The goblins got the blame when the sun failed to rise. Alderman Pickering, said that they had leaned a really long ladder up against the mountain during the night and plucked the sun straight out of the sky as it was rising.
Mr Hobson the village butcher said that was nonsense and it was more likely that one of the fisherman out on the far ocean had caught the sun’s reflection in their net, dragging the reflection down under the water where it was sunk and lost forever. Without a reflection, so Mr Hobson said, the sun would just not be able to shine anymore.
Then there were others who reckoned the sun was tired, shining looked such hard work after all and it would be back in a day or two after it had had a little rest.
But I knew it would never be back. For how could the sun shine down ever again, for last night you said that you did not love me but loved someone else.
© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
As I said at the beginning of the week I have been working hard on a new project. This has developed out of the final exam project for the University module I completed in the last academic year; a small idea that has grown and grown, this is its beginning.
A shout from one of her clan sisters brought her back to the moment. All the clans were coming together, flying south. She had never seen so many of her own kind before, eighty at least and more shapes appeared on the horizon all the time and slowly coalesced into the distinctive shape of more lizard birds.
Most were brown like her family. Some were grey, the winter sun glinting silver off of gleaming plumage, while others still appeared to sparkle an iridescent blue, light dripping on to their feathers like raindrops. While out front, leading them all, a white queen bird flew. Continue reading
Once we were a dynasty that ruled an empire that stretched from the Crescent Bay to the foothills of the diamond encrusted Mountains of Ahl. We were feted; we were emulated; we were feared.
Whole populations committed unspeakable crimes on their neighbours to amuse us and armies marched on hopeless quests just for the opportunity to die in our service. We prospered, setting ourselves up as rivals to the gods, building palaces in the sky upon the skulls of the vanquished.
Then came the plague, the lower classes died first, the poor and enslaved. We thought they died for our amusement as we continued our laughter and feasting, peering down from out of our high towers at the circling vultures and bloated bodies that were carried away by a river that flowed red with the peoples blood.
But as we slept on in drunken stupor the pestilence crept up the steps and entered our palaces, along silent passages it slithered, blowing out candles as it passed leaving no one alive to light them again. On it crept through guard room, kitchen, throne room and seraglio. It did not favour any one, just brought the democracy of death to all.
The illusion was shattered. Those of the people that survived saw that we were just like them and not the gods we had pretended to be. They were merciless, some of us wished that we had died of the plague it seemed a kinder end than fearing the wrath of the people.
Eventually we managed to flee, became refugees forced to wander the earth memories our only possessions, telling tales of how we used to be a dynasty.