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.