Ódr Once upon a time, in the dark land of Norway where the lost spirits of the dead moan long into the night, a dreadful winter enveloped the village. Snow and hail clattered around the shadowy forms of frozen trees. The metallic moonlight bathed the snow in silhouettes and caught the snowflakes in their fall from heaven; watching as they twisted in the wind before dropping into the forest. The longhouse was nestled in the centre of the wattle and wood houses. Smoke dimmed and blurred the night air as it escaped through the thatch. The sound of a hungry moan came from the direction of the burial mounds before silence reestablished itself over the world. The walls of the longhouse where stacked with wolf and bear skins that protected against the icy breathe of the long Norwegian winter. Sigrid sat away from the fire weaving together bright red and green cloth, whilst Horid talked in low murmurs to the king about the raiding in England. Halem and Lanford ran on the hand packed floor in an attempt to tag each other until their mother told them off and gave them bowls of dinner. "The night seems suddenly quieter," said Sigurd without looking at the other women. "It is nothing but the silence before birth when the world shudders to a stop between #life and death," said an old woman with a wizen complex. "It's been hours. Do you think Aslaug has had the baby yet?" asked Astrid with her young face held tightly by muscles and worry. "No. We would know." "Do you think the ancestors and gods will accept the baby now that the father is dead," asked Astrid. "Fool, of course. He died in glory and resides in the shining halls of Valhalla. The gods will not forsake a hero's family," answered the old woman. "I just wondered because...' Astrid was silenced as the wooden door banged open on its leather hinges. One of the men from the village came came through the doorway and into the firelight. Ice clung to his hair and the fur that shrouded his shoulders. The visible huffing of his breath mixed with the smoke and silence of the room. The women shifted and stared at the newcomer. Horid looked at the king before standing up and walking over to the man, clasping his hand in his. "How goes the birth?" the Horid asked. "It is over," said the man as his voice broke out into a smile. "It is a boy." "Thank the gods, Frigg has truly blessed us all this night," replied the Horid. The men slapped each other on the back and the women smiled and brought them wine. The room filled with laughter as the people of the village heard the news and streamed into the longhouse to celebrate. Soon music broke out and the villagers danced on the earthen floor, spinning in feverish wonder in and out of the flickering firelight and shadows like the sjövættir that accompany a returning voyage and play in the waves of the ships. Wine spilled and splashed to the floor like blood and the laughter got louder and louder whilst the stars burned far overhead. The intoxicating wine loosened the cohesion of the groups and people left in twos to seek privacy in their homes. But for each person that left many more joined until the gathering swelled and the drums seemed to merge with the heartbeat of the people and to echo the bloody pulse of the world. "Who is that man?" Sigrid asked her husband, pointing to a tall man with a matted beard. "I have never seen him before." "I do not know," he answered, frowning. "Take this," he passed her a cup and moved off into the crowd. Sigrid' husband pushed his way through the people until he found the king. He leaned close to him and pointed at the stranger who stood by the fire. "Who is that man?" he asked. "Which man?" asked the king. "The tall one by the fire." The king turned his gaze to the middle of the room. "I do not know," he replied before walking away. The king wandered to the stranger as the people watched him with reverence and moved out of his path. "I have never seen you before. You are not one of my people. Are you a traveller or do you have some other trade with us?" the king asked the stranger. The stranger stood taller than the king and a bone hilt seemed to glow in the firelight. Long strands congealed into that of greasy hair which shone in the light and a fowl stench permeated from his mouth as he replied. "I am a stranger to this village, a traveller of sorts." "And what do you want from us?" asked the king. "Clothes, a roof over my head and food," answered the man. "What gives you the right to demand it of a king?" the king said as he laughed loudly and the people around him joined in. "You are just a homeless man without identity or value." "The rights of the gods demand it of you, the right of hospitality," said the stranger. The king paused and looked around at the people before slapping the shoulder of the stranger and leading him over to the thrones. The king sat down and adjusted his crown. "What if I say no? No to an old, useless man?" asked the king as he leant back. "The gods would punish you for your actions." "What would a king fear from a god? After all, a god has not been seen around this parts for...Oh, I don't know, forty? Fifty years? At least. They had their day but now man has his, and unlike the gods he will not be silent," the king said and the people shifted in the silence. The stranger turn slowly to look into the silent faces of the people before his gaze settled once again on the king. "You would forsake the gods? After all they blessed you with?" "It was not the gods who gave me glory, I was the one who fought and killed. Who built this village against the winds and storms that Thor sent. I prevailed despite them, that is all," replied the king. The stranger titled his head back and watched the snowflakes spiral through the gapping thatch. The sound of the flames breaking and collapsing the wood filled the smoky air, which was made thick by the press of bodies that soundlessly watched. The king clapped loudly and stood up. "Enough talking. You have interrupted the celebrations of human #life," said the king as he gestured to one of his men. The blonde man came over to the stranger with six other men and they dragged him towards the door. The people quickly parted. The stranger did not resist the men, instead he let himself to be taken away without expression. They disappeared outside the door and the sounds of the men shouting insults and cursing the stranger seemed to reverberated around the longhouse. "Let is go back to celebrating and out this matter out of our minds!" shouted the king with a smile. The drums started to beat again and the intoxicating rhythm caused the people to forget themselves and soon the night rung with the celebrations. After hours of revelry in the thick blackness of night and snow, a great cry came from deep in the village. A young girl who was barefoot, with feet blue from the cold and unbound, matted hair came rushing into the longhouse. Her chest heaved for breath and her eyes looks painfully red against her pale skin. She went up to the king and shakily dipped her head in respect. "It's the baby," the girl stammered. "It... some..." "What is wrong? Do not cry just tell us," said Sigrid coming up behind the girl and putting her hand on her arm. "It is okay, Hilde." "The baby. Aslaug was feeding it when it when still then started to tense and shake," the girl started to cry. "And then it went still and blue. It died." The room was silent and all the peoples' minds seemed to understand and cry out at once. "Is the gods' doing?," whispered someone from the crowd. "We have made them angry." "The stranger must have been a god." "Silence!" boomed the king. "I will have no more talk of gods. It is normal for babies to die, it was not named yet and the mother lives. It is unfortunate but we have seen worse." Some people gasped and muttered before falling silent under the gaze of the king. The howl of the wind screeched and tore at the walls and the snow fell heavy through the gaps in the roof. A wind threaded through the gathering and the fire swayed before suddenly dying into lightless chard wood. The shadows seemed to thicken and expand from the corners, filling the centre of the room. The people started to shout and scream. The sounds of fighting broke out as men and women fell into one another in the confusion and attacked the shapeless bodies of their friends and family, their nails and weapons getting wet with unseeable gore. Soon the shouts and groans of the injured and dying rung out in the chaos but their bodies only got trampled underfoot until silent. Metal thudded in the darkness and a feverish madness lit the minds of the people like an escapable fire that catches at a dry twig before devouring a forest in anger. The drums started to beat in the fray, pulsing through the night until the pale sunlight conquered the bone-white clouds and captured the scene. The cold corpses of familiar figures lay strewn on in the snow. Some lay half out of the door, struck down in their panic whilst more still bleed into the earth of the longhouse floor. The wide eyes and tear streaked faces of children appeared from the dark interior of the house to look upon the scene. Surviving family members clambered over the dead, desperately searching the cold faces of the corpses in fear of recognising loved ones. Herbs where collected and pressed into wounds that seeped and bled. The noise of mourning raised to the heavens as the living broke over bodies and wept for the departed souls. The stranger came out of the frozen forest and walked between the small houses; looking down upon the dead until he found the crumpled body of the king. He reached down and picked up the corpse before wandering back into the woods and out of this world

Mudlark The half-realised#moonfalls away as the sun conquers the heavens. Suspended against the sky, the sweeping metal skeleton of Tower Bridge tenses its exposed muscles against the traffic of London. The city starts to wake up as alarms pull absorbed mindless out of sleep and into the cacophonic dawn. It's quieter down on the mud of the Thames and the air is sharp with smell of low tide, interrupted only by the languorous sounds of the water pulsing against the shore and the occasional bird pecking expectantly at the grey sludge. I feel forgotten down here, like one of the old discarded pipes that was thrown by a nameless hand and the living cannot be bothered to scoop up from the ground. Insubstantial memories that I try to conjure up to give me company swiftly dissipate into reality as my mind stumbles over the distracting city. As I walk, the sounds of broken history clatters around my boots; the blue china, coins, nails, pipes and a thousand other oddities that makes me feel the immense loneliness of time apathetically rushing me towards an end. I crouch down to look at a brown square that half sticks up from its hiding place. There is a stick nearby which I use to scrape the object from its muddy prison, from which it finally comes free with a small sucking noise. I can feel the indents on the surface as I clean it with the pad of my thumb and turn it over in my palm. A wooden die is jostled between the moving bones of my hand, swapping from six then rolling to three. The object has taken on a water-lodged mahogany hue which contrasts with the little black circles that lose or win a game. On the side with the four uneven indents, a carpenter's tool must have slipped and scarred the wood. I decide the object must have come from the Jacobean era and press my lips to the surface in a kiss. I take the bag off my shoulder and place my newest find within the dark interior. A soft breeze brushes my face and I smile as the summer months bloom around me. The Thames glistens like a crinkled mirror under the sun that strives towards the zenith and causes sweat to break out along my back. I take off my purple coat and loop it around my waist allowing the cool air to breath along my exposed skin. A guide boat glides past me shouting loudly from the tannoy about the history that it sped through and the tourists on the back wave merrily at me as it disappears from sight. I wave back before spotting another area that catches my interest. A metal pile of three coins leaves rusty stains on the mud which squelches as I start to extract the artefact. The faces of the coins capture a haughty looking man with the words 'senatus populusque romanus' printed around the outside. I look over into the river and try to imagine the person who threw this offering into its body. I wonder if they wanted protection? Or love? Or maybe to help a soul travelling down to the underworld? The gods must have felt so real and tangible in the vast undiscovered world. Our world seems smaller now that so many stories and wonders have been explained away, as though the human mind is not allowed to speculate in the face of mysteries because we are told the answer has been found. I wonder vaguely if we might be blinded by human achievements that leave us mocking the past and solidifying our ignorance. The nostalgic grief of the last year starts to come back and with it a jealousy for the past. Rather than place them in my bag, I step closer to the water and throw the coins in. This time with a different prayer, one which carries a quieter hope for an answer from a god that I cannot see. I watch as the ripples from the coins disturb the water and gently petter out and fail to reach my feet. Bruised, purple clouds blot out the sun and cast a brooding threat over the city. The rain starts to fall with a polluted coldness that splashes over my skin. Mutineers, smuggles and murderers who brought death to the seas were hanged here at low tide. Guided by a silver oar, the accused men who still smelled of ale were brought to the shores of the Thames. The chaplain would talk of sin and redemption while the short rope swung in the flapping wind above their heads. The primal terror of so many ends coats the air and seeps into the green stone. Bile rises up my throat as I think of the convulsing bodies watched over by Justice as the rope painfully fractured away the lives of the hanged by collapsing their airways and asphyxiating their brains into darkness. I walk over to the replica of the noose and pole before stopping and gazing out at the modern apartments that sit on the bank. A woman wanders past a big window and out of sight, only to reappear in another were she turns on the television which bursts into lurid colours. A family cruises by on their bikes, laughing and talking loudly before their words are whipped away and it falls silent again. The rain starts to ease to a drizzle and sunlight weakly streams back through the misty obstruction of clouds. I place my bag down on the sand above the high watermark and take out the moleskin notebook. An envelope slips out from inside the creamy pages. I snatch it from the wet sand and take out the letter. I do not know why I bother reading it I could recite it word for word but I can never quite remember the distinct undulations of the handwriting. I thought I was past the crushing grief that made me curl into a foetus position in an attempt to stop my soul escaping but the tears and pain returns as the voice in my head reads the letter: To Alice, Now that I have to write this letter I find language to be completely inadequate. It all just feels too big to fit my handwriting, too hard to explain. I tried. That's what I want, no need you to understand. I really tried. For years I thought I would get better, that the future would be brighter if only I waited and now I don't think that anymore, hope can only last so long. I never was good at any of this, but I have a favour to ask. Do you remember when you were little and we used to go mudlarking? Remember the place were we found the gold and ruby ring? The one I gave to you when you turned eighteen? I have enclosed a notebook and a metal box, I need you to bury it under the low tide mark. I know it's odd, but will you do it for me? I couldn't bear to stay living and for that I am sorry but I don't think I am ready to be forgotten yet and I want someone to find that book in the future. Don't tell mum or dad, they will only try and find it. Also, please don't read the notebook. Do not blame yourself. Love, Your Mudlark The half-realised#moonfalls away as the sun conquers the heavens. Suspended against the sky, the sweeping metal skeleton of Tower Bridge tenses its exposed muscles against the traffic of London. The city starts to wake up as alarms pull absorbed mindless out of sleep and into the cacophonic dawn. It's quieter down on the mud of the Thames and the air is sharp with smell of low tide, interrupted only by the languorous sounds of the water pulsing against the shore and the occasional bird pecking expectantly at the grey sludge. I feel forgotten down here, like one of the old discarded pipes that was thrown by a nameless hand and the living cannot be bothered to scoop up from the ground. Insubstantial memories that I try to conjure up to give me company swiftly dissipate into reality as my mind stumbles over the distracting city. As I walk, the sounds of broken history clatters around my boots; the blue china, coins, nails, pipes and a thousand other oddities that makes me feel the immense loneliness of time apathetically rushing me towards an end. I crouch down to look at a brown square that half sticks up from its hiding place. There is a stick nearby which I use to scrape the object from its muddy prison, from which it finally comes free with a small sucking noise. I can feel the indents on the surface as I clean it with the pad of my thumb and turn it over in my palm. A wooden die is jostled between the moving bones of my hand, swapping from six then rolling to three. The object has taken on a water-lodged mahogany hue which contrasts with the little black circles that lose or win a game. On the side with the four uneven indents, a carpenter's tool must have slipped and scarred the wood. I decide the object must have come from the Jacobean era and press my lips to the surface in a kiss. I take the bag off my shoulder and place my newest find within the dark interior. A soft breeze brushes my face and I smile as the summer months bloom around me. The Thames glistens like a crinkled mirror under the sun that strives towards the zenith and causes sweat to break out along my back. I take off my purple coat and loop it around my waist allowing the cool air to breath along my exposed skin. A guide boat glides past me shouting loudly from the tannoy about the history that it sped through and the tourists on the back wave merrily at me as it disappears from sight. I wave back before spotting another area that catches my interest. A metal pile of three coins leaves rusty stains on the mud which squelches as I start to extract the artefact. The faces of the coins capture a haughty looking man with the words 'senatus populusque romanus' printed around the outside. I look over into the river and try to imagine the person who threw this offering into its body. I wonder if they wanted protection? Or love? Or maybe to help a soul travelling down to the underworld? The gods must have felt so real and tangible in the vast undiscovered world. Our world seems smaller now that so many stories and wonders have been explained away, as though the human mind is not allowed to speculate in the face of mysteries because we are told the answer has been found. I wonder vaguely if we might be blinded by human achievements that leave us mocking the past and solidifying our ignorance. The nostalgic grief of the last year starts to come back and with it a jealousy for the past. Rather than place them in my bag, I step closer to the water and throw the coins in. This time with a different prayer, one which carries a quieter hope for an answer from a god that I cannot see. I watch as the ripples from the coins disturb the water and gently petter out and fail to reach my feet. Bruised, purple clouds blot out the sun and cast a brooding threat over the city. The rain starts to fall with a polluted coldness that splashes over my skin. Mutineers, smuggles and murderers who brought death to the seas were hanged here at low tide. Guided by a silver oar, the accused men who still smelled of ale were brought to the shores of the Thames. The chaplain would talk of sin and redemption while the short rope swung in the flapping wind above their heads. The primal terror of so many ends coats the air and seeps into the green stone. Bile rises up my throat as I think of the convulsing bodies watched over by Justice as the rope painfully fractured away the lives of the hanged by collapsing their airways and asphyxiating their brains into darkness. I walk over to the replica of the noose and pole before stopping and gazing out at the modern apartments that sit on the bank. A woman wanders past a big window and out of sight, only to reappear in another were she turns on the television which bursts into lurid colours. A family cruises by on their bikes, laughing and talking loudly before their words are whipped away and it falls silent again. The rain starts to ease to a drizzle and sunlight weakly streams back through the misty obstruction of clouds. I place my bag down on the sand above the high watermark and take out the moleskin notebook. An envelope slips out from inside the creamy pages. I snatch it from the wet sand and take out the letter. I do not know why I bother reading it I could recite it word for word but I can never quite remember the distinct undulations of the handwriting. I thought I was past the crushing grief that made me curl into a foetus position in an attempt to stop my soul escaping but the tears and pain returns as the voice in my head reads the letter: To Alice, Now that I have to write this letter I find language to be completely inadequate. It all just feels too big to fit my handwriting, too hard to explain. I tried. That's what I want, no need you to understand. I really tried. For years I thought I would get better, that the future would be brighter if only I waited and now I don't think that anymore, hope can only last so long. I never was good at any of this, but I have a favour to ask. Do you remember when you were little and we used to go mudlarking? Remember the place were we found the gold and ruby ring? The one I gave to you when you turned eighteen? I have enclosed a notebook and a metal box, I need you to bury it under the low tide mark. I know it's odd, but will you do it for me? I couldn't bear to stay living and for that I am sorry but I don't think I am ready to be forgotten yet and I want someone to find that book in the future. Don't tell mum or dad, they will only try and find it. Also, please don't read the notebook. Do not blame yourself. Love, Your sis A tear falls onto the ink and I rub it quickly with a shaky hand. The paper starts to get rough and come off in wet patches. I stare at the ruin before folding it carefully and placing the letter back into my bag. The world seems emptier somehow, quieter and less colourful. My sister took a piece of me, the piece I had given her when I was born, the piece that loved her, away with her. I like to think that I do not know were she is because the idea that I do know, that she just ended in the graveyard at home, hurts too much. It takes me until the twilight hours to dig a hole that I am pleased with. I go over to my bag and pick up the notebook. I never opened it. I used to want to fall into the spidery handwriting and be consumed by the thoughts of my sister, but now the idea of spending hours inside her mind scares me. I pick up the box, the final coffin into which I place the last of her thoughts and memories, and lay the notebook to rest on the metal. My fingers fumble with the key until I manage to turn the lock with a click. I walk below the tideline and bury her forever. sis A tear falls onto the ink and I rub it quickly with a shaky hand. The paper starts to get rough and come off in wet patches. I stare at the ruin before folding it carefully and placing the letter back into my bag. The world seems emptier somehow, quieter and less colourful. My sister took a piece of me, the piece I had given her when I was born, the piece that loved her, away with her. I like to think that I do not know were she is because the idea that I do know, that she just ended in the graveyard at home, hurts too much. It takes me until the twilight hours to dig a hole that I am pleased with. I go over to my bag and pick up the notebook. I never opened it. I used to want to fall into the spidery handwriting and be consumed by the thoughts of my sister, but now the idea of spending hours inside her mind scares me. I pick up the box, the final coffin into which I place the last of her thoughts and memories, and lay the notebook to rest on the metal. My fingers fumble with the key until I manage to turn the lock with a click. I walk below the tideline and bury her forever.

The Past It is mesmerising in the British Museum, to stare into the blind, contemplating eyes of the Athenian's, see the flutter of orange cloth on the vases, blown by an ancient breeze that brushes your face with imagined grace illustrated in a Sophoclean haze. You can see the artist's intensity in the paint strokes that glisten under the light, the mortal chisel, the wild beasts and man as one. To look at a world, persevered in clay and marble, a world where the gods walked the earth and told man's story. Lives shaped by the poetry on the pots and the voices that are lost deep in the soil. Wild and savage beasts that tore heroes apart and made the reputation of others. The safe clasp of a land where the gods rule supreme with a human darkness, a world in which man's innate soul is lose to wander unbound by the rules of modernity. The nature of which is immortalised in the brush lines of a frenzied bacchanalia, connecting across the centuries to the unconscious animal within. The green-tinged armour and helmets hung vacantly on the walls, revealing none of their gory battles. I stared at the void in the helmet where the eyes would be, imagining the expression of the man. Scared? Feared? Alone? Dying? Wondering at the soul that possessed that space, that pocket of time and who spoke with a foreign tongue, conveying ideas unfamiliar to my contemporary ears, condemned to a fate I would never known. Then I went into the street and it was noisy and crowded with the smells of food infused with petrol and voices. Bright lights scared the gods, scattering them to the shadows. My feet smacked the street as I watched brick walls and the lives within through the festive windows. And the city feels insubstantial and alien not like the primal familiarity in the pots, armour, vases and statues that live within the Museum. I feel sad and out-of-place in this colder world of supermarkets and glass that reflects back your image with unrelenting indifference. Crammed in with too many other minds, all into a world that suddenly feels superficially small and so large in the mass of realities that shout and clammer. To stumble for even a moment is to get swept away into the vast unknown.

Memory I spend too much time quietly wondering the neurological halls of my mind Down fading pathways, deep in the vaults of memory Into rooms with dusty projectors playing a forgotten past Some seats lay empty in the deep darkness But other theatres are crowded with apparitions of years gone Actors and actresses who once played leading roles Sit silently, caught up in the whirring film Snatches of phrases float through the void Phrases I half remember, phrases I've warped and changed Phrases I have imagine for so long they are true So true that they are the only way I remember the people who said them But those people never really existed outside my mind Outside the dark and crowded halls

#acrostic Challenge Results Thank you to everyone who entered, brilliant pieces. The winner of the ##acrostic challenge is @jayjay54! I couldn't decide between his pieces 'Pulse' and 'World in Microcosm', so they both won it in their own way. Over to you...