Deep Hidden Treasure

Deep hidden treasure,

Lost under boulder and stone,

No self left in light!

Submitted for The Purple Treehouse Haiku Challenge 🙂

And the moon looked on…

Another inspiring challenge from Sonia – Moonstruck, another little story…Actually its not as little as it should be  – but at 564 words its my best effort at brevity! I hope you enjoy…

The raggedy face of the moon loomed large over warm night’s happy revelry. Lovers coiled and blood red wine sloshed noisily among the swaying trees.  They danced to celebrate the passing sun in shadowed time with hidden sins, becoming by night what day would judge with too much black and white.

Michael the pock faced boy darts amongst the drunken hoard. His quick fingers harvest fearlessly. The lord has opened his gates to all and Michael means to take his due from those of better birth. They won’t keep him down tonight, not whilst the moon is crowned with the smoke of a passing squall, in from the sea like a hungry crew out for mischief. He is out for mischief too, if only Sofia the pretty barmaid would return his stare.  But Sofia looks to that pleasant copse where the blacksmith’s son followed like a man possessed the redheaded stable-girl. If only that were me she sighs, between these thighs I’d make him happy. Her dimpled smile briefly dazzles a passing guardsman.

‘Ho there pretty!’ he cries. ‘I do find myself in love…’ his eyes drop, ‘with one of your finest ales!’

No love for me tonight, Sofia sighs, unless you count the thief who moons so long he almost drops his ill gained wares.

‘Come pretty wench,’ the soldier drawls,’ Serve me a beer, and if you’ll sit on my lap, I’ll give you a child to bounce on yours!’

His companions laugh as she grows pink. Let him have his frothy beer, she’ll not crawl.

‘Leave her alone!’ the thief boy declares, ‘Sofia is made for better.’

‘Is that so?’ retorts the soldier, one arm snaking around her waist as his sword snakes for the boy’s throat.

‘I’ll cut you to ribbons man. I’ll paint you red with your own blood.’ His point draws aside the thief’s shirt, ‘A haul to make a rich man blush. Get him boys!’

And so the fox bounds from baying hounds, through dancing trees and frozen humans. Time suspends its next tick. The boy rounds laden tables and pitches into the forest, floor all adorned with lovers. Shouts startle the redheaded girl from encircling arms.

‘What’s that?’ she cries as a pale shape passes by.

‘It’s just the moon’ says the blacksmith’s son.

‘Only if it’s on two legs,’ she replies, ‘and fleeing swords of dawn.’

The moon looks on with a crooked smile. The night’s entertainment has her in good cheer even as she surrenders the sky hated sister bright.  Let her have the day, when night’s in such wondrous disarray!

The prince of thieves, pock faced as the moon herself, springs free from the sheltered copse, soldiers cursing in his wake, and jumps, falling, flailing over the cliff side all in gloom. Past gloaming waves he crashes, beyond fierce rocks, and into the sea’s cold embrace.  He struggles in the deep dark. These coins will kill me, he thinks as they fall like sand beneath his kicks. Lightened, he rises like a bubble. A little skiff, white as his love and cunningly harbored, meets his drenched, desperate hands. He slithers aboard the little ship, catching breath. In his pockets nothing remains, the sea has taken all…save a single gold coin. He holds it up – this King’s ransom, this sun bright coin, and with it all thoughts of moon and night are put away.

No more does the bell toll

And now for something a little different…

I’ve been inspired once more into storytelling by Sonia at Doing the Write Thing. June’s challenge: a flash fiction piece about ‘mythical’ creatures. Here’s my take on a favorite creature of hers…

Newsflash:

‘It’s Sunday 26th June and I’m Jenny Beaker with this breaking news. Police patrols have clashed with large groups of people roaming the streets. Our science correspondent Robert Raiman reports from central London. ‘

‘Thanks Jenny. Since the advent of fully immersive VR life chambers the sight of large crowds on the streets has become a rarity. But now, with a new condition scientists are calling ‘vacant life syndrome’ crowds of apparently mindless people have begun to congregate into roving packs. I have with me Dr Rubecker. Doctor what is causing this?’

‘Well Robert it seems that in advanced cases of mental detachment, such as when a subject is plugged into an immersive reality for long periods, the unconscious begins to reassert control of the body, following the basic of urges: to establish territory, to seek out a mate and to eat…’

Screaming interrupts the interview.

‘Does this explain the violence we have seen?’

The Doctor glances nervously over his shoulder. ‘Well yes Robert. You have to understand that in the absence of conscious control the laws and conventions of society cease to have meaning.’

‘You can see it in their eyes! Oh god you can see it in their eyes.’

‘Excuse me young lady, I am trying to conduct an interview here.’

‘They bit me, they bit me!’ the girl frantically waves her bloodied arm and missing fingers.

‘Back to you in the studio Jenny…Jenny?’

‘They’re coming for us!’ screams the girl as an animal roar builds and crashes down the street.

‘Where’s your car Robert?’ asks the Doctor.

‘Robert!’

The good doctor spins just in time to see the empty eyes of the horde, all clutching hands and bloody, broken teeth, before the wave of what was once humanity sweeps over them.

In the houses and living rooms across the country there is no-one to see the television stations falling one by one into fizzing chaos, only doors banging in the wind and in the distance, the occasional sound of screaming. Solemn Big Ben rings out once, twice, three times as if this were any other Sunday. Then no more does the bell toll.

The End

A 27-word challenge posted by Jenny Matlock inspired this little poem with the prompt ‘the end’.

Each moment a fragment of time

Whorled into the next,

By eyes averted from the end,

A trick of the light,

This illusion I call ‘my life’.

Rebirth

I was inspired recently by Elli Write’s Monthly Writing Contest , which asks for submissions on the subject of Rebirth. There is something really special about being given a simple brief, without direction, and asked to open your creative wings.  A writer will often have numerous ideas buzzing around his or her head. But in my book, a writer proves their worth only when they have to adapt and flow with the inspiration of the moment, without relying what they have done in the past. So without further ado here is my effort:

Rebirth…
To be everything you dreamt and more,
To have the aching void of what could be,
No longer a painful absence in your chest,
But full with bursting joy,
But then again…
Without the void,
There can be no light, no star of hope or twist of fear,
No human world in a spin,
At this mad game we call a life.
So stay on a while dear emptiness,
Linger on my friend discontent,
To fill my pen with bitter fruits,
Of loves lost upon the wind of this neglect,
That carries stories whispered as if in dream,
Of what was and what could be,
The ever lasting strife for better life:
Rebirth…

(C) Copyright Mark B Williams 2014
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