the owl

The grey owl was hidden by a dusty layer of dirty snow as it perched huddled on a rusty car. The owl was betrayed by the slow blink of his green eyes. I gripped my basket tightly rummaging in the rusting hulks of dead cars. ‘Fly away.’ I thought furiously pulling at a tangle of copper wire, the cold metal burning through my frayed leather gloves. In the distance the blocky shapes of the city. A chain-link fence ran around the perimeter of the city to keep the infected inside. I shuddered and touched the rifle hanging on my shoulder.

quarantine prompt

Pink

Pink. Not the colour of flowers but of sunburnt blistered skin. The first colour they could remember for days of walking the grey smoke. Black road gave way to desert sand. A splash of dried black blood stained the sand beside the bloated corpse. The body twitched and gurgled. A shot rang out echoing along the valley. The head burst apart raining down chunks of diseased black and grey brain on the white sand. No words were spoken as the group circled round the headless remains. A few brave children threw stones at the headless corpse, silently mouthing ‘zombie’.

Winter Blues

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.

Chimera drabble prompt: Winter Blues

three things

Three things, a quick dash round the supermarket. James crumpled up the list and shoved it in his coat. Milk, apples, coffee. James made his way down the aisles randomly filling his basket, ipod blaring, head nodding to the music reading the back of a cereal packet. James bumped into an empty trolley, ‘Sorry’ He mumbled. Trolleys were scattered about the store, shelves of food scattered across the floor. A tin of beans rolled past. An old woman shuffled round the corner, skin green, mouth covered in blood that dripped down her chin. ‘Hello?’ Jamie gulped. ‘coffee’s on aisle three?.’

book club prompt 'plague'

tears of ink

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.

green moon

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.

The Red Necklace

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 same carved 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.

The White Raven (first draft)

The White Raven flew high above the trees, twisting and turning singing her joy to the sun. In the forest below a hunter stood on the moss at the edge of a spring of sweet water. The raven flew down, her wingtips rippling the surface of the water. Ivory feathers a blaze of white in the forest gloom. Sharp claws scratched against stone as she landed on a smooth grey rock at the edge of the pool of clear water. The raven tilted her head to the side, observing the hunter with winter blue eyes.

The hunter nodded to the raven and wandered into the deep woods in search of his game. The white raven followed. The forest was bountiful, deer, elk, hares, grouse, and ptarmigan fell to the hunter’s bow. The raven made a game of following the hunter, hopping from tree to tree, gliding above the forest and diving down to scare game from tall grass and thickets. Each night the hunter and the raven met at pool. The hunter would cut small gobbets of flesh from his kills and offer them to the raven perched on her rock.

The white raven fell in love with the hunter. She wove the wild magic of the forest to change her shape. The raven stood in human form, glowing white skin, and winter blue eyes, and feather soft hair the colour of snowy white wings.

As the moon rose the hunter crept through the forest to the pool. Standing on the rock arms raised to the heavy moon the white raven stood in her pale human guise. The hunter covered the girl with his cape and took her home as his bride.

The raven was happy in the small cottage in the forest with her husband the hunter. She bore seven children, four sons and three daughters with milk white skin and downy hair white as new fallen snow. White raven was a good wife, loving and kind, but she held her secrets and would not speak of where she came from or how she appeared at the pool in the forest or where she went on the days she went walking among the trees.

One autumn, when leaves tumbled from the trees, the sun was warm, but the wind smelled of winter the hunter’s wife disappeared into the woods. The hunter was furious that his wife was gone. He left the children alone in the cottage and searched every path through the twisting woods. Creeping from shadow to shadow, boots silent on the leaf strewn forest floor, the hunter scoured the forest. Morning turned to noon, noon to dusk and still there was no sign of his beloved wife. The trees opened up and the hunter found himself standing on the edge of the pool shaking with fury as he held his bow in his hands. The forest was silent all around, no leaves whispered on the wind, no squirrels chittering in the trees, or birds singing in the sky.

The white raven perched on the smooth grey stone beside the water, wings stretched out in the sunlight. The hunter was angry and notched an arrow in his bow. The raven folded her wings and looked at him with a winter blue eye.

The hunter loosed his arrow. It flew true across the still pool reflecting in the icy chill of the water. The arrow pierced the raven’s snowy white breast. The raven cried as red blood flowed across her white feathers and dripped onto the cold grey rock. As the white raven fell light filled the clearing brighter than the sun, the hunter hid his eyes, and when the light faded a woman lay on the rock, an arrow piercing the heart of his beautiful wife.

The hunter stumbled to the rock and held her as she lay dying. The clearing filled with the rush of wings and seven white ravens plummeted from the sky, they circled around the hunter and his dying bride before landing on the mossy ground. The hunter gazed with grief stricken eyes as the ravens transformed into seven small children. They turned sad eyes to their mother, faces solemn as they ripped the arrow from their mother’s chest. The eldest held the arrow and dropped it into his father’s hands. The world shifted and pulsed as the children changed small feathered bodies taking flight.

White feathers turned black. The colour of their sorrow.

the end

flint

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.



(a memory from when I was small)

The White Raven

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.

a gift of roses

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.

Midnight Butterflies

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.

addiction

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

O Death

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

a house of chocolate

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

Trinity

“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.

Night

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

Chimera Writing group prompt: quote

in a Dark Dungeon

Dean woke in the dark head pounding, blunt fingers brushing the gash at his temple; the wound still wept blood in a sluggish trickle. “Sam?” he whispered looking around the dark room. “Sammy?”
“Yeah I’m here.”
“Where are we?”
“This is an oubliette, labyrinth's full of 'em” Sam recited as he cracked his head on the ceiling.
“Really. I didn't know that.”
“Oh don't act so smart. You don't even know what an oubliette is.” Sam grimaced
“Do you?” Dean spit out.
“Yes. It's a place you put people... to forget about 'em!”
“Dude this is...”
“Don’t!”
“Awesome”
Sam swore.

Chimera Drabble Prompt: Dungeon

disclaimer: Labyrinth and Supernatural aren't mine this was written for amusement only.. based on an old converstation with Flame.

wolf

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.



Chimera Writing prompt: wolf

The House on Blackbird Road

In the house at the end of Blackbird road, with the peeling grey paint, that may once have been the blue of ocean waves. With dark wooden floors and damask velvet walls, ceilings dark and filled with a macabre carnival of spider webs. Dead chandeliers that drip dusty jewels, the stairs that creak as you climb up and up to nowhere at all. There is little black key, in a hidden door, in the peeling damask paper at the end of the hall. Phantoms whisper secrets and lies in the shadows, in the house at the end of Blackbird road.