The Scion Manifests in Day

– Where are we?

– We are in Sunnarr’s hands now.

– Will he protect us?

– YES, he will hold on tight and never let us go.

– Will he make sure we are fed?

– NO, we will have to look for food ourselves.

– Will he clothe us?

– NO, we must go forth and find fabrics, and then tailor them to our needs.

– Will he shelter us from stormy weather and the upcoming winds?

– NO, we must build places of refuge in His name.

– Will he point to the right path and show us the way?

– NO, he will open our eyes to the territory, but will not draw us a map.

– Are we not just as hungry, homeless, weather- beaten, and lost as we have ever been?

– NO, for we are ‘the Scion’ and will be forever more.

– Will tomorrow not just be like any other day?

– NO, we will rise early and, before light, we will slaughter our enemy as they sleep.

– Will we praise Him as we lubricate our bodies and quench our thirst with their blood, and make new weapons with their bones?

– YES, for we start as we mean to go on and nothing can stop us, not even the oncoming night, the darkness that falls or the eclipse that threatens our God; for Sunnarr shines brightly, glows heavenly and burns knowingly.



THE FIRST THING I HEARD THAT NIGHT was an annoying tap- tap- tap, as my head lay on the pillow.

I guessed it was some fucker knocking on my door, that ludicrous ‘I know it’s late, so I don’t want to be too loud, but I want to wake you’ type of knock. I opened my eyes to see a flitting black blur of a- shit!- a bird? or even a bat? Heart racing, I leapt out of bed, and fumbled for the light switch. The illuminated room showed a small black moth- no bigger than the palm of my hand- flapping manically against my bedroom wall; it seemed to want to bypass the going around and, quite pathetically instead, just go straight through it. Why not just go out the way you came in, idiot? Actually, how did you get in?

I’m not getting any sleep till I get that fucker. So I opened the window, grabbed a magazine and thought I’d start with the wafting option. I took huge, theatrical waves with the magazine, hoping to blow it away from the light bulb it had suddenly decided to dance around.  Nothing– it didn’t move it. Not a damn inch. In actual fact I was probably helping the li’l devil to get his groove on, because it just seemed to excite him more, and he kept moving, bopping and getting down, totally at my expense, as I stood there naked, bringing a copy of FHM up and down, for absolutely no reason.

So, it’s time for some baseball is it? Rounders- cricket- whatever.  I rolled up the mag and took a random swing: Miles away, I need to get on his level. I looked around for my computer stool, moved it under the light and got up. My first hit- YES!- got him, and he span in a downward spiral till he pitifully hit the floor without a sound. However- my body decided to unbalance, and therefore, I followed him.

THE LAST THING I HEARD THAT NIGHT was the sound of an agonising, bone-crunching crack, as my head hit the floor and my neck snapped.


The enormity of it all was overwhelming, stifling and petrifying, all at the same time, yeah, sounds dramatic I know. To feel like this is hard work, it’s not something you would choose and if you could take a pill to make it disappear, believe me you would. I lay on the warm damp grass down near the stream where I often played as a child. It had been many years since I had visited this spot, because since then I had kept well away- for good and bad.

Although the sound of the water was soothing, it also reminded me of darker days, days I had spent many years trying to forget. The area had not changed at all over the decades; I still recognised it all. Unlike other areas nearby there had been no development, this was due to the ground being so unstable, no developer, no matter how determined, would ever try to build on this.
Why had I come back here? Well that would take a lot of explaining, but I will try and be as brief as I can.

My accomplices have all gone now, mostly through drink drugs and –ahem- their behaviour.

Time passes– moving rubbish from the flats I once lived in, the store room must be emptied. Because of the humidity I can feel sweat beading across the top of my head. I reach the lift just in time to see it shut, I wait. Time passes– thinking, pondering, dare I say (I am) dreaming?

I have always wanted to go back twenty years (and down twenty metres), before this and that (mainly that), before I made decisions I now deeply regret.

Lying on the damp grass, I thought I heard the body beneath me move.


David Partington is a well respected ceramicist and artist whose work can be seen at  He can be contacted through


‘A FAINT ECHO IN THE VALLEY’ by David Partington

The valley stretched out before her, it had been a long time since she had walked up the now crumbling asphalt road, time had gone quickly for all around her. For her, time had stood still. A reflection of the past reflected in the deep dark pool that had formed in the valley over the passing years. Once heavy industry, mills, coal smelting, hot hard work had been prevalent here. Now the valley was a peaceful oasis with desperate developers hungry to encapsulate the area with modern atrocities, designed only for the wealthy.

Looking back, had it been a life worth living, was it a waste? A waste of time, effort, tears and undoing of the mind. What had really been achieved? It’s hard to say, who would judge? God?!
What if she didn’t believe? Did it still matter? Or is it up to her and her alone to judge her life and how she had muddled through?

She saw it clearly now, the past that is, not the present and not the future, purely the past. Living there was easier, in fact she had no choice. Others travelled through like tourist, only stopping for minutes or maybe a few hours. She couldn’t travel, not yet, not until she let go.

Love had once been the most important desire in the world, the love of friends, and somebody special, somebody to share the future with. Without them, the future would have to wait. She swallowed the smooth white pills with a gulp of fizzy water. The valley slowly drained of water as if she was drinking the time away. Darkness fell, then all was quiet. She may wake again but for now, she was in no hurry.


David Partington is a well respected ceramicist and artist whose work can be seen at  He can be contacted through


The Big Guy had asked me up into his office during my lunch break, so I knew there was going to be trouble. He told me my traitorous behaviour had let the whole company down, so now I had to put up with the heat that came with the backlash.

‘Lou,’ he said, ‘you are being moved downstairs to ‘Human Enterprises, room eleven. You’re gonna be watching over the…ahem… non-desirables from this place, y’know, after they’ve no longer got a head for business.

I grabbed my things from my desk and shuffled ashamed into the lift. I pressed the button for the basement. As the lift clattered down and its light shorted out, I shook my head in disbelief: From a high flyer to the manager of H.E.11 – I have a very bad feeling about this.


JJ Breech is the  Curator/ Editor/ OversEEr  of bizarrEEye Creative Community. He writes @ the UNSEEN & the OBSCENE blog (amongst other places) and has had an interest in Horror and the Fantastique from an early age, when he saw An American Werewolf In London, and realised that’s exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up!

‘BENEATH THE FOOTSTEPS’ by Richard David Lawman

I lay, amongst dust and rubble, pressed up against damp wood. Through tiny cracks came slits of filtered light into what they thought was my grave.  I heard their TV drone and their footsteps thump down. Their explosively bitter arguments of where their next solution was coming from – often of the chemical variety.  I heard the needles loaded and then shot.  Also, their groans, the lifelessness, the euphoria fading to nothing.  I waited for my time to come, the time to break out of the grave they had given me.  Their mistake. They hadn’t killed me after all.  The drug-fuelled murder fest had been nothing more than a beating. Luckily for me, they were out of it before they went to the tool shed.

I don’t remember each moment exactly. Obviously, the memory of how I came to be in their home wasn’t too hard to place.  It was my naivety, the fact I overlooked their darting, mistrustful eyes and ignored my gut to get out of there.  I stayed, a kind visitor, there to help.

“Dig him up!” I heard her say, “Dig him up, I’m hungry!”

“He’ll be off by now, it’s been weeks!” It had been two days. Two days.

“I’m hungry.”

“Fine…” he sighed. The heavy footsteps thudded down again and the room was filled with delighted moans and the smacking of her lips.

I listened as I heard him stomp into the hallway and out the front door.  Wedged between two floor joists that ran the length of the room, I could only shimmy up or down.  Pressing my hands out onto the underneath of the floorboards, I pushed myself across the rough floor, inch by inch.  I had only made it about a foot from my original position when I heard him stomp back in.

He pulled the rug violently from the floor.  The coffee table, laden with overflowing ashtrays, glasses and cups crashed down on top of where I was.  Stale, flat beer dripped down the cracks onto my face.  I heaved a little more and made my way towards the far wall.  He grunted and muttered to himself as he kneeled down and began to work the crowbar into the gaps in the floorboards.  I shimmied faster, faster, not worried by the scrapes and grunts I let out.  Finally, I slid off the living room foundations and hauled myself into a bigger space in another, smaller room.  The crowbar cracked down into the floorboards, the sound of wood splintering, nails squeaking as they became dislodged from their holes.

I was under the pantry – a closed-off room next to the kitchen-dinner.  The floorboards here were more rotten than the ones in the living room and began to crumble damply in my hands as I clawed at them.  Squatting, I was able to push my back up against the underneath of the floorboards here and, timing my heaves with the bangs of his hammer on the crowbar, I finally burst out from my dusty grave.  Dirty light poured into the cupboard as he prised up the floorboard.

“He’s not here! He’s not fuck-, shit, I don’t believe this!” He cried.  More footsteps, more stamping about.  I felt out in the dark and found what I was looking for; something heavy, something hard.

My only way out would be back through the living room.  I wiped my hands on my dusty jeans and made sure of my grip on the curtain pole.  This would be my last stand, two against one. But I had the upper hand, unlike them.  I wouldn’t make the same mistake as they did.  I would check for a pulse before nailing the floorboards shut.


Richard David Lawman is the chief Writer/ Director/ Producer of ‘The Putty In Your Hands’ production company. He can be found and contacted at and


I sat nervously, chewing on what was left of my finger nails. I was waiting for another withdrawal, the last had been painful enough but this was going to be the real killer. Banks had always intimidated me but as time progressed I had become even more fearful of what they represented. As I sat waiting for my advisor I scanned the waiting room’s décor. Bare walls for bare faced liars- no pictures nor paintings, no sketches of a child with a tear in their eye or a horse with out a master. Nothing for no-ones.

Finally my withdrawal advisor slipped out of her office. She was a slender, pale skinned woman with not enough meat on her bones for me, but she was sexy in a chance meeting at midnight kind of way. She came over to where I sat, slumped upon the wooden chair, and bent down to meet me at my level.

“Another withdrawal?” she smiled.

“Yes,” I sneered. Would there be any other reason to be here?

She plunged a syringe  into the only unmarked place on my left arm, and took the blood with one, easy slide back.

“It looks like it’s going to be the last.”

I wearily nodded in agreement.

She took what was once mine and threw a plain, brown envelope onto my chest.

“We at this bank don’t expect to see you again,” she said spinning energetically round. “We think your assets have…dried up.”

I clutched the envelope in agreement and closed my eyes to dream. I fantasised of what to spend the money on, maybe a long vacation to somewhere they hadn’t conquered yet. Somewhere the bloodsuckers hadn’t made there own. Somewhere banks weren’t needed. I drifted off, for the last time, with a smile on my face.

‘ALL ROADS LEAD TO HOME’ by David Partington

When is it the beginning of the end? It doesn’t have to be like this, our own choosing and a lot of procrastinating develops through our days and weeks. We suffer too much for the want of others and the fear of being alone. Negativity is rife in this world, bullies and competition remain our greatest defeat. I am weak just like the next person, I see but do little to help, my eyes are open but I have no bravery.

Through mud, toil, shale and clay I walked, from thick smog to clear skies, through stenches of filth and poverty. I walked through cities of unimaginable wealth and the poorest of the poor. At first it was unrecognisable, so I walked on. Then a feeling though the deep uninterrupted part of my soul. I turned and looked a fresh. Paths once opened now closed, I walked through and around until I got my bearings. There, it’s there.

Opening up the door light creeps into the dark room, illuminating the contents of a life lived, problematic shortcomings invade my mind as I try to explore with an outsider’s perspective. The house had been built in the Victorian era, once surrounded by fields it was now hemmed in by buildings of various era and quality. There was a smell unfamiliar but not unpleasant, I walked into what would have been the parlour, pulled a dust sheet from the armchair folded the cloth and took a seat. Leaning back, closing my eyes and falling into a deep unfamiliar sleep. I was home.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————–David Partington is a well respected ceramicist and artist whose work can be seen at  He can be contacted through


‘EYES IN THE CUPBOARD’ by Richard David Lawman

Something made Detective Boll feel uneasy as he stepped into the hallway of the house. Perhaps it was the stillness, the eerie silence broken intermittently by a distant drip as of yet unplaced.  Boll stepped carefully towards the kitchen, a pile of garbage spilled from the bin onto the floor.  The lino was sticky under his feet. And he still felt uneasy.

He saw the broken chair and the table on its side by the door.  The back door lay slightly ajar and began to rock quietly as the wind caught it.  Boll looked around for his suspect, his victim, his witness and saw nobody.  A dirty trickle of blood on the floor and a red hand-print on the glass window gave it away.  He unclicked his holster and let his fingers rest on his revolver.  He silenced his breathing and began to step backwards, towards the front door, away from the silence.

Silence comes first. Then the laughter. Then the screaming.  He was the last detective left in his team.  They always lured them out like this.  The child’s swing in the front yard, the freshly mowed lawn and the sparkling SUV on the drive.  The eyes were watching him.

He knew there was no point in running, he just stepped back slowly out the door.  What chance was he taking by not reporting this? What if it was a real burglary and kidnapping like the screaming woman said?

“Next time.” He shouted. “You’ll have to get me next time!”

Boll drove away, the last remaining Detective. Away from the freshly mowed lawn, the child’s swing, the blood on the window and the eyes in the cupboard under the stairs.


Richard David Lawman is the chief Writer/ Director/ Producer of ‘The Putty In Your Hands’ production company. He can be found and contacted at and



From within my cage they think that I can no longer get to them. They smile and laugh, drink coffee, rattle a large set of keys, shake their fingers at me as if scolding a naughty child; they believe they are safe and, of course, they are wrong and, if I wanted to, I could prove it. If my eye lashes were to flutter, the first guard would die of a heart attack. If my left hoof was to rise a little, I could snap the tallest guard in two and use him as bloody sticks upon the cells bars, making a hellishly sweet tune- Ha!

If I so desired I would smile sweetly, tear the walls down around me, build a box to hold the rest of the day’s corpses and cadavers in. Then, hour after hour, I would sacrifice the humans before each other, so they all knew- in those tortuous last moments- what was waiting for each and every one of them. If I wanted I would create obscene jewellery to wear- wristbands of babies flesh and a necklace of an elderly home’s collective cancer.

For a day I would travel from city to city and ask those in authority to bow before me and beg for forgiveness, and for my pleasure I would make them describe, in great detail, what they would do to their fellow humans to escape my wrath. And when all self-worth is gone and dignity has left them all- as one by one, they have sold out those they use to call ‘loved ones’- I will show them not the mercy they cry for, but instead they will watch as everything around them burns, knowing their punishment will be the last. And the most creative.

Then, if I desired, I would begin to grind the Earth together between my claws and hooves, and as it stops turning and all the Universe’s eyes are on me, as Armageddon becomes a bliss filled reality, I will finally do my very worst and — but I should stop, as I am getting myself a little… worked up… and… excited, and also I’m not actually going to do any of this. No, no- none of it all. I could if I wanted too but I don’t have anything to prove. These are mere fantasies, erotica, day dreams to pass the time as I wait.

For I have to bide my time and bide it well. So I will stay upright on my hind legs, with closed eyes and I will remain perfectly still. And wait. Why? Because Mother is coming and Mother knows best. And Mother will do, far, far worse than I ever could.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————–(JJ Breech is the  Curator/ Editor/ OversEEr  of bizarrEEye Creative Community. He writes @ the UNSEEN & the OBSCENE blog (amongst other places) and has had an interest in Horror and the Fantastique from an early age, when he saw An American Werewolf In London, and realised that’s exactly what he wanted to be when he grew up!)