Friday 27 January 2012

Would You Rather?

thethemeis: The Grass is Greener
theauthoris: Deadbeat

"Megan Fox.....with no limbs, or no face?"

Craig pondered the question a little, he always had to fill out the details, make the thing more believable. "So does she have any facial features at all?"

"No eyes, no nose & no mouth. So that's blowjobs out of the question."

"What about ears and hair?"

"She can have hair, but no ears. Like a shop mannequin with a wig on."

Craig smiled a little to himself as the image sank in. "I'd go with no face, can you imagine doing it with someone who has no limbs? It'd be a logistical nightmare, like fucking a pillow."

"Are fucking kidding me, you'd do the mannequin! This isn't just any face we're talking about, it's Megan Fox. I'd still smash her back doors in if she was covered in dog shit."

"But that's just you Andy, you're an old romantic at heart." Typical sarcy little prick. "What about you Dan, no face or no limbs?"

I'd almost forgot the guy was in the room, you couldn't blame me. He hadn't said anything for about 20 minutes and he just sat there starring at his jack & coke as if he were about to fling the thing across the room at any second. Don't get me wrong, I don't dislike the guy it's just that he's always been much more Craig's friend than mine. The two of them worked together at some shitty service industry job years ago, the first job Craig got whilst we were still at school and being the good samaritan Craig is he adopted the loser with no friends. But even after Craig moved on he kept in contact with the guy. The joke is that Dan's still there doing the same shitty little job. Mind you, the good thing about Dan even back then was that he had his own place. It's just a small bungalow in the middle of bloody nowhere, but it was all you needed for a weekend drinking session. Even long after Craig and I had both moved out of our parents houses we regularly came down here to shoot the shit and give our livers a pounding.

"I dunno, faceless I guess." Dan mumbled into his half empty glass.

"You too!" I couldn't believe these two. "May I just remind you that have a choice between burying your bone in quite arguably the worlds sexiest woman or throwing one up some faceless freak. It's Megan fucking Fox!"

"Who's Megan Fox?" enquired Dan.

"Jesus Christ, it's like hanging out with Rain Man." I poured the rest of my drink down my throat and set off to the fridge to make another.

"She was in Transformers." said Craig, throwing Dan a rope.

"Haven't seen it." he replied.

"Of course you haven't." I yelled from the other side of the room. "You've probably not been to the cinema since they released Independence Day. Do you ever actually leave this place other than to go to work? I don't even know why we're asking you about this scenario. The only thing you've fucked in the last ten years probably is a shop mannequin." He just sipped his jack & coke and continued to stare straight ahead of him.

Craig chirped in. "Alright Billy big bollocks, calm down. You can have the human pillow and me and Dan will spit-roast the mannequin."

"Sounds good to me." I sat back down at the table with my fifth G&T of the night. It was far more G than T by this point. "Go on then Rain Man, it's your turn."

Dan slowly turned and looked me in the eye with a small smile forming at the side of his mouth. "Ok then, i've got one. Would you rather drink a pint of warm piss or eat a cracker with shit spread on it."

"That's easy," I abruptly replied, "a pint of piss."

"Yeah, i'd have to go with the piss too." Craig added. "Wait, how big is the cracker. Are we talking ryvita here, or just one of those small, salty tuc ones?"

"What does it matter? I'm not eating shit! Besides, you don't know until you've chosen one." I took another sip of my drink.

"Oh, we're playing those rules are we, then i'll stick with piss." said Craig.

Dan, inhaled loudly. "Ok then." He got up and walked towards the kitchen. Craig and I both watched curiously as he made his way to a cupboard in the far corner by the sink. He couldn't be getting another drink, he's still got a good third of his current one left. He pulled open the loose fitting door and produced two pint glasses full of yellowy-orange coloured liquid. Surely not.

"What the fuck have you got there, apple juice?" I was almost impressed that he'd bothered to think far enough ahead to do a prank like this. Even if it was a really shit one.

"Now you don't have to do it in one go, you can take as long as like, within reason." He laid a pint each in front of us and stood back as if waiting for us to begin. I gave my pint a curious sniff and recoiled in disgust.

"Christ Dan, you sick bastard! I suppose that's the colour you'd expect from a lifestyle of drinking nothing with an ABV below 5%." He smiled slightly to himself. "Good prank mate, you really fucking got us. Now take this stuff away from me, it's making me feel sick."

"No, you made your choice Andy. There's no switching now."

I looked across at Craig and he face showed a mixture of confusion and fear. He didn't really believe this tool did he. "It's called would you rather Dan, not you fucking have to." I barked at him, growing weary of his little joke. "There's no man with a gun to my head, i'm not going to drink your piss!"

Dan laughed through his nose in that little irritating way he does. "Well actually..." He reached down behind his back, pulled up his t-shirt and pulled out an old looking pistol which he slowly raised towards my head. I looked across at Craig again, I couldn't believe he was being sucked in by this stupid prank.

"Oooh, where did you get that Dan? Buy it in one of those antique shops in town? You can stand there trying to look as moody as you like, i'm never gonna believe that that thing's loaded, let alone that you know how to use it." He raised his arm holding the weapon above his head.

BANG!

"Jesus christ! You fucking lunatic!" I bellowed at him.

Dan smiled back at me, "To answer your previous question, this gun used to belong to my dad, I found it some years ago." I didn't know anything about Dan's family, come to think of it I didn't know much about the guy at all. I do seem to remember Craig telling me some years ago that Dan got the house after his parents died somehow. I bet the fucking psycho killed them. I always knew he was a freak, the amount of times I told Craig I didn't want to hang around with the fucking reject. "Now are you two gonna stop wasting time and drink up?"

I looked across to Craig, he reached out and grabbed the glass shaking slightly. He really believed this. Still, he knew the guy better than I did, maybe he knows when to play along. He recoiled slightly, experiencing the smell I had a moment ago. At least I knew this wasn't a stunt aimed at getting me to drink piss whilst the other two laughed on. He took a good mouthful and then screwed his face up letting a highly disapproving sound. Dan slowly turned the gun back onto me again. "Andy?"

"Ok, easy." I replied hurriedly. I reached out and grabbed the glass as Craig went for a second mouthful. He wasn't joking about it being warm piss, it felt like it was a fresh bash just cooked up today. But there was no way he could've pissed this much today, how long had he been planning this? Was there some sort of heater set up in the cupboard, Jesus Christ. I leant in and held my nose, if I was gonna do this then i'd do it in as few goes as I could. I poured what felt like a large amount down my throat before the taste finally got to me. I've read that some people regularly drink their own urine because of some sort of health benefits, but fuck knows how. Mind you, they probably aren't anywhere near as constantly dehydrated as the casual alcoholic with the gun standing in front of me.

I put the glass down and opened my eyes. I must have had at most an eight of the pint. I've never been a beer drinker and i've never been great at drinking large quantities of liquid in one sitting. After the third horrific mouthful with still three quarters of the glass to go it dawned on me what a mammoth task this was. Why didn't I go for the cracker? Sure it would have been disgusting, probably far more rancid in taste than this, but I could have done it in one go. One quick horrible moment, then be done.

The grass is always greener.

Five very long minutes later and I was finally done. Craig was done long before me, maybe he did have apple juice after all. He's always been closer to that psycho than me, maybe they did plan it all.

"Ok Dan, i'm all done. Joke over, i'm going home whilst I still have my fucking eyeballs."

"Whoa, you guys have been taking turns on this all night. I've only done one." Dan barked at me.

"Seriously Dan, i'm done. Game over."

"I'LL TELL YOU WHEN IT'S FUCKING GAME OVER!!!" In the 8 or 9 years i've know Dan, he's never been more than a self-pitying, melancholic slob. But it's seemed like finally something had snapped, the little awkward kid has finally caved in and gone into school with a semi-automatic. The look in his eye suggested he really wasn't playing and i'd have to bide my time if I was to get out of this unscathed.

Dan calmed himself down and continued. "Now, would you rather shove a cactus up your arse or masturbate with sandpaper?" We both paused for a minute, was he really gonna make us do this? "Andy?"

"Erm, how big is the cactus?"

"You don't know until you've chosen one." he replied.

"Oh come on, are you fucking serious!" I barked back.

"THOSE ARE THE RULES WE'RE PLAYING WITH!"

"How long do you have to masturbate for?" said Craig, finally plucking up the courage to speak for the first time since this evening took it's horrific departure.

"Good question Craig." Dan replied, notably more animated than usual. He was really getting a kick out of this now. "Until you cum, but don't worry, I will provide some materials."

I finally lost it, i'd had enough of this mad shit. "Why the fuck are we discussing this, we don't have to do this, i'm out of here."

"You have to do this because there is a man with a gun against your head." stated Dan cooly.

"You may have a gun and it may be loaded, but that doesn't mean fuck! You still don't have the balls to shoot anyone. Seeya never dickhead!" I tried to sounds as unfazed as possible before turning and making my way to the door.

BANG!

Suddenly my left leg gave way. I couldn't work out what had happened in time to break my fall and with the amount of alcohol I had consumed that night, I fell flat on my face. I turned my head to see what had happened and the searing pain in my calf began to soar. My jeans were slowly turning brown around the wound and a pool of red was growing underneath my leg.

Dan looked almost as shocked as me, but he wasn't going to let his dominance of the situation fade. "Right...now you see. Now you see what's at stake here!"

"You fucking madman, I can't believe you actually shot me. You're nuts!" I yelled at him.

"I'm getting pretty fucking sick of your comments Andy! Now I suggest you two choose, now."

My leg was really screaming now, the pain seemed to build silently until it reached a point where I felt I might pass out. I looked over at Craig and he was just staring at the floor. He seemed to accept this whole situation too easily. Maybe he always knew this day would come. He knew the guy much better than me, he was the one that brought this fucking lunatic into my life. Maybe Dan had said something to him, shared his fucked up thoughts and Craig had just carried on caring for the little rescue dog.

"Well, cactus or sandpaper?" Dan pushed the question.

"Jesus Christ, sandpaper I guess." I still didn't quite believe he was going to make us do this.

"Cactus." Craig muttered sheepishly. The poor bastard. I didn't what sort of stuff he was into sexually, though he met his wife 10 years ago and to my knowledge he's never done it with anyone else. But even if he has experimented with putting stuff up there, a fucking cactus! That area is gonna be a disaster zone afterwards. Mind you, had I really considered my choice. I'm not sure how much skin damage sand paper can do, but even a quickie is likely to leave me with a very red dick at the end of this. Jesus Christ!

Once again Dan made his way to the cupboard at the back of the kitchen, making sure not to turn his back to us and keeping his gun facing forward in case we tried anything, not that I could move anyway. He came back with a fairly modest cactus, the sort that you might find in an office cubicle, some sandpaper, a handful of porn mags and a tub of vaseline. Now that I looked at it the cactus was probably no bigger than a normal sized dildo and it was far more hairy than spiky. I mean, i'm sure they'd still sting a little, but it's nowhere near as bad as it could've been. He gave Craig his implements and made his way over to me.
He passed me the sandpaper and laid the magazines on the floor close enough for me to reach, but out of the way of the ever increasing pool of blood I lay in.

"Now there's quite a range of material there, from fairly soft stuff up to the real hardcore. I know how keen you are on smashing in back doors." He leant in and flashed a toothy, shit-eating eating grin at me. "Now, i'll let you get it up and hard, then it's on with the sandpaper, ok?" I didn't answer, I just wanted to get this done in the hope that he'd end it here, it couldn't get much worse. I started flicking through the material, suffice to say I wasn't really in the mood for a quick wank. On the other side of the room I could see Craig slowly pulling down his trousers under the watchful eye of Dan. That sight definitely wasn't going to help me get into the mood, so despite the immense pain and discomfort it caused me, I turned my body just enough to get the image out of my visual range.

"You might want to try and loosen yourself up a little before you try the cactus." I could hear Dan instructing on the other side of the room. Oh God! Right, get your mind in it, find something you can focus on. How am I ever going to get it up in this situation. I flicked through an entire magazine, unable to find anything that would do the job. By now Craig was tentatively trying the cactus out from what I could hear, but I tried desperately not to focus on it. I decided to try some of the harder magazines, it's only with a truly depraved mindset that I can get it up now. That might work, I was closing my eyes and trying to recreate some of the filth i'd seen on my computer in the past. Any of it, christ there's so much but I couldn't think of a damn thing. I hadn't even picked up the sandpaper yet.

"You'll never get it in with that attitude, here let me help." Dan barked. Suddenly Craig let out an almighty scream. I couldn't help myself, out of the corner of my eye I let myself see the whole disturbing scene. Craig stood bent over with his trousers and underpants around his knees and behind him stood a menacingly gleeful Dan with one hand on the base of the cactus, currently with it's tip in Craig's rectum, and the other holding the gun against Craig's temple. Christ, he'll be done soon and I don't want that maniac over here helping me.

I was semi-erect by now, so I closed my eyes tightly and pictured the most disturbing thing that I could find sexual arousing. My leg was still searing with pain, but I used it. I picked up the sandpaper, wrapped it around my penis and began to rub. I focused entirely on the pain in my leg and went as fast and hard as I could, flashing images through my mind, convincing myself I was enjoying the whole thing. Craig's screaming started to subside and turned to a wounded whimper.

"I think you'r done Craigy-boy." Dan said calmly, "well done." Oh shit, oh shit. He was coming my way. I couldn't concentrate, my mind slipped and I allowed myself to stop and look down at what I had done to  myself. It was a real mess, the sandpaper was covered in red, my penis was covered in red, my leg was covered in red. "Come on Andy, you'll never finish with that attitude." Dan grabbed my hand with the sandpaper in it and wrapped it around my penis. I was growing too weak to put up any sort of fight, i'd lost a lot of blood. He gripped incredibly tight and went furiously at it. It stung like hell but i'd just have to go with it.

Why hadn't I picked the cactus. Craig knelt on the other side of the room finished. Sure it'd hurt like hell, but I was in enormous pain too. What the fuck will my penis be like by the time i'm finished, could I ever use it again. Craig could still shit out of his arse, he probably won't be able to sit down for a few weeks, but he can still fuck his wife.

The grass is always greener.

After who knows how long my little member finally coughed up the smallest amount of semen it could muster. Dan had been doing the legwork down there since he came over and I guess he realised it was the most he was going to get. Don't ask me how I managed it, it took some immense pyschological gymnastics to get myself aroused throughout the ordeal, but the job was done. I couldn't bring myself to touch my penis, let alone put it away. One look down there showed me that it was a disaster zone. My entire crotch was filled with blood and I couldn't make out any sort of shape to the thing.

Dan wiped his hand on my shirt and moved back to the centre of the room. "Right guys, one last question."

"Fuck Dan, when will this end!" I whined.

"Just one more, then we're all done, honest." I'd given up the fight by now, I felt like I was going to pass out any moment and had fully surrendered myself to the situation. Craig never had any fight to begin with. "Okay then, I have two bullets left. I started with six, one for mommy, one for daddy, one in the ceiling and one in your leg Andy." He shot me the shit-eating smile again. "The question is, would you rather die or watch your best friend die?"

The room went silent. As soon as he shot me in the leg I kinda knew there was only one way this could end. I looked over at Craig, he was still kneeling, starring at the floor, crying. How could he introduce me to this mad bastard. How could he let me spend so much time with this blatant social reject. He must've known this would happen. The look on his face said it all, this was an inevitable outcome to him. "What happens if we both pick the same option?"

"You won't find out until you've chosen." he replied.

"FOR CHRIST'S SAKE DAN, THESE ARE OUR FUCKING LIVES YOU'RE PLAYING WITH!"

"YOU KNOW THE FUCKING RULES!" he screamed back. "I tell you what, you can both answer after three, ok?"

"1..."

How the fuck did we get into this situation, i've know the guy for 8 years. How could I not know what he's capable of?

"2..."

I mean, I always knew he was moody, eccentric even, but this! Craig always assured me he was a cool guy, just a little misunderstood.

"3.."

He was Craig's friend, he brought him into our lives. Why should I die because he chose to nurture a lunatic. There's no sense in us both dying. Jesus Christ!

"Answer's please."

We both spoke at the same time. "Me." "Him." Craig looked over at me, his face still covered in tears. He looked so hurt, so betrayed.

"There we have it." Dan interjected.

BANG!

Craig fell to the ground almost instantly. Dan turned to me. "Why would I want to live in a world where the only friend I have is a complete cunt!" He put the gun in his own mouth and closed his eyes.

BANG!


                      -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Two weeks on and my leg is still unusable. My penis is healing, but I still try not to touch it if possible when I urinate. There was no way to explain what happened there to anyone, I think the police finally believe I didn't do it. Craig's wife came to see me. I tried to explain what happened, well, some of it. I don't think i'll see her again. His funeral was the other week, I couldn't bring myself to go. Perhaps if i'd have said me Dan would have spared us both. Perhaps he just wanted to end his own life and the rest was just a fucked up game. A test. Every night I lay awake wishing i'd said me instead of him.

The grass is always greener.


After Eight Days


thethemeis: The Grass is Greener
theauthoris: LiamD

‘You’re a…’

It was in an enclosed green, in close vicinity of the student infested Faversham bar that Kevin McCraith’s insurmountable desire to end his own life had been shocked into a brief subsidence.

‘Yes, yes,’ it impatiently answered in an unexpectedly proper, southern accent; the Queen’s English if ever Kevin had heard it. ‘Ossenfelder, Goethe, Polidori, Le Fanu, Féval, Glišić…’ the voice expertly pronounced each name in its native tongue, continuing to reel off an extensive list of authors and poets of whom Kevin knew very few.

‘… Did you really think they were all making it up?’ it asked him, mockingly. ‘Every exquisite detail of our magnificence, all recorded diligently by some human or other throughout the centuries.’  The way the creature said ‘human’ was interesting, as if the mere thought of man made it nauseous. ‘All of them encountered my kind at some stage in their lives, even your ludicrous Meyer and Harris.’

Kevin didn’t need this. The longer the creature spoke, the more Kevin felt the urge to die return. Tonight had been the decider; it wasn’t merely the countless rejections he’d received from every female in the bar that had lowered his spirits again, that was standard procedure. Nor had it been the intolerant stares that questioned his every move from the eyes of arrogant students who wore ridiculous glasses they didn’t need, though this didn’t help matters. What had really gotten to Kevin tonight were the harsh truths that Dave Treadwell, the closest person he had ever had to a friend, had screamed at him in a drunken stupor. The truth that in the thirty years of his miserable life, he had contributed nothing to the world around him. The truth that he was a parasite, stealing his life wherever he could from society, all the while blaming everything and everyone but himself for the way his life had turned out. And the simplest, most painful truth of all: that he had never done a good deed in his life, and the world would truly be a better place without him.

No, with all of this weighing down on his mind, Kevin certainly did not need to be patronised by this freak in front of him.

‘Fuck off mate, I don’t need this’ Kevin spat aggressively.

Before he had taken another breath the creature had him pinned by the throat against the wet grass and had drawn its face so close that Kevin could see the fine points on each of its long teeth. There was a wild look in its gleaming, red eyes.

‘Pray, tell…’ its rancid breath was unexpectedly cool on Kevin’s face. ‘…what do you need?

‘Don’t think I didn’t see you in there, causing all that commotion with your companion.’ The wild look faded as quickly as it had appeared in the creatures eyes and the tone it took became conversational. ‘Though you are clearly too weak to take on a man of such stature’

‘Look if you’re gonna fucking kill me just get on with it...’

‘Ah, yes! Determined to die aren’t you. Your sort are always the same, giving up on life before they’ve been born. I’ve not come to murder you Kevin McCraith, at least, not in the traditional sense. I’ve come to offer you something of a much greater value.

‘You wanted to kill that so-called friend of yours; I can give you the power to tear him limb from limb. You want women to see a beauty within you that is unreflected by your appearance and nervous actions around them; I can give you a power that will have women bowing down to your will. You want people to finally give you the respect you’ve deserved from birth; I can give you a power that will make them cower at the mention of your name.’

Kevin’s eyes were now shining greedily at the mention of each of his most coveted desires, though he still harboured suspicions of the creature’s true motives. He thought about the offer for a minute as the creature released its grip on his neck.

He heard the music still emanating loudly from the nearby bar. It was a britpop tune Kevin had enjoyed in his teenage years and the chorus rang out while he considered the offer:

You’ll never get to heaven with a smile on your face from me--

‘Why would you do this, what’s the catch?’ Kevin asked, genuinely interested.

‘Its not a catch, not for you.’ the creature informed him. ‘It’s something you’ve wanted for a while. You just have to die.’

Kevin nodded his head as he at last realised what the creature was implying. ‘So I end up like you.’ he finished. ‘And I won’t feel shit anymore, I’ll enjoy being… not dead?’ he asked this almost tentatively, as the creature helped him to his feet.

‘Knowledge beyond bounds, senses beyond belief, there is no possible reason why you wouldn’t.

‘This turf we stand upon, for instance, I’m sure it looks sullied and brown to your mortal eyes, yet viewed from mine it is a pasture of the highest verdure. It has been argued throughout history that the Lord, in all his wisdom, deemed a chosen few worthy of a heavenly existence on this earth. To walk the earth as immortals, to experience the true scope of the world’s beauty without fear of danger or death. I believe my own existence as proof of this concept.’

Kevin’s eyes were shining again with anticipation of such a life for himself. ‘Why not?’ he thought to himself 'I want to die anyway, what is there to lose?’

‘You’ve nothing to lose, everything to gain’ the creature assured him, as if responding to his thoughts directly.

‘Fuck it.’ Kevin submitted, ‘Sign me up.’ He felt a sudden impulse to make sure nobody else was present to witness such an unholy pact. As he turned to look he heard the creature’s voice whisper directly into his ear.

‘You’ve made a wise choice, Kevin, a very wise choice’ and as he turned back toward the creature he found himself completely alone, accompanied only by the continuing music of the last bar he’d ever visit alive:

There’s something quite bizarre I cannot see--



Kevin awoke in the skateboarding enclosure of Hyde Park, not for the first time in his life. He always found that the half-pipe provided a natural support for his back, and when intoxicated this more than sufficed as a makeshift bed. He felt colder than usual, but put this down to the weather, it was winter after all. He was acutely aware of a stabbing pain in his stomach.

‘I believed you would feel more comfortable awaking in a familiar setting. Have you strength?’

Kevin recoiled as he realised his maker was standing over him, blood dribbling down his pale chin. In his left hand he held a large plastic bottle, filled with the red liquid.

‘You must be hungry still, I tried to feed you while you were asleep but you were quite unresponsive.’ His voice was no longer warm and seductive as it had been at the bar. He now sounded agitated, as a teacher toward an uncooperative student.

Handing the bottle over to Kevin he continued. ‘This will complete your transformation and keep you alive for a day or two. You can hunt for yourself once it’s gone.’

Kevin already felt cheated. The only difference he could perceive between his former life as an unhappy man and his new non-life as an undead was a severe pain in his stomach, that was slowly worming its way through his entire being. He began to drink from the bottle slowly, apathetic toward the poor soul from whom it was acquired.

With each sip however, his pain receded. After he finished a greedy first two mouthfuls Kevin was completely re-energised from his previous languid state. After a further two mouthfuls an unfamiliar strength began to flow through him. He felt as if he could move mountains with his bare hands.

As he drained the bottle of its remaining precious elixir an impossible wave of pure intelligence flowed through him. The world seemed to brighten around him and if Kevin hadn’t known the meaning of ‘verdure’, he fully understood what his maker had meant now. Surely this was the life of the chosen few he had so boldly spoken of. As he withdrew the bottle from his mouth and began to thank his maker for such a glorious gift, he realised he had once again been left alone.

Yet this time it did not matter. Kevin began his new non-life in earnest. Using his new found knowledge and strength to outwit and overpower many of his former enemies. He found that he could determine the deepest desires and hidden vices of those he spoke to within a mere minute of conversation and soon became adept at charming women into his clutches. He intentionally started trouble with men he knew to be local thugs, beating them half to death when they dared to turn their weapons towards him. The one thing he did not do in these first few days as a vampire was feed upon a human. Yet he knew he would never need to, not the way he felt now. He would survive on the singular bottle given to him by his maker, and not-live happily ever after.



But the bottle had been emptied and the pain began again.

In a sense, it never really ceased. During the honeymoon period with his enhanced senses, Kevin dismissed the vague pain that grew again in his stomach as an temporary side effect from his transformation that would soon clear. Of course, it only got worse.

After a few days it was no longer just his stomach that hurt. At times his whole body throbbed with pain, as if his veins might pop out of his skin in their quest for new blood. There were times when it was bearable, when he could go about his leisures and keep a clear head. There were times that it was pure agony. The pain would make him scream out in rage at the nearest living creature, or involuntarily bare his monstrous teeth to the lady he was attempting to charm that day.

On the eighth evening of his non-life, Kevin stood wearily on the enclosed green by the Faversham bar once again mulling over the question of continued existence or the great finality death.



Dave Treadwell finished his sixteenth scotch of the night before deciding that this was simply going to be another mark to tally on the long list of unsuccessful days that made up his life. He had thought (and drank) a lot this week, about all of the nasty things he had said to his only friend in life, about how similar their lives had been and about how his argument with Kevin was little more than an outlet for the pent up rage he felt toward himself.

On his way out of the bar Dave glimpsed an odd piece of graffiti on the side of the building:

Thy flowers are withered on the stem

and felt an intense correlation between this singular statement and his own life. Thinking that perhaps those creative students might be doing some good in the world after all, he continued toward Woodhouse Lane, where he had but one intention: to jump from the bridge over the A58 and end his pitiful term on earth.

As he was leaving, he heard and felt a cold voice whisper something directly into his ear that immediately ensnared his attention and he was promptly re-acquainted with an old friend.

Monday 16 January 2012

The Writing Club

thethemeis: The Grass is Greener
theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   Third meeting of the writing club. Once again, conversation had swung so far from the topic of anything akin to putting pen to paper that Horatio had fallen into an uninterested trance that was broken suddenly and shockingly by the muffled clink of glass on wood. Frederick, placing three more double whiskeys on the table. With this being the third double whiskey that each of them had had since they arrived, it was little wonder that the topic of discussion had wandered so far off course that not one of the men gathered could define it with any degree of certainty any longer. From what Horatio had picked up through the haze of his disinterest, it seemed that Frederick was once again boasting about his successes in the bedroom, which so far consisted of four separate nights with drug-addled prostitutes (one of whom had kindly passed on to Frederick a painful case of crabs) and one night of drunken fumbling with McCarthy’s cousin (which McCarthy found so disturbing that he would physically wince at its mention); and McCarthy was attempting to complain about his job, managing to get a word in edgeways only occasionally over Frederick’s constant prattle.

   The walls in this place, Horatio noticed, were a sad collage of patterned wallpaper from all across the ages, torn edges peeling from the surfaces to reveal paper below each layer that seemed slightly more faded and stained than that which was pasted over it.

   ‘Her skin was as soft as the smoothest silk kimono you ever touched,’ Frederick daydreamed, eyes closed and hands running over an imaginary lady’s torso in front of him, ‘and the way she ran those tiny fingers of hers down my cheek, it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.’

   ‘Is this the one who left you with parasites in your underpants or the one who smelt of fish and charged double what she was worth?’ came McCarthy’s retort, through a grin that stretched smugly from ear to ear.

   ‘No no no, sir, the woman to which I refer right now,’ Frederick said, opening his eyes and knocking his pointed finger on the table between them, ‘is your mother’s niece.’

   Rustling his small collection of short story ideas on the wooden table around which the men sat, Horatio turned to face off to the side, away from the bickering pair. After a short while surveying the surroundings, his eyes fell upon a striking man sitting across the room. 

   Much like Horatio, this man was sitting with two friends, uninterested in their conversations and staring into middle distance. He wore tattered boots like Horatio’s, scuffed and paint-stained trousers like Horatio’s, and a tired old plaid shirt like Horatio’s; but where Horatio knew that there was something missing in his own life (or rather, something gone awry never to be set straight), he saw only fullness in this man’s. This stranger was a handsome man; he had a square jaw sprinkled evenly with a thin layer of dark stubble, sky blue eyes that sparkled so brightly that even from across the room Horatio caught their glare, and scruffy blonde hair that would have looked untidy had it not suited his face and clothing so well. His rugged good looks implied only success to Horatio, and though he knew that one can only know so much about a person by just looking at them, what he saw by just looking at this person was a life that could never go wrong.

   ‘Don’t you hate your job too?’ McCarthy loudly enquired, tapping Horatio on the elbow.

   Horatio ignored him.

   ‘The reason you hate your job, McCarthy,’ Frederick slurred, ‘is that you’ve never felt the touch of a woman! You long to come home to the things that I come home to; the kissing, the holding, the warmth, the… the love that I make!’

   ‘The touch of a woman?!’ McCarthy sputtered, outraged, ‘You’ve only felt the touch of whores and the accidental brush of my cousin’s misguided hand! You know nothing of what love is.’

   Horatio continued to watch the man across the room. On the surface, they were so much the same; but underneath the surface, Horatio was an exhausted man way older than his years. Embittered. But none of this showed on the man whose face he watched closely. The man he watched had crow’s feet from years of laughing, horizontal wrinkles on his forehead from decades of raising his eyebrows in wonderment. He wanted to live this man’s surface life, and have nothing within him eating him from the inside. He wanted to be this man who was so free of a back story, so liberated from a past that had left him jaded and tired of the world. He wanted to live in that hollow skin and live that hollow life just to escape the dark thoughts that haunted him every day.

   But he knew that this was just a case of the grass being greener on the other side of the fence. He knew that that man had issues just like everybody else. He knew that you can only spend so much time on the surface before the current drags you back under, wailing and clawing for the perfection that shallowness spends so little time prohibiting. Were he to become that man, the image he saw in front of him, Horatio would soon be eaten alive by the weathering world once again. And though people might look upon Horatio and see the worry-free man he saw, they would only be seeing a superficial façade hiding another sky-high pile of anguish and failure, just like those that fill every disillusioned man.

   And this fact frustrated Horatio more than the scratchy backing track provided by his two intoxicated friends.

   ‘Why don’t you go and get us each another whiskey, McCarthy,’ Frederick mumbled, pointing his empty glass at McCarthy and breathing his hot whiskey breath in his direction, ‘make yourself useful, instead of sitting there with a face like a kangaroo in concrete shoes.’

   McCarthy grumbled under his breath like a chain smoking bride as he stood to renew the men’s drinks. Horatio covered his glass with his hand to let McCarthy know that he didn’t want another, and McCarthy shrugged so that what remained of his whiskey sloshed in the glass and spilled onto the hand-written first pages of his novel. He stumbled off as if he hadn’t even noticed destroying his own work.

   As Frederick carried on speaking in Horatio’s ear despite Horatio’s obvious lack of interest, Horatio continued to stare intently at the man across the room. Horatio had noticed as McCarthy wandered away, not for the first time but definitely in a way that rendered it a new discovery, that this man was staring back at him with the same intense glare. Caught in an eternal staring match with the man across the room from him, Horatio began to hate his very being here. What had started as a strong case of the grass being greener on the other side had swiftly become a case of the grass dying equally everywhere. The soil underfoot was rotten no matter where one trod, and Horatio could see that now. This man was staring at Horatio staring at him with identical bitterness behind his eyes and exactly the same ugliness in his soul, and Horatio only wanted to hurt him for not being the healthy pasture he had imagined in next door’s field. Horatio had to get revenge on this man for destroying the surface with so much baggage below it.

   So Horatio removed his boot. With its heavy sole and leather body, he was sure that it would fly through the air nicely, hitting exactly where he aimed it.

   With the same intentions, the man staring at Horatio removed his boot too. The men raised their shoes above their shoulders simultaneously.

   Just as McCarthy stepped back into the room, he was stopped in his tracks by the flying footwear. It almost skimmed McCarthy’s face as it glided gracelessly across the air, its laces dangling lazily like a sullen teenager’s caveman arms even as it gained speed. Straight toward that man’s face it flew, and the three men watched it as it made its way in slower motion than seemed possible across Frederick’s dining room toward the full-length mirror he had propped against the opposite wall.

   On impact, the mirror smashed, and the man was gone forever.

Sunday 15 January 2012

My Late New Year's Resolution


thethemeis: New Year's Resolutions
theauthoris: Deadbeat


Fuck! Why am I always such a massive twat? It's only an online short story thing with a few friends of mine, nothing which will affect me in any way in the future barring perhaps a brief conversation down the pub. But still, if I can't even get myself sorted enough to contribute to something as small as that which, if i'm completely honest with myself, i've been quite looking forward to all week, how the fuck am I ever going to find the self-discipline and motivation to sort myself out this year.

I knew when I ordered that 3rd & 4th pint that there was only one way that day was going to end. I discussed briefly with myself the unlikely chance that i'd be able to edit and upload my currently unfinished piece of work by that evening, but even still I convinced myself that I might just call a day whilst only semi-pissed and be able to go home and finish up. I had no excuses either, i'd already claimed to be done and what a tit i'd look if I couldn't deliver now. It was only a small lie, one that in no way needed to be made. Much like the majority I squeeze into everyday conversations, almost for sport.

And yet, here I was. Lying in my bed gone midday in a puddle of my own vomit and embarrassment desperately trying to put together the clues and snapshot memories to work out what potential ridiculous things I could have said or done. My paranoia is always always in his element at times like this. He feeds me the scraps and suggests all possible obscene and anti-social outcomes that could have arisen.

You know what you're like when you've been drinking. You could say and do anything. And if just a small fraction of the obscene thoughts and hatred that runs through his mind creeps out, then we're in big trouble aren't we.”

It's a game that we play, my subconscious and me. He suggests what he can think of as the most horrific faux pas for me to say or do in any given social situation. Then I have to try and carry on acting vaguely sane whilst not letting the thought slip out my head. Our relationship never used to be this hostile, we used to a team me and him. In my teenage years he would supply me with cutting edge offensive jokes and obscene sexual acts which I would spout out to adoring crowds. Back then all you had to do was prepared to go one step further and you could carve out a niche for yourself, create an identity. But as time went on and people “matured”, going to the extreme was no longer enough. I tried a different approached and dropped the redundant obscenely offensive tactic. He couldn't. After years of being the head speech-writer he missed the fawning applause over his work. He still had his odd moments of glory, but he became bitter and twisted, distorting his off-colour comedy into something far more anti-social. Most of the time I barely even notice him, like an attention seeking child that nobody bothers to respond to, but the more I drink, the less attentive I become and the mor chance he has of getting his grubby little hands on the wheel.

So, did he get his way?”

My subconscious was just sitting there giggling maliciously to himself. He knew just as much as I did about what had happened the night before, but already the situation I found myself in played into his human car-crash fetish.

“I...I don't know.”

Getting that pissed in the pub you work in, how could you be so fucking stupid! Time and time again i've told you, if you're going to do it then do it somewhere full of people you'll never see again. I've know what you think of some of those people, I've heard we he's said about them.”

“...I think i'm safe. I'm sure nothing happened. I can't remember anything bad.”

You can't remember anything. What about at the end? There was some sort of disagreement at the end, by the dart board or something.”

“...Erm, yeah. No...i'm fairly sure it was nothing. Can't of been anything, there's nothing wrong with me is there. A few scrapes, a stubbed toe, only self-inflicted, clumsy injuries. What about my stuff, is my stuff alright?”

Without properly leaving my bed I conduct the usual scrambling search for my pocket essentials. Keys? Check. Phone? Check. Ipod? Check, and still working fine. Wallet? Check, though no money in it. And my card, shit what have I done with my debit card! Few, it's clumsily tucked into the wrong compartment of my wallet, but it's all there. Still, I feel like I lost something last night, something big, something important.

Oh no! Shit, I couldn't have. No, surely not, ...my laptop.

I dig around under my bed for the white machine which consumes 90% of my free-time. I find it and it looks clean enough. A little dirty but it's been through worse. It's had its fair share of tea and biscuits poured onto it and soldiered on regardless, hopefully this is just another feeble attack that it'll shrug off. What the fuck would I do with myself without my laptop, i'd have to watch more TV, or worse, start reading books. I took a deep breath and opened the lid. Fuck, fuck, fuck! The smell itself told me that it had taken a battering. My stomach wasn't ready for the smell this early in the morning, but I had to know. I held down the power button and was greeted with a predictable and unpleasant long bleep as if the machine itself was berating me for what I had done to it.

My sub-conscious roared up again, he hadn't had this much fun in a long time.

“YOU STUPID CUNT! THAT'S GOT TO BE THE MOST EXPENSIVE NIGHT EVER! IT MAKES GETTING INTO THAT STRANGERS CAR AND HANDING OVER HUNDREDS OF POUNDS LOOK VAGUELY FUCKING SENSIBLE! YOU'VE REALLY OUTDONE YOURSELF THIS TIME YOU USELESS CUNT!”

You can't do anything with that. You take that to get repaired and they'll open it up, be hit with that smell and throw the fucking thing away. Then they'll stand around and laugh at us, they'll call you in to deliver the news and stand around everyone knowing, saying “There's the idiot that vomited all over his laptop.” You'll have to destroy it and make sure you smash it up completely. You don't want anyone putting it back together and finding out what you've been doing, what we've been occupying your time with!”

I didn't like to admit it but my paranoia was right, he nearly always was. And above everything else I still couldn't finish and upload my story. It was gone, it was all gone. The collection of half finished songs and musical ideas I'd been hoarding for the past few years. They weren't great and in truth most would probably always remain unfinished, but it was comforting knowing they were there. It meant I had been doing something. It meant that even though anyone looking in on my life would see nothing to be particularly proud of (beyond never committing any heinous in-humane acts) I could always tell myself that I was an undiscovered musical genius with a few aces in the pack should it come to it. Oh bugger, all the hours i'd spent playing those games too, gone. It's not often seen as a great use of time, but if nothing else it gives the feeling of doing something. A way of documenting passing time. And it was all gone. So much for starting the new year in a proactive manner.

Still, I could still get something out of this yet. This might just be the event which forces my hand, making me start something i've planned to for a while. After all, it's not too late. 13 days into the new year is nothing, I can make a vow now and stick to it just as rigidly. That's it, I will. From now until next year, I won't touch another drop of alcohol. I know it seems like a melodramatic knee-jerk reaction, but it's something thought about doing for a long time. This isn't the first time i've waken up in a pool of my own vomit and whilst I haven't kept count, I wouldn't be too surprised to hear I was into double figures. Plenty of times I have gone one step too far, where there is always the potential to make a complete cock of yourself.

You can laugh it off now and then, but sooner or later everyone will just grow fucking tired of you.”

And whilst drinking in moderation seems like the obvious solution, that's something that i'm supposed to have been doing for the past two years, but I simply haven't. It's not that I find myself longing for a drink at any point, the majority of the time I just do it because it's what you do in those situations. The problem is that I'll either have a few or get completely plastered. I've never mastered mid-range drinking (unless I really run out of money). It's just that once you've popped your head in for a bit, you begin to remember why you've done it so many times before. For me, Charles Bukowski put it best:

When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.

Even my paranoia loosens his grip. He might even start fighting my corner, telling me i'm not in the wrong or maybe that the girl across the room really does like the look of me. Though he'll never admit to it the morning after. But that sort of habit is a bad one to get into. Maybe if I can avoid the stuff for a year. Learn to have a good time and relax among the swarming masses. Maybe I can go back and finally master that mid-range drinking. Finally wake up after a night of drinking, with a full set of memories and a vomit-free bed. Bliss.

So that's what i'll do, my January 14th resolution: No alcohol for a year.







               ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------








That evening back at work and it turns out I wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought I might be. If anything I good quite a good reaction to my night of heavy drinking, perhaps I over-exaggerated the whole thing. At the end of my shift my boss poured my drink. It'd be rude to say no and besides, what harm can one do.

Thursday 12 January 2012

New Year's Resolutions

thethemeis: New Year's Resolutions
theauthoris: LiamD


‘Hmm, I don’t know Mummy,’ Timmy mused, almost comically. ‘Are you doing a revolution?’

The Philips household were concluding their first dinner of the new year. As both Christmas and New Year’s day had fallen on Sundays this year and there was still a fair amount of turkey left over, the two meals had been pretty much identical. Timmy had finished first on both days; roast dinner was his favourite.

‘It’s resolution sweetie, a revolution is completely different.’ Hannah corrected him patiently. ‘My resolution is to be more assertive.’

Timmy looked blankly at his mother as he mulled over her response and after a short time, gave up. ‘What does assertive mean?’

‘It means that Mummy is going to shout at Daddy more.’ interjected John, showing off his handsome teeth in a cheeky grin. Timmy laughed at this, aware that his father had made a joke.

‘You may be surprised to hear that not all of my life decisions revolve around you, dear.’ Hannah retaliated playfully. ‘What exactly are you going to do differently this year anyway?’

John shrugged, ‘I’m not sure there’s anything I could change about myself that would be an improvement, darling.’ The grin was still there, it made Hannah weak at the knees. ‘Maybe I should focus on helping other people improve their lives.’

Hannah’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s a great idea, you can start by helping me out around the house more on your weekends!’

John’s grin faded slightly. He liked his weekends as they were; the quality time spent with his son and the alone time he could find for his own hobbies were a perfect contrast to the long, stressful hours at the office that devoured his week. 'That’s not exactly what I meant,’ he began, attempting to back-pedal. ‘Surely there are people in greater need of my help than my lovely wife?’

Hannah looked unimpressed. ‘You can’t give up on your resolution before you’ve even tried it. Besides, I think you’d make a great housemaid.’ She looked toward Timmy expecting a laugh but the boy seemed lost in thought.

John felt compelled to fight his corner. ‘I can’t be giving up; I didn’t make a resolution in the first place. It was just a thought.’

Hannah thought about this briefly before her mouth creased in a sly smile. ‘OK then, in my first act of being assertive I shall hound you every weekend until you do something helpful. How does that sound?’

John thought that it sounded like Hannah had confused assertiveness with harassment, but before he could begin his riposte, Timmy interrupted.

‘I know!’

‘Know what dear?’ Hannah asked, a little confused but still smiling.

‘My resolution!’ Timmy was excited, he’d had a long hard think about what he wanted to do differently in his life since his parents had begun their little exchange and was proud with what he had come up with.

‘Well, what is it?’ asked John, somewhat relieved at the change of topic.

‘I’m want to sleep in the dark.’ he exclaimed.

The mood changed immediately. Hannah’s smile completely vanished, her usually pretty face suddenly looking drawn and sullen. Even John looked serious.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea sweetie,’ his mother told him. Her voice sounded tremulous, as if she might burst into tears at any moment. ‘You know how upset you get with the light off.’

It was probably true, Timmy thought. He had a vague recollection of screaming and crying hysterically when his father had turned the light out one night after tucking him in. But that must have been at least five years ago now, he was much older and a lot more grown up.

‘I’m not a baby anymore Mummy, I won’t cry because there’s no night light.’

John clasped Hannah's hand gently under the table. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow buddy, your mother and I need to confer.’

Another blank look passed over Timmy’s face, easing some of the tension as it did so. ‘What does confer mean?’

‘Just a posh word for talking,’ the grin began to appear on John’s face again and Timmy, who had been a little worried he was in trouble, relaxed slightly. ‘Why don’t you go and play some Mario while we wash up, that Peach isn’t going to rescue herself!

Timmy didn’t need encouragement to play his 3DS. Within five minutes he was silently sitting on the beige faux leather settee on the other side of the room, fully immersed in the Mushroom Kingdom.

John turned to his wife, his face as grave as hers. ‘I know it’s hard,’ he began softly. ‘But it has to happen one day.’

Hannah breathed deeply. She had managed to keep her mind from dwelling on Charlie for a good few days now and the subject had caught her off guard. A single tear rolled down her left cheek. ‘I know,’ she admitted. ‘I just don’t want to forget about him.’

‘We’ll never be able to forget.’ John was blinking back tears himself. ‘But bit by bit, we’ll find it easier to get on with our lives.’

‘Maybe you’re right’ Hannah concluded solemnly. ‘Maybe this will help us move on.’



Timmy didn’t remember much about his big brother. A vague memory of his father switching off the light, the joy of a peaceful sleep interrupted by sudden raucous movement, and a muffled scream were all the memories that remained of the night Charlie disappeared. John remembered the evening a lot more vividly. Comically reading the final ‘Not now, Bernard’ from his children’s night time story, opening the big window to help keep their room cool that humid summer, turning off the light for his children for the last time, the unexpected ruckus around an hour later and the way Timmy had screamed and screamed and screamed. Most vividly of all he remembered the empty bed, perfectly made as if whoever had removed Charlie from it thought John and Hannah might not notice he was gone. It had made Hannah physically sick. The two policemen who investigated the room could offer no more than the obvious guess. They came through the window. There was a brief struggle. They left through the window. All they’re after is your money, there will be a ransom note.

But the ransom note never came. Worst of all there was no contact at all. Whoever had taken Charlie clearly had no interest in giving him back. So the Philips went through it all: the televised appeals, the county-wide manhunt, the tabloid accusations that broke Hannah’s heart time and time again and would have left John uncharacteristically irate if he read such nonsense. The case of Charlie Philips ticked all the missing child boxes. On the second day in the January of 2012, John and Hannah had more money from anonymous donations than they would have done had they won the EuroMillions. And it all amounted to nothing because after six and a half years, their first born was still missing. It would be unfair to say that the Philips had given up, but deep down John knew that ever seeing Charlie again would be nothing short of a miracle. It was all they could do to live in hope and try to carry on with their lives.

‘Did you and Mummy finish your confer?’ enquired Timmy during breakfast, interrupting John’s morose reminiscence. John smiled at his son, thinking of him as a shining beacon of happiness in these dark times.

‘As a matter of fact we did son.’ he said ‘You can have your light off tonight.’

‘Yay!’ proclaimed Timmy, jumping on the spot. John laughed at his overjoyed child.

‘There is a catch though, your mother stuck to her word and assertively asked me to finally do some decorating.’ This was a joke, the decoration had been John’s suggestion. He’d always enjoyed a bit of DIY. ‘Your rooms first buddy, you’ll have to sleep in Ch…’ he felt a twang of sorrow while he corrected himself ‘…sleep in the spare room.’

Timmy didn’t notice the slip ‘Yeah, I’m gonna watch TV all night!’

John smiled again, he couldn’t help it; no matter how down he felt, Timmy was always so happy. For Timmy, every day was a trip to Disneyland. Even after John explained that the old Samsung in “the spare room” had stopped working since the digital switchover, Timmy had come up with five other reasons why sleeping there would be the best night of his life.

He found another reason when bed-time came around; Timmy liked the bed. On first impressions, he liked it a lot. He thought the tarnished brass frame (that his poor father could no longer bear the sight of) made it look very homely and as he relaxed for the first time on top of the aged mattress covered by its plain white sheet and pulled the enormous duvet up to his shoulders, he quickly decided that it was the most comfortable bed he had ever lay in. Happily drowning in the luxurious pillows, Timmy couldn’t help but fall to sleep quickly, forgetting about the night light he had left on the bedside cabinet just in case he couldn’t manage to keep his resolution on the first attempt.



He awoke with a start, his breathing rapid and body shivering. He could hear the wind blowing ferociously outside as if it was in the room with him and looking over to the outer wall he immediately understood why; the window had been left wide open. The room was absolutely freezing and as much as he wanted to curl up and ignore the temperature drop, Timmy knew he’d not be able to get back to sleep comfortably without closing the window. It was as he begun to walk across the pale blue carpet, as the wind died down ever so slightly that he heard it. It was definitely a groan, as if whatever it was that made the sound had been unexpectedly woken up and was rather unhappy about it. Timmy thought the noise far too monstrous to be either human or animal and the idea made his blood run cold. He ran to the window and slammed it shut, repeating to himself that the two glaring yellow eyes he thought he saw glinting up towards his room from the centre of the garden and the hulking, grotesquely fragmented arachnid body attached to them were all in his imagination.

He ran for his bedroom door, no longer shivering from the temperature but from pure fear. I have to tell Daddy, he was thinking, he’ll know what to do. But as hard as he tried, the door wouldn’t budge. The groans from the garden were getting louder, the whole house was beginning to shake. Timmy knew the monster was climbing up the side of the house, toward his room. As the window smashed open, he closed his eyes tight. This must be a dream he tried to convince himself. I’m going to count to three and wake up. The window frame creaked against the weight of the creature that was pulling itself into the bedroom.

One,…

The ungodly stench of the thing pervaded the room as it entered and Timmy could hear an unpleasant squelch as each of its legs found a surface in the room.

…two,…

No later than a second after the eighth leg splashed down it was upon him. Not daring to sneak the slightest peek, Timmy squirmed as two hairy, adhesive limbs grabbed him by his hips and tossed him into the air toward the creature’s slimy mouth.

…three!



John and Hannah heard a loud crash from Charlie’s room and immediately feared the worst. They leapt out of the king-size bed and bolted out of the door, across the hall. As John burst in, his fear subsided as he realised what had happened.

The boy was on the floor, absently nursing the bruised left arm he had fallen on. He was staring at the closed window in disbelief.

‘We heard a bang son, you must have fallen out of bed pretty hard,’ John told him.

‘I had a nightmare,’ Timmy said quietly, blinking back tears. ‘It felt real.’

‘It’s ok sweetie, it’s over now.’ Hannah assured him.

Timmy looked genuinely relieved at this, ‘Yeah I guess it is, Mummy. Sorry for waking you up...’

John and Hannah were pleased to see Timmy calm down so quickly. ‘Don't worry about it, son. Will you be alright getting back to sleep?’ asked his father.

‘I think so Daddy…’ he answered. ‘…thanks for checking I was okay’ he added shyly.

‘Anytime buddy’ winked John. He and Hannah and both kissed their son on the forehead before heading back to bed.




Timmy looked toward the night light on the bedside table and fought the temptation to sleep with it on. He couldn’t give up on his resolution, that’s what his mother had said. He unplugged the light and hid it inside the room’s empty wardrobe to ensure he’d sleep through the night without it. This time he found it harder to get to sleep, the old mattress that had previously felt so luxurious now felt hard and cold. He experimented with various positions until he found one that was comfortable enough to doze off in and it must have been later than two o’clock when he finally managed to fall to sleep. Again his rest was troubled. He dreamt he was desperately trying to leave the room again, knowing that something evil was shimmying up the drainpipe, coming for him. The door wasn’t locked this time, he instinctively knew this to be true, but the doorknob was just out of reach, climbing away from his groping hands as he jumped for it.

Again the window crashed open ashishe pursuer made his entrance. Timmy caught sigh of the face once before immediately closing his eyes tight.

One,…

The head had been completely scalped, the smell of freshly cleaved flesh was overwhelming. It made Timmy gag. He heard dull and heavy footsteps limping purposefully towards him.

…two,…

The face was the worst part, there was no doubt about it. He had seen the disfigured face of his father. The voice chilled him to the bone when it spoke: ‘Come on buddy, lets go see your brother!’. He felt cold dry hands squeeze tightly around his neck, just before they cut his air supply completely, he managed a brief scream.

…three!



He awoke in the bed once again, tightly and uncomfortably wrapped in the over-sized bed sheets, sweating from head to toe. He had screamed for real this time, he was sure of it as soon as he heard the scamper of his mother and father running for the room. The light hurt his eyes as John turned it on.

‘What happened, son?’ he asked, once again alarmed.

‘I’m ok.’ said Timmy, once again calming down quickly. ‘Just another nightmare. I think I tucked myself in too tightly,’ he added sheepishly.

Hannah was concerned ‘Do you want to come and sleep in our room for the rest of the night sweetie?’

Timmy thought about this hard. He certainly didn’t want to have another bad dream, especially one so vivid. But he also wanted to be true to his word. He wanted to start his new years resolution today, he wanted to sleep a full night in the dark.

‘No it’s ok Mummy, I’ll be a big boy and stick with my resolution!’ he stated confidently.

Hannah was still concerned, but admired the boy for his determination ‘Ok darling but if it happens again I’m afraid I won’t take no for an answer!’ she told him in what she thought of as her new, assertive tone. After a final hug and kiss goodnight, John and Hannah went back to bed.

Before getting back into bed Timmy turned the dial on the wall radiator to allow more heat in the room. For some reason it had always made sense to him that the cold caused bad dreams, and this seemed like the best course of action. He grabbed one of the dull blue woollen blankets from underneath the bed for extra warmth and placed it neatly on top of the duvet. It certainly seemed to help him get comfortable, once again the bed felt luxuriously soft, and sleep took him quickly.



It had learned from its previous two mistakes. The attempt to fling the child across the room had gone terribly wrong. The second attempt to asphyxiate the disgusting parasite had been thwarted by the older worms and their blasted light. But now it had learned from its previous mistakes and this time it took no chances. As soon as it was sure that the wretched, vile creature who was arrogant enough to lay upon it was dormant, the bed made it’s move. The extra blanket slithered up towards the boy's face and began worming its way into his mouth. When he awoke, Timmy’s attempt to scream was futile as the blanket forced its way down his throat, making him to choke and wretch. Once he tried to pull the blanket out of him with his hands but the sheer force of its lunge further into his body sent his hands flying into his own face, his nose dripping blood onto the white sheet.

He kicked and flailed, desperate to get off of the bed but sheets suddenly sprung up, cocooning him in unyielding polyester. The blanket had now stopped moving, only a small percentage of it was gagging him now with the rest hidden inside the body that was still trying in vain to ejaculate the intruder. Unable to breathe, the world was slowly growing dim and as he lost consciousness Timmy heard various cracks and squelches and could feel the vaguest suggestion of agony as the sheets squeezed tighter and tighter, slowly modulating in colour from their plain white to a deep red.

The last thing Timmy remembered before losing consciousness permanently was the duvet moving up over his head, plunging him into an eternal darkness.



Will and Sandra Denton couldn’t believe their luck. The house was perfect and at £400 per calendar month, a complete steal for its size and elegance. They could scarcely believe that they’d found somewhere in England to live that was so close to Will’s new company.

Will looked lovingly over to his wife, her blue eyes sparkling ‘I wonder why it was so cheap, I thought living was supposed to be expensive in England.’

‘Oh it’s sad story, the broker told me’ Sandra began, knowingly. ‘The last couple who lived here lost two of their children, it was big news at the time.’

‘Oh that’s just awful,’ agreed Will ‘Where are they now?’

‘That’s the worst part,’ replied Sandra ‘They left a note saying they’d never be happy again without their boys and went off an’ killed ‘emselves.’ She began to cry, Will held her tight.

‘I hope they found their peace, I’m sure those boys are making them smile again in heaven, yes sir.’

‘I hope so, Will.’ There was a brief silence as they held each other, thanking the Lord for their good fortune.

‘Anyway, it’s getting late Sandie, and I’m gonna be up late decorating that room that’s half done up there,’ Will explained. ‘While we’re waiting for the new king-size to be delivered, why don’t you have one more night in that snazzy hotel?’

Sandra looked concerned at this suggestion, ‘Oh I can’t do that, where will you sleep, hun?’

Will smiled, ‘Don’t you worry my sweet, I'll sleep in that kiddie room, that old bed looks comfy as!’

Sandra had seen the bed earlier and thought it looked far from “comfy”. ‘You’d do that for me? Oh I love you Will Denton’

‘I love you too, Sandie’ he replied truthfully. After a passionate kiss, Sandra called a cab to take her back to the hotel while Will, smiling, proceeded upstairs to get on with some decorating. Passing the “kiddy” room on his way he saw the nostalgic brass bed-frame and inviting soft mattress through the open door. 

Damn comfy, indeed!’ he exclaimed, to nobody in particular.