1880
London Town
London – 1880
It was a city of crime and justice, wealth and poverty, the centre of the world for men of fortune and malevolence. Thick smog curled across the Thames, as the last of a long line of traders punted their failing businesses along. The smell was putrid, too. Dense as the soot and twice as rough on the lungs, it clung to everyone and everything, marking it as London’s own. Out on the patched, cobbled streets, neither beggar nor gentry could escape it; each was equal in the eyes of the city.
At this time, above a bakers, west of the river, was a rented room. Its decoration was nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the floor, which could not be seen. Instead, an abundance of literature and scruffy notes lay strewn in chaotic patchwork. At intervals lay important works throughout the ages, from Chaucer to Byron to Marx, and in other places discarded food and other such matter. Most creatures would shun a life in these conditions, but not the current occupants, both hunched at an ancient oak table, scratching feverishly with equally tattered quills.
The first was a man. He sat surrounded by books, leather bound and finely combed. Upon finishing is paper, he observed it carefully, scratching his equally patchy beard. He then either tore it to shreds, losing the contents in to the depths of the pile below, or placed it neatly on a stack entitled “Poetry for the Modern Romantic”. His clothing was not outstanding for the time, with waistcoat and shirt adorned agedly, yet neatly. Here was a man of tradition, traditions soon to fade.
Beside him, his friend and companion. Corseted and primly dressed, she too blotted herself and her paper with ink, searching for the perfect play. Around her lay several piles, each with several notes attached. Occasionally, she would stop in her writing, only to glance quickly upon her other works, and the efforts of playwrights before her, in order to draw inspiration. She was determined, she was virulent, and she was making progress for all humanity.
It was a city of crime and justice, wealth and poverty, the centre of the world for men of fortune and malevolence. Thick smog curled across the Thames, as the last of a long line of traders punted their failing businesses along. The smell was putrid, too. Dense as the soot and twice as rough on the lungs, it clung to everyone and everything, marking it as London’s own. Out on the patched, cobbled streets, neither beggar nor gentry could escape it; each was equal in the eyes of the city.
At this time, above a bakers, west of the river, was a rented room. Its decoration was nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the floor, which could not be seen. Instead, an abundance of literature and scruffy notes lay strewn in chaotic patchwork. At intervals lay important works throughout the ages, from Chaucer to Byron to Marx, and in other places discarded food and other such matter. Most creatures would shun a life in these conditions, but not the current occupants, both hunched at an ancient oak table, scratching feverishly with equally tattered quills.
The first was a man. He sat surrounded by books, leather bound and finely combed. Upon finishing is paper, he observed it carefully, scratching his equally patchy beard. He then either tore it to shreds, losing the contents in to the depths of the pile below, or placed it neatly on a stack entitled “Poetry for the Modern Romantic”. His clothing was not outstanding for the time, with waistcoat and shirt adorned agedly, yet neatly. Here was a man of tradition, traditions soon to fade.
Beside him, his friend and companion. Corseted and primly dressed, she too blotted herself and her paper with ink, searching for the perfect play. Around her lay several piles, each with several notes attached. Occasionally, she would stop in her writing, only to glance quickly upon her other works, and the efforts of playwrights before her, in order to draw inspiration. She was determined, she was virulent, and she was making progress for all humanity.
♠ ♠ ♠
This part was written some time ago, with no intention of publication.More to come soon, no doubt!
(This bit was written by me, by the way)