Images

dark | side | thursday | nine

Image | | andy townend

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

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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.

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dark | side | thursday | nine

Acrid, clinical, her senses recoiled.

Nothing. She could see nothing. That smell, filled her nostrils, her mind, her body. She could feel nothing.

Time, space, began to re-form around her. Feelings, sensations trickling, burning, along fingers, arms.

Her body heavy, throat burning, the sickly sweet taste filled her mouth. A terrible headache, eyes struggling to open.

A light flickered, beyond her closed eyes, heavy eyes she could not open.

Fragments bubbled to the surface of her struggling consciousness, falling, she had been falling, into the dark, she had screamed but no sound came. She had fallen, he had not been there. Where was she?  Where was he?  Panic churned inside her, she struggled to think, to remember.

The sweet cloying, burning taste in her mouth, in her throat made her gag. Her throat dry, aching, sore, violated.

She lifted her arm, felt searing pain as the needle embedded in it pulled. Opening one eye, the light blistering her mind, she saw the tube attached to the needle in her arm, snaking up and into the humming machine next to the metal bed on which she lay.

What the hell had happened to her?  Where was she? Panic bloomed like a toxic flower in her mind, she fought to breathe, to stay calm. Turning her head, she saw the tiled walls. The square room empty save for the metal bed, the metal door closed, no windows, a single cold fluorescent light in the ceiling, the humming machine next to her, connected to her.

She lay still, closed her eyes, tried to breathe, to fight off the nausea from the sickly sweet taste in her throat.  Tried to breathe, to be calm. And waited.

He screamed and screamed.

The rain poured over him, sat on the kerb, head in hands, he held the key in front of him, turned it over and over, what had happened? Why had he not been able to return to the blackened wood? He had thought the time had come, had left the room, his desk, the journal, taken the key, walked into the corridor, expecting to slip through, to find her. And now, here in the street, soaking in the dark rain, feeling hopeless, lost, fearful.

He stood, looked back at the building, walked back through the doors. He could not walk those stairs, had no energy. Walking to the end of the corridor where an ancient lift waited, he pushed open the battered wooden door, pulled it behind him, pressed the brass button. The lift shuddered, creaked and, slowly, ascended. He leaned back, heavily, against the graffiti covered wall.

Again, she opened an eye, slowly. Lifted her hand, the right one, the one not attached to the tube, the machine.  She slid her hand over her belly, the terror filled her again as the pain hit her, the pain snaking out of the darkness, the pain in her belly.  The pain from her empty belly.

She knew then, they had taken it. From her.

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.

nine | fiftytwo

poetry 101 rehab: stack

Image | | andy townend

Do you miss the Writing 201 Poetry course by the Daily Post? Then join this blogging challenge, Poetry 101 Rehab, that will provide your poetry fix!

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How does it work?

For several weeks now, each Monday at 01:00 pm UTC, Mara Eastern has published a poetry prompt along with her response to it, you can see them all here. On 30 June, Mara announced that she is taking a blogging hiatus this Summer to focus on her dissertation. I am serving as locum “poet in residence” at the clinic until her return – and hope that I don’t lose any of her patients! I will continue to publish a weekly prompt exactly as before.

You are invited to answer the prompt, twist it or ignore it; write a poem of your own or share a poem by another author.

I would love to hear about your inspiration, your creative process or other poetry related thoughts, but this is 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 participate, 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.

badge-rectangle

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 STACK

          stack
two lanes deep
                       stack
two lanes deep, nose to tail
                                            stack
two lanes deep, nose to tail, steaming and fuming
                stack
so far they travelled
                            stack
so far they travelled, arm in arm
                                                stack
so far they travelled, arm in arm, fearing and hoping
                              stack
not what they were told, before the
                              stack

My interpretation, STACK, was inspired by a recent road trip to the United Kingdom through the Eurotunnel, disrupted recently by tension surrounding action taken by migrants in France seeking to gain access to the United Kingdom by any means. What will your take on the keyword STACK be? Blog about it in a poetry post and share your link in the comments section of my post and by clicking on the Poetry 1o1 Badge above.

breendonk

Image | | andy townend

“Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men, the functionaries ready to believe and to act without asking questions.”
― Primo Levi

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(fort breendonk, willebroek, belgië)

*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 70-200mm f/4 lens at various settings, edited through a veil of tears in lightroom cc and silver efex pro 2*

symbol

Image | | andy townend

“artists are those who can evade the verbose” ― haruki murakami, kafka on the shore

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“fly me away” – goldfrapp

(for dp weekly photo challenge – symbol)

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

poetry 101 rehab: hiatus

Image | | andy townend

Do you miss the Writing 201 Poetry course by the Daily Post? Then join this blogging challenge, Poetry 101 Rehab, that will provide your poetry fix!

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“A good head and good heart are always a formidable combination. But when you add to that a literate tongue or pen, then you have something very special.” ― Nelson Mandela

How does it work?

For several weeks now, each Monday at 01:00 pm UTC, Mara Eastern has published a poetry prompt along with her response to it, you can see them all here. Last week Mara announced that she is taking a blogging hiatus this Summer to focus on her dissertation. I will serve as locum “poet in residence” at the clinic until her return – and hope that I don’t lose any of her patients! I will continue to publish a weekly prompt exactly as before.

You are invited to answer the prompt, twist it or ignore it; write a poem of your own or share a poem by another author.

I would love to hear about your inspiration, your creative process or other poetry related thoughts, but this is 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 participate, 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.

badge-rectangle

I will act as your host, and I’ll be here for you to reply to your comments, read your verses, like and comment. While my blog 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 HIATUS. My response below, a playful limerick, was inspired by Mara’s decision to take a hiatus. What will your take on the keyword HIATUS be? Blog about it in a poetry post and share your link below!

Hiatus

There was once a young scholar who lived in the East

Who decided it was time to face the beast

Swapping passionate blogging for dry dissertation

Imagine her consternation

When they all turned round and looked to the East

door

Image | | andy townend

“break on through to the other side” – the doors

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“every now and then one paints a picture that seems to have opened a door and serves as a stepping stone to other things” ― pablo picasso

do you dare

open the door

or, are you

running?

(for wordpress weekly photo challenge – door)

(and for lucile’s photo 101 rehab)

*shot with nikon d700 and nikkor 70-200mm f/4 lens at 85mm, ISO200, 1/160s at f/6.3 and edited in lightroom cc, and analog efex pro 2 with wet plate filter number nine, break on through*

dark | side | thursday | seven

Image | | andy townend

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

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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 | seven

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

Her voice faltered. The empty feeling in her belly, the pain, coursed through her.  Her eyes closed.  She lay still. Alone, again.

His eyes ran down the page, the words scratched into the yellowing paper. Words he had read countless times since that first time.

“When the time comes, there will be no time, you will know what to do, inside, you will know, as I did. I tried, I wanted to stop it. It was too strong, she was too strong. I had no time, so please for Hid’s sake, when the time comes, don’t think, act, or you too will have no time…”

He pushed his chair back, stood, again took his flask, drank, his throat burning. He knew that time, his time, was fast approaching. He turned back to the desk. The box waited. The key waited. He reached across.

She screamed. No sound would come. Her mouth stretched open and she could not scream. The pain slashed inside her. Raging, searing hot flames burned into her, smearing her, undoing her. Screaming silently, her mind splintering, not like this, not alone, not this way. No. Her mind collapsing, panic ripping through her, smoke filling her lungs. Not like this. No.

Inside the pain she felt cold fingers. Cold fingers running along her arm. Her eyes snapped open. No flames, no fire, only fear. He was there, beside her. Blue eyes looking into her, through her, his fingers running over her skin. He reached underneath her, she felt his fingers, felt his arms wrap around her as he lifted her, pulling her tight against his body.

She breathed. The fire had gone. Realising now it had not been real, she exhaled. She felt him breathe, felt his need, his fear, it.

She pulled away. The pain there still. He stood beside her, his fingers in hers. Her belly ached, the emptiness churning inside her. Holding his hand she turned and took a step forward. Toward the stone steps. Leading the way, she felt the cold stone under her feet as she walked forward and stepped down into the darkness. He followed.

He reached across the table, to the box.

He wanted to open it. He could not. Withdrawing his hand he pushed the seat back hard. Stood, walked to the window, driving black rain filling his mind, he looked out into the darkness.

Turning again, back to the desk. He found the box, pressed the button, slid his fingers slowly inside, opened the box. Released the key, driving black rain filling his mind, and walked back toward the door.

He knew the time had come. It always surprised him. There never was time. He felt the key in his hand, and stepped back into the corridor.

They stopped at the foot of the steps. She felt his fingers slip out of hers.

In the distance she felt footsteps approach.

It was time.

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.

seven | fiftytwo

tea time (for beer)

Image | | andy townend

“it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then” lewis carroll, alice in wonderland

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tea time

time for a beer

a dark beer

have you the time

or do you fear

you may

not?

(for justine’s tea party #12)