i'm currently trying to get around to writing the next part of Deathdream. however, since i have absolutely no idea what happens next (other than one or two vague ideas involvng cobbles and rooftops and walls...um...), i thought i'd write this instead.
i'm still trying to work out how the writing part of my brain functions. so far, it seems to be, rather like the rest of me, fairly erratic. i seem to go for days not feeling it, then get a quick burst of a day or so, then nothing much again for a bit. check the posting dates and times of deahdream and you'll see what i mean. in between, though, i seem to get these occasional flashes of what can only be described as "Other Stuff".
(hmmm...that's an awful lot of "seeming"... *editor-self raps writer-self over the knuckles with a wooden ruler that goes "byoyoyoyoyonnng"*)
take this morning, for instance. i was suspended between waking and sleeping and, as has happened to me before when i've been in this place, the germ of a story sidled into my head. not a very long one though. i suppose it would more-or-less be categorised as "flash fiction" (which is, BTW, a term whose meaning i'm still only hazily familliar with...). the weird thing was, i was actually dreaming in words. i don't mean i was dreaming a voice telling me the story, i mean i was actually watching the words appear before my eyes, overlaid on the scene they were describing. which, of course, didn't strike me as the slightest bit odd at the time, since i was dreaming, and these things don't.
but it strikes me as somewhat odd now. encouraging, but odd. because this is kinda sorta how i read. i see the words, but i also see the pictures...
forgive me, i'm rambling. i'm also, as it happens, cursing myself, since i could remember every single word when i woke up. and it seemed coherent (which, let's face it, so often isn't the case), and i didn't write it down.
damn! damn! damn!
and now, thanks to the usual distractions of a busy day (doing little but reading), most of it has disappeared back to where it came from. i am kicking myself so hard at the moment, because i can remember the basic shape of it, but not the linguistic nuances that made it more than just words strung together.
it's gone flat.
***
just as an aside, it occurs to me to wonder if that's where i keep my story silt, between the shores of sleeping and waking...?
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Monday, 31 May 2010
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Deathdream #10
"P... Purly?"
The girl sat very still, relaxed, and continued her calm scrutiny.
Marina was baffled. A million questions once again squirmed through her mind. But all she could say was, "You're here?"
"Yes. I have to be."
Marina looked around the room, taking in the fact that it was practically empty. Nothing sat on the bare, dusty floorboards save Purly's chair, and the only thing that adorned the walls was a stone mantelpiece. No hearth, no fireplace, just the mantelpiece. No window and, as she turned to look behind her, no door. Just another blank wall.
She turned back to look at the girl who's head was, once again, bent to her embroidery, her fingers flickering with blinding speed and agonising slowness as she worked each stitch into the circle of stretched linen she held.
"They're coming for you, you know," said Purly, in a conversational tone, without moving her head or, as far as Marina could see, her lips. "That's why you can't go back. Your mind's closing stuff off as you go. You can only go forward. If you go back, they'll have you. You shouldn't really look back, even. You're going to have to use it. Soon, too."
"They? Who are they? And use what?"
"Your courage. Your confidence. Your body. Your ability," said Purly, ignoring the first part of the question. "Anything you've got, really. Including your name." She paused. "If you remember it, that is."
"But I can't! I don't know what it is!" said Marina, almost in a wail.
"You'll have to work something out, then. Can't let them get you. If you're chased, you can't get caught, or it really is all over."
Marina shivered at the cold certainty radiating from this ten year old girl. Suddenly, her knees gave out, and she slumped to the floor, her monochrome clothes billowing around her in ripples and waves. Sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, her hands in her lap, Marina stared at the patterns in the grain of the scuffed boards. They began to undulate before her eyes, but she paid this no heed.
She was thinking.
A person may have many names, throughout their life. Some given, some taken, some self-bestowed. Of these, any one of them may be their true name, but it was most likely to be a name one gives to oneself. Then she stopped this thought with another.
The veracity of a person's name depended on the knowledge and instinct of the person that had given it, surely? If a person gave themself a name, but had little self-knowledge, that could not possibly be their true name, since it did not reflect them truly. Likewise, if a stranger bestowed a name on a person, even if that stranger had no knowledge of the person they were naming, but still felt it instinctively, surely that could be a name as true as any other?
She searched around inside herself, and found little to examine. However she had got here, wherever here was, it seemed to have wiped her memory and knowledge of herself clean. But since there was little of her self or her memory to know in this place, surely any name she gave herself would, by default, be true? As far as it went, at least?
She decided that, at the moment, until she found out something more, this could only be the case, and she would just have to believe it as hard as she could.
"I am Marina." She whispered. Then, more loudly, "I am Marina. I came from the water, and I can sing them from the trees."
At this, Purly looked up, piercing Marina and pinning her to the wall with the sharpness of the look shot from her eye. "How did you know that?" she demanded.
"Because I do. Because I can," said Marina, sitting up a little straighter, and returning the sharp look with one of her own. "Right here, right now, I am Marina, and I sing them from the trees." Then she deflated a little, almost imperceptibly. "But I have no trees to sing them from."
"Better find some, then, before they find you," was the succinct reply.
Marina privately agreed with this, though she had absolutely no idea of how to go about finding trees in this small, square, shabby, windowless room.
There must be a way out. There had to be. She found it utterly impossible to believe that the cosmos had decreed she should spend eternity trapped in this small place.
Getting to her feet, Marina began to examine the walls, he floor, the ceiling. The walls were all apparently solid, constructed of plaster over bricks, or perhaps stone. The floor did not sound hollow when she banged it with her fists and heels. No echo or hollowness sounding there, at all. The ceiling, she could not reach, not even when she had borrowed Purly's chair and stood on it.
She did not, however, examine the wall that had so recently held the door she had entered by. She had taken Purly's warning to heart, and was not going to look back for anything. She could only look forward, and hope she chose the right path. And besides that, when she walked close to that wall, taking great pains not to touch it, look at it, or otherwise acknowledge its presence, she heard things. Growlings and slitherings. Grisly cracklings, and wet hissings and tearings. And, very far away, very hard to hear - but there to be heard, nonetheless - there were shrieking and wailings and moanings, as of the trapped and the despairing. She had no wish to become a member of that muted chorus. So she ignored that one wall, continuing her examination of the rest of the room with minute attention to detail, and systematic thoroughness.
Then, there came a small, slightly exasperated sigh. "Marina, you're looking in the wrong place."
Then Marina realised. Her eyes turned to the mantelpiece. Snatching a knife from her belt, she dove at the blank wall framed by the mantelpiece, and drove the knife in to it with all of her might. The wall transmuted to a black void, and she was sucked through.
The girl sat very still, relaxed, and continued her calm scrutiny.
Marina was baffled. A million questions once again squirmed through her mind. But all she could say was, "You're here?"
"Yes. I have to be."
Marina looked around the room, taking in the fact that it was practically empty. Nothing sat on the bare, dusty floorboards save Purly's chair, and the only thing that adorned the walls was a stone mantelpiece. No hearth, no fireplace, just the mantelpiece. No window and, as she turned to look behind her, no door. Just another blank wall.
She turned back to look at the girl who's head was, once again, bent to her embroidery, her fingers flickering with blinding speed and agonising slowness as she worked each stitch into the circle of stretched linen she held.
"They're coming for you, you know," said Purly, in a conversational tone, without moving her head or, as far as Marina could see, her lips. "That's why you can't go back. Your mind's closing stuff off as you go. You can only go forward. If you go back, they'll have you. You shouldn't really look back, even. You're going to have to use it. Soon, too."
"They? Who are they? And use what?"
"Your courage. Your confidence. Your body. Your ability," said Purly, ignoring the first part of the question. "Anything you've got, really. Including your name." She paused. "If you remember it, that is."
"But I can't! I don't know what it is!" said Marina, almost in a wail.
"You'll have to work something out, then. Can't let them get you. If you're chased, you can't get caught, or it really is all over."
Marina shivered at the cold certainty radiating from this ten year old girl. Suddenly, her knees gave out, and she slumped to the floor, her monochrome clothes billowing around her in ripples and waves. Sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, her hands in her lap, Marina stared at the patterns in the grain of the scuffed boards. They began to undulate before her eyes, but she paid this no heed.
She was thinking.
A person may have many names, throughout their life. Some given, some taken, some self-bestowed. Of these, any one of them may be their true name, but it was most likely to be a name one gives to oneself. Then she stopped this thought with another.
The veracity of a person's name depended on the knowledge and instinct of the person that had given it, surely? If a person gave themself a name, but had little self-knowledge, that could not possibly be their true name, since it did not reflect them truly. Likewise, if a stranger bestowed a name on a person, even if that stranger had no knowledge of the person they were naming, but still felt it instinctively, surely that could be a name as true as any other?
She searched around inside herself, and found little to examine. However she had got here, wherever here was, it seemed to have wiped her memory and knowledge of herself clean. But since there was little of her self or her memory to know in this place, surely any name she gave herself would, by default, be true? As far as it went, at least?
She decided that, at the moment, until she found out something more, this could only be the case, and she would just have to believe it as hard as she could.
"I am Marina." She whispered. Then, more loudly, "I am Marina. I came from the water, and I can sing them from the trees."
At this, Purly looked up, piercing Marina and pinning her to the wall with the sharpness of the look shot from her eye. "How did you know that?" she demanded.
"Because I do. Because I can," said Marina, sitting up a little straighter, and returning the sharp look with one of her own. "Right here, right now, I am Marina, and I sing them from the trees." Then she deflated a little, almost imperceptibly. "But I have no trees to sing them from."
"Better find some, then, before they find you," was the succinct reply.
Marina privately agreed with this, though she had absolutely no idea of how to go about finding trees in this small, square, shabby, windowless room.
There must be a way out. There had to be. She found it utterly impossible to believe that the cosmos had decreed she should spend eternity trapped in this small place.
Getting to her feet, Marina began to examine the walls, he floor, the ceiling. The walls were all apparently solid, constructed of plaster over bricks, or perhaps stone. The floor did not sound hollow when she banged it with her fists and heels. No echo or hollowness sounding there, at all. The ceiling, she could not reach, not even when she had borrowed Purly's chair and stood on it.
She did not, however, examine the wall that had so recently held the door she had entered by. She had taken Purly's warning to heart, and was not going to look back for anything. She could only look forward, and hope she chose the right path. And besides that, when she walked close to that wall, taking great pains not to touch it, look at it, or otherwise acknowledge its presence, she heard things. Growlings and slitherings. Grisly cracklings, and wet hissings and tearings. And, very far away, very hard to hear - but there to be heard, nonetheless - there were shrieking and wailings and moanings, as of the trapped and the despairing. She had no wish to become a member of that muted chorus. So she ignored that one wall, continuing her examination of the rest of the room with minute attention to detail, and systematic thoroughness.
Then, there came a small, slightly exasperated sigh. "Marina, you're looking in the wrong place."
Then Marina realised. Her eyes turned to the mantelpiece. Snatching a knife from her belt, she dove at the blank wall framed by the mantelpiece, and drove the knife in to it with all of her might. The wall transmuted to a black void, and she was sucked through.
Deathdream #9
On reaching the top, Marina stopped, one hand still resting on the banister, staring down the long corridor in front of her. The walls were raw plaster, grey and rotting, punctuated with doors on either side. The end of the corridor was lost in darkness.
She took a hesitant step forward, and then stopped. She could feel something pulling on her. Treacly strings of... something... were seemingly attached to her bones and organs, exerting a gentle tug. Not enough to drag her backwards, but enough to drag on her soul when she tried to move forwards. Fearfully she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but the continuation of the corridor stretching away into shadow behind her. No stairway, no atrium, no light source that she could see. No sound but the soft hissing of her breath, and the venous hum of her blood, rushing through her flesh.
Her left hand was resting on another round brass doorknob. The door itself was a greyish white panelled affair - heavy and solid. The surface of the paint leprous with bubbling and peeling patches, a sticky amber substance oozing through the odd crack and join. It was not an inviting door. But she grasped the handle with both hands and turned it, nonetheless. This one turned more easily than the outer door, but was still stiff. It availed her nothing, however, since the door, when she tentatively pushed, did not budge a millimetre. It was very firmly jammed. She thought at first that it may be locked, but she could not see a keyhole. Then, looking closer, she saw that it did not have a crack between the frame and the door itself, either. She could not, when she tried, even get a fingernail between the two. The door was part of the frame. Not a real door at all, but an elaborate piece of panelling.
A joke. A three dimensional trompe l'oeil.
This gave her pause. She tried another door, then another, moving from door to door with increasing desperation as she tried, again and again, to find the one true portal in this corridor of falsehoods. Mindlessly, now, she banged on doors, rattled handles, and shrieked for someone to let her out, let her in, let her free, let her breathe, as she noticed that the corridor walls were beginning, almost imperceptibly, to move closer and closer together. Her panic increased to the borders of hysteria as she imagined the walls closing in on her completely, crushing her organs, grinding her bones against each other, until she could no longer move or breathe.
Then she saw, through the haze of her madness, light seeping under one of the nearby doors. Flinging herself at it, she wrestled with the handle until it grudgingly turned, and threw herself into the room beyond.
In the centre of the room sat Purly on a straight-backed wooden chair. Glancing up from her embroidery, casual and unsurprised, she said, "Oh, hello Marina."
.
She took a hesitant step forward, and then stopped. She could feel something pulling on her. Treacly strings of... something... were seemingly attached to her bones and organs, exerting a gentle tug. Not enough to drag her backwards, but enough to drag on her soul when she tried to move forwards. Fearfully she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing but the continuation of the corridor stretching away into shadow behind her. No stairway, no atrium, no light source that she could see. No sound but the soft hissing of her breath, and the venous hum of her blood, rushing through her flesh.
Her left hand was resting on another round brass doorknob. The door itself was a greyish white panelled affair - heavy and solid. The surface of the paint leprous with bubbling and peeling patches, a sticky amber substance oozing through the odd crack and join. It was not an inviting door. But she grasped the handle with both hands and turned it, nonetheless. This one turned more easily than the outer door, but was still stiff. It availed her nothing, however, since the door, when she tentatively pushed, did not budge a millimetre. It was very firmly jammed. She thought at first that it may be locked, but she could not see a keyhole. Then, looking closer, she saw that it did not have a crack between the frame and the door itself, either. She could not, when she tried, even get a fingernail between the two. The door was part of the frame. Not a real door at all, but an elaborate piece of panelling.
A joke. A three dimensional trompe l'oeil.
This gave her pause. She tried another door, then another, moving from door to door with increasing desperation as she tried, again and again, to find the one true portal in this corridor of falsehoods. Mindlessly, now, she banged on doors, rattled handles, and shrieked for someone to let her out, let her in, let her free, let her breathe, as she noticed that the corridor walls were beginning, almost imperceptibly, to move closer and closer together. Her panic increased to the borders of hysteria as she imagined the walls closing in on her completely, crushing her organs, grinding her bones against each other, until she could no longer move or breathe.
Then she saw, through the haze of her madness, light seeping under one of the nearby doors. Flinging herself at it, she wrestled with the handle until it grudgingly turned, and threw herself into the room beyond.
In the centre of the room sat Purly on a straight-backed wooden chair. Glancing up from her embroidery, casual and unsurprised, she said, "Oh, hello Marina."
.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Deathdream #8
...and here's a bit more. a little boring, perhaps, but still...
by the way, this is going up with little or no editing, as i need distance to edit properly, so if i ever pull it together and put it up somewhere as a whole, repetitions and clunky sentences will be dealt with then.
...um...sorry about that....hope it's not too dull or irritating nonthless...
-
Hobbling and wincing as the gravel abused the soles of her feet, Marina came to the end of the path, which opened out into a wide gravelled apron before the building. She stopped, gazing up at the edifice before her.
Massive and circular, the yellow-grey building loomed over her. Three storeys tall, there were high windows all around the sides and, around the top of the first and third storeys, intricate stone friezes decorated the walls. Looking in despair at the wide expanse of gravel between her and the building, she gritted her teeth and began a mincing traverse. Halfway across, she decided that the mincing was just prolonging the pain in her feet, so she changed her stride to a wider, more confident one and tried to ignore the pummelling on the soles of her feet. Her approach was rapid, after that, and she was soon at the bottom of a set of three steps that led up to a flag stoned pavement that seemed to circle the building. With relief, she stepped on to the smooth stones; her only discomfort now was the gritty dust between her toes, and the odd sharp piece of gravel that had stuck to the bottom of her feet. These, however, were easy to ignore out of existence. She wandered around the building a little way, looking at the frieze. It was intricate, yes, but details were hard to make out. The sandstone it was carved from was badly weathered, leaving whatever it had been to resemble strange creatures doing strange things. Indecipherable, but fascinating, the frieze held her attention for quite some time. She wandered all the way around the building, the representations making less and less sense, until she came back to where she’d started from, and stood for a moment.
It still made no sense to her conscious mind, but something about it was tugging at her subconscious, and she couldn’t work out what it was. Like the question of how she got into the lake, though, she knew that she probably would not be able to work out the puzzle any time soon, so she let it go. For now.
Much more interesting at the moment was what was behind the door she stood in front of. It was a white painted wooden affair, about ten feet tall, and proportionately wider than a normal door. There were about a dozen panes of glass inset into it, but the interior of the building appeared darker than she would expect, considering the number of windows around the outside of it. This, coupled with the reflections of sky on the glass, was enough to render her unable to see what lay beyond the door. Looking around for a handle, she found a round one at knee level, and bent down to try and open the door.
Her hands, no matter how tightly she grasped the orb, slipped and slid around its polished brass surface, and she struggled and cursed, trying to get the handle to work. Eventually, using both hands, she got it to turn, and pushed the door slowly inwards, stepping into the interior of the building.
A shaft of light from the open door followed her in, but that disappeared as she walked a little further, and the door shut firmly behind her. Spinning around, she was confronted by a smooth, blank wall, which she followed with her eyes, until it was lost in the shadows further along. Turning back to face the centre of the building, she examined her surroundings. The ceiling was supported by pillars at various points, and extended a good thirty feet, before ending abruptly at two concentric circles of pillars about ten feet apart, surrounding the central part of the floor. Warily, she moved forwards, weaving around pillars, until she came to the central area, which was flooded with sunlight. At each point of the compass, a stairway curved away from the flagged floor. These linked two galleries, one on each floor, which circled the space completely. In the domed ceiling high above, there was a wide, multifaceted skylight, allowing the sunlight to pour thickly into this atrium, weighing heavily on her head.
The central space was large, and completely empty, save for her. It looked somewhat dusty and abandoned, but the sunlight had warmed the flagstones so they felt soft on her feet, almost like hard pillows. Marina turned full circle, looking for some way out of this seemingly abandoned space. Finding none obvious, her attention shifted to the nearest stairway, which was covered in a once grand but now threadbare red carpet. She decided that she may find some clue to how to get out on one of the other floors, if they weren’t both empty as well. Seizing the banister with her left hand, she began to climb, anticlockwise, up to the first gallery of this strange building.
.
by the way, this is going up with little or no editing, as i need distance to edit properly, so if i ever pull it together and put it up somewhere as a whole, repetitions and clunky sentences will be dealt with then.
...um...sorry about that....hope it's not too dull or irritating nonthless...
-
Hobbling and wincing as the gravel abused the soles of her feet, Marina came to the end of the path, which opened out into a wide gravelled apron before the building. She stopped, gazing up at the edifice before her.
Massive and circular, the yellow-grey building loomed over her. Three storeys tall, there were high windows all around the sides and, around the top of the first and third storeys, intricate stone friezes decorated the walls. Looking in despair at the wide expanse of gravel between her and the building, she gritted her teeth and began a mincing traverse. Halfway across, she decided that the mincing was just prolonging the pain in her feet, so she changed her stride to a wider, more confident one and tried to ignore the pummelling on the soles of her feet. Her approach was rapid, after that, and she was soon at the bottom of a set of three steps that led up to a flag stoned pavement that seemed to circle the building. With relief, she stepped on to the smooth stones; her only discomfort now was the gritty dust between her toes, and the odd sharp piece of gravel that had stuck to the bottom of her feet. These, however, were easy to ignore out of existence. She wandered around the building a little way, looking at the frieze. It was intricate, yes, but details were hard to make out. The sandstone it was carved from was badly weathered, leaving whatever it had been to resemble strange creatures doing strange things. Indecipherable, but fascinating, the frieze held her attention for quite some time. She wandered all the way around the building, the representations making less and less sense, until she came back to where she’d started from, and stood for a moment.
It still made no sense to her conscious mind, but something about it was tugging at her subconscious, and she couldn’t work out what it was. Like the question of how she got into the lake, though, she knew that she probably would not be able to work out the puzzle any time soon, so she let it go. For now.
Much more interesting at the moment was what was behind the door she stood in front of. It was a white painted wooden affair, about ten feet tall, and proportionately wider than a normal door. There were about a dozen panes of glass inset into it, but the interior of the building appeared darker than she would expect, considering the number of windows around the outside of it. This, coupled with the reflections of sky on the glass, was enough to render her unable to see what lay beyond the door. Looking around for a handle, she found a round one at knee level, and bent down to try and open the door.
Her hands, no matter how tightly she grasped the orb, slipped and slid around its polished brass surface, and she struggled and cursed, trying to get the handle to work. Eventually, using both hands, she got it to turn, and pushed the door slowly inwards, stepping into the interior of the building.
A shaft of light from the open door followed her in, but that disappeared as she walked a little further, and the door shut firmly behind her. Spinning around, she was confronted by a smooth, blank wall, which she followed with her eyes, until it was lost in the shadows further along. Turning back to face the centre of the building, she examined her surroundings. The ceiling was supported by pillars at various points, and extended a good thirty feet, before ending abruptly at two concentric circles of pillars about ten feet apart, surrounding the central part of the floor. Warily, she moved forwards, weaving around pillars, until she came to the central area, which was flooded with sunlight. At each point of the compass, a stairway curved away from the flagged floor. These linked two galleries, one on each floor, which circled the space completely. In the domed ceiling high above, there was a wide, multifaceted skylight, allowing the sunlight to pour thickly into this atrium, weighing heavily on her head.
The central space was large, and completely empty, save for her. It looked somewhat dusty and abandoned, but the sunlight had warmed the flagstones so they felt soft on her feet, almost like hard pillows. Marina turned full circle, looking for some way out of this seemingly abandoned space. Finding none obvious, her attention shifted to the nearest stairway, which was covered in a once grand but now threadbare red carpet. She decided that she may find some clue to how to get out on one of the other floors, if they weren’t both empty as well. Seizing the banister with her left hand, she began to climb, anticlockwise, up to the first gallery of this strange building.
.
Deathdream #7
really enjoyed writing this bit...was in the zone...
-
A soft, warm summer breeze tugged at her shift, making her cloak ripple and shimmer in the bright sunlight as she slowly made her way across the grass to the edge of the path. Leaning over one of the lower points in the shrub border, she saw that the path was made of gravel. She knew she must follow the path, but to spare her bare feet, she would walk parallel to it, on the soft grass of the lawn.
As she walked, she trailed her fingers along the tightly-clipped bushes on her right. The feel of the tips of the leaves tickling the places where her fingers joined her palm was pleasant, and she half-closed her eyes – almost floating along the grass, doing nothing but savouring the sensations of foliage and soft, warm air against her skin.
Abruptly, she was brought back to herself as she came hard up against a dense hedge at the edge of the lawn that she had not noticed before. Dark, forest green in colour, it formed an impenetrable barrier to any further forward movement. And it worried her. keeping her eyes fixed on the barrier, lest it move and engulf her, her breath coming a little quicker as her hackles began to rise once again, Marina edged to her right, groping blindly for one of those lower points in the path’s shrubbery edges, so she could step over on to the path.
Backing away, her eyes still fixed on the unexpected hedge, she failed to find any lower places, but the dense foliage seemed to have opened out in this part of the path so, keeping her eyes on the hedge for as long as she could, she edged her way in between the small, prickly branches. As she pushed through, she felt the branches tear at her hair, her cloak, her shift, her skin. Terrified that they would rip her and her clothing to shreds, she contorted her body into all sorts of odd positions, twisting and writhing her sinuous way through, as her feet were prickled unkindly by dead leaves, dry earth, and roots.
The squirming seemed to go on forever until, at last, she felt her right hand once again break through into fresh air, quickly followed by her arm, and then the rest of her body.
Wincing as she stepped on to the wide, sandy coloured gravel path, she looked down to check her monochrome garments had not been too badly damaged by her traverse through the clinging, snatching branchlets. Fortunately, they had not. The hem of her shift still fluttered around her ankles, and her feathered cloak only seemed to have lost one or two feathers to the tugging and grasping of the shrubs. She peered into the depths of the dense woodland now beside her, and saw a couple of feathers glinting in the gloom. This made her feel somehow uneasy, but she decided to leave them there, since she had no wish to go back into that gloom. Even as she watched, branches and twigs in there seemed to be growing longer, sharper, more dense. Ivy was twining itself up from the ground, around the wizened and twisted trunks and branches, until that way was as impenetrable as the hedge that had first caused her to move on to the path.
Glancing along the wide pathway, she saw that the other side was similarly blocked; the vegetation was now, also, much, much higher, blocking out the sunlight, and beginning to cast the wide pathway into gloom. Glancing behind her, she saw the path narrowing to nothing not far behind her; ivy tendrils crawling and snaking across the path as she watched, trees springing through the gravel and barring her way. Looking ahead, she could still see blue sky and small cumulus clouds, framing the roof of a sandstone building at the end of the path. Hackles rising for a third time at the slithering and rustling in the growing green gloom behind her, she hurried forwards.
.
-
A soft, warm summer breeze tugged at her shift, making her cloak ripple and shimmer in the bright sunlight as she slowly made her way across the grass to the edge of the path. Leaning over one of the lower points in the shrub border, she saw that the path was made of gravel. She knew she must follow the path, but to spare her bare feet, she would walk parallel to it, on the soft grass of the lawn.
As she walked, she trailed her fingers along the tightly-clipped bushes on her right. The feel of the tips of the leaves tickling the places where her fingers joined her palm was pleasant, and she half-closed her eyes – almost floating along the grass, doing nothing but savouring the sensations of foliage and soft, warm air against her skin.
Abruptly, she was brought back to herself as she came hard up against a dense hedge at the edge of the lawn that she had not noticed before. Dark, forest green in colour, it formed an impenetrable barrier to any further forward movement. And it worried her. keeping her eyes fixed on the barrier, lest it move and engulf her, her breath coming a little quicker as her hackles began to rise once again, Marina edged to her right, groping blindly for one of those lower points in the path’s shrubbery edges, so she could step over on to the path.
Backing away, her eyes still fixed on the unexpected hedge, she failed to find any lower places, but the dense foliage seemed to have opened out in this part of the path so, keeping her eyes on the hedge for as long as she could, she edged her way in between the small, prickly branches. As she pushed through, she felt the branches tear at her hair, her cloak, her shift, her skin. Terrified that they would rip her and her clothing to shreds, she contorted her body into all sorts of odd positions, twisting and writhing her sinuous way through, as her feet were prickled unkindly by dead leaves, dry earth, and roots.
The squirming seemed to go on forever until, at last, she felt her right hand once again break through into fresh air, quickly followed by her arm, and then the rest of her body.
Wincing as she stepped on to the wide, sandy coloured gravel path, she looked down to check her monochrome garments had not been too badly damaged by her traverse through the clinging, snatching branchlets. Fortunately, they had not. The hem of her shift still fluttered around her ankles, and her feathered cloak only seemed to have lost one or two feathers to the tugging and grasping of the shrubs. She peered into the depths of the dense woodland now beside her, and saw a couple of feathers glinting in the gloom. This made her feel somehow uneasy, but she decided to leave them there, since she had no wish to go back into that gloom. Even as she watched, branches and twigs in there seemed to be growing longer, sharper, more dense. Ivy was twining itself up from the ground, around the wizened and twisted trunks and branches, until that way was as impenetrable as the hedge that had first caused her to move on to the path.
Glancing along the wide pathway, she saw that the other side was similarly blocked; the vegetation was now, also, much, much higher, blocking out the sunlight, and beginning to cast the wide pathway into gloom. Glancing behind her, she saw the path narrowing to nothing not far behind her; ivy tendrils crawling and snaking across the path as she watched, trees springing through the gravel and barring her way. Looking ahead, she could still see blue sky and small cumulus clouds, framing the roof of a sandstone building at the end of the path. Hackles rising for a third time at the slithering and rustling in the growing green gloom behind her, she hurried forwards.
.
Monday, 24 May 2010
Deathdream #6
There was a lurch, and a pain behind her eyes. Her foot went down further than she expected it to, and she flailed her arms as she began to tumble forward, unable to open her eyes from the pain of light lancing through her eyelids.
She felt arms around her as Biffy caught her at a peculiar and ungainly angle, and she struggled to stand upright, her head spinning, feeling grass beneath her bare feet.
Still unsteady, she held on to Biffy’s upper arm with her left hand, and he supported her by that elbow, as she shaded her eyes with her right, and squinted them open a tiny slit. A blur of greens and fawns swam across her watery vision, and she screwed her eyes up tight again, placing her hand across them.
“No no no... Just shade them,” said Biffy, tilting her hand back up, and making her wince. “That way, you’ll get used to the light quicker.”
“But it hurts!”
She felt his shoulder move in a shrug.
Then, she realised that the towel had finally fallen off as she fell and struggled upright. Instantly, she dropped into a crouched ball, curled as tightly around herself as she could possibly manage. Groping her hands around for the towel – which surely could not be far away – she whimpered in mortification. Soon, she was clawing at the grass around her as the towel, like the nightdress before it, simply was not there any more.
Finally, in despair, she yanked a big handful of grass and, to her surprise, pulled a sheet of turf up with it, which she wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. As she stood up in relief, she opened her eyes a little again. Squinting, her eyes still swimming with tears, the pain, at least, was gone, and she was now covered by a long, feathered cloak.
Soothing this black and white confection back over her shoulders, she looked down at the long black and white shift that mercifully now covered her. She sighed in relief. Looking further down, and wiggling her toes, she realised that she was still barefoot, but this did not bother her at all. The grass, after all, tickled her feet pleasantly, and the air was warm. Looking around, she found herself standing on a manicured lawn, which was bisected by a path lined with shrubs of all sorts of curious shapes and sizes. The lawn was surrounded by trees with dark, deep shadows hovering beneath them. Seeing these shadows made the back of her neck prickle as her hackles rose. The only open aspect she could see was in the direction the path led. Over the tops of the higher of the oddly-shaped shrubs, she could make out a roof.
But she was alone. Of Biffy, Amanita, and Purlieu, there was no sign.
.
She felt arms around her as Biffy caught her at a peculiar and ungainly angle, and she struggled to stand upright, her head spinning, feeling grass beneath her bare feet.
Still unsteady, she held on to Biffy’s upper arm with her left hand, and he supported her by that elbow, as she shaded her eyes with her right, and squinted them open a tiny slit. A blur of greens and fawns swam across her watery vision, and she screwed her eyes up tight again, placing her hand across them.
“No no no... Just shade them,” said Biffy, tilting her hand back up, and making her wince. “That way, you’ll get used to the light quicker.”
“But it hurts!”
She felt his shoulder move in a shrug.
Then, she realised that the towel had finally fallen off as she fell and struggled upright. Instantly, she dropped into a crouched ball, curled as tightly around herself as she could possibly manage. Groping her hands around for the towel – which surely could not be far away – she whimpered in mortification. Soon, she was clawing at the grass around her as the towel, like the nightdress before it, simply was not there any more.
Finally, in despair, she yanked a big handful of grass and, to her surprise, pulled a sheet of turf up with it, which she wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. As she stood up in relief, she opened her eyes a little again. Squinting, her eyes still swimming with tears, the pain, at least, was gone, and she was now covered by a long, feathered cloak.
Soothing this black and white confection back over her shoulders, she looked down at the long black and white shift that mercifully now covered her. She sighed in relief. Looking further down, and wiggling her toes, she realised that she was still barefoot, but this did not bother her at all. The grass, after all, tickled her feet pleasantly, and the air was warm. Looking around, she found herself standing on a manicured lawn, which was bisected by a path lined with shrubs of all sorts of curious shapes and sizes. The lawn was surrounded by trees with dark, deep shadows hovering beneath them. Seeing these shadows made the back of her neck prickle as her hackles rose. The only open aspect she could see was in the direction the path led. Over the tops of the higher of the oddly-shaped shrubs, she could make out a roof.
But she was alone. Of Biffy, Amanita, and Purlieu, there was no sign.
.
Deathdream #5
Biffy shrugged. “It’s as good a name as any, I suppose. Come on, then.”
The girls began to fold their trousers neatly, and then each rolled them up and tucked them under their arms.
“Wait – what? You’re going somewhere?”
“Yes, we are,” said Biffy, emphasising the ‘we’ to include Marina.
“But...but...” She looked around furtively. The last time she had seen it, her nightdress had been lying where she had left it, sopping in a puddle on the floor, with a trickle running from the puddle out of the French windows. Now, though, there was no sign of it. Biffy, 'Nita and Purly didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, though, so she hurriedly followed them out of the windows, on to the walkway, and into the glowing dark, tugging the towel more tightly around her as she went. Being barefoot, too, she suddenly felt very exposed.
On reaching the end of the walkway, Marina stopped. Biffy and the girls were already stepping out smartly across the rock to her left, but she hesitated to put her foot on the rock when memories of the rock-swimming soul eater were still so fresh. In this strange and dreadful place, it seemed that even solid rock was not necessarily a good place to stand and walk. Especially if she really was a halfer – whatever that may turn out to mean. She stood there, undecided what to do, and watched three backs receding towards the black, light-sucking mass that curved around the little group of cabins, meeting the lakeshore on both sides of the rocky semicircle. They had apparently forgotten her existence, since none of them turned around to check she was still there, nor to make a gesture or a shout to hurry her on her way. She could feel panic beginning to rise at being left alone and, quickly making a decision that she would rather brave the creatures’ attentions than be left alone, she glanced at the lake to make sure there were no sinister shadows growing on its surface, she ran for it. Now was the time to see if the name she had given herself really would offer her at least a small measure of protection. Her bare feet slapping on the rock, struggling with the towel that seemed to constantly want to be left behind whilst it barely covered her, she raced after the figures that were growing yet smaller. They were getting hard to distinguish, too, against the backdrop of that black mass. The lake’s illumination and moonlight seemed unable to compete with it.
The faster she ran, the further away they seemed to be. Fear began to claw at her throat again, as she raced to catch up with them. She was now running so fast, it appeared that her feet were no longer touching the ground and, indeed, the rapid slapping had morphed into a whirring, rushing sound. Forgetting for a moment why she was running so fast, she gave in to the exhilaration of the speed, feeling that if she only stretched her arms and took a deep breath, something wonderful might happen. But that moment was gone in the instant she realised that she needed both of her arms to keep the towel, which seemed to be shrinking, covering her embarrassment.
On the edge of the light-sucking mass, Biffy turned around. “Oh – you’re here. Well – come on, then...” and disappeared into the mass.
Marina closed her eyes and stepped in after him.
.
The girls began to fold their trousers neatly, and then each rolled them up and tucked them under their arms.
“Wait – what? You’re going somewhere?”
“Yes, we are,” said Biffy, emphasising the ‘we’ to include Marina.
“But...but...” She looked around furtively. The last time she had seen it, her nightdress had been lying where she had left it, sopping in a puddle on the floor, with a trickle running from the puddle out of the French windows. Now, though, there was no sign of it. Biffy, 'Nita and Purly didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, though, so she hurriedly followed them out of the windows, on to the walkway, and into the glowing dark, tugging the towel more tightly around her as she went. Being barefoot, too, she suddenly felt very exposed.
On reaching the end of the walkway, Marina stopped. Biffy and the girls were already stepping out smartly across the rock to her left, but she hesitated to put her foot on the rock when memories of the rock-swimming soul eater were still so fresh. In this strange and dreadful place, it seemed that even solid rock was not necessarily a good place to stand and walk. Especially if she really was a halfer – whatever that may turn out to mean. She stood there, undecided what to do, and watched three backs receding towards the black, light-sucking mass that curved around the little group of cabins, meeting the lakeshore on both sides of the rocky semicircle. They had apparently forgotten her existence, since none of them turned around to check she was still there, nor to make a gesture or a shout to hurry her on her way. She could feel panic beginning to rise at being left alone and, quickly making a decision that she would rather brave the creatures’ attentions than be left alone, she glanced at the lake to make sure there were no sinister shadows growing on its surface, she ran for it. Now was the time to see if the name she had given herself really would offer her at least a small measure of protection. Her bare feet slapping on the rock, struggling with the towel that seemed to constantly want to be left behind whilst it barely covered her, she raced after the figures that were growing yet smaller. They were getting hard to distinguish, too, against the backdrop of that black mass. The lake’s illumination and moonlight seemed unable to compete with it.
The faster she ran, the further away they seemed to be. Fear began to claw at her throat again, as she raced to catch up with them. She was now running so fast, it appeared that her feet were no longer touching the ground and, indeed, the rapid slapping had morphed into a whirring, rushing sound. Forgetting for a moment why she was running so fast, she gave in to the exhilaration of the speed, feeling that if she only stretched her arms and took a deep breath, something wonderful might happen. But that moment was gone in the instant she realised that she needed both of her arms to keep the towel, which seemed to be shrinking, covering her embarrassment.
On the edge of the light-sucking mass, Biffy turned around. “Oh – you’re here. Well – come on, then...” and disappeared into the mass.
Marina closed her eyes and stepped in after him.
.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Deathdream #4
only a short section this time, as Doctor Who is on soon, and i need to make some food first, but at least the swimmer has a name, now...
...
The swimmer was sitting, knees drawn up to her chin, in the middle of the bed. Feeling vulnerable.
The rain had stopped, and the moon had come back out from behind the clouds, and Biffy had wandered outside to continue his vigil over the lake, sitting astride the balustrade, about halfway along the sloping walkway. Purly and 'Nita had fetched her some towels so she could dry herself off. Now she was naked in a strange place with no memory of who she was. The girls were, once again, sitting on the end of the bed, their backs to her. Clutching the towel tight around her, she tentatively asked, “Uh... Purly? When you said it was bad that I didn’t know my name, you never said why...”
Without turning round, 'Nita parroted, in a singsong voice, “To name the thing is to control the thing. To defeat the monster, you must first speak its name. When summoned by the true name, each creature must respond.” And then she was silent, almost as if she’d never spoken.
The swimmer was nonplussed. She tried again. “Purly? Can you explain that to me?”
Purly turned around with the exasperation of the child for the idiot adult. “She means that you need your name to control yourself, and to stop them controlling you. When neither of you know your name, they can control you a bit. If they find out before you do, they can control all of you. But first control goes to you if you know your name. See?”
“...I...I think so....” said the slightly confused swimmer. “...but...who are...they?”
Purly rolled her eyes in exasperation. She made a wide gesture towards the French windows. “Them!”
“The things in the lake?”
“No! Yes! Both. All of them!” Purly turned her back on the swimmer, the set of her shoulders showing her annoyance at the swimmer’s density.
And the swimmer saw, as plainly as if it had been written in white on a black wall in front of her, that there were, out there in the dark, more things to fear than these ‘soul eaters’. She shivered a little, and drew her knees tighter under her chin. Trying to make a solid, impenetrable barrier against all of the fearsome things that may yet be lurking out of, or in, plain sight.
She began to wonder, in earnest, what her name could be.
She tried a few out. Alexandra? No. Natalie? Alicia? Helga? No. Julie? Mary? No. She ground her teeth in frustration.
She looked at Purly’s back. “Purly? What if I named myself? Would that give me any protection?”
Purly turned around. “Dunno.” She said, thoughtfully. Then turned and shouted out of the windows: “Biffy!”
He turned around. “What?”
“Can she name herself? Would that help?”
Biffy swung his leg over the balustrade and walked up to the windows, gazing at the swimmer. She felt uncomfortable, and pulled the towels yet tighter around herself.
“Dunno,” he said. “It might, I suppose. What are you going to name yourself, then?”
“Marina.”
“Why?”
“Because I came from the water.”
...
The swimmer was sitting, knees drawn up to her chin, in the middle of the bed. Feeling vulnerable.
The rain had stopped, and the moon had come back out from behind the clouds, and Biffy had wandered outside to continue his vigil over the lake, sitting astride the balustrade, about halfway along the sloping walkway. Purly and 'Nita had fetched her some towels so she could dry herself off. Now she was naked in a strange place with no memory of who she was. The girls were, once again, sitting on the end of the bed, their backs to her. Clutching the towel tight around her, she tentatively asked, “Uh... Purly? When you said it was bad that I didn’t know my name, you never said why...”
Without turning round, 'Nita parroted, in a singsong voice, “To name the thing is to control the thing. To defeat the monster, you must first speak its name. When summoned by the true name, each creature must respond.” And then she was silent, almost as if she’d never spoken.
The swimmer was nonplussed. She tried again. “Purly? Can you explain that to me?”
Purly turned around with the exasperation of the child for the idiot adult. “She means that you need your name to control yourself, and to stop them controlling you. When neither of you know your name, they can control you a bit. If they find out before you do, they can control all of you. But first control goes to you if you know your name. See?”
“...I...I think so....” said the slightly confused swimmer. “...but...who are...they?”
Purly rolled her eyes in exasperation. She made a wide gesture towards the French windows. “Them!”
“The things in the lake?”
“No! Yes! Both. All of them!” Purly turned her back on the swimmer, the set of her shoulders showing her annoyance at the swimmer’s density.
And the swimmer saw, as plainly as if it had been written in white on a black wall in front of her, that there were, out there in the dark, more things to fear than these ‘soul eaters’. She shivered a little, and drew her knees tighter under her chin. Trying to make a solid, impenetrable barrier against all of the fearsome things that may yet be lurking out of, or in, plain sight.
She began to wonder, in earnest, what her name could be.
She tried a few out. Alexandra? No. Natalie? Alicia? Helga? No. Julie? Mary? No. She ground her teeth in frustration.
She looked at Purly’s back. “Purly? What if I named myself? Would that give me any protection?”
Purly turned around. “Dunno.” She said, thoughtfully. Then turned and shouted out of the windows: “Biffy!”
He turned around. “What?”
“Can she name herself? Would that help?”
Biffy swung his leg over the balustrade and walked up to the windows, gazing at the swimmer. She felt uncomfortable, and pulled the towels yet tighter around herself.
“Dunno,” he said. “It might, I suppose. What are you going to name yourself, then?”
“Marina.”
“Why?”
“Because I came from the water.”
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Deathdream #3
really enjoyed writing this bit. hope you enjoy reading it...
...
“Really,” said the older girl, conversationally, “You ought to find out what your name is – it’s bad that you don’t know. Really bad”
Unsure if she really wanted to know, the swimmer asked, in a faint voice, “...why...?”
“’Coz they’ll get you and eat you up and crunch your bones and spit out the gristle!” shrieked the younger, gleefully.
“Amanita!” snapped Biffy’s voice from outside. “That’s enough!”
“But they will!” insisted Amanita, with a small pout.
“’Nita – shush!” said the older girl. “You know you have to do as Biffy says.”
“Don’t see why...” grumbled Amanita, resentfully.
“Because he’s our brother and he came here to look after us.”
This struck the swimmer hard, as she suddenly realised that she not only had no idea of who she was, but of where she was, either. Or, for that matter, why. Continuing to stare out at the menacing shadows sliding below the surface of the glowing water, she racked her brains, trying to discover the answers to any of these questions. True enough, she remembered the swimming very well. But, before that...? Nothing; except for the vague, half-grasped wisp of a memory of that boat.
Falling...or being pushed? To where?
Her eyes unfocussed as her thoughts turned ever inward. Probing, searching the inside of her mind for something – anything – that could give her some glimmer of sense. But all there was to be found was darkness - clinging shreds of misty darkness, in which the one dimly shining beacon was the dawning awareness of swimming in the lake.
The lake.
Refocusing her eyes to the rainy, glowing blackness outside of the cabin, she was just in time to see one of the shadows, out in the centre, begin grow bigger and move towards the shore.
This was wrong. It shouldn’t be able to do that. That...whatever it was...should...not...be able to grow like that. And the speed! When she had first seen it, the shadow had been out near the middle of the lake. Now, however, it was heading for the shore at a speed no aquatic creature ought to be able to manage - the water humping up as it pushed a wave before it. But it was. She waited, breath held, for it to erupt through the water, spraying fountains of sparking water from its huge body – and it was huge by now – roaring or screaming as the rain sheeted down its squamous flanks.
But it did not.
“Biffy,” called Amanita.
“In a moment, ‘Nita,”
“Biffy, come on!” said the older one, a note of urgency in her voice.
“Just a minute, Purlieu,” he replied, calmly. “I want to get a decent view....”
It came for the shore, faster and faster, the swimmer was sure that soon it must erupt through the surface, or dash itself to pieces on the undulating rock of the shore. But it did neither. Instead, it disappeared just as it got to the rock.
And a hump appeared on the shore. The rock turning fluid and humping up, just as the water had, as the creature had sped through it. But now it was speeding, albeit much more slowly, through solid rock.
“Biffy!” shrieked the girls in unison.
Biffy evidently had decided that now was the moment, as he put his hands on the balustrade and lightly vaulted onto the walkway, to lean against the wall just inside the windows, and watch the creature’s approach.
The swimmer’s eyes were locked on the moving hump, as it came closer and closer to the cabin, too scared to scream at the visceral horror of watching some unknown and patently dangerous creature doing such a weird and impossible thing. She opened her mouth, and tried with all her might to scream out the fear that was clamouring in her tightened chest, but all that would or could escape was a thin and reedy whisper. As the terror clawed at her chest, and the cords stood out on her neck with the dreadful effort, she felt a small, warm hand on hers.
“Don’t worry – the stilts will stop it,” said Purlieu, squeezing.
This was no comfort. The swimmer was rooted solidly to the bed – paralysed - unable to do anything as her eyes, locked on the moving hump, widened further to take in the approaching doom of the monster. As it disappeared under the hut with a rumble, she drew breath and tried to scream again as the rumbling grew louder, now under her feet, and the creature moved about beneath the cabin. Still nothing but the reedy whisper left her chest.
“It’ll go in a minute,” said Biffy, watching the swimmer with an air of calm.
She barely heard him.
After an eternity, his words proved right, as the rumbling calmed a little, and the hump reappeared and headed back towards the lake. As it reached the shore, the gigantic shadow was in the water once more, and it sped rapidly back towards the centre. Gradually, it receded, diminished, and was, once again, just one of many shadows under the surface of the glowing water.
The swimmer began gasping for breath.
Biffy watched her collapse forward on to her hands and knees, her body heaving, as she fought to recoup the breath she had spent whilst trying to scream.
“Told you so,” he observed, with mild amusement.
Still gasping, the swimmer turned wide, frightened eyes on the young man. What... what the hell...was that...thing?” she managed, between heaving breaths.
Biffy raised his shoulder in a casual half-shrug. “Soul eater.”
Her breath stilled. “A what?”
“Soul eater.” was the laconic reply. “It was looking for you. They love halfers. I think they taste better or something...” he trailed off, looking a little thoughtful. Then he shrugged again, properly, this time. “Dunno what they are, exactly, but that’s what they’re called. Never seen one – not properly. They stay under the surface.”
The swimmer hunkered back on to her haunches, almost curling into a ball, and began to shiver. “It was...horrible,” she whimpered. “Nothing should be able to do that.”
“Yeah, well – you’re not in Kansas now, Toto.”
Amanita giggled. Purlieu admonished Biffy with, “That wasn’t nice! How would you like it? You’re rotten and horrible!”
Crouching down next to the shivering swimmer and, with a maturity beyond her years, Purlieu put her arm around the swimmer’s shoulders, saying gently, “It’s all right – it’s gone now. It was just a scout, and it knows it can’t get to you in here.”
.
...
“Really,” said the older girl, conversationally, “You ought to find out what your name is – it’s bad that you don’t know. Really bad”
Unsure if she really wanted to know, the swimmer asked, in a faint voice, “...why...?”
“’Coz they’ll get you and eat you up and crunch your bones and spit out the gristle!” shrieked the younger, gleefully.
“Amanita!” snapped Biffy’s voice from outside. “That’s enough!”
“But they will!” insisted Amanita, with a small pout.
“’Nita – shush!” said the older girl. “You know you have to do as Biffy says.”
“Don’t see why...” grumbled Amanita, resentfully.
“Because he’s our brother and he came here to look after us.”
This struck the swimmer hard, as she suddenly realised that she not only had no idea of who she was, but of where she was, either. Or, for that matter, why. Continuing to stare out at the menacing shadows sliding below the surface of the glowing water, she racked her brains, trying to discover the answers to any of these questions. True enough, she remembered the swimming very well. But, before that...? Nothing; except for the vague, half-grasped wisp of a memory of that boat.
Falling...or being pushed? To where?
Her eyes unfocussed as her thoughts turned ever inward. Probing, searching the inside of her mind for something – anything – that could give her some glimmer of sense. But all there was to be found was darkness - clinging shreds of misty darkness, in which the one dimly shining beacon was the dawning awareness of swimming in the lake.
The lake.
Refocusing her eyes to the rainy, glowing blackness outside of the cabin, she was just in time to see one of the shadows, out in the centre, begin grow bigger and move towards the shore.
This was wrong. It shouldn’t be able to do that. That...whatever it was...should...not...be able to grow like that. And the speed! When she had first seen it, the shadow had been out near the middle of the lake. Now, however, it was heading for the shore at a speed no aquatic creature ought to be able to manage - the water humping up as it pushed a wave before it. But it was. She waited, breath held, for it to erupt through the water, spraying fountains of sparking water from its huge body – and it was huge by now – roaring or screaming as the rain sheeted down its squamous flanks.
But it did not.
“Biffy,” called Amanita.
“In a moment, ‘Nita,”
“Biffy, come on!” said the older one, a note of urgency in her voice.
“Just a minute, Purlieu,” he replied, calmly. “I want to get a decent view....”
It came for the shore, faster and faster, the swimmer was sure that soon it must erupt through the surface, or dash itself to pieces on the undulating rock of the shore. But it did neither. Instead, it disappeared just as it got to the rock.
And a hump appeared on the shore. The rock turning fluid and humping up, just as the water had, as the creature had sped through it. But now it was speeding, albeit much more slowly, through solid rock.
“Biffy!” shrieked the girls in unison.
Biffy evidently had decided that now was the moment, as he put his hands on the balustrade and lightly vaulted onto the walkway, to lean against the wall just inside the windows, and watch the creature’s approach.
The swimmer’s eyes were locked on the moving hump, as it came closer and closer to the cabin, too scared to scream at the visceral horror of watching some unknown and patently dangerous creature doing such a weird and impossible thing. She opened her mouth, and tried with all her might to scream out the fear that was clamouring in her tightened chest, but all that would or could escape was a thin and reedy whisper. As the terror clawed at her chest, and the cords stood out on her neck with the dreadful effort, she felt a small, warm hand on hers.
“Don’t worry – the stilts will stop it,” said Purlieu, squeezing.
This was no comfort. The swimmer was rooted solidly to the bed – paralysed - unable to do anything as her eyes, locked on the moving hump, widened further to take in the approaching doom of the monster. As it disappeared under the hut with a rumble, she drew breath and tried to scream again as the rumbling grew louder, now under her feet, and the creature moved about beneath the cabin. Still nothing but the reedy whisper left her chest.
“It’ll go in a minute,” said Biffy, watching the swimmer with an air of calm.
She barely heard him.
After an eternity, his words proved right, as the rumbling calmed a little, and the hump reappeared and headed back towards the lake. As it reached the shore, the gigantic shadow was in the water once more, and it sped rapidly back towards the centre. Gradually, it receded, diminished, and was, once again, just one of many shadows under the surface of the glowing water.
The swimmer began gasping for breath.
Biffy watched her collapse forward on to her hands and knees, her body heaving, as she fought to recoup the breath she had spent whilst trying to scream.
“Told you so,” he observed, with mild amusement.
Still gasping, the swimmer turned wide, frightened eyes on the young man. What... what the hell...was that...thing?” she managed, between heaving breaths.
Biffy raised his shoulder in a casual half-shrug. “Soul eater.”
Her breath stilled. “A what?”
“Soul eater.” was the laconic reply. “It was looking for you. They love halfers. I think they taste better or something...” he trailed off, looking a little thoughtful. Then he shrugged again, properly, this time. “Dunno what they are, exactly, but that’s what they’re called. Never seen one – not properly. They stay under the surface.”
The swimmer hunkered back on to her haunches, almost curling into a ball, and began to shiver. “It was...horrible,” she whimpered. “Nothing should be able to do that.”
“Yeah, well – you’re not in Kansas now, Toto.”
Amanita giggled. Purlieu admonished Biffy with, “That wasn’t nice! How would you like it? You’re rotten and horrible!”
Crouching down next to the shivering swimmer and, with a maturity beyond her years, Purlieu put her arm around the swimmer’s shoulders, saying gently, “It’s all right – it’s gone now. It was just a scout, and it knows it can’t get to you in here.”
.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Deathdream #2
still have no idea what this is. but here's the next bit, anyway...
...
The young man grunted. “You’ll need to find out,” he stated, with firmness and just a hint of... What? Warning?
Confused and growing slightly alarmed at her inability to remember her own name – feeling sure she had one – the swimmer turned back towards the two girls washing themselves and their clothes in the moonlight. But they had both lowered their arms to stare out of the French windows, over her shoulders, and out towards the dark brightness of the sky.
The youngest momentarily flicked her gaze to the swimmer and said, “Now see what you did!” Moving her eyes back to the sky, a frown creased her features. The swimmer turned back around until she was facing out towards the lake.
The wind was picking up, tugging at her wet nightdress and trying to tease the military cap from her straggling tresses. Holding the cap down with one hand, she lifted her chin and gazed towards the moon. Its face was being slowly covered by sliding clouds – as black and lightless as the masses on the shore of the lake. Glancing down at Biffy she noticed that he, too, was regarding the moon’s slow disappearance, but with an equitable expression on his face, as though he had seen this many times before, and did not share the youngest girl’s annoyance with the situation.
Spits of rain began to land on her bare arms and the swimmer, despite being already wet, instinctively edged backwards to the shelter of the room behind her. The rain became heavier as they watched the last corner of the moon’s face disappear behind the slithering clouds, and she could hear it over the sound of the wind: a soft-sharp pattering on the wood of the walkway and cabin roof. As it became heavier, she looked towards Biffy – standing as he had been before, but with his face now turned towards the crowded darkness of the sky. Realising that she should not, now, be able to see him, she wondered at her ability to do just that. Staring at the back of his head, she watched as the rain, coming down in earnest, now, plastered his curls to his head. Then it came to her. Slowly lifting her eyes to the lake, the swimmer took in what was before her.
It was not the moon’s light that had given the lake its milky glow – it was the water itself. As more and more clouds piled into the sky above them, the water increased its translucent radiance, the ripples and wavelets creating scintillating patterns that dazzled and mesmerised.
Except...
“What are they?” she asked of her three companions, raising a shaking finger to point.
Shadows moved beneath the surface of the water.
Turning to glance up at the swimmer, Biffy casually remarked, “You’re lucky you got here when you did – a halfer like you – ten minutes more and they’d have had a field day.” Thus unburdened, he returned his gaze to the opposite direction – this time it was focussed, like those of the females, on the shadows sliding through the water.
The swimmer edged back further into the room, until the backs of her legs met the bed, on which she half-sat, half-slumped, her eyes still fixed on the teeming luminescence of the lake.
“Really,” said the older girl, conversationally, “You ought to find out what your name is – it’s bad that you don’t know. Really bad”
.
...
The young man grunted. “You’ll need to find out,” he stated, with firmness and just a hint of... What? Warning?
Confused and growing slightly alarmed at her inability to remember her own name – feeling sure she had one – the swimmer turned back towards the two girls washing themselves and their clothes in the moonlight. But they had both lowered their arms to stare out of the French windows, over her shoulders, and out towards the dark brightness of the sky.
The youngest momentarily flicked her gaze to the swimmer and said, “Now see what you did!” Moving her eyes back to the sky, a frown creased her features. The swimmer turned back around until she was facing out towards the lake.
The wind was picking up, tugging at her wet nightdress and trying to tease the military cap from her straggling tresses. Holding the cap down with one hand, she lifted her chin and gazed towards the moon. Its face was being slowly covered by sliding clouds – as black and lightless as the masses on the shore of the lake. Glancing down at Biffy she noticed that he, too, was regarding the moon’s slow disappearance, but with an equitable expression on his face, as though he had seen this many times before, and did not share the youngest girl’s annoyance with the situation.
Spits of rain began to land on her bare arms and the swimmer, despite being already wet, instinctively edged backwards to the shelter of the room behind her. The rain became heavier as they watched the last corner of the moon’s face disappear behind the slithering clouds, and she could hear it over the sound of the wind: a soft-sharp pattering on the wood of the walkway and cabin roof. As it became heavier, she looked towards Biffy – standing as he had been before, but with his face now turned towards the crowded darkness of the sky. Realising that she should not, now, be able to see him, she wondered at her ability to do just that. Staring at the back of his head, she watched as the rain, coming down in earnest, now, plastered his curls to his head. Then it came to her. Slowly lifting her eyes to the lake, the swimmer took in what was before her.
It was not the moon’s light that had given the lake its milky glow – it was the water itself. As more and more clouds piled into the sky above them, the water increased its translucent radiance, the ripples and wavelets creating scintillating patterns that dazzled and mesmerised.
Except...
“What are they?” she asked of her three companions, raising a shaking finger to point.
Shadows moved beneath the surface of the water.
Turning to glance up at the swimmer, Biffy casually remarked, “You’re lucky you got here when you did – a halfer like you – ten minutes more and they’d have had a field day.” Thus unburdened, he returned his gaze to the opposite direction – this time it was focussed, like those of the females, on the shadows sliding through the water.
The swimmer edged back further into the room, until the backs of her legs met the bed, on which she half-sat, half-slumped, her eyes still fixed on the teeming luminescence of the lake.
“Really,” said the older girl, conversationally, “You ought to find out what your name is – it’s bad that you don’t know. Really bad”
.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
short story: Ink Devil
i'm gonna do this quick before i start blushing again. this is the short story i mentioned in today's earlier post. with apologies to Show Of Hands, who's song i nicked the title from. really - my ink devil is nothing like theirs...
Ink Devil
Sunlight streamed through the high, dusty windows, as I idly wandered through the maze at the heart of this vast cathedral of knowledge and stories. I’d gone there because my ever-dwindling to-read pile had finally given up on me. I had tried going for walks, shopping, macramé, listening to music, drinking in front of the television’s flickering curse, but it was no good. I was twitching like a junkie needing a fix. Needing it badly. Oh, so badly.
So I headed for my temple. The place where all of the world, and so many things beyond, could be found gathered together in one magical place.
The cavernous building was ancient, and crumbling at the edges. It was so weathered, it resembled a sugar sculpture that had been left in a light mist for too long. God alone knows what its original purpose had been, or even how old it actually was. But it was old. And, to me, at least, it was beautiful.
The fierce sunlight drew odd half-seen shapes from the shadows cast by the barely recognisable but still disturbing gargoyles and statues that adorned its pocked and pitted walls. And it had beat down on my unprotected head as I had made my way there. By the time I arrived and walked through the gaping portico that adorned its entrance, slipping into the green-tinted shadows within, my head was beginning to ache, and my vision to become fuzzy.
I stopped for a moment in the marble-sheathed entrance hall, letting the cool atmosphere ease the aching of my head, and removing my sandals, so I could soothe my feet on the smooth floor. I stood, my back to a pillar, my eyes closed, breathing slowly.
Once I’d revived a little, I tucked my sandals behind the pillar. I did not intend to put them back on whilst I was in the library itself, nor did I wish to be juggling them with an armful of books.
People sometimes give me odd looks when I walk around barefoot in public. And, yes, slightly shamefaced, I will admit to occasionally doing it on purpose, just to see how many odd looks I can garner in a given amount of time. But mostly, I do it because I enjoy the feel of the world under my feet. The feel of rough tarmac, or stone worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, or the endless wear of the sun, wind and rain. Or perhaps the feel of grass. Cool or warm, prickly or soft, dewy damp or crackling dry.
As I pushed through the dark, heavy wooden doors, and entered the library proper, my feet felt the change from cool marble to warm flagstones, and my nose twitched with the heavenly smell that greeted me.
Books.
The smell of thousands upon thousands of books, ancient and modern. The bindings, the glue, the paper, the ink. The absorbed and slowly-released odours of the places they had lain before finally coming here, to this vast and beautiful hall of words.
In the centre of this sacred place, there were row upon row of shelves, all crammed tightly with the stuff of my addiction. Around the walls there were black-painted iron bars, twisted into phantasmagorical shapes, guarding balconies groaning with more shelves. And in nooks and crannies, around corners, in small, secretive alcoves, more and yet more of the stuff of wonder. The still air was thick and heavy with almost-silence, muffled by the millions of pages contained between the covers. High, high overhead, the sunlight streamed down through thick, rippled, dusty glass, heating the air to a lazy temperature, motes dancing and swirling in the golden deluge. Stuffy, heavy and hot, the air in that cavern quickly pacified me to wandering in a daze through the stacks – causing me to drift along shelves and around corners, deeper and deeper into the heart of the library. Not really looking at the books I passed, merely trailing my fingers along their spines, feeling the texture shiver through my fingertips as I lightly brushed each binding.
Eventually, I drifted to a stop in a dead end. Even this did not bring me out of my reverie, merely caused me to halt by one shelf, and begin to stroke the bindings a little more slowly, feeling the substance of each one with more concentration than before.
Slowly, slowly, my fingers came to rest upon one in particular.
The binding was old, of soft leather. What was inside, I couldn’t tell, since whatever lettering that had been on there had been worn away by time and the caresses of countless hands.
But it felt...good. Special... Intriguing. My fingers tingled, just a little.
So I picked it out from amongst its fellows and, opening it randomly, began to read. The stories it contained – for it was a story book – were...absorbing. Strange tales full of even stranger creatures. And the lustful things they did were even stranger. Beguiling. Absorbing. Bewitching.
As I stood in that isolated alcove, in that vast library, reading, the air seemed to grow hotter with the tales. The doings of the people and creatures made me shiver with delight and ... yes ... desire. Soon, the occasional pleasant tickle of a bead of sweat slowly making its way down a curve or plane of my body was joined by another. As a slow heat built up inside me, I felt a tiny trickle adorn the topmost part of my inner thigh. I shivered again, plunging deeper into the story.
A voice at my ear breathed, “Hello.”
My body stiffened, and the book fell from my nerveless grasp , landing open on the floor. Though the air in the library was perfectly still, the pages riffled and turned, and then were still. My startlement instantly turned to readiness. For what, I was not certain. I had heard no-one approach. Yet here was a voice, whispering a greeting. So close that I could feel the hot breath that made the voice tickling my ear, and brushing the fine and delicate hairs on my neck and shoulder.
I did not turn around. Not yet.
Now I was more alert to my surroundings, I could clearly feel the presence behind me. My back fairly sizzled with the sense of another body, standing closer to me than any person had a right to do. I could feel the heat of him, far more than the hot, lazy air around me. His was a sharp, dry heat that burned through the thin cotton fabric of my summer dress, bathing me in...what? I was not sure, but unwillingly admitted to myself that it felt good. The owner of the voice spoke again. Softly. Oh, so softly. In a voice half way between a whisper and a sigh, and with a hint of amusement, he said, “Well, then. Will you turn around? You called me, after all.”
“C...called...?” I stammered. Swallowing, I tried again, my voice quavering, just a little. “I...I called no-one. I was...reading.”
I sensed amusement from behind me. The soft, seductive voice spoke again. “Indeed you were. And enjoying the story too, were you not?”
“...I...er...I...” I faltered, and then stopped, blushing deeply. The voice chuckled.
I felt a finger trace its way slowly down my spine, from the nape of my neck to the top of my buttocks. I shivered, and felt a twitch, deep in my body.
“Will you not turn around?” The voice asked again, with a very evident smile. “Please?” he added, more softly still.
I took a deep, slightly quivering breath. Slowly, slowly, I acceded to the request.
Standing behind me was a figure. Apparently that of a man, but subtly, unmistakeably not. Everything about him was very, very slightly different. Perfectly proportioned, but elongated. On a busy street, in normal clothing, he would be easy to miss. Apart from the eyes.
It would be hard to miss the eyes.
Deep, deep blue, almost violet, they burned from his nut-brown face like beacons, drawing me in, absorbing. Possessing.
I looked away, as I felt myself being pulled closer, taking an involuntary step back as I did so. This allowed me to see the rest of him. His well-shaped arms and chest. His waist...his hips...his... I gasped and raised my eyes back to his chest, concentrating on the lines and whorls tattooed all over him. The lines themselves were almost as absorbing as his eyes, which I dared not look at again. Not until I had steeled myself to do so. Deep within my body, I began to tremble.
Though my gaze was centred squarely on his chest, watching the lines there subtly shifting with each breath he took, I could still see the corners of his mouth curl up, just a little more.
“Are you afraid, little reader?” he asked.
I shook my head, and immediately gave lie to that as he took a slow step towards me, and I took another involuntary step back.
He seemed amused by this, the smile growing a little wider as he stepped forward again, causing me to step back. I squeaked in surprise, as my back hit the wall at the end of the alcove. My breathing became a little heavier as I realised I had nowhere else to go in this narrow gully between the bookshelves.
I watched him take another step closer, until he was standing almost as close to me as he had been before. I sensed movement to one side, and my eyes darted to it, to watch his hand come slowly up, rising towards my face. As he ran a finger along my jaw to the point of my chin, he whispered, “Please don’t be afraid of me, little reader. I only wish to see the eyes that took such pleasure from my story, and to bring more pleasure to them, if I can... Will you let me look into those eyes again, as I did from the pages?”
As he said this, I felt the tip of his finger put the gentlest of pressure under the point of my chin, as he encouraged me to lift my head.
Slowly, slowly, my eyes travelled up his chest, over his throat and chin, past his still slightly smiling lips, past his nose, until they eventually came to rest where he wished them to. Just for a moment, my heavy breath stilled, as his eyes held me, still and quiet, in their thrall.
Then, he moved his head.
Closer. Closer still. With infinite care and tenderness, his lips, feather light and as soft, brushed mine. Slightly parted, I tasted his sweet, sweet breath, and I was lost. And he knew it.
Carefully, gently, he took my face between his hands, and kissed me a little deeper, his lips parting a little more, the tip of his tongue sliding between my lips. It was as soft and sweet as his breath. Tasting the deliciousness of it, I immediately wanted more. Raising my hands to place them either side of his neck, I kissed him back, more deeply than before. Soon, he released my face to run his hands down either side of my body, his thumbs gently brushing the sides of my breasts as they passed by, causing deeper shivering, and my body to tremble more than it had before.
As lust began to course through me, his hands glided over my hips to come to rest on the swell of my buttocks, squeezing gently. He pulled my hips closer to him, and I could feel the lust coursing through him, too, as he pressed my body between his and the wall. I moaned into our kiss as my insides turned to water and I felt the incoming tide of need rushing through my body as a hurricane began to build deep inside my soul.
Pulling his head back very slightly, he gently sucked my lower lip then, releasing it with a graze of teeth, he kissed his way along my jaw line to my neck, and began, with infinite care, to kiss and nibble his way down towards my collarbone. Still caressing the back of his head, my fingers buried in his hair, I moaned again, a little louder, as he nibbled the skin just below my collarbone, just above the neckline of my dress. Moving his hands there, he began to unbutton the front as he kissed and nibbled the hollow of my throat. My head thrown back against the wall, my breathing became heavier, tiny noises of lust and need escaping my lips as he undid the last buttons on my dress, sliding his hands around my waist. My skin burned where he touched me, the sheen of sweat doing nothing to dampen his fire.
He kissed his way down between my breasts, then lifted his lips from my skin to trail the very tip of his tongue across my salty skin, to take one of my aching nipples into that sweet mouth of his. Moaning louder still, I arched my back as he took that nipple between his teeth and gave it the gentlest of tugs, his tongue flickering over the end, raising such fire in my belly as I had never known was there. His hands slid up from my waist to cup my breasts gently as, with teeth and tongue and lips, he mercilessly teased first one nipple, then the other, until it felt like my whole being was drawn into those small parts of my quivering body.
Struggling for breath now, I whispered, “...please...please...I need...”
I broke off with a gasp as he trailed his tongue over my breast, back up towards my neck, and bit a little harder than before. Hard enough to release the sensations from my nipples and send them rushing back through my body. Pressing me back against the wall again, more firmly this time, he caressed my thigh as he drew it up towards his waist. Eagerly, I wrapped my arms around his neck, and my thigh around his hips as he effortlessly lifted me up and I wrapped the other leg tightly around him.
There was a breathless pause, as the tip of his desire rested against the pulsating centre of mine, and then slowly, slowly, he slid all the way inside me, filling me completely with his heat and his passion.
My gasps and moans grew louder still, and more frequent as he slowly slid in and out of me, alternately kissing my neck, and sinking his teeth into it. His fingertips dug into my buttocks as mine dug into his back and shoulders. The tempo of his movement increased, his thrusting hips grinding me against the wall harder and harder, my legs gripping his waist with the fervour of a woman possessed. Pressed tight to the wall by his passion and heat as I was, I still moved with him, snaking and heaving my hips in time with his. The hurricane in my soul was building ever stronger, spinning ever faster, my back arching, the storm-driven waves of passion mounting higher and higher until, breathtakingly, they broke over my head, and I sobbed and screamed my release. A moment later his voice, which had been silent all this time, joined mine, our voices meshing and melding and spinning through that ancient and cavernous space until the very roof shook with the sound of our joining.
When I came to, lying curled on the warm flagstones of the library floor, the sun was no longer streaming through the windows – the light outside had taken on a curious greenish cast and I heard, even through the thick walls of the library, a long, low growl of thunder. Dazed and confused, I sat up, looking around me in the dimmer light of the clouded late afternoon. I was alone and, for a moment, considered that I may have fainted in the heat, and dreamed a fever dream. Then my eyes fell on the book, lying where I had dropped it.
Its cover was very firmly closed.
As I became more aware of my body, I realised I was also pleasantly sore, and, looking down, noticed little red crescents on my skin, their rouge mostly faded, but obvious to me, at least.
I stood up carefully, testing my limbs against the pull of the earth. They were a little shaky, but held me well enough as I stood, then bent down and picked up the book. As I held it in my hands, I felt a slight tingle from the binding, but it was soon gone. I heaved a sigh of satisfaction and loss, whilst a bittersweet smile tugged the corners of my still-tingling lips. Hesitating, I clutched that book to my breasts, just for a moment, and then replaced it on the shelf. Perhaps I would find it again, some day. Or, perhaps, some other lucky soul would trail her fingertips across the binding, feel its unique call, and release the ink devil.
Another low, rumbling growl shook the air, louder this time, drawing a broad smile from my lips. Hurriedly, I twisted and turned my way through the labyrinthine heart of the library. I stopped for a moment, to retrieve my sandals from behind the pillar, and they dangled from my hand as I ran from the portico into the first fat drops of the storm.
The drops quickly became a downpour, and I danced and sang amid the storm’s blessings, washing my skin in its cool, magical bliss.
.
Ink Devil
Sunlight streamed through the high, dusty windows, as I idly wandered through the maze at the heart of this vast cathedral of knowledge and stories. I’d gone there because my ever-dwindling to-read pile had finally given up on me. I had tried going for walks, shopping, macramé, listening to music, drinking in front of the television’s flickering curse, but it was no good. I was twitching like a junkie needing a fix. Needing it badly. Oh, so badly.
So I headed for my temple. The place where all of the world, and so many things beyond, could be found gathered together in one magical place.
The cavernous building was ancient, and crumbling at the edges. It was so weathered, it resembled a sugar sculpture that had been left in a light mist for too long. God alone knows what its original purpose had been, or even how old it actually was. But it was old. And, to me, at least, it was beautiful.
The fierce sunlight drew odd half-seen shapes from the shadows cast by the barely recognisable but still disturbing gargoyles and statues that adorned its pocked and pitted walls. And it had beat down on my unprotected head as I had made my way there. By the time I arrived and walked through the gaping portico that adorned its entrance, slipping into the green-tinted shadows within, my head was beginning to ache, and my vision to become fuzzy.
I stopped for a moment in the marble-sheathed entrance hall, letting the cool atmosphere ease the aching of my head, and removing my sandals, so I could soothe my feet on the smooth floor. I stood, my back to a pillar, my eyes closed, breathing slowly.
Once I’d revived a little, I tucked my sandals behind the pillar. I did not intend to put them back on whilst I was in the library itself, nor did I wish to be juggling them with an armful of books.
People sometimes give me odd looks when I walk around barefoot in public. And, yes, slightly shamefaced, I will admit to occasionally doing it on purpose, just to see how many odd looks I can garner in a given amount of time. But mostly, I do it because I enjoy the feel of the world under my feet. The feel of rough tarmac, or stone worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, or the endless wear of the sun, wind and rain. Or perhaps the feel of grass. Cool or warm, prickly or soft, dewy damp or crackling dry.
As I pushed through the dark, heavy wooden doors, and entered the library proper, my feet felt the change from cool marble to warm flagstones, and my nose twitched with the heavenly smell that greeted me.
Books.
The smell of thousands upon thousands of books, ancient and modern. The bindings, the glue, the paper, the ink. The absorbed and slowly-released odours of the places they had lain before finally coming here, to this vast and beautiful hall of words.
In the centre of this sacred place, there were row upon row of shelves, all crammed tightly with the stuff of my addiction. Around the walls there were black-painted iron bars, twisted into phantasmagorical shapes, guarding balconies groaning with more shelves. And in nooks and crannies, around corners, in small, secretive alcoves, more and yet more of the stuff of wonder. The still air was thick and heavy with almost-silence, muffled by the millions of pages contained between the covers. High, high overhead, the sunlight streamed down through thick, rippled, dusty glass, heating the air to a lazy temperature, motes dancing and swirling in the golden deluge. Stuffy, heavy and hot, the air in that cavern quickly pacified me to wandering in a daze through the stacks – causing me to drift along shelves and around corners, deeper and deeper into the heart of the library. Not really looking at the books I passed, merely trailing my fingers along their spines, feeling the texture shiver through my fingertips as I lightly brushed each binding.
Eventually, I drifted to a stop in a dead end. Even this did not bring me out of my reverie, merely caused me to halt by one shelf, and begin to stroke the bindings a little more slowly, feeling the substance of each one with more concentration than before.
Slowly, slowly, my fingers came to rest upon one in particular.
The binding was old, of soft leather. What was inside, I couldn’t tell, since whatever lettering that had been on there had been worn away by time and the caresses of countless hands.
But it felt...good. Special... Intriguing. My fingers tingled, just a little.
So I picked it out from amongst its fellows and, opening it randomly, began to read. The stories it contained – for it was a story book – were...absorbing. Strange tales full of even stranger creatures. And the lustful things they did were even stranger. Beguiling. Absorbing. Bewitching.
As I stood in that isolated alcove, in that vast library, reading, the air seemed to grow hotter with the tales. The doings of the people and creatures made me shiver with delight and ... yes ... desire. Soon, the occasional pleasant tickle of a bead of sweat slowly making its way down a curve or plane of my body was joined by another. As a slow heat built up inside me, I felt a tiny trickle adorn the topmost part of my inner thigh. I shivered again, plunging deeper into the story.
A voice at my ear breathed, “Hello.”
My body stiffened, and the book fell from my nerveless grasp , landing open on the floor. Though the air in the library was perfectly still, the pages riffled and turned, and then were still. My startlement instantly turned to readiness. For what, I was not certain. I had heard no-one approach. Yet here was a voice, whispering a greeting. So close that I could feel the hot breath that made the voice tickling my ear, and brushing the fine and delicate hairs on my neck and shoulder.
I did not turn around. Not yet.
Now I was more alert to my surroundings, I could clearly feel the presence behind me. My back fairly sizzled with the sense of another body, standing closer to me than any person had a right to do. I could feel the heat of him, far more than the hot, lazy air around me. His was a sharp, dry heat that burned through the thin cotton fabric of my summer dress, bathing me in...what? I was not sure, but unwillingly admitted to myself that it felt good. The owner of the voice spoke again. Softly. Oh, so softly. In a voice half way between a whisper and a sigh, and with a hint of amusement, he said, “Well, then. Will you turn around? You called me, after all.”
“C...called...?” I stammered. Swallowing, I tried again, my voice quavering, just a little. “I...I called no-one. I was...reading.”
I sensed amusement from behind me. The soft, seductive voice spoke again. “Indeed you were. And enjoying the story too, were you not?”
“...I...er...I...” I faltered, and then stopped, blushing deeply. The voice chuckled.
I felt a finger trace its way slowly down my spine, from the nape of my neck to the top of my buttocks. I shivered, and felt a twitch, deep in my body.
“Will you not turn around?” The voice asked again, with a very evident smile. “Please?” he added, more softly still.
I took a deep, slightly quivering breath. Slowly, slowly, I acceded to the request.
Standing behind me was a figure. Apparently that of a man, but subtly, unmistakeably not. Everything about him was very, very slightly different. Perfectly proportioned, but elongated. On a busy street, in normal clothing, he would be easy to miss. Apart from the eyes.
It would be hard to miss the eyes.
Deep, deep blue, almost violet, they burned from his nut-brown face like beacons, drawing me in, absorbing. Possessing.
I looked away, as I felt myself being pulled closer, taking an involuntary step back as I did so. This allowed me to see the rest of him. His well-shaped arms and chest. His waist...his hips...his... I gasped and raised my eyes back to his chest, concentrating on the lines and whorls tattooed all over him. The lines themselves were almost as absorbing as his eyes, which I dared not look at again. Not until I had steeled myself to do so. Deep within my body, I began to tremble.
Though my gaze was centred squarely on his chest, watching the lines there subtly shifting with each breath he took, I could still see the corners of his mouth curl up, just a little more.
“Are you afraid, little reader?” he asked.
I shook my head, and immediately gave lie to that as he took a slow step towards me, and I took another involuntary step back.
He seemed amused by this, the smile growing a little wider as he stepped forward again, causing me to step back. I squeaked in surprise, as my back hit the wall at the end of the alcove. My breathing became a little heavier as I realised I had nowhere else to go in this narrow gully between the bookshelves.
I watched him take another step closer, until he was standing almost as close to me as he had been before. I sensed movement to one side, and my eyes darted to it, to watch his hand come slowly up, rising towards my face. As he ran a finger along my jaw to the point of my chin, he whispered, “Please don’t be afraid of me, little reader. I only wish to see the eyes that took such pleasure from my story, and to bring more pleasure to them, if I can... Will you let me look into those eyes again, as I did from the pages?”
As he said this, I felt the tip of his finger put the gentlest of pressure under the point of my chin, as he encouraged me to lift my head.
Slowly, slowly, my eyes travelled up his chest, over his throat and chin, past his still slightly smiling lips, past his nose, until they eventually came to rest where he wished them to. Just for a moment, my heavy breath stilled, as his eyes held me, still and quiet, in their thrall.
Then, he moved his head.
Closer. Closer still. With infinite care and tenderness, his lips, feather light and as soft, brushed mine. Slightly parted, I tasted his sweet, sweet breath, and I was lost. And he knew it.
Carefully, gently, he took my face between his hands, and kissed me a little deeper, his lips parting a little more, the tip of his tongue sliding between my lips. It was as soft and sweet as his breath. Tasting the deliciousness of it, I immediately wanted more. Raising my hands to place them either side of his neck, I kissed him back, more deeply than before. Soon, he released my face to run his hands down either side of my body, his thumbs gently brushing the sides of my breasts as they passed by, causing deeper shivering, and my body to tremble more than it had before.
As lust began to course through me, his hands glided over my hips to come to rest on the swell of my buttocks, squeezing gently. He pulled my hips closer to him, and I could feel the lust coursing through him, too, as he pressed my body between his and the wall. I moaned into our kiss as my insides turned to water and I felt the incoming tide of need rushing through my body as a hurricane began to build deep inside my soul.
Pulling his head back very slightly, he gently sucked my lower lip then, releasing it with a graze of teeth, he kissed his way along my jaw line to my neck, and began, with infinite care, to kiss and nibble his way down towards my collarbone. Still caressing the back of his head, my fingers buried in his hair, I moaned again, a little louder, as he nibbled the skin just below my collarbone, just above the neckline of my dress. Moving his hands there, he began to unbutton the front as he kissed and nibbled the hollow of my throat. My head thrown back against the wall, my breathing became heavier, tiny noises of lust and need escaping my lips as he undid the last buttons on my dress, sliding his hands around my waist. My skin burned where he touched me, the sheen of sweat doing nothing to dampen his fire.
He kissed his way down between my breasts, then lifted his lips from my skin to trail the very tip of his tongue across my salty skin, to take one of my aching nipples into that sweet mouth of his. Moaning louder still, I arched my back as he took that nipple between his teeth and gave it the gentlest of tugs, his tongue flickering over the end, raising such fire in my belly as I had never known was there. His hands slid up from my waist to cup my breasts gently as, with teeth and tongue and lips, he mercilessly teased first one nipple, then the other, until it felt like my whole being was drawn into those small parts of my quivering body.
Struggling for breath now, I whispered, “...please...please...I need...”
I broke off with a gasp as he trailed his tongue over my breast, back up towards my neck, and bit a little harder than before. Hard enough to release the sensations from my nipples and send them rushing back through my body. Pressing me back against the wall again, more firmly this time, he caressed my thigh as he drew it up towards his waist. Eagerly, I wrapped my arms around his neck, and my thigh around his hips as he effortlessly lifted me up and I wrapped the other leg tightly around him.
There was a breathless pause, as the tip of his desire rested against the pulsating centre of mine, and then slowly, slowly, he slid all the way inside me, filling me completely with his heat and his passion.
My gasps and moans grew louder still, and more frequent as he slowly slid in and out of me, alternately kissing my neck, and sinking his teeth into it. His fingertips dug into my buttocks as mine dug into his back and shoulders. The tempo of his movement increased, his thrusting hips grinding me against the wall harder and harder, my legs gripping his waist with the fervour of a woman possessed. Pressed tight to the wall by his passion and heat as I was, I still moved with him, snaking and heaving my hips in time with his. The hurricane in my soul was building ever stronger, spinning ever faster, my back arching, the storm-driven waves of passion mounting higher and higher until, breathtakingly, they broke over my head, and I sobbed and screamed my release. A moment later his voice, which had been silent all this time, joined mine, our voices meshing and melding and spinning through that ancient and cavernous space until the very roof shook with the sound of our joining.
When I came to, lying curled on the warm flagstones of the library floor, the sun was no longer streaming through the windows – the light outside had taken on a curious greenish cast and I heard, even through the thick walls of the library, a long, low growl of thunder. Dazed and confused, I sat up, looking around me in the dimmer light of the clouded late afternoon. I was alone and, for a moment, considered that I may have fainted in the heat, and dreamed a fever dream. Then my eyes fell on the book, lying where I had dropped it.
Its cover was very firmly closed.
As I became more aware of my body, I realised I was also pleasantly sore, and, looking down, noticed little red crescents on my skin, their rouge mostly faded, but obvious to me, at least.
I stood up carefully, testing my limbs against the pull of the earth. They were a little shaky, but held me well enough as I stood, then bent down and picked up the book. As I held it in my hands, I felt a slight tingle from the binding, but it was soon gone. I heaved a sigh of satisfaction and loss, whilst a bittersweet smile tugged the corners of my still-tingling lips. Hesitating, I clutched that book to my breasts, just for a moment, and then replaced it on the shelf. Perhaps I would find it again, some day. Or, perhaps, some other lucky soul would trail her fingertips across the binding, feel its unique call, and release the ink devil.
Another low, rumbling growl shook the air, louder this time, drawing a broad smile from my lips. Hurriedly, I twisted and turned my way through the labyrinthine heart of the library. I stopped for a moment, to retrieve my sandals from behind the pillar, and they dangled from my hand as I ran from the portico into the first fat drops of the storm.
The drops quickly became a downpour, and I danced and sang amid the storm’s blessings, washing my skin in its cool, magical bliss.
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