I sat watching as the blackbird landed outside the birdhouse. It hopped about by the door, pecking at the bits of seed, following the trail inside. I waited, hidden behind the bush with a piece of string in hand. The blackbird entered - I pulled on the string and the door dropped shut. I sprung out from the bush, grinning widely and dashed over to the birdhouse. I gazed in through the little circular window I had carved. The blackbird was chirping. Worried and trapped. I took the rubber gloves from my bag and pulled them on over my sweaty hands. I gently lifted the birdhouse door and grabbed for the blackbird. I closed my hand around its head and squeezed ... squeezed ... I felt it wriggle and struggle . I waited .waited . and the bird was dead.

   I took him inside and rushed to the basement. I flicked on the lamp and pulled open the stiff draw. I placed the lifeless blackbird in amongst the dust of the other dozen I had caught. I shut the basement door and went for my lunch.

   "Why are you wearing those gloves?" my dad asked as I sat down. I quickly removed them and shoved them into my pocket.

   "I was cleaning out the basement."

   My step mom walked in with a big casserole dish. She placed it down and lifted the glass lid. The hot chicken smell released into the air.

   She served our plates then sat down. Dad began to chew on a mouthful.

   "I'll be away for a while," he said, partially chewed food exposed by his open mouth. "Going to a jungle in Belize . Central America," he added.

   My dad's one of the luckiest men alive. He's one of the world's great explorers. He spends his life visiting the most isolated places on earth, and experiencing the most extreme conditions in destinations like the Antarctic. And it's not like the old days with explorers: reclusiveness, eccentric behavior, tweed jackets and pipes. Far from it. He's a real star. Invited to parties, mingling with celebrities, drinking champagne on yachts. And he laps it up - he loves the lifestyle. He enjoys the glamour as much as he does the unexplored caverns and the prehistoric fossils.

   "I think I might have located the Holy Grail," he continued, sipping at his glass of wine. "But it's top secret .Obviously. No one knows I'm going. Nobody knows - it's too big a discovery to let slip. Not a word otherwise I'll have to kill you both," he said grinning.

   I would do anything to live the way Dad does. My dad has everything I could ever wish for. The best I've managed is a two-week camping trip in the Rocky Mountains. I spent the whole night awake, both suffering from cold and the fear that a bear might kill me!

   If I were granted a single wish it would be to live like Dad. Sometimes I find myself mesmerized by him. His dark hair combed immaculately to one side. Brown eyes and a faultless nose. When he smiles, dimples indent his cheeks. His face is clean-shaven, not a single speck of missed stubble.

   Then there's me. Face scattered with zits, bad eyes and a larger lower lip than upper, which droops and often, to my horror, stores spit. When I'm off-guard it overflows and spills down my chin. I make a habit of sucking it into my mouth and swallowing so that the gap between lip and gum hasn't the chance to fill. I often draw attention to myself with the sucking noises. It's the only time people seem to take notice. It's so embarrassing when I forget and I try and talk and it spills out - especially when I'm trying to talk to girls. But not my dad, he's strong, handsome, and successful. Perfect, in fact. I love the man; he's my hero - I strive to be like him. I want his life, even just for a few days, just to experience his world, his intellect. I find it hard to believe I'm any relation to him.

   Every positive thing about him seems to have its ugly side, its mirror side, in me. He's great at sports; I have two left feet. He has perfect eyesight; I struggle through a blurry world ignoring my eye's demands for a visit to the optician.

   My dad will always just be the man I aspire to, like kids who want to be Tiger Woods or Will Smith. Maybe it's weird that my dad is my idol. The reality is I'm never going to be my father. So I thought . but my opinion changed about a month ago.

   I was deep in thought, studying for a college project when I noticed the row of dusty books on Witchcraft and Black Magic. One of the books, an old brown one was titled: "Impersonation". After several hours reading I was certain that I could become my dad.

   "What have you got planned for today?" my dad suddenly asked me as he handed his dirty plate to my mom.

   "I've got a college assignment to do," I lied. I obviously couldn't tell him the truth.

   "What's it on?" he asked. Now I was up shit-creek. As well as being good looking, rich and successful, Dad had an extensive knowledge of most topics. Then I had a brain wave.

   "Poetry, " I said. Dad screwed up his face in horror.

   I was glad that he suddenly remembered he hadn't yet packed for his trip. I had some planning to do myself. I wanted to be ready. I had to be ready. I only had one shot at this.

   I hid in the back of Dad's car before he drove to the airport. It was a good three-hour drive and I knew he would stop at the gas station to have some of his thermos of coffee and to eat his sandwiches. For a wealthy man he was incredibly tight.

   Parked up, he sipped at the coffee, listening to the car radio. I waited, covered by a blanket in the trunk. Then I heard his coughs, his choking, and then the heavy thud! The horn honked for a second, then died as my dad slumped across the passenger seat. I sighed in relief. My heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears - vibrating my cheeks. Sweaty palmed, I pushed down the back seats, knocking over his fully loaded backpack and rolled out. Dad's hands were clutched around his throat, his eyes bulging wide.

   Finding the method for creating a lethal poison was incredibly simple. The Internet is a wonderful thing! Total time from connecting to Internet, to finding the concoction: a grand total of fourteen minutes. An additional hour for obtaining the ingredients and mixing, then just the wait for Dad to swallow! I don't expect you to understand, or rationalize my actions, but Freddie Mercury once sang: "Too much love will kill you". My love for Dad had done just that.

   Over the previous few weeks I had been taking driving lessons with Dad. It was essential to my master plan, enabling me to drive home . with Dad's dead body.

   My step mom's a nurse and worked nights; I knew she would be out till morning.

   I drove slowly towards my home. I was ultra careful; I was a novice driver and I tried desperately not to do anything stupid. I had problems getting started, but luckily the car was an automatic so it was just a matter of steering. I parked a half-mile away from my house - I couldn't risk mom seeing the car. We lived in a large house, almost a mansion and woodland ran up to the back lawn. My dad was a bit of a snob and didn't want to share borders with the neighbors.

   I dragged his body through the woodland and in the back door of the house. His body was beginning to stiffen and I think he was getting heavier in death.

   To the basement, unlocking the door and slowly I took him down the stairs. I flicked on the lamp and lay my dad on a wardrobe, which I had turned on its side to use as a table. The rats scampered away into the dark corners. Good, there would be no witnesses.

   I opened the book titled: Impersonation, and read carefully. First I had to strip my dad naked. Then taking a blackbird from the draw, I used a knife to cut the little bird's throat and then began to squeeze its stomach. Blood leaked out from the gash and over my dad's naked body. I rubbed the blood all over his skin. It took the blood of five blackbirds' to totally cover his corpse in the red smears.

    My first night's work was complete. Now I knew I must lock the basement door and make sure my step mom didn't find out what I was up to. For the next week I spent the nights illuminated by the basement lamp, leaning over my dad and following the strict procedures of the book. I had jars on the shelves containing the other ingredients necessary. Crushed ants, the semen of a cow - as well as my own urine. There were dozens of them. I won't bore you with further details, as I'm eager to tell my tale!

   During the daylight hours, whilst my step mom was at home sleeping off her night's work, I practiced being Dad. Imitated walking like him, sitting like him, eating like him. I would have to impersonate him perfectly if this was to work. I had been analyzing him over the weeks, noticing little habits, for example when he reads he rests a curled finger over his lips. And he would often scratch at the scar by his nose. He also had a habit of sniffing hard, coughing up the phlegm, spitting it into a tissue and eyeing it carefully before tossing it into the trash. Attention to detail was essential! I could do it, I knew I could, I could impersonate Dad. Have you ever heard a more devious plan!?

   Each night, after I finished work on Dad's corpse, I wrapped it in a plastic sheet and dropped him down into the horizontal wardrobe so to protect him from the rats. As the days past, I felt I was becoming more and more like my dad. I would stare at myself for hours in the house's mirrors, studying photographs, watching old home movies. I had nailed the walk. The way he rolled his head to release tension from his neck. But the voice was causing me serious problems. It was an altogether higher pitch than mine. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't get it right. It was a bloody nuisance!

   There was no way I could convince anyone I was my father unless I solved the voice problem. Throat cancer? I decided the only option was my dad to return from the jungle claiming to have been in a jeep accident or something - my throat having taken a whack. That way if I did ever master Dad's voice, I could say the injury must have healed. If I couldn't get the voice right, I would speak in a raspy whisper, like Marlon Brando in the Godfather - I thought that would be cool!

   You might wonder how I dealt with the phone calls my mom might have expected from Dad. Well, even at the best of times Dad didn't phone home. She would hardly expect him to phone from the Belize jungle, would she? Things were slipping nicely into place!

   "I'll see you in the morning, Craig," my step mom said as she left the house in her nurse's outfit. It had been a week since my work had begun. As the door shut I went straight for the basement and to Dad's corpse. I unwrapped it carefully and gazed upon him. He looked healthy. No sign of decay. I had been following the instructions of the book immaculately, squeezing blood daily from the blackbirds, rubbing crushed ants into his tongue. Reading the words of the various incantations. Acting out the part of the Sorcerer! I had still to smear the cow's semen over his eyeballs. The thought grossed me out, but I managed to swallow away the lump in my throat and dipped my fingers into the glass jar. My fingertips plunged into the gunk as I turned my head. I felt a cold shiver; I could smell the semen I had disturbed. I covered my nose and with my free hand continued. I had to be professional about this. I opened my dad's eyelids - which I had previously shut as his staring dead eyes had given me the creeps - and did the wicked deed. I did love him, I always will. But I'm so inspired by him - I had to be him!

   I smeared the cow semen over his eyeballs, over the pupils, the whites and then quickly wiped my hands. I was so eager, I knew the routine and I was desperate to finish. I tried to get a little extra done that night. Scanning the pages of the book, chapter after chapter, just in case there were any dramatic changes in the procedures. I didn't notice any and pressed on. If I could finish the following night, I would give myself a day for final impersonation practice. I would be a day ahead of the book's schedule. I was excited, quivering in fact! Not long now, NOT LONG AT ALL!

   As my mom left on the last night, I ran to the basement, jumping two stairs at a time, barely able to control my laughter! I took Dad from the wardrobe. The rats scurried away to hide. I unwrapped his preserved body. A final smearing of blackbird blood was all that remained. I had replenished my stock over the past two days, catching the birds in my birdhouse. Another of my ingenious inventions!

   As the final coat of blood was applied, my fingers trembled. My knees knocked together, my eyes I'm sure were wide and bright! I prodded my dad's skin; it felt strong and tough. I rolled him onto his stomach then took the scalpel from the shelf. Starting the incision from the top of his neck, in amongst the hair, I cut down in a straight line to his butt. Sweat beads seeped through onto my forehead, hands shaking, and hair pricking up over my own neck! I slid my fingers into the incision. The skin was thick and fresh. I tried to tear it but couldn't

   "Yes!" I screamed, jumping up and down,

   Wiping my sweaty face and sipping water to relieve my dry throat, I began to unwrap Dad from his skin. Pulling it over his head, down over his chest. I rolled the thick preserved skin down his stomach then pulled his arms out and then his legs as if I were removing a dead man from a rubber diving suit. It was off, light as a feather. But thick and strong and ready for me to wear. I climbed in, squeezing my hands in and up the arms of the skin suit, pushing my fingers into the finger holes like you would into a pair of gloves. Then my feet and legs and finally pulling my dad's face over mine. Trying to comb down his disheveled hair. I then noticed the flap of skin hanging between my legs like the dead skin of a snake. It wore a curly wig that had been my dad's pubic hair. Without looking, using fumbling fingers, I managed to slip my penis in - my balls dropped in naturally. I had very little experience of fitting a condom but I guessed this might have been good practice. I looked at myself in the mirror. There was a little slack skin by my neck, due to my dad being an inch taller than me, but I managed to stretch it out. Perfect!

   Now I just had to seal the suit and the impersonation would be complete. I read the final paragraph in the book to make sure I understood, and then took hold of a blackbird and spoke the words of the incantation. Using the mirror to see, I squeezed the blood over the incision. I felt the incisions welding together; I could feel a tingling, like pins-and-needles exploring my body.

   I had done it. Success is so gratifying!

   I rewrapped Dad's skinless corpse in the plastic and dropped him into the wardrobe until I had the chance to dispose of it.

   I collected the car from where it had been parked for the past week and drove home. I had left a note on the table from me, to my mom, telling her that I was staying with my friend Paul - but I promised I would study hard for my upcoming exams. That should ease her fears. Of course, she would never see me again. Too bad!

   I honked the horn like my dad always did when returning home. My step mom came out and wrapped her hands around my neck.

   "How did it go?" she asked.

   "Had a bit of an accident," I rasped. "How's Craig?" I said! I could barely stop myself from sniggering! Actually I did - as soon as my mom turned!

   Lying naked in bed, I waited for my step mom to come from the bathroom. Of course she was now my wife. My teeth chattered, and I had gooseflesh. This would be the real test. I hadn't had much sex; though I'm seventeen, my total time having sex totals only twenty-four minutes. What would happen if I messed it up? My step mom was bound to notice! That's why I had hidden in the closet before my dad had gone away and filmed them having sex. I hoped I had revised enough. I breathed out a long burst of air - and then my step mom came from the bathroom wearing a silk dressing gown. She opened it and dropped it down to her feet and climbed into bed, kissing my lips.

   To my relief, she climbed on me and took control. I was lucky Dad was submissive in bed. I hadn't fancied trying to be the dominant lover. I felt bolts of excitement fire around my body as she straddled me, hands on my shoulders, mine squeezing the flesh on her hips. I pulled her down to me and rolled on top, gaining in confidence. I kissed her hard on the lips then as I took my hand from her shoulder I noticed the sticky patch of pink. I burrowed my face into her neck and kissed softly, eyes fixed on the pink gunk. I looked at my fingertips and saw that the skin was melting away, was coming off over her. I pulled out and leapt from the bed, running from the bedroom and locking myself in the bathroom.

   "Darling, what's wrong?" she called.

   "Nothing!"

   I stared into the mirror. The skin from my face was melting away, sludging like spilt paint. I touched at my cheek gently; the skin popped, my fingertips sinking into the sticky flesh.

   I had to get to the basement; I had to consult the book! I had done something wrong and I had to rectify it quickly! I unlocked the door, ran out, flicking off the bedroom light mom had switched on to examine the sticky mess in the bed. I shot down the stairs, taking the key from where it was hidden in the flowerpot, opening the basement door, locking, then dashing down the stairs, switching on the lamp. I grabbed the book and began flicking through the pages, eyes darting side-to-side, reading, trying to find an answer. There was a chapter I had totally missed in my haste to finish the project. Preservation Once Worn. My heart sank. I read quickly, running a finger along each line, the words causing pain to spread across my forehead, around my eyes, daggering deep into my brain, causing me to blink. I was supposed to continue smearing myself with blackbird blood for a week after first wearing the skin suit!

   As I stood, naked, the skin from my body slithered off my flesh like hot wax melting down a candle. Oozing down, forming a sticky pink pool. Standing, too horrified to move, I tried to think, tried to find a solution.

   I stiffly turned my head to the dusty mirror, my eyes bulged open, and my mouth gaped as I noticed not only had my dad's skin melted, but so had mine beneath. Then my forehead melted and slid down with my hair, dropping and splattering by my feet. After five minutes I had neither flesh nor skin. I was a naked skeleton man, only retaining my eyeballs. Huge white orbs with fidgety pupils that gazed into the mirror.

   "Darling, what are you doing down there?" my step mom yelled. "What have I done to upset you?"

   "Nothing, I'll be up in a minute," I called forgetting to speak in the rasped whisper I had devised for Dad. Idiot! There was a silence.

   "Is that you down there, Craig?"

   I didn't respond. The rats were sitting in the dark corners, eyes fixed on the flesh pool. I gazed to the door mom stood behind.

   "You're scaring me!" she called.

   I sighed and sat down. Deep in reflection. Then the idea struck me.