Young Writers Society

Ok Ive ripped a character from another oldie worldie fantasy and placed him in a modern day world. Ive gone for something I don't usually do: simple! ITs a simple style with little description. There are some italics but I cannot be bothered to edit the bb code in. Harsh reviews welcome but Im mainly after comments about the story line than sentence edits.

_____________________________________________

Chapter 1: Man of the Fourth World

“Work!” Ced slammed his hands onto the keyboard of his computer in an attempt to get the ancient thing to work. The whole thing failed and the blue screen of death fizzed on screen. He sighed and crumbled. Computers. Why were they useless?

Ced was just about to restart when the screen vanished and a browser window opened of its own accord, “Dad!” Ced yelled. If ever there was something wrong it was always best to shout him. He didn’t call again. Something merged onto the screen, a chatroom. Letters and words appeared. He was alone in a chatroom with this other guy.

Hello Cedric – Strange, very strange. Curiosity consumed him.

Hello, who r u? Seconds passed until more letters snapped on screen.

That is not important, meet me at near the park at midnight – He was just about to type a rude response when the blue screen of death reappeared and continued shut down. He backed away from the keyboard as if it was poisonous. What just happened?

Ok, nothing to panic about, someone just took control of your PC, it was a mate playing a trick. And I’m definitely not meeting him! That was the conclusion in Ced’s mind for the next hour, he wasn’t going to go and get himself embarrassed or humiliated, and certainly not at midnight. He pushed the thought aside but didn’t touch the computer again.

The evening wore on and the thought came back carrying more thoughts. Perhaps he should go? Perhaps its something important? He reasoned with himself as he sat in bed that night and gazed up at his starry ceiling that hadn’t been changed from childhood. His alarm clock read 11. One hour to decide.

11.15 – Its dangerous.

11-30 – But someone could be hurt.

11.45 – Yes! Someone is hurt, I’m needed.

He hurtled out of bed, throwing on his coat and shoes he tiptoed from the house and out of the front door. He was being silly, he knew it. In fact he wanted to punch himself for meeting a stranger in the dead of the night but the fact was he was needed, a strange whisper in the back of his mind was forcing his movements, he had a feeling that he must go, he must find the mysterious typist. He smiled at himself for seconds before the bitter cold inspired him to continue.

Looking up at the sky he saw it was like an assaulted body, dark blue skin bruised with black clouds and slashes of wispiness. He tapped on the road rails as he walked; the green grass of the park clearly in sight. He almost expected a dark silhouette to be near it, but there was none. Nothing, no one. It was strange, he half wondered where the vandals and druggies were – dealing no doubt.

He halted and pulled his coat tight. He was outside the colossal wrought iron gates that lead into the car park. He had been here many times for football games and cricket matches, watching of course, Ced was too lumpy for the team and he knew it.

Well that settled it – a trick, prank through and through. He was summoned here and was probably being watched by some cretin from school who thought it was funny to disturb his beauty sleep. And boy do I need it, Ced thought soon after.

He turned to leave and put his hands in between the rails ready to skim them when he felt a soft slither on his arm. He looked down to see a gnarled, pale, cursed excuse for a hand, he traced it in semi horror to find two shimmering eyes looking straight at him from beyond the bars. He pulled away but the hand hung on and pulled him closer.

“Get off me!” He shouted as loudly as he could but the person behind the bars silenced him with one gesture.

“Quiet boy, you are in neither danger or harm” His voice was masterful, it did not linger in the air as it was sharper than the bitterness of the wind, as soon as the words were spoken they recoiled again.

“Now, listen!” Imperative though the man was Ced obeyed. “I am the Boatman, I am from neither this world or the next or next world but one but from the fourth world.” Ced was about to laugh but the shimmering eyes told him that if he did a punishment would lie beyond it.

“A Boatman of the Seas I am not and another Boatman I shall not tell, “ A pain seared in Ced’s arm as the Boatman’s clench tightened.

“You have a task, man of the first world.” A cold metal object formed from nothingness in Ced’s other hand. A silver knife, cool and sleek, power within it.

“Go home, do not wake your parents and puncture their hearts with this knife, kill them both and do it quickly, then come back here.”

This man was a lunatic, but where did the knife come from? Was this man for real? Why would he kill his parents whom he loved and cherished? “Why?” He said simply.

“Because man of the first world, this is your purpose, if you do not do this simple task terrible things will happen in all four worlds which could destroy all things. This small task is of vital importance.” The man moved out of shadow and pressed his face against the railings. He was small, bald with two great black eyes in his boiled face. Scars struck across his nose and cheeks and met to form a strange symbol beside his left eye.

Ced shook with horror as he laid eyes upon the man who spoke to him, the Boatman. His ugliness could only mimic that of hell.

“Where are the cameras?” Ced laughed looking around. This was a set up but he knew better when a jolt of pain passed through him which sent him to his knees. The Boatman walked clean through the railings and stood looking down at him at his feet.

“Now, go home and kill them. If you do not then you are risking everything” His voice quavered for the first time in the meeting, a slight fear clinging onto his last word. Ced felt his arm free again and the man had vanished. He picked himself up and sprinted home, the knife still cool in his sweaty hands.