Writer's Block

Cats sleep 16 to 18 hours a day.
It took Leo Tolstoy six years to write War & Peace.
A skunk's smell can be detected by a human a mile away.
Random, yes? Well, not so much.
See, you're going to need to know all that five years from now. I can't explain why, but on a certain day in your life all those things will matter at once.
And you'll remember them, which is good. You'll get to live.
For a bit longer, anyway.
Unfortunately, you'll then forget the combination to the safe behind the painting in your bedroom.
It's 77081081, by the way. Yes, I know you don't have a safe, but you will. You're quite pleased about this - up until that moment anyway.
The human heart creates enough pressure to squirt blood thirty feet. No, you don't need to remember that, but it'll be relevant in a few years.
The eulogy will be excellent, by the way. Not that you'll be in a position to be very appreciative, but I just thought I'd point that out.
I know that right now you're resolving never to buy a safe, but I'm afraid your belief in me isn't really based in anything your mind will let you rely on...so you're still going to buy one, two years from now, having forgotten all about me and my 'predictions'.
Just as three years later you'll forget how to get into your own safe.
But don't feel bad, because you were going to die anyway.
After all, I already know the combination...

"Morning, Bob!", said the bus stop. Bob rubbed his eyes wearily and peered into the distance, hoping his bus was in sight. No such luck.
"You look like you're putting on a few extra pounds there, Bob. Wife feeding you too well?"
Bob stared stonily ahead, trying to block out the annoying prattle.
"Suit's getting a bit worn back there, Bob. Better get yourself to Moss Bros asap - don't want Claire from Accounts to get an eyeful next time you bend over, do we?"
Bob closed his eyes and silently counted to ten. Not today, please, not this again.
"Particularly not when that eyeful's getting bigger every week. Not much give left in those pants, is there?"
Shut up shut up shut up shut up.
"Wife's still as fit as ever, of course. Much like that gardener who's been around a lot the last few days. What is it today - cutting the grass again? Lawn's not that big, is it?"
A nerve began to twitch furiously on Bob's forehead.
"Four hours pay for your small lawn...but your wife always seems so satisfied afterwards..."
The next thing Bob knew, he was standing next to a destroyed bus stop, panting heavily and holding a bent sign. He let it drop. It was quiet now, at last.
When the bus finally arrived he was very calm, more calm than he'd been for a long time. The passengers looked at him nervously in his tattered suit, but he didn't care - just walked to the back of the bus and sat down.
"That really wasn't very nice, Bob", said the bus seat. "Let's have a nice long chat about it on your way to work."

It all began, as many stories do, in a land far far away.

Not that anyone really cared where it was, or even about the story itself. "Dog bites man in foreign country", while a technically-accurate summary, would hardly be likely to garner much attention internationally. And so most of the world carried on in ignorance, their minds preferring to focus on the weightier issues of the day, such as Jordan's latest boyfriend or Justin Bieber's visit to Indonesia.

Of course, if you were to actually read the story, you'd find something a little different. You might, for example, pause on the fact that the man in question had been bitten before, and in fact had been bitten thirty times in the last fortnight. Perhaps you'd expect to see that he worked with dogs, and be further puzzled by him actually being just a simple carpenter. Or that the dogs were aggressive breeds that he'd antagonised into attack somehow, rather than a seemingly-random selection of all breeds and sizes.
Then you'd read further, curiosity drawing you deeper, and possibly a gasp would escape your lips on reading that every dog who bit him had died within the hour. To read that every single dog had launched themselves at him as he walked by, howling in fury, and shortly afterwards had been found as nothing more than bones and scraps of fur, as if devoured from the inside - surely that would set your mind racing, wondering what could do such a thing?
Your thoughts might then turn to the owners of the poor dogs, and why this man continues to walk free even though he clearly carries something horrendous. Was there some reason why nobody was blaming him, why none of the owners seem even to be aware of what happened to all the other dogs, why no-one apart from the reporter was making a connection between the attacks and the dogs' subsequent horrific deaths? And even he seemed to be trying to hide the story under a banal headline.

Finally you'd reach the end of the article, your mind fogged with a thousand questions, and come face-to-face with a picture of the man. His eyes, so green, so piercing, as if they reach into the darkest corners of your soul and drag your secrets screaming into the light...you hear a voice bellow "Mine!", a voice that sounds like yours and yet not yours, and you can feel yourself trying to scream but nothing gets out, you've lost control and all you can do is observe from a tiny corner of your mind as your body stands up and walks over to the window, gazing into the darkness outside...

And nearby all the dogs have started howling...

Tonight, brothers, I present to you something a little different for your delectation. It is a little something I picked up on my holidays, a wonderful treat from Eastern Europe that's rarely seen over here. I can see you're all eager to find out more, but let's be patient, friends. Ah, you, at the door, don't be shy! There's plenty of room for everyone. Just find a seat, sit back and relax. I think you're all really going to enjoy this. I've been unable to get it out of my mind for even a minute since my return, in fact - it's absolutely mesmerizing.

Everyone in now, all sitting comfortable? Ok, we're almost ready to start the show. Lock the doors, please, Piotr? Good, good, we don't want any interruptions. Ok, on we go...

Now, you'll see in this opening shot what appears to be an ordinary, albeit eccentrically-dressed, elderly man. This is one of the local gentry, the good Count Dracula, and it was in his fine abode that I stayed while visiting Wallachia.

What's that you say? Is it THE Count Dracula? Well, it certainly is THE Count Dracula, but not in the sense of that silly novel which slandered his grandfather so terribly. It is a mystery to all what made Mr Stoker concoct such fantasies, although there is some speculation in the village that he took offence to being thrown out of a pub by Dracula Sr. Be that as it may, the locals have nothing but kind words to say about the good Count. Anyway, onto the next slide.

Ah, here we have two of the Count's sisters, relaxing in the drawing room with glasses of Bloody Mary. Not my choice of tipple, but they seemed very fond of it. You'll see over the fireplace an imposing portrait of their grandfather - I'm sure you can see the strong family resemblance to his grandson.

Ok, these next few are some shots I took in and around the castle. Splendid, isn't it? It was built centuries ago by one of the Count's forebears. I was staying in the top-most room in that turret on the left, and the views were exceptional.

We're getting very near to the real treat of the show now, gentlemen. I know it's a bit tame up to this point, but what you'll see in a moment will amaze you. Suffice to say I've been looking for it for many years, but never expected to find it in this little town of all places. Ah, I can see a couple of our older members have guessed my surprise already, so without further ado...behold!

I can gather from your gasps that you all recognize it immediately, and no wonder, when you all wear the same emblem next to your hearts. The symbol of our order, the three-headed snake, engraved on this ancient crypt door, a scant two minutes walk from the Count's castle.

Brothers, I'm afraid to say that at this point I was somewhat careless, for in my haste to examine the symbol closer I unwittingly revealed my own copy, which caused my guides to turn instantly hostile. However, having both run their swords through me, their frantic Latin was too distorted from the original incantation, and their own puny protections were in vain.

I broke into the vault! I swear it had not been touched since Julius Caesar's time, and I believe it was old even then. Lying here for thousands of years, waiting to be discovered again. Amongst the centuries-old bones, covered by a million cobwebs, I found the book!

Here it is, brothers, De Serpentes Mysteriis, in our hands at last! Let me show you a little trick I learned...aaaahhhhh....I grow...and I change...and become the giant ssserpent itssself...

But alasss, brothersss, I have bad newsss...I find myssself unwilling to ssshare. I do not NEED to ssshare...I have all that I need in thisss room right now...

My poor brothersss...I need...to FEED!

Sir,

It is my solemn hope that whomsoever first finds this then acts upon it, though I cannot conceive of any way that the future I have foreseen can be avoided. It is, nonetheless, my duty to pass on what I have seen, and to care not one whit for those dark mumblings of sorcery or madness which have besieged me on my way to the grave and doubtless beyond.

My name is Samuel Grayson. I am...or rather was...the pastor at St Helena's, until that day in 1845 when a great storm broke suddenly upon our fair town. I found myself in the church tower, preparing to move as many of the relics and precious scrolls to the basement ere the storm wrought its havoc upon us. Alas, I tarried too long.

To be in that tower when the lightning struck - I would wish that upon no man. Suffice it to say that I woke hours later in the church basement, my ears still ringing and my hair now whiter than the palest of apparitions. In vain my rescuers tried to make themselves heard, but from that day forth my world has been silent save for the eternal ringing of the bells within my head.
Many said I was driven mad that day, markedly after my first attempt to share my revelations. But they could not see what I saw, and would rather lurk in the shadows casting insults than dare be seen talking with a madman.

Dear reader, have you ever looked into the sky, gazed upon a star, and then before your eyes seen it blink out of existence? I would venture 'tis not such a foreign occurrence, for not all that is in the heavens is clear to the eye and ofttimes such things would overshadow a star for a time.

But only I, dear reader, have looked into the sky and seen ALL the stars vanish. One by one they all blinked out...not all at once, and not merely when I was looking. But one night I looked up at the stars...and Andromeda was gone. As I stared upwards, I became aware of other gaps...distant stars and galaxies, once seen, now gone. Over the next few nights I saw more and more celestial objects vanish, sometimes even as I stared at them. They disappeared not in the manner of being overshadowed, but rather flared for an instant and then were gone.

As the weeks went by, I expected each day to see some apocalyptic pronouncement appear in the news, or some great sage commenting on the stars' disappearance and proffering some plausible explanation. But there was nothing, save only the discovery of the new planet Neptune. It became apparent that only I was seeing such things. An idea formed in my mind - was I somehow seeing the 'now', rather than an image from perhaps thousands or millions of years ago? Was this even possible? And if true, what horror has struck God's creation?

I can only hope that I truly am a madman, for the alternative is...unthinkable!

Last night the last star vanished...our nearest visible neighbour, Alpha Centauri, a scant 4.3 light years away. It cannot be long until our own Sun follows...I find myself unable to face the oblivion such an event may bring. For if I am not mad...I feel sure I will be driven mad. And I would rather meet my Maker while there is a chance my mind remains sane...

May the next world be more forgiving than this world...

deficit omne quod nasciture

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there lived an orc called Gerald. He was no ordinary orc, and not only because he hadn't been given one of the usual orcish names like Grobbelaar or Kruntlax. No, Gerald was different because he was hero-proof.

I'm sure you're familiar with the typical orc. Ugly, grumpy, prone to massing in large numbers and destroying bits of civilization on a regular basis? Whole garrisons crushed easily, and then later on the entire orc army is wiped out by one plucky teenager with a sword or pointy stick who emerges victorious with only a lightly-bruised arm. These victories are usually ascribed to particular skill on the part of the hero, possibly with some rubbish about them being protected by the gods somehow. Seriously, a teenage runt with a sword they can barely lift, skilled enough to slay hundreds of experienced orcs single-handedly?
In reality it's just a failing on the orcs' side - there's something in their physiology that paralyses them when faced with the insane, something triggered by a certain look in an opponent's eye.
Something in all their physiologies except that of Gerald, anyway...

For most of his life Gerald thought he was normal. He trained like the others, marched drunkenly like the others, fought like the others and looted like the others, all in the name of the dreaded Lord Aldernak. He took down his fair share of nameless town guards too, at least until one of them got lucky and Gerald found himself missing most of his left foot. Fortunately he had gained some minor culinary skill over the years, so he ended up in his Lord's kitchens preparing meals for the priests rather than being one. Life wasn't quite as enjoyable as in his pillaging days, but it was tolerable.

That all changed when the two heroes attacked Lord Aldernak's fortress. The Lord had been absent for over a year, gathering more resources for his next campaign, and perhaps it looked an easy target without him. Well, they were almost right, cutting the hapless garrison to shreds and looting the treasury in double-quick time. Then, of course, they got the munchies and stumbled into the kitchens, casually slaughtering the dinner-orcs and other staff while taking their pick of the Lord's finest nibbles. It was there that they ran into Gerald, who surprised both himself and them by actually parrying a sword thrust with a frying pan, then goring the offending hero's arm with a handy Kitchen Devil. For a few seconds all three of them stood there, incredulous. Then the two barely post-pubescent heroes gave a couple of easily-parried test swipes with their swords, took one look at each other, and made a break for it. Sadly for them Gerald had other ideas by now, and a pair of well-aimed steak knives hurtled through the air, each one burying itself deep in a hero's buttcrack. As they lay screaming on the kitchen floor, Gerald limped to them and cut their hamstrings deftly with the Kitchen Devil.

"You wouldn't believe just how much I've missed all this..."

He raised a potato masher high...

A hour later the fortress' few remaining inhabitants, happily full after sharing a nutritious freshly-made stew, were gathered around Gerald at the entrance. He looked around at them, noting the awestruck faces. The first orc to kill a hero since Sqwint The Lucky two thousand years earlier! How could they be anything other than awestruck? They'd follow him to the ends of the earth now.

"Is everybody ready? No point hanging around for Old Stinkernak to return."

They didn't even ask where they were going, which was just as well as he wasn't too sure himself - they just nodded, not even reacting to the use of the banned nickname for their former lord.

"Then off we go."

He took one final look around the fortress where he'd spent the last few years. So much blood, so many screams, so many struggling dinners...this part of his life was over. Time for a fresh start. He hoisted his backpack onto his back, urinated on the statue of Aldernak by the entrance, and took one more breath of fortress air.

Then he turned his back, and led his followers outside into the night...

"Whoosh!"

I breathe out and watch the pretty colours swirl and form shapes. I must have done this a million times by now - wow, I'm bored. Wish they'd let me out of here, but they still seem pretty miffed at me. I didn't mean it, ok? It was an accident! But I guess they're nervous about it happening again, hence the small observation window in the top corner.
Am I that unusual? They never told me a thing about the results of all those tests they took after the incident - just threw me straight in here, wherever here is.
I'd better breathe back in soon, or the cleanup team'll be in here. Can't have this stuff floating around, apparently. Hard to argue after what happened on the school trip. Still...i'm curious. Didn't see the effects last time - I was long gone when it reached critical mass. Is it really that bad? And what if I...?

I breathe out again. There's a sudden pounding of feet along the corridor, the door flies open. For a moment I see the horrified face of my father outlined in the doorway, then there's a big bang...