Intense, jagged marks scrawl across the paper, varying in size and location to one another. A dim light dusts the room gently, the ink seemingly casting shadows on the paper. These barely legible symbols still form words despite their ugliness and how they seem to trail off near the end of each sentence. His words, derived from complex notions and thoughts are so quickly filtered into words that his hand can barely keep up. Wrist cramps have been a common enemy since childhood. He often wonders what his handwriting has to say about him. Why was it so bad in the first place? What would an analyst say? He’s often been told that he has “doctor” or “serial killer” handwriting; somehow these dichotomous descriptions hit home for him. All his life he felt he could relate on all levels of the outcast spectrum, from being remarkably intelligent for his age as a child to becoming a remarkibly un-social adult; he grew up in his head. He tries not to blame anyone for how he’s turned out so far, no one has ever directly harmed him; though sometimes he thinks that’s his problem. He doesn’t feel like he knows himself, constantly wishing that something would happen that just hits him, some undeniable proof of something.

Scratching continues on the paper, barely reaching his ears despite the silence of the room; nothing can drown out what the brain is telling you.

“How do people define the way they value their own lives? I’m concerned that the focus of my life thus far has been entirely insular. Focused on myself, my needs, wants and desires to the point of developing neurosis surrounding my self-perception and relationships with others. There is so much to this world and the depth with which I see other people experience life makes me feel like I am not seeing things clearly, my senses seem deadened and blocked out by some sort of influence that I don’t know whether or not I can control. What, then, is my recourse? To what or whom do I appeal in order to gain the insight I seek. Here is my problem, I feel that my focus is so insidiously focused on my own personal satisfaction with my life that it has seeped into every thought, action, and desire that I have; even the ones that seem philanthropic in nature. Now I am not sure that there can exist such a concept as true altruism in human behavior, but I do not feel that I am devoted to others.”

He’s reading as he writes, thank God no one else is gonna see this agnsty, pompous bullshit. Self hate is a motif in and outside of his “work”.

“I’m disappointed because I was expecting something significant to happen today and I’m having a hard time understanding why I feel like that when I have more energy I expect the world to give me things that I want even though I really don’t do anything to get those things why am I sitting and waiting I don’t know.”

Punctuation apparently damned now, he’s working himself up again. Caught in a whirlpool of self analysis and hate that spirals down and down for hours, sometimes days.

And without regard for anything but getting his shit out:

“Somehtoing is not right her e, like what am i sitting here wsasting my tiome for if all i am foing to do is just ficking sit her waiting for someone to give me instruvtions on hoew to go about kmakig muy dya as ghrshj f”

Full panic mode. Thoughts screaming so loud he can’t even tell what they’re saying, his hand moving frantically though he knows he has control he continues intensly almost scribbling now.

“Im tired no one’s gonna read this anyway”.

And as usual the paper is crumpled and tossed, what a waste of time he would think to himself, and of my potentail!

I’m a good writer Damnit!

2 am. Ravens’ Hour. The hour when the darkness is as obsidian and lush as a raven’s wing. A watchful, alert time for those who choose to be awake. Or for those who have no choice.

Tarquin hurried along the dim passageway, his feet made swift by the command that had called him from the cocooning comfort of his bed at this late hour. Flames bent and flickered alarmingly in the hand-beaten gold candle sconces that adorned the walls, the light disturbed and dashed into violence by the breeze he created in his flight. The thin soles of his court slippers slapped and echoed eerily against the flagstone tiles: tiles carried from the King’s Quarry in Maidenhead, tiles mined by the sweat and blood of conscripted men who labored until death to provide stone worthy of the royal footprint.

Tarquin’s bedchamber was located in the west wing, as befitting a trusted consort of the King, and it took him only minutes before he reached the foot of the broad stone stairs that lead to the Monarch’s quarters. Here he took a moment to compose himself, to smooth out the creases in his hastily grabbed court robes, to still his overwrought mind, and to pull the fingers and thumb of one hand down his cheeks to meet in a point under his chin, ensuring the grey and chestnut hairs of his neatly trimmed beard lay even and flat. Even at Raven’s Hour, King Oliphant expected his staff to appear before him polished, precise, and ready to receive his command.

Tarquin Rutherford was a nobleman, a man of impeccable character and breeding, a man with no need to boast of his many and varied accomplishments. Tarquin, erstwhile commander of the courageous and brave armed forces of the Kingdom of Mortana, had risen through the ranks through sheer force of will and an unwavering determination to succeed. Tenacious and persistent, handsome and headstrong, he had crushed the Kingdom’s enemies, vanquished all who disobeyed, and subjugated the masses into passive obedience. All in the King’s name, naturally.

The gratifying outcome of Tarquin’s redoubtable efforts and loyal service to his Monarch was his current role and title – Tarquin Rutherford, Hand of the King. Tarquin was well aware of exactly what his title afforded him and it pleased him to see the spark of respect and admiration in the eyes of the men to whom the King granted his introduction.

Tarquin’s title came with more than just entry to the King’s closest circle. Tarquin’s title came with the assurance of a Senior Ministerial Pension, a prize as opulent as the name suggested. The guaranteed pension, a hard won reward for Tarquin’s long and faithful years of service, was enough to furnish the purchase of a fine home and provide Tarquin with a healthy salary for the remainder of his days.

With a final adjustment of his robes, with one last smoothing of his eyebrows with a spit-moistened fingertip, Tarquin climbed the short flight of stairs to reach the heavy, gold-hinged, polished oak door. Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand on the wood and inched the door open.

King Oliphant, a man known throughout the land for his ferocity, fearlessness, and decisive, cut-throat, iron-fisted rule, was tying the final knot on the sash of his silken, monogramed purple robe as Tarquin stepped inside the royal bedchamber. He lifted his hazel gaze and stared at Tarquin without raising his lion-maned head, his greeting no more than a grunt, before padding on gnarled, blue-veined bare feet across to the arched window at the head of the chamber.

Tarquin waited silently, standing just a few footfalls inside the door, his hands clasped behind his back and his spine straight. He had made many such a pilgrimage to the King’s bedchamber, often beckoned on the strength of the King’s whimsy or his pressing need to have his midnight thoughts heard by a confidante, and Tarquin was well aware of the etiquette and courtesy required for such an honour. ’Twas a small price to pay.

“I have a decision to make.” It was an idle statement, an external musing of internal thoughts, nothing more. The comment required no response and the King expected none. King Oliphant, his gaze distracted and thoughtful, turned away from his observation of his night-hued realm from the strategic viewpoint of his window and began to pace.

Tarquin amused himself whilst he waited; biding his time as he pictured the refinement and beauty of the house that he planned to accommodate his retirement years. An awe-inspiring property, a salubrious dwelling worthy of a nobleman of his experience and ilk. Somewhere in the country perhaps, and surrounded by deep blue moats and luxurious, verdant fields of imported grasses and pink-tipped, curved petals of clover. On the very border of the Kingdom, far removed from the shadow of the castle…

The King stopped pacing and scowled at Tarquin from under heavy, grizzled brows. “I seldom care to repeat myself but I think the occasion calls for it. Make haste to rouse Eldridge and inform him that his services are required immediately. He will know what to do.”

Tarquin made sure to keep his face still and impassive, asking no questions and raising no quibble, broadcasting respect and willingness to serve with every nuance of his being. The King had spoken and it was not worth Tarquin’s neck to cross-examine his decision. Many a lesser man before him had made that mistake and not lived to tell the tale. Besides, Tarquin had his much-anticipated retirement in the country to consider.

“That is all.” The King’s tone was imperious, final, setting the sovereign seal on his instructions. He had already turned away from Tarquin, expectant of the fulfilment of his desires and satisfied beyond doubt that his word was law. His hands busily untied the sash of his robe as he marched towards the majestic draperies and linens of his four-poster, king-size royal bed. Tarquin hastily ducked his head into a low bow and backed away, catching an unwanted glimpse of the King’s pale, hairy rump as he hitched up his silken nightshirt and climbed onto his rumpled sheets. Tarquin reached the partially ajar door and slid his body lithely and gracefully through the gap, intent on delivering the King’s order with speed and precision before returning to his own slumber.

“I’ve changed my mind.” King Oliphant’s strident voice carried easily along the corridor, bouncing off the flagstone tiles before wrapping itself around Tarquin’s ears. “Tell the cook I want peanut butter and jelly this time. On white bread. No crusts.”

The End

As a half-hearted, semi-formed moon rose over the township of Wilson's Creek and the fiercely cheerful fairground music was cranked up a notch, Bart reluctantly tipped the remainder of his carefully collected and butchered bait into the caliginous waters of the bay. The frantic, voracious swirl of fins and teeth just under the surface assured the immediate annihilation of any remaining traces of evidence. Ruth Underwin was a tenacious woman and although Bart believed the feeble Dr. Simpson would keep his mouth shut in order to save his own paltry, pasty skin, he was not so sure that Ms. Underwin would be able to keep her pointy nose where it belonged. At times like this, it was best to be on the safe side.

He watched the foaming, chaotic waters for a few seconds more before turning and trudging back into the office. Jack had mentioned that he was considering adding a selection of boutique beers to extend the range already offered down at the tavern and Bart had been brewing on an idea ever since his conversation with Barney. Besides, he had always had a pharmacist’s discerning eye for blending and mixing. Pat it and shape it and mark it with B, put it in the barrel for baby and me. Bart kicked the door shut and reached for his phone.

***

It only took a split second for him to realize she’d somehow managed to sneak up on him. However, in that same split second he won his battle to keep a lid on his fright, freezing his startled muscles into docile submission through sheer force of will. The blood pounded in his head and he felt woozy from the effort but at least he hadn’t given her the pleasure of seeing that she’d scared him. Never show fear, apples and pears, bottoms up and fortunes on the rise.

This time, she did not bother with pleasantries. “Tom Gordon is missing. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

He continued staring out across the roiling grey waters of the bay, pretending for several long seconds that he hadn’t heard her. Low black clouds menaced their way across the horizon, threatening a storm in the not too distant future, and the wind contained the viscious fangs of wolves as it worried and nipped at his clothes and tore at his exposed skin. He sucked the last remaining flicker of life from his cigarette before dropping the butt into the water, listening for the faint, satisfying hiss as the burning embers hit the frigid surface of the sea. Now, he would acknowledge her. He turned slowly, ensuring his sneer was firmly in place and that he lit his eyes with nothing but derision. “Who?”

Jane Ritz clicked her tongue impatiently, the steel in her eyes matching the glint of the badge on her chest. “Tom Gordon. Old Tom from the lighthouse.”

“Why are you asking me?” He cast his gaze towards the distant lighthouse, the white painted structure stark against the ominously gathering clouds. For the first time, he noticed the promontory was busy today, crawling with cops and assorted hangers-on. Flies on a corpse, fleas on a dog.

She followed his line of sight. “I’m asking everyone. Besides, you have an unobstructed view of the point from here. You might have seen something.”

He picked at his teeth, taking his time to answer. The woman’s mere presence annoyed the shite out of him, made his flesh prickle and crawl down the side of his body positioned nearest to her, and he briefly entertained the thought of thrusting his hip out to knock her off the pier and into the bay. From the size and ferocity of the creatures he’d glimpsed under the wharf yesterday, Ritz’s slight body would not last long in the chilly waters, especially if he did not offer to help her out. He grinned at the obscure and unbidden thought.

“What’s so funny?” The frost in her voice was sharper now, cutting and annoyed. She edged away from the wharf and nearer to the bait shop. “Mind if I take a look inside?”

He was in front of the doorway in an instant, blocking her entry by the weight of his stare and the girth of his body. “Got a permit?”

She fell back, her eyes narrow and mean. “Got something to hide?”

“A man’s personal space is a man’s personal space.”

“I thought it was shop? Open to the public?” She attempted to sidestep him but he refused to budge, folding his beefy arms across his chest to drive his point home.

“Read the sign. Shop doesn’t open till nine.”

She held his gaze and he did not look away, dimly aware all at once of a flurry of motion and curiously heavy splashes beneath the wharf, and of the first icy splatters of rain wetly hitting the battered boards of the pier. At last, with a barely audible sigh, she turned to leave. “You know where I am if you remember anything.”

He did not bother to reply, instead stepping back into the shelter of the shop as she put her head down and hurried away, the pelting, hammering rain hastening her exit. Scamper, little mousey, but you can’t run from me. He glanced once more across at the flurry of activity around the lighthouse before firmly shutting the door.

***

“You thought any more about that little project we discussed the other day?”

Barney Sylvester weaselled up next to Bart at the bar of Jack’s Tavern and Bart resisted the urge to shuffle sideways and distance himself from the man. Barney smelt of old piss and semen, and the nasty odour was clearly discernible above the yeasty, nostril drenching smell of spilt beer. “Wasn’t aware we were discussing anything in particular.”

Barney hee-hawed an unnecessary laugh and Bart felt his lip curl of its own accord. He’d finish his beer and then he’d be on his way, but first he had a spot of business to finalise. He raised his hand to catch Jack’s attention as Barney, blithely unaware Bart was ignoring him, began to blather on about his range of intoxications and medications, all of which were available for the right price. No questions asked and no answers given. Roll up and give the wheel a spin.

“Tripper.” Jack had taken his sweet time to approach Bart’s section of the bar and Bart struggled to quell his irritation. Jack’s response in Bart’s suggestion to share his brewing expertise had been mild at best and since then, the tavern owner had not bothered to raise the subject again.

“About that proposal I made a couple of weeks ago. The boutique beers. I’ve taken the liberty of setting a batch of brew at the back of the shop. Should be ready for tasting in a week or so, once it’s reached prime condition. Could bring some down. Do a bit of sampling, beer and cheese, you know the drill.”

Jack grimaced, avoiding Bart’s eyes and looking anywhere but at him. “You probably should have asked first, before going to so much trouble. I’ve gone ahead and ordered some of that Swedish stuff that’s so popular with the young ’uns. The first delivery is due tomorrow or the next.”

Bart snorted. “Young ’uns? Open yer eyes. No one in here is on the right side of forty.”

“And that’s exactly what I’m hoping to change,” Jack said, his voice terse. He waved, falsely cheerful, at ancient Molly Horton sitting vulture-like down at the other end of the bar and making crepe-y cows eyes at any man brave enough to venture near. “I'm sorry. Catch you later, Bart.”

“Jesus F. Christ. How to let a man go wasting his time, yer smarmy bastard.” Bart made sure his words were loud enough to carry. He slammed his empty tankard down onto the beer-sodden bar towels and marched out of the bar, leaving the surprised Barney in mid-spiel.

***

She'd caught him again, and this time he had no warning and no chance to hide his fright. He was industriously tipping the foamy remains of his brew over the side of the wharf, vaguely interested in the attention his activity garnered from whatever lay beneath, and suddenly she was there. “Tripper.”

“Jesus!” The barrel slipped from his hands and splashed into the water, throwing up great splatters of brown beer-and-salt-water spray. “Look what yer ferking made me do.” He glared at her, not attempting to hide his disgust.

Jane Ritz peered over the side of the pier, her thumbs hooked into her belt loops. "What’s that?”

“Beer. Nothing wrong with tipping a tiny amount of innocent beverage into the bay. Don’t go thinking you can have me for water contamination or any of that shite. It will be diluted and gone before you can whip yer notebook out of yer pocket and find yer pen.”

“No, I don’t mean the beer. What’s that.”

He followed her pointing finger, frowning to see something large and wormlike wrap itself lovingly around a barnacled post of the pier. The tentacles of an octopus sprung to mind, or perhaps a large, writhing earthworm, and then just as quickly whatever it was had gone again. “Dunno what it was. Never seen it before.” He frowned down at the bobbing beer barrel. “Are you going to get it out or am I?”

“I’m sure you’re capable of getting it out, Bart. Trust me, I have no interest in getting it out for you.” Her eyes held a blatant and derisive sneer, an insinuation that there was more behind her words, and he felt his cheeks grow warm. He spun away from her, headed over to where the Bonny Belle sat at her mooring, to fetch the long pike pole with which to haul the barrel from the briny habor. Bitch.

She stood by and watched as he hooked the end of the pike pole into the barrel strapping and hauled the dripping barrel back up onto the wharf. He glanced again at the wharf post, half-expecting to see the tentacle had returned, but there was nothing there but the usual riotous cluster of black-shelled baby mussels and the soft lap and sigh of the water.

He dropped the barrel onto the deck, glad to see that she was forced to jump out of the way, and he leaned on the pike pole. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“I don’t think you’ve come all the way down here to disrupt my day just for the hell of it, though I’ve been wrong in the past. What do you want?”

She was looking into the sun as she responded, making it impossible to read the expression in her eyes. “Peter Simpson. You heard of him?”

Bart rasped his hand across the stubble of his chin, making a show of trying to place the name.

“Drop the act, Tripper. He was seen here at the shop a few weeks ago. When was the last time you saw him?”

Who had seen the dratted fool at the bait shop? And what had he gone and done now? Choose your friends wisely, Tripper, but choose your enemies with the utmost precision. "That was the last time I saw him. When he came down to buy bait. Never had too much to do with the man." Bart feigned disinterest, striding away to return the pike pole to its position on the small hooks on the side of the Bonny Belle. "You'd be better off asking at the asylum. Isn't that where he works?"

"The asylum has been closed down. The facility is under investigation for illegal experimentation and improper handling of the deceased. Dr. Simpson is a person of interest but we've been unable to find him."

"That so?" Bart kept his back to the police officer, his mind racing like a hamster on a wheel. Twist me and turn me and call me an imbecile, I should never have trusted that nincompoop in the first place.

Surprisingly, Lopez appeared to have found all she'd come down to the wharf for. "Let me know if you hear anything. Have a good day, Tripper."

He grunted and paced back to the edge of the wharf, gazing once again down at the partially submerged post. Something was up. It might be the right time to reign business matters in and lay low.

***

"Hi, Da."

Her voice was warm cocoa on a cold winter's night, a feather soft caresss in the midst of a rash of poision ivy itches, and a cool, soothing shower at the end of a sweltering hot day. "Sian, me little love."

"I've got some exciting news! Are you ready for this?"

"Ready as I'll ever be." He heard the smile in his own voice as he settled his rump into the solid welcome of the oak chair behind the desk in his office, his phone pressed tightly to his ear lest she might escape.

"I'm coming to visit. Next week." A small spike of anxiety distorted her tone as her voice flowed and ebbed down the phone line. "Is that all right?"

"Of course it's all right! Best news I've heard all month!" He lifted his feet and placed them up on his desk, tipping his chair back to balance on its back legs. "How long you planning on staying, me love?"

***

Barney sniffed loudly and wetly as he stared down into the impenetrable waters. Jake pulled his own lips back and snorted, replicating his master's actions.

Bart continued sweeping the deck, disinclined to stop work and chat to his unwanted visitor. Sian was due tomorrow and he wanted to be sure the place was immaculate for his wee girl. She would bring a spark of life to the bait shop, hopefully attracting a few more visitors with her welcoming smile and form-fitting tshirts. Customers were growing disgruntled and increasingly sparse since Bart was forced to change the recipe for his jars of worms. He needed to think of a new business line, a new source of income but as yet, creativity had alluded him. Especially with Ritz snooping around. It was a damned pity that unreliable Jack Malcolm had reneged on the beer deal. He needed something that did not involve a business partner. Trusted partners were hard to find. Hell, there was no one in this world he trusted save for himself and Sian.

"Hear about the asylum?"

"Mmmm." Bart kept his responses noncommital, his mind on tomorrow.

"Been closed down. They reckon they'd been trying out new and untested drugs on the crazies." Barney hee-hawed his irritating laugh. "Wouldn't have minded trying out a few of them untested intoxications out for myself."

Bart leaned the broom against the side of the shop and stooped to pick up the worn Welcome mat, turning his head away from the choking clouds of dust that filled the air as he shook it. Something small, a tiny stone or discarded piece of flotsam, flipped over the edge of the wharf and landed with a plop in the water below. Bart bent again to replace the mat in its spot, smoothing the edges as fussily as a housekeeper smoothing a bed corner in the most salubrious of fine hotels.

"You busy?" Barney finally appeared to notice that he was the only person in this conversation.

"Mmmm." Bart walked back into the office, remembering he needed to scrub out the coffee machine. Sian did love her coffee.

"Might be on my way then."

Bart ignored Barney as he meticulously began to dismantle the coffee machine. He'd get a bag of those coffee beans she liked, too. What were they? Jamician Sunset they were called, or something equally atrocious. Something fruity and ridiculous. Pitched for this new breed of weak-livered young men that appeared to be proliferating of late. Sensitive, they called them. New age or somesuch feebrile shite. He heard a muffled yelp from behind him but he took no notice. He'd never had any time for that badtempered junkyard dog. Or its half-witted owner. He carried the pieces of coffee machine over to dump in the sink, glancing out the window as he passed. Barney had gone, taken his dog with him, and the wharf stood empty and peaceful. Bart flipped on the faucet, humming under his breath, and began to scrub at the coffee pot with his nail brush.

***

"Da?" Sian stood in the doorway, all gleaming blonde hair and tanned skin, her lovely face twisted with uncertainty. "There's a police lady here. Says she wants to talk to you."

Bart cursed under his breath, taking his time to get up from his desk as he scrambled his thought patterns into high alert. What was she doing back here again?

"Tripper." Jane Ritz pushed past Sian and into the interior of the bait shop. She thrust a document at Bart just as he opened his mouth to roar at her to get out. "This time I do have a search warrant. Care to step outside while I go through a few things with you?"

Damn her soul. He cast a warning look at the openmouthed Sian and followed Ritz out onto the deck. "What do you want with me?"

"Barney Sylvester is missing. His dog, too. Junkyard left unattended, his wallet and mobile phone on the table. Seems the last anyone heard of him he was headed out here to see you."

This is what you get for mixing with nincompoops. "Yeah, I seen him. Must be at least a week ago now. Was here for five minutes or less then he went on his way again."

"Then I'm sure you won't mind me taking a look inside. A man with nothing to hide has nothing to worry about." She forced a smile at him, all barred teeth and cold, blank eyes, reminding him fleetingly of Barney's rottweiler.

Bart leaned morosely up against the side of the shop whist the police officer took her time going through his office and store. She wouldn't find anything, he was too clever for that, but still it made him uneasy to think of the law's grasping, sticky hands oll over his stuff. Quick Draw McDraw, peow peow peow, last one of you varmints to draw your gun is dead and I'll gladly hang for my sins.

"Does she think you had something to do with it?" Sian picked at her fingernail, attacking the glossy red varnish with nervous concentration.

"Who knows? Coppers aren't known for their brains."

"Can we take the Bonny out later? It's a beautiful day." She leaned her head back against the pristine painted wood of the bait store exterior and lifted her face to the sun. "We could go finishing. Like we used to."

He grinned, his irritation and anger dissipating and wafting away for now. "Yeah. We just might."

Officer Ritz finished up at last, and Bart was pleased to see she'd collected nothing to take with her. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Tripper."

Bart raised his eyebrows at the salutation, aware the courtesy was for Sian's benefit alone, and spat a juicy glob of salivia towards the waters edge, ensuring it flew close enough to the officer's uniformed arm to make her aware it was meant for her. "If you'd bothered listening to me I could have saved you the bother of a search."

"Right you are." She gave them both a curt nod and left, her heavy tread on the boards her own equivalent to Bart's disdainful lob of spit.

"Stuck up cow," Bart snarled at her retreating back, ensuring his tone was of the right pitch to be passed of as a trick of the wind should he be questioned. "Come on, Sian. We've got a trip on the water to plan."

***

It was later than Bart had hoped for before they were finally ready to leave. Sian had insisted on a visit to the grocery store in town for supplies, needlessly using his already battered credit card to purchase a french breadstick, dusky skinned grapes, imported cheese, and Swiss chocolates. He'd been about to protest that it weren't a fancy date he was taking her on but one look at her pleased expression as she loaded up her arms had silenced him. She'd said something about taking photos for her Insta, whatever the devil that meant, and if she was happy he was happy. As the clerk rung up the purchases, Sian had added a bottle of gold-foiled champagne, priced at a value that made Bart's eyes water and his groin ache, but he'd resolutely held his tongue. She'd be gone again before he knew it and he needed to make the most of this time with her.

Back at the pier, while Sian fussed about with her expensive food items and a dusty wicker basket she'd dragged out from somewhere, Bart checked over the boat. He was still unsettled by Ritz's visit and beginning to feel a trifle uneasy about the spate of disappearances. The town didn't always attract the most law abiding or sociably upright of citizens but still, three unexplained disappearances in as many weeks was out of the ordinary even for a place like this.

"Ready!" Sian bounced out of the bait shop, all swinging hair and long, flashing legs, her basket cradled in front of her. "Can we go out towards the heads? Past the lighthouse? Lots of good shots to be had out there."

"If you like." He glanced at the sun, now sinking rapidly. "Should be a good sunset with those few clouds lurking about on the horizon." As the sun sets on another day, toss away your worries and begin to pray.

She leaned over to place her basket on the deck of the boat and Bart hastily cleared his throat and averted his eyes. He was never one to complain about the sight of a shapely woman in a pair of short shorts, but this was his daughter.

"Daaaaaaa!" It was a scream of terror wrapped around a shriek of horror, riven through with purest agony. Bart spun around, his blood throbbing in his veins and every molecule of his body pumped full of adrenalin, and watched in almost detached panic as an enormous, muculent tentacle reached out of the water and wrapped itself around Sian. Half a breath's space later, she disappeared over the side of the wharf, leaving him with nothing but one last image of her flailing, tanned arms and pert, denim-clad bottom.

"Sian!" He was at the side of the pier in an instant, gazing down in distraught despair at the boiling, splashing water as his shocked brain struggled to catch up with what he'd just seen. "Sian!"

A man's final thoughts are surprisingly clear, he mused to himself, as a second slimy appendage reached up, wrapping around him twice and dragging him, unprotesting, towards its open, yawning, stinking mouth. He could almost count the creature's yellow, pitted teeth, he were that close. He could certainly hear the sharp, snapping sound of his own ribs cracking and feel the strangely comforting warmth of his bladder and bowels as his muscles left go and released. He hurt too, he hurt all over, but the pain was oddly muffled. Distant and faraway, interestingly enough. He watched with that same vague interest as his arm was torn from his body, bringing forth glorious, vibrant spurts of blood and gore. You probably never should have used those asylum bodies for bait. Tripper. Put all your money on the black or put all your money on the red, spin the dice and watch to see how she rolls...

The End

You paint me as the depiction

Of merely an affliction

Claiming my pain is self-infliction

Only a misunderstanding of diction

Not you emotional dereliction

Within your jurisdiction

I was not granted benediction

Your decision was conviction

And the penalty crucifixion

Followed by tight restrictions

And interdictions

We're not the result of malediction

Who loves me; you or your addiction

Why not give your valedictions

It's so hard not knowing what is real

And what is nothing more than fiction