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Darkness Stirs

I don’t really write short stories….or horror stories either. For that matter. But I decided to challenge myself the other day. This is the result.

Darkness Stirs

Darkness stirs. That’s what they say. I never really understood that, at least, not until a few months ago. I had been sitting at the window, just reading my book, sunlight streaming in around me, when a movement in the corner of my eye made me look up. I saw nothing but the wall behind me, and I returned to my book, blaming an over active imagination. I carried on reading, but a few paragraphs later, it happened again.

This time, I stood up and turned. Again, nothing behind me but the wall, and my shadow. My shadow…on the left of the wall. But the sun was – I turned quickly and glanced out the window. It was on the right. I spun back around and faced my shadow. Was it my imagination, or had it grown larger? Suddenly, it moved. It’s hand flew upwards and I felt it grasp me around the throat, drawing me towards the wall. One step, then another, forcing me forwards. I could do nothing, feel nothing but coldness. Darkness invaded my mind, deep, cold, cloying darkness that dragged me under. Hands dragged at my hair, long fingers made from traces of smoke and darkness, a thousand voices whispering in my ear. Soon, I found myself giving in, no longer fighting to escape the dark, but fleeing from the light.

Now I am the darkness. I am the whisper in the night. I am the shadow. Darkness stirs. I stir.


I’m not dead!

Apologies for there being such a long time between posts! I need to update here more regularly. There’s been quite a few things going on, what with the birth of my little nephew and various other bits and pieces going on.  Then I lost my username and password for the site and it took forever to recall it and….. Well, I’m back, anyway.  I’ll update properly later, I have to head off to work now. Good to be able to finally write again, though!

Patchwork Remote Control Holder

I’ve been a bit lax with my poetry recently, but this is why… :p

I was looking for something to put all my remotes in for my TV, blueray, and Wii. I had a tin from Ikea, but it was a bit…well, boring and plain. So made a cover with leftover jelly roll strips and a bit of lace!

Archery and weaving

First beautiful day that we’ve had in a while, and so pleased I was able to spend this morning outside on the archery field.  I’ve picked up some bad habits over the winter indoors period, and my aim is now abysmal for an outdoor shoot, but I’m sure that’ll come back with practice.


In other news, my weaving cards have FINALLY arrived, so once I get them threaded up I’ll be able to make some decent width strips for trims etc.

The Storm

Haul away boys, keep her steady,

Don’t let her down to feel the cold,

Keep her straight and keep her steady,

Keep your hearts both strong and bold.


Cold though the wind may blow,

Through the lee and in the strait,

Don’t let her feel her head in the bay,

Don’t let her drown under her weight.


Keep her straight boys, keep her steady,

Ease her on now, come what may,

Don’t let her break her back in the trough,

And she’ll live another day.

Best shot ever!

Best shot ever!

At archery practice tonight. I was aiming for that, honest…. :p

Well, OK, maybe not. Still a pretty awesome fluke shot.

Both NaPoWriMo inspiration, and inspiration for the blog….

Soft is the ground where the hart treads slow,

Antlers rising high,

Flanks as white as the rare pure snow,

Eyes as blue as the sky.

No hunter e’er caught the beast,

or lived to tell the tale,

For it’s said that as the moon rises high,

The beast’s power is unveiled.

And no more then is he a beast,

But with beard full to the ground,

Stands a man with eyes like burning stars,

Stock still without a sound.

Ware ye then, all hunters all,

Of this beauteous beast at night,

For if you pursue him endlessly,

Then you will share his plight.

For the White Hart is no normal stag,

A guardian is he,

And should you kill this magic beast,

Then the White Hart you will be.

CD coming soon

My mic and pop screen have finally arrived, so I can settle down later this week and crack on with recording a few tracks for my first vocal CD, ‘The Greenwood’.  It’ll be a selection of my own songs and some traditional ones as well, all sung acapella (which is my usual way of performing).  They will all be captured pretty much live – I tend to record as if I was performing to an audience.


I haven’t yet decided exactly which tracks will be on there, and which order they will be in, but you can expect to see the majority of my recent tracks, some which have not yet seen the light of day, and some traditional ones.


Here’s a rough idea of the sort of tracks that may be included:

A Gown of Seaweed Green (some of you may have heard me perform this at the Halloween Fiction Burn night.  This time sung without the nerves…..)

Now is the Time of Winter (as sung at both the Frozen North and, by request, at the Myths and Legends night)

All for the Hand of a Lady (As sung at the Myths and Legends night.)

The Lady Minstrel (At the time of writing this blog, not yet sung in public.  This will be revealed at the Hollywood Fiction Burn night.)

Rose Red (A beautiful traditional song, usually sung as a round.)

Three Ravens (the very first song I ever sang in public, this is another lovely traditional song.)


There will be more, but a proper list will be drawn up once I get them recorded and ideas laid down.

No more the Spring of beech nor birch,

Of gentle falling rain,

But strong the wind and cold the air

Of the fearsome Winterspring.

No more the leaves that unfurl slow,

But sit pale and shivering,

And frost and ice do yet abound

In the frozen Winterspring.

Above the snow their heads arise,

Daffodils, Snowdrops, Springtime blooms,

A sign of life in times hard done,

In the fading Winterspring.

A Tale of Woe

Come sit you down on this dark night,

I’ll tell you a tale of woe.

Of a woman who carelessley into

The Faerie forests did go.

She walked for long, so deep in thought,

And walked for many a mile

Till she came to the path where the old oak grows

And crossed the little stile.

And there she still wandered on,

So lost and deep in thought

That she never saw the strange light’s gleam

Or heard the birds stop short.

A man now stood on the path ahead,

A lantern held up high,

His face in shadow still was masked,

His voice ne’er but a sigh.

But as he spoke, her head shot up,

And she looked around in fright,

‘Oh where do you wander, mortal maid,

On this cold and fearful night?’

‘Good sir’, spoke she, and quavered there,

‘I’ve walked so far from home,

I cannot remember now why

I ever sought to roam’.

‘That happens to many’ he replied,

‘That cross to a Faerie land.

But I will see thee safely home,

If you will take my hand.’

Without a thought the maid reached out….

And was never seen again,

For to meet a faerie on the road

Means death for Mortal Men.