Dust Devil/The Collector...? (working titles) - Writers Forum

Candrah · 06-09-2008, 02:12 PM

I've been tromping about in here criticising everyone else's work so I though I better post my own for a change. I've got to the point with this where I could really use some objective feedback on it. There are a couple of bits that I need to change but I can't think how. This is where all you lovely forum members come in

Hope you'll take the time to read and comment. Thanks

Dust Devil: The Collector (Cant think which one to use)

Should’ve brought my camera, Tom Ellis thought for the dozenth time that day. He had been in such a hurry to get out there, to the tiny group of huts in the desert. People lived there that had never seen a photograph, never mind a camera. People who told stories like no others, he’d been told. And they were right. He patted the bag next to him in complacent satisfaction. The tales recorded in there would make him famous in his field. And that, more than anything else in the world, was what he hungered for. Fame and recognition. That proverbial pat on the back from his colleagues. The knowledge that in less than a week he would be basking in the glow of their admiration was enough to make him forget his current predicament. Almost.
Tom gazed through the window of the bus. Hanging along the horizon, a huge brown cloud of sand stretched for miles. It meant a storm was coming. A sandstorm. And he was out here in the desert, stuck in a rickety old bus with chickens and children running about. And his hotel was still miles away. He scratched at the sand grating against his head. It got everywhere. Burrowed its way through his hair to his scalp, settled in his shoes until he felt he would be better walking barefoot since the sand was in his shoes with him.
It was a spectacular sight though. The storm. Like a wall of sand rolling towards him. Not something you saw everyday. It blurred the landscape around it and glazed the sun with a mustard haze. Everything gleamed with a lurid yellow light. It was as though the coming storm was both hiding and enhancing the light from the setting sun. And on the open ground between the bus and the storm, dust devils began to appear, little tornadoes of sand whipped up by a hot and stinging wind. They stood out in pale relief against the brown darkness behind them. They were fascinating. Tom stared at them in wonder. He always enjoyed a good show. And nature never failed to disappoint him. The wind pattered sand and dust against the windows of the bus as it bounced and jostled its ancient way along the road. More like a rough track in the sand. Tom wondered how the driver knew where he was going.
‘Do not look at them.’
He jumped at the voice and looked round. The old man who had been sitting next to him was staring straight at him, his leathery face urgent. At the appearance of the dust clouds everyone on the bus began to mutter. The driver speeded up and even the shouting children fell silent. They huddled with their parents, and no-one looked out of the windows.
‘Why not?’ he asked, pulling out his notebook. Every culture had its stories, its superstitions. His own culture was filled with them. Stories and legends handed down through the generations. Like family heirlooms. And he loved a good story. It was what had driven him into his current profession. Driven him around the world on an endless hunt for stories and myths, legends and histories, to fill his books and lectures.
Some people thought of him as crazy, but he saw it as preservation. When all those ancient cultures disappeared, wiped out by burgeoning technology, who would ever know they had existed? The things they told their children, their dreams and their history gone forever because no-one in the first world, in their rich cities, cared enough to preserve it. But he did. He cared enough to spend his life hunting for the knowledge as he called it.
The old man looked at his book, suspicion in his black eyes, but seemed to think that warning Tom was too important to keep quiet. ‘They are demons,’ he said darkly.
After a lot of cajoling, the old man finally explained himself. It was a powerful legend. An old story that everyone who lived out here knew well. Something parents told their children to keep them from venturing out into the desert during a storm. A story he had not been told in the village. He reached surreptitiously into his bag and activated the recorder.
According to the old man, demons lived in the dust devils. It was their way of taking a visible form because without the whirlwinds, they were invisible. It was also their way of attracting their prey. And people were what they hunted. They lusted after human blood, and to get it, they needed a human body. A host they could inhabit that gave them form. Made them solid. They were utterly evil. The old man, supported by dark nods and wardings against the devil by his fellow travellers, told how once, one of them had taken a baby from its crib. Reached in through an open window and snatched it. The local people never found the baby’s body, but they found the one who had taken her, his hands and teeth bloody.
Tom shuddered at the image and wondered at the children nearby. What sort of childhood included such macabre tales as this? He kept quiet, fascinated and repulsed at the same time. The old man had a way of describing things that was so much more powerful and evocative than any written word could ever be. He was glad of the recorder in his bag.
Every time there was a storm, the demons hid in the dust devils and waited for someone to see them. If they caught you looking, and held your attention, you would be marked. The demon would hunt you down, haunting your dreams and taunting you, terrifying you, because they thrive on fear. The dust devil demons. It might appear in reflections, in mirrors or windows. Hovering behind your shoulder. Once the demon got you in it’s sight, there would be no escape. No matter how far you ran, the old man told him, the demon would find you. When it caught you, it would suck out your soul and take your body. It would possess you completely and you would be gone. Your body would become no more than a shell for the demon. And it would walk the world looking for victims.
‘We do not look at the demons in the sand,’ the old man said in such a deep and powerful tone that Tom couldn’t help but smile.
He snapped shut his notebook thanked the old man for his story, ignored the dark look he received, and turned away. Because that’s all they were. Stories to frighten children. None of it was real. There were no such things as demons. He had been all round the world and never seen one. He glanced out of the window and saw that one of the little tornadoes seemed to be tracking the bus.
He gazed at it, fascinated by the swirling sand. It spun up from a point on the ground and spread outwards. Like water spiralling down a plughole, but made of sand and spiralling upwards not down. He was tired and cranky after a long day of travelling and he drifted into a kind of trance as he stared at the whirlwind.
Eyes appeared in the cloud. Two darker shapes that flowed with the sand but remained on this side of the tornado. They turned a brownish red. They seemed to be looking right at him. He blinked at sat up and the eyes were gone. He shook his head and told himself to stop imagining things. It was just a trick of the light. He rubbed his hands over his face and took a drink from his bottle of mineral water. The dust devils began to fade and disappear. And in front of the bus, along the road, the walls and towers of Marrakech appeared. They loomed and flickered against the dark storm like a mirage.

‘You’re an anomaly Tom Ellis do you know that? World renowned Anthropologist and you spend all your time in dreary corners of the globe, collecting. Histories, stories, myths, any snippet of a story you can find. And yet, you don’t believe any of it.’ Alison’s voice sounded exasperated but he was glad to hear it. Even though she was nagging him as usual. She was his assistant but sometimes she felt more like his wife. He could have married her. He knew she would say yes if he asked. He never asked.
‘I’m just the sponge. I soak up the stories and bring them to you. So that you can organise them and publish them and make me famous.’
Alison laughed. ‘I’ll se you when you get back.’
The storm raged incessantly. Tom had never felt so glad to be back in his tiny hotel room as he did that evening. The wind rattled against the window shutters and whistled and roared along the narrow streets outside. As if it was trying to get in. Sand hissed against the walls of the hotel. It made a sound like snow but quieter, lighter. Like a thousand wind muffled snakes hissing and sighing outside his window. And it was hot. Hot and dry and sticky.
After hours of trying to work on his notes with the incessant sound of the wind and sand distracting him and driving him mad, Tom gave up and sat back. It was past midnight. The storm grated on his nerves and he felt like he had swallowed a mouthful of the sand that seemed to seep in everywhere. He drank bottle after bottle of water but it didn’t seem to help. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw the dust devils again. He saw those eye shapes watching him from the storm. They drifted closer and closer until they were right up in front of his face. Then they changed. They weren’t shapes in the sand like people saw shapes in the clouds. Not anymore. They started to glow bright red. Two red demon eyes glaring at him in the dark.
He jerked awake and looked around. But there was nothing in the room. He was alone. He shook his head and laughed out loud. Must have fallen asleep. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and stood up. They tell a good story here. Feeling a little foolish and more than a little spooked, he went into the tiny ensuite bathroom and turned on the tap in the sink. He bent down and splashed cold water on his face. It felt wonderful against his hot skin.
As he straightened up, he looked into the mirror on the wall above the sink. He almost yelped aloud. The eyes were there again. Right behind his shoulder. And there was a form around them. A dark shadowy shape hovering against the dim light that shone from the other room.
He whirled round, staggered back against the sink and tripped over the waste basket that stood on the floor behind him. He fell into the corner and the hand towel fell over his face. Shaking and sweating and not sure whether it was from fear or laughter, he cautiously removed the towel and peered around the dark room. It was empty. He let his breath out in a long sigh and stood up. Stories to frighten children. That’s all.
The room beyond was dim and his bed invited him. He moved through the bathroom door without looking at the mirror. It was stupid but he didn’t want to see any more reflections, real or not. As he sat down on the end of the bed, the wind died and the hissing sound faded. The silence echoed loud in his ears. Left a pressure on the back of his head. He reached up to rub his neck and screamed, staggered to his feet and fell forward against the wall. The back of his head burned where he had touched it. Burned with white hot searing pain as if someone had pressed his head against a hot plate.
His body wouldn’t move. He could hardly turn his head and his hands and feet felt three times too big. The room took on a red tint. He blinked, but the colour stayed. Like looking at the world through red glasses. What’s happening to me?

‘No!’
He had no idea why he needed to shout that word. An animal reaction to something or someone inside his head. Inside his body. In there with him and trying to push him out. Force him out of himself through the back of his own head. It felt as if the storm had seeped into his body and was swirling and hissing inside him. He could feel the grainy sensation of sand grating through his insides.
For a second, he actually saw himself from the outside. A sweating, staring husk that he didn’t recognise even though he knew it was him. Something in him fought back then. Some basic animal instinct for survival, a need to get back inside his body before it was too late. Before he was left outside in the dark, alone. He didn’t know how he knew these things. But he did. The animal in him snarled and he forced his way back in. Disorientation hit him as he looked at the room through his own eyes again. The world was no longer tinged red.
The storm picked up again. The grating sensation left his body. The pressure disappeared from the back of his skull. He reached round with his fingertips. No pain. Just sweat and dizziness. He dragged himself to his feet and just made it to the sink before he vomited. Stories to frighten children he mouthed at the pasty reflection in the mirror. I’ve been out in the sun too long. Sunstroke, making me hallucinate. Nothing more. He gulped water from the tap then moved back into the other room, fell face down on the bed and closed his eyes. Exhausted. What a story I’ll have, he thought as he drifted slowly into sleep.
Outside the sand storm raged on.
The next morning dawned bright and clear. Connor woke up and stretched luxuriously. He stood up and walked over to the window, opened the shutters and looked outside. The sky was a beautiful pale blue, completely cloudless as if the storm had scoured it clean. He stood quietly, listening to the sound of the city. The laughter of a group of tourists leaving the hotel early, on their way to a desert safari. The chatter of passing children. And high up, echoing over the roof tops, the call to morning prayer crackled from ancient loudspeakers.
He wandered into the bathroom and splashed clean water on his face and picked up the hand towel from the corner. He carefully dried his hands and face, placed the towel neatly back onto it’s hook and looked at himself in the mirror. A good body. Young and strong. He spread his lips in a feral grin. As he turned and left the bathroom, the sunlight caught his eyes. He turned his head away and moved back into the shadows. His eyes glowed red in the dim corner by the table. He packed his things into the small suitcase, locked the room door behind him and smiled at the clerk as he walked out of the hotel. Out into the warm street. He glanced up at the window above him and smiled, nodded and turned away. He walked off up the street and was soon lost in the growing crowds.

phurst · 06-09-2008, 05:33 PM

It got everywhere. Burrowed its way through his hair to his scalp, settled in his shoes until he felt he would be better walking barefoot since the sand was in his shoes with him.- One sentence not two Like a wall of sand rolling towards him.- not a complete sentnece.
‘Do not look at them.’
He jumped at the voice and looked round. The old man who had been sitting next to him was staring straight at him, his leathery face urgent. At the appearance of the dust clouds everyone on the bus began to mutter. The driver speeded up and even the shouting children fell silent. They huddled with their parents, and no-one looked out of the windows.- start the story here then go back to the beginning.
According to the old man, demons lived in the dust devils. It was their way of taking a visible form because without the whirlwinds, they were invisible. It was also their way of attracting their prey. And people were what they hunted. They lusted after human blood, and to get it, they needed a human body. A host they could inhabit that gave them form. Made them solid. They were utterly evil. The old man, supported by dark nods and wardings against the devil by his fellow travellers, told how once, one of them had taken a baby from its crib. Reached in through an open window and snatched it. The local people never found the baby’s body, but they found the one who had taken her, his hands and teeth bloody.do this in dialogue from the old man so it doesn't read like an encyclopedia entry. Oh, yeah, dialogue " not '

I would read each sentence by itself. I think you have a number of them that are incomplete unless you were striving for that. It's not a bad story but it never grabbed me. A bit too predictable. Like I said before, have the old man tell the story in dalogue, make it dark and mysterious and have a beginning like when the sun god remived the fire thorns they returned as dust devils or such. You should also spend more time with the victim making his transformation slower and edgier.

A-L · 06-09-2008, 07:52 PM

Some of your sentences do need ironing out. The first few are actually the ones that bugged me. They seemed to slow down the pace of things, and that is not good for the beginning of a story. The rest, particularly the part with the old man, and his transformation, could be elongated for effect. Not too long mind you, but long enoug to get the information in without (as afore mentioned) the feeling of an encyclopedia. So far though, I like your story, it has a lot of potential, just a few sentences that could be fixed.

HippoHead · 06-09-2008, 08:25 PM

man, i've been wanting to commen on your work for ages, as you hae commented on a lot of mine!
So wooting.

2 bad things:

1) glowing red eyes - 'nuff said

2) no dialogue from the old man! That would have been neatery!

I like the mythical factor. Demons in dust storms. Works, like ghosts in a fog and such. Mixing the ordinary (for a desert, anyway) with the extraordinary is the best way to get in scary stuff.

I would call the title 'Dust Devils'. It's more attention-grabbing than 'the collector' - which just reminds me of comic-book guy from the simpsons as a halloween villain.

Candrah · 06-10-2008, 01:55 PM

Thanks for the feedback everyone

I've been struggling with the old man's bit of "telling" and the MC's transformation. They are the weakest parts of the story and it looks like they stand out like sore thumbs... Doing the old man's bit in dialogue is a good idea - never thought of that.

As for the 'glowing red eyes'... I know, it's terrible. I'll definitely be changing that.

Candrah · 06-10-2008, 01:57 PM

Ps:

Darn it! Double posted...

Candrah · 06-10-2008, 02:01 PM

Ps: hippohead - I like Dust Devil too

I see what you mean about The Collector sounding a bit cheesy. Guess it needed a fresh pair of eyes to spot it. Cheers.