Death On the Moor Chapter 1

I’m scared of polyphony. I mean real orchestral stuff in forte or fortissimo. It’s the connection’s of it. It’s connected to my head to my heart, to my body, my soul and I was stupid enough to invite it into my room.

I know what I mean and it’s only because I am broken rejected and annoyed that I feel this way. I would not be overwhelmed  by polyphony if I was deaf. It gets you any other time.

I don’t get this way with the plastic arts. I need a moment. Everything aches and the music is like water stinging and soothing. flowing over a dead stag in a mountain stream. I am the stag, dead, geddit?

See my favourites for edifying glory in decomposing flesh and rotten bones and heads hung up my the hair severed from the body and then painted putrescent green. Grinning skulls. Deaths faces. The dead reborn. Hades incarnate. Yellow pus puddles on my bed and pillow and in this mess I lie every night waiting for Him  to come and take me, cleanse me and lay me down in pastures green.

I say a silent prayer and press play on my keyboard.

Do lead from the front with a double handed sword or do I concentrate my weaponry into Mana and healing?

The sulfur smell returns and suffocated by its yellow stench I return to my duvet and black infinity of doom sleep.

A crows foot is in my hair and its a bit too close to demonic magic for my liking but its only my mother bringing me hot milk and cookies. I stick chewing gum to the brim of her witches hat as she bends down to kiss me good morning. Yo! Hello! Now she helps?!

It’s the high road for me or maybe I’ll stay in bed today. There is a sheep carcass on the upper field that needs dragging down and disposing of. Shouldn’t be a problem for someone …with my fangs! It’s the jaguar they say roaming again taking pleasure in its kills, never eating anything except for the brains after it cracks open the skull with three-inch incisors. Dark cat! We need llamas on the hills say the farmers down the watering hole. Midnight hunts armed with shotguns and torches. good for tourism and reporters looking for a story but nothing in it for us except the flock of course -brings the community together, a crisis.

Our rooms. our boxes. are connected by electricity and wi-fi and we live apart. We share a letterbox and bathroom and kitchen, living room and bills.

On the hearth is a message on a clay tablet. It reads

‘Remember what’s most important’

We will be there on Christmas Day remembering what’s most important as we open presents drink wine and beer and wallow in the family small stuff.

I hate it. I like Doom metal, death metal, black metal anything like that.

There is a full-sized blow-up Santa that I painted my choice of colours last year in Copic Markers. Doom black. Pus Yellow. Flesh pink. Hair brown. Stubble black. Earring gold.They were the best pick of colours from the range. I have it in my room right now. I carry it around. We will be going out soon. I have to be ready. I need am an umbrella. I need walking boots.

Good army boots.

I pull on my German winter combat parka and adjust my dog tags. Then the phone rings. It’s Myra My girl.

We are meeting tonight in the pub then going out then back into the pub for the knees up. Luke and Colin our friends will be there. Vodka shots.

We kiss goodbye over texts and agree to meet up. She is such an artist. I love her.


Chapter 2 of Death On The Moor here

Chapter 3 coming soon





Published by Andrew Mark Watkins

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