As he hung there, deciding that he did not really want to die, his blooded fingers grasped and slipped around a knot that he could not loosen. Blood ran down his elbows and pooled below him. Oxygen was being denied and through blackness, the shadows, were coming. The Voices were calling him to them but he did not want to go. Alone in a house with no friends or family to call in and save him, he finally did feel something that was unique and a tear came to his eye.
He died with a purple face, gasping and convulsing in his own piteous regret.
About the author
Stephen lives in England with his wife. Following a re-evaluation of his life goals, he looked to establish a career through his writing and has published several e-stories. Along with his like for horror, he is currently working on the first in a series of fantasy stories and he hopes that you take as much enjoyment from his work as he does in creating it.
With your support, he hopes to make his writing dreams come true.
http://www.stephencraigauthor.wordpress.com
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Stephen-Craig/567151849971213
Twitter: @stephencraig74
Also by the same author
Blooded Eyes
Grim Reaping
Who Killed Bob?
The Drowning of the Innocents
Falling Through the Rainbow
Symbiote
The Tortured Clouds of Kh’all
The Omnipotence Paradox
Glue
Dead Ted
The Last Step
Cream Of Volition
The Reaping Rewards
Road Kill And Everything In-Between
Feel
Available for download from www.smashwords.com
COMING IN 2013
FALLING THROUGH THE RAINBOW
by Stephen Craig
Prologue: Black
Night had fallen over the God forsaken city and below, where people searched for the slightest glimmer of hope, chaos existed only to consume their dreams. The poverty here was the worst that had been experienced for many years and crime was rife. Law and justice struggled to control the overwhelming blackness that devoured the hearts of the innocent. In walking the streets below, those rotten, squalid streets, it would be extremely difficult to believe that innocence could even exist here. But it did. In small cracks and pockets, light could be found. In a perverse balance to this and allowing for the depravity that was abundant, there was also a malevolent cancer that ate away at the depths of society. An abhorrent presence that simmered in the despair and self-loathing of mankind. This canker existed in man.
One man in particular sat alone in his own squalor, alone in a dirty little room where the smell of drainage lingered. He closed his eyes momentarily and mouthed a silent mantra before opening them to look down at his hands. In the darkness of this dimly lit room, he sat holding the thin strips of flesh, soggy and bereft of form, between his fingers. He was watching them with great interest. They seemed to move constantly within themselves, rippling like tender waves upon an expansive ocean. They danced as though with a mind of their own. Instinctively, he cupped his hands together around the prize and drew them towards his face. Towards his nose, where he inhaled deeply to savour every possible sensory pleasure. His eyes flashed open, widely, magnetism to all light, pulling in the messengers that would define his surroundings. Moving the skin in circular motions, he felt his arousal building, building to a blissful crescendo. Building upwards, almost to the verge of ecstatic release. He stopped himself and breathed heavily. There could be nothing possibly beyond this moment. Beyond this taste. The man bit his lip hard, bit until he felt warm blood running down his chin. Listening. Listening with intensity for the contact. The crash of the droplets hitting the floor, like a cymbal being struck with a hammer. All senses were heightened. Sight. Sound. Smell. Taste. The taste of his own blood was exquisite.
Getting up from his knees he walked over to the table in the centre of the room, upon which rested an old wooden box, cracked and warped like his mind. He raised the creaking lid slowly and reached in to hold the contents in both hands. In his left a paintbrush and in his right, a knife.
‘Black coffee’ he called to the waitress.
‘I’ll bring it over to you’.
Richard Grain walked over to the grim table with its plastic tablecloth and sat down. As he pulled in his seat, his hand grazed the underside of the table and he could feel some dried chewing gum stuck in the place where one of the previously cultured cliental had obviously sat. He hoped it was chewing gum.
The waitress brought over a large mug of coffee.
‘let me know if you want food or a top up when you are ready’.
‘I will, thanks’. As the waitress walked off he looked out of the window and picked up the laminated menu on the table. It was sticky.
Outside, it was raining heavily. A depressing rain that had been falling constantly for what seemed like days. In places, the storm drains were backing up in their impotence to control the downfall. Sitting here, he could feel the dampness of his clothing. If he did not get ill from this wretched weather, he would not get ill from anything. He took a sip of the bitter black coffee and looked down at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He waited.
The man walked over to the corner of his room and pulled a discoloured dust cover from a pile on the floor. He revealed a large amount of paint cans, some which had been previously opened and had dried streaks down the side, others were new and unopened. Reaching down, he picked up a can and a screwdriver that was lying on the floor and carried them over to the table. By the window there was something else covered by a sheet. Removing this he revealed a stained wooden easel, upon which rested a large canvas. A work in progress. HIS work in progress. He looked out of the window at the rain that pounded against the glass and watched the intricate patterns that ran down the outer pane. He stood in thought, mesmerised by the beauty in the droplets dancing on the glass, then turned his attention back to the canvas.
Moving across to the table he picked up a ceramic saucer that he liked to use to mix his paints upon. He prised open the tin of paint with the screwdriver and stirred the contents, of which he then poured an amount into the saucer. Next, he picked up the knife and examined the sharp blade. Satisfied, he rolled up his sleeve and ran the knife along the side of his arm, watching the blood trickle down his flesh, over his wrist and through his fingers. It dripped from the end of his fingertips and landed in droplets into the paint on the saucer. After a while, the man reached under the table and picked up a dirty bloodstained towel and wrapped it around his arm. He picked up the saucer and paintbrush then went to his easel. With a smile on his face, he dipped the brush into the mixture and began to apply it to the canvas.