Michael Darvall
Bio
Quietly getting on with life and hopefully writing something worth reading occasionally.
Stories (34/0)
The Darkwood Awakening
“Run,” says Gabrial, “and don’t look back.” “What?” says Dawydd, “why?” But Gabrial is already running, dashing along the forest path, light and shade dappling her lithe form. Dawydd runs, not a sprint, but quickly enough to be gaining on Gabrial.
By Michael Darvall16 days ago in Fiction
Life - A Crowing Achievement
The viral phenomenon, Life, is an epic adventure with a star-studded cast. At it’s heart is a striving for meaning in a seemingly senseless world. Everyone’s experience of this classic is paradoxically both unique and alike. Although long, most wish it was longer, and yet will only enjoy it once.
By Michael Darvall8 months ago in Critique
- Top Story - May 2023
A Day in the Park
She watched him swinging, back and forward; a gentle rhythm with a metronomic squeak, discordant kicks occasionally propelling him higher. She smiled to herself, enjoying the perfect moment, and sipped her coffee. Too often people rushed things, but these moments would not be forever, they should be savoured, she felt. She would tuck this memory away to visit on cold nights.
By Michael Darvall12 months ago in Fiction
Dancing in the Dark
The mirror showed a reflection that was not my own. The entrapped image swerved past my vision in a blur of crimson and black; two figures locked tightly together in a furious twirling dance, so prominent in the mirror as to be almost upon me. They whirled in violent agitation, every limb seemingly in motion, tearing at each other in a frenzy that somehow never afforded a change in their condition or dress, a rocking, chaotic cacophony of sight that threatened to overwhelm me with only their forms. And that couple was just one of many, a fragment of the vast panoply of dancers in the reflected ballroom, all of them moving with fantastical intensity, their figures shrouded in red and black drapery, their faces masqued in Venetian styles, full-faced and adorned with feathers and glass and metal, but all somehow subdued, as if they were coloured in a minor key. Despite the heavy coverings, there were, among the heaving, feverish movements, occasional flashes of ivory as the couples whipped past; as a cowl slipped back from the forehead, or a cuff rode up briefly on the dancer’s arm, and the contrasting speck of white rang out through the demented red and black and dark gem-metal faces.
By Michael Darvallabout a year ago in Horror
The Walking Man - 1
Every night, at midnight, the purple clouds come out to dance with the blushing sky… for those who have eyes to see them. You can tell who they are, if you’re in the know, they tend to stand out. Ever been in a crowd – say out on the town on a Friday night, or at a party – and you see those odd people who seem to have just… stopped; not talking, not dancing, maybe not moving at all. Often they’re in the crowd but somehow not of the crowd, there’s space around them in the crush, or they’re in that odd corner that no-one else likes to stand in. There’s a fair chance they can See. People usually feel uncomfortable with them, their personal space seems a bit bigger and it can make talking with them… awkward.
By Michael Darvallabout a year ago in Fiction
Salt and Vinegar
The kids were not at school, so it must have been the weekend. But we didn’t get ready to work the cattle, or check the waters, or fix the fences, but instead everyone all piled into one ute: The Boss, the Missus, and most of the kids in the cab, and me and Slick and Badger jumped in the back along with our mate, the Eldest Boy.
By Michael Darvallabout a year ago in Fiction
