David Hadley's Blog, page 119

These Few Grains

These Few Grains

If all of this were no more
than the few grains of sand

you trickled through your fingers
on that one remembered afternoon,

staring out at a distant tanker
sailing slowly across the horizon,

while the gulls circled above
on the barest scraps of sea breeze,

before you turned towards me
smiling in that way you do,

then it would be more than enough
for me to hold cupped in my hands.

Secrets of the Dark Woods

So there it was, stretching out before us like some long green wall. The men looked at one another, as their horses grew restless. We all knew what was there; what the forest was said to contain. People from the villages had gone in there and not returned. Usually, what happened to the peasantry was no concern of those of us who lived in and served the Manor, but now we had a new Lord.

'New Lords is always trouble.' It was old Menich who said it, but the wise old heads in the barracks – and you don't get to be old in the barracks unless you have a lot of wisdom... or luck – all nodded their agreement.

Me, I didn't know anything. The new Lord had been away with the King on one of his foreign wars while I trained. I'd hardly ever seen the old Lord either. He had been too old to get out of bed most days and we left to ourselves most of the time. All of us carrying on the old day-to-day routines, more for want of anything else to do than for any other reason.

There had been the old Lord's young wife, but that was something I'd kept to myself. Now, though, as soon as the new Lord arrived, they'd packed her off to join the Dark Sisters, to live out her days long with all the other inconvenient women.

The new Lord had sent out a patrol with his bailiff, to do something called an audit. Apparently, a way of finding out how rich he was, how much the rest of us could pay in tax and how many sheep, cattle and wives each man in the Lord's new fiefdom called his own.

That patrol had gone – over a week ago – into the forest and never seen again. That was why I was here, newly promoted to captain and the first to be volunteered by the older – and wiser – captains to go looking for whatever remained of the bailiff and his men.

I sighed, took a deep breath and – hoping my men would follow me – rode off into the dark wood, probably never to be seen again... unless I was very lucky.

Sue and the Portal

So there it was. We did not know why or where we were, not any more. All we had was this unknown land spread out before us, and neither of us knew what to do.

Looking back, there was no way to tell how we got there. Worse than that though, we could see no sign at all of how we could get back.

Home suddenly seemed so far away.

I laughed and Sue turned.

'What?'

I could see the panic in her eyes... and the hope that my laugh was a sign I had discovered something redeemable about our situation.

'No, it's just that I've read so many SF and Fantasy stories that all begin with someone stepping through a portal.' I looked back to where the portal wasn't. 'I just can't believe I just did it.' I laughed again.

'This is no fuckin' joke.' Sue glared around at the landscape with her look that always suggested I take a quick trip to the pub. When she found out who was to blame for all this, I knew there would be hell to pay. I just hoped it didn't turn out to be me who was to blame. Although, according to Sue, it was all usually my fault – whatever it was.

I looked around and smiled.

'What now?' Sue stared at me, arms akimbo.

'Usually in the stories, just about now, the adventure begins,' I said.

'This is no fuckin’ story though, is it?' She glared.

'Oh, I don't know.' I pointed towards the horizon behind her.

She turned just in time to see the growing dust cloud I'd noticed resolve itself into a group of horsemen galloping towards us. 'Oh, shit,' she said. This can't be happening to me!'

'Why not?'

She turned back to me. 'Because I don't like bloody science fiction.'

‘But this is more like fantasy than SF,’ I said.

Sue glared at me.

I shut up.

Only Survival

There comes a time when there is no alternative. I had not asked for the role given me. I had not wanted to be anything in this world. But I was... I was the one whose word was the only law and I knew what I must do.

My word was the law, but it was more that the law was my word. I was just as constrained by circumstance and precedent as anyone else. I had no choice.

He knew I had no choice too.

It was – simply – a mater of him or me.

It was my family or his.

It was survival or death.

I had the upper hand. I had the weight of authority behind me.

I could see it in his eyes before he looked down at the ground just in front of my feet. He submitted now, but that was no guarantee. If circumstances changed - even if only slightly – to favour his family, then it would be me on my knees in front of him.

I could be merciful, of course. But there is a fine line between being merciful and being weak. There are many who see mercy as weakness and many who would exploit that weakness for their own ends.

My position, my survival and the survival of all I cared about - all I allowed myself the luxury of caring about - depended on me turning my back on such concepts as mercy, forgiveness, live and let live.

I had no choice.

I drew my sword as his neck was laid bare before me.

New Kindle Short Story: An Undulation of a Shadow’s Edge

An Undulation of a Shadow’s Edge
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[Short story: 7,500 words (approx)]

Dark creatures writhe in the city’s shadows, Claire has seen them and seen their hungry eyes watching her… and waiting.

Claire avoids the darkness and the shadows of the city’s nights because she knows what lurks there.

That was until the night she saw Henry, standing in the darkest shadows watching her, wanting her as much as she wants him. But he is as unwilling to leave the dark as Claire is to enter it.

Will Claire save Henry before the shadows and darkness consume him and he is lost to the darkness forever?

Available for the Kindle here (UK) or here (US)

Not the Droid We Were Looking For

It was not quite the droid we were looking for, as it didn’t have either the integrated MP3 player or the egg-whisk attachment. Nor did it have the optional City-destroying laser. But it did have the chest-mounted coffee machine and the chain gun. So all in all, despite some less than stellar customer reviews we did – in the end – plump for this one.

On the whole it is not too bad. However, it does insist we call it ‘Steve’, despite us already knowing seven Steves already. This does play havoc with its internal contacts directory. I have, of course, tried to reset its name from the default, but every automatic upgrade – for some reason – always sets it back to Steve. It even has the manufacturer’s Customer Services baffled. Although, as we all know, it never takes much to baffle Customer Services. They always seem so surprised - and puzzled – that you are not as head over heels in love with their products as their adverts suggest you ought to be.

Still, it does make a nice cup of coffee.

Although, for some unknown reason, the Coffee Ready light also usually sets off the chain gun. This does make retrieving your coffee without significant bullet damage to you, your favourite coffee-cup or you selection of biscuits sometimes a bit more trouble than it is worth. This – as some on the user forums have pointed out – can make neighbourhood coffee mornings somewhat problematic. Especially in areas with a more elderly demographic, as senior citizens are not as sprightly on their feet as they used to be. Their age and infirmity making it much harder for them to duck for cover behind the furniture.

Still, I’m sure – in time – these rather minor bugs will be sorted out in the next operating system upgrade. That is, of course, providing enough engineers can survive the inevitable chain gun strafing to perform the necessary upgrade.

Turn with the Turning World

And so it turned. The world turns and we turn with it. We turn to face each day that comes over the horizon towards us, neither of us knowing what the dawn will bring, or even if we will see another dawn beyond this one.

Everything beyond this moment is unknown, out of reach. The past is gone and no matter how far our fingers stretch we cannot touch even a moment ago. The future lies beyond the horizon, only a glow of possibility in the darkness, lighting up the possible.

I cannot turn back to a few seconds ago and undo any of those things that have left you here now, turning away, and I do not know how far your turning will go in the future. Maybe you will turn and walk away, turn away forever and leave me here with words of regret and an apology unspoken.

Maybe you will let it go and pretend nothing has happened, even though it did happen and always will have happened, no matter what either of us wants. The past is gone, out of reach. It will remain there always; something standing between us, a look in each other's eyes that cannot go away, no matter how far away the past slips or even if that one moment falls into forgetfulness.

We will still know that something, one time, changed and took us off into this still yet unknown direction.

Begin in Darkness

Begin in Darkness

Dreams always begin in darkness
moving towards the uncertain light.
We begin in darkness too, suddenly
learning all about the unexpected brightness.

Our beginning is lost to us, down back
along the twisting cords of history
to that beginning in new clarity
where we fall into a sharp new world.

But now we know too much about
the inevitable end that falls towards us
out of a tunnel of narrowing possibility,
until all we can do is stare into that final night.

Services in the Storm

It was one of those sudden downpours that is more like a tropical rainstorm than the usual run-of-the-mill British weather. The heatwave broke and the sky turned closer to black than grey. I could see the rain streaking the sky up ahead. I noticed a sign, half-overgrown, about some Services a few miles ahead. It was a surprise to me, the road itself, snaking through the moors, even though it was a dual carriageway, was very quiet and it looked little-used. It wasn't even a road I'd heard of before and my sat-nav doubted its existence, but with the roadworks on the motorway, I'd decided to risk this route. By then, I was beginning to regret having the second mug of tea at the last Services. The lorry driver I'd shared a table with had told me of this alternate route as we sat complaining to each other about the state of this country's roads and the uselessness of other drivers.

Now, though, I needed a piss, and with the storm getting worse, I decided it would be worth taking a break at these Services, no matter how poor their facilities.

Visibility was down to a few yards and my wipers were having trouble coping with this much rain, even on the fast setting. I could feel the car lurching too, as the wind blew and the road surface became slick, if not actually underwater.

I slowed at the overgrown turning, changing down faster than I'd intended as the feeder road curved off sharply to the one side.

I parked in an almost empty car park. I took a deep breath and ran for the shelter of the doorway.

It was only when I got to the door I noticed the lights were off.

I was under cover, out of the rain. I tried the door, surprising myself when it opened.

I walked into an empty, deserted, restaurant.

Not One of the World's Foremost Uses of the Mandolin

Still, it was not one of the world's foremost uses of the mandolin. Even if she did manage to express her artistic side in a manner regarded as most creative, especially by the jury of her peers as well as the investigating officers. However, as the judge himself was a self-confessed music lover, he felt he could not overlook the damage to the mandolin, despite agreeing with her that: 'they had it coming'.

After all, as he so wisely said, in court the day after her representatives met him in the underground car park and handed over a well-stuffed plain brown envelope, 'provocation is provocation.' and looking at someone 'in that way' whilst they are holding even something not usually considered as an offensive weapon, such as the aforesaid mandolin, is asking for trouble.

Especially if that mandolin-wielder is feeling a bit tetchy at the time.

Consequently, the presiding judge withdrew to his chambers to study the evidence she'd presented in her defence. This evidence consisted mainly in the form of a website where she offers professional services – with or without the mandolin – for all manner of specialised needs. Afterwards, the judge confirmed that – indeed – there were some doubts as to the validity of the prosecution's evidence and the defendants all looked like 'wrong 'uns'.

Therefore, as the case collapsed, the judge said she could go free without a blemish on her character.

Six months later, though, a tabloid newspaper published photographs of both she and the judge sharing an intimate moment in a beachside café in an exclusive Caribbean resort. Later the judge dismissed this as a mere coincidence, despite the evidence proving that he had undertaken an intensive mandolin-appreciation course in the weeks preceding this holiday.

Eventually, the authorities forced the judge to resign, but he did it with a smile on his face and clutching a brand-new mandolin. A mandolin presented to him as a parting gift by fellow members of the judiciary, several of whom subsequently have expressed an interest in taking up the mandolin themselves in the near future.