My Dark Longing

thethemeis: Monsters

theauthoris: Deadbeat

They'd call me a monster, if they ever knew. Perhaps they're right.

I've always said to myself that i'd never actually do anything. No matter how great the urge became, i'd never act on it. 'There are always other ways to get my kicks' i'd think to myself. 'The internet is full of stuff, there are literally thousands of videos out there. It's horrible to think of the immense suffering and mental torture that those videos capture, but it won't cause any more hurt if I watch them. The damage is already done. And if it silences the voice in my head for a week or two, then it's for the best really.' And so I was able to control my desires for a while.

I often saw stories on the news that awoke my interest. It was hard not to, they're usually everywhere. I can't get on a train or walk down the street without seeing the graphic and shocking images staring back at me. It's a struggle not to show my keen interest and delight as people stand around the office retelling the gory details to each other. I'm sure on more than one occasion I have been caught smiling innapropriately by my colleagues. Perhaps they already know what I am. The amount of rumours going around that place, it'd be a miracle if there wasn't one about me.

On occasion i'd let myself imagine that I carried out one of these grave acts. Pictures of my handy-work on the front of all the national newspapers and on television screens up and down the country. I'd lay in bed and plan out how i'd go about it. The way I would pick the target, how i'd pick a date and the excitement would build in the weeks before. I'd go through ever little detail in my mind, the scenario was rarely the same twice. It seemed harmless enough, so long as I always knew that they were only fantasies. So long as I never believed I would actually do it.

My dad always knew what I was like, what I was into. We never spoke about it directly, but he could tell. Looks he gave me at times when he caught me staring too long, the way he'd always change the channel or move a conversation on if it ever got to near to the topic. It's as if he knew just as well as I did what might set me off. Perhaps he was into it to, spending all his life putting off his urges. Who knows, maybe he'd actually acted on them at some point. Maybe one of those stories I remember so vividly from the television during my childhood was his doing. He could've even made it onto my wall-of-fame.

Then one day, I saw something so beautiful that I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my urges to myself anymore. Whilst waiting for the bus I saw a young mother pushing a pram with a care-free toddler following behind. The your girl was skipping down the road swinging her arms and singing to herself. She was wearing the typical blue chequered dress that many young schoolgirls are seen in. Her hair was bright blonde and in pigtails, with two red ribbons tied into bows. She was the very picture of joy and innocence and I could help but find myself watch her skip down the road.

As she crossed the road with her mother, she noticed me watching her. She stopped and smiled back at me, wavy with her tiny hand. I could barely contain my excitement, I was full of energy watching the scene before me. I had watched countless videos and seen thousands of graphic pictures on the internet, but i'd never come so close to something so erotically engaging.

Though I could see the car slowly approaching her, the little girl just stood waving oblivious to her impending fate. I saw the whole scene unfold in fantastic slow motion. The young girl was not much taller than the bonnet of the BMW which collided with her, but the impact was enough the snap her body back and carry her up onto the car. As she flew through the windscreen she already looked like a small crash test dummy. Glass flew in the direction of the male driver and his young female companion and to my joy I could just make out another tiny passenger in the baby seat behind the couple. The small girl flew straight through the back window and rolled twice before coming to a stop on the tarmac. In the panic the driver veered off towards the sidewalk making his way towards a old couple that had no chance to escape the chaos. The old man was thrown several feet onto the pavement whilst his wife was pinned against a wall by the now stationary BMW.

Once the scene had come to a rest the whole street exploding in such noisy despair that nobody seemed to notice my joyous laughter at the whole event. Of course i'd seen far more chaotic scenes on my laptop, far greater disasters with much higher death counts. I've almost lost count of the number of times i've brought myself to an ecstatic climax watching footage of the twin towers going down or the 2004 Asian tsunamis. This was nothing in comparison to those events, but it was so real to me. Everyone else from the bus stop had got up and run over to offer help to the victims, but I dare not move anywhere for fear of showing my now raging erection. I'd never felt any rush like this, to think that i'd spend most of my life running from this experience. The moment that car made impact I knew there was no going back, I would be doing everything I could to see scenes like this again. My years of strategic plans had to be put into practice. I simply had to see such chaos up close again.

Monsters

thethemeis: Monsters

theauthoris: LiamD

   The pleasant aftertaste of herbs and spices following his uncharacteristically obnoxious burp only proved to Ben something he had suspected all along: once he had disregarded the rubbery texture and crude packaging, the Pot Noodle was actually quite tasty. Of course, there was no logical reason as to why it shouldn't have been.

   'You should never judge a book by it’s cover, young Benjamin.’ A long time ago when Ben had commented on the dirty, slob-like appearance of a working class family on the London Underground, that’s what his grandfather had told him. And as a man who had started with very little, and worked hard to earn the high standard of living his family enjoyed, Thomas Wight had a good idea of what was meant by the ancient proverb. Unfortunately for Ben however, his dear old Grandad Tom had married a cold woman who cared much more for beauty and wealth than she care for her fellow man and this left both his mother, and consequently Ben himself, with a less noble set of morals.

   Rik's honking laughter (and there truly was no other description for it) cut through the dank air like an axe. Ben winced as it pierced his ears.

   'You might not look like us, but you sound more like one of us every day!' he exclaimed joyfully between irritating guffaws. He let out a loud burp of his own, his loud ensuing laughter echoing around the walls. Ben wasn't impressed but, as this was one of Rik’s less disgusting habits, let it slide. He had only been down here for two weeks this time around yet it felt like years since he had last seen daylight.

   ‘Live with wolves…’ Ben quipped absently. Rik briefly looked perplexed at this response before disregarding it entirely in favour of lancing the enormous boil on his forehead. Ben cast him an accusatory glare but quickly looked away when he saw what he was doing. Not long now, he thought. I’ll never have to see that vile face again.

   ‘No wolves down ‘ere.’ came Marcus’ gruff voice. He threw the blood covered remnants of the raw (and possibly live) rat he had been eating out onto the train tracks before continuing. ‘Lemme know if you see any though, gotta taste nicer than this shit.’ Using his two-inch long claws to impale another unfortunate rodent, he began his second course.

   Despite the amount of times he had witnessed Marcus dine, Ben’s body still wanted to wretch. Monsters. That’s what they were. Sickening, grotesque, rancid, putrid, bilious, horrid, ugly, stinking fucking monsters. Sure, they were technically human, they probably even behaved like humans at one point in their lives, but The Incident had caused them to deteriorate into these abominations and they were deteriorating still. In spite of his orders Ben detested them, all of them. He loathed them, each and every one. Of course, he did his best not to show it. This immense network of tunnels and shelters that was once an extraordinarily under-appreciated marvel of human engineering known as the London Underground was their territory. A minor disagreement with one of the more aggressive sorts down here and Ben might never see sunlight again. Not long now, he thought. Not long at all…

   Kurt stopped picking the thick, crusty hairs from the singular nostril that was too large for his face long enough to participate in the conversation. ‘What I wanna know…’ he began in his irritatingly nasal drone ‘…is ‘ow did you manage to boil the water? It's always hard when I have one.’

   ‘Don’t be fuckin’ stupid Kurt, he’s used the old electricity hasn’t he.’ said Marcus, through loud, crunching mouthfuls. ‘Don’t you know he was an engineer before?’

   Ben merely grunted. In truth he had been a little taken aback by the question and was grateful for Marcus’ convincing, if horrendously misinformed, explanation. He cursed his own stupidity; if they had really known how he had eaten his ‘meal’ there would have been a lot more questions. Or perhaps worse - none at all. Kurt's face lit in admiration for Ben's apparent well-retained wisdom.

   ‘I don’t really ‘member much about before,’ he reflected sadly. If his hands weren’t covered in mucus, Ben might have pitied him. ‘Do you Marc?’

   ‘’Course I fucking do don’t I!’ spat Marcus. ‘The grass was green, the trees were brown and the sea was blue. It was bright too. Not much else to say about it.’ The angered look on his face stopped Kurt from pressing him further.

   It was always the same when one of them claimed to remember life above ground, Ben had noticed. The descriptions were bland somehow, as if they had revised the information for an exam and were simply repeating a mantra to aid their memory. There was no feeling there at all. Even the worst raconteur will recall the minor, insignificant details of memory that give a story life. No such detail was present down here. Their memory was deteriorating as quickly as their humanity, probably. Ben wondered how long it would be before they forgot how to communicate completely.

   ‘I’d like to go up there again, maybe one day soon…’ said Kurt finally.

   ‘Hmph, I'm not sure you would. Remember what happened to Pete?’ asked Ben, rhetorically.

   Nobody remembered what happened to Pete. That was the point. Nobody knew. Around two months ago one of the less barbaric of their contingent had decided that the time had come for them to return above ground and volunteered himself as lead canary. Excluding the vicious, solitary horrors that now reportedly stalked the Northern tunnels, it would be safe to say that Pete was liked by most of the tunnel-dwellers. His celebrated departure had given even the most pessimistic among them hope of returning to their natural home. He had promised to return within ten sleeps with a report on the above ground conditions, good or bad. This made it all the more hard to swallow when he failed to return at all. They all knew the score. General consensus was that the above ground toxins had killed him. For a long time nobody spoke as their minds dwelt on the subject.

   Thirty minutes later a loud snore from Rik considerably lightened the mood, though the underlying feeling of disgust Ben felt around these creatures never quite dissipated.

   ‘Not a bad idea that Rik. Thanks for cheering us all up anyway Ben,’ said Marcus, wiping the blood from around his mouth of dangerously sharp teeth. ‘I’m gonna turn in.’ The very thought of Marcus’ “bed” gave Ben the creeps. The tangled mess of furs and skins of the various rodents and small mammals he had  chanced upon (and for whatever reason not eaten) may have been softer to lie on than the hard stone, but the sheer stench made his creation inexcusable.

   'You're real lucky Ben, there's not many of us who weren't affected by all this.' observed Kurt after Marcus had left. He sighed heavily. ‘Do you think we’ll ever get back up there?’

   Ben watched him catch the large bluebottle that had been buzzing around his head with his freakishly long tongue before determining a response. ‘…Sorry Kurt, not in this lifetime’.

---

   After he was sure the three of them were safely asleep, Ben quietly made his way up the stone steps, through the long uphill tunnels before finally ascending the ancient metal staircases that no longer moved as they were originally intended to. At the top of these old electric stairs where the walls were lined with old screens that no longer displayed their advertisements, there appeared to be nothing but a dead end of fallen metal and concrete to the naked eye. He was sure that none of the creatures that were once human would venture up here, especially these days, but checked the surroundings all the same and was pleased to find himself alone. Standing to the far left of the apparent blockage, he pushed open a concealed door and waited for the security scanner to recognise him. This was the part he had been dreading most. He had always harboured an irrational fear that one day the scanner would reject his genetic reading and the silent but oh-so deadly security measures would put a swift end his existence.

   He thought of Pete.

   ‘Thank you for your time, Benjamin Reynolds-Wight. Au revoir!’ came the chirpy security voice. Ben couldn’t tell if it were human or machine, it was all the same to him anyway. Before he left through the front entrance of the defunct London Bridge train station, he approached the security desk at the front gate. Sam greeted him jovially.

   ‘Anything to report before you’re off for good?’ he asked.

   ‘Nothing new, still getting worse. I’ll check in at the office and fill a final report with Trevor.’ replied Ben, dreaming of the liberation he would feel when he finally got home that night.

   ‘Shit… I can’t help but feel for them Ben, those people were just like us before…’ Sam trailed off, as if finishing the sentence could make the situation worse. ‘Is there no hope of integration?’

   ‘Monsters Sam, not people. They’re monsters; you don’t want anything to do with them, trust me.’

   Ben heard Sam sigh as he walked away towards the company car that would take him to the office and paid no attention to his reflection visible in the chrome body of the vehicle. Pulling the handle, he opened the door and positioned himself comfortably inside, all the while thinking that he never wanted to see any of those disgusting monstrosities again.

Real Monsters

thethemeis: Monsters

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   Standing up from his chair before the word Cut! has even finished leaving his lips, Greg Tourettes pushes past his assistant to clear the way to his trailer. Scott, his assistant, is a ratty little kid with a hunchback who visits strip clubs at the weekend, and takes an Action Man doll with him to place naked on a stool next to his own. 'Don't dance for me,' he'll snarl, as nearly-nude exotic teenage dancers grind their thongs against his knees, 'Dance for him. Only then will I pay you.' Greg's assistant, he gets off on their awkward movements as they struggle to keep dancing, knowing that their customer is a lifeless doll and its owner is a soulless pig only out to degrade them. Then he comes into work on Monday and tells Greg all about it, as if Greg is supposed to care. 

   The set is for Greg's next blockbuster horror, Suburban Evil. It's been billed as Greg's "most exciting project to date", and the "horror of the decade", and it hasn't even been filmed yet. Greg has spent his life making feature films about monsters, and now he sees them everywhere.

   'Mister Gregory,' pants one of the caterers, whose name Greg Tourettes can't even pronounce, 'we have no steak sandwich. No steak sandwich and no crisps of any kind. I so sorry, Mister Gregory. I so sorry.' Rumour is, this caterer comes from some eastern European country where she's wanted for killing her whole family in the middle of the night. Her seven brothers and four sisters, her mother and father and grandmother, she suffocated them all one by one and fled the country before their bodies were even cold. The cast and crew avoid her because the rumours grow more extreme and the body count rises by the day, but Greg ignores them because even if they are true, she makes a shit hot steak sandwich. 

   'Yeah, yeah, alright,' he says, waving her out of his way like a bad smell, 'just give everyone their food, will you?'

   Greg wants nothing more than to be alone in his trailer, sleeping off this whiskey headache. If his beeline wasn't so littered with obstacles and yapping mouths he wanted to avoid, he'd be there already. 

   'Hey Greg?' comes a female voice from the set behind him. Turning, Greg sees the bloodied, bruised face of Zeph Manson, the sexy young star of this pantomime he is filming. In the scene they've just finished taping, she was being raped by a man with shotguns for hands and seven inch screws for teeth. She managed to release herself from his grip by spraying body spray into his eyes and lighting it with a lighter. His eyeballs melted onto her pert breasts and she ran away screaming, as her tits jiggled from side to side spraying fresh eye juice all around. The makeup and pyrotechnics were incredible. 

   She still has no bra on. 

   'What?' sighs Greg. 

   'Do they have any steak sandwiches today?' Zeph is the kind of girl who will sleep with a guy once, and become obsessed. She is so insecure, this miniature psychopath, that she will shamelessly call him at all hours of the night asking when they can see each other again. She'll wait outside his house, ready to beg him to bed her as soon as he embarks on even the shortest of trips. Hell, she'd do this even if she hadn't slept with him - a guy asking for a picture of her tits in an MMS is enough to spark her crazy. Then, when she's decided enough is enough, she'll spend the rest of her days warning his future conquests, 'Oh, honey, I know what it's like, being seduced by him. I know how easy it is to succumb to that charm. But he's bad news, sweetie. He's only out to hurt you, like he hurt me.' Thinking about the big ball of crazy in that tiny little venus flytrap head where so many men want to stick their penises, Greg shudders. It disturbs him to think that although her behaviour seems odd, the majority of women are capable of it. Greg has known more insane women than normal ones. And because Zeph is another typical fucking mental bitch, Greg tries to steer clear of her whenever he can.

   'Yeah,' he says, his limp lips curling into a crafty almost-smile, 'you can have mine, too. I'm not hungry.'

   ‘Awwww, thanks, honey,’ she says, pouting and pushing out her chest, still uncovered. Greg flashes her a polite smile, then a sly grimace, then walks away. On his continued journey to the trailer, he manages to avoid Carl Steamer, the lighting guy who’s so addicted to gambling that he sold his kidney and his wife’s kidney and his child’s kidney all to fund his failed football predictions; Jenny Trump, the graduate sound technician who has spent the last three weeks sucking off the male members of the crew after work for ten bucks a pop; and Steve Whateverhisnameis, the fat fuck who seems to get paid by the film company to watch every scene with Zeph Manson in it with one hand down his pants and one hand fingering his belly button. All these people want some face time with the director, and the director manages to avoid every one; but not Taylor Dansen. Greg Tourettes has no hope of avoiding Taylor Dansen, when he’s sitting on the steps of Greg’s trailer in wait.

   ‘I need you,’ Taylor says, twitching and tossing a lighter from hand to hand, wearing a vest and sweatpants stained with testosterone.

   ‘I don’t need you, so get the fuck out of my way,’ growls Greg, his head pounding to a crescendo.

   Taylor Dansen is the male star of the piece. For the first half of the film, he was the boyfriend of Zeph Manson’s character; but halfway through, in a scene that was filmed just twenty-three hours ago, Taylor’s character was torn limb from limb by a seven foot tall hulk in red overalls with a samurai sword for a cock and ears that leaked puss. After his arms and legs were torn off, he was fucked in the mouth by samurai dick until his brains fell out of the back of his skull.

   ‘I was thinking,’ Taylor blurts, standing and twitching with equal enthusiasm, barely able to keep eye contact, ‘maybe what if my character wasn’t dead? What if perhaps he didn’t die in the last scene?’

   Taylor Dansen wasn’t Greg’s choice of male lead. If Greg Tourettes had had more of a say in it, Taylor would be just as dead in real life as he was in the second half of Suburban Evil. Taylor, you see, has been calling in favours to get himself back into the A-list again for months now, ever since he fell from grace when he beat that film star girlfriend of his up so bad that she couldn’t walk for a week. He’s hit girls before, obviously; but never before has it been the most famous film starlet of the moment, and never before have the photographs of her wounds been uploaded to every news website that has ever been read by human eyes. That boy is a monster; after breaking her heart and her face, he begs for jobs to repair his public image so that she has to see him on the TV every day. He ate her heart, and then he ate her brain. Greg Tourettes hates the cowardly, whiny, talentless little prick, and he has made no effort at all to hide that fact.

   ‘Fuck off,’ he replies through teeth that grit a cigarette he plans to light as soon as he gets into his trailer, ‘I hate you, you cowardly, whiny, talentless little prick.’

   Taylor Dansen just laughs, stepping out of Greg’s way. ‘So you’ll think about it, yeah? Thanks, buddy!’

   Greg Tourettes slams the door in the slimy little cocksucker’s face.

   He wets a towel with hot water and drapes it over his eyes as he lies back on the shitty old sofa in his trailer and lights his cigarettes. With his eyes closed, he prods his hand around searching for the bottle of whiskey to pour into his mouth. His mobile phone rings in his jeans pocket, and the door rattles loudly from whoever is knocking on it from outside.

   Whoever these people are, Greg doesn’t want to hear from them. They can fuck right off. Greg’s mother, with her racism; Greg’s brother, with his flagrant homophobia; Greg’s agent, with his hatred of disabled people; the executive producer, with his crystal meth addiction; Greg’s girlfriend, with her addiction to cocaine and starring in budget adult movies; Harold Janks, who only phones when he needs to borrow a large amount of money he never intends to pay back; Terrence Goldman, the journalist who spends more time committing fraud than he does writing; Kevin Kaplan, the billionaire heir who was cleared of killing that pedestrian he ran over last year purely because he could afford the best lawyer in town… whichever toxic fuck is calling his phone and knocking on his door, Greg doesn’t want to know them.

   Tomorrow, Greg is filming a scene where Zeph Manson tortures the film’s villain with a rusty corkscrew, before beating him to death with a hammer and eating his lungs with mashed potato as a side.

   But today, Greg Tourettes is sick to death of monsters. He’s sick to death of monsters not because he has spent nearly two decades making films about them, but because real monsters surround him every minute of every day.

The People Who Radiate Happiness

thethemeis: Shiny Happy People

theauthoris: LiamD

A very long time ago, in a distant land, there existed the beautiful Kingdom of Rosaria. It was a land so rich and alive in exotic plant life and so calm and peaceful, that the Rosarians were given the nickname the Shiny Happy People by outsiders. In the extensive annals of its rich history, no serious warfare or disease had ever disrupted the serene tranquillity that was Rosarian life. Many of the neighbouring towns and villages saw the kingdom as a kind of heaven on Earth, a Shangri-La unreasonably existing in the midst of a violent, undeveloped world.

Of course, every society has its secrets. While the outsiders may not have believed it, the Kingdom of Rosaria had many.

---

Victor knew it was a bad idea. From the very beginning, the sheer impetuousity of the plan had given him a nauseous feeling deep in his gut. But realistically, what could he do? As an unhappy Outcast Of Rosaria, Victor had nowhere else to go. Attempting to survive alone here would be just as suicidal as a lone journey to the nearest village of Tahon. Even if the other outcasts were kind enough to spare him a mule, there could be no guarantee he'd make it to Tahon before his rapidly diminishing personal supplies ran out completely. So when Richard Balk, the leader of their small band of outcasts, had declared that they would kidnap her royal highness the Princess Imara and demand to be accepted back into the Kingdom as ransom, Victor saw little choice but to go along with it.

To Richard's credit the plan had gone off without a hitch. The night watch of Rosaria were surprisingly few, the kidnapping party encountering no more than four guards between the kingdom's walls and the castle. Once inside the castle, the blow-darts coated with Richard's own non-lethal concoction of Devil's Thorn and various opiates worked their magic quickly on the unsuspecting watchmen. The same darts silenced the brief protestations of Imara herself:

'Pas ça, s'il vous plaît! Vous faites une terrible erreur! Nous sommes les gens rayonnan...'

Victor caught her as she fell, the warmth of her body an appreciated contrast to his cold hands. Les gens rayonnantes de bonheur – the Rosarian tongue for the Shiny Happy People. A professional linguist may have found the literal translation interesting but there were very few outsiders left who could speak even a basic level of Rosarian. Victor certainly wasn't one of them and thought no more on the subject. Perhaps if he had known more, he would have understood the magnitude of their plan's foolishness.

---

In his own, humble opinion, Victor had done nothing wrong during his brief time in the Kingdom. Journeying more than one and a half thousand miles, it had taken him the best part of a month to reach Rosaria from his homeland of Stavrich. The journey itself wasn't helped by the unpredictable attitude and regular disobedience of Gunther, his horse that he had reared personally, if unsuccessfully. Unfortunately for Victor (or perhaps not), Gunther had collapsed without warning with a little over one hundred miles to go. There was no question when Victor later placed his fingers underneath the left side of Gunther's jaw – no pulse, the horse was dead. The final stages of Victor's journey were faced alone.

Upon arrival in Rosaria, Victor rested his weary legs at the first tavern he could find. But no sooner had he asked for a cup of water to hydrate his dried throat than the barman began begging him to leave the town, in heavily accented language Victor could only partly understand.

'...you cannot be 'ere, you are not one of us! We are les gens ray...'

'I know who you are!' Victor had eventually interrupted. 'That is why I have come. My land of Stavrich is an unhappy, war torn place. There is no life for me there. I seek refuge in your peaceful kingdom.'

'Non! You cannot be 'ere! We will not be safe!' The man was inconsolable. Victor came to find that all the Rosarians would react to his presence in this way. It was not long before word of his arrival had spread from the streets to the castle and within three days Victor had found himself in possession of a letter informing him of his official exile by royal decree. Shocked and confused, he had been escorted outside the kingdom walls and left to wander the land alone.

He had not been wandering for long when he met Richard and his small group of outcasts. Immediately sympathetic to his situation, they had accepted Victor without much question. In conversation with Eric, a fellow traveller and outcast from the northern town of Takheim, Victor had learned that the outcasts' previous attempts to reconcile with the Kingdom peacefully had fallen on deaf ears. They had been forced to plan something big. Something that would give the Rosarians no choice but to respond to their pleas.

---

'It is not too late to turn back, Richard. No good will come of this!' In the morning following the night of the kidnapping, Victor was feeling more nervous than ever.

'I think we both know it's far too late Vic.' Richard replied, patiently carrying the unconscious princess over his shoulder. 'I can see why you might be worried though, she's been out for much longer than she should have been. She's a hell of a lot colder than she was last night too. Hope she's not dead - they'd never let us back in!'.

He howled with laughter, slapping Victor on the back as they journeyed towards camp. 'Just chill the fuck out Vicky-boy! I coated the darts myself and tested them on Bill, they won't kill anyone. Stop worrying!'

But by the time night had fallen Victor was still worried; something was wrong. In the twenty hours since their successful escape from the kingdom there had been no sign of retaliation or even acknowledgement from the Rosarians. Even if, by some fluke, nobody had checked on the princess for the entire duration, surely the ransom notes they had placed in both the castle and town would not have gone unnoticed. Yet apparently they had.

---

Victor awoke from a restless sleep early the next day. Venturing out to the nearby wood he spent a couple of hours gathering wood for camp before returning. The wood itself stood on a tall knoll and the journey gave him a good view of the road leading to the kingdom walls. Still there was no sign of a messenger from the castle. After dropping off the wood in the centre of their camp, Victor decided to check on the princess and made his way towards the tent inside which she was being held captive.

To Victor's alarm, the princess was still unconscious when he entered the tent. The air seemed to have warmed to an unnatural level in the tent and Victor was sweating as he attempted to wake her.

'Imara, your highness!' 'Imara!' 'Princess!' After a few minutes of calling her name to no avail, an unexpected voice took Victor by surprise.

'Victor, what the fuck are you doing?' Richard stood in the doorway, clearly agitated at being woken before he usually rose.

'Something is wrong with her Richard, she will not wake!' The air in the tent was now stifling and Victor was in no mood for Richard's usual banter. In fact, he was beginning to realise that he didn't like Richard much at all.

'I'll fucking do it...' Richard trudged moodily over to where the princess lay and slapped her hard across the face. 'Fuck me, she's got a temperature on her,' he slapped her two more times using each hit to emphasise his words. 'Wake up you dozy bitch!'. At the last impact her eyes opened. Confusion swept over her face before she recalled what had happened. She immediately began to gibber again.

''Qu'avez vous fait?! Nous sommes les gens...' To Victor's disgust, Richard punched her in the jaw with his right fist. She was silenced immediately.

'We fucking know!' Richard bellowed at her. 'Just keep quiet, your friends will be along soon to strike a deal and we'll all live happily ever after'.

The princess wept, quietly at first, but soon her sobs became louder and louder. Her body started to convulse wildly. Richard moved forward to silence her once more but his eyes widened as he felt a searing heat throb from her body in waves.

'Did you feel that?' Richard asked quietly.

'Yes, Richard. We need to get away from here!' The air around the princess began to crackle wildly as the temperature soared ever higher. Sparks snapped into existence by her skin.

'What the fuck is wrong with her?!' cried Richard as he backed towards the door of the tent.

'Vous n'avez pas ecouté! Nous sommes les gens rayonnantes... les gens rayonnantes!'

Pure fire leapt from various parts of her body as she screamed her message again and again. Victor and Richard had barely made it from the tent when it burst ablaze. A piercing scream erupted from Imara's mouth as a growing sphere of flame encircled her.

'RAYONNANTES!!'

There was no escape. As fast as the outcasts ran, they found that they could not escape the encroaching wall of flames. Not for the first time in her life, Princess Imara of the Shiny Happy People of Rosaria, watched a poor group of men burn to a cinder through hysterical tears.

The Shiny Happy People

thethemeis: Shiny Happy People

theauthoris: Deadbeat

Isabella set off down the polystyrene pathway. Soon she would come to the dark wood where the branches twist & turn and the birds sing evil songs. She looked back at her brother James who hovered subserviently behind her. He remained under the spell of the aged shaman who had sent Isabella on her great quest. She stopped by the side of the road to sit on a great whooping mushroom and eat her provisions. She sank quickly into the purple mass as it let out it's characteristic sigh. She knew she would needs her wits about her if she was to make it through the dark wood safely.

Suddenly she heard a rustle from the edge of the wood and dropped her cantilla bread to the floor. There was a small round face with two bright green eyes popping out from between the branches. The creature made it's way toward Isabella and she could see that if was built like a long, muscly snake with several small pairs of legs along its body. It stopped a few feet short of Isabella and said in a booming voice, "I am Ganzar, king of the mighty Slythax. Who is before me?"

Isabella cleared her throat and replied, trying not to sound too afraid. "I am Isabella of the Jokula tribe. I'm off to see the Shiny Happy People of the Golden Bubblegum Castle in candy floss forest. I'm off to get my brother fixed. He has been got at by the darkness bringers."

The creature smiled widely showing off its many pointed teeth. "I am pleased to meet you young Isabella. Perhaps it is by holy Lyzar's great design that we meet, for I am too off to see the Shiny Happy People. You see, my people are facing a great crisis. A great drought has struck our lands and our crops do not grow as plentiful as they once did. There is just enough to go around, but my people are used to a bountiful harvest and they do not like the idea of receiving far less than before. Ferocious anger has filled many of them and I have taken it upon myself to seek the advice of the Shiny Happy People as to how to solve this situation before they destroy one another."

Isabella listened intently to the tale of this majestic creature. Never before had she seen anyone so composed and commanding. Having spent all her life in the small camp inhabited by her tribe she had heard many tales of fascinating creatures and mesmerising places and had always dreamt to see them for herself. "Well Mr. Ganzar...sir. I'd go to the Golden Bubblegum Castle with you and feel most delighted if it is holy Lyzar's way."

The creature laughed merrily, "I'm sure holy Lyzar would be a great fan of your spirit young Isabella. Let us make our way through the dark wood at once." And so the three of them set off for The Golden Bubblegum castle in candy floss forest where the Shiny Happy People lived.

They eventually made their way out of the dark wood, through the treacle lakes and across the candy floss forest. Before them hovered the awe-inspiring Golden Bubblegum Castle, gently swaying in the breeze and reflecting back the gleaming sun onto them. They moved forward and set foot onto the winding glass staircase that led up to the grand entrance-way of the castle. As they approached the top of the stairs a small opening appeared in the front of the castle and began to grow and grow until they could see the splendour that lay inside it. A small pink man, no bigger than a swamp toad, waited in the newly created doorway. He skin was the texture of marble and he wore a glorious silver jacket encrusted with various diamonds and rubies in intricate patterns. He spoke in a high pitched voice that flowed like a gentle stream.

"Welcome weary travellers, you are pure of heart and so have been granted access to the Golden Bubblegum Castle. My name is Edgar, I am delighted to meet you and already consider you personal friends. Can I do anything to make you fell more at home please?"

Ganzar bowed to the small pink man before addressing him directly. "Greetings Edgar! I am Ganzar, king of the Slythax and this is Isabella. We come seeking your assistance, we must speak to whoever is in charge here at once."

The small pink man smiled gentle, "It is an absolute pleasure to meet you king Ganzar, but i'm afraid no one is in charge of the Golden Bubblegum Castle sir. I merely have the pleasure of meeting you friends first, but if another is lucky enough to have to pleasure of greeting the next weary travellers first, I will feel only only happiness for his good fortune. Perhaps I may help you, what assistance is it you seek?"

Ganzar explained the troubles of his people to the delightful pink fellow and he in turn led him through the corridors of the golden castle to a room filled with thousands of bottles full of green liquid. "I am deeply sorry for the troubles of your people friend" Edgar spoke, "but do not fear, this problem is frequent across the many beings of our world. We Shiny Happy People have created this magic liquid which has helped many people relinquish their anger and live in peace with one another."

"How does it work?" enquired Ganzar.

Edgar picked up a small knife on a nearby table and began his explanation. "This liquid creates calm and lowers the desires of anyone who it enters. It removes desires of a sexual nature, it relinquishes any intention to seek fame and favour with ones peers. The being feels no worth for physical possessions and experiences no anxiety over the fate of others. Once the liquid enters you, you feel only love and seek only base comforts as you live out the rest of your existence. Your people will become content with their situation, whatever it may be and you can rule a peaceful kingdom. To experience the liquids effects you need only slice a small cut into your heart and pour it in. The wound will heal itself within seconds of the liquid entering the system. You are welcome to as much of it as you like."

Ganzar marvelled at the glorious potion and thanked the small pink man intensely. The love filled Edgar then turned to Isabella who stood meekly beside the king of the Slythax. "Now young lady, what is it I can help you with?"

Isabella played with her hair, before explaining her situation. "I am Isabella of the Jokula tribe. I'm here to get my brother fixed. He has been got at by the darkness bringers. I was sent by the aged shaman who illuminates our tribe with wisdom."

"I see,"said Edgar. "What exactly have the darkness bringers done to your brother?"

"It's what comes from his mind," began Isabella. "He draws great dark visions from in his head. He sings slow songs, ones that fill the heart with heaviness. He talks to the people of the tribe, tells them things which he has thought of. Things which don't bring smiles but something else. Stories which are of sad things, things which ought not to be spoke of. Some of the people of the tribe have started to listen to his tales, started to take a liking to them. The fill their ears with his slow songs. Songs they don't dance to, they just lay down and fill their ears. People have began to look at his dark vision drawings, just look and look. The aged shaman sent me to get him fixed, said the darkness bringers are using him to get at the tribe. Said he will fill the tribe with darkness. But my brother is a good boy, he only means love by it."

"I'm sure he does," replied Edgar. "Isabella, your brother doesn't need to be fixed. Your brother is one of the special people. We Shiny Happy People love all living creatures and do all we can to fill them with our happiness, but some people we cannot help. Some people, maybe for just a short time, maybe for all their lives are resistant to our happiness. But they seem to have something else, something we Shiny Happy People have never understood. We cannot help these people to receive what it is they need, but there are special ones, like you brother, who can. He has a great gift, and because of that we Shiny Happy People love him even more. You should cherish you brother Isabella as he is a healer of your people. He may not be needed but everyone all the time, but he is always there to provide the something else."

Isabella gave out a beaming smile. "I always knew James was only good. He is special. I always knew, but forgot, just for a bit. But what of the quest the aged shaman sent me on. What do I tell him sir?" Isabella Inquired.

Edgar held Isabella's hand delicately and looked up into her innocent eyes. "Tell him that the Shiny Happy People have sent your brother back as their ambassador, to do the work that they cannot. Tell him to respect James as an important man in your tribe. And if he still fears of the darkness bringers and their presence in your brother Isabella, then give him the magic liquid."

Lottery

thethemeis: Shiny Happy People

theauthoris: Aaron Twentythree

   After the pizza (of which we ate very little, what with the beer being so gassy and the fact that we'd already had six bottles each), my friend stopped admiring her bright red toenail polish and stared at me through her glazed, unfocused eyes. She made an Oh shape like she was about to stick a lollipop in her mouth or something much thicker and then her eyes lit up and she slurred, Let's pretend we've won the lottery. 

   What? I replied, finding it just as hard to blink as it was to catch her drift. 

   She repeated, Let's pretend like we've won the Lotto. 

   I paused. 

   What?

   I said, she said, jumping from her pert little arse onto her knees on my leather sofa, facing me and jiggling with all the excitement of a child jumping on a bed on Christmas morning, Let's pretend we've won the lottery. Let's act all crazy happy like we've just been given millions of pounds. 

   I hiccoughed. 

   How?

   Well, I don't know. I guess the first thing you do is realise, isn't it. There's like this slow build up where one of you reads the ticket and compares it to the numbers on the erm, on the (she clicked her fingers at the television)... the screen... and then after that everyone in the room just goes crazy don't they. 

   I thought for a moment. 

   Okay, I said. But you can do the realising. 

   Okay. 

*

   Oh... Oh my God... Aaron!

   What?

   I thought she might be having a heart attack or an orgasm or something. Either way, my first thought was that I hoped it wasn't my fault. 

   We've got the... We've hit the... OH MY FUCKING GOD AARON, WE'VE WON!

   I realised what she was doing. Oh!, I said. I hadn’t even realised she was serious.

   Look at it! Look at the fucking ticket! We've won the lottery Aaron I can't believe it we're rich oh my god I love you I love you oh my god...

   After I took the invisible ticket from her hands, she threw her arms around me with a force that nearly knocked my seventh beer from my hand. Though I was sluggish to pick up the roleplay, I was considering easing myself into it now. I patted her back and said, Oh my god! But I think it might have sounded awkward. It didn't matter to her anyway; she was still screaming OHMYGODWEWONICAN'TBELIEVEIT.

   Grabbing my hand, she pulled me up off the sofa and ran for the front door. I had no idea what she was doing now, but I was too drunk to fight it and she was having too much fun for me to stop her anyway. She burst through the front door and started running round in circles on my lawn, her breath following her in ribbons of steam as she screamed her celebratory screams into the cold dark night. Watching her spaz out in my front garden that night, you'd think she was a five year old trapped in an eighteen year old's body; but I knew she was just under two litres of beer trapped in a skinny little twenty-one year old's body, begging to be calmed down. She jumped in the air, she kicked the flowers that I never watered, she swung from the low-hanging branch of the tree that lent lazily from the pavement over my driveway. At first, I just laughed and watched her whooping and diving about on the lawn screaming WE'RE MILLIONAIRES, WE'RE MILLIONAIRES; but after half a minute or so the whole scene became infectious and I downed the rest of my beer so I could toss the bottle and join her over there.

   WE'RE MILLIONAIRES! I shouted, holding her hands and jumping around like a loon. WE'RE MILLIONAIRES!

   After a good twenty or so breathless minutes of dancing here and there, she pointed out that if we were really millionaires we'd be drinking champagne by now, and I agreed, so I dragged her down the street toward the off licence, and she trailed behind me giggling like a clown on crystal meth and trying to tell me my front door was left open. I need my shoes! she cackled, pulling back on my hand with no real intention of returning to my house, My feet will get dirty! It's not becoming of a lady to walk the streets in bare feet!

   Never mind them, I hollered back, breathing heavily with the strain and chuckling a dirty old drunk man chuckle, I'll lick them clean if I have to! She giggled at an even higher pitch though I think she probably didn't hear me, what with all the slurring and the breathing I was up to. We carried on half-jogging toward the shops.

   When we got to the off licence I chose two bottles of the most expensive champagne I could find and I also picked up some vodka and some peanuts and when I put it all on the counter the guy on the late night shift looked at the two of us like we were raving lunatics. He scanned the drinks slowly, eyeing us with those suspicious eyes the whole time, and I couldn't work out if it was because I was dribbling or my friend was giggling so incessantly that he was looking that way. Eventually, having perused all the racks of sweets around the counter and found nothing she wanted, my friend stumbled against the counter and looked up at his face like she wanted to suck his cock and she said, We've just won the lottery. 

   The man behind the counter turned on like a lightbulb. How much? he said. 

   Millions. 

   You are lucky lady, eh? he said, suddenly very interested in her glorious tits, pressed as they were against his till. 

   Hey, hey! I shouted, snapping my fingers at his face, Those are million pound tits now! Don't look at things you can't afford! 

   He totalled up the price and I almost gasped before I remembered we'd just won the lottery and then I paid with my credit card like I was spending loose change. My friend said But Aaron... and I said Don't worry babe, we've just won the lottery. She just giggled. 

   As we left, I pointed at my eyes and then at the man's eyes so he knew I had my eye on him and his titwatching ways. I think I pointed at his eyes anyway, my aim might have been off. 

   We opened the first bottle of champagne on the walk home, which we took very slowly now that we were all tired from the jog in the opposite direction. I swigged greedily from the bottle, suppressing my burps because I was in the presence of a lady millionaire. My friend walked kicking her feet out in front of her and spreading her toes which each step, to get another look at her nail polish. It was all she could do to stay upright while she walked with such little coordination, but she managed it even when I passed her the bottle for her to drink from. 

   My front door was open just like she'd said, and when she hissed Oh no, oh no we left the door open... I just told her not to worry. 

   We're millionaires now, I said. We can replace anything that was taken. 

   Nothing had been taken though, and after we closed the front door behind us we collapsed on the sofa next to each other, dropping the empty bottle to the floor and sighing drunk sighs, filling the room with champagne beer breath. Ooh! my friend said, jumping up and turning on the stereo, turning Gaydar all the way up. Let's dance! She said, beginning to sway her hips and closing her eyes as she twisted open another bottle of champagne. I just laughed and watched her.

   Trying my hardest not to get a stiffy. 

   I turned the TV on so I didn’t have to watch her hips gyrate and her tits bounce from side to side and her hair glide through the air as she lost her intoxicated self in the music. After flicking from channel to channel hoping to find some pornography or gore, I stumbled across one of those late night roulette shows where they spin the wheel live on air and all you have to do is call in and pick a number to win big. Since I’d already won big once that night, I thought it’d be a good idea to win more, so I picked up my phone and dialled in. I bet on twenty-three, but it didn’t come in.

   When my friend saw what I was doing she stopped dancing to the ear-splitting techno beats and joined me on the sofa. At some point which I’d missed, she’d removed her top and a very thin layer of sweat made her skin sparkle as she pressed herself against me on the sofa in just her light pink lacy bra and blue jeans. It’s not until you’re drunk and you’ve won tens of millions of pounds and you’re about to bet it all away that you notice just how much you want to fuck your friends in the face. Anyway, she started calling out numbers too and before we knew it we’d blown eighty pounds on the wheel, and that’s not counting the phone line charges at two pounds a minute. I didn’t mind, it just frustrated me that we never won a single penny back. They must be rigged, those things.

   When she got bored, my friend stood up and started dancing again. She still had the full champagne bottle in her hand and it weighed her tiny arm down, and watching her I realised just how tiny her frame is. She’s as skinny as I’ve ever seen a girl, and short too; with her full breasts and round arse, it was a surprise that I’d never noticed before that she’s pretty much exactly what I go for. I guess it’s because she’d never been dancing half naked in front of me before, all drunk and vulnerable. I’d always been put off by her large-ish nose and that terrible choice of fringe that almost covers her eyes, but now those things were nothing to me. They went out the window the moment she started pouring the champagne over her face and letting it drip down her chest, saturating her bra within seconds.

   So after that, I was dancing next to her in just my underpants, my hard on pretty much out there for all to see. Who gives a fuck? I thought. I’m a millionaire. After swigging heavily from the bottle, I poured some over my own head before starting to unbutton my friend’s short shorts.

*

   By the time I entered her for the first time, we'd already had one or two orgasms each, each of us owing to the other's tongue. I'd already sucked her toes and watched her touch herself; she'd already bitten my earlobes and whispered things she'd never say to her mother. Now, she was scratching lines down my back hard while I lay on top of her, pushing so deep into her that she gasped with each new thrust. Slowly, I would pull nearly all the way out before sliding all the way in, being pulled in even harder by those smooth legs she had wrapped around me, tensing until I could feel her heels digging into my buttocks. I grabbed the open bottle from the bedside table and with her eyes closed she raised her mouth toward the sky, ready for me to pour vodka in. As I remained pumping slowly at her crotch, I let the vodka glug glug glug all over her face and hair until the pillow was soaked and she ducked her head out of the way of the bottle, giggling and telling me to stop. After I put the bottle down, she grabbed my hair and pulled my head toward hers. She kissed me with force, shoving her tongue into my mouth and wiggling it around frantically like we might have just minutes to live. When she let go, she gazed into my eyes for a few seconds. Stop making love to me, she slurred, And just fuck me. Millionaire. 

   So I did. I grabbed her wrists and pinned her down by them, and I pounded myself against her with all the strength my drunk and exhausted body could gather. Again and again, my body slapped against hers with that constant pap, pap, pap sound that is repulsive to anyone but those involved; and again and again, she groaned with pleasure or maybe pain until she was screaming and writhing and shaking her head from side to side, flicking her hair and covering us both in the vodka it was still sopping with. After that, she pushed me off her and got on all fours.

   We did it for a long while like that, me pounding her from behind and pulling her hair hard so that her head had to stay upright and her back arched, and no matter how hard I thought I was going she wanted it harder, until we both came with knee-weakening intensity and we had to stop because we felt nauseous from all the champagne and beer and vodka and pizza and peanuts swilling around in our bellies. 

   Laying there afterward, her wet head resting on my chest sticking to all the sweat and champagne, she stroked her foot up and down my leg. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed that deep breathing that is so telling of someone who is on the brink of falling asleep. I can't believe we won, she mumbled, as she slipped into the abyss. 

   That night, I went to sleep the shiniest happiest man alive. That night, I went to sleep a millionaire sex god who had the finest piece of pussy out of anyone he knew. The next morning, I woke up a hungover idiot with a shit job, rent to pay, an astronomical credit card bill, and an excruciating worry about the night that I fucked my friend without a condom.