The Caged Type

A home for Craig Thomas Boyle's writing and life.

Category: Writing (page 1 of 3)

Fiction in all forms. Read The Hitman and the Rose chapter by chapter, or browse other short stories. Pursuing the dream of writing for a living.

Tyneside Poem


This is a love story

Not of a face, but a place

A feeling, an echo, a collection of space

It’s filled by all sorts of bodies,

That move in their own ways

Whether that’s students partying,

Or people drinking away days.

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A Land of Tooth and Claw [Chapter One Preview]

Vincent had killed thousands of men in his long life.

This one was no different.

The night had brought peace to the wasteland, disturbed only by the clumsy movements of his prey. Vincent kept his eyes on his target as he followed him, his own steps making no sound at all. Ahead, a man with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a flashlight clutched in his shaking hand was headed towards a building as old as time. Its crumbling walls promised long forgotten treasures and with them, potential rewards.

The man would find nothing but darkness inside.

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Paul’s Fall (Poetry)

Look,

I’m not much of a toilet brawler

Don’t like a taxi rank skirmish

I do like a drink

But I don’t get churlish

Don’t like aggro

Prefer to walk away from it all

Because nobody wants to end up like Paul.

 

Not me

Not you

Not what Paul’s been through

Knocked clean out

In a dirty nightclub loo

 

Sound funny?

It isn’t.

Paul’s head hit the cistern.

Coma for weeks

If only his friends had of listened

If they’d left it where it started

Way back at the bar

If they’d walked away and laughed

Joking about it from afar

 

But Paul’s mates liked a rumble

When the drink was inside

Everyone’s Mike Tyson

When the night comes alive

Spilled drinks

Crossed words

Things mistakenly overhead

Eye contact

The contest

Who backs down first?

Was never Paul’s mates

All alive with the thirst

 

Paul wasn’t like that.

A considerate young lad

Didn’t see the point in it

People acting mad

He was there for a laugh

Not for a scrap

Only fight he’d had

At 5 his sister gave him a slap

But boys will be boys

And mates are your group

So Paul was stood there

When it got thrown out of loop

When the testosterone boiled

And the aggravation bubbled

And suddenly

There it was

A whole lot of trouble

 

Bystander calmed it

Just a spilled drink they’d said

But Paul’s mates kept on shouting

And their opponents turned their heads

Walking away

For now, at least.

And Paul felt relief

As he slid into a seat

 

Two drinks later

A bit of dancing

Bit of flirting

And Paul’s last worry

Was of any more trouble occurring

 

Into the toilet

To empty the bladder

As he unzipped

He heard the chatter

The lads from before

Not his friends, but the foes

Planning an attack

When the club came to close

 

Paul should have stayed quiet

But peacemaker kicked in

Lads came out the toilet

The story gets grim

Quick recognition

A grin of realisation

Four versus one

In toilet isolation

 

Paul, innocent paul,

No idea of the trouble he was in

Kept talking them down

Should be saving his skin

 

The punch came from nowhere

Broke his jaw with the force

But Paul didn’t feel anything

Just the darkness of the fall

Head, the back of, colliding with ceramic

Paul’s consciousness, leaving the planet

 

Paul’s mother and father

Getting the call

Tears and terror

All because of a bathroom stall

The tendrils of influence

Stretched out that night

Lives changed forever

Because of meaningless fights

 

The guy who punched Paul

A promising grad

Lost control that night

And lost everything he had

Five years in jail

Guilt every day

All just because

Couldn’t keep anger at bay

 

And Paul’s friends got worse

Didn’t learn their lesson

Righting your wrongs

Beyond their comprehension

Even angrier nowadays

Don’t cross them on a night

But all of them cried

When they saw Paul after the fight

 

His head cracked open

Blood on the floor

Moaning aloud

But not here anymore

Eyes glazed over

Memory deleted

Verbal communication

Broken and fleeting

Confined to a wheelchair

A husk of what was

And all for nothing

A drunken encounter, just because

 

Just because some men

Justify their lives by their actions

And don’t feel like real men

If they’re not fighting or attracting

Females for fucking

Men to be battled

And bystanders like Paul

Just doe-eyed cattle

 

Paul’s story has a bright side

He’s not even real

But the stuff I’ve seen in my life

Tarnishes the grand reveal

Because what happened to Paul

I’ve seen more than once

I’ve watched punches thrown

Without slight remorse

All over nothing

Just beers and masculinity

Uncaring for reality

Human fragility

 

Let’s hope you’re not like Paul

And you’re aware of danger

Keep an eye out, for the anger of strangers

Distance yourself

When fists start to fly

Or it’ll be your mother

Who’ll weep, when she hears that you’ve died.

 

Last but not least,

Don’t keep the company of beasts.

Make sure your friends

Don’t have anger to unleash.

Enjoy your drinks

But beware of past midnight.

One punch can end it

Stay away from the fights.

The Strangest Weekend (Long Read)

I

If you’d told the man sitting in a Newcastle pub that he’d save the life of one of the rarest creatures in England on an otherwise dingy weekend, he’d have laughed in your face. Then, he’d probably have had another pint. Maybe he’d have had a shot too, for good measure.

 

This pint, his third, went down as willingly as their predecessors. He sat in the corner of the bar, underneath the picture of the fat lady with her breasts out. This had been their favourite spot, but now Thomas sat alone – and he drank.

 

But the bar itself wasn’t empty. Far from it. His phone buzzed constantly, GPS and NFC notifications lighting up to let him know that there were non-humans nearby. But Tom didn’t need a phone to notice that. In the Town Wall, people looking to dull the pain of a recent breakup weren’t the only beings around.

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The Visitor (Sci-fi short)

Yilrah’s cocoon broke through the atmosphere of Earth in a blaze of red flame that lit up the night sky. Inside the vessel, the traveller was awoken by the force of the entry. Minutes later, the whole structure shook violently as it thudded into the ground.

The news crews and scientists were already waiting. Inside, wrapped in the warmth and comfort of her planet’s birthing liquid, Yilrah breathed a deep sigh of trepidation. Here was her destiny, the same each of her species faced. Launched out into the universe asleep, forever immortal until they found planets that showed signs of life.

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Amnesia (Sci-fi Short)

The first question is where?

The second is why?

The third, and perhaps the hardest of all, is how?

The where is a maximum security prison called San Quentin. I’ve been put in here with some of the meanest, toughest human beings I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Tattoos on their throats, scars on their faces. Men who have killed and enjoyed it.

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The Stranger

A stranger came from a forgotten land

He wore golden hair, carried gold in hand.

With a sweet and lashing tongue that spoke aloud

The stranger he stood there tall and proud.

 

The stranger he tells us right from wrong

He masks untruth with his golden song.

And the stranger he carries gold in hand

Promises it freely to each and every man.

 

The stranger he removes the weak from the strong

Protects us from those who mean us wrong

Cut them off from the sea, off from the shore!

The stranger he guards us more and more.

 

And then the gold pours, thick like blood.

The stranger he slowly removes his hood.

We see his horns and we see his claws,

But it matters not, because he aids our cause.

 

The river runs deep, red and dark.

The stranger’s teeth, sharp like a shark.

He consumed them all, and we were glad.

But his eyes turn on us, hungry and mad.

 

The stranger he feasts on the fervor we fed him,

The lies and the fear and the hate that we let in.

Once he’s done with the others, none left to challenge his rule,

His jaws close on his loyal followers, the blind land of fools.

The Life of Derek Doyle (Sci-fi short)

There wasn’t much chance for Derek Doyle. He’d never had much of one, anyway. Born a bit of a natural loser, his own mother had known he had a face only she’d love. Growing up, he’d been distinctly average at everything – but the kids had still picked on him for his awkwardness. In adulthood, this ended with poor Derek working in a car garage, doing manual labour for the more qualified engineers.

What it didn’t do was stop Derek Doyle from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. When the car fell off the jacks and came crashing down to the garage floor, distinctly average Derek was crushed.

His mother cried for a week.

But Derek didn’t. He was too busy being dead.

Or so he thought. Funny, but death wasn’t what he’d imagined it being. For all the talk of pearly gates and singing angels, Derek found the sterile whiteness of death to be a bit of a let-down. He’d woken in a new place – clothed in nothing but his own nakedness. This had surprised him too, as he wasn’t what you’d call body confident. If anything, he’d been body shy to the point of wearing coats to bed at night.

But here he was: dead, or what was supposed to be dead, but stark naked. And the body in front of him was nothing like poor Derek Doyle’s. No pockmarks on the belly, no stretch marks on the thighs. A far bigger appendage than he remembered.

Odd, this.

But Derek Doyle wasn’t much of a thinker. Or so he thought. He wandered awhile through the infinite whiteness, wondering why heaven was so dull and what he was going to do here for eternity. Not that little Derek Doyle comprehended eternity.

“You have passed.” Came a voice.

“Passed?” Derek responded, swinging his head around to try and find the voice.

“Yes. Passed.”

There was no visible source from the voice that called through the sky – so Derek stopped looking. He was practical, at least.

“What have I passed?”

“Simulation number 98,788,223,132.”

“Oh.” Said Derek. He’d never had a head for numbers.

“You are not Derek Doyle.” Said the voice. This confused Derek, so he scratched his head and shrugged.

“Pretty sure I am. Always have been.”

“No. You’re not. You are Alpha. You are Omega. You are my test subject. And when I sent you into simulation 1, millenia ago, you were just as reluctant. You didn’t want to be the first man on Earth. When I sent you into simulation 94,788,123,424 you didn’t want to become Adolf Hitler and enact those terrible crimes. When I sent you into the last one, you’d complained that you’d learned too much to live out the life of a simpleton.”

Derek Doyle scratched his head again. A bright light flashed. Suddenly, he was not Derek Doyle. He was Alpha – and Alpha remembered it all. Trillion of lives, lived throughout history and the future of the human race. A simulation ran by his creator and tested by himself. Each and every conciousness created in that world had to be trialled. A full life each time.

Alpha had been Atilla the Hun. He’d been Jesus of Nazereth. He’d been Julius Caesar. And just now, he’d been Derek Doyle.

“You lived his life well. You were shy, kind and loving despite your flaws. Derek Doyle’s mother – who you will one day play, cared for you with a love that burned brighter than the hate you had to deal out when you lived as Benito Mussolini. That means you passed.”

“And, if I remember correctly,” Alpha said to his creator, “I get to choose the next life because I passed?”

“Indeed.”

Alpha thought of the many great men he had lived as. Of the despots and the kings, of the thinkers and the poets. He thought of them all – and he felt the weight of millenia’s worth of work weigh heavy on him. He was tired. He thought long and hard – then he smiled.

“Can I be Derek Doyle one more time?” He asked.

A white light flashed in reply.

A simple boy was born once again.

The creatures with black eyes [Horror Short]

I write this here in the hope someone will find it.

I know that the chances of someone – anyone, actually reading this note are not good. Dismal, in fact. I know that most likely, my own eyes will be the last pair to ever witness the words I’m hastily scribbling down.

But it matters not. I must warn someone. You must know.

If you have found this and you are reading these note, beware the men with the black eyes. Shun them. Fear them. Destroy them. They will do the same to you in a heartbeat.

My name is Dan Roberts. I am…was, a captain in the American army. During a bleak, dreary April that was devoid of activity aside from playing cards and wishing we were at home with our wives, my battalion received inexplicable orders to abandon the base we were currently stationed in. We had to leave the mainland U.S.A and head out into some shithole in the middle of nowhere, a tiny island in the pacific ocean.

Now, the men were far from stupid. They knew fine well that army units stationed on islands in the middle of the sea were apt to get gassed, nuked or have some other hideous weapon of war tested on them. Questions were raised, anger was rife.

I confronted the commanding officer about it, but was met with stern resolution and steely resolve. All he could tell me was that no questions should be asked. No testing was occurring, he reassured me. For my part, all I could do was nod and agree. After all, he outranked me.

“There’s a situation. We need men there. That’s all.” Said the man I’d followed for five years.

And so we were off. Multiple plane rides to reach guam and then a helicopter ride to the small island we were to be stationed. I was a fan of geography, so I knew we were heading near the Marianas trench – the deepest point of the ocean. The thought of the empty chasm of blackness descending deep into the Earth began to disturb me.

The island itself was small, no larger than two or three square miles of rock and tree and mud. We had to built our own encampment, with tents and fabric shelters alongside some pre-fab structures for pissing in.

We settled in for an uneasy first night. I slept under the canopy of my tent, but for some reason I kept dreaming of the top being torn off. All that I could see were the stars, with two impossibly dark eyes hiding among them.

Staring.

The next morning came and none of us knew what the fuck we were doing here, so the guys began to treat it like a holiday. The sun shone hot and the sea looked inviting. I couldn’t blame them. Despite the dream, I was feeling somewhat relaxed too. What else could we do but wait for orders? There was no naval facility here, so I’d given up on my assumption we’d be assisting a science expedition in the trench.

Then one of the soldiers went missing.

Rico Mendez had been swimming with the others when he’d vanished. Everybody had rushed to help, sprinting to his last position. He’d disappeared without a sound beneath the waves. A strong, able-bodied man who could outsprint most of the unit had just slid below the ocean and vanished.

We slept worse that night. I’d called in the incident and warned the men to stay out of the ocean. I dreamt of the eyes again. This time they were more visible. Black against the black sky, but a far more solid, menacing darkness than the heavens above me. They stared hungrily.

The next morning I awoke to find a unit of grumpy, bitter men. They wanted explanations for Rico and they wanted to swim. It was the only way they could cool off in the sticky pacific heat. It wasn’t like there was much else to do.

Later that evening, another man vanished.

That night, another.

I banned the men from swimming. I called in the incidents. HQ just relayed the same message each time: “Stay tight. We’ll extract in a week.”

Each day got worse.

More men began to go missing. One by one, they slid below the rolling waves without a single sound. No gasps for help, no cries of exhaustion, no struggling.

They vanished.

The dreams were worse then. I couldn’t sleep without seeing the staring black eyes.

Then, on the fifth day, with fifteen men of forty missing, I went for a walk to escape the terrible atmosphere in camp. I heard the chanting before I saw them, and drew my side-arm cautiously as I approached.

Between some thorned trees, I could see a gathering of shapes. They were terrible, inhuman creatures that I can’t bring myself to describe. Cruel contortions of men that wore our skin but did not fit the shape. On each one, I could see the black eyes I had dreamed off, staring at each other intently as they chanted.

“Cthulhu r’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn”

I had no idea what ancient language they spoke, but it made no sense to my ears and the sound of it was stuff of nightmare.

Then, to my indescribable horror, one of the creatures turned to look at me. Through the bushes, I could see those terrible eyes. They mocked me with their very existence. Ancient, disgusting globes that bore into my soul. I tried to raise my pistol and faltered. I recognised the skin the creature seemed to wear, pulled over its hideous shape.

It was Rico Mendez.

I could only scream and run, deserting through the forest and screeching my way back to camp. I could hear the sound of gunfire, panic and the terrifying squelch of the creatures.

“What the fuck!? Shoot them! Shoot them!”

“Cthulhu r’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”

“Help us! Someone help us!”

The noise of the chant and the battle raged, but I slipped out of consciousness as the thought of their awful black eyes burned its way into my mind.

I awoke in a base in Washington D.C. I gave a tearful report to my commanding officer. Apparently I was the only one to survive the island, found alone by the extraction team. I had been curled into a ball, shaking and quivering.

I remember none of this. But what I do remember is my commanding officer. As I gave him the fragile details of what had happened, he stared at me.

Stared at me with empty, terribly black eyes.

They shone like the void.

I write this to you now from the hospital they’ve consigned me to. Beware the black eyed men. They worship someone…something…ancient. It stirs below us. It stirs in the deepest parts of our world. The parts we know less than we know outer space.

They are coming.

A man searches a cupboard (Short Story)

He opened the cupboard door and sighed at the barren landscape that confronted him. His hand pawed inside the emptiness, searching. The man strained with the effort, stood on his toes as he stretched up into the overhead cupboard and tried to grasp what he was looking for.

Finally, he gave up and pulled his hand out. Cemented on his leathery old hand was a fine layer of dust, which he shook off with a frown of absent irritation. He knelt down in the kitchen and opened another cupboard, this one below the worktop. He nodded to himself now.

“It’s got to be here.” He said aloud. He felt anger rise in him as he rifled through the barren cupboards, eager to find it.

His reflection caught in the dusty glass of the oven. For a moment, the man saw himself as he was – an old, tired face with lines of stress and age creasing his features.

Then, he saw himself as he had been. A young man, with a perpetual smile. He saw his wife and him in the kitchen he was in now, but the cupboards had been full. The oven had been gleaming. He saw her cooking noodles on the hob, his body wrapped around her from behind. How she’d laughed softly and fended him off with a wooden spoon as the smell of the chicken noodles had wafted through their new home.

With the weight of memory hanging heavy on him, he paused his search. The man’s shoulders slumped and he looked around the dusty, disused remnants of his kitchen. Of their kitchen. He looked up at the counter-tops and the kettle. He remembered the terrible agony on their faces as they’d poured steaming mugs of tea for one another the night she had miscarried. The steaming hot drink had done little to stir the coldness that had settled in both of them that day.

The man laid his hand on a circular object in the cupboard and he drew it out quickly, as though relieved to have found it. Then his face crumpled in disappointment. It was a bottle of Mexican spices. He didn’t remember her ever cooking with those. He threw the bottle away and resumed his search, more slowly now. The weight of time was upon him and it was like an anchor dragging him down.

After they’d drank tea that night, they’d lived like robots. They’d stopped laughing so often. Stopped holding one another. She still cooked for him, but the distance between them had grown into something physical. Like it could be touched, if only he reached out to grab it. But he didn’t. Neither of them did.

And now, here they were. He almost laughed at the bitterness of it. Forty years of unhappiness together, where they should have separated but couldn’t. And now she was gone, asleep in some mortuary a few streets away. Eternally at peace, perhaps with their infant son from all those years ago.

The old man’s search ended. He found the circular grip of the revolver in the back of yet another cupboard. With tears of remembrance, he closed his eyes and thought of her at the hob, cooking noodles for them in their brand new home, with the swell of their child on her belly. The promise of their future.

The old man pulled the trigger.

 

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