It’s taken longer than expected (doesn’t it always) but the first draft of my next short story, Blood For The Furrows, is finished.
Now is the task of going over it, tweaking parts, improving parts, chopping and changing parts until I’m happy. Or as happy as I’ll ever be.
I’m starting to understand why George Lucas constantly tinkered with his Star Wars films. And I’m just some guy writing short stories for fun in my spare time.
I’ve no experience in writing, no training or qualifications. It’s just a means of being creative for me. I do however have many years experience doing other forms of art, such as painting and illustration, and I know all too well how hard it is to put down the brush and say something is finished. And I’m starting to get the same feeling from typing words.
Here’s a little preview of the start of Blood For The Furrows, the most straight up “folk horror” story I’ve written so far, and very much a homage to The Wicker Man. As always, the following may change a bit before I finally publish it:
Winter had been brutal. The scars from the ice and snow still ran deep even as spring approached. The animals had sired no young and the trees bore no fruit.
The harvest had been noticeably lacking for two summers now, and regular raids from bandits had left the stores almost empty. As mother winter shook off her blanket another raid was inevitable.
Each year, at the start of the sowing season, an effigy was fashioned from the last of the previous year’s crop, to be buried in the fields and ploughed back into the land. Its spirit returning to whence it came and bringing forth a good crop for the year to come.
Rain soaked the land. The sun beat bright, bringing warmth. And without fail, every year, the crops were bountiful. Nearby trees would bloom with fruit, ripe for the picking. The animals would fatten, give birth, and provide the village with all the meat it required.
But now the old gods had failed them. Maybe it was time to try the new god, the supposed one true God. Maybe he would heed their call.
If the village had ever had a name it was long since lost to time. Small, and far from the nearest town, the villagers could maintain the old ways without judgement. But this also meant no patrols to protect them from passing outlaws. How the criminals had found them was simply bad luck. A trait that seemed to flow through the village’s very heart now.
The elders had decided to send forth a party to the nearest town, almost two days walk away. There they would donate what little they had to the church and request the priest journey back with them to bless their land. Maybe the hands of this god which the rest of the country worshipped could dig deep and make their lands fertile again.
The party left on foot, chosen from the youngest and strongest of the village, hiding what little money they had about their person, and praying to whatever gods may listen that they would make it to the town safely.
The remaining villagers took to the fields, preparing them as best as they could for the work ahead of them. The ground was tough and hard to turn. The oxen, weak and malnourished, struggled to pull the plough. The soil slowly began to part, breaking like powder, lacking the water it needed to bind.
One by one, the farmers fell to their knees, grasping at the soil, screaming to the heavens for rain. It felt pointless, but they knew they needed to be prepared. They had to trust that the priest would come and bless their lands, that whatever ritual was performed would appease mother nature.
