2010

A/N: For those of you already familiar with the story, I apologise for tiring your eyes with this again. I am rewriting/completing this very old story. I also apologise for its length. I meant to put it in Adv. Critiques but Nate decided to reset the points I worked so hard for, today of all days! So, I appreciate your patience. I imagine this mostly working as a graphic novel, I'm just writing it out as a novel first as its the only format I know well. Plot points do not interest me.

Section 1: Loom

The pool of blood frothed with soapy bubbles.
Clarence scrubbed vigorously, humming all the while. Blood was always the hardest to get out and he simply couldn’t have his wonderful white tiles spoiled like that. He wasn’t overly worried or even angry. At his age, keeping busy was a matter of pride. His thick hands, skin stretched thin over puffy veins, luxuriated in the liquids. Clarence huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and applied himself with renewed vigour.
There wasn’t too much of it, thankfully – it had mostly drenched the boy’s clothes, seeping down over the rough wooden chair and onto the floor. Clarence looked up at the dead boy, squinting in the light. Small and finely boned, his hair was messy and blonde; blue eyes stared down at his neck, split in an obscene smile. His expression was troubled, as though he couldn’t quite recall what was so amusing.
‘Don’t worry, boy. It ain’t worth remembering, anyhow,’ Clarence said with a groan, as he eased his stiff back. He stood up, stretching with audible pain, popping and cracking rusty joints. He looked down at his work with a critical eye, appraising the damage. The dry residue that had affixed itself to his tiles was mostly gone and with a thorough mop, all would be well again. A pleased smile crawled out from amongst weary, grizzled jowls. Clarence walked to the corner of his cellar, grabbed his mop and bucket and brought it over to the offending liquids. As he worked, mop sloshing merrily, he hummed; the tune was mostly wish-washy nonsense, the kind he’d heard on the squawk box in the ‘20’s.
‘You know what I like best about dead people?’ he said, pausing for a response. He shook his head, chuckling. ‘That’s it right there - they never interrupt. Quiet, unassuming types for the most part.’
His movements were slow and methodical, pressure measured and precise. Clarence sucked at his gums in irritation, pausing again to look at the boy. He was, Clarence decided, more a young man than a boy. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Was it relevant? Probably not, he knew and yet, he couldn’t shake his agitation. Something was wrong here. Gently lifting the youth’s chin, he looked suspiciously into dead eyes. No spark quickened within – it was too soon for that. He breathed in, extending his senses through the rock, dirt and tiles above and out into the ramshackle hotel. Nothing stirred there. Between the giant, broken down letters atop it an ageing raven nestled.
Few buildings surrounded his and those that did were in just as bad a shape; desecrated corpses in desperate need of a proper burial. The town was little more than a deserted outpost, a long forgotten mole on the desert’s rear. Nothing appeared untoward and yet, he quested still further, heart quickening as he finally caught his quarry – the distant rumble of a motor. Senses contracted rapidly and he was back in his cellar, beneath the ground, staring into frighteningly aware blue eyes. ‘Did you call for help, you cheeky little devil?’ he said, grinning. Chuckling, he cast off his bloody apron, revealing his bare chest and blue overalls. Thick grey bush curled over the edges.
‘Well, just so’s you know, they won’t find you - won’t find this place, this town or nothin’ unless I want them to.’
Unconcerned with his dress, he bounded up the stone steps. Clarence emerged in the lobby, the sparkling white floor a soothing balm to red-stressed eyes. To one side, a fat brown counter squatted, resentfully protecting the many key-rings hanging off the wall behind it. Wallpaper that had long since forgotten its original colour was hanging off the walls in strips and air-bubble bulges as though it longed to tear itself off and flee. Clarence sighed as he strode behind the counter; this was home. Despite his seeming unconcern, he was seething inside. That he had the boy, his first visitor in more than a hundred years – not counting his deliverer – was enough cause for concern. Strange forces were in motion this night, he well knew, being one of them himself.
He considered the problem, knowing his work could not be disturbed; too much hung in the balance. Anxious, he waited as patiently as he could and soon, the sound of the engine was a roar that shivered through the night air. High beamed pupils burned a path through obscuring shadow as loud, angry music poured out of the car. Should he unveil the town? Did he need more victims for this hungry place, more players in this twisted game? No, he would let them drive on, in a seemingly perpetual loop. Here, in his part of the world, time obeyed him and at that thought, he grinned.
This could yet work in his favour.
He traced his steps back down to the cellar, avoiding the red-tongued staircase leading upward. Even he had no wish to go to that place. Clarence quickened his step, descending into the cool, but barren chamber below ground. The dead boy remained as before, sitting in the lone chair, starkly framed against the freshly scrubbed ceramic glare. It could be his imagination, but Clarence thought he seemed more despondent. He pretended not to notice. ‘Well, boy, where were we?’ He tilted his head, as though listening. ‘Ah yes, that’s right! You were asking for a story.’
Clarence brought a chair – that to all intents and purposes hadn’t existed a moment ago -- over to the corpse. He settled it with a groan of contentment, producing a cigar from one of many pockets. ‘The story you’re wanting is a long one, older than you, older than even myself and that boy – that’s somethin’ in itself, heh – but for the purposes of sagacity, I’ll be brief.’
He lit a match, again produced from one of innumerable pockets. It flared, given the breath for one lingering kiss with the cigar before dying. Smoke curled in the air, rich and heavy. ‘Gotta start with the eldest, of course. They’re always the closest reflection of the parent, after all, no matter how crooked the mirror.’

#1 – Phyllis

Phyllis Adam Brooks was dancing.
Not intentionally of course; he hopped and pirouetted madly between tottering stacks of books and dangling charms. He had stubbed his foot on a treacherous chair leg, become unbalanced and so begun his whirling efforts to regain his footing. The bell above the door tinkled in merry warning, freezing Phyllis to the spot. Everything hung still, hushed in anticipation – the books shook, charms swayed and he trembled, balanced as he was on one foot.
A small, dark haired boy stared at him in what could have been awe but was more likely incredulous amusement. ‘Hello,’ he ventured.
Phyllis blinked. Slowly, he grounded his stray leg and was righted once more. He smoothed the twin tufts of hair that remained to him, perching like little grey owls behind his ears. Phyllis wasn’t quite sure what to do; he hadn’t had a customer in decades. His small shop was more akin to a bizarre magpies nest than a proper, modern store and that was the way he liked it, customer or no customer.
He wrung his hands. His loose, dry skin shrivelled up with each passing caress, liver spots rolling. ‘Hello, young man. How can I help you?’ Phyllis asked.
‘I’m meant to be doing an assignment for school,’ the boy said, by way of explanation. ‘On maps,’ he added.
Phyllis beamed. ‘Well, then you’ve come to the right place, lad, yes indeed. Oho!’ He was all but clapping with glee as he moved forward. ‘The name is Phyllis,’ he assured, shaking the boy’s hand. His hand lingered. After a moment’s pause, he turned away, retreating to the recesses of the room.
‘Uh, my name’s Tim, sir,’ the boy said. He didn’t seem to mind that he was alone for the moment as Phyllis rummaged around in the back. The walls were covered in layers of odd materials, signs and maps in a seemingly haphazard manner. Phyllis finally spotted the large compendium of cartography he was after. He blew the thick layer of dust off its surface, hacking and coughing within the small storm that followed. Fanning the air wildly, he turned to see Tim stumble toward a wall, reaching out a hand to grasp one of the maps. His smooth pale hand trembled upon touching it and he visibly flinched back.
Phyllis watched in fascination through a golden curtain of falling dust. It bestowed on Tim a certain holy aura, fitting his now reverential expression. Upon touching the map, the illusion of clutter would have vanished. He was viewing the true shop, its cavernous walls covered in giant maps made from all kinds of animal hide. There was one in particular that dominated the view, inscribed with a multitude of continents and masses of land, far beyond what should be normal. In long, flowery lettering it read: Lyceum. Next to it and indeed all around it, maps of various towns and cities across the Earth were dotted.
Phyllis walked forward, so soft and quiet, he barely disturbed the restless dust. ‘I have maps of every country and every world,’ he whispered in Tim’s ear. Tim jumped, a small scream escaping his throat.
Phyllis blinked, surprised. ‘Did I scare you?’ he asked, head tilted. His blue eyes were hard, predatory.
Tim hesitated, his uncertainty betrayed by flickering eyes. He nodded and swallowed tightly.
‘I made them all, handcrafted from various skins,’ Phyllis said, turning away to hide his growing excitement. This boy was different; he could see what normal humans wouldn’t. He ran a gentle hand along the nearest, a faint smile on his lips.
‘I-I like this one,’ Tim said, pointing to Lyceum. ‘It feels funny though.’
Phyllis stared at the boy, eyes half lidded. He could barely contain himself from snatching Tim right there, but he held himself back. ‘You can see that, can you?’ he asked, just to be certain. He licked at dry, puckered lips.
Tim nodded, puzzled.
At that, Phyllis finally allowed a smile to stretch his face. He placed the compendium down on a nearby table. ‘Not many people can see the truth,’ he said, walking to the door. He locked it, turning back to face the boy. ‘Such individuals are…unique.’
‘Why did you lock the door?’
Phyllis breathed in that tremulous fear, welcoming it like a long lost lover. He approached Tim, kneeling so they were face to face. ‘Lyceum is a far off place, lad. A much distant world,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘And the material this map is made from – ah, it’s a fine thing indeed. It lasts the longest, as you can see, but alas, its usage has long since faded from this realm of men. However, I think you’ll find I’m a traditionalist.’ He grinned, revealing pointed, sharp teeth.
‘I want to go home now,’ Tim said, backing away.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Tim, much too late indeed,’ Phyllis said, calmly herding the boy into the back of the room. ‘I specialise in unique maps, you see.’
Tim stumbled, crashing to the ground behind the counter. ‘I don’t care, just leave me alone!’
His plea went unnoticed. ‘Every little line on your face, every scar and mole,’ Phyllis said, reaching out to run a hand lightly down the boy’s face. ‘Tells a story; your skin is the map of your life. And I am the map maker.’ A silver gleam in his other hand drew Tim’s eye and he screamed as the knife flashed toward him. For one brief instant a golden fire burned in those eyes and Phyllis grunted in surprise, even as the blade rammed home. His arm shook as Tim jerked and twitched beneath him. Had he imagined that flare?
Unsettled, Phyllis roughly dragged the body into the back and set to work.

#2 - Ivan

People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision. Ivan knew better though; he gazed into the pristine surface, waiting. He sat on a small crotchety stool, placed before an open double window, staring at the canvas in anticipation. Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed.
He so rarely ventured out anymore, that it was a blessing merely to feel the heat of the sun on his skin. He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander; art was all he had. His passion, his love was being abused, and he had to fix it. No longer did the visionaries bless the grey world with their presence.
The truth, the secret, lay in the blood.
He sat for days, merely waiting. Some pictures were harder to coax forth. This one took three days; rough stubble shadowed his delicate features and a haunted look grew in eyes stressed and red from avid search. Exhausted, he smiled suddenly and leaned forward, nub of a pencil in multi-hued fingers and began to draw. It always gave him a rush, the feeling of creating, of power; a brush with divinity that made him ache for more. The first bold stroke, the dark outlining shapes, things previously hidden.
He could see it now: a street encrusted in filth. Against a blur of people walking by a road oozing black blood along exposed veins, there existed a miracle of nature—a puddle in a pothole. The dark rainwater pooled, glacial and still, nursing in its centre, a perfect flower. Brilliant red petals fanned outward, a contrast so vivid it seemed to leak into the water, while in the centre a soft gold shone.
It was lovely. And yet, something was wrong. His head was pounding, his vision swam and the image flickered. Ivan was confused; this had never happened before. Always his genius would spread unhindered across the canvas. Unnoticed, blood dripped from his nose, falling silently on the floorboards. Instead of the perceived pothole, a very different image was shaping up beneath his hand—a backdrop of mountains, rising spires, trees. He shook his head, trying to clear it; blood splattered onto the canvas.
He raised a shaking hand, only now aware of the blood streaming from his nose. His breaths were rapid and short, pupils dilated. He flushed, a wave of heat rising up from the floor to his head. All the while his hands jerked and flashed erratically over the page with a will of their own and a sinister world came to life. He could see the few trees he'd individualized from the forest, sway in a breeze. He felt his body slacken and lean in, drawn closer. His head flew backward and a massive sneeze rocked his body, spraying the art with blood, freeing him from its grasp. His mind was numb with shock, mouth agape in silent terror. But he couldn't stop. The painting had to be finished.
Night descended on the outside world and cold stars glared down on the city. The hectic rush of man and machine slowed as lights and nylon signs burst into life. Ivan reached to the side, losing the pencil and acquiring a small, fine brush. He began to gently but firmly apply pressure, smearing his blood into a light haze. The painter in him knew this shouldn't be possible, aware that normally the blood would dry and be difficult to spread. It was as if the laws of reality had been suspended just for the unfolding of this... nightmare.
After many hours Ivan stood back, exhausted and still. He felt not the usual triumph, but a hollow emptiness. Never had he created something so powerful, so dark that it tugged at his soul even as he watched. Vaguely, he was aware of a gnawing horror. When one paints a vision, a world, he gives away a part of himself; the art is a reflection of innermost self. But this, Ivan knew, was not one such. It had nothing to do with him. “This is no’ right,” he said aloud.
Behind him, a voice answered: “But it is beautiful nonetheless.”
Ivan whirled, heart pounding. Standing there was a tall man, richly dressed in black velvet. Swaying on his feet, Ivan could only get an impression: dark sable hair, intense silver eyes, a trim salt and pepper goatee. The man reached out a hand. "And so are you," he finished, gently cupping the surprised artist's chin. Before he could do anything but gape, the man raised an ebony cane and smashed it across Ivan’s face.
The force of the blow sent Ivan reeling, spinning him backward and onto the painting. Yet he felt no resistance, and continued to fall. The man watched, impassive, but silently regretful as Ivan began screaming. The painting sucked and tore at him; pulling him in. Just as suddenly as it had begun, the screaming stopped and Ivan was gone. The painting remained, gleaming now with a polished coat.
The man stepped forward, stroking the map that had brought him here. He studied the painting for a moment as sounds of music and people drifted in on the ghost of a breeze. “Your blood is your cage. My collection is mine,” he said ritually, as he’d done, for the past hundred years. “And you are the last, the final piece.”

# 3 – The Whistler

The hiss and crackle of static filled the room. The blue glow of the television illuminated the couch and the bedraggled form of the boy sleeping on it. He shifted slightly, weight pressing down on the remote. Immediately the static vanished, replaced with a current affairs program and the crisp, clear tones of a news reader:
‘Good morning, and welcome to this urgent report. Today, police confirmed that another person has gone missing, the latest in a series of bizarre missing person cases that have left authorities baffled. Simon Green, 16, is only the most recent of what began with the case of little Timothy Roberts…’
Paul Brook awoke. He stared blearily at the screen for a moment, confused, before leaping forward in alarm.
“Shit, what time is it?” he muttered. He cast about for his phone, finding it wedged between cushions, and cursed as he discovered he was late for school. He had just begun his senior year at Plenetary High. Constantly late, forever dreamy, he was the prime target of many a teacher’s ire. Not that it had any effect. He ran a hand roughly through his messy hair, hoisted his bag, and left for school with a sigh.
The day passed in a blur of shouting faces, mumbled apologies and heart-felt groans. As he walked away from yet another lecture, toward the end of the day, Paul wondered why he even bothered. He was sure that if it weren’t for his friends, he’d have left a long time ago. Well, that and his mother. She had cancer. Every day he had to face her painfully thin figure, and those too bright eyes that gleamed with hope when she saw him. He couldn’t bear to dash that hope, and so everyday continued the charade.
Paul shook himself, trying to think of better things. He didn’t want to brood today. The final bell rung and with a clatter and scrape of moving chairs, everyone packed up and left. Paul was slower to his feet, even though normally he’d be the first out the door. He didn’t feel well at all. As he left the school grounds, he was joined by Nick. Immediately the mood changed, and within moments they were laughing and chattering. Nick had that effect on people. Good looking, with dark hair and blue eyes, he was an athletic freak and resident popular kid.
They moved within the stream of students heading toward the station; a great migration of exuberant youth. It was Friday and they had every reason to be excited. They had happy, healthy families to rush home and greet. Thinking of this, Paul felt the happiness bleed away from him and saw the same effect occur on Nick’s face.
‘What’s up, mate?’
‘Nothing, just thinking.’
‘Ah.’ Nick shifted, uncomfortable.
With an effort, he pushed the dark thoughts away and concentrated on being happy. Or what passed for it anyway. After a while, the tension eased and they talked good naturedly of the footy and upcoming assessments. At a cross-road, Paul led his friend away from the rest and headed toward the library. It wasn’t far away, and they had research to do after all.
It was a strange, murky day. The type everyone hated. Brooding grey clouds smothered the light, but the heat was still stifling. Speeding motorists steadily chugged out polluting fumes, making them cough and splutter as they crossed the street. Again, silence stretched between them. Up ahead a cluster of buildings huddled together as if afraid. Gradually, they crept closer, looming above the boys.
A biting cold wind cut into them, slicing through the meagre protection afforded by their clothes. Big, fat droplets of rain began to fall, smacking into them, at first singly then in torrents. Breathless and drenched, they skidded to a halt in front of the library entrance. The automatic doors slid open. The shadowed interior beckoned. Nick looked back at him.
‘Come on already, I need to go to the toilet.’
‘And what? You need me to hold your hand?’ Paul snorted but followed him anyway. He needed to go as well.
They approached the toilets. There was movement in the upper levels, but nothing distinct. Again, Paul was struck with an odd feeling. Irritable, he pushed open the door and was instantly bathed in harsh UV light. Smooth, gleaming white tiles covered the floor, reflecting the light as waves. Rows of cubicles stretched away. Within one of them, someone was whistling.
Despite being the one to bring them here, Nick didn’t go to the toilet. Instead, he approached the mirrors, and stood there adjusting his hair. Paul made a noise of disgust and found himself a cubicle. He relieved himself, listening to the whistler. It was an odd tune, and one Paul felt he ought to remember. At the same time he felt his stomach clench, sickened, as a thick metallic taste flooded his mouth.
Somewhere further down, a door creaked open.
Despite this, no footsteps could be heard. It was the song that approached – dark and swelling with ugly promise. Everything in Paul screamed at him to run, to hide and cower; trembling, he resisted. It sliced into his gut, penetrating his roiling insides, coiling there, serpentine. He dry heaved, hunched over. It was under his skin, crawling, invading, and probing sharply. It lanced into his eyes. It was, he realized, searching him. Two, glossy dark shoes halted outside his cubicle. Paul felt his heart lurch. Sweat dripped down his face.
After a moment, the shoes slid on. Suddenly the pain was gone, and Paul sucked in air gratefully, shaking with relief. He knew he should call out, give warning, scream—But he didn’t, paralysed by fear. He heard a brief scuffle, a muffled shout and the tune swelled, triumphant, and full.
He was vaguely aware of opening the door, of rushing to the piles of clothing and empty bag of skin and bones that were all that remained of his best friend. He remembered screams, terrible gut wrenching wails of horror and flashing blue and red lights. Paul was numb to it all. He heard only the song.
A comforting blanket was placed about his shoulders and he was led away, a strong authoritarian voice assuring him everything would be okay. He was placed in a police car and driven away.
Hours passed. He stared blankly out the window, and only after a long while had passed was he aware of what he stared at. Long swathes of desert greeted his eye. He frowned.
‘Hello?’ he said. Or tried to anyway. All that emerged was a strangled croak. The cop said nothing. Licking his lips he tried again.
‘Hello? Officer?’
Nothing.
‘Sir? Hello? Where are you taking me?
Silence was the only answer he received. He began to breathe heavily, panic setting in.
‘Help me!’ he screamed. He thrashed. He pleaded and begged but heard nothing in reply.
After a while, the officer began to whistle

#4 – Clarence

Clarence puffed on the half-finished cigar. ‘At least, that’s how this all began. But then, you’re still not sure why you’re dead, are you Paul? Well, I expect that you can tell me a little bit more about what happened after Drake took you – despite what they say, I ain’t all-knowing, heh.’
Paul looked no more pleased than before, head lolling to the side, skin turning an ugly shade of grey. He didn’t seem all too inclined to talking either, not yet anyway. Clarence withdrew an antique pocket watch from his pants, afire with metallic light. A very loud tick-tocking began to beat at the air with precise thrums. ‘Guess it’s a little early for that, after all,’ he muttered, bushy eyebrows hunching over.
‘Now where was I?’ he said, brightening up considerably. ‘Ah yes, Drake – truly the strangest of my brood, always singing that damn song, you’d think he’d learn a little variety after a thousand years, but he can be a singular son of a bitch and that’s a fact. Singular but not dumb and by taking you, he stuck his foot right in the proverbial hornets nest.’

#5 – The Detective

They were in a small room, sitting opposite one another. A nondescript table sat between them. Slight wisps of smoke trailed upward from his fingertips. He couldn’t stop staring at her; she was the most fascinating being he had ever seen. Unusually tall (although you couldn’t tell when she was sitting), with long white-blonde locks of hair framing the most intense silver eyes he’d ever seen, she was nothing if not mesmerizing. She wore a simple, strap free white dress that left her lovely cream shoulders bare.
A massive white spear was propped up against the wall behind her.
He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Instead he puffed heavily on his cigarette.
‘That’ll kill you one day,’ she said. Her voice was rich, deep, smooth. It rolled over him in waves.
‘Plenty of other things will do that, too. 'Least this way I’ve got a say in the matter.’ His voice, rough and grating, jarred in the aftermath of hers. It was an odd moment for the aging detective when he wished briefly for a softer voice.
She smiled.
‘So, where exactly are we?’ he asked. It was fairly obvious they were in an interrogation room; it was the location of this room and the matter of how he’d gotten there that concerned him. It was also a question that had been answered before, at the very beginning of this extremely odd dream. He had discounted it then, but now thought better of it. This was merely a fantasy after all; it might be interesting to see where this went.
‘This room is a construction of your mind,’ she said. ‘A reflexive defence against my intrusion into your subconscious.’
‘I see.’
So, she was a nutcase. It was always best to roll with their madness, he knew. It made them less agitated. Given the nature of the weapon behind her, agitating her was the last thing on his mind.
He shifted in his chair. ‘And what are we doing here? What caused your ‘intrusion’ as you put it? I was having a nice dream about the simple but boring life awaiting me after retirement.’
‘You don’t dream, Detective.’
He frowned, irritated. Dreams really shouldn’t be so self-aware, he thought.
‘And we haven’t the time for verbal sparring,’ she finished, ‘so let’s get straight to the point: you’re about to die.’
He stared at her. No witty response, wry observation or cutting remark came to mind. After forty years in the business, that was most depressing. ‘I don’t want to die,’ he said. His shoulders slumped, cigarette fizzling out in neglect. She said it with such certainty, such conviction, that he couldn't find fault with it.
‘No one does,’ she said softly.
They remained like that for a moment; him, slumped in a room of shadows opposite a goddess in white, who stared resolutely into the distance.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ he asked.
He didn’t know when this had stopped being a silly fantasy, only that it seemed a certainty now. This was real. In his wildest of imaginings he could never have constructed a woman so perfect, so rigid and strong. His mind shied away from actually identifying what was occurring. He dealt with the mundane, the ordinary… not this.
‘You can stop working on the missing-persons case.’
He stiffened in shock. A thousand thoughts ran through his head and a dozen different emotions shot through him; mostly though, he was disappointed. It was as if for one moment he’d gloried in the knowledge and experience of magic, of other. But it was all a lie.
‘Is that all this is then?’ he shouted. ‘A goddamn scare tactic? Well it won’t work, those people need me.’
‘Those people are dead and so are you if this continues,’ she said bluntly. ‘It’s bringing you unwanted attention; you have a part to play yet, Detective.’
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Leave the case? In forty years he had achieved the highest success record in department history, and yet… he had to admit that he was close to despairing with this last one. Several people of varying ages, races, religious and political stances had vanished with no common link between them. There were no clues, no evidence, no cause; it was all too clean. Several newspapers had actually hypothesized alien abduction.
He rubbed his temples. And now there was this. A part of him wanted to yell and scream and punch things, while the other was simply too tired. You’re in way over your head, old boy. This was more suited to the up and coming hotshots, he thought wearily.
‘And what’s your part in all this, then?’
‘I hunt the hunters.’
‘Oh really? I hadn’t noticed, what with the seven dead people and all.’
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. ‘I am doing my best, but the scales are tipped in their favour. As for the dead; they have fulfilled their destiny and that of this world.’
He felt a spasm of anger tear through him, and for a moment he struggled to restrain it. ‘And you can’t help me?’
She shook her head. ‘I remain too far a field to affect matters directly yet; all you need do is lie low—make no mistake, there are forces far more powerful than you and I at play, both supernatural and human. You cannot win this battle!’ She was standing now, arms resting on the table as she stared fiercely at him.
‘Let me show you their power,’ she hissed.
Before he could react, the room shifted and pulsed, and suddenly he was gulping in terror as a frightening old man slit his throat. He watched helpless as he was dragged to the back of a room and wailed silently as his eyelids were cut away; skin and bone cut apart and harvested in some obscene ritual. He listened in rapt fascination to a haunting melody that ripped through flesh, bone and spirit and numbly succumbed to a ravenous painting.
They are coming for you.
Just as the vision was about to shift again, he screamed, ‘Stop!’
He was shivering. Sweat coursed down his body over trembling lips and muscles.
‘This is what we face, and it is just the beginning.’ There was a mountain of grief in those silver eyes, a piercing eloquence that went beyond words.
‘What do they want?’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘The Apocalypse; they prepare the way to the End of Days.’
And with that, she vanished.

Very nice Jigs! I liked it a lot. It was very... uh... horrific to say the least xD. It was far from my type of story, BUT, I liked it a lot. It was perfectly written-- imagery and all, and the only word that sums this up is... Hm, I'll need to think on that one, but it was gruesome.

As you know, if I find something wrong in a story it's in grammar or punctuation of course, haha. Here are my only problems with this:

In long, flowery lettering it read: Lyceum..

Two dots xD. One or three. Or was that intentional?

His arm shook as Tim jerked and twitched beneath him. Had he imagined that

I think you meant to continue this?



Overall, a very good read; in a creepy way that scares me, it was almost refreshing to read. And that's because of the good grammar and stuff, not because of the horrific images you drew in here, haha.


Very good! 11/10

xxJune

Haha, yay, comment!

*noms teh awesome Junebug*

Thank you very much,
I'm glad I...er, creeped you out. XD

Cheers

Hey, Jigs! =D

Grammar and First Impressions

It'll be in the attachment. There's really not much to find in there, though. xD This was pretty fantastic, and I must applaud you and your use of the English language. My vocabulary is horrible, but yours = epic win.

#1 – Phyllis

I figured out why this was so familiar at this point. xD Not much problems here. I enjoyed it. 'Twas totally, epically grody but nonetheless enjoyable. ^_^

I found this unique and an eye-popper. I feel that it wrapped up almost too nicely at the end, but that's probably just a personal preference. With spooky stories like these, I like it to leave some sort of question or creepy feeling in the air. This one, I could see the ending coming way before it happened... I hope that's not because I've read it before. XD

#2 Ivan

This was interesting. xD It was kinda epically grody. ^_^

I didn't feel it surprised me much either. It was pretty much just another horror story with blood. And the story itself was just there. It's hard to explain. xD It maybe because of the chunks of description and not much dialogue with it.. Dunno. I do think you could describe the scene where he was sucked into the painting some more. Or give the man more dialogue for a creepier air. He was kinda weird. xD Maybe throw in some dialogue when Ivan's so-called conscience is speaking to him in a very creepy manner but it's really the man speaking or... dunno. xD

# 3 – The Whistler

This one is really cool. I liked it, and I don't really have any complains to this one! So. Onward--march!

#4 – Clarence

Woah. oO Something weird's happening. *matches names and faces*

...

#5 – The Detective

Nice closure here (for now, anyway, correct?). ^_^ Nothing wrong with this section either, assuming you're continuing this, and I do believe you planned to do so?

Overall

As June said, this was really creepy. xD There were a couple points that confused me and it just didn't leave me with a content feeling (or it left me too content). Otherwise, this was really cool, and I can't wait to read more. XD

Any questions, comments, find me. Blah, blah, blah...

Keep writing! =D

Jabber, the One and Only!

Yay, Jab-Jab, heretofore known as the amazing Eater of Comma's!

XD

This is nowhere near finished, lol, though I wish it was so yes, I'm going to continue. All the characters introduced thus far will be recurring ones...except for Nick and Tim, you know, cos they're dead. Everyone one else, well, that'll be shown later.

Thank you very much for your comments!

Cheers

Hey Jiggy!!!

I enjoyed this a lot, but this is a little bit long so I'm going to take a wee little break and I'll be right back. #0 and #! were written fabulously and I didn't expect it to be written otherwise. I saw everything that you wanted me to see and this was just...there's really no words for it.

It's very solid and as for as I can tell, the grammar and punctuation is superb. There was this one little thing though:

This was boy was different; he could see what normal humans wouldn’t. He ran a gentle hand along the nearest, a faint smile on his lips.

Nix the was, dear.

I am coming back to this, so be expecting another comment from me.

Ta,

~Angel

This was...was beyond brilliant!

Really, I enjoyed every second and minute of this and I feel that this is one of your best works yet. I've never read anything like this and...W-O-W. Okay, I know this is not critique really but there's nothing for me to nit-pick or complain about.

I love your characters and I especially like how they meet their end. The Detective bit was a great way to end such a great piece of literature. Your descriptions were simple but yet they were strong and weren't too fat and flashy. My favorite section was #2 mainly because I didn't know what was going to happen until it happened. It was so suspenseful and I just love stories like this. They have your heart doing backflips and then you get to that cliffhanger...my they are wretched things. Please, please, please write more and if you don't then I'll be very upset and give you the cold shoulder. This has lots of potential and it deserves to be treated that way.

Favorite paragraphs:

People often misconstrue the beauty of the blank canvas. They see it as nothing, something merely to support the vision. Ivan knew better though; he gazed into the pristine surface, waiting. He sat on a small crotchety stool, placed before an open double window, staring at the canvas in anticipation. Through the window streamed the noise of the busy metropolis, the chatter, laughter, yelling … the stench of humanity, tinged by the hues of a crimson gold sunset. He let it flow over him and into his cramped apartment undisturbed.
He so rarely ventured out anymore, that it was a blessing merely to feel the heat of the sun on his skin. He knew what people said about his absence, heard the whispers that surrounded him; naming him obsessed, eccentric, mad. He didn't care about the jealous slander; art was all he had. His passion, his love was being abused, and he had to fix it. No longer did the visionaries bless the grey world with their presence.
The truth, the secret, lay in the blood.

Beautifully written.

PM me if and when you post more.

*Clicks gold star*

Cheers!

~Angel

Jiggity -

Very nice. Very nice, indeed. I'm really looking forward to more of this, though in smaller portions. I specifically enjoyed The Whistler, which I recall being in the Lit Journal. I'm not sure how much you altered it, but it's a great piece nonetheless. And, PS, your opening scene is priceless.

[hollowman]

One thing I didn't like: your characters. They were really all quite nondescript. The only character I found interesting and unique was Clarence and you kind of ruined it with the whole 'let me tell you a story, kid.' I dunno. Seems kind of...contrived? Anyway, back to the characters. I remember that in the Lit Journal, my least favorite part of Strands of Darkness was 'Phyllis'. I think Tim's character is exceedingly boring and I found Phyllis somewhat cliche as well, at least with your description of him. Paul and Ivan and The Detective are average characters, and I think that Paul's main flaw is his lack of originality, Ivan: his bland submissiveness (you focused more on the act and the description thereof, rather than the character and how he felt about the whole thing), and The Detective: his wishy-washy inconstant nature (he just seemed to be tough one minute and then babyish the next, without any real reason).

[misc]

The town was little more than a deserted outpost, a long forgotten mole on the desert’s rear.

As funny as this sentence is, I don't think it fits with the atmosphere you're trying to project. It sticks out unwantedly. Plus, you used the word 'desert' twice.

His small shop was more akin to a bizarre magpies nest than a proper, modern store and that was the way he liked it, customer or no customer

What? This sentence is extremely confusing and poorly strung together. Think about going through and reworking it. Split it into two sentances, kill 'akin' and replace it with 'like' and make 'magpies' possesive.

compendium of cartography
luxuriated in the liquids

Love the alliteration. But, seriously, couldn't you just have easily said 'collection of maps'?

Well, that and his mother. She had cancer. Every day he had to face her painfully thin figure, and those too bright eyes that gleamed with hope when she saw him. He couldn’t bear to dash that hope, and so everyday continued the charade.

‘How are things at school, honey?’ she asked.

He forced himself to look into her eyes, and lie. ‘It’s going great mum, really.’

A wistful smile twisted her lips and she turned away, so he didn’t notice the tears slide down her face. He stared at the white hand clutching the hospital sheets, and tried to imagine they were at home and everything was okay. It never worked.

This is really mushy. Same old sob story, presented to the reader the same old way. Instead of making my heart tug a little like you want it to, this makes me laugh. Think about rewriting this to be less cliche and melodramatic or just cut it entirely. Ask yourself: Is the Mother going to be important at all? And, if not, does she add to Paul's character at all?

He relieved himself

What a nice way to put it.

He was vaguely aware of opening the door, of rushing to the piles of clothing and empty bag of skin and bones that were all that remained of his best friend

I remember reading this in the Lit Journal and being dissatisfied with it. I remain dissatisfied. Please, I want more description! I want the gruesome details!

he stuck his foot right in the [s]proverbial [/s]hornets nest.’

Kill it.

They were in a small room, sitting opposite one another. A nondescript table sat between them.

Consider, "They were in a small room, sitting opposite one another, a table between them." Sounds a little better.

I was having a nice dream about the simple life awaiting me after retirement.’

Lame. Kill this line.

She shook her head. ‘I remain too far a field to affect matters directly yet; all you need do is lie low—make no mistake, there are forces far more powerful than you and I at play, both supernatural and human. You cannot win this battle!’ She was standing now, arms resting on the table as she stared fiercely at him.

Seems a bit sudden. The way you described this woman before made her seem more cool and collected. Why would she react like this all of the sudden? Why is she so frustrated?

There was [s]a mountain of [/s]grief

Weird imagery and cliche. Get rid of it.

--

Anyway. Fantastic piece. I really want you to post more. Regularly.

Ta,

-Kylan

Ky!

Haha, I'm glad you, er, liked it. You have a lovely way of showing it XD. I have things to fix! Well, those minor points anyway.

As for the characters --its hard for me to say how I should explain things here, so hard in fact that I won't, suffice to say that nothing is at seems, especially in regards to passivity and appearances of 'cliche' - I honestly don't see them as interesting people, just people you know? I wanted, in this first depiction of them, to present a still image rather than complete characters. The idea is for them to grow and change, no?

I will endeavour to change your mind in upcoming, shorter installments lol.

Thanks very much for the review.
And Angel! *tacklehugs*

Cheers, all

Hey Jiggity! This is a bit long so I'll start with the first two stories and do the rest later. Like always, I'm going to do a thorough critique.

The pool of blood frothed with soapy bubbles. (nice hook, caught my attention immediately)

Clarence scrubbed vigorously, humming all the while. Blood was always the hardest to get out and he simply couldn’t have his wonderful white tiles spoiled like that. He wasn’t [s]overly[/s] (try avoid using unecessary adverbs. Instead of using adverbs to increase the intensity of a word, simply use a word that has greater intensity so as to void using the adverb. Did that make sense?) worried or even angry. At his age, keeping busy was a matter of pride. His thick hands, skin stretched thin over puffy veins, luxuriated in the liquids. Clarence huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and applied himself with renewed vigour.

There wasn’t too much of it, thankfully – it had mostly drenched the boy’s clothes, seeping down over the rough wooden chair and onto the floor. Clarence looked up at the dead boy, squinting in the light. Small and finely boned, his hair was messy and blonde; blue eyes stared down at his neck, split in an obscene smile. His expression was troubled, as though he couldn’t quite recall what was so amusing.

‘Don’t worry, boy. It ain’t worth remembering, anyhow,’ Clarence said with a groan, as he eased his stiff back. He stood up, stretching with audible pain, popping and cracking rusty joints. He looked down at his work with a critical eye, appraising the damage. The dry residue that had affixed itself to his tiles was mostly gone and with a thorough mop, all would be well again. A pleased smile crawled out from amongst weary, grizzled jowls. Clarence walked to the corner of his cellar, grabbed his mop and bucket and brought it over to the offending liquids. As he worked, mop sloshing merrily, he hummed; the tune was mostly wish-washy nonsense, the kind he’d heard on the squawk box in the ‘20’s.

‘You know what I like best about dead people?’ he said, pausing for a response. He shook his head, chuckling. ‘That’s it right there - they never interrupt. Quiet, unassuming types for the most part.’

His movements were slow and methodical, pressure measured and precise. Clarence sucked at his gums in irritation, pausing again to look at the boy. He was, Clarence decided, more a young man than a boy. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? Was it relevant? Probably not, he knew and yet, he couldn’t shake his agitation. Something was wrong, here. Gently lifting the youth’s chin, he looked suspiciously into dead eyes. No spark quickened within – it was too soon for that. He breathed in, extending his senses through the rock, dirt and tiles above and out into the ramshackle hotel. Nothing stirred, there. Between the giant, broken down letters atop it, an ageing raven nestled.

Few buildings surrounded his and those that did were in just as bad a shape; desecrated corpses in desperate need of a proper burial. The town was little more than a deserted outpost, a long forgotten mole on the desert’s rear. Nothing appeared untoward and yet, he (we're still talking about Clarence here, right?) quested still further, heart quickening as he finally caught his quarry – the distant rumble of a motor. Senses contracted rapidly and he was back in his cellar, beneath the ground, staring into frighteningly (what? are you referring to the dead boy's eyes?) aware blue eyes. ‘Did you call for help, you cheeky little devil?’ he said, grinning. Chuckling, he cast off his bloody apron, revealing his [s]mostly[/s] (Instead of using this lazy adverb, show us how the shirt looks on his chest) bare chest and blue overalls. Thick grey bush curled over the edges.

‘Well, just so’s you know, they won’t find you - won’t find this place, this town or nothin’ unless I want them to.’

Unconcerned with his dress, he bounded up the stone steps. Clarence emerged in the lobby, the sparkling white floor a soothing balm to red-stressed eyes. To one side, a fat brown counter squatted, resentfully protecting the many key-rings hanging off the wall behind it. Wallpaper that had long since forgotten its original colour was hanging off the walls in strips and air-bubble bulges as though it longed to tear itself off and flee. Clarence sighed happily as he strode behind the counter; this was home. Despite his seeming unconcern, he was seething (didn't he just sigh happily?) inside. That he had the boy, his first visitor in more than a hundred years – not counting his deliverer – was enough cause for concern. Strange forces [s]were in motion[/s] stirred about (or anything else so you don't use 'were.' I've already told you this, but only use "to be" verbs when you can't avoid them, but in other circumstances see how you can play with stronger verbs) this night, he well knew, being one of them himself.

He considered the problem, knowing his work could not be disturbed; too much hung in the balance. Anxious, he waited as patiently as he could and soon, the sound of the engine was a roar that shivered through the night air. High beamed pupils burned a path through obscuring shadow as loud, angry music poured out of the car. Should he unveil the town? Did he need more victims for this hungry place, more players in this twisted game? No, he would let them drive on, in a seemingly perpetual loop. Here, in his part of the world, time obeyed him and at that thought, he grinned.

This could yet work in his favour.

He traced his steps back down to the cellar, avoiding the red-tongued staircase leading upward. Even he had no wish to go to that place. Clarence quickened his step, descending into the cool, but barren chamber below ground. The dead boy remained as before, sitting in the lone chair, starkly framed against the [s]freshly[/s] scrubbed ceramic glare. It could be his imagination, but Clarence thought he seemed more despondent. He pretended not to notice. ‘Well, boy, where were we?’ He tilted his head, as though listening. ‘Ah yes, that’s right! You were asking for a story.’

Clarence brought a chair – that to all intents and purposes hadn’t existed a moment ago -- over to the corpse. He settled it with a groan of contentment, producing a cigar from one of many pockets. ‘The story you’re wanting is a long one, older than you, older than even myself and that boy – that’s somethin’ in itself, heh – but for the purposes of sagacity, I’ll be brief.’

He lit a match, again produced from one of innumerable pockets. It flared, given the breath for one lingering kiss with the cigar, before dying. Smoke curled in the air, rich and heavy. ‘Gotta start with the eldest, of course. They’re always the closest reflection of the parent, after all, no matter how crooked the mirror.’


#1 – Phyllis


Phyllis Adam Brooks was dancing.

Not intentionally of course; he hopped and pirouetted madly between tottering stacks of books and dangling charms. He had stubbed his foot on a treacherous(? This is an unecessary adj; I'd remove it) chair leg, become unbalanced and so begun (began) his whirling efforts to regain his footing. The bell above the door tinkled in merry warning, freezing Phyllis to the spot. Everything hung still, hushed in anticipation – the books shook, charms swayed and he trembled, balanced as he was on one foot. (This is probably a nitpick, but you say everything hung still and quiet and yet there's so much action and noise after this line. Just an observation.)

A small, dark haired boy [s]was staring[/s] stared at him in what could have been awe but was more likely incredulous amusement. ‘Hello,’ he ventured.

Phyllis blinked. Slowly, he grounded his stray leg and was righted once more. He smoothed the twin tufts of hair that remained to him, perching like little grey owls behind his ears (good description). Phyllis wasn’t quite sure what to do; he hadn’t had a customer in decades. His small shop was more akin to a bizarre magpies nest than a proper, modern store and that was the way he liked it, customer or no customer.

He wrung his hands. His loose, dry skin shrivelled up with each passing caress, liver spots rolling. ‘Hello, young man. How can I help you?’ Phyllis asked.

‘I’m meant to be doing an assignment for school,’ the boy said, by way of explanation. ‘On maps,’ he added.

Phyllis beamed. ‘Well, then you’ve come to the right place, lad, yes indeed. Oho!’ He was all but clapping with glee as he moved forward. ‘The name is Phyllis,’ he assured, shaking the boy’s hand. His hand lingered, clasped over tight (I'm not sure I understand this sentence. You say his hand lingered but it clapsed the boy's hand tightly? or Is the boy's hand clasping Phyllis's hand tightly?). After a moment’s pause, he turned away, retreating to the recesses of the room.

‘Uh, My name’s Tim, sir,’ the boy said [s]to Phyllis’ retreating back[/s] (No need to repeat this). He (the boy? You're switching POV, but I guess it's all right...maybe. Most modern writing usually sticks to one POV, but I guess you can use the god POV if you want. The problem is that this story begin with a strong Phyllis POV so it's a bit disorienting to be in the boy's head. Just a thought)didn’t seem to mind that he was alone for the moment, as Phyllis rummaged around in the back. The walls were covered in layers of odd materials, signs and maps in a seemingly haphazard manner. Phyllis finally spotted the large compendium of cartography he was after. He blew the thick layer of dust off its surface, hacking and coughing within the small storm that followed. Fanning the air wildly, he turned to see Tim stumble toward a wall, reaching out a hand to grasp one of the maps. His smooth pale hand trembled upon touching it and he visibly flinched back.

Phyllis watched in fascination, through a golden curtain of falling dust. It bestowed on Tim a certain holy aura, fitting his now reverential expression. Upon touching the map, the illusion of clutter would have vanished. He was viewing the true shop, its cavernous walls covered in giant maps made from all kinds of animal hide. There was one in particular that dominated the view, inscribed with a multitude of continents and masses of land, far beyond what should be normal. In long, flowery lettering it read: Lyceum.. Next to it and indeed all around it, maps of various towns and cities across the Earth were dotted.

Phyllis walked forward, so soft and quiet (soft and quiet mean the same thing in this context so just use one of the words), he barely disturbed the restless dust. ‘I have maps of every country and every world,’ he whispered in Tim’s ear. Tim jumped, a small scream escaping his throat.

Phyllis blinked, surprised. ‘Did I scare you?’ he asked, head tilted. His blue eyes were hard, predatory.

Tim hesitated, his uncertainty betrayed by flickering eyes. He nodded, swallowing [s]tightly[/s] as Phyllis shuddered.

‘I made them all, handcrafted from various skins,’ Phyllis said, turning away to hide his growing excitement. This [s]was[/s] boy was different; he could see what normal humans wouldn’t. He ran a gentle hand along the nearest, a faint smile on his lips.

‘I-I like this one,’ Tim said, pointing to Lyceum. ‘It feels funny though.’

Phyllis stared at the boy, eyes half lidded. He could barely contain himself from snatching Tim right there, but he held himself back. ‘You can see that, can you?’ he asked, just to be certain. He licked at dry, puckered lips.

Tim nodded, puzzled.

At that, Phyllis finally allowed a smile to stretch (across?) his face. He placed the compendium down on a nearby table. ‘Not many people can see the truth,’ he said, walking to the door. He locked it, turning back to face the boy. ‘Such individuals are…unique.’

‘Why did you lock the door?’

Phyllis breathed in that tremulous fear, welcoming it like a long lost lover. He approached Tim, kneeling so they were face to face. ‘Lyceum is a far off place, lad. A much distant world,’ he said, ignoring the question. ‘And the material this map is made from, ah, it’s a fine thing indeed. It lasts the longest, as you can see, but alas, its usage has long since faded from this realm of men. However, I think you’ll find I’m a traditionalist.’ He grinned, revealing pointed, sharp teeth.

‘I want to go home now,’ Tim said, backing away.

‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Tim, much too late indeed,’ Phyllis said, calmly herding the boy into the back of the room. ‘I specialise in unique maps, you see.’

Tim stumbled, crashing to the ground behind the counter. ‘I don’t care, just leave me alone!’

His plea went unnoticed. ‘Every little line on your face, every scar and mole,’ Phyllis said, reaching out to run a hand lightly down the boy’s face. ‘Tells a story; your skin is the map of your life. And I am the map maker.’ A silver gleam in his other hand drew Tim’s eye and he screamed as the knife flashed toward him. For one brief instant a golden fire burned in those eyes and Phyllis grunted in surprise, even as the blade rammed home. His arm shook as Tim jerked and twitched beneath him. Had he imagined that burning light?

Unsettled, Phyllis roughly dragged the body into the back and set to work.

(This story was much more delightful than the former with Clarence because I felt more engaged to Phyllis who had a stronger personality. In addition, the tension in this piece was killer; I loved it. You did a very good job with this one. I don't have much complaints here. I really like your writing, Jiggity. Keep cranking all these awesome works!)


best wishes,
Suzu

Urgh, I had to fight to get this one. It's really late and I expect it to be rough.

#6 - Phyllis

Phyllis hunched over his work table.

Darkness swept down on silent moth wings. He was covered in blood and gore, a match for the mess before him. Even his weary, ancient eyes turned away from the sight – skinless, raw meat threaded with thick, knobby veins, almost dried out but still seeming to quiver. He swept the bottom half off the table; mere hunks of flesh, chopped to bits in an awful rage, that no longer resembled a body of any kind. Moonlight licked the tableau with a silver tongue, turning the red blood black. Phyllis’ hands lay limp by his sides, shoulders slumped. He was at a loss, eyes roving fitfully over Tim’s upper half. That, at least, he’d left untouched. Green eyes remained wide open in horror, the light gone from them but awareness remained there. Phyllis smiled grimly.

‘I’m not letting you go until I have it, you slimy wretch,’ he said, determined. ‘Oh yes, I can keep you here forever, locked behind those dead eyes, feeling everything.’

Truthfully, he had no such power - that belonged to his father – and the fact that the spirit still remained scared him more than he cared to admit. Worse, the cursed thing was blocking him. His sleeves were rolled back, arms caked in filth. The air was dank, thick with the released gases from the body. Huffing irritably, Phyllis shoved his hand deep into the chest cavity. A succession of deep breaths calmed him some and he closed his eyes, reaching for and finding his power. He grunted, grasping the ribcage and shifting the body on its side to expose the bare back, which began to bulge and contort.

As he watched, blackness seeped out from beneath the skin, branching out to form individual lines. The lines scrawled all over, criss-crossing and quartering the pale, blank expanse to meet together and briefly form images of a landscape. It was all too chaotic and brief, the inky rivulets collapsing almost as soon as they came together, never focusing for more than a moment.

Show me the next one, damn you, show me.

Still, the boy resisted him. Frustration mounted, eating away at his insides. Bald plate shining with sweat, Phyllis struggled, gathering all his power and pushing. His face flushed an ugly red as the bones shifted and reformed into rolling hills without decoration – a desert? – before dissolving once more and dark lines swarmed out to map out city streets, again without distinction.

‘Where are they?!’ he spat, lips twisted.

His fists rained down on the cold flesh, swelling now with purple bruises. After a while, he glared down, chest heaving with outrage. The trampled, desiccated corpse refused to release its secrets, despite his efforts. A sour taste filled his mouth as he shuffled back, dropping into a chair. Phyllis wiped the spittle from his lips, a dark mood settling upon him. He needed to think on this, something was definitely amiss. First, there was that flash of light…that Ascension? Was it possible? His heart quickened at the thought, but he refused to accept it. Surely, there was another explanation. Phyllis had worked too damn hard for it to happen now. Unnoticed, the hours crept passed as he sank deeper into thought and clouds danced across the face of the moon.

Somewhere in the recesses of the room, a creaky old clock chimed, announcing the arrival of midnight. Right on cue, there came a banging at the door. Phyllis started, jolted from his reverie. He rose stiffly, joints protesting and made his way over to the back door. He unlocked it, chains chinking, and opened the door to a blast of freezing cold air. A giant figure blocked the doorway, dressed in an immaculate black suit. Its skin was wax-coloured, inscribed with geometric patterns. The refreshing breeze swirled passed his edges and into the room. Phyllis glared up at the Golem.

‘What do you want?’ he said. Of course, he knew but he was stalling for time.

‘The Lady wants. I need nothing,’ it said, voice wooden and deep. A smell of rich, moist earth issued from its mouth.

‘I’m not ready, I haven’t finished with him,’ Phyllis said, frustration leaking into his voice.

‘The Lady wants. I need –‘

‘Merissa, would you please just shut the infernal creature up?’

‘Now, now, Phyllis, play nice,’ a delicate, female voice said, issuing from the Golem’s mouth.

He glared around the obstinate bulk of the creature, at the black stretch limo beyond. He still hadn’t figured out how she managed to squeeze it into the alleyway and yet there it was, every time. The tinted windows stayed closed.

‘I’m not done, Merissa, I mean it.’

‘I think you’re mistaken, dear. You know you’ll get nothing more from it.’

Phyllis stared, nonplussed. How could she possibly…

‘The depth of your knowledge ever surprises, Merissa,’ he said, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘And yet, I can’t let it go.’

‘Don’t be obstinate, dear. It’s most unattractive.’

He smiled. ‘Hungry?’

‘Always.’

Phyllis’ eyes widened at the raw need in her voice. She was almost growling. He wondered how long it had been since she fed, since she hunted. His eyes narrowed. It had been a very long time since she’d come knocking at his door, very long indeed. So why now?

‘I think even you might have a problem with this meal,’ he said. ‘This one is different.’

He paused, but there was no change in the Golem’s waxen expression. ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, yes and if you gift it to me I will owe you!’ The words rushed out and froze in the cold air. Phyllis waited with bated breath, but she didn’t retract the words.

‘Very well – I want information. It’s been too long since I was abroad.’

‘For this – anything. Ask what you will.’

His heart sank at those words, so it was true then. His suspicions firmed into terrifying truth – the time had come, after all. He ran a shaky hand over his smooth skull, considering.

‘Something is astir in the air, something different and strange and I want to know what it is.’

‘Many things are stirring; any fool with half a sense can tell you that.’

‘Spare me your cryptic nonsense, Merissa. Tell me what you know.’

A pause, as she reconsidered. He could almost see her frantic thoughts scurrying behind those giant, placid eyes.

‘Drake is back.’

Phyllis snorted. His youngest brother was hardly a topic of interest. ‘That annoying windbag? What of him? He’s of no interest.’ He turned away, feigning annoyance.

‘It seems he doesn’t feel the same way about you,’ she said, voice sweet and cloying. ‘Given he’s taken your nephew.’

Phyllis stopped. He turned back to her. ‘Taken?’ he said, disbelieving.

‘Yes, yes damn you!’ she hissed. ‘He’s taken him, taken as many as he could with still others I don’t know of and always with that damn infuriating song clouding, clouding everything! It rides the air, it –’ she reigned in the cascade, breathing sharply.

Phyllis reeled, his world cracking around him. Beyond the shock, seas of rage swelled, threatening to overcome him. His last living relative, the one he’d kept out of all the trouble, had thought safe from everyone and every thing. With an effort, Phyllis squashed the thoughts.

‘I warn you, it’s not pretty. I was…in quite the mood earlier,’ he said softly, turning away. Grabbing a large garbage bag, he roughly pushed the upper torso inside, collecting the large chunks of flesh and gore from the ground. He did this for a while, mind numb from all the revelations of the last hour both obvious and hidden. Satisfied he had as much as he could gather, he returned to the door and handed it over to the waiting creature. He watched as a window was rolled down and the bag was passed along. The window swept back upward and from inside, eerie shrieks and clicks rose; clearly she wasted no time in feasting.

The Golem blinked, its sleepy consciousness returned to it.

‘What are you staring at?’

‘The Lady wants. I have no –‘

‘Oh, shut up!’

Phyllis slammed the door shut.

Hey Jiggs!

Darkness swept down on silent moth wings. He was covered in blood and gore, a match for the mess before him. Even his weary, ancient eyes turned away from the sight – skinless, raw meat threaded with thick, knobby veins, almost dried out but still seeming to quiver. He swept the bottom half off the table; mere hunks of flesh, chopped to bits in an awful rage, that no longer resembled a body of any kind. Moonlight licked the tableau with a silver tongue, turning the red blood black. Phyllis’ hands lay limp by his sides, shoulders slumped. He was at a loss, eyes roving fitfully over Tim’s upper half. That, at least, he’d left untouched. Green eyes remained wide open in horror, the light gone from them but awareness remained there. Phyllis smiled grimly.

This was a very good opening paragraph. In these type of stories, it's important that you don't lose the attention of the reader and I felt that this was really good but...I felt that some of the sentences were a little too long. If I were you, I'd make a couple of these sentences shorter. In stories, especially ones that are not novels, it's good to have a balance of sentence structures. Some sentences, like the one I underlined don't need that extra weight. I'd nix "but awareness remained there..." It's not important and otherwise it messes up these very beautifully executed first paragraph.

Right on cue, there came a banging at the door. Phyllis started, jolted from his reverie.

These two sentences can be merged.

"Right on cue, there came a banging at the door, that jolted Phyllis from his reverie."

He glared around the obstinate bulk of the creature, at the black stretch limo beyond.

Jiggy? "the obstinate bulk of the creature" is not cutting it. I want more details of what he looks like. You've been done so good on descriptions and here you just fizzled. But I shall forgive you since you had a hard time writing this.

Phyllis reeled, his world cracking around him. Beyond the shock, seas of rage swelled, threatening to overcome him. His last living relating, the one he’d kept out of all the trouble, had thought safe from everyone and every thing. With an effort, Phyllis squashed the thoughts.

That was a solid chunk of sentences. And I think you mean "relative"

Overall Thoughts

I really liked this. There's just this element that you have in all of your stories that I like and I find it really entertaining. And this wasn't as rough as you think it is, just work on your sentence structures and the descriptions of Golem (who I love) and you'll be good.


Keep writing,

~Angel

Hey Angel! Thanks for the review! I really, really struggled to get this out but I'm glad I did, something's been blocking my writing. Sentence structure doesn't really bother me, right now, to be honest - because I see this more as a graphic novel. But I shall keep an eye on it.

Keeping your interest from segment to segment is important though, so I'm glad you're still enjoying the story. Can you see this working as a comic? This is a question that goes out to all, if any of you have experience reading comics...

Thanks again,

Cheers

Omigosh, but this is friggin' amazing. Seriously gory and really disturbing, but yet it draws me in marvelously.

Really the only thing I could find new to comment on:

harsh UV light.

Erm, isn't ultraviolet light, well, black? It lights up stuff not visible to the naked eye, like traces of blood and whatnot. I think you are looking for "fluorescent" or something.

I must say, my favorite of them all was the first bit, with Clarence cleaning the blood up. Seriously amazing. Clarence drew me in like none of the other characters did, with the way he was going about his business so matter-of-fact-like and not really concerned with anything else. Absolutely pure win.

Phyllis Adam Brooks was dancing.

Favorite sentence.

Anyway, definitely amazing. I was upset when the end came and was left unsatisfied. Then I realized that you intended to continue and all was well again. I want more of this!

As to whether or not it would work as a graphic novel: I think so. There are some very visual things that would be utterly amazing in a picture and would tell so much story. At the same time though, you would be losing some of the uber cool language and descriptions you have here. #5 especially had a lot of inner thoughts and exposition not in the dialogue. How are you going to incorporate that into the graphic novel? In any case, this would be one I would love to read in any format.

Smashing read. Keep up the great work!

~GryphonFledgling

Hey, Jigs! =D

Grammar and First Impressions

‘What do you want?’ he said. Of course, he knew, <-- Comma but he was stalling for time.

Phyllis stared, nonplussed. How could she possibly…

‘The depth of your knowledge ever surprises, Merissa,’ he said, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘And yet, I can’t let it go.’

Maybe put this as one line/paragraph? ^^

‘I think even you might have a problem with this meal,’ he said. ‘This one is different.’

He paused, but there was no change in the Golem’s waxen expression. ‘But you already knew that, didn’t you?’

This too? xD

‘Yes, yes, <-- Comma and if you gift it to me I will owe you!’ The words rushed out and froze in the cold air. Phyllis waited with bated breath, but she didn’t retract the words.

His heart sank at those words, [semi, period, or dash instead] so it was true then.

‘Something is astir in the air, something different and strange and I want to know what it is.’

‘Many things are stirring; any fool with half a sense can tell you that.’

‘Spare me your cryptic nonsense, Merissa. Tell me what you know.’

Okay, so I guessed wrong as to who said what quote here and earlier. I think we need a couple more tags. xD He says/she says are not bad, I promise. ^^

A pause, [no comma] as she reconsidered.

Overall Commentary

This was sooo gross. xD Whenever you say, like.. "chunks of flesh" and stuff... Oh, eweth. xD *shiver*

But it was epic-amazing nonetheless! =D Most of what I had to say were said above, but the overall was very well-written. We may have spent a tad too long in the beginning when Phyllis was doing his job with Tim, but that could be me late at night, so. ^^

As a comic: Um... maybe? It is in a way, but it also isn't. It'll take some editing, rewriting certain sections, but it's possible. Actually, pictures would be pretty cool for this, but I see this more as a movie than a comic. xD But then again, I pictured Phyllis and his map shop as Mr. Olivander and the wand shop in Harry Potter. XD So basically, it's up to you! I rather like it as is, but with a little re-working in some areas, it's quite possible to make a comic out of this. ^_^

Questions, find me!

Keep writing!

Jabber, the One and Only!