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I'm sorry for the recent lack of posts here. Chapter 5 has been slower in writing than I previously anticipated.
The material is all in my head, but I lack the beginning to start me off. This is usually the case. Once I have the first sentence or so, the rest comes with ease, and the odd bit of polish here and there.
Sometimes though, like today, the first sentence is further away than I'd like it to be right now.
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In other news, the story might be appearing in an 'Underground zine coming in 2009.
Music, Culture and everything in between.' Nothing 'official' yet, just a quick word with the man behind it. The magazine currently has a Facebook group, and people wanting to submit articles etc. should send an email to Jacob at batmanzine@googlemail.com .
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Finally, I have made a few changes to the first three chapters. They have been slightl 'corrected', and read a bit differently without straying too far from what I originally wrote. It makes a little more sense.
I hope you continue to enjoy reading this, and don't be afraid to criticise! As long as you don't needlessly slate the whole thing to pieces, I shall try as hard as I can to accommodate your suggestions! After all, this is more an intro to Dorian, allowing me to explore him a little, as well as my writing style, in order to practice for future writing.
Friday, 17 July 2009
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Chapter 4
Dorian walked up to his front door and got out his keys. He smiled. He was going to enjoy the next month or so, he told himself, as he tried to fit his key in the lock.
It didn’t turn. He chuckled to himself, a little nervous, and tried again.
It didn’t turn. This was not normal. Usually, when he inserted a key into a lock, providing it was the right one, it would turn and the door would unlock. This didn’t happen on this occasion. As ever, lack of normality comes with a certain amount of denial. Don tried the lock several times again before he gave up.
“Bastards. They changed the lock.” There was no-one there to hear him, but he felt a little better having said it.
He sighed and looked for the spare under the mat. That wasn’t there either. He looked around puzzled. There was no car in the drive. They were probably out. He hadn’t informed them of his visit, so it was quite possible that they had made plans when he wanted to surprise them, but he still thought his key would work in any case.
He looked around again, this time along the walls and upper floors. If there was an open window he could climb in and unlock the house from the inside, allowing him to warm up a bit.
He was in luck. Or so he thought. There was a window slightly ajar where the living room was, so he placed his bags just outside the front door, and headed over to the living room.
He placed his fingers in the crack between the window and the frame, and pulled. It was slightly stuck, something he put down to the weather, but it came open with relatively little trouble.
He clambered in, and landed heavily on the floor. His eyes weren’t quite adjusted to the darkness yet, so he found the light switch on the other side of the room, and switched it on.
He was shocked.
His parents had completely redecorated. New wallpaper, new furniture, everything. Even the door was in a different place. On second thought Dorian realised it probably wasn’t that much of a surprise; with their only child gone for 3 years, it was only to be expected that his parents would redecorate, or at least change some things.
There was a light thump from upstairs. Someone was there. Looks like his parents were home, but where was the car?
There were now footsteps coming down the stairs. Dorian went to greet the lucky parent.
“Hey, I’m back!” he said with a smile. The smile was short lived.
“Whoa!” he managed to shout before he was knocked out by a cricket bat.
...
It should be explained (if you haven’t already guessed) that Dorian’s parents have apparently moved house. The cricket bat mentioned above belonged to the new, elderly owner of the house who never expected, nor appreciated guests, thank you very much.
Sadly, by the time Dorian had realised this, it was too late to do anything, and he was already standing in the path of the rapidly approaching cricket bat.
His last thought, quite unimaginatively, was:
“Bastards. They’ve moved house.”
It didn’t turn. He chuckled to himself, a little nervous, and tried again.
It didn’t turn. This was not normal. Usually, when he inserted a key into a lock, providing it was the right one, it would turn and the door would unlock. This didn’t happen on this occasion. As ever, lack of normality comes with a certain amount of denial. Don tried the lock several times again before he gave up.
“Bastards. They changed the lock.” There was no-one there to hear him, but he felt a little better having said it.
He sighed and looked for the spare under the mat. That wasn’t there either. He looked around puzzled. There was no car in the drive. They were probably out. He hadn’t informed them of his visit, so it was quite possible that they had made plans when he wanted to surprise them, but he still thought his key would work in any case.
He looked around again, this time along the walls and upper floors. If there was an open window he could climb in and unlock the house from the inside, allowing him to warm up a bit.
He was in luck. Or so he thought. There was a window slightly ajar where the living room was, so he placed his bags just outside the front door, and headed over to the living room.
He placed his fingers in the crack between the window and the frame, and pulled. It was slightly stuck, something he put down to the weather, but it came open with relatively little trouble.
He clambered in, and landed heavily on the floor. His eyes weren’t quite adjusted to the darkness yet, so he found the light switch on the other side of the room, and switched it on.
He was shocked.
His parents had completely redecorated. New wallpaper, new furniture, everything. Even the door was in a different place. On second thought Dorian realised it probably wasn’t that much of a surprise; with their only child gone for 3 years, it was only to be expected that his parents would redecorate, or at least change some things.
There was a light thump from upstairs. Someone was there. Looks like his parents were home, but where was the car?
There were now footsteps coming down the stairs. Dorian went to greet the lucky parent.
“Hey, I’m back!” he said with a smile. The smile was short lived.
“Whoa!” he managed to shout before he was knocked out by a cricket bat.
...
It should be explained (if you haven’t already guessed) that Dorian’s parents have apparently moved house. The cricket bat mentioned above belonged to the new, elderly owner of the house who never expected, nor appreciated guests, thank you very much.
Sadly, by the time Dorian had realised this, it was too late to do anything, and he was already standing in the path of the rapidly approaching cricket bat.
His last thought, quite unimaginatively, was:
“Bastards. They’ve moved house.”
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Chapter 3
The traffic was fairly quiet for this time of night. Unfortunately this took away one of the few things Don could talk about; he wasn’t graced with social eloquence, and whenever he tried to chat girls up in bars, he would usually end up apologising profusely and either paying for a round of drinks or frantically exercising his leg muscles by running away. Fast.
It was as a consequence of this, that Dorian was fitter than an alcoholic, failing composer who ate nothing but take-aways and did nothing but play video-games really should be. He was thankful for this, but it still didn’t help him attract the opposite sex, or sex at all in any case.
The topics were now reduced to the weather, and one other. He decided to save the weather as his secret weapon, and asked her what brought her out at so late an hour.
“So, what brings you out at so late an hour?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve been helping out at an Arts Festival in Lincoln. I was staying at a friend’s place in Bourne, and they leant me this car to get there and back.” She replied.
“I see, so you’re taking it back to him now?”
“Yes. And its a she by the way, you really shouldn't assume things.” she chided, gently.
“Yes I know." Dorian sighed. "I keep trying to remind myself, but it never sticks.” He finished.
She was silent for a second, then gave him an appraising glance, before looking back out to the road.
“But anyway, what do you do at the ‘Arts Festival’?” he continued.
“Oh I help at one of the face-painting stalls. The kids love it.” She said with a half-smile to herself.
“That’s nice.” He replied. He paused for thought, suddenly remembering his years in various music groups at school.
“Wait, is it the one at Lincoln Castle?” he asked.
“Yes, at the top of the hill.”
“I’ve played there before. A few years ago I was in a Band, and we had a gig there.” He reminisced for a second.
“It was tipping it down.” He added.
“Oh wow, I think I remember that. Was it...” she struggled for a moment. “No Nebula or something?” she asked, now reminiscing herself.
“Yeah it was!” Don started to get excited. He had never connected with a girl like this before. Maybe he could keep this up?
He could. They talked all the way back to his house, uncovering their likes for a cappella Beatle’s music, the 1960’s avant-garde movement, (in particular, 9 Evenings: Theatre & Engineering: Variations VII By John Cage) epic fantasy novels and nature documentaries. He didn't even need his secret-weapon.
...
All too soon they reached Don’s house.
This was his last chance.
He decided to be straight.
“Look, I really liked talking to you tonight. Is there any chance we could swap numbers? Keep in touch?”
The girl paused for a moment.
“Well, I don’t really know you.” she sighed, almost as if disappointed with herself.
“Isn’t that sort of the point?” he offered? He didn’t want to let this go. Again she paused.
She smiled at him.
“Ok then.” She reached inside the glove-compartment for a pen and paper, wrote her number on a corner, tore it off and handed it to Don.
“Here. Don’t lose it!” she grinned.
After unloading all of Don’s stuff, they said goodbye to each other.
“You’d better call me!” she threatened with a smile, getting into the borrowed car.
“Oh I will!” Don cried out as she pulled away and drove off, into the wet, wild night.
“Wow.” He thought to himself as he walked up to his house. Things were already looking up.
Of course, Karma had to change that.
It was as a consequence of this, that Dorian was fitter than an alcoholic, failing composer who ate nothing but take-aways and did nothing but play video-games really should be. He was thankful for this, but it still didn’t help him attract the opposite sex, or sex at all in any case.
The topics were now reduced to the weather, and one other. He decided to save the weather as his secret weapon, and asked her what brought her out at so late an hour.
“So, what brings you out at so late an hour?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve been helping out at an Arts Festival in Lincoln. I was staying at a friend’s place in Bourne, and they leant me this car to get there and back.” She replied.
“I see, so you’re taking it back to him now?”
“Yes. And its a she by the way, you really shouldn't assume things.” she chided, gently.
“Yes I know." Dorian sighed. "I keep trying to remind myself, but it never sticks.” He finished.
She was silent for a second, then gave him an appraising glance, before looking back out to the road.
“But anyway, what do you do at the ‘Arts Festival’?” he continued.
“Oh I help at one of the face-painting stalls. The kids love it.” She said with a half-smile to herself.
“That’s nice.” He replied. He paused for thought, suddenly remembering his years in various music groups at school.
“Wait, is it the one at Lincoln Castle?” he asked.
“Yes, at the top of the hill.”
“I’ve played there before. A few years ago I was in a Band, and we had a gig there.” He reminisced for a second.
“It was tipping it down.” He added.
“Oh wow, I think I remember that. Was it...” she struggled for a moment. “No Nebula or something?” she asked, now reminiscing herself.
“Yeah it was!” Don started to get excited. He had never connected with a girl like this before. Maybe he could keep this up?
He could. They talked all the way back to his house, uncovering their likes for a cappella Beatle’s music, the 1960’s avant-garde movement, (in particular, 9 Evenings: Theatre & Engineering: Variations VII By John Cage) epic fantasy novels and nature documentaries. He didn't even need his secret-weapon.
...
All too soon they reached Don’s house.
This was his last chance.
He decided to be straight.
“Look, I really liked talking to you tonight. Is there any chance we could swap numbers? Keep in touch?”
The girl paused for a moment.
“Well, I don’t really know you.” she sighed, almost as if disappointed with herself.
“Isn’t that sort of the point?” he offered? He didn’t want to let this go. Again she paused.
She smiled at him.
“Ok then.” She reached inside the glove-compartment for a pen and paper, wrote her number on a corner, tore it off and handed it to Don.
“Here. Don’t lose it!” she grinned.
After unloading all of Don’s stuff, they said goodbye to each other.
“You’d better call me!” she threatened with a smile, getting into the borrowed car.
“Oh I will!” Don cried out as she pulled away and drove off, into the wet, wild night.
“Wow.” He thought to himself as he walked up to his house. Things were already looking up.
Of course, Karma had to change that.
Friday, 12 June 2009
Chapter 2
The taxi driver was not English. This was normal. He didn’t speak English too well. This was also normal. He was speaking very fast in his own language now. This was slightly unnerving, but still, not out of the ordinary. He was now beginning to flail his arms almost mindlessly at Don. This was not normal. Well, not on this planet anyway.
He tried to protest. He tried to explain that he had nothing to do with the engine, indeed, he wasn’t even the one driving the cab at the time.
It was all lost on the taxi driver.
Just when Don thought his number was up, a tatty red VW Beetle pulled up behind them.
“Need some help?” asked a sweet voice.
“Yes!” cried Don, half in a last act of desperation and half in celebration.
They quickly moved Don’s baggage from the taxi to the Beetle, and set off, though not before Don shoved a moderate wad of cash in the cab driver’s hands. He didn’t want a cab driver with a grudge on his tail.
...
“Thank you so much...” Don started, looking in his saviour’s face for the first time.
She was pretty.
Not incredibly attractive, at least not enough to assume she was stuck-up, but there was something that exuded from her; a sort of naturalness. A contentment that allowed a certain satisfaction not only in herself, but the people around her, almost as if she was sharing it.
She had dark chestnut hair, with a hint of scarlet; pastel blue eyes; a round face, and pale skin that looked as though it might feel like paper. On her upper lip was a Medusa piercing, and she was wearing a summery, flowery dress.
“Oh it’s no problem at all. Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Erm...” Don paused. He looked at the roadside signs telling him where he was.
“Are you going anywhere near Thurlby?” He posed.
“Oh yes, I’m going past there on my way to Bourne.” Don made a quick mental note. Bourne was very close, maybe he could ask to buy her a drink?
“Its where I drop this rust-bucket off and get a lift to Grantham.” Don quickly erased the mental note he had just made. Grantham was not close.
What had he done to Karma to deserve this?
Oh right. The sunny beaches thing.
He tried to protest. He tried to explain that he had nothing to do with the engine, indeed, he wasn’t even the one driving the cab at the time.
It was all lost on the taxi driver.
Just when Don thought his number was up, a tatty red VW Beetle pulled up behind them.
“Need some help?” asked a sweet voice.
“Yes!” cried Don, half in a last act of desperation and half in celebration.
They quickly moved Don’s baggage from the taxi to the Beetle, and set off, though not before Don shoved a moderate wad of cash in the cab driver’s hands. He didn’t want a cab driver with a grudge on his tail.
...
“Thank you so much...” Don started, looking in his saviour’s face for the first time.
She was pretty.
Not incredibly attractive, at least not enough to assume she was stuck-up, but there was something that exuded from her; a sort of naturalness. A contentment that allowed a certain satisfaction not only in herself, but the people around her, almost as if she was sharing it.
She had dark chestnut hair, with a hint of scarlet; pastel blue eyes; a round face, and pale skin that looked as though it might feel like paper. On her upper lip was a Medusa piercing, and she was wearing a summery, flowery dress.
“Oh it’s no problem at all. Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Erm...” Don paused. He looked at the roadside signs telling him where he was.
“Are you going anywhere near Thurlby?” He posed.
“Oh yes, I’m going past there on my way to Bourne.” Don made a quick mental note. Bourne was very close, maybe he could ask to buy her a drink?
“Its where I drop this rust-bucket off and get a lift to Grantham.” Don quickly erased the mental note he had just made. Grantham was not close.
What had he done to Karma to deserve this?
Oh right. The sunny beaches thing.
Chapter 1
When he stepped off the train, it was raining. Typical. It always rained here.
It was only to be expected. He had spent about three years living near glorious sunny beaches, doing the things he loved, being paid for it and generally a enjoying a stable economy that allowed him to live a far better quality of life than Britain would have ever allowed.
However, now was the time to report back to his parents and Karma evidently thought that now was a good time to balance things out.
He had only brought the things he needed the most: Laptop, PS3, some t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, deodorant and his wallet. Some people might comment about the lack of underwear, toothbrush or other hygienic amenities; but of course, after living free of restraints for 3 years, our hero knows better. That is to say, the person who just got off the train.
His name was Dorian West, often abbreviated to ‘Don’. This was partly because shortening Dorian to ‘Dor’ sounded a bit stupid, and partly because his handwriting was so atrocious, nearly all his bills were addressed to Donovan Wilde.
Don now began to struggle with his rucksack and three suitcases, none of which had wheels and all of which were packed with endless reams of cables, media and accessories for his Laptop and his PS3. He looked around desperately for a trolley of some kind, but Karma had carefully hidden them away at the other end of the station, now locked away. It was one of the perks of arriving at hours unrecognized by civilized society.
He walked to the end of the street and thankfully found a taxi, waiting dutifully for someone such as himself who had the misfortune to arrive at such a late hour.
He gave the driver directions and sat back, the patter of the rain on the cab now filling his ears, allowing him to drift off, something the football crowds on the train refused to allow him to do.
He fell further into sleep, almost reaching it, when at the point of no return he suddenly jolted awake. He didn’t know why though, had he heard something? Or was his brain too jet-lagged to allow sleep yet?
The driver’s apology explained it. Don could now see smoke coming out of the bonnet where the engine was.
Karma definitely had it in for him.
It was only to be expected. He had spent about three years living near glorious sunny beaches, doing the things he loved, being paid for it and generally a enjoying a stable economy that allowed him to live a far better quality of life than Britain would have ever allowed.
However, now was the time to report back to his parents and Karma evidently thought that now was a good time to balance things out.
He had only brought the things he needed the most: Laptop, PS3, some t-shirts, a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, deodorant and his wallet. Some people might comment about the lack of underwear, toothbrush or other hygienic amenities; but of course, after living free of restraints for 3 years, our hero knows better. That is to say, the person who just got off the train.
His name was Dorian West, often abbreviated to ‘Don’. This was partly because shortening Dorian to ‘Dor’ sounded a bit stupid, and partly because his handwriting was so atrocious, nearly all his bills were addressed to Donovan Wilde.
Don now began to struggle with his rucksack and three suitcases, none of which had wheels and all of which were packed with endless reams of cables, media and accessories for his Laptop and his PS3. He looked around desperately for a trolley of some kind, but Karma had carefully hidden them away at the other end of the station, now locked away. It was one of the perks of arriving at hours unrecognized by civilized society.
He walked to the end of the street and thankfully found a taxi, waiting dutifully for someone such as himself who had the misfortune to arrive at such a late hour.
He gave the driver directions and sat back, the patter of the rain on the cab now filling his ears, allowing him to drift off, something the football crowds on the train refused to allow him to do.
He fell further into sleep, almost reaching it, when at the point of no return he suddenly jolted awake. He didn’t know why though, had he heard something? Or was his brain too jet-lagged to allow sleep yet?
The driver’s apology explained it. Don could now see smoke coming out of the bonnet where the engine was.
Karma definitely had it in for him.
About Dorian West
You may have noticed this blog entitled "The Tale of Dorian West". Well done you. Three gold stickers.
All joking aside, this is the result of the months of planning (quick write up after lunch) which started with the previews I posted on my blog (http://allthingsnix.blogspot.com) weeks/months/years ago.
It was originally going to be about a superhero whose power is language (and paradoxes). I decided that that was cheesy, scrapped it and went for something much more down to earth, but still with a hint of quirkiness.
The name came quite quickly thank goodness. I took the rules of good character naming I learned from books and tv.
First Name: Something old-fashioned or unusual. Not your everyday name.
Surname: One syllable. Preferably has a punch to it, or something not commonly used as a surname.
Take these examples:
Arthur Dent
Indiana Jones
Adrian Monk
However, the syllables also work the other way around:
Jack Sparrow
Han Solo
Bill Bailey
And so on.
Anyway, the name I came up with was this: Dorian West. Dorian coming from "The Picture of Dorian Gray", and West was a word I picked out randomly from a dictionary. Originally it was going to be Dorian Word, but I felt this lacked the punch required for the second name. West it was.
The basic premise for the story is boy meets girl under strange circumstances, they fall in love, girl gets taken away in a way that is not death, marriage, amnesia, or separation in a parallel universe. It will be something alltogether different.
I hope you enjoy the story. More 'behind-the-scenes' posts will come, when I feel like explaining the inspiration, thoughts or intentions of a certain chapter, and I hope I can keep up with posting regularly!
All joking aside, this is the result of the months of planning (quick write up after lunch) which started with the previews I posted on my blog (http://allthingsnix.blogspot.com) weeks/months/years ago.
It was originally going to be about a superhero whose power is language (and paradoxes). I decided that that was cheesy, scrapped it and went for something much more down to earth, but still with a hint of quirkiness.
The name came quite quickly thank goodness. I took the rules of good character naming I learned from books and tv.
First Name: Something old-fashioned or unusual. Not your everyday name.
Surname: One syllable. Preferably has a punch to it, or something not commonly used as a surname.
Take these examples:
Arthur Dent
Indiana Jones
Adrian Monk
However, the syllables also work the other way around:
Jack Sparrow
Han Solo
Bill Bailey
And so on.
Anyway, the name I came up with was this: Dorian West. Dorian coming from "The Picture of Dorian Gray", and West was a word I picked out randomly from a dictionary. Originally it was going to be Dorian Word, but I felt this lacked the punch required for the second name. West it was.
The basic premise for the story is boy meets girl under strange circumstances, they fall in love, girl gets taken away in a way that is not death, marriage, amnesia, or separation in a parallel universe. It will be something alltogether different.
I hope you enjoy the story. More 'behind-the-scenes' posts will come, when I feel like explaining the inspiration, thoughts or intentions of a certain chapter, and I hope I can keep up with posting regularly!
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