It tells me that there is still much work to be done, and I believe it. I watch as it unfurls before me in a manner my pen and paper are inadequate to describe. There is another world under the surface, it says, and I must let it out. My hands shake with every word I transcribe. My mouth is dry.

I have too many notes scribbled in too small handwriting across paper that’s too wrinkled and too yellowed. Half of these interviews seem to be misremembered artefacts and the other half are mundane. That’s not to say I won’t keep them. Mundanity is a part of life after all.

Telescopes can illuminate the deepest sections of our night sky. My editor tells me that anyone who claims to know what lies beyond is lying and I’m disinclined to believe him when this pale eyed creature darkens my door. She doesn’t understand what she sees and knows nothing beyond hope.

They come here most days hoping to catch another glimpse of the creature. They say it promised to return but all I see is a salty haze hanging above an unforgiving sea. They stand here alone in the bitter cold spray thinking they are remembered and that a promise will be kept. All I see is grey.

They tell me I’m closer than I think. To me it’s still all smoke but they carry on. Says to look at the why and not the who or how. I clock a certain education to their drawl. Something about their choice of words makes me nervous. Checking in reflections for secret stalkers. Watching from windows…

I come back to the trees once in a while to revisit the sight of the vanishing. From the corner of my eye the mind plays tricks. My editor enjoys this story as it’s cheap to rent a car and cheaper to stay in a motel nearby. I like this story because it never ends. They don’t return.

He asked me if I’m good at keeping secrets. I say I’m not. He said he’s been here with me dozens of times before and repeating the same meeting over and over again. I remember this. I say he’s tired. I say he’s scared. His eyes widen in horror. Change scares him. He fears freedom. He can’t face it.

He asked me if I’m good at keeping secrets. I said I am. She said he’s been here with me dozens of times before as if repeating the same meeting over and over again. I have no memory of this. He says he’s tired. He says he’s scared. He says when I leave I always come right back. I tell him I’ll stay

One hundred? I’m sure my editor will give me a pay rise now. Maybe one of you can be my celebratory interview.

There’s a creature within the creature, so it stands to reason. Throughout our talk they glance around the room, although it’s hard to tell with those dish-plate like eyes. I ask it whether it needs a break and instead it begs me to stay.

I need time. There’s never enough time. Each word I write may as well be the tick of a clock and every page another wasted hour. I write words I know my editor will remove. I tell stories I know will be scrapped. I watch the others go about their days oblivious to the world.

He tells me the ship is sinking. I ask whether that’s a metaphor or literal. He laughs at me and apologises. It’s true, he says, before adjusting his tie. His eyes remain fixed on the sky scanning for imaginary invaders. At the end of the day, he says, it’s always business. I can’t help but agree.

The measurement of a creature is in cruelty, I say. I say to my editor that it’s the kind ones you must watch out for as kindness could be a lie. Cruelty is the truth. My editor tells me I’m overthinking things. I play him a song from this wide eyed creature and he is brought to tears.

I remember…pain. It was good for a time when it was all I could feel. It reminded me I was still real and that once it was over the light would shine brighter. I remember creatures studying and toying with me. I remember running through fog and emerging unscathed.

We’d crossed some invisible border and ended up in the so called “God’s Country”. Every radio station threatened us with damnation if we didn’t donate, and I watched my drivers incredulous reactions to each Hallelujah. I watched the crosses by the roadside grow in number.

My name is…Kit. I’ve opened my eyes to find myself in the world of the living. A million thoughts are crashing through my mind and above all two stand out. Who are you? And what do you want from me? With arms outstretched and a faltering smile, let me be yours. Join me…

What are you looking for, I ask. They don’t reply, letting the static do the talking. Maybe they have a point. Sometimes looking for shapes in the shadows is more fulfilling than asking questions. In the starlight there looks to be an immeasurable amount of life. They watch me.

It’s a question of money sometimes. The flights cost too much and the gas isn’t enough to cover the cross country journeys. I begged my editor for a solution but in return he begged me for better stories. It’s hard to find the truth on a budget. These people want rewarding.

I tell him the image is old fashioned and people don’t employ travelling salesmen anymore. He tells me that’s the point and suspicion is key. As he hunts in the night he wants to be noticed and to stand out. He wants the reports to feature his description. He enjoys the fear. He needs the attention.

The idea of “Lost Cosmonauts” was absurd and I refused to engage any further with the subject. Their voice screamed down the phone line that I was just like the rest. Between ominous static crackles and prolonged electronic beeps they begged me for more time. The silence howled into the black night.

When the phone rings I ignore it, knowing whose voice will taint me on the other end. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes they speak together in a strange harmony. Always the promise secrets and entice with lies. I let it ring. It’s shrill tone brings me comfort.

There’s satisfaction in a well organised corkboard, despite the string burns on my fingers. Everything is connected through those threads as they weave and intersect, and once a name becomes seared on my mind I cannot let go. The name repeats and surfaces in abundance. I wait. The story waits too.

There are remnants everywhere. I look at otherwise mundane scenes and think to myself: “this is the last thing they saw”. These creatures don’t care for subtlety or emotion. When they see a victim, they strike. They focus only on their end goal of consumption, domination. They leave only ashes.

What happens to you in there? Are you a passenger strapped to the seat unable to react as your dragged further into depravity? Or do you feel what “she” feels? The lust all consuming. Dare I say you enjoy the corruption? I don’t suppose you’ll ever really be “you” ever again. Just another “her”.

How long have you got? How often do you resurface from the murk? I have a list to get through and maybe not much time. And I don’t want to get your hopes up, ma’am, but I have no interest in a rescue here. You aren’t my concern I’m afraid. But take your time, and if you could answer my questions…

Seduction was always the goal with a creature like this. I’ve noticed time and time again how even reasonable people fall under her spell. I think the key is how understated she behaves. A rampant creature would maim or threaten, whereas Bec appears to let her prey swim and gather around.

I’d love a quick word, although I doubt she’ll leave a favourable comment. But she could spill some secrets. I always like interviewing hosts and parasites like this. Of course you aren’t technically one of those but…it’s all in the same wheelhouse. Please, let me ask Cassandra for her perspective.

Ten years…do they know what you do with their image? I can’t imagine some would be happy to know their likeness is little more than a lure. Or weapon. Then again, at least they serve a purpose for ten years. But you’ll have to tell me the exception, I’m dying to know. I promise I won’t print it…

In a sane world, right would counter wrong and justice would prevail. The agent tells me in no uncertain terms that this is not a sane world. He tells me of crippling anxiety whenever the phone rings, convinced the cold cases and John Doe’s will call him in the night. I nod.

My editor tells me to celebrate this number, quite why I am not sure. However I must thank my intrepid readers for giving the privilege of such an important number.

There’s something in the hallways. I return to the apparently empty building each day to find doors opened, furniture scattered. Security tells me there are no other visitors. So it stays here lives here, makes a home here amongst the rust and decay. I pray our paths never cross.

[ Temporary pinned. ] [ #BSkyRP] [ #ArcaneRP]

How do you acquire a face? And what makes you decide upon one? Is it a purely aesthetic choice, or something instinctual? I also wonder what the timeline for you is in terms of, how you’d say, changing. You must become attached to certain forms, maybe willing to extend your stay in them?

It’s a bold move, Rebecca approves of it. A foolish one as well however. Have they never read the stories? Do they not know the outcome? “The siren call always leads to paradise.” She smiles, and flashes some of her wet tongue. Between skin and lips, she knows this one is hers for good.

Hurricane of blood, I like that. Could be used as the subheading, “immortal deity threatens cyclone of terror on humanity.” Or “dinner time for civilisation?” Maybe a little exposure could get you some fans. I have a lot of readers who would love to meet you although you probably already knew that.

I tell stories, and what better tale is there than this? Think of it as a test, an experiment. The worst case scenario is that your boredom remains and you return to what you do best. My editor is going to flip when he hears about this…the features column is all but guaranteed now. Thanks to you.

Dishevelled messy hair, creased clothes. It was like she wasn’t trying at all. So why did the other still fawn over her? “If you saw me at my best, you’d pass out.” Rebecca sometimes found the constant attention exhausting. But it was better than nothing. “Come on then, your turn to please me…”

I’ve interviewed some “subjects” who find the balance between their hungers and life difficult to maintain. Perhaps this is the cycle for you. Enhanced understanding of the meaning of man can allow you to further undermine and compel man, which deepens the understanding…and so on. Just a thought.

Let’s say yes. You’re a being of immense power and boundless impulse, and from this point you can no longer indulge. What do you do with yourself? Is there a single other avenue in which you would be suited? I hate to put you on the spot but…can you name even one thing besides lust you excel in?

He talks of a man who fell to earth. He’s insistent that it could be a woman and I don’t challenge him on it. He talks of metal suits and gas masks of the smell of bleach. He talks of love. I can’t get him to shut up about love. Yet he persists. He only stops when I ask his name. He has forgotten.

It’s difficult to determine the more applicable term for some of these things I speak with. I swing between ‘Visitor’ and ‘Interloper’. The latter has negative connotations for sure, something unnatural, yet the former is far too friendly. These are not allies. They are others.

Eager ones stay close to her, waiting for a moment to be useful. A filled drink here, a lit cigarette there. Some get too indulgent, hands attempting to caress and grope. Rebecca takes it in stride. “Settle down. There’s plenty to go around.” They’ll all have their end soon, under her body…

They found him by the beach. I managed to see him before they dragged his body into the sea. He had such a look of peace on his face. I covered my ears as those siren calls rendered him obsolete. His carcass is likely being shared by them now, with smooth skin and sharp teeth. They’re getting bold.

I’m certain the call came from a pay-phone as I could hear the rain scattering in the background. She said she had no time. She told me names I can’t remember. She said we’d met before but I wouldn’t know. She said we’d meet again where the trees cleared. Click. Click. Dial tone.

𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘭, 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘺. 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘩𝘦 '𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐃𝐢𝐞'.

The arrogant strut of these lords of the coal face, kings of the underworld. I asked the miners about the stories of singing deep below the earth. Of grimy hands clawing at them, dragging them into a lethal embrace. Creatures far below beckoning them. They walk away, blank eyed, trudging into death.

I try to keep my notes handwritten. I can reflect on the specifics of my handwriting to detect my emotions during a particular interview. This part means I was scared. This part means I was afraid. This part means I was staring at the door and wondering how to escape.