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Lost Souls

A cult is quite often a religion with unorthodox practices. In a world where the court of public opinion is one which holds the most esteem, being swept up in cult like waves becomes easier and easier. When asked why someone would join a cult the most likely answer is that they can find something there that they can’t find anywhere else. Affection, acceptance, understanding, or a mixture of all those things. It isn’t always some sinister group hidden out of the way of civilised society. You can see it in the chanting of songs at football matches. It can be seen in a crowd of teenagers wearing the latest trends. It can be the way we are hooked to social media.  

For the moment allow me to examine the idea of cults in their most natural form. With the help of cult deprogrammer, John Reynolds, I was offered an insight into the depths of these cult groups. Before this interview I would have dismissed the cult idea as foolish people being brain washed. Reynolds helped me understand it better and it was more than that. It was more about a power struggle rather than brain wash. I am reporter, Sam Crusow, and I invite you to join me as we step inside the cults of Coldford.  

*** 

As I sat in my usual booth at Bobby’s lunchbox looking across to John Reynolds the first thing that became apparent to me was the brightness in his persona. When I had been told I would be meeting with a cult deprogrammer I must admit my mind went to a stereotypical assumption. I expected a brooding character. I expected a troubled soul. When he bounded into Bobby’s Lunchbox with a cheery, “I’m super stoked for the interview, Sam,” my presumptions were completely off.  

We took a seat and I began to record.  

“For legal reasons I understand that most of your cases are classified,” I began. “I’m not looking to press you. I don’t want to put anyone in a difficult position but I would love to hear your insight.”  

Reynolds smiled. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. I guess it’s about time I talked about it. Get a load off, you know?”  

I nodded. “I am agreed that nothing will go to print without your say so so feel free to talk openly. Consider this entire thing off the record.”  

“What do you want to know?” Reynolds asked.  

“Why don’t you start with some of the cases that shaped who you are.”  

“Funny you should ask,” he said. “The first one that comes to mind, you reported on.”  

John took a sip of his water. Although he seemed calm I could see a little tension shake him just below his skin. Giving account of some of his experiences seemed to be taking a toll on him. I pushed stop on the recorder.  

“We can take five, if you like,” I asked. “This is your story to tell. It’s up to you how you wish to tell it or how far you want to go.” 

I was going to remind him that his story deserved to be told as a way of urging him to open up but it seemed I didn’t need to. He had already decided that for himself.  

“No,” he said. “It’s fine. I’ll go on.” 

I pushed recorded again.  

“You may remember a gnarly story In the Express some time back. It was about a girl named Eileen in her late teens. She had found herself in trouble. She was pregnant by her step father. Her mother was a drug user who accused her of seducing him. She was only a young girl and the step father was a real shitty dude,” John explained. 

It was a typical tale of abuse, if you find yourself desensitised to such things.  

Eileen was forced to leave. She didn’t have enough money to buy a plane ticket. She didn’t have enough money to pay for a hotel room for the foreseeable future. She found herself on the docks of Swantin. A lot of unfortunate souls found themselves there. Their bodies were the last marketable product they had at their disposal so it stood as the best chance of survival. She had been real close to a small vessel called the ‘Lily Ann’. It was no ordinary boat. It was a floating brothel. She had been almost been at the point of climbing on board when she heard the ferry man calling, 

“The 6:15 Hathfield Bay! All about the 6:15 to Hathfield Bay.” 

Eileen approached the man. 

“Excuse me, sir,” she interrupted. “How much for a ticket to the island?”  

The Harbour Master eyed her suspiciously. She had no bag with her, the leather of her shoes was bursting and she had a look in her eyes that suggested she would be drugged and whored before the night was out. 

“I have been kicked out of my home and I have nowhere to go,” she went on to explain. 

He passed her a ticket.  

“I’ll let you on,” he said. “You look like you need a break and I’d be honoured to be the one to give you that chance.”  

Eileen looked at her ticket.  

FERRY WAY LINE. 

CHAMBERLAIN DOCKS, COLDFORD – HATHFIELD BAY ISLAND: ROYCE PORT. 

She could see the Royal Chamberlain crest on the side.  

“Why are you doing this for me?” She asked. She wasn’t much used to generosity or kindness from strangers.  

“I said you look like you need a break. The Wigan commune is over there. If you go to them they will give you shelter. They’ll look after you. They don’t have much but they are welcoming.”  

Eileen had taken note of the Wigan pin the man displayed proudly, now it held a lot more interest.  

“Thank you,” she said.  

“Wigan bless you,” was his response.  

She had heard of the Church of St Wigan. She didn’t personally know any members but if they could offer her some shelter and sanctuary it was her best bet.  Better off in the hands of a religious commune than a brothel, right? Perhaps.  

*** 

The travel across the sea was freeing. The waves that lashed against the side of the ferry liner were like her problems being washed away. By the time she arrived on the island she was smiling again. Although the thin rain had soaked the clothes she arrived in. When she reached the entrance of the commune she was feeling a little feverish. Pulled the purple tasseled bell. She could hear the deep knelling ring. Before long she was a greeted by a woman not much older than herself.  

“I have nowhere to go,” Eileen said. “Please can you help me? I’m pregnant. I’m with child.”  

The girl looked at her blankly at first. Then she smiled. It brightened her freckled face. Her smile was natural and soft. Her hair was long and tangled. She had purple ribbons tied into her braid.  

“Wigan embraces all,” she said in response. Her island accent bouncy and warm. “What’s yer name?”  

“Eileen,” the young woman said.  

The Wigan girl introduced herself. “My name is River. Come in and rest. You are safe now.”  

Eileen entered the commune and the door closed behind her.  

*** 

The first days in the commune were quite pleasant actually. Eileen had no regrets in accepting the Harbour Master’s passage. She had been given clothes. They were real basic but they were warm and comfortable. They even had some elderly women check on her baby. They gave her a lot of old wives tales about the tell tale signs of it being a girl that she carried but they seemed to know what they was doing and according to them the baby was healthy and its heart was beating strong. The real world seemed so far away. Wandering onto the bay at the rear of the commune where she could hear nothing but the waves was her most favourite activity. On this particular day I now detail she had looked up at the sky first. The clouds were thick and grey. The rain wasn’t far off. There was a man sat on the sand, looking out onto the sea. He had drawn his knees up to his chest and was embracing his surroundings like he was seeing them all for the first time. He turned when he heard her.  

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she apologised.  

The man smiled. He had an engaging stare. She could feel herself smiling too. There was some white in his dark hair, despite his youth, just a streak. He reached his arm out beside him.  

“Ye might as well sit with me,” he said. “It would be nice to have the company.”  

Eileen took a seat, delicately at his side. He kept his attention focused out onto the sea.  
“So you must be the city dweller they call Eileen.”  

Eileen agreed. “Yes, that’s me. I came for sanctuary and I have been given that. I will always be grateful.”  

The man nodded. “That’s good to know. I’m glad.”  

“Have you been here long?” She asked him.  

The man chuckled. “My whole life,” he said.  

Eileen was fascinated. “It must have been quite different from the city.” 

“They say not much could go on on a little island but you’d be surprised. You really would,” he explained.  

“My life was shit over in the city. My mum was a drunk. My step dad forced himself on me. The baby I carry is his. My mum blamed me and the Harbour Master took pity on me. Now I’m here.” 

The man turned to her. “Fear not,” he said. “You’re safe here. We are like a big family. We’d love for you to be part of our family.”  

“I’m not really a religious person,” Eileen was ashamed to admit. She felt ungrateful given how accepting they had been of her, no questions asked.  

“Maybe now’s the time to start,” the man suggested. “Ye can find out quite a bit about yerself.”  

Eileen made a vow to try. She really did want to show how appreciative she was. 

“What’s your name?” She asked.  

“Dominick,” the man returned.  

“Your Eminence!?” Came a cry from the commune. There was a monk standing by the entrance in robes.  

Dominick looked back. He nodded to the monk who went back inside.  

“Your Eminence?” Eileen questioned.  

Dominick stood. He reached his hand out and helped her onto her feet.  

“I’ve been blessed with the leadership of our church,” he explained. “We always welcome new members.”  

Eileen took a vow that very day. She vowed to learn what she could about her new family. Before the baby was born she took a bonafide vow.  

*** 

Reynolds had been based in City Main at the time. He was working out of the offices of CPD. He had been brought onboard when the Office of Law Makers brought their attention to the rise in missing person’s cases in the Coldford. Reynold’s specialty was people who weren’t necessarily missing. They just didn’t want to come home.  

It had taken a few months before Eileen’s mother began to show concern. The deadbeat step father had done the same thing with a neighbour so she threw his ass to the kerb and decided she wanted to reconnect with her daughter. A hand written letter had come to the mother with the stamp of the bay. In this letter it told of Eileen’s indoctrination so far. She was pleased to be where she was. She was turning her hand to all kinds of positive things. She was embracing a religion and it was bringing out the best in her.  What she made abundantly clear was the fact that she had absolutely no intentions of coming home sans step father or not. That ship had sailed and it had sailed off to Hathfield Bay carrying Eileen’s mother’s only daughter with it.  

Eileen’s mother, whom records had named as Lorna P, made an appointment with our investigator.  

“I want my daughter back,” she had plead.  

She was preaching to the converted in this scenario because Reynolds wanted the girl back too. The issue was as he looked at her she looked real spaced out. She said she had given up the drinking but she had been rad with it very recently. All the signs were there. Her bulbous nose was red with burst vessels. Her breath was putrid. She had made an effort to dress herself but the clothes had a smell of dampness about them. If this girl was to come back, what exactly would she be coming back to? For better? For worse? It wasn’t Reynolds’ decision to make but he had to make sure she understood.  

“I will do what I can to bring her back but you gotta level with me. Are you going to be there for her.”  

Lorna scowled. She looked as though she was about to give the usual, ‘are you telling me what to do with my own kid?’ speech but she retracted her statement before it was aired. She knew she had treated her daughter like shit. She should have stood by her daughter. She would be heavily pregnant by now if she hadn’t lost the child. The letter never mentioned either way.  

“I want to do better. I want to put the past behind us,” was her claim. “I got a job. I’m cleaning at the Lunch Box.” 

Reynolds leaned back in his chair.  

“It could get real rad,” he warned. “You need to be ready for that. If she does come back you need to be there for her. The process could take a long time.” 

Lorna P nodded. “I’m ready for that,” she assured.  

Rule number 88 of a Cult Deprogrammer: First contact with the lost soul could make or break a case. That first contact had to be made. 

*** 

The meeting had been set for four pm. The location was Bobby’s Lunch Box. With Reynolds’ consultation Lorna P had composed a letter of apology to Eileen. She wished her well. She was not to ask her to come home. She was not to make any demands of her. All the letter was to do was to let her know that the mother was open to meeting should the daughter accept invitation. No mention was to be made of the baby.  

In response to this letter Eileen accepted the invitation. She too said nothing of the baby. 

Lorna P was keeping an eye out for her daughter. The young woman who had come in her place was not her daughter, at least in everything but the physical sense.  She looked nothing like the way she had when she left. She had let her hair grow long. She wore a long, grey dress made from thick fabric. It spilled over her ankles. She had a purple ribbon tied around her neck and a Wigan pin on her breast.  

“Who are you?” She asked Reynolds at first.  

“I’m pleased to meet you, Eileen,” he said. “I’m John Reynolds. I was asked along by your mum. I was hoping we could have a chat.” 

Eileen eyed him suspiciously but she took a seat at the diner booth.  

“I don’t go by Eileen anymore,” she said. “I shed my city dweller name. They call me Heather now.”  

“Heather?” Asked the mother. “Why Heather?”  

Reynolds had encouraged her to ask questions as long as they weren’t asked in a challenging tone.  

“It’s my favourite plant. You would know that if you knew anything about me,” the girl responded.  

“We’re just here because we’re wanting to reconnect,” said Reynolds.  

Heather, formally known as Eileen, scowled at him. She turned back to her mother.  

“Been off the booze?” She asked her. “For how long this time?” 

“For good,” she said. “I promise.”  

Reynolds directed the conversation. “We’re stoked that you came,” he said. “There’s no pressure on you. Your mum told me about your letter. You seemed really thrilled over on the island.”  

“I am,” said Heather ney Eileen. She was beginning to wonder who this John Reynolds was. Why would he be associated with her mum? Surely he wasn’t a boyfriend. Although he looked like he was a bit of a boozer too so maybe that was how they were connected. Was he her sponsor? 

“When you left you were pregnant,” said Reynolds. “Would you like to share what happened? Are you well?”  

Eileen started to soften a little. No, not Eileen, her name was Heather now.  

“I had a little girl. I named her Ivy.”  

“Pretty name,” said Reynolds. “Your mum is glad to be a grandmother.”  

“She couldn’t be a mother. What chance does she have of being a grandmother? Did she tell you who fucking knocked me up?” 

“Wigan opens his arms to the sinners. You cannot be saved. Your baby cannot be saved. Your ma most definitely cannot be saved,” Dominick had said to her.  

“I want to try, Eileen,” said Lorna P.  

“My name is not Eileen! It’s Heather.” The girl shrieked. “I am a child of Wigan and he accepts me for all of my sins. You cast me out and he found me.”  

Lorna P made to say something but Reynolds stopped her.  

“So you took the oath,” he said with a casual calmness that eased the tension. “Who was your sponsor?” 

Eileen was quite taken aback by Reynolds’ knowledge of it. Wait. No. Her name was Heather. She was Heather and she was a daughter of Wigan, not some drunk who let her step dad impregnate her.  

“You’re a Wigan?” She asked. He had no tell tale signs. He had no pin. His mannerisms were far too mellow for someone who had taken the oath.  

“I’m not,” Reynolds replied. “I am familiar with them though. Have you been to McIvor’s Ice Cream parlour over on the bay yet?”  

“I have,” she admitted. “I go there quite often.”  

“Do you have a favourite flavour?” He asked.  

“Strawberry,” she replied.  

“She always loved strawberry,” said Lorna P with some measure of pride.  

“Some days it was all you gave me to eat,” responded the daughter.  

“Family is more than blood. We are bound here stronger than any mother and child, any father and son, any brother and sister. We are the family of Wigan and we’re all here for each other,” said His Eminence.  

It was the family that Heather needed. When she took the oath she felt complete. It was fate that the Harbour Master gave her that ticket. It was fate that she fell in love with His Eminence.  

“The weather over there can be a little temperamental,” Reynolds said matter of factly.  

Heather smiled. “These clothes keep me dry. These clothes keep me warm.”  

The commune keeps you safe. The commune keeps you fed. 

“I’m going to call you Eileen,” said Reynolds. “It’s not to upset you. If you have shed that name then that is your decision but your mum wants some closure before you return to the commune and it’s the name she recognises. It could be her chance to shed it too if it is what you really want.” 

Lorna looked to Reynolds with some surprise. They hadn’t discussed the possibility of her never returning. That wasn’t part of the deal. She kept her mouth shut though. Reynolds seemed to have a handle on the situation.  

“I have nothing left to say,” she said. “You can call me what you like. I know what my name is.”  

LET THEM BE CONSUMED BY FIRE!  

Coming back the city was not going to be easy. She had seen way too much. Her life had changed.  

“If could just sit and maybe hear what your mum wants to say?” Reynolds urged.  

Heather, no Eileen, was held in her place.  

The smell of the burning flesh was stomach churning. At least it was at first.  

Dominick had been screaming, “you cannot be saved!”  

He was crazed but in that moment but as she watched him she could only think of how passionate he was and how much he loved his Wigan family. He was leading them into a future with furious fire. She had been so swept up she helped with the torches. The city dwellers screamed in pain but their cries for mercy were drowned out as the congregates began to sing.  

‘Eileen. I’m going to call you Eileen. That is your name. You are not Heather. Heather was a bayside lunatic who watched four city dwellers burn. Heather gave birth to a little girl named Ivy. Heather danced with the strangely named River, Autumn and April whilst Ivy was blessed into the Wigan faith. Eileen was still on the docks contemplating becoming a prostitute.  

You cannot be saved Eileen.  

“Yes you can,” John Reynolds reminded her.  

*** 

I pondered the question first before I voiced it. 

“Did she come home?”  

“It was one of those deals where you gotta count your blessings,” Reynolds said. “She was coming home. She had gotten as far as a little fishing boat she planned on rowing herself all the way over from the bay. She had Ivy with her.”  

“Then what happened?” I asked. 

“She disappeared.”  

“Did she return to the commune?” I questioned.  

“I don’t think so. She had made the resolve to leave. Rule number 36 of a cult deprogrammer: when the victim attempts to leave, the cult will use any force necessary to keep them.”  

The truth of the matter was the little fishing boat had been found, beached just a little while along the coast. The blanket she had wrapped Ivy in was discarded, wet and sandy. Ivy was carried by River back to the commune. The seasons changed and the little girl grew beyond infancy. She didn’t know her mother. She didn’t know Heather. She most definitely would never have recognised Eileen. The Wigan life was what she came to know. Praise Wigan!  

*** 

Discussing this case gave me a lot of food for thought. We can all find ourselves swept up in an ideology. It’s like an unstoppable force which in the hands of those who wield it well can be destructive. It takes people like John Reynolds to combat that kind of thinking. As he would say, ‘you can be saved. You can succeed. You can come back.’  

How far must someone fall though before they are merely a sandy, soggy blanket on a discarded boat? Or a victim of a complete stranger’s anger?  

John Reynolds will keep fighting on though until everything is groovy again.  


When cult deprogrammer, John Reynolds, has someone close to him leave to join the Wigan cult on Hathfield Bay island he must put every skill he has learned to the test to bring them home.

The Kingdom of Ashes

There once was a king, mighty and bold.

He was a beloved sovereign in a kingdom of gold.

He kept a watchful eye. He was fierce and fair.

But a monster with ill intentions was cruel enough to dare.

The king had three prince sons, brave and strong.

But their cries were the monster’s favourite song.

He snatched them, seperated them and inflicted pain.

The triplets with crowns would never be the same.

Of the three there was one wise beyond his years.

There was another with strengh, who ignored his fears.

The third was free spirited and refused to break.

Together they fought for their kingdom’s sake.

The King was put to death but the sons did survive.

Whilst the princes remained, the kingdom could still thrive.

The monster was defeated, showing its true horrific form.

From the ashes the kingdom was reborn.


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The triplet princes of City Main found themselves in the clutches of the most Hellish prison imaginable. Dare you take a look behind teh bars of Coldford Correctional, aka The Boss?

The Boss Part 2 : Servitude (extract)

The Prayer Room is located in the Herod Halls of the castle, just off the overpass. It’s an original part of the building where St Wigan, when he was in residence, would lock himself away seemingly with no food or water for days. He emerged when God had delivered his message. Normally this meant someone was burned, hanged or buried alive in Gregor Court. God could be a nasty bastard if Noah Wigan was to be believed and Francesca Chamberlain made the perfect nasty vessel to operate through. However, that’s another grisly tale for another grisly day. For now, our story focuses on the Prayer Room in more recent times. The room has no plumbing. It doesn’t have a bowl or sink on offer. You eat and drink very little whilst you’re in there so you find yourself with little to excrete anyway.  

As the famed monk said, “God provides the nourishment.”  

He may have been able to get a fat soul with conversations with a figment in sky but for our inmates it drained what little will they had left. There are no windows.  You are completely engulfed in darkness. You are left alone with only time to think and to say your prayers.  

Jake tried to keep himself awake for as long as possible. He didn’t know how long he would be left to rot. He had no means of counting the hours. He could only try and keep himself awake for as long as possible – not that he would find much of a cosy bed. It was a moss covered, granite floor. In fact, the dampness within the Prayer Room really attacked the lungs. It was common in the prison to hear the cough of an inmate that had spent some time in solitary.  

Jake had to keep himself awake. He wanted to stay alert should some of the ghoul guards come for him. That was what the inmates were calling the guards who lost their minds. Jake didn’t pray. He never was the praying sort but the voice inside his head was ringing loud. He tried to keep it ringing as his eyes started to feel heavy. He was slumped on the floor. His issue trousers were damp from the moss. He was in the most discomfort he had ever felt but he couldn’t resist sleep. Those Beta brain waves were crying out to him.  

“Come on, Jakey. Just close your eyes. Sleep it away. Sleep. Sleep …”  

He was jerked awake by a sharp pain. Something had bitten him. He could hear a squeak and a draw of a long, worm-like tail across his hand. He pulled it away and as he did so he caught the feel of matted fur.  

“Fucking rat,” he grumbled to himself.  

There was another sharp bite on his lower leg where the trousers of his kit had slipped up. There was another one there. He could hear the hungry rodents squeak at each other. Then there was another bite at his hand. This one was harder than the others. The broken rat teeth must have pierced skin.  

Jake tried to kick his leg out to make them scurry away but they were brave and they were hungry so they took another bite. One ran across his chest, the worm tail drawing underneath his chin. Jake was on his feet by then trying to shake them off. They finally did scurry away when the doorway was opened.  

“2011?” The voice of the warden came through the dark. “What’s the story?”  

“My daughter,” Jake began. His voice sounded hoarse having not spoken in some time. “My sisters. My cousin.”  

“I’m sorry about your family,” Remar told him sincerely.  

He had put in a call to Fullerton Villa to find out what he could. 

“Lucy’s with her mum, from what I’m told,” Remar said. “She’ll be fine. Lionel received a shot to his shoulder and to chest but from what i hear he’ll be fine.  I’ll let you have a call and catch up a little later but if you get out of here you don’t bring me any trouble are we understood?”  

Jake nodded. He cleared his throat. “Of course.”  

Cerberus held 2011 in his searching gaze. There was something going wrong with the guards and he needed people among the inmates he could rely on should the worst happen. 


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The Prayer Room

It’s damp and it’s cold.

It was a dungeon of old.

Many men have wept on Her floors, even the bold.

When the door closes you are absorbed in the dark.

At least you’ll no longer hear the dog’s bark.

You are all alone with only the company of rats.

Spending your time pondering over this or that.

It’s too late now for any sorrowful regret.

Your time has come. It’s all been set.

What you deserve is what you’ll get.

Just pray it’s not yet.


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Character Profile: Seth Bergman

“A lovely boy is Seth. A lovely boy!”

Name: Seth Bergman

Occupation: Diamond Merchant

Features in: PURPLE RIBBON ; KNOCK KNOCK

As the son and heir of the Bergman Diamond Parade, Seth is known to carry himself with dignity and charm. He is much beloved in the community in which he lives and like his father, Howard, he enjoys a sterling reputation. Once head boy at the notable Kingsgate School where royals are taught, Seth has been preparing for most of his life to take his father’s place at the head of his family business.

Seth is intelligent, kind and has a talent for his work. However, diamonds require the sharpest tools to cut and Seth has a razor wit and a temper that certain things can provoke. Despite his naturally pleasant demeanour he can be temperamental when his family are in danger. His kindness is often mistaken for weakness. Seth may not be the most physically intimidating figure in the Shady City but should circumstances require he can be fearless and dare I say a little ruthless too.

His pacifistic father, Howard, has raised him to stay clear of the corruption and violence that is common in the Shady City but as things close in on them Seth believes they can’t avoid it forever. Being lifelong friends with the infamous Penn triplets, Seth could very easily slip into a way of life he is just not cut out for!


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Character Profile: Queen Francesca Chamberlain

“Bring me this one, and that one. I want their heads for a stew.

That fat one cowering in the corner? I suppose he’ll have to do.”

Name: Francesca Chamberlain The First

Features in: PURPLE RIBBON ; KNOCK KNOCK ; THE BOSS

Occupation: crowned queen five centuries prior to current events.

Painting of Francesca Chamberlain the first.

Despite her not living in current times the presence of Francesca Chamberlain is still felt, most notably in her castle in the northern city of Bournton. The call the castle The Boss because of the way it looms over the town below. It is currently a high security prison for the worst of the worst in the Shady City. It hasn’t changed much in the times since Francesca’s reign in that even then it was a dungeon that many feared to be held behind. Francesca was a bloody and merciless ruler taking great pride in the torture of her prisoners. They called her a witch because of the young maidens she drove to madness.

Francesca’s statue within The Boss

She may have been ruthless but most rulers in those days were. What she did hold dear though were her nephews, princes James and Edward. As sons of Francesca’s brother Henry, James was the rightful heir to Chamberlain dynasty. Having died in battle Francesca brought the princes to the castle for safe keeping. The intention was to rule in James’ stead until he came of age.

Whilst staying in the castle the younger prince, Edward, fell ill. Francesca believed a witch among them had cursed the little boy but luckily the arrival of a Holy man named Noah Wigan brought the boy back to health. From that moment Francesca was dedicated to the church Wigan was building. She heeded his advice above all and she became quite mad with her devotion.

Times have moved along since those days history books refer to as the Ballad of Blood. The modern Chamberlain family have left swords behind but bloodshed remains stained on the golden crown.


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My hero

We all need some inspiration. We all need someone to look up to. What do we seek in our heroes? I guess we look for someone who embodies the best elements we wish to see in ourselves. We look for a hero who can show us what it means to be braver, kinder, stronger or better in some way than we generally consider ourselves to be. You may find this in superheroes. It would be easy to when the media is so saturated with them. We may see it in public figures who have some qualities we look to emulate or are doing work that we find admirable. Heroes of all kinds inspire us to do our best and reach for a goal.

You might think heroes are something for children to look up to. I would argue that it’s not just young people who need the inspiration. Adults would do well to find someone to look up to. It could be someone younger too. Take Malala Yousafzai for instance. She is a truly inspirational girl who fought for the rights of others like her to have an education, something I took for granted to a certain extent. Her fearlessness in pursuit, despite her youth, is to be admired. She is a hero in a lot of respects.

For some a hero is someone who lived a long time ago but their impact is still felt such as Sophie Scholl, another young activist. Along with her brother, Hans, she resisted the Nazi indoctrination that was surrounding her. She boldly took part in distributing anti nazi leaflets. The reason her actions still resonate is because of the danger she knew she was putting herself in but still she continued. Eventually she paid the ultimate price for it but she believed there were more important matters.

We live in an age where it is so easy to be bombarded with the evil that is present in the world. There are so many bad people out there it would seem. I dare say there could be stories told about the people I have mentioned that wouldn’t place them in the best of lights. They are only human after all but if you find something in them or anyone for that matter that inspires you then embrace it. On the days you are finding it difficult to find a hero then take that as a cue that it’s you who is to step up. You can be the hero if you need to be. We all can. We can find inspiration and we can inspire.

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Why do you have to be that way?

I’m going to be blunt here because as you will find from the content of this particular post that’s just how I am. Ever since I was a little girl I have always been made out to be some kind of freak because I tend not to go about things the ’normal’ way. The other kids were, I guess, expected. When you are growing up you don’t know much about the world and you are learning so I can see why I was seen as being somewhat unusual by my peers. That wasn’t just it though. Adults were much of the same opinion.

What made me so freakish? What did I dare to do that was so unconventional? Nothing really. It was a curiosity I had about the world around me that others wanted to curb. They said they were concerned about me. After all, curiosity brought about the demise of the proverbial cat. I wanted to visit museums rather than playing with the other children. I wanted to read books rather than take part in party games. For that I seemed off and weird.

As I grew up I continued on that trajectory, caring not one bit about what others thought. As an adult I was considered strange because I had no interest in having children or getting married. To me marriage is an outdated concept that has no real place in modern society. Sure, there are plenty of people who love being married, are excited to be married or can find happiness in that kind of partnership but it’s just not for me. As a thirty something woman with my own independent life I don’t see any way a marriage could improve my current existence. I’m especially close to my little 11yo niece and my 3yo nephew so they are all the children I need.

I guess the point of this rant is to urge you all to live your life the way you want to. Do the things that make you happy despite what society might think is appropriate. I’ve grown up people thinking I’m a freak. Embrace that freakishness because odd things, atypical hobbies or out of the ordinary life decisions don’t make you any less valid than the most conventional of people. What would the world be without that varied tapestry?


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Dinner for Four

It’s an age old question that seems to be important to a lot of people. You most likely would have been asked it in your life in some shape or form and that question is, ’if you were to invite anyone in the world (living or deceased) to a dinner party who would those guests be?’

I like this question because to me it highlights the human want to connect with others, no matter the barriers. It shows we like to connect in an intellectual way. The purpose of this exercise is to show who you would like have around your table for the purposes of hearing what they have to say. A dinner party, by nature, is a way of sharing discussion and opening up. Those you would chose to sit around your table says a lot about your personality. So for the purposes of this discussion, my pick of dinner party guests would be as follows:

Charles Dickens

Not only is he one of my most favourite authors and a huge inspiration of mine, he was also a critic of the moral evil that was present in Victorian London. He used satirical writing to bring attention to these injustices and he was effective in doing so. This undoubtedly influenced writers who came after him to approach their work with the same boldness. I know that certainly was the case for me. From what is told he was a kind hearted, intelligent man who paid close attention to what was going on around him and for that reason having a chat with him would be an opportunity I would hate to miss.

Harry Houdini

Escape artist, circus performer and spiritualist debunker. Houdini is already an admired figure of mine so he would naturally make for an exciting presence at my table. I would love to ask him all about his escape acts and his performances. His thrill seeking presence would keep things lively and I’m naturally engrossed by people who have a performance flare. He spent a lot of his later career debunking spiritualists. Discussing this could make for a lively debate. Also, after some wine has flowed and bellies were filled he could grace us with a demonstration of one of his tricks.

Anne Frank

If there is ever a girl with a story to share at a dinner table it would be this one. She lived through great adversity and it was of no fault of her own. She was just a young girl who had no control over the devastation that was arising around her. She already had a fascinating story to tell as is evident in her famous diaries. Learning about this young girl’s remarkable experiences from her own mouth would have the discussions going on well into the small hours.

Those are just some examples of the fascinating figures I would invite to my dinner party. Given the opportunity to reach out to anyone, who would you choose? Funny? Inspirational? Intruiging? What would you look for in your dinner party guests.


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