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2014 contributions are here.

Below is a selection of contributions from last year, presented in a random order.

They lean over her. Warm, stiff cups of hot liquid are pushed up against her lips. Hands clamp down on her. Fingers poke, eyes probe. The faces that stare down from above are shiny, polished, pulled taunt. They are not human at all. They grimace at the noises she makes, they frown when she talks to them, they wince at the touch of her. Perhaps, she thinks, they don't understand at all. Their full, sticky lips and painted blue eyelids and thickly contoured cheeks and long, sharp fingernails are not what she is used to, what she knows. They must be aliens.

She needs to get out. She pulls herself up from the beige chair that envelops her. When the aliens have gone, she makes her way to the door. The sun outside gets in her eyes.

A man crosses the road, away from the park, just as she lets the glass door click shut behind her. He isn't an alien. His face is crinkled. His eyes search her.

'Have you seen the aliens?' she asks him. She keeps her voice low and urgent, in case they hear. She knows they can hear everything she says about them; they tell her so when they give her baths.

The man doesn't reply. He takes her by the arm and steers her back inside. The aliens thank him greatly. Everyone, she thinks, is against me.

AUTHOR: Florence Molly

Have you seen them?

Have you seen them?

Over and over, she asked, her quavering voice rising in agitation. Arthritic fingers clutching anxiously at their sleeves, hands, bags.

You must have seen them?

They were meant to be here. Meant to be here.

Meant to take me with them this time.

Promised me.


People saw her, heard her desperate pleading, gave her a wide birth, hoping to avoid any awkwardness. They had seen nothing. Shaking their heads and looking away, they scurried past, not wishing to become involved.

Doubtless someone would come for her soon.

Safely inside their cloaked ship the aliens watched and waited.

AUTHOR: Denise Sparrowhawk

This morning there was a mother and her small son sat two rows in front of her on the top deck of the bus. They got on at the train station and little boy was already talking, in the way only a child new to speech and reasoning can. 'Do I have to wear these shoes? I like the blue ones better. Isn't it strange how slowly Nana walks, she's much bigger than me - why isn't she faster? Can we have yellow curry for tea?' The questions were incessant, but the patient voice and gentle fussing of his mother were pleasing to hear.

'But where are we going Mummy?'

'You will see when we get there.' Age old question. Age old answer.

'Well, who are we going to see?'

This time she seemed less certain and Sara was suddenly conscious that she was eavesdropping, although the woman hadn't noticed and didn't seem to care. 'You'll see soon, little pickle.'

As the bus drew closer to the centre of town, the woman started to gaze nervously out of the window 'What are you looking at Mummy?'

'There! He's there' She let out her breath as if she had not truly breathed out in months. The little boy scrambled onto her lap to look out of the window, pressing his hands and face against the glass.

There was a man with glasses, taking photos of the buses, but it was obviously this pair on this bus he had been looking out for.

AUTHOR: Kate Forester
PROMPT LOCATION: Churchill Square

The train pulls into Falmer station. On the platform two male students are trying to lift a canoe in a jeering crowd of Albion supporters, as the carriage doors open the crowd floods in.

'Christ,' Jan says, 'If I'd known there was a game today I'd have stayed home!' We make ourselves look small, try not to be seen by the blue and white wave of men pushing onto the train, two young girls out alone on a train full of blokes is a scenario we would usually avoid. We watch the students with the canoe. It slides and rolls as they try to control it, slippery in the drizzle.

Jan nudges me; one of the students is Rick who she went out with a while ago, she really liked him but finished it because he was always off canoeing every weekend.

She turns and whispers, - 'the trouble with him was that he was all canoe and no canoodle' - I giggle but she sounds kind of wistful, he’s very good looking, in a tousle-haired baby-faced sort of way and I know she really liked him.

Two of the footie fans have got off the train and are helping to carry the canoe over to the doors. The guard appears and stops them. Pushing the two Albion supporters back onto the train he rings the bell and we pull slowly out of the station. Jan and I look back as we move away. On the platform Rick and his mate are still struggling with the canoe. In the carriage a rather rousing version of 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' has broken out. Jan and I busy ourselves with our mobile phones, I'm trying not to laugh but I think she might be crying.

AUTHOR: Suzanne Lively
PROMPT LOCATION: University Of Sussex

"Well look what the cat dragged in," said Jess sardonically to his fellow publican whilst the brown mottled Rottweiler ate hungrily and with a ferocity which caused alarm amongst the regulars. The dog's teeth could be heard cracking and crunching crazily over a bloody and stumpy arm with little sign remaining of it previous life. Bang bang bang. The police entered with an armed response team and put down the animal as shots were fired into it contorting body and half heartedly attempted to draw blood with his sharpened fangs into an elderly women in a wheelchair centimetres away with its head groaning when finally it past out with a low level moan.

The dog was dead but many questions remained. Everyone looked aghast in a state of shock. Wherever that came from was a mystery and one that nobody cared for.

It was the recession and everyone was busy with their own problems. The dog breathed his last and calmly went to sleep in the garden taking its secrets to the grave.

AUTHOR: David Denton
PROMPT LOCATION: Brunswick Square

A person on stilts is queuing at a cash point.

Well, there might as well have been, or even me waiting there, waiting for a brace of crisp tenners in the fist.

And picture me now, yes, like a big, fat clown standing at the back of the queue. Yes, go on, chuckle your cheeks. But not yet, wait. No, on this day I strolled down the hill. This queue, it stretched out long the pavement, and blocked the way. I'd have to say,

'Excuse me,'

or something pretty just to squeeze past. There was a dwarf, two lesbian lady-mods, and a man dressed as a woman. I hadn't lived here long and,

'Brighton' I sniffed, and thought something clever like 'beacon city of diversity.' I could see the sea.

I say 'sniffed,' and you hate me already - you know, mine is a good sniff, please. Voices low, for I am in love with Brighton, though the wife says, says, glass in hand, she says she wants

'To take us gay-clubbing,'

which takes me back twenty years. Rather, and reckon - a 'softies club' would suit me best. However, more than likely I'd throw my arms around on the dance-floor. Big daisy-me smacks a bouncer in the spin. Daydream...again.

Oh, the cash-point. I twisted my feet, or legs and tripped full pelt down on the pavement. Proper shocker it was, like a heart attack and I'm only forty on the clock. The women, the little guy and the...woman all rushed across to lend a hand.

'Another city drunk,' I heard someone say.

Of course I wanted to say...anything...but,

'Thank you,' came twice, and I stumbled along for my milk from the Co-op.

AUTHOR: Mat Woolfenden
Mat's Blog

Malvolio Claxendell finishes his macchiato and leaves the local Coffee House. The uncertainty remains - which way does he need to go to cross the Seven Dials roundabout. By the Great Elm he bumps into Sister Frida, from the Convent of Theodora. The two old adversaries share an uncomfortable moment as they wait for the traffic to ease, and are then obstructed from crossing by a line of school children in yellow polo shirts who weave across the road. This chattering snake is headed by a tall willowy woman whose dress billows around her, a beacon for her wards. Eventually Claxendell and Frida stumble along after the older woman who sweeps up the dawdling tail. On the far side Sister Frida looks nervously at Claxendell..

'Are you still thinking of taking the Convent to court?'

He glares at her. 'Not if you give me back my Daguerreotype!' They go their separate ways.

AUTHOR: Roger Noble
Roger's Blog

I'm sitting waiting, the car thrums around me. I always get stuck at this junction, just round the corner from the school. If it's not the old people coming out of the post office after getting their pensions, and creeping across the crossing it's a line of students in yellow polo shirts crossing the road with teachers at either end. This morning I am particularly pushed for time and have already been sitting here for a good minute or so, there was a young girl with a dog that got tangled up halfway across and caused an upset with an old boy with a basket of potatoes. Then, while all that was going on the school kids appeared and had a whale of a time kicking the damn potatoes here there and everywhere. The teachers just got them sorted and over the road when madam here appeared with her granny. Still she is very attractive, the girl not the granny. Early twenties I would say, lovely red lipstick and dark cropped hair. Striking, you know the sort, and her skirt sort of lifts and floats in a most enticing way. I could sit here all day really just watching it wafting gently round her thighs, her legs are very tanned and go all the way up and up...

I need to look away, I think she realises her skirt is mesmerising not just me but the bloke in the cement lorry behind, and probably the postman too judging by the look on his face. There she goes, granny is safely on the pavement, the show is over. I rev the engine, hoping to make some sort of impressive growl as I pull away. Oh bugger how embarassing the bloody thing's stalled...

AUTHOR: Suzanne Lively

Most nights I'm woken by the whirling of the helicopter blades. A powerful light searches the gardens like a giant torch. Never sure what the Police are looking for. We've never had any drug dealers or burglars in Portslade Old Village. Our drug dealer is the local doctor who gives out Viagra and Prozac like sweeties. A nice young man in a dark suit who thinks we geriatrics should be happy and at it like rabbits. We sell them on to the middle aged; they are the ones that need happiness in their stale, barren lives. No final salary pensions for them to look forward to.

Doris, sleeps like the dead, her thigh warm to my touch, I can't hear her breathing I'm deaf. Sometimes that's a blessing. We've been together for 5 years. My wife upped and died and Doris started helping out and never went home. Not sure what nationality she is and what language she speaks but she smiles a lot. Sometimes I wonder if the light is searching for her. Where would they send her? Who would make my meals, scratch my back and sing me to sleep? I've come full circle like the rotating blades that fly overhead.

AUTHOR: Stella Turner
PROMPT LOCATION: Portslade Old Village

The hum of blades slicing at the air cuts through my thoughts and I lower my book. "Is that a helicopter?" I ask my husband.

He goes to the windows and peers out, drawing the blinds closed. "It's nothing," he assures me.

"No, I am pretty sure that's a helicopter," I murmur, setting my book aside.

My husband picks up the remote and turns up the TV to drown out the noise. Behind the obnoxious laugh track of the sitcom, I can still make out the pit-pat sound of the rotors.

"It's almost ten," I say, heading to the window. "What are they doing, flying so low so late at night?"

"Who knows?" he grumps. "Get away from the window and go back to your book."

"Wait," I say as a muffled voice catches my ear. "I think they're saying something..."

I rush to the door and step out into the back yard. Yes, it is a helicopter, flying low with a white beam scanning this way and that. In the ambient light of the sunset I can just make out the police star on the tail.

"PWAHGEBAINYRHW" a static distorted burst of noise fills the air. If it was ever meant to be intelligible, the meaning is lost us below. The helicopter circles low and the white spotlight finds me. I hold my hand up to protect my eyes from the blinding light.

"PWAHGEBAINYRHW" the strange voice barks again.

"David," I call to my husband. "David, come look. I think they are trying to tell us something..."

The helicopter overhead sways, throwing its tail out, hovering just overhead. The noise is deafening. The pitter patter of blades has evolved into a massive bass drum beat that I can feel at my core, competing with my heartbeat.

"GEBAINYRHW" the voice yells impatiently.

"I don't know what you're saying!" I yell back at the helicopter. My words are lost in the wind. The downdraft from the helicopter tosses everything about in the yard. Stray plastic bags, toys from the neighbors... our trash bins tip.

After a moment, the helicopter bobs and flies away into the night like a bizarre glowing dragonfly.

I watch it go, perplexed. I never understood what they were trying to tell me. I guess I will never know.

Heading back into the house, I try to pat my wind tossed hair back into place and find a leaf along with a torn corner of magazine. It is going to be a nightmare brushing this out. I sigh and head for the bathroom.

"That was odd, wasn't it, David?" I call.

No answer. I head back into the living room, hair still a mess, to glare at my annoying significant other. The chair is overturned and the news is on.

"What on earth...?" I say as I step around the chair and turn up the volume.

"...where authorities have told us they have just apprehended the notorious serial killer..."

That's funny... the house on TV looks exactly like...

AUTHOR: T.T Escurel
PROMPT LOCATION: Portslade Old Village

"Huge clouds of dust are coming from a shop," he says as he disengages himself from the grip of my cold fingers.

"Where?"I say, and he points to a derelict shop with 'Marigold's hair salon' fading in dirty mauve above a white washed window. But i see no dust, no smoke, or anything at all.

"Oh," I say and he continues, encouraged.

"Can you hear the machine? The cutting machines?"

"Hair cutting?" I ask

"No! Of course not. Wood cutting. It's sawdust. Tiny particles of it. There are men in there cutting up wood frantically!"

"Why?" I ask.

They are making a bench, for the hair salon, for people to sit while they wait, and it has a door, like a chest, and inside, they will keep all their hair dressing paraphernalia. The salon opens on Monday. They are in a hurry.

He has stopped walking and is standing opposite the shop, all I can see is the pale shadow of his reflection in the white washed window.

"Hold my hand again," I say, and he does.

His hand is hot and sweaty. I can almost feel it pulsing in mine. I look back at the empty shop as we walk away, and a puff of smoke comes out of the crack in the top of the door, like a thin ribbon, with a ball on the end.

It's a hopeful sign, but I'm not sure if I'm imagining it.

AUTHOR: Tara Gould

Stuffed owl. My dad thought it would be a good idea to give me. It was the last thing I remember about him.

He was leaning on a bus, smoking a Cuban cigar, his grey wolf hair sprayed out like he'd stuck his finger in an electric socket. 'Say thank you,' said mum, as she nudged me in the ribs. I didn't know what to say. I was 8. 'It's life-like' I said. Then mum was crying and dad leaned down and said 'hey, I'm going on a journey, but you know what? life is a big journey. make sure you ride that highway sometime.' I said 'whatever' and watched my dad climb inside the National Express and it went. It was 10 o'clock at night. This was the 7th time my dad went on one of his trips. One of mum's friends later mumbled something about hippies. I never made the connection. I later discovered the owl had been stolen. He took it. I felt honoured, even though he never came back.

AUTHOR: Amy Solis

Leaving the cinema I zip up my coat so it covers the bottom of my chin, put my hands in my pockets and keep my head down. I walk as quickly as I can.

A late night showing of a horror film is a guilty pleasure for me. Whilst they lost their ability to scare me a long time ago, I am alone. I am yet to survive the walk up the dark, winding ramp back up to the main road. I expect to to hear the thudding bass of two competing car stereos, but they appear to have disappeared since I arrived. Asda's car park is empty. I hear no footsteps. I see no cars.

There is nothing but a stray trolley. It blocks my path. I push it gently out of my way thoughtlessly. Pins and needles shoot up my arm and I jump back startled. It takes me a moment to process what just happened. I heard, no I felt something lunge towards my arm.

Something is in the trolley.

My instincts tell me to run.

I edge closer to it. I extend my hand for my own protection. I crouch down and shuffle towards it. In the trolley there is movement from within a large box.

My fingers creep over the metal cage of the trolley and find their way to cardboard. Slowly, my index finger hooks under one of the flaps. It opens...

AUTHOR: Christian Connell
PROMPT LOCATION: Brighton Marina

Presently, the creature is not happy. This is an understatement. The creature is really, thoroughly pissed off. Not the 'cross' you get when you walk through the bathroom in your socks and realise someone didn't use the bath-mat, so your socks are now wet and you're running late anyway and it really wouldn't have taken a second kind of cross. Not even the kind of 'cross' when you realise there's no loo-roll, when it's already too late to stop and there's no-one else home.

This is more of an intergalactic rage. More of an 'I've travelled billions of light-years across the galaxy and now there's nowhere to park' kind of rage. Or more specifically, it would appear, an extreme disappointment in the reading material at the Jubilee Library. It had asked for 'the secrets of your small watery planet', or rather 'THE SECRETS OF YOUR SMALL WATERY PLANET' and seeing as It didn't seem a patient kind of creature, the Library had seemed like the best bet.

At first it had seemed content. It had prowled up and down the isles, seemingly absorbing information from the books as it passed. We had taken it to the reference section first, but It seemed genuinely more satisfied by the novels and the poetry. It had glowed with an amber sheen while passing the Irish poets, thrilled with a turquoise glow at Shakespeare.

When it had passed every book in the building and was obviously hungry for more, we decided the internet was the natural next step.That was when the trouble started.

There is a loud sound of splintering glass and the desks, screens and associated wires crash into the empty street in front of us.

AUTHOR: Kate Forester
PROMPT LOCATION: Jubilee Library

Four people with sports bags are looking over the wall by the King Alfred Leisure Centre, two girls with wet hair, both in non-branded casual sweats, looking a bit flushed from whatever they've been doing at the King Fred, as it's localy known, possibly just swimming, but could just as easily be some kind of modern twist combo of martial arts, like say... kungfujistu or summat. The blokes though are quite different from each other, one handsome big brutish military/builder type wearing short shorts and a vest, 90s tribal tattoos all the way up one arm and a no.2 crop, similar size to a small house, the other lean and wiry and about 5" zero, wearing a quite tight dark blue adidas tracksuit, mean-looking. I think the girls know each other, but I'm not sure about the lads, possibly gym buddies, maybe lovers, it's difficult to tell these days, dunno what they're looking at, but they look happy, chatting and laughing, pointing.

AUTHOR: Mark Jones
PROMPT LOCATION: King Alfred Leisure Centre

Six range rovers with blacked out windows are parked outside a house.

"One of our Range Rovers has been stolen!" shrieked Tabatha, looking out of the window.


The call had only just come in. A woman had been spotted on the roof of the old brewery. Miles' instructions were to sweep the area and confirm the sighting before finishing his shift. Glancing at the clock, he realised he was running out of time if he wanted to spook his companion; a thought that had increased in prominence as the afternoon had worn on and crumbs and wrappers had started to carpet his floor. Miles couldn't stand it any more.

He took the helicopter lower, following the winding road of the high street until he could see Le Carbone up ahead. There was someone there, clinging to the old chimney just like the stone-huggers did at Avebury.

"Do you think she's a jumper?"

"Probably." Miles had stuck to one-word answers all afternoon but still Peters had failed to get the message. It was obvious his wife had said nothing to her lover. Miles just wanted it all to be over.

"You know if someone's going to do themselves in, I think they should just get on and do it," said Peters. "Stop prevaricating."

Miles nodded quietly to himself. He had had his dark moments, teetering on the brink on more than one occasion, like the woman on the roof. Now Peters had given him the permission he needed. He allowed the helicopter to descend further. The factory chimney was now straight ahead. "No more prevarication," he muttered.

AUTHOR: Steph Ellis
PROMPT LOCATION: Portslade Old Village

A woman in her 80s is asking people whether they have seen the aliens.

I don't respond, as I'm too distracted by the strange movement and noises of the trees in front of me. A slight sway of the leaves on their branches and a tiny expansion and contraction of their trunks, accompanied by a faint but clear hum that cuts through the noise of people at play in the park. This ageing woman's eyesight and hearing has failed her - the ones she is looking for are here, amongst the wood and foliage, sending out a force that may be keeping us alive.

AUTHOR: Gary Green
Gary's Playtime

Murt tooks this as a sign. His sketchy watching of crackly Earth films seemed like a good grounding back in the Dumplands. "Take me to your leader!"

Mrs Radford's hearing wasn't quite what it had been, "A nice cup of tea dear? Have you seen the aliens?" His grimace seemed to reassure her. Leading him off in the direction of the tea van she kept up a steady stream of conversation, "You can trust me. I expect they've been sent by the council. They said I'd put the wrong rubbish in the bins, how was I supposed to know?"

he liquid burnt his throat; some sort of test, he supposed. It wouldn't do to offend them now he'd finally made contact. "Are you the Grand one?" he asked. "Granny? Yes, although my Billy hasn't visited in such a long time. Are you a friend of Billy's?" What was the right answer? In the Dumplands his smuggler had warned him they'd test him. She looked fierce, and that container she held could contain powerful weapons. "My Billy? You know him?" A breath...."Yes." Wrong answer, she was reaching into the black receptacle..."Custard cream, dear? You never know what they put in the food these days . I always bring my own."

Now what? What is it? She seemed to want him to take the strange, oblong tablet. "I have one already" he said. "I knew you weren't from the council. Have you seen them? The aliens?" Her eyes seemed to glow strangely, a sort of mist over them. "Is she a melder?" Murt wondered. Mrs Radford yawned, "it's nearly my nap time dear. Let's go home. I've got a nice piece of haddock for later, there's enough for two."

AUTHOR: Virginia

Behind stalk-topped irises of free flying eyes, a question bubbles up, explodes in the cortex of a dinosaurs thought. She's been waiting, evolving, searching the sky with a sly upside glance. Ready to interpret signs, any signs. Like a too low rainbow, a glitch in the toad, the weird sleep fog that stretches inland, or the pronunciation of the pebbles on the beach whispering the precise location of the unit she can fit within.

Alas a cornucopia of possible vessels are awaiting the body mold in readiness to vacate Earth, ready to select and eject her soul, but she is running late. Obviously her designated ship will be camouflaged with a metamorphic mirror, so, it could be the shimmying shuttles of dandelions, which become reverse parachutes waiting to escort her energy into the ether?

A tree stump that will twirl like a spinning top and corkscrew upways through the ozone? Or the skeletons of bioluminescent leaves combining to form the scaffolding of a woven web ship.

Everything is an alien in hiding.

Nature is an alien language ready to be read right so it's free to unlock the lock but she's still against the clock.

Her perception of time differs from ours; she's been here since the 1880's pestering the residents about the exodus she thinks she's missed. Maybe you've seen her? Poor Xeno. Wherever she looks she sees aliens. Do you?

AUTHOR: Adam J Wimbush

"Aliens? No love, have you seen a doctor?"

Tamara pinched Scott's arm.


The old woman ignored them and approached the couple sitting on the bench.

"I think we should move back to London, you get all sorts of crazy people around here." They continued to walk. Tamara knew there was something wrong. The children were silent and stayed close to their parents, the dogs barked and growled as the haunting sound of crackling twigs and rustling leaves echoed through the wind and among the trees.

"Aliens, seriously? Scott..."

Scott froze on the spot. Beneath the nearby bush a thin, silvery hand with only three stick-like fingers crept out.

AUTHOR: Samina Bhatti

A radio from an open window announces that a body has been discovered in Brighton.

I know from the description WHAT it is and wonder if the authorities realise it is not dead, just resting? They'll soon realise once its body eases itself into life after the long and ancient sleep it has had. They'll soon wish they had never disturbed it. I regret it already. I must plan my escape from here.

AUTHOR: Gary Green
Gary's Playtime
PROMPT LOCATION: Patcham Village

There is wind so strong it is blowing people down the street.

This isn't the best time to bring the rubbish out, particularly when the bag is full to bursting and something sharp is poking through but it has to be done. It's not far to the communal bin, just across the road. There's a man to the left in a blue mac struggling to to get his letter into the post box. I worry that it will fly off into the road and he will blindly chase it but he manages to get it in. I look away from him, not wanting him to be aware that I've observed this moment of his.

This road is a nightmare to cross at the best of times. I could walk up to the lights but then there's no green man to guide me so instead I follow the blue mac man who's chancing it and heading straight across. It's a fight as the wind pushes back and for a moment I think I'm not going to get to the other side without being clipped by a car. The bag is starting to stretch more and I worry that any second the contents will spill out and the whole street will know what I've been eating for dinner, what brand of toothpaste I buy and the fact that sometimes I forget to recycle the odd tin can. Luckily I make it safely over and shuffle quickly down to the bin, lifting the sack up from the bottom and chuck it in. I cringe slightly and wipe my left hand on my jeans, wet from undefined bin juice. I turn the corner to take the seafront scenic route into the centre of Brighton,following the same path as blue mac man...

AUTHOR: Christian Connell
PROMPT LOCATION: Lower Rock Gardens

The diminutive figure of Rabbi Oud Ramonides struggles down the street. The wind is so strong it is blowing people along. He is visiting his daughter, Kugarita Zinfandel, and they are meeting at Moudi's Emporium. He stops for a moment to shelter by the Great Elm, and spots his daughter scurrying towards him. She throws her arms around him, and drags him to the cafe. They stumble in, and collapse into the nearest chairs. Ahmed welcomes them with a complimentary cup of Tantric Iftar, a tisane of his own blend of exotic herbs, and they order the Friday special - Aubergine Kvetch.

AUTHOR: Roger Noble
Roger's Blog
PROMPT LOCATION: Lower Rock Gardens

Sister Missikin is breathing heavily. These are her final hours.

Her room is cool, and somewhere there is tranquil music playing. Sister Frida comes in to see if the dying woman needs anything. She hears a harsh rasping. Life is not being gentle with the elderly nun. Her body is taut, and from time to time she thrashes out and moans. Frida sees that in her gnarled hands she is holding a twisted card. She approaches and gently eases it free. It is a crumpled photo of a couple in their 20s with the Palace Pier behind. Looking closely she sees it is the young Sister Missikin standing with a handsome young man, his arms around her. The dying nun opens her eyes. Frida shows her the picture. She looks at it for a long time and then smiles. Gradually her body relaxes. She sighs, and says one word. 'Yes.'

And again she is asleep.

AUTHOR: Roger Noble
Roger's Blog
PROMPT LOCATION: Brighton Station

The photograph startled me. I recognised the people in it straight away - my parents. It must have only been a few years before my birth. I recalled old photos of them I had found and was able to picture their youthful faces. However, that's not really why I was surprised. It was the fact that the woman bore my father's face and the man my mother's... both shifted into the other's body.

AUTHOR: Gary Green
Gary's Playtime
PROMPT LOCATION: Brighton Station

A low mist hung across the ground like a eerie blanket.

'No one should be up this early in the morning.' thought Johnson, he also thought he should be used to it by now after 10 years on the force but that wasn't the case. He'd got the call at 4am to head down to Stanmer Park pronto, something big was happening. As he weaved his way through the trees, he could see the police warning tape up ahead fluttering in the wind like some kind of morbid bunting. As he arrived he was greeted by the always sour faced Detective Inspector Ronson, maybe he hated early mornings as much as Johnson?

"Over there, prepare yourself" said Ronson in a voice that hinted at the horror that lay beyond the tape, no "Good Morning" today then. As he entered the white tent he could smell the blood before he saw it, and then he saw it...

AUTHOR: Kelly Edwards

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