The Blood Of The Heart Flows Black
Dim autumn limns the streets. Everything is russet, flecked with gold.
Here, in the warmth of bonfire smoke, walking under branches of scratch-thin trees that hold their leaves like candy wrapper flames, huddled in tweed and wool and taking in that breath of October air, he remembers the first time they met.
No; no, the first time he saw her – she was ordering coffee, and it was summer (bare arm summer, and golden skin, with clouds as decoration in the sky) and she turned as he walked past and she looked at him and smiled and she spoke.
That was it, and that was all. A moment.
Looking back, it is all surprises. How harsh her laugh, and how infectious. How much silly television she likes to watch, and how much Chinese food she can eat. Her passion for reading, and for knitting long scarves as presents for friends. The types of movies she likes, the restaurants she prefers. All these things, these personal details that make a person who they are, and how each one is a little small surprise.
She is nothing like he imagined she would be, standing there holding her coffee, with her slim arms tanned from the sun and coffee steam moving past the delicate line of her jaw, the chin that would set just so when she was irked, when she would pout. Everything he has learned about her has come as a surprise, showing how little really we know about each other. It is the discovery of another person that makes love so strong and such a journey.
He comes up behind her, now, on this autumn street, intending to surprise her, but she turns and smiles, a flicker on the instant, as her eyes meet his.
Something there in the depths of her deep green eyes, something there is old, and ancient, and primal, and it growls to her in a language she can no longer understand, and it is too late now, too late.
It is then, in such a small moment, in that slow whisper as his blade moves through the air, that their romance begins.
Rivka Jacobs
First-class writing, Andrew. Wow, I’ve read this now four times, and I get more out of it each time I read. How can you do that in such a short piece?
Matt Hartwell and Ian Sharman once suggested to me that some of these stories are like poetry when read out-loud; and “The Blood of the Heart” is one such. I just read it out loud. The words roll out like poetry.
Dense and offering multiple interpretations; is this a hunter of ancient evil, or, is this a stalker who has been following a woman to an evil conclusion, or, a lover who is ultimately a psychotic killer? One could read this story in a number of different ways.
Amazing!
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Andrew Cheverton
Thank you, Rivka.
One of the things I wanted to personally achieve when discussing the possibilities of EW with Nick was to develop a writing style that I could call my own, and it’s only now (fifty-odd stories on!) that I feel I’m starting to get somewhere.
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