The Envoy

The following is my submission for the Short Story Competition at A Steampunk Reverie. It's my first ever steampunk story, and it was certainly a challenge keeping it short enough, so I hope you all like it...

THE ENVOY 

The Envoy stood before the Prime Minister and the Prime Minister was afraid. Sweat prickled his brow and the chamber felt suffocatingly warm. The Envoy bowed stiffly in a series of small jerks, its glistening black carapace making the movement difficult.

He could smell it clearly despite the incense placed judiciously throughout the chamber - a sour metallic tang that hung high in the air like bad music. It straightened again, spreading two of its limbs wide and rearranging several of its facial orifices and mandibles in what the Prime Minister had been assured was the equivalent of a smile. Then the bristles around its upper set of eyes quivered, the spiricles along its sides gaped open and closed like a row of hungry mouths and its chest-plates thrummed as it began to speak.

"Has her Majesty come to a decision?"

The sound was a suprisingly rich baritone, with only a faint buzz. The Prime Minister's heart hammered in his chest. He was fairly sure the Envoy could hear it. Every natural instinct within him was howling at him to run and hide, to get away from the unspeakable thing that stood and glistened and drooled before him. But he was Prime Minister for good reason and he was a consummate diplomat above all else, so he swallowed the sour fear that flooded his mouth and forced his voice to remain level.

"She has."

"And her answer?"

"Her answer is yes."

The Envoy gave another careful bow.

"Then my Masters will be most pleased. Please extend my congratulations to her Majesty. She has made the right decision and Great Britain will soon be unmatched amongst the great powers of the world."

The Prime Minister shifted uncomfortably.

"And we have your utmost assurance that they will not be harmed?"

"Again, you have our word that none of them will receive anything but the very best treatment. No harm will come to them, physical or mental."

The Prime Minister stood then, his face ashen.

"Our thanks to you, then. May this be the beginning of a long and fruitful relationship."

"I have no doubt of it. But before I take my leave sir, I have brought this small token of our respect and appreciation for her Majesty. It is a mere trifle, really, but one that my Masters earnestly hope that she will enjoy." 

The Envoy turned towards the doors and gibbered and chittered something in its own language. The doors opened and another, near-identical creature entered carrying a small, highly polished wooden box which it handed to the Envoy before leaving. The Envoy turned to the Prime Minister and opened the box. 

Inside was a brass nightingale, lying still and silent. Its small black eyes were bright and glossy, its feathers perfectly arranged.

"It is merely a simulacrum" said the Envoy, "An artificial copy, but so close to the real thing as to be indistinguishable. Not only will it sing on command, but it will speak when her Majesty chooses to speak to it. We trust it will make a fine amusement as well as a most charming companion." 

The Prime Minister was acutely aware of how close the Envoy was standing and he realised that he'd been holding his breath. He forced himself to smile and accepted the box from the Envoy, but made absolutely damn sure not to touch him in the process. 

"Her Majesty will be delighted by your generous gift, I'm sure."

The Envoy looked at him with all of its eyes and gave its obscene parody of a smile again.

"It is the merest trifle, as I say, but also an indication of the scientific possibilities that will soon be yours, sir. And with that I must beg my leave - my Masters will be most eager to hear the wonderful news."

The Prime Minister had no doubt that they already knew, but he nodded again and wished the Envoy a safe journey. As soon as the heavy oak doors of the chamber had closed behind him, the Prime Minister collapsed back into his chair and covered his face with his hands. He shuddered and gasped for breath, but the air still seemed tainted. He didn't think he'd ever get the taste of it out of his mouth...

That night he lay in bed, listening to the dark. His wife moved softly beside him.

"You're still awake, aren't you?" she said.

"Yes."

"Shall I ring for some tea?"

"No."

"Some laudanum then?"

"No."

There was a pause then, the only sound the distant clopping of a hansom cab carrying someone safely home.  

"You did the right thing, you know."

"Did I?"

She rolled over to face him, her eyes wide and earnest, her skin smelling of warmth and lavender.

"You did the only thing you could do, Charles. You put put the good of the Empire first. No-one can ever say that you didn't."

"And what of the price, Mary? How can I sleep ever again knowing the price we've agreed to pay - the bargain we've made with those...things."

"They said they wouldn't hurt them."

"We only have their word for that though, don't we? What if their concept of harm isn't the same as ours? We don't even know what they want them for!"

Mary pursed her lips.

"In time," she said softly, "if people ever find out, they will understand. History will not judge you harshly Charles."

"The hell with history! What of Louisa? What of my own daughter? Will she judge me harshly? Will she ever be able to look at me again when she learns what I've done?"

"He's my flesh and blood too, Charles. Don't think I don't feel it just as sharply, but when all's done, it's only five of them. What are five children compared to the good of the entire Empire?"

He said nothing.

Eventually he put an arm around her and they held each other close in the dark. He turned to look out of the window at the stars above. There were more than he could ever remember seeing, and they shone so hard, so bright. Like a million knives poised above the world.

Endings and Beginnings

Endings seem to be the bane of my writing life.  I have no shortage of exciting ideas that get my mind fizzing and popping and eager to write, but as one of my friends pointed out, I need a big "So-What?" at the end.  It's the "so what?" part that I suck at, with stories often petering out and ending with a whimper rather than a bang.

So I have devised a cunning plan.  I shall think of my endings FIRST, and then work backwards to create a plausible series of events that lead up to the beginning!  Crafty, eh?  Hopefully this should leave me with tighter, more coherent tales that end satisfactorily, with the villains getting their comeuppance, the hero getting the girl, and the reader getting a proper sense of closure.

Gosh, but I'm frighteningly clever sometimes.  Why the hell didn't I think of this before?

Ummm....anyone want to start me off with a few good endings?

The Quiet Man

The following is a short work that I thought up whilst sipping coffee in a café the other day. It's really just a writing exercise, designed to evoke as much as possible with as few words as possible, and much of it through negatives. Do let me know what you think...


The Quiet Man

The man in the black coat sat in the coffee shop, sipping his tea and reading a newspaper. Every so often he flicked a glance out of the window to the bookshop across the street. Eventually a lady in a red coat left the bookshop, and the man stood, tucked his newspaper under his arm and left.

He followed the lady down the street, slowly closing the distance between them. When she turned into a quiet side street, the man in the black coat followed and walked briskly up behind her, then slid a thin knife into her back between the third and fourth vertebrae. The blade went in and out so quickly that there was no blood.

The lady gasped once and stumbled, but the man in the black coat caught her neatly under the arms and eased her down onto a nearby bench. As her eyes fluttered and closed, he placed the newspaper on her lap, turned, and walked back to the bookshop.

He spent a pleasant half-hour there, browsing the classics and fiction sections before choosing a novel by an author he hadn't read before. He paid for the book, making sure to smile at the bookseller as he did so, then caught the next bus home.

The house was still and dark as he entered and perfectly neat. Everything was meticulously dusted and carefully squared away as though placed with a ruler. There were no pictures on the walls. There were no messages on the answering machine. The only letters lying in the hall were bills.

He replaced the food in the cat's bowl and gave it fresh water, then he made a cup of tea and settled into his favourite armchair with the new book, reading until it became dark outside. At 9pm he picked up the telephone and dialled a number from memory. The answering machine on the other end beeped without preamble.

"It's done." he said, then hung up.

The cat slipped back into the house half an hour later. The man smiled and called to it, patting his lap in invitation. It ignored him, ate its food, drank its water and then left again. Half an hour after that, the man set aside the book and rose. He checked the answering machine again even though be had not heard the phone ring. There were still no messages.

He ate a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner, chewing slowly in the silence of the kitchen. Then he went upstairs and brushed his teeth. He did not look at the mirror. Then he changed into grey flannel pyjamas, switched off the light and got into bed. He did not sleep.

The 100 Word Challenge

Over at Velvetverbosity.com, the lovely Velvet runs "The 100 Word Challenge" - a weekly writing prompt exercise that's designed to keep those writing muscles in trim condition. Head on over there to see what I mean. This week the challenge was to write exactly 100 words (no more, no less) about "Thinking".  Here's my submission, and i should point out that this is entirely a work of fiction and i'm doing just fine, thankyouverymuch. :o)


Thinking


These days I try not to think too much. Thinking will only make matters worse. Ever since Rachel left with the kids, I've been stepping very carefully through what's left of my life, afraid of bumping into anything and shattering into a million jagged little pieces.

Routine helps - running on automatic as I wake up, make toast, drive to work, tap at spreadsheets, drive home, stare at the TV. I still smile at the right times, still laugh when people make jokes at the office, but I avoid thinking or remembering too much. Thinking will only lead to trouble.

Cold Station

The following is a very short piece that I wrote about four years ago now, and is a real-life account of something that happened to me on my way to work one cold Monday morning...




COLD STATION

I stepped off the train and merged with the crowd as they shuffled into another Monday morning. I adjusted the strap of my backpack and my thoughts were of breakfast, coffee, the day ahead. The crowd thickened as we approached the ticket barriers and people put on their commuting faces as they were forced to rub shoulders. A lady in a grey coat was pulling a small travel suitcase along and the man behind her tripped over it and fell crashing to the floor. I felt a small twinge of embarrassment for him but was already moving to one side so that I could step past.

After a couple of seconds I thought it a bit odd that the man still hadn't made any move to get up, he just lay there on the floor. As I got closer I saw he was laid flat out on his back, eyes closed, his face quickly turning from deep red to purple. My heart fell like a stone and my mouth suddenly became very dry. People were stepping around him and over him in their haste to get to work, switch on their computers and get on with their day. Some of them looked irritated at having to negotiate yet another minor obstruction, but I knew that something was very wrong. I knelt down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right?" I said.

There was no response.

I shook him gently.

"Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

Still nothing.

This wasn't a clumsy commuter or an early drunk, this man was having a heart attack, right there on the cold stone floor of the ticket concourse of the train station.

A woman in a red coat kneeled down on the other side of him.

"Is he alright? she asked. "Does he need help?"

She was small, neat. Mid-forties with a short, dark bob and clothes that looked like she was heading into a meeting somewhere. I nodded quickly.

"Put your coat under his head" I said.

I looked down at his face. He had already turned from purple to blue and he still wasn't moving. He was big, with a substantial gut and a thick neck that bulged a little over his shirt collar. He had a thick mustache that was greying a little and I could see that he'd nicked himself shaving that morning. He looked like a smoker, like someone who'd enjoyed one too many pies in his lifetime.

"Don't worry, mate, you'll be all right" I said. "We'll get you an ambulance straight away."

I undid his tie, tugging it loose and undoing a couple of buttons on his shirt. The woman beside me handed me her coat, neatly folded. I tucked it under his head, and then I remembered that you were supposed to make sure that the airway was clear, so I tilted his head back and looked in his mouth to make sure his tongue wasn't blocking his throat. The man made an involuntary sort of grunt, as if air was escaping, and as I tilted his head back I saw one of his nostrils filling with blood. It quickly overflowed and trickled back along the bridge of his nose to puddle in the hollow of his eye-socket. I got some on my hands.

The woman made a noise somewhere between a gasp and an exclamation - a shocked little "Oh!" that made her sound like a little girl.

From the corner of my eye I saw that someone else had stopped to help, a man in his fifties with a dark jacket and white hair who crouched by the fallen man's feet. I told him to call an ambulance.

"Hang on in there, mate. We're here and you're going to be just fine. We've got help on the way, so you just concentrate on breathing for now, all right? Just try and take a deep breath."

But there was no breath, deep or otherwise. The man lay there, a helpless slab of meat as we strangers patted his cheek and tried to get a response out of him. The crowd flowed past, a dark river of people, a flurry of striding legs and twirling coats and faces, faces, faces going past. All of it was a blur. The man with the dark jacket was talking to the emergency services on his phone, rattling off details. The man on the floor hadn’t moved a muscle. He didn’t look as if he was aware of anything around him.

As soon as I knew that an ambulance was on its way, I got up and left.

I don’t know why I left, but I felt that there was nothing more I could do. I stood up and left the man lying on the floor with the woman and the man in the dark jacket still kneeling beside him. I walked to work with my shoulders hunched, feeling slightly numb and faint. When I got to work I went straight to the bathroom and washed the blood from my hands, scrubbing hard under the freezing water. I splashed some water on my face and took a couple of deep breaths.

Then I went into the staff-room, made myself a strong cup of tea and sat and thought about my father…

With a little help from my friends...

There.

Cast your eyes over to the right and you'll see some new links to some writing-related blogs that I think are well worth a gander. This list will of course grow as I make new online acquaintances and stumble across other brilliant blogs, so keep yer eyes peeled and check there often.

And so it begins...

I've had it on good authority that blogging about writing will actually help with the writing.

So here I am, and here this is - the first of (hopefully) many posts in a blog charting my journey from unknown wannabe to international bestselling literary titan. Ahem

I'm a thirty-something father of two with a great wife and a steady desk job in a nice, comfy office. But like you, I'm also an amateur writer (albeit a keen one), with a dream of getting paid to do what I love. Also like you, I've found that life gets in the way of a proper writing routine. Chores need choring, jobs need jobbing, kids need feeding, and eventually sleep must be slept. There just aren't enough hours in the day.

But still it's been impossible to give up. Sometimes the need to write, the physical need, takes over and I find myself scribbling away again, furiously jotting down my latest wonderful idea before I explode, or bashing away at the keyboard until something else more prosaic comes along that needs urgent attention, like nappy-changing time.

You know how it is. I know you know because you've done exactly the same thing yourself. We've all got half-finished stories or half-finished novels squirreled away in a whole bunch of battered notebooks or scattered across several thumb drives.  For my part, I've only ever finished two short stories to date, along with about 38,000 words of a novel that I'd outlined in perfect detail from beginning to end and fleshed out with character notes and exhaustive worldbuilding notes too. Then I tossed it because it all sounded like such a pile of steaming horse-apples. You've been there, I know.

Now I'm working on a new novel, and this time I'm determined to finish it.

James Patterson once said that writers should aim to complete just a single page a day, no matter what. "If you aren't writing at least that one page every day," he said, "your novel's never going to get done." So now I'm aiming for a modest five hundred words a day, with a grand total of 90,000 words. It won't be easy, I know, but then nothing really worthwhile in life ever is.

Anyway the journey starts here. Hope you'll stick with me and find out how it ends...

-Bibliovore-