Swings

Tree limb holds the tyre
On twisted rope it swings
Water a leech holds on
As it rocks to and fro

The ground beneath solid
Blades of grass hidden
Kiss the hardened soil
From where they grow

The air is brittle
A cry is heard
Wings cast shadows
‘Cross silvered moon

Orphaned leaves circle
Gathering strength within the wind
And the cry is now a scream
Inside the abandoned barn

Beyond the shadows she is seen
Arched back, waist length hair
Iced in steel swords
She levitates below the beams

Turning to see whose entered
Bones break and could be heard
Onyx eyes stare in my direction
Help engraved into her forehead

 

Perhaps I’ve been watching too many movies of late, but trying to get back into what I enjoy.

If you go out in the woods? today… (Prose)

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above me on the streets
the sound of feet, shuffling back and forth
on slippery concrete treading oblivious
to what lies underfoot
 
where drops splash
I wait, listening for the noise
hidden from those above
the evil unnoticed down below
 
those who are unknowing
the underground tunnels of my world
the hideous who lurk, like me
against the darkened walls
 
 sightless creatures dwell
devouring those who enter
a domain remote, mysterious
beneath the infrastructure
 
curiosity of bourbon
bottled manliness
descends from concrete lids
unsuspecting, into the abyss
 
where icicle like cobweb trails
hangs from moss infected walls
and rodents lay in wait, like me
eager to destroy
 
to anyone who enters my environment
and slips against their will
take heed of my demonic life
my thirst for bones is real
 
tread carefully as you descend
I salivate with thoughts of you
you will not be protected
I’ll seek and then I’ll kill
 
 
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©jmtacken Dec 2013

Photo Credit:  http://www.pinterest.com

 

 

 

The Year 1600 – Flash Fiction

Her hair was left threaded underneath his finger-nails.

Mud and wetted boots from chasing her through the moors, he finally caught up with her, though exhausted, she still put up a fight.

Breathless screams for help did her no good, not out here, where it was too barren, too cold for any human to survive for long, where the heavy fog blanketed the sedge grass and it wilted under its dampness.

Her clothes were tattered, expected, her life lived in the woods at the edge of the moors would be a poor one, but yet she was still pretty. He observed her cream complexion beneath the streaks of mud, her hair though matted a rich red and her lips though dried from the winter winds, voluptuous.

This job was not to his liking, it was dangerous, but it paid a gold florin and when instructed by the council, he did not hesitate to find the ones they sought.

There were other members of family, pacing the small room into which they were thrown, a bucket of ice cold water supped occasionally by the rats and a piece of mouldy bread, thrown in to stave their hunger, not that it was cared for if they lived, for they were to die.

She was the fourth, she was Alison, daughter of Elizabeth Device.

Cattle had been dropping of illness for weeks, winter crops had not flourished and the child not meeting her thirteenth year struck with a terrible fever, died in an agony that lasted for eight days, her stomach bloated, her face contorted from the pain that consumed her young body.

The voices in the village, mumbled, they, the outcasts were the cause, they were witches. Outcasts brought upon them by the people of the village. They had travelled a long distance, their appearance not met kindly by others. At times they would beg for food and were told there was nothing for them to eat, no need for them to be there and they were not wanted. They moved into the woods and lived off the land and what they could steal in the dead of night to survive.

He grabbed the rope from his satchel strung across his back and tied her wrists together, she kicked him. He spat at her three times, to ward off her evil, he was in control and would not succumb to her trickery or look directly into her eyes. Binding her wrists tightly, he pulled her behind him, clenching the lucky stone that was hidden on his leather necklet.

Alison, screamed for him to set her free, she begged and cried with such conviction of her innocence, that he was almost persuaded to feel kindness for her, but he would not falter, this was merely a trick, sorcery and he would have no party to it. He held his tongue.

They reached the village, crowds started to mingle as they watched him bring her in. Her feet now bloodied, her skirts ripped and muddied. Her legs weary made her falter now and then but she picked herself up and walked, silently behind her captor.

Voices started calling out, taunts of the scared. Bread was thrown and a potato hit the side of neck, they laughed as they watched her wince and close her eyes to the pain.

“Death to the witch”, they began chanting.

“Burn her at the stake”, yelled another.

“Aye kill them all, they have done this to our crops and our cattle, they killed Katherine Maloney”, one yelled at the back of the excited, angry crowd.

Her family was dragged out one by one from the cell, three in total, her mother Elizabeth, her brother James and sister Margaret. Alison was the fourth.

Alison locked onto the tear filled, frightened eyes of her mother and siblings and shook her head in silence, nothing would save them, no one would listen or believe.  They had committed no crime, nor practiced sorcery, but lived a secluded life out of necessity, but the village thought otherwise.

They practiced their witchery in the woods, these were the ones chosen by the people.

In the courtyard of the village, 4 large timber posts were dug deep into the ground, hay, torn up muslin and kindling were piled high around the bases.

Four large black crows circled overhead….

“Well well well…what do we have here”

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Three footsteps and he stood silent, his leather boots no longer kicking up the dust.
He looked behind him and to his left. An over active imagination, tiredness, he shrugged, shook his head and continued walking past the out buildings and the well.

Then he heard it for the second time, perhaps a cat had fallen in and was crying out for help. Didn’t sound very much like a cat’s cry, he really didn’t have time this afternoon to save a cat, then again could he live with his conscience if he didn’t.

Kneeling down, he noticed how new the well wheel was, the cogs stood out sharp and crisp. He crouched momentarily admiring the craftsmanship.

He did not notice the long sinewy fingers that hooked onto the edge of the well pit or the deep crimson blood that dripped silently on to the clean brick steps.

He didn’t realise the strength that grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him in towards the darkness of the abyss or feel the blood spit from his mouth as its talons impaled his heart on his descent downwards.

Nor did he hear it purr with delight..

~~~~

For Alastairs – Photo Fiction Prompt – Everyone is welcome 🙂    150 words or less. Thanks Alastair!

http://alastairsphotofiction.wordpress.com/2013/06/02/photo-fiction-sunday-2nd-june-2013/

“My Sanctuary” for Picture it and Write

I am trying something a little different for this post. The below picture is from

pictureitandwrite2copy-1

This is a short story that came to me whilst looking at the picture below (1680 words).

I hope you enjoy the read.

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“Come with me” Robert held out his hand to Mary, who eagerly took hold.
“Where are we going?”
“To a special place nosey, you’ll love it”, he smiled reassuringly.
They had already parked the car and had been walking for over half an hour through the woods. Suddenly the trees came to an end and they reached a clearing at the waters edge.
Mary stood motionless, her gaze transfixed at a broken weather beaten old house with an equally dilapidated bridge that meandered it’s way to a small island on which the house stood.
“Whose house it is?” she asked.
“Mine” Robert replied. “Come on it’s safe, trust me”.
“It doesn’t look that safe, what if the bridge breaks?”
“Then we shall get wet, I suppose”, he chuckled.
 Mary edging her way across the wooden planks looking down at the water below, holding tight onto his hand, till she set her feet safely on land once again.
“How long have you had this? You have never mentioned it at all”.
“I bought it 3 years ago, it was up for sale for so long and it was cheap, too isolated for most, but for me,  it’s a place where I can write and paint to my hearts content, far from the madding crowd as they say, my little sanctuary”.
Robert retrieved the key from his jeans pocket and placed it in the lock. Mary stood behind him looking out at the water, the forest from where they came. This was indeed a secluded part of the world, where you could retreat to, but not really her cup of tea.
The door creaked open.
“After you madam,”he politely suggested holding his arm out in a gesturing manner.
“Why I thank you kind Sir”, she grinned.
Inside was dark and lacked furniture, an old wooden desk strewn with various pens and pencils, a copper lamp and some note-pads. A fireplace that was dusty and full of ash from the previous fire was centred on the far south wall. A small kitchenette, with the same proportion of dust over a saucepan left upside down on the steel sink. A couch, rocking chair and paintings on the wall completed the picture. She smirked giving a slight ‘tut-tut’.
“I know it needs a woman’s touch, I haven’t been up here for over six months,” Robert said trying to wipe down the desk whilst gathering the papers in his arms.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to do that on my account, you do have a bathroom though I hope”? she asked.
“No,  I go in the ocean…joking.. yes right through that door,” he laughed, pointing to a small door off the main room.
“I’ll get a fire started, it’s turning a bit chilly in here”.
Mary went to the bathroom she sat, looking at the corrugated iron walls around her. Thankfully there was toilet paper, though she wondered how old it was and if in fact it was still sanitary enough to use.
“Feel better now”?
“Yes, thank you”, emerging from the loo, blushing slightly
She looked around the walls upon which hung, mini paintings of boats, the ocean and the island itself. In the corner, stood a small easel not noticed on her first inspection, with a rather dirty palette containing dried up paint.
“You do these”? she said pointed to the paintings.
“Yes, my first pieces, so please don’t look too closely, I believe it’s best if one stands back to capture the image properly”.
“They are good Robert, no seriously, really good”. She walked along the  wall admiring them. “What on earth is this one”?
Robert walked up behind her, the smell of his after-shave was almost hypnotic, she felt his breath on the back of her neck.
“That”? “That my dear is my chest fridge, I just love the way the steel has been hammered and…ok I was particularly bored one afternoon, had enough of painting the boats”.
“Fascinating”, she responded, trying so desperately hard to sound convincing.
He smiled. “Why, I thank you Mary”.
“So, no phone, no TV?”
“No none, the last thing I want is to be contactable when I’m in an artistic throe!”, Robert flung his arms in the air with mock grandeur. 
“So much about you that I do not know”, she quipped.
“I’m not that complex, really I’m not, just an ordinary run of the mill kinda guy” he said giving her a slight wink.
She tried to ignore it, maybe he had something in his eye..was it a wink. “So how long do you stay here, at one time I mean?”
“Sometimes a week, sometimes a month, depends on what I have going on and how much time I can get off. Of late it’s just been the weekends and holidays, as work has been so bloody busy” he said placing more wood and paper into the fire-place.
“Please sit down woman, you’re making the place look untidy”, he smirked.
“As if!” she retorted.
Mary obliged and sat down on the small couch in front of the fire place, watching Roberts lean forearms even more closely, the strength in his arms, the tendons, she shook her head to stop thinking this way, she had only known him for two weeks.
“Right then, that should do nicely, drink?”
“Yes please, and what would you recommend?”
“Let’s see, warm coke, water or red wine, I’m afraid the parlour is substantially lacking at the moment. Normally I bring supplies in from the mainland and bags of ice for the chest fridge, but this was spur of the moment to bring you up here, so I’m afraid it’s rather slim pickings”.
“How very primitive of you”, she giggled.”Then I shall partake in some red wine, I would hope it is vintage”?
“I think you will be pleasantly surprised madam”, he said bending down to lightly kiss her cheek.
She gazed into the fire, watching the lights flicker off the timber, the smoke curling its way, into the bricks above. We haven’t been intimate yet, she thought, which is rather odd, but why rush these things, possibly now, here, that will change, thinking of the kiss planted on her cheek.
Robert entered the room, holding the glass of wine.
“For you madam, I hope it is to your liking”, he said handing her a goblet of cherry red nectar.
“Thank you”, she put her nose to the inside of the glass and inhaled the aroma deeply.
“Oh I have wine connoisseur on my hands do I?”
“Not really, I’m just showing off”, she winked back. 
“No electricity out here either?” Mary asked inquisitively, noticing no light switches, I honestly don’t know how you do it, I couldn’t, even if it was only for a few days I’m afraid, I like the luxuries in life, be they ever so humble. This is way too primordial for me”, she said taking her first sip of wine.
“That’s why I love it, I have no need for anything, a bathroom, a desk, a fire-place, a couch, a kitchen, the fridge to keep my food cold, oil lamps and my easel, what more could a man ask for… I mean really?” There was that edgy smirk again, that seemed to hit right in her groin area.
Mary sipped more wine, it was slightly bitter, which she put down to being either, not a very expensive drop or past the ‘use by date’ even for a red.
“Hey, you’re not joining me?”
“No, I’m not much a red drinker, I just had some water.”Please don’t let that stop you enjoying, is it drinkable?”
Mary swallowed a mouthful. “It’s fine Robert thank you”.  “Do you get any visitors?” she asked gulping more wine, for some reason he was making her a little nervous, she had no idea why, probably because they hadn’t known each other that long. The wine was helping waylay any notions that sprung into her head as to where this little relationship or being privy to his private corner of the world was leading.
“More wine Mary?” Robert asked lifting the bottle to her glass. “You seem to be a little thirsty”.
He smiled that broad, delicious come hither smile and the only answer to that question was.
“You are trying to get me drunk and have your wicked way me kind Sir”, she replied hoping that yes that was indeed the plan, instead the only other thing to spring from her mouth was “Yes, please”.
Another glass was consumed, her head was starting to feel heavy, the speed in which the alcohol was taking effect was far quicker than what she anticipated and she was normally good at holding her liquor.
The room started to spin, her body starting to slowly sway and her eyes closed and opened several times as she gazed deep into the fire.
“You ok Mary?”, Robert held her hand “You don’t look very well, perhaps the wine is was too much, you didn’t eat much at lunch today did you?”
She couldn’t speak, she tried too, but no words came out, her mouth was dry and her body felt like lead, the thought of being lain on his bed,  with him beside her was all she could think about. The fire pirouetted before her and just before she passed out into his arms she swore she saw the devil dance in the flames.
Robert picked her up and carried her out of the room, she was so groggy, so unaware of her surroundings, but she heard him speak.
“Let me introduce you to my chest fridge my love”. She barely recognised his face contorting as he spoke.
Kicking open the lid, he gently placed her body inside, she couldn’t speak, could not yell, could not move, what had he done, what was he doing.
“I am sure you will be able to sleep that wine off”.
Locking the lid, Greg whistled as he casually strolled back into the house, grabbing a fresh bottle of red, he walked towards his easel and grabbed his finest red sable paintbrush, smiling.

 

Ramblingsfromamum February 2013

 

Object and Action

Knife struck my chest
eyes stared
to you
stared at the knife
imbedded

blood flowered
on my dress
held the steel
touched your face

mouth opened
words would not flow
from dry lips
I simply murmured

blood engulfed
the blade
hands wet

 
stained fingers sticking
falling to the ground
only to whisper
why

 

http://www.google.com.au/url?sa=i&rct=j&q=black+and+white+photos+of+knives+stabbing&source=images&cd=&cad=rja&docid=vdYPoUQ51j8hcM&tbnid=UQbMNFwjn09fXM:&ved=0CAQQjB0&url=http%3A%2F%2Fboise.pillblogger.com%2FMystery_Man_Stabs_Self.html&ei=PnITUYbRMIHKmQWm2IGgBQ&bvm=bv.42080656,d.dGY&psig=AFQjCNGKFhNT11YTMSp3yEB73bC4cNxDoA&ust=1360315322123149