‘Flight’ part of Impermanence of things. Available now
Deep in a forest of Inis Fail, there was a cabin, well hidden, in which there lived a solitary bhikku…
‘Bhikku Reilly of Fararden Wood has defeated the mad god Morpheo’s dragon with the help of Red City’s shaman, Murray. Now they face a much harder task.
In a fight with Cernunnos, Morpheo has broken off a piece antler from the horned god, which gives him immeasurable power over the natural world. Reilly and Murray, together with the Green Man, the Sybarite and the ghost girl, Tracy, must pursue the mad god and stop him from taking over the whole country of Inis Fail.
Their journey takes them to the Otherworld and back again, crossing the paths of many colourful characters and strange creatures.’
Little black horn, weathered and worn; wondering about what to do.
He split the world and climbed inside, and out of hell he peaked on through.
Little Black Horn: A Collection of Short Horror Stories:-
‘A woman struggles to hide the truth from a creature she believes to be her lover; a man journeys to Southern Italy in search of a witch; a child makes a pact with a voice he hears at the bottom of his garden.
From adult fairy-tales to suburban horror; dark intentions seep through this collection of tales from the imagination of Harley Holland.’
Buy the work in paperback or on kindle here: Little Black Horn
Check out Harley Holland also
For more info on them, follow the birds.
Those who have already acquired the words of wonder, first of all thank you. If you would be so kind to leave a review to guide or warn others, it would be greatly appreciated.
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Just a reminder, my new book is out tomorrow. Hoopla and freebies to come.
Twenty five of them, she’d counted as they’d sung Happy Birthday in the small restaurant that they insisted was her favourite. The other candle must have dropped off somewhere, or the staff at establishment had been given false information. Exasperated by their inclination to not really care. But there they were now, twenty five of them standing up in the frosty platform as her friends and family chorused in with the jubilation. She smiled patiently, looking at the other couples in the place staring at her in quiet satisfaction that it were she that were the spectacle.
The song ended, and they all applauded as she blew out the misleading twenty five burning flames that represented her life on the planet. She hadn’t done it for years, but this time she made a wish while she blew, closing her eyes to make them all disappear for her small moment of intimacy with the universe. The applause died down and she blinked back into reality, reaching for her glass to silently toast her desire. The cake was whisked away from her by the staff, to be dissected for all in attendance, and listened to the others at the table talking about their own progressive years and the fear of reaching thirty, or forty; or whichever milestone society had pegged out for them all to have achieved a certain thing by.
Her mother asked if she’d had a nice time so far. She sat there next to her in her one good dress, or so it seemed, the one she saved for extra special occasions. She had spilt a little something on it up by her neckline, a drip from the red wine she had eagerly been enjoying that evening. She wondered if it would come out, or if this were its swan song evening. She nodded in reply, saying something about having a lovely time and how nice it was everyone could make it.
It was a half-truth really. Though she appreciated the effort all had made, she would have been happy spending the evening at home. She drew a circle of eight on the tablecloth as her mother returned to her friend whom she’d brought with her that evening. Circling around the small stain of her own that had bled into the white landscape that stretched out before her. Her boyfriend squeezed her knee, chatting animatedly with her friend Paul next to him who had turned up late, pushing himself into a space at the head of the tiny table.
She sighed, and took another sip from her glass. It was already 10pm, and she could hear people talking about ordering another round and some coffees to go with her cake. She picked up the small travel journal that lay on the table behind her, a gift she’d opened earlier from her sister who couldn’t be there that evening since she was on the other side of the world. She’d sent her a small, yet expensive looking journal, tied up with old flight tickets from her own exhaustive travels around the planet. She opened it up, noticing a small message at the front:
“Time waits for no (wo)man”
Typical of her, she’d thought, and reached behind to put the book back onto the pile of gifts and treats everyone had nicely brought with them. She sat there again, quietly watching the others. For her own celebration, no one had really spoken to her much that night. She seemed liked a stranger at her own party, lost in crowd of noise, feeling like a spectator to someone else’s play.
She had work in the morning, and she was getting tired. She spotted Katy; her friend from the office who had come with her girlfriend and sat the other side of the table. Laughing and drinking with such ease. Unlike Katy, she hated her job, which she’d started about six months ago and had been miss-sold from the start at what it would entail. The office was grey and dull, and their building was tucked away on the side of town that bled into the industrial estate. She had promised everyone she would look for something else, but hadn’t done so yet; owing herself the biggest apology for being so lazy. Her boyfriend squeezed her knee again, his constant sign of being both there and absent as he drank his beer and chatted with her friend whom, she could tell already, had hastily becoming intoxicated.
The cakes arrived back at the table, the waiting staff smiling as they placed the tiny plates in front of the guests and took orders for more drinks. She pushed her chair back, about to excuse herself, when she realised either side of her were both consumed in their own conversations, so she said nothing. She apologised to a waiter as she accidently bumped into her, nearly sending the birthday slice high up into the air; and made her way towards the bathroom. She stopped, only for a second, and then walked straight passed it.
She left the restaurant, and out into the cold night air where she exhaled deeply, standing on the street. A few other diners stood by the door, sending their smoke swirling around the door like a revolving dragon. She stood there herself now, still in the night with her arms down by her side. Her fingertips moving to a secret rhythm only she could hear. She turned to glance into the restaurant, its glass steamed up slightly due to the dropping temperature outside. She watched as all at her table continued on their merry gathering, laughing and enjoying themselves.
“Avant que ça ne se produise.” She muttered under her breath, and started up the street, in the wrong direction to home.
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He skipped to the last pages of the book that he held like a bible in his hands, hands that had privately explored every secret and every page of the story. Words danced out before him, lost in their own rhythm; reaching their exhausting climax. The ending made no sense as usual, and he momentarily searched his thoughts as to why he’d begun it in the first place.
Ahh, that’s right; the cover looked so intriguing.
He placed the book back on his shelf, nestled it in-between an old copy of Harry Potter and his well-presented and orderly kept CD collection. There it was to remain, unopened and unexplored for an age as the dust that collected hung to the tops of the exposed pages like a glossy film. Over time the spine faded and the adventure was forgotten.
From the shelf, as if the characters had crawled from the pages to investigate, it was noticed how a new book was begun and captivated him. Other volumes cried tears of time as they were passed over again and again in favour of the new and intriguing yarn.
Until one day it was no longer present.
Unbeknownst to those who viewed from the shelf; the book was lost on a rainy Tuesday in the month of November whilst travelling on the underground. As is the case of public transport, too many souls shoved together in the tiny tin can, made for distractions and wandering of minds. Making sure his jacket was straight and his phone was buzzing like always, he had left the book on the seat next to him. A careless gesture one might say, like the throwing of a used cup out of the car window; as the residue drips from the inside. But secretly, upon discovery; he did not mind too much as the new book didn’t interest him as much as he had let on. Maybe someone else is reading that story now, on the Hammersmith and city line.
Where is that holding hand, as I slip through the sand of regret?
Being merely human falls flat at your well-trodden feet.
The ones that walked on my back time and time again.
Do you care if my soul survives this?
Scratching away the scars to save yourself.
These sad tears of remorse carve a path down my broken bones.
Crashed through the barrier as I pushed my foot to the floor.
You flew away to save yourself. You left me there dying.
I gave my all and fell short.
Closing my eyes to the judgement that I cannot live up to.
So easy to throw the page away.
To burn the books.
So tired of being only human.
“Rest is best, such beneficial benediction. Resting from illness, resting from the world. I love to shut myself away, to rest my wounded heart. Yet it brings on a mouldy conditioning, decaying into my own lament. Sleep is always a release, yet sometimes I wake and cannot tell if I am waking or still dreaming. If I notice you are there, then I know it is a sweet dream. The kind that taste like chocolate in your mouth, a marshmallow in your heart. Sweet and delicious, I become addicted. It’s the nightmares that correct this headiness, stomping through my mind like a trampling dinosaur out for prey. I toss and turn, wrestling with the darkness, slipping in and out of something which I’m still unsure of.
Then the ringing began, buzzing through my skull like tap dancing crocodile teeth…..”
The mouse that roared
My mouth is full of blood, from biting my tongue so much.
The teeth are stained a crimson, like I’m a vampire.
What’s this now, be good, play nice? Do not shove the other kids in the park!
I never did, it was they who shoved me.
Colour inside the lines now, no need for flashy colours.
Subservient or spineless, which definition do you prefer?
You leave me here with a doormat face, ready for you to walk your muddy boots across my soul.
I am sorry, the end has come.
Do not be surprised by the mouse that roared, or the tiger that sprang from the jungle that you thought was never there.
You put it here, you did this.
I’m not going to apologise for being myself.
We cannot turn back the clock that ticks away annoyingly.
You cannot leave with this all over me.
Place me in the bell jar, the nut house, or the graveyard.
Tickle my bones with your superiority, and your need to be right.
Only god will judge me, and he’ll give me his chair to rest while I catch my breath.
Though I should really pick a release date, the ambiguousness of ‘Coming soon’ still rings appropriate for the forthcoming book. More information can be found here, however, any feedback on cover preferences would be most welcome: Please let me know in the comments section which you prefer:
Thoughts, suggestions or anything else is welcomed. Thank you.
From the upcoming book ‘Drifting in and out sleep’
I threw away the key to my apartment, you kept yours; that’s fine.
They tell me every day it’s 2015. Do you realise that makes me nearly 33?
How do you stay sane, when all around you I push pins of chaos into your soul?
What if I were to leave, what if I were to stay?
What happened to that money that I gave to the homeless man at the station the other day. The one who told me the world was about to end.
If only he knew, for me it already has.
I’m putting all these things into a box, lifting the rug and pulling out old dusty forgotten pieces.
The smoke will get into your eyes as the box burns.
Old bits of flesh of a life and a heart too broken and now no longer needed.
You ask me who I am now, I tell you I’m the same person I was before.
You tell me who you think I am. That’s not the person you’ve been dealing with.
Burn this room, it’s got too many memories.
He skipped the to the last pages of the book that he held like a bible in his hands. Words danced on the page before him, the ending made no sense as usual. He searched his thoughts as to why he’d begun it in the first place. Ahh, that’s right…the cover looked so intriguing.
He placed the book back, nestled it in-between an old copy of Harry Potter and his well-presented and orderly kept cd collection. There it was to remain, unopened and unexplored for an age as the dust that collected hung to the tops of the pages like a glossy film. Over time the spine faded and the adventure was lost.
From the shelf, as if the characters had crawled from the pages to investigate, it was noticed how a new book was begun and captivated his time. Other volumes cried tears of time as they were passed over again and again in favour of this new and intriguing yarn.
Until one day it was no longer present. Unbeknownst to those who viewed from the shelf; the book was lost on a rainy Tuesday in the month of November, whilst travelling on the underground. As is the case of public transport, too many souls shoved together in a tin can made for distractions and wandering of minds. Making sure his jacket was straight and his phone was buzzing like always, he had left the book on the seat next to him. A careless gesture one might say, like the throwing of a used cup out of the car window; as the residue drips from the inside. But secretly, he did not mind too much as the new book didn’t interest him as much as he had let on. Maybe someone else is reading that story now, on the Hammersmith and city line.