andy cannon
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Everything posted by andy cannon
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Christopher stood for a long time after the last memory faded. Rain had begun again. It drifted across the harbour in a fine grey veil, softening the lights reflected upon the water until every colour seemed uncertain. The fishing boats rose and fell gently against their moorings, ropes creaking with the tide. He ought to have gone home. Instead he found himself walking without direction through streets he had known since childhood. Nothing looked quite the same. The caf
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Christopher will ask a variation of that question in a couple of chapters. I'm just running behind your observations a bit.
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That is addressed to a certain extent in the next chapter. An interesting parallel story would follow Marco in all that time between when he finds Christopher again.
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Christopher expected the memories would come as they had before. One life. One death. A single thread unravelled slowly enough for him to follow. Instead they began arriving without warning, colliding with the present so violently that he no longer knew where one existence ended and another began. It started three days after his conversation with Marco. He was standing in the queue at the bakery before work when the woman ahead of him asked for a cottage loaf. The words struc
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After more suffering, a resolution will peak through the clouds.
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I had forgotten about the Maugham version! I was thinking about the novel by John O'Hara, Both are great achievements.
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Christopher found Marco where the harbour gave way to the old cliff path. The morning had broken clear after several days of rain, sunlight across the water in broken ribbons of silver, while the tide crept steadily back towards the harbour wall. A pair of fishermen were repairing lobster pots farther along the quay, their voices carrying faintly on the wind. Marco stood alone beside the rail overlooking the sea, a mug of coffee in one hand, looking as though he had scarcely slept. Chr
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Vale's role in this becomes clearer over the coming chapters. As far as a ritual to release them from this cycle, as with many actions, the doing is easier than the undoing, i.e., a reputation can be destroyed in seconds but can't be restored in decades.
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A magnificent story by a master of the craft!
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What makes you believe that could protect him? The icy fingers of Fate reach everywhere!
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Chapter Fourteen It was Christopher's birthday, though the fact had seemed strangely unimportant when he woke that morning. By mid-morning, however, the whole of Penmere appeared to have gathered along the promenade to watch the tide. The sea had withdrawn farther than anyone could remember, exposing dark shelves of rock, weed-slick channels and stretches of ancient stone usually hidden beneath the water. People stood in clusters along the railings, pointing and murmuring, while children we
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For several moments neither of them spoke. The wind moved across the harbour, carrying the smell of salt and seaweed from the dark water below. Somewhere farther along the promenade, a gull cried out. The sound seemed strangely distant. Christopher stood with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching Marco hesitate. That, more than anything else, had become intolerable. Every answer led to another question. Every explanation dissolved into implication and half-finished warnings. "No.
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That word "convincing" is rather ominous, LOL! I believe a gauntlet has been tossed.
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That's good! I am finding it tough to address a somewhat complicated plot from the point of view of a character who is largely in the dark without leaving the reader in a similarly confused state or revealing too much too early.
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The memory followed him everywhere. Christopher tried, at first, to explain it away. A concussion, perhaps. Shock. A panic attack brought on by stress and too little sleep. The mind was capable of extraordinary distortions. He knew that much. There were books full of documented cases. False memories. Dissociative episodes. The brain filling gaps with stories it found easier to bear. The explanation sounded sensible each morning, but by evening it felt absurd. Every time he closed his eyes h
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Christopher spent most of Wednesday attempting to concentrate on work. The approaching birthday lingered stubbornly at the edge of his thoughts. Ordinarily he paid little attention to it. Twenty-eighth birthdays carried no particular significance. They arrived and departed much like any other day. This one felt different, from the tidal event through the records stretching back through centuries to Adrien Vale's fear. The coincidence sat uneasily in his mind no matter how oft
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It's tough enough to have scary dreams and abrupt time dislocations, but it is a little excessive to have one's own Greek chorus commenting, "We know what's going on but we won't tell you because it's really bad and don't want to alarm you,"
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Perceptive questions!
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It would be so unsettling, I think. Most people who recount their past lives experience them them as memories without the sensory overload that Christopher is undergoing.
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Christopher spent the following days trying to return to a life that could pass as normal. Classes continued. Essays required marking. Meetings occupied their allotted places in the timetable. The ordinary machinery of life moved forward with complete indifference to whatever had happened upon the tor. Christopher followed along as best he could. The visions had not returned with the same violence. That should have brought relief. Instead it left him with too much time to think. T
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Christopher spent the next several days attempting to restore some semblance of normality to his life. The effort failed. Whenever his thoughts strayed towards the cemetery, he forced them elsewhere. Whenever he remembered Marco standing beneath the yew tree with rain running from his hair and grief hidden behind his eyes, he reminded himself that archaeologists were often eccentric. Whenever he recalled the strange certainty in Marco's voice, he dismissed it as another carefully craft
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The role of Vale will be explained soon, but you are all on the right track.
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We are on the cusp of the acceleration of the revelations of the issue, but you ma be onto something here.
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Christopher spent most of the morning pretending he was not distracted. The pretence convinced nobody. His first class began badly and deteriorated from there. Twice he lost his place in his notes. On one occasion he answered a question that nobody had actually asked. Several students exchanged glances. One of them eventually raised a hand and asked, "Sir, are you alright?" Christopher assured them he was. The reassurance sounded unconvincing even to him. The dream lingered s
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Saturday arrived bright and cold beneath a sky washed pale blue by the night's rain. Christopher left the flat shortly after ten with a canvas shopping bag folded beneath one arm and a short list of errands in his coat pocket. Mrs Patel had asked him to collect a replacement order of coffee beans from one of the suppliers on the far side of town. The task carried him through the centre of Penmere and into the weekly market that occupied the square every weekend throughout the autumn.
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