BLEH. I really have to get writing earlier in the month, so I'm not scrambling to finish these stories like 5 minutes before the deadline.
Approximately 2445 words
Genre: I started with the intention of Steampunk, but I'm thinking it turned out to be more Clockpunk in the end.
Once again I'm walking the line of the generic restraints, but I think it counts as horror. I mean post-apocalyptic world + a serial killer (even if he happens to be politically motivated)
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The Clock-Tower. (1/2)
Tick. Tock. The ancient hands of the clock-tower marked the passage of time meticulously, but with utter indifference. No minute, nor second went unrecognized by its grandiose faces. Of all the relics that remained standing from the 'old world', Dante favoured the clock-tower above all others. Standing there, basking in the mighty shadow it sent cascading over the earth, Dante couldn't help but feel a sense of transcendence. By mere association to this opulent structure, he reached beyond the limits of time and space - linking himself to a greater story, one that included everyone who had lain eyes on this tower and everything that was still to transpire before it. All of this documented well, by another tick of the clock.
There was a brisk chill in the air, the early morning dew was preparing for its great reveal, with the first appearance of morning light. What tragedy it was that no one would ever bear witness to the wet dew in daylight's magnificent glory. Often Dante fantasized of one day being able to watch the sun rise, to actually see the sun, the orb coveted above all else in the sky. It was not to be this time however, for it was imperative he set off; once again to descend beneath the Earth. Dante pulled the lever, sending the mechanism into action. Gears began grinding and with a loud churning squeal, the chain sprung into motion and Dante was propelled downward.
"The descent to hell, could hardly be this grim." Dante muttered to himself.
The world that once existed on the surface, the 'old world' as it was called now, faded from Dante's perceptions as he was dragged further below the Earth's crust into the artificial world of man; a mimetic representation of what life was supposed to be, what life used to be. When a culture is devoid of art, justice, and the pursuit of happiness, all that can remain is bloodshed. Peace can never seem to outlast its utility. In order to rebuild a society from broken ruins and the brink of destruction, peace is necessitous for survival. But once feelings of comfort and familiarity of daily life begin once again to sink into societies collective conscious - war may come again. It has been asserted that humans are adaptive creatures and given ample time, can adapt to even the bleakest of situations and circumstance. This is detrimental to the upholding of peace. The families of the innocent, who have fallen in this latest conflict, can certainly attest to this.
The lift at last reached a full stop. The chain clanked and chimed as it worked its way to a natural resting place and the broad platform locked into position, the plank falling to rest on the ground. Dante nonchalantly stepped off the lift onto the boardwalk. Modern technology, such as it is, has its ways of counteracting reminiscence of history with great ease. Dante was again alert of his present. After only traveling along the boardwalk for a mere handful of strides, his motion was halted, current events had once again thrust themselves into the forefront of existence.
Another one. "A-fucking-'nother one."
Dante gazed in disappointment at the red cross, sloshed heedlessly across the wall binding the old half of the city to the new. Graffiti with a powerful message. This simple symbol: physically nothing more than two intersecting lines, was symbolically so much more. This was the people giving their support to the liberation movement and more importantly support for Dae, their champion. He is their Spartacus, or more accurately their Robespierre. One man with the power to move thousands. This cross, was his authority. The cross' meaning was easy to decipher. The blood of another citizen would be spilled on this night and Dae would be his undertaker. Nearly every night for the last two weeks there had arisen a cross and subsequently every morning there would be a fresh corpse found. No, not found - displayed. A public murder, dirty laundry aired for all to see. The degree of the bodies dismemberment varied, but it was always grotesque. The face was however, always untouched. Left as a tableau, displaying the horror and terror felt in the poor bastard's last moments, struggling desperately for life. To compound the horror, there would always be a corresponding red cross, draped across the forehead. A calling card of sorts, leaving absolutely no doubt as to why this persons connection with life had been severed. A red cross, one not haphazardly sloshed across a poor stonemason's wall with whatever paint may have been at hand, but one methodically depicted, carefully illustrated with the victims own blood. Such was the illustrious mark of Dae.
Dante shook his head in disgust, as a proud lion would shake away a buzzing fly; momentarily irritated, but ultimately rising above the situation, with eyes and mind set upon something greater. Dante was opposed to the killings on a humanistic level, but the politics behind them greatly intrigued him. He sympathized with the plight of those who longed for a better time. An alternate life where high culture, fine art, and mesmerizing architecture were not things that existed only in the past tense, only on the forgotten surface world, but were staples of everyday endeavors.
Lost in thought, Dante found himself aimlessly wandering, at last arriving in the lower-class section of town. Once Dante had called this neighborhood home, but no longer. The concept of home was now alien to him. He was a wanderer. A free spirit, a spirit that now took him sailing along at a quickened pace. Recklessly he took no heed of his surroundings and crashed devoid of any grace, into a peculiar out-jetting porch. With a surprisingly loud clatter, Dante landed face first on the ground, kissing the dirt. The din caused by the tumble echoed throughout the street, but in this neighborhood people were trained to mind their own business. Only a single woman came out to examine the source of the commotion. She was frail and sickly in appearance; face swollen and ravaged by hardship, her hair brittle and straggly as hay. In another life, she may have been beautiful. She feigned a smile in Dante's direction as he collected himself.
"Do come in stranger," the woman beckoned for Dante to follow into her very modest living quarters. "That was quite a fall. You must need to catch your breath."
This was a woman not without her wits. She had lived her entire life in the lower-working class ghetto, struggling to survive in a world not kind to the gentle of heart. A world populated by thieves, scoundrels, and murderers. Not the least of which was standing before her now. Even if she had suspicion, the woman made no moral objections in regards to Dante's character. It was not her place to do so, she had learned from the cruel teacher, experience, that it is often wiser to stay silent. She was not concerned with who she had invited into her home, but was rather preoccupied with a greater trouble. After surveying Dante for just a moment, she spoke abruptly.
"It's my son. He's missing," the woman entreated Dante; "I know a man of your... faculties... can help me. I'm sure of it."
Dante stayed silent for a moment as he starred into the womans eyes. He was peering into the most sincere eyes he had even seen. A great longing to help this woman swept over him. Sentimentality outmaneuvered reason and Dante nodded his assent.
