The Light Within Tears – Prologue

A/N: This is the prologue to the novel I’ve been working on. The revision for the full story will be done soon, and then it will be in BETA, meaning anyone that wants to read it, can. It’s a short thing, as I believe the best prologues often are. I will post again to remind everyone when the book is available for beta readers. Until then, enjoy this.

Please let me know what you think of it through whatever channels you wish.

And yes, I’m aware I’ve not been posting for two weeks. But don’t worry, there’s a lot of content on the way!


The Start of The End

“We never foresaw this. We never meant for this to happen. Especially not her. Of all people… especially not her.”

~ Unknown

“This is not your story,” the talking book says to me.

I look at the golden face embossed into its leathery-black cover. Its mouth remains nothing more than a thin line as it speaks.

“I know that,” I say sharply. “But I want to know what happened.”

I’m sitting in a field of brown within a place ruled by darkness. Dark creatures roam the land, some are as small as me, others are much, much larger. Big or small, they don’t bother me. There are thousands of these creatures, but there are no people. All the towns and cities I’ve seen are empty, dirty, dark, broken.

I frown as I glare down at the book. It’s laying on the earthy ground, somehow watching me with its ever-closed eyes.

“You know everything,” I tell it. It likes being flattered, being told how smart it is. “You say you know everything about the past. So, tell me then. Tell me about the past.”

“Indeed, I do know of the past,” the book proudly affirms in its matronly voice. I stifle a smirk; I know the thing too well. “And it is your right to know, Mistress. But to know how the present came to be, I must tell you about the journey of the ones instrumental in its creation. The False Herald, The Misguided Prodigy, and The Aspiring Goddess. I shall tell you the story in three installments, each a year apart.”

“What?” I exclaim. “Why do I have to wait three years to know? I’ll be fifteen by the time I’ve heard the whole story! What’s the point in that?”

“There are some things, Mistress, some stories, that must be experienced in their entirety. Sometimes, that means more than simply knowing the story itself. Sometimes, we must take time out to consider, to understand, to wonder.”

“And…” I narrow my eyes at the damned tome. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because whilst this is not your story, it is one you ought to know, one you deserve to know, and if you dare to venture into the world beyond the darkness, then it is one you must know.”

“Then tell me it all now!” I demand. “Tell me so I can get out of this cursed place!”

“No, Mistress.”


“No. There are many things you may demand of me, but assisting in your death is not one of them. This world hates you. The force that governs it hates you. To face it appropriately you must first be prepared. I shall inform you of the power of your adversaries and teach you about your own. I shall instruct you on how to use me, and when to use me. I shall tell you the story of the past so you may understand the present, and know how to confront the future. And then, and only then, shall you be ready.”

I consider the book’s words. They sound clever and wise, but this blasted book always sounds clever and wise. “And it will take three years?”


“Fine,” I sigh. “It’s not like I’ve got much better things to do.”

“I must forewarn you, Mistress,” the book says solemnly. “This is a story of tragedy. Indeed, there will be light and joy. Indeed, you may grow attached to these people and their stories. Indeed, you may yearn to return to such times when the sky was a calm blue. But remember, Mistress, this story’s end has been set, and you now live the aftermath of it.”

“I know,” I say, suddenly afraid. Why am I afraid? Like the book says, I know the ending. But then I realise that I don’t. I don’t know the ending, I just know what the world looks like after it. I don’t know why the sky is red, why it screams thunder and spits acid. Or why there are dark creatures everywhere and abandoned cities. But the book tells me I cannot leave here until I do know. I want to see the world outside of this darkness. If knowing this can grant me that, then I am willing to know it all, however long it must take.

So, to the book I say, “Tell me.”

And to me, the book says, “Very well, Mistress. I shall tell you the first story, the story of the light within tears. It begins as many stories do, with a chosen youth with a grand, undeniable Fate. And this youth is a girl of white hair and blue eyes.”

Anime List: (where I get a fair amount of my inspiration)


I have been waiting a while to talk about this! Finally, in episode 7 of the From Zero Podcast, I do. I suppose, in the context of my YouTube channel and content, it’s not been that long. But for me personally, I have wanted to talk about this for quite some time.

Science-fantasy is a genre I have a lot of passion and love for. It’s stupidly underappreciated, and I have abolsutely no idea why. People don’t make stories in science-fantasy settings very often, and I find it mind-boggling.

In this episode, I give my own definition of science-fantasy, as I understand it, and how I feel such a setting can be best created.

If you know of any science-fantasy stories, be sure to recommend them to me. BUT, listen to the whole podcast before you do. You may find my idea of science-fantasy is not exactly the same as yours.


Anime List: (where I get a fair amount of my inspiration)

Realism in Fantasy Stories

The podcast originally released as normal, but the accompanying blog post somehow… was not.

For whatever reason, this post was published with no text whatsoever. Even though I’m very sure I spent about 10 minutes typing the whole bloody thing out!


Basically, this is the sixth episode of my podcast. I wanted to discuss the matter of ‘realism’ in fantasy stories. I feel like sometimes we get ‘too caught up in the fantasy’ and essentially put some of the realistic elements on the back-burner.

I talk in the video about why this can sometimes happen, why it’s a bit of a problem, and how to resolve it.

Take a listen!

Snapchat: Novelicity

Three Ways to Overcome Writer’s Block

The most typical of all writing topics.

I have wanted to make some shorter videos on various typical topics that writer’s often talk about. Finally, after weeks of putting it off, I did.

In these videos, I will be give my views on these subjects, whilst providing some insight into what has helped me with them in the past.

This is the crucial part of these videos: they’re purely from my own experience. No videos on writing topics that I have never had to deal with. Those topics will be done in separate videos that I will title as ‘Musings’. But more on that when the time comes.

I usually have an odd way of thinking about things, but the first two bits of advice are rather standard. The third isn’t that weird, but it’s something you may have not heard as advice before, and it’s rather useful.

Hope you enjoy the video!

Snapchat: Novelicity

Anime-Inspired Stories

The fifth episode of the From Zero Podcast has arrived!

This is one of the topics that led to me making this podcast to begin with. One thing I knew would set the podcast apart from others, was my eagerness to talk about ideas and topics that nearly nobody speaks on.

There seems to be a trend among young writers to draw inspiration from anime, to create what is being dubbed by some as ‘anime-inspired stories’.

Anime is something I have rarely heard authors bring up in regards to writing, and in the podcast I reference some of the few times I have heard it.

I also give my thoughts on this peculiar subgenre of storytelling, and how I think it can be done well.

If you’re someone who loves anime and writing, or maybe just one of those things, why not take a listen? And trust me, you can expect more content on this theme in the future.

iTunes link:

My Curious Guest

Note #1

I don’t want to say too much, because the story should mostly speak for itself. All you need to know is that the bones of this story literally came from a dream I had the other day (2nd March). This was all written in a single day. Besides poems and chapters, that’s the fastest I’ve ever written something complete. I hope you enjoy it, I’m rather proud of it.

Note #2 gives a bit of explanation about the story, but it’s at the bottom. If you don’t want to have anything explained, then just ignore that part.

DISCLAIMER: There is a lot of swearing and some potentially disturbing content.

One of the great cosmic laws, I think, is that whatever we hold in our thought will come true in our experience. When we hold something, anything, in our thought, then somehow coincidence leads us in the direction that we’ve been wishing to lead ourselves.

~ Richard Bach

That man is considering killing his wife, or so I pretend. That blonde lady has deliberately dressed down to hide her wealth. That guy in the sharp suit is on the phone securing a shady business transaction.

As I stroll down the road, I tell myself these things. None of it is true, of course, it is merely a mental roleplay that I direct from the director’s chair of my mind.

Perhaps many people do something like this. Perhaps not. Either way, I do it because I find it makes the otherwise mundane trot down this otherwise mundane road, not so mundane. Maybe that’s strange to others. Good thing others don’t know about it then.

How a high-street in the capital can be so boring, is beyond me. Perhaps it’s the whole grass is greener thing, but–

Oh. There’s a person standing in one of the many windows in one of the many towering office buildings. He seems to be on the phone too. Perhaps he’s on the other end of the same call as the well-dressed man from earlier, and he’s providing inside information about the company. He’s a terrorist. Maybe he’s going to blow up the entire building.

In reality, I don’t want such tragic things to happen. But come on, nothing crazy ever happens on this street anyway.

“Stop him!” I hear someone cry out. Several screams follow from somewhere behind me.

Instinctively, I turn to see what all the fuss is about, only to see a sea of people who look as confused as I do. I look down the high-street, but I can see nothing of alarm. But then I hear more cries, and I realise they’re coming from beside me, across the road.

I spot a figure, clad in black barging through, knocking children and people aside as they do so. My thoughts are a flurry, adrenaline rushes through my body, and despite all this, I am still as stone.

The figure’s face is hidden beneath a balaclava as they rush into one of the high-street bank branches. I see the figure pull out what looks like a long pole. I think it’s ridiculous, but it’s enough to stamp terror into the faces of the people in the branch.

Curiously, he doesn’t try to stop the people that flee. No hostages then? This must be a quick hit and run. Get the money and get out. I can’t hear much of anything, but I see people dialling on their phones, obviously calling police. The robber seems to be trying to shake down the tellers, stabbing the space near their faces, and then nodding at the rucksack he’s placed on their desk.

Suddenly, a rather plump black woman in a green blouse approaches the robber. She seems to be trying to reason with him. She places one hand on her stomach and the other on her chest. No, not her chest, on a crucifix hanging from her neck.

The figure turns to regard her, but if he’s saying something I can’t hear it. All I hear is the cry that escapes the woman’s throat as he backhands her when she tries to put a hand on his shoulder.

The woman raises one hand in a forestalling motion, the other still on her stomach. I can just about hear what she’s saying. “Please! Please! Don’t hurt me!” The robber turns around, I only catch part of his muffled words. “…just don’t try to fuck with me!” The voice seems a lot higher pitched than I would have expected, despite the muffling.

And then a ginger-haired woman runs to tend to the black woman. She also raises a forestalling hand to the robber. All I hear her say is, “She’s pregnant!”

Is that why she kept putting a hand on her stomach? Jesus. I hope the baby is okay after the woman was pushed like that.

Why am I even still standing here? Why don’t I try to do something to help? But what could I do?

Just then, the sound of sirens pierces through the street racket. I look at the people nonchalantly driving past. They honestly have no idea that they’re passing a bank robbery, do they? Have I ever been one of those people?

I turn my attention back to the robber. I still find myself paralysed. It occurs to me that I might be experiencing shock. Or perhaps I’m just a coward, as usual. Unable to save anyone or anything.

The robber is looking around the room, as though looking for another exit. “Fuck!” he yells. He must have heard the sirens. He dashes out the entrance, leaving his rucksack and whatever money was in it behind. What a waste of everyone’s time and energy. If you’re going to do a robbery and force people to suffer through it, at least take the fucking money.

The robber looks in complete disorder for a path of escape. And then he looks across the street, at me. He runs straight towards me. Why? What did I do? Had I seen too much?

I have little time to consider the possibilities. Within a couple of blinks, he is dead in front of me. Thankfully he rushes past me, but then…

But then…

For a reason that I will probably not live long enough to understand, my hand moves of its own accord, and grabs him by the arm. Through the layer of leather on his motorcycle jacket, I feel his arm. It’s more tender that I would have expected. In fact, his entire figure is rather… petite.

With a grunt, he tries to strike at me with his metal pole. Once again, my body moves on its own, and reflexively, I grab it, and pull it from his grip. Now I hold the weapon. How on earth did that happen?

The strip of sight his balaclava allows him, also allows me to see the shock in his eyes. Wait… not his eyes. Her eyes. It’s a woman. I can see enough of the face to tell. And judging by the features, an Asian woman.

Once more, my body conspires against me. Betraying my thoughts, it grabs the woman by the arm and I run her down the street. She struggles, but the force of my hand trumps that of her own. I take a sharp turn, down one of the side streets.

“Let go of me!” she says. Now it’s clear to me that voice belongs to a female. I ignore her, still shifting us as far from the bank as possible. When I finally do stop, I find myself by my penthouse apartment.

“You need to come inside,” I say to her. “The police will get you otherwise.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She shouts. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“I can tell you’re scared,” I say. But why do I say it? “I know you didn’t mean to do what you did. You can talk to me about it, alright?” No, no, no! That’s not alright, and why am I saying it is?

It’s the moment that more sirens sound from nearby that I realise that this woman is going to come into my penthouse, and I’m going to deeply regret it. But my words betray my mind.

“I can’t!” She says. “I can’t! I need to get the fuck away from here!”

“My penthouse is safe,” I tell her. “If the police come, I can hide you in my panic room.” My thoughts and words are not matching up in the slightest.

“Why?” she challenges with a frown. Actually, she has been frowning the entire time. “Why would you help me?”

“You can come in here now, and be safe now. Or you can try and make your own luck out there.”

Even with her face covered, I can see the hesitation on it. With her jet-black motorcycle outfit, it’s no surprise she was mistaken for a man at first glance.

“Fuck!” She shouts as she stamps her boots. “Fuck sakes!” She lets out a growl of frustration before conceding. “Hurry up then!”


“So why did you do it?”

We’re sitting in the living room of my penthouse. I’m quite literally on the edge of my seat, whilst she sits to my left, on the couch, absently gazing at the ashtray atop the mahogany table. She looks to be about my age, in her early 20s. With her long black hair tied into a ponytail, she looks so innocent. Resting her hands in her lap only further emphasises her youth.

“Are you going to answer me or n–”

“Why did you fucking bring me here?” She cuts in with a scowl. “And before you say it, yeah, I know I came in to your house. But why did you drag me outside of it?”

I stare down at my shoes, hands clasped between my legs. “I don’t know.” I sigh. I look back at her, she immediately breaks eye contact. “Come on, why did you do it?”

The young woman’s eyes turn to me and she gives me a wry smile. “I don’t know.”

I feel my chest tighten as her eyes fall on me. “H-how can you not know why you attempted to rob a bank?”

“How can you not know why you helped someone who attempted to rob a bank?”

That annoyed me. She was obviously parroting me. She’s lucky I even helped her, let alone give her the chance to explain. Why am I giving her the chance to explain? I should call the police, but they might reckon I’m an accomplice. I don’t need them skimming through my place. I might as well try to salvage a good story from all this. If the police do come sniffing, maybe I could use her story as evidence to dodge a sentence.

This entire situation makes no sense. I done three things I would never have thought possible. I not only tried to stop her, I did. I disarmed her with ease, and then, for whatever reason, dragged her back to my apartment. Now that I think about it, that doesn’t sound flattering or innocent at all. My story might need a bit of revising before I present it to the police.

I look at the woman, her soft features clear as day. Is that what it was? Did her exotic attractiveness captivate me? Did the maddening magic of lust cause me to lose all sense and act on some base impulse? Surely not. I’d seen plenty of women I find attractive, and whilst I wouldn’t have minded bringing them home, I never forced them to.

Besides, I don’t know her and yet I’m endangering everything I do know for her sake. Why did I have to be walking down that road at that time? Why did I have to see it? And why, for god’s sake, did I have to get myself involved?

I cover my face with my hands and let out a low grunt. I don’t even want to think about the ramifications of all this. “Look,” I say, my hands sliding down my face. “This is just a big mess, ain’t it? Just… just go, alright? And try not to get yourself into anymore trouble.” Oddly, I realise that my feelings don’t match my words. I don’t want her to go. I want to know the reason she did it.

Of course, I do. She provided a real-world drama that until now, I’d only been making up. Well, I had lived my fair share of dramatic experiences, but this was the first in a long time. I’m not surprised I’m slightly enamored by it. By her.

“You helped me,” she said, still looking elsewhere.

“Yes,” I said. Then, I muttered, “Unfortunately.”

“You didn’t have to do that. And I’m not sure why the fuck you did. Your entire fucking life could be shitty now.”

I repeat the words, “Yes, unfortunately.”

“It just seems like such a stupid thing to do.”

I clench my fist.

“Are you a stupid person?”

I take a moment to consider, and then, very honestly, I answer, “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Well that explains it then. But look… I think it’s only fair I explain my side of it.”

I perk up at that. Finally.

She nods at a framed picture on the table. “I noticed that photo of you and your brother.”

I frown with surprise. “How did you know he’s my brother?”

“Do you think I’m fucking dumb? I’m not you, you know. He looks like you, he’s blatantly too young to be your dad, and much too old to be your son, unless your family has shit genes.”

“Or very good. If he was my dad, anyway.”

“Whatever. It reminded me of my brother. But you look like you actually love your brother.”

“You don’t?”

“He was a piece of shit. And my mum, she was the spawn of Satan. Nah. She was his fucking spit. Spawn is too important for what she was.”

I wonder what any of this has to do with the bank robbery, but I just let her continue. I’m glad she’s talking at all.

“They made my life shit. I’m not talking about grounding me for not getting A’s type of shit either. I know that’s the stereotype, but honestly, I’d have preferred that to the shit I dealt with. Every fucking hour I was at home there was something happening. She used me as… like… an experiment. She wanted to test all sorts of weird shit on me. What happens when your daughter is beaten multiple times? What if you cut her here? What about there? How long does it take for her to adjust to you cutting her arms?”

I look at her arms, but they’re covered by her jacket. Not sure I’d want to see them to be honest.

“And then she gets your fucking brother in on it. He does the same things, but it hurts even more, because he’s a fucking boy. He tattoos parts of your body because he thinks it’s ‘artistic’. Your mum makes you sit at the dinner table, full of food, and watch as she and your brother eats, and you get the scraps. The dog’s scraps. Why? Because it’s so much more interesting that way.”

“See, my mum was all about making things more dramatic, more intense, more fucking painful. If it sounded fucked up enough, sure enough she’d give it a go. Or make me give it a go rather. Living her twisted life of splendour on my dead father’s money! What a piece of… argh!” She breaks into tears. “Why the fuck am I telling you all this?”

I was wondering the same thing. But instead of adding to the mood, I try to change it. “Because I’m a sweet, swell guy, of course.”

She grimaces, tears streaming down her reddened face. “What? The fuck you talking about?”

Okay, wrong move. More sympathy then. “L-look, I’m… I’m sorry that all this stuff happened to you.”

She shakes her head and brushes her hair out of her face. For a moment, I can see dark markings etched onto her ears, but her hair quickly conceals them again.

“What are you sorry for? You can’t be sorry. You have to actually give a shit to be sorry. And to give a shit, you have to know me. And nobody fucking knows me.”

“That’s not true. Have you never heard of unconditional love?”

“Bullshit!” She spits out. “All love is conditional! Even your parents fucking love you conditionally. My mum only loved me when I screamed. Your mum only loved you when you didn’t piss her off! Unconditional love.” She scoffs. “You’re chatting shit.”

“Yeah, but…” I speak weakly. I don’t know her life. I can’t pretend to know.

“Dirt and pain!” She continues. “There was a shit load of that. A shit load of dirt… that at times was probably actually real shit. There was just…” her words break off, overpowered by the sobbing.

My instinct is to try and comfort her, to hug her or something. But that feels like another wrong move.

“Dirt and pain. D-dirt and pain. Dirt and f-fucking pain. S-so, so, s-so much d-dirt. So dark and… s-s-so dark… and lonely. It was s-so hard… s-so… hard… to breathe.”

She submits to the tears, letting them pour out.

I can’t handle it anymore. Without thinking, I move to sit beside her, pulling her into an embrace. I’ve always had a thing about not leaving people to cry alone. I find myself gently swaying the both of us. She smells like a rosy perfume. Of course, trust a female bank robber to still smell nice.

“I wish I had killed them,” she hisses. “I wish. I wish. I fucking wish!”

Her words hit my heart. I feel something sloping out of my eyes, silently saying what no words can. Valstar, my older brother, once told me, “Your family is everything. They’ll be there for you on heaven and earth. They protect you here, they protect you from up there. If they could, they’ve thoughtfully arranged a nice sum of money and put it in a will for you, for after they die.”

I remember I gave him a cheeky smile as I asked, “Have you thoughtfully prepared a will for me?”

“You’re a shit Christian, Elliot,” He said as he smirked. “But we’ll see one day, won’t we?”

And we did. And he had. Valstar had left me his entire self-made fortune. That was just over five years ago. In truth, I’ve never felt truly worthy of it, and I doubt I ever will. I used some of the money to allow myself to live comfortably, with a hint of artistic style. I would have foregone the artworks I have hanging on the walls, but he was adamant that I make a living space I could feel comfortable in.

I’ve never really been one to spend inordinate amounts of money on material possessions that have little meaning to them. It’s a cliché to say that when you die, “you can’t take it all with you,” but there’s an undeniable truth to the statement that many understand, but rarely seem to live by.

It then occurred to me that this young woman who had experienced such tragic things through her upbringing, basically wanted to steal from others so she could take back what she felt life owed her. She wanted to elevate herself by bringing others down. She is everything I despise about the entitled. My brother built his fortune from blood, sweat and tears. Our family had next to nothing. From the sounds of it, a lot less than she had been born into, because we were lucky if dinner was anything more than beans and chips.

But then… she never got to actually live that lifestyle.

I watch her as she wipes away her tears. I can see what looks like genuine anger on her face. Even so, and even though I feel guilt about it, I consider the possibility she’s lying. People have lied about such things to escape conviction in the past, or in some cases, to convict others. A pretty woman crying is enough to turn on most people’s sympathy switches. Maybe she knows that.

But why devise this entire narrative just for me? I’m not a detective.

“Why did that woman have to be there?” She groans. “Fuck sakes.”

I wipe away my own tears. “Who? The pregnant one?”

There’s a note of remorse in her tone as she speaks. “Why? I didn’t notice. I just… I just acted. You know? Like… I just did it. I swear I didn’t know she was pregnant. If I had seen her earlier, I would have just fucking left!”

Perhaps it was wrong to challenge her on that point, but I had to know, “Why? Did you not need the money?”

“Of course I needed the fucking money! What do you think I was doing, going in to make a speedy fucking withdrawal?”

“N-no, but–”

“I don’t want to hurt people to do it. Yeah, I took that pole, just in case. But I…I-I don’t want people to have to suffer for it. I couldn’t take the money after that. It would be fucked up to take it.”

“But why did you do it in the first place?”

She just shakes her head and quietly says, “I don’t know.”

She really doesn’t know. I believe her. I believe her about everything. I can’t know what really happened in her childhood, but it’s clear that she’s experienced something truly traumatic. Her entire personality reflects it.

“Was this the first time?”

She nods.

“Will it be the last?”

She makes a face and shrugs.

I laugh a little at the gesture. She frowns at me.

“What?” she asks.

“S-sorry,” I say, composing myself. “It’s just you remind me of someone I once knew. A girl called Nina. She would often shrug in a way that made me laugh. I always remembered her by name and actions only, because I can’t recall her face.”

“Yeah? Do you think she had a nice face?”

I smile. “Probably.”

“Fucking shame then, ain’t it?”


I am obviously infected by the sombre air, because I begin to tell my own little sob story.

“I had always felt a closeness to Nina. My chest would tighten when I was around her, and I found myself stammering when she looked me in the eye. She was always extremely happy at school. Nina was one of those rare children who looked forward to learning, and hated the thought of going home. If there was an opportunity to stay for longer, she would. When everyone else was excited about half-days, Nina looked distraught. In P.E. the girls would often make fun of her for the scars on her body.”

I take a moment.

“I never saw Nina again after primary school. Nobody did. Because she had killed herself, and any future dreams I had of her. I found out in school assembly. My teacher spoke to me personally, because she knew I was close to her. It took me a while to visit her house, just to check. I think I was afraid it was true. By the time I did, there was nobody there anymore. Shortly after, I couldn’t recall her face anymore. It was as though the moment she took her life, all physical remembrance of her had been wiped from my memory. As though God has punished both her and me. Her for suicide, and me for not stopping it.”

I begin to wonder, is that what all of this is then? Is my reason for trying to save this woman my way of making up for not saving Nina? It still doesn’t explain why I stopped her before I knew she was a she. My brother is probably looking over me right now, saying, “The Lord works in mysterious ways, brother.” Maybe he does. Or maybe I’m just a fucking idiot.

But if my past might have caused me to act irrationally, maybe hers did too. I muster the courage to say, “Do you think… maybe, your attempted robbery was more of a belated lashing out against your mum and brother?”

“Belated?” she looks confused, potentially offended. “Why the fuck would I lash out like ten years later?”

“I don’t know,” I quickly say. “But from the hurt in your voice, and the obvious sadness it still creates in you, it’s clear you’ve been walking around with their shadows stalking you. Maybe you just had enough, and went out to exact your revenge. But since they aren’t around anymore–”

“I went out to half-heartedly rob a fucking Barclays?”

“Yes,” I say confidently. “And maybe I saved you because I felt like it would redeem my… past mistakes.”


“So, what’s the real reason then?”

She rolls her eyes.

There’s a long silence. Me and the girl just stare around the living room, taking in the various abstract art pieces hung on the white walls, taking in the vast bookshelves. Wait. That’s it.

I turn to her. “You robbed the bank for money, right?”

She pulls a face again, cocking her head. “Nah. I wanted to rob their fancy pens.”

I ignore her sarcasm. “I have money. More than I would ever spend with my lifestyle.”

She looks about uncertainly. “You sure about that?”

“I just know how to buy things that look expensive. It’s something I’ve learnt from back when I had no money. Trust me, compared to how much money I have, this really wasn’t that much.”

“Well so fucking what? Good for you then. You wouldn’t give anything to someone like me. You people don’t fucking share money. You just donate to charities to get a couple claps on BBC One and make everyone think you’re not a piece of shit. As if money will fix every problem.”

“Hey, I just said I wasn’t always rich. This isn’t even my money. It came from my brother who has passed away. But he was a Christian. I’m sure he would have wanted me to try and help others with this money after I had helped myself. Believe me, I’m more than comfortable. To be honest, I’m a little uncomfortable with all this wealth.”

“First-world problems much,” she mutters.

“Yeah, I know. Listen, I’m trying… no… I will help you, alright? Maybe money can’t fix every problem, but we live in the real world. And in the real world, it’s a pretty good start.”

She’s like me, but when I was much younger. My brother had been an entrepreneur. He believed he would make himself rich, whilst making everybody else around him feel good as much as possible. I always thought it was nonsense. I used to think everybody was out to get me, that people were ultimately twisted. But he showed me a better, and I dare say, truer perspective.

No amount of telling would convince this girl. I should show her, to prove to her through action that good people do exist in the world, and that sometimes, they come from the places you least expect.

After going to my personal safe, I return, with three bulky envelopes in hand. I’m proud of the slight thud they make as I set them onto the table. I smile at the disbelief on her face. “There’s £200,000 in total. If you ever need more, come back, alright? You can leave the banks alone now.” I chuckle.

She looks hesitant as she pokes at each envelope with a finger. She picks one up, opens it, and frowns. She shakes her head, her face reddening. “Why?” She says. “Why the fuck would you do this? It’s a trick ain’t it? You’re going to call the police, tell them I robbed you.”

I smile. “No, love. This is all for you.”

“Why? Because I reminded you of some fucking girl you used to fantasise about?”

“It’s more than just that. I think I’m supposed to do this. Maybe it’s my destiny, you know?”


“Yeah, I know.”

After letting the girl use my shower, having an oven pizza, and suffering strange stares from my neighbors as I asked them for female clothing of specific sizes, it was time for my curious guest to leave.

The outfit was quite a mishmash, since the woman who owned the clothes was in her late sixties, and only had the random bits of clothing that her granddaughter would forget to take home, but it did its job. Besides, she was covered up enough in a common outfit, nobody would recognise her now. And the police would be looking for a man or woman in a motorbiking outfit. And how could you suspect such an innocent face?

I walk her just outside the building’s lobby area. Before I can offer to walk her to the nearby tube station she speaks.

“Hey, listen, I don’t need you to walk me or whatever, alright?”

I nod.

“Thanks.” She gestures to her rucksack. “For the money. Guess I ended up getting what I wanted anyway.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Remember, if you need anything, I’m here. Come to me before your local bank.” I almost laugh at the sound of that. Sounds like some marketing slogan.

“Yeah, yeah.”

I feel a hint of remorse now. I’ve grown quite fond of her vulgarity and bluntness. But she’ll come back. I hope she comes back.

“My family didn’t teach me much good shit,” she suddenly says. “But… even I know my manners. I should have told you earlier. My name, it’s Nina.”

I smile, nodding to myself. Of course it is. Of course it is.

“I’m sorry to hear about what happened to your friend,” Nina says sorrowfully. “I’m sure she’s proud of you, Elliot.” I can see she’s begun crying again. “I’m sure she’s really proud of you.”

Her words warm my heart. “Thanks, Nina.”

“Take care of yourself, alright?”

“You too.”

And with that, she’s off. I want to believe she will come back. But a large part of me knows she won’t. She’s too proud.

I stand outside the lobby area, paralysed with thought. I realise that this might have been one giant coincidence. But what if it wasn’t? What were the chances that she was Nina? The same Nina? The similarities… they were too much to consider.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

But I have lived a life of many regrets. Nina being the worst. If there was any chance, even a small one, that she was still alive, it was a chance I was willing to chase.

And so, I did. I chased after Nina, hoping, with every ounce of life within me, that she was in fact the same one.

Note #2

Okay, so that’s my first proper short story ever. As I said, I’m quite proud of it, and if you’ve read this far, I hope it was because of genuine enjoyment and not out of some weird sense of obligation. This note is mainly here to provide some explanation for some of the things in the story, because I’m all about accountability, and self-awareness.

Firstly, you may have noticed that the robber, Nina, was very quick to open up about her past. I would even say Elliot was too, even if only in reaction to Nina’s story. This may have caused you feel as though her emotion was a bit too heavy too early, and that it was melodramatic. The reason I never changed this, is because as I said in Note #1, this story came from a dream.

I’m sure you’ve had dreams before. You know that they’re not always, in fact quite rarely, do they ever make a lot of sense. No, this story is not supposed to be a dream, but the fact that it had enough of an impact on me that I felt obligated to churn out an entire story based on it in one day, made me think it warranted a certain level of respect to it’s original narrative.

When Nina begins to talk about ‘dirt and pain’, I wrote that part as close to what I could remember in my dream. In the dream I was crying at that point, and I woke up feeling extremely sad for this person who invaded my dreams.

And yes, Nina swears a lot. This is not something I’ve ever done with my writing until now. I’ve never explicitly written swear words, and the one time I do, it goes crazy. Nina swore in the dream quite excessively from what I remember, and it seems to fit her whole “rough around the edges” character.

To be honest, I’ve always liked female characters that are vulgar and had a bit of edge to them. Far more interesting than the every-girl by kilometers.

Mostly everything to do with Elliot, with the exception of the opening scene, was made up from the fragments of my dream that I had captured on paper. And no, Elliot is no longer me. The perspective of the story was obviously originally my perspective in the dream.

The thing is, even in the dream, I was a Christian, which in real life I am not. And I had an older brother, called Valstar. I don’t have an older brother, and if I did, I doubt he would have such a ridiculous name. But that was his name in the dream, so I left it in. It sounds like a Fantasy name, so it’s clear my writing has kind of crept into my sleep now. No escape for me.

With all that said, I’m not sure it ever truly was me in the dream.

You can expect many more short stories. I really enjoy changing it up from my usually longer form of writing.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got to say, and I’m out.


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Learning From Success and Failure

The next episode of the From Zero Podcast is here! This episode focuses on what I think about learning from success, but also from failure.

iTunes link:


The Skill of Subversion

Episode 3 of the From Zero Podcast is out!

This week’s topic is about subversion and the skill required to adequately pull it off. I use the example of Chosen Ones, and refer to my own subversion of the overplayed trope, and share some of my thoughts and feelings on it.

To be honest, most of what you need to know about this podcast is already in the video. So I won’t waste words here, if you’re interested, take a listen.

iTunes link:

Writing Whilst Studying

The second episode of my podcast is here! 

I wanted to do a topic that was directed more towards people near my own age, and so it came down to one other topic and this one. The other is going to be done in vlog format, and I’ll make that video sometime soon.

For now, you have a video dedicated to the subject of writing a story whilst you are studying.

It is a rather harsh video, mostly because of my blunt tone. I’m very aware of the fact that most writers are introverted, and thus, tend to resonate more with a calmer, gentler form of expression. Up until now, I’ve mostly tried to keep it on that level, and I’m perfectly capable of it, but in all honesty, once I get passionate about something, you get a result much like this.

The advice is useful, but it is presented in a ‘tough love’ kind of way. I’m well aware that for some people that’s too much, but I won’t apologise for how I am. Because maybe my tone will scare you off, but perhaps it won’t. Perhaps it will actually hit you somewhere you didn’t expect, and trigger a response that results in you taking the best possible action you could: thinking.

Many of the things I do are to inspire thought. I ain’t some genius, but I have some pretty good points to make here and there, so when I say something, it’s for a reason.

As I say in the podcast, in a way, this is an episode I’m making partly for myself, but it’s mostly for younger writers. When I was 16, the best advice I usually heard from other writers, came out like this. Not everybody is the same, so I don’t expect everyone to take my advice in the same way.

I see a lot of young writers struggling with things similar to me, and when I advise them, this is the manner I do it in. Sometimes, being too soft and sugary doesn’t get people anywhere.

This episode is also significantly shorter than the first one, so hopefully that makes it a little bit more bearable.

Hope you enjoy it!

iTunes link:

The Birth of A New Writing Podcast

A podcast dedicated to the documentation of the thoughts, views and ideas of the young aspiring author, Alexander Thomas as he begins his journey from zero.

I’ve wanted to do a podcast for a long time. When I say long, I mean since I was about 15. Back in July 2011, when I was 14, I uploaded my first ever gaming commentary. This basically just meant I would talk behind a full gameplay (an in-game match that was considered decent/impressive). If you think of most current YouTube gaming channels and Twitch streamers, you will see this is extremely commonplace now, but not as much back then.

One thing I had always spoke to my friends about was making a gaming podcast. I had the idea in my head for ages, and really wanted to make one. I love talking so I knew it was the perfect format for me. Unfortunately, it just never happened.

But the idea never left me. Not too long after my transition from gaming to writing content, the podcasting desire caught up to me. Again, I wanted to do it with other people. All the podcasts I have spent considerable time listening to were mostly enjoyable because they had a group dynamic, with friendly banter and occasional chit-chat. But most importantly, they bounced ideas off one another, or interviewed people of particular interest.

However, I could never get this exact format to exist. The honest truth of the matter is that I have ideas and topics I want to talk about that aren’t commonly spoken of. This would mean the other writers not only need to have a competent understanding of the craft, but also a more specific knowledge of the things I would be discussing.

Those writers surely exist, but I don’t know of them, and I would have to become comfortable with them before I could podcast with them. All of that would get in the way when I could just start the podcast, and literally talk about these things perfectly fine, in a shorter time, in the way I want, whenever I want.

Freedom to do things as I see fit is something I’ve grown to consider rather important in my life of late. Probably a bit contradictory considering I plan on becoming traditionally published, but even then, I expect a degree of respect to my work and control over it. Maybe I can’t choose my cover art, but I decide what words weave my worlds, and if the publisher has an issue with any of it, I have all the power to walk away. Maybe that’s something writer’s don’t like to consider, but to me, the vision is more important than making a quick buck.

And that is a nice segue into the topic of this first podcast. Vision. I discuss what ‘vision’ is and its understated importance in the construction of our stories.

For future podcasts, I plan on speaking on various topics. Some of those topics are: Ethnic and Narrative diversity; Emotive Writing; The Skill of Subversion; Japanese Storytelling; Sex and Violence in Fantasy; Do Writers Need Talent?; Series Lengths, and many more.

The podcast will be released every Friday at 8PM  (GMT), 12PM (PST) and is currently available on YouTube and iTunes.

Since you’re still reading this, I’m going to assume this is of some interest to you. Why not take a listen to the podcast? I spend about 7-8 minutes explaining the purpose of the podcast and how it will work, and in doing so, accidentally give it it’s title. The rest is dedicated to the topic of ‘vision’.

Here is a link to the iTunes version!

But if you want immediate access, here is the first episode of my new writing podcast, From Zero.

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