Evilnerfherder
This is just a saga now
- Joined
- Aug 7, 2007
- Messages
- 3
Greetings all.
I have just joined this forum and I'd like to offer a small section of my first novel (named as in the thread title) for critique.
This work is an actual period sequel to H.G Wells' original classic that takes place a few months after the Martian invasion has been foiled. Because of this, I have attempted to capture the dialogue style and feel of the time, but still make it accessible for the readers of today (not everyone likes old novels!).
Please feel free to offer comments!
1. The Approach
Perhaps a month had passed since the great disillusionment. I trust my esteemed reader will perhaps forgive me using one of Wells’ phrases, but I always found it most apt.
Plumes of smoke still rolled lazily over some parts of London and the South East. Great metal machines stood silent and unmoving here and there, glittering in the sun, like huge chess pieces carelessly dropped by the gods. Weeds, of a green and entirely earthly nature, already grew around the parts that touched the ground.
In the capital, bridges engineered by some of Man’s most brilliant minds lay broken, their once proud arches snapped and torn as if kicked by some petulant child. The top of the Clock Tower had been sliced off cleanly, as though by a surgeon’s knife, by a Heat-ray and stood, oddly intact and upright, a short way away as if the tower itself had sunk into the ground. Clumps of brown sludge still floated serenely down the river along with other debris. From time to time, the authorities, grim faced in police launches, still fished limp and doll-like bodies from the murky water of the Thames.
My house in Surrey, unlike so many others, had escaped most of the destruction, barring a few displaced roof tiles and a smashed garden wall, and was quite habitable.
The noise and bustle of humanity was at full pace as I sat staring from the window of my study. Across the road I saw men swarming over houses, rebuilding. People rushed to and fro with carts containing building materials and furniture. A mangy, flea-bitten dog scurried nervously past. The so recently dead and black wreathed streets were alive with activity as man once again stamped his mark on the landscape that had seemed so surely lost. I imagined this was happening everywhere. The newspapers were often found calling the public to arms in the fight against decay and disease and despite the heavy death toll of the War, thousands had returned from their flight and were, sometimes unwillingly, being tasked with the rebuilding of the damaged areas. Children chased each other amongst the ruined houses and clambered over the fallen Martian machines like the monkeys in the jungle play amongst the trees.
The door to my study opened to reveal my wife’s sweet face, disturbing my reverie.
‘John? There are some men here to see you.’
‘Who are they, my dear?’ I asked, puzzled
‘Well, that’s the odd thing. They say they represent the Government.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I will be in presently.’
Opening the sitting room door, I saw two men, to whom my wife was handing cups of tea. As usual when we had visitors, she had taken out the best china and the gleaming silver service and was offering sugar from a small bowl when I entered. A warm fire burned in the grate and the Grandfather clock ticked solidly in the corner.
My first visitor was an important looking fellow of around sixty years. A great handlebar moustache was draped over his lip and chops like a snowy white banner. His portly frame barely fit into the chair he was perched on and his small watery eyes regarded me as I entered.
‘Ah! Here’s our man,’ he said in a gruff, but friendly, voice.
The other man looked up from stirring his tea. He was around thirty with dark wavy hair and a goatee. He was slight in frame and dressed impeccably in black.
‘Indeed,’ he said quietly. His eyes showed no emotion at all.
‘Sir,’ said the portly man, standing with some difficulty. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir George Cavendish and my assistant is James Horton. We are representatives of His Majesty’s Government.’
The younger man nodded slightly, his blank eyes never leaving mine.
‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. May I ask, to what do I owe this honour?’ I found a chair and my wife handed me some tea, gave me a small nervous smile and then quietly left the room.
The portly man sat on the chair again and was answered with a small wooden creak of protest.
‘Yes, of course. Well, you know Mr Wells, do you not?’
‘I do,’ I replied.
‘He is an acquaintance of mine and I have heard that he plans to publish your memories of our recent troubles.’
‘Yes, he was most insistent. I think he wished to put forth the ‘ordinary mans’ view of events.’
‘Quite so,’ said Cavendish. ‘Most admirable.’
‘Although, why his own memories are not enough is beyond me,’ I said. ‘He is not forthcoming on the matter.’
‘Well,’ Cavendish explained. ‘We have seen the drafts that you wrote for him and we were most impressed. We would like you to join us and document our further investigations.’
‘I hardly think I am qualified..’ I began.
‘Please, let me finish. We very much need the man of the street’s view of things. We are not short of scientists, nor of military men. They will write their own reports. Whilst we expect that we cannot make much of what we may find public, we need a representative of the people, who will write in a way that they will understand and you would seem to fit the bill admirably. Your original draft shows a remarkable grasp of things. It’s a pity we have had to ask Mr Wells to excise some of the finer details in the work he is undertaking based on your experiences.’
‘You have?’ I was shocked. Perhaps I should not have been, on reflection, but it came as a surprise at the time.
‘Indeed. It would not do for some of the more.. technical.. aspects to be known.’
Horton, who had been silent until this point, spoke.
‘It is for the good of the country, Mr Smith. Surely you must understand that.’
‘Of course. What do you have in mind?’
‘We will need you to pack some things…enough for a week or so, initially. You must not tell anyone where you are going, which is why I will say no more for now. Can we rely on you?’ Cavendish asked, setting down his cup.
I thought for a moment. The trauma of my experiences during the ‘war’ was still very much with me. I awoke sweating and screaming every night as I remembered what had happened to my friend Ogilvy, and what the terrible consequences of my actions with the Curate had been. Not to mention the horrible fate that befell so many of my fellow men and women. Without my wife’s succour, I would surely be in some institution, like so many other poor wretches who had been found aimlessly wandering the countryside after the carnage had ended.
Would this help exorcise those demons that lurked in the darkest reaches of the night, waiting to trouble me?
‘Would I be free to leave at any time?’
Cavendish nodded his great shaggy head. ‘We should like you to submit to a confidentiality agreement. You can only publish that which is cleared by either myself or Horton. Other than that, there are no restrictions.’
Curiosity had ridden rough shod over my doubts now. If only I had known what was to come.
‘Yes, then.’
‘Splendid!’ Cavendish beamed and both men stood. ‘You will be collected at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow. Until then.’
With that, my strange guests said curt goodbyes and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I have just joined this forum and I'd like to offer a small section of my first novel (named as in the thread title) for critique.
This work is an actual period sequel to H.G Wells' original classic that takes place a few months after the Martian invasion has been foiled. Because of this, I have attempted to capture the dialogue style and feel of the time, but still make it accessible for the readers of today (not everyone likes old novels!).
Please feel free to offer comments!
1. The Approach
Perhaps a month had passed since the great disillusionment. I trust my esteemed reader will perhaps forgive me using one of Wells’ phrases, but I always found it most apt.
Plumes of smoke still rolled lazily over some parts of London and the South East. Great metal machines stood silent and unmoving here and there, glittering in the sun, like huge chess pieces carelessly dropped by the gods. Weeds, of a green and entirely earthly nature, already grew around the parts that touched the ground.
In the capital, bridges engineered by some of Man’s most brilliant minds lay broken, their once proud arches snapped and torn as if kicked by some petulant child. The top of the Clock Tower had been sliced off cleanly, as though by a surgeon’s knife, by a Heat-ray and stood, oddly intact and upright, a short way away as if the tower itself had sunk into the ground. Clumps of brown sludge still floated serenely down the river along with other debris. From time to time, the authorities, grim faced in police launches, still fished limp and doll-like bodies from the murky water of the Thames.
My house in Surrey, unlike so many others, had escaped most of the destruction, barring a few displaced roof tiles and a smashed garden wall, and was quite habitable.
The noise and bustle of humanity was at full pace as I sat staring from the window of my study. Across the road I saw men swarming over houses, rebuilding. People rushed to and fro with carts containing building materials and furniture. A mangy, flea-bitten dog scurried nervously past. The so recently dead and black wreathed streets were alive with activity as man once again stamped his mark on the landscape that had seemed so surely lost. I imagined this was happening everywhere. The newspapers were often found calling the public to arms in the fight against decay and disease and despite the heavy death toll of the War, thousands had returned from their flight and were, sometimes unwillingly, being tasked with the rebuilding of the damaged areas. Children chased each other amongst the ruined houses and clambered over the fallen Martian machines like the monkeys in the jungle play amongst the trees.
The door to my study opened to reveal my wife’s sweet face, disturbing my reverie.
‘John? There are some men here to see you.’
‘Who are they, my dear?’ I asked, puzzled
‘Well, that’s the odd thing. They say they represent the Government.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I will be in presently.’
Opening the sitting room door, I saw two men, to whom my wife was handing cups of tea. As usual when we had visitors, she had taken out the best china and the gleaming silver service and was offering sugar from a small bowl when I entered. A warm fire burned in the grate and the Grandfather clock ticked solidly in the corner.
My first visitor was an important looking fellow of around sixty years. A great handlebar moustache was draped over his lip and chops like a snowy white banner. His portly frame barely fit into the chair he was perched on and his small watery eyes regarded me as I entered.
‘Ah! Here’s our man,’ he said in a gruff, but friendly, voice.
The other man looked up from stirring his tea. He was around thirty with dark wavy hair and a goatee. He was slight in frame and dressed impeccably in black.
‘Indeed,’ he said quietly. His eyes showed no emotion at all.
‘Sir,’ said the portly man, standing with some difficulty. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir George Cavendish and my assistant is James Horton. We are representatives of His Majesty’s Government.’
The younger man nodded slightly, his blank eyes never leaving mine.
‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. May I ask, to what do I owe this honour?’ I found a chair and my wife handed me some tea, gave me a small nervous smile and then quietly left the room.
The portly man sat on the chair again and was answered with a small wooden creak of protest.
‘Yes, of course. Well, you know Mr Wells, do you not?’
‘I do,’ I replied.
‘He is an acquaintance of mine and I have heard that he plans to publish your memories of our recent troubles.’
‘Yes, he was most insistent. I think he wished to put forth the ‘ordinary mans’ view of events.’
‘Quite so,’ said Cavendish. ‘Most admirable.’
‘Although, why his own memories are not enough is beyond me,’ I said. ‘He is not forthcoming on the matter.’
‘Well,’ Cavendish explained. ‘We have seen the drafts that you wrote for him and we were most impressed. We would like you to join us and document our further investigations.’
‘I hardly think I am qualified..’ I began.
‘Please, let me finish. We very much need the man of the street’s view of things. We are not short of scientists, nor of military men. They will write their own reports. Whilst we expect that we cannot make much of what we may find public, we need a representative of the people, who will write in a way that they will understand and you would seem to fit the bill admirably. Your original draft shows a remarkable grasp of things. It’s a pity we have had to ask Mr Wells to excise some of the finer details in the work he is undertaking based on your experiences.’
‘You have?’ I was shocked. Perhaps I should not have been, on reflection, but it came as a surprise at the time.
‘Indeed. It would not do for some of the more.. technical.. aspects to be known.’
Horton, who had been silent until this point, spoke.
‘It is for the good of the country, Mr Smith. Surely you must understand that.’
‘Of course. What do you have in mind?’
‘We will need you to pack some things…enough for a week or so, initially. You must not tell anyone where you are going, which is why I will say no more for now. Can we rely on you?’ Cavendish asked, setting down his cup.
I thought for a moment. The trauma of my experiences during the ‘war’ was still very much with me. I awoke sweating and screaming every night as I remembered what had happened to my friend Ogilvy, and what the terrible consequences of my actions with the Curate had been. Not to mention the horrible fate that befell so many of my fellow men and women. Without my wife’s succour, I would surely be in some institution, like so many other poor wretches who had been found aimlessly wandering the countryside after the carnage had ended.
Would this help exorcise those demons that lurked in the darkest reaches of the night, waiting to trouble me?
‘Would I be free to leave at any time?’
Cavendish nodded his great shaggy head. ‘We should like you to submit to a confidentiality agreement. You can only publish that which is cleared by either myself or Horton. Other than that, there are no restrictions.’
Curiosity had ridden rough shod over my doubts now. If only I had known what was to come.
‘Yes, then.’
‘Splendid!’ Cavendish beamed and both men stood. ‘You will be collected at 8 o’clock sharp tomorrow. Until then.’
With that, my strange guests said curt goodbyes and left, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
