250 Words: Shit, dude, ZOMBIES!!!

Dude, there’s zombies! Thousands of them! Well, maybe only hundreds. Or less. It’s tricky to tell from here.

Fuck off, I can count. And it’s zom-bies, dude. Just one would be enough. And all I can see is a crowd of the dopey shits walking into the front window. It’s mental, dude, well mental- who’d a though it, eh? 

What, Romero? Maybe him, I guess, yeah. But, I mean, if this don’t get sorted it’s gonna be a strange old world from here on in- ducking ‘n’ diving and whatnot everywhere we go, raiding empty shops. Well, you’re as familiar as me with these things.

But shit, dude, ZOMBIES!!! I mean, I am awake, yeah? This is happening? Nah, it just struck me suddenly that I was maybe drunk or stoned somehow. 

You’ve sinit on the news? And… 

What? Yeah, I’m at work! 

Ugly, rotting bastards, too. It’s gross dude, so gross. But fascinating- like the grimmest zoo ever. All teeth and gaping holes, you can see all sorts you shouldn’t be able to. And noisy, man, all that constant groaning- can you hear it? 

Horrid, yeah?

Bloody hell, what they got to moan about, anyways? They’re in a fucking constant all you can eat buffet. 

Disgusting blighters. Probably stink of shit, too.

What’s that, dude, you seem worried? I’m not surrounded or nothin’. Yeah, mate, I can still get out the back, for the moment at least. 

What’s that you say? 

Sure, alright then, love, I’ll be right over.

100 Words: The View

Our school seems to have produced more than its fair share of poets and artists.  Where Eton has oft filled the cabinet, our Old Boys have helped to line the walls of the Tate and written the pages of literary magazines.

Outsiders might wonder why but those who walked out through the gate for seven years will know the truth of what we all experienced.  Each day we left school and looked out across an awe-inspiring landscape, breathed the fresh air outside the gate and felt like we could do anything.  

An adolescence of that is bound to create art.

---

Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt:

Copyright -Jennifer Pendergast

An InLinkz Link-up

100 Words: The end of the fence

Gleefully he signed and sealed the order with his little stamp.  The fence would come down!  His children would have more room to play!

His whole life King Stefan had abhorred the giant fence that marked the end of the palace’s grounds and the edge of the kingdom.  For centuries it had stood, though no one remembered why it had been built.  Now, at last, as he had always dreamed, the tradition of allowing it was ended, the fence would come down!

*

They never thought they’d be forgotten, that the wizards would leave.  Now, at last, their time had returned.

---

Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the both the written prompt ("Don't ever take a fence down until you know the reason it was put up."- GK Chesterton) and the following picture prompt: 

Image courtesy of hisks on rgbstock.com

250 Words: Improv aka Ramblings 7

The robot blinked mechanically, cleaning the dirt off its eyes.  Or, to be more precise, the glass placed just in front of the two cameras that gathered the information it used to see. 

Dirt was a constant problem for the robot.  In this area it seemed to be forever collecting dirt and dust upon its glass plates that distorted its vision and required the slow process of blinking: something that could create a real problem should the robot come under attack while running the blinking program.  The CPU might never know.

Elsewhere dirt could easily get into its joints and cause robotic arthritis, necessitating an immediate return to base and a period away from the frontline while being cleaned.  The stuff could get inside the robot too, causing a potential myriad of other problems that would result in the same situation.

If the robot could have thought for itself it may have reasoned that it wasn’t entirely well designed for its purpose.  Despite a high degree of success when working properly, this model was badly suited to the conditions in which it was operated.  The casing came along soon enough but the robot and its siblings were required to fight before it was completed.  They saved lives and turned the tide but, with a little more work, could have won the war single-handedly.

Not that the casing proved to be a solve-all solution.  The introduction of electromagnetic grenades saw to that.  And the robot could still not blink away bullets.

100 Words: Clover

I grow my own luck, cultivating it in batches.   It’s just a matter of genes and blending the right ones to gain an endless supply of multi-leafed clovers.

I’m in the Guinness Book of Records, but that was just a bonus because that 56 leafed puppy was one hell of a lucky plant.  It was while wearing it on my lapel that I both bought the winning ticket and met my wife to boot.

Each and every one does a little something, though, from a four leaf good day and up, each extra leaf adding an extra sheen or sparkle.

---

Written for 100 Word Challenge #380 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt being the word Clover.  I also took extra inspiration from the Wikipedia page for Clover, coming up with this imaginary version of the man that keeps beating his own Guinness World Record.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 34 and 35

Jason laid down in the second half of the year, breaking apart to form five months.

*

He laid with the year until exhaustion split them into parts that formed months; though Jason lost his last name and Miriam parts of both.

250 Words: Stuff inspired by phrases picked out from 250 (Jumbled) Words: Break-ups within after months a few major two, No 3: Happy Avenue

There is a place, not far from here, where all is perfect- they call it Happy Avenue.  It’s a most perplexing place, almost an aberration in its unusualness.

Each garden is kept perfectly neat and trim with organised flower beds so that each season the same or complementing plants sprout and flower simultaneously before each house.

Each house is kept immaculate- there are no rotting beams or window frames on Happy Avenue, no peeling or stained paint.  Each car on each well-maintained drive sparkles in the ever present Californian sunshine.

On every face a smile can be seen, and in every smile are perfect teeth.  Everyone’s clothes are pressed in the right places and are always clean, while every passer-by is given a friendly greeting.

These are the ways Happy Avenue stays happy and shows the world it is happy.

But don’t be cynical: this is no Desperate Housewives or Stepford Wives scenario.  This is no paper thin façade.  And within, each house is just as shiny in appearance as without- whether guests are present or not- there never seem to be familial issues here.

It’s like something is in the water.  It certainly isn’t about money or status as that’s pretty varied along the street.  Maybe it’s just a shared sense of community that has either gone or never appeared in the surrounding streets.  Or perhaps it’s just a desire to be presentable, to always be perfectly neat and tidy.

Or maybe it’s the effect of so much sunshine.

---

FYI: 250 (Jumbled) Words - follow Jumbled tag for others from it, too.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 33

It might just be gilded wood covered in velvet but, by golly, it's MY gilded wood and MY velvet and I will die before I see him sit in it.

100 Words: City Collections

They make the rubbish collection here on Mondays, early in the morning.  They do it early so the truck doesn’t clog up the main road.  You see things at night if you don’t sleep, all sorts of collections.

People collect meals from takeaways, drivers collect passengers and lovers collect disease; while seedy men collect women from the pavement and desperate-looking folk collect drugs from dealers.  

I used to collect bruises until I took matters into my own hands and started my own collections of the unfortunate from time to time.  They’ll collect me if they see what’s in my rubbish.

---

Written for 100 Word Challenge #379 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt was the word Collection.

250 Words: Stuff inspired by phrases picked out from 250 (Jumbled) Words: Break-ups within after months a few major two, No 2: Television constant

Oh beautiful box of light, bringer of my shows, educator, entertainer, informer, only constant.

You are my long winter evening warmer, my summer escape from the heat and oppression outside, my fall guy, my spring rebirth, my year round dinner companion.

You are the only light of my life, the only one to stay from cradle to grave, my window to this world, my gateway to a thousand worlds, a tap feeding me from the greatest minds and refreshing, reviving, mine daily.

You are my friend in the world’s darkest hours, never leaving me to wonder what is happening after the disaster.  There with every update, you leave me no time to wait and think or worry.  Plugged in, I receive better coverage than a newspaper or the internet.  Your disgusting cousins are no friends of mine.

You are never selfish, you give everything to me while I give nothing in return.  Other than my involvement.  With which I help keep you going, don’t forget.  And anyway, you are mine.  My shows didn’t I say?  My television constant.

Only a lack of power can stop you, my kick-in generator extends you.

Together we grow old together through the years.  Me ever older, you ever more advanced.  Though a standby is always on hand.  Nothing is built to last these days.

Others come and go but we carry on toward the unholy time when we will part and have our bodies recycled.

Til then, my constant love, we have one another.

---

FYI: 250 (Jumbled) Words - follow Jumbled tag for others from it, too.

Shifting shadows (Woven Tale Press Version)

Shifting shadows wander in the pitch dark.  Freed from the light that anchors and keeps them tethered to things, they stalk the earth.  

Shifting shadows follow you as best they can, often from afar; and they stand over your bed watching you sleep, unaware of their watching eyes.  

Shifting shadows seek an unbiased view and watch life on their own terms, to see what it entails.  In cupboards they hide and listen, praying with all their might for the doors to stay closed.  Or under floorboards for days on end they will lie to experience every aspect of human life and emotion through sound alone.  

Anywhere where light cannot bind and drag them around, they lurk hoping to learn something new, something about the lives they cannot have thanks to their crippling curse.


Shifting shadows wonder how it got this bad.  When, and what, they did wrong to find themselves here as disenfranchised, disembodied nothings becoming one with darkness, ever groping toward the light.  

They know only the dreams that motivate them, the dreams of life and love in the daylight, twilight, moonlight and the dawn's light.  Even the gloaming, the horrible half light which tricks them into thinking they are alive, just as we are; twice a day.

Shifting shadows are a part of the darkness moving unseen by the life in the light that they crave, if only because it is denied them by circumstance and creation’s cruel hand.  


Shifting shadows wander, wonder, keep moving, keep searching to find and learn the answers to their questions, finding and following clues to find that great treasure: the secret of life itself, how to live outside shadow, free from shame and able to function as all they watch and follow are able.

---

Note: There is an earlier, 250 Word, version of this here.  I expanded it for the Woven Tale Press Link-up's prompt, Shadow. 

500 Words: A Meeting on a Bridge at Midnight

I stood on the bridge at midnight as the clocks were striking the hour, the soup of the smog obscuring the views and blurring the city’s lights on all sides.  With my scarf covering my mouth, my collar up and my hat and head down, I waited for my man.  

In those days the centre of bridges were the only safe places to meet: pubs, streets, parks- all were full of ears and snarks, but bridges in the middle of night were known to be safe.  Even with the smog close in, you could see far enough to see you were not being watched or, more importantly perhaps, overheard.  Which was why this plan had been planned this way.

While waiting, I listened to the bells of various churches.  To my ears they were out of sync, though I could not say if they truly were or not.  As it was, and with each sounding its own tone, they made a strange tune that kept me distracted from my nerves and the cold.

He came from the south side, dressed just like me (just like everyone), his collar up, head down, scarf across the mouth to keep the smog out.  Individuality had been voted out by voting the party in.  

As he came out of the smog it seemed to be reluctant to let him go, strands of it looking like arms trying to hold him back and keep him hidden.  I never liked these meetings- my nervousness and paranoia would give things a sinister edge.

We greeted one another briefly before getting on to business.

“You have yours?” he asked me, this man I had never met- would never meet again.

“Of course,” I replied and we both withdrew test tubes full of liquid: mine blue, his red.  He took from a pocket an empty container, set it down on the pavement and emptied the contents of his tube into it.  I did the same to create a green smoking concoction.

We stood and moved to the rail.  “Do you think it will work?” he asked me.

“If it doesn't then we walk away and carry on until a new plan is produced.  I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

He nodded and poured the mixture out.  I never heard it hit the water, only saw it disappear. 

Together we waited quietly, hopefully; until a green smog began to rise, pushing the regular smog in front of it.  

“It seems to be working,” the man said.

“They will never see it coming,” I replied and we smiled at one another briefly before the gas reached us and put us to sleep.

*

I woke three days later in a hospital bed, the revolution having been peacefully secured, and soon returned to my normal life.  There were no heroics or glorification of those involved, just restoration and continuation.  We remembered and sought not to do it again.  

I look out for him always, though, that man.  I want to embrace him.

---

Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the written prompt, from Longfellow's The Bridge, I stood on the bridge at midnight,/As the clocks were striking the hour

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 32

If an aubade is morning music and I get woken each day by a shrill alarm, then I don't like aubades.

250 Words: And then a dragon boarded

We heard there was gold out west so we travelled into the city and boarded a train headed that way, in a carriage of full of people seeking riches.  Its riches as it turned out.

The dragon had escaped men and hidden it’s loot underground, only to end up with us folks trying to mine it.  So it had come to warn us of what would happen should we travel on and join the invasion of its territory.

It was in Oklahoma, we later discovered, that it happened- right in the pan handle.  All we felt was a great thump above us on the roof of the carriage before coming off the rails.  

What had happened was that the dragon had flown the length of the train, tapping on each carriage roof before nudging up the locomotive off the rails.  

We all broke out of the carriage and took aim with whatever we had to hand- Colts, Winchesters an’ all- and blasted deep into the beast’s belly.  It flew off and landed not far away, slowly bleeding to death in the pan handle.

And now we’re all in jail for damage to Railroad property.  They don’t believe us about the dragon.  They believe we were delirious from the journey and that our description matches that of a Chinese dragon, anyway, and claim our tale makes no sense at all. 

It’ll be the booby hatch if we keep on.  Better to drop it, make a living and pay off our debt.

Ostracised

After they had counted the pottery shards I had no choice but to pack up and leave town, to create another life for ten years.  That’s how it would have worked in Ancient Greece, anyhow, the old man told me.  That’s how the great Themistokles ended his political career and, like him, I had done much for the town before becoming a nuisance thereafter, only to find myself striking out on a new path.

Speaking out too much at town meetings had never been advisable in that town; suggesting what I suggested the new mayor did to himself was downright stupidity.

I walked for days before I saw it, the rock jutting up with the remains of an ancient fortress atop. After a long struggle in the afternoon sun I reached it, the sky blazing a warm orange that made me feel I would be alright here, for however long.

The only catch was the old man, he didn’t half go on a lot.  After the lecture on Themistokles, he started banging on about Greek philosophers, then philosophers through the ages, then back to Greece and Greek myths, Roman myths, politics, Gods, monsters, temples, oracles- if I’d been listening properly I’m sure I’d have been bored but the tone of his voice, my goodness, it just drilled into my skull, made my ears deaf to it.  Like a bee that can’t get through a window, he buzzed ceaselessly.  

Until I ceased him, that is.  I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him out the fortress and down the cliff.

At peace, I was able to reflect once more on my being sent away and how I might get back.  I planned and schemed for a few days until I was woken by armed men from my town.  

They told me that I had been followed by a group of my closest friends and allies, who had been determined to help me out if they could.  When they found the dead body, however, they returned and reported my deeds.

My exile ended there and then, though I returned in chains to see out my days in my beloved town’s gaol, suddenly eager to know more about Ancient Greece. 

---

Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the following picture prompt; also, although too late to enter, the Woven Tale Press's prompt, Shards: 

image courtesy of Evgeni Dinev/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

100 Words: The Land Beyond the Wall

We weren’t allowed past the wall, it was very frustrating.  Beyond lay acres of unexplored woodland full of trees to climb, fruits and nuts to pick, conkers aplenty and all the things young children love.  

But piggy Mr Silverwater, the owner of most of the lands round here, forbade it.  Such a tiny wall, though, it was so tempting… 

The stories, though, stopped us.  Those of pits, their bottoms lined with sharp stakes; man traps; men with guns (you would hear them go off every so often)...

All to protect a well, they say, the very source of Silverwater wealth.

---

Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the following picture prompt: 

Lyssa Medana

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 31

"Always the quiet ones and she was the most taciturn child I ever taught. Look at her now-I'm sure now she was plotting to be PM back then."

250 Words: Obake (“something that is transformed”) 4: “the vengeful spirits of cruelly-wrongly women”

Each of us started out alone.  Vengeance was in our hearts but, to begin with, had no direction to follow.  The jolt from pure happiness to sudden death left us confused and our reaction, once we had regained ourselves, was to walk in the direction we had seen him take after leaving us to nature.

He had left quite a trail of shattered lives across our land.  Seemingly untouchable himself he was always able to carry on wooing, marrying, killing and taking, never thinking about anything other than his own needs and plans, both short and long term.

Slowly we came together, our hopes for revenge joining as we followed his trail, finding further vessels left in his wake to add to our number and to help us get closer to our quest’s end.  Each one made us move faster so that we didn’t swell our numbers too much before being in a position to stop them growing any more.

And slowly we caught him up- a modestly wealthy man always on the move: one eye roving around for his next victim, the other peering over his shoulder for any followers seeking the man believed to have committed near identical crimes listed under many names in many places.  But not us.

One glorious day we caught him lying in an orchard, feeding his sweets to a would-be victim by moonlight and we fell upon him.

Now he spends all his time with us, forever learning the results of his ways.

---

Note: These Obake stories were written after a visit to a Japanese prints exhibition at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford (Japanese Ghosts and Demons: Ukiyo-e prints from the Ashmolean).  I bought a little book of postcards, the text on the back of which inspired these stories, the quotations from the titles coming from it:

100 Words: The Dead Man's Beard

-What didn’t I find in his beard might be a better question, the mortician told me.  

A famous, although moving toward the infamous perhaps, local old man had died.  A man endowed with the greatest of beards, one that had entranced and excited our imaginations as to what secrets it might hide.

And now the poor fellow had expired we had the chance to find out!

-Well, mostly food but also cotton reels, pen nibs, dry pasta, coins, paper money, a bee, a fly, bus tickets, a ring woven in...  Oh! and a dead mouse.

To us, a blissful list.

---

Written for 100 Word Challenge #378 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt was the word Town.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 30

"I'm in one heck of a swivet over this," the US President said to his First Lady, "Damn Commie kids outside. Where's their respect?"

250 Words: Obake (“something that is transformed”) 3: “wicked demons”

I am sure I had done nothing wrong yet every night they came.  For those five terrible nights I would watch in the moonlight with horror as each item in my bedroom glowed and melted into a meaningless blob which would quickly grow and rise up into the form of a demon that would stand staring at me with accusation. 

Everything would do it- lamp, wardrobe, books, pictures, you name it: everything except for my bed and the mattress (even my bed clothes turned into small ones standing beside my prostrate body [and leaving me without sheets to hide behind]); and in their place would be these demons, each individually ugly in its own horned way.  

Even the walls, door, window, carpet and floor would turn so that I was left in an impossible black space with these creatures standing solemnly in the moonlight and their stares everywhere I looked- hundreds of red eyes boring into my soul, all knowing what it was I had done.

But what had I done? 

Naturally I asked them- time and again in fact until I was hoarse and gave up.  They merely stood and continued their silent vigil informing me that I had done something and that that was enough. 

After gaining virtually no sleep for five nights, I went to my temple and prayed, apologising over and over for every sin in existence that I could think of. 

And away they went.

And still I have no idea what I had done.  

---

Note: I once adapted this into a comic script (adding an explanation for the visits of the demons) and posted it on a forum but got too scared to ever return to see if anyone liked it or was interested enough to draw it up; this is it, though:

CLiNT Idea for Space Oddities ­ “They Came At Night”? They Would Come At Night ?

Page One

Top half: A view from above of a man lying in bed, underneath his bedclothes, scared out of his wits; at what we cannot see, except perhaps for a glow as the items in his room begin to change.

Caption: “I had done nothing wrong yet every night they came.”

Bottom half:

A series of panels depicting items in his bedroom (a bedside lamp, perhaps, CD racks, bookcases, piles of junk on the floor, model cars or planes….) glowing with a green aura, then melting, turning into blobs on the ground that, by the end of the page, are starting to raise up into columns and take the rough shape of demons (they remian unsen in full form until the next page.

Drawings interspersed with the following captions:

“For those five terrible nights I would watch with horror…”

“…as each item in my bedroom glowed…”

 “…and melted into a meaningless blob…”

 “…that would quickly grow and rise up into…”

Page Two

Full page depicting the man on his bed, surrounded by demons, one for each item or collection of items that had been in his room before, except for his mattress and bedstand (his bedclothes and pillows have been replaced with small demons standing on the mattress.  He has no discernible room around him, only pitch blackness (the windows, walls, carpet and floor having also been turned into demons), filled with this array of angry, accusing demons staring at him.

Caption at bottom: “…the demons that held a vigil around my bed, staring at me with accusation in their cold stares hundreds of red eyes boring into my soul, all knowing what it was I had done.”

Page Three

Top half: Small blank black panel with caption reading: “But what had I done?” 

Larger panel filling the rest of the top half depicting the man kneeling up on his bed and pleading with the demons

(speech bubble reading: “WHAT IS IT?!?  WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?”), whose only movement has been their eyes ­still transfixed on his. 

Captions read: “Naturally I asked them why­ time and again, in fact, until I was hoarse and gave up.” 

“They merely remained silent and still in the darkness.” 

“I had done something and that was enough.”

Series of panels depicting man at various stages of his life committing small sins: perhaps stealing a slice of pie or something from the fridge, pushing someone down in the playground, stealing sweets from a shop or stationery from work, being slapped by a woman/teenage girl, his hand still on her breast…. the sorts of things that most men may have done... interspersed with the following captions:

“What was there in my history…

“…that could possibly result…”

“…in this horrible torture…”

“…I wracked my brains over and over…”

“… I came up with nothing that warranted this…” 

Page Four

Series of five panels occupying the top third of the page depicting the man’s gradual deterioration following each night without sleep ­ the eyes become more red, his stubble becomes thicker, the bags under his eyes grow ­ with the accompanying caption underneath:

“…and spent the five nights becoming less of myself and more of a wreck.  After gaining virtually no sleep in that time…”

The second third shows another strip of five panels showing the man in his final state, from the side, praying in a temple, calmly at first, but becoming more and more anxious, a growing number of candles in front of him ­ with the accompanying caption underneath:

“...I went to my temple and prayed for hours, apologising over and over for every sin in existence that I could think of.”

The final third shows one picture, from above, of the man finally sleeping soundly in his bed ­ with the accompanying captions above: 

“And away they went.”

And underneath:

“To this day I have no idea what I had done.”

Page Five

A full page picture of the man’s parents seen from behind, knelt before the same altar or whatever as their son, a photograph of him is stood on the floor before them, a burning candle at it’s side, a speech bubble reads:

“We know that he is a good boy really, he just needs a little direction.”

100 Words: The Final Indignity

I have suffered many indignities in my time: I’ve been driven into stacks of tins, had children weeing on my seat, I’ve been abandoned in the car park in rain, hail, sleet and snow, been crushed together with the others, wheeled around and dumped roughly in sheds.  I’ve been taken away and left in streets for days on my side, been ridden down hills by spotty teenage thrill seekers followed by a stint as a homeless man’s storage facility.

And now I am here and here I shall stay I should think- no one ever comes back from this fate.  

---

Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt:

Copyright -B. W. Beacham

An InLinkz Link-up

The crack to another dimension

“Looks like a crack to another dimension to me, mate, notoriously tricky to fix; and expensive I might add.” 

“It’ll cost a lot, then?” I asked, not completely without humour.  Although I knew the crack looked strange- it had a glow which wasn’t normal in a ground floor crack.

The fixer continued, “Not in cash terms, mate- no callout even; job like this is for the good of humanity.  

“It will cost you, though.”

“Could you elaborate a bit more?” I asked after he left it hanging.

“What it will cost you, mate, is your life in this world.  You opened it, you have to close it.” 

I have to say he had me there.  I didn’t really like to dabble: I was interested but the artefacts, even those known to work, scared me too much.  

Normally.  The rock had called me to it, though.  

It was only small, a pretty, pale blue-green thing I found in the park.  I’d noticed it when it rolled across the path.  

When I picked it up I felt something immediately.  Its power, I guess; things suddenly just seemed, well, possible.

I started by moving a coin across the table, a feeling told me to make the crack; then I moved a chair, a feeling told me to make the crack; I tried to make myself invisible, I made myself opaque, a feeling told me to make the crack; I thought about the possibilities of time travel, a feeling told me to make the crack; I moved through the flat not really in control of my legs, feeling the need to make the crack; and in the kitchen it took control completely and caused the crack to appear.  

I came round and called up Bill.  

“Do I just crawl in, then?” I asked him, with an air of resignation.

“Yes, but give me the rock first.”  

He took a piece of felt from his pocket, the same colour as the rock, placed it over his palm and held out his hand, starting to say something under his breath as he did.  I went to place it on his hand but lost control again, freezing before it got there, so he swiftly moved his hand up, took the rock and wrapped it up tight.

“It will have no power to stop you now,” he said and placed it in my hoodie’s front pocket.  Then he nodded at the crack and said, “Go on with you,” before falling mournfully silent.  He even looked down as if at a graveside.

Without thinking I stepped forward into the crack and the world around me changed in an instant.  

Ever since I have lived in a world seemingly consisting of one long cave.  I walk down it until I tire and have to sleep, I eat whatever it is the grows on the walls, and I pray that I will eventually find a rock that will open up a crack to take me back home.

---

Written for the Woven Tale's Weekly Contest, from the prompt, Crack.

100 Words: The Crack

“Looks like a crack to another dimension to me, mate, notoriously tricky to fix; and expensive I might add.” 

“It’ll cost a lot, then?” I asked, not completely without humour.  Although I had thought the floor crack looked strange- it glowed.

“Not in cash terms- no callout even, job like this is for the good of humanity.  

“It will cost you, though.”

“Could you elaborate a bit more?” I asked after he left it hanging.

“What it will cost you, mate, is your life.  You opened it, you have to close it.” 

I have to say he had me there.

---

Note: Written in error too short.

100 Words: To the safety of the town

Into town, uptown, downtown, midtown, townhouse; I always found it weird how city folks would still use the word town so much as if their elevated status was actually just one syllable too many to bother with.  

But then weird things happen in the city.

Mostly just things you hear, you know, like giant rats or glowing cats, yet... sometimes… 

Derek swears it was true… people rising from the ground, then going about their normal business. Only in a city, man, only there…  

And I’m sure I once saw a walking tree.

Yeeaah… it’s definitely safer in the real towns.

---

Written for 100 Word Challenge #377 on Velvet Verbosity; the prompt was the word Town.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 29

The zeitgeists hover over us, each playing their hands and waiting for history to pick the one that stays.

A Saturday Morning Mix-Up

Saturdays were always the same when I was a child: I’d wake up at some ridiculous hour to watch kids TV, often before six, before it even started.  I watched allsorts: Ulysses 31, The Shoe People, Mallett’s Mallet, Thundercats, Going Live!, Ramona, all kinds.  

Then breakfast and the wait for the mid morning highlight.

We had a paper delivered each day and, before elevenses (or drink and biscuit as we always called it), my dad would walk down to the newsagents to pay for them.  We would go with him, but not before we received our pocket money.  About 20p a week, at first, all of which would be spent at the newsagents.

Out the front door we would start, down the path, turn left, left again, down the hill, past the postbox, over the road, along to the bollards, turn right, up through the estate to the shops at its centre.  

In the newsagents, Dad would go up to the main counter, covered, as always, in the day’s news, and talk to the newsagent himself (who would, much later, get annoyed with me, but that’s a story for another day), while I would go to the back of the shop, to a separate counter- 

The sweets counter.

Behind were shelves of jars full of sweets, sold by the quarter- in the future, when I got more pocket money, when I would walk to the newsagents on my own, these would be for me.  During my first visits, though, I would concentrate on the boxes of sweets kept under a glass counter.  

A young lady, though old to me, I guess, probably still at school, would serve me: she may have been my first crush, at about five, but it may have had more to do with the sweets, my mind’s a bit hazy over that bit.  Anyway, I’d ask for a 20p mix-up and the choosing would begin.  

I would mainly go for penny sweets: Black Jacks, Fruit Salads, Cola Bottles, the small ones mostly- maybe mix in a Foam Banana for a treat, all of which the sweet lady would pick and place into a paper bag, probably with her bare hands- the eighties cared less for hygiene- keeping count as we went.  Oh, the decisions - how many penny sweets, two penny sweets to go for.  And what ones, of course.  

Once the mix was complete we would go home- sometimes via the baker’s for an extra treat to take home, the drink and biscuit becoming a drink and Doughnut or Chelsea Bun.  But the main treat for the way home was the sweets, of course, a different order each week, perhaps, or always saving the best until last; again I am hazy, no doubt lost in a sugar cloud.

When home and finished, it would soon be lunch.  On a Saturday it was always fishfingers and chips followed by semolina because Saturdays were always the same when I was a child.  And they were wonderful indeed.

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Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the picture prompt:

Picture by ciscopa on rgbstock.com

250 Words: Obake (“something that is transformed”) 2 and 3: “animals with supernatural powers” and “wicked demons”

““Mwahahahaha!” I said and then I fled from that place leaving him alone to his fate. 

“Give us a swig.

“Knowing that he’d want to seek retribution, I knew I needed to get away quickly and so I journeyed first around the Great Swamps, giving them quite a wide berth in fact- only a fool would travel through that treacherous area.  Even animals go around it. 

“Give us a little swig.

“Then the Border Mountains stood before me and I thought to myself, I thought, “He won’t be able to cross those or the desert beyond.  If by any chance he does decide to follow, I’ll be more than safe on the other side of these rocks and that sand.  This is somewhere he can’t follow!  So I hired myself guides and got myself to safety, entertaining people in the towns en route with my tale of adventure, intrigue and ultimate victory.

“Give us another swig.

“Even for such as I, a task like that is not simple and I am sure you will agree that I have won and won well on this occasion, that I am a hero among my kind to be revered for some time to come.  And a clever bastard too.

“Give us just one more swig.

“Yep, once I’ve rested up here I shall return to my king and be richly rewarded.”

On the fifth day of boring my customers with his story a small creature entered my pub and downed the loudmouth fool.

≤140 Characters, or Tweet Repeat: 28

He said, "I have returned from perdition to bring it to you up here in the sun.  Tell all that hell is coming: after me comes the flood."

100 Words: Wax Drips

The wax drips should have been the sign, the smooth sculptures, equally beautiful and disgusting, creating on and staining the surface top and sides.  

I despise mess, abhor untidiness and yet, for him, I was willing to overlook this because the candle had been so romantic.

When, several weeks later, the wax drips were still there I should have known he was not for me.  Instead I moved things over to my place more, where cleanliness does abound.

Though my flat became a little dirtier and unkempt by his presence it dawned on me only when things went missing.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers, in response to this photo: 

An InLinkz Link-up

250 Words: Obake (“something that is transformed”) 2: “animals with supernatural powers”

After receiving the powers all I had to do was reach my target and utilise them.  Which would be easier said than done for they had managed to put quite some distance between us during my adventures up to this point and it would take some time and effort to catch up. 

I began straight away by crossing the Great Swamps (no doubt they had had to go around), ever careful not to plant my feet in any of the mud puddles that would have sucked me down to the centre of the earth.

Then I ascended and descended the Border Mountains (no simple task for such as I), clambering over giant boulders aplenty and even scaling a vertical cliff.  And that was just the terrain- several times I nearly perished from the cold but, ever determined, I kept my limbs moving and never kept still long enough to freeze; all the time keeping my eventual prize in mind and wondering why I had not asked for more powers. 

At the foot of the mountains I asked for directions and found myself nearly there.  I skirted around the edge of three towns in the Riverlands before hitching a ride across the Largest Desert on a well-provisioned vehicle to a fourth.

There I did not speak the language but soon heard the fool drunk inside an inn, no doubt in the belief I would never catch up.  I went within and, to the vast surprise of the patrons, downed the mother.

A Dream with the power to poison Sleep

Asleep I saw a man, tall and thin with a mass of black curly hair, clad in a long leather coat.  I followed him down a street much like the one I grew up in to a house similar to my childhood home.  

I followed him in, up the stairs to the attic, floating all the way to the top of the house.  

There I saw the man crouched over a hole, up through which shone a little light, but not enough for me to see his face.  Over the hole he dangled a long wire before threading it through to the room below, removing a small bottle from his pocket and carefully applying drops of its contents via a pipette onto the wire, allowing them to travel slowly down.

Some part of my mind remembered something and I jumped back down to the landing and rushed toward my old bedroom and bunk where I found my young self asleep and dressed as Wee Willie Winkie, a candle burning on my bedside cabinet.  I was too late, or, rather, just in time to see a drop enter my mouth and the candle gutter out.

As the dream began to end and I fought between waking and sleeping, I turned to see the figure I had followed standing in the doorway.  

He wore my face with darkened eyes, paler skin and a wicked, twisted grin that mocked me as I lost my battle to stay there.

I have not slept since.

*

Initially I stuck to my normal routine and stayed in bed, tossing and turning, yet never getting tired enough to fall asleep; but that passed and I got more annoying.  

I had this weird horny phase and started to bother my wife for sex several times a night. Some of the time this was fine and lovely, fantastic in fact, but mostly I was nothing but a sex pest. 

So I tried instead to keep myself busy at nights, moving from one activity to another like fads: watching box sets, writing stories, reading, building models, jigsaws, DIY, even.... as quietly as I could, until I disturbed my wife and neighbours too many times.  

Almost always alone, of course. By day I made the most of human contact because by night I was completely alone.  Each little hobby was a necessity to keep myself busy and sane until morning.

I suppose I could have worked two jobs- a cabbie, perhaps, but the safety of home seemed preferable. A creature of the night I had become but the night outside was something I did not trust and did not want.

Eventually I came almost full circle to a state where I would sit in the dark all night remembering my last dream and wondering if there was a way to cure Sleep, assuming he wasn’t gone forever, or to find Dream and gain the answer.  But he does not come to me and I think of nothing.  Perhaps always I’ll be afflicted.

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Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the written prompt, from Shelley's Mutability, A dream has power to poison sleep.