For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto challenge. It just so happens that this photograph fits my new WIP like a glove. This is not an excerpt, but a taster.
Jessop told them to use the stone from the quarry. He was damned if he was going to pay to ship stone from elsewhere when he had perfectly good building materials on his own land. The foreman tried to explain that it wasn’t a quarry, that he’d never get local men to dig stone out of that hillside. So Jessop fired the local labourers and hired immigrants, half-starved men who would work for a meal a day.
The skeletal workforce dug and hewed and dragged the millstone grit up the hill to the site, through the winter when east wind blew bitter across the moors and the wind from the north brought snow. If he lost a few labourers there were plenty more. A whole country full of them, he snarled when a delegation of Quakers reproached him on the subject.
He had to bring in masons from the south. None of the northern folk would touch the stone and the work dragged. It was autumn before the house was finished, the dressed stone shining pale gold in the late sun, and Jessop, mill owner, builder of empires and mansions fit for emperors installed his family and servants in the Hall. On that first golden evening, he stood beneath the chestnuts of the alley, thumbs stuck into the pockets of his ample waistcoat and looked down on the valley town with its smoke and smells and thought himself a king.
Later, when the house was quiet, when the last scullery maid had stumbled into her attic bed, and the butler had locked every door and window tight, the quarry that wasn’t a quarry sighed a dark sigh, and through its dark entrance, the starved and the crippled, men, women and children of Jessop’s broken army of labourers and mill workers drifted into the dark. Their feet made no sound as they followed the passage in the hill that was not a quarry, that passed beneath the foundations of Jessop’s new house, and opened with a sigh into the deepest of the cellars.
Pale and gaunt with smouldering fire in their dead eyes they drifted, silent as falling snow up the stone stairs to the cellar door. The only door in the house without a lock.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
photo by Ben Williams vis Unsplash
The big house has railings around it like the park, and big gates that never open.
There used to be a sign on gate that said: Beware, vicious dog, until the dog pulled it down.
Not vicious, he shouts at whoever stops to look into his sad eyes, just lonely.
Rebel response to the dverse prompt. Rather than including a whole chunk of Maya Angelou’s words, which are hers and hers alone, I have just borrowed three of the words that could be anybody’s words, including mine—the rock cries.
There was a forest here and rivers and lush green. There were birds and deer, and owls and foxes in the night. There were flocks of finches and skylarks in the day sky, and summer nights were full of stars. There were.
Instead we preferred our meat twice a day, our cruises round the world and phones and a new car every two years, a new kitchen when the fashions changed and monochrome went out. We wanted novelty and new and more than we needed because it was comforting to be able to throw things away.
It killed the earth and now it is just a rock and the rock cries.
I missed the date for this republishing of one of my stories. Thank you to Literally Stories for putting out Whoosh a second time. Much appreciated.
You can read the post with a link to the story here.
Finished the rewrite. It’s in the lap of the gods now. Sue’s photo prompt is as apposite as ever.
All has changed since Richard ordered the castle built on the promontory, but is that not always the way? Nothing except the salmon stays still in the current of a rushing river. Men build and other men pull down. Men make sons so they too may die in the same way as their fathers. She did not expect to see the tower as she remembers it, that it is now only a tumble of stones is not too hard to bear. But what digs deep into her heart like a flung javelin is the loneliness.
She remembers feeling the same loneliness at Dún Ailinne when the king and his company left with their banners and their feasting, to return to more comfortable houses where wives and children awaited them, a roaring fire in the hearth and hounds to greet them. The ancient seat of kings was a sorrowful place, ignored and abandoned unless a coronation required the dust to be chased outside, wall hangings shaken out, the mouse and bat droppings swept from the great table. When the ceremony was over, the dust returned and the solemn loneliness.
This is different. This was home, the castle built by the first of the Northmen for his wife and queen. There used to be love within these stone walls and the laughter of children, and if there were also tears, is that just not part of every story? She places a hand on the ruined sill where the wind from the sea blows and the rain blows. All gone. Even their names.
Another hand covers hers. She turns her head, away from the sadness of the lonely ruin, and his eyes are smiling, gentle and grey as ever. They know more than names, have lived more than love. She links her arm with his and they go back to join the wind blowing, the gulls crying, beyond laughter and sorrow.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Michal Vrba via Unsplash
There is something about the sight of children absorbed in a tactical game of skill, wits and intelligence that gives me the creeps.
I imagine them later, older, sitting together again, but this time around a conference table in a boardroom.
Older, the tactics refined and put to other uses, children who never acted the maggot at school plot with cold, dispassionate moves the fate of millions.
For anyone who is a fan of epic fantasy, this compendium might be up your alley, a collaborative project, for which I wrote the introductory poem.
You can get the paperback here and the kindle version here.
There is a short introductory video to the book on YouTube here