A short satyrical tale by K. W. South.

Book Cover, Of Our Own Demise THERE IS NO GOD

Religion is invention, born of ignorance, to explain the unfathomable.


What if I'm wrong?

The first page of text is reproduced below, and will explain just about everything on the cover illustration!
This tale is 13700 words and 50ish, pages.
If you are curious enough to want to read more Just click this link and send me an e-mail asking for a copy.
I'll get back to you asking you for $1.00 with the PDF attached, via paypal would be easiest.
I'll send you the password when I see the paypal payment.

Currently only available here!

All funds raised will go to the Living Image Camera Museum film and processing fund.

Chapter 1

Happy Birthday! Eighty three today, but I feel tired. Vaguely removed. Uninvolved and distant.
But that is most definitely me lying there, lacerated, broken and dying, in this dimly illuminated alley.
The jaundiced glow from the converted gas lamp casts its glistening forensic eye onto the salient points. Wet cobbles. A tall stranger stood over me, a lazy flash from an absurdly long knife held casually after the violent, frenetic event. And blood. Lots of blood. It gurgles and bubbles from multiple angry, pulverised wounds and pools, black, like oil in this light. The puddle creeps out from beneath me to trace the channels between the cobbles, displacing the resident earwigs and woodlice who unhurriedly side step its slow but persistent advance.
The stranger's gaunt face glows blue from the screen of his mobile 'phone, as his thumb swipes it into life. A well practiced digit, this thumb, it dances over the keys, completing a text message. The thumb hovers over the send key, and waits...
Within the bowl of the converted gas lamp, its incandescent bulb becomes weary and falters. For a second only the faint orange coil can be seen, before the lamp awakes to restore its jaundiced view of the alley.
The stranger peers over the top of his 'phone at the now lifeless lump at his feet, and the thumb presses 'send'.
Emerging from the alleyway into the pools of light of domestic street lamps, the stranger walks along the regimented row of lamp standards until some way in the distance, then stops outside a two storey house. He looks up at a window, the curtains glowing terracotta from within. The streetlight behind him flicks out briefly, then returns. Once again, a faint glow of blue paints the stranger's face, before he turns and walks into the distance.


None yet!!! Who's going to spend $1 for the dubious honour of wrinting the first one?