A Riverside Story

Hi all, this story is an unsuccesful competition entry from earlier in the year, and one of my favourite stories, so I thought I'd share it all with you. I apologise for not posting anything written recently, have been very busy! As usual, remember you can follow me on twitter @Harry_Tennison, and subscribe to the blog on the tab on the right hand side of the screen. Enjoy!

We cruised along the river in our barge. We’d been sailing ‘there’ (that’s all father would tell me, that we were sailing ‘there’) for four days now, just me and him, leaving everything behind. We ducked to avoid a low hanging willow tree as it swooped perilously towards us. I clung to my father. Having lived in the city all my life, I was not used to such scenery. The green fields we had passed sent me into a state of shock. Where did this colour come from? It was so unlike home. We did pass some towns though, although father always sent me inside when this happened, telling me I’d caught the sun and needed a break from the light.

As we emerged from the willow branches, my father laughed. He hadn’t laughed in such a long time that the small chuckle sounded alien to me. I looked up at his bearded face, wanting reassurance that everything was alright. My father looked down at me, laughed again and scooped me up into his arms.

“Not long now!  I can feel it! We’re nearly there, nearly there!”

I did not understand what he meant, but I shared in his jubilation. My father was happy again and that was what pleased me.

As the day wore on and we continued downstream, father put me on his shoulders.

“You see that house in the distance Elizabeth? The grey one?”

I peered hard into the distance and could see it, with the river running past. I told father that I could.

“Would you like to hear a story about that house? It’s a very special story, not many people have heard it” my father asked me.

I nodded, smiling. My father responded with the same smile. He went below deck quickly, sitting me on the floor, and fished out his pipe from somewhere I couldn’t see. He didn’t smoke but it helped him think. He put it into the corner of his mouth and shut his eyes.

“Now, let me think...aah yes!” he spoke to himself. “It was a midsummer’s evening many years ago. There was a cool breeze present in the air, making the night reasonably cool. A small boat was rowing along this very river. A man was rowing, his strokes precisely the same length each and every time. He had been rowing all day for around a week, but not a bead of sweat was to be seen on his forehead.”

My father was staring rather absentmindedly into the distance, holding onto the hand rail. He broke out of this trance momentarily, looking down at me and quickly up again.

“The river curved and as the water changed its path, so did the boat. The man continued rowing. He carried on until it was too dark to row anymore. Conveniently there was a jetty at the side of the river. The man tied his boat to the jetty and started to walk up the steep river bank. Upon reaching the top he realised he could see nothing except a light, about a hundred metres away. The man began to walk towards this light. As he walked, the man realised the light was coming from a house.”

My father paused again. He had resumed his trance-like state, staring into the distance, this time in the direction of the house itself.

“After walking for short while, the man came upon a path leading to the house. He began to walk along the path, stopping at the door. He knocked but the door swung open as soon as he touched it. The man stepped inside, looking around the house. It was completely furnished, as if someone had been living their moments before: empty cups on saucers by armchairs, a TV set in the corner of the room, an award of some sort on the mantelpiece.”

Father’s eyes were fixed upon the house. Our boat had stopped. For the first time I noticed it had turned dark; the moon peered slightly past the clouded sky gave the river an eerie glow. My father’s eyes were wild.

“The man looked out of a window, seeing a full moon high in the sky. He noticed a staircase, and a faint glow at the top. He walked up the staircase.”

Father had moored the boat on a jetty on the riverbank. He grasped my hand and pulled me out of the boat, towards the house. I asked Father why we are going to the house, and he growled at me. Tears filled my eyes. We got to the path. I stopped but Father pulled me.

“Come.” He snarled.

We entered the house-I was in tears but silent, too scared to make a sound. Father took me upstairs, dragging me up the stairs. Upon reaching the stairs he slumped into a chair.

“The man looked out of the upstairs window and saw a full moon---”

Father screamed. I leapt to help him but he pushed me away. He looked outside the window. A full moon was in the sky.

Father screamed again. He suddenly started to pant uncontrollably. He fell to all-fours. He looked at me but they were not his eyes. He screamed again as his face became longer, more streamlined.  His back arched and his clothes split from the vast increase of muscle which had appeared so rapidly. He swung his head back and unleashed a blood-curling howl. I couldn’t hold in my silence any longer. I uttered the smallest squeak of terror and it turned. This was not longer Father, it was a monster! And then it happened. It bit me.

My name is Elizabeth and I am a werewolf.

Destorying the Citadel: Part 2

Hello everyone. This story carries on from the previous instalment of Destroying the Citadel. As with the first, I apologise for any offense which may be caused by the content of the story. Once again I owe the inspiration for this story to Philip Pullman and his wonderful His Dark Materials trilogy. As well as being my fourth story published here on The Memoirs of a Witchfinder, this is also my entry for the Friday Flash: Halloween Contest so by clicking on the link below this story you can have a go at guessing the names of Horror movies hidden in the stories. Please leave comments and remember you can now subscribe to the blog via e-mail! Follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison.

There was a faint purplish tinge to the night sky. A small boat was being rowed out into the centre of a large lake. The bright moon reflected onto the water, illuminating everything enough to be seen. Ancient willow trees overhung, their branches stretching into the water. A tiger crept to the water’s edge, sipping at the cool liquid. She watched the boat intensely.

Upon the boat there were a man and a woman. He was dressed in smart trousers, although they were scuffed and scratched. He wore a linen shirt, open at the front. His boots were discarded on shore and his hair was short and scruffy. She was dressed in a dress made entirely of flowers. There was no thread to hold it together but it stayed exact. She had long flowing brown hair and green eyes.

Eyes so green that they could make of emeralds, so green that you could look into them and suddenly find yourself in the middle of a lush meadow, or a tropical jungle, or at the ocean floor, swimming with the fish amongst towering seaweed plants, dodging and diving under rocks.

They were angelic.

The man was rowing hard: beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. He reached the middle of the lake and dropped a makeshift anchor (rope with a large rock tied to one end). The boat wobbled slightly as the weight fell, and the lady fell on top of the scruffily dressed man.

“Why hello there.” He said seductively, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I could say the same to you Captain. I come with a proposition.” She smiled back.

He was Captain Adams, Commander of the Parthillian army. Skillful with a Long sword and accurate with a crossbow; he is a master on all things to do with weaponry…exactly what she needed.

“Then I am afraid we came tonight for different reasons: I had more some things more personal on this evening’s agenda.”

She raised an eyebrow, moving closer towards the General, his head resting just above her shoulder, his arms clasped around her.

“I come with a message from the Magisterium. War is coming to the heavens, and he asks for your alliance.”

The Captain is shocked.

“War? Against the Magisterium? But who?”

She pulled away, breaking the bond.

“He is not from this world, nor any other we have experienced before. He goes by the name of Carius. He is gathering an army, he is ready to fight. But we must stop him!”

She paused. The Captain was hung on her every word, lapping it up like a parched dog. He was in the palm of her hand.

“He is hiding in the hills of a world not far from here. Come with me now to see the Magisterium and you shall lead the armies of Heaven into war.” She said softly.

“Come with me. Let us go…together.”

The General was transfixed. He knew her spell, he knew who she was, but he did not fight it.

“I will come.” He said definitively, “We will together.”

With that the woman laughed gaily, leaped into the General’s arms, kissing him full on the mouth. He clamped his arms around her, holding tight with no intentions of letting go.

“Now you’ve got what you want, give me what I want.” He said slyly, and she was to drunk with happiness to refuse.

The tiger was still standing there, looking out towards the boat. She heard a great crash and into the air flew a beam of light; split into white and dark strands revolving around one another. The beam burst into the clouds above and was out of sight. The tiger looked at the lake once more before padding away, back into the forest. A cloud of petals were drifting slowly onto the water, causing gentle ripples as they touched the surface.

And in the night sky the Aurora burnt bright.

http://fridayflash.org/press/

Destroying the Citadel

Hello all, this story is called Destroying the Citadel and is inspired very much so by Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials Trilogy and therefore I apologise for any offense which may be caused by this story in a religious or social context. I hope you however do enjoy it and I would love to hear your feedback. Also, you can keep up-to-date with everything on The Memoirs of a Witchfinder by following me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison.

I wrap my fur coat closer to my body. It is getting colder, the chilly air biting at my neck. I look across the sky and see her. The zeppelin in the distance is still hours away, but there is no denying it is her. Her red hair burning bright against the black of the Arctic sky; but tonight it is not black. Flickering amongst the stars this evening is a sea of colour. Green, red, blue, purple, white. It is the Aurora. And it is why she is coming.

I look down over the chasm on which I stand. To one side of me is a bottomless drop and almost certain death. To the other my faithful companion, Adara. She feels no cold.

“Are you with me?” I ask

“Till the end.” She replies, wrapping herself around my leg.

The contact eases me. I know I am not alone. Looking to the sky I realise the rate at which the zeppelin is moving. What once was hours is slipping quickly into minutes. From below the zeppelin shoots great balls of fire. The armies of the North have shown where their allegiances lie.

A cloud of smoke appears. She must have been hit. Adara roars with delight. She is answered by the beasts below, fighting alongside men. This is a war for everyone.

“How long do we wait?” I am asked.

I shake my head.

“Not yet.”

The smoke is littered with the lights of the Aurora. As a strand of green skips through the smog, there is a flash and something drops from the cloud.

Suddenly an enormous flash engulfs the ground. A wave of snow and ice is blown across the chasm towards us and I shield my eyes. Looking back the earth burns green: the bodies of the men lie discarded upon the snow.

“Well Adara,” I say, running my hand along the backbone of my companion, “it looks like the fight has just begun.”

The zeppelin is close now. I see the white crucifix logo emblazoned upon the outside and there she stands, looking out from the cargo hold at the base of the giant. Wearing a red dress she would have looked divine if it were not for the evil which the depths of her beauty was contaminated with.

The Aurora ripples through the cosmic unknown high above, the tides flowing effortlessly though nothing and so much at the same time. Pointed buildings, towers and castles are flashed in the light, all of which looking glorious and angelic, yet sinister and evil all the same.

The zeppelin was near. Near enough to reach out and touch...and there she was. She stepped from her compartment and onto the peak. She was flanked by two guards, both with scimitar swords at their belts.

“The Magisterium sends his best wishes, Lord Carius.” She said to me, “He would like to remind you that the offer to withdraw your forces and surrender yourself to the Church still stands.”

“Please return these wishes; but also remind him that I have rejected his offer previously and have no intention of accepting.” I replied, stoned face.

Her face showed no expression. Her lips curled up at the corners, she took a step towards me, placing a hand on my chest, another on her chest.

“Carius, do you remember what it was like before all of this? When it was just you and me?” she said softly.

“I do; I never forget a thing.” I replied before grasping the hand behind my back and swinging it in front of me. She was holding a dagger. I smiled.

“I’m afraid that now is the end. You have brought me exactly what I need.”

And with that, Adara leapt on to the shoulders of each of her guards, ripping out their throats and tossing them into the chasm below. 

The knife was ready.

“Goodbye Rebecca.” I said as I plunged the knife into her chest. Her screams were swallowed by a huge tearing sound from above me. The night sky looked as if a great blade had been plunged into it, and the gash left led straight into the Aurora itself.

I turned to face Adara.

“What next?” the tiger purred.

“Now we go through. It’s time to destroy the Citadel.”

And it was from there that we stepped into the Aurora, side by side, to finish what we’d started.

Ink Tears

Hi all, sorry for not posting in a while but here's something new for you. Remember you can follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison and subscribe to the blog (however you need either a Twitter or Google account to do this but I'm trying to change that!). As usual would love some feedback, thank you and enjoy.

The writer sits at his chair, quill in hand, furiously scribbling away at a piece of yellowed parchment. He brushes a wisp of white hair out of his face before pausing. He looks out of the window of his small Tuscan cottage. It is cool inside, despite it being almost August. Looking down, he can see the town square, the central point of the hillside town. There are crowds of people bustling through, crossing in all directions. He sees a man and women searching in the crowd but to no avail. Moments later they are locked in a passionate embrace. The writer smiles.

He dips his quill into his inkpot and continues to work. His curved handwriting makes many of the words illegible, but the poor quality of the parchment cannot help. He moves another piece of hair which has fallen into his face. Leaning back in his chair he sighs, placing his quill to the side and resting his hands on his desk. His hands fall into the familiar dents on the wood.

There is a knock on the door. The smile is wiped from the writers face. They are coming.

He glances out of his window to see the crowd has vanished. Standing in the centre are four men.

“Open up Mister!” a voice says from outside the door, “Don’t worry it’s me, Horatio!”

He opens the door to allow a young child to burst through excitedly. But his excitement is masked by a more powerful emotion.

“They are coming!” The boy says, “They’re in the square!”

The writer tells him that he knows, but that it is too late. Run as fast as you can, into the hills, and don’t look back; that although dark things will soon be happening, he must not be afraid. He must be strong.

Horatio is holding back tears but nods, wiping an arm along his nose. He thanks the writer before leaving. Another glance out of the window shows the men are still in the square. The writer gets the chance to have a longer look.

There is a tall, broad figure, clothed entirely in a black hooded cloak hiding his face. In his right hand is a large scythe, but not the kind used by the farmers of nearby fields. The handle is made of Blackthorn, and the blade is scared from its many encounters with opposing forces.

Next to him is a shorter man. He is clothed in a worn out suit jacket and trousers, caked in dust. He wears a large brimmed hat with a large hole in the top. A long scar runs from the top of his forehead across his face and to the base of his nose.

Another of the figures is dressed in a grey suit. His tie has a small knot and matches his jacket. A look of impatience shadows an otherwise handsome face. His eyes burn as little fires embedded into their sockets, strikingly bright against his pale skin. His whole body has a long of hunger about it.

And finally, stands a man dressed in a long coat, finishing just below his knees. He has long wires in each hand, both with small pouch attached. He has a hip flask at the side of his belt.

Simultaneously, the figures turn and start to walk up a long set of stairs, leading directly to the writers home.

A bead of sweat appears on the writers face. The door to his cottage is still open. A gust of wind blew through.  The parchment flew up into the air and almost out of the window if it had not been caught. The writer looked down at it; reading what he had written.

‘They were uncontrollable; undeniably strong forces of evil. They were the Four Phantoms, passing from one world to another, seeking and defeating those who attempt to keep them in order. There is, however, one way to vanquish the four. The Creator, the true Creator, must feel the pain of those who have suffered at the hand of these malevolent demons and release the key to their existence.’

But he doesn’t believe, he is just the writer. He looks up, and there they are, standing in the doorway.

“Claudio.” The writer says. The short man with the axe flinches.

“Paulo.”  The writer says. The dusty man shifts nervously.

“Vampiro.” The writer says. The red eyes burn brighter.

“Luca.” The writer says. The wires fly into the air.

Violently, Luca jumps forward, spinning his wires into the air. He releases out an incredible breath, fire spewing from his mouth, igniting the pouches. Vampiro crouches into an animalistic crouch and springs to behind the writer, panting like a dog. Paulo draws from somewhere in his dirty jacket two small daggers, raises them above his head and gets ready to throw. Claudio raises his axe, resting it on the neck of the writer and then-

Silence.

For a few moments there is nothing. But this is broken by the soft whimpers of the writer. Claudio raises his axe, before his expression quickly and suddenly becomes horror stricken. He collapses into dust. Paulo follows suit, surprise still etched over his face. Vampiro screams as his body caves in; his eyes fading away slowly. Luca tries to run but he completes the series as each of the Four Phantoms has been vanquished.

But still sitting there in the middle of the room is the writer. He is still holding the piece of parchment but his writing is blotched. Blotched with the key to the existence of the Four Phantoms. He is The Creator.

The parchment is blotched with tears...

Tears of Ink.

Tiger Eyes

Here it is; the first story to be published on The Memoirs of a Witchfinder. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear your comments. Remember, you can follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison.

I stand here, pressing the reject button on my iPhone. This was the sign. I check my watch. It’s a minute till midnight at the San Francisco Zoo. My name badge glints in the soft moonlight. It reads ‘Richard Blakely, Zoological Director’.

My phone rang again. This time I answered.

“Hello?” I said to the caller.

“Richard? Are you there?” they replied.

It was my wife.

“Yes dear, it’s me. What’s up?”

I could hear grief in her voice.

I sighed. With my task in mind, any news was bad news.

“I’m coming down there.”

I sighed again. I needed no witnesses.

“No, don’t come.” I told her, “I’ll be home soon. Look, I need to go now; I’ll call again in a bit.”

And with that, I hung up. I put my phone away into the inside pocket of my Giorgio Armani suit. What a lovely suit I think to myself, momentarily letting my thoughts wander. I hear a bird caw from somewhere in the park. I jump at the sound, despite it being a common one. I laugh, thinking how absurd for my work to scare me...but tonight’s work does.

I walk towards the staff car park, lighting a cigarette as I go. I see my black Mercedes, exactly as I left it. I open the passenger’s seat and pick up a small black suitcase resting in the foot well. Shutting the door, I puff out a plume of smoke. I rest the suitcase on the bonnet of my car, fiddling in my pockets for a key. I find the key, unlock the suitcase and check the contents. $1,000,000. Just as it should be.

A small fleet of cars pull into a set of empty bays next to my Mercedes. The doors open and out jump about four men to each vehicle. There is about sixteen in total. A short one wearing a scruffy suit with the collar turned up walked towards me.

“Dinero?” he asks.

Money.

I show him the suitcase and reply:

“Cuando esta hecho.”

When it’s done.

The small man growls angrily.

“Where are they?” he says in English.

I point to an enclosure just inside the zoo walls.

“Over there.”

The men laugh and from their vehicles pull out a variety of guns-all of which are silenced, baseball bats and stretchers. They walk past me, patting me on the back and grasping my shoulders. I hang my head. One of the men hands me a rifle.

"Debemos todos hacer las cosas que no queremos en a un cierto punto o a otro."

We all have to do things in life that we don’t want to at some point.

I tell him that today must be my day.

I lead the men to the big cat house. The other animals had all been given sedatives in their food that afternoon, enough to keep them asleep until the next day. I showed them to the tiger enclosures. First we came to the dominant male.

Raja.

He is asleep. He is innocent. He is completely oblivious.

The short man holds his hand out. I hand him the keys. He smiles a crooked smile, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He put the keys in the lock and turned, the door opening silently. I looked away, heard the click of a rifle and a short moan of the great cat. He is dead.

We move to the next...

Rosé.

She is asleep. She is innocent.  She is completely oblivious.

Rosé is still young, an adolescent. Her cage is unlocked and the man I spoke to earlier walks in. In his hands he holds a baseball bat. He raises it high above his head and brings it thundering down. The crack of the sleeping tiger’s skull echoes around the silent halls.

But it is not silent. From the next cage came a soft growl. The final tiger had been awoken.

Badalā.

She is the last one left.

She is awake. She is innocent. But she is ready.

“Your turn.” One of the men said.

I appear cool, but inside I burn. To kill what has been my life...can I do it?

I raise the gun to my eye, take aim and...

Her eyes. Piercing blue eyes, sweeping me off my feet. They see more than me just pointing a rifle at her head, they see inside me.

I stop.

My father does not need the bone of three tigers.

I tell the men: "Parada. Ése es bastante."

Stop. That is enough.

They protest, saying they are being paid for three tigers. I tell them they can have the money. They do not hesitate.

It is five minutes later. I call my wife.

“Hello dear.”

“Richard, you need to listen to me!”

“Okay, what’s the matter?”

“It’s your father, it’s got worse.”

“Darling, I have the solution!” I told her, pleased with myself. Tiger bones are known to cure cancer.

“No Richard, he’s gone.”

By Harry Tennison, 14

Introducing Me

Hello everyone and welcome to The Memoirs of a Witchfinder! I know you have probably already read the short description at the top of the page but I feel that I need to write a proper introduction.

My name is Harry Tennison and I am a teenager from Essex. I have set up 'The Memoirs of a Witchfinder' to share my writing with you all! I have been writing for a year or so with a few short stories and scripts to my name. The majority of these are unfinished but some of those that are finished will be making there way onto here soon!

Apart from writing, I have been a scout for almost a decade and love it! I am now an explorer at a local group, and a young leader with my old cub pack. I love drama and performing. I have performed in productions of Oliver, as Noah Claypole, and Hairspray, as Spritzer, and also in a historical production as the infamous Witchfinder-General, Matthew Hopkins.

As much as I enjoy writing, I also enjoy reading. My favourite authors include the mastermind behind the Harry Potter series, J.K.Rowling, the wonderful Phillip Pullman and the timeless J.R.R.Tolkein. I read these series' annually at the very least and they get better and better each time!

I hope you enjoy the stories, scripts, and rants (I will undoubtedly moan on here!) that I shall post! All comments would be nice as long as they are constructive and reasonably friendly-remember I am only 14! Anywho, I hope that you enjoy all of this!

Oh yes, before I depart, you can follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison to keep up with everything thats happening.