“Come in friend and take a seat. My name? Call me Jack….I run this establishment. I’ve been working this bar for the better part of a hundred years. Got a nice stage, we got entertainment later if you’re sticking around?”

“Uh-huh. Well do you have time for a drink? Okay. What was that? The hundred years thing ? Yeah, friend, I’m a little older than I look. I’m a demon”

“I can tell from your expression that you’ve never bumped into one of us before. We do exist. I guarantee that by the end of this conversation, I’ll have swung your opinion. Don’t worry, I’m not a threat. Hardly good for business.”

“And my business is important to me. On that stage you’ll see some of the best talent in the biz. I consider myself a ‘talent scout’ without equal.”

“I specialise in contracts for fame and fortune. I can give the lucky individual ten years of their dreams and then I come to collect. In return they play at my club for the rest of eternity. They almost never think twice. One catch, though. I can only make this deal with them whilst they are 17.”

” I don’t know why, I don’t make the rules.”

“Who do I have? You probably know a few of them. The first guy I signed was something really special. Created an entire genre by himself. Kid by the name of Robert, a real demon on the guitar, if you’ll pardon the pun. It seems everyone and his brother knew about our deal, though. ”

“Yeah, the crossroads thing. Well, it did make subject easier when I was talking to later pitches. Thing with Robert is he wasn’t ready to give it up when I came to collect, so I had to grease the wheels, so to speak. Strychine poisoning can be incredibly painful, or so I hear.”

“This is the thing. They are happy for the trade at 17, but the moment they hit 27 it starts to consume them. it becomes all they can think about. Some will use it to drive them to write as much as they can. Others will try and use the as many distractions as possible to not think about it”

“You know, drugs, alcohol, women. The good things in life. Need a refill there, champ?”

“This one guy, Kurt, now he surprised me. He worked out how to summon me, against my will I might add. Yanked me right into his goddamned front-room. Just as I’m about to give the shaggy haired fool a piece of my mind, he pulls out a shotgun and says that he is breaking the deal”

“Blew his brains out right in front of me. I mean, come on?! The deals are binding. Killing yourself just gets you here faster. I am freaking demon. My kind invented fine print.”

“Another cat I should mention is Jimi. He was a rare one I tell you. The kid was tripping so hard when he got here, it took us a week to convince him he was dead. All he cared about was as long as he had a guitar to play. Now he plays every Friday night, packs the place out everytime”

“What?”

“Come on, I’ve worked hard for them, and now they work hard for me. ”

“This bar is something I take pride in. I have some of the best entertainment in the world, and here I showcase it to any who know how to get here.”

“You don’t remember how you got here. Yeah, i’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Something tells me you’ve got a little more free time than you realise.”

“Fancy another drink?”

Steven was a graffiti artist.

He wasn’t any means the best in the world, but he was an up-and-comer who was making a name for himself. The general world knew him by the name “Skribe”, which adorned a great deal of blank canvasses the City of London provided.

He had scaled the heights of the cranes in the Docklands and daubed his tag in a ten foot high mural. He could see it from his bedroom window, as long as he used his Dad’s binoculars.

He had personally seen to so many trains that it was impossible to ride for more than one stop without seeing his name.

And he was so far the only person to have broken into the local airport at night and create the first plane under the company name “Skribe Air”.

Tonight was about something else. It was 3am and he was currently south of the river and heading into enemy territory. Parts of the city were considered to be off-limits, the stomping grounds of some of the most well-known artist. Unrespected tags were considered an insult and quickly defaced.

He had recently become aware that some of his tags were getting whitewashed and a new name painted in his place. The name didn’t matter, only the offense. Weeks of questions and favours called in had finally given him the address of this wannabe-nemesis. He had no idea who he was and didn’t even know what he looked like.

The target lived in one of the sprawling council estates that were growing across London, and reconnaissance of the area had provided Steven with the perfect wall that would be the first thing the offender would see when he left his building.
Setting to work, he started to outline his tag against the wall.

Working furiously, he soon became aware of someone stood behind him. He realised that he had been aware of them for a while, but he had felt no threat. He looked around.

It was a kid, not much younger than himself, scrutinising his work. He wore the same clothes as most others; baggy jeans, hoodie, trainers.

“Are you Skribe?”

Steven smiled, turned to the boy and took a bow. Wordlessly he returned to his work.

“You are pretty good”

Steven turned agin, and nodded and said,

“Thanks man. The nature of the art makes compliments tricky.”

He returned to his work and eventually completed it. He had styled the letters in a cartoonish, Rob Zombie-esque style with a detached hand at the end flipping the bird.

He stepped back, inspecting for any forgotten details and finally assessing it ready.

“So you are finished?”

He turned to the kid and confirmed this with a thumbs-up.

The kid tilted his head to one side and suddenly looked quizzical.

“I do have one question. Why do you do it? I mean, making the effort to place your name in so many places?”

Steven considered this for a second

“I guess you could say that everyone just wants to be remembered in some small way. Me? I just want people to know my name and what i can do.”

The kid took this in. Steven started packing away his tins when the kid piped up again.

“You should be careful with your name. In the old days, they used to believe that if someone knew your name, they had power over you. Last thing you want to be doing is giving someone such an advantage”

Steven stood up hefting his backpack onto his shoulder. The kid continued.

“But you don’t have to worry about anything like that anymore”

Steven stared at the kid confused, but the kid was no longer looking at him. His gaze focused on the wall behind him. Steven spun round and saw words starting to form, charring against the brickwork above where he had placed his tag. Within seconds he realised it was a contract, a contract of servitude. Symbols painful to the eye lashed around and refused to be identified. He realised that his name now filled the signature strip.

“Not all contracts are written on paper”

Steven looked back at the kid, but something was different. The eyes were blood red and some of the symbols that were present on the wall slid across his face. He backed away until he was pressed against the still wet paint. His mind boggled at what he was witnessing and he could not get a grasp on it.

“And someone should have read the fine print”

At this point, the entire wall bulged forward and split, pushing Steven to ground. As he turned over a multitude of arms reached out from the divide and grabbed his legs. He screamed as he was dragged into the void, his last sane image a laughing boy waving him goodbye.

Jonathan Felix sat back in the chair after affixing the final electrodes to his skull. He is currently reclined in one of the most expensive private scientific investments in the world, and today was the fruition of his, and many others, efforts. The aim of the project was to open a human beings mind and allow them to perceive one of the spatial dimensions above the mediocre three.

The actual result was still a point of contestation, but it was suspected that the individual would be able to study all possible universes that could be created from his actions, and then choose the one that he wished to follow. A man whose every action would be perfect as he had already witnessed the results.

Read More

Inspiration can be tricky. It cannot be defined, yet is the source of almost every story written. There are ways to inspire yourself, placing your mind in the right position to be most receptive to new ideas. What most people do not realize that there are one or two other, more artificial ways to inspire yourself.

There is a ritual that can be performed. Most who know of it will stress the importance of the time of the year and of incantations that need to be read aloud, but these are unimportant. It requires blood, as often the oldest ways do. You must obtain the blood of someone, and specifically it must be blood from a wound that killed them.You must drink this blood whilst writing. For every sample of blood that you collect in this fashion, you will receive inspiration to write one story. These stories will literally be about anything.

Things that could happen, or even have happened.

Things that wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, happen.

There is one catch.

After the first couple of stories, you will feel a new inspiration that cannot be dampened.

And you will begin to write.

And before you know what you are doing

You will be typing an admission of guilt

telling everyone what you have done

the crimes you have committed

the blood

the old man near death
the mother-to-be
that poor child

Oh dear God no.