There’s nothing new, interesting or particularly clever about deciding to take your own life. Especially, when it’s muggins here who actually does the job of transporting it to the Ever Rafter – That’s the boat that we use.
Time was the ‘ER’ was a simple wooden raft; a functional item to carry dear departed souls to their perpetual and permanent torment, but the introduction of afterlife unions and the newly formed council of the Pre Tormented Soul Dispatch (or PTSD) have made it policy that even the most annoying of passengers must lament in extreme luxury before they are granted their very own personal Hell.
My suggestion of free cyanide shots was rejected in place of tea refills, Jammy Dodgers and fluffy cushions. I can’t think of anything more repulsive but that’s life… well, death.
Did you know that over one hundred and fifty thousand people die around the world every day? That’s one point seven people a second (a functioning point seven of a person is more common than you’d think). The knock on effect is that I have to traverse the globe, collecting and delivering souls in less time than it takes for you to read this sentence. In a sense I’m just like Santa Claus.
… Actually, scratch that. I’m nothing like Santa Claus. The super speed and beard is there, but I’m not a kleptomaniac, harbouring a senseless obsession with other people’s mince pies! And don’t even get me started on his waist line (something you never hear from the mince pies). Would it be so terrible for children the world over to leave him a salad once in a while?
I’ve been in this job for a little over four billion years, without so much as a coffee break. It wasn’t even my first career choice. I studied catering in college – opened up my own restaurant. Turns out ‘Inject a little Death into your Dining Experience’ wasn’t such a hot tag line. We closed within a week of opening.
That’s when I saw the advert for this place:
Delivery driver wanted for new planet.
Opportunity to make the job your own.
Apply within.
Well I certainly made the job my own. They named the service after me – I mean, who hasn’t heard of Death?
https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/death-moan-story.jpg12711920paulgreystoke007https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.pngpaulgreystoke0072021-06-05 15:15:562021-06-05 15:22:40Death Moan – A new dark comedy in progress by P.J. Greystoke
Actually in June. One of the stories ‘The Room’ in the original SleepTalker raised a lot of questions about the stalker. The sequel delves into his rather disturbing backstory. Here is a wee snippet:
The Room 2
Back When Sophie Was Alive
What is it about staring into another person’s eyes that
makes them feel like you are a threat, like you – given the chance – would gladly
reach into their chest, tear away the paper flesh, pull out their still beating
heart and take a bite?
It would taste so good.
She’s scared. I can tell.
I feel the adrenaline rush whenever I’m near. Her pupils enlarge.
Her smile, forced to hide the fear.
But I know.
I can tell.
It’s not as though she’s my real mother anyway.
My real mum died.
Dad used to take me hunting when I was younger.
My real dad that is.
We started with rabbits.
Dad had vegetables. Turnips and carrots and well, you know
what vegetables are. He had turned our garden into a sort of allotment after
mum died. Got rid of the tree with the
swing on it and dug up the whole thing.
He hated the rabbits though. They used to come in and eat
what we grew. We stayed awake at night with dads pellet rifle poking through my
open bedroom window just waiting for the ‘scruffy little bastards’ to show
their stupid faces.
First, he taught me to shoot, then to go down when the gun didn’t
finish the job. Twisting the neck was the fastest way.
I still remember the first one. Lying there, bleeding next
to a half-eaten carrot. It was desperately trying to get up, frantically waving
its front paws as I walked up the garden path toward it. I had a shovel in my
hand. Dad told me that the kindest thing would be to cave its head in.
I stood over it and dropped the shovel.
There was something in her eyes. She had stopped struggling
and just stared at me. There was a moment of pure understanding. She knew that her
life was in my hands. I picked her up, placed my quivering hand around her tiny
neck and very slowly started to squeeze. She didn’t even struggle.
It was almost as though she knew that her life’s destiny was
to help me realize my own.
We ate her that night. I skinned her and chopped the body
parts.
I felt like a God.
I kept the eyes.
***
Sophie was afraid of the dark.
Her father couldn’t bear to see his little angel cry so kept
the light on in the hallway at night.
It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. His years of training
told him it was wrong. The words ‘Classic Avoidance’ rang out in his mind every
time he flicked the switch and kissed his daughter goodnight.
On the rare occasion that he did wake in the early hours, turn
the light out and go back to bed he’d hear his daughters’ feet pitter patter across
the hallway. The landing light would shine once again, through the crack at the
bottom of his bedroom door.
It made him smile.
***
Do you think life has its own heartbeat?
I do.
Like a symphony.
All of the instruments meandering through their lives. Obliviously
providing rhythms, melodies and counter melodies. Some going fast, some slow. Some weak some
strong. If you listen carefully enough you can hear a single over riding pulse –
a heartbeat.
You probably can’t. It takes a special person to be able to
hear that.
A conductor.
To keep the symphony going. To know when instruments should be allowed to sing and when others have reached their full potential and are permitted to die.
***
Sophie was a caring girl, perhaps too caring. She could see
the good in anyone. She believed that a person’s natural state was one of peace
and love and it was a harsh environment that changed people into the less than
desirable creatures that brought destruction and pain upon others.
There’s a guy moved in next door. Same age as my daughter.
He’s in some of her classes at school. He’s an orphan, I think. The rest of the
kids think he’s some sort of freak but not my Sophie.
She’s made a beeline for him. Anything for the hard luck cases in life.
***
I remember when my mom – My real one – tried to stop me from
seeing Dad. She got some sort of sick pleasure from torturing him. All he
wanted was to see me, to take me for the weekend.
Dad was gutless. Wasn’t his fault. Just who he was. She said
jump and he’d cry.
“You’ve done it now Pete.” She’d say. “You can kiss goodbye
to seeing your son this weekend.”
Dad argued but whatever mom said went. And after a few
choice words dad went right out the door.
The last time, after mom came back in from smoking a cigarette
in the garden, she sat me down and told me what a waste of time Dad was and how
he didn’t want to see me.
I was ten – Not stupid.
I smiled and made her a special hot chocolate which she
gratefully drank.
I expected her to shout and violently thrash about but she
just slept.
She never woke.
***
If you want to read the original story before SleepTalker 2 comes out, you can still buy SleepTalker on Amazon:
Good evening, unless you are not reading this in the wee small hours in which it was written, in which case helooo!
I’ve always been fascinated by psychology and what it is that makes a human being do the things that he / she does. Into The Mind of a Murderer is a short story that does just that and I include a mini snippet of the story for you to see here. I hope you enjoy.
As usual all thought and comments welcome x
Into The Mind of a Murderer
He had closed his mind to the infrequent sufferings of his conscience many years ago. Time had withered what little compassion he had left, empathy and love existing only as faded memories, regarded as pointless fiction upon the rare occasions when his thoughts were permitted to wander to such things.
He picked up the scalpel and walked over to the bed. The nurse would be awake soon and these were the moments he savoured more than most. Moonlight shone in though the skylight and reflected his perfectly sharp razor like grin on the surface of the surgical instrument.
The irony that this implement, designed to preserve life, was perhaps the most efficient tool he had ever used to torture and eventually kill was not lost on him, in fact he considered it often during his quieter moments.
Her eyelids flickered, slowly at first, before her own memories of the past few hours, like a burst damn flooded her thoughts and they snapped open.
Unable to move due to the leather restraints that bound her hands and ankles, she looked frantically left and right as though her eyes were trying to make a frenzied escape of their own. Even though he’d seen it before, this amused him somewhat, giving rise to a low guttural chuckle.
She followed the sinister sneer, slowly and reluctantly till eventually her gaze met his. There was no emotion, apart from an ill concealed show of excitement from him as he studied her shocked and fearful expression.
An icy breath of air from the howling winds outside forced its way into the room and brushed over her body, forcing her to shudder. She had been stripped naked, apart from her feeble undergarments, though modesty was now the least of her concerns.
She knew that this monster in human form was the last person her living eyes would ever see.
https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/6418_1_miscellaneous_digital_art_hd_wallpapers_murder_zombie_suicide.jpg500500paulgreystoke007https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.pngpaulgreystoke0072015-12-19 22:16:142016-09-04 11:01:05Into The Mind Of A Murderer
Well… Poetry has always been something I have read and admired from afar, but not something I often turn my hand to.
Todays Free Form exercise however, inspired I think from a news story I read where a young lady was repeatedly beaten and made to suffer numerous indecent acts upon her person; an assault which lasted years before he (the assailant) was eventually jailed.
… Anyway I just started to write, please excuse any glaring errors, the words are exactly as they appeared in my mind, as for me that is what free form is all about.
As usual any comments or suggestions are always welcome. x
Don’t Turn Out The Light
Don’t turn out the light
I promise not to look
As the night blankets the sun
And the rain weeps into the vast baron oceans of my mind.
I’ll stand here
Waiting.
As the soft gentle beat of my heart
Signals that there’s someone, something innocent left behind
I’ll stand here
Waiting.
As the drum of distant footsteps
Marches with renewed anger till there’s nothing left to find
I’ll stand here
Waiting.
As a ticking clock with no concept of the day or time
I’ll stand here, waiting, waiting.
Just don’t turn out the light.
https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/lamps.jpg500500paulgreystoke007https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.pngpaulgreystoke0072015-02-25 03:28:352016-09-04 11:39:53Don’t Turn Out The Light
My book (The Trouble With Time Travel) is still going well and ever closer to the finish line.
Whilst writing, as a wee warm-up exercise i tend to do a little free form to drum up ideas for future projects and I think I’ve hit on something here.
Its not complete (Just an idea at this stage) and i am interested to see if this turns into a novel or a short story.
See what you you think, hope you like it ….
As always all comments and thoughts welcome x
Little Ruthy
“Drink, but slowly. It’ll feel a little strange as it goes down but…”
He stopped to consider his choice of words before continuing.
“That’s what you paid for.”
He finally muttered something under his breath before turning away from his pleading image in the mirror and downed the blue liquid contents in the blue cup.
He finally chanted something under his breath.
It only took a few seconds for the paralysis to kick in; one hand grasping to the sink, the other clawing at his chest, instinctively trying to stop his blood from freezing over.
The time had long since passed for second thoughts.
The last image his eyes were to capture, as his lay on the bathroom floor gasping out his last, was the little girl in the red dress.
Stepping forward out of the shadows, she smiled sweetly before blowing him a kiss and walking out of the room.
Daddy was her first.
Father Mcdaniel mopped his brow with a handkerchief that looked as though it had serviced his nose several times before tending to his sweaty head. He refilled his tumbler and drained the contents in one smooth movement. He may have lost his faith many years ago but as an alcoholic, he had a real future.
The dreams had not stopped, and this one troubled him more than most. He looked at the telephone on his desk waiting patiently for it to ring.
‘Riiiinnngggg’
To his ears, the sound was piercing, like several broken finger nails skating circles on a blackboard. He slowly picked the receiver and placed it to his ear, knowing with absolute certainty that Mrs Jennifer Collins would be hanging on the other end still trying to comprehend the apparent suicide of her loving husband.
“Hello Jennifer dear, are you alright? Slow down dear… Have you called for an ambulance?”
I had an idea for a short story today which I thought I’d share with you.
The story isn’t yet complete, there are a few directions it could go in but i would welcome any comments and suggestions you may have.
Till next time x
Outside
“Let me in!!!”
Ten minutes of banging on the door, the fifteen or twenty times he’d yelled at the upstairs bathroom window that was slightly ajar and the countless missed calls to her mobile had prevailed nothing but an ear piercing silence.
Jack Grundy was too tired even to cry. He turned and slid down to the front step, exhausted. Looking across the street he could see that he wasn’t completely invisible, only to those he wanted to reach it seemed, neighbors curtains twitched, the odd face popped out to see what all the commotion was about before retreating into the comfortable camouflage that their darkened rooms provided.
Dorothy Evans, the street busybody made the excuse of coming out to check her car was locked. Maybe she was hoping Jack would spill his guts and tell her everything complete with spell check and grammar correction so she could relate it to the rest of the neighborhood the following day; this hot off the press Jack says “Fuck off Dot; it’s none of your goddam business!”
She simply smiled sympathetically, paused for a second as though she was trying to find the right words then walked back into her home.
It was 2am and the welcome doormat he’d purchased two years ago, the one upon which he now rested had become somewhat of an ironic note to self.
A patrol car slowly approached, lighting up the houses and the previously hidden neighbors gaping faces as it drew near.
John Hobbs the local PC got out spoke into his radio before clipping it to his belt and taking out a flashlight. He shone it on the house first surveying the area, probably checking for signs of physical disturbance before shining it in Jacks face, forcing him to raise his elbow in front of his eyes to stop him from going blind.
“Can I ask what you are doing here sir?”
Jacks mind processed a multitude of possible responses everything from “Yes I appear to have lost my key” to “Sod off PC Plodd it’s none of your goddam business either.”
In the end he felt honesty was the best answer.
“I live here officer. My wife and I had a kinda disagreement and I guess she’s not feeling like the forgiving type tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Have you been drinking tonight sir?”
Jack looked almost offended “No, why?”
“This house hasn’t been lived in for over two years” he shone the torch on the house “look.”
Jack turned slowly to follow the direction the beam was facing. The door he’d been banging on only moments ago was covered by a huge wooden board, as were most of the windows in the house too. He stepped back not believing the evidence his own eyes presented. “It can’t be… I was just…”
He looked pleadingly at the officer who gently ushered him into the back of his patrol car. Jack offered no resistance.
A pair of sad eyes watched from the upstairs window as the car pulled away.
I was teaching a creative writing class today and was asked where I get my ideas and inspirations.
I was also asked if i stick to one project and see it through to its conclusion forsaking all else.
The answer is…..
I have one method which I stick to and it works for me, that is not to say it will work for everyone. We can but try…
I have a main project which is my Novel, to this I write 2,000 words every day without fail.
Just like an athlete in training i don’t just jump right in there i warm up first… I do some free form, that is to say I sit down and write the first thing that comes into my mind for 10 – 15 mins.
Often my free form warbling makes no logical sense, but I have called upon it time and again for inspiration when creating a character, an idea for a story or development. Its like having hundreds of seeds each with the potential to grow independently into something amazing.
Just to demonstrate how random these thoughts can be my ten to fifteen minutes of free form follow.
Hope you enjoy, as always all comments welcome x
Very Random Free Form Thoughts
1. Been exercising my body today. Now it’s the turn of the mind, the creativity. To turn the all knowing cogs and prove that there is always an undiscovered treasure, some little gem than can be found by randomly unearthing the rocks in my mind.
2. You know if you don’t take the steering wheel, if you don’t make the decisions you’d rather avoid they get made for you. That’s something I will not let happen.
You know the feeling, a bill arrives. There it is on your doorstep, staring at you, the contents practically burning through the unassuming white or brown envelope into the part of your mind that has its own front door; the one that is locked, the one with the letterbox boarded up.
Welcome to the house of avoidance and acceptance unto the will of others.
3. Time travel cannot be but the sanction of the weak and helpless.
The ultimate escape is also the infinite prison, the one with invisible walls and with a slight colour correction one cannot help but to be mesmerized by the worst time of your life.
4. Helpless hands make infinite work thank you very much.
5. Why don’t you try picking up something that is in more keeping with your sexuality?
6. Want some abs?
You can borrow mine, if you can find them.
I must really value my abdominal muscles. I have hidden them behind layers and layers of fat.
No one will think about looking there.
People should try that with all valuable possessions: jewelery, DVDs, homes and children.
Cover them all with fat and no one will want to touch them.
7. Ahhh that explains obese children.
The parents of these legged beached whales are, far from the current conception, actually very caring people, they are merely ensuring no one will kidnap them… and if they did, well lets face it they would be easy to spot in a park, just look for the eclipse.
I have nothing against fat kids, like any writer that writes about murder death and the mayhem that ensues when one’s mind is moved a little to the left and twisted slowly till all that is decent and holy leaves on a number seven bus I like to swim in the pool of the forbidden expressing the very thoughts others don’t like to admit to.
8. Hahahahaha ohhh I love this life. Don’t you???
9. I gotta say doing this is the best release. Well so is playing guitar. I like that too. And I’m pretty sure I can still rock it with the best of them.
10. When did I become such a believer?
I’ve been perceived as captain cynic but that’s not me. I’ve turned my back on my true self for so long, for fear in part that I wouldn’t be accepted, mainly by myself.
I cry more at the words I love you than anything else but always had a problem when someone said those words to me.
Well that’s not true.
My mom, dad, sisters and especially my children, saying I love you is a daily pre requisite… but from a significant other?
https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.png00paulgreystoke007https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.pngpaulgreystoke0072014-12-11 20:28:262016-09-04 11:35:32The Singular Strangeness That is Me
How long has it been??? Not wanting to get too personal here I’ll say a while… ages…. too long… probably.
I write this post on the 4th December at my home in sunny south shields. It’s taken a while to adapt to my new writing environment but getting back on track.
The Trouble With Time Travel novel is going well and I am expecting the first draft to be complete this side of Christmas, then again I’m also expecting my Christmas shopping to be carried out by well-meaning pixies, so let us see how that pans out; my hopes are high.
In the meantime, I still start out every writing session with a bit of free form (Sit down and write the first thing that comes into my head, mistakes welcome…) and I thought I’d share today’s little adventure. I think it could be the beginning of something interesting??
As always your thoughts and opinions are welcome TTFN x
Out In A Minute
“Wake up Daisy”
Nothing
No movement.
The usual flaring of her nostrils every time she took in enough oxygen to starve a forest fire… Absent.
“We need you, Daisy please”
No flicker in her eyes.
The stains from the tears that ran through the damns of mascara caked to her face made her look more like an ancient porcelain artifact than a recently deceased mother of four.
“What do we do?”
This question was not directed at Daisy, but more about her.
The question was answered by the other gentleman in the room.
“Well she can’t stay here”
“Oh good, I’ll just ask her to move!”
“You know what I mean”
The other gentleman moved slightly closer and crouched over the body.
“You sure she’s dead?”
The question was met with a sarcastic snigger.
“I could ask her, and while I’m at it, ask if her cup was the one with the poison in. If she answers we’ve got a result!”
The other man nodded standing upright and straightening his tie and the name badge on his lapel: John Plonkett – Happy to Help
“How long before she’s missed?”
Stanley the junior office assistant stood up shaking his head “Not long John. Let’s see, her four children and two sisters are on the shop floor waiting to pick her up. I’d say five minutes, three with bad behavior.”
The shop Tannoy kicked into action “Daisy Rutherford please report to the customer service desk”.
https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/bloodclock.png500500paulgreystoke007https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.pngpaulgreystoke0072014-12-04 18:53:502016-09-11 13:22:46Out In a Minute
It’s been a wee while since I posted on here so thought I’d check in and share one or two ideas from a novel I’ve been working on. Be great to hear your thoughts.
“When I was young my parents told me I had the potential for greatness and I believed them.
I thought that was the reason I never quite fitted in, why I was an outcast.
The smile was only skin deep and my inner conflict grew.
My frustration gradually increased with the unchanging ever present ticking of the clock, with the feeling that my potential was never to be realised.
Then one day I did something that would change my life forever. I changed my definition of what greatness was, and with that realisation, I knew that I was the living and continued embodiment of my true potential.
We are, each and every one of us placed upon this earth for a reason.
It’s difficult to truly express the tranquility that comes from being at one with your true self, accepting all that you are. Some are born to be saints, to be good men sacrificing all so that their fellow man can thrive and some… are like me.
Like me, your fate on this world is decided. It’s best that you make peace with that”.
He picked the scalpel from the table and walked toward the school teacher…
https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/clown.png500500paulgreystoke007https://www.pjgreystoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/04/PJ-Logo-2.pngpaulgreystoke0072014-02-23 01:25:242016-09-11 20:04:55Extract from Confessions Of A Murderer
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