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    AC Benus
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 2. Chapter 2: The Cemetery

Chapter 2: The Cemetery

 

The limousine I'm in is smoothly rolling down High Point Road, which cuts through the heart of the Bridal Path neighbourhood of Toronto.

As I recline against the back seat, I sigh. My eyes are barely able to register the outside world of manicured lawns, mature trees, and French-style chateaux rolling by. Doubly sad is how detached from all of this I feel, for this is the community in which I grew up, the community of gated and walled estates, the community through which my father is making his last trip to be buried, and I do not feel I belong here anymore.

Somewhere out in front of this black Lincoln, I know my father's hearse is leading the way to one of the city's oldest and most venerated graveyards. Yet quite frankly, inside I'm a mess, but I can't show it. I have to be fucking 'brave,' but the truth is a bit more complicated.

Behind the car I am in, only a few more follow with 'family.' For in reality, our blood is a scattered and ragtag affair, what with double and triple marriages producing offspring only in the form of uncaring ex-wives, and ex-gigolo husbands for my cougar aunts to support. I am close to none of them, and none of them seem fond of me, which I guess is to be expected, as I am the latecomer to the family and 'took' their claims to my dad's inheritance.

Funny to think, but I am it. Not only my father's only son and child, but the last of the Corvin men – the last male with a birthright to the name. I will be the last one to pass that same right forward…but, will I want to? Struggle and personal misfortune seems to hound every Corvin man, so why should I consider propagating that misery. In fact, it suddenly makes a bit of sense now, why my father hired a surrogate to carry me to term for him when he was already well into his fifties. I realize the delay may have been his wondering about our family's fate as well.

"Are you all right, Emeric?"

I partially jump, catching my own reaction in the window. Ronald's soft voice had startled me for a moment.

My quick glance over to him lays sight on that odd ring he wears.

"I'm fine. Don’t concern yourself with me."

This older man, my dad's lawyer and investment manager looks stunned.

"Don’t concern myself..?" His silver-white head bobbles a moment; his gold-rimmed glasses glint before disbelieving eyes. "That's my job, especially now that…"

He pauses. He slides forward slightly on the black leather seat to lean away from me. I know. He thinks of me as self-centered and spoiled, Lords knows that's what my father thought of me, and there's also no doubt that that's the opinion he's passed onto this man by my side now.

"I know," I reassure him. "My father relied upon you for many, many things, and he trusted no one in this world the way he did you."

A flash of something mysterious shades the older man's features. Is it pride; is it…gloating? If I take a wild stab and guess, at this moment, I'd have to say it most resembles 'satisfaction,' but soon it leaves him, and a professional-grade 'reserve' replaces it in banal subterfuge. I suddenly realize that large cabochon ring I had always assumed was a gaudy 'old-fashioned' graduation ring from a new world university was actually more like an antique Halloween prop, for it had some sort of design etched on the stone, a sort of…

"Well, young Master Emeric, I hope to function in a way that fulfils your needs from now on."

I nod, feeling quite frankly more than a little uncomfortable. Has he forgotten, my father has just died?

I turn back to the window, hoping not to see myself tear up. Instead of being drawn back out of it and towards the passing sights, my eyes linger a critical focus on my likeness.

It's funny, but I do take after my father – a lot! I've done it to myself, but every time I look in the mirror I am reminded just how much I seem to be the young clone of him.

A couple of years ago I was home alone and looking though his old photo album. I found a picture of my young twenty-something-year-old dad as a 'punk kid,' the picture I now keep on my dresser. He was in a white tee-shirt; faded, worn and tight-fitting jeans; and he was leaning on the hood of a ballsy 1959 Buick that not only had tailfins, but eyebrows and chrome 'teeth' as well. The car's proud owner was so young then! He was a kid, so carefree, and so different from the man I knew, that he pulled at my heartstrings. Strangely, his hair was exactly the same colour as mine – a sort of blondish chestnut – and his late 1950's/early 1960's haircut was a longer version of Elvis; that is, close-cut on the sides by his temples and ears, and long and floppy on top and in front.

I don’t exactly know why, but at that moment of time in my life I was feeling connected and happy, so I snagged the photograph and went to a barbershop. I decided I had to go old school, so on Jarvis Street – somewhere between Dundas and Queen – I tracked down the black barber who had apparently cut Jacky Shane's hair back in the 60's. Shane was major diva, and he almost single handedly made 'the Toronto Sound' an international sensation, although many people never quite forgave him for being born American, in fact as I heard it, it was Canadian immigration that refused to let him back in the country because he was 'a suspected homosexual;' as if being Gay is a crime, the fucking bigots.

Anyway, once I was in the shop, I showed my dad's snapshot, saying I wanted to tribute him, and could the barber do a cut like that.

"A Pompadour?" he had asked with a growing grin.

"Um – if that's what it's called, then yes!"

I had gone to the right source, for not only did he finish up with pride and a glowing "I haven’t done a Pompadour in thirty years," but one glance in the mirror proved I looked as carefree and happy as my old man was back in the day.

Unfortunately, that feeling did not last long, but I forced myself to keep the haircut. It chided me as ruefully in the mirror as my sight did when I looked the old man in the eyes.

My blinking reflection ends my train of thought, and returns me to surface appearances. Some people comment that I have 'smirking good looks,' but I see my flaws – a slightly long nose, not very full lips that are prone to lopsided 'smirks,' and eyes that are set back a bit and look more brooding than compassionate. But nevertheless, my eyes are probably my best feature; they're hazel with an openness to them that makes many people – especially university-age females – think I can be used to satisfy their own selfish wants of manipulation. Those people I know, say on a sixth-sense level, and shut them down before they get too close to 'the real me.'

Oh shit, I try to shake myself out of this. The reason why I am concentrating on my own appearance and on my personal foibles suddenly becomes clear to me. I am refusing to think about my father. It's partially based on a 'don't speak ill of the dead' superstition, and just plain fear. I do not want to consider all that I feel for that man, not now – I can't. Fucking 'bravery,' but it's wrong to force a person's grieving process to match a timeline that's not charted by the personal grief he feels. When the time is right, I will be able to deal with my feelings for my dad, but now is not the right time, I do not want to explode.

Sadness, grief, wailing, these are the stock and trade of the funereal emotions, but who ever thinks rage is appropriate? No one, so I must be brave.

To that end, the visage reflected back to me from the moving sights outside my passenger side window shows me only sadness in my apert gaze. That sucks, because I loved my dad and he loved me, despite all the troubles we've had in the last two years.

 

˚˚˚˚˚

 

In the hour before noon, the air of The Necropolis Cemetery is still middling cool. Soon, once my father's coffin is interred, it won't be.

As we approach the impressive complex of Gothic structures along the road, my eye catches a black spot in the sky.

The tree-lined margin steps back to a massive fieldstone church with a single rustic spire. Another building set at a right angle to it that serves as the mortuary chapel, and has since this graveyard was opened in 1850. Between the two buildings is a tall-peaked gateway – an ethereal structure, all in whitewashed wooden arches and the open tracery of 'the stick style' of picturesque architecture.

This is the gate to the cemetery, and up ahead, I can see uniformed and white-gloved attendants opening it and allowing the hearse to pass beneath. The motorized bier only moves at the solemn pace of a snail's crawl.

In that quiet suspense, the thing from the sky alights on the mortuary roof. If folds its wings and caws loudly. My heart sinks, because it is a massive raven.

As the Cadillac hearse passes under the gate's fancy slate roof and iron lightning rods, the raven flies to the ridgeline of that structure.

Our car is next, and the shadow the enclosure casts underneath makes me want to squint. Somewhere above my head, I know that thing is perched and waiting.

As we pass under the gate on the graveyard side, I turn full around in the seat, not really caring that a startled Ronald has to move aside for me to grip onto the flat area before the back window in order to look out of it.

The raven hops with open beak and screeches at me peering towards him.

I turn around feeling like a zombie and watch the funeral procession wind its way on the last leg the journey through the old monuments and broken obelisks of the 19th century affluent. The hearse out in front is making a path to the newer part of the grounds where the grounds seems more wide open.

Soon, our car stops. My father's lawyer gives me what appears to be but a half-felt smile of encouragement, and we get out.

We pause by our Lincoln and are met by the other pallbearers – the same white-gloved men who are employed by the Necropolis for occasions where a loved-one has a dearth of helping hands.

The other members of our party pull up, park and slowly get out of limousine doors. They reach out and gather into one group to better make a respectful show of 'being there,' and then guide one another across the lawn and to the tent that has been erected over my father's future grave.

They chat unconcernedly, and my fellow pallbearers and I begin walking forward on the cemetery road to the opening back door of the hearse. I fight hard to suppress the rising sense of fear that I have. It is an apprehension really that something is waiting and watching our movements. I glance around trying to lay my raised hackles on what the exact cause of this dread could be.

While my index finger and thumb work to button the black Armani suit coat that Ronald has kindly provided for the occasion, my intent gaze scans the cemetery.

Row upon row of impressive monuments glint a stony brilliance in the sun of a clear summer morning, but farther away, at the tree line, there is movement.

At first I barely register it as more than the relentless animation of the breeze upon the living foliage and branches. But then I am better able to focus. On those branches, hidden within and behind the leaves, are crows.

My feet continue to carry me calmly towards where my father waits, but my head rotates all along the line of the perimeter growth of this burial yard.

Everywhere are crows. Slowly, they show themselves with more apparent boldness. They move at the top of branches, jump down to lower ones, and then slowly, like a trickle of falling autumn leaves, some jump down to the artificially well clipped lawn just in front of the tree line.

By the time I take my rehearsed position – first person nearest the hearse door, so I may lead from my father's right hand side – the crows begin to cackle and chirp in that threatening tone of theirs.

Oddly enough, just as the pneumatic device of the hearse begins to slide my father's coffin out, I think of an old tale I once read. Something about a 'crow court,' where people witnessing the event reported that a group of the birds formed a circle around one of their own. The observers said the central crow appeared to be on a witness stand of sorts, and loud accusations seemed to be hurled at him with great rancour. He was given a chance to explain, and his defensive posture made it sure to the witnesses that he was more than frightened. After a bit, a boisterous consensus arose from the feathered tribunal, and the sentence was immediately carried out. The defendant was set upon by the mob and ripped to pieces.

The mechanical sound of the casket slide ceases.

We pallbearers, with my father's lawyer and investment manager at the head end on the left, raise our hands.

We grip the brass rails to support the weight, and the under carriage begins to retract smoothly.

Slowly the burden of supporting my father's earthy remains transfers to my hands, arms and shoulders. While feeling that, I gaze upon the silver plaque mounted to the coffin lid. It is at the position where his head lies below. It's fancy – a shield of sorts, like an old European coat of arms – and the Corvin men are all buried under this seal of our family crest.

The whir of the mechanism switches off again, and suddenly now that it is quiet, the formerly hidden torrent of crow cawing is all around us.

We begin to move with the coffin. First stepping back away from the vehicle, then rotating so I can lead the way.

I step towards the bier tent, which is about fifty meters away, but immediately my eyes scan the skies. The crows have taken flight.

The flapping of wings emerging from the trees is horrible to see. It is like liquid black falling upside down into the unsullied blue of an innocent sky.

My foot slightly stumbles. I've come to the curb where the paving of the cemetery street ends in the tufted grass of a well-manicured graveyard.

Trepidation grows in me as my shoes sink into the squishy grass. It is more difficult to walk with my heavy load on the ground than the pavement, and selfishly I think how much harder it be to run now.

The mass of flying birds gathers as the edges of a storm might that is about to morph into a tornado under pressure from its own density; it forms a swirling perimeter of blackening sky and fluttering motion.

Apprehension makes me cast my eyes up. The sky-bound eddy of crows circles our pall like raptors over the nearly dead.

I glance around and estimate the meagre shelter of the grave canopy is still about thirty metres ahead of us.

Suddenly, a huge raven appears out of the mass of smaller black feathers and shrieks. He swoops down and begins to cry angrily. I catch its eye for a brief moment, and I swear to God, it's the same pitying eye that stared at me from my bedroom windowsill; the same one from the gatehouse pinnacle only minutes before.

This bird starts to fly higher and dive-bomb our moving pall.

We all intuitively hasten our step, but the raven swoops and seems to focus on the head end of the casket.

Ronald catches my attention by appearing oddly prepared and stoic. A glance to the other men of the group confirms that they are as scared as I am. Their reactions make it clear that the workers of The Necropolis are obviously not harassed by mad flocks of avian spectres on a daily basis.

Suddenly, the raven attacks. With angry screams, its talons dig into the lawyer's scalp, just above his forehead. The casket falters on his end. We stumble, but Ronald re-grips and keeps the coffin from spilling onto the ground.

Blood runs down the older man's face. The bird swoops again and gouges into his scalp at the top of Ronald's skull. Both man and bird scream in hair-raising anger. The lawyer tries to shield himself.

The front end of the coffin falls and digs into the turf with the inevitable momentum for us five other pallbearers. Screams arise from the mourners gathered under the 'safety' of the cemetery tent, but not a one of them stirs out to offer protection or support.

Ronald frantically lashes out for the bird with a guttural torrent of curses as the raven's beak comes close to his face.

The other pallbearers try to shield themselves and take off running. I fall to the grass in total disbelief. From there I watch in a stunned stupor, and I can see blood streaming down between Ronald's glasses and eyes. He seems fiendish fighting off this raven while he stands in one spot and swings his arms wildly overhead.

All the crows in the sky, who are just over our heads in a cyclone of black feathers, cry and screech bloody murder.

Slowly I rise to my feet with uncontrollable anger. "Enough!" I yell at the damn raven; I am surprised at the deep resonance of my own command, for yet still possessed by a budding sense of powerlessness, I must do something.

The raven's mad cawing vibrates to a halt. The other birds continue to cry frantically overhead, into which tumult, the raven re-ascends.

Ronald, blessed with this reprieve, falls to the grass. He fumbles with his suit, and extracts his silk pocket square. He then wipes the blood from his eyes, knocking his glasses down to the ground in the process.

My glance casts itself upwards and latches onto the attacker. The massive raven is not content, for he changes direction, and heads like a broad arc back down to my position from the other side.

The raven slows his descent, and begins to fold his wings. He alights squarely on top of the coffin lid.

Now the creature is panting and distressed, and yet focused.

He stares at me, hops to the silver shield and stands on top of it.

Rage builds in me to see this defiler of memory and honour turn its blood-stained beak and scrape it on the sides of the Corvin family crest. Gore – Ronald's gore – transfers onto the gleaming silver.

It glares at me with ice-cold orbs as deep and foreboding as all of the nightmares humanity has ever had, and screams. It screams at me, and at the same time, my fleeting vision catches an angry-looking Ronald staring at me.

My ears pop all of a sudden, and I perceive something wet stinging my eyes; I smell a faint scent of iron.

My hand goes up to wipe it away, but I pull it back in shocked amazement.

My fingers are coated in blood, my blood.

 

 

           

Timothy M served as editor, and Cole Matthews provided beta reading for this piece. Tim offered insight and did not shy away from saying when something was not working. Cole honored me by never taking this work as 'just a gothic horror book,' but held it to the highest standards of emotional realness. I thank both of them sincerely. I also thank Headstall for answering my sometimes-silly questions about life in Ontario and what my young protagonist should be like, and ColumbusGuy for making my German at least passable. Any and all eccentricities of punctuation, spelling, capitalization, and abbreviations are entirely mine; as is the fault of any words spelled correctly, but that I used in the wrong place. In addition, I would ask if you google any of the upcoming 'hints' contained in the story, that you hold back from making comments that might give away too many details to other readers. At the end, you can 'let me have it,' lol

Copyright © 2017 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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Well, AC, yet another example of hair-raising tension. I well remember the feelings at my mother's funeral...and there was no comfort for me in the ceremonial...a speaker who never knew her, the emotions of family and friends a truer testament than anything the pastor said. Rage not having a part in the ceremonies? Yes, it is there, but tempered in her case by the previous five days spent at her bedside until the end.

I did not attend my father's funeral for it was in Florida where he retired, and we hadn't spoken in thirteen years since he learned of my sexuality--but when I heard, I mourned nevertheless. Only in the past two years did I learn from my sister that he hadn't forgotten about me and still cared, when it was too late. The lies I told myself, that I didn't care, that it wasn't important that he was gone for more than a decade--all fell apart at my sister's words. Since we last spoke in '87, I had closed him away in a corner of my mind...and since '01 I hadn't faced the fact that he was irrevocably past re-connecting. I finally cried for my father's loss, the physical one of his passing, and the emotional one from those years before.

 

Emeric will confront his loss in time, and with luck will emerge a better man.

I don't know where you're taking us, or what path will get us there, but I'm sure it will be a rocky one....

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On 12/29/2014 01:01 PM, ColumbusGuy said:
Well, AC, yet another example of hair-raising tension. I well remember the feelings at my mother's funeral...and there was no comfort for me in the ceremonial...a speaker who never knew her, the emotions of family and friends a truer testament than anything the pastor said. Rage not having a part in the ceremonies? Yes, it is there, but tempered in her case by the previous five days spent at her bedside until the end.

I did not attend my father's funeral for it was in Florida where he retired, and we hadn't spoken in thirteen years since he learned of my sexuality--but when I heard, I mourned nevertheless. Only in the past two years did I learn from my sister that he hadn't forgotten about me and still cared, when it was too late. The lies I told myself, that I didn't care, that it wasn't important that he was gone for more than a decade--all fell apart at my sister's words. Since we last spoke in '87, I had closed him away in a corner of my mind...and since '01 I hadn't faced the fact that he was irrevocably past re-connecting. I finally cried for my father's loss, the physical one of his passing, and the emotional one from those years before.

 

Emeric will confront his loss in time, and with luck will emerge a better man.

I don't know where you're taking us, or what path will get us there, but I'm sure it will be a rocky one....

Thank you, ColumbusGuy. When I was reading the text for any errors after I posted it, that part about Emeric's rage had me in a state of near-tears. It was one of those moments where my guard was completely down, and it just struck me as so genuine and real – yes, people get anxious and angry at death, so why is it we must all put on a brave face for one another?

 

Thank you for sharing a very personal response to this same moment and set of feelings, I appreciate it.

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Apart from the Gothic and Hitchcook-like horror of menacing and attacking birds the difficult part of this chapter is definitely Emeric's feelings towards his father. Multiple questions arise. Why are they estranged? Was his father ill or was his death sudden? Why is Emeric angry? Is it at his father - or at himself for staying away from him?

And as I was reading this again, another thought struck me: was Emeric's dad perhaps gay? Since there is no hint of a wife... divorced, deceased or otherwise.

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A mundane funeral this was not. It was deliciously creepy and still had a Hitchcockian feel through the imagery that you painted for us. I half expected Tippi Hendren to make an appearance lol. The symbol of the massive raven is powerful...he wreaks havoc with a vengeance like a demon let loose from hell, with the tornado of crows as his minions. The rage in Emeric seems to manifest itself in this beast of a bird...Is it a challenge, a warning or the precursor to evil? Something lies within Emeric that I don't think he is aware of as he proceeds to order the raven to stop. Has something passed to him at his father's death...possibly a responsibility he knew nothing of? A curse being activated? I wonder at his father, who had not enough loved ones to act as pallbearers...In our short glimpse of Ronald, he gives of a vibe of knowing things...bad things...I have no idea where you are taking us but I have been drawn in once again to a world of your creation. Cheers...Gary

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On 12/29/2014 07:20 PM, Timothy M. said:
Apart from the Gothic and Hitchcook-like horror of menacing and attacking birds the difficult part of this chapter is definitely Emeric's feelings towards his father. Multiple questions arise. Why are they estranged? Was his father ill or was his death sudden? Why is Emeric angry? Is it at his father - or at himself for staying away from him?

And as I was reading this again, another thought struck me: was Emeric's dad perhaps gay? Since there is no hint of a wife... divorced, deceased or otherwise.

Well, Tim, your review raises lots of questions. I don't want to say things 'as if I know,' for some of them are certainly good material of a follow up adventure, don't you think..? I wonder if readers would be interested in that?

 

As always, thanks for your support, advice and guidance on making my work better than it would be without your involvement.

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On 12/29/2014 09:26 PM, Headstall said:
A mundane funeral this was not. It was deliciously creepy and still had a Hitchcockian feel through the imagery that you painted for us. I half expected Tippi Hendren to make an appearance lol. The symbol of the massive raven is powerful...he wreaks havoc with a vengeance like a demon let loose from hell, with the tornado of crows as his minions. The rage in Emeric seems to manifest itself in this beast of a bird...Is it a challenge, a warning or the precursor to evil? Something lies within Emeric that I don't think he is aware of as he proceeds to order the raven to stop. Has something passed to him at his father's death...possibly a responsibility he knew nothing of? A curse being activated? I wonder at his father, who had not enough loved ones to act as pallbearers...In our short glimpse of Ronald, he gives of a vibe of knowing things...bad things...I have no idea where you are taking us but I have been drawn in once again to a world of your creation. Cheers...Gary
Tippi Hendren, yes…in the film version of this scene running in my head, I can see her under the pall, latching onto the arm of some 35-year old ex-gigolo husband, and being horrified by the attack. Not horrified enough to go out there, but appalled enough to whip off her oversized, and very dark, Gucci sunglasses. Her brother's boy is under attack…but, then again…maybe that's not such a bad idea in her head.

 

Thank you, Gary. I love hearing it when a reader says they are drawn into a world of my creation. That's an awesome feeling.

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The gothic tone of this story continues with the funeral of Mr. Corvin. I note with

happy irony that the Necropolis Cemetary is overrun with Corvids this day, and

they seem to be out for blood. How much more gothic can it get? I love it!

A murder of crows and a bloody raven.

 

I've always liked crows (we don't see ravens in my part of the world) and the old

wives will tell you that the number of crows you see on New Years Day is the

number of people you know that will die that year. Just thought I'd mention that.

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On 01/07/2015 06:03 AM, Stephen said:
The gothic tone of this story continues with the funeral of Mr. Corvin. I note with

happy irony that the Necropolis Cemetary is overrun with Corvids this day, and

they seem to be out for blood. How much more gothic can it get? I love it!

A murder of crows and a bloody raven.

 

I've always liked crows (we don't see ravens in my part of the world) and the old

wives will tell you that the number of crows you see on New Years Day is the

number of people you know that will die that year. Just thought I'd mention that.

"A murder of crows and a bloody raven." Oh, damn…I think I have to go into chapter three and work that line in someplace; it is SO good. I completely forgot that a collection of them is called a 'murder.' That is too amazing not to use…now, I just have to figure out where.

 

Thank you, Stephen! Please keep reading and offering comments! (that I can pilfer, lol)

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That was a trip! I had so many oh s**t moments during that entire walk to the grave plot. The buildup toward that was very nice. So, I'll let the above commenters say all the things I didn't, and I can't wait to see what you have prepared for the next chapter.

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On 05/22/2015 03:07 PM, Twisted_Dreemz said:
That was a trip! I had so many oh s**t moments during that entire walk to the grave plot. The buildup toward that was very nice. So, I'll let the above commenters say all the things I didn't, and I can't wait to see what you have prepared for the next chapter.
…yeah, I have to say – knowing how you write – I thought you'd like this chapter. Great review, Twisted. Thanks for checking out this work, and I suspect chapter 3 will also pique your horror-genre soul. Let's see if I'm right *muaaaahhhaaaa*
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Ok creepy! Reading about toronto in your work just freaked me out! But I see you had help. I am rather a lover of crows and ravens. We have a number of them around and they're fascinating. I can see them gathering and organizing if they get pissed off enough!

 

This story is intriguing and beautifully written, as always...

 

tim

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On 11/23/2015 01:13 AM, Mikiesboy said:

Ok creepy! Reading about toronto in your work just freaked me out! But I see you had help. I am rather a lover of crows and ravens. We have a number of them around and they're fascinating. I can see them gathering and organizing if they get pissed off enough!

 

This story is intriguing and beautifully written, as always...

 

tim

Thank you, Tim – 'intriguing and beautifully written' – I cannot want higher praise than that!

 

There are enormous ravens in Tokyo, and I think they inspired me to think about them, that and their high intelligence level. The article I found about 'crow courts' is fascinating because the reports by eye-witnesses come in from all around the world, and yet it seems a little know thing, maybe because it's so creepy for humans to think of animals organizing.

 

Thanks again!

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This is an amazing tale and one I'm growing attached to. I like the character and the showing if his inner workings. It has a certain quality that makes me think Quiroga-Poe-Hitchcock but standing on its own. Man YOU ARE talented!

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On 03/23/2016 04:06 AM, Roberto Zuniga said:

This is an amazing tale and one I'm growing attached to. I like the character and the showing if his inner workings. It has a certain quality that makes me think Quiroga-Poe-Hitchcock but standing on its own. Man YOU ARE talented!

Love your reviews, Roberto! I say it quite often, but you know how to make my day. Your enthusiasm means a great deal to me. Thank You!

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I am reading your previous reviews.. and all your readers feel like they are on some other different frequency then me,,
Now at the end of the second chapter, all I can say is that it feels odd..
You use a series of words I do not usually come across in vampire literature.. I mean very specific terminology like: bier, hearse, ridgeline, pallbearer, pneumatic device etc - I had to look everything in the dictionary - but then I cannot figure why you use words like "silk pocket square" instead of the simple "handkerchief" ...
I am tired right now, but I see no reason to hide that I spent 1.5 minutes with "I turn full around in the seat, not really caring that a startled Ronald has to move aside for me to grip onto the flat area before the back window in order to look out of it." so as to understand that this guy fully turns around to look through the back window of the car.. but then again, your camera has an interesting fractured heavy style of filming.. you are also very touchy about things and there are many movement verbs.. I think in this phrase you only missed mentioning the smell, the sound of breathing, although there is the "startled" sound maybe..
Now, maybe the crows, graveyard and the name Corvin are not very original but I rather like when you mention subtle layers like the crow's pitying look, or the the lawyer's satisfied air. There is also a sense of equilibrium between description and plot and dialogue.
Otherwise, in my personal opinion, your story thrives in the page view aspect, clean, extremely organised. The storyline looks promising, you manage to create the creepy atmosphere. Grammar gives me headaches though.
Bravely and curious looking forward.

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On 04/04/2016 08:08 AM, aynaarah said:

I am reading your previous reviews.. and all your readers feel like they are on some other different frequency then me,,

Now at the end of the second chapter, all I can say is that it feels odd..

You use a series of words I do not usually come across in vampire literature.. I mean very specific terminology like: bier, hearse, ridgeline, pallbearer, pneumatic device etc - I had to look everything in the dictionary - but then I cannot figure why you use words like "silk pocket square" instead of the simple "handkerchief" ...

I am tired right now, but I see no reason to hide that I spent 1.5 minutes with "I turn full around in the seat, not really caring that a startled Ronald has to move aside for me to grip onto the flat area before the back window in order to look out of it." so as to understand that this guy fully turns around to look through the back window of the car.. but then again, your camera has an interesting fractured heavy style of filming.. you are also very touchy about things and there are many movement verbs.. I think in this phrase you only missed mentioning the smell, the sound of breathing, although there is the "startled" sound maybe..

Now, maybe the crows, graveyard and the name Corvin are not very original but I rather like when you mention subtle layers like the crow's pitying look, or the the lawyer's satisfied air. There is also a sense of equilibrium between description and plot and dialogue.

Otherwise, in my personal opinion, your story thrives in the page view aspect, clean, extremely organised. The storyline looks promising, you manage to create the creepy atmosphere. Grammar gives me headaches though.

Bravely and curious looking forward.

Thank you for a great review and a well-considered set of comments. As for word choice, I think you offered me a great example to follow up on, namely to consider that there is a difference between hankie and pocket square. The one that is right for the lawyer is the façade – the luxe swatch of fabric never meant to be blown in; it's just there to convey completeness to the suit jacket, and tells us something about his character without it ever needing to be 'said.' Hopefully this example (and thanks for providing it) will give the idea that what you encounter in the story is there to add to the overall experience. If you decide to continue on with the book, which I hope you do ;) you might begin to perceive more and more layers like these.

 

Thanks again for your input. I appreciate.

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Goodness, but you bring a ton of images to mind. How many literary funerals have we all attended? The circling of black birds with the raven as their king, attacking the pall bearers...had to pause reading that. My congratulations on your vivid descriptions of Toronto; hope you got to spend plenty of time there in your research.

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On 06/07/2016 01:03 AM, Parker Owens said:

Goodness, but you bring a ton of images to mind. How many literary funerals have we all attended? The circling of black birds with the raven as their king, attacking the pall bearers...had to pause reading that. My congratulations on your vivid descriptions of Toronto; hope you got to spend plenty of time there in your research.

Thanks for a great review, Parker. I think – but am not 100% sure – you are touching upon an aspect of this book that I embraced whole-heartedly. That is, a dialogue with and a re-imagining of many of the stock in trade sights and sounds of the Gothic and Horror genres. The funeral starts it off in a big way, and it seems like you responded close to how I intended.

 

Thank you again! I owe Gary much for my Toronto information, and I thank him :)

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