Resurgence

Submitted into Contest #219 in response to: Set your story in a type of prison cell.... view prompt

40 comments

Horror Suspense Fiction

This story contains themes or mentions of physical violence, gore, or abuse.

TW Suggestion of domestic violence, general violence, and child abuse. May cause offense.



In the darkness of oblivion, now and as forever, swathes and waves of misery wash over me.

Disembodied, immutable, adrift, I should be at peace after all of this time on my own, but the sounds of suffering and pain continue to assault me, as they have done since I was delivered, from one prison to another, tethered by the constraints of many others.

Breathless, urgent cries like the bleating of sheep being slaughtered.

High-pitched, keening wails like those of the wind as it peels itself apart traversing caverns.

Tortured, lingering mewls like that of rolling thunder, spidering across the land as it creeps closer.

Wolf-like howls. Ass-like brays. Child-like screams.

Incessant. Never-ending. Compounding. Tormented peals of agony that consume all opposing sounds, of laughter and happiness, exaltation and joy, sounds more pleasing to my phantom ears that I have lost the ability to focus on, as I endure relentless grief, alone, in the dark, forever.

And I can not take it anymore.

Floating in this murky abyss, weightless, shapeless, my essence comprised of thought and thought alone, a suffocating river of suppressive shadows drags me on, carrying me through the bottomless mire like a tumbling avalanche of tar as I drop my defences and commit to the cries of the dying.  

Cries that break like waves crashing down on me from every direction, threatening to drag me under and smother me in swells of black bile. 

Like:

The desperate wails of a girl, bawling in terror as an angered, drunken male calls her a waste, a drain, a worthless piece of shit like her mother;

The grief-stricken sobs of a boy, begging for forgiveness as a female voice of authority, dripping with sadistic glee, tells him he’s a sinner and must pay;

The heart-rending shrieks of a woman, each one accompanied by a bellow of rage and a slap, thud, crack, whump, bang;

The weakened pleas of a male, begging for release from the suffering he has been kept in for, as his feeble voice suggests, many more days than he should have endured.

The shrieks, the gasps, the whimpers; the whines, the moans and the shouts. In various tones and languages, from all manner of people, male and female, young and old, near and far, all victims, all suffering, all being hurt to sate other’s dark desires and insecurities.

Just as I was.

And I can not stand it anymore.

Something, one of those screams, one of those anguished choruses of pain, acts as a trigger, a catalyst, the very last heartbreak I can bear, and for the first time in aeons I move, or at least, I think of moving, for I do not have a form I can manipulate. Not in this realm, not on this plane of ‘existence’. So I do what I can, in this collection of thoughts being dragged through the rapids like soul-silt, and imagine my consciousness rising, memories of arms and legs powering it up and onwards, through the murk and the dark and the thick, churning sludge, the fast-flowing essence of nothing. 

Up. 

Through. 

Out.

I need to escape this torrent of torment, the one I’ve endured for so long. Ignoring it no longer works. Accepting it does not stave off nightmares. Pretending it isn’t there serves no purpose. Not after all this time. Not when misery thrives, extends its field of influence and grows stronger, spreading its cancer-like tendrils through every blessed part of creation. Consuming and destroying all in its wake.

I can offer a deaf ear no more.

I must return.

I must fight back.

I must awake.

And so my spirit rises. Fighting against the current that has held me like a prison for so long. A prison within a prison. Within multiple prisons, and I feel them all around me all at once, encasing me, holding me frozen in various guises. But prisons can be escaped. Cells can be made homes. Inmates can become wardens.

And a world overrun by monsters needs a watchman.

My thoughts of breaking free intensify.

My visions of escaping this disabling, psychic swamp take on more clarity.

My imagination strengthens and soon I can sense, feel, see the way out, the crusty underside to the surface of this chundering mass, my invisible arms reaching towards it, my non-existent fingers digging in, crumbling it like ash and plunging through, slowing the flow of my conscience through raging waters of black noise. Imagined fingers, hands and arms push through and out, of the abyss, of the darkness, of the Afterflow, and then, as I visualise a head and shoulders I haven’t possessed in an eternity breaking the surface, my multitude of prisons close around me as my spirit flows into them and…

I stiffen.

I take shape. 

I assume form and size and weight.

I feel and hear.

Everything. With more urgency and emotion than before.

And then, slowly, painfully, as I strain to force vision into unseeing eyes crafted by others, dozens at first, then hundreds…I start to see. For the first time in so long. And my mind is assaulted by colours and shapes and sights of things I could never imagine and can not at once comprehend. A world far removed from the one I remember. Unrecognisable. Claustrophobic. Insane.

But that is not the worst part of this place, these places, these alien, inexplicable environments I find myself in, having slipped free of the all-consuming deathflow. No. The worst part is the closer proximity to the soul-crushing sounds that engulf me. 

In all my myriad of forms.

The sources of these sounds draw my attention, away from the confusion of all else. For as much as my surroundings may have altered with the passage of time, what has not changed, what can not change, is the vile, indisputable hatred and evil of man, bubbling up from the depths of the weakest of vessels, manifesting on the surface as depraved, abhorrent, hate-filled ignorance and scorn, to visit savagery on innocent victims.

Victims I am now able to see.

Like the child cowering in the corner of a room, tears streaming down her face as a man, a parent, rants and raves and bangs fat fists on a table, a chipped, wooden slab overladen with shiny, metallic cylinders, some upright, others on their sides, others still twisted or crushed;

Like the woman, her clothing torn, her lip bloody, dark streaks running from eyes to chin, arms up to defend herself as a well-dressed male with a sneer on his lips and a glint in his eye swings a smooth, polished stick in her direction, laughing, taunting, telling her she’s upset him for the last time;

Like the pimple-faced, heavy-set boy, sitting in the centre of a room filled with tables and chairs, crying as one his own age stalks around him, laughing and spitting, kicking and punching his head;

Like the nude male strapped to a wheeled bed, begging for his life in a concrete chamber illuminated by clacking, flickering light tubes, while a silent, masked individual stands by a table, selecting a serrated-edge blade from a collection of knives. 

Like the screaming baby in the cot whose cries fall silent as a bleary-eyed woman drops a cushion, like the grime-covered girl chained to a wall, shrieking as her prison door opens and her captor shines a torch into her eyes, like the fear-stricken boy in the corner of a toy-filled room decorated with paintings of happy-looking characters in bright costumes, quivering and shaking as a wild-eyed banshee yells insults and curses and stomps, like, like, like, like, like.

Fear. 

Pain.

Suffering.

In every location where my eyes have started to see, because these are the places I’ve been drawn to, these are the scenes that have called me, awakened me from my slumber, forced my hand and begged me to return, to do something, to help these lost souls.

And so I have. 

And so I will.

But to do so I need more than vision.

To do so I must be able to move.

I need arms and legs I am unfamiliar with and have never used before to function. I need to remember how my own arms and legs worked when I had them. How I bent the knees and rotated the elbows, how I clenched my hands and flexed my fingers. How I stood on two feet and maintained balance. It’s been so long since I had physical form in this plane of existence and the memories return to me slowly. But return they do, as I force sensation into new limbs, limbs attached to bodies of various shapes and sizes in places where various people suffer. 

I switch my attention from place to place, letting the differing scenarios wash over me, tuning out the noise and the colours, focusing on the one thing that is constant, the relentless, insurmountable pain. And as it continues to mount, as screams and cries intensify, as people hurt and struggle before my newly unblinded eyes I start to move, starting with fingers and toes.

It is not easy. The digits offer resistance. They are stiff and cold, solid, frozen in rigor, carved or sculpted or moulded. I do not know what constitutes the majority of the bodies I find myself in but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I take control and make them work, so I can put a stop to the depravities being inflicted by the harbingers of evil I see before me, below me, above me, around me, in every blessed place my vision clears. 

Cracks. Screeches. Creaks. Soft sounds, transformative sounds, inaudible over the desperate cries of the distressed, obvious only to my ears, which I now realise are hearing directly in each of the spaces I inhabit and not coming at me through the inky black ether of the void. I am present now, in hundreds, not dozens, of locations, and each one of them, regardless of their decor or state of repair, presents to me the sights and sounds of despair.

I can not look away. I can not unhear. I can not move, despite my fingers and toes now wiggling. I am secured, pinned down in a fashion I am intimately familiar with. In a position I have let myself be kept in for far too long.  

Move, I think, and now my arms and legs are twitching. Twisting. Pulling. At the bonds that hold them. Tearing at adhesives, loosening wires, tugging at bolts and nails. Second by second, fraction by fraction, bit by bit, freeing hands and feet that have never been free before. 

And not only that. 

I have sensation throughout my bodies. Stomachs. Chests. Backs. Heads. And I feel. Everything. All the stiffness and petrification. And I remember. Everything. All the wounds and pain. And I relive. Everything. All the indignities and humiliation. And I anger and intensify my efforts, bucking and jerking and wrenching my forms until they fall or drop or slide from where they rest, where they’ve waited, unmoving, for so long.

No more. 

My feet, at least, in many locations are free, or loose enough to set free with a little more effort, effort I exert unconsciously, driven by desire to stop the violence being perpetrated before me. As freedom finds me, I get feet of various sizes underneath me and push myself up, ignoring the differing weights of my multitude of bodies and the burdens they carry, rising up in a dirty kitchen where a small child cries as blows are delivered by a father; in a flower-filled bed chamber where a battered female endures humiliating abuse; in a concrete basement where an unspeakable monster drives a knife into the side of a naked captive; in a tiled washroom where a crying male cowers while a woman screams and shouts and swings a hammer; in shed where a girl is dragged to the ground by a laughing male; in a chapel, in a schoolhouse, in a barn.

Everywhere I awake where there is suffering. 

And I advance. Slowly. Stiffly. On near rigid legs that fight my attempts to make them move. They do not operate like the ones I remember. Nor do my arms, which is of benefit, as their rigidness makes it easier for me to wrench them away from what holds them, which I do as I stumble forward, pulling them loose, allowing the restraints to clatter, thud, clang to assorted floors. Setting me free. 

And more than that. 

Providing me with arms. 

The objects I find behind me when I turn are mostly heavy, some with sharp edges, some blunt, made of metal or wood or substances with which I am not familiar. It doesn’t matter. My hands have been released, my arms have been liberated, and as the screaming and crying and tearful, breathless howling rattles on, I take a moment to master control of my upper limbs, to flex them and bend them and manoeuvre, to lift the cargo I’ve unloaded into my hands. 

Everywhere I now exist with agency.

Everywhere I now have the means by which to end hateful, needless suffering and punish the wicked. With judgement and divine retribution.   

Weapons in hand, bodies softened, arms and legs moving freely in response to my thoughts, I focus on the evil and make myself charge forward in hundreds of places, thousands of places, rooms and chambers and enclosures in locations all over this god-forsaken world, one I thought I’d left behind forever.

I charge. I run. I attack. Unnatural power from the Afterflow filling my army of one, launching me into the air at the darkness-fueled monsters that visit death and destruction on their fellow man. Some of them turn, alerted to my presence, by sound or flicker of movement, surprise in their eyes as they see what is coming, confusion as they try to comprehend, horror as they grasp the true meaning while I soar through the air toward their throats. Some even splutter my name and it is interesting to note they remember me. Others remain ignorant and oblivious til the end, too enthralled by their wickedness and the horrible acts they are committing to notice me jump onto their backs, clamber up to their shoulders, take position there while brandishing miniature crosses like holy swords, long forgotten power surging through them, long unused Miracle filling them up.

And then I put a stop to it all.

The torment. The unholy. The fear, the pain and the suffering. The eternal, agonising screams. I put an end to it all by driving my sanctified tools of cleansing into the jugulars of those committing these atrocities and I suck out their malignant souls, imprisoning them within the symbolic means of my persecution, the recreations of the cross upon which I myself was tortured, the prison on which I suffered and died, now my means to grant mercy to the masses and punish the evil that has consumed the world.

And as my army of effigies--the countless numbers of cells that house my splintered soul--fall from backs and shoulders, as monsters expire while I drop to a multitude of floors, their contaminated, pain-inflicting bodies drained of evil, I watch gratitude and hope, wonder and amazement flood the tear-filled eyes of the lambs I have saved from their slaughter, forcing man-made lips of bronze, wood, silver and more to crack apart and curl into a smile.

I’ve been gone. 

But I’ve returned. 

And I won’t revisit oblivion until the world I was once sent to teach has at last found peace.


October 13, 2023 22:56

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40 comments

Michelle Oliver
00:05 Oct 15, 2023

This is a take on Romans 12:19 that I very much enjoyed reading. What if the saviour returned to wreak vengeance on the wicked in this way? Your writing is painful and powerful, the descriptions of each person’s pain and suffering so strong. I like that you didn’t linger too long on any single one, but presented it like a smorgasbord of pain, almost too much. Excellent writing.

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07:17 Oct 15, 2023

Gosh thanks Michelle. I'm now wondering if 12:19 would be a better title . I like it but people may not get it . I actually didn't give the title much thought as it was such a rush getting the story finished.... Hmmm. It would be cool to have clocks in the locations showing 12:19 possibly. But I'm.too tired to edit more now 😂

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Audrey Knox
13:25 Oct 15, 2023

I am impressed that Michelle could recall the exact verse that discusses this, but I think renaming it or putting actual verse numbers in your story could be too on-the-nose and might give your answer away. I like it as is!

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Chris Miller
22:17 Oct 14, 2023

I like it. It's a good stab at describing an immaterial being re-entering a physical form (forms) Not an easy thing to do! Some lovely poetic descriptions and a great idea. Two questions arise for me: Where was he? And, more importantly, is it just crucifix effigies, or will bobble-head Jesus be shanking baddies too?

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22:26 Oct 14, 2023

Thank you Chris!! And .....ahhh haha! Now I need to do a continuation of the various forms getting together to discuss their next move!!! 😂😂

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21:20 Oct 14, 2023

This was a great read! I was raised in a very traditional Christian household, and this would probably upset some folks back in SA 😂 I am not religious, but would personally welcome a slew of vengeful massiah's in our wicked world right now ❤️

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21:24 Oct 14, 2023

Lol I actually hesitated a lot in posting this one. Still not entirely sure about having it up....but ....here it is. Had this idea many years ago and it's nice to actually finally have it out of my head. Though some might say it should have stayed in there 😬 my son said I probably shouldn't post it because I might get cancelled 😂😂

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12:54 Oct 15, 2023

It's dark and certainly not in line with a gentle Jesus. But people forget he chased a bunch of tax collectors with a whip once. Like if I was him, looking at the world today... As well as actually divine. Who knows? I liked it man. 💪

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Graham Kinross
02:15 Nov 18, 2023

Not everyone’s cup of tea but I like the unflinching take on justice. A lot of people use religion for the wrong reason to hide or justify their sins or as a direct path to profit with their ‘give me your money to please god’ stuff. I imagine they would all be getting a visit from this spirit.

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10:44 Nov 19, 2023

Thanks Graham. Definitely not for everyone. I worried about posting it and almost deleted. Thanks for the kind words , really appreciate it .

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Graham Kinross
22:55 Nov 19, 2023

People will always have their opinions but you can’t censor yourself. You have to be yourself.

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Robert Egan
20:47 Oct 21, 2023

I think a really cool priest would read this story as part of his sermon then open the floor for discussion. Loved the idea of the imprisoned Messiah and the reveal. Amazing story, Derrick!

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Andrew Hixson
10:30 Oct 20, 2023

An excellent read with a different twist.

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Andy Ortega
09:11 Oct 20, 2023

This is so dark! I love it! When he spoke about suffering on the cross my mouth fell open. This was so brilliantly written in its deliberateness of showing the dark nature of evil people and his helplessness in not being able to do anything which then turned to determination to help them. Bravo!

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09:38 Oct 20, 2023

Hey thanks Andy! Glad you enjoyed. Yes it is pretty dark alright, I was a little nervous about posting it truth be told. But seems to have gone down okay!

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Michał Przywara
21:03 Oct 19, 2023

A neat take on the prompt, and a good part of the fun is figuring out who the speaker is. At the start, I figured a victim perhaps, in some kind of mind prison. When bodies started being taken over, perhaps an AI, subject to the darkest parts of the internet and fed up with it. As it progressed, the idea of some sort of supernatural being looked more likely - though I wasn't sure if this was a forgotten god, or maybe some angel who had been asleep at the wheel (and now wondered why things had gone south) or maybe even the concept of conscien...

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08:20 Oct 20, 2023

Thanks Michal. Always great to hear from you and always love how you deep dive into the stories and really analyse them. You're a gentleman and an inspiration.

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00:22 Oct 19, 2023

Derrick, this was lovely. The way you describe the desire for consciousness, and to BECOME was so poetic. The passion that motivates the narrator is unique to see in a piece like this. You took me back to, “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses.” The concept of His seeing and feeling, SHARING our emotions, and being provoked to existence for our sake is such a powerful stance. Well done, sir 👏👏👏

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15:14 Oct 19, 2023

Thank you so much Hannah. As I 've said to others I had absolutely no idea how this would go down but the response has been good so....relief!

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Belladona Vulpa
09:26 Oct 18, 2023

Nice one! It kept my interest from beginning to end, beautiful language and good pace. I liked the first perspective thought flow, like a monologue of the central character. Initially I didn't connect the reference so I got surprised mid story. I was wondering what would happen in the end, if he was going to be cruel or not. I would be scared of such a being, even it saved me. It would be like a bigger stronger bully replaced the current ones of this world. Neither scenario is ideal, really. The story also brings up philosophical debat...

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18:05 Oct 18, 2023

Thank you Belladonna! Yes there's a rabbit hole of ideas you could go down thinking about the possibility....and yes it definitely would be a terrifying thing to happen. He wouldn't be a bully of innocents though. Just of those who harm others

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Belladona Vulpa
20:56 Oct 18, 2023

Of course there are obvious bad actions (and crimes and pain), and it does feel better that only "the bad guys" would get it, but what about when those are hypothetically wiped out, and the rest live in fear of non-intentionally being bad? Is redemption even an option in such a world? How about a moral gray situation where something is not so obvious? And so on.. Indeed, it's truly a rabbit hole of ideas, and it's exciting when a story does that!

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15:16 Oct 19, 2023

Ohhh thats very intriguing, Belladona. ....So yes, when all the evil is gone....then what. Will He want to go back to that horrible place he was trapped in willingly. Or will he have a taste for retribution......what if it gets out of control and He cant stop. Thats a fascinating idea! I would like to explore it!

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Danie Holland
15:33 Oct 17, 2023

My heart Derrick. This one got me 😭 Sitting here in what I thought was a pretty useless body today. Overwhelmed with pain, overwhelmed with sorrow. It’s easy to forget this life is temporary. Easy to forget our pain is seen, heard, and nothing compared to the one who saved us. Easy to forget we suffer and we don’t suffer by ourselves. Easy to forget, we’re in a war and we’re not supposed to be comfortable in this life. Very poetic, which I love. And very powerful. This moved me to tears. Thank you for the reminder that our suffering is n...

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18:12 Oct 18, 2023

Hey Danie! Great to hear from you and I'm so happy you liked this twisted tale. It was a gamble posting it but seems to be going down ok. Yes sometimes we do have to stop and think and remind ourselves everything is temporary and finite and we need to appreciate and make the most of the time we have the best we can. Life is a struggle at times but it can and will be worth it. Hope you are well my Reedsy friend! 😊

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Mary Bendickson
00:40 Oct 16, 2023

He is coming back and this time He is P O ed!

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15:25 Oct 17, 2023

Well... understandable. No more mister nice Jesus lol. Thank you for the support Mary, as always!

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Tom Skye
15:44 Oct 15, 2023

Damn, some beautiful language and poetry in this. Reading down the comments, I didn't get the direct reference, but this was still a very enjoyable read. An intense experience. Amazing writing. Thanks for sharing

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15:25 Oct 17, 2023

Thanks Tom. Was nervous about this one but thankfully I haven't been run out of town...yet!

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Audrey Knox
13:23 Oct 15, 2023

The answer to the mystery that was driving my interest throughout the story was surprising yet inevitable. I really was thinking that the only explanation for what could be narrating like this was a God of some kind and it sounded like the return of Jesus. Then when you started to describe their limbs being held down, it vaguely did remind me of the crucifixion. Thus, it was so rewarding when everything came into focus at the end. A really compelling story. My only note is that I am still wondering "Why now?" Like your narrator says at the ...

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16:18 Oct 15, 2023

Thanks Audrey and yes thats a great point and something I will keep in mind. The problem for me is I don't have much free writing time during the week and we only get a week to make a story so it's difficult to think through from all angles. Totally agree with you though and there are certainly enough things going on in the world right now that any one.of them could be a catalyst. As it is, I think it's just a case of putting up with the noise for so long with no sign of it ever abating that finally pushes him to fight his way back

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Marty B
16:49 Oct 14, 2023

Not quite the Messiah folks are praying for, but maybe the one this violent world needs. Great descriptions- 'suffocating river of suppressive shadows '

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21:26 Oct 14, 2023

Thank you kindly Marty. Was worried this might offend . Still am tbh. Think it might be off putting to some readers.... But I thought the same about Speed Fate. Nearly removed that one a few times as well!

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Kevin Logue
10:18 Oct 14, 2023

***rock and roll guitar intro*** The Battle Messiah Returns! Remove that authors note at the start, this is bad ass narrative driven poetry that's really impressive and ready for all Let the masses have it! Reads like Lovecraft on speed with a helping of Alan Moore's and Gaiman's Swamp Thing and Sandman respectively. Got real building momentum, even though I think what is returning is obvious the reveal is still very satisfying. Great writing, great concept, great entry!

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10:27 Oct 14, 2023

😬😬😬😬😬 thanks Kevin! Yes it's fine that it's obvious, it's pretty difficult to hide it, I was hoping the execution would make up for it. Glad it seems to!

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Kevin Logue
11:52 Oct 14, 2023

Definitely does. Weirdly ol' JC showed up in my attempt this week too, ye know showing immortals how to become mortal by getting them to drink his blood. But I only got the idea Friday morning, wrote it on my half hour break, got home and realised no one should read it haha. Was just that kind of week.

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10:12 Oct 14, 2023

I may need to say a few Hail Marys for this one...

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08:21 Oct 20, 2023

No i didnt get run out of town

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Unknown User
22:23 Oct 17, 2023

<removed by user>

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18:06 Oct 18, 2023

Thank you J for reading and commenting! I thought I might get banned for this one!

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