The Face of Jonathan Harker - The Anxities of our time...

WARNING! MONSTER POST ALERT!

I have a favour for any of you that may have the spare time to help me with this. Hopefully it isnt too boring, and in a way it is related to many classic movies and genres of movies that we all love.

Basically, in this thread i'll be posting the chapters of a story i have written for my thesis that i will be handing in next week. My thesis is on fin de siecle literature of the Nineteenth Century and the anxities expressed by authors writing in this movement. fin de siecle translates into 'the end of a century' or the 'end of a cycle'. it involves authors and film makers expressing the anxities of their society on what they think may become of the human race as we progress into the future. During the nineteenth century Britain was relishing in its own glory, we had a giant Empire that ruled almost half of the world, the industrial revolution was at its height and mankind was on the brink of new scientific studies arising at the time. However many writers feared that we were becoming too content with our own greatness, and our demise would come in several ways. Writers like H G Wells explored his anxities in War of the Worlds with the arrival of Aliens far superior than us and wiping us off our planet. Which is obviosuly a fear still relevant today as hs story has been used as the basic plot for many many sci-fi films. To break it down and give examples as simply as i can, here are some fin de siecle literatures and films that you may be aware of :-

Nineteenth Century Anxities

• War of the Worlds - The fear of Alien/Foreign invasion and threat to the World/Empire
• Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde - The fear of the duality of Man, the hidden and degenerate/homosexual side of mankind that 'hydes' within us all and the loss of our identity as no one can really tell between the good and the evil hiding within.
• The Picture of Dorian Gray - (this is the story of a man so vain, he falls in love ith a portrait of himself, and makes a pact with it so that he can live forever, never aging and he can act on all the atrocities of mankind, whilst his painting takes on the horrid, evil appearance of his soul) - Vanity and appearance will become the most important priority in our lives
• The Island of Dr Moreau - Mankind playing God, and science becoming the new religion in which we can create life.

Modern Day Anxities - There are tons of examples of these, that you can mostly find in any film, from Metropolis to Being John Malchovich. These are mostly expressed in film, as film is the new medium of the 20th century.

• Bladerunner, A.I, Johnny Neumonic, The Matrix trilogy, Minority Report, The 6th Day and countless other sci fi films - the loss of our identity through advances in technology and science, does the biological body really exist anymore?
• The Matrix trilogy, Mulholland Dr, The Truman Show - Does our world really exist anymore? What is 'real'?
• A.I, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Metropolis, I Robot, Terminator series, Demon Seed - The threat of A.I taking over.
• Deep Impact, Armageddon, The Day After Tomorrow - Fear of extinction

As you can see there are loads of issues here, but they all lead back to the same kind of question, what is our fascination as a human race, with our own demise? Thats what im asking in my thesis. And i'll be exploring it in a short story ive written. This is where i need your help.

The story i am going to post in each chapter is a science fiction story set at the end of the Nineteenth Century in 1899. It is along the lines of Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde and deals with the issue of identity in Victorian society at the time. The duality of man, the New Woman, scientific progress etc. So i'm going to post each chapter, and as some of you guys are proof readers and a dab hand with the art of writing, i would love to hear your thoughts on each chapter, what you liked, what you didnt, what can be improved.

Any comments will be HUGELY appreciated as each chapter is quite long and if you get all the way through it i will be eternally gratefull and there may be lots of sexy rep in it for ya.

So, Chapter One....

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Pumpkins scream in the DEAD of night!

Story of the Dream

William pushed through the green foliage, dislodging root and earth as he made a path to their destination. Both of the young men had been warned to avoid Amber River upon their arrival at Alphastone House. The old manor was a frequent retreat for both of their families since the two young boys and their parents had become friends when William and Jonathan had started at the schoolhouse together several years before. However, this summer, the early fear of adult oppression had begun to dissipate in the boys, and the desire that is so frequent in young men to explore and learn new sensations had taken over, and on that suffocating summers day, Jonathan Harker and William Grayson stole away from the seclusion of the groomed garden to explore what lay at Amber River.
As the trees and foliage receded, a golden haze of sunlight shimmered over the relic structure of an old mill rising out of the river bed. Some ancient machine used to harness the power of the once raging waters in which it now lay corroded and putrid, like some exhumed corpse drying in the sun. Rotten beams with rusted rivets and splintered frames rose out of the stagnant water, half surfaced, half submerged in the brown detritus that clung to their frames. The river had long since lost the power that was once able to drive the giant wheel that now lay fragmented along its banks. At its origins, some point high up in the hills, an interruption in its progress; its evolution, had ceased its flow to a mere trickle that was just large enough to sustain the stagnant waters William and Jonathan saw before them as they approached the river bank. William stood under the blazing sun, his young eyes studying the prisms of light dancing on the waters surface and investigating the lacklustre dragonflies and parched anthropods that glided over the brown pond. Jonathan took no notice of the thrashing insects or the glorious dance of light that had mesmerised William, he only saw the cool caress of the pond, imagining its damp waters refreshing his parched skin. However, had he aspired to view beneath the surface of the dead river, he would have seen the splintered turrets of the ancient foundation, rising out of the sodden earth as though trying to grasp a glimpse of the world above their gloomy existence.
William watched with wild admiration as his young friend jumped into the stagnant pond, his slender body exploding upon the still waters, disrupting the balance of life that existed in it’s depths. William stared down at the golden ripples rolling over the dark surface towards his feet, slowly following them back to their source. As his eyes reached the thrashing waters responsible for the disturbance, the smile was instantly struck form his face as his mouth opened in horror at the blood red bubbles surfacing where his friend had landed. William saw Jonathan’s face just beneath the surface, deformed and twisted in pain as he screamed in silence with one of the rotten beams of wood pierced through his chest. Jonathan’s damaged body quickly began to sink in the depths of the red water that surrounded him and he searched around for some tool to aid in his rescue. Not willing to impale himself in the depths, he lay on his stomach calling to his friend with the red water lapping at his chin and his arms stretched over its surface trying to pull him to safety. With each burst of his escaping oxygen, Jonathans contorted face would appear beneath the dark surface, the red water filling his mouth. William, realising the feebleness of his rescue attempt, got to his feet and searched for the face beneath the water, and finally in the depths, William could see Jonathan, struggling in the dark. This time without hesitation, he dived into the bubbling water abandoning all the apprehension he found in himself moments before. As his hot shaking body hit the thick water, he braced his tender flesh for the pierce of rotten wood, but instead felt nothing but the reeds and decaying vegetation slithering over his flesh as he went deeper towards his troubled friend.
William opened his eyes, searching in the gloom, and finally, after what seemed like an eternity of breath, he could see a face in the dark. As he swam furiously towards his friend, all hope for him was lost when his face came into view. William screamed in the depths, each bubble releasing an audible fragment of his terror. The vines and roots of the dead river seemed to be attacking his friend, entering his mouth and nostrils like the tentacles of a sea monster. In one quick motion two black roots entered Jonathan’s eye sockets and no longer could he see the bright blue eyes of his friend, or the full lips which had emitted the laugh he so often enjoyed. Another root shot from the depths like some organic spear and pierced the hole in his chest where the rotten wood had impaled him. Now all William saw of his friend was a riddled body, writhing with hideous organic tentacles. With the oxygen quickly fading from his lungs, William swam harder and faster towards his friends face, but never getting any closer. With each swift movement of his arm through the thick water he found the vegetation growing thicker, surrounding his cold flesh, and as the roots and vines moved inwards, he saw his friends invaded body slide behind a dark curtain of vegetation. It now seemed that the river was ready for William and as he thrashed and squirmed in the depths, each movement invited a new weed and root to wrap its slimy tentacles around his small arms. And one by one the roots came, each vine and weed entangling itself around Williams suffocating body, and at his last breath, he screamed for his friend in the dark, and felt the attacking roots enter his mouth, and nostrils, invading and piercing his very soul.

Maybe this was a bit too heavy for the forums...

Let's just say I can see why you're apparently considering death as an alternative to tackling this behemoth of a thesis.

I think it's a fascinating topic, though, Blib, and I'm sure you'll find more than a few folks here who'll give you great feedback. l'll definitely help you out as much as I can -- thesis time is a time of insanity, but having readers while you're working helps to stabilize the crazy and prompts you to remember why you decided that writing this thing was a good idea in the first place...

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You were a demon and a lawyer? Wow. Insert joke here."

Well sir Blib,

Chapter one is excellent! The only alteration I would make to the word choice/structure would be to change "writhing with hideous organic tentacles". My complaint comes from the previous use of organic in the sentence before, which makes such an immediate second use seem redundant. Perhaps change it to 'botaneous tentacles'? Is botaneous even a real word? :\

Also, not sure if it is your intention to keep it ambiguous or not, but I think a more specific description of their age wouldn't hurt.

I eagerly await chapter two.

Edit: I'd also tweak the ending to show that the vines are entering William's own body, it's kind of cryptic.

Double Edit: Given the actual time period, 1899 right?, would an old mill actually be that out of use? Maybe this gets addressed later in the story, but I'd think there should be some solid reason as to why the mill died a premature death.

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Horror's Not Dead
Latest Movie Review(s): Too lazy to keep this up to date. New reviews every week.

Thanx MaryLo, the sweet peace of death does seem so inviting to myself at the moment It sounds like you have experienced the intense horror or writing something as mammoth as this before? Ive been researching it and writing the critical essay to go with this story for about two months now and i am SO sick of writing about it. Ive got four days till its handed in and im just trying to pull it all together. but this story that im posting here...i dont think i will ever ever want to read it again after its complete.
Excellant advice OG, this is just the kind of critique im looking for. Unfortunatly 'botnaeous' isnt a real word, as good as it sounds, so ive just got rid of the double 'organic'. As the for the subject of the mill being put out of use, it relates back to its source, the mill was on the river to use the power of the water, but seeing that the river has dried up for unknown reasons, the mill is now useless. Its kind of meant to reflect how the 'greatness' that the Victorians felt in their industrial revolution will not last and in reality was only short lived.

Im glad you liked it though. The first two chapters i think are probably the best written out of the four, as ive heavily tweeked them and added new bits, but towards the end ive just gotten so incredibly sick of writing this that unfortunatly i think its beginning to show. Hopefully this first chapter isnt too misleading as the rest of the story is quite different, but then again it's sole purpose is to act as a fin de siecle fiction, and if youve read something like Dr Jeckyll and Mr Hyde, its not exactly the most...emotional style of writing, and like my other chapters, i think it droans on a bit.

Anyways, i'll get chapter two posted on here, then after some more editing on chapter three and four i'll get them up here too. Thanks for taking ya time reading this dudes and dudettes, mucho appreciated

The Smog and The Accident

Mr Grayson awoke gasping for breath back in the comfort of his bed chamber. As the fresh cold oxygen entered his lungs, his racing heart began to slow and he felt the moist droplets of sweat on his body instantly begin to cool in the morning air. This had been the third dream he had encountered in the past months leading up to the New Year. On each occasion he would re-live the same event from his childhood, however the ending was never the same; each dream was a twisted re-enactment of the events from that day, conjured up by his restless subconscious. Mr Grayson sat back in his bed trying to understand the tormented dreams, and shivered at what he had witnessed before he woke. Just as he had done on the previous occasions on waking from these phantasms, William Grayson slowly remembered the actual events from that day, striking from his mind the vicious images of the dream. He remembered pulling his friend from those stagnant waters, and seeing Jonathans drained, white body lying on the river bank. The wooden stake that had pierced his chest opened a star shaped wound, gaping like some unnatural orifice on his left breast. He was in hospital for several weeks, the wound was very deep and had pierced his lung, but due to his young metabolism, after a month and a day, Jonathan was free to return home, taking with him the deep, purple star-shaped scar that bore the results of their first escapade together. He would often display it to people with pride, as though it was a new cigar case or some medal of achievment. As Mr Grayson rose from his bed, he smiled to himself at how Mr Harker had most recently displayed his scar as a battle wound he had received fighting the Boers in South Africa.
Mr Grayson still felt the uneasiness of the dream as he sat reading the morning paper. It was the Christmas season, and even though it was three days till the New Year, and a new century would come to pass, he saw nothing of high spirits in the reports from The Daily Telegraph to lighten his demeanour. His eyes flickered over the various articles, mostly all involving a local crime of sorts. One story mentioning a theft on Canal Street where a house was robbed on the eve of Christmas, and another mentioning the murder of an old pensioner at the Docks. It seemed that with the approaching end of the century, the mournful invasion of darkness he had felt so strongly in his nightmare had begun to traverse into the waking world. He found his concentration lacking and decided to avoid the news for the day. He thought of the relief he would often find in discussing the dreams with Mr Harker, as he would always find amusement in the events of Mr Grayson’s visions. However today he felt that perhaps this latest dream was not for Mr Harker’s ears. It was far more savage than the last two and was not pleasant to discuss over lunch, so he decided he would attempt to strike it from his memory for good, and focus on the turning of the new century with his friends.
As Mr Grayson drew the curtains of his bed chamber ready to depart for his lunch meeting with Mr Harker, the pale morning light descended upon the dark room, removing all shadows. He often enjoyed the view from the chamber window upon the third floor as it gave him the favour of experiencing a small glimpse of the immense amplitude of the city, with its climbing spires, thick chimneys and a direct view down Bishopsgate Road. The Petticoat Lane market could be seen on a Sunday, with its boutiques and stools in which he so often visited. However on this morning Mr Grayson regarded the city through the veil of the first fog of the season. A great mud coloured pall lowered out of the heavens and rested upon the rooftops of the buildings he saw before him. The cross of St Paul’s arose out of the gloom like a drowning angel, gasping for her last breath. There was no wind to disturb the misted shroud that lay heavy on the city, and as he made his way out into the street, the differing degrees of twighlight that greeted him gave the district an eerie disposition.
The streetlamps still burned bright as Mr Grayson made his way on his journey to meet Mr Harker. As he approached each glowing lantern, they would grow a lurid brown above his head and it was not until he was underneath them that he saw their fixtures high above him, like some towering orb in the gloom. He approached the meeting place on Brewer Street in Soho, and waited patiently for Mr Harker’s carriage to arrive. As he regarded the surrounding streets, In some areas the fog would seem to break up, liberating a clear view of the street ahead of him and the faces of passer-by’s. At times when the gloom was at its thickest, it seemed to erase the identity from the men and women that passed him on the street. They would lumber forwards, out of the murk, identical to one another hunched in the chill of the morning air, and only definable once they were at his side. But then as he watched them pass, they would once again reduce into nothing but a silhouette dispersing into the haze.
Suddenly out of the gloom he regarded a familiar figure riding towards him, appearing like some ghostly animation. Moyra Parkhill stopped her bicycle at his side after spotting him through the mist. She was a good friend of both Mr Harker and his self, and would often join them on their frequent walks and lunches. She was not similar to most other women, she led an independent life, ruled solely by her work and her love for art. People that were not familiar with Miss Parkhill often found her countenance to be quite unsettling, for she possessed an urge deep within her that seemed to force her to rebel against the womanly standards that were so rife amongst women of her age. She was rarely seen courting a man around town, nor would she ever be seen enjoying the company of other women, it seemed to Mr Grayson and Mr Harker that the only company she ever felt comfortable in was when she was with either of themselves. She was not an unattractive woman, however there was an admirably masculine quality about her. She was a tall, thin woman, with large bones and hands and feet, and a rather heavyset profile with a broad jaw line that gave her the image of power and intimidation. On the days in which they would shop together at the markets, he often noticed how Miss Parkhill appeared utterly unaffected by anything of the exotic that so often affects most other women of her age. She was not a woman who worshipped the cult of physical beauty and love.
As she parked her bike next to him, she stepped off and instantly lit a cigarette, the smoke emitting from it, dispersing instantaneously with the misted air around them.
‘Good Morning William.’ She said.
‘Good Morning Miss Parkhill.’
‘I thought that was you standing in this smog. Isn’t it having the most awful affect on our sweet city? I very nearly caused several injuries riding this morning.’ She paused for a moment looking around her.
‘Are you meeting Jonathan?’ she asked.
‘Yes’ I replied. ‘We were meant to meet at ten o’clock, but it seems that time has come and gone. Perhaps this ‘smog’ as you call it may be keeping his cab from delivering him to us.’
Miss Parkhill smiled and stubbed her cigarette on the pavement beneath her boot.
‘Would you care to join us?’ I asked. ‘And now if Mr Harker fails to emerge out of this forsaken gloom, you shall have to keep me company over lunch.’
‘I think that would be appropriate.’ She replied, smiling and for a moment, looking positively feminine Mr Grayson thought.
After a quarter of the hour had passed since Miss Parkhill had joined Mr Grayson on the street corner, they decided to begin the walk to the café they frequented most often, hoping that perhaps Mr Harker may already be there, or they would intercept him on his journey. As they walked along the street, Miss Parkhill walked parallel to Mr Grayson in the road, pushing her bike along side her. He had offered to push the bike for her, but having the manner that she so possessed she insisted he made no fuss. As they approached the corner of Portland Street, they came upon some sort of excitement in the mist.
‘What on earth is that commotion over there? It looks like a meeting of sorts’ Mr Grayson said regarding the emerging collection of people in the mist.
‘Lets have a closer look’ he suggested as they crossed the road.
As they both approached the group of people, it appeared it was not a meeting of any sorts. Out of the gloom grew the large figure of an overturned cab, one side of it seemed to be smoking as though it had caught fire. They both remarked in shock and ran towards the accident. As they approached, they heard the driver explaining to a police officer how the horses had bolted due to some unknown shock and in the smog he had not seen the lampost that had caused them to overturn.
‘Horses, like most animals have a sixth sense of sorts’ exclaimed Miss Parkhill as they listened to the driver’s conversation.
‘It is almost as though they have a hyper awareness of the environment around them. I read it in a new science periodical. They are actually very intelligent creatures.’
Mr Grayson paid no attention to her and had continued to listen to the driver as he explained how the cab had over turned on the pavement. It was then that he heard groaning emitting from the underside of the carriage.
‘Oh my Lord I think someone may be trapped under the cab’ he exclaimed as he moved further through the crowd to see if he could offer a hand. As he approached the opposite side of the wreckage, he found a large group of men gathered around the base of the broken carriage, it seemed as though a pedestrian had been walking past when the carriage had landed on top of him. He removed his overcoat and moved through the men to the trapped person.
‘Can I offer my assistance at all?’ Mr Grayson called out, but he was struck cold before the words were hardly uttered. It seemed the unfortunate man had indeed been pinned by the carriage, but he had been trapped in such a way that one of the two oil lamps on the carriages front had shattered in the accident and dripped the boiling liquid all over the unfortunate soul’s face. It seemed that they had managed to pull him free from the wreckage in time to save his life, but his face had been disfigured terribly. Several women knelt by his body applying lotions to the burns on his face as he lay there groaning in pain.
All of a sudden out of the gloom Mr Grayson heard a scream that froze his very blood. He turned in it’s direction, breaking his gaze from the deformed face and saw Miss Parkhill standing just behind him, her face twisted in abject terror. With one hand on her mouth, the other pointed to the poor victim’s body. As he followed her sign, he eventually saw what she was pointing at. Emerging from the young mans clothes, his torn shirt revealed his bare, bruised abdomen, and there on his left breast plate, Mr Grayson noticed a large purple star shaped scar; raw, dark and very familiar.

Another good chapter man, I liked it a lot. Maybe it's just the cinematic third eye I have where I basically picture everything as if it were a movie, but I felt you gave enough descriptions that I could perfectly picture the environment of what was going on. Like it was a bustling city that no one actually wanted to be in. It's thriving in the biotic, but it's kind of like all of the life is abiotic...if that makes sense. Anyways, I liked it.

I liked the way in which the characters are always refered to by their titles, "Mr. Grayson, Mr. Harker". That does have a very Victorian feel to it. However, there was one sentence where I found it kind of read awkward... "He thought of the relief he would often find in discussing the dreams with Mr Harker, as he would always find amusement in the events of Mr Grayson’s visions." I dunno, there was just something odd about the structure of that sentence that struck out to me.

Similairly, "it seemed to Mr Grayson and Mr Harker that the only company she ever felt comfortable in was when she was with either of themselves." popped out, I think it's the use of 'themselves' that causes the sentence to hang. This could just be an American thing though. Also, I do love how british people never say "oh, he was in the hospital" they always just say "he was in hospital". I love hearing all my relatives say that for some reason. It's very charming to my ears.

"It was then that he heard groaning emitting from the underside of the carriage." I think this would read smoother if 'emitting' was changed to emanating.

Other than those minor tweaks, I can't think of anything I'd change from it. I liked it a lot and like I said, it painted a very good picture of the city.

Thanks again OG. I think you may be the only one reading this, so big kudos for that, its really helping. Anyways, heres the next chapters. i think the qaulity goes down hill a bit here and they waffle a bit too much. Also some sections of this version have been removed to shorten it, but here it is anyway, take ya time reading the next one, its a biggun.

The Face

Mr Grayson sat at Mr Harker’s bedside in the infirmary, attempting to comfort him as they awaited the doctor to arrive and perform his duties.. As he sat by his side, his hand would often gravitate towards Mr Harker’s arm, linger for a moment and then return to its original position. Not once would his gaze meet the disfiguring burns on Mr Harker's face. Mr Grayson tried to picture the image of his friend’s once handsome face, but as he forced his mind to search for the vision he so desired, all it could deliver was the grey, invaded face of young Jonathan, that had tormented him the previous night and now seemed nothing more than a cruel sense of foreshadowing of what was to come. Forced by the frustration of his disabled memory, Mr Grayson finally turned his gaze to Mr Harker in a vain attempt to obtain a view of his former friend. As his eyes met the tumescent face and swollen eyelids of his friend, the reaction in his body was both physical and emotional. It was evident from the extent of the severe burns on his face that he had lay under the carriage for some time before the driver had become aware of him. The oil from the shattered lamp had surged over his face like liquid fire as he had lay unconscious under the cab. The uncontrollable heat of the flame had eventually evaporated the oil, and left nothing but the vehement heat to eat away at his flesh, dissolving the tissue and leaving severe blisters and burns over a large portion of his visage. But most unpleasant of all, was a cavernous hole in the flesh of his left cheek which gave him the countenance of possessing a permanent, sneering smile, unveiling his blood stained teeth to the world in a grin of pure pain. The rest of the oil had settled around his eyes, fusing the lids shut and protecting the delicate retina’s within. Mr Grayson could not look at the lip-less sneer of his friend any longer, and turned away, forcing back his feelings of nausea.
Mr Grayson left Mr Harker's room and ventured into the hall to compose his manner. As he peered down the long corridor, he caught sight of Miss Parkhill talking with the driver in what seemed to be a heated discussion. As he approached, he could hear her threats growing with added animosity, warning the shaken man of his likely prosecution over the accident and how she was willing to battle with him over his apparent neglect for navigating his vehicle in such treacherous conditions. Art was not Miss Parkhill’s singular love; she also had a keen interest in the practice of law, as her father had been a long-standing judge at the Greater London Magistrates Court Authority. As Mr Grayson approached, she quickly dismissed the distressed driver and thrust him into her heavy arms.
‘Oh William, this is just awful.’ She said as she hugged him to her bosom.
‘I can’t bear to look at his face. I have not been in to see him yet. Have you seen his face?…Oh William…His face.’ She repeated, stroking his hair as she hugged him tighter.
Mr Grayson said nothing as she released him from her grasp. Her tight bun of hair had come loose whilst attempting to consolidate Mr Harker in the carriage as they transported him to the hospital, and now several strands dangled from her scalp covering her red eyes as she took another cigarette from her case and lit it with satisfaction.
After what seemed like several hours, Mr Grayson’s nerves were finally eased when he regarded the doctor advancing on Mr Harker's room to begin his diagnosis. Mr Grayson instantly felt the heat of anger towards the man and marched forwards to reprimand him on his tardiness.
‘Excuse me!’ he shouted, restraining the doctor by his arm.
‘Do you have any idea how long this man has been waiting for you? This isn’t some trivial accident or a broken bone! I say, Look at this man’s face!’ Mr Grayson pointed to Mr Harker's face through the small glass window in his door. The doctor looked at his arm in shock and then looked onwards at Mr Harker’s disfigurement.
‘I’m sorry sir, but if you would just…’ he replied staring up at Mr Grayson.
‘We do not require your futile apologies!’ Mr Grayson felt his fists clench and begun to tremble with anger.
‘Why, If you had got here sooner, you may have been able to rescue some part of this man’s countenance. Look at his blasted face! What am I…What can I…’ He looked down at his trembling hands, shocked at this hidden fury that had emerged. The doctor quickly interrupted Mr Grayson and released his hand from his grip.
‘Sir! Please…try to calm yourself. I am sorry about your companion’s situation, but I started for here as soon as I had heard. In case you had not seen, the weather today has caused several troubles, and it did not make my journey an easy one. Now please…’ he entered the room followed by Mr Grayson and begun to inspect Mr Harker's burns.
As Mr Grayson observed each movement of the doctors hands he regarded the short mans face, trying to read any implication that may be revealed. The doctor had short dark hair that grew right down to his forehead and unshaven stubble that seemed to reach right up to his hair. His small eyes darted over Mr Harker’s visage, inspecting each wound with severe efficiency.
‘My God…’ the doctor muttered as his fingers inspected the open wound on Mr Harker’s cheek.
‘Hardly any muscle damage…’ My Grayson heard him mutter.
The doctor looked over the rest of his body then stood up quickly. He turned to Mr Grayson with his verdict on Mr Harker's condition.
‘Sir, as you are well aware, your friend has received severe facial scaring and I would like to begin immediate surgery within the hour. As you have observed, there is severe damage to the tissue of his face…’ Mr Grayson shivered as the doctor pointed to the large hole in Mr Harker's cheek, revealing the thick tongue in his mouth, laying loose due to his sedation.
‘These are some of the worst burns I have ever seen…But you must admire your friends strength for surviving such incredible injuries. The human body is not meant to withstand such trauma…’ He continued with a small grimace appearing on his face.
‘However, from what I have observed, there is an insignificant amount of damage to his facial muscles, and with the recent advances in my field, we can attempt to reform parts of his face over the following months with various unprecedented techniques that have become available.’
Mr Grayson’s gaze moved back to the doctor. ‘Techniques? What are you suggesting?’
Upon this question the doctor closed the door of Mr Harker's room and regarded Mr Grayson with a look of utter earnestness.
‘With the incredible advances my field has experienced over the last years, we…I feel it may be possible that over a period of several months, with assisted rejuvenation processes and revolutionary approaches …I may be able to restore Mr Harker's face or even…give him a new one.’
Mr Grayson turned to his injured friend attempting to comprehend how the disfigured face he saw before him could be reversed in any way.
‘Let me explain. The procedure will harness the biological processes that habitually take affect when one may cut oneself, or when a person may break a bone. Using techniques discovered in the field of vivisection; through a series of dissections and reformation of tissue cells, the preserved flesh of another, may be transferred to your friends wounds and by attaching it to the existing muscle fibres the new flesh would flourish in place of the damaged skin that we see here. After a period of rejuvenation, and with the correct medication to prevent his current tissue rejecting the new tissue, the ‘transplanted’ flesh will become part of Mr Harker’s visage.’
‘A new face?’ Mr Grayson uttered as he stared at the doctor’s intense gaze.
‘Yes. If that’s what you think Mr Harker would want.’ Replied the doctor.
Mr Grayson stared at his friend’s deformities, and as the same revulsion came to him once more, he realised the necessity of the doctor’s procedure. He nodded in silent hope to the doctor’s question. In quick reply the doctor begun to prepare Mr Harker for the procedure.
‘If you ever have require any information, my name is Dr Mammon, and I will be the lead surgeon in charge of his rehabilitation. This will not be an easy process for this young man or for yourself, so he will need your support throughout the ordeal.’
Suddenly two assistants entered the room and begun to examine Mr Harker’s face with intense efficiency. As Mr Grayson exited the bustling room, he met with Miss Parkhill walking through the hall.
‘What did that ghastly man have to say about poor Jonathan?’ She asked inhaling the last remnants of her expiring cigarette.
‘He seemed quite hopeful that he would able to help, he is willing to try a revolutionary procedure to restore Jonathan’s face…’ Mr Grayson paused for a moment.
‘It will be a miracle of science if they succeed, you realise that Moyra don’t you? Any result would be an improvement on the countenance of our friend at this time…It will be a miracle.’ He repeated, looking down at the dying embers, blazing in the cigarette Miss Parkhill had deposited on the floor.
The New Year came and went without the materialisation of the pessimistic occurrences that the newspapers had been predicting, and as the year 1900 begun without occurrence, so had Mr Harker’s path to rehabilitation. Two weeks passed allowing his damaged body to regain its strength, and at the start of the third week Dr Mammon and his associates begun the slow process of the restoration of his identity. In the final years of the old century, Dr Mammon had relished in the power of science and its advances that he had been part of over the last decade. He had seen technology and knowledge expand and take a step forward, allowing him to advance his research and experiments, and to open a whole new line of thought for his specialised work. And ever since the true possibilities of his practice had been realised by his peers, he had been waiting for an event; an occurrence that would allow him to test his capabilities, and relish in the full potential of the world, partnered with science as it embarked on a new era together It was in the face of Jonathan Harker that he had seen the opportunity he had been so desperately anticipating and Dr Mammon glimpsed the first step in a new wave of biological manipulation that could help the supple flesh of mankind as it continued in the increasingly dark days he perceived in the streets around him and in the news he read each morning.
Every three days Dr Mammon would perform advanced dissection on his flesh, slicing and reconnecting pieces, like some biological puzzle, stripping the dead and scarred tissue away and preserving as much of his original countenance as was possible. Mr Harker's face became Dr Mammon’s canvas, in which he had begun to form and shape the damaged features. For four weeks this slicing and grafting continued, removing the swollen and dead flesh from his face. After the four weeks had passed, Dr Mammon prescribed a period of rest for Mr Harker until the final step could be completed, the approaching partnership of the old face, and the new one.
Over the progressing weeks, Mr Grayson would often visit his unconscious companion. At first he visited alone, sitting solemnly by his bedside awaiting for any sign of hope or a view of the face he missed so deeply. Each visit he would gaze upon the tightly wrapped gauze of his friend’s face, contemplating the metamorphosis that would be taking place beneath, like some hideous pupae transforming into its rightful beauty upon release from its cocoon. As the weeks passed he had trained his traumatised memory into remembering the fair face of his friend. Ever since public school Mr Harker had grown into his handsome features, and it was not common for women and men alike to steal a glance at his light grey eyes set deep in his square olive-skinned face. William had often referred to him as ‘the Greek’ for his foreign appearance, inherited down through the ancestry of his large family. His full lips and thick jaw line made for pleasant focus whilst conversing with him, and no matter if one did not agree with his comments, they would always find themselves nodding in satisfaction as he spoke.
As the strength of the ethoxyethane kept Mr Harker in a permanent state of sedation over the weeks of his transformation, it was not uncommon to see Miss Parkhill accompanying Mr Grayson on his visits to the hospital. Naturally with the absence of Mr Harker, Mr Grayson had found his fondness for Miss Parkhill growing. She had always been a good friend of both gentlemen, but with this new turn of events Mr Grayson had seen a more feminine side arise in her character and he began to believe that the Miss Parkhill he had known before the accident, was merely a masquerade for the true woman that hid beneath the cloud of smoke that regularly escaped her lips. He had regarded a change in her manner towards him, as he found her regularly blushing and swaying to his side as they sat by the bed of Mr Harker or as they strolled home along the Thames.
In the first week of February, Mr Grayson hurriedly left his home and made his way to the corner of Wardour and Brewer Street to meet Miss Parkhill for lunch. He had regularly been in correspondence with Dr Mammon over the Mr Harker's progress, and on this morning he had received an encouraging telegram suggesting that Mr Harker’s recovery was in it’s final stages and they merely awaited for the final procedure. As he made his way excitedly through the brown fog, he marvelled at the strange invasion of darkness that still held the city in its grasp. Through the twirling hues of twilight, Mr Grayson found the nostalgia of the day of the accident creeping within him and slowly erasing the excitement he felt upon leaving his home. He saw the same figures stumble past him, silhouettes wrapped and hunched as they shielded themselves from the chill of morning air. As he passed under the same glowing lamps that had been kindled afresh to combat the morning darkness, he felt as though he was an inhabitant of some city of nightmare, cursed to live the doomed day of events over and over.
Upon his approach of the corner of Wardour Street, a surge of relief passed within him as he saw the tall silhouette of Miss Parkhill standing under one of the glowing lamps on the corner. As he approached, he raised his arm to greet her, but as drew nearer, the fog begun to clear and what he saw made him freeze. Miss Parkhill’s slim black silhouette stood motionless at first, then slowly begun to divide right before him as though it were some multiplying organism found under the glass eye of a microscope. A touch of terror fell upon Mr Grayson as he witnessed her silhouette split into two and as he drew nearer, one of the two figures sank to the floor with a horrifyingly familiar scream. With his heart beginning to race, Mr Grayson rushed forward towards the frightening figures with a heavy sense of dread upon his tired soul. Out of the smog he regarded the fallen figure of Miss Parkhill, slouched against the lamppost with a look of terror and pain etched over her broad face. She was battling with a tall man crouching beside her, both of them in a tug of war over her purse, which she had maintained a firm grasp on. As My Grayson approached, the man turned towards him, and in the dull glow of the burning lamp above his head, it shone it’s yellow light upon the face of the thief. He bore a broad nose and a large displeasing mouth that opened in shock upon the sight of Mr Grayson. His heavy brow hid his eyes beneath its shadow but Mr Grayson could feel the murderous mix of timidity and malevolence in their gaze. As he glanced from the face of the thief, to the that of Miss Parkhill, he revulsed in shock and terror at the dark red liquid that sprung from her body and had begun to dye the pale fabric of her dress a hideous black. A long thin knife protruded from her left breast, heaving with each shallow breath as she fought hard against her assailant.
‘Moyra…’ he uttered as he stood in paralysed terror, frozen by the shock at witnessing another of his dear friends in pained turmoil. Before he could force his will to act upon it, the man had sprung to his feet and had escaped with haste into the thick mist surrounding them. Mr Grayson quickly reached down to her aid and touched her pained face lightly with the back of his hand, then with not a moment more of hesitation, he gave pursuit, reeling blindly into the smog…

i actually had no idea this was here...i think that it's written well...i look forward to the next chapter...thanks for sharing

Thanks Suzy. And now the final chapter for anyone whose eyes can survive reading so much.

The Meeting In the Street

In late February, Mr Grayson received an encouraging telegraph from Dr Mammon, disclosing that for the first time in medical history, Mr Harker had been the recipient of the first successful human tissue transplant. The full details of the operation would be published in the Monday newspapers and various medical periodicals. The telegram also contained the details that Mr Harker would be fully alert and ready to receive visitors upon the unveiling of his new face. Upon Mr Grayson’s receipt of the telegram, he had greeted the news with shameful apprehension. As he read over the thick words, a conflict of feelings occurred within him. The thought of speaking to his dear friend at last was an inspiring one, and he relished over the possibility of seeing his face once again. But as he contemplated the meeting, his mind reeled at the thought of having to correspond with any visage similar to the one he had seen on the day of the accident, or worse that perhaps the face he would correspond with, would not be Mr Harker’s at all. It would possess the voice of Mr Harker, and have the manners of him, but the face would be that of a stranger. And how do you begin to talk to your oldest friend when you have never met their face before?
A month had passed since his last visit to the infirmary, and in this short period of time, Mr Grayson had found his feelings towards the world turning towards angered ignorance. Each morning he would rise and look out of his window upon the brown mire that still enveloped the city, and a shiver of disgust envelop. The fog he witnessed, clinging to the heavens harboured each of his nightmares, sheltering the ones responsible for removing the happiness from his life. As he would walk in the suffocating streets, he would relive the same events, witnessing the identical characters passing him as the thick twilight swirled over their presence. Mr Grayson had found his comfort in walking the streets under the cloak of night, for it was the only time of day that the city would take on a different countenance, changing from the brown pall of day, into the grey glow of the night. On his many walks, he would often find himself drawn to the docks, seeking some innate urge he felt deep inside him that had been awakened by the grey world he had experienced over the turn of the new century. But it was during his slumber that his torment would be at its worse, as the same fog he saw on the streets seemed to invade his mind, bringing with it the yellow pained face of Miss Parkhill, the scarred sneer of Mr Harker and the eyeless glare of the thief.
Over time Mr Grayson battled with the thoughts of meeting with his friend. Four weeks had passed since he had last seen Mr Harker laying in the infirmary as that had been the last visit both he and Miss Parkhill had made before her attack, and with every consideration to make the journey to the infirmary on his own, it brought with it the feelings of disdain he had for the world outside his door. It had been almost a month since Miss Parkhill’s death, her father had insisted upon her immediate burial. Since Mr Grayson had come across the lifeless body of Moyra Parkhill slumped against the lamppost on that fateful night, he had never forgiven himself for not reacting sooner, not confronting the thief when he had come across the degenerate towering over her pale terrified face. Nor had he forgiven the ever-present smog that had aided in the escape of the foul being who stole away her life.
On Monday morning, Mr Grayson received his morning paper, and read with deep interest the article discussing Mr Harker’s revolutionary experience. He read with excitement as it detailed each step of the procedure explained by Dr Mammon, and by the end, he found it had lightened his pessimistic spirits and instilled a sense of hope upon the idea of visiting his old friend. As he perused the other headlines, it seemed that not only the main story heralded good fortune for the day. One article that caught his eye elaborated on the identity of the executed criminal from some weeks before. New evidence had revealed that in fact he had been a notorious criminal who had been the cause of several thefts and murders over the previous weeks, using the thick smog of the city as a convenient shroud to conceal him in his crimes. As Mr Grayson read on, he contemplated the possibility that it could have been this degenerate which was responsible for the death of Miss Parkhill, and he decided he would make a trip to the nearby constabulary to seek out his identity in a vain attempt to end his tormenting dreams, and to see if this deceased criminal did indeed possess the face he had seen on that fateful night.
With refreshed spirits, Mr Grayson sent a message over the wire using the telephone in his building to Mr Harker, arranging a convenient time to meet with him. Anticipating his popularity through the article in the newspaper Mr Grayson did not expect to hear back from him for some time, and resigned to spend his day investigating the report of the thief’s death in the paper. However, not long before he had returned to his room, he received a swift return message from Mr Harker, suggesting they meet in their common spot on the corner of Brewer Street at eleven o’clock. Mr Grayson felt his spirits climb as he regarded the idea of meeting with his dear friend once more, and he begun to prepare for their reunion with haste.
Upon his exit of the building, Mr Grayson had apprehensively stepped onto the streets of London, expecting to be faced with the same monotonous gloom that had enveloped his life for so long. However, as he regarded the morning view from his doorway, his heart leapt at the sight of a fresh new day. The coming of spring had arrived and delivered its early freshness upon the city, and only a light mist hung in the morning air, with small water vapours drifting through a positively blue sky. White winter sunlight poured over the streets, washing away all the shades of brown and grey that had hung so thick in the air.
As Mr Grayson strolled on his familiar journey, he smiled at the passing people, and marvelled at the shimmering array of colours he saw in the varying winter garments displayed through the streets. A woman passed in a bright red overcoat, glaring in the morning light. A man strolled past and greeted him with a hearty ‘Good Morning’ as he held his young daughter by the hand, her golden hair shimmering in heat of the sun. The city seemed to have been injected with some invisible life and Mr Grayson himself felt the cogs of mankind begin to turn in his favour once more. As he approached the corner of Brewer Street, Mr Grayson’s heart began to race at the prospect of seeing his good friend again. It had seemed as though an eternity had passed since the life he once knew had been thrown into the depths of that sorrowful smog, but as the bells from the nearby abbey begun to chime, he lifted his head high to breath in their song. It was then that Mr Grayson regarded a familiar figure glaring at him in the sunlight. As the face of the man slowly came into view, all feelings of hope were dashed from Mr Grayson’s body, and he begun to choke on the morning air as the tall figure approached him, mounting the curb and pausing every step or two like some nightmare image from his deepest dreams.
The face of the murdering degenerate stepped forward through the glaring sun. The broad nose, his heavy brow still shadowing the dark eyes that observed him, and the large displeasing mouth, now turned in an upward grimace bore the signature of pure malevolence. Mr Grayson stumbled backwards in horror, realising the mornings paper could not have been true, for here before him, the face of Moyra’s killer, proudly approached. Suddenly in an action of mock defiance, he raised his arm, waving to Mr Grayson and re-enacting his own approach upon him the night of Miss Parkhill’s murder. As Mr Grayson witnessed this humiliating arrogance, it was then that he finally felt the culmination of all the weeks horror erupt within him. All the frustration, fury, disgust and terror of the past months exploded somewhere deep inside him, and as it boiled to the surface, Mr Grayson jumped upon the thief, forcing him to the hard stone floor. He heard his tender skull crack on the cold pavement, and in a flash he hands were upon him, thrashing at his face in ape like fury, releasing the dark animal that had been fermenting within him. As his heavy fists thundered upon the mans face in a storm of blows, he relished in the sound of his bones audibly smashing, and in his mad fury he continued to hit outwards, breaking his own hands on the roadway in blinding terror. No pain entered his mind as each blow struck the mans face, removing some fragment of regret from his mind over his failure to Miss Parkhill and Mr Harker. His punches began to slow through fatigue, and the wrecked body lay motionless on the stone floor, surrounded by the fluorescent blood that covered them both. Mr Grayson collapsed onto the dead body, hunched and panting like some exhausted beast. His eyes opened and regarded what lay in front of him and the screaming crowd that had formed, slowly began to erupt in his ears. As his gaze met the blank, grey eyes that stared up at him, a familiar feeling washed over his trembling being and his wide eyes moved to his own broken, blood soaked hands. With a tremendous sense of dread, he slowly lowered them away from his victims body, and with each subtle shaking movement, inch by inch they revealed the bare broken chest of a young man. A young man with a deep and angry, purple, star shaped scar burning into his vision. It was then that a low howl began in Grayson’s throat, quickly building into a scream of realised, unworldly terror that begun to merge with the cries of his fellow citizens; screaming together in a harmonious haze of noise.

Just finished it blib, fantastic story. The ending is anticipated before it comes, not by a lot mind you, but it still was a great and fitting conclusion to everything that happened. There's a lot I could say about it and the destruction of humanity in the face (quite literally in this story) of technology, but I'm sure you've already thought of all that.

As for critiques etc..

"The uncontrollable heat of the flame had eventually evaporated the oil, and left nothing but the vehement heat to eat away at his flesh"

Just the repetition of heat, perhaps change the first one to temperature?

And there were a few instances of what I would assume was a result of fast typing:

"‘If you ever have require any information"

"and it was not common for women"

That should be uncommon, right?

"Dr Mammon over the Mr Harker's progress"

‘Hardly any muscle damage…’ My Grayson heard him mutter.

And there were a few instances when you used "begun" and I thought you should have used "began", but this may just be a difference of usage on either side of the pond. I'm not a very good editor, so there may be more small things like the above, but those are the things I noticed.

Good job, man. I really, really enjoyed the story. I thought it was excellent.

Oh, and what's with the name Moyra? You used that name in the other short you posted (I do love him) as well...

i think instead of "relished over the possibility" it sounds better if he just "relished the possibillity"

another one...over time,

and i'm sure the mornings paper should be morning's paper..because it shows that the paper is the morning edition

other than those it is really very well written and i enjoyed reading it...good luck...

Thanks for the feedback guys. Handed this monster in today! Woo hoo, 72 pages long! It was huge. I think im nearly dead though. Had about 4 hours sleep in the last 48 hours. So instead of sleeping i'm going drinkin'.

Cheers again for the help you two, really helped me with some bits, and i hope it wasnt too boring to read either.

Blowing my own trumpet here a bit but it feels so good! () Got my mark back for my thesis today, and i got a 2:1!! SO HAPPY!

I'm not sure whats it's like for you guys in all your other strange countries, but in the UK, degree level work is marked out of 70.

0 - 39 is a fail.
40 - 49 is a 3rd.
50 to 59 is a 2:2.
60 - 69 is a 2:1 and anything above 70 is a 1st and more or less perfect.

I was so convinced that i was going to get a mark in the 50's, as i really screwed up my opening introduction essay for my thesis, but i got my work back today and her comments said that my stories were so well written that even though my intro essay did not accuratly portray where i drew my influences from, my stories made it more than obvious and displayed the result of all my research. So i got a 61! I know this isnt big news but im thrilled, and it means im a little closer to getting the 2:1 for my overall degree which is superb news.

Huzzah! HUZAAH!

congratulations blibb...

Good job blibb and i definitly enjoyed reading those

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Δύο άτομα. Μια μάχη. Κανένας συμβιβασμός.