New Short Draft

I wrote this one this morning. It's partly inspired by the Gothic course I'm currently taking and equal parts Poe and Stevenson. Just a little experiment in doing some Gothic writing.

This is still totally a draft, but I really enjoyed writing in a new style and using different language in the prose. Needs a good polishing, but here it is anyway. Enjoy.


Draft Gothic Story/I don't have a title yet.
Tim Harvey

The sun had just disappeared over the horizon as my coach arrived at the Carpenter's Tavern in Williamsburg. Vibrant pink and orange clouds streaked the sky as in a painting, causing me to pause. The stunning majesty of this image has remained with me for many years now. I was aware however at the time, that this picturesque image would be the last thing of beauty I would see that night. Having paid the coach-driver, I took a moment to breathe in the last of the sun's magnificence, and to reflect on my precarious position in life.
I would have been only a few years shy of my thirtieth birthday on that cold, Autumn night, in the year of 17--. My early adult life was spent at sea with my older brother Edwin. We joined the Navy and sailed together as brothers should. Edwin was lost at sea during a great skirmish with a privateer galleon. They had ransacked our ship and threw Edwin overboard as they plundered our supplies. I mourned the loss of my brother at the hands of these wretched villains and swore to seek revenge, however my military contract had been terminated not long after Queen Anne's War had come to a shaky close. The treaties wouldn't hold, I assured myself, however for the last few years they had certainly tried.
Left to my own devices, I had sailed from my home of Bristol, to Africa and then to India, in search of whatever work a soldier like myself could offer. Without the guidance of Edwin I felt deeply alone in the great wide world. The work was sparse and I refused to turn to a life of thievery for money, even if it meant that I had to endure many nights out in the cold without a meal. I could never end up like the cut-throats that destroyed my family.
I adjusted the sabre on my belt as I reminisced, and wondered how I had ended up here in Virginia. I had never turned to thievery, however my travels shed a wicked light on those that had. The tales of wild men of the sea filled my head at every port. Rumours of murder and malice followed me all the way to the Caribbean and I must admit, I had difficulty sleeping many nights with a head full of nightmarish images. I dreamed of Edwin being washed away in the black depths of the ocean. On these nights I would have to stifle a scream as I woke, my body covered in warm sweat.
An elected official in a port somewhere deep in the islands offered me work tracking down and eliminating a man who had given his town a great deal of pain. Initially I declined the offer, but as he told me of the horrors that the blasted rogue had inflicted to his citizens, I began to turn. He may not be the man who murdered Edwin, but if I was to seek revenge, he sounded like a good start. Eventually I accepted this assignment and began my search for the villain who had burned half of the town and made off with the Governor's fortune. For the previous year, I had been sailing up the coast of the New World following the dreaded bastard from port to port, always one step behind him.
On that dreary Autumn night, in Williamsburg Virginia, I had him cornered. Having just hours before, spotted him disembark his sloop, I had enquired as to his whereabouts with a dock-boy.
'The Carpenter's Tavern,' was his reply and before he could ask for payment for the information I was already on my way to securing a coach. The bastard rogue went by the name of Edward Tennant, and that night I was certain he would draw his final breath. By my sword, or my pistol, Edward Tennant was surely a dead man.
I had concealed my pistol in my belt, underneath my coat. Extra wadding ensured the lead slug would not slip out of the barrel as I moved about. Edwin taught me to conceal a pistol for my own safety. Being weary of the inhabitants of the tavern, I had guessed that entering the establishment brandishing a loaded pistol was not a bright idea and I kept it only as a last resort. Tennant would die by my sabre if I could have it.

My boots made a distinct click against the wooden boards of the floor of the tavern, seemingly drawing the eye of every person inside. I'll admit that despite the cold air, my brow was dotted with sweat. While the majority of the crowd appeared to be regular colonials, I could smell Tennant's dry stench through the place.
I approached the barkeep and inquired as to any irregular activity on that night. He informed me in hushed tones that a group of sea-faring men had entered not hours before my arrival and they were causing quite a disturbance. I could hear roars of laughter and violent clinking of glasses coming from somewhere in the back of the tavern. I had never seen Tennant's face clearly, and had only witnessed him through my spyglass from great distances, however I was confident that I could pick him out of the rabble.
'Where are they?' I asked the timid barman.
'Through there,' he gestured. 'In the parlour.'
He grabbed my shoulder as I began to head towards the parlour door, 'Sir, what do you intend to do? We needn't have any trouble tonight.'
'I'll make sure they cause you no trouble,' was my reply.
'Who are you sir? If you don't mind my asking,' the barman said, his hand still firm on my shoulder.
'My name is James Wright,' I gave him his answer and looked sternly to the hand resting on my arm.
He expressed puzzlement at the look but eventually released me. 'Are you one of them?' He asked as I again began to leave.
I turned back to him and glared intently into his eyes, 'I'm not, and I never shall be.'
He offered a weak smile and stood silent. I took this to mean that I was free to do as I pleased and finally headed towards the parlour.

I threw the door of the parlour open and bellowed, 'Which of you is Edward Tennant!'
The group of at least six merciless bastards paused at my grand entrance before breaking into a roar of laughter. They were gathered around a table gambling and I was relieved to see that none appeared to bear any pistols or muskets. All of the scoundrels carried various wicked looking cutlasses and hatchets, but I was certain I could fight them off if necessary. Sailing wasn't the only trick I had learnt from a life spent at sea.
A deep voice boomed from within the rabble, 'I'm Edward Tennant, who goes there?'
I couldn't make out where the villain was sitting as the crowd were gathered tightly around the table.
'My name is James Wright,' I called. 'I'm here to put an end to your wretched days.'
The crowd grew silent and all turned to look at me, hatred in their eyes. I heard a faint whisper and the men all backed away from the table revealing the bastard himself.
I struggled to contain my shock as I realised that sitting before me at the table was my own long lost brother Edwin. His appearance had changed, he wore a full beard and his hair hang lank in his face. I had only know Edwin to be clean shaven, and to always were his hair tied back, but his eyes were unmistakable.
'Brother,' Edwin began. 'It has been too long.'
I will admit I was truly speechless. Here before me sat a ghost. A man who I had presumed was buried at the bottom of the ocean.
'Speak, James!' Edwin bellowed, causing his men, and myself to shudder.
'Edwin?' I could only murmur.
'Aye, for my sins. It is me little brother.'
I drew my sabre and pointed the tip towards his heart. This action caused his men to stir uncomfortably and reach for their own weapons.
With a gentle gesture of his weather-worn hands, Edwin commanded his men to be at ease. 'There is no need for violence brother.' Edwin remained calm despite knowing what I was capable of with the sword.
'Edwin, is it really you? You are the dastardly rogue Edward Tennant?' I stammered questions at him and he only smiled.
'Aye! Yes brother,' he replied.
'But why Edwin?'
'I thought you were lost James, I thought you were surely killed in the skirmish. With nothing to live for I chose this life.' Edwin's answer caught me off guard and I felt a sense of betrayal at his reasoning. I was able to shun the life, why could he not?
'I must kill you brother!' I cried. 'You are already dead to me!' I lunged with my sabre but was caught off guard by one of the brutish thugs. The man ripped my sword from my hand and held his arm around my throat, strangling the life out of me.
'Let him go mate!' Edwin bellowed at the man, but he was too deep in his rage to hear the order from his captain.
A hideous crack of gunpowder deafened me and I felt the man's arm go limp. I turned to see what had felled the huge man and saw a clean round hole in the centre of his forehead. The image was grotesque and I'll spare you from and description, suffice to say the man was dead.
I turned back to Edwin to see him holding a smoking pistol in his outstretched arm.
'I must still kill you Edwin! It is my duty!' I cried at my brother.
He simply smiled and replied, 'Then we must do it as brothers.'

It was agreed upon that we would wait until sunrise and by the sun's first light we would duel outside of the Carpenter's Tavern. I didn't sleep a minute that night, always fearful that another of the dastardly rogues would attempt to murder me in my sleep. I assumed that Edwin may have felt the same way when I noticed that he looked deathly tired at first light.
We each loaded our pistols and remarked that they were a matching pair we had received many years ago. The memory had been forgotten when my brother was thrown overboard. The idea never occurred to me that my pistol's twin was still active in the world. Still performing its duty.
We each took twenty paces, and upon my twentieth I spun on my heel and raised my pistol at Edwin. The fear of the moment led me to duel as if I were facing God. I fired and managed a direct hit.
I cried out in horror as I saw the hole in the centre of my brother's back. He had not turned.
I rushed over to his side and held him tightly, gently resting him on the dusty earth. I cringed as I wiped his brow and realised the sleeve of my coat was covered in gore.
Edwin looked up at me, his face smeared with blood, and whispered his final breath, 'You are a fine man James.'

My thoughts go to my brother on most nights when I can hear the wind and the waves rip around outside my cabin. After at least twenty years of regret I am writing this letter as a confession. My guilt is immense and it haunts me wherever I go. I could swear by God that I had taken twenty paces, however seeing the hole in Edwin's back has caused me doubt. If I had only taken nineteen paces then I had committed a great injustice.
Tonight I will correct my wrongs and with one pistol in my belt and one at my temple, I will return them to the sea, once and for all, never to be apart again.

More from the "Archives"

Hey, this is another quick short I did for my Creative Writing course last year. Again, apologies if you've read it before. Not much time for writing during the holidays as I am pretty much working every day. So I've dug this one out of the "archives."

I'm working on a few new story ideas though, just got to find the time to get them down. Should have some new stuff up next week.

This short was part of a 5 story zine that was made as a group project for the course. I was inadvertantly reminded of the zine project recently and with ANZAC day today this story popped into mind. Hope you enjoy it.


Homecoming
Tim Harvey

White light, white heat above me. I squinted my eyes against the harsh sun shining through the dense jungle overhead. As I looked down, I could see a gaping hole in my shoulder. I remembered the impact of the bullet; it sliced through my back and ripped its way through my flesh, bursting out the front. My right arm was paralysed so I used my legs to drag my battered and starved torso, just enough to move out of the sharp light. I could hear the rhythmic hum of a chopper far away; whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

How did I get here?

'Sarge.' I ran the cleaning rod down the barrel of my M16, dragging a thick stream of mud with it as I pulled it out.
'Sarge.' I wiped the rod on a rag and stuck it back into the rifle.
'Sergeant Freeman?'
'What?' I replied without looking up at the young private standing in the flap of my tent.
'Sergeant, Lieutenant Wills wants to see you,' was his reply. My lip curled and I bit into the cigarette dangling from my mouth. I looked up at the private; he was younger than I expected, eighteen or nineteen at the most. He had a peace badge on his collar.
'What does he want?' I restrained my frustration.
'Sergeant, we're up for patrol.'

Ten days into patrol; our legs were cramped from crouching, our faces and bodies coated in mud and itching from mosquito bites. It was winter back home in Pittsburgh but I couldn't remember home. All I had was 'Nam. I couldn't remember my white house with the rose garden in the front.
'Contact!'
I couldn't remember my wife in a yellow summer dress holding a perspiring jug of cool, sweet lemonade.
'Get down!'
I couldn't remember Nerissa, running home from the school bus, books in hand and a smile on her face.
'Oh God! Oh God!'
I wish I could see her smile again, just one last look at her sweet face, her shining golden hair.
'Sarge! For Chrissakes get down!'

It was night now. My men lay asleep around me, not moving, not making a sound. They were well trained. The young private with the peace badge lay face down in the mud next to me. I borrowed some water from his canteen and let it rest against his leg when I was done. My eyelids began to droop and I instinctively jerked them open, I had to stay awake to protect my men. They drooped again and my vision became blurred. The light of the moon through the trees illuminated the purple smoke swirling around us. My eyelids drooped again, and this time I let them fall.

A breeze stroked my face as I slept. Whoosh.
'Daddy.'
I felt the hole in my shoulder, but I was too weak to open my eyes. Whoosh.
'Daddy?'
The breeze stroked my cheek and I felt delicate fingers slide across my face. Whoosh.
'I didn't protect them, honey,' I uttered. 'Why couldn't I protect you?'
The breeze wiped the tear that slid down my cheek. Whoosh.
'Daddy?'
'What is it Nerissa?'
'Hold on Daddy, I'll wait for you.' Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
It was my my forty-second birthday today. The first day of the rest of my life.

Old Short

Well, my short (30,000 word) competition entry is finished and except for some heavy edits I'm pretty much done. Although I'm fairly short on inspiration at the moment with all sorts of uni work to be done.

I wrote this story last year and worked on it during my Creative Writing course at uni. Apologies if you've read it before but I'm thinking with a little sprucing up it might be a good entry for another competition. I've made a few slight changes and cleaned up some of the prose so it is still worth a read for those familiar with the story. There is a lot of myself in the main character in this short, I wouldn't mind expanding on it in later revisions.

Hopefully next week, after uni is done, I'll have some fresh short stories and maybe some more Ray Douglas. Although I'll have to get back into the flow with Irredeemable, so that might be a little while off now.

Any comments or criticisms on this short are greatly appreciated.

Oh, also listening to a bit of old Ben Folds stuff for this one; You Don't Know Me. Funny video, great duet, love Regina Spektor's voice.

Into Town
Tim Harvey

I finally got off work at about two. It is July twenty-first, the day before my twenty-first birthday. I grab a six-pack of beer on the way home and with nothing to do tomorrow I begin to form plans of sleeping in. When I get home my mother asks me how work was, I tell her it was “fine.” In my room I listen to music through my headphones and drink, alone. It's close to five when I make my decision, by half-past I am riding the 138 into town.

I get off the bus on Grenfell Street near the Harris Scarfe entrance, alone. My friends couldn't do anything on a Tuesday night, I tell myself, although I didn't bother to ask. Enjoying this manufactured solitude I head down towards the Hungry Jacks that sits opposite Target on Rundle Street. When I get there I order a Bacon Deluxe and wait, alone. As my order is called I notice the burger is greasier than usual, a gift for my birthday I guess. I take my time with the burger, sitting in the corner watching people eat their meals. When I leave, after crossing the street I can't help but notice the lights on the building, swimming plates of colour rising up into the cloudless, purple winter sky. Pink and green dance upwards, a fusion of orange bursts and fades, and I stay until the purple sky turns to black. It must be six or six-thirty by now and the combination of time and food is killing my buzz, the perfect moment for more beer. I stroll down Rundle St, alone. With my hands buried in the pockets of my thick woollen coat and with the collar turned up, my lonesome figure casts an eerie shadow in front of me. I reach the entrance to the alley which houses the Elephant, but make the split-second decision to duck across the street and go to the Belgian Beer Café. Three hours pass.

I trade cash for expensive European beer in fancy glasses. My wallet noticeably lighter and my face noticeably redder I sit, alone. They have noticed too. Young couples and some not-so-young couples whisper and glance, their shifty eyes drawn to me. It's not because I'm drunk, I can hide that, no it is because I am alone. I suck the last drops of Stella Artois out of my oversized glass and slink out the back door, I am tired of the stares. As I stumble down an alleyway heading East I get the feeling that this alley could be a backstreet in London, or Paris, or anywhere. Red bricks and wrought-iron fences line my path and old-style street lamps illuminate the skeletons of trees. I light a cigarette and become captivated by the patterns and trails the light casts on the smoke. I reach East Terrace, or is it Hutt Street? The park across the road is inviting me to explore it. Why not stay here tonight, it asks me, but loud music snags my attention and draws me left. I stumble down towards the Stag and against all odds get in without hassle. I sigh as I take the stairs up to the second floor. Confronted with blaring music and the brightest lights cutting through the intermittent moments of sheer darkness I realise my mistake. Quickly turning I also realise that I will have trouble trying to navigate the stairs back down and decide that I have to stay.

I position myself in the darkest corner near the bar and tucked away in my little spot I continue drinking. What time is it now? I do not know. I watch the people, drinking, talking, dancing, sharing company. These are things that I do not do. The only thing I have said in the last few hours is “another beer.” I am really tired now, tired of the solitude and tired of being lonely. I tell myself to get a taxi and go home, when I notice that there is a girl standing at the bar drinking, alone. I get another beer and watch. She has had two drinks already and orders a third, all the while not moving from her spot in the opposite corner, alone. I watch for what feels like hours and know that she is alone, alone like me. She has red hair and a green dress and I know that if I don't do something I will regret this moment forever. I step over to her.
'Hi,' I say.
She says 'hi.'
'Are you here with anyone?' I ask. She looks down, shaking her head. I watch her closely.
She looks up and lies, 'I just want to be alone tonight.' I know it's not true, I could see her watching the crowd, sighing as she ordered another drink.
'I wanted to be alone too. But I'm starting to hate the feeling.' I tell her, 'Nobody wants to be lonely, right?' She nods slowly and at this recognition I ask her, 'what are you drinking?'
'Gin and Tonic,' she replies.
'Do you want to drink with me?' I ask.
She looks up, her pale green eyes deep in thought, she looks directly into my eyes and I don't turn away. Her concentration breaks and the corners of her mouth turn up, revealing a hint of white teeth behind her upper lip.
'Sure,' she answers.

We turn and look at the dancers and the talkers. I don't want to ask but she must want to dance. As I try to remember the last time I attempted anything close to dancing she leans into me, tilts her head up to my ear and says,
'Don't even dare asking me to dance out there.' I smile.
'Wouldn't dream of it,' I say back, my eyes are fixed on the dancers, yet I can tell that she is also smiling.
'That thing you said before about being lonely,' she says.
'Yeah?' I ask. She takes her time.
'I don't want to be lonely,' she finally says. I watch her as she tries to articulate what she is feeling. 'It's like it eats at you,' her face scrunches up as she tries to think of the right words, 'you know?' She looks up at me, her eyebrows raised.
'It was killing me,' I reply. Her mouth spread into a smile.
'Let's go,' she says.
'Where?' I ask.
'Anywhere,' she bursts out, 'anywhere but here.' I nod and take her hand.

I lead her out into the night and we head West, into the city. When we reach Rundle Mall I ask her where we should go from here.
'Let's keep going,' she replies as I put my coat over her shoulders.
I smile and nod, 'okay.'
When we reach Hindley Street I ask, 'what now?'
'Further,' she exclaims, excited. I laugh and we continue. We joke about dancing, and people who are obsessed with socialising, I tell her it must be my birthday by now. When we reach the end of Hindley Street she says she is hungry. We sit in the corner at McDonald's eating cheeseburgers, laughing and talking. Between bites and with a mouthful of food I tell her that her dress matches her eyes. She pauses and stares at me before breaking out in laughter. She tells me that my shoes match my hair and I laugh so hard I cannot finish my burger. When we are done we jump into the nearest taxi. The driver asks where we are headed, we cannot contain ourselves and between giggles we tell him to head West, down Henley Beach Road. She pulls a small flask from her bag and we trade swigs while the driver isn't looking. The warm gin slides down my throat and makes my eyes water.
'Hey, where are you guys going?' The irritated driver asks.
'Keep going,' she almost yells at him and we both laugh. He drops us off near the end of the road, close to the beach and we run down to the water, but don't go in. She points at the orange sky and we look back East at the tip of the rising sun, visible over the hills.
She stands on her toes and kisses me on the cheek, 'Happy Birthday.'