“The Horrific Dawns Drownings” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

I knew that the captain was a vexation, but the council members had been swayed by his stirring boasts and full coffers.

It wasn’t that I was unawed by the remarkable immature specimen, for its size alone warranted further study, but I knew better than to meddle with things that ought to be left alone.

I admit it was almost a relief when the storm broke the moorings and dragged the thing in its morbid museum back to the ocean, but it was dark magic that pulled under two lifeguards, the captain and dozens of nearby onlookers the following dawn.

“The Marbled Streets of Aira“ – A Lovecraftian Drabble

The handsome young beggar, dressed in yellow rags, squatted on the ground.  From his shoulder bag he brought forth a lute, and to the crowded market streets he did play.

His songs were sweet and rose above the coarse bullish traders and all at once those who heard it did smile with their eyes.

A passing infant girl became entranced with his melancholy melody and sat with him a spell.

As he continued to sing the girl sat vigilantly and listened.

Together they sat until dusk when gingerly the wrinkled hag rose unsteadily to her feet and slowly hobbled home.

“The Awakening” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

I awoke this morning in a darkened room, one seemingly bereft of illuminating doors or windows, or indeed of anything remotely resembling furniture.

My mind must have still been foggy from my abrupt awakening as I had no clear recollection of how I ended up trapped in such a nightmarish cell.

I stretched and yawned before attempting to rise and find my way out, but in this I was deceived for no exiting portals existed.

In frustration I slammed my fist against the cool polished marble ‘til suddenly with a mortifying flood of awareness I remembered everything.

I was dead.

“The Ancient Gods of Earth” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

The young cleric gripped hard on the trailing rope, as he struggled to keep pace with his ascending companion.

He was an experienced climber but this time the thinning air had left him gasping for breath, seemingly more so than his mentor who had already disappeared through the dense mountain fog.

They were climbing in search of earth’s oldest gods that fables claimed sang and danced upon peaks forbidden to lesser mortals.

The older priest exuberantly shouted, first impertinently jubilant then stricken with panic.

When the servile apprentice finally crested the ridge the guide rope above was slack and unoccupied.

“Heyerdahl’s Lost Pyramid” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

After months of searching I finally found the proof that confirmed Heyerdahl’s grand theory, a pyramid far greater and immeasurably older than any other.

It was located deep in the heart of Mali’s burning desert and beyond where even the Tuareg caravans dare to venture.

The puzzling thing is that the dimensions of the ceilings and stairwells suggest the advanced civilization that built it was considerably smaller than our forefathers.

Indeed, my only exploratory way forward is to crawl on my belly, so it’s a relief the original workers are long extinct.

Wait, what’s that shuffling noise? It can’t be …

“The Music of Far Away Lands” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

Something frighteningly implausible once happened to me that I cannot attest. It was after I moved into a flat above an old German Viola maestro who preferred to play after midnight.

One night when I determined to enjoy a whole performance so I purposefully remained awake with windows wide open.

The disarming nature of his riffs dragooned me into closing my eyes and allowing it to permeate my subconscious, but upon reopening them I discovered I’d been displaced a thousand miles away.

I’ve since tried numerous times to return but inexplicably my entire district seems expunged from maps and memory.

“The Fabulous Peatland Citadel” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

Just East of the great Loch there lies the remains of a stone stronghold long forgotten.

No expert has yet ascertained who build it or when, while the locals solely decant recited folklore too consistent to be arbitrary.

In these legends the dilapidated appearance is but a daylight chimera, for at night the palace stands perfect and undiminished, gloriously illuminated in the moonlights swamp impelled reflection.

It’s foretold that each solstice gambols a host of ethereal nymphs, any foolhardy mortals who tarry to witness this marvel have their souls spirited away and thereafter the bog gains another bloated pipping toad.

“A Doctor’s Hope“ – A Lovecraftian Drabble

The doctor checked his clipboard as he made his final preparations.

All his previous subjects had ended as little more than lifeless blood sacks on the surgery table, which was unacceptable.  This time, he felt, the formula would work. It had to.

He loaded up the syringe, located the target nerve cluster then plunged in. As one thumb worked the release, the other started a stopwatch.

Tick, tick, tick. Seconds past, echoing loudly in the otherwise empty theatre.  Nothing.

Suddenly the eyelids fluttered. Movement, animation, success!

Then the decapitated head trembled, locked its vengeful gaze onto him and began cursing.

“The Midnight Whispers” – A Lovecraftian Drabble

No one now disturbs the gnarled olive tree that only flowers at dusk and grows amid the broken ruins of that house upon the hill, for the locals say that it cursed and the fruit it bears is bitter and tasteless.

Legend suggests that it sprouted from twigs buried with the master of the house, his deathbed request honoured by his grieving brother.

No one knows the truth behind the mysterious and sudden illness that overtook him, none that is except perhaps one. For when the moon in wan, and the midnight winds blow, the olive branches whisper “I know!”