Tag Archives: Mark Lawrence

Mark Lawrence is dead, again

Today it is my uneasy task to announce to you, my fellow citizens, the latest death of Mark Lawrence. I’d like to say ‘apparent death’ and make it sound like these are simple reporting errors, but I was there for death number three, and I saw what the sea monster did to him. I do not believe that any normal human being could have survived being torn into quite so many pieces.

I have been reliably informed by witnesses to his first death – crushed to a bloody pulp by a falling gravestone – that this death was not survivable, either. At his second death, Mark was bludgeoned to death after a minor disagreement with an immodest number of Chevins. Death four saw our unlikely returnee trapped in a burning building. Nothing remained of the building, and yet… Death five involved a singularly improbable drowning, and death six a rather gory impaling on the fence outside the town hall – which many of you were unfortunate enough to witness. For his seventh death, Mr Lawrence was swept into the sea by an unusually large wave during recent storms.

I feel, and not for the first time, that he is playing with us. How, and why remains a mystery. I have no evidence to prove my point but I ask, can a man die so many times and in such extraordinary ways and not somehow be considered responsible? What kind of sorcerer is he? What ungodly powers are at his command? I shall only speculate until he returns of course, and then I shall go back to keeping sensibly quiet about the whole thing.

Something of a cult-like nature has grown up around the many deaths of Mark Lawrence. So, the usual wailing and keening will take place tomorrow morning at the statue we put up in his honour the first time he died. Betting will then follow as to how long it will take him to return this time. I have been informed that this time there will, with all due pomp and ceremony, be a retelling of his deaths and returns to date.

Until evidence emerges to the contrary, I think we should assume that this latest death is only a temporary setback, and that Mark Lawrence will return to us, as whole and hale as before at some point of his choosing. And then we can get on with the now also traditional ‘lo he has returned to us’ party with all that invariably implies.

 

The Hopeless Maine kickstarter is now out of obituary spots. However, if you pledge and feel sad that you can’t have an obituary, just let us know… we’re sorting out a mass grave for anyone who needs it! https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/countrostov/tales-of-hopeless-maine

 

Mark Lawrence (for the few who are not yet aware of this) is one of the finest writers of fantasy in the world, at all-ever.  To explore his work, you would do well to go here.

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The Lost Library

By Mark Lawrence

book-ghosts

Four walls, black with the memory of the fire that took the roof. Cold now. Even the stink of char is gone, rain-washed into the gutter. The building is haunted, naturally, how could it not be? What ruin that watches the world from dark windows is free of spirits? But the ghosts here are those of books. The phantoms of hundreds. Untold worlds and lives, riveted to ten thousand pages, each letter a black nail pinning to the page mysteries and marvels, all ready to unfurl in an open mind. They died with a crackle and a sigh and their ashes spiralled glowing into the dark skies of an all Hallows eve. Frogmire Morton built this place and filled it with row upon row of leather-clad tomes, wisdom rubbing worn covers with whimsy. Where they came from, and who wrote them, is perhaps as big a mystery as any contained within their many chapters. Why they burned though, that, sadly is no mystery at all. Little is as frightening to those seeking dominion over others than dissenting opinion, and in Frogmire’s small library were a multitude of voices, each page a window onto other worlds and other ‘might be’s. The ghosts of those books rustle here when the wind is still. Their characters walk invisible. They parade and promenade, discuss and discourse. And the children that play here on the black mud floor, with four scorched walls and the sky for a roof, find their imaginations infected with such strangeness that they return time and again. It seems a strange place to find hope. But hope is strange.

(Mark Lawrence is the author of numerous fantastic dark fantasy titles, and if you are somehow unaware of him, please saunter  over to his website and learn more! http://www.marklawrence.buzz/)