The Phoenix
Horribly disfigured after a failed attempt to rescue an airman from a burning plane the Phoenix retreats from a cruel and mocking world seeking to become like the tin man from Oz; a creature without a heart, indifferent to any emotion... but the shadow world of magic has other plans.
The year is 1938 and the world is ready for war but the first pawns in the game have already started moving.
Extract:
We’ve all seen those movies where the archetypal drunk sits alone in a bar at two am drowning his sorrows. Then he gets off his backside and goes to save the world.
Let me tell you they are all wrong! No bar could stay open that late without the police taking an interest, and barmen have their jobs to consider and homes to go to. I was propping the bar up, it was true, but it was two in the afternoon and the world could go hang for all I cared.
The barman wasn’t in a friendly mood. “No more money, no more drink. No more drink and you ain't welcome here,” he said nodding to the six foot six, twenty-stone thug hovering by the door.
I had the peculiar sensation of moving backwards as he grabbed me by the collar, then forward very fast as he threw me out of the door and across the pavement outside the club. Unfortunately his throw wasn’t so much a throw as a push and I prolonged my fall by trying to run to keep my feet in front of me. This stopped me falling but propelled me into the road straight in front of a MOD evacuation truck. A high pitched whine burst into my skull at a deafening volume. I saw the truck’s front bumper scything towards my legs. I imagined a tremendous thump as the bonnet slammed into my chest. I hallucinated the pain as my skull was crushed beneath its wheels
.
Then, for some reason, the pain and whine went away and I felt the world unreel.
I was back on the pavement, bone numbingly cold and covered in frost. The voice that registered in my befuddled brain was petulant, “Oh no you don’t, it’s not time, you can’t die yet,” and then I passed out.
We’ve all seen those movies where the archetypal drunk sits alone in a bar at two am drowning his sorrows. Then he gets off his backside and goes to save the world.
Let me tell you they are all wrong! No bar could stay open that late without the police taking an interest, and barmen have their jobs to consider and homes to go to. I was propping the bar up, it was true, but it was two in the afternoon and the world could go hang for all I cared.
The barman wasn’t in a friendly mood. “No more money, no more drink. No more drink and you ain't welcome here,” he said nodding to the six foot six, twenty-stone thug hovering by the door.
I had the peculiar sensation of moving backwards as he grabbed me by the collar, then forward very fast as he threw me out of the door and across the pavement outside the club. Unfortunately his throw wasn’t so much a throw as a push and I prolonged my fall by trying to run to keep my feet in front of me. This stopped me falling but propelled me into the road straight in front of a MOD evacuation truck. A high pitched whine burst into my skull at a deafening volume. I saw the truck’s front bumper scything towards my legs. I imagined a tremendous thump as the bonnet slammed into my chest. I hallucinated the pain as my skull was crushed beneath its wheels
.
Then, for some reason, the pain and whine went away and I felt the world unreel.
I was back on the pavement, bone numbingly cold and covered in frost. The voice that registered in my befuddled brain was petulant, “Oh no you don’t, it’s not time, you can’t die yet,” and then I passed out.
