Some published and some not.
Honour
Twenty-one years old, I stand proud. Uniform pressed to perfection, buttons polished, and sword strapped by my side. I am the chiselled poster boy of military excellence.
I look down at a hand-carved camphorwood desk. A sheet of paper slides across the polished surface before me with my options. My fate hammered out in military type.
A black iron fan whirs from the top of a nearby filing cabinet. Beads of sweat gather on the bald head of my commanding officer as he waits, expectantly peering over wire-rimmed spectacles; sizing up the man before him. I don’t give him the opportunity to judge me in any way other than expected. I am solid. I am power. Without hesitation, I take the pen and put a firm tick next to the only ‘true choice’ before me.
I step back to attention, chin held high, and focus my stare on the flag which hangs on the wall past my commander.
A future, a life, can be decided in seconds, and I decided mine with a tick. I am a man now. By my hand, my family has honour, respect and pride. My Emperor can depend on me. I will keep the invaders from our shores at all costs. My life is insignificant. My Emperor knows what is best for the country, his people, and for me. I trust my Emperor implicitly. My blood is his.
The officer smiles, adds the sheet of paper to a thick pile, stands and shakes my hand with a firm grip. He admires the man before him. I am fearless, like so many great men before me. I am one of a large brotherhood now. A brotherhood of dedicated elite, and we are invincible. We are the bringers of death. We are divine wind. We are Kamikaze.
Ambition
“Has nobody got anything good?”
Silent faces searched the room. Cheap suits shifted uneasily on worn chairs in a mist of stale cigarette smoke. Not one raised hand.
“Because what you’ve given me so far is dog shit.” The editor threw a handful of typed sheets, fluttering into nothing behind him, and looked from reporter to photographer. A scattering of dumbfounded expressions. “The paper is dying, and when it does, you’re all out of a job. Do you understand?”
He walked to his office, stopping in the doorway to address the room one more time. “Do your jobs. Go out there and find me a story with meat on the bone.” With a deliberately emphasized ‘slam’ he disappeared behind a door of frosted glass. Reprimand over.
‘Seek, and ye shall find’: my old boss’s words rattled in the back of my mind.
Seek, and ye shall find. That’s what I did. I delved into the dark alleys of Old Town, where a grim tale of horror fell into my lap. Nobody had seen it happen, but plenty heard the cries at night; the whimpers and howls of things left to die. I took the photographs myself; a grisly mess of torn fur and blood. Man’s best friend was the victim of a frustrated madman. Six dead in only two days was worth investigating, and to find them with their throats slit was definitely newsworthy.
Poetic words painted to instill fear and bring the neighbourhood together in unified concern. That was the angle, but did anyone care, really? Either way, I pounded out a thousand words on my battered Remington and the task was complete.
The Canine Ripper made front-page, and I was called into the editor’s office. Unfortunately, I wasn’t called in alone. Liam ‘The Golden Boy’ Masters stood beside me, slicked with Brylcreem and full of green passion. He’d impressed everyone in his eighteen months, and it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have recommended him… but that’s what family does, apparently. My sister’s boy, all piss and vinegar, yet there he was, on his shiny toes and eager to impress. His story on hygiene in downtown restaurants caused quite a stir, and now it seemed my nephew was also my competition.
“One of you is destined for greatness,” the editor announced, sitting back from his desk and sucking a lungful from a fat Corvanna. “Based on your follow-up stories, I have a promotion for whoever delivers pure gold. There’ll be no silver medal. If you dream of wowing me, like I know you do, this is your moment. Grab it by the horns.” He crushed the stub of his cigar into a dirty tin ashtray and nodded to his door.
One person stood in my way. One person who reminded me how much I hated my squeaky-clean family and their ‘sing around the piano’ outlook. One person whose smug know-it-all face made my skin crawl. One person who kept a spare door key under a welcome mat outside his apartment. My sister might be welcome, but I never was. The used and disregarded uncle they all forgot to thank.
I wouldn’t let a lack of news get in my way again. I knew what needed to be done. I considered the dogs a warm-up before the main event. A surprisingly invigorating event. The Old Town boy would hunt in greener pastures.
When the call came in, I hid my joy behind a mask of bogus tears. The horrific news shocked my boss and destroyed my ungrateful sister. Liam Masters, taken in his prime. Found dead in his home, throat slit from ear to ear, and a guilt-stricken suicide letter.
‘The dogs made me do it.’
It was my duty to write what the public needed to hear, and front-page news delivered my promotion. The paper was resurrected.
Although I’d acquired a thirst that was difficult to quench, the Canine Ripper was never heard from again.
Once a year, I enjoy a vacation by the secluded lakes of my childhood. Time away from deadlines and long, dark nights. A week to let my hair down; to release life’s frustrations away from prying eyes. A week to seek and find.
Red Lipstick
“Fine! If you must know, it’s your sister…” Jack’s last words.
Stacey’s rage got the better of her, and she flipped. Her temper clicked to impulse mode and the bottle of wine in hand was swung forcefully against Jack’s head. The bottle didn’t shatter as expected. A hard thump to Jack’s temple and he fell.
“Jack?” Stacey mumbled as she looked down at her husband. “Jack? Are you okay?” She dropped the bottle and screamed.
Through floods of tears, Stacey explained the events of late as police interviewed her. Explained the unfaithfulness of her husband, and how she had snapped upon hearing her twin sister, Samantha, was involved. The ‘other woman’. She felt such a fool. How long had they been laughing behind her back? Stacey had caught Jack trying to cover up the clues. She was angry, but didn’t mean to kill him. She was sorry. So very sorry.
“Red lipstick on a wineglass. I caught him trying to wash it off, quickly and unnoticed. He was hiding the evidence, but I knew what was going on. I’d found a gold butterfly earring on our bedroom floor a week ago. A single earring. Not one of mine. I searched our bedroom and found a dress and lingerie hidden in a bag under the bed. Sexy lingerie. And to think they were my sister’s. In our bed…” Stacey buried her head in her hands and sobbed.
Unknown to Stacey, Samantha had arrived in the interview room next door. The colour left her face upon hearing the full details and severity of the situation. She shook her head, repeating ‘Oh God’ over and over. She felt sick. This was her fault. It was a terrible mistake.
Their birthday was in three days, and Jack had spent the last two weeks hunting for the perfect presents. Stacey would be surprised and delighted. Jack had bought gold butterfly earrings, silk lingerie and an expensive dress. A dress which was so magnificently ‘fashionable’ it didn’t conform to standard shape and size. Jack panicked and asked for Samantha’s help.
Samantha took an afternoon off work and came to the rescue. She was the same size as her sister, so Samantha tried on the dress whilst Jack continued to search for the butterfly earring which had gone missing a week ago. No luck with the earring, but the dress looked fabulous. Stacey would love it.
Two glasses of wine seemed the appropriate reward for Samantha’s discrete and speedy assistance. The gifts were put back into hiding under the bed, and after deciding which restaurant they would dine at on the birthday evening, Samantha went home. A successful mission.
Hours later, Stacey came home. A long day had soured her mood, and seeing the bottle of wine on the kitchen top, she instinctively poured herself a glass. Jack kissed her cheek and noticed Samantha’s wineglass on the draining board. Trying to maintain the surprise, he grabbed it and wiped away the only clue. Jack’s bane. Red lipstick.
Last Supper
Giorgio’s was a hidden treasure. A small café nestled in a sleepy backstreet between an antiques and watch repair shop. The front room, with four tables and counter, was cozy and inviting. Giorgio had resurrected an old and abandoned bookshop into something warm and quaint. Although still relatively new, it was the talk of town.
Giorgio struck a match and leaned over Sienna, lighting the candle at her table. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and bow tie, and finished with a white apron tied snuggly around his waist. His attire matched his face, with dark hair slicked back and a pencil moustache. The perfect combination of barista and magician.
“Can I get you a drink or something to eat?” He stepped back and slid a pencil from above his ear.
Sienna forced a smile. “Water, please.”
Giorgio nodded and backed away. Sienna was in pain and he could see it. Her exterior was young, freckled and fresh, wrapped in a frilly white dress which turned heads. But her interior held an obvious worry.
Giorgio filled a glass with water and was interrupted by a tugging on his apron. Beautiful big eyes stared up at him from his six-year-old daughter.
“Go back to the kitchen with your mother, Marie, there’s a good girl.” He kissed Marie’s forehead.
Twirling in her flowery dress, she elegantly turned and skipped away.
Giorgio placed the glass of water on Sienna’s table and headed back to the counter as the door opened, revealing a beaming smile. The smile belonged to Lorenzo, a boy with wavy brown hair and broad shoulders. Lorenzo gazed at Sienna for a moment before producing four sunflowers from behind his back.
Sienna stood up as Lorenzo walked to her and held out the flowers.
“From my garden,” he said, leaned in, and kissed her cheek.
Sienna took the flowers and looked at her feet awkwardly. Lorenzo’s smile dropped.
“Is everything okay?”
Sienna shook her head. “No. I have terrible news.” She looked into Lorenzo’s eyes and cried.
Lorenzo wiped the tears from her cheek and kissed her. “Tell me. What is it?”
Sienna struggled to find the words. “We are moving away. My father knows about us and…”
Lorenzo cut in, his voice strained with panic. “What? He can’t. When did he…”
Sienna put a finger to Lorenzo’s lips. “Shush. We leave in the morning. It can’t be stopped.”
“I’ll talk to him. Let me explain.” Lorenzo forced a desperate smile, tears welling in his eyes.
“I’ve tried. It won’t do any good.” Sienna fought hard to hold in her pain.
“Come away with me then.” Lorenzo held Sienna close. “We love each other. That’s all that matters. As long as we’re together, we can…”
“No.” Sienna pushed Lorenzo away. “Sorry. I have to go with him.”
Lorenzo shook his head, lost for words and winded by the devastating news. His heart broken, he gazed at Sienna, searching for an answer.
“I’ll return.” Sienna squeezed Lorenzo’s hand. “As soon as I can.”
“When?” Lorenzo whispered.
“I don’t know. But when I can, I’ll come here and meet you. We can be together. I promise.” Sienna kissed Lorenzo’s hand. “Come here on the last night of every month, and one day I’ll be waiting, okay?”
Lorenzo gazed at his love, and silent tears fell.
“Okay?” Sienna repeated.
Wiping his eyes, Lorenzo nodded. “I’ll be here. I promise.”
Sienna kissed Lorenzo’s lips, hurried for the door, and left Giorgio’s. Lorenzo stepped up to the window and watched her walk away. A moment caught in time, and forever his most painful memory.
***
Buying the watch repair shop next door and extending to double its original size, Giorgio’s had evolved over the decades, but kept every ounce of charm. A family restaurant for over fifty years, it was still loved by locals, and was a pleasant surprise for any tourists who would stumble upon it by chance. Something from a fairy tale, it was full of charm and character. Out back, the chef would sing as he worked; a pleasant tenor, untrained, but appreciated by customers and his wife who worked front of house. Marie was pushing sixty, but still had the heart of a little girl. Rain or shine, she always wore a flowery dress and greeted her guests with a welcoming smile. The food was good, but the atmosphere made Giorgio’s special.
Seven o’clock, with the sun setting over the rooftops, Lorenzo sat in his usual seat by the window. Lost in thought, he stared at the entrance door. Marie watched and waited, as she did each month when he came to visit. Like a tall white flower bending and wrinkling with age, she had seen Lorenzo’s hair and beard fleck and turn to snow. She had seen his body weaken. But the twinkle in his pale blue eyes remained.
“Anything else, Lorenzo?” Marie asked in her usual warm tone.
He glanced at her and gave a smile. “Only this.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a photograph. Marie walked to his table as Lorenzo held it for her to take. A faded black-and-white photo of two teenagers, and frail pencil writing on the reverse. Lorenzo & Sienna.
“Is this you?”
“Yes. I was seventeen and she was sixteen. Sweet sixteen.” Lorenzo forced another smile, but his face hid a secret pain. “I have a favour to ask. When I’m gone, maybe, if you think it not too strange a request, will you frame it and hang it on the wall? Please. It would mean a lot to me.” Lorenzo looked at the wall behind the counter, where dozens of photos were displayed. The late Giorgio, friends and family through the decades.
“Of course,” Marie answered. “Where are you going?”
“I’m afraid my battle is lost. They’re moving me to a hospice.”
Marie brought a hand to her mouth in shock, and tears welled in her eyes.
Lorenzo gazed out of the window. “You asked me once, many years ago, why I come here on the last day of every month. I said, because of a girl…”
“Sienna?”
Lorenzo nodded. “You were only a teenager yourself when you asked me.”
“Yes, I remember,” Marie added.
“I made a promise to her. Sienna’s father didn’t want us to be together. He moved her away because of me. We vowed to meet one day, here, on the last evening of the month. We would find each other. One day, when we were able, our love would bring us back together again. I promised I would be here, waiting for her. Always.”
“That’s why you come. For all these years.”
“Fifty-three,” Lorenzo said. “She never came. But a promise is a promise.”
Lost for words, Marie fought hard, trying to find her voice. “Is there anything you’d like me to say to her? If she comes… after.”
Lorenzo gently patted Marie’s hand. “My dear girl, Sienna died fifty years ago. A car accident when she was nineteen.”
Marie held the photo to her heart, leaned down, and kissed Lorenzo’s cheek. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Lorenzo said. “The wait is over and my pain will end. Finally, we can be together again.”
Lucky Penny
Nicknames can be funny things; often flattering, sometimes insulting, or maybe hiding a clever meaning. Grandma, on Nathan’s mother’s side, called him her lucky penny. She would chuckle to herself and give a smile that only she understood. “Stay safe, my lucky penny,” she would whisper in his ear.
Nathan had grown up believing grandmothers should kiss foreheads, play fun games, bake cakes, and give gifts. His did none of these things. Nathan’s father referred to Grandma as ‘Witch’. Or ‘The Old Witch’ if he felt like extending it slightly.
Nathan’s mother would frown and shake her head. “Watch what you’re saying around the boy.” The protective mother shielding her son from negativity.
Oddly enough, Nathan didn’t pick up on the name’s true meaning until many years later.
Nathan’s grandma died when he was fourteen, and after the funeral, he was tasked with helping his parents clear her home before putting it up for sale. A long drive into the country, and they were greeted with the familiar sight: Yarrow House. A gathering of twisted trees leading to a picket fence, white wood walls and big proud windows. Much like the old lady in her final years, the paint was cracked and rot setting in. An old detached house in the middle of nowhere, with a cold and unwelcoming feel about it. Perfectly fitting for his grandma.
Nathan’s mother gave the orders, as always, and directed his father into the attic. She gave Nathan the basement. A family tradition, apparently. The eldest grandchild clears the basement. His mother had to go through it when her grandma passed, and Nathan had the responsibility now.
Nathan hated the basement and always had. Haunted by nightmares where he was trapped down there, alone in the dark, and then it would come… the monster. He could hear it breathing in the shadows, getting closer, and it terrified him. Luckily, he always woke up before it emerged from the darkness and revealed itself.
Reluctantly, Nathan braved the room alone. Down the seldom trodden stairs and into the dusty gloom below.
Click! Fortunately, the light worked, and he faced twenty years of hoarded junk. Dust-covered boxes, bags with faded patterns, and bulky shapes under dirty cloth sheets. Junk at first glance, but as Nathan opened boxes and unwrapped cloth bundles, he realised the assortment of antiques before him. Hundreds of weird and wonderful items collected over many decades, most of which were much older than his grandma. And then he found it…
A glass jar, resting on a pile of ash, and filled with over a hundred dull silver and browned bronze coins.
With some difficulty, Nathan unscrewed the jar’s rusty lid and tipped the contents onto the basement floor. He spread them out with a finger and examined a few. The heads were different. Not presidents, kings or queens as expected, these had faces he didn’t recognise, and each one was different; until he worked further through the pile and found two particular coins of interest. One had the slight resemblance to his mother when she was a girl, and the newest coin, the brightest penny, had Nathan’s face on the underside.
He stared at the coin. A spitting image. Fear built up inside, and his skin went to gooseflesh as he remembered his grandma’s words. ‘My lucky penny’.
“An accurate likeness, wouldn’t you say?” A soft voice from within the room. A voice Nathan knew all too well.
He spun around to be confronted by an impossible sight. His grandma stood before him; dark sunken eyes, skeleton pressed against tissue paper skin, long white hair draped over pale grey shoulders, and her frail form hunched in a pleated black dress. His grandma, who had gone into the crematorium in a walnut stained oak casket and come out in a black marble urn. An urn his mother insisted she brought to the house, was in her hands when she first entered, and taken with her into the basement when she was giving the place a once-over.
Nathan froze in shock; jolted with a surge of icy electricity. His heart raced, and he tried to flee, but his body wouldn’t move.
His grandma stepped closer, a thin smile upon her face and a cold look in her eyes. It was definitely her… the ‘monster’ in the basement. She reached out a hand and took the penny from him.
Terrified, Nathan closed his eyes and mumbled in disbelief, forming a pathetic whimper for help. “Muuuum…”
“…is the person who sent you down here, silly boy,” his grandma added in a light whisper.
Nathan’s shock held him paralysed, panting, struggling to breathe, as his grandma kissed the penny and pressed it against his forehead. A burning flash of faces raced through Nathan’s mind, and a stabbing pain hammered into his skull. His eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolled, and as he crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, his grandma dropped the penny back amongst the other coins, stepped forward into him, fading from the room. The second she disappeared, Nathan found himself on the basement floor, and snapping out of the embracing darkness, he opened his eyes.
Sitting up, Nathan’s rapid breathing calmed, and he reached up two fingers to check a throat pulse. He ran his hands over his face, feeling its features, and wrapping his arms around his chest to hug himself, he sighed and gave a light chuckle. Once again, the ordeal was over.
Looking at the coins, Nathan quickly scooped them together and returned them to the jar. When finished, he reached into his back pocket and brought out a plain bronze coin with blank sides. He kissed the coin and placed it in the jar with the others.
The basement door opened, and his mother’s voice broke the silence. “Is it done, Mama?”
Screwing the lid shut, Nathan looked up through cold eyes and smiled a thin smile. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s done.”
Gift Horse
It’s not every day you find yourself in conversation with a talking horse. And if it happens, to have the horse gift you with a superpower shouldn’t hit too hard. You’re already freaking out a little and checking to see if anyone else is hearing this. They’re not. You’re alone. Just you, several curious sheep and a talking horse. You knew an early morning ramble through the countryside would be a pleasant break from the norm, but this was something else. This was the kind of thing which left you questioning your sanity. And to top it off, the horse sounds a little like Sean Connery.
“A gift from me to you. Invisibility, telepathy or flight?” the horse asks casually. “And don’t look me in the mouth,” it adds with a smile. A comedian horse.
“Flight.” Your answer sounds uncertain, as if answering the question with a question. You’re confident this isn’t a test, but you feel there could be a wrong answer.
The horse gives several definite nods of agreement. The sheep continue to stare; the audience that might well have seen this sort of thing before. A common occurrence. ‘Gather round my fluffy flock, the horse is about to perform another spell’.
“Neigh problem.” The horse gives a wink.
A wink to set your tummy rumbling. A wink to send your head spinning. A wink to lift you off your feet, as light as a feather, and turn you white… paper white. You fold from human, to sheet, to paper aeroplane, and float gently away. Over the hedge and into the field, soaring in the wind, lost and forgotten like so many morning ramblers. No more than a sheepish tale to a gathering of lambs.
This was no gift horse. This was a horse of a different colour.
Greed
At night, a child’s bedroom is a grey gloom of pretty things shrouded in shadow: an assortment of daytime toys waiting quietly as children sleep in the half-light. Maisie and Martin’s room was no different. Normal in every way, except for the faint glow of silver-pink light that floated in from between their bedroom curtains. A soft aura of minuscule powder sparkles and the shape of something small and magical within the light. A fairy.
Butterfly wings worked to a blur, carrying the visitor over to Maisie, where it hovered, and without a sound, gently lifted the girl’s pillow to exchange tooth for coin.
But it was interrupted.
Maisie’s eyes opened and she smiled. The menacing smile of a six-year-old missing her two front teeth.
“Gotcha!” Martin shouted with delight, and as the tooth fairy turned to face the boy in the next bed, he blasted her with a jet of fly spray. The tooth fairy coughed, covered her face with tiny hands, and flew away in retreat. Straight into a box, which Maisie instantly lidded shut. Captured!
“It worked,” Maisie chuckled, and gave the box a shake.
Martin wrung his hands together and grinned. “How much money do you think a tooth fairy carries?” He took the box from his sister and put his ear against it.
Maisie reached under her bed and produced a zip bag of wicked things. “Let’s find out,” she said, pulling a penknife from the bag and passing it to her brother.
Cutting a slit in the lid, Martin brought his lips close. “Listen here, little fairy. Post your coins through that gap. All of them. Or else!”
“Or else we’ll throw the box, and you, on the fire,” Maisie added.
“Please,” came a soft whimper from within.
“Do it!” Martin snapped, then gave the box another shake. “If you want to go free, you better do as you’re told.”
“And hurry up about it,” Maisie added.
A moment of quiet as the dazed prisoner recovered her bearings, then a small gold coin slid out through the gap. Cackling with glee, Maisie snatched it up and examined it. Another coin followed the first. Then another. And another. Coins continued to emerge through the slit in the box lid, instantly grabbed by greedy fingers.
Then the tiny voice came again: “There are no more.”
“You sure?” Martin growled in a threatening tone. “We don’t like tricksters.”
As Martin began counting their stolen treasure, Maisie leaned in to whisper, “We punish them.”
“I promise.” A sniff followed the timid voice. “Please let me go.”
Maisie picked up her penknife and tested the sharpness of its point with a finger. “Well?”
“Thirty-five,” said Martin. “Good enough?”
Maisie thought about it for a moment, clicked the penknife shut, and gave a nod.
Once again, Martin pushed his lips to the lid. “No funny business or we’ll clip your wings. Okay?”
A frightened murmur: “Yes.”
Martin lifted the lid, and the fairy darted out in a flash. A silver-pink blur, then darkness as the fairy disappeared behind the curtains and was gone.
Maisie and Martin laughed triumphantly. They scooped coins, penknife, and fly spray into the bag of wicked things and climbed back into their beds, their fiendish plan a great success.
Come morning, the twins awoke from a night of vivid dreams and peeled their faces from blood-caked pillows. Screams rang out as fingers pawed at deep holes in raw toothless gums. Another visit had concluded matters, and the greedy children had paid their debt in full.
Missing
PC Saunders examines the paperwork. Biro pen notes covering times and locations. No witnesses, and no significant details, but there’s enough for him to work with for now.
PC Jennings finishes checking the recording equipment, clicks the button which turns a small light from red to green, and sits down beside her partner. She states the date and time of the interview and the three people in the room.
PC Saunders gives Nancy a reassuring smile. A smile which says this has to be formal, but they are still human and understand her pain.
Nancy rubs her eyes, red from recent tears, and tries to keep herself composed as they go over the details again. As composed as any mother can be in such a situation. There’s still hope, but Anna has been missing for six hours now. Enough time for a worried mind to imagine every possible outcome.
Anna had been happily playing on the front lawn whilst Nancy pegged up the washing. Not enough pegs, so Nancy went indoors to fetch more. She was only gone for a minute. The gate was open when she returned, and Anna was missing.
PC Jennings leaves the room to make inquiries with other stations. Check if they have seen or heard anything. PC Saunders shows as much optimism as he can muster.
Nancy cries into her hands.
It isn’t long before PC Jennings returns and calls PC Saunders away to look at an interesting file. Nancy waits alone.
The file, stumbled upon whilst searching the street name, shows the same case exactly one hundred years before. The same in every aspect: day, time, names, faces and where the incident took place are all identical. A case which still remains unsolved.They run back to the interview room to find it empty.
Mothman
Milton Crumb was obsessed with the skies. As a boy, he excelled at Air Cadets and planned to train as a fighter pilot when leaving school. However, his eyes failed him. Glaucoma led to tunnel vision and the end of Milton’s dreams. But that didn’t stop him.
As a keen lepidopterist, Milton turned his obsession to moths. They, like him, needed light and were drawn to it. Milton embraced the sad realisation he would never soar above the treetops like a hawk, but his calling gave him a new purpose… a new name. Mothman.
He worked in a fabric shop; staring through thick-lensed spectacles at close-up repairs, delicate needlework, sewing sequins, and blending seams. A skill repeated at home with his costume, or ‘flight uniform’, as he preferred. It was made of lycra, crushed velvet, a sprinkle of powder for effect, and finished with round goggles over a thick grey hood.
Milton danced through the streets at night, throwing himself against lampposts, or stepping out in front of car headlights. Hospital visits led to a painkiller habit, which led to wilder stunts. He was arrested so many times the police nicknamed him The Demented Ballerina. But Mothman was the name used when he finally made the newspapers. Red Deer 2nd Scout troop was sitting around a campfire, singing, and toasting marshmallows, when Mothman ran from the trees, flapped his arms wildly, and leapt headlong into folklore. Blindly devoted, he played the role to the very end. Moth to a flame.
Seeing Is Believing (101 Words)
“Its ears point to prickles, and a long stretched mouth bites with teeth like a hundred jagged pine trees. Pretty scary, right?”
“Yeah, but mine’s worse. The witch leans back on her broomstick, laughing, and has monstrous talon fingers trying to grab…”
“Oh no! That’s freaking me out. And there’s a huge skull behind her too. Massive eyes, with pin dots in the middle.”
“Yes! Staring straight at us. Spooky, but not like the werewolf. That’s moving. Reaching out and eating your witch whole.”
“That is sick! What about you, Carl? What can you see?”
“Sorry guys. I just see clouds.”
James Hancock: Author 