Here, in this dark weathering hole I call an apartment, I live quite lazily - never getting up from my computer, unless things of great importance happen to creep within my mind. How I wish I could throw it all away, when I have to work my ass of. People will say: such is life; get on with it; how simple we are just to truly follow that path; most of us anyway.

From the glimmer of my computer, I stare around my room. (For the first time in many weeks, I would have to say). It is dark, mould pours down from the seeping plaster around the roof, kitchen hasn't been cleaned in months, and my room is a literal bat-cave where I slumber.
Your mind isn't supposed to be drowned in such an experience. It needs presence, life, and light. The works, I would say. But I don't need that, I have my friends; they stay with my whenever I need them. I can hear their small chiming voices thrive in my mind, they are glowing with friendship - it is all I truly need.
This will be my last entry, dear computer. For I fear, my mind is slipping away. It's drowning in a sea of lurid liquid that smells of blossoms. Yet where does such a smell come from? I can't tell. Good-bye.

A small, sparkling object bolted from a mountainside-like form of dirt laundry, deep in the recess of my bedrooms corner. Its little legs flickered like a candles flame; small footprints burned into the carpet, yet somehow disappeared after a few seconds. It hopped up my desk and sat on a stack of messy CD's next to my hand.
"You still writing this weird thing, Wilhelm?" it said. Its voice crackled like a sparkler from a fluorescent sphere, shining like an industrial light bulb.
"Yes Cotzl. I am still writing. It helps me remember." I said, waving my hand in a vague motion while still pinning my grey-sacked eyes towards the computers glow. Cotzl got to its feet, picked up a pen with his glowing arms, stabbed a few times on a piece of paper at its feet, then began to draw.
I barely noticed the glowing figures intentions beside my arm, but I looked down with a queer stare. He dabbled a near perfect circle around itself, close to six centimetres in diameter. Another was soon placed another centimetre towards the centre.
"What are you doing?" I said, now focusing properly to its actions. It stopped briefly, cocked the pen on the paper and looked up at me.
"To be honest, I wouldn't have a clue. But, I thought I'd try and summon us a new friend." Cotzl said, continuing on with its drawing. Lines were being shaped and curved. A seal of sorts was being shaped, as far as I could be bothered to remember.
"The large triangle with the thick black lines running through it, ending in a sort of circle at the bottom. What is it?" I asked in an almost muffled groan.
"It's a seal, Will," it said without looking up. "It's used in various cults and other various things." I simply gave an eccentric hum, looked back at the screen and browsed the interwebs once again.

A few minutes perhaps had passed, but Cotzl had finished whatever he was trying to create. It was now sitting within the circle, cross-legged.
"Are you going to summon this new friend of ours now, Cotzl?" I asked, with my hand sagged under my chin.
"I am. But, it still needs something to work." Cotzl's flaring arm smoothed to a fine triangular point. "Mind if I take your finger for a second?"
"What? Why do you need my finger?" I asked, but slowly dragged my hand lazily towards it.
"Oh, just some blood. We can't have it running away now. It'll sort of bind it to you." Cotzl said, while swiftly pricking the tip of my index finger. A cold pain rushed down it. A cold crimson berry poised itself on my fingertip. Cotzl quickly flicked it off with its butterknife hand and slapped it on a clearing within the circle.
"Damn, I didn't say do it!" I shouted, sucking the tip of my finger. The flickering creature shrugged.
"Not much point in stopping now." It said. It inhaled deeply; a strong flare of light swallowed a small portion of the room. "Please, keep your beak shut while I try and coax it out." Cotzl pointed a candlewick finger at me.
"Whatever. Just don't get yourself and most importantly, me killed, during this thing."
"You question my expertise on these things?" it hissed. I looked with a stooped eyebrow.
"I do. But, go ahead. At least I'll get a laugh out of it."
"Aha. Just keep it shut while I chant. Then we'll see who's laughing!" Cotzl said angrily.

Cotzl breathed something I couldn't understand. It hummed and chirped in no understandable way. The circle glowed on the paper, burning away at the edges and sparking off into the distance of the dark foreboding room. My sight stung as flickering ash whipped around my face, burning it slightly. The fiery figure was a deep, pure blue. The air around it shrivelled, quavered in its heat. The heat was so intense; I threw my bare arm over my face, rolled away in my computer chair and took a far off gander. My room was ablaze in light, more so than it has ever been. The mould on my ceiling browned in the flame, scorching itself into the paint.
"Stop!" I yelled, "You're going to burn shit down!" I couldn't do anything, as I witnessed in a bizarre haze, Cotzl be seized within a ball of fire, writing with emerald glyphs that skipped, bounced along the floor like welding sparks, then climb and burn themselves around the walls and floor. I clambered onto my shaky feet that I haven't used properly in ages, and drove through the heat towards Cotzl.
"You have to stop!" I screamed, trying to reach into the piercing light that blinded me. But I was suddenly knocked onto my back and pinned.
"I can't you bloody fool. Once it's begun, it must be finished!" Cotzl murmured from within the sphere of flame. My room flickered with flame. My bedspread was set alight; most cotton and polyester materials were ablaze already. Fancy that, I was going to be burned alive, I thought to myself.

The light diminished slightly, gusts of lukewarm air gushed over me. Objects toppled and smashed in the hurricane forces. My door was bucked away and splayed from its hinges. Suddenly, a silent calm swallowed up the moment. I picked myself up, and then looked around. It was pitch black, except for a simmering burn in my desktop that glowed red-hot. A small candle flame figure climbed out from the back of the computer desk. It waved.
"What the fuck was that!" I screamed, "You've completely blown everything to hell!" I gripped my hair and stomped back and forward in the trashed room.
"Yes, but there might be someone you'd like to introduce yourself to first." Cotzl said, pointing in my direction.
"Why the fuck would I want to do tha-" I said, being tapped on the shoulder. I turned and looked down the snout of something. I screamed and stumbled back, falling over a chair.
"Hope I didn't scare you." It said, trudging forward with wolf like claws.
"Just, stay the fuck back!" I waved my hand spastically.
"That's no way to treat our new friend!" Cotzl growled. He hopped off the wrecked desk and landed near my shoulder. The creature offered a muscled claw. I swatted it away, stumbled to my feet and backed into the wall. My heart was pounding furiously; it was if I was having a heart attack.
"His only trying to be friendly," Cotzl, said, crossing its arms. "The least you could do is say hello." I breathed something pathetically, that may have been a simple hello.
"Are you afraid?" The newly summoned creature said from a fleshy mass of vibrating muscle, where a mouth should have been. Smoke and ash still wafted off its hulking shape that barely resembled anything humanoid. Its six turquoise eyes stared, unblinking at me. It adjusted a dark purple frill from around its head and throat and folded it away around its neck.

Was I afraid? Of course I was afraid. More so, scared the skeleton straight out of my body.
"No, I'm not afraid of you." I said, backing off from the wall. "Hello, I guess."
"Thank you for the greetings." He said. He adjusted the door slightly, but it came off its rickety hinges and slapped down on the ground behind him.
"I am Alzanar. A pleasure to meet you." Alzanar said, reaching out the same muscled claw as before. I dared my hand to reach in, but I hesitated as I had done so. His flesh felt vile: calloused and moist. I felt ill, as if the life was being drained through my arm.
"I'm Wilhelm." I wailed embarrassingly. Then, I blacked out.

My parasol

Rain plummeted down over a small criss-crossing of weather warn huts, made of mud bricks and thatched roofs of straw. A small trickle of water continued to splash on the nose of Newi, through small patches of damaged material. She leapt up from a light sleep due to the lightning and stomped off to a nook that was the kitchen. She searched, cursed the supposed person who stole her parasol, then with that sudden burst of realisation where you find things straight under your nose occurred. She opened it indoors, bumped many things off of tables and knocked stools over. Within a hasty movement, she angrily stabbed the parasol into the hard dirt above her bed mat - thus causing incredible pain to her nose. She slumped onto her bamboo mat in a fluster, rubbed her nose with a paw then tried to calm down. Slowly, her vision blurred, as her eyes got even heavier with every blink. Finally, as she listened intently on the rhythmic patterns of the rain - she dosed off into a light, turbulent sleep.

A few short hours had passed, now showing signs of the rain letting up from its monsoonal onslaught. Roaring waters were now a silent pitter-patter of liquid wind chimes on a cool midnight breeze. Newi shivered slightly as a gust wafted through a pair of bamboo barred windows, slightly dusting her in a covering of leaf litter. She roused, blinked slightly, and looked for a blanket. She groped in the darkness, searching for a low cupboard that stood next to her. Sitting upright for a while, she looked sideways and thought: Shouldn't I have bumped into my parasol? She stared and picked a dead leaf out of her orange fur, looking at it curiously. This sort of leaf shouldn't be around during this time of year; they only appear during summer, but it's winter in their natural area right now.

With a crunch of leaves underfoot, Newi' gaze leapt to a figure walking outside. Someone was strolling down the muddy path in the village, at this hour? Her heart tensed as signs of curiosity emerged in her head. She can't get back to sleep, knowing full well a stranger could be stalking about without permission of entry. On all fours, as quietly as possible, she crept up to the window. In a misty shawl, she peered through midnight like pouring sand, over the top of her head. She had view to a small, dewy ravine down the northwest, with the solid main road that veined between four different huts, splitting the path to the east and northwest three-hundred feet away, by small rope bridges built over thick and turbulent rivers. The figure stood between the paths. It seemed like it was sniffing the air, with what seemed to be a very long and slender nose. A glow suddenly emanated from the figure, soaking in colours of red, green and yellow. She realised in the glare it was her parasol! Its shimmering glow dimmed away into the night, the figure closed it up.

Fear and anger leapt through her. How was it stolen? Her door was boarded, like every night, with a thick plank of oak; same thing with her windows, the bars were moulded through the mud walls. It was a gift from her mother before she journeyed as an Amazonian Spear-Serpent to the War of the Clawossus. She hadn't much finesse or eloquence of a lady, but she knew what her daughter liked, but never bothered in entertaining the idea. Newi loved its flaring patterns and depictions of great red mountain, shadowing a green and lush marsh with prancing beasts and steamy spirits clutching pearls of lustre and sowing seeds which burst into tree-top cities, all drinking in a simple summer day. It was a gift, the only gift that didn't sport a sharpened edge or killing point. She said it was plundered from an enemy clan' temple. Seeing fit in collecting some of the spoils of battle.
Some crazy spirit-folk, screamed about ending the war with secrets of the object. She killed them before they finished and just grabbed it as she thought of her daughter's silly interest with art and fantasy.

When news of her mothers' death was told amongst the villagers during the war, when she was very young, she broke down in a pool of embarrassed tears. A Daughter of a Spear-Serpent never cried, she remembered her mother's voice, scalding her for crying, while being surrounded by her schoolmates where some were bullying her. She whipped out her parasol, hiding her face from close by villages. When someone asked what was wrong, she sprinted away, almost tripping with her parasol dragged close over her face.

It was precious; it was irreplaceable! Newi growled in animal rage, a deep yet feminine purr of anger wallowed in her throat. She leapt around to her mothers cabinet; the one with the javelins, tied to rows of crocodile teeth, coming with a set of deadly paralytic toxins in small ceramic jars. She pulled the draws open, unwrapped a reed blanket holding the javelin - she held little patience with the small jar of crushed, poisonous herbs, applying it with a small paste stick; instead she clumped it in her hand and dropped a large blob onto the exposed blade. She stomped the oak plank out of its hold and kicked open the door. Her hind paws dug into the sticky forest mud, yet it did nothing to impede her speed. A scaly face whirled around with an oily movement, stared down the long brown path, agape in horror and surprise to see a naked feline cannon towards them with an incredibly long, very real sharp javelin within their hands. A blurred whistling sound shot through the dark with a long thrust. The figure, well, a cloaked figure in Newi's near blind rage: Seemed to bend in a flexible arch, drop away to the left and strike back with an incredible right hook. The feline went down, slumped with one knee in the mud. A serpentine hiss rattled from the hood of the figure. Newi followed its curve to mud caked swerves and iridescent scales that ended in a thin swishing appendage. It held the parasol in its scaly, black-clawed hand, folded up and tied with twine. It let out a drawn out, high pitched hiss, flexed and coiled upon its tail. Newi inhaled sharply and dug her toes in the mud, forcing every muscle to flex and curve like a mighty scythe. She span slightly as the javelin whirred like a scalpel, slicing a thin ribbon through the mud, up towards the parasol thief. Her actions did nothing but to expose her for an attack! Watching the coiled snake figure glide through the mud down low, nearly erupting directly in front of her paws, then leapt in an amazing, metre high uppercut straight to Newi' chin. She landed in a wallow of mud, soaking her fur through, biting at her flesh with a bitter cold. Sputtering hisses sounded similar to laughter, erupted out into the night. The figure suddenly stopped and shirked in pain. The javelin had been pushed out of Newi's hands and flown into the air. It had come down and cut a short strip of flesh from the creatures tail. It glared at Newi closely, looking for movement. She was just conscious, filled with a milky haze, head hurting like hell. The creature coiled around and picked up the javelin, inspected it thoroughly, and then gasped. It growled in anger and broke the javelin in half. It patted its being and searched for something. It cursed in unknown tongues to Newi's barely coherent hearing. It took a glance at Newi once more, hissed, then slithered with great speed northwest over the roaring river bridge, into deep jungle.

Newi was overcome with pain, unable to get balance. She sat with her legs sprawled in the mud, clutching her head. Blue blood; glowing blue blood, was trailing away in a blotted trail out of the village. The creature has been cut with the javelin, she hazarded a smirk but winched at facial movement. Her world swirled as she tried to stand, holding in an urge to vomit. She couldn't rest; this chance to capture the creature was still possible. If she waited, the blood could disappear. She had to act now. An idea erupted: She has to get to Bubva - the local witch doctor and general physician. His potions could possibly heal her sight, or further impair it. That was the case with Bubva's concoctions. You're either saved by his magic, or you die; the spirits were a curious bunch. Newi spat a small ball of blood and stumbled towards a large stilted hut, which slightly stood above a few oceanic, waving huts away.

I'll come back to all of this stuff one day.
__________
It Burns in Midnight
__________
A deep, low voice sung words about his god, swaying his hands to and thro in front of a large captivated audience. They all watched quietly in their wooden rows, some not moving a single muscle, others, praying for their loved ones and friends for health or fortune.
"Our lord works in many mysterious ways. Some, for good; others, quite the opposite." The preacher called through the masoned walls, in front of over two hundred people in wooden rows. "Whatever the outcome, it is probably for the best - even if it may be an emotionally terrifying experience that ends for the worse. But we must remember: with faith, our woes will be washed away, our pains be dampened, our lives ferried on to the future."
A few of the listeners started to weep as lost memories boiled, epiphanies striking. The preacher arched his neck forward, having shadows cast down upon his baldhead from the overhead glasswork by his pedestal, shadowing under his eyes with deep black rings. He raised his voice and spoke: "Though if your path lay uncertain. Without faith that you show to our mighty lord, there is no salvation. He shall cast you into that prison in which he calls madness, throw away that key, then burn you to cinders bit by bit, for eternity." He yelled out over echoing gothic hall. Many of the listeners cast brave faces, others shivered with the preachers words, drumming silently through their minds.

Bells rung out through the temple in a bellowing cluster across a valley thick with mossy stone and grass, surrounded by a wide range of mountains that lay guarded by thick pine trees. People spilled through thick doors, going back to their daily routine. As the halls cleared, the preacher walked down the aisles, farewelled and blessed few remaining people, then shut the door and locked himself in. Kneeling down in the ruddy candlelight and low ochre sunshine in front of a large ornate shrine rimmed with gold leaf - the one he conducted sermons so often in front of. He stared vacantly at its visage. He sighed in wonder, as he always did. Candle-wax dripped and soaked away around its curves, giving it a lively sheen of fleshy, red texture. Its piercing gaze gave a sense of benevolent oversight, or even deviance. The preacher slowly draped his hands over two overhanging tentacle appendages, and he sung in deep rhythmic hums with his throat. He broke free of hums, beginning to chant in pseudos words as it were, like gibberish.

Bits and pieces about his person disintegrated, revealing vacant darkness within its wake. As the preacher chanted, his heart raced, his eyes blurred when he tried to readjust his vision to his changing scenery. He loathed and longed almost every afternoon for this moment, however brief. Just to talk to him - or does gender mean nothing to It? He closed his eyes and exhaled a sharp cold breath. As he opened them, his scenery was transformed. He knelt deep in shining night; covinous howling whistled deep in his ears, emerald swirls paved twisting and exaggerated pillars and cones with undescriptive pictographs and hieroglyphics. Deep in a gaping bowl of stone within the domed centre of area the preacher currently occupied. All of what he saw is hard to describe, as edges of his conscious vision boiled, yet the imagination didn't help but fill in those macabre blanks.
Writhing, noodle-like appendages soaked most of the interior, wrapping around objects, constantly moving; jagged rings of bone spun from under multi orifices, giving off a dry grinding sound; mouths lined with black teeth gnashed and gnawed upon hapless victims, brought forth by its followers; upon a slime bathed network of stems connected to a vast sphere shaped eye of hexagonal chromatic plates in a semicircular recess within the middle of its form, it stared directly through him.
"I - I understand my lord. I live to serve." He stuttered, fearing rather than being calmed by its awesome presence. His mind simmered, sounds almost sounding like an electric hum, buzzed in his ears as he stared, unblinking. "Tonight - yes. It shall be done. Vatailzt shall be raised."
He gasped sharply as his vision burned in white-hot light; he flinched away with his eyes covered and slammed his back against a wooden bench. Slapping a pair of hands over dripping pupils, he stumbled awkwardly up onto his feet and sat on a bench.

Shadows were growing in Sameena. Over the past three years, the king Larders have been acting quite unusual of late. Being a nice old man who was filled with wisdom and courage, was now a man who threw tantrums of saliva spitting rage when he didn't get his breakfast prepared just right - the one where he required four bananas, eight melons and twelve apples cut in such a way, it reads "You're doing the right thing". This sort of behaviour led his advisor to believe he was doing something illegal within his chambers, yet didn't have the courage to bring it up.

Tonight, it was too much. Everyone was fed up with this madness. Groups of people met and planned an assassination. One so quickly thrown together, they didn't even give the assassin in question a second guess, or a going over how experienced they were.

Down a silent alley, deep within a boarded up nook within the city, a person was checking himself or herself out in a mirror. Perfect, they thought. Their hood was right, their pouches were set properly, the metal darts and knives were tucked neatly away in under a shawl. A quick demonstration wouldn't do any harm, a thought bubbled up in the rogues mind. Flicking a knife in and out of a leather sheath, lining up a throw. Flick, sheath - flick, sheath - flick, SMASH! The rogue cupped their hands over their face and gasped.

It all happened with just one word: "die -" screamed a rather snappy dressed guard. He couldn't say much after that, as he gargled the last word and slumped over dead. His big feathered hat rolled off out the guard tower, falling through the murky waters below, overlooked by the keep of king Larders, deep within the centre of the great city by the sea.

A grimy shadow dragged the guard into a corner with some effort, flicked the blood off their tar-choked dagger, and then sheathed it within a tanned pouch of leather. Like a cat, they slinked through the shadows, leapt over low-lying walls that lead to a vegetable garden and silently surveyed the area. They were the night, the phantom, the - person standing up to their waist in near liquid, lukewarm manure. A female voice screamed in disgust through the night, a look of true horror washed over their face, under the navy blue hood and cape of a young rogue.

A chorus of guards yells and flip-flops of their sandals, echoed down the inner passages of the kitchen that was mere feet away from the smelly intruder. Two guards erupted out into the garden from the small kitchen door, with nothing but their feathered helmets, sandals and vertically lined linen undergarments. "Where do you think that scream came from?" a large solider said with his spear tucked under his arm, while holding up his pants that had lost its slack over the years. "Dunno, sir." Said a scrawny solider looking out over the garden.
"Couldn't be far off, I'd say - " The large guard sniffed rather unpleasantly, "Blotter, what did I say about bathing?" he said in disgust.
"Sir, I bathe every three days, just like you said I should." Blotter replied and gave one of his pits a quizzical sniff. "Though I'd say, it couldn't hurt to do it more often." A rustle amongst the cabbages alerted the guards to a hunched figure in the dark.
"Who's there!" demanded the Captain.
"Rustle, rustle - wooooossshhh" replied the cabbage. Both soldiers looked at one another, then back at the cabbage. "Rustle?" said a confused Blotter. "Who's that then? Do we know a Rustle, sir?"
"No we don't, Blotter. Besides, cabbages can't bloody speak, can they?" snapped the Captain.
"Umm - strange things are said to exist out there, on the other end of the core and such, and the Elemants like to prank a lot of us half the time." Said blotter with his crooked spear pointed directly at the cabbage. "We'll test it, ok?" he stepped up to the cabbage and gave it a jab. "Hey, are you a cabbage?" he asked the leafy vegetable interrogatively.
"Yes, I'm a cabba - I mean - rustle, rustle." Said the cabbage, which may have been sweating.
"And I was born a cow," growled the captain. "Take this!" He stabbed with his bronze spear, impaling the defenceless cabbage.
"Owe! You damn fool!" the cabbage screamed. Two leafy hands sifted out of the ground and grabbed hold of the captain's spear with an earthen grip. Both soldiers were wide eyed in horror. More so Blotter, as he wasn't the one getting clobbered with his end of the spear and cringing in pain.
"Run Blotter, the cabbages have rebelled!" the Captain yelled, leaving his spear behind with the cabbage and ushering Blotter back through the kitchen door. Blotter looked back just to see a glimpse of something sharp whistle past his face and lodge itself within the brickwork, behind his shoulder. Worried yelps noisily echoed down kitchens and dimmed down to a persistent drone, possibly to the closest barracks.

A heavily gasping rogue looked at a curiously close shaft of wood, attached to a long metal spike tip, gently brushing against her nose. Having nearly escaped death by salad, she took a sigh of relief, tested the strength of the spear in the stone. Deeming it safe, she leapt up on it and over onto the walk, all while keeping a close eye on vegetable gardens from now on.

Walking through many corridors with ash spitting torches, the young rogue - after many hours of getting lost - had come across the royal quarters by shear blind luck. The king lay snoring heavily, like a jumbo jet. A perfect cover, until it was run through of course.

All that stood within her way, was a guard, playing brain surgeon with a long index finger. She readied a small and angular knife from one of her pouches. She poised, tensed, flicked like a frog and danced like a fool as it fumbled out of her leather gauntlets. It hopped about and tumbled through the air as she tried to catch it. It came between her eyes and she grabbed at it in a thrusting motion with both hands away from her face. It caught fast on something, something belonging to the face of a bewildered guard who was clutching their throat.

The rogue blinked and took another mental mark against a book she loosely kept within her head, telling her how many more lucky moments she'll get.

She stepped over the corpse of the guard and crept through the unlit bed chambers of King larders.

___Waiting For The Train__________________

A peaceful seaside city is the place to be. It's chock full of rich snobs and spoilt children. grubby stones twist and wind around the busy streets of the daily grind of work. It's roughly late afternoon; the sun is still hanging lazily over tall buildings, painting long patterns down the old roads. School is out; all the children are rushing off to the milk bars or the local beach for a swim.
Colleen however, was given board-cleaning duty. She smacked her head against the whiteboard, slowly dragging it down a notch then letting out a tired groan. Mrs. Flintshire poked her head in around the corner of the classroom. "Don't blame me Colleen, you're the one that was misbehaving in class." She said, giving Colleen an angry smirk.

"I keep telling you Mrs. Flint. It wasn't me shooting those spit-balls," colleen pleaded with her infamous puppy-dog eyes, "It was that Darren." It was the eyes, it must have been. Something in Mrs. Flintshire just sparked up, giving her a whole new light on the situation. She walked up to Colleen with a box of reports around her waist. She eyed colleen with a narrowing brow.
"Well, Mrs. Flint. Do you believe me?" She stood, not moving her hand away from the eraser that was still rubbing off the texta.

"No - I don't, Colleen. Keep rubbing. You've got another six boards to clean down, then you'll be able to go home." Mrs. Flintshire said, walking back out the door and out the main hall. Colleen's cheeks puffed red; she stamped her feat against the floorboards. "Stupid Darren, I'll get you tomorrow."
After the grueling boredom Colleen had endured, she slung her bag around her back and set out the door along the dirt path out in the courtyard, as Mrs. Flintshire sent her on her way with a sinister smirk, just as if she was enjoying torturing the students with punishments.
The sun was tinting to a hazy orange as Colleen left school and began to walk down the street past an old church next door. Its foreboding shadow seeped over Colleen, giving her simple shiver down the rim of her spine. She liked scary things, horrible things even. She was a weird girl like that; but she didn't mind anyone calling her that one bit. Most of the kids don't let her play with them anyway, saying she's scary. So all she does is sit in the courtyard at lunch and write scary books and dabble weird illustrations all day.

On her way to the subway, Colleen walked down along the afternoon pavement, taking in the sights, looking for anything out of the ordinary or inspiration for her small book of horrors she usually kept wrapped in her arms. She never knew when inspiration would jump out in her face, just like now.
"Ahhh - Colleen!" A pleasantly chirpy voice rang out from the bakery's door. Colleen jumped, swinging around in surprise.

"Don't scare me like that, Adamo! Damn." Colleen said, fuming as a large man with flour stains down his apron, was laughing and pointing at the enraged, hard-boiled staring of Colleen. "You should see your face, its priceless. Oh wait, you totally can," The large baker retrieved a steel baking tray from the counter just inside the shop. "You see?" he said, pushing the gritty reflection of the tray in her face.

"Always the joker. How about I hack that moustache off, the one you like so much." Colleen hissed. The old baker jumped back slightly with a worrying look. "Come on. It was just a little joke," he said protecting his prized moustache being boasted upon his upper lip, with the baking tray.
"Well, it wasn't funny. You scared me half to death."
"You shouldn't be so prone to being a victim of pranks then. How about a muffin - for an apology, hmm?" Adamo said, lifting a fresh muffin from out of the basket, protected with a fly net on the counter. "A muffin... You are forgiven." She accepted the muffin from the bakers hand, who was answered with a smile.

"Aren't you a bit late from school, young lady?" Adamo said, while proceeding to pack away his chalkboard stands. Colleen was stuffing her face with the muffin - she was quite preoccupied with chewing. She slightly spat and sounded like a washing machine. "Stuped Teacheor kop me in nd made me clen whitebords. Daron made ma get the blame for spit barwls." She churned her cement mixing gob.

"As long as you don't get home when the sun is down. Your parents would be spitting, complaining to me and all that." Adamo folded another stand and slipped it in behind the door. Colleen finished wafting down her apologetic muffin, then preceded to talk as normal, wiping her mouth of the crumbs. "So, anything scary or weird going on?" Colleen asked. She always managed to get a scary story or rumor out of Adamo. Most of her scary stories would usually spring inspiration or influence from Adamo's weird stories he'd hear from the Old Barents Brothers, who has a shoe making factory, three streets away from his bakery.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Got word from Giovanni that a number of kids have been playing in the subways. They'd hear some sort of pipe music, sort of Celtic. The kids would act strange, like in a playful trance. Giovanni even goes so far as to say a strange man appears, playing a flute down in the subway. People say his some funny loon that likes to play makes believe; no ones really seen him up close; his always skipping around and avoiding eyesight. Some kids have even gone missing during the past week or two." Adamo said, all while finishing his sweeping he'd commenced during his story.

Colleen looked starry-eyed, her mind bubbling with excitement. "Wow. That's a bit scary. I even have to take the subway to get home." She said, flipping open her book and dotting down a few keynotes in her small black book, with a pencil neatly tucked in its spine. Adamo straightened his back and groaned from the sweeping. "Exactly why I want you to be careful on your way home today. Who knows what type of sick'o that character could be?" He paused and leaned on his broom. "Don't think I'd ever let myself down if something happened." He said, starting to over-dramatize the situation with a fake terry face.
"Lay off it, old fart. I don't need to be protected from some Cooke." She pouted and narrowed her brows at him.
"Fine, fine. Just be careful on your way home, that's all," he said, walking back into the bakery.
"I will. See you, Adamo. Thanks for the scary story." Off Colleen went. She waved goodbye to the big prankster, then moved off towards the subway station.

Second Chapter: The Station and the Story.
=------=
The subway was almost deserted from all pedestrians, except for a few late arrivals and disobedient teenagers that were waiting patiently by the tracks - but of course, the teenagers were spraying the walls with paint. Large hanging lamps drooped down from the stations semi-circular ceiling. Feint sounds of car horns and the gentle rumbling of the trains engine in the distance drummed deep into the expansive depths of the gaping tunnels that led deep under the city.

Colleen wandered through the front doors and up to the ticket booth. The interior was decorated with wooden benches around its perimeter; about half a dozen different sorts of indoor plants lay around near the walls and corners, or between the benches; the floor was tiled with a cheap material, that was arranged in Fibonacci Spirals of a multitude of colours.

Colleen approached an elderly lady, who was stamping and checking various bookings on her desk.
"Hello, dear," The elderly ticket saleswoman said, as Colleen stepped up to her glass booth. "Do you wish to purchase a ticket?" she folded her books to the side and awaited her answer.
"Yes please. Can I get one to Frankfurter Station?" Colleen asked, searching through her bag for her purse. As the old woman was typing Colleen's ticket up, a gentle whistling noise blew down the tracks, under the cracks of the swinging glass doors, whispering softly in that lofty lobby.
"Here's your ticket. That'll be -" she spoke as her ears caught the notes, "- There's that damn pipe music again." Colleen turned, facing the doors and staring out the windows.

Nothing but rolling trash whirled past her vision, along with a few stray bystanders. Colleen felt a slight tug on her eyes as she listened, as if the corners were becoming fuzzy in her mind. It was mildly alluring, when that barely audible tone hummed then bounced around inside her eardrums. Colleen was about to take a curious yet unknown step towards that door, if wasn't for the elderly woman who tapped her gently on the shoulder. Colleen shook from her benign trance-like state, peered at the woman's face.
"You were a bit gone there, dear. Children these days, always spacing out." The ticket saleswoman said, holding a train ticket within her hands.
"Sorry about that. That pipe music was really strange, do you get it often?"
"Yes and no. Someone has been tooting their tunes for a few weeks now around here; even at a whole different number of stations -- or so I've heard," she said, impatiently waving the train ticket at Colleen. Fed up with the elderly woman's impatience. Colleen quickly paid her, swung her bag back on, and then left out the doors to the platform.

Nothing but the usual, howling silence filled the air around the platform. She scanned for a place to sit. A grubby bench bolted dead into the wall, flaking green paint and a wondrous plethora of bubblegum stuck under its length, didn't seem too appealing to her. Thus, she decided to stand by the tracks.

The overhead clock, hanging from above the door shown that, Colleen's train wouldn't arrive for about thirty minutes. She decided to entertain herself in any menial way possible, just as long as it killed time. She began looking around the interior of the station.

It was old, run down; The brickwork happened to have a black tarry substance licking its surface, giving the actual red bricks, a disgusting brown colour; Pits along the platforms were filled with trash, crunched up to the seams; Various advertised billboards lined most of the walls; one such billboard had paint drooling down its face, still fresh from the can. Colleen didn't pay much notice; but the hooligans tagging was finished abruptly, or so she thought.

After fifteen minutes of curiously examining everything in her eyesight, she suddenly realised: Where were all the teenage gangsters and junkies that usually scoured this station. They have nowhere better to be, that's for sure.

Colleen then quickly caught the sight of a young boy, who was running down the platform at the far end from her. As he approached, she seen his face was thick with terror; his eyes wide, his hair rustled about and he was gasping in great breaths. He was about to rush past Colleen, but she grasped him by the hood of his jumper. He recoiled back, falling on his side. "Stupid cow." The young boy said. He looked about four years younger than Colleen. She loved nothing better, than to bully a few of the younger primary kids.
"Shut up, kid. I'll knock your teeth out, if you don't tell me what you're running from." She threatened, looking down at the boy as he got to his feet.
"Stuff you, I'm not telling you anything. I'm getting out of here before anything bad happens again." He said starting back up into a mad sprint. Colleen tucked her black book under her left arm and used her right, to grip the front of his collar.
"You're not going anywhere, squirt," She pushed him backward a few steps. "Tell me what you seen." A number of people started to crowd around, so she loosened her grip, then giggled slightly at the spectators. "His my brother. I'm angry because he ran away when I told him not to." She lied. The crowd thinned and went along their business. She resumed her usual grip, and then pulled him over to one side, behind a bricked column.
"Now tell me what you saw, or the people who clean the tracks will have an extra job to do." She said, trying to scare the information out of him. Sweat beaded down his brow as he struggled against her grip. He finally buckled. He wasn't going to get away until he told her what was going on.
"OK dammit - I'll tell you what happened. Just let go of me." He gasped. She let go of his collar, a clump of creased clothing left behind from her tight grip. Colleen didn't trust him though, oh no. This line was quite often used in unison with an action, where the student would quickly dash out of the way and run off towards the nearest teacher on duty. So, she primed herself to quickly grab him, if this would happen to occur.

"Around thirty or so minutes ago. My friends and I were hanging out around the tunnels, tagging the inside walls with paint. My friend Don, told me he thought he seen something up the track, near the second platform. We thought it was the cops, so we hid down the tracks. Next thing we knew, some crazy flute stuff, started playing. My other mate Tom started acting weird. He got up and walked off towards the sound, followed by Don. I wasn't really affected properly, I guess - as I have hearing aid. We vaulted the platform, then," He stalled, flushing over with apprehension. "That's all I remember."
"You do too, remember what happened. Tell me now, or - " "You wouldn't bloody believe me!" he yelled, pulling away from her.
"No you bloody don't, shit-head." She yelled pulling the boy back and pushing him back into the wall. He started tearing up, almost crying. Colleen sighed, trying to repeat her request with a softer voice, even though it was a hassle. She tried to sound nice; even though she isn't the one who you'll see giving old ladies help across the street. Quite the opposite in fact, where you'll see them under traffic.
"Please? Tell me what happened. I will believe you; trust me." She struggled into the sentence. He whimpered and slid his jumper sleeve across his nose, calming down slightly.
"Fine," he sniffed. "When we got to the platform, a monster appeared. It was playing with pipes in its mouth. I couldn't see properly, everything was blurry and bubbly. A whole bunch of kids were with us too, probably under the same sort of thing my friends had. I heard other sounds, other than the music. It was like a horse was down on the platform with us. Next thing that happens, is we are being led somewhere, like into one of them billboards." He finished, just as the roaring of the trains whistle blew down the tunnel. Colleen quickly looked over to the clock. All this talking had killed so much time; her train had arrived without her pretty much noticing. She quickly glowered her gaze back down on the boy. "Why are you here, then? You said they disappeared into a billboard." She quickly questioned.
"I was the last one to go in, as I resisted the most. When the music stopped: My eyes got better and I realised what was going on. I freaked out and ran back down the tracks, then you stopped me." He said, squirming out of her grip, sprinting down the platform and out into the lobby.

Colleen didn't believe him, just as he said. A weird monster that would lure teenagers through billboards with pipes in a train station. That sort of stuff only happens in fairy-tales and peoples imaginations, she thought. You'd be a real fool, to believe such a ridiculous thing was happening in real life. Even though, it would be pretty cool if the world still had some unexplainable occurrences, where you'd have to label it under paranormal, she chimed in her mind.

The train roared up to the platform, and the doors wailed open. She hopped on and sat down on padded seats. For the rest of the way to her station, she just sat there, writing in her black book and churning the events of her day that had transpired.
 

In a crowded leaf littered forest. Numerous floras, curious or otherwise benign, glowing in an assortment of azure capped fungi laid across its amazing expanse. The forests closest to the oil enriched waters of the now endlessly emblazed, Lake Vulkaan. This was most likely caused by, from the beliefs of the most popular votes made by the Knoll's department of: Possible Histories of Imaginary Locations or Otherwise. Believed a local fungal giant threw away its used cigarette, which just happened to land in the location of thousands of dead animals, turned to highly flammable sludge over the millennia, which then ignited. The blast was said to be so intense, it killed everything taking a drink at the time, plus scorched the surrounding area into that hard crunchy stuff, that you may find after an intense cooking session with the grand parents, caking the bottom of the pots and pans.

Deep in the non-smoking parts of the forest, a kingdom, where more than forty-two thousand life forms are related to one another. The influence of a distant humanoid culture, with the discussing of kings ruling land by the first generation that founded their city. Being related to everyone you turn to, pretty much caused a horrible ruckus, in who should be truly royal. Yet, in a way, the problem was rectified with the help of their ancient laws. One such law was written: 'the problem started from the one with the funny accent. Make it better, by turning it dead.' Because, lets face it, the dead don't complain, and they sure as hell, don't have a rebuttal.

The people of the forests of Vultanis are sentient glowing mushrooms that stand at roughly three feet tall, glow like lighthouses and speak as if they've had too much to smoke. Given intelligence by a bewildered god's own belief that the things could talk. This of course, occurred on one of those days where, maybe eating the rather large glowing, possibly highly poisonous mushroom would be a amazingly amusing idea at the time, then tripped over a mould laden river stone, and bumped his head. When he came to, all he'd remembered was; mushroom people. If he'd seen them, they must have existed.

This time though, during the cities annual festival of spore-ling hatching, a brooding cloud of disharmony slowly waxed through the skies of the forests. What it was, no one would truly figure that out until it was much too late. Too late for them, that is. Not for that other guy. Or guys, or possibly even girls... What the heck, you'll just have to raise your pitch forks and other sharp farming utensils in utter anger, and shout words like: It's a monster!; Kill it; or just bloody well, get on with it.

RAIN RUNNERS!

Cold streets were dampened by light rain in the vibrant orange lights that spread down the street. Each streetlight flickered, blooming through the mists as bright star like flowers, and then they burnt out from overheating their old components, vanishing through the night. The sidewalks were packed with many bustling street racers, partying well into midnight. These racers weren't the kind that rode steel carriages; the creatures held no emotion, no flare, only the relentless combustion of their searing fuel. These very few were: the Free Racers.

Free Racing within Rain City was highly illegal. It caused commotion and disrupted the daily business of the markets and roadways. It wasn't exactly safe either. Many people who participated within the race, more often then not, lost their grip or step, then career perilously off a building or even crash into many sturdy brick walls.
To make it even more interesting for the so-called hip hooligans, the older generations are calling them, is quite possibly the most insane thing that's ever been engineered. As is, the most dangerous thing that was ever designed to go on your feet: A pair of motorized running skates that anyone was afraid to get wet. They were manufactured to skim across the surface of damp concrete. The soles of the shoes had an incredibly slick material, where when wet, didn't possess any grip and the reverse if they were dry. To help propel the daring Free Runner even faster through the streets and perhaps into the closest morgue, a series of fusion powered motors, which controlled steady streams of neon plasma.
Cash pool prizes weren't uncommon in this nightlife entertainment. In fact, it was almost a necessity. The runners would nearly burn through an entire energy cell within a few hours of use. They were quite expensive to produce, including the anti radiation therapy that must be conducted straight after the big races.

An air horn was set off, declaring the beginning of the first race of the New Year. Tim's fear quickly rose within his veins as he rallied around with another half dozen racers near the starting line. The racer next to Tim, that was female, gave him a quick stare and snarled through a series of metal rings and jangling earrings. He backed away from her immediately with a light yelp and bumped into another racer that was next to him.
"Watch it, mate." The racer grabbed Tim from under his arms as he awkwardly fell through the crowd, hoisting him back up to his feet. Tim quickly turned around and seen a man who was possibly in his early thirties. He had short stubbled, black hair and a well-kept beard. He was well built and could of possibly crushed Tim with his burly arms.
"Thanks for the catch. I'm Tim." He said, then gazed back to the pierced woman, who was laughing rather loudly, even if she was trying to force herself not to.
"Not a problem. I'm Gabriel, by the way." A thick palm of meat anchored its way towards Tim. He politely accepted it into a handshake, as he had done so, he'd felt as if he his hand was being crushed by a metal vice.

A series of cheers suddenly erupted from a crowd, as they swarmed over an unknown figure. The person was short, thin and their hair combed all the way back into a ledge of spikes and bleached dark blue. The figure stepped up to a stage that was temporally placed along the side of the street. He slightly flicked his monochrome glasses away from his face and gleamed with a smile.
"Now that's what I call a douche bag." Gabriel had whispered to Tim, leaning in slightly, while still keeping his eyes on the new arrival. Tim chuckled in a fit, releasing him of his past fears.
"Yeah. Who is he anyway?" Tim had managed to ask, while forcing back the laughter.
"His one of the most famous Free Racers around. Didn't you know that?" Gabriel said. Tim just looked him in the eye and looked blank
"Him? A famous Free Racer? You've got to be kidding." Tim had said in a raised voice, staring at the posing man (kissing his biceps) with an eyebrow fixed aloft. Gabriel laughed and crossed his arms, nearly knocking Tim out with their hulking swings.
"Yes, it's hard to believe." He said. "But his got heaps of money, because his a son of a rich man."
"So, that's why his famous?" Tim asked, while suddenly being distracted with a horrifying sight of the man, bemusing himself with his tongue to his exposed nipple.
"His freaking Crazy!" Tim yelled, closing his eyes.
"Yes. His a real weirdo, but he pays most of the prize money in the races." Gabriel said, staring at the man partaking in another bicep kiss.
"Welcome, Free Racers, to another exiting year, that's going to be filled with absolute epic oblivion!" the man yelled across the sea of spectators. They responded in a bursting crescendo of screaming, jumping and slight trampling of the smaller people.
"I, Slick Slade, will make sure this will be the wildest, sexiest ride you'll ever partake in." He said, while performing a double bird and outstretching his tongue and hands through the air.
"Today's race will be set around the, Parkimono Plaza. First one to run around the monument of king Blunt Nose and return wins."
"Be ready, and stay beautiful." Slick Slade had announced, assuming that was the signal for the race to finally begin. He flipped his monochrome glasses back over his eyes and strode off with two women wrapped around his arms. The small stage was hauled away and the crowd had dispersed to the sides.

Everyone had prepped a mad vault like stance, as if preparing not to stumble upon his or her own faces. Gabriel quickly glanced over to Tim
"Good luck to you, mate." He said while in the awkward stance.
"You too." Tim quickly replied and just as swiftly performed a tricky manoeuvre that resembled a fist bump.
A man standing to the side of a rather large container with a swirling barrel had gripped a large metal leaver on its side. He was stout, donned a moustache that curled around his cheeks and looked rather bedazzling, roared at the top of his lungs.
"Ready?" he screamed. A voice that was heard faintly across the crowd could have been a reply of 'not yet', but it fell on deaf ears.
"Too bad!" He yelled, yanking the leaver forcefully down towards the street. The barrel tipped. Water burst across the streets surface, swamping the feet of the racers. The souls of the roller skates had turned to the liquid lubrication, and the plasma jets that were set to the back of the heels automatically kicked in. A rather unpleasant scream was heard erupting from two or three rows from behind Tim. It was recommended to give each contestant at least, three or four metres before the race had commenced. Obviously, he had not.
It was like skating on ice, but faster and more lethal. Everyone had separated off into separate paths, yet Tim was left with the woman from before. Gabriel leapt past a passing car, nearly crushing it, then sped down a well lit shopping street to the East.

It was just Tim and this woman. She was quite an infamous Racer in the Free Racing world, named Kala. She'd been said to be in the close proximity of four murder mysteries, that couldn't be explained. Even in the future, CSI still doesn't work like that.
The two skated down a brightly lit street, jumping past countless, obscure, blurring objects, which may have been series of bins, gutters and even homeless men. Kala gripped a signpost, bending it through the air like a liquorice stick. She planted both feet through Tim's chest. He screamed sharply and was quickly winded, letting his silent lips let out the word, bi-. He spun franticly along his side and through a shop window. Kala performed a U-turn and sped off down the street.

"Freaking Badgers, crashing through my windows again." A deep voice growled, scuffed his feet across the wooden floors of his shop. Tim was in pure agony, and now a new pain was making its self more aware than all the others. A thick jab to his cheek continued its assault until Tim had brushed it away with a heavy hand. He wearily stared at an old bearded man, greyed with age and bleached with madness. Wearing just a thick leather apron with bits of metal doodads and curious knickknacks, hanging out of loose pockets. He was holding an old bristle broom by its end and poking the handle end into him.
"Looks like you're going to be fine." He said, with a beam continuing a lively stab.
"Yes, just fine." He repeated.
__________

It was quite cold on the old beaten paths pocked with gaping potholes, all the way back to the small coastal town of, Dunkurt. The winds had picked up very recently, whipping Mr Glariks clothes violently about in the chilling breeze. He clenched his coat firm and wrapped it around as firm as possible. The moon was only half-full; giving an eerie sheen through the rigid forest pines that grew through the east banks, and down into the steep hillside gullies, garnering wicked spikes and sinister twirling shadows that danced to an unearthly rhythm.

Mr Glariks wasn't the type of man to go out into a potentially violent storm in the monsoonal seasons of the year. Yet, what is a man without his booze? He always had to trek quite far if he ever wanted a splash of alcohol, the nearest pub was two miles away.

He pushed his hand into his tightly wrapped trench coat and unveiled a small silver flask. Bleached walrus ivory adorned its lower half. It was splendidly crafted with the etchings of fishermen, fighting what seemed to be a sort of shark with hands and feet, splashing violently within the waves, relentlessly combating its opponents in the trickle of twilight. Glariks had found it while fishing one day at the old jetty. It just happened to float past from the craggy reefs, down the beach a few miles away. He would have had to believe; it was his most cherished possession his ever owned. He flicked the metallic lip off of the flask and took a deep, well drawn out swish of gin. Some lazily dribbled down his chin on the way down his neck. He quickly stopped and caught the stream with a damp sleaze.

A short but audible sound emanated from a chain of large ivy bushes. A distinct rustling sound could be heard, passing through the thick undergrowth. Suddenly it stopped, as soon as Glariks had noticed its presence. Glariks always knew about the different types of species of life that could live out near the coasts. Bears; possibly, deer; why not, they're bloody everywhere, and same goes for rabbits. But none ever made him feel like this before. A sort of feeling that made the hairs on the back of his neck; stand on their very ends, his very being shed into slithers. He'd stared down the nostrils of a three-ton grizzly before, and he still didn't feel like he was going to eject his bowels. This time it was different. It was if, something was staring right at him. Not at his face, but into his mind.

Glariks stared fixated on the last bush that had recently moved in the billowing winds. He crept closer with a curious but fearful composure. The moonlight didn't pay much advantage to his sight. As it was hindered by large overhanging pine branches. He'd quickly retrieved his old pig gutting knife from his small leather sheath on the side of his belt, and was prepared to gut whatever it may of been lurking deep in shadows. He quickly swung out with a flurry of stabs and slashing movements in a pre-emptive tactic, along with a quick burst of screaming moans; which may as well been, the curdling cries of a lunatic. Through thoroughly decimated undergrowth, there was nothing but an unearthly statue, staring blankly and unhinged into the moonlit path. Only a mason with a personality riding on the back wheels of insanity and obscurity would of ever considered, or even allowing this creation oozing out into reality. Its features were almost life-like though. The sheer extremity of details was amazing, even if it was ghoulish.

Strands of well chiselled tendons stretched over a long mesh of gnarled muscles and narrow stone bones, looping through and over a long craning neck connected loosely to a face that could of only resembled the face of skinned whale; with eyes that were nearly human in proportion sunk deeply into a portion of raised grey flesh either side of its maw, leading down from its lower waist was three major growths jarring out from its lower stomach and two from diagonally from its back, they dipped down to a sitting possession of large pincer legs and long needle like protrusions, cradling on a mould ridden sphere, Though, one of its most curious features though, was its granite hoop it held within its fleshy tendril like talons, outstretched horizontally; that had curious runes carved along its outward rim.

Glariks stared at the hoop for a mere moment, swearing he'd seen a shimmer as bright as a star pass across its circumference. He brushed it off and packed away his knife, then began to quickly stroll away as the faintest of rain mists settled in and drenched his face. As he was just around the bending corner of the slopes, the stone eyes of the never-moving sculpture, blinked through a sudden bolt of lightning, illuminating the seaside roads, towards Glariks hastened jog.

Down the road, but not much further than two hundred metres from Glariks location, was Dr Nummits clinic, if you'd call it a clinic that is. He was well stocked in medical supplies and the likes. Yet, he wasn't really a physician. Just some self taught fellow, who thought it would be a splendid idea to help those in need.

_______

A long cold winters night, was settling over the vast snowfields that engulfed the peaceful nation of, Snowlace. The lands dipped and sloped in vast valleys chocking the dirt, pushing it into a deep seasons sleep. Greened pines slowly drooped from the vastly collected amounts of snow; excellent for death traps of small infants and animals abound.

A magical time of the year, where the snowmen come to life and attack villages for eating their noses, Rawrbits shed their summer coats and grow thicker furs for the harsh nights ahead, and the villagers of one particular town prepare. Prepare for an event so chilling, so wintry, that even the Snow Queen, or even Mr Frostman, that lives up in the mountains encased in permafrost. They were ready to celebrate, Great-Giving's Eve.

The young and old, or anything else that knew they were getting a massive present wrapped in a ridiculously huge bow tie celebrated, great-Giving's Eve. In truth, it was a sad time. It started, where a man, enshrouded in melancholy and despair had given up hope, so he wandered off into the world. His heart had turned cold, as it was frozen by the bitter, Snow Queen. All he asked was, if she truly loved him. She simply uttered, 'nay'.
"All I needed from you, was a kind kindling of my ice box, down in my igloo" she said. "I never truly loved you. I just used you for your touch, your warmth. The more we were to stay coupled; you'd eventually lose all warmth. Turn to ice, just like the rest of them." She sourly frowned at the man' tearing, saddened eyes. "If you hadn't of asked about our love, this would never of happened. You would have simply gone into a deep slumber."

The man' rage wallowed up inside his freezing heart. He clenched his fists, until blood drew from the punctures from his nails. "You're nothing but a witch. A sad disgusting witch, who lives in the deepest parts of a wasteland." He bellowed. "You're nothing but a cold-hearted, lonely tramp, who's just happening to be looking for a jolly sleigh ride. You've stolen something from me, I shall never again obtain." He began to exit forth from the Queen' abode. As he reached the iced tiles that greeted him to his exit, the Snow Queen had drawn her lance of the, coldest north Winds. She screamed in rage as she thrust it through the air, arching for his heart, on his knees, in terrified pain. He drew his last warm breath as the lances power took hold, sapping away all his warmth.
" A curse upon thee, I shall bind. Death may never grasp your soul, for it has lain a prison of ice." She hissed, taking pleasure in her deed.

A reflection from the ice cold floors, shown a man with palest flesh, marbled eyes as deep as a winter locked abyss, hair flecked with frost and eight crimson frozen holes, within his palms. His eyes quickly stared deeply at the Queen', yet no response was given. He quickly rose and fled from her presence. He ran swiftly as the winds, never turning back.

Eventually, he wandered into a city, a city that sparkled in the snow, which strewn across each street and terracotta rooftop. He happened upon an orphanage obliviously. A saddened child waited on the flight of steps to the entrance. He stepped closer in curiosity and lent beside the boy.
"For why are you saddened, youth?" The pale man said.
"A couple were to take me into their family, yet it seems they have forgotten me. I was silly to think they would love a street kid like Me." the youth sighed and hung his head. The pale man' eyes widened and thought of his ordeal. He thought none should ever bear the burden that he was branded with. It was his alone, he'd make sure of that. He'd fill every face with happiness. If not forever, at least for a time of happiness, that will live on within their lives forever.

"I shall bear you with a gift, yet you must wait in patience" He said, rushing off around the corner and ducking into a corner shop. He soon returned with a stuffed animal, bearing the cutest of faces, the ones that resemble teeth.
"Allow this gift clear your sadness and fill you with a time of happiness." he said, handing the youth the stuffed creature. The youth squeezed it sullenly for a moment, the toy let off a pathetic squeak. A slight grin licked his face, then a beaming smile.
"Thank you, kind sir. An act of charity so kind, I shall never forget." The youth said smiling happily, playing with the stuffed animal. The pale-faced man smiled. It cracked his dry face, stinging his being.

He set back off and turned away past the snowy walls of the orphanage. The youth quickly followed and clutched the edge of the wall.
"Thank you, Mr Frostman." The child yelled down the street. A few gentleman and ladies had seen his act of kindness. They slowly crowded him. A slither of fear would of crept into his mind but it was far away in the wretched depths of his heart. A burly man with a surprisingly large, curly moustache stabbed his cane into the snow. He leant out his gloved hands. Gripping one into the now dubbed: Mr Frostman's palm, the other firmly around his shoulder.
"You have been cursed by the winter witch. I heard her screams from her palace," he said in sympathy. "You don't blame anyone but yourself. You wish for everyone's happiness, in trade for your immortal guilt and sorrow. Am I correct?" Mr Frostman sighed, and then nodded in woe. The gentleman loosened his grip. The others who crowded him took turns in showing their forgiving. A young woman, barely in her twenties, gently kissed him on the cheek. She slowly touched her lips in contemplation.
"I am the mayor of this city. From now on, I shall host an event that hosts your generosity and kindness. A time of forgiving; A time of happiness. Your deeds will forever live on, in our hearts." The mayor declared.
"Thank you. From what may be the very last of the warmth I have left, which lingers in my heart. I will cherish this moment forever." Mr Frostman said. "Mr Frostman, ay? It has a nice ring to it."

With a final shaking of hands, and light hearted farewells. Mr Frostman set off into the dark snowing storm, continuing to bring happiness into everyone's life across the nation.

The snowy end :3