Trick or Scream

here was an enormous crash and the shrill shriek of shattering glass as the window panes blew inwards. The curtains billowed and blustered as a ferocious blast of wind filled the room sending ornaments, pictures and books spinning around and bouncing off the walls, floor and ceiling. A blinding flash of lightning shot through the smashed windows. Not white, but blinding scarlet forks and fingers of electricity, which hissed and crackled as they criss-crossed the room leaving rivulets of blood streaming down the walls.

Then a sudden silence. A deafening silence. As still as a grave. A cat, seemingly oblivious to the events of the last few minutes, awoke from is slumbers, stretched its legs and shivered as it looked around the remains of the room. It licked one front paw and then the other, and then stepped over the witches hats, plastic sickles, and ghoul masks which littered the floor before leaping onto an upturned cupboard and jumping out the window into the garden beyond.

A gaggle of giggling children masquerading as witches, warlocks and ghosts banged on the solid oak door oblivious to the events of the past few minutes. Trick or treat they yelled through the letter box, trick or treat?

Nothing. No response. They turned to walk away, and then started running towards the gate. Suddenly they heard a loud, deep and menacing creek as the door began to open behind them. As one, they stopped and turned. Beyond the open door was pitch black, not a glimmer of light. And standing there, a tall figure in a hooded blood red cloak, leaning on a stick. There was a deep and hollow black void where its face should have been, just two iridescent green eyes shone out from the darkness.  The children stood transfixed unable to draw their eyes away from the creature before them. It slowly raised an arm then began beckoning them with a spindly grey finger. They we unable to resist and started marching in step, left right, left right towards the house and the sinister creature drawing them in. As they marched they muttered strange words and turned their faces to the heavens.

They stopped in front the door and stamped their right feet on the ground. One of them, a child dressed as the grim reaper began to shimmer then start to grow in height, a little at first then shooting up to face straight into the abyss beneath the grey hood. He started jabbering and babbling in a shrill shrieking voice, faster and faster and rising into an echoing deafening scream.

Slowly the cloak began to drift downwards until it lay in an empty heap on the ground and the grim reaper became a child again. There was a bloodcurdling scream from behind them, and then the cat wound itself between the children’s feet, and wandered back into the house. The door slammed behind it. The children turned, dazed, and began to wander away from the house.

Just as they reached the gate, the door flew open behind them. Treat shouted a voice. I’ll give you a treat. They turned to see a grey haired old lady holding in her hands several bags of sweets. The hallway was a blaze of light and the sound of music filled the house.  Treat she cried, treat! They ran back towards the house as the memory of the last few minutes evaporated in their minds. The old lady drew them into the house. Then she took on a sinister, menacing look. The cat purred louder and louder as it twisted and turned between her feet. So it’s a treat you want she cried and with that there was an enormous crash and the shrill shriek of shattering glass as the panes blew inwards. The curtains billowed and blustered as a ferocious blast of wind filled the room sending ornaments, pictures and books spinning around and bouncing off the walls, floor and ceiling. Then a blinding flash of lightning shot through the smashed windows. Not white, but blinding scarlet forks and fingers of electricity, which hissed and crackled as they criss-crossed the room leaving rivulets of blood streaming down the walls.

*

All that was supposed to have happened many years ago. No one knew whose the children were. The strange creature and the grey haired old lady remain a mystery, and today a modern house stands where the old one once stood. Most of the villagers believe the whole story to be the result of a fertile imagination, a story which has become more exaggerated with each Halloween.

It was the last night of October. A group of locals were leaning on the bar of the village pub, chatting and drinking ale, when the door blew open with a bang, and in strolled a stranger in a hooded blood red cloak........

Written for Writers Island and (Fiction)Friday and Sunday Scribblings 

        For Sunday Scribblings

I'll start with a mathematical exercise!

Think of a number, any number. Add 4, then  double it. Get your calculator out and multiply the result by nine. Add the digits of your new number together (ie: if for example  you have 122, go 1+2+2 and you'll get 5) and if you still have more than one digit repeat the exercise until you have a single digit. Multiply the single digit by 100 then deduct 200. Now why did I ask you to do that?

This, my friends, is my 700th post here at Keith's Ramblings.I wanted to mark the occasion with something special, something which would take the blogosphere by storm. But some days you simply can’t think of anything to say or write. Words which normally flutter down from the scribe upstairs get caught in a sudden gust of wind leaving you well and truly and literally be-mused. Whilst this might come of something of a relief to those around you, such verbal and inscriptive constipation can be a bit of a pain in the butt!

I dropped into Sunday Scribblings hoping for a kick-start, but I don’t have much to say about the prompt which proffered itself. ‘Harvest’ makes me think of hay fever and sets me off sneezing. My own weekly challenge at Carry On Tuesday asks its followers to write about something they’ve learned. I learned a fair bit over the years, but do my colleagues and readers really want to know how to pick a peck of pickled pepper, or pour a pint of Porter the way one ‘aughter?

Then I realised it was Wordless Wednesday, the day we all have the chance to stick something visual rather than written onto our blogs! Excellent I thought, but then it occurred to me that I’d already bashed out one hundred and eighty eight words! (One hundred and ninety four now; and rising!) Not just that, in a few minutes it will be Thursday. It does however seem the only way forward so let's see what I can find.

I’ve had a quick trawl through my photos and I've  found one I took a few weeks ago down on the beach. I knew one day I’d find an excuse to use it, so here goes! I present to you ‘Sunset over the English Channel’

 Now, what am I going to write for post number 701?

Emotion unleashed

Clever Bennie!

Little Bennie was so sweeeeet! Big blue eyes, chubby pink cheeks and a littie-bittie button nose. He would crawl around the house, shuffle about the garden and once he even tried to clamber on all fours, up the stairs!

Bennie had a special talent. He didn’t know it was special; it was just something he did. When he was in the garden he could wiggle his nose at a flower bud, and it would burst open and turn into a beautiful blossom. He could frown at an ugly slug and it would slither off as fast as its slime could carry it. He could smile at a spider and sit down beside her, and get her to tickle his feet!

One summer’s day Mummy and Daddy decided to eat in the garden. Daddy was cooking on a fire in a big tin box, and there were lots of adults there talking and laughing going coo-coo at Bennie. Bennie was crawling around amusing himself. No one noticed as he winked at a bumble bee and it looped the loop in the air. Nobody saw him poke out his tongue at a dandelion which exploded into the air, and all the little grey bits floated back down and landed all around him.

It wasn’t very warm outside and Bennie wished they would all go indoors and eat in the kitchen as usual. After all, gardens were only meant for playing in. It was getting darker and darker and suddenly he felt a rain drop plop onto his arm. Daddy looked up and frowned then gave Uncle Gilbert a plate of food. Bennie was getting hungry and wondered when he would get his! Uncle Gilbert started to shake a pepper pot over his plate, and some of it missed and landed on Bennie’s nose! There was a flash in the sky and a rumble of thunder and suddenly Bennie sneezed the biggest little sneeze he’d ever sneezed! And you’ll never guess what happened next! The clouds suddenly scattered in lots of different directions and the sun appeared in the blue sky beyond.

Bennie looked at the sun and grinned. The sun looked at Bennie and winked!

 

This week (Fiction)Friday asked us to come up with something along these lines - 'What 

are your characters very mild superpowers?'. 

 

Click once or twice on pictures to enlarge

"On this site September.5.1782 nothing happened"

 

I've deleted the title, it wasn't essential!

Right, I’ve finished my story. Oh dear, I think it’s a bit too long. I seem to remember some rule about it having a maximum of 150 words. I’ve more than doubled that. What shall I do? I’m going to have to eliminate anything that’s not essential.

So, out goes the second paragraph. It’s not really necessary. Now that’s gone, the third paragraph has nothing to relate to. I guess that can go too. Okay, it’s shrinking.

If I am clever with the title and make it really descriptive, I won’t actually need need the first few sentences. While I’m at it I may as well strike the whole paragraph. Let’s see? Yes, that works.

There are a lot of flowery phrases down here. Loads of words can disappear without really altering the story. Trouble is, some of the sentences are left looking a little basic, naked even! I’m not very happy with them. I think I’ll knock them out completely. Yes, that’s better.

I suppose I could use a picture of the main character and then I won’t need to describe him. That's another chunk gone. 

I’ve just read what’s left, and paragraph four doesn’t make sense without paragraph three. And I could even remove five now that two’s gone. Mmmm.

The ending is a bit over the top now that so much has been taken out, so I’ll dump that too. There it goes!


Right, done. Here we go then, I really hope you enjoy it! 

Oh! It’s all gone! Every single word! All that remains is the title, and a picture of the main character, and they are not really needed without a story! Guess I’ll have to start again. I need to keep count this time. Here goes!

Once upon a time (4 words) there was a man called Eustace (that’s 10 words – 140 to go!) and he lived in.............


Written for the Sunday Scribblings prompt, Essential

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Carry On Tuesday is open for business! Click HERE to take a look!

The end of the pier?

A few days ago I told you about the devastating fire which engulfed the pier in Hastings, just as plans to redevelop it were taking shape. Today I dropped by to pay my respects; not only to the grand old pier, but to the folk who for years have been working tirelessly raising money and keeping the project in the public eye. You only had to see the look on the faces of bystanders to see what this mindless act of vandalism means to the people of Hastings. But they won’t be defeated. Volunteers stood around in day glow jackets rattling collecting buckets. People were attaching flowers to the railings. There was a strong sense of hope over-riding the feelings of despair. I took a few photographs which will hopefully convey something of what I witnessed today.

click on picture to read the message

 To see my first account click HERE

I didn't expect that!

This weeks prompt at Writers Island is Envision.


‘And you, Keith, have won tonight’s star prize, an all expenses paid trip back to London in the year 1894’

I must admit, I looked quite dapper. I had on a frock coat (I believe that’s what they’re called) tapered trousers, a bow tie, and in my hand a rather fancy cane. Sadly those around me looked a bit scruffy in their tattered clothes, and as I passed by, many doffed their hats.I found that somewhat agreeable.


But the stench of unwashed bodies was horrendous. Smoke from coal fires choked the air, and stained the blonde Portland stone of the houses lining the street. Sewage ran down open gullies, and a herd of cows ambled past leaving steaming stinking pats on the cobbled road. I needed a libation, and I needed it urgently! However, finding a hostelry was not easy. The Temperance Society had been successful in shaming the working classes into a life of sobriety, and many had taken the pledge to abstain from imbibing intoxicating liquor. But I found an inn in Threadneedle Street and felt no guilt whatsoever  in downing a frothing tankard of jet black stout.


I overheard a conversation. It seemed that Tower Bridge was to be officially opened that very afternoon, the bridge which I crossed daily in my present life. It had been an era of rapid change in London. In the space of a few years the underground railway had transformed travel. The Houses of Parliament became the seat of power, and Big Ben began to signal the changing hour. The Royal Family moved into Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square became the centre of the city. There I was, in the middle of the age which gave London the sights and images that folk from the world over flock to visit in increasing numbers every year.


I suddenly heard a familiar sound, but one I didn’t expect to hear in 1894! The Nokia ringing tone!


I blinked a couple of time, the ringing stopped and everything had changed back to 2010. ‘Hey, you nodded off!’ said my friend Rosey ‘and it’s your round! Mine’s a chardonnay’.

5 October 2010. Hastings pier was destroyed today.

As Victorian seaside piers go, the one which juts out into to the English Channel from Hastings could never have been described as beautiful! It did however have a certain charm, and when it fell into a perilous state in 2006 it was closed to the public. However, a trust was set up to bring the old structure back to its former glory and £3 million pounds was earmarked for the project which was soon to commence.I took this photograph a few weeks ago.

But today was a sad day for the folk in the Hastings area, including me, when the old iron lady was set alight by arsonists.

photo Daily Mail


The devastating blaze has been raging all day, and tonight nothing remains but the legs which once supported this iconic structure and the smouldering remains of the buildings which graced its deck.

 photo Daily Mail



Hastings’ 910ft long pier opened in 1872 and considered to be the ‘peerless pier’. It was given an art deco facelift in the thirties, and during the 60’s and 70’s it played host to major bands including The Rolling Stones, The Who and Pink Floyd. A promise was made to refurbish the original stage and use it in the rebuilt lavish ballroom. Sadly that too has been lost in the fire.


Two teenagers  have been arrested and charged with arson.

A soary story!

Writers Island prompt this week is 'Soar'

Tom rubbed his sleepy eyes and blinked several times before turning back onto his side and pulling his duvet right up over his head. It was no good. He had to get up. It was the start of another school day, but at least he had football to look forward to. A few minutes later he stumbled into the kitchen.




‘Thought you were staying in that bed of yours all day’ said Tom’s mum. ‘Get this down you’ she said as she plonked a bowl of cornflakes on the table.


Tom gobbled it down, looked at his watch and mumbled something under his breath. ‘Watch your language young man’ growled mum. ‘You’d better fly or you’ll miss the bus’.


Tom grabbed his jacket and his bag and rushed out of the house. Them something really odd happened. There was a rush of wind and Tom was lifted clean off his feet and began to soar upward into the sky! What was happening? Hey, this was fun! But it can’t be happening. Fifth form boys at Tottenham High don’t fly!


‘It must be a dream’ he thought. ‘That’s it, a dream. I remember curling up under the duvet when I should have been getting up, and I must have fallen asleep. But this is fun. I hope mum doesn’t come and wake me up’.


He soared higher and higher. He shot into the clouds, and when he came out the other side .....’Woaaaa – an airplane’ he screamed as he whooshed past a 747 who’s pilot seemed to be flying it with a startled look on his face and a hand over his eyes. Up and up he went. He passed an angel sitting on cloud playing a guitar. ‘Now I know it’s a dream’ he thought. ‘Angels play harps’.


Higher and higher he soared. The moon was getting closer and closer. ‘I’m gonna crash land’ he thought. ‘But I am a bit hungry, and the moon looks awfully like it’s made of cheese’. As he got closer he saw there was only one building on the surface. It was a pub called The Man on the Moon, and outside was a bearded chap waving a packet labelled Biscuits For Cheese and a pack of butter. But suddenly his direction changed and once again he was flying upwards at an incredible rate of knots. He flew past satellites and meteorites and stalagmites. ‘Stalagmites?’ he thought. ‘But they live in caves’. He brushed by planets and shot past stars, including Elvis Presley, and then............’What’s this?’


He seemed to be hurtling towards a mirror! He saw himself rushing towards himself at enormous speed. He screwed closed his eyes and waited for the crash. Nothing. And not just nothing. He stopped dead. Still. Motionless.

*

He opened one eye and right alongside him was....himself! The two of them suspended in space.


‘Who on earth are you? ‘asked Tom.


‘I’m not from Earth!' said his mirror image ‘but since you ask, my name is Thomas. So who on Doppelgangia are you?’


‘I’m Tom from Tottenham’ he answered, and with that they flew apart at a million trillion zillion miles an hour.

*

Tom rubbed his sleepy eyes and blinked several times before turning back onto his side and pulling his duvet right up over his head. ‘That was hell of a dream’ he said to himself. It was no good. He had to get up. It was the start of another school day, but at least he had football to look forward to. A few minutes later he stumbled into the kitchen.


'Mum, are you okay?' asked Tom.


‘What...what...erm...but you went to school an hour ago, I saw you go out the door’


‘Very funny’ said Tom. ‘No time for breakfast, I overslept – why didn’t you wake me up?


‘But, but, but, you had breakfast, - there’s your empty bowl'


‘Are you sure you are okay mum?’ said Tom as he walked towards the door. ‘Where’s my coat, and what’s happened to my bag? I know I left it there last night........’

*

Thomas rubbed his sleepy eyes and blinked several times before turning back onto his side and pulling his duvet right up over his head. It was no good. He had to get up. It was the start of another school day, but at least he had football to look forward to. A few minutes later he stumbled into the kitchen.


‘Tom, what are you doing here?’


‘I live here’ laughed Thomas. ‘And what’s with the Tom? You always complain when people shorten my name.

*

So there you have it. Proof that there is at least one other planet out there in space, possibly called Doppelgangia where each of us has a double, and life goes on exactly as it does here. Having said that, I’m not entirely sure about the flying bit. Maybe I dreampt the whole thing up!

A story with no beginning and no end!

A story with no beginning........

He parked his brand new black BMW in its private parking space at the business he'd grown from humble beginnings to the international corporation it was today. As he walked towards the entrance he clicked the button on the key then glanced over his shoulder, smiling, as his car winked back at him.

Then suddenly he was surrounded. They came from nowhere. Three men, three threatening men. He looked from one to the other, into their steely gazing eyes. Those eyes seemed to bore into him. There was something familiar about them, something familiar in the sinister way they stared.

‘You thought we’d forgotten’ said one of the men stabbing a finger into his chest. He staggered back and was caught from behind by another of them. ‘But we hadn’t’ said the man pushing him forward. ‘We’ll never forget’ said the third of his tormentors. ‘We’ll never, never forget and nor should you’.

Then they started to jerk him round. Round and round and round. ‘We’ll never forget’ echoed the voices in his head ‘Never never never’

For a second, time stood still. The men, and everything around him froze. There was silence, total silence. Then it happened. A flashback. He saw the men around him as youths, youths from his past, but the eyes were the same sinister staring eyes. He went cold as he remembered what had happened that day thirty years ago, the last time he'd seen them. Then his mind jolted back to the present. He made a dash forward pushing one of the men into the wall. He rushed towards his car, pressing furiously on the key, waiting for the bleep which would tell him the car was unlocked. He flung open the door, and as he leapt into the driver’s seat he found the three angry men sittng inside.

‘We said we wouldn’t forget’ shouted one of them'

 A second voice joined in. ‘We said we wouldn’t forget’.

Then all three of them yelled.

‘We said we wouldn’t forget!’

.............and no end!

Written for Sunday Scribblings 'Flashback'

This weeks prompt at Carry On Tuesday is now ready and waiting!