“Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells 'em off for a coupla stones.” ― Libba Bray, The Diviners

I sat staring at the white wall. There was no way I was going to look back over my shoulder at what called to me. I had purposely positioned my chair for this moment; I knew that this time would come.

“Colin,” it said quietly from the other side of the room. “Colin look at me, I have it here.”

I heard a jingling sound as it shook an object that should have been in my possession. I wanted to turn and run across the room and grab it for myself, but I knew that wouldn‘t work. Instead I focused my eyes upon the white paint of the wall at the back of my living room.

I tried to sing inside my head to blot out the ringing as the thing shook the object ever more fiercely, the noise getting louder as it came closer. I heard it kick the coffee table in the centre of the room out of its way, the cups crashing against the polished wooden floor.

He loved making toys out of wood. He enjoyed watching the flakes come away from the logs he carved up as he delicately manoeuvred his knife over the surface. He'd admire his work as the shape from his imagination began to take shape.

This time it just happened to be the head of a jester. The log was perfectly formed for him to carve the three pronged hat, and the nose for the face already seemed to be in place.

He worked his knife quickly, but carefully over the wood, the head becoming clearer with each minute that passed. Every now and again, he would stop to clear his work area, before picking up his knife and continuing to work.

This one wouldn't be for sale. Nobody wanted figures anymore. It was hard enough to sell the wooden trains and cars that he made, each with perfect, hand cut, working wheels and steering.

The rain was falling heavily and there was the odd rumble of thunder as the mob worked their way along the country lanes. Some carried burning torches to light the way and others were armed with pitchforks and hoes, prepared to fight.

They got closer to the large building which was their destination. The place where they wanted to vent their fury.

Thunder flashed, lighting up the towers and reflecting from the windows, making a few members of the mob scream in fright. Those behind the screamers gave them a shove, pushing them and having a word to re-establish their confidence.

Rain began to fall heavier on the mob, but the torches continued to burn as they approached the building.

The mob seemed to slow the closer they got to the toymaker's house. It was as though their hand made boots were slowing them down in the mud. Most of them wore hand made clothes, except for the rich folks, who for once were united with the peasant mob in their hatred and anger.

When I was twelve years old a firework exploded next to my face at my best friend's birthday party, as I was chatting and eating a hotdog. My mother used to take great detail in telling people the firework was called a 'golden skyrocket surprise' although that part of my party surprise certainly wasn't my first thought at the time.
The results weren't pretty. Before there had been long blonde hair, clear blue eyes and pale but healthy skin; now there was a mangled recreation of something out of a horror movie. I lost the use of my left eye and my once 'normal' young face became horribly disfigured.

John Steele tramped down the scorching hot avenue talking to himself. In his sweaty right hand, he carried a heavy Kirby vacuum cleaner.

“Okay, Johnny, today’s the day we win that commission bonus for the most sales in the month of July.”

John had been dubbed the best salesman that Kirby Vacuum had seen in over twelve years. Just twenty-four years old, he was a black-haired, blue-eyed, spark plug, with an infectious smile. Everybody loved John.

Entry 1

The old lady downstairs is going insane. When I was paying the rent she asked if next time I argued with my roommate we would keep it quiet and not slam the doors. “I don’t have any roommates” was my response. I wasn’t even in my apartment. I had been at my girlfriend’s house. She insisted she heard me arguing with someone. She heard the door slam hard enough to shake her apartment. Footsteps stomping down the stairs and out the door. I assured her that it wasn’t me and suggested it might have been in another apartment. She’s probably trying to start up trouble with me since I’ve been late with the rent the last couple times.

Noticing her prescription has run low, Mrs. Emily Johnson of Des Moines, Iowa goes to the phone to make a call to her doctor. In her haste she punches a four on the keypad instead of the intended five. The voice at the other end is monotone and apathetic.

Voice: Hell.

Emily: Excuse me?
Voice: Hell. Main office. Dave speaking.

Emily: What?
Dave: Look I’m busy. How can I direct your call?

Emily: Don’t get testy with me, young man. Is this the Deerfield Medical Clinic?
Dave: Very funny. This is Hell. We don’t have clinics.