"I turn backwards to unholy, unspeakable, mysterious night.
Far off lies the world - sunk within a deep grave -"
(Novalis, Hymnen an die Nacht)
I.
Marie had always taken care
Of the Montmoreaux.
Her entire extended span was spent
In menial servitude and self-
Denial catering to each capricious
Whim and passing fancy;
For whatsoever
These resplendant paragons
Of societè deigned
To express
A desire.
She was bound
To this high-spawned clan
Of illustrious
Lineage, who were fortunate
In keeping heads intact
During Robbing Hooded upheavals
Of Bastille Storms.
Whilst nursing the present genteel
Marquis, who as swaddling babe
Suckled milk from ample breast,
Chewing on swollen teat
Till tears welled in her eyes,
She serviced the lust
Of Grandfather, Father; each Master,
With all the forebearance she could muster.
The fruit of these trysts;
Soft as pomegranites, wet with
Juice of her soaking loins, slick
As the ripest peach
Peeled with stone removed,
Were born -
Dead as daisies frostbitten
By the onset of Winter.
She felt relief
When her despondant womb
Concaved;
Refused anon to conceive.
And the pains of labour she had bourne
Like the agonies of fois de gras,
Became a dull ache within,
Of loss and dreams
And love.
The crushed revenants of maternal
Wishes redirected her devotion
To where most
It could channel innate needs -
To provide succour:
To the progeny of noblesse;
Legitimate by dint of formal
Union and the undiluted indigo
Which tinted their
Pure blood.
Antediluvian now,
Almost toothless and creased
To an amorphous degree,
She devoted in her dotage, declining
Energies towards the provenence
Of the last remaining Marquis de Montmoreaux-
A gelding in immaculate attire.
And felt these days
Intense disquietude at the encumbrance
Of new denizens in residence,
Disrupting the mindless anodyne
Of daily routine
Within the august household.
(II)
Strapping fellows, all and one.
Of stern countenance
And stoney mien.
Inscrutible sphinxes with
Bristling mustaches
That served
As furry hemlines to chisselled jaws
Above which, deep-set irises
Beneath verdant brows, viewed
With frank suspicion all who roamed
Mahogoney corridors within
The ancestral mansion.
Watch-dogs - both canine
And human stood sentry over wealth,
Accumulated by centuries
Of astute rapine; adorned now
With that patina of respectability,
Time and rewritten histories
Consistently provide.
Reknowned throughout the land;
Certain artifacts attain unwarranted celebrity
Exposed to the public domain by
Participation in popular exhibitions,
And the fawning soliloquies
Of obsequious journalists
Evaluating invaluable craftmanship.
And, quel dommage,
Opined the dapper gent
Of the Sûretè: Inspector Xavier Guichard -
In charge of securing collated items,
For His Excellency`s
Continued custodianship,
Amidst this recent spate
Of brutal burglaries afflicting
The most distinguished, beau monde
Citizens of La Troisieme Republique.
An avid broadsheet media
Did not hesitate to speculate -
To muse upon which target
Would follow next.
And which valued treasure
Was it they deemed
Most vulnerable?
Conjecture appeared to coalesce
Around the glittering horde
Of le Chateau de Montmoreaux.
Added to this were reports
Of several indistinct
Sightings various witnesses
Strove to recount;
In which dark phantoms slipped
In and out of shadow
Among the cultured shrubs,
Garlanded gazebos and statuettes
Of cavorting cupids
And feckless satyrs,
That abounded within
The expansive parkland
Girdling the grey-stoned Chateau.
Inspector Guichard felt this task
Fell far beneath his professional acumen.
But the Commissioner, dupe of departmental
Considerations, had broked no
Dissemblage from his rising protege.
Guichard chaffed at the onerous task
Imposed by his mentor
But knew better than to challenge
Political expediency
And elitist allocation
Of threadbare resources.
Risen through the ranks
By his own recognizance;
Achieving results; his pugnacious tenacity
Had rewarded his efforts
In moral combat against crime,
Affording him respect
And condescending nods,
From civil superiors.
This served to bely
His humble roots yet fire
Burgeoning aspirations.
He was thus loathe
To jeopardise
A budding career and affected
A deferential calm
Before the ranting paranoia
Of an insousiant Marquis
Demanding
The detective adhere to every
Eccentric indulgence concerning details
Of procedure and protection
For his unique inheritance.
Regarding the two grim
Stockily crafted gendarmes
Impeding ingress to Montmoreaux`
Private chambers where the most
Prized baubles took abode,
The Inspector paused
To review their deadly ordinance.
Barred without,
Festooned within with traps and hidden
Contraptions that would shriek alarm
At the most tenderfoot
Of unlawful entries,
The Marquis slept securely in this vault.
This sanctuary...
Or perchance -
Tomb.
Such was the mood of melancholy affecting
Guichard as upon his final round
Of inspection
He noted with methodical eye
Marie (he vaguely recalled her appellage),
Exiting the fortified apartments,
Silver tea-tray rattling to the shake
Of trembling, arthritic limbs,
Borne by exhausted bones.
We are conjoined he mused,
Siblings both.
At our so-called Betters` beck and call.
Hither and thither to squirm
Beneath a Patrician`s adamant Will,
Defined by a privilege
They take for granted.
As hounds, he muttered,
So used to the leash
As to render its application redundant!
Yet he kept these disturbing
Ruminations hidden
Behind a studied
Mask
Of diffident indifference.
His mind felt abuzz.
Fatigue washed through his senses.
There was one last thing
However before he could retire.
One last thing
Too tired to recall.
Guichard sucumbed with gaping
Yawn, to his cot in a hastily
Vacated minion`s bedchamber,
Resigned to wile away
Hours of fitful sleep and restless slumber.
It was some time later
He awoke
And remembered
The final duty he had neglected
To perform.
(III)
Her delicately curved fangs bit
Deep puncturing
The throbbing blue vein -
Swollen, ensconced
In scrawny furrows of dessicate skin
Like a shroud about the victim`s neck.
Irma Vep`s lithe tongue
Slithered deftly into the fresh wound
To channel the soft
Gush of diverted blood
Into serrated maw, down
A gulping gullet
Eager to quench an enduring thirst
Riding her bowels and reddening
Her vision.
Vep sighed and shivered
The exquisite ecstacy of feeling
The supurative discharge trickle
In the back of her throat
Soon followed
By waves of death-throe ripples
Announcing with a final
Delectable shudder and sweet
Scented exhalation
The eviction of a soul from
Empty cadaver.
Appetites partially assuaged
Countess Vep raised her slim,
Svelte form, clad
In skin-hugging black, arched
Inwards her supple spine,
Stroking the smooth of her belly
From navel to pouting
Pudenda
And loosed a low belch
Of satisfaction.
Content
Though hardly bloated
By her brief repaste
She gazed down
At the supine body
And focused her attentions
On the chore before her.
Daintily cradling
The lolling head
She cut a deep
Incision in dermic dunes
Collating at the nape
Where spine grafts forth
A neck askew.
Nails like razors commenced
A circumvallation
Of the head slicing flesh
Like sharkfins through the breakers.
Till her fingertips met
In clavicle dip
Below the throat whereby
She groped inside the furrows,
Secured a tentative
Slipshod grip pulling slowly
Upwards, rounding jib
Of jutting chin.
Peeling...
Gently.
Rubbery lips were circumcised
In quick taloned snips.
She passed the bridge
Of aquiline nose her own
Nostrils flaring
With effort.
She scooped errant folds
Behind the aural lobes reaffirming
Her loosening clasp.
A sodden ripping
Sound disturbed the still
Of a moonless sacral night.
Wet tearing fed
The silence
With a hellish rasping
Whisper.
Wisps of hair
Adorning a balding pate
Wavered to and fro
As the crown of this
Denuded skull was scalped.
With a sucking plop
Like the retrieval
Of a slobbering lipless
Kiss smacking gums,
She pulled it free.
Lidless bulging
Eyes on a faceless
Visage smeared bloody burgandy
Were testament to Vep´s
Dexterity.
She held the dripping
Cowl aloft
Grinned triumphantly
And set to work
With bone needle
And cat-gut thread.
Unblinking eyes
Stared at her
All the while.
IV.
When Inspector Guichard
Finally called on
The Marquis de Montmoreaux
Early at dawn
His Grace was in disarray.
His noble bearing cringing
In a corner - dishevelled
Babbling like a madman!
Those sculpted features
Refined by centuries
Of selective breeding
Were a ruin
Drawn into a rictus
Of horror.
A rushed search around
The sumptuous chamber
Revealed the absence
Of airlooms -
Jewels so precious
Each one a fortune
Worth, purloined.
The thief had left in their wake
Just this human wreakage -
A gibbering insane
Shattered scion of society.
Yet all locks
And contraptions contrived
To inform of forced entry
Were intact.
None had gained access
By illegal means!
How could this be?
Xavier Guichard masticated
On the quandry.
A conundrum that wracked
His addled wits
To the quick.
The last to enter
Should have been he -
Yet he had been woefully
Derelict in the execution
Of this particular
Commission.
Then the detective recalled
Sensations abuzz
Late in the eve
The night before.
The Maid?
Marie
Had been the last to leave?!
Panting, gasping
For breath in the grip
Of an adrenal palsy
Guichard burst into Marie`s
Bedroom chamber.
She lay upon a humble cot
Facing a wall
Of curling, crumbling crape.
Marie`s faded knick-knacks -
Her mean, pathetic haul
Of wordly possesions
Lay neatly placed,
Undisturbed.
No sign of items
Avariciously acquired...
Guichard stepped on a soaken
Stain as hand placed
Upon her shoulder,
He shook then pulled -
Turning her inclined head,
Clad still in maids´ bonnet.
Three hardy gumshoes spewed
Retching bile.
As their chief hastily withdrew
His lawmans arm
At the nightmarish sight
Of old Marie
Blackened chipped teeth
And goldfish eyes
Afloat in the red mess
Of a skull flayed;
Shorn of countenance -
Bereft of wrinkled veneer.
V.
The insane asylum
Was avoided
For the noble Marquis.
His lost marbles resided
Still pampered for
All assumed, by servants
Nurses, body guards and private physicians.
The constant attention
His mania required -
Nothing new.
Maries corpse
Failed to keep it`s appointment
With the coroner´s
Slab.
Gone before a thorough
Examination could be convened.
Body-snatchers,
Mendicants of cadavers to men
Of science, were blamed.
Guichard was demoted
And the whole embarrassing debâcle,
This sordid affair,
Hushed
And hastily forgotten.
VI.
No visitors
Can gain entry now
To the Chateau Montmoreaux.
Its majestic masonary crumbles
Coniacal turrets let slip loose tiles;
The stable-yard is ramshackle;
The grounds overgrown -
Unattended.
Expences despite a waning opulence
Are low. Staff numbers
Needlessly inflated
Have recently
Been culled.
Any deterioration in the level of service
Has not altered the Marquis`
Disposition.
Reassuringly the most
Experienced of household livery
Has taken charge once more.
In one single
Night of wholesale slaughter
Marie, returned from the dead,
Had glutted her hunger
In a feast of many souls.
Each dawn unfolds promptly
As the slobbering Marquis
Is spoonfed his breakfast
By a faceless fiend.
He knows only terror
As his faithful maid
Looks with ever hungrier eyes
At the pulse
Of throbbing carmine vessels
Coiling up his neck.
For each day that passes
Without blood
Is agony.
But her motherly devotion
Abates her screaming gut.
She would rather wither
Away to dust
Than harm a russet strand
Of her poor sick boy`s hair.
Being senile as an old bat
Her childless spinster`s
Maternal love
Is at times so strong,
She reverts to her role of wet-nurse.
As past glides into present
The fog of memory
Disperses.
Coddling him tightly
To her still heart,
Sagging, crinkled dugs
Scrawny as dried
Apricotes -
Are thrust at the gagging
Boy´s foaming spittle-flecked
Mouth.
He whimpers in protest
Yet eventually sucks
The scarlet drops
Lactated by mildewed teat.
And Marie
The Cowless Maid,
Smiles her perpetual
Salivating grin.
Content - for
She had always
Taken care
Of the Montmoreaux.
Further exploits of dastardly derring do whereby Countess Vep sets her sights on a gaudy faux-chateau south of Paris near the Bois de Sènart and displays a flair for certain other inviduous talents...
Author notes
Well. Here it is. Further horror noir from La Belle Epoch loosely based on characters from the French film Les Vampires from 1915. Xavier Guichard was actually the Chief of the Paris Police around 1905. So we might well be seeing more of him. The jewel thieves in the original film were based on a real crew of robbers The Bonnet Gang. And I found out only yesterday (long after completing The Cowl) that their third coup was the breaking into robbing and murder of a wealthy patron M. Moreau AND HIS MAID. Now what kind of wierd synchronicity is that!?!
I can sense certain persons disturbed moving in their graves...
Before reading perhaps advisable to print out? [Reward: double points]
Comments
1 - 17 of 17
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"Before reading perhaps advisable to print out?"
Now you tell me.
I was so enthralled in your gothic poem noir I didn't read the notes first.
Anyway. Bravo
I could visualise this read, nay performed, on the creaky boards of a stage with moth-eaten red curtains, in a fin de siecle theatre, in need of cash for the required TLC by someone like Stephen Fry or Rowan Atkinson. (Funnily enough there is one such theatre in my home town.)
I enjoyed what I am coming to appreciate as your unique way with the language, the rhythms and cadences you prepare for the reader, the delicious melodrama of your phrasing.
I could pick out loads of chunks I particularly savoured, but present this as an example
"Three hardy gumshoes spewed
Retching bile. "
Oh oh oh my daughter is an artist when she has the motivation, with a talent for comicbook strip. I can see this done illustrated in that form too.
You have made it so visual for performance and as an artform in itself for multi media possibilities.
Now I am really really going to deflate you and say, yes, I have to say it. I am Sorry, I just do. No , no, I cannot be bribed not to mention it. There is a spelling mistake in line 382- airloom should be heirloom.
Oh. I feel so much better for that.
And now- I decided I would not do the applause thing on SP because of the workshop nature of the site, but I just have to here, as I physically found myself applauding this.
. Rewarded 8
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It's amazing
You're better than Stephen King. I had to read this more than once to take it all in. I think it's awesome. I think it should be a book and a movie. It's not for the faint of heart, and it is graphic but it is genius. So I think you should just keep on going because the train has definitely left the station and is steaming along at a crazy pace - there's no stopping or going back now. Go for it - it's absolutely indescribable. Even though everyone else is able to offer more comprehensive and helpful comments, all I can say is that this just blows me away. It's frighteningly harrowing, awesome genius. -
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Cheers Lisa!
Thanx for generous praise.
Indeed I leapt on to the iron rung of the last train as the station left without me and I´m struggling to stay aboard the Disorient Express and avoid the conductor as I have no ticket. There are whooping redskins riding alongside, trainrobbers at the helm and the bridge ahead is down!
Unfortunately the creative trance my dim wits require to evoke the spectre of Vep is non-conducive to the harmonious focus of family life. Despite this I´ve completed 5 up to now (halfway there) and number 6 is firmly lodged in the hypnopompic state (my creative wom
awaiting a mid-wife muse to ease it past the cervix. Hopefully I´ll have time to give birth to another bastard baby Vep next week.
Warmest regards Lisa
gG
PS: Have you read Clive Barker´s Books of Blood? I recommend them for their blending of fantasy and horror
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Oh, and the picture is perfec
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Augh, gG!
So I finally pushed my way through the daunting language and disturbing images (which, truth be told, delight me rather than terrify) and have come to a conclusion. It is-once again-genius. I believe I'm still partial to the second poem, but this one has some incredibly unique and definitely praiseworthy attributes.
For example:
I love that the poem does not have so much of Irma...ironic as that may sound. Focusing instead on these mortals who will soon fall victim (directly and indirectly) to her ghastly person was a stroke of brilliance, in my opinion. It leaves a lot of questions and of course compels me to need to read the next installment.
I love your description of Marie...making her so damn helpless was also genius. Of course, you probably know that
A few supposed errors...
Line 266...superative should maybe be "superlative"?
Line 382...i wouldn't say it's an error but is "airloom" a pun?
And of course my favorite part...514-517. The hidden (or maybe just very subtle) rhythm there gives me the chills! Both because I am repulsed and merely because it is a brilliant rhyme...
Also 347...bloody burgundy. Bloody brilliant
194-197 gave me a good laugh.
Honestly, your description of Irma Vep feeding really delighted me...her belch was so human and yet the rest of her so fiendish...loved it.
Altogether, gG...I remain an avid fan of Irma and her adventures. I would say the only thing that was unclear to me was the age of the Marquis and the whole lineage there...I thought at first he must be the elderly grandfather but he is obviously not. Unless he is. I may just be confused, so clarification would be much appreciated.
Nienna
. Rewarded 4
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Thanx Nienna!
Ahrg! Ya got me fer sure! Heirloom and suppurative (discharge, though usually of pus). I`d like to try and pretend they were puns but... As I told Mart, who also greatly aided in spotting regrettable typos, my spelling progs gone on strike so I´m reliant on my own myopic eye for errors. So cheers a million for that and your kind words. Do you reckon Irma Vep might work as a kind of cross-over thing between poetry and prose that just might be quite accessible in book form for readers not usually turned on to poetry? Maybe the wordage is too complex. I`m not sure, but even though I can`t quite see the wood for the trees, I do have faith in this possibility. Well, we`ll have to see when episode 10 is finished. I`ve completed 4 (The Intra Venus)and 5 (The Frieze of Death)and have a working synopsis for 6 (tentatively titled The Heart of Necromancy) - so I guess I`m on my way. I`m not sure if I want to post them at sharepo yet, but if you like I could mail them to you. Just let let me know which email to send them to, Nienna IF you can stand more nasty Irmaology.
As for the marquis. Hopefully if you check out the second stanza it becomes clear (?) that Marie has been thru 3 generations of abuse but the "gelding" or impotent scion she now serves is one she wet-nursed, so if she`s an over-worked mid-60 year old Lordy should be around 40.
If this remains unclear I´ll make the neccessary alterations.
Thank you, Nienna.
Warmest
gG
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Bloody Good!
Finally, gG, I've flown through Part 3, three times, no less. It's a wonder of devilish delight as well as a cautionary tale: eventual woe to the overfed mighty.
Other than Marie, the most interesting character here is Guichard; I like your interluded description of his mind, emotions, ambitions, and I hope he reappears in future parts, of the poem that is...
Craggy in diction, gothic dark in phrases and rhythm, the whole thing is entrancing in its anatomical horror as metaphor for all the physical, emotional and power-full cruelty of the powerful on this planet. The writing is steeped in prophetical warning: Evil Lives.
Favorites:
Robbing Hooded unheavals...
She devoted in her dotage, declining/ Energies toward the provenence/ Of the last remaining Marquis...
Among the cultured shrubs,/ Garlanded gazebos and statuettes/ Of cavorting cupids/ And feckless satyrs...
Behind a studied/ Mask/ Of diffident indifference...
...a final/ Delectable shudder and sweet/ scented exhalation/ The eviction of a soul from/ empty cadaver...
(That one is my favoritest of the favorites.)...
...a faceless/ Visage smeared bloody burgundy/ Were testament to Vep's/ dexterity...
Bereftof wrinkled veneer... and
The Cowless Maid... with its play on Cowl. Gruesomely clever. All monkish Capuchins would, should, could?, love this.
gG, I thoroughly enjoyed this dark trip from revolutionary France through to its mid-19th century Third Republic, and I await Irma 4. And, if not in 4, then in 5: more of the mysterious Guichard, s'il vous plait.
Nice, neat write! A bientot.
Lad
. Rewarded 4
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Re Pentameterman
My gratitude squared, my friend, for reading (and rereading) Le Capuchon and thanx for highlighting your favourite parts. I`m really glad you liked the moody but capable character Xavier Guichard and his introspections in act II. This was probably the most difficult to write (and rewrite) but is I feel a vital element to the tale which is as you say devoted to the dehumanising aspects of class-difference and the masks everyone in such a system are forced to wear - hence the Cowl. The disgraced Inspector has a cameo in Vep IV - The Intra Venus. He doesn`t appear in Vep V - An Objet d´Art (though Edvard Munch does) but I have definite plans for Guichard. He will return.
Another striking coincidence I discovered by the way (if you read the author´s notes) is the name of the violent anarchist gang Les Vampires was based on - The Bonnet gang. Well there´s the obvious Maid´s bonnet BUT it`s also the word used in England for the US word "hood" of a car. Hood = Capuchon = Cowl. Freaky!
Personally, Lad, I was most satisfied with the opening bits of Marie: "The fruit of these trysts; Soft as pomegranites, wet with Juice of her soaking loins, slick As the ripest peach Peeled with stone removed, Were born - Dead as daisies frostbitten By the onset of Winter." especially. It´s wierd but I almost don`t feel like I`ve written this myself. There`s a distance to it. Do you ever feel that about stuff you write, Lad?
Thanx again.
Warmest regards
thrombosisonG
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Brutal!
The scene was firmly set in the epic and gothic acts (I) and (II). But even they couldn't prepare me for the graphic horror masquerading as lustful desire (for blood and skin) in act (III). The descriptions are worthy of any classic horror story from days of yore - we don't seem to get them like this anymore. I enjoyed this immensely - concentrating on every word and savouring every last bite!
Act (I) - pomegranates
Act (II) - chiselled
Act (II) - brokered
Act (II) - insouciant
Act (III) - desiccate
Act (III) - suppurative
Act (IV) - wreckage
Act (VI) - Conical
Act (VI) - Expenses
Act (VI) - Apricots
A wonderful and no doubt, extremely patient (on your part) piece of work! I really enjoyed taking 20 minutes out with a mug of caffiene and losing myself in the whole experience!
Cheers,
Mart
. Rewarded 4
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Indebted Mart!
Cheers a million for reading and pointing out the typos. My pc s correction prog isn`t working (overdose of neologisms I`ll warrant) and one tends to go a bit blind to errors when correcting ones own shit. I`m glad you caught the somewhat theatrical feel to The Cowl by denoting the segments "acts". I understand what you mean by contempory horror as opposed to "the days of yore", Mart. From what I`ve read; the case is often that the author doesn`t seem to really BELIEVE what is being depicted. This is of course vital. You have to be committed to write something worth being committed for. (There we go waxing homophonic again, mate!). A poetry prose format lends itself towards creating the right atmos and vibe to depict tragedy, humour and gore in a more profound (yet hopefully accessible) manner.
I completed Irma Vep IV - The Intra Venus, a few days ago. The themes you mention "lust and desire" are rather more apparent than in The Cowl.
Thank YOU for having the patience to read and extricate my arse from typo imperfections.
CHEERS!
gG
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Okay, gG...
I checked it out and yes I must say, it's not my cup of tea. I did however very much enjoy that cruelty afflicted upon that dastardly institution known as royalty. The concept of royalty is a fool's farce for the conquered in order to ease their minds into exploitation. I absolutely fing hate the high-brow and any who esteem themselves above others to the point of exploitation. Royalty is just a fancy name for gilded thieves. You paint the picture well and give such vermin a fitting end. There were deep roots to the French Revolution. All well based in being fed up with the concept of "Royalty". We are all the same. Those who would think to elevate themselves at the expense of others are truly the vermin of society. And the disease they spread? Selfishness. Your obvious and well written contempt for such institutions is why I loved this poem. But a question for you...are you a butcher? I can identify with your grisly descriptions as I have gutted animals. And your sounds and descriptions are spot on. Strangely and a bit disturbingly I enjoyed this. It's more a story than a poem and is a good workout for my translatory gray matter.
Al
. Rewarded 4
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Causing a stir at Teethtime.
I suppose my withering contempt for institutionalised edifices does shine through a tad, Al. Whether Avarictocracy or Churchianity - statist or private pirates of freedom. Irma with barely a murmur is I suppose my phantasy standard-bearer against all things (I find) dispicable.
Another thing I find utterly distasteful is the eating of flesh - especially meat tortured within factory farming along conveyor-belts of hell.
But be that as it may I`m flattered you ask if butchery be my trade. A vividsectionist imagination and an amazing pictorial book entitled "Encyclopaedia Anatomica" as well as certain websites (trawled through for hours - or what seemed like!) were invaluable in attempting to recreate a little realism in what for me is a mix of REAL-life horror (herein servitude and class-difference, crass materialism etc) and supernatural creepiness.
This is more storylike than usual I agree. Poetic prose or prosthetic poetry - not sure which. The Cowl is far more character driven than The Sacrificial Lamb - the next one promises to be intimately more ... well, intimate.
Cheers and thanx for reading despite it not being your cup of Tetley, Al.
gG
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Not for the faint-hearted
I sometimes REALLY worry about you gG and wonder should your nom de plume not be 'Hannibal'. Your 'feel' for this work is striking to say the least and your apparent knowledge of anatomy so authoritative as to be totally convincing and nothing short of stomach-turning betimes! It really only kicked off for me at the third stanza where you began to excel at the anatomic and tactile stuff. Your talents seem somehow wasted on the background stuff about Guichard and class prejudice down the station. You might have cut more quickly (sorry) to the chase as it were. Once you started ripping people up you settled into your stride and into the familiar dark flow of gnosisonG. It was a little less atmospheric than parts 1 and 2. Somehow we lived(and died) more among men than among vampires. I wanted to be curled among the spires of the castle looking down on my victims. The views offered here are of a more intimate and off-beat nature.If horror were my bag you would have made my halloween (nice timing by the way). As it is I think I'm going to throw up my nuts and apples! Brilliantly macabre.. Rewarded 4
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Anatomic Warfare
can be a grisly affair, indeed. Cheers for the review, Windhover. I deliberately altered the main perpectives for I.V.3 and toned down the architectural atmos so as to focus on individual fates in an attempt to portray persons in a far more intimate light. I believe one is obligated to alter the menu if patrons are to be retained. Irma (god bless `er) became the backdrop to events instigated however by her. With the Cowl I felt Vep to be a kind of Force of Nature disrupting life and limb of any she comes into the proximity of. This makes her good or evil aspect hopefully more ambiguous. She does what she does because that is her way - instinctively.
Part II might well benefit from a little condencing. Poetically I could perhaps have conveyed Guichard`s character and any sympathy he might warrant in fewer words. I was trying to build up a sense of foreboding whilst almost lulling the reader so that when part III`s Wham Bam Suck You Ma`am hit the fan, it would pack more punch. Like the ascent up the first steep incline on a rollercoaster.
Marie represents in the first part real true horror and the way domestic servents were treated in Europe and how East European women are the new chattels, and the way Indian and Filipino maids are raped and abused in the Gulf states. Like the Pedophile bishop in I.V.2 real life horror is hopefully the subliminal gut-rot that sticks around longer than the more immediately accessable gore. Guichard`s reflections on class disparities might have rubbed it in a bit but do fit in with the overt theme.
As for the covert theme: it`s about the destruction of body, mind and soul (all we are) by the uncontollable forces of nature (Vep).
To whit: Guichard loses his career/pride = the material physical element.
Lordy or His Mountain (lofty/upper) of Moroseness (lower/down) loses his mind.
And long-suffering Marie of course loses her soul.
Marie`s ultimate tragedy is that despite the freedom of "death" she is still bound to her servitude of the posh tosser (although it rebounds horribly on His Nibs) like a dog given "freedom" that still returns wagging its tail.
By the way I was awake nearly all night but managed to rid my brain of a synopsis for I.V.4 tentatively titled Her Pure Nails.
gG -
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How do you KNOW all this stuff!?
Like I said - I wonder about you. You're probably too young to remember an old Brit TV series called 'Adam Adamant'.Adam was a chivalrous Victorian gent wot got froze by his evil Nemesis and woke up in the sixties. I think you come from a bit further back - but it's the same stuff! Fess up ! When did you get froze guv'nor? -
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Heheh
I am bloody freezing actually, but that`s Norway for you. Most of the crap I accumulate in dim cerebral recesses is merely bookwormish flotsam. Researchwise however, the web helps a lot, espec for the anatomical "bits" (that`s where I saw the word "prestigial" I`m sure!!) and I`ve a semi-decent collection of esoteric/historic litterature.
The only Adamant I recall is the colourful pop singer. Dr Evil in Austin Powers had the ability for cryogenical timetravel didn`t he? And come to think of it I am thinning rather decidedly up top! Eh Gads and odd bodkins!
gG -
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You even laugh in palindromes! And it's 'Odds Bodkins!'.. teehee..t. ah shit!
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