Thank you for writing in my prompt about suicide. It hasn’t ended yet, but I’ve read all of you incredibly talented people’s writings so far, and I loved every single one.

Thank you for sharing your experiences. There is strength in words, and I hope you guys are okay.

My messages are always open to those who want a friend.

(p.s. There will not be a winner.)

For you if you can grasp hold of form in all you now focus upon.

As for my mind, I abhor original words said in a blur of chronology.

In as such, I now say my final days on company grounds on grounds of your unmindful and highly barbarous fallacy, aiming at my job is a major discord.

As bland as I can in words: I am fini with your puzzling ambiguous logic.

I am abandoning my job.

I’ve always loved gambling. The heady rush of watching my horse break ahead of the pack, knowing in just a few seconds I’ll be quids in. The palpable tension at the poker table, refusing to smile back at the four kings in my hand. Even losing has a bittersweet feeling, that sense that I’d almost made it big and the next time has to be mine.

Or the next time. Or the next.

I see now that my addiction was not to gambling, and certainly not to winning, but to that hope that things will turn my way. That my ship will come in. Just one more race, just one more game, just one more hand.

I’m still waiting for the big pay out. I’ve hit rock bottom so the only way is up. And I know tonight is the night.

During the years of bad luck, I lost not just money but my family, friends, home and fiancée. I racked up debts that would make a politician blush and ended up owing a lot of money to a dangerous man by the name of Charlie Benedict.

Benedict was a big player in the Manchester underworld, owning several establishments which were rumoured to be fronts for drug manufacture, human trafficking and, of course, illegal bookmaking.

I knew I would be able to break even with him just as soon as that right bet came in. Unfortunately, his patience was not as great as mine and, a few hours ago, he sent the boys round. I can’t say I didn’t see it coming; I was in the hole to the tune of £300,000.

What I didn’t expect was the offer to make it good. Two games, three players. If I won, not only would Benedict wipe my debt I would also receive a quarter of a million pounds.

He gave me the choice to decline, but I knew if I opted for that his heavies would not leave until I was in traction, at best. Not that I need much time to consider – two-hundred and fifty big ones in one evening was a big incentive. I could practically smell the loot.

And this is how I end up sitting at a circular table in the cellar of one of Benedict’s businesses. Across from me sit two strangers who have obviously also fallen foul of Lady Luck. One is a large man, perhaps 28 stones. Though his fleshy face belies his true age, by the downy attempt at a beard I would place him at about eighteen. My other opponent is much older, maybe in his seventies. His sunken eyes ceaseless flick from me to the kid to the men around us. Even from this distance I can smell his fear and poor hygiene.

Benedict’s men strap the three of us to our chairs then position a webcam before each of us. There are also six tripod-mounted cameras in the room, two trained on me, two on the old man and two on the younger one. As his lackies busy themselves making sure the cameras are angled correctly, Bendict walks in. He’s wearing a rubber mask of Boris Johnson and a wireless headset complete with microphone. He ignores us as he chats with someone at the other end of the connection.

‘Are we set up? Got the camera feed? Anybody online yet? Seventeen? Let’s give it a few more minutes then, I want to get to fifty before we start.’

Approaching the table, Benedict addresses us for the first time.

‘Gentlemen, I want to personally thank you for making this possible.’ His hands disappear into the pockets of his blazer. ‘This is the first of what I hope to be a very lucrative new venture.’

From his left pocket, he pulls out two cylindrical metal objects and places them on the table. Although I’ve never seen one in real life before, I immediately recognise them as bullets.

‘As you may or may not know,’ Benedict continues, ‘the thrill of winning soon becomes jaded. Bigger challenges are needed to capture the rush. New games must be introduced to supply that demand.’

His right hand emerges with something clutched in it, but it’s on the other side of him and I can’t see what it is.

‘Although my customers are playing by proxy, nonetheless they are willing to pay exquisite amounts to watch. I wish each of you the very best of luck.’

A slight tilt of the head, and I can tell his next words are not directed at us.

‘Sixty-four? Wonderful. Right, let’s get the show started.’ His tone changes again as he addresses a different audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us. As you see on the screens, we have three participants for this ground-breaking event. Your betting options include selecting a winner now or guessing the rounds in which the losers will bow out. Alternatively, there is always the option of watching for the sheer thrill of the game.’

He lifts the hidden item into view and I feel my bowels loosen. It’s a gun.

Benedict delivers more patter to his clients, but his words are lost beneath my hammering heart. My attention is focused solely on the revolver as he snaps open the cylinder and slowly slides a bullet into one of the six chambers. Replacing the cylinder, he spins it and sets the gun down in the middle of the table.

‘…let the game begin,’ I hear him say theatrically as he backs away from us.

I look at my opponents. The shock on their faces tells me that they have also been unwittingly enrolled into this game of Russian roulette. Their haunted eyes reflect the thought in my mind: only one of us will survive the night.

My gaze falls to the weapon. It is now the centre of my universe. One bullet, six chambers.

Five chances to survive.

Realising the odds, I grunt as I stretch for the gun. It is heavy, cold. The pungent aroma of oil mingles with the smell of metal, infiltrates my nostrils, makes me gag. All at once I want to be elsewhere, I want the night to be over, I wish I had never encountered Benedict.

But I am here. And there is only one way out.

One bullet, six chambers. Five chances to survive. The best chance of winning is to go first.

My arm is shaking so much I can barely lift the gun. I rest the barrel against my temple to stop its dancing around.

I close my eyes. Five chances to survive.

Unless the randomly spun cylinder has placed the bullet in the first chamber.

My throat is so dry, my head is swimming with fear and uncertainty.

The trigger moves easily, too easily, and I release a moan as I squeeze it.

What follows is the loudest sound I have ever heard. A tear drops from my eye when I realise that it was only the click of the hammer slamming against an empty chamber.

A little urine escapes me, but I am too relieved to be alive to care.

Yelling a wordless cry of victory, I place the revolver back in the middle of the table. I know my turn will come around again, but for now I have survived. I am alive.

The teenager makes a move for the gun but his size slows him and the older man gets to it first.

I seemed to have held the gun for many minutes before finding the courage to place it to my head. The oldster wastes no time, pointing it to his head and pulling the trigger in mere seconds. I wonder if, in his mind, the process had seemed much longer.

Lips trembling, the kid reaches for the gun. The barrel weaves crazily as he picks it up.

Four-to-one odds I calculate, yet part of me wishes this chamber holds the bullet. I don’t want to see the boy’s brains sprayed over the cameras behind him but I would sooner live with witnessing that trauma than being to one to face the live round.

He sobs as he raises the gun. Snot drools from his nose.

I tense myself.

He puts the gun to his forehead, wails and pulls the trigger.

A hollow click.

His cries increase in fervour. He drops the gun to the table as if it would bite him.

My stomach drops. It’s my turn again.

Drenched in sweat, I reached for the weapon. It’s grown heavier, as crazy as that sounds. Picking it up takes all of my strength. I can’t stop my mind from racing, from throwing mathematical facts at me.

The cylinder has made a half rotation. Of the six chambers, only three remained untried. One of them contains death. Three-to-one. Two chances to live.

This is my last turn in this game, I know. It is the only thought I cling to as I force my arm to bring the gun up.

Pleasepleaseplease.

The fall of the hammer makes me jump.

My chest burns and I realise I have been holding my breath. I breathe in hungrily. The air tastes of dread and sweat but it is the sweetest flavour I can imagine.

I slide the revolver to the old man. He shakes his head, as though he can choose not to join in. It’s him or the kid. I don’t know who has it worse.

The old man has a chance that he will live. The kid has the same fifty-fifty chance, but his fate is in his opponent’s hands. If the oldster is successful, that will mean the kid is left the sixth chamber – the one that definitely holds the bullet.

Refusing to touch the weapon, the old man looks desperately around. Nonsensical sounds escape his lips, unintelligible pleas for pardon. But no answer comes.

With a scream of defiance, the man takes the gun and points it at the kid. Wide-eyed, I watch his fingers tighten on the trigger.

There is a deafening roar and the old man’s head collapses in a mess of red and grey. The revolver, unfired, drops from his grip.

From the darkness around us, one of Bendict’s cronies strides forward. I had forgotten they were there.

Smoke rises from the barrel of a pistol the lackey holds. Placing his gun in a holster, he scoops up the fallen revolver, points it at the dead man’s chest and squeezes.

Click.

My body goes numb. The old man had been safe. The bullet was not in his chamber.

The lackey shrugs and pulls the trigger again.

The boom shakes the bones in my body, thunders in my ears and I don’t think I will ever hear again.

The old man’s chest opens in a shower of blood and bone and guts. Something warm splatters my face. Across from me, face pale, the boy vomits over himself. The acrid smell combines with the stench of blood and faeces.

Calmly walking around the man he has just killed, Benedict’s crony opens the revolver, taps out the spent bullet casing and replaces it with the last live round. He flicks the cylinder shut, spins it and rests the gun down before the kid.

‘Round two,’ he whispers with a wink, then retreats to the shadows.

The boy looks down at the gun. A stifled, stuttering sound escapes him. It is the most terrifying laughter I have ever heard, without a trace of mirth. There is a light in his eyes that is not sane.

He pulls the gun up, puts it in his mouth. Tears are streaming from his eyes. His hands are shaking so badly, I can hear the barrel jarring against his teeth.

His finger touches the trigger. The disturbing cackling stops, replaced by a high-pitched whine.

Click.

‘Hah!’ the boy screams and throws the gun toward me.

My chest is heaving and I’m struggling to breath. I am so dizzy, I feel I am falling even though I am secured in the chair. This fear, this uncertainty, is worse than anything I have ever faced.

Please God, let this unknown teen die. Spare my life and take his. I do not know him, I do not care about him. I can’t die, not here, not this way. There is so much I have not yet done, so many sins to atone, forgiveness to seek.

I take the gun. It’s tacky with bodily fluids.

Pushing away all thoughts, I place the barrel to my temple and squee

‘The world ended on April 23, 2018. It wasn’t the first time and I doubt it will be the last. But it was the most recent.’

The speaker paused, allowing time for his audience to absorb the gravity of his words. Bluquo blinked her large eyes slowly while Jendine’s were are wide as her mouth. Being unfamiliar with their physiology, it was hard to read their expressions.

Jendine’s waist-length hair glistened silver in the moonlight. Her tail flapped lazily in the water of the loch. At least she had stopped crooning. When they had first been introduced to this haven, the merfolk had enchanted the indigenous species with their captivating song. Bluquo, by dint of being one of the first rescued creatures introduced to the planet, had been charged with keeping Jendine and her kin in line and now all the merfolk resided with the plesiosaurus at Loch Ness.

‘You may have noticed the change in the night skies,’ Ama continued, ‘so I am here to assure you that all is well and the Nibiru have not found you.’

‘The fact that we are still breathing is proof of that,’ Bluquo stated.

‘True,’ Ama agreed. ‘But some are not as pragmatic as you and require our assurance.’

‘Will they ever stop, the Nibiru?’ Jendine asked.

‘They won’t.’ Ama made no attempt to soften the answer.

‘How do you not remember, little fish?’ Bluquo asked the mermaid. ‘The Nibiru believe that they are the only correct lifeform and are devoted to ridding universe of every other species.’

‘Is that why they drowned Alaquin?’

‘Yes,’ Ama answered. ‘The Nibiru destroyed your world because you were not Nibiru. Thankfully, my fellow Zeta Reticulians and I were able to rescue several dozen of your kind and transport you to this haven world.’

‘This world?’ Bluquo said. ‘You said the world had ended.’

‘My apologies. Jendine, you and the merfolk were transported to Earth VII. More recently, you have all been migrated to this world.’

‘But I don’t recall being migrated,’ Jendine said. ‘Not this time. I remember the journey from Alaquin. Why was it different this time?’

’It is a large undertaking to displace a being from one world to another and requires much planning. Method of transport, hospitable cargo space, journey time – all these things must be considered and calculated. Whereas moving a whole world is much easier.

’Millenia ago, the Zeta Reticuli identified many habitable planets in the far reaches of the universe and installed sentinels at their polar orbits. This technology allows us to remotely monitor the fostered world as well as offering an access point through which we can traverse.

‘Another use of the sentinels is to scan its ward over a full rotation and remap the image to an unused haven. This “remapping” involves the instant relocation of all life forms.’

‘So during this migration we were teleported to another world?’ Jendine asked.

‘Yes,’ Ama confirmed. ‘You, your kin, Bluquo and all other life on this planet; all were, to use your word, teleported from Earth VII to here three years ago.’

‘But how did the Nibiru find us?’ Jendine questioned. ‘We merfolk had been on Earth VII for many hundreds of years.’

‘That was down to the actions of the indigenous peoples of the haven,’ Ama answered. ’As a planet-based organism, they are inconsequential to your lives. Unfortunately, they have aspiration for the heavens. Since they first looked up at the night sky, they have dreamed of what secrets may lie amongst the stars.

’About two hundred and fifty years ago, in a place the natives now call Europe, the Zeta Reticuli introduced a system to prevent them from achieving this goal. As their undeveloped minds could not hold the knowledge of our existence without breaking, we were forced to guide them into creating an organisation comprised solely of their own kind. The intention of this society was for them to police their own sciences and laws in a bid to slow down their learning with bureaucracy.

’For many years, it was a successful scheme but the fragility of their bodies meant the original intent was lost over time. Now this organisation, which they call the Illuminati, busies itself with increasing the amount of its own bartering units. It has been more than fifty years since the last time we were able to employ their assistance.

’In a time when two tribes raced to be the first escape the confines of the world, one important individual publicly promised his people they would reach the planet’s natural satellite. This immediately alerted we Zeta Reticulians; if the indigenous people called out to the cosmos, it would only be a matter of time before the Nibiru heard and answered.

‘Through the Illuminati, and with heavy disguise, we were able to contact this… I believe they called him president… and convince him of the ill of his goals. He was an ingenious creature – for their kind – and saw the threat the Nibiru posed.’

Jendine’s tail fluttered at the mention of the enemy.

‘As he was unable to retract his statement,’ Ama continued, ‘another method was needed to change the course of his tribe’s plans. After months of discussions, meticulous plotting and much practise, two fake deaths were planned. The president was seen to be publicly executed and his so-called assassin received the same treatment days later. As far as I am aware, both natives went on to live long, productive, quiet lives.’

This was a detail Ama knew Bluquo would be glad to hear. Excluding the Zeta Reticuli, she was greatest pacificist Ama had ever known.

‘However, the president had underestimated his people. Instead of stopping the tribes’ thirst to enter space, it only delayed it. Five years later, they sent a vehicle to the satellite, and have sent five more since.’

‘And in doing so, did they unwittingly informed the Nibiru of their presence,’ the mermaid said.

‘That would have been the case,’ Ama replied, ‘had their attempts been successful. The Zeta Reticuli were able to intercept all six vehicles and their transmissions. After inducing a sleep, we diverted the crew to a lonely island and fabricated sound and images of them achieving their destination. In our version, the satellite is a dead rock and the natives’ desire to walk upon it soon abated.’

‘So if the locals have not left their world, how are they responsible for the Nibiru finding Earth VII?’

‘We have been focused on preventing the natives physically leaving the planet and from emitting interstellar radio broadcasts inviting visitation. Regretfully, we have been unable to silence the amount of terrestrial distant communication. The Nibiru were alerted by the arrival of something the indigenous people of this world call streaming service.’

‘And after picking up this service, the Nibiru destroyed Earth VII?’

‘They gathered their forces on a distant planet in the solar system, one as yet unidentified by the locals, and launched the attack from there.’

With no further questions from Jendine or Bluquo, Ama prepared to leave.

‘Now, if you are content that you are safe on Earth VIII,’ Ama said, ‘I must pass this message to another rescued lifeform we have placed on this haven.’

‘Others?’ Jendine asked. ‘Are there more merfolk?’

‘No,’ Ama replied. ’Through the course of our mission, we have given sanctuary to many doomed civilisations. There are zidilons and rakers and kliatru. There are also warring impatu which we have had to separate by continents; some are located in a place the locals call North America, the others in what they call Nepal.

‘All of these have been informed and I have only one more being to speak with, a vampire who resides within the English monarchy.’

I was sitting here debating what to write when a small idea hit me. Why not offer up conspiracy theories as prompts for a short story or perhaps a chapter series. So, I spent the better part of the day digging and came up with eight ideas for a story or series, or even just a poem.

If you think something on your own, it can be considered an idea or a plan to implement. It doesn’t become a conspiracy until two or more people agree, even if only in theory.

Conspiracy theories are not a new concept, but they’ve taken on a new life thanks to the internet. In 2020, we saw more than our fair share of misinformation online—some rooted in historical details, others in fear. It has gotten so bad; one theory is Prince Charles living as a closeted vampire, which is in this list.

The Moon Landing Was Fake

The flag moving in the wind, no stars in the sky whatsoever, the misaligned shadows—these have all been points made in the conspiracy theory that Neil Armstrong didn’t take the first “leap for mankind” on the moon in 1969. For years, conspiracists have argued that NASA staged the landing and that the secret has been protected by the CIA ever since.

The Government Killed JFK

There are a number of conspiracy theories about President Kennedy’s death, but one of the most popular is that the government was behind the assassination. Many Americans don’t believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, and biographer Philip Shenon claims even Bobby Kennedy thought the CIA was responsible for his brother’s death at first.

The Denver International Airport Is Illuminati’s Headquarters

The Illuminati leads to a conspiracy rabbit hole that we’re not going to delve too far into—except when it comes to the Denver International Airport. Many Illuminati believers are convinced it’s the secret group’s headquarters. The airport has embraced the rumors by poking fun at it, but that hasn’t stopped people from believing secret tunnels and lizard lairs lurk beneath the building.

Prince Charles Is A Vampire

Why? Well, the Prince of Wales is related to Vlad the Impaler, the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and many royals in Charles’s bloodline were known to have the disease Porphyria, which is an iron deficiency that causes people to be sensitive to sunlight.

The Black Knight Satellite Is An Alien Space Craft

Many conspiracy theorists are wary of a space object that has become

known as the Black Knight satellite. While experts at NASA insist

it’s just space junk, some believe it’s an ancient alien space ship.

Sirens Were Responsible For Shipwrecks

Call them the original conspiracy theorists, but sailors have claimed that mystical women dubbed “sirens” would lure them to the rocks and cause shipwrecks back in the day.

Planet X Is home To A World called Nibiru

When news of an undiscovered planet in the solar system was revealed, many were fascinated and excited. However, some thought that Planet X housed a theoretical world called Nibiru that would lead to an apocalypse on April 23, 2018. When it didn’t happen one conspiracy theorist is quoted as saying, “That was a mis quite. We meant 2028.” I guess we all deserve a second chance.

They Are Alive And Well

The Abominable Snowman has long been a mythological creature that the public has tried to find for thousands of years. Personally, if he is real, I want his secret for staying alive so long. It was last “sighted” in Asia. The Loch Ness Monster lives in Scotland and reports come in almost every day he/it can be seen at the Scottish Loch Ness Lake. And then there is Bigfoot, Sasquatch, call it what you will, but many people are convinced the elusive creature exists.

**********

If any of these trip a trigger for a story or even perhaps a poem,

I would like to read your creation, so don’t forget me when you do.

A close friend, Michael is his name, died from ingesting too many pills at one time in 1991.

I was asked by his family, as his closest friend to say a few words. As he was Catholic, the priest wouldn't, as in his eyes and the eyes of the church, taking one's own life was considered a sin. This is roughly what I said.

It's good to see so many of you here. I'm sure Mike would have been not only pleased, but surprised to see so many people here to pay their respects.

We all know Mike was far from the perfect person. He tried, but he did do one thing right, and that was raise three daughters to be independant, and to never back down when right. Stand your ground, he would often say.

I've know Mike the better part of twenty years and never once did I not see him try to help someone if they needed help. The old give the shirt off his back, Mike. He would give money when he could to those in need and never look for that to come back to him.

We also know how much Mike liked his weed. I stopped by a friend's house one day and Mike was sitting in the middle of the living room, toking away and he had that glazed, kicked back happy look in his eyes. He had smoked at least half a dozen joints while I was there and to be honest, I thought I was getting a contact high.

I looked at him and said, You know something, Mike, you could own a marijuana field, acres and acres of the stuff and smoke all of it and then later say, wow! I could have been rich!

You know what he said?

He said, Yeah, but where I end up going one day I can't take it with me, so might as well enjoy it while I can.

And that's about the best takeaway I can give all of you. Enjoy what you have now. Mike did.

I won't swear to this, but if he's looking down at us, or, looking up, he's in a place he feels comfortable, and probably smoking his ass off right now.

But he left a piece of himself with all of us. He touched so many lives, never once asking for anythiung in return. If it came back to him, so be it. If it didn't, then it didn't.

Mike, the father, Mike, the friend, and Mike, if you are listening, damn you for leaving us the way you did, but you did so on your terms and for that I can't fault you.

But buddy, you will be missed.

** Photo is 35 years old

Well, let me ask - would we?

There could be a meteor that takes us out.

We could do it ourselves, gradually and slowly, through plantary incompetence and greed.

Or I dunno - we could blow ourselves up the nuclear fashion way.

But still - yeah, there’s meteors.

We still haven’t got a good system to beat those, really.

And let’s face it they took out the dinosaurs, so if we can’t defeat what killed those guys with our so-called superior little sapian brains - come on.

However, I feel even if the meteor does strike I think we should still aim to take better care of the planet - I mean, I could get hit by a car tomorrow, that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up and just sit on my ass until I die of a heart attack.

The dudes with the space travel idea - yeah, that’s nice and all. But I mean, really? Auctioning off space to the rich? Kinda on the nose, isn’t it? Like, “Hey, sorry we drained all the resources and wasted them on ourselves - but we’re out now, enjoy the wreck we left behind!”

Maybe it’s best just not to think about it.

Instead, focus on today.

What can I do today?

Then maybe - just maybe - the world will limp along as best it can until that meteor hits.

Also solar power seems kinda awesome. Just a thought. I mean, those dead dinosaurs can’t sustain us forever and what are we gonna leave behind for the next major species that dominates the planet? Plastic?

Huh.

Actually, maybe that will be our thing. Plastic.

Hope the next species can use it well.

Sometimes

For hours

I just stare at the moon

And imagine myself up there

Far away

From the madness of this world

there was a dead body in the room

Had to be

Else where did the smell

come from?

Every time he’d turn around to catch

a ghost or a zombie

from the corner of his eyes the smell

would slap him

A smell of death

He decided he’d look around for the

dead body

but later

He didn’t have the energy now

or the disposition

or anything

He only wanted to sleep

some more

He just woke up and needed a good

nap to recover

Perhaps there were times when it

didn’t make sense

but now, today, nothing made more

sense that this

All you need is a healthy

dose of chronic depression and it makes

sense

Just like not cleaning the room

and not taking a shower

in a time longer than memory can be

bothered to remember

So he paced back to the bed

and climbed in

and dragged the blanket, heavy with

caked dirt, on his body

and closed his eyes

He fell asleep in spite of

the smell of death

coming closer still

The dreams were always a little bit better

in the nap taken after

waking up from

the night’s sleep

One time he even dreamed he

was a published author. Not a great or

even a good one, but published

***

IG: https://www.instagram.com/bogdan_1_dragos/