Fiction Friday - Souls

Everything was bleary, inside my head as well as my vision. Sounds rang in my ears, but whether voices or music I couldn't discern. I blinked a few times, tried to get my bearings. An uneven path lay before me, the sandy, dry ground crumbling as I staggered forward. Beyond the path, the landscape was a dead heathland: grey heather disintegrating into grey sand; sparse black trees clawing at the grey sky.

I followed the path through the dusty fog, becoming aware of the thin, black line meandering through the landscape ahead. The path didn’t seem to head directly to it, yet it grew larger and wider until the roaring, wailing scream of it overwhelmed my senses, and I stood before it.

A figure stood on the jetty, tall and skeleton thin, wearing dark robes. Dark eyes held mine, and they held out their hand in silence. I looked at the pallid flesh on the palm, and back to the sunken eyes. A deadened, rising panic made me pat my pockets, checking for the coin to pay the ferryman. And when the panic reached my eyes, I looked at the figure again. Their long, strong arms reached forward to grab me, turn me and push me, and understanding flooded me as the water enveloped me, as the river took me down and along and back, memories falling as I tumbled through the currents.

No wonder Earth was so full of souls, if no one remembered to bring a coin for the ferryman.

 

~~ 

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Fiction Friday: Moments of Connection

It’s cold. I play with my breath, fogging in the air, pretending I can make smoke rings. The cold air burns my nostrils as I inhale, warms my mouth as I exhale. My hands are shoved firmly into the front pocket of my hoodie and my cheeks sting against the chill.

I pop into the shop, pick up the few pieces I need. It’s quiet; the few other patrons carefully ignore me and each other. The shop assistant looks directly at me and smiles without managing to hide their boredom. I return the smile, hoping to show sympathy. Pay, stuff the items into the small tote bag, and leave. Tote bag over my shoulder, I secure my hands back in my pocket and start back down the hill.

Silently, a jackdaw flies over my head to perch in a tree. I dodge the shit that falls from it as I step under the bough, and it flies away again.

There’s not as many cars on the road as normal, but enough I have to wait a moment. A white car slows; the driver lifts her hand from the wheel to indicate I can cross. I wave a thanks back, and our eyes meet. We share a smile that feels deep and genuine. Something inside me makes me feel as though she needed it as much as I did. It’s fleeting, gone as soon as I’m across the road and walking on the other pavement. The cold still stings my cheeks, but the warmth of connection stays in my chest.

The road ahead glides out of the fog as fast as the road behind falls into it. The smile stays with me until the looming delivery van’s door opens into my path. The driver steps out and brushes past me as though he didn’t see me, as though I wasn’t even there. I sigh, breath briefly obscuring my view, but keep walking.

Home. Put the things away. Put my favourite mug by the kettle, then head back to the front door to put away my hat and shoes.

There’s that sudden sense of sparkling presence that interrupts me here sometimes; a flash of colour, an exclamation as though shouted through water. It’s gone again by the time I get back to the kitchen, but I’m not surprised to find my mug is back in the cupboard.

There’s another presence here, and I’m not sure if they’re the ghost

or I.

Angela Stannon - "The Angel Mariah"

Martin Stannon loved his wife. She knew he did, because he'd looked after her all their wedded years - she'd never had to work, had raised their two lovely children, had a nice house to keep. But now Lizzy and Peter had moved out - Peter to university, and Lizzy was starting a family of her own, at different ends of the country, and the beautiful house had become a prison, yet every time Angela talked to Martin about the possibility of her getting a part-time job, he'd take her hands in his, look into her eyes, and remind her of his promise when they were 19 that no wife of his would ever need to work. He'd kiss the top of her head, cup her face with his hand, and that would be the end of that conversation. He would go to his chair, flick open a magazine or pick up his tablet, and she would scurry into the kitchen to make him a drink.

Scurry. The words to describe her were the ones you'd associate with a small rodent or a bird. Slight and fine-boned, with a sharp, beak-like nose, she looked like the wind would carry her away. Fair skin, grey eyes, straight, dark hair in a shoulder-length bob, dyed to hide the streaks of grey. Years of shrinking into the background had made her short, maybe 5' 3", maybe 5' 4". She tended to wear plain, flat shoes and slightly oversized clothes.

And she could never admit it, but she was bored.

And then, somehow, she fell through, faded through into the other world. And somehow, she survived - more than survived. She thrived. She made friends, friends who struggled to pronounce her unfamiliar name, and Angela Marie became Angel Marie and eventually, remembering a childhood friend and hero, the Angel Mariah.

The words you'd use to describe her changed: strong, sinewy. She'd never be tall, but she stood to her full height. Her hair had grown out, long and silver-white. Her armour was made for her, and when she wielded her sword, her eyes flashed with steel.

She was a hero, a healer, a defender of the weak and unrepresented.

She still thought of home, often, and hoped to find her way back... but if she ever did, could she survive there?

~~~

I've still got a lot to work through with her, mostly relating to the world she's fallen into. I need to figure out how she ended up there, and why; how she survived initially, who she met to help her; had she been there before, and if so when? What warning did she get before fading through? I feel like maybe she faded through a few times as a child, or someone from there faded to here and became her ('imaginary') friend, but I don't know who they are (I think a tall, slender man of indeterminate age dressed in green - not Drop Dead Fred in anyway, but fey, amused and dangerous nonetheless). Did they drag her through this time? I think she maybe faded through a couple of times and recognised what was happened ("Oh God no, I thought it was a fantasy"), so had time to prepare a bag for when she faded through and became trapped. I'm not especially interested in the family left behind, except in a distant way, but I like the idea of the confusion as the police and husband try to understand why she took the items she did - a couple of kitchen knives, for sure, but no significant amounts of money, and nothing that couldn't be kept in her coat or handbag.

FictionFriday - Lonely Throne

I really wanted to write something for FictionFriday but lacked inspiration*. So I dug out an old notebook from when I was at school and found lyrics to a song. If I can just decipher my handwriting... 

You've seen it all before

You've lived in other lands

You've seen devils climb and angels fall

You've danced across sun-baked sands

You've listened to wild-cats call

You've cut off thieving hands

Chorus:

Give up your crown to me

Relinquish your ord and sceptre

Stop trying to live your life alone

You've danced where the angels mourn

You've seen innocence in eyes of child
You've ridden plains on a unicorn
You've seen murderers act mild
You've heard demons laugh and cherubs scorn
You've watched fear turn wild

Chorus

You've seen where elephants place their dead
You've drunk clean water from a stream
You've danced with angels on a pin head
You've climbed mountains into dreams
You've thought before every word you've said
You've listened to faeries scream

Chorus

You've taken wild-cats, made them tame
You've seen things you thought weren't there
You've felt pity for things you've slain
You've not been afraid to show you're scared
You've taught elves to play your game
You've shown people when you care

Chorus

You've lived your life by choice alone
You've flown pegasi across the sky
You've learnt things no one's ever known
You've seen beauty in the tears you cry
It's time you learnt to share your throne
It's time you met my eye

 

~~~

*Not entirely true - I've got a supervillain and a superhero I want to write stories for, each inspired by chronic pain. I haven't quite worked out the details for either, though. I work on the characters a little bit whenever my pain levels bother me - villain when I'm grumpy and wish others could feel what I feel; hero when I'm feeling heroic with my ability to cope ;-) 

FictionFriday - The Bargain

Sophie pulled her thin jacket closer around her and gave her short, pale friend a pained look, but followed her into the cemetary anyway. It was a quicker route back from the gym to the car, and she was too old to be afraid. She shivered, all the same, and the misty rain was only partly to blame. She mentally scolded herself as Kelly called her, laughing, to hurry up.

You're not a child any more, to believe in ghosts and bad dreams. And it was just a bad dream. 

Each step was an effort and she stuck closely to the centre of the path. Kelly rolled her bright blue eyes, but walked back to link arms, but when they reached the chapel at the centre, her bouncy nature caused her to break away: "Hey, look! A green woodpecker!" She wrestled her phone from her pocket and crept forward, intending to take a photo as it landed on a gravestone. Of course, as soon as she got close enough for her phone's resolution, it flew away. She sighed - and followed quietly through the graves, leaving Sophie alone.

Sophie sighed and stuffed her hands deep into her pockets, trying to keep her mind off where she was. The longer she stood there, the more landmarks she recognised, until she became convinced she had been in this cemetary before, and that it was the cemetary of the dream that, then, maybe hadn't been a dream. Maybe it had happened...

Hadn't happened. Couldn't have happened. Must have been a game she'd played here, and with an overactive child's imagination had become so real she'd had to convince herself it was a dream to cope.

She looked up, and the stone angel caught her eye, the corners of its mouth turning in a conniving smile. Too much. Too much for now. She wanted to call for Kelly, but knew if her friend would be unimpressed if she disturbed the birds she was trying to photo.

She walked - fast - the rest of the way out and ran for the car, hoping that Kelly had got bored chasing the bird and was already there. But no. Sophie took in a deep breath and exhaled carefully. Kelly had the keys. She waited a few more minutes, then pulled her own phone out and sent a quick message to Kelly "I'm at the car." Thrust her phone back into her pocket without checking to see if it had been delivered. Not because she was afraid it wouldn't be. That was ridiculous. But...

Another long minute passed. The cold started to seep in. She pulled her phone back out her pocket to see the message had been delivered - but not read. She didn't know if that was better, couldn't see Kelly from this angle.

How long do I wait?

The misty rain shaped figures among the graves.

I'm being ridiculous.

But she checked her phone again, twice, to see the message still unread, before ringing Kelly's phone. Only when there was no answer did she go back in. Has she tripped and fallen? Has the beast got her? Don't be ridiculous. She's fine. She's just distracted by the wildlife. Are the ghosts calling? Oh grow up grow up grow up.

She followed the path back to the chapel, back to the smirking stone angel opposite. She tried Kelly's phone again, hoping to hear which direction to go, but nothing: this time, no connection. On a whim, she followed the smirking angel's pointing arm, threading through the graves with barely compressed horror to reach an open mausoleum.

Her heart pounded. She knew this place. She'd been here before. Of course here was where she'd find Kelly. A half-remembered bargain floated through her mind: You're too young to be any good to me. You're too shy. I'll let you go if you bring me another - one who has no fear. That certainly described Kelly. Nothing phased her, and she was quick to make friends with everybody. Fuck.

Inside was dark and cool as a cave. The sound of her footsteps seemed as deadened as her heartbeat, each step enveloping her deeper in the dark. Startled laughter brushed the back of her neck - not Kelly's bright sound, but something deeper. You returned! The voice that rode her mind seemed as surprised.

"I did." Her voice was flat in this nowhere place.

For your friend... It wasn't a question, so Sophie didn't answer.

The darkness shifted around her, became bright light. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust: a fireplace right in front of her. There was a cough from behind and she turned to see Kelly seated at a table covered in candlesticks, glaring even after the fire. It wasn't exactly Kelly. No it said, in Kelly's voice from Kelly's mouth, and that fingernails-in-the-brain voice at the same time I'm just borrowing her. It paused, cocked Kelly's head to an extreme angle, and seemed to consider for a moment. How about a challenge? You can win her back, if you like, but if you lose... well, you'll break the bindings and I'll walk out of here with her. Or you can walk away and leave her here with me, for my eternal... pleasure.

Sophie paused long enough for it to snap Which is it? in a pain-sharp streak.

She pulled out the chair opposite. "I'll play."

It twisted Kelly's head again to that unnatural angle. Poker? It asked, a deck appearing in Kelly's hand. 

Sophie nodded, scarce able to breathe. "Five card draw?" She kept the shake from her voice but not her body, and couldn't embed any certainty in her words. "Two rounds of redraw?"

It placed the pack in the centre of the table and 5 cards were dealt to each, spinning through the air from the deck with no hands. Sophie carefully gathered hers. A 3, a 6 and a 9 - and a pair of queens, clubs and hearts. She discarded the 3 numbers and the pack dealt her 3 more: a 5, a 2, and the queen of spades. She looked over them to where Kelly's face wore a smirk as the creature discarded a pair of cards. Sophie again discarded the non-queens, while Kelly's arm tossed back the two that had come to it.

As the new cards arrived, Sophie mustered every ounce of self-control to look and see... the last queen. She nearly sobbed with relief. The creature in Kelly looked up sharply You think your hand is good? Show me!

Sophie carefully laid the cards down on the table and was rewarded with a violent hiss: Kelly's hands lay down their cards. The jack of hearts. The 10 of hearts. The 9 of hearts... The king of hearts. Relief flooded Sophie as she realised there was no straight flush to beat her four of a kind and now she laughed, and reached for her friend's hand to pull her out of the mausoleum.

The girls stood blinking in the sunshine. Kelly rubbed her head. "I must have tripped and blacked out. I don't remember getting here..."

Sophie put an arm around her. "Maybe a concussion. Should I drive?"

Kelly blinked her green eyes as they walked back to the car. "Thought you were afraid of this place?"

"I was, but I guess I got over it."

Kelly nodded, and as they reached the car fumbled in her pocket to hand over the keys.

Sophie didn't see the joker card that fell to the ground.

 

FictionFriday - The Ghoul

The Ghoul

Whenever you go I’ll be by soon after

A womble, recycling life.

The mourners depart, I descend from the rafter

Wielding my flesh-paring knife.

I have no interest in your hair or your teeth

Someone else might but not me.

My taste's for your skin and the flesh there beneath,

Giblets and blood giving glee.

I walk through your body, your life barely lived

Taking whatever I need.

Giving no thought to the things that you’ve loved,

My motives are anger and greed.

I am the raven picking through your paper bones;

I am the bat chasing your ghost in the sky

I am the maggot stripping flesh from your home

I am the cat who walks on by.

I eat what I want, the rest is discarded

Your life lost in plastic bags.

A shallow grave, ashes scattered unregarded

Disposed of like dirty old rags.

We creep through your home, tearing flesh from your bones

Paper shredder helping you rot.

Erasing all signs of your life and your times.

Until finally you are not.

FictionFriday - Ghost Rush

For this weeks Fiction Friday, inspired by our Deadlands game, I wanted to write something Weird Western, à la Ambrose Bierce. I want it to be the kind of story that can act as an idea seed for somebody running something in a Deadlands style setting, which means a more external horror to the sort I usually write, and I actually don't know that much about the American western history, so this might not be the best plan, but meh.

Don't forget to check out Icarus's blog for her offering to the day, and please add a comment with a link to your own!

~~~

Mary 'May' Louise Albery led Titus the donkey back towards her family's camp. Drowning in the heat of the Californian sun, she was less irritable than when she'd left to collect the supplies, grateful to be getting back to her family.

They'd reached the area early enough to have a large, remote claim to work in, and had had a fair amount of success panning for gold in the streams that criss-crossed their claim, but their father's dream, the reason he'd uprooted them from their ranch and dragged them halfway across the country, was to find a real mine that would keep them for generations. And now maybe they had. Her sister Elsa had traced a stream to a cave that looked promising, following whispers, she claimed. Heat, the rest of them blamed.

Yesterday, as the eldest child, May was sent back to town to get supplies so they could start mining. She'd argued, wanting to take at least Tom with her - so he'd learn the way for future, she'd said, but really because having Titus as her only company was wearying. But her father had wanted Tom with him, exploring - and was called strong-willed and other names. She felt a small prickling of pride and gratitude to be in California then, where the influx of people meant women - girls - were allowed to be strong-willed. So armed with the two guns - the rocksalt rifle to scare off animals without damaging their own livestock (and how she missed them sometimes), and the pistol for last resort against real threats to her life or virtue - she packed up Titus with enough raw gold to trade for what they needed.

And now she was on her way back to them, still cross from the heat, scratched by the clawing trees, and far less steady-footed than Titus. Slithering along the scree, she was close enough she should be able to hear them and couldn't: they'd escaped the heat exploring the cave, then. As she reached their camp, it was indeed tidy and empty. She unloaded Titus, rubbed him down while feeding and watering him, washed and changed herself, ate a little. They still weren't back; she wasn't particularly worried, knowing her father was sensible enough that if there had been a cave-in they wouldn't all be inside. 

She checked the boundaries of their claim, then as a peace offering for her temper the day before, she prepared a meal for them. She packed it up, checked the guns, slung one of the new pickaxes across her back and grabbed a lantern in case it was dark coming back, and carried the food to the cave mouth.

She could see signs they'd been working hard - but no sign of them being there now. No sounds, no lights flickering inside. Her breath caught as she felt tendrils of fear for the first time. There had been no sign of them on the route she'd taken, no sound of them. 

What now?

Falling into habits of practicality to calm herself, she dug a shallow hole and stashed the food in it, covering with a cairn to protect against wild animals. It helped a little.

She checked the guns again, tested the weight of the pickaxe before lighting the lantern and stepping into the cave. She didn't like that it meant she was one handed, but she needed the light.

Her family had been busy: ropes marked the path they'd taken, which made it easier to face the cool darkness. She'd hated the heat, but in the dark found she missed it.

The passage wound round and her feet were quickly soaked by the stream. Her splashes and stumbles echoed until she felt swallowed by another world, a dreamscape of shadows and reflections. She followed the guide ropes as the route twisted, rose and fell. Had she been less afraid, she'd have thought it a strange route to have taken. Had her own breathing been calmer, she might have noticed the other breathing sooner.

The passage narrowed until she could barely squeeze through - too narrow for her parents to fit, but when it opened into a large chamber she saw them, all her family. Each was pressed against the walls as though held up by some invisible force, and she could see them clearly, lit up in gold. Lit up by the gold. She held the lantern up, to begin with, in awe, but placed it down when she realised the gold was itself glowing.

Her mother was closest to her, then her siblings with little Elsa centre and highest, and her father the other side, his eyes fury. They were all pinned high enough she wasn't sure she could reach, but scrambled at the wall to try. Her mother watched, fear across her face, but unable to move. May couldn't reach; she hefted the pickaxe to strike the wall, try and create some purchase. Her mother's eyes widened, and a fearful howl echoed through the chamber. She dropped the pickaxe and covered her ears as she stared round, seeking the source. The howl dropped to laughter and faded. She wanted to run, couldn't think over the rabbit-fast beating of her heart, but seeing her family she knew she couldn't leave them, had to fight down her flight instinct and try again.

She reached down for the pickaxe and ignored the howl as she swung it again, again, drowning it out with her own grunts and howls. Her mother started to writhe above her; she didn't trust herself to look around at the rest of her family. Swung again.

A hand on her shoulder. She swung around as she wet herself, and nearly embedded her pickaxe in her father's body. She ducked beneath his arm, stumbled away as he swung at her, clumsy, reddish black smoke in his eyes. He came towards her again, grabbing at the pickaxe. She let him take it, using the motion to twist further from him, to the centre of the room. He flung the pickaxe away, drawing her attention to the pile of equipment it landed by - everything her family had brought with them, apart from the rope that had guided her.

She didn't want to hurt her father, but he turned to her, walking forward with jerking menace. She fumbled to release the rocksalt rifle. They'd used them on the ranch to scare off wildlife, because the lightweight shells wouldn't pierce the hide of their cattle, but the guns still made a good bang to frighten. She hoped it would help here, as she pointed it at her father and screamed as she fired.

Her father staggered back, blinked, the smoke clearing from around his eyes. Blinked, and reformed. He started moving again: she fired again. He was closer, this time, and the shell fractured, embedding the salt in him. He fell back, and the smoke dissipated. 

The howl returned, screaming, but she'd already turned to the rest of her family. Whatever spirit was keeping them here seemed to have weakened and they were sliding, falling to the floor, but with enough freedom of movement to soften their landings. Tom caught Elsa in his arms, while Bridie ran for their mother, who in turn reached their father - unconscious, but alive. May stood at the centre, reloading the rocksalt rifle, looking round as a thick smoke billowed.

May yelled for Tom to get the others out, as she raced for the equipment pile, seeking lamp oil. She stood the bottle up as Tom returned to her - the others had run back down to the tunnel, Bridie and Elsa squirming through. She and her brother shared a look of terror - how would they get their parents out - as the smoke-being continued to solidify, developing ruby-red eyes and an uncannily human form. 

Tom helped her hack her skirts to create a wick. They dipped one end in the lamp oil, lit the other and threw it at the creature. The skirt remnant wrapped around it, encasing it, as they ran back to that narrow entrance.

The howling rose behind them, but the horror of it shifted to pain and the whole room seemed to swell and contract, swell and contract around them. The motion gave their mother space to pull their father through the passage, May and Tom following closely behind.

They emerged into a cool, blessed moonlight. May immediately swung back around, rifle raised, but no smoke billowed out from the entrance. Tom and Bridie pulled stones over the entrance, and they made their way back to the camp.

Their mother nursed their father through the night. In the morning, May led her younger siblings back to the cave entrance, where they laced it with dynamite to cave it in. They returned to the camp to find their father finally conscious again, but blind.

They left California the next day.