300 WORD WRITING CHALLENGE #23 -- VICTORY TO DROFLET!

[Ursa major]

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THE CHALLENGE:


To write a story in 300 words or fewer
INSPIRED by the image provided below, in the genre of
Science Fiction, Fantasy, or other Speculative Fiction



THE RULES:

Only one entry per person

All stories Copyright 2016 by their respective authors,
who grant the Chronicles Network the non-exclusive right to publish them here


This thread will be closed until OCTOBER the 10th
-- as soon as the thread is unlocked, you may post your story

Entries must be posted no later than OCTOBER the 31st 2016,
at 11:59 pm GMT


Voting will close NOVEMBER the 15th, 2016 at 11:59 pm GMT
(unless moderators choose to make an extension based on the number of stories)

You do not have to enter a story to vote -- in fact, we encourage ALL Chronicles members
to read the stories and vote for their favourites

You may cast THREE votes


NO links, commentary or extraneous material in the posts, please -- the stories must stand on their own


PLEASE REMEMBER THIS IS A FAMILY-FRIENDLY FORUM


For a further explanation of the rules see Rules for the Writing Challenges


The inspiration image for this month is:

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Image credit: Colette Halstead

This thread to be used for entries only.
Please keep all comments to the DISCUSSION THREAD
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[Starbeast]

Monster of Frankenstein in "Speak No Evil"​

Blind, old man is good to me. Gave me food, drink, place to rest, music to hear. He doesn't know I'm made from bodies...of the dead. I look through his albums, I find one with funny picture. I read name on cover. Old man get angry, burns me with fire and hits me with furniture. I beg him to stop hurting me. He calms down, and told me to never say name again. He had bad memories of bar hopping, and hearing song, too many times. I decide to go. He very sad I leave. Sun is good outside. I wave goodbye to man in window, he smile. I shake head and whisper, bad name....he hear me, and screams! "Chumbawamba! Chumbawamba!" I try to run. Legs slow. He catch me, and hit me with shovel.....

I wake up in ditch. Hurt all over. See broken shovel. I'm mad. Curse him. I throw rock at house far away, say name. He hear me. He come out, get in truck, I run and run. He, drive, truck?

#

I find little girl. She like me, call me friend. I tell her about old man. She ask me about bad name. I'm afraid to say name. She hold my hand, feel nice. She good friend. I hear truck. I hide. It's old man, he sees me. I'm afraid. He say he sorry, give me candy, he drive away. He's good man...when not angry. Girl ask me about name. I'm afraid to speak it. She give me chocolate bar, if I tell her. I look at road, no truck. Old man far away. I whisper name in her ear. I hear truck coming back, fast. I see old man, face, crazy, screaming name, "Chumbawamba! Chumbawamba! Chumbawamba! CHUMBAWAMBA!!!" I scream, I run.

 

[Droflet]

Timeline

Time travel can be confusing. I kept bumping into myself in different timelines, which can be quite disconcerting.

Oh, the times I’ve had. Then I made a dreadful mistake.

The entrance to the house looked benign so I entered. Immediately the specters descended upon me, tearing into my mind and body. When the sun rose they left me to my misery. I tried to escape but the door would not budge to my most violent attacks. Even the single window was impervious to my frantic efforts.

Uncounted years passed, each day the same living hell. I begged for mercy, begged for death. A thousand times I tried to end my agony, a thousand times they brought me back to feast on my torment.

My mind was gone. A gibbering wreck of a once young man.

Then, one day, he came to the window. I screamed at him to release me but he backed away, a horrified scowl distorting his face. My face. My younger face. Repelled by what I had become he turned away.

“No,” I screamed. “Don’t leave me here. I, am, you.”

Then he was gone, abandoning me to an eternity of sorrow. I cursed him every time he returned.

If only I could die.

#

Time travel can be confusing. I kept bumping into myself in different timelines, which can be quite disconcerting.

Oh, the times I’ve had. The Crusades were a blast. The Inquisition, terrifying. The Roman orgies, frenzied fun.

But the one image that stays with me is the crazy man. I’ve seen my fair share of crazy, but this guy was on another level of lunacy. He screamed at me, a mad babble of incomprehensible noise. Revolting. I tried not to return to that timeline again.

But you know, time travel can be confusing.

 

[Heijan Xavier]

Sadness, and Sweet Nostalgia’s Elusive Illusion

The Nohoni Army needs to learn everything about Topea Province so our eventual reconciliatory conquest is somewhat nonviolent. At age 22, I enlisted with the Undercover Expeditionary Unit so I could see Topea with my own eyes. I’m understanding, though, why many expeditions never returned.

Italo Calvino called travel “The Great Negative Mirror.”

These new places remind me of all I will never see. My search for answers has only precipitated more unanswerable questions. Topeans gaze through me with half-shut eyes and arrogantly pitying grins. Initially I avoided the massive city of PotaMei. Then I began to avoid the small towns. For a while now I’ve been in the wilderness, avoiding people altogether.

Lost in my mind, I’ve lost track of time.

Mustering up a moment of clarity though, I remember the mission.

I find myself at a lonely outdoor pub. I can’t keep my eyes off the window next to me, set deep into a mossy, old stone wall. Like everything in Topea, it locks its gaze into my most vulnerable consciousness and doesn’t let go. I feel sadness for all I will never see, never be, and never have fond memories of. I battle, but cannot reduce this simple object into my own realm of experience.

But wait!

One pane has been repaired recently and not very well. Ha! I’ve performed better work on my own home. This alleged beauty is not beautiful at all; it’s just shoddy workmanship. Finally, a breakthrough.

I am in control Topea. You will not break me!

Relieved, I turn to the bartender for another.

“Same?”

“Yep,” I reply. “um, also, would you happen to know why that tortured old man in the window keeps staring at me?”

“Oh, that’s not a window,” She replies, “it’s a mirror.”

 

[ErikB]

LINGERING VISION.

She loved him. The physicist, whose brilliance gave humanity an edge like no other.

First contact so long ago. Their species seemingly identical. Yet vastly different. It was his discipline that had brought humanity to their attention. His complex mind that never ceased reaching across unfolding dimensions in seemingly impossible ways.

They had marveled at him but been disappointed with the rest of humanity. A single anomaly that opened and closed relations between them. Humans and kembre shared a common form, but nothing more.

She remembered him. The only one worthy. His complexity countered by simple passion and wonder in that unique mind.

She’d been assigned to meet and assess. Long ago now and humanity a wasted contact species. Her mind and his mingled.

He had tasted her existence and it had taken him to new realms of possibility and a love no human had ever known. Heart and mind filled beyond capacity, he had broken.

His mind had fractured. Disconnected from everything that had been part of his life. Then the endless testing. The government tried everything possible to bring him back.

It was pointless. Nothing worked. His insanity had seen him retired to a quiet dilapidated old house with tiny gardens and his bees for company.

His broken mind expressed in a face plagued with flashes of a life too wonderful to imagine, stolen from him by his own limitations. He couldn’t see his visitor. His pained face scowled, staring out of a window. Above him outside of the cottage the window glass picked up her face.

Her specter still clad in the sunglasses he had given her so long ago, now reflected in a pane beyond his sight. An unseen reflection of the beautiful kembre woman that still loved him. Her visitation lost to his haunted soul.

 

[Calliopenjo]

EDGAR

The last house at the end of the trail, the blue one with the white framed windows. Old man Edgar always showed his face. Teeth clenched, fist waving in the air at anyone who dared pass by.


Edgar would be allowed out if he apologized. The time he, himself, created the creature that would decimate the entire army of the sworn lands. The creature with massive wings and breath so hot a mere puff of air set forests on fire. That creature destroyed our village-men, women, and children.


He had grown mean and grouchy and caused his own misery. If only he would learn to be kind and gentle. People would trust him again.


A small boy passed that house once. Curious, he walked up to the window to greet Edgar. The grown-ups around the boy warned never to go there. Why couldn’t he, he wondered. Maybe a kind gesture would help smooth his ruffled fur. He walked up to the window to wave and smile. Instead, Edgar growled at him and raised his fist. People witnessed his moving lips but never heard him behind the thick glass.


The little boy ran away and screamed. He found his mother and told her the old man tried to beat him. His mother panicked and went straight away to the town’s Peace Keeper. She explained what happened to her son. The Peace Keeper smiled and acknowledged what she said.


The Peace Keeper knew the glass would be difficult to break. All the entrances had been sealed long ago because of rumors he cast dark spells.


People stopped wandering by his house. Name forgotten a long time ago, the children knew of him as the mean and nasty old man.

 

[Cat's Cradle]

The Dimensions Vary

Often in the evening I perch on yonder fieldstone fence, meditating before the harrowed rows of clover. The setting sun’s rays enfold me, and from the field elicit proof of my existence – a statue cast of shadow, my taciturn companion.
But forgive my blathering. You’re interviewing me about my past for your article … who I was; what brought me to this artists’ commune– oh, hold on ...
“KLOUGHF! SCROUNK! Buggle-bloggle! SCHAARF!”
Sorry. One night 20 years ago I sat awake before dawn, shaking, hopeless – terrified of failure. I was online, borrowing against my credit card to pay the prior month’s mortgage.
And on CNN a story: Tunnelled Rump had won the Pelican Party’s nomination. He was ascendant in the polls, and seemed guaranteed of election.
I contemplated suicide.
But at a rally, someone sprayed Rump with holy water – his flesh disintegrated, revealing him as Cthulhu’s master. The angels Lincoln and Tubman descended from Heaven, then wrestled Rump’s foul spirit to the chasms of Hell.
– I remember; Lincoln quoted Revelations–
Pardon me.
“BROUNCK. Pronkel! Splarken … SPLARKEN!”
It was the birthing of a new era of political cooperation, facilitating the enlightenment of Hillary Gotham’s tenure: educational, artistic and cultural initiatives proliferated. I never wholly exorcised my emotional demons, but I settled my debts, started writing again, received a National Arts Grant and accepted the mantle of my Appalachian literary heritage–
“RAZZLE SCRAGGLE BLUUP!”
“Look daddy, in the bungalow – the Mad Poet of Appalachia is screaming at us!”
“Awesome! The commune’s brochure says don't holler back, Timmy.”
“Can we buy his poetry book … please?”
“Mommy’s at the weaving mill – let’s ask!”
– The visitors here adore you, but why do you yell at them?
They enjoy experiencing … the madness.
– How do you repeatedly, spontaneously evoke madness?
Imagine this: President Rump.
–... SCRARTEN! Blork – BLORK!

 

[Cathbad]

Old Man Jasper



I grabbed my bike, and started down the poorly lit street. I was twelve, and on my way to the IGA for milk.

Yeah, the sixties were a different time.

I passed the alley, then creepy Old Man Jasper’s house. I’d made this trip hundreds of times. But this time, I felt a sudden rush of fear as I passed that dilapidated house! I pedaled harder, rushing past the place.

I took the longer route home, just to avoid that house.

Next day, I discovered old man Jasper had died the previous weekend. Sent a chill down my spine!

Of course, I didn’t believe in ghosts! So when Melody Jones dared us boys to go up to that creepy place and knock, I took her up on it.
But when I stepped onto the wooden porch, thousands upon thousands of tiny, red spiders sprang from the cracks in the woods!

I ran. Screaming. The other kids joined me. Didn’t stop until we were out of sight of that place.
When I told them what happened, they were stunned. Their reactions actually comforted me.

Dinner. My sister runs to the table, shouting she saw someone in the old Jasper house from her window!

Mom calls the Landlord. He says he’ll take care of it. We hear nothing else.

The following morning, I walk out the back door. Across the alley, I see the Landlord’s car sitting at an angle to the house. I contemplate whether to go tell Mom.

And suddenly Mister Jasper’s face is in the window, scowling and shaking his fist at me!

Not too sure what happened next, save I was back in the house, screaming. And I wouldn’t go back outside for a week.

They never found the Landlord. They bulldozed the house.

I felt better.

 

[Victoria Silverwolf]

The Showdown

Billy stared through the cracked window of his shack as the ghost train returned. He only saw it when he was drunk, but he knew it was real. It was long and skinny, like a silver cigar. It shimmered like a mirage and appeared from a direction he couldn’t name.

The folks who came out of it were strange. Men with black spectacles hiding their eyes. Children with shoes that glowed like fireflies. Women wearing men’s clothing. They moved their mouths as if they were speaking, but there was no sound. Each one was surrounded by a golden ring of light.

Billy stomped out of the shack, gun in hand. “I know you can hear me! Why don’t you leave me alone? I’m just an old drunk, but I can still shoot.”

He took aim at the nearest one. She was a tall woman, dark-skinned and Chinese-looking. She wore a loose shirt the color of desert sunsets and pants cut off above the knee. The people near her pointed black boxes at him and chattered silently.

Billy fired at her. The bullet froze in the middle of the air and melted away like a snowflake. The woman approached and touched something on her wrist. An explosion of pain wracked his flesh. He felt blood rush out of his body, then pour back into him like fire.

The ghosts surrounded him, their black boxes flashing like sunlight on broken glass. Soon they returned to the train, and it disappeared into the nameless place from which it had arrived. Billy knew it would come back, but he would never see it again. He wanted a drink, but the woman had done something to him. He’d never touch a drop of whiskey again, or pick up a gun.

 

[Cory Swanson]

The Pride of the French

Jacques was a French Fork, an advantageous distinction that afforded him two appendages to walk with. Most of the others, like Goatee and Van Dyke, were forced to locomote by hopping on their single legged design, which was both highly inefficient and immensely amusing to watch.

It was purely grooming, in Jacques opinion, that gave him his freedom of motion. The others could choose to grow out their legs and not comb them together if they wished, and Jacques had trouble understanding why they suffered as such for fashion.

Grooming had never been his strength. He had a tendency to let himself go, at times growing an entire face before he could remember to shave it off. Not that it looked good on him or pleased him, but more because he could not be bothered.

When his face was grown in, he enjoyed displaying the hideous thing to passers by. He took special delight in the frights he gave to passing children. Combing his face into a tight grimace, the tiny peach fuzz beards and scraggly teenage mustaches would run screaming. Jacques would fall over in laughter, his face waggling around with each heaving chortle, grimace still in place as he guffawed until every hair hurt.

Inevitably, an event would appear in his schedule, a wedding or other such thing, and he would be obliged to shave off his face. After letting it become so established, the process proved painful and messy. The proceedings would leave him saddened, staring at his slumped form in the mirror, bloody chunks washing down the drain. He never felt quite like himself when his face was gone.

Nonetheless, he would braid up his legs and tuck in his sideburns and attend the event with dignity and pride. He was a French Fork after all.

 

[Wruter]

Warning Sign

“Whoa,” Parker said. “We've got a big one.”

Looking at the data flashing up on the mining ship's scanner console, Erin had to agree. Asteroids could vary in size from hundreds of kilometers to a few meters across. This one was nearly a thousand kilometers in diameter.

“Please tell me there's no established claim,” Parker said.

Erin was already checking the register. “Doesn't look like it,” she said, surprised. “Surveys picked it up in 2347 but nothing since. Although somebody named it on record as the Old Man.”

“This is it!” Parker crowed. “We're rich!”

“Maybe it's just a dead rock with no mineral deposits,” Erin cautioned despite her own excitement. “Maybe that's why it was left alone.”

“Well, we'll soon find out. Launching sample drone now.”

They settled back in their seats to wait. On an impulse Erin switched on the external camera feed display to take a proper look at the Old Man. She gasped involuntarily when she saw he had a face.

* * *

A few hours later as the results of the sample analysis came through Parker was practically bouncing. “Massive quantities of platinum, titanium, silver… We're made!”

Erin stared at the camera image, only half listening. She knew the human mind was programmed to see faces where there were none. She knew it was only a freak of nature, how the surface of the giant rock was shaped to resemble the glaring countenance of a wild old man. And yet…

“I think we should leave it,” she said.

“What? Are you crazy?”

“I'm the commander and I've made my decision. Nobody else has ever touched the Old Man for a good reason. I mean, just look at him.” She pointed at the screen.

But Parker couldn't see the face. He just couldn't see it.

 

[Ajid]

I could only travel the one road

My thoughts had turned to Maggie. But she wasn’t here now. I’d left that house so long ago. Although I loved my stone walls, the fresh sting of the breeze from the Clyde, I had decided to leave for the colony.


I had grown up in a virtual prison, the wilderness a cage for me. Relief only came from Maggie. But Maggie was like a dream I could never fully remember. She was Lightyears away, with the rate at which we were charging through the lightyears, she was centuries behind me.


I was alone in my quarters when the colony dome was struck. It wasn’t to be a sudden death. The colony began to suffocate slowly. Some would survive longer in their sealed habitats. I thought about reaching one, there was no time. I resigned myself to the inevitable end that was due.


As I fell asleep I saw myself walking down that old road of my youth, looking into the small cottage at the foot of the mountains, looking out at me an ancient dishevelled man. He was happy in a way I longed to be.


I would have given my soul to see Maggie one last time. But I knew I had made the right choice.


****


As I grew weaker I begged my son to take me to the window, I could feel that there was little time left. Walking past a young man, filled with confidence but regret, what regret should one so young feel. He reminded me of a lad I once knew, a lad that dreamed of taking that trip to Proxima. I was old, a raggedy man now. But a father, a husband, and still a dreamer. I had made the right choice all those years ago.

 

[Luiglin]

Next please

“Let me get this straight…”

The Minion's fingers wriggled.

“...Grazduk. How many have you slaughtered over the years?”

The orc began to count on his fingers but gave up after two. “Lotz, Boss.”

“Yes, lots. Yet you're complaining about a dwarf making faces at you?”

“Boss, ‘e'z ‘orrid an’ creepy.”

The Dark Lord took in a face that looked like it had launched a thousand ships, one after each other and with gusto. He sighed. “Norman, bring him in.”

He sat back back on his throne. These audiences were an attempt to get to know his horde a little better, show a more personable side. Apparently other rulers were lauded and loved for doing the same. The Dark Lord had rapidly concluded it to be a thorough pain in the rear.

The floor shook, heralding Norman’s approach, the troll unceremoniously dumping a dwarf before the throne.

“Now…”

The Minion's fingers flicked.

“...Burgon. Apparently you've been leering at orcs.”

“I haven’t,” said Burgon.

“Boss, ‘e hazn’t,” agreed Grazduk. “Izn't ‘im.”

“Sorry, you're saying that this isn't the dwarf?”

“Nah, Boss. Da dwarv ‘ad a weird puckered eye dat dint blink.”

“Norman?”

The troll tectonically frowned, forehead plates creating mountainous eyebrows. “He's the only dwarf in the castle.”

Burgon snickered.

“You finding this funny?”

“No, my Dark Lord.” The dwarf coughed a laugh into his hand, grimacing hard to keep a straight face.”

“Have you got another dwarf staying with you? One with an unblinking, weirdly puckered eye?”

The dwarf snorted out a guffaw.

“Norman, if you please?”

The troll picked up Burgon by the trews and gave him a gentle shake. With a torrent of rips, the roughly stitched material gave way, dumping the dwarf on the floor, hairy bare backside up for all to see.

“Dat’z ‘im!”

 

[Coast]

Professional Dispute


The phone chimes while Marty is peering furtively out the window. It’s been a troublesome day. He checks the latch once more, then goes for the phone, stepping quickly over the object on the kitchen floor, careful not to look down.

Janine. He accepts the call.

“Have you seen Alfred today?” she asks without preamble.

His eyes flash to the floor, to the prone form wrapped in a shower curtain. A wave of panic swells, it sets his heart pounding. His mouth still tastes of vomit.

“No.” He succeeds in keeping his voice flat. “Not since the meeting.”

“Oh,” replies Janine quietly. “He didn’t come to see you today?”

“No.”

The silence builds, ripe with accusation and guilt. He should say something, convince Janine, but he doesn't.

There’s blood dripping onto the slate.

My part in the plan is over.


* * *

Yesterday:

Alfred stands atop a table in the town hall, wielding a rolled up piece of paper and an air of furious self-righteousness.

“We haven't got long and we’re already six months behind. We should have started the forest clearing months ago. We should be running the first yield trials.” He pauses to lick his lips hungrily. “You’ve stymied the Ag department at every turn.”

“We don’t need to clear-cut!” Marty booms back. “My plans take into account the—”

“We already have a plan. For centuries we’ve let your forests grow wild. Now we need to convert that biomass to food production. In four years we’ll have six thousand colonists to feed. How do you suppose we do that with only our greenhouses?”

The room is with Alfred, it buzzes agreement.

“Ten days Martin. Once the machinery is ready, we transition to crop production. Your part in the plan is over!”

 

[ratsy]

Close your eyes...

I see things.

‘Hey bud, come inside,’ he beckons through the window. He glimmers and I know he is nothing more than common wraith. Nonetheless it makes me stumble on the busted concrete and I fall to the ground.

It pops out of my pocket and rolls out of my reach. I panic.

I finally found a way to stop the visions. I wasn’t going to lose it now.

Looking around to make sure no one sees me, I hop to my feet and pick up my pace down the alley. Shapes appear around me as I hurry; bad things. I close my eyes and open them.

Gone.

Tonight is the night.

#

My door couldn’t come soon enough. The wards I have up keep the visions out. I paid enough for them, they’d better work. I wasn’t quite ready.

I take a quick glance behind me and I see at least a dozen of them floating toward me in the dimly lit street. Shuddering, I enter my house and feel a weight off my shoulders. It’s the same feeling a kid has when they reach the safety of their blankets, just out of reach of the monster under the bed.

I set the box down; the inscriptions glow with my touch. The ring inside calls to me and I obey.

The gold feels cool against my warm finger.

I’ve always been able to see things. Bad things. I need it to stop.

Outside I hear them coming.

Scratching.

Clawing.

Screaming.

I’ve always known my end would come to this, and I welcome it.

I look to my hand and see through it. I’m one of them.

The room fills with horrible shapes.

And they’re hungry.

I close my eyes. But this time I won’t be opening them.

 

[Perpetual Man]

The House Where Infinity Dwells

If you look through the window, we used to say, you could see the whole universe staring back. But then we were kids what the hell did we know?

The window in question was in an old house on the edge of the moor. It was a traditional longhouse, so ancient that all its contemporaries had crumbled into graves in the harsh grass.
It was said that should a person start at dawn’s light and by nightfall have raised walls and roof, on the moor, then the house would be allowed to stand and so it stood.

But all the kids told the same story; if you looked through that rickety window, sunk in stone at the far end, through glass as dark as the deepest night. On dares we would go as close as our fears would allow, staring through the black glass. They said you could see all of space, galaxies and stars, planets in clockwork precision orbiting one another. Fluidity in motion, perfection gracing the antiquity of the stones from which the house had been constructed.

I remember my turn like yesterday. Trainers on damp grass, painfully inch by inch closing the space. At first my friends egged me on, but the closer I got the quieter they became.

Closer.

Closer until my hand touched the walls, my nose could feel the chill from the glass.
I squinted to see what lay beyond…

The face loomed out of nowhere, ancient, lined with the passage of time, a beard as encompassing as the unkempt mass on his head.

The eyes though, they twinkled.

But me? I fled, screaming all the way.

The passage of time though has changed my perspective.

A house where the universe dwells?

Did I get to look upon the face of God?

 

[johnnyjet]

Interview with the Gatekeeper

Walter the Storyteller trudged up the long dirt drive toward the Gatekeeper's home. The old man watched him from a window. There were no "KEEP OUT" signs. On the other hand, there was no welcome mat.

The Gatekeeper lived in a quaint country cottage, well kept, with well-tended landscaping and many varieties of flowers in bloom. Walter was surprised how nice his home was kept. As far as he knew, the old man lived alone.

Walter stepped boldly to the door. At its center was an elegantly sculpted knocker. He knocked. The door pushed open easily.

He found the Gatekeeper sitting in a wooden chair next to a small window, the only window in the room.

"The weather looks quite pleasant," said the Gatekeeper.

"It is indeed. I wonder if you could answer some questions, sir?"

He turned to look at Walter. His face was frozen in a countenance of anger.

"Ask."

"How long have you been the Gatekeeper?"

"I was born a Gatekeeper."

"What draws people to want to enter through the Gate?"

"They must."

"Where does the Gate lead?"

"To dreams fulfilled."

"You ask three questions. How many have answered your questions correctly?"

"Not many."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Thousands have tried. A few get one or two correct. Only one has entered the Gate."

"That's all?"

"The questions I ask are not as easy as yours."

"What do they do when they fail?"

"They come back in a year and try again. In the meantime, they keep busy." He pointed to a gardener who suddenly appeared outside his window.

After Walter finished the interview, he turned to leave. He quickly became disoriented.

"Where's the door?"

"It's my turn to ask the questions."

 

[AstroZon]

The Hermit

The wind blew cold and fierce across the grassy hills, but Inspector Sutton stood strong and studied the land. He looked for anything out of place, anything against his intuition. He could see the old stone shepherd's cottage, long deserted, but now occupied by a hermit. After a thirty minute walk in deliberate sight, he approached the cottage cautiously. Through a window the hermit shouted, "Get away from here! No hikers or tourists."

"Inspector Sutton of the Constabulary," he stated holding up his badge. "This land and cottage belong to the Highlands Public Trust. You're squatting and must vacate immediately. Now open the door and come out."

The hermit emerged from the structure. "What's your name?" Sutton asked. "Ives, Donald Ives. I didn't know this belonged to someone else. I was paid to watch it." "Paid to watch this cottage?" Sutton asked. "Yea, by some foreigners. They gave me £2000 and enough food for a month." "Really?" Sutton asked rhetorically. "Let's go inside."

Sutton looked around at stacks of electronic gear - all switched on and operating. He didn't recall seeing power lines, wind generators, or solar panels. "What's all this?" Sutton asked. "I don't know," Ives replied. "I don't touch it. I just sit here and watch the tele. Sometimes they call me and have me switch something or change a setting." Sutton looked closer at the equipment. The markings were unlike anything he'd seen before. "It's all in Chinese," Ives stated. "That's not Chinese. It's..."

Suddenly he heard a loud buzzing coming from the equipment. It started to smoke and ignite into flames. He grabbed Ives and ran from the cottage. After a few minutes Sutton looked back and saw that the fire was out.

"I'll send a team out tomorrow," Sutton said. "Meanwhile, you're coming with me."

 

[farntfar]

On living flesh.

Even my friends don’t come any more.
It’s the noise mainly I think, the constant screaming.

And that's just me.
The others?
No the others don’t make any noise now; not that anyone else can hear.

Still it would be nice to see one of my friends once in a while.
An act of kindness.
................................................................................


An act of kindness, yes.
That’s how it began.
We’d all seen it in the news, the imminent arrival.
First contact, all of that. And they called me in to help.
To translate.

Me! Ha!
Heironymous Potts. Professor of Percussive Linguistics.
It’s a lovely title but it only means I study speaking with drums.

Do you know that Eskimos will sometimes go off alone
and then speak to their friends by hammering the ice?
Well nobody else knew it either.

Everyone thought they were knocking a hole in the ice to fish.

But I caught one.

A pretty dull message mind.
“Hello Sid. Chilly again isn’t it? Love to Alice and the kids.”
We all need to keep close to our friends.

And no-one else heard, because you have to be listening at just the right moment.
But nobody can disprove it either.

So they made me a professor to shut me up.
....................................................................................


So, where was I.
First contact. Yes.
Turns out they’re little bitty things.
And they didn’t visit, they crashed.
But they need a living thing to live on, like their ship,
which was living, but unfortunately wasn’t any more.

“Please.” they said.
“Just until the rescue party arrives.
We don’t bite.”

So I agreed, “ Live on me!”
........................................................................


It’s true. They haven't eaten me,
at least not the living bits.


But they talk.
Hell, do they talk.
All the time.
On my skin.
Tap Tap Tap!

 

[Glen]

On guard


“Candy! Biscuits! Cake and
bottles of beer!
We don’t have them!
If that’s what you think you’re much mistaken.
DON’T COME HERE!”

Hee hee.

That’s what I tell’s ‘em!

It don’t scan very well but I says it anyway and I change it.

That’s this week’s rhyme, but it’s mostly the same.

The CAPITALS and the italics are to show that my face twists and goes dark and lined and horrific-like. BoooOOOHH!! That’s what I’m saying to them.

All little kiddie-winkies, all breathless and rosy cheeked from fear of going to the scary house. They dares each other, and they gets closer and closer to the door. That’s too close! Anywhere inside the picket fence is too close.

They don’t know if they’s afraid or not!

They should be!

The grown-ups don’t ever come past the gate. They look up past the thicket of overgrown roses and look down and move on. I can sees them from upstairs, from the bedrooms. I could see them clearer from the attic, but I don’t go up there! No!

I used to scare them away when they was little. What if I still had to scare aways the kiddie-winks when they gets grown-up!

I can’ts imagine it!

I can’ts!

…

I don’t know what to say or do!

It doesn’t like me talking to anyone, not even the little children walking up the garden path! It likes it when they scratches themselves on the brambles! It certainly don’t like me talking to Him! I have got candy and beer but all I want’s is to get out, and walk down that path to the gate, but It’s still up there in the attic!

I can’t lets It get them, not the little kiddie-winks.

DON’T COME HERE!