the londoner

a short story about Victorian england

At the time, there was no sure justification for the move from london england for the cold and barren north other than a undescribed longing for solitude. the slums and wasteland that endured none but the hardiest sprirts that plagued the winding streets and alleys of the west end could contain him no longer, neither the thought of anonymous trudging through the smogs and carriageways could keep him alone. The north, the dales, a veiw of windswept moorland filled his soul. as if an escape could be found there that otherwise eluded him and lured him away from the urban sprawl that fettered victorian london, but most of all the desire for the clean and cold isolation of the industrial north.
resting on a rickety bench outside a tavern, trenchcoated drunks milling by and by with the smell of bitter and gin waving from the inn and its misted glass windows, he loaded his pipe with knotted strands of tobacco and placed it under his mustace hawking his eyes the the late spring sunlight as it fluttered through the smog. the doctors, at a particular expence of his, had given laudinum for the depression and malady that possesed him as of often to take wandering the streets, perhaps somewhat ignored, perhaps even casting himself to be alone as a pre amble to picking the will and courage to cancel the bank his rent to a third floor apartment where he perched away the poverty of the town that surrounded him over a small coal fire and chair, these his only possetions. with frequenting the streets after this he would afford the train fare to take north to the dales by the marvel of steam, and forget his home of london.
Pacing his feet on the cobbled stones of the street, confident he had finished his meander with his stony hands buried deep in his pockets he paced homeward, to his terraced appartment lost in a winding streets like so many others bleeding into the smog coal smoke from their long and bricklayed chimneys and forlorn families nursing themselves of the foresteps of their homes as if there was better out facing the street in their smocks and tattered waistcoats than the chambers within. the hustle of the mainstreets receeded into more civilian quarters, none of the carriage and horse clattering along and 'ladies and gents' of london treading their way along the cobbles, he paced slowly into his nearby appartment, the iron key to the front door clattering into the lead painted interior of the house, the chiseled wood stairwell climing away to the smell of drifting tobacco and open fires somewhere perhaps boing water or toasting bread.
the small top floor flat he inhabited alone was a cold place to be, being a little aboe the rise of the street, its vermillion paint was long disused and the coal fire againt the curtainless windows hazy light still had the remains of yesterdays fire like a small grey snowdrift in front of his ropey chair, where he sat with his pocket knife cleaning out his pipe into the firespace.
the mornings laudinum wearing thin, his mind once more turned to escape, alighting his eyes on the almost veiwless window, the thick grey smog preventing any veiw whatsoever from the third floor of the house. wandering his thoughts over the drawing books and brochures of the dales and yorkshire moors the dream occured to him again to sell away his home and life in london and buy a rail ticket, even third class travel in the carriages with all the proles and labourers commuting the industrial north, and begin a new life of solitude on the moors. perhaps he would write a book, work on a farm with the grazing cattle and sheep, find a fine drinking house and taste the best bitters of yorkshire.
absently he foud his pipe was relit, spirals of its smoke drifting the room, the ash emptied into his small coal pile like his quiet musings of the north and its beckoning freedoms, scattered like notes of an unwritten journal or memoir between the pipe smoke.

Reviews

[roarke]

Solid five by five writing. A couple typo's, suffered from 'auto-correct', I hate mine. I enjoyed the musing aspect of your narrative. I hope the pipe smoke and pastoral musings bear fruition. Thanks for a fine read.

[Jade]

has a lot of imagery and detail, I like it. very nicely written and the emotional outlet is there.