In a quiet lull at
work, on the back of a discarded till receipt, I set myself a challenge – to
write a little scene before the next customer appeared . Making allowances for
finishing abruptly mid-sentence and a little polishing after the fact, here is
the result...
The first strokes of night-time brushed lazily across the
wide canvas of sky. The palest hue of clear blue, only to be seen at the very extremities
of a day, darkened progressively to indigo.
The trees and hedgerows marking the boundary between her and the horizon
appeared like shadow puppets, merely childish imitations of the true grandeur
of nature. Punctuating the peacefulness of the slumbering countryside were
whispered reminders of civilisation. Power cables stood tall like artificial
trees interwoven across the landscape with their leafy counterparts. Lights
waved and beckoned from far off places, tiny pinpricks like luminescent insects
scurrying amongst dense foliage. Fences and walls criss-crossed one another
until the land became a patchwork, earth broken into territories and generating
neighbours. Resting her forehead against the coolness of the window, she
allowed the murmuring vibrations of the moving train to rock her gently. She
watched attentively as the images slipped by, as they merged and changed, and
until the window framed an entirely new scene.
Sunday, 15 September 2013
Sunday, 8 September 2013
One Question...
An attempt at
futuristic fantasy, perhaps unfitting for the nature of this blog, but simply
because I hadn’t tried it before.
There was a small moth branded on the long curve of her neck. Even in the cavernous half-light its shimmering colour snared his attention. Its wings appeared to beat against her neck, fluttering lightly against her skin, just where a man’s mouth might like to caress. His opponent’s fist cracking against the right side of his face brought his focus back to the makeshift arena. Captain Alec Fisher coughed roughly, blood splattering with saliva across the beaten earth floor. He swept his tongue across his teeth to check for damage, whilst smearing the blood dribbling from his nose with the back of a hand. He smirked arrogantly at his opponent as if he had allowed the man a free punch, even though his cracked lip smarted at the movement and internally his irritation simmered.
She had, he was certain, used her augmented pheromones deliberately to divert his attention from the fight, though her ultimate objective remained unclear. There was amusement and challenge in her disconcerting bicoloured eyes as she circled the outside of the crowd like a predator. A stunner was strapped to her hip, which marked her out from the rest of the spectators who had been disarmed at the door. The moth-woman must work for the Spymaster. Resolutely he turned his mind and concentration back to defeating his opponent. He had a lot riding on the outcome of this fight.
The Spymaster held several fights like these every day in deserted warehouses and unused basements across the city. They were a means of whittling down the amount of supplicants brought to his door. The winner gained an audience and the opportunity to ask a single question. It was a rich prize. The Spymaster had in the past decade accrued an encyclopaedic knowledge of all that went on in the city and its environs. He was, undoubtedly, a criminal but there was nobody with enough power or influence to take him down. Alec, as an enforcer of the law, knew this firsthand. He had no ambition of entrapping the Spymaster; instead he was, like his opponent, simply fighting for the right to ask one question. He wanted the name of his suspect and he wanted it desperately enough to work outside the law to get it. Sometimes, he reasoned, you were forced to sup with the devil.
Military enhanced and trained before becoming an enforcer, Alec had immediately sized up his opponent and catalogued his weaknesses. They had been wrestling for some minutes, each getting in a few shots and keeping the burgeoning crowd entertained. Now, however, pissed off with the moth-woman’s tricks he stopped feigning difficulty. Knocking aside his opponent’s hand, Alec held onto his wrist and pivoted sharply, dislocating a weakened shoulder. Seizing advantage of the shriek of pain and instinctual grab for the injury he wrapped his arm about the man’s windpipe. It would have been easy enough to snap his neck, but he felt no real desire to kill his opponent. Alec had not anticipated that the man would knock them both backwards. As they tripped, legs entangling, he rolled with the momentum of the fall until he landed on top. Beneath him the man’s legs jerked and kicked as Alec reapplied the suffocating pressure to his throat. His eyes rolled back and he flopped into unconsciousness.
His body slick with sweat and muscles shaking from the adrenalin, Alec eased carefully back. He had barely regained his equanimity before a pair of shapely ankles appeared in his line of sight.
“Congratulations. The Spymaster will see you now.” It was the moth-woman, her speech direct and uncluttered. “Follow me.”
“I want my stuff back first.”
“After. The Spymaster does not like to be kept waiting.” The hint of annoyance underlying her command felt like a victory. Alec got to his feet lazily, using his size to unconsciously intimidate as he did during interrogations. He felt sure that he could have spanned her waist with the mere circle made by his two hands. She did not, however, appear fazed. Sexual awareness sparked as she slowly traced her gaze from the brazen masculinity of his bare chest to the trousers that rode low on his hips. His belt, amongst other items of clothing and possessions, had been confiscated. He had assumed it was to prevent the use of these objects as weapons during the fight, but now he wondered if there were ulterior motives.
The moth-woman had already turned away, weaving through the crowd, obviously expecting him to follow her with no further debate. Scowling he pursued, stupidly and painfully conscious of his bare, defenceless feet. The ebony of her hair took on a sheen of electric blue as the light around them began to subtly change. He had not had the opportunity to study her fully in the shadows of the basement, and as they reached ground level the strength of the daylight caused his eyes to crease, keeping her features indistinct. He would not be able to scan for her identity in the future. They left the building promptly and she strode business-like toward an unmarked transport shuttle with specially darkened windows.
“I hope you have your question ready, Captain.” His shoulders tensed at the use of his title, but he was not overly surprised that the Spymaster should know who he was. “Remember this is your only chance. One question, one answer.” She stopped before the passenger door, indicating that he was to go in alone. “Don’t waste it.”
There was a small moth branded on the long curve of her neck. Even in the cavernous half-light its shimmering colour snared his attention. Its wings appeared to beat against her neck, fluttering lightly against her skin, just where a man’s mouth might like to caress. His opponent’s fist cracking against the right side of his face brought his focus back to the makeshift arena. Captain Alec Fisher coughed roughly, blood splattering with saliva across the beaten earth floor. He swept his tongue across his teeth to check for damage, whilst smearing the blood dribbling from his nose with the back of a hand. He smirked arrogantly at his opponent as if he had allowed the man a free punch, even though his cracked lip smarted at the movement and internally his irritation simmered.
She had, he was certain, used her augmented pheromones deliberately to divert his attention from the fight, though her ultimate objective remained unclear. There was amusement and challenge in her disconcerting bicoloured eyes as she circled the outside of the crowd like a predator. A stunner was strapped to her hip, which marked her out from the rest of the spectators who had been disarmed at the door. The moth-woman must work for the Spymaster. Resolutely he turned his mind and concentration back to defeating his opponent. He had a lot riding on the outcome of this fight.
The Spymaster held several fights like these every day in deserted warehouses and unused basements across the city. They were a means of whittling down the amount of supplicants brought to his door. The winner gained an audience and the opportunity to ask a single question. It was a rich prize. The Spymaster had in the past decade accrued an encyclopaedic knowledge of all that went on in the city and its environs. He was, undoubtedly, a criminal but there was nobody with enough power or influence to take him down. Alec, as an enforcer of the law, knew this firsthand. He had no ambition of entrapping the Spymaster; instead he was, like his opponent, simply fighting for the right to ask one question. He wanted the name of his suspect and he wanted it desperately enough to work outside the law to get it. Sometimes, he reasoned, you were forced to sup with the devil.
Military enhanced and trained before becoming an enforcer, Alec had immediately sized up his opponent and catalogued his weaknesses. They had been wrestling for some minutes, each getting in a few shots and keeping the burgeoning crowd entertained. Now, however, pissed off with the moth-woman’s tricks he stopped feigning difficulty. Knocking aside his opponent’s hand, Alec held onto his wrist and pivoted sharply, dislocating a weakened shoulder. Seizing advantage of the shriek of pain and instinctual grab for the injury he wrapped his arm about the man’s windpipe. It would have been easy enough to snap his neck, but he felt no real desire to kill his opponent. Alec had not anticipated that the man would knock them both backwards. As they tripped, legs entangling, he rolled with the momentum of the fall until he landed on top. Beneath him the man’s legs jerked and kicked as Alec reapplied the suffocating pressure to his throat. His eyes rolled back and he flopped into unconsciousness.
His body slick with sweat and muscles shaking from the adrenalin, Alec eased carefully back. He had barely regained his equanimity before a pair of shapely ankles appeared in his line of sight.
“Congratulations. The Spymaster will see you now.” It was the moth-woman, her speech direct and uncluttered. “Follow me.”
“I want my stuff back first.”
“After. The Spymaster does not like to be kept waiting.” The hint of annoyance underlying her command felt like a victory. Alec got to his feet lazily, using his size to unconsciously intimidate as he did during interrogations. He felt sure that he could have spanned her waist with the mere circle made by his two hands. She did not, however, appear fazed. Sexual awareness sparked as she slowly traced her gaze from the brazen masculinity of his bare chest to the trousers that rode low on his hips. His belt, amongst other items of clothing and possessions, had been confiscated. He had assumed it was to prevent the use of these objects as weapons during the fight, but now he wondered if there were ulterior motives.
The moth-woman had already turned away, weaving through the crowd, obviously expecting him to follow her with no further debate. Scowling he pursued, stupidly and painfully conscious of his bare, defenceless feet. The ebony of her hair took on a sheen of electric blue as the light around them began to subtly change. He had not had the opportunity to study her fully in the shadows of the basement, and as they reached ground level the strength of the daylight caused his eyes to crease, keeping her features indistinct. He would not be able to scan for her identity in the future. They left the building promptly and she strode business-like toward an unmarked transport shuttle with specially darkened windows.
“I hope you have your question ready, Captain.” His shoulders tensed at the use of his title, but he was not overly surprised that the Spymaster should know who he was. “Remember this is your only chance. One question, one answer.” She stopped before the passenger door, indicating that he was to go in alone. “Don’t waste it.”
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Monks & Vampires
 |
| Triforium level at the east end of Whitby Abbey. |
 |
| View of Whitby Abbey. |
 |
| Detail from the north transept of Whitby Abbey. |
Sunday, 25 August 2013
Cliffhanger...
A single stone dribbled down the side of the rock-face and
sliced a jagged path across his weathered cheek. His lip curled against the
pitiful and momentary flinch of pain. A second stone, slightly larger in
diameter, thudded against his shoulder with bruising force. Olaf Spoonbeard did
not need a third stone to tell him that conditions on the mountain had taken a
turn from perilous to outright deadly.
“Jorund!” He bellowed against the fierce howl of the wind. “Rockfall!” He pushed himself tight against the craggy surface, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails as he scrabbled to find a strong purchase on the crumbling stones. He ducked his head, attempting to tuck his lumbering frame into as small a target as possible. Spoonbeard could only hope that his brother had heeded his warning and was able to take similar precautions. The rope between them remained slack at least, a sign that Jorund had not continued to climb too much further above him.
Over the animalistic screech and cry of the wind that buffeted against him and threatened to undermine his secure footing, Spoonbeard could hear the distant thunder of fragmenting rock. The avalanche fell upon them fast and it fell hard. The treacherous projectiles pelted down as if thrown by some fierce mountain god in a murderous rage. He gritted his teeth as a boulder slashed through the thick wool of his tunic and tore open his skin in a sudden burning flash. Cuts and scrapes would heal easily enough in time, Spoonbeard knew, but the principal danger to climbers was broken bones. If either he or Jorund were disabled here on the mountain, then neither of them would ever get down alive.
The temperamental mountain calmed as quickly as it had become riled. The shower of rocks began to ease, until finally only a few scattered lumps bumped their tremulous path downwards. As Spoonbeard began to relax tense muscles the rope around his waist went limp. He reacted instinctively before his mind had registered the full import of what had happened. Extending one arm he wrapped the rope around his wrist. The rope stretched taut as his brother fell past him and then recoiled as the fall was inhibited. Spoonbeard screamed as the recoil wrenched at his wrist and forearm snapping something deep inside.
“Jorund?” He waited desperately for a reply to his hoarse cry, but could distinguish none over the blood pumping furiously in his ears. Had Jorund been knocked senseless, or was his brother’s dead body tethered to the other end of the rope? Spoonbeard was faced with an impossible decision. He could hold on in the hope that Jorund would awaken and be fit to climb once more. Or he could sever the rope and drop the dead weight of his younger brother. Rationally Spoonbeard knew he could not wait indefinitely for his brother to move on his own accord. His body was already trembling from the strain and the slightest slip of the foot would send them both to their deaths. A sharp outcrop lay neatly aligned with his rope-bound wrist. It would be a simple enough matter to fray the rope that connected them.
Could Spoonbeard hold on or would he be forced to kill his brother?...
“Jorund!” He bellowed against the fierce howl of the wind. “Rockfall!” He pushed himself tight against the craggy surface, dirt embedding itself under his fingernails as he scrabbled to find a strong purchase on the crumbling stones. He ducked his head, attempting to tuck his lumbering frame into as small a target as possible. Spoonbeard could only hope that his brother had heeded his warning and was able to take similar precautions. The rope between them remained slack at least, a sign that Jorund had not continued to climb too much further above him.
Over the animalistic screech and cry of the wind that buffeted against him and threatened to undermine his secure footing, Spoonbeard could hear the distant thunder of fragmenting rock. The avalanche fell upon them fast and it fell hard. The treacherous projectiles pelted down as if thrown by some fierce mountain god in a murderous rage. He gritted his teeth as a boulder slashed through the thick wool of his tunic and tore open his skin in a sudden burning flash. Cuts and scrapes would heal easily enough in time, Spoonbeard knew, but the principal danger to climbers was broken bones. If either he or Jorund were disabled here on the mountain, then neither of them would ever get down alive.
The temperamental mountain calmed as quickly as it had become riled. The shower of rocks began to ease, until finally only a few scattered lumps bumped their tremulous path downwards. As Spoonbeard began to relax tense muscles the rope around his waist went limp. He reacted instinctively before his mind had registered the full import of what had happened. Extending one arm he wrapped the rope around his wrist. The rope stretched taut as his brother fell past him and then recoiled as the fall was inhibited. Spoonbeard screamed as the recoil wrenched at his wrist and forearm snapping something deep inside.
“Jorund?” He waited desperately for a reply to his hoarse cry, but could distinguish none over the blood pumping furiously in his ears. Had Jorund been knocked senseless, or was his brother’s dead body tethered to the other end of the rope? Spoonbeard was faced with an impossible decision. He could hold on in the hope that Jorund would awaken and be fit to climb once more. Or he could sever the rope and drop the dead weight of his younger brother. Rationally Spoonbeard knew he could not wait indefinitely for his brother to move on his own accord. His body was already trembling from the strain and the slightest slip of the foot would send them both to their deaths. A sharp outcrop lay neatly aligned with his rope-bound wrist. It would be a simple enough matter to fray the rope that connected them.
Could Spoonbeard hold on or would he be forced to kill his brother?...
Sunday, 18 August 2013
Colour & Light
The Great East Window in York Minster is currently undergoing
a lengthy conservation programme. Yet every month visitors are able to see a
selection of its panels in the cleverly designed Orb at the east end of the
church. This gives you a truly extraordinary opportunity to see the medieval
glass up close like never before.
 |
| St John glimpses God in Majesty (11h). |
 |
| The Dragon gives power to the Beast (5a). |
 |
| The Mighty Angel and the Seven Thunders (8g). |
Sunday, 11 August 2013
Sunday, 4 August 2013
After The Silence...
Cornwall, 1921
The young woman was a picture of motion. The bag looped over one narrow shoulder swayed with every tap of her hip. A hat swung loosely in her hand as her arms matched the rhythm of her forceful stride. The material of her skirt stretched taut across her legs and then relaxed once again with each step. Yet as she walked down that carefully cobbled path it seemed to her as if time itself had ceased to move at all. The flower-heavy stems of wisteria still gently brushed across her shoulders, releasing its thick perfume as she twisted sharply to the right to reach the front door.
She rapped immediately, her fist rubbing more of the peeling blue paint off the tired wood. The decision having been made several days ago in London she did not pause to consider her actions now. After a short wait the door opened and a familiar voice spoke with quiet reserve.
“Good afternoon Madeline. I wondered when you’d come.” The young woman fidgeted with the brim of her hat, her smile of greeting merely a fleeting curve of her painted lips. She had been mildly taken aback by the other woman’s appearance. Age had given her a softness that had always been absent before. Grey strands muted what had once been dazzling gold, though the elegant twist of hair above her nape stayed the same. There was tiredness and resignation in the lines and discolouration of her skin, but the stiff peaks of her collarbone remained proud.
“I’d like to see Kit.” There was little discernible change in the other woman’s expression, but Madeline had known her well once. “I only wish to say goodbye, Rose.” Her tone was gentle and reassuring. “I shall be leaving England very soon. My fiancĂ© works for the Foreign Office. You know I always dreamed of my very own Grand Tour when I was a girl.” Some of the tension eased around Rose’s mouth and she nodded her acknowledgment of what had truly been meant by those words. Madeline would not be taking Kit away again.
“I’ll make us some tea.” The benign statement was as polite an invitation as would ever be possible between the two women. As they settled in the well-appointed cottage kitchen Madeline felt yet again how precarious the passage of time could be. It had been almost seven years since she had first sat in this kitchen, Rose clattering about with the tea things and asking her how hellish the journey down had been. It was simply to have been a short holiday with a distant cousin to escape momentarily from parental disagreements. Neither of them could have perceived back then how such a small act of kindness could have fundamentally changed all their lives.
“You have to understand he’s not the same man anymore.” They both looked unconsciously towards the staircase when Rose’s solemn utterance rose above the chimes of their cups and saucers. “When they brought him back from the Front it’s as if they left a part of him there. He can’t see of course. Gas. But his mind wanders and he can be very...different.” Rose had been studying hard the score marks on the table as she spoke but now she looked directly at the younger woman. “He says things he doesn’t mean. He’s always sorry for them later. I just want – I just want you to know that.” Madeline fumbled for the right words, yet none of them seemed adequate.
“I am glad he is here with you.” She said finally, impulsively clasping the older woman’s hand. “I am so very glad he has you Rose.” Rose sat stiff and uncomfortable before extracting her hand carefully. There were some bonds that could never be mended and some actions that could never be forgiven. “You have always loved him so much better than I.” Madeline said softly as she toyed with a delicate teaspoon.
“He was never yours to love.” The words were sharp as was the metallic scrape when the ring on Rose’s finger caught on the tea tray. Madeline stood abruptly in an attempt to end the argument before it had begun. All the accusations and recriminations had been aired many years ago the night that Kit and Madeline had left together. It had been a short, idyllic summer for the lovers before the nightmare of war began. It was a war that had eventually returned the husband to his wife.
“I shall go see him now.” Madeline turned back uncertainly, however, when she reached the doorway. “Rose, I would never leave if I didn’t think he would be happiest here with you. Let go of the past. Our hearts have an astonishing and resilient capacity for love.”
The young woman was a picture of motion. The bag looped over one narrow shoulder swayed with every tap of her hip. A hat swung loosely in her hand as her arms matched the rhythm of her forceful stride. The material of her skirt stretched taut across her legs and then relaxed once again with each step. Yet as she walked down that carefully cobbled path it seemed to her as if time itself had ceased to move at all. The flower-heavy stems of wisteria still gently brushed across her shoulders, releasing its thick perfume as she twisted sharply to the right to reach the front door.
She rapped immediately, her fist rubbing more of the peeling blue paint off the tired wood. The decision having been made several days ago in London she did not pause to consider her actions now. After a short wait the door opened and a familiar voice spoke with quiet reserve.
“Good afternoon Madeline. I wondered when you’d come.” The young woman fidgeted with the brim of her hat, her smile of greeting merely a fleeting curve of her painted lips. She had been mildly taken aback by the other woman’s appearance. Age had given her a softness that had always been absent before. Grey strands muted what had once been dazzling gold, though the elegant twist of hair above her nape stayed the same. There was tiredness and resignation in the lines and discolouration of her skin, but the stiff peaks of her collarbone remained proud.
“I’d like to see Kit.” There was little discernible change in the other woman’s expression, but Madeline had known her well once. “I only wish to say goodbye, Rose.” Her tone was gentle and reassuring. “I shall be leaving England very soon. My fiancĂ© works for the Foreign Office. You know I always dreamed of my very own Grand Tour when I was a girl.” Some of the tension eased around Rose’s mouth and she nodded her acknowledgment of what had truly been meant by those words. Madeline would not be taking Kit away again.
“I’ll make us some tea.” The benign statement was as polite an invitation as would ever be possible between the two women. As they settled in the well-appointed cottage kitchen Madeline felt yet again how precarious the passage of time could be. It had been almost seven years since she had first sat in this kitchen, Rose clattering about with the tea things and asking her how hellish the journey down had been. It was simply to have been a short holiday with a distant cousin to escape momentarily from parental disagreements. Neither of them could have perceived back then how such a small act of kindness could have fundamentally changed all their lives.
“You have to understand he’s not the same man anymore.” They both looked unconsciously towards the staircase when Rose’s solemn utterance rose above the chimes of their cups and saucers. “When they brought him back from the Front it’s as if they left a part of him there. He can’t see of course. Gas. But his mind wanders and he can be very...different.” Rose had been studying hard the score marks on the table as she spoke but now she looked directly at the younger woman. “He says things he doesn’t mean. He’s always sorry for them later. I just want – I just want you to know that.” Madeline fumbled for the right words, yet none of them seemed adequate.
“I am glad he is here with you.” She said finally, impulsively clasping the older woman’s hand. “I am so very glad he has you Rose.” Rose sat stiff and uncomfortable before extracting her hand carefully. There were some bonds that could never be mended and some actions that could never be forgiven. “You have always loved him so much better than I.” Madeline said softly as she toyed with a delicate teaspoon.
“He was never yours to love.” The words were sharp as was the metallic scrape when the ring on Rose’s finger caught on the tea tray. Madeline stood abruptly in an attempt to end the argument before it had begun. All the accusations and recriminations had been aired many years ago the night that Kit and Madeline had left together. It had been a short, idyllic summer for the lovers before the nightmare of war began. It was a war that had eventually returned the husband to his wife.
“I shall go see him now.” Madeline turned back uncertainly, however, when she reached the doorway. “Rose, I would never leave if I didn’t think he would be happiest here with you. Let go of the past. Our hearts have an astonishing and resilient capacity for love.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)