More fantasy stuff...

This the next part of the fantasy type thing. It's unedited and pretty raw but you can follow it if you liked the first part. So far I've got no title so if you think of something drop a comment.

Dawn

Her mother lay the wet cloth on Marra’s head. She pincered matted hair between her fingers and moved it behind Marra’s ear. Beads of water eased down the girl’s forehead. The Sin sat on Marra’s chest. It moved up and down in the rhythm of her drawn breathing. It placed it’s hand on the cloth. On Marra’s mother’s. The small beads of water continued to roll. It was almost impossible to make them out from Marra’s tears.  

                Sunlight cut through the leaves. The forest became friendlier than the night before. Marra was awake before she opened her eyes.

                The same dream again.

                She could smell the dogs. How bad was it this time? The Sin had never forced her to kill another human but animals...they were a different story. It reminded her of ghost stories as a child. Holding her bed clothes over her face. Afraid to open her eyes. Marra remembered how much darkness had scared her in those years.

                She eventually opened her eyes, just as she had done as a child. Darkness didn’t scare her anymore. There were never any ghosts. The shih tzu’s jaw lay half unhinged, torn down it’s right side as far as the ear. Light was so much worse. The Sin’s red veins had sunk once more. The shade of Marra’s forearm had lightened. For now it would be quiet. Sated. Soon it would be back. Horrible, ferocious. Slowly the shade would darken. The thoughts would flood her mind. Begging her to let go.  Maybe this the time she finally would.

                She remembered the last thing her mother said to her.

                “Hey.” Wren said.

                “Get rid of these chains.”

                “What’s wrong with your arm?”

                Marra looked at the boy. He must have been fourteen. Maybe older. Marra couldn’t tell. His dirty brown hair curled at the edges. Like small waves. His clothes were ragged and torn but the boots were holding together. He shivered in the morning chill.

                “The chains.”

                Wren reached out putting his fingers on Marra’s leg. She felt the heat of his hand. It grew hotter and hotter.

                “I can’t make fire. But I can make this hurt. Make it burn.”

                Marra scowled at him.

                Little prick.

                 “I’ve been marked.”

                “Neph...”

                “You can say the full word.”

                Wren tried to feel like he was in control again. He didn’t even notice moving his hand from her leg.

                “Are they real?”

                “The one that clawed me was.”

                “How big?”

                “Big as people say.”

                The only thing more dangerous than the Madra were the Nephalim. The product of carnal union between angels and men. Like everything else the ancient’s spouted Wren had assumed it was all false. Ravens that were dragon like in their size. Maybe this girl was crazy? But he had seen her arm the night before. That red glow...

                “Do you have the thirst? I mean, do you need to...”

                “I’ve been marked. You know how it goes.”

                “I thought it was all lies.”

                “There are some people who don’t believe there are any elementals left.”

                Wren stood up and walked behind the tree Marra was bound against. He untied her chains.

                “They’re right.”

                Marra stood up and gathered the chains. Wren was intimidated by her height. Raven black hair hung in front of her face. A large green hood covered the rest of her hair. She picked up her bow and began pulling arrow heads from the dead dogs. An Alsatian was still breathing, the arrow had lodged in its throat. Marra stopped. She drew a blade from its sheath. A small dagger. She kneeled beside the animal and placed her hand on its ribs. The dog’s pupil eyes found Marra. She looked back and nodded solemnly. The dog’s neck broke easily. Marra started with the ears.

                “You got a knife?”

                Wren stared at Marra as she skinned the animal. She threw fur into the long grass. Blood stained her fingertips. Wren felt the tingle in the sides of his mouth. Inside felt dry and wet at the same time. His stomach tensed. He kneeled, the vomit flowed freely. Marra heard the wretches before she looked up. She had given way to her stomach several times when she first learned to skin food. She walked past Wren, he wiped the tears and spit from his face.

                “When was the last time you ate?”

                Wren coughed, trying to clear his throat. The words refused to free themselves from his mouth. He continued coughing.

                “It’s all bile. Must have been a couple of days right?”

                Wren nodded.

                Wren coughed.

                “Dogs...they’re okay when you get used to them.”

                Wren nodded.

                Wren coughed.      

 

               

                Dry wood and stones were easy to find. Lighting a fire during daylight was easy. A fire at night could be the difference between life and death. The temperature could fall as far as to necessitate heat. But where heat was necessary it could easily draw attention. Die from the cold, die from a scavenger. The choice was up to the wanderer. Sometimes lighting a fire close to a fort or town could yield a Samaritan. Sometimes it could yield a well placed arrow.

                Wren stacked the twigs on top of the branches. It was harder to notice Wren’s hands glow in the daylight.  He flicked his fingers, sparks landed on the twigs. String lines of smoke rose but the fire wouldn’t take. Marra gave him several attempts before she took two arrows from her quiver. She knelt beside the boy began clipping the heads together. The flames rose.

                “You ever eat dog before?”

                “No.”

                “Thousands of years ago half the world thought it was a delicacy. The other half thought it was barbaric.”

                “I guess we’re the other half.”

                  Marra rooted through her bag and took out a heavy scarf. She began wrapping it around her neck. Wren put out his hands.

                “Can I see?”

                He rolled the cloth in his hands. Looping it, touching every fibre he could. He handed it back to Marra after a few moments. The heat kissed her neck as she wrapped the scarf around. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt heat like this. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She opened her eyes. The dog looked back. The raw flesh of the skinned dog.

A Fantasy kind of thing...

This is a new thing I'm working on...check it out

Wren

Sometimes the dogs followed him all night. Most times he couldn’t see them. A vague awareness they surrounded him. Waiting for him to give up. Most nights he almost did.

                “You can’t have me.” He whispered. Unsure if he even believed himself. What would be so bad about dying here? Nice spot to feed some worms. The thought made him feel warm. A few seconds of gushing red water and it could all be over. Cut vertically, not horizontally. Make sure it’s deep. No pracky scars. What was he really looking for? Did they even exist anymore? Or was it just him. The last of a dying breed. No. There must be more around somewhere. He wasn’t old enough or strong enough to make it alone. If one of the dogs decided to make a move he was done. Would someone else even want to help him? His father had told him stories of the Madra.

                “Kill you as soon as look at you. Maybe rape you first.”

                He forced some sparks out of his fingertips. More dogs than he could count. They barely flinched this time. They were getting use to his magic tricks. He still couldn’t make fire. Nearly fourteen now. It was supposed to come with puberty. Maybe it would never work. Maybe he should lie down and close his eyes. The dogs weren’t scared. It wouldn’t take long. Mandible around the throat. Some pressure, a snap. He could be with his family. At least that’s what the ancients said. Why would a man send his only son to die for our sins? If he was all powerful he could have just clicked his fingers. He wouldn’t even need to click his fingers. That’s how powerful they said God was. There were contradictions everywhere. Faith was for fools. But what if the fools were right? Then he could see his family again.

                The dogs could take him to them.

                He forced some more sparks out. The dogs barely trembled.

                 Maybe a month from now. When things got really bad.

                Wren decided to live. For how long was a different matter entirely.

Marra

 

The Sin was strong today. She hadn’t hurt anyone yet but every day she itched a little more. Marra didn’t understand why some days were worse than others. She had been through four exorcisms. No change. The ancients she had been brought to had never seen anything like The Sin. They didn’t admit it, with their scriptures and bullshit. But they were terrified the possession might take over. They were right to be scared. It had taken everything she had not to gauge their eyes out and bite into their throats.

                Solitude was becoming more of a comfort than it had initially been. Her mother had begged her not to go. With a few more exorcisms The Sin would be washed away she said. Her mother. Willing to die for her daughter, by her daughter, just so she could be with her daughter. There was no more sadness. Just arcing cobwebs in her stomach. The remnants of something that once was there.

                Don’t think them. You has me now. Let me have Marra.

                The Nephalim was the only way. Somewhere she would have to find one and convince it to help her. She wasn’t sure how much time was left before The Sin crawled up her arm and into the rest of her body. It had started as a small dark spot under her index nail. But now it was half way up her forearm.

                Maybe the Nephalim would just kill her. The ancients said they created the Madra. Was that what she was becoming? No. The ancients were full of shit. They were wrong about the exorcism and the possession. Why should they be right about anything else?

                The trees lit up somewhere ahead. Like a half hearted lightning strike. Dogs...maybe a dozen.  And a boy. Darkness. Another flash. This time Marra saw. The sparks were coming from his fingertips. But that was impossible, the elementals had been killed in the Inquisition.

                No weak spark help! Stupid girl. You has me. Kill spark, stupid spark!

                Marra drew her bow. She took a flinthead arrow from her quiver and lined up the shot. The line made no noise as she drew it back. The tree was a perfect vantage point. Not long now, wait for the spark, breathe, release. The Sin tightened around her wrist. A tear dropped from her left eye.

                “I’m sorry.”

                I thirsty!

Whistle and Thud

Jaws snapped closer. He had done his best. Wren accepted what was about to happen. He turned and got on his knees. This was it. Wren had lost count of the days months ago. He had given it a go, he had tried his best. At least he wasn’t going to die by his own hand. More honour in this.

                He felt the dog’s breath on his throat. Air rifling through its nose, lips were drawn back, teeth an inch apart. Strands of saliva hung and fell. Wren’s hands glowed. There were fourteen dogs. The one in front of him was huge. Mean. Behind were some smaller ones, different breeds. A few of the dogs were barely a foot from the ground. They would fight for his scraps. Every pack needed weaklings. But right now Wren was the weakest, he knew it and so did the dogs.

                Something whistled. A dull sound that turned sharp in less than a second. Thud. The dog’s teeth hid behind its lips. The growling turned into sorry whimper.

                Whistle.

                Thud.

                 Another arrow hit. The pack growled and barked. Wren stopped his hands from glowing. He had wanted to see the dog that would kill him. A final act of courage. If whatever was killing the dogs wanted Wren as well the sparks wouldn’t do him any good.

                “Put your lights back on!”

                Whistle.

                Thud.

                Whistle.

                Thud.

                Wren didn’t move.

                “Unless you want an arrow in the head spark up!”

                Embers sprayed from his finger tips. Three of the dogs were lying on their sides. Eyes heaven ways, tongues long and lifeless on the grass.

                Whistle.

                Thud.

                 Whistle.

                Thud.

                Two more fell.

                Whistle.

                 Thud.

                Whistle.

                 Thud.

                A jack russel took one to the crown. Beside it a German shepherd tried to walk. The arrow in its back heavy as a piano. It groaned and hit the dirt. Then there was only the shih tzu. Its tiny bark shadowing the fear.

                No whistle.

                No thud.

                 Twigs snapped above Wren. A shadow landed in front of the dog. Nearly six feet. The dog stood its ground. High pitched barks bounced against the shadow. An arm shot out of the darkness. Thick red veins glowed with magma ferocity. The shadow held the dog above its head. Its forearm illuminated the darkness. It brought the dog close to its face.

                “I’m sorry.”

                A direct declaration. There was no sadness in the voice. The red hand grabbed the snout the other the jaw. The barks weren’t aggressive anymore. They were pleading. Wren turned off the sparks. He didn’t want to watch. A sound like branches under strain followed by a wrenching noise. Bones and teeth ground together, skin tearing. The dog wasn’t barking anymore.

                Thud.

                Wren’s back broke the husk of the tree. He hadn’t even seen the shadow coming for him. The black fingers wrapped around his throat.

                Tighter.

                Darker.

                Tighter.

                Darker.

                Golden butterflies flashed around the corners of his eyes. He barely noticed his back coming down heavy to meet the ground. A beam of light from the moon cut across the shadows face. A girl? Older but still young. Maybe four or five years more than Wren. She clutched the tree behind her and howled. The colour on her forearm intensified. Burning through the darkness. Wren could make out her backpack as she flung it to the ground and tore through it.

                “Shut up. I won’t do it.”

                The words were strong, definite but they were delivered with frailty. As if the sentence was questioning itself.

                “You’re just filth.”

                She pulled something from her backpack and held it in front of Wren. Moonlight bounced off the chain. It hung in concave arc, the red light from the girl’s left arm streaming along the metal. Only the merchants could get you something like this. Wren wondered how the girl could have afforded it or what she might have done to get it.

                “Tie me up boy.”

                A flare of tension in his stomach.

                “You mute? Take the chain.”

                Wren wanted to move. To do what she was asking but his brain couldn’t quantify what was happening. This person had saved him, attacked him and was now asking him to tie her up. It was not uncommon to come across wayward minds. He could just tie her up and keep moving. But Wren continued to stand there.

                “Take the chain before I bite through your teeth!”

                The girl’s voice changed completely. Like a wolf trying to speak. The ancients had talked about demon possession. Was this it? Wren took the chain and looped it around the tree. The lock was cold, it made the sound of a breaking bone as Wren forced it closed. A shiver pinpricked its way through the back of Wren’s neck.

                “Behind you, half a kilometre, the tree with the anaconda roots. Stay there tonight. In the morning come get me out..”

                “How do you know I’ll come back?”

                His voice was dry but he did his best to cover it up.

                “Dogs are the least of a wanderer’s trouble. They would have killed you tonight. Your useless. I’m not.”

                Wren’s fingers glowed.

                “I could kill you. Here. Now.”

                “You can’t even talk without shitting your pants. Come get me in the morning.”

                Wren walked towards the tree. Everything was quiet. Wren listened intently. Sometimes, in silence like this, he could make out melodies. He could never tell if it was something from the distance or just the sound of his own thoughts. A slow melody ambient in his ears. Wren listened.

                It was beautiful.

                “SHUT UP!SHUTUP!SHUTUP!”

                The hut was easy to find. The tree was less easy to climb. His hands felt sleepy when he lit up. Couldn’t grip the branches with any force. Wren’s eyes could just make out the branches but the distance was mystery. Marra had stopped shouting a short time ago. It gave Wren a chance to listen to the melodies once again. His father had made an instrument from wood and string years before. He slid horse hair against the strings. Slow and thoughtful. A trader’s broken heart, a tired mother watching her young child laugh, a spider plucking its web in the aftermath of rain. Wren could hear so much in those sounds.

                The fist tightened around his heart.

                He remembered his father trying to teach him. How was it that his father could make such sounds but Wren’s sounded like high backed black cats? His father never got frustrated or angry. “Everyone has something, this just isn’t yours.” Wren remembered the edge going right through. He remembered the ribs snapping under the pressure. Blood pouring and pooling. The blade was large, even in death it kept Wren’s father upright.

                If wren found that man...

                The fist opened its hand and caressed.

                The only reprieve from fear and sadness were these moments when Wren felt the purity of anger. It ebbed through his body, pulsating from below his ribs. His fingers tingled. He would kill that man. Slowly. He would make him beg. Wren would pretend to consider his captives pleas. Offer him a spark of hope. Make him believe it could be turned to a flame.

                Then he would continue.

                Marra’s hut was small but pragmatic. Branches, leaves and twigs pasted together with mud. This kind of place wouldn’t last longer than a few nights. Obviously Marra hadn’t intended to stay here. Wren kept his lights off. A spark in the wrong place and everything could go up. Through the spaces in the trees he could see stars. He wondered how high up you’d have to go to reach them. There were ancient stories of men blasted to different planets on giant white spears. One story even suggested that a small creature made entirely of metal had been placed on a red planet. Was that what happened the ancients? Did they leave this planet for another? Wren considered this thought.

                 What sort of imbecile would choose to stay on this planet?

                Slowly the melody swayed through his ears. Wren yawned and turned. Another day was finally over. He commit himself to sleep.

Drunken ramblings

Found this in my documents from some drunken writing one night, bit of a laugh...

It all happens in thoughtless, wine fuelled action. The bridge is closing, I can’t see for shit. Trawlers line the quay. Way back when I thought I was someone I’d drink bottles of wine there. I’d cry if I wasn’t so intent. Inside’s like melting tar. Some trendy passes by with a lit apple insignia. I neck wine and hiss. The railing feels hot, wind buffers like it gives a damn. Inside the jacket I’m sweating. Pooling used water against a crying fit of determined flesh.

                Relax. I’m not trying to kill myself. But I’m waiting. Waiting on something to change. The bridge is symbolic. Everything is symbolic if you think about it long enough. The drunk blues haven’t hit. All thoughts are out of reach. I’m in the present. Someone tells their girlfriend that they can’t hide from love. If I wasn’t laughing so hard I’d be laughing real hard. My dick is full of spent vino, I flip it out and get to spraying. The love dove calls me a scum bag.

                “I’ll piss on your sac!” I shout.

                He doesn’t retort. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so funny. Wine gets weightless. I hit bottle two. Fuck the haters.

Dream Diary

Diary thing...not really sure how it's all gonna go. I'm trying for a semi biographical/semi fictitious blog diary. Fictitious cos I'm well aware my life isn't that entertaining.
G'luk

Day Fucking One

The Shape chased me again last night. I was in his house this time, all shadows and creek. He had a prisoner, a girl. Maybe I was trying to rescue her...maybe I was just trying to rescue myself.

                That last sentence is overly dramatic.

                The Shape’s been chasing me for years now.

                It started on the 31^st of October. The lads went out knacker drinking or whatever. I stayed in, wanted to see the scary. John Carpenter’s Halloween. I mightn’t have watched it if I knew how severe it would leave me. Everyone calls the killer ‘Michael Myers’ but that’s not right. If you ride the movie out until the credits the killer’s name is ‘The Shape’. You know the one; walks after you in a white mask/jump suit ensemble. Got a carving knife as long as your forearm. Nothing seems to kill him and you never seem to get shot of him. Little piece of trivia: the budget on the original was so small that they actually bought a William Shatner mask and spray painted it white.

                So now I’m afraid of Star Trek too.

                Fear had me like a surrogate mother. If The Shape was real then Batman or someone would be real too. If Myers showed up to slice me then it was possible for Spiderman to show up and web him. That’d settle me. Eventually I’d yawn out the panic and sleep. That’s when the dreams started.

                I’m way older now and the dreams haven’t stopped. What’s slightly more unnerving is that they usually pre-date something bad. I’m not saying I’m psychic or anything. Just that my nightmares are. November 1^st, the first day after my first Shape dream, my grandmother died. They’re not Banshee dreams, like I have one then someone kicks it. But something bad always happens. June 7^th 2001, I fell and knocked out three teeth. April 20^th 2002 Mam lost her job due to a ‘re-organising’ at work. December 25^th 2004, or as I’ve dubbed it: Black Christmas, the first year where my folks decided I’d stop getting presents. All post Shape dream.

                They’re the only instances I can remember but I’ve had way more Shape dreams. It’s time to get serious about keeping track. If I go down in a hail of bullets tomorrow maybe someone will find this and put some money into a study on slasher-flick themed dreams. Like right now it’s ten forty five and there are a load of craze-balls screaming outside my window. The God damned zombie apocalypse might have started. Though it is football season...

                Anyway that’s the crux of it. I’ll take it day by day. If I’m gonna get Freddied in my dreams by Michael the internet will know. But I’m getting tired now, I woke up at six in the morning and couldn’t get back asleep. This is goodnight.  I’ll post up day two tomorrow, maybe I’ll tell you about the POV-style movie dreams I have. We’ll see how it goes.

                Whatever you do don’t fall asleep...

New: Book/Idea/Short Story/Who Really Knows?

Been a long time since I updated this thang. You'll be glad to know (possibly) Milligrams is in fact finished. I'm going to be sending it off soon so hopefully something will come out of that. They say most novelists only get their second novel published. So at least the time hasn't been wasted, kinda...

Anyway this is an idea I had for a book, I'm kind of playing with the word structure, do let me know if it's too wacky. I'm having a lot of fun with it though I know it may not be the easiest to read.

Laters!

I wore sun cream to the funeral. The family went sweat red. Black suits and sunshine. I was on the outside. No blood, meant I didn’t have to dress up. Not like I have a suit anyway. Church was full inside and out. In death Moses could sure pull a crowd. The woman guiding the hearse flicked her hair back with leather gloves. They opened the boot, took out the wreathes. The coffin slid into family hands. They held it up all Valkyrie  like. 

                I go to Mass Christmas and funerals. Death and birth. Leftover Catholic shit. When you shed the belief a part keeps the fangs in. Maybe it’s just being Irish?  The smell of incense comes on strong. Priest swings the mace thing in pendulum arcs. No one cries during the speeches. Mother sits in the front pew. Hair hangs like willow weeping.

                I stand at the back. Eyes down, don’t look at the family. Tiles are sliced diagonally. Muddy and red like the drinking blood. Dusty. All things in here are dusty. Dust on the top of Christ’s head, dust on Mary’s heels, dust on the bleeding heart. Someone’s polished the snake. He chokes under Gabriel’s foot.

                Chime time. Everyone stands. I’m already standing. Hum dung Druid chants. We wade through words. Like instinct they come off my tongue. Blessed be’s and also with you’s. They’re all there. Waiting in the back of my brain. Everyone sits. Not me.

                Moses  made money the easy way. The hard way maybe? Not my game, ask someone else. Sold out dope. Cut quarters and charged fifties. 

                “He was very popular in the community.”

                Priest says it like it’s not a joke. I see seven people smile. Seven. I count the lips.

                Moses played the last chord his own way. I don’t know much about it. Truth: I didn’t know him. Never met him, never heard a good word. Nail like tough. Looking for trouble. Finding it. Always smiling. Hyena grin. Intimidating. So what am I doing here? Good question. I’m not really sure.

                Ignoring Voice is never a good idea though. He’ll ramble all day otherwise. Start off quiet, by night he’s screaming like a city made of vocal chords. Voice said to go to the mass. Wait, wait. Something important to say before we walk on. I’m not crazy. Not in the I-say-I’m-not-crazy-so-I’m definitely-crazy way. Legit. I hear voices, well I hear Voice, but I’m not schizo.   Http://www.voicesireland.com/Home.htm:  Hearing Voices Ireland (HVI) was founded in 2006 by Brian Hartnett to ‘promote and foster acceptance of voice hearing as a valid human experience’. So that’s that out of the way.

                Anyway Voice told me to come to the funeral. We had a back and forth. Voice won the debate with shouting. He always does that. We have an agreement though. No messing after ten. And he can only talk to me when I play video games if he’s helping. Strategy wise.

                Mass is big with people. The old ones cough heavy. Come on like thunder claps. Nose blows here and there. Painful for ears. And everyone has two. Voice is keeping quiet. That was the deal. Go to the funeral but no talking in between. Only Head Voice is allowed right now.  Head Voice is the one everyone’s got. The one you hear with your brain. If you’ve only got Head Voice then they don’t offer you atypical’s. That means drugs. Abilify, Seroquel and all the others. Psych offered me the antipsychotics before. He thinks I might be crazy. They’ll give a PhD to anyone. Side effects include (not limited to) diabetes mellitus, pancreatitis, tardive dyskinesia, akithisia, dysphoria etc. That sound healing to you?

                Head Voice is wondering how thick the walls are. He thinks it might be two meters-ish. I think that’s what she said. Art teacher in Secondary. Gothic architecture. Pugin and all that. Impression of a sunrise. Monet, like cash, Manet like man. That’s something else entirely. Church is gothic. Are there impressionistic buildings? Head Voice can’t remember. I sigh. Mass is starting to get boring. Still on the sermon. “We’ll all miss Moses, Moses was a good man”. Priest will have to confess later. Lying is one of the ten. Priest doesn’t call Moses ‘Moses’. He calls him John. That was what Moses’ ma and da baptised him. I like Moses better.

                Chime goes off again. Time for the bread. It turns into flesh in your mouth. Transubstantiation. That’s what the Catholics believe. B-E-L-I-E-V-E. And doctor calls me crazy. Bunch of cultish cannibal types. Even Voice says the Jesus-flesh-thing is bollocks. And Voice is the part of me that doctor thinks IS crazy. Consubstantiation I can live with. That means the flesh thing is just a symbol. Like an ideogram but not exactly. That’s Protestantism. Makes more sense than Catholicism. Old Irish are too afraid to admit it. Ninety-Five thesis on a Whittenburg church. Leo X excommunicated Martin Luther for making sense. Silly-stupid.

                Everyone walks up the aisle. Hands held together. Otherwise God gets pissy. Send another flood like the one in Japan. It’s okay though God’s on Valium. He’s not angry anymore. Or he wouldn’t be. If I believed in him. Definitely something out there. But it’s not in the skies and it’s not God. Sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. Better to find out now though. Priest can put the bread in your hands or on your tongue. Old people get it on the tongue. I like it in the paw. You have to say ‘Amen’ or no Jesus-flesh.