Wicked Fascinations

Wild Things (Part one)

2013-01-08T05:40:00.001-08:00

so, after a long time of writing extensively on death and other dark and depressing subjects, I thought I would try my hand at a more romantic/feel good story. There is more, that I have still to edit, and is of a more intimate nature, so may save it for something else. In the mean time, enjoy this first part of it!

We made our way up the step incline of the forested path, We were silent but content in each others company. It had been too long since we had been together, and I had a great joy in my heart now we had been reunited. However there was plenty around us to make noise, the birds in the trees, the squirrels jumping from branch to branch.

We finally reached the top of the hill. We stood there for a while, catching our breath, doubled over and panting heavily. It was only when we looked back that we realised quite how far we had gone; the golden afternoon light of late August shone down on us as we saw the valley below us, the long shadow of the church steeple cast itself across the nearby village. Underfoot the light brown-grey soil was dry and dusty from the long hot summer.

We turned around and took in where we were,

“I’ve never seen this part of the forest before!” Said Richard, my companion, his breaking of the silence was almost a shock to me. He continued, almost in a whisper, so as not to disturb the serene place, “it’s beautiful.” We were in the area together for the weekend looking after his grandparents huge barn house, and their equally huge dogs. We had both been best friends since we met at infants’ school. It used to be that we were inseparable, that was until I got my place doing anthropology at a university the other side of the country. He however had stayed on in the sleepy little town we were both born in, not far from here. His paintings had started to sell, so he had money, and he had no interest in cities and the busy people in them, he was happy with the slow pace of the country.

I had always admired his artist’s soul; he was free and able to survive on hope and joy alone as if they were bread and water. I liked how I could always be who I felt I really was around him. I could say exactly how I felt, and he’d get it instantly. He always knew what to do or say to make me feel better. And here we were again, after a whole year absent from each other, and as corny as it sounds, it felt now like it had been a few days and nothing more.

We had been working our way through the forest for most of the afternoon. Looking for somewhere to have our picnic. Robert had explored them rigorously as a child, and knew them all too well. It was indeed odd to find somewhere here unknown to him. The trees in this forest were his friends. I had never known a person to have such a connection with a place before, in many ways I was jealous of how close they were, but I knew it made him happy, and that in turn made me happy. If the dappled light of the forest floor would keep him happy whilst I was away, then let it.

We looked around us and took in the scene with a mild wonder. It must have been the only even part of the forest for miles, but here it was, half way up a hill, a moss covered clearing, complete lacking of trees on the inside. Off to the side, there was a little stream that danced its way along, its tuneful trickle pleasing to the ears. Robert gabbed my hand and dragged me over to investigate, falling to his knees as we reached the edge of the tiny stream. I saw now, that it would be easy enough to just step over it, it was so small, but it’s eerily clear waters seemed so fast and full of life.

Robert scooped up a little in his hands and drank some, forcing me to drink from his hands too. It seemed odd at first, and I felt a little grossed out drinking water from nature, not knowing what could be inside. But when it touched my lips, and I tasted the water that was so pure, I realized it must be fine.

“I knew the start of the river had to be up here, we must be close to the spring!” Robert explained. I just smiled at his childish excitement and made my first suggestion of the day;

“Y’know, I think this may be the perfect spot for that picnic.” Even as I said the words, Roberts eyes lit up, he had obviously forgotten the reason we had come out in the first place. We set everything up on the home made quilt Robert’s Grandmother had made him as a baby, which in turn we had layed on the soft cushioning of the mossy undergrowth, and sat down to finish the afternoon of talking about everything. What we had been up too, despite knowing everything thanks to out chats online constantly, and as always, we talked of our beliefs on the universe. It was a beautiful hazy afternoon. We nibbled at the home made food we had brought, and drank the wine, and the whole thing seemed timeless.

It was about two hours later, we were both lying on our backs, looking at the white fluffy clouds between the break in the trees. I have a cigarette in my hand that I would very occasionally take a drag on, all was right with the world, despite all my problems, they were not here, and they were not now. The entire universe was just me and Robert in this forest, and that was how it should be forever.

I felt his hand squeeze mine and I looked over to him. We often held hands, we had done since children, we thought nothing of it, and we were friends, true friends, so we held hands, nothing more. I turned to him slowly, the look of contentment on my face changing to one of concern as I see Roberts.

“What’s up?” I said, “Nothings troubling you is it?”

“Hmmm, not really.” He replied, Then after a slight pause; “It’s just, you never talk about girls, are you not having any luck finding someone?”

I looked at him and laughed, “Is that it?” I ask jokingly, “What do you mean? It’s just never been that important to me!” And that was the honest truth; I had no interest in girls, other than as friends and people to go out with. I had kissed a few whilst out clubbing with uni friends. I’d even slept with two, it had been fun, but I never stayed in contact with them, I never felt romantically towards them. To be honest I rarely gave these actions a second thought, but now

Robert had brought it up, I realized quite how odd it was.

“Are you going to try and hook me up with someone? Haha!” I continued joking, but Robert was having none of it. He sat up cross legged, facing me. The look on his freckle dusted face was one of hurt and anguish. I wondered why on earth he was taking this so seriously.

“I mean it, I’m worried about you, and you don’t have someone in your life to help you out when you need it, someone to balance you out.”

“I appreciate your concern Robert, but I’m alright, honestly.” I say as I smile.

“It just upsets me to know you might not have someone to look after you when you need it, or someone to share the fun times with. It’s no fun being alone.” As he said this his eyes started to well up with tears, and as they started to stream down his face, I instinctively leapt up and held him tightly in my arms where he sobbed, low and quietly, letting whatever hidden emotion or feeing out into the open, exposed only for me and the forest to see. I slowly lay him down on the quit, my arms still wrapped around him, cradling him.

After some time, the sobs quietened down, until all I could hear was his breathing and the occasional sniffle. His head was buried in my chest, my chin and nose resting on the top of his hair, the smell of his shampoo filed my nostrils, Jasmine or some exotic scent. His warm body fitted so closely with mine, which seemed only natural, but then everything seemed natural with us. Everything apart from the past year apart.

Then for some unexplained reason, and to this day I could not tell you why, something happened. After stroking his hair, and comforting him, I realized what he needed; I slowly and gently lifted his head, so I could see into his moss green eyes, where I looked for some time, finding the conformation I was looking for, there it was, like the spark of a new born star. I pressed our lips together. For the first time felt that electric jolt of everything falling into place. I felt his velvet soft lips, the taste of the wine still on them.

Clutter

2012-11-14T02:45:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the long delay guys, expect more soon! For now, here is a story taken from life experiences just some of the facts were altered, I'll leave it for you guys too work out what...

She used to sit in that chair for most of the day, and her time there increased in her later years. The embroidered upholstery of the thing was a murky brown, with reddish-brown and greenish-brown plants carefully stitched long ago. The faint scent of the straw stuffing combined with what was left of the scent of the lady that occupied it; a mix of soap, lavender and incontinence.

I had not been to the house in years, and it was usually my father or aunty that used to check in on her, but now she was gone, I felt more at ease in the place. So I for some reason decided to give up my weekend to start sorting this place out. It was my father who wanted too. but he was too busy sorting out all the legal stuff and the funeral right now

It was odd. I remember so much of it, but everything was different. In the ten years since I had seen her last, she had declined from the state of slightly-forgetful- old-lady, to what in my mind must have been a demonic Miss. Haversham. I did not like being around the mentally unwell, they unease me. Even as a teenager I could not cope with here deficiency, so, when given the choice, I chose not to be part of her life.

This house was a mess. Stacks of newspapers everywhere, one near the front door that looked ready to ambush any explorer intrepid enough to try and look in the cupboard under the stairs. There were piles of other things, further back, that I dared not examin. My Grandmother was of the war eira, and of the opinion that nothing was to be wasted.

There is no central heating in this place, so I clear the fireplace in the living room out and lay some scrunched up newspaper under a few lumps of coal that were still in an old brass bucket with a tiny shovel in it. After about half an hour of swearing at myself, the dead woman and any inanimate object in vision, I had a little fire going.

Being late January it was getting dark already, and so I decided that I’d start work on the house in the morning. Also the electric had been cut off, so no lights, but the fire was enough to go by, and I found some yellowing candles under the sink, that splutterd to life when struck with a match, so I had my little circle of light in th middle of the countryside. I dared not go to the bedroom, and anyway, I don’t think I had the energy to start another fire. I find some ichy woolen blankets in a basket behind the sofa, choosing a few that were not too damp, I make myself a nest, and bed down on he grimy carpet of the livingroom.

The fire soon sends me off to sleep. My dreams are fluid but hazy. Not coherent, just abstracts. I wake up several times in the night. I realise on one of these occasions that the fire needed more coal to prevent me freezing. I replenish the fire, and noticed the familiar old lady sitting quietly on her seat. She looks at me and smiles. I smile back, thinking nothing of it.

Morning After

2012-09-22T04:10:00.001-07:00

Sorry for not updating in a while, I'm currently writing a full book, but heres something to keep you going for now!

I could hear the sounds of the servants clearing away the residue of last night party. I did not wish yet to open my eyes. I roll over on the silk, satin sheets and feel there slick surface against my exposed flesh. I haven’t slept naked since I was a child, but this morning I could not care less. I open one eye just a chink, so no one notices I’m awake, and watch the maids collecting half drunken glasses of champagne and now stale mouth sized morsels of food. I stretch out along the bed, managing to partially discard the thin fabric of the sheet above me, exposing my entire back and one pale buttock to the room full of my staff. I allow my eyes now to both open, but still hooded and weak as I take in the room around me and pull mysef to a sitting position, lethargically pulling the sheet around my naked frame. Quickly, the population of the room bows at me.

“Oh, don’t even bother with that today.” I say, with a mild irritation. They quickly get back to making my room the polished guilt masterpiece that it is as I beckon Sebastian, my head butler over to me. He comes over and nods solemnly.

“What may I do for you this morning?” He asks quietly. Aware of my fragile state this morning.

“Tea! Lots of it! And I need chocolate and cream pastries!” I order, firmly, but not unkindly.

“Of course.” He leaves and makes the arrangements as I toss the sheet from me as I stretch and sprawl myself on my bed, safe in the knowledge that everything is being done around me. I need not lift a finger if I so desired, and today, no finger shall be lifted.

Heat wave or Two for Joy

2012-08-06T04:29:00.001-07:00

I wrote this for a competition, it's longer than most of my stuff, and I'm still not sure I like it, but it's had such mixed reviews! Take a look and see what you think!

The room seemed nice enough, no luxury penthouse, but it had all the necessities I needed for the two months or so that I would be living here whilst waiting for my next official place to be ready. It would be odd, what with most of my stuff in storage, and using someone else’s cheap furniture, but, as I had decided, I was going to treat this whole time as a big adventure.

I was sharing the house with three others, two of whom I saw rarely, we spoke seldom, and would only bump into them occasionally in the kitchen or the halls and exchanging an awkward hello. The third, however, I never saw. I only heard them moving in the room above me. It was a seven bedroom house, however, and I was the only person to have a room on the middle floor. This suited me fine, and meant I had more privacy than I’m accustomed.

I set up a small work area in my room; I laid my sketch books and journals on the cheap plywood desk supplied in the room. Everything was laid out in an ordered chaos, as I liked it. This had to be done on the first night, as my work as an artist relied on it. Secondly, I had a compulsion to write in my journal every day, this was something I had to do at a designated “work” area, where ever It may be. It was a modest comfort to me, especially in unfamiliar surroundings.

It was early in the evening as I sat down to write my first entry in this new place, and I could see the shadows of the houses stretched long into the gardens below me. Out the window there was no one to be seen, not a single soul at all. The heated summer air, almost still carried with it the scent of barbecue smoke, from some family gathering out of sight and out of ear shot. I let out a contented sigh and take a sip of my water, the ice clinking in the glass as I put it back down. I put my head down and start to write on a fresh clean page. I make sense of the jumbled garbage in my head, just as I did every day. It would always calm me down, no matter how stressful or chaotic.

I often find when writing in my journal, that I seem to enter almost a trance-like state. All sorts can go on around me and it simply does not register, my old housemates often showed concern that it may end in me getting in trouble somehow one day. I always joked them away, saying I’m sure I’d notice a fire in time to save my books. However, something this evening broke right through my concentration, like a vase hitting a marble floor, shattering what delicate design it had into a million disordered fragments, a mess of broken, sharp edges; It was a long loud moan, and it repeated itself, over and over, the source, although certainly in one of the gardens close by, was invisible to me. I had an instant recall to the time when my Mother worked at a psychiatric ward. Occasionally she would have to drag me along with her to her work for some reason, not for long, presumably to pick something up, but I never remembered. These brief, unexplained visitations had left me with some vivid memories of the contorting, and the drooling, the shouting of obscenities and those indecipherable noises. As a small child, I saw them as the monsters and trolls of the fantastical stories Ii would have my parents read me. I saw them as soulless monsters who would think nothing of killing me, or eating me whole. These visions haunted my childhood, but as I grew, so did my views of these poor people. I came to the conclusion that they did indeed have perfectly intact souls, and it was the housing that was in some way deficient. This view turned it from plain horror to one of abject despair for me, and I would forever be taunted by dreams of the meaningless sounds they would make, wondering if they meant anything to the maker. To have such a noise at this proximity and from within my own “inner sanctum”. To have it made by some invisible phantom sent the most soul shattering jolt of pure shock and terror right through me.

All the while through this barrage of vocal garbage, I just sat there and stared into the mid-distance. I had been knocked out of my calm trance of writing and propelled into a sort of waking nightmare. When people say they felt like something went on for hours, I think this is only applicable to those moments of extreme dullness and mundanity. This moment was one outside of time, during it I felt as if there had been no start and no end. It was just me and the noise forever in our own universe, one without time. That was how it felt anyway, in truth, it probably lasted no longer than a few minutes, and then it was over. There was no sound to prompt or follow it. It just stopped. The abrupt finish although unsettling, was a comfort compared to the noise.

I closed my journal, mid sentence, and lit a cigarette, while making my way to the kitchen. I made a cup of tea to steady my nerves.

My sleep that night was sporadic to say the least. The heat and humidity of this Indian summer was making me sweat just enough to make the bed sheets sticky and cling to my bare skin. I could feel every spring from the cheap mattress jutting into my flesh, probing my every move. When I did sleep it was not nightmares that played in the space behind my eyes, just an empty soundless void and I would wake to the same reception in my room on multiple occasions that night.

I grabbed for my watch, apparently it was approaching 5am. I decided to give up on sleep. I stood under the shower to try and wake myself up; the water spluttered out. Luke-warm, I had to wonder if it had any other temperature. I did not find out. I dried myself off and made myself some instant coffee, I winced at the bitterness, wishing my two vices, cigarettes and caffeine, did not taste so foul. I looked out the kitchen window at the half wild garden and wondered what to do so early. I did not want to waste another day on my laptop, and I could never work in the morning anyway. I sat on the rotten wooden bench in the garden and watched the sunrise over the houses, its pale rays refreshed me a little. I decided to take a walk in the forest, opposite the front of the house on the other side of the main road it was on.

The dew was still fresh on the grass and I decided to take off both my shirt and my shoes and revel in the soft grass and loamy soil beneath me, and the warm morning sun on my back.

I was amazed at how extensive the wooded network was. I still tried to make sure I had a vague remembrance of which way the road was. I found many things on that walk; a still pond, in a secluded glade. I picked berries from a bush and had myself a very relaxing time. Last night was far away and long ago. After a while, I thought to look at my watch, I realised I had been wandering for well over an hour. I decided it was time to make my way home and start to organise the rest of my possessions. That way I could feel more settled and safe in my new environment.

Didn’t bother to rush back, I had the entire day to myself and it had only just gone seven anyway. I strolled back eastward towards the road the house was on, the path I was following seemed to have seen plenty of use, it was straight for the most part, with tire tracks at the side. I did have to turn a corner at one point, and in doing so was greeted by police tape blockading the entire path and a great deal around it as well. There were officers in uniform and men in suits crawling round everything, several vehicles dotted around the place too. They had obviously only just arrived there; there was a body just off the path, sprawled out there partially eaten by scavengers. It had not yet been given the dignity of any coverings by the police. Thinking back on it I believe what I am about to say is impossible, but it is none the less what I remember; the smell hit me. It was a smell I could recall from a time before, when I had gone on holiday for a week, accidently leaving the door of the fridge open. The smell off the rotten meat and vegetables, the blue-green mould that had made its way to the kitchen floor.

I started to reach, but there was little to expel, the mixture of the sweet fruit mixed with that of the bitter coffee and bile spewed into a pathetic puddle on the ground. The taste would not leave my mouth as stinging tears welled up in my eyes and I doubled over again. I think it was the commotion I was making that alerted one of the policemen to my presence. He rushed over, ducking under the black and yellow tape, some part of the back of my mind reminded me of my unnatural hatred of the colour yellow and I start to reach again. The puddle gets bigger. He comes over to me, putting a comforting arm around me, realising this must be a huge shock to me.

“My God! I thought the whole forest had been sectioned off for the investigation. How did you get in?” His voice somewhere between apology and confusion. I explained, after he had taken me out of sight of the carnage, that I had been walking in the woods for some time. Presumably I had started before they had begun their work. I also explained that I was new to the area and just exploring. I could tell from his eyes, a warm chocolate brown, that he believed me. I truly think that what he said was almost as upsetting for him as it was a shock for me.

I returned to my home that evening exhausted both physically and mentally. I had been at the police station the entire day. They had questioned me extensively about the victim, the area and how long I had lived there, people I knew and the forest. I’m sure in most circumstances it would have been easy to confirm al I had said, but I had been living off the radars since leaving university. The few they found were not enough to prove anything. Finally, I remembered my library card, and funnily enough, the constant withdrawal of books from a different county was enough for them. So, eventually, after being moved from one interview room to another, having my prints taken by some ghastly machine and finally my mug shot taken, I was permitted to go home. The hour long journey on the bus I couldn’t afford felt almost like a dream. I finally reached my front door at around nine that evening, just as the sun was disappearing beneath the forest.

I did not feel like eating, despite only being fed a warm sandwich at the station, one of wilted lettuce and sweaty, flavorous cheese. I made my way to my little room and remove the boxes from the bed to the floor, and without even getting undressed, I collapsed on the unmade bed and fell into a deep and uncomfortable sleep.

That night my exhaustion pretty much beat the heat and the sorry excuse for a mattress. However, I awoke at 4am to a sound so invasive, so alien, that I sit bolt upright in my terror. Not this time the distressing moans of the mentally ill. This tie, what sounded to my ears like some great guttural beast! Multiple noises emanating, in my mind, from the same guttural maw. The sound of worlds being torn apart.

After the initial shock, my brain finally awake enough to make the connections and come to a rational conclusion, realised it was only dogs, one probably roused and the others in the neighbourhood following suit. One of the ones nearby must have been of gigantic proportions, the noises he made were deep and low, I could almost feel the bass of him running through me. I decided to have a cigarette whilst I waited for them to calm down. I did not bother to turn the light on, my eyes now accustomed to the pre-dawn haze. I watched the blue-grey smoke trail towards the window and the orange ember glowing. The dogs eventually calmed down and for the briefest of times all I could hear was the faint crackle of the burning tobacco as I took the last drag before flicking the last of it out the window. As if it was a signal, a bird heralded the overture of the dawn chorus. I grunted and decided to go back to bed.

I did not sleep for long after that, an hour at most. I did however have the most vivid dream; I was a corpse, rotting and putrid, and I was being raped by a disgusting beast. A vile anthropomorphic dog with a gigantic jaw, making the noise of a hundred of its kind, which was at the same time a heaving mass of all of my mother’s patients, their noises and their groping, strangling and thrashing limbs all over me. It was not a combination of these two things, but both individual entities at one and the same time, in the way things can only happen in a dream. I, being a corpse, was unable to do anything. My genderless body rocking to and fro on the interview table with the movements of my lover/violator. It continued until I had completely decomposed.

That morning I woke in a foul mood which was only worsened by the later heat.

The next two weeks were uneventful, I unpacked my belongings and the police visited a few times, but only in my facility as a witness. The heat persisted and worsened. I rarely went out of the house as I worked from home anyway and I declined all invitations from friends, my excuse being I lived too far out from the town centre. I became a hermit.

One morning, I was sitting yet again at my desk. Iced water in hand. I was sketching out a commission that I had been given a substantial down payment for. A picture of two lovers in a forest, it was to be painted on canvass for someone to give there wife as an anniversary present. I foolishly used my memories of the local forest for inspiration, and of course my mind kept going back to that morbid and surreal encounter there. There were insects flying around the room, and I realised much like around a corpse. I could feel nausea creeping up on me once again, but I chose to ignore it and continued to draw. I kept seeing things in the sketch that I had not intended to put there, a tree had the face of a rotten corpse, a severed hand in the undergrowth next to the lovers. I could cope with it no Longer. I closed my sketchbook and put it too one side and grabbed for my journal. It was not, however, in its place! My lifeline, my touchstone. It had vanished from the place I always kept it!! I searched franticly for where it could be; my bookshelf, on my desk again, what little there was on the floor, even under the bed sheets. Eventually I made my way out of my room to the communal areas of the place, searching like a man possessed. I could not find it. I stormed back into my room, a red hot lump forming in my throat, my face red from anger and the refusal to cry. I sat down at my desk, grabbed my cigarettes and lit one. After the release of the first drag, I saw it, lying in its usual place; its plain leather bound cover looking as innocuous as ever. My journal. I did not understand, but the initial confusion was soon swept away by relief. I grabbed it, stubbed out the just lit cigarette and started to write. I wrote for an hour or so before I was interrupted.

The building was an old one, the single glazed windows had still not been replaced, and they were old and brittle. When the magpie smashed through them, shards of glass showered the room. The whole thing appeared to be in slow motion. The morning light was reflected and refracted in the splinters as they arced across the room. The bird, a mangled parody of an angel, appeared to glow as it covered the golden disc of the sun.

That brief and beautiful moment came to an abrupt end as I held my arm up to my face to shield my face from the myriad of tiny razors. The bird itself landed with a thump on my journal, in the centre of the blank page opposite the one I had almost filled up with half legible scrawling. It was still alive. It made a feeble attempt to caw at me. I just stared at it for a very long time, my brain, once again, having shut down. I realised I had to do something only when it stopped with the racket making and was pathetically trying to shuffle off the page and make for some sort of cover. It occurred to me now that it only had one eye, where the other had been was now a bloody pulpy mess; obviously the glass had done its work there.

It occurred to me that the creature had no hope. Even if I did care for it, it would just prolong the suffering and slow the dying process. It would be cruel to let it live. I grabbed its body firmly with one hand and its head with the other, its feathered neck resting in the space between my index and middle finger. This was not without come struggle; the bird took a sizeable chunk out of the skin on my hand. With my blood dripping over it, I gave the neck a sharp yank. The crack that followed was one received gratefully by my ears, and it coincided with a click in my brain. I sat there, bird in front of me, shattered glass all around and on me. I was at peace. As I felt the sensation sweeping over me, the loud, now familiar, sound of moaning began. It bothered me not. Whatever condition that person was in, was not, and never had been, my concern.

The action of suicide is not as difficult as people make out. If the intent is truly there, it takes barely anything at all. People who fail at suicide are never truly serious, Hanging is too complex, and drowning seemed pointless, even if you never learned to swim, instinct kicks in. For those methods to truly work, you need vast amounts of willpower along with the aforementioned intent. No. I just knew what I needed to do. I took a month’s worth of my medication. I am writing this, my last ever journal entry in the book I was saving for when I finished my old journal. I suppose the magpie did that for me, its blood has probably soaked through. I’m going to have a last cigarette, and finish this sketch. I’m going to finish it how it wants to be drawn. That is, for as long as my body will hold out anyway. Then the magpie and I will fly out together.

Two for joy, I believe is the phrase. Perhaps it was lonely, and sensed I was too.

Lore Master

2012-07-18T11:48:00.001-07:00

Right, this quite clearly needs some more work, it does not flow quite how I like it too yet. As ever I would love to her you'r feedback, don't be scared to leave it!

Somewhere, far away, out of sight to most, on the edge of a barren wilderness, there is an old keep with a tower. Once it was strong and powerful with a compliment of 350 men, defending the people of the kingdom from the threat from the North. But there has been no threat for two hundred years. No this keep has fallen into disrepair, but that is not a problem for the current owner. For he only uses the tower, and not even all of that. He has no garrison to protect him, no army to lead. No, all that the main building has become now is a ruined pile of rubble and rotten wood, home only now to trees and wildlife. A large old raven lives in the tallest of the trees, His tail feathers now mostly white from age, his call a musty croak.

But it is not outside that the owner is, nor is it where you re to dwell long. No. To find him you must go through the oaken door to the keep, turn the heavy iron latch and push hard, the old wood is sodden with water and stuck fast. Eventually however it opens with a deep screech and a thud as it hits the wall behind, scaring a flock of birds into the air.

Now inside it is hard to see, but you take a few steps forward, sunlight coming behind you and peeping through the chinks of the arrow slits. Slowly your eyes grow accustomed to the faint light and you see the flagstone floor you are walking across, and the room you are in; Modestly furnished,, you see a rough bed with a straw matters, filthy and unmade, a hearth in the far corner with cooking utensils and a table. Straw coveres the floor. You smell damp and mildew. There is not much else of interest here, so you make your way up the old and worn stone staircase that spirals round the side of the room to the next floor.

Here it is far more interesting; there are shelves stacked with books. These books cover the sides of the room top to bottom, and there are myriad of free standing shelves in the rest of the room, creating a maze of knowledge and wisdom. You start to wonder among the books and scrolls, picking a few up as you go. Many are in strange and archaic languages, or written in foreign alphabets or alien pictograms. In some you find beautiful illustrations, of people and creatures in colourful inks and golden plate. Eventually you find one in your own language;

“And so we find as the Mystics say, the truth of the world shall be held among the stalks of the tree of life! And, lo! We may call upon their wisdom by calling forth the great high ones! “Araboth, Anarke, Tharabute, Damaal! Ascend!””

You close the book, with a start! Its words seeming to shift as you read them, changing morphing...

A feeling of unease trikles up your spine like drips from an iceicle. You place the book back on its shelf and make your way up to the next floor, trying to steady yourself on the steps, as you find the stinking slime has grow on them that could easily result in you breaking your neck on the fall.

Finely you reach the room you came here for, the final room. You see there are more books here. These tomes look older and more impressive here. Heavy with weight, time and ancient knowledge. In the middle of the room is a slanted reading table, made of dark old wood, high up from the floor, and surrounded in candle light. There is a musty tome on the table, and hunched over the text is a man, reading whatever forgotten lore lies therein. Time seems to run slowly and sickly in this place. Like grease.

The man is old. Though it is more than age alone that gives him his aura of age. In his high up chair, underneath the dusty and faded robes of his kind, there is a body not only worn with time, but with loneliness, with obsession. The wizened face that sticks out of the collar, underneath the skullcap has an expression of bitterness to it, one almost of perpetual hatred. The jagged hands that claw at the pages from heavy sleeves sport rough and dirty nails.

His is a life few chose. Not because it was a life filled with peril, or a life few have the skill to do. He was one who’s pulpous was to collect and dispense knowledge and was one few had the will or inclination to pursue. However, his hunger, his thirst for knowing all he could know had lead him to take the robes of the Lore Master. This was no measly job of a librarian, no. For although he had texts of mundanity and collections of statistics, he was the guardian of the books of power. Those tomes that had powerful enchantments within them. These books were not just parchment and ink They were dangerous. His was the task of keeping them safe, so others may do them no harm, but also so they may do no harm onto others. He was an exile and an outcast. He would begrudgingly give information to those who sought it out, provided they had the appropriate documents from the university.

This was a career that led to little interaction. The power of so much amassed knowledge was not safe for people, he had been conditioned to it by his master, as his had by his. He has, himself, had an apprentice for a while; however, he died the first winter. He had to wait until the spring to dig his grave; he did not have the strength to dig the frozen earth. The pale body of the boy had been preserved the whole winter. Untouched by carrion or pestilence. The Master cried like a child as he lowered the pale and beautiful body of the boy into the shallow pit. A lifetime of tears all over a boy he barely knew and would find it hard to care less for in life.

Once every two months, the university would send a cart of supplies and any texts they had recovered to him. The manuscripts were always in a lead chest, and the driver stayed no longer than neccery. And the visitations of those seeking some knowledge from his vast collection was rare and becoming more so. He had only one such visitor in the past year.

There was the occasional time he would think back to what could have been. The lives he could have lived. Sometimes, late at night he would think of love, and what it could mean to be in love.

Slowly, with a creaking of bones, he lifts a hand to the page corner and turns it. He continues to read. To absorb the Lore. The only sound his wheezing breath.

But you are no longer here, you were never here. It is just him in this lonely ruined tower. And the books...

Till death do us part

2012-06-07T07:50:00.004-07:00

Well, here it is, now fully completed, as promised, don't forget feedback!

They had lived together for forty years, and for the first five they loved each other. The next five, they tolerated each other, but for the last thirty or so years, they had grown to despise one another.

He worked every day at the docks, he mended boats that had moored there, and made quite a tidy profit from it, so they were never in need of any of life’s necessities, and often had enough left over for a few luxuries. However the dullness of their lives, and the dreams they had both missed by being with each other had driven them to petty acts of spite and malevolence.

Today was a day like any other, it was early November, and the rain was hitting the window panes, and dripping from the gutters. She had set breakfast out as she usually did, and it being Friday, they were having kedgeree.

“You’ve put far too much salt in this and not enough spice. How after being married for an eternity, can you still never get my breakfast right?” He barked, flecks of rice clinging to his waxed grey tash. “And where the blazes is my tea?”

“I make it like I always make it, you never usually complain!” Said she, coming up behind him and bringing the tea pot down to the table with a thud, compromising the stability of everything on there; “You know full well we cannot afford more spice, right now, the prices are much too high!”

“To hell with the prices, you never put enough in, and I’m sick to death of it. I go out every day and work all the hours our lord gives me to pay for this family to be able to live comfortably, all I ask you to do is run this house, and you seem unable to even do that properly!”

“Family? You call me and you a family? In all our years together, you have never been able to father us a child! This is not a family; this is just me and you in a living hell!”

At this the husband leaves the table, food half eaten, tea left to go cold. He grabbed his hat and slammed the front door behind him to go to work. That single fleck of rice still firmly embedded into his facial hair, as it would remain all day, his colleagues far too polite to inform him.

As the wife sat down to eat her dry slice of toast (she hated both fish and spice, so kedgeree was never eaten by her) she began to think. Then she cleared the table, and then washed everything, made the separate beds they slept in and swept and mopped the floors on the ground floor of their house. By this time it was midday, and she sat in the bedroom, in front of the once fashionable dressing table, he had bought her as a gift when they first got married. She looked at her face, at its wrinkles, at the dry, brittle hair, the colour of iron, and she continued to think.

That evening, she had a smile on her face as she layed the table for the meal she had prepared for them both; lamb chops with potatoes and Brussels sprouts. She made extra thick gravy, added extra spices to it. The husband seemed vaguely pleased. She could tell because he said nothing to her, the only noise coming from him was the occasional satisfied grunt.

They had a quiet night, he read the newspaper, and she knitted, both in silence. Then with barely a word to each other, they went to their separate beds.

The next day, he arose after her, despite waking at the same time, but that was how things always were, as she needed time to set the breakfast table up. But eventually, he did. Dressed himself, and made his way to the kitchen.

The scene that confronted him as he reached the stares was one that shocked him right to the core. Despite it being something he had dreamed of in his darker moments, the reality being too much to bear, he vomited in the corner, a small puddle of bile coming from his empty stomach.

Swinging, clumsily on the rafter above the stairs, she was hung from a noose made of there best linen tablecloth. Her face had gone blue, her eyes had not yet lost the lustre of life he saw as she crudely swung round to face him, almost as if she was staring at him. He sat there in the corner, with his clear vomit for nearly half an hour. Curled up, like a child, before he had the scene to inform the authorities.

He himself was hanged for murder on a fine spring day, five months later.

Piper (Name will be changed)

2012-05-24T12:53:00.002-07:00

Ok, this is the first part of my main novelette I am writing right now. There is huge amount of stuff after this, but I’ll be saving it for publishing. Tell me what you think...

The dawn had broken about an hour ago, but it was still dark in this miserable town. It had rained ceaselessly throughout the night. The water pouring down roofs into overflowing blocked gutters. Spluttering out of grey gargoyle heads and leaking out of broken cheap metal piping onto the streets and from there, after swirling, river like in the streets, picking up flotsam, slurry and other refuse down into the choked sewers of the place.

It was dark, filthy and dank down here. Warmer than above ground, the decay of all the above inhabitants waste producing a stinking squalor heat that permeated every inch of the place. It was here the vermin lived. Like any place where civilisation exists, there are other creatures that live of the debris. A natural part of life. Something had happened here however. Something unnatural. Something that scared the above inhabitants, it made them fearful to leave there houses for the unknown tings these abominations would do.

Nothing is truly visible down here. Not in the faint gloom from the overflow drains would allow. The things that lived down here had t rely on their scent and the sound of things, all be it muffled by the dank humid air down here in the depths. But something was crawling out up out of this mess, not visible now, just a shape. It moved with agility towards one of the countless secret exits out on to the city.

The view from the cellar would have been vile if anyone was to see it. But no human eye had befallen it since the fire of the building above six years ago. Half the street had been incinerated due to some accident at the bakery, or the chemist, no one knew for sure, those that were blamed were killed in the fire and the buildings had been left as hollow shells once everything had been scavenged. It was here that the shape emerged. Out of a collapsed part of the ruined cellar among the twisted and warped wood and metal charred beyond identification. First a sniffling nose testing the area, then out of the shadows came the rest of the head; a long pointed muzzle with deep set eye sockets, containing two veined milky white orbs, both blind and useless to the creature. The face, as the rest of its body was covered n scars among rank matted fur, some crudely stitched up, others left to heal and go septic in its contaminated home. Its stooped posture was reminiscent of one of the great apes seen in the zoos of the big cities, or sometimes brought to town by circus people. Its front paws had long spindly looking fingers with a sinewy strength ending in cracked iron coloured claws. And from the base of its spine came a long, dirty, fleshy tail. A small swarm of sewer rats appeared with it, scurrying around and over its fur there small noises a comfort to the beast

After sniffing out the environment for safety, the thing clambered up to the ruin above and out onto the street, and shambled along in the downpour, its smaller brethren trailing behind it like the tail of a stinking comet.

Where or even how it started was unknown. Perhaps it was something that had seeped in there from the laboratories under the collage, it was said they did strange, unnatural things there; perhaps it was one of the test subjects that had escaped and bread.

They say there were cults among some of the richer merchants, and possibly even the few aristocrats that lived in or near the town. Was this there doing?

Perhaps it was the old woman, half blind and crazed, who lived in her decrepit shack on the edge of town, with her garden of bizarre and misshapen plants from obscure locals, each with a name more unpronounceable as the last.

The priests, in their pulpits said it was the creator sending this daemon as punishment for the sinful ways of the townsfolk, white flecks of spittle spraying forth and clinging to his coal black beard as he barked his sermon in a religious paroxysm to a decreasing flock.

The rumours abounded in whispered tones throughout the township, sweeping the folk into a panic. Any of them could be true, maybe none of them were. One thing was clear to those in command. Something had to be done. The creatures had been reported to attack people during the day now, and these same reports described the packs larger and the beasts reaching monstrous proportions, there vile leaders possessing some kind of sick intelligence.

Hunger was what drove the creature, and he possessed the knowledge of where to find food. This was why the pack followed him. It didn’t mind, there was safety in numbers, and they could see as had he once. There was safety in numbers...

Those eyes were what he needed more so that day; the rain had cleaned the air of scent, and the noise of it almost deafening. All it could rely on was memory, and the chattering of the rats.

The back of the bakery usually provided something. Sure enough, there, under a slight overhang behind the place, a small pile of stale waterlogged bread. The creature groped for a hunk of the stuff, most of it falling apart in its hand. Its nostrils’ inspected the food, smelling the traces of poison. But it was safe; most of the toxic residue had been washed away. This wasn’t even enough to kill a rat. The beast sunk its teeth into the small meal it could find, the water seeping sponge like from every bite. The rats feasting around it, squabbling over tiny morsels.

Still half starved from what little nourishment the bakers had provided, the beast lumbered off in search for more. Slinking along side streets, it came alongside the canal. The grey, oily waters sliding against their brick riversides. Then the beast shambled back up another ally.

Despite the earliness of the hour usually rendering this a safe time to scavenge, and the weather making it even less desirable for the inhabitants to leave there homes, it did not make it risk free. There along the same ally that the beast was making its way down was a child, walking huddled up against the rain with his back to the beast. No doubt on some errand on this bleak, lightless morning. Neither had detected the other yet.

The rain fell heavier than ever. Drilling into the skull of the beast, reminding it of times long past and best left forgot. But it was too late. The creature could not help but remember the age before the sewer, before the company of its tiny brothers and sisters, before the warmth, and the smells of life and death. Back then, there was just it and Them. No smells, save the chemical, unnatural smells. No contact, save the slicing and probing of blades and tools. Yes he was hungry now, but at least he lived among the stinking, living squalor of his friends.

The squeal was sudden and deafening. No amount of rain could mask that, not when right next to the beast’s ear. It had grown careless in its daydream, not noticing the rats had fled and it was not until it and the child were walking side by side that one had seen the other. Both now in a panic. The child was paralysed in his fear, only able to scream. The beast, disoriented by the noise, and scared itself, started to thrash out in a seizure of alarm. It let out horrific squeals of dread. Then one of the beast’s thrashings struck the child’s cheek; the harsh jagged claw sank into the soft flesh of the child. The red blood washed away as soon as it bloomed on his drenched skin.

Both child and beast knew what had happened, both were muted in shock. The child had never been cut so deeply, nor seen anything so hideous, although he had heard the storeys. The beast had never harmed a living creature before, not like They had done to it.

The child fainted. His delicate frame splashing the water around him, the blood mixing with the stream that the streets had become. The beast chattering to itself scurried of in its panicked state, trying to work out where it was and how to find the nearest entrance to the sewer, where it would be safe. Hungry, but safe.

It was now a month since the reports had started The townsfolk were at a loss, not only had the beast(s) started attacking innocents, but now with this unprecedented monsoon devastating there means of living, they needed a solution. The lore masters of the collages claimed they knew not what this thing could be, and although the elected officials felt they could not trust them, they were forced to. The few cunning folk left in the city each had a different seemingly nonsensical answer, which the same officials assumed was the ramblings of those who had had consumed too much of the narcotic substances that grew in the wild places near the town. All the priest could do was to preach a sermon of the great sins of the world and how all must repent, the gleam of his eyes enough to chill all, almost as much as the idea of the beast itself.

A substantial bounty was to be awarded to whosoever could bring the corpse of the beast to the town hall, one that would have been taken up if it were not for the sheer terror of everyone in the town.

It was three months into the influx. The town’s activity had ground almost to a standstill. People were too afraid to leave there houses for fear of the beast. A curfew had been set, giving those who wished to walk the streets only five hours to do so. Traders stopped visiting the town, as the hysteria meant there were none to trade with. The grain store was depleting, and the people were starving and desperate.

Dreamscape

2012-05-24T06:52:00.001-07:00

From the moment he awakes, to the moment he falls asleep, his day is a strict regimen of order; Wake up, shower, shave, teeth, breakfast with the wife he never loved, then to the library to read that days copy of the Times, then meet up with his lifelong friend, Arnold, at the pub to watch the sport, drink his half pint and discuss the news. Then, mid afternoon was his variety time with his wife, be it going to the little independent cinema, where they would play the old films of his youth, for a special discount for OAP’s, Sometimes they went to McDonalds for a meal, or perhaps, if they could afford the journey, they would take a trip to a National Trust building. On Weekends he would cloister himself away into his shed, with the company of his radio and his model trains and airplanes. In the evening he would lay the table for the meal his wife had cooked for the two of them. They would eat in silence, and then go to the living room with the coffee, him with his book, her with her latest project, be it knitting something, or sewing a quilt. Sometimes she would write letters to long lost friends whom she had hardly seen in years.

Inn his day, he would not have said anything that brought out his passion, nothing that could make him smile. In essence, nothing he had said that day, or countless days previously held any relevance. No worth. Just polite conversation to the few people he still knew so as to somehow pass the years of his retirement.

Then to bed in his freshly laundered pyjamas. Separate bed to his wife of course, they had not shared a bed in what felt like a lifetime. The scent of there linen mixed with soap is always the last thing he remembered as he fell asleep.

This was where his life was truly lived.

This was his reality. This was where he lived out the adventures of his childhood and the dreams of his adolescence. This was the life he desired at the back of his mind his every waking hour. Suppressed, he was too ashamed to reveal these desires, for fear of ridicule and humiliation.

Travelling across the continent of Asia atop an Elephant, through the thick Congo Rainforest, Slashing at vines to find the hidden treasures of the Amazon. In Paris he would seduce a beautiful young woman he remembers from his 20’s, whose name might be Angela, might be Abigail. Then he would be socialising with the artists in Italy, then the Intellectuals of London. Being all the things he knew he could be.

Sometimes he would dream of how he imagined physical passion would be (for he had no children, despite desperately desiring them).

In his heart, he was all these things and more. He knew, if he had only been given the chance, or been smart enough to take it when it was dangled in front of him. He knew this is the man he could have been.

That night was a particularly beautiful dream. He had found the girl in Cairo after discovering an ancient temple. She was a beautiful dancing girl, covered in veils of silk and sparkling jewels.

They were to be engaged almost instantaneously. The marriage was on a tropical island in India. The royal families of the world were there to shower the new couple with gifts, and to congratulate the happy couple.

The wife of the man knew he was dead before she had even gotten out of her bed. Just like the time she had known she was pregnant, going to that back ally doctor to have the tiny life aborted. She knew her husband would not want a baby, and they could never afford one.

She made her tea. She thought about the day ahead. Slowly it dawned o her that the only reason she continued on with her life was to fulfil the needs of the man she so desperately loved.

They were not discovered for a week. They had no pets to bark or mew when they were not fed. They had no children to check up on them. It was not until Arnold told the police nervously, apologetically, that he had not heard from his friend and would they be able to check up on him. It was not until the day after he called them that two police officers found the time to visit the flat where the couple lived and broke down the door.

They found her sitting on a chair in the kitchen, slumped over the table. The cold nearly empty cup of tea by her side, the rollers still in her hair, the bottle of pills grasped in her frail withered hands.

And they found him, laying serianly in his bed, a gentile smile playing over his lips, now forever with his Abigail.

Or was it Angela?

This is a more complete piece, as in I think it’s as finished as it can be without getting some feedback, so please leave some.

Friendly Strangers

2012-05-23T16:27:00.000-07:00

Somewhere, in a sordid City, there is a small bar. It’s dark, but cosy, the lights soft and comforting cast from the candles, and small paper lanterns dotted around the room. The sound of a lone guitarist in the corner singing some inaudible yet cheery drunken song just above the murmur of the patrons. The clientele are in the warm relaxed haze that mild intoxication brings. Tobacco smoke lingers in a grey-blue cloud of coiled mist just below the ceiling, and the sound of unimportant chatter fills the room.

In the corner, a trio of men play cards on a small sticky table. At the bar, the sandy haired barkeep pretends to show an interest in whatever his punters are saying. They don’t notice his lack of enthusiasm; they are far too busy focusing on their own story. In another shady corner, two women try to disguise their desire for one another behind the guise of friendship, pretending to themselves and each other that to be anything more would be wrong and their feelings were unnatural and sinful, they were none the less happy that they were in each other’s company, and would be for the next few hours.

In this pleasant establishment, there is a back room. In this room there is a bed with tattered red velvet drapes, and old satin sheets, a horse hair sofa, and a woman. From just in front of the window there is a gas lamp shedding a soft glow into the room, on a table with a never used chess set. A slight layer of dust rests on everything.

She has blond ringletted hair, mousy brown roots showing. Her eye makeup is smudged and tired looking. Mascara uneven, lips the colour of a deeply bruised plum. She has on an off white night gown, her silhouette clearly visible when the light was behind her. Machine made lace clinging to the hem.

Most of the patrons of the bar knew of this woman, and the services she provided. Illegal as it may have been, they said not a word, even too each other. Some nights, when she felt like it, and business was slow, she would sing for them, accompanied by the drunken guitarist, or someone would play on the old out of tune piano. She would sing popular songs of the day, or sometimes songs everyone could sing along too

She had been lying on the floor dead for less than an hour, the blood had pooled all around her, framing her, crusting in her hair and clothes. Her eyes had taken the frosted glaze of death. A silvery trail of saliva crystallising on the corner of her mouth. Her hair was ruffled but the overall look was none the less one of beauty, her cheap appeal had now faded and in its place she had taken on the same unearthly beauty as that of a weeping angel, or martyred saint.

This one is no way finished yet, I'm thinking of adding possibly her daughter crying in the corner, I'm not sure, tell me what you think!

Specimen

2012-05-23T16:23:00.003-07:00

Specimen

The delicate yet firm slice of the scalpel penetrated deep into the flesh at the join of the neck and jawbone revealing through the seepage of blood and the fibres of the sternocleidomastoid muscle and under that, the tough outer capsule of the Parotid gland. It was here the doctor had to delve, here the suspected cause of death lay. He pinned back the fresh corpse matter, neatly out of the way, and gently washed the tissue, preparing for the final incision, directly into the fibrous, near unyielding flesh of the gland with a tiny serrated tool, rarely used. And then he found the cause.

The discovery in the dead woman’s Salivary gland had caused a huge stir in the medical community. The doctor was touring the great universities of the civilised world with his findings. The theories abounded as to what this tiny creature could be; with its tiny delicate form, limbs almost see through, and tiny feet, and hands clutched in tiny fists, its face with no mouth, nose or ears. But it’s eyes were what confused everybody, multifaceted and glittering as bright as rubies, even as it floated, lifeless in the jar of formaldehyde, peering still, yearning for whatever its miniscule four inch body desired and needed in life, floating in congealed saliva.

I wrote this today in about half in hour. Still needs some work, but I hope you like!