A small glimpse further into my mind, its a dark place with many cobwebs and often forgotten about. This blog was about drabbles, but has evolved into a few other random writings, or witterings when I'm not abandoning it alltogether for other crafty pursuits.
He sat down placing his hat on the table beside him and removed his six-shooter from its leather holster. A lamp burned warmly on the table of rough hewn pine, scarred and stained but still serving its purpose. Oil, rags and bullets sat on the table. He took the weapon apart piece by piece. His mind wandered over the past, the lives taken and saved with the same gun. He was no longer sporting tin. He left that life to rust in a grave beside a cabin and a skeletal tree. He lived a new life but some things remain.
book group prompt: Gunslinger.
Also a tiny bit of a Tin Man fanfic, Cain of course.
The girl stood with her velvet gloved fingers pressing against dark wood and black iron. The sound of music and laughter drifted from beneath the door. ‘Let me in.’ she called. The girl blinked back tears.The door was locked tight. She gripped the folds of her cream coloured gown and knelt on the icy stone steps. She peered through the keyhole as screams filled the air. The girl pulled back with a cry, horror shining in her eyes. Her paste diamond masque fell to the earth as red blood seeped beneath the locked doors, and screams echoed all around.
Winter stood with her back against the black bark of a tree, body nestled in the tangle of black roots. The forest floor was covered in black leaves and piles of snow. The grey skies pelted down shards of ice. Sharp as glass. A line of crimson welled up across her cheek. Winter swore softly and grabbed a handful of brackish leaves to cover her cheek. In the distance dogs howled and Winter pulled her woollen cloak close fingers laced through the corded blue bag at her waist. Winter smiled grimly as she slipped a dagger from her blue boot.
The library demon tends to books unwanted, abandoned, stolen and cursed. Books that weep their sorrows in tears of black ink. They sit neatly lined on black painted shelves darkly lit library. She lends her books with a smile, but she will keep your soul on hold. And if you steal you may find yourself weeping ink on a shelf.
The library demon dresses in newspaper and lace, with shining buttons onyx black and heart’s blood red. She never eats. She drinks only inky tears. She dreams nightmares in black and white. A forest of words and leaves of paper.
chimera drabble prompt: leaves
something that has beens wirling about my brain. I used part of this for one of my doll stories on my meridianaril blog but I have tears of ink stuck in my head still so may twist it into something else again.
I woke in the shadows curled beneath the arms of an oak tree. The earth smelled of dead leaves and copper. Naked I stumbled, frozen grass splintering beneath bare feet. The moon hung low, a sickly green orb smiling down on night. I crouched at the edge of the water, surface still as glass. I reached out for the moon’s watery reflection and saw my own pale face. Darkness dripped from my mouth, trailing down my moon white skin. I licked my lips and tasted salt and copper. Blood is black in moonlight. A wolf howled. The wolf was me.
Lord Lucian lived in a beautiful manor house in the countryside. His coffers were filled with gold and silver, silks and spices, and the finest jewels in the land. The rooms of the house were filled with art, beautifully crafted furniture, Persian carpets, silken walls, ancient artefacts and heavy leather bound books.
In the gallery hung a series of portraits men and women, the men were all darkly handsome and beside each man, a woman with sad eyes dressed in rubies and silver.
A young servant fell in love with his master’s bride to be.He wooed her with roses, and peppermint creams. He asked her to run away with him and she agreed.
He crept into his master’s chamber and stole a necklace of black metal and glittering diamonds.
The young man wrapped the necklace of diamonds around her slender neck. Together the young lovers ran through the twists and turns of the great house. They ran and ran but each turn brought them back to the same hall, the samecarved door at the end of the house, the master’s bedroom.
The door opened on silent hinges and as it did so the servant’s bride collapsed to the floor fingers digging at her pale neck, colour fading from her cheeks, terror shined in her eyes.
The diamonds around her neck bit deep, a thousand glittering teeth biting into pale flesh. Drops of crimson blood dripped down her neck as the necklace cut deeper, the diamonds colouring the pale pink of new dawn.Her lover pulled at the necklace, rough fingers tearing at the delicate necklace.He watched with silent horror as the life bled out of his love.
The diamonds turned to blood rubies. He held his bride’s cold body crying silent tears. Lord Lucian stepped from the shadows, silver and black cane glinting in the muted light before it crashed down onto the servant’s head.Lucian laughed as he tore the glistening ruby necklace from the bride’s throat.
As the servant lay in a growing pool of blood, his fingers grasping at his bride’s cold fingers. Lord Lucian opened the door at the end of the hall. The room behind was bathed in light, in a chair sat a woman in a white silken gown, her long golden hair piled atop her head, pale skin, sunken eyes that stared lifelessly at the servant. The corpse bride’s paper dry lips were peeled back in a pearly white smile.
Lucian stepped behind his bride and wrapped the gleaming ruby strand around her lifeless neck. A whispering noise filled the room, a sound of dry leaves and death, the sound of the corpse bride laughing. And as the corpse laughed the blood drained from the stones, until once more diamonds shone and the corpse flesh filled out, golden hair shining in the candle light, black eyes shining, skin a delicate cream, cheeks a delicate rose. Lord Lucian kissed his beautiful laughing bride as the light faded from the servant’s eyes.
Hand in hand we crossed the road, and the steep ditch to step lightly onto the newly tilled field. Black earth turn brown in the warm spring sun. Walking at my father’s side, eyes on the ground scanning back and forth, examining each mound of dirt. Looking for the telltale rounded shape of a bead, the long cylinder of a broken pipe, a discarded arrowhead. Tiny fragments of history, laying in the drying dirt in freshly tilled field. An edge of flint, glinting dully in the morning sun. Small hands digging in soft dirt. Muddy footprints, laughter, a treasure found.
White raven flew free in the sky. In the forest the hunter watched white raven. his heart beat wild with jealousy. White Raven peered at the man, with his sparkling eyes and beautiful smile. The Hunter knocked his bow. Raven flew down, as her talons touched the earth magic bright as the sun spilled forth and raven stood as woman with white feathered hair. The hunter loosed his arrow and it speared the woman’s heart. Red, red blood spilled upon the earth. Hunter cried and dropped his bow. A black raven stood where white raven died. Feathers black as sorrow.
She held his gift of roses in her hand, pale snow white petals, with no hint of perfume. Beautiful blooms lifeless as stone . She gripped the flowers with angry hands, black thorns biting into flesh. She threw the roses to ground and cradled her wounded hand. Bright red drops of living blood splashed the milk white roses. And Alice began to laugh, “Painting the roses red for the Queen of Hearts.” she giggled kneeling down to smear scarlet blood across the dead moon-white petals. “Off with his head.” She bared her teeth in a rictus grin of killing rage.
In the garden where the butterflies slept, hidden among the blooms, a girl danced in a white lace gown. The moon hangs low in velvet fabric of the sky, and the stars let down their brittle light. The cloying sent of night blossoming jasmine and gardenia perfume the air. Dewdrops sparkle like jewels. Green grass, sharp as the finest blade, that cuts deep. Droplets of scarlet on white. A whispering of gossamer wings. A flutter of night dark butterflies fill the air. Butterflies with angry mouths and sharp white teeth. An anguished cry as the butterflies feed on crimson blood.
*the image was a clipart butterfly that I messed about with and added the blood spatter. The image wasn't for this drabble its for a short story I haven't written but when I finished making the picture the scene for the drabble popped into my brain so I had to write it.
Adam walked back and forth, back and forth, like a caged and wounded beast. His hands trembled as he reached for the book. 'No....' a voice screeched, and he wasn't sure if it was his own or not. The book sat there, the cover hand stitched, the pages brittle, the ink faded. Adam turned his back on the book. 'No, no, no....you don't need it. You can live without it…for one day!' but the book sat there and it pulled and pulled at him. Adam twitched. He dragged trembling fingers through his long tangled hair. 'Just one more spell.'
written for the Chimera Writing Group Drabble Prompt: Addiction
The woman sat in the corner facing the door, the shining tips of her knitting needles flashing. Red wool wound about her fingers and she cast on and began to knit. The door opened and a man stood before her, clothes covered in dirt, and crusted old blood, yellow fangs splitting his mouth in a sinister grin. With preternatural speed the vampire pounced and the woman plunged her needles into his chest. The vampire’s pale hands clawing at the silver and oak needles piercing his cold dead heart.
“My name is Death and the end is here….” the woman smiled.
Music: O Death sung but Jen Titus for the Supernatural season 5 promo
chimera book and writing group drabble prompt: music
As far as witches go Belinda wasn’t great. Her sisters built a gingerbread house and a candy house, to lure plump young children Belinda found children far too greasy for her tastes. Belinda liked soap, perfume, was afraid of heights and never flew her broom but used it to keep a tidy cottage. .And when Belinda build a house of chocolate, only thing it attracted was housewives kept nibbling the gables and brickwork, and Belinda had the terrible habit of making friends with them instead of turning them to toads. . In short as a witch Belinda was a disgrace.Post Options
“You can’t keep doing this, its insane. Normal people just don’t go around murdering people for a living.” Cordelia said pointing at the guns spaced across the bed. “Eric talk to her she isn’t listening to me.” Cordelia glared at her brother leaning against the door. “Its none of our business” Eric grit between clenched teeth. “Its my job.” B said the black butterfly tattoo on her back stark against pale skin as she reached for a gun. “Its mad!” “We all do what we have to to survive. Death is a bitch.. and now we're all sons of bitches."
On July 16th 1945 Kenneth Bainbridge, leaned close to Robert Oppenheimer and said "Now we're all sons of bitches." immediately after the first atom bomb test explosion at Alamogordo, New Mexico’s Trinity Site.
Grey wheat turned into a muddy ruin, the mud dragging me down with every step. I fell into black earth, the sack of food stuffs burst and sunk into the mood. I dragged myself up and gathered what tins and packets I could pull free of the black mud. The light was fading, clouds obscuring the orange ball of the setting sun at my back. I ran east across the field to the uncertain sanctuary of an abandoned farmhouse. Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me. And with the dark came nightmare made flesh and bone.
Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me. --HG Wells from the War of the Worlds
Six bullets left. I gripped the gun tightly in my right hand and settled in against the trunk of the tree. A cold wind blew across the clearing and into my face, it smelled of snow and ice. A storm was brewing, over the distant mountains. If I was lucky I would still be alive when it reached the tree I perched on. If I wasn’t lucky, well it doesn’t matter does it. I check the revolver again, six bullets gleamed silver in the faint light as the moon rose, bloated and yellow. The first howl echoed across the clearing.
Title: Cherry Author: Apryl Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Dean, Sam, Impala Rating: PG Warnings: vaguely Season 4, nothing spoilery Word Count: 100 Disclaimer: not mine, never mine, *is poor* Notes: Sam is driving and Dean is asleep as they drive North on the I-5.
“Dean woke with a start, head pressed against the window, trail of drool running down his chin. A green sign flashes past in the headlights *”Welcome to Oregon we’ve got trees” Dean grimaces and tried to close his eyes again, but then he hears it. It felt so wrong it felt so right
With dawning horror Dean turned to look at Sam in the driver’s seat, fingers tapping on the steering wheel singing along quietly.
“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.” “What?” “It’s a line from a Shakespearian sonnet.” “A bonnet?” “No a sonnet, a poem by Shakespeare the Bard, the greatest writer in the history of the English Language.” “Poetry is for losers.” “Poetry is a form of literary art, it has heart , meaning, cultural significance..” “Culture like them things they grow in the labs?” “Culture as in society, humanity, people” “Labs is where they make the viruses that’ll turn us all to zombies.” “I don’t know why I try” “Do ya think zombies write poetry? I’d read that.” “Er…No.”
Twin sisters were born on the Summer Solstice, one born in light the other born as darkness fell. As time passed the sisters grew. Day was earthly and fair with flaxen gold hair, a smile warm as sun, and eyes the colour of summer skies. Night was otherworldly and moonlight pale, her hair the colour of a raven’s wing, a smile hinting of magic and wickedness, and eyes that glinted black. At dusk, Night awoke, and the sisters ate honeyed cakes, drank tea from silver cups. Soon Day dreamed as Night sang with the wolves and danced in the moonlight.
Chimera Book and Writing Group Drabble Prompt: Day and Night
Calista danced back at the edge of the shadow creeping across the room, the line between light and dark. The day receded back as the shadows consumed the light. Calista stood in the narrowing band of sunlight, thinner and thinner. A noise began in the shadows, a whispering and skittering of claws on the wooden floor, getting closer and closer. Calista pressed her back against the cool iron bars of the window. No escape. Nowhere to run She could see them now, hideous misshapen creatures with grinning yellow fangs, shadow ghouls summoned from rotting despair. Calista screamed without a sound.
Chimera Book and Writing Group prompt: day and night
An anthropology/Art student dropout from California turned illustrator, turned blogging crafter and geek, with a few stops in between. I live in the middle of England, with my husband (a photographer), and an incredibly industrious and inventive five year old son. I’m busy juggling jewellery making, vintage book painting, occasional knitting (badly), baking, and I mustn’t forget all the blogging. I use everything that I see and dream as inspiration. When I‘m not crafting or in the kitchen I can usually be found with my nose in a book.
