Small Stone – 9th February

Streets are quiet. Little stirs amid the darkness. Pavements glisten in the cold lamplight. I walk quickly, to cover ground and build warmth. In a narrow a street I see a figure waiting under shelter of a scaffold. She sees me. My fluorescent coat precedes my gait. She turns to face me, phone in hand. I walk past her, disinterested. Another half-hour waits on my path. At the end of the road the old castle looms from the night. Its grey and black shadows impose upon me. I travel back to a time before skyscrapers and jet planes to trees and cart tracks, and I feel the gravity of the keep’s attention. Wind hums songs in the last of the trees by the stone walls. Crossing the bridge under the keep’s blank eye, I notice that musical wind push toiling water out to sea. The bridge passes beneath my feet and I leave behind me the old town and its tower.

Shadow and moon light… Image from:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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One Response to Small Stone – 9th February

  1. SM Jenkin says:

    Brrr! This piece is full of menace. Well done on conveying the sense of being watched that you get from passing an old keep, and how that sense of menace can be felt by others


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