I'm glad goosebumps are not in short supply or I'd have to start rationing mine.
You and your stories are making me go through in inordinate number of these little things, because you persistently insist on writing wee bits of magic when prompted with little more than some colours and an obscure image.
Thank you.
Will you do it again?
On Space Chickens and Lonely Lochs—Inspired Writing
Below are some quotes from last weeks lovelies, inspired by "Sudden Silence," and of course I'd love to include yours in next week's.
~ She is as old as this world, born in the very bones of the planet in fire and pressure. Recently a new species has been growing and expanding its reach. The oceans have become noisy and crowded. She retreats to an island where she finds a lake to her liking. She avoids the rivers where the Kelpies live. The water always tastes of malice and fear. But the lake is lovely.
~ The human explorers will, however, find a star map and they’ll believe that the Space Chickens traversed the great expanse of space only to reach this lonely death...
~ I’ve lived here always and so here I’ll pass the rest of my days. Though the water is long gone I still talk to my childhood friend. I walk round the dry bowl of Loch Ness and discuss dust and daydreams with the ghost of my beautiful beastie in the ghost of what was once her beautiful lake.
~ Haar saw the impact in the distance, just over the horizon somewhere, and then the heat of it reached her. It was as if a giant warm glove, one that fit her from heels to head, wrapped her up in its grip…The sudden silence made her ears ring. Then she knew nothing.
~ The sudden silence of an argument lost and won fell on the car like a boulder. Tired of driving and tired of talking and tired of her too for a devastating instant, there were words only meant for the time it took to snap them out, but once free they were never coming back. Words were not to be trusted.
I've munched much produce, drank a lot of water, got some exercise, so I think I'm well and truly stocked up on the raw materials for making goosebumps. I'm ready for your story.
I'm ready. Go.
His eyes were green, his skin pale. A right Irish honeypot, and everyone wanted a taste of the sweet lad.
His hair was his glory: golden red, which burned like a holy fire when the sun caught it.
When he walked, the little sway in his hip made traffic stop. He didn’t aim to seduce, but he could hardly help it. Fey blood made a fey boy potent, sparking desire even in those he never expected to desire a boy, a red-golden, cream-skin, emerald-eye, honeypot boy.
He ought to have been hung about with a sign.
Be careful.
His laugh was a siren call and a warning.
That cackle of joy burst out of him at the most unexpected things; but seriousness could also descend without notice, coming upon him like a solemn oath. He would burrow briefly into the dark, rooting uncomfortable truths from the soil and the roots of life, before turning it upside down again, flinging what he found into the light, cackling again.
The fey honeyed boy drew the flies, but also the bee, a lad sumptuously large, striped black and golden, full of the solemn hum of life, heavy with a rich nectar. Where the fey boy cackled, the sumptuous boy smiled, his solemn hum lilting lighter. The fey boy burrowed into the dark loam of him, turned it upside down into the light. The gold inside one glinted in the burning sun of the other.
Honeypot and bee, the fey and the earth, the sun and the glow.
Carelessly, they tumble into love.
The traffic in the harbour was worse once they passed through The Fathm, two jutting headlands embracing the sea around Ghastboots Bay.
A narrow safe passage was marked by the bright red and yellow buoys bobbing on the grey waves. Cheerful stewards when heading out but on the approach, with the dismal fug of Bay’s Bray ahead, and the looming mountains behind, those buoys were jaundiced and bloody omens, baleful warnings urging all who passed to turn back.
Bug was on full alert. Her ears caught the distant peal of the harbour bells, shouts and creaks from dark ships as they passed alongside, the slap of water against the bow. The rest of the crew stood silent at their stations, awaiting the bosun’s commands, ready to cut and run at the first sign of danger.
“You want to be careful of those Brayers,” Old Garfish Reba had said, pointing his crooked finger at the Captain like he was pronouncing a sentence. “They’ll eat your souls as soon as look at you. I heard they throw their younguns into the sea to weed out the weak.”
Captain Tennikin had bowed and simpered to the mad old fool, even as he ordered them to sail into a deadly nest of vipers. For what? To trade their tin for fine pirated cloth and stolen jewels? For the glory of Garfish, he’d said.
Bug had clenched her fists behind her back hard enough to draw blood. She was repulsed by the greedy maggot, but it wouldn’t do to show it on her face. Not in Garfish Reba’s hall, with its gilded lanterns and opulent cushions. She had food in her belly and coin in her pocket. And that came from the Garfish coffers, whether she liked it or no.
But this… this was madness.
As they drew ever closer to port, Bug sang the old sea spells in her head, her left hand at the handle of her rigging knife and her teeth bared.
“Have you ever seen something so gloriously beautiful it takes your breathe away? Like someone spun gold so fine it became the very DNA in the heart of a molecule, so it could walk out into the world and straight into your heart?”
The paramedic looked up from his injured patient to the man standing awkwardly huddled in an oversized parka. “Are you sure he didn’t bang his head when the car hit him?”
The man shrugged, awkwardly turning his phone in his fingers. “I don’t know, he was behind me at the time. I’d just finished crossing before the signal turned to red, when there was a squeal of brakes and well…” he gestured helplessly to the man laying in the road with a clearly broken leg.
“You’re beautiful,” the injured man muttered with a dopey grin. “Like a fairy.”
The only answer to that was swiftly pulling the hood of his parka over his bright orange hair.
“Sir, have you taken anything today?” The paramedic said in a slow clear voice.
“I’m high on life and opulent beauty!”
“Neither of those make you walk into traffic, sir,” the paramedic replied. “Do you know him?”
The man in the parka shook his head. “No, I’ve seen him around though. I think he works at the university.” He pointed at the branded sweatshirt stretched tight over thick muscles. “I’d have guessed he was in the sports department, but now I’ve heard him speak maybe he’s from English Literature. Or Pharmacuticals.”
“Can I have your number?” The injured man asked, either forgetting or ignoring the fact that his phone was smashed all over the road behind him.
“Sorry, I don’t think should date someone who can’t cross the road or follow a paramedic’s instructions.“
“Wise,” the paramedic muttered, mostly to himself.
“If I promise to be good can I have your number?”
Rolling his eyes the man in the parka turned away towards the approaching police officers. “If you can be careful enough to cross the street once you’re back on your feet, then maybe.”