wow! Please comtinue!

I don’t get the joke.

I agree.

​<2/3>

"Why does he always pose them like this?" Harris said, walking carefully around the pair of corpses.

"For the same reason they're always killed from behind" I said, "stabbed in the lower back. Leaves the face and hands undamaged."

Agent Harris looked up from the crime scene, staring at me from the other side of the circle. "Huh, I didn't notice that bit" He said, taking another sip of his coffee.

The forensic photographer stood nearby, taking pictures of the bodies from every angle. "Hey kid" I said, getting his attention.

"I'm 24, I'm not a-" the kid began.

I grunted dismissively, in the way only a decades long smoker like I could produce. "Do you have access to the other crime scene photos from this case?" I asked.

"Um, yeah, back in the car" the kid said. "Why?"

I gave the kid the silence that question deserved, staring him down with an iron gaze until he took the hint. "I'll, uh, go get them, sir." He stammered, before leaving the scene.

"What..." Agent Harris began, but I cut him off with a wave. We waited in silence until the kid returned, handing me a thick manilla envelope. I took it without comment, and began sorting the other victim's photos by date. I held the photos by the top edge, and began to slowly flip through them. All of the victims were posed in the same shape... although there were subtle differences, only a few inches here or there...

"My God", Agent Harris gasped as he watched over my shoulder. "Its..."

"A flipbook" I finished for him. "Sick bastard's using corpses as characters in a flipbook".

The stranger sat before me with a stillness of the like I had never seen.  His features were razor sharp in the soft white light, his milky complexion almost transparent.  It was all I could do not to shiver, as my eyes traced every line of his face.  The splash of freckles across his nose, the slender curve of his lips, the way his dark hair framed his face.  My hand moved like it had a mind of its own with all its experience, from my decades of artistry.  I was transfixed, my breath catching whenever I caught the slightest of movements. 

He was young and so painfully beautiful, and yet his eyes were heavy and sad.  He was everything I had ever wanted to capture.  He was the epitome of art, poetry in the shape of a man.  A human sized porcelain doll.  Nothing would ever be the same.  I could never draw another again, I could not even look upon them.  He had changed everything for me, how I perceived beauty, how I saw the world. 

Heart in my throat, I shuddered as I looked down at my creation.  It paled in comparison to the real thing, but god was it beautiful.  A shadow passed over me and my breath caught, I hadn’t even heard him move.  I looked up into those eyes, full of pain, and hunger.  He took the drawing from my hands, and he cried.  Somehow I knew what would come next.  I had known the moment I’d answered my door.  I saw a flash of those teeth, and I was happy it would end this way.  It didn’t matter.  For what I had drawn would change the world forever.  I had captured the unseeable.  I had given hope to the dead.

Makes it a lot easier to live as a vampire like that.

It is only understandable. They are hunted by those who once called them one of theirs. Feeding is a lot easier when you see a prey instead of something we were.

Then they forget who they were once before.

It's oddly ironic, they are chosen blessed ones by the goddess yet they forget their origin

I have never wanted a part II so badly

Changeling.

It's an old idea, present in many cultures by many different names. A spirit or magical creature replaces a child, either themselves or with their own. Amona, grandmother, she told me often how to recognize them. Every visit. Though she gave a Basque name I can never remember. Mother and father would ask if I was watching my schoolmates for the signs, but it was always said as a joke. Most of the signs, the personality quirks, as I got older, I realized it was just symptoms of autism. But Amona said the most important sign was the eyes. And I never saw that anywhere.

Until I woke Janey this morning. The strange sheen was there. The turned iris. The darker pupil. My daughter wasn't here anymore. I debated what to do. Amona had told me what I should do. It was simple to kill a changeling if you knew what it was. Looks like anaphylaxis. But my mind immediately went to what I could do.

"Come on, Butterfly. We gotta get you to daycare. Mommy will pick you up after, ok?"

She nodded, got up silently, and went for her dresser.

"I've got breakfast ready when you come down."

Sophie, Janey's mom, my ex, had been fighting for full custody since the divorce. She didn't care as much about having Janey fulltime as she did about twisting the knife just a little more, so I'd fought back. But this wasn't Janey. After breakfast, I made a couple calls, first to work, to let them know I was taking a sick day. Then to Kyle, my lawyer, who tried to talk me out of it, advised how hard it was to get any rights back after throwing them away.

"I'm aware, and I've been thinking about this awhile. Janey isn't taking things well, I think she needs the stability more than I need to see her." It was some of the best lying of my life.

"At least take the weekend to think on it. I'll get start on the paperwork, but we won't finalize things 'til Monday."

"Sounds good. Thanks, Kyle." I hang up before he can say anything else.

I drive in silence for a bit, preparing myself for the next call. Got work up my anger. Imagine Janey upset with me.

"What, Pete?" Oh good, she's already annoyed.

"You do this?"

"Do what?"

"Do what? I thought agreed to not talk about things in front of Janey."

Silence.

"She kept calling me Pete this week."

"So?"

"Don't 'So?' me. She asked if she was staying with Mommy and Daddy this weekend. She's calling Mark 'Daddy' now?" I pull the car over. I can't drive like this.

"News to me."

"Funny, that's what you said when I accused you of cheating."

"Pete, you got a point to this? Or you just call to be a jerk?"

"My point? I'm sick of the games, Soph. I'm sick of it. I thought they'd end when we were divorced. Or when you two got married. I can got through the next decade and a half, hoping it will end when Janey's grown, worrying that it'll come up every Christmas or birthday for the rest of our lives."

"Then don't. Give me full custody." Ah, I hate this woman. Admire the focus, but that knife hurts.

"I AM! I called Kyle already. He's working on it right now. Says we can finalize things on Monday."

"Sure... I'll believe it when the ink dries. Though if you back it, I'll make sure you regret it."

I hang up. She'll try calling back, but I've set my phone to auto respond that I'm driving and can't answer. Almost true, unlike more story about Janey. She always call Mark "Mr. Cleery." And I've always been "Daddy," but I knew it needed to be a fight.

After another half hour, I'm parked at the trailhead, ready for the walk. Last weekend, I brought Janey up here. Had to carry her back, but I like her getting out in real nature. About a mile in, though, there is a mushroom circle. She found it and had wandered in. I thought nothing at the time, but something tells, if changelings are real, maybe some other stories are true.

I step in the circle, saying, "Hold on, Butterfly. Daddy's on his way." It's a small tug, like a chihuahua pulling at your ankle, but it's enough. The world is still the same, but I can tell they hear me, whoever or whatever they are.

"Good, you're listening. I just want you to know, I was warned you'd come. Warned about what you'd do. And I was told how to hunt you down. Most importantly, I want you to know this: I will find Janey. I leave it up to you what happens before that."

Ths tug releases, the world is unchanged. I guess they don't believe me. That's their second mistake.

Vampires are not humans. They were once, but they live until they are killed, and no natural harm comes to them. They see humans as food, a meal that can kill them. There are, of course, those who live amongst these mortals. It isn't rare. Vampires just tend to forget their own humanity because they were blessed by the goddess.

Wait a minute, i don't own a house

I first met Mister Sunshine eight years ago when he interrupt my heist job. He flew in straight through the bank's roof and landed in the middle of me and my goons. There stood this middle aged goofy looking hero with his bright multi colored outfit, saying he's here to stop us. We all laughed and made fun of him, until he started moving and taking down my goons. The next thing I was escorted into a police armored transport with my goons in tow. I swore my revenge and declared him my Nemesis, as per tradition.

After more encounters over the year, I started to get to know my Nemesis better. Mister Sunshine is one of those rare few Meta Humans with more than one power manifested. Super strength, speed, and flight, what a combo. And unlike most Meta, his power manifested only recently during his late thirties and not at puberty. His advanced age combined with the rarity of his power has made him the object of envy and ridicules in the heroes community.

I first noticed this during one of an impromptu team fight. It was me and two other villains versus five heroes. Even in the chaos of battle, I can clearly see how the other heroes treated him. The fight ended with us retreating, but it piqued my interest on Mister Sunshine situation. I approached him when we both in civilian mode, to get to know him better. We started to regularly get drinks togethers at a local bar, and slowly we became friends.

Mister Sunshine, or Harold Smith is a simple man. A tad slow, but he's a good man that truly believe in the good of people and tried his best for the cause of good. Originally he's just a regular janitor, not the most interesting job but he's content and happy with it. His world changed when his power manifested and he's recruited to be a superheroes. All the new responsibilities overwhelmed him, but still he tried his best. He confided to me how he knows what the other heroes really thought of him. He may be slow, but he's not stupid...

It was during a rare both side team-up that I first saw it. Both heroes and villains are working together to stop an alien invader and his monstrous hordes. During the fight, I first saw it. We both were fighting a monstrous alien monster and having a hard time, when Mister Sunshine entire demeanor changed. His eyes turned black and he killed the monster with a single blow through it's body, and disintegrated it in mere seconds. His eyes returned back to normal after with his demeanor, and asked where the monster we were fighting went to. I just saw first hand of the darkness lurking underneath Mister Sunshine's psyche...

That is the nature of all humans, some are wise enough to listen.

Also aren't Vampires humanoid shaped? So technically vampires are also humans, just genetically different

We need a sequel! Which dragon wins? What becomes of the yellow dragon?

No one could believe it. A third egg. Everyone was celebrating. There were rumors that the golden dragon god king was originally born from such an event thousands of years ago. To imagine that in their time this would happen again!

In the national tradition mages had set up scrying screens across the nation so the people could watch, for it is too dangerous to be close to a dragon fight, even if they are just hatched. The two normal eggs hatched first. Heaving themselves up, they looked at each other with hate and rage. The third egg moved and their gaze shifted to it. What could only be described as fear crossed their faces. Unbridled fear. The blue dragon started attacking the egg. The people rejoiced more. If the blue dragon was afraid and attacking the egg it must mean it’s a good thing. For it wouldn’t want good things to happen. The red dragon had taken flight high in the sky. It dove at the blue dragon. It wanted to stop it from breaking the egg! More rejoicing echoed. Something must have went wrong, for the red dragon did not hit the blue dragon, but instead crashed into the third egg and black smoke obscured the screens.

After what seemed like an eternity a shape appeared. It was darker than the black smoke. As if light itself refused to shine on the shape of this dragon. In this short time it had grown four times larger than what could have fit into the egg. It’s eyes opened and the darkest purple shown forth. Some smoke cleared and it was holding the blue dragon in its left hand by its neck, and it was withering and writhing. Cheers went up. That must mean a good luck year. What else could it be. The blue dragon was dying. More smoke cleared and the red sack of bones in the black dragon’s right had became visible. So, the red dragon died first. The blue dragon stopped squirming, and fell limp. The black dragon took to the sky, and the nation fell silent.

The mage in charge of the scrying screens zoomed out. Everything that the black smoke touched was wilting and dying. Verdant trees that had survived a hundred fights before were reduced to sticks, animals were falling where they stood. Just a finger of the smoke touching the grass left nothing but bare ground.

A dragon of death had been born. No. Not just a dragon of death. The Dragon God king of death had been born.

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I look down at the white table cloth, my index finger involuntarily tapping out its impatience. Twenty-five minutes late, I think, and an exasperated sigh escapes my lips. I clench my teeth as I scan the room for new faces. The gold and blue color scheme of the restaurant all of a sudden feels claustrophobic; I can hear the dull padding of the servers’ feet on the cheap wooden flooring as they cruise through the straight lines between the tables. Why am I so nervous? It hasn’t been that long since my last date, and it didn’t go poorly at all.

My head shoots up before I can consciously register the high pitch giggle emanating from the front of the restaurant. She’s here. She seemed cool enough on Tinder. She had an even mix of pictures, however banal and uninspired: a photo of her petting a tiger (We’ll let that slide), a group of girls on the beach (Which one is she?), and finally one of just herself (Looking out over a cliff at the ocean).

To top it off, her quote: “Better to have loved and lost that to never have loved at all”

I would have swiped left on principle, but there was something about her expression that really drew me in; her eyes had a hunger to them. Maybe it sounds corny, but she captured me with that face, those eyes. They sparkled with intensity, deep brown and luminous. They had depths, you know?

She rounds the corner from the maître de, and floats towards the table. We make eye contact as she recognizes me from across the restaurant, but almost instantly I retreat for fear that I would never be able to look away. For a split second her eyes seemed to grow to almost the size of her face, and I had the most overwhelming feeling that they wanted to devour me. I heard wailing, and gnashing of teeth. Gristle crunching and tearing between rough metal plates, gears pulling apart tendon and ligament until they separate with a greasy snap.

She reaches the table and I stand up to hug her. Her eyes once again find mine, and within lies nothing but innocence and kindness. What happened before?, I wonder. I mentally shake it off as we politely embrace, and sit back down. The next 15 minutes flow by without incident as the experience of her eye contact fades from my mind. She is delightful. She is in the middle of an anecdote about her job as a veterinarian, when the server comes to take our order. We tell him to give us another minute, as we’ve been so engrossed in conversation we have barely looked at the menu.

“What will you start with, do you think?” I ask.

I tell her I’m most likely going to get the Caprese Salad as it’s Fall, and the tomatoes have been incredible lately. She looks up at me, and for a split second two things happen that I only noticed in retrospect. Her eyes seem to double in size, pulling in the space around them like a whirlpool, and her face curls in on itself with a profound look of loathing and disgust. Then, back to the menu, and nothing.

She purses her lips in concentration, scanning the list of options. “Oh my god, they have squab! Have you had squab? It’s like, so damn tasty!”

“Is that some type of pigeon?” I ask.

“Yes actually! Wow I’m surprised,” she purred, leaning in towards me across the table. She reached out and took my hand and I got a waft of something, which I can only describe as Chanel No. 5 on a corpse. I lean back, distracted, and wonder where the smell is coming from.

“Not many people know that squab is a young pigeon,” she continued. “There are like, so many pigeons in this city, I think most restaurants don’t want to serve it because of the association. But I love it because it’s so fresh.” She smiled knowingly at me. “Ok it’s settled, I’ll get the squab and you get the salad, and I’ll get the suckling pig for my entree. Do you want to share?”

I shake my head, and reply with a smile, “No thanks I’m a vegetarian. I’ll have the mushroom risotto.” She freezes. Her eyes widening, and with her voice suddenly very deep and serious she says, “Okay. I see. Fine. Let’s order.”

We signal for the server, who comes over immediately. “And what would you like this evening?”

“I have a question first if you don’t mind,” she says. “How old is the squab?”

The server is almost imperceptibly taken aback, but very quickly replies, “Two days old ma’am, and killed on the premises.”

“Ooh!” She claps her hands dramatically, failing to contain her excitement. “Can I kill it myself?”

My mouth drops. The server takes an involuntary half step back away from the table. There is a long pause as the air around the table seems to crystallize. After what seems like a lifetime, the server replies.

“That’s not usually how we do things here, but I can ask the chef.” “Yes! Please do, as I need to do it myself. I like to know the animal personally before I sacrif-- eat it.”

The server walks off at speed, seemingly excited to get as far from our table as possible. I don’t know what to say. We simply look at each other for a moment before she smiles at me.

“I’m just trying to be the responsible consumer, you know? I think it’s better if people have a closer relationship with their food,” she explains.

“Uh, sure,” I respond, “I guess that makes sense. Farm to table, right?” I chuckle nervously.

At that moment the server comes out of the kitchen, striding over to our table with a woman who appears to be the chef. She gestures to my date, and very calmly suggests she follow her to the kitchen.

“No, no. Sorry! I thought I had explained,” my date says. “Please bring the squab to the table.”

Too stunned to say anything, I just stare at her. As does the chef, and the server. All three of us don’t move for what feels like half a minute. Finally, about the time I realize I’m no longer sure about a second date, the chef takes me by surprise.

“This all seems a bit unorthodox, but sure, why not!”

I gape at the chef. “Seriously?” The word escapes before I realize I’ve said anything. My date narrows her eyes at me and with a voice dripping with contempt says, “You don’t have to watch. I didn’t expect you to be so squeamish about it, geez. It’s just a squab.”

We sit in silence while the chef and server depart for the kitchen. All of a sudden I feel like I’m on the subway playing the no-eye-contact game. She continues to stare at me, and I can feel her gaze like a physical touch. I simply can’t look at her; somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind I know that if I do she might want me instead of the squab.

The chef returns with a small wicker basket. There is a soft cooing from within, as she places it down in front of my date.

“Excellent. Thank you so much!” She says with a bright, sing-song voice. “I’m going to give your restaurant such a great review!”

Beaming, the chef gives a small nod, and turns to me. “Your Caprese Salad will be out momentarily,” she says before she walks off. I don’t really hear her. I just stare back and forth between my date and the basket.

“You like, don’t have to watch, you know.” She says to me accusingly. I can’t respond. I just continue to stare at her blankly.

“Fine, whatever, suit yourself,” she says, pulling the basket slightly forward towards her.

The soft cooing from within suddenly grows in volume as she lifts the lid of the basket, the bird sitting innocently in front of her. She reaches her hands down underneath the bird and pulls it out onto the tabletop, knocking the basket to the side. A tiny, helpless looking brown bird sits on the table, looking about as confused as a bird can look.

“Bone appetit,” my date croaks, her voice dropping several octaves. Her eyes start expanding into the enormously deep brown pools I had seen earlier, until they are almost the size of her whole face. The light around our table dims perceptibly and what seems like a shadow grows behind her head, drawing in all the light of the restaurant.

She leans forward, and my head is again filled with the overwhelming noise of violent ripping and chewing, as if someone put a microphone next to a lion’s kill. Her mouth started expanding to match her eyes, rows of uneven sharp teeth glistening in the candlelight. She lowered her cavernous maw to the table and pushed it forward, closing down over the bird’s body in one sickening crunch.

I scream. Tripping over myself, I run towards the exit of the restaurant, glasses tumbling and silverware falling as I bump into the tables of other diners on the way to the door in my overwhelming need to leave the scene. Just as I see the exit, I hear a deep, booming, crunching voice coming from behind me, as if a person was grinding boulders in their mouth. It starts laughing uproariously and with a disgusted tone gets the final word in:

“Hey wait! I thought you said you were a foodie!”

Thank you!

<2/3>

He'd seen the signature before, multiple times over the last thirty years. Before he was a consultant.

Hell, even before he'd been the greenest recruit at Scotland Yard.

"Harris," said Rocky, very, very softly. "Pull your men back. Tell them to make it look like they're looking for evidence."

To his credit, Harris didn't bother asking him why. He just did what he was told, turning around and making his way toward one of the other investigators.

Rocky took a knee next to the closer of the two bodies. They’d been cleaned before they were posed but he could still see the residue of the vomiting that had likely been the dead man’s first sign that something was wrong.

He pulled on a glove and dug into the man’s pockets.

Rocky found what he was looking for almost immediately, his fist closing around a pen as he pulled it out and examined it more closely.

“Savoy Hotel, London.”

He had to give the killer her due. The object mimicked being a hotel branded pen extremely well, and unless you knew what to look for, finding the radio transmitter was nigh impossible.

He’d seen it before though and as he carefully took the pen apart, the wire connecting the battery inside its plastic barrel to the microphone hidden at the top was apparent.

“I know you can hear me, mum,” said Rocky.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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This is good I want this to be a book so badly

Never before had it happened.

The kingdom kept near perfect records on the Dragon Fates, drawings, paintings, even full books were made. The king knew exactly which dragon would hatch from which egg thanks to color and shape. They even had tried to tamper with the results a few times but it never seemed to help their chances in the winters.

They as a nation had grown up to live by the Dragon Fates, the center point of the kingdom having been built as an arena, so the masses could watch with bated breaths. There were even museums with the bones of which dragon had lost, the best museums having the blue dragons hide tanned and displayed proudly with the year the blue dragon fell.

Now there were not two eggs, but three! Three had never happened, perhaps the dragon ate more than it should have, and produced another egg by mistake? Or there was going to be two reds and one blue, or gods forbid two blues and one red.

It took some time for the panic to calm in the kingdom, the king assuring everyone that what ever the outcome they were safe and secure, that the gods would clear up the matter, or the scientists if need be. Even as he spoke to the crowd pushing to see this strange third egg there were historians around the clutch with every shred of information they had.

The Red and Blue eggs were marked already, painted stripes with tassels flowing in the wind, but the third egg seemed to be stumping the smartest of the kingdom.

“It is the same shape as the Red Egg” one noted, writing fearsomely into a book.

“The weight is that of a Blue Dragon!” Another exclaimed.

“The color matches the Red Egg, there fore it is Red!” A third notes, having a color sheet of all eggs know.

“The knock echo is the same as the Blue Egg!” Yet another replied to not but a crowd that was becoming more frustrated than the crowd held back by the guards.

It seemed to be a pattern, the egg sharing almost equal qualities and traits of both eggs, the men of the Gods would inspect the egg, testing it carefully “it could be a mix, Purple it be!” The holy man decreed, getting looks from all around.

It didn’t take long for the King himself to step in, preventing the three split sides from breaking out into a brawl. “Enough!” He bellowed, growling to make a point “I will inspect the eggs, I have seen 48 eggs before this three!” He says, taking a step towards the Third Egg. He took his time to think his mind, feeling the egg over as if it was a well rounded rump, knocking a few times. The scientists and Priests all stood by and watched, bated breath as they wondered what the king would say.

“I think…” he says, taking a deep breath “it is a Blue Egg, fore the inside qualities are that of a Blue Dragon!”

The scientists thought it over, and then agreed, fore the King himself had declared it to be Blue! And who dared tell the King he was wrong? And so they went to work, dressing up the third egg as a Blue, the King going on to the crowd waiting outside the closed gates to speak to them.

“Ladies and gentleman!” He called out, standing on a box of grain, his voice booming to get their attention. “It has been found, through both historians and I! That the third egg is that of a Blue Dragon!”

There was but one moment of silence after his decree, broken by the cries of displeasure and anger, how dare the Dragon Fates stack the odds against them!

“Smash the Third!” Came a cry.

“Poison the Blue! Protect the Red!” Came another.

“Quiet!” The king demanded, shouting over their voices, “not even our best weapons could dent those eggs! Not even the best poisons will harm the Dragons! We must be prepared for the outcome!”

“How can we prepare against bad luck!” One peasant asked.

“Simple! We prepare for a crop failure. It will insure we survive this winter!” The King replied, loud enough for all to hear. Scribes standing ready to spread his voice to those who could not hear. “The odds are against us, we must store more grain! More meat must be preserved! We must make it last longer as well! Eat less, Save more!”

“What of the animals?” One farmer asked “the herding dogs won’t like being shorted on their food! And the cats will flee to find better meals as well!”

“The animals must learn to survive the down sides of life” he says, holding his hands to his belly. “If it is needed, we must think of ourselves, the animals may become food too! Not just the horses but the dogs and cats as well, we will prevail!” He yelled, raising his hands in defiance of the Dragon Fates, his hand not the only one raising, as almost all the peasants agreed, they would survive.

The three eggs would sit there for the next four months, protected, cleaned, decorated. The scientists watched on closely as the days ticked by. At the end of the fourth month one of them would raise the alarm “They Shake!” He cried, signaling the Fates to be chosen within the fortnight.

The day of truth came, the stadium packed to the brim with peasants that had thinned with the times. Even the king himself, thinned down to save food, sat in his own special box high above the rest, flanked by his advisors and queen. The eggs would now and then sway in the non existent wing, the hatchlings slowly cracking apart their shells.

First came the Red, aggressive and brightly colored, shaking off the fluids that protected him.

Second came the Blue, dark in color, claws raking the smooth stone she stepped onto.

With bated breath the brother and sister waited with the crowd for the last egg, slowly cracking its way free. Soon the egg split cleanly down the middle, as if an expert warrior had swung his ax down and cleaved it in two.

With the shells rocking away from the Third Dragon, a loud gasp came from the crowd, the king slack jawed himself as he looked with his telescope. It didn’t take long to lower the tube and look at the lead Dragon Historians and his pope red faced.

“Why, pray tell” he started off, taking a deep breath to fill his lungs “is it Yellow!”

Happy cake day!

[removed]