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bird
mole on her left cheek, damn that lil’ bugger had sharp claws, anyway…
dust
‘listen very carefully, I shall say this only once…
molehill
the picture of the fallen madonna with the big boobies currently in the possession of one ‘Rene’, she then leaned in closely and whispered
island
it had free vodka, pork scratchings and a never ending supply of…
a little something I wrote a while back, kinda lame but what the hell
A long open street, shadows are beginning to stretch as daylight gradually becomes twilight, street-lamp bulbs flicker on with a dull amber glow. Occasionally a car passes by, their colours and forms lost in the encroaching darkness and the white glare of the headlights. The lights inside of the shop windows flick off as the garish neon-lights of the nightclubs blaze on. In the middle distance, in the fading light, a church’s steeple can just be made out.
The figure hurries her pace at first, head down, trying to remain unseen in the dwindling crowd. As the last pedestrian passes her by, she breaks out in a mad run towards the church down the street. She trips over an uneven paving slab and falls onto the cold, unyielding concrete, scraping her skin on the rough surface. The old zip on her battered rucksack rips open, spilling its contents over the ground as Gloria Silverstone lies sprawled on the floor nearby.
Hurriedly she struggles onto her knees, scrabbling in the half-dark for her worldly possessions desperately. Instinctively she reaches out to find her uncle Matthias’ old book; she sighs in relief as her fingertips brush over the leather front cover with its mathematical pattern of grooves arrayed in bizarre geometric shapes.
She hastily grabs the book and shoves it back into the tattered rucksack, quickly sweeping up the other items dispersed over the concrete pavement; an old mobile phone its battery all but dead, her silver cigarette lighter, a half-empty packet of cigarettes and finally, an heirloom white-bead pendant with an ivory cross. All reminders of the life she used to have but could now never return to.
As an after thought she flicks back her long black hair and puts the pendant around her throat.
A single small, salty tear rolls down her cheek as painful memories of her mother resurface unabated in their pain despite it being over three years since her mother’s horrific death.Lost in her reverie she almost misses the flicker of movement in her periphery vision. The sudden wakeup startles her, causing her to stand up shakily and charge off near-blindly in the direction of the church. the beat of her heart pounding in her ears and pushing its way up her throat.
Recollections of the events of the past week or so flash into her mind; receiving her uncle’s book, cloaked figures trying to kidnap her, mercenary thugs attempting to gun her down, and more recently, that other thing, that walked and looked like a man but was in no way human. Hell, she doubted it was even alive, all she knew was that it sought her out with inhuman ruthless efficiency and cold, hard determination.
Lastly, as she pelted headlong towards the aspirant shelter of the church, a clear image of her uncle’s note swims through her mind and in big black bold letters, the final parting notation of Matthias Dullathorpe, “Trust No One”.
yes, but very badly lol
have you ever entered a room and then forgotten why you went in there?
