King of the Recluse

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

NEW TOPIC:

Tall Tale

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tall_tale

[James]

Luke didn't want to be left with his grandfather. He was a grumpy old man who smelt of feet. Yet, he had learnt after several years of school that you couldn't just say you didn't like someone. You had to give clues or something like that. So as his mummy lent down to kiss his grandfather on the cheek, Luke began to drop his clues, silently begging not to be left with the grumpy man. He did the eye roll thing that he saw his Auntie do sometimes. Foot tapping and puffing his cheeks soon followed as he made the sound of a horse with his lips. His mummy wasn't paying attention. She walked across the room and disappeared through the door.

“So how's school, Matthew?” his grandfather asked. The last of his grey hairs looked as if they might be blown away in a single gust of wind. Luke chewed on his tongue. His name was Luke. Matthew was a silly name. It wasn't his fault that his parents put Matthew first on the paper thing they had to sign when he was born.

“Good?” Luke shrugged.

His grandfather grunted. Luke had learnt that grunting was grandfather's version of cuddles. Feeling a little better than the grumpy man was at least grunting, Luke walked over to the seat that his grandfather was patting. It was rather odd. Luke could swear that his grandfather looked... yellowy. But people weren't meant to be yellow, were they? He didn't dare ask his grandfather though. You didn't ask him questions like that. He might stop grunting.

“Not being too lazy then?” his grandfather asked. Luke could feel the old man's eyes watching him clamber up onto the seat. Luke shook his head. He felt it was a bit strange that he was being asked about being lazy when his grandfather hadn't got out of bed all week. His bedroom in the quiet, tiny bungalow was beginning to smell like a whole herd of smelly feet.

“So has your mother told you the news?” his grandfather said, scratching at the prickly, itchy beard that he had. Luke shook his head again. “No? Well, I'm going to be away for a while. You won't see me for some time.”

Luke resisted the urge to smile. This was good news. His mummy and he had spent so much time around grandfather's house that Luke was desperately missing his collections of Hot Wheels. Still, looking around the room, he couldn't see any suitcase. Also, his grandfather didn't seem like he was very excited to be going. Luke was always excited to go on a trip. Deciding on the safest way to reply, he shrugged.

“Oh yes, a very long trip. I need to go and visit the House-That-Never-Was.”

“The House-That-Never-Was?” Luke repeated slowly. He knew that rich people's houses sometimes had names. The Queen's was called Windsor. The President of America lived in the White House. The man who wrote David Copperfield lived in Bleak House. But Luke had never heard of the House-That-Never-Was. “Who lives there?”

“How can someone live in a place that never was, Matthew?” his grandfather asked, bushy eyebrows lifting up as if they were intent upon replacing the near-baldness upon his head. Yet, Luke noticed, his grandfather wasn't angry either. He was smiling. This was very odd.

“If no one lives there, why do you need to visit it?” Luke pressed on, eager to ask questions while his grandfather allowed it.

“I've got an appointment to keep, haven't I?” his grandfather grunted.

“With who?”

“Myself.”

A silence filled the room. It wasn't one of the silences that Luke liked. One where his mummy was busy with her book and he was allowed to play with Hot Wheels with no interruptions. It was one of those uncomfortable times where everyone was waiting for someone else to talk. Luke didn't like those silences. His eyes would flicker to each person in the room, hoping they would say something. Except only his grandfather was in the room and he was looking right at Luke.

“Yourself?” Luke offered into the quietness meekly. His grandfather grunted. The silence felt a little better. Questions were allowed today. “How can you be meeting yourself?”

His grandfather laughed. Today was so strange that Luke hardly found this unusual. Usually his grandfather only laughed at the old men on the television, who probably also smelt of feet. “Now that is a very long story to tell, Matthew. Do you think you can handle such a long story?”

Now, Luke knew he was one of those children that couldn't sit still for long. He had got told off about it on his third day at school. His third! He hated movies because they went on too long. One time, his mummy made him sit through some cartoon called Lord of the Rings. It went on forever and it didn't even show if the little, golden ring was destroyed. Despite this, Luke prided himself upon his ability to listen to stories. He had sat for hours listening to Treasure Island and now his mummy had moved onto some book about a wizard called Harry. Luke was good at listening his stories. He nodded furiously at his grandfather that he could handle any story thrown at him.

“Well, this story started a long time ago. I was probably only a few years older than you are now. I tell you what, I was a lot taller too. I ate my vegetables without complaint,” his grandfather began. Luke felt hot and looked at his feet. Vegetables didn't taste nice. “But that's not important. What is important was I was a scallywag back in my formative days. Always getting into trouble. My mother, your great-grandmother, oh, her hair curled rotten from all the stress I gave her. Climbing trees, getting into fights, wading knee-deep through the river down behind the old museum.

Now, me and my friends had heard a rumour about the House-That-Never-Was. Yep. Heard that the old principal had gone there one day and came back as white as a ghost. So naturally we decided to go and find it even though all our mothers, fathers and great-aunts had told us to stay away from it. Well, there was no buddy system back then. We figured if we split up we'd cover more ground. I was given the park. That would be on account of the fact that I was the best whole watcher in the group. I could notice a drawing pin from fifty paces back in the day. Now, what's in the park by old St. George's Church, Matthew?”

Luke scrunched up his forehead. He pictured the grass and trees inside his head. The park was quite big. It was bigger than the playing fields at school. Listing off all the stuff within the park, Luke watched his grandfather nod to each thing: the trees, the playground, the big hilly islands between the normal grass, the ice cream store and the secret gardens that Luke was only allowed to go into with his mummy.

“Yep. The secret gardens. There's a reason why you're not allowed in there on your own,” his grandfather said, sitting upright a little more. His skin seemed a little too tight, like holes might appear if he moved too quickly. “It's very easy to get lost in those gardens with all those creepy vines and overgrowing plants. You could get swallowed up in there. Exactly why I decided that was wear the House-That-Never-Was had to be. I had a little snoop around the plants and got cut all down my arms. Tore my shirt too, which made your great-grandmother livid.

Anyway, I had nearly given up hope. I thought I had got it wrong. Maybe the House-That-Never-Was wasn't in the secret gardens. My stomach felt pretty heavy at the idea that maybe Neil Fairbrother might find the place before me. I was about to give up and then something just caught my eye. I don't know how I missed it. Like I said, I had the best set of eyes in the entire country. Nestled in between the vines, the green tentacles wrapping around it like some angry octopus, was a gate. You can understand my thinking, Matthew? If there was a gate then surely that must lead somewhere. I ran so fast over there that I probably would have run a gold medal for one of those running races.

First thing I noticed was that the gate wasn't rusted up like the old barn door to my uncle's farm. No, this gate had been opened recently. I remembered the old principal looking so pasty white. Yep. I knew I had found the House-That-Never-Was. And what a house it was. I stepped through the gate and there it sat in front of me. It had to be at least four hundred rooms long and two hundred high. The roof disappeared into the clutches of the clouds. I imagined the birds themselves had converted the attic. Well, I had quite a dilemma on my hands now, Matthew. Did I go back and get the others? Of course not, I went straight up to the front door and pushed it open.”

Luke's crinkled up his nose as he tried to picture the House-That-Never-Was. The park, let alone the secret gardens on its own wasn't that big. How could a house four hundred rooms long and two hundred rooms high fit in the park? Also, Luke thought as his tongue ran along his teeth, if the house was so tall then why couldn't he see it up in the sky whenever he went to the park. It didn't make much sense.

“Now, the House-That-Never-Was is a strange place, Matthew. I walked in and there was instantly in a wide, long room. There were chairs that looked as ancient as the Colosseum and cushions that looked as futuristic as to come from one of those space films your silly father used to watch. There were painting of lords and ladies on their grand horses and moving photographs of people floating across planets. It seemed to have a little of everything. And that wasn't all. Every room was the same as the last. I walked for hours and hours and nothing seemed to change until I realised that the room was now an oval, the paintings were gone, the chairs had been replaced by a table and a man was waiting for me. I hadn't noticed. It had happened so slowly over so many rooms my eyes didn't even spot it. And I had the best eyes in the entire town!

Well, I was quite alarmed now as you might imagine. I didn't know what time it was or even if it was the same day and now I was stuck deep inside the House-That-Never-Was. The man was still staring at me from behind the table. He was old, very old, indeed. Barely had any hair and what he did was grey. I remember thinking he looked a little odd because his skin looked a bit yellow. Well, I was always raised to be a polite young man and so I introduced myself and he nodded and smiled. He said he remembered. He said he was me!”

Luke's eyes were locked upon his grandfather. The description of the man in the house was very similar to what Luke could see now. Maybe it really was him in the House-That-Never-Was. Luke sat up a little straighter. His grandfather yawned and Luke could see the blackened spots all over his teeth.

“And that's why I've got to be going. I've got to go and meet my younger self or the whole universe might explode!” his grandfather finished and Luke found himself nodding. “So you be a good boy for your mother and don't go causing any trouble while I'm gone. You may have to take care of her for a while, I remember myself saying that I'd been waiting for quite some time. But don't worry, Matthew. One day, I shall come back. Yes, I shall come back. Until then, there must be no regrets, no tears, no anxieties. Just go forward in all your beliefs and prove to me that I am not mistaken in mine.

Now, go and get your mother back. I need her to arrange me a cabbie.”

Luke waited a second. He hardly understood what his grandfather was talking about but the look in his eye said that there were to be no further questions. Climbing out of his chair, Luke gave his grandfather a quick hug and he could feel his grandfather's arms wrapping tight around him. Then without another word he wandered from the room.

Already, Luke was thinking about sneaking into the secret gardens.

[James]

NEW TOPIC:

Dilapidated

[James]

The Kethso National Airport was a perfectly to scale model of an actual developed airport. Whereas European terminals were beginning to sprawl out in all directions, the Kethso National Airport had one elongated, brick building. It was the former home of the country's first governor, Sir Henry Tipping. When he died, his family sold up and raced back to the Motherland, selling the manor house to a country that could hardly afford it. Around the old stately home, parched, yellow grass had been burned away at either end of a dirt runway. Most planes took advantage of the precious few added metres of flat ground. The airport was quite simply: small, reliant on favour from Britain and barely functioning.

In other words, Kethso National Airport was the ideal metaphor for Kethso itself.

Mr Jack Holtby, MBE, MC of Her Majesty's Commonwealth Office was the only person who did not blink or gawk at the tiny airport as he descended from the plane. He had seen it twice before. As a young boy, the airport had seemed huge, frightening and a sense of promise all at once. The gateway to Jack's new life as a charge to some wealthy benefactor he had never met. The airport seemed far smaller, more quaint, when he saw it a second time. A final reflection of a place frozen in time before he departed north to El Alamein.

The boy who had left Kethso was by all local accounts, a good-looking lad. He was tall and stocky in that proud Scottish tradition. His eyebrows were perhaps, said some of the shrinking old ladies, an inch too thick. Aunty Helena would comment that he tanned too much. Mrs Dalliard suggested he was a little too square-jawed to be properly handsome. The young women of Kethso had no such complaints. For two years, in the twilight zone of adolescence and adulthood, Jack would be seen with a young girl clutching his arm at every sociable event. Dances, dinners and balls were far too many for such a small country. Then the war came and whisked him away before he could properly decide who would receive his letters of fear and bravado.

Over twenty years had passed and much to Aunty Helena's would-be chagrin, he was still as tanned as ever. One didn't spend much time under the suffocating greyness of British skies when they were working in the African branch of the Commonwealth Office. A tan was a badge to wear. To show the men clearly back in London, this was the man who was helping to disassemble the Empire. Mrs Dalliard would tut at the continued squareness of his face and the even bushier, somewhat unkempt eyebrows. Those young women who had once followed him everywhere would perhaps be both relieved and disappointed. His face still carried that cheery charm and his bulk was still of a leaner sort than the comfort most middle-aged men take. Yet, his black locks were now streaked with salt and whiskers of hair grew in places that had once been clean and smooth. It didn't bother Jack. His letters now had a recipient and she was waiting for him somewhere in a flat in Kensington. Even if Miss High-Commissioner Daughter had been eyeing him all the way from Mafeking, Jack had no reason to flatter her beyond a few prolonged glances.

As the others ambled to the manor house, Jack paused on the runway. There was something distinct about the air in Kethso. It was drier. It sucked the moisture right out of his mouth. Jack smiled. It was like the country itself had kissed him home in the most unpleasant but comforting way possible. Sticking his hands deep into the pockets of his brown suit, Jack followed the crowd who were nearing the doors of the now airport terminal. With a grin, he spotted the same gargoyles that had fascinated him as a child. They peered down at him from the building's roof, judging the visitors to their country. The statute of Queen Victoria stood proudly in the front garden, now joined by one of King George VI, resplendent in military dress. Even the old brass door knocker still glinted in the ever-watching African sun. How remarkable, Jack thought to himself. The winds of change seemed to have passed over Kethso without effect.

It was a pity he had arrived to sweep it all away.

“I say Jack,” a voice called out as he entered the house. The group had congregated in the middle of the wide, empty foyer of the manor house. There were doors to either side and a grand stone staircase leading upwards. “You've been here before, you're the local so to speak. Where do we check-in and have something to drink?”

The High-Commissioner was striding over to him, breaking free from the ring of frizzled passengers. At what point did you stop being a local, Jack wondered. It had been over twenty years since he had last set foot in the country. He was no more a local of Kethso than Prince Philip was of Greece. Still, Jack plunged his hands once more into his pockets and swivelled on the spot. It was better to humour an unelected official. Indeed, it was surprising that no one had rushed forward to meet the delegation. Jack remembered being handed complimentary hats, cheese and crackers when he had arrived here as a boy. Now, the building was empty.

It still looked in remarkably good nick. The wooden floor was of the variety that a person intrinsically trusted. A floor you could rely on. While larger and wider cobwebs had taken resident on the panes of glass, the windows were staunchly keeping the indoor mass of dry, stale air from mingling with the same sensation outside. A painting of Livingstone, Jack presumed, continued to hang in a position of prominence above the stone staircase. It was exactly how he remembered the airport. Except the complete lack of staff to offer you seats and a refreshment.

“Maybe try the kitchen, sir?” Jack said, the High-Commissioner now within reach.

Before the man could respond, there was the unmistakable sound of rattling metal and the groan of an opening door. The small, sun-burnt man who had flown from Mafeking was crouched down, struggling to lift the trolley up over the front steps. The metal cart was filled with an assortment of suitcases and baggage in varying shades of colour. Jack spotted his small, maroon bag being crushed by one of the Commissioner's Daughter's trunks. The wheels of the trolley bounced against the final step and the pilot toppled to the ground, grunting as his tail bone struck the wooden floor. Pulling out a handkerchief from his top pocket, the man coughed into it. Jack was reminded of machine gun fire; the coughs breaking out in short bursts until the pilot placed the blood-stained handkerchief back into his pocket.

The High-Commissioner had walked away, his strides longer and faster than before. The group welcomed him back into their circle, murmuring excitedly with wide-eyes and disapproving glances.

“Need a hand?” Jack said, moving forward to the trolley. Somehow the pilot now looked paled beneath his reddened skin, a ghost caught in the desert. He nodded and together the pair lifted the trolley into the foyer.

“Thank you,” the pilot said, rubbing at his throat. Jack spied darkened spots running down the skin. “If I could have everyone's attention. Please. Yes, thank you. Your luggage is all here. The plane's leaving in an hour so if you left anything on-board, best tell me now.”

“Where is everyone?” an indistinguishable accent called out from the small congregation.

The pilot paused for a moment to pull out his handkerchief, spluttering into it several times before answering. “This is everyone. Strictly speaking, sir, the airport is closed down. This here being a diplomatic mission we gained permission to use it. Your cars will be here shortly, don't worry. Won't have to stay for long.”

Several members of the group opened their mouths and then clamped them shut, shaking their heads and wandering over to sit down upon the stone staircase. Jack caught snippets of conversation:
“disgraceful”, “uncivilised place”, “permission from who, Daddy?” before the pilot was coughing again. It didn't rattle as much and the handkerchief was tucked firmly within the man's pocket. “Mr Holtby,” the man said quietly. “Your driver is already here. No need to watch over this lot.”

Nodding, Jack moved over to the trolley and gently eased the baggage of various dignitaries around so as to reach his solitary bag. The pilot moved over to one of the doors and disappeared into another room. His splutters echoed out back into the foyer. Jack wasn't sure he'd be entirely confident having the man as a pilot again. Still, the old boy didn't inflict his ailments on the world and Jack didn't want to draw them out of him. Instead, he swung his bag over his shoulder, ignored the Commissioner's Daughter's sultry gaze and wandered out through another door that led to the back exit and therefore the entrance to Kethso.

“Good to see you again, Mr Holtby,” and Jack instantly recognised the low, soft tones of Ime the Servant Boy. He was no longer the scrawny runt that Jack remembered saw him off to war. He was a man. Taller and broader than Jack had ever been, his powerful legs stuck out from pale shorts.

Jack seized the hand that hadn't yet been offered. Maybe the man still stood on ridiculous ceremony so many years later. “Ime, so good to see you. Are you still working for Sir Duncan? I thought Chris would have got you out of there quick snap.”

The question wasn't borne out of that urgent desire to make small talk when confronted with an unexpected familiar face. Where the tendrils of your brain reach out for anything that resemble a conversation. No, Jack was surprised that Ime was standing in front of him, ready to whisk him back to Sir Duncan Cartwright's home. Three years of war together and another four years at Oxford and Jack was under no illusions about how much Christopher cared about his younger brother, Ime. In the peaceful moments between bombing runs, Chris would go on and on about the importance of education. If he could get a degree, he would say under the meagre light of Italian stars, then he could find a job and Ime could live with him in a flat in London, New York or even Sydney. Nights at the halls in Balliol were spent either drinking or writing letters back to Ime so “the boy could learn to read.” Whereas Sir Duncan had happily paid for Christopher's education, the gratitude did not extend to Ime.

There was a world of difference in liberal society between doing nothing and “you know, dear, I've funded that intelligent native servant of mine. He studies at Oxford! I know! Absolutely amazing.” Unfortunately for Ime, it was a case of diminishing returns. No one cared after the first one. Maybe that was when Christopher started to question the wisdom of his overlords.

“Chris has promised me a job,” Ime said, his hand slowly gripping Jack's. “But it must wait for now. It's important I stay where I am.”

“Can't see the importance of being Sir Duncan's driver,” Jack replied, grinning broadly, still seeing the boy he used to teased with Christopher. Ime gave him a half-smile, taking Jack's bag from the man's hand without a word. He would explain all once they were in the car.

Before Jack could even ask what type of cars had found their way to Kethso, he was confronted with Sir Duncan's form of transport. Somewhere, he heard the fire of German artillery and the whistling of a bomb. Jack stood rooted to the spot as Ime threw his luggage into the back of an old SAS Jeep. What the devil was one of those doing in Kethso, Jack thought to himself as his feet slowly remembered their role. He climbed gingerly into the passenger seat, pushing memories of darkened, cold, desert nights out of his mind. Ime hopped easily into the driver's seat and brought the engine to life. Jack cringed, his body shivering.

“What has Sir Duncan got one of these for?” he asked, his voice straining to reach over the guttural growling of the antique engine.

“He bought it in some auction in Cairo and had it shipped down here immediately. It cost him a lot. Audrey would have been upset but she was already too far gone.”

Jack chewed on his tongue. Audrey, Sir Duncan's daughter, had passed away to some fever or disease. Jack had wanted to go to the funeral of his almost-sister, but he could not find the time. She died and Sir Duncan was left to mourn alone. Maybe it had not done him good. The Sir Duncan he remembered didn't waste money on trivia. It wouldn't do well for him to have fritter away his money on pathetic expressions of patriotism. The delegation Jack was a part of was sent to tell the last bastions of British elitism that the show was over; the curtain was coming down. They were to relocate back to the homeland or to some other former dominion. The Commonwealth had done the arithmetic. It was cheaper to pay for relocation than to defend British interest in Kethso. The militia forces were growing too strong to ignore. After all, they were led by a Balliol man.

“So about this job of yours?” Jack asked, looking around. They were travelling through some small, sad representation of a town. Shops were boarded up and windows were smashed. The white middle-classes always got the message far quicker than the makeshift aristocracy. Leave now.

Ime smiled, taking his eyes off the road. “I am to serve in government as Chris's assistant.”

Jack nodded, he suspected as much. Christopher was top-dog in the Kethso Uprising. After all, it was why the Commonwealth Office had been so keen on sending Jack out to undertake the last of the evacuations. Maybe he could have a quiet word with his old school chum, make sure that he didn't do anything stupid. There was no need to rush; we were leaving. Picking at his fingernails, Jack looked over at the grown man who was smiling like a child. He didn't really blame Ime. Jack had gone out celebrating when he first joined the civil service and that was as a university man. Going from glorified valet to the assistant of the likely new President was a promotion a person was allowed to grin about.

“Still with Sir Duncan, though?” Jack said, his eyes turning to the road, making sure that Ime wasn't about to drive over a pedestrian. The road was empty. The buildings had disappeared. “Christopher isn't keen on bringing you into any fighting?”

“No, no. My role is crucial. Sir Duncan is the one who Chris worries about. He still prowls his land with a rifle and this jeep. I am Kethso's spy. I tell Chris what the man is planning, when he leaves, when he sleeps.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong here, Ime,” Jack said, the words slowly drawn out, stretching from his lips. “Aren't spies meant to keep their job secrets?”

Ime laughed from deep within his stomach. “Chris says that's the European way with their deceit and hiding in the darkness. In Kethso, there's no darkness! The sun watches you, makes sure you're an honest man.”

“And are you honest to Sir Duncan?”

“Of course,” Ime nodded. “It's not like he listens to a word I say anymore. Audrey was upset but there was nothing she could really do.”

“She could have reported you to the police, Ime.”

The deep, stomach-born laugh returned to mask the whining of the jeep's engine. Even Jack allowed himself a smile in spite of himself. He guessed it was a bit of a long shot that Christopher hadn't discovered the descent of British rule in Kethso. There were police stations dotted throughout Kethso, of course. Off the top of his head, Jack counted that maybe three had anybody in them. Of those three, only one actually had someone with a gun or a baton. The other two were garrisoned with cleaners. Kethso wasn't governed by the fear of the state. It was governed by the collective good-will of everyone to behave on the assumption that within the year, every white man would be on a plane to somewhere else.

“Say, Ime,” Jack said, taken by a spark of an idea. “Since we're all honest men under the Kethso sun, what about these rumours I've heard that Christopher is arming himself with Soviet weaponry?”

“Don't worry about that. It's just to make sure that you lot know we're serious. We won't use them unless we have to.”

“That's good to hear,” Jack nodded. The guns themselves weren't what really concerned Jack. He suspected the militia didn't need guns to overrun the British forces within Kethso. A good steak knife would probably do the trick. “But Christopher doesn't mean to shack up with the Kremlin, does he?”

The jeep rattled as it leapt over a small bank, the engine screeching over Ime's laughter. “Not at all! Just because we take their guns doesn't mean we take their influence. After all, you gave us a country, that didn't stop us from rebelling!”

So much for the honesty of sunlight, Jack thought as he laughed along with Ime. It clearly didn't extend to international diplomacy. At least Kethso was just using the Soviet's desire to poke the West with a stick for their own ends. It was better than climbing into bed with them. Settling into the old SAS jeep, Jack pushed away the faint, nagging recollections of gunfire that pulled at his temple. He turned back to Ime, talking about the old ladies of Kethso, the miners and the insufferable grand old gentlemen. Any topic of conversation to distract Jack from memories of a lifetime ago.

The conversation flowed like a powerful, never stopping river sweeping along the road as they drove. How was old, Mrs Dalliard? Dead. That's a terrible shame, what about Aunty Helena? Went away, married some wealthy American. Somebody has to, Jack offered to the conversation and Ime laughed. What about Tess, Linda, Joseph, Rebecca, all the old gang? Married and back in England, died, working in Australia, some lawyer in Canada. As far as Jack could tell, everyone had moved on. It was as if Ime was telling him there was no one left in Kethso except Sir Duncan Cartwright. Everyone else had died or fled.

“Same as ever?” Ime asked, nodding his head at the building upon the horizon.

An Englishman's home is his castle. In Kethso, Sir Duncan had almost took that statement literally. His estate spread out so wide it seemed conceivable that the whole of the country would lie within the borders of his home. The large, black grating of the fence rose up on either side of them as Ime slipped through the automatic gate. Jack knew with complete certainty that hadn't existed before. Hours of his teenage years had slipped past, climbing off horses to open and close the gate each time. Bizarrely, the grass seemed greener on the other side of the fence. A lot greener, in fact. Jack wondered if Sir Duncan had somehow set up an irrigated system on his grounds. As Ime sped down the past, the jeep's motor screeching, Jack's eyes spun as he thought he saw a peacock marching through the field.

The house itself appeared as imposing and as amazing as it always had. With vast windows and thick walls of stone, it looked as if a great hand had swooped down and moved the house from the fields of Europe. The slow, creeping passage of time that took the form of ivory was nowhere to be seen. The walls were unmarked, naked and proud. Jack's eyes narrowed as he spied the fountain that now sat outside the front door. The stony, twisting snakes and plants that gently dribbled water had not been there when he left. A weight in Jack's stomach began to grow.

“I'm not coming in with you, need to talk to Chris,” Ime said, stopping by the fountain.

Jack still watched the trickling water and then turned to the polished, wooden door. It was new. He slowly climbed out of the car, grabbing his bag. The weight was now a pit. Oh, Duncan, you idiot, he thought to himself. “Okay then,” he said absent-mindedly. Ime offered his hand and the smog around his brain cleared away. He shook his old servant's hand vigorously. “You stay safe now, Ime. And send old Christopher my regards, tell him I'll have everyone shipped off for him. No need to resort to guns. Both of us have seen more than enough bullets for a life time.”

“He won't go, you know,” Ime said and for once his smile seemed to falter. Then, the old jeep roared into life and he was racing back down the dirt road of the Cartwright Estate.

Staring after the dust cloud that shrouded the jeep, Jack tried to push the former servant boy's words out of his mind. Of course, he won't go without a fight. It's his home, Jack thought to himself. After all, that was why he was here, standing outside his childhood house. He was here to jolly well convince the old boy to go. He had done it before in more trying circumstances, where he didn't even know the colonialists. People desperately clinging to a past that no longer existed. Hiking his bag over his shoulder, Jack moved beyond the fountain and knocked at the new wooden door. It was taller, grander and yet less imposing than the one that had greeted him as a boy. There was a pause, the barking of dogs, a strangled cry and then the door swung open and Jack was staring into the eyes of Sir Duncan Cartwright.

Madness is sometimes hidden, like an elderly relative talking to someone who has long since died. Sometimes, madness is obvious, like an emperor building a bridge so he can cross it. Jack looked into Sir Duncan's eyes and saw somewhere in between. He didn't necessarily look mad. Wispy hair sat atop a tanned head. Yellowed teeth slipped out from between his cracked lips. It was just the uniform of Africa. However, his eyes... Sir Duncan had deep blue eyes, which could pierce you with a single glance. They seemed lighter now and as Jack looked into them, they were unsteady, losing focus. His was the more penetrating stare. Sir Duncan didn't necessarily look mad, but Jack wasn't willing to bet against him ordering for someone to build a bridge.

“Duncan,” Jack said slowly. Two Boerboels stared up at him from behind Sir Duncan's somewhat expanded girth. There was a moment where Sir Duncan's eyes clouded over and Jack wandered if the man could even see him, let alone recognise him. Then he was pulled into a tight hug, the dogs barking as if a ball had been thrown out of sight.

“Jack, God, haven't you grown,” Sir Duncan was saying, pulling Jack into the house. The door slammed shut behind him. As he was pulled free from the old man's arms, which smelt distinctively of dust and dog, Jack caught sight of the foyer. It was polished and well-cleaned. The staircase had been renovated. Grand portraits of people he did not recognise stared down at Jack. His windpipe clenched slowly shut. Sir Duncan couldn't have more than two pennies to rub together after all this work. He had wasted away his fortune, fixing up a home that he could never sell. Christopher would “reclaim” it, not buy it.

Sir Duncan was still rambling on. The dogs circled around the pair of them, threatening to send someone face first onto the marble floor. “So glad when I got your letter. Couldn't wait for your visit. I've invited everyone. We're going to have a good dance, Jack, just like the old days.”

Before another word could be uttered, Sir Duncan had disappeared toward the kitchen. Jack followed, his mouth dry. There wasn't anyone to come. The various members of the delegation would be arriving at the last remaining strands of imperialism in Kethso and explaining the situation to them. No one was going to have time for a damn dance. Jack sighed. Why did no one stop Sir Duncan from frittering away his money on a fool's errand? Well, the answer to that was obvious. There was no one there with the authority. They'd been no functioning magistrate for the last two and a half years. Kethso had failed Sir Duncan, not the other way around.

“And Audrey will be glad to see you too,” Sir Duncan called from the kitchen. “I imagine she's upstairs getting ready.”

El Alamein was less frightening to Jack than following Sir Duncan into the kitchen. The Italian Front was a stroll compared to confronting the sick, twisted joke of age. He wondered if anyone was in the house with him. Sir Duncan clearly had an array of cleaners and builders throughout the house recently but were any here now, or was Jack left to confront the shattered mirror of his father figure alone. A man who thought his daughter still lived three years after her death. Jack's ears strained to hear some faint footstep on the floors above, but there was nothing but the sound of Sir Duncan tottering around within the kitchen beyond.

Sucking in a lungful of air, Jack clenched his hands and stepped through the threshold. Once again, he was greeted with the absent of age. The cooker was spotless and modern. The counter was made of some freshly cut stone. The window that had been patched up with tape and cardboard from Jack's own lofted front foot drive was now double glazed. It was a kitchen that belonged in a Ritz in London, Paris or New York. It didn't belong in the middle of nowhere, the wilderness of Kethso.

“Look, Duncan,” Jack muttered, scratching his head. Sir Duncan turned to look at him, polishing two glasses with a cloth. “I don't think anyone will be coming to this dance of yours.”

“And why not?” he replied. Whatever else may have changed, the hint of indignation sounded the same. Jack felt something in him break at the sound of the familiar tone.

“For Christ's sake, we're evacuating! Duncan, you know this can't go on. Chri – the Nationalist Congress aren't going to lose. London hasn't got the fight. I'm here to help everyone get out as quickly as possible. I thought it was best I was the one to tell you, but you have to go.”

Sir Duncan placed the glasses down on the counter, his hands devoid of the shaking reflected in Jack's own limbs. The blue of his eyes seemed to deepen and for a second Jack could see the cunning, old mind thinking of a way to make the best out of the situation. Then it was gone. His yellowed, chipped teeth coming into view as his lips parted.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled. “I'm all out of marmalade.”

[Croswynd]

The tink of cooling metal intruded on the afternoon air. Grass and leaves swayed in a stiff breeze, and my boots crunched against the gravel. Ahead, a building stood, barely, the paint baked and peeling. A steeple stood resolutely atop the wooden spire, proud despite the rust.

I stalked forward, and wood creaked with every step I took up the stairs. An old doorknob rolled toward me when I came to the door, the board beneath me bending under my weight.

Cobwebs hung across the gap in the doorway, their creator long vanished.

The hole in the door where the knob had stood was rough against my fingers. The strands of web above fell at the slightest movement, tattered, limp and swaying.

A sourness assaulted my when I stepped inside, a stench of mold and bird droppings. My skin felt warm despite the shade. Outside, cicadas droned away the spring in favor of summer.

With a flutter of wings, a bird hopped to one crossbeam after another. It gazed down at me balefully, as if insulted I tread in its domain.

I ignored the bird, and strode forward across the red carpet between the rows of pews. The golden edges of the cloth were faded, filled with holes, worn by time and moth. Much the same were the curtains that lay pooled beneath the cracked and broken windows. Streaks of sunlight illuminated by dust fell onto the old pews.

To the left I went, reaching another door. The initial-scratched wood grinded harshly against the floor, but with a press, I cleared the threshold and stepped through.

Inside, a divan crouched under dust and feathers. Shelves sat empty of their books, pictures and keepsakes. A desk, carved with obscenities, was splintered through the middle as if taken by ax.

My eyes scanned across the room, and they came to rest on the cracked glass of a mirror. The frame hung haphazardly on the wall, and the barest hint of paper peeked out from behind it.

The paper was soft between my fingers, and I gently pulled it out from under the mirror's frame. The face of my son, brightened by a smug grin, returned my gaze. In his hand was a line with a small fish on it.

I felt the corners of my mouth warp into a facsimile of a smile as I remembered his too-large boots and water-stained coveralls. His curly hair. His cocky spirit as he asked for the picture.

"Find it?" he asked behind me, the barest hint of his young voice still there.

I turned and looked at him in his perfectly-sized dress shoes. His straight, gelled hair.

Cocky spirit’s the only thing left in ‘im, I thought.

"Well?" he asked, that same smug grin on his face.

I bit my lip and looked down at the picture again. "Make a copy of it. I like this one."

He reached out for the picture and stared at it for a moment. A chuckle tumbled from his lips, and the twinkle in his eyes increased as he placed the picture in his suit pocket. "Little dirty, bit faded. Told you it'd here, though."

I grimaced now, and I looked up at the holes in the roof. "You were right. Didn't think I'd have to ever come back here again, though."

My son looked around at the old place. "Neither did I. Used to be nice." He walked over to the splintered desk and ran a finger across the surface. "You know, my friends did this. Place'd been abandoned for awhile, so… I figured it'd be fun to explore. Didn't think they'd go and destroy the furniture."

"Kids'll do that to a place like this. Breaking old things since they can't all the new stuff," I said.

He looked over at me now. "Dad..."

"I know, I know." I chewed on my lip and glanced down. "I get it. Better for everyone."

"You'll have plenty to retire on," he said and clapped me on the shoulder.

I shrugged his touch off, and stepped out into the main hall. To my left, the podium I'd stood behind so many times lay toppled. It, like everything else in the old church, was broken, old.

Not worth a thing but the land it stood on.

My jaw worked from one side to the other as I remembered the small congregation that'd flocked there.

"Ready to go?" my son asked.

An itch came to my cheek, and I scratched at it absently. "Yeah. Yeah, let's, uh, let’s get out of here, 'fore… ‘fore the damn thing falls on top of us."

We walked out together. Sunlight blinded me and I held up a hand to ward it away.

"Bright," my son said as he mimicked me.

I grunted in agreement and swung myself into the driver's seat. Cranking the keys in the ignition, I cracked my neck side to side. The car rumbled beneath us. Air, blessedly cool, washed across the sweat already streaked on my skin.

“So, how’d you know it’d be there?” I asked.

We turned out of the gravel parking lot before he answered. “Because I put it there. Mom made me mad, so I hid it where she couldn’t find it.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “A picture?”

He sighed and opened the tablet on his lap. The screen clicked open with a slide of his fingers. “Said it was her favorite.”

“Wa-was a good one,” I agreed around the hitch in my throat.

We drove over a bridge in silence, though the uneven surface caused the tools in the back of my truck to clatter against the metal with each rocking bounce. On the other side was the dirt path, surrounded by trees on either side, that led to the main road.

“We never talked about it,” he said.

“Never talked about what?” My lips and voice formed the words, but I knew.

He scrolled through a file on his tablet instead of answering. I noticed the corner of his mouth twitching. His fingers tapped against the side of the tablet.

The car slowed to a stop, and I pushed the gear into park. The engine noise fell away, metal cooling again with more harsh, sharp tinks.

“Never did.” I whispered.

My words hung in the air, buoyed by the silence. The inside of my mouth suddenly felt like cotton, and I gripped the steering wheel again.

“Why you stopped believing, after Mom got hurt,” he said.

“Wasn’t.” I cleared my throat. “Wasn’t ‘cause of that.”

He looked at me now. “What? Why then?”

I floundered for a moment, trying to think of what to say. It was like the words were stuck down, deep inside of me where I’d locked everything away, down where I’d buried my beliefs. Old, archaic beliefs. New ones, too, like as poison to everyone I told them to.

Didn’t matter but the person they stood in.

“You didn’t care before.” I said instead, and I felt a flush down my neck. “No one did, ‘s I recall.”

He pursed his lips. “Because you kept trying to change things. Kept antagonising Mom. Kept makin’ me do what you wanted, cause you suddenly felt all different-like. Ain’t like you, I kept thinkin’, ain’t like you at all. Ya kept it up all the time… just didn’t stop.” He closed his eyes and raised his hands up and down in front of him like he was trying to calm himself down.

I tapped my thumbs against the steering wheel, and a hot tang filled my throat.

He started nodding to himself, shaking his head, nodding again. “You stopped teaching. I can understand that. Beliefs change, I realize that. I know, I get it now. But you acted terrible to Mom. You were terrible to me, too.”

“Yeah, I know. I know what I did,” I yelled, and I banged my hands against the steering wheel. I turned and waved a finger in his face. “But you two didn’t act no better. Didn’t act like you cared. Just kept tryin’ to change me back. Boy, I… I….”

He was backed up in his seat, white as a sheet.

The itch in my cheek came back, and I scratched at it, turning away. My hand went to the door handle, and I slipped out onto the dirt road.

A beat-up old sign lay nearby, yellow clashing with the dirt and vines covering it. SLOW CHURCH AHEAD, it read in black-stenciled lettering.

I kicked it, and the sign disappeared into the undergrowth with a crashing swash. The wind picked up, coursing through the trees, almost like it was angry with me, the scent of pine pricking at my nose.

Behind me, the clunk of another door opening caused me to flinch. His steps came closer, gravel and dirt shifting loudly.

“I just… just stopped,” I said. “Just felt all pointless. Same damn thing every day. Same smiles, same prayers, same lectures, same words, same… jus-just the same. Didn’t make sense no more. Thought about it too long. Thought too long. Your mom’s thing came after. Goin’ through the motions. Just a job, a thing to do. Then I just stopped.”

Another step closer. “So why were you so… against… selling?”

That damn itch came again.

This time, I ignored it, and I turned to him.

“What if I’m wrong?” I asked, and I laughed, but it was hollow in my chest. “What if I’m wrong, and I abandoned everything and when I die, there’s nothing left? Not even that damn building. Not even that place where I stood, and I said those words and believed so easily and thought for sure… thought it. Then that’s His last place in my life, ‘a refuge for the needy in their distress, a shelter from the storm’. My distress. My storm.”

He looked down, and pulled the picture out of his pocket, looked at it. “I don’t know, Daddy. I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I wonder if I’m wrong, too. But I believe. Nothing else I can do.”

He held out the picture.

I looked at it, stared at the faded image. Safe from total destruction behind the frame, but still time ran its aged hand across the paper. Old, neglected, just like the church.

Just like me.

I ground my teeth together. I tapped my foot, tapped my finger against my leg. Closed my eyes, listened to the wind, felt the sun on my skin, breathed, thought. I thought, and it felt like I was standing there forever, standing on the edge, just waiting, one foot off and ready.

“Keep it,” I said, shaking my head, decided.

“Daddy…” he started, his shoulders slumping.

I drew in a breath, and I let it out. I looked up at him, straight in his eye.

“But make me a copy.”

[J.O.N ((Dragonwing))]

James
I liked it, you did a good job of painting a picture of this former British Colony and the effects of decolonisation. Jack was an interesting character and you were able to paint his backstory really well without dragging at the present day events. Opposite of that, I felt you built up Duncan somewhat, but didn't really deliver. I think the main reason for that is that the story cuts too short. It feels like something that should've been longer with more interaction between Jack and Duncan and maybe later on Christopher. Almost as if you got to a certain point and realised you had to submit it before it got too long. I did enjoy it however, it feels as if it would be a fantastic novel.

Croswynd
Welcome back, now that is out of the way. Heh, I found how you laid out the story rather strange, very short paragraphs. I'm not sure why you chose that, but I didn't like it. Breaks in the paragraphs kept throwing me off. Unlike James you did a good job keeping it a contained story which was good, however I had trouble empathizing or even connecting with the characters. It's probably because it's such a short story, if it had been longer you could have expanded on their backstory and personalities. You did get across some good personal ticks however, like the timidness of the son and the itch of the father. The emotions seemed to be lacking though; an example being:

“Yeah, I know. I know what I did,” I yelled, and I banged my hands against the steering wheel. I turned and waved a finger in his face. “But you two didn’t act no better. Didn't act like you cared. Just kept tryin’ to change me back. Boy, I… I….”

While you did straight up state he yelled, I had difficulty imagining that in my head. It didn't seem to fit the narrative up until that point of being sombre, and yet also didn't seem to manage to break it either.


While you both had minor grammar/punctuation mistakes, they were so minor I feel it's just nitpicking if I point out a missing s.

Overall I think I want to vote for James, his story although feeling short, created a better character driven narrative than Croswynd.

JAMES

[Sensar]

James

The piece you wrote for this is strong, James, but I do think it’s suffering from some bloat. If I were reading this as part of longer piece, all of the digressions would be interesting world-building pieces. But I think, reading this, that half the exposition could be cut and we’d have a much more engaging and better-paced short story. Or, at the very least, make use of the exposition to further your story.

As a reader, I’m always more interested in getting to know the character in the present first, then finding out why they are like that later. I understand that it’s part of the atmosphere, but to have so much thrown at me so quickly is off-putting. For example, you could condense the paragraph about his attractiveness into the interaction with the Commissioner's Daughter (who we only see a brief flash of), and use it to grow his character it in the present, not the past.

It also might have helped with the abruptness of the ending. The pace just isn't fast enough to warrant any kind of urgency about leaving. There are no stakes. Why not have a dinner party?

Croswynd

Welcome back, Tam.

I enjoyed your intro into the house. You did a very nice job at setting the scene and describing the space. Consider formatting your paragraphs a little differently, though, the piece is very choppy. But on the whole it’s structured well, and ends solidly.

For some reason, the character of the father really frustrates me when I read him. That’s probably half the point, I know, but he didn’t read as an older man, as a father, too me. The way you describe him sucks him of drive, which is great, but it still doesn’t do him or his history justice. Which is a lot to ask of in a short story, I know. But it still bothered me. I guess I felt like I was reading a manga, which is not a good thing. Once I pegged his type I could start predicting how he’d speak and react. And his type was not a father, dilapidated one or no.

Verdict

These are both very nice entries. Both have some grammatical errors and a few odd word choices, but since I'm reviewing, not editing, I won't be picking them out.

The story that gave off the better sense of 'dilapidated' to me was Tam's, despite my issues with the portrayal of the father. The atmosphere was stronger and more consistent, while James' fluctuated in and out of it.

Croswynd

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

James

I really liked this piece, I think, because I could relate to a lot of it. Having moved far from home myself, returning to a place I once loved and seeing how it had changed, for better or worse, is always a poignant experience. I really got that from Jack and Ime, and the conversation between them. Even more so, you did a really good job of conveying the awkwardness of people who haven't seen one another in a long time. The part where Jack gave Ime a little verbal jab, teasing him a bit like he used to when they were younger, and Ime just completely not reacting or at least not reacting the way Jack thought he would; that was a really good touch. All those things you did really well.

I'm going to echo the other reviews, though, when I say it felt a little bloated. Reading it was like inflating a releasing balloon, you invest all this energy into building it up, and then it just deflates all at once with no control. The whole story was building up to Jack's confrontation with Duncan, and then it just doesn't happen. I see what you were going for, adding an additional layer of dilapidation by making Sir Duncan old and senile can completely unfit to be making the kinds of decisions he needs to make... But I think it was the wrong move for this piece and it led to a very abrupt, inconclusive ending.

Tamsauce

Like the others, I couldn't get behind your choice of paragraphs. More so than just the fact that they could have been longer, but rather, in a number of places, they should have been single paragraphs. You said at one point that you started a new paragraph each time you were talking about something different, but you didn't. This is most apparent at the beginning of the story; you talk about the steeple, the doors, the cobwebs, the smell, the birds and you use new paragraphs for each; but it should have mostly been a single paragraph because it was about describing the old church. These aren't separate subjects, they're attributes of a single item.

The really short paragraphs interrupted your flow and caused issues for me; mainly because, later when you get into the dialogue and have to begin making new paragraphs regularly, it became hard to follow. I had to pay extra attention to the punctuation because I couldn't use the sentence structure to designate it as dialogue as easily as is typical because really, it -all- looked like dialogue. I couldn't tell when people were taking and when the narrator was narrating.

For some reason I also had a hard time with accepting that the narrator was an older gentleman. Don't know why, can't really put my finger on it, so that might be my issue.

I did take issue though with the central conflict of the piece. We're essentially talking about a man who lost his faith and it tore his family apart. When it comes down to -why- this happened the answer is, "I just stopped." And then he gripes about how no one cared and no one asked him about it when, even if they had, his answer would have been, "Just because. I got bored."

The dilapidated church represents the dilapidated man who is defined by his dilapidated faith and it all happened because dude got bored of his routine and allowed boredom to destroy his family; and now he may or may not regret having gotten bored.

I couldn't buy into it and I think you could have put a little more thought into it.

Verdict

James. Even though you cut the ending short; you still painted a more vivid picture of dilapidation.
Oddly enough, I think if you'd cut the ending even shorter, ending it as Jack got out of the Jeep and parted ways with Ime, I think it would have improved it.

[James]

NEW TOPIC:

Rural Fantasy

awritersrecluse.proboards.com/post/321803/thread

Blame Zovo.

Can be found at: awritersrecluse.proboards.com/thread/4860/royal-rumble-review

[James]

NEW TOPIC:

This round, we're going to shake things up. I'm going to give you five topics. You get to choose which one you want to challenge me in.

1) Bad Science

Serious or light-hearted stories where the science in it is just plain wrong. Like Venus being a hot, dense jungle or FTL travel being powered through solar energy.

Or the climax of Interstellar.

Zing.

2) Genre: Historical Fantasy

Historical stories, with a touch of fantasy in it. Further, you pick the historical era. Whatever historical setting you choose to write in, I'll write in it too.

3) Setting: Swamp

The story can be anything you'd like, as long as is it predominantly set in a swamp.

4) Character: Wrecker

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wrecking_(shipwreck)

The protagonist of your story must be a wrecker/salvager of shipwreck. That's the only restriction.

5) A Retrospective

This is, perhaps, the most challenging of the five topics. Your story must be a retrospective of you as a baby writer, when you first started to put words to paper. There's two main ways, I can see, to do that:

a) Redo one of your early stories.
b) Write a completely new story that reflects on your earlier stuff.

Like I said, this is probably the challenging one.

[Injin]

What Begins, Must End, and What Ends, Must Begin Again

Life is plentiful here.

The ground weeps of acrid ooze, the smell of ancient beings released into the air. The scent sticks upon you, feeding off of your skin as you traverse the frontier. Forbearers wandered this swamp, this foul land, and wondered if they might find their way out. Many misunderstood the purpose of this place. The place of beginnings and ends.

Death is in the air.

A stench in the air, no plain odor. Those antiquated creatures of old had the laughed quietly when they created this place. Those who came after did not realize what they were breathing in and became incapable of leaving. The air is thick with the last breaths of these people, thicker still as one goes deeper into the Abyss of the Ancestors. Noxious exhalations of the very earth breathe in sweetly, but outwardly they become knives upon the lungs of the unaware mass within. Great creatures, ursine, bovine, anthropine, all falter and die when they are taken from within by the miasmic entanglement inside of them.

Secrets lie in graven ditches.

Just as many dead lay beneath, many forgotten words are hidden here. In the darkest sections of the swamp lay the Temple of the First, stone in a rockless chasm. The augurs of shadows still lay there, their desiccated remains littered with the bites of the starved last children of the land. The temple, once lathed with gold now lies barren, forgotten, besot. Without its purpose, it lays gray, empty. Dead. No longer do the priests say their prayers to their god, no longer do they shiver in almost erotic delight as they breathe in the fumes of enlightenment. They are gone. Their words, dust. Eaten by moths, their parchments lay in rotten piles in the former library within. Tablets, once covered with texts of healing, medicine, treatises on science and art, shattered as if in a mad dash to destroy the most knowledge one could. Behind what was formerly a silken, ebony curtain lies the remains of the last Child. Buried before it was born, the frail corpse is naught but bone, yet untouched by man or vermin. Beneath, lay the last book.

Unsearched for, forbidden knowledge of this temple.

No scholar knows of it, no layman speaks of it, no bard sings of it. Stone its pages, blood its ink, it tells a tale of woe and eventuality. All return to the dust of beginnings, all return to the Temple of the First. In this book lay the last words of unseen men. Yearned and learned, these men grew soulless and passed this reality. They wrote of only one other thing.

The First God.

Before the path to the Temple of the First lays the Path of Remembered Virtues. In life, the people who guarded this way of pilgrims would greet and aid those on their last journeys. Now, where formerly lifeguards stood, now lay rotten corpses, kept fleshy by the peat of the bog. Kind faces replaced by grim visages of grief, these last guardians remain as a reminder to those who might come again that happiness, no matter how pleasing, does not last without remembrance. Virtuous in life, these men are now forgotten. Before, their corpses had been adorned with flowers, their sacred duties fulfilled by their continued presence. Presently, not a single flower blooms in the Abyss of the Ancestors, no name to remember, no virtue exclaimed. A husk of a path, it leads to the Temple, but before it lies another avenue, a path of a different kind.

Unbroken silence beckons in the ebon darkness.

The Cave of Reflection was once a peaceful place. Glowing algae grew on the walls, the faint blue glow a pale light of quieter time bathing those who entered with a welcoming glow. Eager eyes would now not find the same plant-life. An umbric aura has replaced the blue, the shadows leaking an unseen light as one enters the cavern. No torch can brighten this pitch without swallowing the wielder in a magmatic wall of final cremation. The deep dark, once burning out those who foolishly try to reveal what cannot be seen, swallows the corpse and consumes what the fire could not. Another reason to be wary upon Reflection. Soon, even the cave will be unable to keep in what yearns for the outside self. A noisy self, a curious self, will become a non-self in these caves.

The Din comes for you.

The Unsound Steps, set in a small valley, seem like nothing at first. A few steps here or there in the mud, brown from rot and disuse, the flat, unremarkable surface hides a secret of hidden proportions. The slightest sound in the vale, no matter how quiet, how careful movements are made, and the stones shift. White as the newest marble, the bones of giants shift beneath the careful foot to drag down the wary and unwary both. A single stone, a carpal of forgotten kin, the beings of the earth long rotted away to become the slurry. The great noise of movement is enough to deafen the most careful acrobat, heavy enough to lift and eject the foolhardy into the putrefactory glop. The ichor of the protolific creatures that strode here tremble but once as the clumsy see no more. Before, the steps were simple raised above the ground, brown with age, the liquid embalming fluid encapsulating them now a relic of a more recent, terrible age. The steps were once to trust the senses of the pilgrims. They only deceive now.

Enlighten lays only in success.

The mangroves in the swamp were once bright, bred for their olive coloring. The groves of man now shine a diseased forested color, identical in their pale humors. Alive, yet smoldering in their own rot, they no longer point the way as they had been pruned to. They circle and waylay. Isolate and alienate. Aloof, they are alone in their forest. The waters beneath had always been shallow, but now the light layer of liquid is home to something more sinister than salt. Creatures, borne from the very rot that now besets the trees, prowl the silt, waiting for the errant foot or staff to latch upon. They do not just wait. The decrepit dead things that lay in the swamp creep behind those who fail to be vigilant. Beckoning to those who have not been here before to join. Turn back, they ask. Stay, they insist.

Die, they whisper.

Before joining them in their self-absolving sin, lies the Edges of Sanity. Or rather, what remains of them. An eon ago, these great jutting cliffs allowed one to see the path all the way to the temple. Taking up the highlands of the swamp, they were among the drier parts and the easiest path. One could rest on one of the summits and feel as if they were about to finish their journey to their afterlives. These days those serene views are gone, the swamp overgrown. The vistas of beauty, the open air of one’s final fall. Should a person decide to walk the same path, they would find themselves falling within a moment’s gasp. The cliffs as they were before being no more. Ragged with age, the winds from the peak of the nearby mountains have shriveled the once phallic monuments to journeys yet to come have become naught but festering stumps. To traverse these Edges, one must back themselves against the basalt cliffs, the slate color bounded by a sobbing blue ribbon, just soft enough for one to lose their footing. Cobalt might lie in these hills, but no prospector has ever gotten a look at the now bare hillside. Those eager to finish this may run across the rims with great agility, but as the name of this place once suggested, they will find their sanity edged out as they breathe the fog of the place in. Too much breath and one loses the capacity to balance, a choking laughter on their lips as they plummet to their deaths. Nitrous Gas, once only at the summit, is easily aroused from its dusty slumber.

The air is thick with death the higher one goes.

The summit of the hills, once a gentle rise, now lay into the hill itself, a caldera, lake of flames emerging from within. Magma, once hidden beneath the earthen shield that the hill, now jump at passersby, the elements themselves at the beck and call of capricious beings. The Apex of Inspiration, as it was at some point known, is now the Nadir of Awareness, the nitrous gases that could be whiffed below in the air above, clouding the mind of any who would breathe it in. The concentration of those who would seek to scale the Nadir will find themselves assaulted in all five senses. Their eyes, blinded, their skin, boiling, their ears, bleeding, their tongues blistering, and their noses, bubbling. To survive the fire-borne pit, one must be quick, and stay no longer than five minutes. This place, afore a place of visions of the great journey ahead, instead beckon an eternal end of thought. Creatures here do not care for anyone’s journeys. They were once placid creatures, but their hunger, once sated by pilgrims, has since gone unanswered. Those who come through to this stage are generally already weakened by the tribulations prior become the meal they so desperately crave.

The Stairs of Wrath, once calming, seamless, exist now in contrast.

Named the Staircase of Dreams, the stairs leading up to the former apex once meandered up and around the hills, crisscrossing the highest ledges and inlaid caverns to reach the summit. Creatures of rock and clay have arisen since, their clawed hands ripping at the heels of any who wish to climb the mountain. Waiting for the first signs of weakness, they whisper one’s insecurities into their ear, voices echoing throughout. Your deepest fears, your quietest anxieties, are brought to life in the guise of voices you care most about. Brother turns upon brother here, thinking that they, unheeded, have betrayed them. Alas, many, young and old, have fallen here, their bodies accumulating along the walls of the stairs, slowly absorbed into the mountainous trail, turned into the very thing that doomed them. For, the creatures of rock and clay come from the deepest parts of the human psyche, feeding. Their home long ago destroyed, they seek revenge on those living, taking the shape of dirt to exact their revenge. They consume, they rend, and then they whisper.

The bog, throughout, breathes a life of its own.

The Pond of Purity, created to grant strength to those who would wander the paths to the temple, now is as foul as the abyss itself. Spread throughout the region, the dark swamp, that bog of ghastly breath, stops many from searching for the temple. This impenetrable fog of unceasing dizziness is the first obstacle. Just as the pond purified those who drank, those who drink from the waters therein are addled. Their brains, minds, scattered, stunned.

And yet, it is the first of the many challenges one must face to reach the Tome of the First God. That temple, that tomb holds the rarest and most unobtainable treasure mankind has ever produced. Immortality. Should some fool-hardy adventurer find the body of the last Child, should they read the tome, should they take in the contents, they will know what to do.

Ascend.

Rule.

Repeat the cycle.

What was once a pond, now an abyss, shall return again to purity. Replaced by its failure, the Reascquescension of whomever gains this power will become the First.

Dare any be this blind?

One should hope that this never comes to pass, for if it does, it will happen again.

What breeds more tragedy more than this?

[James]

Drowning Stars
<removed>

[J.O.N ((Dragonwing))]

Injin

I liked the fact you tackled something that challenged you. I will always award ambition and a story built solely on descriptions is always going to be a difficult undertaking in my opinion. Saying that, even though there were some decent descriptions, they on the whole tended to fall short of actually capturing my imagination. The problem here is that they began to make the story feel tedious to read and that ain't a good thing. Practice your descriptions, I know how hard it is to describe something in your mind and it is something that really can only be improved from practice and reading other stories to see what works.

I would suggest you also break up those big blocks of text. As I said in the skype chat, I get that you were aiming to keep each paragraph focused on one scene/object with the short sentences to separate them. But it just makes it difficult to read them. Don't fear cutting them in to smaller chunks, your readers will still get what you were going for.

I'm glad you tackled an ambitious story, it didn't quite work out but I hope you aren't discouraged from trying to break new ground as a writer.

Agro

Ugh, Maybelline? What is with you and names?

Seriously though. I like how this story reads and feels like a folk tale. It has the right amount of bittersweet and moral life lessons that it could be picked up by Disney. I felt it was limited by its length and the ending came about rather rushed. But it was still a good ending. The description of the swamp seemed a bit too much to just have all crammed up in one paragraph, but I liked how you introduced the wisps.

Maybe not your best story I have read, but I would be interested in seeing you tackle writing more fairy tale like stories in the future.

Vote:

Agro!

As I said, I award you for your ambition Injin, however James's story did a better job of holding my attention and painting a mental image of the events of his story.

[Ad Absurdum]

Injin

The prose here is heavy and thick and murky and sometimes a bit hard to digest. Kind of like…a swamp. Maybe you were going for this kind of literal reflection in your writing, and it does work for a bit. But much like a real swamp, the more you wade in to it, the harder it becomes to move and trudge forward. A promise of second person narrative is quickly extinguished as the pronoun is rarely brought up, which is quite unfortunate. As such it’s hard for me to have a stake in the narrative, and it feels a bit deceitful as it felt like I was going to have myself inserted into the story, with an authentic second person experience. Unfortunately it comes more across as textbook reading, where the descriptions just become thick, and the short sentences are our only gasps of air. Again, maybe that was intentional which is nice, but it just goes on for too long without any satisfying payoff. I just can’t focus and let one setting linger when we’re immediately being thrown forth right into the next one.

And immortality. Eh, of course it’s immortality. I was hoping for something shocking. Something damning. While immortality is a great reward in real life (debatable, of course), I don’t think it’s the right reward for the end of this story.

James

Children are fucking idiots. Bayou Romeo and Juliet had it coming to them. Maybelline, what a silly trickster, although maybe she’s just born with it…



This is why you research names, James

Still the narrative works as you’ve matched up the style of prose with it effectively. It sounds like some wizened old grandmother is relaying this tale to us. There’s always a whiff of tragedy between the lines. There’s a sense of foreboding, like many of the folksy fairytales that come across in a similar style. We get some cool descriptions of the swamp and towns, and they all are pretty effective. And we get to the wisps, which I enjoy, as it’s always grand when it’s the most beautiful thing that turns out to be the most dangerous. Perhaps I didn’t fully believe that they were entirely threatening though, as they never did anything distinctly threatening besides cozying up and looking like a galaxy around their boat. Give us a hint. Have them, burn one of them or try to lure them hypnotically to drown in the swamp.

It’s a bit annoying that they get so passive at the end. I mean, sunrise comes and it seems implied that it’s a bit safer to at least try again? Instead of being invisible twiddling your thumbs. Ranui and Maybe-it’s-Maybelline have both been built up to be characters who act, so it seems disingenuous for them to suddenly just stay still for that amount of time.

Despite that, I still enjoy the ending. The right amount of tragedy, taken from folktale roots, and it feels like something that would fit in there. I liked it, despite those qualms.


Vote: James

[James]

NEW TOPIC:

Right, I'm going to adopt the multi-topic format again. I'm going to hand out five topics and you write whatever one you want and I'll be forced to follow.

1) Prompt: Doppelgänger

I'm heading back to the old, single word prompts we used to do for this one. Just write a story that is somehow connected with, relates to or is inspired by the prompt: doppelgänger.

2) Setting: The Afterlife

Tell whatever type of story you want, but it has to be set somewhere "beyond".

3) Style: Academic Paper

The story can be about whatever you like, but it must be told in the style of an academic paper.

4) Character: Wrecker

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wrecking_(shipwreck)

The protagonist of your story must be a wrecker/salvager of shipwreck. That's the only restriction. (I liked this one. Sue me, I can use it again)

5) Choose Your Own Prompt

A-yep. I'm throwing this thing wide open with this last one (in case no one likes the four above). -You- pick the prompt. Write a story, post it, and tell me what the topic/prompt is. And then I'll write to that prompt.

There's a lot of room to try and knock me off my throne here. You can either write to your strengths or if you know me well enough, write to my weaknesses.