A Subway Ride to Judgement Town

Came to me whilst sitting on a subway judging people...

The doors slide shut, and I raise my eyes only briefly to see the new entrants. A young lad with music blaring sits down next to me, and sighing, I shuffle away, glad when the roaring sounds of the subway echo in my ears again. He’s chewing gum with his mouth open wide, and tapping his foot wildly, making the seat shake to his rhythm. Pulling a bottle from his bag, wrapped in brown paper, he takes a drink. I’m hit with the offensive smell of aniseed, making my cheeks blush red with irritation.

Looking away from him, I notice the woman opposite. She’s just as bad, with her leopard-print leggings and non-existent t-shirt; spewing forth her breasts with absent-minded exhibitionism. I pale, wondering if they’re going to fall out as she leans forward and straightens the buckle on her high-heels. They don’t budge, thankfully.

The only other person in the carriage, the last interesting distraction from the dreary rocking back and forwards and looking out the windows at pitch black walls, is an elderly woman. She looks kindly, with just a little too much make up and a conservative blue cardigan, and a head of curly white hair. I smile at her, and she nods back at me, content.

Sometimes I wonder what the world is coming to, and this is one such time. People, so caught up in their own little worlds, unconcerned with things we used to care about. Modesty, decorum, courtesy… They seem to have become redundant. Back in my day, only the uneducated would act so irresponsibly and only a hooker would dress so inappropriately. Back in the good old days…

Suddenly I’m aware I’m falling. Spinning, rather, and an awful heat sears my face. The carriage has gone dark, and pain shakes as I hit the floor. No, the ceiling. My neck’s twisted, pressed against the wall, and I feel an awful weight on my back, the heat still roaring, licking at my bare skin.

There’s shouting, and I see moving shapes, but my eyes feel tired, aching, and the moving shapes are blurred. I recognise the elderly woman, pushing herself up from the floor across the carriage. Managing to lift my head, I spot the other two. The woman is screaming, she’s on fire and frantically patting herself, and the boy is helping, quick to his feet when he spots her distress. Not that anyone could miss her wails.

It’s only now that I consider myself, the huge mass of metal, twisted and protruding from a tear in the carriage wall, having landed square on my back. Then the pain kicks in. The fire is gaining steam, it’s all around me, paint melting from the walls and sparks flying in from outside. Woozy, blood drips from my mouth onto the ceiling.

“Help…” I croak, my strength fading. The young boy is quickly beside me, his stick-thin arms fighting through the roaring heat to lift the metal away. It doesn’t budge. Blisters quickly burst from his skin as the scantily-clad woman joins him, adding her strength to the effort. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work. They call to the elderly woman, who’s finally risen to her feet.

She turns, looking at me in horror, and I can see she’s bleeding from her head. The flames from above me illuminate her face, and as she turns away, I notice how cruel the lines on her face look. The door to the next carriage slams shut, leaving me with the two people I’d judged so prematurely. I know it’s hopeless, but I’m glad in a way that it’s happened like this. With my one good hand and the last of my strength, I tug on the young man’s shirt, and he bends down quickly, a heavy look in his eyes.

He starts to apologise but I stop him, my mind full of better times, better places, and beckon to the woman. Kneeling down, they both cower beside me as the flames burrow down and start biting into my skin, my clothing burning to dust. “In my day,” I start, my eyes beginning to close, “I could have drunk you under the table.” Looking down at my half-disintegrated jumper, I smile up at the woman, “and I’ve still got better boobs than you.” 

Colour Thief

He shuffles out of the nest, squeezing past the thick clusters of cold flakes. Outside, everything is white. The grass, normally a stunning shade of green is unrecognisable against the backdrop of the snow covered buildings, the sky itself a pale grey. He thinks perhaps the whole world has been muted, as though someone has stolen the colour. Perhaps they have. He looks down and realises that this is not so; the red of his chest is still vibrant, a red smear on a blank canvas.

He begins to sing, but unease and hunger force him to stop. Diving towards the sky, he sees nothing but the all encompassing colourless backdrop. It disorientates him and he turns, flitting downwards again towards the nearest patch of colour. Grass! At last! He lands, his feet clutching at the earth beneath him. The grass here grows only in small patches. It was not like this before. Pecking at the scarce green earth, it is frozen solid. The rest is white.

And then he sees where all the colours have gotten to.

In the centre of the square there is a large white-covered pine tree with swathes of rich gold and green coiling around it, entwining with the branches. They look like giant worms, but they move with the bitter wind, and, with closer inspection he notices that they are made of something shiny. Not edible.

The next colour he sees is red, green, yellow and blue. Oh my! They have so many colours. He flits from place to place, inspecting, admiring, but no; there is no grass, no food. The surrounding hedges have a similar colourful corruption, and flashing lights blind him as he passes the windows.

Stopping atop a white-coloured fence, he looks around with a feeling of justified upset. There are many people milling, also seemingly mesmerised by the brilliant lights. They’re bathed in colour, too; dressed in fine clothing of every single shade he can imagine, and some he can’t. It pains him, a little, to see it; he so wishes they would stop stealing all of the colours. His stomach rumbles. Where can he find some grass untouched by their filthy colour-thieving human hands? Some berries?

As if by magic, that’s when he sees her. She’s windswept, the blowing gale stealing her soft tones almost to the point of muting her sound, but he flits closer to hear her. She sings so beautifully that his feet almost lose their hold on the branch, and he returns her song, his own melody far more monotonous and forlorn. She tilts her head, and he is hers.

Her nest is warm, and looking around he notices the colours she has managed to save. There are green leaves, brown twigs, blue berries, red berries, green fruit and her breast is vibrant and beautiful. She shares her colours with him and in thanks his voice throws out as striking a song he has ever sung, their duet continuing colourfully well into the night.

Bringing me back to myself

An odd piece for a competition on figment.


“You’ve done well so far, Sophia,” he cooed, as I quietly shut the cellar door. I nodded and set down the bag on the floor in front of him. The plastic rustled as I slowly parted the bag and showed him what I’d found.
“Is this alright?” My voice sounded quiet and timid, so afraid of him even although he was tied tightly to the chair. I watched, feeling my heart pounding in my chest as he looked down, admiring my purchases. His eyes kept on the two items longer than seemed natural and I bit my lip and waited.

Eventually he lifted his head to me and nodded. “They’re perfect. I want you to uncoil the rope and remember what I told you about tying a noose.”

“A noose?” I gasped, and his eyes glared at me with an anger that reminded me why I was afraid of him.

“A noose, my love. Get on with it.” His eyes softened and he smiled at me warmly almost instantly. “This is your last lesson before I let you loose on the world.”

“You’re leaving me?” Although the fear of him was terrible and all-consuming, the idea of being on my own, doing his work by myself, was even more worrying. I wasn’t ready; I couldn’t go through with it without his support.

As though he read my mind, he smiled and leant towards me as much as possible through his bindings. “Don’t worry, my sweet. You’ll be fine on your own. If you can get through tonight, you can do anything.”

His words, rather than emboldening me, made me shiver. What did he have planned for this night that would suddenly catapult me from a shy, timid assistant into a blood-thirsty, cruel murderer? I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out. He was tied up, I could run, but then, I knew I never would. I could have run when he sent me to the shop, I could have run when he taught me to tie him to the chair strongly enough to keep him secure. But I hadn’t. Why was that?

“I love you,” I whispered, as I knelt down in front of him. “I trust you.” I had, ever since he stole me away, and I knew that no matter what he put me through tonight or any other, I always would. He’d saved me, when it mattered the most. And for that, I was bound to him. Heart, soul and body.

“Please untie my now, my sweet. It is almost time that our guest will arrive.” I nodded and quickly set about undoing the ropes around his neck, wrists and ankles, then unwinding the rest of the coils around his body. He’d been proud of me, when I’d tied him, and the fact that he hadn’t managed to escape whilst I’d been out was silent praise for my skills. I grinned to myself, and kissed him on the cheek before I dropped the rope on the floor beside him.

He immediately stood, walked out the cellar door, and left me standing there, confused and worried. The room was growing cold in the evening, and I wrapped my arms around myself as I waited for his return. What would he be bringing to me for my final test?

When the figure walked through the door, I realised immediately that it wasn’t him. It was a taller man, broader than my Master and with long, brown hair, I knew his name to be Christopher. He had a rough growth of hair on his chin, and ripped trousers and a jacket. The smell was quite pungent and it immediately took me back to that place, that time, and I could see how different he’d become. He’d gotten fat, and didn’t look half as attractive. The years without me hadn’t been kind to him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He spat, and took a threatening step towards me. I stammered, the words that Master had taught me hardly making sense or sounding coherent as they echoed around the room. Looking towards the cellar door I thought of running, forgetting all of my training, forgetting my goal and my Master, and I did, skirting around Christopher and running as fast as I could into the door. I banged on it, when it didn’t open, and screamed, but then I remembered myself. Turning, I stared up at the face of the man who’d made me who I was, and smiled. This is what he’d trained me for.

Suddenly I wasn’t that timid little girl anymore, and bringing my fist up, I jabbed at his ribs; once, twice, three times. Each hit didn’t faze him, but I knew what to do. Moving up, I punched out at him again, fast, hard little blows to his face; around his ear and then one punch that took all of my strength directly on his chin. He’d been laughing, gloating as he’d always done about my weakness, my vulnerability. But when he fell, backwards, the pressures from my punches finally caught up with him and he hit his head on the wooden beam on the low ceiling, where it sloped down to the ground.

Quickly, I set to moving him onto the chair. This was my test, and I was damned sure I wanted to pass. The ropes were still warm from having been tied over Master, and as I worked them around Christopher’s wrists, his neck and his ankles, I found myself smiling. The tables had been turned.

Eventually I made the finishing knot, securing him to the chair and the chair to the wooden column behind it. I didn’t want him escaping, not now. He gurgled a few moments after, and I finally began to get into the mindset as Master had told me I would. He was so wise.

I slapped Christopher hard and he woke, finally, coughing and looking wildly around the room. “What’re you doing?” His words weren’t as firm and cocky as I was used to. It made me smiled again.

“I’m getting my life back,” was all I could think to say to him. For a moment I wondered what to do, and then I saw the new rope lying, uncoiled at my feet, still in the plastic bag. A noose.

It had been a month since Master had taught me how to tie a noose; it had been one of the first things he had shown me. But still I found myself standing on the other chair, reaching up and looping the rope over the beam where I’d made space, remembering perfectly each step to follow. The whole noose didn’t take too long to finish, and when I was done, I saw that Christopher’s eyes were wide with fear and he was shaking. The very fact that I’d made him feel so helpless caused me to swell with pride, and I vowed that I wouldn’t let this feeling go. Before he, Christopher, had ruined me, I’d been that girl. I’d been powerful, proud, gorgeous, and sure of myself, but he’d taken it all from me. He’d made me fearful and timid. He’d made me broken and anxious, and now, finally, I was about to break his hold over me.

“Are you going to kill me?” He asked, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and I baulked. Could I really do that to him? He’d hurt me, sure, but he’d also loved me for a time. I’d managed to kill for Master, but they’d always meant nothing to me. They’d been junkies and homeless folk that nobody would miss, but Christopher, people knew him. He was popular and everyone knew what he’d done to me. I’d be suspected. But I could see Master’s face in my mind, urging me on. He’d promised me that tonight would be the end of my training, the end of my need to rely on other people to be safe and happy.

“Yes,” I replied, finally replacing my cold, blank expression. I was ready.

He looked down at me, standing on the chair he’d been tied to, his neck tightly bound by the noose. His hands had been expertly tied behind his back, just the way Master had taught me, and the look on his face was more empowering than anything I could ever do to him.

“I want you to admit what you did to me, and I want you to apologise.” He shook his head, and finally let his tears flow over his cheeks.

“No, please, I don’t want to.”

His words angered me and lifting the hammer, I aimed at one of his exposed toes, and hit out at it with the metal hammer head. He screamed, and I felt the bones in his smallest toe shatter. Blood spurted out across the chair and dripped onto the floor. I looked up at him and raised my eyebrow.

When he’d finally calmed enough to speak, he nodded. “Okay, okay. What do you want me to say.”

“Tell me what you did, and tell me you’re sorry.”

“I…” He sobbed, and lost focus, saying nothing more for a few seconds through his gutteral wails.

I growled, and brought up my hammer again and broke another of his toes, the other smallest. He screamed, again, and then finally got the idea.

“I raped you, Sophia. I beat you. I humiliated you. I’m sorry.”

Although it was what I asked for, my face grew hot with fear, embarrassment and most importantly, anger. I swung at his feet, catching his other toes, shattering them, and pounding with the hammer I made bloody pulp of his feet. Eventually, I let the hammer fall from my grip, and it made a loud, clanging sound on the concrete floor, which brought me back to my senses.

Taking a deep breath, I wondered if the whole situation was really as simple and easy as he'd made it sound. It hadn't been a lot worse as I remembered it. But what now? He’d done as I asked, should I let him go? If I let him go, I’d never really be myself again. He’d always be out there, I’d always have the fear of seeing him again, the fear of being at his mercy again. But if I killed him, I’d be free.

Looking up once more, I kicked the chair away from under his feet, surprised that he'd actually managed to keep standing with the mess of his feet. Then I watched as he tried to scream, dangling by his neck. It took a few minutes for him to go still, and a few more before he stopped twitching.

Finally, I had passed.

The door behind me unlocked and I couldn’t even bring myself to turn to him, I was so captivated by the swinging body in front of me.

“Well done, Sophia,” his voice was calm and quiet.

“Thank you, Master.”

“I have a job for you.”

“All on my own?”

“Yes. You are ready.” And I was.

Pirates Vs Ninjas!

Busty laughed heartily as opened her eyes to death.

“So, this is what it’s like to die?” She smirked, squinting around the room through her one good eye. There were no other ghosts there, though, and slightly disheartened, she pouted and sat down on the floor of the empty little room. It was all a bit of an anti-climax.

One moment, she’d been fighting, dancing around the deck of her ship, feeling the enemy’s swords pierce her flesh, fighting back as hard as she could. But now, sitting here, dead, all she could remember was the grin on that damned other captain’s face when he cut her down.

After a while Busy grew bored of her loneliness. Playing with the sword at her hilt, she leapt to her feet and shouted to her non-existent enemy, “Avast! Have at ye!” She thrust the tip of her sword forward and swung it around, making patterns in the air with her blade.

“Take that, landlubber!” She laughed, remembering all the battles she’d fought and won. But it had only taken one loss to land her here.

“How… Cute.” The voice came from behind her, startling Busty such that she stumbled on her wooden leg, and tripped, landing hard on the cold floor.

“Where did you come from?” She spat as she forced herself to her feet, snarling at the man that she could now see. He was thin, and small framed, wearing a bland black kimono and baggy trousers. His face was almost completely hidden with a hood and a mask covering his mouth and nose. His eyes, however, was dark and sparkling.

“I have been here the whole time,” he replied, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall. “It’s not my fault you aren’t perceptive enough to notice me. I could have slit your throat at any moment-“

“And I can slit your throat any time I like!” Busty cursed, taking a step forward. Her wooden leg made a loud bang on the floor every time she moved, and her ample frame bulged with overindulgence and a low-cut, red and white striped top almost threatened to spill her breasts forth.

She turned away, feigning giving up on the fight, and then quickly drew her sword and thrust it at the small man. But when her blade connected, it was not with the tender flesh she’d been intending on, but the hard wall behind.

“Curse ye!” Busty screamed, “Who be you to be so sneaky?”

“My name is Hiro Hito Sen'nyū.”

Busty raised an eyebrow. But the man, who was now standing directly behind her, only smiled and sat down on the floor.

“Who are you, so eloquent and bold?” He wore a long flowing cape, and as he moved Busty could see the glinting of many blades held about his person. There was his sword, at his belt, and five or six daggers along his torso. He even had the handle of some sort of weapon sticking out of his…

“Ahem.” Busty cleared her throat, and bowed, taking off her feathered hat and swinging it down, bowing as she did so. “I be Captain Busty Wenchworth. And I never be sufferin’ the likes of you ta live.”

Just as she finished speaking, she leapt forward and with her small dagger and blocked Hiro’s blade. She swung hard with her big cutlass, but the lithe man was too quick for her, ducking out of the way of her sword just in time.

From behind her, Busty could feel something slide into her back, and then felt a hand reach around her neck and press something sharp to her throat. The man sliced across her neck with a small dagger, and blood flowed down her flouncy shirt and corset. Then Hiro stepped back and smiled, walking around to face her, and watch her die.

But die she didn’t. Instead, whilst he was mocking, she lifted her cutlass and sliced at his belly, cutting through fabric and flesh, and flooding a sea of blood onto the floor between them.

“Huh.” Hiro observed, looking down at himself. “That’s different.”

***

Busty and Hiro sat on the floor, and sighed. They’d tried stabbing each other and burning each other. They’d even tried hanging, a make-shift guillotine and swallowing small shurikens, but nothing worked.

“I be givin’ up.” Busty cursed, throwing her cutlass over to the other side of the room. “We be dead already, so I cannae be killin’ ye.”

“It would seem so.” The man said quietly, sitting cross legged and stroking his chin as Busty reached into her cleavage and pulled out a flask.

“Rum?” She asked, gulping back a huge mouthful of the stuff.

“No.” Hiro’s words reeked with disdain, and Busty snarled.

“I may not be able ta beat ya wit’ me sword.” She spat, grinning, “but I bet I could beat ya when I was alive.”

“I bet not. I killed one hundred trained men before they managed to kill me. They didn’t know I was there until I had already killed ninety-nine of them.”

“Yeah? Bloody coward, hidin’ in the shadows. I managed to kill a hundred ruthless pirates, and every single one o them knew I was comin’!”

The man’s eyes darkened, and his brows furrowed. “Bah. That is nothing. I cut out a man’s eyes before he had even realised I was there. And then, I cut his throat because he could not see me without his eyes…”

Busty giggled, “Wow.” Then straightened her face. No being amused and impressed by the enemy. “Well,” she began again, leaning forward towards him. “I managed to kill a huge man-eating octopus, after it cut off me leg and one of its friends gouged out me eye. Whilst under the water, and wearing a corset!”

His eyebrows raised, and he nodded. “That’s impressive, indeed. But I don’t think you can beat this one. I killed a man, in a locked room with thirty trained swordsmen, without even unlocking the door or letting the guards notice my presence. The first they knew he was dead was when he began to smell…”

Busty’s eyes had grown wide, and her mouth slightly wide. “That indeed be skilful. I stole a chest of treasure from a ship full with seventy pirates, having killed every one of them on my own but the captain, and then forced him to open the chest, load it onto me ship, and then shoot himself in the head!”

Busty grinned and looked the man up and down.

“So… Have you ever kissed a pirate?” She smiled, winking at him through her one good eye.

“No.”

Almost before he had finished speaking, Busty gasped as she felt his lips on hers, having hardly seen him move. She put her hands on either side of his face and pulled him tighter into the kiss.

“Now I have.”

The world began to melt around them. In the darkest depths of her mind, God tutted, and shook his head. Waving his hand dismissively, he had but one more thing to say.

“Rocks fall, everyone dies.”  

Power Corrupts

For a competition somewhere or other... Zombies!!

Cybele stepped out from the palace and pulled her shawl over her head. It wouldn’t do to be seen tonight, but she couldn’t be late. His voice had been echoing in her head since that night, and she knew that she couldn’t avoid it forever. She had to go to when he called, no matter where he might be.

Eventually she came upon a row of dark doors, all shrouded in shadow. She hadn’t seen him since the night she’d died and he’d brought her back, but she’d knew she was being led by her Master, her feet moving not of her own will.

Her teeth chattering with fear, Cybele’s whole body shook as she knocked on the door. Why couldn’t she just walk away? She was royalty, a powerful woman, loved by her people; no man should be able to command her.

“Cybele,” the man whispered, having opened the door just a crack. “You look beautiful, even in death.” In his head, he urged her forward into the house and she stepped towards him without consciously intending to. It pained her to be so helpless, but try as she might, she couldn’t run.

He let her walk by him and closed the door gently. His hair was long and white, and his skin was pale as death, and as Cybele bowed to him, he laid his hand on her shoulder and smiled down at her. Cold spread out from where he touched her shoulder, and she shivered, aching to get away from him.

“Come, Cybele, I have a job for you.”

“Yes, Master…”

***

Having received her orders, Cybele headed back into the Palace. Grasping the wooden handle, she tucked the serrated blade into a fold of her gown and made her way to her father’s chambers. Her eyes were beginning to lose focus, and her skin felt painfully dry. Cracks had formed on her hands and feet, and it hurt to walk, but still she continued, outwardly showing no sign of discomfort. It had been getting worse ever since she’d lost her life, and she felt as though she was being pulled into a never ending death again, but doomed to remain conscious to witness every rotting little detail of it.

No longer could she hold hope to fight against his will, because she knew it simply wasn’t possible. He had stolen her mind, body and soul.

Twenty veteran guards stood around the door to the King’s room, each holding a long sword and wearing fine leather armour. They were alert, skilled, and completely useless against the weapon he had devised.

“May I enter?”

“Yes, Princess,” they bowed, and smiling, allowed her to weave through towards her prey.

The King answered her call and opened his door immediately. His face was old and weary, but still she remembered him the way he had been; a young, vibrant man, always doing the ‘right’ thing, trying to help people. But ultimately, that had led him to this day.

“Come in, my daughter.” He hugged her tightly around the shoulders, missing the knife hidden among the fabric. “How are you this evening?”

Cybele sat on his chaise longue, her back straight and tense with dread for what she was about to do.

“Lycus,” the voice came from Cybele, but it was not her words. It seemed, from the King’s expression, that he understood this immediately. “You have, through your actions, caused this country to fall into poverty, into shadow.” As hard as she tried, the words wouldn’t cease. With His hand controlling her, she brought the knife up and thrust it through her father’s throat.

Tears fell down her cheeks as she pulled the knife back, and swung it; cutting, slashing, stabbing, blood spraying all over her cold, stern face. But inside, she was screaming.

***

“I’m sorry to hear of your father’s passing.” He bowed, looking grand compared to how he’d seemed before, hiding in the shadows. Kneeling on one knee, he took her hand in his and smiled. “Will you grant me the honour of your hand in marriage, my Queen?”

Cybele’s heart was beating fast, her mind whirring. Had this been his plan the whole time?

She’d been drowning in the memories of what she’d done to her father, but through it all she’d almost forgiven her Master. Having walked through the market, she’d seen how much happier her people were; they’d never agreed with her father’s plans, as well meaning as his intentions were. Watching them eat heartily, their businesses flourishing, Cybele knew her country had begun to recover. Her Master’s men had been patrolling at night, and crime had all but disappeared.

If the people were happy, why shouldn’t she be?

He looked up at her, the warmth from his smile hardly spreading as far as his eyes. In her head, he commanded, and she obeyed.

“Yes!” She forced a grin and wrapped her arms were around him. The people surrounding them began to applaud, some cheering wildly, and to everyone they looked the perfect couple.

He was going to be King.

***

“What have you done to me?” She scowled, when they were alone. His palm was sweaty as he held her, the moisture stinging her raw, tender skin.

Cybele’s Master looked down at her hands, and turned them over, examining them. They had begun to crack, blood bubbling up between the patches of skin when she moved them. Greying skin covered her fingertips, becoming blacker with each passing hour.

“You’re dead, Cybele,” He shrugged, handing her a pair of white gloves. “You’re rotting.”

***

The hall was decorated beautifully, with banners, drapes and pure silver cutlery. Crowds of people, from nobles to peasants, all sat together to celebrate the coronation of their new King. Watching silently, they gawped at her dress, and studied her new husband.

The Archbishop had been talking for a while about the solemn promise her husband was to take. Eventually, he lifted the crown and ascended the steps towards the two thrones. She wore her elegant, jewelled band already, and her Master sounded majestic as he made his vows. She smiled, and gazed at her husband with a look of love and pride, but inside she was crying, trapped and alone. How could she live this way?

The numb feeling spreading through her fingertips told her that she couldn’t. People would notice her skin crack and peel, and then they would see her rot away. Then he would be King, and she would be dead.

As the crown was placed on his head, the doors into the hall flew open. Three heavily armoured figures strode in, one female and two male, and stopped before the line of guards. Cloaked in black; the guards faces, hands and bodies were all swathed in cloth. They didn’t seem to wear any armour, but Cybele had seen them fight, and they could throw a grown man without straining their muscles. They moved as a unit, and when the King stood, addressing the intruders, the guards raised their weapons.

“Who do you think you are,” He spat, “to force your way into my Palace?”

“We know of your foul deeds, Necromancer. And we’ve come to end your tyranny.” The smallest of the three figures leapt forward, supernaturally fast, and the guards were too slow to act. Before they could receive new orders from their King, she’d pinched the fabric of the nearest hood, and pulled it down.

The guard’s head was bare, now, and he was grotesque. His nose was almost gone, disintegrated, and his ears were similarly decomposed. One of his eyes was blank, and his skin was almost entirely grey, cracked and raw.

The noble guests nearest the front of the hall stood and ran, screams echoing loudly around them. In the ensuing commotion, two of the intruders held off the shambling guards as their leader stepped back and took aim. A spear flew over their heads, and stuck deep into the King’s chest, its crude blade shattering bone and polished wood, pinning his body to the throne. He coughed blood, and croaked orders to his guards, “Kill them.”

They advanced, slowly, but as the life drained from their Master’s eyes, they became distracted from their orders. Limp arms fell to their sides and the sound of weapons clattering to the marble floor filled the room. The brutes seemed dazed, aimlessly scattering as they tracked the guests. The crowd was still slowly filtering from the room, trying to evade the jagged, rotting fingernails. But the guards bit into their flesh, spraying blood onto the floor and delicate wall drapes in a wave of red. 

Cybele was horrified when she found herself in control of her body again. The Archbishop had hidden behind her throne, and she joined him, crouching down on the fine red rug. The terrified old man was shaking, and he looked up at her with tears in his eyes as though pleading for her to save him. Cybele felt her eyes drawn to the throbbing veins crossing his temples, and running down over his neck. They looked oh-so tasty…

The Bitter Pill

Another for a competition on DS. Made my cry writing it... 

Anna sits in the small musty living room. The large windows look out over a small road, as old and forgotten as her, with deep cracks winding out across the surface. She remembers when it was new. They’d watched from the window, but now the deep rutting shows the echo of the decades gone. Looking up from the road, she gazes at the park and sighing, sits back in the chair, her gaze lingering on a man and woman, hand in hand. They laugh, making their way slowly through the knee-high grass –only weeds now, Anna thinks bitterly. Then they stop, gazing at each other with smiles on their lips and they kiss. Anna struggles to pull her gaze away, her eyes burning. But her gaze falls to the men in bright high-visibility jackets down on the pavement beside the entrance to her house, an even less welcome sight. How dare they come here, how dare they try to force her out? A condemned building indeed.

She looks to the vacant chair beside her, her empty teacup and the cup sitting untouched beside his chair. She pours two out of habit, even though she knows he’s not coming back. She fingers the handle of her teacup, thinking of the past.

*

He was sat in his chair, watching the birds. She’d been busying around him, cleaning, until he laughed feebly and asked her to sit with him. He thanked her with a kiss as she sat, though she had to lean into him to reach his lips. His hand shook violently with the weight of the teacup, and a splash of droplets spilled down his shirt. He sighed and she could see a glint of fear, of pain in his soft blue eyes. She put her hand over his, keeping the cup steady for him to drink. “Anna,” he croaked through the tears, “I think it’s almost time.” Her heart sank. “Take me to our special place, just once more?”

She did so. She wheeled his chair out, slowly, careful not to let him see the tears dripping from her face, she knew she needed to be strong for him, for now. She could cry when his agony was gone.

The chair snagged in the pot holes, and he gasped in pain. The rusty gates to the park towered over them, his chair bumping uncomfortably over the uneven grass. Their bench was hidden behind a row of trees, but it wasn’t yet spring, so visible through the branches. They sat, overlooking the river, and both wept. They held hands as they had done fifty years ago, and she looked down at her wedding ring, and the diamond he’d presented her with in this precise spot. “I love you,” She smiled at him. He smiled and nodded, his strength failing even the simplest of task. “Let’s go, my love.” He nodded feebly.

She tucked him into bed, stroking his hair as he drifted off. She cried freely, picking up the pillow, resenting what he’d asked her to do, resenting that she’d agreed, resenting the hand they’d been dealt. “I love you.”

*

They’re going to take her from this house, their first house, the first place they ever made love and had their first tiff. They’re going to put her in some nursing home and she’ll never again be able to sit in her chair and imagine him beside her.

There’s a knock at her door, and Anna rises slowly, resigned, with a tugging of remorse and sadness at her heart. Looking through the window she sees two strict looking men, one with a clip board, and the other in a white coat; a doctor. Tears begin to well up as she reaches to open the door, but the cool metal handle on her skin makes her remember the day he fitted it, and she shakes her head slightly, her jaw set, stubborn.

Looking through to her bedroom she can see the bed and, making her way through to it, she collapses into the spot where she killed her husband. Hugging the pillow, she imagines that it still smells of him, though the years have dulled the scent.

Imagining his face, she opens her eyes. Thinking of the moment he proposed, she sits, tears rolling over her cheeks. The thought of the years gone by, him aging and becoming ill, makes her open her drawer. Memories of his pain make her reach for the tub, which rattles with pills. Remembering his feeble struggles as she killed him brings her shaking fingers to prise it open, and the ten years without him makes her throw them to the back of her throat. They’ll never take her from their home.

Lying back, she waits to see her husband again.

The Last Trip

A sad little piece for a competition on Figment.com

“Did you remember to pack the wineskins?” Matilda fussed, trying to pull her squat body into the front seat of the cart. Cedric, having rolled his eyes a number of times in the last few minutes only nodded, and hopped in beside his wife.

“Everything’s packed, darling. Stop worrying.” He leant pulled the little wooden door shut on his side, as Matilda did the same, then took the horses reigns and made their way out on the road.

“So,” Cedric began. “Where are we going?”

Matilda only glanced around to glare at her husband. “We’re going on holiday.”

“Yes, Matty. I know. But where?” His wife didn’t even look around this time, but shrugged her shoulders and kept guiding her two grey horses.

As the journey continued on, Cedric thought it odd how irritable Matilda had been acting, but only laid his hand gently on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. It hadn’t been an easy week.

The news from the doctor hadn’t been easy for her to take. They said he was dying.  He’d been coughing a lot, recently, and the doctor had been most concerned. It didn’t seem too bad now, though, in fact, he realised he hadn’t so much as cleared his throat in the hours they’d been driving for. It’d be nice if they’d overreacted and maybe if he survived, the only holiday they’d ever taken wouldn’t be their last.

“We’re here, my love.” Matilda whispered, and Cedric woke, realising he’d fallen asleep and missed most of the journey.

“I’m sorry, love,” Cedric fussed, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you…” After all, as Matty always said, the journey is half of the holiday! Not that Cedric was sure how she knew that, seeing as how she’d never been on holiday before.

But as he looked up in the darkness, he realised that he was still dreaming. Matilda was sitting looking at him in the cart, and they were stood in front of a door. Not a building, not a shack and not a stall. Just a door.

“Where are we?” Cedric frowned, wondering why on earth his wife had taken him to a place like this for his last holiday.

“You’ve finished your journey, Ced. Now it’s time to rest and have a holiday.”

But still, Cedric didn’t understand. Hopping out of the cart, he pouted, seeing that his wife didn’t look terribly much like the woman he’d just been travelling with. She was ghostly white, and when she moved, her image seemed to blur. But more than that, she was young again, almost exactly as when they’d met. She carefully stepped down from her chair, and held out her hand.

“Let’s go on holiday, love?”

Cedric nodded, and taking her hand, began to feel a sense of peace and love flow through his body. Stepping into the door, he began his well earned holiday.

The life and death of Jack

A response to a competition run by Kizzi on the Darren Shan board. Not my best, but I like it anyway :) 

It was a cold winter morning, and I’d come to be here, an untouched blanket of sparkly white. I’d arrived many hours before, and now I was lying thickly on the frozen grass. It was dark, and the first animal padded around my expanse, leaving a trail of small paw prints. I was cursing at the irreparable damage the ginger critter had caused when I heard a loud voice.

“The cold is dangerous, put your coats on!”

Two children jumped over the threshold onto the steps. One was a boy, small and almost engulfed in his large winter jacket, and the other was a girl. She was older, and looked unimpressed at her mother, as her own coat was handed to her. She put it on slowly, and a small smile began to play on her lips as she saw her brother finally zip his coat up and run all around the garden. His boots crushed into me with every step, the agony escalating as he paused to kneel down on me and roll an icy ball, throwing it at his sister. Accursed children! I was broken, and I wept for my own mortality. I yearned to feel that peace again.

They played for a time, and I tried to focus only on parts of myself which were unbroken, but these became few and far between. I knew not what they were doing, but their hands were warm, and as they moulded me, pulled me and compacted me, the pain came in waves. Their warmth began to melt me, and soon I was not what I remember myself to be.

I began to see them from a perspective I was unused to. They looked to be smaller than before, and I could see over the small fence. Before long I was able to look directly into the eyes of the boy, though the girl was still taller than I.

She pressed the two coals into my face- Face?- and suddenly I could see her clearly. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, and she had a brightly coloured hat and scarf framing her face. My eyes- eyes?- were almost level with hers as she looked at me directly and told me that I was beautiful. I felt almost flattered.

The boy roughly poked a carrot towards my face, and I shuddered with the pain. But suddenly I could smell the wonder of a fresh morning, the grass and a whole variety of aromas I could never have dreamt of floated out from the kitchen. He placed buttons down my front, and the chill of winter that I have always felt lessened. They used smaller buttons to outline a smiling mouth on my face, and the feelings of resentment and loneliness ebbed away. Finally the boy took the brightly coloured hat from the girls head and placed it on mine. The chill was almost gone.

The girl smiled and slowly removed her scarf from around her neck.

“And now, you can have my scarf to keep you warm.” She smiled, then stood back to admire me. I felt beautiful, I felt safe.

The back door opened and a small pup nosed his way out and down the steps. He bounded around the remaining patches of cool white, until he found me. Looking up at me, he nuzzled as my side, his warm nose disconcerting against my cold skin. With a cocked head he jumped up, sinking his teeth into the fringed end of my scarf.

“Here, boy! Walkies!”

I had a horrible feeling of foreboding as the pup ran back towards house, his jaw still locked over my scarf. The wool tightened around my neck, tighter and tighter, until my head crumbled, and I felt myself falling to the ground. The cold may be a danger to a boy, but to a snowman, a scarf can be fatal.