Part time-killer, part task to improve my writing ability. In the style I most prefer (monologuing with a focus on descriptive language), I am simply writing bits and pieces that creates a narrative of a fantasy industrial city named 'Chthonia'. It is a bleak state-controlled 'wonderland' wroth with plague and disease, along with monarchal and toiling values. Each chapter is from the perspective of a different character and my inspiration for my writing can be found at: http://imgur.com/a/GynZu
The day started as any other could, as any other would, but not in a world as unideal as mine. Nevertheless, it was a good start, a start that I wouldn’t squander with daydreams of greater realities. When you read the names and numbers in the papers, the ones with terribly large amounts of money and an awfully huge egos of fame, you don’t revel in despair over jealousy and longing to be them. Wealth and popularity are all very much achievable in your own rights and regards, so much so that even the most virulent individual would not regard the lives of these ‘perfect individuals’ as obtainable.
That’s the world we live in, one where some people can soar so high we can’t even see them for the sun in our eyes. Entertaining the notion of flying amongst them breeds nothing but bitter envy. Pigeons can’t be eagles and cats can’t be lions. So as I ate my small bowl of wheat shredding and dried strawberries, I thought not of how I wished it’d been a 3-course brunch beginning with
Charred bacon and eggs, and ending with tarts and cakes of a variety of fruit, but instead I showed appreciation to my spoon and ‘endured’ my mediocre breakfast with dignity, trying to take some sort of gratitude from the idea that in this very moment there are people suckling on boot leather for protein, or grovelling in the dirt for worms.
I buttoned a cross knitted beige shirt tightly over my chest, pulling my brown moleskins up my legs and the braces over my shoulders. My boots weren’t ox leather but they served their purpose all the same, and had chosen to fit my feet without quarrel that morning. Their dulled shades of cordovan made them look as though I’d waded through a pool of blood rather than mud, but they now bared more of a resemblance to my greatcoat, which in contrast had suffered one or nine splatters of blood. It was a nice thick wool, so the chocolate colour had soaked in the red well to form several vile umber spots across the pauldrons, sleeves and breast. The cuffs had always been a tad too long, so I’d turned them up and buttoned them down, but now I felt as though I may as well allow them to hang past my knuckles if that meant the jacket had more brown than burgundy on it.
My boots crawled up my shins to just below my knees, where my coat fell down to. The most expensive item I owned, it was double breasted with two sets of four buttons lining the left of the breast, a wide notch lapel leading up to the collar. By the sides of each flair, laid a shoulder cape of thinner material, resembling too cloth pauldrons and shaping the garment to look like more of a duster than an overcoat. The bottom of it fell separated, as I’d cut down the darting, like a tailcoat with no sharp ends, and the sleeves had been turned up not dissimilarly to the cuffs on an officer’s coatee. The coat had a dark leather lining to hold the heavy pieces together at the sleeves and waist, with a soft dyed sheepskin in-lining for insulation.
The first few steps I took outside hit dust, then mud and I sunk. I felt the swamp’s mittens wrap around my ankles, and with no dry foothold, I had to wrench my legs free from its sloppy grip with every stride. One too many times I tried to hasten my movement and tripped on and into the slush, its cold embrace wrapping around my body and adding some more tones to the colour of my coat. Disgruntled, I’d slowly rise with a grumble, wiping murky water from my eyes and straightening my back, before continuing my journey onwards.
Looking back at my homestead, it was as though I’d owned some sort of old rickety farm, something straight out of a children’s storybook. It stood tall, and cast a maliciously sharp shadow across the marshlands in front of it. Peeling paint and splintering wood were its defining features, with a lovely coat of garish lime dashed across the front and back. Lovely lemon had been smothered across the cracking and crumbling roof tiles, making each individual one just as gaudy as the rest of my estate. Fours smashed windows lay on the front, and a black door with steeled hinges, a lock and a lion-headed knocker. My home’s features made out a cruel and twisted face, perhaps half angry with what had become of his farm ahead or maybe malevolently satisfied with the torment it had paid my plants through some terrible magic.
I drunk in a lungful of the wispy winter’s air, and paused to let its refreshing touch cool my chest, then respired. Turning away from my house, I continued my trek onwards. I would never see that abominable hearth again, never again feel the ground outside swallow me up, never again find the crops have left me another season of starvation. The only part I could miss of this place hung mud and blood splattered over my back, yet somehow, as my walk began to quicken west, I felt a sharp sting in my heart. Mayhaps it was the strings, the strings connecting me to the overcasting shadow at my feet, snapping.