An excerpt from 'When Words are Not Enough' by Cindy Tomamichel one of the sixteen amazing short stories in the Scifi Roundtable's new anthology The Quantum Soul.

“We got another big day of writing ahead of us, I know you have it in you. Dig deep.” I wiped Captain Smith‘s spittle off my face and nodded. I had heard it before. Hell, we all had. We had been on the Shakespeare for so long we had forgotten where we had come from, let alone where we were going. Sure, there were legends, but like all the stories on the ship, they got twisted to make them more entertaining, anything for a laugh, to amuse the cargo.

The Captain’s magneto neck coils glowed red, and I refocused. She wasn’t a happy Captain being ignored. “Now, I need a volunteer,” she growled. “Which one of you hacks has hit the wall?” I held my face straight as she clumped past the rows of writers, her one good eye flickering red. The diodes must need replacing.

Inside I trembled. The table behind her had a pile of red shirts on it, and we all knew that meant a suicide mission. “Please pick me,” I heard someone whisper, then realized it was myself. I bit my lip, and stepped forward.

Behind me the room rustled as others also stepped forward. Captain Smith flicked a glance at them and they retreated. I held firm, this might be my only chance. She was so close I could feel the heat from the coils on my face. “You ready for the red shirt, hack? You think you’re burnt out enough for this job?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said.

“This your second or third millennia?”

“Forth, ma’am. I was in the original intake, I wrote my first story and got transferred from the science section.”

I heard the others gasp. With all the rejuvenations we took, most of us looked different year to year. Hell, I couldn’t remember if I had been male or female when I came on board. I was pretty sure I had been human, unlike the evolved cats who still retained a certain tendency to whiskers.

But I still remembered signing up. A five year tour they told us, to get to the nearest system with planets. The ship was a longevity one, with a pile of rich bastards that lay like logs in cold storage, while we kept on rejuvenating. And writing. To keep the cold storage passengers mentally alive, stories were channelled directly into their brains. But they always wanted more.

Their reviews got fed into the computer and controlled our lives. The computer ran the ship, we were nothing more than rats in the tunnels, tapping buttons to get review stars. The more stars, the more rations. But we went through a meteorite storm that first year, and something happened to the computer. It announced we were to refer to it as “Zon” and then it never spoke to us again, although it did monitor us and our reviews.

“Right, you, come to my office,” Captain Smith barked. “The rest of you hacks, go pound out some words.” She paused. “I know you still have some left. Dismissed.”

I glanced at the others as I followed Captain Smith out, the red shirt clutched in my hands already damp with sweat. Their haggard faces gave me courage. They had run out of stories, we all had. But the audience was insatiable.

The Quantum Soul is available for pre-order and releases tomorrow.

Find out more about Cindy on her website or check out her books on Amazon.

Cindy has a story in The Quantum Soul anthology which is out tomorrow!

Q1: What do you think is the best thing about writing a short story rather than a novel?

Q2: Do you enjoy reading anthologies?

Q3: What gave you the idea for your story in The Quantum Soul?

“You can confirm your registered name is Charity Sweetling?”
Charis nodded, expecting to see the usual smile when she gave her full name, but this official just raised an eyebrow.
“I need you to answer me, please. You are in no way disabled so a full verbal answer is required.”
“Oh. Sure. Sorry. Yes. That is my registered name. But could I ask what this is about?”
The official glanced up, looking back to his screen, as if he had not heard her question.
“You were born on a non-Coalition planet and arrived in Central when you were assessed as being an estimated four years old, a certain Vor Franet declared you as a seeker of asylum on the grounds that were you to be returned to your home you would face certain abuse through enslavement.”
Charity nodded again, then realised and said quickly: “Yes.”
The official went on in the same uninflected voice as if he were reading a shopping list rather than dissecting her life.
“You were accepted into the Coalition Protected Children Program and placed with a family who ensured you received an appropriately supervised upbringing and education. On achieving full majority and adult status you undertook the required military service of the Program and completed it successfully.”
The official stopped again and looked across at her.
“I think it’s a bit unfair to describe my upbringing as just ‘appropriately supervised’. My parents gave me the very best they could. They gave me an awesome upbringing, a loving upbringing, a fun and caring upbringing – ”
“Var Sweetling,” the man cut across her, “are you wanting to challenge your upbringing as not being appropriately supervised? Or report the Coalition Program has been at fault in some way?”
Charis shook her head. Then, under the expectant glare of the man sitting opposite her, said: “No, I do not want to challenge anything about my upbringing.”
“And you will confirm the other details I stated are correct? Or do you need me to repeat them for you?”
Charity began to feel uneasy. This appointment, at almost zero notice, had been pushed on her out of the blue in a severely worded linkmail, which made it clear failure to comply would lead to any number of unpleasant consequences. It meant she needed to take half a day off work and fly back overnight from her scheduled stop-over to make it, forcing poor Ebon to jig some very creative adjustments to the roster. But since it came with the badge of the Central Immigration Taskforce, she was obliged to attend. Charis linked her mother as soon as the appointment arrived, but even she had no idea what it could be about.
“Probably just some un-dotted I or uncrossed T in their internal files,” her mother said. “But if it turns out there is a problem, just let me know and we’ll get it sorted out. Do you want me to come down there with you as your legal representative?”
Sometimes having a lawyer for a mother could be very reassuring. But Charis, not wanting to force her into the three-day planet hop it would have meant, told her not to bother and promised to let her know how it went.
“Var Sweetling? This is very important. Can you please confirm -”
“Uh – yes. Yes, you have the facts right.”
The official went on: “You have been employed as a pilot for the last eight years, working for the Rota Corporation in a role which complied with the reserved occupations list.”
“If by that you mean shunting big freighters around the galaxy, then yes.”
The official nodded as if pleased she grasped the idea of the interview at last.
“And you recently moved your occupation to work for – ” He paused as if in doubt about the words on the screen he read from. “The Wild Ride Superb Bus.”
There was an awkward silence.
“It is a tourist shuttle a good friend of mine, Ebon Wild, set up – it’s not really a job, more of a sabbatical. Just a chance to do something a bit different before I go back to cargo shunting.”
“I only require you to confirm the veracity of the details I have here, please, Var Sweetling.”
“Oh for -” she bit back the words and tried to calm down. “I mean, yes. Yes, I can confirm it. But what is all this about?”
“Your present occupation is not on the reserved list, Var Sweetling.”
Charity struggled to see that as an explanation and shook her head.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. It is a temporary contract and when it expires I’m back to the big ships again. Rota even told me they would take me back right away no need to go through the application and trials again. Like I said before, it is more of a sabbatical to help a friend get their start-up off the ground. Literally.”
The official seemed to be listening and waited, wearing a polite expression of indifference until she finished.
“Your present occupation,” he repeated, in the same toneless voice as before, “is not on the reserved list.”
Charis felt the confusion returning. It made no sense.
“I really do not understand what this is about.”
“Let me put it in plain words, Var Sweetling -”
“Oh please do, plainer the better – this is just sounding bizarre.”
“The Security of Place and Persons Committee has decided the term of your asylum is now over. The original conditions of it being in place – you being an unescorted minor in need of safety – no longer apply and the sole mitigation you held through working in reserved employment, is no longer valid. As a result, Var Sweetling I need to inform you that you are no longer a citizen of Central nor – since you were born outside it – of the Coalition.”

‘The Interview’ concludes next week…

From Trust A Few - Part One of Fortune's Fools 'Haruspex' trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook.

If Benny hadn’t been quick on his feet, the Mercedes would have run him down as it slewed violently sideways to stop half on and half off the pavement in a residents only parking zone. The driver took only seconds to slide off the leather seat and slam the door behind her. She strode off in the direction of one of the many over-priced eateries that populated the commercial side of the street. He gave her the stink-eye for a moment, taking in every detail of the rich bitch furs and fuck me shoes. Oh yeah, this one represented just about everything he despised in a human being. It was with some relief that he turned his attention back to the car. It was sleek, and black, and he had even caught a whiff if the smell of excellence when the door was open. He wanted that car so much it hurt, but he had promised his momma so all he could do was look.

On an evening of what ifs it’s also true to say that if he hadn’t been fucking the car with his eyes he would never have seen the keys its driver stabbed at her handbag fall into the gutter instead of the bag. He couldn’t believe his luck, and as soon as her expensively maintained ass disappeared behind the darkened glass of the trattoria he was on his knees scrabbling. Within seconds he had them in his hand. But what to do with them? He knew what his heart was telling him, and he also knew what a stupid idea that was. Even with the keys it’d still be theft, and the gates of the detention centre were always open for juvenile car thieves.

While he was thinking he heard the measured tread that indicated the imminent arrival of a beat cop. That sort of made his mind up for him. He trotted to the middle of the pavement and waited. When the cop turned the corner it was a face he knew and he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Officer. Sir. I got problem. Rich bitch drops car keys. She gone in that place. Can’t follow.”
“Indeed you can’t.”
The burly cop held out a large red hand and Benny dropped the keys in it. As if pulled by an invisible string, both officer of the law and street kid turned to look at the Mercedes with identical expressions of longing on their faces.
“Some car, boy. Some car.”
Benny ducked his head.
“Sure is, sir.”
“Where you sleeping these days Benny?”
“Ma’s”
“Okay. Now you just stop here and let me see if I can’t get you a decent meal at least.”
The cop took out his personal mobile and had a long conversation in Italian. Benny started to fidget, and the man held up a thick finger.
“How many in your old lady’s flop these days?”
Benny did a count up in his head.
“Seven. Ma. Me. Little ones.”
“Sette. Bene.”

It was very quiet in the street now and Benny could quite clearly hear footsteps coming along the alleyway between two restaurants. A brilliantined head shone in the streetlamp as the white-aproned figure of a gold-toothed waiter slipped quietly out onto the street. The cop went over to him and they held a brief low-voiced conversation.

The cop came back with a big takeaway food bucket in one hand and some folding money in the other. He handed Benny the bucket.
“You think you can get that home safely?”
Benny nodded emphatically. The cop slipped two tens off the roll of bills and slipped them into Benny’s top pocket.
“Better scat then. You’ll be wanting to eat that before it gets cold.”

Benny dipped his head and went, covering the ground like lightning.

Later that night he lay on his bed with his belly full of pasta. Life was funny he mused, he sure as hell wanted that car but he wasn’t sure that he hadn’t wanted pasta more….

© jane jago 2017

You are old, so you should never roam

Should be timid, and always at home

Wearing slippers and robe

Not trotting the globe

With only a toothbrush and comb

© jane jago 2017

Hunting Darkness by Ian Bristow is out today!

Brandon Murphy flagged down a taxi, his movements frantic. Despite the cold that infiltrated the air that November afternoon, he was sweating profusely. Fear like he had never known clutched him, and there was nothing he could do to fix the situation. Why had he involved himself in the first place? If he was honest with himself, it was because he had truly thought he was doing the right thing. But it was clear now that he’d been deceived. None of his original ambitions seemed to be of consequence, and what was worse, none of the promises that had been made to him were being kept.

In fact, it appeared he had become nothing more than a pawn in a much more elaborate game, which was becoming increasingly dark. Breaking and entering was not what he had signed up for, and if it absolutely had to be done, a confrontation definitely wasn’t on his agenda. He’d made that clear and had been assured that no one would be home, so who was that man that showed up? He’d actually fired a shot at the man. What was happening to his life?

His taxi pulled up to the curb. He got in and said, “Brantford Road, N17. I’m in a hurry.”

The cabbie nodded, put the car in gear and stepped on it.

Murphy checked the time on his phone persistently as they made their way across North London. He had been instructed to arrive at their meeting place no later than 4:00 p.m. Apparently, his employer had some important event to attend that evening at the British Academy building, and it was imperative that they left in time to be there for 5:00 p.m.

“Step on it, mate!” Murphy demanded as he watched the time switch over from 3:50 to 3:51. “I would have to get stuck with the slowest bloody cabbie in London!”

“Oi! I’m already over the bleedin’ speed limit. Bloody ‘ell! I reckon yer a bleedin’ fare dodger an’ all!”

“Excuse me?” Murphy snapped. “I always pay me way, mate! Just get us round to Brantford Road as quickly as possible, alright?” He wiped the sweat from his brow and checked the time again.

3:55.

His heart started to pound. He wasn’t going to make it in time. He’d been explicitly warned about being punctual. It wasn’t just his life at stake if he failed to be there, it was his family’s as well.

“Here you are, mate,” said the cabbie as he came to a screeching halt. “Brantford Road, N17. That’ll be thirty-five quid.”

Murphy pulled an uncounted wad of cash out of his pocket and threw it in the cabbie’s lap before jumping out of the car and sprinting toward a warehouse building several yards from the road. He reached the entrance within moments and let himself in. The space inside was nearly pitch-black. He pulled out his phone, lit the screen and began navigating through the maze of pallets that occupied a vast majority of the area.

“Hello?” he called out, making his way toward the opposite side of the warehouse. “Is there anybody here? I made it on time,” he said glancing at his phone to confirm that his statement was accurate. The time read 3:59.

He turned a corner and fear stole over him. Glowing yellow eyes met his own. A beast was upon him before he could react. He felt long claws sliding easily through his stomach. Once. Twice. Three times.

Horrified, he put his hands over as many of the lacerations as he could, but it was a pointless move. His vision started to blur as fatal amounts of blood drained from his body. He fell to the ground, still clutching hopelessly at his wounds. He could almost make out his attacker in the light cast by the phone that had fallen from his hand, but his vision was fading fast.

Vision fading…

Darkness.

Pick up your copy of Hunting Darkness!

Q1: Where did you first get the idea for writing Hunting Darkness and the characters in it?

I had just finished writing the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy and wanted to try something new. At the time, I only had a few ideas that I knew for sure would factor in: One was that I wanted the book to be a standalone, two was that I wanted to try my hand at a bit of mystery and three was that I wanted to set the story in England. Being as I tend to enjoy the fantastical element, I was inspired to write an Urban Fantasy crime novel that would essentially weave the storylines of two very different worlds into one cohesive plot. Between my two brainstorming partners in crime and myself, we fleshed out a number of concepts that led to the story ideas I ultimately ended up using.

Q2: As an American, you chose to set the book in the British Isles, why was that and what issues did that cause you?

The short answer is that I love England (and the British Isles in general). I am the first generation of my family born in America, so I was raised by an English father and American mother. But it wasn’t just my fondness for England that pushed me in the direction of setting the novel there. Two other key reasons were far more influential. The first being that England’s immense (and at times mysterious) history makes it a superb setting for fantasy in the real world and secondly, crime detection was basically invented there, so I wanted my first mystery novel to be a nod to that. Now then, the issues of being an American writing a book set on the British Isles… Oh the issues. Having not grown up around a constant English dialogue made writing this book an incredibly difficult task. I spent countless hours pouring over all manner of articles about syntax and words and common phrases and so on. And for all my effort, I still needed the help of a few wonderful people who live in the UK to really purge the Americanisms from my character’s dialogue. (By the way, you know who you are. Thank you so much for your effort).

Q3: Every book an author writes is an inner journey and a learning experience, what did you bring back from this one you did not have/know before?

I hardly know where to start with this answer. I learned so much it was incredible—from English myths to tidbits about the history of Scotland Yard to the aforementioned study of dialogue. I mean, the learning was endless. I’m pretty sure I spent at least as much time studying about the content in the book as I did writing it. I hope the people who read Hunting Darkness feel like they got even a fragment of the takeaway I did from writing it. It was a journey I will always look back on with fondness.

Ian C. Bristow is the award-winning author of the Conner’s Odyssey trilogy. He has just released his first standalone novel, Hunting Darkness, and has started working on another title. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys creating works of art and playing music (good food and a few beers with friends doesn’t hurt his feelings either).

You can catch up with Ian and his latest literary, artistic and musical projects, on his website, on Facebook and on Twitter.

From the new Dai and Julia Mystery out soon - 'Dying for a Poppy' by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Dai watched the familiar countryside roll by and tried to forget, rather than obsess about, the fact that he was lying to his bride of less than a month – and on two issues. Well, lying by omission. He had promised himself he was not going to keep anything from her about his working life. She had lived it herself and her security clearance had been higher than his until his sudden promotion.

Even his friend, and newly appointed Senior Investigator, Bryn Cartivel had warned him. Slapping him on the back the day before Dai’s wedding as they were taking a final drink in the Londinium taberna that had seen so much of their custom over the previous eight years.

“Two bits of advice from a long-married man to one about to take the plunge. One is never forget she is always right, even when you think you are and two – never – and I mean never – keep secrets from her.” Bryn burped loudly and adopted a fatherly look. “You see, if you get to the day you think you’re always right and she’s wrong or start finding there are things you can’t tell her – well, that’s the day your marriage hits the rocks.”

“You can’t tell your wife everything,” Dai protested. “I mean half the stuff from work is -”

“Everything she wants to know,” Bryn cut over his protest, then dropped a heavy wink. “But then my Gwen she’d know if I was keeping things from her. She’s descended from a long line of Druids on her mother’s side.”

The trouble was Bryn was right and these were things Julia would want to know – things Dai wanted to tell her. But it was not in his hands. These were secrets he had been ordered to keep from her.

***

The first had arisen in a conversation with the Tribune in charge of the praetorians in Britannia – Decimus Lucius Didero, foster-brother to Julia. He had summoned Dai on the pretext of a meeting about some legality around the marriage and had not been at all repentant about his duplicity.

“This is serious, Llewellyn and is a big part of how I swung this post your way. Our intelligence people are saying that a lot of dangerous contraband is getting in through the coast there and Viriconium is the hub of it. We need someone who is accepted by the British community and who we can trust. You fit the bill.”

“And here I was thinking I got the job on my merits as an Investigator alone.” Dai made no attempt to keep the cynicism from his tone. He had been wondering why this had come his way and was not too surprised to find it had been for reasons other than those put out for public consumption.

Decimus grinned at him.

“Well my sister falling for your baby-blue eyes helped as well,” he admitted, then he switched back to the clipped tones of before. “As if the smuggling isn’t enough we are talking a major anti-Roman group somewhere in the area and they have their fingers deep in our pies. We need to know who they are and how they are being financed and supplied before they start out on a major terrorist campaign. I’m sending you out with twenty of my lads under their own decanus, a good man Brutus Gaius Gallus. You may need them. We have no idea how high or deep this thing goes – even the Magistratus is not in the clear. So trust no one there and I mean no one.”

Dai took a moment to digest the implications. He had known it was going to be hard enough taking on a post he had been over-promoted to fill. But he had been looking forward to learning his way in and doing so with Julia’s sharp insight and wisdom to help. But Decimus had just taken that fond daydream of a bucolic honeymoon easing into things and blown it away. He realised now why, when he had asked for permission to relocate with some of his old team he had not met with more resistance.

“Julia will need…”

“Julia will not be told anything about it, Llewellyn.” Decimus sounded almost ferocious. Then he drew a breath and sighed. “She has been through too much, I am not having her dragged into this. She needs a chance to have some simple happiness with no more to worry about than what colour she wants to paint the guest bedroom.”

Which, Dai reflected rather grimly, probably showed more of wishful thinking on Decimus’ part than any true understanding of what Julia would want or need.

“I think she might notice Brutus Gaius Gallus and his men hanging around,” Dai said pointedly. “My wife is many things, but she is neither unintelligent nor unobservant.” And you of all people should know that, he added in the privacy of his own mind.

“Relax, Llewellyn. They have an official reason for being there and wandering around wherever. Amongst his other talents, Gallus once served as a bandmaster and all the men with him can play instruments. They are going to be there to learn some traditional British music as part of a ‘Hearts and Minds’ Arts initiative – a real one, believe it or not, from those effete, money-wasting idiots in Rome. But it gives them the cover we need for this, so some good comes out of it.”

It was sounding more and more complex and Dai’s heart plummeted.

“So you are pitching me in against smugglers, terrorists, corrupt Roman administrators, and whoever is behind them?”

Decimus pulled a face.

“You about have the size of it. But you are not exactly going in alone. You’ll have my praetorians and your own people and as soon as you have anything solid we can act on I’ll bring half a legion in to clean up if need be. But we can’t pounce until we have a target.”

“Don’t you have undercover people doing that kind of stuff? I don’t see how I’m going to succeed where they have failed.”

“This is deep Britannia, Llewellyn,” the Tribune reminded him. “The arse end of the Empire, hanging over the edge half the time. Hell man, you should know you grew up there. These are people who only trust someone they have known from birth and who has a British pedigree you could unroll from there to Londinium. We don’t have that many such people just lying around – in fact we have one. You.”

There was no answer to that and Dai had finished the meeting being briefed about what little was known of the situation in Viriconium and along the coast. It left him in a foul mood.

If you have yet to do so, you can read the earlier Dai and Julia Mysteries in Dying to be Roman and Dying to be Friends.

Beloved Readers Who Write,

Although a reminder of my superb credentials and exquisite sensibilities is becoming increasingly superfluous, it is possible that a tiny minority of the denizens of cyberspace may, as yet be unacquainted with the masterful intellect that is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV the renowned author of both the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft. Ecco, mes estudas, here one is. Prepared to pedagogueise…

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 6A. Refining the Write Character

For today’s little tutorial, one’s fickle Muse leads one further along the bridleways of characterisation and the building of those sprites which shall infuse your works with life and loveliness. Follow in one’s footsteps, mes enfants, and you will surely find that the strength of one’s pedagogical peregrinations shields your tender little souls from the hurricanes of blandness, excessive ‘realism’, cold bare prose, and that all-devouring vampiric creature whose name is critic.

Ergo, mes enfants, when you have your protagonistic personifications placed in your psyche allow them to speak within the pristine pergola of your mind. Listen as they tell you of their lives and loves and leisure pursuits. Speak with them aloud as their insubstantial forms draw flesh from conversation with their creator. Fear not the idle sneers of ignoramuses, listen not to well-meant advice wherein those less sensitive to etheric beings counsel against speech with those entities none else can see or hear.

Be brave and enter into such dialogues as the children of your encephalon will vouchsafe to you. Dispute with them, should that be their will. Declaim aloud your fractious floccinaucinihilipilification. Shout to the skies when Erato and Calliope send unto you an actor of such ferocious intractability as to madden the very core of your sensitivities. Sing lullabies to soothe the merciless breast of your insubstantial interlocutor. Eat only that which their nourishment requires, abstain from tobacco, strong drink, and hallucinogenic substances so that your soul can be pure and your psyche open to the voices from beyond.

In the ultimate analysis, when you have a protagonist who walks by your side directing your steps you have succeeded beyond mere measure, and you can allow yourself to be led by the hand into the labyrinthine lusciosity of lustful lubriciousness that is literature lubricated by genius.

Ah yes, mes estudas, when your careful construction takes breath into its own lungs your work is done. Cry tears of joy as you inscribe into insubstantial cyberspace the passages of pusillanimous prose your protagonists dictate to you.

When their clamour will not let you sleep, you will know you have achieved the ultimate in character creation!

I shall conclude with advice on antagonists. They are the bad people, everyone knows what a bad person is like, we all have neighbours, work colleagues or relatives we despise. So there is no need to explain them or their motives in more than the briefest of detail. Less is more.

Écrit bon…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

After running away screaming in terror at what lay inside his newly delivered package, Peter returned to the box. He had to return, he needed to see. It was real, the putrid smell leading him back to his front door told him so. He took a peek over the soggy cardboard flaps.

Gooey, bloody, torn flesh, swollen lips and a pair of dead, foggy eyes stared up at his ceiling. It was a woman. Her face, frozen in terror.

Peter’s heart jumped when he realized that she almost looked familiar. No longer able to stand the sight of it, he nearly looked away and prepped to close the box and call the police. But, just as his eyes ran away from the sight, they also registered a strange white spot at the corner of her lips. It was a thin piece of string. Knowing it was a bad idea, having already figured that he was tampering with evidence, Peter held his breath and pulled at it. It kept coming until after about a foot, it got snagged on something.

A frustrated sigh escaped from his own drying mouth. The smell distorted his vision, the horror caused everything else around him to sink into darkness. He ripped a napkin form the tissue box on the key stand by the door and pressed at her chin to part her decaying lips. Sweating, hands shaking, Peter pulled harder on the sting, unable to contain his curiosity.

Wait. Is this a mistake? Something meant for someone else? He thought. Since he started writing, Peter hadn’t dated any blondes or anyone in quite some time – more time than he cared to calculate or even admit to himself. Could it be a very old ex? Perhaps a long forgotten relative having gotten mixed up in something terrible? What was going on? Soon, the end of the string revealed what had gotten it stuck, a note. He pulled it from the knot and with another tissue carefully unwrapped it, without going all the way, in case he had to somehow put it back.

At the top of the note, in fancy cursive, it started with: Story Prompt #430. Peter dropped the note and fell back on his ass. He turned around to look at his laptop on the coffee table. Staring him in the face was a Facebook group page with prompt #429 at the top. His face turned white as questions dug themselves into him like arrows to the chest. What group did he join last night? What twisted minds could be responsible for this?! But over all – he slowly looked back at the bloody note on the floor – what was prompt #430?…. What in God’s name could it be?

Peter Midnight