Tag Archives: story

Field-Mouse…

*

Field-Mouse was out gathering wild-beans for winter when Buffalo came down to the meadow to graze.

‘He will mow down the long-grass with his prickly tongue and there will be no where left to hide,’ thought Field-Mouse, ‘I will offer him battle, like a man would do.’

“Ho, Buffalo!” squeaked Field-Mouse, “I challenge you to a fight.”

Buffalo went on grazing.

Field-Mouse repeated his challenge but still Buffalo went on grazing.

With his third challenge, Field-Mouse laughed contemptuously at Buffalo’s inaction.

“You had better keep still, little one,” said Buffalo, still grazing, “or I will come over there and step on you.”

“You can’t do it!” squeaked Field-Mouse in defiance.

“If you don’t be quiet I will certainly put an end to you,” said Buffalo, quietly.

“I dare you!” said Field-Mouse.

Before Field-Mouse had quite finished, Buffalo charged at him…

*

The House That Fish Built: Long-Horn O’Leary…

France & Vincent

*

…From the south came Long-Horn O’Leary and his host.

“Hail, the flame-hot hammerer: wielder of the red mallet,” said Father Fish as he lolloped alongside O’Leary’s company on foot, “When the men of Albion return from foreign lands you protect their rear so that an assailant may not spring past you, nor over you, what then should prevent the Champion’s Portion of Red-Hill-Hall being yours ?”

Said Long-Horn O’Leary, “why, if it isn’t that dullard Fish Face, come to pester me with his eccentric wit,” he laughed aloud and his company set up a roar and raised their swords.

“Truly, the Champion’s Portion of the house I built is not that of a dullard’s house,” smiled Father Fish, “belonging to it are five-score cakes of wheat cooked in honey, and a cow-lord full seven years old; since it was a calf neither heather nor twig-tops have entered its lips…

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Broken Fortress…

HM15 1281*

PC 963 Kraas turned and walked head-long into the sea breeze.

Her hair flicked in the wind like rampant flames.

“You know, I can’t help feeling we’ve missed a trick with this one.”

“It’s mentioned in the book,” replied Jaw-Dark pensively, “and in any case it’s a pleasant enough spot.” He paused and bent down to look through a large eye-shaped ‘blow-hole’ in the promontory.

“What’s that?” said Kraas.

“Well, that depends…” said Jaw-Dark.

“That depends upon what?”

“…Upon your perspective,” finished Jaw-Dark.

“Nothing is ever straight forward with you is it?”

“The Irish name for this and other similar landscape features is Poll na Seantuinne.”

“Which means?”

“‘Hole of the Old Wave’.”

Just then the sea crashed beneath the promontory and the foaming waves, in the mouth of the sea cavern, a hundred feet below could be clearly seen through the ‘chasm-hole’.

“Seems an apt description,” said Kraas, “if a tad un-nerving.” Her gaze followed the slow drag of the tide and then lifted to the sky where wisps of grey cloud scudded on the wind, “in the beginning,” she said, “everything was chasm and chaos.”

“There is though another interpretation.”

“Which is?”

Poll na Sean Tiene means ‘Hole of the Old Fire’.”

“Okay, I can see where that might fit in with some of their concerns. Especially with all this baleful eye stuff.”

“Personally though I prefer the third alternative…”

“Ever the story teller,” smiled Kraas, “Well, I’m waiting!”

Poll na Seantuine,  is the ‘Hole of the Old Woman.”

Kraas’ smile turned to a grimace, “Well, I wouldn’t go shouting that particular preference from the cliff tops if I were you,” she said through the grimace, and then added more seriously, “so which one is it?”

“Unfortunately for us and also quite possibly for them too, it is more than likely that it is all three of them.”

*

The Road Home…

rs-182*

Wen and I are back on the road which leads past Bryn Celli Ddu…

We had to double-back to the hotel because someone called down ‘Cloud City’ before we left.

*

rs-183*

“Don’t you mean, someone forget their wash-bag?”

“Anyway, it was good to finally get to the Hill in a Dark Grove.”

“Pretty literal with their names aren’t they?”

“There is one thing that puzzles me, though…”

*

rs-184*

“…There were no trees.”

“Nor is a mound a hill, exactly.”

And I didn’t get any shots of the stone at the back of the mound.”

“We’ll miss the museum completely if we go back.”

“We won’t be long and we’ll still make it to Beaumaris in time.”

*

rs-185

Harbinger…

rs-001*

It has been surmised that the future enters our past in order that the present may form…

Sometimes it certainly feels a little like that.

For one thing it has been twenty-seven months since our last sighting of a Heron which, if memory serves, occurred immediately prior to our sojourn in Bryn Celli Ddu…

Whatever the books on symbolism or divination say, in my experience, the Heron is a harbinger of change…

What sort of change and when that change is to take place is often quite another matter…

But change…

…Is coming.

*

rs-004

Swans…

*

‘Birds-of-the-Beyond’, Mountain-Ana called them.

She bought us a book.

The picture of the Lir-Clan huddled on a rock in the middle of a raging sea, slipping into Swan-Vests still remains, clear as each new day that dawns.

*

“They’re here!” she said, her eyes aflame.

“What are?”

“The-Birds-from-Back-of-Beyond.”

I smiled at her memory, “They’re where?”

“Our-Back-Field!”

“Not possible,” I said grabbing my coat.

But I was wrong.

It had rained heavily overnight and two swans now swam on an impossible lake in the middle of Our-Back-Field.

We watched them all morning and wept when they flew away.

*

Art Club Ghost…

hm15a*

It was only a matter of time

before we decided to explore the Pitch-Black.

*

It took the form of a dare:

to walk the corridor end to end without breaking into a run.

*

Easy enough for those with no fear of the dark,

albeit this was darkness so thick

you could not see a hand in front of a face.

*

We did not even get a light for the stair-well.

*

Down we went…

Three fools who laugh at fear.

Each determined not to break into a run,

or at least, not before the other two did…

*

The creak of a door.

During the day we would not have given it a second thought.

But now, that over used staple of too many bad horror flicks

seemed in league with the darkness.

The door closed on our tomb.

*

We turn and make tentative steps into the black.

Normal darkness the eyes grow accustomed to.

Not here.

Here the darkness bounces against the back of the skull,

stirring no shadows.

*

The creak of a door.

Not our door.

The one at the far end of the corridor.

From somewhere, a light shone.

There, suspended from the door,

was ‘Bones’,

the Art-Room skeleton.

*

We lost the dare.

*

Art Club…

rs-265*

What’s with the Art Club?

Seven ’til Ten.

I’ll take you, if you like?

*

And so… we did.

But he did not get it.

None of it.

*

Certainly not, what was so good,

’bout going back to skool

when you are not supposed to be there.

*

Villains of time and season

lifting never seen before shots.

Moving naturally.

‘stead of in designated lines.

Free.

Which it was.

*

The corridors were now phantom walk-ways

which perchance would never be used again.

In winter they were all Pitch-Black

until the switches were flicked…

By us!

*

Even the people

there looked different

informally un-uniformed

they finally seemed real

instead of pretend.

*

We got to use Art-Room materials

to draw or paint

whatever we liked!

*

And there was music…

An old record player.

Curiously, there were never any arguments

over what should or should not be played.

*

It was good too,

sometimes

just to watch others

…quietly.

*

Thanks to Tony Carroll, Carol Miller and Ken Dorrington.

Stepping Stones?…

*

Three days of fog and endless trek…

Suddenly the mists cleared to reveal a shrouded figure struggling with his boat.

“Sprung a leak, dammit,” he said scratching within the folds of his hood.

The sound of bone on bone.

“…Course, you normally have to pay,” he said, eyeing me and snorting, “but as you’ll be crossing under your own steam…”

I looked down at two large pennies in my hand.

“…you can keep ’em.”

A low snort again rang out…

The thin, black draped arm, was theatrically withdrawn to reveal the stones.

On the far-bank the sun was rising.

*

Isle…

*

 Standing in the waves,

looking out to the west,

a mysterious island appears on the horizon…

*

We swam

and we swam

O’ how we swam

over the sea to the isle of Clear-Glass.

*

We climbed

and we climbed

O’ how we climbed

up the sheer cliffs to the Shining Peak.

*

We rolled

and we rolled

O’ how we rolled

down the steep slopes to the Sandy Beach.

*

We ran

and we ran

O’ how we ran

across the flat sands to the Leaping Sea.

*

Standing in the waves,

looking out to the west,

a mysterious island appears on the horizon…