Young Writers Society

TWO

The piano stool scraped back across the floor as I stood up. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ I demanded. ‘To do something like that would take—my dynamo wouldn’t stand it—that’s not what I—it’s not—and there’s no guarantee that it would even work! The creatures I make are composites of several different bodies—I never use just the one body because the flesh doesn’t respond in the same way and—and grave robbing is— and even if it worked, I couldn’t make her mind the same as it was before.’

Lady Deveraux’s pale face blenched bone-white, and she gripped her husband’s arm for support. He gave her a look that was almost a slap, then back at me, his mouth tight with anger.

I took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry my lord, my lady, but—but it can’t be done. It just can’t.’

‘Yes, Mr Frankenstein,’ Lord Deveraux said, ‘it can.’ His tone was that of a parent reprimanding his child, and it annoyed me.

‘I said, no it can’t. Quite apart from the slim chances of success, I’d have to have at least another body to work with, and that would mean body-snatching, and that is not something I am prepared to have on my conscience.’ I caught a glimpse of Lady Deveraux’s white face; she was breathing hard and staring at the ceiling, her eyes wide and unseeing. I hesitated. ‘I could make you another child, my lord, a new one. A marrying of flesh—her flesh, if you so wished—and machinery; clockwork and wires and chemicals. It would be almost human, as fully human as I dared make it, and it would love you as fully and truly as your own daughter does now. Maybe even more so. But reanimating dead flesh is out of the question. I won’t do it. It can’t be done.’

‘It can.’ Lord Deveraux rose to his feet. He was an inch or two shorter than me, but the black fury in his eyes made me step back, bumping into the piano. ‘I don’t think you fully understand my meaning, Mr Frankenstein. I know what happened in Ingolstadt. Unless you wish that knowledge made public and your reputation ruined, you will do as I say. You will bring our daughter back to life and by God it’ll be the best damn work you ever did, do you understand me? Do you understand me, Mr Frankenstein, am I clear?’

I stared at him. His eyes never blinked once and I sank down onto the piano stool feeling a horrible queasiness squeezing at my guts.

‘Am I clear, Mr Frankenstein?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered finally.

‘Good.’ He smoothed the lapels of his coat. ‘We shall expect you in the morning. You will make ready your workshop here and then come to us to study Lenore in her final hours. Whatever you require, we will provide for you, and I trust this experience will be beneficial to both of us.’

‘Lenore is your daughter?’

‘She is.’

‘How old is she?’

For a moment, the rigid line of Lord Deveraux’s mouth wavered. ‘She would be eleven years old next month.’ He took down a quick breath and the mask slid back down over his face. ‘We will expect you tomorrow, Mr Frankenstein. Do not disappoint us.’ He bowed and left the room.

Lady Deveraux followed him more slowly, and at the door, she turned. The softness of her voice reached me like the touch of an outstretched hand. ‘You are young, Mr Frankenstein, and perhaps you have not yet experienced a parent’s love. But believe me when I tell you that when you do, you will understand why we want this.’ She smiled at me sadly and followed her husband.

* * *

I didn’t sleep well that night, and as soon as the sun rose, I hurried into my coat and boots and ran to the graveyard to find Kettlesing.

He was already at work digging in the heart of the graveyard, ankle-deep in the broken sod of a new grave. The mist hung close around him like a damp grey cloak, blackening and distorting his outline in the pearly new light; and his whistling echoed through the black wet trees, their branches dripping with moisture.

‘Kettlesing!’ My voice didn’t carry very far through the mist, but he looked up.

‘Victor,’ he said. He didn’t seem that surprised to see me.

Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed. I plunged my hands into my pockets and rocked back on my heels. ‘How’s the work?’

‘Never slow,’ he said calmly. ‘You couldn’t wish for a more stable profession, really, grave-digging.’

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so.’

He leaned on his shovel and spat through the gap in his crooked yellow teeth. His long grey hair under his battered tricorne hat was hung with fine beads of dew. He seemed to have sprouted even more stubble since I had seen him last; the smallpox scars on his long hollow cheeks almost hidden by wiry, badger-streaked hair.

I shifted uneasily. ‘So...’

‘So? What do you want this time? A spare arm, leg?’

‘No, I...’

‘Because you might as well know, these early mornings aren’t doing my rheumatics no good, and, yes, a florin’s all very well, but the doctor don’t come cheap these days and considering everything—’

‘I need a child’s body,’ I blurted.

He raised a tangled dark eyebrow. ‘Oh aye?’

‘Well, several, actually.’

‘Should I ask why?’

‘No,’ I said emphatically. ‘Definitely not.’

He pulled at his hat, tweaking it straight, and frowned up at me. ‘Victor.’

I clutched at the insides of my pockets. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘Everything’s fine.’

‘Robbing a child’s grave is fine? I thought you said you’d never use a whole body after what happened in Ingolstadt.’

‘No, I—I’m—’ I squirmed under his gaze. ‘Certain features of this situation could be improved, but I can’t—I don’t—I know what I’m doing, Kettlesing.’

He studied me for a moment longer, then shrugged and sighed. ‘How fresh do you need the bodies?’

‘Well, I don’t really know yet,’ I confessed. ‘You see, I need them, but not just yet. In a few days, I think. Maybe. No more than a week’s time.’

Kettlesing scratched his grey stubble. ‘Boy or girl, and how many? And—Lord Almighty, I feel dirty just for asking this—but how old do you want them?’

‘Girls. Ideally, around eleven years old.’ I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. The mist was getting heavier, turning into rain, and I could feel it trickling down the back of my collar. ‘If you can just get all the ones you can around that age, keep them in the ice-house, and then when I know more, I’ll come and sort them out.’

‘Just how many young girls do you think are going to die between now and next week?’ he demanded.

‘I thought you said that people die all the time.’

‘Old people, sick people—’

‘Oh, they mustn’t be sick.’

He rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Do you want me to bring you Orion’s belt while I’m at it?’

‘Sorry, Kettlesing.’

‘’salright. Just so long as this isn’t going to get you into trouble.’

‘No. Everything’s fine.’ I rubbed my fingers together and tried to smile. The wind drove the rain against the back of my breeches and its spreading chill sent a shudder down my spine.

* * *

The Deveraux coach came for me that afternoon. Their house was on the outskirts of Geneva, quiet and secluded, with the woods rising high on the blue mountains behind. I was quickly escorted inside and shown into the drawing room. It was far larger than any of the rooms in my house; large and cold and fashionable and empty. The heavy red curtains only let in the minimum of light, and it fell in white watery pools over the shiny surface of the piano, the thick red pile of the cushions, the gold-framed portraits on the pale walls.

‘Lord Deveraux will be with you shortly, sir,’ the maid said. ‘May I take your hat?’

I gave it to her, and she disappeared with it, closing the door behind her. I stood in the room, feeling its grandeur pressing in on me from either side. Out of a childish longing for something familiar, I drifted towards the piano and ran my finger along the lid. The wood shone silky-smooth under my touch. I raised the lid, and the keys gleamed up at me white as bones, the sharps black as rotting teeth.

‘Mr Frankenstein.’

I spun around, and the lid came down with a discordant crash. Lord Deveraux stood in the doorway. I winced, the wounded cry of the piano still ringing in my ears, but he gestured to me without so much as blinking an eyelid. ‘Mr Frankenstein, we are ready for you.’

He turned and I followed him out into the hall. He took me upstairs, along the upper landing, and paused outside one of the rooms. I could feel the sweat in my palms. Everything seemed piercingly detailed: I could count the knots in the door, the flowers in the patterned wallpaper; and the image of the carpet under my boots, red thread, green thread and brown, seemed seared into my brain.

‘Mr Frankenstein.’ Lord Deveraux’s voice was tense. ‘Are you ready?’

I swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Mr Frankenstein, I would remind you that our daughter is in a very fragile state. She is not to be excited or disturbed in any way. You are here to observe her, nothing more. You may talk to her if that will help you, but not for long, and not on any subject that may upset her.’ He was uncomfortably close, his black eyes holding mine. ‘I trust you have given thought on how this matter is to proceed.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ I replied quickly, ‘I talked to the gravedigger and he has agreed to save me some bodies for dissection—’

‘Mr Frankenstein!’ His calm snapped and he almost snarled, ‘This is my daughter—you will not discuss her as mere flesh to cut and stitch to your will!’

‘Well, she is that to some extent,’ I said practically. ‘She has to be, because her body alone won’t be enough. I’ll have to use several different bodies, although I should be able—’

‘Be quiet!’ For a moment, I thought he was going to strike me, but he recovered himself. He dragged down a few quick breaths and closed his eyes.

I watched him warily, unsure of what to say next, and eventually offered, ‘I’ve worked with Kettlesing before. He’s a friend. He’ll be discreet.’

Lord Deveraux opened his eyes. ‘You’re friends with the gravedigger? That’s preposterous.’ He smoothed down the lapels of his jacket, shot his cuffs, and without looking at me, he opened the door.

It was dark inside, with the windows covered by heavy, floor-length velvet blue curtains. A very little light peeped in where the curtains met, and lay in a long white bar on the carpet, but the room was mainly lit by candles. On the mantelpiece, on the shelves and on the little table by the bed.

Lady Deveraux was sitting on a low stool next to a large invalid carriage. I could hardly make out its occupant, they were so swathed in shawls and wraps.

‘Lenore,’ Lord Deveraux said. ‘This gentleman has come to visit you. He's going to make you better.’

Lady Deveraux did not look up as I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down next to the carriage. Only now could I make out Lenore's face amidst the mass of fabric covering her, and my smile froze on my face.

She was a skeleton. In the poor light, her skin was grey, her pale eyes glittering hollows sunken deep in her skull. Her hair hung limply on her shoulders, faded of all colour, and shorter than I would have expected, as thought it had been cut for a fever a long time ago. She smiled at me, and I saw with horror that several of her teeth were missing.

I gained control of my features and managed to smile properly. 'Hello Lenore.'

'Hello.' Her voice was very quiet, hampered by her laboured breathing.

'How are you?' I regretted the question the minute it left my mouth. Lady Deveraux bowed her head, and I was sure I felt Lord Deveraux move in the doorway behind me.

Lenore smiled. 'I feel much better today.'

'Good, that's... that's good.' I rubbed the back of my left hand and tried to think of something else to say. Normally I could fumble my way through conversation, but this was not normal. It was not normal. I hadn't been enthusiastic about this idea before when Lenore had been just a name in a conversation, but now I could see her face and oh God, what a face. She was going to die. She should die. Her body was destroyed with disease, racked with it. There was no way I could save her.

'Are you a doctor?'

'I'm...' I darted a glance at Lady Deveraux, but she was staring at Lenore's face with blind, desperate eyes, and I faltered. 'Yes, I suppose so. I'm a doctor, yes.'

'Do you like it?'

I floundered helplessly for an answer.

'Mr Frankenstein is a very special kind of doctor, Lenore.' Lord Deveraux moved in swiftly from the doorway and gripped my shoulder. 'He's quite famous in Geneva. Do you remember Fifi Gotthold’s mama? Mr Frankenstein made her Baptiste, her bodyguard, do you remember? He came with Fifi to your birthday party, do you remember?’

‘You made him?’ Lenore wheezed a choking little laugh. ‘His legs make clicking noises when he runs.’

‘That’s the clockwork. He has cogs and wheels in his joints.’ The memory of Baptiste, strong, capable, silent, normal Baptiste seemed incongruous in this room full of candlelight and the smell of death. ‘Lady Gotthold wanted him to protect her when she went out without her husband. She didn’t think her husband would appreciate being brought along to ladies’ sewing circles.’

‘Why didn’t she take a servant with her?’

I thought of Lady Gotthold standing in my sitting room, gripping the handle of her black silk umbrella and declaring, ‘Why, I could never trust myself to the common sense and bravery of a servant.’

‘She wanted a clockwork man to make her friends jealous,’ I said. ‘Clockwork-and-flesh men are the height of fashion just now.’

Lenore’s painful laugh scraped out again, and she began to cough. At once, Lady Deveraux had out a handkerchief and pressed it against Lenore’s lips. I saw the bright red stains on the white cambric before Lenore’s breathing eased. ‘I’m glad... you made him,’ she managed. ‘Baptiste... he’s nice. He carried me upstairs when I was too tired and he... gave me the flower in his buttonhole.’

‘Is he doing well?’ I asked. I hadn’t thought of Baptiste in a while, but his interaction with Lenore made me suddenly anxious on his behalf, as though their fates were intertwined. ‘Is he happy?’

Lady Deveraux still hovered over her with the handkerchief. Lenore sighed. ‘I think so. He doesn’t talk a lot, but... I think so. He’s kind to Fifi, and she likes him.’

I sat back in the chair, rubbing my hands, as Lady Deveraux went to the table and poured a small glass of water. She bought it back and helped Lenore to drink it. I averted my eyes and instead looked around the room. There was very little furniture; everything was dominated by and revolved around the carriage where Lenore sat, and so apart from the chairs and the little table, the only other interesting features in the room were a large painting of the lake and mountains on the opposite wall and a short, white object pushed into a corner and partly covered with a lacy cloth.

‘That’s my harpsichord.’

I looked back at Lenore. The drink seemed to have done her some good; she was breathing a little easier now and her eyes didn’t seem quite as feverish. ‘I used to play it.’

‘Why ever would you stop?’ I asked. ‘May I look at it?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly, and I rose and went to it, lifting the shawl and draping it over the bed. It was a lovely little thing, painted white with red and pink flowers, and when I lifted the lid and touched the keys, its song sprang out like thin braided strands of golden sunlight into the grey room.

‘Mama,’ Lenore said. ‘Can you...’

‘Lenore, no, sit quietly.’

‘Please, Mama?’

Lady Deveraux drew in her breath and glanced at Lord Deveraux, but he only lifted one eyebrow and shot her a hostile look which I thought rather odd. She said nothing, though, and carefully wheeled Lenore’s carriage around to the little harpsichord.

Lenore reached out a hand to touch the white lid. Her fingers brushed against my hand and without meaning to, I flinched. Her fingers were grotesquely thin, the papery skin and grey flesh shrunken away from the swollen knuckles, the nails brittle and yellow. I could see the blue veins traced on the back of her hand.

‘Do you play?’ she asked.

‘A little,’ I said. ‘I have a piano at home.’

‘Will you play?’ She said it in a whisper, and I glanced down at her. She was looking at the keys, her eyes glittering with that unnatural brightness again, and her breath trembled between her lips. She slid a glance sideways at her mother, then up at me. ‘Papa doesn’t play.’

‘What about your mother?’

Lenore shook her head slowly, and her voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear it. ‘Mama doesn’t like to leave me.’

‘But the harpsichord’s right here,’ I said, puzzled.

‘Mama likes to stay by my bed. She watches me so she knows how I’m feeling.’

I looked at Lady Deveraux, leaning forward on the stool, the empty glass gripped tight between her hands, then down at Lenore’s strained, skull-like face, and felt completely lost. I didn’t understand this family, these parents. Lady Deveraux had said that I had never known a parent’s love, but I wasn’t sure that she had, either.

‘Do you read Shakespeare?’ I murmured.

‘A little. I read A Midsummer Night’s Dream a long time ago.’

‘There’s a poem that he wrote. A love sonnet. He said that love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’

‘What does that mean?’

I touched my fingers to the back of Lenore’s hand still on the edge of the harpsichord. ‘It means love loves you no matter. It’s an ever fixed mark. It’s not selfish, and it doesn’t try to change you or make you into something else because it suits them better.’

‘Oh.’ Lenore’s forehead creased, and I wanted to smooth the skin out again in case it tore.

I bit the inside of my mouth and smiled at her. ‘It doesn’t matter. What would you like me to play?’

She smiled back. ‘I don’t mind. I only used to play folk tunes.’

‘Do you know any Beethoven?’

She shook her head, and I began to play the Moonlight Sonata. The sight of my hands on the keys, the feeling of power and capability in my fingers, the confidence playing always gave me, smoothed out a clean space in my mind; wiped away Lady Deveraux’s grasping eyes and Lord Deveraux’s anger, the holes in Lenore’s smile, the candle smoke and flickering light. I played and it was like watching the lake shine under the sun and listening to the birds, the feel of the grass and flowers under my hands.

Then Lenore coughed, carried on coughing, and Lady Deveraux shot forward and wheeled the carriage around, snapping, ‘That’s enough!’

The rest of the notes fell away through my hands. I began to say something, but Lady Deveraux was bending over Lenore, the red-stained handkerchief back in her hand, folded and turned to a clean corner. Lord Deveraux said, ‘Mr Frankenstein,’ and so I got up and followed him woodenly to the door. I turned, meaning to say goodbye, but Lord Deveraux pulled me firmly out of the room.

It wasn’t until I was on the landing and looking down the staircase that I realised how stale the air had been, and the new oxygen set the blood whirling in my head.

‘Mr Frankenstein?’

I pushed back my hair with my hands, feeling sweat start out on my forehead.

‘Mr Frankenstein, what is your opinion?’

‘My opinion?’ I found listening strangely hard. ‘My opinion is... I’m sorry, my opinion?’

‘Of Lenore. Scientifically. Has your visit revealed any new obstacle?’

‘No, I—no, my lord. It will all be fine. All of it. I will need some more data on her illness, but... it will be fine.’

‘Good. I expected no less.’ He began to turn away.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I burst out.

‘What?’

‘Why are you doing this? You do realise what bringing her back means? The bodies, the flesh—she won’t be the same as she is now.’

‘Good. She is sick now. When you bring her back, she will be well.’

His calmness astonished me. ‘No, you don’t understand!’ I could feel my anger rising and it wasn’t just at his attitude. It was fear; fear that I wouldn’t be able to succeed and that everyone would know what happened in Ingolstadt. And my pride was hurt: Lord Deveraux wouldn’t accept a creature of my own making to replace his daughter, my own work wasn’t good enough for him, and that rankled; and the thought of the appalling creature that I would be forced to create wasn’t just moral horror, it was a horror of the awful workmanship that I wouldn’t be able to fix and do over until it was just right. It wouldn’t be anything like a work of art, it would be a monster.

Lord Deveraux closed the bedroom door and stood with his back against it. He lifted his chin firmly and said, ‘Mr Frankenstein, it is none of your business as to why we wish this, and frankly I find your interference both rude and unprofessional.’

‘You don’t understand!’ I hissed. ‘It won’t be the same, it’ll be a monster, and it won’t turn out the way you wish it to and you’ll—you’ll—’

‘You are hysterical, sir.’

I dragged my hands through my hair, feeling the slime of sweat congealing on my forehead. ‘I don’t understand.’

He looked at me for a moment, and then he said, ‘She wants it.’

‘What?’ I stared. ‘Who wants it? Lenore?’

‘My wife.’

I still stared at him. He frowned. ‘I told you Lenore is our only child. It is unlikely we will have another. My wife does not wish to lose the only child she has ever had. It is as simple as that.’

‘But doesn’t she realise? Doesn’t she know what—’

‘No, she does not, and you will not tell her.’

‘But—’

‘You will not tell her anything.’

I tried to breathe, but the air tasted thick and sour. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s not your place to understand,’ he said. ‘So don’t even try.’

I had a lot to say about this as I read but by the time I got to the end, I was so engrossed I seemed to misplace my criticism. I s'pose this is a good thing, you did enough to pull me in and abandon my critical eye.

One thing that stuck, however, was the description of Lenore's lips. I can't remember was it blood red? Is she wearing lipstick? I would expect her lips to be pale and chapped? Considering how close she is to dying?

I did enjoy this chapter and it seems you are making more of an effort to use the speech and terms of the era. Which is good, but you need to keep it consistent. And the did you change the title? I'm certain it was The Serpent's tooth last chapter? Maybe not.

Well done. I may be back with more if I read through it again.
JP

Baaaack.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ I demanded.

I love that all of his reasons are purely practical, as opposed to any sort of moral objection.

‘You are young, Mr Frankenstein, and perhaps you have not yet experienced love.

This seems a bit harsh. What kind of love is she talking about here? Platonic love, like between a mother and child? I imagine he must have loved his mother. I mean, the love of a parent for their child is not the only kind of love where one might consider dying for or going to extreme measures to preserve that love.

Though, for some reason, I'm getting something more sinister behind that statement, like... I dunno. I just have a feeling. Wrong-genre-savvy?

What are gravediggers for if not to illegally supply friends with spare corpses?

Okay, see now, I want to see more of this relationship, how someone like Victor could convince someone to break law and moral code alike and give him dead bodies. I mean, from what we've seen of Victor so far, he's a quite nerdy, a bit awkward, and seems to be really non-confrontational, and even a bit indecisive. Has he always been like this? Kettlesing seems to be more of the confident, dominant one in this conversation. How did it get to be that he is working for Victor?

Also, this one line in particular felt a bit dumpy. We get the gist of this relationship already. We don't need it so spelled out for us. On the one hand, it does show that Kettlesing is comfortable enough with it to make fun of it explicitly like that, but on the other hand... meh, like I said, it just feels dumpy and unnecessarily specific.

I drifted towards the piano and ran my finger along the lid.

I <3 his piano fetish.

I watched him warily, unsure of what to say next, and eventually offered weakly,

Between the "warily" and the "weakly" in quick succession, this sentence felt a little adverb-overloaded.

‘I prefer blue,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s like the sky and the mountains, and I love the mountains. Did you know, sometimes on a hot day, the lake will be so still you can see the mountains perfectly in its reflection. Did you ever see that? It’s as though the water has been turned to glass.’

I wasn't quite sure what to make of this. I feel like it should have a point, reveal something into his character, but it just sort of comes off as a little weird speech about nothing for no reason. Like, is there a reason he starts rambling here? I think this is the most we've ever seen him say at one time before. What was the prompt? Lenore? Is he trying to comfort her or something? I dunno, this just seemed awkward and a little creepy and I'm trying to figure out what the motivation behind it was. Is he nervous-rambling? Is there a point?

I'd like to see a little more of the moral dilemma of what's going on here. I mean, I get that Victor's not all that concerned with the moral implications (like, they literally aren't even occurring to him), but beyond Kettlesing, who's going along with it all anyway, no one seems all that concerned with it. I'd really like to see the parents struggling with the whole thing. Even after Victor's speech about how it's impossible due to purely mechanical reasons, they don't seem to be struggling with the idea of bringing their daughter back. Yes, they are insisting that he think of her as their daughter and not as just some project, but I mean... this is really heavy stuff. I imagine that they've done a lot of thinking to come to this decision, but I'd like to see a little conflict with them there. They seem to be making it all about them and not about her, what with how they themselves talk about her as if she were just an object. I want to see some personality with them, some fondness for her. Stupid things that parents talk about when talking about their children.

Unless, of course, that's the point. But it's not all that firm one way or the other. On the one hand, there is the lack of warmth I am sensing, and then there is the angry insistence of terms and mental categorizing. I'm just not sure how exactly they feel about their daughter. Like I said, I want to see things just a bit more explicitly one way or the other.

Still in love with this. So very much.

Again, drop me a line if you want any clarification or want to point out how wrong I am about anything.

~Gryph

Okay, Twit! I'm back for this second chapter!
Whoo!

I'm actually really, like - 'really' glad that you're still writing this and hopefully you continue because I love the way this is going so far. Now, I shall review. Please do mind that I'm rusty since I haven't quite reviewed anything in a while so my skills are just a bit rusty and sometimes I don't know what I'm talking about.

I stared at him. His eyes never blinked once and I sat down on the piano stool feeling a queasy trembling inside my guts.

I didn't quite catch the fear here. I feel like you could do more to elaborate on what Frankenstein is feeling. I understand he doesn't want whatever happened to his project leak out into public and what not but we don't know what exactly happened there just yet so we don't really care either - unless you can make us care about it just pinch more.

I could feel the sweat in my palms. Everything seemed piercingly detailed: I could count the knots in the door, the flowers in the patterned wallpaper; and the image of the carpet under my boots, red thread, green thread and brown, seemed seared into my brain.

I don't know why I quoted this line but there is something about the way your wrote Mr. Frankenstein's character that sets him apart, makes him interesting. I want to know more and more about him and I keep wishing that he has little quirks or something to make him even more different. Most of his thoughts and all are still a bit subtle/vague but I'm sure you'll mold them into something more solid in the next few chapters as we grow and learn more about him.

‘Lenore, this is a gentleman come to visit you.

I just thought this was worded a little oddly... lol.

---

This chapter wasn't as great at the first but it still packed a punch. For one, we got to see Lenore and you revealed her condition - not exactly but we know she's dying and what she looks like. Which is a good thing - well, not for her.

However, I must agree with Gryph on the little dialogue you had going between Lenore and our Frankenstein. I was hoping it'd show some of his character as well or give us an eye into some of his past or reveal anything that ties him to children or his previous experiments - anything. The conversation we got instead didn't really give us anything besides the color of his eyes and that the little girl can't talk for a long period of time before she starts coughing out blood. Sure, he feels a little something more of the girl but I think that link between the two needs to be a bit stronger if he's going to think of her as a person instead of flesh or an experiment.

Another thing, I did think that this chapter was tad bit faster paced than the first one. Mostly because I feel like there's some missing information in some places. Like his relationship with his friend the gravedigger - as mentioned before as well. Since this is written in first person I was hoping to get more into the man's head and see where his brilliance lies but you're being stingy with us and not sharing much of his thoughts. Not a bad thing, makes us want to keep reading and I understand you can't just lay everything down. Hm, maybe I'm just being impatient? Hehehe.

Overall though, this chapter does it's job and I did enjoy reading it. Still really good and I still want to keep reading it. I get absorbed into your writing that it becomes hard to really catch anything that needs my criticism, as mentioned by Josh beforehand.

I'll be reading the next one soon!

-Shear

Continuing right from the 1st chapter =) Same scheme.



In overall, this chapter is about a few times better than first one in both interest and overall smoothness. It was easier to read complex sentences in this work. The only fact that is disturbing me now are the endless commas betwen the "and". It might be my mistake or a problem, I just tried to be clear about grammar.
You do good job in portraying people's feelings, they all have depth to them and own worries - adds well to the belivability of the story. I was again disturbed by the lack of depths for side characters however - Justine in 1st chapter, now Ken in 2nd. You do give us a glimpse of their inner self alright, but we do not know a thing about appearance, while we know freakin a lot about the lady and lord. Do not belittle any character you have in your story, not a single one. Good work otherwise, thanks for the read.

Best regards,
~Kyousuke

First thing I noticed? The half of this was far better than the first half. In fact, it paled in comparison.

You were enthralled with that certain scene, I am guessing. Excited to write it because everything up till that point felt rushed and unsubstantial, as if you merely wished to get it out into the world so that you could write the parts in which were the ones you'd love to read. And for most writers, if not all writers, this is something we cannot avoid. No one wishes to write the boring bits, or digress on certain tidbits simply for characterization's sake.

But it is so absolutely necessary.

I want you to look at your diction. Your narrator's thought process. Is it really quite realistic? Very modern. Very contemporary prose, to say the least, but it does not hold that certain amount of charm which comes with being a first person writer. Its why so many people stray away from first and stick with third. Action is most important, in that sense, and range is a bit more open.

Now, I'm not saying for you to switch now. I like the fact that this is, and had been up till this point, a first person narrative. Just that, when it comes down to it, I want you to spend a bit more time on this. A little more patience. The scene with the girl was fantastic. A little mild, but nothing overly short. Your setting is interesting and fun to imagine. You set this up perfectly for witty, dark humor, or handsomely cruel descriptions of juxtaposing images such as darkness and light, life and death, the confined girl or the free sky. You have all these areas opened up to you and a protagonist with the mind to be able to comprehend such thought patterns that its almost excruciating not to see you use those openings.

The plot is brilliant. I love it to bits, but I need to see you strive for a stronger, more interesting diction.

Lastly, I want to touch on dialogue, or the style in which you chose for this piece. I'm having trouble really believing it. Its all very modern, as if someone from this day and age would say it in this day and age. Those sorts of thought processes lead me to my point. I want you to really get into the spirit of the characters and the story. I want you to be in this constantly; to bury yourself into Frankenstein's skin rather than simply trying to figure out what he would do. This is his story so be him. See the world from his eyes. Everything else will come without question. No questions asked.

So keep writing. Keep practicing those skills. You have a gift for creating dark, juxtaposing images. It's merely a matter of getting into character and staying in it, whether or not the scene you're writing is boring. Not too much of this was, whether or not it felt a bit on the rushed side.

~Walker

Hiya Twit - I eventually get a review to you! Hopefully it'll have been worth waiting for!

Okay, so you know I love this storyline that you've got going here. I would perhaps critique your structure, prose ect again if I hadn't gotten so engrossed in the story. Seriously, it was entrancing, like, you have the reader on a permenant cliff-hanger. That, my friend, is an art. Oftentimes, when I've got a few things on my list to review, I'll give a piece the briefest of reads and then critique it - ie, normally, I don't linger. But with this chapter, I just couldn't take my eyes off the screen. I read it slowly and deliberately, savoring every word. One thing that did not go unnoticed, though, was the fact that for perhaps the first quarter of the piece, you seemed to have slightly rushed things. Think about buttering it up a little bit.

Anyway, enough rambling from me - let's get down to business! Okay, so I'm just going to go through some nitpicks with you, if that's alright.

Twit wrote:His eyes never blinked once and I sat down on the piano stool feeling a queasy trembling inside my guts.

This sentence is just too long and cluttered for my liking, but at the same time, too insubstantial and not interesting enough. Spice it up! Perhaps try: He never blinked once. I staggered onto the piano stool, a queasy trembling rattling through my guts. I think that's perked the sentence up nicely.

Twit wrote:The softness of her voice reached me like the touch of a hand

Okay, I don't really 'get' this sentence. Like the touch of a hand? That' so boring. Why not somthing like: 'The softness of her voice swept my skin like the brush of a feather.' Or something like that. It just makes it a bit more...you know...alive.

joshuapaul wrote:His long grey hair under his battered tricorne hat was hung with fine beads of dew.

This sentence is a bit weird. It's too wordy. His hair was long and grey; dabbled with dew.

Twit wrote:plunged

Shoved sounds better. It just fits in the context.

Twit wrote:I swallowed. ‘Yes, my lord

Lord.

And, one more thing: you use the word 'thin' too many times in the scene with the girl in the bed. It just gets a little annoying and repetative.

That's all! I'll be back for the next chapter!

~ Amelia

Urgh, sorry I'm so late in getting to this review. I have no excuse. Looks like you already have chapter three out as well....

This was a good chapter. It had that subtly facetious tone that was also evident in chapter one, which, though perhaps not quite congruous with the time period, is easy and fun to read.

Now, critiques. I have a feeling that the offhanded care that Lord and Lady Deveraux show toward Lenor is intentional, not accidental, meant to be contrasted ironically with the fact that the parents practically gloat to Dr. Frankenstein about how much they love her. You follow me, right? In simpler terms, the Lord and Lady's love for their child is suspiciously superficial. Naturally, this superficiality incites a sense of mystery - why would they show so little love toward their child, but still want her to be resurrected?

However, the mystery does not seem to be anything more than incidental in Dr. Frankenstein's mind. In fact, he pays as little attention to it as he might if they actually did show care for their daughter. This causes the gravity of the enigma to be reduced so much that one hardly notices it. Because if the narrator doesn't care about it, why should the reader? The fact is, there is a brick wall shielding me from Dr. Frankenstein's thought process. The purpose of first-person is to remove this obstruction, is it not? Frankly, I'm getting as much out of Frankenstein as I would if this were told in third-person.

Of course, you could be reading all this and not knowing at all what it is I'm going on about. If that is the case, then simply my bringing up apparent superficiality should serve as a message to you.

Another thing I noticed was that this didn't really seem to be a whole, unbroken chapter: each part that was separated by *** were disembodied segments between which, for all I can tell, much time has passed. The transition between the conversation with the gravedigger and Dr. Frankenstein's being escorted to the Lord and Lady's household was especially jarring.

While I'm on the subject of the gravedigger...

‘Oh no, not to worry about it. What are gravediggers for if not to illegally supply friends with spare corpses?’

This was too forward, too stingy. It didn't strike me as something someone would actually say in such a situation. It's not even that good of a joke.

Also, since Kettlesing's a gravedigger, shouldn't he be of the gravedigger mentality? You know - brusque, antisocial. This may be stereotypical, but considering the setting of his profession, shouldn't this be what he's like? But I'm not getting getting that from him.

So. Again, really sorry about how late I am. I should be able to get to chapter three fairly soon though!

-Kafka

Hello my dear!

Transitions

Okay so I found it a little sudden how Frankenstein went from being all clinical and socially awkward to being able to hold a warm, gentle discussion with a dying child and to see her as a person and not work/ an experiment/ whatever. Try to make that smoother. Try to start his discussion with her off on a more medical basis, make his observations of her less heartfelt and less involved and then gradually build up the relationship. She's an enchanting child, I'll give you that, but for someone like Frankenstein to take note of it, it takes time and this felt too sudden for me.

Questions, questions, who has the questions?

How are they not asking Frankenstein every little detail about this procedure? So they've researched and they've seen what he's done on paper, but as they're so ready to point out, the flesh is a different matter altogether. I want to see them struggling with this decision. I want to see the mother horrified at the idea of her little girl being cut up and sewn together with other little girls. And I want to see more... Twitterness. Allow me to try and explain.

What was great about the first part is you had this awkward, bumbling, insensitive, clinical character and then you threw him into a moral dilemna and outlined that he does have those but isn't quite sure himself where the line is or how he keeps over-stepping it. Now. The sort of scene I expected from you when you started talking about blue was something, and I hope you'll forgive my lack of refinement, like this:

Girl -"I like blue."
Frankenstein - "Hmm, do you? Yes, me too, well maybe I'l be able to find you a set of blue eyes from one of the-"
Parents - "Doctor Frankenstein! Darling, what the doctor really means to say is that he'd like to buy you a doll, isn'tt that right, sir?

Annyway you get the idea. I wanted that mix of horror and humour and that feeling of not knowing whether we should be repulsed or amused that you usually do so well. Let's be honest, dear. It's too early for the touching moments and that felt very out of place, though I did love the little close to this chapter.

Overall

It's good but needs a bit of work. I'm thinking you need to consider who your characters are more but there's some nice description and I like where the plot is going. I've nott really much else to say just yet. I'll have tto check if you have another part up yet, but if not, do let me know when it's ready,

Heather xxx

Hi there Twit,

Sorry for my lateness. I intended to write this review earlier, but got overwhelmed with school work. Sorry again.

Hmm, interesting. I like the way you are using the already known character of Dr. Frankenstein to develop your own plot in a different light. It'll be interesting to see how he handles this situation, which is basically forced on him. But I have to say, the sudden transitions of personality doesn't suit him that much. He went from his nerdy, absorbed-in-what-he-is-doing, personality to a warm, kind of emotional personality and lastly to a befuddled, hysterical personality. This is slightly overwhelming and really unrealistic. It's okay for a character to change his behavior, but it's rather alarming to see one do that in a single chapter. It would be better to establish Dr. Frankenstein's personality first, and then deviate from it in the correct time. You have shown some establishment from this sentence, which I loved,

Out of a childish longing for something familiar, I drifted towards the piano and ran my finger along the lid.

So, what I'm trying to say is, establish his true personality first. After the readers have grasped his personality, change it now and then to suit the situation.

Mistakes

‘I don’t think you fully understand my meaning, Mr Frankenstein.

Don't you think it'd be better to say "...fully understood what I meant, Mr. Frankenstein."

Do you understand me, Mr Frankenstein, am I clear?’

Maybe this is because it's more familiar to me, but wouldn't be better to say, "Do, I make myself clear, Mr. Frankenstein?"

He bowed and left the room.

I know it's customary to bow those times, but in accordance to his personality, I'd think it's more realistic to say, "He bowed slightly" or "He nodded his head"

blackening and distorting his outline in the pearly new light; and his whistling echoed through the black wet trees

Don't connect these two with an "and" because before the "and" you are describing the environment relative to Kettlesing, but after you are describing his actions relative to the environment. What I'm trying to say is that, these are two different descriptions so, the semi colon is enough to separate them.

It was far larger than any of the rooms in my house; large and cold and fashionable and empty.

"Fashionable" doesn't seem to belong among the more formal words that it's with. I say, cut it.

‘You’re not to tire yourself, Lenore,’ Lord Deveraux said. ‘Mr Frankenstein is only staying for a little while. You’re not to tire yourself.’

As he's not changing his tone, there's no need to repeat the phrase, "You’re not to tire yourself."

Plot

I'm pleased the plot progress you made in this chapter, but I feel like something is missing. For one, I'd have liked to know how Dr. Frankenstein actually came to doing these experiments, or what the consequences are according to your story. Because not everyone had read the actually novel on Dr. Frankenstein, thus it would be prudent to give those readers some insight into the history of Dr. Frankenstein.

Also, another thing is the first person narration you are mixing up with third person narration. Because, there were so many places where you could show the ideas or emotions circulating through Frankenstein's mind. But instead, you opt for an outside perspective where you can only hear a conversation. The best example is the conversation between the gravedigger and Frankenstein. Try to work on those.

Descriptions

There are some parts where I think needs a touch more descriptions, although if you take an overall look, the descriptions are well written and timed. But without me pointing them out, go over the story once more, but don't take the plot into you. Just focus on the descriptions and you'll see the places where your mind's eye strain to make a mental picture of. For instance, a little more description around the conversation with gravedigger and some more description about the journey to the Deveraux's home. Since, Frankenstein's nervous about the about scenario, you could use that situation to give us an insight into his emotions and feelings at that particular with pictures of what he is seeing out windows of the carriage. Use these kinds of situations to your advantage.

Overall

I'd say this is a good chapter, but the ending is not quite so shocking or interesting as it was in the 1st chapter, but I definitely like the plot, and I'd love to read more. Well done.

Good luck

- C -