Early Whispers Of Christmas

Someone said to me the other day,

Hey Roth, you slacker! When are you going to finish writing your epic tale THE CEPHALOPOCALYPSE, you steamin' great numpty?

This incisive, colloquial inquiry was timely.

So here's the good news; I am poised to deliver both parts three and four of this (probably) eight-part tale this week.

That said, the good news is that I'm going to re-run the first two parts (the prologue below, and the first part proper), because it's been so damned long, you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. Besides, nobody read the second part, and the picture at the end of it didn't get anywhere near enough love.

What's that you say?

Did I just give you two pieces of good news and no bad news?

I did indeed. You're welcome.

---

The Cephalopocalypse - Prologue

Some questions are inevitable.

Daddy, what did you do during The War?

I smile and tousle the youngster’s hair as we relax together on the sofa. He giggles and looks up at me with those big dark eyes; it’s past his bedtime, but he’s hard to resist, and he knows it.

Oh, kiddo, I sigh, what makes you think I did anything during The War?

We’re in my front room, lit only by the November fire in the grate. It’s cold out, tea and cake fill the low table in front of us, and there are early whispers of Christmas in the nut-filled bowl on the sideboard.

Well, our name is Roth, Daddy, says young Fido patiently, and a Roth will always fight for what’s right.

Kids have such a wonderfully simplistic view of the world.

But the lad does so love me to tell him of my adventures.

They’re just stories; where’s the harm?

Well, yes. Maybe I can tell you a little about the Roths and The War.

The War Of The Cuttlefish! booms Fido delightedly, and I instinctively hug him closer. But then I shake my head and chuckle, my gaze turning slowly inwards as I marvel at the ephemeral shapes in the fire.

Or as it was also known, I almost whisper, THE CEPHALOPOCALYPSE!


TO BE CONTINUED


Indigo

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