Well, I have been writing a little bit here and there, and I have a draft #1 opening to the story I posted about yesterday (the clock bell tower one), called The Witching Hour. Here it is:
***
The clock tower makes a harsh silhouette against the moon. Worn sandstone battered by long years of rain and wind stands tall and proud, jutting high into the purple sky. Ancient gears grind deep within the heart of it, there is a clicking, and a well-oiled whirring, then;
Glong! the clock strikes one...
The fog is thick, she moves hastily, eager to get to the hovel she calls home. She imagines foosteps behind her on the cold cobblestones, which are cracked and stark. Hearing a noise, she turns abruptly, but sees only the swirling and twisting of a pea-souper mist.
She turns back again, heading home, is startled by a terrifying visage, cloaked in night, a hideous face demented by rage. Slash! and again! The blade catches the moonlight, flicking blood onto the street.
They find her in the morning, face frozen in a rictus of pain, the torment of her last moments etched into her eyes. Her hair is splayed around her in a mocking halo, her blood has pooled and congealed around her; a crimson spiderweb is traced into the cobbles.
It is Whitechapel, 1888, and the Ripper has killed again.
Glong! the clock strikes two...
His magic is gone, used up and burnt away, like the last wood to stave off the winter chill. His wings are broken, and crumpled, torn in places. His once-glorious face is covered in scratches and blood and grime; panting, he falls to the ground, smearing his now tarnished and rusted armour with dark mud.
Through the night, he senses them nearing, being lured ever-onwards by his scent. They have reinforcements. He knows it is over.
Battered and bruised, the Faerie Prince draws his sword for the last time, the Sword of Morning, and, kissing its cool blade, he prepares himself for the last stand.
Suddenly, a flash of light, then a dazzling flash! banish the darkness, and a woman with the reddest hair and lips the green colour of poison appears before him, smiling and reaching out her pale, thin hand. Quivering, he reaches out, and takes it...
When the bone-hounds come scrabbling up the hill, through the thorns of the thicket, they find nothing, and the scent of the Prince is gone.
Glong! the clock strikes three...
***
So that is the draft intro for The Witching Hour, which is part of a bunch of short projects I am working on under the tentative label Kaleadoscopic Visions of a Rag-tag World. I hope you enjoy. If you have any comments, please feel free to either leave them here, or email me at blakejolly@hotmail.com.
Have a great one. Blake.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment