Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series and Britannia Unleashed all published by Next Chapter. Richard feels privileged to have had stories and poetry published all over the world. He lives to write.
A prolific writer, a constant source of clearing his mind, Richard has created this website to share just some of the many poems and prose he has written that would otherwise have fallen by the wayside.
Reading and writing have always been Richard's main love along with the pursuit of keeping fit, running, walking, and anything that provides a spectacular view.
Running in the rain with his headphones on whilst dreaming up some future storyline is just about perfect. It would be nicer still if that run was in Switzerland or Norway, but we can't have everything.
Oh, and coffee, lots and lots of coffee.
Image by me Written for Tourmaline .’s Halloween Challenge
“We are all ghosts in the greater scheme of things. We are invisible to all but those who know us there. Is that not the very definition of a ghost?”
The creature nodded to not a rustle, nor even a disturbance of the air. All that marked its presence was a chill down the spine and a momentary blurring of my vision. But I knew what it was, which proved my point. And still, I couldn’t run.
There wasn’t a person in sight, just a gawping fool of a frog.
The frog had no teeth, no claws, and no idea, apparently. It sat on the path between me and my destination like a small rock waging war against the tidal sea. The question was how to pass it? I could’ve strode over, leapt, or booted it out of the way. I wasn’t one for going around. To my shame, the boot won.
I drew back my hobnail boots like a famous striker and launched into a world-beating goal. The frog just opened its mouth. It did not stop.
I lost my foot, then leg, then felt the rest of me sucked inside the frog’s now vacuous maw. The clouds were last to go, as my vision passed from day to enforced night. The frog belched.
There were others inside the frog, but they claimed it a toad. We fought in the darkness for a meaningless victory. The frog just belched again and moved on to mice, cats, and dogs.
Jonny scowled at the onrushing dusk and the miserable old uncle his wife had lumbered him with. The day had almost gone. He tried the philosophical method first, knowing the miserable uncle as he did.
“The night’s an empty, unwelcoming place, Uncle Frank, full of nothing and proud of it. There’s no colour, no warmth, no proof of life. It’s like it’s not even trying. Give me the sun any day of the week.”
Nothing.
Jonny sighed. “Anyhoo, the party’s moved indoors. Janine sent me to fetch you. ”
The uncle said not a word.
“Not coming? It is for you, you know! Oh well, suit yourself.” Jonny spun on his heels and headed back into the party tent, frustrated that Frank hadn’t even raised his ancient head.
Old Uncle Frank was alone with only his thoughts. He watched the sun singe the horizon before disappearing in a charcoal puff of smoke. Soon, the stars appeared, and then the moon. The night blazed a celestial welcome. And even though the party continued, louder if anything, he raised his craggy face and smiled.
“The night is all those things and more, my young friend. And we can all thank God for that.”
A cool, languid wind eased itself down the mountainside, unhurried in its quest to reach the shaded valley floor. I felt it like a child its mother’s breath.
Rocks peppered the cliff face in sheer defiance of the laws of physics. They clung on for dear life. Silly rocks, I thought. We’re not meant to resist.
Up above the clouds lay a cerulean blanket so unruffled as to rival the placid sea we crawled from that eventful bygone day. A sparkling, citrine sun warmed my cheeks. The wind had gone. I missed it. Perhaps that’s why I jumped? Perhaps, not.
The darkness came as a swathe of night, flanked by fire and flood. All fled before it except for one small boy.
Chaos abounded. People wrestled over petty goods, tore with fingernails and teeth. Yet, only when the darkness touched them did reality bite, fleeing terrified into either the flames or the abyssal waters. Soon, only the boy remained.
The Devil came for him with genuine intrigue plastered across his jester features. “You survived. How?”
The boy looked him straight in his goat-like eyes. “I can’t swim, and I’m warm already.”
“Ah,” cooed the Devil. “The innocence of youth.”
There is an unfashionable feather tickling at my throat, not hard enough to gag, nor soft enough to seduce. This constant pressure delights at first, but soon irritates. I wish for it to stop. I hope for it to slice.
Beneath the moon, this weeping almost-woman rubs her throat like a pensioner might a knee. I feel the invisible noose, the fingers of the ripper, regardless. I know I shall always feel it. Destiny or fate, this truth is unavoidable. I retire to bed.
The next morning, and the pain is lessened. Time seeks to diminish what the feather seeks to impress. Time is my new best friend, and I celebrate with a walk.
Green shoots pepper the park. A few random daffodils make galaxies of the area, popping up between the dying snowdrops like blazing suns. I smile, then wish I hadn’t. The corners of a mouth better used to misery tug at my neck and throat. The discomfort returns. I run the rest of the way.
I have always had a thing for bridges, one of humanity’s least imposing constructions. Sometimes, they even improve the view, as does this one in its curved steel and towering stanchions. Strength, I think. It projects strength.
I sit all day like a lazy gargoyle having tumbled from a church, pitching to one side. The rabid traffic rushes past in blurs of colour. Every vehicle stinks.
Night. My second. The feather presses harder now. More dagger than lover’s fingers, the feather would cut if I’d let it. And I will. I must.
Midnight slips over me like a warm, favourite jumper. There are no stars and the moon is a celestial stranger. This night is as dark as that night. My mood lightens.
I jump without the rope this time. There are no mistakes. There is only a steep dive and a shattering liquidity. The plunge is less than I expected, but more than enough.
I lay in a crate some call a coffin. There’s a pressure on my throat, soft and continuous. And despite the darkness, the fact I am clearly dead and should feel and realise nothing, I do. The feathered fingers are mine. I’m almost home.
I’m thrilled to announce that The Winter Lily, a co-written project with the wonderful Gina Maria Manchego, is published today in issue 19 of Impspired Magazine. This fantasy short story will also feature in the Impspired Volume 10 print edition scheduled for early 2023. A big thank you to the editor Steve Cawte for putting his faith in us. See Impspired.com for lots more wonderful writing
It was a real joy writing with Gina, so much so, we have a lot more co-written work on the way. I hope you get a chance to read The Winter Lily, a delightful short story, and our first co-published piece.
Queen of Rats by Chris R Sendrowski Dark, tense and intriguing. This latest novel from Sendrowski takes place in Alg, an area only previously mentioned in his tales of Retrac Daor.I loved this tale of revenge set mainly in the vast underground sewers of a 2,000 year old city. Ember is a fascinating character, accompanied by a huge cast of damaged, flawed heroes and villains. And King Garrowin bears an uncanny resemblance to dictators both past and present…If you’ve not yet set foot in Retrac Daor, this novel is a good place to start. And if you’ve already read the previous 3 tales, you won’t want to miss this one!
Into Eternity by Richard M Ankers A unique view of vampires. The tale of the hydrophobic vampire draws to a close. Everything about this series is unique; the narrative voice and style, the characters, the world, the exploration of vampire…
Richard M. Ankers - Storybook 
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