Stories, poems, anything?
Living Death, a poem by Tzitzilini.
An extract from Shelley's "Jullian and Maddallo"
Living Death
One Person’s Heaven is Another Person’s Hellby By Aconita Silversmith.
On the day that I died I woke up as normal and did the normal things. I showered, towelled, deodorised, brushed my teeth, dressed, had breakfast and then brushed my teeth again because I always got that bit the wrong way around. I left my flat and walked to the smart offices where I worked a mile or so away. The sleepy Kentish town in which I lived was quiet as I walked the narrow streets: I always enjoyed these early walks and encounters with the few newspaper buyers and dog walkers.
As I arrived at my office, I noticed that no one seemed to notice me. My “good mornings” remained unanswered, and direct questions were ignored. I started to look for the camera because I felt like I was on one of those “candid camera” shows and that someone was going to jump out at me and shout “surprise!” (this did in fact happen later on, but not quite in the way I expected).
After half an hour of this I began to feel extremely uneasy and not a little depressed. My manager walked through the office and asked if anyone had seen me yet, a chorus of no’s drowned out my call of “here I am”. Someone called out that my secretary had become worried about me and had gone to my home to try to raise me, after trying to call me on the phone. A knot of anxiety began to make itself felt and I retreated to the toilets to throw some cold water on my face. As I bent down over the basin, something was trying to jog my brain into giving it attention; I lifted my head again and as my gaze fell on the mirror over the taps I realised what it was: my reflection wasn’t there.
A sort of fascinated horror crept over me – I reached out my hand to touch the mirror and it went right through. And then it dawned on me – I was dreaming! I had been experimenting lately with lucid dreaming and this must be my most successful attempt yet. Relief flooded over me and I decided I was going to enjoy this.
I walked out of the office building and back to my flat, where a couple of marked police cars were parked outside. “I must be getting good at this” I thought to myself as I started up the steps “they are getting more vivid every time”. I arrived at my door to find four policemen and my secretary looking at the door.
“Are you sure she’s in there?”
Smiling to myself I walked through all four people and the door and left them arguing the other side of it. As I wandered through my flat I experimented with picking up objects; normally in lucid dreams I was able to do this, but in this lucid dream I couldn’t.
The sound of a throat being cleared politely made me turn around, and the figure behind me gave me quite a start, mainly because he didn’t have a throat to clear. The huge, black-robed skeleton looked embarrassed, if such a thing were possible.
SURPRISE! UM, SORRY I’M LATE, AND AS IT WERE, SORRY YOU’RE LATE
“Proves nothing,” I said. “People quite often encounter themselves in their dreams”
Death looked embarrassed again. UM, WELL, I GOT A BIT DELAYED.
I left my body in the bedroom, wishing that I had had some notice; mindful of the crowd trying to get into the flat, I wished I had been able to have a bit of a tidy up. Death followed me into the living room, where last night’s Tarot reading was still laid out. Death picked up a card.
QUITE A GOOD LIKENESS. he said.
Death looked out of the window at the river Stour idling its lazy way past my home, and at the boats lined up along the tiny quay. A cat sat on the pavement, washing itself, occasionally looking expectantly up at the window.
WHAT A LOVELY VIEW he said.
As Death grinned at me, he began to fade and I found myself in a corridor, doors along each wall. A lighted sign at the end said “Reception”. I made my along to the door and walked in. A hatchet faced woman looked up at me.
“What denomination dear?”
I took the flimsy piece of paper and made my way to the door. After the experiences of the past few minutes I had expected a dread portal, but it was an ordinary huge wooden door with the words “ONE PERSON’S HEAVEN IS ANOTHER PERSON’S HELL” carved on it, and underneath in smaller letters “This is neither – Welcome to purgatory”.
Going Home a short story by Aconita Silversmith
Lance Constable Aconita Silversmith sat at one of the desks in Chitterling Street Station filing a report about what had happened on her beat the night before, which was nothing much. She was bored. Things had been unusually quiet lately and she was beginning to get itchy feet. As she sat there she heard the thumping of a dwarf’s boots on the steps.
“Clacks for you Lance-Constable” said the dwarf.
Aconita took the piece of paper. It was from the Queen of Lancre telling her to get back to her home village as quickly as possible: her father was very ill, maybe dying. Aconita stuffed a few things in a bag, collected Smokey, her familiar, and went to see the Commander, who gave her the necessary permission to go.
She jumped on her broomstick, and fired the magic. Soon she was flying over the forests of the tiny kingdom, and touched down in the castle grounds. She found the Queen and bowed before her.
“I’m sorry Gertrude” said the Queen (Gertrude was Aconita’s name before she dyed it). “I have done all I can, but he’s too far gone now. If he or your mother had come to me sooner I might have done something, but now…”
Aconita nodded. If the Queen could do nothing, then there was nothing more to be done. Aconita knew a lot about medicine, but the Queen knew much more. She thanked the Queen and made her way home.
There it was, snuggled in a quiet corner on the outskirts of the village. Home. How long was it since she’d last been here? She let herself in and found her mother and brothers by her father’s bed. Although they were all pleased to see her, the room was heavy with sadness. Aconita saw a figure, indistinct in the shadows, and for a moment she felt a pang of hope. He wasn’t certain and that meant there was a chance.
However when she got to her father’s bedside, she realised that there was no hope at all. Every breath was an agony for her father, and all her mother could do was make him comfortable. Aconita sat down by her father’s bedside and took his hand. She felt the memories they both shared – how he had rescued the scrap of fur from a group of young boys who were going to throw it on a bonfire, and how she had spent so many nights hand feeding the tiny kitten until it was strong enough to survive – it was he who had named the cat Smokey. How he had shown her how to tell moonsilver from ordinary silver. All their walks in the forest when he had shown her which mushrooms could be eaten and which were poisonous. How he had taught her the names of all the herbs and plants in the forest. If it hadn’t been for him, she wouldn’t be a witch now. All the days in his little workshop showing her how he crafted the raw material into beautiful jewellery.
A sad scene indeed, but Aconita knew the figure in the shadows would take care of her father when the time came, which wouldn’t be long now. Her father had been a gold- and silver-smith, and like all smiths, had had to pay the price for his skill, in his case by having to make the ornamentation for the bridle of Death’s horse. Death had been pleased with the work and now the price would have to be paid by her younger brother who had been apprentice to his father, and who would now take over his tools and the workshop. When Gunnar Silversmith died, the work he had done for Death would die with him, and Aelfred would have to use all the skill he had to create something for Death’s horse.
Gunnar Silversmith looked at his only daughter. He could not speak, but his eyes were clear and he was happy. He had had a long life, a happy marriage, and six children he was proud of, and he had been an artist of note not only in the kingdom, but beyond to Copperhead and Uberwald, and even among the trolls. All in all, he was ready to go.
Aconita held one hand, her mother held the other. Gunnar looked at each and squeezed their hands. He looked at his sons and smiled. He then looked at the tall figure that was now at the end of the bed and nodded. Aconita felt his spirit pass by and that was it.
Not another word was spoken. The men left to dig the grave just beyond the village in the outskirts of the forest Gunnar loved so much. Aconita and her mother laid the body out ready for burial. Only then did her mother allow herself to cry, but not for very long.
She called her sons in and all six of her children stood quietly waiting for her to speak. Mother took a box from under the bed, and opened it.
“Your father never made a will, he said he would tell me what he wanted when the time came, and he did. Aelfred, the workshop and all his tools are yours; you know what your responsibilities are.” Aelfred nodded. “For each of you he made something. He made each one on the day you were born, he said it kept his mind off what I was going through. Men!” Mother allowed herself a tear and a laugh at the memory.
“You boys, he made each of you a signet ring – it’s moonsilver. If it don’t fit proper, Aelfred will sort it out, so see him.” She handed each of her sons his parting gift from his father. Each one was indeed made from moonsilver, that most rare of metals, and each one was skilfully engraved with each son’s initials.
“For you, Aconita, he made this. You were the first child and the only girl, so he added to it every year. He was going to give it to you before, but kept finding things to do to it.”
Mother handed Aconita a pendant on a chain and it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Both pendant and chain were made from moonsilver. It looked now like ordinary silver but in the light of the full moon it would glow from within and was one of the most precious metals other than gold. Even the dwarves valued it and must have held Gunnar in high regard to let him have so much of it. This explained why he spent so much time up at Copperhead.
Aconita put the pendant round her neck. “Thank you Daddy” she whispered, and then with her brothers went down to the village to let everyone know that Gunnar Silversmith was dead.
Immortal Romance, a short story by Vladya von Uberflussen
A long, long time ago, there was a fair maiden. She was the most beautiful woman in all of human Uberwald, with her long, soft, dark hair, and her sparkling green eyes. Her lips were red and a gentle blush coloured her cheeks when spoken to or complimented. She was always gentle and kind, always willing to do everything she could for everyone. Her voice was soft, melodious and bore a promise for the men who wanted to marry her.
Her name was Alexandra Natasha von Aldunsk, the only daughter to Baron and Baroness von Aldunsk. Dozens of young men said that name in their sleep. Many married man would, too, but they didn’t know, and their wives wouldn’t tell anyone.
But even though she had all her father’s wealth at her disposal, and men who loved her and wanted to marry her, and whom she could command to do anything, anything at all, she wasn’t really happy, hadn’t fallen in love. She was being kind and gentle because society demanded, not because she liked everyone she met. And as she grew older, and the day she should choose a husband came nearer, she began to feel imprisoned. Imprisoned in her own heart, her own mind. She couldn’t choose, didn’t want any of the men that wanted her. She kept turning them down, one by one. One engagement ring after the other was thrown into the river and never seen again.*
Then, one day, when most of her remaining admirers had given up, and her parents were getting desperate, there came an offer. A nearby Count had heard of Alexandra’s beauty, kindness and above all wavering and wanted her to be his wife.
This was a great opportunity, of course. You don’t marry a Count every day, do you? Alxandra’s parents insisted she should accept the Count’s offer, and giving in, she accepted. She’d heard the Count was said to be a vampire, that his castle was dark and mysterious, and his Igor was the ugliest in the entire world. She was romantic, our Alexandra, and there’s nothing more romantic than being married to a rich vampire.
Preparations began. The main hall of her father’s castle was richly decorated, a beautiful dress was made, flowers were being brought in from all over the world. The Count sent her little presents, beautiful rings, necklaces, bracelets, a lovely golden mirror, a matching hairbrush, and, perhaps more importantly, a gorgeous nightgown. None of which went down the river.
Then, the day of the wedding dawned. Everything was perfect, everyone accounted for - except the Count. After some confusion, he turned out to have sent his Igor to perform the ritual for him, for he could not be there, the wedding being a daylight matter. So Alexandra gave her word to a most ugly little man, while dreaming of a tall, dark man with gorgeous white teeth. She hardly noticed the wedding happening, nor being carried away in a coach, driven by the Count’s Igor. She didn’t see her parent’s tears - of happiness, of despair, of knowing they would never see their beloved child again?
At the castle, everything was silent and dark. Igor said he would show her her room, where she was to put on the nightgown and wait for sunset. ‘Then, the marthther will come to you.’
So Alexandra did, toying with the Count’s gifts while waiting. The room was huge, high, and with large windows. And a balcony.
Time ticked away, and the sun set lower and lower, untill all light faded. She’d lit some candles and was now lying on her bed. Her heart pounded in anxious excitement.
Suddenly, the door leading to the balcony flung open. She started, looked up, but could not move any further. He was tall and dark, and in a certain way, quite handsome. He smiled and walked towards her. She laid still, couldn’t take her eyes off him.
‘You’re even more beautiful than I’d imagined,’ the Count said. ‘You will be the perfect bride for me, my soulmate in dark affairs. The mother of my children of the night. Come here, my dear.’ She got up and went to him. He looked at her some more, then took her in his arms.
‘This is going to hurt,’ he said and brought her neck to his lips. As he bit her, she scream! ed, but when the pain faded, she felt something else, something new, something she didn’t have words for. Darkness fell on her.
When she woke up, she was thirsty. She was laying in a beautiful and very authentic coffin, the Count at her side.
‘From now on,’ he said, ‘your former life is over. Alexandra Natasha von Aldunsk doesn’t exist anymore.’ He stretched out his hand, caressed her long, beautiful hair. ‘You will be the mistress of my castle, my Queen in the night, my Countess to my people. Their lives are yours, their blood is yours. Your name will be Vladya. Come and let me show you your empire.’ And she got up, and looked out over the dark fields, the little lights of houses. A new life had started. One that would never end.
*This is not entirely true. The river mentioned is the Smarl River, that leads to the Circle Sea, and on whose shores are built many villages. Many a poor fisherman became rich in finding a beautiful diamond ring in one of his fish, after which quickly rising up to the high society of his town and completely corrupting it. It’s a human nature thing.
There are some by nature proud,
Who patient in all else demand but this--
To love and be loved with gentleness;
And, being scorned, what wonder if they die
Some living death? this is not destiny
But man's own wilful ill.
Garbed in red; blood inrapt
You stood for a paradox:
A living decay.
Time was your enemy
Death was nemesis
Carnage and hate were the only companions
You shared for 800 years, cold, alone, abandoned.
Chimera blood and rituals unsanctified
A terrible witch to create a terrible blight.
But who knew your past? The horrible flight
The scattered memories in time
Were like dust on a temple floor
Waiting to be reawakened.
The paradox unified with the past
Creating a whole sublime being.
The tears you tatooed
So as to never forget
Mother, sister, Father
And yet, somehow
It faded.
Time and space were dimensions you sought to control
Shaping destiny with octarine blade
All falling before you in death, penetant.
And did you ever forgive your enemies?
Or was it you who has been asking to be forgived?
You dreamt of dragons
Their flame cleansed you
But you could never return
To a state of innocence; bliss
You leapt like a lion
Tearing away at prey
Until you reached the core
The still warm heart; beating
Sacrafice the ram
Eternal symbol of rebirth
“Yes, she wouldn’t not turn up for work without phoning in first, she’s not on leave and she was fine yesterday. Please will you force an entry, I am very, very worried.”
“What?”
YOU’RE DEAD
“What?”
WHAT PART OF THE EXPRESSION DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?
“I am not dead, I am dreaming”
Death sighed and said LOOK IN YOUR BEDROOM. I walked in and saw myself lying quite peacefully in my bed.
YOU ARE DEAD. IT WAS A HEART ATTACK. IN YOUR SLEEP.
“Rubbish! I’m as fit as a fiddle – I haven’t had even a cold in years.”
NEVERTHELESS, YOU ARE DEAD FROM A HEART ATTACK. I WISH YOU WOULD GRASP THE FACT AND BE DONE WITH IT. THEN I CAN GET ON.
“Anyway, if I’m dead, and you’re Death, why didn’t you turn up when I actually died, then? I look like I’ve been there for hours. Look at me, stiff as a board.”
“How?”
THIS PLACE IS CALLED SANDWICH, RIGHT?
“Yes…”
AND THERE’S A PLACE UP THE ROAD CALLED HAM?
“Yes, I can see where this is going.”
WELL, ON THE SIGNPOSTS IT SAYS…
“Ham Sandwich. Yes, I know. The council has been meaning to change that sign for years, and haven’t got around to it yet. That still doesn’t explain why you’re so late; Ham’s only three and a half miles up the road.”
WELL, I HAD TO GET THE OTHERS TO HAVE A LOOK FOR A BIT OF A LAUGH.
“What others?”
UM, WAR, PESTILENCE AND FAMINE.
“Yes, well I can see how a feeble joke like that would go down well with those three, certainly.”
“Yes, well of course, the Death card doesn’t mean actual death but a complete change in…”
NOT IN YOUR CASE.
“Oh…”
“Yes, I will miss it.”
IS THAT YOUR CAT?
“No, I just fed it. I expect it will go hungry now.”
WHAT A SHAME. I LIKE CATS A LOT.
“What happens now?”
THAT DEPENDS ON WHAT YOU BELIEVE IN, BUT BEYOND THAT, I DON’T KNOW.
“I don’t really believe in anything much, will that make a difference?”
I REALLY HAVE NO IDEA.
“Um, well, none really.”
She made a clicking noise with her tongue. “Atheist? Agnostic?”
“Well, I suppose if I’m anything, I’m agnostic”.
She ticked a box on a form and said “Down the corridor dear, turn right at the end, fourth door on the left, here’s your chitty, don’t lose it.”