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.

It Was Always Said...

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It was always said that a gentleman's hat told the story of his life. So whenever she entered the cloakroom she would always stare up at them. Row upon row of tarnished silk would beam back at her, most of them as black as moles, but the odd flourish of shimmery mustard or auburn would catch her eye, and it was these she dreamed about the most. 

Must report a bit of a splurge. I've decided to get my mitts on No Plot? No Problem! which was written by the guy involved with setting up NaNoWriMo. I'm intrigued by his ideas about just blasting on with your writing and not getting hung up on perfecting things (my Achilles' heel). Hopefully some of the advice in there will slap some sense into me - I'm slowly getting better at quickly writing up the random little snippets in these posts, but I do still catch myself spending far too long agonising over certain words at times. Alas. Though I admit that using an online thesaurus is helping to remedy that - so there's something to be said about using such tools to aid you in moving things along more quickly. Must remember that. I suppose it might be an idea to collect all these helpful little tips together so I can refer back to them if I ever wander off course - but that's something to put together another day...

He Seemed To Grow Out Of The Sea...

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He seemed to grow out of the sea. The spray churned against his roots, and the sky unleashed it's bitter tears.  Quickly, tendrils of seaweed rushed around him, hastening towards the last of the light. Their branches twisted and flew out, longing to reach out to the rain and join the fury of the ripping winds.

The Last Thing She Packed...

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The last thing she packed was her stockings, a delicate bundle of dark silk wrapped in lavender scented muslin. As she placed them on top of the other tightly wrapped assortment of clothes she realised that her entire life had been tidied away neatly into just one trunk. Everything had it's place, and was assured a part in her destiny. 'If only my mind could be in such a similar state.' she sighed.

They Called Her Ivy Witch...

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They called her Ivy Witch or Know-All-Hands. They brought her to them when death was near. She held all the good intentions of the wild grasses in her palms. 

A lovely side-effect of running this place is finding out where images I'd collected have come from and accidentally finding some great websites to peruse. Somewhat distracting really, so I'm having to be strict with myself and save a proper delve into them for a later date. I came across the image above via Morbid Anatomy which is such a treasure trove of the sort of haunting and melancholic things I like (so I reckon I may have to set aside an entire day for getting myself lost in it). They even have their own museum and library in New York, which has headed straight to the top of my Things To See And Do list. Considering I'm miles away it might have to be filed under Three to Five Year Plan though, alas. There's a museum here in Sheffield that runs along a similar vein, The Alfred Denny Museum, which consists of animal specimens in (what can only be described as) a hyper-Victoriana setting. Deliciously gruesome.

It Was A Well-Known Fact...

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It was a well-known fact that Tom of Upperstep kept moon months in his rickety old house. It was one of those trials that needed to be won on the path out of childhood - run into the grounds, peek through the window, glimpse the moths but remain unseen at all times (or face the no-doubt excruciating consequences). The moths could only be seen at night. They glowed as they twisted themselves around inside the jars, beating their light out in screams for release. Tom cradled them in his heart and saw no reason to let them go. But one day someone saw them, and despaired. That was the day the wind whipped through the forest, telling the land what it had heard and what was to come. Even the smallest of the leaves rustled in delight.

'This Is All Your Fault'

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'This is all your fault!' they bemoaned, each one echoing a circle of complaint to the others. They had seen the last of the sun and were quite upset to have been picked. But if anyone roundabout noticed anything at all, it was nothing but the faint crackle of drying petals and the last desperately heady scent of long lost roses.

She Stood Patiently...

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She stood patiently as the old woman took down a large manuscript and deftly unfastened it's russet-coloured cords. Sitting down upon the step, the woman gently propped her glasses a little higher on her nose and held the book close to her, letting the pages fall about her knees. She murmured as she leafed through the tome, with an occasional knowing smile darting along her crackled mouth. Looking up, she fixed Vertiline with a gleeful smile, her eyes two burning pools of triumph and delight . "It's here. Here..."

The Dying Embers...

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The dying embers of the rose bushes seemed to shake themselves apart, as if they saw him coming. First a powder black nose, then the thistle-soft fur of the night rabbit appeared around the leaves. He was as dark as the sky, with silver stars that danced along his back. She beckoned him with a slight welcome curl of her finger. 'Hello, soot rabbit.' He fixed her with a tempted stare, an interested twitch of whiskers, but turned on his heels and flew back into the thorns.

Adorning The Path...

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Adorning the path were sweet crimson leaves, their dry colours warming the air. The delicate thread of their now dead veins shone out to the Moon; they sang their life back to her, showing her their story, asking her to send the light to them. They wished for a new life, to return to the ground as a treasure of pearls. 

Some more thoughts about this blog affair. It's definitely about quantity over quality. Just get the brain ticking over and writing.... even if it doesn't make complete sense or, upon reflection, sounds staid or obvious. Tweaking is for later on - this is about just getting into the habit of writing and exercising the mind. Just a small amount of exercise each day and suddenly you realise that your mind finds it easier to grasp more unusual words from it's depths or is a little more agile when it comes to phrasing something. A lot of these scribblings may be rather rubbish but with any luck some nuggets of gold might end up hidden in amongst them. That's the hope anyway.

I was inspired by reading some of the articles around nanowrimo, it's so much about just getting the words down on paper instead of hacking everything to death in your mind first and effectively never getting anything written down. It's quite amazing how letting your mind wander where it wants on the page seems to free things up - it's like you get rid of the psychic baggage you're constantly rehashing and suddenly there's lots of room for NEW ideas to take form. You can't help but be scared that maybe nothing else will show up if you've effectively downloaded what you have already (don't know if you find this, but I do tend to keep things locked up in my mind without realising it, or wanting to let it go), but often brainstorming or noting something down on paper just helps move things along. It's sort of like freeing up RAM - bang! Suddenly everything works more smoothly and you really do have a lot more space in there for new forms to take shape. I know I didn't realise it... but I'm certainly noticing it now.

Her Hands Shook...

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Her hands shook as she flipped the page. Parchment fell about her fingers. A screech rent the air. Suddenly all about her were a flurry of feathers, talons swept around her hair, a sweep of beaks about her cheeks. The birds had sensed their freedom.

It Was A White Night...

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It was a white night. As she made her way into the forest the slips of trees seemed to bow and quiver in welcome, they sent their last leaves down to greet her. The Moon could only gaze down with her weary eyes.

Just realised that possibly putting post titles above the images might not really work re: keeping the text separate from the picture. Shall think on that a bit!

The Dark Fluttered In...

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The dark fluttered in, the autumn light cascaded around the meadow and died amongst it's brittle flowers. Jealous, the Moon sent down her shards of light to play amongst the busy nightbirds, who paid no attention at all.

I've been thinking a little more about this new place - I rushed it together in a few hours after the idea popped into my head, so time to fully flesh out a plan of action. I'll try and make sure the image is separated from my own response to it so it doesn't get in the way too much (in case you do fancy joining in). Instead of doing one post with multiple images, I'll do one image per post to keep things streamlined. I'm sure there were some other things I was going to add but they've quite escaped me - I have Enya songs crashing through my head at the moment, you see, and can't think of much else but Orinoco Flows. Sail away, sail away, sail away.