Vivika Widow's Blog, page 64

Kidnap at Court (A Red Snow Tale)

The Lord and Lady were an adored couple. The Lord was a dashing young man who assumed his father’s estate at the tender age of twenty. The Lady – a cousin of the king  – was a constant champion for those in need. After three years their marriage bore fruit in the form of a son. The Little Lord had his father’s warm eyes and his mother’s fair hair. He was the pride and joy of his parent’s as well as the staff of The Halls where they called home.

It was a fine evening in the kingdom of Elgany, cloaked in starlight. A warm breeze drew new parents outdoors.

“A nice walk will do us all good,” said the Lady as she laid her infant into a silver pram brought to her by one of the maid servants.

The Little Lord smiled as the maid tickled the corner of his lips as she laid him gently in his transport.

“Of course, darling,” agreed the Lord. “A fine evening it is indeed.”

The Lord’s own aide – Jean – held an umbrella whilst he waited on the Lord loosening his collar.

“It looks like there may be a little rain, my lord,” he said.

The Lord accepted the umbrella. The Lady kissed Jean’s cheek. He pulled the door open for the family.

“Do be safe,” he warned. “I have heard rumours of a lot of robberies lately.”

The Lord, Lady and the Little Lord wandered into the night.

The kingdom of Elgany was a wealthy land located to the warm south. As wealthy as it was the coin was not evenly spread. Those who were rich were outrageously so. Those who were poor had nothing but the rags on their back and what provisions they could steal. The great divide caused by Elgany’s legendary treasury brewed a threat underneath the beautiful land.

The Lord and Lady strolled along the banks of the Chessy river which ran through the centre of Elgany and split the two fractions of society. The wealthy lived to the north, within the reach of the King Benjamin’s great palace. The poor lived to the south in an area known as the Derremont.

The path the followed began to climb higher and further away from the river’s edge. The trees that lined the pathway began to thicken. The Lord began to slow. The Lady followed. The Little Lord was fast asleep. His small lips twitched.

The Lord and Lady could sense some danger. They shouldn’t have strayed so far away from their home. The Lord turned. The Lady clutched the pram carrying her son with an iron grip. There was a rustling in the trees. The Lord pushed his family behind him. A man in tattered clothes came stumbling out.

“Coin?” he asked.

The Lord reached inside his pocket for some gold for the wretched beggar. His concentration was stolen for a few moments. More bodies emerged from the trees. The Lord felt a sharp pain as an iron pole was smashed against his face. His skull underneath cracked. The Lady shrieked as she watched her husband fall to the ground under a hail of kicks and punches.

She felt arms wrap around her waist. She was lifted away. Her long, slim legs kicked out. The pram rolled away from her and tipped over the edge of hill. As the Little Lord, still asleep, tumbled towards to river the Lord and Lady disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.

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The problems are just beginning for the kingdom of Elgany. King Benjamin is in desperate need of help. His life and the life of his family is in danger. Check out FALL TO RUINS for more.

Politics, Intrigue, witchcraft and curses plague Vivika Widow’s fairy tale world of Red Snow.

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Knock, Knock: Episode 16 (Shooting the Breeze)

I gripped the little girl by the shoulder.

“There isn’t much time!” I warned.

She stared back at me with uncomprehending brown eyes. She was afraid. Not because she had been kidnapped. I don’t think she even realised that. She was terrified of me. Even after Tabitha dragging her abruptly away from the park whilst her older brother was distracted she still had no idea the danger she was in. Tabitha’s round, motherly face had managed to pacify the kid. The kid had been stuffing her face with as much cake and ice cream as she could. The girl had been so engrossed in indulging her sweet tooth, she hadn’t noticed how closely Tabitha was watching her with cold, grey eyes, filled with malice.

There was a brief window of opportunity when the girl was alone. It was also my time to escape the Knock, Knock club. I had promised the club manager, Dennis, that I would find his estranged son, Milo and see him to safety too.

There was a small camera peering down from the corner. I had to pull one of the bar stools over and climb on top of it to reach it but it smashed with ease. Our time was even more limited now. If someone noticed the camera broken they would descend on us an army.

“I don’t want to go!” Sarah shrieked. “The lady said I was to stay here.”

I tried to gently coerce her from the table but she resisted. She swung her silver ice cream spoon at me.

“The lady told me I was to wait here until my daddy finds me,” she insisted.

I snatched at the girl with more force. “The lady lied to you,” I tried to explain. “She will hurt you if you don’t come with me now.”

Time was running out. Tabitha would be back soon. I wrapped my hand around the girl’s mouth to stifle her screams as I bodily lifted her from the table. She kicked and flailed in my arms but in the end my comparatively larger size and strength won. I couldn’t just walk out the door with her. My only chance was to hide and wait until someone made a mistake.

“Please,” I whispered. “I’m not going to hurt you. That lady is bad. She is going to keep you here and you will never see your family again. I will get you out of here but I need you to listen to me.”

The girls eyes blurred with tears. My rough, whiskey sodden breath, matted hair and unshaven face couldn’t compete with Tabitha’s in winning over a child but I had to try. I hid the girl in a small adjoining closet kept for bottles. Since the depression had hit hard it was empty. I broke the window and joined her. There was just enough room for the both of us. I watched Tabitha return through a crack in the wood. A vehement anger washed over her grey eyes. Sarah must have seen it too because she writhed beside me. I hadn’t expected my last minute plan to go off without a hitch but Tabitha saw the empty room, spied the broken window and assumed I had escaped into the alley with the little girl.

She growled at herself. She tore across the room to the main door. It was still locked. Only the key she kept on her person could open it. The ice cold chill of outdoors contrasted the stuffiness of the club so heavily it flushed through the room so completely I could feel the chill on my face.

She stepped outside but when she saw no sign of us she returned. Dennis joined her from backstage.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I had never seen Tabitha so angry.

“I should have killed the little bitch when I had the chance!” she snarled. “She’s gone,” she admitted. “Sam is too.”

Sarah sobbed beside me. I tried to console her as best I could. We were still in a lot of danger and her sniffs would give us away.

“He can’t have gotten out,” Tabitha reasoned with herself. “Someone would have stopped him. He must still be in here somewhere.”

Dennis obviously agreed with her because immediately his stare fixed on our hiding place. He didn’t point it out.

“They won’t get far,” he said. “The alley is on constant watch. He would have to have went round the front if he wanted to get away without being noticed.”

Tabitha took this as a flippant statement of the obvious but I saw it for what it was. He was giving us a way out.

Tabitha stopped suddenly. She looked behind her towards the hiding spot. A wicked smile traced her lips. Dennis wrapped his long fingers around her arm and pulled her back before she had the chance to move any closer to us.

“They won’t get far,” he repeated. “Right now you are needed upstairs.”

Tabitha looked at him suspiciously but she did leave. As soon as the door closed Sarah tried to climb out of the hiding place. I pulled her back, put my finger to my lips and bid her to remain hidden until a few minutes passed and we could be sure we were safe to leave.

When I was certain that we were alone I ushered the little girl back out into the hall. I couldn’t be certain if I could trust Dennis but I had to take my chances. He may be distracting them and affording me the opportunity to escape or he was playing a cruel joke. It didn’t matter which. It was now or never. If had to at least try. I was as good as a dead man anyway.

First, I helped Sarah climb through the broken window. I followed after her. I pushed myself through the small space which was barely big enough to fit through. I was conscience more of time than of the broken glass tearing in at me. When I dropped into the alley of the Knock, Knock Sarah was inspecting the cuts on her filthy hands. I gripped her arm and we both started towards the front of the building. A busy street ran past so I hoped we would find some kind of refuge in a large crowd. I could hear voices calling out behind us as we ran. I couldn’t tell the emotion of them or distinguish any of the words clearly.

“Where are we going?” Sarah asked.

“I’m taking you home,” I told her. “Do you know how to get to your home from here?”

She nodded. I was surprised. Perhaps we don’t give enough credit to kids or maybe she was smarter than your average one but I couldn’t have found my way home at that point.

Coldridge Park was where Tabitha had taken her so her home must have been close by.

If Dennis had truly aided my escape I owed it to him to check if Milo was safe. I didn’t know where to begin looking for him. I was hoping Sarah’s father would offer me some sanctuary in exchange for bring back his daughter and from there find Milo.

***

“It’s just down here,” Sarah pointed excitedly.

“Wait,” I warned. “We’re going to have to get your dad on his own.

She lived in a terraced block of beautifully kept town houses. Just at the other end of the park. Most of the homes were empty but for a single room on the lower floor.

We waited at a distance. The shadows of night were beginning to fall. The main door of the home opened and a burly, middle aged man stepped out.

“That’s my dad,” Sarah said.

He collected a silver cigarette case from the pocket of the cardigan he wore. He extracted one and placed it between his lips. He lit the tobacco and sighed as he drew.

I instructed Sarah to wait. I approached her father.

“I have your daughter,” I said by way of introduction.

A guilty look sparked across him and the cigarette was left dancing on his lips.

“What do you want now?” he growled. “I’ll get your money.”

“Wait, you don’t understand,” I tried to explain.

His shoulders tightened and he loomed closer to me. He was a big guy. Much bigger than I was.

“You are from the Knock, Knock right? I’ve seen you there.”

“I am but I have your daughter,” I told him. “She’s safe.”

He shook his head. His strength dissolved. “I couldn’t tell anyone. Who could I tell?” he sobbed.

“Sarah!” I called. “You can come over.”

Her father looked out into the darkness. The light from the porch only illuminated so much of the lawn. The pressure the club was putting him under was beginning to show on his face.

Sarah’s nostrils flared as she ran to him. Her father’s lips widened into the most relieved smile I have ever seen on a man. He lifted her into his arms and showered her face with adoring paternal kisses. Content that I had reunited Sarah with her family safely I turned and left them to their reunion. I began to wonder what life would be life outside the club and how far I would have to go to be free of them.

A crack of a gun sparked. This was closely followed by a small scream from Sarah. Her father dropped her onto the porch. A red fountain began to spring from his forehead. Sarah tried to pull him to his feet but the shot had been too precise. He was gone. Throwing all caution to the wind I dashed to Sarah to pull her away but another shot fired. This time it was the little girl who slumped down. Her lifeless little body lay beside her father.

I looked in the direction of the gunman but there was no way I would be able to see them.

“Bastard!” I screamed at the unknown assailant. A third shot fired. Luckily it hit the ground at my feet. I was left with no choice but to run. A couple more shots came after me.

Running in no particular direction with no particular destination in mind and no hope I found myself back on the street. Someone snatched at me.

“Come with me.”

It was Tabitha. She was dressed in black trousers and an oversized red coat. She had pulled her brunette hair away from her shoulders into a pony tail that cascaded on her shoulders. She looked a completely different person away from the Knock, Knock stage. I began to follow her down a pathway that led through a small play ground before I even realised it was her.

***

Tabitha sat on a swing. She looked up at me and smiled. There was a hint of laughter on her lips. Without her make-up she looked much younger than I assumed her to be.

“Why don’t you just kill me,” I groaned. “I don’t want anything to do with you or the Knock, Knock. I never did.”

“After everything I have done to keep your ass alive this is how you repay me?” she replied.

“That little girl didn’t have to die…” I began.

Tabitha pushed herself back, kicked out and began to swing.

“If you had listened to me and left her where she was then she would be back at the club

safe and sound, gorging herself on ice cream,” she said.

I hated to admit it but she was right. The kid was dead because of me. Theresa and Maddie were dead because of me. Hell the whole damn thing started because of my megalomaniac grandfather.

Tabitha must have sensed what I was thinking.

“Cheer up, Sam,” she said. “You’ll always have me watching out for you.”

Something about those words left me feeling cold.

“I know something else,” she added. “I know where Milo is.”

‘Damn it!’ I thought. They really were everywhere.

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Danger in Transport (A Conflict Chronicle)

Harbour County Sheriff, Thomas Robinson, had awoken early that morning and expected everything to be like it always was. He was a small town man, always had been. He and his wife had been keeping up to date with the ‘Chaos Killings’ and the news had been regurgitating information on the New York attack. He never expected it to be a situation to reach his sleepy little town.

He had been in the office. His feet were on the desk and he was bouncing a ball on the ground that he had had since his college football days. He didn’t anticipate any trouble. Old man Granger getting drunk or chasing some of the local children from the reservoir was about as difficult as things got for him so the moment two men in black suits, flashing official badges came crashing into his office his feet were planted on the ground.

“We are from the FBI,” they explained. “We are transporting a high profile prisoner and we need to take control of your facility,” said the first agent.

Sheriff Robinson stammered for a moment. “Who is the prisoner?”

The second agent looked at the cell in the corner of the room. Drunks sleeping off their hangovers and petty thieves were all housed there but never before had he ever had a true prisoner. “We are not really at liberty to discuss that,” the agent told him. The second agent pushed papers the thickness of a book into his arms.

“They are heading to Hodlam prison,” Sheriff Robinson gasped to his young deputy.

The fair haired adolescent, Chuck Holden, shuddered, “Surely not!”

Sheriff Robinson put on his hat and smoothed his greying whiskers. “What about our own prisoners? If we pick someone up where will be put them?”

The first agent had lifted his communication device but before he spoke into it he said to the sheriff, “We have arranged with the local bank. They have cleared some secure rooms which can be used for the next twenty four hours. We will be on our way again at six am.”

“What do you need me to do?” asked the sheriff.

The first agent became impatient. “We must move fast. Keep the perimeter secure as best you can and our men will do the rest.”

“Bring him in,” said the second agent into the device with a slight crackle.

Most of the residents of Harbour stopped and stared as a convoy of five official FBI cars trundled slowly through their streets surrounding a heavily secured van. When they reached the sheriff base the FBI agents poured from their vehicles and formed a line from the van to the entrance of the station. They all had ear pieces and one hand was placed on their guns. Two stepped forward and opened the van door. More FBI agents spilled out before the prisoner was pulled into daylight.

“Who is that?” Chuck asked. “Who is this we are going to be housing?”

The sheriff laid his hand gently on the young boys shoulder. “That is Andrei Borkov, the Yugasov who killed all those soldiers,” the sheriff said. Some people may have been mistaken but there was no fooling good old Tom Robinson. He had seen Andrei Borkov’s face so many times on the news during the Russian conflict. He couldn’t blame anyone for being surprised though. The media had reported that he had been killed in Minsk.

Harbour had never been a highlight for tourists and the most exciting thing ever to happen was when the fair visited in the summer, but Thomas Robinson did his job and did it well. All the people of Harbour knew him and he had been elected Sheriff every year since he first ran. He had never expected to be faced with such a task. With his heart condition it was likely his wife, Beth, would have protested against it.

There was little movement Andrei Borkov could make because his hands and feet were shackled. Four of the agents stood close beside him with one hand on him and the other on their guns. As the Yugasov was moved past the Sheriff and the deputy, his gaze met theirs. He said nothing.

“Prisoner secure,” one of the agents announced when Andrei had been locked in the sheriff station cell. The FBI agents remained at the station and around the perimeter on high alert, swapping for fresh new eyes every hour or so. They were keen to keep curious onlookers, vengeful vigilantes and possible supporters at bay. So Harbour went about its normal simple routine with one eye constantly darting towards the sheriff office.

When Sheriff Robinson returned home his wife had a warm pot of soup waiting for him with freshly baked bread.

“What is all the fuss at the station Tom?” she asked right away. She had been so eager for him to return home so she could find out. The cell phone she had been given by the kids had never been used but that morning she had tried to call.

“They are moving a high profile prisoner and they needed a secure stop off point,” he told her feeling proud at being privy to such importance.

“I saw all the cars and agents … FBI aren’t they?”

By six am the following morning the agents and their prisoner were gone from Harbour and although things would return to what they always were, Sheriff Thomas Robinson would be left with a story to tell the grandkids.

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Knock, Knock: The story so far!

 

It’s been a great run so far and I am thrilled to see so many people tune in, enjoy and follow the Knock, Knock series.

It was a novel idea (no pun intended) when it first began and thanks to the success there will be more coming your way.

It is a story that is special to me. It began on a cold, winter Aberdeen night as I travelled home from med school and has been a story I have been itching to tell ever since.

To those of you who have subscribed, commented and simply tuned in to read I am extremely grateful. For those of you who haven’t read it yet Episodes 1 – 15 are now available on the site in handy little drop down menu so you can go straight to your favourite EP or read it from the very beginning.

We are reaching the conclusion of the story now so I look forward to hearing your responses to the ending.

Episode 16: Shots in a Glass will be live 6pm (UK ST) on Sunday 8th of October exclusively to vivikawidow.com

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Twin Blood ( A Red Snow Fairy Tale)

After their music lessons ended the twins decided to play in the gardens. They were running around throwing snow at each other, laughing wildly when Cristof saw a little child peering out from behind the crooked tree. She was laughing and she waved at him.

“Did you see that?” Cristof asked his twin.

Petya looked up but the little girl was gone. “See what?” he asked.

“Never mind,” Cristof moaned, dismissing the sight as just being his imagination. They carried on playing and Cristof saw her again. This time she appeared to be angry with him.

“There she is again!” Cristof called pointing to the tree. Petya still saw nothing. “Wait here,” Cristof ordered and made his way to the tree.

Petya watched in silence as his brother neared the great dark trunk. He disappeared behind one side but didn’t emerge from the other.

“Cristof!” he called a couple of times before plucking up his own courage and following his brothers footsteps. He followed the small prints, much like his own, around the tree where they stopped suddenly right at the base. A boy with pale skin and ebony hair was seated in the snow with his head in his hands.

“Have you seen my brother? He looks just like me,” Petya asked sensing Cristof was playing a game with him.

“I haven’t seen anything,” said the boy. He raised his head, opened his eyes and showed empty sockets. “I am blind,” he explained.

“Who are you? Where do you come from?” Petya asked.

“My name is Baldasarre,” said the boy. “I am from a land far from here.”

“What happened to your eyes?”

Baldasarre told him, “They were taken from me. That is why I am here. I am going to retrieve them but I can’t get inside the castle. Will you help me?”

Petya hesitated, “I really need to find my brother.”

Baldasarre sighed, “If you help me get inside the castle I will help you find your brother.”

Petya, sweet, trusting, naïve soul, asked, “What do you need me to do?”

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As with all good fairy tales it all started with a curse. This particular one was brought on by the clash of egos between two powerful witches.

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Just keep trollin’ along

There once was a nasty little troll,

whose life was desperately sad.

He spent his days spitting curses

and trying to make everyone mad.

When no one would listen to him,

he was so mean.

He stamped and he shouted,

demanding to be seen.

The problem was,

nobody cared.

And this made the little troll truly scared.

“Get a life little troll,” the villagers said.

“Wipe your eyes. Here’s a tissue.”

His words would never bring them down

But that was the little troll’s issue…

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Bully Posion (Part of the Myths and Tales collection)

“What is it?” he asked eagerly. “Tell me!” Charlie urged.

“I am a witch.” said Aunt Trudy softly and slowly.

Charlie’s eyes lit with joy. He had always known there was something unusual about his lovable aunt. “Does that mean I’m a witch too?” he asked excitedly.

“Don’t be stupid boy,” said Trudy. Charlie’s hopes were dashed in an instant. When Trudy saw his sad little face she continued, “Being a witch takes years of practice. I will show you but in the meantime … What to do about those bullies…” her voice trailed off as she heaved a heavy, dusty, green leather bound book, slammed it on the table and proceeded to unbuckle the golden clip that held the book closed. Dust flew from the pages as they were turned. Aunt Trudy ran her finger slowly over the hand written words. The writing was so scribbled and hurried it was difficult to read.

“Aha!” announced Aunt Trudy in triumph disturbing their quiet contemplation. “This ought to do the trick!”

Aunt Trudy’s first spell: Removing an enemies voice

With lizard tails,

And an old woman’s nails,

Take a frog and a pot of snails.

Mush them together in one big stew,

Add a drop of blood but it must be new,

Along with rat tails, not one but two.

Give to your enemy; they must drink it fast,

Every single drop or the effects won’t last,

Now they won’t say a word until you ask.

“Lucky we have all the ingredients right here,” said Aunt Trudy cheerfully pulling bottles from the shelf. Charlie picked up a jar labelled ‘pickled raven’s claw’. He opened the lid and brought the jar to his nose. Aunt Trudy snatched it back from him. “Don’t sniff that, not unless you want a pig snout,” she warned.

“I’m not sure about this,” the nephew said hesitantly.

Aunt Trudy began pouring the ingredients into a black ceramic bowl. The contents were bubbling, mixing together to form an orange paste. “Don’t be silly, that bully will learn.” There was a crazed look in Aunt Trudy’s eyes that Charlie didn’t like one bit.

Charlie asked “Will they get hurt?”

“Not unless you want them to.” Aunt Trudy took the bowl, held it high above her head and whispered the magic words. “Munchlum Doodledum Frooglepop.”

She took some to their garden, Charlie followed. The neighbours’ dog, Benny, had managed to climb onto their grass again ruining Aunt Trudy’s vegetable patch and leaving canine deposits everywhere. Benny was yapping uncontrollably.

“What are you doing?” the little boy asked when he noticed his aunt staring at the dog.

Aunt Trudy held the bowl out in front of her. “First rule of witchcraft Charlie, take out the neighbour’s pesky pet.” Benny was wagging his tail eagerly and still yapping. Trudy lowered the bowl to him and he took several large gulps not stopping to sniff. He started yapping again. Charlie folded his arms across his chest in disappointment. “Give it a moment,” Trudy said. They both watched the dog. Suddenly Benny’s voice was lost. His horrid screeching bark became silent. His jaws were open and his lungs were pushing but no sound came out. “I do that when I want to shut that thing up,” said the aunt. “Now you know how it works, give it to your bully.”

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Diaries of a Cursed Kingdom: A Red Snow Tale

Dearest Brother,

Since boyhood I have enjoyed taking the horses and hounds into Mendelov woods. The bounty of animals to hunt there is wide and varied. It is a tradition passed to me by my father that the meat and fur we find there be shared among the people as much as possible. The nights can be long and cold so the kingdom appreciates the warmth.

Today was different though. There were scarcely any animals to be found save one rabbit which the hounds slaughtered for their own supper. There was a fire in the distance. Some celebration of sorts seemed to be happening in the nearby village. Singing and chanting filled the air. I had just about given up hope of ever finding a deer or elk. The noise had most likely scared them off. I was preparing to turn away when I stumbled across a clearance. My bow was prepared. My straining arms had all but fired a shot. I was startled. Before me was the most beautiful woman my eyes had ever beheld. She was seated upon a white horse. Her long black locks were so dark they almost shone blue in the fading light. Her skin was as white as the freshly fallen snow.

“Aren’t you frightened?” she asked me. Why, in all my heart and soul, would I be frightened by an image so fair? That was when she did the strangest thing. She threw to me a trinket, a macabre symbol. I held the skull of a cat in my hands.

“It will help aid success in your hunts,” she explained. Her voice trailed from her lips like fine silk threads.

Her name was Francesca. She was from a village far from here but I would scour the known map to find her again. I know nothing of this woman and yet I know I will have no other as my queen. I can’t erase her presence from my mind, nor her voice from my ears. I can’t explain it. We have met only once and yet I will offer her everything I have.

King Roman

My Dearest,

It has been done. I have left it all behind. The last sight I had of my kin was of them burning, begging for the pain to be ended. Even after it all those who could still pleaded for me to stay with them.

The man with the black eyes still claimed be me to as his love until I removed his heart from his chest. The blood was still warm as I devoured it. Great was my fury that they tried to stop me and greater was my horror at what the love of Roman has made me see.

The eternal child, was the last to speak. A curse she warned me of. That was laughable. Her power could never match mine for I was Queen of our people and none of them could match me. She quipped about a plague that would follow me to my new land and infect all those who crossed my path. My husband would be driven insane as images of my deeds flooded his fragile mind. Any children produced from the marriage would suffer from cradle until they begged for death. The girl doesn’t frighten me.

The village was reduced to ashes in my wake. The evil of its people banished. Annabelle followed me. My first reaction was to kill her too. She stared at me with those pitiful green eyes of hers. I’m not one to hold sympathy but she had been loyal to me. She is the only one who could rival me and yet she is too dim to realise.

On our way to kingdom, I on horseback, she on foot beside me, we came across one of the strangest creatures known in my black circles. We were met by a Hangram. It was creeping to the water, gasping for whatever pity the world could spare it. They are fierce yet wretched creatures. It’s finger tips flamed with the heat of redemption.

Annabelle and I knew the Hangram immediately but a ‘dweller’ may have been alarmed. Not many are seen by the dweller folk and fewer leave the unfortunate alive to tell the tale. It looked up at us from its contemplation over life and death. It approached. It recognised the blackness within me. It had softened since meeting Roman but still burned in my chest. Hanram are drawn to malevolence like thirsty men to a pond.

“You are evil, quite unlike any I have known and yet you roam this land without hinderance. Today is the day you answer for your evil,” said the creature.

“I am sorry for all I have committed!” I said knowing the proper way to address a Hangram.

“I’m not,” Annabelle interjected.

The flames from the Hangram raged. It’s eyes began to glow. Annabelle showed no fear. Truthfully she had little patience for such creatures and I wished to be on my way.

“Francesca!” the Hangram raged. “There is a special place in Hell reserved for you.”

“If you are waiting on my repentance I will not give it to you,” I told it.

The Hangram closed in on us. “I don’t expect contrition from the likes of you.” It’s burned face contorted into an unsettling smile. “You will have to find comfort on a bed of blades if you do not appease your conscience.”

This particular Hangram was not to be fooled. It knew me, although in its form I couldn’t quite place the haggard frame. I had seen so many Hangram over the years. “The kingdom do well for you,” it said. “The King’s love will save you but only if you accept the punishment you deserve. End your life here and now, save the kingdom and the generations to follow. There is not a sin so great that a single act of selfless sacrifice can’t save you from,”

Before I could make my response Annabelle stepped forward. She threw dust at the Hangram’s feet. The Hangram emitted a high pitched, pained shriek. The form began change in a swirl of black and red energy. The colours cleared. The body of a little boy of nine years old lay where the Hangram had been. I remembered him. His name was Dale and he had come from a village, deep in the woods. My brother Julian loved to toy with Hangram. There were countless of them wandering the land because of him. The soul purpose of these creatures was to seek out sin and evil and vanquish it. My people would absorb the energy left behind, strengthening our own macarbe magic. This was our way. When the Hangram had fulfilled its duty it would be disposed of. Formidable to the ‘dwellers’ but a mere pet – a blood hound in many ways – to us. To create a Hangram required the body of an innocent, someone who had led a pure life. This was often difficult to find in an adult so most of the time children served the purpose. Julian sought them out like an avid hunter. With his handsome face and bright, kindly eyes they flocked to him. Dale had been one such trusting soul.

Annabelle removed a dagger from her boot. She meant to cut his throat while he lay asleep on the forest floor.

“No wait,” I stopped her. I had been thinking of what the Hangram had said. I left him. When he awoke from his slumber he would have enough provisions to keep him until he found a way back to his family. When I left Vorelia Julian had burned with all the others so Dale needn’t fear him any more.

So here I am in the arms of the King, in the beautiful kingdom. The curse and all the others have been left behind. I will defy them, to be happy, to live.

Francesca

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Tiny Terror

This is the third time you have been sent to my office this week, Miss Campbell,” said the head mistress – a grey haired old crone with a chin so pointed it could cut ice.

She wasn’t wrong though. It was the third time that week I had been in her office.

“Martin Burrows stole my glasses,” I explained. “I told him to leave me alone.”

“You cut him pretty deeply,” the headmistress scorned.

When I dragged the knife across his arm I must have hit an artery because there was a fountain of blood.

“Where did you get the knife?”

“The cafeteria. I was cutting my meat and he attacked me,” said I.

The head mistress surveyed me. I don’t know how much of my story she believed, if any. It was lucky for me though that I wasn’t the only one to complain about Martin lately.

“I’ve been trying to contact your parents but there has been no answer.”

My parents weren’t speaking much to anyone lately. Not they way I had left them.

“They’ve been busy,” I told the teacher.

The head mistress sighed.

“You are a bright girl, Tracey. Perhaps a little too bright sometimes. You have ambition and if you focus on that you will achieve great things.” She paused for a moment and looked down at her desk. “After the incident with Martin his mother may wish to get the police involved.”

That was fine by me. I expected that anyway. Who are they likely to believe anyway? That cheeky no user who gave the teachers nothing but grief or the little girl in pigtails and spectacles who aced most of her classes, kept herself to herself and did charity work. The head mistress was right about another thing. I did have ambition. I had ambition by the bucket loads. One day I would be a doctor and nothing was going to stand in the way of that. Not even bullies like Martin with his nasty, sneering face. I would open his throat before I allowed that to happen. My parents could attest to that.

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For more of Tracey’s murderous adventures check out the Confessions of an Anatomist short story as part of the Myths and Tales collection!

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We Need To Talk

Of all my stories THE GRIP tends to get the biggest reaction. It draws a lot of emotions that many people would much rather not face. No one likes the idea of their loved one suffering and equally no one likes to feel like they are an emotional burden. In this fast paced modern world it is so easy to lose touch and not even realise it. There has never been so many ways to communicate and keeping in touch has never been easier but with the modern technology comes a certain disconnect. They are just words on a screen.

THE GRIP raises the issue of mental health. The depression and anxiety that eventually leads to tragedy is unfortunately not something reserved for fiction. It is something that many people face every day. There is still a lot of stigma attached to those who are fighting depression and/or anxiety. However, one thing I hope was clear throughout THE GRIP was that tragedy could have been avoided if the son was willing to speak of what was bothering him and the mother was willing to listen. It seems simple but sometimes simple solutions are the best.

I have fought the demons of depression and anxiety myself and it is tough. I hope that people reading THE GRIP will be able to see that there was help there, just like there is help available in the real world.

To my friends who are currently facing mental health issues, know that we love you, we are there for you.

The Grip is available for download!

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