The very fab Ashley from [insert title here] is running a Summer Writing Camp. As a generally inept human I failed to write my story before the closing of round #1, but look, here I am, linking up for #2! To get to Ashley's post, click here.
If you enjoy reading this story even fractionally as much as I enjoyed writing it, you'll enjoy it quite a lot. (I hope you do.) As someone who is writing a novel, I am absolute horrible at short stories these days. I write a few poems, but apart from that it's just novel-novel-novel. My novel:
~ first person
~ historical fantasy setting
~ present tense
This story:
~ third person
~ present London setting
~ past tense.
Do you see? It is really, really good for me to write something other than my novel. So thank you, Ashley!
PS This is a first draft, and also probably contains typos because it's late and I couldn't be bothered to read it through. Don't hate me.
PS This is a first draft, and also probably contains typos because it's late and I couldn't be bothered to read it through. Don't hate me.
Strangers
They
sat next to each other on the train, still pretending to be strangers.
Around them, the soft sounds of the
carriage lulled the air toward sleep. The train whirred as it ate the miles of
hills and fields; passengers read newspapers or paperback novels, or dozed with
faces to the windows and headphones snaking from their ears. One of the men,
red-haired and tousled, appeared to doze too. Only the man in the seat beside
him knew that he was, in fact, utterly alert, and aware of every moving sound.
Flicking through the sports page,
this man looked like any other traveller who might be going to London on a
quiet afternoon when the dust motes swirled in the sunbeams. He was dark,
bespectacled, unremarkable. He could be any nameless lawyer or clerk on a
business trip; any brother, son or husband seeking an ordinary house in the
suburbs where ordinary people waited for him. None of his fellow passengers
could know that the wedding ring he wore was unweighted by a vow, picked
instead to cultivate the very image they were swallowing whole.
He flipped out his phone, tapped a
few keys. I’m on the train, darling, see
you later. Or, Can we moved that
meeting to four on Tuesday? So the message he sent might be imagined, had
anyone cared to watch. What no one could have guessed was the real line of
text:
She’s
in the next carriage.
He returned to the tennis news. Four
minutes later, the dozing red-headed neighbour no one would have imagined he
knew extracted his own phone. He scanned it briefly, allowed a small smile. Can’t wait to see you, one might have
though it read, or You’ll be in London
tonight? Fancy a drink? In truth, his sliver of smile stemmed from a different
breed of anticipation. He was letting the man beside him know that yes, of
course, he knew exactly the next carriage’s personnel. He was feeling the power
that threaded his veins, the familiar warmth in his palms. He was thinking that
it had, indeed, been far too long since he last fought a shadow eater.
When the train reached Euston he
appeared to be napping again. The dark-haired man folded his newspaper and
stretched, pulling a briefcase from the overhead rack. He did not look at his red-haired
neighbour, who was blinking and rubbing his eyes. Why would he? They were
strangers. They stepped onto platform eight and were separated by the shifting
crowd.
A
woman in a long black coat checked her perfect make-up in a compact mirror as
she moved through the station. If one had looked closely, they might have
noticed that shadows swirled beneath her feet, darker than they should be and
moving as if they were alive. She was a shadow eater, the most dangerous of
bloodsuckers. She fed on darkness, calling the worst emotions of those around
her and multiplying them. Only when her victim collapsed, shivering with
despair, did she move to kill like the vampire she was. There were not many of
her kind, but they were deadly.
She passed the red-haired man, standing
reading the train board, with no glance to spare. Her gaze was fixed ahead: on
a boy, maybe nineteen, hands in his pockets, leaving the station. One might
have noticed, as she followed, that his shadow seemed to darken, and flecks
flew back to join her own. He frowned, turned up his music.
The dark-haired man was buying a cup
of coffee when she walked by. He rooted around for change, not looking up to
see his train companion walking quickly from the station.
The
teenage boy turned left, heading toward Trafalgar Square. His shoulders were
hunched and now memories flew, unasked for, to his mind: the disappointment of
his mother as she asked for his exam results. His younger sister crying as she
came home from school. Clutching his drink as he watched the girl he’d wondered
if he loved, entwined with a boy she’d met two hours ago at a party. He quickened
his step. The woman quickened hers.
The ginger man followed fifty yards
behind, with the walk of one purposeful, but not rushing. In Euston station,
his colleague would be paying for his coffee, maybe buying a sandwich. The man threw
a coin to a busking violinist, smiled at some street performers. He loved
London.
The boy was slowing now, wondering
if he could face the friend he was supposed to meet at the bar. His fists were
clenched, his heartbeat increasing. The thought of seeing anyone made him feel
sick. He didn’t want them, as every worry and doubt, every betrayal or cruel
word, rushed to the surface. He turned into an alley and pulled his earphones
out. His head was pounding. At his feet his shadowed seemed to be rippling, and
looked too black, but of course that was stupid. He’d always been stupid, a
loud voice in his mind told him, and never good enough …
The woman entered the alley behind
him. He glanced around, looked away, face burning. He was sweating. He could
never be attractive; every beautiful woman loathed him. The girl he knew he
loved – stupid, he was, and pathetic, falling in love – despised him. Why had
he imagined he had a chance? He bent over, a physical ache filling him, and
sank to his knees.
His shadow streamed towards the
smiling woman. She took a step, then another. Then felt pain slam into her
side.
The red-haired man beamed light from
his palms. It caught her, seared her, before she mustered her defences; then
her shadows snapped around her and lanced towards him. He dodged the first
blow, caught the second in the shin. They circled, deflecting white beams and
black swirls. On the ground the boy did not look up, knowing, somehow, that he
mustn’t.
Shadows writhed from the woman and
the ginger man danced away. The sent out stream after stream of light but she
blocked each one, backing him toward the wall. A shadow sliced his ankle and he
gasped with pain. For a second his defences fell and she smiled as she pulled
at his own shadow. Misery loomed in his mind; he fought it down. A beam of
light hit her shoulder.
He pushed away from the wall and now
they parried back and forth, sweat gleaming on both their brows. He drove her
up the alley. His teeth were clenched. His muscles streamed with the strain of
defending from both her physical blows and her attack on his mind.
His foot caught a cobble and he
stumbled. She smiled a smile that tasted victory.
“I don’t know why you mages bother,”
she said. “You can’t win. And the mortals aren’t important … You think you’re
noble, but you’re fools. You getting involved only means that I’ll feed twice
tonight.”
The man did not reply. He fought on,
allowing himself to flag slightly. Nothing to make it obvious; just enough for
her to think that she was winning, to let her play with him. She smiled as she
deflected his light beams. She was still smiling when the dark-haired man
entered the alley’s other end and slammed her in the back.
She whirled, gasping, and they
closed in on either side, beams flashing against the darkening street. Now she
gathered all her strength, whipping shadows from either side, but as she sliced
at the dark man she left herself exposed. With a flick of the palm the ginger
man placed a beam in her neck, and she crumpled to the alley floor. Her scream
was drowned by the shadows that twisted around and over her. They cloaked her
in blackness. When they dissipated, her body was gone.
The white-faced boy climbed to his
feet, staring at the two men. He flinched as the one with glasses raised a
hand. A soft beam of light flew from it to the boy, and he blinked twice,
flooded by relief he did not quite understand.
“You all right?” one man asked.
“Yeah, thanks, mate,” he said. He
shook his head. “I think I blacked out for a minute there … But I’m fine.” His
best friend’s face, smiling, happy to see him, filled with love, flooded his
mind. He saw their favourite bar, the music and the red painted walls speaking
happiness, and grinned. “On my way for a pint.”
“Enjoy.”
The boy nodded. “Thanks. Will do.” He
whistled as he sauntered away.
The sky was the pale blue of summer
twilight, smudged with the city’s orange light. Street music drifted down the
alley, in harmony with the cars and sirens and the nightclubs’ bass. London was
coming alive.
The two men shook hands.
“Not bad,” the dark one said.
“Always a pleasure,” the other
replied.
With a nod they turned and departed
the alley at either end. The streets pulsed with mortals, joyful in the summer
night. Once again the two pretended to be strangers. They were content to move
between the crowds of the carefree, those with no idea that they were saving the
world, one happiness-stealing vampire at a time.
This was amazing! I love the premise! It struck me as kind of an angels-and-demons type thing. And I love how you used names of actual places in London (I mean, I think, idk anything about London), that gave a really "real" feel to it. This was so cool, good job! ^.^
ReplyDeleteOh also, I finally did that top-ten-fave-book-characters tag! X)
Thank you! Angels-and-demons is pretty accurate, actually, kinda what I was going for.
DeleteGood! I really like urban fantasy/paranormal and I think that evocation of place is so important in books. My WIP novel is high fantasy so I get to make up my own places, which is fun .... but I'd love to write a novel set in our world. Maybe in London. I love London.
Excellent! I'll be sure to read it :D
This is so cool! I read "shadow eater" and thought, "This just got wildly interesting!" I love the whole concept of the shadow eater. I also liked how throughout the whole thing you still referred to the "strangers" by their hair color. You never once named them which helps seal the stranger thing, and gives rise to the question, "Do they really know each other? Or just somehow work together?" I love it!
ReplyDeleteI'm glad! I like the concept also. That's something I might look into further. RE the names, I'm glad you liked it! That's what I was going for. I'm really pleased it came through.
DeleteGreat little short here! :)
ReplyDeleteBy the way, I have nominated you for the Blogger Recognition Award! You really deserve it!
DeleteThanks, I'll check it out! :)
DeleteReally neat little short! Within the first few lines I felt like I was in the train being lulled into sleep.
ReplyDeleteI've really enjoyed getting to read everyone's different takes on this prompt.
Thanks! I'm really glad. I was trying to evoke a sense of atmosphere to contrast with the revelation fo the spies'/fighters'/mages'/whatevers' identities, so I'm pleased that came off.
DeleteI've not had chance to read the others yet but I'm looking forward to it!