This story is a stand alone piece. Feedback of any kind is welcome, I hope you enjoy it.
Whore of the Wind, Girl of the Tide
The dockland was revealed only by torchlight from the Warden’s house, a faint sliver of yellow – hundreds of fishing boats bobbed up and down in the black waters, all were empty but one. A young, cloaked knelt in a small rowing boat, his hands together and his lips uttering ancient tongues. The wind rose, almost in pathetic fallacy. But as the man felt it cut his skin he knew such notions to be untrue.
The Priest felt around for the jetty’s side. He held and lunged himself from the boat onto the planks of wood. The wind rose still, creating a task of walking towards the Warden’s house. Against the wind, every step became a chore. He forded the air, forcing himself forward. It was like moving through freezing black treacle, he mused, if only the wind tasted that good.
Saint George’s flag was hurled up into the air by another salvo of breeze. Its red cross flickered and blurred over the dirtied white backdrop until the Priest only saw a red flag raised over the Warden’s house. Like a bull, gathering more strength, his walk became a powerful stride. The wind subsided, it had lost the battle. He did not become complacent, because now the tide could be heard hissing while it approached and moaning as it retreated. Hiss and moan, hiss and moan like a whore, and by God – did he know the sound of a whore!
Hiss. The Priest was at the front door, the red tinge of Saint George’s cross only just visible. And moan. He pulled at his dog collar, allowing cold sweat to pour down his neck and drip onto the porch floor. Hiss. He pressed a hand onto the door and dug in his nails. Hiss. He scratched the door downwards, rotting wood curling under his finger tips. Hiss. His hand met the handle that was already limp for the door was slightly ajar. The hissing continued, a slow advancement of the crawling, serpentine sea.
The light from the Warden’s house extinguished and the whole dockland was plunged into darkness. The Priest trembled; he was alone with the dangerous sea. He tugged at his crucifix and broke it from his neck. Then, he threw it to the floor. Chime.
And moan. The sea retreated. It had won the battle. The Priest opened the door. He was in a filthy corridor, sea moss riddling the walls. He felt a dampness at his feet and found that the floor was covered in still tide water. There was a tiny ripping up above. A tin can, just like the empty boats dipping in and out of the water. The path was clear, a door was a jar up ahead. He waded through the water, and entered the room.
An electric lamp flickered on and off on a bedside table. A four-poster next to it. He sat on the mattress. He took out his dog collar and took a moment to observe the retreating tide through a tiny circular window with a black ivory frame. He turned back to the bed and placed his shivering hand beside him, he did not feel linen but soft skin. He gazed into the eyes of his whore who had waited for him here as he had ordered. A small girl with pale blue eyes and rosy cheeks. The Priest smiled gently, father-like before taking her to bed.
Thanks for the comment, I may return to Scall's magic some day and carve it into a Novella - 30k maybe. Clean it up and cut out a load of confusion.
It needs a chisel and hammer to it, but I loved the world and characters of Scall's magic. So maybe I will try to mould it into something read-worthy.
Thanks again.
Hi Phorcys. I believe I promised you a critique a few days ago on the chat and I believe that I should.
Like a bull, gathering more strength, his walk became a powerful stride.
He pressed a hand onto the door and dug in his nails. Hiss. He scratched the door downwards, rotting wood curling under his finger tips. Hiss.
Thank you for the insightful critique CCF. Ill take your points on board. Thankyou for your comments JCobsessed even though I do not agree that in such a short piece of fiction there is room for in depth character development.
Everyone else - Invaluable praise as always.
Thankies.
Ciao Phorcys.
Arbitrary hit from the CCF, ragazzo.
Impressions, then, vero? You have a dense style, apt in metrics of description, certainly in the atmospheric. In more specific, you change up sentences well, length and form; but not paragraphs so easily and in that, your density can become a tediousness by redundance.
Credo che (I believe that) dropping your hisses and sound cues into their own paragraphs - at times - might be brilliantly illuminating to the pace, to say nothing of putting them where they draw the eye.
negatives
CONSTRUCTION [as it must apply to story and plot and predicability]:
Dai, m'amico, though the writing carries itself well - in atmosphere, deftly - the idea of a priest with a whore...a little common, pensi di si?
In sharpest honesty, you held my attention simply by the narrative; evocative, it kept a consistent glimmer of the place, the priest's thoughts, etcetera. Only with how neat the aforesaid was, I'm inclined to hold its finis to a higher standard.
Let that be an almost inexcusable nitpick. I haven't the faintest idea if you ever had or might imagine something more tangible or touching or horrific than the current end. A thought, solo.
Construction II [as it applies to word-choice/diction]:
Hurried prose may find itself with hurried words less apt than their sound. Example?
He held and lunged[s] himself[/s] from the boat onto the planks of wood.
The wind rose, almost in pathetic fallacy. But as the man felt it cut his skin he knew such notions to be untrue.
Hiss. He pressed a hand onto the door and dug in his nails. Hiss. He scratched the door downwards, rotting wood curling under his finger tips. Hiss.
The Priest smiled gently, father-like before taking her to bed.
The Priest smiled gently, paternally before taking her to bed.
He forded the air, forcing himself forward. It was like moving through freezing black treacle, he mused, if only the wind tasted that good.
I really like this, and it's a great title, and you discriptions are really good, and very detailed. Very well done.
It's good for a stand-alone piece. I loved the intro, it seemed very detailed and i imagined it well in my head 
So, normally I would have some grammer/spelling/suggestiony things to put in those fancy quote boxes, but Sureal beat me to the only one I could find. *sigh*
hehe.
But that doesn't mean I don't have anything to say.
Though the story is good -don't get me wrong- I found it quite lacking. It's a stand alone peice, and should thus, be able to stand on it's own with it's characters.
You have a priest. What about him though? What conflict is there? He's a priest going to see a whore, somewhere in the text it should at least hint at how bad that is. There's more though, who is this guy, what's this deal, all those things that come with character development.
That's the thing with short stories, you as the writer have to make sure that the readers know what you know. As we read we don't get some bright path to the inner workings of your mind and who you know the characters to be, we only see the words.
Whatever you know about this peice, so should we by reading it.
Other than that, it was good. The writing was. A few things here and there didn't make sense, like why he scratched the door, or how if it was ajar it didn't fall open at the touch. But I'm sure it makes sense and I'm just missing something. It's early. haha.
Keep up the good work though!
-JC
Phorcys wrote:I have finally written a piece that isn't bin worthy.
Thank you everyone for your insightful comments. I'm so glad I have finally written a piece that isn't bin worthy.
Bravo, Phorcys! I usually have more bashing to do. However, this was very good.
Ah! Salvo! You're one of those people with a big vocabulary, eh?
Lo, Phorcys.
A young, cloaked dude knelt in a small rowing boat
The wind rose, almost in pathetic fallacy.
The wind subsided, it had lost the battle.
The wind subsided; it had lost the battle.
Hiss. The Priest was at the front door, the red tinge of Saint George’s cross only just visible. And moan. He pulled at his dog collar, allowing cold sweat to pour down his neck and drip onto the porch floor. Hiss. He pressed a hand onto the door and dug in his nails. Hiss. He scratched the door downwards, rotting wood curling under his finger tips. Hiss. His hand met the handle that was already limp for the door was slightly ajar. The hissing continued, a slow advancement of the crawling, serpentine sea.
Then, he threw it to the floor. Chime.
Wow. I was impressed by that, and I'm not easily impressed... Look! A blue car!
Seriously though, I really can't see anything that needs to be improved. So all I shall say is *thumbs up*.
-Mattstor! =)
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