The Adventures of Charli and the Grave
(a very short one, for any audience)
The Abbey rose majestically from the grassy promontory; an ancient general overseeing the massed troops of gravestones on the cliff-top. Little Charli was exploring when, with a thoughtful expression, she began to circle one particular stone. Once... twice... nearly three times until her father, in confused superstition, stopped her from completing the third circuit.
Charli frowned and pulled away. She moved close to greying stone, leaned in tenderly... and kissed it.
The little girl skipped away leaving her father shocked. He peered closely at the gravestone’s weathered inscription and could just make out the words '... girl, aged 2'.
Charli frowned and pulled away. She moved close to greying stone, leaned in tenderly... and kissed it.
The little girl skipped away leaving her father shocked. He peered closely at the gravestone’s weathered inscription and could just make out the words '... girl, aged 2'.
Driftwood
(for any audience)
“Driftwood!"
The children called frantically as they ran across the hot sand, hopping in and out of the surf to cool their feet.
"Where are you Driftwood?"
Sarah and Lewis had been searching for 30 minutes but each sand-dune revealed the same thing; more sand, no Driftwood.
Sarah was trying to be strong for her little brother but she felt the panic closing in on her like the waves on the beach.
Suddenly, she heard a shout,
"Sarah! Over here!"
Lewis was standing at the foot of a large dune waving his hands in the air and jumping up and down. Sarah ran across the baking sand to join him.
Behind the dune, nestled between two large sandbanks like a gaping mouth was a dark stone cave. In the sand at the entrance Sarah saw the reason why Lewis was so excited - pawprints.
"Do you think Driftwood went in there?" Lewis asked, hopefully.
"Looks like it" Sarah replied, ruffling her brother’s straw-like hair, "let's find out".
Lewis took his sisters hand as they stepped forward and ducked under the entrance of the cave - the bright sun vanished and they stood in the dark waiting for their eyes to adjust. Sarah was glad Lewis was holding her hand; the dark cave gave her the creeps.
As the children’s eyes adjusted they made their way slowly down the throat of the cave. Stalactites clung like teeth above them while water dripped off onto their necks and drooled down their backs.
A deep rumble came from the belly of the cave stopping the children in their tracks. They gripped each other’s hands tightly and were about to turn and run when the rumble suddenly stopped; replaced by a familiar whine.
"Driftwood!"
The children peered forward, and out of the dark a small, scruffy shape came limping to meet them, tail wagging furiously.
Lewis bent down to greet the dog when suddenly another deep rumble shook the cave - Driftwood darted between the boy's legs and took off towards the distant light - the children wasted no time and raced off after the dog.
The rumble grew into a deafening roar that seemed to follow the trio as they ducked and dodged between the stone teeth. The ground beneath their feet began to shake violently. Suddenly, they burst from the mouth of the cave into the bright light and didn't stop running until they were waste deep in water.
Both children looked behind them, shielding their eyes from the sharp sun. The cave they escaped from seemed to be shifting and rolling under the dunes, growing larger before their eyes! Then, the whole beach seemed to lift in front of them and with a giant leap the dragon was airborne! Sand rained down from leathery wings as the creature soared into the sky, roaring with anger at being woken. The children gazed in shock as the serpent-like tail whipped over their heads and away out to sea.
For a long time they stood speechless - sand settling in hair and dissolving into the sea round them. Then, a familiar barking woke them up.
"Driftwood!"
"Good girl Driftwood, never run away again!"
Bringing Them Home
(for a mature audience)
It wasn’t the wind that woke him. Even the strongest gale whispered like a lullaby after a time, here on the cliff-tops. No, it wasn’t the wind howling, tearing about the cottage, nor the rain and sleet pounding the slate roof – rather it was the small noises that teased him from his slumber. The creek of the bed, the rustle of clothes, a hushed grunt and curse in the dark, the rattle of the lantern and the glug of the fuel – the acrid smell of fumes – all these things conspired below the storm to wake the young boy.
He lay still and waited in the dark of the cottage, straining his senses to make out more sounds of movement beneath the cacophony of the world outside. Only when he heard the scute plates of his father’s boots clacking on the floor, followed by the metallic clunk of the heavy latch did he speak, “where are you going Pa?”
The door swung open and all the bitter-cold demons of the night rushed through the small home disturbing the dying cinders in the grate. A flame caught and the pale orange light flickered across his father’s weathered face as he replied - as he always did on such nights - “to bring them home boy, to bring them home”. He turned without another word and, engulfed by the torrent of darkness, slammed the door shut behind him, banishing the night’s demons to the cruel elements outside.
This night the boy rose swiftly, kicking the sheets from the bed with his booted feet. He’d climbed into bed hours before, fully clothed, pulling the covers tight to his neck to hide the knitted guernsey. Now he saved valuable time as he donned his sou’wester and sail-cloth smock, the stiff collar high against his cheeks, and headed towards the door. He felt for the latch in the darkness and took a deep breath as the wind screamed portents of chaos about the timbers of the small house on the cliff-top. In one fluid motion, the boy lifted the latch, stepped over the threshold and quickly closed the door behind him. Although he was braced for it, the storm winds still whipped the breath from his body and very nearly took his feet out from under him. He was rocked and rolled, instantly soaked through, the biting winds burning his exposed cheeks and forehead, pulling the skin tight against his skull. The boy gasped for air and hunkered down, pulling his body in tight and hunching low – eyes like slits beneath the low brim of the oiled sou’wester – searching the darkness ahead.
Too late, thought the boy, he’s gone. He strained his eyes but could only see spilling shades of dark and gray vying for supremacy on the cliff tops. The darkness stippled with the silver spray of the ocean far below. Nothing more.
There! A pinprick of light in the distance. The boy set off at once, his father was already a long way down the path. Afraid of losing sight of the lantern, the boy broke into a jog, buffeted fore and aft by ferocious winds, though like his father, a lifetime on the cliff tops had made him as sure-footed as a Barrelman on high seas. The boy felt the rhythm of his own scute-plated boots pounding the sea-smoothed stones below him; reverberating through his legs as he ploughed his way through the torrent. The words of Abel Brown played on the boy’s cold lips in accompaniment. The light of his father’s lantern danced along the cliff-face in the distance; a Siren, drawing the boy on.
He strained his body against the elements and his mind against the lyrics of the shanty. The boy had heard it only once, many weeks before; sung by his father and the men as they drank and toasted their successful rescue of a floundering vessel. The ship had been crippled as a violent storm ravaged the coastal waters, leaving it listing and unable to reach the next port. The men had risked their lives by scaling the cliff-face with their lanterns and guiding the beleaguered vessel into the safety of Miner’s Cove. The boy smiled behind the collar of his new, Naval-quality, sail-cloth smock, remembering the gifts his father had brought home, gifts from the grateful crew, gifts that fed them for weeks and clothed them still.
In his reverie, the boy nearly missed the fork in the path. He stopped, confusion creasing his face. The high path led straight to Miner’s Cove and the cliffs from which he would witness his father – his hero – bring another stranded crew to safety. But he had blindly followed the bobbing light straight down towards the cliff-face and now he stood, uncertain as to where his feet had led him. He strained his eyes against the tumultuous darkness, it was not uncommon for the elements to lead ignorant travellers astray, and, although approaching his fifteenth year, the boy still held a superstitious fear of the Selkies; the beautiful seal-women famed for luring men into the waves by shedding their seal-hides to display a more – enticing - form. But there, further down the path, the light of his father’s lantern clearly showed the way. He had taken the lower track towards the cliff-face.
The boy kept moving. The rolling crash of the ocean met the pulsing roar of the wind and pounded his ears. The driving rain came horizontally from the sea, plastering his trousers against his legs, pressing the cold into his very bones. He kept moving.
The light in front had stopped and now the boy noticed other lights, evenly spread across the cliff-face, and finally he realised, they were forming a line to point the ship towards the cove.
The boy dropped to a crouch and crept as close as dared towards the nearest light, hiding at the very edge of the cliff behind a scree of rocks – and there he was – strong, angular face flickering in the lamp-light – his father – the hero of Miner’s Cove. He stood tall, holding the lantern close to his chest - like a statue, a sentinel, gazing out to sea. The boy followed his fathers gaze and amid the roiling dark green tumult of the waves he caught a glimpse of a stricken vessel. The mast was ripped from her body, still connected by its bowlines and dragging over the white crests of the waves, setting the ship athwart to the tide. If the crew had any control left they perhaps had one chance to save her - and from the way the dark figures on deck pointed frantically towards the glimmering lights - they knew it.
The ship appeared to be jury-rigged and the crew were straining hard to bring her right. The boy looked to his father, anxious to watch him move and guide the ship along, perhaps he would extinguish his lantern and they would follow those still lit to safety? He looked over the edge of the cliff and saw the jagged rocks below, piercing through the waves. But his father didn’t move, nor did he extinguish his light. Instead, he raised it high above his head and waved it too a fro, beckoning to the struggling crew. To the boy’s horror, they responded. With a gargantuan effort they brought the vessel around and rode the waves directly towards the light – directly above the hull-ripping rocks below.
‘No!’ Screamed the boy, leaping through the storm towards his father, ‘what are you doing?’
If his father was shocked to see him he didn’t show it. He glanced briefly at his boy, turned his steely eyes back to the ocean, and over the chaos of the storm and the horrendous, rending, crashes from below, he said into the night,
‘bringing them home boy… bringing them home’
The Lady
(a creepy one for an older audience)
The Lady stood in breathless anticipation, beautiful eyes drinking in the culmination of all her hard work, all her dreams.
A single oak door framed by an ornate gothic arch, five stark, stone walls stretching high into the shadows, two large candles mounted to the walls the only source of light, and in the centre – her masterpiece – two hand-crafted, gild-framed mirrors of breathtaking workmanship – delicately covered with scarlet sheets.
As though in a dream The Lady’s hand rose to the single knot of lace at her neck and gave a gentle tug – the silk gown flowed over her body like cool water and gathered like tendrils of smoke about her feet. She stood, warm in her nakedness, the memory of the cloths embrace like that of a lover – hot on her skin, caressing.
The Lady reached forward with a slender arm and removed the sheets from the mirrors, undressing them with almost as much sensuous pleasure as she had undressed herself.
The three stood naked in a pool of flickering candlelight, she facing them, they facing each other like soldiers on parade. Two large, perfectly flat mirrors; perfectly positioned, perfectly precise. A ripple of warmth began to grow behind her naval.
The Lady closed her eyes, lowered her head… and breathed. She felt the soft tresses of her long, bright, titian hair move silkily from the nape of her neck and spine, across her shoulders, kissing her cheeks as they fell across her face, there to hang, gently across her breasts. Her excitement mounted and she stepped forward.
For a long while, The Lady dared not look up. She stood in the centre of her creation, quivering in ecstasy, breathing deep, the warmth behind her naval building to frenzy. Then, gently, she began to lift her gaze. The Lady stared at her beautifully pedicured feet and strong calves. Her eyes drank in the sight of her firm thighs and hips… her flat stomach. Up in hunger beyond her breasts, neck, and lips, to her sparkling eyes - and there she was – Glorious - As God intended and she perfected - but oh so much more. The precision and clarity of the mirrors sent an image of The Lady curving into infinity. She drank it in… her beauty… eternal. Perfection.
The Lady lost herself, transfixed by the endless multitude of her own likeness; time no longer an issue when beauty stretched forever in front of her. She smiled at her many reflections… her mirror-selves… they smiled back.
The Lady turned her head almost coyly to glance at the image behind her
Something caught her eye in the far line of doppelgangers – had something moved? A flicker of the candle eased her mind and she turned again to face herself and her eternal image. She stared, hypnotised, by her own ceaseless beauty. The excitement was building to ecstatic proportions, the heat radiating over her body sending waves through her soul. She had clearly imagined the movement she soothed herself - a flicker of the candle perhaps? A trick of the light?
Then… something did move.
Far down the line of The Lady’s Likenesses a scarlet-haired figure leaned out… and stared.
The Lady tried to close her eyes; to shake her head; to clear the image from her mind but she found she could not tear her gaze from the eyes of the doppelganger directly in front of her – she truly was transfixed. As The Lady stared into her own eyes she could sense rather than see the anomaly move back into line. She released the breath she didn’t realise she was holding. Her heart beating a pulse that roared in her ears. Finally, she blinked.
More movement… another reflection… leaning out.
Closer
She caught it in the periphery of her vision, a head cocked as though curious, indistinct face looking forward. Veiled eyes searching.
The Lady had no doubt this time, she tried to move but her feet were firm to the ground, she tried to scream but no noise escaped her lips. She could only stand and watch… gazing into her own eyes… as along the eternal line of beautiful mirror-selves… one crept closer.
She could see it now… leaning out of line, head-cocked… then moving back in again,
Closer with each movement…
Closer
Closer
Taking up more space in the periphery of her eyes. Her beautiful eyes! They sparkled no longer but silently screamed in desperate panic – it was so close! - she summoned all her will and with a tremendous effort –she closed them.
Darkness
Green
The image of the Lady’s naked body emblazoned onto the back of her eyelids… reaching forever into eternity… no escape.
She opened her eyes…
The candles flickered.
For a long while, The Lady dared not look up. She stood in the centre of her creation, quivering, breathing deep; the warmth behind her naval now an icy knot; staring fixedly at her beautifully pedicured feet. Then… slowly… she began to lift her gaze. Her heavy eyes saw without seeing her thighs… her hips… her stomach… up in trembling terror to her breasts… her neck… her face. Her face framed with scarlet hair… her beautiful face… now devoid of lips, mouth, and nose… just two dazzling eyes staring back at her, mocking, from a blank mask.
The Lady tried to scream… the skin on her face stretched tight… and the eyes in the mirror gleamed.