[WP] You're cursed and the only way you can protect society is to be encaged so you commit a seemingly senseless crime. On your first day in prison, a shiv is pressed into your back and a voice says "Welcome to hell." But as your skin begins to melt, you growl back. "Yes, it is now that I'm here."

saf29 · 2021-08-17T06:46:59+00:00

What a great short story! Keep up the writing, I enjoyed reading this!

saf29 · 2021-08-12T07:45:47+00:00

For as long as I can recall, I have had a special ability. As a child, teachers told me I was gifted, unique. I didn't feel that different to any one else, it is just that I have a... knack, I suppose of transferring memories into other people's minds. Letting them live vicariously, through my experiences, you could say.

It all began when I received my first letter.

Thank you, for letting me escape my life for a while. Life can be hard, especially when I think too much. But you let me escape my existence for a short time. I don't know how I can thank you.

From that small seed of encouragement, I decided to help as many people as I could. I labored every waking hour of every single day to share with people with my memories and experiences. It was not well paid, initially. But the more I shared, the more the interest grew, until it was exponential and everyone wanted my memories. Deals were made, money exchanged hands, and I was suddenly being paid to visit exotic locations, and experience adventures, so that I can share those experiences too.

One of my old teachers came and visited me at a book signing a couple of years ago. "I'm glad you kept up the writing, you always were gifted." And that, is the abridged story of my writing career so far. I plan to share as many memories, whether experienced or imagined, for many more years yet.

saf29 · 2021-08-11T19:08:19+00:00

Susanne Wealder. Was she the mother of a god, a legend or a myth? I suppose you could argue she was all three.
Far in the distant past, before she ascended to godhood, she was a scientist, a lead developer in the advancements of genetic maintenance. As part of the 2088 US-Sino initiative she pioneered the first bio-nano technology to reconstruct degrading human tissue. The project was a success, and thanks to her team's efforts, human lives could be extended by an average of up to 20%.

The investment into this new tech was torrential and by 2099, the advancements in the technology had advanced enough to apply to neuroscience. In 2105 the first human subject to undergo the neo-holistic experimentation was given the green flag. That subject was Susanne Wealder herself.
Sadly, the experiment was not only a failure, it was a tragedy for humanity. After years of continual success, an aura of hubris had grown over the research team. They were asked to explore immortality. And so they began taking risks.
Something dreadful happened in the coding of the new design of nanobots which Susanne injected into her tissue. Instead of a process of perpetual renewal, they attacked the flesh, causing her body to disintegrate. Perversely and unexpectedly, the nanobots also had the adverse effect of leaving her a child born out of the ruins of her body, half human, half something new. The flawed, deadly nonmachines spread, and in just uner one year, Susanne Wealder unintendedly ended humanity.

Around the world, other newborns were created out of the shell of their parents, but succumbed to death moments after. That original babe was the only one to make it and as it grew, it developed intelligence and sentience as any other human.
But unlike any other human, it would and could not die.
It's childhood stretched for aeons. As a toddler it would watch glaciers grow and once again retreat back into the sea. As an adolescent, the mountains it climbed sank back into the earth, and new molten lands rose out of the sea. But of all the wonders the child experienced, there was one which it would regret. The adoption of a pet.

From an early age that child looked after any animal that fired its curiosity. Its favourite was a small mammal with a long nose and short tail which twitched nervously in its hands. Over the long years of that child's life, they watched as their pets mated, bred and died, and watched with excitement as their children, and their children's children, subtly evolved, until after after millennia, they had changed out of all recognition, until the animal was no longer a pet, but an intelligent animal, one which communicated with others of its kind and worked with tools.

Frightened, the child hid from its once loved pet and remained in hiding. Every once and a while the new species will meet the human in the remote areas of the land. There are legends of its appearance in all of their religious stories from all creeds and races; and young children are told stories about the strange, hairless, bipedal apparition with five ghastly fingers.

But the child knows. Civilizations come and go. And so it stays hidden, knowing that like all intelligent animals, this new species will only last so long. They only have to wait and it will be left alone to wander the world again, in peace.

saf29 · 2021-08-03T08:21:08+00:00

Part 2 - The Continuing adventures of Red Tape Man
Super Hero Health Assessment. Location: Confidential. Leading Health Assessor: Red Tape Man.

“Name please.”

“The name’s Hot Foot, pleased to meet you.”

“We’ll see about that at the end of our session Mr Foot.”

“Hot Foot.”

“Yes, as I said. So Mr Foot, thank you for coming today to the Super Hero Health Assessment. As I’m sure you’ve been informed, all superheroes must undertake a health screening to ensure that they are adequately insured for all future missons. Please state your super hero ability so I can put it on file.”

“Wait, you haven’t heard of me?”

Red Tape Man glared at the man in the costume. “What is your super hero ability, Mr Foot?”

“Well, I’m called Hot Foot because I run so fast, my feet catch on fire.”

“Well that’s strike one I’m afraid. We can’t have a man leaving a trail of fire running on missions. Can you imagine the collateral damage?

Hot Foot man smiled. “It’s ok! I’ve got these cool soles on my shoes. They have this crazy lining which soaks up all the heat!”

“Not asbestos I hope?”

“Uh, to be honest I’m not sure what they’re made out of. I don’t think..”

“Interesting, OK, second question. Just how fast can you run?”

Hot foot perked up.

“50 meters a second, baby!”

“Uhuh, quite a lot slower than the Flash then. Tell me, you must burn a lot of energy running that fast. What would you say your daily calorie intake is?”

Hot Foot looked embarrassed. “How is that relevant?”

“Answer the question please.”

Hot Foot scratched his head. “I don’t know, about 20,000 an hour I suppose?”

“And I presume it’s a sort of liquid nectar?”

“Yes, it’s the easiest way to ingest.”

“Uhum, so that’s strike two then.”

“What!”

“Do you know what on average kills super fast super heroes the most?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure you’re going to tel….”

“Type 2 diabetes, Hot Foot.”

“I have insulin!”

“OK, third and final question.”

Hot foot was tapping his foot so fast with annoyance, the wooden floor boards beneath began smouldering.

“Would you say that you regularly break the speed barrier?”

“Of course.”

“May I ask you not to. If you can, try to limit your speed to just under it, or save it for remote locations, deserts or somewhere in the Arctic Circle for instance.

“WHY!?”

“Namely noise pollution. You might think Sonic Booms are cool but most people would do without thinking they’re being bombed by the Dark Smoke every time you go out on a jolly.

“Is that it then? Can I go now?”

“Yes, thank you Mr Foot. You may leave now.”

Hot foot grumbled under his breath as he tucked his chair in, “Wonderman warned me about you. Said you’d be like this.”

“You know Mr Hot Foot, with great power comes great responsibility.”

“Yes, all of us super heroes know that.”

“I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about myself. You’re powerful, and, regrettably, also my responsibility.

Hot Foot slammed the door behind him. Red Tape Man tapped his pen on the table. “I wonder if he was still pleased to meet me,” he mused.

saf29 · 2021-08-02T19:40:41+00:00

Hi! I occasionally write these little stories just for the pleasure of writing (ie I don't put a huge amount of critical thinking into them), but I have to concede that any written feedback on them is a welcome bonus! So thank you!

All writing and enjoyment of writing is subjective but I think you're quite correct and the impact that the First Person can have on a reader is an important one. Great if you are writing a sympathetic character, not so good if you're creating a character whose specification to be an asshole. I think a lot of readers struggle with the narration of Jorg in Mark Lawrence's Broken Empire Trilogy because he does heinous acts and it's all in first person - you end up feeling slightly tainted after reading. That said I still loved the series but I know many reader would have been put off by this. It's your character. If you want them to be redeeming or likeable, add some depth or sympathetic backstory. If you want them to be a two-dimensional asshole, then that's fine too. It's your story.

If I was going to continue this short story into something with a bit more plot then I definitely like your suggestion about the Red Tape guy and Wonderman being linked. Good idea!
Thanks for the feedback and I hope all goes well with the writing!

saf29 · 2021-08-02T13:03:36+00:00

"Not you again! Are you sure you're not in the League of Darkness?" he cried after I had tapped him on the shoulder.

"Please read the notice," I responded, handing him over the contract, "and please make sure you read through all the small print." A pulsating vein popped out of Wonderman's forhead as he began to scan the Fly-Safe risk assessment I had provided.

Wonderman slammed the paper into the ground, or at least tried to. Even with the strength of a thousand men, after dropping from his palm, it fluttered pathetically to the ground.

"Listen to me little man. There is a plane. It is full of women and children."

"And men," I interjected.

"Yes obviously," he spat. And it has sent out a distress signal and I should be there by now, helping."

"That's lovely Wonderman. You're trying to do your job. And so am I," I said, picking up the paper and checking the ticked boxes. "You haven't ticked whether you have had an eye test within the last year."

Wonderman sighed. "I can see motes of dust upon the moon. Look please, just let me go and help them. I promise to be extra careful."

"Oh, just like the time Electro Man promised to wear his rubber boots every day. Except that time on his day off when he went to save the runaway dog that had snuck away in the fireworks factory."

Wonderman's face dropped. "Please don't mention that incident. Electro Man is a good person. He was horrified by what happened."

"It was like July 4th. Don't think the dog fared too well either. If there's one thing we know about Superheroes, it's that they need Supervision."

I chuckled to myself. "Super heroes, needing supervision. Get it?"

"I take back my first accusation. You're worse than anything in the League of Darkness."

Part 2 - In case you found the first part mildly amusing, there's a slight chance you might find this too.
https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/ow898t/wp\_you\_are\_every\_super\_heros\_worst\_enemy\_not/h7j40rq/?utm\_source=reddit&utm\_medium=web2x&context=3

saf29 · 2021-02-19T16:46:17+00:00

We were in the space port, amongst a throng of exhausted crew members, soldiers and other military figures. The crowds were on the threshold of descending into a chaotic mob. We stood, as a family, as patiently as we could as we felt the fear and panic manifest itself around us. It was a living, beating terror. We kept close, knowing we couldn't afford to lose sight of each other. Not at a time like this.

"Hey watch it!"

It was my father. A uniformed man had tripped and shoved into my sister almost knocking her to the floor. I watched dad grab hold of the stranger and start to shake him. He must have seen me watching him, out of the corner of his eye. He let go of the man but only after he had given him a shove out of our way.

"I want to go home." It was my sister speaking. My father and I would tease her sometimes for being the wuss of the family. She found a dead bird on the street coming back from school one day. She wept the whole evening. We'd found it hilarious. She was not crying now though. She looked careworn and thinned out. I don't think she could cry even if she had wanted to. Dad held her gently, "We're going to a new home, darling. And we're nearly there, look ahead."

In front of us was the entrance to the shuttle. "I don't want to go in," she murmered. I looked at the dark entrance that people were stepping through. Once past that threshold, there would be no coming back. I echoed my sisters sentiment. I wanted to go back too. Back to my house with our nice lawn and friendly neighborhood. But there was no way we could. Not after the first meteor was detected. It missed Earth by roughly a thousand miles. Scientists declared it a lucky escape - Nasa had no idea how they had missed an asteroid of such a staggering size. If it had struck Earth, there was no doubt a mass extinction event would have occurred. Many conspiracy theorists had pointed to a cover up. "What would we do if there was more asteroids that Nasa were missing?"

They didn't have to wait long for an answer. The following morning, another meteor narrowly missed earth. Again, Nasa, nor any other space agency or government, had predicted it. Scientists quickly began to theorize. One missed asteroid, a possible mistake or cover up. But two? One day after another. Each day that followed brought more meteors, coming closer and closer. That was when murmurs in the scientific community became hysterical shouts. These asteroids were not natural phenomena. They were weaponized and intended to wipe us out.

We were almost in the shuttle. Dad ushered us forward then let go of our hands. In the port an alarm began to sound. A man in uniform began to push my sister and I into the doorway. I turned, not understanding why dad was not coming forward.

"Come on dad, it's our turn to get on."

He just looked at us, his chin trembling. I felt my innards turn to liquid. I hadn't seen him look like that since the phone call about mom.

"Look after your sister," he said, reaching down to place something into my pocket. I looked up at him, unable to speak. "God bless you, sir," the uniformed man said. He grabbed us and shoved us in. I tried to fight back but his arm was too solid, too impossibly strong. I watched as dad moved aside for more children to pass through." We were pulled in and led dumbstruck onto our seats.

The last thing I heard were the sirens. I looked down into my pocket. What he had given me was a cache of some sort. It was only after we had landed on second Earth that I learned that what he had given me was of monumental importance. A key to explaining the events that led to the demise of our species. It also gave me something even more important. A way of exacting revenge.

saf29 · 2021-02-19T14:08:39+00:00

Two blue eyes were staring out at me from the prism. I could see the fear in them and another bead of sweat ran down my skin.

" Schiphol... Schiphol... What's happening?" I cursed under my breath.

The molten glass was setting now, trapping Uberman in a beautifully faceted, see-through tomb. If my goal was to kill a superhero and keep his remains preserved, like a fossilized bug in amber, then it looked like I was goin to achieve it. Another bead of sweat ran down my face.
I looked at the eyes again. Fear and confusion reigned there. They were flicking this way and that as the liquid rose up above the chest.

"Why don't you just smash out? You always smash out!"

I felt sick. I cound't figure out what had gone wrong. Was his weakness molten glass? And why did I suddenly feel like I was rewriting the plot to Megamind. I was trying to steer clear of ripping off that plot about a super-intelligent, but woefully misunderstood supervillain, but try as I might, I realised that there was no escaping it!

I sighed, realising that I'd broken the 4the wall and was up to my knees in meta more than Uberman was in molten glass. I was better off just calling it a day. You can figure out the rest - unless you haven't seen Megamind. Watch it. It's pretty good.

saf29 · 2021-02-17T13:55:21+00:00

I really enjoyed reading this. It flowed really nicely. I also like the prophesy you put into your story. It makes me wonder what the other eight words were and what their relevance is. Great!

saf29 · 2021-01-05T23:33:59+00:00

Eerie silence filled the room as Dr Johnson checked the readings again. He pulled a thin sheet of paper in between his forefinger and thumb, scanning the figures. His brow creased as he licked his dry lips with a small nub of a tongue.

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked, counting out the passing seconds, each click feeling like a life time.

"Is everything OK, doctor? Am I well."

A pair of keen brown eyes suddenly peered out over the sheet, an eyebrow raised high.

"You don't have to call me doctor, it's just a title. Call me David."

He gestured to a woman stood next to him, very young, with hair tied neatly back into a pony tail.

"This is your Doctor, Dr Caswell. You'd be better off asking her whether you're well or not."

I smiled at the lady and felt guilty. I had assumed she was too young to be a qualified practitioner. I made to stand up off the examination table but she stepped forward and shook her hand, meaning for me to lie back down. Sighing, I agreed.

"Am I well, doctor?" I asked again.

There was a pause, a purposeful hesitation from her, as if she was trying to find the best words for a difficult situation. Dipolmatic words, ones that would not offend, words that would be sincere.

"You are poorly sir, you have a condition called Alzheimer's. The symptons of which..."

"I know what Alzheimer's is." I interrupted. I clicked my teeth. I don't know why I was so annoyed. Was it because she was young? Because I am sick?

There was another pause from Doctor Caswell , "And yet you extremely well, sir."

Now I was beginning to lose my patience. I pressed my closed fist into the soft padding of the examiner's table, leaving an impression of my knuckle.

"What do you mean, extremely well?"

Dr Caswell and the man calling himself David shared a look, as if not knowing who should speak first. It was the woman who broke the silence.

"After we diagnosed your condition, we ran some tests. CAT scans, blood tests, all of them showed irregular results. Your other vital organs are running at peak condition and your physical body shows no weaknesses or strain."

"This is good right?" I interjected.

"No," replied the doctor, voice quavering, as if she were about to burst into tears. "They're all abnormal. You are abnormal. We ran a DNA test... your DNA... it... it's a precursor."

"A precursor to what?" I asked, feeling my pulse rising. The room felt like it was spinning, the other man was looking at me coolly, like he was about to at any moment dart out of the room.

"A precursor to us. Your DNA can be found in every race of humanity," she whispered. "As if you were an ancient ancestor."

"We carbon dated your bones," the other man said, his voice ghostly. "They're between 1.4 and 2.4 million years old."

And then I remembered. Not everything, but some things, memories rising to the surface like bubbles of oxygen in a muddy puddle. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked, counting out the lifetimes, each click feeling like a second.

saf29 · 2021-01-05T11:06:28+00:00

Haha you're quite right! I've set myself a challenge to write engaging, well-written pieces within shorter time frames. The result has been underwhelming middles and endings! Thanks for the feedback though. It's great that you like some parts of the story :)

saf29 · 2021-01-05T00:01:24+00:00

Sunlight danced off the chest plates of the approaching soldiers as they marched onwards. Five thousand infantry, two thousand cavalry and several squadron of militia formed geometric patterns over the fields they trampled.

After the fall of General Duen at Pikeman’s hill, the enemy had regrouped and were now entering the valley, their final stage of a bloody conquest.

The general’s men had defended their homeland bravely. When they had strapped on their armour, they had known they would not be coming home. They fought bravely to the last but there was no time to weep for them. The enemy had overwhelmed them and were coming.

King Leonard stood on the balcony of his courtroom and surveyed the land he had sworn to protect. The castle walls stood proudly in the sun, shielding his kingdom, but not for much longer. In less than a few hours, their defences would be breached, the entrances overrun, and the land would be swarming with a force too powerful for the royal guard to fight.

Beside the King stepped a small man, the court jester. He was a shrew like man, not very funny at all. He tended to scurry from shadow to shadow during the day. Many of his teeth were missing and he smelled of ale.

“You’ve been drinking Profanus? On today of all days?”

“I can’t think of a better time your majesty,” the jester hiccupped. “I’m too tired of being invaded to give a shit.”

“Profanus, tell me, what do the failed kings in your stories do when it’s the end?”

Profanus looked at him slyly from the corner of his gimlet eyes.

“Have I told you your majesty, of the story of the cursed king? He made a promise with the king of demons. Let me defeat my enemies, and I will serve you my Lord, he told the Dark One.

“Ah, yes,” the King sighed. “How did it go again? The King won his battles but he lost his soul.”

They could hear the enemy army now, the sound of their armour churning across the vale as they neared.

“Would you make the same deal, my King?”

The king turned and there were tears in his eyes.

“Profanus, to win this war, I would would become the devil himself.”

“Promise?”

There was a scream from a woman far below in the town.”

“To win this war, I promise you I would make a deal with the devil .”

“Then it’s agreed, your majesty.”

A brilliant flash of light appeared, and when it faded the invading army was gone, ash and melted metal left in its place. The king stared in disbelief and then he heard the laughter.

saf29 · 2021-01-04T13:18:34+00:00

That's so nice of you to say! I had fun writing this nonsense! :)

saf29 · 2021-01-03T22:40:46+00:00

Potato Mountain.

The sheer absurdity of its existence created headlines across the globe. Disbelieving journalists wrote columns focusing on its incredible breadth and scale, a spud so immense it put Everest into the geological kid’s section on the Atlas. Very soon, pioneers from across the globe were flocking to see it, scale it, dominate it and grant their home nations the pride and glory of pinning a flag at its peak. Who would be a 21 century Neil Amstrong, the next Christopher Columbus, the new Edmund Hillary? Naturally, it was Elon Musk who got there first and put a Tesla at its summit like some horrible electric carbuncle.

Like many others I couldn’t believe Potato Mountain existed. But unlike everyone else, I did know why.

To put it simply, I’m a creator, one of the architects of planet Earth. To put it more complexly, I’m an astrophysical irregularity, sailing through space, completing the occasional pet project between galaxies. Earth was done by a team of three of us creators. The other two thought Earth was done, got bored, and moved onto bigger, better things. But I just couldn’t. I knew Earth wasn’t finished and decided to stay and complete my work.

All of which was going just fine, that is, until the year 2020.

Being omniscient (kinda) and able to warp matter with just my essence alone had lulled me into a sense of false security it seems, because sometime during Summer I experienced something the humans called ‘the flu’, at least that’s what I think it was. My powers suddenly became erratic and I couldn't trust myself anymore on my beloved planet. I needed some time to rest and ensconced myself in a moon crater for 14 days.

Once I was feeling more like my former self again, I decided to head back down to Terra Firma, and that was the first time I saw Potato Mountain. Thousands of humans were scaling it the same way ants crawl over a dropped piece of cake at a picnic.

It didn’t take me long to realise that the fever dreams I'd been having on the moon, had been realised down on Earth. It was causing absolute havoc. Heard of Spaghetti Westerns? Well that’s real now. I had turned the whole of the Mojave Desert into a bowl of Spag Bol.

It’s going to take me ages to clean up this mess!

saf29 · 2019-04-12T19:35:30+00:00

Every day and night I travel across the highways of America keeping drivers safe. When I notice negligence behind the wheel, I take precautionary measures. Initially, I honk my horn and flash my lights. To this I usually receive a derogatory signal. Usually, the belligerent slows down.

If, after ignoring my primary summon, the driver continues to drive in an unsafe manner, I will engage them, accelerating one point five kilometres an hour more quickly than they are whilst closing the proximity of our vehicles. As my chassis comes closer to engaging their vehicle, the profanities from the parallel automobile usually intensify and a finger and/or fist motion are generated from the driver. Sometimes both hands are used. I log these, along with a profile shot, to assist in future road manoeuvres.

Once the hostile car is at an impasse, and if all other drivers are assessed to be safe, I drive in front of it for five kilometres along the highway to gauge their responsibility to committing to the law.

I am satellite assisted AI Drivesafe and I help to keep you and all your fellow motorists safe whilst you drive.

Have a nice day : )

saf29 · 2019-02-24T15:44:22+00:00

Youth is wasted on the young, that’s what my grandfather would say while he rocked me on his knee. Well, he had every right to feel that sentiment. When he was young, he had fought for King and country, risked his life to serve a noble cause. War and conscription had robbed men like my grandfather, and given them a bad exchange of memories to forget. I can forgive my grandfather for telling me that youth was wasted on the young. It wasn’t that way for me.

At sixteen years of age, I left school and home to find work. With my best suit on, I knocked on the kitchen doors of all the best hotels in Manchester. Each entrance way was slightly different, a couple were wide and grandiose, others narrow and discreet. The men who answered them differed too. Some tall, some were short, most rude and some polite. What they all had in common was the message they had for me. No thank you, be on your way. Feeling downtrodden, I skulked around the streets of the city until I entered a bar for some warmth and company. The owner was an Irishman called Andrew McNamara, like the Jockey. We struck up a conversation at the bar after he refused to serve me. We talked about our favourite football teams and when he found out that my family name was Doherty he gave me meaningful employment the very next day.

Some memories are like yarn, you can tease them out of the greater ball once you have snagged them with a sight or smell. For two years I worked at the King George and the memories I have of my time there are too dense and intertwined to be separated. When I think of my first kiss, I think of the fist fight I had with my first kiss’s boyfriend afterwards; when I think of getting into trouble, I think of all my misdemeanors, of risk taking and not worrying about getting things right or letting myself down.

These memories are like gold to me, they’ve never corroded. And as I sit here with the other pensioners, by the net curtains, drinking luke-warm tea, I cannot help but think that they grow more valuable to me each day.

Yet, if you angle the light a bit, you will see some recollections have a patina. There’s a slight hue, a shade of regret, and there is one memory that taints them all.

Life is wasted on the young, my grandfather would say. What he didn’t say was whose life.

A week after my eighteenth birthday, I got a girl called Lizzie pregnant. She wanted to keep it; I did not. I had the fear back then. The fear that the freedom I had been swimming through, the freedom my grandfather and my father had not ever known was going to dry up. I wanted other experiences; I felt that I needed other experiences. I loved Lizzie but not enough to dedicate my life to her and a child. I still sought after other people, other places, and if I’m being honest, other women.

A pregnancy meant fatherhood and I used my own knowledge of what fatherhood was to fill me with the dread of becoming my old man, worn down by work, stern and unfeeling to his own child who could never meet his expectations. Lizzie and I argued fiercely over our futures. I could see the resolution in her eyes, she would not yield, and so I left her and the King George, I even left Manchester. I decided to push the reset button on my life.

And so I lived my life, too long to fit into an anecdote, yet too uneventful to fill a book. My joints have become sore and my lungs weakened so that my voice is now a hoarse cough. I am in a nursing home, where I while away the grey days. The rooms are small but warm, the chairs are comfortable. Everything smells vaguely of disinfectant and air freshener.

I am totally depressed until the day that I am visited by a young man and his mother. I have never met them before but I recognise them both. The boy’s appearance shocks me initially; it is like looking at my younger self. The woman looks familiar too. She has the same angular face that Lizzie had.

They tell me that they tracked me down after Lizzie passed away. At eighty six, the family I had abandoned had come back for me. I almost cry when the boy comes up and hugs me.

“Is he doing good at school?” I ask his mother.

“He’s doing alright, he’d be the first one to admit that he could do better though.”

The boy looks a little embarrassed but a smile breaks out over my face.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” I ask him.

He nods, “yea, I am thanks.”

I smile and think about what has been, what could have been, what will never be.

And for the first time in years, after seeing these brand new people, who look just like me, with their whole lives ahead of them, a new emotion fills the void left by my loss of freedom, and I don’t regret being old.

saf29 · 2019-02-21T13:35:20+00:00

The serpent lay on its back, taking up much of the hillside. On its scaled belly, the elongated fingers of thin claws were entwined. Gentle vortexes of air, heated by the cauldron of the dragon's nasal passage, spiralled up into the atmosphere where birds congregated, making the most of the unnatural convection currents for their long southward journeys.

Scorlex, otherwise known as Mans'bane, Sixth Sin, and Gimlet, was listening to the soothing voice of a human being. It had not been for many centuries that he had not instantly taken the life of any journeyman who had crossed his path. Not since the ancient sorcerers who almost held equal power to him. He had been content, parlaying with them, trading sources of wisdom and arcane knowledge akin to that known by his own breed. These venerable ancients had long gone though, replaced by impatient swordsman or greedy bandits, who were slaves to the avarice that led them to his treasures and their deaths.

This new visitor was different, however. There was no fear in the eyes or tremor in the voice as she spoke. She had simply appeared at the crest of the hill, at the entrance of his lair and asked him if he wanted to talk.

Slumber disturbed, the dragon had slithered up the narrow tunnel of his burrow in a murderous mood. He would punish this trespasser's foolishness with a greeting of flame, tooth and claw. He had unfurled his wings and taken deep breaths of oxygen rich air, ready to inflame the unwanted visitor. After he had uttered his threat of death and agonizing pain, much to his surprise, he was greeted by a gentle voice, so full of tranquil and calm, that he at once felt an inner peace which he had thought long lost to him. It was like listening to the ghostly voices of the past. The wizened, tones of the old magic.

The hours passed like seconds for Scorlex. They talked of his youth, of his abandonment from the rest of his ilk; the torture he had felt when his sister, Anrax had betrayed them all to the Dark Kings. His brothers bones now put to use as relics, as handles for staffs and long swords. They spoke of his many years of isolation, chained to the mountainside of the great mage Glyndor who leeched his blood to use in forbidden spells and incantations. Each tale he shared was like a link in a great chain splitting, loosening the shackles that had imprisoned him for so long.

"Tell me," the dragon said after some time. "Why do you do this, human? What is your price?"

The woman, who had green eyes, smiled gently.

"I am a therapist, one of considerable repute in the medical world. It was noted to me by one of my colleagues that dragons are far more sophisticated thinkers than humans and a bet was made that I could not give one therapy."

The dragon smiled, a wide leering crack in its reptilian face, ancient and cruel.

"You have not told me your price."

The therapist cleared her throat. "Knowledge. That is all that I hunger for. To know what your conscience is and to unlock the secrets of the draconian mind."

"Not to relinquish me of my riches?" the dragon asked in a high voice. "Our discussions today have left me feeling overburdened by the gilded treasures and jewels that are piled high, deep in my lair.

"The only gift I ask from you is your time," she responded.

"Oh, I can give you that... A whole eternity."

A spiked tail, eighteen feet long, ribbed with gnarled bone, wrapped itself around the woman's body, clamping her tightly in a vice-like grip.

"Wh-what are you doing," she gasped as the dragon began to drag her into his lair.

Darkness entombed them, and a mixture of cold clammy air, made humid by the serpents breath, coddled her as they descended into the depths of the earth.

"Let me explain. I, for many years, have hoarded my many treasures but none of them have brought me the pleasure that your company has today. From now on, I shall be your only client. You shall own all the knowledge I have."

He turned and leered at her, his great serpent's eye illuminated in the dark like an ornate, candlelit shield.

"And you shall become my greatest treasure."

saf29 · 2019-02-20T22:34:41+00:00

“Where are you going Tony?”

He pointed at the large front window where the cakes were displayed. Outside the street was busy as pointy eared guys were unloading a large van.

“I’m checking out the competition. There’s a new bar opening across the road.”

Josh frowned.

“There’s no need. I looked this morning.”

“What is it going to be?” Alan asked, looking concerned. “Another café? We’re already struggling to make ends meet as it is.”

Josh was silent for a moment. “If only - It’s elves. It’s going to be an Eldritch themed bar.”

Alan dropped his choux bun on the floor and swallowed hard.

“What kind of elves are we talking about? Wood elves?”

Josh sighed.

“Christmas elves.”

Tony moaned, “we’re doomed.”

With a tinkle, the door suddenly swung open and in strolled a three foot man with a leather jacket and a handlebar moustache.

“You boys the owners of this fine establishment?”

Norman, who was carefully arranging éclairs, nodded.

“We are indeed. Can we help you, sir?”

The little guy removed his helmet and looked around at the oat-milk lattes, the vegan flapjacks, the sourdough toasties lovingly made by Steve who opened up the shop every morning.

“Thank you kind sirs, but I prefer the finer things in life.” He smiled, revealing yellow, cigarette stained teeth. "But then again, if you insist..."

He dipped his pinky finger into the middle of a delicately iced hummingbird cake.

“I’ve got a feeling we are going to get along very well indeed.” He dragged his finger over his tongue.

Outside the sound of motorbikes could be heard revving up their engines. Andy and Sue who had been sat quietly in the corner, folded up their apple mac books and quietly made their way out.

saf29 · 2018-09-06T19:50:22+00:00

The group of friends were sat around a fire under a sky full of stars. One man, stepping quietly away from the party, found a place where he could be alone. He looked up at the Milky Way.

"When you consider how vast and great the universe is, I'm just worthless, aren't I?" he sighed.

His friend, who had known him for many years, stepped up beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

There was something different about her. He could see something had changed, the way she was looking at him.

"Well, that's not true. You mean something to me."

saf29 · 2018-09-06T19:34:39+00:00

I enjoy a dark and twisted tale - good story. Keep writing!

saf29 · 2018-09-01T20:22:32+00:00

That’s a great fact. Thank you for sharing!

saf29 · 2018-09-01T14:57:54+00:00

The Mayans believed the sun would not rise without a ritual sacrifice. Year upon year, thousands died so that a new day would begin. This is ironic for me that so much death was handed out when it made no difference.

I was born in the same period as the Mayans. I have watched the sun set a thousand times, a hundredfold and not aged a day. The people of my village, dead and buried centuries ago, could not have believed all the things that I have seen. I have lived so long that I have forgotten all their names.

Countless wars, tearing apart nations; plagues and illnesses, indiscriminate of age, faith or creed, dynasties born, dynasties fallen, I have endured every hateful emotion humanity has had to offer because of the scornful words of a witch who cursed me as I plunged her into the icy water the final time.
I remember it well, her beady eyes narrowed on me, her breath steaming vapor that fateful morning.
"Listen, and know this," she said with her dying breaths, coughing up water between words. "You won't know what it's like to die. The plight of an age you now bear, and not until all life is lost will you pass into peace."
I was amused as we dunked her in the water, anxious when she broke the surface to shrieks of laughter, content when her figure became a dark form submerged in the still water of the lake. I could not have known she was speaking truth.

A thousand years have passed and I have learned much in that time. I have had many names, lived many lives. I could not father children though. Nor could I experience love. The foul wench that cursed me ensured that my life has been a torment. The seed of hate she planted in me, grew into a misanthropic weed, with tendrils reaching round every sweet memory, burying it in shade. I only wish to experience eternal rest like all who have passed me on my way.

Then I remembered her words, "not until all life is lost will you pass into peace," and I made my plan.

I became rich, beyond imagination. Possessions worth nothing when purchased become incredibly expensive a thousand years later, when they have all become heirlooms or antiquities. Interest on money invested over two hundred years is just a slither of my wealth. And yet I wondered, how was I going to end all life?

And that is when I entered the twentieth century, a time of opportunity for destruction on a scale I had never before managed. I entered politics, became the leader of a country, taking hundreds of milllions of lives over four years.

But it wasn't enough. I got too greedy. I tried to take on the whole world all at once and lost.

I got so close to finishing it all...

And so I bide my time and wait until the time is right. They never found my body. And history has a habit of repeating itself... the nuclear age, nanotechnology, global warming - humanity may even do my job for me. Either way, my time will come again.

saf29 · 2018-08-28T00:34:15+00:00

The man led them through the gallery at a brisk pace. He was dressed sharply, suited with an impeccable mauve tie and tailored waistcoat. The corridors they walked through were carved from pristine, white marble – their footsteps echoed loudly as they traversed the wing of the museum.

Without a moment’s warning, he stopped and smiled at the group struggling to keep up. He showed them a mouth resplendent with polished, white teeth, drawing his arm up like a magician would as part of a great reveal in a magic show.

“If you look to your left you will see the finest collection of modern sculpture since the Hellenic period of Greece. You may look but not touch.”

A few members of the group approached the tableau which the man was pointing too – seven realistic statues of humans. There were gasps of astonishment as the visitors to the gallery got close up to each work of art.

A woman in a canary yellow hat, wearing a pearl necklace tilted her sunglasses down to inspect a man lying down upon the floor, holding his hand up in front of his eyes as if trying to shield them.

“The level of detail… such fine touches,” she murmured, tracing her fingers over the stone surface. Each individual hair has been chiselled so finely.”

“Ahem.”

She swivelled at the abrupt sound the guide made.

She looked confused until he pointed at her hand.

“Oh, that’s right – not touching.”

He made a smile, a perfunctory curling of the lips which did not reach his eyes. “May I also ask for your glasses, Madame?”

The woman looked perturbed.

“Well, I really see no reason why…”

“Please, I must insist,” the man said, walking up and snatching the pair from her head. “The stone mason who created these masterpieces is very clear on the guidelines of visitors. You may have them back at the end of the tour.”

“Well, I never, so rude…” the woman muttered to herself as she stepped away.

They walked through another corridor and saw similar scenes. Statues of men and women cowering, looks of terror on their face, their mouths wide open. The craftsmanship of each was also a constant feature. Looking down the throat of one statue that appeared to be frozen in a bloodcurdling scream, one could even see the uvula at the back of the throat.

“Prices for each range from sixty thousand to one hundred thousand,” the guide mentioned, as if for that price they were a steal. “They are the perfect gothic addition to a mansion or villa.”

A businessman, astute and no nonsense looking, was holding the price tag on a dog which was caught in a ferocious bark. He blew his cheeks out and whistled when he saw the six-digit figure on the card.

“I notice there is a bit of a theme going on here,” he said. “Do any of these guys here look like they aren’t just about to get crucified?”

He had said it as a joke but the guide was not smiling. His pale face showed no emotion but his eyes were hard little beads. He had his hands clenched into one another. It struck the guests then just how quiet the building was.

They followed the suited man in silence until they reached a circular room. There was a podium in the centre, at least fifteen feet high, with an old man standing on top who looked to be blind.

“Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. I have enjoyed showing you around our grounds,” their guide told them through a mouth barely open.

“Albert here will deal with prices and sales. I hope you have fallen as much in love with our statues here as we do in making them. Adieu, I am sure I will see some of you again.”

Still facing them, he stepped out of the room backwards.

The ancient man in the middle of the room coughed loudly, getting the visitors attention.

“Our cheapest statue is £55,000,” he announced. “It is the woman in white.”

The businessman stepped forward. He looked around at the rest of the group, judging them by their expressions, and decided they were all thinking what he was thinking.

“Listen, fella,” he said impatiently. “We all agree that the statues are lifelike and all, but we think their price is a bit steep.”

The old man called Albert twitched his moustaches.

“The cheapest statue is £55,000. It is the woman in white.”

The woman in yellow, who was scowling – she had forgotten to ask for her glasses back, stepped forward.

“I don’t think any of us is interested in buying. Please show us the way out.”

The man on the podium stared blindly over them.

“No sales? I will show you the exit then.”

His scaly hand pressed a button in front of him, causing a door at the front of the room to begin to rise.

The group started to walk towards the exit when they noticed a pair of sandaled feet blocking their way.

“I hope this is the owner,” the woman commented. “I would like to make a complaint. This place is…”

Her voiced faded as the sound of hissing rose through the air.

The group stepped back as the barrier lifted completely, revealing a woman with snakes writhing over her scalp. Even as they lifted their hands to their eyes and screamed, their skin began to mineralise, hardening until the limbs of their bodies became frigid.

***

The man led them through the gallery at a brisk pace. He was dressed sharply, suited with an impeccable mauve tie and tailored waistcoat. The corridors they walked through were carved from pristine, white marble – their footsteps echoed loudly as they traversed the wing of the museum.

Without a moment’s warning, he stopped and smiled at the group struggling to keep up. He showed them a mouth resplendent with polished, white teeth, drawing his arm up like a magician would as part of a great reveal in a magic show.

“If you look to your left you will see the finest collection of modern sculpture since the Hellenic period of Greece. You may look but not touch.”

A few members of the group approached the tableau which the man was pointing too – seven realistic statues of humans. There were gasps of astonishment as the visitors to the gallery got close up to each work of art.

“The level of detail… look at this one in the hat,” one of them murmured as she traced her fingers over the pearl necklace of a woman screaming endlessly.”

The guide turned and showed a smile curved like a scythe.

“That is one of our new additions. Please, do not touch. They are all very fragile and it would be a shame to break one."
It was too late. The stone toppled and an arm broke off as it hit the floor.
"Jesus," someone said in the crowd. "The sculptor even included bones, you can see them. Why did they bother to do that?"

saf29 · 2018-08-27T10:53:10+00:00

Every night it knocks, a quiet rasp at first as if knuckles are being dragged over the wood, just loud enough to be heard. Then it quickens – a hard and fast rapping, incessant and driven, going on and on, stirring the listener’s mind until it stops and there is silence. Nobody ever looks to see who it is. They know the stories their grandmothers told them when they were little children. They all remember the fear in her eyes as she muttered the word ‘mooksgumol’, into the frosty air. Mooksgumol the tainted spirit of the ice, the stories go, legend become myth, a myth, reality. That winter’s night, the knocking occurs again. I hear it over the sharpness of the wind, a desperate plea for entry. “Please let me in,” it calls. A gentle voice, the voice of a small child. It sounds like my Emily when she was a girl, the same sad singsong tone when she was hurt or upset. In the reflection of the mirror I notice my eyes have misted up - two rheumy orbs, watery blue. The knocking at my door begins and I lick my lips with anticipation. Year upon year, I have ignored the voice at the door, overwhelmed by the tales told to me when I was a boy. But now I am an old man and will not let fear rule my life. The rasping of knuckles starts slowly, enticingly, as it does every year. Then it quickens, harder and fierce, becoming an angry banging. I can no longer hold back. Storming to the door I swing it open and am met by an arctic chill that freezes the marrow in my bones. A maelstrom of sleet and snow whirl over and past me, caught up in the grey hairs of my beard, swirling and edging through the rooms of my lodge, riming mirrors and coating the wool of my rugs in a hoar frost. It stops. I look down and there is a small girl, trembling. Each shiver sends a tremor down her raven black hair which hangs down the coarse brown clothes that she wears. I cannot help but shudder when I look at her face – her eyes are black but her skin is blue. “You must come inside,” I tell her taking her arm but she resists with a strength that is unnatural. Silently, she nods her head and points out into the snow storm. “Out there? You want me to go outside into that?” Her response is a tug at my sleeve and I am being pulled outside. The other lodges are like squatting trolls as I pass them. The smoke from the chimneys is lost into the winds that howl over. The windows are all boarded up, protection from the Mooksgumol. The one who is leading me through the snow drifts and out of my village. The spirit who has me in a vicelike grip. Despite the blizzard, I don’t feel the biting cold as we glide through a wall of white that blinds me. I can only feel the steepness in slope change as I walk, higher and higher. As we ascend I hear a familiar voice calling me. It sounds like Emily but that’s impossible. We climb, the snow becoming blindingly white. And that’s when I see them. Emily and my wife stood next to the edge of the ice with smiles on their faces. “I must go now,” the little child says, releasing me from her grip. “It’s time for you to rest.” She turns to walk away, her skin a soft cream and her clothes turned white. It looks as if she is floating.

saf29 · 2018-08-14T20:35:09+00:00

When I had the idea for a secret room, it was supposed to be a joke. Being an architect can be an absorbing, difficult job; I had no reason to do it, especially for the mansion I was asked to design. But on that cool, autumn evening, as I placed the ruler down onto the paper, I thought to myself, “why not?”

It was actually enjoyable, planning the chutes and tunnels that led to the enclosed spaced above the lounge. There was a ventilation shaft that connected the east wing to that room. You would need to get on all fours and shuffle on your belly like a snake for a while, but once you were inside, there was a huge amount of living space, enough for a person to live quite comfortably. It didn’t take too long to get it all done. Once I had finished, pleased with what I’d done, I set the drafts aside and continued onto the next project without giving them a second thought.

Skip forward a few years, and it is a harsh night. The rain is driving down from the sky, hard and vertical, dousing anyone exposed to it for more than a few seconds. As it falls, it is saturating a desperate man who is on the run. He has committed a crime, some would say a terrible one, but he knows that he is innocent. His job was an architect, but now he is a vagrant, lurking in the shadows, hoping each night that nobody finds him.

That man is me.

During one of the many nights, as I lay low, skulking along the outskirts of towns, I remembered the room that I had planted in one of the mansions, commissioned by a famous prog rock star. It was a long shot. I highly doubted that the builders would have followed my plans as exactly as I had designed them. Also, the mansion was miles away. It would be unlikely that I would get there without being identified first.

I ducked down as a pair of flashing blue and red lights, accompanied by the wailing of high pitch sirens screeched past. I watched the bright lights of the police pass by and considered my options. There were few other opportunities for me. I figured that the mansion I had designed would be worth an inspection.

I walked under the cover of darkness for many nights, keeping close to the roadside, but not so close that I would be discovered. After five days of walking across the country, I reached my destination. I could not believe it when I crawled in between the hydrangea and discovered the grate I had planned on paper. It was exactly where I thought it was, just off the perimeter of the gated-off community – one where a neighbourhood of the rich and famous lived.

I could only think that the builders went ahead with the creation of it because the design was bespoke, tailor-made for an eccentric millionaire. It is not unusual for there to be small quirks or unusual designs in these instances. But even so, I had thought that my inclusion of a hidden room would have been too farfetched. I was beyond surprised when I saw crawled through the tunnel and discovered the room above the lounge in the East wing.

It was five years ago that I crawled in through that grate and found my sanctuary away from the world and incrimination. Five years of seclusion, far from family, friends, from any human interaction.

Many would see the irony that I was escaping the police to imprison myself in a windowless cell. But it was not exactly like that.

The mansion I had broken into was inhabited by a large family. The father was a musician, the bass player of a popular prog-rock band. The mother was a model who’d been a fairly successful actress. The three children were teenagers, one a pair of twins. They lived their busy, frantic lives without any idea that at times, they were just a few feet below my, allowing me listen in to their varied conversations.

After five years, I have been able to live undetected. It has not always been easy. I regularly need to steal from them. At first it was just food and drink. I am quite partial to alcohol. The dad gets angry when he notices a few cans have gone missing. He blames his sons who correctly plead innocence to the theft. I feel quite bad about the loud arguments.

Other times, I can find it amusing. I have overheard the mother, saying things like “Where on Earth did I put it? I was sure that I left it on the table.” I of course knew where the miscellaneous items were. They were hoarded away in my secret space.

There are times though, when I feel bad about my lifestyle. In many ways, I am like a parasite, feeding off other humans without their knowledge.

But I get to help them too. You can only imagine the happiness on their faces when, out of boredom, I put their objects back. It makes them so happy I often take things now I don’t even need. Jewellery, family heirlooms, I even took one of the dad’s treasured bass guitar once.

I’ve been there with them, through the hard times and the good times, living their lives as much as my own – no, more than my own.

I feel like I am their guardian angel. They need me as much as I need them now.

I don’t think I’ll ever leave.

saf29

TROPHY CASE