(Story) The Lord Of Miss Rule (5,093 words)
Alaric
character who appears right at the end with some familiarity. Inspired to
some degree by Terry Taft:-
THE LORD OF MISS RULE
Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2002
The Bentley Soap Company was a company with both eyes and both hands firmly
on its back pocket, and this accounted for Cowan still being at his desk at
9PM on a Friday evening when he'd rather have been sinking lager in The Red
Lion. It was also a company with two feet firmly in the past, still based in
premises which had narrowly escaped bombing during the Second World War and
which more likely than not had been plastered with recruiting posters for
the Great War.
At 8:30 the central heating system, such as it was, had cut off and Cowan
had donned his coat. Working manfully through the tower of invoices and
feeding their details into the computer, he reflected upon the frustrating
job held by the painters of the Forth Bridge, and decided they had it easy.
Apart from the security staff he was, as far as he knew, the only person
left in the building. His directors had all delivered a hearty personal
adieu as they'd trotted off to their cars. "Don't work too late, Malcolm,"
one called. "There is a life outside this place, Malcolm," said another.
"Nose still at the grindstone, Malcolm?" asked a third. And Cowan had
dutifully chuckled with each and every witticism whilst cursing the men
under his breath and cursing their apparent belief that one packhorse was
worth twenty racehorses. "We'll get you more money when the top line
improves a bit, Malcolm," his boss had promised. "Could even be this year.
The more people pay us quickly, the better it'll get. So keep ploughing on,
eh? You've got the most important job in the place."
Sod them, Cowan thought. Sod them all.
Just another half hour. Then he'd pack in.
He coughed, and the cough became a coughing fit. There was always dust in
the air in the damned offices, despite state of the art extractors. He
guessed that this was something to do with the factory's location, hard
against a crag and twenty feet below the level of the rest of the town. The
place was miserable and dark; the sort of dark that no electric light could
ever quite penetrate. There was always dampness in the air, too, rising from
the lower couple of floors which lay sealed off and unused. Cowan had once
been down there with a health and safety inspector, at whose request the
blocking up had been carried out. Rusty and ancient machinery had towered
down upon him, the corridors between it layered with old, sticky linoleum.
Both he and the inspector had got out as quickly as they could. The company
was under instruction to do a great deal of remedial work, but as far as
Cowan knew, none of it had got past the planning stage.
Just another half hour, then. Another damned half hour and a coffee to carry
it.
He pushed back his chair and left his office, making his way down the long
corridor towards the point where the floor's single coffee machine was
established. He reflected as he walked that one coffee machine per floor
pretty much summed up the company's attitude to its staff.
He'd once suggested to his boss that the company might consider a move to
the new industrial estate being erected at the time on the other side of
town and had been told, in a considerate rebuke, as a dog being patted, "A
bird in the hand, lad. A bird in the hand. We're fine where we are."
All right. Just all right. No dream of the future. All right for now.
Baby, we're all right now..
He was humming the song aloud and loudly, louder in fact than any man would
have hummed it had he expected to bump into another human being. When he saw
Janice Rule at the coffee machine, therefore, he cut off the sound
instantly, strangling a note and stopping dead in his tracks. A flush crept
into his cheeks. Janice Rule, of all people. How unlucky could he get?
Janice Rule was in her mid thirties, the kind of woman who'd looked 20 when
she was 20, 20 when she was 25 and looked 25 now - well, apart from the odd
wrinkle under the eyes. Blonde, beautifully proportioned, winner of Cowan's
annual Most Wanted Award for as long as he could remember wanting. She'd
worked for Bentleys for fifteen years, as had he, and not a day had passed
when he hadn't lusted over her. She was unmarried still, and without
boyfriend as far as he knew, remaining resolutely independent since a brief
and disastrous live-in relationship in her early twenties. Cowan had asked
her out once, ten years ago, and she'd smiled sweetly and told him that she
was going through a strange time. Rough translation - I'm doing my hair
forever as far as you're concerned.
She smiled sweetly again as he approached. Yes, the same smile. No change in
ten years. "You're working late," he said as he approached, hoping to divert
her from any comment on his singing.
"Typing up appraisals," she replied. "For Coleman."
"Just you?"
"Just me. I thought there was only me in the whole place."
"I thought the same. Gets a bit spooky." He leaned across her, ostensibly to
put his money into the machine but in truth in a clumsy attempt to get
closer, to inhale her winter fragrance.
"Very. I do this a lot, you know." She sidestepped, ostensibly to allow him
access to the coffee but in truth, he knew, to avoid his all day in the
office sweat fragrance. "
"Do what a lot?" he asked. "Work late or pick men up in corridors?"
This time the smile was as wintry as the perfume. "Work late."
His self-respect shrank. "Yes," he said. "So do I. Pretty nearly every
night. Most weekends too. Funny we've never bumped into each other. We seem
to cross paths quite often during the day." Well, whenever I can engineer it
we do, he thought.
"I keep busy," she said.
He collected his coffee, almost dropped it because the paper cup was so hot.
"Sure there's no-one else about?" he asked.
"Don't think so." She put her own cup down, which was promising for a few
minutes chitchat. "I have a key. To lock up."
"Same here. Look.." He stumbled on his thought. Ten years gone by, and it
was as hard now as it had been then. Bravely, he forged on. "We could go for
a drink. Afterwards. Just as colleagues, you know?"
"Sure," she said. "Why not? What time are you packing up?"
Her agreement wrong-footed him. "Er. dunno. An hour, maybe."
"An hour's fine. As colleagues, you said. This is intended to be the sort of
drink you'd be happy to tell Dawn about, isn't it? I know you of old."
He nodded. "Absolutely. But just for your information, I'm not with Dawn any
more. We had some problems. But yes, yes, absolutely. The sort of drink I
could tell her about if I was still with her."
Janice seemed genuinely concerned. "Oh, Malcolm, that's really sad. What
happened?"
He shrugged. "Been coming for years. Arguments all the time. I walked out,
and I won't be going back. We're both better off. Honestly. Dawn sees it
that way as well. Life, eh? But you know it's a good thing. She was
miserable. Now she isn't. She's got someone else. Loves him, so she says."
"But you haven't found anyone?"
He congratulated himself mildly on a cast well executed, and he fed out the
lure. "Dating? Bit too old for that sort of thing."
"You're never too old for that sort of thing."
It wasn't what he'd hoped for, of course. "You're a sexy guy," that would
have been nice. Or, "Any woman would be lucky.." But the emphasis on the
word "that" gave him a little thrill. It was the closest she'd ever come to
flirting with him.
He risked pulling the line. "I'm not too old to do that sort of thing. I'm
too old to find someone who'll do it with me."
She picked her coffee up. Clear sign. Gone too far. "Keep looking," she
said. "Don't give up. Anyway, got to go back to work."
"Still on for the drink though?" Even he could hear the desperation in his
voice, so she'd undoubtedly pick it up. Suddenly he was in freefall.
"Yes," she said. "Sure. I said so, didn't I?"
Well, that was something at least. Nothing would come of the drink, but at
least he could look at her some more. "So I'll collect you. er. from where?
The main accounts office?"
"Fine. If I'm not there, I'll be having a smoke."
"Out in the goods yard? Bit cold for it."
"No," she said. "I go downstairs."
He was startled. "Downstairs is closed off. We blocked off all the doors."
She shook her head. "You only think you did. There's one in goods despatch.
At the back of the storage area."
Now he was horrified. "Janice, it's dangerous down there."
She shrugged. "Not really. I sit on the steps. And some of the lights still
work. Like you say, it's too cold outside. And if I go outside during the
day, it's more likely I'll be spotted. So I just got into the habit. A few
of us do it."
"Well, you shouldn't have told me," he said. "I was responsible for closing
that area. At least until it's cleared out. I'll have to look at that door,
Janice. Sorry."
She gave him an odd, coquettish look. "Even if it was worth your while to
turn a blind eye?" she asked.
It was a moment before he realised that his mouth was catching flies. He
couldn't trust himself to answer immediately. He struggled for composure.
Then she giggled. "Kidding," she said. "For goodness sake, Malcolm. Don't
you know me by now?"
The problem was that he did, and flirting wasn't part of her character.
"Kidding," he repeated. "Ah." Her eyes told a different story. She seemed to
be assessing him, and there was an unfamiliar heat in the stare. He said the
first thing that came to mind. Thought was off the agenda just at the
moment. "I wish you weren't."
"I know you do," she replied. "So. See you later."
She walked away, and he watched her sway until she disappeared through the
door of the personnel department.
His throat felt dry and tight.
When he'd told the lie about his wife, he'd regretted it instantly. A
redundant lie was a dangerous waste of time. But if it had chipped away a
flake of resistance from Janice's cold exterior, then it wasn't redundant,
and it certainly wasn't something to regret.
So. Fine. The first order of business, then, was another lie.
His wife was staying at her mother's for a couple of days, but she might
well try to call him at home. So he needed to call her first. Going to be
later than usual, darling. We'll talk now. Don't wait up. Murderous here.
Murderous. Wonder if I'm ever going to finish..
*******
He stood by the door. A little nervous. What would he say when he opened it?
Almost certainly Janice was down there, because Personnel was deserted, her
desk was clear and he'd knocked on the door of the ladies room.
"Aha! Caught you." Said playfully. Yes, that was a possibility. Or, "To the
managing director with you, my girl." Yes. Majoring on his sense of humour.
But was Janice really a sense of humour loving kind of girl?
He could just say, "Ready for that drink?" Blunt. To the point. No pressure.
Ah, but then he did want to exert a little pressure, wanted his intentions
to be both clear and unspoken.
"You could get away with anything with that door shut." Not too subtle, but
not blatant either. Maybe..
He pushed at the handle, and the door swung open a little. As Janice had
said, there was some light. He could see it leaking through the crack.
He pushed a little harder. "Janice," he called.
The door completed its arc.
The stone steps were illuminated, but Janice wasn't sitting on them. The
only other lighted area was about fifty feet ahead.
He called her name again, but he was already coming to the conclusion that
she'd left, thought better of the date. Also, that she'd carelessly left the
light on. The only other possibility wasn't worth considering - that just
for a peaceful smoke she'd negotiated her way across the factory floor. He
walked down a couple of steps nonetheless, feeling their worn slippery
smoothness even through his shoes, and he called a third time. His voice
echoed in the emptiness.
"Here," she replied. "Over here."
Her voice startled him. "Where?" He peered through the dark shapes of huge
packing machines, gigantic boilers and cutters, towards that other pool of
light. He couldn't see her, but her voice had come from that direction.
"Over here," she shouted back. "Are you blind?"
"Apparently yes. Are you over by the other light?"
"Here. I'm waving."
He peered. "You shouldn't be down there. This floor's a death trap."
"I'm at the bottom of the stairs. I can see you."
He took another couple of steps down and looked over the safety rail that
bordered the staircase.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The light on the stairs went out.
He grabbed for the rail and lost his balance. His left foot skidded, and
then he was tumbling. Elbows, fingers and ankles flailed, striking solid
surfaces. The rail. The steps. He yelled in surprise, then repeatedly in
pain.
The last jolt was to his shoulder. He rolled, pulled himself onto his hands
and knees. "Jesus," he panted. "Jesus."
Apart from his heart, which heaved against his ribcage in irregular rhythm,
he seemed to have escaped without serious injury. The knuckles on his right
hand throbbed, no doubt from a cut or a bad graze, but that was on first
analysis the worst of the damage.
He pushed up, using his wrists, and pain exploded in his right ankle. It
wasn't a break, because the ankle had been broken before, and he would have
recognised that particular agony. But a sprain, and a bad one.
"I need some help, Janice," he called.
There was no response.
He waited a moment or two. Then he yelled again, still trying to conceal his
anger. "Janice, I'm serious. I've done myself some damage."
Still nothing. Panic welled in his chest. Was he alone down here? Had he
misread the direction of her voice? Who the fuck had closed the door? It
could only be her.
He found the downward turn of the stair rail, and hauled himself to his
feet. The blackness was dissolving a little, and he could see the outlines
of machinery again. The pool of light towards the centre of the room
remained an oasis. But there was no point in going towards that. The logical
thing to do was go back up the steps and try to open the door. Was there a
handle? He hadn't noticed.
"Same here, Malcolm."
Janice.
He had to interpret her words through his panic, tamp that panic down, and
backtrack to his appeal for assistance. Same here?
Of course. Same here.
She was hurt too.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Where the light is. Over here. I cut my leg."
"What the hell are you doing over there? You said you were at the bottom of
the stairs."
"I am. Well, not too far from them. Just where the light is."
Silence again, a long enough silence that he discovered something within
himself that he'd never have expected - irritation with Janice.
He was about to express that irritation when she said, "I was looking for
somewhere private." The comment was apologetic.
"What the hell do you mean?" he demanded, giving her just a flavour of his
frustration. "It's private enough down here for anyone."
"Not for what I had in mind. I wanted to be out of sight of the door."
Two. Plus two.
A four both startling and devoutly to be wished.
Surely not?
"You mean you wanted to.?"
"Do I have to spell it out, Malcolm?"
Now it was his turn to fall silent. Four. Definitely four.
And even with her cut leg and his sprained ankle, that four still wasn't out
of the question. The absolutely necessary parts were in full working order.
Unless, of course, she was hurt really badly..
If she was, could he convince her, just for a little while, that she
wasn't.?
Fifteen years..
Disgusted with himself, he pushed the thought aside. If she was hurt, he
would take her directly to the hospital.
Wouldn't he.?
"I'll make my way over," he told her.
"I'll be waiting," she said, and her singsong tone implied that he wasn't
foolish in continuing to hope.
He laboured to his feet. The pain was sharp, but no longer sickening. He
started to hobble in the direction of the light, hoping that there was
nothing substantial in his way, nothing that would trip him. His
recollection was that all the main passageways had been cleared of debris,
but he was far from certain of it.
He noted the hulking shape of one of the industrial boilers as he moved past
it, a bulb on struts. Then a conveyor belt, to his right. A light tickle
swept across his forehead - a spider's web, he presumed.
Soon he was pushed off track. A shape loomed in front of him - more tall
machinery. The corridor separated around this, and he took the left fork.
For a few seconds, he couldn't see the light, but then he passed the edge of
the equipment and he was on a clear path again.
"Almost there," he told her, although that wasn't exactly true.
"Good," Janice hailed back.
He cracked his knee on something that then rolled away from him. A truck,
possibly. He stopped to rub the damage, which unfortunately was on the
opposite leg to his injured ankle. He cursed under his breath, took a moment
then forged on.
He could smell something now - an odd amalgam of dust, burnt oil and rot.
The first two of those odours were not of course surprising, and the last
could well be a dead animal. A rat, or a cat that had got in somehow and had
been unable to escape.
Another high machine appeared ahead, and this time the obvious route was to
the right. He put out a hand to ensure against collision, and it connected
with a cold, wet surface. Disgusted, he stepped back a little, wiping the
hand on his trousers.
Soon he found a direct route again, and was happy to note that when he did,
he was only about twenty feet from his target - the single emergency light
bulb.
As he looked at the bulb, it started to swing lazily from side to side,
casting twisted shadows. But there was no moving air that he could sense.
While he was considering this new oddity, he heard breathing close by.
"Janice," he said. "Can you stand up? I still can't see you."
There was a movement to his left. He turned towards it.
Nothing.
Then he heard a whistling sound. Or rather..
Not just a whistling sound.
Someone was actually whistling.
The whistle became a hum.
The hum became a song.
And the voice was male.
"Who's there?" Cowan demanded. "Who the fuck's there?"
The voice was low. So low that it seemed to vibrate in the still, musty air.
A Stones song. Familiar.
The title reached him, and he was horrified. Sympathy For The Devil:-
"And I was 'round when Jesus Christ
Had His moment of doubt and pain
Made damn sure that Pilate
Washed his hands and sealed His fate."
Cowan placed his hands to his ears, but the voice knifed through the warding
flesh:-
"Stuck around St. Petersburg
When I saw it was a time for a change
Killed the Czar and his ministers
Anastasia screamed in vain."
"Show yourself," Cowan shouted. "Fucking well show yourself."
"I rode a tank, held a general's rank
When the Blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank.."
Cowan started to back away. Within a couple of feet, his back was up against
something hard. Machinery, or an internal wall. Suddenly he was conscious of
the cold.
The voice ground on:-
"So if you meet me, have some courtesy
Have some sympathy, and some taste
Use all your well learned politesse
Or I'll lay your soul to waste.."
"What do you want?" Cowan pleaded. "You're not the devil. I know you're not
the devil."
"Well, I've been called a lot of things," said a familiar voice, "but the
devil's not one of them."
Janice moved into his line of sight. His chest lurched, but there was relief
too. Blessed relief.
She didn't seem to be limping. There was no sign of injury.
"Who was singing?" he asked.
"Singing?" She didn't move any closer to him.
"Sympathy For The Devil. The Stones song. Someone was singing Sympathy For
The Devil."
"I didn't hear anything."
"You must have."
"There's no-one down here but us, Cowan. There's no-one in the entire
building but us."
He took a step towards her.
She took a step back.
He resented that. A few minutes before, sure, he'd had thoughts of what they
might do together. But he'd only have taken her if she was willing. He wasn'
t a rapist. Anyway, such thoughts were on hold now. Getting off the floor
was his priority, after which he wanted to take a look at his leg, which was
now hurting like a bitch. "What's the problem?" he asked. "You act like you'
re scared of me."
She shrugged. "Maybe I am."
Now he was even more insulted. The nervousness was enough, especially when
she'd led him on. The vocal expression of it was even harder to take. "You'
ve known me for years, Janice. And you're reading me as dangerous?"
She nodded. "Of course I am."
"Why? What on earth could.?"
"You're a rapist. And a murderer."
"Janice, I don't understand," he told her. Even though..
.No. She couldn't possibly know.
"Let me help you with that," she said.
And then, as he watched, horror a frozen grip on his spine, Janice's face
started to change. Or more accurately, it started to melt. The bones were
visible momentarily beneath; the eye sockets were momentarily empty. He
covered his own eyes with his hands, but couldn't resist opening his
fingers. The blood pounded in his ears. Heart attack, he thought. I'm going
to have a heart attack.
But he wasn't so lucky.
A face started to reform. At first, the only thing that was clear was that
it was not the face of Janice Rule. He saw signs that someone familiar might
emerge - a slight upturn in the nose; a strong jaw line. But revelation came
slowly. Slowly enough that there was time for his dry mouth to whisper his
guess.
"Mae-Duna."
*****
St. Pauli, Hamburg. Just off the Reeperbahn. Two years ago. Probably to the
day, he now realised. He'd bought her a drink in a bar, assuming that her
business was the same as every other girl on Herbertstrasse. It was a
reasonable assumption, firstly because the accepted wisdom was that women
and minors were not permitted to enter that particular street, and secondly
because she was Thai, and he didn't believe that a young Thai woman in
Hamburg could be gainfully employed in anything other than the skin trade.
He'd invited her back to his hotel. Walking there, he had second thoughts.
It would be embarrassing taking her through reception. Down by the river, he
led her into a doorway and kissed her. But when he tried to go further, she
resisted. He asked her for a price, and she told him that she was a coat
check girl and didn't have a price. He said that he'd pay her anyway. She
tried to squeeze past him. He hit her. She scratched his face with long,
sharp fingernails.
After that..
After that..
He'd hidden the incident from himself, denying it. Occasional flashes of
memory were dismissed as daydreams, or a remembered scene from a movie.
Occasional nightmares were easily dissipated in daylight.
Nightmares about the bricks..
He caught the flight home the following day, nervous because of course he
hadn't managed to forget by then. He'd watched the police, believing they
were watching him. He'd manically balanced hope against dread as he moved
about the airport lounge, never staying in one place for more than a few
minutes. The hope? She was likely an illegal immigrant. No records. No-one
interested enough to report her missing.
And in the end the hope had become reality.
.About the bricks in the pockets..
There was guilt, of course. The taking of another human life had weighed
heavily, had tormented him. Too much torment to live with in fact. Better to
forget. Better to file Hamburg away.
A business trip. Just an uneventful business trip.
.The bricks in the pockets of her camel hair coat..
Rolling her into the Elbe, bricks in the pockets of her camel hair coat.
The same camel hair coat that the apparition..
.the apparition that had almost become her..
.that the apparition was wearing now.
*****
He turned and ran, breaking to the left because of his vague recollection
that the floor in that direction was free of machinery. But he was wrong. He
covered less than ten feet before he was sent tumbling. The suffering from
his ankle was eclipsed as his knee, the one that he'd damaged before,
transmitted a bolt of pain, then his head struck something sharp and solid.
He staggered back but found that he could no longer stand, because his leg
wouldn't support his weight. He had no doubt that it was broken.
Still dizzy from the blow, he felt blindly for some support. The need to do
that allowed him to register that the final light had gone out. He was at
the mercy of whatever it was, in the dark.
His stretching hand connected with metal. He set his back against that and
lowered himself to the floor.
The apparition was nowhere to be seen.
He reached down, investigated his leg. He felt the sharpness of bone where
it had ripped through both his skin and his trousers. The hand came away
sticky and wet.
"Bloody serious," he muttered. "Serious trouble."
He understood now that he'd got onto the floor through a door which didn't
exist, because there had never been an access door at the back of the
storage area - he knew the storage area very well. Just as he'd initially
believed, then, this part of the factory was comprehensively sealed off, and
he was too far away from stairs to hope to be heard if he shouted for help.
In any event, it would be twelve hours before anyone was back on the
premises, and there was no-one likely to notice that he was missing before
then, because he'd tried to put his wife off telephoning, and had almost
certainly succeeded.
Twelve hours was more than enough time for him to bleed to death.
The blow to his head had made him feel sick and dizzy, and only the keen
pain in his leg kept him focussed.
It seemed that Mae-Duna had achieved her intent, and had disappeared back to
whichever place her spirit resided. He wondered whether he could defeat that
intent. Could he perhaps crawl? He recalled that there were two or three
above ground windows on the east side of the building, where the hill
dipped. There was only waste ground on the other side of them, but if he
could break one and shout out into the night, then he might be heard. It
wasn't a good option, but it was his only one.
He tried to move. The protest from his leg flushed into his brain and a
white agony erupted in his ribs. He screamed.
"Ssssh, baby," said a voice from the dark.
Janice. The apparition had Janice's voice again.
"You're not dead," he yelled in frustrated agony. "You're not bloody dead."
"Ssssh," Janice said. "There's a good baby. Nothing you can do about it.
Broken leg. Broken ribs. Poor, poor baby."
"You're not bloody dead," he shouted again.
And what he wondered were the implications of that? If the apparition wasn't
the ghost of Janice Rule, then could he be sure it was the ghost of
Mae-Duna? What in the name of God was he down here with?
"And you're not bloody Janice," he added, more quietly.
"Janice was your dream, baby," the Janice voice replied. "Who better to
entice you down where I need you to be? Who better to bring you within easy
reach?"
Cowan had a brief moment of clarity, a few seconds where the dizziness
steadied. In that clarity, he found anger. "Whatever you are, I don't care.
I'm dying. Do you hear me? Before long you won't have anyone to torture."
"Ah, but baby," said the voice in the dark, "just where do you think I'm
reaching from? When you do die, just who do you think will be waiting for
you?"
He'd been drifting towards an acceptance that the end was coming. Horror was
evaporating into resignation. Now fear gripped him again.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked, and the words brought a rusty taste into
his mouth, the taste of blood.
"The Hindu Thais call me Devi," she replied. "Does that help?"
He was struggling for breath now, but he managed to wheeze the single word.
"No."
"You know me by a different name, little baby. And as a different sex."
Oddly, he was outraged. His only comfort had been the rejection of that.
"You said you weren't. you weren't." The effort was too great. He couldn't
finish.
The answer was a high pitched giggle. Then a lower voice, a hybrid between
male and female, squealed, "Liar, liar, pants on fire."
For a moment or two, there was silence. It was broken by the tight, low male
singing voice he'd already heard that night. The lyrics were carefully
chosen:-
"Pleased to meet you.
Hope you guess my name."
The singer was setting Cowan a task. It wasn't a hard one.
Data
>
> THE LORD OF MISS RULE
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2002
Neat story, Alaric. Well-told, as I'm coming to expect from you. Is
there more or are you just going to leave it hanging? Anyway,
enjoyable read, few nits (there's a decidedly British flavor to this
which comes across very subtly and adds a nice touch to the story but
if I point out anything that's British, just ignore my Americanism
<g>):
>
> The Bentley Soap Company was a company with both eyes and both hands firmly
> on its back pocket, and this accounted for Cowan still being at his desk at
> 9PM on a Friday evening when he'd rather have been sinking lager in The Red
Is sinking lager a British expression? I know lager is an alcoholic
beverage, I've just never heard any reference to sinking a beverage
before.
> Lion. It was also a company with two feet firmly in the past, still based in
> premises which had narrowly escaped bombing during the Second World War and
> which more likely than not had been plastered with recruiting posters for
> the Great War.
still based on premises, maybe? Or even: still mired in premises . .
.
>
> At 8:30 the central heating system, such as it was, had cut off and Cowan
> had donned his coat. Working manfully through the tower of invoices and
> feeding their details into the computer, he reflected upon the frustrating
> job held by the painters of the Forth Bridge, and decided they had it easy.
Fourth Bridge? or is that a specific bridge that I'm just too
geologically impaired to know? :~P
>
> Just another half hour. Then he'd pack in.
Not that your way is wrong, but generally the phrase is 'pack it in.'
It reads fine the way it is and it might be one of those British
things <shrug>.
> He was humming the song aloud and loudly, louder in fact than any man would
> have hummed it had he expected to bump into another human being. When he saw
I love that line. <g> We women have always suspected that men
secretly hum, now we have confirmation.
> She shook her head. "You only think you did. There's one in goods despatch.
> At the back of the storage area."
dispatch?
>
> It was a moment before he realised that his mouth was catching flies. He
> couldn't trust himself to answer immediately. He struggled for composure.
Nice imagery in that first sentence.
> His wife was staying at her mother's for a couple of days, but she might
> well try to call him at home. So he needed to call her first. Going to be
> later than usual, darling. We'll talk now. Don't wait up. Murderous here.
> Murderous. Wonder if I'm ever going to finish..
After reading it through once, is the use of the word 'murderous' here
intentional? If so, nice; if not--it's still nice, I'm just not as
impressed. <g>
I didn't notice any nits in that last section--the suspense was
well-done.
Nice story, enjoyable read.
Later, Data
"Just my opinion, I could be wrong." -- Dennis Miller
grizzellda
> character who appears right at the end with some familiarity. Inspired to
> some degree by Terry Taft:-
>
> THE LORD OF MISS RULE
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2002
>
> "Pleased to meet you.
> Hope you guess my name."
>
> The singer was setting Cowan a task. It wasn't a hard one.
>
>
Creepy, Al. You do creepy well. Just one nit. Title is misleading as Miss
Rule was never really there... or was she?
grizzellda
>
Alaric
news:bd972415.0203...@posting.google.com...
> Neat story, Alaric. Well-told, as I'm coming to expect from you. Is
there more or are you just going to leave it hanging? Anyway, enjoyable
read, few nits (there's a decidedly British flavor to this which comes
across very subtly and adds a nice touch to the story but if I point out
anything that's British, just ignore my Americanism <g>):
Thanks, Data. Yes, I saw that as the end. I like to leave the horror
hanging.
> Is sinking lager a British expression? I know lager is an alcoholic
beverage, I've just never heard any reference to sinking a beverage before.
Yeah, s'pose it is. I'd better change that.
> Still based on premises, maybe? Or even: still mired in premises . .
On is definitely better.
> Fourth Bridge? or is that a specific bridge that I'm just too geologically
impaired to know? :~P
It's in Scotland. So much metalwork it takes a year to paint.
> Not that your way is wrong, but generally the phrase is 'pack it in.' It
reads fine the way it is and it might be one of those British things
<shrug>.
Again, yes, British. Again, worth a change.
> I love that line. <g> We women have always suspected that men secretly
hum, now we have confirmation.
Hmmm hmm hmmm.
> Dispatch?
UK/US spelling thing.
> After reading it through once, is the use of the word 'murderous' here
intentional? If so, nice; if not--it's still nice, I'm just not as
impressed. <g>
I'll just claim it.
> Nice story, enjoyable read.
Thanks as always, Data.
Alaric
"grizzellda" <griz...@sofnet.com> wrote in message
news:u8np40s...@corp.supernews.com...
> Creepy, Al. You do creepy well. Just one nit. Title is misleading as Miss
Rule was never really there... or was she?
Not even in spirit. Thanks, Griz.
grizzellda
Uh-oh, I forgot to mention that I LOVE creepy. And I'm glad to hear that
Miss Rule was never there. My reading comprehension is still good. <g>
grizzellda
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
> Back to that ol' standard stuff o' mine. Bob Westermeyer says I write the
> character who appears right at the end with some familiarity. Inspired to
> some degree by Terry Taft:-
>
> THE LORD OF MISS RULE
> Copyright Alaric Paul McDermott 2002
>
> The Bentley Soap Company was a company with both eyes and both hands
firmly
> on its back pocket,
Eer? Eyes firmly on a back pocket? Is this an elastic company methinks?
>and this accounted for Cowan still being at his desk at
> 9PM on a Friday evening when he'd rather have been sinking lager in The
Red
> Lion. It was also a company with two feet firmly in the past,
Heavily contricted then, this company? What with eyes, feet and hands well
occupied. All we need now is both ears to the ground.
>still based in
> premises which had narrowly escaped bombing during the Second World War
and
> which (,) more likely than not (,) had been plastered with recruiting
posters for
> the Great War.
>
> At 8:30 the central heating system, such as it was, had cut off and Cowan
> had donned his coat. Working manfully through the tower of invoices and
> feeding their details into the computer, he reflected upon the frustrating
> job held by the painters of the Forth Bridge, and decided they had it
easy.
Working manfully? Dunno, mate.
> Apart from the security staff (,) he was, as far as he knew, the only
person
> left in the building. His directors had all delivered a hearty personal
> adieu as they'd trotted off to their cars. "Don't work too late, Malcolm,"
> one called. "There is a life outside this place, Malcolm," said another.
> "Nose still at the grindstone, Malcolm?" asked a third. And Cowan had
> dutifully chuckled with each and every witticism whilst cursing the men
> under his breath and cursing their apparent belief that one packhorse was
> worth twenty racehorses. "We'll get you more money when the top line
> improves a bit, Malcolm," his boss had promised. "Could even be this year.
> The more people pay us quickly, the better it'll get. So keep ploughing
on,
> eh? You've got the most important job in the place."
>
> Sod them, Cowan thought. Sod them all.
Why does the word "biographical" come to mind here?
> Just another half hour. Then he'd pack in.
IT. Pack IT in.
> He coughed, and the cough became a coughing fit. There was always dust in
> the air in the damned offices, despite state of the art extractors. He
> guessed that this was something to do with the factory's location, hard
> against a crag and twenty feet below the level of the rest of the town.
The
> place was miserable and dark; the sort of dark that no electric light
could
> ever quite penetrate. There was always dampness in the air, too, rising
from
> the lower couple of floors which lay sealed off and unused. Cowan had once
> been down there with a health and safety inspector, at whose request the
> blocking up had been carried out. Rusty and ancient machinery had towered
> down upon him, the corridors between it layered with old, sticky linoleum.
> Both he and the inspector had got out as quickly as they could. The
company
> was under instruction to do a great deal of remedial work, but as far as
> Cowan knew, none of it had got past the planning stage.
Good descriptions. Good mood setting.
Delete full stop,
> "Do I have to spell it out, Malcolm?"
>
> Now it was his turn to fall silent. Four. Definitely four.
>
> And even with her cut leg and his sprained ankle, that four still wasn't
out
> of the question. The absolutely necessary parts were in full working
order.
>
> Unless, of course, she was hurt really badly..
>
> If she was, could he convince her, just for a little while, that she
> wasn't.?
>
> Fifteen years..
>
> Disgusted with himself, he pushed the thought aside. If she was hurt, he
> would take her directly to the hospital.
>
> Wouldn't he.?
Another erroneous full stop.
Simpler, mate. Cut out the flowery stuff.
> "Ssssh, baby," said a voice from the dark.
>
> Janice. The apparition had Janice's voice again.
>
> "You're not dead," he yelled in frustrated agony. "You're not bloody
dead."
>
> "Ssssh," Janice said. "There's a good baby. Nothing you can do about it.
> Broken leg. Broken ribs. Poor, poor baby."
>
> "You're not bloody dead," he shouted again.
>
> And what he wondered were the implications of that? If the apparition
wasn't
> the ghost of Janice Rule, then could he be sure it was the ghost of
> Mae-Duna? What in the name of God was he down here with?
>
> "And you're not bloody Janice," he added, more quietly.
>
> "Janice was your dream, baby," the Janice voice replied. "Who better to
> entice you down where I need you to be? Who better to bring you within
easy
> reach?"
Okay! Here's where I jump in and protest, vehemently. This was absolutely
great right up until you introduced this Thai chick who was done in over in
Germany. What is the ghost haunted his workplace for? Do they get Frequent
Flyer points for death or something? It goes against all the rules on eerie
stuff. More, it doesn't make sense, even by the genre standards.
Consequently, my enjoyment faded and the nagging started. Such as, if she
(it) can travel all the way from Germany why the "Who better to bring you
within easy reach?"
The devil you say!
Well that explains it a little better but I'm still not sure I like the end
as much as the centre. That was good. No, it was better than good. Towards
the end it went astray, you began using those obnoxious words patterns (In
that clarity, he found anger.) and the story got bogged down, IMHO. Why not
give all this weird stuff away and go for a rational ending? Like, have him
liaise with Janice, things go wrong and the babe's dead and he's wondering
what life has to offer next.
Try it. I have it on good authority that the devil doesn't have to be in
every story.
Sensei
Anopheles
"Data" wrote:
> I love that line. <g> We women have always suspected that men
> secretly hum, now we have confirmation.
No you don't. It's just a Pommie phenomenon. In other countries, men have
finally learned to change their underwear at least once a month.
Anopheles
Alaric McDermott
Yeah, but you should have a bath first
Alaric
>
> Eer? Eyes firmly on a back pocket? Is this an elastic company methinks?
Ah, g'wan.
> Heavily contricted then, this company? What with eyes, feet and hands well
occupied. All we need now is both ears to the ground.
It's a corporate body.
> Working manfully? Dunno, mate.
Don't like manfully? Hmmmm..
> Why does the word "biographical" come to mind here?
Don't soft soap me.
> IT. Pack IT in.
Colloquial. I shall change it, sir.
> Another erroneous full stop.
Caught 'em. Thanks.
> Simpler, mate. Cut out the flowery stuff.
But why, forsooth?
> Okay! Here's where I jump in and protest, vehemently. This was absolutely
great right up until you introduced this Thai chick who was done in over in
Germany. What is the ghost haunted his workplace for? Do they get Frequent
Flyer points for death or something? It goes against all the rules on eerie
stuff. More, it doesn't make sense, even by the genre standards.
Consequently, my enjoyment faded and the nagging started. Such as, if she
(it) can travel all the way from Germany why the "Who better to bring you
within easy reach?"
Well, she's not really there..
> Well that explains it a little better but I'm still not sure I like the
end as much as the centre. That was good. No, it was better than good.
Towards the end it went astray, you began using those obnoxious words
patterns (In that clarity, he found anger.) and the story got bogged down,
IMHO. Why not give all this weird stuff away and go for a rational ending?
Like, have him liaise with Janice, things go wrong and the babe's dead and
he's wondering what life has to offer next.
Well, you asked for it now. If you hadn't insisted, you wouldn't have got..
Ta-da:
Originally, this was going to be my first ever yucky monster story. Down in
the depths of the awful factory, a soap monster lurks, brough together from
the tallow and the bones of dead animals. Cool, eh? And then I thought -
what's the damned thing going to do? Wash your hair. And then, if it's cow
tallow, then it won't eat you. It'll just stand there chewing the cud and
going, "Don't like meat, me." Also, how does it work? It has to work. There
has to be an internal logic. How does life come to this big lump of
saponified beef? Ah, forget it, Al.
So I left it. It stewed. Then a friend suggested the rape storyline, but
that didn't gel either because of the character I'd created for Janice Rule.
She simply wouldn't go down there with him.
Inspiration finally brought Nick back again. But I'm conscious of All The
Best Tunes and Old Red Eyes, and I'll stear clear of the Big Bad for a while
now.
The Story Behind The Story:
> Try it. I have it on good authority that the devil doesn't have to be in
every story.
Oh, he does. Every single one. Written by anybody. Any time. In some way or
another. <Manic laughter>.
> Sensei
The Ancient One.
Thanks as always, Barry. Really useful stuff.
Bart Hopson
> Back to that ol' standard stuff o' mine. Bob Westermeyer says I write the
> character who appears right at the end with some familiarity. Inspired to
> some degree by Terry Taft:-
>
No nits on this one, Alaric. Fantastic stuff. An interesting mix of
the styles from the civil war piece, old red eyes, and the draw. The
ellipses of course didn't come through, but I'm getting used to it.
I'll try to come back to it and see if I can find some nits later on
and then e-mail it on.
Bart
Allegory60
I won't comment on all the nits I saw, perhaps many of them are the UK/US sort
of thing. I did see you use .. several times though--what is that? I know a
period and I know an ellipsis, but .. ?
I also saw you use .? together and several sentences BEGIN with a period. Weird
and wacky punctuation?
Now that I have the nits that bugged me out of the way, let me say that this
story is a great tale of horror. I could feel the dank suffocating lower floor
of that building.
In my opinion, the one thing that keeps this tale from really chilling me is
your choice of language--word choice in many cases. You hold me arms length
with so many words I can only classify as stiff, formal, clinical or
analytical, hard-sounding, British, if you will, that the overall upitty tone
hangs over the tension. I realize this is a stylistic thing about your
writing, and pretty tough to point out all those places where you use a bigger
word than you need to, which is, I suspect why that tone comes through. Maybe I
can point out a few:
>Cowan
>had donned his coat. Working manfully through the tower of invoices
I think 'donned' and 'manfully' lend themselves to the affect I see.
>His directors had all delivered a hearty personal
>adieu as they'd trotted off to their cars.
hearty, adieu, trotted --especially trotted gives it a rather stiff feeling.
This could be my Yank nature hollering out at the prose.
>And Cowan had
>dutifully chuckled with each and every witticism whilst cursing the men
dutifully, whitticism --these seem stuffy
>down the long
>corridor towards the point where the floor's single coffee machine was
>established.
established. With that one word you make the sentence feel formal, awkward
even. A coffe machine isn't established. Why not just say where the coffee
machine sat?
There certainly isn't any poetic aspect to your writing, and maybe that's what
I like. You are descriptive and graphic, but clinically so, and detached as a
narrator from the story. For this reason I think the tale would be better
served in the 1st person POV. That way, Cowan's pretentiousness could be his,
and not the narrator's.
I think it is this sort of word choice on your part that makes the read bumpy
for me, not that the plot is lacking, or the characters--no, not at all. I
would love to go through this piece and replace every such word with a simple,
straightforward one. My own style suffers from too many modifiers and I have
also tried to escape four decades of formal business writing, so I sympathize
with any attempt to write fiction without those problems.
Great story. Glad you posted it. Hope I wasn't too harsh.
Hank
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
Well, I'd say keep it brewing in the subconscious. There's a better and more
powerful conclusion to come, I'm sure. You have proved you have it in you.
It was well done up to that point -- apart from a few sneaky attacks of the
floweries.
> The Story Behind The Story:
>
> > Try it. I have it on good authority that the devil doesn't have to be in
> every story.
>
> Oh, he does. Every single one. Written by anybody. Any time. In some way
or
> another. <Manic laughter>.
The devil you say?
Alaric
"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20020312134448...@mb-bj.aol.com..
Hank, thanks for the review.
> I won't comment on all the nits I saw, perhaps many of them are the UK/US
sort of thing. I did see you use .. several times though--what is that? I
know a period and I know an ellipsis, but .. ? I also saw you use .?
together and several sentences BEGIN with a period. Weird and wacky
punctuation?
All the same problem, Hank. ALL ellipses. I write in word and the ellipse
converts in text from three dots to one. Keep forgetting when I post.
> Now that I have the nits that bugged me out of the way, let me say that
this story is a great tale of horror. I could feel the dank suffocating
lower floor of that building.
It's a real place. I was taken on a tour of this factory about five years
ago. Even more horrific were the soap boiling pits. A man falling in would
be stripped to the bone.
> In my opinion, the one thing that keeps this tale from really chilling me
is your choice of language--word choice in many cases. You hold me arms
length with so many words I can only classify as stiff, formal, clinical or
analytical, hard-sounding, British, if you will, that the overall upitty
tone hangs over the tension. I realize this is a stylistic thing about your
writing, and pretty tough to point out all those places where you use a
bigger word than you need to, which is, I suspect why that tone comes
through. Maybe I can point out a few:
This was a problem I thought I'd resolved. Certainly it plagued a lot of my
early AFO stuff. I'll take a look.
> established. With that one word you make the sentence feel formal, awkward
even. A coffe machine isn't established. Why not just say where the coffee
machine sat?
Definitely that one.
> There certainly isn't any poetic aspect to your writing, and maybe that's
what I like. You are descriptive and graphic, but clinically so, and
detached as a narrator from the story. For this reason I think the tale
would be better served in the 1st person POV. That way, Cowan's
pretentiousness could be his, and not the narrator's.
It's certainly a thought, that.
> Great story. Glad you posted it. Hope I wasn't too harsh.
Not in the least. Grateful, Hank.
Alaric
"Bart Hopson" <bart_...@hotmail.com> wrote in message
> No nits on this one, Alaric. Fantastic stuff. An interesting mix of the
styles from the civil war piece, old red eyes, and the draw. The ellipses
of course didn't come through, but I'm getting used to it.
Heh! You only need to tell me ten times. That's just seven more.
> I'll try to come back to it and see if I can find some nits later on and
then e-mail it on.
No problems, Bart. Thanks for the compliment. That's more than enough.
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
> It's a real place. I was taken on a tour of this factory about five years
> ago. Even more horrific were the soap boiling pits. A man falling in would
> be stripped to the bone.
You know, I was going to question that but let it slide. My quibble with
your factory layout was that it is unusual to see boilers alongside other
machinery -- as you describe the layout here. Boilers, for a number of
reasons, have their own room. Are sure they cohabited with other equipment?
Anopheles
Alaric
valves etc..
"Anopheles" <hi...@jeack.com.au> wrote in message
news:a6lr1u$fgqq0$1...@ID-34438.news.dfncis.de...
Allegory60
you drag and paste it here. That should solve it. Darnit, I thought perhaps
along with kilts, the intelligensia of Scotland had come up with its own
punctuation system, similar to the upside down question marks that begin a
sentence in Spanish.
One thing I failed to mention: the idea of a gorgeous, lusted-after woman being
the core of his destruction was brilliant. The prior murder felt a bit over the
top for me, I would have just left it at forced sex, date rape, whatever
because, you know, crime does not pay, and it didn't seem credible he would
have gotten away with murder.
How many times has the object of our desire, lust, turned out to be our worst
nightmare? (more than I'd like to count) Thank goodness hormones fade after 50
. . . well, they should fade.
Hopefully.
Mercifully.
Possibly.
Hank
Alaric
> One thing I failed to mention: the idea of a gorgeous, lusted-after woman
being the core of his destruction was brilliant.
Drawn from reality too. Sadly. Frustratingly.
Thanks, Hank.
Anopheles
"Alaric" wrote:
> Yeah, they're tallow boilers, connected with pipework to the pits, steam
> valves etc..
OK! Not steam generators then which is what boilers normally are.
Opus
that the kitty's out of the bag....It was me. Sha. As if everyone couldn't
tell...
Opus
Alaric
"Opus" <opus...@bloomcounty.com> wrote in message
news:3C906F1A...@ae9ulakjdr.net...
Rick LeBlanc
THE LORD OF MISS RULE
Sorry, late for dinner again.
You must have a complete rack of writing hats. I admire such flexibility.
This was a story about a man tortured by his conscience, right? I won't like
it any other way. :)
Great read, Alaric. The creepy basement scene was brilliant. The only thing
that bugged me was the slight intrusiveness of the narrator--a nasty habit
of
yours. Take the axe to it, dust off the chips and you have a cool creepy
story.
Rick
>
> The Bentley Soap Company was a company with both eyes and both hands
firmly
> on its back pocket, and this accounted for Cowan still being at his desk
at
> 9PM on a Friday evening when he'd rather have been sinking lager in The
Red
> Lion. It was also a company with two feet firmly in the past, still based
in
> premises which had narrowly escaped bombing during the Second World War
and
> which more likely than not had been plastered with recruiting posters for
> the Great War.
Snip latter half of last sentence.
>
> At 8:30 the central heating system, such as it was, had cut off and Cowan
> had donned his coat. Working manfully through the tower of invoices and
> feeding their details into the computer, he reflected upon the frustrating
> job held by the painters of the Forth Bridge, and decided they had it
easy.
Maybe, "At 8:30 the woeful central heating system had cut off, forcing Cowan
to don his coat."
Manfully?
Snip "their".
> Sod them, Cowan thought. Sod them all.
You really say that?
> He coughed, and the cough became a coughing fit. There was always dust in
> the air in the damned offices, despite state of the art extractors. He
> guessed that this was something to do with the factory's location, hard
> against a crag and twenty feet below the level of the rest of the town.
The
> place was miserable and dark; the sort of dark that no electric light
could
> ever quite penetrate. There was always dampness in the air, too, rising
from
> the lower couple of floors which lay sealed off and unused. Cowan had once
> been down there with a health and safety inspector, at whose request the
> blocking up had been carried out. Rusty and ancient machinery had towered
> down upon him, the corridors between it layered with old, sticky linoleum.
> Both he and the inspector had got out as quickly as they could. The
company
> was under instruction to do a great deal of remedial work, but as far as
> Cowan knew, none of it had got past the planning stage.
I'm still not comfortable with a haughty narrator. Snip "damned."
>
> Just another half hour, then. Another damned half hour and a coffee to
carry
> it.
Again.
>
> He pushed back his chair and left his office, making his way down the long
> corridor towards the point where the floor's single coffee machine was
> established. He reflected as he walked that one coffee machine per floor
> pretty much summed up the company's attitude to its staff.
Established? You're writing like a lawyer.
> All right. Just all right. No dream of the future. All right for now.
>
> Baby, we're all right now..
Quotes maybe?
>
> He was humming the song aloud and loudly, louder in fact than any man
would
> have hummed it had he expected to bump into another human being. When he
saw
> Janice Rule at the coffee machine, therefore, he cut off the sound
> instantly, strangling a note and stopping dead in his tracks. A flush
crept
> into his cheeks. Janice Rule, of all people. How unlucky could he get?
How indeed. Cut it.
>
> Janice Rule was in her mid thirties, the kind of woman who'd looked 20
when
> she was 20, 20 when she was 25 and looked 25 now - well, apart from the
odd
> wrinkle under the eyes.
She needs a slide rule to figure her age. Logic . . . I demand logic!
Blonde, beautifully proportioned, winner of Cowan's
> annual Most Wanted Award for as long as he could remember wanting. She'd
> worked for Bentleys for fifteen years, as had he, and not a day had passed
> when he hadn't lusted over her. She was unmarried still, and without
> boyfriend as far as he knew, remaining resolutely independent since a
brief
> and disastrous live-in relationship in her early twenties. Cowan had asked
> her out once, ten years ago, and she'd smiled sweetly and told him that
she
> was going through a strange time. Rough translation - I'm doing my hair
> forever as far as you're concerned.
Comments like this . . . should be in first person.
> "I thought the same. Gets a bit spooky." He leaned across her, ostensibly
to
> put his money into the machine but in truth in a clumsy attempt to get
> closer, to inhale her winter fragrance.
Winter fragrance?
>
> "Very. I do this a lot, you know." She sidestepped, ostensibly to allow
him
> access to the coffee but in truth, he knew, to avoid his all day in the
> office sweat fragrance. "
Ah, now that's crystal clear.
> "Do what a lot?" he asked. "Work late or pick men up in corridors?"
>
> This time the smile was as wintry as the perfume. "Work late."
Again, winter perfume? Such a knave I am.
> "Don't think so." She put her own cup down, which was promising for a few
> minutes chitchat. "I have a key. To lock up."
>
> "Same here. Look.." He stumbled on his thought. Ten years gone by, and it
> was as hard now as it had been then. Bravely, he forged on.
Too strong.
> He congratulated himself mildly on a cast well executed, and he fed out
the
> lure. "Dating? Bit too old for that sort of thing."
A bit too much telling here.
> His wife was staying at her mother's for a couple of days, but she might
> well try to call him at home. So he needed to call her first. Going to be
> later than usual, darling. We'll talk now. Don't wait up. Murderous here.
> Murderous. Wonder if I'm ever going to finish..
Is this you trying to tie a loose end? Seems so.
> Two. Plus two.
>
> A four both startling and devoutly to be wished.
Huh?
> It seemed that Mae-Duna had achieved her intent, and had disappeared back
to
> whichever place her spirit resided. He wondered whether he could defeat
that
> intent. Could he perhaps crawl? He recalled that there were two or three
> above ground windows on the east side of the building, where the hill
> dipped. There was only waste ground on the other side of them, but if he
> could break one and shout out into the night, then he might be heard. It
> wasn't a good option, but it was his only one.
>
> He tried to move. The protest from his leg flushed into his brain and a
> white agony erupted in his ribs. He screamed.
Hmm . . . white agony? Is that like winter fragrance?
Alaric
Hi, Rick. Thanks for the review.
> You must have a complete rack of writing hats. I admire such flexibility.
This was a story about a man tortured by his conscience, right? I won't like
it any other way. :)
Er. all right then. The devil was a figment of his imagination. I'll
definitely go that way, if it makes you like it.
> Great read, Alaric. The creepy basement scene was brilliant. The only
thing that bugged me was the slight intrusiveness of the narrator--a nasty
habit of yours. Take the axe to it, dust off the chips and you have a cool
creepy story.
Hmmm. First one I've slipped back into that for a while. But I must have,
because a couple of folks have pointed it out.
> Snip latter half of last sentence.
Awwwww! All right then.
> Maybe, "At 8:30 the woeful central heating system had cut off, forcing
Cowan to don his coat." Manfully? Snip "their".
Yes, better. Their, definitely. Why does no-one like manfully?
> > Sod them, Cowan thought. Sod them all.
> You really say that?
Sodding do! <g> Also moved the sodding damned in both places. Replaced them
with sodding - not really.
> Established? You're writing like a lawyer.
Yes. Gone. Thanks, Rick.
> Quotes maybe?
Probably.
> A flush crept into his cheeks. Janice Rule, of all people. How unlucky
could he get?
> How indeed. Cut it.
Okay. Not sure why, though. Saw it as his thought.
> She needs a slide rule to figure her age. Logic . . . I demand logic!
Heh!
>> Rough translation - I'm doing my hair forever as far as you're concerned.
> Comments like this . . . should be in first person.
It is, isn't it? Not sure what you mean here.
Winter fragrance?
A perfume that transmits the essential quality of pine needles, chestnuts
roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose..
> Again, winter perfume? Such a knave I am.
.with a hint of brandy, and Christmas carols being sung by a choir.
> Too strong.
Yes, I see what you mean.
> A bit too much telling here.
And again.
> Is this you trying to tie a loose end? Seems so.
In the sense of explaining why the wife didn't follow up, yes. And well
spotted. It did occur to me afterwards.
> > A four both startling and devoutly to be wished.
> Huh?
Darn. Thought that was clever.
> Hmm . . . white agony? Is that like winter fragrance?
Heat. White is hotter than red. Oh, go on, then.
Thanks as always, Rick. Great points.
Opus
> when he'd rather have been sinking lager in The Red
> Lion.
>
Ah, well, write what you know...
> The Bentley Soap Company was a company with both eyes and both hands firmly
> on its back pocket, and this accounted for Cowan still being at his desk at
> 9PM on a Friday evening when he'd rather have been sinking lager in The Red
> Lion. It was also a company with two feet firmly in the past, still based in
> premises which had narrowly escaped bombing during the Second World War and
> which more likely than not had been plastered with recruiting posters for
> the Great War.
>
Good lord and cheeze, I can see the influence that that Aussie has had
on your writing. This is TIGHT, man. Good, solid.
> "Don't work too late, Malcolm,"
> one called. "There is a life outside this place, Malcolm," said another.
> "Nose still at the grindstone, Malcolm?"
>
So, you never did tell us this guy's name...
> And Cowan had
> dutifully chuckled with each and every witticism whilst cursing the men
> under his breath and cursing their apparent belief that one packhorse was
> worth twenty racehorses.
>
Very nice parallel.
> Both he and the inspector had got out
>
Is it "gotten"?
> He reflected as he walked that one coffee
>
Comma after walked. Sounds like you're walking the coffee machine...
> at the time on the other side of
> town and had been told, in a considerate rebuke, as a dog being patted,
>
I like the analogy of the dog, so I think you can do without the
"considerate rebuke" line, and just use the dog line to allude to the
concept. It's more intelligent.
> her out once, ten years ago,
>
No comma after once, I think.
> He leaned across her, ostensibly to
> put his money into the machine but in truth in a clumsy attempt to get
> closer, to inhale her winter fragrance.
>
I am a perfume-a-holic, and I have no idea what winter fragrance is, but
I love this image.
> ostensibly to
> put his money into the machine but in truth in a clumsy attempt to get
> closer, to inhale her winter fragrance.
>
> "Very. I do this a lot, you know." She sidestepped, ostensibly
>
I think two ostensiblies is too close together.
> When he'd told the lie about his wife, he'd regretted it instantly.
>
Now I'M catching flies. I missed this bit of information earlier. That
sneaky little bastard...
> Two. Plus two.
>
> A four both startling and devoutly to be wished.
>
> Surely not?
>
> "You mean you wanted to.?"
>
> "Do I have to spell it out, Malcolm?"
>
> Now it was his turn to fall silent. Four. Definitely four.
>
Er, don't get the two and four stuff. Spell it out...
> an odd amalgam of dust, burnt oil and rot.
>
Love the word amalgam, and this sentence.
> And then, as he watched, horror a frozen grip on his spine,
>
Er, hunh?
> He hit her. She scratched his face with long,
> sharp fingernails.
>
> After that..
>
> After that..
>
Thank you for not going into details.
> A business trip. Just an uneventful business trip.
>
Eh, aren't you headed for China next week? Hmmmn.........
> .The bricks in the pockets of her camel hair coat..
>
> Rolling her into the Elbe, bricks in the pockets of her camel hair coat.
>
> The same camel hair coat that the apparition..
>
> .the apparition that had almost become her..
>
> .that the apparition was wearing now.
>
I use a program called Rough Draft. It has three modes: Regular, for
word processing, Screenplay format, and Stage/Radio Play. It's free,
and VERY awesome. Been using it now for about three years. To my
knowledge, I've never had a formatting problem. This will save in
either plain text, or Rich text, not to mention the spell checker, word
count, thesaurus, formatting options, etc. I could go on forever. As I
said, it's a free download and I absolutely love it.
http://www.rsalsbury.co.uk/roughdraft
> focussed.
>
One s.
> He'd been drifting towards an acceptance that the end was coming. Horror was
> evaporating into resignation. Now fear gripped him again.
>
And it's been so well-written, that I've been with you every step of the
way...
WOW, WOW, WOWIE, ALARIC! Yes, I'm shouting. God, this was
sssssoooooooo well written, that I'm just not believing it. It flowed
so well, and you drug me right down into that lusty pit with you.
*thinking--maybe not such a bad prospect...*
Where was I? Oh yes, the pit. I could see, hear, feel and smell all of
the things Malcolm was. You did a damned fine job of conveying
everything you saw in your head, in a bare bones kind of way, with a few
metaphorical zingers thrown in for good measure.
I know we tease each other a lot because you're special to me, but right
now, in this serious moment, I tell you truthfully what a fine piece of
writing this was, and I am humbled. I honestly see it as your best
piece yet, and with each one, you only continue to better yourself.
I hope you submit this somewhere, or I'll kick your arse... *Okay,
schmaltz time over with*
In awe of her friend,
Opus
Alaric
OPUS - THE LORD OF MISS RULE:
And you're next, big guy...
Promises, promises.
> Good lord and cheeze, I can see the influence that that Aussie has had on
your writing.
Who? Oh, him. I don't pay any attention to him!!! Too Antipodean.
> This is TIGHT, man. Good, solid.
Thank you.
> So, you never did tell us this guy's name...
Heh!
> Is it "gotten"?
Only in Yankeeland.
> Comma after walked. Sounds like you're walking the coffee machine...
To throw it out of the window, maybe. Thanks.
> I like the analogy of the dog, so I think you can do without the
"considerate rebuke" line, and just use the dog line to allude to the
concept. It's more intelligent.
Good spot.
> No comma after once, I think.
And again.
> I am a perfume-a-holic, and I have no idea what winter fragrance is, but I
love this image.
Just you tell that Rick Leblanc. Only kidding.
> I think two ostensiblies is too close together.
Oopsy doopsy.
> Now I'M catching flies. I missed this bit of information earlier. That
sneaky little bastard...
Based on Tony Blair.
> Er, don't get the two and four stuff. Spell it out...
Gone.
> Thank you for not going into details.
I can't do the gore. I'm a scaredy cat. And I just couldn't write a rape.
> Eh, aren't you headed for China next week? Hmmmn.........
Yeah, but you can't get excited. They make you drink too much tea.
> I use a program called Rough Draft. It has three modes: Regular, for
word processing, Screenplay format, and Stage/Radio Play. It's free, and
VERY awesome. Been using it now for about three years. To my knowledge,
I've never had a formatting problem. This will save in either plain text,
or Rich text, not to mention the spell checker, word count, thesaurus,
formatting options, etc. I could go on forever. As I said, it's a free
download and I absolutely love it. http://www.rsalsbury.co.uk/roughdraft
Thank you, dear heart.
>> focussed.
> One s.
Brit/US again, I think.
> And it's been so well-written, that I've been with you every step of the
way...
Er. O, you're not ill, are you? Well, thank you.
> WOW, WOW, WOWIE, ALARIC! Yes, I'm shouting. God, this was sssssoooooooo
well written, that I'm just not believing it. It flowed so well, and you
drug me right down into that lusty pit with you. *thinking--maybe not such a
bad prospect...*
I don't know what to say, except thank you, my friend. It means a great deal
to hear that. It'd mean even more if that lusty pit thing could be sorted
out.
> Where was I? Oh yes, the pit. I could see, hear, feel and smell all of
the things Malcolm was. You did a damned fine job of conveying everything
you saw in your head, in a bare bones kind of way, with a few metaphorical
zingers thrown in for good measure.
I'm not going to get my head through the door after this.
> I know we tease each other a lot because you're special to me, but right
now, in this serious moment, I tell you truthfully what a fine piece of
writing this was, and I am humbled. I honestly see it as your best piece
yet, and with each one, you only continue to better yourself.
If I could kiss you, I would. I'm humbled by the review. Believe me, it's
not the other way round. I can't tell you how much of a wonderful surprise
this was.
> I hope you submit this somewhere, or I'll kick your arse... *Okay,
schmaltz time over with*
Aww, no. I'm enjoying it.
> In awe of her friend. Opus.
In great respect of a wonderful lady and a great, important friend.
Opus
> And you're next, big guy...
>
> Promises, promises.
>
> > Good lord and cheeze, I can see the influence that that Aussie has had on
> your writing.
>
> Who? Oh, him. I don't pay any attention to him!!! Too Antipodean.
>
Naw, with his colouring and that hair, he's more diametric...
> > Is it "gotten"?
>
> Only in Yankeeland.
>
Really. Never knew that; interesting. I need that English to Brit
dickscineery.
> > I am a perfume-a-holic, and I have no idea what winter fragrance is, but I
> love this image.
>
> Just you tell that Rick Leblanc. Only kidding.
>
And I did see your answer to him about that, AFTER my review, which made
sense. I'm just wondering which company makes that piney-coney,
minty-wintry scent...
> >> focussed.
>
> > One s.
>
> Brit/US again, I think.
>
Again, never knew that.
> Er. O, you're not ill, are you? Well, thank you.
>
Feeling better, actually.
> I don't know what to say, except thank you, my friend. It means a great deal
> to hear that. It'd mean even more if that lusty pit thing could be sorted
> out.
>
Now THAT'S too antipodean...
> If I could kiss you, I would. I'm humbled by the review. Believe me, it's
> not the other way round. I can't tell you how much of a wonderful surprise
> this was.
>
A, I'm so glad. I know it's the glowing reviews that don't really do
anything for our skill, so I feel kind of funny giving them out when I
do. But I mean it; I know you've struggled with the same issues that I
do now in my own writing, and that's how to cut out the flowery crap and
just tell the darned story. Seriously--the writer behind this work is
much improved than when I first began darkening the door here, and that
is so exciting to see. It's been nice watching you bear reviews that
maybe didn't make you that happy, seeing you take the re-writes and
improve from them. It proves that it CAN be done, so I guess there's
hope yet.
> > In awe of her friend. Opus.
>
> In great respect of a wonderful lady and a great, important friend.
>
Signed,
Two members in good standing of the mutual admiration society
R. Westermeyer
>THE LORD OF MISS RULE
>
Missed this one. Glad I took a stroll upward today.
Wow! This was one of your better ones, Alaric. Pure horror show. Teh
suspense was fantastic.
I loved the start. Everything in your description of this poor man's
life spelled "trapped": miserable job, miserable boss, miserable
marriage, even the fucking building was miserable.
The whole part in the dank dark underworld or where ever the hell it
was, was great. I was there.
I might have liked some "clues", subtle ones, early on that this guy
had a nasty guilt fermenting. The flashback was well-executed, but
came on like a hammer.
Tell me if I'm getting this right, or if it's just my twisted mind:
Was the Thai woman a transsexual? I know she is the devil, but in real
life....was confused a bit about the "another sex" line.
Great work, Alaric. Still in awe at how prolific you have been these
past few months. Amazing.
--R
Bart Hopson
>
>Signed,
>Two members in good standing of the mutual admiration society
>
Damn backslappers.
I think I'm gonna puke.
(where to put the <g>?)
Bart
Alaric
"Bart Hopson" <nos...@newsranger.com> wrote in message
news:70Pl8.7878$15....@www.newsranger.com...
Anopheles
"Opus" wrote:
> > > In awe of her friend. Opus.
> >
> > In great respect of a wonderful lady and a great, important friend.
> >
> Signed,
> Two members in good standing of the mutual admiration society
Jesus, get a room, will ya!
Goanna Lizardus
Alaric McDermott
> Wow! This was one of your better ones, Alaric. Pure horror show. The suspense was fantastic.
Thank you, Bob.
> I loved the start. Everything in your description of this poor man's life spelled "trapped": miserable job, miserable boss, miserable marriage, even the fucking building was miserable.
He was a very, very bad man, though. He deserved it.
> The whole part in the dank dark underworld or where ever the hell it was, was great. I was there.
It is a real place. I think I said elsewhere. A soap factory in
Lancashire. Awful.
I might have liked some "clues", subtle ones, early on that this guy
had a nasty guilt fermenting. The flashback was well-executed, but
came on like a hammer.
Hmmm. You could be right. I liked springing the surprise, but it may
have come out of left field.
Tell me if I'm getting this right, or if it's just my twisted mind:
Was the Thai woman a transsexual? I know she is the devil, but in real
life....was confused a bit about the "another sex" line.
As a different sex? He was saying that Malcolm knew her/him as the
devil. Nice idea, though. Tempted to rework it.
> Great work, Alaric. Still in awe at how prolific you have been these past few months. Amazing.
Potboiler churning, Bob. Thank you most kindly.