The Creature
The creature - whatever it was - lacked definition; all its edges were blurred and seemed to bleed together. Where it ended and the darkness began it was unclear. The eyes - however - were in sharp focus: all points and edges: like a harsh line of charcoal against a watercolour: a comic artist that had doodled on Millet. 'The eyes should be red', she muttered. But as soon as she had, she realised she was wrong. Red eyes were the stuff of nightmares and hammerhead horror. These eyes - blue and cold like a fire that burns itself icy - were the colour of reality : terror in its most concentrated form.
It turned suddenly and , where the creature had seemed curious and enigmatic, it now gave a strong sense of deformity. From blackness there came a sharp whine that grated on the ears - a pitiful and weak sound that would have inspired sympathy if it had not caused every bone to twist against sinew and the skin - not to crawl - but rather drag its body in the opposite direction. A second whine - on the edge of human perception...louder and more desperate than the first. It was moving closer.
A cloud that continually changed shape; a giant that became a child that folded out into a shadow. A voice came from the heart of the creature, speaking without mouth or lips or tongue. To be shapeless is to be free.
She took a step back.
Don't you want to be free? It crooned, screaming a whisper across the few steps between it and the small red-headed girl.
She blinked (at least three times) before her brain could twist the sounds into words. 'Free?' she replied in a small voice. 'How dare you tell me...?' But what the creature dared tell her she never did say for - at that moment - the girl stopped in the middle of her sentence. Suddenly, she couldn't remember why children were afraid of the dark, why midnight was the witching hour or why monsters lived in the cupboard under the stairs and the space under the bed. She couldn't remember how the creature in front of her could be ugly. On the contrary, it was perfect. Imposing? Yes. Misunderstood? Maybe. But ugly? Never.
And - indeed - the creature seemed to agree, growing ever larger and more terribly beautiful with every step. Splendours shadow within shadow. The girl could smell its breath in front of her : a heavenly scent on the air. She grasped for a word to describe it but - no matter how hard she tried - her mind kept producing images of rotting flesh. 'Blood' she heard herself say. She frowned. 'No...no. That's not it.' This smell was wonderful; fresh and light, like burying your head in silk.
Come closer. The creature said. The girl immediately obliged. How could she disobey such a lovely, harmonious voice?
'Nails on a chalk board...' she heard herself say.
Very slowly, the creature seemed to bend into a low bow until its eyes were level with the soft brown irises of the red-headed girl. Up-close, the thin cat-like slits of pupils were far less horrible. More elegant, really. But - once again- she found her mouth acting of its own accord. 'No..' it mouthed. 'Please no.' She put her hand over her lips, silencing herself. How awful it was to be so cruel to this unique and irresistible animal.
Close your eyes, the creature murmured with a voice like wind chimes. Suddenly, the little red-head felt strangely sleepy - hot, sticky and so very heavy. She felt her eyelids sweep shut and - like a sudden eclipse - everything disappeared.
She took a step forwards - her final step - and embraced the shadow. It embraced her...and the little red-headed girl was gone forever.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Sunday, 14 August 2011
Camping (Original Writing)
Camping:
No-one's got lumbago, I'm not spending my time brooding over the locations of hidden horcruxes, and there is a severe lack of spellbooks in my not-so-small and unfortunately entirely bead-less bag. And yet - for some reason that I would guess has rather a lot to do with my own over-active imagination - I am sitting under this spider-encrusted canvas contemplating my role in an immanent if non-existent wizard war. Music from outside permeates the country sounds like my very own silver doe. A patronus against the busy timetabling dementors of my brain. A shield against my inner Dolores Umbridge that "will have order"!
No-one's got lumbago, I'm not spending my time brooding over the locations of hidden horcruxes, and there is a severe lack of spellbooks in my not-so-small and unfortunately entirely bead-less bag. And yet - for some reason that I would guess has rather a lot to do with my own over-active imagination - I am sitting under this spider-encrusted canvas contemplating my role in an immanent if non-existent wizard war. Music from outside permeates the country sounds like my very own silver doe. A patronus against the busy timetabling dementors of my brain. A shield against my inner Dolores Umbridge that "will have order"!
Victoria Milton (Original Writing)
Another bit of fun!
Victoria Milton:
Victoria Milton was not a woman to be trifled with. In fact, it was best not to exercise any action involving sweet pastries whatsoever when Victoria was around. Not that she didn't consider herself sweet; on the contrary, the woman could sing with all the vibrato of Doris Day on Richter scale 7.5 and took pleasure in collecting stuffed animals of varying degrees of fluffiness. No, that wasn't it. The simple fact was that, despite her efforts, Victoria was not an amicable lady and -whether she could embroider pinkish pillows or not - she had a heart of ice and a tongue sharper that her own darning needles. Some remarked that she spoke with such alarming, almost spiteful, accuracy that any elocution teacher would be stunned upon hearing her. The more observant would note that her forget-me-not-blue eyes never appeared to blink. There was one thing - however- which people would always fail to notice: that Victoria Milton and her husband had not spoken directly to one another for over five years.
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Victoria lies in her four-poster bed and stares at the silken fabric above her head. From this angle, it seems as if the whole ceiling is a deep plumbish red instead of its current sickly puce. Victoria thinks it would be better this way. The maid pushes the door open with one shoulder, a tray of breakfast (bacon and eggs if you must know) in one hand and a pot of Lapshang Souchon in the other. The maid lies the tray across the bed and carefully reaches over her employer to place the china teapot on the bedside table. Victoria stays motionless.
"Emily?" she says with a downward inflection, as if the name was a statement instead of a question.
"Sarah, Ma'am." The maid replies with a soft northern accent.
Victoria continues to stare at the bed's canopy. "Repaint the ceiling."
Sarah takes two steps towards the bed and her employer's eyes slide to the side of her face to stare without moving her head. The maid finds the effect somewhat disturbing and retreats with a bow-legged shuffle. "Right away, Ma'am. Your painters are still downstairs in the ballroom as you asked. Shall I call in some more?"
Victoria stays motionless.
The maid leaves.
Victoria Milton:
Victoria Milton was not a woman to be trifled with. In fact, it was best not to exercise any action involving sweet pastries whatsoever when Victoria was around. Not that she didn't consider herself sweet; on the contrary, the woman could sing with all the vibrato of Doris Day on Richter scale 7.5 and took pleasure in collecting stuffed animals of varying degrees of fluffiness. No, that wasn't it. The simple fact was that, despite her efforts, Victoria was not an amicable lady and -whether she could embroider pinkish pillows or not - she had a heart of ice and a tongue sharper that her own darning needles. Some remarked that she spoke with such alarming, almost spiteful, accuracy that any elocution teacher would be stunned upon hearing her. The more observant would note that her forget-me-not-blue eyes never appeared to blink. There was one thing - however- which people would always fail to notice: that Victoria Milton and her husband had not spoken directly to one another for over five years.
--------------
Victoria lies in her four-poster bed and stares at the silken fabric above her head. From this angle, it seems as if the whole ceiling is a deep plumbish red instead of its current sickly puce. Victoria thinks it would be better this way. The maid pushes the door open with one shoulder, a tray of breakfast (bacon and eggs if you must know) in one hand and a pot of Lapshang Souchon in the other. The maid lies the tray across the bed and carefully reaches over her employer to place the china teapot on the bedside table. Victoria stays motionless.
"Emily?" she says with a downward inflection, as if the name was a statement instead of a question.
"Sarah, Ma'am." The maid replies with a soft northern accent.
Victoria continues to stare at the bed's canopy. "Repaint the ceiling."
Sarah takes two steps towards the bed and her employer's eyes slide to the side of her face to stare without moving her head. The maid finds the effect somewhat disturbing and retreats with a bow-legged shuffle. "Right away, Ma'am. Your painters are still downstairs in the ballroom as you asked. Shall I call in some more?"
Victoria stays motionless.
The maid leaves.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
The Washing Machine (Original Writing)
This is just a silly moan about the washing machine.Thoroughly enjoyed writing it, though!
The Washing Machine:
The machine glares at me with its single eye or -rather - I should say, the socket where any wholesome creature would have an eye. No, the machine stares at me with its empty cavity like a vulture eying (no pun intended) its prey. The small screen in the upper right hand corner is lit up with a single word. The letters are built out of a series of lines, like matchsticks laid out on a table. With all the advances in technology, you'd have thought scientists would have mastered the curves in letters. But no, the word 'End' flashes at me with all the spikiness of a particularly displeased shitzu. 'End'...'End'...'End'. An apocalyptic warning from a kitchen appliance. 'End'...'End'...'End'.
The Washing Machine:
The machine glares at me with its single eye or -rather - I should say, the socket where any wholesome creature would have an eye. No, the machine stares at me with its empty cavity like a vulture eying (no pun intended) its prey. The small screen in the upper right hand corner is lit up with a single word. The letters are built out of a series of lines, like matchsticks laid out on a table. With all the advances in technology, you'd have thought scientists would have mastered the curves in letters. But no, the word 'End' flashes at me with all the spikiness of a particularly displeased shitzu. 'End'...'End'...'End'. An apocalyptic warning from a kitchen appliance. 'End'...'End'...'End'.
Annie Lennox, The Lord of the Rings and One Happy Nerd...
Just thought I might share with you the beautiful song, 'Into the West' sung by the ineffable, Annie Lennox (a heroine if I ever saw one)! I am a 'ringer' , as Lord of the Rings fans are so lovingly named, and have a love for all things Lennox-y so I may be a little biased, but - as a musician also - I think this song is simply beautiful.
Why not , while I'm at it, share 'Gollum's Song', sung by Bjork inspired, Emiliana Torrini.
The Dollhouse (Original Writing)
This is a piece of my own original writing; just a bit of whimsy from the cavernous pit that is my mind!
The Dollhouse:
Half past seven. The sky is blank. Like someone has taken a lid off of the world. The wind has died, finally expired from the heat of the midday sun, or -perhaps- is hiding over the edge of the horizon, tying a garter around the world. Or maybe, seeing the abyss above so empty and expansive, it has merely run away, escaped the atmosphere forever, never to return. I think I might miss the summer breeze - our Earth's most flighty mistress.
Ten-thirty. The Gods, seeing that their dollhouse has lost its roof, have thrown a blanket over the world to disguise its nakedness. We can still feel it, the sucking vacuum above, but it is good to see the familiar peppering of sequins glinting and winking from their lofty thrones.
Half past four in the morning. Somewhere, there seems to be a great yawn as an old oak tree rustles up its feathers for the day. The branches sway a little from side to side and it is with the tumultuous upheaval of the sun that the wind makes her not-so-secret return.
Twelve o'clock. All is well. The horizon has slithered away into some dark forgotten corner. The sky and the sea, forever competitors, now seem to merge into a seamless mass of blue, polka-dotted here and there with cloud or surf. The wind, as if emboldened by her absence, friskily plays amongst the hill tops. And somewhere -far, far above -a child rummages under the bed, brushes away the dust, and puts the lid back on the Universe.
The Dollhouse:
Half past seven. The sky is blank. Like someone has taken a lid off of the world. The wind has died, finally expired from the heat of the midday sun, or -perhaps- is hiding over the edge of the horizon, tying a garter around the world. Or maybe, seeing the abyss above so empty and expansive, it has merely run away, escaped the atmosphere forever, never to return. I think I might miss the summer breeze - our Earth's most flighty mistress.
Ten-thirty. The Gods, seeing that their dollhouse has lost its roof, have thrown a blanket over the world to disguise its nakedness. We can still feel it, the sucking vacuum above, but it is good to see the familiar peppering of sequins glinting and winking from their lofty thrones.
Half past four in the morning. Somewhere, there seems to be a great yawn as an old oak tree rustles up its feathers for the day. The branches sway a little from side to side and it is with the tumultuous upheaval of the sun that the wind makes her not-so-secret return.
Twelve o'clock. All is well. The horizon has slithered away into some dark forgotten corner. The sky and the sea, forever competitors, now seem to merge into a seamless mass of blue, polka-dotted here and there with cloud or surf. The wind, as if emboldened by her absence, friskily plays amongst the hill tops. And somewhere -far, far above -a child rummages under the bed, brushes away the dust, and puts the lid back on the Universe.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Waterstones, Douglas Adams and New Mexico...
Last week, as I found myself inexorably drawn towards the 'dark side' of Waterstones (or -as it is more commonly known - the Sci-Fi/Fantasy section) I came upon the sudden realisation that there are many books in my bedroom that I have , quite unfairly, left unread. Whilst perusing the shop it simply came to me that my money could be far better spent, as I was already the proud owner of the novels I was admiring. You see, something -somewhere- in my mind seemed to have totally forgotten the hoard of literature I had received at Christmas; my only assumption is that I've blown some important fuse in excitement. And so, Waterstones left behind in the flapping of arms that I call a run, I found myself holding the infamous 'trilogy of four' by Douglas Adams.
Needless to say, I became quickly engrossed. After racing through the tales of Vogon poetry, white mice, Cricket Wars, a floating party and rabbit bones, I really am proud to say that I am now reaching the end of the series with my sanity relatively intact (an achievement, to say the least). My simple advice to those of you that have not yet had the pleasure of reading the series is: do.
Yes, it has come to that time of year again when I simply cannot help but -rather nostalgically I might add - get out the Roswell box set. All health issues concerning 'square eyes' aside, I am thoroughly enjoying the series for the third time; the acting is superb, the script is tight and the plot is a guilty pleasure. To be honest, the fact that Jason Behr, Brenden Fehr and Nick Wechsler are incredibly good looking also helps a great deal! Once again, I've got to advise (or, rather, demand) those of you unlucky enough to have lived your lives without Roswell to quickly rectify this error (or at least make Jason Behr your desktop background).
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