We stood shoulder to shoulder and gazed out over the vast expanse of black that lay beyond us, not even black. Black was a discernible colour, this was just nothing, an absence of matter and form. Where there should have been trees, grass, living things, the landscape just gave way to nothing, as if someone had taken a giant wash-cloth and wiped away a huge swathe of the terrain, nothing between us and the mountains rising away in the distance. Neither of us spoke for some time, each deep in our own thoughts and conjecture.
‘What do you think is in there, if anything?’ he ventured, chewing his lip thoughtfully. A habit he had developed as a child when faced with a knotty problem, but it also gave away his anxiety. After all this was way above our pay grade.
‘If I had to hazard a guess, I would say nothing, well, hopefully nothing.’ To be honest, that was really the best I could come up, as I had no clue. This was a brand new shiny one on me, we had never encountered anything like this before, nope, not even close.
‘Should we…I don’t know, maybe toss a rock in there, see what happens?’ I stared back at him, mouth agape, ‘Yeah, you do that, go for it…I’m just going step back, way over there, see how it goes.’
‘Alight smart arse, so what do you suggest then?’ I stared back at the void. I had literally no ideas, like whatever this thing was in front of us, my mind was empty. Sucking on my lip I hummed for a few minutes. He stared at me patiently, waiting me out, the bastard, and then eventually sighed, ‘Ok, back to base then I guess.’
‘Thank fuck for that!’ I replied, groaning in relief. As I said, above our pay grade.
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
I tread carefully along the narrow gravel path. The light is already fading, and fairly rapidly now, so I would have to hurry. I could just about make out my destination, the tree and stone marker in the distance. The sky is heavy and overcast, no mist yet on the moor, but if it rains then getting back will be a problem, fingers crossed.
Every year, same time, same place, same hopes, with no real expectation of them being fulfilled. But, it’s always worth a try, right?
I have her things in my pocket, in a zip lock. Her last letter, worn now with constant refolding and read so many times, a photo and the ring she had given me before she left. Her ring, the little tiny signet ring she had been given for her ninth birthday. I feel for them now, looking for some reassurance or comfort and ignore the hollow feeling in my chest.
Reaching the stone marker finally, I lean against it and gaze out over the familiar moor. Most people are afraid to come here in the dark, though we never were. For us the still gloom that came with the fall of night gave the place a melancholy beauty which appealed to her fey nature.
I fish out the zip lock bag and take out the contents, placing each of them carefully atop the stone, and wait.
Midnight comes, finally. I place both hands on the stone, focus on the small array of items, and begin the incantation. Concentrating all my need and yearning on the things in front of me, I visualise her face, recall her voice, her presence, narrowing and honing my focus. It feels different this time, it’s going to work…I can feel it, because I want it so badly, I believe it.
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
If I lay my hands on them, and press, and listen, I sometimes think, or hope, that through my touch the past might open to me. That if I concentrate really hard, I might see them, or hear them. Men and women in coarse spun plaid, braided and lime washed hair, skin decorated with loops and swirls, and hear their songs, their words, their guttural yet melodic language. That the rough-hewn stone on which I lean and press my fingers might be some conduit to them. I long for it, I always have. Out of step in my own time, an anachronism, misplaced and awkward.
I come here often enough, at dusk, or early morning, and wander through the stones. Sometimes I sit and read or lay down on dew damp grass and wait for the sun to rise. I lay close to them and reach out unerringly, placing my fingers to the stone, caressing the surface, and smile, waiting…
Image courtesy of Verdilbert
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
Ten years. That might seem a long time for some, but then…it’s not really. She knew she would have to come back one day. Had promised herself in fact, just hadn’t expected that it would take a decade before she could face it, being here. The bay and the lighthouse were unchanged, like looking at a vintage postcard in black and white, all gloomy and foreboding. Even on a sunny day with a cloudless sky there was something heavy and oppressive about this place, as if it repelled all warmth, the spectre of its tragic past hanging like a dark pall.
To be honest, no matter what the locals did to attract holiday makers, to make the bay seem fun and welcoming for happy families and couples on outings, this is and was a place of misfortune, seeped in misery that no amount of warmth and light could dispel. The very ground was saturated in it. Countless souls had died around here. Ships dashed upon the jagged rocks that decorated the bay, bodies pulled down in its unforgiving waters and treacherous tides. Yeah, ten years wasn’t nearly long enough.
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
It was called ‘the Wailing Pass’ for a good reason. Not just down to the loss of the many souls who had died in the wars of attrition between the clans over hundreds of years, nor even, as my Father maintained, because it was such a desolate place. No, it was more than that.
The stories went, that there were some nights, random it seemed on the face of it, when if the conditions were right, you could hear them, or rather feel them. Based on what happened to me, I’m not sure that it was so much auditory, because what I heard felt in its intensity, almost internal. As if it were building inside oneself, to the point it where it was like the breaking of a dam.
Though I had heard others talk of it, it was still like nothing I had ever experienced before nor since. I was out late, driving through the pass, the night murky with no moon, naturally, and somewhat misty, as it generally was. My speed was steady and careful. It paid to be cautious on these dark, narrow and twisting roads, too easy to lose control of a car. I became aware of a hum, or something like it. I couldn’t tell if it was in the car or outside, it was almost like a vibration, I could feel it as well as hear it. I slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road and cut the engine. There…there it was. It was clearer now, but not a hum, no, more like a collection of sounds threaded together in some kind of discordant harmony, and it was building. Debating for a few moments, I decided to open the door and step out, despite that every single horror movie I had ever seen had taught me, NEVER get out of the car. But this was real life, not a film. I stood for a moment at the roadside, listening. The hum, for I could not think what else to call it, was building, but the sound was undulating and changing in pitch and cadence. I stood for a while listening and stepped hesitantly from the road onto the grass and made my way up the side of the pass. Glad of having left the headlights of the car on, for the dark was total and all encompassing. Without them I would have been sightless. As I moved further from the road, I became aware that the sound was a literal choir of discordant and cascading notes, shockingly louder and more intense, and I was able to parse the different sounds, and realised with appalling clarity, that it was actually voices, countless voices…wailing.
I stood rooted to the spot in shock, as the wailing filled the air around me, coming from everywhere it seemed. If I could have run in that moment, I would have, as fast as I was able, but my limbs were locked, tight. The wailing pitched and rolled, building in volume and intensity and I felt as if I would shatter at any moment. I stood for god knows how long while this dissonance pummelled into me, until I felt I couldn’t stand it a moment longer. I knew tears sliding were down my cheeks and my body shuddering. If it didn’t end soon, I thought I might black out. And then, at a point of almost no return, it suddenly stopped, the sound cut as if a door had been slammed shut and I slumped to the ground. I sat there for long minutes, maybe even an hour on my knees on the sodden, cold ground. Eventually I pulled myself to my feet and staggered back to my car. Mercifully the lights were still on, and the engine started. I stayed there for a while, with the engine running and the heater on full blast, though I felt I would never get warm. After a time, I drove slowly home. I lay awake for many hours and eventually drifted into an exhausted and fitful sleep. It would be a long time before I could face the pass again, and never, no never at night.
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
All joy, laughter, sadness, despair, contentment and satisfaction. It was gone.
I felt nothing, an absence of want. Devoid of need. Not even a feeling of emptiness, just blank space where there was once, curiosity?
Sensation had left me. As for warmth? I felt none. Nor cold neither.
The yearn to touch, to be touched, to feel? I could no longer remember what it was, or even if now I miss it.
Because I fell, I had forgotten, everything, even pain and loss. I was forgotten.
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
Burned, eviscerated, sobbing and aching in every sinew they crawled away, shame and self-loathing seeping from every pore, every cell purged of light and joy. Boundless and free no more they fled into the darkest of places, crying to each other in torment, desperate for comfort where there was none to be found.
Chained to the earth now and forever, limbs heavy as the densest of metals, no more to soar aloft, to gaze down in lofty arrogance while assured of their higher purpose. They knew themselves to be the purest of all things, content and complacent in that knowledge that nothing could challenge…until it did.
For now, they were the lowliest, most reviled and despised of all creatures, exiles, cast out, thrown down…banished.
Image courtesy of Teresa Valenzuela
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
When through the door the moonlight shone
So still, so light, I knew you’d come
I’d felt your breath upon my brow
A gentle touch, then as now
My eyes then closed; a sigh so sweet
Moving gentle, a swift retreat
My loss still keens as much as then
As on that fateful day that when
No more your presence, an end to bliss
I never thought it would come to this
But still I see you, as a shade
A comfort then, as night does fade
If all I have of you is thus
I’ll take it all, as I must…
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
The fear was now palpable, delicious and enticingly rich. This pursuit had been the most rewarding in a very long time. For this was a man not used to feeling vulnerable, afraid, weak.
He has not seen me yet, nor even heard me, but he feels my presence. He searches the gloom frantically as he hurries onward, casting quick furtive glances over his shoulder, but the fog, as ever my friend, my cloak, aiding me in my joyous diversion.
I can sense he wants to run, his body is straining for it, shaking and almost buckling under the restraint. I reach out with my mind, imbuing the air around him with cold, icy tendrils reaching for him, delicately flooding his mind with images of horror and torment. He stifles a sob, his footsteps faster now, stumbling on the uneven cobbles in his panic. The dread he feels building until almost impossible to bear, any minute he will break, I know it, the urge to flee almost impossible to resist.
I laugh softly and hear him gasp in terror. He can hold himself back no longer, desperate now and prepares to run. Too late, as I spring forward...
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
I paused in the doorway, reluctant to go further. I reached out hesitantly with my senses, waiting for that familiar prickle, an awareness or sense of…something.
Other than the light falling from the high windows, and the dust motes moving languidly in the air, the room was still, silent, torpid. Like the rest of the house it was derelict, the once ornate decor sadly decayed, the parquet flooring dulled, dry and curling in places like winter leaves.
I moved forward cautiously, my hands held in front of me defensively, despite the emptiness of the room. Not even my careful footfalls, whisper light made an impression, as if the room itself were absorbing any and all movement within it.
I was able to distinguish the only thing that remained in the room, something large at the far end, possibly a piece of furniture. As I drew closer, I was able to make out the shape of a small grand piano. I don’t know why I was so surprised, the room given its size and dimensions had obviously been designed for functions, or parties, it just seemed so incongruous to see it there. I moved slowly over to the piano, which had been left open, seemingly abandoned in mid use. The keys were covered in a fine layer of dust. Without thinking I stretched out my hand over the keyboard, drawn irresistibly to it, and pressed lightly on one of the middle keys. The note rang out clear and surprisingly in tune, I smiled slightly, pleased for some reason, though I don’t know what I was expecting after all. I turned to leave, when the pervasive and heavy silence was broken by the sudden and violent slamming of the door…
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
The landscape was bleak, to the point of being virtually barren, the only break in the terrain were the mountains, rising in the distance hazy and indistinct. Eyes burned if focused too sharply, the air tainted, almost sulphurous, making the draw of every breath vicious and tight, adding to our burden.
We had been walking for what seemed like hours, the effort of putting one foot in front of the other the only constant in a journey that seemed like it might never end. The ground underfoot felt brittle and insecure, little more than rocks and scree, making our uncertain progress yet more arduous and stressful. We were not dressed for long distance hiking, as our departure had been sudden and abrupt, little more than a desperate escape in truth.
I felt a body stumble next to me and thrust out my arm without thinking, my hand closing around a bony elbow. I wasn’t sure who it was, even if it were a man or a woman, as I had wound a scarf around my head to try and protect my face from the burn of the air, and of course, the unremitting cold. Whoever it was I had grabbed onto steadied themselves and mumbled a thanks in my direction. I kept moving, we all did, after all…what else could we do.
This story was originally published to my art blog in 2020 in response to a prompt from @thewritershandbook
I created this site with the intention, at some point, of posting stories, mostly following a chronological narrative arc, featuring Morrigan. There will also be included some stand alone stories that are unrelated to that arc, but keeping within the overall tone.
ETA:
The above was posted five years ago, September 2020 in fact. Life got in the way and I did nothing with it, and I stopped writing. However, I have been persuaded to pick it up again. I have decided to repost some short stories that I originally posted on my art blog, and from there I will remove them. As for the narrative arc that was going to feature the character of Morrigan? Well, we shall see...I may pick that up again one day.
