Category Archives: creepy

Brave the storm

This idea has been bubbling around in my head for a little bit, maybe as something to submit to a Black Beacon books anthology. But this was inspired by Chuck Wendig’s terribleminds challenge; 1000 words in 10 chapters. Different! Hope you enjoy it!

Brave the storm

Rolling in like the surf, the storm darkened the sky and electrified the air. Liesel could feel the clouds drawing in the static as the wind whirled sharply. Above her head, spindly eucalypt branches were snapping back and forth as she walked down the steeply sloping Milton street. Tonight’s storm was going to be a typical Brisbane summer storm; hot and heavy and a little overdone. She had to get inside before the storm broke. Over her shoulder, thunder rumbled threateningly and Liesel picked up the pace.

The door tore from her hand and slammed, reverberating the light wooden walls of her Queenslander. Fat drops of rain splattered noisily against the window pain in a tattoo, ringing in the gutters and on the roof, the tang of fresh rain filling the room. It was so dark for 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Liesel sighed as she shed her wrappings, coat, bag to the hook by the door, and walked to the kitchen. A steaming cup of tea later, and she could enjoy watching the storm roil o
outside her window.

With an hissing bang, the house plunged into shadows. Flashes of lightning picked out the crevices and nooks of the darkened inner rooms. Liesel ran from room to room, fastening wooden shutters to protect the windows from the now wildly swinging branches. She found her back-up candles and lit several, their tremulous light giving her back a little calm. That was when the dripping started.

Rivulets of dirty water ran down the walls, pooling against the sills and slipping to the floor. What started with gentle rivers became a flood, the water splashing everywhere. The cacophony of the storm outside, it’s swirling branches and debris, tattooed against the wall and windows. It grew so loud that it became almost a knocking, but Liesel ignored it. She grabbed old towels and shoved them under every streaming wall. As suddenly as it had started, it stopped, leaving her with only the echoing drips. She stood in the middle of her house, catching her breath.

With a loud bang, the door flew open and Liesel shrieked. A gush of air quenched the flames and the dim rooms lost all light. Almost above Liesel’s head, the thunder crashed and she screamed as the bright flashes of lightning lit up a figure standing in the entrance.

She was soaked to the bone, a pastel summer dress plastered against her dark skin. Each burst of light picked out the edges of her face, the fearful whites of her eyes. A black trickle of blood ran from her templed. Outside, splashing in with leaves and twigs, the boiling air howled and Liesel was terrified.

“Hello?” she shouted over the din. “Can I help you?”

A silent scream formed on the woman’s lips as she held out a hand to Liesel. The blood circled into a curl, lost in the black tangles of hair. But she did not answer.

“Tell me how I can help, please.” Liesel’s voice started to crack with strain.

The woman advanced in the moment of darkness, and the next flash found her right in front of Liesel, her eyes pleading, hand grasping. Liesel gasped and stepped back from her, raising arms to protect herself. But the woman didn’t come any closer, just stood, dripping on the floor. Liesel looked down for just a second and could see the skirt moving, as if a heavy material floating in a current. She looked back at the distressed girl’s face and knew that she had to help her.

“I’ll follow you,” she said.

8. Tightly zipped in her rain jacket, Liesel braved the street. Her stairs were treacherously slippery in the monsoonal downpour and she gingerly took her time with each one. She looked down the street and could barely see the girl or her shuddering movement. As she left the protection of her house, green matter dislodged by the storm slashed at her eyes and face. Still she walked on, trying to focus, peering through the misty grey to the end of the street.

She could hear the little stream before she saw the mess it had become. Brown and churning with detritus, it swamped over its little banks. Shadowed by the hill of Paddington and great groaning trees, Liesel found it impossible to see or distinguish any detail. She stood at the edge of the park, beneath a pair of jacarandas, buffeted by the storm.

Appearing out of nowhere, the girl stood in front of her again, a frantic edge to her motions. Liesel followed, trying to ignore the blood pounding in her ears. Up a small, worn-in path, pushing aside some dilapidated ferns and pieces of an old fence, they climbed toward what Liesel could see was a crossing. The stream now rushed over bigger, flatter boulders. Liesel couldn’t see anything.

“Where?” she called out, but the girl had stopped beside the boulders.

If she hadn’t been looking directly at the girl, she wouldn’t have seen the upsurge of pale material in the river. What she thought was a root was a hand, caught and curled in a larger gnarled mess of roots.

Her feet were slipping in the mud and rocks as she ran. “Hold on!”

Tucked into a back-eddy beneath the big tree, the girl had been suspended, but Liesel could see the water was getting higher and more violent. Liesel had to lie on the ground, around the roots, to lift the girl’s head up, to stop her drowning. With one hand she held the back of the dress, bunched tightly, and the other was trying to work the caught hand free. She felt it slip, and all the girl’s weight bore down on her as she started to float. Liesel wrapped her arms around, trying to lift her out, but she was heavy and slippery. Her finger’s dug into the girl’s wrists and with a tug she managed to get her partly on to the bank. Liesel dragged her further out, weeping with joy and fear and elation, before she caught her breath.

Turning the girl into recovery, Liesel was checking her breath when she started to vomit up murky water and cough. Saying a silent prayer, she waited for the stranger to recover enough to walk. Enough to brave the storm.

Chinatown rebels

Another flash fiction challenge over at terrible minds! Detective, Ghost, Chinatown, unsolved murder were what I rolled.

Randy didn’t even know he’d gotten out of bed this morning. He ran a hand over his grizzled jaw in frustration. He hadn’t even remembered to stop for coffee. And he wouldn’t be able to get a double-double and breakfast at least until the body was in the bag. If he could even get through the endless lines and the computers at Tim’s hadn’t broken again.

His partner, Detective Dave Turner, bent over the faceless figure against the wall, deep in discussion with the ME. Jane Grant was talking animatedly pointing to the peaked roof of the Millennium Gate, before returning to the body. A shooter then, from the roof. In the middle of Chinese New Year celebrations. This was going to be a messy case. The Chief walked over to them, her hand on Dave’s back. That was interesting…Both had been divorced in the last couple of years. Maybe…Nah, it was none of his business what two consenting adults got up to.

He was musing when a soft voice behind him said, “I saw it.”

Randy turned to see an old friend. “Mr Foo!” He pumped the hand of restaurateur. “Long time no see.”

Foo smiled. “You’ve been a stranger, Sergeant Miller.”

“It’s Detective now,” Randy said with a grin, “and that’s because you closed the store. How’s Toronto? You just back visiting?”

The old man looked perplexed. Randy’s brow furrowed; the old man had retired, maybe he had been diagnosed with dementia. Still, he was prepared to hear the old man out.

He flipped open his notebook. “So what did you see Mr Foo?”

“In the morning there was a cleaner, climbing up with ropes. It was strange, because it would be bad luck, cleaning out all the good built up during the maintenance last week. But they didn’t stop, just climbed to the top, and then the ropes were pulled up.”

People were gathering around them. The news had spread. Randy lead Mr Foo to a shadowed alcove. “Did you notice anything else closer to the shooting?”

“While we were waiting for the blessing of the lion dance, I saw a reflection. I thought it was a photographer.” Mr Foo’s face fell. “Then there was the shot.”

“Did you tell any of the officers on the street?”

Mr Foo’s expression had desperation in it. “I tried! There was chaos. No one listened.”

“Did you see where the person went?”

“Yes. They slid down behind the pole and ran down toward the park.”

“A terrible omen for the new year.” Mr Foo shook his head sadly. “Attempting to kill those who were going to bring some life back to Chinatown.”

A chill ran down Randy’s body. His girlfriend Mai was working on the redevelopment and she was here. He vaguely remembered her in the shower as he left. He had been here too. Why couldn’t he… Randy shrugged it off. He needed to focus.

He gave Dave a slap on the back. “I have a witness describing our shooter heading down Carrall Street. I’m going see if we have any more witnesses.”

Dave turned and glared. He always hated to be disturbed when contemplating a crime scene. He looked particularly haggard today.

Randy took the hint and backed off. He looked down at the streamers and bits of cabbage littering the street and trudged around Dr. Sun Yat Sen’s classical garden, which was locked up tight today. He snuck up to the one of the ornate wall decorations and looked into the cool and green space. He overheard some angry whispers in Chinese.

“They’re saying that a target was missed. That they got the boyfriend instead.”  Randy swirled around to see Mr Foo beside him.

He held a finger to his lips and shook his head. Mr Foo continued, albeit in a whisper, “The shooter is being sheltered by Chen, who hired him from Shanghai. He has family connections to the Triads at home.”

“They say he will be brought out of hiding tonight and fly home. If he can’t finish the job first.” Foo spread his thinning and still dark hair back over his head.

Chen ran the Chinese Cultural Centre. He’d been outspoken about not destroying the heritage of the area, even when the shop fronts were to be updated but remain in tact. Randy had witnessed more than a few of Mai’s heated exchanges in Mandarin with Mr Chen.  He had a few businesses on East Pender that stood to be shut during the closures and he was unhappy. Randy wouldn’t have thought it was worth killing for.

Randy looked up to find Foo had gone. He sauntered casually around to the cultural centre, past the red rimmed doors and windows. He doubled back and quick as a lick, jumped a metal fence beside the centre. Quietly he crept into the back, which adjoined the garden and was cool and quiet. He spotted a man exhaling the smoke of his cigarette, the garden filled with the spicy fragrance. This man was a stranger.

In front of him was a tablet, and on it was a face Randy was overly familiar with. He reached for his radio, but found it wasn’t responding. As silently as he could, he retreated, climbing back over the fence. The wind gusted and shook the mesh, but Randy was already off and running.

He raced to the crime scene, to find only the techs still finishing up the cleaning. He swore. Where had Dave gone. Up the street, he saw a familiar dark blue truck. He sprinted up there.

Dave sat curled in the front seat, his eyes glassy and unseeing. Randy knocked on the window. Dave looked right at him but didn’t acknowledge him. He looked down to his hands. He was rolling Randy’s badge over in his fingertips.

Randy’s hand went to his belt, but there was nothing there. He looked down, and noticed the dark spreading stain on his shirt. The world whirled and suddenly there were flashes of images. A dancing of colour as the dancers moved past. The pop of what he knew was a gun, and Mai’s boss crumpling to the ground. Moving to get directly in front of Mai, get her into a protected doorway and the sudden aching in his chest. Mai, white and screaming at him, her hands soft as ever on his face. Then the darkness.

He remembered now. Mr Foo had died, a few months after leaving for Toronto. A massive coronary. He remembered the flowers out the front of the store, the white streamers.

It was so cold to suddenly realise he was dead. And that there was nothing he could do to help Mai now…

Don’t answer

I picked up Kirsten Bruce’s story. Josee De Angelis took the second 200 words and continued by ttaylor. As it was going begging, I thought I would give it a part 4. Asterisks indicate the different authors. 

Turtle’s eyes were closed when the 8CL bus shook violently and started heading into the overpass tunnel, sideways. The driver tried to avoid hitting the body that had just hurled itself off the top of the bridge but with no luck. The body hit the bus, and then the bus hit the overpass. The motion of the vehicle sliding sideways caused Turtle’s head to hit the window and his eyes flew open just in time to catch a glimpse of a man sitting on the ground right outside where the bus had stopped. It wasn’t a particularly hard crash and no one had been violently thrown around, just frightened. Apparently, no one but the driver had seen the jumper. As passengers began collecting themselves, Turtle made his way to the front of the bus, his eyes fixated on the man outside. Why was he just sitting there? He wasn’t at all surprised that the bus had just hit a brick wall. Probably a vagrant, they always hung out and drank in those overpass tunnels. Maybe he could bum a smoke from him he thought as he exited the bus. As he approached the sitting man, Turtle called out “Hey man” but the man did not reply.


“Gotta smoke?” Silence. The man was staring at a particular point of the tunnel across from him. Turtle made his way closer. The man had long, stringy hair, sharp features and piercing eyes that seemed to read the cracks in the bricks or seeing through the bricks. Most passengers had vacated the bus. Two ambulances arrived. The whole time, the sitting man didn’t move. People were walking around him, not taking notice of him.

Turtle turned towards the sound of people gasping and looked over where a crowd had gathered. He walked over and peered over someone’s shoulder. The body of the jumper lay mangled on the ground, blood seeping from the head, eyes open but dead. A young girl, clues of her age in her fashionable clothing and footwear, the length of her hair and the many bracelets around her left wrist.

Turtle looked over where the man was still sitting, then followed the man’s gaze to the opposite brick wall and thought he saw an image flutter briefly on the wall, then disappearing as if melting into the bricks. He quickly turned to the man, checking his reaction. Had the man seen the same thing?


When Turtle reached the sitting man, he couldn’t help but wonder why the man made no notice of his approach or even standing there next to him.

“Hey,” Turtle said, “you see the whole thing…the jumper and all?”

The man turned his head to look up at Turtle, his face expressionless underneath the hair. He reached into his pants pocket and produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes and half-used book of matches.

“Thanks,” Turtle said taking the pack. He took a crumpled smoke from the pack and lit up the cigarette breathing in the smoke, pausing and exhaling. He gave the pack back to the man who was still holding out his hand.

Turtle couldn’t help but notice how “out of it” the vagrant seemed.

“He asked,” the vagrant all but whispered.

“What? I’m sorry,” Turtle said, “I didn’t hear you.”

The man stared back at the scene with its building crowd of medical personnel scrambling.

“He asked. She answered. She died.”

“Who asked? What are you talking about?”

The vagrant lowered his head into his hands.

“Death called to her,” the man said.


Turtle looked over at the driver, bent over against the bus, people talking quietly to him. Even from here, Turtle could see he was pale and shaking. He turned back to the vagrant, whose eyes had paled disturbingly. His voice echoed eerily when he spoke next, “He waits near. Do you hear him?”

The air grew cold. Turtle shivered. “What did you say, man?”

Blinking, incoherent, the vagrant started. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

Turtle got up, and again a flicker of movement teased in his peripheral vision. Jerking his head back, he walked in the shadow of the underpass. Something seemed to dance just beyond his focus.

“Hello?” His echo bounced back, colder than before, more tentative.

“Turlough…” The voice was little more than a whisper but it commanded him, thrilling through his blood and bone. He told no one his real name. No one knew.

“Who’s there? This isn’t funny.” Nothing but the skittering of some litter in the wind. “A girl just died here.”

“I know,” came the haunting reply, brushing soft against his ear.

Ingenuity and its fickle heart

On this week’s challenge at terrible minds, it’s mash-up time! I rolled16 &17 for Dieselpunk zombies!

“C’mon Jas,” she begged. “We need to get that foil running.”

Jas rolled out from under the foil, goggles glinting up at her. “May, I can’t do this any faster. But do scream if you see the chompers.”

May cocked the pistol, her wavy dark hair reflected in the shiny barrel. The last thing her Daddy had given her before the girls had left the compound. She aimed her barrel over at the edge of a deserted building, tested the sight. She turned quickly focusing on another crumbling and greying building, and halted, heart hammering in her throat. Tentative exploratory steps began a shuffle shamble. They were coming.

“Uh Jas,” May said, taking a faltering step backwards into the foil, “I think you’re running out of time.”

Jas rolled out and adjusted the lever on her goggles, zooming on the street. “Bugger. One sec.”

With some thunderous clunking under the foil, shaking the mast, the light-weight solar sail undulating and snapping, Jas got to fixing. May watched with increasing trepidation as the hoard closed in on their position.

“Jas…” The drawn out note of fear was enough, she hoped to get her friend moving.

There was a gentle hum as the sails came back on line, a flash on neon blue as they activated. Jas rolled out and jumped up, swinging to pick up the dolly. “See? I knew I could do it!” The smudge of grease on her cheek above her broad smile was adorable.

“Boat now. Gloat later.” May swung her long lead over the side and with ungainly movements slid it.

Jas turned. “Right.” With an elegant bound, she threw her light frame over the side of the foil.

With a flourish Jas stepped in behind the wheel. With a small lurch, the foil slid away from the sidewalk, sliding down the city streak, uneven where plants had forced themselves up through the bitumen, cracking it like a scab.

Only meters away, their shuffling and stumbling footsteps audible, the Lost followed them with glazed eyes in ravaged bodies, torn and the grey-green colour of a gangrene they didn’t feel, the slack-jawed gnawing of their incessantly hungry maws.  It was always the rusty blood on them that chilled May’s blood, or the red flag of a recent feed.

Once, the Lost had been people too; they had felt and laughed and danced. But all the evidence suggested a pruning off in the higher brain areas, reducing the Lost to base instinct. Their bodies sought to repair what was being lost, so they turned cannibal to ingest the easiest source. None of them lasted beyond a year; the flesh at the end became too decrepit.

They rose as one, a great swelling wave of hunger and desperation, gaining on the foil. Others trickled out, joining the surging mass, their pursuit the drumbeat that underscored the fearful beating of the girls’ hearts. The Lost were gaining.

Levelling her pistol, May swallowed her guilt, knowing that they no longer could feel, and started to pick off the leaders with potshots. They went down, rolled right under the feet of the crowd, but others surged forward.

“Don’t mean to hurry you or anything Jas, but they’ll be on top of us in seconds if we don’t HURRY THE HELL UP.”

Jas turned, her long honey brown hair trailing in the wind. “This just turned into a fun outing!”

With a wide swing around the corner, Jas turned the boat down a side street, the foil rolling faster as gravity pushed her with ardour. May could see the shining mass they were barrelling towards.

“Jas.” Her tone was wary, her hand gripped a hand hold, her gun waving at the end of her outstretched arm as she took out another few of their pursuers. “Jas!”

Cackling loudly at the wheel, Jas steered them directly at it. Any moment now they would crash into the water.


They flew in the air for a moment, before slamming into the surface of the water, a green wave washing over them and the deck. A family of ducks, disturbed, buffeted them with the air from their wings, quacking angrily at being disturbed.

As May removed herself from being moulded about the central cabin area, she looked up to see Jas’ triumphant expression as she flicked a switch. Behind the foil came a little burble as an engine somewhere rumbled to life with a little puff of smoke, and they began to move forward.

May picked a piece of stinking weed from her hair and flung it over the side in disgust. “You couldn’t have just told me?”

“More fun this way.” Jas set her goggled eyes at the centre of the lake.

The girls lazed in the sun, their undead friends watching ravenously from the lakeside. Some tried to swim, but between their lack of coordination and lack of buoyancy, none got further than the shallows. Spread out, the rays warming and drying their young bodies, they rested quietly and contently with their shades on.

May sat up, and looked at her friend. Even with the sun on them, her friend’s skin had distinctly gotten paler.

“You feeling alright?” May stroked the silky waves Jas was drying on the deck.

Jas propped herself up. “Just fine, no problems.” The smug look returned. “Want to see what I’ve saved for the grand finale?”

May sat back, preparing to be amazed. It would have to be pretty special. Their hungry friends waited on most areas of the lake bank now. Jas unfolded a handle from the side of the wheelhouse, and as she cranked, the sails retracted and a spoked overhead propellor appeared. With a couple of hard and fast cranks, the engine growled into life, and the blades began to spin. They started to move forward on the water, and Jas pressed a button, allowing their wheel more freedom of movement for steering.

“Hold on.” Her eyes sparkled as May was relegated to a seat with a jerk. She circled around the lake, gaining momentum. On the last lap, staring down the Lost, she gunned it, pulling the wheel towards her. Slowly, ever so slowly, they gained altitude, passing close enough to knock over several of the waiting.

May laughed with joy as they rose up; the freedom, the ingenuity. In the clear and crisp air, they were soaring with the birds. This hadn’t happened since the Blood Years, when the Lost had first appeared. Flying was an art thought lost.

As May looked out, she noticed the foil listing slightly. She turned to Jas, slumped unmoving over the wheel.

“Darling!” Pulling her up, May set Jas on a seat, and pulled the foil to a wavering level.

“I think our day is done,” Jas shouted weakly over the rush of air. “This little clockwork heart has had just too much excitement.”

“Daddy can fix you!” May shouted, fumbling for the throttle. “Just hold on.”

With a small chuckle in the back of her throat, Jas watched her love take the wheel, always level headed in a crisis, even though she wasn’t sure where she was going.

“Second star on the right and straight on ’til morning.”

Jas’ eyes closed, her happiness all around her as together they touched the sky.


Like fluffy cotton wool, dyed grey and absorbing the sounds and smells of the world about, the fog descended on the city. Where it went, they went, silent footsteps down the streets and alleyways.

She is walking all alone, her confidence worn outside in the studded tattered vest with the patches of half a dozen angry punk bands on the outside and with the unbrushed, unwashed hair, dye faded over months, shoved under the dark beanie. It was the brash conversation with a friend, speaking of illicit things in a tone so loud people three back could hear, to this suddenly quiet person slipping down streets alone; it was this sudden change between that had attracted them.

Those that crept beneath the cover of the fog were the ones of legend that had been preying on the solitary, the weak, or those that would give them sport; these others had been driving the fog for thousands of years, feeding from the luckless around the Thames and in the deep, dark forests that the Hellenic and Celtic feared for exactly these predators and tricksters of lonely places. For centuries, they had drawn the fog with them like a screening cloak, used it for play and to disorient.

The girl turns, a sneer on her face. “All right. Who’s there?”

Her voice drowns in the muffling mist. A clang echoes by her feet, and she shrieks as something leaps out. A cat, a grey streak against the ground, yowling as it runs, as she should. But she lets go of her breath with a gush and laughs at her stupidity. But that feeling of eyes on her still lifts the sensitive hairs at the back of her neck, gets her heart hammering.

She continues on her way, distracted by the noise behind her, like a thousand autumn leaves tumbling together and crunching.

“Whoever you are, cut it out and piss off. I can defend myself, and I am not afraid of you.”

It’s like a hiss, the sound of their laughter, like the howling winds sneaking through a chink in the brickwork, chilling you to the bone.

The girl stalks onward, determined to get out of this alley. Ignoring all her instincts, the fear flooding through her veins with the adrenaline, she presses on.

Around her, tendrils of mist probe at the edges of her vest, tangle the strands of her hair. She jerks, a puppet dancing at the pulling of their strings.

“Who are you? Leave me alone.”

Frantic now, she stumbles into a run, desperate for the cross street she knows is ahead. Coalescing from the mist in front of her, swirling atom by atom, the shadowy figures form, laughing at her panic. Their shapes are grotesque, twisted, gnarled and deformed; millennia of their depravity transforming their outward appearance to match what lay within.

With taloned limbs, they reach as one, hissing with laughter as she screams and jerks from them. Surrounding her now, fog in between a barrier from the outside world, they creep in as she spins like a top, searching for a weak point. With a ferocity they enjoy, she launches herself at the littlest one, her fists flailing.

A bag drops to the ground with a thud. Above, a window opens, a head pops out. There are no more disturbing sounds. Shuffling painfully down an alleyway, an old man long down on his luck finds a bag. He rifles through it, takes the few notes, looks around. He drops the bag again, and scuttles off, tugging down the beanie and wrapping the jacket tight about him, cherishing the anonymity.

From the fog they watch. And they wait.

House that preys

Where the sun rarely shone, the place where pigeons came to roost, in the shadow of the skyscrapers, was a small gothic church. The drab grey bricks were well maintained, white paint adorned the windowsills of the arched, stained-glass windows. The church liked the white. It was reminded of the large whites of their eyes when they finally surrendered.

During the week, outside the church, the workers came and sat. The warm air attracted them, the light and gardens, to eat their lunch in the peaceful surrounds. Quietly, it watched them gorge themselves, feeding on the energy their gluttony provided. Often, the people would look up, confused as to why they had eaten so much and still felt hungry.

On the weekends, the church had to take its pickings. Often the caretaker would pick up the carcasses of dead pigeons, wondering where they had come from. Pigeons were not a favourite, but they would do if no other sustenance was on offer. Weddings were an extremely tasty dish. All the envy of the bride in white, the unsurpressed longings of those about to commit to a lifetime of sex with one other. The church creaked, its low giggle, remembering all the askew skirts and dropped trousers of the brides and grooms, bared beneath it’s beams. Lust and adultery were… dellllicioussssssssssss

But the days where they filled its all, those righteous congregations, those were good. All of those sins, escaping, being thought about over and over… Mmmmm… Those were the days. It was ironic, the doors clattered with amused tones, that they often left more pious than they came.

Sometimes it remembered fondly the priests who had lived within its influence. How over time, it had sucked them dry of any evils. They mostly died after that, screaming in their sleep of demons. Too good for this world, the parishioners said.

Others were weak. Their minds were putty to be moulded by the church. The adulterers were fun, but wailed to much. The gluttons, fat and rotund, grew too lazy to be any fun. The building’s most tasty dish, one that made it shiver with delight, was the paedophiles. Forbidden and sexual, it forced the thoughts and the touch upon them. Many sickened, left, burning with what they’d done. For a select few, their delectable behavior they saw as normal, for they themselves had been through it in their orphanages and homes. These, the behavior they saw as normal, for they themselves had been through it in their orphanages and homes. These, the church fostered and cared for. Its absolute favourite.

Now, they thought to sell it. At first, the rumblings in the hall made it angry. Pieces of the church suddenly fell and injured the board members. Then one proposal caught its attention. A nightclub. The church practically leapt with glee. It concentrated its hardest. Slowly, when the vote came, the proposal was passed, to the confusion of the board. But that night, the church delighted. Soon, it would feast….