Dark Whispers

By Carol Young

Dark Whispers is a collection of short stories of around fifteen pages each. The link that unites them, and which justifies this compilation, is the fantastic world.

What is fantasy? This is what begins beyond reality. As soon as the story shows us a fact that cannot exist, we are in the fantasy world.

The fantastic world can be visible without real consistency, a shadow exists, but it has no consistency, you can try to touch it. This example is perhaps not the best there is, in fact, a shadow in the best case is part of the real world. Although if ever she no longer wants to follow you, you can worry.

A crow is a very ordinary bird, even when it croaks in the early morning. They are considered bad omens. By reading me, you will realize that they can create a distressing atmosphere..

In this collection you will meet Paul Simon, a poor unfortunate who falls into a pond while fishing. Drowning, do you think? No, he became a fish. This fact seems surprising, but in the country where I am taking you, it is a usual fact.

The Ribaud family has a well in the middle of their garden, it is quite extraordinary. To say the least, I don't know if you want the same in the middle of the plot of land that you have in front of your terrace.

Albert Bergen lives in Begles on the outskirts of Bordeaux, nothing extraordinary, I grant you. In the morning, he meets a little girl who plays hopscotch every day; what is going to happen becomes completely unimaginable. However, when a kid plays such a game in the land of tablets and smartphones, we could be worried. But there, anxiety grips us as we continue reading.

And other surprising stories await you, so if you like the unusual, buy this book.

Dark Whispers is a collection of short stories of around fifteen pages each. The link that unites them, and which justifies this compilation, is the fantastic world.

What is fantasy? This is what begins beyond reality. As soon as the story shows us a fact that cannot exist, we are in the fantasy world.

The fantastic world can be visible without real consistency, a shadow exists, but it has no consistency, you can try to touch it. This example is perhaps not the best there is, in fact, a shadow in the best case is part of the real world. Although if ever she no longer wants to follow you, you can worry.

A crow is a very ordinary bird, even when it croaks in the early morning. They are considered bad omens. By reading me, you will realize that they can create a distressing atmosphere..

In this collection you will meet Paul Simon, a poor unfortunate who falls into a pond while fishing. Drowning, do you think? No, he became a fish. This fact seems surprising, but in the country where I am taking you, it is a usual fact.

The Ribaud family has a well in the middle of their garden, it is quite extraordinary. To say the least, I don't know if you want the same in the middle of the plot of land that you have in front of your terrace.

Albert Bergen lives in Begles on the outskirts of Bordeaux, nothing extraordinary, I grant you. In the morning, he meets a little girl who plays hopscotch every day; what is going to happen becomes completely unimaginable. However, when a kid plays such a game in the land of tablets and smartphones, we could be worried. But there, anxiety grips us as we continue reading.

And other surprising stories await you, so if you like the unusual, buy this book.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Young
• Release date: Dec 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798224268542

Book preview

The crow

SAINT-GERMAIN-SUR-SÈVES , a small town located in Normandy rises.

Every morning, as soon as my feet touch the ground, I go to the window, pull up the blind, there it is. The time of his arrival remains unknown. I'm just certain of his presence.

Before continuing to tell my story, I must specify that my name is Barnabé.

The nameless represents a bird, a crow, if one wishes to designate it. He stands on a post, with a ten centimeter square plate at the top, fixed to a concrete block in the middle of the garden. He always chooses the same one, yet twenty-nine others are waiting for him.

Its deep black plumage darkens to a shade darker than coal, but what differentiates it from this color is its shiny appearance. I call it oily black. Every morning I look at him, during the first days I must say that I was amazed, however, this admiration contradicted that everyone considered him a scavenger.

I am a single man whom everyone describes as lonely and taciturn. If I have reached fifty, I remain slender, the practice of physical activity helps me to this end. However, as a child, I hated sport, I am still surprised to have adopted it as a hobby that I practice in a good mood. I would almost sing his praises while toiling myself to want to sweat.

I acquired this house from my father's estate, it was welcome, since it offered me a roof. Someone built this important freestone building two centuries ago, a vegetable garden, a few fruit trees and a few chestnut trees adorn it. It has been passed down from generation to generation for several decades. The delicate point lies in the fact that in the absence of a descendant, the tradition will die out, everything is lost. When I die, a notary will sell it, perhaps.

My father preferred to commit suicide after the death of my mother than to face loneliness. She hadn't survived a disease that no one can cure. Some afflictions are cowardly, they don't give you a chance. A kind of filthy thing hard to name, but which lived in it, its growth was equivalent to its withering away.

- Good morning ! Mister crow, I formulate.

— Croa, croa, croaks the bird.

I always feel like he answers me. These rough and inhuman cries undoubtedly bring back a message, I interpret them in a word of civility. Maybe, he told me, shut your mouth. These birds, everyone reputs them to be a bad omen, because they would announce death by singing in the morning. This harmful reputation leaves me indifferent, because these cries are only a repartee to my greeting.

At present, everyone describes me as unemployed, this word has become pejorative, I prefer to say that I am unemployed. Declaring oneself unemployed is worse than admitting that one has caught the plague and cholera. For a considerable number of years, I have survived on fixed -term contracts, temporary work contracts, and unemployment benefits. As a result, I sail by sight, planning for the long term is like hoping to win a game of chance, and I don't name any. Besides, I never play it. My bank cataloged me precarious, and the administrations imitated it, to the point that this status sticks to my skin, worse than the feathers of the crow. I never do the same job, so I have to adapt to each job. My responses to offers focus on satisfying the need to feed myself, I don't care about a possible professional project, according to some, everyone would follow one. These people are ignorant of life, since reaching a critical age implies that the only objective adopted is to work, they do not wish to sink into exclusion. The administrations perceive unemployment only through statistics, I am outraged.

I drink my coffee and observe the crow still perched on the post, impassive and faithful to the post.

At ten o'clock, like every morning, the bird leaves. Set like a clock, not a second remains. I guess there's probably a date waiting for him every day. A beauty should not bear the slightest delay. No need to look at the clock, the fact of its presence means that the little hand has not yet stopped at ten. I admit that she is in no hurry, she does not get tired of the task.

My life is empty, so I adjusted it to this crow.

I constantly wonder why my father built such an installation, especially since he set it up in the middle of the garden, it is incongruous. A little further on, a few trees, rooted within the boundaries of the property, would have been likely to welcome this carnivorous sparrow. At the time of its edification, I no longer came, since my mother had flown away to heaven after a long stay in the hospital where she resisted the temptation to flee. As for my father, it's been six months since he joined the kingdom of the dead.

When I arrived, I perceived it when I woke up. In my mother's time, in the morning, you could hear nature leaving the world of the night, now silence accompanies this bird. The shadow of death may have taken hold of the garden.

I transported the experience and the paternal memories packaged in twenty-five boxes to the attic. I think about it and recognize that the moment life extricates itself from the body, man becomes nothing more than a mass of traces of his passage on Earth. Suddenly, I remember that my father was called Jean-Marc.

I took them back down to the living room, because I could more easily explore them. The reason that hired him to install these posts intrigues me, they may have corresponded to an aesthetic taste, I consider them ugly. I would like to unearth a clue that would explain their presence, I open them one by one. The amazement of the first times has come to an end, today I horrify myself to observe it continuously. The first chest contains photos of his early years, as well as things and other things that refer to that time, I know them, because, as a child, I have already seen them. In my hands I hold the collection of keyrings he had forbidden me to touch. Row in a box, it imitated a treasure, when my fingers brushed them, I felt like caressing precious stones. I look at pictures of my father dressed up as a soldier, he was thin then. The last time I saw him, he had aged, his skin was wrinkled, his silhouette betrayed the kilos that admittedly were too much without blushing.

I also find images of another woman, younger than my mother, but also letters where her jealousy cracks with every word like a whiplash. Supposing that the Marquis de Sade would read the fantasies anchored within them, he would blush. Uninformed of his tastes in sexual matters, I discover them, they shake me. His girlfriend and lover was named Gwendoline. I guess it among his missives, but also thanks to drafts or notebooks , his terms expose his thoughts about him.

Gwendoline and Jean-Marc had taken their seats on a ripe cherry-colored leather bench, alone at the back of a bar, a light bulb above them giving off a subdued light. Face to face, they drank coffee, she crunched on a hazelnut covered in chocolate. With a smile, she confessed her penchant for this delicacy. He concedes that his life has changed since they met. The thought of her clouded his mind. Then, one of his questions disturbed him, indeed, she asked how his wife was doing. He didn't answer, his gaze drowning in the bottom of his cup of coffee. Five minutes later, he looked up and told her that she had pain in her abdomen. The moment he first saw her, a pain started, since that date, she tortured her day and night.

Reading this, I think back to my mother, no doubt tickled her, since she did not question her loyalty. An affliction had assailed her and had not let go, so that she had fallen inside the bottomless abyss of the beyond. During this ordeal, the possible escapades of her spouse did not matter to her.

A photo of Gwendoline reveals the flare of her big hair, the aquamarine color of her eyes and the freckles that dot her face. Thirty-five years old, pretty, a question bothers me. What was she doing with my father?

Without charm, moreover the comrade came to look for him in his seventy-fifth year. Money would have been likely to be a motive, however he only had a middle management pension. Did he benefit from an inheritance that would come from his family? She would surely have wanted to put the grappling hook on it.

The couple lived under the regime of the reduced community on the lookout, so a gain of this kind remained with them, so much so that he enjoyed it without his wife intervening or opposing it. However, so far, no trace of any wealth has sprung from his research .

On a path, a few meters from the house, Gwendoline and Jean-Marc were walking and heading towards the forest. She questioned him if he was wearing the talisman. He showed it to her, she was reassured.

I have it between my fingers; I observe this bracelet made of a black leather cord to which a white metal Celtic knot has been attached. I wonder about the protection offered.

Jean-Marc asked him if his interest in Celtic culture dated back a long time. She replied that she bathed there since birth.

This dialogue seems absurd to him because his father never showed an inclination towards any scholarship. He was rather dumb as his feet. The single eye of television had captured him and kept him in a state of lethargy vis-à-vis the world outside the audiovisual world.

I get tired of her words, so I notice a wooden trunk closed with several padlocks, I can only see her. After breaking her zippers, I search her. The content amazes me, because I discover various books and documentation about crows. If the presence of these animals intrigued him, this stadium would be just a memory, since the purchase of all these books would prove an obsession.

The next morning, I open my blind and see the bird. I drink my coffee while contemplating it. How does he spend the rest of the day?

I return to continue my reading of the paternal words. According to these, one fact disturbs me. Gwendoline only appears in my father's life during my mother's illness, in fact, there is no longer any mention that she was there when death took over the affection. Has mourning kept him away for a while?

I do not want to sink into madness, however a doubt arises and interferes in me. Does a relationship between Gwendoline and the death of her mother exist?

She joined the beyond after a long illness. No one was able to name her, however this inaptitude did not prevent her departure towards the realm of oblivion.

His correspondence gave me his address. She would live in a lane a few hundred meters from the house. I've been there before, but I don't remember any home.

On the packed dirt path, carpeted with pebbles, to my right, stretches the opaque deciduous forest and, to my left, fields that disappear into the horizon. I walk around without the landscape disturbing my thoughts. My thoughts relate to the meaning of life. They remind me that, since his birth, I haven't created anything concrete. I waltzed from one company to another and from housing in an HLM housing estate to a studio in the middle of the city centre. No woman I've met wanted to build a piece of road together, so alone, at night, I'm bored.

I arrive in front of a mailbox affixed to a rusty trellis of corrugated iron wire with large meshes. I don't see any houses, just three large rocks placed one on top of the other, disconcerting the greenery. The forest is about ten meters away. Someone has set up a Canadian tent under an oak tree, statues placed on the ground surround it. I turn around the fence, retrace my steps and read the name on the mailbox, Gwendoline Branwen . No doubt is possible, she lives there. Despite her surname sounding like those from across the Channel, she writes in French.

The lack of a portal forces me to climb the fence. Now towards the rocks, at their feet, I see a shoebox, I remove the lid, it contains a doll pierced with needles in the middle of the belly. By instinct, I think of my mother because of her abdominal pain, she assimilated them to those caused by long spikes that would sink into her. This memory of her coming back without warning hurts my heart. From time to time, spasms seized his body, to the point that his eyes widened, then his hands clutched the sheets. Mom, what did they do to you?

I'm not talking to anyone in particular, because it's deserted here, no soul lives here. Emptiness surrounds me. I can't even hear the wind or the chirping of birds. The abnormal silence of the forest frightens me.

I turn towards the tent, a huge oak tree shelters it from the torments of time. As I approach, the shapeless-looking statues take shape, I recognize representations of animals such as deer, wolves, bears or bulls. At the edge, I see other deciduous trees bearing acorns, except for a few meters where I notice yews that break the monotony. An old woman springs up, her lean, hunched figure dons a large black dress that sweeps the floor. She walks without hurrying, a wicker basket hanging from her hand. Near me, I recognize some mistletoe lying at the bottom.

— This sacred flower of the oaks constitutes a gift of nature and warns of a particular event, because it has conquered the impossibility. Only humans create the infeasible, life ignores it, the old lady tells me.

I don't answer, I observe his broken teeth, I have the impression that they are fangs as sharp as the canines of a wolf. She goes towards the rocks, a few meters away, I discover a hearth. It is comparable to those that we shape in the evening when we make a wood fire, but this brazier must have died out a few hours ago. She leaves and returns with dried branches, a few minutes later, flames are born. Seated, she observes the stake, I approach her and confess my search for a young woman named Gwendoline. She stares at me deep in the eyes and assures me that she is what I want.

- This fact is impossible, because she probably turned thirty-five during this year , I replied .

— Time passes faster when we are bored.

— Under a tent, the minutes pass slowly.

— I was talking about those we forget, they await the end without complaining.

I shut up and leave. This evocation concerns in all probability my father, she certainly met him on a path, because he liked to walk through the woods.

Misunderstanding punctuated our lives. He told me that existence comes down to having a job and building a career within the same company. The goal of society becomes that of the employee who lives only for that. The latter is obliged to gain market share and take a dominant position in the middle of its sector of activity, in the event that everyone would benefit from an employment contract, they would pursue this objective. The company gratifies the needy with an additional responsibility, this climbing within the social ladder constitutes the essence of professional life. I replied that by following this path, everyone becomes a sheep. He belongs to this docile people, who walk in quick step, so that by serving a higher interest, he forgets his wishes and his desires. He even ends up omitting the reality of his being outside the group. Freedom does not admit the enslavement of man to an interest that goes beyond his own person. A dialogue of the deaf ensues to the point that it disappears.

I escaped to Paris. Artist, I wanted to play guitar and sing there, because people will recognize my talent. To do this, I had to leave and taste the Parisian life. I was pursuing a childhood dream, which is why I imagined myself as a modern mountebank who would hum popular melodies everywhere, everyone would applaud me. If we don't realize our youthful dreams, existence has no meaning. At nightfall, I slept on a mattress in an abandoned building in the middle of a heterogeneous fauna. Some had lost their material possessions, and even their reason. While I felt seized by a bohemian spirit, the others claimed to be tramps. Fighting and drunkenness accompanied the moon and the stars. I was a long way from the poetry of Pierrot and Colombine. One day, his father came by the subway, he saw me and threw me a coin.

— You will buy yourself a liter of wine to build your destiny.

A smirk also marked his face. He fled without turning his head and since then we have never spoken to each other again. I played the balladins for two years on the subway platforms, no one paid attention to my performances. I figured someone in the business would reach out and show me the ropes. This crazy hope flew away over time, so much so that I abandoned the world of music. Writing, painting