Winter Shadows


Winter Shadows

The lights make mischief
Every shadow every shape
Whilst waiting for snow

50 Word Stories: Just Dancing

We twirled in the tide with nothing but the ocean and our breaths for an orchestra. Above, the moon waltzed with the stars as if captured by the mood. Time was an afterthought, sunrise and sunset distant memories. Even the night paused. Why? Because sometimes you just have to dance.

50 Word Stories: They

50 Word Stories: They

They slid over us like the stars the night, white ghosts stalking the cosmos. Albinos, as like us as not, They confronted us in nightmares and found us wanting. Nameless, They took our everything in intangible truths and left us with nothing. They, we called them, those reflections of us. 

The New Shoes (5)


I hear them giggle. I feel them wiggle. I smell an unknown scent. My wife is with another man and a rage I have suppressed for a decade surfaces.
Why I carry a knife I do not know, but I do and it feels good in my palm. I act before they stir.
I stab and thrust and slice and cut and power my way through the virgin white duvet cover that shimmers in the moonlight. The fact Helen has bought a new cover, replacing the green one I chose, only increases my rage. For five long minutes, I finally show her who’s boss.
When done, I am tired but glad. I reach for the light switch which slips into my wet fingers as it should. A swift flick and we have illumination.
The bed is red. The room is red. Everything, everywhere is a liquid crimson. I look down. My new shoes are splattered beyond repair. This is the final straw. I storm out of our bedroom, down the creaking stairs and out onto the crunching gravel and scream a scream to wake God himself.
There is a click from the adjacent house and an upstairs window opens.
“What are you doing, love?” says a woman who looks just like Helen.
“Just breaking in my new shoes,” I reply, as I wipe the knife on my trousers.
The End.

The New Shoes (4)

img-alternative-textThe landing has a familiar air that the other rooms have not. I know there’s a picture of Helen and myself looking right at me even if I can’t see it. The picture is yet another bane; it is of our wedding day, a constant reminder of my shackles.
I sneak towards our bedroom: first door on the left. At last, the moon has deigned to show its face and shines a weak light under the door, the first to be closed in the way I expect. This angers me as what’s the good of closing a bedroom door if every other is wide open? A riddle for when I’ve slept.
I open said door in silence. The hinges I regularly oil are as quiet as I wish the stairs had been. I shut it behind me with a slight click that sounds more like an explosion in the midnight morgue.
Our bedroom curtains are thin, although tonight they seem thinner than usual, the moon pouring in from a newly unveiled night. I hate thin curtains! They stop me sleeping. I am and always have been a terrible sleeper. I might as well not bother. The absence of darkness only furthers this issue and again I curse my wife. Everything I do is for her, nothing is for me. I grow angry as I trip on a pair of large, male shoes. I am wearing my only shoes?

To Be Continued…

The New Shoes (3)

img-alternative-textI bumble my way across the dining room to the foot of the stairs. Here, I pause. I know full well the first three steps creak from shoddy workmanship. Even though our house is still new in the timespan of such things, the stairs are a constant noisy annoyance. I step to the right which negates said creaking, but creak it does and I curse again. I blame my new shoes. It must be them.
If I wake Helen, she’ll get cross. But if there’s someone here, an intruder, as I suspect there is, then time is of the essence. What to do? What to do?
In my usual way, I compromise. I’m a man who always compromises. From the house we live in to the shoes on my feet, I have made compromises. I moved here for Helen to be close to her mother, an ailing chicken of a woman who hates me. The shoes I wear are brogues; I hate brogues. I bought them because Helen liked them and now their stupid, unforgiving leather is slowing my climb to save a woman who, in turn, is a compromise. Hey-ho, what’s a man to do? I climb. I ascend.

To Be Continued…

The New Shoes (2)

img-alternative-textI run my fingertips across our new kitchen doors; they seem less polished, more ragged than the lacquered finish that cost me a holiday and a year of moaning. I don’t know why this is because I bought them for Helen, or so I convince my obsequious self each new day that I fawn upon them. One… two… three doors to the left and I reach back to the light switch. The switch has gone!
More alarmed now, I manoeuvre myself into the open-plan dining room banging my foot on a chair that usually resides pressed back to the wall. My new shoes are going to hate me, they’ll be ruined before the day is through.
It is a relief to grab the patio curtains and fling them aside, but I’ve forgotten there’s no moon tonight and it’s still as dark as ever. I curse under my breath. Cursing is a frequent pastime.
I want to shout out, to hail my wife and receive an answer. I don’t though. Whether it’s because it’s close to midnight, or whether I fear the reply, instead, I shuffle to the stairs.
Where are you Helen? Where are you?

To Be continued…

Darker Than Dark

Author’s Note: from my WIP.

There is dark. There is darker. I fall somewhere in between. Some might say the black void of infinity close; it is too cold for my liking, too remote. The storm would come closer, those moments before the lightning strike when midnight gathers and fury threatens; I am not furious, I am quiet like a forgotten whisper. There are so many shades, so many names, from obsidian to slate and back again, so many ways to clarify that which must roam free. In a world of the definite, I am without category. In a universe of polished perfections, I am less reflective than one would wish. So, my friends, my less than fortunate disciples, I can say only this. I am the night, and woe betide the light that escapes me.