Fear Of Ghosts is a ghost story by P.S.Clinen. Below is the story in its entirety: Continue reading
Tower Of Fog is a short story written by P.S.Clinen. It has been shortlisted for a number of awards, including the Atlantis Short Story Competition 2013 and the Lane Cove Literary Award 2014. It appeared in the February 2017 edition of Australia Times Unearthed Fiction magazine. Below is the story in its entirety.
The sun rose, and through the veil of mist, threw its rays with furious abandon at the cloud that perennially coated the mountains. These mountains wound along the bleak coast, corroded fangs weathered by the lashings of sea foam, as stone grey as the sky that stood over them like a loveless parent. They crawled from the earth with the ocean salivating at their heels and reached, reached for the nurturing warmth of sunlight. But the fog remained, the sun set again, and all was lost in eternal monochrome. The northern tower jutted crudely from the peaks, needle-thin, so that the wind that rushed about its zenith whistled like a tuning fork.
In the highest room of the tower, where joviality was given up to the valleys of echoes, Greywaite sat atop a stool.
I am very pleased to share news of my involvement in the Atlantis Short Story Competition 2013. My short story ‘Tower Of Fog’ placed in the top 40 of nearly 200 entrants.
“What I really like about your story is the setting creating an incredibly rich atmosphere pulling me right into your fictional world…” – Chloe Lenz, Atlantis Short Story Competition.
I suppose now is as good a time as any to share ‘Tower Of Fog’ with you all, so click on the rough little drawing of the story’s main protagonist to read it:
There was a crack. A sharp cut split the frozen ground. Its echo jettisoned itself from the source in an attempt to find something to reverb against. But there was nothing. And just as a pebble is plunged into a pool the waves would go on; perhaps they could carry themselves forever like the never ending movement of the seas. Or maybe, like the vast void of space beyond the sound would be muted into a suffocating nothingness. The cracking sound came again and a new set of sonic tide chased its elder in a futile race. Again, none could tell whether the noise had effect on anything. Perhaps a petrel wheeled into a somersault before continuing on its flight; or a crab clenched his pincers tightly into a defensive stance. Soon the intrusive noise struck like a metronome as that outer layer of permafrost was scooped away by the hermit’s shovel. His shoulders stooped over his work, acknowledging not the cold arctic sun that shone blindingly at his back. The icy shards that had been disturbed by shovel fall glistened in kaleidoscopic patterns, a fleeting beauty that slowly disintegrated into the oozy mud beneath it. The sea dribbled slowly shore-bound; caressing the icy sand and moss with the gentleness of a mother. Relax, she said, pay no kind to the shovel or the hermit who busies himself. The extraordinary stretch of Siberia could burden one man’s clumsy digging. Continue reading
Away from imbroglios and brouhahas, travelling down to the almost torpid shorelines where oleaginous waves rhythmically brush away all dread and doubt – it is here that pulsing sorrow wells up in the more maudlin side of my composure as I find my senses overwhelmed by the deep and drowning blues of sky and sea. Though sand may feel rough under my burning feet, this blue quenches the thirst left behind by this gravelly terrain. I stare vacantly at the line far away where sky blue becomes ocean blue. The deafening hush of land-bound winds and crashing wake is enough to engulf and extinguish any distractions that may cause my mind to sway from this harbour surrounding. Continue reading
Were I to be a tree, only but a few
pressing concerns would plague my
petiolar mind. Foremost being the present
equilibrium (or lack thereof) between rain
and sunshine at any given moment. Short
of the random yet necessary question of
how cold one’s branches would feel in the
wintertime with no appropriate coverage
of foliage to protect. For the latter,
concern is easily quenched and abated
with the decision that I would be an
evergreen. Assessing and acknowledging
these risks, I adamantly pronounce that I
want to be a big, huge tree.