This is a revision of something I'm subbing. It has had interest, but I think I needed to make the scene more supernatural and less leading as to what might be happening and why. I'm calling it an early 16,000th post critique. (To save me finding something else for that!)
Anyhow, just wondering, mostly, if it confuses, if it hooks, and if it interests. Cheers!
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CHAPTER ONE
Newcastle town was bustling, and the harbour craft fair had been busy. So many stalls had sold overpriced Irish tat to tourists, Amelia’s paintings had stood out as something different, and she’d done well. Twelve prints sold, and one original, and the price of the stall had been more than covered, as well as the rent for the week and enough over to pick up something nice for dinner later.
As the fair drew to its close, Amelia focused on finishing her sketches of the harbour. This part of the world was popular with tourists, especially the Game of Thrones maddos who were obsessed with visiting the various shooting locations, and she’d sell pictures set here. Plus, people liked the idea of watching the artist working. It always brought in sales.
She focused on the cluster of boats with their thin masts reaching up in graceful lines. They clinked and jangled in the slight breeze, as if singing. Her hands sped up, the lines becoming thicker and stronger, the colours darkening as she sketched. It didn’t look like one of her paintings, but something more naturalist, like an Emily Bronte rendition of her moorland.
Her chest tightened and her breath became ragged. A familiar headache started, sweat breaking along her brow, and she had put her head down and wait for the black spots at the edge of her vision to melt away. She pushed the picture away, knowing that she would hate it later.
The fair grew quiet around her. One person asked if she was okay, and she nodded, slowly, a little dazed, and the square had quietened more. By the time she had her breathing under control again, most of the stallholders had left.
She drew in a breath. She packed away her pastels, and began stacking her prints into their box, when a movement at the harbour made her look up. An old woman walked along the opposite quay, presumably having emerged from one of the boats. Her dress was long enough to skim the pools of water along the quay, briny and dirty with oil, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care.
Without warning, the woman began to wail, long screams that rose and fell and didn't stop. Amelia pushed away from the table, knocking her sketchpad off. It rattled to the ground. She clapped her hands over her ears as the woman shrieked.
A hand grabbed her arm and Amelia spun on her heels, ready to run or fight, but it was only a scrawny teenage goth-boy.
“Missus, there’s a man not well,” he said. “Mandy, from the pub, asked me to see if I could find a nurse or a doctor? Can you help?” He showed no signs of hearing the woman’s shrieks.
“I don’t know,” she said. She’d done first aid, years ago, though, and that might be better than anyone else had. She allowed herself to be drawn to where a small crowd had gathered. In the center, an elderly man lay, her skin closer to grey than flesh-coloured. Beside him, a woman knelt, her hand tucking a blanket around him.
“Has someone called an ambulance?” asked Amelia. The bloody shrieking hadn’t stopped and it was hard to concentrate on what needed to be done.
“Aye. They’re on their way,” said Goth-boy.
“Good.” Amelia knelt beside the man, opposite what must be the bar-lady. She took the man’s wrist and found a thin pulse. His skin was clammy against hers.
He clawed weakly at her t-shirt. “The Grey Lady’s come for me."
“Hush now, Sam. That’s superstition, and nothing else. The ambulance will be here in a moment, and you’ll be just fine.” The bar-lady patted the blanket but her eyes, meeting Amelia’s, told a different story.
The merciful sound of a siren cut through the shrieks that carried from the quay. Amelia got out of the way as the ambulance crew worked at the old man. At last, they lifted him into the ambulance. It drove away and its lights were not flashing, or its sirens sounding, leaving a shocking silence behind.
The woman had stopped shrieking and the harbour was empty, as if the old lady had never been there and the day’s events hadn’t happened, and Amelia couldn’t have told anyone why that chilled her to the bone.
Anyhow, just wondering, mostly, if it confuses, if it hooks, and if it interests. Cheers!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER ONE
Newcastle town was bustling, and the harbour craft fair had been busy. So many stalls had sold overpriced Irish tat to tourists, Amelia’s paintings had stood out as something different, and she’d done well. Twelve prints sold, and one original, and the price of the stall had been more than covered, as well as the rent for the week and enough over to pick up something nice for dinner later.
As the fair drew to its close, Amelia focused on finishing her sketches of the harbour. This part of the world was popular with tourists, especially the Game of Thrones maddos who were obsessed with visiting the various shooting locations, and she’d sell pictures set here. Plus, people liked the idea of watching the artist working. It always brought in sales.
She focused on the cluster of boats with their thin masts reaching up in graceful lines. They clinked and jangled in the slight breeze, as if singing. Her hands sped up, the lines becoming thicker and stronger, the colours darkening as she sketched. It didn’t look like one of her paintings, but something more naturalist, like an Emily Bronte rendition of her moorland.
Her chest tightened and her breath became ragged. A familiar headache started, sweat breaking along her brow, and she had put her head down and wait for the black spots at the edge of her vision to melt away. She pushed the picture away, knowing that she would hate it later.
The fair grew quiet around her. One person asked if she was okay, and she nodded, slowly, a little dazed, and the square had quietened more. By the time she had her breathing under control again, most of the stallholders had left.
She drew in a breath. She packed away her pastels, and began stacking her prints into their box, when a movement at the harbour made her look up. An old woman walked along the opposite quay, presumably having emerged from one of the boats. Her dress was long enough to skim the pools of water along the quay, briny and dirty with oil, but she didn’t seem to notice, or care.
Without warning, the woman began to wail, long screams that rose and fell and didn't stop. Amelia pushed away from the table, knocking her sketchpad off. It rattled to the ground. She clapped her hands over her ears as the woman shrieked.
A hand grabbed her arm and Amelia spun on her heels, ready to run or fight, but it was only a scrawny teenage goth-boy.
“Missus, there’s a man not well,” he said. “Mandy, from the pub, asked me to see if I could find a nurse or a doctor? Can you help?” He showed no signs of hearing the woman’s shrieks.
“I don’t know,” she said. She’d done first aid, years ago, though, and that might be better than anyone else had. She allowed herself to be drawn to where a small crowd had gathered. In the center, an elderly man lay, her skin closer to grey than flesh-coloured. Beside him, a woman knelt, her hand tucking a blanket around him.
“Has someone called an ambulance?” asked Amelia. The bloody shrieking hadn’t stopped and it was hard to concentrate on what needed to be done.
“Aye. They’re on their way,” said Goth-boy.
“Good.” Amelia knelt beside the man, opposite what must be the bar-lady. She took the man’s wrist and found a thin pulse. His skin was clammy against hers.
He clawed weakly at her t-shirt. “The Grey Lady’s come for me."
“Hush now, Sam. That’s superstition, and nothing else. The ambulance will be here in a moment, and you’ll be just fine.” The bar-lady patted the blanket but her eyes, meeting Amelia’s, told a different story.
The merciful sound of a siren cut through the shrieks that carried from the quay. Amelia got out of the way as the ambulance crew worked at the old man. At last, they lifted him into the ambulance. It drove away and its lights were not flashing, or its sirens sounding, leaving a shocking silence behind.
The woman had stopped shrieking and the harbour was empty, as if the old lady had never been there and the day’s events hadn’t happened, and Amelia couldn’t have told anyone why that chilled her to the bone.
(being tongue in cheek - I can be a little lax with spatial description sometimes. I’ll nail myself to the seat and sort that. Cheers!)
