Destined To Burn

~Destined To Burn~

by C L Rayner

They would scream as they burned and he would smile, knowing he had served his god well.

It was raining the day she walked into the village, soaked to the skin and mud splattered, yet she did not react to the cold. She simply asked for food - and from that moment she was destined to burn.

   Springtime had been warm and full of promise. Primroses quivered in the hedgerows; crops swayed tall and green in the gentle caress of a breeze. Pigs grew fat.

   Now mud ran in thick torrents along the countryside, sucking at feet and bogging down wagons. The flowers were gone: battered into the dirt by relentlessly rain, saplings torn to shreds by the wind.  And livestock fell sick.

   Destined to burn.

  

They watched her from the damp protection of their homes, for the village was little more than a scattering of hovels. None would take her in, and she had known they would shun her. Their welcome was as warm as the bitter wind; expressions as ugly as the rain clouds.

   To the east the church loomed into the sky: a tall superior master looking down on the poverty of its parish; graves spread around like pox.

   Mud sucked at her feet as she slowly pressed against the wind. Lashing rain stung her upturned face. She would not hang her head. Her eyes were cast to the grey stone of the church, where mud ran in rivers between crooked crosses. And there she waited, in the grave yard, a grey sky overhead, grey-brown mud beneath. The air smelt of sewage; of fetid decay.     

   The graves were flooding.

   She cast her eyes to a place beyond a rough cobbled wall, not marked by crosses; a place where no stones had been set to speak the names of the countless girls buried beneath: charred bones shovelled into a pit; skulls smashed beneath boot heels. There had been no blessings or prayers – grave diggers had spat and pissed on the remains. That was their service.

   She heard the screams of young girls, some little more than children, felt the weight of foul river water press into her lungs; tasted blood and vomit and excrement. The reek filled her nostrils. Hot iron scolded her skin as flesh was flayed from her body.

They approached her warily: men in crude dull armour and mail, pointing chipped blades.     

   The holy man had not come.

   Rough hands gripped her arms and shackled her, pulled her so she fell to her face in the mud. Boots kicked at her back. She was numb from the rain and cold. She felt no pain.

There would be no trial for her. Others before her had admitted their sins, repented their evils and begged for forgiveness before going to the fires. 
   They had been young, weak servants of Satan, this one was strong, so the holy man had told them. This one had demon in her.

Burn, burn, burn burn! The chant was spat from mouths contorted with anger and hatred.

   Rocks and mud skimmed across the bars of the cage as horses pulled the wagon to the pyre.

   She stood, as best she could, gripping the bars, unflinching against their hatred. Her face was covered with mud, fingers bleeding where stones struck them; knuckles bruised by boot heels. She stunk of them; her ragged clothes stained with blood and filth and urine.

   The abuse of the crowd was deafening in her ears and it filled her till she could feel their hatred. It seeped into her head like the cold; sluiced against her body as the rain had. The rain had ceased but the sky remained an ugly stain, black on the horizon.

   Strong hands pulled her roughly from the cage. She lost her footing and fell, pelted with small stones and rotten food. She had not eaten in a week. Children spat at her, kicked at the mud so it flew up into her eyes. They knew only hatred; had forgotten all else.

   She was dragged to the pyre. They clamped her hands into shackles; chained her to the thick charred stake where countless women had been chained before. She could hear their tears above the clamour of voices, felt them, scolding against her cheeks; felt the anguish flow from the ground at her feet. The ash of their flesh lay sodden beneath her.

   Wood was piled on. Her nostrils filled with the smell of oil.

   Then he stepped before her and the crowd was instantly silent.

   ‘You are found guilty of the crime of witchcraft.’ His face was pink and well fed; lips running with spittle.  ‘You have brought sickness and disease upon our holy soil, and for your crimes your body shall be burned slowly in the purifying fires, till your soul sinks back to the hell from whence it came.’

   Her eyes fell upon him. They were grey as the sky, and they churned like a storm.  

  ‘I will not burn,’ she said simply. Her words were barely above a breath, yet every soul in the village heard her.

   The priest’s eyes widened. ‘I have burned a hundred witches before you,’ he shouted, saliva flying, ‘and I shall burn one hundred more!’

   The crowd roared. The horses harnessed to the wagon, reared suddenly and charged away, terrified by the sudden upsurge of noise.

    ‘A witch cannot be burned.’ It was a whisper, lost in the wind, but the holy man heard her words and doubt flickered behind his eyes. ‘Today you will see that you have never before brought a witch to this pyre.’

   Behind him the villagers were frenzied, yelling for the fire to be lit.

   She raised her eyes to the sky and rested her head against the stake, waiting. ‘You are all going to die.’

When the flames rose about her legs the priest cried out in pain and looked down, confused. In the crowd a woman screamed as her skirts ignited and she ran, trailing fire behind her.  A chunk of flaming wood exploded from the pyre and crashed against a guard’s armour. He fell to the ground with a startled yell then thrashed wildly in the mud as his body inside the armour began to burn. The other guards backed away. People screamed; their cries of hatred now turned to terror. They tried to run, tendrils of fire slithering from the pyre to chase them, igniting their legs.

   The priest could not run: as though chained to a stake himself, he stood with a rigid back while his clothes smoked and his skin slowly blackened.

    In his ears rang the screams of every girl he had burned.

   He felt the weight of foul river water press into his lungs; tasted blood and vomit and excrement. The reek filled his nostrils. Hot iron scolded his skin.

  

He opened his mouth but the inhuman sound that burst from him was the pained scream of a hundred young women.

   Water spat from his charred lips as his body pitched face first into the mud.

   Above the church the sky turned black and lightning skewered its steeple, shattering it.  The mud spat and popped like boiling water, sinking slowly away beneath the foundations, sucking down graves.

   The heat of the pyre was intense. It raged like a sun, whips of flame lashing around it till the very air burned.

   The witch was an aura of light in the pyre. The chains melted in the heat and dripped away from her, shackles falling into the ashes.

   The fire parted and she stepped into the mud.  

   Her eyes were no longer grey. They were black as the storm cloud; like glass, reflecting the fire so she seemed to burn inside. She did not wait to watch the remains of the church sink into the ground; she did not glance even at the body of the holy man.

   Without expression she walked away, while the village and its people burned.

~

Mother's Wrath

I wrote this poem some time ago, but as time goes by, unfortunately, it becomes more relevant.

   It is about the arrogance of Mankind, and the abuse of the Earth. 

   Earth is a gift.

   Appreciate and care for it.

  

~Mother’s Wrath~

She stood on the beach and the waves spat acrid froth before her.

The sea churned and rolled.

The ocean screamed: fearful waves recoiling at her presence,

Rearing as though to crush her in anger,

To bring all its force to carry her to oblivion.

But to this she showed no fear,

For only one emotion remained:

All pity and compassion driven out beneath the black searing rage

That Man had fuelled.

She closed her eyes.

The ocean rose like steaming dew on a summer’s morn

And cooled her skin.

Man’s betrayal drove cruel and deep into her soul.

For all that she had done,

And all the infinite wonders of the world she had created for Him.

Yet He stood ungrateful amongst the litter of the Earth,

Reeking ruin and death in his arrogant way.

Blind to such a fragile gift.

Foolish as to his own significance.

She walked the dry ocean bed and the sky wept at her passing.

Tears steamed on the parched ground

And around her everything died.

The sky grew dark.

Forests withered and were as ash tossed on the wind.

Creatures turned to dust as they fled.

And Mankind despaired,

Felt the pang of such terrible realisation;

The pain of loss; of regret.

And as He fought for his final breath,

As his crops burned

And the very air He breathed became poison

Mother’s voice harried on the wind:

Heed my warning

And know the power of my wrath.

Should she let Mankind wake

From the deluded dream that was his supercilious life?

Should He have one last chance at redemption?

Man did not deserve the beauty of the Earth.

But the Earth itself was deserving.

This once…But never again.

~

Desire

This was the first dark poem I wrote, almost thirty years ago. Inspired by my love of Gothic horror and vampires.

~Desire~

Light, extinguished 

By the stagnant gloom of dark desire.

Thirst, like pain in the hearts of the cursed;

Tearing every glimmer of humanity.

Thirst driven like a blade,

 A desperate need;

Intensifying

 Till it breaches the border of insanity.

No mercy, 

As those who crave, feed upon the light,

Absorb it till there is only the echo of its 

Memory.

Torture:

To be lost in uncontrollable need;

In the hypnotic beat of waiting hearts;

The alluring scent of mortal blood.

Sweet warmth

Drawn into ravenous mouths.

Submission –

Frenzy in the yearning soul.

Pleasure like a tide

To fill the cold and the heartless;

Ecstasy at the sweet, fragrant taste of human life.

Hunger devours every wisp of mortality;

Corrupting innocence.

Consuming purity.

Vacuous.

Beauty drained by the night,

By the stark, cold face of the moon.

All love lost to the chill of

 Unending darkness.

~

Eternity

~Eternity~

A disturbing tale of regret

by C L Rayner

The old man’s grip tightened and he held his son’s gaze with grey watery eyes.

   ‘I regret such loss of time, my son. So much I have not seen…not done…so many places... Years have run by and been lost like rain into the sea… So many words unspoken.’ His eyes were pained; they drifted. ‘I have lived too brief a time…to experience life.’

   Then he died.

   The son shed tears.

   I must not look back on an empty life as my father has. Not feel his pain. I must experience the world for him. Experience all there is…for him.  But my life is ebbing. There is not time…I would give everything to live an eternity. I would give the world.

They had fallen sick around him. Only a few at first - too few to cause concern. Until they began to die.

   The first fell with fever and respiration problems – then there was vomiting, bleeding and death.

   He prepared, consumed with hollowing grief, to bury his wife and children. But the bodies were taken away, robbing him even of that small closure.

   So he waited for his turn.

   People tried to flee in panic and desperation. The military set up a quarantine zone to stop them. Then the soldiers died. And the doctors died. And, finally, within their white containment suits, the CDC workers began to die.

   And still he waited.

When he ventured from his home, not knowing how long he had sat, numbed, nothing remained alive in town. Even the animals were dead. Birds had fallen from the skies. Small bloated insects lay crisping in the baking sun.

   The air was thick with decay. Hot to the tongue.

   He began to walk.

   Time and miles went by as in a dream; his red rimmed eyes unfocused. When had he last slept? Eaten? His tongue was swollen and dry, yet he felt no thirst. He was aware of the ache in his body yet he was not weary.

   Vehicles flamed beside the road where they had crashed. Bodies lay strewn. He did not see them. The road stretched away before him, shimmering black, leading him toward the city he had never visited.

   What remained was a shell: foul smelling. The dead lay everywhere.

   His mind began to clear. Why am I alive?

   He slowly became aware of time. He had walked for days, remembering the rising and setting of the fierce sun. The air was enough to burn his lungs yet still he could breathe.

   And still he walked.

   The soles of his shoes wore through. His feet blistered and bled. He stopped and considered the trail of blood on the hot road behind him.

   It was his blood.

   He removed the tattered shoes, and raised his face to the intense orb that was the winter sun. It was February. The sky was white and blinding. His lips were split and dry; skin the colour of charred meat.

   His heart hammered.

   Why am I alive?

   He ran on bare ruined feet, passing towns and cities.

   Everywhere he turned rotten eyes stared at him from bloated faces. The silence was crushing. It roared in his ears.

   His feet carried him into the desert. Trees burned under the cloudless sky. Behind him smoke rose from the city; beneath, the ground was dust and rock, cracked and black.

   Beyond the horizon the ocean evaporated into the sky; floating corpses burst with flame and became dust to blow on a searing wind.

    He stood on a cliff top and stared into the great dry basin that had been a sea. Distantly an electric storm raged across the sky.  

   ‘WHY AM I ALIVE?’ he finally screamed. His voice was inhuman; a pained sound that ripped its way from a dry bleeding throat; from dust filled lungs.

   You asked for this.

   He turned sharply and faced himself: the image of the man he had once been.

   You offered everything so as to live an eternity, and everything was taken. You offered the world.

   The vacuum of horror dragged at his insides.

   You asked to experience all…for him, for father. And so you have: life, death, sorrow and anger; pain, hunger and thirst. And now, finally, you will feel guilt and regret. All this is yours. Your life is no longer empty, for you have experienced it as no other human ever could. You have seen the world and the world is yours. You have everything…and nothing…

   He screamed, long, loud, the sound tearing into the sky, carrying across the empty ocean bowl. He fell to his knees on the scorching rocks, pounding his fists into them till blood flew from tattered skin.

   He felt no pain.

   His fingers clawed at the ground till the nails split away and he saw the white of his own bone in the ruins of his flesh.

   And then he was still. The rapid thumping of his heart pulsed in his ears. His lungs feebly drew in ragged breath.

   How long he remained on the rock he did not know; how long he heard only his own heart, as lightning shattered the cliff top and sent fragments dashing against his body; as the last of the trees crackled to charcoal and the air filled with sulphur.

   Then he stood and once again he walked.

He saw his wife’s face and the smiles of his children, heard their laughter and could remember the smell of their hair…as he stepped into flaming magma. His legs began to burn. He sank slowly into that fiery river as his flesh and bones dissolved in the heat, as his hair flamed and his skin ran from his skull. And in that moment he saw everything about him: the burning sky, the end of the world, and he savoured them, those last moments of existence…before –

   Death?

But death did not take him.

  

He became the magma and flowed across the remains of the earth.

  And could not even scream…

~

Folklore's Scariest Creatures

I have recently discovered the blog of the wonderful Bethany Martin and I am merrily reading through Folklore's Scariest Creatures.

If you are at all interested in folklore, fairies and fairy tales, then check out Bethany's blog. Here you will find some fascinating information on various creatures of lore, like the Redcap, for example. This gruesome little fellow acquired his name by wearing a hat soaked in the blood of humans.

The Redcap

You'll also find some tips for writers, book reviews and news about her own short horror stories.

Enjoy.

Awash

~AWASH~

She haunts these shores:

Beautiful as the sunset,

Dangerous as the ocean waves.

Her disparaging voice echoes like the call of the gulls

Swept on coastal winds.

She drifts

Pale and transparent as shallow brine.

Spume is the lace of her gown.

Black weed tangles in the locks

Of once golden hair.

Her breath is silt.

Eyes as deceiving as the undertow,

Dark and chilling as the deep.

Hypnotic.

Imploring.

Things move there:

A swirl of memories

- Of life

Of love…

But do not look

For she craves company

~

It's been a long, long time...

My blog has been neglected. I have not posted for years.

This was not deliberate neglect, and not because of a lack of inspiration. It was not that my creativity, my love of photography, writing and all things dark, had waned. It was, I am afraid, nothing other than financial need getting in the way.

I had been forced to succumb to the pressures of the working week.
Illness also played its part.
I found that photography, my poetry and my fiction simply slipped beneath the quagmire that is life.

Necessity takes precedence over preference after a while, and before long the things that are a passion to us get sucked down in the silt and trodden under the feet of our 'better' judgement.

My 'better' judgement meant well, but it didn't really know what was best for me. So, tentatively, I am venturing back into the writing community.
I have tweaked my blog a little (I have changed, therefore it must change), and I will endeavour to post things...words, perhaps, if some come to me.

Way back, in the day, I had intended to publish a collection of my dark poetry. I don't see that happening now. I very rarely write poetry anymore and have changed my priorities, choosing, instead, to focus on a manuscript that I almost completed ten years ago.

My poems, and short stories, I am likely to post here, free for anyone who might care to read them, along with the photography I occasionally get time to tinker with. And any other twitterings and musings that come to my mind.

Perhaps someone  will enjoy them.