Ukyo
29-11-08, 05:56
Since quite often many people seem dodgy about this subject in person, I am offering this work in progress for your viewing pleasure on the simple basis that once you have read said tale, you will post at least a minor level of critique on it. Deal? Olla kalla, let's get on with it then.
Please note this is merely a rough draft and that many parts are subject to change in the final printed copy.
The Dreadful Stranger
By Andrew M. Fisher
I remember that day. It was in the dead of winter on a particularly cloudy day. Recent storms had filled the city and upon their departure we were left a thick blanket of snow, transforming a civilized metropolitan era into an expansive tundra. The color of the snow was so pure of white that any man foolish enough to gaze into it without wearing shaded spectacles would be instantly blinded. it was on that day the murder took place.
I was scarcely a lass past seventeen on that fateful day when father died. It was said to me by one of the detectives that he was found sprawled over the Persian rug in the library just before the fireplace. They further stated that he had been enjoying his morning tea in his fine oriental chair studying over volumes of queer forgotten lore when the sight of an abnormally sized rodent so greatly frightened him that he was sent instantly into a lethal state of asthmatic hysteria. Their evidence was the curiously strong odor of rodent urine throughout the room. All of this was fine, except for one major flaw; it wasn't true.
Never had I ever once seen a rodent within the house, but also never had my father suffered from asthma. I thought of this as I brushed my hair that night. My mind was also drawn toward all the small complements my father had bestowed me that I had so often taken for granted. I remembered how he had always regarded my hair as the fairest he had ever seen, and how my heart-shaped lips always aroused interest for him. I knew then that I would miss them, and that I would miss him. The heavy drag of depression was taking hold of my heart and pulling my spirit to a dreary and dreadful place.
As an effort to shake them it off I wound the music box my father had purchased for me in Moscow. After I had wound it to the most and it's melody began to tune I started to sing along with the song's rightful lyrics, I gazed again into my vanity mirror; there I saw a sight that would make my heart stop. Behind me was a man of an discernible age dressed in fine apparel. Adorning his head was a top hat of considerable quality hemmed in a deep red fabric; a color that matched that of his vest, made of fine oriental silks and fastened with buttons of polished gold. He wore a great coat of heavy dark fabric that ran the length of his body and hid his gray heritage shirt, around which's collar was tied a fine silk puff tie tacked to his shirt with a silver pin set with an onyx stone.
In one of his white gloved hands he held an intricately designed pocket watch made of gold that ticked loud enough for me to hear from my seat, and in his other hand he held an ornate and beautifully gothical cane adorned with curious engravings and made of a dark cinnabar. His gaunt face was cascaded with aged white hair of great length; it's appearance was unnerving and made me quite uneasy. However, the most queer thing happened to me, for when I turned to face the man, he had vanished. I marked it as weariness and retired for the evening; though I wished for the next day to never come, for I knew what it brought.
Please note this is merely a rough draft and that many parts are subject to change in the final printed copy.
The Dreadful Stranger
By Andrew M. Fisher
I remember that day. It was in the dead of winter on a particularly cloudy day. Recent storms had filled the city and upon their departure we were left a thick blanket of snow, transforming a civilized metropolitan era into an expansive tundra. The color of the snow was so pure of white that any man foolish enough to gaze into it without wearing shaded spectacles would be instantly blinded. it was on that day the murder took place.
I was scarcely a lass past seventeen on that fateful day when father died. It was said to me by one of the detectives that he was found sprawled over the Persian rug in the library just before the fireplace. They further stated that he had been enjoying his morning tea in his fine oriental chair studying over volumes of queer forgotten lore when the sight of an abnormally sized rodent so greatly frightened him that he was sent instantly into a lethal state of asthmatic hysteria. Their evidence was the curiously strong odor of rodent urine throughout the room. All of this was fine, except for one major flaw; it wasn't true.
Never had I ever once seen a rodent within the house, but also never had my father suffered from asthma. I thought of this as I brushed my hair that night. My mind was also drawn toward all the small complements my father had bestowed me that I had so often taken for granted. I remembered how he had always regarded my hair as the fairest he had ever seen, and how my heart-shaped lips always aroused interest for him. I knew then that I would miss them, and that I would miss him. The heavy drag of depression was taking hold of my heart and pulling my spirit to a dreary and dreadful place.
As an effort to shake them it off I wound the music box my father had purchased for me in Moscow. After I had wound it to the most and it's melody began to tune I started to sing along with the song's rightful lyrics, I gazed again into my vanity mirror; there I saw a sight that would make my heart stop. Behind me was a man of an discernible age dressed in fine apparel. Adorning his head was a top hat of considerable quality hemmed in a deep red fabric; a color that matched that of his vest, made of fine oriental silks and fastened with buttons of polished gold. He wore a great coat of heavy dark fabric that ran the length of his body and hid his gray heritage shirt, around which's collar was tied a fine silk puff tie tacked to his shirt with a silver pin set with an onyx stone.
In one of his white gloved hands he held an intricately designed pocket watch made of gold that ticked loud enough for me to hear from my seat, and in his other hand he held an ornate and beautifully gothical cane adorned with curious engravings and made of a dark cinnabar. His gaunt face was cascaded with aged white hair of great length; it's appearance was unnerving and made me quite uneasy. However, the most queer thing happened to me, for when I turned to face the man, he had vanished. I marked it as weariness and retired for the evening; though I wished for the next day to never come, for I knew what it brought.