Home
so this is my story that ive been working on. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.
---A cold shower falls; I tug my crimson jacket tighter against my body. I hate Howard for keeping me past curfew. Howard always does this to me, saying things about how I'm such an 'asset' to him, and the pub, but I have to be, to make up for his incompetence. I'm always cleaning up after the blaukaulas, and they're always yelling, hollering for more drinks and always quicker. They grab, slap and pinch at me. Howard stands behind the bar, and just laughs with them, not a care in the world, while 'Poor Little April' does all the real work. Like always, it was a busy night, all night and then there was the cleaning that needed done. That's what takes an eternity, and now here I am, in the rain. Thank you, Howard. I stop and find myself looking at a poster on the side of a little cafe, “Draconian Cigarettes...Take the Edge Off,” it pictures the side view of a cool, silhouetted man leaning back in an office chair, behind a big desk smoking against a twilight blue background. It takes my mind off the rain until I hear heavy boot steps.
---I look around for the source of the steps, and find no one, just my imagination running untamed again. I return to my journey home, and again I hear the grave and heavy clop of boots against the downpour. I start walking faster, pulling again at my jacket. The boots reciprocate, and now my nerves begin to get the better of me. I glance over my shoulder and see nothing, but I hear what feels like everything. I quicken my pace, and still the boots pursue me. I break into a run, my purse swinging from it's thin little strap around my shoulder. Again, I hear the sound of steps catching up with me at a frantic pace. My lungs burn, calves ache, feet throbbing. I duck into the nearest alley to catch my breath. Back against the cold, damp brick. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths.
---“Identification...Please.” A small gasp escapes me. I open my eyes to see an officer of the Iron Corps standing before me. “Identification...Please,” I start frantically searching through my purse for my wallet. I find it, and hand the officer my identification card. Rain plinks and plunks against the fire escapes of the buildings on either side of the alleyway, and it echoes around me. I look into his glass eyes, greatly tinted owl-like lenses, framed by copper, the only feature on the smooth, reflective steel helm. “Dodgson, April...Are you aware that it is approximately one hour, and twenty-three minutes past curfew?”
---“Yes,” I roll my eyes and suddenly see it reflected back at me in the tinted lenses.
---“You are...On your way home...Correct Ms. Dodgson?” The voice is a deep mechanic monotone, underscored by heavy breathing, there is a small speaker where the mouth should be, and the slight hiss of feedback can be heard. Its figure is thin and dressed in a high collared, dim naval coat and topped with a broad crimson hat.
---“Yes,” I answer, frustrated. The officer raises his hand to strike me, and I instinctively clinch up, feeling the sharp sting of the hand across my face.
---“Tone...Ms. Dodgson. Now, you better hurry...Home. The weather...Appears to be taking...A turn for the worse,” as though on cue, a clap of thunder shakes the night skies. I glance up and without a sound, the officer is gone. I wonder what's in there, if it's a man or something else. I'd heard a few hushed rumors about the Iron Corps, but that's all I thought they were, just rumors. I'd never actually seen an officer before, not this close anyways. They're always in the parades every few months, people cheer for them and all they do is march together in an impossibly straight line, showing not an ounce of emotion. If they're not automatons, then they sure are good at acting like it.
---I'm home; my apartment is plastered with movie posters, some of them are even pre-war. The apartment is a mess, haven't cleaned in days, and I haven't quite had the motivation to. I take off my coat and throw it on the couch. I turn the radio on and head towards the bathroom.
---“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is The Signal. The date is Tuesday, October Second, 1962 and the time is twelve thirty. We have received word from Axis that worker rations are expected to be increased by as much as thirty percent sometime in January. In other news, the rain is scheduled to continue until sometime between nine and ten tomorrow night. You are listening to The Signal. Purity through vigilance, security through faith. To the triumph of Fortaine.” I turn the volume up on the radio as the music fades in and peruse through my medicine cabinet. It's filled with minute copper canisters, some are open and pills lie scattered on each shelf. Each canister is nearly identical, white label with black type and a large red Axis logo.
---Smilers, they're my favorites. Teeny tiny yellow and black pills. I swallow two of them and place the canister back amongst the others. I've been taking them more and more the last few days, to help ease my nerves, I'm still not sure how much it's helping, if at all. I look in the mirror and begin to examine my features with great focus. My lengthy black hair and hazel-in-autumn-light eyes. I'm looking at my eyes, and the area around them, I feel like I have bags under them. I am looking at every imperfection. They are there, I'm not obsessed. I'm not. Every one of them is just another reason not to choose me. An audition, I have an audition in two days. I can't relax, every little thing, every problem I have with my face, my hair, my body, my movements, my voice, everything, I find it more intensely magnified the nearer the audition draws. I want it so bad. I become increasingly unsure of my ability to face failure as the days pass. All I can imagine is standing on the stage, the director sitting in a chair, the theater is so dark I can't see him, but I feel him. Watching me. I look at myself in the mirror. “I can do anything,” I tell myself. “I must do anything, anything to prevent this opportunity from slipping away.”
---I close my eyes and begin to daydream. Far away somewhere, on a stage, lights from the rafters warming me and the crowd cheering. I prance around, bowing to them, thanking them and waving to them. One day, I'll make it happen.
--- “It's awfully dangerous, taking a stroll after dark. Awfully dangerous indeed,” I muse with a smile swimming leisurely on my face. I pull from my pocket the chatellerault blade. I open the blade, and run my thumb and index finger over the handle and then just the middle finger over the blade. I carefully bring the blade to her eyes, she starts to cry, more frantically now. I stick the knife in very carefully and bring it down from just beside her eye, all the way down the rest of her cheek. I now make the other side match. “Real tears,” I tell her.
---“Jack, may the haste of Mercury be upon you, for in the dark weary we grow. Half-over is the night already, and the urge to take the king's privilege is still upon us,” Morgan's voice calls from the dark.
---“Think I, you the very type to make haste even on your last day. Think I, you find this day very soon shouldst you continue with these constant annoyances,” I snap back at him. I look back into her eyes, lovely blue, now filled with tears. “Let meet two lips like pilgrims at the peak of a mountain cold, together huddled in warmth seeking.” I seal it with a kiss.
chapter one:The Players
---A cold shower falls; I tug my crimson jacket tighter against my body. I hate Howard for keeping me past curfew. Howard always does this to me, saying things about how I'm such an 'asset' to him, and the pub, but I have to be, to make up for his incompetence. I'm always cleaning up after the blaukaulas, and they're always yelling, hollering for more drinks and always quicker. They grab, slap and pinch at me. Howard stands behind the bar, and just laughs with them, not a care in the world, while 'Poor Little April' does all the real work. Like always, it was a busy night, all night and then there was the cleaning that needed done. That's what takes an eternity, and now here I am, in the rain. Thank you, Howard. I stop and find myself looking at a poster on the side of a little cafe, “Draconian Cigarettes...Take the Edge Off,” it pictures the side view of a cool, silhouetted man leaning back in an office chair, behind a big desk smoking against a twilight blue background. It takes my mind off the rain until I hear heavy boot steps.
---I look around for the source of the steps, and find no one, just my imagination running untamed again. I return to my journey home, and again I hear the grave and heavy clop of boots against the downpour. I start walking faster, pulling again at my jacket. The boots reciprocate, and now my nerves begin to get the better of me. I glance over my shoulder and see nothing, but I hear what feels like everything. I quicken my pace, and still the boots pursue me. I break into a run, my purse swinging from it's thin little strap around my shoulder. Again, I hear the sound of steps catching up with me at a frantic pace. My lungs burn, calves ache, feet throbbing. I duck into the nearest alley to catch my breath. Back against the cold, damp brick. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths.
---“Identification...Please.” A small gasp escapes me. I open my eyes to see an officer of the Iron Corps standing before me. “Identification...Please,” I start frantically searching through my purse for my wallet. I find it, and hand the officer my identification card. Rain plinks and plunks against the fire escapes of the buildings on either side of the alleyway, and it echoes around me. I look into his glass eyes, greatly tinted owl-like lenses, framed by copper, the only feature on the smooth, reflective steel helm. “Dodgson, April...Are you aware that it is approximately one hour, and twenty-three minutes past curfew?”
---“Yes,” I roll my eyes and suddenly see it reflected back at me in the tinted lenses.
---“You are...On your way home...Correct Ms. Dodgson?” The voice is a deep mechanic monotone, underscored by heavy breathing, there is a small speaker where the mouth should be, and the slight hiss of feedback can be heard. Its figure is thin and dressed in a high collared, dim naval coat and topped with a broad crimson hat.
---“Yes,” I answer, frustrated. The officer raises his hand to strike me, and I instinctively clinch up, feeling the sharp sting of the hand across my face.
---“Tone...Ms. Dodgson. Now, you better hurry...Home. The weather...Appears to be taking...A turn for the worse,” as though on cue, a clap of thunder shakes the night skies. I glance up and without a sound, the officer is gone. I wonder what's in there, if it's a man or something else. I'd heard a few hushed rumors about the Iron Corps, but that's all I thought they were, just rumors. I'd never actually seen an officer before, not this close anyways. They're always in the parades every few months, people cheer for them and all they do is march together in an impossibly straight line, showing not an ounce of emotion. If they're not automatons, then they sure are good at acting like it.
---I'm home; my apartment is plastered with movie posters, some of them are even pre-war. The apartment is a mess, haven't cleaned in days, and I haven't quite had the motivation to. I take off my coat and throw it on the couch. I turn the radio on and head towards the bathroom.
---“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, this is The Signal. The date is Tuesday, October Second, 1962 and the time is twelve thirty. We have received word from Axis that worker rations are expected to be increased by as much as thirty percent sometime in January. In other news, the rain is scheduled to continue until sometime between nine and ten tomorrow night. You are listening to The Signal. Purity through vigilance, security through faith. To the triumph of Fortaine.” I turn the volume up on the radio as the music fades in and peruse through my medicine cabinet. It's filled with minute copper canisters, some are open and pills lie scattered on each shelf. Each canister is nearly identical, white label with black type and a large red Axis logo.
---Smilers, they're my favorites. Teeny tiny yellow and black pills. I swallow two of them and place the canister back amongst the others. I've been taking them more and more the last few days, to help ease my nerves, I'm still not sure how much it's helping, if at all. I look in the mirror and begin to examine my features with great focus. My lengthy black hair and hazel-in-autumn-light eyes. I'm looking at my eyes, and the area around them, I feel like I have bags under them. I am looking at every imperfection. They are there, I'm not obsessed. I'm not. Every one of them is just another reason not to choose me. An audition, I have an audition in two days. I can't relax, every little thing, every problem I have with my face, my hair, my body, my movements, my voice, everything, I find it more intensely magnified the nearer the audition draws. I want it so bad. I become increasingly unsure of my ability to face failure as the days pass. All I can imagine is standing on the stage, the director sitting in a chair, the theater is so dark I can't see him, but I feel him. Watching me. I look at myself in the mirror. “I can do anything,” I tell myself. “I must do anything, anything to prevent this opportunity from slipping away.”
---I close my eyes and begin to daydream. Far away somewhere, on a stage, lights from the rafters warming me and the crowd cheering. I prance around, bowing to them, thanking them and waving to them. One day, I'll make it happen.
***
--- I look into her eyes, lovely blue, and they're filled with fear. Fear and questioning. She's searching. Nothing I haven't seen before, and there is sweat on her brow, I wipe it from her with the back of my hand. She's nervous.--- “It's awfully dangerous, taking a stroll after dark. Awfully dangerous indeed,” I muse with a smile swimming leisurely on my face. I pull from my pocket the chatellerault blade. I open the blade, and run my thumb and index finger over the handle and then just the middle finger over the blade. I carefully bring the blade to her eyes, she starts to cry, more frantically now. I stick the knife in very carefully and bring it down from just beside her eye, all the way down the rest of her cheek. I now make the other side match. “Real tears,” I tell her.
---“Jack, may the haste of Mercury be upon you, for in the dark weary we grow. Half-over is the night already, and the urge to take the king's privilege is still upon us,” Morgan's voice calls from the dark.
---“Think I, you the very type to make haste even on your last day. Think I, you find this day very soon shouldst you continue with these constant annoyances,” I snap back at him. I look back into her eyes, lovely blue, now filled with tears. “Let meet two lips like pilgrims at the peak of a mountain cold, together huddled in warmth seeking.” I seal it with a kiss.
