Writing: The Devil's Dance

The pole dancer looked over the burning city in triumph. She cared not that her skin was dyed blue from the cold wind howling across the top of the tower block, nor that her forearms were streaked with blood from her split palms. Her enemies were burning and that was all that mattered.

Besides, the devil himself was coming to collect her soul shortly – what point would there be to start whining about a little chill now?

For the sheer hell of it, she climbed back on her pole and sun round once more, thankful that she’d invested in a rotating one rather than settling for static. Some of the other girls at the club might consider it cheating but she loved the speed she could accomplish easily on a rotating one, it made her feel like she could spin fast enough to throw the spirits that haunted her from her mind.

She laughed again to feel her hair whipping against her face, if she went fast enough she could blur out the arcane symbols written in blood below. Her blood.

Down below in the city, the flames roared.

-----

She and her elder brother had arrived here several years ago, fleeing something she did not understand. Her only knowledge of it her brothers urgency in the middle of the night, begging her to come with him, fleeing their parent’s house. His obvious terror.

She had loved her brother more than anyone back then. She surprised herself with how long that love had lasted.

Even now, she had no truth, no certain why he had left home, nor why he had taken her with him. Although now, after these years spent with him, she could hazard a guess.

It wasn’t long before her brother got himself into all kinds of trouble. Money trouble, drug trouble, women trouble. They had arrived here with little money, knowing no one, with scant resources to be able to protect themselves from the consequences of her brother’s actions.

It wasn’t long before she knew it was up to her to keep them safe, to provide for them. She had always been on the acrobatics team at school – pole dancing was simply another form of that she told herself. To her surprise, she actually enjoyed it – not the men leering at her but she found out that once she was on stage with the music pounding through her bones the rest of the world seemed to drain away, leaving nothing behind but her body and the music.

Her skills became so good she was recruited by one of the top clubs, and actually seemed to be able to keep one step ahead of the debt collectors her brother seemed to accrue like used condoms.

But, like all things so precariously balanced, you cannot hold such poise forever.

Her brother angered one mobster too many. She came home one day to find pieces of him scattered around the kitchen floor. She had slipped on his spilled and discarded guts, right into the arms of the awaiting debt collectors.

They had taken her to their boss, who calmly informed her that her brother’s debt now passed to her. Her brother’s blood drying and sticking to her skin through her socks, they had not given her time to change or out on shoes, she explained that she already was paying off his debt and that, given her current rate of pay, it should be cleared in a few months.

She believed it was shock that allowed her to speak to calmly to him. Also shock that prevented her from seeing – until he told that she was to work in one of his clubs and his alone, only that would satisfy the debt – that he was one of her regulars at the club.

From one of the top clubs in town she fell to a skeevy little bar right at the outskirts of it. The countertops were sticky and foul, the sound system of static and the poles stiff and unloved. The bouncers had little pride in keeping the girls safe and she learnt to be even quicker at dodging out of the way of the clienteles greasy, grasping fingers. She knew that she’d never earn enough to escape from here.

She also knew that was the point.

She would have considered killing herself, had she not wanted to grant the boss the opportunity to defile her corpse.

She had existed in a state of resigned despair, right up until a dreary Wednesday afternoon when the devil himself had come up to her and asked for a dance.

Or, to be more correct, he had asked for seven.

Back when she was first learning, back when she took a sort of pride in her dancing, maybe even when she still had a sense of humour she had come up with a long and complex dance routine entitled ‘The Seven Deadly Sins’. Few could afford to pay for it – the routine itself was too long, so she mainly danced it for herself, for her own amusement and perhaps salvation. It was this dance that had gotten her noticed by the top clubs.

She did not want to dance it anymore. The devil, sensing her hesitation, said

‘I can pay for it.’

And held out enough money to pay off a third of her debt.

Her mind made up she took him to one of the private rooms. He did nothing but sit there quietly, with a small smile, watching her dance. When she was done, he laid the money on the table and left equally quietly.

For soliciting a private dance, she received ten lashes of the whip from the boss. His face incoherent with rage. She was laid up in bed for two weeks from the pain, the pus seeping from her wounds to the sheets, staining them.

When she returned to work, the devil was there.

He asked for a dance. She accepted.

When the dance was over, instead of leaving immediately, as before, he asked her,

‘What do you want, more than anything?’

She felt the pull of breath in her lungs, choking on the fetid air of the club. The feel of blood mingling with her sweat as the exertion had reopened her whip wounds. She felt herself stand, in this dingy little room, in cheap and tawdry underwear in front of a man she didn’t know and said:

‘To see this city burn.’

She received 20 lashes this time.

After a week in bed, the postman delivered a parcel. A book, handwritten, full of strange symbols and dance routines. She looked at the illustrations.

She looked out the window of her tiny bedsit apartment. At a city that had never once loved or cared for her.

She stared again at the illustrations.

---

The gravel was almost comforting against her cheek. Why was there gravel against her cheek? Ah, she must have slipped and fallen from the pole; her limbs did feel suspiciously light.

She blinked, her vision blurred, there was a figure before her. The devil. So he had come for her soul after all. Very well, it was a fair bargain and he had held up his end admirably – even now, when everything was fading round the edges, she could still hear the city being devoured, as it had devoured her.

She smiled up at him, her devil, her saviour. His dark figure reaching down towards her the last thing she saw before her eyes eased shut.

Writing: Chopper

The tattered lace that hung down of the edge of the bed had faded to a hue of milky weak tea. The edges had started to come unravelled so what was once a delicate snowflake pattern had warped into a toddler's scribblings.

Lottie knew that entire toddler's scrawl in great detail. This is due to the fact that she had been hiding under the bed for at least an hour, desperately trying to blend into the dust and shadows, whilst around her she could hear the sounds of her home being chewed to pieces by the sharp fang of the axe.

She clamped her hands over her ears as once again the thing howled – an eerie unearthly noise.

It no longer sounded anything like her twin brother.

They had been playing out in the back garden. The warden had come by to see them with fresh food and some cast off clothes. They had been orphaned for a year now, their caravan having been set upon by bandits, their parents killed. The village they had fled to, arriving battered, bloodied and traumatised, had taken them in. They weren’t compassionate enough to take them into their own homes, but they were kind enough to give them use of an unoccupied cottage on the edge of town – and often sent them food and clothing. The cottage was run down but with no major damage and if this was not the life they had hoped for, then they comforted themselves with the fact that they were at least still alive, still had each other and their parents would be proud of them for carrying on.

The cottage was a little run down, a little shabby but it had everything they needed – a bedroom, a working kitchen, a roof. It even had an overgrown garden out the back with a tool shed. They had thought it was a little peculiar that the cottage was completed furnished but the villagers had told them that this was because the old lady who lived there before had died without any relatives to claim her belongings. So the villagers had left it as it was.

Lottie thought this to be rather wasteful – after all, there was a plethora of interesting books and herbs and ornaments scattered about the cottage, not to mention the basic linen and cooking equipment that she was sure someone would have found use for. But their loss was her gain; she had no issue about using a dead woman’s things.

The most peculiar thing was the tool shed. Unlike everything else in the cottage, this was sealed shut with shiny new chains and a padlock. They had asked their warden about this and he had shrugged, embarrassed. He had explained that the woman who lived here before knew she was going to die, so she requested from the elders that the tool shed was sealed shut after her death in exchange for the property and anything within it. Upon her death, the elders had complied with her wishes.

Lottie had looked back at the house.

“But nothing’s been taken.” She said

The man shrugged again. “She was a very influential woman. She needn’t have offered anything to get us to do it.” He grinned broadly. “But a stroke of luck for you two huh? Just don’t go near that shed, I’m sure she had her reasons for sealing it.”

“You mean you don’t even know why she wanted you to seal it?!” Her brother had interrupted a look of disbelief on his face.

“No. We all trusted her; she was a wise woman and knew what she was talking about. Plus, I don’t think any of us really wanted to know. I say again, do not go near that shed”

From that day forth Lottie’s brother had become obsessed with the shed.

It had started off innocently enough. A young boys desire to go somewhere he was forbidden. For a few days he kept fiddling with the lock – trying different things to try and smash it open. Lottie saw the exact moment it started to change into something darker. She was organising the kitchen when she happened to glance out through the window to her brother, leaning close to the door, trying to get a better look at the lock. She saw him tilt his head, as if he’d heard something and then something, some shadow of an expression, slide across his face.

It made her blood run cold.

From that day forth it was like the boy her brother was no longer existed. He wouldn’t eat, would barely sleep and even then she would wake in the night to see him standing by the window, bloodied fingers pressed against the glass from where he’d tried to claw his way in. He snarled at her whenever she asked a question, shoved her away whenever she tried to beg him to eat. And always, always he would have his head tilted towards the direction of the shed, as if listening to music only he could hear.

Lottie didn’t know what frightened her the most; that he would die from starvation and exhaustion or that he would manage to open the shed.

She daren’t speak to any of the villagers about it, she didn’t know what they would do to them if they found out her brother was trying to open the shed. The villager’s mercy would only stretch so far. Would they be driven out? There’s no way they’d survive in the surrounding wilderness for long. Would her brother even go? No, she knew there was no way he would ever now leave that shed; he would struggle against anyone trying to drag him away, perhaps be hurt or killed before he surrendered.

So Lottie, trapped in the cottage with an increasingly deranged brother, with no one to turn to, did the only thing she could think of. She started turning the cottage upside down in an attempt to find something, some diary or will, which would tell her what the thing in the shed was and how she might destroy it. She knew it was becoming a desperate race between her and her brother, perhaps she now looked just as crazy, but it was the only thing she could think of to save him. She tore through books and letter containing incantations, spells and enchantments, only now coming to the realisation that the women who lived her previously was a witch (how she cursed herself for her stupidity!).

She was just going through the pantry – there were various potions on the upper shelves. Probably well past their use by date but, having found no incantation or clue in the books, she was hoping one said ‘to use against thing in shed if your brother is dumb enough to try and open it.’ When there was a metallic clink against the pavestone floor. She looked down, she had knocked a key onto the floor.

The key, she knew beyond a doubt, that fitted the lock on the shed.

She reached down from the step stool when a sound from the doorway made her look up. Her brother was standing there, watching her.

She licked her suddenly dry lips, “brother…”

Too quick to follow he darted in and snatched the key, running out and slamming the pantry door shut behind him. It cost Lottie precious seconds to drag it back open and when she did she saw he was already by the shed. She ran to the garden door, knowing already that she was too late, but couldn’t stop herself from screaming, “brother no!”

He unlocked the padlock. There was an especially anticlimactic thump as the chains fell off and nothing happened. With a blissful smile her brother walked into the shed and came out cradling a shiny axe. He closed his eyes, gave a peaceful sigh and then the bones from his arms exploded through his skin.

Lottie’s knees gave way as she watched her twin brother, with much accompaniment of the sounds of cracking bones and sliding flesh, as he warped into a deformed shape. His limbs lengthened, his nails grew into wicked claws and his face – here was the worst for it bore no resemblance to her brother anymore, it looked more like the face of monstrous beast!

Finally the noises stopped – and then the thing that had been her brother looked at her.

Sobbing, Lottie fled into the house, barring the door behind her, knowing that if he caught her, she would be dead, torn to pieces with those claws. She ran upstairs, trying desperately to think, to hide. She heard him behind her, beneath her, destroying the house, chanting in a hideous voice

‘I was the wolf in the forest, I was the eater of little girl red, and I was the teeth in the dark of the night,

Now I am the shadow in men’s hearts, I am their glory in the strong hunting the weak,

 I am the wolf in the axeman’s blade!’

Hands clapped over her ears she caught sight of the bed. Ridiculousy draped with throws and old lace, the base of it was completely hidden. With no other idea, as quietly as possible, she crawled underneath. Trying to blend in with the dust in the space underneath.

And she waited, listening to the thing that had been her brother destroy their home.

After a nightmare age she heard him start to come up the stairs, banging his axe against the wall to mark each deliberate step.

“Lottie, Looooottie.” He called. Then he laughed. “Remember this game?”

"Here comes a Candle to light you to Bed
Here comes a Chopper to Chop off your Head
Chip chop chip chop - the Last Man's Dead."

Faster and faster, closer and closer until on ‘dead’ he threw the bed off of her. And Lottie, knowing now that she had no choice, had braced herself for this and had pulled from her petticoat the only thing she had found that might stop her brother.

So when the monster was framed before her, his hands occupied by throwing the bed. She shot him six times in the chest with her pistol.

Her father had trained her to be a crack shot. In the circus her family had owned, the twins had been the dare-devil knives and gun act.

The beast before her crumpled to the ground, the axe slipping from its lifeless grasp.

And finally, finally she heard what her brother had, all these weeks. The axe singing. It was beautiful and eerie and sung of blood spilt in vengeance, of righting wrongs and of protecting the future with strength.

She could see how it had appealed so much to her brother.

She stood, as if in a trance and walked over to it. It shone in the setting sun, smugly she thought, as if it knew it had already won. She calmly reloaded her pistol and emptied it out into the axe.

Oddly, for metal, it bled. Thick viscous blood that oozed out over the floor.

It also screamed.

When it was done, she went back to the pantry and soaked the whole building in paraffin. The shed too.

She watched the flames for a while.

Then she turned and walked down to the path to the village.

Writing: Rough Draft

My writing has gotten extremely rusty so I do apologise. I've had the following vignette in my head for some time - it was over staying its welcome so I put it down on paper before it walked out in a huff. I haven't done it justice at all but I hope to revamp it in the future. Enjoy

The unicorn-mermaid automaton shifted his grip on the Kalashnikov held in his hooves.

“I mean they tell you your hooves can lock into them” he grumbled to himself as his slithered along the interior corridor, nodding acknowledgment to the other sentries floating in the perimeter outside the dome. “, but they never fit right and who do you think they blame when it misfires huh? Never the manufacturers, oh no.”

The guard paused and looked into the first holding cell. He nodded to himself. All the virgins were there and accounted for.

A brief flash of light caught his eye from outside. The outer perimeter sentries were shooting at a merman. They had a colony nearby and in the beginning had often swum by to spy on the girls inside. The automatons had generally ignored them or shooed them off – seeing them as irritating voyeurs but as not a particular threat. Until one of the virgins had fallen for one. They never did figure out how he managed to defile her – and they could hardly ask her. The unicorn automatons had been chosen particularly for their ability to detect the virtue, or lack of, in women. As soon as a virgin became defiled in their presence they immediately switched to ‘purification mode.’

The ground meat had penetrated so far into the carpet it was impossible to clean – they had had to dispose of it in the end.

Since then they had kept close eye on the mermen and driven them off if they ever came near. Other than that the job itself was pretty dull. The girls were brought in, sometimes the collectors arrived to take samples, inspect the girls and perhaps choose one to take with them to the surface. But usually it was just the virgins and the automatons, miles and miles beneath the ocean waves.

“At least we can go outside.” Mused the sentry. “I’m not sure how the girls haven’t gone stir..”

He never did get to finish his almost charitable thought. Being shocked by several thousand volts of electricity had a tendency to shut down your hardware for good.

The slight, mousy girl behind him look down at his lifeless form impassively. She raised a radio to her lips “sector one clear”

The radio emitted a hiss. “All sectors clear – release holding cell one and head back to central command. Take off imminent.”

“Affirmative”

The girl hurried over to the holding cell and unlocked the door. The girls inside filed out calmly and started heading towards the central core.

The original mousy girl waited until the last one was out and then followed behind, glancing out the window to check on the sentries outside. The mermen were still keeping them busy – good.

She permitted herself a small smile. It had taken years of planning, of learning, of skulduggery and politics. The fact that they had bought the aid of the mermen with advice of how to woo women still made her shake her head but, she shrugged, whatever worked. Thanks to the mermen they had been able to be hooked up to an unlimited, unmonitored internet connection. Through that they had been able to indulge in a variety of long distance learning courses and access to all sorts of useful information – including the original schematics to their prison.

They learnt that their owners, being right cheapskates, had bought a disused spaceship and simply sunk it.

The girl felt the engines rumble and come online – long unused perhaps, but newly refurbished. Amazing what a little hacking on the supply orders can accomplish over a period of years.

She took one last long at the endless blue ocean outside the windows and then closed the blast door behind her.

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Writing: How I came to have a Troll chained up in my back yard (oddly, doesn’t involve goats)

(For my Muttley Bear)

Really, it’s all Phyllis’s fault.

Or rather, perhaps, her quite naive view of men. Which has always struck me as rather peculiar, what with her originally being a man and all but who am I to question the tricksome and winding ways of the heart?

Anyway, long story short, she fell head over heels for this weedy little accountant who used to frequent her club.

It wasn’t till they were walking halfway over the flyover, on the way to his house, that he confessed that the only reason he had come on to her was that the flyover was the only was to reach his house.

And a troll lived under the flyover.

The weedy accountant had been to cheap to buy a car, so every time he walked across the bridge the troll had leapt out and threatened to eat him unless the accountant did his tax returns. The accountant had been spending the last month trapped until dawn going through a millennia of old receipts and things scribbled on the backs of envelopes.

In desperation he had asked around to find out who was the strongest man was and had been directed to the Foo Foo Kitty Club where Phyllis worked.

You can probably guess that, after having been told that the man you were passionately in love with only saw you as hired muscle, Phyllis was not in the best of moods.

So when the troll came clambering up over the sides of the bridge, yelling ‘Who’s that trip trapping over my bridge?’ Phyllis, heartbrokenly, knocked him about quite a bit with the crowbar she kept in her handbag. Then, while sobbing loudly, she dragged his unconscious form back to the club with her.

When the troll regained consciousness, he found himself within the hallowed pink walls of the Foo Foo Kitty Club, his fur neatly washed and trimmed, his claws painted a pastel pink and at the end of a long pink leash.

Phyllis was holding the other end.

For a while, trolls became the new Chihuahuas – there was such a craze for them that there was a temporary mass exodus of trolls from the area until it was deemed safe to walk in the woods again without coming across a huntress, dressed in tweed, holding a butterfly net and a crowbar.

After six months Phyllis called me into the club to ask me to have a look at her troll.

“I’m a writer.” I told her over the phone. “What do I know about creatures?”

“You’re a fantasy writer honey.” She said airily, “he’s a fantastical creature – I’m sure it’ll work out.”

When I got to the club, the troll was hiding in the closet. He looked about six times smaller than I had last seen him and his voice had become so quiet that I couldn’t even hear him. All in all, he looked completely miserable.

Everyone has their weak spots. I, for one, am only allowed to drive past the animal rescue place once a month.

“He’s coming home with me Phyllis.” I said firmly.

He’s now chained up in my back yard, doing quite happily amongst the fresh air and rather over grown weeds (I’m not a gardener). The chain wasn’t my idea but his. I think he sees it as some sort of security blanket – proof that Phyllis can’t suddenly turn up and snatch him back.

So yes, that’s how I came to have a troll chained up in my back yard.

And no, it didn’t involve goats in the slightest.

Writing: Winter Stores

The small village hidden away in the mountains had always had it tough. Food was hard to grow in the summer months, the stores were small and the lottery a necessary evil during the winter years.

It had grown harder still, a few decades prior, when the fallen gentry of the nearest town had fallen foul of their neighbours and fled to the mountains. Weakened but desperate, they were still enough to overpower the simple folk of the mountain and had soon established themselves as rulers over the small community.

And they had done the unthinkable, committed the heaviest sin – they had interfered with the lottery. To the mountain folk, the lottery was the fairest and most even way to survive the winter – and more than that, it was a vital founding stone of their community.

At first when they had found out about it, the nobles had tried to abolish the practice, saying it was evil. But when they had reached the half-way point of winter, when the wind was howling down the mountain side and the stores were low enough that licking the moss from the walls sounded like an appealing idea – then they came around to it.

And then they corrupted it for their own use.

Previously the lottery existed to give everyone a fair chance. Everyone’s name was entered, except those exempt due to age or necessity, and the names were picked under everyone’s watchful eyes. Those who were chosen accepted their fate and were honoured by everyone leading up to the feast. They were revered as life givers and treated as such. Lotteries were only held at times of great desperation and everything was used – from the hair down to the marrow in their bones. Their names were written on the Wall of Remembrance and every year they had a holiday to commemorate their sacrifice.

The nobles treated them like food.

They created a special section of women called ‘Breeders’, from the children born from them, each noble chose a child for himself. The child would shadow the noble from birth, waiting on them as manservants, obeying their every whim. When the winter hunger struck, they would be sacrificed for the lords’ dinner table.

These children were known as ‘Stocks’.

Typically the lords chose for themselves young girl babies, as they believed their meat would be tenderer. You would think that having a young lady follow them night and day would tempt them to give into other desires, but the very idea of this turned the noble’s stomach. The stocks were food, nothing more, nothing less.

But then again, exceptional beauty does have a way of altering the rules…..

The young heir was, as these things were judged, handsome, impetuous and a brilliant hunter. He was much sought after by the young ladies of the nobility and his dancing was considered top rate.

The mountain labourers thought him cruel and arrogant but when did their opinion count for much?

As all nobles, the young heir r had his own personal Stock, picked for him when he himself was a mere babe. You may think that growing up together would have caused him to feel a fondness for her, even if just out of habit, a fellowship for her as another human his own age.

This was not the case.

He saw her as nothing more than his property, to do with as he wished. He routinely ordered her around, kicked her when she didn’t do something fast enough and more often than not took out his foul temper on her when things didn’t go his way.

And then they both hit puberty.

Stocks had their tongues cut out and birth, so their crying did not disrupt their masters. They were given the most sufficient care, but only so that they grew strength and healthy, the better to feast on. They were kept clean only so that their masters didn’t catch infection from them. They were only given the most rudimentary of education – enough so that they could understand their master’s orders. Their clothes were hand me downs and were for the purpose of shielding their bodies from the elements. They didn’t have names – they were identified by who owned them.

But the Heir’s Stock was beautiful.

Her hair was the colour of sun ripened corn (or what people assumed was the colour of sun ripened corn, theirs not being ta farming community. Actually it was more the shade of rich honey stored in a warm larder), her eyes were the deep grey of the mountain deeps, almost purple in shade. Even the nobles were heard to remark in whispers that the Overlord had made a mistake in choosing the babe for stock.

And of course, the heir in his 17^th year could not help but notice this.

Any noble caught whispering that she was too good for stock was whipped to within an inch of his life. Any who dared look too long at her or even glanced her way was punished.  He started keeping her within arm’s reach at all times, even taking to locking her away within his suite for hours or days at a time.

And no one was more punished than she. Her body was constantly covered with the dark marks of his hands, her frame grew frailer by the day as he denied her food and once, she appeared with a large chunk of her hair seared off, the heat still staining her cheeks.

And yet it was not this that worried the Overlord.

The Heir’s Stock clothes were clearly if high quality than what was normally issued. Her chores seem to have dwindled to nothing but sitting quietly within sight of the heir. After her hair had been burnt the servants had whispered of how they had been ordered to attend to her to repair the damage, cleaning and cutting her hair – and of the expensive comb that graced it.

The Overlord was severely frightened that for the first time on decades a noble had committed the ultimate taboo.

He had fallen for his Stock.

The Overlord knew he had to take drastic measures before it got out of hand.

He summoned his son and informed him that his stock was to be slaughtered the next day and he would be granted another. Surprisingly, his son seemed to accept it with good grace.

As he and his court lay dying from the poison laced stew later that evening, he realised he may have jumped to conclusions somewhat. Alas, it was too late to change fate.

The Heir stood in the middle of the courtroom, surrounded by the bodies of the dead. To ensure that he father died and there were no repercussions, he had poisoned and sentenced to death the entire court. He felt no regret.

He turned to his stock, mute in the corner. Her face had not changed once from its usual serene expression.

“Now then darling, nothing can separate us ever again.” He embraced her, and she returned it.

She lifted her face to his and for the first time in her life smiled.

And then she plunged a dagger into him.

He fell from her grasp, blood dripping from her lips. “why.” He gasped. “I love you.”

“Because that is her purpose for existing sweetie.” An old woman’s voice sounded behind him, one of the mountain labourers.

“You nobles are such the romantic sort.” She sniffed. “We knew that sooner or later, if we bred for beauty, one of you wouldn’t be able to resist. And then we would have our chance.”

She turned to him, sprawled out on the floor, but he was already beyond hearing.

“Ah well, never mind.” She turned to the Stock. “Well done girl, we’ll have food enough for generations with this lot.”

For the Man with the Holy Tenant in his mind ;)

It was, the wiry man in the tweed suit thought, only a minor inconvenience really, that he was literally trapped in a mental state – and not even his own one at that.

When he had first crash landed here, way back when, it had taken him quite a while to realise that he was, in fact, trapped in someone else’s mind. The constantly shifting scenery had been a bit of clue. It had given him quite the bad case of vertigo until he had managed to meld himself in the dominant consciousness – now what he saw could be filtered through his own senses and thus appear in a form that he was comfortable with.

He had even found a function for himself within his hosts mind (always a good thing to have – it could be dangerous to be an alien piece of flotsam floating around in someone else’s subconscious – you never knew what defences the host could have dreamt up)

Having been revered as an excellent grammar teacher throughout the galaxies (as well as for a few other things) he delighted in being able to share his verbal accuracy with his host.

Almost unfortunately his host already had an excellently clear sighted mind but he was still determined to aid him in any way he could.

In fact…..

The halo of light visible around his head began to shine, a sound not unlike the chiming silver bells began to be heard.

“Ah ha!” The man sprung up and began racing through the various corridors, the light and sound getting louder and brighter respectively. Soon the man saw his prey in sight, slithering round the corner ahead.

But this part of the mind was his domain – and under his control. All the corridors sloped downwards and the floors were supremely smooth for a reason.

And the man hadn’t won the galactic roller-skating championship three years in a row for nothing.

He took the corner on one foot and two wheels and pounced on his prey.

His ‘prey’ appeared to be a long serpent weaved out of glowing lines of thread. It was a quite beautiful matrix of light and colours but some parts of it appeared dark – or as if the thread was fuzzy and frayed. Holding the serpent down by its head, the man got out his marker pen and starting working on it, pulling gently on the frayed threads, re-weaving their shape, re-writing over the darkened bits with his marker until they too glowed.

“Using such an obscure terminology with such a clichéd, inaccurate simile?’ the man could be heard muttering to himself, “that’s unlike you – I told you drinking that much was a bad idea. She’s not going to have a clue what you’re talking about.”

He leant back and admired his handiwork. “Now, that’s more like it. Go on, off you go.” He said to the serpent.

It slithered off, much more subdued, but its glow now lit the walls with a myriad of colours.

“Beautiful” the man sighed.

With a bit of mental pressure he turned his roller-skates back to converses. Whistling merrily he sauntered back to his attic hideout for a well deserved cup of cocoa.

Writing: Really Random Vignette

It wasn’t the dingy wallpaper, the tired tasselled lamps or even the way just touching the desk made her hands feel defiled. No, the major problem with working reception at ‘Golden Days Quality Hotel’ was the utter oppressive nature of the OAP ghosts that frequented it.

 
Michelle couldn’t understand why on earth they would want to spend their afterlife hanging round the same dreary place they did while they were alive, but every room in the place was packed with a different variation of a grey, slightly damp seeming, elderly ghost – usually wearing polyester and sandals with socks.

If Michelle had been dead, she wouldn’t have stood it for a second. She’d be off round the world, seeing everything she’d dreamed of while she was alive but couldn’t afford to visit. She definitely wouldn’t be stuck in this dump.

“Seriously love; I don’t know why you come.” She said as she helped yet another OAP check out. “Haven’t you got better things to do?” She leaned back on her chair and continued filing her nails, her long legs swinging in her high heels.

The OAP ghost blinked and decided to not mention the way Michelle’s foot kept kicking through the reception desk, or the way the dark ligament marks around her neck contrasted vividly with her corpse pale skin. It seemed kinder not to.

“Well dear,” she said at last, “you’d be amazed at the way habit can take a hold of you.”

Writing: Old Work

Well, I wrote this a while back and never finished it. I was just wondering what you guys thought and if you wanted to know the ending?

It was dark inside the monsters stomach.

And dreadfully smelly.

Which, really, is what one would expect from the inside of a stomach. After all, how often do stomachs come with windows and air fresheners?

William listened to the sound of the previous occupants’ flesh being dissolved in the acid. It made a sort of popping, fizzing noise, not unlike the sound lit sparklers made at Guy Fawkes Night. The kind of safe sparklers small children get handed, safe and glittery and the noise they make usually lost in the big bangs of the much larger fireworks.

The noise sounded very loud in here.

William Scoundrel (yes, he actually chose that name himself) sat in the dark of the monsters stomach and pondered what he should do.

William, despite first appearances, was actually rather lucky.

Number One: He was dead before he went into the monsters stomach and

Number Two: the special resin he coated himself with every week to prevent rot has the unexpected side effect of turning his skin into something like living marble.  This meant he couldn’t be bruised or cut and apparently, acid had no effect on him whatsoever. He keeps his hair out of the way of the drips of acid though, just in case.

This may tell you more than William would be comfortable with, about what kind of man William is.

Since making William uncomfortable is a rare and happy thing, and since he’s hardly in a position to stop us, why don’t I tell you a bit more about him?

William Scoundrel, family name forbidden due to his family disowning him and, on occasion if the opportunity presents himself, trying to assassinate him. This is due to William being, in their opinion, the blackest of black sheep. A position he earned when he didn’t stay properly dead like a decent member of the family should. When you come from a large family of exorcists, the undead state of being is a bit of an embarrassment to your profession.

William was never a brilliant exorcist, middling at best. He liked the money and status and the girls it got him but, unlike the rest of his family, he didn’t share in the whole gung-ho, ‘endless war against spirits’ thing. In fact, apart from the more violent ones who directed their violentness towards him, he would have been quite happy to let them be. But he was an obedient son and so did as his family asked until the day he died.

And then he died.

No one was more surprised that himself when, at his funeral. He had opened his eyes and sat up in his coffin. He hadn’t even had a moment to himself before Aunt Petunia had shot him with her specialist portable crossbow. That had been rather hurtful. Surely he could have had five minutes to adjust, or even get a word out before they started attacking. But then again, Aunt Petunia barely liked the living, let alone the dead. She had many emotional issues, most of which, William suspected, were due to being named ‘Petunia’, hardly a fitting name for a hardcore exorcist who battled demons from hell on a daily basis.

Death gives one a rather different view on life, seeing as you’re now a spectator rather than a contestant.

William, who had never once disobeyed the family (although honestly he had thought about it many times – but not actually done it), looked down at the crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. He looked at the faces surrounding him, faces he had known all his life, faces he had fought beside, faces he had died beside, and saw not a single stirring of pity on any of them.

He made up his mind. And pegged it to the door. The family, caught off guard by this surprising act of self thought, were held stunned for a moment, giving William enough time to make his way out of the church and into the new world of the living dead.

William was surprisingly adept at hiding himself from his family. Or perhaps not so surprising, after all, he’d had a lifetime of learning how they thought. So he vanished into the depths of the city, moving from one frozen meat locker to the other, trying to preserve his decaying body and avoiding the ravens that followed him in flocks, waiting for him to stop moving so they could feast on his flesh.

William is sure that it was the ravens that let Bertie discover him.

Ah Bertie, Bertram the Exorcist. What is there to say about him?

I hate him. But I am only the narrator and therefore my opinion does not count.

Bertie, always Bertie, only the elder’s call him by his full name, any others who do better beware. His temper, though carefully hidden, is vile and vicious and bloody.

Bertie found William after dark in a closed Iceland supermarket, emptying out the ice-cream freezer so he could climb in and have a rest. William had gotten good at defusing security cameras and locks.

William heard the footsteps walking down the aisle, past the canned goods section and towards him. The person was between him and the exits and he had no weapon on him save a box of already defrosting choc ices in his hand. He threw them anyway.

‘Now, now Wills,’ Bertie ducked easily. ‘Surely that’s not the way to greet your cousin? Besides,’ He glanced at the choc ices, ‘I’m much more of a raspberry ripple fan. I’d say vanilla would be your speed.’

This is the important thing to remember here, extremely important. Bertie is William’s idol. He is everyone in the family’s’ idol. He is a bounder and a cad, suave, handsome and effortlessly charming and brilliant and one of the best exorcists the family has ever produced. He is fantastically popular with women, even though they know he will never call (although they always hope he will). When William was alive he wanted nothing more than to be just like his cousin Bertie.

Here’s something you should also know. Bertie loves to use elegant hand gestures and longs words when he speaks. He thinks this makes himself sound posh (although posh is never a word he would say – it’s far too common). Now, if posh value was counted in terms of wealth, Bertie would be so posh he would piss posh. However, posh is also determined by class – something all the family would agree they do not have. Now, they’re not what you’d call council estate trash by any stretch of the imagination but they work all their lives and this, by common acceptance, is not what posh people do.

Now, can you see how this is going?

Bertie is not here to exorcise William. He will not even tell the family that he has seen William, instead Bertie will hide him.

Bertie tells William this, and William, grateful and ecstatic not to be alone anymore (for truly, that was the worst part of being dead, having no one but the flesh eating crows for company) still has just enough sense to ask why. Bertie tells him it is because he is his cousin and the way the family treated him was just not right. Bertie thinks it’s time for a change in the way the family thinks.

As with all the best lies, this one is mostly true.

Bertie is interested in helping William because he is his cousin. Bertie does think it’s time for a change in the family. It’s just that the change Bertie wants to inflict has nothing to do with helping spirits or the undead. It’s all to do with what Bertie wants his future to be.

Bertie has got ideas above his station one might say. But these are untried, untested ideas and Bertie does not want to risk himself. He is selfish like that. However, a recently revived, scapegoat of an undead cousin would be the perfect guinea pig.

William goes with Bertie.

A naive and foolish decision one might argue, but look at it this way. William is alone and tired and dead. He’s never had much backbone to begin with and never dreamed he’d be an undead fugitive on the run from his exorcist family. What better option is going to come along? Plus this is Bertie, his hero. Surely Bertie will take care of him?

Who among us can say that they’ve never once trusted the wrong person for the right reasons?

So William goes with Bertie who takes him to a safe house, complete with a walk in deep freezer. William does not ask Bertie why he has a hidden house with a giant freezer. Perhaps he simply doesn’t think to ask it (possible) or perhaps he’s afraid to (also possible).

Bertie visits William often over the course of the next few weeks and when he senses William has gotten properly relaxed and comfortable he brings with him a guest.

This guest is a necromancer.

Now, to explain why this is so shocking, perhaps the best way to describe the relationship between exorcists and necromancers is to compare them to policemen and criminals. Policemen spend their entire career trying to undo the damage criminals’ cause. Criminals spend their career trying to have fun and earn money whilst trying not to get caught by the police. Now, times the antagonism between the police and the criminal fraternity by about a gazillion and you have the relationship between exorcists and necromancers.

Had William still breathed, he would have been breathless with shock.

As it was, once the yelling and throwing of insults and furniture had calmed down, Bertie calmly explained that this was for William’s own good, that no one knew more about preserving the undead than necromancers (almost true, but they definitely knew more than any exorcist living). Ollie would examine William and see the best way of allowing William to avoid worrying about all impacts, sharp edges and having to spend most of his days locked inside a freezer.

William, after much, much hesitation agreed. After all, if you couldn’t sleep ever, would you really want to spend most of your time in a freezer?

Then Bertie dropped another bombshell.

‘Since we know it’s possible and we want to get this sorted as soon as possible, I’ve lent Ollie our Great Uncle Archie’s work.’

At this William exploded again. Great Uncle Archie was one of the family’s greatest and darkest secrets, and the necromancers should be the last people on earth to ever know his research.

(William was quite right in this. Great Uncle Archie’s story was one of the biggest, darkest and saddest secrets their family held. It is a story full of sorrow, true love, genius and, ultimately, sacrifice and betrayal. I will not tell this story to you, it is just too sad and it makes me cry. But know this, whatever else Great Uncle Archie might have been; he was truly the kindest of men.)

At this, Ollie spoke up. ‘I am not interested in doing anything with it. Just what is asked. I might be born a necromancer but that life is a closed door to me.’

Ollie looks a bit like a washed out IT technician. His hair is long and brownish and untrimmed. He has stubble that won’t grow into a beard. His clothes are so loose and faded that you’d think an elephant had been wearing them and then washed them 60 times at high speed trying to get the grass stains out. But under his shaggy fringe his eyes are clear and firm. William wishes his eyes looked like that in the mirror but when he was alive he never bothered to look that properly and now he is dead he is too afraid to. But he knows they definitely don’t like anything like Ollie’s.  If you’re wondering, William’s eyes normally look like those of a frightened rabbit.

William allows Ollie to experiment on him (although he prefers not to think of the word ‘experiment’ as it makes the more delicate muscles around his eyes twitch). William soon finds out that Ollie is a world class necromancer and a bit of a genius to boot. He also discovers, to his surprise, that he actually quite likes Ollie and Ollie, in return, discovers that he quite likes the dead mans company. William surprised him when they first started. As with all experiments, the common method is to first start with animals. In necromancy, you get a live animal, kill it, bring it back to life and experiment on it. Ollie was preparing to do this with a rabbit the first time when William, who had been watching, yanked the rabbit out of his hands before he could cut its throat. Both demanded to know what the other was doing. After Ollie had explained, William insisted that Ollie just test things out directly on him.

‘After all,’ William said, ‘I am already dead. There is nothing left to fear.’

Ollie felt like saying, ‘If that’s the case why are you hiding now’ except he noticed how much Williams hands were shaking but how he still stood between him and the rabbit cage. For this, William earned Ollie’s grudging respect, possibly the first respect he has ever earned.

Ollie’s natural genius, combined with Great Uncle Archie’s work, soon resulted in the resin.  This meant that not only was William safe from rot and physical damage, but that he could finally go out in the sun (previously impossible due to the sun’s tendency to accelerate aforementioned rotting).

William didn’t think that he had ever been happier than when he was outside in the back garden with Ollie drinking beer and watching the sun glide across the sky.

Sadly, all things must come to an end. This is an irrefutable truth.

Bertie wanted to test exactly how indestructible William had become.

Writing: Pitchforks

For V and Ivan - since they seem to have a soft spot for the little serial killer.

Once upon a time there was the dearest little village in the mountains. All of its milkmaids were plump and rosy cheeked, its geese were as white as snow, the village itself was neat and well kept and the village folk were of the simple and good natured sort.

Due to the fortress that loomed, dark and vengeful over their small village, they were also all excellent marksmen (many of the men had won shooting competitions in their youth) and all, down to the youngest child, were quite nifty with a sharpened pitchfork or flaming torch.

Oddly, the fortress never seemed to be inhabited for long and the tenants seldom left a forwarding address.

The most recent tenant however, seemed to be a different sort from the usual. She had long, perfectly kept blond hair and beautiful large blue eyes. Her posture was excellent, her smiles charming. And well, if she seemed a little shy around people, surely it was fashionable for ladies to be demure?

Several of the lads had already fallen for her, which would have made the milkmaids her enemy, had she not clearly and politely refused them.

In fact, the only discordant note about her was her ward, Ned. The villagers had seen enough minions and mutants around to recognise one when they saw it – but the lady seemed genuinely devoted to him and Ned itself seemed to wish no one ill. The villagers assumed that perhaps he was a relative of hers fallen on hard times, and that the lady had brought him here out of the prying eyes of society.

Yes, the villagers found their new tenant wonderfully acceptable and gladly took her into their society.

Every villager that is, but one.

Alexis was the secondary village blacksmith. As you can imagine, a small village does not really require two blacksmiths and times could be hard if you were rated second. Normally it wasn't so bad for Alexis – you could count on a regular supply of tenants coming in and out of the village. And when they left, the villages always needed pitchforks and Alexis were rated the best. So his sales of pitchforks were enough to keep him afloat.

But now they had ‘The Lady’

Alexis hated the lady.

Ever since she arrived the villagers had done nothing but coo over her, with her pretty blond hair, her pretty blue eyes and pretty smile. Her looks had blinded the villagers to her nature. Alexis had been born in the village and had seen hundreds of tenants come and go. He knew that however pretty her packaging was, what looked out from behind her eyes was a monster. His pitchforks sang with her craving for blood.

But no one would believe him.

So, one day, when he could afford nothing but hard bread and stale cheese for dinner, he decided to prove his point. He took his deadliest pitchfork with him (he called her Marilyn for the shine on her tines) and crept up to the fortress. He kept an eye out for Ned, her minion. He liked to chase butterflies on the front lawn. He didn’t think he’d be much of an issue but you could never be sure.

The fortress seemed deserted – the merest plume of smoke drifted from the chimney but that was all. He crept towards the labs at the back of the building. The door was open and he cautiously looked through. The sight that met his eyes made his heart leap for joy.

The lady was crouched over Ned, her dress was splattered with the blood from his cut throat and numerous other slashes across his body, most likely made with the blood soaked pearl handed straight razor the lady held in her hand.

He must have made a noise, for her head moved sharply and then she was looking right at him. In spite of himself, he took a step back. There was nothing human in that look.

He made himself stammer, “M. M. Monster! Just wait till I get the others!” He regained his composure at the thought of his comrades. “Just wait until you taste the purity of the flame!”

And she laughed. Not a light delicate tinkle of a giggle, but the deep, full bellied guffaw of the truly amused.

“Ned.” She said

And then the thing on the floor was moving, moving when it shouldn’t have been with cuts and bits flapping and eyes too full of blood to see but it was moving to fast, too fast and he was on the floor. He was on the floor and the lady was looking down at him and the blood from her razor was dripping onto his face. The blood that had come from the thing holding him down.

The lady delicately licked the blood off the razor with a neat pink tongue.

“Nighty night.” She said

And then all went black.

He woke to find himself tied to a squishy floral armchair in front of a merrily burning wood fire.

The lady was in the opposite chair, watching him. Ned, all cuts vanished as if they’d never been, was curled at her feet. Its hair had been freshly washed and someone had lovely wrapped him in a multicoloured blanket. It was wearing bunny slippers.

For some reason, Alexis couldn’t tear his eyes away from how the ears of the slippers bobbed and danced as Ned twitched in its sleep.

“It’s asleep.” He croaked out at last.

“Yes, Ned gets tired from regenerating.” The lady said pleasantly. She leant and ruffled her fingers through its hair. Ned seemed to make a noise like purring.

“You are helpless.” He whispered

“If you think so then why are you trembling?”

“Monster.” He tried to shout but it trickled out from between his lips as a whimper.

“Ha! Pot. Kettle. Black!” She said disbelievingly. “Or have you not done the maths?”

“I saw you…kill him.”

“And now he lives.” She again ruffled his hair and had she been any other girl Alexis would have said she did it with tenderness. “Ned cannot die. He came like a gift for I must kill, the desire burns too bright within me. But due to, certain circumstances,” and here she looked away and was that pink tainting her cheeks? “It was beyond my grasp. But then Ned appeared and saved me. In return I will care for and touch no one but Ned. But you! Oh my but you and the other villagers, you are far worse than me.”

“We kill monsters!”

“Yes, you do. Over and over and over. In fact, can you even remember the number of throats you’ve cut? The amount of ropes you’ve tied, fires you’ve lit? Heck, this whole place is  a custom designed monster trap!”

“I don’t, I don’t know what you mean.” Alexis stammered out.

“Oh come now dear. An innocent, hideously outdated, little backwater village tucked away in the mountain, miles away from the nearest neighbour – a perfect little honeypot. You even have milkmaids for crying out loud! And along comes a count or mad scientist or yeti and thinks they’ve found heaven! A perfect well stocked larder/experiment subjects, no one for miles to interfere and a fortress at a reasonable rental rate. Heaven! And then you wait. You wait and you play nice and all the while you’re sharpening your pitchforks and the second they step out of line, the second you think they step out of line – they’re done for. The torches come out, the pitchforks stab and the bonfires are lit. Bye, bye monster.

And of course it’s not murder. How can it be murder when you’re the good guys? When you’re simply defending your home? So what if the ground is drenched with blood and the charnel pits are choked with corpses? So what if every child here knows how to wield a weapon before they can even write their own name? They’re the monsters, they attacked first, it wasn’t us, it wasn’t me, and our hands are clean.”

“And you dare to come in here and call us monsters.” She says.

Alexis huddled against the chair, trying to hide behind his bonds, away from the lady with the truth written all over her face.

“So Alexis, what should I do with you?” She asked.

“If you kill me it won’t change anything.” He said hoarsely.

“Very true.” She says agreeably – and pulls out her newly cleaned straight razor.

Alexis whimpered as she moved towards him.

“Please” he said

“Feels shitty to be on the other end of that word huh?” She leaned forward

Alexis closed his eyes

And she cut the rope.

After a few minutes Alexis opened his eyes again. The lady was back sitting in her chair, the straight razor still in her hand.

“The thing is Alexis, I like this place. I like how quaint it is – even if trying to get a signal for the internet is a pain in the arse. I want to stay.” She tilted her head to one side and smiled. “I guess you could say I feel comfortable amongst my own kind.”

Alexis shivered.

“But I will need a friend. This place is big – too big to manage by myself. I know your prospects in the village are not too…prosperous shall we say? I realise that my disinclination to offer myself as a sacrificial lamb to your villager’s murderous impulses may have something to do with that. So I propose a deal.”

“A deal?” A movement caught Alexis’s eye. Ned is awake and staring at him.

“Yes, how do you feel about being my butler?”

“A butler!” Indignation temporarily overcomes his terror. “I am a blacksmith, not some namby pamby butler!”

“But not a very good blacksmith.” She said coolly. “Call it what you want but I could do with some ears and eyes in the village and to help me maintain my estate. The villagers’ blood lust won’t stay sated forever, prior warning would be useful.”

“I’ll not betray my neighbours to the likes of you!”

“So you do have a spine then? Interesting. I could do a lot with a spine you know.” She paused. “You will be handsomely paid. And, of course, the lodge on the grounds comes with the position.”

Alexis hesitated. The lodge was a handsome stone building, warmly heated and with indoor plumbing. He thought of his two room shack on the edge of the village. His stomach was still growling from the insufficient dinner he had had.

Then the lady delivered the killer blow. “Likewise provisions would be made for you to obtain a housekeeper. I hardly expect a man to keep a lodge of that size in order. The girl will be hired at your own discretion of course.”

A young pretty girl to keep his house and cook his meals.

Alexis handed over his tattered and black soul without even a backwards glance.

“When do I start m’lady?”

The lady smiled. “You can move in tonight and we will talk more in the morning. I assume you can show yourself out. After all, you will have been here plenty of times yourself.”

Alexis nodded and went to the door. Then he paused and turned.

“Milady?”

“Yes?”

“You have a spot of ..uh.. on your cheek.”

The lady reached up her hand a brushed at her cheek. Her fingers came away red.

“Oh dear, I always seem to miss a spot. Thank you Alexis, I can see you’ll be worth your weight in gold already. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Alexis left.

The lady sighed and slumped in her chair. Ned leaned up and made an enquiring noise.

“Oh Ned,” she said, ruffling his hair. “I am still not good with people. But,” she carried on thoughtfully, “he and the villagers are far easier to deal with than most. Perhaps because they’re just like me on the inside.”

Ned yipped and brushed his cheek against hers. She held his frail body tenderly in her arms.

“Oh Ned…. Shall we try the axe tomorrow?”