It was early evening and just starting to get dark outside, and I stood, sending the cat with a meow of complaint jumping to the floor. I stretched my arms and legs, then headed out to the kitchen. I turned the light on, walked to the kettle on the worktop, and flicked the switch. 

I dipped a teabag into the cup of hot water, burning my fingers in the process; I let it brew for a few seconds, then threw the hot wet bag into the bin beneath the counter. I added plenty of milk and sugar, then stirred the pale brew.

I leaned against the solid wood kitchen table and started sipping my weak tea as I gazed out of the window, down the length of the garden, and to the woods beyond.

Suddenly, caught in the fading light, a figure appeared, all in black, a hood pulled up. The person just stood at the end of the garden, barely visible against the black of the woods, and appeared to be watching me.

I thought at first that my eyes were deceiving me, as moments later, the figure disappeared into the blackness of the trees.

Grabbing my coat from the hook in the hallway, I unlocked the back door and stepped outside. I waited for a couple of minutes for my eyes to adjust to the darkening skies, then strode confidently up the garden path, past the swings that my son loves so much, and further toward the end of the garden. 

I looked around as I reached the fence bordering the garden and the trees, cursing silently for not bringing a torch. But there was nothing to indicate that someone had been there. Sighing, I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and returned to the kitchen’s warmth.

I turned the kitchen lights off and returned to the living room and the TV with its awful game show. I couldn’t concentrate on the questions and wasn’t attempting to answer any either. All I could think of was the figure in black. 

With the evening at a close and nighttime upon us, I rose and headed back into the kitchen. Leaving the lights off, I peered out the window and into the dark. The furthest reaches of the garden were in darkness and invisible without light, but from what I could see, all appeared to be quiet.

I double-checked the locks on the doors, turned the TV and the lights off, then headed upstairs to bed.

I awoke with a start. Something was wrong, but I was not fully awake; I didn’t know what. I looked at the clock; it was just after two in the morning. Why had I awoken so early?

I lay in bed listening to the silence, then arose, pulled a dressing gown over my pyjamas and went to the window. And there it was, the figure in black, barely visible in the darkness. Quietly, I took a torch from the bedside drawer and tiptoed through the house and down the stairs.

I shuffled slowly into the darkened kitchen and looked again at the figure in the garden. Quietly, I unlocked the kitchen door, pushed slowly as the hinges creaked, and stepped silently into the night.

Taking a longer route than before, I kept to the garden’s boundaries where the shadow from the hedges lay blackest, and from there, I skirted around my prey, sneaking quietly ever closer. I picked up a rock from the grassy floor; its smooth contours felt comfortable in my hand.

I was now behind the figure, so close that I was sure that my beating heart was loud enough for him to hear, but he didn’t, and I raised the rock above my head, then brought it crashing down upon him.

This person, this watcher, all in black, crumpled to the floor, and I grabbed his arm and dragged him over the grass and back to the house. I struggled with the kitchen door, but eventually, I got the prone figure into the kitchen. From there, I dragged him down the hallway, past the coat hooks and up to the cellar door and the steps leading to my favourite space.

I flicked the light switch and dragged my new friend slowly down the wooden steps and into my dungeon; I locked him in a small cage and headed back to bed, certain that he would not be escaping.

The following day, I awoke with the sun shining through the window and refreshed, I hopped out of bed and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where I prepared breakfast for my son and then called him from the bottom of the stairs. I sat back in the kitchen and sipped my first coffee.

Antony came bounding down the stairs and dived straight into his bowl of cornflakes. The bitterness of the coffee brought my senses back to reality, and the events of the night before returned, and inwardly, I smiled.

After breakfast, I ushered Antony out of the house and off to school, then quietly unlocked the cellar door. I was keen to have some fun with my captive, but before I got to the cage, I knew that he was already dead. Disgruntled, I unlocked the cage and dragged the watcher’s lifeless body onto the floor. I checked for a pulse, just in case, but there was none, so I dragged his corpse over to the white enamel bathtub, and with effort, I lifted his body up and let it fall with a thud. I sighed as I looked at the crumpled figure, grey and lifeless in the bathtub. I really was looking forward to torturing him, killing him slowly, listening to him beg for mercy, but maybe the blow to the head had been too hard. 

It wasn’t the first time that the initial blow had crushed the skull and caused almost instant death, and I made a mental note not to be so aggressive in the future.

I walked to the cupboard in the corner and selecting a key from the loop in my pocket, I unlocked and opened the door. The metal cupboard screeched as it opened, a sound that I loved but one that brought only fear to my victims, or at least those who were still alive.

I reached in and selected the saw, still red on the serrated blade from my last victim some months ago. I plugged it into the wall socket, then dressed myself in a disposable white suite. I pulled the hood tight, then pulled on the green rubber gloves. 

I admired myself in the dirty mirror for a few moments, then switched on the saw and watched with delight as the blade dug into the pale white flesh.

The post Stalking at the wrong house appeared first on Rob Joseph .

It was the first day of the rest of my life, the first whole day with my new wife.
Yesterday, we married in a quaint village church with ivy on the stone walls and a graveyard with ancient gravestones, mostly sunken and tilted and with lichen covering the symbols and inscriptions.
Red roses adorned the gardens of the village, and the people, mainly in the Autumn to Winter of their lives, had looked on from over the gates and hedges
The only guests were from my side of the family, as Darcy had lost her parents in a car crash some years before, and there were no siblings.
It had been a beautiful day; at one point, dark clouds had blotted out the sun, but the threat of rain had come to nothing.
The priest was an elderly and cheerful man who ushered me into the church at just the right moment, and I stood in front of the altar and waited for my beautiful bride to arrive.
The organist must have gotten the nod as the first bars of the wedding March echoed through the church, and I turned to see Darcy, all in white, stroll confidently down the aisle with Jake, a dear friend, as a chaperone.
It was breathtaking, and my heart rate soared as she approached me.
Letting Darcy go, Jake seated himself on a vacant pew, and I raised the veil that covered Darcy’s face. She glowed with a certain beauty reserved only for the best.
We turned to the priest, who stumbled. A shadow crossed his face, and he clutched tightly to the missal stand to stop himself from falling. The poor man was deathly pale and not well, but he straightened himself, made the cross sign, and started the ceremony.
The old priest looked frail, somehow beaten and out of energy. His hands shook, and his lips looked grey, but he carried on, and not a moment too soon, he pronounced us man and wife.

After the ceremony, with the obligatory throwing of the confetti and flowers, we headed deeper into the village, where the occupants of an old manor house awaited us, and all enjoyed dinner and wine followed by speeches and the traditional first dance.
The guests partied through the night, but holding Darcy’s hand tightly and clutching a bottle of champagne, we stumbled to our room and locked the door.

We awoke early to a bright, sunny day and headed downstairs to search for breakfast and coffee, anything to lessen the effects of too much alcohol. Darcy was glowing more than I had ever seen before, and the glow didn’t fade when we got the news that the priest from our ceremony had passed away just hours after our marriage.
I was shocked and saddened, but Darcy smiled and sipped some coffee.
It was as if she had already known of the passing; either that or she did not care.
After breakfast, we walked through the village, a charming place, peaceful and serine, but a dark cloud had appeared, and it crossed the sun, casting darkness over the land.
The locals hurried indoors and slammed the shutters tight as we passed or peaked secretively from behind closed curtains. Onward we walked, even after the first rumble of thunder echoed across the fields and the flash of lightning crackled up above.
“We have to turn back.”
I said,
“Before the rain starts.”
But Darcy just smiled, gripped my hand tighter, and we left the village behind us. Onwards, we walked up into the forested hills, past streams and the ruins of an old cottage. Up and up, we climbed as the first raindrops started to fall.
Eventually, out of breath, we stopped at the edge of a cliff with a fantastic view over the county. Despite the weather, we could see for what seemed like miles; we were sitting on a wet boulder and looking awestruck at the view.
But there seemed to be more as my new wife stood up, took my hand and led me again into the hills. Darcy led me to a rocky cliff face with an opening, a cave, and from within came light, bright and flickering.
“What is this?”
I thought as I hurried inside to shelter from the heavy rain. And Darcy led me deeper into the cavern, to a cave lit by a hundred candles, a man and woman at the edge, cloaked in hessian robes and an altar to the side.
From behind, unseen hands grabbed me and pulled me to the floor, and someone stabbed my neck with a needle. My vision began to blur; then darkness took me.
When I recovered, I found myself lying in the centre of the circle of candles and dressed in a hessian robe. Beside me lay Darcy, smiling. She reached over and took my hand.
“Don’t fear, my love, for this is my family and our wedding day. And now, we shall be together for all eternity. We shall burn in the fires of Satan; together, we shall offer up our souls to the one true lord, and people will fear us. Together, we will be strong, the walls of Jericho will fall beneath our wrath, and we shall sit at the table with Satan himself and drink the blood of Christians as we eat their flesh.”
I struggled under the binds holding me to the floor but could not move. I screamed out, but no one could hear me.
The man and woman started chanting in a language unknown to me, and I could hear my wife, my Darcy, chanting the same lament. I struggled harder, but it was to no avail. Then, the chanting stopped in a heartbeat, and an eerie silence enshrouded the cave. All I could hear was the crackling and spitting of the candles and the sound of the rain outside.
The man stepped forward, the light of the candles casting his face into shadow, and he held a dagger in his hand. Kneeling above us, he murmured a satanic prayer, then thrust the blade deep into my wife’s chest. She screamed in pain, and I felt her hand tighten on mine as blood poured from her mouth. Her eyes flashed brightly, but the light faded, and she fell silent.
I struggled again, but it was impossible to break free, and now, the man had started his prayer to Satan again. He raised his dagger as he raised his voice, and all I remember is the light shining from a pendant before the blade flashed again and a steering pain took hold of my body, and I spasmed before the light in my eyes faded as well.

Over 1100 words, this piece is my longest to date. Once I got started, the words just flowed, up until the end. I had to think of an ending, but I got there in the end.

The post A wonderful wedding day appeared first on Rob Joseph .

The year 2015

A genetic modification caused by a Russian chemical accident has polluted the Earth, and people feel it far and wide.

Months have passed, and the cleanup, mainly by Western countries, has lost the battle with nature, as deep Russian snow has now blanketed the icy Steppe. 

The engineers from the West are at a stop. The pollution is too deep and the ground too hard.

Darkness has befallen the world, and the consequences remain to become apparent.

Present Day

With the cleanup in Russia at an end, the Earth has been left to soak up the pollutants and dilute the chemical itself, but it is all too late. The months of silence from the Russian state have caused untold damage to the planet. If only they had come clean at the start and had not denied the accident, there could have been hope, but it is not to be. 

Now, the signs of the spill are showing themselves. Babies are born weak with illnesses, and the old and infirm are dying sooner than expected. The wildlife population is fading out, with extinction threatening their very survival

But in a small group of islands commonly known as Great Britain, another most curious symptom of the accident has come to pass.

Every year, as Autumn approaches, the leaves no longer change to the beautiful golden browns, the wonderful yellows and the mesmerising deep, firey reds. Instead, the colour of the change mimics the mood of the population. 

A strange development, undoubtedly, forces the political parties to bend to the people’s will. If all is well, the leaves change to a royal blue, with edges of purple; if the people are not satisfied, Grey becomes the colour of Autumn, a miserable colour that will lead us into a cold, drab winter.

Over the years, political parties have used the new Autumn as a barometer of the people. Arguments in the Houses of Parliament use Autumn as evidence of the current ruling party’s inabilities, and these arguments are valid.

But now, Autumn is almost upon us again, and the leaves have started to change. The world is looking in, and news crews from around the globe have begun to assemble at probably the most famous of all forests, the great Sherwood Forest, home to the legendary Robin Hood.

And as the leaves begin to change into Autumn’s flowery gown, it is seen that black is the colour of choice. Never in the post-accident years has an Autumn turned as black as coal; what does it mean? What is this change?

As the political parties argue their points, the first rioter throws the first brick, and crowds gather in the darkened corners of suburbia. Brick after brick smashes through shop windows, petrol bombs light up the sky, and the burning cars create barricades across the streets. 

Toxteth, Salford, Tottenham, and Cardiff are all burning through the night as looting takes priority. The police are powerless and vulnerable to attack, and gunfire echoes through the streets of Chelsea and Birmingham.

As shops and houses burn, the government crouches in the shadows of Big Ben, a symbol of democracy, but now nothing but a witness to the anarchy on the streets. 

Lawlessness is what black Autumn means; this is the people’s mood. 

 And as Britain burns under the wrath of the population and the people rise, the king sits up on the hill. He picks up the phone, types in a pre-arranged number, and waits for the call to connect. 

A strange story this one. It makes me wonder what actually goes on in my head. At first, I didn’t like it, and I very nearly gave up on it, but I had a cup of tea, did some editing, and here it is. Black.

The post Autumn is almost upon us. appeared first on Rob Joseph .

He hung from the old wooden cross; the blood and sweat ran in rivers down his side. It oozed slowly beneath the white cloth wrapped tightly around his waist and crept slowly down his thigh.
The blood from his hands collected in large drops around the nail that kept his hand firmly in place and fell, one at a time, from his palms.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, the blood from the thorns on his brow dripping, running and blurring his vision.

Nasir, a young boy from the village, ran to the foot of the cross; he reached up and clasped the feet of Christ tightly and wept. The blood from the feet ran down Nasir’s hands and arms, and in extreme devotion, he licked the blood of Christ from his fingers, savouring the metallic flavour and feeling the liquid on his tongue.

Nasir, a quiet boy, stood, looked up to the blue sky, and murmured a prayer silently to himself, then turned, embittered with an unexpected fury; he leapt from the base of the cross and snapped the neck of the nearest soldier. He grabbed the spear from the dead soldier’s hand and thrust it deep into the chest of a second guard before taking his sword.

The people from the village, local farmers eager to see the crucifixion, crouched on the floor as Nasir ended the lives of everyone, leaving a trail of blood in his wake before emitting a scream and bounding down the hill to the village.

With manic eyes aglow, the pupils a deep blood red, he searched the village for more sinners who had abandoned Christ in his hour of need.
He searched high and low through every house, slaughtering the innocent until no one was left to punish.

Satisfied that the job was complete, Nasir knelt on the dusty floor and begged forgiveness for his merciless killing, and with deadly precision, he turned the blade on himself and thrust it deeply into his stomach.

The blood pooled around him, and slowly, as Nasir crumpled forward, it soaked into the earth.

Suddenly, his eyes opened, and his red pupils glowed in the burial chamber where he lay. His hands felt for the wound in his stomach that must be there but found nothing. What was this madness? He thought as he kicked his legs from off the earthen shelf. His shroud, stained copper red from the wound, fell to the floor beside him.

Nasir made his way past the bodies that lay, each alone and on an earthen shelf until daylight guided him to the exit and fresh air. A door barred his way, so he turned the iron ring and pushed. With a squeal of complaint, the hinges moved, and the door slowly opened.

Nasir looked around at the scene that lay before him. Stone gravestones, overgrown and tilted, inscriptions barely legible, markers for the deceased. Wearing nothing but a cloth around his waist, Nasir walked through the monuments in search of anything.

At the edge of the graveyard was an iron fence and, beyond that, a church with a steeple covered in ivy.

Nasir passed through the wrought iron gate and descended the path to the large wooden church doors. He pushed, and the door swung quietly open, revealing a dark interior lit only by large stained glass windows and candles burning near the altar.

From a back room, a priest appeared; old and bent, he shuffled his way to the altar and made the sign of the cross before turning to Nasir and saying,
“Come, my child, we have been waiting for you.”
And Nasir just smiled.

The End.

I’m not sure how this story will go down, it’s not meant to offend, it’s just a story. I did plan to have Nasir wake up after 3 days, but I finally opted for 2000 years, although the timeline is never mentioned.

The post A crucifixion and the blood of Christ appeared first on Rob Joseph .

fish casting shadows from deep in the murky water, dark shapes moving slowly amongst the emerald weed, as they swim, feeding on the insignificant, the lesser beings.

peace and tranquility with never a care, just white clouds drifting across the pale blue skies. Summer sun and daisy chains, cool freshly pressed lemonade to quench the thirst.

a scribbling on old paper, a quill moving in dark ink. Pink paper blotting out the words of fear and hatred as the clouds slowly drift over the sun.

in the distance black skies are forming, thunder clouds build and threaten a deluge, but not today my friend, for today is part of the dream, and nothing can happen in a dream

Rob Joseph.

This was my first attempt at something akin to poetry. It’s not a great piece of writing, but I like it all the same.

The post The Dream of a Summer Day appeared first on Rob Joseph .

To be a real short story, my work needed a minimum of 1500 words, and mine was just a lowly 900 words.

But my dismay was not permanent, for I had unwittingly created a work of Flash Fiction, which is a work of about 500 to 1000 words.
I was elated, I had found my new niche, and my comfort zone had a name and a cool name it is.

This blog is for me to publish, and for you dear reader, to enjoy my writing, my works of fiction, and flash fiction.

The post Flash Fiction, my new niche appeared first on Rob Joseph .