Green Voices

The forest murmured as the wind whistled through the branches of the trees and the leaves that hid the dark hollows of the wood. The shifting air brought with it a chill cold enough to rattle the most stalwart wanderer. A village wasn’t far from the outskirts of the thick wood with huts made of stone and reeds and mud. Families grew as men built and fought off wolves, children played in the fields, and women tended to the things that called. They lived alongside the trees of forest that grew moss and shielded creatures of all kinds. Though they held no bond, the forest spoke amongst itself, quietly.  

In the midst of day, the sun shone brightly through the green fractals of the fronds while at night, the depth of a blackness that crept through the forest drove animals to their burrows and men far from the entrances of the woods. The darkness was ancient, and it was awake as it slithered under bushes and through the spaces between the roots and bark of trees. It was thick and viscous as it made its way across the forest floor.

“Hello,” came a tiny greeting from the mossy ground. It was sweet and small like the tinkling of bells on a billowing string. The darkness slowed to a lurching stop and something in the cloud of gloom shifted toward the tinkling sound. It lifted through the air and reached out with its vaporous fingers. It found in its path the bud of a rose, pink peeking through the concealing green leaves.

Hello, said the darkness. What is it?it asked, impatiently. The bud peeked out a little further, shy in itself as the darkness peered across its tender foliage.

“What are you doing?” the rose asked in a meek voice. The darkness paused, retreated a breath away from the rose, and then inched closer than before as he answered. The rose practically quivered as the chill touched the tips of its petals.

I’m reclaiming this space, it asserted in a deep, pulsating voice. The rose came out a little further from its shell and watched the darkness as it shifted through the cold air like a sickly, low-hanging cloud.

“But we live here,” said the rose. “We want fresh air and bright sun and clean water. Can we have that if you’re here?” The darkness laughed a hideous laugh as the smooth waves of its body rippled.

Why, no, it answered. No, and I wouldn’t want you to. I was here long before you and the terrible trees digging into the earth and those hideous creatures who pound away and shriek and cackle. I’m sick of it,it hissed loudly and reared up to the bottom branches of the trees. They twisted and recoiled in response, the darkness’ briny scent curdling their nature.

“Don’t you think we deserve to be here, too?” the rose asked.

            You deserve nothing, it snapped.You’ve taken over everything. You’ve taken over the empty expanses, the dank and open air has been poisoned by your breath, and the soil splits open at the slightest touch of light!

“Things change, friend,” the rose said shakily, trying its hardest to be stout and firm and kind. “Things change and there’s room for me and for this tree. There’s room for you among us, at the right times.” The darkness remained quiet in response, shifting just above the grass, ominously. “We don’t need to abandon each other.” The darkness remained silent.

“The earth may have felt like yours when you were all alone,” the little flower continued, “but you’re not now.” The trees pulled in closer from their canopies to listen. “You’re here at night to hear the frogs speak and the birds sing their babies to sleep.” Far away, you could hear the gentle whistling of a villager during his final moments around the campfire.

You think I can be… this, the darkness began saying, solemnly, quietly. It’s voice almost disappeared among the dusk and scent of dewy grass. I can be this, and you be you… The flower nodded with the tiniest of motions as the darkness went on. And we can all… be?Not a moment passed before the chiming of what sounded like fairy wings and the dandelion’s flight twinkled between them as the rose laughed and began to speak.

“We all belong here,” it said, “as long as we allow those around us to.” Its pink petals bloomed just a little further until the lip of just one poked beyond the protective case. “You’d be perfect for cold nights, to protect the grass from frost. During the day, you could… You could…” she paused to think and the soft, breathy voice of the tree she grew under breathed an idea.

Caves, it whispered softly. Caves and caverns, burrows and dens. Darkness has its place among us, within us, around us. The darkness waited again, heavy with thought. It softened, and then the edges began to dissipate. The rose stretched at its root with excitement. I’ll find my place among you, the darkness finally said. Before the rose or the tree or the grass could tell, the darkness shifted back and forth across the ground and disappeared into the air. It left a lovely velvet blanket over the surface of all things and the inky sky sat above them a little bit bluer than before and, on that night, the stars could be seen for the first time.

The Dancers

The light faded from the room like mist over water. I felt before I saw: the warmth of his body pressed against my back, the wind of his breath against my shoulder, the roughness of his fingers wrapped so delicately around my hand. I’m a ballerina in my sheets with strong arms to lift me, or hold me.

I was cold everywhere he wasn’t touching me. Frozen from the outside in on our island of rolling sheets of violet. A tender oscillating of my world opened my eyes to the grey of the morning. The shift of the day as time moves was a forgotten concept as the entirety of my existence was cradled in the firm curve of his body.

He hummed through the fog and kissed my shoulder. Scarlett heat spider-webbed from the spot, down my arm and across my shoulder with rippling effect. My hand stayed above my head but our fingers began to dance, alive with the electricity that sparked on his lips.

My hips rolled with the music that began to whisper between us. Friction began to build and his skin slid against my satin nightgown. His lips found my shoulder again and  I broke into a million stars.

Rain of War

He sat with wet knees in the mud, the muck soaking through the coarse fabric. His tunic was drenched with rain and blood as the battlefield stared back at him with thousands of vacant eyes. The ground rippled red as the sky wept over the dead.

The silence overwhelmed him. It pounded as the clouds above darkened and rolled across the sky. His own tears rolled down his face, hidden by the rain. The hammering of the silence mimicked the drums carried by young men a half day before. It rang in his ears and his heart followed suit. The throbbing blasts became too much and he gulped in air. He released a roar that shook the earth and trees surrounding the battlefield. His lungs threatened to burst.

The last rattling fragments of his warcry fell from his lips and he wiped long, wet ribbons of hair away from his cheeks and forehead. As he looked up, the sky was swirling around a breach in the wall of storm clouds. The sun shined through the breach and the drums buffeted from behind their grey curtain.

The rays seemed to slowly reach the ground crawling over the field of bodies and finally warming the soil before him. A figure erupted from the golden glow, one particle at a time. He reached for his sword he had let fall from his grasp at the conclusion of the battle, but felt no call to swing it. The figure was tall but thin. Elegant curves were shown plainly with silk sashes falling from a braided leather belt. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders and back, framing strong shoulders and exposed breasts. Around her head, a crown of braided leather similar to her belt displayed a symbol seen on many abandoned Celtic warriors. She held a raven in the hand not wielding her bejeweled sword.

“Oisin,” the divinity whispers, “you have proven yourself, beyond measure.” She looked down at the warrior with a gratified smile. “The dead celebrate your victory.” She looked out over the corpses, still content. The raven crowed a stark, supportive caw.

“You are one living amongst a garden of valiant fallen.”

“My brothers,” Oisin murmured, still kneeling. His grief overwhelmed his awe in the presence of the goddess, Morrigan. Her smile faded.

“Your brothers are heroes. Your brothers are brilliant, sacred examples of those who should be honored, glorified, exalted! Not mourned.” Her volume grew until the drums seemed to come from her own mouth. The raven flapped wildly, angrily.

Oisin stood. The rain still fell but no tears dwelled among those on his skin. He held his sword firmly in his grasp and he looked past the goddess as she continued to speak.

“They were gods on this field. And you, son of Erin, will continue your worship of them, on many arenas to come. You will prosper in war,” she said and turned to look out across the carnage with him. “You will thrive amongst the clatter of weapons and collision of men.” His heart hammered with pride as her grip on his shoulder tightened.

“You will revel in the blood of enemies and traitors as it falls down upon you.” The silence of the field filled his lungs and he smiled, and then he nodded.

“I’ve always found peace in the rain.”

The Adventurer’s Plight

The adventurer stared down a corridor from under his finely brimmed hat, obscuring the spikes that hung from the ceiling, glinting like teeth in the mouth of a hound. The cavern echoed with cries from previous journeyman who had met their fate on similar traps within the never ending pit. He spoke the closest thing to a silent prayer for them, never being very religious, and moved on.
His companion walked meekly behind him, clutching the old, wilting map between her delicate fingers. She peered around in nervous excitement through big, blue eyes. Her voice withered as she spoke; their lantern flickered.
“You sure about this David?” she asked, hoping to lean on his unwavering sense of confidence. He looked at her over his shoulder, a sly smirk creeping over his face.
“ You nervous, doll face?” Her face morphed between a smile and a mixture of annoyance and exasperation. She slapped her thigh with the map.m
“Don’t call me that,” she demanded with her voice teetering into shrill. He shushed her, holding his hand out as if to keep her from making a dangerous misstep.
“They’ll hear us.”
“Who, the tribesman?” The mockery in her voice set his teeth on edge and he turned on his heels to give her a real reason to pout, but then he saw her golden blonde curls, and he took pity on her naivety.
“The Great Shaman and his Spiritual… Muse,” he said, turning. His pause unsettled him and he made sure not to look back at her, just in case she might doubt him. She couldn’t doubt him, he was the ultimate adventurer. No one had reached the heights of humanity he had, no one had touched time and legend as he had.
They entered the mouth of the cave. The great bellow of the chants came in heavy highs and lows that echoed. She grabbed his arm and he patted it gently as he smiled at his own manliness, bravery, and courage.
“Here’s the plan,” he started, lifting the artifact in his hand to show her once more, “All we gotta do is put this back in its rightful place, to save the peaceful tribe from total destruction.” He looked away as she nodded quickly, biting her lip. She wasn’t sure, but he was, and that was all that mattered.
“You can stay behind,” he offered, “if you’re scared.” Her eyes grew large in dismay before furrowing her brows and pouting.
“I’ll do no such thing,” she confirmed, straightening the map. “Now, let’s go before you change your mind.” They inched forward, holding on to one another through the dark. The ground beneath their feet was soft and spongy, certainly soaked with blood and entrails. He held his breath.
Across the mouth of the cave, they moved forward in utter uncertainty before it opened up to a grand space and the source of the hedonistic groaning. They stepped closer. The altar was in sight. He lifted the artifact with great effort, heavy, as it was made from pure gemstone and marble. The Spiritual Muse shifted and he stopped in place, motionless. He couldn’t waken her, not if they wanted to live.
When she calmed, he lifted it again, this time after taking a step closer to the altar itself. His arm quivered with the weight but he slowly, surely, placed it upon the altar. It gleamed through the darkness with magic and he released a slow, purposeful breath of relief. He looked back at his female companion and nodded. They smiled at one another and then he pointed toward the mouth of the cave.
They turned with new vigor toward the entrance, excited in their success of returning the magnificent artifact to its rightful place, thereby saving an entire village of innocent tribesman. She skittered toward the entrance with a silent giggle, but a sheath of ritual cloth wrapped itself around her delicate ankle, alive with barbarian witchcraft. His blood ran cold as he knew, in those few seconds, they would have to make a choice: fight the heathen leaders on their own turf or flee and hope their wrath would be sated by the return of their religious totem. Those few seconds seemed like lifetimes as she whimpered on the ground, surely covered in the violent aftermath of ritualistic killings. The Shaman and his Muse shifted behind them, and the next moments were looming closer with his fate.
“TJ? What in the world are you doing awake?” He turned toward them, looking over his shoulder at the dialogue clock blazing red with the numbers: 4:12 AM. His sister remained motionless on the ground on top of the misplaced sheet of their parents bed as tears clouded her eyes. His heart pounded but he knew what he must do.
He grabbed the toddler on the floor and hauled her to her feet, running as fast as he could toward the hallway, hollering all the way as if his life depended on the sheer defiance of such a move. He ran with his sister’s arm in his grasp, bare feet pattering across the carpet. They reached their room and slammed shut the door. The adventurer flattened himself against it, safe from the Muse’s hateful screech, sure to deafen all who stick around to hear.
“We’re safe. They won’t follow us here,” he insisted, adjusting his adventurer’s hat. He stroked her cheek, now wet with a single tear. “Let’s get you out of here…” he murmured and she smiled as the fear fell from her features as he began to speak again, “before the floor becomes lava.”

A Father’s Forgiveness

He thumbed the gold filigree of the crucifix. It was heavy in his hands and when he dropped it, it reached the end of the chain with a thump against his hollow chest. A wry smile pulled taut his lips as he stared out at the pillared chamber of his church. He began to move with inhuman grace, his long robes dragged along the polished stone floor as he walked slowly with folded hands toward the back of the church. The distant walls tossed echoes of his steps between them as he went. 

A sound like the slow descent of a broken tree creaked through the hall and his peaceful facade cracked to reveal menace. There and gone in the space of a blink, his eyes flashed red and dark purple veins pulsed in his jaw and forehead. He hurried to a wooden door, nearly hidden in the shadows of a grand, sweeping curtain. 

Soft, white light slowly poured into the room as he opened the door. Bundles of tattered and sullied clothes, piles of old shoes, a broken-down suitcase, and rotten and discolored flesh littered the room. On top of the refuse, new blood stained less-ragged clothing. A heartbeat hammered among the clutter of old and drained organs from the recent past. 

It raced as he stepped forward. He extended a hand toward the hill of bodies at a safe distance from the dregs of human remains. The topmost mound shifted slightly, moving an arm from over terror-stricken eyes. The man stared out from under his arm at the Father in his magnificent robes. Their youth was visibly similar, though the Father himself possessed a strain that only time can press upon a man. His hair was dark but thin and lifeless. His eyes were brown but faded like mud unstirred by a lonely river bank. He continued to hold his hand out to the man, motionless and seemingly kind. The young man shifted his arm away from his head and attempted to push himself up, but he slipped on the corpse beneath him. 

The Father smiled and retracted his hand for just a moment. The young man slid to his knees with ragged breath and soiled clothing. His skin was speckled with blood and grime, punctured delicately in places by the keen teeth of a predator. His dirty hands sat limply against his thighs as he stared up at the Father. 

“My child…” The young man winced at the ice in the words that hit him. His weak body began to shake in fear and he compelled himself not to look back at the bodies of his fellow transients. He had known some of them, before entering the dreaded catacombs that were St. Gotthard’s Church.

The man inched forward on his knees, head down, shoulders shaking. The Father lifted his hand again to be kissed. The man did so, whimpering as he felt the chill of the skin against his pink lips. He released the hand and at the speed of the Lord’s retribution, it lifted and came back down to strike him across the side of his face. He cried out as he fell to the floor, clutching his cheek and sobbing . The Father stepped toward him with the same kind smile of stone etched on his face. He reached down, as if comfort him, but instead, he grabbed the young man by the throat and lifted. 

“In my church, we have rules to be followed. There is doctrine; dogma, even!” He continued to lift the ravaged man until the tips of his feet skittered across the floor and he began to choke, spittle flying from and down his mouth and chin. He began to cry, his own blue eyes ablaze with the last flame of fear he could manage. 

“You are but a vagrant… a tramp… a worthless derelict with nothing to your name and even less to remember you by. The trash of our fine city, I have allowed…” he squeezed on the man’s throat until the blubbering became a smothered cough, “I have allowed you to live on the grounds of this sacred space,” he said with a wicked, ironic smirk. The man’s eyes began to flutter and roll as he slipped from his own mind. “But that’s done.” The last images of his impending death made their way into his horror-soaked mind: the Father lurching his head back, his mouth wide with long, ferocious teeth, and red eyes glowing, dark vessels pulsing beneath his skin. His world began to darken as he was dropped to the floor, helpless but alive, for the moment. 

“Father? Are you here?” came the imploring voice of a patron, a matronly woman seeking solace before the crowd gathered. Before the Father hurried back to the door with one last, detestable glance, he watched the young man desperately writhe for breath on the dirty, wooden floor. He waited for him to lose consciousness, slowly and then all at once, in the tiny room in the back of the grand church. It was almost time for Mass and the priest had his duties. The beggar would keep well enough until he could return and attend to him with the most intimate of finality.

The Photographer’s Collection

I walked down the hall with my tray of breakfast food, intended for the master of the house. He slept until nearly noon and stayed locked away in his room until nearly dinner. The only indication of life I saw before pulling the long woven cord of the massive dinner bell was the disappearance of the tray at midday and reappearance of its empty husk an hour later.

Today, as I walked away from his gloomy bedroom door, I felt the chill of eyes roaming over me. I often didn’t feel alone in the three months I had held employment but this was tangible and struck me to my core. I lifted my eyes to the hallway and all around. The photography had changed.

The many, many photographs of all variance of people were always strange but they had changed. The old man in the tweed jacket was, instead of sitting straight with a hand gripping his lapel with a stern expression, was hunched over and cradling his face.

A young woman, dressed in ripped petticoats and a feathered headdress, stared into the distance of the photograph. I started, clutching my arms in fright, as I swore I saw her shoulders jerk with a sob. I tested the light streaming from the guest room. It changed nothing. Her slim shoulders rocked with sobs and her face twisted with anguish. My blood ran cold and I began to accept my madness.

As I looked around, all the dozens of photographs I had found sad and discomforting since my arrival were in similar states of despair. I spun to look at them all, my skirt swishing against the ancient wooden floor.

In my circles, I came upon one I hadn’t seen before. A young man with piercing eyes, their incandescence muted by the neutrality of the photography. His fashion was current for the year, 1890, and he was clearly a man who worked for the money spent on such a fine outfit. My heart sank.

His strong chin was one much like my father’s. His ears and eyes resembled my own. I stepped closer and his head turned toward me. Our eyes linked and as tears entered my own, he opened his mouth to release a horrible, carnal screaming. His hair flew from its sculpted place and his eyes blazed with ferocity.

Annie! He was screaming. Get out! Get out now, Annie! My brother’s desperate, angry cries were silent behind his glass cage. Tears fell down both our faces. I reached up to lift his frame.

The house was silent, except for my quiet weeping as I held my desperate brother in my hands while he hollered and threw his arms and begged. It was silent, until the door creaked open at the end of the hallway.

Out For Drinks

He didn’t want to go out, but they insisted. They hounded and hollered and teased and pushed and pressed and he didn’t want to, but he did. So, he begrudgingly added a vague button-up over his shirt and pulled boots on. He sighed as he tousled his sandy hair with diminished enthusiasm and took a long, uneasy look in the mirror. His blue eyes were crowded by dark and uneasy eyebrows. He grabbed his door key and walked out.

The streets were dark as he made his way toward the bar they had planned to meet at. The glow of streetlights bounced back up at him with their amber glare from the wet pavement of the roads. Cracks in the sidewalk drew his gaze and he followed them absently as the sounds of the bar began to buzz in the back of his skull. His chest tightened at the upcoming interactions.

Then he heard a sound like the flapping of wings and shattering of glass, quietly, almost undetectable, coming from his right. He paused and turned toward the dark of the alleyway with his hands in his pockets. He had never considered himself timid but something about the darkness of that hole in the wall made his spine tighten with hesitation: don’t do it. He attempted to lift his feet. They were cement blocks joined with the sidewalk. His eyes went back to the darkness and his heart began to race.

He felt his blood pulse, pound, through his body. He could feel it reach his toes and the energy in his center pulled him forward into the dark. He couldn’t seem to walk fast enough away from the streetlights and the neon of the bars. The sound of his friends’ laughter inside the next doorway, but he didn’t care. The alley swallowed him.

It came alive. Movement beyond the reach of the blue of the night caught his attention; he felt a wave of an unfamiliar lust; carnal and slick like cold sweat on quivering, eager arms. He pushed in deeper. He couldn’t see.

“Well, hello,” came a wispy, crooning voice from the back of the alley. “I’ve been waiting all night.” Something deep inside him shuddered.

“I- I’m here,” he stuttered. She slinked over through the darkness like a snake through water. Her cold fingers slipped between his bones and shirt collar. He began to tremble.

“Have you been drinking, baby?” she asked sweetly. He shook his head absently. She giggled. “Have plans?” She brought her face close to his neck, his jaw, his chin…

“I-I-I, yes, I mean… “

“Friends waiting for you?”

“No, I mean, th-they’re just…”

“Oh, baby…” She pressed her mouth to his, eagerly, fervently, and his knees almost buckled beneath the weight of her heat. “Stay with me.” He moaned deeply at the intensity of her plea and the ferocity in her lust. “Be mine,” she demanded with frailty in her voice. With a quivering breath, she sank her teeth into his throbbing carotid artery desperately and his body released powerfully, nearly knocking him off his feet. As his blood emptied his body in heavy, full gulps, his mind drifted and twisted. It became dark and thrumming, exposed and raw, but sure. As the last of himself left his body, he became clear.

She let her hands and her mouth pull away from him and he sat still on the floor with his shirt soaked in red. As he looked at her now, in the dark, he could make out the details of her terrible beauty. She was scarred, deeply, across her face but her eyes were blazing green against porcelain skin. She smiled with teeth holding terrible secrets. His own mouth split open with the same violent delight.

He felt a vibration and looked down. His pocket was lit up with the screen of his phone and the brightness offended him, brighter than ever as shards of light poked through the fibers of his jeans. He shielded his eyes at first, then he slid the phone from his pants.

Where are you?

He looked back to her and saw her excitement: hands clasped tightly in front of her chest, mouth ajar with the moon flashing off sharp, pearlescent fangs, eyes ablaze with the cold fire of lustful carnage. His body trembled at the sight and he breathed heavily through his mouth, overwhelmed and aroused. He placed his fingers on the screen. He had never wanted more to drink.