Day 4 - Death, a pen portrait

He sits on the porch, cigarette in hand and a wolf hound at his feet.  Battered boots, jeans, and a checked flannel shirt.  All of which have seen better days.  He seems to slouch in his chair, one hand absently rubbing the ear of his dog, but he has an air of alertness about him.  The way he looks out up the road, as if he is waiting for someone, the way his feet are planted on the floor as if he is ready to leap up at any moment.  He looks up now, a slight noise in the bushes before him, bright blue eyes gaze intently into the garden, salt and pepper hair grown just a little too long to be conventional hanging over his ears and collar.  His skin is the colour and texture of tanned leather, making you think of too many hours working out in the hot sun, and his mouth is full.  

A smile erupts onto his face as a small black and white cat struts out of the bush with a mouse in its jaws.  "Hercules, my Lion what have you brought me" booms the man with a deep laughing voice.  The dog raises its head, rolls its eyes and goes back to sleep.  The cat tries to chirp a meow but the mouse gets in the way and a muffled squeak is all D hears.  “Well now, you had better stay out here with me and old Blue here to eat that.  You know how Lucy and Emily will scream bloody murder if you take that inside.”

The cat hops up onto D’s lap and noisily eats his mouse;  D scratching at his ear and watching up the road.  Waiting for Julia to come home.

Day 3 - Diana's Tale pt 2

From the sanctuary of the bath surrounded by Lily fragranced bubbles she sobbed.  Lucy had brought her a cup of tea and gently guided her to the bathroom when she walked in the door, too distraught to say a word.  Now the guilt of her own, lost baby added to all the tiny lives she had gathered in weighed heavy on her again.  She glanced around the small bathroom, looking for one of D’s razors, wishing to sink into the eternal oblivion she witnessed every day. D had stopped her the first time she had tried that, and brought her here.  

Lucy, the oldest and wisest of the daughters, had commented that D did these things out of kindness, thinking it best for the girls he rescued.  Unfortunately, he didn't see the pieces that Lucy had to pick up as the girls invariably tortured themselves with the guilts of their previous lives.  Diana was an excellent example.  Picking the children to gather, getting there earlier and earlier to see their fate play out in full, going even to the maybe’s to look for some hope in their little lives.  If D knew how it affected her, he didn't let on.  He could be a little dumb sometimes.

Day 2 - Diana's Tale, pt 1

Diana sat quietly in the corner of the room, listening to the slow in and out of the child’s breath as it slept in the small bed in the corner.  The noises coming from beyond the flimsy door, well, she tried to ignore them.  She sat there for what seemed like hours as the voices got louder and more drunken.  Not long now, she thought, and they’ll pass out.  Then you’ll be safe.  The little bundle stirred and she shushed, stroking his head, trying to settle the child down, trying to stay quiet.  But the hunger in his belly was too strong to keep him asleep and a thin wail filled the air.  She crawled back into the corner, “No, No, No” she whispered.  “Just don’t make it be him.”

The door slammed open and a big, drunk, angry man stood in the doorway.  “Shut the fuck up” he rumbled as a stick thin woman pushed past him muttering “he’s hungry babes, give me a moment… please, he’ll be quiet.”

Diana saw the fist coming but the women didn’t.  It connected with the side of her face and she went flying across the room, a bottle of milk splashing up the wall as she fell onto the bed; the wail ramping up to a scream as she crushed her son.  She turned her eyes to the wall now, looking only at the smartphone in her hand.  The name at the top of the readout, Dylan Peters – aged 23 months – time left 15 seconds. 14 seconds.  13 seconds.  She heard a grunt and a squeal, and a sickening thud.  Then silence.  10 seconds.  The door slammed as he left the room, then the chink of a bottle as he refilled his glass once more.  5 seconds. 

She was at the baby’s side now, a slip of a thing, not big enough to be nearly two, His eyes opened, seeing her now.  “Angel” he said as she held him in her arms and he took his last breath.  

A PING from her phone broke the silence, and with tears falling down her face she clicked a button on the side of it as a tiny cloud of silver sparkles lifted from Dylan’s body and disappeared into the device.  Another button pushed, a brief pause, “I’m coming home, please run me a bath” and with that she put the phone into her pocket, turned towards the tiny body of Dylan on the floor, and vanished.

Day 1 - A new start

Hello,

This is one of those well meaning 365 posting challenges.  How far I get is anyone's guess but I am starting with good intentions.

My husband & I have been talking about writing a book for a couple of years and have got to the point of writing plot notes and character sketches.  This isn't it by the way.  To hone my skills and get into the groove of writing again I will be developing some ideas I've been having for a while about Death's Daughters.

Imagine if you will an old, scruffy biker living in the middle of nowhere, with a ratty garden around a tumbled down house.  I'm thinking American mid west but it could equally be a wet and windy Wales.  If you look at him closely he has a constantly spinning haze of smoke around him.  There is too much smoke for the ever present cigarette and the smartphone that is constantly pinging doesn't fit with his look.  He is currently sitting on a bench in front of his house, smoking and drinking a huge mug of coffee.  From inside the house you can hear women talking and laughing.  There are Death's Daughters.  Women that Death has collected around him; snatched moments before their inevitable death, who now help him in his work.

More tomorrow.
Thanks for reading and I'd love to read your comments

Sam x