Inspiration stopped....

It's been a lot of fun publishing my work; both on Kindle and on Fan Fiction and the experience has led to lots of new friendships and unbelievably people reading my work! I get asked by people what inspires me and to be honest there are so many things that do inspire that sometimes a story starts and then... I find it hard to keep it going. So even though inspiration is always there, it doesn't always work out, but sometimes this isn't such a bad thing as when I start a new story there may be elements of the unfinished prose that I can use. What follows is an example of a thought process which had so much promise, but which I had no idea where to take to anything like a finished product. Elements of it fitted into the mood of The Light, The Dark & The Blood, but maybe there could be more to this little snapshot. I'd be interested in anyone's opinion out there...

ROSES

I must apologise before I begin for my tale may disturb you a little. The subject matter is somewhat unheard of in our modern day and age, but sometimes the happenings of the past must catch up with us. Sometimes we must acknowledge that which has occurred long ago. Sometimes there are repercussions for events of the past.

My story started in a graveyard, with a violent wind, rain lashing down and a single figure, dressed all in black knelt at a grave. She held a single red rose in her hand, the only colour within this bleak, grey cemetery. The figure stared ahead at the stone before her, seemingly oblivious to the tempest that raged around her. One hand held the rose, the other rested on the gravestone. As the figure rose to her feet, suddenly, she dropped the rose. She vanished into the shadows as they arrived behind her, torches blowing in the wind, voices clamouring breaking the deathly silence.

They searched the graveyard, but no sign could be found of that woman dressed all in black. The rose she had left was all that remained, all there was to suggest that she had even been there. A man picked it up, slowly turning the stem round in his fingers, bringing it closer to his face, inhaling its haunting scent. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply then turned to his companions.

“She is gone,” he said.

But she was not gone. She simply hid in the shadows, taking a form they could not see, then when they were gone, returned to the graveside, where she muttered to herself, now heard as the storm died down. A close observer would have realised her clothes were not even damp. There was no trace of mud upon the knees that had knelt in the sodden grass. She brought her hands to her hood and lowered it, slowly. Her thick black hair fell like satin to her waist, her dark, brooding eyes stared straight ahead. Her long, tapered fingers reached out to touch the cold stone once again and then she looked down at the soil. Her rose was gone. She threw back her head and gave a cry of rage, then vanished into the darkness once more...

I lived in a house on the edge of the town, close to the chapel and the graveyard. My father was the local vicar and our house belonged to the church. He was a great man, my father. He was tall, strong and kind. But my father hid a dark secret, which related closely to my mother. She was a beautiful woman and seemed much too vibrant and full of life to live in such a quiet town, the wife of a man of the cloth, the mother of a sensible daughter who liked nothing better than to read. When I looked out of the study window, I could see the graveyard and that night I saw the local police raid it, flooding in through the gates with their torches. They circled round that grave and one of them picked something up. Then just as suddenly as they had arrived, they left. I went to tell my father immediately and he was furious.

“Rushing into a churchyard like that!” he fumed, as he pulled on his boots. “I will have to go down to the station. If they are going to raid our graveyard, they should at least have the decency to inform me first!” As he stormed out of the house in a rage, I went back to the study window. There was a woman standing at the grave now. She was dressed all in black and I could only just see her. My eyes strained to look at her and then suddenly she was gone. It was as if she vanished into thin air.

I always was a curious child and even at seventeen I retained a little of that inquisitiveness. Cautiously, I pulled on my boots and coat and went out of the door. The graveyard had never scared me, I had grown up next to it after all, but even so, my heart almost skipped a beat at the creaking noise the gate made when I pushed it open. The position of the grave the woman and the police had attended came as no great surprise. It was a strange grave that no one seemed to know the exact origins of. The gravestone simply contained two letters A.C. and nothing else. But it stood alone, a small black fence around it. Whether this fence was to protect the grave or the rest of us I had never been sure. I pulled my coat around me a little tighter as I approached the grave. The ground there had been well trodden that night, I had seen that much from my window, but it was as if no one had been there at all. I breathed in deeply, nervously and then stepped over the fence...

And there it finishes... for now! Until hopefully inspiration strikes again and I am able to complete the story or develop it. So much promise in the characters. The Father evolved into Father John in The Dawn and the girl Diana but somehow these characters and their story are a separate entity to that. The joys of being a writer are that sometimes inspiration strikes and becomes a story that you love, but at other times inspiration strikes so hard and so fast that the story becomes lost in the moment.