Oct 30th

A Wee Spooky

By Barb


Living in Scotland and writing about murder and general all-round nastiness, is a marriage made in hell. In other words, perfect!

At this time of the year, it is considered that the veil between the living and dead is very thin. The way to keep dead people from coming to your house by mistake was to use a living flame. This is by employing candles, especially when placed in a carved "living" face. In Scotland, it is the carving of turnips, not pumpkins. If you're never carved a turnip, be pleased about this - it's somewhat similar to a concrete slab.

Dating from 4,500 years ago, the Celtic people have been celebrating Samhain here, and it's a love for the spooky that is reflected in the imaginations of creators of books, short stories and poetry.

There is a tradition of great horror and macabre stories coming from this wonderful country, such as Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The inspiration for Dracula (Stoker) came from from Slains Castle, and the strange Dr Lind who wanted to use electricity to animate dead tissue: his main student - a certain Mr Shelley who married Mary.

Then there is Ian Rankin, who with his Rebus series and other books, has developed his own genre: Tartan Noir. But is it any wonder? Edinburgh is a stunning city, but she has some nasty secrets hidden in her depths. Long closed up vaults that housed body snatchers, plague victims and murderers.

Nicola Morgan is another amazing Scottish author who writes sinister young adult fiction. She also has a fabulous blog with excellent information for writers and can be a bit spooky herself at times, but only because she tells it like it is.

Scotland has a long Halloween tradition of celebrating by eating treacle covered scones because... err... they taste good?
Aug 7th

A Short Dissertation on the Male G-Spot - contains shocking information, please do not read if you are of a nervous disposition

By BP


Men have a G-Spot just inside their anus, which often makes hard-shitting extremely enjoyable.  By the same token, slack bowels or a bout of diarrhoea will only engender fleeting sensations of pleasure.  Nothing, however is without its own reward and it is at this time that the discerning man gains valuable insights into the feelings experienced by some women at the hands of lazy or incompetent lovers.  Consequently he is able to take note and improve his own standards in that area.

 

Some may never have heard of the Male G-Spot, or doubt its existence, but a little experimental digital stimulation by a partner (of either sex) or some self-inflicted exploration is the obvious route for those taking flight for the first time – G-virgins as they might be termed.

 

‘Piles’ as they are commonly known, are something of a double-edged sword when it comes to the Male G-Spot, and it is for this reason the man-world is eagerly awaiting the introduction of knobbly suppositories.  These essential items of relief would be as a preference beer-perfumed, although rumour has it some limp-wristed individuals are advocating the use of more conventional scents to enhance the product.  Do not despair, however.  I can reveal that even at this moment, negotiations are taking place between the brewers of ‘Old Peculiar’ and a top medical company.  As a backup, the good men of Witney are also standing by with casks of ‘Hobgoblin’ at the ready, should the Theakston team pull out.

 

But I digress.  To get back to the nitty-gritty.  It is a well-known fact that gentlemen who enjoy the bludgeoning glory of full penal intercourse at the rear may already be familiar with the unexpected awakening of the dormant G-Spot, although night-fighters (or day-fighters for that matter) who resort to a baseball bat as preference could well miss out on many of the finer points and sensations on offer.

 

Those readers of this piece who have ready-access to a Scots caber (and you know who you are, laddies) will already be fully conversant with the convenience of that swift and sure route to male rectal satisfaction, although G-Spot activity can sometimes lessen slightly after repeated use of this admittedly superbly male totem of pleasure, if not totally obliterated.

To return again to the main thrust of my discourse.  G-virgins will be interested to note that it is during serious sexual
manoeuvrings
between loving parties that the anal G-Spot really comes into its own.  The little blighter is best sought out and discovered slowly, sweetly by a sensitive partner's tongue, the activity sometimes likened to a pliable stick of toffee sinking into a sweet round doughnut.  Male or female operator, makes little or no difference.  Part, thrust, winkle out that magnum of pleasure. 

Almost a tongue-in-cheek job, as one might put it.
Jul 16th

Catalyst - The first Flynt & Alice book. Chapter 1.

By Ancient Woodland

Before you read this, it is important that you understand that this was speed written for a challenge on the Cloud in May. As a part of the challenge, readers got to choose what major components were included. As a result of this, there are some strange things happening in here. Don't blame me, I just wrote it.

It's scruffy, contrived and has no manners whatsoever. It's as rough as a badger handbag and has not been edited or polished. That said, some have found it entertaining. Hang on to yer hat...

 

CATALYST

Chapter 1

Time to Pay the Piper.


    The bike idled unevenly, somewhere between a thrum and a burble. There was an underlying tone of menace, as if it were muttering obscenities under its smoking breath. It squatted in the night and the rain like some twisted dark metallic dog of war waiting for its master, growling, impatient to be unleashed.

Its owner stood by its side, watching the engine steaming in the rain. He slid his matt black Shoei helmet on and secured the strap. He checked the zip and buttons of his heavily padded leather jacket and the fly on his leather jeans. Satisfied that nothing was going to work loose in the wind, he cocked his head at the bike’s racing can, listened to its coughing rumble. He blipped the throttle and listened intently as the engine roared in anger and dropped, back to idle in a heartbeat. Sweet.

    He threw a leg over the wide black leather saddle and settled himself by stretching his legs fully, standing on the dulled serrated steel foot-pegs, hands on the Renthal grips; he didn’t want cramp in a thigh muscle at speed. Satisfied, he sat down and lifted his gloves off the dull black petrol tank. He pulled them on; meticulously forcing each finger to the end of its passage before he balled both fists twice to be sure.

He snagged the front brake lever with the index and middle fingers of his right hand, marveling briefly at the engineering excellence that would allow him to stop 350 kilo’s of bike and rider with a squeeze of just two digits. He hauled the big bike up to the vertical and flicked up the side stand, pulling in the clutch with two digits of his left hand. He snicked the bike down into first gear with his left boot and checked his overtaking mirror then looked over his shoulder to be sure nothing was lurking in his blind spot.

The merest touch of the throttle and the big bike growled off down the street, a matt-black metallic wolf padding through the urban jungle of the night.

As he tooled his way through the city, his mind drifted back to the terrible events of the evening before.


He slipped quietly along the narrow alleyway that separated derelict buildings on the dockside. Once a thriving, vibrant port, the buildings now stood empty, lurking in the growing gloom and incessant rain they seemed to stare malevolently from their small barred windows, as if blaming every passerby for the decrepit state that the economy had allowed them to fall into. In the wake of the global financial meltdown, the import/export business had been hit hard and the warehouses hardest of all.

He listened intently, willing himself to blend into the shadows as he searched for signs of life. Somewhere in here the brotherhood had their club house. Somewhere in here, the brotherhood had his sister.

    Passing an alley, he stopped, a sound attracting his attention. He listened for it again and as he did so, he scanned the area. It was full of bins. Industrial bins, metal bins, wheelie bins. All of which attracted deep pools of darkness that the wan silver moonlight could not pierce. The sound did not recur. He stared deep into the gloom, his eyes flicking from spot to spot, using his peripheral vision to detect the slightest hint of movement. 

    He scented the air like the predator he was.


Alice crouched in the shadows, biting her lip, her concern growing by the heartbeat. She had not meant to make a sound. It was just bad timing that the man had appeared as she tried to stave off a cramp in her thigh from squatting too long. Stretching her muscle, she had inadvertently scuffed her shoe on the tarmac, the sound quiet, barely discernable. Yet he had heard it.

She watched as he stopped and cocked his head to listen. She could not see his features, his back was to the moonlight, but she could see that he was powerfully built. His ready stance and cat like movements told her that he was here on business and it was not the type of business that would be conducive to the longevity of any witnesses.

She could feel him staring into the alleyway, staring into the pocket of midnight black that she hid in, staring right at her. She froze and tried to rationalize the situation. He could not possibly see her; she was behind a metal bin, her eyes peering through the loop of galvanized steel that formed the handle of the lid. All around her was pitch black. There was no way he could see her. And yet her heart pounded fit to burst.

Flooded with fear and adrenalin, her mind played tricks with her. If he heard the scuff, he must be able to hear the pounding rush of blood she now heard in her own ears. He was just putting off the inevitable, playing with her as a cat toys with a mouse before ripping it apart, revelling in her fear as she shook behind her bin.

She longed to stand up and surrender, anything must be better than the fear that flooded her system, tormenting her with strobing images of violence and blood. She closed her eyes, screwed them tightly shut, trying to keep it all out but it just kept coming. Anxiety rose within her as did her gorge and she felt sick as the massive panic attack grabbed her with its wicked claws and shook her till her teeth rattled.

Everything she had been through that night rose up and surged through her, the horrific images seemed tattooed on the inside of her eyelids, the screams rang in her ears and the scent of blood filled her flaring nostrils. Her system overloaded on terror and adrenalin, her heart strained as if it would break through her ribs. She had to stop this awful feeling, no matter the consequences.

Alice gave in and stood up, shaking like a leaf in the wind, she held her hands up and opened her eyes, releasing a stream of tears down her pale cheeks and a flood of hot urine down her thighs.

He was gone.


Flynt stayed deep in the darkness that enveloped the inside of the industrial unit that sheltered him from prying eyes. He stayed back from the window of the small office he occupied within the unit and counted off seconds in his head. He had no watch and while he could have timed them with his mobile phone, it was off and he intended it to stay that way, besides the light from the OLED screen was a risk he would not take.

Thirty three seconds. Not long enough. Two men protected the building that was his target, pacing its perimiter. External down lighters badly illuminated the alleys surrounding it.

Another man stood in the recess of a loading bay door on an elevated platform built for reversing trucks up to. Deep in the shadows cast by the external arc lights, it would have been difficult to pick him out had he not been smoking; clearly he was not expecting trouble. Flynt reflected on the warning that cigarette packets had long proclaimed in big letters, “Smoking Kills.” There would be proof of that tonight. The other two were another matter.

Two men circled the building, each taking care with the cadence of their steps to be on the exact opposite of the structure from his brother in arms at any point in time and thirty three seconds was all the time it took for them to complete half a circuit. Not enough – one slip up and it would be over.

He examined both men, one was large with long hair and beard, he ambled along like a hungry bear. The other was bald and moved carefully, avoiding the puddles that his companion had wandered through. Flynt considered him the more dangerous of the two.

 They may be amateurs but they wore full back patches and those were not gained lightly. It took an average of two whole years of single minded violence and depravity in the name of the club before a prospect earned a back patch. Anyone wearing one was likely to be determined and dangerous, not to mention tooled up to the eyeballs. No – he needed a diversion.

He thought back to the alleyway he had paused at earlier and then faded into the night.

 

Alice dropped back down as soon as she realized she was alone. She stayed behind the bin for ten minutes or more, utterly motionless, desperately trying to calm herself down. How the hell had she gotten herself into this? It was supposed to be a fun community event by two active groups of women for the good of the poor, the Soulford knitting bee and the young, idealistic eco-feminists.

Not that she was a big feminist; she was only there because her mother had lost her driving license for drunk driving the year before and now needed Alice to drive her to meetings. In a world where young and old were starving and freezing to death in winter, the two women’s groups did great work, the eco crew collected old clothing from the city tips and wool from their modest herds of sheep on their smallholdings and the other knitted new glad rags from scratch.

In an economically mad world, wool was back in fashion and the two groups had every right to be proud of what they did for the community. But it had gone so badly wrong so quickly. Her mind convulsed as she remembered the recent events of this bloody, hateful evening and rejected them outright – she had to get out of here.

She cursed her hiding place, it was too low down to remove her sodden panties, she turned and shuffled under the stairs of a metal fire escape. Reaching under her mini-kilt she managed to get one perfectly formed ankle clear of her knickers before she heard the crunch of a boot on broken glass right behind her. Her reaction was automatic; she leaped upright, only to collide with the underside of the metal stairs. The world went blacker than it had ever been before.


Flynt caught the girl as she fell. He could not believe his luck. No talking, no violence, no hysterics – perfect.

He could not tell whether her hair was blonde or light brown in the moonlight but a dark stain now spread slowly through it. He laid her gently on the ground and applied pressure to the wound. A minute or so later he pulled a small torch from his boot and inspected it. The blood had stopped flowing but a portion of her hair was slick and stuck to her scalp with it. His hands told him she would have a lump the size of a ping-pong ball come morning. Good, concussion was therefore not an issue.

He ran the light of the torch over the length of her body and his breath hissed through his teeth. She was slim, with good muscle tone, athletic even. Pretty face streaked by tears, framed by long light coloured hair, he could tell no more than that of its hue in the false light of the torch. Her breasts were small and pert, restrained only by a lycra crop-top and her bare legs went on forever. Her modesty was compromised by the wet panties adorning one ankle and her mini-kilt had contrived to reveal even more than its daring designers had intended. Her pubic hair had been immaculately trimmed short, without the normal Brazilian wax that predominated in young females.

Recognising the swelling response his body instantly made to this visual stimulus, he tore his eyes from her sex, lifted her limp body carefully and slung her over his shoulder. Trying to ignore the smell of fresh urine that stung his nostrils, he flipped the swinging, sodden panties into the gutter. Provided he could wake her up in time, she would serve his purpose.

He slipped through the night like a thief and soon found himself in a dark alley facing the back of the club house.

Flynt grimaced and called on his reserves. This must be done, he reminded himself. It was necessary to his sister’s survival.

He went down on one knee and laid the girl over it. Her breasts flattened on his thigh, he lifted the back of her skirt and roughly tucked it into her black leather belt. That done, he waited in the darkness, watching the two men complete their circuit time after time. Satisfied that he had their rhythm in his head, he roughly placed a hand over the girls mouth and with the other he mercilessly grabbed the flesh of her bottom and twisted.

She awoke suddenly and squirmed. He pushed down on her back preventing her from writhing from his grasp, his other hand smothering her cries. Slowly and with great care, she reached a hand up to the wound on her head and Flynt stood up, dragging her with him. She stood groggily in the darkness, groping at the scalp wound with her left hand.

Timing it so that the heavy set, bearded Brotherhood member had just turned the corner, he viciously grabbed her bottom again, deliberately inflicting pain. Once more, his hand smothered her cries but they soon ceased and he let her go. She staggered into the light, clutching her bleeding head, her mini-skirt tucked into the back of her belt, revealing her magnificent buttocks.

He did not wait to see the outcome. If the bald biker did not take the bait, Flynt was a dead man. He sped through several alleyways, coming quickly to one that exited onto the other at the side of the building. He was just in time to see the heavily set Brotherhood member stride around the corner into the glare of the arc lights that lit the front of the building. He started counting and checked that the bald biker did not come into sight at his appointed time. He moved silently to the corner.

At thirty three seconds, he strode out from the corner into the blinding light and made his way with steady, confident footsteps towards the recess that concealed the smoker. As he approached, he drew the hunting knife from his belt and readied himself.

In one fluid move, Flynt rounded the corner and slashed the knife into the darkness. It cut thin air and Flynt knew only a moment of frustration before something slammed into the side of his head, knocking him against the wall.

Night blind from the his brightly lit passage along the front of the building he felt, rather than saw, the next blow coming and managed to get his left arm up in time to block the stock of the sawn off shotgun from staving his face in. His right hand shot out on its own accord and his extended fingers met his assailant’s windpipe with a sickening crunch. The man staggered back, struggling to breathe and Flynt moved in to fill the gap.

The Brotherhood door steward was dead, they both knew it, but Flynt knew it would take time for his throat to swell completely closed and while he was certainly in no position to vocally alert any of his gang members, he could still make a noise if he discharged the shotgun. Flynt grabbed the sawn-off and flicked the safety on from feel alone, wrapping his left hand around both stock and safety to be sure. With his right he grabbed the twelve inch stub of the barrel and smashed it into the man’s face. The biker released his grip on the weapon and sank to his knees, fumbling at his belt, wheezing painfully.

Flynt’s night vision was returning and he could vaguely see the man’s bloated face, his hand clutching his throat. His whole body convulsed as he fought to draw air into his lungs, his diaphragm strained to capacity.

He stood back, there was no point in remaining close enough to get cut as the man’s trembling hand pulled a blade from its leather sheath. Blood streamed into his left eye from the blow he had taken to his eye socket and yet even with the blood and his incomplete night vision, he recognized the swollen face of the smoker. Gerald. The bastard.

Gerald was the only openly gay gang member Flynt had ever heard of. Story went he’d been gay from puberty. While most kids in the same position hid this sexual proclivity from the world until later life, Gerald had flaunted it at every opportunity. Every time he was forced to fight for his right to do so only made him stronger, more hateful. By the time he was seventeen, he was huge and scarred with a vicious attitude to match. By the time he was twenty five, he was a full time head case with a homicidal attitude to anyone that looked at him the wrong way. Flynt had no idea he was now a member of the Brotherhood. He had been lucky, Gerald was indomitable, deadly. Yet here he was, killed by a lucky blow from an unknown assailant.

Flynt had already taken too long dealing with the Brotherhood’s door steward, he felt an itch, an imperative to get back to the girl and the two members behind the building before something real nasty happened to her. She was there to delay them, not to die at their hands. However, he did not want to get any closer to Gerald and couldn’t leave him mobile enough to get help.

He kicked the knife from Gerald’s hand; it spun and bounced off the edge of the loading bay, lost in its shadow. He was gurgling now, time was almost up and yet Flynt would not leave him in a position to do damage – too many people had underestimated this man. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans and threw the handcuffs to him. Pointing the shotgun at his head, he gestured to the handrail that was embedded into the concrete to ensure that foot traffic to the office were not crushed by machinery.

Gasping for breath, gurgling on his saliva, Gerald nevertheless was bright enough to know when he was thrown a chance at a few more minutes of life. He closed the cuff on his left hand, dragged himself to the barrier and closed the other end of the cuff over the metal rail.

Flynt nodded and ran for the alleyway. He glanced back briefly to see Gerald produce another knife from his denim cut-off. Flynt didn’t care. He would not get through the cuffs with a knife and if he cut his hand off at the wrist he’d be dead that much faster. He could not have more than a couple of minutes to live as it stood.

He raced for the alley, hooking through the small passages to the back of the clubhouse and the girl.


Chuckles strode round the corner to the back of the club house and stopped in his tracks. Out of an alleyway, a confused looking female was staggering into the light, she clutched her head with her left hand, blood trickling through her fingers. She was stunning; slim, muscular with a tiny little mini kilt that covered fuck all. She had long, firm legs up to her eyeballs and looked like she was pissed out of her head. Just the way he liked them.

He circled around behind her and could see that she had accidently caught the back of her skirt in her belt. She must have gone for a pee and forgotten to pull it down in her inebriated state. He rushed over to console her.

“Here, here, honey, you look tired,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and staring at her pert tits straining at her crop top. It was not a warm night and her nipples looked like he could hang his leather on them. He guided her over towards the metal bins adorning the back door of their club.

She staggered and leaned into him. Her speech was slurred but coherent, “Thanks, I think I need to sit down for a while, my head hurts. I think someone hit me.”

“Sure they did sweetheart, sure they did,” Chuckles said, rubbing her back. “Not to worry, you’re safe now, eh.”

Chuckles had not always been called Chuckles. His name was Alfred Gilroy but he earned the name of Chuckles because it rhymed with knuckles. He liked knuckles. He liked taking a set of mole grips to the knuckles of people who tried to take the piss out of the Brotherhood in business deals.

Push too hard over a dope deal or over the commission on a whore and he would have the Troll hold the recalcitrant business partner down over a table while he adjusted the mole grips just so, attached them to the screaming party’s last knuckle of their fore-finger and pull the offending digit out its socket. No-one fucked with Chuckles or the Brotherhood anymore.

He could hear the Troll’s ponderous footsteps approaching now. He quickly grabbed the girl by her long cherry-blonde hair and bent her over a galvanized metal bin, twisting her arm up her back.

The Troll wandered around the corner and Chuckles hissed at him to come over to the girl. The big fellow responded and broke into a lolloping gait that brought him parallel with Chuckles.

Chuckles grinned widely at him, not caring that he showed the gap where his front teeth had been. Normally, he was sensitive about his missing teeth but he was too excited to care now.

“Have you ever seen an arse like that?” He asked his hairy companion.

The Troll shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the girl’s perfect buttocks.

“Why’s she small of pee?” The Troll asked, twirling a grimy finger in his graying straggly beard.

Chuckles turned on him. “Would it matter if she smelled of shite? Look at her! She’s as perfect as that junky whore that Duffy’s doing.”

Duffy was the president of the Brotherhood and had recently brought a gorgeous brunette back to the club house where she had been promptly encouraged onto heroin by the other girls with the aid of copious amounts of alcohol. She was almost ready to go out to the pimps, nearly addicted enough to do anything to feed her habit. Chuckles wanted a shot of her first and Duffy had said he would pass her about when they got off duty. Now? No need, he had his own.

The girl suddenly seemed aware of her predicament and struggled in his grip. “Get down there and hold her by her neck. I’m going to get a piece of this right now. And cover her mouth! We don’t need ‘Gerald the arsonist’ back here, he don’t make a good spectator when it comes to women.”

The Troll paused and Chuckles baited him, “Go on, you hairy idiot. You can have sloppy seconds, now move!”

The big fellow moved with surprising rapidity to her blood encrusted head.

Chuckles kicked her feet slightly further apart, he wasn’t the tallest of men and spreading her wider brought her down to his level. He grinned and prepared to sink into her.

 

Flynt arrived at the mouth of the narrow alley in time to see the bald gang member unfasten his jeans. The one with the long grey hair was holding the girl over the bin by the back of her neck, his attention focused tightly on her squirming form.

He stashed the sawn-off in one of the bins and gritted his teeth. This required silence. The weapon was of no use to him.

As he strode boldly across the badly lit alley, Flynt pondered animal psychology. The need to procreate was so strong that once the urge had taken hold, the rest of the world was screened out. Nothing mattered but sex. In the spring, back when he was driving for a living, he would notice that collisions between vehicles and wildlife, particularly birds, increased exponentially as the animals were intent on one thing to the exclusion of all others.

He paused behind the bald biker and stabbed the man through the back with the hunting knife, straight to the heart. There was a ‘pock’ as the big knife penetrated the leather and a strangled exhalation from the man who instantly fell to his knees, dragging the knife from Flynt’s hand. He had intended the blow to be a swift in and out but despite having a blood runnel, the big knife had got itself stuck between the man’s ribs, aided by the suction of his lung. Things were just not going according to plan tonight. He strode on, he had no time to work the blade free.

The hairy biker’s head came up just as Flynt grabbed him by the beard and dragged him into a vicious head butt. The man’s head few back, striking the wall behind him as blood sprayed from his ruined nose. He dropped to his knees, dazed, clutching at his face. Flynt kicked him hard in the solar plexus and the man’s breath left his lungs in a whoosh of fetid air. He kicked him again, this time on the side of his head, his steel toe-capped boot cannoning into his temple. The man collapsed in a heap, his breathing ragged, blood suffusing his hair.

He turned and approached the bald biker who was face down on the wet tarmac. Placing a boot between the dead man’s shoulders, he pulled the knife clear, feeling it grate against ribs as it came free with a wet sucking noise.

He turned his attention to the girl. She was sobbing gently, still bent over the bin. As the adrenalin flushed itself out of his system he suddenly felt sorry for her. He had not meant it to go this far. Had not intended her to have to go through an ordeal as traumatic as this. He had planned to quickly dispatch the smoker and be back to deal with the two patrolling bikers before serious harm could befall her. He had needed the distraction but he bitterly regretted using her now. She was dazed and vulnerable and he had callously used her as bait.

He gently pulled her skirt out of her belt and helped her to her feet. She was still confused and staggered into his arms, sobbing.

“Thank you!” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me from them.” She buried her face into his leather waistcoat and asked, “Where are they? Will they be back?” She sobbed again, “Please tell me they won’t come back!”

Flynt’s heart sank. She was thanking him for saving her. How could he tell her that it was him that had put her at risk in the first place? She badly needed support right now and he could not bring himself to make matters worse. She could take no more evil tonight without losing her sanity completely. He needed to get her out of here, needed to get her head wound treated.

He was torn. He had come here to take out as many of the Brotherhood as he could. He had no delusions about being able to deal with them all, there were likely to be twenty or more of them in the building and while he was a bonny fighter, he was not immortal. No – tonight had been about payment. They had taken his sister and he was here to make them pay for her in blood and death. He had resigned himself to death from the start. He did not fear it. At least he had no fear of death when he had started this madness earlier on. Now? Now, the thought of death troubled him. If there was a reckoning to be had after he closed his eyes for that final time, how would he justify his actions tonight?

Could he say that he had committed one evil to counter a larger, more insidious one? He knew the answer immediately. What he had done to this girl tonight had stained his soul forever. He could never put it right. But he could make sure he did not compound it.

He scooped the girl up in his arms and started walking, unconsciously moving towards where he had first found her in the alley. She must have thought she was safe but he had seen the moonlight in her eyes as it shone its silver rays from behind him. She could not have known.

He was torn from his thoughts by a skittering noise from the roof of the building whose alleyway he approached. He was close to brickwork and could not see who was on the roof, the angle was wrong. A loose tile rattled down its fellows, gathering speed until it clipped the gutter and flew out into the alley, bursting into a hundred pieces on the ground at his feet.

Flynt broke into a trot. Time to go. What the fuck were they doing on the roof? He hit the tight passageway and continued his padding trot. The girl was not heavy but she was awkward.

He could hear more noises coming from above. Loud chittering noises interspersed with more tiles rattling down the roof and smashing on the ground behind him. The girl curled tightly into him and sobbed into his cut off. Something about those noises elicited a fear in her and he fought to control her squirming.

The noise came again and was answered by another on the roof of the building on the other side of his tight passageway. There was something about that chittering that he could not put a finger on. But it left him cold to the bone. Fear unfurled within him. He handled it the same way he had handled it almost all his life. By analysis. He knew fear to be dangerous, like a savage dog, growling and snapping. Face it down and it would be but a yapping puppy but turn and run from it and it would pursue you to the bitter end.

Finding that he was afraid was surprising to Flynt. Earlier he was determined to die in a blaze of glorious violence and now all he wanted was to get this girl safe. He channeled the energy gained by the rampant emotion and ran faster down the passage, further from the awful clicking noises that faded behind him. He would come back and face this down once he had the girl safe.

While running the alleys and passageways earlier in his search for the Brotherhood’s den, Flynt had spotted a line of cars parked outside another disused building close to the main entrance to the abandoned dock yard. He changed direction and headed due West, a vehicle would secure short term solace for his burden.

The distant, muted sounds of a commotion came to his ears. The sound of screaming ensued, muffled with distance and then the boom of a single shot. So, the Brotherhood had discovered the mess he had left. They were quick; he had to give them that. The element of surprise was now lost.

Twenty minutes later, he came to the line of vehicles and let the girl’s legs drop to the ground. She was barely awake, he judged a mild case of shock and the blow to her head had stolen her energy but he had to let her legs down. He needed a spare hand to check the door handles of the cars. He had all but given up when the handle of the last car gave to his touch.

In stark contrast to the mainly modern vehicles in the line, this car was the wrong side of thirty years old. The vehicle, which was already congenitally challenged in the aesthetic department by dint of the fact it was a Citroen 2CV, had been painted (by a four inch paintbrush by the looks of it) a lurid pink that threatened to make Flynt’s eyes water in the glare of the arc lights that lit the front of the building. It had so many dents and dings that Flynt reckoned it may be the only survivor of a muddy banger race.

He knew his vehicles, 2CV’s were the mechanical equivalent of the cockroach. No matter how hard you tried to eradicate them, they simply refused to die. This example was the ugliest he had ever seen but unlike every other vehicle here it was unlocked. He knew several reasons why this might be the case but one in particular kept his attention and he knew it was the reason the car was unlocked. Even thieves retain some scrap of dignity.

He gently laid the girl on the back seat. She curled up immediately and Flynt’s eyes sprang wide as the mini skirt revealed all. He had to find something to cover her up!

He was half way up to the door of the building the car sat outside of when a thought occurred to him. He stopped and turned back to the Citroen, squinting painfully into its glare. He opened the boot and nodded to himself knowingly. It had to be there. Given the state of the car, the laws of fashion dictated its presence. He covered the girl from head to toe with the tassled, tartan blanket and closed the door. He hoped she wasn’t allergic to wool.

 

Gerald watched his attacker run down the delivery ramp and into a narrow alleyway behind the next block. The man had a fluid grace, he moved like a big cat. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Chuckles had a tack in his right boot and the assailant had not, Gerald would be lying with his throat cut.

Still staring at the man, admiring the wide muscular shoulders and slim waist, he pulled one of his many concealed knives out of his denim cut-off. Raising it he steeled himself for the pain. He had no choice. He was dead otherwise.

The man turned, glanced back at him. Gerald nodded to him in silence, in all his days of contention and violence, he had never met anyone with such incredible reactions. On reflection, he had no chance of stopping the blow that crushed his windpipe.

He stared at the knife and steadied the tip between the index and forefinger of this left hand. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pushed hard with his right and was rewarded with a grating pop as the knife pierced the base of his windpipe. The pain was indescribable.

He leaned forward so that the resultant blood would flow out of the wound and not down his windpipe and into his lungs. He still could not breathe, his ears roared with the rush of un-oxygenated blood and he knew his time was measured in seconds. Without looking, he wiped each side of the blade on his jeans, cleaning the blood from it and laying the weapon on the ground. His shaking hand sought the item he always carried in his denim jacket.

Thanking the gods for the presence of the cheap Bic pen, he pulled it out and held it in his trembling left hand, using his right to unscrew the top. He shook out the plastic, ink filled pipe and tip that lay within and picked up the knife again. He wedged the tip of the blade into the opening made for the nib of the pen and turned the knife a few times, scraping the plastic and widening the hole considerably. He put the knife down and, almost blue with the lack of oxygen, forced the nib end of the pen into the wound in his windpipe. He held onto the pen and almost fainted with the pain, keeping consciousness only because he knew to lose it was to lose life itself

His diaphragm strained as it struggled to pull air into his lungs down such a narrow pipe but it did draw air and as his lungs filled and emptied, the roaring in his ears subsided and the sounds of chaos filled his mind instead.

Screams and crashes ripped the silence of the night as all hell broke loose within the building.

With shaking hand, he pushed the pen deeper until he was sure it wouldn’t work its way out, listening to the mayhem in the club house. Gods, the man must be possessed, there were at least sixteen gang members in there and, by the sounds of it, they had not dropped the assailant yet. Well, there was nothing he could do about it. He was after all handcuffed to a railing outside.

Gradually, the noise began to die down. A gunshot sounded and finally all was quiet. Except for a strange, muffled chittering that grated on his already shot nerves. There was an indefinable aspect to that noise that awoke some primal fear within Gerald. He was grateful when it died down to a murmur from within.

For thirty minutes or more he sat next to the handrail, his breath hissing out of the hard plastic tube. He became more and more anxious. No-one had come out of the building, neither Brotherhood nor assailant. That was not right, someone must be alive in there and they should be making for an exit. He sat there in despair. What if they were all dead? He could sit there until he rotted. No-one came this deep into the disused warehouse district. No-one dared.

He sat and thought, there were other members of the Brotherhood that were not within the walls of the club house. Sooner or later, one would come along. Sooner or later, he would be rescued. He relaxed and listened to the hissing of air through the pen. Hah! He had survived. Whatever what life threw at him, he always survived. No matter how nasty it got.

He grinned.

Movement, he heard movement in the alley round the corner. He longed to shout out, to call for help from his brothers in arms but the whistling hiss of his breath denied him that luxury, the air never met his vocal chords.

He stood up, straining at the end of the rail, straining to see who was coming round the corner.

The noise grew louder, a scurrying, scraping noise. It didn’t sound like movement he recognized. Maybe the person was injured? But then, they wouldn’t scurry if injured, the movement would be slow, deliberate.

Now, more of the same. He heard a roof tile rattle down and burst on the floor of the alley. The chittering noise started again, louder now that it was not behind closed doors. More roof tiles displaced themselves, skittering down their fellows. He heard the ping of one hitting a bike. Someone was going to be out a paint job. A thrum, as if of heavy, fast wings. The chittering decreased in volume except for one distinct element that was closer now.

He heard it pause at the corner but could not see although he strained at the cuff. The scuttling proceeded; he heard it come up the concrete slope that lead to the loading bay.

Worried now, he searched his jacket for another blade, finally finding one in a concealed inner pocket in the back of his cut-off. He pulled it, a seven inch filleting knife, and held it in front of his eyes, his breath now whistling from the pen.

Something scrabbled up the last of the ramp and scuttled along the concrete and into sight in the arc lights.

In spite of his condition, Gerald’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes went wide as they met the abomination that rounded the corner.

Good God, NO…

The chittering filled his ears.

For the first time since puberty, Gerald screamed. The whistling from his self induced tracheotomy rose in pitch until it would only be heard by an Alsatian and then stopped abruptly as the pen shot out of his windpipe and bounced along the concrete towards the chitinous legs before him.


Flynt watched things unfold from an alley across the street. He’d retrieved the sawn-off and had circled back round to the front of the club house. He was amazed Gerald was still alive. Judging by the blood on the man’s neck, he’d popped a hole in his own windpipe to circumvent Flynt’s crushing blow. Damn, the man was hard to kill!

He had been surprised to find that Gerald was still attached to the railing. Why hadn’t his mates set him free? Surely one of them had a hacksaw in there? And then, in the dim light of the opposite alley, he had seen the shadowy shapes of what appeared to be giant black wasps leave the club house through a long, low window high on the east wall. Big damn things they were with stubby, almost vestigial wings that thrummed as they climbed the wall and made their way West over the roof tops, their weight dislodging tiles that shattered on the street below.

His mind reeled. What in the name of the dark old gods were these things? What had they done to the brotherhood? More to the point, what had they done to his sister?

The gentle breeze shifted and he watched as one detached itself from its siblings and crawled down the wall and along the alley to the front of the building. It paused there for long seconds and Flynt realized it had sensed Gerald. Hardly surprising, he must stink of fear and sweat from his ordeal.

The huge black wasp chattered to itself and started up the loading ramp. Bloody hell, it must be six feet tall and twelve long. Black as pitch, long, gangly legs supporting a sleek, aerodynamic segmented body. The stinger added another two feet to the thing’s length, a thick, robust looking weapon ending in a remarkably wide stub. He couldn’t imagine what a creature that size would have to fear to have such a wicked implement on its arse but he watched in fascination as it climbed the loading ramp and approached Gerald.

There was little danger to Flynt. He had watched the other wasps make their way over the roof of a nearby building and he was downwind of them all. He stepped out from the alleyway, made sure that the safety was off the shotgun and his knife was in his belt and moved towards Gerald’s position with cat like footwork. He had to get inside, had to get to his sister.


Gerald’s screams echoed in his head. Fucking hell, what in the name of the wee man was this fucking thing? He strained at the handcuffs, skin rubbed raw deep into the flesh, blood dripping to the ground, the damn thing chittering away in his head. It stiffened and Gerald saw it raise its legs, saw the abdomen curve under its thorax. Saw the stinger point at his face, twitching and dripping some viscous yellow fluid.

What the fuck was this thing? It looked like a massive wasp for pity’s sake. He pulled harder at the handcuffs, waving his knife in front of his face. He knew the knife would be ineffectual, the damn thing was armoured with a pitch black exoskeleton but he hung on to it for dear life and waved it at the approaching monstrosity. He couldn’t breathe, his tube had bounced to the edge of the loading bay and already, only moments later, his lungs strained for air.

The stinger shot forward, faster than thought, and stabbed him in the stomach, it pulled back immediately. He swiped at fresh air. The thing stood watching, abdomen poised for another shot, chittering with those vicious mandibles. He waved the weapon again, surprised to see his movements slow. His arm felt heavy and he dropped the knife. Hell, his whole body felt heavy and he sat down with a thud that jarred his coccyx.

Desperately he reached to pick up the knife and found he could not move. Pain flowed from the wound in his belly and suffused him. He could hear his heart beat, could feel his diaphragm struggling to pull air into lungs that had no corridor to the fresh air that surrounded him. He could not move. He hung from the wrist, staring at his killer for the second time that night.

The wasp’s abdomen shot forward again, this time driving the stinger deep into his belly. He screamed into his head time and time again as the wasp shifted the thing within him, working its way deeper into him until it finally, with one last thrust found the base of his ribs. He was in agony, his kidney screamed in fire as the tip of the stinger scraped by it and he thanked the gods as he struggled for air, that he could not get any into his lungs. He could not go on like this; death would be a release, a relief from the screaming fire that lit his organs.

Slowly, it withdrew the stinger and he felt it leave something behind, nestled next to his kidney. Something heavy. Everything was going black and white now and he prayed for death with every fibre of his being. The rushing in his ears began again and he knew he could not have long to go. Utterly limp, he prayed it would be soon. His diaphragm started to spasm. The stinger finally exited his body. And the wasps head exploded, sending yellow fluids spraying over his face.

Headless, the wasp twitched and fell out of his sight. He could see his vision begin to narrow, becoming tunnel-like. The screaming pain of his abused body started to fade. And then Flynt appeared. He said something that Gerald could not discern over the rushing in his ears, he heard it as a mere murmur and then he felt the pen stuffed roughly back into his windpipe, fresh air sucked into his lungs from his straining diaphragm, his vision widening as his assailant strode by him.

Nooooooo! He screamed silently, Nooooo, for pity’s sake let me die! But he could not see the man and he could not move to pull the pen from his throat. He could not move, but he could feel something stirring deep inside him. Something that should not be there twitched with the spark of new life.

 

Flynt quietly climbed the ramp towards Gerald. He could see the abdomen of the wasp was tucked under its thorax. Had it stung him? He moved closer until he could see what was happening. The damn thing had its stinger deep inside the man. He was not moving, must be incapacitated. He knew that certain species of parasitic wasps immobilized their prey to make it easier to lay eggs without damaging the new host. Such was happening here. He watched patiently as the creature’s ovipositor shifted back and forth within the paralyzed man. Finally it stopped. Flynt checked the shotgun and raised it to the back of the abominations head. For the second time in the same night he reflected upon the lack of care that animals take when natural imperatives took over. Earlier it had been procreation, he had managed to walk right up to both bikers as they were intent on rape. Now, he was within a couple of feet of the wasp and, as it was so intent on laying its egg, it had not sensed him at all. He watched as the ovipositor slid out of Gerald then pulled the trigger. The sawn off boomed and the wasp’s head disintegrated. The body spasmed backwards as Flynt stepped smartly aside and the rest of the wasp fell off the concrete edge of the loading bay, to lie twitching on the ground.

He felt something under the sole of his boot and bent down to pick it up. The plastic Bic tube reflected the bright lights and Flynt raised an eyebrow. Well, well, well, it was Gerald’s lucky night after all! He moved over to the man and stuffed the tube back into the gash in his throat. “Can’t let you die now Gerald, you’re going to be a daddy!”

Flynt searched the paralyzed man’s pockets until he found the cartridges he knew would be there. Only four, he hoped it would be enough. He broke the shotgun and replaced the spent cartridge, snapping the gun closed again, he checked the safety was off. It was. He patted Gerald on the shoulder and moved into the clubhouse.


Alice woke within the confines of her mother’s car. Her befuddled mind recognized the vehicle as soon as she was conscious. If the furry pink seat covers had not given the game away, the CND sign hanging from the rear view mirror would have galvanized it and the smell of incense would have clinched it. Who else would burn incense in a moving vehicle if not her mother.

Her head hurt abominably and threatened to curb her normally acute intellect with its pounding. Yet, it did not. She struggled to piece together the events of the night into some semblance of rationale, of order. And after a few moments she succeeded and bit her lip with consternation.

Her mother was still in there. She had run in terror from those… things. Had found a fire escape that had been used as nothing more than a smokers den, judging by the cigarette ends, for years. Accordingly, the door had yielded to the pressure of her hand on its bar with ease and she had bolted into the night, leaving the fire escape to close itself gently on its hydraulically assisted mechanism.

She had raced down the alleyway and through two more before she slowed and hid, heart pounding, behind a galvanized bin under the runners of another fire escape’s stairs. She stayed there for what felt like hours before that man had come along and released her horrors, forcing her to stand up.

Her evening was supposed to be one of studied boredom, watching her mother grow ever more drunk as the evening wore on and her hip flask grew lighter. Her mother took pride from the fact that three times a week she would come down here and supervise the recycling of old garments into new. Would offer her advice, growing more and more strident in her comments until Alice was forced to take her home. Finally asleep in the passenger seat, drunk as a skunk and feeling like she had done her bit for society in supervising the women who weaved and knit the poor the clothes they would need to survive the next harsh winter. Society had fallen, governments had been ousted, and humankind relapsed a hundred years.

In truth, her mother was a burden to these people in the same way that she was a burden to Alice, but with the odd wink and sigh, they put up with her and gave Alice a break respite from the constant torment of her mother’s addiction.

Now, they were all dead. Or if not dead, they would wish they were. Those things had come up from the basement and had stung, incapacitated or killed all the women that she knew so well. All the women that she used to discover  what a normal mother would be like.

The insects had arrived in a thrum of stubby wings and had immediately set upon the women who were gathered in the loading bay, busily sorting rags and sewing or knitting new garments from old. Horrific things, straight out of a nightmare – huge and black, cold and unforgiving they had plundered the human contents of the loading bay mercilessly. Alice had been on tea duty at the other end of the hall when they broke through and to her shame, she had run as she watched her fellow aid workers cut down. She felt bitter and angry that she had left them to face this on their own but looking back, there was little she could have done to help.  

 The last thing she remembered was hiding behind a galvanized bin in a nearby alley and then waking up in the dim lights of another alley with two stinking bikers bending her over a similar bin. And yet, no. The last thing she remembered was him. Those eyes had pierced her soul. The man that had carried her from danger. A big man that lifted her as if she weighed nothing.

She stared out into the artificial daylight of the loading bay beside her and wished he were here now. She had to go inside, dangerous as it was, she had to know what had happened to her mother. Her analytical mind needed closure. She reached for the cheap metal handle and opened the door.

 

Flynt opened the door and quickly stepped inside. Holding the shotgun at chest height, he made his way into what would have once been the office. A Harley Davidson 1440 Sportster lay in bits across the floor. On a bench nearby its carburetors had been neatly dissected and the component pieces were laid out with military precision on the worktop. Other than the bits of bike, the room was empty.

Pocketing a carburetor needle, he left, the shotgun swinging to and fro as he went. He hated Harleys, bloody slow, awful handling, shite brakes, the things were, in his mind, nothing more than petrol driven vibrators. Why the hell every back patch club in the world revered them was completely lost on him. The missing carburetor needle would probably cost its owner (read; its thief) a week’s wages. Not that any of these fuckers worked for a living.

He moved into the main work space. This too was full of Harleys, this time in one piece, more than a dozen of them. He toyed with the cheap gas lighter in his breast pocket. Temptation tapped his shoulder and whispered in his ear. Pull a fuel pipe off a carb, leave for a minute, light, walk away. He put the lighter back in his pocket and moved on. Time enough for that later.

Across a corridor, he entered the gent’s toilet. He had to push hard on the door to move the body behind. It slid aside with relative ease on the tiles, looking grey with a nasty overlay of yellow. Blood pulsed in its carotid artery, he could see that from here, rapidly too. This was no corpse, this was what had happened to Gerald. The corpse of a wasp lay half in and half out of the long communal tiled urinal, its head separated from its body by several feet. He pondered whether it had managed to lay its egg or whether the biker had merely been paralyzed as he had decapitated the thing with the machete that lay on the tiles next to the wash hand basins. No matter, the wasp was dead, that was what counted. He wondered briefly how paranoid a man had to be to take a machete to go for a piss. Not paranoid enough, he conceded.

The females toilet was next and he was surprised to find that although deep scratches were evident on the stall door, there was a female slumped inside, her panties at her ankles and a needle in her arm. Overdose? No, she moaned as he touched her ribs with a steel toe-capped boot. Just completely out her face. Looked like smack. He bloody hated smack, heroin was the worst thing to happen to the slums. Crime rocketed and the danger of walking the streets scared away anyone who would make a difference. He left her to sit on the toilet, gazing silently into space.

He made his was way cautiously towards the last door in the hallway. Double glass doors stood, opened inwards, inviting the unwary inside. But he sensed movement within. A groan emanated from the room, followed by a shuffling of something and a soft chitter.

He moved fast. So did the wasp. As soon as his booted feet hid the inside of the room, the thing whirled and moved with astonishing speed towards him. With preternatural calm, he pulled the trigger. The thorax exploded in a yellow bloom of eviscerate, showering the latter part of the room with yellow ichor. It collapsed, twitching to the floor; Flynt noticed the ovipositor slide off his boot armour as it fell. To the death, this thing still sought to incapacitate. It twitched again. Flynt used another shell to blow a gaping hole where the needle met the abdomen. He re-loaded the weapon. Three shells left.

Bodies littered the room. There were at least a dozen bikers along the walls – each with a hole in the abdomen, fluid oozing from the gaping wounds. Clearly they had been impregnated with larvae. A handgun lay on the floor next to one burly member and Flynt picked it up and checked the ammo. Satisfied, he slid the safety on and stuck the weapon into his belt. A dead wasp lay next to the table. The Brotherhood had managed to take out one of the creatures at least, that must have been the shot he heard earlier.

Three pretty females were arrayed in various states of repose, none of which had any signs of penetration other than that which the gang members had already subjected them to. His sister lay over a long low table, her legs parted, breathing shallowly. Needles were scattered on the table and the floor.

The scene told the whole story – the gang had been surprised by the wasps while using the women. The insects had fought, subdued and impregnated the members but had been unable to impregnate the females due to the high levels of drugs in their systems. So, they had left one behind to do the job as and when the women had diluted the drugs in their system to a state of toxicity that the larvae could tolerate.

He slapped his sister viciously and did the same to the other two. Slowly they began to come around.

He needed transport. He couldn’t hang any of the girls over the back of a saddle, there was too much of a chance of a limb getting caught in the drive chain or the spokes of a wheel. While they were coming round, he made for the warehouse at the gates that had the Citroen 2CV parked in all its lurid pink majesty.

Unburdened, he made the journey in a few minutes or so and was surprised to find the car empty. The keys were still in the ignition but he wondered what had befallen the girl he had laid in the back seat. He moved into the warehouse, sawn off in hand.

Bodies were strewn everywhere, He could tell by the rhythmic movement below the flesh that some harboured larvae and some did not. The younger women were impregnated, the older simply paralysed. The wasps were picky breeders.

Coming to the end of a corridor, he spied the young woman he had left in the Citroen. She was leaning on the wall across from an open door. She was shaking and staring into space. He stepped past her, across and through the door in one fluid movement. Targeting the wasp as soon as he was in the room, he blew a hole in it where the abdomen met the thorax, severing the slim connection between the two. The creature screamed, a remarkably human noise and scuttled towards him, careless of the loss of a good proportion of its body. The shotgun spoke again as the thing’s pincers flashed for his head, fastening over his left wrist as he blocked. A hole appeared in its thorax and yellow fluid exploded onto the surrounding stacks of neatly ironed clothes. The monstrosity finally hit the deck, dragging Flynt with it. The girl struggled to help him free of the pincers and soon he was shoving his last cartridge into the shotgun.

A woman in late middle-age snored in the corner; he could smell her alcoholism from where he stood, several yards back. So that was what it had been waiting for – sobriety…

He called the young woman in and together they managed to get the snoring woman into the back of the 2CV.

“Thank you,” the female said.

“For what?” grunted Flynt.

“She’s my mother. I’m Alice by the way,”

“Nice to meet you Alice, now jump in the car and we’ll go get the rest.”

The gear change on the dashboard really threw Flynt for the first minute or two, after that, he just took it in his stride. Arriving at the Brotherhood’s den, he reversed the little car up the ramp and left the engine running while he stepped out. Alice followed him. Between the two of them they carried the stoned women outside and stacked them in the car. Space was tight.

Flynt took out a pen and a piece of paper. He wrote an address down and handed it to Alice. “Take the women there. It’s a rehab unit. They’ll know what to do with them. If you have any sense, you’ll leave your mother there too.”

He started to walk down the ramp.

“Where are you going?” Alice asked.

“I still have one cartridge left, I can think of a use for it.”

“But we need to talk… I need to talk.”

He stopped and turned to look at her. She looked tired and unsure of herself. Blood still matted her hair but he was pleased to see she had replaced the mini kilt with a knee length skirt from the women’s recycled clothes pile.

“Yeah, I guess you do at that.” He remembered well what he had done to her this night. He owed her. “Meet me at the Clachaig Inn tomorrow evening and we’ll talk.”

“The Clachaig Inn? Where’s that?”

“There’s only one Clachaig. Google it.” He turned and walked away, turning the corner. She could hear his solid, confident steps echoing down the alley.

She drove down the ramp and headed for the big gates that marked the exit. She heard the shotgun bark behind her. She kept going and a minute later was not surprised to hear a loud series of small explosions and see the reflection of fire in her rear view mirror.

Realising she didn’t even know the man’s name, she drove on, a tear in her eye and hope in her soul.

 

Next chapter here: http://www.thewordcloud.org/members/profile/394/blog-view/blog_600.html

Jun 18th

FACING EVIL.....AND FIGHTING FOR....MY RIGHT TO PASS.

By murfy

FACING EVIL....

As the wind did whistle over the hill,
It brought along fear,aswell as chill,
For there in the darkness lurked an evil,
With saliva dripping from fangs primevil.

Frozen with fear,yet couldn't see,
The evil ahead,just watching me,
I had no choice,must press on,
Just prayed the dawn wouldn't take too long.

With bated breath & pounding heart,
Was onward for me,must make that start,
Toward the evil i began to head,
Not sure if i'd end alive or dead.

With menacing snarl the evil sprung,
I froze again,nowhere to run................

..............AND FIGHTING FOR............

........It stood a good foot taller than me,
From side to side swaying with glee,
Its' evil grin did seem to say,
Your certain death's not far away.

A weakness i did look to find,
It cannot fight if it is blind?
Massive muscles in its' arms did nestle,
T'was far to strong for me to wrestle.

This evil creature was way to high,
For me to gouge its' evil eye,
Time was short-i had to think,
The pit of death-i'm on the brink.

Then i thought of its' weakest part,
And such a thought did cheer my heart,
So to its' surprise i moved in fast,
As with mighty wind its' claw swung past............


.......MY RIGHT TO PASS.

......I struck as hard as i possibly could,
Aimed my blow where it did most good,
Between its' legs my blow it fell,
And in great pain the beast did yell.

A thunderous echo from its' roar of pain,
And in a flash i struck again,
The beast recoiled & staggered back,
In awesome pain from my swift attack.

I struck a third as its' claws swung past,
Then fourth & fifth went in there fast,
My heart was cheered,it was on the brink,
But like a fool........i paused to blink.

In that split second great pain i knew,
As via its' claw through the air i flew,
It shattered my ribs & blood flowed fast,
With flailing arms at a tree i'd grasp.

Whilst crashing through this mighty tree,
The beast below awaiting me,
A snapping branch i grabbed so tight,
It came down with me at the end of flight.

As i did fall-branch pointed first,
Through the beasts' own throat-it did burst,
The beast it roared & gargled blood,
And i hit the ground with an almighty thud.

In Gods sweet dawn i opened my eyes,
And looked upon that beast & his demise,
In searing pain,got to my feet at last,
And smiled 'coz i'd won....................
........MY RIGHT TO PASS.

Murfy











Apr 20th

Unwelcome Visitors (just pieces from my story - 1st Draft)

By Chanty
Hi all,

These are the last little pieces I'll be sharing with you from the story... Yes, Alice most likely hates me, I put her through quite a bit and still have much more for her - but she's a strong girl with a deep inner strength.

Again, not everyones cup of tea. You may like and you may not.

*******************************************************************

Alice opened her locker, to exchange her books for the last class. Suddenly a icy chill ran down her back, she felt as though she were being watched, not like the other times, this was somehow different - very uncomfortable. She glanced about her, to see who could be watching her, not really expecting to see anyone. Then froze when her eyes came across the watcher, he was tall

and built in much the same physic as the guys from Wolf Haven, deadly handsome, with thick dark hair just past his shoulders.


She could see why the girls had been so excited; he was obviously one of the two new guys, Pamela had mentioned. Although, there was something very dark about him, almost evil in her opinion. The way he leaned up against the lockers on the far side of the locker corridor, with a sly smirk on his face, boosting self confidence. What troubled Alice the most, was the way he stared at her, it was intense, she could feel the heat of his stare. There was almost a hunger in his eyes and his eyes were dark, almost black. Another cold shiver shook her body, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck as fear crept into her. Alice quickly looked away, trying to focus on her books. Then closed the locker door, glancing back to where he stood, but he was gone. She sighed with relief, but the fear stayed with her.

 

Alice sat counting down the minutes to the end of class, the last class for the day. She felt a sense of urgency to be away from the University, she wanted to be home already, where she would feel safe. She just couldn't shake the fear from her body, a sick feeling of dread was forming in the pit of her stomach and the scars on her back were suddenly sensitive again. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck and arms lifted as an ice cold shiver traveled down her spine, she felt a presence behind her. She glanced back, but no one was there, except for the girl who sat behind her.

 

Her body went cold - she could still feel that someone was close, too close. Fear gripped at her chest as she felt hot breath against her skin, on the side of her neck, her cheek and then her shoulders. And heard a soft sound, like someone sniffing, there was a kind of musky scent in the air – she froze when she felt something hot and wet like a tongue lick the skin on her neck and the

sound a low growl. The other girls seated around her swung around to look at her, they had heard it too.

 

The bell rung, Alice jumped to her feet and ran towards the door of the class room, weaving in between her class mates as they made their way to the door. She could still feel the presence as it kept pace with her. As she left the class room and entered the passage, she felt fingers rake through her hair, jerking back her head and pulling a chunk of her hair out. She screamed out in pain, her eyes wide with fear as she tried to escape.

 

He was there - in a blink of an eye he was there in front of her, with Wyde and Dale at his side. Alice ran straight into the open arms of Lucas, sobbing aloud, her body shaking violently as she clung to him, unwilling to let go. Dale and Wyde ran past them as they chased after her invisible threat, there were shouts from other students that were knocked out of the way by some invisible force.

 

****************** Lots of missing text *********************

 

Dale drove with Amanda up front, sitting next him, while Lucas sat with Alice in the back. Wyde, Cindy, Warren and Lisa followed behind them in the other large jeep as they sped towards Park Falls. Everyone was alert, but silent. Amanda was nervous – she kept glancing back at Alice and smiling at her, trying to be reassuring – but, Alice could see the fear in her eyes, she'd seen it in all of their eyes. They had not thought that she was crazy, far from it, they had unwillingly acknowledged that something was out there and it was hunting her.

 

As they neared campus, her anxiety grew and she began to regret wanting to come back for her clothes, but she couldn't make them turn around, not now. Alice glanced through the windscreen at the slight red haze in the distance, far up the road. Everyone saw it and they wondered aloud as to what it might be. As they drew closer it became brighter, almost like a red light district in

Amsterdam. And as they approached Alice's house, they saw the cause of the red light. It was the strobing red lights from four police cars and two ambulances parked in the road near her house.

 

They saw the red and white tape that had been set up around the front the neighboring house, cording off the area so that no one could enter. Carsten was standing out front with Gary and Steven, when they stopped on the side of the road. An ice cold shiver ran down Alice's back as she climbed out of the jeep, her fear stronger, Lucas was at her side in a flash and put his arm around her, pulling her close as they walked over to Carsten, who watched their approach.

 

“Son, it's best you get her out of here. This isn't a pretty sight.” Carsten said, with a warning look in his eyes.

“What's happened dad, what's going on?” Lucas asked, his voice full of concern, as he pulled her closer to him.

“Four girls were murdered tonight, son. The murderers have come to town. A friend of the girls found the bodies, just over half an hour ago. I think it's best you get Alice away from here.” Carsten said, as he gave Lucas a knowing look.

 

Alice saw it, and Lucas seemed to suddenly jump into action. Alice started to tremble, her fear growing stronger still. 'Oh my God! The girls next door are

dead. I would have been here at home, if it wasn't for Lucas. They could have killed me too. And if the others hadn't gone out, them as well. Carsten and Lucas know something, I can see it in their eyes.'

 

*************** Missing text again *****************

 

They left the house, heading over to where the jeeps were parked, Dale in front and Wyde and Warren behind the girls. Lucas was still speaking to his dad, Steven and Gary had joined in on their conversation, but his face was still filled with anger, he was arguing with his dad. As they neared the jeep, Alice heard the sound of trolley wheels and looked toward the sound. The medics were wheeling out the bodies.

 

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, as she felt her stomach turn while taking in the sight, the white sheeting that covered the bodies was soaked in blood, there was so much blood, it was dripping off the sheets, making thin trails of blood along the walk way. She watched as the bodies where pushed along to the Ambulances, and as one of them jerked to a stop, causing a bloodied and

mangled arm to slip out from under the sheet, bones were exposed, where flesh was no longer.

 

Alice screamed, and fell onto her hands and knees as she wrenched, her body shook violently as the emotions she'd been fighting to control escaped and she started crying hysterically.

'Oh God help me, please! I'm reliving my nightmares!'

 

She heard Lucas's voice. “Alice! Alice!” She felt hands on her, but she lashed out at them, she didn't want anyone touching her. She didn't see who it was, the tears blurred her eyes. She heard his voice again. “Medic give me something to knock her out, she's having an emotional breakdown.”

 

Again she felt hands on her and tried to lash out, but they held her down, she struggled to fight free of them, but they were far to strong. 'Nooo!' She felt the prick of a needle against her skin and the feel of the cold liquid as it entered her body through the needle. It was only seconds before she lost feeling in her body and her eyelids grew heavy, she couldn't fight to keep them open anymore, she was to tired – finally she closed her eyes in surrender to the drug she'd been given.  

Apr 20th

The Face of Death (Edited - 2nd Draft)

By Chanty
Hi all,
 
Here's an edited version of pieces to my story.. I prefer this as it's a little darker and more discriptive...

You may like, you may not - not everyone's cup of tea. Oh, BTW - Alice is 10 years old here..

*****************************************************************

The moon was high and bright in the night sky. The wind swept and howled around a large dark figure crouching on an outcrop of rock far above a cliff face, ruffling his thick dark fur. The glow of camp fires reflected in the pitch black eyes that gazed down over the outcrop, at the large camp site far below. Watching and waiting. The beast lifted his head and sniffed the air, it was thick with the smell of humans, there were many. But, there was another scent too, something sweet and powerful - it called.

It was two weeks since their last meal, they had been traveling for days, in the thick of the forest, the whole pack now under Drakes' leadership. Drake glanced back into the forest behind him where the members of his pack were gathered, restless and hungry. Already the pack was short five members, from recent fights to the death, that had broken out within the pack. For such a powerful and ancient race, they were still so primitive, fighting amongst themselves.

The real enemy were the humans, they were responsible for the fate that had befallen his race in the seventeen hundreds – disgusting weak creatures that they were. It sickened Drake, how humans had managed to survive and progress through the centuries. This only fed the hate and darkness within him. Drake glanced back down to the camp fires far below.

'Tonight we feast!'

******************* Some text missing – Oh, come on.*****************I can't give you everything, now can I?**************

The howls were extremely loud and so terrifying, they surrounded the camp. And then the screams started, terrifying screams, blood curdling screams of men, women and children and the sound of gun shots, mixed with loud roars. Vicious roars and snarls of some kind of beasts. Alice could hear a ripping and tearing sound, like cloth being ripped and loud thuds. Suddenly the flap of the tent opened, the girls screamed. It was their mom, her eyes wide with fear, her face bloody, tears rolling down her face. She grabbed them both by an arm, pulling them from the tent. In a strangled and terrified voice she shouted to the girls. “Run! Run as fast as you can to the river! Keep running along the river, until you find help! Don't look back! Just run. I love you!!”

Alice felt as if she was in a nightmare as she glanced around her at the camp site, taking in all the

horror. There were many gigantic wolf-like creatures attacking their camp – a mans body covered in fur with a wolfs head. They were being attacked by, by werewolves? The bodies of the people she had known lay lifeless all over the camp site, their bodies ripped open, their insides and shattered bones exposed, their blood soaking into the earth. Others were being attacked by the beasts, their throats were being ripped out. Alice realized that the ripping and tearing she'd heard, was the sound of flesh ripping. But the most sickening sight of all was the sight of the beasts feeding on the bodies of the campers, tearing off chunks of flesh, even while some of the people were still alive. The blood of their victims soaking into the fur of their large thick necks and chests. Spraying in a rain of bloody droplets, into the air as they shook their large heads, ripping and tearing off another chuck of flesh.

 

Reality came back to Alice, with her mother pushing her forward. Alice stumbled, then regained her footing and ran after Debbie towards the far side of the camp. Alice was nearing the edge of the camp when suddenly, she fell backwards with a loud thud, she had run into something hard, like a tree, but there was nothing in front of her. Shaking the dizziness from her head, she

attempted to get back onto her feet, she could see her sister in the distance.

Alice screamed out in pain as she felt the rip of her flesh, and the hot burn-like sting across her upper left arm and back, as her small body was thrown through the air, hitting against the thick hard trunk of a tree, hearing the snap of bones, before she hit the ground at the foot of the tree. With her body screaming out in pain, she struggled to get to her feet, her face and head stung with a burn like feeling where she had hit the tree and scraped off some skin. She could see blood running down her left arm as she staggered, half crawled towards her sister, who was running back to her.

 

Suddenly Alice was pinned to the ground, by a heavy weight, a fresh burst of pain raked her body, as she felt large claws and teeth dig into the flesh of her back. Alice screamed out in agony, screaming to Debbie. Debbie saw Alice laying on her stomach struggling, she could see the flesh of her sisters back being ripped open, the blood pooling, but she couldn't see what was responsible, there was nothing there. She collected a large log from the closest fire pit, then ran over to Alice and with all her might she swung the log at the space directly over Alice's back.

 

There was a loud thud, followed by a roar, as she connected with something large and hard, the impact of it vibrated through her hands and up her arms into her body, causing her to stumble backwards. Alice was suddenly released; she stumbled over to Debbie, looking back behind her to where the sound of another roar came from, and then snarls, as suddenly a large wolf-like beast appeared in front of them, out of nowhere. It's eyes pitch black in the moon light and staring, it snarled again bearing its large sharp teeth at them. The girls screamed, staggering further backwards.

 

Debbie pushed at Alice, screaming. “Run, Alice! Run! Don't look back!” Debbie swallowed hard and tightened her grip on the fire log, her body trembling, tears running down her face, the knowledge of her death clear in her mind. Debbie looked to her baby sister one last time, before turning to face the beast again, ready to swing her weapon and fight, allowing Alice time to escape.

 

Alice struggled to her feet, and ran as fast as she could, with fear and adrenalin pushing her body, ignoring the pain. She could feel the warmth of her blood, as it ran thick down her back, from her fresh wounds. Could hear the roar and snarls behind her at the camp, then the terrible sound of

Debbie's screams. Alice ran faster pushing herself, tears welled in her eyes.

Running in between the trees, tripping and falling over the raised and exposed roots, but she kept on running. Blinded by her tears, she was barely able to see where she was going, but could hear the sound of rushing water and knew that she was close to the river. She continued to run towards the sound, as it grew louder.

 

Suddenly the forest opened up into a clearing, the sound of

rushing water was loud as it filled the air around her. She was near the river bank. She heard a howl, it was close, fear gripped at her, forcing her onwards, stumbling and slipping as her foot caught in an exposed root. Her ankle snapped under her weight, the terrible pain shoot up through her leg, she

screamed out in pain as she fell forward and over the edge of the steep river bank.

 

Alice felt herself falling through the air; it's seemed like such a long time before she hit the water. And felt the icy cold water swallow her body up, as she plunged into the river below, down to the bottom, her head hit against a rock, pain flooded through her mind. She managed to surface, gasping for breath against the icy water that stung and numbed her body, but the currents of the river were strong and pulled at her, pulling her down below the surface. Alice fought to surface again, chocking as she swallowed water that filled her lungs. The more she struggled against the currents, the more water entered her lungs, the weaker she became as she was pulled into the depths, until finally darkness closed in around her.