Writing Prompt 3: Fred Phelps has died. The Afterlife turns out to be a little different to what he imagined.

What follows is me being satirical:

Fred stared.

Slowly, he closed his eyes. He counted to ten. He opened them again.

Nope. No harps, no halos, no hosannas. 

Quite a lot of pumping techno.

"Oh sweetie," said Saint Peter with a small smile, "it's all in the Bible. God surrounds Himself with beautiful and largely naked male or androgynous figures, He sends His one son- who also surrounds himself with exclusively male company but who has a lot of sympathy for the plight of women- to spread the word that the only way into His house is to love, and the sign of His covenant with mankind is a Rainbow. Seriously, honey, you can't say you weren't informed up front."

Fred stared. His jaw began to wobble. Saint Peter slid his arm around the poor man's shoulders.

"I know," he said "but you'll get used to it. After all, this is your eternal reward."

Just so we're clear, here, my Christian friends remind me all the time that Christ teaches us to love and care for one another as we would want to be loved and cared for.  So, you know, we should all be nice to each other.

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Writing Prompt 2: Arrested for a crime I certainly committed but the Cops have their facts wrong.

Interview rooms. You see them all the time on TV, but I'd never been in one until today. Without the ability to change camera angles and points of view they really are dull.

Other things in the room which are dull include Detective Constable Ross and Detective Sergeant Patel, two first class examples of real police officers who have not one quirk or eccentricity between them.

We sit and listen to the tape squeal for a few seconds and then D.C. Ross introduces everyone, all for the benefit of the tape. I'm not actually under arrest for the murder of my wealthy uncle at this point, but I'm clearly a suspect. Quite right, too, because I killed him. I stand to inherit a house and enough money to allow me to never work again. Frankly, in today's economic climate, it would be madness to have let the man live. If you need more justification than that I suppose I could tell you that he beat his wife and had a thing for children...or goats...but really my motive was entirely financial.

Not that I'll be telling the Plods this.

We establish that I had not seen my Uncle in ten years, thanks to me working in another part of the country and his being a bit Persona Non Grata at family get-togethers, after what he said to my Mum's friend Shirley. I think there's more than friendship going on there, to be honest, and Uncle as much as said so, which became his Get Out of Weddings Free card. I'm getting sidetracked.

The Brothers Plod churn through my movements over the days either side of the murder and, of course, I have an alibi for the time they believe he was killed. It's watertight. I can also attest that I had no idea that I was the sole beneficiary of his will. He wrote Aunty out of it when she left him - the beatings, remember? - and it's just chance that he left all his money to the oldest surviving unmarried male in the family (which would have been Great Uncle Charlie, until his entirely accidental death last year).

We go over the details three times. Then we go over them again in reverse order, but I'm aware of that trick and I've been practicing.

At that point, D.S. Patel leaves and he's replaced by a tall, thin, angular man in an expensive coat.

"For the benefit of the tape," the D.C. says "We've been joined by..." some consultant with an unlikely name. He looks like he might be clever, so I try to remain calm and unconcerned. The police don't employ consultants, so unless he's a trained interrogator or a profiler, I should be fine. I'm feeling good, calm, untroubled, so I don't bother listening to his name or what he consults about.

And for a consultant, he doesn't ask many questions. He's doing a LOT of talking, so I pay attention.

"Your suit isn't cheap but it is off the peg, it's important to you to look smart but you can't afford bespoke. You're in a professional environment, but you yourself are not qualified in that profession. The wear patterns on your cuffs and elbows indicates a lot of work at a desk, using a computer..."

Ah, it turns out that I was able to use my research skills to find out about my Uncle's predilection for young people - apparently he was on Facebook and making posts about exotic holidays that he was planning, and about how he wanted to learn about Thailand - and he goes from there to tell me how he knows I was present at Uncle's house the night he died. It's amazing, and the method I used was complicated and left not a trace, apparently.

According to this consultant bloke, I've been looking for revenge for the molestation I suffered at my Uncle's hands as a child. Apparently this is why I can't form lasting relationships with women and have an overwhelming fear of the opposite sex.

Now I'm surrounded by pitying eyes. I'm just a poor buggered boy who wanted my filthy Uncle dead before he could shag his way around the kindergartens of Thailand, apparently. Now they're all sorry for me being a heterosexual virgin. At my age. This consultant is talking rubbish, so I tell him.

Aunty didn't leave because of the beatings - there were no beatings (oh come on, I've killed three people. Did you think I was going to be honest with you? What makes you so special?), and she left because of his on-again off-again relationship with Raymond, a man he met at bath house and who he couldn't get his trousers off quickly enough for.

Uncle didn't like little boys or little girls, he liked pretty men. He had a particular thing for olive skinned men, which is why I made sure he met Luca. Luca needed a sugar daddy, and I made sure he knew Uncle was loaded. But I was careful to make sure Luca delayed Uncle's gratification for a while, and then I introduced Luca to a technique that I suggested would produce certain amazing sexual side effects...it's basically a series of breathing exercises that, when performed the right way and allowed to culminate in a bear hug, collapse the lungs.

Of course, Luca came running to me and I quietly poisoned him. No one's looking for Luca because he was here illegally in the first place. And it really was all about the money. The reason I've never had a prolonged relationship with a woman is that all the women I've met have either not fancied me or been incredibly dull. Also, when you're planning a triple murder - Great Uncle Charlie, Luca, Uncle - it isn't helpful to have someone around who might go through your phone or computer and trip over something suspicious...like my having created Uncle's Facebook page, or researching tasteless and fast acting poisons that you can slip into a cup of tea.

I tell him all this, ticking off points on my fingers as I work through them, and I am rewarded with a look of complete surprise from the consultant. He's speechless.

D.S. Patel, on the other hand, isn't. When did he re-enter the room? He reads me my rights and arrests me for my Uncle's murder. Which I've just confessed to.

On tape.

In front of two policemen.

Oh shit.

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Writing Prompt:You meet the Devil and he's not what you expected.

Originally posted on Reddit, where r/writingpromts has been keeping me amused.

One of the few luxuries you have when you're tied to an enormous pentacle, or maybe pentagram, is that you can review your most recent mistakes with huge clarity. I have come to the conclusion that I will never again accept a ride from someone with a panel van no matter how wet or cold I am.

I turn my head and cough politely to the man guarding me. He's got the most intimidating haircut I've ever seen and it's in competition with a collection of gruesome tattoos and piercings. I'm so scared that the only thing I can think of is how difficult it must be for him to board aircraft.

"Excuse me..?"

He offers me a glare.

"I just want you to be aware that, despite appearances, I'm not a virgin."

He nods, apparently considering this carefully.

"Can you bleed?" he asks. Before I can stop myself, I nod. He smiles. "Good," he says "that's the only qualification you need."

There are quite a few people in the congregation. Clothing appears to be optional. There's quite a lot of hedonism happening, judging by the noises some people are making, and there's quite a lot of sweet smoke in the atmosphere. I'm new to being sacrificed, so I'm not sure what's going on.

"Excuse me..?"

Another glare.

"Sorry to ask, very embarrassing and everything, but are you Wiccan types supposed to sacrifice people?"

I have to downgrade the last two looks I was given, because this is a glare. His brows are so furrowed some of his piercings are in danger of becoming interlinked.

"Oh that's just typical, that is, " he says "honestly, if I had a pound for every time someone confused us with that bunch of namby-pamby vegetarian reiki practitioners..."

I'm sure he would have explained further but that's the moment the high priest decides to make his entrance. There's music, and burning torches, and the hedonism stops - apart from one group in a corner who are probably too invested in what they're doing to pay attention - and then in he sweeps wearing a flowing red robe and a mask with horns. He's accompanied by two women wearing an awful lot less than he is - basically just masks- but they have those swingy things that the Catholic church burns incense in. They also have incense and this, combined with all the other sorts of smoke in the air, makes me sneeze.

Fortunately for everyone else, the High Priest is a professional and doesn't let my sudden violent sneezing fit and subsequent mucus production throw him off his game. The next few minutes scoot past with him making gestures with a huge knife that I'm trying very hard not to look at or think about, shouting in Latin, and getting responses from the crowd. I would have paid more attention but the presence of the knife has me entirely focussed on trying to remember the parts of my life that I'm pleased with or proud of. There aren't enough of them, and I'm very definitely getting stabbed, or slashed, or both in the next few minutes and I really, really don't want to be. Panic is just starting to set in when the crowd starts to chant various names. The first one out of the gate is "Satan". I can't move and I can't breathe properly and he's going to take that knife and...

...and then there's light everywhere.

A voice says "I heard you the first time."

The light fades and I open my eyes. There's a man standing in front of the altar. I could tell you what he looks like with two words - he's beautiful- but that doesn't really cover it. He...look, imagine this:

At least one of your friends can sort of draw. He, she, has just enough grasp of perspective and shading to make everything they draw look like the work of an enthusiastic eight year old who has no talent for art but lots of passion for it. Take that person and give them a box of crayons. Make them low quality crayons. Make most of them brown. Now have that artist with his or her dull and ugly tools draw everything in the world. Everything in the world is now a sort of muddy or contents of the toilet bowl brown. None of the lines are straight. None of the curves flow, nothing meets where it should and everything seems flat.

Have all the actual people drawn by someone slightly less talented than your friend, but using the same tools.

To this milieu, this dull and drab palette, add one person. One actual three dimensional human being. Make him one you find irresistibly attractive. Not necessary in a sexual way, just someone you'd really enjoy looking at, one who draws your attention away from everything else just by being in the room.

That's pretty much what's happening: everyone is looking at him and everything that isn't him appears to be made of mud and twigs and depression.

The High Priest is rather flustered.

"But...but...we haven't even sacrificed in your name yet!"

"You called me. I answered. Isn't that what you wanted?". Even his voice is gorgeous. It has the same effect - the High Priest sounds like a whining child and all the other sounds I can hear seem either muted and dull or scratchy and distorted in comparison. I just don't want to listen to anything else, ever.

"Well...yes...but..."

"Oh, Kevin," he says and the disappointment in his voice makes me feel completely worthless even though I'm not Kevin, "did you just want to kill someone? Is all this just the justification for you getting to play dress up so you can have sex and make people bleed?"

"Huh? No, well, I mean, of course not....all in Your Name....glorying you!" flails Kevin the High Priest.

"Is that just an excuse, Kevin?"

Kevin writhes on the hook.

"It is just an excuse, I know it's just an excuse and I know this, Kevin, because I have never once asked anyone to do anything to anyone else in my name. No matter which one you use. Not once. Do you know why?"

The atmosphere has changed quite a bit. Every single one of us feels like we've just been whispering with our friends at the back of the class and the teacher has unexpectedly asked us a question, and now in front of the entire school, we're going to look really stupid. Props to Kevin, though, for having balls enough to try an answer.

"We always thought, you know, it was implied in that thing about it being better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven?"

You know how people sometimes say that the temperature in the room drops and it's a metaphorical way of saying that someone has taken offense but is still being polite or diplomatic about it? I don't think Lucifer does metaphors. I can see my breath in front of my face. I'm also looking at a room full of gooseflesh and shrinkage. Not fun.

"That's Dante," says Lucifer, "that's fiction, Kevin." The red wine in the ornate chalice thing on the Altar in front of me freezes as I watch it. "I can see I'm going to have to take this back to the very basics."

The wine thaws, people's teeth stop chattering and the room warms. Lucifer leans against the altar as if he were propping up the bar.

"Please allow me to introduce myself," says Lucifer (turning momentarily to flash me a huge wink, very much to my surprise) "I'm a man of wealth and taste. My name is Lucifer Morningstar and my job title is Satan. If any of you had paid attention at school, you might know this term means 'Adversary'. What you might not know is that it's a legal term. I am, by profession, a lawyer."

He waits, for a moment, and seems pleased that no one feels the need to say anything about lawyers and evil being inextricably linked.

"My job is not to punish the sinful or the wicked, my job is not to torture the damned or to swan about the place being evil, promoting evil or revelling in evil. I am not responsible for the things that you do and I have most assuredly not got time to go about telling random human beings to murder one another. But you will definitely see me on Judgement Day, and you'll be glad I'm there.

Officially, I'm the counsel for the defence. Your defence. Individually. When you face God, with the account of your lives in his hands, before he passes final judgement."

Quite a few people seem confused about this. The ones who get it are crying.

"Yes, Mrs. Lockwood, " says Lucifer, pointing an exquisite finger at one particularly unhappy woman, "I'm preparing the case for your defense. And between you and me, it's not looking good."

He pushes himself away from the altar and gazes around the room.

"As your legal counsel, I advise you all to be very, very concerned" he says "If I were in your position I'd stop all this macabre nonsense and get involved in a bit of volunteering. Working with the elderly always goes over well. Although, given your history Mrs Lockwood, perhaps you should stick to working with animals...no, sorry...perhaps you could just help out at a charity shop."

He waits while people come to terms with what he's saying. There's some resistance. His voice rises over the hubbub.

"I'm saying you all need to go home, look long and hard at yourselves and start making better life choices. I'm saying you need to do this now, and without further delay, and you can start by taking this poor man down from the big star shaped thing on the wall."

It's nice to be remembered.

Lucifer favours me with another smile and I can feel my position on the Kinsey scale shifting.

"Be seeing you," he says "be good."

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The Obligatory Peter Capaldi Post

Barring accidents, in just a few all too short months Peter Capaldi will be playing Doctor Who.

Anyone who isn't aware of how good Peter Capaldi is should go and acquaint themselves with his work.  He's very good.

My hope is that the writing which supports his performance will be a match for him.  I know if I were one of the writers for Doctor Who I would be putting together my best work for the man. 

Too much praise?  Compare the slightly bumbling Caecilius in The Fires of Pompeii with the almost demonic Malcolm Tucker in The Thick of It and again with his turn as the scheming but all too human Richelieu in The Musketeers*- these characters are so far apart that it's hard to remember that the same man is playing them.

This is another of those exciting times to be a fan: filming has started and there are places on the internet to avoid because of potential spoilers.  There is fan speculation, mostly died away by now because he's in role and only the trolls think The Doctor will be anything like Malcolm Tucker, about what he'll be like.  But out there in Wales there's a top quality actor building a character that will become part of the ongoing heritage of Doctor Who.  That's an exciting prospect.

*where he's the best thing in it, unless Tamla Kari is in the scene because Constance has so much more substance than D'Artagnan.  (Yay Constance!)

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