Welcome to Reflective Darkness!
A collection of the weird and wonderful musings of an offbeat maverick writer.
Explore the macabre, the eerie depths, the downright mad, and best of all, the mischief loitering with intent inside!
Explore the macabre, the eerie depths, the downright mad, and best of all, the mischief loitering with intent inside!
For starters...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCgbTyFr49M
Big fartsy knickers and enjoy yerself...
For the intellectauallismmsssmsss (ahem!)
Overhead the albatross
Hangs motionless upon the air
And deep beneath the rolling waves In labyrinths of coral caves
An echo of a distant time comes willowing across the sand
And everything is green and submarine...
And no one called us to the land
And no one knows the where's or why's.
Something stirs and something tries
Starts to climb toward the light.
Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me...
And do I take you by the hand
And lead you through the land
And help me understand
The best I can..
And no one called us to the land -
And no one crosses there alive.
No one speaks and no one tries
No one flies around the sun...
Almost everyday you fall upon my waking eyes;
Inviting and inciting me to rise.
And through the window in the wall
Come streaming in on sunlight wings
A million bright ambassadors of morning.
----
And no one sings me lullabyes
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky....
(Pink Floyd - Gilmour)
I left my native Co. Down many years ago, but still travel back from time to time.
I have been published in numerous short story collections, dabbled in poetry, and on occasion, even engaged in serious political dissemination.
I aim to provide writing which is different from the rest, and something either dark, or reflective, and sometimes amusing, to leave the reader with a unique memory to savour.
Get in touch, using the form to the bottom left if you want to add a comment, or read some of my other stories by clicking on the downloads at the top.
Stephen.
A mile or so outside my native town of Comber, you can find a secluded little gem
called Island Hill.
Every time I travel back to N.I., I always try to get a window seat on the left of the
aircraft, so I can observe the myriad island network of Strangford Lough,
overseen by its looming sentinel guardian, Scrabo Tower.
With a strong undercurrent, the tide is prone to submerging the causeway over to
Rough Island, as I and many others have found to our cost on numerous
occasions.
The walk across the causeway is breathtaking, not just because of the strong coastal
wind which greets you like a firm handshake once you venture onto the path, but
also, the panoramic view of the lough, taking in Ards, Greyabbey and even as
far down the cost to Kircubbin is unequalled anywhere else.
As a boy, I remember being regaled with stories of 'the Birdman', a colourful
character who could imitate almost any bird on the island, having spent years in
its vicinity.
Other memories include men flipping flatfish, or skate out of the little channels at
low tide, and a vast array of strangely clad cockle pickers, digging on the
flats and wielding large buckets unsteadily back to their cars.
Rough Island is approximately five mins walk from the Island Hill picnic area, and a
stroll around its perimeter another ten.
Having lived abroad for over a decade and travelled extensively, there is still nothing
I have seen which can rival this natural landscape.
Home is where the heart is; and never a truer word spoken.
called Island Hill.
Every time I travel back to N.I., I always try to get a window seat on the left of the
aircraft, so I can observe the myriad island network of Strangford Lough,
overseen by its looming sentinel guardian, Scrabo Tower.
With a strong undercurrent, the tide is prone to submerging the causeway over to
Rough Island, as I and many others have found to our cost on numerous
occasions.
The walk across the causeway is breathtaking, not just because of the strong coastal
wind which greets you like a firm handshake once you venture onto the path, but
also, the panoramic view of the lough, taking in Ards, Greyabbey and even as
far down the cost to Kircubbin is unequalled anywhere else.
As a boy, I remember being regaled with stories of 'the Birdman', a colourful
character who could imitate almost any bird on the island, having spent years in
its vicinity.
Other memories include men flipping flatfish, or skate out of the little channels at
low tide, and a vast array of strangely clad cockle pickers, digging on the
flats and wielding large buckets unsteadily back to their cars.
Rough Island is approximately five mins walk from the Island Hill picnic area, and a
stroll around its perimeter another ten.
Having lived abroad for over a decade and travelled extensively, there is still nothing
I have seen which can rival this natural landscape.
Home is where the heart is; and never a truer word spoken.
