Полная версия
Slender Man
Watching the game from a tree stump at the edge of the clearing was Mary Cooper. She was already fifteen, and was now usually to be found in the Cooper fields up near the edge of the forest, turning out plough-splitting rocks and dragging twisting vine-weed up by the roots. Hard work, as Stephen knew as well as anyone. The kind of work that aged you, that added lines to the face and a stoop to the back. He was sure that would eventually be Mary Cooper’s fate, unless a gentleman from the castle happened to ride down into the valley and sweep her up onto his horse and take her away to be his wife.
Mary Cooper was by no means fully grown – even though he disagreed with it, Stephen was not minded to challenge the village’s assumption that fifteen was the threshold between childhood and adulthood, not when there were other matters more pressing that would cause less consternation amongst his neighbors – but the beauty she would become was already extremely apparent. Mary Cooper was a good girl, kind and decent and hardworking. Her father had died when she was young, and she and her mother lived together in a small cottage at the point where their two small fields met. She was a quiet girl, although Stephen suspected there was a hard streak in her that she could draw upon when needed: she was no fool, and she did not appreciate being taken for one, although exactly that assumption is often made about girls as beautiful as Mary Cooper.
Her hair was the color of a wheat field in afternoon sun, the lines of her face soft and pleasing to the eye, the curves beneath her dress long and smooth. Stephen had noticed the village men allowing their gaze to linger on her longer than was necessary, an occurrence that was becoming regular enough that he feared the time would come when he would no longer be able to hold his tongue.
But whereas they tried – half-heartedly in some cases – to disguise their lechery, Arthur Allen looked at Mary with the open adoration of the young, his eyes wide, his mouth almost always hanging slightly open, as though he could not truly believe the vision before him. His very open infatuation was the subject of gossip around the village, and some mocking. It was mostly gentle though, for, despite all their hard edges, the men and women of Wrong Side could – mostly – still remember what it was to be young and in love.
As he led the children in their game, Stephen saw Arthur cast stolen glances in Mary Cooper’s direction. She gave no indication that she noticed – her gaze remained fixed on the slowly running river – but there was the faintest curve at the corners of her mouth, the tiniest hint of something that might – with appropriate encouragement – turn into a smile, that made him think that not only did she notice Arthur looking at her, but was content for him to do so.
Stephen watched for a little while longer, savouring the quiet contentment that had settled momentarily over the village. It wouldn’t last, he knew. It never did. By mid-afternoon, when the temperature rose and so did tempers, there would be arguments that needed settling, disputes that needed resolving, and the good mood that was currently filling him would be a distant memory.
But in this moment, Stephen was content. In this moment, a thought – one that was exceptionally rare – occurred to him. He considered it, and allowed it to lodge in his mind, warming him from the inside.
This is why we went to the Borderlands, and why we waded through blood to come home.
This is what we fought for.
Stephen’s first instinct, as always, was to reach for his sword.
The banging was loud, and insistent, and coming from somewhere close by. His eyes flew open, and he instantly registered that it was still dark. Not the deep night – the shutters that sealed the windows were edged in deep, velvet purple rather than rendered invisible by black – but still some hours before anyone ought to be knocking on his door.
He swung his legs out of bed and picked up his sword. It never lay out of reach, even when he was asleep, and he felt the familiar sadness at how neatly the weapon’s handle fit into his hand. It had been rewrapped in leather half a dozen times, but within a few days it had always taken on some essential shape that was now part of the weapon itself. His fingers fit into faint grooves, his thumb rested against a worn blister of leather. It was an extension of himself, and even now – many months since he had last swung it in anger – he felt incomplete without it in his hand.
He crossed the small room of his dwelling in his night-shirt, his bare feet padding silently across the rolled earth. Some of the village houses had floorboards, and the grand homes that surrounded the castle had intricate tiles and even marble as floors. Stephen could have afforded the same, but such things were not in his nature. He liked the hard earth beneath his feet. He had fought for this land, killed and maimed for it, and he liked to feel connected to it.
The banging came again, long and loud. Stephen paused three yards from the door, beyond the range of any spear that might be thrust through the gap between it and the wall.
“Who goes there?” he shouted.
The reply was instant. “Sarah Cooper, my Lord.”
Stephen grimaced in the darkness. The title still didn’t sit well with him, and he was starting to doubt whether it ever would.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s Mary.”
“Is she hurt?”
“I don’t know, my Lord,” said Sarah. “I can’t find her.”
Stephen frowned. Then he reached out, unbolted the door, and swung it open. Sarah Cooper stood outside, her shawl pulled tightly around herself. It got cold at night in Wrong Side, even in the summer. The wind blew all the way down from the mountain, welcome during the day but capable of slicing you to the bone once the sun had set.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “When did you last see her?”
Sarah shuffled her feet against the cold. “After supper,” she said. “She went out for a walk before the sun went down. Said she had thinking to do. I told her not to be more than a half hour, and she promised me she wouldn’t be. That was getting on for six hours ago.”
Stephen looked past Sarah to the dark silhouettes of the village. The first fingers of dawn were threatening to rise above the eastern horizon, but it would not be light for another hour, at least.
“I should have come sooner,” said Sarah. “I didn’t like to think bad of her, though. I know the Allen boy’s been coming around, and I know they go walking some when she thinks I’m sleeping. She thinks I don’t know, but I know. Ain’t nothing wrong with it.”
“Nothing at all,” said Stephen, because he knew that was what she wanted to hear. But his attention was no longer on the frightened woman standing at his door. He was thinking about the Cooper farm, and the forest that lay just beyond its borders.
Wild things lived amongst the thick tangle of trees, things that could bite and claw. The men of Wrong Side had hunted the wolves that slid silently through the darkness almost to the point of extinction, but their howls could still sometimes be heard on the stillest nights. It was rare for them to emerge from the forest and threaten a human being, but it was not unheard of. When an animal was sick, or starving, Stephen had learnt that there was little they would not do, given the right circumstances.
There were bears in the deep forest, towering brown creatures that reared up on their hind legs and blotted out the sun. There were wildcats, barely larger than dogs but with mouths full of razor-sharp teeth and claws that could disembowel. There were snakes that spat and hissed and spiders that crawled silently over your skin, their shiny abdomens swollen with poison.
And some said there were other things too, things from before the Age of Reason that waited in the deepest dark, patient and hungry. Children told tales of such things around campfires, scaring each other silly while their parents watched on disapprovingly. There were places inside the forest – Stephen had seen them with his own eyes – where the blood in your veins ran cold and the hair on your arms stood up, even though the sun was warm overhead. Old places.
Bad places.
He was getting ahead of himself, he realized. There was more than enough bad and wicked in the world without worrying about monsters and demons. People did terrible things to other people every day, for no better reason than greed, or jealousy, or a short temper. The obvious had to be dealt with first.
“My Lord?” asked Sarah Cooper.
He looked at her. “Wake Simon Hester,” he said. “Tell him I said he’s to ride to the castle right away and fetch the King’s Master at Arms. Tell him I said to take his fastest horse.”
Sarah nodded. Her face, which had been as pale as a ghost’s when Stephen opened his door, now flushed with determined color. He knew, from long experience of commanding soldiers, that people usually felt better when they had something to do, a task to focus on.
“I’ll go right now,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
Stephen gestured at the long night-shirt he was wearing. “I’m going to put some clothes on,” he said. “And then I’m going to talk to Arthur Allen.”
First time showing anyone anything. (self.writing)
submitted 2 hours ago * by breakerbreaker1989
Actually, that’s a lie. I showed this to a friend of mine. But she’s pretty much obliged to be encouraging, so it was only a white lie. Forgive me.
This is the first part of a story I’ve been working on. I’m not sure whether it’s a short, or a novella, or maybe even the opening of something longer. I guess it’s high fantasy with a touch of grimdark (as much as I hate that word) and I would think the influences are going to be pretty clear to anyone who gives it a look – Tolkien, Sanderson, Abercrombie, King, etc.
It’s called The Dawn Always Breaks. 3k words. And I know this is probably a forlorn hope on a reddit sub, but please try to be kind … :)
http://www.dropbox.com/kjuehma7h
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[-] creativewritinggrad 2 points 2 hours ago
Will check this out.
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[-] breakerbreaker1989 2 points 2 hours ago
Thanks. Hope you enjoy it.
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[-] banksculturefan 0 points 2 hours ago
Not my thing. Sorry.
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[-] moviefan2.1 3 points 1 hour ago
I bet OP really appreciates you taking the time to tell him that.
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[-] banksculturefan 0 points 14 minutes ago
Who cares what you think?
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[-] roofing_contractor_indiana 0 points 2 hours ago
Tolkien sucks.
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[-] mrdoloresclaiborne 2 points 1 hour ago
Just read the first couple of paras. Liking it so far.
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[-] breakerbreaker1989 0 points 1 hour ago
Thanks a lot.
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[-] creativewritinggrad 4 points 28 minutes ago
OK. Have read and digested. Here are my thoughts, for you to take or leave as you please …
On the whole, I think it’s got a lot of potential – I like the style (although I’m sure you already know it needs a deep polish for repetitions and the occasional clunky sentence construction) and I like the creation of atmosphere: I can see Stephen’s village clearly, and the opening sequence is enough to whet my appetite.
Stephen himself is immediately intriguing – he definitely leans into the trope of the good man who has done bad things, but that isn’t necessarily a problem in itself. There is scope to do a lot with him. And the world of the story feels alive without you having deluged the reader with detail – I read a lot of fantasy and there is nothing more likely to make me put a book down than fifty pages of description of geography and family trees and complex systems of government before I even know who the main character is.
My suggestions for things for you to consider are as follows (I am aware that you may already have plans for some or all of them as the story progresses, but you asked for feedback on what is there right now):
The opening is excellently atmospheric and creepy, and I’m assuming it will serve as both a dream and a flash-forward to Stephen’s search for Mary Cooper. It’s a device I like, although it raises a problem: unless you intend to show us more of these prophetic dream moments, having only one might appear like cheating, as though you don’t have quite enough confidence to pull readers into the story without leaping ahead to an out-of-context moment of drama.
I don’t know whether you intend to flashback and show us the campaign Stephen fought in the Borderlands – if you do, then I would think very carefully about structure. It can get extremely complicated if you make the decision to have a main narrative plus flashbacks and dream-sequence flashforwards. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it, just that you will need to be very careful if you do.
And that’s all I have right now. If you write more, I’d be happy to read it. Sorry if that was more criticism than you wanted, but I wouldn’t have bothered if I didn’t think this was a story worth continuing. It’s good, and I have no doubt you’ll make it better.
Best of luck with it. Peace.
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[-] breakerbreaker1989 0 points 8 minutes ago
Thank you. That’s given me a lot to think about. I really appreciate you taking the time to read it and to give it so much thought. It’s fucking cool of you.
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[-] creativewritinggrad 0 points 4 minutes ago
No problem at all. Keep at it.
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[-] roofing_contractor_indiana 0 points 19 minutes ago
Srsly tho. Tolkien sucks fucking donkey balls.
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[-] creativewritinggrad 4 points 3 minutes ago
Something’s been eating at me for the last half an hour or so. The dream sequence (?) opening reminded me of something, and I’ve been trying to place it. And I think I’ve got it. Did you ever read any Slender Man fic?
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March 16th
Journal entry 3
I can’t believe Lauren didn’t pick up on that.
You wouldn’t really think it to look at her, and most of her friends would be absolutely shocked to hear it, but creepypasta and nosleep and all that sort of stuff is totally her thing.
I know about Slender Man. I remember when it was massive, when there were new photoshops on reddit and somethingawful pretty much every day, when loads of people were writing really average stories about him and arguing about what he was and what he could do. I watched Marble Hornets, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t think that’s what I was thinking about when I wrote that section. To be honest, I don’t even really know what the thing in the forest was going to turn out to be, I just knew there needed to be something in there that Stephen would have to confront if he wanted to get Mary Cooper back. I think that’s why I left it so vague, so I would have time to think of something good by the time I actually got to that bit.
But I can see what the guy who commented is talking about. The thin, spindly shape in the dark, the missing teenage girl, something that almost seemed to be a shadow until it moved.
I’m not sure whether I should change it or not. I don’t know if I’ll actually ever show it to anyone else, despite Lauren getting on my case to do so, but if I do I don’t want them thinking I’m writing some cheap Slender Man fanfic. Although – to be fair – if I do show it to Professor Trevayne I really don’t think it’s a reference he’s likely to pick up on …
I mean, everything comes from somewhere else. Nobody is immune to influences, even if they don’t know they’re being influenced. Everyone steals cool bits from other things, and then steal even more without knowing they’re doing it. But this was the first thing I’d written in a while that I was even a little bit happy with, and I don’t like the thought of anyone thinking I ripped it off from some fucking online forum.
I don’t know. I’ll sleep on it.
I’m sure it will be clearer in the morning.
— — — —
JAMIE
Did you hear?
MATT
About what?
JAMIE
Jesus. How can you not know? Our class group has gone fucking crazy.
MATT
I quit that group. Too annoying.
JAMIE
You need to get back in. Right now. I’ll invite you.
MATT
Why? What’s so urgent?
JAMIE
It’s Lauren.