Bramble Jack

There stands a mound of mossy stone

That folks around call Bramble Tor.

It gazed down on a stann'ry town

Atop a heather mantled moor

Where, after dusk, the Big-Hat Lad

  Would often go explore.

He always wore a feathered cap

Passed down from his departed dad.

Soon everyone in town forgot

What other names he may have had.

The folk around just knew him as

  'Our little Big-'At Lad!'

Now Big-Hat knew from fairy tales

That, when the moon was full and bright,

The lustrous moss 'round Bramble Tor

Would glow with wisty, green-gold light.

He dreamt he'd claim a Pisky hoard

  By digging there at night.

He did not heed when he'd been told

That, once the ragged sun slid down,

He must not walk the mirey moor

But mind the dry-stone walls of town.

Lest he, like father, heedless, step

  In sucking bog and drown.

This night is clear. This moon is full.

 The mist lies thick as cotton wool.

  A lad who's out to claim a prize

   Is watched by ancient, coal-black eyes.

The mournful golden plovers' song

Had followed him through purple gloam

But as the chill of night set in

He lost all sense of where he roamed.

Then, all about was silent mist

  And not one hint of home.

He stumbled on the sedge and fell

And tumbled hard on stony frost.

The Big-Hat Lad began to cry.

He sobbed in darkness, 'I am lost!'

The darkness softly whispered back,

  'I'll help you, for a cost.'

The mist revealed a spindly man

With beetle wings and bony back.

He smiled with shining needle teeth

And glossy eyes that glittered black.

He made a nimble courtly bow,

  'They call me Bramble Jack.'

'Now, I would gladly guide you home

And even safely walk you back.

I could become your teacher, child.

What say you, then, to all of that?

I only ask a token price:

  That feather from your hat.'

With outstretched needle-fingered hands

The misshaped man was drawing near.

The Big-Hat Lad rose from the ground

And choked his swiftly rising fear.

He took the feather from his cap

  And, eyes closed, offered, ''Ere!'

He waited, wincing, holding breath

Then in his hand the lad felt brass

Replace the feather in his grasp.

He opened eyes to compass glass

With gleaming needle pointing west.

  'What trick be this?' he asked.

'No trick at all,' said Bramble Jack

And with an old professorial air

Explained the working of the needle,

'It points you home from everywhere.

And if holding it, you call for me,

  You'll find I'm waiting there.'

Bramble Jack is very fair.

 His beetle heart beats full of care.

  He only asks a little thing:

   A feather from a goose's wing.

Then in a blazing golden flash

The black-eyed beetle man was gone

And Big-Hat Lad, now feeling brave,

Resumed the quest he'd set upon.

He held the compass gift in hand

  And deeper, journeyed on.

For hours he searched for Pisky moss

Then suddenly began to feel

A stabbing, gnawing hunger pain.

How long past seemed his meagre meal!

He held the compass, closed his eyes,

  said 'Jack, let's make a deal.'

He turned and saw the bramble man.

Relieved, he said 'I need to eat!

For I be fairly starving, Jack.

Will you please conjure something sweet?'

Jack smiled his needle smile and said,

  'Dear lad, I have a treat.'

He flickered shiny beetle wings

And flitted to a blackberry patch.

He whirled around the thorny vines

And with a flash he made a snatch

Then held aloft a bramble root

  As though a fisher's catch.

'What trick be this?' the Hat Lad asked.

'No trick at all. Observe the root!'

He whipped the vine around him thrice.

It started budding glowing shoots

That turned to pinkish flower blooms

  And then… a wealth of fruit!

'A single berry from this arch

Will keep you full and strong and warm.

You'll learn the words to work the spell.

If you agree this pact is sworn:

A single drop of blood will do.

  A little prick of thorn.'

The lad agreed and pricked his thumb

And gave the blooded thorn to Jack.

Then gorged himself on endless fruit

And marvelled at the easy act

Of fleecing fey, then cunning thought...

  'Let's make another pact.'

That's contracts two. He's nearly through.

 He's close, but there's still work to do.

 A tummy full. A teeny price.

   Has he the wit to bargain thrice?

'I came out 'ere to find a prize:

The treasure underneath the moor.

But now I reckon all that work

Is more 'n I might bargain for.

So now, I say: reveal your trove,

  'ee Jack of Bramble Tor!'

'What trick is this?!' cried Jack, surprised.

'No trick. This deal will be the same:

'You'll trade with me for worthless things.

For gold this time we play the game!'

Jack drummed his chin and leaned in close:

  'Then, give to me… your name.'

The sun is up. The lad is back.

 He hauls a bulging treasure sack.

  His form returns home from the moor.

   But where's that lovely hat he wore?

'We'll 'ave to call 'ee somethin' else,'

they said, 'As 'at-less come 'ee back.'

'Sirs, I collect new names like berries,

I claimed more than I can track.'

He smiled and made a courtly bow,

  'But you may call me… Jack.'

***

When folk today climb Bramble Tor

They sometimes like to stop and pose

For pictures by an odd-shaped rock

Where golden mossy carpet grows.

It half resembles some young lad.

  His big hat softly glows.

The Silver Door

NYCM Rhyming Story Competition 2024

Round 2: Ghost Story (2nd Place)

I.

He stood upon the crossroads, waiting.

Waiting there, I knew, for me.

His lonely lamp illuminating

Gleaming coins where eyes should be.

His stringy hair was grey and thinning,

Drooped across his ruined face.

He turned that face to greet me, grinning,

Bidding me to take his place.

I’d entered there in unwise dreaming,

Through the spectral Silver Door.

And once again, retreated screaming,

As I did each night before.

I fled through fields of asphodel,

Propelled along by urgent dread,

Searching for the Door until

I found myself awake in bed.

II.

Safe in bed but drenched in sweat.

I curse my trembling, weak-willed self.

My shaking hands, still dripping wet,

Grope about the bedside shelf.

I find the book that I’d kept hidden:

 Secret Ways to Walk at Night-

 The Secret Keys to Doors Forbidden,

 Secret Paths to Secret Sight.

I take the tome, now brown with age

But, fumbling, drop it on the floor.

It opens on a faded page

That I had somehow missed before:

The paths of which herein are spoken

 Are not meant for mortal men.

 Give care that any door you open

 Closes firmly shut again."

I tried recalling in my mind

If, when I fled the silent waste,

I stopped to close the door behind

Or left it open in my haste?

Foolish thoughts! This was not real.

I’d let my dreaming brain devise

The silver door, the endless field,

And tattered wretch with coins for eyes.

III.

I set about some mundane tasks,

Refresh and dress and flag a ride.

“Which road, my friend?” the driver asks

As, sweating still, I climb inside.

“Simply drive, I care not where.”

“First, close the door!” The man rejoins,

And from his rear-view mirror stare

A pair of gleaming silver coins.

I shout and startle in surprise.

The driver turns, “Are you alright?”

Concern in clearly human eyes,

“Perhaps you need a quiet night?”

Returning home, I seek repose.

My fever, pulse, and thoughts all race

And any time my eyes are closed

I see that awful leering face.

IV.

I find I can no longer sleep.

Desperately, I burn the book.

The visions still do not retreat.

I see him everywhere I look.

Seasons leave me destitute-

Bereft of sleep, and funds, and shame.

And when I spy the eyeless brute,

He has the gall to call my name!

Something deep within me snaps.

I roar and charge the coin-eyed man.

He tries to run. Surprised, perhaps?

I reach him well before he can.

Beat the blaggard ‘til he’s bleeding!

 Beat his ugly, eyeless head!

  Beat him and ignore his pleading!

   Beat, although he’s clearly dead.

The sudden rage, as sudden, passes.

Clarity descends once more.

I see a friend - He’s wearing glasses,

Lying lifeless on the floor.

What abject wretch have I become?

I clutch his broken form and weep.

My shaking, sweating frame grows numb

and, finally, I fall asleep...

V.

...Sure enough, there stands the door.

It’s open, streaming argent light.

I drag my dream-self through once more

And once beyond, I shut it tight.

On hands and knees, I cross the field

But only vacant silence waits.

Where is the thing that I unsealed?

Where is the dreadful, leering face?

Then giggling, I realise

The reason that we haven’t met -

I pluck and pop my useless eyes.

- I’d simply not become him yet.

The change is somewhat liberating.

Still, I’m not yet fully free.

And so, I stand at crossroads, waiting…

…For the fool I used to be.

Full Disclosure

The gleaming silver saucers fly

formation in the inky sky.

They merge into a glowing eye

that blinks the message "Please stand by..."

The awe-struck sheep obey.

The eye transforms into a screen

of untuned static, then a scene

of eerie figures: gaunt and lean

with bulbous heads, all glowing green.

I touch my gun and pray.

A sudden awful screeching sound

then knocks us reeling to the ground.

Their leader wears a puzzled frown.

then tilts its head and looks around.

"Sorry!" says a voice.

"My fault! The Psychic P.A.’s gain

was set too high for human brains.

I'm sure that once the buzzing pain

subsides you’ll all be right as rain.

It wasn't done by choice."

I double-check that I'm not dead

then stagger to my feet. Instead

of running, shake my pounding head.

I don't believe a word they've said.

All of this is wrong.

Aliens don't make mistakes.

I know that every move they make

is part of an elaborate fake

that’s obvious to those awake.

...They've been here all along.

I felt the truth deep in my bones

before I learned from Alex Jones

that they can track us through our phones

and set their hunter-seeker drones

On those exposing lies.

My doctor still insists I’m ill:

“The Government's not out to kill

your kids.” She tries to test my will

but I already chose my pill:

The red one opens eyes!

"Where were we?" asks the Overlord.

"Ah yes, I'm streaming from aboard

our Mothership which heads on toward

galactic regions unexplored

and want to say: farewell!

As some among you surely know,

we came here quite some time ago

and tried to guide your species so

you wouldn't go extinct, although

quite frankly it's been hell."

This throws me just a little bit.

Did they really just admit

that they, in secret council, sit

above a state that's counterfeit

and sells our species out?

Well, I'm not falling for this show!

E.T. can't just appear and go:

"The New World Order says hello!"

There's clearly more to this and so

then what's all this about?

“We, Illuminati send

our deep regrets, that in the end

we can’t continue to extend

a hidden helping hand or spend

 more labour on your needs.”

The figure gives a weary sigh,

“Your species seems so keen to die

despite our efforts, which is why

we’ve made the call to say goodbye.”

“Don’t go!” the sheeple plead.

It sadly shakes its ovoid head.

“What would you have us do instead?

Hide away, and pull your threads

like puppets? Keep you safe and fed

and captive as our pets?

We don’t do that stuff. Now look around

and note the problems that abound.

You’ll see a single cause is found:

We cannot keep you safe and sound

when you’re the biggest threats!”'

...But all the people chanting now

are begging them to stay - somehow,

they’ve all been tricked to scrape and bow.

They’re shameless traitors! But I vow

that I’ll not kneel tonight!

The crowd around me’s begging when

I spy among them hidden Men

In Black disguised as CNN.

They’ll try to lock me down again,

but not without a fight!

“Please stop. It’s time we face the facts:

our only choice is making tracks.

We didn’t want to turn our backs-

You burned us out, you maniacs!

Illuminati, out.”

With that, the leader makes a sign

of peace. The signal goes offline.

The flying saucers briefly shine,

zip over the horizon line,

and suddenly... I doubt.

This can’t be right! This should be where

the Globalist Cabal declares

a war on folks like me who dare

to sound the freedom trumpet’s blare

and lead in the attack!

They’re not supposed to run away.

I’ve been waiting for the day

when I’m proved right and get to play

the hero. Then my kids would say,

“We’re sorry, Dad. Come back.”

Is it the case that I mistook

my role? Am I a fool that’s hooked

on fables sold to me by crooks?

A man beside me says, “You look

like you could use a drink.”

I badly wanted to belong

to something bigger and feel strong

and valued. Did I... all along...

Did I somehow get it wrong?

NO! That’s what I’m meant to think.