There’s no denying it….Summer has slipped by all too fast.
The mornings are darker, the evenings are darker, the sun isn’t quite as hot as it was a couple of weeks ago…there’s an Autumnal feel to the world.
However, my patio garden isn’t letting go of Summer without a fight- a colour fight!
Even, Sioux, is still holding onto his Summer “brown rather than black” look.
Till next year, Lady Summer.
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged #Autumn, #blogging, #changeofseasons, #endofsummer, #reflections, #summer, flowers, photography
Today is National Suicide Prevention Day.
It’s not a day for wordy blogs.
It’s a day to pause, check up on those friends you’ve not reached out to in a while.
If there’s a change in a friend’s behaviour or mood, check they’re ok.
Go for a walk with them.
Go for a coffee with them.
Be there for them.
Who cares if one more light goes out?…. I do
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tm8LGxTLtQk
Credits to the owner of the image
Credits to the owner of the video- shared via You Tube
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged #amblogging, #blogging, #MondayBlogs, #nationalsuicidepreventionday2019, #suicide
Furiously typing…… normal blog service will resume next week.
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged #6Dec2019, #amediting, #amtyping, #amwriting, #blogging, #IndieAuthor, #newfiction, #proofreading, #ShatteredHearts, #SilverLakeseries
Well, folks, here it is…..
Isn’t it pretty?
Shattered Hearts will be published via KDP on 6th December 2019. Save the date!
Pre-order details will be announced soon…promise!
For those of you who are more than a little impatient to get a look inside Shattered Hearts, here’s a short extract to keep you going til December.
As the sky lit up before him, Jake reflected on the last few months. When he’d left Rehoboth in January, the beach had been covered in eight inches of snow. Now, in the third week in June, it looked as though it was going to be a beautiful summer’s day. This was the longest period of time that he’d spent away from home and, for the past ten weeks of the tour, his heart had been yearning for the sights and sounds of the ocean and the beach house.
Life over the past five years had become more and more demanding as Silver Lake had gone from strength to strength and Weigh Station had enjoyed a successful revival. Juggling musical commitments, recording sessions and tours for two of the planet’s biggest bands had been a logistical nightmare. He’d long since lost count of the number of shows he’d played, finding it harder and harder to remember where he was and who he was with. If it wasn’t for the journal he kept, Jake would have lost track of time and place entirely.
On the flight home, he’d been sitting between Grey and Jethro, having lost the coin toss to see who would take the middle seat. As Grey had slept soundly at the window, Jake had confided in the band’s manager that he didn’t want to even think about music until at least the fall. Understanding completely, the older man had nodded his silent agreement, noting how raw and hoarse Silver Lake’s vocalist’s voice was sounding.
Now, as he sat watching the sun rise, Jake was wondering if he would be able to sing again by fall even if he wanted to. Ghosts of a past duet with Tori from Molton were tormenting him. The last three shows had really put a strain on him and, by the end of Flyin’ High in Los Angeles, his voice was gone. A sign to take a much-needed rest perhaps he thought.
Lost in his thoughts, he sat enjoying the view and the tranquillity of the beach.
The familiar screech of the patio door to the sun room opening startled him back to the present. He listened closely wondering who was about to approach him.
“Daddy!”
Before he could turn round, he felt sand spray over him as Melody threw her arms around his neck. As he hugged her close, she smothered his face with kisses.
“I’ve missed you, Daddy,” she said as he pulled her into his lap.
“Bet I’ve missed you more, Miss M.”
“You sound funny,” commented the little girl screwing her face into a frown.
“Too many shows. Too many songs,” said Jake quietly.
“You need the icky medicine Mommy gave me when I had strep.”
“Maybe. I think I’ll start with some warm water and honey first though,” he replied. “Now, are you going to make me breakfast?”
Giggling, Melody shook her tousled blonde head.
“Is your Mommy awake?”
Again, Melody shook her head. “She was drawing last night.”
“And I’ll bet she was drawing most of the night,” added Jake, knowing all too well how easily Lori lost track of time when she was working.
If you want to know more, you’ll need to be patient until 6th December 😉
If you’ve missed the first three books in the series, there is plenty of time to catch up. They are available worldwide via Amazon. Here’s the links:
Amazon.com links –
Stronger Within – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VXDSC1M
Impossible Depths – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01C0GS30K
Bonded Souls – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06XSQHG71
Amazon.co.uk links –
Stronger Within – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00VXDSC1M
Impossible Depths – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01C0GS30K
Bonded Souls – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B06XSQHG71
You can also keep track of all Book Baby related news on my Author Facebook page :
https://www.facebook.com/coralmccallumauthor/
I’ll start this week’s blog with an apology….. technically there isn’t one. A blog that is.
My creative focus has been on finishing the first draft of Book Baby 5 and I’m almost but not quite there. Another three or four productive hours should finally see it complete- albeit a few weeks later than originally planned.
Unusual for this stage in my creative process, it’s more or less all typed as well as written and it’s not naked! Well, it has a bare bum as I’ve not finished the back cover for the paperback edition but it has a front cover. 🙂
I already revealed it’s title a while back – Shattered Hearts – so what is there left to reveal?
The cover and the release date……..
Watch this space and my author page next week…… all will be revealed. 😉
https://www.facebook.com/coralmccallumauthor/
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Tagged #Amazon, #BondedSouls, #bookbloggerswanted, #coming2019, #contemporaryromance, #ebook, #ImpossibleDepths, #IndieAuthor, #JakePower, #Kindle, #LoriHyde, #MondayBlogs, #newfiction, #RehobothBeach, #rockstarromance, #ShatteredHearts, #SilverLake, #SilverLakeseries, #StrongerWithin, #tellyourfriends, beach, KDP, rockmusic
How often do you drive or walk past the history on your own doorstep without so much as a second glance?
I’ll confess …. maybe not quite daily but it’s a regular occurrence and it transpires I’m not the only one in the house who does so.
Less than 10 miles from our house there’s a 15th Century castle. A national tourist attraction. Do you know how many times I’ve visited it? Until today, once! (Hangs her head in shame.)
So, on a dreich Sunday afternoon, Girl Child, the Big Green Gummi Bear and I decided the time had come to visit the castle. (About 15 years ago I had taken both Boy Child and Girl Child there but neither of them remembers it!)
Newark Castle sits on the banks of the River Clyde near Port Glasgow.
It was built circa 1480 by George Maxwell and is one of the finest late-medieval buildings in Scotland. Both the Gatehouse and Towerhouse date back to that era as does the Doocot in the grounds. The rest of the castle was remodelled in 1590 by Patrick Maxwell, transforming the cramped medieval castle into an elegant Renaissance mansion. Both the north wing and east wing were remodelled and the grounds transformed.
Today, the castle stands pretty much as it did back then.
Newark Castle is a veritable labyrinth spread over three levels. It also boasts one of only three surviving anti-clockwise staircases to be found in Scotland’s castles. You enter via the 15th century Gatehouse which leads through to the cellars, kitchen, bakehouse and the Towerhouse cellar. There are numerous staircases giving access to the upper floors. From the Towerhouse cellar you can climb up to the roof lookout point. It’s quite a twisty climb! From the wine cellar, there is a staircase leading straight up to the great hall. A further staircase leads from the kitchen to the great hall.
The upper level has a long gallery running the length of the north wing and this is where the laird’s private chambers and, including the rooms in the east wing, the family bed chambers and guest rooms would have been. One bedroom features original wood panelling and a rare example of a wall bed.
The windows in the east wing afford a view over the grounds and the Doocot (dovecot) whish has survived from the 1480’s. Doocots were popular in the 15th century as the pigeons (doos/doves) provided a source of fresh meat during the long winter months.
The building is well worth a visit.
Equally intriguing is the history of the owners through the ages.
The land that the castle stands on belonged originally to the Denniston family but became part of the Maxwell estate in 1402 when Elizabeth Denniston married Sir Robert Maxwell of Calderwood.
At that time, Newark was part of the barony of Finlaystone, an estate some five miles to the east. ( http://www.finlaystone.co.uk/ ) If the Denniston family had a castle it is highly likely that it formed part of the Finlaystone estate.
In 1478 George Maxwell inherited the barony of Finlaystone and within a few years was being styled as “George Maxwell of Newark and Finlaystone”. This all ties in nicely with the construction dates for the original castle buildings. It is also documented that in 1495 James IV visited Newark Castle whilst on a mission to quash disturbances in the Western Isles. (It’s likely that the laird would have had to surrender his sumptuous bed chamber in the Towerhouse to the king during his stay.)
Over time the Maxwell family became a powerful and influential family in the area. Historically, the most notable member of the family was Sir Patrick Maxwell, who was the laird of Newark Castle circa 1580. Initially, he was held up as a pillar of society, well-educated and a justice of the peace as well as being the architect behind the extensive remodelling of Newark Castle in 1590. He enjoyed the patronage of James VI. However, there were two sides to Sir Patrick. He was a wife beater, a child abuser and a murderer. He reportedly murdered two members of the Montgomerie family from Skelmorlie some twelve miles to the west of the castle. Sir Patrick also quarrelled with his son, Patrick, and was implicated in his untimely death. Undoubtedly his wife, Lady Margaret Crawford, suffered worst at his hand. She was married to him for 44 years and bore him 16 children! After years of abuse and ill-treatment she finally escaped from his clutches in 1632 and fled across the River Clyde to Dumbarton. Sir Patrick never answered to the charges raised against him as by that time he was too ill to travel to Edinburgh to face trial and it’s assumed he died shortly thereafter.
New-port Glasgow (modern day Port Glasgow) became a bustling trading post during the 1600’s. The castle’s laird, George Maxwell soon became involved in this merchant trade.
When the last Maxwell laird died in 1694, Newark Castle and its grounds were sold to another influential businessman, William Cochrane of Kilmarnock.
The 1700’s saw trade in the area continue to flourish but sadly the castle began to decline and it changed hands several times. The Cochrane’s sold it to the Hamilton family who in turn sold it in the 1820’s to a London banker, Robert Farquar. In 1825, Robert Farquar’s daughter married Sir Michael Shaw-Stewart, another well known local family from Ardgowan estate in Inverkip some eight miles west ( http://www.ardgowan.co.uk/ ) Newark Castle remained under the care of the Shaw-Stewart family until 1909 when it was entrusted to the State. Today it is curated by Historic Scotland.
During the 18th and 19th centuries the castle was leased to various tenants. The grounds too were leased out to local market gardeners. One tenant was John Orr, a ropemaker with a rather unusual side-line business. He traded in wild animals (panthers, leopards, bears etc) purchased from passing ships that arrived into the port. It is presumed that until he found a buyer for the creatures that they were kept in the castle’s cellars, giving rise to rumours that the castle was haunted as the locals reported strange howling during the night.
Newark Castle is a historical gem that in more recent times has been hidden, literally, by the Clyde’s shipbuilding industry. For much of the 20th Century it was surrounded to the west, east and south by Ferguson’s and Lamont’s Shipbuilders. As the shipbuilding industry fell into decline in the 1980’s Lamont’s closed its doors and was subsequently demolished, revealing the castle’s southern and eastern exposures to the world once more.
Today, but for how much longer, Ferguson’s still remains to the west of Newark Castle, a modern-day industrial neighbour to this discrete medieval gem.
If you want to discover more about Newark Castle check out the site below:
https://www.historicenvironment.scot/visit-a-place/places/newark-castle/
(some images sourced via Google – credits to the owners)
I was sitting out in the sun the other day on the bench in the garden looking round. I’d been contemplating this week’s blog topic and already decided on a photo blog inspired by the flowers around me.
I began to think about what words should accompany the photos I had taken. As is my want, I turned to Google and searched “summer poem garden bees butterfly” .
Google came up trumps .
An Evening Hour
© Pearlyn
Published: April 2011
It was a sunny bright evening, an evening so calm,
The kind of evening that was inviting me with an outstretched arm.
So I decided to spend an hour doing almost nothing,
Sitting and enjoying the best of what nature could bring.
Getting up from my chair, I thought I’d take a stride
Then there was a bumble bee that suddenly came by my side.
There was a kind of music as the bee flapped its wing,
Music so perfect that no one could ever sing.
Walking little further, I spotted a butterfly
Which was hovering over the flowers and then soaring high
And I came to the conclusion as I was on my knees,
Not the richest of queens was dressed like one of these.
My evening hour in the garden was very well spent
And now I know what beauty and music really meant!!
Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/beauty-of-nature-poems
Many An Evening Hour has been spent appreciating the world around me.
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged #butterflies, #photoblog, #relection, #summer, bees, Monday Blogs, photography, poetry
Closing her eyes, she stood gazing out over the waves, breathing in the tangy salty air.
Standing at the top of the sandy path, she could see a shimmer of heat rippling over the sand and knew that the walk down to the water’s edge was going to burn her soft bare feet. A flash of colour to her left caught her eye. It was a dragonfly, a sparkling teal green dragonfly. Smiling, she watched as it rested on one of the fence posts momentarily before darting off on its travels.
As quickly as she could, she crossed the soft Sahara hot sand, breathing a sigh of relief when her toes touched the harder packed damp sand closer to the water’s edge. Pausing for a moment, she recalled her first visit to Rehoboth Beach and smiled.
It had been the blistering hot summer of 1980 amid an at the time record breaking heatwave. A clear memory of arriving at their rental house for the week was of a nearby sign declaring that it was 98F and six thirty at night. Hot……damn hot. When her uncle had opened the side door of his VW bus, the heat had hit them all like a blast from an oven.
Their rental had been a stunning wooden house on the outskirts of town somewhere between Rehoboth and Dewey Beach. Its exact location long since lost to the memories of days gone by. Nights in that house had been hot as hell – no AC and beds as hard as boards. There hadn’t been much sleep on that trip for anyone.
Days, however, had been idyllic and were the days that had started her life long love affair with Rehoboth Beach. At only ten years old, she had loved the freedom of the beach and the ocean. Hours and days passed by building sandcastles, digging holes in the sand, gathering seashells and playing in the waves. Her pale white Scottish skin had swiftly taken on a healthy golden glow. The family’s picnic lunches had been supplemented by Thrasher’s French fries, carried so carefully back from the boardwalk.
Afternoons slipped by as she explored the beach, taking care not to stray too far from the family’s beach towel and umbrella oasis. Even back then she had enjoyed people watching as she wove her way between the other families, noting the different scents of their sun tan lotion and the different sand toys their kids played with. She had looked on enviously at the older kids playing in the waves on their boogie boards. Inwardly, she was desperate to join them but she couldn’t swim. Instead she had to settle for an ice cream from Kohr’s before they headed home for dinner and a much-needed shower.
Evenings meant a return trip into town to stroll along the boardwalk. After the daily scramble among them to round up enough quarters to feed the parking meter, she would finally be allowed to explore the shops on Rehoboth Avenue and along the boardwalk. Her favourites had always been the T-shirt stores where they printed whatever you wanted onto a shirt. They were shops that were a magical Aladdin’s cave to her ten-year-old self. The coloured hermit crabs in cages had fascinated her. Her meagre allowance was spent on pens and a snow globe with a dolphin inside.
One store, a shop on Rehoboth Avenue, caught her eye every night. It was a small jewellery store. Her attention had been captured by a tray of silver rings. There was one in particular that she had her eye on. It was smaller than the rest and was a delicate heart shape- half onyx; half mother-of-pearl. Nightly, she had begged her mother to buy the ring, pleading and promising that if she could borrow the money to pay for it, she would pay every cent back when they got home. On their final night in town, after a farewell pizza dinner at Grotto’s, her mother caved in and took her back to the jewellery store. The window had been rearranged and she recalled panicking when she couldn’t initially spot the ring. However, her mother spied it on display on the opposite side of the window before suggesting they enter the shop to try it on. The ring was a perfect fit for her middle finger. The perfect memento of the town that had captured her child’s heart.
Time and circumstance meant that thirty-four years passed before she was able to return to Rehoboth Beach. Over the years she had written essay after essay in school based of a now seemingly mythical beach. She’d drawn numerous pictures of beaches with dolphins playing in the waves. She’d almost driven her mother insane asking when they would go back to America. As she’d grown from child to teenager to woman to a wife and mother, she’d still dreamed of returning to the beach someday.
When that day finally came in 2004, the weather was a far cry from the blistering heatwave she remembered. A thunderstorm had blown in and the rain was lashing down as they’d run from her cousin’s beat up truck into Hooters for lunch. He had declared it was most definitely not a day for the beach! Not one to be thwarted, she’d stated plainly that she’d waited twenty-four years to walk on that sandy beach and a little rain wasn’t going to stop her. She’d also reminded him of the Scottish blood that flowed in her veins and of the fact that a little rain never deterred a Scot. He’d surrendered, knowing it was pointless to argue with her.
In the end, accompanied by her own two small children, she hadn’t stayed long on the beach – just long enough to run on the sand and paddle in the ocean. As the storm closed in again, she’d been granted a few brief moments to walk the boardwalk and relive her treasured childhood memories. To escape the mid-afternoon deluge, they’d sought sanctuary in Funland and whiled away the storm watching her young son and daughter play. As ever though, the quarters ran out and the meter ticked down until her precious “Rehoboth” time ran out.
Over the next few years, she’d returned annually with her children, savouring the moments on the sand and in the ocean. Making memories with her children was beyond precious. Every memory was filed away, stored carefully in her “memory bank” to be drawn out on cold miserable Scottish winter’s days. Her heart had swelled as her own children developed the same bonds that she felt with this tiny town some three thousand miles from home.
Now though, as she stood on the cool wet sand watching the waves, things were different. Her children were grown up and living their own lives. She’d finally seen her own literary dreams come true. Writing all those stories of the beach had finally paid off. Reaching into her pocket, she wrapped her fingers round the bunch of keys that she’d just collected from the realtor and smiled. She brought them out and stood looking at them lying in the palm of her hand. The keys to her new beach front apartment; the keys to her new dream home.
With a smile, she gazed at the ring on her pinkie, its band worn thin with time. She still wore the small onyx and mother-of-pearl heart shaped ring from all those years before.
Finally, in her heart, she knew she was home.
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged #dreamscometrue, #indeiauthor, #newfiction, #reflections, #RehobothBeach, #shortfiction, #shortstory, beach, memories
One week later the air was heavy and muggy, a thunderstorm gathering overhead. As he jogged up the hill towards the graveyard, it matched his own mood. The first drops of rain fell as he climbed the steps into the cemetery. As he approached the tree, a bright flash of lightning lit up the dark sky, revealing the dark angel herself who was standing in the shadows.
“Well met, Son of Perran,” she greeted him formally as she stepped forward.
“Hey,” he replied forcing a smile. “Looks like we’re about to get wet.”
“Not at all,” she said stepping forward. “We’re leaving.”
Before he could protest, she swept her wings around him. The world went black and everything felt still.
When the world cam back into focus, he wasn’t surprised to find himself in the dark angel’s mausoleum home.
“Is this the way I’m going to have to exist?” he asked as he sat up and looked round. “This place feels different. Smells different.”
“It’s the oils,” replied the angel calmly.
“Oils?”
“Lavender and geranium,” replied the angel lifting a large box from a previously unnoticed niche by the door. “Take your shirt off.”
“Pardon?”
“Remove your shirt,” she said slowly and deliberately.
Without argument, he removed his running top, tossing it onto the stone bench. As he stood in the middle of the tomb, stripped to the waist, he was acutely aware of the angel’s gaze on his lean toned body.
“Enjoying the view?” he teased as she walked behind him.
Her green eyes dark and intense, she stared at him, the gaze boring into his soul. She moved round to stand directly behind him. She studied his back for a few moments then ran her cool hand over his shoulder blades. Tiny sparks of electricity pulsed through him as her cold fingers caressed his warm skin. He felt her pause and run her thumbs over the tips of his shoulder blades.
Taking a step back, the angel studied his smooth skin, tanned from the summer sun. At first, she couldn’t be sure and she thought for a moment that his luck had held then she noticed a slight circular discolouration. There were two patches of skin about two centimetres across that were a darker shade than the rest of the runner’s bronzed back.
“The buds are there,” she said quietly as moved round to face him.
“Buds?” He looked at her with a face filled with confusion.
“Your wing buds are forming.”
“Ah!”
“I have worked out a way to slow their development but you’re going to have to work out a way to administer the treatment on your own,” she explained, her tone serious. “How are you with pain?”
“I’m tough. I can take it,” he replied, sounding calmer than he felt.
“Each of the phials in that box contains an oil that you are going to have to use once a month. I can only stall the development for so long. This treatment had to be prepared in a single batch. I cannot make any more. There are three hundred phials in the box for you. Do not break any. Do not drop any. These are the only ones in existence.”
Glancing into the cardboard box, he saw that it was filled with slender phials containing a dark liquid.
“I’ll administer the first dose,” the dark angel explained pointing to a larger phial that lay on a black velvet cloth on the bench alongside her ornate knife. “I need to ensure that I treat the centre of the buds. I’ll make the first cuts. You will then use the same holes each month.”
“Holes?”
The angel nodded, the white streak of her hair almost shimmering in the candlelight.
“Wait a minute,” he stalled sounding anxious. “What’s the plan here?”
“The phials contain an infusion of horse chestnut bark, lavender oil, geranium oil and thyme plus a few other items. The oil needs to be poured into the centre of each bud once a month and the wounds covered with the moss that’s at the bottom of the box. The moss has been treated with the infusion. You’ll only use a couple of strands at a time.”
“And how a I going to explain two holes covered in moss on my back to my wife?” he demanded sharply.
“You like to decorate your body. You’ll get another tattoo across your upper back. The holes will be lost in the design,” explained the angel calmly.
“Oh, will I?” he retorted. “And I assume you’ve picked the design for me too?”
“I’ve designed it for you,” she replied calmly. “The design is part of the enchantment. It needs to be identical to the drawing inside the box.”
Before he could protest further, the angel reached into the box and pulled out a single sheet of paper with a Celtic design expertly drawn on it. Looking at the detail in it, he wasn’t averse to having it inked across his back. There were two points in the design where there was an obvious cross over and he deduced that those would mark the spots that matched the holes.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll get it done. I’ll get someone at work to recommend a place. That won’t be cheap to get that inked.”
“There’s money in the box to cover the cost.”
“Thought of everything, haven’t you?”
Lifting the knife, the angel said, “I hope so.”
With the knife poised over his smooth skin, the angel asked, “Are you ready?”
“Go for it.”
“This is going to hurt.”
“Just do it.”
As the sharp tip of the blade bit into his skin, he flinched but never utters a sound. When she pierced the second hole, he was ready for it.
“This will burn,” she said as she picked up the large phial. “Really burn.”
“How am I meant to get tattooed if the skin is burnt?” he asked.
“The skin won’t be burnt. This will burn inside you. It will feel like fire.”
He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists as the angel poured the liquid into the two open wounds on his back. Pain ricocheted through him as the liquid worked its way around the nubs of his wings.
“Christ!” he yelled as the heat intensified.
“Almost finished,” promised the angel rubbing some strands of the pale green moss into the wounds. Instantly the pain stopped spreading and began to ease. “Done.”
“Whew!” he said rolling his shoulders stiffly.
“Well done. You handled that well,” she praised with a smile. “Guard that box with your life. One phial is enough for both buds. One phial once a month. When the phials run out then we have to last nature take its course.”
Pulling his running vest back on, he nodded.
“These should last you about twenty-five years if you don’t smash any.”
“I’ll be an old man by then,” he joked lifting the box.
“No, you won’t, Son of Perran,” she countered. “You’ll look exactly the same as you do just now. You’ve not aged one day since your transformation. Time will be kind to you.”
“Ok so how do I pour that stuff in on my own?”
“You’ll find a way. Pierce the holes open first then pour in the infusion.”
“Not quite the DIY I had planned but I’ll figure something out,” he muttered. “And I’ll get that ink done.”
“Get it done this weekend. It should then be healed before the next full moon if you can.”
“Fine,” he agreed bluntly. “Any more orders?”
The angel smiled and shook her head. “You can find your own way home from here.”
She pushed open the door of the mausoleum to reveal the dark stormy night outside. “Follow the path to the right.”
“Till next time,” he said as he headed for the door.
“Soon, Son of Perran. Soon.”
Over the years the box had sat on the second top shelf at the back of the garage. Its contents steadily dwindling as the months and years passed. In the box, wrapped in an old t-shirt, was apiece of wood with two nails driven straight through it, their tips sticking out proudly. Those tips had been filed until they were needle sharp and had been sterilised until they now shone silvery in the light of the garage.
Carefully he hung the piece of wood on the nail on the garage wall, making sure it was level. He unbuttoned his short and laid it on the bonnet of his car then lifted the last glass phial out of the box.
With well-practiced ease, he stepped back and leaned his full weight against the piece of wood, feeling the nails piercing their target for the final time.
(Image sourced via Google- credits to the owner)
Blind fury surged through his veins as he pounded out some long, angry miles along the trails behind his village home. He could feel the blood burning through his lean body. By running hard and fast, he was trying to distract himself from the cries of the Rabbia Sanguigna. His changeling soul was screaming for blood.
It had been an infuriating day from the moment he’d opened his eyes. Breakfast has been beyond chaotic as the kids had been fractious, each squabbling with their siblings over nothing. The family cat depositing a live bird in the middle of the kitchen hadn’t helped matters. He’d left with his daughter’s shrieks of hysteria echoing through his mind.
A white pebble had sat on the wiper blade of the car when he’d left to go to work. He was being summoned. His intention was to end his evening run with a visit to the graveyard.
A long hot day in the office hadn’t helped. There were new members in his team and his boss had buddied him up with one of them. The guy was a “know-it-all” who knew nothing and talked crap all day. Despite his best efforts to calmly walk him through the correct processes, his colleague knew a better way to do everything. After lunch, he’d adopted his “fuck it” approach and left the guy to it. He’d emailed his boss to express his concerns over the less experienced team member’s attitude to following documented processes and his understanding of the importance of complying to regulation then left for the day.
Over the months, he’d noticed that it proved more challenging to control the urges associated with the Rabbia Sanguigna around the time of the full moon. For four or five days his already heightened senses were on edge and the least little thing sparked the urge for blood. The dark angel had tried to teach him how to control the desires and how to prepare for them to lessen the effects but, four months down the line, the blood from his mother had long since worn off and none of the techniques were working.
Up ahead, at the side of the road, he spotted a cyclist standing beside his bike studying the front wheel. His sensitised nasal passages caught a whiff of blood in the air.
“Hey, everything alright?” he asked as he approached. It looked as though the cyclist had crashed. Blood was trickling from cuts on his arm and thigh and he was holding his arm protectively over his ribs.
“Car clipped me,” explained the cyclist through gritted teeth. “Think I’ve broken my collar bone and some ribs. Bike’s wrecked. Wheel’s twisted.”
Glancing round, the runner noted there was no one in sight. His blossoming vampire urges seized control. In a split second, before either of them had had time to think, he stepped towards the injured cyclist, reached out as if to help him then sunk his teeth into the ripe throbbing vein in his neck.
The clean vibrant human blood flowed into his veins tasting divine. He drank deeply.
It hadn’t been his intention to drain him dry but, before he realised what he was doing, the cyclist crumpled at his feet. His eyes were open and glazed.
He’d killed him.
He’d made his first human kill.
His satiated blood ran cold. What had he done?
A crimson sunset was lighting up the sky as he ran up the steps into the quiet cemetery. His earlier blind fury had been replaced by blind panic and he prayed the angel was waiting by the tree.
“Care to explain yourself, Son of Perran!” she hissed in his ear as he walked towards their usual meeting point.
“Jesus!” he yelped. He hadn’t heard or felt her approach.
“Careless! Messy! Sloppy!” she berated him angrily. “Have you learned nothing from me? What were you thinking about? You never even attempted to cover your tracks!”
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled staring down at his feet.
“Too late for sorry!”
“I lost control. My blood’s been burning all day. I hunted last night but I was so thirsty. He was bleeding…” he faltered. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I meant to stop like you explained. Leave him alive.”
“But you didn’t!” raged the angel, her green eyes blazing with fury. “Fortunately for you I was nearby and smelled the blood. I’ve covered your track this time. Heed me well, Son of Perran, this is the only time!”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly, feeling like a child being chastised by its mother.
“You will be,” she muttered, her voice a little calmer. “Think! Was the moon visible while you drank from him?”
“No idea.”
“Oh,” sighed the angel, her voice ringing with exasperation. “What have you started?”
“How’d you mean?”
“There is no going back for you now.”
“No going back where?”
“You may have just made your first human kill under the rising of the full moon. The Buck Moon at that, you fool!”
His dark brown eyes suddenly filled with fear, the runner stared at her.
“Sit,” instructed the angel, indicating their usual bench beside the tree.
Without complaint, he sat down and watched as she took a seat beside him, angling herself in such as a way as to prevent there being any damage to her majestic wings.
“The full moon always acts as a catalyst. It strengthens the effect of things. It speeds up the changes. It enhances the desires. It heightens the senses,” she began calmly. “Some full moons have different effects. That’s why I wanted to speak to you. To warn you about the dangers of tonight’s full moon. I knew you’d hunted last night. I thought there was time….”
“Time for what? What dangers?” he interrupted.
“The Buck Moon is powerful, Son of Perran. Have you drunk your mugwort today?”
A realisation dawned on the runner. He hadn’t taken his mugwort tea for three days.
“No,” he confessed. “And I might have missed a day or two.”
“Missed a day or two?” echoed the angel sharply. “Golden rule, Son of Perran. That was one of your golden rules!”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologising,” she snapped. “It’s too late for apologies. If there’s been damage done, it’s too late to stop it.”
“Stop what?” His tone was sharper and more demanding than he’d intended.
Taking a deep breath to calm herself, the angel said, “By making your first human kill under the light of a full moon, you have increased your body’s need and desire for human blood. Animal blood may no longer satiate your thirsts. You, Son of Perran, have made yourself a killer.”
With his head in his hands, the runner sat trembling. What had he done?
“That’s only part of it,” continued the angel. “The Buck Moon is so named as it’s the moon that marks the time when young male deer start to develop their antlers. For our kind, it’s the moon when wings are most likely to bud. I had been going to warn you to double up on the mugwort for the next few days but it’s too late for that now.”
“Fuck,” he muttered.
All of his worst nightmares were gathering in front of him and becoming a cold harsh reality.
“Now what do I do?” he asked when he was finally able to speak.
“For a start, double up on the mugwort for a week. If your wings are going to bud, you’ll feel it by the end of the week.”
“I can’t grow fucking wings!” he growled. “How will I explain them?”
“There may be a way to slow their growth,” she said slowly, “If they bud.”
“Great! More hocus pocus!”
“Quiet,” she cautioned sternly. “How you feed is now a more pressing issue.”
“Why?”
“Have you listened to a thing I’ve said?”
Gazing at him with almost motherly concern, the angel wanted to reach out to reassure her fledgling at the same time as she wanted to scream and yell at him for his stupidity. Her own anger was rising and she knew if she didn’t hunt soon, she’d lose her temper with him.
“Son of Perran, I’ll be blunt. Your impetuous meal tonight has ensured that you’ll need human blood at least once a week to survive. You might want to work out a plan on how you are going to find the source of your sustenance!”
“Once a week? I’ll need to kill once a week?”
“Not necessarily kill if you can master the art of restraint,” she said.
“I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”
“Succinctly put,” she said getting to her feet. “Go home. Drink your mugwort then drink some more. Keep your temper in check. Meet me here one week from tonight.”
Before he could reply, she’d spread her majestic wings and vanished from sight.
(image sourced via Google – credits to the owner)
Coral McCallum 