Young Writers Society

Hi all. I wrote this for my English assignment. You will notice the use of the poem 'London' by James Blake. This was because it had to contain intertextual references from a poem. Please enjoy, rate, comment...

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The Slaughterman

The three men, not famed or affluent, would wreak vengeance upon their nation today. Though vigilant, they moved innocuously alongside a horse- drawn wagon laden with hay. Inwardly, their focus was clear; to overthrow those degrading their lives, and the lives of all lower-class citizens. The trio referred to themselves simply as La Résistance. They were determined not to fail.

No worker or artisan in all of London was immune from exploitation by the twin corruptions that were the aristocracy and church. Social inequality in the city was everywhere and rising: children died daily from disease and hunger. Still, hundreds of people poured into the metropolis, desiring the promises of the Industrial Revolution. The three men, however, were intent on inciting a civil uprising. They took inspiration from the recent success of the French Revolution, from the stories and rumours that had travelled from France to England. These stories told of upheaval, of killing those in power, of success and equality! To most, such visions were mere dreams, but today, this was going to change.

It was clear from their appearance that poverty stalked the three companions. One was a gravedigger, another was unemployed and the one who strode resolutely in front was a slaughterman. The gravedigger’s hands were permanently misshapen from the constancy of his work. The slaughterman’s name was Alger Hindley, a man many labelled as exceptionally cunning. He was a man of mystery, possessed of both intellect and charisma. It was rumoured he was once a successful merchant or, some whispered, a former priest.

Alger pointed ahead, toward where the alley opened up into a squalid market- square. “Twenty others are to meet us there in half-an-hour,” he explained softly. The other men nodded, and carefully lowered the cart to the ground. Underneath the hay were concealed several ‘Brown Bess’ muskets, and small artillery devices. As organised by Alger, each conspirator would be armed with a musket, a grenade and a sword.

While his companions readied their weapons, Alger turned away, muttering. To himself, he intoned the words of the unknown slave who had also dreamt of a day of mutiny and freedom. The slave’s lyrics had been chanted many times at the social gatherings of the poor, but Alger was determined to make it a reality:


“Has it changed at all?!” he shouted helplessly to a women passing by, who glared fiercely at him. Like many, she was unconcerned with anybody but herself. Alger shook his head, as he surveyed the square. “Of course it has not,” he muttered. A blind woman, in rags, still lay on a merchant’s doorsteps begging for money, as a girl and her brother stole bread from a shopkeeper. Alger’s heart thumped at the enormity of what he might achieve today.

“Alger!” shouted one of his companions. “We must hurry to the Thames. The Royal parade is approaching.” Alger nodded, returning to his now larger cohort of men, women and children. His attitude reflected an era of change: it didn’t matter if you were not an adult male, it only mattered if you had the motivation and willpower to fight for justice.

Avoiding the attention of nearby guards, the Résistance moved swiftly from the square toward the murky Thames. Alger knew his party lacked the strength to revolutionise his country today, but he hoped it would encourage others to overcome their fear and join him.
Alger sprinted to the front of the motley group, bellowing orders. “Advance to your positions now! Be ready on my signal!” he shouted, punching the air. The revolutionaries shouted back in a single voice, accented by rage and the desire for a better life. Swiftly, they moved to their designated places.

Alger drew his musket, as the royal entourage approached. Fifty metres... thirty metres...twenty metres... Abruptly, the sound of an explosion erupted behind him. Alger was stunned that his group had fired shots before his signal. Unless... it wasn’t his group attacking! He dismissed the idea. Surely the King’s men had not learned of his plan? Alger, with his two original companions, jumped up and ran toward the sound of the gunshots. The parade was mere metres away. Not hearing a signal from Alger, many of the Résistance rushed forward. Though unified symbolically by flag and gun, the attack was no longer coordinated. The soldiers were prepared, raising their weapons and firing at will. Several revolutionaries were felled by bullets, others returned fire, in retaliation, killing soldiers. Alger realised that he had been betrayed. Frozen in panic, he realised the convoy was prepared for the assault. The King and the Archbishop were not riding in the horse-drawn carriages, and armed soldiers were pouring down the Thames embankment, slaughtering anyone in their way. A young boy sobbed beside his dead mother, as she lay, battered and bloodied, on the ground. The Résistance was outnumbered with nowhere to run.

A young chimney sweep cried out to Alger as he was impaled on a soldier’s bayonet. Screaming in anger and pain, Alger charged, thrusting his sword up to its hilt into the soldier’s chest. The man fell, clutching his wound. Alger whispered again from the song of the slave.


Alger charged aggressively, attacking with what little power and control he still had. His revolutionaries lay dying beside the bodies of the royalist defence. Their blood pooled as one. Alger stumbled forward, clutching his thigh. He felt the warmth of blood on his hands. The last image he saw was a royalist soldier squeezing the trigger of his musket. The shot ended his life. The fighting ceased abruptly. The square, littered with bodies, fell eerily silent. No members of the Résistance survived.

***

Away from the River Thames, a pauper father recited the story of the unknown slave.

A vast blackness covered London, with the soft, silver moon hovering above. Children newborn that night would not live a life better than a child born the night before, already imprinted with the misery and pains of the youthful Harlot’s curse. Unknown to the hopeful father telling the story to his children, the cry of the Harlot would continue throughout the night, as she walked condemned to a life of indifference and disrespect.

bump.

Hi there, kizacolo. You seem pretty new to the site, so you may not be aware that you don't need to bump your writing to get reviews, especially in such a slow forum as the Historical Fiction Short Stories. You can always take your writing over to the Will Review for Food forum and ask for a review in one of the threads. Also, reviewing other members' works will not only get you the points you need to post new works but also get you more reviews in return.

Now onto your story:

One was a gravedigger, another was unemployed, and the one who strode resolutely in front was a slaughterman. The gravedigger’s hands were permanently misshapen from the constancy of his work. The slaughterman’s name was Alger Hindley, a man many labelled as exceptionally cunning.

You jump around with the descriptions here, and it's a bit jarring. Follow the order of gravedigger, unemployed, and slaughterman when describing them a bit more, or describe them as you introduce them. It's much easier to follow.

It was rumoured he was once a successful merchant or, some whispered, a former priest.

Rumored and whispered by whom?

While his companions readied their weapons, Alger turned away, muttering. To himself, he intoned the words of the unknown slave who had also dreamt of a day of mutiny and freedom. The slave’s lyrics had been chanted many times at the social gatherings of the poor, but Alger was determined to make it a reality:

“I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.”

I think the poem could be incorporated much more smoothly here. Right now, it feels contrived and unnatural.

While his companions readied their weapons, Alger turned away, muttering, "I wander thro' each charter'd street," the words... etc.

I also think that it's a bit overkill to bold the poem. Centering it is enough to set it apart from the story.

to a woman

Watch your spelling.

Alger sprinted to the front of the motley group, bellowing orders.

Wouldn't that catch the attention of the nearby guards?

The fighting ceased abruptly.

I find that unlikely unless Alger was the last one standing. If so, this needs to be mentioned.

A vast blackness covered London, with the soft, silver moon hovering above. Children newborn that night would not live a life better than a child born the night before, already imprinted with the misery and pains of the youthful Harlot’s curse. Unknown to the hopeful father telling the story to his children, the cry of the Harlot would continue throughout the night, as she walked condemned to a life of indifference and disrespect.

I know this is supposed to create an air of tragedy, but it's so overwrought that it falls flat. Try phrasing it more simply, and let the failure of Alger's mission speak for itself.

Helloo!

Let's jump right in. Cons first!
A couple grammar mistakes. They weren't big, so no point in pointing them out, just make sure to proofread so you can catch those little buggers.

The gravedigger’s hands were permanently misshapen from the constancy of his work. The slaughterman’s name was Alger Hindley, a man many labelled as exceptionally cunning. He was a man of mystery, possessed of both intellect and charisma. It was rumoured he was once a successful merchant or, some whispered, a former priest.

If Alger is the only one important to the story of the three men, you need not mention the other two. Or put in a light description for the other two. The fact that you just skipped one breaks the flow and makes it kind of choppy.

A young chimney sweep cried out to Alger as he was impaled on a soldier’s bayonet. Screaming in anger and pain, Alger charged, thrusting his sword up to its hilt into the soldier’s chest.

Logic error. At first, I assumed it was the chimney sweep that got stabbed, but then later Alger is holding his bleeding thigh and in the bit quoted, he's in anger and pain. The way the first sentence is worded, it could be either Alger or the chimney sweep that gets stabbed. You might want to make it more clear as to who gets hurt.

The last image he saw was a royalist soldier squeezing the trigger of his musket. The shot ended his life. The fighting ceased abruptly. The square, littered with bodies, fell eerily silent. No members of the Résistance survived.

"The shot ended his life" is a little redundant. Just a little. In my opinion, it might be more effective if you just took this sentence out. It's evident that he died if that was the last thing he saw. And then we know he's dead cause everyone in the Résistance is dead.

Okay, Pros!
You have apt descriptions of setting and people.
I like the shift from a detatched perspective to being more in tune with Alger.
No terribly awkward sentence structures.
A quick ending, which is realistic considering the odds against the Résistance, but dramatizing it a little more might make it more "story-like" or "mainstream". But, you have to do it right or else it'll seem cheesy-ish. I'm just saying, it's fine the way it is, but you could throw in some of your flair.
Overall, very well put together.

Keep it up!