod in acknowledgement and understanding. “Were I my brother Mr…” “Jones!” “Yes, well. Were I my brother Mr. Jones. I would merely say that Caspian were not my problem. Yet you shall see…” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, telling him to leave me be. Even now in my dreams I could see the lights fading, the end coming to a place of near perfection. Why it had gone I could not myself fathom, I did not understand the call of ownership even with the keys to this small place within my hands, I could not understand why any man would leave. Mr. Jones leaves quietly since my answer seemed nothing to him, had he persuaded me to talk a little longer I would have explained that Caspian didn’t matter, only I mattered any longer. My suffering was over because no longer would I care for them, I find a seat within the small bar and sit, resting my eyes I drift to sleep and once more, the dreams come… (Comment on this)
12:47 am	Daniel Logan: Staying Alone. Part One :1: I am alone in the void; silver images glaring about my eyes make pictures of faces that I have long since denied from their existence. Their faces make the background brighter as the void swallows eternity relentlessly, forever ceasing those things that had passed before. Since when had I become a part of the void? Part of its infinite hunger for all in existence. When had I become this never-ending pit of frailty and despair that I could see within myself now? Had my mind given in to the pressures of modern day living at last? Eternity had at once in my tiny intricate mind become less of a mystery seeming magnified as I glare at those faces of my past. I refuse; I will not, cannot open eyes. I can never allow the burning rays of sunshine to peer into my inner most secrets, the hidden memory that I hold from all but me. I shall never allow for the burning glare to destroy my defences, for that in itself should be a sin that I could never be forgiven for. What is the sun if not my greatest most deadly enemy, the most cunning of adversaries as it devours the moon and its darkness. Though with all of my mind, all of my being, I do not wish these slats of my eye lid to peel back and to welcome in the morning. Peel they do, and my minds eye vanishes, hides once more from me as the sun begins to read my story, read me, like a book. Waking from my rest had not always been this, a daunting routine that my body would force of me each and every day. The task itself would usually take an hour for me, as I would wake I would cry out in pain, though it would not be pain that I would feel. Life is a ball game, unpredictable from the word ‘go’ causing great guesses to be made, some times, no, most times. In haste. Once upon a time, those images would never have dared enter my dreams, never thinking twice about infiltrating my thoughts during the day, but now they were frequent. I, had been an angel, flying on golden wings high above all others anywhere. Those had been days of extravagance and despondency, my life during those few years would change more than at any other stage of my life. Why I had made those decisions I myself could no longer tell you, what had empowered my mind and soul during those times of brutality only someone most high could answer. I had rode upon a horse of ecstasy that would lead only to one thing, a come down of over pretentious crap! How I enjoyed those times, how my love of life during those moments had been amplified. The thrill of life I would feel once taking myself to limits set only by my body. I was an angel with silken wings, at any stage (and oh that stage came) they may be riddled with rot, and soon the rot would take control and devour my lift as I flew. Those images had left my body for today however and they would not return for a while at least. My mind begins once more to focus on those things that I need to achieve today, those that I need to achieve during the next stage of my life. I yawn, sound escaping from my soul it moans as the Celts would have screamed as they fought the Roman onslaught. Loud and proud my vocal cords rip through the silence of my room, my home. I glance around my Victorian bed, its four posters covered with its own silk, red and embroidered so to look as beautiful as it would feel. I glance to my side and brush away the pillow by my arm revealing the letter once more. I lift it slowly, contemplating whether I am to read it now, or leave it there and forget it was ever sent. My mind tells me that to read it once more would only to be punch myself within the face, but every part of my soul tells me that I should read it once more as with it, may come understanding. Dear Daniel, I write this to tell you of our son, Christopher. It has been many months since we were in contact and I have refused divorce from you since early January this year as through stress I have been unable to reply to any letter that I have received. Christopher passed away twelve weeks ago (March 17th) after a battle with what I had thought to be an ordinary cold. I have wrote this upon realisation that in truth, he never stopped loving you as the father you should have been and through our own arguments have prevented him from the caring relationship that he should have had, he felt loved by us both in those last weeks. Christopher managed three months and two days battling hard with his ‘cold’ in the centre of the Amazon jungle. For a while we remained with his uncle and your mentor until fleeing as you advanced upon us. Daniel, my words to you will come as a shock, I just hope that this letter shall reach you soon and your endeavour to capture your sons life will end. I know that you felt a great deal for your son and though now you shall never see his glowing eyes once more I have every belief that you shall one day too, get over this message. For two years I supported Christopher alone without support of your finance however and I am sure you understand when I ask for some of the money that you never spent on him, to be sent now to me in compensation of my great losses. I have enclosed a few invoices etc to prove my claims however the cost to you will lie at around $400,000, I shall expect payment by December Emma. My wife had become a scoundrel, any woman who would tell their man of a child’s death only to receive money is as such. I clench my fist around the note and cry tears once more for my son. The golden locks that fell upon his face had become my inspiration during my last months as the images had become more violent. The letter I had expected to receive from her was more one of divorce proceedings, however still that had not shown. Maybe, I though. It was me, maybe I truthfully had shown little compassion to my son and the cash that I had sent over for him had been spent by those whom I had asked to deliver it instead of her. Yet from the content of this letter I had my doubts. I roll from my back upwards supporting my weight and sitting upright for the first time this morning, my naked body is cold within the air and pimples of cold cover my entire body. My room is bright with the sunlight of the morning and though I feel hate for its burning glare I am comforted by its warmness, it tender touch upon my skin as it fills my body banishing the cold. I stand up and place my nightgown onto my shoulders covering my body in more politeness for those outside rather than my own need. Soon I shall be the angel once more, but until then I have things to do. I walk quickly to the bathroom and gaze into the mirror upon the wall in front of me as I stride inside the room. I close the door and smile at myself, in knowledge and in fear at what I will once more become. I gaze into the mirror, look into my face and cry tears of resentment for those whom have destroyed my youth. The mirror seems to be their embodiment now, seems to be the only act of life that they hold. I was there at the war, I was there at the beginning and I’ll be here come the end. The life of people, their courage and wants have never changed, they resent happiness and yet strive for it every day, and they loathe murder and yet kill with every word they utter. I have never been that way, I knew what I was and what I could do and that left me able to commit no sin to my body. I am here through injustice and mock peace because that is the reason I live. My broken halo and rotting wings have been pushed to the side, I show no love for I feel none, and I feel no love because there is none any longer here. When I pushed forwards with my soul, in knowledge that what I said was right, I was pushed backwards without a second glance as those about me failed to see more than just what was before their eyes. They were set to return, those whom I had fought so long, those whom I had refused to reunite with, and those whom had vowed to kill me. It would not be so easy to kill me, this they knew, but they would try anyway, it didn’t matter how long it took, for time to them, like me, has no meaning. I touch my face and trace the lines of my soul with my hands, how smooth this face once had been, immaculate. Now I was deformed, I had become like many others, ugly. This had not been the idea of my gracious parent, this had not been the firm hand which he had laid down for me, no. I had defied him and for that he had cursed me, he had taken from me those things which for a time I had valued the most, he had taken all. I look at myself and hold my face in contempt, though I had once been an angel, I was one no longer and to hold within my mind the desire of every man was only natural. I had become a man at my own choice, I had chosen to remain as a man so to keep the love of a woman who had betrayed me. I held her in my arms as she died and I cried as any other man would, I cried tears from the soul. Removal of the eternal life would have been happily accepted but deformation took from me something else, it took the acceptance of people from me. It took the love of those people whom had housed me through the longest days of the war. The war, it had been something spurred on from nothing. My lord, god, had asked for more than he could ever have power over, and we had rebelled we had denied from him what he had asked. I close my eyes and look away from the mirror and walk blinded by choice into my room once more, into the abyss. Some books just shouldn’t be read, they aren’t there to be opened and my mind is one of them. I have been through too much, I have shown sides of myself that I would never wish to have revealed. Desert storms, much blood has been spilled in the dry suburbs of my body, much blood has been dropped upon the stone of the veiled satin of the mid day sands in Cairo, my home. I am an English man, I am honour bound to my French soul mate standing tall with Egyptian honour, I cried tears of joy upon the day of the Tsar and his families death, why my soul has travelled through time only it may tell you. The soul, my soul, is hardened by every move that I make, I have suffered like no man I have known before, though soon my suffering shall come to an end. There shall be a war once more, there shall be no peace upon the Earth in the days to come, by why, this is a question many could not answer, from Cain only can come the blood of the one who must end this, from Cain must the end come like came the beginning. Souls of Gaul, spirits of the ancient tribes of all lands are here once more, talking, wandering, feeding, soon many of them shall feel strong again, and only she may be the conqueror. I have found her, she searches me though she has yet to understand it, the queen of the damned as those of the films have named her, a servant of the blood as she is. I have searched a millennia to find her, finding her attributes and taking them so far, only to find them not to be her, but now, it is different, now I know she hears me… Drusilla Cross looks into the eyes of her students empowered, once more her blood seems to be racing through her streams feeding her power like no other feeling describable. At twenty four now Drusilla should be used to these feelings, their occurrence has been regular since her 16th birthday but now they seemed stronger, as though her urges had been multiplied and her resolve was all but gone. Eight years is a long time for anyone, longer when you felt the passing of the seasons as you had once felt the entire year, but for Drusilla life had been empty and this dragged those times further into eternity and brought her mind further into boredom. She stares further into her students eyes, reading them, they were bored too, though never would they understand, never could they. Drusilla turns slowly to the large black board standing tall, looming easily above her. Lifting the chalk she shudders as the dry powdered chalk rubs upon her hand, stimulating it, ‘going through’ her. “Your homework tonight…” “Do we have to have homework miss?!” Tommy Cooper interrupts her mid sentence, trying to impress his peers through his cocky response. “Yes Tommy, we do. For that though, you can have double.” The comment was blunt and left Tommy stunned, Drusilla was usually the nice one, the teacher they could laugh with, today something had changed. “For you, Mr. Cooper. I shall require eighteen sides of A4 paper, an essay upon the myth of the Vampire” Tommy shrugged his shoulders unbothered by her threats, mumbling under his voice that he wouldn’t be doing it anyway. “Yes! Mr. Cooper! You will be doing it, and for that comment you shall remain behind after this lesson!” the rest of the class looked at Tommy, staring at him as though waiting for another comment, but none came. Drusilla smiles to herself, victory had been hers and turning to talk once more to the remainder of the room “For the rest of you, I shall require only nine sides” a sigh of relief seems to echo around the room and Drusilla nods her head to them giving permission for them, as usual, to leave. Her face becomes mellow, loosing once more the power within her body, Drusilla seems to become the same person as her usual self, she smiles at Tommy and pleasantly speaks out “Why are you not gone yet Tom? I said you could all leave…” Tommy seems confused but reluctant to speak and so lifting his bag and flinging it behind him, he runs from the room. She smiles to herself, that power, that beautiful feeling doesn’t last long, but when it comes eternity seems to hold all the answers, the question is though, how can she hold on to it? The answer was an obvious one, she had to take what she had denied from herself for so very long, she had to devour it once more. Drusilla closes her eyes, the Earth moves within her mind as she feels every movement upon its crust. She smiles with pure evil in her heart looking at herself through morbid eyes seeing only the worst of herself. Whatever the power was, whatever she held within her body, she must harness it, this she knew, and this she could feel with all of her being. She turns to face her board once more, its blackness an eternal reminder of that which we shall all one day become, nothing. Why do we presume that nothingness is created in the bleakness of such a colour as black? Why is it that its sheer radiance fills it with nothing but fear and loathing? There in her mind, and my own, lie many questions like this, many questions unanswerable from the many and nothing more than trivial for the few. One day I may harness those answers, I may exploit the fullness of them within my own private hell, until that day however she and I stand together, alone, she and I stand forever apart yet drawn towards our rendezvous with primal speed. I stare into the mirror and she into the black board and for a moment only, we stare at one another through time and physical barriers we are together for the first time. 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