Crystal, Fire and Water, Page 2

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  The Old Mine

  The ancient wheel strains forward on its circuitous path, unseen hands forcing the rim into motion.

  More frightful beings arrive, bunching together, combining their power. I hide, quivering, inside the cottage. If they find me, my energy will be poured into the wheel. There is no-one left but me; it's my duty to survive.

  I become light-headed - the wheel has quickened, its motion a blur, and the spell has taken me. I walk towards the door, towards their power.

  The earth gives way with a startling shriek. The wheel, spinning, descends below ground, cutting and harming as we fall.

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  Looking up through the spinning wheel into the blue sky I cannot see, but do feel her there.

  Will the power of the wheel be enough to draw her energy in?

  No. Then I move, and the buildings shudder, small gaps appearing, allowing whiffs to drift upwards.

  I can feel her moving. She is losing.

  I will have her in my domain.

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  The Angel Thinks

  You stand and stare. You marvel at my gentle curves, my perfect angles, my graceful lines. Your whispers of my wings are like an echo. You recognise my silent strength, my unyielding surfaces. You run your hands over me and close your eyes as your fingers glide and caress. I am chill against your skin; you are heat and fever against mine.

  But you do not see me.

  I am more than my marbled figure. I exist beyond these confines. I have a spirit, roaming free, unbridled and impassioned, inspiring and empowered.

  And so do you.

  Come fly with me.

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  Are you in there behind cold outer face?

  Is there, inside, real sweetness and light?

  Can you feel the touch, the need to know more?

  Do you see me out here, my wanting desire?

 

  Oh let's take to flight, on wings soaring higher

  Not fixed to the ground, so solid and bound

  There’s more in a thought, more is to be done

  A wish and a dream takes higher and higher.

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  Expect the Unexpected

  Jason followed the meandering path, searching constantly for Keira. Once again, she'd been snatched from him, drawn through a portal to fulfil yet another quest. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he fought to curb his sense of powerlessness.

  “Keira, be safe – please!” he whispered. His feet scuffed skeletal leaves as he walked. Would he be allowed to follow Keira this time? Where was the energy portal? Was she alone?

  Thoughts curled inside his mind like soft smoke. Then he saw it: a shimmering slab of energy falling like a cascade. With a grin, he stepped into the other world.

  This tiny tale is based on our first novel, The Cordello Quest.

  © Joanna Gawn

  Left Behind

  The room feels hollow. Jim’s heavy tread approaches; he stands at Martha’s side, a familiar, solid anchor. His hand winds gently around her waist.

  “Where do you want to start?” he asks.

  She shrugs, her mind blank. “I don’t know.” With Mother gone, the house seems suddenly a stranger to her. “I guess we work out what we want, and give the rest to charity . . .”

  “Be happy for her, Martha. She’d want you to be.”

  She turns on him. “I can’t believe she left us with all this to do!” Hot tears spring free.

  “You’re just jealous, love. You know she’ll love Tuscany!”

  © Joanna Gawn

  First Day on the Job

  Shaking with fear, Marnie stepped aboard the bus and took her seat.

  She waited anxiously whilst the others boarded. They nodded as they passed her; she acknowledged them with a wobbly smile.

  Sick with apprehension, she waited for the driver to start the engine. The bus eased forward.

  Clutching her microphone, Marnie stood to address the crowd of faces.

  Could she do this?

  "Good Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," she said, forcing the words out. "I'm your new Tourist Guide."

  Expectant faces swam in her vision. No - she couldn't do this!

  "Stop the bus!" she screamed. "There's a bomb!"

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  How long have I been waiting for this break!

  It seems ages since Bobby died. He said I should have a holiday on the insurance money after spending so long looking after him.

  These seem like nice people; that lady I spoke to in the queue was so friendly.

  Not sure about that guide though - not a word to anyone, and now she is stood at the front not looking at us, and I can see her hands shaking on the microphone. Must be her first time as well.

  So what is she going to have to say . . .

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  The Day Edward Met Helene

  The atmosphere is one of carnival, with the mouth-watering scents of hot dogs and soup trailing through the cool darkness.

  Edward’s happy. He’s just met a girl. He is in love.

  In shadow, hugging the ground, two anonymous, ordinary boxes sit.

  Edward shifts position, his heel nudging the boxes. His attention remains fixed on Helene’s sparkling eyes and clever conversation.

  Unnoticed, a gleam of light escapes from the box, a genie joyfully fighting free.

  “I really want her to like me,” Edward thinks.

  The genie-light approaches Helene, spins blue-gold tendrils around her head.

  Helene kisses Edward. She is in love.

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  Lounging in a box – seems like the world is having fun out there. Months since I have seen anything.

  Hundreds of years with the same routine – waiting - then an escape, a moment of glory, and back to wait - in the dark but hearing so much around.

  Not that I can get out to see what is going on or join in. Many powers I have, but none will allow me to lift that lid.

  Hang on – ow, that hurt – light – I’m out weeeeee!

  Not a wish so soon – I do not want to go back –

  He’ll regret it . . .

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  Spanning the Globe

  After his redundancy, Stewart had felt adrift. He had nothing in common with his neighbours, feeling awkward, uninteresting.

  He didn't like loud music, or crowds, and had no hobbies except reading. Isolation folded around him like a heavy fog. Life had lost meaning. He'd become darkly depressed.

  Then he stumbled across Facebook. Gradually, he found groups of like-minded souls. Spanning the globe were others like him, quiet people who longed to reach out and connect with others, who understood the joys and difficulties of being highly sensitive.

  Friendships blossomed, and support made its way, pixel by pixel, to Stewart's heart.

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  The final test result in the final country. When this comes back negative we will have beaten one of the great plagues. Polio will officially be gone. And it’s my job to signal this to the world from this remote valley on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border.

  What started with the idea of a single Rotarian in the 1970’s has grown into a worldwide movement taken up by the UN.

  Those that started the campaign to eliminate Polio may have moved on - but millions of children will now be born into a world free from that dreadful disease, thanks to their foresight and commitment.

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  Sun, Sea and Sphinx

  I take an energising breath of sea air. “What a gorgeous day!”

  “That endless sky!” Suzie says, smiling. “Where d’you want to sit?”

  My feet slither over warm, soft sand. “How about here?”

  Suzie drops the towels with
a contented sigh.

  I shade my eyes with my hand. “What’s that huge hump over there?”

  It sits proud from the sand like a half-collapsed sphinx.

  It draws me closer. Unease coils around my spine like a serpent.

  I raze some of the sand.

  Something firm lies beneath.

  I touch a hand: cool, human, lifeless.

  “Suzie!” I cry. “Call 999!”

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  What was it I used to say, “Sun, sea and sex”. Well I have a nice tan, and swam a lot, but . . .

  Still, the company has been good. Plenty of bars and dancing, and some good trips out. I just would have . . .

  No, no matter now. This is my last trip for a swim and beachside sangria. Still hope yet, I suppose; always hope. Am going to miss this sun.

  No, don’t ponder, enjoy the time left before the plane home and back to my solitary retirement bungalow.

  Wish my walking stick didn’t keep getting stuck between these silly slats.

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  Preying for Love

  Sat in my usual spot with my usual pint; just a bit smarter than usual, my eyes keep looking to the door waiting for a lone woman to walk through . . . that is if she’s remained brave enough to come. But then this is not a usual evening.

  First dates!

  Sara and I had met on Facebook, a friend of game friend. Not that either of us was brave enough to post our photos.

  Now there she is, offering a welcoming smile, which expands over her face as she approaches.

  It’s then that I notice two huge canines!

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  ~~*~~

  He’s at the bar, nursing a glass of rich, amber liquid. Shame; I would’ve enjoyed toying with someone with a sharp mind. I guess the alcohol will dull his pain later.

  The woman he knows as Sara is only the latest persona in a very long line. I have been many women, lived many lifetimes. But, oh! this is my best! It’s been so easy to draw in my prey; technology has been a true ally.

  I make my way towards him. His eyes brighten, and I smile, restraining the burgeoning growl.

  This is going to be so much fun.

  © Joanna Gawn

  Solitude

  I don’t know what I am. Never a solitary moment to taste the silence, find its flavour.

  Wife, mother, daughter, friend, colleague. So many roles, so many faces. A whirlpool of colours, textures, feelings, attitudes. Biting my tongue, hiding my true feelings. Shielding my expressions, yielding to someone else.

  Rule-maker, rule-breaker. Responsible and reckless. Which am I? Are they all me?

  Where is my own voice? Where is my own soul in all of this noise?

  I will write. My words will be alchemy. I will learn what is me, what is in my soul.

  I will set myself free.

  © Joanna Gawn

  ~~*~~

  Deep in the middle of Cornwall, on the edge of the dark, forbidding Bodmin Moor lives an old woman.

  Her cottage sits, hidden, at the end of a muddy lane that no one but she ever uses. The locals know better than to disturb her.

  Day after day she toils at her craft. She wanders her collecting points salvaging all the material she needs for her horrific creations. All night the noises can be heard emanating from the smoking chimney.

  The hideous clicks and gurglings as tea is consumed and knitting needles make more knitted monsters for her charity stall . . .

  © Ron C. Dickerson

  Short Stories

  Many of our short stories are written for our local Writers’ Circle meetings and so are around 1000 words in length. Others are longer (up to 7000 words). The stories we share with you here are between 900 and 1500 words, so are fairly quick reads. 

 

  ~~*~~

  The Restoration of Conover House

  Evie followed Jack in through the front door of Conover House, peering with dismay into rooms dressed in peeling, yellowed wallpaper, choked with years of dust and echoes of the past.

  Jack took her hand. “Just look at this place, love! I know you wanted a project to take your mind off things - but this might be taking it a step too far!”

  She shook her head, lost for words. Uncle Don had left her Conover House in his Will, but she’d never visited him here, hadn’t realised the state the house was in. She’d just noticed a damp patch on the hall ceiling. Some of the rooms were musty; and there was a strange smell she couldn’t quite identify.

  Then she recognised it. Hopelessness. The house smelled of lost hope. Well, she knew all about that. Another pregnancy over before it had really begun. She placed a hand on her flat belly, tried to imagine another new life taking root, a beating heart. Tears bloomed and she blinked them back. She knew she ought to look forward; but these days, everything was tinted in shades of grey.

  A grandfather clock ticked in the hall, its sound filling the lifeless house. “It is what it is,” she replied. “Restoring it would take time, that’s for sure. But, Jack, it could be better than our flat, couldn’t it? And what a view from this window!” Her eyes wandered over fields of green and ochre and gold, and her mood lifted. Perhaps they had a chance here.

  Jack gently untangled his fingers from hers. “I’ll get the bags from the car. Why don’t you look around upstairs?” The front door opened, and Evie heard his footsteps crunch across gravel. The banister was cloaked in dust; she rubbed it clear with a handkerchief so that it shone once more. It was a good, solid wood; this house might not be so bad once it’d had some attention lavished on it. She just didn’t know if she had the energy for such a huge project. She felt so tired all the time.

  She made her way up the creaking stairs and followed a slant of sunlight into the main bedroom. An iron bed with a concave mattress dominated the room, and the wardrobe needed a good clean. But the view to the fields was even more beautiful from here. She moved closer to the window. Corner cobwebs danced in the shifting air currents, the only sign of life in the whole house. Her breath misted the glass. To her shock, words were coming to life within the vapour.

  Welcome . . . we have been waiting for you.

  Evie felt strangely suspended: caught between tranquillity and terror, between feeling ripped apart and completely whole. She strained her ears for the heavy tick of the clock; but the house was obstinately silent. Heart racing, breath shallow, a scream lodged in her throat, the rising panic leaving her dizzy. She laid a palm on the comforting solidity of the tired bedroom wallpaper, needing to centre herself. Jack felt a hundred miles away, a hundred years. The words on the window had faded, but she remained confused, scattered. Her breath misted the glass over and over; she wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing. Her heart leapt then plunged when she saw new letters forming.

  You are safe. This is your clearing. This is a clearing for us all.

  “What do you mean?” Evie whispered. “I don’t understand.” She tried to step back from the window, to turn, to leave, but she was held captive by the power of the words, by the way they came into being and then dissolved, ebbing and flowing like her breath.

  You are healing us. We will help you. It is an exchange of energy.

  Evie rested her damp forehead upon the glass. If only Jack would come . . . she must be hallucinating; the miscarriage had upset her hormones, and clearly she was losing it. Nothing could be trusted: not these words, not this house, and certainly not herself.

  “How can you help me?” she murmured. “I lost her. I’m broken. How can I possibly heal you? I have nothing left to give.” She lifted her head, watched for the next message.

  You have to learn to trust in change. You need to let go of the soul you lost, Evie. Then you can create space for the soul who is waiting to come to you.

  “Waiting to . . . are you sure?” She refused to hope, refused to believe it, not after what the doctor had told her. She heard Jack moving around in the kitchen below, the
rustle of carrier bags as he unpacked their basic supplies. She tried to call for him, but her voice was powerless. Then the clock was ticking again, a thudding heartbeat flowing around the arteries of the house. Finally, Evie could speak; yet her next words were not for Jack, but for the house.

  “I’ll fix you,” she promised. “I’ll restore your beauty and your heart, and Jack and I will live here. I’ll make you happy, and alive, Conover House. We’ll live here, Jack and I, and we’ll be happy.”

  Evie watched for the words. They were slow in coming this time, and she sensed this would be the final message in the sequence.

  You will heal us, and you will all be happy here. Jack and Evie. And your son.

  ~~*~~

  Sunrise

  Tara watched the sun as it crept over the horizon, spreading wide fingers of fire-red at the place where the ocean tipped over the rim of the world. She sighed. Her mind was on a flight of fancy again, but sometimes she wished she could make her way to that perceived edge, and fall into space. Being human surely had its challenges and today, like last night, she wasn't sure she was up to it.