An ‘Apocalyptic Christmas Story’ by Rhys the AZK

“It twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature stirred, not even a mouse. The kids were asleep, all snug in their beds.

But then came a thud, and a crash and a wallop, and what would come out the chimney that night, but a big green gabbop”

Josie had went to say something, but Rhys had put his hand up to stop her, none of us knew what a gobbop was, but for rhyming purposes, it worked, and after a look, the both of us let it slide,

“Now, it’s not the Grinch my young Jose, but something stranger than him, and, with a clatter and a bang, he got to his feet, and across the carpet he strode, no room for his beat -” he went to shake his shoulders, as if he was going to start dancing, but Jose stopped him,

“Your terrible at rhyming” she said, “It started off okay” she felt the need to tell him, “But I don’t think it makes much sense anymore”,

“It’s a story about zombies at Christmas, of course it doesn’t” Rhys had said before he’d wriggled his butt in the cushion dramatically and turned his head up, continuing with his story;

‘He stumbled up the stairs, they thought it twas the cat, but she hissed at the bottom, she wanted none of that. And in to the girls room, the green thing did go. And, with a scream and a clatter, they were gone without a matter.

‘The parents, they rushed in, all sad and crying, proclaiming to the police, their kid was kidnapped and dyying”, Jose smiled, leaning her head on her shoulder, “But, no evidence they found, except for a red pound. And, on and on, it went, till new years came around” Josie had lied down now, her head resting on her hands, “The mother went searching, looking high and low. And, finally, she found her, all meekly and slow. She was pale and sick, and not a word was said. The mother knew best, so over she went. The dad found them later, both stood outside the door” Rhys gestured to the front door and it made the hairs on my arms prickle, “He thought he would join them, but they ate him instead!”

Josie laughed then – I don’t know if that’s a good thing, considering what the whole thing was about – but it made her belly laugh, like properly laugh, and she hadn’t done it for so long that I didn’t consider how terrible the story was.

But then, I guess; in this world, where people kill people, and the dead kill people too, you need to laugh, you need to be happy every now and then, because, without it, what’s the point? What’s the point of living in a world like this if you can’t?

Rhys had smiled, and then, he’d pulled out a badly wrapped present from behind his back. Josie’s little eye’s had lit up and she looked almost scared to take it, but Rhys put it in to her hands and told her to open it.

It had only been a coloring book and some old crayons, but Josie had loved it, and from the time she was given it, to the time we sat down – for perhaps one of the best Christmas dinners I’ve ever had out of a tin – she never put it down, and, even after that, as we lay content and full, she colored until she fell asleep.

It was and, perhaps, always will be, the best ‘Apocalyptic Christmas’ I’ll ever have.


I’m not sure if this worked the way I wanted it too, but, if anything, it was nice to write it out, and perhaps, it’s given you a little insight in to the dynamics of these three characters from my NaNoWriMo project!

And, also, I’d like to wish you a very Merry Christmas, or a very happy Monday!

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Day 3: When a Kings Knight Met a Red Nosed Reindeer (12DaysOfBlogmas)

Today’s post was inspired by today’s Promptmas post! And, I attempted to do a flash fiction.

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That day, Ryan had decided to go on a small hunting trip in Pembrey forest to pass the time a tad. Everyone else was sat around at the manor, writing letters to Kings, reading books, carving wooden rabbits, picking flowers or welding swords. All of which he had no interest in.

Not to mention, he liked to be alone sometimes. The silence of the forest made him feel better, made him feel sane when the rest of the world were losing their minds. Here, it wasn’t that bad, the people here weren’t as crazy as they were in the fields of Cryers – despite claims against the old Lord.

So far, he’d caught a couple rabbits, scared off a pheasant or two by accident, but he hadn’t spotted any boars or deer yet. Although, he wasn’t really sure he wanted too. He hadn’t brought Bezel with him this time, knowing the horse would most likely bolt at the sound of a rustle after what happened last week.

Really speaking, Ryan shouldn’t have been out there by himself, but, if he peered through the thicket long enough – and in just the right place – be could see the manor, which would be his excuse when he got back.

The trees around him were already thick with snow, the ground covered in undisturbed white that broke apart under his boots.

He hated that as much as Aran did, ruining the snow after all its hard work to fall.

The feeling of eyes on the back of his head made him stop. He could hear something as well, a rustle here, the crunch of snow there. He turned his head, his hand steady on his bow to pull it to the front of him, but then he saw it.

He had no idea what it was at first. He thought someone had been holding a torch from far away, but it wasn’t fire, it was like an orb. Like a ball of glowy red.

And it was attached to a stags nose.

Its antlers were small, it told him it was was a young thing, but it had fluffy chest hair, almost like a white beard.

It was tentatively walking towards him. Ryan kept his position, wondering whether the thing was going to attack, but it didn’t. It stopped about three feet away from him and strained it’s neck towards him, it’s red nose twitching.

Everything about it, except the fluffy neck line and the bulbous red, glowy thing on the end of it’s nose, told Ryan it was a stag, but the nose looked as if it was changing color every so often, that it would dull and then brighten up again as it twitched, getting closer and closer to him.

It was like something out of one of Telfawds books, like one of those mythical creatures that wasn’t really mythical. He considered it for a moment; the look of the thing, maybe it was an infection or something, a tumor perhaps, and then, the distance from here to the manor, which he realised he couldn’t see anymore, even if he did peer.

The stag touched his hand with it’s nose and he jerked it back out of habit, but it had felt like a dogs, rough and wet and he almost thought that it was going to crouch down and wag it’s tail like one, but it just tilted it’s head instead. Ryan swore it grinned at him, but then he shook his head and rubbed his eyes and face, wondering if the thing really was real.

If it hadn’t looked at him so placid like, he may have just shot it straight away, but, instead, a comical chase between the two ensued. Dashing here and there so that Ryan could get a bit of noose around it’s neck to guide it back to the manor, at least just for Telfawd to see it and tell him why it’s nose was red, bulbous and glowing. He didn’t know if they would believe his words. And, the more he looked at it, the more he saw something else in it.

And, it wasn’t a monster or anything, so Aran couldn’t say that he was the one that brought the end of the world. That would still be on him.

Anyhow, after another dash and a chase, Ryan stopped and put his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath and looking up towards the sky, he thought about how dark it had got, which meant he’d probably been chasing this deer around for far too long already. It also meant that he might get lost, and then, maybe eaten by a redcap or a shellycoat, both of which he hoped to avoid.

After a few more moments, Ryan sighed, turned and pulled his bow from his back.

The poor thing had no idea what was happening, and Ryan shot it in the head, the arrow sliced through the stag’s skull, almost splitting it in two!

Ryan chucked the dead red nosed stag over his shoulder and took it back to the Lord.

But, by the time, he got back, the red glow was gone and it was just a regular old stag again. No one believed him, but still, they sat around the table with their venison and cheered to his catch!


I don’t know why I always jump to Ryan for these short stories. I wonder sometimes if there’s a reason for that though, like something underlining that perhaps I don’t know about just yet.

I know he has this gentle side to him, but, he’s also willing to do what needs to be done, and, really, is like the anchor to sanity that I think Aran is gonna need as these books go on. He’s definitely one of those characters to watch, unless he suddenly shows up dead if he goes looking for some more red nosed stags with fluffy neck lines.

I know the grammar is a bit all over the place, but I guess that’s what you get when you do one of these flash fictions things, and it’s a good exercise to get to know your own characters a bit too much!

Anyway! Thank you for reading!

And, remember, just keep writing!

Jade x

To Fly… Would It Not Be Wonderful

Short story inspired by writing.prompt.s


So, in our world, half of the people born in a year can fly, and the other half can’t. It’s as simple as that.

And, the only way you can find out; is if you jump from a height that will surely kill you!

It sounds a bit macabre, I know, but my people know what their doing. They know if your that half that can fly. I promise.

My father can fly; my mother, maybe she can, but she never tried; my older sister can fly too, but my younger brother has no interest in it, not yet anyway. He likes having his two feet on the ground at all times, whilst I… I love to be in the air.

Whether I’m sitting on a plane, jumping in to a pool or doing the high jump in school, I just love the air brushing against me.

I’m sixteen years old now, the youngest you can be to find out your fait in this world; and about to jump off the white cliff of Dolin. It’s the cliff both my father and my sister jumped off, the one they glided from, unwilling from that day on to keep their feet on the ground.

I’ve never wanted to keep my feet on the ground. The wind has always given me a thrill, the feeling of it in my hair and brushing past my finger tips have always excited me. I knew from the day I jumped in to a diving pool that the air was built for me, to glide and fly…

I remember I sky dived once… The closest I’d come to flying before my time. I felt myself float, just as my father said he did. It had felt amazing. I can still remember the wind blowing in my face. I’d stretched my arms out and screamed in to the air in delight. I’d felt the air pick me up.

I’d begged the man behind me not to pull the chute, to let us glide down on to the ground, but such things are not allowed. The man had laughed, and in my ear, he’d said ‘Not today’.

The parachute would open as planned and we would fall to the ground slowly. I was mesmerised by that which surrounded us, by the endless land that some witnessed every day.

That moment is what I will imagine now as I step over the cliff.

My father is at the bottom, cheering for me to jump. My mother is stood behind him.

She won’t look at me, refusing until my feet have touched the ground, but I have already decided that she would never never see me again, because from this moment on, my feet will never touch solid ground.

I will fly to dinner, I will fly to school, I will keep myself in the air where I am meant to be. It is what I am made for…

I close my eyes, take a deep breath in as my father taught me, open my arms out to the world and jump. I feel the wind instantly, pushing in to me, easing it’s way through my splayed fingers, my lungs breathing in the purest of airs, filling my chest with the urges to glide, to do as my father does.

My father is still cheering, I can hear him in the wind, I think my mother has joined him. I smile, perhaps I am gliding already.

My eyes flicker, but the wind keeps them shut. There’s no worry. My father said this would happen, that I had to breath and picture myself in the air, to picture myself flying.

The moment I feel like an open parachute, for the moment I will begin to glide, to fly…

But the moment does not come…

My mothers not cheering…

She’s screaming…


This was fun to write, I hope it’s fun to read too! It seems the poor sixteen year old will fly, but not the way she expected!

Prompts can be a writers most important resource, and get you out of the writing slumps you find yourself in!

It helps you develop different types of writing styles, helps you try out different tenses and even lets you explore genres you perhaps wouldn’t think of writing in.

It also inspires you. It can lead to a paragraph, a short story, a chapter or even a full-blown novel! You can make a prompt your own. You could have a hero, a villain or a by-stander as your star, it doesn’t matter, as long as you write it the way you want to…

Just Keep Writing guys 🙂

Escaped…

Lightning blinded me once more as I opened my eyes, bringing the thunder everyone hates the sound of, and the rain that terrorises men and animal alike.

My breath catches as I realise I can breath again, a fresh taste in my mouth as I am flung forward and thrown towards the ground.

I can feel stone beneath me, wet, rigid. I scramble to my feet desperately, waiting for the water to seep in to my skin, for the pain to start, but when I look at my hands, I do not see blisters or sores. The water trickles in droplets down my palm and back on to the floor.

I do not look back, I am drawn to the light, the opening in the dark where the rain pours and the lightning strikes, smashing in to the rock and breaking away at what surrounds me.

My legs stumble and falter, but somehow, I keep myself upright, drawn to what my people call the acid rain.

I trip and fall to the ground, the light on the horizon goes dark. It is wet and cold, but again, the water does not burn like it is supposed too. It has no flame, no power. I push myself to my knees, the light on the horizon appearing once more.

My eyes must have adjusted. I can see the raggedness of the caves opening in to the world, I can see the stone tear apart as the lightning crashes against it.

So, why on earth am I still walking towards it? My father once told me an old saying of our people, that curiosity killed the cat. I don’t even know what a cat is, but it sounds evil.

I come to the edge and my heart freezes as I look upon the bright lights and sounds of a city as far and as wide as my eyes can see. 

There are towers of windows and lights high in to the sky, things that move across straight roads seemlessly in all different colours. Sounds, so many sounds I’ve never heard before, ones that ring in my ears, ones that fill them with joy. There is something though, something I recognise in amongst the new.

People. Other people.

I kneel down, entranced by the scene. It looks like a city from one of the photo’s, of a world that had once been. People are running around, trying to escape the rain like I would, but their rain is not like ours. They run without cover, their skin bare to the elements.

Are they immune to the acid rain? Have they evolved? I hold my arm out, my body shakes as I wait for the familiar pain, but it does not come. It does not burn or melt my skin like it once had.

Had the nuclear storm ended as I’d been trapped, had the wasteland been rebuilt, taking back what was once ours on the barron land. How long had I been asleep? I touch my face, expecting wrinkles and leather skin like grandma had once, but it is still soft, still untouched by the old.

I stand with my arms opened, embracing this new world, a world where acid rain did not melt childrens faces and elders could walk outside without fear that their own translucent skin would betray them.

I look down at the cliff I’m on. If I am careful and do not falter, I could reach the bottom. I turn back, sending a silenf promise that once I found the city safe, I would return for my people.

After only two steps down, I was at the bottom. As if there is no cliff there at all. 

I turn to the city. It looks even taller now. I am on one of their roads, they are grey like the ones they used to talk off, yellow and white lines running across them.

I notice the similarities more and more as I walk. The things that move pass me run on wheels. I am sure I have seen the wreckage of what a thousand years of a nuclear storm can do to them. The slabs on the pavement are familiar too, I have seen them used to build a wall, to keep out the monsters the acid rain had created. The towers of windows, the buildings, they are made of brick, of concrete, just like ours once were.

I feel an immense sense of fulfillment as I begin to run towards the center. I have woke in a place that had rebuilt the wasteland. A place where acid rain does not burn my skin. Has the nuclear storm finally ended?

People run pass me, I hear their voices complain about the rain, of how their hair would ruin or their make-up run. Do they not realise that they are in a place where rain does not scar your skin or make your face melt, in a place where the sun does not bare down on you and cook you from the inside out.

The people stare at me, look at me weird, as if I do not belong to this place, but as I look down to my blue overalls, I feel under dressed. The clothes they wear are different to ours, their more colourful, colours I have only ever seen faded. My feet do not stop to worry about such things, my mind wants to take it all in. Am I dreaming?

Am I even smart enough to think up such a place?

A chubby man get’s my attention. He is stood next to a newspaper stand, the papers flutter around as he tries to collect them up, to shelter them from the rain, but one escapes him. We both watch as it flies up, way out of his reach and he looks away, disheartened when it lands in a puddle near me. He walks away as I pick it up.

The words do not fade straight away. On the front page, it has The Times written across the top, it’s almost like the one I had found before, but it was fresh, white; not browned and aged and brittle. The photo shows me a family. A mother, a father and a child I think. The child looks sick, tubes coming from his nose. Cancer. An old illness that my people do not fall ill too. I look through it, the paper ripping as the wet sunk in, but I could not find anything of my world in it’s words.

My eyes get drawn to the date. The 26th April 2017. It is the same date, the same month, the same year, but this can not be my world. My world is a wasteland.

The rain continues to fall, but another bright glow from the sky makes me look up. The clouds have began to shift. 

Is it the sun. It must be the sun. The clouds shift over, showing a white globe in the sky, but it does not blind me like the sun does.

Is it the moon. How can it be the moon. The moon was blown up, destroyed by a nuclear strike that had come for the world seconds after.

Thats because… I’m dreaming…

This is not my world. This world has never been a wasteland. They have not faced the acid rain. They have never faced the monsters that had evolved in the radioactive waters. A blip, a blip in the line of the universe. A world where nuclear war did not take our homes, or the beauty of the moon..

I look backwards, towards the cliff I had scaled and see only buildings. The cave I emerged from is gone. I had escaped the wasteland, but now I was trapped…


This piece was inspired by a promp fromimg_6397 thinkbreathwriteblog.

 

The featured photo is from atideswellman

I don’t really know what caused me to talk about nuclear war and a wasteland, but it’s the first things that popped in to my head as I started to write. It’s also the first time I have written anything in present tense, so hopefully I’ve not messed up anywhere.

Have a good Wednesday!

 

 

 

 

The Joust (Ryans Squire Story)

They had passed over a rocky river and her leg had slipped. From there on, lameness had over took the old mare. A young Ryan Crye, a red headed squire to the great Sir Trent, a Kings Knights, had found himself almost begging his Lord for them to stop, to let her rest before they got to the Kings tournament, but the Knight had no compassion for such things. If she could not keep up, she would be disposed of.

The young squire had considered leaving her in one of the inns, just until they passed back through, but when he had asked, the Knight had said it would be a waste. He was not willing to spend his money on the old mare; he would rather spend it on the whores. Ryan had considered leaving her in a camp they had erected on the fourth night. It was safe from wolves and bears, and was one they would pass through on their way home. However, when he had left her, she had followed him.

The mare had never liked being alone, and she must have thought the pain worth it to stay with her young rider. Even if she would never make it.

It had been an early morning when she had fallen for the last time. She laid there on her side, her breathing was heavy, but it was constant. The mare was trying so hard not to give up, to keep herself alive for the boy she was so worried would turn in to his superior if he cared about no one else, but himself.

The squire, her rider, her Ryan, sat with her in her last moments. Moments that would have come much later if the Knight had not slit her throat.

“Horses die just like men, we move on” the Knight said. There was no compassion, no respect.

The mare had once belonged to him, but he had turned old and nasty; or maybe he had always been that way. Ryan had looked up at him once, but now, he could not help but feel ashamed. How had he not seen what this man was truly like. He’d left his father, a coward, a beater, to follow someone he thought was different.

Ryan walked the rest of the way, following in the back of the Knights procession. The Kings tournament would only last four days, but still the Knight had taken his whole house with him.

He had his cook to ensure the meat was not poisoned, his three servants to make sure his weaponry was sharp, his two young handmaidens to ensure his tent was clean (amongst other things), his stable hand to ensure his horse was looked after, and Ryan for everything else. They had also acquired another on their travel, a blonde headed whore who took a delight in sitting on the back of the Knights horse with her small arms wrapped around him.

She had taken notice of Ryan, sometimes flinging herself at him when she thought the Knight did not look, but he had no need or want of her. The Knight did not care if his squire shared his whore, but he had got so lazy on his choosing’s as of late, that his dick was spotted and his balls were red. As beautiful as the whore was, Ryan did not want to share such things with his Lord.

The tournament had only just begun when they rode in. Tents had been erected all around the Kings field, the castle dominating the skyline. The Knights tent had already been erected before they had arrived, and the servants made quick work to make it to the Knights liking. Before he had settled, the Knight had pushed Ryan in the direction of the stable, telling him and the stable hand to pick out a horse. He told him to get something young, sturdy, something that would aid both him and the Knight during the tournament if his black steed ever fell.

He had not wanted to choose another, not so soon, but as the Kings stable hand, an old grey headed man had showed him what was on offer, Ryan strayed towards a blue colt. It had looked at him curiously and he had looked back at it. There was something about the way the colt held himself, something Ryan could not explain or understand.

“He is a fine horse with a soft heart. If you show him compassion young Sir, he will give you his all” the grey haired man said as he walked up behind him. His own stable hand grimaced at the thought of the horse, there was something about it he did not like, but then maybe he had been around the Knight far too much to care about helping a quiet soul. Despite his obvious annoyance, Ryan chose the colt.

The horse was six years old and his name was Bezel.

The Knight had not cared for him, just as the stable hand had said, but like I said the Knight did not care for much these days.

King of the kingdom, Rhyne Collonau, did not take part in the tournament, knowing that the men would let him win. Anyhow, the King’d had his fill of war, of fighting. He was happy to watch, to spectate the lives of his followers.

He had seen the Knight arrive, as always, with a procession of people; followed by a young Ryan Crye. He looked like his father, but despite his name and his likeness, he fought like a warrior, held himself like a young Knight. He had already competed in and wan five sparring games with older men before the first day ended. He was no coward like his father.

The Knight had won his seventh jousting match by noon on the second day. He was in the lead, and would most probably again, be top of the board by the tournaments end.

It was on the third day that Ryan took part in his first joust. He could feel the adrenaline running through him as he’d adorned the armor. It was not steel like the Knights, but the poles were much duller, less likely to kill. He could feel Bezels excitement as he mounted him. He enjoyed being ridden, to run -just as much as Ryan did. Ryan remembered running at the horse, remembered putting his jousting pole down, but then it had cracked, stabbing the other horse in the chest. It fell and the rider toppled on to the ground.

Bezel had stopped in his tracks, throwing Ryan off the top of him and causing him to do a roll in the air before hitting the ground. He had looked up, his head spinning as people had rushed to them. The other horse was dead, and the man had smacked his head on the fence between them; death would come later for him.

The Knight had been both impressed and disappointed. Disappointed more that he had fallen from his horse. It had not been Ryans fault, the man’s horse had tripped and fallen towards the pole, but still the Knight had congratulated him. It was not the first man the squire had led to death, and it would not be his last, but it was not one he had intended. The man had been in his forties, his wife had cheered him on at the side. They had come for the fun of it, to be a part of the Kings celebrations, not to die. The Knight had already considered taking the crying widow back to his tent, it was the first thing that had popped in to his mind. She could be Ryan’s prize once he he’d had his fill.

The blue colt had not moved. His feet were firmly stuck in place. Ryan had been helped up by two men he couldn’t remember the faces off, instead, his eyes were transfixed on the man next to him. Silently, he begged the Gods he did not believe in to let him live, for his daughters and sons to keep their father, but then the Knight would slap the frozen horse on the arse. It would bolt, smashing right in to the Knights black stallion who stood awaiting his turn.

In a fit of pure rage, the Knight drew his sword, heading for the pile of horse. Bezel was the first to stand and, as the Knight raised his sword, he brought it down on the colt, only for another to smack it away. It was the last time the Knight would ever have a squire called Ryan Crye. Ryan swiped his sword to the right, hitting the Knights hands and making him drop the steel sword he’d considered stealing once. The Knight had never had many words, only actions, but as he went to grab Ryan, to bestow upon him the things only legend said he could, Ryan held his sword to his throat.

“Goodbye my Lord” Ryan said. He considered ramming the sword through his neck, he may have had the Knight not took a step back. Ryan turned and flung himself on to Bezel. He could not stay here; he could not squire for a man so full of hatred.

He would return home to his father, to his house.

The King had watched quietly. Many men had stood up to Sir Trent, but never had a man made him step away. It was the day the King had decided that the Crye family name would not go down as the ones who had fled from the great war, but be one of the ones who would save the Kingdom from the threat that was so far away.


This is a little insight in to some back story of my current WIP. I wanted to write it so I knew a bit more about a secondary character. Sometimes they only talk to you when you write about them.

Until next time guys,

Just Keep Writing,

Jade x