The fruits of my English A2.

Howdy-Hey, Peoples. For my Trans-Atlantic cousins, an A2 is what we do in our senior year. For my English A2, we've been transforming poems and drama texts into traditional prose. These are the results.

---

A section from Rosetti's Goblin Market, in the style of Stephen King

It had all been Lizzie's fault, really. Laura, as much as she loved her sister, had never really understood her. She was impetuous where Laura was restrained, jubilant where she was sober. It was not that Laura did not enjoy life, far from it, but she was much more prim and proper when compared to her sister.

This was why Lizzie now lay sprawled in their bed, her face drained of colour, her body a dried, suppurating husk , no more alive than the lightning-struck tree that loomed over the twin's garden like some spectre of the dead.

The dying sunlight bathed the whole forest in shadow. The flowers shrank away from its touch, curling and wilting, as if struck by some foul ailment. Laura shivered, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders. She could almost hear the wise, reedy voice of her grandma as she told, once again, the tragic tale of their dear departed sister, Jeanie. She could almost feel the steely glare of those dimming grey eyes, as her grandmother spoke to her of what happened to girls who went into the forest at twilight.

Laura had always listened attentively, shying away in fear as the Goblin-men paraded out of the story, displaying unctuous treasures to tempt virtuous little girls away from innocence. Lizzie had crept forward, her face lighting up as her grandmother related the curiosities of the Goblins with their cat-faces and rat-tails, their fat, furry bodies, and baleful green eyes. Her sister had never made the connection between fantasy and reality. She had always thought that these creatures of myth and tale could never hurt her. How wrong she had been.

The babble of the stream brought Laura away from the melancholic thoughts of her sister, as she pulled off the dainty white shoes that caressed her feet, and stepped into the water. It was icy cold, and she yelped, a hand leaping out towards the rushes to help keep her standing. The shawl slipped from her shoulders, and was devoured by the current, carried away down-stream.

Now clad only in a silvery dress of fine silken cloth, Laura stepped from the river, shivering as the sun finally dipped behind the horizon, plunging the world into an all-consuming darkness. The change had seemed almost instantaneous, almost as if crossing the river was the barrier between the sheltered lives of innocence and sisterhood, and the evil, twilight world of corruption and Goblin-men.

Almost simultaneously that the thought of the goblin-men crossed her mind, she heard the call. "Come taste our fine fruits, Come buy! Come buy!" It was not the words that disconcerted her so. It was the voice and tone. An overlapping tumult of scratching, wizened voices, not at all inviting, but Laura was drawn to it, her bare feet padding across the wet grass, the wind pulling her golden locks loose from her head, spilling them about her shoulders like molten gold.

She managed to halt the disembodied pull of her feet, cocking her head, eyes searching the impenetrable darkness ahead of her, for the source of the voices. The call rang out again, closer this time, the voices more joyous and triumphant . "Come buy our fine fruits, renowned across the land. Fair to taste and fair to eye. Come buy! Come buy!"

Again, Laura stumbled forward, panic spreading throughout her chest as the compulsion to see these otherworldly creatures gripped her. She faltered, before tripping and falling into a circle of torch-light.

Looking up from the dew-wet ground, Laura beheld the Goblins. They looked as if they had walked out of one of her grandmother's fairy tales, their heads broad and feline, with pointed ears and sharp green eyes. Their bodies sprawled out over their stubby legs, plump and covered in fur. The torches they carried flickered unnaturally, the orange glow making them seem half-real, almost ethereal.

The fruit they bore was just as magical as their appearance, sumptuous, oozing, delectable treats of every shape, size and colour. The sheer amount of this produce, and the rhythmic chanting of the goblins as they circled her, was a veritable assault on the senses, forcing Laura to her knees as the largest goblin she had yet seen stepped forward.

He was tall and rake-thin, with massive swept back ears and lidless golden eyes, like pools of molten honey. In his hand, he held a massive orange, almost oozing with unctuous juices. He brandished it under her nose, his pot-belly rising as he took a deep breath.
"What can we humble merchant men get for you, dear child? An apple perhaps, or one of these most delicious of oranges?"
Laura looked up at him, trying to keep her gaze away from the eyes, lest their lustre consume her.

"K… Kind S..ir. I do not wish to buy anything for myself, only for my sister L..L…Lizzie. She is sick to her soul, and I know that y—"

The Goblins had changed. They were not the creatures of whimsy and fantasy any more. They had become like their leader, tall, spindly with eyes of honey, that seemed to glow in the darkness. They cast down their torches, long claws sprouting from their gnarled fingers, fangs dropping from suddenly skeletal skulls.

Laura remained transfixed by the leader, like a rabbit at the mercy of a fox. She watched the orange in his hand wither and shrivel, becoming as dark and corrupted as the creatures that now loomed over her. All the fruit had become black, once unctuous juice seeping out like pus, tendrils of smoke rising from the silver platters upon which it rested.

None of the goblins spoke now, just sibilant hisses, long tongues flicking out from between their fangs. Laura staggered to her feet, turning to run, but they fell upon her all at once, ripping, tearing biting and clawing, pressing the poisonous fruit to her lips, the juice burning and eating away at her angelic visage.

She felt their claws tear the dress from her back, their rough hands pawing and ripping her flesh. They swarmed over her, driving her to the floor. Mercifully, her head was dashed against a protruding tree-root, and she fell into the all-consuming blackness, the laughter of the cruel creatures ringing in her ears.

---

Oleanna by David Mamet in the style of Hilaire Beloc

Jonathon
Professor who thought to highly of himself and got into a jam.

When his day's work was all but done,
John was chewing on his thumb
A fair lady did sit down before him,
Her face was plain, her waist quite slim.

She lacked in wits and was quite dim,
But John went out upon a limb.
He impressed his thoughts on to the maid
Her face began to look quite afraid.

John's tales of his life so fine,
Were carnal, she did nought but whine.
Biblical, John thought his book,
He preached until she slipped his hook.

The maid took his tale on high,
Where committees meet, and insults fly.
Pontificating from their ivory tower,
The Committee sniffed at John's grasp for power.

John was surly, when maid returned,
His face did look almost burned.
The committee took his house,
And rendered him, as but a mouse.

With every word he cursed and wailed,
But every plea fell and failed.
Her dulcet tones incited rage,
He stood, and threw her from the stage.

The message, dear children is,
Do not get into a tizz,
For those who think themselves so big,
People rarely give a fig.

---

Soliloquy from a Spanish Cloister in the style of Redwall by Brian Jaques

The sun rose over the dusky stone of Redwall Abbey, spreading the summer warmth all across the building, from the tip of the bell tower, where the great Joseph bell boomed out the morning, to the stifling heat of the Abbey kitchens, alive with the hustle and bustle of the breakfast preparations.

The grounds of the Abbey were still wet with morning dew as Brother Lawrence slipped from the gatehouse, pushing his thick spectacles back up his pointed nose, wiping away the last traces of sleep from his cloudy grey eyes.

As he crossed the lawn, in the direction of the great hall, a tantalizing aroma gripped him by the pointed snout, drawing him through the heavy oak doors of the main building. His sandaled feet pattered softly across the flagstones of the hall, which was slowly coming alive with the hum and buzz of conversation, as the other abbey-dwellers wandered down the staircase for breakfast.

Lawrence paused to clasp the hand of his dear friend Raff, a brawny otter with a long scar crossing his hardy, weathered face. Leaving his friend to the sizeable loaf of nutbread that he was carrying, Lawrence slipped into the kitchen, almost giggling as the warmth from the massive ovens washed over him.

"Burr Aye, Zurr Law. Wot you'm be doin' in moi kitchun?" The deep burr of the mole-cook Gubbio was almost as warm as the ovens as he dropped a steaming rack of oatcakes and savoury tartlets onto a counter-top, the massive padded mitts looking more than slightly ridiculous against his small wizened frame.

"Why dear friend, I was simply coming to visit you upon this fine midsummer morning, and to fetch some food for our guest in the infirmary." Lawrence had to shout over the clanging of pots and pans, and the constant buzz of noise from Gubbio's assistants. The mole-cook paused for a second, scratching the tip of his snout with a digging claw.
"Yurr, Oi 'ere youm, Zurr Law. Oi'm be preparin' a breakyfast for yon naughtybeast. You'm wait 'ere." Furtil shuffled off, returning with a simple earthenware dish covered in sweet fruit scones and nutbread, with an apple perched precariously atop it. "''Ere it be, Zurr Law. Boi moi snout if ee naughtybeast getten bettur viktles than us'ns."

Lawrence nodded his thanks, and staggered out of the kitchen, the heavy platter held in both his arms. The Great Hall was alive now, everybeast crowded around the long trestle tables, which were almost buckling under the weight of all the food heaped upon them. Lawrence caught the glance of the abbot and badger-mum Lorna at the head of the table, nodding solemnly as he headed for the stairs.

Raff leapt from his place, falling into step with Lawrence, a hand falling to the dagger at his waist. "You goin' up to see yon vermin?" The brawny otter inquired, a smile flickering across his scarred face. "The Abbot wanted me to tag along, keep 'im in check if'n he tries anything."

Lawrence nodded and the pair headed up the stone staircase, the heavy platter wobbling between them. Outside the iron-studied door to the infirmary, a swarthy otter waited, a javelin clutched in his arms. He nodded at Raff and stood to one side, pushing open the door, admitting the pair into the room.

The Infirmary was calm and tranquil, small beds made up with starched white sheets, pillows plumped and dimpled. The only aberration on the perfect scene was a dirty shape, hunched under a blanket, a thick wad of bandages wrapped around its arm.
Lawrence set the tray down on a side table, and approached the bed, his arms spread wide in a gesture of friendship.

"How are you, my child?" He spoke with a note of calm, friendship, almost the opposite of the behaviour displayed by the Otter, who lurked in the corner of the room, one hand on his dagger, and evil glare burning into the form of the creature in the bed. The rat twitched in the bed, his sinuous and muscled form wriggling free from the dirty tangle, snatching up an oatcake from the tray, gobbling it down in three bites. Spraying crumbs all over Lawrence and the bed, he began to speak.

"I ain't your child, matey. I'm Dingeye of the Wild Water-rats, and yous best be careful."
Raff lunged forward, drawing the wicked point of his dagger. "You better keep a civil tongue in yon head, Vermin. You're a guest of this Abbey, and'll be respectful to its inhabitants."

"Raff, control yourself." Lawrence sounded almost indignant, moving between the rat and his friend. "As a guest, he is entitled to our hospitality, no matter where he came from."
Lowering his weapon, Raff dropped into a brooding silence, stalking over to the wide window set into the other end of the Infirmary. Lawrence turned back to Dingeye, smiling warmly down at him.

"I've been granted permission by the Abbot to let you attend the feast today, but you have to stay here until then." Giving a short bow, Lawrence backed out of the room, Raff following close behind, flashing another glare in the direction of the Vermin.

--

Later that day, the rat stood at the window, an evil smile creeping across his scrawny snout, his yellowed teeth bare. Below him, in the sunlit grounds of the Abbey, Lawrence toiled away with shears and basket, tending the vast gardens, picking over-ripe apples and damsons, before beginning to prune the Myrtle bush, a look of utter contentment spreading across his whiskered face.

Looking on, Dingeye began to chuckle to himself, muttering in a low undertone. "I'll show 'em. Call me matey and child? I'll show 'em. Lookit that mouse. He's so blind, he can't see the forest for the trees. I'm not one of 'em, I'll never be. I'm Dingeye of the Wild Water-rats, not some mouse they can boss aroun'.

His thoughts were interrupted by the thunder of a fist against the Infirmary door. "Oy! Vermin. Get you's self decent. It's time for the feast."

Dingeye switched away from the window, stumbling over to the door, licking one of his soiled paws, and rubbing it across his brow. "I'm comin' matey, I'm comin'." He padded over to the door, checking that the knife he'd slipped from the breakfast tray was tucked into his waistcoat, before opening it, and following the javelin wielding Otter down into the great hall.

The huge hall was alive with the buzz of chatter and the clank of plates and dishes. Every inhabitant of the abbey was seated around a long trestle table, from the massive badger-mum, to the lowliest dibbun, everyone tucking into a vast amount of food with gusto.
Lawrence was seated between Raff and Gubbio, tucking into a massive bowl of lurid green soup. As Dingeye approached, a grin spread across the mouse's soup-caked whiskers, as he shifted up to allow the scrawny rat to slide in beside him. "Hello, child! Do try some of this soup, it's delicious."

Before Raff could even react, Dingeye lashed out like a coiled spring, locking his sinuous arms around Lawrence's neck, pressing the knife to his neck. The mouse's cry silenced the room, everybeast turning to stare at the pair. Many remained in their seats, but the more warlike among them sprang to their feet, reaching for weapons.

Dingeye giggled, pressing the knife further into the soft fur of Lawrence's neck. "You beasts are all fools." Lawrence barely squeaked, paralysed by fear as he was pulled towards the door. The abbot had got to his feet, casting aside the ripe apples and damsons Lawrence had presented him not a few minutes ago.

"Let's not be too hasty. Whatever you want, we can give you, just put our brother down, my child." Despite the calm tone of the abbot, this just sought to infuriate the rat.
"Don't yous my child me. I'm fed up to my back fangs of this place, and this 'ere windbag." As he spoke, Dingeye gently pressed the knife into Lawrence's neck, raising a trickle of blood through the soft fur. "All he cares about is 'is garden, and lookin' good. Same with all of yous. So 'igh and mighty, and good." Dingeye had reached the great oak doors by now, and was ready to escape into the night.

A dull thwack cut short his flight, and he fell, transfixed by the shaft of a javelin that had sprouted from his throat. Dusting off his hands, Raff paced over to Lawrence, scooping him up in his brawny arms, a smile on his face.

"S'allright now, Matey. Yon Vermin ain't gunna hurt anyone anymore."

---

Lady of Shalott by Tennyson in the style of The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler

The body had been dumped in an alleyway off 4th and Lawrence. She was pretty, I thought. Pale and tired looking, but you could see that at some point she'd been beautiful. She was laying awkwardly, all spread out like Christ on the cross, the blood dribbling from the massive wound in her chest. I approached the rent-a-cop who'd found her while doing his rounds.

The guy was built like a brick outhouse, a .44 on his hip. He looked tough, but I knew his type. All talk.
"What did you see when you found her?" I asked.
"Nuthin, sir. Just her layin' out like that." His voice was gruff, but sounded false. A touch of the hard-man act, I suspected.
"Did you touch or move anything before calling the cops?"
He turned, indicating the set of footprints crossing the congealed blood pool. "I only got close to check if she was still breathin'"
I took a deep breath, controlling the urge to tear the guy a new one over tampering with the crime scene. "I'll need your shoes then. So we can eliminate you from the investigation."

The rent-a-cop nodded, and removed his boots, which I took from him, using my pocket handkerchief to cover my hands. I left them on the back seat of my car, on their side to preserve the blood. Now came the long wait for the M.E and an ambulance.

I walked back to the alley, pulling my coat around me to protect myself from the cold evening air. I stepped over the pool of blood, and bent over the body. The blast to her abdomen looked to have come from a 12 gauge Shotgun, at close range. The buckshot had torn her stomach to ribbons, killing her almost instantly. A cursory glance around the claustrophobic alley showed no damage to the walls, or discarded shell casings, meaning she'd been dumped here. Only time would tell who had left her here.

The screech of tires and the wail of sirens told me that the ambulance had arrived with the M.E. A photographer skipped around the scene, the flash of his camera illuminating the dim dusk, followed by the grim faced paramedics, who loaded the woman into a black bag and carted her off to the morgue.

I returned to my car, and went back to my dingy apartment to drink and sleep. Better to pick this up in the morning, with a clear head.

The next morning, I shivered in my overcoat against the frigid temperature of the morgue as the cadaverous M.E picked over the corpse of our Jane Doe. She looked even paler than she had yesterday, the colour gone from her pinched cheeks, her blonde hair spread out in a fan behind her head.

"What do you know?" I turned to the M.E, who looked up from the corpse, pushing his thick spectacles back up his hooked nose.

"She died from the buckshot. It severed her renal artery and she bled out into her abdomen. Time of death between ten and two pm, the day before yesterday."

I rocked back on my heels, absorbing this information. "Any luck on her ID?" The M.E pushed his glasses back up his nose, and shuffled the notes laying on a lectern beside the body.

"No personal effects, other than the Versace dress. She'd had sexual intercourse maybe an hour before death, hard to tell." He paused again, squinting at the spidery hand writing that covered his notes. "Oh, one thing, clean-up team found a ticket-stub in the alley. For Grauman's Egyptian Theater, on Hollywood Boulevard. Looks like it was from a premier or something."

I nodded, glancing over at the ticket stub. It wasn't much to go on, but it was my only lead. "Cheers Frank." I slipped the stub into my pocket, and headed out of the morgue's winding corridors, to my black Dodge Sedan, complete with the siren on its curved roof. Slipping into the leather driver's seat, I fired up the engine, grinning as it roared into life.

Pulling out of the nearly empty car park, I wove my way through traffic, the purr of the engine filling the car. It gave me time to think. The woman had been dumped in a designer dress, with a ticket to a movie premier. Maybe she was some B-list actress who fell foul of a mugger. That would explain the lack of personal effects. But the alley was over a mile away from the Egyptian, too far to walk. The facts circled incessantly in my head for the entire drive.

I pulled into a parking bay close to the Egyptian, slipping my Colt .38 from the glovebox, along with a ring-bound notepad, which went into the inside pocket of my overcoat. I stepped out onto the boulevard, pushing through a small crowd gathered around the entrance to the Egyptian. As I entered the lobby, I took a double-take at a poster behind a glass display. My Jane-doe was plastered across it, arm in arm with some sandy-haired youth. The poster read; Amelia Horrocks and Lance Michals in "King Athur" Premiering on the 14th of April, 1937.

I copied both names down into my notebook, and ventured into the theater. I stepped up to the box office and demanded to see the manager, flashing my badge to the gormless woman behind the counter.

He was a small man, with a wispy mustache and horn-rimmed glasses. I looked down at him, notebook and pencil in hand. "When was the last time you saw Amelia Horrocks?" He turned a little paler, the courteous smile evaporating from his face.

"Night before last. When she left the premier." His voice quavered slightly, and he looked as if he might faint.

"What time? Did she leave with anyone?"

"H-her husband. Mr Horrocks. They must've left around eleven." He gulped at mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Did you know Miss Amelia well?" I asked, in the vain hope of uncovering more leads.

"I'd met her a few times. She's an old friend of the family. Convinced her director to hold the premier here as a person--"

I interrupted sharply, wanting to cut to the chase. "Did she have anyone who would want to hurt her?"
"I don't think so. Amelia was a lovely woman. I know her marriage was on the rocks though. I think she felt trapped by him. Married too young." He paused to mop his forehead again before continuing. "This film was really liberating for her, I think she really enjoyed working with Lance."

"Did you know Lance at all?"

"Not really. I'd met him a few times while setting the premier up. Seemed like a real charmer."
"Oh-kay" I responded, preoccupied with scribbling on my notepad. "Do you have an address for this Lance?"

"Three-Three-Zero-Two West Segundo Boulevard, Hawthorne, I think." I scribbled that down, underlining it for emphasis, before heading back to my car. It would be worth paying Lance a visit. He'd be able to furnish me with more on Amelia. And more on the husband.

The drive across town was without incident, and I pulled up on West Segundo with the sun pushing through the grey cloud. Lance's house was a pretty early 19th century town-house, with a short, white-washed frontage, and a sloping roof. What concerned me most was the green front door, which hung slightly off its hinges.

I got out of the car, pulling the Colt .38 from my overcoat pocket, gripping it tightly in my hand as I approached the door. "This is the Police! Come out with your hands up!" I waited a beat, then another. When no sound came from the open door, I wheeled and booted open the door, heart racing. I saw a bare hallway, covered in framed photographs, a pale hand with thin fingers hanging limply from an open doorway.

Bracing the Colt in both hands, I advanced down the hallway, my eyes jumping from wall to wall, looking for threats. The body was in the sitting room, crumpled against the wall, a massive smear of blood and bone fragments painting the plaster behind him. He was the same pretty-boy from the movie poster, sandy hair a few freckles. His mouth was twisted into an expression of pain and fear. I made a quick sweep of the house, glancing over reems of movie memorabilia, the tangle of pots and pans in the kitchen.

It was in the bedroom that I found the letter. It was still hanging partially from the typewriter, the mechanism stopped mid-sentance. He must have been writing when the killer kicked the door in. I stooped to read what he had written. It read;

Dearest Amelia;
I know how much you hate him.
I've seen the bruises. I've seen the looks.
He's no good for you. You're like a caged bird around him.
Leave him. Come to me, and we'll run away to England, star--

That told me all I needed to know. Stripping the carbon paper from the typewriter, I stumped downstairs, tucking the gun back into its holster. I spent a few minutes waiting for the M.E and another detective, before jumping back into the idling Dodge Sedan, and roaring off in the direction of the Horrock's residence. Time for me and Mister Horrocks to have a little chat.

The Horrock's house was cast in the same mold as Lance Michael's, a narrow town-house with long windows and a ornate front door. I left the car running as I climbed the three steps, careful to keep in view of the spy-hole. I reached up and took the ornate knocker, rapping on the heavy door.

"Mister Horrock, I'm Detective Rick Matherson. I need to talk to you about your wife." No sound. I took up the knocker and rapped again, calling out. "Mister Horrock. I need you to op--"

The door swung open, and I was presented with a small, unassuming man in gray suit-pants, with a green woolen vest pulled over his shirt. He looked at me with startled eyes, before ushering me inside.
He spoke with a high reedy voice. "What can I do for you, Detective?" I followed him into an immaculate sitting room, where he settled himself on the couch, leaving me an easy-chair, covered in floral patterns.

"When was the last time you saw your wife, Mister Horrock?" I inquired, almost casually.

"The night before last. She went to stay with a friend. We had a fight, you see." I nodded, producing my notepad again.

"Do you own a gun?" He paled slightly at this, but my stern glare seemed to set him straight.

"Yeah. A Winchester 12 gauge. I keep it in the porch." he rose to get it, but I waved him down.

"Don't worry, I can find it." I got to my feet, smoothing down the tails of my overcoat. The hall was as immaculate as the sitting room, complete with umbrella stand and a coat cabinet. I pulled open the door, revealing the bulky weapon. The barrel felt cold to the touch, and the weapon stank of cordite. I picked it up and examined it, noting the blood spattering the barrel, and the flash-burns on the muzzle.

I replaced the weapon and returned to the sitting room, where Mister Horrock was wringing his hands nervously. I sat down in the easy-chair, meeting his nervous gaze.

"So, why did you kill your wife and Lance Michaels." It was direct, but I was not in the mood to pussyfoot around the subject. I expected a defiant "No!". Instead, he broke down, head in his hands, a tired sob slipping from his lungs.

"I loved her so much..." He looked up at me, tears flowing from tired eyes. "She cheated on me. She was mine. Forever. I couldn't let her go. I guess that's the curse of marriage. We were together too long. Things got sour. This Lance swept her up. I stopped it before she left. I don't regret any of it."

I got to my feet, sliding the handcuffs from my belt. "Abner Horrock, I'm arresting you for the murder of Amelia Horrock and Lance Michaels. You have the right to remain silent."

Fantastic!

I studied The Goblin Marketplace and The Lady of Shalott in a first year English course that I randomly took (although had nothing to do with my degree) and thoroughly enjoyed them, but your ability to translate them, according to the literary style employed by other writers, into such gripping short stories is remarkable.

You, sir or madame, are ingenious with the written word, and I am envious of your talent.

Teeeeaaaccchhhh meeeeeee!

So I'm posting another couple of pieces, just for fun :D
The first is Act 2, Scene 3 of Romeo and Juliet in the style of Dystopian Fiction. The Second is the Lady of Shalott in the style of Stephen King.

---

Romeo and Juliet/Dystopia

The city sprawled over the green country like a cancerous growth, spreading from beneath the shining lights of the prosperous new development. In the gloom created by the forest of support columns, the jutting spire of a cathedral protruded from the morass. A single spotlight illuminated the broken remains of the cross atop the spire, an ever present reminder that this city, both physically and spiritually under authority's thumb.

Renzo pulled up the hood on his parka, tightening the straps that secured the heavy respirator to his face. He hated the acrid stink of the mask, but down here in some parts of Low-town, it was necessary for survival. The mask did make him a target. In this part of the city, an enterprising gentleman could sell one for a few hundred credits, and would have no qualms about killing for one. This was why Renzo had taken the risk of carrying the stun-gun in his waistband, and the polished steel of the knife in his boot.

The Lancers were out in force tonight, the tramp of combat boots and the dull rumble of armoured vehicles echoing around the decaying streets. The dull eyed stare of the respirator, and the heavy hood of the military-issue parka would do enough to protect him from the cameras, but if he encountered a patrol this late after curfew, he'd be spend his night languishing in a bare cell, with electrodes taped to his chest.

Consequently, his movements between the outskirts of the slum, at Court Garden Apartments, and the Cathedral, deep in the heart, were slow and fragmented. More often than not, he had to dive into an alleyway, as the squat frame of a Suppression Vehicle snarled by, Il Duce’s rhetoric blasting from its speakers. Eventually, the decrepit, slumping archway that marked the entrance came into view, the oak door standing slightly ajar.

Renzo darted from cover, keeping his head down, using the darkness surrounding the cathedral to obscure him from the boxy security camera, squatting atop a nearby pillar. The door squeaked slightly as he entered the dusty, decrepit interior, filled with slowly rotting pews and defaced statues. All the crosses and effigies had been removed in the great purge of '22, to be melted down or crushed.

Pulling up his respirator, Renzo crossed to the middle of the floor, the rotting boards creaking under his feet. He spread his arms wide, tossing the stun-gun onto the ground. He did not flinch as the cold steel of a pistol was jabbed into his ribs, a gravelly voice ripping from somewhere in the shadows.

“What's the word?”

“The gray eyed morning smiles on the frowning night.” Renzo coughed, stammering as the man behind him pressed the pistol hard against his side.

The pistol receded, accompanied by the muffled click of the safety catch. “Alright. You can turn around now.” The voice said, gruff and stern. Renzo turned on his heel, taking in at a glance the man before him.

He didn't look much like a Priest, with a short, stocky frame, bulging with toned muscle. His face was lined, a thick pink scar curling around his ear and neck. His straight posture and the confident manner in which he brandished the chromed automatic hinted at some past military training. Renzo pushed this to the back of his mind, and settled himself on the remains of a pew, the rotting wood creaking under his weight.

The Priest turned to face him, a look of disapproval flashing across his stoic features. “You shouldn't be out this late, Ren. It would cripple the Resistance if you got picked up. We need you.”

“Why do you need me?” Renzo muttered petulantly. “I'm just a kid. I can't fight. I--”

Cutting across him, the Priest fixed him with a glare. “Stop being such a child. The marriage pact between you and the Calente girl will start a bond that’ll outlast the troubles. Can’t tie the knot if the executioner is tying one in your noose.”

Renzo scowled, slumping down into his seat.. Before he could speak again, the Priest started up again, the note of disapproval still hanging on every word. “So, was it worth dodging the Lancers for a quick cuddle with Lena Calente?”

Only the rumble of a nearby Suppression Vehicle, and a sharp burst of gunfire broke the silence that fell between the two men. Renzo avoided the Priest's iron-hard gaze, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

“I... I wasn't with Lena tonight.” The Priest remained silent, rocking back on his heels, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Spit it out.”

With a sigh, and a heavy heart, Renzo continued. “I was with Maria. Maria Luchesse.”

A pall seemed to have been cast across the Priest's face, his eyes hardening like flint arrowheads, boring into Renzo's soul. When he finally continued, his tone was thickly laden with scorn and contempt.

“You. Stupid. Little. Fuck.” The words fell like hammer-blows, crumpling Renzo up into the pew. “Do you have any idea--

Suddenly grabbed by a surge of impassioned, repressed anger, Renzo leaped to his feet, raising his voice to as loud as he dared. “Yes! I do know how stupid it is to fuck about with the daughter of one of the most powerful, well-connected families in the lower city. I know that Papa Luchesse would hack off my arms then throw me in the river, but I. Love. Her.”

He paused, sucking in a great gulp of air. “It may not have occurred to a cold-hearted bastard such as yourself, but even in these grim times, people can have feelings for each other outside of family politics and squabbles.”

The Priest stood stock still, staring deep into Renzo's eyes, looking past the fury and into the younger man's soul. “It doesn't matter whether you have feelings for her or not. If the Calentes get wind of this, they'll hang us out to dry, and we'll be back to the old days.”

“I love her. I would die for her.” The Priest raised an eyebrow, a smirk flitting across his normally impassive face.

“I know I should care about the families, and this sorry shithole of a city, but honestly, I don't. I love Maria, and I want to spend my life with her, no matter who stands in my way.”

Renzo looked into the steel-grey eyes, pleading for something, even just a flicker of emotion. A wry smile crossed the Priest's face for a second, before he spoke. “Look, kid. I'm not promising anything. Your father would happily rat me out to the Lancers if he got wind of this, but if you bring her here tomorrow, we'll discuss your future.”

Stunned by this completely unexpected reaction, all Renzo could manage was a hurried “Thank you.”

“Now get the fuck out of here. Don't want to see you again till tomorrow.” The Priest responded as Renzo darted from the ruins of the church, pulling up the hood of his parka, and the heavy respirator down over his face. The Priest remained frozen on the spot for a few seconds, before turning on his heel and disappearing into the vestibule.

The cramped, stone-clad interior was draped with sheets, almost bare apart from an open laptop and a satellite phone. Tapping in a complex number, the Priest pressed the device against his ear. “It’s Priest. We've got them right where we want them. Put the word out to the Calentes and Luchesses.”

---

Lady of Shalott/Stephen King

The car coughed and spluttered, the long haul drive from New York taking its toll on my battered old machine. Earlier in the afternoon, when the sun was beating down on the long ribbon of tarmac, this long drive out into the sticks had seemed like a good idea. I'd been given the Halloween special this year. A big, double page spread on the Salem Witch Trials. So now I was hunting for witches, in this day and age...

Inside the dull, depressing interior of the motel, I sat on the hard, unforgiving bed, a sheaf of notepaper spread across my lap. On every page, the name Erin McCauly jumped out at me. According to what I'd dug up, the Mccauly's of Shirley were as old as the woods. An unnatributable source put them as arriving with the first settlers to this part of Massacheusets. If this were true, the current scion of the family would definitly have some tales to tell about Salem.

I slept fitfully, my dreams plagued by a cackling, indistinct shape, slowly wandering through my mind. Once I was back on the road, the Motel's bacon and eggs weighing heavily in my stomach, I dismissed them as pure fantasy. As I pulled into Shirley, I couldn't help noticing how truely isolated the frost-gripped village was. No help coming for me if I slipped and twisted my ankle.
Even within the protective shell of my car, I felt uneasy. Every year, we got stories of people dissapearing this far out in the sticks, snatched up by hillbillies or whatever nasty beasts that hadn't been hunted to extinction. Clutching my satchel of notes to my chest, I slipped from the car, shivering against the cool morning air. I pulled my parka closer around me, hunting frantically for my contact.

He was a small man, with a wizened face and a hooked nose. He looked uncannily like a bald eagle in a trench-coat and spectacles. He shook my hand firmly, breaking the still air with a hushed whisper. “You da journalist? From da city?” I nodded, trying not to fixate upon his truely magnificant nose.

“I'll take you to see Miss Alice. She's ex-pec-tin' yous.” I nodded again, following him as he shuffled off across the frost stricken pavement, away from the hard-packed road, and off into the woods. The vague feeling of unease crept back into my bones, but like this morning, I shook it off like someone would shake off an ill fitting jacket. But even my hardened cynicism couldn't hold back the dread that snagged my soul when I saw Alice Mccauley's cabin.

It was a rickety, ramshackle lean-to, covered in poison ivy and cobwebs. I turned, expecting the bald eagle to wait around, but he'd dissappeared into the trees, like a spectre. Clutching the satchel to my chest, I tentitively reached out and knocked on the shack door.

“Enter,” creaked a hollow, almost lifeless voice, something between dry twigs cracking and fingernails down a blackboard. The inside of the cottage was as unnerving as the outside, totems and gew-gaws hanging from the cieling, pelts of various small animals spread across the floor. In the corner, the shrivelled form of Alice Mccauly sat, hunched and wizened like some bizarre stuffed doll. Her grotesque face was dominated by a hairy, jutting chin, and a wart-studded nose, the exact shape of a meat hook.

“Miss McCauley.. My name is Jack, from the New York Ti--” The hag cut across me, her voice sounding as old and decript as the rest of her.
“I know who y'are, stranger. I have eyes that see beyond these four walls.” She paused, her milky-white eyes passing over me like searchlights. I shivered, now regretting my decision to leave the comfort of my office to talk to some senile old woman about the past.

“The people around here tell me your family was around when the trials happened up in Salem.”
“Yes, us McCauley's are hardy folk.” She swayed in her seat, staring deep into my eyes. I shivered again, feeling the warmth seeping from my body. At the time, I put it down to the sheer inhospitableness of the Massachusets countryside. How wrong I was.

“And did the trials affect your ancestors in any way?” I pushed everything, the cold and the hag to one side, pen poised over paper.
“We-eel, they hung my great-great-great-great grandmama from the ol' oak by the church for being a witch.” The pen scratched as I hurridly scribbled down every word, pausing to look up at her again.

“'Parently, she put a curse on the pastor's son. Made him empty his bowels till he turned blue and keeled over.” Her voice had become softer, almost hypnotic. I was hanging on her every word.
“D-do you think she was a witch?” I stuttered, startled by how warm and fuzzy the tiny shack had become.

“I don't like your tone.” She snapped, brittle and harsh. “She was a saint, unworthy of the scorn they heaped on her.” Her voice grew louder, thick and brazen, her thick accent mutating into something purer, but horrifying all the same.

I tried to move, but found some invisible force holding me in place, like a giant hand grasping me in a fist. The hag was moving, her black shawl gathering around her like wings. She shuffled over to me, her long, skeletal fingers suddenly tipped with wicked, knife-like claws.

A banshee-like screech passed her lips, her fingers stretching out towards my heart. With my arms pinned to my sides, I couldn't fight back, but as her bony talon sliced through my shirt, ready to stab through my beating heart, the Hag's concentration wavered, and I slipped my hand into my pocket, desperately scrabbling for something, anything to use as a weapon.
My fingers wrapped around the silver chain of the crucifix my Grandmother had given me on my eighth birthday. As soon as I touched it, the Hag recoiled. Capitalizing on this small advantage, I swung my arm up, and looped the chain over her shrunken head.

The change was dramatic. She shrieked like a banshee, convulsing and shrivelling up like an autumn leaf. I staggered back, collapsing against the wall of the shack.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I awoke, night gripped the forest. I picked myself up, ready to stagger back to the car. But when I glanced down at the body, I saw a beautiful young woman, radiant but still, her blonde hair fanning out behind her bloodied head.

Fearing more tricks, I ignored it, stumbling through the forest and back to the car. I'm sure I broke several speed limits as I rocketed home, gouts of smoke pouring from my exhaust and engine, as I pushed the old Camaro to the ragged edge.

The Semi came out of nowhere, on the wrong side of the road. I was too out of it to notice, and it killed the Camaro. Almost killed me. But before I blacked out, I could swear I saw the cackling head of that demonic woman staring from behind the wheel.