Dervla Writes

There was a small lake near the town where fishermen used to live. Their wooden boats remained tied to the docks, bobbing to the rhythm of the blue abyss below. Surrounded by hills, and forests, it was a perfect location for a families who wished to distance themselves from the town. The houses were abandoned now, although the furniture remained intact, tables set for dinner, books lying open on couches. Every room appeared to still be lived in, if it wasn’t for the broken widows, cracked roofs, the faint smell of rot, and the coppery taste of blood. It was no mystery why the fishermen left. The lake had run out of fish. Even the river than ran from the sea to the body of water was void of any life. A curse, perhaps. The fisherman had been married twice before. it wouldn’t have been hard to find someone with a grudge against him. So, the family left swiftly into the night, taking only what they could carry. A blond haired man lived there now. For how long, no one knew. P...

Maeve lived on a farm at the back of the town. She had grown up in this house, and after fifty years exploring the world she had decided to move back. Her dream was always to help people so she travelled as a nurse, healing the sick and providing aid where she could. Through her travels she had gained knowledge, wisdom and love. The man that sat tending to the fire was responsible for much of that. His face was as handsome as it was when they first met, his skin unblemished by wrinkles, his hair still a fiery red, with eyes deep and innocent. Anyone would think he was her son, until the two talked. Cabhán was forty years her senior. An immortal who had seen more of the world than she ever would. Yet, he stuck with her, had moved back here with her, had promised to keep up the farm as she couldn’t. In every way he was her soulmate. Often, he would bicker with her, sometimes over trivial things like what to get the grandchildren for their coming of age ceremonies, ...

The first time the leaves changed colour, people panicked. Up until that point they had always been green, fresh. Had sprouted fruit consistently, had looked as vibrant as the grass they grew on. Leaves were always green. They always would be. Just as the sun was always blue and the sky a light pink. Trees were life itself, the secret to their breathing. It had been worked out long ago, that without them, without plants or nature, there would be nothing. Nothing could exist without green. The colour of life. That too was a theory passed down from generations over fires. A story that no one dared refute. They were at their strongest in the forests, and felt weakest in the desert and other places void of life. It made sense then, to suggest that leaves and stalks and plants were intertwined with the concept of breathing. That trees were rooted to the earth in ways they could never be, that even the fruitless plants provided air itself. So when, after years of nothing but gree...

She woke up in a room made entirely of wood with no recollection of how she got there. The walls around her were lined with shelves hosting an array of plants, vials and tins. Whoever owned this place certainly had an interest in botany, maybe even medicine judging by the large textbook lying open on the desk.  Standing to examine the contexts of the book, as if it would give her some indication of where the hell she was, she noticed her normal clothes had been taken from her. The off-white shirt that she had been sporting for a week had vanished, only to be replaced by the most beautiful nightgown she had ever seen. It was pale blue and fell to her ankles, looking more akin to a ball gown than anything else. The fabric was soft and the glittered band around her waist and sleeves shimmered in the light. Moving towards the mirror at the edge of the room for a better view she saw her hair, which had been living an existence of grease and dirt for five days was not only washed ...

A woman with pale skin and red lips greeted them with a smile. She bowed low, and without waiting for a response, led them inside. Whoever had requested them here certainly had exquisite taste. There were rows of marble columns erected on both sides of them, and paintings of half-naked men besting mythical monsters in battle. Even the floor seemed excessive, mosaic tiles, forming different patterns and pictures, so every step led to a different piece of art. It was incredible, and Alannah would have been jealous if she was not currently focused on the mission at hand. Instead of admiring the art, she was focused on counting the steps from the entrance to wherever the woman was leading them. This information, could be vital to their survival. “ Your rooms,” The woman led them to a set of double doors. She stood there, motionless as the two entered, and Alannah was sure the woman was still outside when the door closed. “That’s the smallest bodyguard I’ve seen.” Ben snorted. ...

There was a hum to the ancient city, erected between the mouth of Florentine and the edge of the Pigmeyhorns. A faint whispering of people who hadn’t yet evacuated, a quiet song of nerves as the civilians avoided eye contact with the fleet of soldiers. It resounded through the tall white walls, past the columns that had been standing for centuries, and were now at risk of destruction. The battle wasn’t here, but it was to take place not too far away. People had left for their own good, to avoid seeing or hearing anything, preferring to live in ignorance to what was going on. The castle on top of the hill would be the stronghold. A place for forces to gather, to eat, sleep, do whatever they had to in order to prepare. It wouldn’t be enough though. Not nearly. The sun would rise and in a matter of hours it would be over. The city would take lead in the clean-up. The white walls would never be as pristine as they were, and the reek of blood, sweat and whate...

It was for her own safety. The ugly brown thing on top of her head. Made entirely of leather so it melded to her scalp in the summer, and failed to protect her from any heat in the winter. She understood why she had to wear it. No one could know she was alive, and her hair, red and curly and lying long past her shoulders was a dead giveaway. If it was any other colour, or any other shape she might have been able to away without it. Might have been able to shop at the market without tightly braiding her hair and forcing it into one leather cap. . But no, her hair was distinctively hers. Even if people hadn’t met her before, by hair colour alone they could tell what family she was from, who in the village she was related to.  It was a tragedy when she died. People were in uproar after the fire, and her picture was plastered in places that before the accident would never have recognised her. Now she was recognisable to most of the population, and so the hat, and the fake name ...