Never The End

Never The End

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The darkness surrounds us a thick, unctuous soup of warm nothingness. I nuzzle into the night, deeper and deeper, until it coats my every sinew, every atom, every thought. The girl’s hand is clammy, even slippery to one with a lesser grip; I am not one with a lesser grip. We push on between the dreams, the pitch-black imaginings, the harsh reality of monotonous life.
Dawn is reluctant to rise in this place. It’s as if we tromp through gigantic caverns of moist night air with such a crust of earth between us and it that the sunlight will come to us only in our nightmares. I apologise, to the girl it would come as a dream. I forget these things. It has been so long.
A fury of fluttering wings sends sparks of sensory awareness echoing around this place I call home; the bats have returned and with them my children. I hear their chittering as though eager to be told another tale of eternity and the cosmos. I would, but my heart lies elsewhere this eve, stone-cold though it is.
We ascend, or descend, I forget which? The unmistakable clip-clop of feet on stone stairs echoes around the tight confines of the tower. It is a good job I do not suffer from claustrophobia, not that this is the tightest realm of my daily routine.
A sharp slap to the face as of cold air, a gust from the outside world, brings a smile from me and a gasp from my companion. I am almost home, I smile, as a sliver of pinprick stars filters through the absolute obsidian. The girl sees it too; I feel her fingers contract.
It is light here, almost too much so for one with eyes as sensitive as mine. My companion releases my hand and rushes to the window to gaze out across eternity. I did so too the first time I saw it.
“It’s so high!” she gasps. “Is this heaven?”
“Not quite,” I say, as I hold her close and look out at the moon. I love La Luna, as some call her, her austere perfection, milk-white skin; her reliable interactions with my evenings.
The girl’s neck glows with a luminescence only my kind can see, if any others still exist, that is? I allow dagger talons to caress her jugular; the girl purrs in response.
“So beautiful,” she coos.
“Yes, you are,” I reply.
I hear her smile, the upturning of her lips creaking in the still air. I enjoy these small details in a way I would never have before… before it happened. A brief flash of what might have been sunlight flickers across a centuries old memory as something trickles down my cheek.
“Can we stay like this forever just you and I?”
“Yes,” I say, drawing back, then striking forward to the shlep of punctured skin. I drink and weep, drink and weep, then drink some more. I finish with a sigh allowing her body to tumble from my mirador home to the valley floor so far, far below. It must be two miles or more but the sounds of her dead bones cracking on the granite rocks still gives me a migraine.
“Time to sleep,” I say to myself for no apparent reason, and turn to my bed.
The ruby velour squeezes me like a second skin. It provokes a slight diminishing of the guilt, but not much. And, as I close eyes that have closed an infinite amount of times already, I breathe out for what seems the first time in hours. I do not need to, but somehow it feels apt.
I hear the flittering of my children as they enter the room to hang from the window frames, curtains and more. I smile. Perhaps, I am not as alone as I think? Perhaps, more so? One day the truth will come to me. One day. But not yet. I still have so much to do.

Never The End.

50 Word Stories: Shades of Night

“There are many shades of night, child, multiple blacks.”

“Black is black, and it scares me.”

The old woman smiled.

“When the cold comes, we treasure the moments before sleep wrapped in blankets, our eyes closing, bodies warming, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“As I said, there are many shades of night.”

A Matter of Mattering

A Matter of Mattering

I had doubts. When the nights came, the bedroom walls pulsing out like ripples growing further and further away from my bed, those doubts amplified to the beats of my hollow heart.

Echoes, I called them. The echoes of a misspent life had come a calling. They would never leave. No matter how hard I pressed the pillows to my head, those residual murmurs remained. Sweeping in across oceans of night, they haunted my island self. There was nowhere to hide. I didn’t deserve to.

Time: a relative concept, more so still to the timeless. I was timeless, a salient detail my demons knew. There would never be respite from my tormentors. Never!

When sunlight came sweeping through my curtains like filtered candy, I opened my eyes. Another night over. Another night done. Breathe, my mind said. Breathe, it repeated, as it was wont to do at each new dawn. Just breathe.

One hopes for evil to pass, prays for it even. One imagines those doubts dissipating like broken clouds to never regather. And, sometimes, when the darkness was dismissed for the daylight hours, I thought it possible. I’m me again, my brain promised. I’m me. That’s when the voices came.

’You don’t really matter,’ they said. ’See you tonight.’

Slices of Night

We dreamt of the moon on a cool, winter’s night

Whilst others were quaking, we saw the light

A piece of space pie served in the sky

Where stars were sprinkled sugar twinkling on high

And a comet was trailing some fast-dripping cream

It made me so hungry, our beautiful dream

But glittering brightly the sky never knew

That all I was dreaming was of kissing you

And though it did twinkle, wink and entice

On that winter’s evening, you were my slice

Written

Written

I saw Her in the Moon, felt Her in the stars. As night fell each evening, a smothering cocoon of darkness pulling me beneath its obsidian comforts, I took a deep breath and dived into immortality. Every night the same. Every night unwanted.

The bane of forever weighed heavy on my heart. I sought death with the same determination as a seed the light, courted it even. Courage, however, was a trait I lacked, and although a smiling blade would have returned me there, another’s, or my own, the trickle of life running through me refused to succumb. Pathetic, I know, but the truth.

Fate was a fickle mistress. One moment she taunted, next, cheered, leaving the fated to surf her undulating waves alone. My fate began the day She turned me. Only She could ever take that fate away.

I stood on the cliff overlooking the ocean as I was wont to do. The undulating Atlantic soothed my soul, so to speak, and eased my torrid thoughts. I often imagined my lover in those unblemished vistas: Her skin, the polished waters; Her smile, the changeable horizon; Her eyes, the moon and its reflection. A step would have ended my pain. Even I could not have survived the plummet. She knew it. She wanted it.

Her voice came as a midwinter whisper, a tickled goodbye in my ear. I turned, stumbled, fell.

There was no pain, no hurt, no kiss of jagged rocks on ancient flesh, only an impaled farewell.

I died with a smile on my face and Her laughter written across my soul. I didn’t care; it’s what I wanted. It’s what She wanted too, but for different reasons.

THE END.

Lost November Evenings

Lost November Evenings

An abundance of daylight stole our nights. Fireside flickerings fell away like fireflies in the sun. The glimmering moon became less than a luxurious, ocean pearl and more of an ofttimes limpet attached to the sky. The evenings were less subtle for its diminishment. Summertime madness had spread too much for my liking, the sun so unwilling to set had outstayed its welcome. I missed our lost November evenings like I did our love with not a corner of darkness in which to crawl. I prayed for our ebony nights to return. Your return, too.

50 Word Stories: The Caring Moon

The moon gave informed definition to the world in ways the sun refused. Where the sun seemed uncertain what colours to choose, blasting us with so many as to give kaleidoscopic headaches, the moon did not. Instead, it provided gentle outlines of subtle perfections. I loved the moon; it cared.