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Two brief excerpts from my current (third!) Work In Progress.  Not entirely sure how to categorize it yet, maybe you can tell me…Its set in the future, AFTER the Apocalypse.  It’s about mortals and Immortals, Hate and Love, Fear and Romance.  Yes it will have STEAM, Violence, Spirituality and a hint of Dsytopian flair.  I don’t know…would that make it A Psychological/Metaphysical Romantic Thriller?

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Year 296 of the 4^th Era after the Great Cataclysm: Le Bastion de la Résolution, – Marçais, Olde France

She was only a scullery maid.  Nothing.  No one.  She was as unimportant as the scraps she cleaned up and just as forgettable.  She had been her entire life and nothing would ever change that. She knew it and she expected nothing.  Ever since she was five years old she understood that those around her were far better than she.  Her life was trivial and meaningless; she accepted it.

Those she served were as far above her as she was above the barn rats.  Her betters were interesting, beautiful, wealthy, and above all, powerful.  When they spoke, others rushed to serve; where they wished to go, others made way.  They were inaccessible and inescapable.  Officers of the Eminent Protectorate and their families, they outranked even the nobles of the land and none questioned them.  The Eminent Protectorate were the elite of society and to serve them was a privilege most could only dream of in a world where poverty was common-place, where being healthy was a rare distinction among the masses of Mortal Plague, and where Time had stopped……..

Every night she could hear the screams.  Harrowing, they kept her awake many long nights while she leaned from her small window in the servant’s tower desperately trying to locate their source, but the stone walls of the bastion sent echoes pealing in all directions.  They broke her heart, at first, but after many weeks of hearing them she’d grown accustomed to the noise.  It wasn’t so much that they didn’t affect her anymore, but she accepted them, just as she accepted her own plight. The Eminent Protectorate could not and would not be questioned about them, or about anything they did, so whoever the poor soul was, they were doomed to bear whatever was happening without any more hope of rescue than she might wish for.  Less.  ……

Year 276 of the 4^th Era after the Great Cataclysm: The Coast of Calais, Olde France 

He stood on the vast ocean shore, his back to what was left of a once vibrant land as his deep violet gaze searched the empty miles of gray water.  His essence listened for any sign of life, a heartbeat remaining among the silence of the deeps, but not a single pulse broke the deathly hush.  Pestilence had done his job too well.  Nothing remained.  All that was once beautiful, colorful and diverse was gone.

The thought pained him and he closed his eyes, bowing his head to mourn what had been sacrificed and all that had been lost.  No terns cried upon the ocean breeze; no laughing gulls sang praise to the skies, there was only the sound of the waves rushing and breaking upon the rocky shore and the hollow moan of the wind. Without wings to dance upon it, the air itself was barren and grief-stricken.  The ruddy glimmer of the late day sun, slowly fading into a crimson haze since Time had ground to a halt, played through the waves of his blonde hair and sparkled across the perfection of his features.  Standing there at the beginning of endless emptiness, he was the most beautiful sight for countless miles.

Behind him, a thunder of hooves pounded across the beach and the voices of men cursing in anger accosted the quietness.  He did not turn to face them as they formed a perimeter around him, barricading him against the sea, nor did he immediately answer when they demanded to know who he was; instead, he closed his eyes and sighed wearily.  Nothing had changed, even after the cataclysm that had shaken the foundations of the world; hate, suspicion and fear still ruled those who remained…..

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~Morgan~

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Beautiful Original Artwork  by Jules-Joseph-Augustin Laurens (top) and by aenaluck.deviantart.com (bottom)