Herring House: Stories and Other Writing

  One cold wintery night, Jacob was living in Germany on an old, terraced street. It looked like a line of Second World War multi housing complexes, as far as you could see. Very grey, very uniform and very dark. Street lights missing, one every now and then, casting dark shadows. In Jacob's head the turmoil of his life was very dark and there were no answers. He would walk the streets at night after work to get to the main town to buy food. As he passed the light on the street, he knew a dark area would be coming. In his head and on the street it was always haunting shadows he could see, like the haunting shadows in his head. Then after many times of doing this, night after night, he would also look over the bridge which he had to cross. Every time he would stop in the middle which was clear from all the trees, just standing there, watching the moon quiver in the ripples as the water passed by. Sometimes there would be rain drops shimmering on the surface then disappearing never...

The evening is closing in, as I walk around the long reeds. A gentle breeze sways the reeds in waves, a still low mist rises from the riverbank. It’s a warm evening, even though the sun is setting on the horizon. As I follow the path, I am in ore of the beauty of the views. In the distance I can see a glow from a place near the path, as I come closer, I can see an old oil lantern hanging off a post. As I draw even closer, I can see a shadowy figure, dressed in dark, old clothes, not moving, just standing under the lantern. Now as I approach the figure, I feel a cold breeze suddenly blow across the reeds and my cheeks. I can now see a large dingy, the lantern attached to the bow. The figure is standing at the front of the old wooden boat, the menacing figure is waving me to him. As I draw closer, I can see both the boat and the figure are opaque and seem as if it is a trick of the rising mist. I had heard stories of “The Ferryman” but had never experienced them myself. I am now terrif...

  As I stroll down the street, rain drizzling, runs down my collar and inside my shirt.  A chill runs down my spine but it wasn't from the cold. The sun timidly peeks its head from behind the gray clouds above casting a single ray of sunshine on the street ahead.  I see a piece of paper spinning around inches above the pavement caught in a mini whirlwind then the wind blows it towards me and it presses against my chest.  It was surprisingly dry considering it had rained on me for what seemed like an eternity, grey clouds following my every move.  My life seemed to be as grey as the clouds lately. Living life under the regime of King Alcohol had gone from sunny skies to a torrent of storms and misery. I knew I couldn't live this way, but I still tried to make it work.  Taking the piece of paper in my hand after it had flown to my chest I looked down and read the script. In bold letters were the words 'Nothing is so bad that a drink can't make it worse.' The ...