A Burned Tree

Tags

Burned tree, fiction, flash, loss, Love, Memories, nostalgia, short story, story, Tree, writing

The tree is burned out now; a charred and hollow shell which somehow still stands against the wind and rain, but a reminder that once it had been ours. The scars we left upon it are mostly gone now either scratched or scorched away, but, if I look closely and for long enough, I can still make them out, the initials carved so long ago. I can still picture those days, dredge them from the furthest recesses of memory, remember them as if they had been only yesterday. Days when the Sun hung like a medal, golden and resplendent in the sky; days we felt would never end when the Sun would refuse to set. We ran then as if each day were an adventure, a gift waiting to be unwrapped, pulsing with promise and dreams.

Dark days came, days when gunmetal clouds did their best to shadow and usurp our futures, but somehow we always found the Sun within us, and the strength to see them off. We had each other and that gave us strength enough to hold things together. Together we took on everything that the world had to throw at us, and always emerged with a smile on our faces. Sometimes battered, sometimes bruised, we always knew that we would rise again, unbroken and with music in our hearts.

We had met in childhood and even in those early days we could sense the vines wrapping themselves  around our ankles, tying us together with an invisible yet unbreakable bond. It was the kind of friendship only read about in books or seen in films or on television – a superhero and his sidekick, or partners in crime or detection – the kind of friendship that was both attracting to an outsider yet had the scent of the unbelievable always hanging over it; a kind of ‘too good to be true’ aura, but to us it meant the world.

It was something that we never really talked about, this sense of love that had grown between us. It had become an unwritten chapter in our story, but, at the same time, the one that contained the glue that held us together, the one that defined who we were. It was never a physical love – what existed between us transcended that – ours was more like an altruistic and nurturing bond, a co-dependent relationship made up of two individuals who, independently, were strong, but together a unified force on a different plane. At least for me, reflecting now on the burned out tree in front of me, that is exactly how it was, and there is nothing in our history that would make me question it.

Nothing, of course, stays the same. Despite our wishes and our best intentions, change is inevitable. At the precise moment when everything both in and around one’s life seems settled and to have found its place change emerges from its resting place like a slowly waking dragon. It stretches itself out, flexes its wings and inhales deeply preparing itself to burn away the carpet which has grown beneath our feet. I am not, of course, decrying change – without it none of us would ever move forward, and the challenges thrown down make us, and have made us, who we are, but there are times when, just for once, the dragon might be better served by taking a slightly longer nap.

Like everybody else we grew up and then grew older. Time moved inexorably onwards without care or regard for the past, never once looking back on itself. People, places and events came into our lives; some stayed some left to be quickly forgotten. A few left their mark. There were things that touched us both whilst others brushed against one rather than the other, yet, despite everything, one thing remained a constant: our friendship. It felt as if nothing would ever really change between us, even when we fell both in and out of relationships. Time and the weather wore away at everything around us – faces and places could not withstand the force of nature and progress, but, for me, what we were was always the one thing that I could always hold on to.

And then, on a night when I had struggled to find rest, the storm hit. It was as if I had not even fallen asleep when the dark rumbled echoed through the house and shook me awake. I felt as if I had been grasped by the shoulders and was being shaken roughly, as if being warned of some terrible fate which was heading my way. Outside I could hear the rain lashing against my roof and windows. A fretful wind was pounding the fences, trees and bushes that surrounded my house as if it were trying to destroy the barriers I had erected to keep the outside world at bay. I found myself standing by my bedroom window gazing out over the roofs and towards the fields beyond them. Without warning the sky was ripped apart as a fork of lightning exploded through the darkness, lighting the shadowed landscape below it as if it were day. 

I knew then that everything had changed.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

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Night Bus

Tags

Bus, death, fiction, Flas fiction, flash, loss, Love, night, short stories, story, thoughts, writing

I sat on the bus, watching the night-lit streets as they passed by like frozen, shrouded memories. The juddering, stop-start motion seemed to bring an uneasy comfort to my body, detached as it was from my consciousness. Other vehicles, heading in the opposite direction, appeared and then disappeared as if they were on some mythic quest, their headlights dull and dim below my position on the top deck of the bus, illuminating nothing but the first few steps on a journey without end. For a moment it seemed as if only they knew the direction in which to move in order to find some salvation, some respite from the pain, and yet I knew, contained within each metal box, was nothing more than one more lonely figure hoping beyond all hope that something, some miracle, would appear to snap them out of their coma.

Buildings rose up on either side of me now; giant monoliths, some pale and dark, devoid of life, tired and waiting for release, others still humming under the electric glow which gave them purpose. Their eyes stared out without seeing through the dark, and were gone again, lost to me as I moved steadily on. Their facades hung momentarily in my mind like all the faces of people I had met in my life, before fading into a sea of ashen memories. The night around me seemed to tighten its grip as, like an abandoned vessel, we sailed on.

To both the right and to the left of me roads sprouted off from the main artery down which I was travelling. They sparkled and twinkled with the hope of the newborn before even their lights were swallowed by the darkness into which, it seemed, the whole world had fallen. I shuddered as the bus lurched around a corner: not from the cold – I had long since become immune to that – but from the impending realisation that we were, at last, nearing my stop, my final destination.

And then everything was quiet, but for the pounding in my chest and the pulsing in my head. What if I were to remain on the bus? Would it eject me when it reached its destination, its point of termination, or would it show a glimmer of empathy, offer up a hand and cradle me to its heart? After all, my brain reminded me, what point was there to alighting, to leaving the bus to continue without me, if you were no longer there to welcome me home?

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

On a different page

Tags

creative, Different page, Life, loss, Love, poems, poetry, story, verse, writing

On a different page

Where inkmarks told another tale

She stepped across the oceans blue

Left footprints in the sand.

On a different page

Where castle walls were no defence

She held the hands of many men

Her kiss upon their hearts.

On a different page

Where trees would bend and bow their heads

She smelled of cream and oranges

Was everything to them.

On a different page

Where cities threw their windows wide

And history fell from her hands

She talked in riddles wise.

On a different page

Where honey flowed from lip to breast

And rivers ran from town to town

To quench the thirst of men.

On a different page

Where through the trees she came to me

And all the things I never knew

Were shown at once to me.

On a different page.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Catching Flies

Tags

Communication, creative, fiction, flash, Love, short stories, story, writing

She moved like a veil in the breeze, delicate and fragile,whispering her love between the clouds as they passed like strangers on the shore. Wisps of her hair, now chestnut, now russet, brushed the silent air, painting it with rainbow hues that scattered their love like angel feathers. Behind the cobweb curtains I shuddered, afraid of catching something that I could never hope to hold; something far beyond any expectations I may have held. I shivered, my fear the cold against the warmth that swarmed around my like an excited army of bees, hungry to feed on the sweet nectar which seeped from her every pore. Stolen glances were always enough: enough to shroud the fear of loss, of letting go what could never be held; enough to feed a dream in which to live, a fortress which I could build and rebuild as I chose, strengthened by a look or an over-heard word.

She floated, dancing on water, drifting ethereal from plane to plane, never resting for too long in any one place. Her voice, the words she spoke, swirled across the land like a nurturing blanket, and I knew that wherever they landed new life would emerge – beauty in the wake of vacuum. Her words touched my ears, kissing them gently like a dying friend, and that was enough.

If only I had known that they had been all for me.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

A Farewell

Tags

creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, Honesty, loss, short stories, story, thoughts, writing

I thought of you then, on the day that I left, knowing, despite the words, that we would never meet again. I thought of you as I sat in the darkness, as the Sun dipped like a dying friend beyond the horizon for what might as well have been the last time. I knew that I, like the errant Sun, would rise again, but that neither of us would ever be quite the same: the Sun would burn fractionally less brightly, its gaseous source ever so slightly diminished, and I, with less reason to rise than before, would begin to become a shadow of myself. I thought of you and the words that we had shared wondering if you had ever truly understood my meaning. Had you thought of me as a friend or merely an acquaintance, and had I ever truly understood what lay behind your eyes? I thought of how close I felt that we had become, our shoulders brushing against one another as we shared a joke, our laughter spreading its roots between us connecting us forever, or so I had imagined. But did you leave me behind along with all the other artefacts of work when you closed the door behind you and returned to your home?

I thought of you and wondered whether I had been too obscure, too subtle in my words and looks, for you to see me. And what exactly had I felt? Was this a connection that I felt that I had needed or something that had burst upon me unexpectedly and had opened a new door which whispered quietly for me to go through? Perhaps the moment had come for me, after a life of living at a comfortable distance from the edge, to finally take a chance, a risk. But, of course, caution is a powerful bedfellow, and, by the time I had recognised the chance, if had closed its eye for ever.

I thought of you then and wondered if you had ever lain alone in the dark beneath the Summer’s heat: I wondered if, like me, you had lost yourself to imagination; and I wondered if you had ever found yourself with your hand between your legs, wishing its fingers were mine.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Dale Street

Tags

creative, fiction, nostalgia, short stories, short story, story, writing

A bit long, perhaps, but I hope you’ll stick with it (and enjoy!)         

          Only once did I go back. For only one moment did I find my mind swamped with nostalgia and feel its frond-like fingers clutching and clawing at me, trying to choke my future from me. It was only once, merely one, brief moment, one solitary idea which grabbed my thoughts, imploring, pleading, persuading them to take a different pathway; speaking softly in sweet, seductive tones of unfulfilled desires, aspirations unachieved, yet still within reach of my out-stretched hands – of opportunities whose doorways still remained ajar. It was one solitary moment in time, one glimpse of a half-forgotten time, which, in my madness, I allowed to place temptation on my lips; one moment, but still one which I felt inexplicably compelled to follow. Only once did I go back to Dale Street, to see the place where I was born.

          The street looked as it always had done; worn, tired asphalt stretching endlessly before me, dead, grey paving slabs broken, raised and uneven, failing in their ceaseless battle to fight back the weeds which pushed insistently up through the cracks which ran between them. The weeds, it seemed, were the only thing fresh and different in an aspect that otherwise remained forever static. I walked onwards, letting my feet take lead me on a once familiar journey. I walked past doors that I remembered and those which I had never seen before, although I knew that they must have always been there. Gaping windows watched my journey with disinterest as I moved along the pavement, the heels of my black, recently polished shoes clicking gently as they struck the concrete. I imagined the sound echoing through walls, connecting with pasts that hung unobserved in the air deep within the houses, resonating with memories which had long anticipated my return.

          The air that swept me along was warm, tempered only by a softly whispering breeze – a perfect summer’s day – which spoke to me in hushed tones of distant pasts. I could feel the sensitivity of its fingers stretching out towards me like electric wires, their fibrous tendrils crackling, urgently trying to close the gap between the past and the present, desperate to bring themselves close enough to bridge the gap and to complete the connection. I walked alone, aware of the life beginning to rise once more within me, past neatly tended gardens, low built, red-brick walls and alley-ways which stretched away from me like lost children exploring newer and newer connections of their own, making memories which would be unique to them.

          The footpath fell away, almost without warning, opening out into a wider stretch of tarmac which was scattered liberally with cars – passers-through, people who had no connection to me, although of this I could not be sure – visitors; customers. From within the newsagent’s shop, which stood, as it had for generations, as a Mecca for the child with loose change to spend, money that had, at all costs, to be spent, I heard voices. I heard the voice of a boy, a voice that resonated with me. It was a high voice, its young pitch clean; happy, perhaps, but laden too with more than a hint of pleading. The woman’s voice was older, static and unmoving, and as familiar as the boy’s. The denial was final, unequivocal, and even without looking I could see myself in the scene – the turning of a shoulder became the turning of a back and a blocking of ways. The tone dropped lower to an insistent, menacing hiss, and the joy of youth was instantly diminished. One figure moved towards the door, steadily and with conviction. For a moment the second, younger figure was still, as if it were tied to the object of its desire. The boy waited in silence, but the force of his will was not sufficient to sway either his mother or the things that were the focus of his stare: nothing moved. Then, as if responding to the inaudible shrill of a dog whistle, he turned, his reluctance and disappointment hanging like a black clock from his shoulder.

          Outside the grocer’s shop I saw a face that I thought I recognised from many years before. Briefly I was returned to a time that I thought that I had lost many years ago. Once again I was submerged in my teenage years, wrapped in youth and futures that I dreamed were real. I was in a time when options and opportunities were myriad, and I had no inkling, no concept of the fact that it would be me myself who would be the block to my own ambitions and be the one who stood in my way. For now all futures were possible, the table was full, and all I had to do was to select the meal that would fulfil me, and sate my needs. I felt a glow rise within me, filling my aching eyes, and with hope I moved forward. I recognised the girl, and as she turned around she looked into my tired eyes.  By the time my feet had taken me nearer to her, however, my focus had been restored, and as we crossed one another’s paths, we passed as strangers. Words like daughter, niece and grandchild fell from my mind onto my lips and then died, tumbling unspoken to the floor.

          I passed beneath the black-arched bridge which bore the weight of heavy trains as they too took treasures away from the town that had been my home. Its grime and graffiti stained bricks echoed with the sound of dogs as they barked their warnings. For a while I paused, half expecting the rumble of great metal wheels on tracks to awaken something that had been asleep for too long, but no sounds came from above me. And then I was in daylight once more, following Dale Street as it led downwards, its decline more severe than I had remembered. I crossed the gurgling stream, watching it as it continued its endless struggled against the broken undergrowth, discarded rubbish, plastic bags, road traffic cones and abandoned tyres. It bubbled words up towards me, and as they broke the surface of the water, they spoke to me; harsh words and tender lies, ignored advice and disregarded orders, words that I craved to hear, and those that I had never asked to be aired. My ears were ringing and, as I looked both back at the road along which I had walked, and forward to where it was leading, I realised that they had never told me which way it was that I had to go.

          A small group of men walked past me, talking of trivia, filling their motion with empty words as if by doing this their time would bear greater meaning. In their eyes I recognised the expressions of boys, boys who had been forced to spend too long in the same place; boys for whom the novelty of the new had worn out its welcome. And now they were men, men who had lived beyond the point of leaving; men who lived in resignation and acceptance, trapped by themselves, yet within whom still lived the child who they could not quieten. I turned my eyes away and, in my own movement, realised that I had gone unnoticed by them. My voice wanted to roar, to make my presence known. I wanted the street to acknowledge my return and to be aware of my existence. I wanted the town to recognise the son who had come back to it. I wanted the Dale Street of my memories, my clouded, rose-tinted, faded, romanticised memories to take me back.

          But my roar was nothing more than a whisper which floated gently into the air above me and then disappeared without notice over the town that I called home.

Stainless Steel

Tags

creative, fiction, short stories, stories, story, writing

Time, I feel, for a short(ish) story. Hope you enjoy it!

 

When they come, as surely they will, they will go first into the kitchen. Despite my protestations, regardless of my words, they will draw back the bright-striped coloured curtain, ignoring its golden, thick-woven braiding, its subtle details, and enter the room. They will brush disdainfully past the plain, polished pine of the door frame, and set their feet against the cool, hard flagstone tiles. Their shoes will, undoubtedly, be practical, solid and uncomplicated; their soles too thick to appreciate the slight unevenness of each slab as it jostles with its neighbours for prime position. Their highly-trained, analytic eyes will scan every aspect of the room, internalising each detail, speculating, deducing and then committing their conclusion to fact. They will see the high polish on the glittering diamond granite worktop as it sweeps in both directions from the multi-ringed range; but they will not be moved by its antiseptic cleanliness, or by the knowing wink as it sparkles in its surface. They will not be drawn by its practicality and sense of purpose as might a chef. No. Instead their minds will be consumed will painting a study, a caricature of me, and a critique of my life.
The sink is unsoiled, clean, empty and disinfected: Only the most detailed of inspections would reveal the most minute of scratches the mar its skin. The drainer too tells a similar story, wiped clean of the residue of water which had ran from crockery and cutlery now neatly stored out of view. Their eyes will not see the pristine espresso machine which occupies its pre-ordained space like an princely heir sitting at the joining of the granite surfaces as they run perpendicular to one another; one reaching out towards the range, the other like a long-fingered branch stretching out over a range of expensively veneered beech drawers and cupboards, an open wine rack stocked with a selection of overly priced bottles, and an integral fridge-freezer. No, their analytical eyes will pass all this by as if it were merely a collection of clues which would lead them with unerring conviction ton their inevitably conclusion.
Instead their eyes will be drawn to you. You, laying prone and exposed on the floor, framed by the expanse of expensive stone tiling. You, suddenly revealed in your true form, as if disturbed by some shadowy intruder. You, as ever, the centre of everybody’s attention. They will see you, asleep on the floor, your right leg raised slightly, bent at the knee; your right arm flaccid, limp against the stone, whilst your left one leads to a hand hopelessly flat against your chest, its fingers clutching desperately to hold on to life. Your eyes are closed, almost in a state of resigned relaxation, and yet there remains something defiant within your face, a determination which has refused to leave you. Somehow you are still clinging on to a belief in yourself, a belief that the universe revolves for you, and that without you we shall all cease to be.
Their eyes will see the ice-white tee-shirt, which, as always, is slightly too small for you, as it clings to the muscled outline of your torso. They will see your strong arms, with their well defined yet now defunct biceps and triceps, and your ruined chest. They will see the scratches and the incisions that have at first driven the cotton into your flesh and then in the same coarse action ripped them free again. These are not the signature of a surgeon’s scars, dealt with purpose, care and precision, delivered with salvation as their goal. These are not like the fading wound which lies on your skin where your appendix once was. The scar that had changed with your mood or the company that you were keeping at the time: The scar that had been the mark of a still born twin, helpless and conjoined, who had sacrificed any hope that it may have had in order to allow you to breath in life. The scar that had been a cancer which had been released, thankfully benign, from your abdomen. The scar that had been left by an assailant’s blade as you had performed one more heroic deed of bravery. No, theses scars had been delivered with anger, passion and a rage that could no longer be contained. There had, quite clearly, been some attempt at precision, an attempt to complete the task as swiftly as was possible, but just as obviously this was not the work of a scalpel wielding surgeon. No, this had been an act which displayed a far deeper connection between victim and perpetrator.
They will look from you and the shape that you make to the floor and the mass of congealing liquid which hugs its rises and falls. It will no longer be the crimson passion that it once was, but will have taken on a new form that of spilled, black treacle, still sticky beneath its now rubbery skin. Experience will have taught them not to be surprised, as I was, by the size of the lake that had spread out across the tiles: This is only a fascination to the uninitiated. Rather they will study the form and shape that the lake has taken, and from this conclude which blows led to which spillages, and in which order they fell. They will make rational the irrational and make impersonal and analytic the impassioned.
Their eyes will see the dropped and discarded length of metal, naked and separated from its compatriots, and realise that this is the only object that is out of place in the kitchen. At the moment it is closer to me than it is to you, but they will not see this. They will see only eight inches of stainless steel, turned and polished and proud of its quality, now lying stark and forlorn against the stone. They will see the globules of sticky, red liquid as they cling to the five inches of ground and sharpened steel. They will see the smeared stains which have taken their shape and appearance from my skin and have impressed themselves on the handle. But they will see no further. The stains will cry out to their audience like tell-tale children, expecting no greater reward than recognition of themselves, and to be smiled upon. They will see all of this and they will know. They will know all of this, and know all that they need to know, but still they will not make me out to be the monster that you made me.
But for now I will leave you. I will let my weary feet take me from the kitchen, from our final encounter, and lead me over warm wooden boards towards the staircase. For a moment I will pause, but I will not turn my head-there is no longer the hold to draw me back-and then I shall slowly climb the stairs, with each one savouring the silence, until at last I reach our room. I will open the door onto the emptiness, step beyond the naked frame and stretch out my hand towards the bed. With a deliberate hand I will carefully draw back the black, patterned quilt which sleeps so easily against the smooth cotton of the freshly pressed sheet, and slide inside. I will lie on my back in our bed and stare into the darkness, and I will enjoy the stillness. Beneath the quilt I will be enveloped in tranquility: My body will finally be at rest from your demands, and I will be sore no more. I will not feel the presence of your body, its insistence, its pressure and its determined persistence. I will not hear the emotionally charged sounds that your mouth makes as both you and I lie in silence, in separate rooms now, only yards apart, but still connected. I will lie here in the bed that you once shared with her, and you will lie with no-one. I will lie and in my own time close my eyes against the darkness. I will lie in the stillness that surrounds us both and have a good night’s sleep for once: And you will lie and have a good night’s sleep for evermore.

Crow Catcher

Tags

creative, fiction, short stories, short story, story, writing

          Infestation is an unusual word to be used in connection with birds. Unusual, yes, yet most definitely the word to be used when the involvement of Taras Morovic was required. A more general and accepted usage of the word would be in relation to animals more often considered to be pests, animals such as cockroaches, wasps, locusts or rats, but on this particular occasion the word ‘infestation’ most definitely referred to birds. This was not just a random collection of birds either, nor was it an over-inflated influx of migratory animals which had discovered it to be lost and was taking stock of its surroundings and therefore its options before moving on. No this was an infestation of a more serious, permanent and menacing variety, for, over the course of many preceding months, months which themselves may have swollen into years, the village had, without notification or warning, become overrun by crows. Even the crows that now filled the skies and lined the streets did not appear to conform to the expected dimensions of their breed: they were larger, blacker, bore more sturdy grey beaks and brandished more ferocious and deadly talons than any crows that any human could recall.

          No one who resided in the village could accurately put a time scale as to when the birds had begun to appear. Some argued that the birds had steadily been building in numbers over the course of many years; others protested that they had all appeared at the same moment, flooding the sky like a thunder storm. What everyone did agree upon, however, was that one day it was a lonely murder that sat atop a tree adjacent to the road which led people to and from their houses, and then the next the flock had swollen to proportions that were barely conceivable, let alone numberable. At first, although somewhat perplexed, the majority of the villagers accepted the situation, after all the birds seemed content to live off carrion and scraps, and, apart from the occasional cawing in-fights, caused no-one any undue alarm. Things, however, had rapidly begun to change. People had started to notice that the crows had become bolder and more invasive in their behaviour. Now they no longer seemed content to live off the scraps and hand outs from their human neighbours – now they had taken to flying, at first individually, and later in twos and threes, directly into houses and shops. Here they casually and confidently took what ever they felt that they wanted or needed, regardless of any human intervention. Once again many of the villagers, at least at first, thought this behaviour charming if, at times, a little intimidating, but when the novelty began to wear off they found it impossible to deter the birds. In fact the crows now deemed it their right to take what ever they wanted and at a time which suited them and their attitude shifted from one of confidence to one of pure aggression. Within days reports from across the village of vicious bird attacks began to circulate: people had received cuts and scratches, bruises and lacerations which had reached the bone. Everyone spoke with one voice – the time for action had come.

          By the end of the week the village leaders had gathered themselves together and formulated their plan of action. Every form of discouragement from scarecrows to rattling tin, from cats to guns had been tried, and all to no avail. There were no further options open to them: the message was sent out, and the mysterious Taras was summoned.

          Taras Morovic was by no means a large figure. His small, squat frame, almost cunningly designed to disguise his strength, gave him the look of a strangely deformed and stunted man. His head was somewhat square, surmounted by a thick, unkempt shock of black hair, loose curled and dense. Barely visible beneath its cover his eyes were deep-set, intense and dark; his mouth, small and thin. No-one who had ever met him could remember his smile. Taras spoke rarely, and when he did he kept his words brief, succinct and to the point – he was not a man to waste his breath unnecessarily. The one and only thing that he liked, it seemed, was his work, and at this he was expert. No infestation had ever managed to defeat the skills that Taras Morovic possessed and the crows he now faced would prove no exception.

          When Taras arrived in the village he was greeted with both warmth and courtesy. Many of the villagers lined the streets which led to the centre of the village and the Council Hall. Some villagers shouted their welcome whilst others displayed a more restrained reverence – but the stranger in their midst was ambivalent to everything around him. Behind closed doors discussions were held between concerned and worried villagers as to whether or not this odd character who had descended upon them was up to the job, and whether or not they would be freed from the plague that blighted them. As the villager elders stepped out of their hall the crowd hushed in excited anticipation. Without a word they led Taras through the open doors. Once inside the councillors talked, outlining their requirements and expectations. Taras listened attentively, occasionally scribbling something into the small, black notebook which was his constant companion. Only when they had completely finished did he speak. He told them of his fee, and, without hesitation, the councillors agreed. Money exchanged hands, and the deal was done. Taras stipulated only one more thing and that was that the streets of the village be empty by midnight. The councillors acceded to such a simple request.

          Had anyone been watching as the hands of the town clock swept past twelve they would have seen a small, squat figure, clad entirely in a black hooded cloak drift soundlessly through the streets. They would have seen the figure’s arms make gentle, undulating motions as he passed each house, and the most sensitive of ears might just have heard the strange mutterings that he made. Had anyone been watching they would have caught the last glimpse of the strange, ethereal figure as it floated out of the village and away from their lives forever. But, of course, no-one was.

          Nobody knew exactly how it had happened, what weird and mysterious events had unfolded during the course of the night, but, as one by one they awoke, each person in the village became aware of the change that had taken place. The crows had gone, most certainly, disappearing as dramatically as they had once arrived. The only sign that they had ever dominated the village lay in the nests, already, it appeared, crumbling in the tops of the trees which surrounded the village. No-one understood what had happened, and no-one asked for explanation – they were merely content in the fact that their problems had vanished. As the days became clearer people started to wonder what kind of magic or slaughter had taken place – but the man who had come and gone within a day had left no trace of his presence, and not even a feather remained of the crows. As days passed into weeks and weeks into months all talk of the crows and mystery faded, vanishing into the sky as once their troubles had. The village returned to a life which it once had known as if nothing had ever changed.

          Deep in the forest, hidden from even the most curious and perceptive of eyes, Taras Morovic sat, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards in his chair. He sat outside his compact, wooden cottage, which itself was nestled in the safety of a well guarded clearing, eyes closed, lost in thought. Around him a large number of enormous black birds pecked calmly at the many carcasses which lay on the ground. Occasionally they would stop, raise their heads, and talk to one another, their language strange and unfathomable, but soft and succinct. Taras opened his eyes and surveyed his kingdom: the trees were lined with paper-like nests, filled the harmonious hum of a million wasps; around their trunks countless cockroaches rummaged, re-organising the undergrowth like a well rehearsed army. In the bushes a large colony of rats worked tirelessly, designing and redesigning their living quarters, searching for perfection. In which ever direction Taras looked his eyes were met with the rewards of his labours; in every direction he saw harmony. He closed his eyes once more, and pondered his next collection.

 

More Than Words

Tags

Communication, creative, fiction, short stories, short story, stories, story, writing

A short story of…

It was a glorious day. The early Summer Sun had risen clear of the horizon, and spilled its rays across the Earth. I held my face high to the sky, and breathed deeply, allowing the air to seep through my body. As I felt my senses awaken I knew that this would be a day to surpass all others.

I climbed into the car, and wound down both your and my windows, wishing only that the car was a convertible, and that we would both be able to feel the freedom of the wind rushing through our hair. The engine eased itself to life, its voice sounding almost as expectant as mine. It whispered to me in hushed tones as we moved off, a shimmering ray of hope across the blackness, striking out determinedly on our journey. I sang myself to your door, caressing each tune with my voice, as I soon would your mind, body and soul. When, at last, I stepped from the car; you were waiting, a vision of smiles and beauty, and a vision that had flown into my life, like an unexpected windfall, a victory unforeseen.

“Hello, you.” Your voice sounded out, as clear as a crystalline mountain stream.

“Hello, you,” I could only reply, stunned to silence by your presence, before my body reached yours and we embraced. As I stepped back from you the sunlight glinted, like a winking friend in the diamond on your finger. It smiled at me giving me a sign, a silent portent of fortune to come. I smiled back.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! You bet I am! I’ve been up for hours, checking and rechecking everything, making sure that I have packed all that I need. If I haven’t got it now, then it’s not worth taking!”

I laughed then, stretching forward to lift your bulging cases. You tried to help to lift them, but I beckoned you back. This was the beginning of our life together, a life where two souls would become one, and I wanted everything to be just perfect. When I returned from packing the car, your parents had joined you. Your mother was crying, her tears a mixture of sadness at her loss and joy at the prospect of your future. Your father held his usual reserve. His one arm was wrapped around your mother’s shoulders, whilst his other rested casually in his trouser pocket, as if it were an appendage that he did not know what to do with.

“Now then. Kay,” He began, “You take care of yourself, and remember that we will always be here for you, for both of you, and we will never be too far away. And Jonathan,” He said, shifting his gaze from his daughter, “I hope that you will look after our Kay for us. And make sure that you invite us down to stay soon. The sea air would do wonders for Margaret.”

Your mother looked up at her husband, and, as the tears came again, flung her arms around you. She whispered into your ear, before your father eased her from you.

“Now then, Margaret, Kay and Jonathan will want to be making a start now, I’m sure. They’ve got a long journey ahead, and some settling in to do too. I’m sure that we will see them both very soon, won’t we.” But his voice was already beginning to falter.

It was mid-afternoon when we finally arrived at our new home, our first home. We sat awhile, hand in hand, gazing up from the car at the blue and white board, across which was now emblazoned the near magical word ‘Sold’.

“It’s no good looking at that, my love, it’s been bought already.” The voice had shaken us from our reverie, and we noticed the woman who had drifted into our line of vision. She looked slowly from the house to us and then back again. “Bought by someone from the city, no doubt. You mark my words, my dears, there will be no room left for us locals soon. No room at all.”

With her words still ringing in our ears we watched her move off, dragging her two dwarf-like dogs along behind her. Their bemoaning yelps disappeared into the distance, falling beneath our laughter. I can still see every inch of the flat in my mind as clearly as if it was yesterday. Its high bare white walls seemed to rise endlessly towards the ceiling, and you talked endlessly about your canvass. Your eyes had pictured each surface, and I was in awe of your vision, your touch and your sense of colour. But then I always was, and am to this day, and, after all, wasn’t this just one of the many qualities you possessed which had attracted me to you in the first place? I was swept along by your drive and your sense of purpose, and in the end it was always you who guided me through my life. I can always hear your voice, and your enthusiasm carries me to remember your words.

“And here we will have the bed, in the centre of the room, a table at each side. And candles. We could have candles across the old mantle, even a mosquito net, suspended over the bed, like a canopy. We could stay, cocooned here forever, entwined together like one soul.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh with your passion, or to cry with joy, so I held you, feeling your heart beat in time with mine. I kissed your lips, your face, and your eyes. I could not find the words to express the depth of my feelings for you. I don’t think that I ever could, or can even now, I always hoped that you could read something in my eyes that was only meant for you, an emotion that only you could sense. Sometimes, when I looked into your eyes, I could see myself reflected in them, and I knew that you felt everything that I myself did.

That first night was truly magical. We watched the moon grow fat as it rose slowly across the ocean, its silver light dancing across our naked floorboards. The sound of the waves lapping gently towards the beach echoed in our ears as we toasted our happiness. The salt tasted of the sea and the tang of the vinegar smacked our lips as we shared our first meal, real fish and chips, washed down with welcoming wine.  The hum of the distant town centre began to fade, and I watched you glide across the floor to close the window to the cooling air.

“Are you happy?” I asked you.

“I couldn’t be more so,” You had replied. “You have made me the happiest woman alive. Just being with you makes me come to life. I feel like I have grown so much in the last few months since we met each other, and now this, to be here in our own home, beginning our own life together. I can barely believe that this is real. My life is so complete, so full. So filled with you.”

I remember the joy on your face, and felt that if your emotions were running as high as mine were, then what we had started was truly magical, and important to an almost universal level. I had kissed you then, before lifting you from the floor, and leading you from the room.

As we lay down on the mattress, the sheets spilled across the boards, and we held each other as if it was for the first time. Your body was warm; your fire always burned from deep within, and was always enough to ignite my passion. Your touch was soft, gentle yet insistent, and I knew that this moment would stay with me forever. We had the rest of our lives to live, and right now, as you lay in my arms, our future stretched out before us as an open road, crossing the expanse of a blank page. We cuddled together, our love enough to keep us both warm, and drifted into deep sleep.

And now, as I stand on this windswept hill, cold and alone, I am once again together with my thoughts. There is no one else here but me, and I am back, with you, on our first night together. You were always more than a part of me, and no matter how carefully the epitaph had been chosen, it could never reflect my true feelings for you. I stared at the marble and stone. I wanted to talk to you, explain the torrent of emotions that were racing through me, but knew that I couldn’t. You and I and our love were always, and always will be, more than words.

Charlotte’s Imaginary Dream

Tags

creative, dream, fantasy, fiction, short stories, story, writing

A short story – hope you enjoy it.

 

Sunlight blistered through the twisted floating faces. Shadows danced across the taut steel and glass, and, at a window , Charlotte’s reflection scanned her .

Charlotte’s home was the countryside. She was free in the hills, absorbed by the hues of greens, reds and browns. It was welcome release from her days. The car would take her there like a sympathetic friend, and wait, patient and observant as she played.

Charlotte’s closed eyes were opened with the first breath of air , clean and cool. She spread herself, allowed her body to become embraced, and sank, trance like into the heather. Now she was floating, levitating above the moor. She soared higher, until the
purples merged with browns and greys. Now there were mountains, high peaked pyramids, topped with ice. Charlotte closed her wide glazed eyes.

She was running, racing naked with the deer. Trees flashed by like matchsticks, characters in a painting. The ground was soft beneath her feet ; she ran on sponge, her footsteps light, leaving no trace. Her parting breath expelled warmth into the air, her flesh was clammy with perspiration , but , oh , how it felt good . She crouched; the water tasted sharp, invigorating, breathing life into her.
Now she was still. Clear warmth bathed her body. Her skin glowed – Yellow, gold, bronze. She fused, was one with invisible rays; she was the Sun. She was still. She was alone. She was life.

Daylight was cold; it drew a crisp sheet across Charlotte’s waking eyes. She left the closeting walls of the building she dubbed home, and slipped with silent acceptance
into her shiny metal box.
Her working day enveloped her with almost predictable ease, swallowing her like an over-bearing relative. She closed herself to her surroundings. Conversation became functional, actions driven by autopilot. Her well rehearsed routine served her well – She was not here, her physical form stayed, her brain clicked through pages and screens, but her soul, her essence lived in dreamtime.

In slow motion, half life time, the door closed. Charlotte sank back into the comfort of her chair. Cushions swept around her. She felt as if she were falling, sliding.
Down, down, down she fell. Her descent was supported by a thousand hands, as soft as velvet, as firm as girder. Through myriad passageways she travelled each one more complex to navigate than the last. Faces, names and places blurred; flash of
colours, shades and hues. Her past, present and future became one – An unrecognisable blend of colour and sound. She burnt through doorway after doorway , feeling no pain, no lasting pleasure , simply an exhilarating rush of emotion and peace . Her pace slowed , and she began to absorb the warmth and light of her passage . For the briefest of moments she was held, as if her journey was caught on video tape, trapped on pause . Her mind became aware of her surroundings, the edge of her paradise , the confine of her pleasure, the doorway to her dreamtime. Dramatically now, like an explosive climax , she was forced through the final doorway , one she perceived as golden and ornate, yet temptingly translucent. She was clear. She was free. She was in her dreamtime.

Charlotte was floating. She felt clouds both above and below her. Nothing could touch her now; she was totally alone, and yet felt complete . She wanted no more, and could live with no less. In her real world she abandoned relationships; people fell away like discarded Autumn leaves , falling used and lifeless to the ground to be trampled under foot.Charlotte felt no attachment , no recourse to her actions, nor those of others. She was beyond the material , one with the ether, obsessed with her self-importance and yet also with the minuteness of her being within the cosmos . Charlotte floated on a sea of air; breath entering her body, flushing through it, cleansing it. She was whole.

The forest was dark. Shafts of brilliance sliced through the canopy like arrows, shooting to the ground and exploding in flashes of elaborate colour . Clouds scudded
by , hurrying to whispered destinations , shifting shapes across the carpeted floor . Silent creatures scurried , their presence noted only by changing hues as leaves and bracken wavered in their wake . The forest was dark , but Charlotte walked unafraid , confident in her step . She neither had , nor needed any written map to illuminate or illustrate her pathway . Somewhere , buried deep within her subconscious , lay a map, a dream map which took her , sightless through utopia. Her footfalls led her through beauty she could hardly begin to comprehend . This was not purely a physical beauty: No, what envelopd Charlotte lay deeper than any wistful appreciation of nature. What lay around Charlotte was her. Her soul became the forest, each leaf, branch and twig .
The greenness of every frond played within her. The moisture of the moss rose within her to encompass her being. She was the light: She was each movement and sound:
She was one.
And, at that instant, she heard it.

Charlotte lived alone. In her heart and soul she had always lived alone, always lived in isolation. Her solitary life had been built through choice. Relationships arrived, stayed, and then departed, with the regularity of commuter trains. Stops and halts were visited, but there was no hurtling unrestrained towards some unknown and intriguing distant destination. No-one ushered her blindfold onwards – Charlotte’s eyes were always open. Friends and lovers came and went, but the confines of Charlotte’s
sanctum stood solid, like invisible force fields repelling boarders : Her dreamtime guarded by silent strong statues of desire.
Within this sanctuary Charlotte had fine – honed her senses. Sights became magnified
as every detail was enhanced and scrutinised. Every sound was intensified and internalised as Charlotte built a mental library, complete in every detail of all she encountered.
This was how she knew. As she stood, in static watchfulness, ears focused, she knew.
The sound , emanating from the cover of distant trees , was one with which she was familiar. She recognised the footfall, the breath, the motion, slight and slow. She was no longer alone. In her paradise, in her dreamtime, in the place where she was her
truth, she was not alone.

The sounds were human; the breathing male. She was motionless, soundless; her senses alert. Attentively she tracked each action, each whispered sound. Her will was focused, her awareness, her very being, intense. Messages spread like grasping tentacles throughout her body, emanating from an unknown place deep within her. She was entranced, in meditative calm. The sounds quietened, in accordance with her will. The
intruder, the invader of her world, slumped, became silent and slept .
And now she saw him. A wave of attraction, one she had not experienced before, caressed her, and plucked at her nerve endings, and then, as unexpectedly as it had touched her, it ceased. This being, this man, was a stranger, an alien. Somehow he had broken her dreamtime, defiled her world, shattered her peace . She felt violated, open and vulnerable in her nakedness.
The rock felt smooth and solid, a heavy and hard friend nestling in the soft skin of her palm.

Charlotte awoke, naked and moist. The sound of the door was her second intrusion. She struggled to rise, fighting drained emotions, as the crimson dried slowly to brown.