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The Grotesque and its Castle |
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Written by TheAdmiral
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Friday, 05 November 2010 |
The Beast It appearedfrom the shadows. Those flaming eyes! It screamed, the shrill shriek shatteringher eardrums. It’s eyes! Their flames gripped around her throat. Fire! Theflash of lightning and her neck, her chest was on fire! The shrieking stopped.She gurgled. After all those years the daemon had returned. Now there wasnothing but silence. The Ruins Grandeurwasn’t the first word to spring to Eugène’s mind as he approached the shadow ofthe castle he had left as a boy. Grotesque, perhaps, but that is exactly whyhis initial excitement, stirred by the scant few memories of his childhoodfaded and blended into a newborn melancholy. Seven years of spring and summer hespent at the bastion of Proust, a small village which lay in a V formed by twoslowly meandering rivers merging into one. The river Saramago, on whose bankshe had fished and in whose water he had swum and from where he would return inthe evening, exhausted and wet, but with a childish sense of fulfillment. Howdifferent these hills were in the drizzle of an autumn afternoon, he thought ashe tried in vain to wipe his moustache dry with his leather glove. He spurredhis horse and proceeded along the muddy path to the keep’s gate. He passed asingle peasant on his way, but couldn’t recognize the face of the hunchbackedman hurrying through the puddles, shielding himself from the rain. Hestopped his horse at the gate and called out for the guard. A miserable thug onthe wall, clumsily dressed in the castle’s colours asked him his name. EugèneMarcel of Proust, he answered the gateman, who reluctantly let down the bridge,knowing that he would have to lift it again after the lost son had entered theshadows of a former glory. Melancholy, and it occurred to him that houses,roads, avenues, alas, are as fugitive as the years. He left as a boy, returneda man, but he never returned to what he had left. The dark, wet masonry of theinner keep wasn’t the same stone he had thrown rocks at as a boy. The donkeyshe had in the summer sunlight weren’t those clustered together under the onetree inside the walls, seeking shelter from the worsening rain. Althoughmemories came back to him, they were no more than memories, trying in vain tomaterialize before his eyes and suddenly he began to wonder, are they stillalive? How long had he been away? He had counted seventeen winters, but he wasopening the doors of the ruin of his memories. Mighty walls had been reduced toworn barricades and the proud banners of the inner keep were torn or gonecompletely. What he saw was to his past a mere ghost. *** Shelightly tapped her boney fingers on the wooden armrest as she stared into thehearth’s fire with hollow eyes. Save from the fire’s light and the scantsunlight that fell through the only window, the room in which they were sittingwas dark. He sat on a stool close to the fire, desperate to expel the chillfrom his bones, while she sat some distance away and had long given up on thatfight. When hehad entered the room, there had been only one thing to pass his lips beyondsilence; how? How? He asked her but she hadn’t answered him, she just staredinto the fire and he would have thought her dead if she hadn’t beenmonotonously tapping the armrest. Grotesque, her face, deeply carved linesrunning across her forehead and down her cheeks, yet she could be no older thantwenty-two. The memory of the little girl stretched out her young, fragile armto the old woman in the chair, but those hollow eyes just stared at theever-changing fire, who knows what she saw? Yearslater, he would describe the silence from his memory as cold and endless, herecalled her greasy hair carelessly draped down over her chest and down to herlap, the endless flicker of the flame reflected in her eyes. A vision mostlyimagined in shades of pale blue, her fiery eyes the only contrast, amplifiedthrough the years. I couldcontinue “in truth, the embers were barely reflected in her matte eyes and herdress wasn’t a pale shade of blue, but rather an old white that had long becomea dark red around her groin,” but I reject the notion of truth and falsehoodsin memory. It is unnecessary to condemn Eugène for telling a factual falsehood,to consider his image of blues and coldness a lie. I consider it neither afalsehood nor a lie, but the most truthful representation of his experience ashe saw the ghostly appearance of his younger sister, like a mirror thatinverted the years. He hadasked her what had happened to the keep, to the family, to the village on theriverbanks many times before the sunset – he could tell by the lengthening shadowson the bare stone floor – and he had already given up hope, staying only forthe warmth of the fire, when at a moment not long before sunset – the room litby a deep red rectangle on the wall and a smaller flame in the hearth – shebegan to scream. Youwould expect the piercing scream to have shocked Eugène, but instead he merelylooked up. After hours of idly sitting before the small flame, submitting tothe cold as it crept into his bones, the memories of sunlight, fishing and hislittle sister in the fields, he stood up. The eyeballs of the woman almostburst out of their sockets as she screamed and he remembered the fits she hadwhen she was young. He always knew she had been possessed by some sort ofdaemon. The Beasts lurked in these forests. With a decisive cool, he folded hisfingers around the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it. At the sight of themetal blade, the woman vomited and fell out of her chair. She mimed somethingwith her mouth; words came out, but he didn’t pay attention. The red light ofthe setting sun almost blinded him as he moved forward and she stumbled away innew found horror. He quickly caught up with her and struck. She saw a settingsun. A setting sun that shaded the castle’s last grotesque into life and diedout in the twilight. The Fable of the Grotesque and the Finch A youngfinch once landed on the shoulder of the sitting stone grotesque. “Mustn’t itbore you to look at the same road every day?” she asked, to which the grotesquereplied, “but that road was different yesterday, those trees were differenttoday, people walk and ride along the road and they all leave their mark. Everyday I see a different road; it never bores me.” So wemust remember that we never see everything before our eyes and can recall lessstill.
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Last Updated ( Saturday, 11 December 2010 )
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Discuss (8 posts)
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The Grotesque and its Castle
Oct 02 2010 14:43
It's barely a first draft (it's not even finished!) but I'm a bit stuck creatively. I'd like to know your thoughts on the style, characters, etc! This will, in all likelihood, be my Anniversary entry, so it must be as good as possible!
The Ruins
Grandeur wasn’t the first word to spring to Eugène’s mind as he approached the shadow of the castle he had left as a boy. Grotesque, perhaps, but that is exactly why his initial excitement, stirred by the scant few memories of his childhood faded and blended into a newborn melancholy. Seven years of spring and summer he spent at the bastion of Proust, a small village which laid in the V that was formed by two slowly meandering rivers merging into one, on whose banks he had fished and in whose water he had swum and from where he would return in the evening, exhausted and wet, but with a childish sense of fulfillment. How different these hills were in the drizzle of an autumn afternoon, he thought as he in vain tried to wipe his moustache dry with his leather glove. He spurred his horse and proceeded along the muddy path to the keep’s gate. He passed a single peasant on his way, but couldn’t recognize the face of the hunchbacked man hurrying through the puddles, shielding himself from the rain.
He stopped his horse at the gate and called out for the guard. A miserable thug on the wall, clumsily dressed in the castle’s colours asked him his name. Eugène Marcel of Proust, he answered the gateman, who reluctantly let down the bridge, knowing that he would have to lift it again when the lost son had entered. Melancholy, and it occurred to him that houses, roads, avenues, alas, are as fugitive as the years. He left as a boy, returned a man, but he never returned to what he had left. The dark, wet masonry of the inner keep wasn’t the same stone he had thrown rocks at as a boy. The donkeys he had chased as a boy weren’t the donkeys cluttered together under the one tree inside the walls, seeking shelter from the worsening rain. Although memories came back to him, they were no more than memories, trying in vain to materialize before his eyes and suddenly he began to wonder, are they still alive? How long had he been away? He had counted seventeen winters, but he was opening the doors of the ruin of his memories. Mighty walls had been reduced to worn barricades and the proud banners of the inner keep were torn or gone completely. What he saw was to his memories a mere ghost.
***
She lightly tapped her boney fingers on the wooden armrest as she stared into the hearth’s fire with hollow eyes. Save from the fire’s light and the scant sunlight that fell through the only window, the room in which they were sitting was dark. He sat close to the fire on a stool close to the firing, desperate to expel the chill from his bones, while she sat some distance away and had long given up on that fight.
When he had entered the room, there had been only thing to pass his lips beyond silence; how? How? He asked her but she hadn’t answered him, she had just stared into the fire and he would have thought her dead if she hadn’t been monotonously tapping the wood. Grotesque, her face, deeply carved lines running across her forehead and down her cheeks, yet she could be no older twenty two. The memory of the little girl stretched out her thin, fragile arm to the old woman in the chair, but her hollow eyes just stared at the ever-changing fire, who knows what she saw?
Years later, he would describe the silence from his memory as cold and endless as he recalled her greasy hair carelessly draped down over her chest and down to her lap, the endless flicker of the flame reflected in her eyes. A vision mostly imagined in shades of pale blue, the only contrast her fiery eyes, amplified through the years.
I could continue “in truth, the embers were barely reflected in her matte eyes and her dress wasn’t a pale shade of blue, but rather an old white that had long become a dark red, especially around her belly,” but I reject the notion of truth and falsehoods in memory. It is unnecessary to condemn Eugène for telling a factual falsehood, to consider his image of blues and coldness a lie. I consider it neither a falsehood nor a lie, but the most truthful representation of his experience as he saw the ghostly appearance of his younger sister, like a mirror that inverted the years.
He had asked her what had happened to the keep, to the family, to the village on the riverbanks many times before the sun set – he could tell by the lengthening shadows on the bare floor – and he had already given up hope, staying only for the warmth of the fire, when at a moment around sunset; the room lit by a deep red rectangle on the wall and a smaller flame in the hearth, she began to scream.
You would expect the piercing scream to have shocked Eugène, but instead he merely looked up. After hours of idly sitting before the small flame, submitting to the cold as it crept into his bones, the memories of sunlight, fishing and
The Fable of the Grotesque and the Finch
A young finch once landed on the shoulder of a sitting stone grotesque. “Mustn’t it bore you to look at the same road every day?” it asked, to which the grotesque replied, “but that road was different yesterday, those trees were different today, people walk and ride along the road and they all leave their mark. Every day I see a different road; it never bores me.”
So we must remember that we never see everything before our eyes and can recall less still.
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Nov 03 2010 17:59
And this is the second draft. Opinions very welcome indeed!
The Daemon
Those flaming eyes! It screamed, the shrill shriek shattering her eardrums. It’s eyes! Their flames gripped around her throat. Fire! The flash of lightning and her neck, her chest was on fire! The shrieking stopped and she gurgled. After all those years the daemon had returned. Now there was nothing but silence.
The Ruins
Grandeur wasn’t the first word to spring to Eugène’s mind as he approached the shadow of the castle he had left as a boy. Grotesque, perhaps, but that is exactly why his initial excitement, stirred by the scant few memories of his childhood faded and blended into a newborn melancholy. Seven years of spring and summer he spent at the bastion of Proust, a small village which laid in the V that was formed by two slowly meandering rivers merging into one, on whose banks he had fished and in whose water he had swum and from where he would return in the evening, exhausted and wet, but with a childish sense of fulfillment. How different these hills were in the drizzle of an autumn afternoon, he thought as he in vain tried to wipe his moustache dry with his leather glove. He spurred his horse and proceeded along the muddy path to the keep’s gate. He passed a single peasant on his way, but couldn’t recognize the face of the hunchbacked man hurrying through the puddles, shielding himself from the rain.
He stopped his horse at the gate and called out for the guard. A miserable thug on the wall, clumsily dressed in the castle’s colours asked him his name. Eugène Marcel of Proust, he answered the gateman, who reluctantly let down the bridge, knowing that he would have to lift it again when the lost son had entered. Melancholy, and it occurred to him that houses, roads, avenues, alas, are as fugitive as the years. He left as a boy, returned a man, but he never returned to what he had left. The dark, wet masonry of the inner keep wasn’t the same stone he had thrown rocks at as a boy. The donkeys he had chased as a boy weren’t those cluttered together under the one tree inside the walls, seeking shelter from the worsening rain. Although memories came back to him, they were no more than memories, trying in vain to materialize before his eyes and suddenly he began to wonder, are they still alive? How long had he been away? He had counted seventeen winters, but he was opening the doors of the ruin of his memories. Mighty walls had been reduced to worn barricades and the proud banners of the inner keep were torn or gone completely. What he saw was to his past a mere ghost.
***
She lightly tapped her boney fingers on the wooden armrest as she stared into the hearth’s fire with hollow eyes. Save from the fire’s light and the scant sunlight that fell through the only window, the room in which they were sitting was dark. He sat on a stool close to the fire, desperate to expel the chill from his bones, while she sat some distance away and had long given up on that fight.
When he had entered the room, there had been only one thing to pass his lips beyond silence; how? How? He asked her but she hadn’t answered him, she just stared into the fire and he would have thought her dead if she hadn’t been monotonously tapping the wood. Grotesque, her face, deeply carved lines running across her forehead and down her cheeks, yet she could be no older twenty-two. The memory of the little girl stretched out her young, fragile arm to the old woman in the chair, but those hollow eyes just stared at the ever-changing fire, who knows what she saw?
Years later, he would describe the silence from his memory as cold and endless, he recalled her greasy hair carelessly draped down over her chest and down to her lap, the endless flicker of the flame reflected in her eyes. A vision mostly imagined in shades of pale blue, her fiery eyes the only contrast, amplified through the years.
I could continue “in truth, the embers were barely reflected in her matte eyes and her dress wasn’t a pale shade of blue, but rather an old white that had long become a dark red, especially around her groin,” but I reject the notion of truth and falsehoods in memory. It is unnecessary to condemn Eugène for telling a factual falsehood, to consider his image of blues and coldness a lie. I consider it neither a falsehood nor a lie, but the most truthful representation of his experience as he saw the ghostly appearance of his younger sister, like a mirror that inverted the years.
He had asked her what had happened to the keep, to the family, to the village on the riverbanks many times before the sunset – he could tell by the lengthening shadows on the bare floor – and he had already given up hope, staying only for the warmth of the fire, when at a moment around sunset – the room lit by a deep red rectangle on the wall and a smaller flame in the hearth – she began to scream.
You would expect the piercing scream to have shocked Eugène, but instead he merely looked up. After hours of idly sitting before the small flame, submitting to the cold as it crept into his bones, the memories of sunlight, fishing and his little sister in the fields, he stood up. The eyeballs of the woman almost burst out of their sockets as she screamed and he remembered the fits she had when she was young. He always knew she had been possessed by some sort of daemon. The Beasts lurked in these forests. With a decisive cool, he folded his fingers around the hilt of his sword and unsheathed it. At the sight of the metal blade, the woman vomited and fell out of her chair. She mimed something with her mouth; words didn’t come out, but he didn’t pay attention. The red light of the setting sun almost blinded him as he moved forward and she stumbled away in new found horror. He quickly caught up with her and struck.
The Fable of the Grotesque and the Finch
A young finch once landed on the shoulder of the sitting stone grotesque. “Mustn’t it bore you to look at the same road every day?” she asked, to which the grotesque replied, “but that road was different yesterday, those trees were different today, people walk and ride along the road and they all leave their mark. Every day I see a different road; it never bores me.”
So we must remember that we never see everything before our eyes and can recall less still.
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Nov 04 2010 08:06
TheAdmiral
A very bleak, melancholic and depressing story to read.
You 'painted' a very clear 'picture' of Eugène's ancestral home and family.
I think that I understood the conclusion of your story and hence the message the overall story conveyed. All is not what it seems, perhaps? Or, we all see things differently?
My comments and feedback do take into account that English is not your native language. However, in my humble opinion, Europeans generally have a better command of the English language than most native English speakers have of any European languages.
Also, as I stated in a previous post, my critique and comments are limited to the barest minimum, because I do not wish your story to be anyone's but your own.
The following are the obvious points that I suggest you consider.
her neck, her chest was on fire! should be changed to her neck, her chest were on fire!.
Seven years of spring and summer he spent at the bastion of Proust, a small village which laid in the V that was formed by two slowly meandering rivers merging into one, on whose banks he had fished and in whose water he had swum and from where he would return in the evening, exhausted and wet, but with a childish sense of fulfillment. needs to broken into two sentences. As it is, it's too long and consequently, quite cumbersome.
a small village which laid in the V that was formed by two slowly meandering rivers should be changed to a small village which lay in the V that was formed by two slowly meandering rivers
he thought as he in vain tried to wipe his moustache dry should be changed to he thought as he tried in vain to wipe his moustache dry
Melancholy, and it occurred to him that houses, roads, avenues, alas, are as fugitive as the years I'm not quite sure what you're trying to say here, but it's definitely not clear in its current phrasing and structure.
those cluttered together I think you may have meant those clustered together
be no older twenty-two. should be changed to be no older than twenty-two.
her matte eyes Did you mean, perhaps? her dull eyes or her dead eyes or her glazed eyes
sitting stone grotesque. Do you mean gargoyle rather than grotesque?
A gargoyle being the carved ornamentation that one sees on the upper structures of cathedrals and other medieval buildings.
Anyway, good luck with your entry.
Sir Guy
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Nov 05 2010 20:03
Thanks for the comments. Edited those things.
May the best man (or woman, are any women entering?) win!
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Dec 15 2010 20:05
Now that was some read.
I believe that there must be some elements to this story that are missing. When you were writing it, I'm guessing that there were some emotions and ideas that you could feel but just couldn't express.
I liked it. I think I'd like the story you felt as you were writing (the components the rest of us are missing out on) even more.
Harolde
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Dec 15 2010 22:07
What a magnificent skill you display at descriptive settings and mood! When I learned that English is not your native language, this entry became all the more impressive to me! In fact, none of the (extremely minor) suggestions I have involve your command of English. Really, they simply involve minor editing and an aspect of the story itself.
I think the only glaring grammatical error/typo that could have been easily corrected in your story is the periodic lack of a space between certain words in the final submitted draft. For example, the first sentence reads "It appeardfrom the shadows." There should be a space separating "appeared" and "from." What is strange is that your earlier drafts do not have this issue.
To me, there were some elements toward the conclusion of your story that could have been clarified a bit more. I understand the tale has a darkly beautiful vagueness to it, but I would love to have seen some dialogue between Eugène and his sister before it came to a close. Rather than telling us about the dialogue, it may have been even more powerful if you had shown the words exchanged between the siblings.
Still, your tale is especially powerful and insightful, and it really packs a tragic punch at the end. I thoroughly enjoyed it, and am still awed at your talent for setting such an incredibly tangible atmosphere. Really, really well done
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Dec 15 2010 22:49
Gastion,
That error is something that happened during rendering I think. The same thing happened to mine and I had to edit them out. I know it was the rendering engine because there was exactly one error in each line. That is way too coincidental to be anything else.
I don't know why either, because I typed it into the editor directly.
Nonetheless, your comments about the English language are bang on. I completely concur.
Harolde
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Re:The Grotesque and its Castle
Dec 16 2010 03:54
Oh, weird to know, Harolde! Then to theAdmiral, I retract my comment about the spacing entirely. If there's an issue with the rendering that authors don't know about, it's definitely something worth investigating. I copied and pasted my story from MS Works and didn't experience any such problem. Do you think that typing directly into the text boxes could have led to the error?
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