Chapter Three by Herbert

In the dabbled shade cast by the deep purple foliage of a Crimson King Maple sat a pale old lady. A quilted rug covered her aged knees as she sat staring into the distance. On her lap was a well thumbed copy of H. G. Wells’ war of the worlds.
“They’re coming you know,” mumbled the old lady, “They are coming. My dear husband Robert always said that one day they would.” She picked up the book and closed it, then tapped it with a thin finger. “But not the way Wells said. He was a clever man my Robert, knew his stuff. Knew the tall from the short just by their smell.”
The old lady gently placed the book on a small table next to her and continued. “Do you know what he said to me the morning of July 2nd, 1997. The day Robert and I were, erm… the day we were… visited…” she paused, hushed her voice, leaned forward a little, pushed her teeth back into position, and then quietly continued, “…by the men… in the hats.”
“Edith dear,” interrupted a woman, in a pale blue well pressed cotton dress, who had been standing impatiently next to the old lady for a good 20 seconds, “You’ve told me this a hundred times. It’s a good story but, well… you know. It’s a bit mind-numbing. Here’s your soup.”
The woman in a pale blue, well pressed cotton dress carefully placed the bowl of thick yellow soup and a spoon onto the quilted rug that warmed the old woman’s knees. The pale blue well pressed cotton dress was sporting a badge, pinned proudly to its lapel, and on the badge printed in a bold arrogant font was ‘Sunset Village Retirement Center’ and underneath that was a name, printed in a slender modest font  – Kimberly Miller (that’s the name of the lady, not the dress), and printed in brackets next to Kimberly Miller, in a thin obliging font, was ‘Personal Care Assistant’.
“Mind-numbing is it,” squeaked the old lady through pursed lips, “well that’s exactly what happened to my Robert. Do you know that he…”
“Edith, your soup… it’s getting cold.” Once again interrupted the increasingly uninterested Kimberly Miller as she turned on her polished heels and walked off. Her shoulders shrugged and her bored face wobbled as she continued. “Oh and another parcel has arrived for you. I managed to squeeze it into the cupboard with all the others.”
“Presents dear… more presents.” Edith explained, her voice trailing off into the distance as it tried very hard to catch up with Kimberly Miller before she went back inside to tick her soup delivery checklist.
“Edith,” said Edith to herself, “why don’t you just keep your wrinkled old mouth shut? Robert would be turning in his grave to hear you telling all these secrets.”
Just then as Edith carefully scooped up a spoonful of thick yellow soup a small and very strange looking creature came spiralling down through the sky. It looked like a cross between a slug and very, very, very small dog. It’s angle of descent heading it straight for the Maple tree. It entered the top of the tree and ricochet through the branches like a pinball, right above the head of a sweet old lady who was just about to have her first slurp of soup. As she lifted the spoon to her wrinkled old mouth the creature slipped through the bottom layer of foliage and plopped elegantly onto her spoon, splashing soup thickly and yellowy down the front of Edith’s floral knitted jumper.
The surprise encounter shocking her motionless.
Edith stared unblinking at… it.
It stared unblinkingly back. A bead of soup slowly slipping down its dog like face.
Edith stared more unblinking at… it (that’s the slug-dog not the soup).
It stared unblinkingly back even, even more.
The drop of soup thickly ignored them both and continued to dribble slowly down between the dog like eyes of it.
Edith stared even, even, even, extra more unblinking at… it (again that’s the slug-dog not the soup).
It tried to stare even, even, extra, extra unblinkingly hard back, but the soup however, had other ideas – seeping into it’s eye sockets – causing it to blink.
The moment it’s eyes shut, like a highly trained Ninja, Edith snatched it from the spoon “Got ya,” she smirked and stuffed it into her pocket.
“I told you they were coming Kimberly Miller, but you wouldn’t listen.”

Angels Are Real by Stig Rudeholm

Their Father was dying, they knew that now. Several millennia of hatred and violence in His name, stirred up by false prophets, had been slowly killing Him. As the number of True Believers shrank, so did the Lord’s strength. With a heavy heart, Gabriel approached the bed. “Father…”

The old man shook his head feebly. Tears were running down his face as he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I tried, Gabriel… I tried…”

“You did, Father. I know you did.” Gabriel leaned down and reverently kissed his Father’s forehead. “Is it time, then?” he asked softly. “Has the time finally come to do what we discussed so long ago?”


A crowd was gathering along the edge of the crater. The heat generated by the impact was immense. But if there was one thing you could always count on with humans, it was that in the fight between curiosity and survival instinct, curiosity always won.

Something stirred among the smoke at the bottom of the pit. It was increasingly obvious that what had until now been believed to be a meteor, was in actual fact something else entirely.

As the smoke cleared, the silhouette of a crouching man appeared. But it was not human. It couldn’t be. It was way too big…

Taller than the tallest man, yet impossibly agile, it moved with superhuman grace as it stood up, taking in the wide-eyed stares of the people around it. The being was at the same time amazingly beautiful and absolutely terrifying to behold. It was surrounded by a glow that you felt rather than saw, raw power radiating from its entire frame. From its back, two large feathered wings unfolded slowly, like the petals of a blooming flower greeting the sun. The people gaped in wonder as the wings stretched, flexed, and then relaxed. Like the wings of an angel.

“Dad, look! It’s an angel!” a small girl said, tugging on her father’s sleeve, pointing.

“Look honey… It’s an… It’s an angel…” the man stammered, dumbfounded. His right arm was going limp. He fought to keep it straight, to keep hold of the phone. Like dozens of others, he had started filming as soon as the “meteor” had hit. But now the phone was getting heavier and heavier in his hand.

He wasn’t aware of what was happening around him, as his gaze was locked on the strange and wonderful creature below, but the rest of the crowd were also feeling it. Eyes and mouths wide open, the people were mesmerized by the unseen force emanating from the being in the centre of the crater.

Some had managed to press “send” before the invisible force had hit them. Within seconds, the net was buzzing.

#angelsarereal #secondcoming #praisethelord


Gabriel stood, flexing his wings. As he looked at the sheep assembled around the rim of the crater, his heart burned with contempt.

The angel strode purposefully towards the crowd, drawing an enormous sword from its sheath. The blade shone with the light of a thousand suns. Spellbound by the spectacle unfolding before them and unable to look away, the people closest to the edge were blinded instantly, their eyes vaporized in their sockets. Where it had been eerily silent just a moment earlier, the air erupted with the panicked screams of men, women, and children. When the killing began, it was a slaughter.

Gabriel screamed. Tears born of equal measures sadness and rage flowed from his eyes. He swung his mighty sword left and right, cutting down swathes of people with every stroke. God’s final words, whispered through His dying breath, echoed in his mind… “Wipe them out… All of them…”


Copyright Stig Rudeholm © 2014


This version of the story has, with the Author’s permission, been very slightly edited from the Original.

Twitter @grakkam

A Priceless Future by Kela Lewis-Morin

Pretty soon we’ll need to make payments

Just to be able to walk the pavement.

This added to the taxes on our bank statements.

Proves that any sort of personal attainment,

Will be shared with the government agents.

It’s blatant, we‘re a part of a money laundering arrangement.

Of which there is an infinite number of replacements.

Who are praying and waiting for your disengagement.

Longing for the day that you will become complacent.

Because a filled position in this day in age will always be vacant.

I call this, the reincarnation of enslavement.

Kela Lewis-Morin                                                                   Copyright © 2014