The Drums

I hope you enjoyed the longer story, John Who?, thanks to the wonderful feedback I received I am now planning to use it as the starting point to a novel, which I will work on over Nanowrimo, called Ryz. Will keep you informed of my progress. In the meantime, I thought I’d go back to sharing some of my shorter stories with you. The following tale came from a prompt during one of the writing groups I go to, the prompt was to write a story on the personification of hope vibrates. I’m not sure the work meets the criteria but I’d like to share it nevertheless.

Louise could feel the blackness coming to claim her. Only days ago the world had seemed shiny, crisp, bright and blue. Then the fog had started and she watched as the world began to hide behind a mist which dulled the edges and washed out some of the colours.
She fooled herself, that first day, as she always did, that she was tired. She’d tried to fit too much in, that all she needed was a good night’s sleep. But, of course, her demon kept the sleep at bay, waking her, screaming death threats and hate. She snatched a few fitful hours, glad to see the pale light breaking through the bars of the bed. Grateful to get up, hopeful she could drown out the demon with noise of the day, but her cloudy head kept looking his way as the colour ran out of the sky and the joy became a distant word.
A cold! That’s it, she told herself, it’s just a cold, a virus invading her body and bringing her low. She put on the armour of Lemsip but the arrows of despair slipped easily through.
Another battle-strewn night saw the day break in grayscale. Lifeless and distant, and Louise saw the black edging touch the whole world as the demon prepared his chains and danced round her, ridiculing the light she’d seen a few short days ago.
A mirage, he yelled. He held the truth. The world was black.
She sighed as a feeble, disbelieving “no” slipped from her lips and she struggled forlornly to give lie to his words then sank inevitably into his truth.
The world was black; children died; bombs exploded; the world burned. Even the clowns drowned in despair. The colours were gone and she was lost.
She moved, mechanically, from one place to another, seeing nothing; feeling little. Her barriers raised. A safe black bubble hope couldn’t hurt.
Then the drums started.
A wild, free dance of rhythm.
A joining of souls in a celebration of sound.
Strangers making music, beating back the darkness under starry skies as the fire dance before them.
The demon screamed as she sat down and laid her hands on the cool skin of the drum, the vibrations of the circle rumbling through her soul, catching her heart and blocking her ears to his lies. Her lungs soaked in the freedom of the tempo and its pulse broke the chains of her prison.
Louise closed her eyes as her hands joined the dance and the colours exploded into her mind.
F: Hellen Riebold’s Author Page