All posts tagged: prose

Deep In The Den – #WeekendWritingPrompt

‘You know I don’t deal with fragile little birds.’ Hanson gripped the girl by the chin and pulled her closer. Her forced her head up and grinned when she flinched away from the lantern he held. ‘She’s no fragile bird,’ Raven told him. ‘Took out two garrisons all by herself. She was about to take out a third when we caught up with her.’ ‘Yeah,’ said Hanson. ‘And doped her up on opium for good measure did you? The Chains not enough?’ He dropped her face and yanked the chains connecting her feet to her wrists. ‘For her?’ said Raven. ‘Even this might not be enough.’ Playing around with some new characters for my novel Darkened Daughter. Not sure if I’ll be incorporating Raven and Hanson yet, but this might be an interesting chapter to write on my next accountancy exam is out of the way and I have a couple of weeks free time.

Lost: One Bench #Throwback Thursday

‘How can you forget where you left it?’ Samantha demanded, shooting Michael a withering look before closing her eyes and counting to ten. In a moment she would let out a deep sighing breath and give Michael her best, why do you insist on embarrassing me stare before ordering another drink from the bar and forgetting the subject altogether. 1,2,3,4- ‘I mean really Michael!’ Michael blinked, confused as to where the last 6 seconds had gone and why she hadn’t ordered a large glass of red wine. She wasn’t following the natural order. ‘It’s a bench!’ Samantha spluttered. ‘You cannot misplace a bench! Especially not one of yours! They’re massive and made of wood. WOOD MICHAEL! WOOD!’ Everyone else in the pub had fallen silent now, the hum of conversation dying as all eyes turned to stare at the couple having the argument. Or rather, Samantha yelling at her bemused husband since Michael rarely said two words to anyone about anything. ‘I could understand a nail or two, perhaps even your level metre, but misplacing …

Summer Ashes

The sun has turned most of the garden crisp, stems crunching to dust between fingers when I dig in between the leaves. Still, the lavender stands as it should, scent sticky on my skin, determined to be carried home into the house. Its flowers haven’t faded yet. It doesn’t seem to bow to heat the same. But between the lemon tree and dahlia, the herbs have taken refuge in the shadows of a water butt. There the decking still burns my feet by afternoon and moisture only lingers a little while upon the soil before vanishing. One by one they will succumb, no matter how often I tend them. Eventually night falls across this place and time, soaked in the day’s heat. Still this garden will shiver, weeping for the storms not come.

Hear The Ancestors Speak

There are motions that crack open the audios files inside my head. I don’t realise what they are until your voice is playing on the loudspeaker in my brain, blotting out all other thought with the echos of your absence. Salted caramel for the mind, both sweet and salty, love and tears. I will hit repeat until the lump in my throat jams the mechanism and you stutter into silence. In the months where I’ve lost track of time, I cannot tell if you have begun to sound more like me, or if I am becoming you. Rolling the words around my mouth before I speak as if to stain them with your voice. Familiar phrases still clutter my tongue as I sift through the vowels jumbled between my teeth. You spoke so easily compared to me, I do not think anyone notices that I am using your words instead of mine. Learning how to thread these sentences into conversations is a little like taking the waist of a dress in a few inches before …

Daydream Girl – A Haibun

Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream. Kahlil Gibra They called her Daydream Girl. Eyes, tucked away in the letters of books, spine crackled and binding frayed. She was music, tripping up over loose pavement stone in the hopes of digging out stories long ago buried in the sands of time. Her hands were skeleton keys pushed into every lock on sunken chests pulled up from abandoned rib-cages. Took care not to hurt the crustaceans as she pulled them away mail-link by mail-link until only the under armour remained. She poured laughter down my throat and burnt out my lungs with song. Left me bellowing misty dragons into the night. Ran my hands across the tempo of her chest and told me to dance with the beat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. They will not tell me where to find her again. These words are brittle, there is nothing of you here and I am tired. http://dversepoets.com/2015/10/05/haibun-monday-2/ I wrote this piece and realised that it has a lot of similarities to last night/this morning’s …

Darkness On Newmarket Highstreet

“Darkness is simply the absence of light, and what is light if not love!” Esmee watched as the short, little man with black hair and an orange beard preached his sermon from his wooden crate halfway up Newmarket High Street.  “What a nutter,” said the woman beside her on the bench, stabbing a plastic fork into a pasta-pot before drawing both fork and container as close to her mouth as she could. “BE SOMEONE’S LIGHT AND BANISH THEIR DARKNESS!” screamed the preacher. No, Esmee thought, sliding her hand into her pocket, playing in the darkness was much more fun.

Mist

“We don’t enjoy being summoned by your kind Grail.” Pulling herself from the mist Merida pressed her fingers to the rickety table-top of the patio furniture and leaned in. “We are not your servants,” she warned. Grail lowered his morning coffee and pushed it away. It had turned cold the moment the mist crept into his garden. “Why do they always send you,” he frowned. “Is there no one else?” “No one at all,” said Merida, scowling impatiently. “ The council is less than forgiving when it comes to your crimes.” “A miscalculation on my part,” shrugged Grail. “Something I intend to remedy very shortly.” “Oh really?” “Yes, really.” There was a moment of silence between them. “So,” said Merida. “What do you want?” “Books.” “Books?” “Yes,” said Grail. “The Mist Books.” Shock flickered across her features. “Not a chance,” “But-” “I said no. We’re done Grail. For good.”

Taking On The King

“I think,” said Death, my bishop clattering onto the table-top as he slid his queen across the board, “that it takes a certain type of fearlessness to defy a King.” “Oh really?” I asked, scowling at the three pawns that were all that was left of my defence, he was just playing with me now. “What makes you say that exactly,” “Oh you know,” Death shrugged, knuckles now pressed into his jawline as he waited for me to make the next move, “they all generally end up in the same place.” “Maybe,” I said, “but you never know, fearlessness might simply be some greater fear in disguise.” I watched Death falter through my lashes. “Oh,” he said quietly. “Perhaps.” Grinning I slid one of my pawns forward. “You’re still losing you realise?” said Death. “Yeah I know, but I had you stunned for a moment there so I’m counting this game as a victory anyway.” This started as my entry for Lilly McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction Challenge Fearless but instead it turned into something a …

A Friday Freewrite – Obscurite Extract

Battle Plans It was cold on the Witch Moors. Wind seemed to sweep in from every direction, cutting through the canvas tents and chilling Tara to the core. She pulled the wool cloak tighter around her shoulders and jammed her chin into her chest to keep her teeth from rattling out of her jaw. She tried to focus on Mormonth and Ilia, their heads bowed together as they plotted out the best way to steal into the Grey Castle break Lord Turnkay’s defence from behind. Curse the Lords and their stupid taxes Tara thought. Could her father have not waited until summer and then sent his armies to demand dues owed by the Northern territories? Why did he have to send her, and why now of all times? “Milady?” Ilia was looking at her now, forehead creasing with concern. “Milday, are you quite well?” Tara shook her head and wished again that they could have built a fire. They had three hundred men with them, all of which lay shivering among the ferns waiting for …

Musing

So far there have been more pages turned than footsteps trodden in my life. This isn’t necessarily bad. Those pages and the words have fed into everything I am, everything I want to be, everything I want to do. They have set pins into maps for locations I can see and given me the chance to create for myself that which no longer exists. I could walk the world over and never find the moment when the Parthenon stood whole, or Stephen Sauvestre sat hunched over sketched out plans, or Henry De Audley first saw the finished Red Castle. However, I am not content with pages instead of footsteps, and it is time for my feet to catch up.   Time changes all things, sweeping stone to sand and dust. Witness what comes next. A Haibun for DVersePoets. Thank you for the wonderful prompt and a fantastically interesting article.