SPoots
Well-Known Member
- Joined
- Sep 11, 2017
- Messages
- 188
Hey all, have been looking forward to posting something for critiquing, but I'll admit to being a bit nervous.
Just starting off with the opening scenes of a short story I wrote recently. It's going by the name Grim Reapers currently, but that's only because I can't think of anything better right now.
I'd be particularly interested in knowing whether people think I should keep the opening poem in, a practice I have never done in any of my work before, or whether the plot detail about the origins of the fey should be left out entirely (although this is a point I know can't really be critiqued without reading the whole story).
Thanks for taking the time to give it a look.
Grim Reapers
The ones who fell went straight to hell,
The ones who won did rise.
But those which did not pick a side,
To Earth they came,
As Fey they hide.
The death coach rattled through the city streets. Belfast roads were never busy at this time of the night, but what few drivers remained didn’t take any notice of the black carriage, drawn by a headless horse, driven by its headless rider. The Dullahan flourished his whip, the length of human spine cracking and snapping in his hand. It was a good night. The silent streets belonged to the Dullahan, as did the soul he raced to collect. There had been few of them in recent years, but this was his. It filled him with purpose, made him remember the old days, when his coach would carry legions to their final repose. It was a good night.
He turned down Amelia Street. As he passed The Crown pub, its door flew open and a small figure ran out into the middle of the road. The Dullahan had only a moment to recognise the bright yellow jacket, before he yanked on the reigns. Sparks flew up from the horse’s hooves as it and the carriage ground to a halt.
“Well, that was a bit close for comfort.” Said a voice from the front of the horse.
“Clurichaun.” The Dullahan intoned in a voice like a bell ringing in the depths of the sea.
A head topped with a mop of curly hair popped up over the horse’s neck. “Hello Dully, how’s business? Wouldn’t fancy giving me a lift, would you boy?”
The Dullahan couldn’t glare, but he nonetheless made a very good attempt. “My coach is not a taxi service.”
“Aye, but there aren’t that many that cater for the likes of us, are there?” The Clurichaun walked around to the side of the carriage, straightening his yellow jacket. “Come on big lad, for old times’ sake?”
The Dullahan let out a sigh like a person’s dying breath. “Very well. But you must wait until I have completed my own task. I have work to do this night.”
“Fair enough, fair enough.”
The Clurichaun tried to climb up onto the box beside the Dullahan, but its diminutive stature made it difficult. In the end, the Dullahan had to lower an end of its whip for the little fey to climb up. Once Clurichan had settled down next to him, the Dullahan cracked the whip and the horse started forwards once again.
“Much obliged.” The Clurichaun reached into his jacket and produced a bottle which he uncorked. The fumes coming from it made the paint on the side of the carriage crinkle. “Want some? Finest poteen, so it is.”
“If you possess alcohol, why were you in a tavern?” The Dullahan asked.
“Well, we’ve all got our jobs to do, haven’t we? Bartender hadn’t detached the beer taps.” The Clurichaun belched. “Be terrible if all that went to waste.”
“Would that be because he has yet to realise you went in and reattached them all?”
“That’s slanderous that is.” The Clurichaun said. “So that’s a no to the poteen then?” He tilted his head back and took a large gulp.
They rode together in silence for a while, the wheels of the coach making no noise that a human could detect. After a while, the Dullahan felt moved to ask something. “Have you seen many of the others of late?”
The Clurichaun wiped his mouth on the back of a yellow sleeve. “Not so many around these days. Leprichaun has moved in with Grogoch over on Rathlin. Said he wanted to get away from everything for a bit. Most of the others are hanging around with the courts.” The Clurichaun spat. “Most of the people of the mound are as mad as old Morning Star was, if you ask me. All this stuff about rising again.”
“What of Pooka? Have you seen her recently?”
The Clurichaun looked surprised. “Didn’t you hear? She tried to get into a church.”
The Dullahan turned its shoulders to look down at its small passenger. “What? Why ever would she try such a thing?”
“She said she wanted to go home. Was going to get baptised or let it kill her.” The Clurichaun shrugged. “She was always a bit unhinged. Always did talk about finding a way back.”
After a moment, the Dullahan reached down and took the bottle from the Clurichaun. It disappeared into the region above the high collar and the Clurichaun heard a glugging sound. The bottle returned, noticeably lighter than it had been.
“You ever fancied trying to return?” The Clurichaun asked.
The Dullahan shrugged, an expressive gesture for someone without a head. “They replaced me.” He made a spitting sound. “In any case, I have my duty here now. What of you?”
The Clurichaun grinned and held up his bottle. “What, and give up this? Not on your nelly, boy. Those humans are way more creative than we ever were.”
The Dullahan looked lost in thought before he spoke again. “Maybe, if we... oh bugger!” He hauled on the rains, pulling his headless steed hard to the side. The Clurichaun was force to hold the bottle in his mouth and hang on with both hands. The coach spun around, skidding to a stop in the middle of the street.
“What was that for?” The Clurichaun managed around the bottle’s neck.
“We nearly missed the stop.” The Dullahan said. He directed the coach forwards, stopping it before it reached two yellow lines painted on the side. “Traffic wardens.” He explained at the Clurichaun’s questioning look. “One with a bit of the old ways about them tried to clamp me last month.”
“Heh, I bet that went well.”
Just starting off with the opening scenes of a short story I wrote recently. It's going by the name Grim Reapers currently, but that's only because I can't think of anything better right now.
I'd be particularly interested in knowing whether people think I should keep the opening poem in, a practice I have never done in any of my work before, or whether the plot detail about the origins of the fey should be left out entirely (although this is a point I know can't really be critiqued without reading the whole story).
Thanks for taking the time to give it a look.
Grim Reapers
The ones who fell went straight to hell,
The ones who won did rise.
But those which did not pick a side,
To Earth they came,
As Fey they hide.
The death coach rattled through the city streets. Belfast roads were never busy at this time of the night, but what few drivers remained didn’t take any notice of the black carriage, drawn by a headless horse, driven by its headless rider. The Dullahan flourished his whip, the length of human spine cracking and snapping in his hand. It was a good night. The silent streets belonged to the Dullahan, as did the soul he raced to collect. There had been few of them in recent years, but this was his. It filled him with purpose, made him remember the old days, when his coach would carry legions to their final repose. It was a good night.
He turned down Amelia Street. As he passed The Crown pub, its door flew open and a small figure ran out into the middle of the road. The Dullahan had only a moment to recognise the bright yellow jacket, before he yanked on the reigns. Sparks flew up from the horse’s hooves as it and the carriage ground to a halt.
“Well, that was a bit close for comfort.” Said a voice from the front of the horse.
“Clurichaun.” The Dullahan intoned in a voice like a bell ringing in the depths of the sea.
A head topped with a mop of curly hair popped up over the horse’s neck. “Hello Dully, how’s business? Wouldn’t fancy giving me a lift, would you boy?”
The Dullahan couldn’t glare, but he nonetheless made a very good attempt. “My coach is not a taxi service.”
“Aye, but there aren’t that many that cater for the likes of us, are there?” The Clurichaun walked around to the side of the carriage, straightening his yellow jacket. “Come on big lad, for old times’ sake?”
The Dullahan let out a sigh like a person’s dying breath. “Very well. But you must wait until I have completed my own task. I have work to do this night.”
“Fair enough, fair enough.”
The Clurichaun tried to climb up onto the box beside the Dullahan, but its diminutive stature made it difficult. In the end, the Dullahan had to lower an end of its whip for the little fey to climb up. Once Clurichan had settled down next to him, the Dullahan cracked the whip and the horse started forwards once again.
“Much obliged.” The Clurichaun reached into his jacket and produced a bottle which he uncorked. The fumes coming from it made the paint on the side of the carriage crinkle. “Want some? Finest poteen, so it is.”
“If you possess alcohol, why were you in a tavern?” The Dullahan asked.
“Well, we’ve all got our jobs to do, haven’t we? Bartender hadn’t detached the beer taps.” The Clurichaun belched. “Be terrible if all that went to waste.”
“Would that be because he has yet to realise you went in and reattached them all?”
“That’s slanderous that is.” The Clurichaun said. “So that’s a no to the poteen then?” He tilted his head back and took a large gulp.
They rode together in silence for a while, the wheels of the coach making no noise that a human could detect. After a while, the Dullahan felt moved to ask something. “Have you seen many of the others of late?”
The Clurichaun wiped his mouth on the back of a yellow sleeve. “Not so many around these days. Leprichaun has moved in with Grogoch over on Rathlin. Said he wanted to get away from everything for a bit. Most of the others are hanging around with the courts.” The Clurichaun spat. “Most of the people of the mound are as mad as old Morning Star was, if you ask me. All this stuff about rising again.”
“What of Pooka? Have you seen her recently?”
The Clurichaun looked surprised. “Didn’t you hear? She tried to get into a church.”
The Dullahan turned its shoulders to look down at its small passenger. “What? Why ever would she try such a thing?”
“She said she wanted to go home. Was going to get baptised or let it kill her.” The Clurichaun shrugged. “She was always a bit unhinged. Always did talk about finding a way back.”
After a moment, the Dullahan reached down and took the bottle from the Clurichaun. It disappeared into the region above the high collar and the Clurichaun heard a glugging sound. The bottle returned, noticeably lighter than it had been.
“You ever fancied trying to return?” The Clurichaun asked.
The Dullahan shrugged, an expressive gesture for someone without a head. “They replaced me.” He made a spitting sound. “In any case, I have my duty here now. What of you?”
The Clurichaun grinned and held up his bottle. “What, and give up this? Not on your nelly, boy. Those humans are way more creative than we ever were.”
The Dullahan looked lost in thought before he spoke again. “Maybe, if we... oh bugger!” He hauled on the rains, pulling his headless steed hard to the side. The Clurichaun was force to hold the bottle in his mouth and hang on with both hands. The coach spun around, skidding to a stop in the middle of the street.
“What was that for?” The Clurichaun managed around the bottle’s neck.
“We nearly missed the stop.” The Dullahan said. He directed the coach forwards, stopping it before it reached two yellow lines painted on the side. “Traffic wardens.” He explained at the Clurichaun’s questioning look. “One with a bit of the old ways about them tried to clamp me last month.”
“Heh, I bet that went well.”
