Tag Archives: keats

Nightgale Challenge Week Three: The Churchyard

19 Jan

January 19th – PROMPT To Die and become one with Nature

Keats – “Darkling I listen, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die;”(Ode To A Nightingale)

(For the  first two installments in this mini-series, see A Cure For Death and Dinnertime Conversation).


The Churchyard 

A few weeks pass, and Elisabeth doesn’t mention her musings on death. I even start to think that she may have lost interest in it, out of character though that would be. And then I find her in the churchyard.

There is a large tree there, opposite the patch of earth where they buried Old Man Johnson just three weeks ago, and she is seated under it. There is a notebook in her lap, but she isn’t writing in it, and she flips it shut as I approach.

“Hiding your secrets?” I ask, half-teasing, half-wistful, and receive nothing but a smile in response, as she strokes the soft leather of the cover.

“What are you doing here?” I try a different line of enquiry, unsure as to whether I actually want a response, but unable to stop myself from searching for one.

“Thinking about the bodies.” She replies softly. “They become a part of the ground, and plants grow up from the ground. The same plant on every grave. Isn’t that interesting?”

It is interesting, and, I notice as I look around the graveyard, absolutely true. The same plant on every grave. What are the chances of that?

Nightgale Challenge Week One: A Cure for Death?

5 Jan


Today is the first day of  Stevie McCoy‘s #Nightgale Challenge, a four week creative writing challenge based on immortality and Romanticism. Today’s prompt was this:

Through Hemlock

Keats: “That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim:”(Ode To A Nightingale)


A Cure for Death?

She is in the woods when I catch up to her, sitting cross-legged on the dusty ground, completely relaxed despite the scene that she has just caused. When she is in one of these moods she cares little about anything but her own disjointed thoughts.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, knowing already that the answer will be far from satisfactory but needing to ask regardless, desperate for even one small glimpse into the bizarre workings of her mind.

“Thinking.” She responds dreamily, her eyes fixed on some far off point in the distance, on something only she can see. “About death. It seems such a waste, doesn’t it? There must be some cure for it.”

“A cure…for death?” Even for her this is strange. Strange and even more unwarranted than usual.

“Yes.” She is impatient now, as she so often is when others fail to understand her. “Something right under our noses, no doubt. Probably a plant.” She pulls a leaf absently from the specimen beside her, twisting it between her slim fingers.

“Well, not that one!” I snap, impatient myself, tired of her inability to reside on the same planet as the rest of us. “That’s hemlock. It’s poisonous.”

“Oh?” She shrugs, unconcerned, and the leaf spirals to the ground. “No matter. Another one perhaps. There must be thousands of plants in here.”

And then she takes off again, a blur of dirty smock and unravelling pigtails as she disappears into the gloom. I sigh and sit on the ground in her place, picking up the discarded hemlock leaf. My sister, my wild, impulsive, untameable sister, may have a point. If there are plants in here which can kill, why should there not be some which grant eternal life?