Welcome to Calliope's Coffee House the proprietor of this establishment is Jacquie Reaville better known as The Book Imp.

When I started this place it was primarily for book reviews and thoughts on all things literary. Well the book reviews are still here, but somehow it's grown into a place for me and others to practice short fictional writing and of course a place where I can give my thoughts and opinions on virtually any subject that might take my fancy.

Hope you enjoy your visit.

Just to add that I welcome comments, the more the merrier. They don't even have to be related to books or writing just go wild (not too wild though).

Permissions are set so that even anonymous users can answer - but comment moderation is in effect which means I get to say yes or no to letting them appear here.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

The Power of Moonlight (Calliope Experiment #2)

The Power of Moonlight
Jacquie Reaville

Not a sound, not a movement, disturbed her as she sat on the carpet of grass waiting. Illuminated by the moon, its light kissed her skin bleaching the colour from her, turning her to a carefully crafted statuette, still and cold and silent. Only the sparkle in her eyes betrayed her. A glint of something more than the alabaster moon could transform.

The old church clock struck the hours, twelve doleful notes echoing across the hills and the figure stood gracefully, stretching her arms towards the moon as if she could hold it in a lovers embrace. Her eyes closed, her lips curved into a wry smile for a moment and then she began to sway.

At first her movements were slow and simple as if she did not really know what she was about, but then they became faster, more passionate, full of intricate designs and gestures. Her eyes flashed like diamonds. Her hair whipped across her face, hiding her features and her skirts flared as she whirled, revealing her bare feet in their elaborate steps. She danced, this moonlit figure, on the hills above the church, and as she danced she cried out to the moon.

Slowly the figure sank to her knees, her arms raised once more to the moon, the pleading expression on her face cracked as bitter tears ran down her cheeks. She cried again into the darkness, a long howl of despair and hunger.

The village below slept though not quietly. In their beds the women mumbled and uneasily they tossed and turned seeking a more comfortable place. Men shivered, pulling their quilts closer around their chins, not quite waking. Restless children called out in their sleep, whimpering softly. Small hands reaching for something safe and warm to comfort them.

The figure on the hill stared down at the village, her eyes wet with the tears she had shed. She searched but saw no movement. Sighing deeply she flicked back her hair, deftly tying it with a ribbon taken from her pocket. She sat again on the grass and feeling about with her fingers in the darkness she found a sharp stone knife. She pulled it to her and clutched it tight to her chest, as she surveyed the village again.

There! She sat forward and with a quick movement her eyes found the boy again. No she had not been mistaken. He was walking slowly through the village towards the hill on which she sat. A tall youth, muscular, quite handsome. A pink tongue flicked from her mouth, catching the thin trickle of saliva that had escaped her lips, and then it was gone again.

The moon began to hide its face behind a blanket of clouds. She rose to her feet, not quite so gracefully as before, stumbling slightly until she moved back into the moons light. It was growing weaker that light, and the darkness seemed to hurt her. Throwing desperate glances between the encroaching black and the one she had called, she backed away from the dark shadow fingers that sought to hold her.

The old church clock began to strike the quarter and the figure hissed her denial. As the darkness enveloped her the boy stopped his walk, and came back to wakefulness. He looked around and shivered, then turned and sped off back to his bed, away from the deserted place. Away from Witch Hill.

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  1. I can't believe I didn't leave a comment for your story. Skincrawling. Not the kind of thing I would read because it would haunt my dreams. Very well done.

  2. Thank you. I've never written anything gothic or horror based before, I think it might be a condition brought on by the two most recent books I've read. I like the term "skincrawling" too.


I welcome comments so please feel free to leave a message, the site allows Anonymous users but comment moderation is in effect. Which means I get to vet what you've written before it appears on the page (Oh the power!).

About Me

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Birmingham, West Midlands, United Kingdom
My name is Jac, Jacquie, Jacquelynn, TheBookImp or just Imp. I live in the UK. I love to read as is probably obvious. I also like to write. Anything else you would like to know just ask.

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