Blues Buster: Eminence Front

© Lisa Shambrook

The crowd’s roar and applause made her cringe, the noise, so loud, so big, and so cloying. Sarah gazed through the colours, through the bobbing heads, and saw only frontrunners sprinting across the finish line.

Silver foil flashed, the sun catching it and blinding Sarah momentarily. She blinked and eased back. Trumpets bugled and hooters hooted, cheers and cries of congratulations rose over the onlookers, and Sarah glanced up at the big screen on the building opposite. She squeezed herself into a small spot on the wall and pulled her legs in close.

The winners, the frontrunners, smiled on the screen. Teeth and twinkling eyes pixelated and jumped as the competitors caught their breath and accepted adulation. Sponsors raced forward to position themselves, banners rising with winners, and products placed in advantageous sites. Cameramen arced down to legs attached to pistons and blades, shiny carbon-fibre appendages in racing black decorated with beads of sweat.

The winners had the best equipment, the biggest sponsors, the most money, and Sarah sighed.

Even pixelated the racing blades, the prosthetics, and the artificial limbs shone as state of the art. Money bought winners, and winners bought sponsors, and from the crowd’s clamour about her, that bought adoration and fame. She bit her lip and climbed into a standing position to stare down the road, but only shiny blades continued to catch the light and glare back at her.

She steeled herself, pushed the encroaching crowd away, and settled back down on the wall.

For a couple of hours she listened as the crowds cheered the marathon runners, and watched as they dwindled as the prosthetic tech became less impressive, and the sponsors less memorable.

Finally, light faded, the tech reverted, and the hum of the crowd declined.

Sarah scrambled to her feet, and clung to the lamppost beside her. She stared down the road, but the low light made it difficult to see. Floodlights suddenly devoured the dusk and Sarah blinked again, shielding her eyes from the dazzling brilliance. Black spots danced before her vision, as the big screen suddenly snapped back on and focussed on the empty road.

Sarah’s stomach lurched, and her heart rose with hope and anticipation. She pushed through the muddle of people still left, those who’d lost interest hours ago, but hung around with the hope of a last minute story. And here it was.

Sarah’s eyes glazed as a dot on the horizon grew steadily bigger. She glanced up at the screen as it pixelated and focussed. Far down the road her son approached, a lone walker, a figure shuffling forward with determination and grit. Sarah didn’t even try to stop the tears that rolled down her face. Every fibre of her heart reached out to the boy, every ounce of strength, of resolve and stamina poured down the road to her boy.

The TV screen adjusted and the image sharpened, and the remaining crowd visibly held their breath.

Sarah’s heart swelled to proportions she’d never before encountered and she thought she’d burst. Tears glistened in every eye as her son limped, and dragged his foot, his leg-brace no longer holding him steady. The buckles broken, the metal, bent, but the lad still walked with his head led high, and his brow shimmering with diamonds of perspiration.

Gasps trickled through the audience as barriers broke, and suddenly athletes, runners and racers who’d finished the marathon hours before, surrounded the boy. Carbon fibre blades, and modern artificial appendages, accompanied the teenager with the broken brace and twisted leg, and silence suddenly blossomed into cheers.

Applause echoed throughout the darkening streets, and Sarah wept as her son’s smile filled the big screen, as his shuffle moved him forward and the pain on his face diminished with pride.

He crossed the line, with as many onlookers as the frontrunners, and Sarah caught him in her arms. They both knew you didn’t need money, or sponsors, or anything more than love and belief, to win.

(663 Words)
@LastKrystallos

My story for Jeff at The Tsuruoka Files Blues Buster. The song prompt is The Who’s Eminence Front. Check out the other stories!

Blues Buster: Lost Weekend

© Lisa Shambrook

She swam amid my dreams, peered through the sunlit ripples, and I drowned within the ocean she glided through…

I woke to that fog of confusion, you know the one that suggests you had a great night, but you truly can’t remember…

I rubbed my eyes, hooked the grit of sleep from the edges of remembrance, and let my hooded lids close again. Deep within my drowsy head, she still swam, smiling at me and beckoning me through those rays of white. I tried to wake, blinking as that sunshine ray dowsed me in sharp light from the crack in the dingy curtains.

“Too bright…” I muttered, and held up my hand in front of my face. I tried opening my eyes again. My hand, my palm, was smudged in black and I struggled to focus on the ink. The words were gone, words in untidy script which meant something precious last night, were now smeared across my sweaty palm and lost forever.

Something kindled inside my heart. A spark lit up and travelled all the way to my head, igniting a memory. I smiled and my eyelids dropped again, and lines of blue blinked across the orange vision behind them. The memory deepened and I saw her again, this time her blue eyes shone like crystal, like topaz, and she leaned in close to kiss me. The black of her eyes grew like saucers and I lost myself within their cauldron.

The sound of traffic outside roused me and my aching body twitched. Sleep finally slipped away and I lazily opened my eyes. The mound in the bed beside me made me grin and I shifted slightly towards her. My hand slid back beneath the sheets and my fingers traced her spine down to the swell of rumpled bedding. She gave no reaction and I rolled closer, keen to envelope her within my post sleep amorous embrace. My hand moved to her shoulder with the intention of inviting her into my fog of desire, but when her arm slipped awkwardly away, I noticed her icy skin and I lost myself in horror.

I leaped from the bed, goose-bumps clothing my nakedness, and stared at the prostrate form I’d shared the night with. My hands, and ink-stained sweaty palms, shook as I stared at her cold, blue eyes. She stared back, but with an expression void of life.

The body that flowed like molten glass last night now lay frozen and stiff on the dirty mattress, and ice ran through my veins.

I grabbed my shorts and pulled them on, hurrying to yank up my jeans and pull my sweater over my head. My wallet sat on the bedside table, open upon chipped Formica, and I seized it knocking a small, honeyed, silver spoon onto the floor. It rang like a bell and its chime echoed across the early morning. I thrust my wallet into my back pocket and didn’t touch any of the other paraphernalia on the small table.  I shoved memories of the night before from my mind and sneaked out of the open window. I landed in nettles, but nothing stung as much as the dawn of cold realisation.

I ran as the streetlights dimmed, as the sun rose over the dustbins at the end of the alley, and as my fear swelled into a great crescendo. I ran, and I left my love song, and all its smeared memories, behind in the chill of Amsterdam’s sunrise.

(580 Words)

A chilling piece for Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files…with Lloyd Cole and the Commotions song ‘Lost Weekend’ as prompt.

Blues Buster: Through the Glass Darkly

© Lisa Shambrook

Erin let her long locks fall down her back as she released the clasp that held up her hair. She knew the ebony cascade always made him catch his breath, and she listened for his slight inhalation amid the silence of the room. The corner of her mouth lifted as his sigh escaped and she gently shook her heavy mane.

Her thoughts raced, tripping over each other as romance gave way to sensual, and her senses heightened.

She stood, bathed in silk, and swept her black hair to one side. Still with her back to him, she closed her eyes and let his gaze roam over her form. She imagined his touch, his kiss, his lips caressing her bare shoulder and she let the robe drop from her shoulder with anticipation as night’s chill tingled across her skin.

A rogue moonbeam cast its light across her vanity table and a small, dusty bottle glittered. Leaning forward she picked up the bottle and lifted the stopper. She cupped it within her hand and inhaled the dusky oriental scent. Memories flooded and images lit up her mind, and for a moment she was lost amongst the fragrance and sweet romance. Heady sensuality, deep kisses, lingering fingers and long lost memories slid through the moonbeam, and Erin could barely contain them all.

“Erin, sweetheart,” the young care worker’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Erin, why are you dancing in the dark?”

Then sunlight drowned Erin and her gasp filled the room.

“There, now we’ve got light, you don’t want to be wandering about in the gloom, now do you, sweetheart?”

Erin blinked, and the young woman in the crisp white uniform, took the dusty perfume bottle from her old, gnarled fingers. She replaced it on the dresser and gently guided the tiny, elderly woman towards her bed.

Erin shuffled softly, her feet encased in sheepskin slippers. She glanced back to the mirror on the dresser, and frowned at the old lady returning her gaze. She had no idea what the old lady was doing in her room, but she was tired, and the bed looked welcoming. Her care worker pulled back the covers and Erin slid between the sheets, her flannelette nightgown rising up about her legs as she settled into bed.

As the young women left with a clichéd au revoire and clicked off the light, Erin let her eyes get used to the sudden dark. For a moment fear shivered through her frail body and loss brought tears to her eyes, but as the moon smiled and gazed across the room, Erin relaxed.

Her hand brushed soft white hair from her face and the moonbeam danced across the bed. She brought her fingers to her lips and a wisp of scent, a dusky fragrance, ignited her mind. Shadows slid back through the walls, ghosts filled her mind and the cold night became warm as she moved a strand of ebony hair from her forehead and felt her silk nightdress cling to her skin. She smiled as his breath tickled her neck and bittersweet love returned…

(513 Words)

My story for Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files…this song, Through the Glass Darkly by Annie Lennox brought with it a hint of sadness and loss, and with current familial circumstances, it inspired a poignant tale.

Blues Buster: Long Black Curl

Daphne bholua ‘Jacqueline Postill’ (Thymelaeaceae) flower – Magnus Manske

Narrow, dark green leaves coupled with deep pink flowers, rustled in the breeze above his head and Isaac’s chest softly rose and fell. Heavy, rheumy eyes, tinged pink with fatigue, fluttered open and through a glassy haze he gazed.  Orange sunlight flooded the bower, as scattered evening sunbeams danced upon the flora, and a whisper lightly waltzed through the expectant crowd.

Isaac stroked the silken coverlet overdressed with gossamer lace, with gnarled, freckled hands and felt his heart whimper beneath his ribs. Time was running out.

Deep beneath the trees that surrounded his bower, whispers made it to his ears and he chuckled, a coughing and half choking sound that alarmed his family and made him want to laugh all the more. His muscles ached, a fever left him barely the right side of conscious, and his heart fluttered like the butterfly that settled on the clusters of pink flowers above his pillow. He closed his eyes and courted the sigh that rippled in response.

He felt a hand, a strong hand, grip his. The warmth of the hand pumped life into his cold fingers and his heart raced, leaping and bounding within the cage of ribs. His other hand was grasped with the same vigour, as his other son lifted his father’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Not to be outdone the first son placed a kiss on his father’s hand too and gently plumped the duckling down pillow behind his head.

As the two sons fought to outshine each other the sun slipped below the horizon and took its gold light with it. The moon’s silver touched the trees and sent glittering rays through the canopy. As Isaac opened his eyes again, he shook away his sons and painfully lifted his hands to his face. He rubbed his eyes and gazed across the glade.

Despite the warring clans, the neighbouring fae had sent an honourable representative and he stood beneath the sweet oleander and holly trees. He stood tall and unwavering and accompanied by his young wife. Isaac smiled, and nodded in recognition and then gazed at his sons.

Two golden-haired boys sat either side of him, both tight-lipped and taut, and instead of watching him they watched each other with glares of righteous arrogance.

Isaac sighed and both sons turned to stare, breath bated, hands again gripping his tight. Their expectant gaze vexed the fairy-king and he decided the choice would not be made.

He cleared his throat and watched the greed and hunger pool in their eyes, before averting his and speaking softly. He spoke so softly the boys had to lean in close to hear. They both sprang away in disbelief dropping their father’s hands like hot coals.

Isaac lifted his heavy head and touched his beard. His fingers ran through the thick grey hair, and he let out a laugh. He beckoned across the dell and the young fae knight dressed in embroidered silver frowned and stepped forward.

“Not you…” croaked the king, “your wife…”

His wife, not yet out of her teens, started like a deer and fingered her long ebony locks in nervous unease. Isaac nodded and she stepped lightly across the grass to his mossy bed.

She held out her hand as the king again ran his through his beard. “Your hair,” he murmured, “black as the night, ebony like the raven, as dark as mine once was.”

She nodded, anxiety clouding her face.

“You’re as beautiful as your mother, and not a product of your unseeded father…” He chuckled coarsely. “My sons can fight, can gouge each other’s eyes out, but neither are worthy of my crown. You, my dear, are married to an honest man, a man who can bring peace to the vale. And as my crown once sat upon my head of curls, it will spend its days upon your long black curls… It is fitting, young Daphne, that, along with my crown, the fragrant clusters above my head are yours, sweet daughter…”

(669 Words)

A fairy tale for Blues Buster this week…prompt song is from the ethereal, fae-kissed music of neo-pagan band Tuatha Dae – “Long Black Curl”.

Blues Buster: Gun

© Lisa Shambrook

The barrel sat still warm in his hand, still soothing and fluid within his grip. He clenched his knees together and pressed his toes firmly against the soles of his shoes. The blazing fire in the hearth disguised the stench of sweat and the acrid smell that rose about him. He lifted the gun to his face gently brushing the metal across his stubbled cheek, like a lover would her lips. Blood pulsed through his body, muscles tensed, and his ears rang. He sat on the edge of the bed, sheets crumpled and dirty, and he inhaled as if a cigarette hung from his mouth.

For a moment he basked, letting the excited tension that consumed him relax and allowing heady delight room in his mind. The gun settled on his thigh, resting with ease and the sense of a job well done.

He closed his eyes and exhaled, enjoying the moment as you would a long-awaited gulp of whisky. The fire crackled and spat and the bed beneath him shook.

His eyes sprang open and his head whirled, as if he’d forgotten his deed, as if he’d neglected the woman sitting wide-eyed and terrified at the top of the bed.

She sat upon the pillow, curled up tight beneath a cherry-stained, yellow-streaked sheet. Tears ran muddy rivers down her cheeks and pale, rigid fingers clutched the bed sheet up to her neck.

He gazed at her and her eyes stared like a rabbit’s right back. She shook like a leaf in a gale, uncontrollably and violently. The yellow puddle beneath her seeped through the sheets and he failed to supress his curled lip of disgust.

She refused to look away and his finger, resting on the gun, trembled. He looked to her side and his heart thumped, his excitement growing ever richer. Beside her, the black-haired body, the mound in the bed, blossomed red, wine red…blood red. He chuckled and his eye twitched.

She shrank against the wall, her skin stuck to it with the sweat of fear.

He lifted the gun again, stroking the barrel with quivering and calloused fingers, and watched her shaking body writhe. He shuddered in anticipation. She spoke, or at least words tried to leave her mouth.

“Didn’t get that, sweetheart?” he drawled.

“No one will love you, not ever, no one…” The words escaped with a vitriol he hadn’t expected from one so afraid for her life.

The gun brushed his arm, and he licked his lips, twitching again involuntarily.

“No one,” she repeated, suddenly forgetting her fear and leaning forward. “When they see what you did…you’ll have no one,” she hissed.

He lifted the weapon to his lips, but it was cold, the metal unforgiving, and his arousal vanished. The hate glistened in her eyes, black as night, and flashing crimson as demon against the red firelight roaring in the fireplace. Spittle frothed on her pale lips and revulsion spat. “They’ll hate you!”

Her intonation took only a split second to invade his fragile mind, to infect the deepest parts of him, to turn his rage inside out.

The gun gleamed in his hand, and the shivers that twisted down his spine grabbed at his heart. He shook the gun at his wife then turned the muzzle toward his face, caressing the beloved metal that threatened to curse him. It sang in his hand, whispered in his fevered mind and the kiss it offered burst like summer rain as his mind splattered across the bed and his unfaithful mate.

(587 Words)

An explosive tale for this week’s Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files prompted by the song ‘Gun’ by Emiliana Torrini.

Blues Buster: Dark Road

© Lisa Shambrook

Dark Road

Cold fingers clutch at my heart, squeezing and making me breathless. My legs tremble and I struggle to remain motionless. My breath pools in my throat, as I clench my jaw scarcely letting a stray whisper escape. I daren’t even let the leaves surrounding me quiver as the moon shimmers them with silver dust. I drop to the frigid ground as softly as I can and ignore the brambles biting my belly.

The moon disappears, shrouded behind indigo and I twitch, listening, feeling…

His feet crunch, on crispy frosted leaves, and twigs break beneath his step, and I hold my breath. Accustomed to the dark, I stare through the undergrowth. He stands, alert and brazen, and I stifle myself as a flood of moonlight touches him from behind the parting clouds.

“You’re not welcome!” he calls, his voice strained and tight, and his stance shifts as he lifts his gun.

Blood pounds and I can barely contain myself. My head swims, and the metaphorical knife he thrust through my soul years ago pierces deep.

I want to leap from the undergrowth, rush from the hedge, but instead I shiver from the passion that rises, from the hot blood that pumps through my veins. I fight the desperation that mounts.

“GO! Go now!” His voice breaks, and my heart splinters. “Please go…” he whispers, and my nerve begins to fail.

I sit back, hidden beneath the dense fretwork of branches and foliage. Then the screech of an opening window shatters the night’s silence and a voice demolishes my resolve.

“Dad, Dad, come back inside.”

He crumbles, and I watch as his defences drop. Fire ignites in my belly and I crouch, leaning forward. A snarl builds from the cauldron of coals within. He glances up at the window and the shaft of light cast down from his daughter’s bedroom behind her gaze. “Dad, it’s not safe out there, come back inside!”

Her voice ruins me.

I stare up at the girl, and douse the fire. Her raven black hair twists in the breeze and vapour, like dragon’s smoke, clouds her breath. I lower my ebony hackles. Her father is lost amid the desire to protect and the urge to listen to his child. I stare intently at the girl, and my eyes are wet. Her hair is caught by the wind as she leans out of the window. White stripes, old scars glow iridescent in the silvered rays against her neck and I bite back the ugly emotion that surges through me.

I got what I came for and withdraw, recoil, and let the frosty fingers of winter grab my heart again. The scars adorning her neck, though old and pale, serve well as a reminder. Sometimes a glimpse is all you need, sometimes love is more than being there, and sometimes you choose to walk a lonely path.

I shake the chill from my shaggy fur and pad softly away, leaving my two loves behind like my paw print trail.

I howl as the cursed moon climbs high in the open sky, then as it vanishes behind a curtain of gloom the darkness covers me and I melt into the night and the hope of the coming dawn.

(538 Words)

Another tale for Jeff’s Blues Buster. The prompt song is ‘Dark Road’ by Sarah Jarosz…take a listen and read the other tales over at The Tsuruoka Files.

Blues Buster: From Black Gold to White Diamond

© Lisa Shambrook

The blood-red Ducati growled between his thighs. It surged forward, the front wheel lifting off the tarmac then the tire bounced back to the ground and Trent’s stomach flipped as the bike roared beneath him. He flew down the road, leaving his rebel yell in a cloud of dust.

With nothing to see but the endless road ahead, he let his mind wander.

She’d giggled as he’d run his dirty fingers up her leg, she’d shaken her head in mock irritation as his rough fingernail snagged her stockings, but she hadn’t stopped him. Instead she’d downed the glass of bourbon and rearranged herself into a more pleasing position. The diamonds about her neck had sparkled amid the shaft of silver moonlight, pooling like provocative stars in the swell of her bosom, but he sought more than a string of gems.

A lone, wild dog loped across the road in front of him and Trent was back in the present, gripping the bike with muscular legs and swerving to avoid disaster. As his pumping heart settled, he cast his mind back again, reliving that night’s delights.

When morning had arrived and white light had flooded the penthouse, Trent nudged Camille and grinned. Her head lolled on the satin pillow, hair mussed-up from the night’s fun and her eyes, smudged like coal, closed. The bottle on the nightstand stood half empty and amber liquid puddled beside the overturned glass. He’d moved quickly to the safe, behind the portrait of her oil baron husband, and input a series of numbers. The door swung open and Trent swiped the small velvet pouch. Yes, he was after way more than a string of diamonds.

Once dressed, he drizzled the white stones between his fingers, then scooped them into his palm and slipped them into his leather jacket’s pocket. He emptied a vase of tiny pebbles and replaced the velvet pouch.   

Now on the road, he glanced down at his zipped pocket and grinned. The sun shone down on the road, and in his mirror he could see the black tarmac behind shimmering like a sea of diamonds. His heart flipped just like his stomach had, he was set for life. Her face flickered before him, and for a moment he regretted leaving her behind, but he’d sworn only to take what was rightfully his, and the diamonds would cover that. He knew she’d take punishment for his actions, but he’d been through too much to care. When you’ve done all you can and had everything stripped away, your spirit of vengeance rose faster than your conscience.

The road snaked on, black as far as the eye could see, like a river of shimmering oil. It had been Trent’s intuition, Trent’s knowledge that had discovered the reserve, but he’d been violently elbowed out of any deal. In turn he’d driven into Camille’s lonely heart and taken his revenge, as cold as the white stones lining his pockets.

The bike sped on and the states blurred until the lights of LA twinkled in San Bernadino, and Trent pulled over. The Ducati throbbed as Trent unzipped his jacket and grinned. He cast his gloves aside and dipped his fingers into his pocket. The delight he’d felt, the freedom of the road, and the escape, suddenly chilled. His mind leaped backwards, frantically rewinding, until he saw the river of black tarmac shimmering in the midday sun, like a trail of sparkling diamonds…and the hole in his pocket turned his heart into frozen stone.

(584 Words)

A tale for Jeff’s Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files…it’s sparkly for Christmas, even though the song is not! Prompt song Man on the Run by Cowboy Mouth.

Blues Buster: Stars (Waiting on a Dream)

Girl Watching City at Night Free Download Wallpaper at chaoswallpapers.com

 Stars (Waiting on a Dream)

From his perch atop the city, it seemed he could see the entire world.

Below, electricity wreathed the ground in a geometric web of light, winking and flickering in the frigid cold, like a supercharged network created by a techno Jack Frost. Twinkling gold lit up the entire spread of community; interspersed with blinks of red and green ruling the roads, and swathes of neon crawling throughout downtown.

The docks rose in the distance, towering cranes, great shadows on the horizon and the harbour lights danced on black water. The river snaked like a python, like a dark chasm amid the lights and city sprawl, and moved silently through the urban spread until it flicked its tail and faded into the glow on the horizon.

He stared intently at the mathematical placement of roads, intersections and buildings, at the strings of lights that threaded the cityscape, before casting his eyes heavenward and releasing a sigh.

Stars glittered and the moon hung in the indigo sky like a silver marble.

He laughed inwardly, his lip beneath his whiskers curling lightly. He shivered and blew into his cold, weathered hands as the dark sky and dotted galaxies sneaked through his coat. He turned his attention again to the metropolis at his feet.

As he drank in the view, he shifted his weight on the park bench and pulled his camel skin coat close. The city had been his for a while, just a while, just enough to make a name for himself, but there was more to life than fame, and more to this city than cold, twinkling lights. There were better things than your name in lights, better things than hard, gold statuettes, better things than this.

He had no regrets, but she’d been gone for a while, and he missed her.

He liked hearing his name on the lips of others, but no voice beat hers. He adored the cheering of the fans, but her smile was worth more. Oscars shone on his mantelpiece, but no accolade was as soft and satisfying as her sweet kiss.

“I’m coming home, sweetheart…” The words barely left his lips, but they whispered in the raw night air and warmed him.

For a few moments his rheumy eyes wandered the city, remembering, and finally came to rest on the small patch of grass before him. He recalled the young girl kneeling there, staring down across the city in wonder, before leaning over to kiss him. He closed his eyes to capture the moment.

The night wind blew across the city, and up the hillside, chilling his bones and messing his unruly white hair, and he smiled. “I’m coming home…”

Snow began to fall. Soft, thick snowflakes slipped from the sky and grey clouds gently moved across the hillside. The morning would come and the city would slumber beneath a blanket of white, and a lone runner, atop the hill, would alert the authorities to the snow-covered mound on the bench. Blue lights would ride up the hillside, despite the snow, and headlines would be made, but it wouldn’t matter to him, because he’d risen far above the cityscape, far above the snow – and had returned home to the stars and to her soft, sweet kiss.

(541 Words)

My entry into Jeff’s Blues Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files. The prompt song is Lee Ranaldo’s ‘Waiting on a Dream’ and my interpretation took a while coming, but I got there!

Blues Buster: Drift

© Lisa Shambrook

Water lapped, slapping the sides of the little boat, and Joe’s oars slipped from his fingers. The ocean, glistening black like treacle, swallowed them without regret. Joe stared, wide-eyed, into the darkness, his pupils dilating as his jaw slackened. Wisps of fog curled about the debris floating on the surface and he gulped as white swirls caressed the drifting scum.

The moon peered through the mist for a moment, illuminating rainbows of oil atop the water, until the gloomy clouds closed rank and Joe was lost again, a single soul in a tiny boat.

He refused to look behind, refused to acknowledge the final flickering flames that sank lower and lower, fading into the night and into the hungry sea, but the wails, that had been vanquished hours ago, still echoed inside his head.

He rubbed his greasy hands, trying to find a spark of warmth, but the cold that had stolen his oars, stole his fingers and then his hands and goose-bumps sent chatters through his teeth. His head shook with cold, and with insanity, and his last grasp on reality slipped away.

He shook his head, trying to evade the demons that swam through his mind, and squinted. Swirls of fog danced across the waves, imitating white horses, but the sea was too still for waves. The hazy spectres waltzed and whirled atop the flotsam and jetsam, and Joe shivered.

A hefty piece of driftwood clunked against the little boat and Joe jumped, and the scars on his heart tore just a little wider as the little boat rocked.

Ghosts reached out to him, white, watery fingers extended and beckoning. Joe sank back, flinching, as the wisps curled about his little boat. Oily streaks ran down his face as terror invaded his head. He huddled down, trying to hide behind a barrel and between a chest and a sack of provisions. The cold fog spread wide and behind him fingers gripped his soaked jacket, tugging and wrenching at his body.

Joe stared wildly about him, slipping out of his sodden coat, and wriggling free of the arms that tried to capture him. He was too crazed to see the fingers were just gusts of icy wind, and he stood, grabbing the chest from the floor of his tiny boat. It took but a moment for the wind to seize its chance and the waves, and debris and driftwood flooded the boat. Joe tumbled into the grasping arms of the sea.

The silent ocean took the renegade fire-starter and dragged both him and the treasure down into its depths, where the ghosts of the recently drowned could finally reap retribution.

(441 Words)

A little something for the last Blues Buster for a bit over at The Tsuruoka Files, for the prompt song:  The Turkish Song of the Damned by The Pogues.

Blues Buster: Home…

© Lisa Shambrook

Dust motes swirled and danced in the ray of sunshine that flooded the bedroom, and Eli gazed at Aoife’s tumbling dark hair as she stood by the window. The sun glinted and bounced off the silver hairbrush she swept through her curls. His chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh and he relaxed back upon the white cotton pillows. The sheet she clutched slipped a little as she tugged at a stray tangle, and Eli imagined it dropping away from her shoulders altogether. The corner of his mouth twitched in a lazy smile and he wondered what she looked at every morning through the window.

“What d’you see out there, angel?” he asked lacing his fingers behind his head.

Her arm paused, mid-stroke and high in the air then she put the brush down. She pulled the sheet up and rested her hand against the window pane. “Trees, as green as the Emerald Isle, tall woods, stretching back as far as you can see…mountains, huge, snow-capped mountains…” she paused, her hand still flat on the glass, “and lakes,” she added, “up in the mountains. Rivers…blue ribbons of rivers and waterfalls cascading down – can’t you hear them? The water rolling and gushing, icy and cold…”

Eli grinned, his eyes still fixed on her bare back, her spine disappearing into the loose white sheet. Her lies filled the room as the air-con’s chill spread goose-bumps across his skin. He could hear Monday morning traffic, hurrying and bustling through the city streets, and the only green was bright traffic light go. Tower-blocks filled the view as far as the eye could see and the distant mountain ranges had been disguised by a film of smog for as long as he could recall.

“Waterfalls cascading…” she continued, “down to…” Her voice caught and her hand trailed down the glass, leaving an imprint that faded as quickly as her words.

She turned, slowly, the sheet bunched about her body, and her eyes met his. He drowned in her clear blue depths, and his own breath caught in his throat.

“Waterfalls…” she repeated, her yearning eyes filling with unshed tears. “Cascading down to the ocean… To the salt water, the sea, to waves crashing upon beaches and wind dancing atop the foam.”

She stared straight into his heart, salty tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

Conflict battered his soul, as compassion and desire fought to surface. His base passions won and he beckoned her to the bed. “Come, sweetheart, come…” He patted the bed beside him. “One day, my darling, one day I’ll take you back… One day we’ll run away from the city together, we’ll own a cabin in the woods, and we’ll follow the river down to the ocean… One day you’ll swim again in the sea.” He gazed at her, as her white fingers clutched tightly to the sheet about her body. She sat lightly on the bed and he rubbed her shoulders leaning in close to kiss her neck. He whispered as he feathered tiny kisses across her shoulder and down her arm. “One day, angel, but until then you’re mine, and until then we’ll play together…”

He pulled her down onto the bed and gently stripped away her sheet. He ignored her wet cheeks and the way her eyes glazed over as he caressed his prize.

Her expressionless eyes remained open as she slipped away to a far, far ocean and his promises faded, lost and buried in the same place as her pelt.

(584 Words)

My Blues Buster as prompted by ‘Home in the Woods’ by Cory Chisel and the Wandering Sons. There’ll be more tales to read if you pop over to The Tsuruoka Files…