To The Moon - Memories vs Happiness

Personally, I adore the game To The Moon. If you have not played it, I shall not be spoiling anything that happens in the story, only the main premise of what it is about, so worry not. In a long and convoluted sentence, the idea is:

To the Moon is an interactive novel-style game that focuses on two workers on one of their jobs of entering the memories of people on their death-bed, with the purpose of altering what they believe to be the course of their life, in order for them to die contently.

With that in mind, the main story follows the pair inside the memories of one man who wants to go To The Moon. In order to do that they go back through his memories in order to find a place to put him on the path of becoming an astronaut and uncover a particularly interesting and emotional life in the process.

I shall not mention any more, as I recommend the experience thoroughly. However I would like to focus on a key point that is mentioned in passing, and what one of the bonus episodes, not included in the main game, touches upon: the ethical factor. A company such as the one in To The Moon is one that if it were real, people would have a lot of problem with. The main job of the company is to enter people’s dreams before they die to alter their memories. Of course, your memories are particularly important to your character and who you are. So some people would find this idea unnatural and therefore upsetting.

        In the bonus episode, we see that outside of the building where the character work there are a whole bunch of protesters. So the question is: is it really so bad?

        On the one hand, of course living naturally is really important and one should never underestimate the importance of their story they created while alive. On the other, surely people have the right to die happy, as if even for a fleeting moment they could believe they were amazingly successful and be content with that, that ought not really be a problem.

        One way we can reason the value of each side would be under the belief of an afterlife. It would appear that is one believes death is final, then allowing them to die happy doesn't really have any major problems. However, if these memories of your life persist into the beyond, then perhaps that is a bit more an issue. However, we have no way of knowing if there is an afterlife, so it's not a point I will push.

        One thought experiment we can use is that of the experience machine by Robert Nozick in 1974. Nozick claimed that the increase of pleasure alone isn't the only reason we do things: even if most of the things we do are things that result in increased pleasure. What he hypothesised is that if we could just plug ourselves into a machine for the rest of our life and only have positive experiences, then we would not want that. We would not have the things that come with the positive experience, just live a pleasurable life indistinguishable from the life outside of the machine.

         The idea here is would we really prefer a life of heightened pleasure if the pleasure wasn't natural, or real, or full of negative experiences, too? Perhaps it seems most people would prefer the "whips and scorns of time" (Shakespeare quotes for the win!) as there is added value to the hard work and reality of the pleasure we experience.

         Is this thought experiment the same, however? As rather than genuinely feeling those fake pleasurable experiences we have opted into, we are just choosing to, on our deathbed, have believed we lived a better life than we did. That in itself is only one pleasure filled with inaccurate memories of success. So if we change the experiment to briefly only having one pleasurable experience at the cost of your memories - maybe more people would be willing to opt in for that.

        It seems if we had the choice to gain a pleasurable experience at the cost of nothing, we likely would all opt in for it. So what cost is too much a cost for that pleasure? These are the kinds of thoughts that play on your mind off the back of the story To The Moon. I want not to ramble on too much about this topic, but I figured it was interesting food for thought. Would you opt in for the treatment of having your memories changed on your deathbed, or do you treasure your real life events too much?

        Do let me know, I'm always up for a discussion. I would also be happy to return to covering this game again if people are interested - I think there's a lot of great stuff going on in this story.

Tales From The Sunless Sea - The Seventh Zee-Captain

 First Zee-Captain                                   Previous Zee-Captain                              Next Zee Captain

     The seventh Zee-Captain was doomed for failure. Well, actually he was very much one of the most capable Zee-Captains the Unterzee has seen, however, luck was not on his side. By which I mean the Gods did not favour him. Zeraphya stole a perfect cruiser and had the experience of years of dealing with Zee-Captains doing the bidding of The Cheery Man. The problem being, work for the cheery man didn't always go in favour of Salt, Stone, or Storm.

     With money and a boat and the ability to fight as well as knowledge of the Zee let Zeraphya immediately boost himself into success. He traded cargo back and forth, took out some Zee threats and everything seemed well. His main problem was recruiting new members for his crew, and of which there were two reasons why he kept his crew count low. Firstly, he was a talented man who neither needed much help, nor wanted much help. Even though most of his work was illegal or against the authorities of Fallen London, he still made enemies of pirates and he still treated the residents of Kahn as if they were not friends. Secondly, people took a disliking to him. His face was known to Zee-Captains, no most of them avoided dealings where possible, and many religious folk saw his general appearance, with the scars and tattoos, to be a bad omen for travel.

     So, Zeraphya's crew was considerably low. The reason I mention this is because it wasn't long before this became his undoing. He had been dealing with unstamped human souls, when his voyage was blocked by some kind of hideous crustacean, as described in the journal of one crew member.

"It were a crab, monstrous one, to be sure, yet it had one claw too many! With the flailing it were hard to know where be limbs coming from on its body. It glowed red with anger as it came for us! It were the work of Storm, I tell you - and I wanted nothing of a Storm's curse. I understand why Zeraphya fought, but I just wanted off the ship. Once we landed on the nearby Polythreme, I stayed behind. Polythreme ain't a nice place to stay, but it were clear to me that Zeraphya's vessel was one not looked kindly upon by the cavern above!"

     After felling the beast, Zeraphya apparently took no heed of religious omens floating around the crew. Few were happy as they all felt an unearthly gaze upon them, though most kept a steadfast faith in Zeraphya. It was then that they took a shipment of Claymen. Three to help on the ship, and another six to trade in Fallen London. He had seen a hundred Zee-Captains ferry Claymen here or there and although he heard rumors of the things that have gone wrong - he had seen no evidence that Claymen were dangerous at all. That is unless they were ordered to be by whoever makes them act.

     Naturally, then, this shipment seemed like good money to Zeraphya, though it was on the return journey - somewhere near the Khan's shadow where the first of the woke up. In a blind panic, it killed two men before giving pause. Zeraphya, as soon as he was aware of the commotion ordered the Clayman dead - and so his crew threw themselves at it in the hopes of taking down the beast. It took down three more men before being dismembered to uselessness and each limb cast off into the Zee.

     With so few men left to a cruiser, the ship moved particularly slowly. Morale was down, fear was high, and grief was weaved into their actions. They were so far away from Fallen London, but it was the only direction they could afford to go. It was at that point they were spotted by a Khanate Warship. Zeraphya knew he didn't have the crew to outrun them, so he needed to outwit them. He turned off all lights and drifted in the dark for some time, praying.

     Zeraphya did escape, just. Not before a struggle, however, as just before he was able to get his ship out of view around the side of an island the Warship fired one heavy shot which hit the cruiser right by the cannons - killing the two men manning them. Zeraphya cursed, set the boat to drift, set his crew mates to nightly watch and went to sleep off the problems and wait for London. Which, of course, allowed the second Clayman the perfect opportunity to attack.

     The second Clayman woke at the same time as the first, though did not attack like the other did - instead he simply watched. When Zeraphya went down below to be, the Clayman decided he needed to take control of the ship as Zeraphya was clearly incapable of manning such a vessel, so thought the Clayman. He managed to kill three men before drawing attention to himself. The men attacked, not sure what else to do, and when Zeraphya emerged from his quarters to find out what the noise was there was only Claymen left. Eight of them, to be precise.

     Zeraphya tried to hide when he realised what had happened - he had no idea which of the Claymen was the woken one and which were just doing as they were told. They followed him. He was able to grab a cutlass and remove the arm of one and the head of another before they got him, but in the end they did get him. When they did, they put him in a coffin, nailed it shut and dropped him into the Zee.

     Thus began the adventures of the first Clayman Zee-Captain. First, however, he needed to organise his boat - and Fallen London was on the horizon.

---Howard Sterling, Chronicler of the Fallen London University

Rebecca - The Nameless Girl

     *Spoiler Warning* - As the post goes on, I will reveal more of the story. If you wish to yet read the story, then at least stop reading by the third section of this. It is a brilliant book.

     Today I thought I would explorator one of my favourite books of all time, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. In order to do so there are, in particular, three things about the book I would like to look at. It is worthy of note that little of what I say here will be original, as this is a well known book which has been analysed since it came out in 1965. Nevertheless I would like to summarise three interesting things about this book: The opening line, the protagonist, and Ben.

The Opening Line

     "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." Let us get one thing straight - this is, without a doubt, one of the best opening lines in literature. In these nine words, we have established so many things about the book. Also, almost every word brings something new to the sentence. Let us deconstruct it.

•      Last - Immediately, this word shows us that we will learn something. If a book starts with 'The', it could go literally anywhere. With 'Last' it either means something like repetition, or narrative voice.
•      Night - It now becomes clear that we are being spoken to and we have established a time-frame for our story.
•      I - The story is being spoken in first person, this is their story we are being told.
•      Dreamt - This sets up the theme and style for the rest of the book. It makes us frame the whole story in a dream-like way and suggests that some of the elements might be a bit fantastical or unreal.
•      I - This is a personal story, whatever happened in the dream is important to the character, as we have repetition of the character uttered and there needs to be a reason we are being told.
•      Went to - We are being set up for a setting, we know that the setting must be important to the story we're about to be told.
•      Manderley - We don't know what this means, but we were set up to know it was a place, but because we know nothing about this place, we have our hook - now we want to know why this place is important enough for us to be told about it - particularly from a dream.
•      Again - This is what brings the whole sentence together. We now know it is from a memory, it is part of this person's life, we know that at the current point of being told the story that the narrator hasn't been to Manderley in a while.

     Every part of this sentence establishes the story and the hook of the book. That, on it's own, should show us that the rest of the book is going to be very well written. While it is not something that I can elaborate on to do with the lore, this was definitely worth mentioning.

Next, we have our nameless protagonist.

     One of the running themes of Rebecca is our narrator's self-identity. Throughout most of the story, our narrator is young and trying to find her own identity. It is for this reason she remains anonymous throughout the book, to the reader.

     At the start of the book, the narrator is not her own person, she is at the whims of a strict 'companion' who has hired her, as she is an orphan. So at this point, she doesn't have much choice in her own life. She cannot model herself off of her parents, as she has none, and she is not overly fond of her elderly companion: Mrs Van Hooper. Mrs. Van Hooper, as the person paying the narrator for her company then gets to tell the narrator to do what she likes, or interrupt her activities when she likes - so at this point the narrator's life is not her own.

     Then comes Maxim, which is the first time our narrator gets a glimpse of freedom as her name is mentioned but we still do not learn it. Her name is described as "unusual and lovely", and the next moment is a whirlwind ride and Maxim asks for her hand in marriage and she accepts. However, she is not comfortable with this - while she is happy about the whole situation, and she doesn't question it too much while they are on their honeymoon, she is slightly insecure about why Maxim would want to be with her. Her identity at this point feels fragile and unfitting to her as the new Mrs. De Winter.

     We then learn of Rebecca, the old Mrs. De Winter, who our narrator struggles to climb out of the shadow of. This covers the core part of the book as Rebecca's name is on the title of the book, yet the narrator who we are seeing things from the perspective of and empathising with has no name. This story is not the story of the narrator, as much as it is of Rebecca, and our narrator remains nameless as she cannot live up to the established identity of the old Mrs. De Winter.

     It feels like at the very end, as we are being told the story after the event, that perhaps the character is older and settled in her identity - but the events that happen throughout the story happen while the narrator was not really anyone. So, we are not given her name. Perhaps the narrator, still, doesn't think she is important enough in this story. Either way, a very interesting literary choice my Du Maurier.

Ben

     Ben is an older mentally ill man who lives on the Manderley estate, and happens to be one of my favourite characters from the novel. This is despite him not being in the story very much / often, barely says much when he is in the story, and seems wholly inconsequential to the story. However, he is not - and he serves as the greatest foreshadowing elements in the story.

     It is easy for the reader to dismiss Ben, as the narrator does. The narrator talks to him when she is alone with him and we very quickly learn he either doesn't want to say anything or doesn't understand what is being said to him at any given time. We also learn he is harmless and the narrator, while not caring about him much, doesn't feel very threatened by him as she is happy to talk to him multiple times while on her own. This makes us feel like he is just there have doesn't have an important role to play. Also, because he is not very bright and appears to have some mental issues, we don't take what he says very seriously, though that is our fault and not his.

     Ben, from the first time we meet him, is the first person who doesn't like (or claim to like) Rebecca. Obviously, by the end of the story we learn why, but it should have been telling that such a harmless seeming man was scared of Rebecca. This is the first time we hear negativity towards Rebecca, so stands as foreshadowing that she is not as amazing or golden as she appeared to have been when her shadow first loomed over Manderley.

     While mostly we can dismiss what Ben says, it still does serve to give that underlying feeling that there is something more going on here, that things might not be as they seem early on, and what exactly the twist may be. This is because as he has seen things he shouldn't and was told not to say anything under threat. If Rebecca isn't coming back and Ben is okay with this, and was being threatened not to talk about what he saw - what is it that he saw that was so important? He is the catalyst for all the secrets in the depths of Manderley, and that is why I adore him, as such an unassuming important character.

Exploratoring The Real World - The Racecourse

Three and a half years ago, I wrote about a place in Northampton called 'The Racecourse' that was a nice place by day, but dangerous and to be avoided by night. This held a lot of symbolism for me, so I wrote and recorded this. Thanks for reading.

 The Racecourse

     Do you walk dogs, or do dogs walk you? That's what I was thinking. Swaying on those swings – rusted and immaturely coloured with reds and blues. Those creaky chains could resist the wind, but not my weight. I wasn't swaying forwards and backwards, as it was more of a side-to-side; my mind was peaceful – simple. Noticing the childish smoke from my mouth, I pretended to be a dragon in the way that had always been funny since I was little.

     It was a heavily coated dog, walking a heavily coated man. That's what it was. The dog had a jovial bounce to his step – somewhat of a skipping child on four legs. He was as fluffy and grey as the looming clouds. A dark night threatened. The man tailed a rigid trail behind; he definitely wasn't in control. I stared out to the mass of open space peering closely at the hiding spots: trees that could hold dens or hills to roll down. The Racecourse was so innocent and vague; there were fewer things more sinister.

     Guess who I felt sorry for most, though? Those information signs that act so self-importantly. They sit and tell you things, constantly - sat gleaming their information to deaf ears and dull minds. Who was really going to stop and hear them out in that kind of cold? Must be hard to have a job. Or at least a boring one where you slave away the majority of your waking life to a cause that isn't your own. Those kinds of people probably cross through places like the The Racecourse every day in an attempt at being punctual. I doubt they even stop to look at the monotonous, striving, aimless field.

The signs probably should quit their jobs. They won't, though, because they work to live their ever extending life. You have to admire their persistence, calling out to happily married couples romancing hand in hand – clearly enjoying the rest of their lives so much more than the signs. I wondered how old they were – when does a sign retire, anyway?

     So many leaves on the ground from the time of year. Some of the leaves had a youthful shade of white spread over them as if trying to dye their 'greying' hair. Hiding from their own mortality. Brown must be a dull colour for a leaf; morbid and dry. Sometimes the wind would carry them speedily along as if chasing a hearse: 'Take me with you' they'd whisper in the despair of the night. At first they lose their tree, and then the death of darkness has to plague them, destroying their overt attempts at being innocent and pure. When the scythe strikes, The Racecourse wins.

I wonder if the dog made his way home? I bet the man got enough exercise. I made my own way home before dark, it's not quite my time, yet.

Mimi Says

           Mimi stands in the doorway at night. She knocks three times in the silhouette bright. My mum is unaware and Mimi says this is good. She compliments my hair and tells me I'm rare and I believe Mimi because she tells me I should. Mimi wears a plain white mask with big red curls and rosy red cheeks. She speaks quietly and calm wearing the innocent smile of the meek, and at this point she's visited me for weeks.

           Mimi says I should be her friend. And I do want to be her friend, saying that our friendship should never end. She's asking for proof. Proof that I am her friend by giving me tasks to perform, offerings of food, like bread or fruit or corn. The food must be simple, she says. No food from a lady, as that would be crazy. Women are the precious and taking their food is malicious. I now avoid milk and eggs or meat made from cow's legs.

           Mimi says I should wear white in bed. She says I should do this to accentuate the red. So I do. She says I should wear white gowns and never carry frowns so that I can look like her from toe to paw, every time I open that door. That way, when she knocks, I can look like her. “White and pure with a face of allure.” My feet as bare as hers and our hips both jut. When I grow, I shall keep my figure and never indulge in smut.

           Mimi says I should buy her a flower with thorns on it. Thorny flowers are the best because they can protect themselves. They smell to attract only certain things and avoid others. They are completely in control of their life.

           Mimi says flowers prove my friendship and that friends do things for each other. Mimi says I should not eat sweets and tell this to my mummy. Sweets use energy much needed for making babies and they turn boys into rapists with rabies. My mummy should know of the habits I intend to end and she still thinks I have an imaginary friend.

           Mimi says I should avoid boys at school to protect my womb. Avoid dark alleys where they might loom. Mimi says my womb is special and the white gown, once a month, should show off my red. She says it's because of my hair being red, and because my hair is curly shows why I'm special to have it so early. The other girls are not deserving. Not of my friendship, they are all immature bullies and meanies. They're not like my good friend Mimi.

           Mimi says she needs to know about my mummy. Mimi says I should tell her everything into her core. Whether she's had any more children or has ever been a whore. Whether her hair is dark as a midnight shore. Whether her conversations are a bore and everything more. She's happy with my answers and hates that mummy wears fur. She says it's horrid and that I should avoid her.

           Mimi says my mummy is special for having made me and no other. If she had she would not be a special mother. For all I am worth she should have no more girls. None to take over me with my shiny red curls.

           Mimi says I should not talk to my mum, to ignore her and keep up an act. She says I should not care how her days went and that I should avoid eye contact. She says that my mum thinks she knows best and will try to influence my life. But Mimi says she drinks alcohol and couldn't make a good wife.

           Mimi says I shouldn't let anyone influence my life and I should fulfil my greatest potentials on my own. I like Mimi. When she's with me I trust her the most. She is my friend and I'm happy to boast. Mimi says Lauren from school is selfish and is trying to hold me back. Mimi says to see the truth in people is what she has as a knack and that Lauren's friendship is something I should lack.

Mimi says when I grow up, my breasts will be small like hers. She says this is good as it is modest and that's something I deserve. Mimi let me touch her breasts so I could imagine mine. She says it's not a problem and that to feel like I do is fine.

           Mimi says I should kill a creature and keep it as my proudest feature. She says I should catch a male and preferably something with a tail. Mimi says that I should burn the filthy animal which turned out to be a rat; I squished the rat very flat. So with a box of matches I made the rat a cinder and from inside something hatches because it went “POP”. And all this liquid just wouldn't stop. I took a hammer and nailed him on my bedroom wall. Mimi says this should make me feel womanly and powerful and really very tall.

           Mimi says I should not feel bad and that what I am doing is good. I tell Mimi I do feel bad and she said she understood. But Mimi says she likes me and I like her too. And that she wouldn't like me if she told me and I did not do. So I feel less bad and Mimi isn't mad. Everyone's happy.

           Mimi says she wants a knife. I should find one soon. For her and for myself to use and protect my life. She says it should be sharp and that I should sharpen it more. I need to show Mimi the knife and hide it away. What happens next she wouldn't yet say and yet I have an idea. I get Mimi, I like Mimi. She's been my friend for a year.

           Mimi says I should use the knife tonight. She knocked on my door pale in the moonlight and told me it is fine. She walked into my house for the very first time and told me to use the knife. She walked with my upstairs, slowly but sure and we both stopped, standing at the bedroom door. Mimi didn't look at me, but I looked at her. The door swung open, the room lined with fur and empty glasses of wine and Mimi whispered that it's time.

           Mimi prepared me for this little act and that I was special was just a fact but I couldn't risk my mummy ruining that. So her bed was there and I stood with my eyes shut; then I plunged the knife right into her gut. She woke with a startle and I told her everything will be okay. Her eyes were full of shock and she wasn't okay. On my feet I rocked and I brushed my blood-soaked hand through her hair, telling her to shush – twisting the knife with an extra push. I smiled up at her and she didn't make a sound, but she struggled and gargled until she was a weight on the ground.

           When I turned around. Mimi couldn't be found, she was gone from the room and not on the stairs. I walked with my gown covered with thick wet hairs and oozing, dripping down my head was the red. Mimi stood in the doorway with her mask so big. I waited for her to tell me what I did and she pointed to me, pointed to my belly. I nodded, knowing what to do but my legs went to jelly. I was a special girl with red curls and I was more than this.

           I turned the knife inside my hand and stabbed myself where I stand and pangs of pain were met with pleasure as I felt the blood pour out of me with no regrets because Mimi said. Mimi smiles in the doorway dimly lit by the shadow and moon. I like Mimi, Mimi is by friend. Everything will be okay soon and I lull my feint head. Everything will be okay because Mimi said.

Letter To A Princess

           The tavern in question was exactly as it said on the sign: 'The Wood and Wood Inn'; where absolutely everything was wooden, from the cutlery to the windows.

           “How... how am I meant to win her heart?” Vitras wondered. “Her dad'll find a real man soon, so I need to take my chance now!” The tavern was quieter than he was used to, though at quarter past four in the morning, it was to be expected. How could he sleep when so pressed for time to catch his beloved's eye? But for the life of him, he could think of nothing he could do. He slammed his fist onto the table in frustration, making the only other customer in the tavern bolt awake, removing his sodden face from his grog, only to fall back to sleep with a splash.

           Vitras shot the lonely gent a dirty glance and stumbled towards the door ready to leave and find somewhere a little quieter. He paused to think of where to go. Vitras travelled around often, (using the title 'adventurer' where others used the term 'unemployed') yet the only place Vitras could imagine calling home was a small town named Lindell. Of all the backward towns he could like so much, he chose the one where he stood out like cactus amongst baby bums. For a male to have badly cut long brunette hair, it potentially made him a laughing stock – he however called it a trademark and figured it added to his many brilliant traits. At this moment, however, his mind was full of more than just how handsome he was, it was also full of the noble girl he wished to endear to.

           The floor was damp as Vitras stepped outside, mug in hand; he decided he'd head towards a place he knew as 'Rock', which was a place he could think quietly. Being such a travelling rogue, few would think him fond of a girl, so he craved solitude and 'Rock' was perfect for that.

           “Hey, bring my bloody glass back!” The barman burst out of the door of The Wood and Wood (which, if you weren't already aware, was made completely of wood) and snatched the mug from Vitras' hand, locking him with an icy cold stare. “Thief.”

                                                       * * *

           'Rock' was a stand alone boulder on a small hill just by the shore. It was still dark and not particularly warm, though it was as beautiful as always – especially as the sun would soon rise on the perfectly clear horizon. Vitras found himself perched up on the edge of the boulder facing the ocean before he even knew he was there, and whilst feeling the chilly breeze over his hands and cheeks and through his hair, a wet piece of paper slapped him in his face and stuck to him.

           Peeling off the note and wiping his face, he saw writing on the page. The note stated:

           “To whom it may concern,

           I am stuck in a large hole in the sand on the beach and cannot get out. Help me! Help me, please! I would very much appreciate a search party or perhaps a lone traveller with a rope, anything really to help me out of this hole. I am quite scared as the tide seems to be coming in hastily.

           Thank you for reading.

           Yours,

           Julie”

           The sun began to peek over the horizon and Vitras was silhouetted on the boulder with chin on fist and deep in thought.

           “I have it!” Vitras shouted, letting go of the note. “I'll write a letter to my love!” He jumped down from the rock and headed his way towards the Noble’s castle to the east of town: he needed to get help. He could not write to save his life. Or read to save someone else's. He ignored the note.

                                                       * * *

           On the hour long walk to the castle the sun had already risen with a bright cheery face screaming: 'Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine! Full day ahead!' which seemed to be the alarm for most nobles, meaning they had all recently got up to go about their business. From the outside everything seemed mostly quiet aside from chirping birds; happy because the crickets had shut up.

           Swimming a moat and scaling a wall was pretty easy for Vitras, it was always the other side that troubled him. His head made the first loud noise he'd heard all morning when it thumped against an upper room floor. The window he had climbed through seemed to be unnaturally high and as his vision focused he found himself in a bedroom, one that seemed to have been designed by an overly expressive fairy with a fetish for pink.

Brushing himself off, he heard speeding footsteps outside the room and figured someone was about to burst in – not knowing what else to do, he dove under the bed. The bed was only just roomy enough for one person, but he had to crouch a tiny bit to save his head poking out the top. The duvet hung over the edges so he felt safe enough but had to rely on sound. What followed was this: Rattle, shuffle, shuffle, scrape, shuffle, step, step, pause, bump, much louder shuffle, roll, roll. The next thing was feeling someone press tight up against his left hand side.

           Looking over and sharing a few seconds of staring before the girl spoke.

           “...Hey, who are you hiding from?”

           “Umm, you?” Vitras said before a further few seconds of staring.

           “Ahhhhh!” They both yelled at the top of their voices and scurried out from under the bed. Vitras ran out the room, still screaming and down a flight of stairs. He got quieter as he went an turned into a room before finding himself in a corner.

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he opened one eye and turned around. He was surrounded by books and peering down at him was a hunched and hairy old man in extravagant clothing.

           “Are you okay?” said the man in a very posh accent muffled by a beard.

           “What? Yes. I was, um, just trying to get some bloody attention!” He nodded at himself reassuringly “ ...Yeah, that's what I was doing.” Rushing to his feet and standing as defensively as possible realising that he was a fair bit taller than the elderly man.

           “And wearing clothes like that in a place like this isn't attention enough?” the old man chuckled. “Why are you here then? What kind of attention are you trying to gain? People tend not to run screaming through a library for no reason... usually.”

           “Oh you look the bookish type!” said Vitras.

           “That's not an answer.” He looked over each shoulder at all the surrounding shelves of books after books. “Though I can't imagine how you came to that idea?”

           “I need your help then, can you help me?”

           “...Still not an answer, young man. I'll help you if you answer the questions I need to know.” He rubbed his long straggly beard. “Firstly, what is your name? Next, what is your occupation? How did you get into the castle? Why were you screaming and what do you need help with?”

           “I, um...” Vitras took a moment to note all of the questions in order. “Vitras. I'm a... free-lance jack-of-all-trades. I got into the castle by asking really nicely. I was screaming because there was some girl in her room. I need help to write a letter as soon as possible. Can you write at all, and is there somewhere more... quiet and proper we can go? It's getting creepy in here.” They both looked around the room at the hundred-odd surprised eyes beading their way. The old man raised his bushy eyebrows that almost knocked off his hat, and laughed.

           “The name is Cyrl.” He offered his hand, which Vitras gave a curious look, unsure what to do. “Follow me, if you please.” He dropped his hand. The man span around and waddled slowly towards the door. Vitras, in order to look casual to the peering eyes, leaned back in his walk, trying to act confident, and trying to look like he owned the place. It would have worked, too, if he didn't trip half way and tumble to the floor like someone kicked a rag doll.

                                                       * * *

           Cyrl turned out to be quite an important person, as he was the grandfather of the man who married the Queen's cousin, once removed. For all Cyrl's skill in writing and how helpful he was, Vitras couldn't help but feel the minutes were like hours. Whilst Cyrl tried to find all the right words for something sweet and suited to Vitras, Vitras himself attempted (sort of) to learn to read.

           There were so many books in the old man's private library, there was no knowing where to begin. Everything seemed to be there from a book called 'A Short History Of Ducks: Volume 4' to something called 'The Karma Sutra For Dummies'.

           Cyrl asked many many questions about preferences and ability and what he wanted the tone to be, and Vitras using words from the books tried to write something of his own. Using an alphabet book he'd just used to learn some letters, he wrote: 'A is for Apple, which is juicy like you. B is for 'Be mine', because I want you. C is for... Cat.' Which is only one example of Vitras' work. The others were so badly written and occasionally horrid, that when a boy broke into Cyrl's study a week later and went through his paper bin in order to steal something brilliant for a school project, he vomited in his mouth twice and vowed never to read again.

           After three long hours of writing, Vitras agreed on a note of Cyrl's that was good enough, poetic enough and had a point, he loved it:

           “If I could dream any dream, I would choose you to be my dream, but a dream you will always be if you never consider meeting me. If I wrote how much I loved you on this paper here, I would run out of pages to write of you, my dear. So if I had to choose a place to meet for romance's sake, I would ask you to meet me at twelve by the lake.”

           “Brilliant, I'll just leave it for her to find.” Said Vitras.

           “I could do better with more time, y'know. Let us just pretend those are your words.” Cyrl said, putting on his top hat and giving Vitras a lopsided wink like a large hairy dog.            “Though one last question my lad. Who is this lady you're perusing?”

           “Her name is Leanna. Lives in the royal village, just outside this castle, y'know her?”

           “The Princess?” Cyrl choked. He regained his composure. “Well, good luck then I guess.” He rolled his eyes before giving Vitras another dog-wink.

                                                       * * *

           Downstairs at the ground level, the lobby was bustling with activity; scattered people all going their separate ways. Looking down at his own clothes, Vitras could see he clearly didn't fit in. He decided to try to mingle and head out the main gate, anyway. The exit was two massive wooden doors with smaller people-sized doors in the middle of each. In front of the only operating door were two fully iron clad guards. They were going to be a problem, but the door was his aim and that's the direction he headed.

           Casually mingling with the crowd, Vitras got all the way to the door and placed his hand on the handle as if to stroll out before a voice stopped him, it was the guard to his right. Both guards, however, were motionless and looked directly ahead.

           “Can we 'elp you, sir?”

           “Not really, I'm just on my way out!”

           “Well, may we ask 'ow you got in? Peasant.” Said the left hand guard. The 'Y' shaped gap in their helmets were now fixated on Vitras, and he could feel their eyes rather than see them.

           “Err, I came in earlier in the morning, don't you remember? You didn't say a word then. Or were their different guards on, you all look alike, to me.” Vitras continued to act as cocky as possible. “If it was you, you must have some awful memories, I mean look at the way I'm dressed – you'd think you'd remember!”

           “Careful now, peasant. We don't 'ave to stall this, you could be going right in to the dungeon. We wouldn't let the likes o' you in, so 'ow did you get in?”

           “Well I didn't sneak in, if that's what you think. How dare you! May I take my leave now?” Vitras said to the left guard, who nodded to the right guard who shook his head.

           “Not 'til we get an answer, peasant.” was the reply.

           “Well, even if I did sneak in, surely it's fine for me to just sneak back... out?” Vitras grabbed the door and pushed but the lock held tight. He panicked and backed away from the guards who began to move in towards him. Pushing some passers-by who had gathered to see the commotion, Vitras leapt towards the guards, clambering over one of them and jumping off his head to get purchase on the wall behind. The crowd started making a lot of noise but Vitras didn't look back, he pushed forward on a vertical sea of stone as fast as he could to get to the window at the top. The crowd started to throw things at the escapee-spider, but not one person actually hit him: bits of potato, stones, a book, a fish and an anvil which severely dented the wall.

           Reaching his foot through the kicked open window, he followed through with the other and managed to keep his footing for the descent: better than usual. But after a very short distance he managed to misplace his footing for the second time that day and fell.            Managing to grab onto the lip of the large gate on the outside, he knew he was closer to the ground, regaining himself he made the extra distance and place both feet firmly on the outer drawbridge. Turning around to leave, he came to an abrupt stop at two metal plates.            Looking up, he squeaked at the guards.

           “Ehh, hi?” before each guard grabbed an arm and dragged him back through the now open door. Thrashing about wildly, he realised he could not resist the oafs of security so he sat back and allowed himself to be dragged into the dungeon. After a few seconds, however, he realised he was no longer in possession of his love letter.

           The beautiful note, on beautifully indestructible paper, tied with a beautiful red ribbon gently drifted down the moat towards the river's opening. Vitras was never to know.

                                                       * * *

           “It's so peaceful and romantic here.” Leanna said to herself, sat on a bench by the lake at some time around quarter past twelve.

           The sky could be seen reflected in the water that was shimmering on top and cloudy underneath and about as deep as a house in the middle. It was so shiny on the surface, that the reflection of the moonlight could blind and eagle, and for all the lake was worth, it was as deceiving as an onion painted red to pretend to be an apple.

           People liked to believe their lake was magical. That in the middle was a Sphinx that would ask riddles to passers-by and occasionally fight with the Kraken of the depths for territory as thousands of fish watched on; feeding on the faeries that flew atop the water. As if sparkles fluttered about and it could grant mystical powers such as healing or shape-shifting. None of this was true, however, and everyone knew so. The lake was dead; full of salt, so potent that a human could barely dip in their toe without it dissolving.

           Nevertheless, people loved their lake because it was theirs, it was beautiful, and it was a perfect place for a romantic meeting.

           Leanna, a nice, beautiful young maiden, was watching the wonderful waters when a small piece of paper, wrapped in a ribbon, happened to float by. Being careful of the water, she fished it out and read the note.

           “This is beautiful! Was this for me? It must have been because this would be far too much of a coincidence. I would certainly like to meet this person who is likely to be so very unsuited to me, but I will persuade my father anyway so that we can get married and have lots of middle class children – oh my!” She looked all around the lake to see if anyone was nearby before sitting back down on the bench. She rolled up the scroll and patiently started to wait. Prepared to wait for the man, for the writer of the note; just waiting for her love to arrive. If only he knew.

Maiden Of The Sea

           To see such a creature right before my eyes filled me with so many feelings. A feeling of shock, of worry and of awe. The gleam of that, who some would name a beast, reflected the sun to look as if to glow. A sight to behold that I'll never forget.

           I never wanted to lose the sight of it. Yet, I never wanted it to catch sight of me. That was the feeling of fear. Fear of what it might do; fear that it may leave and never come back.

                                                                  * * *

           October 12^th, 1814. My sixteenth birthday. I had woken up to a still dark sky. The earliest a morning could be, to me. My uncle was visiting my mother and I at our bungalow by the sea and he had promised to take me beachcombing.

           When he'd first mentioned beachcombing, I'd never understood it. Then he told me of many jobs that involved beachcombing, and I remember laughing so very hard at the term 'winkle-picker'. But I was only a little boy. He said when I was sixteen he would take me out beachcombing with him – as was his hobby – and suddenly, I became obsessed with the idea.

           I loved the sea. I loved the beach. To live so close was something I adored. But I stuck to a promise and never became a 'beachcomber' until my uncle showed me how. Not that I thought there was much to show. My mother agreed, however, that I shouldn't be going to down to the beach alone until I was of a more reasonable age. As a result, I spent most of my time helping my mum with house work and and visiting my friends during these summer holidays.

           When the time finally came round to it, I had my waders ready and bought a pair of gloves that I didn't wear until I needed them. A thick jumper was needed as it was cold before the sun came up. A bag for my findings. All other tools were carried by my uncle, consisting of a shovel a trowel and a rake. I looked at myself in the mirror with my rake, tall boots, jumper and straggly hair. My mother wasn't awake yet, but if she were, she'd have told me I looked just like my late father.

           The reason beachcombing was so important to my uncle was very much unknown to me. I had never realised the difference between fifteen and sixteen. But I trusted him enough, having looked after me and my mum for so many years after my dad passed away. Now it was almost like he was accepting me as an adult. So with bags and pockets-a-plenty, we left the house to the greyish blue sky of pre-sun mornings.

           It was barely ten minutes later to walk around the cliff edge and find our way down to the beach way. We were upwind for most of the journey to smell to strong sea breeze. Our beach was not as fine sand as they have on other beaches, but fine enough for rocks and pebbles to be scattered at distances. I stopped at the edge of the beach, looked up at my uncle and smiled. Speaking above the roar of the sea, he smiled back, wishing me a happy birthday.

           We watched the ground. Looking for something shiny was the best, but anything interesting could be picked up. We made our way systematically across the beach to the edge of the sea and even waded in a little. It wasn't the nicest of days, clouds were heavy but with no threat of rain. My Uncle got out a comb and started scratching the sea with it. I laughed a lot at how silly he looked.

           “What's with you, dear boy? Never seen a man combing the beach before?” He said as dryly as he could and we both shared the moment of laughter. At the time I had thought nothing of it, but out the corner of my eye, what looked like someone popping out of the water caught my attention.

           “Found something, have we?” My uncle asked.

           “Thought I saw something in the water, is all.” Was my reply.

           “Ah, they do have seals around here, my boy. Probably wondering what all the noise was on this morning.” He said as he got up to keep searching.

           I had found a few really nice shells and some drift wood. A vague fishy smell lingered and the tide must have been going out from the darker sand near the shore. We had gotten to a protrusion in the rock of a cliff when there was a little area of sand around the side. Something really made me want to go around there out of pure curiosity.

           “Where are you off?” My uncle exclaimed as I began to wander away from him. I turned.

           “There's a bit around this cliff I would like to search. I don't think I will be long.” I said, as if asking for permission.

           “Well, I wont be able to climb around that, my boy. But I'll be here when you're back. Wouldn't want to stray too far apart.”

           “Okay, thanks.” I smiled and ran to the edge of the rock, climbing round a few pieces that otherwise meant wading into the water up to my chest. After it shallowed I jumped into the sea and found the other bit of land. Then I heard a feather-light humming and peeked around the last piece of rock. There was an alcove beach of richer sand than before and I saw her.

           To see such a creature right before my eyes filled me with so many feelings. A feeling of shock, of worry and of awe. The gleam of she, who some would name a beast, reflected the sun to make her look as if to glow. Simply, she was beautiful.

           I never wanted to lose the sight of her. Yet, I never wanted her to catch sight of me. That was the feeling of fear. Fear of what she might do; fear that she may leave and never come back. She sat, on a rock combing her hair of a tangled mess. And oh what an abundance of hair! It was truly a sight to behold that defied explanation. Her peach coloured skin contrasted against her scaled tail that balanced her around a rock. Flecks of gold, blue, green and silver could be seen to mix a fantastic colour and her voice was soft.

           The shouting waves and cawing gulls seemed to fade into silence. She didn't draw me towards her, but I could not take my eyes away. I had never known these creatures were to exist. Suddenly, she jolted upright and sniffed the air as if she'd caught a scent and her eyes reflected every ounce of fear she owned. Immediately, I thought she had smelt me. I panicked and ran back, I ran around the cliffs splashing cloves of seawater into my mouth and almost tripping on a sea-weed that kept upon my foot. My uncle looked so surprised as my apparent worry spread through him.

           “What is it, what?” He shouted as he took my shoulder in his hand trying to steady me and my darting gaze.

           “I saw this wonderful, thing, uncle. It had a tail and I think it saw me watching it and... and...” As I was saying this I saw my uncle relax and I knew he had no idea. I would not be able to make him believe what I saw as I could not explain it. Something made me keep what I had seen to myself.

           “Boy, seals are nothing to be worried about. They could give you a nasty bite but keeping your distance is wise at any cost. Really gave me a fright, you did!” My uncle tried to calm me. We carried on roaming the sand for another hour with this wonder lingering in my head. My uncle tried to explain to me why he was so worried about me going off on my own.

           “How old were you when your father passed away? Do you remember anything of him?” He asked me. Of which I was only four so had no true memory. “On the day he went missing, he went off to the beach on his own. Wouldn’t tell anyone why, but it was often he decided to go on his own. One day, like in some fairy tale, he never returned.”

           I hadn't said much in reply, but I had never heard this story before. I wondered if what I had seen was the same thing that took my dad, and if searching for something of my father's was why my uncle beachcombed. I was crossed between allure and fear. Walking back into the warmth of home, I hadn't realised how cold I was. After a meal with my mother she had scraped the money together for; a few games and smiles from people at the local village followed and I went to bed. With a present in my mind the likes I couldn't have dreamed.

                                                                  * * *

           Despite a yearning to re-visit her as soon as possible, my uncle didn't leave town again for another three days. I knew he wouldn't let me go alone. So I waited and spent my time with him while he was with us. He was riding to Bristol docks eventually, so wouldn't be back again for a long time.

           Going against his wishes did make me feel bad but, as soon as he left, I went down to the beach. I told my mother that I was going to see some friends in the village and she gave me the usual worried look that she gives whenever I leave home on my own. Times were dangerous, but living so far out of town felt safer than roaming streets at night. Either way, I went out to the beach to find this woman of the sea and after an hour of searching one side of the beach to the other, she was no longer there. I slumped down to the sand in dismay. Of course she wasn't there. Was I expecting her to sit on the rock forever and always be there when I went back? It was a ridicules idea.

           Shifting over to move something uncomfortable from under my bum, I pulled a comb from the ground. It looked just like my uncles comb that we had laughed about the time before. I figured he must have dropped it, so I put it in my pocket and went home.

           It wasn't until I was nearly home and fingering the comb in my pocket that what I had seen sprang to my memory. My uncle had mistaken what I had seen for a seal, but what if it wasn't? What if that was the maiden just then? She must have known we were there. I figured maybe she heard our laughter and come to see what the noise was. I decided there was enough light time left for me to get back down to the beach so I ran to my heart's content in the hope that I could see this creature once again, though not without fear that it might see me. I had no choice.

           I found the spot where we were. I shouted, laughed and thumped as loud as I could and generally caused a disturbance among the sand, kicking up all kinds of smells; covering my boots in wet sand. When I didn't see anything popping up, I realised I should head back before it got dark. Just as I turned around, I dropped the comb I was twiddling and it made a minor splash amongst the incoming tide.

           Bending down to pick up the comb, I saw something move in the corner of my eye, though before I could double take, nothing could be seen. I stayed staring a little longer to no prevail and needed to return home. It was only then when I considered that a comb touching the water might have been the link.

           I decided to leave as it didn't seem like I had much of a chance of seeing anything. But it was as I was walking past another indent in the rock that I heard the beautiful humming. And peering around the corner, her skin gleamed as much as her tail did. This time I really looked at her and, again, it is nothing I can explain to look at. From her nose to her breasts to just below the navel looked so much like the most wonderful human and yet, the tail that clearly held so much power lingered on her lower half.

           I can honestly say at this point that despite the nakedness, there was not a drop of lust. I just wanted to be around her. To look at her. To meet her. A little too much after dark, I got home though the window and pretended I had come home sooner without my mother noticing.

                                                                  * * *

           To make myself feel better about lying, and without giving the reasons why, I worried my mother by telling her I was going to the beach. Considering what I had seen on the previous day, I didn't think it would be worth my not trying at least a second, or third time. So I picked the most tattered looking comb from the bathroom. One that almost looked like it was designed to have needless spines, so it didn't matter that it was missing or lost. Then I headed to the beach.

           This time, I seemed to care less if it saw me, I don't know why but I seemed to trust it. And so I didn't want to miss it's initial bump in the water. I sat directly at the edge of the tide, holding the ruined comb. Dipping it into the water, I combed the tiny waves three times and stared out to as much horizon as possible.

           What splashed up out of the waves was definitely not shy, as a whip of jet black hair sprouted a fountain of water into the air that took a while to settle. Even from so far out I could feel it staring directly into me. The eyes covered darker than the hair on it's head and made a direct contrast from how bone white it's skin was. This thing was much thinner and definitely not the same creature I had seen twice before.

           What startled me more was the sharp teeth that darted my way, the speed it seemed to be swimming out-distanced any fish and before I knew it, it was ascending out of the waves covered in spines both pale and dark jutting from her shoulders and spread down her spine. Her fingers were webbed and tail was as dark as her hair. She used her arms to crawl out of the water which slowed her significantly. I was stuck, frozen on the spot, in absolute fear into the depths of my marrow. I had no idea what this thing was or what I had done.

           She loomed over towards me, span from head to tail must have reached eight feet as her size was overwhelming for something so bony and thin. Her chin was extended to fit her needle sharp teeth. As she got closer I could do nothing but stare into the endless black eyes of hers. She grabbed my foot and dragged me underneath her and unhinged her mouth to make somewhere in between a screech and a hiss. She looked as if to take a maul of flesh out of my face. I stared into the mawing abyss.

           What felt most strange was that beyond the stench of fish was her natural smell that was not at all unpleasant.

           Mouth agape I could see so close the cilia lining her mouth, a slimy drip slid from her chin to my nose, proceeding to drip onto my face and as a reflex I shut my eyes tight. The next thing I knew was a thump above me and I felt less enclosed. Looking across the beach, there was the maiden I had intended to find pinning this creature to the ground with one hand and the other scratching away at it's neck and torso. The screeching was sure to be heard for a long distance as they fought on the sand. Blows were shared, and the creature seemed to have the upper hand on the maiden. Using her spines as defence and to stick into the maiden with her shoulder impacting in her ribs. She spat a kind of black ink into her pretty face and begun to extend her jaw again.

           The maiden reached out a hand and tore at the creature's lower jaw, making it hang – fully dislocated. Stunned, the pale and black creature was overwhelmed by the tail of the maiden who slammed her onto the ground. The maiden leapt up with surprising speed upon land over to me.

           I could not move, still, out of confusion and fear. The maiden was halted, dead in the sand, by the pale skinned creature digging it's sharp tipped fingers deep into the middle of her tail, tearing out a deep bloody mess. The maiden used the strength of her tail to retaliate and seemingly break something in the creature's torso enough to make her flee.

           Grabbing the spiked comb from my grasp, that had dug into my hand enough to draw blood.

           “Where did you get this?!” she hissed at me. Too frightened to speak I shook my head vigorously as if an acceptable answer. She paused, looking deep into my eyes, down my nose, to my mouth and chin. She looked as though she recognised me. She swept her hair to one side, revealing a medallion she was using as a piece of jewellery and removed it, placing it in my hand, closing my fingers around it.

           “This belongs to you. Never comb the sea again, understand? I might not be around next time if you call the wrong of us.” She calmed her voice. Her accent was implacable, soft and nice to hear as if she spoke with guttural emphasis from the back of the throat.

           “W... What are y... you?” I blubbered, feeling as if I wasn't inside my own body but a spectator for the whole event.

           “That's a rude question, human.” She grinned a wide grin, losing some of her own humanity. “You're just like your father was. We are mermaids as you are human.”

           “M... My father?” I struggled to ask.

           “Do you have my comb?” was the only reply. Harsh, but beautiful. Feeling all my pockets, in the back pocket I found I did have the comb from the previous day still there. I must have sat on it while calling the other mermaid and summoned both. I handed it towards her, my hand still trembling. She took it carefully and eyed me intently.

           “Thank you. For this, I shall grant you one wish. But then I must tend to my wound, and you shall never see me again.” she paused and waited for my quivering mess to think about what had been offered.

           “W.. Well then I wish to see you again. Once a year, I wish to hear your song.” I said. She looked at me for a few seconds as if considering this. She looked me in the eye and nodded once. Pressing my forehead with her lips, she kissed life into my wish.

           “Brave wish for such a cowardly being. You shall not see me, though you will hear my song on this day once a year. Pick up this shell and hold it to your ear, for at this action, you and only you will hear my voice.” With that, she proceeded to lift a shell from the sand, spiralling and pink, holding it to her mouth she sung loud and true for over an hour. This time had calmed me significantly. “Now avoid the sea for a long while, human boy. A summoned Mermaid can lurk at the shores for days.”

           Before I could say anything, she handed me the shell and turned, dragging her weakened tail into the sea with her. The blood did not mix with the water but the cut seemed to disappear instantly. I looked at the shell and slowly dragged myself home.

                                                                  * * *

           Walking through the door, which felt more welcoming than ever before, I was greeted by my mother as white as a sheet. Seeming like she'd seen a spectre of some kind, I noticed her eyes beaming at the medallion I had worn all of the way home. I told her I had found it on the beach and she told me more about my father. I listened carefully and she shed a tear, holding the medallion to her heart. She peered towards my hands where I was cradling the shell.

           “What's that?” She quizzed, casually. I held it up.

           “Just something I wanted to keep.” I lied “Nothing special.”

           Shooting her a grin of sentiment. I put my arm around my mother as we sat.