The Stranger Paradox (A Doctor Who short story)

In 2018, I had the wonderful privilege of writing a short story for the character of Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, an important figure in Doctor Who history. It was part of the Lethbridge-Stewart Short Story Collection by Candy Jar Books. Although the one published had been edited slightly for copyright reasons, this was the original.

December, 1940. London.

Nathaniel Faircastle’s home was a quaint, brick house adjacent to the local post office. It was only two streets away from the Liskeard Grammar School, and Alistair would often visit his friend’s home after a hard day’s work filled with writing, arithmetic and the umpteenth gas mask drill. Sometimes, if Alistair was lucky, the Faircastles would allow him to stay overnight as long as he notified his mother beforehand. This had been a common occurrence recently as Alistair was feeling the absence of his father. Ever since his father had enlisted, Alistair felt his home had seemed darker, colder and even alien. His mother had tried to comfort his worries, but nothing soothed his mind. The more time he could spend elsewhere, the less he could be reminded of the horrors his father may be facing in the terrible war.

On this particularly muggy day, Alistair was feeling disheartened after an argument with his mother that morning. He had asked to stay over at Nathaniel’s that night. Believing that her son was not spending enough time at his own home anymore, his mother refused his request. That had caused Alistair to lose his temper and he unintentionally smashed a picture frame containing a cherished photo of the Lethbridge family, taken one Christmas. Alistair left the house early without another word.

At school, Nathaniel had noticed something was amiss with his friend. He attempted to ask Alistair what was wrong?, but Alistair just shook his head decisively and muttered “later”. Now, in the confines of his bedroom, Nathaniel asked the question again. He hoped the privacy might encourage his friend to tell him what was on his mind.

“I-I feel bad be-because I broke a precious picture frame this morning.” Alistair confessed. They were sat on the hardwood floor. Nathaniel was leaning against the frame of his bed whilst Alistair had his back against the opposite wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. The only light in the room was a gas lamp at their feet as the electric bulb overhead was too bright to be obscured by the blackout on the window. Alistair never liked the blackouts. They made him feel isolated and trapped, as if the Nazis had personally put it up to blot out all the light in the world.

“Why did you do that?” Nathaniel asked, shocked.

“I was angry at my mother be-because she didn’t want me staying here again. She says I stay here too often.”

“That’s no problem. You should tell her to talk to my mother. She doesn’t mind you staying here so much.” Nathaniel smiled. “She says it’s nice that I have such a good friend.” Alistair returned the smile. “Here, I have something to show you. It’ll cheer you up.” He slid his hand underneath the bedspread, his nails scraping across the wood. He then pulled out a small tin- foil packet. It glinted in the gas-light like treasure. “Chocolate.”

"Where did you get that?”

“Found it in the larder.” Nathaniel replied gleefully. “I think my mother was keeping it for a special occasion.”

It was Alistair’s turn to be shocked. “You probably shouldn’t be eating that. What if she finds out?”

“Do you want some or not? We’ve got another hour before supper.”

Alistair said nothing as Nathaniel placed a small slice in his palm, and Alistair popped it into his mouth before it had a chance to melt. Nestled on his tongue, behind his teeth, he allowed the chocolate to slowly dissolve, savouring the sweet taste. Alistair hadn’t tasted chocolate in such a long time that he thought he might have forgotten. It was too good to be true, as it quickly melted and the now liquid treat slid down his throat. The delicious taste lingered in his mouth moments afterwards however. Nathaniel stored the remainder of the chocolate back underneath the bed after gobbling up his own piece.

“Al? Did you argue because of your father?” His friend’s question knocked Alistair for six. “What?”

"You and your mum?”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Nathan.” He was becoming uncomfortable.

“Are you afraid you’re father’s going to...die in the war?”

Alistair glared at his friend. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“No, don’t worry.” Nathaniel tried reassuring him. “I think about the same. Remember, my father’s gone to war too. I think about him all the time, just like you do yours. The only reason I ask, is because you...you know...” Nathaniel didn’t know how to put this statement without sounding insensitive, “you know how it feels, Al. Your brother...”

“I don’t want to talk about James!”

“But you were the one who used to tell me about him!” Nathaniel insisted.

“I know.” He had always fantasized about seeing James again. That horrible night in 1938 had haunted his dreams for over two years now and still it continued. “I don’t want to.”

“You had these mad ideas about how he died. You used to tell me about the science-fiction books you read that could be part of it all.”

“I’ve left that all behind now. I don’t like to think about it!” Alistair was losing his temper again. Why did Nathan keep referring to James?

“What about the Time Machine and H. G. Wells - you used to think about going back and saving him. Imagine if you could do that...”

“Stop it, Nathan!”

“But, imagine!”

“I’ve stopped imagining!” Alistair abruptly stood and up and burst out of the room. He didn’t know why this new anger surged through him like a stream of electricity, but it caused him to half-stumble down the staircase and barged through the front door and out into the street. It was already night, and the clouds were obscuring any moonlight. He almost tripped over the sidewalk as he ran in a random direction, tears starting to stream down his face. He wasn't sure where he was heading, but he wanted to get as far away from Nathan’s house before the thought of James overwhelmed him.

It was about ten minutes later, after running down numerous streets in the Belgravia district, that Alistair heard the air raid siren. It suddenly dawned on him that he had left his gas mask hanging on the coat hook at his friend’s house. He also realised that, in his mad dash across the city, he hadn’t been paying attention to where he was going. The area was unfamiliar. The houses surrounding him looked much nicer than the ones he had ever lived in. They were made of white stone instead of brickwork and just outside the front facade were rows of iron railings.

Alistair turned on the spot, hoping to find something he recognised, but the night was too dark, and the blackened windows offered no light. Lost, afraid and feeling very alone, he collapsed onto the pavement, tears still streaming down his cheeks as the sirens continued to wail. It was then that he felt the presence of someone nearby. He could hear their shoes tap on the ground.

“No use staying here - you're a bit exposed if you ask me.” Alistair looked up, but his eyes were too watery to discern the man's face. “Come on, let’s find some shelter.” He could just make out a hand in the darkness, which he suddenly took without thinking. The man’s voice seemed friendly, and that was enough for Alistair to trust him. They crossed the road to the front of one of the beautifully white houses. He heard the man rifle through the pockets of his coat. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched noise, and as if by magic, the door to the house they had stopped outside opened.

“What are you doing?” Alistair asked, worried that he was party to a burglary.

“Finding shelter. Didn’t your parents ever tell you to find shelter when there’s an air raid?” Alistair felt stupid for asking. He was lead through the front hallway of the house. The mysterious man pulled open a hatch underneath the staircase and switched on the light inside. He then directed Alistair into the tight compartment. “As good a place as any. I’ve survived a bombing inside a cupboard before. Mind you, the cupboard was surrounded by three-inch steel walls. And actually it wasn’t bombs necessarily - more like missiles. Come on, get in.”

Given barely a chance to make any sense of what he was talking about, Alistair scrambled through the small hatch and pressed himself into a dusty corner next to a wooden stool and a pile of old rugs. The layers of dust were so copious that as he disturbed the items, he was forced to sneeze. The man followed him inside, shutting the hatch door behind him and scrunching into the opposite corner.

Under the light, Alistair got a good look at the man. He was dressed strangely, a brown jacket over a white and red-checkered shirt with navy-blue trousers and heavily polished black shoes that climbed up further than his ankles. He also wore a bright-red bow tie, too outlandish to believe. His hair was his strangest feature of all. It drooped to one side like a waterfall, almost half-obscuring his face. Alistair didn’t know what it was that made him trust this man, but knew immediately then that he was quite ridiculous.

“So, what’s your name?” The man asked. Hesitantly, he replied. “Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart.”

“Good name.” There was something peculiar about the way the man reacted to his name. He was gleaming wildly. “Why were you walking around alone on such a dark night, Alistair?”

He felt obligated to explain his situation. “I...was angry.”

“Angry?” The man seemed to ponder this. “Yes, I’ve been angry before. Makes you want to break something or hit someone. I’ve never walked alone through the streets when I’m angry though.”

“I’m sad too.”

“Yes, sad. Now sad is something else - something far more complicated. Tell me, why are you sad?”

He couldn’t understand why he felt able to unburden himself to this man, but Alistair found it easy to speak. “I don’t want to lose anyone else.” The distant sound of the air raid siren was now coupled with intermittent rumblings as the first bombs fell on London.

“That’s a perfectly natural feeling to have.” The man ran his finger along the floorboards above him, causing a cloud of dust to cover them both. It didn’t seem to phase him though. “Accepting the loss of someone is one of life’s greatest challenges. You once had a picture on your wall that you passed every single day, but that picture’s gone now. All that’s left is the discoloured shadow of where it used to be - a reminder that it once existed.”

“How did you know I broke the picture?” Alistair asked, incredulous.

“What? No, that was a metaphor.” The man frowned. “What picture?”

“It was the last picture we had of my brother. I broke it. It’s my fault.” Alistair felt the tears prickling the corners of his eyes once more. He told himself that he would not cry in front of the stranger.

The man leaned forward so that his facial features became more pronounced. Alastair had a funny feeling that despite his young appearance - much younger than his mother - the man’s eyes carried the weight of eternity. This friendly and, frankly, unusual man had seen more than his appearance let on. “Can you remember your brother? Can you remember all the happy moments you spent with him? All the little secret places that only you and he knew about? All the naughty things that you wouldn’t dare tell your parents about?”

Alistair nodded emphatically. “I always see James in my sleep. But it hurts to think about him.”

“No, but that’s good.” The man assured him. “Think of your mind as an everlasting camera. No matter how many days pass, the memories that your mind retains will always be there. You don’t need a picture to remember your brother. Your mind will always remember him. And the fact that he had such an important role in your life means that he will always have a special place in your memories.”

“How is it good if it hurts?”

“Pain is good. Never worry about things being painful. That’s just your body and mind telling you that you care.” He paused. “I lost someone recently. Someone whom I hadn’t seen in a very long time. He may not have been my brother, but he was as close as one. We had our differences of opinion. We argued. But, above all else, we had a mutual respect for one another. An unspoken agreement, if you will. That agreement meant that whatever happens, we would always support each other. Yes, it hurt when I heard that he had passed away, and that I had lost a good friend. But, at the same time, I know, without question, that I will never forget him or the times that we shared.”
The man gave another pause, almost as if to let his words sink in. They certainly had an effect on Alistair.
“You say you don’t want to lose anyone else? Are you referring to your father?”

Alistair nodded again. “Yes. He’s gone to fight in the war. We don’t know where, but...I’m worried I won’t see him again either.”

“Have you ever thought about being a soldier?”

He thought about it for a moment. “My grandfather once asked me about being a soldier some day. But, I never wanted to. I don’t want to have to think about killing someone. I don’t think I’d have the courage to do it.”

“That’s what I used to think. But, there’s more to being a soldier than killing, you know? The friend I’ve been talking about was a soldier. A Brigadier, no less. When I first met him I thought he would be just another servant of violence following ridiculous orders. But, he was different. One of the bravest people I ever met, in fact. And very thoughtful. He made mistakes, of course, as any military leader would in hard times. But, he had more compassion than most, a compassion that would save many lives. His finest quality was his ability to stand in the face of fear itself.” The man leaned forward again, kindness clear in his eyes. “Now, I can’t give you any promises about your father. But, I can assure you, that as long as you remember him, his memory will never fade - the same as your brother. Your father was a brave man to go to war, knowing that almost inevitably it could mean his death. Remember him as that brave man.”

Alistair suddenly felt himself smile. “I will.”

Suddenly, he realised that they had been inside the cupboard for a very long time, and the all clear was sounding in the distance. They must have been talking for nearly an hour. The mysterious man smiled back, but his smile was decidedly more farcical. “I’ll tell you one thing - if you can stand up against those bombs raining down on you, you’re braver than most people.” He pushed the door open once more and quickly shuffled out. “Quick, we’d better get out of the house, before the owners return from the garden shelter.”

Alistair didn’t complain, and headed straight for the front door. It was still pitch black outside, but there was a warm feeling in knowing that the Nazi planes had flown away. The man followed him outside after again doing something with the front door. The boy guessed that he was somehow re-locking it with some special key. He then reached into his jacket and brought out a thin metal tube. He held it out to Alistair.

“A torch. Where did you say you came from?”

“I didn’t.” Alistair replied sheepishly. “I was staying with my friend on Kinnerton Street.” 

“Kinnerton Street, eh?” He said. “Right, follow me.”

Alistair was very thankful to the man as they arrived next to the post office at Nathan’s house. He shook the man’s hand vigorously, elated as he was to find himself back in familiar surroundings. Nathan’s silhouette was suddenly at the door, an expression of relief on his face for his friend’s return. Nathan’s mother was stood behind him, her expression was even more anxious, and Alistair half-expected to get a clip across the ear for his nighttime stroll.

“Keep your friends close. Friendship lasts more than a lifetime.” This was the last thing the man said, before straightening his bow tie, turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.

Alistair crossed quickly to the threshold of the Faircastle’s house, back into the warmth, as Mrs. Faircastle gave him a thorough telling off, explaining how she’d almost phoned the police. When everything had died down and the two friends were invited to the dining room for supper, Nathan asked Alistair a burning question.

“Who was that man?”

“I don’t know,” Alistair replied. It suddenly dawned on him. “I never asked his name.”

Every Author Has An Influence (10 Novels That Helped Create Mine)

Reading and writing. You can't have one without the other.

My life and the way I lead it has been influenced by many things. Most likely, I'll discuss the majority of them in later posts. But, for now, I'd like to refer to the fiction that I've come across and how the words and worlds of others have been an inspiration and a motivator in my attempts to write.

I've always loved books. To hold them, to smell them, to admire their beautiful covers - sometimes embossed, sometimes flexible, sometimes indestructible - is to love a book. Thanks to my generous parents, I was privileged to start exploring the land of fiction from an early age. Childhood imaginary sojourns included Harry Potter, The Hobbit, Famous Five, His Dark Materials and Mortal Engines. These progressed further in my teenage years to fantasies such as the wonderful Skulduggery Pleasant and The Spook's Apprentice and classics such as War and Peace (took me aeons) and Wuthering Heights. All have made an impact in some way, but only the following have had a lasting impression.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS (Charles Dickens)

My first Dickens remains my favourite. Without a doubt, this was my first realisation that the simple words on a page can transport a mind through time and space. I latched myself instantly to the character of Pip and felt his every piece of anguish, fright and happiness. As with all Dickens novels, the characters that inhabit them are so vivid, you could imagine them standing right there in front of you, enunciating their dialogue like an actor on stage. Miss Havisham in particular struck me as someone so genuinely astonishing, I was afraid to travel to London for fear of encountering her at a wealthy estate. With relationships, Dickens always has this innate power to forge ties between his characters that are genuine and thoughtful, particularly between that of Pip and Joe (his brother-in-law, yet father figure). Despite being written and set in a completely different era, as a young lad I felt so connected to the narrative as to want to be there to help.

Renowned for directing his stories around morality, Dickens perhaps influenced me the most when it comes to seeing the world and how I react to it. Pip and his connection with Estella has always struck a melancholy chord with me, whether it be romantic or platonic. It's a testament to this phenomenal author (whom we still read avidly today), that he was able to see light through the terrible darkness that was the age of extreme poverty, inequality and aristocratic ascendancy. Interesting, as well, that I saw so many parallels throughout history where Dickens' stories could very well be relatable.

TRYSOR PLASYWERNEN (T. Llew Jones)

For the Welsh readers and learners, I couldn't recommend this book enough. At a time when I was exploring genres across the spectrum of fiction, and when my Welsh language was becoming reliable, this particular story brought it all together. Spooky, mysterious, adventurous and cosy, this was a fine example of Jones' mastery of children's literature. Always known for his epics about treasure and smuggling, this was perhaps his most relatable version of that trope, bringing an element of youthful curiosity that peaked my interest more than the rest. His control of tension and speed of narrative always brought me back, making it perhaps the fastest reading session I had a the time (I must have read it at least ten times since). 

Its influence on me remains to this day as a reminder that every plot diversion requires a purpose. If you've got your reader hanging on a cliffhanger, there must be something the other side that tempts you onwards and reels you in with delicious bait. He always managed it with me. With Trysor Plasywernen, he also balanced the tone so well, keeping a dark atmosphere over a light-hearted mystery that would excite any young mind. This is one where I can never forget that feeling of reading it for the first time.

TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD (Harper Lee)

Required reading for my English Literature GCSE, this was perhaps the only one of the curriculum-approved prose that made a significant dent in my psyche. To be perfectly honest, my knowledge of American history was pretty poor before grasping the events that occurred within this novel, and it has since sparked a lot of necessary research on my part. There's no doubt that it's an important work for it's time, but it is limited by its perspective. As a white person myself, Harper Lee's visual journey through the eyes of Scout allows a window into a world where privilege is accepted by white people, but fought for and died for by black people. That world terrified me, and even more terrifying to think that only in recent history have things started to change (though not nearly enough). 

At the time of reading this novel, Barack Obama had recently become President of the United States, and the weight of that appointment was not lost on me. If nothing else, the actions of Atticus Finch, the undiluted prejudices of common individuals within the novel, and the naivety or innocence of children are all parts to seeking an understanding of human nature. And I quickly realised how complicated people are in general. What Lee does really well is offer up flawed characters with extremely flawed opinions about the world without removing the awkwardness. The reading experience is rewarded for that realism. It would be a lie for my to say that analysing these injustices in English class did not direct my attention somewhat. Ever since, I've been trying to be a better person, remain open-minded to the world, and understand how my world may in fact be very different to someone else's. 

FLOWERS FOR ALGERNON (Daniel Keyes)

Continuing with the theme of prejudice, Flowers for Algernon takes this a step further, opting to give an astonishingly poignant first-hand account of Charlie Gordon, someone who was born with a mental disability. Throughout the novel, Charlie's intelligence follows a Gaussian curve, with the use of surgery, becoming gradually intelligent to the halfway point and then regressing back to his original competency. The changes to his life and the reactions of people around him are visceral; a reminder of how someone treats someone else often adapts considering their personality and speech. The profound effect this had on me was to wonder whether there's an advantage to intelligence over kindness. Charlie is always kind throughout, sometimes in a subtle fashion, but it's only with intelligence that he gains the respect that he deserves.

It's a common trait in the real world that someone who is perceived as intelligent is often placed on a higher pedestal. What this story attempts to rectify is how competely antithetical to humanity that fact is. The ethicality of experimenting on someone's cognitive capabilities neglects to point out that kindness trumps all the actions of Humanity, offering a better world to those who give it, but especially those who receive it. As a wholly science-fiction novel, this was the first to use outrageous ideas with truly breathtaking simplicity. It's one of my favourites for a reason,

THE LEFT HAND OF DARKNESS (Ursula K. Le Guin)

As I've explored science-fiction further, I've quickly realised how influential and superlative some of its contributors are. Considered one of the greatest to ever write, Le Guin remains one of my favourite authors. I could have included The Dispossessed and Earthsea here too, but if was to choose one it was always this particular gem. Interestingly, the premise didn't grip me at first. I was only tempted by the rave reviews, and how glad I was to finally discover that truth. Despite having many prevalent sci-fi tropes, the story and worldbuilding itself is brilliantly original. Its use of androgony as a social construct was an eye-opener for me, allowing to grasp a whole bunch of possibilities that I would never have alllowed myself before. There's also elements of cultural integration, the respect one person has for another belief or tradition, and the kindness one can show for appreciating that difference. 

A reader could easily fall into this book and find its political background very engaging, but what feels more powerful with this novel, as with all of Le Guin's, is her ability to add multiple layers of emotion for her main characters, giving their souls a definition. This isn't a conventional love story, it's one where two individuals separated by a cultural chasm find harmony by breaking away from the shackles of their regimented lives. That's a phenomenal tale to tell. More importantly, it reminded me that our societal roles are sometimes masks we where over our true nature.

THE SIRENS OF TITAN (Kurt Vonnegut)

After leaving school, I'd decided to try my hand at physics with astronomy in university, with mixed results. It was around this time, I decided to rekindle my love of writing and start anew with a fresh narrative. For inspiration, I turned to a few science-fiction masterworks. Vonnegut had always been lauded as a humanist, and perhaps this particular tome demonstrated that intention perfectly. Quirky in its premise, the Sirens of Titan riffs off a physics concept of quantum mechanics and takes it to a wonderfully meaningful resolution. It's the sort of story that sits in its own pocket universe, a man that can seemingly traverse the Solar System, offering opportunities for people to visit and amass a great fortune. Meanwhile another man and his companion dog find themselves spiralling towards the star Betelgeuse. It's wacky, unhinged and just plain brilliant. 

Through inter-connected stores, Vonnegut finds a common truth to all events, despite the ridiculousness of some of their situations. Where inspiration really strikes is the fact that the author uses the quantisation of all things to manipulate time, effectively changing the evolution of humanity in minute ways to allow a different present. It's one of the many fascinating ways science-fiction can pay homage to science, while also stretching its reality, promising a future where this could be possible - at least within our own minds. It was that sort of storytelling that I was never brave enough to attempt. After reading this, I certainly felt braver.

HYPERION (Dan Simmons)

Without a doubt, my favourite novel of all time. Hyperion is epic in every sense of the word. Fuelled by a meta-narrative in which significant characters in this future universe tell the tales of their lives, there's such a hotpot of genres complimenting each other, it's a wonder Simmons managed to keep it all together. Imagine, if you will, a mission where all those involved are gathered onto a spaceship and sent to their doom. None of them know each other, but through the sheer act of fireside storytelling they unveil their darkest truths. Slowly but surely you learn how all these people are vital for the endgame, each contributing a new flavour of lives, but every puzzle piece fitting perfectly into the collection. And tying it all together is one of the most terrifying villains known to literature. The Shrike. For those who haven't read it, I won't say more, but the methodology of this novel is genius, carefully orchestrating an ending that may seem quiet, but holds so much meaning.

What pulls me into this one more than the rest is the unapologetic complexity. It doesn't shy away from having multiple characters, nor does it hold back on dark themes, taking extremely emotional twists at the turn of a page. To cap it off, the futuristic settings are immersive and believable. I feel every time that I was wandering those streets on Tau Ceti Centre, visualising the death of the Earth at the hands of a black hole, and crying with the Consul at the fate of his daughter. That last one is perhaps the most shocking twist I've ever read in a book. More than any other, this tale has propelled me onwards to be honest in my writing, to the point of visceral.

THE THREE-BODY PROBLEM (Cixin Liu)

Contemporary in its telling, the Three-Body Problem however feels more advanced than many stories with similar veins. This is an alien invasion told unconventionally. The way Cixin uses modern devices to attract danger in the first place is unlike anything you'll ever read. And like the Sirens of Titan, this novel doesn't shy away from touching on famous physics concepts and using them to make massive leaps in storytelling. There are chapters in this novel that involve people acting as computer programmes to direct a planet away from inevitable destruction; it's a symphony of science-fiction that is as delectable as it is unprecedented.

Ever since I turned eighteen, I've had a weird, morbid fascination with politics, and often find myself getting angry at the way most politicians seek votes, commendation or just plain old power by using emotional manipulation or corruption. Often that has been a catalyst for the way I write and what I include. But where I've felt my notions have been clumsy, the Three-Body Problem has set me right, giving me a template for pairing politics seamlessly with science-fiction, making it seem as though they are part and parcel. This isn't Star Wars warfare, it's genuine conference room drama with unilateral decisions being made about how the human race proceeds to save itself from the ultimate demise.

TO BE TAUGHT, IF FORTUNATE (Becky Chambers)

A suprise to be sure, but a delightful one. Definitely not something I would normally read, Becky Chambers' novella is experimental science-fiction with a flair of realism that harkens back to the horror of a film like Alien or the grittiness of an Arthur C. Clarke epic. From the moment I started reading this, I found its introspective, personal nature to be an affecting journey. Like it was talking to me, affectionately. To put it simply, this novel covers the lives of four astronauts, living intermittently between suspended animation and exciting sojourns onto extraterrestrial planets to examine local species. The attention to detail is brilliant, helped along by Chambers' immersion in astrobiology from a young age. It reminded my that there's more to sci-fi than just physics and astronomy, there are branches of science that I feared to tread, but will be necessary to research should I want my own to have clarity of truth.

This key part of the Wayfarers series is a stroke of mastery in fiction that doesn't come around often, namely as it takes its character-driven storyline so seriously, there's a risk of forgetting a plot. But the ending will grip you tight and give you that mix of claustrophobia and agoraphobia that only an astronaut could have at being stranded like debris floating in the depths of space.

ANFARWOL (Peredur Glyn)

I'm ever so slightly cheating here, as this was a new read and hasn't been out as long as really necessary to have that much of an impact on my first novel. But it would be sacrilege not to include it and wax lyrical about the influence it will have on the rest of the Cosmogenesis Hexad. For those who are Welsh readers, I urge you to get a copy of this book. For those who are English readers, I hope for your sake this will get a translation. Never have I been so enamoured so quickly by a novel, especially one that sets it's premise in history before metamorphing quickly into a fantasy of catastrophic proportions. The ride is so rapid that you often find yourself looking back and wondering where all that time went. It covers the life of a seemingly hapless actor who finds himself in the strange quandry of being immortal, but then finds himself embroiled in the shenanigans of a strange cult in red robes who worship the strangest of deities. You think that sounds bonkers, wait until you reach its climax. 

If anything, the Welsh language is perhaps the most important device in this story, and that will also be true in mine. I was fortunate, thanks to my parents, that I was able to discover, learn and breathe Cymraeg as if it's some spiritual entity that has possessed me and stoked my passion. It feels like that for a lot of Welsh people, like the words themselves have connection to the soil, like a strange magic that causes the wind to blow, trees to grow and mountains to quake. Anfarwol inhabits that same mysteriousness, taking a step further to reminding everyone that our heritage and culture are jewels to be protected. From my perspective, it has certainly lit a fire under my arse and got me singing for my country. Sometimes a song takes a while to compose.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS

There are so many books I could have included on this list that I would still wholeheartedly recommend for those young and old. Reading in general is such a freeing experience. I have such vivid and fond memories of turning particular pages, like they're a snapshots of life spread out on a canvass. My head was buried in Stormbreaker (Anthony Horowitz) at lunch time in primary school. I recall waking up at my grandparents' house on Boxing Day, insisting on reading The Graveyard Book (Neil Gaiman) while everyone else had breakfast. Crossing from youth to adult with Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (Philip K. Dick) was perhaps not the best handhold, but blimey did it revitalise my neurons. For its sheer size, scope and effort, A Song of Ice and Fire (George R. R. Martin) will always entice me with its maps, kingdoms and characters. And no science-fiction collection is complete without the gargantuan worlds that are Dune (Frank Herbert) and Helliconia (Brian W. Aldiss).

Unfortunately, as always with these lists, things will get left behind. I am always open to recommendations and suggestions and love to hear about a book that changed lives. Feel free to comment or contact me directly with stories that made the world a bit different for you.

Diolch,

T. L. Firth

The Countdown Begins...

When I was approximately nine or ten years old, I was sat in the kitchen at the house of one of my closest friends. I was on one of those spinning breakfast chairs, holding a coco-pop straw and dipping it in a bowl of milk. It was about the time we had started exploring hobbies together. One included making comedic movies on a video camera during the summers when school was out, or while holidaying together in Three Cliffs Bay off the coast of the Gower. We had dubbed ourselves JJTA (the initials were the first letters of our names) and also established a newsletter that we would attempt to (and fail to) bring out monthly. Our parents indulged us - even going as far as to sit patiently for a screening of our second movie in the living room (me cringing in the background as I watched myself act the fool). 

But it was in that kitchen when I told my friends that I wanted to write a novel. I remember vividly outlining a story about four siblings discovering their parents were aliens from a distant planet and were being chased by their long forgotten enemy who had become emaciated due to experiments with time. I asked my best friend point blank what he think I should call it. He immediately answered with "Skeleton Doom".

The title stuck, and some four grueling years later - during which I found an extreme passion for science and physics in particular - I had written a manuscript. Over two-hundred pages long! It was childish, naive and bursting with imagination - just what you'd expect from a fourteen-year old trying to make sense of the world around them by projecting thought and emotions onto a blank piece of paper. I still have it, kept almost pristine in a cardboard box. But, despite being my first foray into writing, I struggle to read it. And as I get older, I find myself being far more judgemental of past attempts, which I suppose is the natural progression for any aspiring writer. I'm always trying to improve.

Skeleton Doom may never know the light of day, but its legacy most definitely lives on. Through composing that first one, it taught me so much about perseverance, the characters that I adore writing about, and also my love of mixing genres. It was fantasy embedded in science-fiction; politics mingling with warfare; familial ties threatened by revenge. The blend didn't always work, but as a sandbox for writing progression, it worked wonders. And, for one thing, it birthed a pseudonym that I use to this day; Cyruptsaram, the name given to that villain hell bent on revenge.

It was four years later, after finishing school and heading for university to study physics with astronomy, that I began what would be the novel that I dreamed of writing. Something that was unmistakably me, but now formed of contemporary ideas and influenced by contemporary events. Since 2014, so much has happened in this world, and so much has changed. As a young person, it was easy to feel disillusioned by everything. To combat this, I wrote. It was an escape to a different realm that I could control and somewhere I could vent about injustices, because in the real world I felt powerless to help stop them.

Ten years later, I achieved the goal that my ten-year old self most wanted. I completed a novel. It was messy, convoluted and bloody bonkers. There's a whole saga of "near misses" and "almost giving up" in between that could very much have ended in failure. But I muscled through and created something that had a lot of potential. But what one person sees can not always be what everyone else sees. Trying my luck, I sent it to a number of publishers in the hope someone else might think it too. Miraculously, someone has, and I am forever grateful to them for believing in me.

So here I am, in that utterly surreal situation where I get to say: my debut novel is coming out in a year. The Immortality Paradox, Volume I of the Cosmogenesis Hexad, published by Barnard Publishing, will be released into the world for anyone with an interest in Human politics set in the backdrop of a futuristic universe of war, unrest and immortal aliens. 

Obviously, I'd be very grateful if you considered purchasing it. With this new blog, I hope to make you all very excited!

T. L. Firth