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.
The sky collapsed in evening shades. Every second spawned a greater darkness. Every hour weighed upon the soul. Leaden and unwilling to relent, the clouds engulfed us. This was how purgatory descended.
Chapter 2
The ivy crept across the floor more from necessity than design, looking to strangle the world one lump of grit at a time. We didn’t see it, of course, but we felt every inch of unleashed tendril. This was how purgatory attacked.
Chapter 3
We found each other in paired hands, squeezing. There were no sounds. Death came easily to us over and over again. Had ever a reality been conquered so easily? We still believed it a dream, of course. Somewhere deep in limbo’s fog, an entity whistled from boredom. Unless it was me? This was how purgatory won.
I’m very proud to announce that Spillwords.com have kindly chosen my short story ‘The Dying Time‘ as a featured post of the day. Spillwords house a wonderful selection of poetry and prose from all around the globe. Please do check them out.
‘The Dying Time‘ is the story of a young mother’s loss seen through the eyes of her new lover. Her sadness and strange behaviour will unravel before his eyes. I hope you enjoy the read.
Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash
We drift upon this river called time eyes open, ears listening, fingers grasping, without ever a clue as to what we wish to see, hear, or touch. There is no true understanding of the rising moon, nor of the galaxies spinning. The sun is just a candle in the sky. The wind in the meadows may whisper and the froth-topped waves evoke something embedded from genetic memory, but what remains moot. Rain on the window glass dares closest to an elusive truth. The ghosts of the past confirm this. We cannot understand this dream we drift through, or it world be no dream at all.
Richard M. Ankers - Storybook 
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