(Page 1 of 2) The Graves Of The Forsaken by Keiron TongeSUMMARY: A short story about the depth of love in a world inspired by a mixture of the modern day and the Victorian Yorkshire villages. Graves Of The Forsaken
The night clung to the movement of a thin frame as it leapt impossible distances across the roof tops of Victorian terraces. Crossing the gaps between rows of houses with barely a whisper. The rain caught the frame and simply slid from its surface. From a distance it seemed like some form of spectre or ghost floating in the rain, on closer inspection it was a man. A solemn look on his face he drifted through the air taking no notice of the lack of activity below him. He was plain enough. Wearing glasses with modern rectangular frames that the rain bounced from, as well as this he wore a long leather trench coat that was open to the elements revealing a band t-shirt that was well worn and a pair or dark grey jeans that were ripped at the knees and frayed where they had dragged along the floor. On his hands he wore long fingerless gloves and atop his head sat a magnificent gleaming bowler hat. His simple 80's style training shoes made no sound as he slowed his pace and walked along the roofs with his hands in his pockets and a simple look on his face. No faint smile, no frown but a lack of any expression whatsoever. He looked onwards with his hazel eyes and peered through the rain blotted glasses. He was unshaved but not old. A young man, and the rain disguised his tears.
He leaped to the pavement. It was an old Yorkshire village, nothing modern save the bizarre mixture of clothes the man was shod in. He crossed empty roads and slid through alleys now at street level. And seemed to know where he was heading. He paid no mind to the streets he was walking but knew where his feet were taking him. All the while no people passed by. And only the softness of the rainfall made any sound.
He reached a long winding road. Each side lined with houses. No lights shone in the window and no people walked the roads. It was a late afternoon, people should have been present. And the man paid no mind. The rain fell on his bowler hat as he passed under the trees that lined either side of the cobbled road.
As he passed through the corners he leaped back up into the sky only removing his hands to steady himself. He took one jump to lift over the houses and onto the roofs. One hand held the hat to his head and the other outstretched as though holding someone's hand.
As he crossed through the valleys of slates and chimneys he saw a lone raven caw as it crossed the darkening sky. And a smile parted his lips slightly to reveal pearly white teeth. Some vestige of emotion was present in a man who otherwise had no feeling.
As he vacated the sky for one last time he floated to the pavement and clicked down slightly. A short, sharp sound that echoed as though in a grand hall of marble. And he smiled again as he had reached his destination. A great wrought iron gate stood in front of him. It was thin and clearly Victorian. It hung between two great arches and above them the word "cemetery". He stepped into the graveyard among the high Celtic crosses and obelisks. The mausoleums of various stone, the high backed tombs and the simple wooden crosses covered in moss so that various names were obscured.
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