Relative Importance

Beneath the sky - a tree.
Beneath its leaves - the earth.
Beneath the earth - roots winding down.
Beneath the roots - a body festers.
Maggot riddled, pulped, and forgotten.

The body had a name once. It had a family, and friends.
It loved and laughed, schemed and plotted.

It had at least one enemy.

But the maggots and worms do not care.
The body is a new kind of temple now;
a haven for the denizens that live in the earth 
beneath the roots of the tree whose rusting leaves 
wave cryptic warnings at the darkening sky.

Its tale and history - inconsequential.
 

© Benedict Durbin 2013

The Price of Virtue & Honour

I wake, and bathe, and put on my dress. Then I sit and wait in my chamber as I have been told to do. But the waiting tires me and soon I realise there is a dull pain in my stomach. So I rise to call a maid.

That’s when they arrive – the tall men with the tall hats and long jackets with tails that reach down to their knees. There are two of them, one young, one old. They scare me, but I do not show my fear. Fear is a weak, womanly vice and I have been taught not to give into vices for I am virtuous.

The tall men escort me from my chambers, down through the echoing stone halls and stairways of the ancient house, to the waiting carriage. It is a nice carriage; black with silver trim, pulled by dark stallions with feathered head-dresses that whiney and neigh in protest against the chill morning air.

As I descend the entrance steps, I look out across the gardens and see the thin veil of dawn mist beginning to rise, leaving tiny droplets of dew hanging from the foxglove bells in its wake, like tears. The sight makes me shiver and I pull my silken shawl tight around my shoulders. I will be warm soon.

As I approach the carriage, the older of the men unties the rope securing the horses to the balustrade next to the stairs and climbs up into the driver’s seat. The younger man opens the door and helps me ascend the narrow step into the warm interior of the cab before following me inside. He locks the door and takes a seat opposite me. We do not speak.

I am nervous as the carriage starts to move and my breath comes in fits and starts, fogging the air intermittently. The man sits silent and watches me, his face impassive as stone. Though I cannot see his eyes beneath the brim of his hat I can feel them on my skin and my breath quickens involuntarily.

After a short while his gaze begins to disturb me. No man has ever looked at me in such a way before. In truth, no man has ever looked at me. The cab suddenly feels smaller and I close my eyes to focus, desperately trying to quell my rising anxiety. I try to distract myself by studying my hands. I note the short lines that lace across my palms and I count the points at which they intersect, watching how they change as I manipulate my fingers. But I can still feel him watching me and my anxiety refuses to subside.

Eventually, despite the cold, I begin to fan myself with my hand, and that’s when I hear the crowds cheering; my simple gesture mistaken for a wave. Surprised, I realise that we have reached the town already. The journey has been much shorter than in my dreams of this moment.

I look out at the townsfolk lining the road and reality diverges yet further from my imaginings. They look wretched and drawn – drained of their colour. Haggard husks clad in drab garments and heavy shawls. Yet they seethe with a fraught energy the like of which I have never seen before. I feel another pang in my stomach, but I swallow and block it out. Our journey is almost done.

We progress slowly down the rest of the main street, flanked the entire way by men, women, and children, all straining to touch the cab. Finally, we pull into the town square and the driver reins the horses to a standstill. The tall man unlocks the door and raises a hand as he descends to ward off the surge of the assembled throng. He then offers me his other hand to help me down and I emerge into the sweat and stench of the massed bodies clamouring to catch a glimpse of me in my finery. I am humbled by their devotion.

We push forward. Hands grope and grasp from the crowd desperately trying to reach me, but my escort deftly fends of such gestures and I reach the scaffold unmolested.

Once I am in position, an official in carmine robes says a few words that rouse further cheers from the assembled townsfolk. I smile with beatific grace as they raise their sigils to the Mother in thanks and I understand, in that moment, this is my purpose. This is my part to play and I will not fail these people – my people. Though some small part of my soul yearns to run and be free, their faith must be rewarded.

Now, the warmth is rising around me. It flits between my skirts and dances up my sleeves and hair caressing my neck with cinder kisses. Briefly, my stomach aches again. Oh, how it aches. But I do not complain. No. I do not complain.

–No longer available–

— No longer available–

New Flashfic: Lost Girl Seamstress

For reasons already well documented in previous posts, it has been a while since I posted a new story for you. However, just because I haven’t been posting stories, doesn’t mean they haven’t been written! The piece below was originally meant to be accompanied with a couple of illustrations but, unfortunately, that plan fell through and this has been sat in limbo on my hard drive ever since. So, rather than consigning it to the vault indefinitely I have decided to share this tale of a Goddess among us, with you, today.

If you think you know which Goddess this is loosely (and it is very loosely) based on, feel free to use the comments section, or, you can ask me on twitter, as always.

 

Lost Girl Seamstress

 

Anya was a quiet girl. So quiet, in fact, as to be considered mute by the other inhabitants of, Westfield Orphanage. How long she had been there and from whence she came, no-one remembered, no-one asked. Whilst the rest of the girls played and fought in the overgrown wilderness that passed for the home’s back garden, she appeared to be at her happiest sitting in her make-shift den, firmly entrenched on the wooden stoop of the vast, federal-style, boarding house. Alone, beneath blankets propped loosely by storm-felled branches that never bowed, she would weave stems and petals together to craft impossibly complex tapestries from the wild flowers and long grasses growing within the orphanage’ grounds.

 None of the other girls ever dared to interrupt her weaving. Not because she was mute and strange, nor because of the way her sandy skin glowed as she threaded each blade and petal in to its proper place. But because they knew, deep down in their fractured souls, who she was and what each new scene was designed to do.

 Every year, girls came to the orphanage to start anew as, in turn, the older girls prepared to leave the safety of Westfield to forge new paths in the world out beyond the whitewashed fences. Yet Anya remained, huddled inside her grass-stained fortress, rain or shine, never aging; weaving her pictures to mend their souls beneath the ever-changing Virginia skies.

New/Old Story: Death of a Hero

Slightly later than planned, but still as promised, below you will find one of my entries for the cancelled, flashstories.net April 2012 competition. It was originally written in 2010 and has not been posted or published previously.

Brief, irrelevant background note: I wrote this about a month and a half before I quit my last, full-time (real), job.

Enjoy:

Death of a Hero

 

It’s Thursday & I’ve just killed a man. 

His blood runs through my fingers, drip by crimson drop; the sound of its falling lost beneath the roar of the flames as the warehouse crumbles around us. I knew the floor wasn’t stable, I shouldn’t have ordered him further in, but the canisters were going to explode. Chemical combustion breeding fiery death. This is the reason I tell myself, for I am not a bitter man and I would never purposely endanger someone’s life, especially not that of a local hero.

Cinder filled smoke cloys and burns fiercely in my lungs. I must have lost my mask when I leapt down after him. Of course, I hadn’t meant to land on his neck with my non-regulation boots. But accidents happen.

 Taking care to shield myself from the encroaching flames I pull the mask from his face, pausing only to wipe the inside before slipping it on. He’s bleeding black from his mouth now. In a funny way he looks like a child slipping into sugar coma bliss after drinking a bottle of maple syrup on a dare. Young, dumb and… gone.

 With a violent jolt he awakes, gurgling and convulsing wildly, unable to escape, his body pinned beneath the rubble that used to be the ceiling I’d ordered him to fall through. He thrashes for a moment like a panicked fish in a net, the black blood glistening now with shades of burgundy and bile as he retches and chokes on the fumes mingling in his mouth with his own pathetic, leaking life essence.

 As I watch him burn the heat from the inferno begins to sear my own skin, but I don’t care. This is my destiny, to be the tragic hero, the one who tried and failed through no fault of his own.  There needs to be a balance in these things you see. Whereas this liar’s heroic deeds fell at the acknowledgeable end of the heroic scale, saving attractive women from a burning house where they had been imprisoned and violated by an unknown assailant; my, truly heroic, deed will pass unknown. To the rest of the world I will be defined as the man who tried to save a hero and paid a terrible price. Such a tragedy, the media will have a field day.

 So I watch the decorated hero splutter his pitiful last. Just like that, I’ve killed the local hero and stolen his crown. Not because I am bitter man, but because the people deserve better than a sick, perverse scam artist. Justice had to be served.

 I observe one final pillar of smoke escape his charred mouth before turning to emerge into the inevitable public mourning. As I pick my way through the debris I whisper quietly to his damned soul to let him know the reason he had to die, the reason I hadn’t just destroyed his reputation and turned him in to the police for his crimes.

 ‘That,’ I say, ‘that was for my wife.’

New Story: Published in Issue #2 of, The Curiosity Cabinet

As the title says, I have a new story available in Issue #2 of, The Curiosity Cabinet.

Here’s a direct link to my contribution, The Lodge, and here’s a link to the rest of the issue, which I strongly recommend you read.

The Curiosity Cabinet is the brain-child of, @Guerredenom and is chock-full of original short stories, articles, poetry, art, photography, music and reviews. It is also the home of, Curious Cooking, which I was rather hoping would tell me how to bake non-lethal cyanide muffins. I’m pretty sure, @lucyzirins is just easing us in with her Double Choc Chip Cookies before she unleashes the  culinary apocalypse in future issues. If not, I’ll have to write an angry letter of some description, possibly to myself for being stupid enough to want to cook with cyanide.

Anyway, there’s lots here for everyone, and you will also be able to go back and access the first issue as it is completely free!

So…

(Yes, I said it again, I’m sorry).

Weekend Update #1

My piece for, The Curiosity Cabinet (@Curiocabmag) was finally submitted with two minutes to spare. Iron Maiden fans may, or may not, be interested to note that the time was, Two Minutes to Midnight… last night. Anyway, as those keeping track from my previous post will have realised, life happened and things (work/sleep) were delayed. In the end, it was all worth it as I received a message from the magazine’s main editor, via Twitter, to say that she didn’t want the story to end and was curious (see that pun? Yeah, sorry…) to know what happened next.

I think she likes it.

This is good.

Anyway, I will post another update when the magazine goes live. I’m off to wade through masonry dust in an attempt to trap two pieces of bread in a toaster for breakfast.

I can’t help how macho that sounds, really. Hitting deadlines brings out my primal, hunter/gatherer instinct; gods help the foolish loaf that crosses me.

For Your Attention: Indigo Rising UK #2

Indigo Rising UK, Issue 2 is now available to read – HERE!

I have two stories, Desert Walk (p.12) and Rootjuice (p.55), in this issue.

The first piece, Desert Walk, is a short (750 words) pulp piece that requires absolutely no effort to read. It was designed as such and I think it delivers. It was my first attempt to write in a ‘disposable’ style and, though it was fun to do, I don’t think I’ll be writing many, if any, more pieces quite like it. If I’d written it specifically to put up on the site here it would also have ended differently…

But I don’t post spoilers, so I won’t tell you how, or why, just yet.

Rootjuice, is a longer piece whose origin stemmed from my re-reading of abbreviated translations of African myths and folk-tales. I tried to use language sparsely in the same way early English translations of such folk-tales do. It’s a nice idea in theory, but after the first draft it sounded like an extended plot synopsis rather than an actual story.

So I re-wrote it.

I leave it up to you to decide how successful I was in my attempts to emulate this unique and, oft-times, blunt style of story-telling.

As well as my contributions, the new issue is packed with a wonderful array of stories and poetry by a fine selection of writers, both new, and established. I’m still burning through it at the minute but there’s something here for everyone and I definitely recommend you take a look as you’re bound to find something that catches your eye.

Go forth and read!

(And then tell your friends to do the same!)

New Flashfic: Closing Statement

So, I had a job interview today for something to keep me occupied and ensure my mind doesn’t stagnate. It appears to have gone well, but only time will tell. Anyway, as promised, here is a recent flashfic I wrote, entitled:

 

Closing Statement

 

The statement admitted that errors had been made. It acknowledged that the original plans had been rushed and not enough attention had been paid to vital details and components, thus jeopardising the safety of all involved. The basic evolutionary model had been fatally flawed and, inevitably, the project had gone awry.

Furthermore, additional failings identified during the construction process had not been addressed with the necessary attention required to prevent future structural instability and collapse. As a direct result of these over-sights the entire framework of the enterprise had been irreversibly compromised on multiple levels.

It went on to concede that the board of directors left in charge of the development was rife with corruption and thorough only in their abuse of power, often perverting and re-interpreting the projects’ ethics to better serve themselves.

The statement concluded that the delay in direct intervention had been down to base negligence, and it took full responsibility for the catastrophic loss of life and resources it’s errors and wilful blindness had caused.

Critics immediately began to file for damages, but the compensation they demanded would not be forthcoming.

The day that God apologised for creation, was the same day it terminated the project.

 

©Benedict Durbin 2012

New Flashfic: Tangential

As promised, here’s a new flash fiction piece for you all. As well as appearing in this post, I’ll stick it up on the Pinboard. Anyway, this one’s odd and definitely not for everyone due to sexual references and… well, I’m not going to spoil the end.

You have been warned:

Tangential

 

‘Sometimes I wonder if life would be easier if I were gay. Men are such arseholes, you know, but I’m just not attracted to other women. See, I  spent most of my teenage years at this girl’s-only boarding school my parents sent me to after this thing happened with my brother… but you don’t need to know about that. The point is, girls and women can be just as awful as boys and men; trust me, they are.

‘Maybe I’m asexual. Maybe one day I’ll be masturbating and another, me, will just appear beside me, fully formed. I don’t know really. The whole concept of sex confuses me. Why involve someone else and all their problems in my life when I can get what I really want from my hand, or a dildo?

‘Only those two, mind. Hand or dildo, vibrators freak me out.

‘I heard about this one girl, back at school, she used to have one of those old-fashioned, solid plastic ones you had to plug in at the wall – probably a family heirloom, or something. Anyway, she dropped it and part of the casing cracked. The next time she used it, well, I wouldn’t have wanted to be the headmistress when she had to explain that one to the parents at the hospital. You can call me a prude if you like, but putting something inside me that could lead to vaginal burns? Heck,  the idea appeals even less than my brother’s sweaty little meat-stick did that time he tried to shove it in me just before I stabbed him.

‘Anyway, I’ve been talking for quite a while now, but I still haven’t answered your question, have I? Um, well, I think I only had the one glass, officer; is the kid I hit all right?’