Son of the Wicked.

Was this what I was always meant to be? I looked down at my hands soaked through to the bone with the blood of the countless. In a way, I felt relieved to finally have some semblance of clarity. As shitty as it may be. Now, at least I know where I, no not where, what I am.
The son of the wicked.
However, the pastor certainly seemed to be shining a rose tinted light on the prince of darkness,  for a man of the cloth. He knew too much to be a regular Priest. An old and withered hand rested on my forearm.
‘I know son, the truth can both set you free and improsen you to the inevitability of self fulfilling prophecy. You do not always get to choose.’ I pulled my arm away from him before responding.
‘And how is it that you have all this knowledge of my…heritage?’ He laughed a horrible choking gagg which resulted in a long hawked out ball of bloodied phlegm.
‘Something amusing to you?’ I snapped, half concerned.  He couldn’t die now, I needed answers!
‘Ahhh, just you. And how you assume.’ His eyes flashed at me again causing the hairs on the arm closest to him to raise. I pulled my arm away from the draw that resonated from him, again.
Assume? You lost your mind Priest?’ I teased as I rubbed the hairs down on my arm.
‘You will see. But first you need protection from the spectres. I am aware of your…travels. ‘ I looked at him again, but this time I saw something different, behind the veneer of vulnerability, behind the facade of age. This was no ordinary priest. I’m not even sure if it was Human.
‘I, ahhh, I don’t know what you-
-come off it!! You think that your evil deeds go unnoticed? You think that your actions go unnoticed by him?‘ For the first time in over four hundred years I felt like a child again being chided by the monks for some wrong doing. I smiled, but the way he said the word ‘him’ sent goose flesh up my arm again.
‘By ‘him’ you mean-
– I mean the devil, your true father.’ I sniggered before responding.
‘Now that you mention it, I don’t suppose I did, no!’
‘Do not mock!’ He spat before turning away from me,’you were created for more than this…existence. You were meant for more than the what you are now, a mere puppet for the world’s greater evils.’
‘Really?’ I let the question hang in the air but I hadn’t finished and the priest knew this, ‘So what was I meant for?’ The priest fished inside his loose black robes and produced a brown leather book. A pentagram was branded into the front cover. He held it out toward me.
‘You were meant for this. The world and everything in it, my son.’


‘As it was written: The Lord of Lords, our heavenly father bore his first creation. A son, to rule as his equal. And, his beloved was seated to the right of the divine and ruled over all the Angels in heaven.’
I blinked hard. Why was this old fool reciting some biblical passage to me? Does he think I have come to be converted, again? Shit. Maybe I have.
‘Well that sounds great.’ I said as I shot to my feet and turned to leave,  preferably before he starts again. I felt a cool hand on my shoulder.
‘Wait, there is more.’ My patience had officially run out.
‘Oh I am sure there is father. But, the thing is I am not interested in fucking hearing it!’ He removed his hand from my shoulder. Good, at least I will not have to break your hand.
‘I know what you are.’ The words hung in the staleness of the empty chapel.  I had stopped. What do you mean!
‘I beg your pardon?’ I menaced as I approached him. However, he did not flinch in fear instead he opened his arms to embrace me. I drew my dagger.
‘You are not like us’ he began as he gripped my forearm and dragged the edge of my blade across his open palm.
‘We mortals!’ He spat as he clinched his hand and the blood dripped from his fist.
‘I bleed.’ I objected. I wasn’t sure why I felt like I needed to defend the vulnerability of my skin, but…and I sure as all hell wasn’t going to cut myself to prove it to him. But something in his glittering eyes held me. He knew what I was, but the funny part of all this was, I didn’t even know what I was.
‘Yes you bleed. But no weapon made from the hands of men will kill you. This, you already know.’ He said as he slowly circled me as if inspecting his live stock at the markets.
‘Equal in every way except one…for the Lord was not ruled by anything but his son was ruled by his heart, as-‘
‘-for the love of God, just fucking tell me!’ The old man’s smile grew even wider. I felt like a fly caught in the web of the spider.
‘No, not God Henry. You are not of his creation, you are the work of his son.’
‘His son?’
‘Archangel Satanael. Or better known, simply, as Satan.’
‘Shit…’ I breathed in realisation.  All the bad things I had done started to finally make sense. I am a monster, a true monster.

The order of St Oswalds


I returned to the chapel. More than four hundred years had passed since I left on my personal crusade of righteous revenge. Funnily enough, as I stood at the door of the ancient church I looked up. The sky was overcast and threatening.  I thumped on the huge door once more. Rain was coming, I could smell it. The barren land to the side of where I stood echoed with the horror of the flames that engulfed my home. Or what was…now, it has been erased from existence. I felt moisture on my cheek. I looked up again and saw no rain, then I realised, I was weeping! I pounded the door with my clenched fist and left dents in the sun bleached paintwork of the plain red door.
I turned away and headed back up the stone slabbed path. I wanted to turn back and walk over the earth that raised me. I hoped that the well still stood. Probably not, probably destroyed. 
‘Yes?’ Called the weary voice from behind me. I turned and looked into the eyes of the old pastor whom remained half hidden behind his door of isolation. He opened his door wider and a knowing smile spread across his face as he walked toward me. I paused and actually felt a little unnerved by him. He looked like he knew me and even looked happy to see me! I thought of turning and leaving again, but something he said stopped me dead in my tracks. A simple statement that felt like home. And as the rain began to pour so too did my own tears as he softly said;
‘You have returned’


I don’t know why but I always associated it with royalty. Regal and majestic, almost…no, it is. Magnificent and superior to the rest of us. It holds the colour of nobility, the impression of decadence and ultimate luxury.  That was until now. I looked down at the horror stricken face, the gaze that looked past the fabric of current affairs and saw straight into the great beyond. I wish, no I hope, to one day see what lies beyond this…reality. Purple. She looked back up at me, not directly but you get the picture. The tone of her pimpled and imperfect mask of whoresomeness.  This will be the last time…it must. I must rid myself of these spirits that will commandeer me almost at will. I must seek answers. I must return to my place of…discovery and consult the brother hood, or what remains of them. But not yet. First I must dispose of this body, of her body. Legend of the ripper had grown and spread like a viscous plague. It must be stopped. I must be stopped. Maybe I knew this, even whilst in my states of absent possession. Maybe that was why I wrote the letters. Maybe,  huh! Maybe not. I am a monster. There is no place for me in this world or the next. I deserve everything I become.



I awoke again sticky with dark blood. It hadn’t yet dried but it was coagulated and congealed in clumps down the front of my apron. I sat up. My face felt funny, tight almost. My stomach was heavy, oddly, as I did not recall eating anything before I…I was back in my bed-sit. the nape of my neck tingled, why does this happen to me? I cursed the still and empty room with my sour thoughts. I knew they hadn’t left me. I could feel their eyes all over me. My skin prickled and raised like goose flesh.
I fetched for the mirror to see what made my face feel so peculiar and noticed a smeared red plate, a pot of what looked like blood, a quill and parchment on the bedside cabinet. I wasn’t even aware that I owned a writing station!
I peered into the mirror, the room was dark but I angled it so my face was illuminated by the white light of the moon. My stomach turned and threatened to burst as I realised it was dried up blood on my face. My stomach full. The bloody plate on the side…my head began to swim as saliva filled my open, drooling mouth. I dropped to my knees and noticed a crumpled piece of parchment beneath the table. I reached out and opened it whilst trying to keep the contents of my stomach from deserting me, whatever that may be…I think it best stay there.

Dear Boss,

the letter began. I started to read the opening line but the ink, or blood, had smeared. I could make out a few words though. One in particular that made me vomit blood…the letter was ruined all except one word. Right at the end like a signature in fact. One word, as chilling as the the night is black, a word that lives in infamy, a word that stalks the streets of Hell…


Not just a Game: The Spice Girls Fallacy


I just happened to stumble upon this little gem. I had almost forgotten writing this. Happy days

Originally posted on Henry Game: His/story:

red herring

Ahhh, at last, he’s back! Who’s back? I’m back, ain’t I? errrr…The Spice Girls fallacy. So, do you remember the Spice Girls song, the one about that rampant rabbit? 

No, do I hear you say? Well I do. I was just sitting there one day, not too long ago, when on the radio, cometh the song; “Stop right now! Thank you very much…” Now you’re thinking, ‘well come on then, get to the point Game!’ Ain’t ya? Well, as the rest of the song goes, it seems to me pretty damned obvious. I cannot believe I didn’t pick it up before. so for clarification I will enter the text below, in sections with my interpretations attached and when you have read this I am telling you now, you will see things the same way I do;

‘Stop right now, thank you very much’ [Ok pal, that's enough now, I've had enough!]

‘I need…

View original 133 more words



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Many years passed by and the harrowing memories of what did, or did not take place, in that village south of Germany, still stalked my nights relentlessly.

I had learned through a surviving member of the brotherhood that my ‘possession’ was nothing more than a mob of angry spirits, or spectres, as he professionally refered to them as. He told me that they (spectres) are usually very angry at some great wrong doing, apparently. And that I, being in the right place at the right time, had just happened to stumble into them…says it all really, doesn’t it?
Even now when I sit still and listen, I can hear the melodical haunt of a flute in the distance. I reckoned though, by now, that all that shit was behind me…I reckoned wrong

I had travelled far and wide but always I returned to mother England. This time I settled into a nice quiet place in the east end of London, “the greatest city in the world”
The bloody shitiest city more like it! Anyways, as I was saying, a cosy little spot where I spent my time secluded from the powers that be. Whitechapel it was called, lovely place. That was till I felt that unusual cold sensation biting at the nape of my neck.  Next thing I knew, I came to in a carriage.  Covered in blood again! Except this time, for reasons that I have never concluded,  I was wearing an apron.


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