Strings at Dusk

Hey there, its been a while I know, but yes, I've decided to post something up, something I've just written. No theme, no challenges, just something I felt like writing.

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I walked by them about a thousand times, maybe more. They played in front of an alley entrance on a busy street. You ever see one of those streets that are closed off to motor traffic, but instead have several small shops, privately owned, nothing corporate? Those kinds of streets tend to be the home to all kinds of street buskers. You of course have your Jack Johnson wannabe crooners, playing all the soft rock hits, singing them out in a raspy whisper of a voice. They don't shave, they don't cut their hair, and they pay hundreds of dollars to buy clothes that look retro or vintage, its all a part of their image. Next to them you have your balloon artists, running around in make up making balloon animals for children and pretty women they don't have a whisper's chance in a choir with. Magicians, of course fall into this same category. The street is home to several artists, selling pictures of your inflated head driving a sports car, or paintings of pretty sunsets, hand crafted knick knacks and brick-a-brack are available in all forms. It looks like something out of a J.K. Rowling novel. That being said, one would think it hard for anyone in particular to stand out in such a crowd, but these two...I don't know, it's hard to explain, but they just did.
The old guy with his torn top hat and blue checkered collared shirt, poking out of a gray vest, was playing on a piano, the kind one might find in a pub. A lot of work, one can assume, to get that thing out onto the street. And the girl, she gently tapped away at a small drum set, her brown hair hanging out from underneath a winter cap, bundled in a brown, off orange, p-coat. I walked by them everyday, sometimes I would stop to listen. I must have been the only one, or at least that is how it felt, everyone seemed to continue on their way, paying these two musicians no mind at all. An odd thing, since their music was perhaps some of the most captivating I had ever heard. They never sang, the girl just seemed to hum a long to the songs that she and the old man in the torn top hat played. Finally, I had to ask, a momentary lull in the music, as if waiting for me to ask (the girl continued a soft beat on the drums).

"Why don't you ever sing?"

The old man turned on his seat to look at me, "Never had much a talent for it, can't seem to find the words for it."

The girl smiled a small smile from her drum set, and the old man chuckled a little bit. It must have been written all over my face. How could such music not have lyrics to it? How could music that seemed to conjure up images, stories before my eyes, not themselves have an actual story to tell?

"We improvise." The old man pointed to an acoustic guitar leaning against the piano. "Been looking for a third, why don't you join in? I'd bet my last dollar that you have those lyrics you're looking for."

"What? No, I couldn't possibly."

"You mean you won't." The girl was looking up from her drums, and eyebrow lifted in mock inquisition, unable to mask the faintest smile at the edges of her lips.

"Well, I can't...tried the guitar once, never been all that..."

"Good at it?" The girl finished my sentence for me. "I know you've tried to learn, and you gave up, a bunch of excuses, come on, give it a shot, what have you got to lose?"

I wish I could say that I picked up the guitar right there and began to let loose a flurry of chords, but I hesitated instead.

"I know a guy, and He told a bunch of people once, people that needed to hear what He had to say, that they could move mountains, uproot them and cast them into the sea. All it took was a little faith, a little heart." The old man smiled.

"Wasn't that Jesus?"

"Oh? You know Him to then? Look, pick up the guitar, and give it all you've got. Have a little faith in yourself? Play the first thing that comes to your mind, stop letting fear get in the way of faith, take heart in the fact that you would never be lead into a place that you could not be carried away from."

Reaching down, pulling the guitar into my hands, I looked at it for a but a moment as I slung it around my shoulder, the only sound I could hear was the light rasping of a snare drum, and the gentle hum of a symbol. The sounds of guitar strings as my fingers ran along them looking for chords, the piano chiming in, a bouncing, soft melody, accompanied by the drums, awaiting my guitar to strum into its place:

" Far away, so far away now
Dancing dreams that went with her
Are so far away.

Pools of blue, deeply swimming
Sparkling vortex have me spinning
Framed in chocolate rivers flowing
Ivory lines, all brightly shining

Dancing in white birch corridors
That paint roads copper and gold
Never seems to touch the road
It where my dreams do go

Far Away, so far away now
Ripples in the water now
Just so far away

Quickly moving, every chasing
Point me in the right direction
Never Stopping, ever running
A worthy desire upon reflection

Grant me courage
Remove my fear
I seek wisdom
I seek things made clear

Far Away, so far away
I am getting closer now
Not so far away."

We played for hours, I had never felt like that before, it was freedom, there was no doubt about it. It was well into the evening, perhaps even morning by the time we had finished, and my bloody fingers wouldn't let me play anymore. One song, maybe more, nobody stopped to listen, it didn't really matter.

"I'd say that about does it for today." The old man began to rise up from his chair, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. "But before we go, I am wanting to tell you something. You've experienced what it is to let go of fear. Fear, is the opposite of love, most would think it's hate, but to be true, hatred stems from fear. It is fear that stops you from living the life given to you. It stops you from making the choices you want to make. Fear of getting hurt, fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of embarrassment, fear of inadequacy, fear of self. Fear is what stops you from using the gifts you've been given, the life you aught to be living. I'd say whatever that song was about is worth the risk of a few scrapes."

I walk by that same alley way every single day, I've never seen the old man and his, presumably, daughter. No one seems to know who I am talking about whenever I ask, not even the other buskers. I still walk by the alley, I still hum the tune to a song that had no lyrics, but was given some. I still remember what the old man in the torn top hat told me, and it's not easy, but I am getting by.

The Boy in the Rain

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Challenge: The story starts during a police investigation. The story takes place a year into the future. A character will drink something alchoholic. A character is deceptive throughout most of the story. During the story, a character gets a promotion.

Theme: Fiction, Mystery
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Rain is dropping down, no sign of relenting, the streets aglow in the sheen of the watery surface in the night time lights and signs. Water falling from the sky, water falling from the suspended clothes lines, water falling from the rusted steel fire escapes, water falling off the hats of the investigating officers. The alley was filled with the alternating blue and red lights of a few police cars, a fire engine and two ambulances. I lite a cigarette, a terrible habit, I picked it up after my promotion, probably a few months afterward. I was a bright and eager young man, just made detective, thought I could be a real sleuth. Could not have been further from the truth. Its not all Sherlock Holmes, detective work. Now days its all murder, gang violence, informing families of dead kin, filling out paperwork. There was no evil villain with a dastardly plan to over throw a regime with their wealth and power and influence, just the next punk with a pistol. There was no picking up even the smallest piece of evidence and concocting an elaborate scheme with pin point detail, that was crime scene investigations job. I don’t think I can tell you about a single case where I actually had to go out and follow leads, do any actual investigation. Except for now. Opening the small flask I carry with me, I take a large swig of the burning rum inside of it. Its not a crutch, its not like I need the stuff, it just helps deal with situations like this one.

There is small boy in front of me, his blonde hair was mousey, although at this point it is matted to his head by the rain. He looks up at me with near dead eyes. Eyes that were ready to cry at any moment, and yet wouldn’t, they carry a heavy sadness in them. I can’t look at them, not my job, I gotta get this kid to tell me what he saw, C.S.I and the others first on scene told me that he was blank, wasn’t talking. This kid, who was mere moments from growing up all at once was my only lead to this slaying. I don’t need to ask him yet, I’ll check out the scene first, see the bodies, get a hold of the situation, so I can get as much of an idea as I can before I talk to the sprat. Before I go though, I take my fedora and place it on the wet child’s head, and wrap him in up in my coat. Never had kids before, never been married, but it was time to act like I knew what I was doing, like I was some sort of parental figure. I don’t smile, I don’t nod, I just tap him on the shoulder and walk away.

I walk towards the bodies, five in total, it was the most brutal slaying to take place this year, and we were not even halfway through it yet. The crime and murder rates have shot through the roof from 2009 to 2010. Some of them are emerging cults, all prepping the world for 2012. Bunch of psychopaths who think these next few years they can do whatever they like, cults performing ceremonies in accordance to their fiction writers doctrine. I’m a piss poor protestant myself, piss poor in the fact that I find it hard to love or forgive, maybe would have made a better catholic. I flick my cigarette onto the ground and turn into the direction of a gruff and groan coming from a investigator.

“Piss off Vance, you’ve had a bloody hour and a half with this scene, that’s time enough to get what you want.”

I lift the sheets on the first body, then the next, and the rest consecutively. Probably the strangest things I had seen yet, most brutal to be sure. It was definitely the work of some kind of cult, symbols scratched into the heads and arms, single stab wounds in the middle of the throat. Not sure how the kid managed to get away, baby sister managed to get the same treatment as the others, maybe he hid. Either way, I give a nod to the E.M.S and begin to make my way back to the kid. I place a hand on his back and begin to lead him out of the alley. Its odd, he doesn’t fight, doesn’t run back to his parents, he just walks away, never looking back.

Cut to a small P.O.S diner, and a eight dollar milk shake, and I am sitting across from a kid that has not eaten a bloody thing, and hasn’t spoken a damn word. But I keep the façade, I remain patient…looking. I dip my fry into ketchup, start to play with my food a little, hope I can get a laugh from this kid. But all he does is hold that deep, heavy sadness. I could slam my fist on the counter. You get impatient thanks to monotony after a while. You get used to the same in and outs and if something disrupts that, it makes you impatient, even if its something you want.

“You ain’t touched your food. Come on kid, even you gotta eat, they serve a pretty good milkshake here.”

There crap actually.
“I gotta ask you some questions, its important that you answer them. Otherwise we’ll never catch the bad people who hurt your family…”

Even with the details, I doubt we could catch them, this whole thing is just another file for the basement archives. The kid looks at his milkshake and just pushes it away and lowers his head to the table, burying it into folded arms. Small muffled sobs vibrate off the table, and I put a comforting hand out, or at least I try to. He probably knew it wasn’t sincere, or real. He just looked up at me, his face stained with tears and dirt. I found myself hoping he didn’t ask about what was going to happen with him, it would be more lies, end up in a boys home or something like it, can’t tell him that its all “going to be alright” or that he will be “well taken care of ”. Instead he just sits there, with those muffled breaths you get when you cry and your breathing can’t quite catch up.

“Its ok son, your safe with me. I need you to tell me who the bad men were.”

He wipes his face on his sleeve and begins to retell what happened. Talk of old men, dressed nicely, playing cruel games with his family, leaving him alive to watch, to witness and to tell people of the cruelty he witnessed. He was told what to tell people, to say it was the activity of some kind of pagan cult, to spread discord and confusion. Maybe its true, its hard to tell anymore, so many wacko’s out there. I sit and I listen and I lose more things to say until it finally goes a little quiet and I can only say the one lie I have left in me.

“Don’t worry son, its going to be alright, your going someplace where you’ll be well taken care of.”

I pay the tab and I usher him out the door, back into the rain and uncertainty of a world going to chaos.

Death Be a Lady

Alright, here is another story entry for my theme. Its been a while since we last posted anything on the site, but we are getting there.

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Theme/ Challenge: A character is optimistic throughout most of the story. During the story, a character has an accident while traveling. The story must have a hell hound at the end. The story must involve an earring in it. The story is set during a concert.

Genre: Fiction, Macabre, Morality
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I could see the music. I could see it vibrate in psychotropic colors, outward and onward from the Guitar Man. And I doubt that I was the only one in that crowd feeling and experiencing that music. The crowd had to have been feeling it, they were tranced out, moving in complete sync with the Guitar Man's ever chord pluck, stroke and wail. It was the event of all events, the last night of a three day art, drug, music and free expression binge out in the dessert. It was pretty far out. Three days of the world's misunderstood minds, artists and creators coming together for the festival of all festivals. And then it was almost over, and the crowd, myself included, stood amongst several large sculptures looking at the Guitar Man and his band play against a monster burning effigy backdrop. All of us in sync with the person next to them.

She was screaming the loudest, dancing the hardest, dressed the coolest, standing on top of one of the giant sculptures, a twisted image with its hands held outward to receive a gift. Her skin was fair, her hair was black, a few tattoos and some killer facial and ear piercings, the woman of my dreams. She reminded me of the sixties, a flowing skirt and a black and white striped long sleeve shirt and a scarf in her hair. She embodied the freedom of the sixties, and the freedom of this festival, and she was alone. So I did what any aging hipster would have done, I climbed up to meet her. The fire in her eyes was burnt onto my soul forever the moment I saw them, forever etched, going nowhere, and her smile clasped at me with a steel grip.

" Hey freedom...you dance good."

The ultimate opener. Even if I hadn't been blitzed out of my face, I doubt I could have said anything better to her.

"Thanks Russel."

"You know my name? Are you real? Am I tripping out?"

That soul melting smile again, followed by a laughter so haunting it sends chills up and down your body, but the moment the chills leave miss them.

"Yes, I know your name. Yes, you are tripping, and I am the realest thing you will ever hope to meet."

I was never sure what she meant by those words, at that moment, but I didn't care. I was so fixed on her at that moment, I couldn't focus on anything else. She started to dance again, and my eyes were pulled to her every movement. It was almost as thought she could anticipate the music, each move she made complimented the songs that were being played. I just sat down and stared.

"Your working those songs."

Two for two, I can admit it, I am not exactly Robbie Burns. I may not have always been able to articulate in myself in a manner more appropriate to my situations, with exception to the recount of this event, but I always seemed to get by. I stood up, for reasons to me then I am unclear, for the music did not call for the following actions, took her by the hand and began to dance with her. You ever hear of astral projection? Its a theory that passes along the idea that there are people out there with the ability to have their soul leave their body and travel elsewhere in the world. People claim that they have been able to see places that they themselves have never been to. I have never been to sure on this phenomena myself, but I can tell you at that very moment I felt as though I was leaving my body. I looked down to see myself no longer standing on the platform, but instead watching the statue tumbling to the ground, myself, alone, on the outstretched hands of the twisted giant sculpture, a smile on my face, almost in a state of euphoria, or some sick kind of pleasure from my impending doom. I watched as the sculpture crashed into the ground, as hundreds fell to its weight, my body being tossed, broken and mangled, the smile never leaving. I looked back to the woman, who stood looking at me, a smile still on her face as we floated back to the ground amongst the chaos, separate from it all and amidst it all. From the panicking crowd walked a large Irish Wolfhound, thick black shaggy fur, embers wafting up from each animated clump of hair. The beast's eyes glowed with the soft glow of an active ember, and sulfurous smoke danced up from its nose. paw prints burnt into the dessert floor, leaving black char and shimmering glass with each step. The woman spoke.

"Russel, its time for you to go. A life filled with selfish pursuit's, you care only about yourself and re-obtaining your past. You ignored the poor, you ignored the needy, you ignored the downtrodden. You spent the entirety of your life seeking the next high, the next wave in free expression. And now this life has lead you to your final resting place." Her smile was gone, there was no laughter, only her job. " The Hound will take you where you need to go."

The dog was suddenly so much more imposing, I didn't run, I couldn't, you don't run from death, and there is no escaping the toll. She was right, I squandered my time with self pursuits, and now I am paying for them. Forced to re-live every mistake, every blunder, every lost chance, lashed with my transgressions, flogged with my shortcomings. Forced to watch my death over and over again, how I was pulled into a trap and how it sprung. How my lusts and selfish desires lured me in and snagged me. And now that I have reached the end, there is no relent, I must now go over them again, in new detail, in new revelation.

The Horror

Okso here is my entry, I know it's been awhile hasn't it. Sorry about that. Well here is our new site, it's awesome. Good job Jon. Hope you all like the Horror, it's something different.

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Idea: Character will take a bath, but the action goes terribly wrong. During the story, a character has to pay a fine. The story ends during a meal. The story takes place in the summer. During the story, there is a fight to the death.
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The Horror:

The day was July 13th 2016; the people of earth were going about their daily lives as if nothing was wrong, nothing ever went wrong, nothing that they could stop at least. I remember that day though; I remember it because the events that took place then changed my life forever. That was the day the world finally knew true fear.

I was a business accountant in those days, focused on numbers and figures and formula. I thought finding three tenths’ of a cent in those days to be exciting. Ha, if I could only go back to those days, when things were carefree and fancy and I didn’t have to run every night for safety. I had woken up in a daze that morning, my alarm clock had gone off and instead of the usual buzz, and it gave off a high pitched siren sound. Almost pissed my bed from the scare. I remember throwing it against the wall in frustration and anger, cursing myself as I did, it was an expensive clock.

After collecting myself I began my daily routine of getting ready for work, shave, shower, teeth, breakfast and then out the door to catch the bus. I got as far as shaving before I encountered my second problem of that fateful day, if I had only known what else was going to happen I would have given up then and there and just gone back to bed. But no, I wasn’t like that in those days. After I had shaved I went to start up my shower and found my shower nozzle had corroded over, nothing was getting out of that thing and even if it did, I don’t think I would want to shower in it. I was usually a meticulous cleaner but work those last few weeks had kept me busier than usual and I had hired a maid service to come in and clean up while I had such a heavy work load. I regret now hiring a maid service that I found on a flyer stapled to a light post. Not one to break routine I put the plug in the tub and started running the water into a nice hot bath. I was never one to take baths but I wasn’t going to leave the apartment unclean, you just don’t do that sort of thing as an accountant.

The bath water was steaming I remember as I stepped inside it, my naked flesh turning red where the water lapped against it. The pain of the scalding water going up my legs and setting off a fire in my brain. Ah I wish I could feel like that again, I would give anything for one more hot bath. I remember sitting down in the water and resisting the urge to stand instantly back up. I wasn’t used to the water being so hot and it was if each submergence of my body was a new experience to me. I laugh now, regretting that I never took more pleasure in the simple pleasures of life. Taking more time out for myself and leaving my job at the office instead of with me twenty four seven. Slowly I adjusted to the water; it didn’t take long for my whole body to be under the crystal clear water. It felt nice and calming as I recall.

I was unable to enjoy it though, just as I was reaching for a cloth to clean my body the entire building began to shake and rumble. Pieces of the ceiling and wall began to collapse in around me. The water in my bathtub swirled and bubbled as if it was being boiled a top a stove. I scream and yelled as I scrambled out of the bathtub and into my bedroom. The building had stopped shaking by the point and I could hear screams and cries coming from outside. My bedroom was in chaos, my dresser and my art along the walls had all fallen down, pieces of glasses and porcelain were everywhere. My collection of little green space men I had picked up on a vacation a few years back were utterly destroyed. I remember the sadness when I saw them there shattered; I really liked those little green men.

I grabbed a robe from the mess that was now my closet and moved out into the apartment hallway, bypassing my living room and kitchen which were now in complete shambles. I met other people in the hallways, each of them more unsure of what was happening as the last. It wasn’t an earthquake; there hasn’t been an earthquake in those parts for decades. No one thought it was a bomb either, there wasn’t any sign of fire and it appeared to have affected the entire city. No one knew what was going on. So dressed in my brown fluffy robe and a pair or saddles I had slipped on before leaving my apartment I ventured outside for my answers. What I found outside was nothing but destruction and chaos. People were running from place to place, screaming, looting, and bleeding. It was if the entire world was coming to an end and I remember the first thing that went through my mind was that I wouldn’t be able to finish the burnstock adjustments by Thursday.

I tried to stop several people outside but they were either too busy with their senseless looting, or they were injured and bleeding. The few people I could get answers out of said that something had fallen from the sky and landed in Waterhill Park a few blocks south of my apartment. I decided that I should investigate and get my own logical take on the situation, perhaps there would be someone with better knowledge on scene, and I had seen my share of movies. There should be at least an army commander or police chief or someone to talk to! So I was off, in saddles and robe and with a mind to get some answers. Something had ruined my day and I was not about to let it get off without an explanation.

I got to the entrance of the park in no time flat, but was stopped at the gates by a bunch of hoodlums. I will never stop being amazed at how fast gangs can form when something goes wrong in the world. It’s like humans are drawn together to make trouble for anyone who isn’t part of their newly formed group. It’s insanity. This group of hoodlums were armed with bats and chains and demanded that I hand over any cash I had on me. After stuttering for about a minute I finally formed the words to tell them I didn’t have any money. Of course they didn’t like that answer. One minute I was smiling meekly at their leader and the next I was waking up with a painful head ache and freezing to death. I looked around, remembered that I was at the entrance to the park and then I noticed my nakedness. The punks had taken my robe and my saddles. I lay there in the rubble and debris naked and with a head wound. I couldn’t believe the nerve of some people’s children.

It was much later in the day now, I would have guessed around dinner time. I must have slept through most of the day after the blow to the head. I weakly and slowly got up, my legs almost giving out on me. I managed somehow, and I slowly began to stumble my way into the park and hopefully someone who could help me. The twilight was hard to see threw, my eyes blurred because of my head wound which didn’t help. I saw someone up ahead among the foliage and shadows. They were crouched over something; I couldn’t tell what they were doing though. I moved closer, stumbling as I did, I tried to call out to them, to try and get them to turn around but my voice croaked and came out in a wheeze. As I got closer and closer I saw more and more figures and I could hear a horrible sound. Tearing and squashing and chewing sounds, I could see the figures reaching down and tearing things from the ground and stuffing them into their mouths.

I stumbled onto the ground; I couldn’t understand what was going on. That’s when I saw the others coming towards me. Their movements were sketchy, their arms flicking back and forth in random movements, their heads twitching in erratic patterns, eyes wide and white. Each step they took was slow and purposeful, their legs making precise movements with each step. My vision cleared and I could see they were naked, their skin covered in large barnacle like sores, oozing and pulsing in unison. Some of the creatures were tentacle limbed with giant hooks protruding from their chests; others were more human shaped, their skin changing from a pale pink to a dark brown, their veins showing a black blood flowing through their bodies.

I froze then; I couldn’t understand what was happening. Were these things human? What had happened? Was I awake or was I still sleeping, a dream brought on by the blow to my head. The creatures approached closer and closer, I could smell the stink of them, they smelled like sulfur and sweat, their erratic movements giving them the look of rag dolls being shaken about by an unseen hand. I was horrified.

I scrambled to my feet, and began to move away from the nearest creature. That was a mistake, the creatures seem to be attracted to movement, the second I stood up the erratic movements stopped and all of the creatures around me turned in my direction. A horrifying scream burst out of their mouths simultaneously then, a scream that would turn milk bad and send the mightiest creatures scampering away in fear. As the scream faded into the night air the creatures launched their assault, their movement had changed from their erratic perfect movement to a horrible gibbering of limbs and torso as they scrambled toward me. Crawling over each other, tearing at each other as they struggled to get to me first, to feed on my flesh and my soul.

I turned and ran the, stumbling and tripping on the wooded ground of the park. I ran without thought, I ran and ran until I couldn’t run anymore and then I ran some more. My heart beat faster and faster, adrenaline pouring through my veins and into my limbs, giving me the strength I needed to get to safety. My feet were torn and scratched from the branches and twigs and rocks, the pain gave me a reason to go on, to not fall back into the gibbering mass that was chasing me. I could see light and buildings up ahead; the other side of the park was insight. I burst through the barrier of trees and scrub and ran out into the street ahead. I was free, I had made it to the open spaces, I could find a place to hide and figure things out. I began to get my bearings and was moving back towards my apartment building when I was confronted.

The creature that stood before me was bigger than anything else I had seen in the park; its arms were huge muscled pieces of jagged rock. The head on its shoulders was no longer recognizable; it had elongated and shrunk, flattened to be more incestile, less human. It clicked and clacked at me and it stepped closer and closer. It didn’t have the same erratic patterned movements as the other creatures, this one walked more confident, more in control.

I looked around for anything to use as a weapon, something. However I was just an accountant in those days. I didn’t know weapons training, and we hadn’t made them weak to sodium yet so I couldn’t even use that as an advantage. I ended up grabbing a piece of rebar if I remember; it had been part of the sidewalk and came loose when the meteor crashed into the park. So with rebar in my hand I faced off against the brute, I thought I was about to die to be honest, I had no hopes of fending off the thing. So he came at me, huge jagged rock arms slicing through the air. I jumped back, landing on the uneven ground and stumbling backwards onto a nearby car. The creature continued his assault, arms swinging and swiping in a frenzy of power; I rolled out of the way as the beast ate into the car, his arms turning the metal into shreds and shards. It was at that time that I came to my senses and dropped my weapon and turned tail and ran. I moved through the streets stepping on loose rocks and broken glass. More and more foreign debris were forced into my feet, the pain was almost unbearable. I could hear the beast behind me, knocking cars and other things out of its way as it barreled towards me.

I kept my gaze straight ahead, for fear if I looked back I would be doomed. Up ahead I could see a large garbage truck, its black paint absorbing the light from the intermittent street lights. I ran around the back of the truck and into the passenger side door. Luckily the brute wasn’t that smart and followed my trail around the back of the machine. I jumped in the driver’s seat, turned the truck on. The engine roared to life and black smoke billowed into the air. I jammed the gear to reverse and back up at full speed, knocking the monster into the back of the truck. I found the compactor controls and started it up. As hydraulics and metal began to move they creature let out a low click and then several high pitched whines. Bones crunched organs and blood squished and then there was nothing. The black blood began to leak out of the back of the truck, pooling into an inky black puddle that no light escaped from, it was almost hypnotic. I could not enjoy my victory though; I could hear other creatures coming towards the death cry of their comrade. I moved through the city until I reached my apartment again and temporary safety.

I sat down at my ruined kitchen table then, brushing off the debris and pulling over the box of cereal I always kept there. In the entire ruckus, it had stayed standing; the world was funny like that. I opened the box and began to eat the crunchy oat circles, surveying my surroundings and shutting down my conscience. My life had changed that day and I would never be able to go back to the way things were ever again.

Armageddon started that day; it was a day none would forget. However something else began on that day that was the day that Milton Charles died and The Horror was born. A man who had no emotion, no fear and no remorse.

Jonathan writing challenge #1

Alright, so this is my week and my first writing challenge! And let me tell you, it was a tough one!


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Title: As Far As Cobbling Hammer's Go.
Genre: Fantasy
Challenge: A character will get dressed. During the story, a character takes a test. The story must have a scholar at the beginning. The story must involve a hammer in it. The story takes place in the afternoon.
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I am told that I am a heavy sleeper. That on the right occasion I could sleep through the end of the world and not be disturbed by its events in the slightest. I suppose this could be true, I’ll never be awake to find out though. All I can really say is that the sound of rain softly falling down in a dance with a gentle wind upon ones tent is enough to allow anyone to sleep away most of the morning, and well into the afternoon. Ireland’s marshlands are the home to many pieces of the country’s history, waiting to be pulled from their soft tombs and catalogued. The rains and the mist, and really the total understanding of just what the old bards were speaking of was one of the largest draws to this particular assignment. The downside however was having to work with a man known within the university for being notoriously difficult to work with and a real stickler for the details. And I perhaps should mention, a complete ogre when it comes to his student’s punctuality. The moment I hear him start to give his lecture from outside the tent, I get dressed as fast as I can to meet him outside.

‘I’ve half a mind to do you in with the spade and leave you to the bogs! This is the 5’th time in as many weeks you’ve awoke in the late afternoon! A whole day wasted to your insufferable snoring and sloth! Honestly Jonathan, I believed this expedition would rouse your attention, but it seems your determined to sleep through my work, be it in a classroom, or in the field. You damnable kids these days, not got a brain for anything but your music and your next party.’

This is where I start to fade out. Not only was the Professor just an all around crab, and anthropological genius, but he was also the universities commander and chief in the war against the MTV generation. Its just to bad that as far as he was concerned, anyone younger than himself was a member of this depraved stain on the cultural hind end of the world. I preferred the old music myself, as long as the old stories, told long before anything was written, but that was just me. No sense in arguing the point either or I would have that grating voice jabbering on all day.

‘You kids have got no pride in anything you make even the most slack jawed of attempts at! I’ve had enough of ya, go grab the bloody spade and start digging in the Area C. And if you haven’t got anything to show for yourself by the time I am done cataloguing what I found this morning, well you can start looking for open spaces in Dr. Gerard’s modern philosophy classes. Spend your days talking about the cultural significance of M. Night Sillyman or whatever the bloody hell his name is…idiots, the lot of them all.’

Even after I leave he keeps talking, it’s the same thing every day. I swear to you, I honestly believe the Professor feels that talking to himself is an intellectual conversation to which none are privy to. As long as he was over there, and I was over here, it didn’t matter.

The sky is still muggy, though its warmed up a little bit and I toss my wool sweater onto a nearby branch to allow myself to cool down a little bit. Fog is creeping its way over and down hills, and gently slinking through whatever tree’s are in the area. Cleaning whatever pieces I managed to find was made that much more difficult though, instead of removing dusted dirt, I had to removed caked mud, among other things, off whatever I found. Which more often than not, turned what could have been an artefact, into nothing more than a rock. And I am sure you can guess how impressed the Professor would be if he saw that I had unearthed some of Irelands oldest stone pebbles. But patience would win me the day. What I found next had to have been the largest item since the start of the trip, and it was whole! When I pulled it, gently from the ground, I didn’t feel anything, not at first. But as I began to clean the item, I started to feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, a shiver, not a bad one, run up and down my spine. I became excited, but it was mixed with something else, something other worldly. Upon removing more of the mud and bog mess from the item I begin to discover just what it is that I am holding!

It’s a small hammer, a flat nose that leads to a small singular fork for its tail with a handle made from the same metal as the actual hammer head itself. Its not so simple however; the handle itself is twisted into triple knots and has small sapphire berries inside and out of the knot work. The actual hammer head itself is also a series of knots that form into the shape of an Irish Wolfhound. The knots taking on the shape of the great dog’s fur pulling through wind as it trots along some field, chasing its prey. The knot work makes the small hammer look alive!

‘Professor, over here! I found something, in tact and whole!’

If you ever thought an old man such as the Professor incapable of great speed, think again. A stride that would be the envy of even the greatest hurdler at the thought of a fully in tact artefact. He reached out, gloves on of course, and his eyes widened in astonishment.

‘Boy, have you even the slightest clue as to what you’ve found?’

I told him I found a hammer.

‘Yes, obviously it’s a hammer, but think boy! What significance would a hammer have in Ireland, especially a well decorated one such as this?’

I told him that it could be a weapon.

‘Please, something this well decorated would have more symbolic purposes. Look at its size lad, what full grown man would have a hammer this small as a weapon?’

Clearly not a fully grown man was my only response. His questions were annoying, expecting to know something without proper explanation.

‘Your starting to get on the right track. Think about it, what in Irish history and folklore utilised a hammer? A cobbling hammer.’

I took the hammer back into my hands and scrutinised it, in truth, at his last question I had already knew the answer, but I was unwilling to just spit it out, it was absurd. Honestly, the idea that this could have belonged to a leprechaun was all the proof I needed to believe that the Professor had lost his mind.

‘I haven’t held one of these in years.’

‘Wait, what? This isn’t the first one you’ve found? Why isn’t it in the university museum?’

‘I never found another one, its just not the first I’ve held.’

The Professor took the hammer back into his hands and removed his gloves, rubbing the palm of his hand over the face of the hammer and down its handle, looking at it with a sense of longing. I had never seen such a stern man look so emotional. In all truth, I had never seen him look like that before in the entire time he had been my teacher, he didn’t look as old as I thought, except for his eyes. The Professor’s eyes carried agelessness in them.

‘Bet you didn’t know how important these hammer’s were, are, to Leprechauns. Not many people know this, but these little hammers were the source of their very being. Sure, they were magical as it was, they are after all members of the Aes sidhe. But these hammers were what gave them their purpose, their task, their knowledge, their skills.’

I had thought the Professor was going to go on another rant, lecture me on how I never paid attention in class. I looked down at the ground I was kneeling in and dug the spade into the moist earth, and instead of hearing more words, more talking, I heard nothing at all. I looked back up, and where the Professor had been, there was now nothing. The whole area grew strangely silent as I stood to my feet and looked around, hearing nothing more than the wind begin to carry away the slinking fog.

Round Two! Fight!

Yo peeps, OK here is my entry for the week, hope to be writing lots of new stories for you people out there.


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Title: Dawson's Story
Genre: Fantasy
Story Restrictions: Must start in Library, Someone must die unexpectedly, someone must drink something they have not drunk in a long time.
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The room was small, smaller than any Dawson had seen before. There were two tables and several chairs in the cramped space, which made things even worse. Small lanterns were scattered around the room in a random arrangement, each giving off a faint orange glow that illuminated a few feet in all directions. The books along the walls seemed almost ethereal in this tangerine half light, their spines warping and twisting as shadows played against them. Dawson moved through the aisles of the dusty room, trying desperately to not disturb even the slightest speck of history for fear of punishment. The book he needed was on the top shelf of the western wall or so he was told. Dawson had refused help from the mansion’s steward for fear of being spied upon. The eyes of his stalkers were everywhere these days and he needed to keep what he was about in private. Dawson reached the western wall of the small room and pulled the ladder over to where he assumed the book should be and began to climb. His weak arms struggling with each rung as his boney frame climbed higher and higher into the air. He climbed seeing the dust from the shelves getting thicker and thicker from lack of attendance from the cleaning people. Dawson made a mental note to comment on the cleanliness of the room to the Steward before he left. Finally upon reaching the zenith of the ladder he came across a set of books that no one had touched in more than a decade. The spines were black leather coiled with a stark white cord that showed no sign of age or wear. The wording on the spines was in a silver bead and read Brackin Family Tree. “This is what I’m looking for it is, it is!” Exclaimed Dawson quietly to himself. Running his finger along the spines until he found the volume he needed and pulled it from its place. The other books toppled over to fill the place where their brother once claimed. With book under his arm Dawson descended down the ladder and back towards the entrance to the room, a smile on his usually depressed looking face.
Exiting the library he moved into the plain hallways of the Brackin Mansion, their once former glory gone now with the ages. Stains along the walls marked where the great family portraits had hung, displaying proud men and women who had raised the name of Brackin to glory. Now those portraits lay in some waste, shredded, defiled, broken, never to see the light of day again just like the other family heirlooms that had been taken in the great split.
Dawson turned the corner and proceeded down a set of spiral stairs that led to the main hall of the house. As he approached the main floor of the mansion, he heard several people conversing. One of them was the steward his high shrill voice unmistakable, the other two he did not know. They sounded like they were from the JJC, their heavy accents ramming into Dawson’s ears with their heavy H’s and rough R’s. They seemed to be arguing about something; however it was impossible to tell from the stairwell. Dawson moved down out of the stair well and was just about to take the corner into the main hall when he heard the shrill scream from the steward and then a thud as if a heavy bag of yams fell to the floor. Fear ran through Dawson as he edged towards the corner that turned into the main hall. Slowly he peeked around the edge and saw such horror it’s almost unspeakable. There on the majestic red carpet lay the steward, blood creeping out of his lifeless form to soak into the carpet. His head a grotesque jigsaw puzzle after the pincer had smashed it open. Dawson pulled his head back quickly, his heart racing and his hollow face was soaked in sweat. He had just witnessed a murder of an innocent man by government officials. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do. His mind raced and reeled as the possibilities lit up before him. He could walk out casually; make it look like he was just passing through. No they would kill him to hide their crime. He could return to the library, hide until they had finished their business. That was the safest option and Dawson was a cautious man. Slowly he edged back towards the steps, careful to not make a sound, each step taken with care.
He began to ascend the steps, slowly at first and then more quickly until finally he was in a full dash, his dark leather shoes slapping against the cold stone with each step. Up and up he ran until he was once again in the hall leading to the library and beyond. Moving past the library the young researcher with book in hand turned into a room that was sparsely decorated but had a very thick Larian oak door with a secure latch. Closing the door behind him and securing the latch in place Dawson turned and examined the room he had chosen as a sanctuary from the evil which chased him. The room was plain, a desk sat in the middle of the room lined with several bottles of liquid and several high backed reading chairs were scattered here and there. The stone floor was lined with a very intricate carpet from the south western country of Lar. The griffins and snakes on it chased each other in a constant circle never gaining ground over the other, in a constant battle of neutrality. Dawson noticed that there were several glasses mixed in with the bottles. The natural assumption was he stumbled on Senator Brackin’s drawing room. Moving into the room he looked at the liquids closer, each was an expensive spirit of some kind. There was Brandish Wine from 836 EP, Larian Rum that was illegal anywhere but inside Lar as well as several other bottles whose labels were too worn to read. However there was one bottle that Dawson could not refuse to inspect closer. A bottle of 1193 Rockwind Whiskey. He had drunk a few glasses of Rockwind Whiskey in his youth, it was a drink that let you free your mind and dance with the wind, let your preconceived ideas disappear. It was simply an amazing drink. Dawson’s hand began to shake, sweat poured down his already slick face, his heart quickened. A slow smile crept along his mouth as it began to water.
Dawson was a recovering alcoholic, in his youth he was a drinker and he had a taste for Whiskey. Rockwind whiskey was the one drink he could never afford very much of; it was the drink for the rich, the famous and the man who had everything. It was the great equalizer in the end but was too expensive for the common man. It had been a hard fight to get the drink from Dawson’s system, he had gone twenty some years without a single drop of the rich, tasty liquid that burned so hard it made you feel born again. However now, now he was tempted. The first time in all that time and he was finding it difficult to turn away and place the bottle back.
“I just need a little too wet my whistle and to calm my nerves, I did just witness a murder!” He said to himself, half laughing to no one. Dawson popped open the decanter and smelled the liquid inside. The aroma wafted to the quivering mans nose sending him into an ecstatic shock. Licking his lips he began to pour the drink into a cup, spilling more of the stuff then actually getting into the cup. When the cup was adequately filled he placed the decanter back on the desk and raised the cup to his lips. Breathing in the scent he tipped the cup and swallowed the stuff in one gulp. The liquid burned his mouth, injecting its toxins and chemicals into his gums and tongue starting him on a journey he would never forget.
It was a mere seconds before Dawson collapsed on the cold stone floor shaking a foaming at the mouth as the additives in the drink sent him on his other worldly trip. He left his body and went sailing into the other world, stars and moons and suns flew past him. He saw things that were at once possible and impossible, his mind turned and twisted in the chaos of the new land he now travelled. He found that things were upside down and right side up, that he was spinning but things were perfectly still. All sense of direction was gone now, he didn’t know where he had come from or where he was going, he saw others there as well. Mutated freaks, their flesh twisted into tendrils and shapes that the human brain could not comprehend. They tried to speak to him but all that came out was a wailing of such anguish and pain that it made Dawson weep when he heard it. Further and further into the new land he travelled, oceans of metal rose up and crashed against the beaches of wood and cement, the tiny animals that lived here running to and fro amongst the wrecked bone ships sailing the shore. Islands of tears and blood floated in mid air, their inhabitants, more of the twisted flesh creatures he had seen earlier. In the distance he thought he saw himself, lying in a great high backed chair in the drawing room surrounded by an orange glow. He tried to call out to himself but got no response. He travelled the land seeing things that would drive men insane and make scholars question the existence of the universe. He floated there for what seemed years and then as if a timer ran down to its last digit the world screeched to a halt and a black vortex appeared before him sucking him in. The world began to darken around him, thunder striking the air and thunder rolling across the twisted sky. As the vortex closed around him he felt a great heat and his skin began to blacken and burn. Dawson screamed and blue and purple flames began to sprout out from his skin and a great wail burst from his lungs.
Dawson opened his eyes as pain racked through his body; he was in a hospital surrounded by people all working on him. His body was a fire with pain, every inch of him scratched and burned. He tried to move his head and found it was secured to the gurney he was laying on. Huge piece of skin were being lifted out of a cooler and place onto him, the muffled words of the doctors and nurses who worked on him sounded like static to him. One of the nurses noticed he was awake and bent closer to his ear. “You are badly burned, we will save you do not worry. You are lucky to be alive, yes?” she spoke softly into his ear, her accent heavy, and thick, filled with horrible grammar. He was in a JJC medical facility, being injected with their drugs and his body parts being replaced by god knows what. Dawson knew that after they were done with him he would be one of their drones and his life would be over. The last image he saw was of the huge segmented exoskeleton they wheeled in to wrap him in, then there was nothing but darkness.

Holy crap were back!

Alright, so we are back and we are giving this another shot! We are hoping to enter these into various writing forums or publications so we have stepped up the game a little bit. The themes work a little differently now than before and are a little more challenging! Here is my first entry.


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Title: Soda Fountain
Genre: Macabre
Writing restrictions: Must start in a library, must have a death, character mus drink something they have not drank in a long time.

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With walls made of bookshelves that expand into a blackness of unknown depth, it is no wonder this room was called simply the Library by those that inhabited it. No special name, no code, nothing more, just Library. However its roles are more than just a house for stories and records, it serves many dark purposes. To sum it up, it could also be considered a playhouse, but then where does the tom foolery of those who find time in abundance take place? Think back to school and the things you did in your own library. This is a room that played host to the dark dealings of the worlds utmost upper class. Individuals so rich they can afford to keep themselves a secret to the world and still have enough money left over to embarrass the Forbes top ten richest list. It is these men in this Library who have performed deplorable acts the likes of which even your wildest nightmare could not fathom. Their money has lead them from act to act, finding and delighting in new and more depraving pleasures. Their room is built very much like a pit, circular with an upper ring made of stone walls, homes to the bookshelves that contained these elitists’ records. Every quarterly gathering was held in those volumes, in all their disgusting detail. Then descending from the upper ring are two sets of stairs that fill into a Cineplex style seating before a small stage, where the public acts of just what money can buy are performed for the society. The Library is illuminated by thousands of candles on banisters, wall mounts or upon iron cast chandeliers. The Library has been home to the children of mammon for several hundred years, and tonight’s meeting promised to be its best.

Oppressing silence is pierced by the hinges of a giant, heavily decorated, iron door being swung open and the sounds of footsteps echoing about as thirty people enter into the room. Every last person who enters is between the ages of midlife and death, all except one. Dressed in uniforms of the finest clothes and one of a kind fashion items, each one of them looks as though they are attending a gala.

“ I bought the most beautiful painter the other day, she is indeed a rare gem! I have her painting the study, though I do hope she finishes soon. I grow tired of her sobbing and begging, ‘Let me free, let me free!’ Enough already!”

“Well perhaps you can send her my way when you are done with her? I wonder if she can do more than paint?”

“You are barking mad sir, her work is one of a kind. When I am done with her, what’s left goes to my prize hounds so I can keep her work as such!”

Small chit chat of this nature is exchanged between the thirty members before they finally take their seats. A moment or two to allow everyone settle into their meeting and one of their ilk stands and takes the podium in front of everyone. He is much older than the rest of the members but manages to carry the fierce visage of a predator and commands instant respect from everyone in the room. He is silent for a few more moment still, there is definitely an air of excitement from the members, after all this was a special occasion. There would be no show today, only the offer of a lifetime. A guttural growl emits from the oldest man’s throat as he clears it and speaks.

“ I know most of you are eager to get to the matter at hand. And to be frank with you all, I don’t care. Our fraternity is built on order and structure, no matter how obscure the performances in here have been. And if you, like some untrained dog do not have either of these, go and buy some.” Hold for laughter with the build of a golf clap. “Now, first let us go over old business. I would ask those of you who put on the slayings last quarter to next time do a better job at finding your players. Some of them still had living family members who became roused at their missing family members. No need to fret however, the proper people were dispatched to clean the situation and the proper people were bought. I understand some of them will be used for future performances, but that’s new business. I would like to extend a thank you to Mrs. Widow for her performance last week. Having taken her late husband’s spot in our fraternity, her True to life re-imagining marionette play of “The Jersey Devil” has no doubt raised the bar for some of you.”

The oldest man leads the children of mammon into a small ovation for Mrs. Widow before he continues with announcements.

“Finally, new business.”
The room tenses as he makes this small and yet exciting announcement.

“You all received the parcels, and I trust you disposed of their carriers (he added with a stern glare). So you no doubt are aware at the validity of what is going to be shared with us today. So I will not occupy more time than I am sure some of you are willing to spare and will allow our most esteemed guest to come and make his speech.”

The oldest man begins to make his way to his seat, leading the others in a rousing introduction as the youngest man walks to the stage and pulls the sheet off a, until now, hidden item. It was nothing more than your run of the mill Soda Fountain, which drew scorn immediately.

“Allow me to speak before you all resort to your grumblings, I assure you, you will be involved in my little joke by the time I am through! What is your biggest concern? All of you, you all share it. So What is it? Death. Don’t kid yourselves, death is the disease that no doubt some of you, if not all of you, have invested large fractions of your wealth into. I look around and I see no companionship, which no doubt means you are not willing to leave your fortunes behind, so who has control over your estates when you die? Who gets all that money? Does it just sit there? Going to waste? Does someone who will no doubt use it unwisely gain control of it and squander what you all have worked your lives, some of you generations in family, to amount? If you could snuff out that pesky little detail, you could keep that fortune for yourself, continuing to amass it to greater amounts, continuing to explore all the decadence this world has to offer you. Why, nothing would be out of your grasps, if only you could get past that one…little…hitch. Death.

Juan Ponce de Leòn found himself in Florida around 1512 trying to find the remedy for death. Herodotus believed that the answer was found in the lands of the Ethiopians. A lot of people believe you can create this elixir with something called the Philosopher’s stone through Alchemy. The point is that this story has permeated almost every civilization we can think of for the last several thousand years. I am of course talking about the Elixir of Life or,” the young man points to the soda fountain which was already drawing some laughter, “the Fountain of Youth.”

Everyone stands to clap for a wonderful and inventive means of presenting his product and the young man had the attention of every member of the ancient fraternity.

“I hope you all can excuse a young man for his desire to install a little humour, all in good fun I can assure you. I can assure you though, what I am offering is a lot more real than these tall tales. The elixir is the precise combination of several ingredients at a precise moment in time. Mix the ingredients in the wrong way and the results can be far more disastrous than you could ever want. That is why I built the elixir into this soda fountain. It allows the ingredients to be mixed at precisely the right moment, and offers up one frosty beverage.”

More chuckles from the members, the young man knew what he was doing.

“You all no doubt received a small sampler of what I have to offer and have seen what it can do. I will warn you now however. This elixir does not offer you eternal life, the continued consumption of it does. One glass full will grant you hundreds of years of life. Life without disease, life without frailty, life in the highest definition of the word. Tonight, all of you will get a sample, one glass between you all, enough for youth for another fifty years of life. After that, the recipe and the means of its creation goes to the person who wants it most.”

“And what is to stop us from having you flayed and hung on our walls now and just taking what has been prepared of the elixir so far? Time will allow us to figure out its creation.”

The young man smiled.

“The elixir is not complete. There is one thing missing, and it must come from each and every one of you. You followed the directions on your sampler. It requires your blood. One drop from the each of you. One drop and the elixir many of sought, fought and died for will be yours.”

The sounds if whispering and conversation filled the Library, for a short time. The oldest man stands up.

“We accept the offer.”

In mere moments each member was lined up, with a finger ready to be pricked and their blood placed into a small eye dropper. It was a small amount of blood to be true, but every last bit of it was squeezed into a small container in the soda fountain. All it took, at least from the spectator’s seats, was the flip of a switch. The whole process was a lot less magical than everyone expected it to be. The machine just clicked and whirred as it started mixing and chilling its most precious drink until the only noise left was the silent hum of the soda fountain keeping its precious cargo chilled. The young man placed a glass under the fountain head and turned to look at the children of mammon. A small click and the contents were being deposited into the glass.

It was as the youngest of them all was pouring the drink that all the members of the fraternity begin to feel strange. It was as if their very life essence was being drained from them. They all start to feel the same way a juice box might feel as every last part of its juice was pulled out of it by a straw. Slowly they all begin to fall to the floor, still holding onto their last twisted hopes of immortality. Perhaps this was all a part of the process, perhaps when they took that one sip they would start to feel invigorated and renewed! But that moment would never come. The members fall to the floor, their life still draining from them until they are nothing but grey corpses, devoid of the signs of life having ever been in them in the first place. The young man grabs the glass from the soda fountain and brings it to his lips. It was a taste he had been without for at least three hundred years. And every time he drank it, it was that much sweeter. It was a perfect balance of flavour, its hard to compare the taste of ones life force to something, but you could take your sweetest meal or drink and it still would not compare. The rush of life entering every facet of one’s body, gaining strength and youth from it offered the kind of feel good burn that no exercise could ever offer. The young man, now a child began to step over the bodies and up the stairs, removing a candle from the banister. No one would ever find these people. They paid to remain secrets, and secret’s they would remain, kept in cleansing fire.