Halloween story - The River 2

This short story leads on from last year's Halloween story in which two teenagers narrated a tale at a campsite near to which a river ran. Their names were Joe and Danny. The hero in their story was named Huckleberry. Sadly, all of the characters died in the end. But ol' man river carries on...

The River 

Part 2

“Last year two teenagers drowned in this river.”

It had, of course, made the news. But the campsite hadn’t closed down. Everyone had assumed that the teenagers were drunk. And after a few days and a little grief, the news agenda had moved on, leaving only a few people to invisibly grieve. The dead teenagers may as well have been invisible for all the world cared. All that was left was a gaudy yellow and black sign on the riverbank warning people not to swim there.

The wind that evening was like a messenger, as if a reminder of grief. There was something about the river, especially at dusk, which made people think of stories. Maybe it was the rush of the current, a flow which seemed to speak of a flow of words. Or the bulrushes, long since having split open with their gentle inner-life seeds to a cold reception.

Ezra and Jeremy were work colleagues on a fishing holiday. Both were middle aged.

“I hate this time of the day,” said Ezra.

It was getting harder to see the orange fishing float as the light faded. They had pulled up that morning in a huge campervan owned by Jeremy. Work had been kind to them both. They were prospering and it seemed right to take a break from their latest office success.

“It always reminds me of those stupid ghost stories I would hear as a child. And I hate stories.”

Jeremy was not immune to being spiteful. In fact the two men's entire relationship seemed to be based on a kind of teasing banter devoid of any expression of outward concern.

“You arse. Why don’t I tell you a quick story and then we’ll pack up?”

“No. I don’t want to hear it.”

“So, I’ve just got to think of a name for my hero…” Jeremy looked around in the dying light, from the dark voice of the river to the black silhouette of the trees.

And a whisper in the ear.

“’Huckleberry’. Yes, that’s right. Like Huckleberry Finn. I like that. That’ll do. It just came to me. Anyway...”

“Please shut up. I hate stories.”

“I know you love them really Ezra. Anyway, Huckleberry, our hero, found himself hunted by a werewolf.”

Ezra sighed, “Is that a spoiler? Was he in London? Isn’t there a film about that?”

“Shut up. Huckleberry owned a massive campervan. Not as big as mine, but okay for a civil servant's wage… Sure, he’s a civil servant, that’s right… In fact Huckleberry’s campervan was so large that it caused huge problems in terms of parking until Huckleberry secured some rental land for the van to be parked on. He decided to go on holiday to Cornwall. That’s where certain kinds of Londoner will always holiday. He had booked a spot on a caravan site in Cornwall near the sea. There were woods nearby, huge pine trees and a forest. And a monkey-puzzle tree, because they say that the devil sits in them…”

“Are there many pines in Cornwall, I thought that was just Devon?”

“Shut up. Huckleberry found himself surrounded by pine trees on a camp site in Cornwall and he enjoyed his holiday until the last day. He had got into bed in the massive campervan and he heard some strange noise at the window. All of the curtains were drawn and there seemed to be a tapping noise or a scratching at one of the windows. Annoyed by the sound, Huckleberry got out of bed and went to the window, pulling open the curtains. Guess what he saw…”

“Your pretension personified?”

“Nothing. There was nothing at the window. Except for this clawing in his heart and soul. It was like hypnosis, it was like a fever, it was like the smell from some strange flower or like the song from a siren…. Do you like that bit Ezra? That was really clever… Suddenly he felt an overpowering inclination to leave the campervan and walk into the woods. So he closed the door behind him, absent-mindedly locking it. Perhaps to prevent any werewolf from getting into his bed and pretending to be his granny…”

Jeremy stopped there because he remembered that Ezra had just lost his grandmother who had lived to a respectable 103. It was a little like verbally falling into a river and getting a foot stuck in the muddy silt on the river bed and not pulling the foot loose and climbing out. The river sucked him deeper and he should have struggled but he didn’t struggle and didn’t climb out for a moment or two.

“Anyway, storyteller-hater, it was to stop any intruder. And Huckleberry turned towards the woods and there was a deep darkness. The cover from the pines seemed to make the woods so dark. Pine needles carpeted the floor. A little prickly, a little threadbare, but a carpet of a kind. And Huckleberry was drawn into these woods. He had walked for a hundred or so metres when he turned back and could only just see a light or two from the caravan site. And he turned back up ahead and he saw something moving in the woods and the calling, the pull of whatever it was still clawed at his soul and he felt a hunger deep within him. It was a madness and yet it was like a beautiful aroma which kept drawing him on…. Oh, that’s a clever bit too, I like that…

Anyway, he pushed through the harsh, sharp pine branches and continued into the woods. All around him there were noises, a strange snuffling noise. He though he saw a boar and he remembered tales he had once heard back in London of how the devil had once turned into a black pig and the people of the city had seen the black pig and that those who had seen it had soon died. But he continued on and he saw something ahead. He realized that it was the full moon and that he could see its light because there was a clearing up ahead. And he stepped out of the woods into the strange circular clearing which was surrounded on every side by thick woods. And up in the sky was the full moon which seemed to laugh at him. Did you like that bit too Ezra? And look at the moon tonight…” Jeremy pointed into the darkening sky.

“There’s no moon, it’s hidden behind the clouds and my moon phase app says that it is fourteen percent waxing, so it’s not even full. You're deeply depressing me.”

But Jeremy was getting engrossed in his story and hardly noticed the interruption.

“And Huckleberry wondered why it should laugh and why he should imagine that it laughed. And there in the clearing were other dark forms. There was a stone circle. In ages past, the ancestors had built a stone circle in the middle of these woods, woods very much like those surrounding us now, for a reason long forgotten. And Huckleberry wanted so much to stand in the middle of the circle and yet he didn’t know why. But he obeyed this strange compulsion, a compulsion which overrode even his most basic instinct for survival (and for Huckleberry, that was no mean feat). So, he stood there, in the night, under the laughing moon, in the middle of the dark woods and he suddenly came to his senses. It was as if a spell had broken and suddenly its hypnotic effect had no power. But there were now things moving on the periphery of the woods. Strange shapes. Inhuman shapes. Forms which were not quite human…”

“Did you clone yourself again? Or was it Cthulhu?”

“…and then he realized what the forms were because they came out from the woods and approached the stones. And he could see them clearly now in the light of the laughing moon. They were werewolves. And their faces were long, like the faces of wolves and their torsos were covered in fur and the claws, the claws, can you imagine the claws?”

At this, in the latter dusk, Jeremy pressed the flashlight function on his phone, shone it against a tree and set his hand far away from it but brought it down closer to the torch light so that the shadow looked like it was a huge claw coming towards Ezra. The shadow of a claw at least. The kind of trick which could be played on a three year old.

Ezra was unimpressed.

“I’m only listening to this crap because I have to work with you.”

“The claws Ezra, the claws…” he switched off the torch. “The claws were huge, like serrated knives, like scimitars. Longer than any claws he had thought werewolves (if he had believed in such things in sophisticated London) could ever have had. And they approached. Now Huckleberry knew that there was only one thing he could do. Well, there were a number of options, he could surrender his life to those werewolves and those claws or else he could run. But someone like our hero Huckleberry knows how to keep his head in a crisis situation. So what he did was the action of a man who uses his brain. He used the adrenaline in his body to climb one of the tall stones and then he crouched at the top of the stone he had climbed…”

“Wait a minute, how did he climb the stone again?”

“He had good quality trainers and the stone had a rough surface allowing him to climb.”

“Then why didn’t the werewolves climb too?”

“Their claws Ezra, their claws. The instruments which made them such successful and merciless killers also prevented them from climbing. So, they circled the stone on which Huckleberry crouched. From on top of the stone Huckleberry could see that there were ten werewolves, and there were ten stones and there was some kind of sacrificial stone in the centre, but he was on top of one of the outer stones. And beneath him the werewolves howled in hunger and frustration and he could see their hunger and he could see in their eyes their hatred of what they themselves were but their powerlessness to change that.”

“You stole that line from that writer Angela Carter. That’s plagiarism.”

“How would you know? You don't like stories. They simply did what they did naturally, but part of them seemed to hate that, like the community of the damned might. And Huckleberry’s legs hurt from his crouching but he was afraid to let them hang down the stone so that the werewolves might tear at his feet with those claws, so instead he had to sit cross-legged on the stone like a gnome. And that was all he could do. He had nothing to throw at them. He would have to wait until either help came or else morning came. But he took to screaming in the hope that someone from the campsite would hear him. The people on the campsite did hear the screams and the howls but they were too afraid to explore the woods.”

“I don’t think Huckleberry would have gone into the woods in the first place. Did you steal that idea too?”

“He was under a kind of enchantment from the werewolves, Ezra, which they use to take their prey. So he sat on top of the stone and waiting for morning. Soon his throat was ragged and sore from screaming and no-one came to save him. But the morning was coming and he felt in his heart and in his knowledge of folklore that the werewolves would retreat back to the woods to their lairs or else revert to human form. So he waited. He was clever, so he simply waited, as, if he was patient and kept his calm, he knew he could survive this as he had survived everything else life had thrown at him… that’s character building Ezra, did you like that?”

“You really are a pretentious anus.”

“It took such a long time and the werewolves prowled around the stones continually. But Huckleberry was patient and he simply waited and concentrated on breathing techniques to keep himself calm and keep himself from the strange enchantment which still clawed at his soul and made him wild and willing to sacrifice himself so that it would all be over. In for seven, out for eleven. In for seven, out for eleven. You should remember that, it's useful. Breath with me Ezra…”

“No.”

“He resisted this delusion, this imp of the perverse (look that phrase up online Ezra), and he resisted the werewolves and after a long, long time the dawn arrived. And it was cold now and he shivered. One werewolf tried one last time to reach him and failed. So the werewolves slunk back into the woods.

Soon Huckleberry was alone in the clearing on top of the stone and the sun rose in the aching sky. His legs had locked and were painful. And when he jumped to the ground they gave way from being in the same position, because the night had been a physical torture as well as a psychological and spiritual one. But it was day now and he lay on the ground breathing gasps of joy at being saved and being alive. He was about to get to his feet and make his way back to civilisation when he saw something once again on the edge of the woods. It was the werewolves. They came boldly. No one had told them that they had to return to their lairs and they were clever. So they raced towards their food, our hero Huckleberry and tore into him with their claws. Huckleberry’s guts spilled onto the grass and he was still alive to see himself split in half by one of the claws on the central stone. He died screaming. Poor chap. Such is the fate of civil servants.”

“Is that it?”

“Yep.”

“He died?”

“Yep.”

“This is why I hate stories. And stupid abrupt endings which resolve nothing. It's dark, I'm going back.”

"Philistine."

And the river kept his secret that year.

The River

The River

I still enjoy writing these Halloween short stories every year. What I have always tried to do is to add a little depth to the tales. The significance of the names of the two protagonists shouldn't be lost on readers. Perhaps the deepest criticism I could get for this particular story is, 'Okay, but where are the monsters?'  Rivers are funny things. Most of them are lively and life-affirming. But the old stories also speak of a final river in this lifetime which must be crossed. A river which makes the human heart tremble...

“The river is everywhere.” 

Hermann Hesse

It had been a harsh summer. A summer to survive. Everyone else's social media status had seemed happy, accomplished and carefree. But the brothers had lost all their grandparents that year. Life, like a wasp, had stung them and they were sore. There was no outlet for their grief. Even the funerals had been tedious, expensive duties and not offered any kind of healing. So it was their father’s idea. Their mother was grieving too deeply anyway. They were to go on an Autumn camping weekend.

Joel, the older brother was 19. He was wise beyond his years and everyone called him Joe. The younger brother, Danny was 16 and full of questions. His teachers would also say he was full of insolence and rebellion. But that is something that teachers often say about those who have too many questions.

The campsite was about three miles from the coast and there was a wide river nearby which headed towards the estuary. None of the brothers knew the name of the river. A river which seemed to call to them.

The site had a few facilities, a toilet block, water taps and electric ports for caravans. Few people wanted to camp so late in the year and so they were alone apart from a few other brave souls in warm campervans. But they were close enough to a town to be within easy walking distance and it was not so cold during the day if the sun was out. Danny was less enthusiastic about the whole holiday, but Joe seemed excited and took control of setting up the tent.

“Are you going to help?” asked Joe.

“What do you want me to do?” replied Danny.

“You can thread the poles.”

Danny was sullen. To be honest, he wanted to go and explore. The river's voice seemed to beckon. The hills surrounding them were like new, honest friends.

They had selected a place on the campsite sheltered by some crab apple and horse chestnut trees, their leaves and apples fallen and beginning to rot. It was, in all fairness, the best and safest spot when it came to protecting them from the wind.

It didn’t take long to get everything in place. Soon the ground mats were down and the sleeping bags were inside along with all of their supplies, including their collapsible fishing rods.

The tent itself was reasonably large, big enough for four people at a push – it was a kind of standard mid-range family tent. It was orange.

They went to the river and decided that they would fish there the following day. The river itself was fast moving and wide. It looked healthy – full of liveliness rather than life. There were numerous places to fish from along their side of the bank. For that moment it looked as if the week-long holiday would go well. They would phone their parents and they would be able to have some time with each other engaged in a task which they both enjoyed. It would all be fine. Nothing could go wrong. The future was certain, like a written plan, like a movie already seen. Rest and healing.

When dusk arrived Joe and Danny decided that there was very little to do. So Danny took a bottle of vodka from his backpack and the brothers drank a little until they were pleasantly tipsy.

“I have an idea,” announced Joe.

“What?” asked Danny.

“What about a story?”

“Stories?” sighed Danny.

“U-hu, ghost story or something.”

“Are you mad?”

“No, there isn’t much to do here and stories are a great way of getting to sleep.”

“You’re mad. Who do you think you are, Scheherazade? This isn’t 1001 nights.”

“No, this is one week. Look, it’s just an idea.”

“It’s a crap idea and it’s boring Joe.” Danny sniffed and picked up his smartphone to look at the stories there.

They lay in silence for about half an hour until Danny said:

“Look, I’ll do a deal with you. We can do the story thing if you buy me a new fishing rod.”

“That’s a bad deal Danny. No.”

“Then forget the story.”

“It’s just an idea Danny, some people think that stories are interesting.”

“No, your stories are crap Joe and beyond that I think you want to convert me or something.”

The sad fact of this was that it was a little true. Joe had a fascination for all things to do with the end of the world. This fascination had led him to research everything he could find out about the way in which the end of the world may happen. It was a kind of obsession. It had also made Joe increasingly religious (or ‘spiritual’ as he liked to put it). It was a constant block between Joe and Danny. It caused tension and it caused Danny to always think that Joe was trying to evangelise him.

“I promise I won’t try to do that,” said Joe.

“You will, and I just want to fish. I don’t want any of your religious ramblings.”

Joe sighed deeply and then seemed to come to a decision.

“Okay, I tell you what, I’ll buy you a new fishing rod for Christmas.”

“Is that a bribe?” asked Danny.

“I don’t know,” replied Joe.

“Okay. Go ahead then.”

There was silence then in the heavens (and the tent) for thirty minutes. Then, unannounced, when Danny had thought his brother asleep, Joe began…

“I swear to you I’m not trying to convert you Danny. I swear to you that we are all going to be annihilated by nukes.”

“Can I interrupt?”

“Within reason. I’m telling you that if there is a nuclear strike against us right now that we will die, even here. You know why? Because things have moved on since our parents' day in the 80’s. Not only has technology changed everything but nukes have also changed. No-one really worries about it these days but the fact of the matter is that a third world war will not see us surviving at this rate. And do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because no-one has a sane plan.”

“About this story Joe. I’m just wondering when it is going to start? Are you just going to be preaching to me?”

“I’m not preaching, I’m just telling you what I know.”

“Then where is the story?”

“Alright, alright – Once there was a man who wanted to survive the third world war.”

“What was his name?”

“Shut up. His name was ‘Huckleberry Jordan’.”

“Seriously? What kind of name is that? Are you Mark Twain?”

“Shut up. Huckleberry had a plan to survive a nuclear attack. Before you interrupt again I can tell you that Huckleberry lived in the UK. With a name like Huckleberry where else are you going to live?..”

“America?”

“Huckleberry wanted to survive a nuclear blast and there was only one way to do this. He would either have to bug-in, to dig-in or he would have to bug-out.”

“I don’t think you are using the right prepper terms there.”

“Huckleberry had this idea. He lived alone in a city. Err… say he lived in London. And he knew that with an escalation of violence in the Middle East that the situation was quite precarious. The eschatology of different cultures was clashing…”

“Hold on, hold on, what the hell is eschatology?…”

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know!”

“Eschatology is the study of the end of the world. Ironic really because for Huckleberry the end of his world was about to occur. He lived in London and he could see that the political situation in the world was going down the drain. Everything was hitting the fan.”

“Why don’t you swear?”

“Huckleberry saw only desolation coming to London and he wanted to survive. There was only one way the third world war would start and that was with one huge nuke in his back garden. Now, thankfully, Huckleberry had stored up a few supplies from his work as a civil servant. The civil servants are good at survival, they always survive no matter which party is in power. They know what is what. So he had saved a bit of cash and when he saw that the world was on the brink of war he knew that there was only one place he would be safe.”

Joe paused, the vodka had worn off a little and he took a swig from the bottle and picked up an apple. Then he continued…

“Do you know where that place is in the entire world Danny?”

“Ireland? Alaska? One of the poles?”

“No. Huckleberry knew his eschatology too…”

“He would…”

“…He was going to Jordan.”

“Err… I don’t think Jordan is going to be safe in a third world war. It is right next to Israel which would be blasted off the map one way or the other.”

“You can’t just talk about blasting Israel of the map...”

“Uh? Take your religion and stick it up your…”

“Anyway, Huckleberry decided that he would get a plane to Jordan.”

“Hold on, hold on, why again did Huckleberry go to Jordan?”

“Because the only place that is going to be safe at the end of the world is Jordan.”

“This is ridiculous and I swear you are trying to convert me. Jordan would be blasted into bits along with England. Huckleberry is a fool.”

“Huckleberry was no fool. As a civil servant he knew his stuff. He knew that according to scripture…”

“…there you go, just there!”

“Shut up.”

Joe relaxed and his voice softened. “According to scripture there is only one place that is going to survive the end-time war. And that is Jordan. Because in one of the books of the Old Testament and I may have forgotten which, but I can tell you that Huckleberry didn’t. In the book of the Old Testament prophet and according to the scripture according to the book of Hal Lindsey (which Huckleberry had read) the countries of Edom and Moab would survive the assault of the antichrist and…”

“Hold on, now you really are getting interesting. What’s all this about the antichrist?”

“According to the book of Lindsey, Huckleberry was aware that Moab and Edom corresponded exactly to the modern day country of Jordan. As a result our dear civil servant friend Huckleberry decided that he would ‘bug-out’ in Jordan. That’s kind of how rudimentary faith works. He had thought of going to Petra in Jordan where all the traditional eschatology says that people will survive. Except that Huckleberry was a clever man. He realized that a lot of people would be fleeing to Petra. The whole damned lot of them. Anyone with any sense anyway. And Petra these days is just a ruin with a few caves and anyone who is anyone knows that the only way to survive in those conditions is to have a decent plan and that most of the people fleeing there would have no plan. Worse, when you bug-out you don’t want to be around other people all the time. In a survival situation other people are a drain on your resources. That’s what Huckleberry thought anyway, he considered that there was only one way in which he would survive. And that was to survive alone. But he had made plans and he landed in a plane in Jordan. At the Jordan airport…”

“Which is called?”

“…at the main Jordan airport he relaxed a little. But instead of heading straight to Petra he decided that he would run to the mountains. There are mountains in Jordan and Huckleberry knew that there were places he could go to to survive. He had his backpack of resources and more money than you could shake a fishing rod at. He knew that the best place to bug-out would be in one of the obscure tourist attractions in the Jordan mountains. There is supposed to be a tourist site on top of one of the mountains where Moses was supposed to have surveyed the whole promised land. Huckleberry had seen pictures of it with a big arty cross there. And he had made his plans because there was even a shop there. A shop meant resources. Because of the escalation in tension the whole place had shut down to tourism. Half of those in the know had run to Petra. The other half couldn’t care whether they lived or died because they were just sheeple. And the rest were in some weird fight against the antichrist who everyone probably thought was the messiah anyway..."

There was a distant thunderclap at that moment and Joe was ridiculously pleased by the timing.

"...A story for another night. Anyway, Huckleberry set off across the barren wasteland of the Jordan desert. He was a man who was used to survival because he lived in London. It took him a while, a day or two and a couple of insane taxi journeys which involved bribery, but he finally got to the outpost in the Jordan mountains where there was a small, closed shop. The hot piercing sun shone down on Huckleberry and he wondered what to do next. There was only one thing to do. Break into the small tourist centre – up there in the mountains there is a little chapel too. But prayer was far from the mind of Huckleberry – he was only concerned with survival and he was thirsty and hungry and tired. So he broke into the shop and gulped down the cans of coke which were still in a fridge there. Then he found food, hundreds of bags of crisps and salted peanuts for the tourists. He was sure there was other food there but for now he needed sleep. So he holed himself into the chapel and slept on one of the pews. The next morning Huckleberry decided that he would try to figure out what was happening in the world. His smartphone wouldn’t work and he was a little worried about data roaming charges just in case he had got it all wrong and there had been no nuclear strikes. But he found a radio in the small shop around the back. First he started to store water because there was a tap there and he filled some buckets full of water. Then he tried the radio and found a BBC world service broadcast. The BBC get everywhere...

“This is not a drill. Everyone who is still alive, stay indoors. There have been nuclear strikes in all countries. If you are the praying kind then pray. The whole world is in chaos. This is not a drill. If anyone can help us, help us. There is nothing left of the British Isles. Anybody please...”

And the other broadcasts were silenced. Although there was some music for some reason on some of the channels. So Huckleberry went outside to look from the mountain and sure enough he could see mushroom clouds in the distance. And it seemed that the only place he was safe was in Jordan. And that was when the nuke landed on Petra. And the sun turned to sackcloth.

Petra was too close to his base. He saw the mushroom cloud coming. The strangest thing was that the nuclear blast looked different to all those he had seen on TV and in pictures. It looked more like... like an apple core than a mushroom. ‘They must have used a different kind of nuke’ thought Huckleberry pointlessly. He was too close and he dived to the floor. His eardrums shattered. The boom was so loud and burst his eardrums. He knew that he had a matter of minutes to shelter and he could think of nothing else to do but to run to the chapel. So he fled there and hid behind one of the pews praying for the first time in his life. But the blast from the nuke was that of a new nuke, one which the antichrist had sent. And before he could do any more, the mountainside received the fire from the blast. It was too close and neither Petra not the rest of Jordan was safe. In fact the antichrist knew the scriptures too so he had sent a nuke straight to Petra. And all Huckleberry could do was stay in the foetal position while the chapel was blown to bits and the heat of the fire entered like the Lord himself.”

Joe seemed quite pleased with himself and finished his story, placing his apple core down.

“In fact, that was the only mercy. That it ended so quickly for poor, misguided Huckleberry. It is the fate of all civil servants. The end of the world, the sun to sackcloth and the moon to blood.”

Danny was silent for a good while and then said, "It wasn't really a ghost story was it?"

The next morning there was a storm. The summer storms had been intense that year and Danny and Joe sheltered in the tent, listening to the heavy rain which felt like it could flatten them at any moment.

Joe’s smartphone rang. Danny momentarily wondered why he had chosen a song with a trumpet in the intro. 

“Hello – is that Joe? It’s Uncle Mark.”

“Oh, hi…” Joe wondered why his uncle was phoning.

“Joe, I have some bad news.”

Joe’s heart fell and Danny saw his face go white.

“There was a fire at your house Joe. Your mum and dad were both in it. I’m so sorry.”

“What, our parents are dead?”

Danny looked at Joe, listening, shaken.

“They’re both dead Joe, it was some kind of accident. It was last night. We need you and Danny to be strong right now…”

Joe burst into tears and his heart broke fully.

And the moon turned to blood. The sun to darkness.

Danny grabbed the phone, crying too.

“What happened!?” he shouted.

“It was a fire Danny, we don’t know how it started. I’m so sorry. Danny, listen to me…”

But Danny had thrown the smartphone down and unzipped the tent. He was running barefoot towards the river in the storm. 

Danny became soaked in the cold rain and the rain pelted onto his forehead like a knocking. As if someone was knocking on the tent which was his own body. And he ran through the pouring rain under the sound of the thunder and reached the riverside. The river was gushing and swelling and alive. The river was so alive and the water was so fast.

And suddenly Danny looked back and there was his brother racing towards him.

Danny, without taking off any of his clothes, not even his trainers, jumped into the river.

Joe called through the storm to his brother:

‘Daniel!! Stop!!!’

But before he knew it Danny was in the river. Danny felt the water all around him, cold and dragging him along. Before long Danny had been swept out and down the river and still he swam against the current and towards the other side. Joe could do little but watch as Danny reached half way. And that was when Joe noticed that he was struggling and then not struggling anymore. The waters were too fast, the river was too deep, he was never going to make it across. Had he even intended to? And with this realisation, Joe jumped in to rescue his brother who was struggling for breath and still being swept along. Joe swam towards his brother who was just a head now, facing upwards, all his efforts taken in breathing, but not screaming, not seeming afraid even. For a moment Danny went totally underwater and Joe renewed his efforts to reach him. But he watched in horror as Danny was dragged under once again, his face looking up into the sky one last time. Then, strangely he smiled – the smile was so obvious but then he was gone, like a star falling from the sky.

And the emotions which filled Joe were pushed aside out of a wanting for him to save his brother who was now underwater. And he swam to the spot where Danny had gone underwater but felt the same pull, the same current dragging him under too. And suddenly he could neither save his brother or himself and the river seemed to tug him from beneath as it had tugged his brother, claiming him, wanting them both, embracing them. And Joe too felt the fight leave him and felt himself sinking. With one final act he took a last breath and looked up to the storm clouds above them. And the thing that he saw there filled him with wonder. There in the sky, hovering above the river was an angel. A huge, bright, beautiful angel which smiled down on him. The only thing he could do was smile back. And then he went under too. And Huckleberry’s world ended with that of the brothers.

And they crossed the river together.

The Owl Flies at Night - free ebook

My short story experiment 'The Owl Flies at Night' is free tonight and tomorrow for anyone who has a Kindle or the free Kindle for PC app. I wanted to offer it free on Amazon but can't so I've put it at the lowest possible price. The Amazon system allows me to give five days free promotion every three months so please take a look as it is available now.

The Owl Flies at Night

The Owl Flies At Night

An update for my long-suffering blog readers:

The winter hasn't been entirely spent in hibernation. The novel (which has a working title of 'Destiny and Dynasty') is progressing and should be published (one way or another) later in the year.

In the meantime I've written and published a short story called 'The Owl Flies At Night' as an ebook.

It's a short story which I've sat on for quite a few years. Originally it was going to be part of my novel, but it didn't fit and I thought it worked better as a standalone story. I've used a few writing tricks and experiments, there is an unreliable narrator and I've also experimented with frame stories. In the end it has turned into a story within a story within a story (and that is on-purpose). I had a lot of fun with this one and it was enjoyable to write but I suppose the test will be to find out what people think of it.

Here are the details and the blurb:

'Owl Flies at Night is a satirical short story about Dr Eric Swell and his adventures on the astral plane. As Dr Swell once said, 'It is your destiny to read this.' 

Dr Swell maintains that having an out of body experience is just like riding a magic carpet and that negative astral experiences don't exist. You can trust him can't you? Surely we can all trust him.

Just look over your shoulder now and sense your spirit guide nodding in approval as you read these very words. 

Learn the identity of Narcissus. Free yourself from dogma. Find a story within a story. Do not doubt Dr Swell. He is entirely reliable and his words are like a light at the end of all our tunnels. 

This is a sample of Dr Swell's best work, his magnum opus. It is a work which will herald a paradigm shift in the world's collective consciousness. 

We all have a destiny.'

I wanted to publish the story for free as an Amazon ebook, but the platform doesn't allow that so I have priced it at the lowest price. So I'll try to use as many free promotions as Amazon allow.

Please do check it out if you can. Here is the Amazon link.

The Princess Who Wanted Snow

If you're looking for a present to give to a child (aged 6+) this Christmas then this collection of stories would make a wonderful stocking filler at £6.99.

My first short story has been published in the book 'An Advent Calendar of Stories' by Bridge House Publishing. The story is called 'The Princess Who Wanted Snow' and it's about a fiesty princess who has been trapped in a castle by a selfish prince. It's a magical story from the point of view of one of the castle cats (named 'Aly'). The princess tells the prince that the only way she will marry him is if he makes it snow. The problem is that it never snows.

It was inspired by a tiny cat I saw when I visited an old castle whilst on holiday in Portugal and the first draft was written on that holiday.

There's a story in this book for every day of Advent, stories about angels, animals and dragons.

You can order the book and find out more at:

http://www.bridgehousepublishing.co.uk/

The hero of the story: 'Aly'