It was the first day of the rest of my life, the first whole day with my new wife.
Yesterday, we married in a quaint village church with ivy on the stone walls and a graveyard with ancient gravestones, mostly sunken and tilted and with lichen covering the symbols and inscriptions.
Red roses adorned the gardens of the village, and the people, mainly in the Autumn to Winter of their lives, had looked on from over the gates and hedges
The only guests were from my side of the family, as Darcy had lost her parents in a car crash some years before, and there were no siblings.
It had been a beautiful day; at one point, dark clouds had blotted out the sun, but the threat of rain had come to nothing.
The priest was an elderly and cheerful man who ushered me into the church at just the right moment, and I stood in front of the altar and waited for my beautiful bride to arrive.
The organist must have gotten the nod as the first bars of the wedding March echoed through the church, and I turned to see Darcy, all in white, stroll confidently down the aisle with Jake, a dear friend, as a chaperone.
It was breathtaking, and my heart rate soared as she approached me.
Letting Darcy go, Jake seated himself on a vacant pew, and I raised the veil that covered Darcy’s face. She glowed with a certain beauty reserved only for the best.
We turned to the priest, who stumbled. A shadow crossed his face, and he clutched tightly to the missal stand to stop himself from falling. The poor man was deathly pale and not well, but he straightened himself, made the cross sign, and started the ceremony.
The old priest looked frail, somehow beaten and out of energy. His hands shook, and his lips looked grey, but he carried on, and not a moment too soon, he pronounced us man and wife.

After the ceremony, with the obligatory throwing of the confetti and flowers, we headed deeper into the village, where the occupants of an old manor house awaited us, and all enjoyed dinner and wine followed by speeches and the traditional first dance.
The guests partied through the night, but holding Darcy’s hand tightly and clutching a bottle of champagne, we stumbled to our room and locked the door.

We awoke early to a bright, sunny day and headed downstairs to search for breakfast and coffee, anything to lessen the effects of too much alcohol. Darcy was glowing more than I had ever seen before, and the glow didn’t fade when we got the news that the priest from our ceremony had passed away just hours after our marriage.
I was shocked and saddened, but Darcy smiled and sipped some coffee.
It was as if she had already known of the passing; either that or she did not care.
After breakfast, we walked through the village, a charming place, peaceful and serine, but a dark cloud had appeared, and it crossed the sun, casting darkness over the land.
The locals hurried indoors and slammed the shutters tight as we passed or peaked secretively from behind closed curtains. Onward we walked, even after the first rumble of thunder echoed across the fields and the flash of lightning crackled up above.
“We have to turn back.”
I said,
“Before the rain starts.”
But Darcy just smiled, gripped my hand tighter, and we left the village behind us. Onwards, we walked up into the forested hills, past streams and the ruins of an old cottage. Up and up, we climbed as the first raindrops started to fall.
Eventually, out of breath, we stopped at the edge of a cliff with a fantastic view over the county. Despite the weather, we could see for what seemed like miles; we were sitting on a wet boulder and looking awestruck at the view.
But there seemed to be more as my new wife stood up, took my hand and led me again into the hills. Darcy led me to a rocky cliff face with an opening, a cave, and from within came light, bright and flickering.
“What is this?”
I thought as I hurried inside to shelter from the heavy rain. And Darcy led me deeper into the cavern, to a cave lit by a hundred candles, a man and woman at the edge, cloaked in hessian robes and an altar to the side.
From behind, unseen hands grabbed me and pulled me to the floor, and someone stabbed my neck with a needle. My vision began to blur; then darkness took me.
When I recovered, I found myself lying in the centre of the circle of candles and dressed in a hessian robe. Beside me lay Darcy, smiling. She reached over and took my hand.
“Don’t fear, my love, for this is my family and our wedding day. And now, we shall be together for all eternity. We shall burn in the fires of Satan; together, we shall offer up our souls to the one true lord, and people will fear us. Together, we will be strong, the walls of Jericho will fall beneath our wrath, and we shall sit at the table with Satan himself and drink the blood of Christians as we eat their flesh.”
I struggled under the binds holding me to the floor but could not move. I screamed out, but no one could hear me.
The man and woman started chanting in a language unknown to me, and I could hear my wife, my Darcy, chanting the same lament. I struggled harder, but it was to no avail. Then, the chanting stopped in a heartbeat, and an eerie silence enshrouded the cave. All I could hear was the crackling and spitting of the candles and the sound of the rain outside.
The man stepped forward, the light of the candles casting his face into shadow, and he held a dagger in his hand. Kneeling above us, he murmured a satanic prayer, then thrust the blade deep into my wife’s chest. She screamed in pain, and I felt her hand tighten on mine as blood poured from her mouth. Her eyes flashed brightly, but the light faded, and she fell silent.
I struggled again, but it was impossible to break free, and now, the man had started his prayer to Satan again. He raised his dagger as he raised his voice, and all I remember is the light shining from a pendant before the blade flashed again and a steering pain took hold of my body, and I spasmed before the light in my eyes faded as well.

Over 1100 words, this piece is my longest to date. Once I got started, the words just flowed, up until the end. I had to think of an ending, but I got there in the end.

The post A wonderful wedding day appeared first on Rob Joseph .

The year 2015

A genetic modification caused by a Russian chemical accident has polluted the Earth, and people feel it far and wide.

Months have passed, and the cleanup, mainly by Western countries, has lost the battle with nature, as deep Russian snow has now blanketed the icy Steppe. 

The engineers from the West are at a stop. The pollution is too deep and the ground too hard.

Darkness has befallen the world, and the consequences remain to become apparent.

Present Day

With the cleanup in Russia at an end, the Earth has been left to soak up the pollutants and dilute the chemical itself, but it is all too late. The months of silence from the Russian state have caused untold damage to the planet. If only they had come clean at the start and had not denied the accident, there could have been hope, but it is not to be. 

Now, the signs of the spill are showing themselves. Babies are born weak with illnesses, and the old and infirm are dying sooner than expected. The wildlife population is fading out, with extinction threatening their very survival

But in a small group of islands commonly known as Great Britain, another most curious symptom of the accident has come to pass.

Every year, as Autumn approaches, the leaves no longer change to the beautiful golden browns, the wonderful yellows and the mesmerising deep, firey reds. Instead, the colour of the change mimics the mood of the population. 

A strange development, undoubtedly, forces the political parties to bend to the people’s will. If all is well, the leaves change to a royal blue, with edges of purple; if the people are not satisfied, Grey becomes the colour of Autumn, a miserable colour that will lead us into a cold, drab winter.

Over the years, political parties have used the new Autumn as a barometer of the people. Arguments in the Houses of Parliament use Autumn as evidence of the current ruling party’s inabilities, and these arguments are valid.

But now, Autumn is almost upon us again, and the leaves have started to change. The world is looking in, and news crews from around the globe have begun to assemble at probably the most famous of all forests, the great Sherwood Forest, home to the legendary Robin Hood.

And as the leaves begin to change into Autumn’s flowery gown, it is seen that black is the colour of choice. Never in the post-accident years has an Autumn turned as black as coal; what does it mean? What is this change?

As the political parties argue their points, the first rioter throws the first brick, and crowds gather in the darkened corners of suburbia. Brick after brick smashes through shop windows, petrol bombs light up the sky, and the burning cars create barricades across the streets. 

Toxteth, Salford, Tottenham, and Cardiff are all burning through the night as looting takes priority. The police are powerless and vulnerable to attack, and gunfire echoes through the streets of Chelsea and Birmingham.

As shops and houses burn, the government crouches in the shadows of Big Ben, a symbol of democracy, but now nothing but a witness to the anarchy on the streets. 

Lawlessness is what black Autumn means; this is the people’s mood. 

 And as Britain burns under the wrath of the population and the people rise, the king sits up on the hill. He picks up the phone, types in a pre-arranged number, and waits for the call to connect. 

A strange story this one. It makes me wonder what actually goes on in my head. At first, I didn’t like it, and I very nearly gave up on it, but I had a cup of tea, did some editing, and here it is. Black.

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He hung from the old wooden cross; the blood and sweat ran in rivers down his side. It oozed slowly beneath the white cloth wrapped tightly around his waist and crept slowly down his thigh.
The blood from his hands collected in large drops around the nail that kept his hand firmly in place and fell, one at a time, from his palms.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, the blood from the thorns on his brow dripping, running and blurring his vision.

Nasir, a young boy from the village, ran to the foot of the cross; he reached up and clasped the feet of Christ tightly and wept. The blood from the feet ran down Nasir’s hands and arms, and in extreme devotion, he licked the blood of Christ from his fingers, savouring the metallic flavour and feeling the liquid on his tongue.

Nasir, a quiet boy, stood, looked up to the blue sky, and murmured a prayer silently to himself, then turned, embittered with an unexpected fury; he leapt from the base of the cross and snapped the neck of the nearest soldier. He grabbed the spear from the dead soldier’s hand and thrust it deep into the chest of a second guard before taking his sword.

The people from the village, local farmers eager to see the crucifixion, crouched on the floor as Nasir ended the lives of everyone, leaving a trail of blood in his wake before emitting a scream and bounding down the hill to the village.

With manic eyes aglow, the pupils a deep blood red, he searched the village for more sinners who had abandoned Christ in his hour of need.
He searched high and low through every house, slaughtering the innocent until no one was left to punish.

Satisfied that the job was complete, Nasir knelt on the dusty floor and begged forgiveness for his merciless killing, and with deadly precision, he turned the blade on himself and thrust it deeply into his stomach.

The blood pooled around him, and slowly, as Nasir crumpled forward, it soaked into the earth.

Suddenly, his eyes opened, and his red pupils glowed in the burial chamber where he lay. His hands felt for the wound in his stomach that must be there but found nothing. What was this madness? He thought as he kicked his legs from off the earthen shelf. His shroud, stained copper red from the wound, fell to the floor beside him.

Nasir made his way past the bodies that lay, each alone and on an earthen shelf until daylight guided him to the exit and fresh air. A door barred his way, so he turned the iron ring and pushed. With a squeal of complaint, the hinges moved, and the door slowly opened.

Nasir looked around at the scene that lay before him. Stone gravestones, overgrown and tilted, inscriptions barely legible, markers for the deceased. Wearing nothing but a cloth around his waist, Nasir walked through the monuments in search of anything.

At the edge of the graveyard was an iron fence and, beyond that, a church with a steeple covered in ivy.

Nasir passed through the wrought iron gate and descended the path to the large wooden church doors. He pushed, and the door swung quietly open, revealing a dark interior lit only by large stained glass windows and candles burning near the altar.

From a back room, a priest appeared; old and bent, he shuffled his way to the altar and made the sign of the cross before turning to Nasir and saying,
“Come, my child, we have been waiting for you.”
And Nasir just smiled.

The End.

I’m not sure how this story will go down, it’s not meant to offend, it’s just a story. I did plan to have Nasir wake up after 3 days, but I finally opted for 2000 years, although the timeline is never mentioned.

The post A crucifixion and the blood of Christ appeared first on Rob Joseph .

She saw the footprints on the beach, and her eyes followed them until they disappeared into the forest. She was not alone. Keeping her eyes peeled, she followed the tracks as they led her to the tree line, and there she stopped, listening for any sounds of danger. Finally, with a deep breath, she tentatively stepped into the darkness of the giant green trees.
Monkeys clambered high above her head while tropical birds sang out, and the dappled afternoon sunlight made it difficult to follow the fading sandy footprints, but she pressed on, desperate to find the owner of the tracks.

The footprints had disappeared, but she pressed into the almost jungle-like forest with a beating heart. With a click of a catch, she released the clasp holding her machete and drew the sharpened blade slowly from its sheath. A wall of vines stood before her, and just one broken strand told her that someone or something had passed close by. She was still on track.

She pushed and hacked a narrow pathway through the vines and emerged safely on the other side, where she stopped, amazed by the sight in front of her.

It was a large clearing surrounded by deep jungle. The muddied earth flattened, and a large stone tower stood in the centre of the clearing.

Eli crouched down and just looked. Her thoughts ran wild as she tried to make sense of the structure before her. How was this possible? It’s a deserted island with only sand, trees, wildlife, and at least two people. Eli unzipped her bag and pulled out her last bottle of water. She took a large sip, replaced the cap and placed the bottle inside her purse. Refreshed and with a firm grip on the handle of the machete, she ran forward, crossing the clearing and stopped right next to the tower, bracing herself. The carved stone blocks felt cold and clammy, and Eli shivered at the thought of what evil might be inside.

The sun was behind the tree line, and Eli knew that dusk was approaching. She pressed on, following the contour of the circular structure until she found a large wooden door reinforced with steel bands and metal studs. She pushed, but the door didn’t open, so with all her weight, she tried again, and this time, the door swung open.

Inside, the grey walls were damp, condensation trickled over the cold stone, and a spiral staircase led upward into the darkness, cut from the same stone blocks. Eli adjusted her grip on the machete’s wooden handle, stepped onto the first damp stone, and climbed slowly upward. The sound of dripping water felt almost deafening to Eli, and she tried to listen, straining her senses to hear any signs of habitation, but there were none.

Eli moved further, taking each step slowly and carefully, just one at a time and stopping often to listen for a few seconds.

Onward, she climbed, ever upwards, never looking back, and the muscles in her legs screamed out in pain, but she climbed upward toward the top of the dark, dank stone tower.

Night had fallen outside, and the nocturnal creatures had started their song. And here, inside the tower, Eli could hear the scratching of animals, their claws scraping as they scurried about in the darkness.

Suddenly, there was movement ahead. Eli couldn’t see it, but a boot on a wet stone echoed through the building, almost as loud as the scurrying of the creatures below. Then, awful pain in her shoulder as a shadowy figure stabbed a thin blade into her. Instinctively, she released her grip on the wooden handle of the machete, and it fell, clattering loudly for what felt like an eternity, down, ever down, sliding on the stone steps until it came to a stop, the sound echoing upwards, reverberating on the stone walls.

Eli fell to her knees and clutched the wound in her shoulder, and she felt warm blood between her fingers. Then, the sole of a boot, dark and leather on her chest, and it pushed.

Eli fell backwards, sliding down the wet stairs, the figure kicking and pushing her violently until everything went black.

When Eli awoke, she found that she was chained. The shadowy figure had secured thick links around her wrists and ankles, and an iron collar held her head tight. She lay stretched atop a woodpile in a circular stone room, the walls blackened with soot, the smell of petrol in the stagnant air. The figure with the black boots stood at her feet, his red eyes shining in the candlelight, a cross hanging from his habit, his hood pulled up over his head, features hidden in shadow.

Eli screamed, but the monk just sneered, a row of yellow teeth showing beneath the red eyes, and he bent forward and picked up a candle. Eli screamed again, but it was in vain as the monk thrust the candle into the woodpile, where it burst into flames, the heat and smoke instantly filling the room.

With a swift turn and a cackle of laughter, the monk slipped through a dark opening in the black wall and disappeared, leaving a screaming Eli to burn in hell.

The End.

My first piece of flash fiction is the story of a girl on a deserted island, who believes that she is alone.

The post Dear Eli and the tower of doom appeared first on Rob Joseph .