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Dan
McLachlan
fantasy
writer
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Godric
Crook
by
Dan McLachlan
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Sample
chapter from the rhyming fantasy
novel
Godric
Crook
We
begin this long tale of wonder
and woe
In a tumbledown house, many
moons ago,
Which stood, squat and
hunched, in a leaf-choked
glen,
Well-hidden from the prying
eyes and meddling of men.
It appeared half-submerged in
a waist deep fog
That denied the existence of
rabbit and dog,
And any creature dwelling
beneath its surface,
Safe in the knowledge that its
cover was perfect.
Rising from this mire like
reeds from a marsh
Were the tangled tendrils and
crooked masts
Of striving brambles and
anaemic sweet-pea,
As if gasping for air in a
turbulent sea.
This
house looked dishevelled and
long in the tooth,
As it staggered 'neath the
bolsters of moss on its
roof.
Throttled by the slim,
grasping fingers of ivy,
One could be forgiven if one
thought that it might be
Uninhabited, neglected,
untouched for a century,
But the truth is that the
landlord intended this to
be
The impression always gleaned
by a roving eye
Catching sight of his premises
from a hilltop on high.
In truth, every pane that was
broken or cracked,
All the trees left untended,
every tile the roof
lacked,
The weathervane, rusted and
torn from its pole,
Every splintered beam, every
moth-eaten hole,
Had been carefully nurtured
and crafted by hand,
To keep unwelcome wanderers
away from his land.
A deterrent, designed to
provoke whispered rumours
That a phantom may dwell in
this countrified
tumour.
But what
of our hero, the solitary
owner,
This peace-loving anchorite,
this camouflaged loner?
Why the desperate longing to
be so alone
And keep strangers at bay by
disfiguring your home?
An author? A painter?
Philosopher? Freak?
Or a misfit who's never been
able to speak?
A retired mass murderer
avoiding temptation
By cutting himself off from
the entire nation?
Of these choices I'd say that
our hero's a mix:
On a pie chart an equal
portion of all six.
He was born to a doctor, a
tiresome man,
Driven mad by ambition to
fulfil his plan
Of creating a being, a
fighting machine,
To all extents human, but
ruthless and mean,
Out of body parts from an
assortment of beasts-
A claw here, a jaw there, a
torso and some feet.
This hybrid he'd train to obey
complex orders,
Defeat any adversary. A
guard-dog for hoarders,
A warrior, assassin, a
mercenary and pet,
Man's best friend and worst
enemy, with no need for a
vet.
Though his theory was sound
and preparations
extensive,
His materials ideal and
laboratory expensive,
His one slight misjudgement
became one fatal error
In breeding this grotesque
harbinger of
terror.
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