Vivika Widow's Blog, page 82

The Silhouette; by Vivika Widow

There were no features on the image, just the outline of a woman’s frame. Black and white except for the prominent red rose that the silhouette held in her hand. Helena had only been a maid at Castle Kroestov, in the snow covered land of Navaria, but a few weeks so she was still acquainting herself with the many paintings that graced the walls.

The silhouette didn’t look towards the artist. Instead she offered a delicate profile with a soft outlined nose, long elegant neck and slender, statuesque frame. She reminded Helena of the old queen – Francesca. Having been dead many years Helena had only seen her in pictures but the resemblance to the silhouette was incredible. A title beneath the mahogany frame read ‘Dust and Devotion’. No artist had laid claim to the work.

Helena smiled. Never before coming to Castle Kroestov had she been surrounded by so much beauty. She reached out and graced the intricate pattern carved in the frame before wiping it with her dusting cloth. She then drew her finger softly over the head of the silhouette and down the face. She felt a sharp pain fire from her fingertips to her head. In her mind’s eye she saw Francesca. She was on horseback, her long flowing black hair caught in the wind. Her blue eyes raged with anger but her lips held a serene smile. The scene appeared to be set on the outskirts of a village, at the very edge of the forest. Francesca was surrounded by adoring villagers but a man was before her didn’t share their admiration. A thick rope was tied around his neck. His hands and feet were bound and the ropes were harnessed to three horses. He said nothing but his eyes were leaking emotion.

“Declare your dedication to me,” spat Francesca. “Or be returned to the dust of the earth.”

The prisoner shook his head. “I will never devote myself to a witch.”

Francesca removed herself from her horse. She pushed into the crowd and drew a little girl from amongst them.

“Eleanor!?” gasped the prisoner, recognising his daughter.

Francesca gripped the girl close  to her side with one hand and wove the long fingers of the other through the girl’s fair hair. “Daddy thinks he is above the rules I have set forth,” said Francesca to the girl. “Isn’t that rather naughty?”

Eleanor nodded her head in agreement.

“Do you think I should have him torn apart for such defiance?”

This time the child did not answer. She stared at her father with a torrent stupefaction only a child unschooled in the cruelty of the world could muster. “I don’t want my daddy to die!” she sobbed.

Francesca tightened the fingers that were in the girls hair and pulled at it. “What did you say?” she asked with a severe snarl.

The little girl began to cry. She tried to pull away but Francesca’s grip was too strong. The tearing at her hair was a numb pain compared to seeing her father captive.

“You will watch the horses tear your father to pieces and then you will be next.” Francesca looked behind to her people. “Pistol!” she barked the order. One stepped forward without hesitation, placing a pistol in the hand Francesca had freed. She thrust it towards the little girl. “Horses don’t like the sound of gunshot. It frightens them and when they are frightened they run with all their might. You can pull the trigger.”

Annabelle, Francesca’s closest friend, had been standing close by watching the scene unfold. Becoming frustrated she snatched the gun and fired it into the air. The horses that the prisoner was tied to screamed. The reared and dashed in opposite directions. The prisoner was dragged across the rocky floor briefly before his body was torn. Francesca’s supporters held her horse as tightly as they could so he wouldn’t run too.

Francesca threw the little girl to the ground, sobbing in horror at what she had just bore witness to. Francesca’s lip curled as she stared at Annabelle. Annabelle could feel her breath struggle to gather in her chest. “How dare you interfere like that,” said Francesca. “I was amusing myself.”

Annabelle could feel a tight grip from inside her chest. Her heart pushed against it as best it could. “That man was never going to change his mind. We were wasting a beautiful morning,” she gasped.

Francesca’s nose crinkled. The pain in Annabelle’s chest seared. Blood began to pool in her mouth. “One way or another he was ending this day a corpse. You still have the daughter. She is ready for a lifetime of torment,” Annabelle managed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Francesca looked at the Eleanor still sobbing on the ground. She laughed and released her hold on Annabelle. The little girl was dragged onto her feet by an invisible force that Francesca summoned. Her face was awash with tears. “I’m going to take you to a new home,” Francesca warned the little girl with venom. “Perhaps I will eat you slowly. One little bit of flesh at a time.” She pushed Eleanor back into the arms of Annabelle. “Bring her with us,” ordered Francesca. She turned her gaze to Annabelle and spat, “I’m not done with you yet!” She climbed back onto her horse. Her followers lingered behind as they made their way back home.

Annabelle pushed Eleanor in front of her. “Move!” she barked.

Helena stumbled back from the silhouette. She couldn’t decipher whether the scene she had relayed in her mind had been real or if the gloomy castle was causing her to imagine things. She stumbled from the dream. She looked at the silhouette again. It was serene, silent. Black and white except the blood red rose. The silhouette had quite a tale to tell…

‘Dust and Devotion’ is the short story prequel to ‘Red Snow’

Click here to read Dust and Devotion now!

 

 

The Dungeons of the Old King’s Castle

The bells had been filing the night air for hours with their tormenting knell. The very castle wept for the death of the much beloved King Roman.

“There’s going to be quite a few changes around here,” General Drenisov commented as a young boy was dragged down the corridor by guards. Drenisov followed them.

“Let me go!” screamed the teenager as he pulled himself away from his captors. His thick black hair was in disarray. His bright blue eyes sparked under the low lighting.

The general closed in on his captive, several years his junior. The boy had been badly beaten. His lips and teeth were stained with blood.

“Let me go and I will forget any of this happened,” said the younger.

This drew a wide grin from Drenisov. The guards gripped the prisoner tighter. “You don’t make those decisions. The king has been murdered and any chances you had of ever seeing daylight again went with him.”

The prisoner shook his head. “You can’t do this!”

Drenisov crossed his arms over his chest. “I think you will find I can. You are a murderer and you will suffer the same fate as all murderers in Navaria do.”

The prisoner snarled. “The king did not die at my hand.”

Drenisov was unrelenting. “Defenceless, sick. You have stolen our beloved king and for what? Your own selfish ambition?”

The prisoner pursed his lips and spat on the general. The blood stained his uniform.

“Take him away!” Drenisov ordered the guards.

The guards dragged the prisoner away. “I didn’t do it!” he was screaming. “The king was already dead when I got there!”

The prisoner was cast into the dungeons. The door was locked tightly. The only window he had was from a small window. He would have to wait. Someone would help. One day the truth of what happened the night the king died would be discovered.

Vivika Widow’s ‘Red Snow’ is AVAILABLE NOW!

Click here to read:

 

 

 

The dungeons of the old king’s castle

The bells had been filing the night air for hours with their tormenting knell. The very castle wept for the death of the much beloved King Roman.

“There’s going to be quite a few changes around here,” General Drenisov commented as a young boy was dragged down the corridor by guards. Drenisov followed them.

“Let me go!” screamed the teenager as he pulled himself away from his captors. His thick black hair was in disarray. His bright blue eyes sparked under the low lighting.

The general closed in on his captive, several years his junior. The boy had been badly beaten. His lips and teeth were stained with blood.

“Let me go and I will forget any of this happened,” said the younger.

This drew a wide grin from Drenisov. The guards gripped the prisoner tighter. “You don’t make those decisions. The king has been murdered and any chances you had of ever seeing daylight again went with him.”

The prisoner shook his head. “You can’t do this!”

Drenisov crossed his arms over his chest. “I think you will find I can. You are a murderer and you will suffer the same fate as all murderers in Navaria do.”

The prisoner snarled. “The king did not die at my hand.”

Drenisov was unrelenting. “Defenceless, sick. You have stolen our beloved king and for what? Your own selfish ambition?”

The prisoner pursed his lips and spat on the general. The blood stained his uniform.

“Take him away!” Drenisov ordered the guards.

The guards dragged the prisoner away. “I didn’t do it!” he was screaming. “The king was already dead when I got there!”

The prisoner was cast into the dungeons. The door was locked tightly. The only window he had was from a small window. He would have to wait. Someone would help. One day the truth of what happened the night the king died would be discovered.

Vivika Widow’s ‘Red Snow’ is AVAILABLE NOW!

Click here to read:

 

 

 

It seems some cheeky little fellow has a

It seems some cheeky little fellow has accessed our social media feed without permission. Apologies. Resuming normal function in 3 … 2 …

The strongest are the ones who raise others up.

The other day In town and passing some time at a local coffee shop. From a nearby store came an older woman with a small child of toddler age. The woman – obviously the little girl’s gran – was busy trying to usher the child on. The toddler was having none of it. At first it began with a whining complaint. When the gran continued to try and usher her on the whining complaint became a louder cry. As the gran tried to reach out the child the cry finally became a full throated scream.

The wayward toddler screamed as best she could. She cried and gripped onto the railings and refused to move. With the noise the little girl was making as her tantrum erupted those surrounding began to crane their necks. Most shook their heads with disapproval (including myself and my coffee companion).

The poor gran was embarrassed at the scene the child was making. Each time she tried to reach out to the toddler it just made matters worse. Then the most miraculous thing happened. Out of the blue a woman approached the gran and helped her put the toddler back into her buggy. She communicated with the little girl and even made her laugh. Immediately the tantrum dissolved. I have never seen such relief as that that was on the face of the struggling gran. The toddler was calmed and they could continue about their business. The gran thanked the woman profusely. She was a stranger to them but with such a simple act she had given so much.

For the rest of the day I was angry with myself. I was angry because rather than becoming frustrated at having to listen to the screams of a toddler I could have helped much like that woman did. Toddlers throw tantrums, that much is obvious. There could be a great many reasons why that little boy or girl is upset and it isn’t always because they are not getting their own way. Imagine what life would be like if more people thought like that woman how helped. Rather than grumping and groaning at the failings of others take the time to raise others up. This doesn’t just apply to child care. It is relevant in many aspects of life. Don’t sit back and watch others struggle. Be an enabler. This is definitely something I want to do more of.

To that woman who helped a stranger – you are a star madame and an inspiration.

 

The Day I met My Mummy

It was my thirteenth birthday and I was spending it with my Aunt Lola. She was a quirky old lady who had known me since I was born. She wasn’t really my aunt at all but she had been such a close family friend she earned herself the title. I had come to live with her after an unfortunate accident with a moose and a very high cliff claimed the lives of my parents.

“Well Loopy,” she said. (This was just a nickname she had for me. My real name is Lucy) “I can’t believe you are nine years old already.” Given that I was so accident prone, having broken several bones several times, I was pretty mesmerised that I had reached teenage years too. Aunt Lola always made a big fuss of me on my birthday. She had no children of her own so all of her affection was aimed towards me. She gave the most random and strange gifts each year so now that I was a little older and a little more ready for her antics I couldn’t wait to see what was in store. She put an envelope into my hand and kissed my forehead. “I hope you like this one.”

My hands began to shake. Given my aunt’s fondness for all things odd there was no telling what the envelope contained. Therein could lie the secret to a number of mysteries. It could hold the key to eternal life. It could be a coupon for 10% off any local clothes store. I tore open the envelope excitedly and a shining slip of paper fell onto my lap. I picked it up allowing the coloured paper to delight the eyes. On that special paper read the words, ‘Special Access to the Museum’. Well it wasn’t the secret to the universe but it was a great idea none the less. I was the strange kid who would rather sit in the corner of the playground reading about battles of old than play with the other children. I would much rather hear what ancient Greek philosophers had to say than my fellow classmates who stood at the edge of the football park picking their noses.

There was no time to lose. I had heard on the radio the week before that the local museum had just opened a new exhibit on Ancient Egypt. I grabbed my shining red rain jacket that was water proof but still light and airy. I pulled on my backpack which had the emblem of several superheroes embroidered on it. Aunt Lola had been complaining of what she called ‘the hardships of older ladies’. I wasn’t sure what exactly this meant but combating it meant that she had to lie with her feet elevated and a piece of silver on her forehead, counting backwards from one hundred.

I had decided to leave the Egypt exhibit to the end. It had been busy when I arrived with business men awing at the new set up and mothers being dragged by their progeny because they thought it looked ‘cool’.

The day began to wind down. The museum began to empty of the day trippers and quietened. As I walked through the main foyer the rubber soles of my shoes squeaked. I saw the fresh sign that directed the way to Ancient Egypt.

There was a lot of gold around. The walls were covered In hieroglyphs. I couldn’t tell if the curators had actually read the hieroglyphs or if they were merely there to impress the visitors because from what I could read they told of a bathroom disaster somewhere off the banks of the Nile.

As I absorbed all of the knowledge that the exhibit had to offer I heard the doors to the section close. I was the only one person around, living at least. The lights dimmed except the large mummy that was encased at the end of the hall. His face had been preserved all that time in a stern expression. The accompanying information explained that his name was ‘Ahmose’. He had been a fisherman but not a particularly good one because his people saw him as cursed, a jinx if you will. Ahmose was responsible for all the ill fate that befell them. Poor Ahmose. It seems he was accident prone like me. Because he had bumped into a builder, causing him to fall, destroying the temple that was in construction it seems he was now preserved for people of my year to gawk at his stupidity. It seems they took jinxed folk very seriously in those days.

My head was buzzing with all the warmth, knowledge and dusty old artefacts that the museum had to offer. I made my way back out to the main hall intent on catching the bus home. I pulled open the door but it was locked. ‘Surely they would check everyone had gone before they locked up,’ I thought. There was a heavy smash. My heart leapt from the steady thud of a tortoise to the gallop of a hair escaping the hunter’s rifle. I could feel a presence looming behind me but I couldn’t bare to look.

‘Argh!’ cried a dusty, throaty voice.

Slowly I did turn. Ahmose was now standing upright for the first time in many years. The slip of paper that gave me special access to the museum slipped from my pocket. Ahmose reached down to pick it up with a crunchy crack of his mid section. He clasped it between the remains of his fingers and held it out to me.

“Leave me alone!” I screamed. “Help!” Surely the museum wasn’t deserted.

“Argh!” Ahmose replied.

With a quiver of my extremities I reached into my pocket and took out my mobile phone which Aunt Lola insisted I carried in case of emergencies. I was pretty sure that being attacked by the undead could very well be considered an emergency.

“Hello?” Aunt Lola answered.

“Help me!” I cried out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked still calmly balancing the silver on her forehead.

“A mummy! Its came to life. I have to get out of here!”

Most people when they tell their aunt something like this they either think they are crazy or attempting a practical joke. Not my aunt. She returned as though it was an everyday occurrence. “Do you like him?” she asked.

“Like him? Its a mummy! He’s going to kill me!”

Aunt Lola groaned. “Oh don’t be so dramatic Loopy. He’s your birthday present. Don’t you like him?” I stared at Ahomse. He stumbled backwards almost tripping over his own left foot. “Argh!” he groaned again looking at his left leg. “How many people can boast having their own mummy,” continued my aunt.

“Not many,” I agreed.

“Enjoy,” she said and hung up leaving me alone with the dial tone and my mummy.

Ahmose lifted a piece of pottery from the shelving. It slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor.

My most immediate problem was devising a plan to get out of the museum that looked possibly locked, take my mummy on the bus and get home whilst not getting caught for thieving from the museum.

Why couldn’t I just have gotten some clothes?

Taken from Vivika Widow’s Myths and Tales volume 2 which will be available later in 2016.

For more short stories read Myths and Tales Volume 1 which is a soon to be series from Leo St Paul. 

The day I met my mummy

It was my thirteenth birthday and I was spending it with my Aunt Lola. She was a quirky old lady who had known me since I was born. She wasn’t really my aunt at all but she had been such a close family friend she earned herself the title. I had come to live with her after an unfortunate accident with a moose and a very high cliff claimed the lives of my parents.

“Well Loopy,” she said. (This was just a nickname she had for me. My real name is Lucy) “I can’t believe you are nine years old already.” Given that I was so accident prone, having broken several bones several times, I was pretty mesmerised that I had reached teenage years too. Aunt Lola always made a big fuss of me on my birthday. She had no children of her own so all of her affection was aimed towards me. She gave the most random and strange gifts each year so now that I was a little older and a little more ready for her antics I couldn’t wait to see what was in store. She put an envelope into my hand and kissed my forehead. “I hope you like this one.”

My hands began to shake. Given my aunt’s fondness for all things odd there was no telling what the envelope contained. Therein could lie the secret to a number of mysteries. It could hold the key to eternal life. It could be a coupon for 10% off any local clothes store. I tore open the envelope excitedly and a shining slip of paper fell onto my lap. I picked it up allowing the coloured paper to delight the eyes. On that special paper read the words, ‘Special Access to the Museum’. Well it wasn’t the secret to the universe but it was a great idea none the less. I was the strange kid who would rather sit in the corner of the playground reading about battles of old than play with the other children. I would much rather hear what ancient Greek philosophers had to say than my fellow classmates who stood at the edge of the football park picking their noses.

There was no time to lose. I had heard on the radio the week before that the local museum had just opened a new exhibit on Ancient Egypt. I grabbed my shining red rain jacket that was water proof but still light and airy. I pulled on my backpack which had the emblem of several superheroes embroidered on it. Aunt Lola had been complaining of what she called ‘the hardships of older ladies’. I wasn’t sure what exactly this meant but combating it meant that she had to lie with her feet elevated and a piece of silver on her forehead, counting backwards from one hundred.

I had decided to leave the Egypt exhibit to the end. It had been busy when I arrived with business men awing at the new set up and mothers being dragged by their progeny because they thought it looked ‘cool’.

The day began to wind down. The museum began to empty of the day trippers and quietened. As I walked through the main foyer the rubber soles of my shoes squeaked. I saw the fresh sign that directed the way to Ancient Egypt.

There was a lot of gold around. The walls were covered In hieroglyphs. I couldn’t tell if the curators had actually read the hieroglyphs or if they were merely there to impress the visitors because from what I could read they told of a bathroom disaster somewhere off the banks of the Nile.

As I absorbed all of the knowledge that the exhibit had to offer I heard the doors to the section close. I was the only one person around, living at least. The lights dimmed except the large mummy that was encased at the end of the hall. His face had been preserved all that time in a stern expression. The accompanying information explained that his name was ‘Ahmose’. He had been a fisherman but not a particularly good one because his people saw him as cursed, a jinx if you will. Ahmose was responsible for all the ill fate that befell them. Poor Ahmose. It seems he was accident prone like me. Because he had bumped into a builder, causing him to fall, destroying the temple that was in construction it seems he was now preserved for people of my year to gawk at his stupidity. It seems they took jinxed folk very seriously in those days.

My head was buzzing with all the warmth, knowledge and dusty old artefacts that the museum had to offer. I made my way back out to the main hall intent on catching the bus home. I pulled open the door but it was locked. ‘Surely they would check everyone had gone before they locked up,’ I thought. There was a heavy smash. My heart leapt from the steady thud of a tortoise to the gallop of a hair escaping the hunter’s rifle. I could feel a presence looming behind me but I couldn’t bare to look.

‘Argh!’ cried a dusty, throaty voice.

Slowly I did turn. Ahmose was now standing upright for the first time in many years. The slip of paper that gave me special access to the museum slipped from my pocket. Ahmose reached down to pick it up with a crunchy crack of his mid section. He clasped it between the remains of his fingers and held it out to me.

“Leave me alone!” I screamed. “Help!” Surely the museum wasn’t deserted.

“Argh!” Ahmose replied.

With a quiver of my extremities I reached into my pocket and took out my mobile phone which Aunt Lola insisted I carried in case of emergencies. I was pretty sure that being attacked by the undead could very well be considered an emergency.

“Hello?” Aunt Lola answered.

“Help me!” I cried out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked still calmly balancing the silver on her forehead.

“A mummy! Its came to life. I have to get out of here!”

Most people when they tell their aunt something like this they either think they are crazy or attempting a practical joke. Not my aunt. She returned as though it was an everyday occurrence. “Do you like him?” she asked.

“Like him? Its a mummy! He’s going to kill me!”

Aunt Lola groaned. “Oh don’t be so dramatic Loopy. He’s your birthday present. Don’t you like him?” I stared at Ahomse. He stumbled backwards almost tripping over his own left foot. “Argh!” he groaned again looking at his left leg. “How many people can boast having their own mummy,” continued my aunt.

“Not many,” I agreed.

“Enjoy,” she said and hung up leaving me alone with the dial tone and my mummy.

Ahmose lifted a piece of pottery from the shelving. It slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor.

My most immediate problem was devising a plan to get out of the museum that looked possibly locked, take my mummy on the bus and get home whilst not getting caught for thieving from the museum.

Why couldn’t I just have gotten some clothes?

Taken from Vivika Widow’s Myths and Tales volume 2 which will be available later in 2016.

For more short stories read Myths and Tales Volume 1 which is a soon to be series from Leo St Paul. 

Just 2 weeks to go! Pre order the exciti

Just 2 weeks to go! Pre order the exciting new #thriller by @VivikaWidow today http://ow.ly/Z1X2r #maestro http://ow.ly/i/hfK5g

The Four Sisters

There once was four sisters, who remained very close,

Each had a husband and children to boast.

With a neat house each, lined in a row,

status and wealth clearly on show.

The first was named Scarlett, fiery and wild.

She and Lance had only one child.

Lance had been working late quite a lot,

having fun with his secretary, until he was caught.

Scarlett cooked him his favourite meal,

laced with an ingredient that was sure to appeal.

By the third mouthful, Lance was dead.

He should have considered his wife; before sharing another’s bed.

Then there was Ruby, elder and smart.

She and Jeff shared a love of art.

Jeff was a failed painter, Ruby had the cash,

so Jeff raided her personal stash.

Gone was the wealth she had scraped and saved.

Jeff didn’t care as long he had his way.

Ruby took a gun; no one would steal from her.

Fifteen shots were fired; it was all a blur.

Elder still was the sister named Rose.

Both she and Archie were writers of prose.

Archie favoured filling his day with drink.

He would hit Rose and wouldn’t think.

Rose had had enough as most of us would.

He didn’t treat them as a father should.

She took up the knife the next time he raged.

She stabbed and stabbed so that she may be saved.

The eldest of the sisters was a lady named Blanche.

Her husband, Taylor, had grown up on a ranch.

Taylor was an outdoors-man; he really loved to hike.

This was something that Blanche did not like.

She accused him, beat him and screamed in his ear.

‘Why would you rather be out there than here?’

One day when it had all gotten too much,

Taylor was found hanging by his hutch.

So the four sisters, always remained close.

The judge had seen that stand out the most.

They once had neat houses, standing in a row.

Now they wait together, for their time to go.

Myths and Tales volume 1; A collection of short stories and poems from Vivika Widow is available now.

Proceeds to support Ragdolls UK (registered charity SC043805).

Soon to be series from Leo St Paul. Visit http://www.torrancemediagroup.com for more information!

The art of a fairytale just got a whole

The art of a fairytale just got a whole lot darker #fwitches #curses ow.ly/Yl9NU http://ow.ly/i/haSdA