The man lay stretched out on the jutting rock, bronze chains dangling from his wrists. In the distance, the sinking island glowed magma-red and deep orange in the sunset. Wreckage floated by. There was a soft whoosh and some slight scrabbling. The man opened one eye. There was a bird – quite a large bird, all things considered, regal, even – with a very sharp beak.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said, wearily.

The bird swivelled in the direction of sinking island and plumes of volcanic smoke and steam, and then back at the man, apparently the heroic type, clothes in rags, shirt half gone – practically mythic, really. ‘Well,’ said the bird, ‘you look like you might have done something. And look at it this way, no way off this rock, no ships for miles – you could look at it as a kindness, really.’

‘Thanks, all the same, but I prefer a liver and let live approach.’

The bird sniffed. ‘Suit yourself. Here, are you sure you didn’t annoy any semi-divine beings or anything?’

‘Not the kind you’re thinking of,’ said the man, with assurance.

The bird sighed. ‘Just my luck.’

‘I know how you feel,’ said the man, smiling ruefully.

‘Big place, this was. We’re not going to get in any trouble are we? You know, land slipping beneath the waves – I mean we’re talking, geographically speaking, in continents.’

The man pointed to some sails on the far horizon. ‘If anyone’s going to complain, they’re the last of them. Lucky they didn’t find me.’ He considered the size of the bird.

‘Forget it,’ said the bird, ‘I don’t give lifts. What do I look like, a taxi service?’

‘Oh, it’s just there was this girl …’

‘Ah,’ said the bird sagely. He could tell tragic parting when he saw it. You saw this sort of thing a surprising lot in storied times. He shuffled awkwardly. ‘Still,’ he said, trying to think how to put it delicately, ‘I can’t help but noticing that you are here and she, not casting any aspersions,’ he added hastily, ‘and not to put too fine a point on it, is not.’ He expected the man to get agitated at this point. Probably not good for the liver, but you’ve got to be human sometimes, haven’t you?

Instead, he just sighed, and closed his eyes. With the impressive amount of heat whoofing over from all the lava, all that seawater ought to have dried off by now, but still, some trailed down his cheek. Ah, well, not long now, probably …

He took off with a whuffle of feathers.

‘There you are!’

The man opened his eyes. Clambering up the rocks was the most beautiful girl in the world. To him, anyway. ‘So this is what heaven looks like …’ he said, as his eyes drifted shut again.

Someone shook him quite hard, considering. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ He was aware of being held on to so tightly he thought his remaining ribs would break. He opened his eyes again. A face looked down at his. Then again, maybe heaven could wait …

As the bird rode the air currents into the sunset, he looked back with a small smile. Okay, so sometimes you may be left a bit peckish, but you felt warm inside. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

Listen to that sound. That is the sound of a heart breaking. See the look on his face. See the pieces glimmer as they fall – some big, some small, some bright, some dull – some sharp …

Some of those pieces will cut you right down to the soul. Try not to watch them slip through his fingers.  

It has been said there is a sound to Ultimate Suffering. What you might not realise, is that there can be layers within layers to that sound. Just like there are kinds of light beyond normal vision, but maybe, if you know what love is, you can tell. Perhaps you can see it in his eyes.

Legends abound with the power of true pure love – now imagine that power flying free through the cracks, like arcs of lightning, or sunlight straight from the source. Something that can seem quite ordinary on the outside, gentle honest love, caring that runs deep, could light the night sky. See now, some of the stars are quite pretty.

Maybe we don’t realise what we take so lightly, like playing pass the parcel with an atom bomb. And then, of course, the music stops …

One soul slips away, the other remains, blinking and confused. Sometimes parting, sometimes passing, of all the loves that sustain us, the most deeply felt may surprise us. We may not have even realised we were dancing until the dance is over, and the face, the voice, the person and the presence isn’t there anymore. And we wish we knew why, or even what happened.

Of all the cares of man, the hardest may be to love and lose and live.

One froggy evening, there was a bit of a to-do … (Originally written for and published over at Ricochet.com):

Hokey Croaky:

Ripples spread out across the surface of the lagoon, sparkling in the starlight, as the girl surfaced from under the water. Trailing behind her, there bobbed up a coloured glass lantern, sealed around the edges with a grey, clayey substance. Well, this dress has probably seen its last dance, she thought as she swam for the shore. The lantern came floating along with her. 

In the distance, coloured lights glowed and strange music played out across the night. The dance goes on, as they say. Carefully, she lifted the lantern out of the water and hauled herself up onto the rocks. There was a kind of dull tap on the glass. A frog peered out at her. It was a bit hard to see through the coloured glass, but something about its eyes and the way it looked at her was somehow … human. She scraped away some of the clay with her nails and twisted. ‘Alright, buddy,’ she said, her voice coming out as a hoarse whisper, ‘you want to explain what’s going on?’

Continue reading →

A magical cat-and-dog story (sort of) — originally written for and published at Ricochet.com:

Witch Way:

It was raining, cats and dogs (well, a witch’s cat and a sort-of werewolf with bones for brains – she really shouldn’t say that, even in the privacy of her own thoughts, but bless him it was true) were taking cover, and she still had to finish this blasted potion. Never, never, never, the dripping young woman thought to herself, brew a potion from a recipe book that actually specifies it be made ‘on ae righte blasted heathe on ye first true dark midnight after th’ full moone, and thatte at the height of ae summer storme’.

But here she was, soaked to the skin and getting more and more drenched by the moment, frantically stirring a bubbling cauldron with a long hazel stick (‘exactlie five foote in lengthe’), as the wind blew against her trailing black cloak and threatened to take her with it. She’d already seen her hat go whistling away over the horizon. ‘I tried to tell you,’ said a voice from under a pair of wet, flattened-down ears somewhere in the undergrowth.

Continue reading →