Dark Fantasy
Date Published: 08-31-2024
J.W. Hawkins’ “Tales of the Wythenwood” masterfully blends whimsy
with darkness, capturing the essence of dark fantasy and classic fairy tales
while infusing them with modern sensibilities. The collection is rich in
themes of nature, survival, morality, and the complex interplay between good
and evil. The author’s love for rhythmic and descriptive language
breathes life into the Wythenwood, making it a character in its own right.
Each story, while unique, contributes to a cohesive world where the
fantastical and the real intertwine seamlessly.
“Tales of the Wythenwood” is a testament to the power of
storytelling, reminding us of the beauty, terror, and wonder that lie just
beyond the veil of the ordinary world. Whether you’re drawn to tales of
cunning foxes, mysterious creatures, or the timeless struggle between light
and darkness, this collection offers a rich tapestry of narratives that will
captivate and enthrall readers.
Excerpt
The Taker of Faces (Sample from Tales of the Wythenwood)
1.
Tonight is the night, thought the Taker of Faces. She stood within the
moonlit forest looking out to a pool, eerie in its stillness. The Taker
inhaled deeply, as grace itself walked into the scene, tall and elegant,
powerful and strong yet with a step so light that she could imagine that its
hooves would not bend a blade of grass as it trod. As moonbeams stained all
they touched an otherworldly blue, she imagined them as fairies,
half-remembered from childhood tales, come to light the darkness.
Slowly, the stag dipped its noble head to lap water from the pond, tiny
ripples breaking its pristine surface. The Taker dug her fingernails into
the palms of her hands as the anticipation welled, so giddy did she feel
that the trickle of ochre that dripped from her hands to the floor went
unnoticed. Then, the stag, ever so slightly, moved its head. Elation filled
her, dizzying euphoria that tingled in her toes and heightened every sense,
for now, she truly saw it—beauty. For barely a moment, a single,
glorious moment the stag’s features were fully revealed beneath the
shimmering cobalt rays. Glistening magnificently, its antlers cast a long
and mesmerizing shadow. If there was such a thing as beauty in the world,
this was it. She ran her fingers slowly down the length of her face,
drinking in the sensation of the gnarled and mottled surface. And silently,
she vowed that that beauty would be hers.
But, like a burrowing insect, a grain of doubt crawled inside, niggling at
the dark recesses of her mind. Intrusive images flittered past
distractingly, a gray pelt illuminated in the darkness, yellow eyes shining
like flames untamed, a distorted reflection in the water’s mirrored
surface. There were sounds too, her rasping tongueless scream played over
and over as she relived pummeled the wolf’s tattered corpse with her
fists until the skin of her knuckles was bare and ragged. It had deceived
her—it was not the one, this time would be different.
Steeling herself, she took the rope from her shoulder, one end had already
been secured around the trunk of a tree and hung across its sturdiest bough,
before proceeding to lasso its looped end over the stag’s antlers.
Immediately it tried to bolt, rearing onto its hindlegs as the rope pulled
taut. The Taker found one corner of her crooked mouth, turning wryly upward
as she watched the creature thrash in wild desperation. The moment when she
could leave her body behind and be reborn in the form of something new felt
near, felt tangible—she could almost taste it with what remained of
her tongue. Dropping her guard, a short, sharp, mirthful bark escaped her
throat. Swinging around, the deer turned to face her, eyes wide, startled
and blazing with fury. Lowering its head, it charged full pelt towards the
Taker, rearing up once more as again it reached the end of its tether. With
faces inches apart the two stood with eyes interlocked, the stag roared
gutturally at its tormentor while the Taker bared her teeth in a dog-like
snarl, vehemently hissing all the while.
Slowly, without breaking her gaze she slipped one hand into the pocket of
her tunic. For a moment she could not locate the item she sought amidst the
folds of weatherbeaten leather. Staying calm, she felt a butterfly of
elation flutter within her stomach as she grasped a small wooden cylinder,
barely thicker than her smallest finger. Deftly, she slipped a second item
into the tube and brought it up to her lips and blew. The stag reeled from
the sudden sting, back and forth it swung its great head as it tried with
all it could muster to dislodge the dart that protruded from its neck.
Now the butterfly truly unfurled its wings within in her and she danced
upon the spot, snorting and giggling with childish jubilance as she did. The
peak of the mountain she had tried to scale so many times was so near. Over
and over the words jigged through her thoughts melodiously—this one is
the one, this one is the one.
The glee in her eyes seemed all the merrier as the moon’s rays of
incandescent silver glinted mischievously upon them. She knew this part
well, watching as the stag’s movements slowed to a mournful trudge.
The Taker sat down on the moist ground, licking the blood from her palms
like a wounded animal and waited.
She did not have to wait long before all the will in the world was no
longer enough to keep the stag’s eyes from closing. Grunting, she
flipped the beast to its back and with practiced efficiency trussed its legs
with the rope and tipped it sideways onto a crude sled, crafted from
branches and twigs knotted together with vine.
Her muscles protested as she heaved her laden sled—but her heart
sang. Like a caterpillar, she would soon be transformed, reborn into
something pure and beautiful. Glancing down at the mess of twisted
labyrinthine scarring that was her hand, she smiled, imagining it peel away
like the used husk of a chrysalis. Soon she would be what she was always
supposed to be, soon she would be elevated.
About the Author
J.W. Hawkins is a writer of Dark and Epic Fantasy, best known as the author
of Tales of the Wythenwood. He is noted for his florid and descriptive use
language and use of fantastical allegory that mirrors the empirical world.
He lives in the UK with his wife Michelle and two boys Graham and
Mark.
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