Lowelm's Shadow (Part 1) (Original)

And now for a bit of a change of pace. Fantasy is considered by some to be a lesser art of writing, because it's "easy" (at least to write bad, potentially publishable fantasy) and because the writer gets to make up their own rules for just about everything. And then they get to break those rules using magic. I would agree, but also argue that the art of writing good fantasy is very difficult, because you have to maintain consistency and develop the entire history, pantheon, social structure, etc, in order to present an engrossing and believable world.

But I digress. As a short story, it is largely devoid of the connections to the greater world, history, and all those good qualities I just espoused. But, rest assured, it does belong to such a world, and I hope to write more from it in the future. Also, this is the first part of the short story. I'm still working on completing it, but given what I've written so far clocks in at around 2,200 words, I thought it would be best to post it in two parts.



Naptali whirled as a threatening noise cracked forth from the natural thrum of the forest. Her long, burnished hair rippled with unease as a strange energy coursed in the air. Birds became silent and flittered away, while the soft thumping of feet spoke the retreat of deer and rabbits. Her elven ears pricked tightly, Naptali drew her sword with soft hands, unsheathing it without a single whisper against its scabbard. A faint hint twitched through Naptali’s body, telling her the source of the disturbance: magic.

Her footsteps barely left a touch on the wild grass, practiced movement meaning she was silent and untraceable. The trees rustled with grave warning, letting their friend know of an impending danger, all the while trying to conceal her presence. Whatever was stalking her, Naptali could tell it was close. It was moving cautiously, yet with not enough stealth, and she ducked quickly into a seemingly impenetrable growth of spiked bushes with untold ease.

The unknown foe approached as Naptali crouched at the ready, and suddenly a figure stepped before her invisible hiding place. In an instant Naptali was on her feet and had her sword point at her opponent’s throat.

The man stopped deadly still as he felt the sharp tip against the side of his neck. His dark eyes moved sideways to look at her nervously while rooted in place. Brushing the top of his hood back slowly with his left hand, he gave a puzzled look. “How in the world do you do that?” He asked incredulously. “And is that any way to greet an old friend, Naptali?”

“Drauglin!” She said with a great smile. He sheathed her sword and kissed him lightly on the cheek before embracing him. “It’s been too long, friend.”

“Indeed it has, my dear elf,” his look of worry giving way to a warm smirk. “Though, of course, I have to envy that you still look like someone I wish I could court.”

“Don’t be foolish, Drauglin,” she admonished him. “If you wanted to court me, not even your magic would give you the power to speak even one intelligent word!”

Both of them had been young when she had first met the powerful magician, and no matter how many years passed, neither of them could forget his painfully inept attempts to woo a young girl on that first occasion. It had been a running joke between the two of them ever since. Drauglin grimaced in mock anguish at Naptali’s barb and sighed. “Ah, a precious flower you would be to me, dare I to pluck you and offer my kind heart.”

“That’s more like it,” said Naptali with a grin. “But how come I’m lucky enough to see you here?”

Drauglin’s faced dropped. “I wouldn’t exactly consider it luck. That would probably be the last word I would use.”

Naptali knew the graveness of his tone spoke of a deep-seated worry. It was a voice that was reserved for matters of importance, matters that could affect the futures of many. She gave a concerned look East to the town of Lowelm, a community that had long been under her protection, and her home. “Come,” she said to Drauglin. “Whatever it is that you have to tell me, it would be best said in my home.”

“But,” began Drauglin.

“No,” she insisted. “It is late in the day already. And whatever it is can wait until we return there.” He nodded in reluctant acquiescence. “Besides,” Naptali added with a knowing look, “I’m guessing we’re going to need supplies for wherever it is we’re going.”

The two reached the small town just as night began to fall. Knowing Drauglin would not wish to attract significant attention to himself, she took him directly to her home. She moved quickly about the house and lit several lamps to combat the fading light. Offering him a seat, she sat down and looked at him concerned. “I’m worried that I might have an idea why you are here,” she said.

Drauglin appraised her cautiously. “What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything,” she replied. “Not for certain. I just know that I felt something about a week ago. It was big.”

“Magical?” He exhaled pointedly as Naptali nodded. For reasons Drauglin didn’t know, Naptali was strangely attuned to magic energy, despite that she was unable to use it. That she had felt something was worrying.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” She inquired.

“It was a release of magical energy,” Drauglin explained. “Or rather, being violently dissipated. Near the old ruins to the south.”

“I’d often thought to ask you about those,” said Naptali. “Though I suppose you probably would have dodged the question.”

Drauglin smiled. “Possibly, but generally I’m evasive for your own good. But in this case, until recently I wouldn’t have been able answer you. It was only because of that something that I found out what was there. Many things are forgotten and become secrets for a reason.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind of reason?”

“Because they are dangerous things for people to know.” Drauglin’s voice had reassumed that flat, serious tone. “But sometimes they must be remembered. So that something can be done about them.”

“Stop speaking in riddles,” Naptali growled. “What is this secret?”

“To be honest?” Drauglin paused. He ran a hand slowly back through his cropped, greying hair and sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is that something is there. And it is nothing good.”

“You’ve got to give me more than that, Drauglin!” She exclaimed.

“I wish I could,” he said. “But I don’t know what it is. I just know that there is a lot of magical energy being disturbed. And there’s some kind of underground complex.”

“How do you know all this?” Naptali asked, her face hard.

“I felt that disturbance too. From a lot further away.” His eyes were flooded with concern. “I found the entrance yesterday. I walked only a short distance inside before I saw a corpse. The injuries it had sustained, it had to have been caused by magic.”

“I understand,” she said flatly. “We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll ready my weapons and get supplies.”

“That’s it?” Drauglin asked.

“What else is there to say?” she replied. “I’ll make sure the town is prepared in case we don’t return.”

“You have a very bleak outlook at times, did you know that, Naptali?”

It was Naptali’s turn to answer with a dark tone. “Not all of us have magic to alter our destiny.”

She was glad Drauglin knew her well enough to answer only with silence.

They woke early the next day. They ate a full breakfast in a wisp of sunlight, and set off before it was fully risen. Both carried a small pack of food supplies, and Naptali carried her sword and bow. She had offered Drauglin a lightweight weapon, but he produced an ornate dagger and refused.

“No offence, Naptali, but if I have to use this, I doubt whatever you can offer will protect me more.” Her simple shrug was the only natural reply.

The hours of walking passed with light conversation, with both recounting events since they had last met. Drauglin shadowed Naptali, for her natural affinity with the forest produced an easy path for him to follow. Across the light scrub she found flat ground, through the trees she made a straight path, and in dense brush she trod an invisible track through seemingly impenetrable vegetation.

“Naptali, I think you have your own kind of magic in weaving through this forest,” Drauglin commented. She stared back with a blank expression, an icy disposition lurking beneath the surface.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “I know how you feel about magic.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied, and then continued walking in silence.

A few moments later, Naptali came to an abrupt halt. Drauglin, with his head still partially down to avoid her gaze, bumped into her back. She gave a short curse as she grabbed onto a sapling. Her body teetered forward over the steep bank of a river, the small tree stretching painfully under her weight. Drauglin recovered quickly from his surprise and grabbed her free arm, tugging her back from the edge.

“Thank you,” she said. “Though it helps if you look where you’re going.”

He gave her a sheepish expression, and then looked at the river. “I don’t remember this.”

Naptali looked at him quizzically. “I’m not sure how you missed it,” she said. “It’s virtually impossible to cover this territory without crossing it.” She looked left and right in vague annoyance. “But I thought it narrowed enough that we could leap it somewhere around here.”

“Why don’t we just wade through?” Drauglin asked.

Naptali scanned the river for a moment then pointed a finger at the water. Drauglin followed her motion to a patch of shade. Just as he was about to speak, a bird dived down and skimmed the surface of the smooth river. In an instant, the dark patch darted forth and a mouth filled with teeth emerged from the surface. A flash of those stained daggers enveloped the hapless bird and disappeared like a nightmare beneath the impenetrable murk.

“Good answer,” said Drauglin.

“Come on.” Naptali motioned for him to follow her.

“No,” he said. “My turn to find the path.” He signalled for her to come to him. “Take my hand.”

“What?” She asked. “Why?” She grimaced as her hand clasped his. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” he answered.

Naptali felt her stomach churn as Drauglin’s eyes gave a brief look of concentration. Time felt as though it were slowed down and the air crackled with a silent sound that Naptali knew was magic. She almost felt compelled to shut her eyes, but she kept them open and saw the colours of the scenery warp into a green mud. As the blur cleared, Naptali saw they were on the opposite side of the bank

“Next time I won’t ask,” she said. “Though it still doesn’t solve the problem that I’m now not sure exactly where we are.”

“That’s not a problem either,” said Drauglin. “I know where we need to go.” He concentrated for a moment, and Naptali felt the distinct unease of magic pulse through her. “It’s that way.” Drauglin pointed a finger slightly to their left. “And it’s not very far away.” Naptali shook off the unnatural feeling of Drauglin’s spell and started moving in the direction that he had pointed.

The sun had already passed its peak and they had still not eaten since morning, so a trace of hunger lingered in Naptali’s stomach. She had a vague desire to stop and eat, but black clouds loomed with malice, so grabbed an apple from her pack and ate as they moved. She felt an uncomfortable itch on her skin for an instant, and turned back to see Drauglin with a peeled orange in his hand. “Can’t you use your hands like normal people?” She asked.

Naptali had almost finished her apple when they came to the clearing. The forest suddenly gave way to erratic grassland dotted with the remnants of buildings. The ruins were an oddity amongst the substantial foliage, for they marked an otherwise interrupted wilderness. There was something amiss in its presence, its silence dissonant against the typical murmur of the forest.

Naptali felt a chill rush through her body involuntarily, and looked at Drauglin accusingly.

“That wasn’t me,” he said worriedly. “I’m not sure where it came from.” His eyes glazed in concentration for an instant. “There’s nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” Naptali asked.

“I can’t feel or see anything,” Drauglin replied. “There’s nothing around here that…” He suddenly looked at Naptali in shock as they both felt a massive surge of energy.

“What was that?” she exclaimed.

“We need to get to that complex. It’s coming from inside.” Drauglin’s tone was severe.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Naptali.

“I’ll give you the answer when I know it,” he replied. “Follow me.”

They moved with measured urgency, eager to find the source of the disturbance, but also wary of its possible danger. Drauglin led with the confidence of conviction, his normally troubled step finding easy purchase on the undulating terrain. His steps travelled in a near straight line, his faultless memory taking them directly to a near invisible arrangement of stones near the edge of the clearing. “Here,” he said.

Naptali looked around, confused. “I don’t see anything.”

“Not yet,” Drauglin replied. A soft whisper parted his lips as his hand made a small circular motion at the stones embedded in the ground. Three pale flashes of light sprung forth from his hand and danced around the rocks. Their spirals lasted momentarily, then burnt out into nothingness.

Naptali stood bewildered for an instant, before her expression turned to one of amazement as the ground began to shimmer and fade before her eyes. The grass disappeared to show a small staircase of stone leading into darkness underground.

“A concealed entrance?” She asked incredulously.

“The mark of a secret that is supposed to be forgotten,” Drauglin said.

Naptali gave him an admonishing look. “Not everything can be fixed by hiding it.”

“Then let us determine which one of the two this is.” He motioned for her to go down. “Quickly, let's move.”

---------- To be concluded

Out Of Place (Redux)

Yes, I'm reposting this story. But that's because I got some excellent feedback from some people and reworked it a fair bit. It definitely reads a lot better and suffers markedly less from vocabulary indulgence. That is one habit I'm trying to curb. I hope you like the reworked version.


The man wandered awkwardly in the almost faded light. He stumbled on road and pavement, with a gait reserved for those whose perceptions are addled. His hair was unkempt, his large black overcoat torn, and his shoes drowning in fresh mud and slime. There was a faint hint of alcohol about him, though his glazed eyes suggested that was not the full extent of his stupor.

People shuffled uneasily out of his path as he moved, not wanting to pass close by. They exchanged glances as they saw him and as they left him behind, their looks varying from vague disdain to sharp contempt. He was not something that belonged. This vagabond was encroaching upon their suburban dream, and they were making their disapproval known. The hushed whispers continued as they walked on, leaving a lingering taste of his trespass in utopia. He was a discordant note in the cheerful atmosphere of a Friday night, and an unmelodic hush trailed in his wake.

Everything about his appearance was amiss. His manner diminished the class of his obviously expensive clothes, for no respectable person would allow them to be so filthy. He was an incongruous mix of oblivion and haughtiness, which only served to amplify the distaste he was cultivating. He was what the people would call a social outcast or degenerate, and he cast a disagreeable pallor upon their world.

He lingered outside a restaurant, its fragrances demanding his vapid attention. Halted in the divide between people inside and the potential patrons wandering past, an air of disquiet loomed. A young man and woman stared at him briefly from their indoor refuge, noting him as an aberration surrounded by a wealth of upper-middle class socialites and couples. The unceasing stares eventually served their purpose, and the man moved towards the dishevelled streets of ramshackle slums.

Yet interlopers were not welcomed to this part of town with open arms either, or even welcomed at all. A cramped warren of makeshift sleeping arrangements and unmarked territories was no place for a newcomer, not when there were already too many arguing over far too little.

Here the reception was not one of distaste, but instead of seething hostility, a bubbling hatred threatening to turn into action against him, be it a venomous outburst or physical violence. Even the smallest things came close to breaking the tense armistice, be it a brief pause in step, a carelessly condescending gaze, or an expression of excess interest. The gap between caution and a catalyst for conflict was infinitesimal.

His formless drifting took him to the entrance of a seedy nightclub, the air redolent with testosterone and oestrogen. The throbbing aura of music wafted from inside and the hormonal desperation of youth filled the senses of partygoers, their desire hinging upon the generosity of the bouncers at the door. The revellers leered at him and muttered softly to each other. He wandered too close to one girl, prompting a yell, “Get lost, you dirty old man!”

In his disjointedness, the man attempted to cut across the line and wander inside without the requisite assent from the two sentinels. Their emotionless façade dropped instantaneously at this insult to their station. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” One asked harshly.

The man paused only for a moment before continuing forwards, at which point the bouncers expelled him from the mouth of the hubbub. The unexpected movement allowed a quick dash for containment from the front few people of the procession, who capitalised on the momentary distraction to make their break for the sexually charged atmosphere waiting indoors.

This migration went unnoticed as the man catapulted backwards with startling rapidity. His loose frame proved more flimsy than expected, evidenced by the ease with which he was propelled. A quick flash of light took all by surprise as the last of the gatecrashers disappeared inside, and perception was an unknown faculty for a brief instant as it drowned in a cacophony of misfortune.

The car stopped with a brusque shriek of rubber smearing across the road. A distraught figure convulsed inside, gripping the steering wheel with her cement grip and unable to move except for an overpowering involuntary reaction. The man’s body had been hideously thrust in a fresh direction from the impact, the violent switch twisting his body before depositing him callously across the kerb.

An atmosphere of vile reality accosted the onlookers, transfixing them with its tyrannical volume. A silent scream of terror ascended from each mind, but all were suffocated by the torment of the overzealous bouncer.

An ostentatious youth flew forward to lay his impact upon the scene, demanding attention as the first to recover from the jarring display. Everyone else was still paralysed by a scene continuously replaying in a trance grotesquely matching the pale rhythm of dance music. He crouched rapidly over the body, the unnatural pose of the head indicating without doubt the veracity of the nightmare.

The driver eventually opened her car door tentatively, as though by moving slowly the man might not be dead when she arrived. Yet there would be no salvation from the empty guilt that washed her in a wave of blackened horror, no redemption from a faultless inability to react and prevent an instantaneous catastrophe.

The crowd paused in united uselessness against the sobriety of this moment on a backdrop of mirth. Not a single person had noticed the furtive movement thieving the man’s bulging wallet, which was a final act of indignity against this victim of wretched circumstance. That was only hinted at by the keys to his mangled sports car clutched tightly in his battered hand, and the shard from a bottle of wine lying anomalous in a coat pocket.

The Journey

Here's another story that I just finished yesterday. This story was kind of weird as the idea started off with the ending. It felt strange to be writing partially in reverse, which was probably also what gave rise to me writing in present tense, something that I've never really done. That felt bizarre as well, but I think I actually like the way it turned out. As always, any feedback, anonymous, attributed, positive or negative, is definitely welcome.


The sun glowers oppressively as the rocks give way under Alex’s feet. The precarious scree filters angrily down the hillside while he stumbles and falls, desperately hunting for purchase. The unsympathetic ground gives him no charity, but continues to gently dissuade his ascent. The small rocks eventually crush themselves into an uneasy footing with great reluctance, allowing him momentary relief.

Alex pauses, shaking his head in silent disdain at the disagreeable slope. He looks backs to the distance he has already covered, and is grateful that he slid back less distance than the previous times the rocks have given way beneath him. The gentle incline of the scree means that it is not dangerous to ascend, merely troublesome. He knows that his perseverance will see him to the next plateau before the final ascent, but wonders how it seems like such insurmountable terrain. Something in the continual setbacks drains his optimism, but his commitment is steadfast with devotion, so he tenaciously sets his mind against that of the mountain.

The sky is ostentatiously clear, its vibrant blue almost mocking Alex and his struggle. A solid week of rain has inundated the ground with ferocity, making veritable mud pools in the ground, and provided lubrication to facilitate the shamelessly hostile movement of the scree. Yet today is cruelly magnanimous with liberal heat, and Alex can almost feel the curve of every stone reflectively emblazoned upon his palm as he crawls up the slope.

A moist heat swamps Alex, the humidity and his own sweat combining to stick to his skin. His small backpack clings wet to his back, its insulation merely amplifying the feeling of the tepid damp. This wetness is only reduced on the portions of his exposed skin, where the high temperature of the midday sun drills upon him to boil away the water into the already flooded air. But despite the soggy sensation that surrounds him, his still longs to continually drink the water from his cool water bottle.

Making a pact with himself to reach the top of this slope before pausing, Alex braces for what must be another impending scrabble of rocks. They shift uneasily beneath his boots, daring him to continue, goading him into a temporary confidence. He moves with measured caution, shifting his weight as the rocks protest his ascent. His feet are slow enough that the rocks cannot rouse from their fickle position, and his boots eventually tread with belligerence on unyielding stone.

He looks at the undulating flat with a slight sense of relief, then glances backward to gloat on his victory over the antagonistic scree. He knows he will come back down this way, but then their nature will serve his purpose, though he knows know that they will be wholly stubborn and make his descent troublesome too. He knows that he is likely to roll his ankle if he tries to make his way down with excess zeal. But the descent is not his concern now, for he can see the final peak a relatively short distance away. Taking another sweet swig of his beloved water, he drives forth to his destination. The muddy ground is pliant beneath his heavy stride, accepting his boot too eagerly, making headway just faintly more tiresome than it should be.

A stifling breeze continues to rise as he walks, its unpleasant touch adding to the difficulty of his passage. A large hill to Alex’s left poses as a windbreak to shield him from the brunt of the force, but merely seems to channel the wind into a path against him. The hill gradually falls away as he continues, prompting the wind to attack more fiercely from the side. The wet wind thrusts angrily through his short hair, assaulting him through the thin trees that lean towards the ill-defined track. But with each step, his burden seems lighter, for he knows the summit is close.

The plateau narrows, the cliffs to either side shrinking closer as the last hill looms above. Vegetation hugs the ground in an attempt to hide from the turbulent wind, roots clinging tightly to maintain their unrelenting grip in the softened dirt. A deep valley stretches to the right, a cold, inviting lake dwelling in the distance. Its surface shows no flecks from the wind here, the spacious landscape dulling the tempest into a placid whisper in that faraway place. A glass upon the high ground, it shows the lucidity of the sky with infallible detail, as though diving into it would be like flying through the vibrant blue overhead.

Stone abruptly ends the loosely shaped dirt track, the path now a jagged assortment of rock. This indistinct trail drops down slightly before coming to a small basin at the foot of the summit, a small depression that temporarily shields Alex from the harsh airstream. The wind whistles exuberantly through an apparent cairn in the small ridge, but the hollow is tranquil.

Alex pauses a moment before he starts to ascend the last hill, jarred by a sudden wave of signs. Screaming for attention amidst the muted colours of the natural scenery, their bright and loud demeanour is an affront to his senses. They warn of the danger of the final ascent and the peak itself, dangers Alex is aware of acutely, for he knows that a fraction of incaution can be treacherous on even the most benign terrain. Their appearance is still coarse and disrespectful, despite the necessity of admonishing people that they are not the masters of this land.

As he climbs upwards, Alex feels the wind redouble its ferocity in some final attempt to dissuade him from his journey. He is resolute and steadfast, unfailing in the determination of achieving his goal. Despite the doubts he has had in coming this far through both torrential downpour and now oppressive heat and humidity, he knows not even the harshest of conditions can make him retreat from this impassioned task.

Each step and movement upwards on the perilous rock is steeled with conviction. A small rock is dislodged by his passing, and skitters away vigorously over the edge, clattering several times on the near-sheer cliffs before the sound is lost to the vast void below. He is startled by the proximity of the edge and his fingers grip tighter on the steep ground, his hunched form clinging in sympathetic fear.

The ascent is harsh and flecked with jagged stone to the top. There is no marked passage for Alex to follow, only the way that his mind conjures as the safest and clearest in the brief period before his every action. His movements verge on being rushed out of desire to be free of the furious unnamed presence wishing his failure, tempered only by the overwhelmingly stubborn need to succeed.

A sudden violent gust of wind catches Alex off guard and he slips hazardously. Seeing the edge desperately close, he claws desperately at the toothed rocks, demanding they accept his grip. His muscles tighten in a strangling embrace as the stone pokes his flesh with venom, and his balance is restored at the expense of his bravery.

The path down looks so short and safe, juxtaposed with the protracted, unyielding path ahead. His fear engulfs him and insists upon capitulation, and he is frozen in place as his mind is pitted against the malevolent spirit of nature. He remembers his vow as he placed his first footstep upon the track, his vow that he would make it to the top, and it calms him and compels his resolve return.

With his commitment again unhindered, Alex hugs the rock with newfound energy and speed. Each movement feels easier as his terror fades into a memory that he uses to drive himself higher. His rise is accompanied by a gradual diminishing of ferocity in the wind and terrain, as though they are reluctantly succumbing to the reality of his inevitable victory.

Unexpectedly, the slope falls away, and Alex finds himself able to stand. From focussing only on his next movement, he finds that he has reached the top without even knowing it. A wave a relief saturates him with elation as he takes in the view around him.

A beauty ineffectually related through words and pictures surrounds him, drowning him with its serene vision and colour. He is imbued with an empowering harmony that swells from this solitary paradise. Peaks of multicoloured rock stare up at him with sullen envy, while trees wave from below with celebratory thought. Even birds circle beneath, trying to ride the breeze upwards to meet him, but he is unmatched as he surveys the vast landscape.

Glancing about the height of the climb, he is taken by the enormity of his achievement. Momentarily, he has conquered this peak, successfully facing down the challenges it has placed in his path. But he knows that it has not always been as such, and that it has proven triumphant against others. He wanders sombrely towards one edge of the summit with his eyes downcast, searching for a sign he knows will be there.

In a moment, his vision is centred upon it, a small cross, carved into an indefatigable stone. He shut his eyes in silent respect for a few precious moments, before lowering himself to the ground and heading over the sloped edge that it marks. There is no real drop, just a steep incline to a small ledge below, a recess in the shadow of the peak. A cliff looms only a few short steps away, but he is unafraid, for the ground is sure and the air only speaking with a soft flitter. He unzips the top of his small backpack and removes a plain silver urn with slightly shaking hands.

The moment takes forever as he wills himself to action. He unclasps the protective lever holding the top of container closed, and then removes the top. This too is an unending second. Frozen in an instant as his mind travels years, he is unable to move or do anything but react to the varying gushes of wind as they breeze overhead with a solemnly distressed tempo.

With the paralysis gone, Alex is able to slowly move his body. The motion is surreal to his senses as he leans forward minutely, his arm stretching out then falling like a lever as his hand tips while gripping tightly. As it lays in the balance, his muscles almost freeze again, as though they are unable to tip the last tiny distance required. But he overrules their crude protest, and the ashes flood freely in a fine dust. They trickle loose with the wind, captured by the flows of current as they unchain from each other, a mist of grey ascending and spreading with liberated vitality.

Echoes whisper of the past as this moment suspends in time. Passion, tribulations, endurance and dedication whirl in a vortex of precious memories that are contained within, a seemingly infinite bottle of emotion that sweeps through decades with a learned ease. They are reminiscing of ageless sentiment, imparting this feeling by infusing it firmly with future, an unlosable component of life itself. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, the moment is gone, and the last speck of grey vanishes into the undisturbed tranquillity.

The urn empty, he turns and places it in a small recess in the face of the cliff, safe from the forces that might seek to dislodge its vigil. He leans down and removes a small chisel and hammer from his pocket, then carefully begins carving into the statuesque rock that will be the urn’s only company on the small ledge. The writing is small by necessity and awkward by inability, but after slow effort, the work is completed. His feat accomplished, he breathes a sigh of relief. A rejuvenating air fills his lungs with renewed vigour, like a final gift of thanks for his efforts. It is an appreciative energy that he knows will sustain him for the lengthy return journey.

Days later, he returns home, through continued trudge then silent drive. The house is quiet as he opens the door, an invisible effigy of his solace omnipresent in the room. He feels reluctant to enter the shower and wash away the marks of his journey, as though they somehow diminish the reality of it all. Yet the soothing touch of its beads quickly releases the tension in his mind and body. His muscles twinge faintly from stress, but he knows he is not yet finished. He dressed and walks to his study, one final responsibility remaining.

His fingers clatter softly over his computer keyboard, a means to pass the news onto others. The cold electronic glare of his screen seems faint and contaminated after days and nights in the open air. He knows that he will likely not receive much response, only the soft knowledge of bewildered expressions as the words appear on screens in far reaching places. Some may politely request photographs, though he guesses that will probably be disappointed with those that he will provide.

Part of him laments the lack of interest he knows that his email will spark. He considers it sad that he was the only one who cared enough to make the journey, the only one with that required sense of desire to see it done. He knows that the others would have left the ashes in some accessible place for the convenience of respect. Kept in some easily accessible place, it would have been easy to pay the commonly expected tribute, not requiring the strenuous undertaking that was bequeathed. Alex sees the sentiment as a transgression of personal desire against emotional request and is thankful for his devotion.

Suddenly distracted by an influx of noise, he glances at his wife, holding their infant son as she arrives home. Babbling half-words, the baby is too young to understand what Alex has done, but one day Alex hopes he will understand. She sees his thoughtful gaze and returns it with a smile, a knowing measure of empathy. Supportive as ever, she rises slowly then walks over. Clasping his hand in hers, she looks solemnly at the photo from the summit, giving a soft, comforting squeeze.

Waves of doubt rush over Alex, for as much as he feels he has done the right thing, a sense of loss sweeps him. Only now does the impact press upon him of that passing, the magnitude of the emotion sweeping through and causing a tear to well and draw down his face. Yet he knows, somewhere, somehow, two souls will appreciate his journey. And he hopes that someday, another may inspect that ledge with curiosity and passion. For all that remains is an empty urn and a single inscription: As we never were, though may we always be.

Out Of Place

It might be a day later than I'd hoped, but here it is. I may tweak it slightly more, but I was reasonably happy with it when I finished with it last night.


The man wandered incoherently in the almost faded light. He stumbled ungainly on road and pavement, with a gait reserved for those whose perceptions are addled. His hair was unkempt, his large black overcoat torn, his shoes drowning in fresh mud and slime. There was a faint hint of alcohol about him, though his glazed eyes suggested that was not the full extent of his stupor.
People shuffled uneasily out of his path as he moved, not wanting to pass close by. They exchanged glances as they saw him and as they left him behind, their looks varying from vague disdain to obtuse contempt. He was not something that belonged. This displaced vagabond was encroaching upon the serenity of their suburban dream, and they were making their disapproval known.
The hushed whispers continued as they walked on: a lingering taste of his trespass in their utopia; a discordant note in the normally bubbly atmosphere of a Friday night; an unmelodic hush trailing in his lumpen wake.
Everything about his appearance was loosely amiss. His dishevelled aura diminished the class of his clothes, possibly expensive, assuredly stolen. He bore a manner that was an incongruous mix of oblivion and haughtiness, only serving to amplify the distaste he was cultivating. He lingered outside a restaurant, the fragrances of evening meals demanding his vapid attention.
Halted in the divide between people inside and those seated at tables and chairs situated in the humid evening, an air of disquiet loomed. A young man and woman stared at him briefly from under the refuge of an umbrella, noting him as the aberration that he was, surrounded by a wealth of upper-middle class socialites and couples. His presence impinged on their enjoyment of the evening, what the people around would call a slovenly social outcast or degenerate, casting a disagreeable pallor upon the otherwise pleasant surrounds.
A zealous waiter hurried the man along anxiously, worried of the effect he was having on business. The unceasing stares eventually served their harsh purpose, and the man found his path weaving towards the dishevelled streets and ramshackle slums that were declared too close by the unashamedly pretentious.
Yet he would find no quarter that posed as friend here either, for interlopers were not welcomed with open arms. A cramped warren of makeshift sleeping arrangements and unmarked territories was no place for a newcomer, not when there were already too many arguing over far too little.
Here the reception was not one of distaste, but instead of seething hostility, a bubbling hatred constantly threatening to tip over into forthright action against him, be it a venomous outburst or physical violence. That anger held in the balance of manifesting several times; a brief pause in his step, a carelessly condescending gaze, and an expression of excess interest, all straddled the infinitesimal gap between antagonistic caution and catalyst.
His formless drifting shortly found him at the entrance to a seedy nightclub, the air redolent of testosterone and oestrogen. The throbbing aura of music wafted from inside and the hormonal desperation of youthfulness filled the senses of the eager partygoers, their desires hinging upon the generosity of the inexorable bouncers at the door.
In his disjointedness, the man attempted to cut across the line and wander inside without the requisite assent from the impassive sentinels. Their emotionless façade dropped instantaneously at this grave insult to their station, and ungraciously yet with characteristic indifference expelled him from the mouth of the hubbub. The unexpected movement gave rise to a quick dash for containment from the front few people of the procession, who capitalised on the momentary distraction to make their break for the sexually charged atmosphere waiting indoors.
This surreptitious migration went largely unnoticed as the man catapulted backwards with unexpected rapidity, his loose frame proving more flimsy than expected as evidenced by the ease with which he was propelled. A quick flash of light took all by surprise as the last of the interlopers disappeared inside, perception proving an abstruse faculty for that brief instant as it drowned in a cacophony of misfortune.
The car pulled to with the brusque shriek of rubber smearing across the road. A distraught figure convulsed with her hands gripping the steering wheel with a cement grip, unable to move except for the involuntary reaction that consumed her. The man’s body had been thrust hideously in a fresh direction from the impact from that new quarter, the violent switch twisting him in perverted means before depositing him callously across the kerb.
An atmosphere of vile reality accosted the onlookers, transfixing them with its tyrannical volume. A silent scream of terror ascended from each mind, but all were suffocated by the piercing anguish of the overzealous bouncer who was falling beyond reprieve into a pit of culpability summoned in an instant by his mind.
An ostentatious youth flew forward to lay his impact upon the scene, demanding attention as the first to recover from the jarring display that was continuously replaying in a trance grotesquely matching the pale rhythm of dance music. He crouched rapidly over the body, the unnatural pose of the head indicating without doubt the veracity of the nightmare.
The driver eventually opened her car door tentatively, as though by moving slowly the man might not be dead when she got there. Yet there would be no salvation from the empty guilt that washed her in a wave of blackened horror, no redemption from a faultless inability to react to prevent that ephemeral instant of catastrophe.
The crowd paused in united uselessness against the sobriety of this moment on a backdrop of mirth. Not a single person had noticed the furtive movement thieving the man’s wallet, a final act of indignity against this victim of wretched circumstance, only hinted at by the mangled key ring clutched tightly in his battered hand and the shard from a bottle of wine lying anomalous in his coat pocket.

Change and progress update

First off, I just realised that I didn't have comments open to everyone, so unless people had a blogger account they probably couldn't have posted comments. Since I'm open to as much feedback as possible, I've just rectified that situation. Feel free to comment and provide constructive criticism as much as your heart desires. If you did or didn't like something, if you can put your finger on why, I'd love to hear it.

Secondly, I'm working on a new piece that I'm planning on submitting to a short story competition. Given the word limit is 1000 and I've already run up 750 words, I don't imagine it will be long before I finish. I'll tweak and post up here when I'm done (hopefully tomorrow) for feedback and your reading pleasure.