Tag: Dark Prose

The Children of Leviathan (Chapter three)

Heavy breathing, her fists clenched behind her back against the door, her legs shaking.

Eyes still shut, she took a long deep breath.

Relief.

She had just marginally escaped the double wrath of the strange limbo-like wilderness, manifesting itself in the imminent Electric storm and the pack of crones prowling outside. Yet somehow she did not feel entirely safe even behind the bolted door. A false sense of security grew in the pit of her stomach. She could not be sure whether the insides of this House on the Hill held no hostility, no grudges against her, and did not seek to harm her soul. In fact, she was more certain than not that the House was awaiting her arrival in order to begin its foul play. However, she could not afford to be overcome with panic and so she tried to calm herself by thinking, “confront each fear as it comes, not before”.

But was it fear indeed? Fear of what? Of the unknown, fear of something real, or an illusion? Fear of feeling helpless and alone, fear of feeling powerless and lost? Fear of pain, of loss, of damnation? She still did not know which questions to ask, and this scared her more than any demons or traps Leviathan placed in her path. Continue reading The Children of Leviathan (Chapter three)

The nth Life

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I awake; eyes open wide, ears pierced back, I lay still for a while and take in the damp dense air.

It smells like victory tonight.

I creep; silently, dauntingly, down the roof and over the lines of fences in the deadest hour of the night.
It is now my moment to thrive.

I search; in utter stealth, clandestinely for the gifts of the dark. I am omniscient and dominantly alone to reap the rewards of the nth life.

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I Cried Wolf

Last night it was cold. It was freezing. The snow kept falling and falling, and as it continued to fall for hours, it weaved a thick white blanket that covered the landscape. In the wooden cottage, it was warm; warm and safe and lonely. The cries of the pack outside haunted my mind, painted disturbing pictures, images of pain and longing and yearning. My body begged me to stay indoors, by the fire, to fetch more wood, to cuddle up in front of the flames and relish in the feeling of safety. Yet my mind traveled fast, beyond the cottage, over the white blanket and into the woods, following the howls. But I stayed; I stayed until I could no longer hear the calling, the beckoning. And then I slept.

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The Two Hemispheres

I take my coffee black, no sugar, no milk, with a splash of cold water at the rim, so I can taste the invigorating aroma that already fills my nostrils without further delay. This is a predictable, self-inflicted habit circa 7.30am on weekdays that exhilarates the mind and triggers the conqueror in me to ‘Carpe Diem’.

I applaud simplicity when I see it, I relish it, I revel in it. Nothing simpler than a black cup of coffee. Check.

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The House on the Hill (Chapter two)

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Voltaire – To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.

Her hands dug deep into the moist and dense soil. It had only just stopped raining, and the ground was so wet, she could feel the water drench her clothes at her knees as she sat on all fours at the base of the hill. The great tree that she had taken refuge under, to sit out yet another Electric Storm, had wept; its old bark had cracked and tears of resin had trickled down to its base. She had an awkward sense that it was tears of resentment, and rushed to her feet. She touched its resentful resin, and it burned to her touch. Sucking on her sore finger she thought she heard a voice: a child’s voice, coming from the base of the tree, no, from beneath the roots, rising up and reverberating through the bark’s cracks and resin pus.

“Hurry”.

The old voices had stopped since she had crossed the river. This voice was of a new order, sounding innocent yet compelling enough for her to pay serious heed. She knew she had no place there, amidst the strange nature, the twisted nature of past, of longing, of yearning, there, deep in the Forest of Forever. She knew it even before she decided to cross beyond the silver river and penetrate the unknown North, but the Gray Wolf left her little choice. He had seized her thoughts, entering her mind at his will, during the dead of the night, and she often could see through his auric eyes, images of frustration, of chase, of want, of desire. She would wake each time thirsty and hungry to venture into the Forest to seek the questions, to which she already knew the answers.

“Hurry, follow the Moon”.

Continue reading The House on the Hill (Chapter two)

The Forest of Forever (Chapter one)

7So she walked a whisper like walk, weightless and wistful, as her white gown trailed behind her frail footsteps. Her head hung low and the usual sea of thoughts filled her mind. It was no wonder she could not hear the sound of her feet or the rustling of leaves; voices muffled and reverberant, a multitude of shrieks and woes, of secrets and confessions. For the all of eternity this would be her price to pay, in the conscious awake part of her being, in penitence, in restlessness, in the prison of her mind for the crime she had been condemned of. According to her impious fate, now, as it was written in the Scrolls of the Stars, she roamed the Forest of Forever, searching for questions she only knew the answers to. ‘Balance’. She sought the equilibrium of Balance.

The voices were never discernible. The voices were always there. Day in, day out. Her dreams were her only haven. She solaced in the revelry of her subconscious escapades where she would be free from fear, free from frustration. ‘In Somnii, Veritas. Per Somnii, Libertas.’ She had no other place to go than to retreat to her core at nightfall, in the midst of the Forest and seek redemption for her scarred soul.

Continue reading The Forest of Forever (Chapter one)

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Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς παίζουν στο προαύλιο. Ήταν μία από αυτές τις πολύ ζεστές μέρες του Αυγούστου, όπου όλα λειτουργούσαν σε βασανιστικά αργούς ρυθμούς. Ένα λεπτό φαντάζει σαν μία ώρα και νιώθω όλο και πιο ανήσυχη.

Προσπαθώντας να ξεγελάσω τις σκέψεις μου, συγκεντρώνομαι στις φωνές των παιδιών. Καιρό τώρα προσπαθώ… Προσπαθώ να ξεχάσω τι συνέβη γιατί όσο τριγυρνούν οι αναμνήσεις στο μυαλό μου, βρίσκομαι σε σύγχυση και νιώθω εγκλωβισμένη, και μέσα μου φουντώνει μια ανάγκη να γυρίσω τον χρόνο πίσω, και να βρίσκομαι εκεί, τότε, πριν συμβούν όλα αυτά, πριν την κατάρρευση, πριν την λεγόμενη «Αναγέννηση», πριν χαθούν οι αξίες, πριν βρομίσουν οι ψυχές των ανθρώπων από απληστία, πριν ποτισθούν τα μυαλά τους από εξουσία. Με πλημμυρίζει νοσταλγία για την εποχή όταν η ζωές μας ήταν πλούσιες μέσα από την απλότητα τους.

Τα παιδιά της γειτονιάς παίζουν στο προαύλιο. Οι κραυγές τους τώρα, πιο κοντά από πριν, καλύπτουν τον χτύπο του ρολογιού που είναι κρεμασμένο στον τοίχο. Οι φωνές τους εισχωρούν στο δωμάτιο σαν μία πολύχρωμη συρροή από νότες που σχηματίζουν μια εκστατική μελωδία, οδηγούμενη από έναν επίμονο ρυθμό. Έναν ρυθμό που τον έμαθα καλά, και πού ακόμα και τώρα, μετά από τόσο καιρό, μου προκαλούσε ρίγος.

Έκλεισα τα μάτια μου.

Continue reading 21