by Shaun Allan
Dark Places
By Shaun Allan
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2012 Shaun Allan
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or deceased, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9883828-8-6
ISBN-10: 0-988382-88-1
Myrddin Publishing Group
Credits:
Editor: Connie Jasperson
Cover: Lisa Daly
Contact us at: www.myrddinpublishinggroup.com
* * * *
Dedication
For all the writers that need to write and all the stories that need to be written.
For Mrs. Me, for being the light in the dark places.
* * * *
Also by Shaun Allan
Sin
Zits’n’Bits
Tooth, the Whole Tooth and Nothing but the Tooth
Final Entry
Computers Don’t Wear Pink Pyjamas
Rudolph Saves Christmas
* * * *
Read Singularity’s Point, the Diary of a Madman at
http://singulatiryspoint.blogspot.com
* * * *
Praise for Dark Places
The House on the Moor
“Will keep you guessing”
Feast
“He paints a surreal scene that sucks you into the terror.”
I Am Death
“Wow, a brilliantly written story!”
Acknowledgments
Sitting at a PC, the Muse strikes me. Not with a fist, but with an idea - though it takes as much force and leaves me reeling. A strange creature, part court jester, part shadow, it insists on playing with my thoughts, taking them by the hand and leading them astray. Into the darkness. Into the night.
Along the way it dances on the souls of those it passes, and it is these that I find that I must mention for it is these that the Muse steals a piece of - a hair, a smile, a frown or simply a look - to create the stories herein. I mention them to give back that which has been stolen. That which the Muse has played with and twisted into a tale darker than the smile that plays on its wicked lips.
Connie, editor extraordinaire and she who has compared my writing to that of James Joyce. Honour indeed. I thank you for your comments and your suggestions. The Muse took a strand of your hair and used it to create a web to hold this book in place.
Zoe, whose 'dark place' inspired the title piece for this collection. The Muse stole a part of your shadow and fashioned a story and an ambience. I hope that taking some of your darkness left some light in its place.
Fraser, of the dead. Your descriptions of mortuaries and the innards of... well, innards, was invaluable. The Muse opened you while you slept, just to check the colour of your own heart. I wonder if it left a scar.
Debbie, for telling me about the dragons. The Muse took a second of your childhood and used it to create a world of paranoia. That's OK. You've plenty left.
Jack, for being such a fan of Sin, you deserved your name to be in this anthology. The Muse wandered along the halls of your mind for an age, but then couldn't find its way out until Eternity's End. It was a bit peckish by then. Luckily it likes bacon butties.
My thanks are with you.
Contents
Mmmm
I Am Death
So
Reflections
This Night
Dark Places
The Coming of the Storm
The Last Dance
The Beast Within
Outside
Darkness
The Feast
Candle
Patient Solitude
Host
The House on the Moor
Feel
The Silence
You
The Glass
Look For Me
There Be Dragons
Time
Fair of Face, Black of Heart
Untitled
Joy
"Furor est in tenebris utriusque.
Debemus facere proelium cum nostra daemones."
"There is darkness and madness in each of us.
We must do battle with our own demons."
Mmmm
I look out of my window
At the darkness outside,
But it's the darkness within
That makes me feel I should die.
And the rain 'gainst my window
Cascading down,
Is the tears that I feel
When I feel I could drown.
I sit watching the T.V.
But don't see what I see,
I just surf through the programmes
Not wanting to be.
And when I'm eating my dinner,
The food has no taste,
It just ends up in the bin
Going to waste.
Going to waste, I feel I should die.
Not wanting to be, just thinking 'Why?'
Some people take their chances.
Some of us 'Seize the Day'.
Others just take what life throws,
And watch as it just fades away,
As their life goes astray,
As their dreams fly away.
I know which of these I am,
Whether I like it or not.
If it happens, it happens to me,
So I guess I'll just take what I've got.
But I wish that this was not so.
I wish I could DO,
Not just go with the flow.
But I don't.
But I can't
So I look out of my window,
At the darkness outside,
And I sigh.
I Am Death
I think that...
I think that I am Death.
I am the Grim Reaper. My cloak is in for dry cleaning (some of those stains are murder to get out) and my scythe is in the shop being sharpened. Still, though, I am Death.
I wander the world, plucking souls from the living like feathers from a chicken. Not that I've ever plucked a chicken, nor would I consider doing so. When I eat said deceased poultry, it no longer looks like it did when it was running around laying eggs. Well. I would assume they didn't drop eggs as they ran around, but you get my point. I can feel the pull as the soul desperately tries to keep hold of the body that has been its vessel throughout its life.
Would it be so endeared if the body was instead, perhaps, a kettle, or a bean can, or a Salt and Vinegar crisp packet? I doubt it. Something about a body, though, makes people want to stay wrapped up in the flesh. To feel the heart within beating. To know there's blood pulsing through the veins. And when they trip or they cut themselves shaving or they fight, and blood is spilled, at least they know they're alive.
Until I come along, of course. Until I make them the equal of a certain finger licking chicken.
Until I suck out their soul like the Saturday night Lottery Double Rollover Jackpot. Except, there's no six numbers. There's no bonus ball. There's no car, cruise or cottage by a lake.
There's simply me. Death. Screw that ticket up and toss it in the bin. It doesn't matter what numbers you had. You're not going to win.
Hey,
that rhymed. I'm a poet. Who knew. Maybe I should bring out a book. Odes of the Reaper. A best seller in all the dungeons and dark back alleys and places no-one dares to go.
The Consequence of Life
To live is to die
To smile is to cry
To hope is to fear
To speak is to hear
To laugh is to taste
The bitterest waste
To lose is to win
To do good is to sin
To cheer is to sigh
To know is to ask why
To live is to die
Maybe I should stick to my day job, eh? Leave the poetry to those that have a heart and have a... well... a soul. A heart that still beats and a soul which still feels that beat. I'd have a hell of a time finding a publisher anyway. Most people can't see me until it's too late. Not the best idea, is it, to talk to a publisher or agent in the moments before I take their soul and watch their beloved body crumple?
I think I'll leave it. I hardly have time anyway. Being Death is a busy job. It takes up almost all my time. People need to die at all hours of the day and night. If it wasn't for Sky +, I'd never catch an episode of Coronation Street or Doctor Who.
Really, you'd think that dying could be timed better. A sign on the door of my non-existent door:
Business Hours
Mon - Thur
08:30 - 16:30
Fri
08:30 - 19:00
That'd give me my evenings free and, hey, I don't mind a bit of overtime on a Friday. Dedication and all that. But no. It's Flexi-time in the worst way. Midnight to midnight if I'm lucky. There's an interminable period of time between the end of one day and the beginning of another - at true Mid Night - when forever fits neatly into a heartbeat. The Null. Any stragglers, those I didn't get around to in the meagre twenty four hours that I had in the previous day, I have to bag then. It's like my buffer. I often wear myself out in that Null. I dash about like a headless chicken, unplucked. I can't let the Null go on for too long because...
Well... the last time that happened...
Anywho.
I think that I am Death.
Why do I think it? Why do I not know? I feel the pain of the dead as I take their souls. I see the instant that their skin pales a fraction as the blush of pumping blood ceases. But...
Does this make me a devil? Does this mean I'm a demon? I don't feel that I am. I do not feel either devilish or demonic. I just feel... normal. I do the things I do because I must. I turn Living into Lived because it is the way of things. I could, I suppose, be asking if you want fries or to Go Large. I could be telling you the groceries I have just scanned and bagged for you will be £87.36. More than that. They are only jobs. Means to pay your bills and so on.
I could be breathing. I could be eating. I could be sleeping. I could be doing things which must be done but take no thought. Things done because they just are.
I am Death because I am. You breathe because you don't know how not to.
But...
I was once a man. I was once a person. I breathed and ate and slept. I paid for groceries and said no, I don't want to Go Large, thank you very much.
I was not always the taker of souls. I, once, had one of my very own.
Michael Connery. No, not me. The man whose bed I stand at the foot of. 34 years old. His wife of five years sleeps beside him. They've been trying for a baby for the past four years. They've been unsuccessful. It's neither's fault and they know this. Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom, has deemed that they should not have children together. Man, in his finite wisdom, has deemed that they should ignore Nature and take things into their own hands.
Not always a good idea.
In this case, however, Man wins. She will find out in two days that the very first session of IVF they had, and the only one they can afford, has worked. She will - she is now - pregnant. She will have a boy and he will live a long life. She will not live such a long life, but it will still be more than short. A happy medium, I would say.
Michael Connery, 34 and father to a child he won't meet, will die tonight. In a moment, to be precise. He hasn't done anything wrong. There's an undetected irregularity in his heartbeat. He has, sort of, noticed it on occasion. A sharp intake of breath, a kick in his chest. Indigestion, surely. He likes his fry ups. The bacon butty. Food of the Gods.
Actually, I've never met a god who has eaten a bacon butty. Not that I've ever met a god. That I'm aware of.
I do this often. Stand before the soon-to-be-departed. I wait for a moment. Not too long, of course - I have my constraints. The Null ever waits for me to miss my quota. But I take the time to regard my intended... I hesitate to say 'victim'; it implies a vulturistic aspect. A cruelty veined with malicious intent. Such is not the case.
Michael Connery is simply the next.
Why? Why do I stand, silently looking down? Because I want to feel. I want to see if there's anything left of the soul I once had. I want to taste the acridity of remorse. I want to take the hand of the loss that Mrs. Connery will feel when she awakes at 7:30 to the beeping of her alarm. I want to embrace it and drink of it and feel it.
I know I won't. I know I can't. Such is not the way. Such just is.
I reach out and Michael's heart does its little dance in his chest, a Lambada to Life.
His soul is sucked towards me, ethereal tendrils stretching back, not willing to release its hold. Naturally, it is a pointless attempt. My hand glows by the same percentage that the pallor of Michael's husk fades.
I wait no longer. What must be done has been. I leave the room. Mrs. Connery murmurs in her sleep. I don't catch the words. The cells divide in her uterus. Did I mention it will be a boy?
Michael Junior.
Nice.
I am Death.
I know who you are.
So
The room is dark, the shadows close.
The fitful, flickering candle,
Not saving me from being morose.
Outside I hear them coming.
I'm no longer safe, no longer secure,
They'll be here soon,
With their weapons, their hate,
Smashing my windows, breaking my door.
What's left of my friends, what remains of my town,
They've tracked me to here, they've hunted me down.
So I sit in my chair, watching the flame.
Knowing it's me, I'm solely to blame.
But what else could I do? After what I have seen?
The things I have done? The places I've been?
If only they knew, if they could but see,
Maybe they'd realise that it had to be me.
But they don't, and it's done.
The game is played, no-one's won.
So I sit, and I wait,
And I welcome my fate...
Reflections
My reflection stared back at me. It looked sad. Tired. The hair was a little greyer at the temples than I remembered - my 'Mr. Fantastic' look.
I felt... empty. Like I hadn't eaten for a month. I wasn't hungry, but I did have a... hunger.
I ran my fingers through my hair, what there was of it. My reflection didn't. It simply regarded me, a sad smile shadowing my lips.
I knew how it felt.
I sighed. Mirror-me was kind enough to follow suit and we turned, looking at the floor.
My body... I didn’t know it could twist like that...
This Night
This night is safe.
The air is light,
The breeze the same.
The darkness a soft, warm shroud
The sounds and the scents and the sights are calm.
This night is safe.
Up.
Up high.
The eyes tight, silver shards.
The lips tight, thin, deep red.
The features stone.
Crouching.
Waiting.
Breathing,
Barely.
This night...
Dark Places
I was in a dark place.
People say that, don't they. That's not really a question, by the way, hence the absence of a question mark '?'. It's a statement. The question mark was binned in favour of a full stop, or a period if you're a menstruating American. I don't think the question mark minded being cast aside. They're lazy really, much preferring to leave all the glory to the exclamation and the hard work to the full stop (period) or comma. Only the semi-colon wishes it were used more, or at least that more people knew how to use it.
Anywho.
Dark places.
I'm not talking, really, of hidden cubby-holes, the ones where shadows puddle like liquid night, ready to pour away should the light suddenly make an illuminating appearance. I don't mean, either, the bit at the back of the sofa where your loose change teams up with that half empty cigarette packet you lost, way back when you still smoked - though there are many times when you wish you still did - to herd the balls of fluff up like dust-bunny sheep.
Oh, how you wish, sometimes, you did still smoke. You can see the tendrils of others' nicotine exhalations reaching out towards you, no matter the wind direction, enticing and teasing, willing your will to break.
No. Forget about the corner in the kitchen where the sun don't shine. Forget about the spot behind the garden shed, occupied, for all eternity, by a rusting old bicycle, the paint chipped and faded, and a mouldy roll of what was, once, fresh turf for the garden you were going to sort out before the weeds took over and you lost the Battle of Back Gardenia.
Dark places.
Of the mind.
Of the heart.
Of the soul.
But you knew that, didn't you?
Yes, a question. Edging on rhetorical, admittedly, but hey, if you want to answer, knock yourself out.
The dark places where your hopes go to die. An elephant's graveyard for the spirit. Dark enough to engulf the singularity of a black hole and still have room for dessert.
