The Monster

The arching spine of the creature curled toward the setting sun, its neck grew, and its bulbous eyes reached out to the dying light. Her palms were soaked. The rough edges of the walkie-talkie made it just possible enough to hold it, and push that button, that button, that button, that button, that button. That face, its face, reached into her mind and grasped at what it could, what remained. The comfortable nature of her existence finally pulled apart and revealed for what it is, was. Parsimony: an uncharitable soul that gave all it could to nothing and no-one, but everything and everyone. Its whisper gripped her.

“You want to be normal; you yearn for a reckoning. It will never come. Silent screams. Those delicious howlings for a world that rejects you but whose indifference frustrates you.”

It was upon her. Twisting, snaking, retching and closing in, it watched her quivering cheeks with anticipation. Twelve days of its slow approach, minutes in its presence, crystallised in this immortal moment. It was there, is there. It was always there, always watching, always hungry. The questions never asked. The cloying feeling that the response of the universe was too slow, like it relented its responsibility and those around her would wait ‘til the pain was too much before reaching out and saying that they had had enough. That her behaviour was too much, or too little. That months ago, her inaction drove a knife into the heart of the time they had spent together. The wretched moment departed. Her mind was drunk with self-doubt and in that doubt the monster ceased to be, before it rose up and consumed her flesh, partook in her and her being, her mind relaxed and she was finally calm.

5 minute freewrite; comfortable

Business in London

The hustle and bustle on the station was jarring to Embrey, stifling the thought pattern of his meagre brain and inviting unusual thoughts that he often preferred to keep out. The train eventually pulled in and with it the hustle grew to a swell as the passengers alighted their carriages and those waiting on the platform, like Embrey, embarked. It was a full service, but his first-class ticket got him on a quieter and more comfortable carriage, full of personal rooms that were assigned to each rider. Embrey had chosen a single room, complete with a desk for the work that he still needed to finish today before he met with his client at London.

His suitcase was heavy with anticipation, not so with just papers, pens, and pencils. As he sat and took in the well upholstered bench and thick glass pane that afforded him a view of the outside world, he knew that little else would remain the same over the coming months. He was absorbed by the chaos on the platform that he was so recently a part of, but as the train sounded off its escape from the platform, he readied his things and set about to work, hoping to be finished by the end of the several hour journey to the capital.

5 minute freewrite; Station

Potters Union

The oven fires burned warm in the back room, a heat emanating that kept the cold from setting into Rhun’s bones. He sat in the workshop hunched over the pillar of clay, his hands wet with redness. There was a quiet chatter from amongst the others, chatter about the winter festivals and what they were having for lunch. Owain approached from behind, slapping him on the shoulder and knocking him off balance.

               “How’s it–?”

               “Oh for fuck—”

               “Going?”

               “Sake!”

               Rhun hit the now misshapen clay back into a stump of amorphous goo and spun the wheel back to speed.

               “I’m fine, fine. Thanks for asking,” responded Rhun through gritted teeth.

               “Good to hear, lad. We’ve got a union meeting after work, down the pub. You coming?” Owain sat opposite Rhun, his smock speckled with slowly drying bits of clay.

               “Aye, I was planning to, but that little slap set me back ten minutes work. You’ll need to help me hit quota, cos otherwise I’ll be in the shit, and if I’m in the shit, you’re in the shit.”

               “Ok, ok, boss! Not a problem, I’ll spin up a bowl and you can take it for your pile, but see you after work though, yeah?”

               “Yeah,” Rhun grunted, and with a nod told Owain to piss off to his own station.

5-minute Freewrite word: Pottery

“Progress does not and cannot mean equal and simultaneous progress for all. It is significant that almost all our latter-day prophets of decline, our sceptics who see no meaning in history and assume that progress is dead, belong to that sector of the world and to that class of society which have triumphantly played a leading and predominant part in the advance of civilisation for several generations. It is no consolation to them to be told that the role which their group has played in the past will now pass to others. Clearly a history which has played so scurvy a trick on them cannot be a meaningful or rational process. But, if we are to retain the hypothesis of progress, we must, I think, accept the condition of the broken line.”

E.H. Carr, What is History? (1962), pg. 112-113.

“…No sane person ever believed in a kind of progress which advanced in an unbroken straight line without reverses and deviations and breaks in continuity, so that even the sharpest reverse is not necessarily fatal to the belief. Clearly there are periods of regression as well as periods of progress. Moreover, it would be rash to assume that, after a retreat, the advance will be resumed from the same point or along the same line.”

E.H. Carr, What is History? (1962), pg. 112-113.

I’ve decided to start including quotes on the blog from books that I’m reading, both fiction and non-fiction. I think there’s a wealth of understanding to be gained from the study of history and the study of political ideology, especially with regards to ones worldbuilding. Making things up as you go can be a hard task on its own, but no world will feel more concrete and real than one that observes real the real historical tendencies of human development. Marxism, and its analytical framework of historical materialism, is of great value to a writer that wishes to create worlds that feel grounded, even in their fantastical elements. It can help you develop an idea of where struggle comes from, why struggles occur, why the scales of power shift, and in doing so allow you to better assert a world in motion, with conflict and change at its very core. Ursula K Le Guin, though an anarchist and not a Marxist, created very compelling worlds and histories through her modelling of fictional societies within an anthropological framework, which gives an air and quality of believability in her worlds despite their fictional nature.

The study of our own world and its history can only improve ones ability to create their own worlds and their own histories.

Longings

She gazed out onto the frothy waters, the ebb and flow of the waves rocking her eyelids to a deep lull. The shell curve felt like an infinity in her hands, its cool ridges taking up the space between her fingers and the rough indentations like galaxies that her fingers were eager to explore. The cool ocean air smelt intoxicating as her feet trudged forward through the morass of seaweed.

“How long has it been?”

The voice came from behind her, his voice.

“Long enough,” she responded.

The shell slipped from her hand and buried itself into the sand.

Another step and the water reached above her ankles, tickling her shins.

“It doesn’t have to end this way.”

It does, she took another step. Now her dress was soaked through at the base, the thin fabric clinging to her thighs.

“We can just go back home, back to the children,” he sounded less composed, for the first time in their long time together.

Finally, she looked back and saw a crack on his face, the morning sun catching his gentle creases and beginnings of crow’s feet. He was worried.

5-minute Freewrite word: Shell

The Sister’s Monster

“Please stop,” the words fell out of her mouth without thought. The monster that stood before her wouldn’t listen. The beating would continue, and the blood would continue to pour, from both the victim and hunter. This didn’t need to happen, she thought as the fists fell once more into the bloodied visage of her abuser. You’ll end up in prison, or worse, she thought as the others streamed into the room at the commotion, stepping over the other’s body and through the building rubble.

               “What is he doing?” asked the woman from 3b, watching through the hole in the door with her hands at her mouth.

               The thudding continued like a slow pneumatic drill, one after another, methodical, unending. A cough broke up the monotony as the victim proved their body had not yet given up. The monster wiped the blood from his face which gave the onlookers respite from the beating, to see the monster’s humanity and what it had unleashed upon its prey. Tears streaked down his face, but his fists never stopped.

               “Please, you don’t have to do this for me,” she repeated, this time with intent, with feeling. He shuddered at the words but continued.

               When the face no longer looked like a face, he lifted his victim by the hair and dragged him along the floor toward the window. Bottles of beer, needles, wrappers from take-out burgers, discarded shoes, old musty clothes, all parted way as their owner was hauled to atonement. The window opened wide, swinging outwards from a hinge on its top.

               “You can’t do that!” shouted another, the man from 3e, stepping toward the fray. A knife flashed by the monster stopped him in his tracks, the blade already stained with sticky crimson.

               Effort was required to lift his victim above the windowsill; the knife still in hand it pressed into his quarry’s skin and blood trickled down afresh over their soaked red graphic-tee.

               “I don’t want this,” she cried this time. “Please, Andrew, stop!”

               The monster turned to face his sister as his victim teetered on the precipice of the third-floor window.

“He deserves it.”

               Screams echoed upward from the ground floor as the body smashed into the pavement with a thump, bones cracking and limbs flailing helplessly. Sirens from the police vans finally arriving swelled into earshot, and along with the screeching of their tires the dreadful quiet was finally released into a cacophony of shouting, swearing and cries. The monster watched the chaos outside, staring out the window with knife in hand. His sister stood stock still, and no other dared approach him. 3c pulled at her arm, telling her to get away from him. 3d shielded 3b from the scene, embracing her. 3e watched in dread, expecting the monster to jump from the window himself or otherwise kill everyone in the room.

               Neither of those things happened. The police came. The monster became a man again and gave up his malice, escorted in handcuffs from the foundation of his interminable rage.

               “I’ll always protect you,” he whispered as he passed her, a soundless mouthing of words only she could intimate from her preternatural sibling connection. It rang over and over in her head, louder and louder until the moment her head finally hit the pillow of her hospital bed.

Writing is hard. End.

Finished the first draft of Bronwen’s story, or at least the first act of her story. Clocked in at around 40,000 words so a little under a full length novel but longer than a novella. I’ve written about 8000 words developing a side character, Starling, who’s likely to have his own story (short or long, haven’t decided).

I’ve also returned to the first draft of The Shadows Over Fandelran, now just Warren: Reawakening (until I sour on that name too). I’ve been taking notes on a printed copy for a year every now and then, dipping in and out, but now I’ve begun a proper rewrite with all I know about the story and the world since writing Bronwen’s first act. It could almost be a retelling at this point, but who knows how it’s going to end up.

Zach

What the ‘modern progressive’ left gets wrong about class.

A Nation of Shopkeepers: The Unstoppable Rise of the Petite Bourgeoisie by Dan Evans

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


A deep and vital look at who and what constitutes the ‘middle classes’, what makes them different to the proletariat and bourgeoisie, and how they’ve become one of the most powerful blocs in modern British politics.

A chance for self-reflection for those of you, like myself, who grew up not feeling like you were truly working class, pushed to achieve as highly as possible in school, get a degree, and then find a career. And how those things make us think and act vastly differently to the inherently collectivist working class.

While very much targeted at the social democratic left who have seemingly abandoned the working class, it is still informative and eye-opening for those on the more revolutionary side of left politics.



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