Camelot Dimension 360 Chapter 2 written by Novelist, Daton L. Fluker


The Long Winter

Written by Author

Daton L Fluker

Flemish Translation done by

Kenyo Wells

PRESS TO GO BACK TO Camelot Dimension 360 Chapter Selection


When darkness comes, light brightly shines on the opposite side of Minaera.  It’s a good day for beautiful children to be born on one part of the world, and a struggle for others on the other side of the planet. These are people, who take pilgrimage in some of the most obtrusive weather.

This occasion is supposed to be a time of joy for the Camelots, but now, even the brightest days turn pessimistic for a nation full of light. Lord Matchbox closes the silk drapes inside Town-Hall.

The travelers stayed on their path. When the 50-year day changed to 50 years of night, town-hall was the only building left at this checkpoint. Everything else was burnt to dust by an enemy army.

Fortunately, the civilians were on the other side of the planet when this treacherous event happened. Like most of the cities in this age, the people of Camelot unceasingly rebuild and advance to different parts of Minaera. To them this is understood to be the circle of life.

Lord Matchbox turns around. The room furnishes with six large windows, oval shape at the top and compressed at their foundations.

In the middle of the gigantic room, a long wooden table with legs, short enough for someone to sit Indian style builds in silence.

The foot of it sinks into a wide-red-carpet. A lion with its wings spread-out dictions the word Camelot. It’s written with big yellow letters.

What ills on the table is the most disturbing entity. It secludes a muddy vision of hate. In the room, it is always so gray.

The moonlight fills it with light. The sun rises in the east. The colors around the room show brilliance but only with scorned reveries.

Stools ballet around the table. Two people sit with their legs cross underneath it. Lord Matchbox’s mother and father pose there.

Everyone calls him Lord Matchbox now. The only way to get a position like that is if a person were granted it when the lord has died and given his or her adolescent the responsibility.

The roach infested room buries its retreat into the unscrupulous buffet on the table.

His parents have been in the same spot for a few months. The smell inside is unpleasant. His father and mother died happy together. They hold hands locked in time.

The reason why they were not buried yet is because of the rebellion defalcating for several-months.

His parents died wide awake on the last hours of a ferocious snow blizzard, which kept most of everybody inside.

No form of heating warms the room. To keep from freezing to death, everyone embraced together.

His father, Lord Matchbox the first, closed his eyes. However, his mother has hers wide open staring at the buffet on the table.

Her skin is black and her grey hair changes to a pink color because of her rotten blood marinating in it. Both of their faces have turned inky-sable-black.

His father wears a lord’s garment with a red cape veiled down behind him. The couple was never touched by occasion, but left in lifeless motion for some period.

She wears the Queen’s crown on her head, and his father doesn’t have the crown anymore. It waits for the new lord at the back of the hall on a large wooden thrown.

Matchbox walks toward the back of the room staring at the table. Three male servants stand around it looking in the same direction.

The inside is cooler than the outside. The portrait of death they stare at will burn into their souls until infinity after next.

Even in reincarnation, they’ll remember this catastrophic exhibition. It is the sickest thing anyone can bear with his or her own eyes, and this sight is unhealthy for anyone’s individual being.

On top of it, lays a body of a beautiful woman. She was one of the servants who gave her loyalty and life to Camelot, the famous city of light.

Her face is fair and young. What is left of her body is ridiculously gross. Her skin flays off her muscles. The table flushes with blood. Human secretions spread out underneath her.

Her long hair shades out across the table toward his father and mother, while her ribcage has been picked at; portions of it are scraped clean.

She has no more intestines. Half of her heart is inside one of the bowls on the table. “Thaw shall not kill.”

Her fingers and toes from both her hands and feet masticate to stubs. They ate her alive; not exactly alive, but raw.

Lord Matchbox nears his thrown, but still, he has his eyes locked on the table. He takes off his helmet, picks up the crown, closes his eyes, and puts his head down. Stabbing his sword into the floor, he pushes the handle forward.

Lord Matchbox orders the servants,


“Take them out of here! Bury my mother in a separate grave and bury the girl with my father! It was his choice to do this. He must be buried with his sins!”

He strives to delay his feelings. Tears trickle from his closed eyelids.

The servants don’t move at first. They lived with the royal family for months, and they are shocked about these violent events. They need a little motivation. Lord Matchbox raises his head and screams at them,


“Do it now, or I swear, I’ll have you buried alive with them!”


Bloody Grimy Eyes of Mommy

The man, who wife was slaughtered in the human pot-roast, carries his son while holding his daughter’s hand. They walk toward an empty field where Lord Matchbox forthright out his hand directing them land.

The new Mayor waves his broken sword to ten workers carrying resources: wood and some building tools. He directs them to go out into the field.

The Mayor doesn’t say a word. He waves them into the man’s direction. For the commotion going on outside and for the many battles the army and he had been in (for some reason) they know exactly what these signals command them to do.

The workers gather equipment from transporters, a small wagon, which a horse is supposed to pull. One of the workers pulls it because horses are scarce commodities.

The man settles in the middle of his new land. Nothing is there except a timeworn desolated ice-field. Snow covers its basin. Old tracks of bandwagons imprint into the soil.

Sitting under a dark-blue sky, a snow-capped mountain range lays scrutiny over the impressive territory. In the distance, miles of a monotonous coast abrupt the land’s edge.

The man basses in the freezing snow holding his son close. Conversely, his daughter stands next to him.

After a moment of staring into open space, she plots down in the snow near her father. The girl hugs her father pulling him close.


“It’s going to be ok Daddy.”

He’s dumfounded about today’s events. His son is bewildered about his mother’s death. The boy doesn’t fully understand the consequences of today’s occurrences.


“Where is mommy? I want to see her? Where is she daddy?”

The wind paints icy air on their skin every second. Each time the wind blows, the girl and the boy grip their father’s warm-body.

The cold wind appears unveiling. The man gives up. He needs a while to recover.

For a moment, liveliness is an emotion extinguished by stubbornness. The girl sings a song her mother sung to her each time she fell asleep at night.


“Bloody grimy eyes of mommy. If you don’t put away your trinket show. Slimy grimy bugs are bitter boil with hugs and kisses in the bitter snow. You’ll always know that I’ll love you and hug you so. Even when you stub your toe, or get stuck in the heart with a wooden arrow.”

She can’t finish it. Tucking her head into her father’s side, she cries. Her father stares out into the open range.

The more the day goes on, the more disarrayed the people get.  Two cottages are left. Both are made from stone, packed ice, and, mud.

The cottages round over at the top, and they level toward the back. Smokestacks steam from their tops.

Before the workers came, there wasn’t enough wood to make a fire. Resources declined to negative amounts.   The workers throw stacks of wood next to the cottages giving the villagers’ fuel to cook with.

Marching from the blankness, they sluggishly take the rest of the resources in veneers, piling it near Town Hall. Headless bodies lie in the middle of the street. Warriors advance their spears toward the Mayor. In their vacant hands, they hold heads of the people, which Lord Matchbox advised them to murder.

Near the hill, the Mayor yells with a husky voice.


“Take your spears and dig them upright near the front of Town Hall. Stick those heads on them! We don’t have silver platters, but this’ll still be an amusing sight to see! You, over there! After you finish, bring those bodies and some wood to this hill! We’ll burn it all!”

His voice is so unquestionably powerful that it echoes through the walls of Town-Hall.

Two people, who names were on the King’s list, humble in the street with dead-bodies piled around them.

A worker picks one of the dead-bodies up, and another comes behind him collecting a second one. They transport the bodies to the hill.

An old man and his wife remain in the circle of dead. They wear nice clothing. Kept alive for an unknown purpose, their clothes are filthy from being dragged in the mud. That reason will soon reach their attention.

The Mayor walks toward them. Staring for a while, he stops in front of them. The couple is cover with blood, but not their blood.


“Mr. Belgran! How are you doing today?”

Mr. Belgran spits warm blood from out of his mouth, and replies.


“What is the meaning of this? We were asleep! I don’t know what is going on?”


“You know I was gone off to battle for a while! I come back and things are unbalanced! You should know what is going on! Why did the Lord ask me to kill you?”

Mr. Belgran laughs and spits on the ground.


“You don’t know? I’m an old man anyway. I and my wife lived a healthy life. We ran out of food and everybody in the village omitted their loyalty!  There was one loyal family, and they were supposed to be killed today!”

He continues to spit blood out of his mouth.


“I was the only Duke that voted not to kill him! However, I voted to murder the rest! It’s all about survival! I hope you know that these meaningless rules in this association are not really vigor. They are ridiculous! Well, go about your business! I can’t stand seeing my wife suffer!”

He and his wife stare at each other.


“Kill me first!”

The Mayor lifts his sword in the air.  Mr. Belgran smiles and the blade swings down separating his head from his body.  His wife Screams, “AHHHH!”

Council with the Lord


Fifteen poles with heads on them line up outside inviting death into the front doors of Town Hall. The doors are opened.

Fresh air spreads-out the disgusting smells spilling from the inside. The workers remove the old Lord and the Queen from the room.

They do more unpleasant work. They take out, piece by piece, the mutilated corpse of the dead woman’s body on the table. They use their bare hands; there are no clean rags or tools to use.

The Mayor treads toward Town Hall. He wears his battle uniform. Shower rooms are not designed at this stage of recovery.

Walking pass the hung heads, a worker, who has a hand full of human secretions, runs out of the door. The Mayor moves toward Lord Matchbox.


The sun shoots scarlet rays through the windowpane. To us this would be a genuinely long sunrise, but to them, it’s a blithesome sparkle.

Not everybody gets to see an elegant day, and for those who do, you better believe they traveled through destruction to get there.

Without asking, the Mayor grabs one of the stools from the table. He moves to the back of the room where the lord resides. The Mayor places it on the floor then sits down in front of him.

Lord Matchbox keeps his head down with the handle of his sword held out. He felt the Mayor’s presence when he entered the room. Nevertheless, from all what had happened in the last years of his people, his emotion is despairing.


“You’re like my father. You raised me for battle, and during the times of homage, you still stuck by my father’s decisions. Even now you give yourself to my service! There is no more of this kingdom, and this day will be truly difficult to rebuild. The Omega destroyed all of our checkpoints. It will be hard to reconstruct any of it. Three million years of work from our forefathers are gone to sap!”

Lord Matchbox leaps up, throwing his sword toward the table. It sticks in the middle of it.

Dementedly cooling off, he sits down. He scrounges into the thrown staring up at the ceiling.

Statues of his mother and father brace on the top of planks above windowpanes. The statues glare out like devils. They gawk into the dimness of the room offering a painted view of another abandoned kingdom.


“We don’t need to worry about that right now! We must attempt to rebuild a larger army to take revenge for our ancestors!”


“How are we supposed to do that?”

Matchbox closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at the statues anymore.


“If we put our kingdom under Truce of law, we’d have more than two years to rebuild! We won’t get attacked by any other district until we’re ready for battle! However, we’ll have to trade our goods with everyone, including the enemy! We can’t refuse anyone! Immediately, we’d have to destroy all our weapons and start reconstruction!”

The Mayor is persistent with his words, but he always screams them out. He has been through this before. This will be his second day. He knows all the rules of battle, so he is giving the Lord a grand recommendation.


“The people are not loyal. If we destroy all the weapons then how can we govern them?”


“They’ll have the right to leave or not! Those who want to stay can work hard, and those who want to leave can! We can’t tax them anymore until we find a way to bring income into the city! We can give them land! The ones who are not loyal get nothing! I’ll schedule a town meeting right away if you like?”


“I have nothing to lose and cinch to obtain. I’ll trust you with this. We’ll have a meeting in several hours. I’ll send a message to the other Lords of our plans. Please, send a messenger boy. Give him a horse so he could move fast.”

The mayor stands up and salutes. It’s an action that he doesn’t need to do anymore, but he does it by natural intuition.


“Yes My Lord! I’ll have them all together in the adjacent hour!”

The Mayor turns around and walks toward the door.

The table is almost clean except for the girl’s head. A worker walks in and grabs it immediately toting it outside.



The mayor stops and turns around,


“Yes My Lord!”

Lord Matchbox stares at the statues on the wall.


“Let’s wait twenty four hours before we take any action. Bring me some arrows with sharp heads and a bow. I want to practice my archery!”

It’s the first time the mayor ever smiled.


“Yes my lord!”

The Mayor leaves out the door.

Camelot Dimension 360 Chapter 1 written by Novelist, Daton L. Fluker


The Long Winter

Written by Author

Daton L Fluker

Flemish Translation done by

Kenyo Wells

PRESS TO GO BACK TO Camelot Dimension 360 Chapter Selection


In reality, life is encased within its own formality, occasions of factual truths we see with our eyes. The world we breed in makes us use assets that compose us to believe in wealth.

We dream and live in terminologies that can’t be figured out by just a naked look. These items of principalities lead us on a path of wreckage or opposite, appreciation.

These nomenclatures of society aspects, which we believe, give us our first bicycle, our first kiss, and our first confrontation with an enemy.

The above covetousness is musts that humans encounter during decades of vigor imprisonment.

Conversely, what if there was another world besides the one which we hold dear and love? Four dimensions are inside a cube shape, and each dimension is plighted in its own place or noted lines.

These cubes fill with smaller cubes or living organisms. If we take a look inside of a plant’s anatomy, we can figure out through science that the smallest cube of life is a cell.

This ideal of biology is voiced and fulfilled with the unique track record of our scientific methods. Our scientist can distinguish smaller worlds within us and many other worlds beyond them.

One social circle, in contrast, keeps well-overseeing itself in the convictions of our minds. The power of the soul is occasionally explained as supernatural.

In mathematics or physics, the share of a space or object is informally determined as the smallest number of dictums necessary to indicate each level within it. Thus a line has a ratio of one because only one order is needed to identify a point. However, what if the points are not necessarily straight and they are bent into circular or inert patterns?

Most cubes of life are explained without edges, and the edges are not fringed together even though a figment of an edge scopes inside itself. We think of the supernatural worlds when we comprehend other universes this way.

We have to go somewhere when we die. Nevertheless, this is not suavity which holds authentic behavior. I’m going to tell you of another dimension that stacks its bodies as fast as it piles its resources. Dimension 360 is a verse where people are similar but not necessarily like us. They live like us, but they have an abundance of prosperity.

Imagine a place that is 50 times the Earth size. Its massiveness counteracts each season. When it circles the sun, it rotates on its axis only once every five human decades, meaning that summers are long and bright, and winters are cold and dark.

Half of the planet is full of ice and the other half of it is bless with vegetation and animal migration. This world is eight-billion-light-years away from planet Earth, which has similar life forms.

Just like Earth, water, trees, mysterious creatures, and humans are on its surface. However, because technology can’t advance more than what earthlings had in the Middle-Ages, when there was an abundant outfit of royal families, we tend to forget how brutal humans will fight for power, respect, and wealth.

We begin our quest in a newly built town-hall. Unknown people group together resettling on the other side of the planet. Some of them protest because they need nourishment. The winter has finished and spring time is on its way.

The people must capture as many resources as they possibly can, well, before the wars commence. More colonies like theirs are being brought to bed on their planet.

These wars can last for the entire summer. There is no limit on how big a kingdom can get because if the population doesn’t relocate when the winter comes, the city will be incased in ice for decades and the people will die from starvation.

Even the sea creatures change direction overtime because of the seas freezing over and their natural habitats are lost in hoarfrost and ice. They consider each race as barbaric, and the kingdoms, not in alliance, could be brutal rivals.


People protest around Town-Hall. An example made of a man and his family extends to the outside. The family stayed loyal to the lord of their people. Now they’ll suffer for their allegiance.

The doors are chained from the inside; the crowd can’t get inside to conflict deserving punishment on their leaders.

The winter came unsuspected. It veiled a treacherous trail of death and suffering on this uncivilized nation. The people had to walk 32-years in a forever blizzard to the other-side of the planet where they are made to saunter out on a journey of life and death.

It is a pilgrimage that every man and woman experience. It’s a calling that carries the young to maturity and buries those individuals, who are weak and frail, from the joys of a new day. It could be because in time they can gouge the best of the plentiful resources harvested during the summer.

They call their planet Minaera. Minaera slowly turns. Spring is coming. For almost 45-years no vegetation grew in this area. Every day, more grass grows from out of the crevices of the cracked ice, and for the first time in ages the sun rises in the east. They used all their resources two years ago, and they blame their lord for their gluttonous behavior.

During that time, families were picked from out of the colony every month to be consumed by hungry colonists. The lord accepted this behavior because his traveling metropolis ran out of strength and endurance; its people have turned into ravenous maniacs.

The King’s army took half of the food to fight a smaller army which attacked them from a mountain-pass three years ago. None of the soldiers have returned.

The lord sets weakened in his quarters looking out of a bulletproof window with bars on it.

Weapons used similar to Earth guns are thrown in a pile on the ground. No more iron resources or gunpowder subsist to manufacture ammunition.

A human made hill near a cottage, constructed of mud and packed ice, is used as an execution zone. The crowd of farmers and workers hold unfamiliar gardening tools made of stone, and 80 of the villagers walk behind the poor gentleman and his family.


(The man calls out) “Lord Matchbox!”

Tears roll down the man’s face as he and his family march to their gruesome fate.


“We stayed loyal to you! Please save us! Come out and stop these people from doing this! Please lord! We still believe in the principals of our nation! How and why can our lord let this happen?”

His wife bleeds from her mouth. She can’t speak because her tongue has been cut out.

Fingers dangle from the neck of a man behind the family, who are being pushed toward the hill. He shoves them while the diminutive crowd follows. It’s so cold plus the wind blows a freezing mass of air converting chills underneath their skin every second.

Everyone has developed a form of adaptation to the weather, and they look like aborigines dressed in nothing but rags.

The Passing Tory, the man with the finger bracelet, is over 500-pounds and seven and-a-half feet tall. He wears a solid black wardrobe. Compared to a certain devious profession on Earth, he resembles an executioner, but on this planet he is called The Passing Tory. They are the ones who prepare the people for eating.

Two traitorous swordsmen, at the top of the hill, bear the sign of the kingdom on their armor. It signifies a picture of a lion with wings and the words Camelot on it, except most of the depiction has been scratched off and covered with dents and human blood.

The swordsmen are the ones responsible for gutting the people like fish. They take out their organs and save them for the upper level families to eat; the families who are now in command.

The day resembles a never ending sunset. Icy sheets of cracked-soil gnash underneath their feet as they progress forward.

The place, where no one ever walks, settles on the out skirts of the trail. Brown grass grows a few feet higher than the level of land that has been smashed on for months.

The first time in years, clouds form in the east in front of the rising sun. The dirt path the crowd follows, leads to a human made dirt hill. Lord Matchbox watches as the family is harassed and shoved toward it, but there is nothing he could do.

The man and his wife have a son and a daughter and both of them are truly young. The girl is the oldest, and she looks to be around 10-years-old.  Her brother is nearly eight.

The children are held in front of their parents so that they won’t get hit with the weapons from the crowd behind them.

Instead of guiding themselves away from the mass of angry people, the family pushes back into them.

On the hill, two swordsmen stand waiting for them introducing a big surprise at the bottom.

Logs from the dark forest and a large pot of boiling water are in facing distance from the hill gradually proscribing the family’s doomed destinies.

The man screams out. He and his family are half way up the hill,


“Lord Matchbox! At least help my family. You coward! Come out and face your people. Can’t you see everything you all are doing is wrong? Let them go and take me!”

An old man from the crowd screams back,


“You bastard! Can’t you see your lord is nothing more than a man? He can’t save you! Your family is lost because of your loyalty to these fake principles! Kill his family first!”

The mob repeats,


“Kill his family first! Kill his family first! Kill his family first!”

One of the swordsmen meets them on the pathway. He punches the poor man in his nose. He loses grip of his daughter and son.

The swordsman takes the children up the hill, along with the man’s wife. They pull him up behind his family. The iron glove the swordsman wears knocks a few of the man’s teeth out.

He lies on the ground. Bleeding from his face, he’s too hungry and too weak to fight back. The Passing Tory grabs him by the neck and forces him to his feet. They walk up the hill together.

Nothing the man could do. He reaches his hand out for his family kneeling down in front of the boiling water. Hopelessness sings in his heart, and for a moment, he is no longer loyal to his lord.

He screams,


“No! Stop it. You monsters!”

The swordsman raises his sword into the air lowering it in the same breath all the way to the dirt. His sword chops off the woman’s head. The man screams…


“No! Not my son! Please, stop. I’m not loyal to this kingdom anymore. Please, let them go and take me. They are only children!”

He tries to fight but The Passing Tory is too strong. He holds the wiry-man in place. Next in line is the man’s son. The boy and his sister bow near the body of their dead mother. Her open neck bleeds-out into the boiling water.  Human remains simmer in the pot. The woman’s soft tissues boil from the neck of her braised head.

The other swordsman has another job to do. Dragging the mother’s body to the middle of the hill, he grabs her legs. Taking off her clothes, the swordsman prepares her corps for consumption.

In a chopping position, the other swordsman raises his sword to strike the man’s son. When he does, an arrow goes through the swordsman’s neck causing him to drop his weapon.

Downward trotting from out of the darkness, a figure of a man rides a horse toward the hill. Because of the midnight shade, he’s nothing but a blurred vision, behind the hero yonder a small army.

It’s the army that went to defend the valley. They’ve returned from a two-year battle.  Within 15-seconds, arrows from archers fly toward the swordsman. A few arrows hit the swordsman’s chest-plate bouncing off, but the ones that penetrate, squarely pierce through the soft parts of his body.

The swordsman falls into the sweltering pot of boiling water. Lord Matchbox witnesses the capture through the window. Tears stream from his eyes as servants inside town-hall remove boards from the entrance.

A young lord in his 20’s sports a semblance of a flying tiger on his armor. A red-cloak slopes from his back. Grasping a brand-new sword, he stares out to everybody with dark-black-eyes. The lord wears a king’s helmet made of gold and diamonds.

The people stare back. No one attacks him. He hurries toward the hill with his attention on the remaining swordsman.

Standing at parade rest the swordsman has a big smirk on his face. The dead woman’s body beneath him lay saturated in blood. The little girl grabs her younger brother and holds him close. The town goes quiet.

Clouds move through the sky like zigzag lines stimulating toward darkness. The sun blazes in the east. Two moons are close together in the western skies where most of the blackness disperses from. A black forest resides behind the town. Shadows of a vast mountain range shade in behind it.

Lord Matchbox paces closer to the hill. Moving a little faster each time, his body levitates upward with every step. He speaks while expanding forward.


“How dare you? We had a deal not to kill any children! For over a month I have watched you murdered a dozen young youths! Don’t you know they’re our future? And their families, thirty of them lost because of your political anarchy!”

The swordsman stands in place. He breaks his thousand yard stare glancing toward Lord Matchbox’s direction. He yells back,


“You are not my lord anymore! You allowed your people to go hungry and in return they have turned into corrupted monsters! I’m no longer loyal to this lunacy! You’ll find your reprisal, and it’ll be in the courts of our Gods. Don’t tell me about how I murdered innocent children. Tell me how a Lord can let an entire nation fall to its annihilation!”

The lord poses next to him. The villagers are afraid as they watch this avocation acquire. Leaving a mass of dust behind them, the army advances from the west striding at full speed. The Lord and the swordsman’s teeth clatter together as they speak.


“You do not understand! It was my father that ordered those people to die! I’m a different leader and this is a new day! However, you’ll never see it!”

The Lord’s gesticulate action and the sound of his voice cues the swordsman’s death. Lord Matchbox swings his sword.

The swordsman falls to his knees. His head captions into the sky, while his body falls to the dirt like aspic gelatin, inanimate and lifeless. Blood flows out, as his heart virtually stops pumping.

A Hero rides toward their direction. He jaunts passed the crowd to the hill. No one can make out what’s on his chest-plate. Carrying a broken sword, three fingers are missing from his right-hand. Walking toward the hill, he leaps off his horse.

On top of the hill, the man, who was once loyal to his nation, is now mystified that fate gave him back his children. Holding his children close, he reaches out and grabs them.


“I’m sorry about your wife. I saw what happened.”

He points his sword out to some open space.


“Over there, you can have your own farm. Now you are graced as a Duke. I’ll give you workers, tools and 1,000 gold-pieces to help you and your families grow.”

The man replies back with tearful shrieks,


“Thank you my lord.”

The man, his son, and his daughter slide down the hill moving through the crowd. No one touches him because of his granted royal position.

The army takes control. The Camelot Kingdom is under martial-law. The Hero kneels in front of Lord Matchbox.

Showing appreciation to the new lord, he lays his broken sword in the dirt bowing his head to the ground.   When the Hero left, Lord Matchbox’s father was king. Lord Matchbox walks over to him and puts his hands on the Hero’s shoulder.


“You don’t have to bow anymore! Stand up! I’m appointing you as mayor! Help me govern these people! We can talk a few hours later at Town Hall!”

The Hero stands up. Gazing out with the eyes of death, he screams.


“Yes my Lord!”


“But before you take your position, I want all these families names brought to me with their heads on silver platters. These are the people who started this outrageous anarchy and brought months of disorder on our people! The Johnstown, Flasksens, Belgrans, Lebeltons, and the Norchins; bring them to me in the next hour!”


“Yes my Lord!”

His voice is ferociously deep. He’s in his 50s. However, he’s in good shape because of the many battles he experienced.

The hero screams out to some warriors carrying heavy loads of meat that they captured from a valley army, which they had fought with previously.


“Drop those sacks! You heard the King! Bring me the Johnstown, Flasksens, Belgrans, Lebeltons, and the Norchins now! I want everything that they own brought to this hill and burnt along with their headless bodies!”

The warriors drop their bags and search for the leaders in the crowd.

Lord Matchbox’s eyes are full of tears. They fall out by the loads. He strides toward Town-Hall. The entire kingdom has become chaotic.

An old man and his wife are brought in the middle of the street, and more people are pushed with him and her.

Lord Matchbox glances back before he closes the door. He notices one of his soldiers beheading Mr. Lebelton, a man who was once his father’s friend.

This is a new age, and now Lord Matchbox has to make them pay for their fowl mistreatment of their own countrymen. Lord Matchbox’s father would never accept this type of behavior from himself, nor the people but now he is Lord, and he must rule his kingdom. He closes the door and chaos continues.

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I am the Tokyo Ghost Writer

If you like to read something scary and you don’t know where to look; please do me a big favor and read some of my stuff and comment on what you like. This blog is for adult people or people with Adult minds – either or.  If you read something perverted or just damn right disgusting well it isn’t my fault. Don’t come here harassing me about my content.  I’ll do my best to inform you that I write scary shit and that I use per found language. If you are under the age of 18 then I suggest you get your parents approval before you come in read this content.

I’m not trying to sound rude are be ignorant about this but it’s just that I get tired of people putting themselves in bad situations and they can’t handle the adult language or a nice strong punch in the nose, when they find out something about someone and they want to go running their chops.

I’m a psychotic fuck so you will learn that about me as I develop my stories. I would pretty much say what the hell I want in them because I have no respect for my characters.

Now for people and fans I have the upmost respect for and I hope to give you all super content to feed that evil spirit of yours.   I’ll give you free readings of books that I’m working on currently.

Write now you can get a copy of my current published Short story Fiction on my website.

Thank you for reading… Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New year…..

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