Them

She sat down at the piano, staring at it, wondering if she dared to attempt to play it again. The last time had been so long ago…

She decided that perhaps, it was time to overcome her fears, and hesitantly placed her fingers on the time-worn keys. She played a note, and then another and the music was heaven to her ears.  It had been too long since she had done this…

She then picked up her speed, and began playing the piano as she had played it long ago, in her childhood, familiar and comforting memories rising to her mind as she did.

They had all loved her playing. They would always sit down and watch her fingers dance over the aged keys. For nearly six years they had been content to let her play on her own.  But then…

Something had gone wrong, before, she remembered. And suddenly the memories weren’t warm anymore.

They were not satisfied by her playing any longer. It irked them. The tunes she played simply did not content them. From behind the dark veil, they would watch her and shake their head in disappointment. And then, they had taken matters into their own hands. They had swooped on her as she played for her sick brother, confined to his bed. They had changed her comforting lullabies, turning them into an infernal wail of the condemned. They had consumed her, as they had consumed her grandmother before her, and she had done wrong.

She missed her brother…

‘Murderer’, they had called her.

But, it seemed as though she was all right now. Nothing was happening as she played. The tune of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons flooded the dark attic room, and she was at peace. But then she saw them. They were still there.

 Watching her.  Vibes of resentment darkening their demeanour every moment.

And then-

A pure sound-

But then a pause-

And the resumption of music-

But not good -

Infernal tunes raged through the room, and her fingers moved without her consent.

She saw, through the window, the shade of her brother. Was he smiling? She couldn’t quite tell.

A little closer…

She went to the window and opened it, but she still wasn’t close enough. She leaned forward, and the music in her head became an overwhelming crescendo of despair.

Falling…lights everywhere…They were watching…

And then-

Darkness.

The Life and Death of Polly the Cow.

Oh dear Lord!...

To Alexander, Earl of Durnenshire, it seemed as though his day could not possible get any worse. As he sat there the great hall of Durnen Castle, watching the sweepers deal with the disturbing dead cow on the floor, he glumly noticed that everything had gone wrong for him that day. And in the most dramatic manner possible, too.

Why did it HAVE to be today?  It really had been due to the extreme convergence of probability that this day had gone like this. He once again began to reminisce.

The day had started very well. Alexander and his loyal butler Tibbles had been preparing Durnen Castle for the King’s welcoming party. They had put painstaking work into making sure that every detail was perfect. Massive purple curtains hung from the massive curved windows. Large, opulent red carpets were laid out in all the corridors and halls, adding a rather splendid effect to the whole thing. But Alexander and Tibbles wanted perfection! No floor could be shiny enough, no rug straight enough! But eventually, even Alexander was satisfied with the majority of the preparations, and decided to go the kitchens to check on the progress of the roast beef.

In retrospect, this was where it had started to go wrong. In that dramatic way which was mentioned earlier.

Alexander, First of the King’s Men, Earl of Durnenshire, Self-Appointed Vizier of Justice, Knight of Truth, entered the kitchens to see what could be described as no less than a battle. The scene was a strange one. Ten or more cooks well armed with cleavers and rolling pins were advancing on a vaguely familiar cow. Alexander seemed to remember purchasing it for the dinner. It seemed that the cow was a princess, however, because one lone ebony skinned chef was championing for her. And if Alexander had thought that the previous cooks were well armed, it was nothing compared to this dark skinned hero, with his two massive butchering knives.

Upon seeing their Earl enter the room, the chefs suddenly veered away from what had promised to be an exciting, if rather dangerous performance, and decided to do what employees did best. Complain.

‘M’lord, this fool won’t let go of that dratted cow. Says meat is murder or summing of the sort.’

‘Earl, this man is insane! We were just going to butcher old Polly when ‘e jumps in front of ‘er and starts ‘ollering about animal’s rights. Mad, isn’t it?’

‘Sir, when I signed up to be a chef, I was fairly sure that my ethics would be accounted for, and you can understand that me, with my religion being what it is, wouldn’t want to see murder take place in front of my eyes, can’t you?’

Noise, noise, noise!

Alexander wanted to scream at them all, but he knew that the hardest ego to mend was a chef’s, and considering that there were seven French chefs here, he decided that it would be better for the sake of the roast beef if he simply kept quiet.

He did, however, promptly dismiss his errant servant, who spluttered indignantly, but finally acquiesced to leave, with the fair maiden Polly making distressed noises as her last lifeline left.

Alexander then told the chefs to get on with it, and decided to go to re-check the status of the dining hall. As he walking in through the large domed archway, he noted happily that nothing in particular seemed to be awry there. Carpets on the floor, curtains in front of the windows, orchestra in its proper place- Wait, was someone talking to the orchestra?

Alexander frowned and went up to the orchestra to be greeted by a grim sight. The pious chef had just been talking to them, and on seeing Alexander, had run away. And if the grim faces of the band were anything to judge by, he hadn't been saying anything positive.

All of the orchestra started speaking to Alexander at once, and through the rather profane jumble of words, he managed to glean some information. The orchestra, consisting mainly of those revolutionary youths who were fashionable with the younger generation, thought of Alexander’s dismissal of the errant chef as a racial prejudice, and said right there and then that they did not intend to play for elitist snobs.

Alexander watched in despair as the orchestra packed up and left, and would probably have thrown a tantrum had the royal fanfare not just sounded. The King had arrived.

After exchanging some pleasantries, the King entered the hall and made small talk with Alexander. He had noticed, he said, that there was no musical performance, such as was custom to play at these events? Not that he minded, of course, Oh No, he was just curious. Alexander meekly replied that it was simply so hard to hire good orchestras in this day and age, and he had decided that no orchestra was better than a bad orchestra.

At that moment, there was suddenly a loud *CRASH* followed by an equally loud *SNAP* as the door to the kitchen broke, and Polly the cow, taking ‘charge’ of her own life, ran out into the hall, and roared. Alexander simply stood there, looking helpless, and then turned to the wake of the cow’s destruction. Behind the rubble of the broken door he could see a grinning dark face. It seemed that he had been wrong to make an enemy of this person, but it was too late to take it back now.

There was complete pandemonium in the hall. The appearance of this cow had scared everyone out of their minds, and they were at their wit’s ends.

The previously mentioned well armed culinary experts now also dashed into the hall, and one bright little man decided that it would be a good idea to take the initiative, and he brought his cleaver down on Polly then and there. Polly let out a loud cry of distress, and then fell down dead on the floor. A sudden hush fell on everyone in the hall. The chefs were silent, the King was silent, the orchestra (who had been masquerading as potted plants) were quiet, and even Tibbles was quiet.

Then they all heard a sound. A cow-like sound. Not the pleasant moo which people read about, but more like the actual MYEAAARGGHHHHH that cows are prone to make. There was a massive shattering noise and one of the curtains ripped as a massive bull charged into the hall, and MYEARGH’d once more. It looked like they were in trouble. It seemed that one of Polly’s sweethearts had heard her call of distress and had come to the aid of their (now fallen) princess.

The bull (let’s call him Bob), saw the carcass that had once been the slender, brown-and-white beauty that was Polly, and roared in anguish. Then it slowly turned around and observed the whole room. It seemed to notice the King in particular.

The King and the Bull looked at each other, observing, gauging their enemy’s strength. A certain apprehension entered both combatants’ eyes. But then Bob decided to charge, and gored the King’s arm.

Everybody instantly rushed to the aid of their fallen ruler, and the well trained SWAT ( Still Wondering About Tea) team of chefs leapt into combat with the bull. A great battle took place, but in the end Bob was subdued, despite his valiant attempts to live on. The chefs stepped back, surveying a job well done, and expectantly looked at Alexander.

Alexander now finished his reminiscing to see that their eyes were still on him, and they looked hopeful. Oh dear, he thought. Surely, surely they weren’t expecting a raise?

Ducks

This, my friends, is an essay about ducks. Yes, those yellow, quacking, feathered menaces of the ponds. I’m sure we all know what I’m referring to. Everybody has seen them. And those that haven’t have seen their menacing antics on hit propaganda show, Tom and Jerry.

People nowadays are surprisingly misguided. They show unnatural fears of completely nice creatures, such as crocodiles, or lions.  These animals have completely respectable kill statistics, of generally 5-20 a year in the civilized areas of the world.

What, then, you might rightly as, are the statistics of DEATH-BY-DUCK?(Henceforth referred to in this document as DBD.) The answer is that there are none. You might now outrageously try to defend the aforementioned yellow furies for lack of evidence against them. BUT DON’T YOU SEE!? This very lack of evidence is what tells against them! THEY ARE TAKING OVER THE INTERNET AND HAVE REMOVED ALL DBD STATISTICS!

Sorry for my outburst there, I sometimes lose my cool when discussing these predators. D’you know, there are people on this earth who are intelligent enough to understand that these ducks are actually yellow-coated raptors? Yes, yes there are. And the rest of the world stomps on them. They tell them that they’re crazy, that they’re seeing ducks everywhere. Anatidaephobes, they call us. It is the universal acknowledgement that the ducks are winning. If the human race does not understand that their very existence is threatened, then how will they go to war?

Still, our current position in the war isn’t as bad as it was circa 3000 years ago. Back then, the ducks had an even greater master of propaganda. He went by the name ‘Zeus’. He passed himself off as an extremely gifted human, albeit one with excessive growth of facial hair. He realized that the humans had begun to revere him, and thus began one of the most deluded periods in human history.

They were known as THE DUCK (There is a common misconception that this is meant to be pronounced as ‘Dark’, but it is untrue) AGES. This is a time during which Duck Sculpture first began. Statuettes of ducks dated over 2000 years old have been recovered. The intellectuals of this earth believe that this is when the ducks first began to assault the aforementioned DBD records, and so took their first step towards establishing rule on earth.

I must leave you all now, for I fear that they are near. I shall end with the usual Anti-Duck poem, but I would also like to remind humankind of their duty to their race. Please, friends, if you hear the dreaded ‘QUACK’ once more, barricade yourself in your house, and don’t come out, lest you add to the secret DBD records.

Signing off,

T

‘Dear friend, if you do hear a quack,

Run, go hide in a shack,

For truly, of gifted humans, we have a lack,

And don’t want another body-sack

Dear friend, when you see flashes of yellow

Waving as though they were Jell-O

Be prepared for the war-like bellow

Show thyself to be a careful fellow

Dear friend, when into open combat with the winged fury, you come

Do not let your senses grow numb

And as a general rule of thumb,

Please, try not to be dumb.

The Sorting Hat's Last Song ( Post - Apocalyptic)

SORTING HAT’S SONG ( Written in an imagined time period where Hogwarts is no more)

Many hundreds of years ago,

When I was rather new,

The four founders for the first time met,

And made a school out of the blue.

So Hogwarts then came to be,

‘Twas a school of great reputation

And children would come to fill their little heads,

Generation after generation

Into four houses I would then divide them,

Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff

There firm friends would be made,

Who’d make sure life was never tough

Gryffindor chose those brave at heart,

Hufflepuff those who worked hard,

Ravenclaw preferred the smart,

And to the cunning, Slytherin opened his yard

I do not know why I still mourn

Those who are dead and gone

After all, my role is finished,

So this shall be the end of my last song

Dear Child, do not be afraid...

This is a SlenderMan story. It probably won't make much sense to you unless you've heard of him, so Google it before reading, okay?

It also incorporates certain elements of the horror game Slender, such as the fuzzy vision and static sounds.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One winter evening, in a lush countryside far away from the troubles of the world, two children, a boy and a girl were playing.

The girl, Jane, felt very annoyed at the moment. She had been playing a simply game of Tag with her brother, Peter, and for what felt like an eternity, she had been the dreaded 'It'.

Her brother flew past her on his winged feet once more, and she fell on the ground with a resounding *thump*, and a cry of indignation. She looked around for a moment, but her brother had disappeared again, no doubt hiding behind a rock or a tree.
Anyone passing the field at this time would have seen a young girl of seven or eight years, wearing expensive clothes, sulking in the middle of an abandoned countryside with nobody else in sight.

A normal, kind, well-meaning person would have asked her if she was lost and needed help getting back home. A particularly keen-eyed person would have noticed certain striking similarities between the girl and the Lord Braden.

The stranger who had just emerged from the spindly forest behind young Jane, however, was neither keen-eyed nor was he kind. Young Peter saw him from his hiding place behind a rather large boulder, and wondered who he was. Certainly the man was not normal. Perhaps a small description of the man is in order.

He was evidently male. He was very tall, and very thin, and could almost be confused with the spindly trees behind him. A sudden rush of wind blew towards Peter at that moment, and as it caressed his hair, he could almost swear that he had heard it speak to him, and say 'Slender', in its rustling voice.

The man seemed to have a curious affinity for the colour black. He had on a long, black suit. He wore a large, black, hat which he had tipped forward to cover his forehead, and large sunglasses which concealed much of his upper face. The rest of his face was hidden by a black overcoat which he had pulled up to its extent.

However, as he walked, his overcoat fell slightly, and Peter gasped in horror as he beheld the man's face. Where there should have been a nose and a mouth, there was only an undulating expanse of blank, white skin. The stranger got closer to Peter's sister, and she finally became aware of his presence.

Peter began to cautiously make his way towards Jane, ready to help her if anything happened. The man bent down to his sister's ear, and it seemed as though he was saying something. As he spoke, Jane's eyes widened in fear, and she slowly stood up and took the man's hand. She had been frightened into submission.

Peter decided that the man meant to kidnap his sister, and he charged at the man, keeping his eyes trained on that sallow, ghostly face. He was energized by the bravado that only young children have, before the knowledge that comes with maturity tempers them and makes them less headstrong.

As he ran, something strange seemed to happen to Peter. His vision grew fuzzy, and he could hear static sounds in his head. The man's face kept appearing in front of his eyes, even though he was still several yards away.  The stranger's joints seemed to be contorting at strange angles to Peter, and he quickly shut his eyes. He was scared, scared in that primal way that all humans are. This fear of the man was as basic as fear of the dark, of death, of bad things. It was as though his very mentality was scared of this strange man, for reasons that Peter did not understand. Even with his eyes shut the face kept appearing in front of him. Peter wanted to scream but he couldn't, he was too choked up with fear. He wanted to run, he wanted to hide, but it was all TOO HARD!

Then, with a sudden resolve, the child opened his eyes wide, if only to try to help his sister.
But he saw the man, and Jane, almost a mile away, walking back into the forest from which the slender man had come.