Downfall VIII: Anonymous (#Fiction Friday)

This is part 8 of the Downfall Series.  To read the rest of the instalments, please click HERE.  To read from the first episode, please click HERE.

Thank you for reading, and your feedback is greatly appreciated!


Stepping into the captain’s office my headache is nearly tripled in force as the onslaught of incense and oils the man has gathered wash over me like a tidal wave.  He is trying new relaxation techniques and has even gotten into Feng Shui.  I guess being the compact man that he is, an Asian wife made sense, but his dedication to going the whole nine is a bit much.  He has wall scrolls, banzai trees, and those guardian lions.  The problem for me is he has no idea that nearly every piece of his collection comes from a different Asian country.  The least he could do is pick one and stick to it instead of creating a salad bar of Far East culture. 

That, and it really does smell like shit.

“Good morning, captain,” I say, stepping across the office and taking a seat next to the coroner.  Continue reading

3 Line Tales, Week 3: Cheshire

This is my submission for 3 Line Tales, Week 3.  I’m sorry Sonya, I went over by a line… I  had to.  I am all for being flogged if necessary.

I used a quote this week.  Looking up at that moon, the idea struck me like a lightning bolt.  One of my most beloved characters in one of the greatest stories ever told.  I couldn’t resist. Continue reading

Charlotte’s Story ~ A Story from 10 Words

For details regarding the series: A Story from 10 Words, please read my about page, and feel free to contact me with your own 10 words and I will write you a story!

If you would like to read some of the other submissions, please check out the series page!


This week’s submission came from the lovely girlygeekgirl, please stop by and check out her blog when you have time!  She is an extremely prolific writer and has something different and interesting put up for each day of the week!

Her submission details were as follows:

Words: Map, lost, gold, treasure, royal, ancient, flower, sparkle, smile, mystery

Theme: Disney’s The Little Mermaid

Song: “Colourful” by Rocco Deluca and the Burden

This is the story I created from it:

Continue reading

Othersiders: Arts of the Necromancer – Pt.9 (#Fiction Friday)

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Evelyn sat staring at the book, willing the words to make sense and failing with each passing moment.  Her brow was furrowed in frustration and her tired eyes were red with strain.  She tapped the table with a pencil in a quick, furious rhythm that caused many of the people sitting around her to cast evil glances in her direction, but she neither noticed nor cared.  The book had been a immense puzzle from the moment she opened it and not a single piece had been properly put into place.  Her answers were not coming. 

Finian pulled out a chair, sat down next to Evelyn, and he tried to make himself as small as he could.  He had spent as much time as he could in study hall the last few days, getting miles ahead in his homework for the first time in his life, all in an effort to avoid watching Evelyn bash her head against the proverbial brick wall.  He had found the book for her, but he wished more and more that he had just left the cursed thing in that evil shop with each passing day.  He wanted to remain unnoticed for as long as possible, not wanting to disturb Evelyn’s concentration, but he knew she knew he was there.  He was only really fooling himself, which is what he was best at. Continue reading

Lauren’s Story ~ A Story From 10 Words

For those of you unfamiliar with the series: A Story from 10 Words, please check my about page for details.

This weeks submission gave me these words to work from: 10 words – love, happy, soccer, triumph, motivated, green, Vedder (as in Eddie), endless, run, and beach; (ii) Theme – thriller; (iii) Song – “Let It Be” by the Beatles.

So, without further ado, here is: Lauren’s Story

 

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“You won’t get away with this, you bitch!” the man shouts from his low-backed leather chair.  Restrained as he is, his threats are a bit empty.

The woman turns to him, the waves of her tawny hair swishing back over her shoulder as she does, and gives him a wry smile.  She saunters toward him, her cranberry sheath cocktail dress hugging her body and the leg slit showing more of her thigh than makes the man comfortable.  His pulse quickens as she approaches and the smell of roses and jasmine fill his nose.  The long, toned body of the woman in the form fitting dress stirs him in ways he wishes he could suppress, but nature is not within a man’s control. 

“My dear Phillips, I will get away with it.  I can promise you that,” she says, her steel blue eyes smiling at him. 

“Others have tried and failed,” he growls.

“I’m more motivated,” she says slyly.

She sets her handbag down and reaches up behind her neck to unfasten the collar of her dress.  She pulls it down and slowly shakes her head at the old man, whose mouth has dropped open.  Spittle forms at the corners and he starts licking his lips, eyes wide.  She laughs at him and he soon learns why. 

“Don’t look so happy.  You aren’t going to get a show, you old pervert.”  The mockery in her voice brings a sneer to his lips.  As she pulls the dress over her chest and slides it down to her ankles he sees that she has a tight fitting body suit on underneath it.  She pops open her hand bag and pulls out a small plug.  Air decompresses from within the bag and the woman extracts a black lycra body suit. 

The woman slides off her high heels and steps into the body suit.  While her new outfit will not fend off bullets, it can withstand knives and most other stabbing weapons.  She pulls the zipper up her back and slides her hands into a pair of black leather gloves.  She produces a set of small knives from the handbag as well and then starts pulling at the bag, twisting it around until it transforms before the man’s eyes.  The woman wraps it around her waist, clipping it in front of her and sliding the knives back into a set of small holsters at her hips.  The bag has turned into a belt. 

“For a man adept at stealing things, you should have seen this coming.”  She says. “But then again, you’ve always lacked the proper motivation to steal things first hand.  You have little servants that do that for you, don’t you?  Well, now you know what it looks like close up.” 

The woman leans close to the chair, her wavy hair brushing his face and her sweet smell assaulting him.  He shifts his lower half around, trying to fight off nature, but the flush in his cheeks is giving him away. 

“This letter,” she says, holding a yellowed piece of paper, vacuum-sealed in plastic, “didn’t belong to you.  You stole it from hard working people who came by it honestly.”  She places her lean, strong hand on his cheek and then clamps down on his chin.  “So I am taking it from you.” 

“And that makes you the same as me.” 

The woman smiles at him wolfishly, her steely eyes shining. 

“Oh, I’m so much better than you, pumpkin.”  The smile fades, accentuating the lines of her slender face, and the intensity of her glare makes the man shudder.  She draws back, placing the letter into a pouch that she attaches to her abdomen. 

“You stole this for the love of money.  I’m stealing it back for the love of discovery.  You see, I’m going to make sure the people who found this letter in the first place are taken care of.  After that, the rest of the find will go to a museum, where it belongs.” 

The man laughs, his jowls shaking along with his pot belly. 

“Thieves of a different stripe.  That is all those museum types are.  They’ll sell off small pieces of it to fund their operation, just you wait and see.” 

The woman picks up the heels she had worn into the room and twists the stems off.  Connecting them together brings a soft beep and she places the connected pieces on the man’s oak desk.  She looks around and sighs.  It will be a shame to destroy so many wonderful books. 

The old man’s eyes shoot wide and he blinks rapidly. 

“What is that,” he asks in a whisper. 

“A going away present,” she answers, scooping up her dress and stuffing it into a pouch of her belt. 

She steps around the desk and feels about underneath it until she finds the button she is looking for.  Pressing it a secret drawer ejects and she finds a pair of pistols with the words, Mother Mary, etched into them.  She takes out the two guns, along with the extra clips she finds, and winks at the old man.

“Keeping these for when you find yourself in times of trouble?”  She laughs openly.  “I guess that’s right now, but seeing as how they won’t do you any good, I’m going to borrow them.  Hope you don’t mind.” 

She steps back around the desk and gives him one last look.

“You killed a dozen people to get this letter.  I would hand you over to the police to deal with, but we all know what kind of sentence people with your kind of money would serve.  So I guess it’s only fitting to show you the same mercy you showed them.” 

The old man bares his teeth at her, spitting in her direction and thrashing at his bonds. 

“Filthy cunt!  You think to kill me?  Do you know who I am!” 

Striding past him she casts her voice back over her shoulder. 

“Who you were, old man.  Who you were.” 

His shouting voice assaults her as she leaves him in the study and she knows the six guards still need to be dealt with.  The man had not wasted his time shouting before because he had told them to leave them in peace.  He had foolishly assumed a woman in a cocktail dress that tight could not possibly be concealing a weapon.  He had been very wrong. 

From the second floor landing she sees the first two and decides it is time to get the party started.  Her lithe, athletic body was built for this part of the job.  A lifelong soccer addict who spent her days working her body into top form, this part would be a piece of cake.  Taking off at a sprint, she runs toward the staircase, raising the pistols as she goes, and she puts a spray of bullets into both men before they can think to raise their weapons. 

She reaches the staircase and puts her back to the wall.  The third guard comes rushing into the room and she mows him down before mounting the banister and sliding down to the first floor. 

Three down.  Three to go. 

She takes no joy in killing these men, but she does not have the luxury to hesitate.  They would murder her without a second thought, so it is kill or be killed.  She will take the former, thank you. 

Shouts and panic are exploding from the next room and she knows that the last three are trying to organise.  She will need to make that a bit more difficult.  Bursting into the entry way, all three heads turn toward her in stunned shock.  She presses a button at her belt and the study where she left the old man erupts, shaking the house to the foundation and levelling the rear half of the complex.

She brings the pistols up and starts firing, killing one man and winging another.  Then the pistols click dry and she realises she does not have the time to reload them.  The man she winged is down on the ground so she drops the pistols to the ground and rushes the one still standing.  His eyes flare and he starts to fumble with his automatic rifle. 

Still green, this one. 

He is bringing the rifle to bear, but he raises it too slow.  She slaps the barrel down, draws one of the knives from her hip, and drives it into his jugular.  She rips the gun from his hand, turns her head to the man nursing his arm and fires a volley of bullets at him as she walks away, Eddie Vedder’s voice floating about in her mind.

You’re still alive, she said

Oh, and do I deserve to be

Is that the question

And if so…if so…who answers…who answers…

The house continues to collapse in series of endless eruptions and she picks up her pace.  She gets out the front door just as the fire and destruction begin to flare out of control and a bullet comes flying in from the left.  She hits the deck and starts to scan the area when a black BMW M3 comes speeding in, clipping the assailant, and sending the man sailing into the night. 

The car pulls up and the passenger door flies open. 

“You missed one,” a voice says from the drivers seat. 

The woman gets up and steps into the car.  As she slides into the seat she leans over and kisses the man driving the car. 

“No, love, I didn’t miss him.  I was leaving you one.” 

She smiles at the man.  Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, he turns toward the road and peels out of the driveway as the mansion erupts a second time and the whole building begins to collapse.   

“Did you get it then?” he asks.

“I did,” she replies with a smile.

She peels the letter from the pouch on her abdomen and shows it to him. 

“The San Miguel, babe.  This is going to lead us to it.  How does a few months on the beach sound?”

The man in the driver’s seat bites his lower lip and lays into the accelerator, a look of triumph caked on his face.    

The prospect of billions of dollars in treasure can do that.


If you would like your own story, please feel free to contact me with 10 words, a theme (it can be a genre, favourite movie or book) and a song and I will write you a story as well!  I am open to any and all submissions!  They are posted every Sunday.  

Next Sunday (14th February) will be Charlotte’s Story.  Look forward to it please!

Three Line Tales: Only Meat.

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I’m white with brown spots and you’re brown with white spots.

Why the hell does colour even matter?

We’re all just meat.


 

This is my submission to Only 100 Words blog event/challenge.  This is round one of this challenge, so be gentle with me.  I agree with A Little Bit of Nervous Energy, this is a great brain challenge!

If you would like to join the challenge please visit Sonya’s blog here.  I hate to sound like a parrot, but I concur again with my fellow poster, you should spend some time looking through her works as well.  She does marvellous things with so very few words.  I have to ramble on to get to the punch.  She does it in a paragraph.  Colour me jealous.

Downfall VII: Holier Than Thou (#Fiction Friday)

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A Lake Without Water

“How does one quantify a life?”

A crowd of black clad mourners stands in the pouring rain, taking in the words of the soaking priest with blank expressions.  The rheumy eyed man drones on, the lower half of his cassock clinging to his body and water hammering his umbrella, drowning out his words.  That the woman had been murdered in the rain and was now about to be buried in the same circumstances escaped no one present, least of all the man delivering her eulogy.

God works in mysterious ways.   

“In second Corinthians four, verses seventeen and eighteen, the scripture tells us not to focus on the struggles of the flesh, “for light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

“And so we entrust our sister’s body to the earth, not in sadness, but in joy.  For we here gathered understand and believe wholeheartedly that the world to which she will now be commended, the unseen world for which all true believers are bound, is eternal.  It is a place of peace and rest.  A place where she may lay her many labours aside and rejoice in the glory of the Lord!” 

Scanning the crowd, the father’s face begins to constrict.  He is met with indifference and boredom.  They no more believe in the salvation of God than magic or fairy tales, these servants of gold and earthly riches.  They stand before this grave a mockery, spitting in the face of the Almighty.

Their fallen companion was no better.  She had been baptised in his church many years ago but had not attended in nearly 10 years.  The moment the choice had become hers she ceased to turn up.  Only on holidays where the rest of the family came together did she deem God worthy of her time.  She had chosen the rewards of the flesh and now she would lie with the maggots.  Opening his pale hands to them and narrowing his eyes he continues, struggling to contain the true words he wished to unleash upon these charlatans.

Lukewarm.  You are all lukewarm and will be spewed from the mouth of the Saviour.  Spewed like the self-serving sycophants you are.  Filth. 

“As for ourselves, we must take comfort in first Thessalonians four, verses seventeen and eighteen, “After that, we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.  And so we will be with the Lord forever.  Therefore encourage one another with these words.” 

The hymn was sung after and the burial ceremony began.  The priest stood with his bony hands clasped before him, starting at the gathered crowd from his pale, hallowed face, and wondering if they had caught the subtle message he sent in his last words.  He highly doubted it.  Sinners that they were they could not raise themselves up from the filth long enough to understand the true magnificence of God.  This lot was the very reason he had had to struggle so mightily to build his church.  The congregation had money enough to go around, and yet the tithes had always come back short of expectation.  Why?  Because tangible sin is so much more enjoyable than the intangible promise of salvation. 

A slow smile spread from his lips and his gray eyes narrowed. 

Great shall be my reward.  I cannot say the same for the likes of you. 

The crowd began to disburse and the priest stood long, allowing the taint of vanity and selfishness to wash away before he could perform his final duty.  He would need one final conversation with the woman before he could be satisfied that the work of his station had been fulfilled.  When the last of the attendees were out of sight he began.

“Alone now, I shall take your final confession,” he began in a voice laced with hate.  “As you are unable to give it of your own accord I shall have to make assumptions as to what you may have said. 

“Forgive me father, for I have abandoned the Lord and made my own self master.  Pride and greed are my sins and I have revelled in them like a pig in shit.  I have spat on your name and sought my own rewards here on earth, caring nothing for the heavenly riches I should have striven for whole heartedly.  I shared the temple you created of my flesh with any man willing to worship it and I disregarded almost every commandment you laid forth, casting off the burden of righteous living and choosing instead the path of least resistance and greatest worldly pleasure.” 

The priest took a deep breath and his lip began to twitch into a snarl.  The next part he could not twist or allow to be tainted.  It would make him as guilty as she and he would not allow her sins to drag him into hell.  He would see the face of God, even if this selfish whore would not.

“You are forgiven, child.  Now go with God.” 

The priest’s tongue felt heavy and he licked at the roof of his mouth as if the words he had spoken were distasteful to him.  Staring down at the woman’s grave he found himself filled with rage and hate.  It was people like her who had forced him to do the things he had done.  Her sins had brought him down.  If she had given as she should have, none of it would have happened. 

Lost in thought, the priest never heard the man approaching from the rear.  He registered a sudden swift whooshing sound and then the world exploded in a firework of pain and colour.  He fell to his knees in the sloppy mud, felt the back of his skull cracking open like an egg shell, and his brain began misfiring hundreds of millions of last second messages.  He needed to know that he was in pain, that his head had been caved in from behind, and that several pieces of skull bone had pierced his brain.  He needed to know he was dying there in the mud. 

Only God knows if he understood. 

A man clad in all black stepped around the priest, a piece of carbon steel piping in his gloved hand.  He carried a black umbrella in the other hand and he stared down at the dying priest in disgust.

“Sanctimonious falsifier.  You cast your eyes down upon others, but it will be you who stands first in line for the great lake.” 

The priest’s mouth hung slack and his eyes glassed over.  Drool began to run down his chin and onto the soaking ground as the man with the umbrella leaned in closer. 

“You are not forgiven, wolf.  Now go to hell.” 

The priest breathed his last breath, collapsing face first into the mud and the muck.  The man with the umbrella tossed the steel pipe down on top of the fallen priest before disappearing into the gathering storm, whistling the tune to A Lake Without Water as he went.


To the loyal readers of this series, welcome back and sorry for the delay.  Life, as they say, got in the way.  I also had a mighty struggle over who my black clad friend would kill next.  It took me a while to be satisfied with the target and now I am.  Thoroughly.

Update on scheduling:

Downfall is one of two series I am developing on this site and a new episode will be released every other Friday on what will now be entitled, “Fiction Friday.”  Posts on Fridays will alternate between Downfall and Othersiders from now on.

Next Friday (February 12th) will be the next episode of Othersiders.  The next instalment of Downfall, in which our faithful friend the detective finally finds a large clue that will help to unravel the true motive of our umbrella buddy, will be released on the 19th of February.  

Thank you so much for reading and, as always, I appreciate your feedback and support! 

Framboise’s Story ~ A Story from 10 Words

For those of you unfamiliar with the series: A Story from 10 Words, please check my about page for details.

This weeks submission gave me these words to work from:

10 words: unknowingly, sailor, night, trinkets, sapphire, drastic, luminescent, loon, velocity, circular / Genre: slasher / Song: I Was Young When I Left Home by Bob Dylan

And this is the story I produced from it.  This week does not have an accent, but I would like to pay homage to the Silent Hill video game series for my inspiration on the setting.  I hope you enjoy it!

*Images are not owned by the author and are used without permission.  Any and all lyrics contained within that reference the song submitted were not done so with intent to plagiarise*

 


 

She awoke to a nightmare.

Blood ran from the walls of her room like sap down the tree of death and all around the smell of murder began to accost her.  A sudden and unrelenting need to flee took hold of her and she bolted from the room without a second thought.  Her bare feet slipped and slid through a mucus like substance she could guess at, but refused to look down to confirm.  Putting one hand to her nose and mouth to shut out the smell of putrefaction while also keeping her desire to vomit down, she grasped at the door handle that led from her room only to have it shoot out of her grasp.

Momentum carried her forward and she collided with the door, causing it to burst into a cloud of rot and filth.  She landed on her side just beyond the frame of the door and slid nearly ten feet through what she now knew for a fact was a mixture of blood, entrails and excrement.

Cursing and in a state of wild panic she leapt back to her feet.  She could feel the filth she had fell into coating her arm and her back, but she could not afford to focus on that.  She had to escape.  That was the only thought that continued to repeat in her mind like it was being beaten from a drum.

Run.  Escape.  Run.  Escape.  

She blinked back the fear and started to look around.  She was outside.  How had she gotten outside?  She turned back to the doorway and saw that her room was now a cube floating in space.  Above it hovered a large bowl that was overflowing with gore, and a large skull hung just above the bowl with bright sapphire eyes and a savage grin.  The blood that spilled over the edges of the bowl and coated her room was pouring forth from the skull’s gaping mouth.  She could not fight back the feeling in her stomach any longer and she added to the stench with her own vomit.

This was hell.

Just then a tinkling sound reached her ears and she spun back the other direction.  She was faced with an impossibly large, luminescent moon.  It shined down from the night sky like a diamond lying on a sheet of onyx, lighting up everything about her.  She took in her surroundings and her heart began to pound.  Sweat ran down her face in streams and all the muscles in her fingers began to twitch.

This can’t be real.  This has to be a dream

She was staring at a run down carnival.  The lights blinked on an off and the rides moved slowly about their business as if they had been waiting just for her.  Strange music tinkled from music boxes but they had the sound of being hundreds of years out of repair.  All the notes were off, either too high or too low, and a scratching sound ran underneath it all, almost like a record player that was being jostled.  The lights were wrong too, some had burnt out and others were impossibly bright.  Rust caked everything and the smell of caramel and sugar blended in with the ferric scents that had filled her nose previously.  All of this did nothing to help her fight off her nausea.

Going forward meant walking into the carnival.  Going back meant going into a pool of blood. Where the hell does one go when one has nothing but death to choose from?  She chose the carnival.  She would come to regret that decision rather soon.

Stepping onto the midway she looked to her left and right.  There were games and attractions offering prizes.  Many were just the usual shiny trinkets that one takes home from the carnival but others were not.  She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw a dart throwing game.  It offered a large teddy bear dressed in a sailor’s uniform as a prize.  That was not what shocked her.  In place of balloons were human hearts.  Human hearts that were still pumping blood all over the board they were pinned to.

Wake up.  Please, God, wake up.  

“Ah, you want to go home so soon?  But you just got here!”

The manic voice comes from behind her and she knows better than to look.  Everyone with half a mind would know what is back there.  Trapped in a nightmare like this, could it be anything other than a clown?  Is there any place more fitting than this for one such as he to exist.  Still, she spins and comes face to face with the loon.

He is tall and lanky, face covered in paint, but it is the drastic contrast between his head and the rest of his body that leaves her in stunned silence.  He is naked save for a lace neckpiece and all his parts are mismatched, purple, bloated, and stitched together with puss leaking out of him from a hundred different places.  His face is pristinely painted and a huge smile spreads across it but the haphazardly stitched together body is what truly terrifies her.

Why?  Why am I seeing this?  Why… why… why….WHY!?  

“Now, now,” he says with a smile that only the truly insane can muster, “you are hurting my feelings!”  He laughs, forcing yellow fluid to ooze out of the stitches covering his body, and she fights off the desire to soil herself.

Run, damn you!  Run!

She runs.  Turning her back on the clown, she heads deeper into the nightmare.  She bolts past a ferris wheel that looks like a roasting spit with a fire blazing beneath it and carousels with flayed human beings bobbing up and down with horses sitting on their backs.  She goes past a whack-a-mole game that features real live moles and actual hammers and finds herself unknowingly headed toward the house of mirrors.

No, no, no.  That is a terrible idea. 

She slows to think and then hears a circular saw fire up behind her and she knows who wields it.

No choice.  No fucking choice. 

She enters the house of mirrors and knows she has been corralled here, led like cattle, and that the butcher is only a few steps behind.  She twists and turns, hearing his sick laughter behind her and a new thought comes cascading into her brain.

You can’t outrun him.  He’ll catch you.  You have to fight him.  Kill him.

She stops and faces a million versions of herself reflected in the mirrors – some short, some tall, some thin, and some fat.  The question is, is there a killer amongst them?  Of all the versions of her, can she find one strong enough to face this nightmare? She hears him coming and a calm comes over her.  I have to face it.

“The itsy bitsy Popet ran in a frantic fit,” the clown sang, his voice high and impossibly happy.  “Down came the happy man to slice her all to bits.  Out came the hack saw to make her into mince meat, and the itsy bitsy Popet was gobbled up hands and feet.”

She waits, knowing the demon will not make this easy.  She has nothing to fight with, but this is her nightmare.  She will think of something or die trying.

The clown comes smashing through the mirrors in a shower of glass, his perfectly painted face smiling for all the world like death was a pleasant afternoon stroll.  The circular saw spits out smoke from behind it as he swings it down toward her head.  She dives forward, just under his arching swing and rolls toward the other side.  Her shoulders and back are cut up from the broken glass and an idea strikes her.  She glances around and finds what she needs, waiting for her attacker to come back.

“Now, Popet, it isn’t nice to run from your Uncle Smiley.  Come on over and give us a kiss, bitch,” he says, his voice high and bright.

He raises the circular saw over his head and she lunges right at him, driving a large piece of glass right under his chin and into the back of his throat.  Blood cakes her hand and she knows she has cut herself deep, but the velocity of the blood now gushing from the clown’s neck tells her he is hurt much worse.

She leaps back and watches as the clown falls to his back.  His body twitches and blood continues to sputter from his wound for several moments.  She draws breath in heavy, shaking gasps as her fingers continue to twitch.  She can feel blood running down the fingers of her right hand and knows she will need to dress the wound if she does not want to get an infection.  This thought alone drives her to a manic laughter.  This entire nightmare is one never-ending infection.

A slow clicking sound begins to register in her ears and she turns to face a man in a brown suit with a bowler hat and a half smoked cigar hanging from his mouth.  His amber skin and golden eyes tells her this man is far more dangerous than the clown could ever have hoped to be.  She begins looking around for another piece of glass when bowler hat shook his head slowly.

“I ain’t your enemy, girlie.  So don’t bother.  I come to send you home.”

She looks at him in disbelief.  How could he send her out of her own nightmare?  The man steps closer and she realises that she cannot raise her arms.  She is paralysed.

“It’s time to pawn that watch and chain, little missy.”  He places a warm hand over her eyes.  “Now, go on home.”


 

Sitting up bolt right in her bed she looks left and right for signs of blood and finds only the room she has always known.  She takes a deep breath and steadies herself.  A laugh escapes her lips, sad and relieved at the same time, and she wipes a cold sweat from her brow.

It was just a dream

Then she holds her right hand in front of her face and finds a long scar running down her palm.

In the distance she can hear Bob Dylan singing as a shiver runs down her spine.

I don’t like it in the wind
Wanna go back home again
But I can’t go home thisaway
Thisaway, Lord Lord Lord
And I can’t go home thisaway” 

The voice of the bronze man fills her ears and she begins to tremble.

“You done well, Popet, but you ain’t done yet.  No, no.  You ain’t done yet.”

She lets out a scream known only to the damned.  The nightmare was not over.

It had only just begun.


 

If you would like your own story, please feel free to contact me with 10 words, a theme (it can be a genre, favourite movie or book) and a song and I will write you a story as well.  They are posted every Sunday.  

Next Sunday (7th February) will be Lauren’s Story.  Look forward to it please!