It has been some time since I have shared any of my stories with you. Considering those regrettable chapters from my first story, I have been shy of posting with haste. But I hope I am not remiss in boasting that my writing abilities have somewhat improved since that time, and I will take the risk and share a few excerpts.
From The Jeweler’s Nephews
Logan was absorbed in his thoughts. The time was not a concern of his on this occasion, as it so often was. The ticking of the clock went on unnoticed. The hands crept through the numbers, slowly, halting, the silence if the room making the working mechanism nearly audible. They hit on seven and six- seven thirty. Logan was brought back to reality by the rapping of knuckles on his door.
Logan was quiet for a minute, staring at the door, temporarily forgetting the significance of the sound.
Mrs. Groves’ voice came from the other side, “Mr. Blue, sir?”
Logan cleared his throat and answered quietly, absentmindedness predominate in his accents, “er… Yes? What is it, Mrs. Groves?” he came to the door and opened to hear her reply.
Mrs. Groves started at his appearance. His hair was visibly moistened with perspiration, he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone from the pulling common in a nervous man, and the necktie hung loose upon his chest. He wore no coat and his waistcoat was entirely unbuttoned. A throw blanket from his armchair hung off of his left shoulder. All in all, he was completely haggard. The room behind him was black.
Mrs. Groves took it all in with an instinctive quickness and precision. “I… came to ask if you wanted any supper. It is well past your usual hour.”
“no, no. No supper.” Mr. Logan Blue replied with ease and chipper that belied his appearance.
“perhaps some coffee, then? Or tea?”
“no. That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Groves. But if you will be so good as to send up some wine, the strongest you can find, and a tumbler, I should be most grateful.”
Mrs. Groves nodded uneasily, concern written on her brow, and descended the stairs.
Logan smiled after her, but when he glanced around he met the eyes of Mr. Albert Chebb, who watched through a cracked door. A glaring sparkle emerged from Logan’s eye and he disappeared into his apartment.
Not very telling, I daresay. Just as well. I should not like to ruin it for anyone who may someday read the full version.
Here is a bit from a story that hasn’t any name. I have been working on it for about three years, and I still haven’t even written it all up yet.
She put on a dark vail and a hooded cloak, and took the half-day-long journey to the village, Edinwhul, just outside the vast expanse of woodland, almost the only real forest in the whole of the dry and barren country of Jassadeur, to which she had fled after the capture of her husband. The village seemed large, for it was spread out and scattered on either side of the river Eseth, which flowed directly through the forest and came out upon the other side, where it met the sea.
She went to the person she thought looked most likely to be a ‘spiller-of-beans,’ so to speak, the butcher. He was a lumpy, slouching, young to middle-aged fellow, an unshaven dirty face, bedraggled blondish hair, and a deplorable lack of manners. He called himself Alhan. He looked a deplorable spectacle, but he would know if anyone did.
“oh, sure, I know of the man.” he said in a loud obnoxious voice, with a thick highland accent. “I don’t know that you’re not the only one around here who doesn’t. He’s fearful cruel. Tyrannical, absolutely tyrannical.”
“what sort of man is he?” Marcilla asked.
“well, he was knighted by the king years ago.” he began picking bits of hay that had blown in off the chops that hung from the rafters in the ceiling. Marcilla was utterly disgusted with him, but she needed this information. He went on: “but he was disowned not many less years past. I’m not sure why, though. Many said it was because he was involved in some plot or other to overthrow and usurp the king.”
Marcilla raised one eyebrow above the other. “and he failed?”
“well, no, not failed exactly. He was found out. He was betrayed by an ally before even he began to execute his plans. If he was really involved. But he was, in my opinion. They say he didn’t even try to defend himself. And now he has made himself ruler over this land. The entire forest is subject to his brutality. A brute, he is. The king fears him too much to try out against him. And he’s slowly making his way toward ruling this entire country. He does already, I suppose.”
“what is your own opinion of the man?”
“I’ve never seen him myself. I don’t know anyone who has.”
“if he never even shows himself, how is he managing to keep the whole country under him?”
“well, I’ll tell you. It’s the strangest thing. It’s so queer, frightening, in fact.” he leaned right up to her and said in a low voice, simply slathered with suspicion: “we don’t know.”
“what!–” Marcilla began now to doubt all he had said.
“it’s true, ma’am, absolutely true.” Alhan broke in. “none of us have ever seen him. He keeps hidden. He sends his men to do everything for him. It has been rumored by some that those who walk in the forest, near his dwelling and up towards the mountain region, that they’ve seen a dark thing. We can only assume it’s the man himself. A huge man, unusually broad, in a suit of armor, black as coal, with his visor down. Then he would flash dark eyes at them, terrible eyes, glinting and glowing unnaturally, and once he caught their eye, if they didn’t bolt and run right then and there, they were never heard of again. No bones, no clothes, nothing. No one has ever challenged him and come back alive. The king tried, a year or two ago. He sent a very tiny army down, two hundred men. Most of them were brave knights. Only one came back. He was borne into our village on a litter pulled by a black horse. On his shield a black sort of thing had happened to it. Like it had been burnt.”
“that is strange indeed.” Marcilla said, half speaking to herself. “what became of the survivor?”
“he died about two hours after coming in. He kept trying to speak, during the half hour he was conscious, insisting he had seen a winged, fire breathing beast.”
“do you think he was being delusional? The idea of a winged, fire breathing beast, such as the ones they speak of in legends, seems a bit far fetched to you, does it not? Perhaps he had passed into delirium?”
“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. All I know is that there’s something dark going on inside that forest.”
“it’s intriguing…”
“I’d stay away from him, ma’am. He’s tyrannical, absolutely tyrannical.”
“yes, so you’ve said.” Marcilla turned and left the butcher’s shop She just may have found what she needed.
To be sure, this tells nothing of what the story is actually about. It is a very long tale and extremely complicated. It will be years before I finish it. The writing alone will take months, not to mention to endless planning and note taking.
From my rewrite of Beauty and the Beast (not finished, but I am working on it)
She had hardly time to finish that thought when there came a rap on the kitchen door. Olive stood perfectly still and listened to it for a moment, then after the third knock, went with an air of resolution to the door and opened it. She was greeted with the broad, vain smile of Sedith, who didn’t wait to be asked in.
“I was up early and happened to notice that you were too, and when I saw you walk by I thought I’d come over and see if you needed anything.” He said this as he wandered into the dining room, attracted by the smell of fresh bread and bacon.
“I’m fine.” Olive said shortly, snatching the plate out of his hands and placing it back on the table. “you may go now.”
“oh, that’s ok. I’m in no hurry.” Sedith put his feet up on the table and grinned at her. “I thought you might want this.” he produced the book he had bought, the very one Olive had wanted. But she pretended to be uninterested.
“no. I already have several books.”
“another won’t hurt you. Come, now, you know you want it- and I know you want it. Here, consider it as a friendly gift.”
“I’ll consider it as fully yours, and now you may take it back to your house. Now.”
“It can wait.”
“well, you’ve nothing else to do.”
“yes, I have.”
“such as?”
“I could keep you company while your father’s out.”
“no, I’ll be quite too occupied with my chores to keep company.”
“see? That’s what I mean. Your father is such a slave driver. Forget about the chores. Come take a walk with me. We could go to the bookshop.”
“no.”
That story is not easy to break apart. So far it’s all too connected.
Well, that is all. I hope I have entertained you with this short post.
I assure you, from what I know of this fellow, though quite funny and perhaps charming, I think him perfectly odious in many respects. However, I will say that the costume design is perfectly splendid. The shirt I made was more based off of this than the Mad Hatter’s (his was blue, not white). The antique look of this costume, I think, is its greatest attraction to me. Shredded ends and adventure marks are what make a costume fun. I think Aragorn’s costume as a ranger in The Lord of the Rings is a fine example of this.
(I apologize for the smallness of the photograph)
