There was a sign propped up against the empty doorframe which read “If you are a dreamer, come in” except the paint had chipped, and instead of dreamer it read dream. ‘So?’ asked his wife. ‘Are you going in or not?’ She stood on tiptoes and tried to peer through one of the windows. Graham thought he saw her shiver, and for a moment started to shrug the jacket from his shoulders. ‘It looks abandoned.’ She stepped away and scowled. ‘You copied out the right address, didn’t you?’ Graham nodded, then felt his heart sink. An old lady stepped into the hall, the edges of her body blurring against the peeling wallpaper. ‘Oh,’ said his wife, now stood behind him. ‘She’s like me!’ She grinned and poked him in the ribs. ‘Poor Graham, can’t even find a living physic to help with your ghosts.’
If you are a dreamer, come in.
Shel Silverstein’s poem, Invitation, Where The Sidewalk Ends
For someone who doesn’t read a lot of horror/ghost stories, and can’t really watch the genre either, I seem to write a fair bit of it. I find I really adore these monthly Prosery prompts as there a great way to stretch the creative writing muscles when my focus has drifted away from flash fiction. It helps that Lillian picked a cracking line of poetry for tonight’s prompt as well.
In some exciting poetry news however, this week I’ve got two poems coming out, in two seperate magazines. The first was published on Sunday in the second issue of The Riverbed Review which is available to read for free on their site. The second is my poem ‘Overgrowth’, which I originally wrote for a Dverse prompt and is being published Wednesday, (with a couple of edits) in the first issue of Hencroft. A lot of journals and magazines do not accept poems that have appeared on blogs or social media previously, so I’m ecstatic to have the chance to publish with a magazine that didn’t mind.
They bought the house new, especially to avoid these sorts of things. There is nothing behind the wall, except a space where the wind whistles, and it always whistles. Even on still days, when the plastic windmills in the neighbour’s garden don’t clatter, and Gregory Mutt’s union jack is slummed around its flagpole, the wind whistles! ‘I don’t quite understand what you want?’ the contractor explained. ‘There’s nothing to explain where a draught would be getting in, and we’ve checked all your external walls.’ ‘Listen though!’ Jenny hauled him through the kitchen by the front of his shirt, pressed her face to the lilac paint. ‘It’s whistling now!’ The contractor stared at her, wide eyed, and a little sweaty. ‘Aye,’ he croaked, ‘I hear it.’ She yanked him closer. ‘You will,’ she said, quiet now. ‘You will be the one to make it stop.’
It’s the end of a long day and I still have words to write for NaNoWriMo, but I’m taking a little break to pop over to the dVersePub and see what delights they have in store for tonight’s prompt. They’ve yet to dissapoint!
Janet turned from her monitor, squinted into the gloom.
‘Who now?’ she asked. The hands on the wall clock glowed faintly. Half-seven, closing time was long past and James was still bent over the archive’s central table.
‘This,’ he said, and circled his hand over the papers in front of him, ‘this all belonged to someone who existed. Now all that’s left to mark his existence are cargo lists, household receipts, and half a letter to his land agent.’
‘That’s more than some have,’ Janet shrugged.
‘But how can someone be boiled down to so little? We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time and know less than was once understood.’
‘We work with what we have.’
‘But it’s not enough!’
‘It must be. We can’t turn back time, only save what remains.’
I’ve spent most of today going through history books, journals, and archive online materials to write a post about the history of witchcraft in Shropshire, so I’m feeling a little nostalgic for my time in archives among old letters and documents. For those of you interested in Early Modern history I’ve included the link here.
I do wonder what it will be like for historians hundreds of years from now. If blogs will help with reconstructing the past, or if the overload of information will cause more chaos that clarity. Perhaps something will happen to destroy all the electronically archived information, and we will return to a world of paper and ink. If we are remembered, will it be accurately?
Gutted and skinned, the rabbit seemed tiny. It was too young, but the other snares were empty, and night crept upon them before Gart could hunt the woods.
Devlin boned the little creature, and carved it up into rough chunks. Enough so that there would be a piece or two each in the stew. Gart watched him across the fire and when he stood, Devlin called another of the men to watch the pot.
Away from camp, Gart’s tracks faded, along with the sound of voices.
‘You’re improving,’ said Gart, his lean form rising from a crouch just inches away. He snaked a hand inside Devlin’s collar and brought the younger man closer. ‘I will make you moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops,’ he whispered, his grip tightening.
‘After,’ Devlin promised.
‘Ever after,’ said Gart. ‘From tonight, until the end.’
Lillian has selected two lines from Carl Sandburg’s Jazz Fantasia for the writers at the pub to chose between tonight. I went with the first option “moan like an autumn wind high in the lonesome treetops”.