January 23, 2018 § Leave a comment
Another drabble, a story of exactly 100 words, in The Horror Tree’s Trembling With Fear blog, which makes it three for three submissions now. These are forming themselves into something of a related narrative so I’m looking forward to see where they take me…
He watches as the accusatory finger of the lighthouse sweeps across the harbour, in through the bottleglass window and onto the long, blank wall. Each pulse shines a zoetrope puppet-show onto the whitewashed brick.
Click here to read the full piece.
September 10, 2017 § Leave a comment
One of my drabbles, works of fiction that consist of exactly one hundred words, has been published by The Horror Tree’s Trembling With Fear imprint.
“She has gone to the sea,” he’d told his daughter who, old enough, dismissed the words as a well-meaning fable.
May 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
I remember how it started, lined up tightly in the alleys and closes across the road. It was early morning. I was cold. Water trickled down from a leaking gutter, splashing onto my jerkin. The Ballivo made some kind of speech. I didn’t understand much of it apart from ‘charge’ and we pushed forward to storm the gates. The old locks splintered easily under the hammers of the leading men and we tumbled through, onto the boulevard.
And that’s when it all went so horribly, horribly wrong.
There was nobody there, nothing but the houses on either side and the leaves dusting the cobbles in front of us, but we fell anyway. The man in front of me doubled up, gasping, like he’d been hit in the stomach. Hit hard. Blood coughed up between his lips as he fell to the ground. His body lay limp. I jumped past him and carried on, my baton raised, more from the lack of other options than duty. Tillea, running beside me, glanced over briefly before her head whipped back with a sickening crack. She grunted weakly. I remember watching her helmet tumble backwards and clang on the cobbling. There was mist curling around our feet.
Distracted, I caught a vague movement on the edge of my vision. I was twisting away before I realised what was happening, raw fear controlling my movements, but even so something solid crunched into my jaw. Light exploded and danced in front of me. I hung suspended in the air somehow until, suddenly, my knees cracked against the ground and I jerked back into thought.
I couldn’t move. I started to panic. I was held, rigid, kneeling on a paving slab by the edge of the boulevard. Cold needles pinned into my shoulders, numbness spreading out through my body. I could see pale blue flowers lining a bed of dark soil. They seemed to glow slightly.
It was barely a voice. A rustling of pine needles, the scratch of dust swirling down an empty corridor. It didn’t matter. The sound didn’t need to travel. I felt it in the very bones of my skull.
Anger. Blistering, consuming anger. But not just that. Outrage, indignation and a kind of sadness.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. It sounded pitiful. My voice cracking like a child’s, slurred out through my broken jaw. “We…,” I gasped as the word stretched my mouth and pain shot through my head, flaring sharp against the icy numbness. Thought was difficult, slow. The flowers. Watch the flowers. Bright. Blue. Rows. Ordered. Think.
“Orders…” I coughed the sound, barely deserving the name of word, through a coating of mucus. “Had…orders.”
The flowers. Dull now, just outlines. Rippling slightly in a breeze. Bending. Nodding.
And I fell, released, into their midst.
After that, all is darkness and whispers for what felt like a thousand upon a thousand years until a voice came and asked for me. A soft voice, yet strong and imperious. It cuts through the darkness like moonlight. I am needed. We all are needed.
Night is falling and Whither must awaken.