Dark Fiction: The Dust Mote Collector

By Casey Douglass

There was a man who came to the realisation that his time was worth less than anyone else’s. No matter what he tried to cultivate or create in his life, to give others, or to take pleasure in, the returns on his temporal investment were either zero or negative.

The society around him was full of overly simplistic platitudes that only served to wind up the springs of his dissatisfaction engine. Fluffy ideas, such as the one about how working hard pays off, or the one about how finding your passion leads to a worthy life. It was nothing less than motivational porn with no happy ending.

The man reasoned that, as his life and his time seemed to be worth so little, he might as well spend it doing the most meaningless activity that he could think of. One without hope or pressure, one that grabbed his attention, one that had no end point, something that he could do until the day that he died.

The man walked to his cutlery drawer, rummaged amongst the smallest spoons and lifted out the one that seemed to feel the most balanced as it straddled his palm. He moved to a room in which the afternoon sun shone brightly. His hand pulled the curtains almost closed with the quiet rattling of plastic runners. A two inch gap was left in the middle of the join, for the sunlight to breach the shadows of the room.

The man stood just to the side of the sun-beam, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light conditions. A small darting movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. He turned to look more closely but lost it. Another flitted by. He lost that one too. And so his life as a Dust Mote Collector began.

The early days were filled with him trying to track the motes. They acted like the tiny fish you might see on a wildlife documentary, shooting away as his small spoon approached them. The man got better though. He learned to move slowly, to hold his breath, to anticipate, and to stay perfectly still when it was needed.

The first mote that he collected glowed as it fell. Once it reached the shiny metal of the spoon, it appeared to vanish into thin air. The man knew that he’d caught it, even though the spoon felt no heavier. He caught the next one soon after. It danced and floated near him for some time before he successfully brought the spoon beneath it, giving it a secure, safe home.

As the weeks and months went on, the man sometimes found that he slipped into a pleasing reverie as he captured his targets. Sometimes the motes seemed like twinkling stars in the night sky, his hand becoming some kind of roaming black hole. At other times, he fancied he was some giant spiritual being, catching and ferrying the souls of the dead to the afterlife.

The spoon dazzled him when it caught the sunlight, his hand often trembled, and his body ached all over. His mind was largely free of thoughts, but the peace or tranquillity described as often coming with this state by spiritual or New Age literature, proved to be just more propaganda that didn’t apply to him. He wasn’t particularly surprised. Not thinking was reward enough.

He’s in his darkened room right now, standing in the shadows, his small spoon flashing in the light as he captures another intangible with its metal. His clothes rustle gently as he lifts the spoon closer to his eyes, searching for something in its shining bowl. Maybe one day, he’ll see it.

Dark Fiction: Good Luck!

By Casey Douglass

Image from Oliver Hale @ Unsplash

Mr “Lucky”: 8:27pm:

The bass throbbed through the walls. He half wondered if it actually made the air in the toilet smell worse, somehow massaging the particles and releasing their full stinking potential. He wasn’t surprised by the smell, or that some other enterprising souls had got into the toilet before the main act started. The support band were decent, but worth missing the end for some bladder comfort.

His trainers squeaked on the sticky floor. The urinals were all occupied, the two cubicles were too. A guy was waiting outside the first stall, the other had no queue. He sidled over and waited near the latter.

A toilet flushed. Another followed. The door in-front of him swung open. He exchanged a brief nod with the man who emerged. As he entered the cubicle, the door of the other one swung open as well. He heard a voice chuckle and exclaim: ‘Good luck!’ to the waiting man.

He shut the door behind himself, and heard the companion door close on the other side. He then heard an ‘Ughhhh!’

He grinned at the stained wall as his mind conjured up several images of what the unfortunate occupant next door was confronted with. The ‘Uggghhh’ had sounded quite nuanced. It was half “I’ve caught my scrotum in my zip” and half “Help me I’m dying!”

By the time he had pissed, flushed and left the toilet, the other stall was still occupied. He heard no sound coming from inside. He chuckled as he exited the room, merging with the darkness of the dance floor. He was eager to tell his mate about the poor soul who had clearly had a messy surprise, and how, if things had gone the other way, it might well have been him!

Mr “Poor Sod”: 8:25pm:

The guy in the toilet stall ahead of him was taking an eternity. He looked down at the gap underneath the door, wondering if he could see in which direction the denizen’s feet were facing. If they were facing the toilet... Shit, now he had mental images of the guy inside wanking over the porcelain bowl. The door that led back to the club swung open and another guy walked in. His nose wrinkled as he entered flavour country. The watcher tried not to smirk, and then realised that he’d been waiting for so long that he couldn’t even smell the noxious aromas any more. Damn it!

The newcomer appraised the occupied urinals and then settled a few paces to his right, in front of the other cubicle. No chance of switching queues now! The other guy had been in his a good while too, but he just knew that it would be the one to open first. This evening just gets better and better.

The other cubicle door flew open. He sighed. He half hoped the other guy would beckon him to go in, seeing as he had been waiting already. The guy just waltzed in, the thought probably didn't even cross his mind. Selfish prick!

The door in-front of him opened moments later, a grinning man gliding out, his eyes a bit wild, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. Great, it wasn’t wanking but drugs... He hoped there wasn’t a fucking needle left in there!

‘Good luck!’ the departing stranger chuckled.

The guy watched him open the exit and flounce out into the booming music. Must be a full moon, he thought, as he bit back an acidic reply. He tentatively entered the cubicle, his eyes scanning the walls, floor and the toilet itself. Everything looked very clean, surprisingly so. In fact, it all looked pretty damn good! Maybe his night was going to improve from here on out. Stranger things have happened!

He closed the door, turned, unzipped his jeans and began to urinate.

His head throbbed.

He looked down to make sure he was hitting the target.

He yelled.

Mr “Pissed Off”: 7:59pm:

The journey to get to the club was a long, expensive one. Not only did he have to grease official palms in two liminal zones, but the etheric passport renewal and body rental had cost an absolutely colossal chunk of karma. As was always the case, the body barely responded to orders from a seventh dimensional brain. It was this that caused most of the trouble.

The bouncer at the door had thought that he was drunk already, so he’d had to shimmy a trans-dimensional shortcut open and flop into the bar area. As was just his luck, he solidified on a big skinhead’s foot. The hand that had latched onto his throat felt like it was trying to squeeze his innards out through his ears. A different bouncer saw the altercation and a brawl began, giving him the chance to slip away.

His eyes hadn't adjusted to the dark just yet. He accidentally brushed against a woman as he picked his way through the crowd. He earned himself a stinging slap on the cheek for that one.

A hot fiery feeling began to bloom in his chest, the urge to incinerate the whole fucking club with a bit of spiritual flame. But no... he was better than that. He had to be, especially if he wanted to be let back home again.

Someone jabbed him in the side, darting fingers reaching for his wallet. He sent a crackle of electricity into the thief. A splash of hot urine christened his shoes.

He began to pant. He just wanted to see the band. Was that too much to fucking ask?

The support band was up on the stage, wailing and hammering and doing a fine job of making everyone look forward to the main act.

Just wait, he told himself, the night will be worth it. Just, just, a little mischief first, something to ease the pressure.

He angled himself through the crowd and jostled his way to the restroom.The air was thick. That was the only way to describe it. He switched his nostrils to plane of existence six and breathed in a nice meadow dew fragrance. Who needs air freshener when you have etheric senses!

The restroom was empty, so he made his way to the first cubicle, locking the door behind him. He looked down at the white toilet and rubbed his chin. Maybe a little infinitude? Or a bog monster? Or an etheric leech? So many choices, so many options. He heard footsteps entering the room. He opted for the infinitude, it was quieter.

His fingers danced, his third eye opened and the slightest flash of purple light fuzzed the air above the toilet rim. He clicked his fingers and the haze blurred into a vertigo-inducing drop. Even though he was expecting it, he still had to throw out a hand to catch himself on the paper dispenser. Toilets, all the way down, is the best way to describe the view. Some relatively normal, others gross and overflowing, others not made for backsides that any human might imagine. Toilet after toilet falling away and sweeping down, making the viewer’s mind think that it was about to tumble out of the world. He felt his rental body’s gorge rising, but closed his eyes just in time.

He became more aware of the noises all around the cubicle now, activity in the one next door, urine hitting urinals on the far side of the room. He saw the cubicle shake as the the stall next door was opened. He turned and opened his own, his eyes falling on a twenty something guy who looked about ready to punch someone.

‘Good luck!’ he smiled, a small chuckle escaping at the same time. He left the restroom and headed back into the throng, hoping that the rest of the evening would flow that little bit more sweetly.

THE END

***

This story was inspired by something that genuinely happened to me at a music concert. I was Mr Lucky above. I walked into the toilets and heard "Good luck" said to the guy next to me. I then heard the "Uggh!" and had to bite my lip to stop myself laughing out loud. I wanted to create something a little bit strange and a little bit funny around what might have happened to the guy in the next stall. This story is the result. Thanks for reading :).

Dark Fiction: Fine Times

By Casey Douglass

He prayed to God that he not wake up. Every night, when he went to bed, those were the last thoughts on his mind, the last words on his lips. An illness without cure, a life without hope, a coward suffering on, without the courage to end things himself. God didn’t listen. If he did, he didn’t care.

He prayed to Satan that he not wake up. He prayed to any deity he could think of. The aether never brought a reply, not even the celestial equivalent of a “Your call matters to us” with some soul crushing muzak belting out behind it. The lines were dead, the lights were off and no-one cared for his customer satisfaction.

Halloween arrived. He prayed to any ghoul, ghost or goblin that might hear him. The same prayer. The same plea. The Moon cast a mellow light through the open curtains. A dog howled somewhere faraway. The roof creaked with a sudden gust of wind. No reply came. Mind fogged and despairing, sleep billowed in his body, the pressure pushing his consciousness down into the depths.

Images of a dream. Scenes from his life. A laugh. A sob. A pain in his arm. A new scene. A massive tree, the kind that would need at least ten people to reach around it with hands linked. The bark around its base looked loose, but rigid, and still in one layer. It looked like a flasher opening his coat, the bark hanging free like wooden floppy wings. A creature stood in-front of the tree, grinning with an evil twist to its mouth. It was like a smear on the landscape, an after-image in the eye after brightness. It beckoned. It walked up to the tree. It pushed itself between the bark and the trunk, wheedling its way out of sight. Seconds later it emerged from the other side, brushing moss and splinters from its body. “Fine times!” it croaked, its voice hard to make out, like someone burbling underwater. It held up a misty, bleeding hand, and watched the skin knit together. It winked and nodded. Then it screeched.

He woke, his hands clasping the sheets, pale daylight illuming the room. He knew that tree! He had hiked past it many times when he walked deep into the woods. He rushed to prepare, to get out of the house and on the trail. It was dusk when he finally arrived at his destination, the sky darkening between millions of leaves, the birds puttering on their perches. His heart hammered, his body was shaking. His illness was awake and ready to pound him into the ground. Pound him into weeks of shuffling around, into weeks of barely having the energy to lift his head, into weeks of limbo.

He thought he would be in two minds. He wasn’t. He stripped off all of his clothes. Easier, possibly, he thought. He walked up to the flaring tree. The scent of loam and old leaves tingled his nostrils. Tight it looked, dark too. He set his back to the wood and pushed his left arm into the gap between trunk and bark. Each side chafed against his skin. He sidled. Pushed deeper. Edged further. The open flap brushed his shoulder. He pushed again. Felt a splinter cut his arm. The thought occurred that blood was a natural lubricant. He felt the sting of another slice into his flesh.

An hour passed. He was almost half way around. Face, body and limbs all encased in the rough sandpaper interior of the hulking tree. He felt fluid trickling down his body. A mass of cuts, tears and scuffs keeping him focused and alert. He’d got stuck twice. His slickening body soon found a way to twist through. He was hardly breathing. There wasn’t room. Insects ran over his face. He was starving. He let one run into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Felt his bile rise. He decided he couldn’t do it. Tried to edge back the other way. Spines pierced his skin. He screamed. He ran fingers the way he’d come. The whole trunk was saturated with needle sharp splinters, all pointing against him. He whimpered and resumed his initial direction of pushing. He pushed hard, something gave, the spines in his other side slid out. He moved on.

Much, much later, he felt his left hand push into cool night air. He felt weak. Empty. He mustered one last push. With a scream he fell out of the other side of the opening, his almost three hundred and sixty degree perambulation complete. He fell to the ground. He sobbed, he cried, he screamed again. The pain flowed as freely as the blood. He sat back on his haunches and gazed down at his body. Lacerations, tears and punctures gaped, blood pooled and flesh puckered. He watched hungrily, looking for signs of the healing that should be about to happen.

Minutes passed. Nothing happened. His heart raced as it struggled to circulate the diminished blood in his body. Why wasn’t it happening? The edges of his vision started to go blacker than the night around him, pixie lights floating in the center. A twisting, smirking face formed from the glowing specks, a hissing whisper pushing into his thoughts. This time he heard what it had to say all too clearly:

“I said not fine times but five times fool!”

He sat in the darkness and trembled, waiting for the laughter to stop, or for oblivion to claim him.

THE END

***

Happy Halloween 2020 and thanks for reading!

Dark Fiction: Parched

By Casey Douglass

The day they drained the big reservoir behind my house, I was standing on my patio, enjoying the warm summer breeze. I saw the workers moving around like ants in the distance, the clanks and bangings of their yellow machinery sounding like a distant war stepping into motion.

The reservoir is an oval shape, about three miles across the longest part. It was a novel sight, when the water level began to drop. I thought it would be slow and hard to notice at first, but it only took around thirty minutes. From beauty spot to silty mud fest in less time than it takes to cook a nice roast. Then the police swarmed in.

I watched these for awhile too, bulky figures in waterproofs wading out into the centre of the newly revealed depths. There were a cluster of massive boulders in what you could call the middle. I guess they served some kind of wildlife purpose, or maybe they protected important machinery. I never did find out. It was when the squelching figures reached these boulders that the activity really kicked up a notch. Shovels and buckets were rushed out, and a strange vehicle chugged its way out to them with a big container on the back.

By evening they’d found all of the bodies. Three women and one man, assaulted, battered and apparently weighted down with blocks. They dubbed them “The Bikini Murders” because they all had their hands and feet tied with shredded bikinis. They never did catch who did it, and I have no idea how whoever killed those people managed it. The reservoir has houses around ninety percent of its circumference. It’s also a busy water-sport location. Even during the night there are often many lights skudding around on its waves.

It’s now three years on, and the reservoir still hasn't been refilled. I don't know why, the bones and everything else were bagged up long ago. The air is arid and dry, and even in the most pleasant of summers, the landscape feels like it’s leeching the moisture from any living thing silly enough to be near it.

You get the odd tourist, someone who has come to have a look at the parched ground of the reservoir, to traipse around and kick up the dust. Dry, cracked, pale earth peeling back in the glare of the sun. How interesting. They never stay long, unless they happen to be a metal detectorist or similar, doing something that takes a lot of time. We get a fair few out here. I’m not sure what they expect to find. I recently discovered that the whole base of the reservoir is artificial for around ten metres, and then it is metres of concrete below that. Maybe they hope people threw some coins in and made a wish? Or they fancy they will find some grizzly evidence missed in the murder investigation. All I know is that they are out there a lot, and I can’t stand to be, because of the thirst.

I always feel so fucking thirsty! Always! It doesn't matter how much I drink, or what I eat, my throat feels like sandpaper, and my body feels like it’s withering away. I’ve tried to sell my house, to move to somewhere, anywhere else, but The Bikini Murders are still too closely in recent memory. I'm stuck here, doomed to die and shrivel in the baking sun. Even the birds have left, which is an eerie thing to notice. You can’t unnotice how quiet it is. Thirst makes your brain strange, makes it get locked into ruminations and dark thoughts. It wasn’t long after I noticed that the birds had fled that I wondered if this was even the landscape I was used to, if I’d not been popped into some new, warped reality. I didn’t seriously think so, but the thought kept spinning.

One thing I discovered a few days ago though, one grizzly thing, is that there is something that helps the thirst. I discovered it by accident when I was eating. For some reason I chewed my food in a silly way and bit my tongue. It bled quite forcefully, filling my mouth with blood. I coughed and spluttered as I rushed to the sink to spit it out, but on impulse, I swallowed it before I got there. It wasn’t until later that evening, with a throbbing tongue and a buzzing head, that I realised it was the first time in years that I didn’t feel thirsty.

I don't know what this means, and I don't like the avenues my mind is going down. I find myself wondering if any blood will do? Will animal blood help? Is another human’s blood better? Will I ever get desperate enough to kill someone, just because I'm thirsty? Is that why the killer who committed The Bikini Murders killed? Maybe this dryness doesn't relate to the reservoir, maybe it seeps out of the environment in some other way. I just don’t know.

I’m sipping a little cow blood from a shot-glass as I write this. I have a friend who works in the meat industry and who was able to get me some. I didn’t lie about why I wanted it, I thought the truth would sound less fantastical than any lie I could come up with. It also reassures me that someone else knows how I’m feeling. Someone who I can trust and who might see any signs of my urge advancing down those other fearful avenues before even I do.

Maybe I’ve read too many vampire stories. Time will tell. The cow blood doesn't taste unpleasant, but knowing what it is keeps making my gorge rise. If it will work in the same way as my own blood, I just don’t know. I hope it does. I’ve got to try.

THE END

Flash Fiction: Gir-affin A Laugh!

Gir-affin A Laugh!

Written By Casey Douglass

Sandra hated the bathroom window. It wasn’t that she had anything against windows. Or glass for that matter. She hated this particular bathroom window because it was hers, and it was permanently stuck half open. It was a small window that, thankfully, was frosted to provide some privacy. It was even on the first floor, but she always felt paranoid that someone could peep through the gap.

Sandra was a sensible woman. She would have paid the landlord to get the window fixed, but with all of the COVID restrictions, and her job at the pub seemingly hanging by a thread, she couldn’t really justify it. So she had to lump it for now. She opted for the policy of trying not to think about it. That is, until the day she was laying back in a nice bubble bath, listening to the bubbles popping near her ears. She always enjoyed closing her eyes and listening to the sound of the world going by. That morning though, she heard something new. Something extra and something personal. An embarrassed cough, sounding from just above, where the breeze from the window wafted into the room.

She glanced up at the window and screamed. It was a good, full-bellied scream, the kind that really ought to crack a window pane. A long, yellow face was peering down at her, its mouth hanging open in amazement. It was as she squirmed up the bath to put a good second wind into another lung burst, that she realised its mouth wasn’t hanging open, it was screaming too. This brought her up short. It also gave her time to register two, no... three things. The first was that a giraffe had its head through the half-open window. The second was that this wasn’t just any giraffe, but a cartoon one. And finally, that said giraffe was screaming like a human! Sandra looked down and realised that the soap bubbles were doing little to hide her nakedness. A hot flush of anger gripped her throat, smothering the scream and kindling the kind of indignation that fuels many a confrontation. ‘I don’t know why the fuck you’re screaming! It’s me who’s being spied on!’

The cartoon giraffe quietened, the scream petering out like a kettle coming off the boil. ‘I’m sorry! I must have the wrong house!’

‘The wrong house?’

‘Yes! I’m looking for my girlfriend. I wanted to surprise her!’

Sandra’s mind spun like a drunk slipping in the snow. A talking giraffe. All that came to mind was her response, the rest of her thoughts turning to mental static. ‘Well I’m not her!’

‘Yes, well I can see that now! All these houses look the same to me. If only I hadn’t broken my spectacles!’

Sandra covered her eyes with her cupped hands. ‘If I take my hands away and you’re still there, I must be going mad. Must be...’

‘How exciting! Take your hands away and see! Do you want me to count you down?’

Sandra dropped her hands. ‘Oh my fucking god. Oh my fucking god. There’s a talking giraffe stuck in my window!’

‘No, not a giraffe, a Tony!’

‘And he’s called Tony. Just great. Just effing great!’

‘What’s your name please Miss?’

‘Oh it wants to know my name. Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?’ Sandra squeaked, her voice approaching “mouse on helium” level.

‘Are you going to keep doing that? Freaking out? I mean, suit yourself, but it’s going to make this conversation even longer than it needs to be. I’d kind of like a bit of help.’

Sandra dropped deeper into the bath. ‘Oh I see, you want a bit of help?’ Sandra felt her cheeks flushing as her mind projected images of what the giraffe might have really been doing. ‘You aren’t just a giraffe, you’re a perverted giraffe who gets his jollies watching women in the bath!’

‘Eww huuu huuu!’ Tony stuck out his tongue. ‘Watch a human? I like my women with much more neck thank you very much. With longer legs and floppy ears too, for that matter!’

‘Isn’t your girlfriend human?’

‘No chance! She’s a giraffe! The most lovely giraffe in the world!’

‘But she lives in a house?’

‘And by lovely I mean in character as well, not just sexy patterning and a really long tongue!’

‘Erm, but she lives in a house?’

‘Naturally! I must say I find your indignation rich coming from a human. The last human I saw lived in a messy enclosure at the zoo!’

‘The zoo?!’

‘Yes the zoo! I took Jilly there for a date awhile ago. Jilly is my girlfriend’s name. You didn’t ask what her name was but I just wanted to throw that in there. We saw the humans fighting over their food, getting all pouty and bickering about who had the most. It was all very tiresome. To see you in a lovely house like this... what the heck is going on?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know too!’

‘It’s nice that we can agree on something... am I going to call you wet woman, or will you tell me your name?’

‘Sandra.’

‘Nice to meet you Sandra.’

‘Am I going mad Tony?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s not normal for a giraffe to talk, or to be poking its head through my window. You also don’t look like one of our giraffes, you look like something we might watch in an animated film. Sorry to say so.’

‘Well you do look like our humans... you smell a lot nicer though, to be fair. Maybe I’m the one going mad. Or maybe I got my head stuck in the wrong window and the blood supply is being cut off from my brain and I’m stroking out! I do have a headache coming on, but that might just be because of you!’

‘Charming! It’s my window you’re stuck in!’

‘Can’t you let me out?’

‘It’s stuck, it has been for months!’

‘I’m going to die here!’ Tony yelled.

‘Don’t be silly!’

‘All I wanted was to see Jilly, and I’ve got my head stuck in a crazy woman’s bathroom window! Help! Help!’

‘Hey! I’m not crazy!’ Sandra yelled.

‘Check mate!’ he smirked calmly.

‘What?’

‘You were worried you were going mad, and I just talked you around into seeing that you aren’t!’

‘Wouldn’t you try to convince me of that anyway? You might be sneaky!’

‘Oh come on! If I’m so sneaky, why would I cough to announce myself when I realised I was stuck! Look, can we hurry this up? It’s going to rain hedgehogs and turtles out here in awhile. I can feel it in the air!’

‘Hedgehogs and turtles?’

‘Yes! Haven’t you heard that term before?’

‘Ours is cats and dogs!’

‘You have cats and dogs as pets? Yuck!’

‘That’s funny coming from someone who thinks hedgehogs and turtles make good pets!’

‘Look, we’re wasting time. You seem nice, but I really don’t want to be here longer than I need to be. Could you please try and free my head somehow?’

‘Can’t you pull it out?’

‘I already tried when you weren’t aware I was here. Look!’

Tony closed his eyes and pulled his head backwards. Sandra tried not to laugh, she still had turtles on the brain. His scrunched up face and trembling neck really put her in mind of a turtle retracting its head into its shell. A small stream of dribble trickled from Tony’s lips. He really was trying.

‘Stop!’ she chuckled. ‘You'll do yourself an injury!’

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all! Keep your eyes closed so I can wrap a towel around myself, then I'll see what I can do.’

Sandra stood once she was happy he wasn’t peeking, curled a towel around her body and moved closer to him. ‘Okay, you can open your eyes.’

Tony looked at her. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘I could try some shampoo?’

Tony grimaced. ‘Okay. I’d rather smell of flowers than stay stuck!’

Sandra squeezed a generous dollop of her favourite lavender shampoo into her hands. ‘You know, this is my favourite. You should feel honoured.’

‘Oh I do. And you know what? If this was a film or a story, you’d have to try two different ways to get me free, before the third finally worked? I really hate that!’

Sandra stood back and nodded. ‘I always hate when I see that bullshit too. I mean, how often in everyday life does that happen? Hardly ever!’ she laughed. She began to rub the shampoo around the back of his head. It soon grew frothy and began to slide down to his unseen body. ‘I think this will work first time! And you know, I don’t think this shampoo was even tested on animals either, which is ironic...’

‘Ha bloody ha!’

‘Come on Tony, where’s your sense of humour?’

‘I keep it at home and only bring it out on special occasions, like when I think someone is actually going to be funny!’

‘Touché. Can you wiggle a bit, to help it work down?’

‘I'll try.’

His head moved side to side, sending bubbles gliding down his neck. He also left a frothy snail trail of soap, glooping down her window. ‘I think that’s got it. Thank you. I’m sorry for intruding. You are okay, for a human.’

‘And you are okay for a cartoon giraffe!’

‘That’s very kind.’

Tony smiled, twisted his head to the side and slipped it out of sight with a small pop.

‘Did it hurt?’ Sandra called through the gap.

There was no reply. She strained to see through the opening. There was no sign of Tony. She gave her head a shake as she wiped around her window, chasing the bubbles around the glass. She might be going mad, she decided, but if this was as bad as it got, she could live with that. It was kind of nice to have someone to talk to. It was even nicer to help someone out who was in trouble. Damn it. She actually felt sorry that he’d gone.

The first drops of rain began to sound against the window, hedgehogs and turtles, as Tony might say. Which is a real shame, as sometime later, when the rain had finished, it had washed away the hoof prints directly beneath her stuck window, a window that Sandra had recently decided, was just fine the way it was.

THE END

Dark Fiction - The Carrion Maven

I have a short (very short) piece of fiction now up at Black Hare Press called The Carrion Maven. Click here to read it and here to visit the Dark Moments page where you can read others' work too.

Flash Fiction - Slow

Flash Fiction - Slow

By Casey Douglass

Spinkel had always been slow. Not slow in a dimwitted kind of way, but slow in both movement and speech. His friend Rami often joked that Spinkel lived life at half-speed. Spinkel felt this was an exaggeration, as he knew he would have to do his version of “running” to even approach “half-speed”.

The doctors were stumped as to whether his condition was mental or physical, or both. After years of tests, pumping him with caffeine, stimulants and courses of cognitive behavioural therapy, they did what any caring doctor would do. They washed their hands of him.

As far as Spinkel’s job prospects, they shouldn't have been zero, but they were. He’d achieved good grades at college and shown himself to be a friendly, sociable chap. Employers however, wouldn’t touch him. Job after job passed him by. The Job Centre tried to help. They had the bright idea of having Spinkel re-classified as a robot. It didn’t work. They penalized Spinkel for their own failings. He told them to go fuck themselves. Slowly, of course. With diagrams and everything.

On a darkening evening, Spinkel found himself on the roof of the local multi-story car park. He considered jumping. He idly wondered if he would fall at a slow, ponderous rate. It was as he ruminated on this that he spied a gathering in a back garden on the other side of the street. His heart hit a heady forty five beats per minute as his breath began to catch in his throat. He saw a group of people, and they were slow too!

As it turned out, they were full-speed people, but people behaving in a deliberately slow fashion. After his chat with the leader, he bought a book on Tai-Chi and other meditative movement-based disciplines. He wondered if he’d found his niche in the world. He studied hard and became a teacher, running his classes at the local town hall and amassing such a following that he soon had to expand his operation. He brought his innate slowness to the postures and movements he performed, something even the best ‘normal’ instructors could only dream of. 

Spinkel fell in love with a frazzled woman who’d worked herself into a nervous breakdown. Together, they found that his tempo and her over-drive blended perfectly into the bosom of their intimate relationship. They had two slow children, were adopted by a moderately-paced cat, and lived out their days in a quiet cottage, packing every second of every day with only as much as it could comfortably carry.

THE END

Dark Fiction - Horror, Save Us All!

Horror, Save Us All!

By Casey Douglass

In every room of every house, there will be a spot where a connection is made with something, or somewhere, else. Luckily for us humans, often that connection is to the very next atom, and all is as it should be. Very occasionally, like, one chance in trillions to the power of lots of zeroes, the connection is to something very remote and very dangerous.

If you have ever taken a pot-bound plant out of its pot and had to pry the roots away from the bulk of soil, you will have an idea of the usual state of our reality. We are pot-bound. Pot-bound is safe. If even one of those roots, by way of a crack or split, finds its way outside of its usual confines, it carries a very high chance of being bitten off by some roaming bug or creature. Such is the chance our reality takes when it pushes into the realms around it. Or they encroach into our own.

Many horror authors know that reality is a feeble thing, that its skin brushes up against horrors and beings that we cannot even comprehend. These things leach through the divide and upset the balance. Our dullard minds don’t perceive this changing of things directly, but on a reptilian level, our bodies notice, and our minds scream. This makes us stupid. Angry. Destructive. It only takes one look at current events to see this playing out on the world stage. We can channel this fear.

The only deterrent is horror, pure, bloody, twisted horror. To fill our minds with the creations of our own dark sides, to drizzle our mental mashed potato with the gooey red blood of our worst nightmares. Other realities and monsters unseen just aren’t prepared for the depravity contained in the three pounds of flesh quietly flashing with neural lightening between our ears. Let them come if they  dare to, but we won’t be the ones squealing into the abyss with our tails tucked between our legs.

So go out and support the horror writers around you, buy their writing, spread their dark visions, and help inoculate and boost the defences inherent in the human arsenal. This universe might not be solely ours, but hot damn if we can’t have it, neither can they!

THE END

I started to write this with just the idea of the "dark things connecting" theme, but it soon turned into a kind of horror writer propaganda piece designed to sell horror fiction as savior of the world. Who'da thunk it. Thanks for reading.

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Dark Fiction - The Parable of the Self-Editing Human

The Parable of the Self-Editing Human

By Casey Douglass

There was once a man who was wholly dissatisfied with the way he was. He disliked his external looks while also cringing away from his internal world. He was a brilliant mind in the world of science, and it was here that he met his downfall.

Utilising his vast expertise in many fields, he discovered a way to change his appearance, his body and his brain. The machinery to do so bankrupted him, but he believed all would be fine if he could just fix his flaws.

He began with small changes: an adjustment to his nose, a change in eye colour, the correcting of an arthritic joint. He felt slightly better about himself with each small change, and so fell into the trap of thinking that bigger changes would yield higher amounts of self-satisfaction.

He became more ambitious, changing his muscle structure, sluicing fat from unwanted places, broadening his shoulders, extending his penis. He praised himself on the self-restraint he displayed on this last one, only making it big enough to ease his concerns of being below average in that department.

It was during his renovations that he realised he had little idea as to what the most attractive features were for a man. He made copious use of his research network, and even ran his own experiments with photo sharing and rating websites. He posted photos with one variable changed in each picture, and gauged the results by way of the likes and favourites that each image garnered.

His form continued to change as he incorporated the spoils of each research project into his being. He began to be pestered in the street by all varieties of people of any gender, people that wanted to know more about this alluring and handsome man, particularly why he strolled in such a hunched manner.

The man’s changes had done little for his underlying mental states, and it was towards these that his mind now turned. Every undesirable thought and emotion was erased, deleted and binned. The slightest irritation was muffled by a pillow of quietude, every surge of panic castrated and evaporated by the humming machine nodes attached discretely to his spine. He began to walk more upright, more assured.

It only took seven days for his body and mind to be purged of all unpleasant fears, doubts and emotions. He stood before the mirror and gazed at the reflection, but rather than this being a case of narcissus, he realised that the stranger before him was both him and not at all him. He felt null about this, the closest he now came to any uncomfortable emotion, and promptly asked his machine to remove this feeling too.

He was still hounded by a strange disconnect while he went about his days, and with no real caution left, he attempted to erase all memory of who he was before his change. It was a delicate affair, having to unpick all imagery and sensation that linked to the old him, while not affecting any other content in his mind. His intelligence collapsed in the manner of someone sucking the air out of a balloon. First it wrinkled, then it shrivelled, then it lay limp and motionless. The machine could not search and sort with the accuracy required to preserve his personality.

In the process of trying to improve himself, the man lost himself, and it is for this reason that the State of Jitan Six has decreed that humans are only permitted to make three minor changes in one lifetime. They are a peculiar race, and wholly untrustworthy with the technology at their disposal. They are still integrating into the Galactic Council. They are young and they will learn, but for now, we must moderate them before they eradicate themselves or worse, become a danger to the other species under our care.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Sob, Gurgle and Scream

Sob, Gurgle and Scream

By Casey Douglass

The small claw pushed the bowl away, the heat-stained metal grating on the ancient rock tabletop. ‘I don’t want it!’

‘Come on my little chopping block, Mummy wants you to grow up big and strong, just like Daddy. You’ve got to eat your breakfast or that won’t happen!’

‘Like Daddy?’

‘Yes my darling plague bearer, he always eats his breakfast.’

A small smile shaped itself around stubby fangs as this fact was considered.

A large claw dragged the bowl back to where it should be. ‘Put your ear near the bowl and you can hear them sob, gurgle and scream. Well, that’s what the box says anyway.’

The little face looked down into the bowl, its nose wrinkling at the smell.

‘Can I have angel powder?’

‘Will you eat it all up if you do?’

‘Yes Mummy!’

Two onyx eyes continued to look into the bowl, edging nearer and nearer to the contents, until they were close enough to make out the shapes. What at a distance had looked like little stubby grubs began to coalesce into slithering bipeds bobbing and rolling in a red milky fluid. Their screams and shrieks tinny and at the edge of hearing.

A snow storm descended on the bobbling creatures, fluttering wings and golden hair falling like moth-dust, sparkling and fizzing as it hit the moisture below.

‘Thank you Mummy!’

The small claw picked up the spoon and mashed it into the heaving contents, turning it all into a gooey mush, each movement causing a crescendo of shrieks before crushing them into oblivion.

‘Eat up now, don’t play with your food!’

‘I’ve got to get them all Mummy, they tickle if they wriggle too much!’

‘That’s a good boy!’

‘Where’s Daddy?’

‘He’s working my darling black heart, toiling to put food on our table!’

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Dark Fiction – A Stitch in Time Punishes Crime

Dark Fiction – A Stitch in Time Punishes Crime

Written By Casey Douglass

 

You are sat quietly in a train station, the distorted caterwauling of the announcement system informing you that aliens have invaded, that the country actually has a compassionate government, or more unbelievable lies, like the 10:30 train is running on time. It’s hard to tell what the damn thing says, so you just people watch, like you always do.

You realise there is a voice in your head telling you these things, but it informs you that you needn't worry, and it hopes that you will try to be more interested than scared. That’s it. Back to the people watching. Look!

A man in a business suit is striding across the tiled floor. Watch him. He looks a prick doesn’t he! Do you think he’s ramming his pretty personal assistant, the harassed looking woman bustling beside him? Oh look, he stumbled. She’s trying not to smile. How cute.

So what is so interesting I hear you wonder? The man was just invaded by another personality, just for the briefest of seconds. Do I have your curiosity? I expect I do.

You see, crime still exists hundreds of years from now. I am sure that will come as no surprise to you, an astute people watching person sitting on an uncomfortable plastic seat at a train station. But as in many things, the future has numerous new ways to deal with the less desirable parts of human nature. Serial killers are still the worst, people who would snuff out human life just because they want to, because it turns them on or gives them some feeling of power. Their punishment is the most severe. They are strapped into a chair that creates an M-field around them, sucking out their mental energy. This leaves the body pretty much dead, so it is recycled into MP’s notepaper as a reminder to keep them humble. This mental energy is injected into a quantum cell that... oh why bother explaining it all! The mental energy is sent back through time at one second intervals, to inhabit another’s body for the briefest of moments.

That might sound barbaric for the visited body but tests confirmed that they have little awareness of the visit, and some rather complicated algorithms stop the personality invading the body of anyone in a precarious position, such as a bomb defusal expert or a fan about to shake hands with a reality TV star. The fact that the invasion lasts only a second also safeguards against the criminal taking action that could harm the person being inhabited.

Why do it? I hear you thinking. Imagine being sent back in time, starting minutes away from your mental transfer, and going back years and years and years, only spending one second in each body. The assault on the mental faculties alone turns most of the punishees into gibbering wrecks within only hours of the punishment starting.

They do have set sentences however, and the final body that they possess will be one of their victims, chosen according to a variety of factors, so that they can experience themselves killing through another’s eyes. Even when half mad, they will know it, and know it in style. When the victim dies, they die, therefore ending their sentence.

Before you ask “Why doesn't someone from the future stop the crimes?” it’s all very complicated, causality and whatnot. If we could, we would, be assured of that. This punishment seems to carry little effect into the course of events, someone stumbles or almost drops something, then they move on with their lives. The algorithms are good at selecting who gets targeted.

Oh, yes I did say “We” didn’t I. You are a clever one! Yes I am from the future, and yes, I’ve been a naughty chap.

More than a second you say? It’s been at least a few minutes by my reckoning. Guess who has figured out a way to roam where he pleases? Go on, you are the clever one after all...

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Splash Damage

Dark Fiction - Splash Damage

Written by Casey Douglass

 

The video-feed fizzes into life and shows a sea of expectant faces, some smiling, some nervous, all intent.

‘Hello to all! Thank you for joining me on this new video-conferencing system. It became clear that we could no longer trust our communications to stay secure using the more common ones like Skype et all. So thank you again for switching to this one.

I won’t waste your time with more waffling. You should all have your targets by now, the times the attacks are meant to take place and the tools to create a payload that will be truly devastating. If anyone is unsure of anything at all, please contact your group leader before the end of today and they will put you straight in time for tomorrow's offensive.

Thank you all for committing to this movement and for being prepared to make the sacrifices needed to achieve our aims. I am forever in your debt.

Who are we?’

‘The Toileteers!’ a host of faces shouts, some with fists raised.

‘What is our aim?’

‘To soil any public or semi-public toilet within thirty minutes of opening, with a gaseous turd that will linger until at least lunchtime!’

‘What is our motto?’

‘I shit, therefore I am!’

‘Bless you all and good luck!’

THE END

The inspiration for this brief tale is the uncanny way that, when any toilet opens for the day, be it in a supermarket, a shop, or one of the rare places that is just a toilet (and no I don’t mean a multi-story stairwell), some turd-worthy ninja has already been in there and created a stink that threatens to dissolve the adhesive holding the wall tiles in place. I can only imagine this is an orchestrated movement (baddum-tish!) as it is amazing how often I have come across this phenomena. 

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Dark Fiction - Corpuscle

Corpuscle

By Casey Douglass

‘We are meant to flow, to move from one event to another, not to dig our heels in and clasp the objects around us.’

The hushed audience murmured as hundreds of tired minds processed the information. A few muted claps and a coughing fit later, the grey-maned man at the lectern smiled and continued.

‘What happens when we stay in one place for too long? That one area soon becomes all too familiar. I am not just talking about location, but occupation, inclination and many other areas of life. Humans lose their edge when they are comfortable, when they have everything that they think they need, when they feel safe. The irony is that this is when they are truly in the most danger. You!’ he pointed at a chubby blonde woman in the front row. ‘You!’ he pointed at a suited man with thick-rimmed glasses. ‘You! You! You!’ his pointing finger aimed and arced across the room, the tip jarring nerves and increasing pulses wherever it landed.

‘Wake up! You are a long time dead! Move on to new things and don’t grasp at illusion. Don’t get angry or frustrated with life’s hurdles. Don’t lust for things or give in to your baser urges, use that energy to better yourself and the world!’

The crowd jumped to its feet and the air erupted in rapturous applause, whistles and cheers. The man took a step back and bowed. 

‘Thank you! Thank you for listening to the rantings of an old man. If I can reach just one person, my work here is done! Goodnight!’

More whistles swelled into the rafters above, the windows of the old hall fogging with condensation. He waved and vanished behind the heavy red curtain, the fabric muffling the noise from the other side. 

He hummed a tuneless ditty as he trotted down the steps, his mind already fantasizing about the money the stall would be making tonight, and how many hookers he could afford to employ simultaneously at the hotel later.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - The Price of Fame

Dark Fiction - The Price of Fame

Written by Casey Douglass

Arnold walked down the shopping aisle, the distant screams merging with the approaching wu-wahs of the police. He reflected that it was a shame that shopping couldn’t be this enjoyable every time: less people, plenty of space, it was heaven.

Something crashed to the ground on the other side of the store. It sounded like glass but whether it was SWAT breaching or some clumsy soul knocking over a display, he couldn’t tell.

He rested a hand on the edge of a freezer cabinet, enjoying the frosty tingle in his fingers. Blood smeared the glass as he rubbed some of the frost away. The idiots had it turned up way too high.

Booted feet ran somewhere off to the left, sounded like three rows away. Another flurry of footfalls clattered on metal grates somewhere back in the stock area.

He smiled. Soon it would all be over.

He gripped the flesh around him and tugged it closer. She had been a beautiful blonde, six feet tall, with legs up to the sky. He’d never appreciated being small for his age, but when you’re pushing fifty and only five foot tall, you can squeeze into all kinds of places. Images of the others flickered through his mind, so many people, so many new suits.

He was tired, that was why it had to end. The thought scared him at first but he'd soon come around to the idea of giving himself up. It was the only way people would ever find out the scale of what he’d done. The police had only found two so far. Pathetic! Now he had it made, celebrity status, maybe a book...

‘Put your hands up and turn around slowly!’ a voice barked behind him.

He raised his hands, the innards of the human-suit slipping against the backs of his arms.

‘Turn!’

He rotated on the spot, careful not to let the amateurish stitches down the front split open. He smiled, the images of camera flashes and kinky fan letters juiced across his mind. He looked at the row of heavily armed police, their guns all pointing at his chest. One on the end removed his helmet, his face ashen, his gun quivering. ‘Caitlyn!’ he shrieked.

‘Shit,’ Arnold mumbled.

The gun went off. The future exploded.

THE END

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Dark Fiction – The First

Written By Casey Douglass

Image used freely courtesy of Gratisography

As a coroner, you get to see more than your fair amount of death. Some think you need a macabre sense of humour to deal with things, and in that respect, they’re right. After awhile, you don’t mentally see your human boss any more, well at least I didn’t; you begin to feel like you’re working directly for death. It sounds silly reading that back to myself but none the less, that’s how I feel.

Many authors have written about the personification of death, my own personal favourite being the deep-voiced blue-eyed version from the late great Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels. A skeleton stalking around with hour-glass style timers beneath his robe, appearing to take the recently dead away to what next awaits them.

Suicide is personified too, and I think I’ve seen her.

Technology has a lot to answer for, both good and bad. Some things, you just never got to see before the advent of the internet and of course, smartphones being attached to someone’s hip twentyfour-seven. It didn’t take that long after the emergence of YouTube for other, darker websites to appear. Roll on a few more months and the first suicide videos began to be posted. As part of the legal system, it fell to me to watch these if they related to a case I happened to be working on.

It didn’t take long for me to wistfully mourn the passing of the time in which you couldn’t see what happened to someone. Yes it might help procedurally; those among you wondering how a suicide posts a video, you’d be surprised how easy it is to automate this process. It just leaves its mark on your mind and, dare I say, soul.

My interest in suicide as a personification began with a dark smear on the video of a teenage boy hanging himself from his ceiling light. Just at the moment his struggles ceased, a movement caught my eye. It looked like someone leaving the room, but only if you strained very hard to see it. My colleagues didn’t agree and put it down to some digital fuzz from the encoding used on the camera. I let the issue drop until I witnessed it again. Many times.

Sometimes, it appeared a little more clearly, giving the impression of a woman standing and watching. Other times it was just a limb, an arm or leg seen vanishing into nothingness. It was at about this time that I began to struggle with my sleep.

Nights were filled with dreams of death and misery. It might surprise you to know that this is something I had never really been troubled with in the past. Death held no real fear for me so why would it? During this period though, my word! I had to change the sheets every night as my body poured with sweat. My wife told me that I screamed out many times, clutching the pillows, even clinging to her and holding my face, eyes closed, inches from hers while I muttered some litany of fear. Thankfully, my doctor granted me a measure of tranquilizers which at the least, kept me still all night. The dreams continued unabated though.

The last dream I had on the matter, they stopped quite suddenly you see, was the most startling and clear that I think I’ve ever experienced. A young woman stood over a fresh tiny grave, tears streaking down her muddy face. Something roared from a nearby forest but she barely flinched. She walked very slowly, her feet shuffling more than lifting, making her way to a cliff edge that had been behind my dream self. Without breaking step she tilted forward and vanished from sight, a loud crack sounding from below a number of seconds later. As I woke, the words “The First” ran through my mind.

If the above doesn’t make me sound crazy, I don’t know what will. As part of my occupational health assessment, I was advised to write all of this down in the hope that it would give me some distance and clarity from the jumble of thoughts going on in my head. I don’t feel it’s all make believe, but why I feel that, I couldn’t say... it’s just a feeling. Maybe she was the first suicide and so has been condemned to walk the earth while humanity still lives here. Is she driving people to their deaths or is she there to help and offer companionship? Does she talk to them in their last moments?

I know one way to find out, but that path definitely isn't for me.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Too Much Reality

Too Much Reality

By Casey Douglass

The metal container stood in his living room like the obelisk from 2001, the light from the afternoon sun caressing its sharp lines and CarryEase handles. He approached it and ran his hands down the side, fingers probing for the release button.

Fully life-like and realistic the advert had said.

Familiar with all known fantasies, fetishes and kinks they boasted.

The best in synthetic technology! More real than reality! They crowed.

His index finger found a small recess and felt something give. A soft hum sounded from inside the packaging. Things began to vibrate. The front panel slid down with a whoosh, the side panels folding back behind the rear. An expulsion of packing steam blew in all directions, the smell of cinnamon and rubber tickling his nose. He waved a hand around to help dispel it.

Then he let out a croaking sound. There she was! The ultimate in “companion technology”.

Her skin glistened as the nano-fibres reacted to the air. She sucked in a large lungful of air and opened her eyes. ‘Hello,’ she said, her voice husky and mid-toned, just like he’d specified.

‘Heh-lo yourself!’ he replied, a wide grin creasing his face. ‘Follow me to the bedroom!’

She stepped out of the container, her naked body glowing as the sun highlighted her curves. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, her voice flat and matter-of-fact.

‘What?’ he squeaked.

‘Just no,’ she answered, her dainty strides taking her away from him and towards the front door.

‘Wait! You’re supposed to love me!’ he yelled as he dropped to his knees.

The last thing he saw of her was her perfect backside as the door slid shut behind it, a wolf whistle piercing the air from down the corridor. He rocked back onto his heels and began to sob.

‘Too real!’ he whimpered. ‘You idiots! You made her too real!’

The End

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Competition Result - 2nd Place in Ravenous Monster's Spreading The Plague Flash Comp

My story 'What a Display!' placed 2nd in Ravenous Monster's Spreading The Plague flash fiction contest. If you like zombie stories, you can read it along with the other winners here.

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Dark Fiction - Inheritance and Four Flash tales in Print

You can now find five more of my dark tales in two new Darker Times Collections. They were printed as a reward for placing in the Darker Times competitions during last year and into this one.

• Darker Times Anthology Volume 7 : My short Cthulian horror Inheritance.
• Darker Times Collection Volume 2 : Four pieces of Flash Fiction - Original, Mirror, Deep & Distance.

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Dark Distractions is Two Years Old Today!

My blog is officially two today, and just like last year, I thought it would be interesting to do a post that is more for me than anyone else. A post that will let me see what I did in the last year, and how that improved on the year before. It will also include some shout-outs and thanks, as I didn't do it alone.

The year before last I wrote 43 blog posts. This past year I did 75. I’m pleased that I almost doubled my output, even though I know quantity is no assurance of quality. I will aim to double it again this year.

I went from around 25 Twitter followers to around 300. I’m not chasing numbers as it’s all about quality followers, not just slack-jawed “I’ll follow you if you follow me’ers.” Twitter is nice but I don’t think I’m social enough to really take full advantage. Even so, my goal for this year is to pass the 1000 follower mark.

My blog traffic went from around 2,000 hits to around 21,000. It’s nice to see some traffic, even if a lot of it is just automated bots and crawlers. I think this year my goal will be another 10X increase to around 200,000 hits.

I managed to get an article into every edition of the Geek Syndicate Magazine, and thirteen articles/reviews for the website. I will aim to continue that level of contribution to the magazine (as it is beyond my power to make it come out more frequently) but I will try to increase my website contributions.

I wrote 9 film reviews for the Generic Movie and TV blog before I decided to part company with them and put my effort into my other areas of interest. I did have a look at letterboxd but think that I will just keep the odd film review to my blog.

I wrote 17 pieces of flash fiction for #fridayflash. Fridayflash is a great community of writers and it has only really been the second half of the year that I have been able to fully take part and commit to publishing a story each week. I think it has helped my writing a good degree to have something weekly to aim for.

I entered 5 competitions gaining various places/mentions in each, which won me a free ebook (Grey Matter Press) and my stories featuring in 3 print and ebook anthologies (Darker Times). I had only entered one competition before these, and that was before this blog even existed. I am committed to keeping the competition entries flowing as I feel that they are the main way to gauge my progress and, if won, the main way to get my name out more. It was also very nice to be able to hold my work in printed form, something physical to show for the effort. On a larger note, I aim to plan and complete a novel of some kind in the next 12 months.

I joined the Horror Blogger Alliance, which has led to three review requests from people that found my blog and asked me if I fancied reviewing their books/films. 

I was given a Liebster award by Steve Green which was very kind of him. It wasn’t my first but the first one I was able to accept. Paul Dail gave me my first but it came at a time where I couldn’t meet the criteria for accepting it and so it fell from my mind. I appreciated the gesture though.

One low point was that I did sign up to do NaNoWriMo but just couldn’t get started with it. I had a couple of ideas for novels that I wanted to follow and the indecision ended up putting too much pressure on me so I just let it drop.

As usual, I would like to thank my good friend Paul Brewer, who has tirelessly commented on my posts when I'm sure he has had much more interesting things to be getting on with. Thanks as always Paul :).

Thanks to everyone who knows me, reads my stuff and lets me know that I am not writing in a vacuum.

Casey.

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