Over the tears of the fallen.

"Over The Tears of the Fallen" is the opening book in the trilogy, which will be known by the collective name
"And The Sea Shall Give Up it's Dead".

                                                                                                                          I have changed bit's here and there but this is generally how it begins. 

The Dark moon.

It was peaceful, the logs crackling upon the fire in an open grate, the rain splattering the windows, Billy lifted his glass from the table that huddled up to the couch that he sat upon, taking another sip of the amber nectar that was his life now.  He had turned the television off an hour ago as there was nothing worth watching. He just sat enjoying his quiet world, appreciating the peace that solidarity can bring. He watched the fire burning, the flame slowly consuming the logs he had laid there earlier.  He looked at the candles set in sconces upon the wall, marveling at the light and warmth that they offered as it was cold outside.

He had been out for a cigarette, as he refused to smoke in the house; an hour or two ago and even stepping over the threshold had been a chore.  The old ill-fitting door had a curtain over it to help with the draft that the door happily allowed to enter, heavy tapestry, it coped with the wind that plagued his world.  He had donned a fleece before he pulled back the glorious burgundy curtain that lay at the end of a straight narrow hallway adorned with paintings of dancers and sailing ships, lined with shallow book cases, packed to the brim with paperbacks. He opened the door and set foot outside as the wind caught him blowing what little hair he had left around his slit eyed, closed mouth, face.


He pushed the door closed behind him, making sure that it was closed. He did not want this chill to enter his house even if it had already entered his being.  The door closed, he stood in the lea of the house where the wind only whipped and scalded rather than assaulting him.  It was difficult to light his cigarette, He stood, his back taking the worst of the blast as he tried to get his lighter to spark and give him the, stupid, joy of smoking.

These days there was little joy to be found in smoking, no joy really, even in fueling his habit. It was too cold, too windy, and the sleet was covering him even as he tried to hide from it. The lights that hung from short pieces of discarded rope, too frayed, too degraded, to be used again upon the lobster or crab traps that he laid out in the Kilbrannen sound every day, The lights were solar powered and hardly shone upon the beach that lay before him. There had been little or no sun in the last few days, In this gloom he could not see the creatures pulling themselves from the sea like the first lung fish grasping for air.  everything was dark only a few feet from his rickety veranda. 

The bloated bodies of the dead drew themselves painstakingly, exhausted from the ocean and crawled up over the beach, through the sea weed and wrack unseen from the house.Each crawled between the others and over each other all seeking the place they were due to meet and congregate.

He took a few draws from his cigarette, nipped it and looked for the handle that led to warmth and comfort.  The Imitation brass handle was easily found despite the foulness of the night and Billy used it stepping back into the world of light and warmth. He pulled the door shut behind him with a hollow bang and drew the curtain across, shutting out the night. He walked the narrow hall lined with paintings of dancers; ballerinas in pumps and tutus with exquisite grace. Flamenco dancers in elaborate costumes, reams of lace and beautiful dresses, set between originals of sailing ships, that Dutch painters had once relied upon for a living.He opened the door upon his living room enjoying the sudden and comfortable warmth that it released as he opened the sturdy old door that had it concealed, keeping in the warmth and out the cold.

He had buffed down that door a year or two ago, trying to make it look better as it was a huge timber monstrosity but it had been painted over so many times that in the process he had stopped, Thinking that he was stripping it of its grandeur, Its place in life. Anyway, he always thought; my house may not be a palace but it is not that bad; It is warm and dry. It is comfortable, perhaps, though had you sat upon his couch you may not have considered it so. The long narrow hall led to the living room, it had two bedrooms situated on the opposing sides of the house as well as a small bathroom and kitchen, all led off of it.

 We need not speak of the kitchen and bathroom as in one only cooking is done and in the other that which was once cooked passes. The living room was small but comfortable. Two chairs faced each other across the no man’s land where the fireplace and fire resided. A rug, that looked to be Moroccan in style lay between them covering the wooden floor. 

 The sofa sat directly across from the fire and it was there that most nights Billy slept despite the well-appointed bedroom down the hall.

Too much whiskey and not enough love had turned his habits towards introspection and that is where he lived. Billy lived in his own mind, in his own house and he lived with the memories of a love that had been taken from him by his best friend. He lived meekly, quietly and introspectively but he lived.

It was on that couch he slumped this night, as he had on many nights before this, falling asleep or perhaps passing out due to the volume of alcohol he had imbibed, whilst staring into the fire contemplating his woes.  Eventually he slumped from his hunched posture down onto the couch itself, pulling a cushion towards him to use as a pillow, pulling the throw from the floor to cover himself.  He pulled his feet onto the couch and there dressed and only partially covered he lost all notice of what was going around him.

Billy did not even stir as the cellar entrance creaked open and horrors crept silently into his house.


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