In the graveyard, only silence

March 1, 2018 § Leave a comment

In the graveyard, only silence
And the shadows of the stones
But beneath the frozen soil
Muttered voices, restless bones.



Hobbledy-Ghost! Oh, Hobbledy-Ghost!

July 1, 2013 § 1 Comment


Oh, Hobbledy-Ghost,
I am not scared
of the Hobbledy-Ghost.

Oh, Hobbledy-Ghost,
We are not scared
of the Hobbledy-Ghost.

We have candle
And we have a book
We have a bell
And a bird on a hook
We will not falter
And we will not sway
We’ll make the Hobbledy-Ghost
Go away

Oh, Hobbledy-Ghost,
I am so scared
of the Hobbledy-Ghost.

Under Cellar

May 12, 2013 § 1 Comment

The foundations of the city are riddled with holes. Basements, sewers, sub-basements, forgotten wells and more upon more. Even the eerily still worlds of natural cave systems stretch down for untold fathoms beneath the daylight world. Very few people venture down into these dark, fungus haunted spaces. Fewer still return.


Somewhere in the subterranean sprawl, a dim light shines into a cave half-lined with crumbling brickwork. A figure, tattered and smeared with grime, staggers out from a side tunnel and slumps against the masonry. It lets out a low moan, before sliding down to the gravel-strewn ground. A hand reaches up to pull away the cobwebs covering its face and reveals the features of a young man, his blood-streaked cheeks cleaned only by the pale tracks of tears. Gingerly, he pulls his other hand from the folds of his jacket. Green-tinged and bloated, it seems to almost glow as red streaks creep out from two ragged puncture wounds in the palm. A scrap of cloth is wrapped around the wrist and he uses his teeth to pull the knot tight, wincing as a thick fluid wells up from the holes. He gasps and retches, leaning back into the wall.

The globe he uses for light flickers, dims…and then glows brightly again.

He sits for a measureless time, listening to the silence that stretches around him. Not even the drip of water, the whisper of air. Why did he even come down here? Curiosity? Greed? Pride? A mixture, all of them now satisfied in their own way. He thinks of that vast cavern and what he saw inside, lit by the light of countless candles. He thinks of his pack, now long lost, and the gleaming things it held for a short while. He thinks of Matthieu, who ran when he didn’t and was snatched up by the darkness itself.

He thinks of being more alone than he has ever been before.

He thinks about closing his eyes, just for a moment, and wonders what will happen if they don’t open again. Could it be worse than this?

The globe he uses for light flickers, dims…

…and then dies.

Knock, Turn

March 6, 2013 § Leave a comment

Tapping tapping quick close in my ear and my eyes open with the room washed blue dark blue in the moonlight shine through the shutter through the window and I’m lying in a bed looking out at the room and I see a shadow figure washed blue dark blue standing in the room again like the last time but she’s closer slightly closer still not quite there under water and I see the panelled walls hanging paintings dimly shimmer through her as she’s talking and I can’t hear her can’t quite hear her just a whisper but I know she is angry is worried is scared and when she stops she’s waiting for me glances away shakes her head glances back with her mouth just slightly open eyes wet but I say nothing and she’s gone perhaps never there and my eyes open once more.

Just a shade short of black

March 5, 2013 § Leave a comment

The city broods under darkening storm clouds as oily rain cascades down from the heavens, running like ichor along the streets’ arterial gutters. Shadows stalk the alleyways, only briefly banished by the hanging elektryck globes which flicker and spit like vipers. Steam rises from gratings and coalesces into vaguely human forms, dancing and whirling, before collapsing into wisps of near-nothingness. Water leaks and drips through ancient wood, swelling and distending the beams of houses that shudder and moan like dying grandfathers.

A haze of colour, just a shade short of black, hangs over the Limbic Quarter. Looking at it hurts the eyes, burning writhing images on the retina. Spires and chimneys below the cloud glow violet as invisible and nameless energies smear through the sky to ground themselves in the cold, rain-slicked buildings.

A thaumarc, a mage mist. Emanations of spent power flaying the skin off reality.

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