Themes: Fantasy, Religion, Disobedience
The halls of residence are silent, save for the small noises of the other Acolytes sleeping soundly. The quiet snores. The fitful turns. The creak of Alovis’s bed as he rolls from his back to his side. They’re familiar sounds. Comforting sounds. They try to lull you into that same sleep, pulling at your tired mind and heavy eyes. But you resist. Tonight, you have a mission. Tonight, you’re going to break every rule in the Cloisters.
Silent, midnight silk,
starlight eyes in winter sky.
I’m being followed.
Haiku inspired by my cat. Picture courtesy of Pixabay.
Themes: Suspense, Horror, Fantasy
His hunger was a wildfire burning within his belly, its flames licking greedily at his thoughts. The fire wasn’t doused by the sight of Coira MacDermott bathed pale in the moonlight, her rough woollen cloak pulled tight around her slender body, against the autumn chill—rather, the flames were fanned to an inferno of desire. As he stepped out of the forest onto the dirt track trod by years’ passing of boots and shoes, he licked his lips, already savouring the sweetness of her flesh on his tongue.
Themes: Urban Fantasy, Magical Realism, Mysticism
Theo kicked out at a stray stone, sending it bouncing along the sidewalk. It bounced three times, then went plink! as it struck a post driven into the Stukers’ lawn.
In the yard, Mrs. Stuker arranged items on a table, whilst Mr. Stuker brought another cardboard box from the house. The Stukers had been threatening to hold a sale for years, ever since their son had left home to take a job in Pensacola. Dennis had been a hoarder, a fact Mrs. Stuker complained about often.
“But I’m tired of the doll house. I want to play on the rocking horse.”
Alexander’s complaint reached Maria as she crossed the midpoint of the stairs. The creak of the ancient wooden staircase beneath her feet drowned out his next words, and it wasn’t until she approached his bedroom door that she heard him speak again.
“Oh, fine. But only if it’s a story with monsters in it. Monsters that eat little girls.”
Maria knocked softly on the door, and was rewarded with Alexander’s call of, “Come in!”
When she popped her head around the jamb, she found her adopted son by the doll house, a lip-heavy pout betraying his displeasure. He’d breezed through his terrible twos with barely a cry, but since turning six, he’d become distant and distracted. Maria and Thomas told each other it was just a phase, that he’d soon grow out of it. Luckily, she knew just the thing to entice him out of his room.
“Alexander, I’m about to have afternoon tea. Would you like a scone?”
He shook his head. “We’re playing.”
“Who are you playing with, Alexander?”
Maria looked up at the picture hanging on the wall. The girl’s golden curls crowned her head, the smile on her face infectious as she struck a pose for the camera. Two months after the picture had been taken, the curls were gone. Chemotherapy had ravaged her body, ripping from it the plumpness and vigour of youth. Five months after that, Clara passed away, just a week before her seventh birthday.
Tears stung Maria’s eyes. Alexander had been asking about the picture, lately. Maria had found a sort of catharsis in talking about the daughter she’d lost. But she’d never imagined that Alexander would turn Clara into an imaginary friend.
“Maybe Clara would like a scone as well,” she suggested, blinking rapidly to clear her vision.
Alexander cocked his head to the side, pausing as if listening to something. “No… Clara wants to stay here and play with her toys. But she doesn’t want you to have afternoon tea alone, so I’ll have a scone with you.”
A smile teased its way across Maria’s lips. One of Clara’s last questions had been, “Can I still have afternoon tea in Heaven?” That was the moment Maria felt her heart break.
“Come on, then,” she said, holding out her hand. “While the clotted cream’s still fresh.”
At the door, Alexander turned back to face the emptiness of the playroom. “Alright, you can ride it until I’m done with my scone.” And with that, he left the room and began clumping down the stairs.
As Maria closed the door behind her, she heard a familiar wooden creak. With a shiver, she hurried after Alexander. Just the stairs, she told herself.
I’ve had a bit of a break from writing (and reading—sorry, people whose blogs I follow!) for a couple of weeks to sort out some RL malarkey. But I’ve found time to write this little piece for Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt. Hope you’ve enjoyed it, and please check out Sue’s site for other excellent entries.
It’s should be old news to you, but John and I signed a contract with Severed Press for them to distribute the English eBook and paperback of War of the Worlds: Retaliation worldwide! They re-edited the story, and came up with a killer cover:
Pretty epic, huh?
I promised exciting news, so here it is: Severed Press is interested in another War of the Worlds sequel, and it just so happens that John and I have an outlines for two more books. We’re currently in negotiations for book number two!
Themes: Crime, Urban Fantasy, Sci-fi
Emporium was quiet for a Saturday night, but then, it tended to attract a lot of Espers. Dunno why. Maybe they like the music. Maybe they like that the bar staff don’t ask How’s your day been? as soon as you pull up a stool. Maybe they just like the soft-light ambiance. Emporium wasn’t really my scene, but I didn’t feel as uncomfortable there as most simple, honest folk do.
The beat of synth music pulsed its way out the front door. The bouncer gave me the once-over, but made no move to stop me. Recognised me, probably. This wasn’t my first visit to Emporium, and I doubt it’ll be the last.
My eyes adjusted to the dim, smoky interior, straining for every scrap of soft light they could get. I glanced over couples staring lovingly into each others’ eyes, and scanned the faces of men and women clustered around tables in small groups. It could’ve been a scene from any bar in the city, except for the fact not a damn one of them was making physical contact.
One micey. Two micey. Three micey. Four—
He stopped, stock still, on the gleaming barbed wire fence. The fourth spike was empty. Where was four micey? He’d hoisted the carcass up just yesterday. Miceys did not just get up and walk off the spikes. Not after he’d chewed off their little micey heads.
A victorious squeal from the undergrowth revealed the fate of four micey. A black-tipped tail flashed through the dandelions as an opportunistic stoat made off with the largest morsel in the larder.
No matter. Tomorrow, there would be more miceys to catch.
Every other Sunday I’ll be publishing a drabble about, or from the perspective of, a bird. This week’s bird is the shrike. If birds were the size of some of their dinosaur forebears, you’d rightfully be worried about raptors such as hawks, eagles and falcons. However, perhaps after reading about the shrike, you’d bump it right to the top of your ‘avoid’ list. The shrike is a small, carnivorous passerine (the order of birds which also includes sparrows and robins). Lacking the talons of birds of prey, it hunts by pouncing on its victims from above and lifting them up to the thorns of trees or spikes of barbed wire, where it impales its live meal. It can then tear them apart at its leisure using its sharp, curved beak. Perhaps unsurprisingly, a colloquial name for this tiny killer is butcher bird. They’ll hunt small mammals, other birds, as well as insects such as bees and toxic locusts.