Writing : Please leave feedback for my first 3 chapters - Owen & The Sky Giants

Hi my name is Chris Guest and I'm hoping to get some feedback on my first 3 chapters of my novel Owen & The Sky Giants. I have also illustrated the narrative so I have included the illustrations I have currently done. I am searching for a literary agent so if you like the work or know someone who could help please email me at chris@cgguest.com or contact me at www.cgguest.com

 

Thanks and enjoy the read.

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
                                               
BY C. G. GUEST
 
Prologue

You’ve heard that rumble in the sky haven’t you? Of course you have, that distant stirring of thunder; the raucous din, deafeningly echoing across a storm ridden sky.

You were told it was thunder of course, but it’s not.

For that distant rumble are not the clouds, but more a club, a war mace, a drum, beating a throbbing rhythm against the very sky itself… trying to get in.

For years earth has been protected, defended by those that knew the truth, but not anymore. The clouds sing with a warlike chaos, and the banging, clanking, and rumbling of the gloom resounds across the air, in a joyous chorus, for they know what I know.

That the sky is going to fall…

 

 
Chapter 1

Rain splattered against the veneer of the coffin, each drop splashed the cheapness of the whole funeral in Owen’s face. Everyone had been given a part, a role to play in the grand farewell - all saying oodles of nonsense in the vain hope they would be excused for their lack of interest while Owen’s Granddad was alive. They wouldn’t, but Owen said nothing; just stared blankly at the coffin’s mock oak cover that disguised the MDF cell. Was this the best you could hope for? Owen thought it seemed an unpleasant irony that the coffin housed such a proud man.

Lightning cracked the clouds as the downpour continued; the muddy droplets of the rain stained the polished reflection of Owen’s black shoes. He had prepared himself for the day, pictured what it was like carrying his Granddad into the church, he pictured the organ’s groans as they punctured through layers of sympathy; but he wasn’t prepared for this. To say goodbye.

Lump after lump of clotted earth fell on the coffin as the priest beckoned more to do the same.

Owen held the earth, his hand trembled. It was wrong to say goodbye so easily, so quickly. His Granddad was his friend, his closest friend. The mud stung with discomfort as if it was a fistful of nettles, biting his hand in resistance; forcing Owen to part with it.

“Son it’s time.” his mum grasped his upper arm, clenching it reassuringly.

Like the mechanical arm of a cruel carnival grabber machine the soil left Owen’s hand and cascaded downwards, hurtling towards the target of its smear campaign. It landed burying the coffin like a blanket covering a stale memory, a cold snapshot in the place where he had seen his Granddad’s face.

The congregation swarmed like plagues to the buffet. Owen hated buffet, stories that never were; becoming truth and intoxicatingly confirmed with ale and sausage rolls. Everyone was laughing or nodding accordingly as if the last hour hadn’t happened, Owen hated them all. He needed to leave, so got up and left the hall.

His feet were magnets being heavily drawn to the graveside; they plodded obediently.  He slumped next to the hole, the dull mud swallowed him, as he looked down at his friend, he wished but it was futile. Owen remembered how only earlier that week he had visited his Granddad, he would lie down and watch television while his Granddad would cook up a storm of crumpets to devour. Rich yellowy butter would run down like a torrent, the television would go off and they’d chat. He just wished…

His mum would come over in the evening and pick him up, Owen had hugged his Granddad so tightly that night, the thick coarse wool of his jersey, the smell clinical shampoo which was unknowingly mixed with the lingering of his Granddad’s pipe tobacco. A voice had whispered to Owen that night, something deep within his conscience reverberated; ringing ‘Tell him you love him’, but he hadn’t. Now Owen was only left with wishes.

“Why?” Owen yelled looking up to the grey despondent sky. He wanted his lungs to burst with the conviction of his anger, wanted to sever himself from the patch of soil he occupied.

“Because there was no other way.” A voice emanated from behind Owen.

Glancing upwards, Owen saw a tall immeasurable man, he looked up refreshing his vision in disbelief. The man was old, yet not ancient, at least not by Owen’s standards. His hair was slicked back so that it covered his ears; dulled by the rain, the chestnut brown of his hair was almost black. It struck Owen as unusual that the man was not dressed in black at all, nowhere on his character could any speck of ghoulish noir be found and in its place he was dressed head to foot in a tan mack, the patches that adorned the tails of the coat depicted strange geographical patterns like the way a globe might show countries.  

“What would you know; you weren’t even at the funeral!” Owen spat back aggressively

The figure remained silent, unflinching and unphased; as if he half expected the reaction Owen had given him.  A smile formed on the man’s face.

 

“I know a great deal more than I care to tell. Your Granddad was very important to us he…” The church bell rang cutting the man’s speech, the man looked startled as if the church bell had acted as a reminder that he had already said too much.

“What?” a hint of desperation crept into Owen’s voice, the pressing tone of Owen’s voice rang aloud confirming to the man that he was right to remain mute. 

The man pushed his hands deep into his velvet lined pockets, like children’s feet kicking up fresh autumnal leaves the man’s hand made a deep resonating sound as he searched the contents of his pocket. Owen looked keenly, but the man was unphased. His hand assumed a measured pace, slowly producing a weathered portrait from within. It was carved, but the fine etch like markings made Owen unsure as to the tools used to create such an object. Owen rubbed at the etching cleaning the pallid surface to reveal the vibrancy of the small figure underneath. Owen was not prepared for what he saw.

“Not everything is what it seems Owen” the man added wryly.
How did the man know Owen’s name? Even more alarming was that which besieged his eyes. The picture, the etching, was of the man and his Granddad!

Owen looked up from the weathered picture, but it was too late, the man had almost disappeared from vision, quickly becoming a dot on the landscape.

“The name’s Riley by the way!” The man's voice echoed over the sombre landscape, finding just enough strength to carry over the cumbersome gravestones. Owen wanted to run after Riley; the need for answers dragged him to chase, but it was impossible. Riley was too far away by now.

He looked down at the etching again, his Granddad’s face smiled back. As Owen was putting it into his pocket he noticed something vague on the reverse. Looking down at the picture he studied it closer, and there behind the dirt was the path he needed, there was an address, maybe Owen could find something there.

 

Chapter 2

It’s funny what happens to households after a death, they change - almost as if the walls creak and morph with the sadness in the room. Owen’s home was no different. In the place of the once fresh carpet lay leagues of egg shells where no one dared to tread, the thick curtains remained drawn almost ashamed to reveal the families grief to the rest of his street. His mum wanted to talk, her glass eyes yearned to relive old days. Owen though, had a far more urgent need.

That night he lay awake and stared at the artex ceiling, the circles of plaster formed images, illustrative patterns within his mind. Owen turned over in his bed, rolling like a fishing boat in a storm. He couldn’t settle; memories tattooed themselves on his eyelids stinging and thrashing as if physically refusing to let Owen rest. And all the time Riley, the man he had met at the funeral loosely hung like a ghoul floating between his thoughts.

Owen looked at the etching again, it had been the fifth time that night, each time he noticed a different detail. He stared down, his Granddad’s coat was different somehow, the buttons were adorned with a strange emblem, the material was unlike any other. The cloth was more like scales, and yet the image on the coat was the same as Riley s’, depicting the same formation of country like patterns.

Questions bounced around Owen’s mind, almost trying to resist the iron like tiredness that had gripped his eyelids. How did that man even know his Granddad? How? And why did he even bother speaking to Owen by the graveside. Owen looked overleaf at the writing of the address; he recognised its uniform print, almost like a human had been fused with a typewriter, the front reminded him of something or someone. Like a horrid sense of déjà vu the letters chimed like a faint bell.

Owen’s mind lingered on the writing and then it hit him, a biting nettle like blow clenched onto his thoughts, leaving an indelible imprint left.

The Writing was his Granddad’s!

Owen shot out of bed with searching conviction, looking desperately for proof of his thought. 

There in the corner of his room was his old toy box that was it, the answer was in there. His frantic hands prised the coffin like lid open, the heavy walnut of the lid, almost refusing to impart its contents. Action figures, stickle bricks, thread bare teddies. The toy box was like rings of a tree charting Owen’s age, passing fancies, trends and obsessions that he had as a young child, each layer of toys was like a plastic catalogue showing how he had grown up.

Then he saw it; the proof he needed. He stared at the pile of dust laden birthday cards which lay delicately at the bottom of the wooden box. Softly he picked the first card up and blew it gently almost afraid that the whisper like meaning inside would vanish. The image of a dog holding balloons was emblazoned on the front of the birthday card. Owen opened the card delicately.

‘To my best mate, happy birthday Granddad’

Owen read the message again, the print matched the etching exactly.

‘To my best mate’ the words trembled on Owen’s lips, anchoring his body. He slumped onto the ground, falling uncontrollably past leagues of hurt. Tears rained down from his eyes, spattering, darkening the dust that lay like a carpet on lid of his toy box. He hated the world, or at least being left in it alone.

‘You alright son?’ Owen’s mum peered from behind the door; she had been watching from the doorway, her face mirrored Owen’s. Owen said nothing, but as his mum trod across the egg scattered floor, a few cracked.

‘No I’m not alright! How can we be alright? It’s not right that Granddad’s dead, it’s not right I’m left here on my own without a friend. I hate life and I hate you, you’re like his daughter and you ask if I’m alright!’

Owen couldn’t stop, words dropped like bombs smashing everything in their wake.

Owen’s mum said nothing, her eyes spoke enough. Like a faithful dog continually coming back to a horrid owner only to be smacked again, her silence crippled Owen.

She smiled weakly
‘I just want you to be okay, good night son, I love you.”

Owen did not reply.

Without a ceremony, Owen’s mum left the room, closing the creaking door gently. Owen turned off the light and went to bed, he was tired of speaking.

Chapter 3

The next morning, the sun streamed into Owen’s room. He buried himself in his crumpled duvet, unable to haul himself into the new day, he was quite happy with the dark; the light removed any chance of sleep, it dulled the blur of traffic coming from outside his window that the streams of unending light heralded.

He stared at the clock, the digital LCD screen burned with a vibrant, offensive orange. 9:45 a.m, he was late for school!

Quickly he sat bolt upright, pulled on the crumpled uniform he had left on the floor since before his Granddad ’s funeral, dusted off the crumbs of toast and dog hair  that covered his clothes and shot down stairs, grabbing the etching that Riley  had given him on the way.

Owen headed out of the door, as he did it began to dawn on him that his mum hadn’t woke him. She must have been in a mood from last night Owen thought, but it was strange that she wasn’t there all the same.

Owen went through the kitchen to get out of the house, hoping in some slight way that his mum might have left him some breakfast out. His eyes searched like spotlights, albeit in vain. Not even a bowl and spoon had been put out, the table was blank. His mum must’ve really been upset this time.

Despite being late, Owen chose not to use the bus; somehow the lavender whiff of old passengers women on their way to bingo mixed with the fog like haze of teenage deodorant was not the wakeup call he wanted. Instead he opted to walk, it was only fifteen minutes if he took the short cut, and the air would clear his head.

Owen’s town of Tyburn had at one time been a thriving heartbeat of the community. The houses stood tall, as generations of ‘Men’s Men’ got ready to work in the pits or the many steel mills that dotted the horizon. It had even been described in one of his school’s history books as ‘the pulse of the industrial revolution’, but now it was a corpse; rotting and decaying across Tyburn’s skyline. It was a haunting silhouette of how things had been, or worse how they would never be again. Like a cold cadaver Tyburn’s town only offered hints of its past glory.

Owen’s Granddad was one such man, although Owen wasn’t born then. Tyburn like many industrial towns lay broken by the steam roller of capitalism and enterprise. What wasn’t bulldozed or blown up from the past, lay like the skeletons of dinosaurs; they overlooked boarded up terraced houses and graffiti. The contributions of the generations that followed adorned every street in squalid apathy. Pit wheels, factory chimneys grasped at the sky, all aching to remember the days when they offered their people a purpose, when they hadn’t replaced.

Owen in some ways was thankful that time had passed as it had meant that his Granddad was always at home to look after him.  His Granddad would recount tales of his youth; work had lit a fire in his Granddad. For a proud man, not being able to provide for a family crucified his conscience, a moral millstone laboured around his neck.

After his redundancy his Granddad had looked for work, but his age and experience dragged like lead weights in his pockets, ruling out other skilled work.

For a while Owen’s Granddad had got a job as a caretaker in the school that twelve years later would see his Grandson arrive through the penitentiary gates of Tyburn High. There until the time Owen’s Granddad retired he spent the remainder of his years; like a sheep dog put out in the cold, sweeping and cleaning litter from children who didn’t care. The world had turned upside down Owen thought.

The short cut took Owen through the farmer’s fields; the cream coloured texture of the wheat was like a wall of colour, while a few mottled apple trees lay interspersed about the fields, casting deep shadows as if to tell the wheat they had been part of the landscape far longer than the inconsistent crops which grew beneath their branches.

Rumour had always been whispered that the farmer shot anyone who trespassed, but the well worn path beaten hard by generations of school children allowed at least a little doubt to enter Owen’s mind that the rumour’s might not necessarily be true

The bearded wheat danced and dallied in the breeze, it was intersected by long over arching arms of gnarled trees, their branches as if like forks pierced the clouds. A distant rumble raced through the sky cracking the clouds with its dull chant. The rain had poured ever since his Granddad had died almost as if God had realised the injustice he had served to the world.

Owen continued to walk through the field. For a moment, just a fraction of time he thought he could hear a distinct chatter; a whisper almost. He presumed it was the wind amicably rustling, brushing through the fields, mimicking hushed chatter. Then heard it again; slowly at first then gathering in momentum, the speech swelled in ranks. Owen  listened more intently, it was definitely voices.

‘That’s him I tell you’ said the invisible voice.

The voice was not alone as a chorus of agreement could be heard.

‘I can’t quite believe it, he’s still here! What’s going on with Riley? He needs to get his house well in order I’d say.’ the disgruntled voice continued, again to a chorus of committee like agreement.

Owen peered down was the voice talking about him? Riley was the man that appeared at his Granddad’s funeral, the man Owen planned to visit straight after school.  How did the voice know him?

The wind by now had calmed down somewhat, and yet Owen noticed that a clump of dandelions still moved furiously. Owen went onto his knees and stared intently at the dandelion.

‘Hey up lads! He’s watching us!’ the voice shouted.

The dandelion stopped moving, statue like it now lay perfectly still, motionless; regardless of the wind that had decided to return, gathering in momentum.

Owen squinted even harder; he was in awe of what presented itself to his eyes. The dandelion was not a mere plant, but instead each fleck was a creature holding above it the flower head

The bewildered flower arched towards Owen.

‘He doesn’t look much like I Imagined; I thought he would be taller and certainly not as fat’

At this Owen had heard enough!
“Hey! That’s a bit harsh!’ Owen shouted at the plant, his quiet observance broken by the outrage.  With this, Owen’s breath sent several of the creatures spinning from the plant and into sky, drifting with an absent chaos into the farmer’s field.

“Befouler! Quick hide he’s coming!” The remaining seed heads shouted.

The flower rapidly closed up, the fluffy white turning to a dull in descript brown.

Owen was shocked, almost dumb struck, what had he seen?  It was an assault on logic itself, could it possibly be true? He continued to walk on.

The earth shuddered with a bass like horror. Terrified Owen’s head lurched from left to right looking for the cause. The ground shook again, splintering the trees and shaking the birds, causing Owen to stumble into a deluge of resistant plant life. There in the distance a shadow shook the landscape, consuming the fields in it’s darkness as it advanced.

Almost at once the ground turned a sickening black, changing the mud baked path to a horrific bleakness. Owen lifted his foot; the floor had changed to a trapping tar. The shadow boomed again, sending a ripple through the fields. Whatever it was; it was coming straight towards Owen!

The clump of dandelions that had rapidly closed arched towards Owen, beckoning him to listen.

‘Hide Guardian’ shouted the plant like creature to Owen. Guardian? Did he mean Owen, either way Owen had no time to ponder; the only element of the landscape that remained its natural colour was the irrigation ditch that ran adjacent to the farmer’s field. Owen had no choice and plunged himself into the stagnant pool.

Owen looked above from the watery film that filtered his gaze. The very clouds were turning an ink like black, as the creature approached. Owen pressed himself hard against the bank hoping to remain hidden in the undergrowth.

The ground boomed with each thunderous footstep that the creature took. It was getting closer. The trees withered like flowers in the heat, letting out splintered cries. Like innocent children being told they were going to die the noise died to a whimper, nulled by the creature’s advance as it towered over Owen’s hiding spot.

The beast was overhead, Owen looked up at the creature as it sniffed the sky; plumes of noxious stench emanated from the creature’s nostrils, the thick oily smog swirled around the creature bathing him in its fiery fumes. Owen stared in horror as the creature’s head chaotically twisted scanning the area.  Left then right then back again, the beasts tongue lashed out, whipping the air like a snake. It was searching for something; someone!

Owen had no choice and taking one last gasp of air plunged himself once again under the water. Ripples formed on the surface making hardly any noise, but it was enough. The vile colossus sank to his knees searching for the source of the sound.

Dipping its fingers into the pool; each digit dabbled in the infected pool. Like picking a scab the black vapour of the creature bled into the water painting wretched pictures of crying, contorted souls. Wailing, mournful figures were reflected on the water’s surface, like oil shimmering in a puddle their eyes glinted; these were the beasts eyes searching!

Not satisfied the creature delved further, this time submerging his whole arm under. A great sloshing could be heard as the giant monstrously pawed the water with a clumsy dullness.  Owen needed air and quick, but his instinct refused, anchoring him beneath the watery surface of the irrigation ditch. The creature’s grim limb scrabbled for what he was after. Ripping plants, pebbles from the bed as it desperately foraged.

Owen hunched himself into a ball, narrowly avoiding the grasp of the beast’s vile intensions. Owen paused in relief; it was a mistake! It was a momentary lapse of concentration, a temporary slip, but it was his undoing. His legs relaxed, aching they outstretched catching the monster’s giant hand!

It was enough. The creature’s talons whipped around grabbing Owen’s leg.

The water rippled and fizzed with a vicious hostility to the creature’s repugnant limb! Like a dog’s tail catching a gas fire, the smell lingered in the air.

Owen was helpless, a fish foully hooked, he squirmed in the water desperately looking for an escape. Owen’s eyes searched, looking for a stone, a rock to repel the creature and shatter his clamp like grip. There it was, a solution; Owen caught sight of a jagged rock on the bed of the stream. Reaching he grasped the make shift weapon and slammed it hard against the creature’s hand.

The beast roared in pain as he shook back; releasing Owen. The water spitting and biting at the beast’s colossal frame! Eating away at the beast’s impurity the rock was a watery maggot feasting on the rotten platter of an arm that was in front of him. Owen couldn’t come up for air, not yet, not now!

Owen’s lungs banged against his rib cage, pleading for air. It was no use. With that Owen spluttered, coming to the surface. Just as he did the sky, at least for a moment began once again to pour. Like arrows the hail of water cut into the beast’s skin hissing like vipers as the rain peppered the creatures back dispersing the smog that surrounded the horror! The creature screamed with pain, light streamed through the monstrosity; perforating the behemoth’s limbs.

The creature was gone.

The clouds turned back to their off white colour, the shadow diminished returning the path to its original sandy texture.

Owen grasped for the embankment, the shards of grit and mud bit into his skin unpleasantly as he desperately dragged himself out of the ditch. There for a moment he lay on the dirt path, his face touching the earth. His deep breaths echoed in the pool of water which he lay blowing tiny ripples into the shallow puddle.

Terror clamped him to the floor, shaking not because of the cold rain that had returned to caress the farmfields , but instead sheer unequivocal panic. Like a vice pressing on his chest, removing all reason, his mind raced for logical explanations.

There was none, no easily explained answer to what had happened.

Owen had seen a monster.

 

© 2012 Christopher G Guest. All rights reserved