Rats in the Walls

Exhausted, the figure collapsed into bed. For many, sleep was an escape. For Cash Rogers, it was merely unconscious work. The days stock numbers ran like little ghosts down the inside of his eyelids. A brilliant mathematician with cunning intuition, Cash's brain seemed to process patterns and possibilities while he dozed. He'd often wake up already knowing half of what would happen that day.

Cash was a Wall Street prodigy. The big firms had fighting over him since his final year of college. Thanks to a private investor however, he'd gone solo, and racked up enough profits in his two years to rival his would-be employers. Three more years and they feared him, often scrambling to pick up the best of the scraps he'd passed on. He also had enough rats in his enemies camps to manouvre stocks any way he wished. While paid well for information, most just did it for the thrill. For these financial types, working for Cash was equivalent to being waterboy for Michael Jordan. And who didn't want to be on the winning team?

This morning was different than most. Cash woke up groggily. Frowning, his head felt clouded. Something had kept him up. Some.. muffled noise. A scratching? Cursing, he made a memo to talk to the grounds-keeper after work. The last thing he needed in his lovely new estate was a vermin problem.

***

"Eddy! Eddy, a moment please."
The gardener jogged over to Cash, wiping soil off his overalls.
"Ci Señor?"
"Eddy take a look in the walls will you please? I swear I heard scratching last night. Damn rats gave me my first loss in months today - brain was haywire. I need my sleep, you understand?"
"Ci, I look right away Señor."

***

Tossing and turning, Cash punched his pillow, frustrated. It sounded like something was clawing at the plaster. "Will you SHUTUP in there?!" he yelled.

Silence.

Finally.

Drifting off, he made another note to speak to the hired help. As soon as he closed his eyes, it started again.

Scratch scratch.

***

"Eddy! I'm late for work, come here."
This time the Mexican was in the shed. He trotted out with some gardening shears.
"Señor?"
"Eddy, yesterday I asked you to check the walls for infestation. Did you find anything?"
"No Señor, nothing," he remarked.

Cash studied his employee. He worked on Wall-Street. He was surrounded by greedy, lying scumbags. You didn't get very far without being able to tell who was bullshitting and who was trying to stab you in the back. He dealt with poker faces of those financial professionals every day. He stared into Eddy's eyes. This poker face was good, damn good, and for awhile nothing. Then, ding! The tiniest glint of a secret appeared, reflecting like a marble in the sun.

"Eddy.. I treat my employees very generously. I need people I can trust. Can I trust you Eddy?"
"C.. Ci Señor, trust Eddy," he stammered, his head bowed.
"Then get rid of the damn problem. Today! Or I get rid of you."
"Ci Señor, gracias - I fix it today, I promise!"
With a final look, Cash stormed off.

***

His ferrari tore down the winding driveway. He wasn't in much of a mood. Another terrible day, he'd missed a golden opportunity to sell while he was daydreaming about rats. A few wry smiles went around the room as they looked in Cash's direction, knowing he'd lost a few million. It wasn't that the transaction hurt his portfolio in the long run. It just took the sheen off his previously unscathed armour. A few wondered if his dream run was finally coming to an end. Like sharks to blood, they could smell it.

Cash drank beer with his meal, and started doing shots of Jack afterwards. A maid came to take the empty bottle and he jumped, knocking it off the table. The glass shattered loudly, the woman letting out a quiet yelp of surprise. Realising he was drunk and not wanting to scare her further, he stalked upstairs to bed.

***

His head heavy with booze, Cash stirred. As his consciousness drifted up from the bottom of sleep, he'd heard a dull thump. Regaining his senses in the dark, his brain tried to process it. For a couple of days, he'd been surrounded by a constant scratching, imaginary rats clawing all around him, hungry to get at him. He'd sat at work in a daze, picturing rat-heads on his colleagues, their hands turning into human-claws, their chattering babble to squeaks. His gardener was hiding something from him, and he'd been burned for millions. And now this.

Thud!

Starting with a low grumble, his anger rose up in him like magma. It erupted in a primal roar, his fists clenched. Reaching outside his bedroom and grabbing a fire-axe from the wall, he grinned maniacally. Swinging the axe into the plaster, he shouted with each blow. "Shut! Up! You! Fucking! Rats!!" Chunks of wood, paint and powder showered the volcano of rage, as he continued to take the wall apart in a fury. He continued up and down the length of the wall, hacking off larger pieces as they came loose. Finally a wet sounding crack! woke him from the frenzy, and he pulled the weapon free. Got you, Cash thought with satisfaction. Turning on the lights, he took in the devastation before him. He scanned back and forth, looking for the perpetrators of his breakdown.

The wall cavity itself was deeper than normal. Beginning where his walk-in robe ended, the builders had been generous with the dimensions when building this mansion. Oddly, the floor of the newly opened space was littered with rubbish. Coke bottles, chip packets, candy wrappers. Then, he saw it.

Cash's eyes widened in horror. Leaning at an impossible angle, was a small boy. His face was pale, starved of sunlight, though his natural tan was obvious. The floor beneath him soaked with a pool of dried blood. The boys hands and feet were crudely bandaged, soaked through with dark claret. In a daze, Cash inspected them. He was no Doctor, but it seemed obvious - the poor kids fingers and toes had been hacked off with a blunt tool. He saw the massive axe wound between the child's neck and shoulder, and a familiar likeness in the child's face. It hit him with the same impact he'd exacted on the wall.

As a high-powered broker, Cash believed it was not enough to hide your weaknesses, but to have none. While somewhat of a lady-killer, Cash remained single for this very reason, and expected his employees to do the same. You never knew whose pride you might injure on Wall Street, and there'd been more than one tale of revenge or blackmail being exacted after a particularly cut-throat move. With no family, Cash figured his opponents would have less leverage over himself and his staff, should it ever come to that.

He'd hesitated when hiring Eddy. He knew that Eddy did in fact have a son, but his background checks told him the boy was last seen in Mexico, before Eddy had crossed the border to live the American dream. He also had an incredible knack for landscaping, and Cash had badly wanted to turn his snobby neighbours green with envy. So he'd hired the man. Even so, he'd warned Eddy that as part of the contract, he wouldn't be able to have contact with his family. It didn't seem to bother him. Cash figured Eddy was content just to save his money and go buy his own little piece of America down the track. Everybody wins right?

Cash tried to smile. He didn't have rats in the walls. He damned near had a skeleton in his closet. Eddy had smuggled his boy in, no doubt through one of the many cleaning cupboards littered throughout the house. While Cash was trying to sleep, the little tike had been trying to escape; to scratch his way out. The image made the broker convulse. Then, on Cash's order, Eddy had taken care of the problem. He probably told the kid to keep quiet, but it didn't work. As a last resort, he'd used those garden shears to take the kids digits. Lying in the dark, all he could do was weakly thump on the wall as the blood drained from him. Cash imagined the boys final terror when he'd torn into the prison madly with an axe, ending with the child's body. His knees wobbled. He doubled over, emptying his stomach onto the floor.

***

Staring up at the ceiling of his cell, a rat crawled over Cash's leg. He put it out of his mind. After he was charged for manslaughter and criminal negligence, he'd become the biggest riches to rags story in a long while. His license to practice brokering had been taken away and the old Wall Street phrase 'cash is trash' came back in vogue. Cash didn't even blame his gardener that much. It was his own mind that had betrayed him. The tool that brought him so much success, solved so many problems, had finally failed. And just because of some damn scratching. Some damn imaginary rats!

Determined not to be labeled crazy as well a failure, he'd kept that part secret. If he ever hoped to regain his empire, he couldn't afford a trip to the nut house. So when he spotted rats in his cell, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him again. He dismissed them as illusions. As time passed they became tamer, using him as a human jungle gym. Starved, they started gnawing at his flesh. Word must have spread amongst the rats there was food to be had, as more and more turned up in his cell. Eventually the Warden had to step in before Cash was eaten alive. As it was, his entire body was scarred and seeping with sores. After an interview where he fervently denied the rats existence, he was transferred to the psyche ward for his own protection.

***

Broken and confused, he lay in the corner of his cell. Claustrophobia hit, as the walls loomed over him, shaking and rumbling forward. His eyes darted left and right, spotting for his imaginary enemy. All the while his hands idly clawed at the padding. Scratching.

The Price of Progress

Would you stab an innocent baby if doing so would cure one of the worlds fatal diseases?

The hypothetical question was written neatly on the whiteboard, hiding the ethical minefield that lay within. The psychology teacher stepped back, letting the students ponder over it. Opinions were given, debates raged, but to Leonardo Avendi the choice was clear: stab the baby.

Leo wasn't an evil child, far from it. He excelled in his studies; mathematics and science being his forte. He viewed the question with the same cold logic he approached his equations. When asked to explain his opinion, he simply quoted 'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, Miss.'

'Ah, but that is where we run into trouble is it not? Surely to save millions you could stab ten babies then. Why, to cure AIDS perhaps you'd stab a hundred babies, if you're still speaking about benefitting the masses. It is what we call the slippery slope argument Leo. Where does one draw the line?'

*****

Howling, the wind bit with tiny icy fangs into his skin. Looking out over his estate, an old man sat on the balcony. Storm clouds rolled in, dropping the air temperature with them. Not that he noticed - he'd lost most of the feeling in his outer nerves a few years ago. At a hundred and sixteen years old, he still got around, albeit gingerly. Life expectancy was longer than ever before - though sometimes he questioned the point. I can't feel anything on the outside, nor the inside - my soul is black and shriveled.

'A hundred and forty-six,' he muttered to himself. Thats where I drew the line. Thats how many lives the great Sir Dr. Leo Avendi took to cure cancer.

*****

The middle-aged Doctor woke in a sweat. He stared straight ahead, blinking, adjusting to the dim light. Did I.... Jesus... his thoughts raced. Scrambling, he lept to his desk. The lamp illuminated his damp skin - a white naked maggot under a spotlight - as he poured equations and notes down onto paper. Page after page, the immense knowledge burst out of him in a frantic brain dump. It was the culmination of years of research, and one dream he'd never forget.

He made the necessary arrangements from his office at The Institute. When you headed up the biggest private sector research company on the planet, there wasn't much you couldn't get your hands on. The Government had a 'dont ask, dont tell' policy in this area. It made sense - most advancements either helped lower costs in the public sector or were bought by the Defense Department.

Leo could only get so far testing on animals, he needed human subjects to test his dream-inspired work on. And he could get them. No one employee would know the full picture, such was the de-coupled nature of the network he maintained. A smuggler in Africa would get a large sum of money to fill large cargo containers with refugees (“I promise you a new life in America!”). A shipping company would take unmarked containers across the Atlantic. Customs officers bought off with research money would look the other way, while a transport service would deliver the containers to the Institutes vast industrial grounds. Forklift drivers placed the containers into one end of the sealed research area, without ever knowing the contents. All this was paid for by a host of sister companies, leaving a paper trail no-one would follow. In any case, Leo had people at the IRS in his pocket too.

It took a week for the subjects to adjust to their new environment. When the crates opened, scientists in suits led the bewildered cargo into holding cells. Their supplies in the shipping container were adequate, but even so a few were D.O.A. After being locked for a few days in a dark box with dead members of your family and you don't come out singing rainbows.

Translators explained that they were in U.S. quarantine, where they'd have to remain for two months before being released and given starter-homes. This seemed to brighten their spirits a little - hopes and dreams acting as a blanket to the white, sterile lab rooms they now lived in.

A hundred and forty-six subjects, split across thirty containment pods, housed in East Wing. Dr Leo checked in on each one individually. Satisfied with both the data and the subjects condition, the testing begun.

Each test cell was fitted with advanced lighting. A technology the U.S. Army had acquired, it could beam massive amounts of energy along any given spectrum. Any living cells under such bombardment would mutate within days. They were, in effect, cancer-guns. Designed to be installed covertly in high risk buildings, be it those of known or potential enemies, they could be activated at will, minimizing collateral damage and media attention. The public didn't know such a weapon existed - they wouldn’t want to.

Cancers sprung up in the Africans like poisonous toadstools in autumn. The subjects limped around their cells, becoming physically drained. They banged on the walls, demanding to know what was going on. They got no answers, no communication. Just three meals a day through a chute in the wall. The food given to each cell contained a variant of the vaccine Dr Avendi had synthesized. He'd seen it work in animals; it just needed tweaking for humans.

They didn't know it yet but they would be part of history. As they loped around their pens, he admired their struggle. Some were faring better than others - up and walking. Candidates with poorer solutions barely got out of beds. Lying in their own filth, they coughed up blood and black muck. At this stage they were more cancer than human - a rotting husk filled with death.

No matter their condition, all data was useful, being fed back into new variants of the cure. As time passed, the researcher tweaked the cancer-beams, the vaccine reagents and concentrations. He couldn't deny it was cruel to partially cure some before subjecting them to harsher radiation yet again. Their existence was a see-saw of life and death, with pain standing in the middle, rocking it back and forth. Even so, all this was necessary. It was for the greater good.

As subjects passed away, those that weren't delirious from exposure wailed and grieved. Biohazard suits would come in and clear the deceased, sometimes defending themselves against angry, albeit weak attacks. Time went by, and only a handful remained. However as they fell, Leo's spirits rose. His cure had come in leaps and bounds; his dream becoming a reality. When only one boy remained, huddled in a corner, his eyes too dry to cry anymore, Dr. Leo knew it was finished. Despite being subjected to months of deadly rays, the boy was a picture of health - physically, if not mentally. He had cracked the code scientists had sought for decades, the boy was a testament to that. Staring dreamily at a vial of the perfected serum, an assistant asked what should be done with the survivor. Avendi looked up, surprised he hadn't thought of the boys future before. It was a shame the operation was top-secret and the subject was an information risk. Leo had grown found of the tough little bastard. Compared to wasting away in death throes for days, the kid would have it relatively peacefully. He smiled as he administered a lethal injection, rubbing the boys head playfully.

*****

The vaccine was an incredible success. It swept the world in a frenzy, millions of dollars spent on its mass production. The wealthiest countries air-dropped it to developing nations, and cries of joy were echoed around the globe as hospital patients got out of their beds. Accolades were poured onto Dr Leo Avendi. The Nobel Prize, a knighting from the Queen of England and Time Magazine dubbed him the 'Father of Post-Modern Medicine'. For awhile he reveled in the spotlight, proud of what he'd done. Gradually he declined the invitations to lecture, and resigned from the Institute. He was keen to enjoy his twilight years in peace.

Unfortunately, he rarely got any. Over the years his dreams became darker. His imagination would overlay his vision with sickly ghosts. Wailing spirits harked back to his questionable research days. He began to loathe them; loathe the batch of subjects and their emotional pleas. The hurt in their eyes as they stared through one-way mirrors. looking for someone to save them. He was saving the human race - what was a group of third world refugees anyway? He tossed and turned, his frustration turning to malice, grinning like a fool as he turned up the radiation in his dreams. And as he sat watching the black clouds storm towards him, he recalculated the price of progress: his soul.

Lightning cracked like a whip! Temporarily blinded, Sir Leo put his hands to his ears. Thunder clapped hard enough to shake the house. Shaking his head, he looked up and saw it. A demon stood before him. He knew it was a demon. Not that he'd soon one before - but what else could it be? A red-angry biped, covered in a shimmering flame, floated before him. He wondered if he'd gone as crazy as DaVinci in his last days - the radiation perhaps acting as his namesakes mercury had done. "Leonardo," it boomed in what was more two sickles scraping together than a voice. It grinned, revealing a row of tiny skull-shaped teeth. "My, what a black soul you have for me!"

Even faced with this infernal being, the old doctor’s logical brain ticked over. If this was a merely a dream, a phantasm of the mind, he could say anything he wanted. If not... well, he was probably at its mercy anyways. Before he could ask just what the demon wanted, he was interrupted. "To explain what I am would be like trying to teach your pet dog the laws of astro-physics. I am merely too far outside your reality to comprehend - even for a man of your intellect. The form I have taken is merely for your benefit. A metaphor - to convey the fact I am both more powerful than you know, and evil - at least as you understand it.

Some humans would call me a God, but what they’d really mean is I am a highly evolved being. So much so that I now appear magical/mystical, for that is a term some use to label human ignorance.

Nevertheless, I have been trapped in your dimension for some time now, a scavenger surviving on meager scraps, until such a time when I can escape again. I've lurked here since you crawled out of the jungle to build your cities. I've seen empires rise and fall, seen millions die in wars you wage on each other.

On the cosmic stage, Earth is less than an anthill. Universal empires, races exist of incredible technology, forces and dimensions interact beyond the scope of even my control (thus my current predicament). Meanwhile the ants on this planet idly play with sticks and bombs, not drawing a second look from anyone. Who knows, in a few million years (if you all survive that long), humans might become part of the bigger picture. But you were never going to get there without a little help...

Through your brief history, there have been various leaps in achievement. Your knowledge plateau's briefly then bam! A discovery sparks a new phase of learning. It’s almost amusing that you pat yourselves on the back for these inventions, when really you have me to thank.

Thousands of years ago I gave the mathematics to engineers which paved the way to the Pyramids - Aztec & Egyptian. I helped the druids build Stone Henge. I dropped the apple for Newtons Physics. Einstein’s genius came about from my intervention. The microchip was part of a deal I brokered which spawned a new wave of technologies you humans have come to rely on. Cast your mind back sixty years ago Leo. I came to you in a dream, and planted the seed from which you cultivated a life-saving vaccine."

Leo gaped. To say the demons speech had rocked Avendi would be an understatement. His mind was a storm. It wasn't the first time it had been suggested humans were helped by outsiders to create the wonders of the world. That the microchip was salvaged from a U.F.O. That it was reaching to think a cousin of the ape could one day have a space-station on Mars. Even his own discovery was strange when he looked back on it. He had made snail-like progress on his research for years until one day it all came to him in a weird dream. It was true - humans wouldn't have got very far at all without this demons help. The question seemed obvious. Leo simply asked "Why?"

"I believe the human phrase is there’s no such thing as a free lunch,” he chuckled at the irony. “To survive in this plane, I feed on black, greedy souls. That is one of the few things I cannot create, but must harvest. For every great discovery, men have exacted a great cost on themselves and their bretheren. Hundreds of slaves were tortured and died under Egyptian whips. The Aztecs made sacrifices till their priests were covered in gore. Newton, a young pyromaniac, lit the Great Fire of London. The city was a smoggy fire-trap of sin, a ripe fruit that was plucked in exchange for his advances in Physics. By the end, he was completely mad from mercury experiments anyways; no-one believed it all came to him in a dream.

'Jack the Ripper' was none other than an early penicillin researcher - his lust for murder equal to his interest in biology. It was unfortunate he didn't connect all the dots before someone took credit for his discovery years later.

In the 1900's, the possibility of using nuclear reactions as a weapon was nothing but theory. Only a thought I gave to Einstein and his idle chatter with researchers would make it a reality. Those bombs caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands, the weight of those souls torturing Alberts own to the end of his days.

And then we arrive at you, Sir Leo. You'd argue your research was altruistic, that you were doing it for the greater good. But as Kantian ethics states, you used them as a means to an end. More than that, you reveled in playing God, in choosing who would live a little longer and who would die. And since then you've dreamed and fantasized about those shady days, your soul becoming a juicy, hate-filled sponge. Any last words before I consume it?"

Filled with a strange mixture of fear and futility, Leo said nothing. As his soul was sucked from its meaty cage, his reflected on that psychology lesson from a lifetime ago; it is indeed a slippery slope, but one mankind has little choice but to ride.

Chinese Wisdom

It had been three months since the operation. The man sat up groggily. Another bad dream. His wife brought him breakfast. "You've got your check-up today honey," she reminded gently. The Pastor nodded. He'd be having check-ups for the rest of his life. Such is the fate of a transplant patient.

Not that he minded. He'd been given a second chance. The waiting list for a new heart was notoriously long - he was grateful for every new day. He could have done without the nights though. Chaotic, random thoughts plagued him. His sheets were drenched every night. Peter and Liz agreed it must have just been his body adjusting. Yes, but adjusting to what? he wondered.

The Chinese surgeon looked over the case file with some apprehension. "Wong old boy! Dont look so sullen. Whats up?" His brash colleague had entered without knocking. "Oh, Dr Woods. Its the Pastor - he's due for a check-up today. You're welcome to sit in if you like." Looking over the post-op scans, the American offered "All signs point to another successful transplant. What has you so spooked?"

The two looked at each other. They'd worked together for ten years, each bringing a distinct style to their booming practice. The traditional Chinese, the loud American - they were a classic East-meets-West team like something out of Hollywood. And their results spoke for themselves. They ran the number one transplant surgery in the country, and were highly prized speakers at all things medical. They worked like clockwork, and knew each other like brothers. In that one look, they both knew exactly what was on his mind.

"Wong... tell me you're not still thinking about the donor."

***

The police gathered around. Laying face down was Johnny Hamstein. Notorious killer of ten victims, all from bludgeoning head wounds. The media had labelled him 'The Hammer', and the search had been as arduous as it had been long. Finally he was tracked to Automative Repair shop in Nevada. As the Hammer took his morning cigarette break, a single headshot from a police sniper took him down. His reign of terror was over. As police searched the corpse, warmth still rising from the hole in his head, a cop smirked. "Whaddya know, he's on the registry. Looks like some kid's gonna get his kidney."

***

Peters palms were sweaty. As he crossed the waiting room floor, he nodded in prayer to some other patients. His holy robes often drew attention in a place like this. Everyone was looking for a saviour.

"Pastor! Good to see you." Dr Woods extended a warm handshake and a big grin. After a similiar greeting, Dr Wong instructed him to sit down. "Looking over your blood test and scans, your body seems to be cooperating very nicely. You must have Gods blessing after all."

Peter only managed half a smile. This was serious. "Perhaps medically I'm fine. But ever since the operation I've been ravaged by nightmares. Strange dark thoughts. Images I've never seen before. How is this possible?" The two doctors looked sideways at each other, unsure of how to approach the subject. Dr Wong broke. "Peter... it is the hospitals policy not to release any donor information to patients. You have enough physical and mental stress already. You dont need the added worry about who died so that you may live. But in your case, we feel you have a right to know. Without going into details, the donor was a criminal. A killer in fact."

Blood drained from Peters faced. "What! A.. a killer? There must be some mistake!"

Dr Woods started, "Look Peter, I know this upsetting..."

"You know huh. You know nothing! I am a man of God! How can I bless the pure hearts of church-goers when my own is as black as the night!" he leaned forward in his chair, head in his hands. Again Woods tried to reason with him. "Please - hear us out. The theory of cellular memory is nothing more than a superstition! The very idea that memories can be stored in every cell is ridiculous. Medicine has never recognised such a thing as being possible, let alone probable. I'm sure these dreams will pass."

"Dr Woods, may I have a moment alone with the Pastor? After all, I performed the surgery - I can relate to him some additional information that might be of comfort." The American nodded thoughtfully and patted Peter as he left the room.

The Chinese man lent in, almost whispering.

"Actually, what he said it not exactly true - Eastern medicine has acknowledged the theory of cellular memory for centuries now. The 'Huang Di Nei Jing' or Yellow Emperor’s Internal Medicine Classic is one of the most important Eastern medical books ever written. It dates back a few hundred years before Christ. Described within, ZangFu theory states that a brain resides in the heart. The interesting part is, this has recently been seen under new light. Neurocardiologists have found that 60 to 65% of the cells of the heart are actually neural cells, identical to cells in the brain. The heart actually interacts very closely to signals from the limbic structure, or emotional brain."

"So... what you're saying Doctor, is its possible to feel the emotions of the donor?" Dr Wong got up and stared out the window, letting out a deep sigh. "Theoretically, yes. Although research in this area is almost taboo. Traditionlists and researchers will inevitably clash, ideals against science. And economically minded Doctors like our friend Dr Woods probably dont want to know anything about it. It'd certainly be bad for business."

There were a few moments of silence.

"Actually Dr Wong," Peter began, "I have a small piece of Eastern wisdom I've been musing on recently myself." The Doctor turned, intrigued. "Really Peter? Do relate."

The Pastor stood up, raising a hand in the air, summoning his best preaching voice. "Sun Tzu, in The Art of War, states: 'Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt."

The Doctors brow crinkled. "I'm not sure I understand.." he managed, just before the full force of a hammer smashed into his face. The sickening crunch was like a perfect hymn to the Pastor, as he looked lovingly at the dripping weapon he'd concealed under his robes.

Peter smiled. "The Hammer is back - Amen."

A Rose by any other name

Nightshift. Graverobbers, stalkers and werewolves right? Not to this girl. She loved the night. While other people worked their 9-5 jobs, Rose preferred to be nocturnal. It wasn't a glamorous job, working in a factory. But she wasn't a glamorous gal either. Her house was her own personal pigsty - a den of old clothes, candles and second-hand books. She lived alone and wouldn't have it any other way.

Images of it played in her mind as she finished up. Rose loved to read. A closet romantic and introvert, her collection mainly consisted of gothic tales and vampire stories. They were always so exotic, so romantic. The big mansions, the dashing bachelors, the vulnerable leading females and a good helping of blood and sensuality. Novels were her guilty-pleasure.

Ten blocks. That was the distance home. She sometimes wished it was longer. What few friends she had insisted she was crazy to walk it at night, especially in her neighbourhood. But Rose never felt so alive as when the cool night air prickled her skin. There was rarely anyone around anyway and it was so much quiet. A different world, a better one.

The dull buzz of an engine approached. Tendrils of light from a cars headlights crept on her. "Just keep walking Rose" she whispered. The car slowed beside her, a window rolling down. "Hey darlin', you're out late aren't ya? How 'bout I give you a lift," the stranger drawled. "I'm fine, thanks..." she barely managed. The car stopped. "It wasn't a question, bitch!" he menaced, jumping out of the car.


A scream. Flowing blood. Then silence.


The distant wail of a siren cut the night. Rose looked up, the headlights of the car highlighting the contrast between her white skin and the red blood winding down her lips. Her fangs were just visible as she licked her mouth. And then she was gone.

All the old books she read, all the movies she watched, amused her. The fantasy of being a vampire came with so much class. With excitement. Her reality was far different though. She was both the hunted and the hunter. This wasn't about romance. This was about survival.

To Hell (with convention)

A shrieking cackle cut through the air. Green energies surrounded the figure like hundreds of angry wasps. Throwing her staff forward, the Witch cast a spell into the thick of battle. Victims gripped their temples and fell to their knees in pain. Those that still had skin saw it peel away, revealing the flesh and bone beneath.

The clash of steel sent sparks flying. The General used his shield offensively, bashing a foes head in. He could see the prize up on the hill, a beacon of hope for his troops. His lance crunched as it shattered through the rib cage of a troll. His muscles ached for relief, but he would not stop while she breathed.

The ground shook with his every step. The massive Zombie King charged into the melee, sending soldiers flying like pins. Swinging his ancient blade, he cut an opponents mount in two. As the fresh scent of blood reached his nostrils, he let out a roar, sending fear down the spines of the living.

Sweat dripped down her forehead. She fought the ties that bound her to the pole. The Princess tried not to look at the horrible carnage that lay before her, a war being fought for her freedom. She choked back tears of fear as she knew more would die in her name before the day was out. Her skin was gooseflesh, the cold winds blowing right through the skimpy sacrificial gown.

A desperate lunge and he was past the undead. The Hero had reached the top of the hill. An evil rogue stood before him. With a shout of anger, the human thrust his weapon forward, determined to let nothing stop him. His opponent deftly dodged and time stood still. The beauty looked down, her breath stolen from her throat. The blade was impaled through her stomach. Darkness washed over her while her saviour could only stand there in horror as his foes cut him down like wheat.

A great call echoed over the killing fields. ‘Sophie - dinners ready!!’ it boomed. Grunting, the little girl got up. She hated dinner - it always interrupted the best parts. Sohpie knocked the doll to the floor with a grin. She never did like Barbie.

Waking dreams

I woke to the sound of silence. Like the intangible beeeep you hear after a music concert, the very lack of sound buzzed loudly in my ears. Sitting up, I tried to get my bearings. Where am I? In every direction, all I could see was blackness. There was no horizon to speak of, merely the point where my eyesight came to an end. Spinning around on what appeared to be a floor, I panicked. I was in a seemingly infinitely large room. I was a fly in space-time's soup. A speck in a canyon of universes. Everything I knew, saw, and felt - was insignificant. My mind warped as it tried to understand the concept. My skin sweat bullets. I'd never felt so alone.

***

I awoke a second time. The cold plane of space replaced by my empty bed. The black of infinity became the black of my bedroom. Only a dream, I mused. But was it? Who knew I was lying here in the dark? In the scheme of things, what did it matter? I shrunk back into the covers, trying to hide, to escape. The walls suddenly shot outwards. The ceiling disappeared into forever, a sudden sense of vertigo twisting my stomach. This was no dream. This is my life.



Inspired by restless nights in an eerie Dutch apartment

The Howl in the Wind

Along a stone path, an old man did walk,
He smiled as his heart spoke to him so:
"You made it in life," as they came to a fork,
"It doesnt matter which way you go."

He figured as much, and chose to go right,
A distant church silently calling.
And as he approached, away ran the light,
Sun gone - the dark suddenly falling.

Amongst the soft ground, three spirits did rise,
Their loathing was worn like a scar.
"I'm just an old man!" they heard him cry,
They shot back "Oh we know who you are."

The first rasped at him, "You slit my poor throat,
My limp body was dumped in a box.
On top you had stuck, a personal note:
'I had fun.' signed the Killer of Knox."

Before he could speak, the second piped up,
"I had a rough hole cut in my cheek.
You then drank my blood, it had filled your cup -
I was found floating along Lonely Creek."

The last ghost just stared, through white bridal veil,
"I was ready to marry you when,
The poison took hold, my skin ghastly pale,
And as I fell you whispered 'Amen.'

The memories came back, Its too much to take,
The man thought as he started to run.
Straight to the church, his last stand he'd make,
His fear moving him like he was young.

The cellar was open, 'twas the end of the chase,
And he shut the two doors with relief.
The dead could not come, to this holy place,
Or so he had grown up to believe.

With a loud metal click, the outer bolt locked,
He turned frantically belting the wood.
Slipping through cracks, the eerie Ghosts mocked,
"Old man you are misunderstood."

Three spoke together, as one full of grace,
"Do you know what awaits after life?
An amazing joy - is flying through space,
While learning the secrets of time."

The man was relieved, "Please do me quick,
I'd lived oh so many years now.
Waiting and waiting, to give life the flick.
To be kind my release you'd allow."

"But that is our point, there is no end for you,
The Killer who called himself clever.
Cos good spirits go, to the limitless blue,
But evil suffer this life forever."

He cried out in pain, "No this cannot be!
My frail bones ache like hell all the time."
Whipering back they said nonchalantly:
"This is the toll you'll for your crime."

They drifted away, he crawled in the dark,
His soft hands and knees starting to bleed.
His sad cries for help, an uneven bark,
No-one would miss this malevolent weed.


***


To this very day, put an ear to the wind,
And you'll catch a soft tortured cry.
For under a Church, is he who has sinned,
The Killer of Knox is waiting to die.

Inspired by a dream.

Sam

He hammered out the last email with contempt. Not the angry kind of contempt, for he wasn't usually aggressive by nature. The sort of half-baked rebellion you might find in any office drone. They were the nameless cogs that kept capitalism grinding, and had private lives as interesting as their spam. That’s not entirely accurate – James’ inbox promised Russian brides, never-ending erections and Visas for every country in the world. A far cry from his humble Western suburbs home. It wasn’t much, but at least he had someone to share it with. He had Sam.

James found her on the streets a year ago. Lost and confused, he’d taken her under his wing. She wasn’t really an outdoors companion, but he could tell she was always eager for him to come home from work. They'd sit up watching TV with her on his lap, her heavy breathing their only real conversation. James used to talk to himself when he was alone, but now he had an ear to listen. Just the one - Sam had got a bad infection a few months back. It broke his heart when the ear had to be removed. He's not sure how his friend felt but he kind of liked her like that. They were both different from those around them - and they were each others.

Sweating a little, James swept everything into his brief case. If he wasn’t out of there by 5.30pm his local Butcher would close. He didn’t believe in spoiling pets but he couldn’t help buying a juicy lamb shank for Sam. He always wondered about her previous owners and what they had fed her. The thought of giving someone you love that slop they dump into metal cans made him sick. Didn’t that contain carcinogens? Anyways he'd decided awhile ago that fresh meat was much better for her.

***

It was dark when James pulled in the drive, rain-water splashing out from under the wheels. He'd had to get out and jiggle the gate shut. Damn wooden gates, they always warped and expanded in the rain. He'd have to have it replaced - Same could run away one day. Then who'd protect her?

"Honey I'm home" he called out. He always felt a little silly doing that, but hey it was in all the movies. This was his palace after all. His kingdom. He felt more confident at home, away from bosses and meetings and noisy coffee machines. Draping his coat over the couch, he looked around inquisitively for his beloved pet. Hmm. She must be hiding.

He grabbed the bone for a lure. "Ssssaam. Ohh Saaam?" He shook it encouragingly. "I have a surprise for you..." Then it dawned on him. She'd be hiding in his cupboard again. It was her favorite place, especially during storms. Slowly he peeled back the cupboard door, and there she sat, all curled up.

"Oh Sam. Look, I have a bone for you. You love bones don’t you?"

She stared up at him with her big white eyes. You can see so much in an eye. James was still sitting on the fence about that whole 'window to the soul' thing. He knew one thing though. You could see their life experiences. He looked on with total endearment. Anyone else? Perhaps horror.

Sams eyes spoke volumes. Pupils dilating from the lack of light, her eyes were wide in any case. From fear. Being tied up and gagged will do that to you. The thing with fear is after being present long enough, it takes a toll on you physically. Sams skin had started to sag, her nerves were shot. She jumped at every sound. What if he's home? What will he do next? No doubt she'd live through it, that wasn’t the problem. I just want to die. He'd bought her new clothes, and showered her clumsily once a week. But that didn’t stop the smell. The smell of her sweating bullets. The stink of rotting meat she was forced by hunger to eat. The stench of dried blood and semen around her privates. Oh he'd had his way with her. He always seemed to talk down to her, like she was his dog. James fucked her like one too. She had no will left to shout. Between raw meat, his hard cock and the evil gag she loathed so much, her mouth stayed dry and hoarse. Her voice had been reduced to a whisper, in between her sobbing.

"HEY!" he shouted, interrupting her scattered thoughts. "Are you even listening to me? Sam, Sam, Sam. You know what they do to bad pets don’t you?" He sounded disappointed. "Now eat your fucking bone," he demanded, thrusting it under her face with contempt. And maybe just a hint of anger.