Star Wars countdown… The Phantom Menace

Every Saturday night, my wife and I have a “film night” with our 5 year old son. This can be a mixed bag… for every viewing of an Avengers film, or the Back to the Future trilogy, we have had to suffer through Spy Kids, or Book of Life. As long as there are snacks, my son is generally happy, and it means we get to spend some quality family time together, without the 2 year old feeling left out, causing his usual brand of mayhem, or demanding Big Hero 6 or Toy Story 2 or 2 again.

In just over six weeks time, the three of us have tickets to see Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Yes, we have our tickets already.

Putting these two facts together (film night, plus Star Wars incoming), we asked our son if he wanted to re-watch the Star Wars films before the new film comes out. “Yes. All of them.” he replied immediately, before I had a chance to narrow the options down to the original trilogy…

So, we’ve just re-watched Phantom Menace together. Have my thoughts on this changed over time? Not really. Here are the ten things that suck most about Phantom Menace:

1- Nobody cares about taxation disputes. Sure, it’s possible that there are tax lawyers out there, rubbing their hands in glee at the thought of a major film finally giving this issue the long-overdue attention it merits… go and watch The Firm again, and be merry.

2- Anakin Skywalker is just too young. Imagine if Obi Wan had met him at about the same age as we meet Luke… Then contrast father against son over time as Anakin slowly turns evil. We’ll never know now how this would have worked out. Thanks, George.

3- Midichlorians. Just don’t.

4- Every scene is too “busy“. It’s like a cartoon for kids with ADHD… Whether on Tattooine, or Naboo, or Coruscant, there’s just too much background getting in the way of the foreground detail. Less is more. The financial and technical constraints of the original trilogy made for a far more believable set of locations, all at the outer reaches of the galaxy. We need to feel the dirt.

5- The stupidly stupid racist accents, especially on Naboo.

6- Are you an angel? No, you little pervert. What are you, like ten years old?

7- Yippee! No.

8- One of the most important men in the galaxy can apparently hide his identity by wearing a hoodie, and NO ONE recognises him… I look forward to the day that Barack Obama tries that to slip out for a pizza.

9- Anakin building 3-PO. Really?

10- Comedy droids. Roger roger; I’m out.

All that, and no room for Jar Jar. (He needs his own top ten countdown, but I’m not doing that.)

So, what did work?

That lightsaber finale. Awesome. From the double ended sabre lighting up, to the final sequence between Maul and Obi Wan… Oh, what glory there could have been. Ewan McGregor is patchy in this film (hampered by the wooden dialogue and the silly hair), but he really sells the finale. When he’s itching to get through the final implausible delaying mechanism to get to the man who has just killed his mentor, I’m right there with him, and the following sequence is so well-choreographed and FAST it still gives me goosebumps every time. I’ll even overlook the (entirely unbelievable) way he somersaults over Maul at the end, without Maul just slicing Obi Wan up the middle.

The sound effects in the podrace are amazing, taking you right into the pilot’s seat. Which is a good job, as the visuals are overdone and cartoony.

That Duel of the Fates song is incredible. Up there with the Imperial March for me.

When we got to the penultimate scene, with Qui-Gon’s funeral pyre, my son asked “Daddy, why are they not toasting marshmallows?”… maybe the next step should be to record a 5-year old’s “director’s commentary” DVD extra?

So, onto Attack of the Clones next week… A New Hope seems very far away, let alone The Force Awakens!

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OctPoWriMo #31 – The Song Goes On

Step off the dance floor
Draw breath. Relax. Have a drink.
Song changes; goes on.

So, OctPoWriMo has come to an end. I’ve published a poem a day during this month (actually quite a bit more, when you include other challenges), and I’ve tried to engage most days with the daily prompt… if I haven’t, it’s been at least a response to the prompt, even if in a “two-fingered” sort of way! I respond well, generally, to challenges and prompts, and have been pushed beyond my comfort zone this month, with varying results. Will I ever write a paradelle again? Not unless money changes hands…

I need to scale back for a bit now, and focus on re-drafting a picture book text ready to submit for critiquing at the SCBWI Conference in Winchester in three weeks time… poems have superseded the picture book writing lately, and I need to create some time to finish a draft of a heartwarming Christmas story… written entirely from a villain’s point of view (naturally).

So, thank you to everyone for your likes, comments and follows, and hope you will join me, at a less frenetic pace, for whatever I come up with next. What will that be? I genuinely have no idea. Watch this space and find out as I do 🙂

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10 Crucial Lessons for Rhymers… from Monty Python

or, inevitably, WHAT HAVE THE PYTHONS EVER DONE FOR US?

We are all products of our environment. Some wear their influences on their sleeves; others may not even be aware of tapping into their formative influences. I grew up in the 80s with Monty Python, a child of Python-loving parents who mercifully spared me the sketches that didn’t work (there are many), but instead exposed me to the films, the highlights reels, the comedy albums (on vinyl, no less), the Live at the Hollywood Bowl fan-fest. And here I am now trying to write rhyming picture books and other entertainments…

Here are ten lessons that rhymers (perhaps storytellers of any stripe) can take from the songs of Monty Python. Some of the links are NSFW…

1) CHALLENGE EXPECTATIONS
Have your main character do something unusual, that goes against type and challenges expectations. You’ve got a knight called Brave Sir Robin?

“When danger reared its ugly head
He bravely turned his tail and fled

Yes Brave Sir Robin turned about
And gallantly he chickened out…”

Or take a rugged, “manly” lumberjack, and then tell us that he likes to “put on women’s clothing, and hang around in bars.”

Or take the less-travelled perspective:

2) PLAY WITH WORDS
Have fun with the language, whether that’s homophones, (“sail the wide accountancy”)

lists,

or

or non-sequitors for comic effect
“We dine well here in Camelot, we eat ham and jam and spam a-lot

I have to push the pram-a-lot!”

3) GET THE TONE RIGHT
The gentle, plinky start of “Finland” sets the tone perfectly for an homage to a country “where I quite want to be”…

4) ENJOY YOUR RHYMES
Repeating the same end rhyme throughout, and even using it as an internal rhyme, can be fun…
“Half a bee, philosophically,
Must, ipso facto, half not be”

5) DON’T TALK DOWN TO YOUR AUDIENCE
The Galaxy Song, and the Medical Love Song, are examples of introducing a range of language and ideas that go far beyond what might be expected of the “everyman”. If the narrative, and the rhyme, is strong enough, you can introduce unfamiliar names and ideas very quickly.

Don’t talk down to your audience. Raise them up.

“Just remember that you’re standing on a planet that’s evolving
And revolving at 900 miles an hour.
It’s orbiting at 19 miles a second, so it’s reckoned,
The sun that is the source of all our power”

(I love the punchline at the end of this song)

6) MAKE YOUR RHYMES UNEXPECTED, OR UNUSUAL
All I know about philosophers, I know from this:

“Heideggar, Heideggar was a boozy beggar…

John Stewart Mill, of his own free will
On half a pint of shanty was particularly ill.”

And what about one of the greatest thinkers in history?

“Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle”

7) REPETITION, repetition….
A good example of repetition, and letting your characters grow, is the theme song from Life of Brian, with “a boy/ teenager/ not a girl/ a man called Brian”

“… his voice dropped down low
And things started to grow…”

8) DIVERSITY IS IMPORTANT
Monty Python made an effort to address diversity, in their own particular fashion, with “I Like Chinese” and “Never Be Rude To An Arab”…

“I like Chinese, I like Chinese,
They only come up to your knees”

It’s vital to reflect the diversity of the world we live in, to keep your characters relevant, and grounded in the reality of the time.

9) BE PREPARED TO MAKE MISTAKES
Viewed through modern eyes, neither of these songs have aged well… but how do you future-proof your material from the differing standards that will inevitably follow? You can’t. Write what’s in your heart, rather than chasing the trends of the day (or anticipated trends of tomorrow). If you never make mistakes, it just means you’re never trying.

Which leads us to our final point.

10) KEEP TRYING
There is only one way to finish this list. A song that has a ridiculously catchy chorus, a perfect balance of repetition/ variation/ progression, fun rhymes, a playful, changing rhyme structure… it’s even got whistling.

So, when the rejection emails start to pile up around you, put the kettle on, grab a slice of cake, and listen to this:
“Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say…”

I’m Back!

Hi everyone, I’ve just got back from a week’s holiday down in North Devon. A beautiful part of England… unfortunately we couldn’t even rely on decent weather in August, so had to suffer four waterlogged days, battling trenchfoot and hypothermia (only a slight exaggeration), before the sun eventually came out. Check out one of my holiday snaps below…

By the way – I think it says a lot about me that if you call your attraction The Big Sheep, then I’m going to put that on the “must visit” list! We did manage to visit a different beach every day, rain or shine… put that down to the stubbornness of those who live as far from the beach as is possible in these Isles.

I’ve come back with lots of ideas for new poems that I hope to share with you in the coming days and weeks. Hope you enjoyed the scheduled posts I left while I was off – it was a bit of a clean out of some older material, hence being a smorgasbord of poems, limericks, and zombie stories… variety is good though, right? 🙂

Thanks to everyone for your likes, shares and lovely comments. I couldn’t respond to each as I normally do, as we didn’t even have phone reception for 23.5 hours of each day, let alone an internet connection! My wife did discover on day three that if you hung off the back of the sofa at an awkward angle, you could just get a tiny bit of phone reception (as long as it wasn’t too windy… or cloudy… or a bird wasn’t flying past the window… it was very rural!)… amazing the lengths you go to to maintain a feeling of being “connected” to the world, once you’ve got used to it!

Now, if only there was some way to combine that beautiful North Devon scenery with a decent broadband connection…

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Haiku Challenge – “Bust” & “Must”

Two contributions from me for Ronovan’s weekly haiku challenge – “bust” and “must” being the theme words. Check out lots of great haiku on Ronovan’s blog: https://ronovanwrites.wordpress.com/2015/08/10/ronovanwrites-weekly-haiku-poetry-prompt-challenge-57-bust-must/

#1
My writing career
Has many needs, and one MUST:
Agent deal or bust!

#2
Raucous wedding brawl;
Black eyes, bust lips, bruised knuckles.
It must be true love.

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Summer Lovin’

Here in the UK, the school summer holidays are about to start. I’m taking most of this period off work to spend with my boys, so will be blogging less from now until September. My boys are 2 and 5 years old at the moment, and I’m really looking forward to doing a whole bunch of daft stuff with them while they are at such a fun age. (Any top tips on rainy day options, or things to do in the garden, gratefully received!)

So, the plan for the next few weeks looks like this, all around the loose theme of “summer”. I make no promises about posting every time – priorities!

Mon – Silliness, Stuff and Nonsense (I have some zombie/slug issues still to get out of my system… and don’t even ask about zombie slugs)

Wed – Haiku City

Thu – Throwback Thursday (a poem from the archives)

Fri – “Love”… yeah, I’m keeping this one vague to keep my options open!

A wee insight into my process – I literally have none of this written yet. As ever, I’ll fly by the seat of my pants, and use these prompts and “deadlines” as a spur to my creativity. Let’s hope it all works out… (I’ll still contribute to Ronovan’s weekly haiku challenge too, although I may have to submit late with some.)

Hope you can join me, and hope you have a great summer (even if it’s winter where you are 🙂 ).

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https://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/3772193760 / Creative Commons… I’m not nearly as photogenic as this guy!

Steps (Short Story – Pt 5 of 5)

Part One: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/steps-short-story-pt-1-of-5/
Part Two: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/07/steps-short-story-pt-2-of-5/
Part Three: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/08/steps-short-story-pt-3-of-5/
Part Four: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/09/steps-short-story-pt-4-of-5/
This is the fifth and final part.

DAY SIX
The man did not sleep, in any meaningful sense. The close, dank air smothered him completely. He felt like a man taken out of time and space, dropped in the void for infinity.

I fell, and am still falling.

He stopped to listen for sounds from above at regular intervals, cupping his hands to his ear.
scratching…
scraping…
slithering…
scuttling… sliding

Am I imagining it?

Fatigue and dehydration were taking their toll. Most times he couldn’t hear anything over his own reedy breath and the ba-boom ba-boom of blood pumping furiously through his head. Sometimes he stopped and didn’t hear anything and in the silence found himself losing consciousness and sleeping as he stood, only to be jolted awake by the sensation of falling.

I am falling. I am fallen.

The excruciating, unrelenting torture of movement.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

He refused to give in, stubbornly continuing down through this lonely pit of Babel. Boots and water bottle were abandoned on the steps, then his shorts and underwear, which had chafed his thighs bloody and swollen. He clutched the lighter in his hand, and carried on downwards naked, caked in dust and sweat and regret.

His pursuer did not seem to be gaining at any pace, but he dared not rest, or sit, for fear of never rising again. Every single atom in his body howled in pain; he slowed to massage his knees at regular intervals, for petty relief. His shins screamed with each jolt forward; head dizzy from the endless pirouette.

Step. Drag.

He paused to look back up the stairwell. There were three swollen heads peering down at him from some way above, silhouetted against the tiny clouds beyond, forked tongues flicking the air. Shadows among shadows.

What the hell is that?

Heart pounding, head thumping, hands shaking, he kept his bloodied feet moving, one hand constantly in contact with the wall for support. For reassurance.

He risked another look upwards. Had he imagined it? He looked down. A dim red glow, faint. The heart of the darkness.

Something.

He took no joy, felt nothing.

At least an end is coming. He stumbled on in the dark, teeth gritted, corkscrewing down through the earth.

DAY SEVEN
Step. Drag.

Pause.

Step.

The man had not slept, drank or ate in a long time. The raging thirst, the hunger in his belly, had gone. Only the numbness of total exhaustion remained. He scratched slowly at his face, prodding at sunken eyes, patchy stubble, cracked skin. The scar.

Willpower kept him going, fear his only companion. He had not heard his pursuer for a while. He was truly alone.

Was it ever there? Is my mind playing tricks on me? Do I even know what’s real any more?

He whispered his thoughts out loud, voice cracked and hoarse, to break the smothering spell of the silence.

What have I done to deserve this? This slow, torturous death, deep in the bowels of the earth. A worm wriggling and writhing upon the hook, with no possibility of escape.

He felt the steps above contracting, closing in on him, throbbing.

It couldn’t be that thing with the girl, could it?

He wondered what the end would feel like, when it surely came, and what lay beyond.

Am I already dead?

Is this my personal hell? Running down through the dark, forever?

Maybe I’m in purgatory…

He imagined the content of his soul being weighed and judged by unseen forces, balanced against his actions that day.

What choice did I have?

He walked, and wondered.

It couldn’t be that.

The light from below grew stronger with each passing flight, giving him the resolve to continue down what had to be the final steps. The stairs had narrowed now to shoulder width, a head-sized hole at the center lighting the stairwell with an eerie red glow. A sudden smell of rotten decay, damp and fusty, filled the air, filled his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, then gagged, dry-heaving.

Could it?

Then, after a million steps, the stairs simply ended.

They opened out into a large chamber, bathed in soft, red light. He collapsed to his knees as his legs continued downwards reflexively. Kneeling awkwardly on the cool, hard floor, he sucked in deep lungfuls of rancid air, looking for the long-awaited exit door. In the center of the room, directly beneath the hole at the stairwell’s heart, lay the pieces of his axe head, broken by the fall.

At either end of the chamber was a small, circular room, seemingly identical. One was lit with a dazzling light, the source of which was not visible. The other was in darkness, save for the light reflected from the other. Both rooms contained a six foot bench carved into the smooth gray rock, but nothing else. He looked closely around the chamber. Nothing. No door. No exit. No water. No piles of food. Nowhere else to go.

The man had his first decision to make since choosing to head down the steps all those days and miles ago. He made it in an instant, as if it was no choice at all. It was the choice he always made, now. He dragged himself to his feet, legs groaning against this final effort, and inched towards the dark room. He lay his broken body down on the bench, and closed his eyes.

In the moment before all the lights went out, a slight smile formed on the corners of the man’s mouth.

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https://www.flickr.com/photos/v1ctory_1s_m1ne/872441928 – Creative Commons

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Steps (Short Story – Pt 4 of 5)

Part One: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/steps-short-story-pt-1-of-5/
Part Two: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/07/steps-short-story-pt-2-of-5/
Part Three: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/08/steps-short-story-pt-3-of-5/
This is part four.

DAY FOUR
He slept badly. The darkness seeped into his dreams, like ink dropped into a bowl of water, while a single discordant note hummed in the distance. Faceless dream-slugs crawled over his body, covering his eyes, filling his mouth… He woke slapping the creatures from his face, choking.

His head throbbed, muscles ached. He rubbed at his feet and ankle, kneading them hard, grimacing at his own touch. The lighter clicked on, and he sat staring into the flame until he burnt his thumb. He looked up at the gray dot of sky, so far away.

Why, WHY? WHY?

In a rage, he screwed his hands into fists, beating them upon the walls. He grabbed the shoes from round his neck, lashing out ineffectually, swinging and slapping them against cold stone. Screaming like a cornered animal, he lashed out at his cage, flailing and wailing, burning bright with impotent anger, then slumping in the dark, sobbing, spent, alone.

Why?

He edged towards the central gap, looking once more into the darkness. He lay on his front and hung his head over the side, feet touching the wall behind him, wondering whether he could throw himself down.

Would I even land?

He stared and wondered, closed his eyes and wondered. He lay motionless for a long time, in silent prayer.

Something struck the back of his head. He instinctively swatted it away. Then something else struck, and again. Plip. Plip. He turned over. A raindrop fell directly onto his face. He experienced a moment of the purest joy, cackling and rolling and stamping his feet. He opened his mouth wide, holding his bottle open by the side of his head to catch every drop of moisture. A concentrated stream of rain, of life, fell straight down the center of the shaft, cleansing him of his sins, and he laughed manically.

The storm passed, the wind above changed, and the rain stopped falling.

He lay there on the step, head hanging over the central gap, for a long time, hoping for more. More. Eventually, he sat up to take stock. He had re-filled maybe a quarter of his bottle. He’d caught some in his mouth, and in that moment didn’t feel the aching pull of dehydration. That purifying, reviving water on his face had been the most refreshing feeling of his life.

I am reborn.

Sitting there in blackness, a thought went through his mind. He lay down on the step again, measuring its width. He couldn’t be sure as he hadn’t measured it at the top, but the steps felt narrower now than when he fell in. They were tapering. That means there must be a bottom.

They must taper to something, right?

He stood up, stretched as many muscles as he could, and resumed down the steps, limping with the effort of each step, but determined to go on. The rain had given him hope, and he walked for hours feeding on that hope, gorged and buoyed with belief.

DAY FIVE
On the morning of the fifth day, he ate the last of the mints, and drank the last of the water. Standing still, body slouched forward, he ran his fingers through his greasy hair, and massaged his neck. After the adrenaline rush of the previous day, his tank was empty.

Step.

Step.

Step, damn you.

Each step was slow, laboured; he grunted in pain. Each step required an effort of will to overcome the crushing weight of a mile of earth above him, the thinning of the air, the rising heat in the stairwell, the hopelessness of continuing…

He fumbled on, smoothed fingertips leading along the wall to guide his way through this dark, silent prison.

A noise stopped him.

What was that?

In the muffled shadows, he had grown used to the only sound being his own labored, wheezy breathing. Part of him enjoyed the silence, had always enjoyed it.

Probably nothing.

Somewhere above him, he heard a shuffle of feet and the sounds of something sniffing the air.

There is a reason that children fear the dark, the monster under the bed, the boogeyman, the enemy unseen…

What is that? It sounds… animal.

Another shuffle, somewhere far off, above.

His heart rate shot up, pounding half out of his chest. He felt sick to his stomach, and stumbled, bracing himself with both trembling hands against the wall.

There’s nowhere left to hide. Nowhere left to hide. Nowhere left to hide.

Chest tightening, gasping for breath, he saw spots in the dark before him, dancing and taunting. He picked up the pace to a hobbled stumble, down and down and down, no longer running towards salvation, but fleeing some-thing, chasing him through the black.

Hope will drag you so far. Fear drives you the rest of the way.

He smelled sulfur in the air. Hell itself was waiting for him, and he couldn’t get there fast enough.

… to be continued

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https://www.flickr.com/photos/v1ctory_1s_m1ne/872441928 – Creative Commons

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Steps (Short Story – Pt 3 of 5)

Part One: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/06/steps-short-story-pt-1-of-5/
Part Two: https://altheauthor.wordpress.com/2015/07/07/steps-short-story-pt-2-of-5/
This is part three.

DAY THREE
He woke painfully, still clothed in night. The boots were a poor substitute for a plump pillow, the stone of the steps an unforgiving mattress. His leg and back muscles spasmed and cramped.

“Aaaarrrhhhh!”

He screamed, puncturing the bubble of silence, as he stretched his legs and pointed his toes to relieve the pain. His scream echoed oddly, the sound stretching and contracting, stopping abruptly.

He reached for the water bottle, optimistically holding the bottle upside down over his mouth and tapping the base. His mouth salivated in receipt of another mint, but he felt dehydrated, sluggish. Levering himself to his feet using the axe handle, he walked around shoeless on the step to stretch out the cramp. The cold slab felt pleasing against the soles of his feet, and he relished the brief respite from the increasing sensory deprivation. He tied the long laces of his boots together and slung them around his neck.

Onwards, downwards. Can’t be much further now.

He marked the passing of time by the brightness of his window to the skies, each step taking him further from the light, each hour bringing him closer to freedom.

He marched on at a steady pace, pausing frequently for breaks, mindful of becoming too exhausted without water.

Will my boss even notice I’m not at my desk today?
Will anyone think to stop by my house and check on me?
Should I have waited at the top for someone to find me?

No point second-guessing now. He needed to head down, and out.

He tried counting the steps off, but kept losing track, and eventually lost interest. His mind hopped from topic to topic, incapable of deep insight in any one area, conditioned by a life spent flitting from one shiny bauble to the next on the internet. He had no idea how many hours of funny cat videos he’d watched. Too many. He knew where to get the most salacious celebrity gossip. He knew the best free porn sites (rather too well). He knew nothing remotely useful for his current situation.

He reflected on his own, depressingly normal life. A few longish term girlfriends, but nothing had stuck. No great drama, just hadn’t quite worked out. Livvy, beautiful, sweet Livvy… she could have been the one… pity I wasn’t the only one for her. The usual imbalance of love. His parents had separated when he was young: he hadn’t seen his dad for twenty years. Mom had died a few years back, brain haemorrhage in the supermarket, dropped down dead, like a light switched off. He hadn’t thought about her for a while, and felt some guilt about that, but he’d never been one to dwell on the past. – As for work

He focused on the future, his future, with a hot little wife, a couple of kids – one boy, one girl, naturally – and a promotion at work to pay for the modern, classy, spacious house they were all going to live in. Something with high ceilings and natural light. Windows. Lots of windows. As dreams go, it wasn’t much, but it was all his, and all he had right now.

He slouched on down the steps.

He had never been one for religion. Never been to church, except for friends’ weddings. Never prayed. Never believed. Never had faith. He’d seen precious little evidence of any Divine power in his life, and the chaos he’d lived through. He was a man of evidence, of things grounded in the physical world that you could see and taste and hold. But he prayed now. He justified it to himself logically – can’t hurt to try – but it went far beyond that. He was losing hope, losing time. Losing his mind.

He needed to reach out to something.

He reached out, and he prayed. He prayed for his mom, in the way that a five-year old who skins their knee in the playground cries out automatically. He prayed for salvation – a hot meal, a beer, some bandages for my feet. He prayed for relief – a warm bath and a comfy bed. He prayed for forgiveness…

Hands clasped, head bowed, he prayed and prayed, feet taking him automatically, mechanically downwards. The repetition of each movement forward, the clacking of wood on stone, and the all-encompassing dark, had a hypnotic effect. His upper body swayed as the prayer became a chant, while his legs kept on taking him down the endless steps. He prayed and chanted for a long time, descending deeper and deeper. The chant became a rhyme, half-remembered.

In the darkest corners
Of every bedroom wall

In this place where dreams die
And spiders fear to crawl

Something old awakens
The smell seeps through the wall

Time has lost all meaning
His soul will surely fall

There’s nowhere left to hide
Nowhere left to hide
Nowhere left to hide…

He trailed off into silence. The man walked a little more, then stopped, sat, hugged his knees to his chest, rocking slightly.

Nowhere left to hide

Sitting there on the step, the dark seeped in through his eyes, his mouth, his ears, through his skin, and was carried along his veins and arteries into every organ, every cell in his body, until all light was gone, and he was one with the dark.

… to be continued

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https://www.flickr.com/photos/v1ctory_1s_m1ne/872441928 – Creative Commons

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