Hope I have the right to remain silent –
Because of a writing rite?
Urge on a fantasy is quite vi’lent:
I write, in the main, with might;
Imagination is going soaring
And really is taking flight,
So onto the page the words keep pouring
To keep me up half the night;
The prologue alone has plenty dying –
Suspense is kept quite alight,
So it may be said that I’ll be trying
To give everyone a fright!
Forgive lack of visits – or at least comments. I am still trying to keep up with reading blogs, though.
Anyway, to show what I’m busy with, here are some 350 words from the Prelude to Darx Circle. If there is interest, I might keep sticking in some regular chunks of similar size, to make up for lack of other posts!
Dengana was not happy. It was a long way to walk to the farmhouse they called the Place of Two Old Frogs, and he was also worried about leaving the cattle in the care of his younger brother. Still, the order to go and find out why none of the villagers’ family members employed by the Old Frogs had been seen for days had come from the headman himself. It would have been unwise not to obey promptly. The boy was in enough trouble with him already, after he had been accused of being responsible for the sudden invasion of land crabs into the headman’s hut ‘Most unfair, the way I get the blame for everything,’ he muttered to himself.
It had been great fun, though.
He felt the tar hot against the soles of his bare feet, toughened though they were, as he padded up the driveway. The slapping of his footfalls seemed loud in his ears, and he suddenly wondered why. Then it struck him that he could hear no other sounds.
A feeling of unease crept over him. There was something … wrong. He could not even hear bird calls or insect noises. No barking dogs were rushing out. No horses were to be seen in the paddocks on both sides. He glanced behind him to the far side of the valley where the twin peaks of The Rhino were etched starkly and, it seemed now, threateningly. In front of him, high on the mountain slopes above the farm, the hunched rock figures of The Sad Ones loomed as if glaring down at him.
Despite the blazing sunlight, the atmosphere seemed increasingly oppressive as he drew nearer the old verandah home. The front part showed no signs of life, and he made his way round to the back door. Still nobody was in sight, or answered his calls. The door was open, though, and he poked his head through, shouted once more, and entered.
Seconds later Dengana ran out again, screaming. He was still screaming and sobbing when he got back to the village.
© Colonialist May 2013 (WordPress)