National Coming Out Day in UK

National Coming Out Day in UK

by Debs J Forrest on Wednesday, 12 October 2011 at 10:06 on FB

After my note the other day I have spent a lot of time in deep ponderings. Yesterday was International Coming out Day and I felt braver yesterday than I feel today. To admit that I'm gay is possibly harder to do than to admit I accidentally shredded my sons chequebook thinking it was mine. Of course its harder, its possibly life changing to some respect.

I'm not a lesbian, I feel no love for another female other than friendship. I hate my own body, could you seriously expect me to love someone else who has the same body parts as me? If anyone hates what I write and feels repelled, simply untag and bugger off and delete me. I could lose friends and family over this. But I've lived a straight life for 45 years, I've had no gay relationships, I've been in a straight relationship for 20 years. I have 2 kids. I'm set up for life more or less. I wore a dress at my wedding, I chose the most plainest of dresses possible without the frills and the lace. I didn't want to wear a dress but it was a wedding and what was I meant to wear?

I've had a lot of time to think, and with Hollyoaks portraying the girl Jasmine Costello the transgender Jason Costello, it forces me to question my own gender identity. My note pretty much said it all. The friend I told you about felt quite strongly that transgender wasn't something she thought I was. She thought I was like her in that I liked and preferred mens clothing because its more comfortable to wear. That might be true for her, but for me, its perfectly normal to wander along the aisles in the shops and look up underpants for myself and vests and pyjamas in the mens section, buy the shoes in the Mens section, coats, jumpers, shirts. I never wander into a woman's clothes shop unless there's a kids section at the back and I have to get clothes for my two. Women's clothes don't interest me at all. I don't read women's magazines unless they're the only thing in the pile at the drs. The dentist have a pile of car mags which I think I've read all of them now. I tend to take in my own reading material. I know I'm different, I'm never worried about breaking a nail. I feel uncomfortable with the word wife, I don't wear the ring any more, makes me look like my mum. I've not worn a wedding ring now for 14 years.

I don't love all men obviously, there are certain ones that set my pulse alight, but I don't fancy women. I know there's nothing I can do about my physical being. Well ok there are things I could do, but like the note earlier, its who I'll lose if I did. I know what I am, there's nothing I can do to change that.

I have a family who love me for me, who partly understand what I'm about, love me for not being like other Mums and will talk to me occasionally about things NOT related to the XBox. But above all, to change me physically even though deep down, to be more masculine and on the outside, facial hair and six pack (grins) would make me feel so much more liberated than I do already, I can't.

But the one thing I do want to do, is save up for professional photographs of the masculine side of me. The black and White stills of me wearing what I like, what's comfortable, in the poses I want, how I want them, and not to be ridiculed by small minded bigoted people who have set labels for others. No matter how often I 'change my attitude' I can't change how I am inside. I'm 'Wired to the Moon'

Screaming on the Inside

I watch Jason Costello and I question my own identity and wonder is it just me or have the powers of TV and acceptance of gender identity changed over the years? When I was growing up, I'd never heard of transgender, never thought you could get a sex change, or take blockers. Imagine how I'd look now. For a start I'd not have breasts and I'd have something to play with on a quiet evening in my own space. I'd have acceptable facial hair and not the stuff I have to pull off with tweezers. The deep voice wouldn't upset anyone and the casual visits to the gents wouldn't have men screaming and leaving with their flies hastily zipped up running like frightened rabbits.

On the outside people see me, the mad Skittles person who makes them laugh, moves them to tears, and is an all rounder. On the inside, the place nobody sees, is me screaming. Screaming that my exterior is not how it should be. The short hair I have, the desire for men's clothing, the 'cross dressing' is not something that came as a whim. I remember being forced into a dress and was determined I'd get it as dirty as I could, I hated that moment, I hated every day at school when I was exposed to wearing a skirt and being like a girl. I hated it. I've lived for 45 years and I still hate it. The mere thought of feminine clothing against my skin repels me, brings tears to my eyes. The thought of getting a job that required me to dress as a female makes me feel physically sick.

I have a friend who dresses as a male because she just feels much more comfortable dressed in masculine clothing. The first time I saw her I liked her instantly, she strove to be different, she didn't conform. Thing is though, and I know I married, and I know I have kids, in my head I was thinking, that although I'm the way I am, screaming on the inside, that I thought, because I'm biologically 'not wired up right' that maybe the kids would be different, they'd be settled in their own skin, they wouldn't feel trapped and have to go through every day, hating themselves, hating the fact they have to have breasts and have to conform in some small way.

I like being different, I'd never change that. But inside I'm a boy. I think my Dad has accepted that, I think Mum has too. There's nothing I can do about it, I can't change to please them, hell I tried that, my attitude was always wrong, to them, but to me, I was frustrated at what I am. I know there's radical changes I could opt for, I could take blockers, I could opt for a sex change and deep down, sometimes, I think, why the fuck not. I look at my face and when I have my hair washed, shortened the way I like it, my shirt on, sometimes a tie, occasionally a jacket, I look fucking awesome.

I bought second hand women's clothing purely on a whim to see how different I could be and I didn't look right at all. I looked as though I were Tootsie, in drag. I hated it. The clothes were nylon, they made my skin crawl and as I looked in the mirror, I cried. To you, my friends you know who I am. You know what I am. I'm a friend, a confidante, I'm someone who wants to be happy, and for a small degree, my family are who make me happy, because they're perfect in their own self. They have no hang ups, they have no desires to be different to what they are. When I told my partner before we married, I told him about me, everything, held nothing back. But he still loves me, despite everything, only as he grows older, his perceptions change and he becomes conservative in his views. Odd how my Dad has accepted that he'll never see me in a flowing dress like his other daughter, how he'll always see me with a crew cut, or bald, or in a suit, dressed like the son he always wanted.

I can't sew, I am shit at knitting, cross stitch I don't even know about. But cars, engines, music, gardening, fishing, shooting, having a laugh with the lads. Although I've never eyed up a girl, I find men fascinating, but its never the sexual feelings, but admiration, ok sometimes sexual feelings are there, but I'm now more liberated. I wish I was flat chested, I wish I had a six pack. I wish I had stubble and not feel that I had to grab the tweezers. I wish I was the boy I saw in the mirror and not the misfit.

Jason Costello accepted for who he is, not Jasmine Costello. I wish I could believe that a modern day family were that acceptable of their child's desire for a sex change, because to me its too false. And yes I know its a tv programme but if I'd have said that to my parents of what I wanted. At that time of my life....His acceptance by his family is too false to be believed. If I'd told my parents I wanted to be a boy and that I had gay issues, as in I still loved men, but as in two men together, not because I was a girl who loved a man, I think they'd have locked me up and my brains fried. I may have kids, but my feelings about my own identity have never changed. I'm still not comfortable in my own skin, and I never will be. But I know also that if I do make the change, I will lose the fundamental people who I started out with. But underneath it all. I am still me.

Weekend starts here

Thank Crunchie its Friday is all I can say. A weekend of relaxation, a chance to kick back and enjoy without the rushes of an early morning to scream to the kids at 8am GET UP, then again at 08:10 GET UP. By which time the first of the kids is up and dressed and heading out for school while the other still hopes for another yell at 08:20am. But the weekend I can ignore the alarm clock, I can turn off the phone and I can sleep.

However I've come to realise over time and especially when I've been in a creative mood which has been quite a lot of late, that when I have that extra time to sleep, my mind slips into creative thought and I work on the plot line for another note, another roleplay session, another idea for another story, and I work out how my character, always my main character will react to certain situations. I throw him into all kinds of situations knowing he will come back from them sometimes alone and sometimes with help, but he'll always come back. I think if he didn't, I'd give up.

So Saturday morning the lie in, well its not going to be the lie in I was planning on. So much preparation is involved in tidying the garden up for the winter, yes people, winter is fast approaching, perhaps another month away and all the plants in the garden will be tinged with frost and keel over, so a month before that happens, we tend to uproot everything and put things away and stare at the stark dull garden and hanker for summer again.

It's damp here in Scotland, the grass is almost mulchy and the smell of Autumn is on the air. I don't mind Autumn as much, its a time to collect 'conkers' and save the best ones for the window sill till they crack and need planting. Or the last chance to collect the blackberries in abundance down the lanes, growing in and around the hawthorn and the nettles.

There's not been that many wasps this year, although this month they seem to have turned up en masse and have been congregating around the litter bins in the street and around the outside of the Academy fighting over the scraps of ice cream and ketchup filled buns dumped on pavements and trampled into the tarmac. I think sometimes teenagers forget what a litter bin is for.

I'm in a good place right now. No not the inside leg of John Barrowman's sparkly trousers, but creatively I'm in a good place. So September is looking good for finishing the novel and a final check over before I send it off to a number of sci fi publishers. I've also been contemplating reviewing my 10 minute short script and seeing how I can improve it?

I'd love to make that into a film. I'd love to have the chance to do a lot of things, however, financially wise unless I win the lottery or become top salesperson of the month or year, guaranteed cheque of £10,000 I don't think it will be this year!!!

This weekend will be busy enough, what with decorating, chores and the random notes I'll be writing, plus a chance of completing the Heist of the Rhinestone Diamond. It had been the basis of a Torchwood fan fic, but I know I can turn that around and remove Jack and add another character, but its Cardiff, a place I want to return to, soak up the Welsh atmosphere, go back to my roots (even if they belong to N. Wales originally).

So I have a lot to do this weekend which means I need to constructively remove myself from this computer and begin packing away all my Doctor Who memorabilia, my Torchwood books and DVDs and action figures and tidy up my room ready for painting next week.

So have a good weekend all my followers of my blogs and all those who might one day glance over this way. And I'll see you all back here on Monday.

The Heist of the Rhinestone Diamond

Falling through time was getting to be a bit of a habit for Dorph Malcasaro. He'd been chased several blocks from one part of Pasadena to the railway station, now they were close on his heels. He'd been hungry and a couple of packets of beef jerky and a few bottles of water seemed little compared to what he could have taken, but they gave chase, along with the regular hoods who were up for a run. He saw the same shimmering light he'd seen when he entered Pasadena on the 15th, taking it as the only other option, he held his breath and ran through it. He was still running when he opened his eyes and found he was falling. He landed on a dumpster in a back alley of somewhere on Earth. It had to be Earth, no matter whether it were Pasadena, Mondas or the outer reaches of Mongolia, it was Earth. Mondas he hated, from the moment he fell through the shimmering light he was looking for an escape. Metal creatures with minds of only dominating planets and upgrading humans to fit into metal casing was not his idea of a holiday destination. But the shimmering light never gave destination choices, it just appeared and he ran to it, almost like a sanctuary.

It had been two years, or was it three, he forgot now as he sat beside the dumpster and ripped open the packet of beef jerky and ate the contents with a voracious appetite. He heard cats yowling close by and drunken men staggering back after a lary night at the pub. He smelt strange creatures not far off, but he was hungry, and although he was capable of defending himself, he needed sustainance before he did much else.

As the hullaballoo died down and the street lights switched themselves on, Dorph wandered along the empty streets of the Plass. Vivid images sprang into his mind, the red building by the Bay, the tall lights and the water tower rang familiar, although it seemed different somehow to the last time he saw it. He walked along and was sure he recognised the man in the period military coat several hundred yards ahead of him. He was about to shout "Jack" when another man met him and both walked arm in arm along the promenade. He stopped and slunk back into the shadows. Perhaps time had moved on for both of them.

He itched his left arm and stared at the Vortex Manipulator strap on his arm and frowned, it was bleeping. Last time it had bleeped, Santos Vitaron had arrived and was looking for his team. He felt the incoming message and pressed the hologram image and saw the man himself Santos.

"If you're getting this, then you'll know why I'm calling. I've located the Rhinestone diamond and I need the team in position. Meet up at the rendezvous point located on your map. I want no slip ups this time. I don't want Torchwood getting their hands on it." He saw the map of the location before the hologram faded and plunged him back into semi darkness.

Dorph knew cities like the back of his hand, although the back of his hand did have the template of a city blue print incorporated into the fabric of his skin. He followed the location and came out at the Queens Arcade. He saw Phifer and another Time Agent leaning up against the wall, his hands thrust in his pocket. "It must be a big heist if he's called in all of us." The nameless agent muttered.

Within the hour Santos arrived, he beamed in just as the team became listless and strode over to them. "Good to see we're all here. Time is of the essence. The jeweller who received the Rhinestone has no idea of its power. We have to steal it back before it falls into the wrong hands. The vaults are secured beneath the store, but we need access into the store. Unfortunately for us, we'll have to do it during trading hours. He's on the second level of this arcade, which means we need every possible exit to aid our escape. Do not let me down. I can deal with the jeweller, Dorph I need you as look out. Whoever tries to stop us, you deal with it."

Dorph nodded. He was always the lookout, never the carrier, never the one with all the glory. But he was never caught, he was never arrested and tried for acts against the State, he was never sent to Murder Rehab, unlike Santos. Maybe that was why he was never put on lookout!

As the team knew, the Arcade would be busy, Xmas decorations were beginning to fill the large building and although to Dorph and the team who never celebrated this Christian event, it didn't stop them feeling a little bit homesick, knowing it was another year or two before any of them enjoyed the home comforts, the hugs and embraces of their family life, if indeed any of them had the family they talked about when they sat talking around the camp fires.

Dorph had never had that luxury, never had that moment of enjoying a family. All he remembered was Jack Harkness and the one person who he'd seen locked inside a Hub cell while Jack had determined what danger he was to the world. He'd seen the wanted posters in his travels and saved a copy, hoping to cash it in, maybe there was money to be had as a bounty hunter. It might give him more than a Look out for Santos!!

The following afternoon, while the Arcade was a sea of customers, Santos and his team secured the second floor and took control of Reuben Vostock's Jewellery store.....

Centrus7B9 (working title) Torchwood story

Calculations were always wrong. It had been a mercy mission. The last colony of humans to reach Earth from the darker side of the galaxy. It had taken 24 years for it to reach the Earth's atmosphere, taking onboard the usual flotsam and jetsam that clung to its bow as it broke through the protective shield and kept burning till it hit the land, throwing up soil and rocks creating a deep crater 100 feet wide and several feet deep. It wasn't meant to land for another 2000 years and at best on the least inhabited part of the world yet here they were, the future landing in their own ancestry past.

Jack got the message loud and clear as the scanners went ballistic at a little after 06:30 Wednesday 26th April 2011. It was only a matter of time before the whole world woke up to the news that something meteoric had fallen out of the sky, now people were waiting for the larger asteroid this piece must have been attached to. Astrologers were predicting end of days. Jack saw it only as another piece of space debris falling to earth.

As he raced towards the crash site in the sports car, last vehicle salvageable from the days before he left Earth, the crates in the back of the car, tools of the job, hazard suit and many other instruments to locate life forms of any degree he wondered if this was something from his own past. There had always been talk in the agency about the possibility of the Raygones, a race so remote that only a handful of people in the entire galaxy had ever heard of them. He'd been one of them. As far as races went they were dangerous, but only if you crossed them, for every other time, they'd remained peaceful to the last. But wars always changed people. Wars had a habit of tipping the scales.

He groaned as he saw the familiar camouflage uniforms up ahead of him sealing off the road. He rummaged for his ID and flashed it at the nearest soldier. He smiled sarcastically as he was waved through and parked beside the cordons. Already he could see the smoke rising from the crater and a uniformed bod was running towards him. He recognised him instantly as Brigadier Westford, nothing like Lethbridge, a typical arrogant oik who he detested as much as he detested UNiT. But they were the first line of defence and well if this pod was likely to be hostile it had a good pick of the camouflage to take out first, if nothing else, it bought him time.

Westford saluted, Jack quirked a brow and gave a two finger salute back as he lifted out the equipment he'd need from the back. Ideally he'd have the rest of the team with him. But as ever, the rest of the team were busy on other assignments and he'd wanted to check this out for himself.

"Has there been any activity since you arrived?" He called from the boot as he stepped into his bio-hazard suit. He hated the suit, barely able to breathe inside of it at the best of times but today the heat had rocketed to around the 90's and would likely intensify the closer he got to the crater.

"We've heard a lot of banging coming from inside the meteor, almost as if something is trying to get out."

"Keep your men well back." He sighed. Sometimes he wished he didn't care so much. He held out a case for the Brigadier to carry, Westford turned up his nose at the attache case and signalled for another soldier to come and help.

Steam rose from the crater, the pod hissed, the usual flotsam and jetsam that had arrived with it was now scattered about the deep gorge in the dirt. Jack looked down at it. He was certain there had been an egg farm around here somewhere, but aside from a scattering of white burnt feathers around the tip of the crater and an odd stench of burnt chicken as he pulled on his suit, he saw nothing but the huge hole. Ladders had already been dropped over the side. As much as it was wide, it wasn't that deep. It had slowed itself down as it landed, pushing the dirt up into a massive pile almost in the same way as a child skidding on a long carpet ontop of a polished floor.

Jack took readings with the scanner and fed them into the PDA he held in his left hand. He frowned. He looked up from the unit as he heard the hammering again from inside of the meteor. It sounded metallic and hollow. He glanced back up at the ladder, a quick run and he'd be at the top and taking cover the same as the other soldiers. The hammering stopped. He glanced down at his feet, the loose dirt was shaking. The ground was trembling. He glanced up slowly at the pod.

"Oh this can't be good."

Commander Corvidae had travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy, had taken in the wonderful sights that would behold any traveller, had collected data and samples and was on his way back to Centrus7B9 when the incident happened. It had taken everyone by surprise, calculations against the meteor hitting the side of the ship had been exact down to the last billisecond. They had been heading home to refuel. If they'd moved it would have cost them another three months of fuel that they didn't have. All they could do was brace themselves for impact. But the data was important, as the imminent danger crept towards them, Corvidae planned. By calculations the meteor was already off target and had been knocked by another asteroid on its descent to its next rendezvous. By Corvidae's calculations that meant it was hitting Earth sometime in the year 3579AD.

Corvidae hadn't seen Earth for over a century. He'd taken the mission to seek out new civilisations and to boldly go like all other budding explorers to find life and a safe haven for the human race before the end of days. Sol 3 was always on his mind. He'd heard stories of Earth, history was being made every day and people in power talked about space exploration as the way forward. But after all of his travels, Earth was not as beautiful as Centrus7B9. He'd been away from there a good few years now. He had a family, a home. Out here in this ship he had a crew and a mission, and data to return with. And then Crew Meerling informs them a meteor is heading their way and there's not enough fuel to make a sudden detour. He could have screamed.

The escape plan was simple. Someone would send the data back in the escape pod. That in itself was a four person shuttle pod. They had only one. It was always the way that the captain remained with the ship. He hated how it was always he who drew the short straw. But the data was important. Again by calculations with the data and supplies to be sent back to Centrus7B9 only one person could go in the shuttle. This left a lot of decisions for the crew. Who should go? Corvidae was the only man onboard who had obtained the data, had been out collecting the samples, had negotiated the treaties between warring factions of the Eye of the Crimson Cloud but it fell to a younger less experienced member of the crew to escape in the pod.

Crew Zenya was a young pilot who like his father had flown in several levels of combat over the war torn planets of Aljustixia and Pyracordixial (work in progress and thanks Joe)

The girl in the ragged dress

She sat squat on the ground holding the ragged doll against her knees as it danced to the tune she hummed. She was no older than three, her natural curls blew in the breeze and scattered the dust from her hair onto the young man who lay still beside her. Her sweet cherub face had the streaks of tears that were dried against her skin and the thin cotton dress that was hand made with love, with patches of ladybugs on the pockets was torn and dirty from the blast.
She looked up at the young man who lay on the ground, his spiky black hair flattened after the explosion that had ripped through her home and reduced it to rubble. It was a day she would never forget but a day she would never want to remember.
He was aware that he was alive but his hearing was distorted. He couldn’t move, he wanted to open his eyes but they refused to obey. He could hear a muffled tune sung by a child quite close to him. He vaguely remembered the child, the raggedy child screaming in the middle of the street as the world went crazy and the skies erupted in battle fire. The buildings erupted around them and he remembered his friends, the tall man with almost the same hair cut as his own, wearing a suit and long brown coat, the black girl in the red leather jacket who had fought alongside him in a battle of ages and a tall American in a flying jacket who was enjoying the hail of gunfire and the rush of adrenaline almost as much as he did. They were calling to him, they were running ahead but calling as the child began to scream, a haunting, cut right through you scream, and he stopped. He turned. He ran back to the child amidst the screams from his own friends. He gathered her up as a bolt of cannon fire exploded the building nearby and blew him off his feet, carrying them both across the road. He had kept her safe, using himself as a shield as the debris blew out striking everything with devastating results.
He felt the ground vibrate as footsteps from more than one person ran towards him. He heard their muffled voices and detected two, possibly three bodies talking. He felt two fingers of one person touch the side of his neck and the side of his face and knew who it was. He wanted to open his eyes and make contact, show the man that he was alive if nothing else, but again they refused to obey.
He heard the voice of the second man and his heart quickened, the fear of realisation and now he really didn’t want to open his eyes.
‘I’ll stay with him, you go Doctor, he’ll be safe with me.’ The elderly soldier with military honours spoke calmly to the Time Lord. His dark black eyes stared at the injured young man on the ground, the bloody gash to his head the only visible signs of injury.
‘Good man.’ The Doctor rose and clapped a hand on the arm of the soldier and glancing back at the boy, ran back to the broken building in search of his missing friends.
He felt a scratch against his neck and something cold press into his skin. He knew the outcome of what was occurring – he would be dead in a few hours.
He heard the old man speak as his hearing returned.
‘You run and you hide, but I always find you. You will never escape me, we are connected through blood. I brought you into this world and I can very easily take you from it, you will not be able to stop me now.’

The Time Machine

In 1895 H. G. Wells published his 32,000 word novella The Time Machine in serial form in the Pall Mall Gazette. Three years later beneath the Cardiff City Museum Llew Wyn Roberts created a 'time machine'.

Llew Wyn Roberts like any avid reader of all things science fiction was an above average scholar. When H.G. Wells published his works in the Pall Mall Gazette, Llew's mind exploded with possibilities. It was already thought amongst scholars that Wells was a man ahead of his time, just like Da Vinci and others before him. They had an insight to the future that many others could only imagine. Llew Wyn Roberts began to plan.

Every day his work at the Cardiff City museum turned up a few new surprises, later in the evening of September 29th, a delivery of a strange artefact from a building South of London arrived in a crate labelled 'Storage - DO NOT OPEN' and labelled for the owner of the Museum, an astute man in his late fifties, Mr Henry Styles.

Llew had seen the large package that came in a crate 50 inches square, wheeled across the floor using two potato barrows and frowned curiously. He had overseen all the packages that had arrived from all over the world. The last Dodo, the six toed spider crab, the seven eyed arthropod. All strange creatures he'd never seen before but had read about in 'The Lost world of Babylon' or other such books. As the evening wore on and the crates were pushed to the side and labelled, and written up in the thick black books for artefacts brought from other museums or other parts of the country or world Llew walked towards the 'DO NOT OPEN' crate and tapped the top. He stroked the box sides, the rough splintered tea crate piqued his curiosity and lifting a crowbar jemmied the side open and lifted the lid. Inside covered in straw for packaginig sat a heavy machine but not just any machine. Sitting in the box was Wells' Time Machine.

Llew wasted no time. He drew the machine from the box and assembled the sides in exactly the same way as Wells described it in the book. There were a few loose mechanical pieces to attach but Llew attached them correctly and smiled at the finished work. It didn't bother him too much that Mr Henry Styles was upstairs in his office, the man rarely walked downstairs to view the work of restoration that Llew prided himself with, and as Llew had nobody waiting for him at home with a warm bowl of stew and witty conversations of their day at the coal face, he remained working until he finally fell asleep slumped over his desk until the city clock chimes awoke him as the daily life stirred at five am.

The Time Machine was small and would not carry a man to the fourth dimension as stated in the book. But over the following nights and using the power supply from the museum transported small creatures, bugs and mice into the future and back within minutes. The effects upon the creatures were astounding, but not being a scientist he was not aware of the effects of radiation or the larger creatures that awaited the bugs and the mice. He needed to see for himself. But the teleportation mat was too small. To build a larger time machine would require a lot more work, and somewhere safer to work in. Llew had to take his work into the crypt of the museum. A place rarely used if ever these days. It was one step away from the sewers, the rats and the creatures that lurked the other side of the damp walls.

It was many years before the larger 'time machine' was finished. Llew had ploughed all his money into parts and over time had taken parts down to the crypt in packages he'd sent himself to the museum to avoid interest from others including Mr Styles who had noticed how dedicated his employee seemed to be about his work. It was only when Llew's work, his real work began to suffer did Styles come down to see him.

The large archives room where all number of artefacts were stored in the arched chamber beneath the main building of the museum housed many artefacts that were deemed too valuable for public viewing and had been painstakingly copied for all to see, while the scrolls of the Red Sea were stored securely in damp proof cases, touched only with a gloved hand and only when it was absolutely necessary. Large tombs containing mummified pharoahs, coffins in the shape of Anubis and Horus stood tall and proud against a large stone wall secured by ropes, tall pillars allegedly from the hanging gardens of Babylon sat beside each other broken during transit across the sea voyage and along the road and rail.

Styles ventured into the large room and saw Llew's tweed jacket hanging over the back of his chair at his desk, reams of paperwork still requiring a signature sat piled on his desk, a stack of crates three high remained at the door but Styles could see no sign of the man in question. His shiny new shoes clipped over the concrete flooring, his back straight and his hands behind him he walked with an air of authority. Many men and women would step back from him, revered him. Were afraid of him. Llew wasn't. He rarely saw him, and if he rarely saw him, he had no fear. He had no reason to be scared of the man with the eyes too close together and the mind of a ruthless businessman about him. He made money by robbing the visitors to the museum, pure and simple. It was a business venture. A lot of the equipment upstairs were casts of the real thing, but there were reasons for everything and real artefacts did not need school children with sticky hands touching them and tainting their quality and lowering their price on the open market, should the museum hit hard times. Styles knew business, his father before him knew business and how it worked. Styles had not got to where he was today without taking a few back handers and turning a few blind eyes knowing he could cash in on it much later when the need arose.

Llew was busy in the crypt, he was only days away from transporting himself into the future and seeing for himself what lay ahead for himself and the world he lived in. He'd pieced together that in order to transport something as heavy as a human into another dimension required more energy than the city museum held. He had to wire cables into another source but that wasn't as easy as he first thought and finding the ideal location for keeping the power was under the ground where the dampness fired the electricity, he fed the wires towards the generator that fuelled the city hall and the streets around Cardiff that had electric lamps in homes. In all this time he'd forgotten about his real work, he'd forgotten about the museum, he ate, slept and worked on the machine. It had become an obsession.

As Styles stepped towards the door of the crypt he could already feel the immense power groaning behind the metal door. As he touched it, his hand recoiled and he stared at his hand still tingling from the static build up of electricity within the room. Tapping a stick on the handle and manipulating it open he pulled at the door and looked in. At first the bright light blinded him, the flickering and whirring as the time machine powered up made him blink and shield his eyes with his arm. But as he focused once more, he saw a man working methodically if a little erratically on a machine he'd only seen on a smaller scale in a drawing on his desk. When he realised what it was, his mouth fell open in shock.

Styles bellowed Llew's name. It echoed around the crypt but the arcing of the machine as it drew in the energy from the room distorted the yell and Llew continued to work oblivious to his employer standing mid way down the steps and advancing towards him.

'LLEW ROBERTS YOU HAD BETTER HAVE A DAMN GOOD REASON FOR THIS.' Styles grabbed hold of his shoulder and shook him around as the strangest thing happened. As Llew looked up, the energy shifted in the room, the anger from the owner disturbed the steady flow of electrons, now they sought out another power source. Llew horrified at being startled by Styles stepped back in the damp room and could only watch as the man's anger fed the machine. The light filter became brighter, the cables once powering the machine had found a new source and Llew felt relieved. He felt the power of the machine release hold of his weakened body. It had a far greater taste and began consuming it as the taller man shouted. But his shouting became screams and his screams became pitiful and as the light faded in the crypt room, so did Styles.

Nobody knew what happened in the crypt room that night, nobody could explain the disappearance of Mr Henry Styles and Llew Wyn Roberts, but something had happened. Unsure what the machine was the door was boarded up. The museum closed during the first world war and again in the second when Cardiff suffered at the hands of the German Nazi Luftwaffe and was bombed mercilessly.

One hundred and twelve years later and the crypt was active again. But the door was still boarded up from the outside, nobody could enter and nobody could leave...or could they?

Copyright 2010