P R E V I O U S L Y I N
Despite thinking about him at every waking moment, Steph had not seen Spiderfingers for months. She missed him. Well, she missed him as much as it was possible to miss someone you barely know.
In truth, she did not really miss the man himself, as much as she missed the idea of him. Steph's unpolished 'Death of Spiderfingers' story idea was yet more evidence of her obsession with the man as a character, rather than that of a living breathing human being. If a person is only as good as his best anecdotes, then this bardic tramp was as much of a god as he professed to be.
These loyal servants are forever-bound to clear away battle debris that might lend credence to Spiderfingers' power-set. Gaia grants them the right of way, for she shares Zeus' view that Earth dwellers must never become aware of Spiderfingers' claim to power.
She is a wise mother who knows that her creation would find it impossible to resist abusing the trust of worshipers.
Readers had emailed her their own illustrated tales.
Wonderful dark modern fairy tales inspired by Spiderfingers and the missfits that patrolled his reality.
Now Steph desired more, She would disprove anyone thinking of her as a fluke. Milo didn't need convincing. He worshiped the ground she walked on. He always had.
Steph couldn't think of any literary fiction that might introduce the more discerning reader to the wonderous world of comics. She was utterly convinced that she had created something new, and she had done her homework. She had imbibed a sloth of new influences: Frank Miller, Neil Gaiman, Mark Waid and many more graphic novelists. They were all keys to understanding the comicbook fantasy that she had rescued from a forgotten unpublished future in Spiderfingers' tatty notebook.
Steph couldn't wait to share her knowledge of Spiderfingers and more intriguingly, his relationships with the family that he'd lodged with.
It took her face's collision with the laptop for Steph to succumb to her body's need for a screen break.
Since April, the killings had risen to a level of infamy occupied only by the most depraved of murderers. The newspapers, almost delirious with terror and with macabre fascination, named him/her the ‘Algebra Killer’, a reference to the cryptic clues that were carved into the bodies of his/her victims.
What would Shakespeare do?
Steph wheezed and gasped as she tried to keep up, clutching at the stabbing pain in her side as the strange pair disappeared around yet another corner. Steph turned to follow them, when a line of posters, stuck to the side of a boarded-up building caught her eye. ‘Who is Spiderfingers?’ each one read, yellow lettering on a ruby background, with the website address emblazoned beneath in blue. Steph smiled. The Spiderfingers street team was worth its weight in gold. Ego boosted, her mind filling up with a wild fantasy of Keira Knightley playing her in a biopic, Steph sprang back into action, increasing her speed just in time to see her prey turn down another side street.
Her long coat was sodden through, her feeble umbrella a poor protector against the rain. The winds picked up, threatening to fight under her brolly and ruin it with fierce elemental force. She realised then; she had once again left the house burqa-less. Doesn't matter, Steph thought, one day soon I'll be Keira Knightley on the big screen. I'll be a goddess.
A purple bus.
S P I D E R F I N G E R S
Purple planets heart chakra covered in cold,
Grows on trespassers, will swallow you whole.'
My lover the poet. With its teeth locked like that, Rooenn shouldn’t be able to pronounce properly. Consonants should be hellish - but the shithead isn’t human.