Arise
From Discworld Monthly:| On December 30th it was announced that Terry Pratchett has been
awarded a Knighthood in the New Year Honours list. We would like to pass on our huge congratulations to Sir Terry Pratchett (and his squire Rob Wilkins). |
*salutes*
Late Delivery
Frustrating news in this month's edition of Discworld Monthly:"The bad news is that it looks as if, for various reasons, Going
Postal The Movie will be delayed and shooting will not begin until
the start of next year."
The good and, to my mind, more important news is, they're making a movie of Going Postal!
Moist Von Lipwig is an absolutely brilliant character, but they're going to need someone of immense charisma - who can, in turn, play it down to a whisper - to pull it off.
Also, has anyone out there seen the adaptation of The Colour of Magic? I’d be particularly curious to know how Jeremy Irons measured up as Lord Vetinari, because the role is a significant one in Going Postal.
***EDIT***
A quick browse of Wiki has revealed a little more interesting news. With Nation due out next month, Pratchett has stated that his next novel is likely to be I Shall Wear Midnight; the fourth Tiffany Aching/Nac Mac Feegle novel. I love those books!
And: "Pratchett hinted when questioned during his Wintersmith tour that Esk, the female wizard featured in Equal Rites, may reappear for the first time in this book if it is written."
Major Disappointment
For those who avoided my Disappointment post for it's warning of a spoiler, the crux was there is a major event in Philip Pullman's The Subtle Knife that was dealt with very poorly.I've just read the following section of that chapter, only to find that it is, in fact, the end of the novel!
I'm all for a cliff-hanger ending, and there's no doubt that is exactly what Pullman was aiming for here, but he is so far of the mark I could weep. A cliff-hanger is supposed to make you think, Oh shit! What’s next? What’s next?!
My only thought at the end of The Subtle Knife is, That’s it?!
Don’t get me wrong, the events at the end of the novel should certainly add up to being a cliff-hanger, but they are down-played so much, it’s as if Pullman ran out of steam and decided to call it a day. Northern Lights/The Golden Compass has a brilliant ending, which not only rounds off the story perfectly, but leaves you gasping for more. In comparison, The Subtle Knife reads almost like a necessary evil that Pullman had to get through to bring up some plot-points and move the story on. It has its moments, but in the end I’m just grateful it’s only the middle of the story.
Disappointment
For those who haven’t read Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy, and at some point intend to, look away now. A major spoiler follows (as well as a long rant).I’m currently reading The Subtle Knife, and while it so far isn’t a patch on Northern Lights/The Golden Compass, I am enjoying the story as a whole.
However, I’ve just read the scene where Will finally meets his father, only to see him die after all those years of searching, and it is one of the most shoddily written scenes I have ever read. After building up the meeting throughout the first half of the novel, it comes and goes in the blink of an eye and in the coldest and least emotional way possible.
Feeling desperate, tired and utterly alone, Will wanders up a mountain on his own. A deep darkness descends and he’s suddenly accosted by some strange man, whom he fights and knocks the wind out of. Why this supposedly spiritual man would come across this kid on a mountain and decide to grab him and crack him across the back of the head when the kid tries to get free is beyond me.
When Will does free himself, does he call for help from the witches? Does he escape back to the camp to warn the others he’s just been attacked? No. He sits quite calmly and has a conversation with the man, going so far as to proffer him his wounded hand.
In darkness still too deep to see each other’s faces, the man applies a healing ointment to Will’s wounded hand, dresses it, then decides to light the lamp he’s carrying so he can see the boy’s face.
A brief flicker of recognition from them both, and the man’s shot and killed by the witch whose love he spurned many years previous (a plot point fleetingly referred to way back in the early part of the novel).
If it had been a cinematic scene, the moment between father and son, when the realisation dawns, would’ve been drawn out a little to show some kind of emotion between the two - confusion; relief; joy - and to allow the audience to connect with what’s happening. Obviously this is a bit trickier in a novel as simply stating, “The two experienced confusion; relief; joy,” is very dry and in no way conveys the intended emotions, but there are options. You could back-reference some of things each character has gone through to bring them to this moment; the trials they’ve overcome so they could finally find each other. You could delve into the characters’ memories of all the things they’d missed while they were apart. You could even have each character looking forward to all of the good things that will come now that they’re together again.
“But in that moment, as the lantern light flickered over John Parry’s face, something shot down from the turbid sky, and he fell back dead before he could say a word, an arrow in his failing heart.”
That’s it? They recognise each other, he’s shot with an arrow and dies?!
The confrontation between Will and the witch was well handled, but after she’s topped herself and Will has said an emotional farewell to his father, there immediately follows a bizarrely cold description of Will taking ‘the dead man’s’ things and spying his feather-trimmed cloak. “His father had no more use for it, and Will was shaking with cold.” I wonder if anyone could come up with anything more emotionally detached than ‘His father had no more use for it…’.
I know it’s only a small scene in the grand scheme of the trilogy, but that in itself is part of the problem. It should be one of the most emotionally powerful scenes in the novel and is instead dealt with as if it’s just another little obstacle along the way; as if Pullman wanted to get it out of the way so he could get to the ‘juicier’ stuff.
I such a huge and intricate story, crammed with such high quality writing, the whole scene is a massive let-down; a bizarre and confusing disappointment.
I Vant to Suck Your Bluuurrrrrd
After a long fascination with vampires and the surrounding mythos, I’ve finally gotten around to reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and I must say, so far, I’m unimpressed (sorry Nicola).It opens with the diary of Jonathan Harker, travelling to Transylvania for some dealings with one Count Dracula and, my god the man is dull! From his tedious observations of the places he sees and the people he encounters on his way to the castle, to the laborious description of his growing unease in the company of the Count, I couldn’t help thinking, Please, bite this doofus, already! It was a relief when the juicy stuff about the Count’s strange behaviour and supernatural abilities finally started, but then it ends and we’re whisked away to jolly old England for the even greater tedium of Mina Murray’s journal. To Stoker’s credit, the betrothed Jonathan and Mina are perfect for each other; witless, dull and freakishly obsessed with their respective dreeries...um, diaries. Jonathan goes so far as to sit down in the middle of an attempted escape from the castle to detail his plight.
The only convincing thing about the novel so far is the diary of Dr. Seward; the shrink taking care of a nutter named Renfield.
It doesn’t help that the timeline is all over the place. It’s forgivable when Stoker tells Jonathan’s tale, then back-tracks to tell Mina’s side of things (but I think it was a mistake to cut the action dead just when it’s getting going to revert to the simpering boredom of the brooding missus), but he can’t even keep on track when only focusing on one character. At one point, Mina’s journal jumps two weeks between July and August, then later jumps back to July to run further into August. I can kinda see why, but that doesn’t stop it feeling clumsy and totally unnecessary.
The ghost ship has just crashed on the beach, which, in every film adaptation I've seen, signals ghoulish craziness. I can only hope (though the newspaper correspondence that accompanies that part of the tale was as unconvincing as the rest).
Showing Off
I also have to write a paragraph (no more than half a page) about the kind of writing I do... *ponders*
Portfolio
According to my tutor at college, a couple of the universities I've applied for might require an interview and/or a gander at my portfolio before offering me a place, and so I've thrown one together covering (I hope) the range of my writing.Subsequently, I've also decided to put it together on line. Some of you might have read some (or all) of this stuff already, but, if you haven't, and you're curious, go check it out and let me know what you think... ;)
I'll get around to polishing the place up a bit another day. 'tis bed time.
Pre-Emptive (review) Strike
I read James O'Barr's The Crow yesterday; something I've been wanting - but never had the opportunity - to do since first seeing the film back in the early '90s. I've just spent the past half-an-hour trying to review it, but not really getting very far. I want to put the novel into some context, but the story behind the writing of it is quite long and tragic, so I'll simply say the worst thing that could possibly happen to anyone happened to James O'Barr. The Crow was his attempt at catharsis.As such, it's difficult to comment on the story, suffice to say it's quite different from that of the film. It's not that the film was a bad adaptation; simply that the story of the novel wouldn't have worked as it was on film. The main thing was to maintain the essence of the novel, and in that they most certainly succeeded.
What is easy to review about the novel is the art work... IT'S FUCKING AWESOME!!
*ahem*
I've read a number of comics and graphic novels with varying degrees of artistry - some great; some not so much - and not one has even come close. Yukito Kishiro's Battle Angel Alita has some truly stunning art-work, but O'Barr makes Kishiro look like a five year-old with crayons.
Today I finally finished The Flood; the second of the Halo novels (thank's again, Nicola ;), but that I'll review later (along with The Fall of Reach, which I forgot to do on finishing that). 'tis bed time...
Love Bug
In last week's creative writing group we were set an exercise to write something based on a promt. Mine was, "A story about a man who wakes up in the form of an animal, and falls in love with something." This is what came to mind:My brother warned me Geordie girls were weird, but this is taking the piss. All I said was, “You look cold,” and five minutes later I’m staring into a puddle, seeing a bemused frog staring back at me.
Okay, so I might’ve said, “Smuggling peanuts tonight, darling?” but it’s not like I meant anything by it!
Just wait till I catch up with her, I’ll…I’ll…do what, exactly? Get slime in her ear? Poke her in the eye with my tongue? Ribbit at her in a derogatory tone? She’ll probably tern me into a sodding newt!
I suppose I could always… What is that noise? It sounds like a giant fly.
Bloody hell, it is a giant fly!
A huge, disgusting…hairy…juicy…fly, swooping majestically through the air… Its crunchy, segmented body twisting this way and that as it pirouettes in a mid-air ballet… Its four elegant, gossamer wings fluttering playfully… The moon sparkling like a galaxy of stars in its big, red, hexagonal eyes…
That’s it, my little friend, come closer. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to say hello…and give you a quick…gentle…kiss!
Time to get Creative
I know there are plenty of you literary types lurking out there (even if you are loath to admit it), so 'tis time to put your talents to use in support of our beloved efx2blogs:
Get thinking, get writing and get mailing!
Freefalling (based on a true story)
My head’s wet… That was the first thought that occurred to me when I woke up. I could feel cold liquid trickling down my cheeks and my forehead. I slowly pried open my eyes and was slightly confused to find it wasn’t raining. More confusing, however, was my position; lying on the dew-soaked grass, looking up at the sky, with a rock digging into my back.Above me, the craggy face of the quarry wall stretched beyond my focus, cut off at a fuzzy, oddly inverted horizon. I felt dizzy and had to rest my eyes.
A moment later - at least, it seemed like a moment later - I saw my friend, Sean, running towards me, crying. Ahead of him was his mam, looking red and flustered and mouthing something illegible. I tried to get up off the uncomfortable rock and damp grass, but she quickly and firmly pushed me back down and insisted I didn’t move. “Angela, why’s my had wet?” I asked, but she didn’t seem to hear me.
Suddenly there was a policeman in front of me - visible as little more than a florescent blur against the grey sky - talking on his radio. “About twenty-foot,” he said. I think there was more, but I couldn’t quite make it out.
“Ooh, that’ll be nice, won’t it?” said Angela. “You might be going in the helicopter.”
I think the policeman said something about wind and horses, but my hearing kept fading in and out, as if I was bobbing in the ocean. There were muffled voices and blurry faces all around me. I was uncomfortable, my head was still wet and I was beginning to shiver from the cold. As appealing as a helicopter ride is to any nine year-old, I really just wanted to go to sleep.
When I woke up again, my mam was running towards the party. I waved and said, “Hiya, mam,” but she was a little too excited to hear me. In the distance an ambulance was cautiously making its way down a grassy hill. I should’ve came down that way, I thought…or maybe said. I’m not sure which.
At least I was feeling more comfortable. The pointy rock had turned into a soft stretcher and the dull sky had been replaced by a shiny white ceiling. There were a few new faces around me - none of which I recognised - and a loud squealing in my ears, like an emergency siren. It took me a little while to realise I’d somehow ended up in the ambulance, but I wasn’t awake long enough to enjoy the ride, or find out why my wrist was suddenly hurting.
The next few hours went by in a haze of boring waiting rooms and uncomfortable x-ray benches, all reeking of stale blood and cheap disinfectant. I was surrounded by doctors and nurses sporting beatific smiles and commenting on how lucky I was. I didn’t feel very lucky. I felt tired and sore and in need of my bed. I brightened a little when someone started wrapping cold, gooey stuff around my aching wrist, but the exhaustion soon persisted. I apparently made it to the car under my own steam, but all I remember between the hospital and the welcome relief of my bed is the terrible discomfort of hitting a speed-bump in my mam’s old Mini.
***
The next morning, events of the previous day struck me with sharp clarity. I’d gone to Sean’s house straight from school. We had dinner then went out to kick a ball around in a nearby field until it began to get dark. Full of the joys of the weekend, we raced home along the edge of the old quarry. That’s when I slipped. I had a vague recollection of grabbing something - a branch or a root - on the way down, but it didn’t hold. Then nothing.
It was probably a good thing I’d spent the rest of that evening in a state of shock. If the pain I felt the next morning was merely an after-effect, I was happier not knowing how I’d have felt had I been fully conscious. The morning after the night before?
Strangely, that day was ten-times worse than the previous. I was taken back to the hospital for a few tests and a fresh x-ray and for a proper cast to be put on my fractured wrist (the one I already wore was apparently preliminary). There were a few phone calls and visits from family and friends later in the day, but my head was spinning from weariness and pain-killers.
The following Monday my story appeared in the local rag. Of course, in true Echo fashion, the article was a muddle of fact and hearsay. To paraphrase:
“On Friday night, 10 year-old Michael Brockbanks of Sunderland fell 40ft from Claxheugh Rock on the bank of the Wear, breaking his arm and his leg. A police spokesman said, ‘Michael was fortunate not to have fallen from the top of the cliff, and if he’d have landed on nearby rocks, his injuries could have been much worse’…”
I wouldn’t be ten for another six months, the cliff I fell from is nowhere near the Wear, I did land on a heap of rocks and my injuries weren’t as bad as they made out. Local journalism at its finest.
It seems, however, my own response was equally inconsistent. The expectation was that the experience would make me timid, careful, possibly even afraid of heights. “Bet you won’t be going near any ladders for a while,” my dad joked. In truth, I’ve since had a love for heights, and leaping from them whenever the opportunity arises. It’s strange the way things work out.
Where It All Comes From
I was asked last week what my writing influences are. I couldn't answer. I could quite easily say who my favourite writers are - not being much of a reader, there aren't that many to choose from - but none of them have influenced my writing over the years. Certainly my style doesn't fit with any of them.So how does it all come about?
My first novel - Belonging to Night - started out with me trying to think of a striking opening line. What I originally came up with was, "A single tear made its way nonchalantly down his cheek, only to be lost in the torrent that fell from above." That grew into a scene, which introduced a character, whom I wrote an entire novel around. The story (in my head, at least) is now two novels long, with a number of spin-offs, all from that one line.
I can't remember when my fantasy work first began, but I know it was some time in my mid-teens, and I know it came from being in the house alone one night and my mind wandering. Back then it was very different to how it is now, but one or two characters and the overall story-arc have remained pretty consistent.
It was while in the shower one day, thinking about the etymology of a certain character's name, that I came up with The Ballad of Raeven Underwing; the story of an ancestor of said character. It took about twenty minutes to think up her story-arc.
More recently there's Rayne, which started with me writing about being in a bad mood.
Then there's the occasional short story, most of which are literally born of nothing. Take Coma, which I wrote by opening a new window in a writers' message board, way back when I was on AOL, and writing the first thing that came into my head.
Which brings me to this morning. There I was, at the kitchen sink, rinsing out my coffee mug, when I came up with this:
"Nothing felt right anymore: the water coursing over her fingers as she washed her favourite mug; the rough towel as she dried her hands; the carpet beneath her bare feet. It was all wrong. She knew this place. She knew it intimately. She’d lived here all her life. So why was it all so foreign to her? She eyed everything with suspicion: the peach walls; the freshly-painted radiator; even the morning sun coming in through the large, arched window. Nothing was out of place and yet nothing looked right."
I have no idea what it means, but in my head I'm already toying with a couple of different plots: one a horror, perhaps in the j-horror style; the other a sci-fi.
The problem is, although it's fun plucking all of this stuff out of thin air, my head is so full of stories, I can never get around to finishing any of them...
10 Years in 10 Minutes
Then again, considering the number speed readers I know, it'll probably be more like 2... This was my first attempt at my first assesment for English Language. Given the period it spans, I've since had to write something completely different, so have decided to share:I was fifteen years old when I became cold. It was a Friday night and my mind was full of the usual things that kept me awake at night: simple homework that wasn’t due for another few days; financial drought; not knowing what to do with my weekend; not wanting to return to school when it was done. Strange things to stress about on a Friday night, but things my mind simply wouldn’t let go of. Things that would often keep me awake till 1am and wake me again at four. Things I was determined to let go of; to ignore; to suppress.
And so, that’s exactly what I did. Sat in bed on a Friday night, by the light of my TV playing away to itself, I suppressed everything.
When Monday came, all was the same. The homework was due, I had naught but my lunch money on me and the names continued as they always did, but I didn’t care. My friends and I rambled away about our weekends and whatever TV show was the main topic of conversation for that month, and I laughed and joked and played along as I always had, but I didn’t care.
At first, there was no repercussion at all, but as time went on and the GCSEs drew near, I approached them as I did everything else in my life; on autopilot, with only a distant awareness of their importance. My A-levels I chose because others were choosing them. I failed. I accepted a university course, which held absolutely no interest for me, simply because it was offered. I even moved away from home for the first time, with absolutely no sense of the significance of such a change.
However, a significant change it was. For the first time in years something began to seep through. Slowly at first: brief glimpses of emotion that caught me off guard, but quickly sank away; genuine enjoyment as opposed to the faux smile I presented to those closest to me; even my first real crush (beyond the usual boyhood fantasies). None of these things lasted, but when they hit, they hit hard.
Then, without warning, something hit that simply could not be suppressed. That single bolt of emotion that hits harder than any other, cracking the shell and releasing everything. Five years worth of suppressed emotion is not an easy thing to deal with.
Suddenly I was wide open. In the blink of an eye, I went from feeling nothing to feeling everything, ten-fold. For a while, it was a fantastic feeling. My friends were no longer just the people I orbited; I truly cared for them. I started to enjoy the freedom of being away from home. I started to enjoy nights out, chatting endlessly about whatever topics come up when drunk, and dancing madly when we hit the clubs.
But there was a flip-side. I was never simply happy; I was elated. I was never simply angry; I was enraged.
Very quickly, it all became too much. I couldn’t continue with the course, which frightened me. Without the loan, I couldn’t afford rent. I tried to get a job, but I had no idea where to place myself. Finally I had to return home, away from the friends I had made; the friends who meant so much. Unemployed, broke and lonely, I eventually fell to depression. At my lowest point I would sit my room, wrapped in my blanket, drinking coffee and vegetating in front of daytime television.
Fortunately, circumstances intervened and I found myself meeting with a careers’ councillor. Given my questioning nature and analytical mind (as he perceived it), he suggested some form of research. It was something I had never considered, but I looked at my options and came across a foundation year back at my old university. Above all else, I saw it as an opportunity to be close to my friends.
*
The course was again a poor choice. I again found myself broke and I again found myself forced to move back home, but it was while at university for the second time that I started writing. And it was midway through my first novel that I finally realised what I wanted to do with my life.
Unfortunately, when broke and unemployed, writing isn’t an ideal career choice. For two years I shuffled between remedial jobs and unemployment, never feeling settled, always distracted by thoughts of my friends, my loneliness and my desperate need to write down the never ending stream of stories running through my head.
But, despite everything, 2005 started well. Two of my friends were due back from a ‘round-the-world trip. I’d made another online who, in spite of her living in Cambridge, I was becoming very close to. I even made it to London to visit an old friend there working towards a Masters in reproductive health. I was slowly becoming aware of a change; as if, for the first time since I was a child, I was finding some form of contentment within myself.
That summer, my mother died of cancer.
A terminal disease is a peculiar thing. Unlike any other, the outcome is a certainty, no matter what words of hope or comfort a doctor might offer. Many people will tell you to remain positive - that there’s always a chance - but that does nothing to silence the voice in the back of your mind, telling you how it will end. When that day did finally come, the grief - the pain - was numbed somewhat by the unusual sense of relief that it was finally over with; relief that she hadn’t had to suffer for long.
My dad told people I was stolid throughout. How else could I be? I had my private moments, of course, but what good would I do the rest of the family by breaking down in front of them.
Over the next few months, I slowly got used to her not being around. It was a trying and tiring time, but one I got through with the help of my friends.
Then, towards the end of the year, the tables were turned. It was a bizarre experience to go so soon from being comforted by a friend, to having to comfort them. They asked me if it ever got easier; if the pain ever actually went away.
All I could say was not to wait for the pain to go away, rather to accept it - to embrace it - and as time went on, it would be easier to deal with. I honestly couldn’t tell her whether or not the time would come that it would end.
*
2005 was a difficult year - I lost more than I gained - but as I entered 2006, I knew for the first time in my life who I was.
B.T.N. (1st) - Ch.1
As some of you already know, a few years back I wrote a book called Belonging to Night. It wasn't very good and in the intervening years I've made a few attempts at rewriting it in a few different ways; none of which have gotten very far. My latest attempt involves writing the whole thing in the first-person pov (as apposed to the omniscient first-person narration of the original) and, so far, I'm rather enjoying it...
Southampton, NY - December 19th
Gabriel Callaghan
I allow the old man a single tear and feel it freeze on my cheek. Grief isn’t exactly a part of my emotional repertoire, but I suppose I owe him something.
The skies are black over my grandfather’s Southampton estate, spilling snow on the small gathering of mourners. It was all I could do not to smile as they stepped out of their plush cars into the deep drift. Not a shoe on the foot of any of them will be worth less than a thousand dollars. They all shudder beneath a ceiling of black umbrellas, encircling a shivering priest, delivering his service by a large, marble plaque.
Gabriel Callaghan III
The numeral sends a shiver down my spine. The old man said it gave him a sense of peerage, as if he was honouring the Gabriel Callaghans that had come before him. Personally, it makes me feel like the next item on a production line. I’ve never been much for tradition.
“What’s with the priest?” I ask aloud. I can feel Josephine’s eyes bore into the side of my head, but I also sense the smile she’s struggling to keep from her lips.
“You know your grandfather,” she says under her breath. “He loved the pomp and ceremony.”
For Josephine’s benefit, I lower my voice to her level. “Well, he’d better hurry up. He’s making me hungry.”
“Behave yourself, Gabriel.”
“…ashes to ashes; dust to dust.” The priest closes his sermon and there’s a hushed ‘Amen’ from some of the mourners.
Josephine steps forward with the urn containing my grandfather’s ashes. She glides effortlessly over the snow until she reaches the edge of the grounds overlooking the sea. She utters a few words, unheard by most in attendance, and casts the ashes to the breeze.
“Weren’t you gonna put that on the plaque?”
Josephine’s daughter, Zara, is looking up at me, beaming. “Something like that.”
“So, what happened?”
“Your mother thought it wasn’t appropriate.”
I turn sharply to one of the lawyers in attendance who has the audacity to shush us and growl, “Bite me.” Suddenly he’s very interested in his own shoes.
“Decided what you’re gonna say at the wake yet?” Zara asks, ignoring the little confrontation.
I shrug. “Probably the same thing I was going to put on the plaque.”
*
New York, NY
Sgt. Sean Powell
It’s the most wonderful time of the year…
and the entire city is daubed in the usual festive regalia. Every single building is covered with enough tinsel and flashing lights to decorate a national park. Countless kids are dragging their weary parents up and down Madison Avenue, desperate for a Santa’s Grotto without a mile-long line. Business-suited men and women are pouring in and out of bars, pimps and prostitutes are counting their holiday tips, there’s a pair of bums on the corner of East 67th and Madison sharing a seasonal bottle of turpentine, The boys of the NYPD choir are still singing ‘Galway Bay’ and the bells are ringing out for Christmas Day.Though, I could frankly do without hearing that song again ‘til next year. I don’t care if it is a classic; three times a day for two weeks straight does nothing for my appreciation of it.
5th Avenue is eerily quiet. It’s only seven-thirty and this part of town would usually be overflowing with people. Right now, it’s dead. Okay, so the fact that the snow hasn’t let up all day might have put some people off, but I’d still expect to see more than a young couple and a street vendor.
I was driving home when the call came in from a guard at the Guggenheim. Apparently a fight broke out in one of the exhibits. Everyone’s a critic.
“Powell to dispatch; you still awake Steph?”
“Dispatch to eight-tango-seven; what have you been told about informality over the police-band?”
“Come on, Steph, when have you ever known me to be formal?”
The dispatcher makes sure I hear her sigh at the other end of the radio. “How’s it looking, Sean?”
I reach the building’s entrance and peer inside. “I just got here, but it’s looking pretty quiet. No sign of anyone in the main atrium.”
“Copy that, Sean. You got Nichols and Armstrong en route.”
“Copy that, Steph. I’m going to see what I can see. Eight-tango-seven, out.”
As I walk through the deserted atrium, a cold feeling creeps up my spine. It is way too quiet. No signs of a fight, a guard or even a museum goer. It’s only been a few minutes since the call came in and it’s very unlikely the guards would have cleared the building in that time.
My heart stops and I instinctively draw my gun at the sound of a crash overhead.
*
Gabriel
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata drifts through my grandfather’s grand mansion. I’m in the mood to play some swing, but it wouldn’t really suit the atmosphere of the wake.
Down in one of the dining halls, I can hear the guests arguing over how much of the house is rightfully theirs and asking where the boy with the drinks is. Already I can’t wait to get back to my apartment in the city.
Zara is sprawled over the piano like some lounge singer from the 1920s; the glass of whiskey on the lid and the cigarette dangling out of my mouth finishing the scene off nicely. I half expect her to start singing when she rolls over and asks what her mom’s doing.
“People watching,” I tell her. “At least, she was. Now she’s about to walk through the door.”
On cue, Josephine enters the music room and glides across the floor to bathe in the moonlight coming through the large window.
“Watched enough people?” Zara asks.
“Those people bore me,” Josephine says.
“Grandfather’s people,” I add.
Josephine visibly shrinks at the mention of her brother. I go to her and lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“I’m okay, Gabriel. It had to be done.”
“I know. But you shouldn’t have been the one to do it.”
“Who else could have?”
It’s a rhetorical question and I simply nod in agreement.
Suddenly her head snaps up and her eyes glaze over.
“What is it?” I ask.
“…Blood.”
*
Sean
Sean, what the hell are you doing?!
I’m already halfway up the rotunda when the thought hits me. There’s loud crashing and grunts and growls and snarls coming from overhead, as if a pair of wild animals are in some sort of death struggle. I know Nichols and Armstrong will be here any minute and yet here I am, wandering towards the sound, my gun rattling in my shaking hand.I slip on something and just manage to catch the handrail, saving me from a clumsy fall into whatever it is coating the floor.
Blood.
I move up against the wall and slowly make my way around the bend. There are three bodies lying on the walkway; two women with their throats slit and a guard with a broken neck. I don’t need to check for a pulse to see they’re already dead.
I’m about to call it in when a man bursts from one of the exhibition rooms, slams hard into the side of the rotunda and immediately springs to his feet and dashes back the way he came.
Very cautiously I peek around the corner. More bodies litter the floor, amidst torn paintings and smashed statues. In the centre of the room, two men are tearing each other apart. One is tall and lean and dressed in a shredded business suit. The other is shorter and stockier and dressed in dark pants and a black shirt, ripped open to reveal his cut-up torso.
Both men are spilling blood, but neither looks to be letting up their assault on the other.
The taller man lashes out with a vicious elbow that drops his opponent to his knees. The shorter man is back up quickly, clawing at the other’s face. There’s a cry of pain and spurt of blood and the taller man is down, clutching his eye.
The shorter man snarls triumphantly, snaps the other’s neck and sinks his teeth into his throat.
All I can do is stand and stare. My eyes are taking in everything that’s going on, but mind is believing none of it.
Armstrong’s voice breaks on my radio. “Hey, Powell, you around?”
I clamp my hand over the speaker, but the winner of the fight is already staring at me, grinning; his teeth coated in blood; his eyes…his eyes black as oil.
*
20 minutes later
Lt. Jeremy Malone
The exhibition had something to do with religious extremism down the ages, and all the psychotic indulgences that went with it. I’m no art critic, but I’d say the demolition of the exhibit has done a lot to improve its charm.
“What kind of nut-job comes up with this stuff?”
“What was that, lieutenant?” The young sergeant who led me to the scene is clearly more interested in his notes than anything I’m saying.
“Nothing. Carry on.”
“Yes sir.
“According to the museum rep., the exhibit was put together by a Leon Carver. Apparently he’s some kind of recluse.”
“Yeah, no shit. You got an address?”
“Yes sir. He’s got a studio apartment a few blocks from here.”
“And?”
“And what, sir?”
Of course. I was promoted six months ago and still can’t get used to the idea that nothing happens beyond the crime-scene ‘til I turn up. “Take your note book and another sergeant and go see if he’s home.”
“You think he had something to do with this?”
“Not likely, but he is connected to the scene. Just see if he’s home, find out where he’s been in the last few hours and let him know what’s going on.
“But,” I add as the sergeant’s heading away, “keep the details thin, okay?”
He slowly nods. “Yes sir.”
With a sigh I turn my attention back to the floor. I knew from the expressions on the three officers’ faces when I arrived that it wasn’t going to be pretty. Nichols and Armstrong were staring into their coffees as if they wanted to dive into the cups, but it was Powell - wide-eyed and white as a sheet - who really put me on edge.
Seventeen dead. A fucking nightmare. Even the coroner and the lab boys had to steel themselves before getting to work. I’m about to ask the coroner his opinion of the scene when I notice a women crouched by one of the fallen statues, sniffing at it intently.
“Um, excuse me.” She ignores me. “Excuse me… Hey, lady.”
The woman looks up at me and I have to catch my breath. She’s stunning. Beautiful, striking features, flawless, porcelain skin and deep brown eyes that make me feel like a giddy fifteen year-old. She flashes me a perfect set of teeth and stands to reveal a tall, lean, yet curvaceous figure.
“I’m sorry, detective,” she says with a voice that turns my knees to jell-o. “I was distracted.”
I quickly clear my throat and compose myself. “This is a crime scene. Are you supposed to be here?”
“No, not really.”
I blink. “…Oh. Then could you please leave?”
Her smile softens and she gives me a respectful bow. “My apologies, Lieutenant Malone. I did not mean to intrude.”
And with that, she’s gone, leaving me staring after her, baffled. It takes me a little while to realise I didn’t introduce myself…
*
Josephine Callaghan
This whole situation has me troubled. It has been a very long time since I have heard of two of our kind fighting in this way, and then it resulted in a catastrophic conflict.
I have seen where you fell, Mr. Carver, now if you would be so kind as to tell me who felled you…?
His scent is all around this place, but there is something unusual; something…not right about him.
Very well. If you refuse to talk to me, then perhaps the nervous young sergeant can help…after he has had a good night’s sleep.
Rayne - Ch.2
This started way back in the olden days of efx2, but chapter one is still availabe here: Rayne - Ch.1
I enjoy a relatively pleasant journey on the tube. It’s surprisingly relaxing when not wedged in amongst a few dozen rush-hour commuters. The relative silence along with the rhythmic rocking of the carriage helps me put my thoughts in order.
I didn’t want to kill that kid. It wasn’t my fault; I was only trying to stop him killing me. So why do I feel so ill-at-ease?
More to the point, why did he attack me? It’s common practice for a burglar to flee if discovered and only attack if cornered. I was propped up in bed. It’s not like I was in his way. I close my eyes and attempt to recreate the scene in my head.
The street lamp outside shone into my room. That’s what woke me. I saw him at the other end of the room, rifling through a chest of drawers. I stayed silent for a moment, waiting ‘til I was awake enough to react properly, but he raised his head. He was aware of me looking at him. He turned and lunged at me, drawing his knife, all in one fluid motion. He was quick. I caught his arm and twisted it as best I could from my position on my back with his weight bearing down on me. Still, I managed to twist his wrist quite far. He didn’t even flinch. His eyes bore into mine, wide, but empty; his pupils tiny.
Was he high? His skin was dry and his breathing steady, ruling out recreational drugs. Muscle relaxants wouldn’t account for his strength. Possibly enhancers - some kind of steroid - but would that account for the eyes? Unlikely, though I think I’ll follow up on that train of thought. It’s not like I’m a pharmacist.
I tried to push his arm up, putting pressure on the elbow, but at the same moment he pushed his weight down on me with more force and the blade went straight into his heart.I open my eyes and realise I’m almost at my stop. I’ll think better after a coffee.
The clock on the platform tells me it’s just turned six. I wonder if Tommy will be open yet. He’ll most certainly be awake, getting the shop ready, but he might be loath to open up this early.
“Tommy!” I yell while banging on the padlocked gate across the café‘s entrance. “Come on, you slovenly git; some of us have work to do!”
I hear cursing and commotion from inside and realise he must have only just arisen. I can already picture his face before he opens the door.
Tommy stands in the doorway of his café, resplendent in a tatty old dressing gown and pjs made fashionably asymmetrical by the rushed buttoning of the shirt. His exposed chest hair compliments well his five o’clock shadow and dark, greying cru-cut, styled in a ‘bed-head’ quiff.
“I always did have you down as a trend-setter, Tommy.”
I can tell by his expression he left his sense of humour in bed. “I’m closed. What do you want, Aaron?”
“Coffee and a Danish, since you’re offering,” I say, smiling as coyly as possible.
He stares at me hard for a moment and I get the distinct impression he’d swing for me if not for the locked gate between us. “You been bugging my sister yet this morning?”
“Woke her up half an hour ago.”
His mood suddenly brightens drastically and he unlocks the gate. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”
“You’re a prince among men, Tommy,” I tell him as I go inside.
“Princes aren’t dragged out of bed an hour early by the rabble.”
After receiving my breakfast and exchanging a few more pleasantries with Tommy, I head upstairs to my office. Juliet had been uneasy about me renting the space above her brother’s café, but I was determined. Tommy made the best Americano in the city and I was keen to be as close to it as possible.
I switch on my computer and take a bite out my Danish as I wait for it to boot up. Juliet once bugged me about updating our system, but was quickly silenced when I pointed out it was a new computer or her wages for the month; I couldn’t afford both. A few minutes of staring at a blank screen and listening to the struggle of the decrepit hard drive and I’m beginning to think she had a point. On the other hand, it does give me a little time to rest my tired eyes…
A slap in the face from a newspaper wakes me with a start. “Oh good, it’s booted at last.”
“Half-five!” Juliet fumes. “What the hell were you doing up at half-five in the morning? More to the point, what the hell were you doing getting me up at half-five in the morning?!”
I would try to think of a way to ease her into the story, but I find it’s usually a better idea to get such things over with. “I killed someone this morning.”
Juliet’s sharp, green eyes immediately soften. “Oh… What happened?”
“Some kid broke into my flat. I woke up. He tried to stab me. I stabbed him.”
“I see… And you think this kid’s linked to the string of burglaries that have been going on?”
“Possibly. Did you find anything?”
Juliet dumps a pile of newspapers on my desk in a sign of resignation. “A couple of singular stories, but no official line about any link.” It’s a touch frustrating, but I still have to smile. I only gave her the job an hour ago and in that time she’s woken up, showered, eaten breakfast (she never leaves home before a shower and breakfast) and speed-read three newspapers. It’s a hell of a gift. “What do you think’s going on?”
I shrug. “I’m not even sure anything is going on. The cases are similar, but they’re burglaries. They don’t exactly come in a variety of flavours.”
“But you do think something’s not right.”
“You didn’t see this kid. I think he was high on something, but...I don’t know… Something.
“Oh, that reminds me…”
A short time later I’m done trawling the net for narcotic-related side-effects. Nothing I can come up with seems to fit the bill.
“Something new, you think?” Juliet says, mouth full of croissant.
“Hmm…” I say, scratching both hands through my hair as I stretch wearily. “I think…I’m barking up the wrong tree. What do you think?”
“I think you need to find us a case that will actually result in some money.” My glazed expression tells her I’m only half-listening. “But first, I think you need to get some sleep. You look like hell.”
“Could be worse.”
“Oh?”
“I could look like I feel.”
On the advice of my nearest and dearest, I check myself into a local B&B and lay my head down. As usual, my mind is working against me, trying to process a few dozen thoughts all at once. I decide to try a shower.
Stepping under the hot stream, I feel the layers of exhaustion pealing away. I stand for a few minutes, just relishing the refreshing spray and allowing my mind to go blank. As it does, the night comes into focus again; not just the stabbing, but the interviews at the police station.
The descriptions differed. They’d told me I was the first to confront one of the burglars, but more than one of the victims must have seen them. How did the others see them without being seen? And were they all kids? Were they all male? Does anything connect them?
I decide I’ve got to take a look at the other files. I’d be surprised if John would happily agree to me seeing them and I know all too well how protective some of those detectives can be over their cases.
So, what? Steal them?
I shake my head and realise I’m thinking gibberish again. I’ve been in the shower too long. More food and coffee and I’ll be thinking a lot clearer.
All the way back to Tommy’s I’m going through the layout of the station in my head, wondering if there’s a viable line of approach. I know I’m being silly, but at least it’s keeping my mind occupied.
John’s waiting for me when I get to the café. He looks up at me and frowns. “I though I told you to get some sleep.”
“It’s that obvious I haven’t?”
“Yes.”
I make a mental note to keep my sunglasses on in public. “I’m afraid I haven’t got anything else to tell you, John.”
“Yeah, I thought you wouldn’t, but I wanted to talk anyway.”
We take a seat by the window; me with my back to it and John watching the outside as he always does. A waitress delivers the drinks John ordered before I arrived and takes a thoughtful sip. I can tell by his mood this visit’s unofficial, but he nevertheless skips the small-talk. “You didn’t kill him on purpose, did you.”
He isn’t really asking, but I know it will make him feel better to hear me say it. “No, I didn’t kill him on purpose. I might not have done all I could not to, but he didn’t exactly give me much time to react.”
He nods to tell me that’s all he needs, but I wonder if he’s fully convinced.
“Did the toxicology find anything?”
John looks up from his coffee. “What?”
“Toxicology. I assume one was done.”
“He was stabbed. Why would we do a toxicology?”
“Because you’ve got a pedantic pathologist who sees every test in the book as standard practice, whatever the assumed circumstances.
“Ah, so we do.”
“And?”
“I haven’t read the report yet. Besides, you’re not on this case, Aaron. Come to think of it, you’re not even on the force. Why would I tell you?”
“You want to know what I think. That’s the only reason you bothered coming here, rather than dragging me back to the station.”
He sighs. “You know what I hate about you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So, what do you think?”
“I think I need to see the other case files.”
John laughs and nearly chokes up his coffee. “And you honestly think I’d agree to that?”
“No, but it was worth a shot. How come you have descriptions of the other burglars?”
“What?”
“The cases have been split up because the descriptions of the other burglars differed. Which means each victim got a look at their respective burglar. Which means either mine was particularly instinctive in knowing he was being watched, or the other victims were as stealthy as ninjas.”
“Or, maybe you did something to alert him.”
“Maybe. Is there no connection between the suspects and/or victims?”
“We’re still looking into it, but so far we can’t see one.”
“Maybe you just need a fresh pair of eyes.”
“I said no. Beside, your eyes don‘t exactly look fresh.”
I sigh and slump back in my chair in resignation. “Fine. Then what are you doing here?”
John drums his thumb on the table a few times. “What’s wrong with you, Aaron? You were never exactly the chirpiest bloke I’ve ever met, but lately something’s been off.”
I let the question hang for a moment, giving the impression I’m formulating a lie, then sigh, as if beaten into resignation. “I honestly don’t know. I just…haven’t felt right, lately. Call it foreboding or paranoia or whatever you like.”
“Y’know, our shrink always enjoyed talking to you.” A question in the guise of a statement.
I smile. “Yeah, for all the wrong reasons. Besides, I’ve heard it all before. There’s nothing he can say and nothing I can tell him that will help.”
John nods slowly, making his disappointment clear. He finishes off his coffee and stands. “You might not like to admit it, Aaron, but you do need help.” He leaves without another word.
After watching the exchange, Juliet takes his seat. “He didn’t look happy.” I nod and sip my coffee. “Neither do you,” she adds.
“Is that dark-green Fiesta still parked across the road?”
Juliet glances over the rim of her mug. “Yup.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Talking on the phone…and now reading a paper.”
So it’s me he’s following. My smile returns. “I think I should go have a chat.”
I take out my phone. “Hiya Dan. Busy?”
A few minutes later the man in the Fiesta glances up from his newspaper as a small crowd of people obscure his view of the café. He’s keeps his eye on them ‘til they move on and he can see Juliet sitting opposite an empty chair.
He steps out of the car in surprise, glancing up and down the street. “Shit!”
He gets back in the car and slams the door in frustration, then jumps from the shock of seeing me in the passenger seat, reading his paper. Instinctively he reaches into his coat.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I say, firmly laying my hand on his arm.
He sags. “What do you want?”
I fold up the paper, throw it on the dashboard and turn to look him in the eye. “Don’t you think that should be my question?”
He sags and I feel his grip relax. “I was just told to keep an eye on you. They don’t tell me why.”
“Aha. And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me who they is, either.”
“You know the routine.”
“Yeah. In which case you can go tell them that if they want something, they can come and get it themselves. If I catch anyone else following me, I’m going to break their legs. Clear?”
He shrugs and says, “I’ll tell them,” as if he already knows what their response will be. So do I, but that’s not the point.
I release his arm and get out of the car. He drives away without a second glance. Still, I wait until he’s out of sight before I take his phone out of my pocket. In the café I see Juliet has her laptop open, ready, so I hit redial.
“Key in,” says the woman on the other end.
In the café, Juliet smiles and nods at me.
“Never mind,” I say. “It can wait ‘til I get there.”
About Me
Archives
Friends
Manager
Portfolio
Efx2 Home
Register Today!
GamerCard
Links
ChicaNysak
Pixie
Deej
Elentari
Jithra
Twist
PhotStyle
Ogre
Keith
WoF
TMISv2
StrangeCloud
Community
Efx2 Cafe
Dante
PartlyDevine
Jeremy
pd
Categories
Gaming StuffsGeneral Word Stuffs
Grumblings
Movie Stuffs
Music Stuffs
Random Stuffs
TV Stuffs
Writing Suffs
Recent Entries
Crack the ShuttersTwocked from Elentari
Arise
Birthday (lack of) Shenanigans
Friend of a Friend
Friends
saraiChica
WelshPixie
DeeJay
Twist
womanoffeathers
strangecloud
pd
Eclectablog
dantesinferno
texican
birdsnest
cherry
gypsy
Free shoutbox @ ShoutMix
  |
| Push Up Pro |