Burning Roses

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Imagine a world where dreams can come true. The best of all possible worlds, where everything always works out the way it’s supposed to. Where you can do anything you want to do. Or be anything you want to be.

A world where all you have to do is live life to the full, and experience the splendour of the universe around you. Where you can learn from even your worst mistakes, for in this world, there is no real death. Merely a brief period of rest, before the next round of experience and wonder.

A world inhabited by gods and fabulous creatures, full of adventure and sensation. Sights, sounds, colours and textures created for no other reason than to stimulate your senses.

Virtual reality, you ask? Some new computer gaming system? No, this world is far more mysterious. More magickal. And yet just as fragile and insubstantial as the gossamer dreams of a newborn child.

It was in such a world that I found myself one bright and sunny morning during the eighties.

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“BASTARDS!”

This was followed by the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. I found myself in darkness.

The usual questions came to mind. What the hell was happening? And where the f**k was I?

“Bastards!”

I rubbed the back of an arm across my eyes. But they didn’t seem to work as well as they should. When I tried to c***k them open, a murderous g**g of light rays launched a vicious assault, forcing me to roll over and press my face against what felt like a carpet. This felt better.

But now the other senses were pissed off at me for disturbing their rest. Sirens blared. Vulcan’s trolls went to work in my head. And the sounds of frantic activity played on in the background.

“Not today, you bastards!”

This last was accompanied by the melodious grind of furniture being dragged across a wooden floor, and banging against what could only be a wooden door. At which point the sirens came to a sudden stop, car doors slammed open and shut, and I forced an eye open.

“Oi! Hippy! Lock up when you leave!”

This came from a hulking form dressed in dungarees and an Adolf Hitler World Tour shirt. The sleeves had been ripped off the shirt to expose arms wrapped in barbed wire, swastikas and chains. One end of this monster was grounded in a massive pair of Doc Martens. The other end had been shaved to a dark stubble. The beast was standing in front of a pair of double glass doors, pointing some kind of baton at me. Not in any condition to argue, I raised a thumb, at which sign the thing turned, vaulted over a railing and dropped from sight.

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