I do all sorts of things. Mostly badly. Mostly better than others. I tell stories. Occasionally, I lie.
I'm dead. Really dead. Not in the "there'll be a twist at the end and I'll be saved" kind of way. Just dead.
I'm not truly Welsh of course, being that my Great Grandfather's Mother's second husband was from Scotland. A secret shame that the Family has bourn quite well, considering. When questioned over my flame coloured Ginger hair, relatives successfully hinted at the local milk delivery representative as explanation. An obvious solution, except for the fact that her hair was clearly and obviously dyed, but there you go.
So, our family are what Cwm-yn-Canu locals would call "incomers", not...
Giving in wasn't an option. "2,4,6,8! We don't want to integrate!" shouted his T-Shirt. Well, the left hand side. The right blared out "We're ALL in this (body) together…"
Both the Prosecution and the Defence barristers sighed at the witness's garb, shuffled papers, breathed slowly, and were grateful he was wearing anything at all. Both were getting paid. From the same bank account, in fact. They both rose as the Right Honourable Judge Jewel took in the room, and then her seat.
The clerk stood and announced in a notably less bored tone than usual, "Giles #3 versus Giles #1,2...
Giving in wasn't an option.
hadnt considered the consequences of the experiment. Quantum Flux theory was such a new area, although
he'd always /she'd never
been interested in it
ever since he / when she
was a child
Or maybe/ but actually
it was later,
much later that
he'd / she'd
come to the field. Now the latest test apparatus had performed
well he / strangely she
had begun to have doubts.
Maybe it was the results or maybe
he was tired / she was overreacting
hed / she'd
noticed strange things happening. A sense of deja vu? Something wasn't right. Like...
You won't remember this
Not long now. A shame really.
All because of the accident.
You don't have either the Ends or the Means.
Hell, the Ends justify the Means?
We all know some cheat, especially because they think it won't matter.
What's the point in doing that anyway.
This is no cut and paste to fill the page cheating.
In life (for every other dumb schmuck) you can't cut and paste.
All because of the accident.
6 minutes is all you've got.
It's not like this is even real.
Barely even conscious. Funny that!
It must be SO...
Dadi saes the Fires arnt the saem az wen HE wus a boy, wen the Nasties furst desided that storis cud be bad fur us. It wus bak then wen they also saed jewels wer bad. I can't se wy tho, az ther all shiny and glittry, but Dadi saes the jewels wer to blam for al the money bein taken from the pore and stuf. Maybe its becos jewels ar wurth so much.
Aniwai, this buk burning isnt az big as wen Dadi was iung, befor he gru up and becam a Nasty himself. Now Dadi finds buks...
He ran into the room, his heart pounding, and his clothes soaking wet.
"The Internet. It's gone!"
"You mean the link's dead? Bloody broadband…"
"No, it's gone. 404s everywhere," the bearer of bad tidings paused to pant some relief into his lungs, "there's nothing left. All the World's knowledge is…"
They looked at each other.
"Hell, what are we going to do this afternoon?"
"I don't know. Work? Maybe?"
13 days later, when Society had collapsed, one was eating the other, barely able to remember what a 404 was. He was surprised they'd lasted that long....
The dream had been wonderful, yet it would never be real. All property already let. Already sold. Already gone.
"Renting or buying?" The neat young executive type, sipping his coffee next to me, pointed at the property paper. I'd been looking for 6 months and it was killing me.
"It's murder." I shifted to give him space to sit, and sighed. "I own a small shit hole I've got to get out of. You an Estate Agent?"
"No, but these guys will get you somewhere to rest your bones…" My gaze followed his finger to a small ad tucked under...
It approached. She shuddered, turned, checked the Subway tunnel in both directions. There was no one there, but the feeling of future graves being trodden on refused, for a few steps, to dissipate.
The voice, like evil chalk on a spotless blackboard, came from behind her. "No, don't turn round. Not yet. You're safe."
The effect was fossilising. Blood cooled, crept, froze. A half remembered step faltered to a stand. Immobilised, she saw her assailant's breath of billow from over her bare shoulder.
"I know you. You don't scare easy. All those horror films. I've seen you. You never flinch...
This is the doctor sewing the corpse
They kept locked up with the crowd in the morgue
That wicked Judas Priest all shaven and shorn
That harried the Dick all battered and worn
That missed the murderer all forlorn
Who sicked the cow with the crumpled skin
That lost the dog that woke the cat burglar
That nicked the hat then took the wallet
That lay on the louse that Jack killed
"I'm with Stupid"
The T-Shirt slogan on the Soul in front of me seemed peculiarly poignant. Stupid he most certainly was, having been 'gathered' with what the lesser demons called the "Camelot curse" - trading their immortal spirits for a lottery win, which regularly brought in hundreds for as little as £10 a life - rarely did they actually define exactly how much they wanted to win. It was all about the rules, really. HIM upstairs… you know… insisted.
The obligatory 'get out' clause, the battle of wits, wasn't required by HIM, but NICK said there wasn't any fun without...