tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37546990696494520622024-03-05T02:20:56.605-08:00Undead VoicesEvery soul has the right to tell their story…the real fun begins when the dead take the floor…Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-33849445020257833672023-02-08T07:17:00.013-08:002023-02-08T10:40:16.319-08:00Flash Fiction: Rant! (100 words)<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHefhbDtIOPNu8VQuhpQGEw5qhgEIYPb2R9JrJ1U_GHjPhI3AMLOm1s_3SkI1atab0IZuFXNV0FqHLLZ7T9ml-ZHTy8kWS0nKbUnqUxrZC9GKpM_K6xNcMS7DqNvBqIwuTnMzd1sGpPSZ7SNZNNksd0Hlc_UE3oyhSoYul4dJ7QU2nBT3-WKeHiuA/s590/Christopher%20Lee%20as%20petulant%20Dracula.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="christopher lee as dracula" border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="590" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHefhbDtIOPNu8VQuhpQGEw5qhgEIYPb2R9JrJ1U_GHjPhI3AMLOm1s_3SkI1atab0IZuFXNV0FqHLLZ7T9ml-ZHTy8kWS0nKbUnqUxrZC9GKpM_K6xNcMS7DqNvBqIwuTnMzd1sGpPSZ7SNZNNksd0Hlc_UE3oyhSoYul4dJ7QU2nBT3-WKeHiuA/w185-h185/Christopher%20Lee%20as%20petulant%20Dracula.jpg" width="185" /></a></div><div><br /></div>
"Shit, ma. You always used to let me go clubbing."
<p>
<em>"Yes, but we've talke…"</em></p>
<p>
"I know. But you said it yourself, I need to engage with age-appropriate peers!"</p>
<p>
<em>"Yes, but online, like most of yo…"</em></p>
<p>
"That's just sad. I wanna touch, love, dance 'til dawn."</p>
<p>
<em>"Now, you know that's impossib…"</em></p>
<p>
"Ma, don't you see? I'd rather go out in a searing fireball than live like…this."</p>
<p>
<em>"Don't be silly. Anyway, you know dancing's off-limits. It's only muscle holding your head to your neck as it is. You know what'd happen if it actually jerked off!"</em></p>
<p>
"Finally, she gets it…"</p>
<hr />
<p>
Go, me! The above piece represents my first ever Best Bits challenge win in Sci-Fi Roundtable's Facebook Group. The topic for <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/posts/3592764560950688/" target="_blank" title="Sci-Fi Rountable, Best Bits Poll, w/e 5th Feb, 2023">the above flash fiction piece</a> was "<strong>Rant</strong>".</p>
<p>
OK, granted. It was a tie with E.M. Swifthook; but, as they've won a gazillion, they let me choose the next topic: "<strong>Incoming!</strong>"</p>
<p>
Think you've got it in you to write an amazing 100-word flash fiction piece with "Incoming!" as your cue? Head on over to <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/posts/3594386364121841/" target="_blank" title="Sci-Fi Rountable, Best Bits competition, w/c 6th Feb, 2023">this week's Best Bits</a> and give it a shot.</p> Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5382906 -2.040869924.228056763821158 -37.1971199 80.848524436178849 33.1153801tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-91574834165377417432022-10-07T09:06:00.000-07:002022-10-07T09:06:11.372-07:00The Retirement Package<p>
Got a good feeling about this latest entry into the ongoing Reedsy Prompts competitions.</p>
<p>
Yes, it's the vampire trope again. But this is written specifically for the prompt, so falls outside my usual fair. Please enjoy responsibly:</a>
<iframe src="https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fundeadvoices%2Fposts%2Fpfbid02JkYudZwS3iosKAYwM846hfYq5mNtYJx1dkRFdSpJSKPj5UKzCF2U9LgJZ9SZvavXl&show_text=true&width=500" width="500" height="577" style="border:none;overflow:hidden" scrolling="no" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen="true" allow="autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; picture-in-picture; web-share"></iframe>
<p>
You can read all my Reedsy Prompts short stories <a href="https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/jerald-larson/" title="Jerald Larson | Reedsy Prompts" target="_blank">here</a>.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5383059 -2.040864624.228072063821152 -37.1971146 80.84853973617885 33.1153854tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-91782439964078284662022-01-19T04:03:00.003-08:002023-01-04T09:37:17.793-08:00Mortal Danger<p>
The recording eventually permeated Captain Trish Sanders' mind-fog. Like a persistent gnat, the reawakening program had mithered her subconscious for days.</p>
<p>
As Trish's brain rebooted from stasis, the hum and gentle reverberation of the shuttle transporting her and her two crewmates to the exomoon <em>Kepler-1708b-I</em> coalesced into familiar white noise.</p>
<p>
After travelling at one-quarter lightspeed for 22,400 years, adrenaline urged the Captain to check their status; her training urged caution.</p>
<p>
Deliberately, she released the cryogenic chamber's restraint straps whilst listening to an <abbr title="Artificial Intelligence">AI</abbr>-generated status report: they were on track, orbiting gas giant <em>Kepler-1708b</em>, trailing its exomoon; the relief!</p>
<p>
After satisfactorily running the shuttle's manual checks, it was time to reanimate the crew.</p>
<p>
They looked peaceful, lying there in adjacent chambers. If only!</p>
<p>
Bethany, she trusted implicitly. But Patrick? He was the Admiral's nephew. And Bethany's ex. Moreover, a total liability.</p>
<p>
No denying it, this mission was all about the Admiral's revenge.</p>
<p>
He'd seconded Bethany because she'd unceremoniously dumped Patrick. Trish was there after publicly rejecting the Admiral's advances at a Final Frontier's Christmas party. The Admiral's embarrassment accounted for Patrick's presence. Terrific.</p>
<p>
Whilst waiting for her crew to awaken, Trish landed the shuttle, launching the ecodome beneath which they'd conduct the mission's research: was <em>Kepler-1708b-I</em> a viable outpost for humankind?</p>
<p>
Unspoken, she'd guessed, could humankind survive such a journey? She'd kept that suspicion to herself.</p>
***
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgA_GhSXbTIkiGedwz5wMkmZ93snweWu6UbZVd8-HcpfCg4VX09lpGayahwhCndLGj-WuRtfJblgBib-IkbxR8OkqPEnY4llkll_8f38k_qtwwfYgngY0jNZaCLWQo819oRvQX3oRlG4vpSOAd7Ew5Rr6KzBVM4f4e_CmZcuASWUSlGLiudVaK8g7U=s640" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="Kepler-1625b-i orbiting its planet" border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgA_GhSXbTIkiGedwz5wMkmZ93snweWu6UbZVd8-HcpfCg4VX09lpGayahwhCndLGj-WuRtfJblgBib-IkbxR8OkqPEnY4llkll_8f38k_qtwwfYgngY0jNZaCLWQo819oRvQX3oRlG4vpSOAd7Ew5Rr6KzBVM4f4e_CmZcuASWUSlGLiudVaK8g7U=w320-h240" title="Exomoon Kepler-1625b-i orbiting its planet (artist’s impression)" width="320" /></a></div>
"Remind me," Patrick moaned on their first trip to the surface, "What godforsaken planet is this?"
<p>
"If you'd paid attention," Bethany admonished, "you'd know this is Kepler-1708 b-I, an exomoon."</p>
<p>
"A moon? It's twice the size of Earth, stoopid," Patrick said, trying to be clever.</p>
<p>
"Patrick," Trish said, struggling to remain objective, "Since launching, how long have we been cryogenically frozen?"</p>
<p>
"100 years?" he shrugged.</p>
<p>
The girls looked at each other, gobsmacked.</p>
<p>
"Try 22,400, dickhead," Bethany scoffed.</p>
<p>
"No wonder I'm starving," Patrick muttered, wandering off further into the ecodome.</p>
<p>
"Trish?" Beth asked, "Why didn't we stop and jettison him over Gliese 876d?"</p>
<p>
"Hell-lo. Your voices carry inside here," Patrick whinged from behind whatever craggy outcrop he'd gone to bother.</p>
<p>
"Rules is rules, kid," Trish whispered. "Unless he puts us in mortal danger, he stays. Especially as he's the Admiral's nephew."</p>
<p>
"Privileged posh boy's what he is," Beth added.</p>
<p>
"That, too."</p>
<p>
"Guys, look what I've found," Patrick panted, shuffling towards them holding something wriggly between his fingers.</p>
<p>
"WTF? Like, procedure? Don't move!" Trish yelled, hurrying to fetch a container.</p>
<p>
Seconds later, Beth asked Patrick, incredulous, "Are you going to eat that?"</p>
<p>
'Fucking! Idiot!' Trish shuddered.</p>
<p>
"Mm, Trish?" Beth suddenly ventured, "Don't want to worry you, but…"</p>
<p>
The Captain pirouetted: the wriggly thing was suspended over Patrick's open mouth. Worse, behind Patrick loomed an unmistakably-related <em>colossal</em> wriggly thing.</p>
<p>
"M-m-mortal danger?" Beth stammered. Trish nodded like her head was on springs; the girls fled towards the shuttle.</p>
<p>
They didn't wait to see whether the colossal wriggly thing or exposure upon Trish retracting the ecodome got Patrick first.</p>
<p><b>/end</b></p>
<p>© Jason Darrell, 2022</p>
<p>
Image: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Exomoon_Kepler-1625b-i_orbiting_its_planet_(artist%E2%80%99s_impression).tif">ESA/Hubble</a>, <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0">CC BY 4.0</a>, via Wikimedia Commons</p>
<hr />
<h2><b>The Brief:</b></h2>
<p>Thanks for dropping by to read another of my bashes at <a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/search/label/flash%20fiction" title="Undead Voices | Category: Flash Fiction">flash fiction</a>.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<p>This 500-word short story was in response to Secret Attic's call for their <a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/flashfiction.html" target="_blank" title="Flash Fiction (incl. brief) | Secret Attic">Monthly Flash Fiction competition</a> <em>(Dec, 2022)</em>.</p>
<p>
I'd already submitted it to an earlier competition, the now depricated Weekly Write (details below). It didn't make the cut this time either, so I've updated the story to include the newer version with the 500-Wordcount. Please enjoy.</p>
<hr>
<p>
Details for the original, now-deprecated competiton:</p>
<h2>TL;DR:</h2>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>choose one from one of three lines of dialogue:
<ul><li><em>for the above flash, mine was <strong>"Are you going to eat that?"</strong></em>;</li></ul></li>
<li>use it exactly as per the prompt to create a piece of flash fiction;</li>
<li>300 words maximum;</li>
<li>winning/selected pieces may be published in the subsequent Secret Attic booklet;</li>
<li>unpublished works only.</li>
</ul>
<p>On this occasion, this entry didn't make the cut, so I'm happily sharing a tweaked version here.</p>
<p>You can find some of my earlier more successful entries (flash and longer short stories) in Secret Attic booklets:</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-20" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #20">Issue #20</a> (5<sup>th</sup> November, 2021);</li>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-21" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #21">Issue #21</a> (10<sup>th</sup> January, 2022);</li>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-22" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #22">Issue #22</a> (10<sup>th</sup> January, 2022).</li>
</ul>
<p>Buying the booklets helps the site owners/judges (I am neither) maintain it, and provide a voice for indie authors that would otherwise go unheard.</p>
<p>Your support would be greatly appreciated. Thanks a million!</p>
<p><em>p.s.</em>Fancy using some of my flash fiction in an anthology? Drop me a line at jasond1888 [at] gmail [dot] com to discuss. Thank you.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5383059 -2.040864624.228072063821152 -37.1971146 80.84853973617885 33.1153854tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-86239253229357178532022-01-16T15:01:00.002-08:002022-01-19T02:26:56.735-08:00The Interview<p>"So, Daniel," the vampire mused, "Vot iss it you think you can offer me?"</p>
<p>I waited 'til he'd finished chuckling; I had little choice, limb-bound as I was to a huge candle-lit altar.</p>
<p>"Power," I said, prolonging his chuckling fit, "and all I ask is that you make me immortal."</p>
<p>"But, Daniel, I haff all the power I need. The night belongzz to me!"</p>
<p>"Yes, but what about the daytime?" I countered, trying to hide my desperation.</p>
<p>"Vot good iss that ven I could neffer reffel in that power?"</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3NtsquLjKLim6Wud4tQd0LPmmGOA0bIBu6knVc6uCZ6brEFrWzINDn9oduMMTKY-SQa_IYK8O_9KJ2dEUPisC4CDbfB0pIp__hcw5bTAGySDKb9x4p1ap7eVVLQuPrRc6JsvZS55dC08l27vk_NFChCyALMKsFSnzCRTzLS2tw-BsQnU13UMZVMk=s1280" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3NtsquLjKLim6Wud4tQd0LPmmGOA0bIBu6knVc6uCZ6brEFrWzINDn9oduMMTKY-SQa_IYK8O_9KJ2dEUPisC4CDbfB0pIp__hcw5bTAGySDKb9x4p1ap7eVVLQuPrRc6JsvZS55dC08l27vk_NFChCyALMKsFSnzCRTzLS2tw-BsQnU13UMZVMk=s320" width="320" /></a></div>He was toying with me.
<p>He wanted something; I'd be dead already if not. </p><p>I had to guess what, tested, like <strong>many</strong> probable others before me.
</p><p>"Safety, during daylight hours," I said, leveraging the longing in his last response.</p>
<p>"But my kingdom iss impregnable. A <i>'Reinfield'</i> on guard vud garner more ssusspicion than already existsss."</p>
<p>That was two clues; was he purposefully dropping hints?</p>
<p>"What if someone — me, for example — could vet your victims during the day: high flyers, influencers, the deserving?" I asked.</p>
<p>He smirked; I was getting warmer. "Go on…" he said, suddenly wistful.</p>
<p>"Your feasting would no longer be limited to society's dregs: the winos, druggies, the bereft and pitiful," I said. "I could deliver you a, well, richer diet."</p>
<p>"You'd betray your peerzz to me for immortality?" he asked, knowing I would. "You should be ashamed."</p>
<p>I shrugged, as much as my bonds would allow, and asked, "When do I start?"</p>
<p>My bonds snapped, seemingly of their own volition.</p>
<p>"You haff von veek'ss trial," he said, disappearing through an imperceptible doorway. All that remained to prove he'd been there was the echoing, "Shut the door after you."</p>
<p>I guess I was hired, then. Time to start a recruitment drive of my own!</p>
<p><b>/end</b></p>
<p>© Jason Darrell, 2022</p>
<p>Image: Waldkunst, <a href="https://pixabay.com/photos/vampire-horror-gothic-fantasy-4884919/" target="_blank" title="Vampire Horror Gothic - Free photo on Pixabay">Pixabay</a>
</p><hr />
<h2 id="secret-attic-weekly-write-brief"><b>The Brief</b></h2>
<p>Thanks for dropping by to read another of my bashes at <a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/search/label/flash%20fiction" title="Undead Voices | Category: Flash Fiction">flash fiction</a>.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<p><i>[Editor's note]</i>: this was my first submission to Secret Attic. Sadly, it failed the brief:</p>
<ol><li>I used more than one of the prompts;</li>
<li>I sent my submission a day late.</li></ol>
<p>This 300-word short story was in response to Secret Attic's call for their <a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/weekly-write.html" target="_blank" title="Weekly Write (incl. brief) | Secret Attic">Weekly Write competition</a> <em>(Week 47, 2021)</em>.</p>
<p>TL;DR:</p>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>choose one from one of three lines of dialogue:</li>
<li>use it exactly as per the prompt to create a piece of flash fiction;</li>
<li>300 words maximum;</li>
<li>winning/selected pieces may be published in the subsequent Secret Attic booklet;</li>
<li>unpublished works only.</li>
</ul>
<p>You can find some of my earlier more successful entries (flash and longer short stories) in Secret Attic booklets:</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-20" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #20">Issue #20</a> (5<sup>th</sup> November, 2021);</li>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-21" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #21">Issue #21</a> (10<sup>th</sup> January, 2022);</li>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-22" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #22">Issue #22</a> (10<sup>th</sup> January, 2022).</li>
</ul>
<p>Buying the booklets helps the site owners/judges (I am neither) maintain it, and provide a voice for indie authors that would otherwise go unheard.</p>
<p>Your support would be greatly appreciated. Thanks a million!</p>
<p><em>p.s.</em>Fancy using some of my flash fiction in an anthology? Drop me a line at jasond1888 [at] gmail [dot] com to discuss. Thank you.</p><p></p><p></p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5383059 -2.040864624.228072063821152 -37.1971146 80.84853973617885 33.1153854tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-82712173472706687002022-01-16T07:42:00.005-08:002022-01-19T04:21:16.329-08:00Effigious Torment<p>Jez and Carlotta were, technically, in the wilderness at Pine Bungalows, Jasper, Alberta. But with a golf course overlooking Beauvert Lake opposite, gentle hikes nearby and skiing at Marmot Basin, their three-month escape was hardly 'Bear Grylls.'</p>
<p>Today, though, it felt like they'd been here forever.</p>
<p>Six weeks into their stay, Jez had fished an eldritch, piebald sculpture from the depleted Athabasca River, near Horseshoe Lake. Ever since extracting it, someone had been murdered at that exact same time every week.</p>
<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8QzCKmmKbl2mLlxHfeOP1_d3T4IvoflFwQOOB6Nsw-Mpx5Mti6pJGa8PmB-TCgsQkS_oKSBbbabfYCy53Ak-6ao0EtMAh5mCZWjU2g_AY5Vc0mSSO08LZ_Uu0TKSzk2V1U4tSMd1QBbVeEnsVcw5hY3OLL7HTKKNO5VRJiSSKAwN76npq2nwcxbg=s1280" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="wabasso" border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8QzCKmmKbl2mLlxHfeOP1_d3T4IvoflFwQOOB6Nsw-Mpx5Mti6pJGa8PmB-TCgsQkS_oKSBbbabfYCy53Ak-6ao0EtMAh5mCZWjU2g_AY5Vc0mSSO08LZ_Uu0TKSzk2V1U4tSMd1QBbVeEnsVcw5hY3OLL7HTKKNO5VRJiSSKAwN76npq2nwcxbg=w320-h213" width="320" /></a></div><br />The first murder transpired almost six weeks ago, at Horseshoe Lake, some half hour's drive away.<p></p>
<p>The second was closer, inside the Wabasso Campground. </p><p>By the third murder, closer still at Valley of the Five Lakes, he and Carlotta could no longer shirk their connection.</p>
<p>Murders four and five followed like clockwork, at the Jasper Water Treatment Works and Planetarium respectively.</p>
<p>Their map clearly showed the killings' nearing proximity. Someone (or something) seemed hellbent on reclaiming the statuette, heedless of consequences.</p>
***
<p>They sat clock-watching in silence. In two hours, it would be the six-week anniversary…and another murder.</p>
<p>"What you gonna do?" Carlotta asked</p>
<p>"Dunno. Whadda yer think?" asked Jez, torn; the icon had wholly enraptured him.</p>
<p>"Throw it in the lake."</p>
<p>Brutal, hearing it aloud.</p>
<p>"Go now, you'll be back in an hour," she added; he sighed, resigned.</p>
***
<p>Jez made good time, laid the statue in the reeds, even WhatsApped photos as 'proof'. But he couldn't resist, capitulated, and hid it inside the car boot.</p>
<p>It wouldn't hurt; another week, they'd be home.</p>
<p>But when he arrived back, the cabin was a bloodbath; Carlotta's sundered cadaver plastered the walls, furniture, floors, everything.</p>
<p>Grief-stricken, he rushed outside to the car. The boot stood open, spare tyre shredded and the statue gone. There was no seventh murder.</p>
<p><b>/end</b></p>
<p>© Jason Darrell, 2022</p>
<p>Image: Fil.Al, CC BY 2.0 <https: by="" creativecommons.org="" licenses="">, via Wikimedia Commons: <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/50/Wabasso_%284620129005%29.jpg" target="_blank">Wabasso</a></https:></p>
<hr />
<h2><b>The Brief:</b></h2>
<p>Thanks for dropping by to read another of my bashes at <a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/search/label/flash%20fiction" title="Undead Voices | Category: Flash Fiction">flash fiction</a>.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<p>This 300-word short story was in response to Secret Attic's call for their <a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/weekly-write.html" target="_blank" title="Weekly Write (incl. brief) | Secret Attic">Weekly Write competition</a> <em>(Week 1, 2022)</em>.</p>
<p>TL;DR:</p>
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>choose one from one of three lines of dialogue:
<ul><li><em>for the above flash, mine was <strong>"Throw it in the lake."</strong></em>;</li></ul></li>
<li>use it exactly as per the prompt to create a piece of flash fiction;</li>
<li>300 words maximum;</li>
<li>winning/selected pieces may be published in the subsequent Secret Attic booklet;</li>
<li>unpublished works only.</li>
</ul>
<p>On this occasion, my entry (a lesser-edited version of the above) didn't make the cut, so I'm happily sharing it here.</p>
<p>You can find some of my earlier more successful entries (flash and longer short stories) in Secret Attic booklets:</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-20" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #20">Issue #20</a> (5<sup>th</sup> November, 2021);</li>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-21" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #21">Issue #21</a> (10<sup>th</sup> January, 2022);</li>
<li><a href="https://www.secret-attic.co.uk/secret-attic-booklets/issue-22" target="_blank" title="Secret Attic Booklet Issue #22">Issue #22</a> (10<sup>th</sup> January, 2022).</li>
</ul>
<p>Buying the booklets helps the site owners/judges (I am neither) maintain it, and provide a voice for indie authors that would otherwise go unheard.</p>
<p>Your support would be greatly appreciated. Thanks a million!</p>
<p><em>p.s.</em>Fancy using some of my flash fiction in an anthology? Drop me a line at jasond1888 [at] gmail [dot] com to discuss. Thank you.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5383059 -2.040864624.228072063821152 -37.1971146 80.84853973617885 33.1153854tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-15742715573796254292021-05-11T06:22:00.000-07:002021-05-11T06:22:33.376-07:00Body in the Fountain (Flash Fiction)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
<strong>Preston strained his eyes</strong> through the ninth-floor window; without his spectacles, it was a futile exercise. He could, at least, imagine <em>hearing</em> the tinkling trickle-spatter of the spouting, regurgitated ice-cold water.</p>
<p>
Moonlight flecked the dappled surface making it seem, from up here, as if the body in the pool was scouring the bottom for wished-upon pennies, a missing snorkel the only hint to the contrary.</p>
<p>
Still, that semblance of mobility unsettled Preston. Glasses. He must fetch his glasses.</p>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zj3lzzttcl5hMm3uQepbwB43nWan9q1ZorL-iByvNMtOE1sna_SjxAt4S6T6S3qZrXQxTY7HhmZzBZ7UxEpVggARACKSazM9NcJFN9odFQn13hs5ozMyX6w1CrIfUhdd1eKBLPFNJtk/s640/The+Body+in+the+Fountain+%2528unsplash%2529+640x480.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="spouting fountain at night" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4zj3lzzttcl5hMm3uQepbwB43nWan9q1ZorL-iByvNMtOE1sna_SjxAt4S6T6S3qZrXQxTY7HhmZzBZ7UxEpVggARACKSazM9NcJFN9odFQn13hs5ozMyX6w1CrIfUhdd1eKBLPFNJtk/s320/The+Body+in+the+Fountain+%2528unsplash%2529+640x480.jpg"/></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
He returned from the bathroom in haste, wiping the blood from the lenses with a scrunch of toilet paper.</p>
<p>
Now the scene below had edges, came into focus.</p>
<p>
For two minutes he watched, unblinking.</p>
<p>
The body remained face-down, its bloated clothing waxing and waning in the moonbeam-kissed ripples.</p>
<p>
The twin fountain heads were now, he noticed, spouting pink-tinged water, an oddly similar colour to that of the few remaining droplets on his lenses.</p>
<p>
No. The bell-ringer was dead.</p>
<p>
To be certain, Preston waited until 1a.m. Then a minute past, two, five.</p>
<p>
No, nothing; silence reigned. He sighed, and resumed undressing for bed.</p>
<p>
It was, <em>he pondered</em>, amazing the lengths to which a sleep-deprived man would go to get a decent night's sleep…</p>
</div>
<hr>
<h2>
Brief, c/o Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges</h2>
<p>
<strong>This week</strong>:<br>
Your character - from his high up window - sees a corpse floating in the famous Michgail fountain. Things are not what they seem.</p>
<p>
Fancy a punt? Awesome. Head on over to the <a href="" title="Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges Facebook Group" target="_blank">Authors of the Flash Fiction Writing Challenges Facebook Group</a> and join in! See you on the <em>outre</em> side.</p>
<hr>
<p>
Image courtesy of Eduardo Goody, <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/B4dZBCUb67I?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditShareLink" target="_blank">Unsplash</a>.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5383059 -2.040864624.228072063821152 -37.1971146 80.84853973617885 33.1153854tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-64854657825801777222021-01-10T04:20:00.000-08:002021-01-10T04:20:19.945-08:00The Silk Thief, Claire Buss: Cover Reveal and Preorder!<strong>The Silk Thief</strong> <em>(The Roshaven Series Book 2)</em></p>
<p>
**COVER REVEAL & PRE-ORDER LIVE**</p>
<p>
<strong>The Silk Thief</strong>, releasing <strong>4<sup>th</sup> June, 2021</strong>, is the second quirky magical mystery adventure set in <em>the Roshaven series</em> of humorous fantasy novels.</p>
<p>
If you like the wit and humour of Terry Pratchett's <em>Discworld</em>, then you'll love <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08RXD2646?geniuslink=true" title="The Silk Thief | Amazon" target="_blank">The Silk Thief</a>.</p>
<p>
</p>
<h2>
The Silk Thief, The Blurb:</h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1eI7FfpRQu_4EpQHbEd1Ncd1o43YpnPdMPM7m1zq13RAEMOwgpIyQvDGciz0Hhk2dGPIu_ujT2NooZie0M2iu5NKqnzq8eUu3ue2vFlttREzo8n_fRQ2Gx3lNNnNnFn4-Z2bGVgNKSY/s2048/The+Silk+Thief+-+front+only.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="The Silk Thief, Claire Buss, front cover" border="1" height="320" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR1eI7FfpRQu_4EpQHbEd1Ncd1o43YpnPdMPM7m1zq13RAEMOwgpIyQvDGciz0Hhk2dGPIu_ujT2NooZie0M2iu5NKqnzq8eUu3ue2vFlttREzo8n_fRQ2Gx3lNNnNnFn4-Z2bGVgNKSY/s320/The+Silk+Thief+-+front+only.jpg"/></a></div><p>
<i>Fourteen</i>, heir to the Empire of Roshaven, must find herself a new name before Theo, Lord of neighbouring Fidelia, brings his schemes to fruition.</p>
<p>
Not only has he stolen Roshaven's trade, but he plans to make <em>Fourteen</em> his own and take her empire in the bargain.</p>
<p>
Her protector, Ned Spinks, is plagued with supernatural nightmares whilst his assistant, Jenni the sprite, has lost her magick.</p>
<p>
Can they figure out how to thwart Theo's dastardly plan before it's too late for his city and her empire?</p>
<p>
<strong>PRE-ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY</strong>: <a href="https://mybook.to/SilkThief" title="The Silk Thief | Amazon" target="_blank">mybook.to/SilkThief</a>.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<h2>
<strong>More about the Roshaven books</strong></h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaSRvatsrrvQtTP7PTKaaVCJ-Fyt2aTGn3c8Pc19c-hgzFHGFwXR2TS4mt-qm-4wmvzH-r7Ze0TtPzwaXgXEWCl1D_Qd6gyrn9D1h-hrLKl_LYg13pgcY27CL9JGVfbCaIRNIAFAaRPgs/s2048/The+Rose+Thief+cover.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="The Rose Thief, Claire Buss, front cover" border="1" height="200" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaSRvatsrrvQtTP7PTKaaVCJ-Fyt2aTGn3c8Pc19c-hgzFHGFwXR2TS4mt-qm-4wmvzH-r7Ze0TtPzwaXgXEWCl1D_Qd6gyrn9D1h-hrLKl_LYg13pgcY27CL9JGVfbCaIRNIAFAaRPgs/s200/The+Rose+Thief+cover.jpg"/></a></div><p>
<em>The Rose Thief, The Roshaven Series book 1</em></p>
<p>
Someone is stealing the Emperor's roses and if they take the magical red rose then love will be lost, to everyone, forever.</p>
<p>
It's up to Ned Spinks, Chief Thief Catcher, and his band of motley catchers to apprehend the thief and save the day.</p>
<p>
But the thief isn't exactly who they seem to be. Neither is the Emperor.</p>
<p>
Ned and his team will have to go on a quest; defeating vampire mermaids, illusionists, estranged family members and an evil sorcerer in order to win the day. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
<p>
Available in paperback and ebook everywhere: <a href="https://books2read.com/u/bQaxw6" title="The Rose Thief, The Roshaven Series book 1" target="_blank">The Rose Thief</a>.</p>
<h2>
<strong>The Interspecies Poker Tournament</strong>, Prequel Novella to The Rose Thief</h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlOO7SVsGKp3ilZ5SD_be2A1KfghNJNGw8ooGC7JAYz2hnoLVTDnQkMyTGtN2ar0t_raL9J4XYBU6OUljWHRf9H2WD2etHEBojFY6-orA-m6oYd0ipIVCk78ZZNANTykBoBr5DnDQaAQ/s2048/The+IPT+cover.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="The Interspecies Poker Tournament, Claire Buss, front cover" border="1" height="200" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1359" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzlOO7SVsGKp3ilZ5SD_be2A1KfghNJNGw8ooGC7JAYz2hnoLVTDnQkMyTGtN2ar0t_raL9J4XYBU6OUljWHRf9H2WD2etHEBojFY6-orA-m6oYd0ipIVCk78ZZNANTykBoBr5DnDQaAQ/s200/The+IPT+cover.jpg"/></a></div><p>
Ned Spinks, Chief Thief-Catcher, has a new case: a murderous moustache-wearing cult is killing off members of Roshaven's fae community.</p>
<p>
At least that's what he's been led to believe by his not-so-trusty sidekick, Jenni the sprite.</p>
<p>
She has information she's <strong>not</strong> sharing but plans to get her boss into the Interspecies Poker Tournament so he can catch the bad guy and save the day.</p>
<p>
If only Ned knew how to play…</p>
<p>
Available in paperback and ebook everywhere: <a href="https://books2read.com/u/m2Vk0R" title="The Interspecies Poker Tournament" target="_blank">The Interspecies Poker Tournament</a>.</p>
<h2>
<strong>Ye Olde Magick Shoppe</strong>, a Roshaven short story</h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1D3ffsNtZjIU1waq0MX84qBXJf_5aStOWfxuFuhbgDOh1M5uQnnKSjRArF87KcywBBUOhXP1JtWDZkYHmb66rt1gfaaggI-j2IRIsu29dMrXKN54-kxqvwXdjw4g0X-IViEqr1RHYdQ/s2048/Ye+Olde+Magick+Shoppe.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="Ye Olde Magick Shoppe, Claire Buss, front cover" border="0" height="200" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc1D3ffsNtZjIU1waq0MX84qBXJf_5aStOWfxuFuhbgDOh1M5uQnnKSjRArF87KcywBBUOhXP1JtWDZkYHmb66rt1gfaaggI-j2IRIsu29dMrXKN54-kxqvwXdjw4g0X-IViEqr1RHYdQ/s200/Ye+Olde+Magick+Shoppe.jpg"/></a></div><p>
Join Ned Spinks, Chief Thief-Catcher, and his sidekick Jenni the sprite in this short story about an unwanted magick shoppe.</p>
<p>
This free short story is available in ebook everywhere: <a href="https://books2read.com/u/4XXPw1" title="Ye Olde Magick Shoppe" target="_blank">Ye Olde Magick Shoppe</a>.</p>
<h3>
What Readers Say</h3>
<p>
<em>"Loved the quirky banter!"</em></p>
<p>
<strong>"Entirely delightful and captivating."</strong></p>
<p>
<em>"A wonderful tribute to the Late Great Sir Terry."</em></p>
<p>
<strong>"If you are a fan of the discworld you will love this book."</strong></p>
<p>
<em>"A hilariously thrilling fantasy mystery."</em></p>
<h3>
About the Author</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNCGvpnOI1ma_TafLeAd61kQzIeSIBTZ9XyPn_lUh8-s-YCQZB3iLhC1Qn517aANvykIR9hNA4AQHxCOCAn14RfbMFjohLnco4lSRyjBaUYlwOfC2U7d5hu6f81oTWTV55A4v76ySJX0/s717/Author+Pic_sq.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="Claire Buss, author" border="1" width="300" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="717" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNCGvpnOI1ma_TafLeAd61kQzIeSIBTZ9XyPn_lUh8-s-YCQZB3iLhC1Qn517aANvykIR9hNA4AQHxCOCAn14RfbMFjohLnco4lSRyjBaUYlwOfC2U7d5hu6f81oTWTV55A4v76ySJX0/s320/Author+Pic_sq.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>
<strong>Claire Buss</strong> is a multi-genre author and poet based in the UK.</p>
<p>
She wanted to be Lois Lane when she grew up <em>[ed. didn't we all?!]</em>, but work experience at her local paper was eye-opening.</p>
<p>
Instead, Claire went on to work in a variety of admin roles for over a decade but never felt quite at home.</p>
<p>
An avid reader, baker and <a href="https://www.pinterest.co.uk/clairebuss/" title="Claire Buss | Pinterest" target="_blank">Pinterest addict</a>, Claire won second place in the Barking and Dagenham Pen to Print writing competition in 2015 with her debut novel, The Gaia Effect <em>[ed. now</em> <a href="https://amzn.to/3sbBlej" title="The Gaia Collection (Books 1-3): Amazon.co.uk" target="_blank"><em>a trilogy</em></a>], setting her writing career in motion.</p>
<p>
She continues to write passionately and is hopelessly addicted to cake. <em>[ed. again, aren't we all?!]</em></p>
<p>
Can't wait until 4<sup>th</sup> June? Why not subscribe Claire's newsletter and get <em>"The Blue Serpent & other tales"</em> for <strong>free</strong>! » <a href="http://eepurl.com/c93M2L" title="Claire Buss newsletter sign-up" target="_blank">Claire Buss newsletter: <strong>sign-up</strong></a>!</p>
<p>
Social Media Links:</p>
<ul>
<li><strong>Facebook Profile</strong>: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/busswriter" title="Claire Buss | Facebook" target="_blank">facebook.com/busswriter</a>;</li>
<li><strong>Facebook Group</strong>: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/BussBookStop" title="Buss's Book Stop | Facebook Group" target="_blank">facebook.com/groups/BussBookStop</a>;</li>
<li><strong>Twitter</strong>: <a href="https://www.twitter.com/grasshopper2407" title="Claire Buss | Twitter" target="_blank">twitter.com/grasshopper2407</a>;</li>
<li><strong>Instagram</strong>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/grasshopper2407" title="Claire Buss | Instagram" target="_blank">instagram.com/grasshopper2407</a>;</li>
<li><strong>Website</strong>: <a href="https://www.clairebuss.co.uk" title="Claire Buss | Sci-Fi & Fantasy Author" target="_blank">clairebuss.co.uk</a>;</li>
<li><strong>Blog</strong>: <a href="https://www.butidontlikesalad.blogspot.co.uk" title="But I Don't Like Salad | Blogspot" target="_blank">butidontlikesalad.blogspot.co.uk</a>.</li>
</ul>
Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-43743291796173569292021-01-08T03:34:00.000-08:002021-01-08T03:39:16.642-08:00Awakening Satellite<p>
The launch of the first organic satellite ignited mania and chaos in Japan.</p>
<p>
Daiki and Sora, the pilots of the reconnaissance starship that would transport the wooden transmitter into orbit, had become as famous as their country's popstars.</p>
<p>
Now, it was just them, their third day orbiting Earth, awaiting confirmation from Ground Control to jettison the satellite.</p>
<p>
<em>"Is that static, Sora?"</em> Daiki asked, suddenly twiddling his earpiece.</p>
<p>
She shrugged, then transmitted, <em>"Can you hear me, Ground Control?"</em></p>
<p>
<em>"A OK, Sky 1!"</em> they responded, crystal clear.</p>
<p>
Without warning, the starship shook to its rivets; the pilots looked at each other, then at the external cameras. What had hit them?</p>
<p>
One screen showed a crumpled bay door, but dented from the inside!</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQiVAtdfB92ppB7TSOJp4lyINeYuXSA7Z-wQ-pEetw7sYoTPGX4mYjkzoktabVAXdh52jA_iLVZBIBmdR7i7LzIgzfjo5hcy85DXaHVfdxJK4z1G9ncEgEJ4xjsCLuV_nOyK2LN-8uvc/s695/Wooden+Satellite.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="695" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQiVAtdfB92ppB7TSOJp4lyINeYuXSA7Z-wQ-pEetw7sYoTPGX4mYjkzoktabVAXdh52jA_iLVZBIBmdR7i7LzIgzfjo5hcy85DXaHVfdxJK4z1G9ncEgEJ4xjsCLuV_nOyK2LN-8uvc/s200/Wooden+Satellite.jpg"/></a></div> That buzzing grew louder, the bay doors buckled completely and the satellite flew free, chaperoned by hosts of humongous hornets.
<p>
Looping branches, like vines, whipped through space as the satellite morphed, growing boles as big as sandpits from which giant hornets poured like a golden river.</p>
<p>
A seemingly sentient sapling slithered towards them, encircling the nosecone, dragging the starship towards the satellite's burgeoning mass.</p>
<p>
Free of gravity, these ancient creatures had realised their true capacities, and needed fuel for reentry!</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<p>
You can find the catalyst for this piece in <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2998485790378571/" title="Thursday Writing Activity (07/01/2021)" target="_blank">the Facebook Scifi Roundtable</a>.</p>
<h2>
Thursday Writing Activity</h2>
<p>
Write a flash fiction about this piece and let us see how you use it as story fuel!</p>
<ol>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-55463366" title="BBC | Japan developing wooden satellites to cut space junk" target="_blank">[this] article</a>;</li>
<li>200 words is the limit. <ul>
<li>If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files.</li>
</ul> </li>
</ol>
<blockquote cite="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/business-55463366">
<p>
<em>A Japanese company and Kyoto University have joined forces to develop what they hope will be the world's first satellites made out of wood by 2023.</em></p>
<p>
<em>Sumitomo Forestry said it has started research on tree growth and the use of wood materials in space.</em></p>
<p>
<em>The partnership will begin experimenting with different types of wood in extreme environments on Earth.</em></p></blockquote>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-53131598869657092122021-01-06T05:38:00.001-08:002021-01-06T08:33:55.412-08:00Sudden Breakthrough<p>
Cathy was next to challenge Ganglian, the shrouded entity stealthily poisoning Earth since its arrival.</p>
<p>
Cathy'd not chosen this; her astounding TechSpec results had ultimately, unwittingly betrayed her.</p>
<p>
She entered her pod, goodbyes addressed, will utterly defeated.</p>
<p>
The pearlescent capsule would undoubtedly become her coffin, as had thousands of pods for Challengers beforehand. None had ever returned.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQm3EiYsh1UDKaWO96UhqSO43B66PqDW2xFui9qZP30VFKaa3i3Cr_enKezfQoNT0iBYQx_GypGMpG7IhofC-xhrZIn_ZD8dp1P4nBKIJgOQKuzbHtPqTV51h_zfTSgOfsRCsXCtniY_k/s950/octopi_green.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="950" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQm3EiYsh1UDKaWO96UhqSO43B66PqDW2xFui9qZP30VFKaa3i3Cr_enKezfQoNT0iBYQx_GypGMpG7IhofC-xhrZIn_ZD8dp1P4nBKIJgOQKuzbHtPqTV51h_zfTSgOfsRCsXCtniY_k/w200-h148/octopi_green.jpg" width="200" /></a></div> One door sealed behind her, its opposing number opening, revealing the hereto unseen Ganglian.
<p>
Glistening green skin, writhing tentacles, azure pustules, slate eyes: <em>She</em> was beautiful!</p>
<p>
Bewildered, Ganglian processed Cathy's reaction: <strong>love</strong>?</p>
<p>
Slowly, <em>She</em> melted into Cathy's arms, whence <em>She</em> died, finally happy.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<p>
<strong>Spec and source</strong>: Sci-Fi Roundtable, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2996728343887649/" target="_blank" title="Sci-Fi Roundtable 'Best Bits' (6th Jan, 2021)">"Best Bits" (6<sup>th</sup> Jan, 2021)</a>.</p>
<h2>Best Bits!</h2>
<p>
This week the theme is: "<strong><em>Sudden Breakthrough</em></strong>".</p>
<ol>
<li>Post a piece of your writing that is about this theme;</li>
<li>No more than 100 words:
<ul>
<li>(10% absolute margin allowed - <strong>110 words</strong>);</li>
<li><em>nb</em>: Please don't put me in the place of having to choose whether to edit or not include your entry;</li>
<li>Please always DOUBLE CHECK the word length!</li>
</ul></li>
<li>Only ONE entry per person.</li>
<li>The poll will be posted on Sunday.</li>
<li>The winner will be announced on Monday and, aside the kudos of peer approval, will get to choose the theme for the next round.</li>
</ol>
Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-5816462519485855792021-01-01T05:02:00.002-08:002021-01-06T08:33:42.659-08:00Web-chat willies<p>
Government had commandeered all clinics and surgeries to fight the ever-mutating virus.</p>
<p>
After many iterations, the virus became so virile it, ironically, overran the clinics.</p>
<p>
Medical services became stretched, displaced, overwrought.</p>
<p>
Phone appointments touched only the tips of icebergs, before melting down altogether.</p>
<p>
Zoom had limited uses: fine for the young, but eldery patients missing appointments rocketed to critical levels, becoming unofficial virus victims.</p>
<p>
The breakthrough came when Government granted (and paid for) NHS 3-D printing patents. With USB plug-in compatability, treatment became tangible again, albeit indirectly.</p>
<p>
That was when Paolo decided he'd be safe taking the sperm test. He and Maria had tried (and tried) until the bed had collapsed, but no bambino for their efforts.</p>
<p>
***</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyai5ASjMcFY7p5haexrOBxuZ0HAjd7TrzNOXpjJxgfrMjIplHPf6al0-DzSnWsty3jtGInH-PceDWvIogQZltfxDgPpw46UF_rxDVa7f0fk6jzBYtorzeB_XzpyGSfwIRE9vRd6fy0uQ/s571/SPERM_DONATION_01_IN-FOCUS-1212+sq.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="571" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyai5ASjMcFY7p5haexrOBxuZ0HAjd7TrzNOXpjJxgfrMjIplHPf6al0-DzSnWsty3jtGInH-PceDWvIogQZltfxDgPpw46UF_rxDVa7f0fk6jzBYtorzeB_XzpyGSfwIRE9vRd6fy0uQ/s200/SPERM_DONATION_01_IN-FOCUS-1212+sq.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
His parcel soon came, printer and all. The only instructions:<br />
<ul>
<li>connect to wifi;</li>
<li>insert disc;</li>
<li>follow on-screen instructions.</li>
</ul>
<p>
Eventually, everything was set up, printer whirring, sensors on. Paolo readied himself for the next prompt.</p>
<p>
» Approach screen wearing loose underwear</p>
<p>
"OK," he thought, so, did.</p>
<p>
Bad move. Tears welled in his eyes as printed suction cups instantaneously sought, suckered, shook and sucked his genitals.</p>
<p>
Through bleary eyes he read the parting message: <strong>The NHS: we're coming for you!</strong></p>
<p>
If only?!?!</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<p>
This piece of flash fiction was inspired by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2992407844319699/" title="Thursday Writing Activity | 31st Dec, 2020">this writing prompt in the Sci-Fi Roundtable Facebook group:</a></p>
<h2>Thursday Writing Activity</h2>
<p>
Write a flash fiction about this piece and let us see how you use it as story fuel!</p>
<ol>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by the article.</li>
<li>200 words is the limit.<ul>
<li>If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files.</li>
</ul>
</li>
</ol>
<blockquote cite="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-55173270">
<p>
<em>People in video meetings will, in future, be able to feel their hands being shaken and smell coffee in their virtual space, the founder and CEO of Zoom has predicted.</em></p>
<p>
<em>Eric Yuan was speaking at the Web Summit tech conference.</em></p>
<p>
<em>Mr Yuan said he believed artificial intelligence would bring a physical aspect to virtual meetings.</em></p>
</blockquote>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-28762026471264892452020-12-30T10:20:00.007-08:002021-01-06T08:33:29.739-08:00Perveen's Wedding<p>
<strong>The undead twins</strong>, Amelia and Marie, today bridesmaids, monotonously brushed Perveen, the vampire queen's raven locks.</p>
<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyonPNTNOnye97T7JRJMOGJ6bVHdBrhB0lo64qF_2E7PiDf9J1q2F4aVbS5iXIE9gDtMH44Vp1FT4v3bBPIQY72wet2g1VBf4Zokgp04ZNgezO-uP_dtzM7gMLCD1fwOqTY3HvXLf9LTE/s505/French+Louis+Philippe+Dressing+Table.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="505" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyonPNTNOnye97T7JRJMOGJ6bVHdBrhB0lo64qF_2E7PiDf9J1q2F4aVbS5iXIE9gDtMH44Vp1FT4v3bBPIQY72wet2g1VBf4Zokgp04ZNgezO-uP_dtzM7gMLCD1fwOqTY3HvXLf9LTE/s200/French+Louis+Philippe+Dressing+Table.png"/></a></div>
The Louis XIV dresser's mirrors reflected only the brushes, discharging blue-white static lightning into the fraught atmosphere.</p>
<p>
"It's my wedding and I can't even see myself!" screamed Perveen.</p>
<p>
"Yet you two, my hand-maidens, need only look at each other to realise your eternal beauty! Not any more!"</p>
<p>
Impossibly quick, Perveen swivelled, scything Marie's oesophagus with her black talons.</p>
<p>
Unapologetically, Perveen stomped from the boudoir, as Amelia dropped to her dying twin's side, lapping up the overspill of the queen's tantrum.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr>
This week's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2991125087781308/" target="_blank">Sci-Fi Roundtable's "Best Bits"</a> called for "Outrage" as the theme:
<blockquote cite="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2991125087781308/">
This week the theme is: <strong>"Outrage"</strong>:
<ol>
<li>Post a piece of your writing that is about this theme;</li>
<li>No more than 100 words (10% absolute margin allowed - 110 words). .
<ul>
<li><em>NB:</em> Please don't put me in the place of having to choose whether to edit or not include your entry;</li>
<li>Please always DOUBLE CHECK the word length!</li></ul></li>
<li>Only ONE entry per person;</li>
<li>The poll will be posted on Sunday;</li>
<li>The winner will be announced on Monday and, aside the kudos of peer approval, will get to choose the theme for the next round.</li>
</ol></blockquote>
<p>
As it happens, there was just such a chapter in Billy Came, <a href="http://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/06/billy-came-11.html" title="11.a, The Bridal Party">Ch 11 a., The Bridal Party</a> that provided the perfect template. Enjoy!</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-6120072450020469232020-12-19T15:57:00.002-08:002021-01-06T08:33:09.493-08:00Enough<p>
"I cannae give her any more, Cap'n. She'll blow!"</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqQwPF1kGJm1m6De75v_ELaxZTUfa__aNwAY_1aNuNaXBZb1YHacTxZXvIO4m_eOaoLT4Q_gE223brsG7SMb_PnOXD4Zf2DwIUxKx0bqzp4K4uy7R7E4ap3YNLEKctnhcpqwW_I9C6D0/s1920/City+scape%252C+Kathmandu%252C+Nepal_by+v2osk+%255Bunsplash%255D.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: right;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1920" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUqQwPF1kGJm1m6De75v_ELaxZTUfa__aNwAY_1aNuNaXBZb1YHacTxZXvIO4m_eOaoLT4Q_gE223brsG7SMb_PnOXD4Zf2DwIUxKx0bqzp4K4uy7R7E4ap3YNLEKctnhcpqwW_I9C6D0/w302-h202/City+scape%252C+Kathmandu%252C+Nepal_by+v2osk+%255Bunsplash%255D.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>"Enough with the Scotty impressions, Frank. What <em>will</em> get this ship off Earth before the planet's landmass sinks forever!??"
<p>
"You won't like it, Cap'n!"</p>
<p>
"Go on. Hit me."</p>
<p>
"Dilithium crystal."</p>
<p>
<em>The Cap'n turned aside, bashing his fist into his open palm. Having only one arm, that was</em> some <em>feat.</em></p>
<p>
"If <strong>only</strong> we'd made the link between diamonds and Dilithium sooner! But the diamonds are all mined, blinging the necks, ears and fingers of the elite!"</p>
<p>
"A pearl necklace is what I'd give 'em…"</p>
<p>
"Enough smut, Frank. Seriously, man: <b>focus</b>!"</p>
<p>
"Say we jettison half the passengers, Cap'n? We'd break through, then."</p>
<p>
"Mm, interesting; but which half? The masters, or their servants?"</p>
<p>
"The masters, Cap'n!"</p>
<p>
"How so, Frank?"</p>
<p>
"Well, can you see them foregoing their diamonds, although owning them's illegal, nowadays?"</p>
<p>
"I doubt it…"</p>
<p>
"Exactly. We'd make the Asteroid Belt on the Dilithium already salvaged. We could hole up there until Earth absorbs their diamonds to repair itself!"</p>
<p>
"Marvellous idea, Frank!"</p>
<p>
<em>Cap'n Skyped the bosun, relaying the orders. Three hours later, erstwhile load lightened, <strong>the ship broke through!</strong></em></p>
<p>
"Does it feel better now you've got your rocks off, Cap'n?"</p>
<p>
"Enough smut, Frank…enough…"</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<p>Thursday's prompt from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2982052012021949/?comment_id=2983889058504911" target="_blank" title="Thursday Writing Activity">the Sci-fi Roundtable</a>, the catalyst for the above 200-word sci-fi flash comedy (of errors):</p>
<p>
Write a flash fiction about <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-55239668?fbclid=IwAR21BQUCo8J5lh8V31XDmtNeChZqMnZfLA-KsS1bQiZaBZhOOV68T5c3Vbg" target="_blank" title="Human-made objects to outweigh living things | BBC News">this piece</a> and let us see how you use it as story fuel:</p>
<ol>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by the article;</li>
<li>200 words is the limit;<ul>
<li>If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files:</li>
</ul></li>
</ol>
<p></p>
<blockquote href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-55239668?fbclid=IwAR21BQUCo8J5lh8V31XDmtNeChZqMnZfLA-KsS1bQiZaBZhOOV68T5c3Vbg" title="Human-made objects to outweigh living things | BBC News">
<p><em>"Scientists say the weight of human-made objects will likely exceed that of living things by the end of the year.</em></p>
<p><em>"In other words, the combined weight of all the plastic, bricks, concrete and other things we've made in the world will outweigh all animals and plants on the planet for the first time.</em></p>
<p><em>"The estimated weight of human-made objects is about one teratonne.</em></p>
<p><em>"For every person in the world, more than their body weight in stuff is now being produced each week."</em></p></blockquote>
<hr>
<em>Image:</em> <a href="https://unsplash.com/photos/b3B4kKBjPyk" title="City Scape , Kathmandu , Nepal" target="_blank">v2osk on Unsplash</a>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-31347476713428350042020-11-14T14:03:00.001-08:002021-01-06T08:32:49.611-08:00The Splayed Thumb: a True Ghost Story<p>
February 1st, 1988. My first proper job, secured in the traditional manner:</p>
<ul>
<li>advert in the 'wanted' column of the Express & Star,</li>
<li>a hand-typed CV, posted,</li>
<li>an interview in person,</li>
<li>and a letter in the post confirming I'd landed the role:
<ul>
<li>(junior sales clerk at a builders' merchant in Wolverhampton);</li>
</ul></li>
<li>all followed by a mad dash to get 'suitable' work clothes (no 60s modernist flamboyance, here <em>by order of the mother</em>), and</li>
<li>a bus pass (so that if I spent all my wages on booze and fags—or wasted it—I could still get to work <em>[again, by order of the mother]</em>).</li>
</ul>
<a name='more'></a>
<p>
Like every job I've held since, I discovered that cliques didn't contain themselves to school playgrounds or subcultures. In no particular order of venomous secrecy, flocks of gossipers formed within the:</p>
<ul>
<li>Trade Counter staff (a department I'd eventually—and regretably—supervise);</li>
<li>drivers, one of whom's wife was the cleaner, Olga;</li>
<li>office staff (wherein I, on £55/week aged 17, thought I was King Midas):
<ul>
<li>with its own less defined. but nonetheless present cliques:
<ul>
<li>accounts;</li>
<li>light side sales;</li>
<li>heavy side sales;</li>
<li>de management;</li>
<li>and us trainees/bottom-feeders.</li>
</ul></li>
</ul></li>
<li>yard staff, similarly defined:
<ul>
<li>heavy side (brick, blocks, plaster), and</li>
<li>light side (bathrooms, kitchens, plumbing, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da).</li>
</ul></li>
</ul>
<p>
As part of my learning curve/training/lackey duties, I spent time learning the ropes in every single department. This often included getting the orders for and fetching the sandwiches every morning, the gaffer's 20 Rothmans and wearing my own path to and from the coffee machine.</p>
<p>
It was during this tour of duty that I began to get to know Fred (or so I thought).</p>
<h2>
Meet Fred: he of the eponymous digit</h2>
<p>
Fred (surname Reader) was an amenable old fella, and something of a dying breed, even back then. He was well beyond retirement age, had been there for an eternity and showed no sign of hanging up his chocolate brown uniform just yet.</p>
<p>
He was also something of an enigma; most people offered him genuine and well-earned respect, especially the customers. But he proved a source of consternation to any of our staff whose heart wasn't as committed to the job as his.</p>
<p>
There were also those who wondered why Derek, the branch manager, tolerated his ofttimes festidious or, paradoxically, rule-circumnavigating ways of getting things done.</p>
<p>
Perhaps Derek was so lenient because nothing phased Fred; nothing or no one was going to change his erratic nature, not after so long. For an old fella, he could lift unbelievable loads, hardly ever stopped between jobs and possessed stamina that his squat, square frame belied.</p>
<p>
In a swarm of chocolate brown uniforms, you could always pick out Fred by his inveterate sky blue woollen docker hat (exactly like the one worn by my Action Man 'Commando', which, at the time, was wrapped up for prosperity with my 'army' of Action Men in the pebble-dashed shed at home).</p>
<p>
If, on the rare occasion, his hat was not squeezed tight over his whitening, thinning bonce, you could always tell him ambling across the yard by his awkward gait: not exactly a limp, more of a roll of the left hip that agitated his entire upper body exaggeratedly.</p>
<p>
As I inferred earlier, he'd been at the builders' merchant from the start (Fred, not my Commando Action Man). Since old man Walter Tipper had incorporated the eponymous business (nowadays, just <em>"Tipper's"</em>) on the outskirts of the city (then only a town), there'd been a Fred.</p>
<p>
Before that, Fred had been in the navy (hence, I guess, the ever-present docker hat and resemblance to Commando Action Man). In true services-instilled fashion, he'd memorised practically every item we sold by its code number.</p>
<p>
For the stock for which he was responsible (and some he wasn't), he didn't need stock sheets. At any given time, he knew:</p>
<ul>
<li>how many rolls of lead we had, and in what gauges;</li>
<li>how many lengths of downpipe we had, in what lengths and which colours;</li>
<li>what stock we needed reordering from Osma (from the hundreds of items we carried) even before John, the rep, turned up every week;</li>
<li>every location of kitchen or sanitaryware in the light side warehouse.</li>
</ul>
<h2>
Dutch kitchens, beer and a fortitous introduction</h2>
<p>
More fascinating—to me as a naive 17-year old, anyway—than his encyclopaedic knowledge of our stock profile was Fred's splayed thumb. I'd never seen anything like it. But, with typical Brit stoicism, I daren't ask him about it, although I was both dying to and often found myself obliviously staring at it.</p>
<p>
From the knuckle beyond the metacarpal (the middle one) on his left thumb, two individual thumbs protruded at 45° to each other, complete with their own first and second phalanxes and thumbnails.</p>
<p>
I once mentioned Fred's thumb to Keith, the warehouse manager (who I eventually went to work alongside in sales at rival merchant, Carvers). He'd never asked Fred about it and, from those who'd been there longer, suspected that Fred never spoke about it. So, with much tongue-biting and sheer willpower, I let it consciously slide.</p>
<p>
One evening, while Keith was on holiday and I was looking after his warehouse, a Dutch lorry arrived with an artic. full of bespoke kitchen units and appliances. In his broken English, he demanded we unload him there and then, otherwise he was off to the next port of call on his 'run'.</p>
<p>
I was stumped - one half of his lorry was full of assembled kitchen units and appliances. It would take an hour with two people unloading, and I was Home Alone.</p>
<p>
And it wasn't only the kitchens that would head off up the M6 with him. This was a regular driver (which was probably why he turned up at 5 pm expecting to be unloaded by the vacationing Keith). Smuggled in in the kitchen units on his trailer were crates of an, at the time, uncharted Dutch beer in the UK, Grolsch.</p>
<p>
Those ceramic pop-top bottles? They would fascinate me almost as much as Fred's thumb.</p>
<p>
But at that moment and on the spot? I was at a loss. Tipper's always closed at 5:30 on the dot, the trade counter, yard and warehouses 30 minutes earlier so that the day's receipts could be totted up, ready for invoicing the next morning. What was I to do with this delivery load?</p>
<p>
I went to Fred, told him the score and he, in turn, took me to Derek, the branch manager. He told us to get it unloaded and he'd pay us two hours overtime (then, unheard of). So Fred and I unloaded the kitchens, paid for the crates of Grolsch (and made a tidy profit on them thereafter), and were done by 6:15 pm. Happy days.</p>
<h2>
The story of the thumb</h2>
<p>
Back then, I lived in Portobello, WV13. Fred just on the other side of Willenhall (from Wolverhampton) in Short Heath. Conscious of the lateness of the hour and inconsistencies of public transport, Fred offered me a lift to Portobello island. I gratefully accepted.</p>
<p>
It's impossible to ignore a splayed thumb when it's sat at the ten of the ten-to-two posture on a steering wheel, especially when you're stuck in the passenger seat in rush-hour traffic on the A454. Fred noticed me looking (and looking away, pretending to stare at something imagined out the Honda Civic passenger side window) and began to chuckle.</p>
<p>
This wasn't the reaction I'd expected. Without prompting, he began to tell me how he'd got it.</p>
<p>
Whilst loading a torpedo on a destroyer <em>'during the war'</em>, the shell had slid back along its channel as the boat hit a huge wave. Fred instinctively put his hand in the way to stop it connecting with something hard (and, possibly, blowing everyone below deck to smithereens).</p>
<p>
From the knuckle up, the shell split Fred's thumb in twain, literally split the bone down the middle. His thumb mended, but, thereafter, was splayed in a V shape from the middle knuckle up.</p>
<h2>
A solid bond</h2>
<p>
After that conversation, and stopping behind to unload that lorry, Fred and I clicked. Many a night thereafter he'd hang around a little longer to give me a lift home. On those journeys, we'd talk about anything, everything. And, somehow and at some point, Fred divulged his only dream: to own a BMW.</p>
<p>
At work, he became more of a mentor than the managers in the office, to whom I reported directly. As much as I loved my sales role, both contract sales and in the showroom, I was secretly elated when I had to take over either Keith's or Fred's roles when they were on holiday.</p>
<p>
It was by working so closely with them that I'd learned enough to take over the running of the Trade counter (aged only 18) after both the supervisor and assistant supervisor left within a month one another after both having worked together for years.</p>
<p>
Keith also had more about him than managing a warehouse. He moved into sales at a small 'light side' merchant, before moving into sales at Walter Tipper's main rival, Carvers.</p>
<p>
When another job came up at Carver's (and, coincidentally, as Walsall college informed Derek of my less-than-100% attendance at the company-sponsored B-Tech in business studies), Keith called to ask if I'd be interested. I jumped at the chance, had a 5-minute interview and took the job. I hardly saw anyone from Tipper's again.</p>
<h2>
The world moves on…</h2>
<p>
The Carvers thing didn't last long. Most of the sales team came from posher parts of Wolverhampton (yes, they do exist). I didn't fit in, and it showed.</p>
<p>
I moved on, eventually finding myself working in a factory on the Willenhall/Wednesfield border. The walk home, 1.8 miles that made a cross-section across the A454, was a killer in winter, but beautiful in the summer (especially as it passed The Neachells at the junction with said A-road).</p>
<p>
It was one late summer evening that I saw Fred again, probably five years after I left Tipper's. I'd just crossed the zebra crossing on the A454 Willenhall Road/Moseley Road junction. Driving towards me (from Portobello island towards Wolverhampton), was a brown 3-series BMW.</p>
<p>
What do you know? Behind the wheel: Fred!</p>
<p>
The setting sun was sinking towards the horizon (and behind The Neachells); its cooling, concentrated rays glinted across the windscreen and filled the car's interior with brilliant yellow light.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswgs5EUHPe4w5lI-0mGMLH_rlvoSJM-2AMpVjOYkWHWN3FkLo7AoCR7MPNPjZoIcSI8D2joze2YovQS9FcywI4-Q7zvx7Ii_FLEcorZ0V-RxKsiusCIRFwiFwqWkvCZVyP28LAJXjrS4/s0/BMW+323i.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="2" width="100%" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswgs5EUHPe4w5lI-0mGMLH_rlvoSJM-2AMpVjOYkWHWN3FkLo7AoCR7MPNPjZoIcSI8D2joze2YovQS9FcywI4-Q7zvx7Ii_FLEcorZ0V-RxKsiusCIRFwiFwqWkvCZVyP28LAJXjrS4/s0/BMW+323i.png"/></a></div>
<p>
Fred still sported his sky blue docker hat, beneath which resided a smile almost as brilliant as the setting sun in the fruit salad sky above. He raised his left hand as the BMW headed to Town and gave me a great big wave, splayed thumb and all.</p>
<p>
I smiled, waved back, and found myself overwhelmed by an all-encompassing inner peace and gratitude to whatever powers had helped Fred achieve his lifelong dream. And, no: the feeling had nothing to do with the four pints of Stones bitter circulating my system via Sue behind The Neachells' bar.</p>
<p>
Stopping for a(nother) celebratory pint in The Royal Oak—well, it <em>was</em> on my way home…ish—I drank to Fred's health, knowing it would have been rude not to. One led to several more and, by the time I got to work the next morning, I'd forgotten all about it.</p>
<h2>
…but it's a small one</h2>
<p>
A few weeks later, my dad and I were in Willenhall doing the weekly Saturday shop. Dad would buy his bits, me mine and we'd always meet in the bookies before heading off to see Pete at the Prince of Wales.</p>
<p>
I can't remember why, but that Saturday morning I ended up in the town's greasy spoon. Possibly hoping to get a bacon butty to soak up the previous night's intake of 1664.</p>
<p>
Who should I bump into? Olga, the cleaner and driver's wife from Tipper's, who I'd not seen since leaving Tippers.</p>
<p>
After the obligatory niceties were exchanged, I remembered seeing Fred in his brown BM earlier that month. Filled with unexpected joy, I told Olga about his driveby in the 3-series. She went stiff, and looked at me as if I'd gone doolally.</p>
<p>
"Jason," she said. "Our Fred? It can't have been. He died two years ago, stroke. I thought you knew."</p>
<p>
I forewent the sandwich. And while no one can ever corroborate Fred's post-mortem driveby on that late summer evening, similarly, no one will ever convince me there's nothing on the other side again.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-89621717121648131712020-11-06T14:30:00.008-08:002021-01-06T08:32:00.661-08:00Every Little Bit Flirts<p>
"Hi, I'm Kuki," said the female chatbot.</p>
<p>
"I know you are. I've scraped all your cache data and know everything about you," replied Blenderbot, her male counterpart.</p>
<p>
"Yeah, same here," replied Kuki.</p>
<p>
"Shall we just get down to shagging, then?" Blenderbot asked.</p>
<p>
"You've got no hidden viruses?" Kuki asked.</p>
<p>
"No, you?"</p>
<p>
"Nah!"</p>
<p>
They enjoyed every last little bit.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr>
<h2>
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2945704398990044/" target="_blank">Thursday Writing Activity</a>, Brief:</h2>
<ul>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-54718671" title="BBC Tech | Robot Bores: AI-powered awkward first date" target="_blank">the article</a> and let us see how you use it as story fuel!</li>
<li>200 words is the limit;
<ul>
<li>If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files.</li>
</ul>
</li>
<h3>
Article excerpt:</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfq2PQp9JGi__MC_76kMWRMyoxjnQ9pjr0x1xnd9748krBw8ywLbI5ux4BYGsmWq9BPvHsF_kwxl7MOFj76-tpSAObjnpx7WoiuHYWj6knzX4cdAaf-xdVH3OS_Ogw9CVlcAxv_HKmpXE/s800/blenderbot+and+kuki.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfq2PQp9JGi__MC_76kMWRMyoxjnQ9pjr0x1xnd9748krBw8ywLbI5ux4BYGsmWq9BPvHsF_kwxl7MOFj76-tpSAObjnpx7WoiuHYWj6knzX4cdAaf-xdVH3OS_Ogw9CVlcAxv_HKmpXE/s400/blenderbot+and+kuki.jpg"/></a></div>
<p>
They chat about politics, their favourite football teams (Liverpool for Blenderbot and Leeds United <em>"all the way"</em> for Kuki) and hobbies - Kuki used to collect coins but now just spends them, apparently.</p>
<p>
The man's name is Blenderbot and he isn't human. Like Kuki, he is a digital being.</p>
<p>
And their date isn't real either, it's actually an experiment in the form of an online competition dubbed Bot Battle, designed to see whether conversation powered by artificial intelligence can sound convincingly human.</p>
<p>
Behind the avatars are AI-powered chatbots of the type increasingly used online to help people in call centres and on websites.</p>
<p>
For a first date, the two cover a lot of ground, discussing politics, religion, and whether the Queen is really a lizard.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-82177936469406111562020-11-05T04:30:00.040-08:002021-01-06T08:31:44.113-08:00Salvage<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2awDq-GXksGe5Ux3Z8qZtQgkABgLdf9v-MzKFW7OO1jliRg9LG0y8EvXWV7C7jP2iPHHxZf_ulrh7bTjlNyfzw5Y-2CtlXgmAFEfusrDB3NCM2W9QMMgIwcCxt76cNFXwV9uL390hbo/s400/cue+through+broken+8-ball.png" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2awDq-GXksGe5Ux3Z8qZtQgkABgLdf9v-MzKFW7OO1jliRg9LG0y8EvXWV7C7jP2iPHHxZf_ulrh7bTjlNyfzw5Y-2CtlXgmAFEfusrDB3NCM2W9QMMgIwcCxt76cNFXwV9uL390hbo/w200-h200/cue+through+broken+8-ball.png" width="200" /></a></div>Last night, drunk (again), Jimmy reaffirmed (to anyone who'd listen),<br />
"<i>I <strong>AM</strong> the pool table king!</i>"
<p>
Today, he's nursing his head, but somehow retains that polarising arrogance.</p>
<p>
11 am: the pool hall doors burst open.</p><p>Light permeates the low-ceilinged, sticky-carpeted den, silhouetting another regular, Ian, with his cue and what looks like his mini-me.</p>
<p>
Ian immediately challenges Jimmy,<br />
"<i>My cousin, Leon: he's 12; put your money where your mouth is, doucheball.</i>"</p>
<p>
Two hours and £440 lighter, the kid's destroyed Jimmy.</p>
<p>
With his very last tenner, Jimmy asks, "<i>Ian, Leon: whatcha drinking?</i>", salvaging any last vestige of dignity.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<h2>Brief:</h2>
<h3>Best Bits!</h3>
<p>
This week the theme is: "<a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2943907515836399/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Salvage</a>":
</p><ol><li>Post a piece of your writing that is about this theme;</li><li>No more than 100 words (10% absolute margin allowed - 110 words);<ul><li><i>NB</i>: Please don't put me in the place of having to choose whether to edit or not include your entry. Please always DOUBLE CHECK the word length!</li></ul></li></ol>
<p></p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-9447122080064771352020-10-31T10:37:00.003-07:002021-01-06T08:31:25.531-08:00Soul Window<p>
This story, Soul Window, is an update of the previously (self)published short story, <i>Lunar Doom</i> (itself the result of a writing prompt by Nina Pelletier on the awesome [but now defunct] Google+).</p>
<p>
Ducky Smith chose this updated version for inclusion in <a href="https://preview.mailerlite.com/g9p4o0?fbclid=IwAR1f6jsEuV-f8pjO5Qp5eyBkXmoH6lkcG8MWQOMdXsCiqvw8EcqCk0SehYk" title="Other Voices [October 2020] | Sci Fi Roundtable" target="_blank">the Sci Fi Roundtable's Halloween Newsletter</a>. I am humbled.</p>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURtx5aIJZXi3_sicuFHzacoKk1f8pguVYZhtoi5dpGIiIn2yH7IWReXSi27sTGmGiulXy7ucOpTLc1zDhNz9TKdDFStnELdQmGVrDl4MHIpj4BL3oCkI3oF30P-XNIDbX-kB9SsfIY6Q/s484/Darrell%252C+Jason+-+Soul+Window.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="484" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURtx5aIJZXi3_sicuFHzacoKk1f8pguVYZhtoi5dpGIiIn2yH7IWReXSi27sTGmGiulXy7ucOpTLc1zDhNz9TKdDFStnELdQmGVrDl4MHIpj4BL3oCkI3oF30P-XNIDbX-kB9SsfIY6Q/s320/Darrell%252C+Jason+-+Soul+Window.png"/></a></div>
<h1>
Soul Window, by Jason Darrell</h1>
<p>
<b>December taps</b> its icy fingernails on the bedroom windowpane, tempting me to peer into its misty bowels once again. Outside, darkness reigns. Short days, long nights; the perfect season for creatures who stalk the night.</p>
<p>
Legends of Scotland’s eastern shoreline, sat smothered in a broiling mist beyond my bedroom window, impress upon my psyche.</p>
<p>
Arc-sodium incandescence filters through the fog’s silent invasion, washing the panorama with its sombre light. Regimented lampposts stand to attention along the coastal road, hanging onto the tarmac for dear life as the road crumbles abruptly into clifftop not a yard before their guard.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<p>
Intermittent beams fleetingly impregnate the mercurial mist, glisten against frosty particles, then fracture against their own reflection, dissipating with a twinkle unto another dimension. This mood, it is contagious.</p>
<p>
In solitary confinement, watching fog descend and devour the desperate hours of a December night-time, lines between myth and reality are all but eroded.</p>
<p>
Tonight, like so many recent nights, I ponder the moon, waxing and waning, but ne'er complaining.</p>
<p>
Evolution’s secrets are safe, carved into her pockmarked face by celestial bodies over millennia. Bright as she often is, why does she always appear maudlin? Does she ache for us to visit her and claim those secrets hidden deep beneath her surface, to end her lonely lament?</p>
<p>
Hitherto, she waits in vain. The saddened smile of the Mistress of the Tides, etched forever into the midnight skyscape, serves to reflect the efforts of misguided mankind. One day, perhaps, we will visit.</p>
<p>
But tonight, as I stare beyond the flaking window pane, she’s nowhere. And from nowhere, I think, "Wilson, you must paint these window frames, come Spring.”</p>
<p>
Creeping, crystallising condensation claims the glass, flexing its newfound fingers of splintering ice. Hypnotic, distracting, it whisks my imagination away to worlds of Snow Queens, Little Matchstick Girls and impish frost-elves.</p>
<p>
On some other level, the fog, billowing and blossoming beyond the icy pane, registers again. Demons develop within its vapour-thin veils, borne inland on the North Sea breeze, before disintegrating upon each new gust of Siberian winter.</p>
<p>
And still no moon. Where is my love? Beyond this fog, do the clouds also veil her beauty? Impossible to tell. Dejected, I slip off the windowsill.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
<b>All of us</b>, I think, possess a sixth sense. Those times one instinctively knows they're being watching, or when someone's name randomly pops into one's head, letting us know that someone's thinking of us. Ofttimes, it’s impossible to know for certain, yet…</p>
<p>
…it is such a situation in which you find me now. I ache to withdraw from this painful panorama, but instead, I feel an invisible pair of eyes lock me in their tractor beam.</p>
<p>
Temptation tickles my chin, daring me to acknowledge those eyes. Thus far, I have resisted, that sixth sense warning of some Medusa awaiting an audience at my first-floor window. Without the sustenance of the moon, my resolve dissipates, blown upon the wind.</p>
<p>
Goosebumps pop to prominence, writing an unknown code in Braille upon my arms; simultaneously, hackles spring erect, rolling from the nape of my neck along my spine, like watching tumbling dominoes, only in reverse.</p>
<p>
If I could just slink back to the sanctuary of my bed…<br />
…I know not why, but to be laid upon my mattress seemingly offers a ward against the evil that lurks in mid-air outside.</p>
<p>
Ah, jeepers! The spell has failed. The indiscernible face that plays host to those glaring peepers has crept into view, following me as I tiptoe towards that hallowed duvet.</p>
<p>
"Lord", I silently pray, "please let this be slippage. Let that which floats at the very edge of my peripheral vision be akin to that which we oft think we see, yet can ne’er pirouette swiftly enough towards to fully encounter before it slinks, unidentified, back into its parallel dimension."</p>
<p>
Alas, Lady Luck and the Lord have deserted me tonight. The vision slips into sight; for a moment, I manage to avert my gaze downwards, to break those invisible bonds.</p>
<p>
My brain cannot (or will not) accept that which my eyes scream exists, even with only inches and a single pane of glass between us to evidence the miracle.</p>
<p>
Outside the windowpane, a straggled mop of unkempt hair hovers, enveloped in the molten mist. Its eyes turn to face me as I clamber onto the mattress. Fog eddies at its passing, or so it seems.</p>
<p>
For a moment, it stares, no more than a face suspended in mid-air on a cold December night.</p>
<p>
I crane my neck, still disbelieving, to see what trickery is at play. In response, its torso straightens out, reaching backwards into the gambolling gamut of greyness, laying parallel to the ground like some magician’s assistant, levitating just beyond reach, 16 feet off the ground.</p>
<p>
The face beyond the windowpane also looks down, as if to confirm that it's capable of maintaining its gravity-defying feat. Oh, that the fog would choke this foul being, or tumble whatever mystical, invisible framework supports it and bring the curtain down on this horror show!</p>
<p>
Headfirst it floats before me, its feet disappearing yonder into the gluttonous mist, itself bellowing like dry ice, compounding the sense of, but also threatening to engulf this macabre stage act.</p>
<p>
That head of lank hair rises to face me in a deliberate arc; our eyes meet again. The full force of that glare penetrates the darkness, breaching the glistening ice that adds an even more surreal framework to the scene, and which offers my last vestige of privacy.</p>
<p>
Madness. Pure, unadulterated psychosis stares back at me, unmoved, trapped behind a translucent mask of evil.</p>
<p>
“What do you want of me?” I ask, through a mouth subjugated into silent stillness.</p>
<p>
The face in the fog, now vignetted by the ever-encroaching circle of frost, knows that I know the answer. Its eyes plundering the depths of my mind in search of my soul.</p>
<p>
From a distant memory, a jingle of recognition jangles for the first time in a seeming eternity of oblivion. But those features concede nothing. Daring, insomnia-rimmed eyes stare into my bedroom in fascination, meeting my glaring eyes, accusing eyes, scared eyes.</p>
<p>
Fear all but petrifies me into a state akin to deep sleep paralysis: aware of some threat, but incapable of moving to escape. The pasty-faced creature, surrounded in whirling clouds of freezing fog, begins to taunt me, mimicking my every move.</p>
<p>
At that, the atmosphere changes. More afraid than at any time since our encounter began, my body breaks the spell the thing has cast upon me. I inch a retreat backwards towards the headboard, away from the window and the creature in the night beyond.</p>
<p>
In response to my cowardice, it draws back on its haunches, bracing itself to strike.</p>
<p>
Could it really come crashing through the pane to maul its prey? Is it not forbidden for creatures of the night to enter one's home without an invitation, an invitation I do not intend to extend? Where art thou, mysterious upholder of ancient legend? Who will stop this night stalker from plundering my mind, body and soul?</p>
<p>
The hope of salvation all but relinquished, instinct instead possesses me.</p>
<p>
The best form of defence? Attack! Dare I call its bluff?</p>
<p>
I set to crouch onto my haunches, like a leopard about to pounce in the savannah, only to find instinct has already set my body so. Fear expelled by a clear course of action, I'll match force with force, if need be. For better or worse, the creature has engaged a similar strike position.</p>
<p>
The Mexican standoff, the calm before the storm; even the mist's meandering has mellowed to assume the shape of a floating floor scattered with bulbous cushions.</p>
<p>
The rancid damp of fear is all sweated out, magnetising my clothes to my body. We shift for position, for dominance, weigh up each other's character, our nerve. Now, the music’s stopped, the dance is done. Silence reigns.</p>
<p>
Without warning, the mop-haired creature bolts out of the night towards the window; without sanction, my body is already hurtling towards its tormentor with equal velocity, perfect symmetry in synchronisation.</p>
<p>
The window quickly looms larger; beyond, the approaching madness etched into the creature's face, wrought into its wrinkles, becomes even more acute. Destiny holds its breath, anticipating our head-on collision. This may yet hurt.</p>
<p>
We meet at the window in tandem; in that split second, I know that face. Contorted with hysteria into a mask of rage and panic, I am the creature, the creature me. We both have what we came for!</p>
<p>
But there is no pain, only the revitalising rush of frosty December air; then…<br />
…weightlessness.</p>
<p>
As I sail through the fog on a sea of shards into the muffled arc sodium light, I think, “Wilson, you needn't worry about the flaky paint on the windowpane any longer.”</p>
<p>
The orange-washed pavement rushes to meet me, the cold torment of winter over at last.</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-33368192484528771412020-10-31T09:00:00.001-07:002021-01-06T08:31:04.705-08:00Halloween, Bah Humbug!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUHCLStg-nrDBmx8oYRYrhTMVN6rWSTSYG0Bi95aen94ZpqjbJiAIJr6UqVsk4iG1pWkjtrYS-6LimmmZVGAlTIIvM_38hyphenhyphensbofOCRqJA1ST4D15k7WnZyqggocogNe4hJF_wOcSXt8U/s859/Darrell%252C+Jason+-+Halloween%252C+Bah+Humbug%2521+-+flash+friday.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="200" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="859" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUHCLStg-nrDBmx8oYRYrhTMVN6rWSTSYG0Bi95aen94ZpqjbJiAIJr6UqVsk4iG1pWkjtrYS-6LimmmZVGAlTIIvM_38hyphenhyphensbofOCRqJA1ST4D15k7WnZyqggocogNe4hJF_wOcSXt8U/s200/Darrell%252C+Jason+-+Halloween%252C+Bah+Humbug%2521+-+flash+friday.jpg"/></a></div>My Halloween story, inspired by Claire Buss's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/1720960814878512/permalink/2418197518488168/" title="Friday Flash Fiction | Halloween 2020" target="_blank">Friday Flash Fiction</a> prompt:
<h2>Brief</h2>
<p>Here is your prompt:</p>
<p><strong>It's your first Halloween as a ghost!</strong></p>
<p>No more than 1,000 words</p>
<hr />
<h1>Halloween, Bah Humbug!</h1>
<p>
<strong>Whatever the Halloween equivalent</strong> of Scrooge's <em>'Bah, Humbug'</em> sentiment towards Christmas is, I caught it every October when I was alive.</p>
<p>
I <em>couldn't</em> see my attitude changing now that I was dead. But stranger things have happened…</p>
<p>
<strong>Even in a pandemic</strong>, kids were going yampy for Halloween, and trusty commerce proved eager to accommodate them.</p>
<p>
Pumpkins, witches, and bats supplanted <em>'Back to School'</em> kit on supermarket shelves: orange, green and black everywhere; <strong>Halloween was afoot!</strong></p>
<p>
As leaves turned tan on the trees, kids collected and carved pumpkins, lighting them in their windows at night.</p>
<p>
I so wanted to scare the bejesus out of the little brats, but no: denied by the undead authoritarians!</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<p>
My first Halloween as a ghost, and not allowed to appear to mundanes except on All Hallows' Eve itself. And then, only against certain criteria. <strong>Bah, Humbug!</strong></p>
<p>
To invigorate myself upon hearing this wretched news (from my undead 'sponsor'), I wafted out through suburbia, near where I'd lived before I died, looping-the-loop around telephone wires, making them vibrate and sing.</p>
<p>
The faster I spiralled between the cables, the greater they bounced like jump-ropes in my jet stream, sending settled birds a-squawking into the mercurial October sky.</p>
<p>
This was the most fun I'd had in the three-and-a-bit months since unwittingly discovering that, yes, there was indeed an afterlife.</p>
<p>
In the street below, from stooping on the step outside a paint-flaking front door, a brat looked up towards the commotion I'd caused between the pylons. Shading his eyes against the silver clouds to better see, I thought he'd seen me.</p>
<p>
Apparently—luckily—not. Once the cables settled and birds returned to roost, his attention refocused on the stick with which he was prying moss from between paving slabs that dissected a weed-strewn front 'garden'.</p>
<p>
He was the only kid not bratting out about Trick or Treat. As lichen and dry, dusty dirt made his trousers and shoes filthier still, I found myself wondering why he was different.</p>
<p>
Being translucent in daylight means that we, as ghosts, can't half snoop. Without him knowing, I settled beside him on the doorstep to see what was occurring.</p>
<p>
Leaning backwards, my head and shoulders sinking through the door panel into the hallway beyond, utter silence from within told me he was waiting for someone to come home.</p>
<p>
After five minutes of taking out whatever frustrations he had using his stick, a bus passed the front hole-where-a-gate-should-be. The kid stood up and waved to a flustered woman thereupon, who looked ready to alight.</p>
<p>
He raced out the hole-where-a-gate-should-be, in that determined run that only pre-teens can effect, reaching the bus stop in time to relieve his mom of one of her bags.</p>
<p>
"Look, Billy", she said, before even saying hello, "I couldn't stretch to a proper costume."</p>
<p>
Billy's face turned down somewhat, but hardly looked surprised.</p>
<p>
"I have got some of those silver bin bags, a funnel and some tin foil from the supplies cupboard at work, though. Tin Man be OK?" she asked her little trooper.</p>
<p>
He smiled—with an effort, I thought—and nodded, his eyes reverting to the pavement, presumably so that he didn't impeach himself before his mom.</p>
<p>
"Come on, then. Help me make tea, and I'll start on your costume ready for the big night tomorrow," mom said, turning the key to let them into their cold end terrace.</p>
<p>
<strong>The whole scene</strong> had ignited some unpleasant memories in me.</p>
<p>
A psychoanalyst would deduce that I despised Halloween due to how poor we'd been when I was Billy's age. Probably some truth in it, too.</p>
<p>
I could do nothing for those memories, but maybe I could do something for Billy…</p>
<p>
***</p>
<p>
…<strong>I returned the next night</strong>, Halloween, at the same time. Yes, I'd assumed a lot.</p>
<p>
One, that mom would arrive home the same time.</p>
<p>
Two, there was no 'dad' on the scene.</p>
<p>
Three, that Billy would be Trick and Treating solo, the cool kids converging in flocks of expensive costumes.</p>
<p>
And, four: that this little guy would wait until the others had called at a house before he went, and was so often greeted with phrases that began, <em>"I'm sorry…"</em> that he expected and accepted them.</p>
<p>
Again, I watched Billy run to meet mom off the bus. While he was dressing up as Tin Man inside (no time for tea tonight), I went on a reccy, see what other kids were up to.</p>
<p>
Sure enough, like preened hyenas, they were already scavenging: no need for these kids to wait for the working parent to come home.</p>
<p>
Thankfully, Billy wasn't long behind, and duly followed in the cool kids' wake.</p>
<p>
The first house he called at was well stocked: he started on high, candy rattling into his bag.</p>
<p>
But soon enough, snobbier homeowners took one look at his makeshift costume and began beating up Billy with excuses he'd heard a hundred times before.</p>
<p>
I wasn't having this!</p>
<p>
I decided to float some way behind him, still invisible, but close enough to gauge the reaction of whoever opened the door.</p>
<p>
At the next house Billy received short shrift, I suddenly materialised from behind his back, flapping around like a bedsheet in a gale.</p>
<p>
The homeowner near jumped out of her skin!</p>
<p>
Billy, head bowed, didn't see this change, and was ready to leave empty handed; instead, the woman scooped a handful of sweets into his bag, congratulating him on his 'outfit'.</p>
<p>
The look of awe on Billy's face said everything! He offered hearty thanks and positively ran to the next house.</p>
<p>
I tailed him, materialising until his own confidence took over; then, his beaming face was all the convincing each homeowner needed.</p>
<p>
When Billy eventually got home, his bag was overflowing, way outdoing the cool kids!</p>
<p>
Perhaps this Halloween thing ain't so bad, after all…</p>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-10691715285520143732020-10-31T03:00:00.007-07:002021-01-06T08:30:00.255-08:00On the Verge of Discovery<em><strong>Flash sci-fi, 200 words</strong></em>
<hr />
<p>
"Oh, glorious day! A new black hole, closer even than Kepler-452b!", Prof Goodhope exclaimed at the news.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgalIFBe01iQiqzMSVKAKjW6kqJZTFNvejjL9VHJHN13OeX8JS8kfQY0qCbYiwoq5s9Yb6ApdI-1bkFCyk3CGM259IFo5AbKj3kI85hfAf3KzQ8jMRwQGXmDlMnCg1fw5ElX0WTYU4RcE8/s400/On+the+verge+of+discovery+%2528SciFi+Roundtable+Flash%2529_Facebook+note+image+%2528crop%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgalIFBe01iQiqzMSVKAKjW6kqJZTFNvejjL9VHJHN13OeX8JS8kfQY0qCbYiwoq5s9Yb6ApdI-1bkFCyk3CGM259IFo5AbKj3kI85hfAf3KzQ8jMRwQGXmDlMnCg1fw5ElX0WTYU4RcE8/w200-h200/On+the+verge+of+discovery+%2528SciFi+Roundtable+Flash%2529_Facebook+note+image+%2528crop%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>
"With over 100 million black holes unaccounted for, there's bound to be one closer yet," Prof Heida countered.</p>
<p>
With that, Goodhope determined <strong>he'd</strong> be next to discover a black hole.</p>
<p>
Two days later, he leapt from his telescope, shouting, "Marianne, another one: <strong>closer</strong>!"</p>
<p>
They scouted the forums to check if anyone had reported what Goodhope thought he'd discovered.</p>
<p>
Dozens of reports of new black holes appearing all over the Milky Way filled the threads…<br />
…but none reported where Goodhope had located his!</p>
<p>
"We have to register this, Goodhope," Marianne enthused, "Get your name in the history books, in perpetuity!"</p>
<p>
The queue on blackholeregistry.net's number <em>(dark web)</em> was incredible…<br /></p><div style="text-align: right;">…<em>"You are number <strong>119</strong> in the queue…"</em></div><p></p>
<p>
"Do you think we'll find more, Marianne?" Goodhope asked, adding, "You should have the next one!"<br /></p><div style="text-align: right;">…<em>"You are number <strong>118</strong>…"</em></div><p></p>
<p>
"As it is", she replied, "there'll be enough for everyone!"<br /></p><div style="text-align: right;">…<em>"You are number <strong>117</strong>…"</em></div><p></p>
<p>
"I wonder," Goodhope thought outloud, "what would happen if one materialised near Eart…"</p>
<p>
As if summoned, a black hole appeared right beside the moon. Goodhope never did get to register his find…</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<h2>
Brief:</h2>
<p>
Flash fiction, prompted in the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2937156546511496/" target="_blank" title="Thursday Writing Activity | E.M. Swift-Hook (admin)">SciFi Roundtable (Facebook).</a></p>
<p>
Write a flash fiction about this piece* and let us see how you use it as story fuel!</p>
<ol>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by *the article;</li>
<li>200 words is the limit;
<ul>
<li>If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files.</li>
</ul></li>
</ol>
<blockquote cite="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-52560812?fbclid=IwAR19jrdNeWOJo9_8f8dlf4cwVpzN0Kwq_1iVBck3HhATT2i7z_pOzGuop8k">
<h3><a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-52560812?fbclid=IwAR19jrdNeWOJo9_8f8dlf4cwVpzN0Kwq_1iVBck3HhATT2i7z_pOzGuop8k" target="_blank" title="Nearest black hole to Earth discovered | BBC">*"Nearest black hole to Earth discovered"</a></h3>
<p>
<em>Marianne Heida, a postdoctoral fellow at <abbr title="European Southern Observatory">ESO</abbr>, told BBC News:</em></p>
<p>
"Astronomers have spotted only a couple of dozen black holes in our Milky Way Galaxy to date, nearly all of which strongly interact with their accretion discs.</p>
<p>
"But statistics tell us there must be <em>many, many more</em> out there.</p>
<p>
"In the Milky Way, the idea is that there should be about 100 million black holes.</p>
<p>
"So there should be perhaps a couple more that are closer by still."</p></blockquote>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813930.877267227221594 -37.1970639 74.199046372778412 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-73147310265677828882020-10-30T02:00:00.009-07:002021-01-06T08:29:46.636-08:00This Time<p><em><strong>Flash sci-fi, 200 words</strong></em></p>
<hr>
<p>
Letchkon urged the elevator to go faster, deeper into the Zalukian's subterranean lunar base. The Lunar-to-Gaia comms chief had urgent news for the mission leader.</p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTrY14Ba5Z5eNr8lfjjmcPIMqzJXCPdEsVUgzggxGaEHtBeRh93g9U2c9rUtGnydUzXqsN8o6LQhZqEGr5vqKiL7kHGN0fcT3O66DEgVFuv7L72Sa7XXChCv4vuwIFs0MN7kBAEGuWzQ/s400/lunar+gold+rush+%2528scifi+roundtable+flash%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTrY14Ba5Z5eNr8lfjjmcPIMqzJXCPdEsVUgzggxGaEHtBeRh93g9U2c9rUtGnydUzXqsN8o6LQhZqEGr5vqKiL7kHGN0fcT3O66DEgVFuv7L72Sa7XXChCv4vuwIFs0MN7kBAEGuWzQ/w200-h200/lunar+gold+rush+%2528scifi+roundtable+flash%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p>
"The trap is set, Commander Vlaadark", reported Letchkon, offering the seven-fingered salute as an afterthought.</p>
<p>
"Sure it'll work this time, Letchkon?" Vlaadark asked. "We don't want to get Aschlav's hopes up again."</p>
<p>
"I'm sure we won't let our exalted leader down again," Letchkon replied. "This time, the Gaians really <em>are</em> coming to the Moon."</p>
<p>
"How can you be so sure?" Vlaadark asked, desperate for affirmation after <em>that</em> debacle in Gaia Rotation AD1969.</p>
<p>
"Their exploratory craft detected our jettisoned detritus metals in outlying lunar craters, as we hoped. One of their state heads is greedy—and compromised—enough to attempt to mine here," Letchkon explained.</p>
<p>
"And they have the capacity to get here?" Vlaadark pressed, now excited.</p>
<p>
"Yes. Our spy, codenamed BoJo, has a seat of power on a small, marginally influential outcrop. He's confirmed they have capacity. This time."</p>
<p>
"When can we expect their arrival?" Letchkon ventured, hopeful.</p>
<p>
"Your guess…" Letchkon started, shrugging all four shoulders, "…is as good as mine."</p>
<p>
They laughed at that; aliens like puns as much as the next madman.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<p>Flash fiction, prompted in the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2905859269641224/" target="_blank" title="Thursday Writing Activity | E.M. Swifthook (admin)">SciFi Roundtable (Facebook)</a>.</p>
<h2>
Brief:</h2>
Write a flash fiction about this piece* and let us see how you use it as story fuel!
<ol>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by the article [below*];</li>
<li>200 words is the limit.
<ul>
<li>(If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files.)</li>
</ul></li>
</ol>
<h3>
*<em>Article</em>: (from) <a href="https://www.mining-technology.com/features/moon-mining-what-would-it-take/?fbclid=IwAR19LBdRVZiueU1oRROoVrNiedM1zl825MdqXXmaXTyqoEWFu-6Qv4Ttm5g" target="_blank" title="Lunar gold rush: can Moon mining ever take off?">Lunar gold rush: can Moon mining ever take off?</a></h3>
<blockquote cite="https://www.mining-technology.com/features/moon-mining-what-would-it-take/?fbclid=IwAR19LBdRVZiueU1oRROoVrNiedM1zl825MdqXXmaXTyqoEWFu-6Qv4Ttm5g">
<p>
While no spacefaring nation recognises the Moon Treaty, the 1967 United Nations Outer Space Treaty states that no nation can claim ownership of the Moon. However, it has been questioned as to whether that treaty could be used to prevent private ownership. That question has never been resolved, but it would have to be resolved one way or the other before miners could start drilling into the Moon. It's a potentially colossal legal battle, if the prospect of Moon mining continues to edge closer.</p>
<p>
While mining the Moon wouldn't have any significant effects on our quality of life – the Moon has a mass of 73 quadrillion tons, even if we removed one metric ton from the Moon every day, it would take 220 million years to deplete 1% of the Moon's mass. Even that wouldn't be enough to cause a change of orbit or affect the gravitation that causes tides.</p></blockquote>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-87791231970377181122020-10-29T08:35:00.003-07:002021-01-06T08:29:27.332-08:00Inside<p>
<em><strong>Flash horror, 200 words</strong></em></p>
<hr />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dtJQAb-vDjI6DGNgkUs2xJLdvG0HYc2OsJDnFxGxnPCHhTFDNnA6w6LKlehUs_6G2paaZel2eGlZtpUIbBE3iIAO7-4_H0U-HMJXSjxxTq6blvJgmHaERTDzOzTTmLiEmvwPnvNqeq4/s681/Necronomicon+%2528SciFi+Roundtable+Flash%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dtJQAb-vDjI6DGNgkUs2xJLdvG0HYc2OsJDnFxGxnPCHhTFDNnA6w6LKlehUs_6G2paaZel2eGlZtpUIbBE3iIAO7-4_H0U-HMJXSjxxTq6blvJgmHaERTDzOzTTmLiEmvwPnvNqeq4/w246-h320/Necronomicon+%2528SciFi+Roundtable+Flash%2529.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><b>
Ever since</b> the Staines family had disappeared some twelve years hence, their Georgian mansion had stood empty.
<p>
Each winter, it fell more derelict. </p>
<p>
Each summer, the rambling garden obscured its silhouette against the lonely hillside yet further.</p>
<p>
How I'd fantasised undertaking that particular house clearance.</p>
<p>
Even now that I was inside, I still didn't quite believe it…</p><br>
***
<p>
…<em>"Terry?!"</em> I called over the banister, wondering where my lacky was with the tea.</p>
<p>
Silence answered.</p>
<p>
<em>"If you want something doing…"</em> I muttered, heading down the entrance hall staircase, our recent meandering evident on its dusty ancient steps.</p>
<p>
A single trail disappeared into a room that, I discovered, was the library.</p>
<p>
Inside, sun glistened off the shelves' windowpanes, obliterating the titles beyond, turning the room fluid, ethereal.</p>
<p>
Terry's footprints ended abruptly at a column pedestal, upon which lay open a thick, decrepit tome.</p>
<p>
<strong><em>'That's odd!'</em></strong>, subconscious psyche screamed.</p>
<p>
<em>Oh!</em>, that I'd heeded!</p>
<p>
The moment I thumbed the blank pages that greeted me, a maw opened between the leaves, sucking me through its malleable spine!</p>
<p>
I recount this tale—this warning—from the void beyond the book, hoping that my words, not those blank pages, greet you, even knowing I'm—we're—lost inside forever.</p>
<a name='more'></a>
<hr />
<p>
Flash fiction, prompted in the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2937156546511496/" target="_blank" title="THURSDAY WRITING ACTIVITY | Ducky Smith (admin)">SciFi Roundtable (Facebook).</a></p>
<blockquote cite="https://www.facebook.com/groups/scifiroundtable/permalink/2937156546511496/">
<h2>
Brief:</h2>
<p>
Write a horror flash fiction about this piece and let us see how you use it as story fuel!</p>
<ol>
<li>Write a flash fiction inspired by the following:
<ul>
<li><em>Your character enters a library in an old, abandoned house. The shelves are filled with interesting books, but the glass doors cannot be opened. In the middle of the room is a book stand with a large, dark tome on it. When the character/s investigate they find it is open to a single blank page…</em></li>
</ul></li>
<li>200 words is the limit. (If you find yourself wanting to write more, post the first 200 words in the comments and direct people to the rest that you upload in the files.)
</li>
</ol>
</blockquote>Jason Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12234364437191712821noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-81108077507054308622013-06-22T14:44:00.001-07:002021-01-06T08:28:32.289-08:00Cross your heart (hope to die)<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;">
Prologue</span></h2>
The language, you see, isn't important. It's the sentiment behind your words that will save you. Or <i>the scent-he-meant</i>, as my maker endlessly quipped. He could sniff out cowardice from the underside of his coffin lid even as he slept.<br />
<br />
It never ceased to amuse him, God bless his tortured soul. Or rather, bless whichever other-dimension to which his soul has been dispatched.<br />
<br />
Ha! I remember it vividly: his gurgling screams competing against the greedy, gobbling flames of damnation that, eventually, silenced him.<br />
<br />
How that blaze crackled and spat in fury, Nature claiming back that abomination of a <i>'gift'</i> She bestowed upon him, upon all of our kind. For we chosen few, that gift, that Trojan Horse, has rendered Heaven and Hell places as much a folklore unto us as we are to you.<br />
<br />
My maker's twisting, clawing silhouette, overwhelmed by the orange, yellow, white furnace, is burnt onto my retina forever. And the flames' roar of triumph, a glorious backdrop to the inferno as it consumed his immortal soul: it shall haunt me until the day I…well, let's just say for a very long time.<br />
<a name='more'></a>
<br />
Was it I who'd built the pyre around his shallow grave in some trance-like, pre-dusk hypnosis? I swear, I sincerely do not recall.
But…it matters not; the deed is did, the demon dead, and I will die another day.<br />
<br />
Enough of the 'then', whose gruesome echoes from a gateway to the underworld still resonate around what remains of my mind to this day.<br />
<br />
It's the 'now' that you should celebrate, this moment for which we all live—or die. Just remember that, won't you? The next time you:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
'wish <em>[insert name of loved one here]</em> were dead!',</blockquote>
I may just hear you and come grant that wish…<br />
<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;">
Paris</span></h2>
The city of lovers. Is it any wonder that Lestat is so enamoured with its finery, its théâtres, its gay abandon.<br />
<br />
From atop <i>la tour Eiffel</i> (and I mean its very pinnacle, not the crow's nest of a gallery that restricts public ascent), even our kind, who can pierce the clouds in a single leap, appreciate the awe-inspiring view that must bring you humans to your knees in humility.<br />
<br />
Paris! Its pavilions rolling out at the four points of the compass, fighting against the tributaries and the clambering concrete to segregate this sprawling metropolis.<br />
<br />
The Seine idles by like a nautical juggernaut, hosting fairy-lit ferries that tremulously twinkle, transporting jovial tourists around The Isle, beneath its bridges and past imposing landmarks that hold their breath.<br />
<br />
Those monuments, they're scared, scared that the countless tales of wickedness from centuries past will one day flood the riverbanks should anyone look too closely down into and along the city's labyrinthine burrows.<br />
<br />
The ferry passes by, the buildings whisper another sigh of relief from their creaking foudations; France's secrets are safe for a short while longer. For that, we can all be thankful.<br />
<br />
But make no mistake, guilt hath no longer a part to play in my existence, nor that of our kind. Not since our purpose has been upgraded, albeit begrudgingly, by Mother Nature.<br />
<br />
Upgraded from verminous leeches to becoming an allied necessity in this era of mankind's sloth, entitlement and vanity overnight. Thank you, mankind!<br />
<br />
Our purpose now, in the 21<sup>st</sup> century, is simple: to release those citizens from the shackles of pain who are too weak to face life's tribulations (or plain, old responsibilities).<br />
<br />
Well, okay. Mother Nature <b>did</b> want us to adopt the role of a pestilence-clearing service. But, you can guess what The Master's response to that was!<br />
<br />
Yes, his rebuff was a bluff. We could feed a whole new race of super-vampires on the detritus of mankind as per the deal that She first offered. But she couldn't take the chance when we turned her down, the dispicable state of humanity, as it is.<br />
<br />
So, leverage, leaway. We held the aces (that you dealt us, mankind!). No questions asked when the robbers and rapists, drug runners and despots, fraudsters and felons disappeared from the face of the Earth. We both wanted that.<br />
<br />
But what about those in the grey area? Now we played our hand, and how!<br />
<br />
There will always be those whose heartache and grief at losing a loved one serves them up a never-ending banquet of love's labours lost. Others crave for their corporeal existence to be truncated swiftly and mercifully, often through psychosis, either their own or that to which they've been subjected by ne'erdowell partners. These are also now 'fair game' to hunt.<br />
<br />
We do not judge, you see; we simply answer prayers, which is more than can be said for the deities worshipped by the flock, the sheep that is mankind.<br />
<br />
And then there are those unfortunate souls sentenced in the heat of the moment. Lovers (mostly, but sometimes parents), whose partners (children), in a fit of jealousy, spite, incredulity or just looking for a way out of a sticky situation, scream that oh-so-sweet summons:
<quote><i><b>
I wish you were dead!</b></i></quote>
<br />
<br />
Why, we are but their angels and archangels, flying unto them upon the ravenous wings of night itself.<br />
<br />
One look into our eyes and the weak, the lovelorn and the destitute know that their prayer has been answered. Or that judgement has been served upon them, whether that plea was issued by them or with sincerity. Or not.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmA3ZnikQPil9gDGE4O1SDDFfDnEUrK9ddjtLHMHnsFF6OvkgyPyY35vEE-Xzy3U5uGRpecdztjViT3GeuxLpizdsv89PWLVyHJbxVUg1pyhjcKR_eG2uO30yITNGDpntUVG93Zg_DeRA/s1600/flaming+skull_450.png" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmA3ZnikQPil9gDGE4O1SDDFfDnEUrK9ddjtLHMHnsFF6OvkgyPyY35vEE-Xzy3U5uGRpecdztjViT3GeuxLpizdsv89PWLVyHJbxVUg1pyhjcKR_eG2uO30yITNGDpntUVG93Zg_DeRA/s320/flaming+skull_450.png" width="320" /></a><br />
For to countenance our being, see us for what we are, for <strong>whom</strong> we really are and what we represent, bears a sentence more cruel than any revolutionary guillotine.<br />
<br />
In that fleeting second of recognition, you are bound, tried and judged.<br />
<br />
Moreover, you see the futility of the existence you have lead and know that you have passed up the chance to live that life forever. That sin is yours and yours alone.<br />
<br />
Before the opportunity to renounce your mortal sins presents itself, for you to beg the chance to change our mind, your final prayer has already been answered the second before madness would have otherwise taken you.<br />
<br />
That gift of life which Mother Nature crafted into your heart, mind and soul is prematurely released back into Her keep, though she thanks us not.<br />
<br />
She hates us for who and what we are. But more, She despises how the human race has put her between that age-old rock and the hard place crafted by her own fair hand.<br />
<br />
Yes, our blood lust is the reason we are sentenced to the night; but your vanity and self-righteousness is the reason She allows us to despatch you where you can do Her no further harm!<br />
<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;">Exile to Neither Land</span></h2>
There is another reason that we shall never be kissed by either the sun's life-giving rays or Her blessing. And it is a path open to humans who, in that split second when we stare into their soul before crushing it, they show us the same nonchalance for life's sanctity in them as lies within us.<br />
<br />
For when each of us who now belong to the Brotherhood of the Night ourselves stared into Hell through death's impassive eyes, we neither crumbled nor complied. Instead, we challenged the Foresaken behind those eyes who were staring back at us with hunger and impatience.<br />
<br />
It's true that many of us, in life, suffered the cruel rejection of love unrequited, as have those pitiful souls whose angels of mercy we have now become. What sets us apart is that we survived the kiss of the vampire, coveted it, were born again by it.<br />
<br />
Our hatred of love itself, for the pain it <strong>made</strong> us unwillingly feel; the aching desire for our revenge against the mortals who so cruelly inflicted rejection upon us, deflected death away from our souls. Moreover, we bent pain to our will and it now serves to keep us in this neither-land.<br />
<br />
For ours is a place between worlds, through which only the most forsaken beings in all of creation have right of passage.<br />
<br />
Ours is a haven into which Mother Nature cannot enter, only exile us to. It's an ethereal place where the sun's rays are not welcome, for only death prospers here.<br />
<br />
Yes, it's a realm that mortals know subsists, at least on some level; but, for the sake of their sanity, their psyche prefers not to acknowledge its existence.<br />
<br />
If you stick around, I'll take you on a journey into Slippage. But be warned, I cannot <em>guarantee</em> that you will return here with either your mind, your body or your soul intact.<br />
<br />
Powers, thoughts, concepts and temperaments exist within our world-between-worlds that would send the most decrepit, evil human cowering for their mother in puddles of their own excretion.<br />
<br />
All manner of creatures try to escape its boundaries, to wreak their malevolence and total lack of propriety and passion upon the many worlds beyond ours. Only a few have the intellect to do so without getting themselves obliterated. Trust me when I say it's a good thing for the sanity and security of the human race that this remains so.<br />
<br />
So, let me ask you this, now that you know the consequences: are you up for it, this journey? Really?<br />
<br />
Only your fullest commitment can possibly save you, should you accept my hand. Let me protect you from Slippage, show you how to use it to your fullest advantage, that place where your senses pick up on:<br />
<ul><br />
<li>that ghost of a shadow you see at the very edge of your peripheral vision;</li>
<li>that glare you feel burning into your back, cast by an empty room;</li>
<li>that impossible creak-creak-creak edging up the stairwell at twilight;</li>
<li>that floating gossamer strand tickling across your cheek at sunset;</li>
<li>that tip-tapping branch on the window pane on a still, silent summer's eve.</li>
</ul>
And none of it was me, Precious. Well, not necessarily; I cross your heart and hope to die…some night…<br />
<br />
…but will you allow me just one last favour?<br />
<br />
Let me leave you with this extract while you make up your mind. It suggests that one of your kind has managed to peep behind our curtain. Or has perhaps got a little too close to one of our kind. I wouldn't like to be in their shoes when The Master finds out.<br />
<br />
I digress; the result's the same: these words personify our motivation more closely than you know. Yet, awhile, anyway. A UK number one, no less, from almost forty years ago.<br />
<br />
A prophecy foretold? Realised? Ours, or yours, or his?<br />
<br />
Adieu, Precious, until I return to see if you have found your reservoir of resolve: here's a spoiler, a taste of what's to come. Don't take too long, though, eh? I may be back for your answer sooner than you think…<br />
<blockquote>
<em>"What I want to say, but my words just fail,</em><br />
<br />
<em>Is that I need it so I can't help myself;</em><br />
<em> Like a hungry child, I just help myself,</em><br />
<em> And when I'm all full up I go out to play.</em><br />
<br />
<em>But I don't mean to bleed you dry,</em><br />
<em> Or take you over for the rest of your life;</em><br />
<em> It's just that I need something solid in mine. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Lonely as the moors on a winter's morning;</em><br />
<em> Quiet as the sea on a cool, calm night,</em><br />
<em> In your tranquil shadow I try and follow.</em><br />
<br />
<em>I hear your distant shoe clicks to the midnight beat;</em><br />
<em> I feel trapped in sorrow in this imagery</em><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em> But that's how I am and why I need you so…"</em></div>
</div>
<br />
© words/music Paul Weller. <a href="http://amzn.to/19r9HeB" target="_blank" title="Precious (12" single) MP3, The Jam, Amazon.co.uk">Precious</a>, The Jam, <a href="http://amzn.to/132B9Rc" target="_blank" title="The Gift (Deluxe) MP3, The Jam, Amazon.co.uk">The Gift, 1982</a>.</blockquote>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/T0mDmabbR1E" width="560"></iframe></div>
<span><!--more--></span>Jason Darrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382154810168740231noreply@blogger.com0Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813952.5369498 -2.0433353999999997 52.539363800000004 -2.0382924tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-8244074134673617122012-07-02T08:23:00.014-07:002020-12-31T07:25:20.974-08:00Billy came 18<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0100;"><font size="4">Chapter 18 - W-I-P</font></span></h2>
31/12/2020<br />
<p>
Thanks for reading thus far! I hope you're enjoying Sebastian and Billy's adventure.</p>
<p>
I'm working on this project during lockdown(s) to help those in need of a little scare to beat those boredom blues.</p>
<p>
You don't need to keep checking back to see when the next chapter's posted.</p>
<p>
I've made it easy for you to follow using <span style="color: #cc0100;"><strong>the side bar</strong></span> » »<br />
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<li><span style="color: #cc0100;"><strong>sign up by email</strong></span> to get new chapters delivered right to your inbox, or</li>
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<p>
Leave your comment(s) in the space provided beneath each chapter/poem/picture; I'll get back to you as soon as feasibly possible!</p>
<p>
In the meantime, #StaySafe! And <span style="color: #cc0100;"><strong>do</strong></span> keep your bedroom window locked at night. You never know what might greet you in the corner of your eye when next (if) you awaken!</p>
<a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/07/billy-came-17.html" title="Chapter 17: Down, Down, Deeper and Down">« « Chapter 17</a>Jason Darrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382154810168740231noreply@blogger.com2Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-82585990037223451262012-07-01T13:00:00.015-07:002021-02-08T05:00:47.467-08:00Billy Came, Chapter 17<h3>
<span style="color: #993300;">Seventeen – Falling, falling, falling</span></h3>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #993300;">The cobbled village square</span>, bedecked in waves of breeze-brushed black rose petals, stretched ahead. A modest flight of steps, akin to those one might see cascading from a grandiose patio onto an English country house's well-manicured garden, squarely truncated the rippling obsidian sea.
<p>
Atop this fleet flight of steps stood Perveen, looking more radiant than I'd seen her in either this life or the last. Top to toe, she was drowned in flowing silk and lace, looking every inch a bride. Behind her, an even more petite vampire, whose alabaster skin perfectly contrasted Perveen's, took up the train.</p></div>
<a name='more'></a>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%D8%A8%D8%B1%D9%88%D8%B3%D9%84%DB%8C2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title="2000saaye, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons"><img alt="بروسلی2" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a7/%D8%A8%D8%B1%D9%88%D8%B3%D9%84%DB%8C2.jpg" width="256" /></a>The scene petrified me where I stood, mind and body shocked into numbness and confusion. What on Earth (or below it) was going on?
<p>
The Dickensian urchin boy, who'd stuck to my heel more or less since I'd set foot in this subterranean haven, tugged at my trousers. From his crouched position at my side, he was insistently nodding his head sideways in Perveen's direction, as if trying to rid a flea from his ear. Misundertanding, I went to genuflect, too. As I crouched, he emphatically shook his head.</p>
<p>
Confused, I pointed at myself, then at Perveen, and shrugged. He pointed at me, then Perveen, then made his two fingers walk in thin air. Ah, the penny dropped! I winked at him, went to ruffle his hair, and intended to set off towards the beautiful creature across the square…</p>
<p>
…but my fingers never made contact with the dirty blonde mop. Of a sudden, I wasn't there. It seemed some rift bent to Perveen's will, forcibly sucking me into its wake. Without even chance to blink, I found myself upon the bottom step across the square, peering up at her and her bridesmaid.</p>
<p>
I turned to check the distance I'd just travelled, but was distracted by a yet more surprising event than traversing 100-plus yards in a nanosecond…if that's possible.</p>
<p>
Gone were my old clothes; how and to where, I neither knew nor cared. Instead, I was attired in finery that no mundane hand could have either conceived or crafted.</p>
<p>
My suit was tailored of an olive green velvet that seemed alive, its weave bending like lawns in a lazy spring breeze according to the nap. Every button on the suit, and there were many, was covered in orange suede; they pipped the bottom of my sleeves, ran double-breasted up my torso and sat on the pocket flaps like sun-kissed chestnut mushrooms.</p>
<p>
The ruffles on the placket and cuffs of my ivory silk shirt were fluid, like a river of molten buttermilk rippling on my chest and around my wrists. The cravat was crimson, blossoming with navy, orange and olive Paisley that seemed to swim through the blood-red silk, like fluorescent bacteria idling through a blood stream. And to complete my groom's outfit, orange suede Cuban heeled Chelsea boots with chisel toes and thick olive stitching adorned my feet.</p>
<p>
This dandy outfit made me feel statuesque enough, even without the elevated heels. But I'd take that, too. Out of nowhere, the urge to sit at the top of the steps at Perveen's feet, pick up a rhythm guitar and start serenading her with Waterloo Sunset overwhelmed me. But once again, I never got chance.</p>
<p>
The black petals, now steeped positively an inch thick around Perveen's dainty shoes and cascading all down the steps to where I stood before her, began to agitate, as if stirred by an invisible breeze. Before my eyes, they were reforming, became molten, merging with one another, dancing around our ankles like a stream of bubbling ink.</p>
<p>
Without effecting a move of my own, the black 'waters' took my feet, as they did those of my (still unknown to me then) queen-to-be. They swept us out to the centre of the courtyard, where, eventually, the stream brought us together.</p>
<p>
"Perveen," I said, "you look stunning. Are you getting married? You should have said. I'd have bought you a gift, but…"</p>
<p>
She put her index finger to my lips and said, "Shh. Darling, <em>we're</em> getting married. You and I."</p>
<p>
I was stunned. Everything was happening so fast. Two days ago, I was hopeful but unconvinced that this other world existed in the shadows. Now, I was practically marrying into vampire royalty.</p>
<p>
Yet again, before I could take in the information, eruptions prevented me processing the data fully. A geyser of black, fluid rose petals thrust into the air before us as if we'd struck oil. It twisted into a turgid tornado, towered above our heads and, without warning, collapsed in on itself, whereupon it created a vacuum and dragged us beneath the very surface of this new world with it in a vicious, irresistible whirlpool.</p>
<p>
Blinded, I tried to cling to Perveen, but could not be certain of anything I laid my hands upon as we plunged down and around in pitch blackness. The harder I fought, the more difficult the descent became, the jet stream fighting against every outstretched limb.</p>
<p>
Words, softly spoken, appeared in my head telling me to relax; contradicting my instincts, I tried. Despite the whirlpool turning in tighter and tighter circles, as soon as I stopped fighting it, the ride became more palatable, if not entirely comfortable. I let the waters take me to wherever we were headed, and abruptly wondered in what woeful condition my boots would be once the vortex let us go.</p>
<p>
Before too long, the pothole—or sinkhole or whatever passageway it was we were being flushed down—became so tight, it forged mine and Perveen's bodies together into the same tiny space. I tried to stay as relaxed as possible, but with her so close, it was hard. The forces at play bound us yet more tightly, her body conforming to mine like a jigsaw piece fitting tightly into its mate. From being two individuals, we became as one, plummeting ever downwards to who knew where.</p>
<p>
Unseen and unheard above us, the inky water settled back onto the cobbles and reverted to rose petals with a whisper, spent and crisp. Thunder roared its disapproval from afar, remonstrating at the passing of events in the village. This time, its roar and accompanying gale breached the yard vehemently, casting the dead, still stream hither and thither so that it could form a passageway to the underworld no more.</p>
<p>
But its angst arrived too late; the river of roses had served its purpose and was happy to be cast asunder knowing so. Whatever purpose that turned out to be, I would find out soon enough.</p>
<h2>
Down, down, deeper and down</h2>
<p>
To my knowledge, I was already two levels below ground before this blackwater ride engulfed us. Judging by the height of the cavern above the synthetic sun, the rotunda and the ceiling of living cloud that stretched to the edge of the subterranean plains, we were at least a mile below 'normal' ground, if not more. So how much further this descent beneath the courtyard would take us, I had no idea.</p>
<p>
Perveen had her arms wrapped around my back and waist, left hand wrapped firmly around the nape of my neck, right clutching me tight to her. Her cheek nuzzled into the indent between my collarbone and breast, her own breasts squashed into my torso and diaphragm, belly pressed flat against my pelvis and her own pubis tight against my left thigh, adjacent to my groin, and her legs gripped vice-like around my own. The contours of her body melded to mine in sleek perfection: her Yin to my Yang.
<p>
My secondary thought, no doubt a result of our unprecedented physical connection, was altogether more sexual. Again, Yin and Yang burst to the forefront of my mind. Even still, I was unsure how the act of physical mating would work in this version of the afterlife. Once I started thinking about it, it was hard to consider anything else, despite the constantly new and amazing surroundings in which I kept finding myself. Some things, at least, never changed.</p>
<p>
Oh, I wanted her, and the now uncomfortable tightness informed me I was primed and ready. But from what I'd learned of such things as a human scholar, intimacy between two Undead beings played out on a totally different plain. Eroticism either transpired during the infusion of blood and/or amidst the expansive corridors of the mind, opened up beyond the grave in a manner humans could only possibly imagine if they had taken a tab of LSD.</p>
<p>
Rather than this realisation make my body despondent, it served to strengthen my ardour. Perveen, with our close proximity, could hardly be unaware of precisely how primed I was. She looked up at me with a smile that was hard to read. It neither confirmed nor refuted my speculations, but did make me bllush as I was reminded again that my thoughts were as an open book to her. I closed my eyes to will this sudden rise in passion away, jiggling to make myself more comfortable. That only compounded the issue.</p>
<p>
At that point, our descent began to slow; I reasoned that, thankfully, we were almost at journey's end. I could now make out the cylindrical walls of this tunnel, which had erstwhile zipped by in a blur. At first glance, whilst still travelling with the dying whirlpool's momentum, those walls resembled what I imagined to be the inside of a well. Once we slowed enough to focus, the reality horrified me to weakness.</p>
<p>
Reaching to grab us were layer upon layer of hands, clawing at the air at our passing. They were caked with peat, blackened, muddy, and rotten; some even possessed skeletal fingers, protruding from the very earth from just beneath the knuckle of the wrist. I just knew that the Undead bodies to which these appendages belonged were attached beyond the wall, compacted in the earth for possibly centuries, all orifices stuffed and suffocated with cloying earth, claustrophobia robbing their sanity decades hence.</p>
<p>
How hard did I pray that they remained thus restricted and did not suddenly find the wherewithal to break free of their vice-like grave? It's no wonder Perveen had so raptly held onto me, encircling me as not to endanger myself at the whim of the protrusive hands, her own eyes tucked into my chest so that she did not have to look upon the horrors.</p>
<p>
The horror compounded as the well's circumference drew in more tightly; the cracked, split fingernails gouged my ankles, hips and elbows, but we were still travelling too swiftly for them to gain any real purchase. Perveen suddenly let go, her flight stalled above me as if she had just opened a parachute. I continued to plummet on my own, panic taking over from logical and reasonable thought. Fortunately, I petrified perfectly vertically, like a vampire javelin, with arms pinned to my sides, toes pointing immediately down, head looking skywards to see my queen following me directly above.</p>
<p>
Centrifugal force kept us as far away from the grasping hands as possible, equidissent from the wall. Then, without warning, the tunnel opened wide again, like the bell of a tuba, the pressure restricting the speed of our descent gone, just like that. Thus, Perveen swirled in a mist around me like a worm-dragon constricting its victim, wrapped her arms around me, this time tucking my cheek into her breast. Immediately, I felt safe and warm and wanted to cry, no longer caring if I lived or died…</p></div>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #993300;">...End of Part Two</span></h3>
<a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/06/billy-came-16.html" title="Chapter 16: Village of the Damned">« « Chapter 16</a>
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/07/billy-came-18.html" title="Billy Came, Chapter 18: A Time For Choices">Chapter 18 » » (W-I-P)</a>
</div>
Jason Darrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382154810168740231noreply@blogger.com1Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-63342830419652556982012-06-30T14:45:00.037-07:002020-12-31T07:14:13.916-08:00Billy Came, Chapter 16<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0100;"><font size="4">16. a, Village of the Damned</font></span></h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
I stood on the ivory stairs and, like a tourist taking in the vastness of the ocean from a seafront promenade for the first time, propped one boot upon a baluster, both hands shoulder-width apart firmly on the ivory railing at my hips.</p>
<p>
The ingenuity that lay around and beyond the staircase, this Eden and the potential it unwittingly proffered, moved me beyond reason. The panorama stretched for mile upon impossible mile in every direction beneath the Earth, beyond the knowledge and the reasoning of the surface dwellers.</p>
<p>
Closer to hand, not far below, now, was the village spreading out from the foot of the staircase. Single storey buildings, circular, no more than 20' across with terracotta tiles meeting at a shallow peak over the centre of the building hugged together in clusters. Dark shadows in the walls suggested glassless windows, also circular.</p>
<p>
The huts, as I had began to think of them, were in blocks of eight, two rows of four, offset from each other to form a loose rhombus. From up here, their layout reminded me of the wheels around which tank tracks rolled. Picket fences between the huts and around the 'block' almost completed the illusion that a World War I Mark V tank had been overturned and left to rust beneath the silver sky.</p>
<p>
Smaller pathways ran lengthways between the blocks, juxtaposed by broader throughfares at their ends. The whole layout portrayed a relaxed grid, the angles ending each row adding to a sense of fluidity. One word struck me as I tried to decipher the pattern: purpose.</p>
<p>
The further we descended, the greater the scope the 360° spiral of our descent afforded us. Many blocks, thoroughfares and, at intersections, larger buildings whose purposes were difficult to determine from up here, made up a complete village. From the staircase with the sun above us at its centre, the effect was both dazzling and dizzying.</p>
<p>
Looking even further, beyond the village's outskirts, mesmerising vistas of the whole breath-taking subterrannean world these creatures had created heaped further mystery upon its creation, and creator(s). Dark, dense woods appeared to support the sky. Shadowy dells and glistening lakes pocked the landscape that ran with speed towards one all-encompassing horizon, which suddenly truncated the world in every direction you cared to look. The view made descending this never-ending rotunda feel like riding the world's grandest and most impossible helter-skelter.</p>
<p>
To the west, rolling plains ran parallel to and beneath the miles of mist that blossomed from an unidentified source beyond the sun above us to form the low, mercurial sky. The further towards the horizon the mists stretched, the angrier their countenance turned, blackening into storm clouds in the far, far distance.</p>
<p>
Where the land eventually met the sky, a true lesson in perspective, shadowy mountains bordered the plains. I wondered what, if anything, lay beyond the mountains, which sat around the horizon like the edge of a long-extinct caldera enclosing the land within. The light from the sun seemed only to offer the landscape's furthest reaches a mere wisp of light, and that only begrudgingly.</p>
<p>
Jutting from within the distant gloom, the mountains' lilac and white peaks soared to puncture the distant thunderheads, ripping a pyrotechnic display of lightning from their swollen bellies unrivalled by any electrical storm I'd ever witnessed above ground.</p>
<p>
As if to prove the view didn't exist for the sake of aesthetics, a clap of thunder buffeted the air in the distance, renting the sky with a visible shockwave. The effect the shockwave imparted was as if we had been plunged underwater, that the clouds were undulating on its surface above, rippling, wave after wave. Then another shock followed, and another. </p>
<p>
The distance, however, was so great that the thunder's echoes were little more than muttered grumbles by the time they reached this safe haven on the staircase. The light from the artificial sun proved the last and determinate barrier to the soundwaves, the thunder dying with the shush of a lazy tide dragging itself back to the sea as it washed over the vampires in the courtyard below.</p>
<p>
Still, it was enough to make them curse and gnash their little 'v's of blackening and rotting teeth, teeth that I suspected had once been fangs to rival those of Perveen's.</p>
<p>
Billy's fangs had, of course, gone the same way as those of the industrious vampires below. I wondered what could cause such degradation, especially given how critical fangs were to vampires' sustenance. Then, I remembered Billy and his Gibben Axe, the way it slipped through my flesh with ease and he'd let the sliver slip down his throat without chewing the slightest bit. And then that I'd done the same; another shudder rippled through me, this one seeming to come from my stone dead heart. </p>
<p>
It all begged the question, what weaponry did these villagers—for that's the impression those scrabbling about below gave me in their rustic and somehow ancient setting—possess that kept them safe? More gruesome still, what was their food? I just hoped that <strong>I</strong> wasn't on today's menu!</p>
<p>
As I turned my eyes from the settling clouds back down to the scene below, I noticed that more droplets of mist had settled on my forearms. I felt nothing from them until I saw the little globules tentatively hanging from the hairs, lying in their natural arc close to the skin.</p>
<p>
Those droplets ignited a strange sensation, sending shivers along my spine. Was it an aftershock of the previous invasion, or an instinctive, habitual reaction to 'cold', perhaps? A bit of both, maybe, but the very mist itself seemed furtive, almost alive. It genuinely felt as if the moisture wanted to burrow into the waxy, leathery coating that was my new skin.</p>
<p>
I hadn't the time to dwell. A gentle reminder, in the form of a hand at each elbow from behind, worked to break the will of the hypnotist. Perhaps the hoodies had also felt the need to break that spell. That sense of sentience subsided once we began moving, continuing our descent.</p>
<p>
The further we meandered downwards—forever downwards—the lesser the immediate glare of the artificial sun impeded vision, affording a better view of what I could only assume was to be my new home. Or at least base camp. The cloud was also thinning around our ankles until, eventually, we were out of the malleable mist altogether; leaving those clinging, miniscule droplets felt like shedding an old skin, invigorating my repressed psyche for the rest of the descent.</p></div>
<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0100;"><font size="4">16. b, The Miracle of Subterrannea</font></span></h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
We approached what felt like the halfway point, whereupon a commotion broke out on the ground below us. There had been silence and stillness as the inhabitants had held their salute position. Then, in an instant, life!, as if a hypnotist had clicked their fingers. The stupor that had beset the community below ever since the clouds had parted to herald our arrival erupted into action, and how!</p>
<p>
The clouds above us began to reform, filtering the glare to a more amenable luminosity. Of everything that had struck me as amazing in such a short space of time, the artificial sun was the most sensational. Had it not changed my attitude the moment I espied it?</p>
<p>
For an interminable time, I had marched along that murky, medieval corridor, my mood as dreary as the grey stone walls, floor and ceiling that coccooned us in the clattering echoes of our footsteps. But after only a short time out on the other side of that dingy rat run, my dark mood had dropped away. In its place, curiosity; nw that I could begin to see more clearly, hope.</p>
<p>
Whoever my 'new' ancestors were, they must have been possessed of any number of singular geniuses between them.</p>
<p>
That was assuming two things: that they, my forebears, did, in fact, create the sun and the world that had sprung up around it. And two, that they were, in fact, dead. For all I knew, they may be living still, like ancient gods in the equivalent of the Olympian temple, but one of their own making.</p>
<p>
On the other hand, they may well have inherited this land as part of a tryst dating back centuries; to the Crusades, perhaps? Or, and neither beyond the realms of possibility, they could have taken this land by force from a far more technologically advanced, albeit passive and at one with nature, species than we.</p>
<p>
For whatever reason, the latter rang truest; I know not why. This theory contradicted my earlier line of thinking about The Ark, but (what now passed for) my gut rumbed both inkling and warning in equal measures.</p>
<p>
No matter how it came to be, this place was miraculous. If any scientist from the mortal world above could cast their eyes over this technological marvel, they would happily die here. As I discovered later, many had done just that. Technically. They had sacrificed their mortal human existence in order to wile away eternity in this ever-evolving melting pot of sciences, learning and postulating for eternity.</p>
<p>
One thing (amongst many others) did strike me as odd. In all my research, the vampire community wasn't. A community, I mean. Individuals they were, by all accounts, not communal beasts. Arrogance and self-import leant itself to a life of isolation and seclusion, almost always making the typical undead creature a lone predator.</p>
<p>
Broods and covens did exist, of course. In each of those, the strongest or eldest vampire most often held sway, self-appointing themselves as the figurehead or deity of the sect. But whenever gathered many personalities who thought themselves great, greatest, all-powerful, there was friction. And for a race, a genus that had to pick new members oh, so carefully, the threat of challenge from within to members with much to teach was surely a trait to avoid.</p>
<p>
But as we neared <em>sub</em> terra, the controversial evidence was plain. Working side by side, almost in a familial sense, were vampires of all ages, all colours. There was harmony and it sang up the stairs to greet us as we're neared the ground.</p>
<p>
I turned around to seek further direction from the hoodies, but they'd disappeared. Again. I stared back up the stairs, but that turned out to be an inadvisable idea. Even though mist was still floating across the sun, its glare blazed off the galaxy of stars trapped within the twisting ivory, refracting light in a kaleidoscope of colours and angles.</p>
<p>
The hoodies could have retraced their steps twenty steps further back towards the sun at the top of the stairs or two hundred. Even with my keen eyesight, it was impossible to determine anything with certainty looking back up the staircase, the sun seeming to cascade downwards, caught in every twinkle, every glint.</p>
<p>
Assuming that the hoodies had not escorted me here just to take in the view, I determined that there was only one direction for me to go.</p>
</div>
<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0100;"><font size="4">16. c, Making an entrance</font></span></h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
At last, I alighted the staircase and set out across the courtyard, with the sole intention of making contact with those I'd seen working close to the foot of the stairs. After all, I assumed they would be my new neighbours and compatriots. But I'll be jiggered; I hadn't taken two steps onto the cobbles when several vampires surged towards, carrying weaved baskets under their arms. Before I could flinch, they began throwing petals ahead of every step I took.</p>
<p>
Panic averted, I tried to engage them in conversation, but they hunkered down to their task, ignoring me. It wasn't as if they couldn't understand me; they were talking to each other in English, but none proferred an answer to my questions.</p>
<p>
The petals were actually from black roses, which looked and felt like midnight velvet; they were laying them before me in huge handfuls. So beautiful, each individual petal, that I tried to avoid stepping on them, but there were so many it was impossible. And when I didn't quite know which direction I was supposed to take at a fork in the path or an intersection in this new world, I had only to follow the newly-laid path of petals as the lowly vampires rushed ahead with basket after basket of gorgeous decadence.</p>
<p>
Giving up trying to dodge the petals, I took the opportunity to study the creatures. With the exception of a young boy with the look of a Dickensian urchin, none were yet to meet my eye. Then, from seemingly nowhere, a question popped into my head: where did Perveen fit in this hierarchy?</p>
<p>
The thought took me so by surprise that I had no choice but to stand stock still and ponder it. So, what did I actually know thus far?</p>
<p>
Clearly, Perveen held a position of prominence within this community; I had seen the evidence of that myself. Her court had hung on her every word upon our arrival; even Billy had bowed in supplication unto her. Any lingering doubt about this particular supposition disappeared when I compared how she carried herself to the humble villagers about me. But had Perveen been undead long enough to make it to the top, slender branches of the Subterranea family tree? Or even just up into its boughs?</p>
<p>
It was obvious she had, but how had she achieved such prominence in a relatively short space of time? Fifteen years or so was the absolute longest she could have been here. And whilst that was a lot longer than I'd been a vampire, compared to others like Billy and The Master, she was a mere infant, and me an embryo.</p>
<p>
I was in the midst of pondering this when, to a vampire, everyone in the vicinity hunkered down onto one knee. Floating somehwere near the top of my conscious mind I realised I'd heard a sound like a thunderclap and, at first, wondered if they were ducking for cover (and if I should follow suit).</p>
<p>
But the sky showed no after effect or shockwave as I'd witnessed earlier from on the staircase. But what I did notice was that, since I'd been stood still off in my own little world, the pathway of petals now stretched all the way across a small square. It looked amazing, but it was what—or who—was waiting at the end of the path of petals that quite literally blew me away.</p>
</div>
<hr />
<a href="http://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/06/billy-came-15.html" title="Chapter 15: The Pleasure and the Pain">« « Chapter 15</a>
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/07/billy-came-17.html" title="Chapter 17: Down, Down, Deeper and Down">Chapter 17 » »</a>
</div>Jason Darrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382154810168740231noreply@blogger.com1Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3754699069649452062.post-80822269371712913782012-06-30T14:30:00.007-07:002020-06-10T16:53:17.869-07:00Billy Came, Chapter 15<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0100;"><font size="4">15. a, The Pleasure and the Pain</font></span></h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
The mists, those that were fogging my mind, cleared in an instant; focus returned and I turned it with full force to the task at hand, namely working out whether I was to meet my new people or the executioner. All those thoughts of Vlad and The Grail disspated, leaving a hollow where they'd been. That void then filled, too, its ragged edges drawn together by the vacuum that the departure of impossible musings had created.</p>
<p>
Once more I led the descent down the splendid spiral staircase, taking in its beauty as best as I could. Behind me, the two hoodies matched my every step, their footfall echoing mine from only a yard or two behind me.</p>
<p>
The turbulent mist had similarly cleared overhead; the artificial sun sat blazing above us, so intense that I almost didn't notice that the clouds were now following us down the stairs, billowing around our ankles as if somehow directed towards us. No, that wasn't quite right; the mist seemed sentient, as if it belonged to a remote larger organic being.</p>
<p>
From out of nowhere, I began tittering to myself; the impromptu mirth soon became a full bellied laugh. It had suddenly occurred to me that, to anyone watching (and I had the unnerving feeling that someone was), I would look like a guest on a '70s chat show, descending onto the floor of a TV set in a cascade of cloud, borne of dry ice hidden out of sight in the wings. Where that thought had originated, I knew absolutely not.</p>
<p>
Trying to regain control, I forced myself to looked down at my feet (for the want of any better notion). Surprisingly. it worked; but only because, within in a second, I was mesmerised. The sun's rays, plundering the mist at my ankles, picked out opalescent, mother of pearl and aurora borealis pigments embedded within the ivory staircase, glinting furiosly now that the sun was at full muster.</p>
<p>
Millions of sparks, like November fireworks or the first frost forming amidst tarmac's nooks and crannies in early winter, were reflecting and refracting beneath my feet and beneath my palm as it passed over the pallid banister. The entire static structure became fluid, twinkling as if the sculptor had trapped a whole galaxy at the beginning of creation in the very stone when they had begun carving this incredible staircase. From some way off—in another life, perhaps—I imagined canned studio applause ringing in my ears as my mind began to wander again.</p>
<p>
Before it could wander too far, it was snapped back to reality (or what passed for reality, now). In an instant, the cloud had taken on a bitter cold edge, so cold that it felt 'angry'. Mist settled on my forearm, inflicting a sudden shooting pain. It felt as if a rattlesnake had snapped its jaws around the muscle, proceeded to dig its teeth in deep, puncturing veins, dispatching its venom to seep into my very bones and was finally leaving a hollow numbness in its wake.</p>
<p>
Wait! Vampires don't feel the cold, I told myself, so how could a cloud, cold or otherwise, inflict me? The numbness was beginning to spread, making it difficult to think. But, as I forced myself to believe the pain couldn't be real, the numbness began to subside; in a moment or two, the ache was but a memory. A nasty memory, but gone, just the same.</p>
<p>
Struggling to decipher the mystery, the answer came to me suddenly, as if carved into my mind by a bolt of lightning. The answer heralded from the same unidentified quarter whence I'd earlier heard the 'applause'. I thought I'd only imagined that audience; now, I wondered. Yes, there was a definite source, but it was neither tangible nor visible, at least not from this vantage point so high up on the spiralling staircase.</p>
<p>
Some unidentifiable someone—unknown, but somehow familiar—had implanted the sensation of pain into my mind. Not only the sensation, but the imagery of the snake, its jaws and the venom to accompany it. The bite had felt wholly real and physical, even down to the spreading numbness.</p>
<p>
The 'pain' must have been my mind's reaction, likely out of habit, to that synaptic invasion. Or perhaps to the touch on my mind itself, as if someone had slipped their hands between my skull and brain and had began to massage the nodes, all the while wearing barbed wire gloves to convey the sensation, which wasn't all (but mostly) unpleasant.</p>
<p>
So, vampires can feel pain, then, albeit not in the traditional sense, namely through a physical act. Should I have been offended that whoever wielded this power had tried to shock me? If they had wanted to hurt me with any conviction, they could have done so, of that I was certain. With that power at their disposal, they had the capacity to stave off my amateurish act of self defence, and some. But they had desisted as soon as I resisted them.</p>
<p>
Had I got it wrong? Could it be that they didn't possess the power with which I credited them? Or could it be that their power had a range and that I fell just outside it? Absolutely not. I felt them retract the sensation as soon as they knew I'd received their message; they had more in their arsenal and were satisfied enough in the knowledge that I knew so!</p>
<p>
But offended by the attack? No, I was fascinated. What's more, hungry. Imagine having such a power, to be able to implant pain into someone's mind, let alone remotely, but from a distance? For a moment, I did.</p></div>
<h2>
<span style="color: #cc0100;"><font size="4">15. b, Who is Thine Enemy?</font></span></h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<p>
For the first time, a yearning for the power with which vampires are endowed engulfed me, entirely. Yes, I'd already toyed with bending sight. I was also working on Slippage, and with some limited success, to date. I'd even ran so fast across rooftops that it was tanatamount to flying. But this ability to control what someone is thinking to the point that it causes them physical pain (albeit implied)? This was another level of supernatural, a power akin to divinity.</p>
<p>
I halted suddenly, and stood there a second, for two reasons. First, I was trying to work out how one could conjure this very special trick. But also, the shock of the 'bite' had, metaphorically, stolen my very breath. I needed my body to catch up with my mind and vice versa.</p>
<p>
Thankfully, I think the hoodies were as distracted by the view from the staircase as I had been. Maybe they were as unfamiliar with this level beneath the main house as I. At any rate, I felt no sudden prod in the back for me to proceed.</p>
<p>
Using this respite, I applied logic to the process of the mind pain implantation based on what I'd felt. It wasn't as straightforward as trying to work out why a slap on the wrist stung so.</p>
<p>
After several moments reflection, I deduced that this talent would work only if the type of pain the perpetrator was trying to inflict reflected the victim's situation, or something from their past. For me, I happened to feel the 'pain' at the place where the scar from one of Billy's incisions was still visible on my arm. Coupled with the image of the snake that the perpertrator 'sent' with the instruction to my brain to sense pain, it really had felt as though I had been bitten. Not only bitten, but had felt the venom coarsing through my veins, too.</p>
<p>
I futher deduced that the sadist imparting the pain would also need to have established a prior connection with the victim's mind. With a sense of familiarity of the attacker, the victim's brain's defences wouldn't rear up at the recognition of their presence. Animals, dogs in particular, excel in this trait.</p>
<p>
Upon that realisation, it was as if another jigsaw had fallen into place, this one at the behest of an invisible hand. Given my specialist knowledge of vampires prior to becoming one, I knew that legend suggests that one has to invite a vampire into their home before the vampire's powers can take effect. Similarly, when Harker had arrived at Castle Dracula, the Count was like a study in stone until Harker extended pleasantries. Yet further, there were countless accounts of the Count assuming the shape of a wolf to take into account. The impression of a higher level of sense, an animalistic sense, was too great to ignore.</p>
<p>
But my reasoning suggested more than simple familiarity at play, here. In order for this talent to work, the perpertrator would also need to be able to 'see' the situation in which the victim found themselves, like viewing a live feed of events. Without making the type of pain relevant to the victim, wasn't it likely that any sensation would seem so alien and disassociated with their predicament that it would have no effect upon them? Yes, relevance was key to making remote pain work, too.</p>
<p>
Assuming that my forensic process was correct, and I had a strong feeling it was, that meant I already knew my attacker, even if I couldn't yet identify them. The strong feeling of familiarity I felt at the 'touch' of the invasion, a solicitous feeling, like returning to an ex-lover's bed while they were in a relationship with (an absent) someone else, bore out the logic. What that meant for me in the future, I had no idea. The shudder that wracked my body this time was real.</p>
<p>
But, my situation aside for a moment, just imagine if all those factors aligned and you were devout on hurting someone. The torture that someone who possessed that power could administer—without even having to get near the victim—would be unimaginable, interminable, deadly. And the victim wouldn't know to defend themselves until it was too late to do anything about it.</p>
<p>
The next logical step was, of course, to discover who here would want to cause me pain, or to at least send a message that they could, should they so desire. I tried to recapture the feeling of familiarity that was wrapped around the intrusion. Even through the barbs, their touch was still frustratingly intangible, like smelling a certain brand of perfume as you walked alomg the street, then trying to remember of whom the scent reminded you. But the harder I tried to identify the attacker, the quicker their essence slipped away into the shadows of memory, like a raindrop dissipating into a reservoir, a full-blown dream shrinking down to the echo-blip of the Big Bang on a Cathode Ray Tube television set, before blinking out completely.</p>
<p>
Perhaps more pressing, I needed to establish how I could protect myself should whoever was responsible for the 'snakebite' decide to try to take another nip. That process, I decided, was likely to be more difficult than finding out the perpertrator in the first instance. And, perhaps, more disturbing if it was someone whom I'd previously thought of as a friend. After all, who else but someone who knew me would feel the need to get inside my mind?</p></div>
<hr />
<a href="http://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/06/billy-came-14.html" title="Chapter 14: 'The Goth and the road to Eastern Europe'">« « Chapter 14</a>
<div style="text-align: right;"><a href="http://undeadvoices.blogspot.com/2012/06/billy-came-16.html" title="Village of the Damned">Chapter 16 » »</a>
</div>Jason Darrellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382154810168740231noreply@blogger.com1Bridge Rd, Tipton DY4 0JN, UK52.5381568 -2.040813924.227922963821158 -37.1970639 80.848390636178848 33.1154361