[nsw-fic] The Obscure Circumstances Surrounding the Death of Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley

[Sabretooth]

The Obscure Circumstances Surrounding the Death of Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley and the Ramifications Thereof

 

 

 

Imagined, Composed & Written by Sabretooth

Partially Proofread by Bee Hoon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Prologue, Concerning the Aforementioned Untimely Demise of Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley

 

Picture a room. It is a conference room, consisting of little more than a great table that spanned the length of some three metres. Its top is made of finely polished black granite. A white strip of a material resembling marble forms a rectangle, about six inches into the table.

 

Chairs surround this table, all designed to fit the general modernist aesthetic of the room. Tall chairs are these, looking like scaled-down versions of a futuristic throne. Black, all of them, they have little to show for the collector of furniture art; instead catering to the audience that finds beauty in simplicity, art in everyday life.

 

Two of the room's walls, which are facing each other, are windows into two gigantic aquariums. All sorts of fishes lurk here, all kept under a rigorous discipline by their maintainers. They were subjects to a primitive form of fascism, applied across species and habitats.

 

These great windows into miniature oceans were lined with flora, lush and tropical; designed specifically for decoration and attractiveness. One wondered their presence in a modern conference room; why would one want to discuss corporate details in a jungle?

 

The room itself is bathed in a golden-yellow light filtered through the great panes of a tilted window that served as the room's third wall. The polarised glass overlooked a busy city, letting in just enough light to make the room lively and comfortable, which, it must be said, was a lot of light, and not as little as you had imagined.

 

In every way, the room was pleasing to the eye. Who wouldn't fancy having a seat in those elegant, tall chairs and discussing the newest financial doldrums, or the poor temper of the person higher in authority, or perhaps even comment on the room? It was, in every way, a fine model for conference rooms. But it has nothing to do with our story.

 

That is a lie. It does have a little to do with our story, namely in the fact that this room was spied by the eye of Marcus Aquilinus. Marcus would not comment on this discovery, as his mind had not yet discovered this room, and never will, it must be said. The information his optical tissue had sent with great efforts to his brain had made no impact, sadly.

 

Marcus was not, however, mentally affected. He was deep in consideration and could not afford a moment to loose thought or wispy daydreams. Marcus was a messenger, and he had an important task at hand. Dodging through the traffic of a metropolitan city, his messenger bag bouncing off his busy hips, Marcus had a message to deliver.

 

He knew the importance of his message. As any good messenger, he knew it was imperative to get his message delivered in time and as safely as possible. There are no excuses in the line of a messenger, and Marcus understood this sincerely. He aligned his red baseball cap and ran across the pavement, ignoring the odd pedestrian staring at this blazing madman.

 

Marcus skidded to halt. He took a discreet look at the message he brought with him in his messenger bag. He took a deep breath. Before him was the castle where he might find the man he was to deliver his precious message to. But it was not a castle. It was a mall. But what the building was is of little consequence to our intrepid messenger as we now see him marching towards the entrance.

 

A metal detector served as the mall's entrance piece, welcoming honest shoppers and screaming like a banshee, should it come across a dishonest one; for their death would be nigh. But not all banshees are picture-perfect, it would seem, because the perpendicular banshee stationed outside the mall shrieked as Marcus dodged in.

 

Security guards were alerted and shoppers stopped in their tracks. Why was this banshee screaming? She was never supposed to scream. Marcus did not pay heed to any of these events. A messenger's mind is fixed to his destination, and no distractions may be permitted. Who would hire the messenger who, at the shriek of a banshee, stops dead in his task?

 

Escalators rode triumphantly in their perpetual doom, and the shoppers used them without discrimination. Marcus was more kind to them, as he ran with all the energy in his muscles, roughly pushing bored shoppers out of his way. When he had jumped onto the floor, he could see security guards rushing for him. They came from below, they came from above and they came form the sides. But Marcus did not care.

 

Marcus saw his destination before him. The regal knight he was to deliver his message to can now be seen through his eyes, inside an apparel store. Let us take a moment to examine him closely, for he will not be with us for very long.

 

The man was between 20 and 30 in age, a genial stubble hugging his dimpled smile. Short brown-black hair could be seen on his head, and his eyes were welcoming and deep. The man looked like he was a good person to be around with, a worthy friend. He wore a loose grey T-shirt, and ill-matched black jeans.

 

We see a smile spread on Marcus' joyous face as he rushes triumphantly towards the store. Security guards are running, but their velocities appear negligible to our eyes. Marcus kicks his way into the door and bursts into an elated expression. He opens his messenger bag, as the previously mentioned man looks on with enthusiastic surprise.

 

Marcus unveils the envelope: black, made of some fine metal and with a sleek barrel. It is what less romantic folks would call a gun, and those wishing to receive more acclaim from their local peer group would point out that it was a pistol. One shopper could testify that the gun was raised and perhaps loaded.

 

And loaded it was, as one of Marcus' ten fingers rested nonchalantly on its trigger. Marcus held not a malicious or contemptuous smile, but a satisfied one. The trigger was pulled. The letter shot forth, penetrating the air for numerous nanoseconds before lodging firmly in the brain of the man destined to read this letter.

 

Our currently unnamed man falls to the floor. A pool of blood can be seen spreading around his head, drenching his body. Shoppers scream and start leaving the ill-fated store. Security guards are right outside. It is not a pretty picture, but beauty lies in the art of the beholder.

 

For our beholder named Marcus, the scene was the utmost at creative beauty: it was the most surreal work Salvador Dali could produce, to the most well-detailed of Rembrandt, it was the finest melody composed by Beethoven, or any other masterpiece the reader may choose to name. And what greater joy than to add the final touches to such a beauty?

 

Marcus would fire three more shots in the corpse, revelling in every spurt of blood and every beautiful moment of the bullet ripping apart the flesh, digging a cozy home inside the human body that had already been violated by another bullet. Marcus then decided to do the ultimate.

 

It would be difficult to describe the moral hurdles faced by Marcus as he turned the pistol to himself. Marcus would be one with the artistic beauty he had just witnessed, and what greater credit could go to the artist than to be one with his creation? Marcus would also, however, commit the cardinal sin of every messenger: to read and understand a private message.

 

Marcus died in the apparel shop just as security guards swarmed the place, only seconds too late to stop the man who killed Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley.

[Bee Hoon]

I like! I still object to the use of metal detectors, but it does kind of foreshadow what happens. Which I suspected:P The way you describe the room and just blow it off had me in giggles, as did Marcus' screwy perspective. It's very whimsical in a demented sort of way, and hence is fantastic

 

Kudos for a very refreshing read, and daring to be different!

[Litofsky]

Very well done, good Sir Sabre! I quite enjoyed the thoughts of Marcus, his single-minded determination towards the goal that had so preoccupied his mind, and the eventual joining between the creator and created.

 

I cannot help but wonder about the nature of Marcus' daydream, and how it is tied to the private message that he read? I speculate that "Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley" is, in fact, not his real name, as it seems a conglomeration of famous Brits. I shall have to dig deeply into this, Sabre, for your symbolism is very interesting (or so it would appear).

 

Will this fic continue, or was it just a single chapter? Pray tell, good sir, that this shall continue! I look forward to your style of writing, and the way you paint such a vivid picture with your words.

 

Once again:

[Endorenna]

Wow, great description! I like it!

[Sabretooth]

Will this fic continue, or was it just a single chapter? Pray tell, good sir, that this shall continue! I look forward to your style of writing, and the way you paint such a vivid picture with your words.

Thank you good sir, and it will continue.

 

Thank you all, again.

[Sabretooth]

The First Part of the First Chapter, Regarding One-Fourth of an Unremarkable Day in the Life of Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley

 

 

 

Let us take a trip to the Victoria Falls. Located between Zimbabwe and Zambia, they are locally called Mosi-oa-Tunya, or "the smoke that thunders". A truly venerable name for such a remarkable work of art created by none other than the greatest artist of them all: Mother Nature.

 

Standing at a good 108 metres and squatting across 1.7 kilometres of width, the Victoria Falls are neither the tallest nor the widest of waterfalls. Why then, can they be considered so remarkable? They are indeed the ones with the most diverse wildlife of all. Would you expect to see husky elephants graze across the fields at the Niagara Falls?

 

Apart from the lofty beasts, we see many other assorted varieties of animals in the vicinity of the Victoria Falls. Picture the great white rhinos, imported from South Africa; or perhaps you will take a fancy to the towering giraffes and the unique zebras; two species one would find on any decent Africa Tourism brochure.

 

Picture a situation wherein the Mosi-oa-Tunya dries up. It could be for whatever reason the reader may fancy. Picture what would happen to these motley species of animals. They would be eternally thirsty, as the Zambezi river would run dry. Imagine the hippopotami, no more idling in the vast bodies of water; the antelope, falling to the jaws of the cheetah as they wither from lack of energy.

 

These species would die a slow, brutal and horrifying death if the Victoria Falls were to dry up. It would truly be a sight so sad, that no number of apologies could make up for it. It would be mass slaughter in a sadistic fashion. And yet the world would not so much as broadcast it for a week before settling for the newest in global politics, or sport. Who would think of the thousands of poor animals, left to suffer and die a tedious death.

 

The Victoria Falls that flowed from the shower in the bathroom of Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley had dried. A single drop fell from the pores of the showerhead, as if apologizing on the behalf of the local plumbing. Sir Wellesley was not fond of being naked in the shower when it runs dry, and so he allowed a few curses to escape.

 

Had we been present in the bedroom of Sir Wellesley, we might have heard more curses, in order of creativity. Sir Wellesley would barge in, his generally genial face frustrated, wearing nought but a modest towel and showing off his admirable six-pack abs, or so he would like us to believe. Putting on formal clothes after dousing his odour with deodorant body spray, Sir Wellesley was ready for work.

 

Sir Wellesley did not have the time to quarrel over the sorry state of plumbing in his apartment building. He had important work to do in a corporate office far away downtown.

 

It was not a very comfortable ride to work. Rocking in a suburban train to the rough lullaby of the train's monotonous, yet addictive melody; Sir Wellesley could have asked for a seat if he knew whom to ask. The seats in this specific train were filled with people who were both uninteresting and uninterested in anything.

 

Since Sir Wellesley's station is still a ways off, we will examine his attire. We see him wearing a crisp, yet affordable white shirt, unremarkable black trousers and a striped red-black tie that was not of his liking, but was the only one he had. He hadn't bought it, mind you - it was a gift from his sister.

 

After pretending to fix his tie, he looked up. Sir Wellesley then beheld the invasion of Normandy by Allied troops on D-Day. One may contend that Sir Wellesley was insane. I can assure you that Sir Wellesley was no more insane than our kind reader.

 

The smell of death is in the air. No birds chirp or coo on this field; their mirth has been replaced by the sharp words of rifles and submachineguns. The sky is overcast, as if hanging its head in shame over the cataclysm below it. Machineguns roar from the top of the easy slope.

 

The Maschinengewehr 42, one of Nazi Germany's most feared and powerful weapons can be seen deployed across the French coast. Firing 1500 rounds per minute, this remarkable machine of mass murder could potentially murder 1500 men per minute. At such a rate, a single MG42 could slaughter through the world's population in a mere eight and a half years.

 

Assuming that such an operation had begun in the minds of a twisted German soldier, Private Hawkins from the United States of America was first in line. The private could be seen hiding behind the corpse of a dead tank. His heart beat fast, but with nowhere near the frequency of the hellish machinegun.

 

He saw a comrade behind another fallen armoured vehicle. This man had a disturbed, almost suicidal expression on his face as he twitched in accordance with the blazing machinegun. Hawkins watched him closely. He could see himself in the disturbed man.

 

Just then a sudden silence hit the air. The machineguns had stopped. Hawkins' face showed surprise. He looked at the man he had spied, and they looked at each other now, uncertain. Hawkins knew that this was their chance. Seconds passed. No more MG42 music.

 

Hawkins nodded. He looked at the men around him and asked them if the machineguns had stopped. They were all dead. He knew that there was no asking them. Hawkins was not the smartest man in his regiment. But he may have been the most courageous.

 

Hawkins took off. He adopted the most heroic stance he could muster as he ran like a hero out of his cover and firing insanely at the machinegun nests above, with a lung-killing battlecry.

 

Sir Wellesley pushed his way out of the train, knowing that it could start any moment. He also knew that he was getting late. He was pounding up the stairs when he heard the train moving out of the station, starting up its overplayed track. Sir Wellesley was therefore, satisfied at getting something right.

 

Pvt. Hawkins pushed his way up the slope, knowing that the machineguns could start any moment. He also knew that he was the only one alive. He was pounding up the wet soil when he heard the machineguns roll, starting up their overplayed track. Pvt. Hawkins was therefore, dead.

 

Faint-hearted readers may be consoled in knowing that Pvt. Hawkins died a swift, painless death. But the truth is, Pvt. Hawkins suffered agonizingly in death. He thought of his mother, of his childhood, of his first crush, of the good grades in school, of the small things in life, of the loss of his virginity (or so he hoped) and finally, of the family of the machinegunner that had killed him.

 

Pvt. Hawkins wished that terrible things would befall that family. And then Pvt. Hawkins died when a bullet pierced through his right eye and into his brain.

[Endorenna]

Aww...that was sad. I'm a little confused about what Pvt. Hawkins had to do with Wellesley--but I guess that's what the next chapters are for!

[Bee Hoon]

No birds chirp or coo on this field; their mirth has been replaced by the sharp words of rifles and submachineguns.

As I've said, I like

 

Sir Wellesley pushed his way out of the train, knowing that it could start any moment. He also knew that he was getting late. He was pounding up the stairs when he heard the train moving of the station, starting up its overplayed track. Sir Wellesley was therefore, satisfied at getting something right.

 

Pvt. Hawkins pushed his way up the slope, knowing that the machineguns could start any moment. He also knew that he was the only one alive. He was pounding up the wet soil when he heard the machineguns roll, starting up their overplayed track. Pvt. Hawkins was therefore, dead.

Very nice parallels and puns!

 

All in all, it has a different tone compared to the first chapter, but is still good--feels really surreal, for some reason. Or maybe it's just how schozzled I am I kinda miss the deranged feel of the prologue, but that's okay;D We'll just have to see what you scrounge up for the next chapters. Prologue=9.5, Chapter 1=9.

[Litofsky]

Pvt. Hawkins wished that terrible things would befall that family. And then Pvt. Hawkins died when a bullet pierced through his right eye and into his brain.

 

Beautiful parallel chapter, Sabre! I am curious: is the MG42 the equivalent of Marcus, and how he killed Wellesley? I must say, this first part of the first chapter was quite worth the read.

[Sabretooth]

The Second Chapter, Which, to the Reader’s Inconvenience, has been Placed Directly After the First Part of the First Chapter; and That in Which the New Character of Prince Ahmed the Poet is Revealed

 

 

 

Prince Ahmed was sitting atop a cluster of rocks overlooking a serene rivulet. He wore grandiose clothing, a great black coat with golden embroidery that he had spent a considerable amount of his income upon. One may argue that Prince Ahmed had no sense of financial management, seeing as how he barely ever had anything to eat. But one will have to excuse him, for he was, after all, Prince Ahmed the Poet.

 

We now see him holding a pencil to his blank notebook. He wears a frown of contemplation upon his brow and rests his head regally upon his left fist. He looks at the river as it goes giggling across the smoothened pebbles; the clouds as they wander incessantly for whatever purpose God gave them; the stones and rocks as they sit forever, serving those greater and more intelligent than they are.

 

He let his expensive ink flow across the notebook, finally aware of what he was going to write.

 

Oh daring clouds,

 

He scratched it out and began on the next line.

 

Oh Lord of Heaven and Earth,

 

He scratched it out and began on the next line.

 

Oh great natural beauty,

In your laps I sit today.

Oh beautiful sun-father,

Watch over my

 

He searched his unexceptional vocabulary for a word to finish the verse with. He thought hard, subconsciously reminding himself of the excellent first three lines he had composed. He then scratched it all out, tore the page, crushed it and tossed it into the poor rivulet. He gazed into the fields that lay beyond, stretching into the horizon. He sighed.

 

It took several more minutes for Prince Ahmed to finalize on what he was going to write. Taking a deep breath, he began. He spoke aloud as he wrote, as if reciting before an audience that was actually interested in his poetry (an absolute fantasy, I might add).

 

Oh great heavens wide,

I implore thee!

Show this poor poet his way,

Ahmed the sheep hath lost his shepherd.

 

He thought hard on this. He liked the four lines very much, although he had intended the last two lines to rhyme. Seeing as he could not fix them, he let them be and instead opted to convert the poem to blank verse. He followed it up with three more verses and recited each louder than the last:

 

Oh great heavens wide,

I implore thee!

Give this poet the prosperity

To face all disaster and calamity

 

Oh great heavens wide,

I implore thee!

Shed some wisdom pure,

May my ignorance be cured!

 

Oh great heavens wide,

I implore thee!

Bring me a rain of fame and fortune,

So that there may be harvested seeds of greater

 

He sighed and angrily tore the paper and threw the whole notepad into the rivulet. His head sank into his hands as he sobbed loudly, almost dramatically. A passing wanderer may have mistaken him for a talented stage actor practicing in solitude.

 

But then, a voice came. "I too, have failed at poetry." It was a very deep voice, slightly abrasive. If one can imagine a man with an impressive bass speaking through an iron grating, it still won't be anywhere near to the unusual voice Ahmed heard.

 

When he turned, he saw a being made of the same rock he had been sitting on. Some seven feet tall, this being was made of foliated grey Gneiss rock. Assuming that the reader has never seen a humanoid locomotive assembly of Gneiss rocks, we will observe him in further detail:

 

 

His feet were shaped like a crude boot, and Ahmed guessed that they must weigh at least 5 kilos. His legs were brawny and his thighs could have been a whole foot in girth. His body seemed to have some sort of an unexplainable, unobservable mechanism that controlled the movement of all the various rocks and stones that comprised his body.

 

 

His thighs entered his abdomen into what looked like sockets. Every time this man would move, one could hear the rough grating of his thigh against his pelvis. The being did not appear to have any visible genitalia around the pelvic area.

 

He had a robust chest, which any happy camper could have mistaken for an excellent place to picnic on. Alternately, the greatest of crests of medieval knights would have been miniature against it. It was truly a chest to behold, massive as it was.

 

Fearsome and lofty arms emerged from under his shoulder, each large enough to shatter a stone wall without much effort. With some repeated pounding, this giant may have been able to destroy professionally built walls as well. His fists alone were as large as watermelons.

 

His face however, was an oddity. It would appear sculpted at first glance, but on closer inspection one would find that it was composed of various rocks. It had no distinct mouth, nose or pair of eyes. Still, there could be seen a general contour of the humanoid face.

 

His head was crowned by a plume of rudimentary Neanderthal spearheads. He looked, in every manner, like a statue from some primitive culture, such as the Polynesians (his face may be considered as a distant cousin to the Moai Statues), Mayan Golden Age art, or the ancient works of Buddhists.

 

Prince Ahmed stared in awe at this being that had appeared out of nowhere, out of nothing. And it was no statue, he guessed; Ahmed had no trouble imagining this being speaking in the tremendously deep voice he had heard previously. Gripped by surprise, "Wh-what-" was all he managed to utter.

 

"I, too, have failed at poetry." the being repeated, albeit less startlingly. "And I have abandoned the blue blood of ink and the wooden corpses of paper. And I have ascended to a form of poetry higher, in observation: the pristine beauty of the surrounding world, its wondrous elements dancing in an obligatory masquerade ball; yes, dancing and squirming under each others touch, before the eyes of the sun, under the shade of the moon, over the firmament and across the oceans wide; such that they may be at harmony and may prosper and forever survive through all trifles and troubles, may they-"

 

"Wh-what are you?" Ahmed finished and laid down more assertively.

 

"What am I?" the being asked. It then turned to the earth, as if its eyes were now downcast. He suddenly entered a pensive stupor, as if contemplating the abstruse metaphysical convolutions of the question. It gave Ahmed several seconds more to inspect the being, after which he began more composedly,

 

"You can't be real! I must be dreaming! I mean- you are made of stone! Rocks and stones! You- Ha! You can't be real! I'm dreaming, right? Of course I'm dreaming! And now I'm lucid dreaming! I can probably float now-" Ahmed attempted floating up into the air and summoning a number of nymphomaniac virgins, but failed at both tasks.

 

"This is no dream, mortal: that I may promise you. I am as alive as- well, you. I am called The Poet of Stone and I share your trade. I am-"

 

"What is this? You can't be made of stone! How can a statue talk? Stones can't speak!"

 

"Neither can organic tissues, and behold!" the Poet of Stone held out his arms at Ahmed, as if exhibiting a slave to an invisible party.

 

"But I've never heard of a being made of stone. It is preposterous! What elaborate prank is this? Where did you kids get the money for this kind of tomfoolery?" Ahmed protested.

 

"I am neither prank nor company, neither illusion nor fantasy." the Being paused, as if appreciating his own poetry. "I am alive, true and I am here."

 

Ahmed then took several moments, glaring incredulously at this talking stone giant. He looked him over numerous times, looking for giveaway cracks or machinery, but saw none. The being was an impeccable collection of rocks and stones that could somehow talk, move and perform other organic functions.

 

"What do you want?" Ahmed asked, playing along. He tried to imagine answers for this question.

 

The being was, however, swift in replying: "I want nothing but your friendship and appreciation, as a Poet and a fellow man. I am a lonely person and would like a friend, a good friend to talk to, to share experiences with, to dine with and write poetry with, a good friend who will-"

 

"Fellow man. Hmph." Ahmed retorted. "I ought to take you to the market and make money out of you. Oddities such as you aren't easy to find. Who knows what you are, but I reckon'a taking you to the market will clear all up, eh? Come along!"

 

"Very well."

 

Ahmed was a little taken aback by the simple compliance, but didn't show his surprise. He turned around and began trotting away to the local town market, where he'd find answers. "And where have you been, oh Great Poet of Stone?" he inquired.

 

"Over there." The Poet of Stone curtly replied, pointing sheepishly at the spot where Ahmed had been sitting and composing poetry before. The rocks were all missing. Ahmed's jaw fell for a few moments when he saw this.

 

"The- then- you- you were the-" Ahmed blurted incoherently.

 

"Your buttocks are very soft."

 

Prince Ahmed's heart skipped a beat.

[Litofsky]

Very intriguing new chapter, Sabre. The Great Poet of Stone was a very unique character, and seemed very happy to be in contact with a(nother) person. Your descriptions of said Stone Poet were also very nice.

 

Correct me if I am wrong, but after much thought (meaning a sudden epiphany), I have come to the conclusion that the Mall from the Prologue and the Victoria Falls from the First Part of the First Chapter are, in fact, the same: should the mall/Victoria Falls should 'dry up,' then their dependents (humans and animals, respectively) would die without said 'places.'

 

Bravo, sir. Your parallels are most interesting.

[Sabretooth]

Correct me if I am wrong, but after much thought (meaning a sudden epiphany), I have come to the conclusion that the Mall from the Prologue and the Victoria Falls from the First Part of the First Chapter are, in fact, the same: should the mall/Victoria Falls should 'dry up,' then their dependents (humans and animals, respectively) would die without said 'places.'

Wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you.

[Bee Hoon]

Ahmed attempted floating up into the air and summoning a number of nymphomaniac virgins, but failed at both tasks.

Hhahahaha! Don't lie Sabre, you would have tried too ;D

 

I found the usage of metric measurements rather jarring, but otherwise, I loved it! Prince Ahmed is such a drama queen, and the last thing that the Great Poet of Stone said really cracked me up! Ahmed's attempts are poetry are splendidly described, as is the Poet of Stone's appearance. I do hope they'll continue to make an appearance! Thus far, you've succeeded in keeping up with the whimsical tone, so kudos to you

[Sabretooth]

The Third Chapter, Which Has Been Placed Before the Second Part of the First Chapter, and Which is Concerned With an Important Event That Occurred in the Life of Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley as He Returned From a Camping Trip

 

A Land Rover slides down a suspension bridge as the sun hangs high above. There is not a soul on the highway, and the SUV parks comfortably. Four passengers leave the car and idly amble towards the railing.

 

Donald Williams Cadbury lit a cigarette and offered it to Sir Richard Raleigh Wellesley. The latter complied and took a generous puff. Cadbury lit another one, which was snatched by Elizabeth Alan Kilmister. Cadbury finally took the last one in the pack, this one for himself.

 

Frederick Bruce Mallory on the other hand, had strayed from the group. He could be seen strolling about the sidewalk, looking over the railing. Wellesley gave him a passing look. The highway was empty and the calm that pervaded was neither serene nor unsettling.

 

"What's with Fred?" Cadbury asked, noting Mallory's unconcerned gait, "He's been quiet all day. You were with him last night, Wellesley: you tell me."

 

"We were just watching TV, or whatever you can call that thing in the lodge" Wellesley said.

 

"And he said nothing?" Cadbury idly asked, gazing into the great mass of water before and below him. Wellesley looked over the horizon, where the waters brimmed to touch the skies. There were light ripples across the water surface that brought a sense of life to the sea.

 

"Nope. Just watching TV."

 

"I wouldn't suppose Fred talked to you, Liz?" Cadbury turned to Elizabeth Alan Kilmister. "Come to think of it, I've never seen him talk to you."

 

Elizabeth dragged on her cigarette before answering with a wry smile, "Nope."

 

"Okay." Cadbury announced, or more accurately, concluded. Moments passed as the three travellers looked at the sea. "You know, the sun must look great setting here."

 

"We're facing south, you tool." Elizabeth corrected.

 

Wellesley laughed with her and gave her a high-five, while Cadbury ignored them. "I could be on pot now." he whimsically uttered.

 

Mallory was looking over the railing of the suspension bridge, as if looking to see the point directly below his feet. Or approximating the bridge's altitude. Wellesley looked at him, and a memory stirred to life.

 

"Don, you remember something? Back in school, when Mallory said he was going to suicide? No wait, you weren't there, we were at this pizza- Liz, you were there, right?"

 

"I remember the words," Liz looked up as she quoted, "I don't believe in God, I believe in myself. I believe that my body is my own, and if there is anyone that will kill me, it will be me."

 

"Fred said that?" Cadbury asked skeptically.

 

"He used to be more... expressive in school."

 

Wellesley glanced at Mallory once more, who was pensively leaning on the railing. "So I asked him about that. He said that he was serious. He's going to commit suicide someday. I think he even has a date planned."

 

"And you're saying this now because..." Liz motioned her eyes at Mallory.

 

"Well, I dunno. He may, he may not. He isn't exactly the most readable guy, you know."

 

"You know what, Wellesley? You give me the creeps all the time." Liz remarked with a smile, so as to not sound offensive. "I mean one second we're just here, calmly looking at the sea, smoking and talking. And now here's Wellesley saying Fred's gonna commit suicide."

 

"Hey, I didn't say he's going to commit suicide, it just occurred to my mind and I was wondering if he's going to make good on that."

 

"Right okay, folks." Cadbury interrupted, "I don't think Fred is going to commit suicide. Now I may not have experience in the self-mutilation department, but Fred's not a suicider. I know it- you look at him, I mean- I look at him, you can tell he ain't gonna kill himself."

 

"I thought he was rather serious." Liz countered.

 

Cadbury made a face at Elizabeth. "Fred. Serious. Wrong frequency, girl."

 

"Well yeah, but-" Wellesley began, but was taken over by Elizabeth,

 

"I guess he meant it like, he'll die by his own hand and not anyone else's, like- he'll decide when his life is over."

 

Cadbury raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. All three gazed at calm Frederick Mallory, who was still observing the scenery. "Why?" Cadbury whimsically asked.

 

"What why?" Wellesley asked, looking at Cadbury. "It's his philosophy, I respect it."

 

"Too much thinking." Cadbury snapped, chucking his cigarette stub into the water below. He watched it fall in an unsteady arc, now wavering, now flying, at all times speeding down uncontrollably. It went down, down and finally penetrated the water. Ripples floated away, smoothening the disturbed water.

 

When Cadbury looked up, Wellesley was headed towards Mallory. "I thought he'd never leave." Elizabeth commented.

 

"Hey Fred, what's up?" Wellesley approached with his wide grin. "You want a smoke?"

 

"No, I'm cool." Mallory's blue eyes looked unusually comprehensive when seen up-close. Frederick was not a very imposing man, but looked just appealing enough to be likeable. He didn't say a word to Wellesley, still leaning passively on the railing.

 

"No seriously, what's up? I ain't heard a word from you today."

 

"You remember that day, when I said I'd die by my own hand?"

 

"Well yeah, heh- we were just talking about that right now, how did you know?"

 

"Yeah well, I can see you guys looking at me, you know. So I was contemplating."

 

"Contemplating?" Wellesley glanced back at Elizabeth and Donald, both of whom looked mildly amused.

 

"Yeah. See, Wellesley? This is my body. I decide whether I live or not. And only I have that right, to decide what I see and feel; what I think, what I am afraid of, what I like. There's no fate, or God, or-"

 

"Existentialism. It's called existentialism. Nietzsche. Ayn Rand, maybe?"

 

"I dunno, I don't read philosophy."

 

"You sure do think of it a whole lot."

 

Mallory afforded a curt smile. "You know how high we are?" he asked, taking a step on the railing to get a better view as he peered down. Wellesley took a look at his other two companions, who were now disinterested in Fred.

 

"No?" he got up on the railing himself and peered down. "Can you even guess this sort of-" Wellesley began as Mallory got up and stood upright on the railing, smiling at Wellesley. "G-get off, man." Wellesley uttered.

 

"Why? You think I'll suicide?" Mallory grinned back. "No man, it's just kinda- freaky. You talking about all that suicide stuff and now you're- I mean, heh, even if you don't suicide, you might just trip and go-"

 

"No. I decide that." Mallory grinned back. Wellesley, in an attempt to not look any less cool than Mallory, got up on the railing himself. "Wow." The position gave an unusual high of floating in the wind, over the great sea ahead, into the great expanse of the skies above. "It's beautiful."

 

"It's really be-" Wellesley looked at Mallory. He wasn't there. He saw something at the very edge of his vision. Mallory's body was plunging into the air, falling, falling. Wellesley felt a vertigo ram into his head from behind. He threw himself back, falling off the railing and back onto the sidewalk.

 

Mallory continued to dive in, like a human arrow piercing through the skies, attacking the sea below. Wellesley looked breathlessly, feeling the blood escaping his heart and brain. He couldn't move a limb, couldn't think a thought; his entire body was fixated on Mallory.

 

Splash. Mallory disappeared. "F-Fred!" Wellesley screamed. Elizabeth and Donald looked at that exact spot in horror. Elizabeth had a hand over her mouth, Donald's eyes looked as if they were ready to pop off.

 

Wellesley felt his feet give in and he fell to his knees. His head was spinning. "Fred." he spoke in a whisper. "What the hell, Fred. What the hell."

[Endorenna]

That was a little freaky. The Wellesly fella had a bit of a rough ride before he got shot in the first chapter.

[Bee Hoon]

when Mallory said he was going to suicide?

...commit suicide...

 

Liz motioned her eyes at Mallory.

Sabre can do better than this!

 

"Why? You think I'll suicide?" Mallory grinned back. "No man, it's just kinda- freaky. You talking about all that suicide stuff and now you're- I mean, heh, even if you don't suicide, you might just trip and go-"

Commit! Commit! MOO!!!

 

Wellesley felt a vertigo ram into his head from behind.

...felt vertigo ram...

 

Wellesley felt his feet give in

Suggestion: use legs instead

 

ALl in all, this chapter definitely felt less surreal. Wellesley, strangely enough, seems to be the pragmatic one here while Mallory is that odd dreamer. Donald and Liz just appear to want time for hanky panky >.> Fred seems like an intriguing fellow--I like how he jealously guarded his mastery over his own fate. Good work!

[Sabretooth]

...commit suicide...

Do not start or end sentences with ellipses. Also, that makes no sense.

 

Sabre can do better than this!

Out of context.

 

Commit! Commit! MOO!!!

Excessive use of exclamation marks, one repetition and two instances of incorrect capitalization. Also, last word is out of context.

 

...felt vertigo ram...

Do not start or end sentences with ellipses. Also, that makes no sense.

 

Suggestion: use legs instead

End your sentences with periods.

 

ALl in all,

One instance of incorrect capitalization.

 

Donald and Liz just appear to want time for hanky panky >.>

">.>"? Also, missing a hyphen in hanky-panky.

 

All in all, good reviewing. A little more polishing and you'll do just fine.

[Litofsky]

Interesting, Sabre. I have a question: towards the end, Fred says "It's beautiful." Does this refer to his power over his life, or the view? I hope it's the former, as it makes things seem more in your style of writing.

 

Besides that, I liked this chapter. As Bee mentioned, much less surreal, but still well done.