The Philip Prentis Blog

Complete List of Short Stories

2008-05-02T12:13:00.012+02:00

The following is a list of all the short stories that I've written. If you'd like to read any, just email me and I'll send you a copy. There are a few of the stories that have their names blanked out. These are ones I wrote as presents for people and are currently not available to anyone other than the original recipient.

Where stories are available on-line, I've included a link. Unless stated otherwise, the stories are unpublished, so if you know anyone who might be interested in them, I'd appreciate it if you let me know.

6.3.2002 - A Stranger in a Strange Land - Available on-line
Published: 2002 SPUSA writing competition, booklet of winning entries
Keywords: autobiographical, culture shock
Word count: 610

Summer 2002 - The Last Victim - Available on-line
Keywords: Aztec, fiction, historical
Word count: 2104

9.3.2003 - When No One was Looking - Available on-line
Keywords: fiction, romance, short story
Word count: 649

12.3.2004 - To be Guided by Voices - Available on-line
Published: 2004 SPUSA writing competition, booklet of winning entries
Keywords: fiction, horror, Islam, terrorism, thriller
Word count: 1577

11.5.2004 - Black Cloud
Keywords: dream, flash fiction
Word count: 411

17.7.2004 - Country Pancake
Keywords: comedy, fiction, romance, Scotland
Word count: 4841

July 2004 - Obsidian Shards
Status: Draft
Keywords: Aztec, fiction, thriller
Word count: 7538

6.8.2005 - Till Death do Us Part
Keywords: fiction, horror, romance
Word count: 5033

26.11.2005 - The Wine of my Life
Keywords: fiction, humour, romance
Word count: 4337

13.2.2006 - More Than Meets the Eye
Original title: Train Girl
Keywords: fiction, humour, romance
Word count: 1652

17.5.2006 - Two's Company, Five's a Crowd
Keywords: fiction, humour, dating
Word count: 2579

11.7.2006 - River Girl
Keywords: cryptic, romance
Word count: 1074

25.8.2006 - A Day to Remember
Keywords: autobiographical, dating
Word count: 1054

2006 - 4 part series

	2.8.2006 - *** * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, humour Word count: 1552
	7.8.2006 - ** * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, romance Word count: 2541
	20.10.2006 - * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, romance, thriller Word count: 3401
	22.12.2006 - ****** * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, romance, tragedy Word count: 3416

2.1.2008 - *** ******* **** *****
Keywords: fiction, humour, romance
Word count: 2149

17.3.2008 - Falling Awake
Keywords: computer science, cybernetics, dreams, fiction, reality, relationships, robotics, virtual, worlds
Word count: 3300

13.12.2008 - Once in Warsaw
Keywords: fiction, Gothic, murder, romance
Word count: 914

12.4.2010 - ***** ** ***********
Keywords: fiction, romance, Sweden
Word count: 4430

Total
Stories: 21
Words: 55162

To be Guided by Voices

2008-02-14T11:48:00.005+01:00

But on that day the faithful will mock the unbelievers as they recline upon their couches and gaze around them.

--The Koran

He'd be guided by voices. That's what he'd been told. But unlike the Great Prophet whose name he had adopted, he was not required to memorize his instructions, merely to obey them. He looked down at the mobile phone, which had been modified to only receive calls on certain frequencies, frequencies that changed to avoid detection. That was what they had told him.

"You will hear our voices but not be able to reply. This is so that the unbelievers may not trace your signal. It is vital that you do everything exactly as we tell you."

Voices. He'd never meet the men who would give him his instructions yet he trusted them implicitly. They were fighting for the same cause.

He clicked the mobile onto his belt, connected the earphone and adjusted it in his ear. A voice startled him. It was a man's voice, thin and nasal, like the Hero's.

"Praise be to Allah, Lord of Creation, King of Judgement-day! Him alone we worship and to Him alone we pray for help. Mohammed, you must prepare to leave. Take with you some money and also your nametag from work. Put them in your pockets. Now go. Allah's blessing be upon you and your mission."

Without delay, he did as he was told and left the flat, locking the door behind him so as not to provoke the suspicions of his neighbours. A different voice spoke. It was old and wheezy and reminded him of an aged professor he'd had at school.

"We shall drive the sinful in great hordes into Hell-fire. Listen carefully to what you must do. First you must go to the petrol station and buy a full canister of petrol. Then you must make your way to the Tower of Babel..."

Mohammed listened carefully and then set about carrying out his orders. In ten minutes time he stood in front of the building, which was easily recognizable, its great height making it a hub around which the city spun.

"Attach your name tag so that it is clearly visible. Once inside you must take the canister to the basement. You will then be told what to do with it."

He approached the tall building, steeling himself for the coming ordeal. The glass doors opened splitting his reflection in two as he entered. He found himself in a large room. Clients and customers milled about its polished marble floor like African game at a water hole. No one gave him a second glance as he stood by the door, uncertain how to proceed.

"Mohammed" said a new voice, deep and throaty, "ask the guard."

Standing next to the door was a uniformed security man. Mohammed turned to him with a smile.

"Excuse me, please. Could you tell me where I can find the basement?"

He had his head turned slightly so that the man wouldn't notice the earphone. The guard looked him up and down and read his nametag: John Turner, Technician, before replying. He pointed to a door marked 'STAFF ONLY' and said "Go through that door, down the passage, turn right and you'll find it at the end of the corridor. You'll need to get Mr. Hammond to unlock it for you. You'll find his office in the same corridor on your left."

* * *

A few moments later he was standing in front of a door marked 'Edward Hammond, Resource Manager.'

"Knock."

He did so.

"Come in, come in" called a voice from within. Mr. Hammond was a small middle-aged man, whose balding head was crowned by an untidy laurel of greying hair. His watery grey-blue eyes blinked from behind his spectacles as he eyed the visitor.

"Good morning, sir. I was told to take this canister to the basement. Do you think you could unlock the door for me?"

"That's odd. Nobody told me anything about this. It must be that fool Higgen's fault. He never remembers anything. Wait a moment while I phone and check." He turned to his desk and lifted the telephone receiver.

"Kill him."

He needed no further urging for the sight of a stone Buddha on a shelf had set his blood boiling. Picking up the offending statue he crossed the room in two strides and brought it down upon the man's head with all his strength. The man cried out but the second blow cracked his skull and silenced him. Mohammed hit him repeatedly until the body had ceased to move. Then he stopped and listened.

Silence. No one had heard. He checked the man's pockets and found a bunch of keys and a lighter. Mohammed smiled.
Leaving the idolaters corpse, he made his way to the basement. After rummaging around for a bit he found some plastic bags and a roll of duct tape, which he used to cover the fire detector. As an afterthought he pocketed a screwdriver someone had left there and then proceeded to pour petrol over everything.

"They shall burn in Hell; evil shall be their fate."

As the voice died in his ears he set the lighter to the fuel and stepped back. The room blazed. Turning his back to the furnace he retreated from the room, locked the door and leaned heavily against it. The corridor was empty. He straightened and walked calmly back to the main hall. On entering, he began to whistle and, without breaking his stride, he went straight to the guard.

"Excuse me again, sir. Mr. Hammond told me there was a problem with the door and asked me if I could have a look at it while I'm here. Apparently someone in Management complained."

"There's no problem with the door."

"What a mess! Somebody else has probably already fixed it. Still there's no harm in checking. If you'll allow that is?"

"Alright, there's one control box here and another outside. Whatever you do, don't jam the door or it'll cause no end of trouble."

"I'll check the outside one first. It's more likely to have a fault."

So saying, he stepped outside and unscrewed the box's cover. The guard watched him through the door. He saw the technician peer into the works, his brow furrowing. Then a smile came over the man's face and he beckoned to the guard.

"Is there something wrong after all?"

"Just take a look at this," he said, pointing to the mass of wires and electronics he'd exposed. He moved back to give the guard some room.

"I can't see -" The guard broke off in mid sentence and whirled round as he felt his pistol being snatched from its holster. Mohammed darted away and pointed it at the wide-eyed guard. The fire alarm rang. Mohammed smiled.

* * *

Catherine, the head waitress from the café opposite, stared horrified as the man shot the guard. He fired again at someone inside the building and then shot twice more, destroying the motion detectors on either side of the doors. He began to rummage in the control box, ignoring the screams and shouts coming from both sides. Catherine turned and screamed at the other waitresses "Call the police now!

* * *

It had been a simple matter for him to lock the doors, but glass could be broken. Mohammed reached up and grasped the bottom rung of the grate they used at night. With an effort he pulled down the bars turning the building into a cage. Inside people screamed. They had seen the smoke. He turned and gazed at the rapidly emptying café. Two fountains bubbled in the courtyard in front of it, heedless of the panic and mayhem surrounding them. Mohammed walked straight past them and faced the three petrified waitresses who, like the rabbit before the car, hadn't the wit to run.

"We will deliver those who fear Us, but the unbelievers shall be left to endure the torments of hell."

Flames drove the terrified people against the glass doors, which did not open and could not be forced. The glass shattered and the throng crushed itself against the bars.

Mohammed sat on a chair outside the café, surrounded by bubbling fountains and dark-eyed maidens, who reclined shaking by his side. In his left hand he held a glass of sparkling water, aromatic and sweet of taste. In his right he held the pistol with which he kept the police and firemen at bay.

"The righteous shall surely dwell in bliss. Reclining upon soft couches they will gaze around them and in their faces you shall mark the glow of joy."

A multitude of hands reached out from behind the bars, groping and flailing. Some bled, cut by the broken glass; others had been broken against the bars. Some merely twitched, their owners having been crushed to death. People suffocated in the black smoke that billowed forth and those at the back began to catch fire. Their screams rent the air.
Mohammed smiled.

* * *

The police sniper carefully sighted Mohammed's head and fired.

"He's hit! I confirm; the terrorist is hit."

As the police and fire-fighters rushed forward, Catherine pushed away the dead man's body with a shudder. His headphone caught on her hand and, after a moment's hesitation, she traced the wire down to the phone.

The phone's screen was blank.

When No One was Looking

2007-11-26T12:54:00.001+01:00

Peter and Petula walked down the street, arms linked for warmth. Neither spoke, though occasionally Peter’s lower lip would move as if a thought were trying to make itself heard. Each time, however, it was silenced.

At last they arrived at Petula’s house and, disengaging her arm, she turned with a smile to her companion.

“Thank you for the lovely evening, Peter.”

Her eyelids drooped, but not so much as to prevent her from carefully watching his face, his expression. She pouted her lips, very slightly.

“It was a pleasure. Bye Pet,” said Peter.

He smiled and turned to leave. Only then did he allow the melancholy of his heart to spill over his countenance.

With a murmured “bye,” Petula stepped inside, a dainty smile frozen upon her face. It remained while she greeted her parents and hurried upstairs. It stayed as she passed her sister practising aikido in the living room. It vanished the moment she was alone and no one was looking. In the privacy of her room, she burst into silent sobbing. Oh Peter! She adored him; for him she would do anything. He possessed those qualities that she most desired of a man – honesty and caring. He was a gentleman, almost to the point of fault and no false flatterer. He treated everyone with kindness and respect and girls as persons rather than spoils of the hunt. But he did not love her; she felt it with greater certainty every day.

On the floor lay a copy of Cosmopolitan, its cover brashly proclaiming ‘10 Sure Ways to Seduce a Man.’ She’d tried all of them and failed to elicit so much as a kiss. If anything, he had grown more distant. Not that she wanted to get laid, but desire, she felt, was half way to love. Their conversations had become barren and monotonous. It exasperated her, because she knew he was intelligent and could talk if it came to it – she had witnessed him engaged in heated discussions with other boys and even girls, but when he was with her, he seemed to shut up like a clam. He had no initiative, he made no move and the harder she tried, the more he seemed to resent it. If only they had some common ground, something they could share, something that would bring them together.

Peter trudged down the street. He must tell her soon that there was nothing between them. He disliked the idea of preventing her from finding happiness with another. Chance had brought them together, but it could not last. Once he had hoped something might come of it, but instead she had become more irksome. She, being the more dominant spirit, had got into the way of leading things, deciding what they would do and how they would do it. He liked neither pushing, nor being pushed. They had so little in common, so little to say to one another; so he thought.

Stepping between two parked lorries, he made to cross the road. No one was looking and not even the driver of the Opel Vectra saw him until it was too late. The screech of tyres, the cry and the thud drew everyone’s attention. Petula, looking from her window, cried out and fainted.

* * *

A boy with crutches and a girl walked slowly out of the hospital. The porter, who knew the girl by sight, smiled as he watched her help the boy manage the edge of the pavement and cross the road. They walked on until they reached the park with its pristine blanket of untouched snow. Stopping for a moment, the boy used a crutch to draw something. He turned towards the girl and her face lit up with wordless joy. They kissed love’s first kiss as the sun sparkled off two snowy P’s surrounded by a thawing heart.

The Last Victim

2007-11-04T12:10:00.000+01:00

Chimalpahin stared at the wooden stockade that surrounded their prison-pen. Just two weeks ago, he had been a free man, newly married to a beautiful wife. Her name was Xoco. Graceful and merry she had been, with laughing lips, but now she lay exhausted beside him, her dark hair matted with mud. He remembered how the Aztec attack had engulfed their village, the dark warriors in jaguar skins, whose swords were edged with black obsidian.

Wincing, he touched the wound that festered on his sword-arm. Once again he felt the searing pain as the blade sliced his sinews, the triumph in his enemies’ eyes. He felt the heavy foot crush him to the ground as skilful hands bound him tight.

His whole village had been captured: men, women and children, the old and the young. Now they sat here, fighting the coughs and fevers brought on by the rain that had poured upon them in this roofless enclosure.

They were not, however, the only prisoners. All about them, in every direction, were many, many more such prisons. Chimalpahin had spent an hour trying to count the captives, as best he could. Thousands upon thousands there were, from many different lands. He reckoned there to be more than fifteen thousand prisoners, all held for one purpose - sacrifice. Did the Gods suffer famine, that they needed to be thus gorged? Rather, they were insatiable.

Xoco looked up at him through tear-worn eyes. Their happiness had been cut short in its deepest bloom.

‘Chim, my husband, is there any hope?’

He knew there was none, as did every other prisoner. For days he had striven with escape plans, but all seemed futile. Everywhere were guards, ready to strike. Finally, he had asked his father, but the old man rebuked him for the thought. ‘Have you no honour? We were taken in battle and must now be sacrificed! There are no greater gods than Huitzilopochtli and Tezcatlipoca.’ Chimalpahin shuddered at the names. Huitzilopochtli, the Hummingbird Wizard, was known as the Lover of Hearts, the Blood-drinker. From the guards they learned that this sacrifice was to dedicate His new temple at Tenochtitlan. Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror, was the Lord of Darkness and god of evil spirits. Men spoke of the Dark Lord as “He Who Is at the Shoulder,” and it was He who ruled in Mexico. By His will, the Aztecs remained in power and through Him they reigned supreme.

‘Hush, my Jade-stone; it will not help to dwell upon such things,’ he murmured. She nodded and slumped her head upon his shoulder. Stroking her delicate hair, he tried to recall their time together. He had followed her through the jungle to look upon her face with that youthful awe that asks no questions, that only yearns. The ocelot had scared her and he, hearing her cry, had rushed to her side, fending the creature off with the point of his spear. That was where it had begun. Countless presents he had sought, to gain her love: cacaua beans and obsidian shards, a coloured quetzal plume and many different flowers. At great expense he had bought a jade-stone from a passing trader and standing before her, had offered it and himself.

‘As I gaze upon your face, my heart burns with a passionate love that is sweeter and more noble than fresh copal. I offer you my heart, my soul, my life. Will you accept this jade-stone and be mine?’

The stone gleamed green upon his hand and she, covering it with her own, replied ‘I will.’

Xoco looked out among the pens, where soldiers marched back and forth. Such as these had destroyed their happiness and taken pleasure in doing so. The living dream had become a nightmare with death at its end. If only the gods had spared their village…

A group of soldiers, led by an official, entered the pen. Chimalpahin and Xoco raised their heads and rose as the newcomers approached. The leader was large and fat, dressed in ornate padded armour that was decorated with green stones. A jaguar-skin cloak draped from his shoulders, while upon his head he wore a wooden helmet bedecked with quetzal plumes. Chimalpahin envied him his sword, with its glass-lined blade. The man strode among the prisoners, looking about him as if searching for something. As he was passing Xoco, he stopped and, turning to examine her more closely, smiled. He brushed the hair from her eyes and then, slowly drew his hand across her quivering body. The smile deepened. With a snarl, Chimalpahin leapt at him, sending the man hurtling among his guards. Crying out in anger, they parted the two, knocking Chimalpahin to his knees, while raising the officer to his feet and brushing the dirt off his clothes.

‘I seem to have reached for the flower of a cactus!’ exclaimed the officer. Turning to Xoco, he regarded her for a moment before shaking his head.

‘She would not open her petals for me, I perceive, and to prise open a flower is to destroy it. I shall find another that will blossom more readily.’

‘You, however,’ he said, turning to Chimalpahin, ‘have dared to strike a Jaguar Knight and thus your life is forfeit. A man may not die twice, but you shall die witnessing the deaths of all your kin. I decree that this man shall be the last to die! Guards, beat him till no part of his body is without pain.’

Chimalpahin awoke to the pounding of drums. Far in the distance they boomed, the taut serpent-skin reverberating in an omen of death. Xoco was wiping the blood from his aching brow with a small piece of rag, fighting back sobs as she did so.

‘Do not cry, Jade-stone,’ he muttered, before dropping once more into oblivion. For two days and two nights she nursed him as the endless stream of victims walked the long miles leading to Cactus Rock. Looking about, he saw that perhaps half the prisoners were gone. Of his tribe, only the elderly and very young were missing, taken near the onset to prevent them dying before their sacrifice. Chimalpahin realised that his father no longer lived.

‘At least he died with honour’ he murmured. ‘I wish I could accept our doom as he did.’

In the west, dark clouds rolled. A storm was brewing. Some of the more kindly disposed guards allowed the prisoners to dismantle the now-empty pens and build themselves shelters from the debris. As Chimalpahin set to work, building a crude hut from the wood, he noticed something lying in the dust where he had scuffled with the official. It glittered green as he held it to the light.

All the while, the Great Line moved slowly on.

As night closed in, they crept into the makeshift coops, while above them, the sky boiled with pent-up energy. Suddenly, with a roar, the storm broke and rain began fall, great drops splashing on the dusty ground. Within minutes it was a torrent. Muddy rivulets oozed into the hovels, making it loathsome to lie down or even to sit. Although the roofs protected them from the worst of the rain, no one slept that night.

And the fourth day dawned, dull and grey. Chimalpahin’s wound pained him, as did the many bruises from his beating. He wished it could all be over, the misery of it, but there were still many more captives who would take their turn before him. He hugged Xoco tight and they tried to sleep, clinging to each other for comfort as much as warmth.

Their rest was fitful, disturbed by nightmares that tore at their sleep as a vulture picks at carrion. Wicked phantoms, half-men with jaguar heads and claws, dragged Xoco to the Smoking Mirror. Inside its swirling depths she saw Chimalpahin struggling and crying out for help. His heart was torn from him and devoured before her helpless eyes. She woke with a start to see the Sun had cleared the clouds a bit and was beating down upon her forehead.

The day drew on and there were fewer and fewer prisoners waiting in the camp. As night fell, the guards brought them their last meal. They could not guess why the priests would waste meat on sacrificial victims about to die, but were too hungry to worry much. Xoco wondered what herbs had been used to spice it, for its taste was unusual.

And then the time came. All but one of the other pens were empty. Guards came and bound their hands to a long rope, which joined them in a living chain. As ordered, Chimalpahin came last with Xoco in front of him. Their line was attached to the end of the previous one and slowly, but irresistibly, they began the long trek to Death.

As they trudged out of the camp, things took on a dream-like quality. The moon shone down, lighting every blade with eerie silver. Trees rustled like the spirits of the dead and from up ahead, the wind bore them an evil stench. A lethargy had crept into their limbs that made every step an effort of will. For hours they trudged, ever drawing closer to their end. As they walked, Chimalpahin pondered on the jolting stop-start fashion of the march. ‘Each stop’ he told himself ‘is the time it takes to kill a man.’ He counted fifteen heartbeats to a stop.

They entered the city, lurching over the bridges with weary limping steps. Xoco searched for some sign of life in the buildings about her, but nowhere could she see anyone. Had the whole city been offered up, or had they fled in horror from the abominations taking place? She could not tell. The noise that came from up ahead was that of devils, not men.

As they turned a sharp corner, Chimalpahin jerked on the rope causing Xoco to turn towards him.

‘Take this and do not fear,’ he whispered, slipping something into her hand.
As the line pulled Xoco on, she looked down in wonder at the green jade-stone.

At last they arrived at the Temple. The great pyramid rose to a height of more than twenty men, as Chimalpahin reckoned it, and at its peak, great fires lighted the sky. There were four trails of prisoners, each mounting a stair that lead up one of the four sides. As their hearts were taken to fuel the fires, the corpses were hurled down from the summit, to land in contorted heaps at the base. There, temple-workers, scurrying like ants, removed and cleaned the skulls, which they stacked one atop the other. Thousands upon thousands of glistening white skulls. The limbs they placed aside, later to be consumed, while the torsos were thrown into pits for beasts to devour. The jaguars and pumas roared and bellowed like fiends, driven mad by the stench of blood. Indeed, the smell was sickening. The prisoners retched and gagged as they struggled on, slipping on vomit mixed with gore. Over all boomed the great snakeskin drums.

As Chimalpahin began the climb, he tried to ignore the scene of woe by counting steps. Bodies capered past, like demons in a dream, obscenely twisting as they fell. Sometimes on one side, then on the other. He could not turn away, nor force himself to close his eyes, as friends and relatives hurtled past, their moonlit faces twisted in agony, great holes cut in their chests.

He counted ‘99’ and stopped. Men cut the ropes that held Xoco to him and dragged her to the altar. He watched in helpless horror, as strong hands held her to the slab. A metal hook was passed about her neck, preventing her from moving. Her right hand was clenched tight, its knuckles white. The priest paused for a moment and glanced at Chimalpahin. His arms and hair were black with dried and drying blood; his once-white robes were streaked with crimson gore. Then he raised the obsidian knife and plunged it deep. Chimalpahin closed his eyes and counted heartbeats, as Xoco screamed. When his eyes opened, he felt his back against the cold stone altar, slippery with human blood. Above him the knife was raised… and waiting. Signals had been given and the drumbeat picked up pace, gradating until at last it sounded in a deafening crescendo.

Chimalpahin’s last vision was of his heart being thrown upon a burning pyre next to Xoco’s, where they burnt together, their smoke mingling as it curled towards heaven.

A Stranger in a Strange Land

2007-10-26T22:51:00.001+02:00

I remember when I first arrived. It was like walking through a dream. Everywhere were people talking, and I could hardly understand a word they were saying. Although I knew some of the language, I could only understand a slow speaker who used simple words, and then only when he was speaking directly at me. When you ski in a thick fog, it dulls the voices of other skiers making them incomprehensible, fleeting phantoms. This was like skiing in a whole crowd of babbling ghosts who were all hurrying past in every direction. It all seemed so unreal.

My mother pushed me along the corridor towards the classroom where I'd be having my first lesson. As we walked, she tried to impart some last-minute grammar upon me. I remember it was something about using 'you' rather than 'thou', when addressing teachers, and that it was a necessary part of good manners. I nodded, although I didn't have a clue as to what she was talking about - I'd been shoved in at the deep end and the water was rapidly going over my head. Then we met my class teacher, and she and Mum spoke for a while. I just stared blankly, waiting for the next thing to happen - perhaps that I'd wake up from all this. After Mum left and I'd said 'bye', my class teacher took me into the classroom. One might imagine that here at last, I'd begin to take an interest, but no - I remained in the same apathy as before. I was quite small for my age, certainly the smallest of the class, and my classmates seemed like so many gibbering giants. I was given a place in the first row in front of the teacher and we all sat down. After a short, but incomprehensible, beginning-of-term speech I was introduced to the class. The class teacher then proceeded to question me on my previous education. Although we spoke mainly in my language, I don't think she learned much - neither of us knew enough of the other's language to express ourselves properly.

For a long time, I was reticent, speaking only when spoken to, and trying to walk out of this dream world. The language barrier had enveloped me, and was slowly but surely turning me into an introvert. As I rarely spoke during lessons, I soon became a fast favourite with many of the teachers. Nobody called me a crawler, though - you could tell there was no effort on my part. Later, as my knowledge of the language improved, I did begin to pal with my classmates, but still, I had few real friends. After two years the loneliness caught me up and hit me full. I prayed to God, that He might send me just one friend who could speak my language. It was a lonesome cry, and strangely enough, it heralded the end of the seclusion. Though the petition was never fulfilled, it was answered better - I began to wake. It didn't happen at once, nor did I see it at the time, but throughout the next few years, the world changed for me. Giants transformed to humans and gabble became speech. Cold inquisitive stares turned into warm glances and the mist vanished in the noonday sun, banishing its ghosts with it. And as I rose, I began to chase the missing years, the chances I'd lost and the joys I'd shut myself from. I'm still running now and maybe I'll be running all my life, but at least I'm awake. No longer am I a stranger in a strange land.

	2.8.2006 - *** * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, humour Word count: 1552
	7.8.2006 - ** * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, romance Word count: 2541
	20.10.2006 - * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, romance, thriller Word count: 3401
	22.12.2006 - ****** * Keywords: *****, fiction, Gothic, romance, tragedy Word count: 3416