Wow! Guess that means i set this months? Yay! Honoured! Thank You, thank you, thank you...

She was there again, that was four times in one week - although the previous visits had been to plan her surprise, now she was actually going to carry it out! How exciting!

‘Morning, Helen’, she said to her colleague who rushed by on her way to the Maternity Unit to begin her shift. ‘Hi’ said Helen, ‘must dash, I’m late, see you for lunch as usual?’

With Helen safely out of the way she listened for the sound of others in the corridor. ‘Total secrecy’ she thought, ‘that’s the only way’. Her hands trembled and her eyes sparkled like crystals glistening in sunlight as she imagined the expressions on people’s faces when they found out. Would anyone notice? What would the Ward Sister say? Would anyone suspect her? What a thrill it would be, all that gossip and speculation, that was the part she loved most! Perhaps it would go further than just the Ward this time, maybe even the media would become involved?

‘Must be careful … careful … check nobody can see me’, she said to herself as she turned the door knob.

With psychopathic certainty she knew that what she was doing was right, but that others would not understand if they discovered her. ‘Just one more surprise’, she thought, ‘then I will stop’. She opened the door to the drugs cupboard, her cleavage felt warm at she put her hand down to remove the insulin she had concealed there earlier. She pulled the saline bags and ampoules off the shelf and added her secret surprise.

257 words

She was there again- that was four times in one week. It wasn’t that Logan disapproved of women learning how to use a fire arm- far from it- he believed it was every human beings right to fire a weapon (and pay him for the privilege). And it wasn’t that she was unpleasant company either- in his younger days he would have been mighty pleased with himself having a women of her calibre down at his shooting range. She certainly brought in extra business, a few of the regulars turning up somewhat more regularly now that word had got out that there was a Lady down at the range. But there was something off about her. Something fundamentally worrying, as if perhaps she didn’t come down for stress relief like most of Logan’s other customers. “You gonna kill someone with that weapon?” He had joked, once, after she had decimated yet another target at forty paces. She looked at him, holding his gaze until he eventually turned away, making some excuse about needing to clean the cash register. _-------------- 178 words. Not especially pleased with it, but oh well. Fun activity.

She was there again, that was four times in one week…

Girl like that hangin’ at a bar like this? She’s gotta be lonely… looking for some horizontal action, Matt grinned at the thought. She’s a scorcher too. Not just hot but showing it; letting it sizzle. He wasn’t sure if she was a natural blonde but if her skirt were an inch shorter he could see for himself. That private joke made his grin wider. For a moment he was lost, contemplating what she might have on under her tight skirt, nothing maybe?

“You lookin’ for somethin’ spicy?” Matt looked up at the sound of a voice as smooth and cool as ice cream. With an effort of will he wrenched his eyes past the most luscious boobs he’d ever seen to a face that belonged on the cover of Vogue… or Hustler; he wasn’t sure which.

“I’m thinkin’ I can handle what you’re offerin,’

She smiled, genuinely amused. “I doubt that, Sugar. I really do.”

Matt puffed out his barrel chest, letting her see his pecs and abs ripple under his white cotton t-shirt. “I’m thinkin’ you just ain’t seen a real man before.”

“So you think you can handle something as smokin’ as me?” She leaned over him; she almost had those luscious tits in his face.

“I’ll take you to heaven, baby.” Somehow that didn’t come out with the assurance he’d felt moments ago but she slid onto his lap and began kissing him; her hands caressed his chest. The heat from her body was like sitting too close to an open fire.

“I don’t think so, Sugar.” She unzipped his jeans.

“Think what baby?” Matt was barely listening. He was transfixed watching her open his jeans; transfixed until the denim turned black under her hands and started to smoulder. He tried to scream but she covered his mouth with hers. Her breath was like the opened door of a blast furnace, searing his throat and cooking his lungs. His jeans and his t-shirt were burning. Flickering pale yellow flames filled Matt’s nostrils with the stench of charring skin. She took his face in her hands and watched his eyes while his flesh hissed under her fingers.

“I don’t think you’ll take me to heaven.” Her skin glittered like scales in the light of the fire consuming him.

“It’s non smokin’ there.”

She was there again, looking at me, daring me yet warning me at the same time.

Four times in the last week. At least, it feels like a week. Sometimes it's easy to lose track of time. But definitely four times. Some things just won't allow you to forget them.

She speaks at me but I can't understand what she's saying. I've heard her in the past but now her voice is vague and distant.

Definitely four times. I count the holes on my arm. One, two, three, four. I've definitely seen her four times.

It is imperitave I find out what she is saying. I sink my rotting teeth into the belt and pull, peering down over my shoulder to find a spot. The needle sinks in and I raise my head to look for her.

She shakes her head at me and wanders away, and I know I'll never see her again.

Annie

She was there again, that was four times in one week I saw her kneel down and place a red rose in the vase by the grave.

Four-red–roses - with love.

I knew her well. A willowy Asian girl with wind-swept dark locks, wearing a simple black dress, black shoes - and wrap-around sunglasses covering her eyes.

A cloud obscured the sun and cast a grey shadow across the stone flagon where she knelt. I heard the low throaty rattle of a raven nearby, and an answering call from its mate, but the girl seemed oblivious to their interruptions.

It went quiet - apart from a whisper of wind that teased at a loose strand of her hair. She clasped her hands together and I saw her lips move while gentle teardrops coursed down her cheeks.

I looked away, not wishing to intrude upon her private moments, but when I looked up again, she had vanished. I frowned, put down my spade and made my way across the cracked pavestones to the newly inscribed headstone. I brushed a grimy hand across my forehead and squinted at the epitaph - again.

Annie

My precious daughter aged 1 year 5 months

She brought joy and happiness

And misery

Two days later she was back, wearing a bright summer dress and sandals, holding a white rose to her uncovered face. The red roses were scattered and the white rose claimed pride of place in the vase.

She smiled at me as I approached.

‘Where you go, mister?’ Her voice had a flute-like quality that insinuated my senses.

I pointed to my shed at the back of the graveyard. ‘I work here,’ I said, playing her game.

She tried to clasp my hand in hers, but her eyes were cold and dark, like a raven.

‘I go with you - now.’

I felt a chill run down my spine.

I stepped back and pointed at the grave. ‘Annie,’ I said, although it was more of a rebuttal.

She glared; shrugged as if Annie was history.

‘Bastard baby from a bastard father - your brother’s dead, Michael, I have fresh start.’

A clap of thunder heralded gusts of cold air that swirled around, trying to tear me apart. She pulled me to her, fingers tempting my flesh. Her voice was a low rasp.

‘I want you ... want your baby...’

She was there again, that was four times in one week...

With her short cropped red hair framing her pixie like face. Her eyes dazzled like Emeralds in the moonlight. Her eyes stay locked onto mine, as they always do.

She tilts her head to the side, a small smile playing on her plump lips. To anyone else she would look beautiful, an angel even. Only a closer look would show her mottled skin, and her blue cracked lips. Her clothes dripping wet, leaving a puddle at her miniature doll like feet

The terror grips at my chest in the familiar way it has starting doing. 'Breath' I remind myself 'in, out, in out'Although my head is telling me the right things, my body refuses to comply. The air is too thick to pull in through my closed throat.

She begins to move closer to me, yet her body remains motionless. I am trapped in those mesmerizing eyes, powerless to look away unless she orders it.

My chest is burning now, the need for oxygen is paralysing my lungs. 'Just one breath'I think desperately. Panic bubbles in the pit of my stomach as she stops within arm's reach of me. I lift my hand to touch her, just as the sound of a thousand breaking mirror's echoes around me, My hands cover my ears, I scrunch my eyes shut tight 1...2...3...4

My eyes open, to find she has gone. Relief floods me, the air fresh and sweet again in my mouth. I look down to my feet to catch a last glimpse of those Emerald eyes.....My eyes.

(269 words)

Hey all...

She was there again, that was four times in one week. Her name twinkled in pink fairy lights on the window as I entered. Four times in one week? Hey, no complaints from me – that’s why I was there, wasn’t it?

Her.

It was her, the thought of her had brought me there four consecutive evenings.

The waiter nodded his recognition, I ignored it, wouldn’t want to be seen as a frequenter of a place like this, dark and verging on seedy.

‘Malt Scotch mate, no ice.’ I said to him over the bar, ‘better make that a double and have one yourself.’ I handed over a crisp tenner and the barman winked. Shit – I hadn’t meant it like that. I left the change on the counter and accepted the glass without daring to look at him.

Lights dimmed and my heart contracted in anticipation. The dutch courage stung my lips and warmed my throat as it slid smoothly down, but I barely tasted it. A loud hiss issued from somewhere behind me. I turned to see smoke spewing to side of the red curtain on the stage and I perched myself on a stool, waiting.

The trumpet intro to Simone’s ‘Feeling good’ wafted into the room. The curtains twitched as the spotlight hit their centre and a long gloved arm appeared just as Nina’s velvety voice slipped into song. They inched open, only a fraction at a time. I was plunged into darkness bar the circle of white light centre stage, my own private show.

A pearl white, sculpted leg emerged, crowned with a black stiletto and then she was there, all of her, a black swan, encrusted in black diamonds – the place erupted, but I remained focused, intent on the long jewelled tendrils swinging from her undulating hips. I loosened my tie and pushed back against the stool, relax, I told myself as my eyes burned into the pearly white flesh willing her to return my gaze.

One glove fell to the floor and a white hand moved across the tantalising wasp shaped bodice. Another glove dropped and I held my breath as she tossed her head back, exposing a deliciously slender neck. Her glossy hair bounced over one shoulder and the curls sprung as one by one black talloned fingers unclipped the hooks of her bodice. A wolf whistle in front brought my eyes back to her face. Hypnotic, dark eyes shone into the crowd as she weaved her magic.

The last clip.

I brushed a clammy hand across my thigh and downed the whisky. She turned swiftly, her back to the audience and I ran an eye down the length of her spine, a work of art in itself.

The black swan raised her elegant wings.

The shimmering corset fell and with a shake of black plumes she was gone.

I smiled. That’s my girl – in my dreams anyway. Same time tomorrow? Let’s make it five times in one week eh?.

She was there again, that was four times in one week. She was nowhere to be seen, but that voice was unmistakable. Her impleading shrieks intermingled with the clatter of pots and pans, the moans of small children eager to escape their mothers’ force feeding and the general hum drum of lunch time on the low balcony overlooking the dusty garden.

They had tied her up again.

I tried to busy myself like everyone else. Looking around it was a wonder that through all the noise anyone actually managed to eat. I wondered if I was the only one who heard her.

‘They want feeding’ she screamed hysterically ‘don’t you see? They want feeding.’

She has lost her mind. She was always a wild thing, beautiful and wild.

I knew her story as they told it. Since I had arrived it was the one thing everyone was eager to tell me. And it was the same story from everyone’s lips. The story of her unimaginable beauty, with her large, thickly lashed eyes and her tall slender form coated by pearly pure skin. A beauty so intoxicating that one felt ashamed to look at her, as if the act of merely seeing her was close to sin itself. And of course the fall. The shy and reclusive farm boy and the single bullet that was his salvation from shame. The earth shattering yet inevitable fall from grace.

So she screamed and wrestled and fought, and they tied her up. They said nothing of the others. Those who had occupied the room before her.

That night her screams followed me in to the late hours, etching their way in to my dreams. The night air was humid and suffocating. I had closed the window to shut out her howls and pleas, but could bear the heat no longer. She had quieted to a low whimper and so I rose and opened the window. There was another sound, something new. I leaned out of the window and strained to make it out. The sound grew more frenzied, both strained and breathless as of silent wrestling. Her voice was different now, there was no fear and no plea, only pain and the relief of something expected.

That morning I woke to the sound of birds, and knew something was terribly wrong. The dark room at the corner of the garden was vacant again.

She was there again, that was four times in one week. Peering in the window, slightly nodding her head to see past the reflection. A tabby, probably a year old, maybe a year and a half but no older than that. From the look of her ear, the other cats in the area had explained territory issues to her. At a guess, I would say that she had been dumped around here probably by a couple breaking up. Plenty of that these days. I opened the back door like I had two days ago. Then, she had looked hard, her tail straight up and she had bolted. But this time she looked more closely. I set a saucer of milk on the kitchen floor under a bar stool. She nosed in the door, still slightly nodding her head, sniffing and listening. I think she could sense or maybe smell old Red. Red had been gone six, no...seven months now. His dog bowl was still in the corner. Hadn't somehow found the time to get rid of it yet. I could hear her lapping at the milk. Maybe it was time...

Edited format:


She was there again, that was four times in one week. Peering in the window, slightly nodding her head to see past the reflection. A tabby, probably a year old, maybe a year and a half but no older than that.


From the look of her ear, the other cats in the area had explained territory issues to her. At a guess, I would say that she had been dumped around here probably by a couple breaking up. Plenty of that these days. I opened the back door like I had two days ago. Then, she had looked hard, her tail straight up and she had bolted. But this time she looked more closely.

I set a saucer of milk on the kitchen floor under a bar stool. She nosed in the door, still slightly nodding her head, sniffing and listening. I think she could sense or maybe smell old Red.

Red had been gone six, no...seven months now. His dog bowl was still in the corner. Hadn't somehow found the time to get rid of it yet. I could hear her lapping at the milk.

Maybe it was time...

Hope (373 words)

She was there again, that was four times in one week. A miracle.

That was yesterday.

Would Alice be there waiting for him again today? Harry tried not to get his hopes up. They had emphatically advised him not to. But how could he not? He’d been so lonely recently. Hope was all he had.

Every day for the last eighteen months he’d caught the bus outside the house they used to share. He religiously travelled the twenty minutes out of town with nervous anticipation, determined not to miss her return. He thought he’d recognised her on a few occasions, but when he whispered her name, the woman in front of him was not his Alice.

Thankfully, they managed to celebrate their golden anniversary before the illness took her mind and her memories captive. Her deterioration had been swift after she moved into the home and Harry became afraid that Alice was gone for good.

Everything changed on Sunday.

That morning, no different to any other, he shuffled the half mile from the bus stop through the manicured gardens and found her abode without even needing to look where his feet led him. He’d tapped on her door and ambled inside expecting to find the woman who used to be Alice staring, unseeing out of the window. He braced himself for the familiar sinking feeling in his heart. But the vacant old woman was gone and in her place his girl turned to greet him. Alice stood and smiled, her eyes twinkling like they had when they were twenty three and Harry was instantly transported back fifty two years. The weight of old age evaporated and he skipped to embrace his sweetheart.

They chatted, laughed and reminisced for hours, well past visiting time when the nurses finally chased him. Alice wept when he left, she couldn’t promise to be waiting for him every day. This new drug they were trying out was still in its trial stages and the effects were unpredictable.

But there she had been every day this week. Harry wondered if it was possible that Alice could be there five days in a row. They had warned him to not get his hopes up, but hope was all he had.

She was there again. That was four times in one week. I had first seen her from my seat on the bus as it had travelled along Corporation Street. At first glance I had known that there was something familiar about her, but I hadn’t been able to decide what, then on the second day it had come to me.

Her name was Mary. She had been the same age as me, sixteen, when we had been billeted together in a village in Leicestershire by the name of Appleby Magna, back in the summer of 1940. I had returned to my parents home that winter, as they were unable to pay for my keep as the government had decreed, and I took a job at the Reynolds factory manufacturing light alloy tubing and parts for Spitfires. I had been proud to do ‘my bit’ for the war effort during the Blitz.

The first time I saw her I didn’t realise quite what she was doing, but I soon realised that she was begging, and also offering to ‘shine shoes’. It wasn’t something I’d ever seen a woman doing on the streets before, certainly not one barely twenty one years old. Her clothes were dirty and torn, and her face looked as though tears had passed across it very recently. It became apparent that she had been bombed out of her home, and I wondered where her parents were with whom she had lived.

I had last seen her shortly after we had sat, huddled around the wireless, listening to Mr. Chamberlain say that we were at war. The room had been silent then for a while, all alone with our thoughts. I had returned home a few short months later, leaving her behind, to find my city smashed to pieces by the German bombs. We endured the November nights in 1940, knowing the water was off after the viaduct had come down, knowing the Royal Engineers would blow up our city to create firebreaks.

She seemed dirtier as the days went on, and boxes of things seemed to appear around her. Then on the fourth night, the Luftwaffe struck again on Corporation Street, and the doorway was no more, just debris and shattered bricks, and a charred, flattened cardboard box.

I never saw her again, but I never forgot. They lost their sons and daughters, and we lost ours.

She was there again, that was four times in one week. The first had been the day the headstone was erected and then two days later. She was back the next day and now, there she was again, approaching slowly through the trees.

She didn’t notice me; I can be quite unobtrusive. I guess it comes with the territory. I watched her, as I’d done on her previous visits, as she stood at the graveside and gazed at the writing on the marble. I could read the large lettering again, myself, along with her.

“IN FONDEST MEMORY OF RICHARD MCALPINE (1952 – 2011). GREATLY MISSED BY HIS LOVING WIFE, RUTH, AND ‘SNUFFLES’. REST IN PEACE.”

It would have been clear to anyone seeing her the first day, when she came with her pet Pekinese, that this was Ruth – and Snuffles. She stood where she was standing now, silently weeping. Snuffles lay at her feet, paws on the edge of the grave, his head low between them whining, gently, as if he knew where his master was. Perhaps the little dog was simply reflecting his owner’s sadness, I don’t know, but I’d like to think he knew.

She hadn’t brought him back since. But she had brought her tears – the next day and yesterday. It saddened me to see anyone with such a heavy heart and although I was watching for her by the third day to see if she’d return, today I had hoped she wouldn’t come. I hoped she might have grieved enough over her husband's grave. But she came again.

Yet from where I watched, she seemed to be standing taller today and I fervently hoped that these cathartic pilgrimages were helping her after all. I didn’t feel I could intrude upon her private sorrow, but I found myself willing her with all my heart to take courage. I wanted somehow to share my strength with her – to enable her to start rebuilding her life, to move on.

It may have been fancy, but I could swear as she turned away from the grave there was the faintest smile upon her lips and I am certain she had a new lightness in her step as she retreated through the trees. My own heart lifted to see her, as I fondly hoped my willing her had helped in some small way. It would certainly help me to rest in peace.

[400 words]

[Please disregard the above and use this slightly amended version as my comp entry]

She was there again, that was four times in one week. The first had been the day the headstone was erected and then two days later. She was back the next day and now, there she was again, plodding slowly through the trees.

She didn’t notice me; I can be quite unobtrusive. I suppose it comes with the territory. I watched her, as I’d done on her previous visits, as she stood at the graveside and gazed at the writing on the marble. I could read the large lettering again, myself, along with her.

“IN FONDEST MEMORY OF RICHARD MCALPINE (1952 – 2011). GREATLY MISSED BY HIS LOVING WIFE, RUTH, AND ‘SNUFFLES’. REST IN PEACE.”

It would have been plain to anyone seeing her the first day, when she came with her pet Pekinese, that this was Ruth – and Snuffles. She stood where she was standing now, silently weeping. Snuffles lay at her feet, front paws on the edge of the grave, head low between them whining, gently, as if he knew where his master was. Perhaps the little dog was simply reflecting his owner’s sadness, I don’t know, but I’d like to think he knew.

She hadn’t brought him back since. But she had brought her tears – the next day and yesterday. It saddened me to see anyone with such a heavy heart and although I was watching for her by the third day to see if she’d return, today I had hoped she wouldn’t come. I hoped she might have grieved enough over her husband's grave. But she came again.

Yet from where I watched, she seemed to be standing taller today and I fervently hoped that these cathartic pilgrimages were helping her after all. I didn’t feel I could intrude upon her private sorrow, but I found myself willing her with all my heart to take courage. I wanted somehow to share my strength with her – to enable her to start rebuilding her life, to move on.

It may have been fancy, but I could swear as she turned away from the grave there was the faintest smile upon her lips and I am certain she had a new lightness in her step as she returned through the trees. My own heart lifted to see her, as I fondly hoped my willing her had helped in some small way. It would certainly help me to rest in peace.

[400 words]

She was there again, that was four times in one week… or was it five? The number swished around in the dregs of her last bottle of vodka. Her feet dragged along the path, lurched past the neatly-trimmed hedge and stopped at the front door. The door loomed, larger than she’d remembered and glossily blue/brown in the sodium orange of the street lamp. It stood barred against her, as it had been all these years for fear her presence would somehow defile the virgin carpets and pristine walls within, and bring chaos to this otherwise immaculate life.

She felt her way along the walls, hand over hand into shadow, to windows blinded by curtains drawn by a precise and sober hand. Here, this one window, this splinter view into the denied world, drew her closer like cotton through the eye of a needle.

Her breath misted the glass and she wiped it away with a sweating palm. Nothing had changed: the tableau was as she’d left it. The argumentative stain had soaked into the cream carpet; the magnolia walls were patterned with spatters and rivulets of disappointment.

The pale hand didn’t move. The economy bulb didn’t light the corners of the room, but fell instead on twisted limbs, accentuating the odd angle of the neck. The face turned towards her held its expected expression of disgust: the eyes accused though the lips were silent.

Don’t look at me like that. It’s not my fault…

But it was.

The sound of a vehicle slowing in the road behind her came as a relief. The window-glass reflected the alternating flashes of orange and blue. Footsteps thudded dully along the path and the door knocker thunder-clapped in her ears. She waited, as she had waited since she was a small girl, for someone to notice her. A hand touched her arm and the sound of a sledge-hammer, breaking down barriers she’d only once managed to cross, jarred down her spine.

‘She gave me away….’ Her voice sounded small, petulant. It was no excuse for what she’d done but she had to voice her pain. ‘She never loved me.’

She was there again, that was four times in one week.

She first came at noon on Monday. Soldiers scrambled for cover. The old Iraqi woman stood naked at the entrance gazing vacantly into the Green Zone. English soldiers shouted in Arabic through a loudhailer –

“Put your hands in the air and drop to your knees.”

I had seen many attacks but my home remained undamaged despite being on the Green Zone doorstep. I had watched as the woman failed to respond, remaining still in the hot, dusty Baghdad street. The Muezzin broke the silence with midday Adhan.

“Allahu Akbar - Ash-had al-la ilaha illa llah,” he sang.

As brothers emerged from buildings to respond to the call for prayer the soldiers made no move to arrest their strange visitor. Of course, the military had its procedures. But wearing only the suit God gave her she could hardly hide anything on her person. After a few minutes a group of women arrived.

“Mufeeda … Mufeeda,” they cried.

Mufeeda’s relatives apologised to the soldiers, explaining her mental illness and her wanderings from the institution that houses her. They slipped a Burqa over her and led her away.

She returned on Tuesday at the same time. Naked Mufeeda stood peering past the guardhouse into the depths of the Green Zone. The soldiers took cover and waited while someone made a phone call. Relatives soon arrived looking embarrassed. The soldiers wandered over and pleasantries were exchanged. Mufeeda was clothed and led away.

On Wednesday they were expecting her. Two soldiers came out and covered her with a blanket. They took her gently to the guardhouse to wait for collection.

Today, as the sun reaches its zenith, she is back. The soldiers greet her with their blanket, though I know their patience is waning.

Suddenly Mufeeda collapses. She falls heavily onto her face. Soldiers rush to her. One speaks hurriedly into his radio. An ambulance emerges from within the Green Zone. Poor Mufeeda is taken into the hospital.

“Allahu Akbar …”

I sit down, iphone in my hand.

Our psychologists are brilliant. Four consecutive days they said.

Visiting time was my idea. A distraction not without irony.

Our scientists’ electronic body implants are sheer genius.

Our wonderful cosmetic surgeons also deserve credit.

After two minutes I tap the required numbers and listen. I hear the answer outside.

Mufeeda has made her little brother proud.

A night in the British museum

London, 1997

She was there again, that was four times in one week... Kim with her satin shiny light brown hair in a ponytail the way she always wore it. That’s how he always knew it was her. She wore a light orange t-shirt and dungarees even though she was about eighteen.

‘I’m watching the museum tonight want to keep me company?’ He said feeling a fool but going for it nevertheless. ‘Sure’ she said grinning. ‘Awesome uniform’ she said her hazel eyes twinkling.

She’s going to watch the museum for the night with me!

Kim loved this sort of thing and was eager to stay in relative darkness with the mummies’. Marc thought: Most of the people who had stayed here at night for years still hated being with them but not her. That night with the lights out she was almost bursting with excitement. She smiled her white all American smile at him. Holding a torch he and Kim walked into the room lit only by a few lights. He watched as she moved around carefully, her back stooped as if she was trying not to disturb them or doing her impression of an archaeologist or explorer. The mummies’ lay in glass coffin like boxes.

‘This is so cool’ she said whilst looking around the room her eyes sparkled, fascination all over her face.

Kim felt as though she were really in an ancient tomb.

‘ I can’t believe you do this for a job’

He smiled remembering when he was like her so excited now it was an everyday thing. Kim went over to one of the boxes almost straightaway putting her hands on the glass looking down into it. She thinks she’s an explorer of something, he smiled again in spite of himself. Still looking at the glass cabinet she didn’t realise it had gone suddenly quiet.

She screamed. Marc laughing uncontrollability took his hands off her shoulders ‘ Got you!’

“Jerk” she said hitting him playfully.

The feeling of relief spread through her body, her heart beating like a tom tom in her chest. ‘Night of the living mummy huh?’ he said grinning. ‘Shut up’ she said hitting him again.

‘So maybe I’m not the next Carter then’. She said grinning.

‘Wonderful things’ Marc said breathily then laughing again.

‘You think you’re so funny’ Kim said though she laughed.

There she is again. That’s the fourth time this week.
Ice cold water navigated through my veins as fear bled into my soul. I stared at her in horror.
I needn’t be clairvoyant to see what was coming.
Her eyes held me, willing me not to move, promising an end with no pain, yet I was blind to the obvious malice behind her cold, deep blue eyes which dragged you in while you tried to pull away.
The first time I saw this women was just before I got the call. The call informing me that my parent’s plane had crashed, no one had survived.
The second time was the day I had food poisoning, just before I heard on the news about my high school being raided by hate-fuelled ex-students. No survivors.
The third time was while I was talking to my older brother on the phone, who was with his wife on the motor-way. I heard their screams, the grinding of metal, and the crying of his baby. 15 car pile up. No survivors.
But this time? I had no-one left. I had been tortured in the past week, my life and love ripped away from me, with bleach poured into each wound.
She smiled a sickly smile which brought up the hairs on the back of my neck. My pure hatred, mixed with cold fear, caused me to stand, to take a weak stand against the women.
She took a step forward.
My breath quickened and my heart pounded. She voiced my thought.
‘You’re next’
The sudden gush of wind lifted her blonde hair up in an eerie fashion, he skirt whipping around her knees and he jacket flew open, revealing a silver berretta.
Her perfectly manicured hand reached for the gun in a graceful manner, pointing it directly towards me.
I tried to calm down. But I couldn’t. Under these circumstances, no-one would be able to.
He delicate fingers squeezed the trigger and the last thing I saw before the depths of darkness was the window between us shatter, obscuring the view of the women I was sure I had killed last year.

Just a tiny bit late ???

"There she is again. That's the fourth time this week. The orbital period is definitely getting shorter." The director of the observatory turned from the screen to address the gathered astronomers. "I'm afraid there's no longer any room for doubt: she's going to hit the Earth."
No-one knew what had perturbed the orbit of the asteroid Ceres. With a diameter of 578 miles, Ceres almost qualifies as a planet. Impact with the Earth wouldn't merely cause a mass extinction; it would liquify the entire surface of the planet and change its orbit. Nothing would survive, not even micro-organisms that could eventually evolve into complex life-forms. The story of life on Earth would be over forever.
"Now that we're absolutely certain, we'll have to announce our findings to the rest of the scientific community - and inform the government, of course." The director ran his hands distractedly through his hair. "They'll want to keep it from the wider public, in order to prevent panic, but it's bound to get out sooner rather than later. Let's try to make sure that the leak doesn't come from us, gentlemen."

"I'm gonna take out my life savings and spend it all on cocaine and prostitutes," Angus told his colleagues as they gathered at the pub in the evening.
"Good call, Fungus," Gerry agreed. "Better do it before the news leaks and the prices go up."
"Don't you think it would be better to spend your remaining time getting right with Christ?" Anthony suggested.
"Oh, give it a rest, your holiness." Angus rolled his eyes and downed his double whiskey in a single swallow. "If God is gonna throw asteroids at us, he can suck my balls. I'm gonna party like it's the end of the world - which it is."

Angus woke up with the worst hangover of his life, and an aching groin. It had been one hell of a party. Now the prostitutes were all gone, as were his wallet, his computer, his widescreen TV . . .
At least the telephone was still there, and the answering machine, on which a red LED was flashing. He hauled himself across the room and hit the 'play messages' button.
"Yo, Fungus! Awesome news! Hubble showed Ceres still in her normal orbit - turns out some asshole hacked the observatory's computer . . ."

Nice to have you back.

Stone the crows!!!

Astonished. It is 04:35 on Monday morning, and I have WON!

Many thanks!

I am most pleased! Never been a gracious winner....or gracious anything else.

There have been sone great entries and i dread having to judge work which I consider much better than mine in October's comp.


Some really good comps lately and I will take a few hours to work up something worthy of the talents here for the next comp.

Stand by. and thanks again.....

Well done :0)