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Technically I’m not a psychopath. They wont diagnose me.
It’s dangerous for someone like me to be out on the streets.
Free to do whatever I wish to anyone who might annoy me.
It began as a short temper – I never let people wind me up.
It sort of escalated from there really. Power tripping over my self-conscience and into immortality.
“Don’t go near the crazy woman on Blackheath Avenue” mothers tell their children before wrapping them up in their brightly coloured hats and scarves before sending them out to play.
I never went out to play as a child. I stayed inside and read my books, big ones, with yellow moth-bitten pages and writing eloquently scribed in ink with a quill. I found them in the loft, all of my books; they belonged to the lady who lived here before us. Apparently she was a crazy woman too; went mad with power they said. Ran a big business down town until she went barmy. They took her off to the big house, Cliffclyne; now she spends her days wearing a straitjacket and giggling menacingly to herself in her padded cell. So the rumours say, anyway.
“Don’t stay out past dark when near Blackheath
Or the mad old witch will steal your teeth”
The rhyme the children sing in the local school. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. They’re referring to the time they found an old skull in my fireplace – it wasn’t mine though. Belonged to the lady who lived here before. The crazy woman.
I sometimes walk past the local school playground when they’re out playing their games. A hazy silence overcomes them as I amble past, only the odd whisper drifts across the cold air, “Is that her?”, “Yeah, she’s the one.”, “The crazy woman.”
At night I cook up a wicked stew in my large black pot. The heat is transferred better on a large pot; I suspend the pot on a pivot over my open fireplace. I use many root vegetables, rosemary, onions and sage to flavour the brew. Sometimes I’ll use meat I find lying around to add to the taste, let the brew bubble and eat it straight from the pot with a long wooden spoon I crafted with my skunting knife from a large broken branch I found in the woods. I go out into the woods often to pick wildflowers, herbs or plants then return home to turn them into something spectacular. Those old books I’ve had since I was a child allow me all kinds of power. “Spell books, they are” some say, “no good will come from them.” – I’ve made love potions and poisons, antidotes and sleeping drugs. But I’m working on something new – something to stop all of the village people judging me as a witch. Something to change me.
Procedures went on for weeks, months and even years trying to find a potion to change her into a new potion. She tried eye of newt and cattle faeces, leg of lamb and tongue of child – but nothing could restore the beauty she withheld in young womanhood. But after much deliberation she turned to technology, not nature, to solve her dilemma.
--*--
In a downtown bar an old television set beams the image of a cocky young newsreader with a sideparting and a blue pin-striped suit. “In other news an old woman was found dead in her home, strapped to a table with power sockets and her hand stuck inside a video recorder set on ‘rewind’ mode. The cause of death was electrocution – the investigations are ongoing. That’s all from me, tune in tomorrow night, same time, same place.”
It’s dangerous for someone like me to be out on the streets.
Free to do whatever I wish to anyone who might annoy me.
It began as a short temper – I never let people wind me up.
It sort of escalated from there really. Power tripping over my self-conscience and into immortality.
“Don’t go near the crazy woman on Blackheath Avenue” mothers tell their children before wrapping them up in their brightly coloured hats and scarves before sending them out to play.
I never went out to play as a child. I stayed inside and read my books, big ones, with yellow moth-bitten pages and writing eloquently scribed in ink with a quill. I found them in the loft, all of my books; they belonged to the lady who lived here before us. Apparently she was a crazy woman too; went mad with power they said. Ran a big business down town until she went barmy. They took her off to the big house, Cliffclyne; now she spends her days wearing a straitjacket and giggling menacingly to herself in her padded cell. So the rumours say, anyway.
“Don’t stay out past dark when near Blackheath
Or the mad old witch will steal your teeth”
The rhyme the children sing in the local school. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. They’re referring to the time they found an old skull in my fireplace – it wasn’t mine though. Belonged to the lady who lived here before. The crazy woman.
I sometimes walk past the local school playground when they’re out playing their games. A hazy silence overcomes them as I amble past, only the odd whisper drifts across the cold air, “Is that her?”, “Yeah, she’s the one.”, “The crazy woman.”
At night I cook up a wicked stew in my large black pot. The heat is transferred better on a large pot; I suspend the pot on a pivot over my open fireplace. I use many root vegetables, rosemary, onions and sage to flavour the brew. Sometimes I’ll use meat I find lying around to add to the taste, let the brew bubble and eat it straight from the pot with a long wooden spoon I crafted with my skunting knife from a large broken branch I found in the woods. I go out into the woods often to pick wildflowers, herbs or plants then return home to turn them into something spectacular. Those old books I’ve had since I was a child allow me all kinds of power. “Spell books, they are” some say, “no good will come from them.” – I’ve made love potions and poisons, antidotes and sleeping drugs. But I’m working on something new – something to stop all of the village people judging me as a witch. Something to change me.
Procedures went on for weeks, months and even years trying to find a potion to change her into a new potion. She tried eye of newt and cattle faeces, leg of lamb and tongue of child – but nothing could restore the beauty she withheld in young womanhood. But after much deliberation she turned to technology, not nature, to solve her dilemma.
--*--
In a downtown bar an old television set beams the image of a cocky young newsreader with a sideparting and a blue pin-striped suit. “In other news an old woman was found dead in her home, strapped to a table with power sockets and her hand stuck inside a video recorder set on ‘rewind’ mode. The cause of death was electrocution – the investigations are ongoing. That’s all from me, tune in tomorrow night, same time, same place.”
Bah!
I liked the ending.
It was funny rather than your usual miserable. :-D
I liked the ending.
It was funny rather than your usual miserable. :-D
Might have a look at redoing it then, not now though.
Paradox: wrote:
> I was going to end it differently but I bored myself.
>
> I think I've lost flair.
No, it was very good up to that point. You sometimes need to let it simmer. A bit like the cooking in that black cauldron, really :-)
> I was going to end it differently but I bored myself.
>
> I think I've lost flair.
No, it was very good up to that point. You sometimes need to let it simmer. A bit like the cooking in that black cauldron, really :-)
I was going to end it differently but I bored myself.
I think I've lost flair.
I think I've lost flair.
It's very good up to the point where you can't be bothered to finish it and resort to a quick ending.
Am I right, or was that me reading it wrong?
(it wasn't meant to come out that harshly, just my feeling having read it)
Am I right, or was that me reading it wrong?
(it wasn't meant to come out that harshly, just my feeling having read it)
Technically I’m not a psychopath. They wont diagnose me.
It’s dangerous for someone like me to be out on the streets.
Free to do whatever I wish to anyone who might annoy me.
It began as a short temper – I never let people wind me up.
It sort of escalated from there really. Power tripping over my self-conscience and into immortality.
“Don’t go near the crazy woman on Blackheath Avenue” mothers tell their children before wrapping them up in their brightly coloured hats and scarves before sending them out to play.
I never went out to play as a child. I stayed inside and read my books, big ones, with yellow moth-bitten pages and writing eloquently scribed in ink with a quill. I found them in the loft, all of my books; they belonged to the lady who lived here before us. Apparently she was a crazy woman too; went mad with power they said. Ran a big business down town until she went barmy. They took her off to the big house, Cliffclyne; now she spends her days wearing a straitjacket and giggling menacingly to herself in her padded cell. So the rumours say, anyway.
“Don’t stay out past dark when near Blackheath
Or the mad old witch will steal your teeth”
The rhyme the children sing in the local school. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. They’re referring to the time they found an old skull in my fireplace – it wasn’t mine though. Belonged to the lady who lived here before. The crazy woman.
I sometimes walk past the local school playground when they’re out playing their games. A hazy silence overcomes them as I amble past, only the odd whisper drifts across the cold air, “Is that her?”, “Yeah, she’s the one.”, “The crazy woman.”
At night I cook up a wicked stew in my large black pot. The heat is transferred better on a large pot; I suspend the pot on a pivot over my open fireplace. I use many root vegetables, rosemary, onions and sage to flavour the brew. Sometimes I’ll use meat I find lying around to add to the taste, let the brew bubble and eat it straight from the pot with a long wooden spoon I crafted with my skunting knife from a large broken branch I found in the woods. I go out into the woods often to pick wildflowers, herbs or plants then return home to turn them into something spectacular. Those old books I’ve had since I was a child allow me all kinds of power. “Spell books, they are” some say, “no good will come from them.” – I’ve made love potions and poisons, antidotes and sleeping drugs. But I’m working on something new – something to stop all of the village people judging me as a witch. Something to change me.
Procedures went on for weeks, months and even years trying to find a potion to change her into a new potion. She tried eye of newt and cattle faeces, leg of lamb and tongue of child – but nothing could restore the beauty she withheld in young womanhood. But after much deliberation she turned to technology, not nature, to solve her dilemma.
--*--
In a downtown bar an old television set beams the image of a cocky young newsreader with a sideparting and a blue pin-striped suit. “In other news an old woman was found dead in her home, strapped to a table with power sockets and her hand stuck inside a video recorder set on ‘rewind’ mode. The cause of death was electrocution – the investigations are ongoing. That’s all from me, tune in tomorrow night, same time, same place.”
It’s dangerous for someone like me to be out on the streets.
Free to do whatever I wish to anyone who might annoy me.
It began as a short temper – I never let people wind me up.
It sort of escalated from there really. Power tripping over my self-conscience and into immortality.
“Don’t go near the crazy woman on Blackheath Avenue” mothers tell their children before wrapping them up in their brightly coloured hats and scarves before sending them out to play.
I never went out to play as a child. I stayed inside and read my books, big ones, with yellow moth-bitten pages and writing eloquently scribed in ink with a quill. I found them in the loft, all of my books; they belonged to the lady who lived here before us. Apparently she was a crazy woman too; went mad with power they said. Ran a big business down town until she went barmy. They took her off to the big house, Cliffclyne; now she spends her days wearing a straitjacket and giggling menacingly to herself in her padded cell. So the rumours say, anyway.
“Don’t stay out past dark when near Blackheath
Or the mad old witch will steal your teeth”
The rhyme the children sing in the local school. Quite clever, if I do say so myself. They’re referring to the time they found an old skull in my fireplace – it wasn’t mine though. Belonged to the lady who lived here before. The crazy woman.
I sometimes walk past the local school playground when they’re out playing their games. A hazy silence overcomes them as I amble past, only the odd whisper drifts across the cold air, “Is that her?”, “Yeah, she’s the one.”, “The crazy woman.”
At night I cook up a wicked stew in my large black pot. The heat is transferred better on a large pot; I suspend the pot on a pivot over my open fireplace. I use many root vegetables, rosemary, onions and sage to flavour the brew. Sometimes I’ll use meat I find lying around to add to the taste, let the brew bubble and eat it straight from the pot with a long wooden spoon I crafted with my skunting knife from a large broken branch I found in the woods. I go out into the woods often to pick wildflowers, herbs or plants then return home to turn them into something spectacular. Those old books I’ve had since I was a child allow me all kinds of power. “Spell books, they are” some say, “no good will come from them.” – I’ve made love potions and poisons, antidotes and sleeping drugs. But I’m working on something new – something to stop all of the village people judging me as a witch. Something to change me.
Procedures went on for weeks, months and even years trying to find a potion to change her into a new potion. She tried eye of newt and cattle faeces, leg of lamb and tongue of child – but nothing could restore the beauty she withheld in young womanhood. But after much deliberation she turned to technology, not nature, to solve her dilemma.
--*--
In a downtown bar an old television set beams the image of a cocky young newsreader with a sideparting and a blue pin-striped suit. “In other news an old woman was found dead in her home, strapped to a table with power sockets and her hand stuck inside a video recorder set on ‘rewind’ mode. The cause of death was electrocution – the investigations are ongoing. That’s all from me, tune in tomorrow night, same time, same place.”