Rumour had it that, due to the negligence of British Intelligence, a quantity of plutonium isotopes had been stolen and had been auctioned on the international underground market. Naturally, Britain had been honour-bound to retrieve the goods. This had sent the bidding sky high. The second highest bidder was a terrorist organisation with ambitions to manufacture dirty bombs.

***

OO7 he was not. He'd worked as a low priority agent at MI6 for just under a year, so this latest assignment should have given Miles a sense of promotion; except he couldn’t quell the fear of being unprepared.

He'd met the renowned Oona Toneski only once, at a trade fair in Berlin. She had a flawless reputation as a ‘fixer’ between international security agencies; an astute lady who drove a hard bargain and kept her word. Then, he had merely been assigned the role of messenger. There had been a successful exchange of envelopes, and that had been that … but this was an altogether different kettle of fish. Oona was now acting as a go-between with this dangerous box of tricks. Apparently, the finances had been finalised and she was now insisting that Miles be the exchange recipient. Why him?

***

He was edgy as he waited patiently by the stone arch, which had been designated their assignation point. Oona had telephoned him en route to say that she would not now be coming, but instead was sending another agent. He was not to worry because the agent would find him. She explained the signals involved and would brook no interruptions before cutting him off.

He had panicked and telephoned his handler, but was told to just bloody well get the isotopes. There was something odd here. Surely this was too chaotic a situation in which to safely operate!

The girl suddenly appeared from behind him, as if accidentally bumping into him. She was breathtakingly beautiful! He noted the metal box - seemingly carried with little care, since she now placed it casually on the ground between them. He had to shake himself mentally to remember the routine, and quickly scratched his left eyebrow before speaking.

"How lovely to see you again," he quoted to this total stranger.

In response, there was an incomprehensive stare.

Oh, God, he thought. Surely I can't have got this wrong!

She smiled sweetly and, in a guttural accent, asked him if he knew the correct platform for the Gatwick Express.

Rats!

His consternation seemingly perplexed her.

“Dictionary,” she murmured, and leaned down to unlock the metal carrier.

Five or six ordinary looking commuters suddenly surrounded them and manoeuvred the couple into a corner, hindering any movement. The box was snatched and, as quickly as they had appeared, the threatening group dispersed.

Now they were both standing alone and shaking. The young girl recovered her wits first. She started to run toward the station exit, screaming that her cameras had been stolen, while Miles frantically searched the concourse for the actual courier.

***

Back at MI6 he was pounced on the minute he walked in the door and was told that 'C' wanted to see him NOW. Miles had no doubt that his career was in ruins and he knew he thoroughly deserved it – although bitterness festered within him at the lack of preparation. His stomach was on a roller coaster ride as the lift inched him closer to his last salary packet and the poorhouse. He knocked on the door and entered somewhat gingerly.

"Well done Miles, old chap," said 'C'.

He stopped in his tracks across the thick carpet.

His handler was there and his beaming face told Miles that he was in on whatever success ‘C’ imagined.

"Sorry about the deception, old bean, but you played a blinder! When those guys realise they've just snatched cheap camera equipment, their loss of funds will appear kosher because of your mistaking the girl for the agent. Great double-cross, eh?”

Miles was now looking from one man to the other in total bewilderment.

“There never were any missing isotopes, old boy,” said ‘C’. We just created a phoney bidding war, which we let them think we’d won. They cheated Oona out of some commission way back, so she felt no loyalty was due. She agreed to ‘renege’ on us in return for the full price they had bid in auction. When the money was securely transferred to an offshore account, she then divulged the handover arrangements. I’d say we’ve managed to relieve them of a sizeable slice of their terror budget."

Miles had to make a conscious effort to keep his mouth from gaping open.

“But what about Oona?” he said, “Surely they’ll kill her.”

There was an uneasy hush.

“Oona has cancer, with only weeks left to live. She’s under our care and, when the time comes, she will be buried secretly. To all intents and purposes, old boy, she’s scarpered with their cash – never to be seen again.”

‘C’ looked up and beamed as the office door opened.

"I believe you’ve met Katherine, our new agent,” said 'C' grinning widely. "You two make a really good team."

Katherine winked at Miles and drew him aside.

"You know," she said in a whisper, "I thought my acting was good, but I have a lot to learn from you. You had me totally convinced that you were out of your depth today.

The wood in the old house had begun to fester long ago. The musty smell was impossible to escape or forget, no matter how long you inhaled it. I would know; I had been living in this place for over a month. The walls dripped with a weird combination of water from the leaking roof and mould. The staircase was missing most of its stairs, and most of the banister. The portraits on the walls were dark and dusty, and the beautifully sewn curtains hung limply now, moth eaten and faded. Water squeezed out of the carpet when someone walked over it, and I constantly had wet feet.

I was always hungry here. I didn’t dare leave the house to go to the shops, so all I could eat were the wild berries that grew at the back of the lonely house, clinging to planks of wood, and the small tomatoes that grew in a feral vegetable patch just outside. Sometimes, when I was outside, the warm aroma of soup being prepared in the nearby poorhouse drifted to me on the breeze and I thought about going there...

Whenever this happened, I hurried back inside, lest these thoughts would bring down my resolve to stay here. Every night, as I tried to fall asleep in one of the putrid upstairs bedrooms, my mind routinely went to what lead me here. I tried in vain to quell these thoughts, and then my fears, but I was always unsuccessful.

I was so happy at the start of last month. I was loved, warm, safe and cared for. I remembered, in perfect detail, that night when everything turned around. The man I met that night was so funny and charming...

“I’m at med school,” he had told me, “I’m doing my honours year,”

He took a sip from his drink. Someone must have spiked his drink. I couldn’t understand otherwise how he could have changed so suddenly.

I shuddered and cried as my cruel mind forced me to remember what he did to me that night. I couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming, and tightening their grip on me, body and soul, until I couldn’t breathe. These thoughts shook me, and I lay on the bed, night after night, trembling. When it rained, my thoughts became hallucinations. All I saw was his face- his mocking mouth, his unfocused, yet angry eyes. I would end up in the corner or the room, trying not to scream.

I had kicked him, and then made my escape. I fled home despite the ribs I could feel were broken, and the ankle I was sure was twisted. I stumbled into my room, grabbed my car keys and my coat, and I left.

I had to go somewhere he wouldn’t find me. Somewhere he wouldn’t think to go.

“I know all about you,” he said as he dragged me outside, “Where you live, what you like, where you’ve been,”

Somewhere he wouldn’t think to go.

When I left home that night, after scrawling a frenzied note for my family, I drove for hours without a break, my panic keeping me conscious. When the car had run out of petrol, I got out on foot, and I ran.

I found this house in a little town in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t on a main road and it wasn’t near anything. It was midnight when I had arrived, and no one had seen me come.

So now, I stared up at the broken ceiling, seeing the clouds that passed overhead. I heard the creaks and groans of the house as it settled, and I still jumped and shuddered. I breathed in the rancid smell of everything rotting in the house, and I could taste the dust whenever I opened my mouth.

Days passed, nights dragged on, and nothing happened. The berries on the bush stopped growing back, and the tomatoes were out of season. I foraged in the dirt in the vegetable patch, hoping to find a carrot, or potato. Soon, I had nothing to eat.

I couldn’t bear the hunger any longer. One night, I crept out, and darted through backyards, stealing anything edible. I got back to the house as it started to rain, and gently shut the grimy back door behind me. I left everything in the kitchen sink which was the cleanest part of the whole place and tiptoed into the living room, munching an unpeeled carrot, where I would curl up and stare out the window.

A man stood in the middle of the room with his back to me. I backed out of the room as quickly and quietly as I could, but a creak shivered under my feet. I froze, hoping he would think nothing of it, but he wheeled around to face me.

It was him. The carrot fell through my fingers and to the floor. I turned and bolted out of the house, slamming the front door shut in an effort to hinder him, though I knew it was useless. I ran onto the street. I was weak and tired, and I could hear him catching up to me. I ran out of the town, stumbling on rocks and my feet. I didn’t know what he wanted, but months of my imagining running wild had made me terrified. I might have been imaging the worst but still I ran.

The early morning rays crept through the open drapes of the dark room.

As if synced, the alarm clock buzzes it's 6 AM setting, the bedroom door swings open, and the lights turn on.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy…” yelling and running towards the bed to make sure the lump under the covers was awake.

Adel, the youngest of the kids, knows that today is a special day.

“Daddy, are you awake?”

Adel’s persistent banter and the loud buzzing of the alarm clock was too coincidental not to be part of a larger conspiracy to wake up daddy.

“Yes honey, I’m awake.” A tattooed snake on the arm of the lump slithers for the clock and turns off the alarm.

Tony, the cornerstone of the family, late 30’s, didn’t want to see today arrive.

“Come on daddy, get out of bed and get dressed, we have to get ready!” She hops out the bedroom like some deranged pink rabbit.

Today was a special day. It has been two years since the accident.

Adel was only four when a drunk driver took Karen away.

Tony, sitting up in bed, reaches for a photo of Karen near the clock. A reminder of better days. The last two years were more than a challenge to keep the family together, and out of the poorhouse.

“Morn’en dad,” Louis, fourteen going on forty, enters the bedroom, “did you sleep ok?”

“Yeah” lying, “I feel refreshed.”

Louis was a good kid with good grades in school, but the death of his mother hit him the hardest. The pain went so deep in Louis that the sadness festered into threats of suicide.

“Go get breakfast for your sister.”

Turning to leave the room, Louis stops in the door way and looks back “Dad,” in a somber tone, “why did she have to die?”

Looking up at his first born, seeing that his eyes were heavy, and trying his best to quell the flood of tears dammed inside his broken heart. “It was Gods decision son.”

The blame game is easy for a very difficult question.

“It’s not fair.” Continuing his way to the kitchen, “I really miss her!”

Not knowing what to say, Tony just tries to reconfirm the blame, “God needed her, son.”

Childhood depression was another family’s disease before the accident. Prozac and Lamictal weren’t multivitamins for the average kid, but did hinder any suicidal thoughts.

“Make sure to take your meds son.”

Adel, excitedly bouncing enters the bedroom, “Daddy, I can’t find my gold vest.”

“I think I saw it hanging in your closet.”

The bouncing stops, and hands on the hips coincide with the shaking of the head, “No daddy, I already looked there!”

“Ok, I tell you what,” rising off the bed, taking one knee to match her height, “let me get dressed and I will help you find your gold vest.”

“Hurry up daddy; I have to get my outfit ready before we leave!” Adel demanded.

“In the mean time honey, go eat some breakfast.”

The clock glowed 6:27 AM.

Tony enters the kitchen area showered and dressed. The morning dishes stacked in the sink were proof that the two kids listened to him.

“I found it daddy.” Wearing a gold sequins vest with a pink blouse and matching pink jeans and gold shoes. “Do you think mommy will like what I picked out?” Adel poses for imaginary cameras.

“Yes, Adel, you are a very beautiful young lady.” Tony turns with open arms, “I know your mother would be so proud of you right now.” Reaching for Adel, he hugs the 6 year old.

“I miss mommy, daddy.” Grabbing Tony with her short arms gives a hug back.

“I know,” in a low voice, “so do I.”

Tony looks at his watch, 7:12 AM.

“Wow, we better get going.” Tony gets up and reaches inside the refrigerator for a cup of yogurt. “What is your brother doing?”

Adel shrugs her shoulders, “Probably what he always does.”

Tony knew what she meant. Video games have become an escape for Louis since the accident, an obsession that has become a catch 22 for most parents. Playing the video games at home, Tony knows his son is out of trouble, and not roaming the streets, but most importantly, he’s not thinking of suicide.

“Are you ready son?” Tony shouts upstairs to Louis.

A muted “Yeah!” makes its way to Tony’s ears.

“Alright then, let’s get going.”

“Daddy, can I bring this with?” Adel holds a toy microphone that Karen bought for her the day before the accident, “I want to sing mommy a song.”

“Of course you can,” Not wanting to see another Hannah Montana performance from Adel, “but you can only sing one song,” lying through his teeth, “there are rules at the cemetery about too many songs,” pausing, ”Ok?”

“Ok daddy.” Adel puts her pretend microphone in her matching pink purse.

Louis makes his way down the stairs and out the front door without acknowledging his dad.

“Adel, follow your brother to the car.”

Adel skips out the door singing, trailing her big brother.

“Lord, please give me strength.” Tony leaves the house and climbs in the car.

Louis in the front seat listens to his iPod while Adel is buckled in the back seat.

The roar of the car engine muffled the silence in the air as the family drove off.

Death moves from shadow to shadow, progressively, stealthily, down the poorly lit street. A cloak masks the identity from the world and from his unsuspecting victim. A young lady walking home on her own staggers a weary path along a cobbled street. The alcohol she consumed two hours early now begins to consume her. She is completely unaware of her impending doom. She is eighteen years old today, but will never celebrate her nineteenth. Out of the darkness comes death. A black leather gloved hand finds purchase on her throat imposing a vice like grip that removes her ability to scream. She blinks her last as a razor sharp blade is drawn across her throat at speed. Apparently lifeless, the body falls but makes no sound as it hits the stoney ground. The madman quickly runs his knife round the face of the girl.

The cloaked figure speaks in a rough voice, “Do not hinder my task as I take your fear! Your fear is now mine and I thank you for it.”

The blood soaked glove thrusts its bounty into the pocket of death’s jacket.

A young couple walk hand in hand along down a dark street, barley lit by what little lights still work. The girl looks at the boy and squeezes his hand tightly. He turns to her and smiles. They both stop, glancing at each other and then kiss, affectionately, passionately, lovingly. No words are exchanged; just smiles, then they walk some more turning the corner of the street. The young man stumbles on something and falls to the ground.

The girl holds on to him “Are you ok?”

“Yes. I seemed to have tripped over something.”

“What is ......”

The girl lets out a blood curdling scream as she sees a body of a young female lying on the ground. The body is there but, the face is not. The wide staring eyes look up involuntary at the stars. Blood oozes from the muscles and the tissue which once held expression. The boy leans over the body to see if there is any sign of life.

“Come away from it, Jack!”

“She is not an ‘it’. I must see if she is alive.”

“Please Jack, no.”

The boy Jack leans in closer to the body and puts his ear as close as he dares to the bare mouth.
Nothing. No breath. Nothing.
Then there is a faint breath, followed by a hollow, rasping, gargling screech. The body starts to writhe with pain and fear. The girl, thing is alive. This faceless thing has life in it yet.

“Jack!”

The young lover tries to pull Jack away from the hideous monster. And that’s all she is now, the once beautiful girl is just a faceless monster, grabbing and screaming, flailing and thrashing. Jack, at once punches the soft tissue of the thing. It reels back then comes forward trying to speak.

“Helch ee! Chlease, helch ee!”

Jack lands blow after blow onto the thing and then forces his hands on to the thing’s throat. He squeezes tighter and tighter. The thing struggles but becomes weaker and weaker with every squeeze of Jack’s scared hands. The struggle ends.

“Jack? Jack! What have you done?”

The next day a young man and his female accomplice are charged with the murder and mutilation of an eighteen year old girl. She stayed at the local poorhouse and was well like and very popular. No-one could figure out what could possibly drive a couple to perpetrate such horrors.

In a dark room, a figure sits. Reaching out of the darkness, a gloved hand strokes its path slowly and awkwardly up a lamp stand to find the switch. The clicking noise of the switch seems somehow heightened by the quiet of the room. At the rear of the room, behind the seated figure, the door to another room is ajar. There is enough of a gap to see a body lying lifelessly on the floor. It is the body of a young man. He is well dressed and wears finely polished shoes. His jacket is unbuttoned, his shirt and tie are intact, although soaked in blood. He has light stubble on his neck and chin but not his face. He will never again have another beard because he has no face. He is just another faceless corpse lying, festering with time.

The figure in the chair speaks, “Shall nothing quell my desire. For it consumes me!”, slamming a fist hard down on the arm of the chair.

The light from the lamp touches each picture hanging on the wall. Thirty eight fleshy pictures in all, varying in size covering the wall like a pictorial cemetery. Each picture, each face, smashed, ripped and torn and replaced by a fleshy portrait. More real than any oil. Expressions of horror captured and hung like trophies. Each picture has a word underneath: Anger; Sadness; Fear; Shock. Each word is used over and over again, two, three even four times. The figure rises to his feet and the light is cast on his face. It is twisted and distorted, and yet expressionless. He walks towards a picture frame and crudely hangs a face mask in it.

“Yet another fear. Always fear?”

The lonely, faceless madman looked at the only picture without fleshy art. Underneath the largest of the frames, a sign that read “Happiness”

Titled ‘Randy’ Janine read over the two column list with neatly numbered lines. In one column, she had written his good points and in the other column, his bad points. The neatness was a habit these days. “What harm did it do to live in an uncluttered space?” she sarcastically mused, smiling.

When she and Randy first married, she had not minded everyday clutter, but in this one year of marriage, neatness had become a barb, aimed to wound her husband. She secretly enjoyed watching Randy’s irritation “fester” when she did things like taking his dinner plate before he had laid his fork down. What really drove him wild, was boxing the unneeded extras and giving them to the charity store. The anger slowly mounted over the year, until she had convinced herself that Randy deserved every barb she inflicted. She wanted him to feel as frustrated as she felt.

When they met and later married, they shared in everything. Both worked good jobs and started saving to buy a house. Janine became ill and lost her job, and Randy took over the bills, the cooking and the grocery shopping. She felt guilty at first, but he insisted that he enjoyed doing it, so she settled into the routine. It gave her free time for her interests and to write a résumé for a new job when she got well. Their income was half and she had trusted Randy to be frugal with expenses. She didn’t know there was a hidden agenda.

Randy was spending money recklessly, using credit cards when cash was not available. He had progressively depleted their savings account and they were living from paycheck to paycheck. It seemed there would not be an end to it until he “drove” them to the “poorhouse”, or worse, to divorce. She loved her husband and wanted to try everything she could to save her marriage and mend the problems that had aggregated to this point. Janine made a list for herself, then compared both lists. She stared down at one glaring sentence. “Randy cannot “quell” his desire to spend money”. Had this become an addiction?

She had gotten well, but the job offers were not coming. Randy started bringing home small items. He justified the purchases by buying one for him and one for her. At first, she was flattered that he was thinking of her. Then the purchased items got larger and the reasons made no sense. He bought bicycles for exercise, so she could regain strength. The bikes were never ridden. Electronics, computers and camping gear. Nether of them liked camping.

When he bought the custom surfboards, the excuse was, just in case they went to Hawaii. Then she knew for sure there was a problem. She returned the surfboards and told Randy, there was to be no more buying without talking to her first. He had agreed. A month later, Janine saw that Randy needed a shirt. He bought five shirts, then hid the extra four.

A trip to the grocery store for a single item was a disaster. Randy returned hours later, with five bags of groceries, including bags from different stores, containing things they already had or didn’t need and always two or more of each item. He made up excuses to go, and many times he just left with no reason. His defense had changed. It was now “back up for the house”. Randy had become a Shopaholic!

The telephone rang. Janine looked at the caller ID before answering. The caller was a creditor. She ignored it. They would leave a massage or not, and call at all hours. She was past trying to get Randy to contact them and he ignored the messages. Again, the resentment began to “fester” inside her. The creditors were relentless, and Randy in his denial had far exceeded their finances. What more would he do to “hinder” their life and happiness? Janine knew she had to do something or they would go under and she could not live with this resentment any longer ether.

When Randy came home from work that evening, Janine was ready.
“Randy will you please sit down, we need to talk.”
She voiced her frustration, summarizing all her thoughts.
“Where the hell is all this coming from Janine?”
He tried to turn the blame back onto her.
Unmoved by the attack, she handed the lists to him.
“Please read these.”she said.
“Whatever”he answered with irritation.
As he read, guilt and shame came over his face and his shoulders drooped slightly, as the realization took hold.
“Will you go to a therapist with me?” she asked.
“I might give it a try.” he said, with a slight tone of resistance in his voice.
“No backing out Randy. Our life is on the line.”
Quickly she handed him the paper, with the appointment date she had scheduled that day written on it.
“Honey, I think I should do the shopping for a while.”
Randy nodded agreeing.
“That’s probably a good idea.”

On their third wedding anniversary, Randy and Janine unlocked the door of their newly purchased home.
“When you go shopping, get a pound of hamburger sweetheart.”
Janine smiled and kissed her husband.
“I’ll write it on the list.”

Stella had moved with her fiancé to another state. The loneliness overwhelmed her at times so she had resorted to late night "driving" when she couldn't sleep. She had known that the day would come when her late night cruises would "hinder" her relationship with her fiancé. However, she simply could not tell him why she was doing it. What would he think? The thoughts would run wild through her mind during her quiet moments. But as she would race down the streets, passing through neighborhood after neighborhood at 2am, she thought nothing of his opinion of being left alone in their bed at night or of the aggravation that was building inside of him due to her being unwilling to talk about where she was going these late nights.

As she pulled into the driveway around 3am, she knew that something was definitely wrong. The walk from the car to her lit front porch felt like a slow motion scene from an action film. She paused as she reached for the door knob. His silhouette could be seen through the window. Forcing a surge of confidence, she turned the knob and walked into the cold hostile house.

She faced him, ready to explain where she had been and why, but the frustration that had been "festering" inside of him came out like steam from a tea kettle. Her attempts to "quell" his anger were met with accusations and dirty looks. Knowing full well that she had lost, she packed her bags and headed out to her car. With no family or friends to lean on for support, she decided to go to the local "poorhouse" to help her find her footing once again.

Stella knew that communication is a difficult task in most relationships but she had failed miserably anyway. Perhaps she would learn to love again. And if that time were to come, she would know to keep the communication lines open. It wouldn't be easy to overcome the pain and the failure of this lost love but she knew she could do it.

OK this is the most difficult thing that I have tried to do on this site. When I First saw the tread for a beginners text tournament I thought well why not. I have had all these ideas and they would surly be better written down on paper then to be left festering inside my head. I think I may have been a little hasty though, as time has muddled them quite a lot hindering there deployment. Now I know some of my ideas have been brilliant in there composition they have left a lot to be desired in there execution. In fact it couldn't’t be harder if I was to use a quell and ink or even a chisel and hammer for that matter. I can’t stop though not now. I have to get these ideas, these thoughts out of my head before they drive me crazy. It’s like having someone else's life playing in fast forward through my head, it hurts sometimes. I try not to think about it I try to keep my mind blank, drinking would make that a lot easier but it’s just not my style anymore. Not to mention the wife would kick me out of the house again if I even look at another bottle. So you see I have a dilemma on one hand I could just hit the bottle and be happy and content living in the poorhouse or out on the street or down some dark damp ally way where my thought would slowly eat away at my already decaying brain. Now on the other hand I could be the greatest writer of all time living with the very best that this world has to offer I will undoubtedly go completely insane in the process however, which does hold a form of escape from this world, this plain of existence at the very least. I think I will endeavor to continue in this text tourney as I prefer the padded cell to the damp alley. I might be crazy but I’m not stupid.