Just now, I found this note in the inside pocket of an old record bag. The handwriting isn’t mine, and nor are the words, so that leaves me with one conclusion; the note was given to me.

But by who? I cannot recall being approached with this cry for help, this scream aching for someone to make it better. As if it had never happened, as if this was the first time I had ever read those words. Yet somewhere deep in my memory, this ragged piece of paper is familiar.

Whoever you are, I’m sorry I forgot all about your note. Genuinely sorry.

The twitter conversations that followed made me realise what morbid and gruesome imaginations my followers had. I wanted to encourage this imagination to be paired up with some spontaneous creativity. So I posed this challenge:

I figured what better way to get their juices flowing than to invite them to murder me.

Below is my attempt at my own challenge and 20 other attempts (in no particular order) from the sickest, most disturbing, morose and positively ghastly followers of mine. Have fun reading about my death.

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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Lawrence Pearce(c) 2012

All they knew of the strange man who stayed in room 3 of their shared house, was that no one had seen him since the day he moved in, three weeks prior.

Inside room 3, Lawrence Pearce was deep in conversation with his reflection in a free-standing mirror. The room was otherwise barren. His loose, ragged clothes hung off his withered bones.

Lawrence scratched his beard, spitting bullets of scatter-brained arguments. His reflection argued back.

‘I’m loving and caring. I look after people.’ said Lawrence.

‘What about all those girls you used?’ his reflection snarled.

‘They enjoyed themselves too.’ replied Lawrence.

‘You wish!’

‘You’re saying I’m a crap lay as well as being a bad person?’ Lawrence could have laughed, if he wasn’t burning up inside.

He was sure he had gone insane, but this did not concern him as much as winning the argument did. He was a good person, dammit!

The reflection continued, ‘You’re a shallow, manipulative cretin. You think the world revolves around you.’

‘I once stole red hair dye in my teens, and returned it an hour later because I felt so guilty. I give to charity!’ Lawrence protested.

The reflection rubbed its eyes, looking like it was tiring.

I’m winning, thought Lawrence, but then rubbed his own eyes too. He turned his fists in and rolled them like paws. When he opened his eyes again, his vision was blind.

Then the reflection groaned, holding its belly.

Lawrence buckled forward and vomited over the floorboards beneath his bare feet; a freight train tearing through his stomach, being eaten from within.

‘What is happening?’ shivered Lawrence. His words were slurred.

The reflection, whose vision was clear and whose stomach was fine, smiled. He laughed as Lawrence collapsed to the floor; weak muscles giving way to overwhelming fatigue.

When the smell became too much, the other residents called the police. Outside the house, Detective Parsons addressed the media.

‘Mr Pearce’s body was found at 8:45am, presumed dead for four days. All evidence points to suicide by starvation.’

The evidence; Lawrence had moved into the empty room three weeks prior, with just the clothes he was wearing and a free-standing mirror. He had locked himself in.

The mystery, and what Detective Parsons did not tell the media, was that the key was no where to be found. How could Lawrence have locked himself in if he didn’t have the key?

Fat Joe was on shift in the evidence room. Nearby, the free-standing mirror stood, draped in a protective cloth.

He heard the dull clunk of metal hitting flesh. A mouse, he thought, and sloped off his chair. The sound came again, clunk, from behind the cloth, which Joe pulled away. He saw in the mirror not his reflection but another man.

What he saw, although he did not know it, was Lawrence Pearce’s reflection, tossing the key to room 3 in his hand.

The reflection whispered, ‘I alway hated that fucker.’
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Other takes on the ‘The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce’ challenge.

Disgusting filth. Pleaseure lines. Hedgehogs. @InfrasonicTom
Haunted house. Tap, tap, tap. In the wall. @lorgraham
Made-up century. Drumm’d with cats bones. @quisquilian
Old-school Bond. Cunts. 200-ish darts. @dd_opco
Cup of tea. Sulphuric acid. Crocodile smile. @kizzymouse
Sipping brandy. Bloody stump. Lush breasts. @00Msheep00
Began to run. Murder their creators. Words slithered. @midorichaos
What a way to go. Lycra and sinews. Copied? @drgonzolives
Bowie knife. Beard. Bloody Americans. @hossmania82
Ship the body. Officer Pretty. A live one. @mightybattlecat
Twitter. Wrong number mate. No Lawrence Pearce. @sianlawson
Club sandwich. Vial. The man must die. @cain_benjamin
Lord and master. Lizzard Lounge. Disco ball. @unothatskool
Big deal. Monstrous needle. Flammable jelly. @cjoneshorror
Warm patch of sun. Out-of-towners. Bludgeons and burns. @moabraft
Streetlight haze. Big toes. Pool of acid. @mpc1980
The artist. Serenity. Loathed himself. @LAdyCrimeWriter
Gnome. Power and luminance. Score. @Worfles
Freeport Convention. Bangkok. Giddy birds. @1pageaday
Atropa Belladonna. Clever girl. Berries. @daniellellanes
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by @infrasonicTom

The black night dumped rained down upon him as he stood beneath the hanging branches of a willow tree.  Lawrence sat alone in his car talking on his mobile phone, the windows fogging over.  Lawrence’s head leaned back, then slowly fell forward.  The fog on the windows becoming more dense.  Lawrence’s silhouette gave away him disconnecting with this phone companion.

Lawrence had been repeating this call four times a week for the last six months.  The man walked toward the car with a calm gait.  From his coat he pulled a two liter soda bottle filled with gasoline.

From the back to the front of the car the contents were emptied.  A Zippo lighter flicked from his wrist landing on the hood launching the flame upward and streaking across the car.  Inside Lawrence leaped smashing his head on the ceiling of the car.  The window beside him shattered into thousands of shards.

Two powerful arms reached through the space the window recently occupied and yanked Lawrence through.  Dragging the shocked and stunned man across the road to the same willow tree where he had stalked his prey.  Duct tape wrapped around Lawrence’s left forearm, around the trunk of the tree and around his right wrist.  Lawrence tried to scream, but he was exhausted, stunned and pantless.  The man standing above him reached down and removed the mobile phone from Lawrence’s semen stained shirt pocket.

He checked the call log of the phone.  “You disgusting filth”, said the man in the long leather coat.  It was the same number Lawrence called everything fourth night and at exactly 9:37pm.

“I can’t help myself!!!!  I’m sick!!!!”, Lawrence screamed.

“You are sick, and I am your therapist.”  the man said walking into the shadows beyond the weeping willow tree.  He returned pushing a cart full of truck batteries and a box containing a child’s toy.

He opened the box, removing its contents and placing it directly over the confluence of Lawrence’s left and right legs.  Securing it there with another roll of duct tape.

“Well, my friend, the time has come to cure you of your obsession.  There are few cures for those with Auto Erotic Betty Crocker Baking Tips Hot Line Pleasure, so, I had to make things up a bit as I went along.

“You’ll notice in the cart a dozen truck batteries wired together to power this Hasbro Easy Bake Oven.  Only the 40 watt bulb usually inside has been replaced with a 2000 watt magnetron creating an Easy Bake Microwave Oven.

The truck batteries and the Easy Bake Microwave Oven were connected to the balancing mechanism of a laser level placed on Lawrence’s stomach.  “If this wiggles too much…  ZAP!!!!  So buck up chap, you’ve got a chance to come out of this OK.”

The man in the long black coat leaned down to Lawrence’s ear and whispered, “Betty Crocker was my grandmother asshole.”  He opened his coat dropping a dozen hedgehogs directly onto Lawrence’s chest.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Laura Graham @lorgraham

It was insistent, had been for days, the tap-tap-tap on the wall, though there was nothing visible causing it. He hadn’t slept in days, the tapping in time with his heartbeat, sending pulse after pulse through his aching skull. They did say this house was haunted…but really?

He’d been told to get out of the house, get some air, clear his head, but it was there on his return, the tap-tap, reminding him, of what he wasn’t sure. He’d started seeing things too, in his insomniac delirium, faces from the past, characters from his work. He couldn’t escape.
Silence.  He turned away from the computer screen, face scrunched with confusion. Three days, seventy-two hours, and suddenly…nothing. The only light was coming from his computer, but then he’d had the lights on since the noise started, and the sun had been out, there was nothing there. Now there really was nothing, and that was most frightening of all.

He got to his feet, slowly, fists clenched to strike out, just in case. He padded softly over to the wall, peering around the room as he went, then slowly raised a hand, and tapped on the wall. The returning thud caused him to jump backwards, over his chair and spilling on to the floor. There was someone in the wall.

He heaved himself back to his feet, edging out of the room and flicking on the hall light. He positioned himself in front of the cupboard, the empty one he had been meaning to fill, knowing there was a loose panel in the back to allow access to the electrics, and took a deep breath. Door open, panel off, grabbed the torch, the sole occupant of the cupboard from its shelf, and slid it on, its beam drifting into the dusty gap. Nothing.

There was nothing for it, he’d have to go in and investigate. He manoeuvred himself down under the bottom shelf, straightening once he was in the gap. Still no one. Then he remembered I’d been at the desk, by the window. The other end of the room. Edging along, torchlight bouncing, nothing. A glance back told him the panel was still off, the weak light from the hall denoting the way out. There was cold breath on the back of his neck.

He turned back, and the lights went out. Not just the hall light, his torch too. The cold breath was still there, growing more and more rapid. A hand found its way up, and on to his throat. “You thought you could ignore me, huh? Now, we can be friends.” There was a growl, and the pressure on his throat increased. He struggled, feeling himself become weaker as the moments passed, I’m not getting out of here, then conceded. He would stay with his new friend, hidden in the wall. At least the tapping would stop.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Daniel Payne @quisquilian

I was toasting crumpets in the twenty first century in a brand new house that smelt of bacteria and mushrooms and then I sent myself upstairs because if I climbed upstairs quickly then up through the attic and then with a spade a powerful spade if I dug through all the cladding and poked my head out of the top into some other made-up century there The Poor Lawrence Be Seated, given Strangely to Eatinge Cats on Roofes which were AWFUL OLDE, more Mosse than Tile [the Cats Always FRESH & New] & endeed on this Particular Blacke Morninge the Roofe on which he Sat was steeper than a Hangman’s Ledge & suche that WOBBLY was his Arse’s Purchase on the Ancient Apex & a Tiresome Struggle to keepe his Balance at same time as savouring the Tayste of Cats but The Poor Lawrence was Brighter than the Devile’s Fire and suche an Excellente Balancer & Performed it so Welle he spente Glorious Minutes lickinge his Lippes, his Stomach purring Loudly then
suddenly!
suddenly!
suddenly!
- death - The Poor Lawrence regrettably Heard Whisper’d in a Scottish Accent but t’was probably to’ve been just that Regular Sinister Sound of the Wind dragging uppe the Sleepinge Sunne or Some Suche Noise but QUIVERING it did make The Poor Lawrence so he Drumm’d with CATS BONES a Waltz to Blotte it out but it persisted HUGELY, it crescendo’d and the Bones of Murphy the LAZY OBESE FELINE were Too Weake to Fighte the Goode Strengthe of The Poor Lawrence’s Awfule Waltz and oh dear oh dear oh dear – Oh God – Oh Helle there was the Whisper of DEATH sliding Bendily on the Wind Againe, but Louder than he thought it possible for Sound to Be Suche that The Poor Lawrence was Forced to Put Down his MEATE OF CAT’S THIGHES that then because of such Incline as we have Discussed, Slopped into the Gutter and these Thighes Felle into the Passing Basket of a Cyclist controlled by a Green-Hatted Baker called Colline on his Waye to the Ovens & who Gaz’d Uppe at the Dawning Skye and Thanked the Lord for the GOOD PROVIDENCE of Meate-Raigne & that Eveninge LET IT BE SAID that the Family of Colline did Eate a Fine Supper which included Egges boiled Softly in vinegar’d Water with Skye-Dropped-Cat-Thigh, for the Water was Ranke but LET US NOT DWELL for The Poor Lawrence Remayned, Knees-Knockinge, on that Olde Roofe & the Three-Times DEATH DEATH DEATH Rattlinge Most Horrible on a Loope Arounde his Rollinge Heade & the Sensatione of Spirites Stretching their Wretch’d Hands at his Necke TINGLED HIM & [deathdeathdeath] he Coulde Not Beleeve [deathdeathdeath] and I dide not Believe [deathdeathdeath] & Youe WILLE NOT BELOOVE [death!death!death!] but w!haTe Hayppende Nooxt warz [DEATH!DEATH!DEATH!] PerHAYPES to be too Xtra-OODinary fore BE!LOOF becos[lettuce]
soddenly!
sooddenly!
sowddenly!
and then I had to put my head back inside my house because the crumpets were on fire.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by David Deans @dd_opco

I wanted it to be old school Bond with an outsider art twist. Pointlessly complex, eccentric, hands off, painful, crafted, yet with a window of hope. Time.

What I had available was an electric fan, several plastic boxes containing close to 200 cocktail sticks, rolls of fibreglass tape left over from a community theatre project and a poison whose ingredients i’d discovered whilst browsing endangered British Flora & Fauna on Wikipedia.

Pearce attempted to shout something from behind the gag, to be honest I couldn’t have cared less, far too late for second thoughts now. He’d given me what years of repressed anger could not.

A complicit subject.

Sellotape darts. We used to make them in school. One of those 2-week fads that ripple up & down the country; little moments of malicious adolescent creativity. Sharp enough to inflict pain, too slow to inflict lasting damage.

His offer, that of wiling murder victim, was to be honest inevitable. Someone had to do it. It’s what the Internet does. Provides opportunities. All that is required is the fortune to be present when the offer is made and the facility to carry out whatever is presented to you.

Whilst I’m not religious I do try to be a ‘good person’ not so much to secure a place in the afterlife; but in the hope that my ‘being good’ vibe will be somehow reciprocated.

It isn’t.

People these days are cunts and take politeness as weakness and something to be exploited, which they do in a variety of tiny yet excruciating ways. And it was in one of those moments of exploitation that it occurred to me that I wasn’t playing by 21st century rules. The previous weekend I was stuck in an infinity loop as alternating sets of men and women passed through a door I was holding for a full 6 minutes. The women would not thank me nor meet my eye as they walked through, the men breezed past too quickly for me to let go without letting the door slam into some unfortunate lady’s face. In the end I was forced to wedge one of my shoes under the door in order to get away.

I’d figured that 200 (ish) tiny yet excruciating poisoned darts dropping via a Heath Robinson like rocker mechanism, one at a time into the airflow from the desk-fan, shooting the 4 feet of space to stick in Pearce’s flesh would be all the killing i’d need to do ever. Each penetration tipping the scales of fairness back to me.

I turned the fan to full, pulled up the knob that stops it sweeping, and unlatched the dart rocker.

All 200 ish darts flew across the room and stuck in Pearce’s torso.

I didn’t try and brush them away, he’d be dead fairly soon anyhow. I opened a new tab firefox typed “y” and entered YouTube.

I typed “DIY dart gun”

This time I sorted the results by popularity.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce: Tea For Two
by Lindsay Kelly @kizzymouse

Lawrence’s very patient wife was getting very fed up.

All she heard from morning to evening was “Make me a cup of tea”

It had to be made exactly right in the red chipped tea pot. Then his favourite mug was the only receptacle which had to be filled. She knew it wasn’t worth the anguish if she got it wrong. Today she had made a rare visit to town. She hurried along the pavement, anxious to get back home before Lawrence returned. He didn’t like her to go out.

She passed a small café, where people laughed and chatted as they drank their less than perfect hot beverages. They were grateful of the warmth in their hands and bellies after a cold start to the day. Lawrence was there, drinking tea. The cup was just a plain old white one.

He was smiling at a blonde haired woman over the steam billowing from his ordinary cup. The blonde woman smiled as Lawrence leaned over to replace her tea cup with his lips. Evening came and she rose from her armchair where she’d been sitting as still as a statue all day.

The red tea pot made a satisfying noise as it connected with the back of his head. The steam in the bathroom smelled so inviting, so homely, so comforting. His favourite brand. With much huffing and puffing she pulled his unconscious body up and into the bath with a big almighty heave. His body slumped down slowly into the tea filled bath. She held her breath. Then the sulphuric acid she had added started to work it’s evil magic on Lawrence.

His eyes flew open as the acid burned through layers of skin, sinew and finally bone. He opened his mouth to scream so she stuffed his mouth completely full with dry tea bags. Lawrence’s wife pushed his head and shoulders quickly under the acid laced tea with a serene smile.

Later there was a knock at the door. She inspected the bath one more time. It gleamed and shone. She opened the door with a smile. She answered the questions she was asked and the policeman said her husband would be filed as a missing person twenty four hours later. She tried to keep her face stoical with a hint of sadness. “Would you like a drink?” she enquired not forgetting her manners. “Tea please” was the answer.

“I’m sorry young man, we only drink coffee in this house” she said pleasantly with a wide crocodile smile.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Mandy Lambert @00Msheep00

He never saw it coming. Sitting there, in the wing-backed chair in his parlor, smoking a cigar and sipping brandy.  Everything was as it always was. Quiet.  His phone rang, and he ignored it. His doorbell sounded, but he was too blissfully happy to be bothered answering it.

This was the perfect moment that he waited for every day: the quiet of an empty house.  The accomplishment of another day, ending with a simple drink.  Staring out the window into the inky darkness of his private yard, he marveled at his luck in life.  The happiness, the pure contentment of that moment could be ruined by nothing; until the brick, shattered the window.  An instant to drop the brandy glass from his hand, before the dart hit his neck, and he slumped over in the darkness.

He woke.  Confusion made worse by the blindfold and silence. Questions flooding his mind, causing his heart rate to quicken.  He struggled against the bonds of the chair.  Feeling started to come back to his arms as the drug wore off.  His hands, bound tightly behind the chair back, chafed against rope.  He tried to kick, but couldn’t feel his legs. His legs. He couldn’t feel his legs.  Sensations began to creep down his torso. Pain began to bloom in his abdomen.  Rapidly, it became blinding pain.  He thrashed and screamed against his bonds.  His blindfold loosened, and fell away, fluttering to the ground.  And then he saw it.  A trail of blood leading across the dim room.

A bloody pile against the wall.  He strained to see it, momentarily distracted from his pain.  A leg, chopped to pieces.  His shoe.  His eyes drifted down to the remaining bloody stump of his left leg.  He screamed until he could no longer make a sound.  The room grew darker.  A tightness in his chest.  A child’s laughter beyond the door.  He passed out from the pain.

When he woke, a pair of lush breasts were inches from his face.  Confusion once again, took over his mind.  She ducked down and smiled at him.  Her smile was luminescent in the near darkness of the room.  She brought a knife up slowly, letting him see the serrated blade, stained with what he could only assume was his blood.  She didn’t speak a word, but simply began to saw at his neck, chuckling with girlish laughter.  He screamed and thrashed until she severed his vocal cords.  He took one last breath, and died.

And THAT, is the Fantastic Death of Lawrence Pearce.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Maria Romero @midorichaos

He rushed through the darkness ahead as fast as his legs would take him, his racing heart trying to keep pace with the speed of his limbs. The forest around him was a blur, but it was better than staying put, when the shadow of every branch gave him the impression of an attacker waiting for him to be distracted just long enough to deliver a fatal blow. It was also better out here, in an open space, where it would be impossible for anyone to take cover in a flat and cast their murderous gaze down onto him as he walked through the street; or to huddle in the doorway of a house, ready to strike as he went past. But a new problem became apparent after reaching the trees; it meant he had nowhere to seek refuge either. But it seemed like a fair trade off, and so he began to run.

Before arriving at the forest he had narrowly escaped an attempt to have a piano dropped on his head while he was heading back home through the oddly quiet streets. He assumed it was nothing but a freak accident, that the instrument was being lowered down onto the street be carried away, so he went on. Shortly after this a sudden burning pain assailed his shoulder, and upon looking he saw the red blossom of blood where something had grazed his flesh, tearing away his clothes. Eyes widening, he scanned the nearby buildings. Had a curtain moved in that house? Had he glimpsed a gun peeking out of the open window? And so he began to run.

He had to stop. He was no athlete, and though adrenaline could carry one a long way, everyone’s body had limits. He could not remember how long he had been going but he had to pause, taking deep mouthfuls of air as he leaned against the rugged surface of a tree. Exhausted as he was and in the pale light of the moon he did not see the branches that began embracing him until it was too late. He began to scream-

-and his eyes snapped open, the wordless cry coming out of his mouth being carried briefly into the waking world. He raised a hand to his shoulder. Nothing. Just a bad dream. He had fallen asleep on his chair while working. Laughing nervously, head shaking, he moved into the bathroom; some cold water splashed on his face would clear his mind.

In some places, words have power. Characters and stories acquire a conscience of their own. And some characters would love to murder their creators. Words slithered out of the manuscripts stacked on the desk and poured out of the computer on the floor. They swirled into a dark, ever changing shape, holding a knife made of sharp words and cruel endings. He might have fled their hunt in his dreams, but now it was time to end his personal story.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Neil Fox @drgonzolives  neitherfamenorfortune.tumblr.com

‘I’m not denying that’ reiterated the officer, getting riled. The man just smiled at him. Riling him more.
‘There’s no denying that, but that’s not the point here’. He spoke as calmly as he could.
‘You don’t seem to realise the trouble you are in’ to which the man just smiled some more. His face was full of pride and not a little disbelief, which reared itself in frequent shakes of his head and stifled giggles.
‘It’s not funny. A man is dead’.
Eventually, the man spoke again.
‘What a way to go’.

The officer stopped the recording and left the tiny interview room and stood leaning against the one-way glass with his back to the man on the other side. He lit a cigarette and stared into the dark space ahead of him. A colleague entered, saw him smoking and quickly reversed out, leaving the officer to ponder. If he was smoking, indoors, it was bad. Everyone knew that.

He drifted off and remembered the scene, looking for a way to connect with this criminal. To get what he needed from him. It wasn’t a confession, he had that. He needed to know why, and why the man was so proud of himself. The officer had never seen anything like it. The mess. A grisly cocktail of lycra and sinews. A smashed in neon crash helmet, the inside of which resembled an empty trifle bowl, the delicious dessert long scooped out and devoured.

‘Why would anyone want to do that?’ the officer whispered between long puffs.
‘It seems way beyond madness’.

The officer had never seen anyone look like the man did when they arrived. So happy with himself, but so disconnected from the reality of what he had done. The man’s pleasure seemed to derive entirely from the technical aspects of the crime, as if the fact a man’s life had been extinguished was simply one component of a grand design.

The cigarette was quickly stubbed and rubbed into the hard floor and the officer burst back in. Recording resumed, the man was still smiling.

‘While I was out there I remembered something’.

No response.

‘Back in 1999, Millennium Eve, we had a case just like this’. The man was interested in this.

The officer sat, casually. ‘Yeah’ he continued, ‘Just like this, can’t believe I didn’t remember it, but then, who would, something so banal’.

‘Banal?’ the man piped up. ‘Banal? You already agreed it was fantastic’.

‘Sure, til I remembered you just copied someone’.

The man was furious now ‘Copied?’ He yelled, standing up and thumping the table. ‘Copied? No one has ever done this before. No one has ever fired a man out of a cannon off a bridge, directly into the front of an oncoming train, No One’.

‘Why did you copy someone?’ The officer teased

‘We copied no one’.

‘We?’

‘Me and Lawrence’

‘Lawrence’

‘Pearce, Lawrence Pearce’

‘The victim?’

‘Like I said, fantastic isn’t it?’
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Dave Thomas @hossmania82

From across the street, I followed Mr. Pearce from the shadows. Slovenly drunk and gibbering to the damp and chilly night air, he ambled along at a steady clip, occasionally glancing off a lamppost. Each time, he would turn, squint his eyes as if to bring the offender into focus, then give it a swift kick.

Two blocks from his home, he encountered a roving swarm of teenagers. A girl, dressed like Billy Idol had vomited all over her after a four-day bender, approached Mr. Pearce with bravado.

“Oy, what’s this then? A hobbit? A long way from the ‘Shire, are ya, Baggins?” the girl said with a shrill laugh, circling Mr. Pearce.

Something caused the girl to stop dead directly in front of him. She jumped back, as did those behind her. He had not uttered a word, yet they parted like they’d been shoved from his path. He continued on his way.

As Mr. Pearce began to climb the cement stairs to his modest London home, I hurriedly crossed the rain-dampened street. Fumbling for his keys, Mr. Pearce never heard my approach.

“Find the right one yet, Lawrence?” I whispered in his ear as I poked an eight-inch Bowie knife into the small of his back. Bourbon hung in the damp night air.

The keys jangled in his hands almost comically as he fiddled with the lock’s match.

“American? I’m being accosted by an American? What’s this world coming to?” he said, pushing open the door into a dark hall.

“Just get in the house, man,” and gave him a shove forceful enough to send him sprawling across the floor.

Mr. Pearce shuffled on his hands and feet backward into a front room. The light from the street dimly lit the room.

“What do you want? You won’t find any Big Macs here, you Yankee fuck,” he spat, backing against what looked to be a formal couch.

“I want your beard.” I stated simply, and advanced on him slowly, knife at my side.

“My what? My beard?” he replied incredulously.

“Yeah, never been able to grow one myself. Saw yours on twitter, thought I’d come take it off your hands, er, face.” I said, smiling ear to ear.

Just then, with speed one would not attribute to someone in his inebriated state, Mr. Pearce jumped up, grabbed my hand with the knife and brought it to his face. His eyes glowed red with the fire of insanity. He pressed the knife in my hand on his own cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT?” he screamed, and shaved his face with the knife, skin wilting off like the peel off a banana. Blood streamed to the floor.

Aghast, I watched as Mr. Pearce ripped the lower half of his face off, his fiery eyes never leaving mine. When it was done, he hurled the bloodied mass of hair in my face, stumbled back onto the fancy sofa, and deflated.

“Bloody Americans,” he gurgled.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by @mightybattlecat

“Well, this is a hell of a mess.”

Cherry asked me to do this one special. Hadn’t told me why. I could hazard a guess, though, that she’d seen it coming. Something on the computer screen or under those papers she’d hidden when she saw me. For an ADA she wasn’t a very good liar.

The officer in charge of the scene cracked her gum behind me. “Looks pretty clear cut to me.”

“You know the law. Hasn’t been ruled on, and the Special Investigator wants me to take a look before you ship the body off.”

She shrugged, but didn’t argue. Too many cases of paranatural or psychic-assisted homicide for her to argue.

“The truck didn’t even stop.”

“You thi–” she stopped mid-remark when I stared at her. That alone would have dropped down my guess on her service years a few notches, but she gave ground and shifted back a couple steps, too. Smart girl, but she’d traded on her pale blonde hair and pretty mouth a few times too many to be confident in her abilities.

“So,” I cleared my throat, “It’s not like trucks don’t go steaming down here all the time, but what makes this one special…”

Poor bastard had been knocked out of his shoes. One of them dangled on the edge of the awning across the street. “What makes you think he’s special? Wrong place, wrong time, stepping out to cross the street to mail a letter…”

“What letter?”

She pointed. “Witnesses said he was fussing around with some envelope, there’s the mailbox across the street…”

And no letter on the sidewalk. She figured it out after I crouched down to look under a couple cars, joining me in my crawl on the pavement. No letter under a car. I looked up where the shoe had gone, checked the other ledges. Maybe it had fluttered off down the street, but that didn’t seem likely, either. Someone had run off with it while everyone watched the paper doll man blowing through the air.

“Yeah, you can take him, now.”

Officer Pretty nodded to the medics, who rolled him into the bag and zipped it on up. I leaned against someone’s car and went over my notes. Some writer, pretty decent but not the kind of guy who attracted radiator grills. The answer had to be in the letter.

Or so I guessed until I realized whose car I was leaning on. “Shit…” I looked down the street just in time to see the ambulance swerve around a corner. “Shit, shit…” Cell phone, where was my damn cell phone.

“City Morgue.”

“You’ve got a live one coming in.”

The bored voice on the other end perked up quick. “Hot?”

“Kicking. Pinkerton’s back in town, the scrawny skullslinging bastard.” Now I had to tell Cherry she could look forward to more of these.

It had been such a nice day.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Sian Lawson @sianlawson

Lawrence Pearce woke at his usual time and immediately logged on to the internet. A novelty afforded to him as his wife was way up North at her Mum’s for the week, and had taken their son along with her. He was sorry to miss out on enforced fun, but this script was not going to write itself, and he was confident that it was this work ethic that had led him to fall asleep with the laptop in the bed. Even with family in the house, once domestic responsibilities were dispatched he liked to check into Twitter more or less first thing. He tweeted about life and writing, he caught up on the latest Twi-news, he existed. Or at least he usually did. Today, Twitter wouldn’t let him log on. It denied any knowledge of his password. Probing further, he found it was denying any knowledge of his account. Today Twitter didn’t seem to want to know a Lawrence Pearce. Suitably indignant, in the usual manner of a person mildly inconvenienced by a free service, Lawrence wandered into the kitchen in search of coco pops, but was distracted by a tapping at the back of his mind. Wasn’t he meant to be meeting Adam at the gym this morning? It was after all January, so it was likely that he was still in the throes of a health kick, but this nagging only registered as something that didn’t want to be forgotten, fuzzy and unformed. Maybe Adam was already waiting for him, or maybe he had simply fallen asleep thinking that he must remember to have breakfast in the morning. In an attempt to get some sort of a grip on whatever kind of a day this was Lawrence stuck on The Cure, tucked the phone under his jaw and let it ring whilst he tried to find a bowl.

“Adam, hi. I didn’t wake you?”

“Robert?”

“It’s Lawrence. I’ve got my days confused and wanted to check if we were working out this morning.”

“Lawrence?”

“Yeah, sorry, did I wake you?”

“Lawrence who?”

“Pearce”

“You’ve got the wrong number mate.” The click and dial tone left Lawrence in no doubt that Adam was not only not expecting him this morning, he wasn’t going to be the one to help the slightly off-balance way this day was tilting. Discarding the phone he opened the cupboard and found not only no coco pops but no anything. A more considered look around the room highlighted the fact that several things were missing; there was crockery but no perishables, furniture but not clutter. He wandered into the bathroom and found only that, not even a stolen bottle of hotel shampoo. The rest of the house compounded and accumulated until his head ached. No high chair, no cot, no photos, no clothes, no personal effects, no wife, no son, no Lawrence Pearce. Back at the still open laptop he saw he had already typed into Google “I am Lawrence Pearce. Help.”
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Benjamin Cain @cain_benjamin

Like clockwork, Lawrence Pearce enters through the front door of his favorite restaurant and sits in his favorite booth.  He removes his black ball cap and places it on the table next to the salt and pepper shakers.  He shifts in his seat to get comfortable then stares out the window.

Frank, a waiter and long time acquaintance of Lawrence is in the kitchen repurposing ketchup bottles when Chris enters.

“Frank.”  Chris says.  “He’s here.”

Frank looks at Chris with cold eyes.  “Good.”

“Are you really going to do it?”  Chris asks with a tremble in his voice.

“Of course, I’m not going to let him get away with what he’s done.”  Frank replies.  “Go take his order.”  Chris follows Frank’s command and leaves silently.

Frank reaches into his pocket to make sure the vial is still there.  It is.

Chris returns from taking Lawrence’s order.  “Just like you said, he wants a club sandwich and a coke.”  Chris walks over to Frank and leans in close.  “Do you have it?”

“Yes.  It’s in my pocket.”  Frank responds.

“What is it?”  Chris questions as he looks around the kitchen making sure the cook isn’t around.  They are alone.

“I don’t know the name, but it’s supposed to be a very lethal and untraceable poison that causes a massive heart attack.”  Frank explains to Chris.  “The guy told me it was developed by the C.I.A. in the late 1970’s.”  Frank pauses.  “All I have to do is pour it in his coke and let him drink it.”

“Then what?”  Chris asks nervously.

“Then he has a heart attack and dies.”  Frank says sarcastically.

“Uh huh and what if it’s not untraceable?”  Chris asks.

“That’s why I’m leaving and you’ll never see me again.”  Frank says as he pulls the vial out of his pocket and holds it in his hand.  His palms are sweaty and the vial slips through his fingers but Frank reacts quickly and catches it before it shatters on the floor.
Franks mouth is dry, his forehead is damp with sweat and his knees are shaking.  Fear begins to rush violently through his veins as second thoughts begins to dawn in his mind.  He pauses for a moment.

“What’s wrong Frank?”  Chris is also afraid as he lives this moment vicariously through his long time friend.
Frank looks at Chris with tears in his eyes.  “He killed my wife in a car accident that he caused.  The man must die.”  Frank says as he sniffs the snot that runs down from his nose and pours the poison into Lawrence’s coke.  “It’s done.  Now I take it to him.”  Frank says leaving the kitchen.

Frank returns to the kitchen and watches as Lawrence eats his last meal.  Within a few short moments, his wife’s killer slumps face first on to the table dead.

Frank quietly leaves through the back door.
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The Fabulous Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Brendan Smith @unothatskool

Officer Wright slowly pulled his car up outside the terrace house checking the number against his notepad, it wouldn’t do to break news like this to the wrong person. Giving the right impression was everything in a case like this. He climbed from the marked police car and adjusting his cap strode across the footpath pleased practicing his demeanor as the experienced cop on the beat. He resisted a smile it was the first time in his short career he had delivered news quite like this.

Mrs Lawrence? Dont look so surprised mon. Have you never seen a black woman in this part of town, or do you think im the cleaning lady is that it?
Or a slave from the plantation brought over by her Lord and master maybe.
Is that it? Well?
Officer Wright was silent for a moment taken aback his tanned complexion turning pink.
Well? she demanded a little nervously. What has he done this time?
Im sorry the officer said shifting his polished shoes nervously on the doorstep I don’t think I understand.
He’s always up to something that husband of mine. Sometimes I think he lives a double life.
Officer Wright smiled inwardly dying to burst out, Not life exactly.
Perhaps we should go inside Mrs Lawrence.
Yes allright she replied pensively please come in.

They entered the hall walking past the white painted stairs to the country style kitchen at the back of the house.
There was a round pine table with five matching chairs a child’s high chair and family pictures on the walls.
Tea? Mrs Lawrence demanded. Shoving tea bags into the pot and switching on the jug.
Sit down! Well what is this news then?
Still standing Office Wright launched into his best police training college routine.
Im afraid your husband has been in an accident, he almost stammered but held it together breathed and paused.
Im afraid your husband is dead.
The silver teapot slipped from Mrs Lawrence’s hand bouncing on the hard wood floor the lid burst off and spun quickly on its edge then slowly wobbling came to a halt as he stared.
Mrs Lawrence sat heavily at an opposite chair. Dead?
Where? How? A club in soho, The Lizzard Lounge do you know it?
No. Of course I don’t what would he be doing there? she asked no one in particular.
Im sorry Mrs Lawrence, Officer Wright replied reaching for the teapot.
He didn’t want to give away too much you never know.
His iphone beeped something told him to check it.
Picking up the teapot and lid and placing them in the sink he checked the screen with his back to Mrs Lawrence.
There had been an arrest, so not an accident then. His face turned grim.
He checked the pics.

Apparently the fabulous Ms Lawrence laying dead, dressed in a tight fitting green sequined dress surrounded by a large crimson pool on the black painted stage of The Lizzard Lounge under a tangle of cords and cables and crushed by a fabulous giant disco ball had a rival for Mrs Lawrence’s affection.
The other Mr Lawrence.
He turned.
Mrs Lawrence there has been a development would you kindly accompany me to the station he smiled forgivingly.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Craig Jones @cjoneshorror www.craigjoneshorror.co.uk

The click of the switch preceded the stuttering start up of the single uncovered fluorescent strip.  Lawrence was no longer alone. He blinked. Blobby blurs burned into his retinas as the room flooded with dirty luminance.

Lawrence wanted to bring his hands in front of his face to deflect the glare. He couldn’t. His wrists had been secured to the armrest of the wheel chair with a nail gun. The initial agony had faded after the hours he’d spent sat alone in the dark but the constant ache reminded him not to flinch, no matter what.

Footsteps approached.

“Why me?” Lawrence asked. The words came out slurred and as broken as Lawrence’s lips and teeth.

“Because you came along at the right time. Because you looked normal.” The voice moved around Lawrence and then something out of sight rattled. “The ones before, they were whores and addicts. No one cared if they died. But you… you’ll have friends, family. You’re death will be a big deal. Fantastic, in fact.”

Lawrence’s throat wanted to close over to keep his rampant heart from tearing itself free of his body. His assailant had come out of nowhere, had brought him here, had beaten him, tortured him but the words confirming the plan in place for Lawrence tripped him over the edge. He began to sob.

Through his tears Lawrence saw the rusted metal trolley pulled into his line of sight. He saw a pair of meaty hands, rubber gloves stretched to their limit. He saw the hands work with dextrous speed as they thread thick wire through a monstrous needle.

“I can’t have you making noise,” the voice said and then a fist flew at Lawrence’s face.

Lawrence opened his eyes and it took him a few moments to sense that he was outside.  He felt like he was watching the world through a camera until he realised thick lensed sunglasses had been pushed onto his face. Something covered his mouth and nose, like a dust filter cyclists wore. Simultaneously he got a sensation of movement and a waft of something acidic, pungent that made his nose run.

The world moved around him and although he looked up with imploring eyes, the people who passed ignored him, purposefully stepped out of his way. A repetitive squeak punctuated his advance and that was when he knew he was still in the wheelchair. His wrists no longer ached. They now bellowed their disapproval of their treatment again. He wanted to scream, to yell for help but there was something wrong with his mouth. And then the movement stopped and the chair was swung around. He was on Westminster Bridge facing the London Eye.

“I’ve stitched your mouth together,” the voice advised. “I’ve covered your hair, your beard, your clothes in a flammable jelly.” The ‘voice’ became the’ face’, non-descript, cigarette nearly finished. “You’ll make me famous,” the voice said and dropped the butt into Lawrence’s lap.

But the stitches did tear when Lawrence screamed.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce

by Sarah Sidwell @moabraft

The Connors had just moved into the building and now felt comfortable enough to let their cat Maisey out to do some prowling around. Maisey, however, is an old cat and only pretends at prowling long enough to find a warm patch of sun. She has just settled in the stairwell when blind Mr. Robinson descends for his morning walk. Having taken this walk daily for the last eight years, he is surprised when he steps on the second floor landing and hears the yowl of a cat and feels a yank under his foot. This throws him off and he turns around and heads back upstairs, he is unsure if it is a black cat.

Tommy Connor has just finished getting ready for school and is in search of Maisey to give her a pet before heading out. He is nervous and she is in a foul mood and the combination of the two causes Maisey to give Tommy a slightly clawed swat. Tommy now has a reddened nose to show off for his first day and he storms out of the ridiculous apartment in the stupid new town his parents forced him to move to and kicks at the pigeons outside the building.

One of the pigeons flies a few blocks north to a tram stop where Dale Thomas is trying to hail a cab. But you don’t hail a cab next to a tram stop because the cabbies won’t pick up out-of-towners willingly. And the cabbies know if you’re from out of town because the locals don’t hail cabs from tram stops. Dale looks up to see what the shadow above him is and at that moment the bird feels the unavoidable urge to void itself and Dale, quite literally, gets an eyeful. He stumbles backwards into Amanda Grover who is concerned for the nice Mr. Robinson because he did not come into the coffee shop today.

Amanda is a sweet girl who never says a harsh word to anyone. But, her concern and the shock of being run over by this out-of-towner (for what else could he be, he was trying to hail a cab from a tram stop) caused her to curse at him. Dale is saved at that moment by the arrival of a tram he quickly stumbles onto leaving Amanda standing and staring in shock over the words she just uttered.

Dale is pleasantly surprised when he finds out the tram is actually taking him directly to his hotel and starts to think the day was not a total loss when he keys into his room to find his wife having relations with another man. Dale, no longer reasonable, picks up the closest thing at hand, the complementary iron his wife had been using on some wrinkled clothes and forgot to turn off, and bludgeons and burns Lawrence Pearce to death. The woman, whom he has just now realized is not his wife at all, screams.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by @mpc1980

Lawrence goes into the massive empty space of the warehouse in the dead of night.  He goes to the back, where the streetlight can’t quite penetrate.  Suddenly, he hears a footstep behind him.  As quick as he turned round, he blacks out.

He opens his blurry eyes.  The yellow streetlight haze makes a line of light across his jeans.  Someone is standing across from him.  “Your head might be sore.  That’ll be where I hit you with the metal pole”.  Immediately, Lawrence is hit in the chest with a firm, fast blow.  “You shouldn’t be in here.  You should mind your business in future, if you know what’s good for you!”  And another blow to the upper arm.

“Please.  Just let me go.  I’ll leave.  Won’t say anything to anyone” Lawrence pleads.  “Too late”, comes back the answer.  The man grabs the back of Lawrence’s chair and drags him to a pitch black room and slams the door shut.  He’s suddenly blinded as the man turns on the lights.  He feels a smelly cloth being blindfolded on him and a cloth forced into his mouth.  “You will regret not minding your own business”.  The man unzips Lawrence’s sports top and rips his T-shirt open, pulls off his shoes and socks, then his jeans to his knees.  The man throws water over him.  He feels something cold being fixed to his big toes, then his nipples, then to each thigh.  Lawrence hears nothing.  Suddenly, Lawrence is writhing in pain as an electric charge sears through his body.  He can hear the man laughing.  The man throws more water over Lawrence, and the surge becomes stronger.  The pain stops suddenly, but Lawrence’s body still twitches.

He feels the clamps coming off.  He squirms and groans in pain as he realises the man has cut the tendons of both his feet.  The man takes off Lawrence’s blindfold and drags him to the door.  The man unties Lawrence, brandishing a machete at him dripping with blood.  The man lights a fag.  “If you can make it out that door before I decide when I’m finished my smoke, you can go free with your life … GO”  Lawrence tries to stand but falls flat to the ground; he recognises the corridor as the one he came in by.  He drags himself, cutting his chest and legs on the rough concrete.  He struggles to look back.  The man laughs.  Lawrence drags himself into something wet on the floor; he just wants to reach the door.  His body down to his thighs has now been dragged into this wetness. His skin is burning furiously; he clicks – it’s a pool of acid.  He groans in agony.  His eyes are filled with tears.  He turns to see the man; as he looks, he sees the man flicking his cigarette at Lawrence.  It lands in the acid and sets it alight.  Before he can turn back round, the fire has engulfed Lawrence’s body.  The man laughs.  And leaves.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Sharon Chrystal @LAdyCrimeWriter

The stench in the small, dark living room was almost unbearable – a putrid mix of body odour, rotting flesh and chemicals. The Artist sharpened his pencil to a fine point as the pale, naked man lay motionless on the dirty, threadbare sofa. He lay beautifully still – except for the tiny movement in his chest, where his heart fought tirelessly to pump blood through his veins.

The heart – small yet important, The Artist thought, as he scribbled frantically – studying the fine contours of his victim’s body. He watched, pencil poised, as the man’s chest slowly moved upwards. Holding his breath, he waited for the downward motion, exhaling as the man’s chest moved once again – his heart desperately fighting the chemicals slowing it down. The Artists arm was arched as he drew another line, capturing the shape of the man’s glorious body, the serenity on his face as he drew his final breaths.

His lines became deeper and his marks were made faster as he pushed his pencil hard into the paper, wearing it down. The thick lines distorted the features of a man once loved – a man not capable of love – a man responsible for his own demise.

The Artist felt sweat drown his face and body, clinging to his clothes. He hadn’t washed in days – hadn’t washed, eaten or moved. He’d been drawing this man’s wonderful body since rendering him unconscious – the state of unconsciousness he had yet to perfect.

There wouldn’t be many breaths. No more time to capture on paper just how wonderful this man had been – the very sentiments that filled him with dread. He loathed himself – so much more than others loathed him. He was ugly – inside and out. That was the reason no one wanted to stay. His loathsome, ugly thoughts led him to do the unthinkable.

In a rare, rational moment, he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, pushing the memories of a past life from his mind. Taking a few deep breaths, he reached for his cheap bottle of scotch – his only friend and path to relief.

Slowly, his pencil added fine detail to the man’s eyes and lips – lips slightly parted. The Artist leaned closer, feeling the air that slowly passed between them.

Dropping his pencil, he lay down next to the man, placing his hand on his cheek. He was still warm, life still flowed through him. He knew it was time – time for the final act.

He ran his fingers through the man’s thick, dark hair. For a second, he wondered if he should bring him back – give him a second chance. After all – had anyone ever loved him like this before?

The Artist was only too aware of the consequences. He knew he had to stick to the plan. Grabbing his bottle and draining the contents, he entwined himself with his love, wrapping his arms around him, holding him tight. Holding him, loving him – helping him to die.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Jeff Jacques @Worfles

From his spot between the bed of azaleas and the honeysuckle hedge, the garden gnome stared through the light drizzle and watched as Lawrence Pearce traipsed up the cobbled pathway to the house beyond.

The  gnome had never cared for Lawrence, for Lawrence had never cared for the garden his mother had lovingly maintained, care that had extended to the gnome as well.  But the gnome hadn’t seen Lawrence’s mother for almost four weeks now and Lawrence had shown no interest in taking up its care.  As a result, the bright colours of the blossoms had faded, and while the hedge remained hearty for now, the azaleas drooped a little.  The gnome feared they didn’t have long for this world, no thanks to Lawrence.

And not winning him any favours, Lawrence returned home yesterday and kicked a stray pebble at the gnome, hitting him in the forehead hard enough to leave a small indent in the plastic.  The worst part was the guffaw and jubilant “Score!” that followed.

The gnome might be just a cheap plastic figurine rescued from the clearance bin at Tesco, but he vowed that somehow he would settle the score.

That night, a bright light no bigger than a softball drifted from the sky and hovered briefly before the gnome, then shot forward, enveloping him in its power and luminance.

The gnome’s hollow insides filled with warmth and solidity.  He knotted real fists, breathed into real lungs, blinked real eyes, and twisted his real lips into a vengeful snarl.  Wasting no time, he bounded towards the house and dove through the door’s convenient cat flap.

Rolling across the doormat, the gnome’s momentum faltered and he stumbled sideways into the business end of a broom.  It swayed precariously, then fell to the floor with an enormous clatter.  Sounds from above told the gnome that Lawrence had been roused and was coming to investigate.  Moments later, the layabout stomped down the stairs, muttering things the gnome couldn’t make out.

When he reached the bottom, Lawrence’s mouth fell agape at the sight of his garden decoration staring back at him.  Acting quickly, the gnome ran for a fuzzy catnip toy and gave it a swift kick, sending it arcing through the air into Lawrence’s open mouth.  Lawrence gagged and tripped backwards into the stairs, arms flailing madly.  He dropped to all fours and clawed uselessly at his throat, wheezing as his face turned a horrible, sickly shade of blue.  Finally, he collapsed in a heap and did not move again.

The gnome approached the body and stood before Lawrence’s slackened face.  Giving him a pat on the cheek, he whispered, “Score.”

Immediately, brightness consumed the gnome again and he felt himself drifting through the door and back to his spot in the garden.  When the light left him he knew he was just a plastic gnome again, but now, instead of an understated smile, he sported a cheerful, toothy grin.
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The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce
by Q. L. Berry @1pageaday

The radio in the car played some old song by Freeport Convention about a faerie queen.  It sounded like something his father would have listened to as a kid.  That line of thought didn’t do anything to quiet his soul, and he hit the search button until he found The Pogues.
Shane Macgowan’s rough rasp kept Bernard’s nerves on a keen edge. Bernard nursed his grievances as he waited.  The bastard would be showing up soon.

Bernard glanced at the package on the passenger seat of his car. How many times had this husk of a human being rejected him?  Each rejection from that publishing Philistine was like a knife in Bernard’s heart. Surely this man was only a failed novelist himself; exorcising his own feelings of inadequacy on the tender flesh of other people’s efforts.

It hadn’t been hard to track Leonard Pearce down; the literary charlatan was always updating his Twitter feed on his personal habits and whims.  Bernard wondered what kind of twits followed Pearce’s every word: wannabes, fools, and narcissists. Everyone would know about Bernard soon. His fame would eclipse that of Pearce Publishing’s newest literary phenomenon, Angel Lee Gomez.

How could the stupid woman have stolen Bernard’s work?  It had to have been Pearce. There was the story, characters, and plot that aped Bernard’s opus.  Her story didn’t have a London cabbie with magic powers, but somehow it was the same. When Bernard thought about it, his stomach would sink into his shoes.

At last Lawrence Pearce appeared; finally having left his office for a quick noontime pint.  Bernard resolved to remain glacially calm.
Bernard sat on the stool next to his victim, and ordered a whisky to steel his courage.  The package was tucked safe inside a Tesco’s bag, set dangerously close to its intended target. He tossed back the whisky before shoving the package at the surprised man.

“What the Hell are you doing?” Lawrence Pearce gawped as he struggled with the bag-wrapped manuscript.

“It‘s all about you!” Bernard’s shouts echoed at Lawrence Pearce as the bouncer hauled him out to the street.

Later, Bernard was pleased to read online that Lawrence Pearce had been pronounced dead, but was puzzled why the police hadn‘t been round to question him. Finally he came forward, and confessed to the crime.  The detective across the desk just looked at him blankly.

“Sir, Lawrence Pearce died of a coronary, not poisoning.”

“It was a poison pen! That ink came all the way from Bangkok.” Bernard stammered, his hands fluttering like giddy birds. “It was this hand that held that pen, with gloves on of course.”

“Sir, there was no handwritten manuscript entitled “The Fantastic Murder of Lawrence Pearce” found anywhere on his person.”

Later, Bernard discovered his manuscript tossed in a trash can outside the pub, unopened.  Lawrence Pearce was not as egotistical as he had seemed.  With shaking hands Bernard sat down to read his work one last time.
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Killing Mr. Pearce
by Danielle Llanes @daniellellanes

“I knew you would like the wine, Lawrence. In fact, I ordered another bottle just in case the first one didn’t work.”

It seemed too easy. That wasn’t like her to resort to something so cheap. Even now that his vision blurred and he couldn’t speak, he could still form a thought. She was upset that he didn’t want to move with her. Why would he leave a place he had known his entire life? They had argued over it and she had moved out.

The dinner had been a complete surprise for him. Lawrence arrived home to find a table set and a glass of red wine being handed to him.

“I hope you didn’t eat. I thought about it and you were right. I’ll tell my boss that moving isn’t an option right now.” There was a smile followed with a kiss. Something about the way she was staring into her eyes made him nervous.

Sitting at the table with a slice of chocolate cake with little red berries on the plate in front of him half eaten – he still wanted another bite. He couldn’t think of ever tasting something so delicious. He drank wine between bites…more than he would have liked to admit. He reached out for his fork but noticed the table seemed to float in front of his eyes. I drank too much and now can’t hold a damn utensil, he thought.

“Atropa Belladonna,” she whispered when he knocked his wine glass over. Clever girl. How did she even know to use it? His mouth was dry and he needed to get up. A glass of water would help but he couldn’t talk.  She placed her hands on his shoulders and squeezed,

“An adult has to eat more than twenty of the berries…I lost count of how many you ate. It also doesn’t help that I crumbled the root and baked it with the lamb and vegetables.”

There was a spasm in his stomach followed by another in his muscles.

“I figure that instead of trying to change your mind – it will be easier to move with your ashes. I had no idea how I would do it but I was reading a book that you gave me for Christmas. Life in Ancient Rome.” Of course, the one book he gets her is the one she reads. Stacks of unread books and this is the one she reads. His body was shutting down and there was a blinding white light in front of him. He felt a sharp searing pain in his chest then nothing. He was a blip in time without a mark to say that he had here. And that made him angry.

~

If it was one thing she couldn’t control – it was the afterlife. She would learn this much later when she reached the bottom of her tea and found mashed belladonna berries.
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1.
‘I wondered where your inspiration comes from? Do you get your ideas from your darkest fears?’ susielindau

The honest answer is I have no clue. Ideas just hit me, they surface like unexpected bubbles from my mind. Often I don’t even understand the idea fully until I’m involved in the writing process. At first, the inspiration might just be a reaction to a situation or a feeling that I want to understand and express. Or it might be the exhaling of that while I inhale.

I think writing, and all art, is about the expression of universal but often unspoken feelings. Our darkest fears certainly fall into this.

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2.

‘Although I really do love the intriguing darkness in your characters, they are always so troubled. Do you automatically lean that way when creating them, subconsciously, or is it a conscious decision to create more drama? Why no positive, happy characters?’ Mich

It is true to say that content, happy characters in positive, easy-going situations make for very dull stories as there is little drama there to hook the reader. When I’m writing, I usually start with a challenging situation and the drama is already there from the initial scenario I throw my characters into. Then it’s just up to me to eke out the drama scene by scene, character arc by character arc as I make them deal with their problems one way or another.

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3.

‘You’re really a soppy romantic at heart. Discuss.’ ArchAngel

Yes, you’ve rumbled me. I plead guilty to the allegation, no need for a discussion. Let’s move on.

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4.
‘Why the beard? (even though I’m strangely attracted to it…)’ kayleigh

Because I fancied growing a beard to experience the lost masculinity that modern man has mostly rejected. Also, it’s great for stroking while pondering the meaning of life. A third reason, and perhaps the most honest one, is that having a beard is comforting, protective; it covers my face up and makes me feel less vulnerable to shallow judgements on appearance and looks.

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5
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‘Where you stand on the standard publishing route vs self-publishing argument? What’s the future and is it for the better or worse?’ Michael K

I don’t believe I have enough experience of the book industry to back either side. I’m not so sure that they can’t co-exist either. Perhaps the solution is a combination of the two different paths for authors and can be travelled along at the same time? I don’t know, I’m just going along for the ride.

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6.

‘How do you take your tea?’ Rachel

Depends which tea. If we’re talking about the staple tea of my working-class English background, then two sugars and a splash of milk please.

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7.

‘Why don’t you direct films anymore? I’ve read that you don’t enjoy them, but what exactly don’t you enjoy about them enough to give them up? And what do you enjoy more about writing? Do you miss seeing your words turned into visuals or not?’ DarthVadarsHelmet

I turned my back on directing movies for these reasons:

1) I enjoy the storytelling process, which I can do in writing sitting behind a desk and escaping into my mind. With filmmaking, it is an arduous journey of film-finance, countless meetings in development and preproduction, weeks or even months of tiring 15 hour days on set during production, and then after editing and distribution, you realise you spent over a year of your life on something that is consumed in 2 hours.

2) The film industry is riddled with unscrupulous, dodgy, lying, ego-driven producers. I’ve had my fair share of bad experiences with these types of people.

3) It is impossible to get the movie you see in your head onto the screen. You have to compromise when the budget doesn’t allow for this, or when you’ve gone over-schedule and now have to change the next scene, or when an actor is simply not good enough to convey the emotion you’re asking of them. With more money and time and expertise you can get closer to your original vision, but it’s still never quite the same. With writing, if I don’t feel I’ve nailed what I wanted to create, I get to rewrite it as much as I like.

I don’t really miss my words being turned into visuals no, but saying that I am still writing film scripts so this will continue to happen, just not with me directing.

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8.
‘What is more of a challenge to you, writing for a movie or writing a novel? And what made it so challenging?’ Ja

A novel is more challenging. In a novel you go far deeper into character, internal monologue, background, history, thoughts and ideas than in a script for a 2 hour movie. Therefore the effort required grows exponentially.

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9.

‘Are you an outliner, do you know your characters before you type the first page, or do you let the flow of the book dictate the characters actions and let it come out organically’ The Passion of the Christoph

‘How do you write? By this I mean do you let ideas flow then edit down or do you try to get your scenes down first as cleanly as possible?’ Gary

(have combined these two questions as they are very similar)

I start with an idea which usually takes the shape of a situation between characters. Quite often I’ll know how it starts and have an idea of how it ends, and then it’s a case of me plotting the route from A to B. I lean towards outlining rather than just writing in a flow, as I’m a big appreciator of structure in stories and having a firm direction and pace to drive the story forward. After I have the bones in place, then I flesh out the characters, add in motives, emotions, reactions, and nuances to give the story a feeling of depth and hopefully give the reader feelings and/or behavior they can relate to and identify with.

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10.

’Name a book you wish you’d written and why.’ jamiebmusings

‘The Bible’. I’m an atheist but the bible is an amazing example of effective storytelling. It has influenced modern western storytelling to no end. It grabs the reader with both hands and throws them into tales of redemption, theft, greed, love, troubled times, high drama, bombastic action and natural disasters, and every step of the way makes you connect with the characters. Great writing. The only thing I’d change is I’d add a foreword ‘This is a work of fiction. To be filed under Fantasy.’.

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11.

‘Love is a dark, messed-up emotion that can make people do some crazy, as well as wonderful things, and we as a people seem to be obsessed with Love. Why do you think this is?’ Lor Graham

We, you, I, are obsessed with love because the world we live in never seems to have enough love to go around. When we do experience love, unconditional motherly love or the kind that elevates kissing above eating and sleeping, it feels spectacular. But that feeling is so fleeting and certainly not in the abundance that humankind needs to make this world a better place. So stories that deal with love, either the getting of or the losing of, strikes a cord within us.

Personally speaking, I am obsessed with two things in my writing; ‘love’ and ‘loss’. I see my stories as beautiful roses that have been mangled by over-zealous ogre hands.

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12.

‘You loved films, produced a film, decided you no longer loved films. Now you are into writing, short stories, a novella. When you decide you no longer love books, what next in the creative process?’ Kelvin M. Knight

I’ll go anywhere where I can tell a story and feel I have the skill set to do so properly. If the day comes where I no longer enjoy the creative process, then I’ll just lay down and die.

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13.

‘You have a young child, you are a night raven, you are in a stress filled industry – why no grey hairs yet?’ Kelvin M. Knight

Oh but I do. Honestly, I have plenty of greys in both head and beard. For those reasons precisely.

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14.

‘Does your family support you in your endeavours? If not, why? How would you like them to support you?’ Kelvin M. Knight

No, truth be told my family are not supportive. They aren’t against my passions, but they aren’t interested either. They never read my work, or ask how its going. I don’t have an explanation for this.

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15.

‘Do you ever find yourself compelled to write out of your comfort zone. Like you start writing a creepy tale and it morphs into something fluffy and light?’ Dave D

I felt compelled to write a romantic tale for my wife on our anniversary. You can read it here.

As for my dark stories morphing into something fluffy and light? Like that’s ever going to happen! It’s a fight to stop them descending further into the creepy pit.

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16.

‘We know in what genre you write but do you only read horror / sci-fi novels or are you a secret romance / historical fiction reader?’ Annie

I watch movies from an incredibly diverse range, but my reading is a bit more specialized generally, I have to say. But I do get my fix of romantic comedies, historical drama, quirky art-house, from the world of movies and television. And I love science documentaries.

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17.

‘If, in the blink of an eye, you could travel anywhere and spend 24 hours there, where would you go?’ lifethroughblueeyes

The International Space Station, where I would spend the entire 24 hours staring at Earth through a small window. I can only imagine how viewing the Earth from outside would feel, but I hope one day to experience it. I think in our lifetime, this will become a possibility for more people.

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18.

‘Which half of Hikikomori do you prefer yourself, Jared or Melissa?’ Lucy Lucy

I think both halves are benefited from being part of the whole, and so I can’t single out either half. I hope one day to read a review which thoroughly analyzes Hikikomori from a psychological and philosophical point of view. There’s a lot of undercurrents and themes in that book that I have yet to see a review point out. Perhaps I haven’t made these ideas accessible enough.

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19.

‘Do you think it’s important for writers to have things they do outside writing, hobby-like, to keep them sane, or should it be all about the words?’ Lor Graham

Absolutely important. Essential. We are people first. Writers second.

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20.

‘What happens when we die?’ dennis

Our lungs stop transforming air. And our heart stops pumping blood. And our brain shuts down. And our legacy lives on in the people that want to remember us. That is all.

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21.

‘Ooooooooo, love this idea. Favorite horror movies – top 5. Go.’ julesjustwrite

1. The Shining – Directed by my boy, Mr Kubrick. A lot of depth to every scene.

2. The Exorcist – Notorious for its controversy, but actually an amazingly intelligent movie.

3. The Ring (Japanese original) – A masterclass in building ‘creepy’ up to ‘fucking scary’.

4.  Nightmare On Elm Street – I first watched this when I was ten years old. Explains a lot.

5. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre – Has such a raw, visceral effect on me.

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22.

‘What scares you least that other writers and readers still quake at… and why?’ johnmierau

Failure. It doesn’t scare me at all, but I see other writers (or artists in any field) prevent themselves from even putting out their work for fear of negative feedback. I just send my stuff out, knowing that there will always be people who will dislike my work. I can handle that; better than being shot.

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23.

‘In no more than 250 words, describe your political beliefs. Lefty? Wingnut? Communist??’ Bill O’Reilly’s Dad

Oh no, this will open a can of worms. I’ll try and be succinct.

‘Democracy is a failed experiment, which centers around the flawed premise that we all deserve the right to vote. Do we really? Is everyone of us fit to decide how best to run an economy? Or choose who runs our healthcare? Or whether we should go to war? No. A nation’s most respected and experienced economists should be in charge of the economy, a nation’s longest standing brilliant doctors should be in charge of healthcare, and a nations greatest diplomats. risk-assessment mathematicians and free-thinking philosophers should be in charge of whether we go to war. Instead, we are made to vote without the proper education for us to truly know what we’re voting for, for people who are experts in the art of bullshitting only. Therefore, most people vote for who they like the look of, or who had the biggest campaign budget, or who rubbed shoulders with A-list actors the most.

This is a ridiculous way to choose our government.

No, I am not a communist either, I believe we need to encourage people to extend themselves and reward them for their talents, expertise and results. What I would like to see is a new political system created around a truly meritocratic society. An equal opportunities society (currently the privileged have a huge advantage over the poor, and the gap is growing), where everyone is given the same opportunity to shine, and those that do shine in their fields are trusted with the responsibility of forwarding the nation.

This is unlikely to ever happen however, as the rich would never let go of a system that benefits them greatly and keeps poor people under the thumb; ‘capitalist democracy’.

(Those last two words took me to 252 words, 2 words over your limit. So let’s get rid of ‘capitalist democracy’ )

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24.

’I’d like to know what type of music sings to your soul. Do you have a song which makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in its opening bars?’ yikkiclaire

There are some songs that are very special to me yes. A brief selection:

1. Ascent – Brian Eno (@Brian_Eno)

2. Dance With My Father Again – Luther Vandross

3. Hurt – Johnny Cash (I prefer his version)

4. Vincent – Don McClean

5. Tears In Heaven – Eric Clapton (@EricPClapton)

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25.

‘What do you value more? Fictional writing with a message, or non-fiction/information? Is it more important to spread ideas, or to spread knowledge and facts?’ Maggie

I think both have their place and are mutually dependent. Great ideas from creative minds often lead to brilliant exploration in science, socialization, our understanding of the world around us, and vice-versa. But being an ideas man myself, I may be a bit biased in saying this; I think ideas are the heartbeat of humankind.

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26.

‘I know you have a written a graphic novel. What are your top 5 favorite comic books and why?’ dragonboy

1. ‘The Watchmen’ by Alan Moore, art by Dave Gibbons (@davegibbons90) – Just stunning in every way.

2. ‘Kabuki’ written and illustrated by David Mack (@davidmackkabuki) – Extremely rich in visual poetry.

3. ‘The Sandman’ series written by Neil Gaiman (@neilhimself), art by various – Classic storytelling in any medium.

4. ‘Batman; Arkham Asylum’ written by Grant Morrison (@grantmorrison), art by Dave McKean (@DaveMcKean) – Gotta have a Batman book in there and this in the finest one in my opinion.

5. ‘Lobo; Portrait of a Bastich’ by various – Just great, unbridled, kick-ass fun. Guilty pleasure.

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27.

‘Is it more important to love, or be loved?’ Steve

I don’t know. I know that in my life, I rarely feel loved. I know I receive love, I just don’t feel it; as if I am wearing armor that ruins every hug given to me. But I feel it when I send out love, which I do all the time. So, for me, it is more important to love, than to be loved.

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28.

‘What advice would you give someone who is looking to write a screenplay from a novel?’ Nur Z. Young (@Yaya_Artist)

I’m not in a position to give advice, as I’ve never done that myself. I know there are huge differences between the telling of a story in prose and that of moving image and sound. In film, the first rule is never tell when you can show. The second rule is, try not tell at all. Novels are generally more narrative in their style, so there is much more in-depth ‘telling’ and patient description going on.

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29.

‘If you had one thing in the world you would you save from a burning building, what would that one thing be?’ Nur Z. Young (@Yaya_Artist)

My wife, who would be holding my son.

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30.

’What are your pet peeves things that annoy you the most?’ julienne

Ignorance and arrogance. When you combine those two things, it irritates the hell out of me.

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31.

‘As a self confessed music geek, can you recommend any new or unknown bands/singers?’ theboywiththesmile

Lianne La Havas (@liannelahavas) has a beautiful voice and this song, with Willy Mason (@Wjjmason), is mesmerizing: http://youtu.be/pBCt5nfsZ30

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32.

‘Do you listen to music when you write your stories, what kinds?’ theboywiththesmile

I do, usually it’s ambient music such as Brian Eno (@Brian_Eno), or film soundtracks, often fantasy or thrillers.

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33.

‘Which living people inspire you the most? Like you wish you could follow in their footsteps or you would go shaky at the knees if you met.’ Marcus

I’ve been lucky to meet and spend time with several of my favourite creative people (I won’t name drop) but I can’t say I’ve ever gone shaky at the knees. I am inspired by people who abandon all caution to pursue their undiluted talent; who have a voice and let that voice sing.

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34.

‘How do you motivate yourself?’ Karen Hollands

When I have a story I want to tell, I find I don’t have to motivate myself. It’s exciting to write and create. If I don’t have a story I want to tell, then I don’t.

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Thank you everyone for an excellent and diverse set of questions. It was fun!

Lawrence

I felt I had to be the movie director the interviewers wanted me to be, so I gave them what they needed.

At some point in the last couple of years, I made a promise to never be anything other than my true self again. I would only ever say what’s really on my mind, what my real opinions and points of view are and describe how my world really appears in front of my eyes. It’s not that I lied before, but I rarely answered questions uninhibited and free of concern; I always had in mind the purpose of the interview, to make watching the movie more appealing, or getting the next movie funded.

I am now 99% uninhibited in my public persona. I have had many ‘industry experts’ tell me my forthright views or divisive opinions expressed on twitter are harming my readership figures. To those people, and they meant well with their advice, I replied with ‘Being myself is more important than selling books, or achieving your version of ‘success’.’

It feels good to say that and mean it.

My definition of success is writing stories that have my distinct voice in them, and carry with them characters and situations which really mean something to me and challenge the reader. I feel like I succeed often.

I think it’s time for a new interview, but since no magazine or website has contacted me for one recently, I’d like to open it up to you guys. Post your question as a comment below and in a few days time I’ll answer them in our own personal interview.

Questions can be on anything, from my writing process, to my darkest fears and doubts, to notes on individual short stories, novels, or film scripts. The questions can be about more than just writing too. Anything goes.

Let’s do this.

Dead Girls At Christmas
by Lawrence Pearce (c) 2012

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Ring, fucking, ring.

Richie’s right ear began to hum at the droning ringing at the other end of his mobile phone, pressed against his lobe. His mind switched off and drifted into a daze; that all too familiar feeling of disconnection. For months he had been floating on the twin dark clouds of insomnia and alcohol. For months he had felt dead. Disconnected.

His heart still thumped away against the inside of his chest, thick blood rode the beaten track around his awkward postured body, his eyes displayed the watery shine of someone still alive enough to cry, but inside, inside he was dead. A heartbreak can be fatal. Richie’s was.

Ring, ring.

Ring, fuck why won’t she answer, fucking ring.

A voice-mail service kicked into action and then after a short beep, Richie heard that sweet assassin’s voice for the first time in months. His stomach churned but the butterflies within sprung and fluttered their wings with excitement. Traitors.

‘It’s me, tell me what’s up and then I’ll call you back if I have credit left and a smile I don’t have to fake’ said the the sweet assassin’s voice before another beep prompted Richie to leave a message.

Man, Richie loved her. Lisa never faked a smile, not one. The if I have credit left part referred to her insistence on going pay-as-you-go with her mobile phone, even though she spent more money each month than if she had signed up to a twelve month contract. She preferred things free of responsibility. Lisa refused to be tied down, Richie learned that one the hard way.

He started to talk after the second beep. His voice sounded like the deep hush of a gust of wind brushing over a still lake. Empty. Lonely.

His voice-mail message was the usual one. He told her how he always loved her and always will, how he just wanted her to know that, but how he now needed to be free from the pain of loss. He had meant for his words to sound poetic and meaningful, but they just sounded whiny. When he hung up, he dropped backwards onto the carpeted floor from his sat-upright position. Both his back and the released mobile phone bounced up off the fluffy carpet; so thick it cushioned like a brand new suede sofa.

Next to Richie, along the fluffy carpet, laid a dead girl.

He hadn’t killed her, at least not directly. There was no pool of blood, but there was also no rise and fall in her chest, no ebb and flow to her breathing. She was still, and she was dead. Her soft skin was cold to the touch, the colour draining from her epidermis. She was a flush redness just a few minutes before, but now she was pink-tinged grey. Soon, she would be the colour of white marbled pebbles sunk on an empty, winter’s beach.

The apartment that Richie and the dead girl shared was on the third floor of a tower of glass, that stood on the corner of a pedestrian walkway, bang in the city centre. Outside and below the open windows were carol singers. Songs of Christmas rose above the heady hum of traffic and rabble and floated in to stir the morbid silence.

It made Richie’s head hurt.

He had met Lisa during the last Christmas holidays, and in the seasons that followed they had made plans to go away the following Christmas, this Christmas. They were due to be petting reindeer with impressive antlers, knee deep in Lapland snow. Screw the reindeer, and what’s so special about snow anyway, it’s just cold stuff.

In the kitchen, on the counter, by the candlelight, the mince pies were going cold and stale. The refrigerator’s loud motor sounded like a constant sigh. One of the mince pies had been bitten into. A clump of half chewed pie was scattered over the floor where the dead girl had spat it out. She had the munchies, but the heroin in her system had screwed with her taste buds and everything tasted like shit.

Richie turned to Candy, or Blossom, or Kinky Elle or whatever her name was and let his pity filled eyes, all bags and deep set darkness, caress her naked body. She wore little meat over her thin skeleton and her skin hugged tight her protruding ribs. Her young breasts surprisingly lay like poached eggs, her nipples still hard from the fear that built up to her final breath.

Fifty bucks for half an hour as long as Richie ignored her dilated pupils and nervous twitches. She looked calmer now; serene; content.

It turned out her pump was empty and she had been too up in Mr Brownstone’s clouds to realize this for a good few weeks. Injecting took priority to inhaling, but when she caught a glimpse of Richie’s gun, the asthma attack blindsided her and that was that, no more nervous twitches.

Those last few desperate gasps, dry and hoarse, made Richie shiver.

She had died right there on the patch of carpet that was now her own, naked and frozen. Richie had watched her breathing just stop. He watched her empty out. He understood how it felt to empty out.

He dialed the number again and then the ring, ring, fucking ring, droning spaced out his mind again. The voice-mail brought her voice, bittersweet in the way it made his heart flutter and sting at the same time, and then the beep prompted him. Richie spoke softly and with a measured assurance, as best he could fake it anyhow, of how he wanted to see her again one last time before the breathing stopped.

More to the point, he had wanted her to see him one last time, to see him with the dead girl, before she was dead, both naked and sweaty. He had wanted to make Lisa jealous. They had made so many promises to each other; to love each other forever, to grow old together, to blah blah together. During the summer they had written those promises on scrap paper, faded newspaper ripping and the backs of grocery receipts, and tucked them away in an old jewelry box.

The ballerina figure no longer twirled to the wind-up music in the box, that played when the lid was lifted. Richie had seen to that when he hurled the box against his bedroom wall in anger.

He had broken the box of promises that day when Lisa had called to break his heart. It seemed like a fair exchange.

She had met someone who wasn’t so chaotic and unstable, someone she could rely on, someone who was safe and had a steady job and was in credit. Richie was all passion and impending crashes. At times their love was a beautiful disaster, but as all disasters eventually settle down before the clean up begins, the passion Richie had instilled in Lisa’s heart fizzled out, settled down to nothing at all.

Richie hung up the phone and placed it screen up on the carpet. He then reached for his gun which was sat snuggled next to his naked thigh. Richie was sitting cross-legged. His skin was covered in goose-pimples and as he lifted the gun and brushed the icy metal of the barrel against his left leg, he shivered again. He looked at the dead girl, excuse me.

With a flick, Richie was opening the barrel and checking that the one bullet he had slotted in two days ago was still sat, waiting. He had performed this double-check and triple-check often over the last forty-eight hours, like an OCD sufferer might wash and then rewash their hands, or flick a light switch on and off and on and off and then on again each time they entered a room.

The gun was a hand-me-down from his grandfather; both were rusted antiques. Richie’s grandpa had shot himself in the right temple with that very pistol, splattering his brains over his made-up bed on the afternoon of Richie’s grandmother’s funeral. They had lowered the coffin with his grandma in it at one o’clock, they had called the ambulance for his grandpa at two o’clock. The doctors at the Saint George’s hospital had pronounced him dead at two fifteen; not like the brain-matter and pool of blood seeping through the thick duvet and mattress, which Richie’s grandparents had shared for over a half a century of happy marriage, was evidence enough.

Once his grandma was no longer alive, then his grandpa had no reason to be either. Richie’s grandpa had shot himself to be free from loss.

Richie often wondered if the rusty pistol had shot first time, or if it locked and seized up. Imagine that, he thought, preparing to kill yourself and finally reaching the point of pulling the trigger, to then hear a dull disappointing click over your own racing heartbeat.

He lifted the gun to his face and bit around the barrel, his teeth connecting crooked against the cylindrical metal. He curved his lips over the rim. His hand shook, not a wild thrashing but just enough for him to notice that his nerves were creeping out. He willed himself to pull the trigger, to do this, to be free from loss.

But his finger locked and refused to press down. He couldn’t do it, not yet. Richie dropped his gun-holding-shaking-wreck of a hand and exhaled a full, bursting breath from his tight lungs. He fell back to the carpet which cushioned his fall. The back of his head smacked harder than he had meant for and his skull sprung up just enough to rattle his brain and shake his vision.

He closed his eyes tight to steady himself and then turned his head to the side to face the dead girl, ‘I’m sorry I got you dead, but let’s face it, your time was limited anyway.’

The naked dead girl remained still, as dead people tend to do. Her ivory skin was a scrap book of scars, each one telling its own story with the storyteller no longer alive to recount the details. So Richie made a few guesses.

This cut on the inside of her bicep, sneaky discreet self-harm during her teens. The twisted bone at the base of her ankle, a drunken fall down a flight of stairs. All those holes on her arms, oh so many holes.

Then he felt a sudden sadness as he looked into her vacant eyes, eyes which had lost that glimmer of life in years gone by. He wondered how long ago it was that her innocence was taken.

‘Let me make you pretty for when they find you.’ whispered Richie, stroking her chilled cheek.

Outside the window, flowing in with the night-time breeze that blew the thin curtains further apart, carol singers sang Silent Night.

Richie raided the wardrobes in the bedroom and returned with a flowery dress designed for summer picnics in the park, soft slightly-heeled shoes and pink girly knickers. He left out the bra. She wasn’t wearing one when she stripped out of her slut clothes and so he assumed she preferred to hang free.

He dressed her carefully, like a dedicated nurse might change the soiled underwear of a comatose patient. He also opened a make-up kit he had found in the mirrored bathroom cabinet and did his best. He painted luscious red lips on with a tiny brush and applied foundation to her pot-marked skin with the gentle massage of his thumb. He wiped his palm over her eyes and when her eyelids where shut, he gave her a silk glow with lilac eye shadow.

Richie also powdered the needle holes along her arms, every last one of them.

The dead girl’s black hair curled against her now rosy cheeks. Her green eyes (Richie had opened them again once he was done) sparkled under the ceiling spotlights. She looked pretty. Richie hadn’t done too badly, he thought.

When he looked up himself to the spotlights which reflected in her emerald eyes, he saw mistletoe hung from the ceiling. He looked down and wished he was in love again. He missed being in love, missed the touch of a woman on his stubbled face, and the warm breath of someone laid next to him in bed. He missed being kissed.

Richie stared at the dead girl, and a thought entered his mind that if he closed his eyes and lost himself in his heart, he could perhaps experience that jolt of love, that skip of the heartbeat once more. He moved closer to her, lowered himself until his lips hovered over hers. He licked his lips, dry and chaffed.

He imagined she was a woman he had met at the bookshop, in the science-fiction aisle. He would be flicking through an Isaac Asimov novel, And The God’s Themselves, even though he had read it twice already. She would be looking for a Ray Bradbury short story compilation, a cute frown on her forehead as she curled her hair behind her ear. He would pick it out for her, and she would smile.

Richie, with his eyes closed, inches from the dead girl’s face, smiled himself. He pursed his lips. But she’s a heroin addicted hooker and he’s just another John, and she’s dead. Richie squeezed his eyes tighter, trying to shake the reality of his situation off.

He imagined the bookish girl in the park during a sunny Spring afternoon, flowers blooming across the lawn. She would be reading Joe Hill’s Horns and Richie would be falling in love even deeper. She would look up above the pages of her paperback and flash him a cheeky smile.

Richie lowered himself down further, his lips barely touching the dead girl’s. In his mind she had wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

He imagined returning to his apartment after a movie one night, something at the Curzon Soho Cinema, a European art film, with his new girlfriend; lust burning in both their eyes. She would be ripping at his clothes, he would be sliding his tongue into her hot mouth.

Richie’s lips met the dead girl’s lips. Still with his eyes closed tight, he kissed her full, and then his lips parted hers and his tongue slid in with hunger. He pressed his body against hers, his belt buckle snagging against the summery dress, working his way between her limp legs. He begged his imagination to make her kiss him back, to make her want him too.

The physical reality of her lips and legs and entire body, limp and lifeless, was too great a challenge for his imagination however, and he sloped off her rolling away into a fetal pose, hugging his knees. His sore eyes threatened to tear up. He breathed in deep and held the emotion in, like he always had.

Ring, ring.

Ring, I just kissed a corpse I’m so desperate for love, fucking ring.

When Richie dialed Lisa’s number again, he tried to clear his throat, but where his Adam’s Apple was it felt like a cannon ball was lodged. The lump in his throat made his voice rasp with trapped tension. An almighty crying fit or a ball of rage, one or the other would surface soon and he would be at the mercy of his repressed emotions.

Richie jumped up and stormed the lounge, pacing back and forth, his feet stamping past the dead girl. From his trouser pocket, he pulled a photo of Lisa and him cuddled up on a bench; he tossed it and it floated down to land on the dead girls stomach. Richie spoke guttural threats into the phone. He told Lisa’s voice-mail how he was broken and dead inside, and soon she would be dead too.

Then he threw his phone and it smashed against the front door. Richie had lined himself and the dead girl, before she was dead, directly in front of the front door, so that when Lisa had returned to her apartment the first thing she would see would be them, fucking. In between them and the door was a perfectly wrapped Christmas package, with a bow on it. He had even sprinkled glitter over the box.

Richie snatched his pistol from the carpet floor and held the handle tight, gripped in a closed fist until his knuckles went white.

Wiping his eyes, Richie gathered himself and controlled his erratic breathing, slowing himself down. Through misty tears which hung in his eyes like stinging pools of acid, Richie spotted a post-it note by the land-line telephone. He stepped over the dead girl’s body to get to it. It was written in Lisa’s handwriting and addressed to herself.

Dearest Lisa,
Your new number. Don’t lose your phone this time, dumbarse!
Love, Lisa

Richie could almost laugh out loud. He shook his head and wondered which poor sod had found (aka stolen) Lisa’s phone and was listening to his mad messages.

Then his lifted the land-line receiver and dialed the number at the bottom of the note. He held his grandpas gun low by his side with the other hand, all but forgetting it was there.

As the phone rang, the lock on the front door turned and shunted and then the door pushed open. Richie sat back down on the carpet next to the dead girl, listening to the ring, ring in his left ear as well as the ring, fucking ring, of Lisa’s new mobile phone just on the other side of the opening door.

Lisa stepped in, looking down into her handbag searching for her mobile. Her black curly hair was braided, Richie had always liked that look on her. Her green eyes made him swallow hard. It was no coincidence how much the dead girl had looked like Lisa, she was picked for that very reason.

He watched her lift her phone from the depths of her bag and notice her own landline number on the screen. Her puzzled green eyes then clocked the Christmas wrapped parcel on the floor in front of her feet. The wrapping paper design was of reindeer, stood in snow.

Lisa then looked up to see Richie sat cross-legged, still holding the receiver by his ear.

She gasped, ‘Richie?’

Then she noticed the dead girl, laid still by his side. Lisa’s arms went numb and her handbag and phone fell to the floor with duel thuds breaking the silence.

Down Richie’s cheek, a tear trickled. He watched Lisa, filled with the painful memory of a love that had died before its time.

‘I made a copy of your key towards the end, so I let myself in. The um, the girl, she was too strung out to care whose place this was.’

Lisa watched like a statue frozen in time, paralyzed by a sudden foreboding sense of dread. Her soft, full lips quivered.

Richie sucked in air, the ball of tension in his throat making it hard to breathe. ‘Lisa, I have always loved you. I died when you left me, you broke my heart. Now it’s time for you to die too. It’s only fair.’

Richie turned the gun on himself, feeding the barrel into his mouth. The trigger came down easy. The bullet shot through and carried away with it all the pain and guilt which had wreaked Richie’s mind.

Lisa screamed at the sound of the gunshot and the clump of Richie’s torso falling back onto the carpet.

The last thing Richie heard was the breaking screams of a woman now dying inside. He was free from loss. She was only just beginning her sentence.

A few days later, at her mother’s place, Lisa opened the door to two police officers, one male and one female. The female office looked her with sympathetic eyes and asked if they could come in.

Inside, a Christmas tree pressed up against the corner of the lounge. It looked awkward, trapped.

They updated her on the autopsy; the deceased male had not been under the influence, though the deceased female had been a walking drug store. The real purpose of their visit however was to hand over the contents of the Christmas present left in front of the door. It had been analyzed for poison and recorded as evidence. But now the case was closed, it belonged to her.

Lisa opened the jewelry box. The music played out but the ballerina refused to dance.

In the main compartment, scraps of paper adorned with broken promises lay in a pile.

She cried, streams of tears running down her cheeks. The female police officer embraced her while the male officer sat in awkward discomfort, looking away.

Lisa was now broken too. The loss made it hard to breathe.

Published by Proxima Books and Salt Publishing.

JARED

When I close my eyes, she becomes real.

1.1

Her flesh fills out, and she is really there. I can almost smell her; Moonberry Musk with a hint of sweet, fresh, feminine sweat. I can feel her breath on my skin, her warmth tickling my neck as she whispers into my ear. You wouldn’t believe some of the words that come out of her mouth; the naughty minx.

Our relationship has been going strong for two and a half years now, as long as the last time I kicked off my shoes in despair. I now spend twenty-four hours a day bare-footed. She knows when to leave me alone and when I want company. Her body is amazing and changes according to my mood, which makes sex always unpredictable. How many couples can say that?

We sometimes argue, but that is only when I’m unsure of my own thoughts. If my position on a political issue for example is clear, then she tends to agree with me. We have similar world views.

She likes to call me her little Hikikomori, which in Japanese is the term used for those who willfully imprison themselves at home, never stepping foot outside, shutting themselves off from society. Yeah, she has a very blunt sense of humor. I don’t call her anything, maybe sweetheart if I’m feeling romantic.

Jared Lee Blaine. The sharp font with which that name, my name, is printed on my passport even looks oppressive.
I’ve always found it strange how a passport, which should be a symbol of geographic freedom, leaves me feeling trapped. Sure, I could fly to Brazil, hop over to France, make the journey to New Zealand, but someone, somewhere would always know that I was there.

In my head I can go anywhere, and I’m anonymous. Unlike my rather excessive use of the internet, with which I take in my daily dose of news, entertainment and fulfill all my shopping needs with the autocomplete function. Those credit cards numbers have been everywhere. Anonymity is impossible in the real world. But in my own mind, I am free.

Every move I’d make in the real world would be followed anyway. CCTV cameras would track me, my credit card transactions would expose what shops in what areas I visited and my mobile phone would allow the network providers to pinpoint my exact location at any one time. Even living as a Hikokomori, which is not nearly as cute as she makes it sound, I am still observed like a lab rat.

I close my eyes again, and she taunts me with a giggle ‘Hehe, you called yourself a rodent.’

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Published by Proxima Books and Salt Publishing.

MELISSA

‘Now remember darling, you’ve come so far and this position is your just rewards. I’m so proud of you Melissa, and you look so grown up.’

3.1

It is the middle of the afternoon, in a shopping mall not too dissimilar to most others (leading walkways with teasingly lit shop fronts and a sarcastic sprinkling of faux foliage) and my head has just exploded.

I don’t mean in a metaphorical sense. I am not describing how my nerves are shot and my anxiety has peaked and my headaches have throbbed until I needed to scream out so loud for it to all stop, just stop, from a morning spent on the human battery farms that are tube trains and then dealing with spoilt rich-kid harp players.

I mean literally, my head has just exploded.

In the centre of the mall, passersby stand in shock and little kids scream and everyone else, along with the fake plants and easy access rubbish bins and all those in-your-face signs and adverts, is covered by me.

They are all covered by flesh, bones, cartilage and muscle tissue, teeth, eyeballs, and millions of tiny fragments of brain; scattered far and wide.

My headless body lies in a slump on the bench that has become my final resting place. I wonder if they will put a sign here. In Memory of Melly.

Like an actress, who upon accepting her award reads out a garbled thank you list, thanking their parents, producers, directors, guild members, coaches, friends and the stupid public for elevating them to idol status and god-like worship, I feel the need to acknowledge some people. But my list is not a thank you list, it is a blame list.

‘Wow, I can’t believe I won! I mean, wow!’

My head forms together again as all the little fragments scuttle towards each other across the shiny floor and the flesh rebuilds itself over my skull. I catch my breath and swallow the lump in my throat. The spotlights glare in my bloodshot eyes.

‘Well first I have to blame my family. Without them, I wouldn’t be where I am today. And of course my old school bullies, you have been such a big influence on today, I blame you all so so much. I blame John Brockwell, and Henry Gissett, and of course dearest Samantha Holland. I mustn’t forget to blame my old high school teacher Mr Steer, you are deserving of so much blame, words cannot express! I blame my adoring mother. I blame my father, I wish you were still here to see me today papa, you should take a lot of the blame for setting me on this path.’

And on I go.

But lets go back an hour, to when I first sat down on this bench.

One hour before my head explodes.

I sit down and survey the zombies stumbling to McDonald’s to stuff their face with junk, or falling over themselves to rush to nowhere, just in case they are late for nothing. Two zombies bump into each other and then carry on without so much as a snort in each other’s direction.

I promise myself I will never be one of those. But then I realise that I am sitting on a bench with other nine to five, five day a week zombies. I have a sandwich in my hand. They have sandwiches in their hands. I am a goddamn zombie in training.

Thirty minutes before my head explodes.

I am unfolding a broadsheet newspaper. I find the overt, barefaced bullshitting of the tabloids distasteful. I prefer to have lies massaged into me with a fuller vocabulary and a sneakier manipulation strategy.

I read the front page story. Osama Bin Laden has just been murdered, I mean killed, I mean caught, I mean made to receive justice. I remember 9/11 and all those people jumping from the burning inferno of the upper floors where the plane crashed through the twin towers. I remember the agonizingly slow drop of the jumpers, as their bodies froze in time, helpless against the fall. They fell like rag dolls. Perhaps we’re all rag dolls. All falling.

Ten minutes before my head explodes.

I look around me, and I honestly feel completely removed from my environment and the people I am meant to share this world with. This morning I repeated finger arrangements over and over and over again to affluent kids, who have more expensive harps than I could ever afford. My mind hurts, I want the hurt to go away.

I pull a notepad and pen out of my bag, and start writing. A suicide note.

One minute before my head explodes.

I tap the breast of my thick black coat and feel my gun, a Magnum pistol, tucked in the inside pocket. It is loaded and ready. Are all the zombies around me ready?

Ten seconds before my head explodes.

I place the pad, suicide note face up, next to me on the bench. I reach inside and wrap my hand around the handle of the Magnum.

Time to count down the rest of my life.

Five seconds remaining.

Now just Four.

Three seconds left.

Two.

One.

Zero.

My hand pulls out a tissue with which I blow my nose into.

The lunch break is over and I go back to work.

.

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Her name was Annabelle, but she told everyone her name was Jessica. She carried around a pink lunchbox, with a doll inside. The doll was so pretty.

Jessica introduced herself to all she met with her likes and her dislikes.

‘Hi I’m Jess, I like snowflakes, the stars during the clear June nights and unicorns. Circus music gives me the creeps, cauliflower tastes yuck and I don’t really like being alone, especially not at night, even during those clear June nights.’

Everything else, she kept a secret.

Annabelle tried hard every night to forget about her uncle.

She lay in bed, watching the stars sparkle and shimmer outside her window, just for her. She held her doll close, and stroked its soft hair.

Annabelle heard her bedroom door creak open. Jessica closed her eyes. Tight.

He fell from the forty-fucking-something floors of the giant cock tower of a capitalist wank, head first towards an army of maggots. His face was screwed with rage; this was no pathetic suicide, this was a bombing, and he was a human cannonball pummeling the force of gravity to shoot faster towards the enemy.

His eyes bled, crimson marbles leaking tears of red fury that seeped and hung in the air as he dropped; a free falling hover of blood; droplets dancing with his weightless body one last tango, one last bump and grind before the music stopped and the lights went out.

He would crush the blanket of sick below him, the maggots. He would flatten and squish and crack and destroy, and oh how he would laugh and how his laughter would be the last sound they heard on their way to the fucking grave, a grave where smaller maggots would feast on their plague ridden organs and evil, evil hearts. Parasites eating parasites in flesh devouring irony.

He chewed on his saliva which had thickened in the blasting wind that smacked his lips and cheeks in a continuous drive up against his face. The wind couldn’t stop him, nothing could. He was destiny, he was redemption, he was revenge, he was the biggest orgasm they would ever experience, and the loudest gunshot they would ever hear. They would soil their pants, and then they would scream, and their torn limbs and slashed stomachs and pulped brains would trickle not blood but the black bile of selfish desperation, and the stench would cause bystanders to retch.

He fell to Earth. He fell to Hell. He laughed a chest exploding wail all the way down, spitting with unbridled wrath the words he had whispered moments before the jump.

“You are a den of vipers and thieves.”