Welcome to the Darkside...

...join me, Akasha Savage, as I brave the deepest dungeons and scale the misty mountains to achieve my dream: to see my novel Bathory in print. I will take you by the hand and keep you beside me as I cross this uncharted territory...

...let us step into the moonlit darkness together...

Sunday, 25 April 2010

A Bitesize Snippet.

The coffin lid creaks.
The vampyre awakes.
Sharp fangs glisten
In the dead of night.

What's the shortest poem you can write?

Friday, 16 April 2010

Writing Exercise #2

This month the task set by the writing group I attend is to write a short story, max 500 words, including four sentences picked at random from four different fiction novels. The four sentences are:

If you saw everything when your eye flicked from one point to another you'd feel giddy.

Rounding a bend in the path they'd met a group of girls on their way to school.

A vague memory flashed into his mind.

They arrived at Stoichev's gate the next afternoon.

Here is my offering....

He was watching the early morning news when the first stone hit his window with a resounding crack. Quickly followed by a second, then a third. His heart jolted and stuttered painfully in his chest, making him feel curiously light-headed, and as he grabbed at the arms of the comfy chair he was sitting in, his gnarled arthritic fingers groaned in unison. He stumbled to his feet, fumbled for his zimmer frame and began lurching his body across the room towards the window.
Buggering kids. He'd show them. Old he might be, feeble-minded he was not.
Another stone hit the pane, this time with enough force to chip the glass.
A red mist clouded his vision.
He'd had enough. He changed course. Turned his back on the window and headed for his bedroom.

...if you saw everything when your eye flicked from one point to another you'd feel giddy. That's what they told you at basic training. You must concentrate instead on one thing: your target. Focus your soul. Focus your mind. Focus your eye. Aim. Shoot. Kill. And he did. Relentlessly. His weapon - his MP 43 - became more than his friend. The heavy combination of wood and steel became an extension of his own body. He was revered. A respected member of the SS. A true Nazi...

It had been the boys idea to throw stones at Hitler's window. Of course his name wasn't really Hitler; that's just what they'd nicknamed him, the stupid old German bastard. The boys had stuffed their pockets with stones and big pebbles from the bit of a beach just down the road, and rounding the bend in the path they'd met a group of girls on their way to school. It hadn't taken much persuasion for the two groups to join forces.

He stood in front of his mirror: a skinny, stoop-shouldered, white-haired old man - eleven days away from his eigthy-ninth birthday - yet the grey uniform made him stand that little bit straighter. Made him lift his shoulders that little bit squarer. Made him push out his chest that little bit further. He grinned and brought the peak of his cap down until it almost touched the bridge of his nose. He clicked his heels together, then grabbed at the zimmer frame as he stumbled backwards, unbalanced. He gave the Nazi salute. A vague memory flashed into his mind...

...they arrived at Stoichev's gate the next afternoon, promptly at 1.30. A band of eager young Nazi's. Ready for orders. Ready to defend. Ready to kill. Ready to die for their Fuhrer. And many did...

He hoisted the gun up - all twelve pounds of it - he'd forgotten just how heavy and unyielding it was. He fumbled a magazine into his hand and clicked it into position. 30 rounds. That should be enough; he slipped another magazine into the deep pocket of his jacket. Just in case.
The MP 43 was set for single fire. Without hesitation he flicked the lever into automatic. He place the rifle with infinite care down on the tray attached to his zimmer frame.
With tight-lipped concentration he shuffled along the narrow hallway. His soul, his mind, and his eye, were focussed on what lay beyond the front door.
His target.

Aim. Shoot. Kill.

Friday, 9 April 2010

A Dark Interlude...

The silver beam of moonlight poured through the raggedy hole punched high in the castle's wall, splashing its brilliance down onto the skeleton laid out on the mouldering mattress far below, soaking the fleshless form - skull to toes - with a reviving plethora of life; washing away the scum of death.
Sinews and muscles twisted and writhed over the bones. Skin formed. . crept. . .gave contour and shape to the glistening wet embryonic mass. Fingers nails as sharp and clear as slivers of glass unsheathed with a deadly whisper. Hair, midnight black, sprouted from the bare scalp: grew, grew, grew. Thick and rich. Lips parted, a pink tongue flickered out, wetted away the parchness.
And the eyes - scarlet eyes, dripping with hatred, tainted with revenge - opened...