Archive for October, 2007

Get your Fright Fix here!!

Posted in Art, Books, Family, Halloween, Music, Poems, Politics, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , , , , , on October 31, 2007 by kevmoore

An unashamed plug for my Halloween Tale; Pumpkin Number Six! Check it out!

Advertisements

The Witching Hour draws near…..

Posted in Art, Books, Family, Halloween, Music, Poems, Politics, Short Stories, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 29, 2007 by kevmoore

Kev and Pumpkin

Kevin in his favoured double jointed writing position, utilising an arm procured from a female corpse….

Want a fright to get you in the mood for Halloween?  Why not read my spooky tale..I’ve tried to do my bit to add to those End-of-October-chills….and I’m not talking about the weather!  If you enjoy Pumpkin Number Six, why not have a look at the other short stories I post from time to time here at The Muse on the Rock?

WARNING!! Not for the faint-hearted!!!

Pumpkin Number Six – A Halloween Tale

Posted in Art, Books, Family, Halloween, Music, Politics, Short Stories, Thoughts, Writing with tags , , , , , on October 26, 2007 by kevmoore

Pumpkin knife The knife cut through the thick flesh of the Pumpkin with practiced ease. The meagre light thrown out by the overhead bulb glinted dully on the blade as it moved in and out, carving the shapes of the eyes, the mouth. 

The Old man had always lived a solitary existence, but every year, he carved a series of pumpkin heads which he displayed on the front porch of his old shack on the edge of the town. The kids seemed to like it, in a laughing-nervously kind of a way, daring each other to cycle out each Halloween to shout curses at the old man, while the pumpkins, flickering in their candlelight, looked silently on. He enjoyed it, really. He was a solitary soul, and he knew his place in the scheme of things. All kids needed a “scary old stranger” in a creepy house. It was a part of the harmless fun of growing up, and he guessed if he fulfilled any kind of need in society, then that was it.

He would carefully grow the pumpkins in a patch behind his ramshackle old house, picking the best ones and carving deliciously wicked faces into them in preparation for All Hallows Eve. He’d been doing it for twenty years now, watched some of the kids grow up, move away, or become fixtures in the town, like him. 

The sun began its descent into the West, as he finished the last of the five pumpkins and placed it carefully alongside the others. When the sun finally disappeared, he would come out and light the candles. He went back inside, wiped his hands on his overalls and poured himself a shot of Jack Daniels. “Should call you Jack’o’Lantern tonight” he said to himself, grinning a toothless grin. 

Within the hour, darkness fell, and he dutifully lit the candles one by one, each casting a ghostly yellow glow across his porch. He surveyed his work, and with a grunt of satisfaction, returned to his armchair, oblivious to the rustling sounds coming from behind the old wooden house. 

As long fingers of shadow fell across the pumpkin patch, the ground seemed to buck and writhe, trickles of earth spilling down the sides of newly created mounds. Tendrils and roots began to snake out of the soft damp earth, fat bloated and white in the moonlight.Impossibly mobile, the roots took form, reaching out like bony fingers…  A large pumpkin suddenly twisted in its bed, and with shocking speed, pushed clear of the earth, preternaturally held aloft by the animated roots. Clods of earth, skittering woodlice and glistening, writhing worms formed a filthy cascade as the Pumpkinhead rose higher, its roots and tendrils taking the form of some terrible facsimile of a human corpse.It turned its dead gaze to the house. 

The old man had fallen asleep in the welcoming arms of Jack Daniels, a handful of pretzels spilled in his lap, his own drunken snore his only companion.He didn’t hear the curious dragging sound across the bare floorboards of his lounge.He didn’t smell the dampness of decay, of corruption, as it filled the room.He barely stirred at the barely audible scrape of his carving knife as it was picked up from the table by inhuman fingers, but he surely felt the white-hot pain of the blade entering his face, causing his eyes to snap open, and to gaze in horror and disbelief at the Pumpkinhead looming large in front of him, its flesh slit open in an unholy grin, fixing him with a sightless stare.

“Your turn, old man” said a voice from beyond hell. 

Josh was nine years old. He knew he was as good on his Diamondback BMX as anyone in the year above him, but they always treated him like a goddamned kid. He was sick of it.That was why he’d accepted the dare to go down to the Old man’s house and steal one of his Halloween pumpkins. Man, he was scared to death, but he’d have serious respect when he got back with his prize.He drew nearer, pedalling furiously, the soft sodium lamp glow gradually fading as he hit the outskirts of the town.

Up ahead, he could just make out the outline of the Old man’s ramshackle place, and the flickering lights on the porch.“I’ll show ‘em who’s a kid,” he said, urging his BMX onwards….. 

When he arrived, some thirty minutes later, back at the rendezvous by the coffee shop with the six boys from the senior year who’d set the dare, Josh threw his rucksack down on the floor in front of them.The drawstring came loose and the Pumpkin head rolled out onto the sidewalk. Except it wasn’t a Pumpkin head at all. It was a grotesque parody of the old man, a necklace of torn ragged flesh, a cruel, exaggerated bloody slit where his mouth should be, and deep, black hollows for eyes, a window into emptiness, for the inside of his head had been brutally hollowed out.From the look on the boys’ faces, Josh knew they’d never call him a kid again.

“It wasn’t me” he said, in a very small voice. 

In the stillness of the garden behind the Old Man’s house, the earth began to settle, and the roots returned underground. The pumpkin head twisted back into position and waited patiently for the sun’s return.

Pumpkin face  Copyright 2007 Kev Moore 

Ashes on the Wind

Posted in Art, Books, Family, Music, Poems, Politics, Short Stories, Thoughts, Writing with tags , , , , on October 24, 2007 by kevmoore

Hangar

The protesting screech of the hangar doors shattered the stillness of the winter morning. The man, small, unremarkable, panting with the effort of opening them, slipped inside.  A vast, open space greeted him. A couple of pigeons fluttered nervously up by the rooflights. He threw the power switch. There, in the middle of an unswept floor, stood his salvation, his escape.Vapour, in grey tendrils escaped slowly from the snake-like hoses that curled malevolently around the base of a shiny black pod.

That was how he’d always thought of it. The Escape Pod. An escape from the nightmare this world had become. Wars, disease, the Politics of Corruption had the world reeling from a cancer of decay.

PodHe, a humble scientist, with no life outside of his research, had stumbled upon a means of escape. He’d re-routed funds, kept everything secret from his employers. Now he was ready, and not a day too soon.  They knew. They were asking questions. There must be no further delay. Today, he would go where they could not follow. He would escape into time itself. Surely the distant future held a better life.   Suddenly, the roar of vehicles, the shouting of men, just beyond the doors!He ran for the Pod, opening the small hatch and climbing in. Through the vision port he saw them, a team of stormtroopers, guns blazing, advancing on his dream. Panicking, he set the controls with trembling fingers. A tremendous thrummmmm reverberated inside his brain, as the snaking pipes automatically disengaged from the Pod. The soldiers, still firing indiscriminately, advanced closer, and the Pod appeared to shimmer, then with a soft pop of inrushing air, disappeared…. Scant moments later, the man trusted himself to look out of the vision port.He was surprised. Everything looked….old.He punched up data on the panel in front of him, scarcely believing he’d miscalculated.  His expertise was the product of hundreds of years of Japanese technological superiority, surely nothing could’ve gone wrong.But the faint green glow of the readout looked back at him accusingly, daring him to disagree;

                                    08:14 August 6th 1945

Realisation dawned on him, like an icy trickle down his back. He looked up from the display panel, and out across the city of Hiroshima, as the clock registered 08:15, and a tremendous flash lit up the morning sky.Before he could reset and escape into time again, the searing shock wave of the Nuclear Blast incinerated any memory of his existence, save for the ashes on the wind. 

bomb

 Written by Kev Moore 

 

A Poem to Close the Miles

Posted in Poems, Uncategorized with tags , , on October 21, 2007 by kevmoore

Kev and MikiI’m away from home just now, down in Almeria with my son. It is bittersweet; wonderful to see him, yet so hard to be apart from Miki, my partner and muse. Yet “partner” doesn’t really say it. There is a colloquialism in English, “My other half”. In our case, Miki really is the other half of my soul, and we’re pulled apart, it hurts.

I found a poem in my flat down here that I wrote to her when we were apart around a year ago. I think it’s still relevant, perhaps even more so; and at the risk of sounding like a hopeless romantic, here it is, for all of you together, but apart.

It’s late now, twenty-five past two, and how I wish I was with you

Left pondering a night alone, a house perhaps, but not a home

Without you here, its soul is gone, it’s not a place to live as one

A solitary in the night, it’s difficult to not take flight

To take the highway back to you, for better than the one, is two

The fan above that shapes a breeze, is deaf to my unanswered pleas

That, with the early morning light, I’ll wake to find you by my side

And so I soldier on until, I make the journey mile by mile

And turn the corner up the hill, and bathe again in your sweet smile.

Kev Moore

Room without a View – A short story by Kevin Moore

Posted in Short Stories, Uncategorized with tags , on October 16, 2007 by kevmoore

Head He watched the condensation forming on the filthy ceiling. Inexorably slowly, the moisture gathering together, re-shaping, forming, until it became a pendulous mass, depending from the roof, gradually surrendering to gravity’s sweet song.It fell, down, down, growing, though the effect was illusory, as it continued unstoppable through the fetid air of the dimly-lit cellar. For the merest fraction of a second, a dull light shone on its surface…and then it exploded in a thousand tiny droplets on his forehead.

He tried to force his tongue up to catch the precious moisture, but it always seemed to be beyond him. His tongue mocked him, immobile. He had no idea how long he’d been here in this room.  He felt numb. He felt…the slightest sense of being, like the brush of a feather or a lover’s tender kiss on the back of your neck, fleeting, ungraspable. There was a sound in his ears, like a storm, like rushing water, unyielding. It seemed he’d always heard that sound.

Then he heard it. Something else. The distant sound of a metal bolt being drawn. Footsteps on cold stone, The creaking of a rotten wooden door.A face loomed over him, a sallow, corrupted face, wearing medical whites, no longer white, stained, bloodied, some bright red and fresh, others old, brown mute to the horrors they had seen.  The face drew close, smiling, rotting teeth like tombstones peeking out.He spoke in a harsh whisper, like a death rattle.“You lasted the longest.” He said, holding a grimy hand mirror up to his captive’s face.

The prisoner glanced at his reflection, wide-eyed and terrified, letting his gaze travel down his face…to the ragged edge of his throat, the hack-sawed remnants of his spine, muscle, fat and nerve endings protruding out from the bloody stump of his severed neck like a dead man’s fingers.The man lifted the head and threw it into the flaming jaws of the incinerator in the corner, to the sound of a silent scream.

The Muse has returned to the Rock!

Posted in Music, Uncategorized with tags , , , on October 16, 2007 by kevmoore

Kev Moore

Yeah, I know…..I set this blog up a zillion lifetimes ago, and what have I posted? Yep, that’s right. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. But you know what? All good things come to those who wait, or should that be “those who waitress?…..” well, whatever, but I thought, being as I slip and slide through the wordpress blogosphere dropping a word of wisdom or wit here, a snide comment there, I thought it only fair to have a little something for people to latch onto when they click on my name. Indeed, dear reader, if you would click on my website link HERE, I can show you delights you had only dreamed of in the field of music and art!! And it should go some way to excusing my tardiness in actually getting this blog up and (I hesitate to say running) ….ambling. By way of an apology, I’m going to be publishing the occasional short story on here for your delectation. Enjoy!

Add to Technorati Favorites