Icy Bullets

Hello everyone! That's right, my blog is still up and running...kind of! I've not got the delightful experience of sixth form now every day for the next two years but I'll do my best to post a story, poem or rant on here every now and again! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this little offering of mine. I'll ask you to share it to all of your friends on Twitter and Facebook manually as I've managed to accidentally delete my Twitter button...

Icy Bullets by Harry Tennison

Fear. The air stank of it. We were all lined like pigs for the slaughter, with fear itself pouring out of every orifice. My hands trembled as I held the reigns of my horse. His deep exhalations made steam in the cold air, adding to the haze which limited my view to only a few feet.

Men in mud-soaked uniforms sat beside me. I know that men like me sat along our entire trench, but I could only see the Frenchman to the left and my best friend, Thomas, to my right. We exchanged glances and nodded to one another; it was our silent acknowledgement that this may be the last time we saw one another.

I felt the great muscles which were holding me up tense. The atmosphere was so cold. The air was silent. There was not a single noise in the world right now apart from the heart beating like a drum within my chest, bursting to be free. All of a sudden, my horse began to stamp its hooves. And so did Thomas’. And then the Frenchman to my left’s horse began to stamp too, until the air was filled with the restless stamping of horses hooves.

A bugle sounded. The air was full of the cries of battle. We were going to war. We rode forward  for what seemed like an eternity. I kept having to wipe my eyes as the thick mud flying into them made seeing even harder. It reminded me of when I was back at home, helping my father to dig the land for crop planting. He’d launch a large mound of earth over his shoulder and each time it managed to hit me square in my face. He’d always protest it was accidental but the booming laughter would always give it away.

I thought of sitting in our living room in our small quaint cottage, my feet warming against the fire with an enormous piece of pork pie and my mind awash with thoughts about the best way to ask Abigail Cotton to the dance on Saturday. I then thought of the time I walked her home from Mrs Jones’ party and it started to hail. Real hard hail that left a bruise the size of a potato and a thumping headache the next morning. It was such a vivid dream that I could almost see it right in front of me.

The hail was falling towards me but somehow I managed to dodge the icy bullets. That night people were sheltering in shop doorways, and under the trees which ran the whole way through our whole village, but now there were no trees for anyone to hide under, and so everyone must have disappeared. Gone away to hide from the hail.

I turned around, looking to see where they could have all gone when I fell to the floor. A cry of pain came from beneath me. I could feel heavy panting. I brushed my hand alongside my horse’s side, as I pulled out my rifle. “Better not ‘ta let ‘em suffer, eh?” I heard my old man’s voice, as if he was beside me. I pulled the trigger.

I was alone as the hail hit me. Once in my left leg, and twice in my shoulder. I sank to my knees, somehow imagining that I would have slightly more than a bruise the size of a potato and a thumping headache when I woke up.

An Uncomfortable Shade of Purple

Hello everyone. I'm sorry I haven't posted in a long time, far too long a time in my opinion, but I have only recently got out of hospital but that is another story for another day! For those of you who do not watch the BBC, you will be aware that recently it snowed in Essex. I for one, do not like the snow, so I looked out of the window at home and saw a really nasty shade of purple in the sky which could only mean one thing: more of it!

The title of this story came from what I said upon seeing the sky, and it just went from there! I hope you will enjoy it, please let me know what you think on the comments, and also please follow me on Twitter where you can keep up with everything that I post on The Memoirs of a Witchfinder! So ladies and gents, this is: An Uncomfortable Shade of Purple, by Harry Tennison.

An Uncomfortable Shade of Purple

By Harry Tennison

An oil lit lamp cast shadows around the room. A man was illuminated as he leaned in to the light, the small flame showing many wrinkles on his once-youthful face. A pair of spectacles rested amongst the thinning hair upon the top of his head; however they no longer held any glass. Alexander Ivanovic wore them now out of habit, still pulling them down to rest on his nose when he wished to examine something closer.

And he did this frequently for he was a toymaker, and attention to detail was essential in order to survive. Many of the townspeople adored him for his handicraft which not only brought smiles to the local children, but also to the mothers and fathers, who loved looking in his shop window at the expertly painted trains which puffed real steam. Alexander was a good man, and often allowed the children of the town into his shop to play with his wares, as he knew few could afford them. He would host great dinner parties, in which the poor families with too many mouths could gorge themselves on bread, made by Alexander’s wife, and the soft cheese, that his son would make from their cow they kept in a small plot of land they had at the back of their house. The poor folk loved Alexander and his family, but at the same time were very quick to deny it.

For there were some in the town who were not so fond of the Ivanovic’s. The mayor would often spoil his grandchildren rotten Alexander’s toys, yet only ever sent his most trusted adviser, Cartlenko, to buy them. Where Cartlenko walked, the floor boards creaked and the children hid behind their mother’s legs. For as long as he had been around, a gun had rested on his hip, and he was rumoured to sleep with a knife under his pillow. Few people would stand up to Cartlenko, and many of the townspeople wondered how he had earned the scar which ran along his left cheek. The town’s butcher said it was from when Cartlenko killed a wolf which was eating his meats, but few believed him, and even fewer noticed the look of contempt he shot at the Ivanovic’s shop whenever it was mentioned.

Many years passed, and the townsfolk’s minds began to grow to more serious matters, like surviving the harsh winter in which they were caught. They were growing tired of cabbage soup, and envied the Ivanovic’s for a seemingly endless supply of bread and cheese, upon which they could live quite comfortably. Alexander would often walk with his wife and offer food to the homeless and the poor, who received it graciously. But the cow was old and the wheat was scare and their supply was running out. Times were getting darker for Alexander and his family.

It was a particularly harsh day in which the wind whipped around the mayoral house. The boards of the dining room creaked as the hard boots of Cartlenko thundered down on them as he paced restlessly. The mayor sat in a large upright chair, stroking his beard.

“So you think it is the right time now, my dear friend?” he said.

Cartlenko stopped pacing and faced the mayor. “Yes my lord, we can move now and have him done. No one will come when they hear the glass break and we will burn his shop to the ground. Alexander Ivanovic will be no more.”

The mayor paused. He often thought about his theory, and whether he was right or not. He did not wish to bring unnecessary bloodshed to his town, but at the same time, he wanted power, and would not anyone threaten him for it.

“His hold on my people is too great,” the mayor said quietly, “he will have to go.”

Cartlenko smiled and walked out, fingering the butt of his gun, thinking sweet thoughts of revenge.

Ivanovic had heard whisperings and rumours on his walk that afternoon. People looked up at the sky, shaking their heads.

“It’s an uncomfortable shade of purple today, Mr Ivanovic,” one man said without prompting, “Nasty storm I’d say’s a-looming.”

Alexander returned home late that afternoon, for the clouds were travelling very quickly. The wind had picked up and snowflakes had just begun to fall. As he unlocked his front door, he had the sudden urge to turn around, and doing so he saw a sight he did not wish to see. Cartlenko was sitting on an upturned barrel, puffing a fat cigar. Alexander shut his door quickly, but could still see his figure, and the large plumes of smoke circling above his head.

It was time.

Alexander grabbed a bag of food and his cloak. He explained to his wife that they were no longer safe here, and that they must leave immediately. Tears crept into the corners of her eyes. Alexander held her close to him, kissed her forehead softly. A clockwork ballerina was dancing on the table, her graceful movements at one with the beating heart of his wife. He said for her to run and get their son, who was milking the cow outside, whilst he finished preparations. But as she opened the door, not only the harsh winter wind greeted her, but a powerful blow to the head. A violent thud against the hard wooden floor made Alexander jump. He turned and in the doorway stood Cartlenko. His hulking figure blocked the icy wind with a shield of pure malice. Cartlenko glared at Alexander, stepping over the limb body in front of him, being very careful to tread on her hand, breaking her fingers. A cruel smile lit up the dark face of Cartlenko. He had waited far too long for this moment. All those years…

 He raised his revolver, fingering the trigger as if it were a necklace of gold. He took a final confident step forward. Yet the bullet never left the mouth of the gun, and Cartlenko had ended up on his knees, rather than at the feet of a dead Alexander Ivanovic, for at that moment, Alexander’s son had appeared in the doorway, bringing a large wooden stave crashing down onto the back of Cartlenko. Alexander grabbed his son’s arm and sped out through the back, past the cow and out of their home. They took a horse which was tied outside a neighbour’s house and both leaping on, sped out of the town’s gates and into the wilderness.

Cartlenko arose as they left the gates, knowing he had failed. He went to the bench, picking up the clockwork dancer who had been prancing amongst the tools and paints. He crushed the toy in his great hands, tossing the remnants onto the floor. He surveyed his work. He might not have killed his prey, but he had mortally wounded it. There was just one more thing he must do.

They road for hours, high into the hills, until their thighs were sore and they could no longer see more than few feet in front of them. They gingerly got off the horse and looked down upon the town they once called home. It was as black as the night ahead of them, except for an orange-red glow in the part of town they one called home. Tears crept into the eyes of Alexander’s son as they had his mother’s just a short while ago; Alexander took him in his arms. He would not let his son go as easily. And as Alexander held him, the snow began to fall.

He lifted his son on the horse once more and sat behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist. He knew they must ride through the night to ensure they would be safe. The snow began to cut his cheeks and the wind whipped at his face. He reached for his glasses but found they were no longer there. He peered into the night for what seemed like hours, hoping that something other than the oppressing darkness would come into sight. And then, after many miles upon miles of riding, a small woodland came into sight. Alexander made to move his arms, but found they were frozen to his son. He gently pulled, breaking the ice, his limbs aching from a lack of movement. As he moved his arms, Alexander’s son fell, landing with a hard thud on the ground. Alexander knelt beside his son. His eyes were shut, his face calm, as if he sleeping. Small ice crystals were frozen to his face and he was as hard as marble.

Alexander picked him up and walked slowly into the woodland. He found a rose bush and laid his son beneath it. As Alexander stood, the last, remaining rose fell onto the white below, breaking like crystal when it hit the ground. Alexander then curled up within the bows of a great oak, shutting his eyes, and wondering if he himself would make it through the night; secretly hoping that he did not.

Traitor

Hello all. This is Traitor, a short story which came fully formed into my head. I am a young writer and would appreciate the feedback. Please can you look at some of my other stories, and to keep up to date with everything I post, you can follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison.

Traitor 
By Harry Tennison

The drone of our helicopter made everything go blank. It was all I could hear, the rotations of the roters taking a hold on me, captivating my senses. I looked at them; unable to understand the mechanisms that caused their turns, and the power that it released to give us flight...but that’s unsurprising. Girls were never taught mechanical science in Quarter 4.

Saying that though, there is no longer a Quarter 4: or a Quarter 1, or a Quarter 2 or 3. We are one now, a united front. We are one race, one people. And together we march. 

We marched through the lands who no one could claim. The lands ravaged by wild animals, sick experiments gone wrong and the rejections of mankind. We found none who welcomed us, except for a mute woman. She welcomed us with open arms, offering us shelter from the artificial storm that was cast upon us in a bid to drive us back.

She gave us berries as we left. She wrote in the dust that they would keep us safe. The Blood Red will protect you from bloodshed. As long as you make none fall, you will lose none. The next day we woke up five short. They had died, poisoned. The next day we awoke to find the woman swaying in the wind. A rope was around her neck, her head at an awkward angle.

I stood for a moment, watching her sway, and as I stood I heard a voice, singing. It was a song my father had sung to me as a child. We would walk through the high street, singing together. But never at home; Mother never let us sing it at home. And suddenly, I joined in.

“Will you come with me

Down to the river?

Down to the river;

Will you go with me?

And when we are there

You will see a boat.

I will have gone;

Take the boat.

Take the boat and come with me

Take the oar and row to me.

We will be together again;

And nought can separate us.

Bring a knife, for my necklace of rope

Is tied tight around my neck.

And when you come and set me free

Together we shall be forever.”

When we stopped singing I looked up. A small girl was standing facing me, a tear trickling down her cheek. I took her hand and we walked. We stopped by a small cluster of trees. A small group of deer were running not too far away. They worked together, making sure there was no danger around them. But they were paying enough attention. And eagle swept down from above, taking the smallest in its claws. I felt my hand squeeze and remembered the little girl. Her cheeks were wet again with tears.

Suddenly, my hand was empty. I hear the screams of the little girl as she was dragged away. I walk back to camp later, but straight past the crowds by the bonfire.

Darkness fell that night and I knew what I needed to do. The drones of our helicopters made me concentrate. I breathed in the rhythm of the blades. I became emotionless, detached from the young girl who only hours before was at the heart of a rebellion. A man who I once wanted to kill turned and smiled at me. His eyes were excited as the corners of his mouth turned into a cruel grimace.

The eagle took flight. It knew its target. I heard a click and knew the bombs had begun to fall. And as I heard a second click, I passed out.

I awoke later that day in a room stripped of everything. I was the only occupant on a single bed, surrounded by a curtain. I wondered why a bed in a room with one person would need a curtain. They told me they were all dead, everyone last one. But I knew they weren’t. I was still alive. But I had turned traitor. I screamed the words at them; violently spitting in the faces of the aliens who struggled to strap my arms down. I felt a sharp pain in my arm. I calmed, and I began to sing.

“Will you come with me

Down to the river?”

Revenge- By Harry Tennison

Hello all! This story was written a few days ago after an episode of real longing to watch Jurassic Park. It's an end to yet another long bought of writing block and I hope you enjoy it. Remember you can follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison! Also please check out some of my other stories on the site: Tiger Eyes is my particular favourite, the link of which is below!
 http://thememoirsofawitchfinder.blogspot.co.uk/2011/08/tiger-eyes.html

Revenge
By Harry Tennison

He stood alone on the stage. Staring vacantly outwards at the barrage of laughter, the onslaught of jeers and boos that were catapulted at him like rocks during a siege. The outside of the castle still stood strong, but on the inside it was crumbling. 

The professor was middle-aged. He’d loved science since a boy. He could remember the time when he his opened a chemistry set. The white powders awoke an excitement deep inside of him that had long been dormant. At school he excelled. Young Scientist of the Year Awards were placed perfectly on a mantelpiece, polished daily.  

A PhD later and a decade of so as a local pharmacist led to today: the grand unveiling of his ultimate venture. As he wheeled the device through the stage door, cleaners shot bullets of disapproval at him. Something’s should not be meddled with. Their eyes said it all. He stood on the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he called to the full theatre, “Prepare to be amazed!” He pushed the button to send his name straight into the history books, but nothing happened. Silence filled the packed room for a few seconds before a chuckle broke out. The chuckle grew, as tall as a house and just as wide, and the professor stood alone, still. A single tear dropped from his eye, splashing against the smooth floor, and then he swore. He swore to himself that no matter what he’d prove his critics wrong. One day you’ll see. I’ll show you.

And today was that day.

After a short introduction to the device he turned: with his back to the audience he pushed the button. This time when he pushed the button he knew it worked. The same sensation arose that did the first time he opened that chemistry set. He was in school again, and it all was his.

He felt the wind. A deafening roar splintered the air. People screamed.

“I thought you said it was a prototype!” A man shouted.

The professor smiled. Revenge was sweet.

Destroying the Citadel-Part 3

Hi everyone! Here is the third instalment of Destroying the Citadel. If you're yet to read the previous two instalments then please check them out on the sidebar. I hope you enjoy and would appreciate any feedback. Also, you can follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison.

A golden palace stood upon the mountain, its many spires twirling so high into the clouds that you couldn’t see their pointed tips. A large portcullis guarded an enormous gap in an otherwise solid wall.  The whole building had an air of power about it: there was only one citizen.

Upon the balcony of one of these spires stood a man. His armour was shining, a red feather from his helmet. He glanced uneasily over the empty streets below him. The lack of life scared him. A white dove flew through the sky, circling, before flying through the balcony to perch on the shoulder of a large golden throne. The man returned from the balcony, his face strewn with worry.

“Your majesty, you still hold your previous decision.” The man said.

“The Magisterium does not change his mind Captain Adams: my decision remains.”

Captain Adams sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“My liege,” he pleaded, “let me find him! I’ll bring him to you, you need not wait!”

The Magisterium laughed. “You are blind Captain. What does Lord Carius want more than anything else?”

The Captain stood awkwardly. The answer to this was well known throughout the heavens. Lord Carius was building an army to launch an attack on the heavens and to destroy the Magisterium once and for all.

“He wants to see you dead.” Captain Adams said gingerly.

“Indeed he does!” The Magisterium cried, running over to his balcony, “He is there!” He says, pointing towards a large hill in the distance, “He is waiting there for the moment to strike. His spies have been captured: I have them in my prisons, and they will rot there!”

“The plan then; your highness?”

“We wait.” The Magisterium spoke calmly. “He will come to us.”

Rumours were rife throughout the lands of this war-bringer. Captain Adams had heard many himself.

“My liege…have you not heard the rumours?”

“Rumours?” The Magisterium asked, barely moving his lips.

 “They say he moves at night as a leopard; his army grows by hundreds of thousands each day!”

“Is that all?” The Magisterium laughed.

“That’s not the worst of it…they say he cannot die.”

The Magisterium moved like a shot. He grabbed the Captain around the throat and pushed him against a marble wall.

“Only I can live forever.”

And with that The Magisterium dropped him to the floor.

Captain Adams struggled to his feet. “My lord-”.

“Ready your forces Captain Adams.”

“But it would be certain death! They so greatly outnumber us!”

“I suggest then that Parthillia reconsider their allegiance. If you remain loyal to the heavens then I expect you to engage in battle. If not then I will kill every man, woman and child. And you will be the last to die.”

The Magisterium pulled Adams’ face close to his.

“You have till sunrise tomorrow: I hope you make the right decision.”

As the Raven Flies

Hi all, here's my latest story 'As the Raven Flies'. Written on a really bizarre idea one evening it all appeared formulated in my head, which was brilliant, and broke a pretty mean bash of writer's block! Big thanks to Rebecca Emin for her constant support and advice, she's a star! I hope you enjoy As the Raven Flies! Remember to leave your feedback and follow me on Twitter @Harry_Tennison.

As the Raven Flies

By Harry Tennison

It was late-evening. The sun had set and the moon basked everything in an eerie light. A man sat with his wife and children around a table, each in a wooden chair. But there was one chair empty. The woman’s face was grave, the strain of knowing making her old before her time. Her weathered lips opened, forcing the food down, not noticing the taste.

Their house was next to the village square. The square was surrounded by shops and houses: a butcher was locking his door. The village guard was shutting the large oak doors, blocking access. A raven sat on the wall surrounding the village, croaking loudly.

The guard hesitated; he could hear footsteps in the distance. A figure rode upon a hazel coloured horse, saluted the guardsman as he thundered past and stopped in the square. The villagers had spilled out, eager to hear what their visitor had to say.

He threw back his travellers hood and said simply:

“He is coming.”

The villagers looked at one another, murmuring to their friends, all repeating what the man had said.

He is coming.

Then, as if by magic, the moon fell behind a cloud. A thick mist appeared and a wicked chill sped through the air.

“Go, run!” the man cried to the villagers, “I’ll hold him back!”

They all knew he didn’t stand a chance.

He is coming.

The people scrambled, tumbling through secret passages hidden deep in cellars, climbing the high wall that surrounded them. But not everyone.

Through the mist he came. His black shadow bore down upon the remaining man, standing alone. He continued to walk: there was nothing. He opened the door silently. There he was sitting in his chair.

“So you came.” The man said.

“I always do.” A sinister voice floated around his head.

“Why are you here?” He asked, his voice shaking.

“I’ve come to do what I should have done a long time ago.” The foul voice hissed back.

“Please, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do not test me.”

The man stood up and turned, and immediately felt weak: drained of all emotion.

“Take me.”

“Of course.”

The wife and children sat upstairs, listening. They heard one man speak, the husband and father they knew well...but then he stopped. One of the children began to cry, running out of the room in a vain search of something to stop her tears. Suddenly she stopped crying.

He is coming.

The other ran after the first, blind in fear, shouting her name. But he was then silent.

He is coming.

The wife was silent, too scared to make a noise. A lone candle in the corner of the room flickered, before turning blue. The wicked chill filled the room and the candle went out.

“I told you I was coming.”

Anyone who remained that night will have heard a piercing scream break the deathly silence which hung over the village that night. They will have seen a figure leaving the house he once called home. A raven flew low over the village square. It was caught in the air and, with an explosion of fire, disappeared. And Death accompanied him. His work here was done.