AMMC: The Little Mouse

2 Replies

My third and final tale for AMMC, a Christmas Anthology.

A Screenshot from ‘The Nativity Story’ 
Genre: Traditional/Religious
Author: Lisa Shambrook
eBook: Yes
Dedication: To all who dream and believe…
The Little Mouse
Food was scarce, and the little mouse scampered hurriedly across the straw avoiding hooves and scavenging poultry. A chicken screeched in his ear and he skidded aside, ducking quickly beneath the manger’s wooden leg. He dragged a fresh piece of barley caught between his teeth and a couple of lost grains filled his swollen cheeks.
He peered out from behind the manger, chaos had broken out over the last few weeks and finding food had become a chore. His home was overrun with creatures of all kinds and his daily route for food was constantly obstructed.
His bright, black eyes stared with disbelief as yet more shouting rang out as another crude shelter was erected outside the livestock caves. A rough-hewn branch crashed down, its hollow thud resounding through the bedlam as it bounced and rolled. More yells and hasty footsteps followed before the makeshift roof was assembled, roped together above the temporary pens. He watched as more sheep and goats were crammed into the pens, and chickens flapped their irritated wings throwing dust into his eyes.  He retreated into the pungent, dank straw, longing for peace and quiet.
The little mouse awoke from his nap as light began to fade and streaks of red filled the sky. He noted with relief that the busy footfall had diminished moving into the streets rather than the livestock stalls. Music and chat poured from the buildings and the sounds and the spices of evening meals curled up into the sky, along with spirals of smoke and fire, but it was quiet in his little neighbourhood. The chickens slept, roosting upon beams and clustered in corners, the sheep cried out every now and then, and the goats had fallen silent. The donkeys in the stalls brayed softly, but these were familiar noises and the little mouse was calm.
As darkness fell, the little mouse scurried to and fro collecting food and grains, and preparing for night.
His tranquillity was rudely interrupted by footsteps, tired voices and the weary drag of hooves on the dusty ground outside, and he scuttled back to his hole.
He squinted in annoyance as a donkey clumsily stepped into the cave and a woman slipped off, steadied by the man at her side. Another man dropped the donkey’s rope, spoke quickly, and handed them an oil lamp before disappearing, leaving the couple alone in the dark stable. The lamp flickered, throwing dancing beams across the shadows and the man helped his wife settle into the straw. He dropped down beside her and wiped away the dust-stained tear that rolled down her cheek. A sheep bleated as a chill breeze wafted in and the man took his weeping wife with her swollen belly into his arms. Her soft moans echoed and the mouse withdrew.
It was very dark when the mouse woke again and moonlight tried to gain entry through the front of the cave. The little mouse ventured out, scampering across the floor, but was stopped by the sudden cry that echoed in the gloom. He lifted his head and rose onto his hind legs, and stared into the shadows. The cry wasn’t a lamb’s mewling call, or the soft bray of a donkey, or even a goat’s bleat, and the chickens were quiet…it was an unfamiliar cry and he stared harder.
Lit only by glimmering lamp light, the corner threw oddly shaped shadows as the couple quickly wrapped a parcel in their arms. The mouse crept closer, every fibre of his tiny being both fascinated and fearful of the soft cries that emanated through the night. At the foot of the couple, the mouse stopped and gazed, and as he beheld, so did every other animal in the cave.
The young mother wiped tears from her face with her threadbare sleeve and kissed her newborn, and the little mouse climbed up onto the man’s scruffy, leather sandal. The little mouse could not take his eyes off the tiny babe and leaned closer. The man felt the scratch of tiny claws on his raw, weary feet and glanced down. He moved his hand and the mouse flinched, but the man took the mouse in his large, rough hand and brought him up, cradling the tiny creature against his chest. His heart thudded and he whispered softly, “And his name shall be Jesus, and you, little mouse, shall be the first to see him…”
The little mouse relaxed and peeped over the man’s fingers, gazing in fascination and curiosity.
The noise from the late night streets had subsided, and from the fields round about came an altogether different refrain. His large ears heard music vibrating in the air, strains of glory and joy, and shivers reverberated through the little mouse.
A glinting moonbeam sought out the child in its mother’s arms and cast a halo around the babe, and the little mouse remained serene as the new dawn arrived…
(819 Words)

Blues Buster: Into the West

2 Replies

A haunting, lilting song accompanies this piece…‘I am Going to the West’ by Connie Drover for this week’s Blues Buster at The Tsuruoka Files.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)
Into the West
Cobwebs undulated in the chilled breeze in the dark corner of the kitchen. She hugged her knees to her chest and squinted at the luminescence from the fridge. The glow disappeared abruptly as he slammed the refrigerator door and opened a can with a malicious hiss. His boots clomped across the linoleum and he callously stepped over her feet. The lounge door clicked shut releasing only a thin strip of yellow light to invade her gloom.
The television blared, her heart pounded and thunder growled throughout her head. Her ears buzzed a high-pitched, tinny sound that threatened to drive her mad. Her body hurt, pain seared through every muscle, every sinew, and her fingers clasped tight around her knees, holding herself together.
She slowly unfurled her fingers, intensely aware of pain. She looked down and bent her index finger, crunching the bones as she righted its angle. Anguish and agony clutched, sinking its ready talons into her fading heart. She stared vacantly at the grease-spattered kitchen tiles, the overflowing crockery in the sink, the broken plate on the floor and her shattered dreams, crushed and ground into the bloody lino at her feet.
A sliver of white light glanced through the grimy window and she cast her gaze towards the beam. She rose, slowly, nervously, and stepped lightly towards the window, her bare feet treading numbly across the splintered china. At the window she pressed her cheek against the cool glass and stared up at the shimmering moon. 
Clouds drifted across the night sky and she stared into their depths, imagining mountains and valleys, and sparkling streams. Starlight sprinkled oceans that swam across the sky and she dived into the glittering deep. She swam, embraced in velvety water, warmth seeping into her cold bones, releasing seized muscles and soothing tension. The moon moved west, casting rays of hope across the navy night, and she burst out of the ocean, wandering on soft pillows of cotton-wool. She danced across waves of green, rolling between the clouds, burying her feet in meadows of everlasting flora and rivers of swaying grass.
She gazed across the firmament, dipping into her dreams, renewing hope. Her bower waited, a copse wreathed within mists and emerald green. She stepped lightly across the night, and settled, resting beneath heaven’s verdant canopy and wind’s gentle blanket, her mind at ease and pain long gone. 
Cobwebs undulated in the chilled breeze in the dark corner of the kitchen. A draught blew through the grimy window and ruffled the hair of her broken shadow that lay cold and still.  
(428 Words)

AMMC: The Star Shone Brightly

8 Replies

My second Christmas tale for AMMC:

Photograph and painting by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use)
 
Genre: Traditional/Religious
Author: Lisa Shambrook
eBook: Yes
Dedication: With love to all who learn they can and should shine brightly…
 
The Star Shone Brightly
Orion stretched languidly across the sky, winking at Danica or anyone else who might be admiring him, as he adjusted his sword and hitched his belt. Danica’s eyes darted away as her luminosity flared in sudden embarrassment. She curled her lip and her shimmer dulled as she slouched in melancholy.
Far below, the earth all green and blue, slowly spun, swathed in cotton-wool clouds, and Danica sighed. She was surrounded by twinkling stars, huge constellations of them, but she felt invisible.
She didn’t stretch across the night like Orion, was nobody’s first point of reference like the North Star, and didn’t hang glittering like the Southern Cross. She had no vast reach like the Great Bear and failed to shine like Sirius.
Danica’s gleam dulled and her sparkle was lost. The only thing that glistened was the tear that rolled down her cheek.
She didn’t notice the kerfuffle that arose with the entrance of Virgo.  She just moped behind Little Bear, until Little Bear whispered excitedly. “Virgo’s looking for a new star…Spica and her sisters are exploring the Galaxy!”
“What for?” asked Danica, peering forward as glitter erupted in showers across the sky.
Little Bear shrugged. “They’re not saying…”
Danica eased slowly out of her hiding place and strained her ears to listen.
“I’ll go,” boomed Orion, “I’m courageous and I’ll mark your place for you!”
“We’re good!” chorused Castor and Pollux, “Two for the price of one!”
Below them Draco roared. “If you want a real star…”
Spica twirled, shimmering in her sapphire robes, and shook her head. “It won’t work, you’re all too recognisable. No Hercules, it’s just not going to happen! We don’t need arrogance; we need humility, something new…”
Spica and her sisters sparkled and dazzled Danica as they swept across the blanket of indigo, dancing in and out of constellations, leaving a trail of glitter and restlessness in their wake. Danica stared after them, watching their effervescent cascade with eyes of envy.
The heavens stretched far and wide and the little star gazed as Virgo searched, hunting out the lesser known stars. She had no grand ideas and tucked herself back behind Little Bear, out of the way.
“I wonder what they’re looking for then?” wondered Little Bear, “Something new, something new’s happening. Look Danica, they’re coming back this way…you should show yourself…”
“I can’t,” protested the little star, “I’m nothing.”
Virgo swooped past Cassiopeia and as Spica swung by she noticed Little Bear kick a little star from behind him. Spica turned her head, sprinkling sparks as she came to a stop, and the little star tumbled down towards her. Danica sprawled before the beauty and her cheeks flushed again with hot, white light. She crawled backwards whilst offering apologies, until Spica leaned down and smiled. “And who are you?” she asked.
Danica gulped, her iridescence dancing in an aura of pure light. “I’m no one,” she whispered.
“No one?” Spica smiled softly, “You’re not no one, you’re the one we’re looking for.”
Little Bear grinned as his shy friend straightened her sparkling skirts and stared in wonder at the majestic constellation surrounding her. The sisters gathered Danica in their celestial arms and swept her off her feet.  “You’re the one,” Spica whispered in her ear, “the one who can change the world. Now hurry away with us.”
Several days later, a new star hung in the sky dressed in lustrous shimmering robes, only she wasn’t a new star and she didn’t have any new clothes. Danica sparkled and scintillated lighting a dark, inky sky, and three wise travellers used instruments to plot and follow her glowing trail. Whilst they journeyed, she shone with effulgence and guided both angels and shepherds, and glistened with everything she’d got, as a newborn cry rose from the stable heralding change in the world below.
And all around stars twinkled and gleamed, but none shone as brightly and as joyfully as she.
(654 Words)

Darrion: Missy Ames

4 Replies

I’ve had the pleasure of knowing Missy, via my writing community, for a while now, and her writing is as expressive and inspiring as she is herself.
Her first novel ‘Minstrel’ is due for release on November 5th, though it is available for pre-order right now.
Today she releases ‘Darrion’, a short story to whet your appetite for ‘Minstrel’.

I asked Missy about the books and her writing:

How long have you been writing, and when did you begin to realise your dream of becoming an author? 

I started writing at 8 years old, creating stories on pieces of typing paper that soon got lost. My parents wizened up fast and bought me a spiral notebook to save the stories. I wrote my first novel when I was 12 years old. I didn’t write it for possible publication until someone mentioned that I could actually make money doing it. Then I got obsessed, as a 12-year-old would, though my writing style was still very juvenile and I had a long way to go. Since then, I’ve dreamed of one day having novels in print for people to read.

You’ve written a full length novel ‘Minstrel’ due for release in November; can you tell us a bit about ‘Darrion’ and why it precedes your debut novel?

Darrion actually takes place after Minstrel, but before the next novel, which is my current work in progress. I had intended to publish a short story after Minstrel’s release, but I’ve been working with a wonderful project called The Anthology Club, which is still in closed beta. In this project, I can publish short stories for their books but retain my rights. One of the other senior members suggested a theme, to which this story fit in perfectly. His project is wrapping up soon, and the story is timed perfectly to precede Minstrel’s release.

These two stories are set in medieval times, is that a period of history you enjoy researching? 

I’ve been fascinated with medieval times since I was a child. When I was a teenager, it was a geeky obsession that drove my mother crazy. I actually listened to cassettes of Irish drinking songs while other teens listened to Metallica. I even gathered rocks in my dad’s 2-acre horse field to build a castle, but got distracted after earning the money to buy the cement. (I wonder what dad ever did with that cement.) As I matured, my obsession waned but the interest and knowledge I collected is still there.

What can we look forward to after ‘Minstrel’? 

The Tir Athair series chronicles the struggles between two kingdoms, through the viewpoints of various characters. Each story deals with a separate set of characters in their own settings, with their own struggles, romances, and relationships. Minstrel is the very start of this chronicle, detailing the start of the civil war that splits the two kingdoms, through the eyes of the court minstrel. The next novel, Vassal, occurs about 40-50 years after the kingdom splits, when the people still deal with the corrupt monarchy that causes the split. It tells the story of the next shift of power, through the eyes of a noblewoman who has inherited her father’s fief in the absence of any male heirs.

Share one positive thing that writing does for you.

It’s one of my outlets. I have a very vivid imagination and creative drive that cannot be squashed. I release it through art and writing, and those endeavors actually interchange depending on my inspiration at the time. I also have the benefit of a very supportive family, which is very proud of my endeavors, though they may not share the interest. That support just drives it further.

* * *

The first time Darrion struck her, Lana loaded her wagon and left Cynegil. Two-year-olds should not hit like that. She draped the windows of her cottage with dense cloth and worked by a single candle. If she timed her flight well, she could pass through the market during changing of the guard. In another era, under another king’s reign, Lana would have rejoiced that Darrion had inherited his father’s gift. Now, if Lana does not present her son to the king, she could lose her head.
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk

Arriving in the royal city of Cynegil just after the good kings death, Liam and his traveling troupe face arrest for entertaining during a time of mourning. The new king offers them a choice: play for the court as he demands, or be punished for the crime. The troupe entertains within the hall, and Liam witnesses the dissension between the king and his twin brother, Shamus. When Shamus enlists Liam to record the kingdoms history from his own viewpoint, the king is suspicious of his brothers wiles. Liam becomes involved with Maira, the redheaded washerwoman who leads three lives, and Tristan, the royal soldier with deadly secret to keep and a skill for causing unfortunate accidents. As the kingdom staggers beneath drought and famine, Liam and Shamus must flee Cynegil with prices on their heads.

Amazon.com

Crossing genres, Marissa Ames writes fantasy fiction and blogs for multiple venues, including a national poultry magazine. Her debut novel, Minstrel, begins the medieval-based fantasy series of Tir Athair. She is currently working on Vassal, the second novel in the Tir Athair series, and collaborates with many worthy writers on diverse anthologies. Marissa has written stories since age 8, instilling her lifelong fascination with medieval history into her work. In her real life, she manages a day job, a husband and two teenage children, and an entire urban farm just a mile south of downtown Reno, Nevada, in the United States. 
You can follow her blog at http://www.marissaames.com

AMMC: Winter Hope

10 Replies

This is for AMMC a Christmas Anthology set up by Laura, Missy and Nick.

Winter Hope © Lisa Shambrook

Winter Hope

Gossamer threads hung, decorated with frozen diamonds, and beneath the lacy webs Winter rested her head on the stony floor. Swirls of vapour rose from her nostrils and tiny blue flames licked across her tongue. She sighed.

An amber glow suffused the sky with light, banishing the indigo skyline over the horizon, and the vista smouldered beneath an ethereal haze. Snow clothed the valleys, and ice clung to every rock and ridge. Icing-sugared trees blended the woods together, evergreens bathed in a blanket of white and leafless trees stood dipped in sherbet. A cotton-wool carpet covered the grass before the cave and red berries shone like rubies peeping through earth’s crystal mantle. Lakes shone like glass, and early-rising village folk danced across the sheets of ice.

Winter yawned…

 

Symphony_of_Dragons_L_Shambrook_FC_WEB
This is a preview to the story that can be found within A Symphony of Dragons. It has become one part of my symphony, a composition, of A Symphony of Seasons… You can find this enchanting book of short stories in many outlets in both paperback and eBook or at my publisher BHC Press.

Read previews to Spring’s and Autumn’s tales: Spring Symphony and Autumn Flame.

Blues Buster: Missing

Leave a reply

Didn’t think I had time this week, but the song spoke to me: Everything But The Girl ‘Missing’…so here’s my Blues Buster for Jeff over at The Tsuruoka Files.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook and Pixromatic (please do not use…it is me)
Missing

I stare at the thin sliver of yellow light in the upstairs window as it escapes from behind the drapes. Tears smart and a silver coil swirls from my lips as I rub my gloved hands together. I run my finger along the rusted gate, watching shards of frost gather and drop. The pounding in my chest threatens to fell me and it takes every ounce of resolve to move my leaden legs and walk away.
My boots clump on the glittering, early morning pavement, as they have every day this week. I retrace yesterday’s footprints to the end of the street and slide round the corner. There, against the rows of garage doors, I give in to my tears and feel the sting of warmth roll down my frozen cheeks. Dark spots appear on my mackintosh, and my hands shake as I lift them to my face.

I gather wits and wipe away tears, and push away from the wall. I walk a familiar path, decorated with the ghost of my little, pink bicycle speeding uninhibited around the corner, and I smile. Children’s voices dance in my recollection and thirty-year-old pictures invade the street, warming up the cold morning, bathing the pavement in tinged faded memories of childhood.
As I reach the gate, upstairs curtains shift. A tempest whirls within my heart as I stand by the gate. The curtain drops and I push the gate open. Metal screeches against the ground, like it always did, and I flinch as it echoes across the sleepy neighbourhood. I drag my feet up the path and try not to slip on my rubbery legs. The door is new, white and plastic, not blue and broken.

A light snaps on behind the door and it takes everything I have not to turn and flee. Nausea rises, my stomach churns and I’m breathless. My hands shake, and I shiver with more than the frosty morning chill.
I imagine her face, lined and old, but familiar and…and what? It had been almost twenty years since I left; my soft, compliant hand in the firm grip of a social worker. I’d gone without a fight, because I’d had no fight left.
Now the door opens and I stare. She stands in a stark flood of light. I swallow, my throat as dry as the desert, and choke out something incomprehensible.
She places a hand on my arm. “Are you alright?” she asks in an alien voice.
I nod.
“You’ve stopped outside every day this week,” she continues.
I nodded again.
“Have you got the right address?” Her face is gentle with concern. “Come on in, you look shattered.”
I shake my head. “Mrs Fenwick…”
She shakes her head. “No one here by that name.” She gazes past me. “Maybe…several tenants ago.”
“Do you know where..?”
She shakes her head again. “I’m sorry my love, past my time, and old Mrs Davies, next door, passed away, so she won’t know, and the Andrews are gone too…”
I step back, my feet almost tripping over each other.
“Won’t you come in? It’s so cold out there.”
I shake my head and sniff. I want this lady’s arms around me.
“Who was she?” asks the lady.
I shake my head again and I rush away down the old familiar path, the words barely making it out of my mouth as I run. “My mother…”

(566 Words)

A Cherokee Rose Blog Hop: Rose

9 Replies

In the lead up to the US getting Season 4 of The Walking Dead, Ruth at Bullishink has joined with cohorts and massive Daryl Dixon fans, Lisa McCourt Hollar and Sarah Aisling to give us a Zombie/Daryl themed Blog Hop. The criteria: up to 1000 words, zombies and Daryl Dixon…not my comfort zone…but I’ve managed to create a piece with Daryl and zombies and cuteness…he he…

Rose

“Shhhhh…” Carol whispered.
“Like hell!” Merle scowled, “Let ‘em come!”
Carol ran her fingers through her short hair and glared. Daryl glanced back from the clearing and motioned lifting his crossbow into the air.
“See, nuthin’ there, just your imagination lady!” Merle quipped striding to his brother.
Carol sighed and followed, stepping lightly through the long grass, casting watchful looks over her shoulder despite the all clear.
She cautiously backed up to the brothers, squinting at the trees, until she reached Daryl’s shoulder.
Merle swung his knife.  “So, what we doin’ out here? Can’t see nuthin’.”
“Something in the far trees. Maggie said something glinted,” Carol whispered.
Merle’s voice raised a pitch. “And she saw that glinting somethin’ from the lookout did she? Wild goose chase, if you ask me!”
“No one asked you…” muttered Carol.
“Still gotta look, even if it’s nuthin’.” Daryl kept to the line of trees. Carol followed, grasping the knife at her hip. Only Merle, wandered out into the sunlight, ignoring his brother’s warnings. “It’s quicker to go across, quicker there and quicker back again!”
“He’s gonna get us killed one of these days,” hissed Carol.
Daryl paused, glancing back. “Get hi’ self killed, not us.”
Merle continued across the grass. Daryl bent forward hurrying along the edge, muscles taut, ready, ears listening and eyes darting. Carol followed close.
The breeze sang through the canopy and Merle’s boots thumped across the dry field. “Wait!” Carol hissed, “Listen…”
Daryl and Carol stopped. “You hear that?” she whispered.
A mewling whine rose over the wind and Carol grabbed Daryl’s arm. “Something’s hurt.”
“It’ll attract attention…” murmured Daryl.
“Coming from over there…” Carol pointed. They moved towards the whimper.
“Oh, joining me now are you?” Merle chuckled and ducked as Daryl swatted at him. “Shut it Merle!”
They ran guardedly into the shadowy trees. “Fan out…” said Daryl, clutching his bow to his chest.
They moved slowly apart, stopping as the whine began again. “This way…”
They trod carefully, until Carol released a cry of surprise. “Down here!”
She crouched in the long grass.
“Dinner!” cried Merle ignoring Carol’s glare.
“So tiny!” cooed Carol, “No…” Tears welled as she parted the grass revealing a forgotten hunter’s trap. The puppy whined and Daryl sank to the grass. “Keep watch,” he muttered, “blood will attract walkers…” He pulled out his knife and worked on the trap, until the metal jaws snapped open and Carol moved the pup’s hind leg. Fresh blood spurted and Carol tore a strip of her shirt to bind around the pup’s wound.
“Too small for dinner anyways…” said Merle.
“We’re not leaving it.” Carol tucked the tiny creature into the crook of her arm. “Maggie must’ve seen the trap glinting…” She backed away from the twisted metal.
“All this for a dog!” Merle waved his arms. “Thought we’d get a real fight out here!”
“Let’s just get back,” said Daryl.
Midday sun glared through the dappled shade, and they began to run through the undergrowth. Carol stayed close to Daryl, until he pulled up suddenly and wrenched up his bow. An arrow flew, swift and straight, hitting a walker between the eyes.
Rattling moans rode on the wind and the putrid stench of rotting flesh filled the air. Zombies emerged from the trees, stimulated by the metallic aroma of fresh blood…and wild, dark eyes fixed on the living.
Merle swung, lifting his newly equipped right arm, thrusting his blade up through a walker’s chin. Satisfaction blazed in his eyes and he whirled towards another zombie, driving the knife cleanly into its skull. Daryl fixed another arrow taking out a decrepit creature and immediately moved to a third walker lumbering close, slamming his knife through its throat and up into its brain.
Carol held the puppy close, brandishing her hunting blade, her eyes wild and alert. No one spoke. Merle’s brow furrowed in determination as walkers leached from the woods, and Daryl grabbed his spent arrows, tearing them out of the finished walkers’ brains.
The three moved close together, dodging walkers, bolting through trees and out into the clearing. They ran, pounding across the dry earth, until a cry lodged in Daryl’s brain.
His breath caught in his throat as he turned. Carol was down on the ground, a zombie clawing at her. She held it off, kicking and thrusting with her knife, but more lumbered out of the trees, and the puppy lay at her side. “Leave her, it’s the dog they want, we’re good!” cried Merle.
Daryl cast Merle a withering look and raced towards Carol.
Merle threw up his arms and launched back into the fray. Arrows whizzed past Carol’s ear and the walker fell at her side, blood and ichor splattering down upon her and the pup. She twisted and was felled by another unwieldy walker. She screamed and seized the pup, tucking it down inside her shirt. The walker grabbed her leg and hungry moans assaulted her.
Daryl strode forward, arrows flying from his bow, until the walkers lay totally dead and finished. Merle let out a whoop and thrust his blood spattered fake arm in the air. Daryl moved to Carol.
His eyes roamed up and down her body. “It’s alright, I’m not bitten,” she assured him as he dropped beside her.
A wry smile played on his lips as he caught her eye and his hand lingered, brushing against her thigh. She stared into his eyes, and as his brother whooped, he relaxed. He dropped his crossbow and Carol rose on her elbows. Daryl lifted his hand and gently touched her face, wiping a splash of black ichor from her chin. He glanced away, his eyes trailing down her neck, across her torn shirt and down to her breast. She giggled, an usual sound in the eerie silence, and he rested his hand on her wriggling stomach.
“So what you gonna call him?” he asked stroking the puppy through the thin cloth.
“Rose,” she answered, “I’m gonna call her Rose.”

(1000 Words)

Pop over to Bullishink to check out the hop! 

Blues Buster: Rumble in Brighton

Leave a reply

This week’s song prompt for Jeff’s Mid-Week Blues-Buster is The Stray Cats and ‘Rumble in Brighton’. So, I come from Brighton, I’m not missing a chance to write about it, lol!

Photo and texture by Lisa Shambrook – Madeira Drive, Brighton
(Please do not use without permission)
Rumble in Brighton
Tanya stared down at her fingernails peeling off a chipped strip of Constance Carroll’s ‘Shimmering Twilight’. She flicked it and watched it glint and flutter like a cheap butterfly in the morning sun. She looked up and gazed at the river of cubic zirconia cast across the ocean by the early morning sun. She peeled away more nail polish, until an inhibiting hand rested gently on hers. Tanya sighed and tucked her hands between her thighs, deep in her lap. She gazed out across the promenade, between the green, seafront railings and watched the glittering water. Morning’s breeze blew away the fog.
***
“Tanya, come here.” Steve’s wet kiss smeared her cheek as she avoided him. “No, a proper one!” He caught her chin and planted his lips squarely on hers. She hoped her smile was an accurate portrayal of devotion, but her stomach crawled and knotted with disgust. 
“Let’s parrrrtay!” Gary grinned and pinched Zoe’s bum. Zoe slapped him and Tanya’s smile broadened. 
Steve grabbed Tanya again and the smell of cheap beer soured his lips. “Tan, you’re mine tonight. I’m not doing this without my girl.” He looped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, his stubble grazing her neck. “We’re gonna have some fun tonight.” 
The sound of mopeds buzzed along Madeira Drive and Gary whooped. “C’mon, let’s go!” He straightened his leather jacket and stroked his skinny jeans suggestively. “I need lubrication, got any Brylcreem?” he quipped. 
Steve laughed and flicked his cigarette. “No, but I did shave just for the occasion!” He ran his hand across his newly bald scalp. “Like it Tan? ‘Cos I sure like what you’re wearing tonight!”  
Zoe snarled. “I thought Brylcreem was the fifties, not seventies?”
“Don’t matter!” Gary shook his head. “We’re re-enacting and it’s the eighties, who cares about accuracy?”
“It’s a party!” Steve twirled Tanya. “So let’s do it!” He raised his can of Stella and showered Tanya. 
The party broke down when bicycle chains and razor blades appeared, and all hell broke loose. Blue lights and sirens lit up the strip and Steve dragged Tanya through the heaving throng. “Don’t want no trouble…” he said, “Let’s have fun on our own…”
They stumbled across the railings and Volk’s railway track, and onto the dark beach. Tanya fought to stay upright in her white stilettos.  Away from the anarchy Steve pushed her against the concrete groyne and chuckled. “We’ve got a ringside seat for this…it’s going mental up there!” He stared wide-eyed up at the raucous on Madeira Drive then he spun back and grabbed Tanya’s hand. He kissed her fingertips then thrust her hand down to his belt. He pinned her against the groyne and pressed his lips against hers. Tanya’s head began to swim. “Steve, don’t…” she tried to speak. 
Steve pressed his mouth harder and drowned out her words, instead his hand slid up her thigh, beneath her denim skirt, and Tanya shifted sideways. Her foot twisted on the pebbles, her heel snapped and as she slipped Steve forced her down onto the stones. She tried to cry out, but the noise up on the strip was too loud. Steve came down on top of her and began unbuckling his belt. Tanya fought, and pebbles bruised her spine as he held her down. 
Tanya’s head whirled and she fought the urge to throw up. Instead she rolled her hand up Steve’s leg and moved her fingers towards his groin. He moaned in anticipation as she slipped her hand inside his pocket, feeling for the bulge she knew was there, caressing exactly what she was looking for.
***
Tanya stared absently across the beach and untucked her hands. The wind raised goose bumps across her flesh and she lifted her chipped fingernails to her face. She began to pick at her nails again, and the WPC beside her shook her head. “Forensics need to examine everything, even your nails,” she said. Tanya watched as policemen clambered across bloodied pebbles, and she smiled as a cop finally raised his arm, holding Steve’s own blood-stained flick-knife aloft. Tanya sighed and the morning sun sparkled on the handcuffs entwining her wrists.       
(695 Words)    

Tree of Life: Chimera: Selkie Vow

1 Reply

This is for Samantha Redstreake Geary‘s latest Audiomachine ‘Tree of Life’ promotion writerly contest. Choose your favourite ‘Tree of Life’ track and write up to 150 words…
My favourite tracks are ‘Rebirth’, ‘Homecoming’ and ‘Day One’…and track #10 ‘Homecoming’ fit this story perfectly.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook, Streamzoo and Pixlromatic
(Please do not use without permission)

Selkie Vow

She flicked her tail and gazed across the foaming crests, huge black eyes rested on two silhouettes on the beach. Her heart pounded within her ribcage and as the sun began to drop she allowed its warm rays to caress her glistening skin as water lapped against her rock.

She slid into the water, swimming with ease against the outgoing tide. Seals bobbed in acquiescence as she slipped through the rippling waves.

Reaching the shore, she rested and flipped her tail, splashing one last time. Sun bathed her body as she stepped out of her pelt. A smile painted her lips as she ran a finger down the white lace draping the rock.  Silk clung to her form as she crossed the sand. Before the priest, she turned to her love offering both a smile, as radiant as the evening sun, and her treasured pelt.
And there two destinies entwined.

(150 Words excluding title)

 For further insight to this story, please read ‘Stay’ …

Fall Flash Festival: Autumn Flame

19 Replies

This is for Eric Martell and Daniel Swensen‘s Fall Flash Festival…Autumn is and forever will be my most favourite season! Click here to join in the fun!

Autumn Flame © Lisa Shambrook (with pixlromatic)

Autumn Flame

Heat seared, sizzling across parched earth, and the cloudless sky, a hothouse dome, desiccated leaves and flora. Listless and languid, folk wandered aimlessly, unable to bear the sultry oppression and Summer’s impasse.Her eyes darted from house to house; windows wide, porch doors open, and dogs sleeping with lolling tongues and trails of slobber. Inside, people rested hot and sticky, irascible and ornery. Her brow furrowed and she stared across the yellowed hills. Autumn was late.As the sirocco tickled her frazzled mind she swept her jade skirts high up into the hills and sought out a crevice, a deep, dark crevice. She gathered her volumes of green about her and traipsed inside. The welcome cool whispered and the ground sighed with each step she took, until she paused and stared at the vast lump curled up before her.

She prodded the lump.

Light mist rose in the shadows and she spoke, “Wake up!”

…

 

Symphony_of_Dragons_L_Shambrook_FC_WEB
This is a preview to the story that can be found within A Symphony of Dragons. It has become one part of my symphony, a composition, of A Symphony of Seasons… You can find this enchanting book of short stories in many outlets in both paperback and eBook or at my publisher BHC Press.

Autumn Flame won the Honourable Mention in the Fall Flash Festival.

 

Read previews to Spring’s and Winter’s tales: Spring Symphony and Winter Hope.