bortleman
02-05-2011, 09:21 PM
The limp bouquet hung by Isac's side. He could hardly hold it in his hand, but he couldn't let go. He was the only man standing close enough to hear the creaky rubbing of the ropes that lowered the casket. The coffin came to rest with a thud that resounded as an absolute.
The gravedigger stood resting his forearms on the handle of a spade planted in front of him. With the reslove of a headsman, he stirred the blade of his tool in fresh soil. Isac could still see the gray flesh of Mary's emotionless expression plastered on her face in perfect detail. He could almost feel himself laying beside her. The organ music muffled by oak and silk would lull them into true sleep.
The shovel scraped up earth and rocks that fell like a brown comforter thrown down on the coffin. Isac let the flowers fall from his grip. With each scoop, the dirt hid their beauty from the world forever.
Isac was woken by the belching of a fog horn. His confined hotel room was dark with inky morning light of the harbor seeping in from a shanty window. Breathing in deeply he bounced his hand around the night stand. The light switch clicked and a few moments later the yellow haze eminated from the little lamp in the corner.
Isac sat up with his legs dangling over the edge of the squeaky mattress. He rubbed his face and looking between his fingers he read the time 6:38. Through the walls he could hear the clanging of breakfast being made.
The smell of stale coffee being poured caused Isac to fold his newspaper down. A scarcely toothed grin from the inn's matron greeted him. He gave a half hearted smirk back and kicked his feet onto the table. He took a drink of the mire in his cup, set it down distastefully, and flipped the papers back up, ruffling them into shape.
He was the only person occupying one of the two tables in the cramped reception area. It was antiquated in decoration and most of the wallpaper was starting to peel off. The creepy hostess returned with a hot plate. It clashed down on the table. A smattering of baked beans, smoked sausage and scrambled eggs slowly bled together into one homogynized mix.
Isac walked briskly down the harbor line, a newspaper folded under his arm. The cool air was refreshing, despite the constant smell of salt and dead fish. This was his first visit to Kettle Point, and surely would be his last, he vowed. He took the cobble stone alley labelled by a decrepit wood sign "Sturgeon". He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read the sloppy numbering "715"
It was narrow and the brick work buildings shot up on either side for several stories without a break between them. Small squatting doors dotted the alley walls with brass lettering stamped next to them. Isac slowed his pace as he inspected each door carefully.
His face collided with something soft and fleshy. An upset face peered down from beneath a swamp hat. The odor of dead fish and rot made Isac gag as he coughed out the word "sorry". The man said nothing, but continued to stare at Isac in disapproval. He was holding a metal pale that flies hovered around anxiously.
Isac took a step back.
"Do you know where I can find building, or door 715?"
The man lifted a large finger pointing further down the alley, his fat flesh sagging off his arms. Isac quickly manuevered around him covering his face. His stride was quicker as he searched the high walls for his destination. The alley ended ubruptly, but at the end a large oak door sat with the letters "715" etched into it.
On the door was parchment envolope titled "Isac". Red wax kept the letter closed, and it had been sealed without a signet rings crest. Isac tore it open and read:
Dear Isac,
You know well of the buisness I have called you here on. I have been informed of your infallable repuation and demanded that no one else be allowed on this case. As it is, you are the only person aware of this case. It investigates some of the strongest noble figures of this state, which is why I needed a foriegner, namly yourself, to inquire. You must be careful not to disclose any information that I give your, or anything regarding your visit to Kettle Point. I'm afraid the local populace would not take kindly to your presence if they knew the nature of your journey. Right now I can not speak to you directly, but the lady of the inn you bed at is a close friend of mine and will forward you all letters from myself. She will have another one for you when you return outlinig the full details of your investigation, and where you should start. I hope you won't disappoint. I know you won't.
Sincereley,
Snyder
to be continued
The gravedigger stood resting his forearms on the handle of a spade planted in front of him. With the reslove of a headsman, he stirred the blade of his tool in fresh soil. Isac could still see the gray flesh of Mary's emotionless expression plastered on her face in perfect detail. He could almost feel himself laying beside her. The organ music muffled by oak and silk would lull them into true sleep.
The shovel scraped up earth and rocks that fell like a brown comforter thrown down on the coffin. Isac let the flowers fall from his grip. With each scoop, the dirt hid their beauty from the world forever.
Isac was woken by the belching of a fog horn. His confined hotel room was dark with inky morning light of the harbor seeping in from a shanty window. Breathing in deeply he bounced his hand around the night stand. The light switch clicked and a few moments later the yellow haze eminated from the little lamp in the corner.
Isac sat up with his legs dangling over the edge of the squeaky mattress. He rubbed his face and looking between his fingers he read the time 6:38. Through the walls he could hear the clanging of breakfast being made.
The smell of stale coffee being poured caused Isac to fold his newspaper down. A scarcely toothed grin from the inn's matron greeted him. He gave a half hearted smirk back and kicked his feet onto the table. He took a drink of the mire in his cup, set it down distastefully, and flipped the papers back up, ruffling them into shape.
He was the only person occupying one of the two tables in the cramped reception area. It was antiquated in decoration and most of the wallpaper was starting to peel off. The creepy hostess returned with a hot plate. It clashed down on the table. A smattering of baked beans, smoked sausage and scrambled eggs slowly bled together into one homogynized mix.
Isac walked briskly down the harbor line, a newspaper folded under his arm. The cool air was refreshing, despite the constant smell of salt and dead fish. This was his first visit to Kettle Point, and surely would be his last, he vowed. He took the cobble stone alley labelled by a decrepit wood sign "Sturgeon". He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read the sloppy numbering "715"
It was narrow and the brick work buildings shot up on either side for several stories without a break between them. Small squatting doors dotted the alley walls with brass lettering stamped next to them. Isac slowed his pace as he inspected each door carefully.
His face collided with something soft and fleshy. An upset face peered down from beneath a swamp hat. The odor of dead fish and rot made Isac gag as he coughed out the word "sorry". The man said nothing, but continued to stare at Isac in disapproval. He was holding a metal pale that flies hovered around anxiously.
Isac took a step back.
"Do you know where I can find building, or door 715?"
The man lifted a large finger pointing further down the alley, his fat flesh sagging off his arms. Isac quickly manuevered around him covering his face. His stride was quicker as he searched the high walls for his destination. The alley ended ubruptly, but at the end a large oak door sat with the letters "715" etched into it.
On the door was parchment envolope titled "Isac". Red wax kept the letter closed, and it had been sealed without a signet rings crest. Isac tore it open and read:
Dear Isac,
You know well of the buisness I have called you here on. I have been informed of your infallable repuation and demanded that no one else be allowed on this case. As it is, you are the only person aware of this case. It investigates some of the strongest noble figures of this state, which is why I needed a foriegner, namly yourself, to inquire. You must be careful not to disclose any information that I give your, or anything regarding your visit to Kettle Point. I'm afraid the local populace would not take kindly to your presence if they knew the nature of your journey. Right now I can not speak to you directly, but the lady of the inn you bed at is a close friend of mine and will forward you all letters from myself. She will have another one for you when you return outlinig the full details of your investigation, and where you should start. I hope you won't disappoint. I know you won't.
Sincereley,
Snyder
to be continued