Elckerlyc
"Philosophy will clip an angel's wings."
Well, there must be a first for everything. Even for being at the receiving end of Critiques.
So, it it is with some trepidation that I present you with my first serious attempt at writing a short story in English, with the intention to (try to) get it published. It is an extended version of my entry for the 300-worder of January. It starts pretty much as that short version did, but the ending will be very different and, hopefully, surprising.
Part I is 923 words long. The finished story will be somewhere between 3000-4000 words.
I am not certain at the title yet. For the time being it's called The Prisoner.
Do not be put off by me calling the MC Napoleone. There's a reason for that, which will be become clear in Part II.
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The Prisoner- Part I
Napoleone di Buonaparte clutched his tormenting stomach, bended over and vomited his lunch on the turf of Longwood House, Saint Helena. It ended his stroll in gall.
He suspected a serious affliction and blamed - in part - the island; the damp and windswept plain that was now his home was far removed from his beloved Corse. Even Elba was heaven compared to this outhouse of the world.
With some difficulty he straightened up, fighting to ignore the pain stabbing his belly. The betrayal by his own body in public was an additional bad taste in the mouth. Humiliating, even though, in a ironic twist of good fortune, today was one of the very rare days he was left to himself, with most of his entourage on errands away from the House and none of the regiment that guarded the perimeter actively in sight.
Delicately wiping his mouth with a kerchief he unobtrusively eyed his surroundings. The grassy plain on which Longwood House was situated was free of bushes or structures. There was nothing that could be used to approach or leave the House unseen. Which was exactly why it had been chosen as Napoleon’s residence, despite it being unsuitable in numerous ways, not least it’s damp climate.
Above him dark clouds cruised low on the unrelenting trade-wind, promising rain.
That promise almost immediately became actuality. A steady rain began to fall, slanted on the wind and hitting him sideways.
“Merde!”
Napoleone pocketed his kerchief, pulled his cloak close and, hunched against rain and wind, hurried back to the House.
---
“Marchand!” he barked as soon as he entered the parlour, then recalled that his valet was lying sick at the back of the House and not in waiting in his service room. Usually someone else would assume his role, but...
“Nobody’s home,” someone called from the salon.
Napoleone froze. The voice, the tone was from a stranger. Yet he had seen no strangers anywhere today. Not for two years, actually. There shouldn’t – nor couldn’t - be anyone in the salon. It was the room where he was used to receive guests, until he began declining to entertain visitors. For entertainment people should attend a soiree, not bothering him.
He rid himself of the dripping cloak, dropped it on the nearest chair he passed and entered the salon. It was sparsely furnished with a few chairs and side-tables. The only other door in the opposite wall lead to the dining-room, two windows in the west wall looked out on bare grassy fields. The stranger was seated in one of the chairs near a window; youngish, outlandishly dressed, peculiar haircut, no discernible notion of etiquette. Napoleone thought the man acted with an intolerable impertinence, while grinning as an imbecile.
He scowled at him while he tried to decide what to prioritise, his anger or curiosity. Unlike his own wet shoes, that left prints on the floor, the man looked dry, top to toe.
“How did you get in?” That had not been a conscious decision.
“By an extraordinary route,” the intruder replied facetiously, ”Directly from the future.”
“I have little patience with fools or waffle,” Napoleone snapped. He suppressed the impulse to clutch his stomach by thrusting his hand in his waistcoat. Getting angry wasn’t going to help his burning guts.
The man opened his mouth, then thought better of it and in stead retrieved a slim device from his pocket. “Better to show you what I mean, I suppose,” he muttered, while fingering the device and pointed it at the blind wall.
A circular object appeared, standing about 7 feet tall, like a huge round shield. It´s opaque surface glistered silvery like water in moonlight.
“This,“ the stranger said in a slightly condescending tone, “is a portal. A kind of door, that leads directly – by that I mean instantaneously - to any place, anywhere, and most importantly, anytime in the world. In short, time-travel.”
He took an abandoned book from the side-table, hesitated for a second, then threw it at the silver disk. It disappeared, leaving small ripples that slowly moved outwards to the rim.
Napoleone suppressed the impulse to inspect where it went and kept scowling at the man. But he did notice the absence of sounds indicating a falling object.
“No worries,” the stranger said, showing some signs of unease under Napoleone’s scowl, “I’m positive one of us will chuck it back in a mo.”
“More waffle.” Losing his patience Napoleone was about to alert the military when suddenly the book flew through the room, hitting the wall with a bang, inches from a window.
“Told ye.”
The visitor walked over, picked it up and removed something that sat attached to it with a strip of sticky and translucent material. He folded it open and proffered the paper to Napoleone.
“This is where I come from.”
It was a drawing of a type and texture unlike anything Napoleone had ever seen. The picture was colourful and so finely detailed that it seemed impossible to draw such a thing, no matter the time you invested in it. More than the craftsmanship it would require to create such a thing, was what it depicted that astounded him. It was a group a four man, one of them his visitor. They were all more or less similar dressed, grinning as idiotic as the man standing before him, standing in a room full with objects that were bewildering. Together they held up a board with writing on it; large letters apparently forming a date. 16 November 2203.
End of part I
So, it it is with some trepidation that I present you with my first serious attempt at writing a short story in English, with the intention to (try to) get it published. It is an extended version of my entry for the 300-worder of January. It starts pretty much as that short version did, but the ending will be very different and, hopefully, surprising.
Part I is 923 words long. The finished story will be somewhere between 3000-4000 words.
I am not certain at the title yet. For the time being it's called The Prisoner.
Do not be put off by me calling the MC Napoleone. There's a reason for that, which will be become clear in Part II.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Prisoner- Part I
Napoleone di Buonaparte clutched his tormenting stomach, bended over and vomited his lunch on the turf of Longwood House, Saint Helena. It ended his stroll in gall.
He suspected a serious affliction and blamed - in part - the island; the damp and windswept plain that was now his home was far removed from his beloved Corse. Even Elba was heaven compared to this outhouse of the world.
With some difficulty he straightened up, fighting to ignore the pain stabbing his belly. The betrayal by his own body in public was an additional bad taste in the mouth. Humiliating, even though, in a ironic twist of good fortune, today was one of the very rare days he was left to himself, with most of his entourage on errands away from the House and none of the regiment that guarded the perimeter actively in sight.
Delicately wiping his mouth with a kerchief he unobtrusively eyed his surroundings. The grassy plain on which Longwood House was situated was free of bushes or structures. There was nothing that could be used to approach or leave the House unseen. Which was exactly why it had been chosen as Napoleon’s residence, despite it being unsuitable in numerous ways, not least it’s damp climate.
Above him dark clouds cruised low on the unrelenting trade-wind, promising rain.
That promise almost immediately became actuality. A steady rain began to fall, slanted on the wind and hitting him sideways.
“Merde!”
Napoleone pocketed his kerchief, pulled his cloak close and, hunched against rain and wind, hurried back to the House.
---
“Marchand!” he barked as soon as he entered the parlour, then recalled that his valet was lying sick at the back of the House and not in waiting in his service room. Usually someone else would assume his role, but...
“Nobody’s home,” someone called from the salon.
Napoleone froze. The voice, the tone was from a stranger. Yet he had seen no strangers anywhere today. Not for two years, actually. There shouldn’t – nor couldn’t - be anyone in the salon. It was the room where he was used to receive guests, until he began declining to entertain visitors. For entertainment people should attend a soiree, not bothering him.
He rid himself of the dripping cloak, dropped it on the nearest chair he passed and entered the salon. It was sparsely furnished with a few chairs and side-tables. The only other door in the opposite wall lead to the dining-room, two windows in the west wall looked out on bare grassy fields. The stranger was seated in one of the chairs near a window; youngish, outlandishly dressed, peculiar haircut, no discernible notion of etiquette. Napoleone thought the man acted with an intolerable impertinence, while grinning as an imbecile.
He scowled at him while he tried to decide what to prioritise, his anger or curiosity. Unlike his own wet shoes, that left prints on the floor, the man looked dry, top to toe.
“How did you get in?” That had not been a conscious decision.
“By an extraordinary route,” the intruder replied facetiously, ”Directly from the future.”
“I have little patience with fools or waffle,” Napoleone snapped. He suppressed the impulse to clutch his stomach by thrusting his hand in his waistcoat. Getting angry wasn’t going to help his burning guts.
The man opened his mouth, then thought better of it and in stead retrieved a slim device from his pocket. “Better to show you what I mean, I suppose,” he muttered, while fingering the device and pointed it at the blind wall.
A circular object appeared, standing about 7 feet tall, like a huge round shield. It´s opaque surface glistered silvery like water in moonlight.
“This,“ the stranger said in a slightly condescending tone, “is a portal. A kind of door, that leads directly – by that I mean instantaneously - to any place, anywhere, and most importantly, anytime in the world. In short, time-travel.”
He took an abandoned book from the side-table, hesitated for a second, then threw it at the silver disk. It disappeared, leaving small ripples that slowly moved outwards to the rim.
Napoleone suppressed the impulse to inspect where it went and kept scowling at the man. But he did notice the absence of sounds indicating a falling object.
“No worries,” the stranger said, showing some signs of unease under Napoleone’s scowl, “I’m positive one of us will chuck it back in a mo.”
“More waffle.” Losing his patience Napoleone was about to alert the military when suddenly the book flew through the room, hitting the wall with a bang, inches from a window.
“Told ye.”
The visitor walked over, picked it up and removed something that sat attached to it with a strip of sticky and translucent material. He folded it open and proffered the paper to Napoleone.
“This is where I come from.”
It was a drawing of a type and texture unlike anything Napoleone had ever seen. The picture was colourful and so finely detailed that it seemed impossible to draw such a thing, no matter the time you invested in it. More than the craftsmanship it would require to create such a thing, was what it depicted that astounded him. It was a group a four man, one of them his visitor. They were all more or less similar dressed, grinning as idiotic as the man standing before him, standing in a room full with objects that were bewildering. Together they held up a board with writing on it; large letters apparently forming a date. 16 November 2203.
End of part I
