Tag Archives: creative writing

Angel of Mercy #Preview of a #FantasyCharacter

30 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by in Angel of Mercy

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As a result of the recent poll I took on WP, as well as Facebook, I was finally able to dress my main character from Angel of Mercy.

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The uniform Lévesque had given him was that of a regimental officer made of black leather that did not immediately impress, particularly when folded up lying upon a blood-stained table.  The black leather pants were snug, trimmed with gold embroidery and dressed by a triplet of golden buttons embossed with the Eminent Protectorate’s seal on either side of this trim just below the hip.  The snug-fitting coat was also embroidered with golden trim, set off smartly by a double row of similar golden buttons that ran along the outside length of the coat and collar. Individual straps of black leather closed the coat by crossing the front of it from one button to the other, while epaulettes, which also bore the EP seal and looping golden fringes, were set off by two golden cords ornamentally draping the neckline.

Black leather boots with lacings and a wide leather belt completed the ensemble and after putting everything on, he walked with a purposeful stride to the small dais upon which Jshunamir was displayed.  Taking up his own baldric of soft gray leather, the only thing that remained from what he had been wearing on the day he encountered Lévesque, he cinched it loosely round his hips and picked up his sword.  Unstained and untarnished, though it had not been cleaned, it glittered as beautifully as it did on the day it was forged; it’s inlaid runes glimmering with a silvery light all their own. Sheathing it, he turned back toward the table, noticing Lourdes at last who stood watching him with an unguarded stare.

Smiling subtly, he met her gaze, the deep lavender of his eyes searching hers, but she closed her and looked down at the bundle she carried, clearly unable to express herself.  Crossing the floor with an unhurried stride, he looked down at himself and then back to her with an openly curious expression.

“Does it suit me? I think it’s a bit,” he paused, seeking the correct word, but she finished his sentence for him, her tone openly approving.

“Magnificent.”

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Tzadkiel is the Archangel of Mercy, sent to earth in the 4th era after the first of the Four Horsemen have ridden. He is looking for one human among those who remain who still understands Mercy.  He’s been looking for nearly 100 years, but he’s finally found her…a young servant named Lourdes.

Just a taste of the work in progress….

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~Morgan~

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Beautiful Original Artwork by aenaluck

Input Requested – #MainCharacter Polll

26 Friday Apr 2019

Posted by in Just Me Musing

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I’m looking for a bit of fun input. My main character in Angel of Mercy needs to wear a military uniform during a portion of the story. It’s 400 years in the future and I’m going for a goth military look.  Oh, and just for clarity, in the story his wings are not visible.

I’ve narrowed it down to these. Which one do you like best?

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Thanks !

~Morgan~

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Beautiful Original Artwork by aenaluck

The Request – #ShortStories for #Meditation and #Devotions

23 Tuesday Apr 2019

Posted by in Flash Fiction and Shorts

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Loving Hands

There was a small village, smack in the middle of nowhere. While the rest of the world updated their Facebook pages, Tweeted, LinkedIn, texted, posted, and multi-tasked at a pace even Data from the Enterprise would find impressive, this tiny island of inhabitation, cohabitation and harmony went on in blissful serenity. Isolated from the modern economy by miles of wilderness and separated from the modern culture of Want, Avarice, Greed, and Self-Promotion, this community set its standards for excellence by different measures.

Led by a Chief who was the most honorable of men, who was just and merciful, caring and compassionate, yet strict in his moral code, the people of the village lived in a collective accord with each other and with nature. They shared their wealth, as well as their poverty, equally; they worked together for the prosperity of all and, when needs arose outside their sphere of influence they would make appeals to their Chief to provide for them.

One day a young man, who was recently married and whose wife was with child, came to the Chief with a request of pressing urgency. Sitting down at the fire with this young man, the Chief listened carefully to his concerns without interruption, his kindly expression filled with understanding and patience. The young man, however, was fretful, distracted, impatient and tense, and repeatedly rose from his place at the fire to pace around the room or go to the door and stare anxiously outward, his emotions ruling his thoughts and logic.

It was not a simple request he was making. What he needed was not something to be found within the limits of the village and the price of collecting it was costly. Nevertheless, the Chief listened, understood, and assured the young man he would work diligently on acquiring the item, regardless of how long it took. He asked the young man to wait until he sent word to him that he had what it was he asked for and could come back to get it. Agitated and unappeased, the young man went away.

The following week the young man returned. His countenance was shaken; his nerves were frazzled. He asked the Chief all over again for the item, repeating much of what he had already said, never giving the Chief a moment to assure him that the process of acquisition was already taking place and it would not be long until it would be shipped to the village. Overwrought by worry, the young man begged insistently, growing angry when the Chief tried to explain the simple fact that, although the man’s request had been heard, it was still being worked on; the young man would have to wait just a bit longer.

Another week passed and no message came from the Chief to tell the young man the item had arrived. Thoroughly vexed, the young man decided to set out on his own for the towns, miles away through savage wilderness, with little money in his pocket. He did not know how he would attain the item he needed, but he carried with him a blade that would protect him from harm as well as convince those who sold the item of his urgent need. He left his home, his wife, his unborn child, his village and his chief.

The very next day word came to his hut that the Chief requested him to come to his tent at the center of the village. The item of his desire had finally arrived; the Chief had worked tirelessly, night and day, to raise funds so it could be purchased, packaged carefully, shipped and he now stood with the delicate, beautiful treasure in his hands, awaiting the young man’s arrival so he could give it to him and they could celebrate together.

The young man, however, did not come. He was lost in the wilderness, miles away, and did not know that the answer to his prayers was waiting for him and that all he had to do was come and receive it.

 

 

~Morgan~

Beautiful artwork courtesy of: http://www.themothersprayer.com

#WorkInProgress – Angel of Mercy – A #PostApocalyptic #Psychological #Romantic #Fantasy #Mystery?

10 Sunday Mar 2019

Posted by in Flash Fiction and Shorts

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Two brief excerpts from my current – well, one of two current – Works In Progress. Not entirely sure how to categorize it yet, maybe you can tell me…Its set in the future, AFTER the beginning of the Biblical Apocalypse. It’s about mortals and Immortals, Hate and Love, Fear and Romance. Yes it will have STEAM, Violence, Spirituality and a hint of Dsytopian flair. It tells the story of life after the first 3 Horsemen, Pestilence, War and Famine, have ridden.  In the 4 Era after the Great Cataclysm, the final horseman, Death is accompanied by the Archangel of Mercy, who is sent to find at least one person among those who remain who is merciful.  He has been searching for almost 100 years….

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Year 96 of the 4th Era after the Great Cataclysm: Le Bastion de la Résolution, – Marçais, Olde France

She was only a scullery maid. Nothing. No one. She was as unimportant as the scraps she cleaned up and just as forgettable. She had been her entire life and nothing would ever change that. She knew it and she expected nothing. Ever since she was five years old she understood that those around her were far better than she. Her life was trivial and meaningless; she accepted it.

Those she served were as far above her as she was above the barn rats. Her betters were interesting, beautiful, wealthy, and above all, powerful. When they spoke, others rushed to serve; where they wished to go, others made way. They were inaccessible and inescapable. Officers of the Eminent Protectorate and their families, they outranked even the nobles of the land and none questioned them. The Eminent Protectorate were the elite of society and to serve them was a privilege most could only dream of in a world where poverty was common-place, where being healthy was a rare distinction among the masses of Mortal Plague, and where Time had stopped……..

Every night she could hear the screams. Harrowing, they kept her awake many long nights while she leaned from her small window in the servant’s tower desperately trying to locate their source, but the stone walls of the bastion sent echoes pealing in all directions. They broke her heart, at first, but after many weeks of hearing them she’d grown accustomed to the noise. It wasn’t so much that they didn’t affect her anymore, but she accepted them, just as she accepted her own plight. The Eminent Protectorate could not and would not be questioned about them, or about anything they did, so whoever the poor soul was, they were doomed to bear whatever was happening without any more hope of rescue than she might wish for. Less. ……

Year 86 of the 4th Era after the Great Cataclysm: The Coast of Calais, Olde France

He stood on the vast ocean shore, his back to what was left of a once vibrant land as his brilliant, violet gaze searched the empty miles of gray ocean. His essence listened for any sign of life, a heartbeat remaining among the silence of the deeps, but not a single pulse broke the deathly hush. Pestilence had done his job too well. Nothing remained. All that was once beautiful, colorful and diverse was gone.

The thought pained him and he closed his eyes, bowing his head to mourn what had been sacrificed and all that had been lost. No terns cried upon the ocean breeze; no laughing gulls sang praise to the skies, there was only the sound of the waves rushing and breaking upon the rocky shore and the hollow moan of the wind. Without wings to dance upon it, the air itself seemed barren and grief-stricken. Without the song of the lark to cheer the entrance of the day or the carol of the robin to serenade the evening, the entire earth grieved in heavy silence. The ruddy glimmer of the late day sun, slowly fading into a crimson haze, played through the lengths of his blonde hair and sparkled across the perfection of his features. Standing there at the beginning of such a vast emptiness, he was the most beautiful sight for countless miles.

Behind him, a thunder of hooves pounded across the beach and the curses of men accosted the quietness.  He did not turn to face them as they formed a perimeter around him, barricading him against the sea, nor did he immediately answer when they demanded to know who he was; instead, he closed his violet eyes and sighed wearily.  Nothing had changed, even after three horrifying cataclysms had shaken the foundations of the world; hate, suspicion and fear still ruled those who remained.

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I welcome your thoughts and feedback 😉

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~Morgan~

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Beautiful Original Artwork by Jules-Joseph-Augustin Laurens (top) and by aenaluck.deviantart.com (bottom)

Muse – #VisuallyLyrical #Poetry

28 Monday Jan 2019

Posted by in Visually Lyrical

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~Morgan~

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Beautiful Photograph found on Pinterest.  Credit Gratefully Acknowledged to the original photographer/Artist.  Thank You~

Rain- #NaturalWorld #Meditations

16 Wednesday Jan 2019

Posted by in Just Me Musing

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Rain.

It is a beautiful thing. There are so many types of rain, really, and I couldn’t tell you which sort I prefer more (unless we are including the fluffy, white, frozen variety that I love most of all, in copious quantities, as frequently as possible.)
Silver Greenery

There’s the light, misty kind that I tend to envision whenever someone talks about Great Britain. That type of drizzly, foggy rain that hangs over the landscape, penetrating every crevice, enveloping whatever it touches in a hazy shroud, and leaving ten thousand beads of incandescent diamonds in its wake that sparkle and scintillate when the light reappears. (Sounds divine, doesn’t it?) Oh, it’s also that deceptively inconsequential form of rain that doesn’t look like much until you walk out in it without your brolly.
Mists

There’s the freezing drizzle, or frizzle; that sinister variety of rain that usually arrives overnight and surreptitiously transforms the garden path, car park, or the front steps into a skating arena suitable only for Olympic athleticism. It’s that quirky classification of rain that warps and blurs everything into unrealistic, Photoshop-worthy deviations of reality that makes most of us grab our camera’s (ie. Phones) to record and share the surreal, Dr Suess-iness of it all. This category of precipitation doesn’t initially impress either, so you generally disregard it until you have to go out and then promptly wind up on your…..
Winter's Icy Grip

There are many classifications of thunderstorms as well. Those that pop up in the middle of a sweltering, summer day just long enough to make us all run for cover; the kind that create a lot of noise for 20 minutes and then disappear into a haze of steam. There are those that roll overhead in the hiatus of evening, fast and furious, full of sound and fury, (signifying nothing?) that do little more than make a mess, generally. And then there are those magnificent, cacophonous, tempests that jar you from sound sleep in the middle of the night with ear-splitting thunder and shocks of lightening that leave you wondering if you couldn’t hide under the bed with the cat.
Lightening

There’s also the awe-inspiring, stop-you-dead-in-your-tracks kind of rain that makes you stare out the window in astonishment, forces you off the road in your car because you can’t see one inch ahead or behind, and makes you wonder for a fleeing, transitory moment if there isn’t an arc being built someplace nearby that you perhaps ought to be booking passage on: those torrential downpours of cats and dogs (and monkeys.)
pouring-rain

Then there’s the steady, pervasive, day-long kind of rain that sweeps over the earth, softly falling hour by hour, never flooding, never rumbling, never wreaking havoc. This is the kind of rain that looks like a painting by Monet or Van Gough; that smells so sweet you inhale the scent of it deeply and can’t help sighing. It’s also that sort of precipitation that makes you want to pull off your shoes like a child, go out and splash in the puddles.
Gentle Rain

Much like life, we can’t control the rain; what kind of rain it is, how hard it falls or for how long, but we can control how we respond to it so that we neither wind up soaking wet wishing we had protection from the rain, staring in dumb-struck wonder at the rain fearing what might happen next because the unanticipated variability of the rain caught us completely off guard. Rather, we can stop to enjoy the rain, whatever its form, inhale deeply, and allow ourselves to be refreshed and renewed before we plod on.

Rainbow

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~Morgan~
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Photos 1 and 3 taken by me 🙂

Other Beautiful original photos found on Pinterest.  Credit Gratefully Acknowledged to the original photographers.  Thank You.

Courage – #4thofJuly #Honour

04 Wednesday Jul 2018

Posted by in Poetry

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Weep

If not for the photographer’s Lens,
Would we Truly See?

If not for the Poet’s Words,
Would we Truly Appreciate?

If not for the Courage of the Soldier,
Would we Truly Understand?

For their Sacrifice, and for all they do without Thanks, without Notice, Their Courage Speaks.

~Morgan~

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Image found at: warhistoryonline.com

Passage Finale- Soul Mates – #FlashFiction

04 Monday Jun 2018

Posted by in Flash Fiction and Shorts

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Passage time stands still

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His senses spun; his heart hammered; he was irresistibly drawn to her. She no longer whispered, but he could hear her still; the beguiling sound of that which made her exquisitely her resounded within him.

Unconcerned about the watching star-beings, who no longer laughed, but shimmered their light as if smiling, he stepped forward and gazed down into her upturned face. Drinking in the soft blush of her cheek, the delicate smile turning her lips, and the lush glimmer in her eyes, he reached to touch her and, with that contact, his heart blazed with passionate yearning.

He Remembered Her.

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The End.

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~Morgan~

Part One – This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

Part Three – The Void

Part Four – Her Voice

Part Five – Beguiling

Part Six – Laughter

Part Seven – His Aura

Part Eight – Transfixed

Part Nine – Bathed In Light

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Beautiful Original Photograph by: Matt Payne

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Passage Part Nine- Bathed In Light – #FlashFiction

04 Monday Jun 2018

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Passage time stands still

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Never had she seen another being like him. Blue eyes, pale skin, and yellow hair proclaimed he was far from his own realm and more astonishing than she ever could have imagined. Tall and strong, with odd cloth ornamentation covering his body and bizarre black embellishments in his skin, he was both handsome and bewildering.

He returned her shocked stare, the liquescent blue of his gaze skating away repeatedly, then returning. Lissome and beautiful, she stood bathed in translucent light he had not noticed from the distance; a star-being in humanesque form, yet entirely unclothed.

His aura shifted; she smiled.

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~Morgan~

Part One – This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

Part Three – The Void

Part Four – Her Voice

Part Five – Beguiling

Part Six – Laughter

Part Seven – His Aura

Part Eight – Transfixed

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Beautiful Original Photograph by: Matt Payne

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Passage Part Seven- His Aura – #FlashFiction

03 Sunday Jun 2018

Posted by in Flash Fiction and Shorts

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aura

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The intensity of his ire radiated outward through his aura, gleaming into the shadowlight. The scarlet glimmer muffled the insidious laughter assaulting him and many of the lights streaked back into the safety of the sky like stars falling in reverse. Others danced round his head like moths drawn to a flame and these he cursed at brazenly, though his unintelligible words only provoked choruses of additional laughter.

Glancing past the annoying entities, he scanned the horizon for the female who had ceased to sing and saw her lithe silhouette lingering amidst the shadows of barren rock.

His aura shifted.

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~Morgan~

Part One – This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

Part Three – The Void

Part Four – Her Voice

Part Five – Beguiling

Part Six – Laughter

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Stock artwork found on google images. Credit Gratefully Acknowledged to the original artist. Thank You~

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Passage Part Six- Laughter – #FlashFiction

03 Sunday Jun 2018

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passage

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Looking round, he realized the stars had drawn closer, much closer. No longer shimmering in the distance, they hovered round him, pressing inward as the cacophony of laughter intensified. His ears rang with the tumult; his senses spun, but worse than the dizzying discordance was the scourge of anger that flared within him.

He didn’t like being laughed at, particularly by unseen phantoms lingering in the ethereal void into which he had plunged. Growling with ire, he pushed himself up from the parched ground and glared upward at the stars, which glared back, diverted by his blunder.

Breaths became blades…

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~Morgan~

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Part One – This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

Part Three – The Void

Part Four – Her Voice

Part Five – Beguiling

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Stock Image found at HD Backgrounds

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Passage Part Five- Beguiling – #FlashFiction

03 Sunday Jun 2018

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Passage time stands still

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Focused on the lissome silhouette in the distance, outlined against an ocean of night, his quickened pace mirrored his rushing pulse. She continued to whisper, her voice beguilingly close, as if she stood beside right him, speaking ever so softly in his ear and his thoughts spun.

Unable to concentrate upon the rocky terrain as her curves and slender limbs came more fully into view, he stumbled more than once, cursed at his clumsiness; then went sprawling into the dust.

An onslaught of vicious laughter ensued; echoing round him from nowhere and everywhere, and when it began, her whispers ceased.

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~Morgan~

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Part One – This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

Part Three – The Void

Part Four – Her Voice

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Beautiful Original Photograph by: Matt Payne

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Passage Part Four – Her Voice – #FlashFiction

02 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Flash Fiction and Shorts

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Passage time stands still

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Her voice filled his mind; a soliloquy of sound unlike anything he had ever heard. Temptation borne upon the breeze, her whispers spun his thoughts and made his heart hammer; in spite of the fact he could neither understand the language nor hear her intelligibly.

The barren terrain stretched out before him; an expanse as empty as his life had been, up until the moment he had chosen to step through the portal, anyway. The sky over head seemed the only thing to shift as he trudged across fields of pebbles and shale, but her voice drew him onward.

Then, in the distance, a shape appeared against the star-jeweled horizon.

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~Morgan~

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Part One – This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

Part Three – The Void

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Beautiful Original Photograph by: Matt Payne

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Passage Part Three- The Void – #FlashFiction

02 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by in Flash Fiction and Shorts

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Passage time stands still

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Stepping into the shimmering darkness of the landscape, he cast about him seeking the speaker whose voice seemed to echo from the distance louder than it spoke from the nearby. Soft, subtle, a whisper drifting on the insubstantial breeze; her voice drew him like an intoxication he could not deny and serrated through him, as chilling as ice drawn across exposed skin.

The barren surroundings offered no evidence of her existence. Stretching outward toward a rose-hued horizon awash with stars, the rocky terrain undulated like a serpent, beguiling perception and tempting intrepidity. Her voice compelled him into the void.

He followed.

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~Morgan~

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. This Flash Fiction piece is a sequel to Passage, which I wrote in response to Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto weekly photoprompt.

Part Two – Time Stood Still

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Beautiful Original Photograph by: Matt Payne

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