Alina Voyce
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Goodness is Blind 

18/9/2014

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Did you know that fear has a sound? Not an audible note, more of a vibration—the kind of thing only a few would recognise.

The girl standing in front of me is afraid—though she’s trying to hide it. She’s taken refuge under a less-than-efficient streetlight, her phone clutched tight as her fingers race across its screen. There’s a bus stop nearby, though its light is broken. I’d bet twenty quid she’s got off at the wrong stop. A dangerous mistake in this part of town.

Goodness has a sound too, a note lighter than fear, and that's another thing pouring from this girl. Unfortunately, too much of that can be a problem.

I’m not talking about random goodness—the fleeting sort that accompanies a moment of beauty, heroic endeavour or an epiphany… Nah, I’m talking about all-consuming goodness, the sort nothing can temper, that blinds a person to true evil; rendering them incapable of understanding or seeing it.

Take me, for example. To most people I’m an angel-faced kid, whose questionable taste in fashion acts as a visual warning—to stay well clear. It doesn’t matter that my hoodies are white, and they’ve never seen me doing anything illegal. People judge me by my clothes.

On occasion though, I come across a rarity. Someone like this girl—whose brain is wired in such a way, evil is nothing more than a legend, a product of superstition and misinformation; who believes there’s good in everyone.  For people like this girl, goodness is more than a single, tremulous note… it’s a symphony.

Handy info: for the bad guys.

Approaching her, I study her some more: A natural blonde, with a beautiful smile, and eyes that are dark-green pools of innocence. She knows I’m here now, her body angled towards me. When she calls out a greeting, it’s obvious she doesn’t see the warning signs.

My gaze drops to her phone: The latest model, temptingly shiny and worthy of Eve.

By the time I reach her side, she’s confirmed all my suspicions and asked me for help. She’s lost… though clueless is nearer the mark. The vibrations of her fear are fading, and I wonder why—has she read too many urban ‘angel’ stories? Stranger things have happened, and all my hoodies do have wings printed on the back. Maybe she’s religious, and believes God will protect her? Or maybe she’s a few bricks short of a tower block.

Whatever the reason: it works in my favour.

The street-light flickers, its glow less than flattering. They’re the bane of this estate; off more than on. The shadows between them are a world of transient pleasures, both voluntary and forced.

Blondie’s noticed another night-walker, her gaze distracted—by the man drawn to her as surely as I. He’s someone I know well: a stooped and grizzled figure, leaning against a nearby tree.

“Oh, look…” she whispers, though her words get steadily louder. “Poor old thing… he really shouldn’t be out on such a cold night. I have money spare… maybe he’d like a hot drink? Is anywhere open at this time of night?”

Give me strength. My gaze sweeps over ‘poor old thing’: Dirty, mismatched clothes; a smile that would make a dentist rich; hair resembling an overgrown tonsure. He’d slit Blondie’s throat for the money she’s shouting about—and it wouldn’t be spent on a nice cup of tea.

I scowl at my companion. “You need to shut-up. Don’t you see what he is? Don't you see what I am?” I ask, allowing my mask to slip.

When she starts to shake, her fear vibrating the air once again, I know she’s got the message.

‘Poor old thing’ is making his move; a knife glinting in his hand. But my blade is bigger, flashing as I swing. As the killing blow lands, I throw back my hood, Blondie's screams strident.

At least she sees the evil around her now.

My fire-backed eyes meet hers, and the scent of ammonia overwhelms my senses.  

Bless her… she’s pissed herself.

Surely I don’t look that bad? And even if I have morphed from a dubious looking teen into a seven-foot warrior, with a face that shifts from human, to cherub, lion, to eagle: is there any need for that?

As ‘poor old thing’ slumps to the floor, in a steadily increasing pool of crimson, Blondie’s screams finally stop. “Who... are you?” she whispers hoarsely.

I laugh at that.  “Oh, I’m evil’s worst nightmare… but you can call me Mike."


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The Perfectionists  -  Another challenge entry (runner-up), the first time I'd tried 'Steampunk' and a potential new story...

18/9/2014

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Her father’s study had always fascinated Lily, probably because she was forbidden to enter it.

Yet another unquestionable rule, set in place for their safety, and enforced by her father—at a cost.

Almost ten years ago, when the reaper virus had first emerged, decimating the world’s population, Lily’s father had become a stranger.  Gone was the fun-loving man she’d adored… replaced by a bleak-eyed patriarch.

Not that she blamed him, how could she?  It was the virus that changed the world, the structure of everyday life regressing; disintegrating.

When the virus claimed her mother and brother, just days apart, her father had responded without hesitation. He’d turned their home into a fortress, offering everyone within, relative or not, a choice.  Remain, protected, or take their chance outside… From that point on, no one questioned his dictate, nor how he provided for them.

But Lily had sometimes wondered… on days she heard him behind the study door, fevered, excited words pouring from his lips, too muffled to decipher. What toll did such responsibility take on a sane mind?

Now, standing in front of that same door, at the boundary of her father’s domain, Lily gripped the tray she carried and rapped her knuckles on heavy oak.

The sound was hollow, lifeless.

Movement: leather soles tapping across wood, timbers creaking as they flexed. A click, as the key turned in the lock, and a ribbon of dusty light that widened rapidly. But no squeak of metal hinges—maintained with care, they moved in perfect, well-oiled silence.

“Ah… tea.” Her father’s figure filled the study doorway. Lily’s heartbeat quickened. Usually their maid, Miriam, brought him his tea, but today he’d requested she do so. Staring at him, she wondered why.

His body was too thin, accentuated by his height; it was as if time had worn him away. His hair and skin were bone-white, ancient looking. But Barnabas Wright’s intellect was as sharp as ever, seeming to snap out at her, from eyes the colour of slate. “Come in, Lily. Place the tray on my desk if you would…”

Shock surged. He was inviting her inside? Tremors raced along her spine, spreading through her body to shake the tray, until the clink of china filled the tense atmosphere.

Then she moved—obeying—her booted feet pacing forward. Mentally, she catalogued everything: the weight of the tray, the coolness of her skirt and petticoats as they swirled around her ankles; the pinch of boning as her ribcage expanded on an agitated breath.

She was finally here.

The study, generously proportioned, had a high, plaster-embellished ceiling suspended above book-lined walls and glass display cases. These housed an array of grotesque-looking curios. Small, half-decayed corpses (of what, she couldn’t tell), fused onto jointed metal armatures that glinted in the golden glow of the oil lamps. Lily tried not to stare.

It was only as she approached her father’s desk that she realised he wasn’t alone. A silent, cloaked figure stood in a darkened corner of the room—watching her. Lily’s step faltered, but only for a moment.

Ignoring the figure, she relinquished the tray and turned, hands clasped in front of her, chin raised, gaze steady.  “Forgive me, I was unaware you had a guest, Father.  Would you like me to fetch another cup?”

Barnabas shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. However, if I may introduce you, Lily? This is Lord Oscar Darwin… your fiancé.”

Eyes wide, Lily’s gaze moved from her father, to the cloaked figure, and back again. “I… I don’t think I…”

Before she could finish, Barnabas waved an impatient hand. “Don’t prevaricate, child, you heard me well enough. I grow too old to ensure your safety and have arranged for Lord Darwin to take the burden from me. He will protect you—and is a man worthy of the honour.”

Lily remained speechless. Shock and disbelief held her in place.

Stepping from the shadows, the cloaked figure crossed to her side. Large in build, and as tall as her father, his step was strangely hushed.

Like the door hinges.

Reaching out a gloved hand, Lord Darwin took her fingers in his. Beneath the soft leather, his flesh felt hard, almost rigid, with no warmth to it at all.

“I understand that this must be a shock to you, Lily, but there is no time to explain. Travelling is dangerous, and night provides a measure of cover. We must leave as quickly as possible if we are to reach our destination before dawn. As I have promised your father, I will protect you, but speed is essential.”

Lily’s head jerked from side-to-side. Why hadn’t her Father warned her?

Barnabas stepped forward, eyes cold, as they’d been since the loss of his wife and son. “No arguments, child, you will go with Lord Darwin and accept him as your husband.  It is my wish, Lily.”

…and her father’s wishes were always obeyed.

Lily stared at the hand holding hers, then into the shadowed features of Lord Darwin. Mutely, she nodded.




They exited through the back door, hurrying across shadowed lawn to the gate that led to open countryside. Glancing back, Lily tried to memorise the view… the only home she’d ever known. Members of the household watched them silently, expressions bemused, some raising a hand.

When her father secured the house, he’d retreated from Lily’s presence; his grief too raw. These people had made her life bearable—and now she was leaving them, with little more than a hurried wave and tears burning her eyes.

“I didn’t say goodbye,” she whispered, distress making her stumble. It was a long time since she’d felt like this… felt anything.

The man at her side tightened his hold. “I’m sorry. We have no time for farewells. Cavalry is waiting.”

“Cavalry?” Lily frowned. They’d cleared the gateway, emerging into the fields behind her home. Lord Darwin secured the locks her father insisted on and deposited the keys inside his cloak before drawing out a small, metallic object.

A whistle? No. A soft whir of sound and a cascade of pin-point lights… a signal.

Out in the fields the night shifted as something responded. Lily’s fingers tightened around Lord Darwin’s. Fear took hold, her nostrils flaring around cold air.

Distinctive perfumes, sweetly sour, rushed in on a single breath—musk and sweat. The smell of oil too, unmistakeable in a world reliant on cogs and springs. Then a faint hiss, like levers, and the clicking of… gears? Whatever it was drew steadily closer.

Muscles tensed, ready to run, Lily couldn’t help but lean forward, even as fear of the unknown built within her. It was heading towards them… “What is that?” she asked.

A large, velvety nose bumped against her cheek, accompanied by Lily’s shriek of alarm, hastily muffled, and a puff of warm air tickling her neck.

Her companion chuckled. “That is Cavalry, my horse… a miracle of modern technology, as am I, thanks to the skill of the perfectionists and your father specifically.”

Lily turned, looking with interest at the man who was almost a stranger to her. “I don’t understand, Lord Darwin…” but the words petered out as a whimper of surprise replaced them.

Her fiancé had silently lowered the hood of his cloak, leaving his face unshaded.

“My name is Oscar. Don’t you think you should call me that, Lily?” he asked, staring at her with hazel eyes. Lovely eyes, fringed with dark lashes… but that wasn’t the surprise.

No, that was the fact that his lower forehead, right cheek and part of his chin were moulded from polished glass, through which a whirling mass of clock-like cogs were visible, fused to the bones of his skull, yet moving freely. Reaching out, Lily brushed her fingers against the cold, clear glass. She’d never seen anything quite so fascinating.

For a brief moment, Oscar’s eyes closed, as if he relished the contact. When he opened them again, a look of satisfaction gleamed in their depths.

“I knew you’d understand… how could you not?  You are your father’s daughter.

“As you see, I’m a survivor of the reaper virus, as is Cavalry. Your father repaired his right hind leg using the same techniques employed on humans.”

“Father repaired a horse?” That didn’t sound like the man Lily knew.

Oscar smiled. “He wanted to experiment on something bigger…”

“And now Cavalry is going to carry me to safety?”

Oscar didn’t reply, the only hint of his thoughts a subtle hardening of his jaw. It seemed their mode of transport wasn’t up for debate.

“Then I suppose we’d better get going,” Lily said, turning so he could boost her onto the saddle. But when he swung up behind her, she twisted round, her gaze calm. “You know, the future is something we’re going to have to talk about… and you needn’t think you can push me around either… but I’ll accept a ride for now. Even if your charger is black, and has a gammy leg.”

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