Danny is Dead

My friends call me Zig on account of a certain accident with hair dye at the remarkably awkward age of fourteen. I think it stuck because none of our so called peers got it. We delighted in our retro randomness.
Long time ago now, that, but for some reason I find myself thinking of it once more as I sit here across from these people.
My family. Purest form drudgery of the mundane. Everything I hated.
There is an extra place at the table, despite the fact that all of the guests have arrived, in an obligatory fashion, for my niece's firstborn's baptism. I suspect many are only in on it for the free booze and food. Mum always did make good sausage rolls.
Upstairs I can here a TV blaring, men's voices jeering as the ref gets political.
The women, of course, are gathered around the sofas, the children bellowing and screeching around them in a din so permanent their only reaction is a fearful tightening of the eyes, wrinkled hands steady as they sip their tea. I can almost hear the tick tock of the countdown until bedtime.
Thank fuck I'm barren, I tell myself. I read that somewhere, in a fantasy book I got out of the library. One summer it just always seemed to be raining and I had learnt how despicable people could be so I retreated. Read my way through them, maybe I was searching for something.
Maybe I found it there, or maybe they just gave me the courage to keep looking.
It grates on me, sitting here, but I am used to the feeling. It is not so keen anymore.
When I arrived my uncle at looked at me sideways, shoulders looming wide across my vision like some sort of shield from societal gossip in what he was about to say. But he only muttered gruff gratitude at my nice shirt. Very neat. Very sensible. If a bit...dark.
I can see the funny side now. Sometimes. OK not right now because I cannot lift my eye's from that empty place, at the knife and fork neatly lined up, and the pristine white circle that remains hungry and so glares up at me. I have heard them, when they thought I wasn't around. Is Danny OK? I make them uncomfortable.
I reach for my baccy and roll a cigarette, using the cover of a gale of cawing laughter to snatch another cake and stuff it into my mouth, annoyed when my fingers, glistening with icing, stick to the rizzla.
The spoons lay above the plate like stern brows, fiercely drawn together in disapproval. Now I know this is getting a bit extended, but think how I feel. I've lived this. The bloody plate is even reflected in the 'o' assonance of monotone. I've dwelled on it. Even if it may not be real. Maybe someone cancelled.
I lean against the fence, bored gaze skipping over the featureless houses to rest upon the blue.

The Ghosts & Graffiti of the Red Mount Chapel

The Red Lady worships,

far from war and the world outside.

To the mother of god, whose

bones wait,

guarding secrets in the depths

Into the chapel did echo,

 a tap tapping.

From the door that led below.

Insidiously her perception slipped

from prayer.

Such certain fear.

Never again was she seen. Though they found

 blood trailing wetly,

gauges in the stone.

Leading down into the dark

where, they say,

you can still hear her screaming.

Such softly spoken ghost stories

lingered on, luring

the daring and the foolish.

1725 Ranford, 1682 RD, 1686 John, EB, Story

One such was a drunken fiddler

his faithful dog

1754 M.B. Arne, Ian

Long at port and brave

with boredom, he sought

the tunnels on a dare.

1695 RLSN, Seth + Garrard

Ignoring the warning whine,

hackles raised,

he played a tune to soothe the dark.

1885 Owen

And so still his ghost does wander,

when the mist is high.

His tune passing underground.

 1958 Inky

It may even be that you espy

a hound sitting by the chapel door,

fur dripping blood.

   These were the ghost stories I grew up with, told breathless on grey days with damp hair and scuffed shoes. They are as true as such things are.

Short Story: Somebody Else

Due to be published in the Fox Pocket Anthology: In an Unknown country by Fox Spirit in 2015