Strange Fame Recipe

Me being bad at poetry as usual, I just had to enter a poetry competition. They gave the first line. 

I want to play in a band with a crazy name,

To play pretentious songs, philosophically tame,

I want to hear my words play on the radio,

And then laugh as the DJ muffles our name.

I want to write a book on something odd,

To see my name in the big book shop,

I want to make my millions without a fuss,

And watch the public see the title of it and stop.

I want to draw an abstract picture in paint,

To frame it in a gallery to flatter,

I want to see the chins drop low,

As they slowly work out the subject matter.

I’ve never been an artist,

I’ve never been able to write,

I’ve never been a singer,

Able to create and excite. 

But now I’ve found a recipe:

Just take a crazy name,

Add a pinch of weird and strange,

For a little dash of fame.

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.