First story

Initial inspo: A start to a romance or a demise? Set in the Industrial period of England

Casts of shadows and whirling winds seemed to be the only inhabitants of London this evening, which were followed by the ever-growing smoke enveloping the area with its tightly woven fingers.

Usually at this fine hour of the evening, there would be businessmen, running street rats and even the occasional noble couple roaming the streets. Their cacophony was the melody of the simple every day in New Monument. But, with the absence of such noise, the city felt. . . Oddly eerie. It felt as though there could anything – anyone – that could just slip and do the most inhumane monstrosities beyond the comprehension of one’s mind. Or it simply just felt devoid and empty.

However, there was something that pierced the very smoke clouds and the pathetic speaking of dirty mice; there was going to be something happening. Something that may or may not topple what people of New Monument consider normalcy.

It is a rapidly changing world, no?

…

Just like many other tightly hugged apartments of New Monument, Alexander’s home was squashed and lacked any personal space or any overt privacy. Made worse by the dreadful and unprecedented unforgiving evening, his home was cast in shadows and frigid cold that, by his futile candle attempts, did not lift whatsoever.

“This is just ridiculous at this point. This is the third instant the weather changed.” Alexsander gruffly muttered to himself.

He was making – somewhat failing and succeeding – some soup that his master chef of a brother taught him to do. Which was done in hopes that maybe Alexsander would pick up some culinary expertise or fine touch to food while he would live in New Monument. He did not, unfortunately.

The soup swirled in the wrong direction, the chopped tomatoes was sinking to the pot and the garnish did anything but to elevate his soup try.

“Great. Just absolutely wonderful. How I would really please mother and father with this one.” He said to the empty, barren atmosphere.

He set the soup down onto the dinner table, scattered with scrolls, candles, pens, articles and the latest letter from his sister. The scrolls were filled with his latest ideas and propositions for the new change in New Monument. Which ranged from better infrastructural practices for the new market lanes popping up in the area to the improved designs of the Quinn Dam.

All were rejected by the council, and all were considered arrogance from a spoilt brat that knew nothing of the real world of New Monument.

The candles were mixed in appearance and in size. The largest and warmest candle – his favourite as well – was a sturdy brown candle with a flame that never went out in weather and stood unyieldingly. It was ceremonially surrounded by yellows, reds, purples and blues, all gifted from his sister and mother. To lift the soul of a working man with a poetic spirit his sister eloquently enunciated to him when they met up for a cup of tea at the Toppling Café. Speaking of which, he was meaning to send a message back as soon as possible. To quell his worrying sister at New Yorkshire with her snobbish husband, and possibly get her to stop sending so many letters at his door. His pens were running out because of the obsessive amounts of letters asking about his life and how he’s going and how life is in New Monument. And of course, the multitude of new and innovative discoveries in his town.

However, he just couldn’t find the time nor energy to send one – no scratch that. He did have optimal time to send a letter back, but he didn’t feel as though he could be as honest as he wanted to in his letters anymore. What would he tell her? That he wants to go back with mother and father in London, live there for another 5 years before finally living alone again? That he felt like the most loneliest man in all of New Monument, despite the fact it’s considered the most growing town in all of England? That he wants to just give up and start anew? No, he just simply cannot. If he doesn’t want to worry his supportive older sister even more.

Alexsander’s chest was rapidly rising and falling, while his eyes listlessly stared at the table. What was he doing with his life?

What was the purpose of this all?

Was this just some fantasy he got too comfortable with and now just wants the life he had before?

By this point, he didn’t feel like eating soup anymore. He didn’t feel like he wanted to go through the struggle of getting his crampy apartment heated up. He didn’t feel like this was worth it anymore.

Just as he reached for chair, a loud ring reverberated through his apartment and his body, shaking him out of his sad retrospection and self-deprecation.

Who would go to my door at this hour? he thought to himself.

He forced his previously comatose limbs into movement and went to the door. Soon afterwards he opened the door, expecting some street rat begging for food and money.

But what he saw was nothing his mind, body or even his heart expected.

A beautiful man stood there, right in front of him. In front of his stained vest, wrinkled white button and messy stitched up pant self. Really in front of him.

“Good evening, sir~ Are you Alexsander Hitchmen? I hear you’re quite the prolific writer.”