And The Seas Are Dying [1]

I'm not sure where this is going, it just is. So I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on this, and how it is for you. It's kind of the same story as last time, only modernised and with a twist on Logan.

Chapter One

“Those who think that the world is black and white are colour-blind.”

#

He stands at the prick of the street corner. A step from victory. The far end of the tunnel where water passes beneath your feet and lures out the rats. Eyes low and tired and weighed down by the two bags beneath like scales. Soon they come, vile things that flap in the puddles and squeak and hurry about on lots of tiny feet on a hunt for the fresh loot of corpse. Scavengers.
‘What you doin?’
She peers out from the open window with glowin eyes that light the silence in her livin room like two tiny, silver torches.
‘Standin here,’ Logan says.
‘Why?’
‘Why.’
‘Ye.’
‘It don’t concern you.’
‘Make it then.’
Logan looks at her.
‘I’m just standin here. Lookin at my old place. Sorry if I disturbed you.’
Her light-hearted inspection becomes a sudden selection of woes. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Was it you who—’
‘If I was him I’d still be banged up in prison. It was my brother.’
Logan lifts out a black clunk of metal from his pack and studies it. Playin with it, fiddlin around until it’s pointin at her eyes. Smellin that powder and almost gettin high as it stuffs his nostrils.
‘But,’ he says, ‘they think that the apple don’t fall far from the tree, and me, well, let’s just say that I wasn’t all that far from my brother when I came down.’
She frowns. He smiles back, strokin the trigger.
And then he shoots her.

#

Bathwater has never felt so much like tar. And its looks arent all that appealin neither. In the dust on the side of the metal container he traces a symbol, and then he looks at it. A question mark.
Grave doesn’t know a lot of things.
And it’s reached that point in his life where it just ain’t funny no more. Weird days, more blood up the walls every dawn. Rarely solved. Even when those that somehow conclude with an innocent man tagged a murderer, there’s explicit anger over why it took so long. They ain’t the only ones to be pissed off about it, ‘cus they’re entirely right to be so. People think that police live for the dosh; they spend hours droolin over useless papers before leavin them on a smoke-induced train or gettin them stolen on a trip to the dosshouses, interviewin people who’d rather entertain their right to silence than help catch a criminal. Then they go home at night filled with whatever and sit down, watch their butlers dance, layin down on a sofa made from taxpayer’s cash.
That was half true.
True that people stole all their stuff and it became pointless to lock your door at night but the money was about as rich as dilute water. Someone who goes to work lookin for money won’t get none. He realised that long ago, but found it too late to turn around. Fight crime. Administer his laws.
Grave’s laws.
There comes a time in when you just have to sit back on a bench and watch everything watch you, plan out your moves, decide who you’re goanna sort out next. In the interests of common law of course. So happens that that time in Grave’s life has arrived a little too late and now he’s sittin wonderin why he is where he is.
The scar along his right cheek, the ridge with a whole of metal sunk into it. Like a rocket at countdown. Except there ain’t no rocket about to take off.
The water has expired. Now Grave shivers with his hand clenched across his naked body, wrapped around like a cloak. He drops his eyes forward and positions his head against the side of the tub, restin against the question mark and he wonders why from why.
His own sanity is barely relevant anymore—a footnote on the mantle that’s so far away you simply cannot read it through the blur that is an opaque fog. Something so dense that it hurts to move and eventually the blindness is just numb, accepted and no longer much of anything.
Sometimes it’s a little hysterical, exceptional reality that tugs your energy supplies until you feel like eatin more, so much more than when you start to look out the window again the reflection of yourself mirrors back and it’s a stranger, so you look harder, until by then they’re nothing more than a face made from plate of fat.
Then your eyes inspect the image some more, and Adam becomes you and then the horror spreads quick and white across your skin until by the time you’ve noticed your own freezin temperature, the bath is cold, and you get out.
He throws the towel around his body and scraped the last of the dirt off, an itchin cloth that grazes his skin and makes a noise like sandpaper. But it’s a nice and pleasant protection from the frost. The white drizzle spreads outside the glass panes, workin inwards like a rat that burrows deep until eventually there’s just a hole left. And, crack—

#

Logan doesn’t run. His feet are in the same place and the remainin rats scurry away in silence and bouncin and squealin like they all do. The woman’s face is lyin through the window with shards protrudin out of her grey eyes and mouth and lips. He has reached through and yanked her back, restin her dead body across the windowsill. Blood dribbles out onto the floor and Logan just stands there starin at her corpse at her life drains away, her memories seepin down the wall. Her world meltin into crimson. Wishin he hadn’t shot her.
Wishin he had taken a knife and walked in there like her dead husband and carved the life out of her. He licks his lips.
Smilin a wee smile.
Like when a clown gets so fuelled with anger by kids pullin at his beard that he spins round and screeches and the thing flops down callin for Mummy, for Mummy!
But Mummy never comes.
Because Mummy’s dead.

#

Grave runs.
Clothes stickin to his damp chest and the soap that lines his neck, he runs. The wooden planks creak. He flickers his feet over the stairs and bolts the door open with a heart in his fingers and a revolver wrapped between them like a burnin horse. And then the thunderclouds—grey bags of water in the sky tear open and splash on his skin, but the poundin comes at a sacrifice. With his bare feet slappin the ground sewage leaks over them and rats hurry past. Find the gunna find the gun, find the victim, his gut instructs. Someone could be lyin there dead right now.
A second shot.
This time it’s loud, splittin reality. Like a man with an axe. Fracturin the bricks with bits of ash scatterin around.
Third.
A cloud of glass sprays ahead of him. He throws his hands into his ears and shouts out but there’s only haze and mist—
the cloud of war—
the echo of the fallen that dilutes his instinct, fillin him with fear. Dead goddess glarin at him through the window. Silently watchin the whole world, her graveyard, speakin to her through the rain and animals at play. Her golden lochs flowin like the river below, blood-stained and bitter.
And the alleys are closed—they’re stuck. Grave runs through the sewage with his lips taught to his tongue as the bricks chip at his arteries and the pulse in his toes. Up the hill, past the cobblestone and perhaps on way to the gunman, but away from her.
She’s dead.
Marie’s dead.
The knot in his throat bursts a heartstring. He tips over and clutches his chest, sobbin into the mud and ash and rat droppins. Eyes scrunched up like slug with salt on it. Crinklin. Never wantin to see nothing again.
Not even her.
Her excuse for diluted life, wearin away until it’s nothing.
He can feel the rain beat against him and turn his shirt into a fabric sea. The sky is cryin.

#

Remorse was never his strong point but it’s good fun to pretend he hates murder. That’s what he said last time the police had him, or what, between the sweatin and self-huggin, he implied. Said he went home shiverin and weepin ‘til the sun set, but nightfall never came. What he didn’t tell them was that his brother was innocent. ‘Cus he wasn’t, that’s sure right, but perhaps the murder Logan “did” wasn’t so justly his brother.
That’s what he said. Said it was guilt. Said it wasn’t him.
Before he shot both the cops in the face.
Runnin, on the other hand, is one of his exceptional talents. But not hidin. Hidin makes his shootin finger twitch with eagerness, keepin his hunters huntin like the tiger but what they don’t know is that their game is alive and merciless. Logan has a gun.
He takes it and straps it round his shoulder usin the slender barrel for a spine as he readies his posture and hurries off. Someone’s comin. And the rain that leaks above him drenches the sky in a grey bath and the crystals glitterin like virgin stars are bright. Fleckin the sunlight into a miserable haze.
The port greets him in a sigh if despair, flingin the waves’ breeze into his face and the pebbles that click and cry beneath him object to his passin.
‘… where you…’
Logan turns.
‘I said stay where you are! Don’t—’
He doesn’t. The man’s grey hair blows behind him revealin skin of the same colour beneath. Watered down.
Everywhere else is silent. All the people are gone or are just impossibly distant specks of ash that billow away in the wind.
‘Stay where I am.’
He lifts behind his back and draws the blunderbuss out across his arms.
‘I could do that.’

#

Grave’s hands are frozen. Like when a gardener dwindles out in the winter fog for so long that there’s no point to the flowers no more. He’d rather chop them out and stamp them into the earth than face the soil again.
He repeats his command.
Still, the figure is aligned against the horizon with his hands stretched forward like a tree, gropin branches—
The explosion glues his bones together.
Click…
Grave shoots as the scrunch of finger to trigger returns in violent spree from the murderer.
No bullets.
Issuin with his frenzy in black bubbles of steel Grave stumbles ahead and relishin in his art of fire. Springin throes into the distance but with a cloud in his eyes. Tears ahead of his eyes. Blinded.
Shootin.
Marie, Marie!
He cries out loud now runnin, and firin, firing!
‘You killed her! You murderous swine!’
He doesn’t see him disappear. Does not see the murderer turn his back and laugh and click his fingers, feet jumpin down, down into the sea. The splash. Gulp of water as it eats him alive.
Grave’s hand shivers, tremblin violently and he moves himself forwards. Rattlin the pebbles aside the sea with so light toes that it becomes impossible to tell footsteps from rain. Hammerin down like a forger’s fist.

#

He’s mad.
Lost in his own dream world. Don’t he see? Can’t he tell that the angels are devils are but the specs of dust, people? Emotional attachment in a cop’s field don’t land no favours, not when he’s chasin a man with a gun. The only difference is that I was protectin my own life and he was, well, not.
Perhaps he swore not to let me find out about her.
I did my job. He didn’t. He can’t hold me for that—he just can’t. Tried to shoot me for doin my duties. Why does he think he’s right? He tried to shoot me. Thinkin he could and I couldn’t.
Bloody hypocritical if you ask me.
But, that’s brotherly love for you.

Hullo! I’m going to take this a section at a time and just quote the parts I have comments for =) I’ll probably give you some overall comments at the end too but after a quick read through, I’m finding it very enjoyable.

He stands at the prick of the street corner. A step from victory. [The split between these sentences is jarring. I think it would flow better with a comma or semi colon in between.] The far end of the tunnel where water passes beneath your feet and lures out the rats. Eyes low and tired and weighed down by the two bags beneath like scales. Soon they come, vile things that flap in the puddles and squeak and hurry about on lots of tiny feet on a hunt for the fresh loot of corpse. Scavengers. [Just an initial observation that it might be better to switch your lines around so 'Eyes low and tired...' comes before 'The far end of the tunnel...' and you keep the description of the rats together. But for the moment, it's just an initial observation. There's a certain charm to the muddle of the paragraph that might add effect in some circumstances. I'll let you know what I think on that further down.]

‘What you doin’?’

She peers out from the open window with glowing eyes that light the silence in her living room like two tiny, silver torches. [Use the phonetic spelling in dialogue but write it out normally during the prose.]

‘Standin’ here,’ Logan says.

‘I’m just standin’ here. Lookin’ at my old place. Sorry if I disturbed you.’

Logan lifts out a black clunk of metal from his pack and studies it. Playin with it, fiddlin around until it’s pointin at her eyes. Smellin that powder and almost gettin high as it stuffs his nostrils. [If you decide against writing the words out properly during prose, don’t forget to add the apostrophe each time.]

[It’s a good beginning. I think your distanced approach to the narration works well but carrying the phonetic dialogue into the prose goes against that and brings the narrator and speakers together. Maybe your narrator is one of these people and is revealed as such later? But if not, it doesn’t seem to have much purpose. Your dialogue by the way is great and your characterisation very well developed for such a short piece. A little more description of the place in question or the two people might help out in helping the reader become attached to the characters but it’s good and the ending isn’t entirely expected, certainly not when the characters are first introduced. I’ll stop commenting on the missing apostrophes throughout the rest of the piece now and concentrate on the story itself XD]

And it’s reached that point in his life where it just ain’t funny no more. Weird days, more blood up the walls every dawn. Rarely solved. Even when those that somehow conclude with an innocent man tagged a murderer, there’s explicit anger over why it took so long. They ain’t the only ones to be pissed off about it, ‘cus they’re entirely right to be so. People think that police live for the dosh; they [You’re missing a space after that semi colon.] spend hours droolin over useless papers before leavin them on a smoke-induced train or gettin them stolen on a trip to the dosshouses, interviewin people who’d rather entertain their right to silence than help catch a criminal. Then they go home at night filled with whatever and sit down, watch their butlers dance, layin down on a sofa made from taxpayer’s cash.

The scar along his right cheek, the ridge with a whole [Do you mean hole? If not I think you need the word chunk or piece here to clarify.] of metal sunk into it. Like a rocket at countdown. Except there ain’t no rocket about to take off.

Sometimes it’s a little hysterical, exceptional reality that tugs your energy supplies until you feel like eatin more, so much more [s]than[/s] that when you start to look out the window again the reflection of yourself mirrors back and it’s a stranger, so you look harder, until by then they’re nothing more than a face made from plate of fat.

He throws the towel around his body and [s]scraped[/s] scrapes the last of the dirt off, an itchin cloth that grazes his skin and makes a noise like sandpaper. But it’s a nice and pleasant protection from the frost. The white drizzle spreads outside the glass panes, workin inwards like a rat that burrows deep until eventually there’s just a hole left. And, crack—

[Ah a change of perspectives but the same narrator. Interesting. I like the new character Grave, it’s good to see the darker side of the authorities or the ‘good’ characters and this gives an excellent insight into how he’s feeling and what’s going on in his life. You’ve got some interesting phrasing and observations on how the system works and I love the tone and atmosphere you create. You could add to this in ways though. A lot of what you show is the inside, the thoughts and internal workings and while describing the room or the character would really not fit here, I’d like to see some exploration of the senses. You’ve got it in part like with the change in the bath water temperature but what about what he can hear or feel in general. The slosh of the water, possibly the emptiness of the house or are there others there with him? Like you mention butlers. Does he have one, and perhaps a servant standing in the corner, waiting any further instruction? Or is he completely on his own. Wife? Children? It’s not all necessary for the reader to know but it will help you when thinking of what else is in this house with him. Is there the smell of mould from a house long kept by one man mixed in with the bath water humidity? Just a few things for you to think about.]

Logan doesn’t run. His feet are in the same place and the remainin rats scurry away in silence and bouncin and squealin like they all do. The woman’s face is lyin through the window with shards protrudin out of her grey eyes and mouth and lips. He has reached through and yanked her back, restin her dead body across the windowsill. Blood dribbles out onto the floor and Logan just stands there starin at her corpse [s]at[/s] as her life drains away, her memories seepin down the wall. Her world meltin into crimson. Wishin he hadn’t shot her.

Wishin he had taken a knife and walked in there like her dead husband and carved the life out of her. He licks his lips. [I love these lines! I really was expecting the remorse to be genuine but this really outlines his character and another dribble of the mystery.]

[An excellent little section, you build the right amount of intrigue and there’s enough to keep the reader interested. The character is getting harder to like but that’s okay, I very much doubt he’s supposed to be like and I look forward to knowing more of his and his brother’s past. And where the woman’s dead husband comes into that too and how she couldn’t recognise someone who used to live never to her unless she’s only just moved in which makes it a spur of the moment killing. Very intriguing.]

Grave runs.

Clothes stickin to his damp chest and the soap that lines his neck, he runs. The wooden planks creak. He flickers his feet over the stairs and bolts the door open with a heart in his fingers and a revolver wrapped between them like a burnin horse. [Do you mean hose? If not, I don’t quite see the imagery.] And then the thunderclouds—grey bags of water in the sky tear open and splash on his skin, but the poundin comes at a sacrifice. With his bare feet slappin the ground sewage leaks over them and rats hurry past. Find the gunna find the gun, find the victim, his gut instructs. Someone could be lyin there dead right now.

And the alleys are closed—they’re stuck. Grave runs through the sewage with his lips taught [Taut?] to his tongue as the bricks chip at his arteries and the pulse in his toes. Up the hill, past the cobblestone and perhaps on way to the gunman, but away from her.

[Good use of format for the action and again, some lovely imagery but I think you perhaps need to think some of it through a little more. It’s hard to grasp in places and draws the attention away at a time when the reader should be completely dissolved in the novel. I’m not hugely fond on the addition to the plot, this extra character who has previously died but let’s see where you go with it. Maybe it’s necessary and will be good character building later. It just seems a bad place to introduce it. It weakens my esteem of Grave who I’d hoped would be strong enough to put duty over emotion even if only by automatic response. But he’s your character and weakness is necessary =)]

[Nothing particular to note about the next section but it’s not my favourite. There’s a bit too much of a spill of character, the commentary on running and hiding was more than what was necessary to know and I preferred it when the narrator was more of a distant voice, not quite so close to knowing everything about the character it shows us. The section ended well, the little fragments of dialogue were good but maybe ease up just a little on revealing the hidden thoughts. Let the reader do some assuming.]

[It was hard to track action in the next section. It moved quickly and in a fragmented way so that I didn’t know who the ‘no bullets’ referred to or what was going on, who was shooting who. I was unsure until the point where the murderer jumped off the cliff. And that was very sudden. Not a bad sudden, it worked but it made me wonder why.]

Overall it’s very well written. And the ending is good. Clear enough that the shock isn’t dulled but I think there are several questions left unanswered. Is this a stand alone piece, a prologue, a chapter? If this is the entire of it, I think you should draw those last few sections out just a little more and give some sense of how all the pieces link together. I’d like to see more of a relationship existing between Grave and Logan early on. I’d like to see more than just the cop and criminal, a hint that they’ve had previous dealings in some way, that this is personal and not just routine. I’d like to see something more frenzied about Grave when he first hears the gun shots, perhaps some sign of recognition in him, some glimpse that he’s been expecting the return of this criminal?

In general, it’s very well worked and a good read, there’s just a few places where you could neaten it up and room for some description and more attachment to the characters but for the length of the piece, it’s very good.

I hope this helps a little!

Heather xx

Wow, thanks!

This is Chapter One, and there's a lot of what you just suggested coming up, actually. =) Might post it but not entirely sure. I didn't like the ending either, but a rushed tidy-up, eh? =P

Thank you again!

Blinky

Well, that was quite a read. Although, one thing you might want to fix is adding the last letter on words. For example:

She peers out from the open window with glowin eyes that light the silence in her livin room like two tiny, silver torches.
‘Standin here,’ Logan says.

See, I can understand Logan not saying the last letter, but is it necissary to say "livin room"? Couldn't you say "living room"? I don't know, maybe you want it that way and hey, that's great. Just a suggestion.

Overall I really enjoyed this story. It has a lot of suspense and emotion. It was great! PM me when you post the next part!

Lucy