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dark | side | thursday | twentyfive

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

atownend_2015_02_15_00270-Edit

Do you have a dark side?

Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

AJT_6650-Edit

dark | side | thursday | twentyfive

His eyes closed.

His inert body sank below the surface of the back water, coming to rest on the submerged floor of the tomb.  Face down.

Ripples splayed out on the surface of the water, enlarging concentric circles the only trace of his passage from the ground above.  Soon, even those petered out. The black water still, impenetrable.

Had he been able to look up, from the place his body rested, and been able to see through the dark water, he would have seen a small whiskered face gazing down into the water below. Cold blue eyes, pupils dark slits, revealing nothing. Two clawed paws gripping the edge of the hole.

And, had he continued to look, he would have seen another pair of eyes join those of the whiskered sentinel at the portal of death. These eyes, dark, unmoving.

Her eyes.

She stood there, the creature at her feet. The ripped white shift she wore still clinging to the curves of her body. Stained and shredded by the horrors she had suffered.   Her hair ragged and dirty, pasted to her face, a face covered in the filth of the night.

She bent down, the shift rising up as she did, revealing her emaciated and bruised body. She lifted the creature up, cradling it in her hands, raised it to her lips and pressed her thin cold lips to those of her familiar. The kiss was long and deep, her body shuddered, the fur on the back of the creature erect, it’s claws digging into the soft skin of her hands.

The dark kiss ended.

She placed the creature back on the floor.

Behind her, another moved. The man in black. He moved toward the hole in the ground. Stooped, reaching toward the rough hewn boards that lay partly covering the water filled tomb. He pulled them across the hole, covering it. Blocking the light. He continued his work, placing heavy stones on the boards. Sealing the opening.

He turned to her. His lips a thin dark slash in the darkness of his face. His voice harsh, grating, “He will trouble you no more”.

She turned. Walked away.

Reaching the plot next to the stopped up hole she knelt. She lay down on the cold stone, her arms reaching out, seeking comfort in the cold stone.  Her body stiff, bruised, her breast pressed hard against the harsh stone. Her empty dark eyes closed.

The man in black walked away, along the path toward the iron gates. He did not turn back. He did not touch her, did not speak to her. Walked away. Walked toward the waiting red tram. The bell rang three times, the door opened. He climbed aboard. The door slammed shut. The tram moved away slowly.

It was dark. So cold. So very cold.  His eyes opened. He saw nothing. He was soaking wet. Feeling returning to his aching fingers and arms. He reached out. Fingers clawing along the cold floor.

His fingers touched metal. A key.

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

twentyfive | fiftytwo

(extra)ordinary

Image | | andy townend

“if you’ve not been loved as a child, you don’t know how to love a child”
― jane gardam, old filth

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(laeken cemetery, brussel)

i wasn’t

(or, didn’t feel so)

but,

i do

that’s (extra)ordinary

and, worth

telling?

(for DP weekly photo challenge – (extra)ordinary and lucile’s photo 101 rehab)

*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 16-35mm f/4 lens at ISO280, 35mm, 1/125s and f/4 and edited in lightroom cc and analog efex pro 2, rehab under way (again)*

poetry 101 rehab: exposition

Image | | andy townend

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Do you miss the Writing 201 Poetry course by the Daily Post? If so, then join this blogging challenge and let the poetry flow!

How does it work?

Feel free to answer the prompt, twist it or ignore it; write a poem of your own or share a poem by another author. Write about your inspiration, your creative process or other poetry related thoughts, but this is in no way obligatory. Nothing is obligatory in this challenge. The idea is to get together, talk poetry and have fun!

How can you take part?

Anyone can take part, anytime you want. Publish your poetry post and add a link to it by clicking on the Poetry 101 Rehab badge below or share your link in a comment. Use the tag Poetry 101 Rehab, so we can find each other in the Reader.

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I will act as your host, and I’ll be here for you to reply to your comments, read your poetry, like and comment. While this post is the starting point for the challenge, do visit fellow poets in the link-up and chat to them on their blogs!

This week’s prompt is EXPOSITION.

new exposition

even those who do not see

come to find

My starter for ten, entitled EXPOSITION, is an attempt at expression in the form of a Japanese haiku. What will your take on the keyword EXPOSITION be? Blog about it in a poetry post and share your link in the comments section of this post and by clicking on the Poetry 101 Badge above.

Mara Eastern created Poetry 101 Rehab.

low keyed tree

Image | | andy townend

“When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we’d be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing.” 
― Haruki Murakami

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(tree, all low keyed up and waiting for me in a forest near tervuren…)

(for Imagecraft Bootcamp — Low Key Images, by Mitch and Lucile)

(also for Lucile’s photo 101 rehab)

*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 70-200mm f/4 lens at ISO220, 1/125s and f/4, absolutely not a single edit, serendipity*

high keyed handlebars

Image | | andy townend

“It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them.”
― Ernest Hemingway

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(birminghamstraat, molenbeek)

(for Imagecraft Bootcamp — Intro and First Challenge, by Mitch and Lucile)

(also for Lucile’s photo 101 rehab)

*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 16-35mm f/4 lens at IS)200, 35mm, 1/250s and f/4.5, edited in lightroom cc*

grid

Image | | andy townend

“And then, one day
I got in”
– lyrics from The Grid by Daft Punk

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(railing outside my apartment, birminghamstraat, molenbeek)

(for DP weekly photo challenge from WordPress and Lucile’s photo 101 rehab)

*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 50mm f/1.4 lens at ISO560, f/1.4, 1/125s edited in lightroom cc, photoshop cc and analog efex pro2 with double exposure, also sat in a wet puddle on a windy balcony*

exposed

Image | | andy townend

“He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams…”
– John Steinbeck

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My response to “Tech of the month: Long Exposure” hosted by the peerless perelincolors and lucile de godoy.

I had a lot of fun putting this post together and finally got to use my Light Craft Workshop ND-500 filter – so damn dark you really can’t see through it.

This shot was probably the third or fourth attempt, I may try more, but I wanted to share this one.

Shot with my Nikon D700, Nikkor AF-S 16-35mm f/4 ED lens at 32mm, ISO 200, f/14 with an exposure time of 90 seconds with that big dark filter screwed on tight. The shot was taken in manual mode, bulb setting and I set up and controlled the shot with my Nikon MC-36 remote control.

Whilst the exposure was under way, I entertained my neighbours by walking back and forth, ok cavorting a bit, in front of my camera, which was solidly clamped down on my Manfrotto tripod.

(also submitted to lucile’s photo 101 rehab)

dark | side | thursday | eight

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

bs 090

Do you have a dark side?

Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

AJT_6650-Edit

dark | side | thursday | eight

The approaching footsteps were heavy, laboured. Her belly churned, ached, as she took a small step forward, his fingers had slipped away, he stood still, did not follow as she walked on.

She looked back, she saw, nothing, blackness, the void. She turned, walked toward the sound of the footsteps. Into the dark.

He had stepped back into the corridor. The key in his hand. It was time, he knew it, felt it. His eyes took in again the cold tiles lining the floor of the corridor, the deep cracks running along the ceiling. Gripping the key he moved forward.

There was a door at the end of the corridor, he knew that. It opened to the stairwell, that descended down to the street. Of course it did, hadn’t he been this way so many times before?

Only, the last time he had walked this way, it had been different, he remembered the pain, the sounds, the blackened branches of the trees. He could feel the scratches still on his back. Closing his eyes, screwing them tight, he willed those trees back into existence.

Nothing, cold tiles, cracked ceiling. No trees.

He reached the end of the corridor.  Took the rusted metal doorknob in his hand and turned it.

She was alone in the dark, not even her fingers were visible. The key gripped tight in her fingers, she must not drop it. She turned and turned, no light, no sound, not even those footsteps. Beneath her feet, nothing. The darkness pressed against her face, sucked the breath from her lungs, pressed down on her chest, her belly. She fell, down into the dark void.

Her silent screams filled only her mind.

The door opened, the creaking of the rusted hinges filling the cold corridor with echoes of despair. He put the key into the pocket of his jacket, stepped through the door. The stairwell wound down into the dark, the bare bulbs in the ceiling at each level swinging, flickering, buzzing, as their lives approached an end. An odour engulfed him, the dense rotting smell of overcooked cabbage. He began to descend the stairwell, his hand gripping the cold railing, his steps tentative, reluctant. He heard cries, screams, children’s laughter, moans and groans of joy and fear, he heard people. But not her.

He reached the bottom of the stairwell. To his right through a row of filthy windows shapes shifted uneasily. The corridor ended in two filthy metal half glazed doors that opened onto a lobby. A row of mail boxes stood before him, their dark slits oozing with unwanted newspapers, demands for unpaid bills, neglect, despair, lost hopes of letters never received.

He stepped over broken bottles, dust and decay, pushed open the door to the street, crossed the uneven many times mended concrete path that approached the building. He looked up into the black roiling sky, the relentless rain, he turned to look back at the door though which he had passed.

And screamed and screamed.

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

eight | fiftytwo

dark | side | thursday | six

Image | | andy townend

Do you need, desire or crave a new challenge?  Are you open to sharing your dark side?   Then read on.

2015_06_19_02488-Edit

Do you have a dark side?

Or, think you may have one. Or indeed worry that you might have one. Or, for that matter, worry that you don’t and would like one? If so,  join me here each week for dark | side | thursday.

Over a period of 52 weeks, I am writing a story. A dark story that will unfold as the weeks pass. Each Thursday, at 13:00 UTC, I will post a new chapter. Each chapter will be exactly 500 words long, and will be accompanied by a photograph. You can catch up on the story so far by clicking here on dark | side | thursday

Share your dark side?

I invite you to join me either by writing your own dark story, week by week, or, if that is too much, by dropping by, now and then, perhaps when the mood suits you or, perhaps, when it doesn’t, and by sharing a photograph, poem or a suitably dark piece of prose. To cross over to dark | side | thursday create your post, tag it dark side thursday and link to it by clicking on the dark | side | thursday badge below, where you can also find all the contributions so far. Or you can simply share your link in the comments section of my weekly post. And, should the mood take you, you can add the badge to your post.

AJT_6650-Edit

dark | side | thursday | six

The pain seared through his arm.

He woke, in fright. His eyes would not, could not, open. Cold cracked tiles lining the floor of the corridor did not make for a comfortable resting place. And he was wet. Very. And cold, so cold.

Twisted fleeting fragments flashed through his mind as his tortured senses fought to deal with the pain, the cold, the wetness. The emptiness he felt.

Her emptiness.

Blackened branches bruised his mind, a collapsing corridor. A moment when he slipped. Through.

And oh Hid, her voice. Her voice. Oh, that voice he wished not to remember, to erase.

He had heard her voice. Soft and pleading, seductive and terrifying.

“Don’t let him, don’t let him take it, not now, it’s so close. Please…hear me…”

His fingers had grasped the bottom of the flight of stone steps. Cold, slimy and old, like that thing that twisted inside him. Then, nothing. Cold, dark, empty, breathless nothing.

The voice, her voice, still echoed inside his head. She had been there, in his mind, in his soul, although he no longer imagined he possessed such a thing. Not now. Perhaps she’d always been there. Deep inside. Each time it happened he felt this. The cold, the emptiness, the desire, the sorrow. The terror.

His back was sore, bleeding. From the blackened bark? His eyes, now open, looked around. Blinking, swollen and sore. Taking in the dark corridor, the tiled floor, the damp concrete walls, the ceiling scored with deep cracks like aching distended veins.

No trees, no steps, no voice.

And the door. The door, leading back to his table, and the box.

He stood, began to walk, his breath ragged, thready and broken, pain flashing along his arm with each step. His eyes widened, dry and swollen, when he heard the door click and swing slowly open.

He walked to the door, paused at the threshold. Would anything have changed had he stopped at that point? He walked in. Did not look at the box. Oh, he wanted to.

He stopped at the shelf. Dust covering the few books that lay there, unread. He picked up the leather bound journal, walked back to his table, pulled back the chair, sat down, took his flask, hungrily downed another harsh shot.

The journal was old, the leather cracked, stained and unloved, it was held closed by a thin leather strap, tightly wound around the yellowing pages.

His belly warmed as the shot flared deep inside him. His fingers, shaking now, took hold of the leather strap binding the book and he began to unwind it slowly.

He opened the cover, the pages stuck together with the dust of ages past. He quickly the found the page he wanted, began to read, again, he knew the words, but.

She lay still, after she fell. Her waking fingers tracing the edge of the cold stone that marked the top of the stone steps.

Through her pain she tried to speak.

“Don’t let him…”

The portal to dark | side | thursday opened on the twenty first day of may in the year twenty hundred and fifteen and will remain open for fifty two weeks.

six | fiftytwo