The Crown She Wore...

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The crown she wore was fashioned from dead things. Flaking, breaking, brown rattling dead things. Strung together on a bramble wire. Walking through the woods, her eyes slid easily to the sights between the stripped branches; a fine white mist here, a tumbledown of pine cones there. There were only dew-flecked squirrels for company. She was their queen.

As They Skated...

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As they skated, further, faster, their black forms grazed the ice, carving out the twisting intricacies of their deadly dance. The snow repelled them, covering any mark with fresh powder. She swept across the land with her own sweet song, lightly folding everything into a soft embrace. The dancers swept their arms through the crisp air, beckoning the darkness to come.

They Swung About...

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They swung about with an endless gaiety, the tenants of the trees, their scarlet and storm blue feathers flashing in amongst the sleeping branches and dull warmth of the evergreens. They began to sing, a full and lusty song against the sharp winter. They had defied its bleak embrace, up here above the brittle ground, with clusters of jewel berries sustaining their song.

Oops, things went rather quiet for a while there - and probably won't quite return to full force until after Christmas (tis rather frantic working in retail in December!). Was away for a few days & under the weather to boot but hey ho - onwards & upwards! I had a crack at NaNoWriMo during November - didn't quite make the full 50k what with being away and other stuff but managed a fair amount considering (maybe a dose of delirium thanks to ill health helps?!), it was quite a lesson in suspending the need to perfect & edit, but also on how to make a story move along at a goodly pace. So glad I had the chance to give it a go, it's completely changed how I'll go about my work in future and it's so thrilling to have a substantial piece of work that I can refine and work on next year. 

The last few months have been very strange - quite stressful as I've had to completely rethink how to run my business in relation to my health which has severely and worryingly affected how much I can do at the moment, but this little relief of writing odd stories when I'm knackered and can't really get off the sofa, or be very coherent at anything else, is such an odd sort of blessing/lifeline. Looking forward to a calmer next year *touches all the wood in the room!*

PS. It's worth clicking that image source link up there - it goes straight to a very charming ebook.

Curling, In Amongst The Glossy Blooms...

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Curling, in amongst the glossy blooms, the fox dreamt sweetly of the hours before. The dreadful night, sharp with a slicing wind and high bright moon had gone at last and the drifting dawn had arrived to warm her. The light grew, and with it the heady scents of a harvest day. She had trotted through the sandy grasses, so astonished at how alive she felt, how the warm sun seemed to joyously lift her paws. Speckles of seeds danced in the air and she felt so entirely safe. Nourished and safe.

The Room Was Awash...

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The room was awash with gloom, the flowers faded into shade, their dead heads darkening the window sill, the grey light sneaking around their stalks and creeping in amongst their brittle leaves. She walked into the room, her mood as misty as the winter light. She languidly made her way towards the window and leant against the frame, her sweet eyes turning into cloudy pools, overcast with old forgotten sorrows.

Oh dear, after all that, I had another knock-out day yesterday. Hey ho, up I get and try, try, try again! 

She Lifted The Sea...

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She lifted the sea. The waves tumbled through her fingers, their foam fizzing gently at her touch. Under the watery veil the seabed glinted faintly, the tiny discarded shells were scattered all around, their hollow hearts now empty homes of sadness.

Have lost quite a bit of time lately thanks to some frustrating ill health, ah well. I'd hoped to chatter a bit more here during the past few of weeks but writing a few story sentences was a far as I ever seemed to get. Bizarrely, writing little story snippets is one thing I can actually do when I've got migraine things going on, possibly because I use a different part of my brain to concoct them?! Who knows!

Had some extra health nonsense messing me about the last few days, hence the extra quietness, but with any luck normal service will now resume! *cross fingers*

She Hurtled Towards The Moon...

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She hurtled towards the moon, her own light streaming behind her, the force sent the seeds scattering. The stars sparkled in anticipation as they saw her pass, welcoming her into the black night. Everyone left behind on the ground stared after her, with wonder and the shadow of the light glittering in the their eyes.

They Swept Like Shadows...

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They swept like shadows, velvet black wings against the fading foliage, swirling in an air thick with magic. They guarded the ramshackle cottage, casting themselves around it like flying wires, their beaks the biting barbs. Only the whisps could make their way through.

They Danced Under A Confusion...

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They danced under a confusion of dark night clouds, their dresses gleaming with harsh moonlight. They were brought here to the grave, their slender arms no match against the shackles, the marble cross was bare white and stark against the towering trees. They danced with their hearts in their feet, beating out a wild cry to the dry bones.

Long Ears Swirled...

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Long dark ears swirled in the twilight, rolling among the shadows of the flowers, above the mauve clouds hurtled across sky. The hares filled the evening with their anxious dance, leaping in the cool light, thundering their paws along the soft earth. The dirt cried out, it wished for sleep, tired of the long summer day. Fat drops of rain began to fall, splashes of sorrow to soothe the ground.

She Brought Her Cupped Hands...

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She brought her cupped hands towards her face, they broke through the light, which pooled around her bronze tresses. Her little maid knelt before her, quiet, solicitous, skin as light and white as her linen robes, eyes as pale as moonlight. They prayed, they sang to the milky dawn, they sang to the rising tide.

Amongst The White Heaps...

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Amongst the white heaps, the silent brilliance of the snow, sweet blue shadows danced along the fence posts. Around the houses, amongst the spindle trees. The garden was filled with bird tables, little hooded ones with pointed roofs. The snowflakes iced them, little seed cakes sitting out in the greying skies. A man walked down the path, bundled in heaps of of dark garments, a lidded hat fending off the weather. He waited until the bird came, it fluttered down to the table, and he fed him from his own gnarled hand.

The Fields Spread Around Them...

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The fields spread around them, a tapestry of greens and mustards, furrows and bare trees. Pale deer leapt in the distance, they disappeared between a dense sweep of blue-grey bushes, whose small leaves flickered in the sinking winter sun. They looked towards a high hill, the bracken and heather were almost golden this late in the afternoon, and it shone around the broken house which had  somehow kept standing at its summit. Kicking back the heaps of narrow autumn leaves, they made their way across the ditch and onto the path that would lead them across the country, and to the old house.

She Filled Her Arms...

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She filled her arms with roses, carefully separating the globular blooms from the sharp stalks. The smaller buds she placed in her hair, scenting it with their drowsy bouquet, their pinky blush spreading amongst the strands. She moved through the rose bushes, going deeper into the brown wood. The flowers pulsed like stars in amongst the heavy bramble, littering the woodland border with their secret song.

In Front Of The House...

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In front of the house stood a small, greying man, his eyes bright with wonder as he drank in the sight before him. The house was like a fortress, a long sweeping rectangle of points and coppery stone, as if it fenced off some great world beyond. All the windows were shutterless and pooled in darkness, the sun sank nearby and the deep blue hue of evening started to seep through, and around, the grounds. Trees turned black and the scrub of garden was rendered a magnificent playground as the shadows leapt from clusters of grass. His breaths grew deeper, he drank the colours in the air. He drank himself into quivering anticipation, the house called to him, or rather say the house expected him, and was laying its claim.

The Slain Wolf...

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The slain wolf, his deadly paws running with blood, slowly returned to the ground. In amongst the tree roots, his fur mated with the broken leaves and gave birth to a rich new earth. The wood was silent this far in, dank and dark and dreadful, for the air held all its secrets close.

Stained Petals, The Colour Of Sunset..

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Stained petals, the colour of sunset behind old glass, had fallen in glorious heaps to the ground. They decorated the dark ditches, their embers faintly glowing like fading stars. Darkness fell, and with it the death of the blooms, their pinks blotted out by velvet night.

It Felt Like All Things...

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It felt like all things were hanging in the air, cheerful teacups swung by her eyes and clinked together in a self-absorbed merriment, shadows whirled like the feet and skirts to which they belonged and the drops of red flowers that dangled from the festive fronds bounced along with them like happy little flags.

The Crowd Had Always Set...

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The crowd had always set themselves apart from her, they milled around in a distant gloom of their flighty, hollow thoughts, and their eyes grasped at each other with desperate desire. Desire that their grey ways would be acknowledged instead as glittering, special, pleasing. She frowned, as her eyes narrowed she suddenly became aware of the weave of their feet, and by extension, their hearts; their endlessly repetitive shuffling, stumbling, connections and repulsions. It was as if they left a smoky trail about themselves, dreary patterns of a rudderless world, too broken to realise they were lost.

The Breaking Crown...

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The breaking crown, that garnished her slight body, still stood with a shadow of defiant form, the points still shining into the darkening sky. The jewels from its band fell around her like falling leaves, as strangely soft and delicate, falling back to their earth to be reborn. As they fell, the child she grasped in her arms felt them flit past, they brushed his head with feathery licks, sanctifying his bones. 

The Deathly Tree

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The deathly tree, sprung with a thousand wiry branches, and heavy-laden with black leaves which hung like sombre teardrops, felt its papery mass flutter in the bitter breath of the wind. The skeletal trunk creaked its displeasure, its roots quivered. All the air was crystal, fragmented with a decaying light that cut its way through to the colourless ground.

The Two Little Fishermen...

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The two little fishermen, (if you could call them that, for they looked decidedly bourgeois, and out of place on the riverbank), were always half-risen in alarm. But at what? I couldn't tell, they were fixed, little ink paintings on a teacup, their intruder obliterated by a china handle. Dear little men, they looked so perturbed, though I expect the fish were probably quite glad to escape their glances.

A Plump Pheasant...

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A plump pheasant, shining like he was a son of the sun, his coat made from the brightest of the earth-fallen leaves, strutted through the meadow of dried stalks and world-weary leaves. Seeds swirled in the air around him, little brown capsules searching out a new life. Some flew boldly towards the clouds, the gentle wind carried them until they could see the haphazard patchwork of country below them, a thousand new places to find a home. Others busied themselves among the dead heads of the flowers, perfectly content with staying close to their known world. But then the men walked through the hedgerows, wrapped in their charcoal tweeds and wool, and everything in the vicinity scattered.

The Dark Gentleman...

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The dark gentleman clicked his beak a few times and straightened (for no reason) his rather formal jacket; he couldn't abide bad service and his patience was being sorely tested. The waiters (who were mostly made up of mice) rushed around him in a flurry of extreme agitation, their white serving cloths clung tightly to their elbows as their paws were already filled with trying to balance cutlery and plates or jugs that were ridiculously full of mulled cider. Their tails curled around the tops of pots and turned them open - billows of hot steam filled the room and the delights of dinner were unveiled at last.

Silver Moths, Glinting...

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Silver moths, glinting in the darkling air, skimmed past their flighty copper brethren and headed to the tipper-most tops of the trees, where the moon's soft light played amongst the leaves. The glow spilled over their wings with a cheerful rapture and the penny-sized moths felt recharged, their wings ready to fight another night.

Crumpled Tubes...

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Crumpled tubes, expelled of their vicious bright colours, lay scattered amongst the torn papers and muddied rags. Each wash of paint sung its own furtive song amongst its siblings on the canvas, never knowing itself to be part of a full chorus of bright expression, gleaming in accordance with their maker's heart.

The Table Was Covered With Bottles...

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The table was covered with bottles; simple ones of clear glass, intricately cut coloured specimens, tall ceramic vase-like vessels and those that had been patiently and ornately painted. Each one contained an ointment or perfume of some kind or another, for their owner was an avid collector of strange scents. Her eye was drawn to a little round white ball of a bottle, daintily drawn with bells and bows, its gold top sending out a warm and persistent burnished glow. She picked it up gingerly, unscrewing the top to unleash a wind of myrrh and benzoin. The resin percolated the air and her nose twitched with delight.

When She Visited The Lacemakers...

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When she visited the lacemakers it was a cold day, half-lit by lazy snow clouds. The workshop sensed the chill and the threads that hung from every surface had stiffened, turning the room into an array of tangled cobwebs. Black flowers bloomed within them, old experiments that had been casually tossed aside in the midst of frantic endeavour. The ladies that worked amongst the little clinking bobbins wore their hair in wool scarves and gossiped merrily to each other as their fingers played out their deft song with the thin linen strands. The overseer took her towards the back of the room which was lined to the ceiling with drawers of various sizes. Each one was sitting at a awkward angle, attempts to shut them despite their material overflow had all failed in a rather spectacular way and lace spilled through the cracks like little plants gasping for air. Hastily, bundles were thrown in front of her, cream scallops, thinly-veined leaves and labyrinths of scarlet ribbon unfolded themselves before her eyes. She hardly knew where to look first.

The Tiny House...

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The tiny house sat upon an equally tiny rock out in the tumultuous sea. Apart from the house there was only room for three cobbled stones of a path and a rather scrawny tree. The water so regularly curled up around the house that it had turned quite white from the salty shock. On the days the dark waves crashed against the stone no one came wandering by in their boats, and Mr Hempton climbed the stairs and stayed in the top attic room, lest the water creep into the house and wet his toes. On sunnier days he would lounge in the parlour, feet up against the sparkling fire, which sent corkscrews of blue smoke up to join the every-changing clouds.

Her Lungs Were In A Constant Flutter...

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Her lungs were in a constant flutter, as if a pair of folded wings lay hidden inside her chest, politely requesting release. At least once a day their many feathers would suddenly flare in a sharp sort of abandon, they had sensed a mere hint of pressure from something in the world and cried in alarm, cried a breathless sorrow against their skeletal shackles.

Only The Mice Knew The Way...

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Only the mice knew the way. They would scuttle about the courtyard, peering over their shoulders and then, when no one was looking, they would dart into a certain crack at the end of the stables and run all the way through the long-forgotten passage and down into the fens, at last coming to the sad, rattling cottages that stood in a cluster by the willow wood. When the town had at last discarded the last fragments of grief The Wild Fire gave, they rebuilt their walls and abandoned the cottages to the wilds. But they still held their old secrets. The pearl gatherers had left inside them a bounty of broken shells and flecks of moon pearls flowered over the floors. Inside the fireplaces, the charcoal that had once brought the pearls to life, still cracked whenever the wind blew, awaiting their return.

The Table Was All Set For Dinner...

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The table was all set for dinner, the crockery gleamed in the halo of candlelight and each crystal glass sparkled with excitement. The guests were arriving, shaking the rain from their Mackintoshes as they entered the winding burrow. They changed into their supper slippers and then pattered down the long hallway, going deeper into the ground until they reached the delicate new roots and the ornate little dining room.

It Could Only Be A Letter...

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It could only be a letter from her. Dear Beatrice. She had always felt the need to cover every square inch of paper with her spidery scrawl, pictures and words intertwining in dead, black ink. Lifting the envelope off the tray, she sliced it open with a thin point of ebony. Tiny pieces of paper fluttered out, a new puzzle of words, waiting to be pieced together.

The Last Dress...

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The last dress was left to the river, the lily stems wrapped their worlds around it and the moonwort shed its papery pods like sorrowful confetti into its desperate grasp. When the river finally had enough of her ever-giving flood, it froze around the tattered yellow taffeta, holding it tight. Suspended forever.

He Lived On The Mountain...

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He lived on the mountain, amongst the black heather and lonely fog. The people of the valley would hear tales of his tree-like antlers, which must possess a strange sort of magic, and they could think of nothing but seeking him out. The capture would surely bring them fame and great wealth. But the grace of the good land had gifted the stag speed, he slipped away into the murky cloud escaping their snares and swooping arrows, grunting back a song of jubilant triumph to the empty-handed hunters.

The Light Of The World Shone...

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The light of the world shone through her, she danced in a dark world and blinded all the creatures thereabout with her radiance. Her skin was like full moonlight, harsh and mocking. Her feet would pound the earth, echoing their destruction to the bottom of burrows and shaking canopies of trees. Only the bats were unafraid of her, circling and darting about her thrashing arms, waiting until she fell in pieces to the dirt.

The Town Stacked Itself Against The Cliffs...

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The town stacked itself against the cliffs, the small houses seemed to topple over each other as they climbed the stark grey heights. The small sliver of land where the village had first begun sat flush against the sea, which would rear up and crash against the cobbled roofs, leaving dregs of salt water and seaweed dripping from every ledge. The townspeople called this place Swelland, the place of the rising tears. Every month when the Moon drunk with her fullness they would lock their window shutters tight, drag their beds to the centre of their rooms and embark on another fruitless attempt to stay as warm and dry as possible.

'Come Over Here'

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'Come over here' the riverweed beckoned, it's lustrous green tassels flowing gently, enticingly, in the deep fresh water. The sunlight buffeted against the wind, and sparkling shards flew out to the water's edge, momentarily blinding the little water vole that was sitting on the bank. He scrunched up his nose and blinked several times, before fixing his eyes back on the green grasses rolling about in the centre of the stream. He took one last glance around himself, and darted into the river. The current sensed his presence and swept around him, the weeds tried to tangle around his paws and keep him with them forever, but he snapped at them, releasing their snares and hurtled himself towards the opposite bank, and freedom.

If Anyone Of Any Feeling...

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If anyone of any feeling had seen the farm that day, their hearts would have cried into oblivion. The crows crowded over the dead fields and the grey sky, silent and sad, hung over the dry, drab furrows in an all-enveloping embrace. Every creature, bar the birds of the dying, had fled as the darkness spread. It was a poison. It pressed against their hides, stinging their lungs, singing their fur, they ran for their lives and towards the fading light.

The Stars Shot Down From The Sky...

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The stars shot down from the sky. Shards of dark violet firmament raced towards the earth, they blasted their way through the balloons of cloud, leaving glittering streams of golden fire in their wake. They saw her grave and spilled around it, finally laying themselves to sleep on the hallow ground as a crown of diamond flowers.

"Oh, I Love The Fragile Flowers!"

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"Oh, I love the fragile flowers!" she exclaimed, watching their thin petals bob about in the breeze. Longing to steal the garden away in her arms, and live with it always, she smiled at the pastel blossoms and swept her hand greedily amongst their leaves. But they recoiled, and with a surge of horror threw themselves to the winds. In a frenzy of flickering light they were torn to pieces, and made their escape into the wilds.

The Swan...

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The swan, feeling the common riverside to be beneath him, decided to seek out more elegant surroundings and headed north, towards the pale light and cool winds. Soon the world around him began to contract, the air shook out delicate, frozen tears and the ground cracked in despair. But the trees were silent, soon they would be savouring the short days and lingering nights of rest. They relished the coming snow, it was a balm to their branches, which had long grown tired of summer's scorching. The swan hurried forward, until all about him became a brilliant white. Stopping, he at last beheld the most wonderful sight - a lake like a jewel, and knew he had found home.

Citrine Leaves Curled Around Her...

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Citrine leaves curled around her, their glassy veins sparkling in the light. She picked up the hem of her dress, delicately shaking away the rubble from the thicket floor. She sensed the enchantment in the air, the last whisper of the incantation rustled through the shrivelled stalks, begging her back.

The Sea Had Seeped...

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The sea had seeped into the land and all the shore flowered with the colours of the waves. Sea-glass green and sweet blue violet, tufts of white seed spray and milky grey thorns decorated the sandbank. She always used to play down there, amongst this splash of meadow, whispering to the blooms, hoping they'd murmur back to her like the singing of the sea-shells.

Over The Years...

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Over the years she had stitched out a whole landscape. A patchwork of fields had run through the machine, the needle tearing and tripping over trees, losing itself in furrows. Now the fabric ran barren, the last golden fragments of a spent harvest.

The Gloomy Trees Stayed In Her Mind...

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The gloomy trees stayed in her mind like little dark smudges, blurring every thought.  She felt their roots creep around her heart, their drab leaves falling with every breath. The world had become nothing but shadows.

What a wonderful collection of images! I love books like this, I have something a little similar kicking about waiting to be finished off, must get on with it! By the way, if you click on the image source above you can see the individual pictures in greater detail. So haunting and beautiful.

In other news, I came across The Intelligent Writer yesterday. A really great resource full of advice and inspiration for anyone wanting to string some words together. I need to add it to my list of links over there on the right but blogger is giving me the runaround and not letting me add new links for some reason... hope it gets it's act together soon(!).

There Was Only One Tree...

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There was only one tree in Straggler's Field. It had spied a lone goose flying high one autumn day and shot straight up to try and greet him. The attempt at friendship didn't work, the goose had taken fright and sped away, so now it stood quite alone, as the land stretched like a canvas over the land below. The tree had occasional visitors, but most particularly a young lady (who always dressed in sombre colours), that came and sat amongst it's roots most mornings. She would take out a small sketchpad and pen, let her eyes slide out of focus, and begin to dream. 

As The Kitten Slept...

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As the kitten slept she dreamt of fleas. A small black regiment armed with spider's webs, they darted around her bedclothes, spinning knots and stitching her in. Their sharp bites made her whiskers twitch. She woke up shackled to the sheets.

Mrs Lindon Prized Her Collection...

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Mrs Lindon prized her collection of silhouettes above all things. In amongst the various family members and companions was one dainty shadow of herself. She had made a very great fuss about visiting the studio of the celebrated artist Mr Miers when lately in London, and had her likeness captured for all eternity by his finely directed use of black paint.

Only The Most Beautiful Of The Birds...

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Only the most beautiful of the birds took to the air that day. They streamed up into the storm and let their wings expand out into the warm salt air. Only the clouds could hear their yearning song, it melted their hearts and they wept until all the world was at sea.