| Nick Crutchley |
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I roam the hills of the Scottish Highlands in search of new stories. Using my experiences as an environmental scientist, conservationist and teacher, I write science fiction and fantasy, and about my lifelong struggle with mental illness. Below you will find posts relating to my poetry, stories and adventures, experiences with mental illness, and thoughts relating to humankind's destruction of Earth's biosphere. 
Ritual No. 5Black robes kneel around a stone altar. On it lies an emaciated man wearing a loincloth, with bound arms stretched out in the shape of a cross. Standing beside him I see myself, robed in black and holding a machete. The worshippers hunger, and it is the high priest’s duty, my duty, to provide. 
Feeling stressed, Marilyn texts a friend for help. The friend does not respond, and their failure to respond triggers feelings of abandonment. Once again, Marilyn knows deep in her heart that no one can be trusted. For two days the emotions rage and she attempts to ease the storm by slashing her shins, which she hides from the public eye by wearing trousers. And even after her friend texts to say they had their purse stolen, with phone, credit cards and car keys, Marilyn cannot return to baseline. Paranoia sets in. Her friend is obviously lying. 
Empty words Which we chose to believe Empty words Never meant to deceive We fill ourselves with promises that could never be achieved Our true love an empty love Cleave 
Did demons create the delusions? Did delusions create the demons?
Chapter 1 March 1990
I make my choice: time to kill. Staring at the broken glass I know I will cut, know I will kill. Something within laughs. I laugh. And the jagged glass stares back.
Concrete steps lead up and down. Broken glass lies scattered. An iron handrail rings from the impact of the wine bottle I broke against it. Everything is clear, so clear now. I know what will be done. I bound up the steps and bang through a door to a dimly lit corridor. Doors to a communal shower and toilet blur past. Once in my room, I lock and latch the door behind me. Nobody is getting in. 
White sepulchre, sinners absurd and infidel, Old Horny’s herd shoot up, monotheistic meth animism devolved, Heqet’s death 
There’s this problem The blame A cold desire to heal the shame By cutting shallow, wishing deep Waiting for the blood to seep 
A warrior battles hydra The Blood Plague liquefies eyes Ecoterrorists struggle against ecological ruin From the pitch Abyss, Chaos corrupts our dreams 
Chapter 1
Lost Hope O Fate declare I, Krarg the conqueror, will spare Mortals in return for an immortal sold A bride dressed in liquid gold
Krarg’s eyelids flutter as a song echoes throughout his kingdom of obsidian and lava. The bard’s tale summons within the ancient dragon dreams of his past mayhem on the Mortal Plane: cooked warriors scattered between shredded catapults and ballistae; impregnable castles razed, their surrounding villages burned, and livestock consumed; famine, disease and the wails of refugees; an elven maiden sacrificed to appease.
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