I thought I’d make a post, since not only has it been a disgraceful amount of time since I actually made one, but I actually got asked to do one by a certain Kitty (and the last time I pissed off a cat…let’s just say, I nearly got mistaken for marmite at the hospital…yeah).
But anyway I thought now would be a good time to pay my respects to the Harry Potter franchise. Yes, that hyperactive little emo Harry Potter is hanging up his wand for the last time as the conclusion to the film series hits our screens in the next few days. And it’s a good opportunity to reflect back on the last few years to see how this franchise has become one of the most successful movie franchises of all time (Take that Star Wars!)
I have to admit, the films have never really done it for me. The innacuracies have been a major put-off, and let’s face it, they range from the simple oversight to simply ignoring the book in some cases. And the final book was also a bit of a let-down, since Rowling seemed to go on a bit of a killing spree and took out half of the cast during the story. They also became darker in tone as they progressed, and I don’t know whether Rowling was doing this to keep up with the age of her original readers (In which case, nice move), or if they simply stopped becoming children’s books and became more targeted at adults, which goes against their original intention (Which for me says ‘selling out’). And then there’s the fangirls. I’ll be blunt, I’m wary of most fan fiction relating to this franchise, especially since brining myself to read the infamous ‘My Immortal’ (well, I started, but had to stop after my eyes sort of imploded and I began to eat my own face). There are plenty of good ones however, and it’s impressive to see the amounts of dedication and creativity that go into these stories. So well done to those fans, and the rest of you…well, you know where to go.
So you’re probably thinking I’m very anti-Potter by this point (assuming you’ve made it this far). Well in truth I am and I’m not. As I got older I started to become weary of the books, and recently have noticed several plot-holes and other nit-picks which kill the illusion of the original stories. But looking back, I realise how much of an impact the books had on me growing up. I almost certainly wouldn’t be a writer if not for them. Rowling’s books taught me that fantasy didn’t always have to be about men in armour fighting with unrealistically huge swords. That it could be far more subtle, realistic even, and didn’t have to take place in ‘ancient’ times. It taught me how to create a range of characters with different backstories, and how to bring them together for an exciting read. Most of all, it taught me how to create a world. I know for a fact that I wasn’t the only one to grow up waiting for my Hogwarts letter. The world of Harry Potter was one of danger, adventure, friendship, heroism, it was to all intents of purposes, magical. I praise J.K. Rowling for being able to create such a world, with such a variety of great characters and a truly timeless story. Not only that, but also being able to create one of the best known series of books of all time. Anyone who writes has tried, but Rowling managed to do it, and for that I salute her.
To have the final film released is in many ways a shame, but at the same time a huge tribute to Rowling and her works.
Right, nerdgasm over. Time for bed.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
On The Subject of Prejudice
I’ve noticed a lot of posts from the blogs I watch regarding abuse and bullying suffered as a result of being an individual. After reading these posts, I can only offer my deepest sympathies to those who’ve suffered and continue to suffer for being yourselves. But listen guys, you’ve come through more than most people should and indeed can suffer. And yet you’re standing proud, still holding onto your beliefs and ideologies, and have got amazing and successful lives ahead of you. Those who’ve shown themselves to be close-minded cowards will remain so forever, and lead lives dictated to them by society. Boring, mundane, and ultimately joyless. My hat goes off to those who have decided ‘No, I don’t want to do things the way ‘normal’ people do. Now fuck off and let me live the life I want to plzkthxbai’.
Reading these posts I also feel mightily humbled, and likewise relieved that the most I’ve ever got for my style have been pleadings from my family (I will continue to wear a hoodie and trilby together until I decide otherwise dammit!), and being compared to The Batman by some charming shitfaced gentleman when making my way home in Lancaster one night (comparing me to a billionaire crime fighting super-dude with a butler and a car with more firepower than the average battle tank is SUCH an insult…B[).
In any case, here’s my way of paying tribute to everyone and anyone who’s suffered as a result of the way they choose to dress, their tastes in music, or just for being different. Dedicated to Amy, Kitty, Vicky, and anyone else who’s ever suffered for being part of a subculture such as ours:
It was night when they came
Where from, we could not say
Nor could we say why
But they were there, and so where we
First came the words, the harsh volleys of hate
The names
The jeers
We ignored them
Then came the stones
The bottles
The bricks
We moved on, away
But they followed
Soon the fists were flying
The blades were dancing
And the blood was pouring
They said it was to teach us a lesson
A punishment for being us
Why can’t we as a society move on from our insecurities and embrace those who are different as people, rather than cast them asunder like scum?
Regards, Laurence
Reading these posts I also feel mightily humbled, and likewise relieved that the most I’ve ever got for my style have been pleadings from my family (I will continue to wear a hoodie and trilby together until I decide otherwise dammit!), and being compared to The Batman by some charming shitfaced gentleman when making my way home in Lancaster one night (comparing me to a billionaire crime fighting super-dude with a butler and a car with more firepower than the average battle tank is SUCH an insult…B[).
In any case, here’s my way of paying tribute to everyone and anyone who’s suffered as a result of the way they choose to dress, their tastes in music, or just for being different. Dedicated to Amy, Kitty, Vicky, and anyone else who’s ever suffered for being part of a subculture such as ours:
It was night when they came
Where from, we could not say
Nor could we say why
But they were there, and so where we
First came the words, the harsh volleys of hate
The names
The jeers
We ignored them
Then came the stones
The bottles
The bricks
We moved on, away
But they followed
Soon the fists were flying
The blades were dancing
And the blood was pouring
They said it was to teach us a lesson
A punishment for being us
Why can’t we as a society move on from our insecurities and embrace those who are different as people, rather than cast them asunder like scum?
Regards, Laurence
Friday, 20 May 2011
Getting One's Steam On
Sorry for the lack of updates people, been so busy lately with course deadlines, job interviews and moving my gear from one end of the country to another. Seriously, it's been a bugger. All paid off however, since I'm not back home for the summer with a job, coming with a guarantee of overtime and my holidays booked off. So whilst I'm doing that I'm using this time to gather together the parts for a steampunk military outfit I intend to wear to Whitby this coming August. It will be awesome, to put it bluntly.
I have in mind something military. I've always been fascinated with Victorian military outfits, as well as the obsession with sticking a peaked cap on anything. So I'll be dressed as an officer of the Imperial Steam Corps circa 1872, during the height of the Undead Wars (will write more about this later to cure the mindfuck).
Elements of the costume will consist of:
A British engine driver's greasetop leather cap, for that peaked cap look as well as putting a bit more emphasis on the 'steam aspect'
A military gothic jacket from Criminal Damage (might also invest in a Sam Browne sword belt)
Will also require some trousers such as these to complete the military look.
I will also require the obligatory set of goggles that one hears so much about these days. Now, a lot of places sell goggles for rather cheap prices, but personally I'd rather like to make my own. So, to the internet to find a decent tutorial that won't potentially bankrupt me. Huzzah.
In other news writing has been going splendidly so far. I've been writing a lot more emotional pieces lately, mainly writing down things I want to say to people to their face but am unable to. I've also been writing up a novel for the Black Library, alpha-nerd that I am. I basically have to have three chapters completed by the end of the next month before emailing them and then waiting for about 8 weeks for a response. Will be fun to do, and the sooner I get published the better. I just want to get my career underway as soon as possible.
Oh, and it's my birthday tomorrow. I shall be leaving my teenage years behind, and moving onwards towards full adulthood. I won't lie, I've many regrets. My life as a teenager was depressingly unfulfilling, with so many chances missed and experiences untried. In many ways though I'm glad to put those behind me, and now can use the fact that I am entering my twenties as drive to make up for it. Making every day count as much as I can. Life starts at 20, so bring it the fuck on.
Regards, Laurence
I have in mind something military. I've always been fascinated with Victorian military outfits, as well as the obsession with sticking a peaked cap on anything. So I'll be dressed as an officer of the Imperial Steam Corps circa 1872, during the height of the Undead Wars (will write more about this later to cure the mindfuck).
Elements of the costume will consist of:
A British engine driver's greasetop leather cap, for that peaked cap look as well as putting a bit more emphasis on the 'steam aspect'
A military gothic jacket from Criminal Damage (might also invest in a Sam Browne sword belt)
Will also require some trousers such as these to complete the military look.I will also require the obligatory set of goggles that one hears so much about these days. Now, a lot of places sell goggles for rather cheap prices, but personally I'd rather like to make my own. So, to the internet to find a decent tutorial that won't potentially bankrupt me. Huzzah.
In other news writing has been going splendidly so far. I've been writing a lot more emotional pieces lately, mainly writing down things I want to say to people to their face but am unable to. I've also been writing up a novel for the Black Library, alpha-nerd that I am. I basically have to have three chapters completed by the end of the next month before emailing them and then waiting for about 8 weeks for a response. Will be fun to do, and the sooner I get published the better. I just want to get my career underway as soon as possible.
Oh, and it's my birthday tomorrow. I shall be leaving my teenage years behind, and moving onwards towards full adulthood. I won't lie, I've many regrets. My life as a teenager was depressingly unfulfilling, with so many chances missed and experiences untried. In many ways though I'm glad to put those behind me, and now can use the fact that I am entering my twenties as drive to make up for it. Making every day count as much as I can. Life starts at 20, so bring it the fuck on.
Regards, Laurence
Saturday, 2 April 2011
A Chance Meeting
It was quiet in the tavern, even as the night drew on. Small huddles of people were grouped around the tables, drinking from mugs and tankards flowing with ale. A fire was blazing in the fireplace, beneath a wall of snarling bestial icons. On the other side of the inn, a young man in a flamboyant outfit was attempting to hold an audience to hear his tales in exchange for coin. Aside from that, it was a quiet evening.
Towards the back of the crowd, in one corner of the inn, a man sat alone, looking into his tankard. He cared not for the chatter of would-be bards, nor for the conversation of others. He kept his eyes on his drink, lost in thought. His faded red cloak was draped over the back of his seat, revealing a studded leather jerkin and short-sleeved mailshirt. He had the build of a warrior, an image enforced by the broadsword hanging from his belt, the number of tattoos and scars that lined his thick arms, and the look in his dark eyes. His eyes told tales of a hundred battles, of dances with death, of lost comrades and fighting far from home. All these thoughts could have been betrayed, had the warrior made eye contact. But he simply stared fixedly at the table, oblivious to all but his own memories as he gulped down the remnants of his tankard. With what seemed an effort, he rose to his feet, and strode to the bar.
The barman waddled over to him.
"Same again?", he asked. The warrior nodded.
"That'll be three shillings then mate".
"Does my service to this village mean nothing?".
"Service alone won't keep this place alive, nor will it put food on my family's table", replied the barman, with a shrug.
"Apparently not", muttered the warrior, glancing at the man's swollen gut.
"Allow me". Both men looked. A woman stood next to the warrior, and spoke in an energetic, shrill voice that seemed alive with ethereal energy.
"Very well", said the barman, reaching for a fresh mug.
"And one for myself", she said quickly, lowering her hood.
"Very well love". With that, the stranger turned to the warrior.
"To what do I owe the favour?", he asked. There was a hunt of suspicion in his voice, that did nothing to phase his new benefactor.
"Well, did you not say yourself, that your service to this village should render all…expenses, free?", she replied.
"You seem to know much of my service", he returned, "How is this?".
"You ask me this question?", she replied, almost incredulously, "You are Gaheris, Son of Gareth. You are a knight of legend, and not undeservedly if half of the stories surrounding you are true". The barman slammed the two foaming mugs on the bar.
"Thank you, good sir", replied the woman, passing the barman a gold piece.
"It's only six shillings love", he began.
"Oh, that's for the rest of the evening sir", she said brightly, "I'm assuming that'll cover us?". The barman nodded shakily, staring at the gold piece with hungry eyes, until he was called over by several more patrons.
"You have my thanks", said Gaheris, "But I would prefer you to refrain from using my past name in this place. The villagers know me as Leonidas, and I do not wish to see that change for some time".
"Of course, but might I ask why?". Gaheris took his pint and took a gulp.
"A name such as mine manages to attract unwanted notice, despite my best intentions", he replied, "And on the subject of names, I still do not know yours". She smiled.
"My name is Tintia", she said. Gaheris looked directly at her on hearing it, and fully noticed her appearance for the first time. Short, pale hair, a spiral tattoo that waved around piercing, bright green eyes, on skin that seemed to glow with some mystic energy.
"Pixie?".
"Indeed", she replied brightly, "And this surprises you?".
"To some degree. There have been very few feykin around here for quite some time". She nodded.
"Indeed, my race likes to distance itself from others as a preference".
"That's something I can relate to", muttered Gaheris, taking another sip from his mug.
"So I have gathered, if you prefer the guise of 'Leonidas' to Sir Gaheris of Logres". Gaheris shot her a dirty look.
"I believe I made myself clear before", he stated, "Need I do so again?". Tintia raised her hand.
"Please sir, I mean no offence. Indeed, I come with honest, good intentions".
"Such as". Tintia paused.
"Perhaps, not here?", she asked, "Shall we return to your table?".
Gaheris resumed his seat, whilst Tintia placed herself graciously on her chair.
"Now, to business", said Gaheris abruptly, "What do you want of me?".
"Before I begin", she said, "I have few questions". Gaheris took another swig.
"Why are you here?".
"It is my duty".
"Duty?". Gaheris placed his mug back on the table.
"In my order, one knight is assigned to a village to protect it. Usually to train the militia, or help in the running of the town".
"And what is it you do?". Gaheris snorted.
"What is there to do? It's my personal law to never become involved in local politics, and as for the militia, I'd be surprised to find a man who knows one end of a spear from the other".
"So you alone manage the town's defence?", asked Tintia. Gaheris nodded.
"Someone of my experience needs little in the way of assistance".
"Indeed. I imagine someone with your reputation requires no comrades", replied Tintia. Gaheris snorted again.
"I've lost too many comrades. Too many men, too many friends. That is one thing you must know about me, pixie. Those around me will die. I am cursed by my profession. At least with my alternative identity, I have no sword-swingers desperate to forge a name for themselves by basking in my shadow".
"Is that so?". Gaheris looked around. Tintia was looking directly at him. Her green eyes sparkled as he stared into them, captivated by her tattoos and pearly white skin. He tried to work out what she was doing, but he could only continue to stare into her shining eyes.
"So, a knight of renown, a warrior unmatched by any, is assigned to keep safe a village in the middle of nowhere, with a yokel army at his command, and living under a false name?".
"What of it?". She gave a small laugh.
"If I might be honest, it hardly seems the life for a warrior of your skill". She leaned closer to him. The scent of a forest caught Gaheris' attention. Of pine-needles and pollen, which increased as they moved closer together.
"It's still a life", he replied, almost breathlessly.
"Surely the great Sir Gaheris would be better suited to a role more…challenging than a nursemaid?". Gaheris suddenly realised what was going on, and rose to his feet, towering over the pixie maiden before him.
"Do not attempt to enchant me, pixie!", he snarled, "I am not some fool with whom you can play your tricks with. Now, get to the bloody point! What do you want of me?".
Tintia blinked, before rising to her feet as well.
"I have come on behalf of my commander", she began.
"If you're looking for a mercenary", replied Gaheris, "I fight for something more than mere coin. I am a man of standards".
"So I see", she sniffed, casting a backwards glance to the patrons behind her, a few of whom had started a fight with the bard, who was using his lute to defend himself from the barrage of mugs and stools that were hurled in his direction.
"In any case", continued Gaheris, gulping from his pint as he sat back down, "I am duty bound to this village. My oath as a knight decrees it". Tintia looked into his eyes again.
"Gaheris. My commander is a powerful man. A man of influence. If I report to him that there is need for a replacement knight in this town, he will have it seen to. You could leave this village forever, and keep your honour and reputation intact. All you have to do is say, and it shall be done".
"But why would I leave? I have found peace here, near enough". Tintia gave another soft chuckle.
"What my commander has in mind is something slightly beyond the role of a hired killer. Indeed, it is something far more superior. What my commander needs is a warrior of experience. Of honour, and skill. You are such a man, Gaheris. To sit here, in this filthy, common inn, to live out your days as a farmer, is not an end worthy of you. You can argue, but you know this to be true". She reached inside her cloak. Gaheris' hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but Tintia produced no weapon. Only a signet band. She placed it on the table.
"My commander's arms", she said, "He has a role for you. One that he is determined for you to have. I am duty bound to keep his name and the role in question to myself for now. Only if you accept can I reveal more. But I can promise you this, Gaheris. You would never want for anything in your life ever again. You can indulge in luxurious food, drink, and women. To live your days in a palace, rather than a hovel. To live like many would kill for. Dwell upon it Gaheris. I will wait for you, by the riverside, should you decide to take my commander's offer. One day is all I can wait".
Gaheris took the seal. By the light of the candle on the table, he could make out the imprint of a dragon, wrapping its serpentine body between the blades of three swords.
He gave a breath of surprise. He'd seen such symbols before. It was an ancient code, but one of the highest honour. But none such as this. Never a dragon, and never three swords. But it sparked a sense of unfathomable familiarity deep inside him.
He looked up to ask Tintia. But the pixie had gone. Disappeared without a trace.
A smile etched itself on Gaheris' hard, unshaven face. Which gave way to a grin, which in turn became a chuckle as he drained the remnants of his mug.
"Bloody pixies", he said aloud.
Towards the back of the crowd, in one corner of the inn, a man sat alone, looking into his tankard. He cared not for the chatter of would-be bards, nor for the conversation of others. He kept his eyes on his drink, lost in thought. His faded red cloak was draped over the back of his seat, revealing a studded leather jerkin and short-sleeved mailshirt. He had the build of a warrior, an image enforced by the broadsword hanging from his belt, the number of tattoos and scars that lined his thick arms, and the look in his dark eyes. His eyes told tales of a hundred battles, of dances with death, of lost comrades and fighting far from home. All these thoughts could have been betrayed, had the warrior made eye contact. But he simply stared fixedly at the table, oblivious to all but his own memories as he gulped down the remnants of his tankard. With what seemed an effort, he rose to his feet, and strode to the bar.
The barman waddled over to him.
"Same again?", he asked. The warrior nodded.
"That'll be three shillings then mate".
"Does my service to this village mean nothing?".
"Service alone won't keep this place alive, nor will it put food on my family's table", replied the barman, with a shrug.
"Apparently not", muttered the warrior, glancing at the man's swollen gut.
"Allow me". Both men looked. A woman stood next to the warrior, and spoke in an energetic, shrill voice that seemed alive with ethereal energy.
"Very well", said the barman, reaching for a fresh mug.
"And one for myself", she said quickly, lowering her hood.
"Very well love". With that, the stranger turned to the warrior.
"To what do I owe the favour?", he asked. There was a hunt of suspicion in his voice, that did nothing to phase his new benefactor.
"Well, did you not say yourself, that your service to this village should render all…expenses, free?", she replied.
"You seem to know much of my service", he returned, "How is this?".
"You ask me this question?", she replied, almost incredulously, "You are Gaheris, Son of Gareth. You are a knight of legend, and not undeservedly if half of the stories surrounding you are true". The barman slammed the two foaming mugs on the bar.
"Thank you, good sir", replied the woman, passing the barman a gold piece.
"It's only six shillings love", he began.
"Oh, that's for the rest of the evening sir", she said brightly, "I'm assuming that'll cover us?". The barman nodded shakily, staring at the gold piece with hungry eyes, until he was called over by several more patrons.
"You have my thanks", said Gaheris, "But I would prefer you to refrain from using my past name in this place. The villagers know me as Leonidas, and I do not wish to see that change for some time".
"Of course, but might I ask why?". Gaheris took his pint and took a gulp.
"A name such as mine manages to attract unwanted notice, despite my best intentions", he replied, "And on the subject of names, I still do not know yours". She smiled.
"My name is Tintia", she said. Gaheris looked directly at her on hearing it, and fully noticed her appearance for the first time. Short, pale hair, a spiral tattoo that waved around piercing, bright green eyes, on skin that seemed to glow with some mystic energy.
"Pixie?".
"Indeed", she replied brightly, "And this surprises you?".
"To some degree. There have been very few feykin around here for quite some time". She nodded.
"Indeed, my race likes to distance itself from others as a preference".
"That's something I can relate to", muttered Gaheris, taking another sip from his mug.
"So I have gathered, if you prefer the guise of 'Leonidas' to Sir Gaheris of Logres". Gaheris shot her a dirty look.
"I believe I made myself clear before", he stated, "Need I do so again?". Tintia raised her hand.
"Please sir, I mean no offence. Indeed, I come with honest, good intentions".
"Such as". Tintia paused.
"Perhaps, not here?", she asked, "Shall we return to your table?".
Gaheris resumed his seat, whilst Tintia placed herself graciously on her chair.
"Now, to business", said Gaheris abruptly, "What do you want of me?".
"Before I begin", she said, "I have few questions". Gaheris took another swig.
"Why are you here?".
"It is my duty".
"Duty?". Gaheris placed his mug back on the table.
"In my order, one knight is assigned to a village to protect it. Usually to train the militia, or help in the running of the town".
"And what is it you do?". Gaheris snorted.
"What is there to do? It's my personal law to never become involved in local politics, and as for the militia, I'd be surprised to find a man who knows one end of a spear from the other".
"So you alone manage the town's defence?", asked Tintia. Gaheris nodded.
"Someone of my experience needs little in the way of assistance".
"Indeed. I imagine someone with your reputation requires no comrades", replied Tintia. Gaheris snorted again.
"I've lost too many comrades. Too many men, too many friends. That is one thing you must know about me, pixie. Those around me will die. I am cursed by my profession. At least with my alternative identity, I have no sword-swingers desperate to forge a name for themselves by basking in my shadow".
"Is that so?". Gaheris looked around. Tintia was looking directly at him. Her green eyes sparkled as he stared into them, captivated by her tattoos and pearly white skin. He tried to work out what she was doing, but he could only continue to stare into her shining eyes.
"So, a knight of renown, a warrior unmatched by any, is assigned to keep safe a village in the middle of nowhere, with a yokel army at his command, and living under a false name?".
"What of it?". She gave a small laugh.
"If I might be honest, it hardly seems the life for a warrior of your skill". She leaned closer to him. The scent of a forest caught Gaheris' attention. Of pine-needles and pollen, which increased as they moved closer together.
"It's still a life", he replied, almost breathlessly.
"Surely the great Sir Gaheris would be better suited to a role more…challenging than a nursemaid?". Gaheris suddenly realised what was going on, and rose to his feet, towering over the pixie maiden before him.
"Do not attempt to enchant me, pixie!", he snarled, "I am not some fool with whom you can play your tricks with. Now, get to the bloody point! What do you want of me?".
Tintia blinked, before rising to her feet as well.
"I have come on behalf of my commander", she began.
"If you're looking for a mercenary", replied Gaheris, "I fight for something more than mere coin. I am a man of standards".
"So I see", she sniffed, casting a backwards glance to the patrons behind her, a few of whom had started a fight with the bard, who was using his lute to defend himself from the barrage of mugs and stools that were hurled in his direction.
"In any case", continued Gaheris, gulping from his pint as he sat back down, "I am duty bound to this village. My oath as a knight decrees it". Tintia looked into his eyes again.
"Gaheris. My commander is a powerful man. A man of influence. If I report to him that there is need for a replacement knight in this town, he will have it seen to. You could leave this village forever, and keep your honour and reputation intact. All you have to do is say, and it shall be done".
"But why would I leave? I have found peace here, near enough". Tintia gave another soft chuckle.
"What my commander has in mind is something slightly beyond the role of a hired killer. Indeed, it is something far more superior. What my commander needs is a warrior of experience. Of honour, and skill. You are such a man, Gaheris. To sit here, in this filthy, common inn, to live out your days as a farmer, is not an end worthy of you. You can argue, but you know this to be true". She reached inside her cloak. Gaheris' hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but Tintia produced no weapon. Only a signet band. She placed it on the table.
"My commander's arms", she said, "He has a role for you. One that he is determined for you to have. I am duty bound to keep his name and the role in question to myself for now. Only if you accept can I reveal more. But I can promise you this, Gaheris. You would never want for anything in your life ever again. You can indulge in luxurious food, drink, and women. To live your days in a palace, rather than a hovel. To live like many would kill for. Dwell upon it Gaheris. I will wait for you, by the riverside, should you decide to take my commander's offer. One day is all I can wait".
Gaheris took the seal. By the light of the candle on the table, he could make out the imprint of a dragon, wrapping its serpentine body between the blades of three swords.
He gave a breath of surprise. He'd seen such symbols before. It was an ancient code, but one of the highest honour. But none such as this. Never a dragon, and never three swords. But it sparked a sense of unfathomable familiarity deep inside him.
He looked up to ask Tintia. But the pixie had gone. Disappeared without a trace.
A smile etched itself on Gaheris' hard, unshaven face. Which gave way to a grin, which in turn became a chuckle as he drained the remnants of his mug.
"Bloody pixies", he said aloud.
Thursday, 17 March 2011
An Apology
Hey guys
I'd like to apologise for my lack of updates here so far. I've been fairly busy, with work, looking for a second job, and my course. Indeed, you may have seen my recent uploads of samples of my work. Mainly because as of present I have little else to post. So with that in mind I'd like to ask people, what would you like to see from me? Since my stories have been getting next to no feedback (aside from the brilliant ladies and gentlemens of Brass Goggles), I'd like to know what you think would make my blog better. I'm open to any suggestions, aside from luring people in with prospects of free cookies/porn.
Also, my heart goes out to the people of the Pacific. People of Australia, Japan, New Zealand, Java and all the nations being affected by these tragic disasters, I can only offer my hopes for a recovery, and that the carnage ends soon.
Laurence.
I'd like to apologise for my lack of updates here so far. I've been fairly busy, with work, looking for a second job, and my course. Indeed, you may have seen my recent uploads of samples of my work. Mainly because as of present I have little else to post. So with that in mind I'd like to ask people, what would you like to see from me? Since my stories have been getting next to no feedback (aside from the brilliant ladies and gentlemens of Brass Goggles), I'd like to know what you think would make my blog better. I'm open to any suggestions, aside from luring people in with prospects of free cookies/porn.
Also, my heart goes out to the people of the Pacific. People of Australia, Japan, New Zealand, Java and all the nations being affected by these tragic disasters, I can only offer my hopes for a recovery, and that the carnage ends soon.
Laurence.
Wednesday, 9 March 2011
Creative Writing Sample: Somnium, A Steampunk Horror
Somnium
She sat on the bed, ramrod straight, staring blankly at the wall opposite. The evening sun cast orange rays through the tall windows behind, disturbed only by the shadow of a passing airship. An ornate brass clock, a wedding present from her father-in-law, was ticking above the teak-oak doors, occasionally puffing out little wisps of steam. She ignored this however. Still she stared at the wall, looking but not really seeing as she became oblivious to any sign of life or movement around her as she sat and waited. Waited for word that he had returned. Waiting for an end to her misery.
Even as she thought of him, she turned her head to look at the brass and teak bedside cabinet. A number of objects lay on its shining surface. Each told a story. A red leather-bound notebook with a brass spine and lock had been given to her by Maxlain as he had left. She had used it many times since his departure, mainly as a journal of her depression. A record of her feelings of isolation and abandonment, her undying love for her soldier-husband, and the intense hope she harboured that he would return to her, safe and whole. And it was nearly full now. The book lay next to a small compass that Max had acquired as a souvenir from his first tour of duty. Both of their names were inscribed along the outside. The hand never did quite point north however, but it was in any instance a beautiful piece, covered with intricate markings and patterns which they believed to be of elvish origin. However, between these was a pendant on a slim brass chain, one which Maxlain had made himself. Fashioned from a small brass cog, with a small emerald embedded into the heart, it was closer to her heart than anything else she owned. A simple creation, maybe, but it was a symbol of his devotion to her. Even more so was the fact that he’d made two, one for himself as for Isellen. They were part of a matching set, and the day they would be reunited was the day Maxlain would return to her, for good.
Isellen’s eyes scanned to the dominating feature of the cabinet. A black and white photograph set in a carved ivory and brass frame, showing Maxlain as a slightly younger man, beaming triumphantly as he posed for the camera. A memento from his graduation ceremony, upon his acceptance into the Aether Fleet, where he’d passed with flying colours. He looked so handsome in his blue uniform, shako tucked under his arm, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The look of pride and joy at his acceptance seemed to light up the whole picture. There were other pictures too, from sharing a drink with his commanding officer, to pictures of him standing on parade with the ship’s company. In every picture he was wearing his confident, cheerful grin that made him instantly recognizable amongst a sea of faces. But of all the pictures, the graduation was perhaps her most favourite. Not just for the memories of that day, but because it made her remember just why he was gone, why he was fighting, and in some way, that helped to make it worthwhile.
From outside the room, a high-pitched shriek of a steam whistle echoed through the hallway. Isellen was on her feet and through the door in a matter of seconds after the sound had broken her reverie. The hallway was a virtual rainbow of colour, as the evening sun filtered in through the great stained-glass windows that lined one side of the corridor, casting multi-coloured light over the rows of tables supporting ornaments and the portraits of past family members that seemed to cast disapproving looks at Isellen as she dashed to answer the screaming brass telephone. Waving the excess steam away, she grabbed the receiver.
“Yes?”. The ancient voice of the butler wavered through the earpiece.
“Ma’am, Lieutenant Trennan has just arrived, and requests to see you immediately. Shall I call the elevator?”. Isellen fought to hold her composure. Maxlain had returned. After near endless months of waiting, of constant worry and never-ending yearning, Maxlain was finally returning.
“Yes Barnabus, please do”.
“Very good ma’am”.
Isellen brushed her long dark hair backwards as she gazed into the hallway mirror. A pair of anxious green eyes looked back at her, scanning her face for any imperfection. At the same time, her heart hammered a beat like a steam locomotive, and the mirror even began to mist over as a result of her close, rapid breathing.
“Control yourself”, she muttered. She returned to her room, satisfied, and closed the door. As she did so, she could hear a distant rumbling from outside, which grew louder and louder with each second. Maxlain’s elevator was arriving. The tremors might have only been slight, but to Isellen, each beat was as loud and tremulous as an earthquake.
Almost as suddenly as it had begun did the sound of grinding cogs and straining cables cease. There was a loud hiss of steam and the sound of a bell being struck. It sent shivers up her spine, but not so much as the sound of footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The unmistakeable sound of Maxlain’s boots beating softly as they carried him towards her, and even now she could feel her heart beating even louder. She suddenly dashed to the bedside cabinet, grabbed the pendant and, fumbling with the chain, draped it over her neck, just as the footsteps ceased. There was an almost fearful silence, before three knocks sounded on the outside panel. They were soft and gentle, but to Isellen, each was as loud as a cannon blast.
“Enter”, she said, struggling to find anything more to say. The doorknob rattled, and the oak panel swung open on its brass hinges.
Maxlain stood in the doorway, his shako tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His pale blue uniform was as straight and well pressed as ever, and his face bore that youthful, winning smile that could light up even the darkest of night skies. Indeed, he looked every much the same as he had when he’d had his graduation photograph, except that his uniform now bore several new badges and medals, for service or valour, it was impossible to tell at this distance. But he was here. Alive, safe and well.
“Hello Isellen”, he said.
“Hello”, she replied in a voice barely more than a whisper. Maxlain’s face seemed to shine at hearing her voice as his blue eyes blazed and his grin shone as bright as a star. That same smile that had persisted her dreams for so long, and to see it once more was as gratifying as water to a man in a desert. Holding back her tears, she started towards him. Instinctively, and in the same fashion that had got him into trouble with countless superior officers, Maxlain tossed aside his headgear and spread his arms wide as Isellen leapt at him, flinging her arms around his torso and clinging with all her might. Burying her face in his uniform, she sobbed tears of joy into his tunic, breathing in his scent and gripping as tight as she could. She could smell pipeclay, leather polish, engine oil, and an aroma that could only be described as pure Maxlain.
“I’ve missed you”, she said, in a muffled voice. She felt Max’s strong arms grip around her diminutive form, gently squeezing her affectionately.
“And I you”. He kissed the top of her head tenderly. Her pressed against his chest. She was looking for the pendant. But she could feel no metal beneath the fabrics. Despite her emotions, this troubled her. Isellen looked up to ask Max about this. Her eyes, clouded with tears, took in Maxlain’s skeletal, decaying face, his blazing red eyes, and his fang-like teeth as they leered down at her. Blood was pouring down what remained of his face, as the room around them became engulfed in a firestorm. Petrified, Isellen could only stare into those evil eyes, before she found her voice, and let out a piercing scream that was riddled with sheer terror. But as loud as she cried, all she could hear was the sound of Maxlain’s cruel, malicious laughter as she blacked out.
She awoke with a start. Fumbling for a light, Isellen sprang clumsily from her bed and crashed to the floor. Dazed, her looked around her, blinking. She was in her room. The clock on the wall showed it was past midnight. It was only then that Isellen realised her eyes were moist with tears. Wiping her face on the sleeve of her nightdress, she climbed back into her bed. The nightmares were getting worse. She looked over to her bedside. The book remained there still, as did the compass and the pendant. And Maxlain’s photograph stood proudly and defiantly were it had always stood. The smile might have been a mere replicate, but it was enough to bring a small glimmer of hope in Isellen’s longing heart.
“Goodnight, my love”, she whispered. She then looked towards the latest, and most unwelcome addition to her possesions. A letter bearing the emblem of the Aether Fleet, written by Maxlain’s colonel and addressed to his ‘next of kin’. She had read and re-read it countless times. But whilst it brought no comfort to her, she could not help herself reading it. Even more than she could help being drawn to a particular sentence halfway through the colonel’s condolences. Three letters had been highlighted in red ink. ‘Missing’, ‘In’, and ‘Action’.
A single tear ran down her face as she turned out the lamp and lay down once more, dreading what horrors she must endure once again.
Writer's Comments:
Something I've been working on for a while now, and to see it completed (but by no means finished) is truly a sight to behold. Perhaps horror isn't the best word, I personally described it as a 'steampunk-gothic mindfuck'. Here's hopeing I've achieved that. Also I hope I've acieved the 'gothic' sense of the description. I'll leave that for you to decide.
Regards, Laurence
(As always, all characters, placenames etc, are copyright of me. Respect copyright).
She sat on the bed, ramrod straight, staring blankly at the wall opposite. The evening sun cast orange rays through the tall windows behind, disturbed only by the shadow of a passing airship. An ornate brass clock, a wedding present from her father-in-law, was ticking above the teak-oak doors, occasionally puffing out little wisps of steam. She ignored this however. Still she stared at the wall, looking but not really seeing as she became oblivious to any sign of life or movement around her as she sat and waited. Waited for word that he had returned. Waiting for an end to her misery.
Even as she thought of him, she turned her head to look at the brass and teak bedside cabinet. A number of objects lay on its shining surface. Each told a story. A red leather-bound notebook with a brass spine and lock had been given to her by Maxlain as he had left. She had used it many times since his departure, mainly as a journal of her depression. A record of her feelings of isolation and abandonment, her undying love for her soldier-husband, and the intense hope she harboured that he would return to her, safe and whole. And it was nearly full now. The book lay next to a small compass that Max had acquired as a souvenir from his first tour of duty. Both of their names were inscribed along the outside. The hand never did quite point north however, but it was in any instance a beautiful piece, covered with intricate markings and patterns which they believed to be of elvish origin. However, between these was a pendant on a slim brass chain, one which Maxlain had made himself. Fashioned from a small brass cog, with a small emerald embedded into the heart, it was closer to her heart than anything else she owned. A simple creation, maybe, but it was a symbol of his devotion to her. Even more so was the fact that he’d made two, one for himself as for Isellen. They were part of a matching set, and the day they would be reunited was the day Maxlain would return to her, for good.
Isellen’s eyes scanned to the dominating feature of the cabinet. A black and white photograph set in a carved ivory and brass frame, showing Maxlain as a slightly younger man, beaming triumphantly as he posed for the camera. A memento from his graduation ceremony, upon his acceptance into the Aether Fleet, where he’d passed with flying colours. He looked so handsome in his blue uniform, shako tucked under his arm, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The look of pride and joy at his acceptance seemed to light up the whole picture. There were other pictures too, from sharing a drink with his commanding officer, to pictures of him standing on parade with the ship’s company. In every picture he was wearing his confident, cheerful grin that made him instantly recognizable amongst a sea of faces. But of all the pictures, the graduation was perhaps her most favourite. Not just for the memories of that day, but because it made her remember just why he was gone, why he was fighting, and in some way, that helped to make it worthwhile.
From outside the room, a high-pitched shriek of a steam whistle echoed through the hallway. Isellen was on her feet and through the door in a matter of seconds after the sound had broken her reverie. The hallway was a virtual rainbow of colour, as the evening sun filtered in through the great stained-glass windows that lined one side of the corridor, casting multi-coloured light over the rows of tables supporting ornaments and the portraits of past family members that seemed to cast disapproving looks at Isellen as she dashed to answer the screaming brass telephone. Waving the excess steam away, she grabbed the receiver.
“Yes?”. The ancient voice of the butler wavered through the earpiece.
“Ma’am, Lieutenant Trennan has just arrived, and requests to see you immediately. Shall I call the elevator?”. Isellen fought to hold her composure. Maxlain had returned. After near endless months of waiting, of constant worry and never-ending yearning, Maxlain was finally returning.
“Yes Barnabus, please do”.
“Very good ma’am”.
Isellen brushed her long dark hair backwards as she gazed into the hallway mirror. A pair of anxious green eyes looked back at her, scanning her face for any imperfection. At the same time, her heart hammered a beat like a steam locomotive, and the mirror even began to mist over as a result of her close, rapid breathing.
“Control yourself”, she muttered. She returned to her room, satisfied, and closed the door. As she did so, she could hear a distant rumbling from outside, which grew louder and louder with each second. Maxlain’s elevator was arriving. The tremors might have only been slight, but to Isellen, each beat was as loud and tremulous as an earthquake.
Almost as suddenly as it had begun did the sound of grinding cogs and straining cables cease. There was a loud hiss of steam and the sound of a bell being struck. It sent shivers up her spine, but not so much as the sound of footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The unmistakeable sound of Maxlain’s boots beating softly as they carried him towards her, and even now she could feel her heart beating even louder. She suddenly dashed to the bedside cabinet, grabbed the pendant and, fumbling with the chain, draped it over her neck, just as the footsteps ceased. There was an almost fearful silence, before three knocks sounded on the outside panel. They were soft and gentle, but to Isellen, each was as loud as a cannon blast.
“Enter”, she said, struggling to find anything more to say. The doorknob rattled, and the oak panel swung open on its brass hinges.
Maxlain stood in the doorway, his shako tucked under one arm, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His pale blue uniform was as straight and well pressed as ever, and his face bore that youthful, winning smile that could light up even the darkest of night skies. Indeed, he looked every much the same as he had when he’d had his graduation photograph, except that his uniform now bore several new badges and medals, for service or valour, it was impossible to tell at this distance. But he was here. Alive, safe and well.
“Hello Isellen”, he said.
“Hello”, she replied in a voice barely more than a whisper. Maxlain’s face seemed to shine at hearing her voice as his blue eyes blazed and his grin shone as bright as a star. That same smile that had persisted her dreams for so long, and to see it once more was as gratifying as water to a man in a desert. Holding back her tears, she started towards him. Instinctively, and in the same fashion that had got him into trouble with countless superior officers, Maxlain tossed aside his headgear and spread his arms wide as Isellen leapt at him, flinging her arms around his torso and clinging with all her might. Burying her face in his uniform, she sobbed tears of joy into his tunic, breathing in his scent and gripping as tight as she could. She could smell pipeclay, leather polish, engine oil, and an aroma that could only be described as pure Maxlain.
“I’ve missed you”, she said, in a muffled voice. She felt Max’s strong arms grip around her diminutive form, gently squeezing her affectionately.
“And I you”. He kissed the top of her head tenderly. Her pressed against his chest. She was looking for the pendant. But she could feel no metal beneath the fabrics. Despite her emotions, this troubled her. Isellen looked up to ask Max about this. Her eyes, clouded with tears, took in Maxlain’s skeletal, decaying face, his blazing red eyes, and his fang-like teeth as they leered down at her. Blood was pouring down what remained of his face, as the room around them became engulfed in a firestorm. Petrified, Isellen could only stare into those evil eyes, before she found her voice, and let out a piercing scream that was riddled with sheer terror. But as loud as she cried, all she could hear was the sound of Maxlain’s cruel, malicious laughter as she blacked out.
She awoke with a start. Fumbling for a light, Isellen sprang clumsily from her bed and crashed to the floor. Dazed, her looked around her, blinking. She was in her room. The clock on the wall showed it was past midnight. It was only then that Isellen realised her eyes were moist with tears. Wiping her face on the sleeve of her nightdress, she climbed back into her bed. The nightmares were getting worse. She looked over to her bedside. The book remained there still, as did the compass and the pendant. And Maxlain’s photograph stood proudly and defiantly were it had always stood. The smile might have been a mere replicate, but it was enough to bring a small glimmer of hope in Isellen’s longing heart.
“Goodnight, my love”, she whispered. She then looked towards the latest, and most unwelcome addition to her possesions. A letter bearing the emblem of the Aether Fleet, written by Maxlain’s colonel and addressed to his ‘next of kin’. She had read and re-read it countless times. But whilst it brought no comfort to her, she could not help herself reading it. Even more than she could help being drawn to a particular sentence halfway through the colonel’s condolences. Three letters had been highlighted in red ink. ‘Missing’, ‘In’, and ‘Action’.
A single tear ran down her face as she turned out the lamp and lay down once more, dreading what horrors she must endure once again.
Writer's Comments:
Something I've been working on for a while now, and to see it completed (but by no means finished) is truly a sight to behold. Perhaps horror isn't the best word, I personally described it as a 'steampunk-gothic mindfuck'. Here's hopeing I've achieved that. Also I hope I've acieved the 'gothic' sense of the description. I'll leave that for you to decide.
Regards, Laurence
(As always, all characters, placenames etc, are copyright of me. Respect copyright).
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Inner Demons: A Victorian Horror Story
*Disclaimer*-The contents, characters and concepts of this story, unless otherwise states or blatantly obvious, are the sole property of yours truly.
Inner Demons
By Laurence Williams
When a person sees a city, they see a number of things. A home. A sanctuary. A place of safety. A threat. A prison. This was certainly the case for a lot of people. For James however, London had become a wasteland. A city cast in almost total darkness, helped little by the torches carried by him and his men. And yet, on the outside, everything about the soot-covered streets seemed perfectly intact. No signs of destruction , or violence. Indeed, no sign of a struggle. Nor indeed was there any sign of life, aside from the green-jacketed riflemen who advanced in skirmish order down the deserted streets, fearfully checking over their shoulders at each step. They were on edge, and who could blame them. They had come to the capital of their nation, to find the streets deserted, the people missing, and who knew why? They were men of the 19th Surrey Volunteers, the Rifles. No amount of training could have prepared them for the eerie atmosphere of this dark London, any more than it could have prepared them for the horrors that haunted the streets, always present, yet never seen. James had orders to find out what was going on, but they were no closer to finding out where everyone had gone, and why. And more importantly, why there was no sign of a fight.
They’d had one lead however. On the second night of their mission, they’d woken up to hear the sound of running feet, and frightened yelling. Two men had been sent to find out what had happened. James recalled hearing the sound of gunfire, before the two men returned, dragging between them a young man of around 18. Bone thin, unshaven, in tattered clothes and eyes that bulged with fear, he was talking in gibberish for much of the evening, and the riflemen were about to get little out of him. All he would talk about were monsters, underground, with mentions of torture and fire. But that night had taken a further turn into darkness. As James and his men were restraining the man they’d found, there were the sounds of more screaming from outside. Making sure the man was restrained, James and a section of riflemen went outside to find the corpses of the sentries he’d posted lying on the ground, minus their heads. What was more shocking was there were only two bodies out of three left at the scene. Whatever had killed these men had taken another prisoner. Rifleman Henry Cooper, formerly the platoon’s best shot, had been taken. But whilst these events had unfolded, the man they’d found had been oddly silent. It was only when James returned to question him further that he realised the man was dead. James reasoned it was probably the shock that killed him. But they had a lead. A clue as to what was happening. And now, one of his men had gone missing. Taken into some underground torture chamber, according to what the man had said before. And James was never a man to leave one of his men behind.
And this was the reason why James’ men were making their way to King’s Cross Station, towards the entrance to the newly built Metropolitan Railway, and underground railway network many Londoners claimed was the engineering feat of the century. Unfortunately, there were no Londoners around to confirm this.
Their descent into darkness was unnerving, even with the aid of the light of two lamps Sergeant Walker had taken from a stationary locomotive. Their glow in the dank, soot-ridden tunnels was barely enough to allow the riflemen to see ahead as they walked cautiously through the tunnels, avoiding rails and tools that appeared to have been simply abandoned where they were. The darkness was unnerving, but not so much because of the lack of light. Indeed, it was more because this, James was sure, was where Cooper, and the population of London, had been taken.
“What do you reckon sir?”. Sergeant Walker walked alongside James, his rifle barrel glinting from the light of his railway lamp, his hard face cast partly in shadow.
“If Cooper’s down here”, replied James, “We’ll find him. And hopefully put an end to this. Until then, we must be cautious. Keep an eye out lads”, he said to his men, “If anything moves, take aim but hold your fire”. Walker grimaced. A veteran of the Crimean War, he’d been in every kind of battle, but nothing like this. And as sergeant, it was his role to keep the platoon together, and to support his officer. Which was increasingly difficult to do when he himself was fearful of what they might find down here in these filthy tunnels. He gripped his rifle stock tighter, glad that he’d had the foresight to load powder and shot before they ascended.
Rifleman Stevens walked behind Lance-Corporal Temple. The platoon’s youngest soldier, he was slightly more on edge than some of the older men, and looked nervously around him at the slightest provocation. And something in particular was unnerving him.
“Corp?”, he whispered nervously. Temple ignored him.
“Corp?”, persisted Stevens.
“What is it?”.
“There’s no rats, Corp”. Temple glanced back.
“What’re you banging on about?”.
“No rats Corp. There should be thousands of them down here. But there’s none”.
“Your point?”.
“Well, there were no people up there”, replied Stevens, “And there’s no rats down here. Everything’s…dead, Corp”.
“Shut up in the ranks!”, hissed Sergeant Walker from the front. Stevens said no more, there was little he feared more than a lashing from a man who’d reputedly beaten a Russian officer to death with a rifle barrel at Balaclava. But all the same, the lack of any life in this forsaken city was just as frightening.
All of a sudden, a distant noise split the fearful silence. A sort of whispered moan, which stopped as soon as it had been heard, but it was close, and haunting. As one, James’ platoon raised their guns, staring wildly around them as they looked for the source of the noise. James’ grip on his revolver tightened as he shone his lamp around the tunnel.
“Sir”. Walker’s lamp shone down a side-tunnel. They could hear the sound of trickling water as they turned to look into the black abyss of the tunnel before them.
“Plan sir?”. James mulled it over.
“Right…Sergeant Walker, you stay here with half the platoon. The rest of you will come with me down there to see what’s happening down there. And stay alert”.
The second tunnel seemed darker than the last one, and James could definitely feel the level drop as they descended. Lance-Corporal Temple held the lamp, as James, with sword and revolver drawn, took the lead. James despised it down here. It wasn’t just the darkness. The tunnel here was narrower than the last one. The air was more stale, and whilst James didn’t suffer claustrophobia, he wanted nothing more than to get out. The stench of soot and decay was overpowering, and the sound of someone retching behind James made him jump.
“Shut it Allan!”, hissed Temple threateningly, fear giving his voice a sharper edge.
As the men continued their descent, James felt the ground levelling underneath them. Suddenly the air felt cooler, and by the echo of the riflemen’s boots on the ground, could tell they were somewhere more open than before.
“Where are we sir?”.
“No idea”, replied James, glancing around at the expanse of the apparent cavern before them. From the light of Temple’s lamp, he could make out a tall ceiling formed of black girders, with tens of thousands of bricks lining the walls. The place was unfinished however, the glow of the lamp revealing roof supports and large sections of timber at the other end of the tunnel. Apparently, it was a dead end.
James took the lamp from Temple and scanned the industrial architecture. If this section of tunnels was empty (perhaps ‘deserted’ was a better term), then Cooper wasn’t to be found. Meaning they still had a near impossible amount of other places to search.
“Sir!”. James nearly jumped at the Lance-Corporal’s sudden outburst, but he soon realised why. Something was glinting in the light offered by the railway lamp.
“Rifles”, whispered James, “Advance with caution”. They soon found out what it was. It was the badge of the 19th’s crest, on a shako, being worn at an angle by the corpse of the late Rifleman Henry Cooper. His uniform was in tatters, and he appeared to be missing an arm. What was left of his body was covered in bloody scars that appeared to spell words, but James was too appalled to make sense of them.
“Fuck”, a soldier whispered behind James, in a voice that managed to echo around the tunnel. It was not the only noise either. The sound of scurrying, slithering and scraping could be heard all around them, the sound intensifying tenfold by the echoes of the unfinished tunnel. It was with this that James realised something that made his insides freeze. It was a trap.
“We’re dead”, Stevens was saying hysterically, “We’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dea…”.
“YOU’RE NOT BLOODY DEAD UNTIL I SAY YOU ARE STEVENS!”, snarled Temple, “ORDERS SIR?”.
“Run”.
“Sir?”
“RUN! EVERYONE GET OUT OF HERE! NOW”. Thrusting the lamp back at Temple, James grabbed a hold of two of his men and shoved them backwards, whipping out his revolver and firing two shots randomly. The sound echoed around the tunnel, but no sooner had the smoke cleared than one of the soldiers started screaming in pain, followed by another, and another. Some fired their rifles, but in the darkness it was impossible to tell if anything hit. In the black abyss of the darkness surrounding them, the flash of gunpowder blinded James, and he flung his arm to shield his eyes. Blinking, dazed through the noise and sheer panic, he looked around to see where he was, in time to see Lance-Corporal Temple’s head fall beside him. As he jumped to his feet, his heart racing, he took a last desperate lance around him. The lamp had shattered, and the flame extinguished. He was in total darkness, and the sounds of screaming and gunfire seemed oddly faint. As he looked, all James was only able to make out one, terrifying feature of this underground tomb. A pair of red eyes, staring, unblinking, blazing like fire, from the other side of the tunnel. Eyes alight with malice, hate and what could only be described as pure evil.
James forgot his training. He forgot his oath to never leave a soldier behind, to never run from an enemy. He forgot everything as he fled, finding the exit by pure chance as he ran. At least three riflemen were left behind, and their screams followed James and tore into his very soul as he hurried out of the tunnel, desperate for light, for air, for safety. Fear gave speed to his legs and to the sound of his voice as he called out in panic.
“WALKER! SERGEANT WALKER, WHERE ARE YOU? SERGEANT!”. A faint glow appeared at the end of the sloping tunnel. It must have been the sergeant’s lamp. This gave James heart as he sped along, and finally burst into the main tunnel, panting, and looking wildly around for the remainder of his platoon.
He soon found them, bodies mangled and scarlet from blood. Weapons lying at their side, most of them missing limbs or heads. But that wasn’t what scared James. It wasn’t the sight of his own men lying in a lake of blood that made his mouth open in a terrified scream. It wasn’t the impact of the realisation that he was a dead man standing that made him reach for his revolver. And it wasn’t the sight of Sergeant Walker’s head being crushed like a rotten vegetable that made him press the trigger until the chambers were empty and the barrel smoking as though on fire. No, it was the thing standing over the corpses, turning its ugly, fanged head in James direction, and leaping forwards to pin him against the wall and slash through his body with claws like sabres. James' scream echoed around the walls of the tunnel, even after his head was ripped from his shoulders and devoured, his body being left to rot forever in the stinking, cursed tunnels of dead London.
Inner Demons
By Laurence Williams
When a person sees a city, they see a number of things. A home. A sanctuary. A place of safety. A threat. A prison. This was certainly the case for a lot of people. For James however, London had become a wasteland. A city cast in almost total darkness, helped little by the torches carried by him and his men. And yet, on the outside, everything about the soot-covered streets seemed perfectly intact. No signs of destruction , or violence. Indeed, no sign of a struggle. Nor indeed was there any sign of life, aside from the green-jacketed riflemen who advanced in skirmish order down the deserted streets, fearfully checking over their shoulders at each step. They were on edge, and who could blame them. They had come to the capital of their nation, to find the streets deserted, the people missing, and who knew why? They were men of the 19th Surrey Volunteers, the Rifles. No amount of training could have prepared them for the eerie atmosphere of this dark London, any more than it could have prepared them for the horrors that haunted the streets, always present, yet never seen. James had orders to find out what was going on, but they were no closer to finding out where everyone had gone, and why. And more importantly, why there was no sign of a fight.
They’d had one lead however. On the second night of their mission, they’d woken up to hear the sound of running feet, and frightened yelling. Two men had been sent to find out what had happened. James recalled hearing the sound of gunfire, before the two men returned, dragging between them a young man of around 18. Bone thin, unshaven, in tattered clothes and eyes that bulged with fear, he was talking in gibberish for much of the evening, and the riflemen were about to get little out of him. All he would talk about were monsters, underground, with mentions of torture and fire. But that night had taken a further turn into darkness. As James and his men were restraining the man they’d found, there were the sounds of more screaming from outside. Making sure the man was restrained, James and a section of riflemen went outside to find the corpses of the sentries he’d posted lying on the ground, minus their heads. What was more shocking was there were only two bodies out of three left at the scene. Whatever had killed these men had taken another prisoner. Rifleman Henry Cooper, formerly the platoon’s best shot, had been taken. But whilst these events had unfolded, the man they’d found had been oddly silent. It was only when James returned to question him further that he realised the man was dead. James reasoned it was probably the shock that killed him. But they had a lead. A clue as to what was happening. And now, one of his men had gone missing. Taken into some underground torture chamber, according to what the man had said before. And James was never a man to leave one of his men behind.
And this was the reason why James’ men were making their way to King’s Cross Station, towards the entrance to the newly built Metropolitan Railway, and underground railway network many Londoners claimed was the engineering feat of the century. Unfortunately, there were no Londoners around to confirm this.
Their descent into darkness was unnerving, even with the aid of the light of two lamps Sergeant Walker had taken from a stationary locomotive. Their glow in the dank, soot-ridden tunnels was barely enough to allow the riflemen to see ahead as they walked cautiously through the tunnels, avoiding rails and tools that appeared to have been simply abandoned where they were. The darkness was unnerving, but not so much because of the lack of light. Indeed, it was more because this, James was sure, was where Cooper, and the population of London, had been taken.
“What do you reckon sir?”. Sergeant Walker walked alongside James, his rifle barrel glinting from the light of his railway lamp, his hard face cast partly in shadow.
“If Cooper’s down here”, replied James, “We’ll find him. And hopefully put an end to this. Until then, we must be cautious. Keep an eye out lads”, he said to his men, “If anything moves, take aim but hold your fire”. Walker grimaced. A veteran of the Crimean War, he’d been in every kind of battle, but nothing like this. And as sergeant, it was his role to keep the platoon together, and to support his officer. Which was increasingly difficult to do when he himself was fearful of what they might find down here in these filthy tunnels. He gripped his rifle stock tighter, glad that he’d had the foresight to load powder and shot before they ascended.
Rifleman Stevens walked behind Lance-Corporal Temple. The platoon’s youngest soldier, he was slightly more on edge than some of the older men, and looked nervously around him at the slightest provocation. And something in particular was unnerving him.
“Corp?”, he whispered nervously. Temple ignored him.
“Corp?”, persisted Stevens.
“What is it?”.
“There’s no rats, Corp”. Temple glanced back.
“What’re you banging on about?”.
“No rats Corp. There should be thousands of them down here. But there’s none”.
“Your point?”.
“Well, there were no people up there”, replied Stevens, “And there’s no rats down here. Everything’s…dead, Corp”.
“Shut up in the ranks!”, hissed Sergeant Walker from the front. Stevens said no more, there was little he feared more than a lashing from a man who’d reputedly beaten a Russian officer to death with a rifle barrel at Balaclava. But all the same, the lack of any life in this forsaken city was just as frightening.
All of a sudden, a distant noise split the fearful silence. A sort of whispered moan, which stopped as soon as it had been heard, but it was close, and haunting. As one, James’ platoon raised their guns, staring wildly around them as they looked for the source of the noise. James’ grip on his revolver tightened as he shone his lamp around the tunnel.
“Sir”. Walker’s lamp shone down a side-tunnel. They could hear the sound of trickling water as they turned to look into the black abyss of the tunnel before them.
“Plan sir?”. James mulled it over.
“Right…Sergeant Walker, you stay here with half the platoon. The rest of you will come with me down there to see what’s happening down there. And stay alert”.
The second tunnel seemed darker than the last one, and James could definitely feel the level drop as they descended. Lance-Corporal Temple held the lamp, as James, with sword and revolver drawn, took the lead. James despised it down here. It wasn’t just the darkness. The tunnel here was narrower than the last one. The air was more stale, and whilst James didn’t suffer claustrophobia, he wanted nothing more than to get out. The stench of soot and decay was overpowering, and the sound of someone retching behind James made him jump.
“Shut it Allan!”, hissed Temple threateningly, fear giving his voice a sharper edge.
As the men continued their descent, James felt the ground levelling underneath them. Suddenly the air felt cooler, and by the echo of the riflemen’s boots on the ground, could tell they were somewhere more open than before.
“Where are we sir?”.
“No idea”, replied James, glancing around at the expanse of the apparent cavern before them. From the light of Temple’s lamp, he could make out a tall ceiling formed of black girders, with tens of thousands of bricks lining the walls. The place was unfinished however, the glow of the lamp revealing roof supports and large sections of timber at the other end of the tunnel. Apparently, it was a dead end.
James took the lamp from Temple and scanned the industrial architecture. If this section of tunnels was empty (perhaps ‘deserted’ was a better term), then Cooper wasn’t to be found. Meaning they still had a near impossible amount of other places to search.
“Sir!”. James nearly jumped at the Lance-Corporal’s sudden outburst, but he soon realised why. Something was glinting in the light offered by the railway lamp.
“Rifles”, whispered James, “Advance with caution”. They soon found out what it was. It was the badge of the 19th’s crest, on a shako, being worn at an angle by the corpse of the late Rifleman Henry Cooper. His uniform was in tatters, and he appeared to be missing an arm. What was left of his body was covered in bloody scars that appeared to spell words, but James was too appalled to make sense of them.
“Fuck”, a soldier whispered behind James, in a voice that managed to echo around the tunnel. It was not the only noise either. The sound of scurrying, slithering and scraping could be heard all around them, the sound intensifying tenfold by the echoes of the unfinished tunnel. It was with this that James realised something that made his insides freeze. It was a trap.
“We’re dead”, Stevens was saying hysterically, “We’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dea…”.
“YOU’RE NOT BLOODY DEAD UNTIL I SAY YOU ARE STEVENS!”, snarled Temple, “ORDERS SIR?”.
“Run”.
“Sir?”
“RUN! EVERYONE GET OUT OF HERE! NOW”. Thrusting the lamp back at Temple, James grabbed a hold of two of his men and shoved them backwards, whipping out his revolver and firing two shots randomly. The sound echoed around the tunnel, but no sooner had the smoke cleared than one of the soldiers started screaming in pain, followed by another, and another. Some fired their rifles, but in the darkness it was impossible to tell if anything hit. In the black abyss of the darkness surrounding them, the flash of gunpowder blinded James, and he flung his arm to shield his eyes. Blinking, dazed through the noise and sheer panic, he looked around to see where he was, in time to see Lance-Corporal Temple’s head fall beside him. As he jumped to his feet, his heart racing, he took a last desperate lance around him. The lamp had shattered, and the flame extinguished. He was in total darkness, and the sounds of screaming and gunfire seemed oddly faint. As he looked, all James was only able to make out one, terrifying feature of this underground tomb. A pair of red eyes, staring, unblinking, blazing like fire, from the other side of the tunnel. Eyes alight with malice, hate and what could only be described as pure evil.
James forgot his training. He forgot his oath to never leave a soldier behind, to never run from an enemy. He forgot everything as he fled, finding the exit by pure chance as he ran. At least three riflemen were left behind, and their screams followed James and tore into his very soul as he hurried out of the tunnel, desperate for light, for air, for safety. Fear gave speed to his legs and to the sound of his voice as he called out in panic.
“WALKER! SERGEANT WALKER, WHERE ARE YOU? SERGEANT!”. A faint glow appeared at the end of the sloping tunnel. It must have been the sergeant’s lamp. This gave James heart as he sped along, and finally burst into the main tunnel, panting, and looking wildly around for the remainder of his platoon.
He soon found them, bodies mangled and scarlet from blood. Weapons lying at their side, most of them missing limbs or heads. But that wasn’t what scared James. It wasn’t the sight of his own men lying in a lake of blood that made his mouth open in a terrified scream. It wasn’t the impact of the realisation that he was a dead man standing that made him reach for his revolver. And it wasn’t the sight of Sergeant Walker’s head being crushed like a rotten vegetable that made him press the trigger until the chambers were empty and the barrel smoking as though on fire. No, it was the thing standing over the corpses, turning its ugly, fanged head in James direction, and leaping forwards to pin him against the wall and slash through his body with claws like sabres. James' scream echoed around the walls of the tunnel, even after his head was ripped from his shoulders and devoured, his body being left to rot forever in the stinking, cursed tunnels of dead London.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
