We all see it
All perceive the truth
Children in cages
We know what it means
Here come the memes
The outraged status
Rules the day
Governments
ISSUE STATEMENTS
Then
We turn away
Muttering
Up next?
Ovens
Prepare your placards!
Or is all as it appears?
Where is the truth in what we see?
If we cannot believe what we see – we will give up belief.
And there’s the point.
In response to my daily prompt Perceive
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here. Very late this week – it’s not been easy in our lives lately. Hopefully not too late but if it is – hey – I need to keep it going for my sake.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
All night she had waited. Watching that dark cave. She knew it was occupied – there had been a fire lit there.
Yet something has held her back. Fear – of what?
Well, for one thing, she did not know how many people were in there. Or what their reception to a stranger might be.
But she was in just as much danger hanging around out here. There were too many wild beasts that would finish her easily.
And she was cold and hungry and alone.
She had nothing left to lose – she told herself. But though she was young, she had lived long enough to know exactly what else she could lose. He life was the least of it.
All night this battle had raged in her, fear of the night, fear of the cave and that fire.
And beneath it all, grief boiled and churned. Tears flowed silently for the family she had lost to that treacherous wave.
Was there a family up there? Huddled in warmth and safety around that fire. She could recall many such scenes with keen sharpness and pain.
Then a thought struck her – if her family had been there they would have posted lookouts. Maybe there were not so many occupants in that shelter.
As she thought over that the sun rose, burst over the cliff top and spilled light like new hope onto the plains.
She stood. Her decision made. She started to climb to towards the cave.
#writephoto
I love a title
My name underneath
The first few paragraphs
The format
The shape
I love beginnings
I love endings
It’s the struggle in between
In response to my daily prompt Love
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Employ your words well
To communicate
Not condemn
Listen to all the depths of meaning
Conveyed
Instead of correcting
To shore up
Your sense of superiority
In response to my daily prompt Employ
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Brawn of the bear spent
The eagle sharpens it claws
This will bring no bliss
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #206 Bliss&Brawn
#amwriting, #postaday
A ring of solid light
Hovers just above the ground
Spinning with infinity
Casts glamour all around
This is
Where the white wolves dance
It is said the be the child
Of the seed of forbidden fruit
Born from secret knowledge
Found on a hidden a hidden route
Around it
The white wolves still dance
The colour pulses wild
Blue, silver and pure white
Dragging hearts round and round
Beneath the starlit night
And so
On the white wolves dance
In a time-worn trench, they dance
Circling below the light
So deep the light they cannot see
The circle is out of sight
Yet still
On the white wolves dance
The circle has been burnt
Into their very eyes
So while the dark wolf dreams
And while the dear time flies
Onwards
The white wolves dance.
So high upon their mountain
On an island on a lake
Isolated and secure from
The world they do forsake
This is
Where the white wolves dance
A deep and dark filled cave
Upon a mountain high
Where no light dares enter
And no echo finds reply
Shallow
The dark wolf dreams
A rumble from within
Deep in the dark wolves throat
The echo of the growl
The terrifying note
Fitfully
The dark wolf dreams
Strong appear the chains
That bind him in his sleep
But stronger still the anger
That grows within him deep
Brooding
The dark wolf dreams
Bitter is the dark wolf’s heart
Long his memory too
Some will be spared his wrath
But they are counted few
Grim
The dark wolf dreams
Terrible his waking hours
Thus the grey wolves grieve
Any heart with secrets dark
Had better rise and leave
Briefly
The dark wolf dreams
So do not be deceived
By the mumbling and the snoring
Born of rage and constriction
Of rending and of roaring
And of waking
The dark wolf dreams
On a barren plain
Where food and joy are sparse
The desolate packs wander
Watching slow time pass
Here
The grey wolves grieve
With rose stained eyes
Patrolling their border wide
Preserving what is left
Of what they hold inside
It’s why
The grey wolves grieve
They gaze across the delta
To far off distant times
Where game and ease were plenty
Than in these austere climes
And so
The grey wolves grieve
Disgusted by the carnage
Where the red fox roams
On guard for rebel spirits
Keeping safe their homes
Where
The grey wolves grieve
Yet what they seek in earnest
Deep within their hearts
They know is far beyond them
Beyond their stilted arts
Endless
The grey wolves grieve
The packs struggle onwards
Huddled in their gloom
Their hearts so full of anguish
For hope, there is no room
In this land
Where the grey wolves grieve
The timid beasties scatter
With tiny racing hearts
The scent of blood approaches
The herd all ways it parts
For here
The red fox roams
The scent of fear it rises
And fans the fox’s fire
Into enslaving passion
To raise the killer higher
Thus
The red fox roams
Filled with hate and ire of
Where the white wolves dance
The dance the fox desires
Denied its golden chance
Everywhere
The red fox roams
The world has grown accustomed
To fear of tooth and claw
The world has grown so weary
Of lives lived short and raw
Still
The red fox roams
The timid beasties scatter
Will never make a stand
They’ll not accept the secret
To gain the upper hand
So proud
The red fox roams
No one knows the course
Where the fox’s road is heading
All they see is darkness
The cast of all the spreading
Death
Where the red fox roams
In response to my daily prompt Wolf
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
“This was where you found it?” Ilaria said brushing her fingers along the smooth stone bones. “It doesn’t look that old.”
“My father found it,” he corrected it, “and it’s not. At least this isn’t.”
He nodded at the stone skeleton that adorned the tomb.
“This is a reconstruction of the original that had been badly damaged.”
Ilaria shuddered at the thought and again he surprised her by noticing. She wondered if he were really blind.
“Those Victorian’s did not share our modern obsession with preservation,” he smiled.
“Who was he?” she asked
“One of the past wielders. A French lord. There are many myths surrounding him, most of which involve sword fights. Most sound ridiculous to most people. You will find them – easier to accept in time.”
She frowned, wondering what that meant. He went on.
“The sword was found in his tomb. His enemies buried him with it.”
“It survived the fight then?”
“He did not die fighting. He died of old age.”
She stared at the detailed – almost lifelike stone carving. Lifelike! Ha!
But it was exquisite – if it was accurate the man must have been an imposing figure. Certainly tall.
“He was undefeated then,” she observed.
“Death claimed him eventually, even Northblood cannot stay that blade. He lived a long life, spinning his own stories. It is from him we got many of the tales of other wielder’s. They do not seem to have lived such charmed lives as he. But in the end, he died alone, an old blind man.”
#writephoto
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
He sat staring too the horizon. Waiting. Occasionally he would sharpen the sword that sat against his thigh.
The sky was bathed in fire. It was a sign. He was sure.
The metal felt warm in the sunlight. He caressed it. He was sure of his fate now.
He had never wielded a sword before. When this one had been gifted him from the sacred pool, he had put it away safe. Never thinking he would need it. Never thinking he would want to.
Now he had no real need for it. But he wanted too.
He has been away. Delivering corn downriver to another village who had need of it.
That’s when they came. Invaders from the north.
They had taken his family. Everyone one, slaughtered. He had nothing left.
Nothing but revenge.
He had been a farmer. No more. He knew he was no warrior, knew his life would most likely end this night. The invaders were returning, rumour preceded them. He scanned the horizon where their dark figures would appear.
No, he would not survive the night. But this blade, this fiery, beautiful blade, would earn its name tonight.
Tonight, it would drink northern blood.
#writephoto
UPDATE – I have now started my own! It can be found here
I only found out about this today!
After all this time the Daily Post is sounding the Last Post and bidding us farewell.
Damn!
I need it! I will miss it! I need a push every day – I may not use it – may not do it every day – but it helps. A lot!
Retrospective? Well, all I will say is that there was a tie, a few years ago I came to the realisation that I had neglected my passion. I stopped writing. Once I realised I tried to start again. It was difficult. Very hard to gain momentum. That is where the Daily Post came to my rescue. It gave me the inspiration I needed.
Now it won’t be there.
I suspect I am not the only one sorry to see it go.
So I may start my own. I might just put up a prompt each day. Can’t provide the fancy screen that shows all the entries – if anyone else does use it but I will give it a go.
In the meantime – here’s a suitable poem.
Old light from the past
Is still illumination
Wisdom echoes far
In response to the daily prompt Retrospective
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
She had run from the stately home – from ghosts and strange blind men – both alive and dead.
But not far. She had very quickly got hold of herself. Now she sat outside a provincial coffee shop sipping the best she’d tasted for some time.
As she drunk she stared at the place in the distance. Turrets rising from the darkness like the beginning of some gothic horror movie.
Only now she knew the ghosts were real.
How she knew that she was not sure. It went against everything she had ever believed, against the grain of her fundamental seeking for truths.
But she did not doubt what she had seen.
So, that is how he found her, sipping coffee, staring at his home.
Vaguely, she wondered at that. Had she stumbled straight into his favourite place? Had he had her followed? Again, she noted that he seemed to need no guide. He must be familiar with this place as well.
He sat across the table from her and waited.
“Who are they,” she asked eventually.
He smiled wryly and lifted one shoulder and a strange shrug.
“That is the question. One there has been no answer to. All I can tell you is that through all the stories, down through the years – beyond history – they are there – along with the sword. With Northblood.”
“Stories? Do you have them all?”
“All, that are known of,” he replied. “There are gaps in time, and as I said, they go beyond written history.”
Again, for no apparent reason, she believed him.
“Will you tell me them?”
“I will,” he nodded. He signalled to a waiter and ordered himself a coffee. Then he resumed.
“But if you are seeking truths, stories will not suffice. You must take more, you must take responsibility.”
She cocked her head at that.
“What do you mean?”
“It is time Northblood was held by new hands.”
“You want me to have the sword?”
He nodded, then added more quietly.
“But there is a cost.”
#writephoto
More fucking shopping
I’m consumed by consuming
Working just keeps up
Originally published in A Spring of Dreams
The news chills today
The child killers found guilty
Will justice suffice?
In response to the daily prompt Guilty
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
This was the second time Ilaria had walked down this Avenue of trees today. Earlier it had been bright sunshine and lush green grass. Now it was grey and blue in the moonlight.
Then, he had walked with her. The Count. She had learned he was a Count almost immediately. It had amused her mildly. She had followed all the clues and they had led her to a castle where a Count lived.
It has all the makings of a horror movie. Or maybe a quaint period romance.
She had no taste for either. She rarely read fiction. She preferred a good textbook, preferably history.
Somehow he had known that.
She had badgered him with questions which he deftly danced all around and avoided with politeness. As she talked, he walked. Moving at a leisurely pace. She noticed that despite his age – she guessed around mid-fifties he seemed quite fit. Moved with a strong, feline confidence.
She barely noticed that they left the darkness of his personal museum and found themselves strolling in the dappled sunlight beneath the trees.
When she did she also realised that, despite his blindness, he had not faltered once. He had been sure-footed and need no guide.
She stopped. Taking in the implications.
“You have lived here all your life?” It was the only explanation, he must know the place intimately.
“As have my family for several generations.” he smiled, amused at her question.
“A French Count.” she mused.
“An English title, my family moved here many years in the past, the title came with them and stayed.”
“And you? You have stayed here, never left?”
“Oh, I have travelled in my time, all over the world.” There was sadness in his voice now. Maybe he had not always been blind? Did he mourn the loss of all the sites he had seen?
She pushed on with her quest for answers though.
“Is that where you collected all those weapons?”
“No, that was not me. That was father’s passion. I don’t really care for the collection – it holds no interest to me.”
“Except for that sword.” There could be no denying his interest in that sword. It had pride of place n his house.
He smiled wryly, as is admiring her insight. He nodded.
“Yes, except that sword.”
“Was that one of your father’s acquisitions?”
“It was. One of his last.” he began walking again, drawing her down the avenue.
“He never knew what he had, he dies shortly after bringing home.”
“But you do?” she said. “You know what is special about it. What is it? And what are those figures?”
He stopped again, turned and faced her. He sighed and appeared to be considering his answer. Finally, he spoke again.
“I know your type. You are obsessed with facts – with explanations, not mystery.”
She bristled at this description of herself, to the way he had pigeonholed her, she wanted to dispute it, but she didn’t know what to say. She realised that he had hit the mark.
He went on.
“You want answers, explanations. I am not sure I can give you that. What I can tell you, you would not believe.”
“Try me,” she said. Something about all this had hooked her. She needed the answers in a way she had never felt before. Her calm assessment of everything that had gone before in her life seemed to have been washed away by this sudden, irrational obsession. Though it frightened her – she found she could not turn back any more.
So her heart lurched when he answered.
“No.”
She began to protest but he held up his hand.
“I cannot tell you in any way you would accept. Therefore, I must show you. Meet me here again, this exact spot at midnight.”
She almost snorted, almost derided all this theatrical nonsense. Almost walked away from it all.
But he did not give her the chance. He whirled around and stalked away from her, leaving her open-mouthed.
So she found herself back beneath the trees in the cool night, wondering if she were starting to go mad.
“Are you ready to open your eyes?”
She jumped in fright. The count had come up beside her in silence.
The air felt chill now. Yet, somehow, in spite of the situation, she did not feel any threat from him.
“What are we waiting for?” she asked, trying to keep the scepticism from her voice.
He pointed his cane down the avenue.
Where two faint white figures approached. They were misty and translucent and seemed to be sunk in the ground up to their waists.
She stepped back several paces in fear. What the hell! They looked for all the world like ghosts approaching them.
The air felt colder still.
This could not be! She whirled around looking up in the trees for the light of a projector.
“This is no illusion!” said the Count. “Take all the time you need to confirm that after, but for now – attend closely.” He nodded in the direction of the approaching figures.
She could see them more clearly now. They were indeed sunk up to their waists into the earth. But they seemed not to notice. They ran as if it were not there.
They were figures from the most ancient of times. Almost naked, wearing simple animal hides. Their hair wild. They both carried spears, wooden with flint heads.
They passed her. The nearest was a young woman, barely an adult. The other was an older, man. He looked strong but worn by time. Somehow, despite the fact that he was not eyeless, she could tell that he, like the Count, was blind.
#writephoto
I watched his heartbeat
Fragile and fading too fast
Stops everyday
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #202 Fragile&Heartbeat
And in Memory of Lucas Henry Bailey
#amwriting, #postaday
Here are my words
Not enough
To unburden
My crushed soul
Or move a mountain
Of stress
#amwriting, #postaday
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of short (very short this week) fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
He stood back, took in his work, and smiled.
Yes. He was getting there. He was satisfied.
He was almost finished.
He knew that nobody else would see it. No one in this place understood. They would not see what he could see. They would only see a couple of boulders, barely touched by him.
But he knew. His subtle touches revealed the shapes that were there. The two figures, watching waiting – poised. Ancient figures known now only to a few, their stories passed down through the generations.
Stories many did not believe – of wonder and dread.
Stories of The Hunter, The Eyeless Man and a magical weapon that defied time.
Northblood.
#writephoto
Heart lifts
When I lift him high
Heart skips
With her every kiss
Through darkness and troubled times
Our place has held us
I return with joy
To the walls
My son
My wife
My home
Originally published in A Spring of Dreams
Anyone in this corner of the blogosphere had any experience or success with Amazon Marketing Services? Wondering about dallying with it to boost the ailing sales of my books?
With top hat askew
Dancing lightly through the throng
Predatory smile
In response to the daily prompt Skewed
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Basking in the sun
The snake saw lunch in his mind
Movement brought him back
In response to Colleen’s 2018 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 82 – BELONG & DREAM #SynonymsOnly
A haiku this week. I have inferred the given words rather than use synonyms so breaking the rules a bit. This post was also prompted by the fact that on a country walk yesterday my eldest nearly stood on one of these – an adder – the only venomous snake on these isles. I think it was a juvenile as it was small but definitely a viper rather than a grass snake.
#haiku
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of short fiction – another continuation of previous entries that I have decided to collate in one place – here.
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
Ilaria regarded the stairs with apprehension. Should she ascend them? There was something about all this? Something she could not explain rationally and that disturbed her. She was a scientist! Her life was all about explanations.
So she hesitated.
Actually, she was not being honest with herself. She was an archeologists and in that field explanations were not always forthcoming. In fact she prided herself for her tendency to refrain from explanations. To her facts were what she found. A pile of swords in a pool was just that – a pile of swords in a pool. They might be in a broken state or not. What she did not do – what she insisted on – was starting down a flight of fancy trying to imagine – or theorise on what it all meant. Was it ritual? Or a treasure hoard? In the end there was no way of knowing. So it was best left at that – an unknown.
So why did this whole mystery upset her equilibrium?
It was that face in the caves. That ancient figure from a time so long ago it was a miracle that it still survived.
It was the contradictions in the figure. When they had discovered it she had enthused to her colleagues about the clarity and detail of the painting – and it was all true. The figures truly surpassed anything else she had seen that was contemporary or even later. Yet, by modern standards it was crude.
And still.
That figure of the man. It seemed to stare right through you. Look down through the ages and into your soul. Despite the fact it had no eyes.
And now this sword. She had seen the photo’s and there was no doubt in her mind – the figure was the same.
So she had pleaded and begged this visit – to see it for real. The owner had been reluctant – to say the least. He had even denied its existence.
It had taken a photo of the cave painting in return to convince him.
And still, she hesitated.
“Ms, Neri?”
Her guide, looking for all the world like an old time butler, waited by the stairway. She had come all this way to Paris, to this opulent mansion, to this private collection.
She took a deep breath and nodded. The guide led her up the sweeping curve of the stairs.
They walked down a hallway, lined with many fine pictures which she she guessed were worth a small fortune each. They came to a heavy, modern security door. The guide discreetly entered a code and, she thought she detected, used a fingerprint to unlock the door.
They stepped into a small, dimly lit room. In the centre was a hexagonal glass case. Hanging in the case was the sword.
It did not look ancient. It did show signs of use but could have been twenty or so years old. The hilt certainly looked like it had been replaced.
But the rest – it drew her in. The deep rose gold of the metal had a deep lustre, as though light was lost in it, swallowed to another place deep within the blade where it ebbed, reaching out for reprieve.
And, there, on the blade, was the figure, the eyeless man.
She shook herself, immediately started to see the signs that told her the design, the origin of the the blade. It certainly, at first glance, looked to be something designed in the early iron age. Yet it also looked far too unscathed.
Was this a replica?
She asked the guide.
“No,” he said. “This is the real blade. I understand your confusion – but let me assure you – it has been aged correctly.”
“Was it found near here?” she ventured – it was a test. The was not Gaulish if she was correct.
“No,” he replied. “We have traced its earliest findings to Wales.”
She nodded, that chimed true to her.
“Is that why your master is so cloak and dagger? Does he think the Welsh agitators might want it back? As a symbol?”
The man paused for a long time. Finally he spoke again, carefully.
“No. No doubt you’re right, they would demand it back. This sword is not unknown though few know that it really exists. Many historians in fact equate to a more well known sword of Welsh origin. They are mistaken – that name does not belong to this blade – it has another.”
She looked at him quizzically
“It is called Northblood.”
Before she could ask how he knew that he seemed suddenly to remember something. He went to the case and flicked a switch on the base. The sword began to rotate slowly. She watched, mesmerized as the light glinte on the strange red metal. Then she gasped as the other side of the blade came into view.
There was the figure of the woman, the same woman from the caves.
What the hell connected this sword to that cave – the time distance was fantastic!
“Well? You are the only person alive to have seen both this sword and the cave paintings. Do they indeed match?”
She nodded slowly. They did. She was so shocked by what she had discovered here that it took a few moments to realise that it had not been her guide who had spoken. It had been a much deeper and richer voice.
She whirled around.
There stood an imposing figure. A middle aged man, well built and with strong shoulders over which he wore a coat like a cloak. A bristling, greying beard on a broad strong face. He leant his heavy frame on a sturdy black cane.
And though he has deep grey eyes it was immediately obvious.
He was blind.
#writephoto
In the froth and the spray
In the spume and the churn
In the majesty of the mightiest wave
And the receding tide
Shines
A drop of water
A single drop
That one day
Will hold the heart
Of a child
In response to the daily prompt Tide
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Hushed concentration
Then with a sudden surprise
His name is written!
Originally published in A Spring of Dreams
Pardon me for interrupting
But that was just a step too far
Not really a sporting move
Two years
Two years you have been playing straight
That is to say
Murdering
But with the proper tools
The ones from our markets
Hardware, hard and solid and paid for
That gas – tut tut – just too far
So hand it over
There’s a good chap
And we will let you
Get back to your war
Originally published in A Spring of Dreams
Buy a jungle man.
Buy a jungle man.
C’mon bring the cash on.
Buy a jungle man.
Quick as you can.
They’re selling like they’re going outta fashion.
A little bit here, a little bit there.
They’re going fast,
Does anyone care!?
Crush a beetle for juice.
Let the cattle herds loose.
See those trees burn.
A bird of bright feather.
Has gone forever.
We ‘aint ever gonna learn.
Where the sun is beaming.
Once life was teeming.
Now all is dust.
While we strive for our goals.
We say to our souls.
Die if you must.
In response to the daily prompt Abrupt
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Swansong
All clap along
As the end approaches
And the triumph lifts us all high
Cheering
In response to Colleen’s 2018 Weekly #Tanka Tuesday #Poetry Challenge No. 82 – The May Day Edition: SING & CELEBRATE #SynonymsOnly
A cinquain this week
#cinquain
You sail down river
Obsessed with reaching the sea
Fertile hills roll by
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #199 Obsessed&You
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
Notable
For nothing
Our generation
Afraid of our legacy
Creating
Empty copies
Of the past
Where’s the new?
The optimistic
These days
It only grows
Where the ground
Is composted
With greed
In response to the daily prompt Notable
#DailyPrompt, #amwriting, #postaday
I don’t know if that is the correct collective noun but it should be 🙂
Here are a few reviews I have accrued over time.
Excellently Eerie! AAA+++!! 30 January 2018
Witty, scary, creepy, delicious, and not without a deft touch of wit! Well-crafted visions of the dark side! So refreshing to discover such beautifully told, original material! If you love ghost stories, this is for you! JanO
Tales that take you to some very different places, some are very dark places. 26 January 2017
All the stories in this collection are very different, savour them one at a time. I was very taken with Cycles, an astute tale of teenage boys, with a twist of course. Fire and Ice takes us somewhere deep… Terminal is a very modern tale, Shipwreck not for the faint hearted. I loved A Ghost Scene, one to amuse. Don’t read The Church at bedtime, be sure your past will catch up with you in ‘Suspense’ and you will not want to live in the country by yourself if you read ‘The Valley. Mother completes the collection with a very dark ending. Whether you like to be entertained or wonder what really lies beyond, this is the book for you. Janet Grogerty
Great concept to write a poem a day for a year and provides an insight into coping with difficult family circumstances – a recommended read for anyone who has struggled in such situations. Some poems were obviously more personal than others (my favourites were those when the writer cherishes the ‘small moments’ in life such as going to a fireworks display with his wife and son) but he also branches out into more political territory. Look out for the funny poems scattered throughout the book too, one, in particular, made me laugh out loud! A good read and Scott Bailey shows talent as a poet. Recommended. M.H.Beton
This book should be a movie. Somewhere in Hollywood right now there are actors waiting for their agents to deliver this story in script format to them. The makings of all action-packed adventure films are here. I can see the film in my mind’s eye.
But this one is different.
It’s not fast-paced for the thrill of it alone. It needs to be to get the message across. Mankind could be on the threshold of just such a future.
This one could be us.
Maybe a few years down the line yet, maybe already almost there in some similar format. Change a few details. Replace one group for another. Look behind the motives in politics and corporations. Stretch the reality just a little. Ask ourselves questions looking through the light of a different lens.
It feels like us, it acts like us, it may very well come to be.
It could be The Secret we all hold and may one day need.
The future may be closer than we think.
It only takes a small leap of imagination to take us from where we are now to Mankind Unlimited.
Scott Bailey is a writer I follow through his WordPress blog.
I downloaded his book a few weeks ago after reading an excerpt from it on his blog. It wasn’t until this week that I finally had the chance to read the book. I like a good action-packed adventure as much as the next one but I liked, even more, what Scott communicated in the story.
I believe there is more to follow and I’ll be waiting. If we have time and I’m still aware… anniehy
I really enjoyed reading this book and could barely put it down. It is pretty rare for me to get so engrossed in a book, so if you like books about a dystopian future then this is worth a read. Now I want to know what happens next! RuthJ
Really good book, well worth the money could not put it down at times, sad when it got to the end.
I will be reading it again, dont do that with many books. Amazon Customer
For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of short fiction – another continuation of The Dark – and Footsteps, and The Discovery
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
Splash!
The water leapt into the air, droplets glinting in the sunlight.
The man watched – was it magic he saw shining there? Was it the blessing he sought?
The water settled quickly and somewhat disappointingly. Through the shimmering ripples, he could see his heavy chain shifting, sinking slowly into the mud.
He sighed. He would miss it. It had been in his family for many generations. It has served them all well.
He had not wanted to part with it.
But he was desperate and the gods needed an offering.
So he had cast it into the holy pool.
He would miss it, but he had nothing else to offer.
Maybe, just maybe the fact that it meant so much to him, that this was a real sacrifice, would be enough.
He watched as the water became calm once more. Ruffled only by the breeze and the slow current of the stream that fed it. Waiting for a sign.
Nothing happened.
He looked up at the druid. The man studied the pool for a few minutes more than shook his head.
Nothing! What a damned waste. He started to turn away in disgust. As he did something glinted. A flash from deep in the pool, in the heart of the coils made by his sunken chain.
There was something there!
He glanced up at the druid for guidance. This was a holy pool, here offering were made – not given back.
But the druid seemed as surprised as he, and excited. He motioned towards the pool.
That was enough, he stepped into the water, thrust his arms between the chain coils and gently cleared away the mud.
It was soon very clear what he had found. It was a sword, not broken, so not an offering that had been cast here. It was whole and as he lifted it from the water it shone. It was clean and undamaged. It might have only been placed here yesterday.
It was of a strange colour. A golden hilt and pommel, but the blade was reddish gold. Like nothing he had ever seen.
He passed it to the druid who wiped it dry on his robe and studied the blade for a long while.
Finally, he spoke.
“The gods have given. This gift is for you. You have been answered.”
“Answered? How?” he replied. How would a sword help him? He knew nothing of fighting – he was not a warrior.
“That will be revealed in time,” muttered the druid. “Maybe they will come to guide you.”
He pointed to the engraving on the blade.
There, he could see two figures. A woman and a man. A man with no eyes.
#writephoto
There were some friends. And a hall. An infinite hall, with marble walls and pillars that stretched forever into the distance.
And there were tables. Row after row after row of tables. On each table was a never-ending supply of a single dish. In that hall, on those tables, there could be found every dish that had ever been imagined, concocted and served up in all of human history.
With a thought you could be sitting before any dish you could think of. Or you could ask your neighbour for a recommendation and try something new. The name of the dish was enough to take you there.
It was time for the friends to eat. They entered and they took their paths through the hall. They commenced their lunch.
As they knew – it was a once only meal.
An hour later they reconvened, look each other in the eyes and assessed their time beneath the infinite arches.
The first spoke.
“I tried as many different tastes as I could. I jumped from table to table and I can honestly say that I know of no one who could have filled their time here with as many different flavours as I. Yet. Now I am here – wonder why? I stand here before you proudly stating the number of meals I have partaken off – yet I wonder why does that matter? Not one was complete. Have I missed the joy of a meal.”
He hung his head, deep in thought and regret. But the second friend spoke.
“You make me wonder. What taste did I miss? I did not try many different meals, For quite soon I found one that I really enjoyed. I sat down and savoured the taste. People around me did the same and we discussed the meal and more besides. I do not regret that – no it was heartwarming – but I wonder at the tastes I missed. Was there a better meal still that I could have savoured with more relish?”
The third friend looked haunted.
“I did not eat. I wanted to try everything but I realised this was not possible, that it was a dream that could only fail. Yet I felt that to just sit down and eat was an insult to the great hospitality and variety that had been laid before us. I fell in with a group of other like-minded people and we were determined to resolve this dilemma with the gifts of reason we have been bestowed with. I have been a fool.”
“You are all fools!” said a fourth friend.
“I knew the way – I understood the correct combination of meals that would allow perfection! I tried to tell you but you would not listen! So many people did not listen! Fools! But there were some and we understand that we have eaten correctly and that we will be rewarded for that. I pity you – you have wasted your lunch hour.”
In response to the daily prompt Partake
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For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Another bit of short fiction – may be a continuation of The Dark – and Footsteps, maybe not – what do you think?
Here Sue’s photo for this week.
This was what she lived for – this moment! She had been waiting half her life for it.
She stood at the entrance – entranced. She was almost afraid to take a step further, both savouring the moment and fearing a disappointment.
The tunnel looked old – and it was. But it was nothing she had not seen a thousand times before. It was what lay beyond that had drawn her here.
The tunnel before here was from over a millennia ago. There were many of them scattered around the area. She was as familiar with them as any archaeologist – there had some frisson about them, some mystery as nobody really knew what they had been made for. That, of course, led to many wild theories.
She had no interest in mad theories and folk tales. She was only interested in hard facts. And if what she had been told was true – there would some remarkable finds here.
Three weeks ago, some tourists wandering the tunnels had nearly been killed when one of the walls and part of the floor had clasped. They had revealed something darker and older than the tunnels.
Much older.
Two days ago a colleague of hers had rung her to get her advice on what had been found. When she heard what he described she snatched up her passport – nothing else – and had booked the first flight she could get to see for herself.
Now she was here. She took a deep breath and gripped her torch tightly, then she took a purposeful step inward.
It was a five-minute walk to the scene of the near tragedy. The place was cordoned off with police tape and officers were stationed there. They nodded to her and waved her in. All the locals were excited about the discovery and wanted to know more. They were waiting on her opinion.
She looked into the hole made by the collapse. A vast darkness spread out before here, water dripped into it. Some lights had been hastily strung up on the walls but they were not enough to reach out the full extent of what was obviously a large cave.
A rope ladder stretched downward into the darkness.
This was it.
Holstering her torch she climbed deftly down the ladder. More lights lit the way revealing the wet, jagged wall before here.
When she reached the bottom she found several other people already there. Student by the look of them busy taking careful measurements and photos, but not disturbing anything.
Before them stood an older man – her friend. He was grinning widely.
“Well?”
“This is it?” she whispered.
“This is it,” he murmured in almost reverent tones.
She looked around in awe.
“It’s natural,” she said. He nodded.
“And the evidence for human habitation?” she went on. He grinned again and waved her to a spot where the students were concentrated.
“Here, take a look.”
She knelt down carefully and shone her torch. There, unmistakable to her eyes, was a loose pile of flint spearheads and other tools.
“Is this everything?” she said eagerly – it was enough for her.
“There’s a few other finds but this is the best so far. We have only covered about a quarter of the floor so far.” He smiled wryly now as he saw the light of excitement in her eyes.
“And the walls?”
Now he looked puzzled.
“Well, we haven’t..” he started.
She stood and swept the beam of her torch slowly around the walls.
And stopped.
“Holy crap!” swore the man.
There, high on the cave wall, was the clearest, most detailed cave painting she had ever seen. It was of two distinct figures. Unlike anything she had ever seen before they were almost portrait like in their detail!
One was a young woman holding a spear. The other was a man. A man with no eyes.
Celebrating 25 years of his brainchild the world-wide-web – Tim Berners-Lee called for the creation of a Magna Carta of the internet to protect the openness and freedom it gives.
On hearing this I had a classic cartoon moment. Two versions of me one on each shoulder – the optimist and the cynic.
The optimist was the first to react. He said.
“The genie is out the bottle now. It has grown too big for the state to get any control over. What is more, people have grown used to the freedom now – they will not let it be taken back from them lightly.”
The cynic laughed.
“Don’t you believe it. It will be put back in the bottle trust me. And the people will demand it. Just you wait and see! All it will take are a few well-planned attacks. A few high-profile cyber hack or breaches that instil enough fear. Maybe a bank will lose all of its customer’s money overnight? Millions of people suddenly poor and with no recourse! Pile on a few power grid shutdowns, a few deaths in hospitals due to hacking attacks, a few high profile identity thefts resulting in wrongful arrests and the fear factor will be ratcheted up. A campaign by the Daily Mail and then the vocal minority will be hollering for the government to take control.
“And lo and behold – they will have this law – just laying in the drawer – ready to react.
“Have the last twenty years taught us nothing. Every riot, every murder, every terrorist attack was followed a few weeks later with a new law passed to ‘tackle the threat’. Did we really believe that could write new laws that quick?
“Just watch, bit by bit, horror by horror, they will get us to demand they make us safe and sound – and controlled”
I fear the cynic is correct. Lets us see.
In response to the daily prompt Genie
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One day, just for fun
The sun arose in the west
And the world went mad
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #197 Fun&Sun
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For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Well, as soon as I saw this week’s picture I thought great! I have THE perfect poem for that – it fits so well. However, I can’t use it as I already have! For another of Sue’s writephoto challenges not so long ago – this one if you are interested.
So I knew I had to write something original. It was difficult to get that poem out of my mind until I hit on another idea – I would write a continuation of the story I did last week. See it here.
So here Sue’s photo for this week.
and here is part two of the story.
The fear she had been holding back pounded in her chest. Her heart thudded, her breath constricted.
All this time alone, she had been ignoring it, holding it at bay. It had not been difficult. The trials of survival had occupied her. That had been hard enough. Any weakness, any giving into fear, could trip her up. And it might be her final step.
It had been four moons since the storm, the sudden tumult that raised the sea against them, taken every one of the clan.
Everyone she had ever known.
Since then she had walked this land alone, swinging between throwing herself into the sea after her family, and desperately fighting for survival without really knowing why.
Since the storm the weather had been warm and calm, which was good as she had not made any effort to create or find shelter. All she had done was wander and find food.
She was no hunter, but she knew how to forage. She knew where to find fruits and roots that were good to eat. How to find fresh water.
And she could fish. That she could do!
Which was why she had hung by the beach. Though the sea now held an ill-boding threat to her, dark memories threatening to overwhelm her, it was also her only provider.
Her clan had always lived by the coast, travelled along it, living off the plenty of the great water.
Habit, as much as necessity, guided her path now.
Until now.
Footsteps rocked her daze. Shook her out of the fugue she had lived in since the tempest had departed.
They stretched away from her in the sand. They must be fresh, the tide would wash them away.
They led off inland, she followed them with her gaze.
In the distance, far inland, across rolling hills, there rose a dark cliff. In the face of that cliff was a cave.
Beware the lure
The luminescent wonder
Bobbing in the deep
Hypnotic
Drawing you nearer
Snap!
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Dreams
Thwarted
Turn the poet
Sour
Bitter and ale
Are no
Substitute
As they
Slip away
Dreams
In response to the daily prompt Thwart
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After forty-eight years
My mind is still
Inchoate
Like my rage
When they stop fighting
Maybe I will be complete
In response to the daily prompt Inchoate
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For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Again, I missed last weeks and this week has been so busy I almost missed this too! However this week has been a good kind of busy as I have been on Holiday with the wife and kids. Lots of days out adventuring and my eldest’s birthday party right at the end!
So this is this weeks photo from Sue.
Unusually for me – this immediately suggested some prose to me, rather than poetry. In fact, the following scene arrived almost fully formed in my mind. It’s not part of anything I am working on or thinking about – it’s completely new to me – as fresh as is it to anyone else who reads it. I am not sure what it’s about or where it’s going? I am quite excited to find out myself!
That might take a while though. I think it will need some time to ferment – or maybe not – maybe I should just get on with it – not knowing where it’s going. Not my usual approach but hey – maybe it will work.
Anyway – here it is.
He stood in the mouth of the cave and breathed in the sweet morning air. He was right on the junction of the entrance – he could feel the cold air behind him, the warm before.
It was a natural balance he appreciated.
The cave had been a good find. It was warm at night and inaccessible to larger animals. Not too difficult to get to for him – but a challenge.
The warmth was important, he could no longer risk fires. Not for a while anyway. Maybe he could work something out eventually – how would probably need to before winter arrived.
If he survived that long.
He shook himself, discarding that line of thought. He had survived this long. This latest setback was just another challenge.
It was a rather large one though.
He felt the wood of his spear shaft starting to warm in the morning sun. It’s smoothness satisfied him as he ran his fingers along it. Hours of care had been worth it. He reached the tip and checked the sharpness of the flint head carefully. It was still good. He had a stash of spares in the cave ready.
He squatted down and run his fingers over the fine gravel that was scattered on the small ledge before the mouth of the cave. He brought it to his nose. It felt and smelt freshly wet – more than dew – there must have been a light rain overnight, that would account for the freshness of the air. That would make the path down from the cave more dangerous, but it should also bring out more game.
He stood, cocked his head and listened intently in the darkness. He could hear many birds circling and far below, many beasts on the plain. Yes, hunting would be good today. Challenging – but the opportunity was there.
Another sound caught his attention and a scent, faint but unmistakable.
Somebody was approaching!
He shifted his stance, dropped into defensive readiness and waited.
This would be the first real challenge he had faced since he had lost his sight two days ago.
He was determined it would not be his last.
In exultation
Shoots arise, reaching skyward
Until sharp blades sweep
In response to COLLEEN’S 2018 #TANKA TUESDAY #POETRY CHALLENGE NO. 78, GROW & HONOR, #SNYNONYMSONLY
Tenuous synonyms for my haiku – again
#haiku
She stared at the artefact. It reminded her of a flower. Well, reminded was the wrong word. She had never seen a flower – there were no more left. They had died out long before she had arrived.
Everything had.
But in the last few months, her colleagues had managed to decipher and read the ancient data they had found here and there. They had pieced together a rough history of this dead place. Not much but enough – enough to know what happened.
Enough to know it could happen to them.
Enough to know what a flower looked like.
Before they had died – somebody had carved a final message on this artefact.
‘Man’s final folly!”
She wondered at that. She could not fathom its reasoning.
It was beyond doubt now that this giant metal flower had been the instrument that had called out to them so long ago. Sent its message to the stars.
And they had heard. 20,000 long years ago she and her colleagues had boarded their ship and started on their way.
In all probability, the flower was still broadcasting then. The carver of that message was still breathing good air.
No more.
There was no more good air. There was nothing left to breathe it.
Was puzzled her more was the fact that the remaining histories made it plain that it was foreseeable. Preventable even.
Yet she could also see that their own masters back home could easily make the same mistake. As advanced as they were the path was familiar.
So it was that she and her fellow robotic explorers had taken the decision to delay their trip home. It would take them 20,000 more years to get back with the warning.
This – folly – could send the message quicker. So here they were trying to repair it get it working again.
A desperate battle to avoid the fate of these long dead people who called themselves human beings.
In response to the daily prompt Warning
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The jewel in our crown
The pride of our nation
Will be sold
To line the pockets
Of liars
In response to the daily prompt Betrayed
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Keep them focused
On the trivial
The micro problem
While we steal
Their lives
Away
In response to the daily prompt Micro
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When politicians
Say
The NHS
Has become
Too inefficient
What they really
Mean is
Caring
But the word
Is to alien
For them
In response to the daily prompt Inefficient
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Snake worships the sun
Praying to the gold goddess
Waiting for the rain
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #194 Worship&Goddess
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The wind gives a lift
To swooping swallow on its arc
Hawk has other plans
In response to the daily prompt Swallow
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When
Did I enroll
For
This
To be
An oxen
For the
Faceless farmer
Yoke fitted
Ploughing on
And on
In response to the daily prompt Faceless
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For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo prompt
Somehow – I missed last weeks prompt completely. I think by Thursday night I had, had enough of the week. This week has not been much better – so I am recycling again. Using one the picture suggested to me.
This is the picture this week.
They left a legacy written in stone
Plain for all to see
Yet there are less lucid signs
Discovered carefully
Lines that lay across the land
Tales of times gone by
Showing us in hidden ways
To be read by those who try
The tracks we walked long ago
The boundaries of old
A story laid on every hill
And every vale and fold.
And on our tongues and in our tales
Echoes of the past
Holy places beyond the cross
Beyond a gulf so vast
Shapes and forms from ancient times
Still glimpsed within the heart
Of dance and song and tales that burn
And every blessed art
Rejecting the crowd
Is the same
Identical
Choice
As following the crowd
In response to the daily prompt Identical
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When the sea and sky
Are equal to the viewer
By chance, peace will fall
In response to RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #193 Chance&Equal
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Scott Andrew Bailey - Author 
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