I'm at uni at the moment on a break between lectures and tutes so I'll have to make the intro to this one short and sweet. (I am also very hungry, so rather keen to get some of what passes for food here as soon as possible).
For your perusal today I have the second part of 'The Sudden Shore', which is the first half of an attempt to give Geoffrey some background, and to explain why it was that he was aboard the harlequin (not entirely happy with the second half yet, but will have that up soonish/once I am and then will get onto how the ship sunk and what happens from there, etc. etc. etc.)
Dialogue/play attempt will be the next thing up (basic idea is cemented, still working on the actual writing/fleshing it out).
Also, I have made an attempt to deviate with style a little with this one - feels sort of similar to 'The Bookshop' (except moving slightly quicker with a little less detail - might want to change that) which is good in a way, as I was rather happy with that story, but also makes me want to do something rather whacky just for fun in one of my next posts (The poetry unit I'm doing at the moment is throwing up a few ideas when it comes to thinking outside the box and it's only second week).
Anyway thoughts/advice and comments are as usual welcome - read, enjoy and no there are no pirates yet - but they will show themselves at some point and hopefully you'll be glad you waited.
Story:
The Sudden Shore (II)
He had first set eyes on the Harlequin several weeks, when the little ship had pulled into the port city which had until then been his home. His father had gone aboard before him and had bought and paid for Geoffrey’s passage. “I want you to see the world” he had said, before leaving for home, Geoffrey had instead heard “I don’t want you here anymore.”
To Geoffrey this had come as a sort of relief. For a long time life on his father’s estate had seemed like a prison, and there was nothing left that particularly interested him when he managed to pull off an escape. He wanted something new.
As the only son of a mother who had died in childbirth and a father who had shut himself away from the world not much long after he had come to crave adventure from an early age simply so that he could escape the sombre halls of the family estate. As soon as he was able he took to slipping away from his father’s world of rules and formality to wander the world outside the manor gates. He explored nearby forests, where his young mind populated the populated the leafy green hollows and gullies with both imaginary friends and dreamt up monsters in equal measure. He came to crave his time there more than anything else; in his mind he made a home amongst the trees and he was content.
Eventually however his father emerged from his self imposed exile and took on the opinion that it was ‘high time that the boy grow out of his childish games’ and so the outside world was promptly barred from him as scores of stuffy old men descended upon the estate with the apparent purpose of, as his father barked ‘giving the boy a decent education’.
Not long after that woodcutters were said to be seen amongst his favoured hideaways, the land of which his father had appropriated to support his new hobby: winemaking. Although Geoffrey never did see his father doing much of the ‘making’, he did seem to become rather keen on the ‘tasting’ and as such invited many guests around, as often as was possible, so that they too could share in his new discovery.
As his father’s parties slowly grew louder and more rapacious Geoffrey swore to himself that no matter what happened he would never end up like his father. Would never dwell. Would never drink.
He managed to keep the promise up until the very threshold of adulthood.
By the that time he had lost most of the fear he had once held for his father’s authority, and in turn his father had lost most of his ability to do much more than stumble between the many rooms of the house and roar groggily at the few remaining servants. So Geoffrey set out to explore the new freedoms of adulthood.
He came to frequent the all the taverns and inns in the nearby village. Taking to cards and women and drink with the most reckless abandon. Very quickly he came to be known less for his family’s wealth, but the way in which he insisted on squandering it. He gambled, he binged. He fought and whored. To the very exhaustion of what the monthly stipend that he had convinced his father to grant him when he was in one of his more infrequent ‘jolly’ episodes of intoxication.
It was about the same time that he started to borrow that his father made an attempt on his own life. Although unsuccessful it had the unfortunate consequence (as far Geoffrey was concerned) of still bringing his father to god, albeit in a spiritual sense rather than a physical one. This in turn led to a slow slog back into sobriety and the real world that he had been so keen to avoid for so many years.
Very quickly the relationship between father and son returned to how it had been before. His father, became convinced that it was his duty to save his son, just as he too had been saved. This was something that Geoffrey did not take to with much enthusiasm as his father’s view of one ‘being saved’ required attending the local church as often and seemingly as early as was humanly possible. To Geoffrey this was generally a far from enjoyable experience, as he had made it a point over the last few years to spend the majority of each morning sleeping of the effects of the night before. Yet seeing it as the route of least resistance (with his father’s hands being once again securely on his purse strings, and the dispensation of its contents relying so much on his father’s approval) he made the effort to attend, feigning as much interest as he thought was required and offering as little lip service as he thought that he could get away with.
Seemingly this was enough to fool his father, who, it appeared, had never been happier and announced, for the first time that Geoffrey could remember, that he was actually proud of his previously wayward son.
For sometime things remained as such. In the mornings Geoffrey would accompany his father to morning mass and nod and smile and tell anyone who asked how he had managed to dispense of his wicked ways through a life of quite prayer and contemplation, then in the evenings, once his father had retired for the evening to do just that, Geoffrey would slip away to the nearest tavern so that he could rediscover his ‘wicked ways’ anew.
Sometime later, on a particularly crisp morning where Geoffrey was nursing (and attempting to hide) a particularly bad hangover, a rumour began to circle amongst the local congregation that a newly made Earl had just this morning purchased a large parcel of land just on the other side of the village to his Father’s own and would be beginning the construction of a grand manor house as soon as he was able. He was said to be extremely wealthy and highly favoured in court, his family well know and well bred, and of more interest to Geoffrey he was supposed to have a daughter, who as chance had it was just shy of his own age and, if rumours were to be believed, was stunningly beautiful and just a little bit rebellious.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The Sudden Shore
As I said the other day, I am now taking requests from my somewhat limited readership - semi-regardless of what they might be or how ridiculous they may be (i.e In the past I've been asked several times to write a story about ducks and although I have yet to write anything doesn't mean that I never will).
The Sudden Shore is a response to my first request - for pirates and swashbuckling - although as you read it you will quickly notice that, so far, it involves neither.
Unfortunately/Fortunately for what was probably not an entirely serious request I seem to have managed to get myself rather involved in writing this story and it has ended up being far longer than I had originally planned (hence the current lack of pirates/ending and the time taken between updates).
Still I figured that I should at least put something up, just to show that I am actually working on something and so I can get some feedback on the basic idea.
So here it is: the beginning of
The Sudden Shore
The body floated face down in the water, slowly drifting between the various pieces debris and detritus that littered the surrounding ocean. Every so often it would disappear beneath the surface as it was swallowed by a particularly strong swell, only for it to be spat out somewhere distant many minutes later, with only a slowly fading ribbon of red marking where it had been. As the hours passed the stain it left in the water grew steadily smaller and smaller. The body cooled and grew stiff as rigor inexorably began to set in. Birds started to circle overhead, their cries loudly announcing their find to their fellows.
By the time the body was found there was very little left to point to who the owner had been, but to the man who found him this didn’t matter. He knew who it was, had seen them only a few days before: when the body walked and talked and still went by a name.
Geoffrey Andale, poked gingerly at the body of Arthur Roe with the end of an oar, held tightly in one hand as the held a salt stained handkerchief up to his nose with the other. The body bobbed and for a moment he almost expected it to roll over and wake up. Instead it just was just pushed away for a brief moment before the current caught it again and it began to bump up against the side of his small row-boat, skin wrinkled and made pale by the sun and sea.
Geoffrey wanted to retch, but there was nothing left in his stomach to bring up, so instead he licked cracked lips and lay down, trying his best to ignore the noise the body made each time it came into contact with the boat. Tried to ignore how thirsty he was.
Up until an hour ago, when he had first seen the body, he had been seriously considering drinking some of the water that surrounded him. It had been a stupid idea, a suicidal idea, he knew that, but it had been so long since he had had a drink that he had begun to slowly convince himself that, surely, only a little bit wouldn’t hurt any more than drinking nothing. Surely just enough to wet his lips wouldn’t do any harm.
Now, however, the very idea made his stomach churn. As far as he was concerned it was as if the body had now polluted the entire ocean, to the point where he flinched back every time the spray flicked across his face. Drinking sea water was now the last thing on his mind.
Time was slow to trickle by. Lying in the bottom of the boat meant that the sun became the only constant in the sky and it seemed to have climbed to its zenith and then to have stopped, where it now beat down upon his brow like some molten hammer. He draped the handkerchief across his eyes and tried to rest, tried to ignore the hollow 'thunk' that Roe’s body made each time it brushed up against the boat. Sleep or unconsciousness (he had started to lose all distinction between the two) was slow to come and when it he was plagued by dreams and disjointed memories.
Roe’s face was the first to come to him this time and then the man was in the boat with him, whole and grinning, as if he had somehow forgotten that he was supposed to be dead. He began to talk but it all passed by Geoffrey without leaving any meaning behind, who instead sat there transfixed by the deep cut that lay just beneath the other man’s ribs and the seeping redness that had begun to colour what was left of Roe’s shirt.
Roe followed his gaze and the grin slipped from his face. “You did this Geoffrey” he said with an accusing hiss, his voice suddenly clear. “You did this! Left us all to die. Left us to rot... You coward.” He tried to pull away but Roe reached out with pale hands to grab the front of his shirt.
He tried to scream, tried wriggle from the dead man’s cold grip but instead he was pulled down. Down past the boat and into the inky black of the water. Quickly it filled his mouth, filled his lungs. He screamed a silent scream as Roe pulled him away from safety of the row boat – back in the direction he had come, back to the broken wreck that, only days before, had been The Harlequin...
Alright, so that's it for the moment - this is only a fraction of what I've done so far, so it's a little short, but it seemed to be the most natural place to cut it off as the next bit of the story deals with Geoffrey’s past - from childhood - to how he ended up on the Harlequin and then in the boat (I'm not finished with that thread yet so seemed silly to put it up as well).
Anyway - there will be more up in the next few days - seeing as I'm writing it right now.
Starting to feel good about this.
Comments appreciated.
The Sudden Shore is a response to my first request - for pirates and swashbuckling - although as you read it you will quickly notice that, so far, it involves neither.
Unfortunately/Fortunately for what was probably not an entirely serious request I seem to have managed to get myself rather involved in writing this story and it has ended up being far longer than I had originally planned (hence the current lack of pirates/ending and the time taken between updates).
Still I figured that I should at least put something up, just to show that I am actually working on something and so I can get some feedback on the basic idea.
So here it is: the beginning of
The Sudden Shore
The body floated face down in the water, slowly drifting between the various pieces debris and detritus that littered the surrounding ocean. Every so often it would disappear beneath the surface as it was swallowed by a particularly strong swell, only for it to be spat out somewhere distant many minutes later, with only a slowly fading ribbon of red marking where it had been. As the hours passed the stain it left in the water grew steadily smaller and smaller. The body cooled and grew stiff as rigor inexorably began to set in. Birds started to circle overhead, their cries loudly announcing their find to their fellows.
By the time the body was found there was very little left to point to who the owner had been, but to the man who found him this didn’t matter. He knew who it was, had seen them only a few days before: when the body walked and talked and still went by a name.
Geoffrey Andale, poked gingerly at the body of Arthur Roe with the end of an oar, held tightly in one hand as the held a salt stained handkerchief up to his nose with the other. The body bobbed and for a moment he almost expected it to roll over and wake up. Instead it just was just pushed away for a brief moment before the current caught it again and it began to bump up against the side of his small row-boat, skin wrinkled and made pale by the sun and sea.
Geoffrey wanted to retch, but there was nothing left in his stomach to bring up, so instead he licked cracked lips and lay down, trying his best to ignore the noise the body made each time it came into contact with the boat. Tried to ignore how thirsty he was.
Up until an hour ago, when he had first seen the body, he had been seriously considering drinking some of the water that surrounded him. It had been a stupid idea, a suicidal idea, he knew that, but it had been so long since he had had a drink that he had begun to slowly convince himself that, surely, only a little bit wouldn’t hurt any more than drinking nothing. Surely just enough to wet his lips wouldn’t do any harm.
Now, however, the very idea made his stomach churn. As far as he was concerned it was as if the body had now polluted the entire ocean, to the point where he flinched back every time the spray flicked across his face. Drinking sea water was now the last thing on his mind.
Time was slow to trickle by. Lying in the bottom of the boat meant that the sun became the only constant in the sky and it seemed to have climbed to its zenith and then to have stopped, where it now beat down upon his brow like some molten hammer. He draped the handkerchief across his eyes and tried to rest, tried to ignore the hollow 'thunk' that Roe’s body made each time it brushed up against the boat. Sleep or unconsciousness (he had started to lose all distinction between the two) was slow to come and when it he was plagued by dreams and disjointed memories.
Roe’s face was the first to come to him this time and then the man was in the boat with him, whole and grinning, as if he had somehow forgotten that he was supposed to be dead. He began to talk but it all passed by Geoffrey without leaving any meaning behind, who instead sat there transfixed by the deep cut that lay just beneath the other man’s ribs and the seeping redness that had begun to colour what was left of Roe’s shirt.
Roe followed his gaze and the grin slipped from his face. “You did this Geoffrey” he said with an accusing hiss, his voice suddenly clear. “You did this! Left us all to die. Left us to rot... You coward.” He tried to pull away but Roe reached out with pale hands to grab the front of his shirt.
He tried to scream, tried wriggle from the dead man’s cold grip but instead he was pulled down. Down past the boat and into the inky black of the water. Quickly it filled his mouth, filled his lungs. He screamed a silent scream as Roe pulled him away from safety of the row boat – back in the direction he had come, back to the broken wreck that, only days before, had been The Harlequin...
Alright, so that's it for the moment - this is only a fraction of what I've done so far, so it's a little short, but it seemed to be the most natural place to cut it off as the next bit of the story deals with Geoffrey’s past - from childhood - to how he ended up on the Harlequin and then in the boat (I'm not finished with that thread yet so seemed silly to put it up as well).
Anyway - there will be more up in the next few days - seeing as I'm writing it right now.
Starting to feel good about this.
Comments appreciated.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Home Away From Home
Alright, as promised this post will actually have a story in at and will hopefully (actually no, screw hopefully, it WILL) be the beginning of me updating with a little more regularity.
Anyway, following with my desire to categorise my posts and the stories within them (and to update from each category somewhat equally) the following story is an indirect continuation of Exile/Cryo, in that it contains the same character (Bryce) even though it is from the perspective of another character (Erin) and is supposed to be set well before the other portions of the story (and will probably therefore be confusing).
So at the moment you should probably take them just as experiments, as although i have the story (or more precisely the three specific arcs of the story) jotted out I still think I'm a bit away from writing full novels - plus of course if i did and then put it up it would be asking a bit much for people to read the whole thing. So for the moment it will just be excerpts and potentially various versions of the same exploits as i toy with editing etc.
Anyway without further mucking about, here is the next excerpt:
She had always liked his house. As far away from anyone and anything as a place could be, it sat small and alone on a low hill, looking out over an endless sea of shifting grass. Whenever she stayed there, which was becoming less and less these days she would spend hours just standing at the windows and watch. She would watch as the clouds drifted by, forming patterns and shapes as they came together and then broke apart again. Watch as the sea of grass broke upon the stony shore of the hill. He always joked that she was being unsociable, that she only ever came to visit for the view. In return she would turn and with a mock sincerity say something like: “Bry, of course I came to see you,” then she would give him a wicked grin “After all, you’re the only one with a key.” He would smile and then would try to convince her to tell him about what she had been doing since they saw each other last. She never told him and he never asked more than once, though she was sure that he was smart enough to have a vague idea about what she gotten herself involved in. He had know her long enough.
Tonight however had been different: it had been months since they had seen each other last and when she arrived he had been quiet and subdued. Slowly she had tried to pry him from his shell, with old jokes and shared stories from when they were children, but it hadn’t done any good. When he had finally asked the question, it was done half-heartedly, as if he already knew the answer. The very idea of this terrified her. If he somehow knew what was going on, if he even had an inkling of what was about to happen... She didn’t want to think about it.
Usually they would have stayed up late chatting and reminiscing. She would tell him the little that she could. Small personal things. If the holes in her stories bothered him he had never let on, and was seemingly more than happy to fill the void with local stories about people he knew and she had known before she had moved away. Mutual friends she no longer kept in touch with. How they had gotten married, or had children, or as he would often joke, something more stupid.
Tonight there had been no such stories, at least no new ones and he had left his meal half finished. His glass of wine half full. Complaining that he wasn’t feeling well he had gone off to bed early, leaving her alone with the windows and the view. For a long time she simply gazed out at the grass, watched it shift in the wind and then darken as the sun began to slip below the horizon. Further to the north she could just make out storm clouds starting to gather in the dying light and slowly she began to admit to herself that she was afraid.
For a long time she just stood there, wondering if it would be worth it. Wondering if she would be able to go through with it. There were a thousand things that could go wrong and not just for her, but for everybody she knew. Everybody she cared about.
A flash of lightning in the distance finally jolted her back to reality and for a moment she couldn't help but stand there and watch as the storm came to life before her eyes. Soon the clouds broke and rivulets of water began to make their way insistantly down the glass. She tried to push her fears aside, thinking to herself that seeing as she had come this far already she may as well see things through to the end. She gave a sad sigh, flicked off the lights and then went off in search of Bryce with the hope that sleep would bring her some sort of peace.
It took her a while to figure out what it was that had woken her. Bry’s arm was draped around her waist, but she had moved it there when she had come to bed and he was still sleeping as soundly as when she had found him. She brushed the hair out of his eyes and grinned at the expression of contentment on his face. Unlike her he had always been a good sleeper. He had always boasted that he never had nightmares and she had spent enough time watching him sleep when she could not that she was inclined to believe him. He always looked happy when he slept, regardless of how he had feeling when he had been awake. She smiled before slipping off to sleep.
She came awake hours later, cold and shivering, the blanket having slipped away in the night. Off in the corner, amongst the messy bundle of her clothes a green light had begun to flicker. She groaned, trying to ignore it; Bryce muttered something and shifted in his sleep. The light grew brighter. More insistent; a low whine started in her ear.
Slowly, so as not to wake him, she dragged herself out of bed, pocketed the terminal and then shut herself in the bathroom. The light clicked on with a pop as she closed the door.
“What!?”
“Damn it Erin, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Leaving like that. Pieter has completely lost his shit.”
An angry heat prickled up her spine.
“Oh come on Anne don’t give me that crap.” She could feel her voice trembling as she tried to keep it at something close to a whisper. “It took us four weeks to get here. Four weeks shut up in the rust-bucket that Pieter calls a ship. No contact with the outside. No sun. No sky.” She sighed. “Once we put down and he told us that we we're all supposed to stay on board I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just had to get away. To get out.”
On the other end she could hear Anne sigh in return. “Okay, okay Erin. You’ve made your point.” Erin got a flash of the other woman grinning “and your probably right”, she paused, “but, Pieter is in charge of this one, not me and we’ve still got a lot to do, so it’s probably best if you do come back as soon as you can.
The transmission crackled as it changed channels and Anne took on a more business like tone “Okay that would be my cue to go. Think we just got checked. I’ll see you in a bit” Her voice was beginning to fade, “and a word of advice. Probably best not to tell Pieter where you’ve been. You know how paranoid he is about people like Bryce, about people with that sort of family...” With that the com light flickered off.
It took her a while to gather herself after she again slipped the pencil thin communicator into her pocket. She wanted nothing more than to slip off back to bed and pretend that the conversation had never happened. That she could sleep safely with the knowledge that no one important knew where she was. The problem was that Anne was right. She would have to go back.
She slid the door open as quietly as possible, slipped through and moved to collect her things from the chair in the corner. Bryce’s dark eyes glinted in the darkness, silently watching her. “ So you’ve got to go huh?.” She felt her face flush and she looked away. “Yeah I do” she said, before quickly “I didn’t want to wake you”
He reached out to touch her arm. She stopped packing her bag and looked towards him. He was sitting up with a sad smile on his face. “I know.” He let his hand drop. “No chance you know when you’ll be back this way?” She tried to smile back at him. “Sorry Bry.” He sighed, but as usual seemed to accept it. “Just take care of yourself.” She nodded and then turned to go.
By the time she got outside the storm had nearly passed, leaving only a light wind and some stray drizzle in its wake. Huddled in the dark and wet the house looked different than how it had when she had arrived; smaller somehow and less dignified. In an sickeningly detached way she wondered if she would ever see the house, or Bryce again. She brushed wet hair from her eyes and thumbed the keypad on her silently waiting pod. It sprung to life beneath her hand, the small portal on the side sliding open with a hiss. She climbed aboard and felt the drive begin to cycle. The ground lurched away. Only time would tell.
Anyway, following with my desire to categorise my posts and the stories within them (and to update from each category somewhat equally) the following story is an indirect continuation of Exile/Cryo, in that it contains the same character (Bryce) even though it is from the perspective of another character (Erin) and is supposed to be set well before the other portions of the story (and will probably therefore be confusing).
So at the moment you should probably take them just as experiments, as although i have the story (or more precisely the three specific arcs of the story) jotted out I still think I'm a bit away from writing full novels - plus of course if i did and then put it up it would be asking a bit much for people to read the whole thing. So for the moment it will just be excerpts and potentially various versions of the same exploits as i toy with editing etc.
Anyway without further mucking about, here is the next excerpt:
She had always liked his house. As far away from anyone and anything as a place could be, it sat small and alone on a low hill, looking out over an endless sea of shifting grass. Whenever she stayed there, which was becoming less and less these days she would spend hours just standing at the windows and watch. She would watch as the clouds drifted by, forming patterns and shapes as they came together and then broke apart again. Watch as the sea of grass broke upon the stony shore of the hill. He always joked that she was being unsociable, that she only ever came to visit for the view. In return she would turn and with a mock sincerity say something like: “Bry, of course I came to see you,” then she would give him a wicked grin “After all, you’re the only one with a key.” He would smile and then would try to convince her to tell him about what she had been doing since they saw each other last. She never told him and he never asked more than once, though she was sure that he was smart enough to have a vague idea about what she gotten herself involved in. He had know her long enough.
Tonight however had been different: it had been months since they had seen each other last and when she arrived he had been quiet and subdued. Slowly she had tried to pry him from his shell, with old jokes and shared stories from when they were children, but it hadn’t done any good. When he had finally asked the question, it was done half-heartedly, as if he already knew the answer. The very idea of this terrified her. If he somehow knew what was going on, if he even had an inkling of what was about to happen... She didn’t want to think about it.
Usually they would have stayed up late chatting and reminiscing. She would tell him the little that she could. Small personal things. If the holes in her stories bothered him he had never let on, and was seemingly more than happy to fill the void with local stories about people he knew and she had known before she had moved away. Mutual friends she no longer kept in touch with. How they had gotten married, or had children, or as he would often joke, something more stupid.
Tonight there had been no such stories, at least no new ones and he had left his meal half finished. His glass of wine half full. Complaining that he wasn’t feeling well he had gone off to bed early, leaving her alone with the windows and the view. For a long time she simply gazed out at the grass, watched it shift in the wind and then darken as the sun began to slip below the horizon. Further to the north she could just make out storm clouds starting to gather in the dying light and slowly she began to admit to herself that she was afraid.
For a long time she just stood there, wondering if it would be worth it. Wondering if she would be able to go through with it. There were a thousand things that could go wrong and not just for her, but for everybody she knew. Everybody she cared about.
A flash of lightning in the distance finally jolted her back to reality and for a moment she couldn't help but stand there and watch as the storm came to life before her eyes. Soon the clouds broke and rivulets of water began to make their way insistantly down the glass. She tried to push her fears aside, thinking to herself that seeing as she had come this far already she may as well see things through to the end. She gave a sad sigh, flicked off the lights and then went off in search of Bryce with the hope that sleep would bring her some sort of peace.
It took her a while to figure out what it was that had woken her. Bry’s arm was draped around her waist, but she had moved it there when she had come to bed and he was still sleeping as soundly as when she had found him. She brushed the hair out of his eyes and grinned at the expression of contentment on his face. Unlike her he had always been a good sleeper. He had always boasted that he never had nightmares and she had spent enough time watching him sleep when she could not that she was inclined to believe him. He always looked happy when he slept, regardless of how he had feeling when he had been awake. She smiled before slipping off to sleep.
She came awake hours later, cold and shivering, the blanket having slipped away in the night. Off in the corner, amongst the messy bundle of her clothes a green light had begun to flicker. She groaned, trying to ignore it; Bryce muttered something and shifted in his sleep. The light grew brighter. More insistent; a low whine started in her ear.
Slowly, so as not to wake him, she dragged herself out of bed, pocketed the terminal and then shut herself in the bathroom. The light clicked on with a pop as she closed the door.
“What!?”
“Damn it Erin, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Leaving like that. Pieter has completely lost his shit.”
An angry heat prickled up her spine.
“Oh come on Anne don’t give me that crap.” She could feel her voice trembling as she tried to keep it at something close to a whisper. “It took us four weeks to get here. Four weeks shut up in the rust-bucket that Pieter calls a ship. No contact with the outside. No sun. No sky.” She sighed. “Once we put down and he told us that we we're all supposed to stay on board I snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I just had to get away. To get out.”
On the other end she could hear Anne sigh in return. “Okay, okay Erin. You’ve made your point.” Erin got a flash of the other woman grinning “and your probably right”, she paused, “but, Pieter is in charge of this one, not me and we’ve still got a lot to do, so it’s probably best if you do come back as soon as you can.
The transmission crackled as it changed channels and Anne took on a more business like tone “Okay that would be my cue to go. Think we just got checked. I’ll see you in a bit” Her voice was beginning to fade, “and a word of advice. Probably best not to tell Pieter where you’ve been. You know how paranoid he is about people like Bryce, about people with that sort of family...” With that the com light flickered off.
It took her a while to gather herself after she again slipped the pencil thin communicator into her pocket. She wanted nothing more than to slip off back to bed and pretend that the conversation had never happened. That she could sleep safely with the knowledge that no one important knew where she was. The problem was that Anne was right. She would have to go back.
She slid the door open as quietly as possible, slipped through and moved to collect her things from the chair in the corner. Bryce’s dark eyes glinted in the darkness, silently watching her. “ So you’ve got to go huh?.” She felt her face flush and she looked away. “Yeah I do” she said, before quickly “I didn’t want to wake you”
He reached out to touch her arm. She stopped packing her bag and looked towards him. He was sitting up with a sad smile on his face. “I know.” He let his hand drop. “No chance you know when you’ll be back this way?” She tried to smile back at him. “Sorry Bry.” He sighed, but as usual seemed to accept it. “Just take care of yourself.” She nodded and then turned to go.
By the time she got outside the storm had nearly passed, leaving only a light wind and some stray drizzle in its wake. Huddled in the dark and wet the house looked different than how it had when she had arrived; smaller somehow and less dignified. In an sickeningly detached way she wondered if she would ever see the house, or Bryce again. She brushed wet hair from her eyes and thumbed the keypad on her silently waiting pod. It sprung to life beneath her hand, the small portal on the side sliding open with a hiss. She climbed aboard and felt the drive begin to cycle. The ground lurched away. Only time would tell.
A New World Next Door
I'm afraid to say that over last few months I've found that my motivation to write has been somewhat diminished, even though new ideas have still been coming thick and fast.
This seemingly has contributed to my lack of inspiration - I will start on something, it will progress for a while and then I will think of something else, something that in the moment seems somehow better and so the first story or idea will end up being put aside (aka the giant folder on my laptop where all my writing stuff ends up - many of the files within contain single sentences and half formed ideas)with the intention that it be picked up at a later date. Unfortunately most of the time this doesn't happen.
Of course it is all well and good acknowledging these issues, but it doesn't really do anything to address the problem. I do however have a number of ideas that just might.
Firstly it goes without saying that if this really what I want to do I need to stop bitching and just write; and to write and work at something long enough for me to actually get something out of it (i.e. at the moment I am far from happy with my ability to write dialogue - so I’m going to try to insert much more into stories - criticism and advice are incredibly welcome).
Secondly I think I not only need to start updating with some sort regularity (duh) I also think that I should start updating into different categories -
i.e.
-continued works - like the chunks of exile/Cryo that have featured in my last few posts-
- past works - old stories, stuff already written etc.
- random stuff, half finished, ideas etc.
- requests (I think this is important - please ask for stuff if you’re so inclined - it doesn't have to be serious, it doesn't have to be anything, just ask)
- folder work - stuff that I have put aside - might mix this with requests by putting up screenshots of the folder, or descriptions of a few at a time or something).
-----
Finally, yes I acknowledge that I have just listed almost as many categories for posts as I have published posts so far and that the request thing may not work considering that my readership sits at 2/3, but frankly I don't want this blog to die and I've gotten sick of my own excuses and sitting around doing uninteresting things, so I figured I needed to write something, even if that something was self chastisement (even though I generally hate that sort of stuff in blogs).
Anyways, that's the end of my rant and of this post (I started it because I couldn't sleep and now not sleeping has caught up with me).
There will be a story up tomorrow*
*(It's almost finished - but if I delay putting up this post until it's done, I may reconsider the contents of the post).
M
This seemingly has contributed to my lack of inspiration - I will start on something, it will progress for a while and then I will think of something else, something that in the moment seems somehow better and so the first story or idea will end up being put aside (aka the giant folder on my laptop where all my writing stuff ends up - many of the files within contain single sentences and half formed ideas)with the intention that it be picked up at a later date. Unfortunately most of the time this doesn't happen.
Of course it is all well and good acknowledging these issues, but it doesn't really do anything to address the problem. I do however have a number of ideas that just might.
Firstly it goes without saying that if this really what I want to do I need to stop bitching and just write; and to write and work at something long enough for me to actually get something out of it (i.e. at the moment I am far from happy with my ability to write dialogue - so I’m going to try to insert much more into stories - criticism and advice are incredibly welcome).
Secondly I think I not only need to start updating with some sort regularity (duh) I also think that I should start updating into different categories -
i.e.
-continued works - like the chunks of exile/Cryo that have featured in my last few posts-
- past works - old stories, stuff already written etc.
- random stuff, half finished, ideas etc.
- requests (I think this is important - please ask for stuff if you’re so inclined - it doesn't have to be serious, it doesn't have to be anything, just ask)
- folder work - stuff that I have put aside - might mix this with requests by putting up screenshots of the folder, or descriptions of a few at a time or something).
-----
Finally, yes I acknowledge that I have just listed almost as many categories for posts as I have published posts so far and that the request thing may not work considering that my readership sits at 2/3, but frankly I don't want this blog to die and I've gotten sick of my own excuses and sitting around doing uninteresting things, so I figured I needed to write something, even if that something was self chastisement (even though I generally hate that sort of stuff in blogs).
Anyways, that's the end of my rant and of this post (I started it because I couldn't sleep and now not sleeping has caught up with me).
There will be a story up tomorrow*
*(It's almost finished - but if I delay putting up this post until it's done, I may reconsider the contents of the post).
M
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Blog Returns: Return of the Blog.
First things first.
-Yes, I haven't posted anything in forever.
-Yes, that is sad and entirely my bad.
but
-No, that does not mean you can have your money back.
Okay now that that's out of the way I thought I'd jump straight back in with another story, which is for the most part a direct continuation of the one started in my last post (though I have changed the perspective of the narrative to third person as opposed to first).
Again like last time this segment is another excerpt which will be obvious once you read it and get frustrated by the abrupt ending (it is also rather shorter than the last post).
Don't worry though I have written more than I'm putting up now (several different continuations in fact - which is the problem) but at the moment I am having issues with tone and pacing, as (out of impatience) I keep on having characters making friends rather to quickly and for not good enough reasons - something which seems very out of place in what I want to be a reasonably dark narrative.
Once I figure this out more will be put up (though I do have some other ideas I want to test out as well) that will either directly connect to this excerpt or expand upon the universe in which it is set - which for the most part is fully formed in my head/in various notebooks.
Anywho, story:
Exile: excerpt II
The world comes back with a bang.
Everything bucks and heaves. Vibration pins Bryce to his seat. He opens his mouth, gasping nothing, trying to breathe. A dull weight presses down upon his chest and then an instant later another kicks him in the back. Everything is darkness and movement, he feels as if he is standing on his own chest. Somewhere someone whimpers. For an instant he wonders if it was him and then a wave of pressure crashes down upon his head, and abolishes any memory of conscious thought. Fingers of steel wrap themselves around this skull and begin to squeeze. His stomach heaves and a stray voice in his head begins to moan: Which way is up!? Which way is up!??
There is another bang and everything rolls to one side before becoming still. His ears pop and in an instant the pressure is gone; there is the feeling of weightless movement, he feels weightless. He takes an experimental breath and finding only the tension of a harness across his chest he gulps down as much air as possible. All around him he can hear others panting for breath as well. One coughs and finds a voice that shakes with a slowly receding panic, “Is it over?”. Below their feet an engine rumbles to life in answer, filling the darkness with a high-pitched whine. There is a noise of impact, or ignition and the weight the hits him again, forcing the blood to rush to his head and the harness to cut into his shoulders. More people seem to awake now and for a moment their panicked cries can be heard over the rumble of the breaking motor, then the rising roar engulfs their voices and there is only a wall of noise.
As suddenly as it started the engine quits and then instant later the shock of impact rattles through the seat and into his bones and then there is silence and stillness. He sighs in exhaustion, trying teach his muscles how to relax and unwind again. People mutter in the darkness, some sobbing, some praying, some angry. Eventually lights flicker on, as if in afterthought, and for the first time in what seems like forever he can see other people's faces.
There seem to be about twenty people arranged in two inwardly facing rows, in seats bolted to the walls, each one separated by heavy metal braces that reach up to the low ceiling. Everyone is a mess, their faces red and stained with sweat or tears or both. Some are still unconscious, or have fainted in the drop. Others grip harness, or the hands off others found darkness. All blink at the new light and at each other. All look rather ordinary and tired.
From across the row a man grins at him, “not so bad eh? I thought they we’re going to strap us down and force us to watch one of those rehabilitation videos.” There is something about the way he talks, something naggingly familiar that Bryce can’t quite put his finger on. The man’s voice takes on a tone of mock seriousness and he casually rubs at the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, “You have a responsibility to society young man. To do right by your home colony and by Earth and you have done wrong!”. The man begins to chuckle, and Bryce can’t help but join him. Then all at once something clicks in his head and he feels homesick and terrified at the same time. A dozen questions fill his mind but he pushes them away and manages a smile. It had been a long time since he last ran into someone from home.
The reverie is quickly broken by the sound of metal on metal. Something heavy moves above them and there is a jolt of vibration as it falls into place. A crack of blinding white light appears near the ceiling off to his right and Bryce struggles to cover his eyes while the people around him groan, groans which quickly turn to swearing and cries of surprise as an icy wind claws its way into the compartment and cuts through the thin cotton of their clothes, uniform except for the individual barcodes stamped onto the front.
By the time he can stand the light the hatch has fully extended to ground outside and everybody on board has begun to shiver uncontrollably. Outside the sky is hidden behind a curtain of cold and swirling white and the ground is all stones and snow. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” One of the others, the tall slender man has managed to pull himself free from his harness and is standing near the ramp. “They’ve gone and dropped us in a fucking blizzard.” He then reals off a number of insults seemingly aimed at anyone and everyone he think of before collapsing back into his seat, his arms wrapped around his chest and his breath a small cloud of white.
For a moment everyone else just looks at him, as if expecting him to do something else, but instead he just sits there shivering and glaring at his snow drenched slippers.
The man with the familar accent chuckles and mutters something about the whole thing being ‘anti-climatic’ before an older woman manages to push herself to the front of the group that has huddled together at the far end of the lander. She moves towards the man with wet shoes, “You’d better get those off, if you don’t want to loose half your toes.” The man continues to look blankly at the ground. “Why does it matter? We’ll all freeze to death soon enough.” The woman exhales impatienly and runs a hand through her graying hair to brush away the flecks of snow that have settled there. “No you idiot. We are not going to die. What would be the point of that?” The man looks at her in confusion, “Huh? The point of what?” She looks round at everybody else, everybody else looks at her. “Of putting us here. Of going to all the effort of dragging us from all the corners of the colonies, sticking us in cryo, and then going to the effort of dumping us on this chunk of ice.” She shrugs. “I mean if they wanted us dead they would have done it long time ago and they wouldn’t have had any reason to bring us all here together to do it.” The man looks up at her, “well I guess that does make sense” she lowers her voice a bit, “well of course it does and if you had spent less time moping and more time looking around then you would have realised that we’re not the only cargo that hunk of junk was packing.” To emphasise her point she balled her hand into a fist and gave the metal panel above the nearest seat a light thump. It popped open with a hiss. “See: Earth, the Colonies, they don’t want us dead. Just out of the way.”
-Yes, I haven't posted anything in forever.
-Yes, that is sad and entirely my bad.
but
-No, that does not mean you can have your money back.
Okay now that that's out of the way I thought I'd jump straight back in with another story, which is for the most part a direct continuation of the one started in my last post (though I have changed the perspective of the narrative to third person as opposed to first).
Again like last time this segment is another excerpt which will be obvious once you read it and get frustrated by the abrupt ending (it is also rather shorter than the last post).
Don't worry though I have written more than I'm putting up now (several different continuations in fact - which is the problem) but at the moment I am having issues with tone and pacing, as (out of impatience) I keep on having characters making friends rather to quickly and for not good enough reasons - something which seems very out of place in what I want to be a reasonably dark narrative.
Once I figure this out more will be put up (though I do have some other ideas I want to test out as well) that will either directly connect to this excerpt or expand upon the universe in which it is set - which for the most part is fully formed in my head/in various notebooks.
Anywho, story:
Exile: excerpt II
The world comes back with a bang.
Everything bucks and heaves. Vibration pins Bryce to his seat. He opens his mouth, gasping nothing, trying to breathe. A dull weight presses down upon his chest and then an instant later another kicks him in the back. Everything is darkness and movement, he feels as if he is standing on his own chest. Somewhere someone whimpers. For an instant he wonders if it was him and then a wave of pressure crashes down upon his head, and abolishes any memory of conscious thought. Fingers of steel wrap themselves around this skull and begin to squeeze. His stomach heaves and a stray voice in his head begins to moan: Which way is up!? Which way is up!??
There is another bang and everything rolls to one side before becoming still. His ears pop and in an instant the pressure is gone; there is the feeling of weightless movement, he feels weightless. He takes an experimental breath and finding only the tension of a harness across his chest he gulps down as much air as possible. All around him he can hear others panting for breath as well. One coughs and finds a voice that shakes with a slowly receding panic, “Is it over?”. Below their feet an engine rumbles to life in answer, filling the darkness with a high-pitched whine. There is a noise of impact, or ignition and the weight the hits him again, forcing the blood to rush to his head and the harness to cut into his shoulders. More people seem to awake now and for a moment their panicked cries can be heard over the rumble of the breaking motor, then the rising roar engulfs their voices and there is only a wall of noise.
As suddenly as it started the engine quits and then instant later the shock of impact rattles through the seat and into his bones and then there is silence and stillness. He sighs in exhaustion, trying teach his muscles how to relax and unwind again. People mutter in the darkness, some sobbing, some praying, some angry. Eventually lights flicker on, as if in afterthought, and for the first time in what seems like forever he can see other people's faces.
There seem to be about twenty people arranged in two inwardly facing rows, in seats bolted to the walls, each one separated by heavy metal braces that reach up to the low ceiling. Everyone is a mess, their faces red and stained with sweat or tears or both. Some are still unconscious, or have fainted in the drop. Others grip harness, or the hands off others found darkness. All blink at the new light and at each other. All look rather ordinary and tired.
From across the row a man grins at him, “not so bad eh? I thought they we’re going to strap us down and force us to watch one of those rehabilitation videos.” There is something about the way he talks, something naggingly familiar that Bryce can’t quite put his finger on. The man’s voice takes on a tone of mock seriousness and he casually rubs at the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, “You have a responsibility to society young man. To do right by your home colony and by Earth and you have done wrong!”. The man begins to chuckle, and Bryce can’t help but join him. Then all at once something clicks in his head and he feels homesick and terrified at the same time. A dozen questions fill his mind but he pushes them away and manages a smile. It had been a long time since he last ran into someone from home.
The reverie is quickly broken by the sound of metal on metal. Something heavy moves above them and there is a jolt of vibration as it falls into place. A crack of blinding white light appears near the ceiling off to his right and Bryce struggles to cover his eyes while the people around him groan, groans which quickly turn to swearing and cries of surprise as an icy wind claws its way into the compartment and cuts through the thin cotton of their clothes, uniform except for the individual barcodes stamped onto the front.
By the time he can stand the light the hatch has fully extended to ground outside and everybody on board has begun to shiver uncontrollably. Outside the sky is hidden behind a curtain of cold and swirling white and the ground is all stones and snow. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” One of the others, the tall slender man has managed to pull himself free from his harness and is standing near the ramp. “They’ve gone and dropped us in a fucking blizzard.” He then reals off a number of insults seemingly aimed at anyone and everyone he think of before collapsing back into his seat, his arms wrapped around his chest and his breath a small cloud of white.
For a moment everyone else just looks at him, as if expecting him to do something else, but instead he just sits there shivering and glaring at his snow drenched slippers.
The man with the familar accent chuckles and mutters something about the whole thing being ‘anti-climatic’ before an older woman manages to push herself to the front of the group that has huddled together at the far end of the lander. She moves towards the man with wet shoes, “You’d better get those off, if you don’t want to loose half your toes.” The man continues to look blankly at the ground. “Why does it matter? We’ll all freeze to death soon enough.” The woman exhales impatienly and runs a hand through her graying hair to brush away the flecks of snow that have settled there. “No you idiot. We are not going to die. What would be the point of that?” The man looks at her in confusion, “Huh? The point of what?” She looks round at everybody else, everybody else looks at her. “Of putting us here. Of going to all the effort of dragging us from all the corners of the colonies, sticking us in cryo, and then going to the effort of dumping us on this chunk of ice.” She shrugs. “I mean if they wanted us dead they would have done it long time ago and they wouldn’t have had any reason to bring us all here together to do it.” The man looks up at her, “well I guess that does make sense” she lowers her voice a bit, “well of course it does and if you had spent less time moping and more time looking around then you would have realised that we’re not the only cargo that hunk of junk was packing.” To emphasise her point she balled her hand into a fist and gave the metal panel above the nearest seat a light thump. It popped open with a hiss. “See: Earth, the Colonies, they don’t want us dead. Just out of the way.”
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Excerpt
It's been a little while so I thought I'd update with something that I've been working on for a long while now (something that will *hopefully* **hopefully** turn into an actual novel at some point).
Unfortunately it slipped to the wayside for a while (sort of hit a wall), but in the last few weeks I've managed to get back into writing it and other related stories. I still think that the beginning has some problems (infodump again) so I'm not going to put that up just yet but some of the rest of it seems generally readable - so that's what you're going to get. An excerpt.
One last note, back in typical form, this is very definitely science fiction (soft - don't think I have the ability/background to write hard sci-fi) so reader beware. (Or don't, even if it's crap it might give you the idea that maybe you should read some and I have a rather long list of good novels that I can suggest).
Anyway, without further nonsense here is what (as I have yet to name the story itself) for the moment will simply be called Exile.
Exile
I wake early. I’m still in the cell and someone is unlocking the door. It slides open with a hiss. Presently a guard and two med-techs enter. I feign sleep. I’ve never really liked the faux-doctors that seem to gravitate towards the prison system and I always try to avoid having conversations with them. But that’s not what they had in mind. One of them, aided by the guard holds me down, while the other, moves in with the needle. I don’t struggle. No much point really. There is a quick jab in my right arm, then another sharper one in my lower neck. The second one lingers, eventually fading enough so that I can feel something cold pressed against my skin. I taste metal. Bio-monitor. Definitely Cryo then. I can feel them pulling me onto a stretcher, darkness takes me.
I’ve never liked Cryo, let’s just make that clear from the start. Never have, never will. Practice should have been abandoned as soon as the we broke the light barrier.
Sure I can understand the necessity aboard something like a prison ship, but that does not mean that I have to like it – and no, before you ask, my reasons aren’t the typical ones that people seem to bandy about all the time.
Sure before my first time I had the usual worries. Worries about the failure rates of the early days. Worries about the couple of sleeper ships that drifted into stars or things they shouldn’t have simply because someone somewhere made a mistake. Worries about the ships that simply disappeared. But like most of the rest I convinced myself that those were all issues that had been fixed for decade. That I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t even think about the actual freezing process, about how it might feel. That changed very quickly after the first time.
While your frozen you’re not supposed to feel anything as your supposed to be, exactly that, frozen. Not asleep, not unconscious. There is no thinking, no moving. You’re just frozen. Every cell in your body, every cell in your brain shuts down and remains shut down until they thaw you out at the other end. Or that’s how it’s supposed to be.
For me it’s different: I swear to god that each time I go under I dream. And they’re not your run of the mill dreams either. They’re vivid. I see people and places I haven’t seen in years. Old friends come and go, talking to me as if no time has passed at all. I can’t talk back, or even move, but that doesn’t seem to bother them. They just continue on their merry way, quickly replaced by some other familiar face. And this whole time, as if that wasn’t enough, I can feel the cold. The chill is shocking, almost unbearable. There’s no escaping it either, it’s in you, in every fibre of your body and there is nothing you can do to make it go away.
It’s much the same on the way to Fecund. I try to ignore as much as my half conscious mind can ignore anything, but like always it never works. After a while a single face keeps coming back to haunt me, and that hurts more than the cold. I try and run, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m stuck in my own head. Quite literally.
As far as I can tell this isn’t something that happens to other people. They go under. They wake up. No dreams. No visitations. Nothing. Simple. The only thing I can think of that makes me different is the implant. Makes sense in a weird sort of way. It’s part of me: it’s hooked into my brain but it’s not biological, so it reacts differently to the cold and the chemicals. While the rest of my brain is frozen, it still ticks away, and I think part of my consciousness bleeds into it. Not enough to be totally aware, but enough to remember. I hate the thing sometimes. Wish it had never been put in. Not that I had all that choice when it was. Not that there’s anyway now to take it out.
They bring us out in orbit. I come awake groggy and sick. Cold hands brush over me. I wretch as one tube is pulled from my throat, running on gag-reflex. I barely feel the one they yank from my arm. The chill left over from Cryo is everything. My bones feel like they are made of sloshed ice. The light is blinding and I want to vomit. But there’s nothing to bring up. Someone tries to get me to drink water, but their gone by the time I register that I’m actually thirsty. Stupidly I struggle, try to lean forward. For my trouble something cold brushes against my ribs and I collapses back onto the bed, writhing from the sudden electrical discharge. For a while all can do is lie there and pant, barely registering the alarm ringing in my head. Sometime later the pain subsides and my vision begins to clear. I’m no longer on board a ship. The ceiling is too clean - not enough grime or cables - and it’s much too big. Craning my neck I see dozens of other pods surrounding mine, most of them closed. Here and there are med techs, decked out in that sickly green that they seems to like so much. Every so often they crack another pod, bringing the occupant out of cold storage and checking to see if he’s still alive. A single tech stands back from the others, shock lance in hand, just in case a convict gets to lively.
It takes them a while to wake everyone and by then some of the other prisoners have managed to find their voices. A few shout insults, or call out for others they think might be nearby. To me it’s all a blur. A few stupid ones shout threats at the techs, and are swiftly shocked into submission. The guy next to me is one of those. It takes him a while to stop thrashing around and afterwards he just lies there, looking blankly in my direction. I try to catch his attention but he just looks through me. Face a mask of despair. I look away.
After what seems like an eternity the tech begin to finish and move away. Somewhere up above a red light begins to flash. One by one the pods begin to slide closed again, setting a few prisoners off again as claustrophobia kicks in. I lose the yelling behind the thick Perspex screen and my own nervousness is quickly washed away by the warm air pumping into my pod. It feels too good for me to be scared. There’s no smell to give away the knock out gas, but my implant chimes in with a hazard warning just the same. A wave of exhaustion washes over me as text scrolls in front of my vision, showing what exactly it is that I’m breathing. Fat lot of help to a man tied down. I find myself laughing at the repetition. The constant shift between awareness and oblivion, totally beyond my control. The text distorts and swims as my concentration dies and I slowly slip into unconsciousness.
Unfortunately it slipped to the wayside for a while (sort of hit a wall), but in the last few weeks I've managed to get back into writing it and other related stories. I still think that the beginning has some problems (infodump again) so I'm not going to put that up just yet but some of the rest of it seems generally readable - so that's what you're going to get. An excerpt.
One last note, back in typical form, this is very definitely science fiction (soft - don't think I have the ability/background to write hard sci-fi) so reader beware. (Or don't, even if it's crap it might give you the idea that maybe you should read some and I have a rather long list of good novels that I can suggest).
Anyway, without further nonsense here is what (as I have yet to name the story itself) for the moment will simply be called Exile.
Exile
I wake early. I’m still in the cell and someone is unlocking the door. It slides open with a hiss. Presently a guard and two med-techs enter. I feign sleep. I’ve never really liked the faux-doctors that seem to gravitate towards the prison system and I always try to avoid having conversations with them. But that’s not what they had in mind. One of them, aided by the guard holds me down, while the other, moves in with the needle. I don’t struggle. No much point really. There is a quick jab in my right arm, then another sharper one in my lower neck. The second one lingers, eventually fading enough so that I can feel something cold pressed against my skin. I taste metal. Bio-monitor. Definitely Cryo then. I can feel them pulling me onto a stretcher, darkness takes me.
I’ve never liked Cryo, let’s just make that clear from the start. Never have, never will. Practice should have been abandoned as soon as the we broke the light barrier.
Sure I can understand the necessity aboard something like a prison ship, but that does not mean that I have to like it – and no, before you ask, my reasons aren’t the typical ones that people seem to bandy about all the time.
Sure before my first time I had the usual worries. Worries about the failure rates of the early days. Worries about the couple of sleeper ships that drifted into stars or things they shouldn’t have simply because someone somewhere made a mistake. Worries about the ships that simply disappeared. But like most of the rest I convinced myself that those were all issues that had been fixed for decade. That I had nothing to worry about. I didn’t even think about the actual freezing process, about how it might feel. That changed very quickly after the first time.
While your frozen you’re not supposed to feel anything as your supposed to be, exactly that, frozen. Not asleep, not unconscious. There is no thinking, no moving. You’re just frozen. Every cell in your body, every cell in your brain shuts down and remains shut down until they thaw you out at the other end. Or that’s how it’s supposed to be.
For me it’s different: I swear to god that each time I go under I dream. And they’re not your run of the mill dreams either. They’re vivid. I see people and places I haven’t seen in years. Old friends come and go, talking to me as if no time has passed at all. I can’t talk back, or even move, but that doesn’t seem to bother them. They just continue on their merry way, quickly replaced by some other familiar face. And this whole time, as if that wasn’t enough, I can feel the cold. The chill is shocking, almost unbearable. There’s no escaping it either, it’s in you, in every fibre of your body and there is nothing you can do to make it go away.
It’s much the same on the way to Fecund. I try to ignore as much as my half conscious mind can ignore anything, but like always it never works. After a while a single face keeps coming back to haunt me, and that hurts more than the cold. I try and run, but there’s nowhere to go. I’m stuck in my own head. Quite literally.
As far as I can tell this isn’t something that happens to other people. They go under. They wake up. No dreams. No visitations. Nothing. Simple. The only thing I can think of that makes me different is the implant. Makes sense in a weird sort of way. It’s part of me: it’s hooked into my brain but it’s not biological, so it reacts differently to the cold and the chemicals. While the rest of my brain is frozen, it still ticks away, and I think part of my consciousness bleeds into it. Not enough to be totally aware, but enough to remember. I hate the thing sometimes. Wish it had never been put in. Not that I had all that choice when it was. Not that there’s anyway now to take it out.
They bring us out in orbit. I come awake groggy and sick. Cold hands brush over me. I wretch as one tube is pulled from my throat, running on gag-reflex. I barely feel the one they yank from my arm. The chill left over from Cryo is everything. My bones feel like they are made of sloshed ice. The light is blinding and I want to vomit. But there’s nothing to bring up. Someone tries to get me to drink water, but their gone by the time I register that I’m actually thirsty. Stupidly I struggle, try to lean forward. For my trouble something cold brushes against my ribs and I collapses back onto the bed, writhing from the sudden electrical discharge. For a while all can do is lie there and pant, barely registering the alarm ringing in my head. Sometime later the pain subsides and my vision begins to clear. I’m no longer on board a ship. The ceiling is too clean - not enough grime or cables - and it’s much too big. Craning my neck I see dozens of other pods surrounding mine, most of them closed. Here and there are med techs, decked out in that sickly green that they seems to like so much. Every so often they crack another pod, bringing the occupant out of cold storage and checking to see if he’s still alive. A single tech stands back from the others, shock lance in hand, just in case a convict gets to lively.
It takes them a while to wake everyone and by then some of the other prisoners have managed to find their voices. A few shout insults, or call out for others they think might be nearby. To me it’s all a blur. A few stupid ones shout threats at the techs, and are swiftly shocked into submission. The guy next to me is one of those. It takes him a while to stop thrashing around and afterwards he just lies there, looking blankly in my direction. I try to catch his attention but he just looks through me. Face a mask of despair. I look away.
After what seems like an eternity the tech begin to finish and move away. Somewhere up above a red light begins to flash. One by one the pods begin to slide closed again, setting a few prisoners off again as claustrophobia kicks in. I lose the yelling behind the thick Perspex screen and my own nervousness is quickly washed away by the warm air pumping into my pod. It feels too good for me to be scared. There’s no smell to give away the knock out gas, but my implant chimes in with a hazard warning just the same. A wave of exhaustion washes over me as text scrolls in front of my vision, showing what exactly it is that I’m breathing. Fat lot of help to a man tied down. I find myself laughing at the repetition. The constant shift between awareness and oblivion, totally beyond my control. The text distorts and swims as my concentration dies and I slowly slip into unconsciousness.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Genre stories
Dear everyone (this is a potentially singular form of address), I've just finished uni for the year so I thought that now would be as good a time as any to update my reader/s with new tales of cowering heroes, dashing villains and other various examples of mashed genre and mutilated plot.
Hurrah!
In all seriousness, it occurred to me the other day that I had been neglecting the blog and that I should do something new to make up for my absence. Something unlike the stuff that I’ve done before. Something based on genres that I have never written on before.
So here are two new stories:
The first is a redo of a story that I wrote about a year ago after reading 'The Overcoat' by Nikolai Gogol entitled 'The Bookshop' and is a pretty straight forward attempt at literary realism (i.e. Gogol's 'The Overcoat' just with less fantastical stuff at the end).
The Bookshop
It was a certain day in the month of August that a young man by the name of Sergei Kozlovitch arrived for the first time in the city of Moscow and instantly decided that he did not like it.
Now Sergei’s disdain for the city stemmed not from an arrogance born of wealth (as indeed he carried most of his possessions with him in a rather pathetic looking suitcase held together with twine), but from the place of his birth. Sergei had been raised in Petersburg, and to him the fine stone construction of his home made Moscow look like a haphazard collection of wooden kindling.
Sergei would have preferred not to have left home at all, but when news had arrived a week previously that his mother’s brother, Andrei Borislav, had grown ill (and it seemed was soon to die), Sergei had been left with little choice. While he had never had any real affection for his uncle, who Sergei remembered from his visits to Petersburg as rather self-important (always having a little too much to say and lot too much to drink) it would have been considered terribly bad form if someone from the family did not come and pay their respects.
After all, his entire uncle had reached greater heights than Sergei and his mother ever would, having been a tutor to the children of one of the great noble houses before his retirement.
Sergei’s mother, a humble washer-woman, who had grown in weight over the past few years had been in no condition to make the journey and so had fussed and fretted from the moment the message arrived about how the arrival of at least one member of the family would be expected.
Of course these shrill statements had always been accompanied by not so subtle glances at Sergei, who (with his father away in the war) was the only immediate family she had available to her.
So it was that he found himself, days later, at the end of one of the city’s narrow streets, standing in front of the Borislav residence, almost in a stupor, staring at the muck that was clinging to his boots and trying to blink away the sting that the cold brought to his eyes.
Presently he realised that there were other people gathered outside the squat little wooden house, people Sergei had to presume were either friends of his uncles’ or fellow well wishers. They certainly did not appear to be family, being much too tall and thin to be related to his uncle who he remembered to be stocky, red nosed and boisterous. All three turned as Sergei approached; their eyes’ seeming to flicker with a vague recognition, though Sergei was unable to place any of their faces.
Regardless of whom they were the strangers had all seemed to glare at him with barely veiled hostility as he had approached and greeted them, looks which soon developed into angry muttering as Sergei was forced to push past so that he could enter the front door. Inside Sergei shed his coat and his confusion and the greeting he had received outside was instantly replaced by fear as he took his first breath.
There was a stale smell in the air, so thick that he was sure that if he stayed to long it would cut through his clothing and permanently sink into his skin. It was the smell of a dead man. The fact that he had not arrived in time to say goodbye to his uncle bothered him less than the feeling of uncleanness that washed over him.
Sighing he realised that he would still be expected to pay respects to the body and to his aunt, and so made his way up the stairs until he reached what he presumed was the master bedroom and knocked furtively at the door.
A small balding man in a smart coat and hat soon opened the door and looked Sergei up and down with a dispassionate stare “Yes. Yes. I am the doctor” he said extending a claw like hand for Sergei to shake, “who are you boy?” Sergei introduced himself just as he saw a figure behind the doctor leaving the room by another door which closed with a loud slam.
Returning his gaze to the doctor Sergei soon gathered that he had indeed arrived too late, and that his uncle’s condition had yesterday taken a sudden turn for worse leading to his death sometime during the night. All of which, the doctor reminded him, was a “terrible business” before clarifying that of course his aunt was thankful for Sergei’s trip, but was still in no state to receive visitors.
As if to punctuate the doctors last sentence, a great clatter arose somewhere down the hall which was quickly joined by a tremendously loud shrieking. “She’s been on like that for hours now” he muttered after a pause, before gesturing for Sergei to enter the room, “I guess you’ll want to see him before you leave.”
It struck Sergei that for all the calamity of his aunt; it had slipped his mind that his now dead uncle was most likely only a few feet away. The Doctor looked directly at Sergei for a moment before closing the door and said “If it’s not too much trouble young Sergei, could you meet me outside once your done. There is something we should discuss.” The door was then shut before he could even nod in response.
Paying his respects to his uncle was not a particularly pleasant experience. For his part, the old man just lay there, but Sergei could not help but squirm. Instead of feeling grief or sympathy he was filled with revulsion, something only tempered by the comforting thought that it was his uncle, not him, who was now lying cold and stiff in the narrow bed.
As this thought filled Sergei with a gnawing guilt he stayed only as long as seemed appropriate, before silently slipping away and joining the doctor outside in the cold. The air bit at him as he left the house, and the Doctor, who now introduced himself as a Dr. Nicholas Tarasov, offered him a drink from a flask which Sergei was more than happy to accept. “Now young Sergei, as you are no doubt aware, you were one of your uncles’ only remaining male relatives” Sergei nodded. “So you stand to inherit a portion of what he had left.”
This was not something that Sergei had considered, and so thinking of his empty purse, this new prospect caused his heart to leap, if only momentarily.
As if reading Sergei’s thoughts the doctor cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m afraid your share will not be what you expected. Most of the money your uncle had remaining will go to his wife and her family, who you no doubt met on the way in, while the remainder will pay for the treatment he underwent before his death”.
Sergei winced. “You my lad will instead inherit the last of your uncle’s property, except for this house of course”.
Strangely it would take a few minutes of probing before Sergei could get the doctor to admit just what the last of this property was and so in the end Dr. Tarasov simply looked at him before handing him the vodka again and said “well boy, it’s a bookshop”.
A bookshop.
Sergei, flask still in hand, watched the doctor depart and was sure that some horrendous joke had just been played on him. He knew little about books, an even less about how they should be sold. But, he sighed, as he gathered his meagre possessions, it was more than he had had an hour ago and anyhow people would begin to talk if he refused his inheritance simply because he disliked it.
It was this thought that remained with him until, after finding lodging for the night and sending a message to his mother (the cost of which ate up what little funds he had remaining and forced him to forgo a proper dinner), he found himself in one of the poorest areas of the city facing the small dilapidated building that the doctor had left him directions to.
It was a crooked little place, with the most solid part appearing to be the door. At least Sergei knew that he would get something back if it ever fell down, remembering the doctors statement that his uncle, having great affection for the shop, had made sure it was properly insured.
The key barely seemed to fit in the lock, and upon turning it Sergei was convinced it would snap off in his hand. Yet eventually he got the door open unable to remove the key again steeped inside and was greeted by the interior of a dirty little shop which seemed to have more cobwebs than books. Sergei stepped inside, confused.
If this was a book shop, where were all the books?
Counting them, there only seemed to be a few dozen of the things scattered amongst the shelves. There was nothing there that was worth anything. What good was a book shop without books Sergei thought? In frustration he began to pull the few books that there were off the shelves and throw them across the room. The act was strangely satisfying and he would have continued if it were not for the heavy metallic clunk the third made as it came into contact with the floor.
Gingerly Sergei picked it up from where it had come to rest and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He cracked open the cover and was greeted by the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
Jewellery fit for a prince.
Gold studded with diamonds and rubies, silver inlayed with pearl and half a dozen things he could not even name. All he knew was that they were worth more than he had ever thought he would see in his lifetime. Swiftly he ripped the other books off the shelves. At least three others had something inside.
The last however was different. Instead of only containing jewellery, there was also a note, which fluttered to the floor unnoticed as Sergei whooped and crowded, dancing around the room, praising his uncle he cunning nature of his uncle who he presumed had pilfered the jewels during his time as a tutor (even when drunk he had always had deft fingers).
Sergei, as if in a trance, spent the entire day examining and re examining his inheritance. So enraptured in playing with the jewels was Sergei that he did not notice the sun finally go down. Nor did he notice the door being closed from the outside, or the grinding click as the key was turned, locking him in.
He was so taken in fact by his new found wealth that it would take the sound of breaking glass (as a bottle exploded through the window, spilling liquid fire all over the room) to shake him from reverie.
By then it was much too late. Sergei would claw at the door as the wooden walls around him belched fire and smoke but he would not escape.
Sadly if he had not been so intent on studying the jewels might have caught sight of the little piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. If he had been quick enough he may even have had a chance to read it before both he and it turned to ash and learn of his uncle’s satisfaction that, if Sergei were reading this, he had ensured the continued existence of his shop and managed to hide the existence of the jewels from his wife’s family, who he stated were generally a jealous and conniving bunch.
The second, A Deadly Curiosity was supposed to be at the time of writing (and I guess still is) a re-interpretation of Gothic Fiction that aims to invert some of the genres typical conventions. Reading it again now I'm not entirely sure that I was successful (it is certainly macabre) but I figure I should put it up anyway.
A Deadly Curiosity
The first time I did I did it out a sense of curiosity.
So often had I looked at people passing by and wondered: how easy would it be? How much would it take? Surely not all that much? Just a squeeze or a knock in the right place surely... People can be fragile things after all...
I began to wonder. To wonder if I should try it for myself. Just to see.
Just to test.
Oh I certainly had my share of doubts. Of course I did. I wondered on my own abilities. On whether or not I would be successful. Would I tense up at the wrong moment? Would I re-discover fear or whatever passes for human morality these days. Would my hand slip? My breathing betray me? Would I make a mistake at some crucial moment and become a victim myself?
Such thoughts plagued me for longer than I care to admit, but in the end my curiosity, my obsession grew to be more than I could bear.
I decided that I would do it because I had to and once I this revelation was made my doubts were much reduced.
In preparation I abandoned my regular social (after all none of them would understand my motivations and it would be unlikely that they would still desire my company once the deed was done) and began to plan the when and the where in the most exacting detail possible – I did want to get this right after all.
Fate however, it seems, had other ideas and upon a night of particular bad weather (before I was able to bring my own plans to their ultimate fruition) I was presented with an opportunity so perfect that I would have been foolish to ignore it: Someone came to me.
He arrived upon my doorstep, rain drenched and shivering in the midnight cold. Through chattering teeth he made reference to some sort of car trouble (my memory on his exact words is now rather vague as I was, understandably excited at the time) and asked whether or not I could be persuaded to lend him the use of my telephone.
I, of course, ushered him in as quickly as possible (the plans racing through my head said nothing against the use of good manners) and placed him in front of the fire to dry, asserting that he must warm himself properly and partake in some tea before using the phone or he would catch chill (I did my best to put forward a motherly concern for his well being).
He, having no suspicions to my true motives, was more than happy to accept my loosely applied conditions and upon seating himself before the warmth of the fire attempt to engage me in jovial conversation. Very quickly he dismissed the ill-fortune of breaking down in such bad weather, instead claiming, with a sly smile, that considered himself to be quite lucky to have stumbled upon the home of such a friendly and hospitable woman, one who was more than happy to offer assistance in his time of need. With what he must have thought of as an expert subtlety he then asked after my husband, expressing concern that, if he were to arrive, he may not be overly pleased to find some unknown man sitting in his house and warming himself before his fire.
At this I laughed in an attempt to feign some form of nervous embarrassment (a timely tilting of the head and a blush greatly added to the illusion) before stating, somewhat shyly, that I did not in fact have a husband for him to offend and that I was very much alone in my little house upon the hill. He of course responded with a mock sincerity, stating that he had in no way meant act in anyway untoward and that as he was a gentleman, I had nothing at all to fear from him his presence.
Deftly I smiled at him, assuring him that I believed all that he had said, before exclaiming that I had forgotten to put the kettle on the stove and that he was welcome to move the chair in which he sat closer to the fire while I was in the kitchen preparing the hot drink I had earlier promised him (in truth I could feel the moment nearing and felt that I had to leave so he would not become aware of my excitement).
To ease his mind (and indeed my own) I did indeed prepare for him a cup of tea and then quickly composed myself in the mirror in the hall before returning to him drink in hand, apologising quite demurely for not remembering to ask him what his preference might be. He chuckled over my words, stating quite simply that he was more than happy with anything as long as it was not laced with poison. I froze at that. My heart suddenly beating a loud staccato in my ears. Should it be now? Or should I wait? Does he know? He began to laugh nervously and I stifled a sigh of relief with a nervous smile – obviously he had realised that his joke (and I now saw that it had been a joke and that I should wait) had not been received in the manner in which he had expected and he was trying deflect attention away from his blunder.
As a way of changing topic he turned to cosy nature of the room mumbling something about how he had always wanted to live in a place just like it. For my part I ignored him, instead trying to control the thrill that had begun to race up and down my spine.. The whole room seemed to close in around us. My mouth was dry. My hands sweaty. I marvelled that the young man could be so completely oblivious to my intentions.
Lost in his own voice he failed to hear the light scraping of the fire poker as I removed it from its place by the fire. Failed to notice as I raised it above my head. He asked me how I had come live all the way out here by myself to which I delivered a vague response through gritted teeth.
The man began to turn just as the heavy iron of the poker lashed out (the word ‘pardon’ no doubt forming upon his lips) and so the blow was a glancing one, loosely connecting just above the man’s ear. Still the crunching noise was a reassuring one and his eyes did indeed glaze over (as they so often do in the stories) as he collapsed (completely ungracefully I might add) to lie in a tangled heap at my feet, giving out little more by way of complaint than a short gurgling sigh.
As I listened to his breathing slow, I marvelled at the ease with which I had satisfied my earlier curiosity and how ill-founded my previous doubts had been. I had not hesitated. I had not been afraid (at least not of the deed itself). I stood waiting for a moment, almost expecting the whole thing to be ruined by the arrival of some misplaced sense of guilt. Nothing. I felt normal, though not as completely satisfied as I had first imagined that I would be. Instead there was this new gnawing of curiosity, stronger than it had been before. I began to wonder:
How much harder would two be than one? Surely not that much...
In my opinion both a little clunky (yes my paragraphing is still abysmal) and in need of editing*, but it still feels good to get them out there and to keep the blog updated.
*Should hopefully get to that over the next few days and weeks (uni is done and I have heaps of free time)
Let me know what you think in the comments (lurkers welcome!).
Thinking of doing more genre stuff for the next post if anyone has some recommendations (thinking something lighter).
M
Hurrah!
In all seriousness, it occurred to me the other day that I had been neglecting the blog and that I should do something new to make up for my absence. Something unlike the stuff that I’ve done before. Something based on genres that I have never written on before.
So here are two new stories:
The first is a redo of a story that I wrote about a year ago after reading 'The Overcoat' by Nikolai Gogol entitled 'The Bookshop' and is a pretty straight forward attempt at literary realism (i.e. Gogol's 'The Overcoat' just with less fantastical stuff at the end).
The Bookshop
It was a certain day in the month of August that a young man by the name of Sergei Kozlovitch arrived for the first time in the city of Moscow and instantly decided that he did not like it.
Now Sergei’s disdain for the city stemmed not from an arrogance born of wealth (as indeed he carried most of his possessions with him in a rather pathetic looking suitcase held together with twine), but from the place of his birth. Sergei had been raised in Petersburg, and to him the fine stone construction of his home made Moscow look like a haphazard collection of wooden kindling.
Sergei would have preferred not to have left home at all, but when news had arrived a week previously that his mother’s brother, Andrei Borislav, had grown ill (and it seemed was soon to die), Sergei had been left with little choice. While he had never had any real affection for his uncle, who Sergei remembered from his visits to Petersburg as rather self-important (always having a little too much to say and lot too much to drink) it would have been considered terribly bad form if someone from the family did not come and pay their respects.
After all, his entire uncle had reached greater heights than Sergei and his mother ever would, having been a tutor to the children of one of the great noble houses before his retirement.
Sergei’s mother, a humble washer-woman, who had grown in weight over the past few years had been in no condition to make the journey and so had fussed and fretted from the moment the message arrived about how the arrival of at least one member of the family would be expected.
Of course these shrill statements had always been accompanied by not so subtle glances at Sergei, who (with his father away in the war) was the only immediate family she had available to her.
So it was that he found himself, days later, at the end of one of the city’s narrow streets, standing in front of the Borislav residence, almost in a stupor, staring at the muck that was clinging to his boots and trying to blink away the sting that the cold brought to his eyes.
Presently he realised that there were other people gathered outside the squat little wooden house, people Sergei had to presume were either friends of his uncles’ or fellow well wishers. They certainly did not appear to be family, being much too tall and thin to be related to his uncle who he remembered to be stocky, red nosed and boisterous. All three turned as Sergei approached; their eyes’ seeming to flicker with a vague recognition, though Sergei was unable to place any of their faces.
Regardless of whom they were the strangers had all seemed to glare at him with barely veiled hostility as he had approached and greeted them, looks which soon developed into angry muttering as Sergei was forced to push past so that he could enter the front door. Inside Sergei shed his coat and his confusion and the greeting he had received outside was instantly replaced by fear as he took his first breath.
There was a stale smell in the air, so thick that he was sure that if he stayed to long it would cut through his clothing and permanently sink into his skin. It was the smell of a dead man. The fact that he had not arrived in time to say goodbye to his uncle bothered him less than the feeling of uncleanness that washed over him.
Sighing he realised that he would still be expected to pay respects to the body and to his aunt, and so made his way up the stairs until he reached what he presumed was the master bedroom and knocked furtively at the door.
A small balding man in a smart coat and hat soon opened the door and looked Sergei up and down with a dispassionate stare “Yes. Yes. I am the doctor” he said extending a claw like hand for Sergei to shake, “who are you boy?” Sergei introduced himself just as he saw a figure behind the doctor leaving the room by another door which closed with a loud slam.
Returning his gaze to the doctor Sergei soon gathered that he had indeed arrived too late, and that his uncle’s condition had yesterday taken a sudden turn for worse leading to his death sometime during the night. All of which, the doctor reminded him, was a “terrible business” before clarifying that of course his aunt was thankful for Sergei’s trip, but was still in no state to receive visitors.
As if to punctuate the doctors last sentence, a great clatter arose somewhere down the hall which was quickly joined by a tremendously loud shrieking. “She’s been on like that for hours now” he muttered after a pause, before gesturing for Sergei to enter the room, “I guess you’ll want to see him before you leave.”
It struck Sergei that for all the calamity of his aunt; it had slipped his mind that his now dead uncle was most likely only a few feet away. The Doctor looked directly at Sergei for a moment before closing the door and said “If it’s not too much trouble young Sergei, could you meet me outside once your done. There is something we should discuss.” The door was then shut before he could even nod in response.
Paying his respects to his uncle was not a particularly pleasant experience. For his part, the old man just lay there, but Sergei could not help but squirm. Instead of feeling grief or sympathy he was filled with revulsion, something only tempered by the comforting thought that it was his uncle, not him, who was now lying cold and stiff in the narrow bed.
As this thought filled Sergei with a gnawing guilt he stayed only as long as seemed appropriate, before silently slipping away and joining the doctor outside in the cold. The air bit at him as he left the house, and the Doctor, who now introduced himself as a Dr. Nicholas Tarasov, offered him a drink from a flask which Sergei was more than happy to accept. “Now young Sergei, as you are no doubt aware, you were one of your uncles’ only remaining male relatives” Sergei nodded. “So you stand to inherit a portion of what he had left.”
This was not something that Sergei had considered, and so thinking of his empty purse, this new prospect caused his heart to leap, if only momentarily.
As if reading Sergei’s thoughts the doctor cleared his throat before continuing. “I’m afraid your share will not be what you expected. Most of the money your uncle had remaining will go to his wife and her family, who you no doubt met on the way in, while the remainder will pay for the treatment he underwent before his death”.
Sergei winced. “You my lad will instead inherit the last of your uncle’s property, except for this house of course”.
Strangely it would take a few minutes of probing before Sergei could get the doctor to admit just what the last of this property was and so in the end Dr. Tarasov simply looked at him before handing him the vodka again and said “well boy, it’s a bookshop”.
A bookshop.
Sergei, flask still in hand, watched the doctor depart and was sure that some horrendous joke had just been played on him. He knew little about books, an even less about how they should be sold. But, he sighed, as he gathered his meagre possessions, it was more than he had had an hour ago and anyhow people would begin to talk if he refused his inheritance simply because he disliked it.
It was this thought that remained with him until, after finding lodging for the night and sending a message to his mother (the cost of which ate up what little funds he had remaining and forced him to forgo a proper dinner), he found himself in one of the poorest areas of the city facing the small dilapidated building that the doctor had left him directions to.
It was a crooked little place, with the most solid part appearing to be the door. At least Sergei knew that he would get something back if it ever fell down, remembering the doctors statement that his uncle, having great affection for the shop, had made sure it was properly insured.
The key barely seemed to fit in the lock, and upon turning it Sergei was convinced it would snap off in his hand. Yet eventually he got the door open unable to remove the key again steeped inside and was greeted by the interior of a dirty little shop which seemed to have more cobwebs than books. Sergei stepped inside, confused.
If this was a book shop, where were all the books?
Counting them, there only seemed to be a few dozen of the things scattered amongst the shelves. There was nothing there that was worth anything. What good was a book shop without books Sergei thought? In frustration he began to pull the few books that there were off the shelves and throw them across the room. The act was strangely satisfying and he would have continued if it were not for the heavy metallic clunk the third made as it came into contact with the floor.
Gingerly Sergei picked it up from where it had come to rest and shook it. Something rattled around inside. He cracked open the cover and was greeted by the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
Jewellery fit for a prince.
Gold studded with diamonds and rubies, silver inlayed with pearl and half a dozen things he could not even name. All he knew was that they were worth more than he had ever thought he would see in his lifetime. Swiftly he ripped the other books off the shelves. At least three others had something inside.
The last however was different. Instead of only containing jewellery, there was also a note, which fluttered to the floor unnoticed as Sergei whooped and crowded, dancing around the room, praising his uncle he cunning nature of his uncle who he presumed had pilfered the jewels during his time as a tutor (even when drunk he had always had deft fingers).
Sergei, as if in a trance, spent the entire day examining and re examining his inheritance. So enraptured in playing with the jewels was Sergei that he did not notice the sun finally go down. Nor did he notice the door being closed from the outside, or the grinding click as the key was turned, locking him in.
He was so taken in fact by his new found wealth that it would take the sound of breaking glass (as a bottle exploded through the window, spilling liquid fire all over the room) to shake him from reverie.
By then it was much too late. Sergei would claw at the door as the wooden walls around him belched fire and smoke but he would not escape.
Sadly if he had not been so intent on studying the jewels might have caught sight of the little piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. If he had been quick enough he may even have had a chance to read it before both he and it turned to ash and learn of his uncle’s satisfaction that, if Sergei were reading this, he had ensured the continued existence of his shop and managed to hide the existence of the jewels from his wife’s family, who he stated were generally a jealous and conniving bunch.
The second, A Deadly Curiosity was supposed to be at the time of writing (and I guess still is) a re-interpretation of Gothic Fiction that aims to invert some of the genres typical conventions. Reading it again now I'm not entirely sure that I was successful (it is certainly macabre) but I figure I should put it up anyway.
A Deadly Curiosity
The first time I did I did it out a sense of curiosity.
So often had I looked at people passing by and wondered: how easy would it be? How much would it take? Surely not all that much? Just a squeeze or a knock in the right place surely... People can be fragile things after all...
I began to wonder. To wonder if I should try it for myself. Just to see.
Just to test.
Oh I certainly had my share of doubts. Of course I did. I wondered on my own abilities. On whether or not I would be successful. Would I tense up at the wrong moment? Would I re-discover fear or whatever passes for human morality these days. Would my hand slip? My breathing betray me? Would I make a mistake at some crucial moment and become a victim myself?
Such thoughts plagued me for longer than I care to admit, but in the end my curiosity, my obsession grew to be more than I could bear.
I decided that I would do it because I had to and once I this revelation was made my doubts were much reduced.
In preparation I abandoned my regular social (after all none of them would understand my motivations and it would be unlikely that they would still desire my company once the deed was done) and began to plan the when and the where in the most exacting detail possible – I did want to get this right after all.
Fate however, it seems, had other ideas and upon a night of particular bad weather (before I was able to bring my own plans to their ultimate fruition) I was presented with an opportunity so perfect that I would have been foolish to ignore it: Someone came to me.
He arrived upon my doorstep, rain drenched and shivering in the midnight cold. Through chattering teeth he made reference to some sort of car trouble (my memory on his exact words is now rather vague as I was, understandably excited at the time) and asked whether or not I could be persuaded to lend him the use of my telephone.
I, of course, ushered him in as quickly as possible (the plans racing through my head said nothing against the use of good manners) and placed him in front of the fire to dry, asserting that he must warm himself properly and partake in some tea before using the phone or he would catch chill (I did my best to put forward a motherly concern for his well being).
He, having no suspicions to my true motives, was more than happy to accept my loosely applied conditions and upon seating himself before the warmth of the fire attempt to engage me in jovial conversation. Very quickly he dismissed the ill-fortune of breaking down in such bad weather, instead claiming, with a sly smile, that considered himself to be quite lucky to have stumbled upon the home of such a friendly and hospitable woman, one who was more than happy to offer assistance in his time of need. With what he must have thought of as an expert subtlety he then asked after my husband, expressing concern that, if he were to arrive, he may not be overly pleased to find some unknown man sitting in his house and warming himself before his fire.
At this I laughed in an attempt to feign some form of nervous embarrassment (a timely tilting of the head and a blush greatly added to the illusion) before stating, somewhat shyly, that I did not in fact have a husband for him to offend and that I was very much alone in my little house upon the hill. He of course responded with a mock sincerity, stating that he had in no way meant act in anyway untoward and that as he was a gentleman, I had nothing at all to fear from him his presence.
Deftly I smiled at him, assuring him that I believed all that he had said, before exclaiming that I had forgotten to put the kettle on the stove and that he was welcome to move the chair in which he sat closer to the fire while I was in the kitchen preparing the hot drink I had earlier promised him (in truth I could feel the moment nearing and felt that I had to leave so he would not become aware of my excitement).
To ease his mind (and indeed my own) I did indeed prepare for him a cup of tea and then quickly composed myself in the mirror in the hall before returning to him drink in hand, apologising quite demurely for not remembering to ask him what his preference might be. He chuckled over my words, stating quite simply that he was more than happy with anything as long as it was not laced with poison. I froze at that. My heart suddenly beating a loud staccato in my ears. Should it be now? Or should I wait? Does he know? He began to laugh nervously and I stifled a sigh of relief with a nervous smile – obviously he had realised that his joke (and I now saw that it had been a joke and that I should wait) had not been received in the manner in which he had expected and he was trying deflect attention away from his blunder.
As a way of changing topic he turned to cosy nature of the room mumbling something about how he had always wanted to live in a place just like it. For my part I ignored him, instead trying to control the thrill that had begun to race up and down my spine.. The whole room seemed to close in around us. My mouth was dry. My hands sweaty. I marvelled that the young man could be so completely oblivious to my intentions.
Lost in his own voice he failed to hear the light scraping of the fire poker as I removed it from its place by the fire. Failed to notice as I raised it above my head. He asked me how I had come live all the way out here by myself to which I delivered a vague response through gritted teeth.
The man began to turn just as the heavy iron of the poker lashed out (the word ‘pardon’ no doubt forming upon his lips) and so the blow was a glancing one, loosely connecting just above the man’s ear. Still the crunching noise was a reassuring one and his eyes did indeed glaze over (as they so often do in the stories) as he collapsed (completely ungracefully I might add) to lie in a tangled heap at my feet, giving out little more by way of complaint than a short gurgling sigh.
As I listened to his breathing slow, I marvelled at the ease with which I had satisfied my earlier curiosity and how ill-founded my previous doubts had been. I had not hesitated. I had not been afraid (at least not of the deed itself). I stood waiting for a moment, almost expecting the whole thing to be ruined by the arrival of some misplaced sense of guilt. Nothing. I felt normal, though not as completely satisfied as I had first imagined that I would be. Instead there was this new gnawing of curiosity, stronger than it had been before. I began to wonder:
How much harder would two be than one? Surely not that much...
In my opinion both a little clunky (yes my paragraphing is still abysmal) and in need of editing*, but it still feels good to get them out there and to keep the blog updated.
*Should hopefully get to that over the next few days and weeks (uni is done and I have heaps of free time)
Let me know what you think in the comments (lurkers welcome!).
Thinking of doing more genre stuff for the next post if anyone has some recommendations (thinking something lighter).
M
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