Rachael is doing things differently this week as it one year since she started #BlogbBattle so to celebrate this one year anniversary we have been asked to :
- Choose one of your #BlogBattle stories from the past year
- Edit it however you would like
- Reblog/repost it next week on Tuesday, March 15th.
- Make sure you specify the genre and the theme word
I just found out about this today so without further ado I’d like to repost one of my old stories which I originally wrote on September 29th. It features Ryder, my male protagonist in the Krystallos Cottage… flexing his blood moon muscles. Hope you enjoy…
Genre: Fantasy.
Title: Blood Moon A Rip of A Ride
It began with a rocking horse, a child’s toy. Ryder discovered this antique treasure in a quirky street window, down ‘the lanes,’ in Brighton. He strolled along, his rocking horse in hand and joined the queue for the busy student bus back to campus. A couple of ladies stared at his greediness, his decadence, taking up two empty seats. Undeterred he smirked, patting the rocking horse’s head. The ladies glared. The corners of his mouth flattened into a sharp line, a knife edge of confrontation.
When he arrived back at his flat his flatmates exchanged knowing glances, cataloguing Ryder and his rocking horse even further in the oddity section. Only Olivia, his recent conquest gave him the benefit of the doubt. He appreciated that and made a mental note to reward her later. A midnight kiss perhaps.
The perhaps became a definite. When he left the warm embrace of slumbering Olivia the moon lay heavy in the sky, its orb a perfect circle of complete mysteriousness. Ryder hung out his bedroom window staring, pleading with the moon to notice him. He dangled precariously, goading the moon to come closer. The pumpkin moon glowed blood red, a bleeding heart, surrounded by an uncaring sky. The rocking horse began to move slowly absorbing the moon’s vital energy. Ryder could hear it’s creaking joints jarring to and fro behind him. Next he heard the sound of an ice cream van, its tune winding its way towards him. He hung further out of the window wondering about this strange phenomenon, an ice cream van in the middle of the night. He grabbed his jacket, rushing to catch the van before it disappeared.
Outside he dashed, his senses overflowing with midnight promises, a feast of sugary ice-cream. But, no van appeared. He waited. Displeased. Again he heard the jingle of the van teasing him, laughing at his foolish, childlike desires. The music grew louder and louder, he covered his ears about to turn away, now desperate to escape. The van came to a screeching halt just as he took his first step. Ryder smiled. The hatch opened, and a man peered out. He had a round face, the roundest face that Ryder had ever seen, vanilla white, pock marked, hair as black as the midnight sky.
There were no signs to indicate what kind of ice cream he sold. So Ryder waited for him to speak.
“Well, I haven’t got all night, what do you want?” said the man, as his creamy white face turned a surly red.
“I’m not sure,” replied Ryder, “What ice creams do you have?”
“Ice creams? What? No ice creams here young man.”
“But you’re riding in an ice cream van, playing an ice-cream jingle .”
“That’s true, but that’s not what I do.”
“What do you do?” asked Ryder, frowning.
“Hop aboard, ride the van and you’ll find out,” said the man, his face returning to its original brilliant white.
Ryder hesitated. This was strange, but Ryder thrived on strange, so he agreed. The man opened the back of the van and Ryder climbed in.
Inside the van Ryder could see only darkness. Blackness drifted towards him filling his senses with a bleak sense of loss. The man handed him a tiny torch that gave off a brilliant light.
“Come,” he said.
The van was motionless, yet Ryder could swear that he felt movement. They walked and walked further into the darkness.
Suddenly they stopped.
A bright light shone from the torch on to a patch of turf. How curious. This van’s opened doors revealed a vast land which stretched its tendril like fingers, shadows extending everywhere.
Ryder recognised the land. He sighed.
“Home,” he said.
“Yes,” said the man.
“Why have you brought me here?”
“It’s nearly Halloween, lad. A time to visit the place of your birth.”
Ryder heard the sound of the fairground, the laughter, candy floss and excitement, but behind it all he knew there was the ride.
There was no point in pleading with the man, asking him to take him back. He had to accept his fate, whatever that might be.
“Come,” said the man.
Ryder lifted his heavy feet, a ghostly chill settling in his bones.
The man opened the door of the roller coaster and let him in. The rollercoaster groaned. Ryder’s soul cried.
A jingle began to play, a cheerful ditty, but Ryder that knew this would be short lived, soon he would hear a tune that would throw him into oblivion, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.
The clamp locked around him. He gripped the sides of his seat, clenched his teeth, and prepared to ride. It started off slowly, a gentle teasing introduction, but soon the ride picked up pace, the jingle attempting to keep up with the speed of the ride.
The ride sped faster and faster, his heart pounded in his chest, sweat dripping from his brow, as his skin pulled and pushed as if dragged from his face by an ever increasing force.
The ride came to a sudden jarring, screeching, halt. No gentle ending. No time to breathe. No time to think.
Ryder’s head spun. He could only see shadows. No light, no moon, no sun, no happiness only the bleakest most appalling darkness. A blanket of despair.
He shook his head, as if to dispel this vision.
Out of the shadows a person appeared. At first he was uncertain whether it was male or female, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light he recognised this bearer of bad fortune.
“Hello mother,” he said.
His mother walked towards him, she unbuckled the clamp, but said nothing. It was not their way, emotion was not tolerated in this land of childlike dreams, and nightmares.
He touched his eye, but knew the answer already, the beautiful crystal had been wrenched, a rip caused by the ride. His eye wept. What price would he pay for its release? Only time would tell.
Hope you liked my story, you may have read it before…..
Do pop over to Rachael’s blog to wish her a happy one year #BlogBattle anniversary or to enter : http://rachaelritchey.com/2016/03/07/blogbattle-one-year-anniversary/
Bye for now,
Marje @ Kyrosmagica.
M J Mallon YA Author and Poet 