(no subject)
He was walking as quickly as he could away from Fleet Street without looking like he was hurrying through the cold but not yet drizzling September night in London.
Then there had come a rumble like thunder, or like a heavy coach coming fast, and Toby had looked up and seen nothing, right up until he saw the bright white flash. He'd closed his eyes against it, flung one arm up, and noticed almost immediately that it was suddenly a lot colder than it had been a moment ago. Suddenly, where it should have been blue-black night, it was bright day. London had vanished; the boy found himself in a weedy field near a fine, wide road, instead.
So.
Now there is Toby, a boy of ten-or-twelve, trudging down a highway looking for signs of life or civilization or something besides a long stretch of black asphalt. He is thin and wiry, like he's just shot up a few inches, but it might be a bit hard to spot, since the cold has convinced him to put on every scrap of clothing he stuffed in his rucksack. He looks a little ridiculous, particularly since all of the clothes are rather early-Victorian. He's still carrying the rucksack, since there are useful articles in it and one never knows when a good big bag is going to come in handy. He is dark of hair and eye, would be pale if the cold hadn't turned his cheeks and nose reddish, and has great dark circles under his eyes, as though he hasn't slept or has seen far, far too much.
I think I might be in Hell, Toby decides, but doesn't say aloud.
((Toby comes right from the end of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and as such can be considered a walking spoiler if the narration isn't careful. I won't spoil you if you let me know you don't want me to.))
Then there had come a rumble like thunder, or like a heavy coach coming fast, and Toby had looked up and seen nothing, right up until he saw the bright white flash. He'd closed his eyes against it, flung one arm up, and noticed almost immediately that it was suddenly a lot colder than it had been a moment ago. Suddenly, where it should have been blue-black night, it was bright day. London had vanished; the boy found himself in a weedy field near a fine, wide road, instead.
So.
Now there is Toby, a boy of ten-or-twelve, trudging down a highway looking for signs of life or civilization or something besides a long stretch of black asphalt. He is thin and wiry, like he's just shot up a few inches, but it might be a bit hard to spot, since the cold has convinced him to put on every scrap of clothing he stuffed in his rucksack. He looks a little ridiculous, particularly since all of the clothes are rather early-Victorian. He's still carrying the rucksack, since there are useful articles in it and one never knows when a good big bag is going to come in handy. He is dark of hair and eye, would be pale if the cold hadn't turned his cheeks and nose reddish, and has great dark circles under his eyes, as though he hasn't slept or has seen far, far too much.
I think I might be in Hell, Toby decides, but doesn't say aloud.
((Toby comes right from the end of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and as such can be considered a walking spoiler if the narration isn't careful. I won't spoil you if you let me know you don't want me to.))