Page 1 of 2 12 LastLast
Results 1 to 20 of 24

Thread: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

  1. #1
    Dan the Man's Avatar S A M U R A I F O O L
    Content Emeritus

    Join Date
    Jan 2010
    Location
    Penn's Woods
    Posts
    11,557

    Default IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Well guys, it's that time of year again! BAW has slowed down pretty hard the past couple weeks, so maybe we can get some creative juices going here. Feel free to post any creative writing you feel like putting out there, fiction, non-fiction, whatever you like. Anything goes, as always!

    I'll be submitting something of my own soon!
    Proudly under the patronage of The Holy Pilgrim, the holiest of pilgrims.


  2. #2
    Praepositus
    Join Date
    Mar 2009
    Location
    California
    Posts
    5,616

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    My own modest contribution to a hopeful rebirth of IH player spirit (something which I myself haven't been faithful to, truth be told).

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Past the Vale of Gargaphië

    Muses, recount to me what misfortunes to this god
    wound the spirit of that noble Aristaios,
    Who death to Eurydice effected, so
    Death, him too, forced retire to Céos
    Languished in the tears of his gone son
    Oh why, must he, for dear Actaeon!?

    Call to mind that eve when
    Fate who breathes upon our world
    Upon the shoulders she rest of one young hunter
    Her crimson locks about him then unfurled
    A creature he seemed resplendent in red
    This mountain upon which what once stood, now dead

    Artemis, chaste and pure, of hunt
    Behind the dense wall of green
    A place sacred held there a cave
    Its clear waters unstirred, unseen
    From human eyes, her figure hid
    With grace of repose, in bath the goddess glid

    If Dawn had known to wheel her way
    With her magnificent fingers of rose
    To Gargaphië when at midday
    The labors of hunt, its sessions now closed
    Till the busy Boeotian, by dark of night
    Losing sight of all, but keeping all his sight

    Uncertain Actaeon, I fear for you
    Fate seemed to say, her words he felt
    And guided him thus from dark to dark
    Though little it did, his fears, to melt
    When finally a light arose
    The light of home, did he suppose?

    No! Young hunter, you've been led astray
    The light you see is not human in form
    But the divine brightness of nymphs
    When mortals they see, they'll scream a storm
    And spell your doom misguided one!
    For behind them, standing taller than the sun

    Artemis, and all her person bared
    Dawn's luscious hue, her cheeks now held
    But resolved, the goddess undaunted
    Cursed the mortal fool she now beheld
    Witness now the wrath of a goddess affronted
    What was the hunter, becoming the hunted

    And Artemis guarded spelled his death sentence:
    Where the stream's clear waters touched his handsome face
    Would emerge the stag, who could live nine-fold more
    Though poor Actaeon traded much to be game in his place
    In fear then fleeing, with his mind wherever
    And his mouth though following, yet uttering never

    While his senses ebbed and his tears flowed
    The sound of his loyal hounds neared
    Their barks though once in hunt admired
    What awe overcame him was none than fear
    And though in pursuit his pleas he cried
    To stymie or tame the pack he tried

    Vain, his efforts, he could not outrun them
    And now his last devoted to scream
    As they gnashed and gnawed and grinded their master
    Suffering for what he could no longer redeem
    That is, an innocent mistake become crime
    Fate's worst hour become his last time

    Mortal keep close, for whenever you hear
    Of the tale of innocent accident done
    Heed the words and follow with care
    Or sleep with the likes of Actaeon
    Under the bright moon shining on the mountain where lay
    The son of dear Autonoë











  3. #3
    Dan the Man's Avatar S A M U R A I F O O L
    Content Emeritus

    Join Date
    Jan 2010
    Location
    Penn's Woods
    Posts
    11,557

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Holy crap that's going to be a hard act to follow. Amaz, that was incredible!
    Proudly under the patronage of The Holy Pilgrim, the holiest of pilgrims.


  4. #4
    Praepositus
    Join Date
    Mar 2009
    Location
    California
    Posts
    5,616

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Kind thanks, Dan

    Though knowing you, and the rest of our very talented (but lately pretty busy) writers here, you won't have a very hard time, and they will be no less satisfying reads. I just wanted to try to kick writer's month off right (I'd never done it before so I thought it might be fun. And it seems like it will be!)

  5. #5
    EmperorBatman999's Avatar I say, what, what?
    Join Date
    May 2009
    Location
    Why do you want to know?
    Posts
    11,891

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    I'll try to work something out. My mouth is still hurting at the moment so expect it in a few days.

    I'm really not sure if I want to sample something from my old work I've temporarily shelved about the Spanish Guerrilleros, or my Viking saga.

  6. #6
    Dan the Man's Avatar S A M U R A I F O O L
    Content Emeritus

    Join Date
    Jan 2010
    Location
    Penn's Woods
    Posts
    11,557

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    I have a piece that I've been working on for well nigh a year now that's currently on hiatus but I'll post it I guess. It's good stuff - or so the friends I've confided in to read it have told me - but it's miles from complete. Also it's very long (30+ pages on Word). For those of you who are brave enough to read through the full work, any and all feedback is appreciated. The formatting is crap, but it's going to take way too long to fix so...sorry.

    Lazarus Sleeps
    Lazarus Sleeps

    Chapter 1: The Professor
    It was another rather cheerless afternoon, as I remember it. Outside my window the blinding rays of the August sun shone through, but they didn’t shine for me. I watched for a moment from my desk as students streamed out the doors headed this way and that to each of the dormitories. Freshmen pored frantically over campus maps, while seniors nonchalantly strode down the sidewalk, chatting among themselves. It was the first Friday evening of the year, and they had not a care in the world. This was also the last class of the day and I could have gone home myself, had I some inclination to do so.
    I mused for a moment, head in my palm and cocked slightly, using my free hand to drum an aimless beat with my pen on the old oaken desk. Sighing, I stood, pulled out the chair, and headed out the door. I walked slowly and deliberately down the halls, bathed in gold by piercing sunlight, until I found my way to the lecture hall of Professor Louis Q. Adler.
    Adler wasn’t exactly the kind of personality I would associate myself with under normal circumstances, but for reasons I didn’t wholly understand I had managed to latch onto him ever since I had arrived at the university. He was old, probably in his upper fifties or lower sixties, a scion of Teutonic sires “from dear Hannover,” as he used to say. At first glance he appeared almost jolly, built rather like a small hill, with a rotund, slug-like form. He wasn’t completely bald, but had a sort of halo of hair about his ears and around the back of his skull. His face was fat as well, with bulbous red cheeks from which two eyes – which might have been blue or green or gray – poked out. A small handlebar mustache grew from underneath his nose, such that in his prime (and before the War) some students would refer to him as ‘the Kaiser,’ a nickname he came to adore a little too easily. His entire appearance gave him an air of benevolence akin perhaps to old Saint Nick, but without the humility.
    “Come in Professor Sielski!” He had seen me standing in his doorway and beckoned to me, raising a freshly-drained glass of what had once been port in my direction. His voice seemed to come forth strongly, from the very depths of his body, but then lost itself in those flabby cheeks.
    “This is my new aide, Levi. We were just discussing the new school year over some drinks. You’re welcome to join us!” Indeed, I hadn’t noticed a rather shrinking, bespectacled young man sitting to Adler’s right. His slight form juxtaposed against the hulking Professor was almost comical. I pulled up a chair and Levi poured me a drink. The Professor put his feet on his desk, two small projections from the tip of log-like legs.
    “Professor Sielski is a professor of biology, Levi.” He said knowingly. “Not as honorable a field as economics, but still interesting indeed. America cannot have enough doctors and scientists, after all.” I sipped my port slowly and said nothing. Levi nodded to his professor, admiration shining in his eyes. Adler seemed to have that effect on people, though I didn’t know why. The man took any opportunity for self aggrandizement, priding himself even on the fact that his initials were the same as those of his favorite president, John Quincy Adams. “But the Q in my name is for Quinctilius, a famous general,” he would say, with a prideful smile. Nobody had the heart to tell him that the only thing the original Quinctilius was famous for was a defeat. Maybe people had a problem confusing simple hubris for confidence. I didn’t know, and I didn’t spend much time troubling myself over it. A record player in a corner of the room was playing the West End Blues and I lost myself in it as I sipped my drink. It wasn’t long before I realized the Professor had been calling my name:
    “Professor Sielski! Professor Sielski? Thomas!” Suddenly I snapped to it.
    “Sorry, what?”
    “Your absentmindedness will get you into trouble one day, Thomas.” Adler said with what might have been a derisive chuckle. “I was trying to ask you what you thought of your classes this year.”
    “They’re good enough, I suppose. No real difference from any other year.” I took another sip as Louis Armstrong began to scat.
    “One day in and I can already tell mine are filled with bleeding socialists! Socialists! In my class! Can you imagine the gall? Well, we’ll straighten them out before the term is out, won’t we Levi?”
    “Let all Reds fear the name of Professor Louis Quinctillius Adler.” The aide said with a nervous laugh.
    “I’ll drink to that, my boy!” Adler laughed, raised his glass in appreciation and downed it all in one fell gulp. “Say, Levi, do we have any cheese to go with this port? One should never drink without a fine cheese by his side.”
    “We had some stilton yesterday, sir, but I’m afraid you ate it all when you were writing the day’s lesson plans.”
    “No matter, wine is just as good without it! Top us off, eh Levi?”
    He continued on like this for a while, going on and on about cheeses and cured meat and all sorts of other useless things. I would nod my head or muster a laugh, but my mind was far away. Every time the professor finished his glass, Levi would obligingly pour him a new one. I looked up at the clock and when thirty minutes had passed I got up.
    “I can’t keep up with you two and I have to find my own way home tonight; must stay sober.” I had only had one drink. “Good night gents.” I nodded to both of them and made my way out of the room before Professor Adler could begin to bother me through slurring lips about the merits of roast turkey over roast chicken. It was technically against university rules for him to be drinking on campus at all, but nobody bothered him about it.
    In a moment I was out of the building and walking the grounds, which were now nearly empty. I passed one of the small gardens maintained by the university, breezed past a few more lecture halls, and was soon out of the campus and headed to my car, a trusty Model T that had belonged to my father. The door swung open with a creak and the engine came to life. I was soon rumbling my way through the city towards Cork Town, past the stadium, to a restful evening at my quiet home.
    I lived by myself in a large house on the west side of town, which had also been left to me by my father. Its age was beginning to show, but I could never seem to find the money for repairs. I stepped into the long front hall and hung my hat on its hook, making my way towards the dilapidated kitchen to search for something to eat, only to find the cabinets were bare once again. There simply hadn’t been time to go to the grocer.
    I grabbed an apple off the counter and sat down in my study with a book – The Red Badge of Courage – and a cigar, ignoring my growling stomach. The room was comfortable, my favorite in the house, and lit by lamp with a warm, welcoming glow. A light breeze brought the smell of a waning summer into the room, and my nose took it up greedily. In a couple hours of peace and silence my eyelids began to flutter, and I found my way to bed.

    Chapter 2: Rotten Eggs
    I awoke the next morning with a headache, like drums beating in the deepest recesses of my mind. Aside from that, at least the general malaise of the preceding day was gone. Fridays were always difficult. Friday was the day when it happened, and no Friday could ever really be the same again.
    I stumbled into the kitchen on bare feet which felt hot on the tile floor, moist with the morning’s humidity. I had forgotten to shut the windows again. I opened the fridge, one of the brand new Monitor-Top models (this time a gift from a wealthy uncle). I was greeted by an empty jar of mayonnaise and a carton of rotten eggs. I shut the door, forgetting the mayonnaise jar, and grabbed the last apple off the counter, surveying the kitchen as I did so. Empty boxes and cartons were littered about. Oh yes, I was a bachelor indeed. A run out to the grocer would have to be top priority this morning, followed by a little weekend cleaning. I glanced at a wall clock – 7:33 AM. I undressed and redressed, then made my way out to the car.
    I cruised absentmindedly towards the market, watching the people milling about on the streets. It was still early for a Saturday morning, and the paths were not yet crowded. A few mothers pushed prams with small babies at rest and toddlers at the waist, a tiny, chubby hand wrapped around a single finger on mother’s guiding hand. Delivery men and couriers busied themselves loading somebody’s precious cargo onto the beds of Ford trucks, stopping every moment or so to puff on a cigarette or sip from a cup of coffee long grown cold. I listened to the pleasant rumble of the Model T’s wheels on the streets, still paved with cobblestone from an age long past. I rolled down the window and let the cool morning breeze ruffle my hair.
    When I made it to the store, things were still quiet. A couple old women bustled about the produce, pecking and picking and squeezing every little fruit and vegetable to root out any and every imperfection. I picked up a fresh carton of eggs, a whole chicken, some beef steaks, a loaf of bread, butter, cheese, and a few armfuls of canned vegetables, loading them all into my basket alongside a fresh bushel of apples and a couple ears of corn. By the time I found my way to the counter the old women were still busying themselves with a stand of fresh yellow squash.
    The store was owned by Bill Laterza, my godfather and my father’s best friend. I had had no communication with him beyond a few letters and phone calls since dad’s funeral three years ago, and now here he was waiting for me at the front of the store.
    “Is that little Tommy Sielski?” He said, showing a toothy grin. He was old now – sixty-three by my recollection – and his face was wrinkled and hard, like leather. He was fortunate to still be sporting a thick head of hair. It had been jet black when I was a child, but now it was salt-and-pepper to snow white in patches. He had a thin scar that descended from the bottom of his right eye down his cheek, like the trace of a tear-drop, but I had never asked how he got it.
    “Good morning Uncle Bill. How are you?”
    “How am I? I should be asking how you are! It’s been three years!”
    “Yes, I suppose it has.” I shuffled my feet awkwardly.
    “You know what; I’ll get Johnny to ring you and the rest of these customers up real quick, why don’t you come back into the office with me so we can have a chat?”
    I looked behind me. The old women playing with the produce didn’t seem to be in any rush for Johnny or Bill or anybody else to ring up their purchases, so I took him up on his offer.
    “Uh sure, why not?”
    I followed him into a back room behind the counter where a rickety old desk and a typewriter were set up. A few leather folding chairs, their fabric ripped up the middle, sat facing the front of the desk, while a big green wing-backed desk chair sat behind.
    “There’s coffee in the pot and some sugar cubes in the bowl, if you want it.”
    I nodded and sat down, but didn’t pour myself anything. I was already wide awake.
    “So what did you want to talk about?”
    “Oh, just you.” Bill said, sitting down in the desk chair. “How are things at the university?”
    “They’re fine. It seems to be a year like any other for now, but we’ll see how things develop in the next few months. I had a few familiar faces in the hall; I’ll just have to get to know the rest.”
    He nodded and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Are you still teaching biology?”
    “Yes.”
    “Have you ever considered starting a medical practice instead of teaching? You could do it you know. If there’s one thing this town needs right now, it’s more doctors. You could make a lot more money and maybe meet a nice girl and settle down.”
    I shrugged. “Maybe someday. Doesn’t look like it’ll happen any time soon though.”
    “Why not?”
    “Why should it?”
    This time he shrugged, and then things got quiet for a while as he absentmindedly stirred sugar into his coffee.
    “I’m just saying it’d be nice.”
    “A lot of things would be nice.”
    He gave a weak smile and stared into the corner of the ceiling for a moment. I could tell he was getting frustrated. I loved Bill. After all, he was the closest thing to a father I had left. But he had a very definite set of goals for me that I didn’t share. It was hard to deal with that sometimes without being a little blunt.
    “How long have you been at the university again?”
    “Three years. I got the job after dad died and I moved into the house.”
    “Right, right.” He nodded. “And would you say you have a lot of friends there?”
    “A fair bit, yes. I’m still kind of the new kid on the block, but everybody’s pretty easy to get along with.”
    “Ever meet up with any of them outside of work?”
    “Yeah.” This was a lie, and I knew it. Other than last night’s after-school drinks with Professor Adler I had never really spent any time with my colleagues at any place other than work.
    “Any ladies?”
    “Uncle Bill…come on.”
    “What? Is it that bad that I want my one and only godson to meet a nice woman, have some kids, and lead a normal life?” He opened his lips in a good-natured smile, but there was a hint of force in his words.
    “I do lead a normal life, Uncle. It’s just –”
    “Just what, Tom?” He was leaning over the desk now, as if his very existence depended on my answer. The wrong choice of words and poof, he might just disappear. It was as if he had never asked such an important question in his life.
    “Nothing. Nothing I guess. It’s just not my time.”
    “When will it be?”
    I sighed deeply. Oh how this dear man loved to test me. “I don’t know yet, Uncle Bill. I’m sure you’ll be the first to find out when I do.”
    He seemed satisfied, or perhaps more resigned. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed the gray stubble on his chin thoughtfully.
    “So I was talking to Maria last night, it’s been a while since we’ve seen you around church. Any particular reason for that?”
    And so it came to this. The last time I went to church was also the last time I had seen him, and it had been a long time before that too. It wasn’t so much that I had stopped believing in God, more that it seemed He had stopped believing in me.
    “Things are busy at the university. I’m usually caught up reading and grading papers over the weekends. If I had enough time, I’d be there in a heartbeat. You know that, don’t you?”
    “I thought I did once, bud.” He said, sipping from his cup. “Now, I’m not so sure. Three years is a long time to be busy, especially with a whole free summer at your back. Why didn’t you come then?”
    I had no words. He had me there.
    “Tommy, look,” he wheeled the chair around the desk and sat down beside me, cupping my hand between his own large, rough palms. “I know what happened to you back in the War. We all do. Did your father ever tell you how I got this scar?” He gestured towards the teardrop with his index finger.
    I shook my head.
    “San Juan Hill, 1898. A Spaniard slashed me across the face with his bayonet, just after he finished with the poor guy next to me. Your father was right behind me at the time and he took his rifle and – well that’s not important now. The point is I get what you’re going through. War is Hell. We all have our scars from it, Tom. All you can do is choose when to let them heal. Get it?”
    I felt my chest tense up. I wanted to scream in his face. What did he know of it? How could he or anybody else ever understand? I could have saved him! I could have saved him and I didn’t! I bit my lip to stifle the anger, the anger tinged with frustration and fear and mourning.
    “No Uncle, I don’t think you understand.” The words came out cold and measured, like a polished steel saber. “Please, just give me some space.”
    “Tom, you’ve had all the space in the world.” His voice grew stern. “It’s been ten years since the War. It’s over. You have to move forward.”
    “I have moved forward. I’ve moved further forward than you can ever know.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “And why do I care what you think?”
    He shook his head and spoke in a low voice. “Tommy, damn it, I love you like a son but God damn you’re a bad egg. You were good once, but you’ve let yourself go rotten. God, if your father could see you now. And your mother! What would they say?”
    I didn’t know. Or maybe I did, but I wouldn’t think of it. For my part, I said nothing.
    “You haven’t moved on, Tom. If you had moved on, you wouldn’t be in this rut.” I began to speak but he cut me off with a wave of the hand. “Don’t tell me you’re not in a rut. I know you are! Thirty-five years old, unmarried, no friends, and apparently you’re a piss-poor liar too.”
    “And you think getting me to go to church is going to fix all of that?”
    “I think it’d help. Maybe not with the lying part, but it’d help with the rest. I think it’d be nice too. But no, I think you’re the one who’s going to have to fix ‘all of that.’ Ask yourself, Tommy. Would it kill you to spend one Sunday morning there? Would it really be that difficult?”
    “No.” It was a short answer, and childish. I imagined myself pouting in the corner like a poorly-raised five year old.
    “Then why don’t you go? Do it for me. Do it for your Aunt Maria. We’re getting old, Tommy. Don’t make the next time you go to church our funeral. Don’t make us leave knowing we couldn’t even get you to spend a lousy sixty minutes in church.”
    He was good with the guilt. He always had been, even when I was a kid.
    “It’d make you that happy, huh?”
    “You bet.”
    “Then fine.” I spoke through gritted teeth. “If it’d please you that much, I’ll go to church. You can even hire a photographer to follow me around, publish the pictures in the Free Press tomorrow morning.”
    He smiled, but there was something in his eyes that told me it was not a full smile. He had gotten what he wanted, but he did not believe he had won anything.
    “Just go tomorrow morning and tell me how it goes, then we can talk about how much it pleases me. Most Holy Trinity has Mass at 9:00. Maria and I don’t go there anymore because it takes too long to wade through Sunday morning traffic these days, but it’s close to you. Call me when you get out.”
    I nodded and got up to leave the room.
    “Tommy?”
    “Yeah?”
    “It was good to see you.”
    “You too, Uncle. I’m sorry for not keeping in touch, I just –”
    He cut me off with a wave of his hand again. “Don’t bother yourself about it. Just tell me how things go tomorrow.”
    I left the room and collected my groceries from the cashier. I hauled the bundles out to my car and hopped in, rumbling my way home again to manage the rest of the day’s business.

    Chapter 3: Even the Bravest Men
    I was in Hell. The trench stunk of sulfur and blood, too much blood. Fires burned, soldiers still more boy than man screamed at the sight of their open wounds, crying out to the starless sky. I looked down at my boots, sunk two inches into the polluted sludge and slime of war. In the gloom I could see a huddle of shapes against the north wall. It was too quiet.
    Then suddenly it came: A bright red light, like a shooting star, arcing across the sky and over the trenches, then another and another and another, all howling like creatures of the night. The huddle of shapes ceased to be soldiers and became Neanderthal men or Cro-Magnons, hiding together from the terror of unseen wolves lurking in the deep. Some shook with fear; others prayed, fingers wrapped tightly around crucifixes and rosaries; still others sat perfectly still, dead eyes staring forward but not seeing. I watched their faces become demonic, transfigured by that unholy red light. The crimson glow glinted off of bayonets like the fangs of serpents in the dark.
    The wolf pack was joined by a rumbling in the distance, as of thunder. My knees knocked together, though I could not be sure if it was by their own effort or for the shaking of the ground beneath me. Then came the screams: Not the screams of the wounded and the doomed, but louder, metallic, grating to the ear, the shrieks of falcons coming down upon their prey.
    The shells struck hard upon the earthworks, shaking them to the core, and all of the men within. Dirt, stone, and wood flew into the air as if tossed by a child too large for nature. I cowered for a moment, making myself as small as I could. When I looked up, the huddle was still there. They had missed, this time.
    But the angry wolves returned again, hunting and searching across the night sky, exposing us to the falcons, which swooped in with avenging anger at having been denied their quarry. This time they would not be stopped. They could suffer to be wrong once, but never twice.
    I watched as the shell careened too closely. It sprayed dirt into my eyes and I heard them yell as I struggled to regain sight. More sobs and moans rose to the night sky.
    “Corpsman!” When I could see again I met the eyes of the Old Colonel. Large and owl-like, they bore into my own. “Corpsman!” I could not answer. “God damn it Sergeant Sielski, get up here and staunch this wound!”
    I stumbled towards the crush of men, standing together around a single individual. I daren’t look at his shapeless form lying in the muck until I had to. When I did, the sight was too terrible for me to speak of. Two bloodied stumps protruded from beneath his torso. Where the rest of them had gone was any man’s guess, but no man’s concern. I rolled the soldier over so that his face looked into mine, though I refused to look into his. I turned instead to the Old Colonel.
    “What’s his name?”
    “Private Gould! Now staunch those wounds or I swear they’ll be staunching yours next!”
    At last I was forced to behold the face. He was another too young, too boyish still for this madness. His round visage, cropped with short blonde hair now clumped and matted with dirt and blood, did not deserve to see the things that he had been made to see. He clutched blindly at my arm, fingers wrapped tight around my wrist. I could hear the shells still raining down, though it seemed as if they were worlds away. The hand squeezed harder and harder, the mouth made words which would not be spoken.
    “If you want me to help you, you have to let go of my arm!” I did not speak these words so much as I stumbled through them. My lips felt like rubber tires in my mouth. The hand seemed to grip even tighter.
    “Private Gould, let go of my arm! Damn it Gould, let go! LET GO!” He would not relinquish his hold; I tried desperately to wrap the wounds with one arm. The soldiers stood and watched.
    “Won’t one of you help me?!”
    The Old Colonel pointed at the boy’s face with a gloved hand.
    “He’s gone, Sergeant. He was gone the minute he grabbed your wrist. I’m sure there was nothing you could do.” His voice was low and steady, but not conciliatory. He turned away towards the wall again as the falling shells at last began to stop. The other soldiers did the same.
    I looked into the face, the eyes. They stared back at me with an unheard desperation, a deep fear that I could only hope I would never feel. Though to see it, perhaps, was far worse. I could not tear myself away. The eyes, oh God the eyes! I could feel them reading my very soul; I could feel their fire through the back of my skull! I couldn’t let go! I felt a feeling as of falling, my stomach dropping to my knees as the world began to melt.
    I awakened, chest heaving and sweat stinging my groggy eyes. I fumbled for the bottle perched loyally at the bedside. But even a chaser of the strongest alcohol could never kill the memories, never put back the boy’s legs, never make me forget. For now, it was a suitable substitute. Not a cure for misery, but only its anesthetic. With a swig I placed the bottle back on the table and turned on the lamp, staring for a few moments at the ceiling before falling back to sleep.

    Chapter 4: Doubting Thomas
    “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis. Laudamus te. Benedicimus te. Adoramus te. Glorificamus te…”
    They were words that I knew well, but that I had not heard in ages. I think I had been in a church perhaps nine times since the War – once for mother’s funeral, once for father’s funeral, and then seven times for every Christmas beforehand. These words in particular had always stood out to me because they were some of the first that the priest actually spoke audibly. I never understood that. Why should a priest get up in front of the altar only to whisper to himself? Why should a church service be conducted in Latin anyway? It might as well have been Japanese for all I cared; I still would not understand a word of it. I knew the prayers, short strings of Latin praises and phrases memorized in catechism classes long since past, but they bore no greater meaning to me than the bits and pieces of Romeo and Juliet I had memorized in high school. I didn’t even recall the English translation for most of them.
    And yet, they were still here; still going on with these same prayers every Sunday morning going back to the Middle Ages. Crusader, conquistador, and marine; serf, indentured servant, and factory worker; lord, governor, and businessman; all had gathered in different places in different times to hear the same words spoken in the same manner by the same sort of men. It was humbling to find yourself immersed in that kind of history, but not necessarily inspiring. I lost myself in the thought for a moment. When I returned to myself, Fr. Francis LeClerc was delivering his sermon.
    Fr. Francis was a real priest of the old school - and a good friend. I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t a wrinkled old man, but now he was perhaps even more so. The top of his little bald head shone in the candlelight like polished bronze. He stood almost doubled over with age, requiring the support of a cane and occasionally an altar server just to get around the altar. But what I remembered most about Fr. Francis, and what had changed the least about him, was his voice. It was deep and strong and commanding, but overrunning with a sort of grandfatherly benevolence. I had said once that if the oldest oak tree on Earth had a voice, it would sound just like Fr. Francis. I found myself following the music of that rich, woody voice, but paying very little mind to the lyrics. I had told Uncle Bill I would show up for Mass, maybe even take communion, but actually paying attention was a different story.
    What seemed like a few moments later (I lost myself in my thoughts often, and on every occasion it seemed to make time fly all the faster), Fr. Francis was giving the last blessing. Mass would be over soon.
    “Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus.”
    A few prayers later, I was making my way to the back of the church and the exit. Little did I know old Fr. Francis was a fair bit faster than I was: He was waiting for me by the door.
    “Well good morning to you, Thomas Sielski. How long has it been?”
    This conversation, it appeared, would go very much like my conversation with Uncle Bill.
    “About three years since the funeral, Father. It’s good to see you as well.”
    He smiled. “I knew you were coming. Bill and Maria Laterza stopped by last night. Bill said it took some arguing, but that this would be good for you.”
    “Yes Father, I suppose so.”
    “Three years is an awful long time to go without attending Mass, Thomas.”
    “I know.”
    “Would you like confession?”
    “No, Father. Not today. I have things to do at home. Had I more time I assure you I would.”
    He looked slightly perturbed at this and cocked a wizened eyebrow at me, but the ancient priest pressed onward.
    “Well alright then. I can’t force you to confess, only encourage. But would you at least like to sit and talk with me for a while? It has been many years, after all. I considered your parents to be great friends of mine once; it would be nice to reconnect with them through you.”
    I glanced at my watch. It was only about 10:15. I had no real excuse. “Yes Father, I suppose I could for some time.”
    He smiled. “Good! I’m going to be having breakfast now anyway. It’s not much, but what I have I will share. Come with me.”
    The old man was surprisingly fast on his cane. Outside it had started to rain, but he masterfully balanced his own umbrella in one hand and the walking stick in another. I had no umbrella, and Fr. Francis was much too low to the ground for me to seek shelter under his. I didn’t mind the rain though. In time we were at the door of a small cottage some distance away from the church. He unlocked the door and opened it for me; it swung open to reveal a small but comfortable sitting area in front of a humble hearth. A hallway led in the direction of a bedroom and perhaps a bathroom. The walls were eggshell white and unadorned aside from a small silver crucifix. I saw no kitchen.
    “Please, sit.” He beckoned towards the chairs, strategically arranged around a small coffee table. He meandered his way over to an icebox sitting in the corner of the room and withdrew a carton of eggs, a bottle of milk, a small brick of cheese, and a few strips of bacon from within, taking an old cast-iron skillet and all of the other necessary tools from a nearby shelf. How he managed to balance all of them at once I can’t say.
    “Do you like omelets, Thomas?” He said, arranging the ingredients on the table.
    “Yes, omelets are fine.”
    “Good!” Fr. Francis said, smiling again. “I have four eggs left, so I’ll make these into two-egg omelets, since this is a special occasion. You can help yourself to a glass of water from the sink down the hall, but I’m afraid I can’t offer anything else in the way of drink.”
    “Thank you, Father.” I started off down the short hallway until I found the bathroom. Arranged next to the sink was a small shelf of clean but obviously very careworn coffee cups. I filled one with water and returned to the front room. Fr. Francis had started a fire in the hearth.
    “Thomas,” the priest began. “I would like to talk to you about your absence from church. Like I said before, your godfather and I talked about it last night and we both find it alarming.” As he spoke he laid out six slices of bacon on the skillet and held them over the fire. At once they began to pop and sizzle, and the most wonderful smell rose from the pan. Their crackling and snapping contrasted with the steady patter of the rain upon the window panes.
    “Like I said to my uncle, Father, if I simply had more time I would –”
    The priest cut me off. People had a strange habit of doing that, it seemed. “Yes, your godfather said you might try to explain things that way. Thomas, I’m a very old man; eighty-seven, to be exact. I know somebody who has lost his faith when I see him. You, my dear boy, fit the bill.”
    “I haven’t lost anything, Father. Do I really have to go to church in order to have faith?”
    “Put simply, yes.” He chuckled and sucked a bit of bacon grease off his thumb. The crispy strips were now ready, and he crumbled them into little bits onto the plate to be put into the omelets later with the cheese. He started in on the eggs, breaking the yolks in the bowl and scrambling them with the milk before tossing them into the skillet. Their smell mingled with the smell of the bacon to mouthwatering effect.
    “With all due respect, Father, you’re a priest. I wouldn’t expect a different answer from you.”
    “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. But would you trust anybody else to give a better answer?”
    “Perhaps.”
    He laughed again and began slicing the cheese. “I suppose it’s your business, Thomas. In the meantime, let’s just try to enjoy a fine Sunday breakfast, eh?”
    It was too easy. “That’s it?”
    He turned from his cheese and regarded me with a quizzical expression. “What’s it?”
    “This. You brought me in here and asked to talk about my Mass attendance, but you don’t make an effort to get me to come more?”
    “But I have made an effort.”
    “Not a successful one.”
    “Whoever said that? As I said Thomas, it’s your business. I’m a frail old man – what could I possibly do to make you do anything? I doubt even William and Maria Laterza would ever make you. They probably could one way or another, but there’s a stark difference between ‘could’ and ‘would.’”
    We sat in silence for a moment as Fr. Francis began arranging the bacon and cheese with the eggs. By now the smell was driving me mad.
    “You seem almost disappointed, Thomas. Did you expect to spend the morning debating me on the merits of faith?”
    “Well, no. I just…I don’t know. With experience one comes to expect certain things of certain types of people. Forgive me my prejudice, Father.”
    “I do. And with that, my boy, I think these are ready for eating.” He took each omelet and laid them out on a plate for me and for him. I began to wolf mine down greedily, and I did not notice him bow his head and shut his eyes. He looked up a moment later and began to eat slowly and carefully.
    “No Thomas, I did not bring you hear to harangue you, only to try to understand the change in you; and I think I do now. You have no need to fear argument from me.”
    I nodded. “Thank you, Father. You have no idea what a relief that is. I know I can’t expect you to approve of my choices, but at least you’re more understanding than my uncle.”
    “Your uncle wants what’s best for you. I too want what’s best for you. Both of us realize that you are a grown man now, a grown man who has seen and done very much, and that there is ultimately very little we can do for you. As for whether your uncle can sympathize with you and your own problems or not, I believe perhaps he understands even better than you do.”
    We ate in silence from that point until we had both finished.
    “It was delicious, Father, truly. Thanks for asking me to come down.”
    “Thank you for coming, Thomas.”
    In silence again we worked together to clean the dishes: I scrubbed the skillet; he washed the plates and utensils. When we had finished, he showed me to the door. Fortunately, it had stopped raining. I stood on the porch for a moment as we said our goodbyes.
    “Father, I have just one last question.”
    “Ask away.”
    “If you didn’t call me down here to talk about the faith and, well, I suppose my lack-thereof, why did you?”
    “I told you from the start: Your parents were friends of mine. Every moment I spend with you is like spending another moment with them. You even look like them, if my old man’s eyes are any longer a fit judge. I can do little to help your condition if you are not willing, but you are still a friend of mine, and always will be. You will be in my prayers. I’ll be sure to tell your godfather you came as well.”
    “Thank you Father. It has been good to see you, I mean that. I hope you don’t think less of me for…you know.”
    “I don’t. You have always been an intelligent young man. You seek the truth. You have not found it yet and I think perhaps you know this, but at least you still seek it. The rest is in hands greater than mine.”
    “I see. Thank you Father.”
    “Good day to you, Thomas. May you find rest and peace at last.”

    Chapter 5: Of Hearts and their Strings
    “The chordae tendineae, which you may know better as ‘the heartstrings,’ are the tendons that connect the papillary muscles to which valves? Can anybody tell me?”
    I turned from the blackboard to face my engaged and attuned students. Not a word was spoken.
    “Anyone?” I sighed and shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know whether to think it’s the subject material that bores you or the man presenting it. In either case, my self-confidence isn’t exactly improving by leaps and bounds here.” A few bleary eyes peeked out from under the lids at which they had been staring so intently. Some among the females were still caked with mascara and eye shadow from weekend escapades. I turned to the chalk board then looked back again.
    “The answer was the tricuspid and mitrial valves, by the way.” The bell rang and the comatose students suddenly sprang to life, scrambling to collect papers and folders and textbooks.
    “Alright, get out of here. We’ll pick this up in the morning.” I shouted above the din, though I wasn’t sure any had heard. Within a minute the room was empty. It was my lunch hour. I withdrew a paper bag from my desk and removed its contents: an apple and an egg salad sandwich with lettuce. I had just begun to take my first bite when I was disturbed by a knock at my door.
    “Come in.”
    The door swung open with a creak, and a smallish, bespectacled man stepped in. It was Jasper Collins, professor of physics and head of the science department.
    “Good morning Professor Sielski.”
    “Good morning Professor Collins. What can I do for you?” I took another bite of the sandwich.
    “I hate to bother you over lunch hour, Thomas, but you’re going to have a new neighbor this semester,” he said with a smile which only barely shone through beneath a thick walrus mustache. It was uncharacteristic of his tiny build, but so was everything else about this man. Awkward and anatine, he had a sharp little nose and rather large, flat feet. Professor Adler would call him The Magnificent Mallard behind his back. It didn’t help that his voice was rather loud as well, such that it almost had a quacking quality to it.
    He continued. “We’ve just hired a brand new chemistry professor to replace Professor Jones, who as you know has taken ill.”
    Oh I knew alright. Professor Jones had been a good friend of Professor Adler, and by friend I of course mean drinking companion. If there was anything he was sick with, it was liver failure. The man’s face was constantly red, and a pervasive smell of gin followed him wherever he went. These were the days of prohibition, mind you, and such crimes could easily deprive one of his job or worse. The man’s saving grace was that he was a friend of Louis Adler. The old sot was safe from punishment in the sight of the law, but not from the limits of his own body.
    But I said nothing to Collins and inquired of my new colleague. “And you’d like me to go meet him?”
    Her, Thomas,” he said with a wink. “Her.” I didn’t like that wink. What exactly did the Mallard expect of me?
    I shrugged. “Err, okay. May I finish my lunch first?”
    “I promise you Thomas, there will be plenty of time afterward. And if there isn’t, then I’ll buy you a fresh…whatever that is. Come along now!” He gestured towards the door. He was surprisingly fast on those big, clumsy feet. He led me out and around to the next room, then knocked once, twice, thrice. The door opened a crack and she poked her head out.
    “Can I help you, Professor Collins? It is my lunch hour.”
    “No no Charlotte, I’m just here to introduce you to your new neighbor. This is Professor Thomas Sielski. Biology.”
    She fixed me with deep blue eyes peering out from under a set of black reading glasses. A dense covering of deep brown, almost raven curls cascaded down her shoulders, framing for but a moment a neck and face of alabaster before she began to gather them together in a quick bun at the back of her head. I would have felt pity for her – having just let her hair down only to be torn from her peace by the Mallard – were I not so distracted. There were no other female professors at the university – none that I had met anyway, and certainly none so lovely. I snapped to it in a moment. Business, Thomas, business: That’s what you were here for.
    “It’s a pleasure.” She stuck a single hand through the open door, using the other to hold her hair in place. I shook it.
    “The pleasure is mine.”
    She nodded and turned to the Mallard. “Will you allow me to resume my lunch now that we’ve been introduced, professor, or is there something else you need of me?”
    “No, I can’t say there is, but why don’t you and Thomas eat lunch together? It is your first day after all and Thomas is now our second newest professor. Perhaps he has some tips he could share with you, show you the ropes a little, eh?” He turned to me again and winked. What the hell was his problem? The two of us did not answer. Neither of us particularly wanted to be there: She wanted her lunch; I wanted to be anywhere else. I was suddenly very conscious of a speck of egg salad plastered in the left corner of my lip. The very tip of my tongue poked through like a periscope, trying desperately to clean it up without being seen. What was wrong with me? It was never like me to get nervous around anyone; now, I was a wreck. Maybe Bill was right, I really had been spending too much time alone.
    The Mallard broke the tension. “That was not a suggestion, you two.” He was trying to be serious, but it simply could not be; not with that voice anyway. “I expect the two of you will have a fantastic meal and that you, Charlotte, will be edified and ready for your first classes tomorrow. Understand?” He spoke to us like disobedient children, and I was still unable to take him seriously.
    “In that case, Thomas, why don’t you come in and have a seat.”
    “That’s better. Enjoy your afternoon.” The Mallard flapped off down the hallway to harass someone else.
    She held the door for me and I stepped inside. She took a seat at her desk and I grabbed a chair from nearby and sat down myself. I didn’t actually have my lunch with me, but it didn’t matter at the time.
    “So, uh, chemistry, huh?” Idiot, all the Mallard could talk about was chemistry.
    “Yes.” She said as she opened a tin filled with that appeared to be chicken soup. “I should apologize for being so curt at the door; Professor Collins is just…just…”
    “Intensely irritating?”
    She smiled, an invisible hand grabbed at my chest and squeezed. “Yeah, that about explains it. It’s nothing against you, I promise.”
    I laughed, a little too loud. Damn it Sielski, are you twelve years old again? I took a deep breath and tried to relax in the chair. Suddenly I was very conscious of the fact that I had hands. This was just pathetic.
    “So do you have any questions for me then? I guess as long as we’re here we might as well do what the dear professor said.” That’s a little better. Stay this course and try not to wreck anything, you’re a man not a monkey.
    “A few, I guess. How’s the cafeteria food? Do I really have to pack my lunch every day?”
    “Yes, if you value your health, absolutely.”
    She smiled again, but this time the hand stayed away. I was settling into myself, it seemed.
    “Alright, well, how about the other professors. What are they like?”
    I shrugged. “Okay, as professors go. I’m still kind of the new guy around here so I don’t know them all yet, but most of them are at least better than Collins.”
    “Yeah, but that’s not really saying much.” She leaned in over the desk and whispered. “It’s the voice that drives me crazy.”
    I laughed and nodded. “Me too. That and his feet, that’s why we call him the Mallard.”
    She laughed. “I’ll have to remember that one!” She occupied herself with her soup for a moment before looking up at me again.
    “Where’s your lunch? Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting here not eating this entire time?”
    “Oh…yeah, I uh…kinda left it in my own room.”
    “Then for God’s sake, go! Don’t sit here and starve.”
    I stood, but in that moment I didn’t particularly want to leave. “Alright, well, it’s been nice meeting you. I look forward to working with you this year. Remember you can always come to me if you have more questions.”
    “Thanks! Enjoy your lunch!”
    “Thanks!” I left the room and felt as if I was glowing. Why? I didn’t know. I had talked to a completely normal human being. What a titanic accomplishment, Thomas, truly. Maybe if you’re really very good your fairy godmother will make you a real boy. But I didn’t allow myself to sabotage the feeling of happiness. Why should I? Somebody less introverted might not have reveled in the accomplishment of meeting a new person, but for me it was a great achievement. What should I care of the expectations of others? I was sure Bill would be proud.

    Chapter 6: Words Unspoken

    That evening I stood in my study looking out the window with the phone pressed to my ear. It was another warm evening, but cooler than before. The bite of autumn was beginning to encroach. September had arrived, and with it would come the smell of burning leaves, colored already as flame but lacking the heat; long, cold nights; and chilling winds.
    I had just finished with the operator and I was waiting for the sound of Bill’s voice on the other line. I held the speaker to my ear and clutched the long neck of the receiver in my fist. What a terrible idea the telephone was. I fantasized for a moment about a telephone that was so small it could fit in your pocket and without a wire to tie it down, but I perished the thought. It was an idea more ridiculous than the telephone itself.
    At last I heard his voice on the other end. “Hello?”
    “Good evening, Uncle.”
    “Hello, Thomas. How are you?” His voice came through crackling and distorted. The telephone: What a waste. I’d much sooner write a letter, if only it could travel faster.
    “I’m fine. It’s been a good day I guess. How are you?”
    “Not bad. What do you need?”
    “I just wanted to report in after going to Mass on Sunday, like I promised.”
    “Yes, I spoke to Fr. Francis. He said you had breakfast together, reminisced a little.”
    “Yeah, yeah we did.” I didn’t recall much reminiscing on my part, but the old priest had said I reminded him of my parents. Who was I to rain on his trip down memory lane, even if it was a little one-sided? “Bacon and cheese omelets and talk of the good old times, that’s what it was.”
    Bill chuckled. “What did you think of the Mass itself?”
    “It was as I remember it, Uncle. What else can I say?”
    “Any thoughts on returning?” And here it was. I knew the small talk could only last so long, and I was ready. I just hoped Fr. Francis hadn’t told him everything we had talked about.
    “You’ll have to give me some time to think about that, Uncle. I’m just –”
    “So busy?”
    “Yes.”
    He laughed. “Look, Thomas, you don’t owe me any explanations. It’s a yes or no answer.”
    “Honestly, Uncle, I don’t have an answer for you at all. It was lovely, beautiful as it has always been, but I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”
    “You’re ready, Thomas.”
    “Can I have some time to figure that out for myself?”
    “Okay. What say you to another ten years? That enough?” His voice rose in pitch, speed, and volume. His frustration was clear.
    “Uncle…”
    He chuckled again, but there was something missing in it. I could sense his disappointment. Not anger, but a sadness that almost became longing. Bill was one of those people who had a funny way of being more open when he said nothing than when he actually spoke.
    “Everything on your own time, Thomas; everything on your own time. You’re an adult now – if you have things all figured out, don’t let me get in your way. It’s not my place anymore. I’m sure you have enough going on in your own life right now that I wouldn’t understand. You do what’s right.”
    “Thank you, Uncle. I’m glad you understand.”
    We sat in silence for a moment. I kept the speaker to my ear but I set the receiver on the desk. I watched the wind toss the blazing leaves of an oak tree in the failing sunlight. I could imagine his face as he held the phone to his own ear, the ruddy, olive-colored skin illuminated by the yellow glow of an incandescent bulb. Each wrinkle of the mouth and brow cast a shadow of its own, but none so prominent as the scar. His dark eyes cast downward as his gray brows furrowed. I knew when I had hurt him even after all these years without contact, and it tended to happen more often than I had ever wanted. But what else could I do? He was right, I was a grown man. It wasn’t his job to raise me anymore. It never had been.
    He broke the silence. “Well Thomas, if that’s all you needed to speak to me about, then I have to go. Maybe I’ll see you around the store sometime soon.”
    “Wait, Uncle, there’s one more thing I wanted to mention.”
    “Yes?”
    “I met somebody today.”
    “Oh? Who?”
    “I met err…um…the milkman.”
    “The milkman?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s interesting. Do you trust him to deliver your dairy?”
    “Yes, he seemed quite a gentleman. I’m not sure what happened to the old one.”
    “Well that’s nice I suppose.”
    “Yeah. Well anyway, good night Uncle. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”
    “I hope so. Good night, Thomas.”
    The call ended with a click. I rubbed my forehead with my palm. Why couldn’t I tell him? What was the deep dark secret? What was I afraid of? Did I fear another quarrel? No, that wasn’t it. Though we disagreed on much, Bill and I never actually fought very often. We would have conversations in which we would inevitably come to an impasse, the tension would rise, and then it would melt. I could think of only two or three occasions in which we had ever actually shouted at each other, and none of them were happy memories.
    The sky outside was dark, and the first stars began to pepper the black cover of night with their light. I sighed and shut off the lamp in the room. I yawned and was suddenly aware of how tired I was. I stalked up the stairs to the bathroom and took a look at myself in the mirror. It had been a day or two since I had shaved, I realized, and I rubbed the thin coating of stubble thoughtfully. I brushed my teeth and readied my razor, folding the blade out of its handle and watching the shine of the bathroom light play upon the steel surface. I splashed my face with hot water and applied the shaving soap, running the blade slowly and smoothly through the lather.
    I looked into my own eyes as I worked, and the distraction caused an accidental cut. I watched the little rivulet of blood work its way down my wet cheek and searched for a towel to wipe it away.
    Several minutes later I finished the job, changed into more comfortable clothing for sleep, and lay in bed over the covers for a moment, legs crossed and eyes staring at the ceiling. I glanced at the clock. It was only 9:30, yet I was exhausted. Last night had been restless once again. Dreams and terrors of the night did not trouble me, but I was haunted by something I could not place: A memory, perhaps, just beyond the grasping fingers of my mind; or a memory of a memory. I shut off the light and closed my eyes, but despite my fatigue again sleep would not take me.
    I could only think of my uncle’s face. Why could I still not trust him? After all these years, what had he done to earn my suspicion? Nothing; I could think of nothing. What did I fear? The friendly face of one who loved me more than anybody else who yet remained in my life? The goodwill of somebody who only wanted to see me happy? It was the same old story, time after time. I cursed under my breath, rolled over, and punched the headboard in frustration. I hated myself; hated and loved myself. Too proud even to trust family; too wretched to trust anybody else. A feeling like fear, shame, and something I didn’t recognize crept up my bones. From the tips of my toes to the very top of my head it flowed like electricity; like a live wire it whipped to and fro. It would not leave, so I sat up and waited for it, bringing my knees to my chin and wrapping my arms around them. I don’t know how long I sat that way. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the clock. At last the fog of exhaustion began to descend over my eyes after what seemed like hours of silence. The dark curtains closed, and the tension released in my body, but not in my mind; not in my soul. My legs straightened, my arms fell, and I slipped into an uneasy sleep.

    Chapter 7: The Will of Adler
    Wednesday September 5, 1928
    I marked the date carefully in my notebook. This year I had taken to keeping a journal of the successes and failures of the day’s lecture plans. This day had been much better than the last, but that was usually the case between Tuesdays and Mondays. This was the age of jazz and the flapper; of bootlegging and smuggling; of loud, raucous parties and wild dancing. Much was expected of students – by parents, professors, and the real world – but few of them cared. Not anymore.
    But that was the world of Monday. Monday: when the girls’ eyes were still red with overuse of cosmetics; Monday: when the boys, with heads pounding, shambled with hangovers into the lecture hall; Monday: when the unsociables were the only ones with any modicum of energy but were too timid to show it. Tuesday was a different animal. Not by much, but still visibly so. On Tuesdays, a little bit more intelligence could be seen in the crowd of students. Intelligence, yes, but not necessarily interest or engagement. It was something, but I couldn’t help but wonder still if it was the inability of the lecturer or the lack of capacity among the students that caused this.
    I finished my notes and closed the notebook, shutting it in a drawer of the old oaken desk. A puff of ancient dust rose to greet me, and I blew it away with a wave of the hand. I rose, gathered my belongings, walked next door to Charlotte’s room and tried the door. It was locked. I peered in through the window to find that it was already empty. The desk sat unoccupied and devoid of papers, its chair pushed slightly out and away. The lights were off, but a faint glow of the sun from outside was visible through the windows. Knowing nothing else to do, I found my way to Adler’s lecture hall.
    “Good afternoon, Professor Adler.”
    “Afternoon, Thomas!” He smiled and raised his pen from a paper he had been busily grading. This time there was no bottle, no wine glass, and no Levi.
    “Enjoying your second week of term?” I stepped into the room and pulled a chair up at his desk, sitting backwards on it with my arms resting on the back.
    “Well enough, I suppose.” He mumbled as he chewed the end of his pen. It almost disappeared into the deep recesses of his cheeks. “Had an argument with a particularly socialist pupil this morning. The boy actually advocated that welfare money be paid to the homeless. Have you ever heard of something so positively barbaric?”
    “No sir, I haven’t.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes when he glanced away from me and back down at the paper. Adler was old-fashioned, but in the worst way. He was from the same generation as my father and Bill, but he was nothing like them. That was for sure.
    “What about you, dear boy?” Adler asked, jabbing me in the chest with the end of his pen. “Having a good day?”
    “Yeah, better than yesterday I guess. Not much to report, which is probably a pretty good thing these days. Say, have you met the new professor yet?”
    “Nope, can’t say I have. What’s his name?”
    Her name is Charlotte. Not sure about a last name yet.”
    “Her?”
    “Yes indeed, her. Didn’t Professor Collins mention this to you yet?”
    “He most certainly did not.”
    “She must be the first, I’d imagine. I’ve heard of no others.”
    “Nor have I. Groundbreaking indeed.” He gnawed thoughtfully on his pen. “What’s she like?”
    I shrugged. “Don’t know her well enough to make a judgment. She seemed perfectly friendly though. She’s a chemistry professor as well, so we’ll be working quite closely together this year I’d imagine.”
    “I meant physically.” He flashed a lecherous smile. A chill went up my spine.
    “Oh, Professor, I…well…”
    “Oh no no, not for me, son!” He let loose a deep belly laugh. “I’m far too old for that kind of talk, far too old indeed. But you, Sielski, why not you? You’re young and vital and alone. Very much alone, in fact. How old are you, anyway?”
    “Thirty-five. But Professor, I assure you –”
    “You assure me of what, Tommy? You’re not looking for a good woman? When I was your age I would have taken any shot I had. What are you, a fairy or something?”
    “No sir, I just –”
    “Then tell me more about her!”
    “I just tried, sir. You would have none of it.”
    “Boy, you aren’t listening.” He put his pen down and looked me in the eye. “What does she look like?” His open hand was vertical and he moved it up and down with every word, pausing in between for emphasis.
    “Sir, I’m not sure I should talk about a colleague like –”
    “Thomas.” He shut his eyes tight and balled his hand into a fist. His voice was low and cold as ice. “Thomas, answer the damn question. You’re being a very poor sport indeed.”
    “I fail to see what part of this is sport, sir.”
    He laughed this time. It was thin and shallow; it came from his chest instead of his gut, making his obese body shake violently. His shoulders jumped up and down like a pair of jackhammers. It was the laugh of a man whose patience had reached its end.
    “Okay. Okay Tommy. I see how it is. You’re afraid. What a silly and terrible thing to be afraid of, such a very little thing. Cannot two grown men discuss the appearance of a beautiful woman? Surely Thomas, you worry yourself over nothing. Come along now: Tell old Lou about the pretty little bird, eh? She must be pretty; otherwise you wouldn’t hesitate to speak up. Honestly Thomas, what’s the worst that could happen?”
    I had seen Adler in his lust before. It crept in corners as he sized up every female student to enter his classroom. It hid behind walls as he watched them leave and his eyes practically burned holes in their skirts – or at least as he wished that they would. It sat in the dark when they stayed late for evening “study sessions” and their grades magically climbed by the morning. The very idea of these things terrified me, and I didn’t like to think of them. The fact that all of these things were common knowledge amongst the faculty and that he had not been fired yet was testament to the fact that everybody else saw things the same way, or ‘didn’t see them’ as the case quite was. Justice was blind indeed, but not very just. Ignorance remained bliss.
    In that moment I knew one thing for sure. I had not known Charlotte for very long at all, but there was something different about her. She was a colleague, an equal, and therefore somebody of great inherent value to me. This was not a loose sorority girl whom Adler could get his selfish entertainment out of and then throw away. I had never liked Adler, but in this moment my irritation grew into something very close to disdain. No, I would not sell her out for this man’s sick sixty seconds of enjoyment.
    “Professor, no; I’m sorry, but no. I won’t talk about a colleague in that way. You’ll have to get your kicks from somebody else.”
    He appeared dumbstruck for a moment. His eyes narrowed at first, and then softened, then narrowed again. He pointed his index finger at me and struggled to form words. Finally he threw his hands up in the air and chuckled a little. There was more derisiveness in that quick laugh. His smile masked hate, but his eyes betrayed him. Though beady and shrouded in fat, they flashed with a deep anger.
    “Alright Thomas, I’ll play your game. I don’t care all that much anyway. It’s a small school, I’m sure I’ll be seeing her eventually.” He scribbled a few more notes onto the paper.
    “I assure you, Thomas, my intentions are wholly honorable.” He continued. His face softened somewhat, but his eyes barely shifted. “I’m an old man. All I want these days is to see a pretty face, hear the music of a woman’s laugh. You see? If you’re looking to protect this girl, you have nothing to fear from me. I know my boundaries.”
    I shook my head gravely. “I should hope so, Professor. I have seen no evidence that there is anything on this Earth that could possibly see you unseated from your job, but I think something like this would be just the ticket. You would do well to be very careful with what you say and to whom you say it.”
    He threw his head back and laughed. “What wonderfully bold advice! Truly Thomas, I’ve always admired you for your spunk. Have I ever told you that? You know what to say and exactly how to say it at exactly the right time. There are few people like that in the world today, Thomas. In fact, I know of none besides you and myself. You will get far in life, just you watch.” He smiled; it was measuredly conciliatory and inviting, with an air of jolliness and grandfatherly bonhomie. But it wasn’t enough, not for me, not at that time.
    “Thank you, Professor. Now if there is nothing else for us to discuss, I simply must be on my way. I won’t keep you from your papers.”
    “Enjoy your evening, Thomas! See you tomorrow!”

    Chapter 8: You shall know the Truth
    I left the room for my lunch period and stepped into the corridor towards Charlotte’s chemistry hall. The day was sunny and warm and for a moment it felt as if it were July again. Light poured in through the open windows and a breeze carried a crinkled brown oak leaf down the hall. I reached her door and knocked.
    “It’s open!” I heard the call of her voice and I stuck my head in, smiling when our eyes met.
    “Oh, hello Thomas! Come in!” She had busied herself once again with a can of soup, picking up great spoonfuls of chicken, noodles, and vegetables and eating them slowly and thoughtfully.
    “Hello Charlotte,” I pulled up a chair at her desk and laid out my own lunch. It was an egg salad sandwich again, but no apple this time. “I missed you on your way out of school yesterday and I wanted to ask you how your first day had gone.”
    She swallowed one last spoonful of soup. “Oh, yes, it was quite fine. The students seem well-behaved enough, if a little unconscious. I don’t know what they do on the weekends, but at least the University seems to do a good job of keeping it out of the lecture halls.”
    I sighed with relief. So it wasn’t just my class. That meant it wasn’t completely my fault either. What a fantastic feeling.
    “It’s always worse at the beginning of the week. They’re usually pretty alert and attentive by Friday, but at that point they’re too distracted by trying to plan for how to do it all over again.” I shook my head and laughed a little. “My father would’ve had my head if I were half as inattentive as students are these days. I’ve learned not to mind it so much though. As long as they pass the class, it’s no skin off my nose. And if they don’t, it’s still no problem. We can never have enough factory workers.”
    She nodded but didn’t laugh. Oh God, what had I done? “I suppose you’re right. It doesn’t make the job any easier though.”
    “No, it doesn’t. Not much we can do about it though.” Maybe she was just distressed by her own anxiety over her students. Maybe I hadn’t put my foot in my mouth at all. Yes Thomas, that’s the ticket. You’re doing fine, doing just fine indeed.
    We ate our food thoughtfully for a moment. She scribbled a few notes on a piece of paper as she did so; I mostly stared out the window and watched the wind toss more leaves about. A small covering was accumulating on the ground, such that it almost seemed to be ablaze. The brilliant reds and yellows and oranges formed tongues of fire while the browns and older grays made plumes of smoke. They stood out clear as flames against the immaculate blue sky.
    “Professor Collins tells me you’ve been teaching here three years. Is that so?” She had finished her soup and set the can aside in the corner of her desk.
    “Yes. I moved to Cork Town after my father died. I lectured small-time at a few community colleges before that. Nothing memorable, really. I’ve come to like it here though.”
    She nodded. “What made you come here?”
    “My family doesn’t come from Cork Town. I was born in a small town about an hour outside the city. Dad bought the house a couple months before he died as a fixer-upper, something to distract him as he was still grieving over my mother. I moved in because I –” I stopped mid-sentence. “I’m sorry; this is a terribly large amount of personal stuff to unload on you all at once. We’ve only just met, after all.”
    She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know. Keep going, please!” Her encouraging smile was enough.
    “Well, after he died I moved in because I wanted to continue his project for him. It really is a beautiful old house – built in the 1870’s if I recall correctly – and it would have been a great place to settle down someday. I just don’t have the time or resources to get to work on it right now.”
    She nodded. “I understand. I grew up in this town myself. My mother was born in Ireland – Galway specifically – and came to stay with some cousins who had immigrated earlier. She got a job as a maid in my father’s house shortly after she got off the boat. My father’s family was rich, and about as waspy as they come. When he started seeing my mother – the scullery maid – they kicked him out. When he announced that he intended to marry her, they disowned him. He got a job as a dock worker on the Detroit River, she went to work for another family, and a few years later my brother and I were born. I’ve never met my grandparents, or anybody on my father’s side. And you thought you were unloading a lot of personal stuff, huh?”
    We laughed. “I like to get to know my colleagues, honestly,” she said as she played with her soup spoon. “Especially ones that I’m going to be working with closely. There’s no reason why we can’t be friends, right?”
    “No, not at all. This is great!” And it was! It felt wonderful to be able to speak so personally with somebody. “Just be careful of the colleagues you pick as friends, is my only advice to you.”
    She cocked an eyebrow. “Why’s that?” I already regretted speaking. She was a grown woman; who was I to tell her what she should and shouldn’t do?
    “Oh, it’s just…nothing you should worry that much about, to be honest. It’s like anything else in life, really. You have your good characters mixed in with your bad in equal measure. Just be careful, is all I’m saying.”
    She still appeared confused. “I’m afraid I don’t completely understand. Is there somebody you’re talking about in particular?”
    “Yes, but, I shouldn’t name names. It’s not very professional.”
    She looked me in the eyes, and I felt myself melt under their gaze. Her expression was concerned and thoughtful. “Thomas, if there’s something I should know about somebody we work with, I’d like you to tell me. Please, don’t hold back.”
    “It’s just…well…Adler is his name. Louis Adler. Have you seen him yet? He lectures on economics; his hall is a few rooms away from here.”
    She shook her head.
    “Well, if you had seen him you would remember him – believe you me – and he would remember you. It’s just best that you give him a wide berth, for your own sake.”
    She was still confused. This was so terrifyingly awkward. “Can you tell me why?”
    I began to move my hands in my lap feverishly. The anxiety had returned as quickly as it had left, to my great dismay. “He’s just not the best person. A lot of people like him a lot, but he’s incredibly self-centered: He does a lot of things that would get anybody else into really hot water, probably even cost them their jobs.” I realized in this moment that I was talking unbelievably fast, and I did my best to slow myself down. “I don’t know why he doesn’t get himself into trouble, nobody really does, but playing with that kind of influence is a lot like playing with fire. Take it from somebody who knows. In the long run, it’s best not to get mixed up with him.”
    “Err…okay. I’ll take your word for it, I guess. Wow, it sounds like he must be horrible.”
    “Horrible is a bit of a strong word.” No it wasn’t. “Misguided? Sure. Selfish? Maybe. At heart I don’t think he’s really a bad person. Just another old man caught up in his own world and his own desires. It’s not a world you want to get tangled in yourself, but it’s not something to fault him for either. Just be careful.” What a mouthful of lies that was. After yesterday, Adler was the very scum of the Earth in my eyes. So why did I keep defending him? What use was it to me to make him look any better than he deserved?
    “Yeah…” She appeared distressed. She had laid the spoon to rest inside the empty soup tin and was scribbling a couple more notes down on that sheet of paper. I suddenly found it incredibly difficult to read her. We did not speak for the next couple moments. My brain was abuzz with things to say to allay her fears, if there were any to begin with. I didn’t know; there was no way I could know unless I asked.
    “I’m sorry, I haven’t frightened you have I?”
    “Not at all.”
    “You seem a bit concerned still.”
    “I’m not, Thomas, I promise. In fact, I’m glad you told me. Every workplace has a few unsavory individuals. It helps a lot that you told me about it in advance so that I didn’t have to figure it out myself. Thank you for that.”
    “I’m glad to help so long as it hasn’t scared you. I’m really sorry, honest.”
    “Don’t be.” Then she smiled, this time with genuine good humor. “Say you’re sorry one more time and I shall never speak to you again.”
    I laughed and prayed that she really was just joking. I imagined punching myself in the face – repeatedly. She continued to scribble in her notebook, and I chewed my sandwich nervously. What was the matter with me these days? Had I really become that much of a shut-in where even giving somebody simple advice was an awkward and cumbersome affair? She was just another normal person, and I knew this. Why was communicating with her so difficult? It was maddening. Thankfully, in a few minutes she broke the wall tension that I had built around myself, but which mercifully did not seem to affect her.
    “Do you like music, Thomas?”
    “Music? Yeah, sure. Who doesn’t?”
    “You’d be surprised,” she said with a laugh. “What kind of music do you like?”
    “Classical for the most part, but I’ll confess to being quite a Louis Armstrong fan. I don’t go for the kind of music my students listen to for the most part, but he’s the exception.”
    She smiled. “I agree!” In that moment the clock on the wall struck 1:00. Lunch hour was over and students began streaming into the hall. It was time for me to go, but as I replaced my chair and gathered my belongings one more question came to mind.
    “Charlotte?”
    “Yes?”
    “I know we’ve been on a first-name basis since we met, but just for the sake of my curiosity, what’s your last name?”
    “It’s Gould, Thomas.”

    Chapter 9: The Past Returns
    I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t answer her, didn’t look her in the eye, just stumbled out of the lecture hall and hoped that she might assume I had been carried away by the crush of students. I had to get back to my own classroom anyway. When I finally stepped through the door most of my students had already been seated.
    “Children…erm – I’m sorry – students,” I stammered as I stood before them, wringing my hands. “I’m-I’m-I’m afraid I’ve taken ill. Class is canceled for the day, please inform the others in later classes and read the next chapter in preparation for tomorrow’s lecture.”
    “You do look a little green around the gills, Professor,” one boy in the front row piped up. “Best to go home and get some rest.” He put up his best innocent smile. They were overjoyed to be leaving, I could tell.
    “Yes…yes…” I mumbled listlessly. I led the way out the door and into the halls but doubled back to leave a haphazard note for students who might not receive the message.
    The walk from the lecture hall to the parking lot was a blur. Before I knew it I was in the car and starting the engine. I gripped the wheel until my knuckles were white. My mind buzzed with thoughts beyond my control.
    Surely they couldn’t be related? The name Gould wasn’t uncommon. I knew a story of a Civil War colonel whose name had been Gould. It was an old name; it had been here for ages, practically since the country was founded. Really Thomas, you’re being ridiculous. There’s no reason at all to assume that she could be his…his…
    These thoughts began to calm me, but I still could not bear to bring the subject of their chaos to my mind.
    But why couldn’t she be? She said she had a brother, but made no mention of what had become of him. And those eyes, yes, the eyes, the eyes which I still could not escape. Hers had been calm and blue; abiding and beautiful as the sea. I could lose myself in them, sink into that ocean and drown and never be recovered again. But his were terrible and fearful. They shone with the ice of death and terror and pain. I still remembered them. Their expression was so different, but the color was that same deep, penetrating blue.
    Horns blared! I had almost run through an intersection. A delivery truck lumbered past and its driver shot daggers as I came to a stop at the corner.
    But he was blonde, wasn’t he? Yes, he most certainly was. I remembered the straw-colored hair clumped with the mud and the muck of the trench. It was long and unkempt; it had been many days since a barber had visited us, and I remembered the way it hung over my shoulder when I carried him away from that hell. Charlotte’s hair was dark and alive; his was light and lank.
    But you’re a biologist, Thomas. You know there’s no reason why even two siblings shouldn’t have hair of a different color. All it would take was a set of grandparents with that hair color and a little bit of genetic luck. It was completely possible, and far from out of the ordinary.
    I was home. I pulled into the drive and exited the car, nearly tripping as I went up the steps to the porch. My heart was pounding a million miles a minute. I had to sit down, had to relax, had to think things through rationally for just a moment. I found my way up to my room and to the bottle, carrying it downstairs with me to find a glass. I poured a shot and downed it in one fell swoop before sitting in my chair in the study and lighting a cigar.
    All I knew was that I knew nothing. I had circumstantial evidence: Her name is Gould, his name was Gould. Her eyes were blue, his eyes were blue. She is the right age to be his sister, and he was the right age to be her brother. Younger, probably, but that did not matter now. The only way to know for sure would be to ask her. The idea terrified me, but could I ever have peace if I didn’t?
    Could I do this alone, I wondered? Was there anybody on Earth I could talk to? Uncle? No. The punishing sting of what I had done, or what I had failed to do, was still far too fresh. Adler? That was just insane. I would sooner speak to Bill than to him. I didn’t trust Adler enough even to whisper the name of Charlotte in his presence. There was nobody else, nobody in the world but me. All others were just as occupied with themselves as I was. The world was loud and chaotic: who could hear me above the noise? And even if they could, why would they ever want to? I was alone in this punishment of fear and uncertainty and doubt.
    What did I fear? This question, the one that I asked myself more than any other, fought its way through the fray of thoughts. I didn’t care why, all I knew was the fear. It was primal and all-encompassing, like a deer fleeing a hunter. I had to run. There was nothing to do but to run; run and never look back; run and never be caught; run and keep running. It didn’t matter why I was running so long as I didn’t stop. There was no victory to be collected here, there was only escape.
    I could still feel the artillery pounding in my chest. I poured myself another glass and another and another and another until at last the drum beat stop. I know I saw the clock before I lost consciousness, but did not remember the time.

    Chapter 10: On Your Knees
    I had been sent back. The rain of artillery had stopped and it was only Private Gould and I now. The others stood against the trench wall, facing east towards the first gray rays of dawn, barely visible through the shroud of smoke and dust. The cannons had stopped firing; the falcons had finished the hunt. But it was not the end. Across No-Man’s Land the trumpets sounded, like the horns of judgment they rang forth loud and true. The Hun was ready to charge, onward to pillage, to rend, to kill. The sound of a thousand heavy boots on the packed Earth resonated in my mind. They were coming.
    The first explosions of machine gun fire ripped through the air like lightning. A line of Huns fell only to be replaced by more. Heavy boots on packed ground, heavy boots on packed ground. Whistles blew, men shouted, and the machine guns rattled away like snare drums. The first volley burst forth from the infantry, followed by the familiar click-click of the bolt-action receivers. They fired as quickly as they could, but the Hun did not relent: He moved forward, ever forward, as if we kept redemption itself here in our trenches. I stayed with Private Gould as they drew inexorably closer. Heavy boots on packed ground, heavy boots on packed ground. The machine guns ripped and tore, ripped and tore and then began again when there was nothing left.
    I was still with him when the first man leapt over the tangled barbed wire. So thick it was – like the covering of a primeval forest – that it obstructed our vision. But he cleared it, and his heart found its way to a bayonet point. His helmet careened towards me as it fell, practically rolling into my lap. It was round and green – rather like a turtle shell – but stained now with mud and dust and something red, sticky and entirely too familiar. I batted it away with my open hand. Soon more and more of them were pouring over the trench lines like so many ants. We would be overrun in a minute, but I would not leave.
    I did the unthinkable. I rose from where I had been kneeling before the body of Private Gould and I wrapped my arms around his waist. His knees were long gone, and I could take hold of nothing else. I slung him over my shoulders like a shepherd might carry a lamb. Then I turned on my heel and ran. I could hear the voice of the Old Colonel bellowing from behind me.
    “Sergeant Sielski, what are you doing!? Sielski, return to your post! Sielski!” I ran until I could no longer hear his voice above the din of battle. Through the trench I bolted, past machine gun nests, communication tents, platoons of frightened soldiers waiting to join the fray. Officers stared at me wide-eyed. Some of them shouted after me, most did nothing. Even without legs, Gould was still heavy. I stumbled and fell but I did not drop him, I rose again and kept moving, kept pumping my knees as hard as they would go. Explosions began to sound off to my rear. I looked over my shoulder and saw grenades flying through the air. The sound drew closer and closer. They must have breached the first wall.
    I picked myself up and kept going, though my lungs burned and I could feel the weight of my legs. The mud caught in my boots and dragged irresistibly downward, but I could not stop. Not now. I went forward until I was no longer running, but laboring with every individual step. My pulse pounded in my ears, my heart beat faster and faster. I panted like a dog as beads of sweat poured down my face. Keep moving! Keep moving! They’re coming!
    And they were. I could hear their cries ring out from mere yards behind me.
    “Gott mit uns! Gott mit uns! Für den Kaiser! Vorwärts! Vorwärts!”
    I tried to run again but could not bear it. I fell, face down into the mud with Gould tumbling over me. When I raised my head again I felt something cold and sharp jabbing at the small of my back. I looked over my shoulder to see a German soldier standing over me. I was looking down the barrel of a Gewehr 98, and a wickedly sharp Mauser bayonet was perched just inches away from my skin. The soldier’s cold gray eyes peeked from beneath the rim of that turtle-shell helmet.
    “On your knees!” He said in a thick accent. “On your knees, hands behind your head! Do not resist!”
    I remembered something, and an awful idea crept into my mind; a horrible, terrifying idea. It was unspeakable – I couldn’t do it! But even as I fought against my every impulse my hand crept slowly through the mud underneath me towards the left side of my waist. At my belt a Colt pistol was perched, cocked and ready.
    “No.” I said quietly, and in a swift movement I turned, shoved the bayonet out of my face, and fired. I didn’t wait to see what became of the soldier. I scooped up Gould and ran again, my body awash with adrenaline. This was but one soldier; there would be more. The hounds of hell were at my back, baying for my blood! They had already taken Gould’s.
    I couldn’t believe I had done it. Within a moment I had reached the last wall. The end of the trench! I pushed Gould over first and then clambered out myself. Beyond would be the command tents, the hospitals; the waving wheat fields, grape vines, and peaceful French villages – safety! Safety at last!
    “We’ve done it, Gould. We’re almost there! Just one more run, one more run!”
    I picked him up again and we struggled towards our destination. One step at a time, every foot a league, every league an entire continent. We kept moving, but the terrain did not change. War-torn and gray, a few stands of dead trees were my only rest and reprieve from the growing rays of the sun. Where was our help? Where were the farmers and vintners? Where were the ambulances and the medics? They were far from here still, moved on from this darkened land of craters and dead things. We were alone.
    But they must be somewhere! They must be just over that next hill; across that dale; just beyond that thicket! I pushed until my uniform was torn and bloodied; my helmet hung lopsided over my head. Gould had lost his long ago. I carried him until the sun began to set; a full day I had spent under that sun. My throat was dry; my lips were cracked and parched. The night’s breeze was my only source of relief, but it was a small mercy indeed; a pittance thrown before a begging man, beaten and starving. At last I collapsed. My legs would carry me no further.
    *****
    I awoke on a cot inside a tent. I did not know what time it was; neither did I know the day. For all I knew, I could have slept for days. It certainly felt as though I had. I was conscious only of the blinding light of a lamp near my face. When my senses began to return to me I realized there was a doctor sitting at the end of my bed.
    “Good morning Sergeant Sielski.” He appeared tall and lanky, with dark hair and tired eyes.
    “Good morning,” I rasped. My lips and tongue were thick and rubbery in my mouth. I was unable to salivate. “Where is Private Gould?”
    The doctor grimaced and wiped his hands on his white coat. “You mean The Casualty? He’s gone I’m afraid. He was long dead by the time we found him but I have a feeling you were already aware of that. You almost didn’t make it yourself. When we found you, you were suffering from extreme dehydration and exhaustion. Evidently you still are, judging by the sound of your voice. I’ll have a nurse bring you some food and water. We’ll have to get you healthy soon; you’re due for court-martial in three days.”
    I was aghast. “What?”
    “Yes Sergeant, I’m sorry.” He didn’t appear to be. “We radioed Command at the frontline when we found you. A colonel reported that he saw you running from battle with a casualty on your back. He said you were most likely shell-shocked, but we still have to go through the formalities. Regardless of your reasoning, you are a deserter now; by my best guess you’re looking at a dishonorable discharge.” His tone was distracted and impersonal. “Sorry.”
    My mouth was still too dry to speak. Even if it weren’t, I don’t believe I could.

    Chapter 11: Pestilence
    I did not awaken that morning. When my eyes opened they beheld the blinding rays of the afternoon sun, not the ambient warmth of dawn. I was still in the chair and fully dressed, and a single dead soldier wobbled on the floor to the left, where I had apparently just dropped it. It continued to roll in place there and did not rest.
    I became aware of what had broken me from my slumber: The telephone was ringing. Loud and all-encompassing, it ensnared my weakened mind and pushed out all other thoughts. I rose and felt my knees tremble beneath me, struggling to uphold my suddenly titanic mass. I steadied myself against the old chair and hobbled to the phone.
    I don’t remember the details of the conversation, only that it was some authority calling from the school and demanding to know my reasoning for not showing up to class for a day and a half. Ignoring my throbbing skull, I told him I was deathly ill with some sort of stomach flu and was on the cusp of vomiting at that very moment. That got him off the phone very quickly indeed.
    With that handled, I set about trying to care for my own aching head, abuzz with a thousand trumpets. I hadn’t been completely dishonest with the man on the telephone about my nausea either. Hair of the dog was my usual cure, but I had drunk myself clean out of my medicine of choice. I had had some difficult nights over the past ten years, but it had been ages since I had ever actually needed to polish off an entire bottle. I wasn’t sure what to think of that. Had I gone back a step? Had I ruined my progress? I began to ask myself these questions before I realized there had been no progress to ruin.
    But there had been: Though I tried not to think about it, the memory of an evening long since past swam just beneath my consciousness. I tried to blink it away, but it kept coming back, powering its way to the surface like a fish jumping from the sea. I ambled to the kitchen and poured a stiff glass of water, gulping it down in great draughts like a drowning man might try to swallow air. I poured another and another, but they weren’t enough. The pressure in my head could not be undone, not at the moment anyway. I settled for a single tablet of aspirin – the last one I had – for some small relief. I wondered how much of the pain was from the alcohol and how much was from something else.
    This couldn’t go on; that much I knew. I had gone back to the bottle out of fear of a memory that had haunted me for ten years – ten years too many. When would it end? Could it ever end? Did I have the strength anymore? Was this my life now, doomed to nightly terrors until death – merciful and terrible – carried me away into whatever came next? It had been three years since I had found myself in such a dark place. Every place was dark now I guess, but at least there was always some light at the end of the tunnel. I never knew what it was, or why I waited for it, but at this moment it seemed very dim and far away indeed, cut off from me by miles and miles of the icy blackness. I shivered. There had been only one night when I couldn’t see the light at all.
    Three years ago I had gone mad. Mother and father were gone and this house was terribly, soul-crushingly lonely. I was an island tossed into a never ending hurricane, with every night resounding in my memory like a thunder clap. I remembered that one November evening the most, listening to rain lash the windows and beat the roof while the wicked hands of the trees clawed at the walls. I sat in total darkness, the moon invisible above the slate gray clouds. My lips were wrapped around the barrel of a shotgun, and I could feel the trails of dried tears on my face.
    But now there was nothing: No tears, no thoughts, hardly even breath. Just myself and the gun, alone in that empty room. I gathered every ounce of nerve in my frozen body. My icy hands fingered the trigger, itself as cold as death. I pulled with one swift movement as a bolt of lightning illuminated the room, shutting my eyes tight when I did. One slight twitch and it would all be over.
    But it was not the end. I heard the click of the trigger, but there had been no blast. My eyes fluttered open. I was still there, in that same room. There were no angelic choirs, nor demonic hordes: Just me, the gun, and the empty house. I was alive. My hands began to shake feverishly and I vomited. Why hadn’t it worked? Why was I still here? I was scared, I was confused, but there was something beneath it all that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. There was an emotion that I couldn’t identify, a feeling that I had known once, but had not made itself present for a long time. I wondered for just a split second if I had been spared for a reason.
    That moment was burned into my memory forevermore. It was the farthest I had ever been, the deepest depth to which I had ever fallen. In the last three years things may have gotten better, but they would never be the same. This past night was the closest I had ever felt to going back to that place, and the thought of it made me sick to my stomach. Shame burned within me like a wildfire, and with it a sort of hunger. I was tired of these long and lonely nights as I sat in the stench of my own fear. I was tired of the self-loathing and the endless black pall of depression that had cast itself over me. When would it end? Could it end? Was I strong enough?
    I would force myself to do it. I didn’t know how yet, but I knew there was nothing else I could do. I could look this demon in the eyes and see it sent back to the hell from whence it came, or I could die a madman, haunted by the beast on my back until it drove me to death. I could live like this for a while, temporarily chasing the terror away by cowering behind the bottle. But I could feel myself growing weaker with every passing night. The man who runs away will fight another day, but that day will come eventually. I knew it was up to me whether I would fight in a state of strength or weakness, and I also knew what it would take to emerge from that final battle in victory. I had to do it. I had to fight – I had to win.
    It wasn’t a hope, it wasn’t a plea; it was a mission. It was a battle of life and death. I thought about Private Gould, and for the first time he was a person in my mind. Not the unhealed memory of primal terror burned eternally into my every waking moment, but a living, breathing human being – body and soul, the brother of Charlotte. I had no proof, but I knew it to be true now. Their eyes had betrayed them, and their burning blue would haunt me no longer. I didn’t know how, or when, or where, but a battle was coming – a battle in which I was my own worst foe. I had to be victorious.
    Proudly under the patronage of The Holy Pilgrim, the holiest of pilgrims.


  7. #7
    Praepositus
    Join Date
    Mar 2009
    Location
    California
    Posts
    5,616

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Lol, 30+ no lie. With the crappy formatting recopied onto word, I still managed to get a good 27 pages in. Looks like I'm in for a busy night

  8. #8
    Dave Strider's Avatar Dux Limitis
    Join Date
    Nov 2009
    Location
    Maine
    Posts
    17,465

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    This is a little something I whipped up. I've been reading Cornwell's The Saxon Stories far too much lately, and that, combined with my high appreciation for historical fiction and fantasy books, sprinkled with a bit of newfound obsession with Anglo-Saxon England and pre-Christian Scandinavia is what has, primarily, fueled this.

    Note, it's got themes of Vikings, but it takes place in a fictional world, as you'll be able to tell. It's, well, actually partly inspired by a piece of fanfiction for Homestuck that I'm planning for writing.

    Anyway, here you are, lads! (And lass, in case Rose wants to read. ) If you'd like to see more, let me know, I'd be glad to type up some more.

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The Lord's Chronicle, Sweep 677 SL

    Preface:
    It has been a number of sweeps since this chronicle, started under my thrice-ago grandfather, has been continued. Indeed, in the time spanning the gap, we have been unfortunate enough to experience a number of mishappenings and misfortunes. A terrible series of great wars has wracked the Insulæ in the aforementioned time, and such a misfortune were they that they were the end of not only my father –the previous King of the Northlands, and ruler of the Highbloods of Insula Ostris – but also the end of my home, my kingdom, and, very nearly, myself. For these reasons it had been decided that there were matters of greater importance to attend to, and I, the heir to the throne, had no other choice than to see such matters through to their violent, disturbing, bloody conclusions. Such is our way, after all –the way of the Northlands, indeed.


    However, that is a story for later than now. At this moment, in the company of none aside from my personal scriveter, a lit candle, and the window,through which shine the golden-red rays of late afternoon, I would like to indulge myself, and those who may be reading, with something of a story – for some, a riveting tale of conquest and hardship.For others, a tale of sorrow and tragedy. And for others still,perhaps neither of these: indeed, perhaps it is thought only to be a history lesson, a cause for bore, or even reading material on a slow evening, when the clouds part far and wide, and the light of the moons shine brighter than that of a candle wick. All of these things,yes, it could well be, but it will only be so should it actually be written. For that reason, I shall now proceed, and tell you the story of my thrice-ago grandfather and his conquest of these isles. None are quite sure of his name. Some say that it was an easily misspelled and mispronounced bastardization of some other long-dead language, others that he was born with no name. However, whatever disagreements may herein lie, one thing is certain; whatever his true identity, he did not go by it. No, indeed, he went only by one title.


    The Waveborn.


    You see, our people – the Highbloods, as we are now called, though we certainly were not so at the time my thrice-ago grandfather lived – used not to live on the great Insula Ostris. Indeed, the name of the isle itself reflects this, as 'Ostris' is not a word in our language. Instead, it is a more...let me say, civilized, version of the isle's previous name. A name that, with the permission of my scriveter, I would prefer not to divulge. In any case. We, the Highbloods, you see, are split into three castes. Or, well, I should not say castes. Castes implies that one is superior than the other two, and two are superior than the third. This is certainly not so.We –and I mean in the sense of we as a people, for these events occurred far before my own spawn – area united people, though we come from three diverse blood shades.Across the great eastern sea, our land was one of plenty. Our land was one of boar lurking the wilderness, of plentiful fish in our equally numerous rivers and ponds, of the cool shade of the trees in summer and the warm fires of our homesteads in the winter. It was one of green forests, packed with plentiful, meaty game for our stomachs, and thick, sturdy timbers for our homes. We, the Highbloods, grew up a society of hunters and builders,sawyers and blacksmiths,and at our head we had the Earls.


    The Earls were our rulers when we lived in the old country, and they ruled well indeed. Many of them were ever-hungry for land, for power,and so for a time the Earls battled amongst themselves, caring about as much for blood color as they did for family and friends. Nobody was safe from nobody else, and for that reason it was almost required for an Earl to be arrogant. And indeed, many were. But, as I said –they ruled well. When the Earls asked us to raid, we did. When they asked us to pillage and slaughter, they did. And when they asked us to lay down our arms, we would. We were their warriors, and they were our Gods, in a world where Gods were a concept that had died out long before our life cycles began.


    However, not all of us were the most keen to serve the Earls after a period of time. The Earls became increasingly power-hungry, increasingly demanding, increasingly wealthy and out of touch with their roots. By the same token, the temperatures were changing with the seasons.Summers were warmer, winters colder, and our oceans began to rise. At first, it was a slow rate, but then, the pace quickened alarmingly.Tides would be much higher at noon than at dawn, and homesteads and docks were being flooded and destroyed. The Earls, in their lavish castles and palaces built into mountainsides, cared little for the plight of their subjects, and so it was left to one man – my thrice-ago grandfather, as I'm sure you've been able to deduce, considering he has been the common theme of the story thus far –to save us. For you see, though many of us were hunters, builders, sawyers, or blacksmiths, my thrice-ago grandfather was one of the few who dared to call himself a sailor.


    He never told his descendants much, though one of the few things that he permitted to be passed down the family line was that he loved to fish on the open seas. He loved the rocking of the wooden hull all around him, the cold sting of the sea breeze as the wind whipped and lashed at his face and clothing, the exhilarating, almost floating feeling whenever the bow of the ship gently and gracefully was to go over the tip of a wave. He loved the grit of the rope nets in his numb, cold,wet hands, the sting in his arm muscles as he would pull in a catch of fish, the laughs and cheers that would eminate from the crew of the vessel as it returned to dock with enough of a catch to feed ten families for two fortnights. To other men, it may have been the most terrifying experience of their lives, but to him, it was a mark of paradise. And when he wasn't fishing, he could almost always be found at the dock, talking to the sailors for the Earl's navies, listening to their stories of battling ferocious sea creatures, meeting and interacting with other Earldoms and their inhabitants, and, yes, some funny and heart-touching stories of romance found on the high seas. I think that was another reason why my thrice-ago grandfather loved the waves – it was a world of its own, a world of freedom and joy and adventure that could surpass no other. It was for that reason, I was told by my own father, that he decided to go adventuring and exploring on many occasions, and though his friends were often worried for his safety, he would always come home, eventually with stories of his own to tell the townsfolk.And in the middle of the chaos with the rising seas and the Earls, he had found something, in his travels, that none other amongst us could have dreamed to exist.


    Land.


    The story of just exactly how he convinced the small fragment of our people to come along with him across almost wholly uncharted seas is still a mystery. The only person he ever told was his son, my twice-ago grandfather, as you surely guessed,and he, in turn, was to safeguard the knowledge to his deathbed. And so he did, and so we may never know. But, what is certain is that not many of our people came with him. He, himself, was of my bloodcaste –the Tiasch, as it is known – and with him came some three hundred of us. Three hundred, with tens of thousands of our friends, family,and lovers remaining behind to await an uncertain future's arrival.For three fortnights, with our meagre supplies of fish, boar, and ale, my forebearers battled storm, sea surge, carnivorous serpents,and hungry gulls. And, finally, six hundred and seventy seven sweeps ago, my thrice-ago grandfather, the Waveborn, landed on the isle of what we now call Insula Ostris. Three hundred Highbloods, including elderly and children, were in his presence, starving, scarcely armed,exhausted from their endeavor, battling one of the most ferocious oceanic storms to ever plague our planet, the same storm that, in all its dreadful power, severed the tethering rock between the underside of our home continent and the ocean floor, the immense weight of which dragged our people, our civilization, to the blue depths of the cold, cruel ocean. Three hundred of these distraught, hopeless souls,were to land in the middle of perhaps one of the most powerful, if ancient, empires to ever grace the surface of our fair planet. And they were to go forth and conquer.


    Oh, how the mighty were to fall, how the underdog was to become the alpha wolf, how the bloodletting would never cease to end...the various queens and kings, empresses and emperors, dukes, duchesses,landgræves and scirreffs, they were all fools, by account of the Waveborn. Their existence had been marked by peace for centuries, and their reputation as greedy, wealth-mongering fools and imcompetent rulers was to make our Earls look almost heroic. They invited us to their court, tried to appease us and discuss settlement with us, droning on and on about various law codes we would have to adhere to, answering our few questions with grandoise replies that would spawn five more in their place. All the while, as I said, we were weary. We were exhausted. We were at our most primal state. And we saw their opulence, their wealth, their immaculate feasts, their slaves and concubines, their vast quantities of land which was nearly as good as our own, and our primal hunger grew by the minute, day after day, fortnight after fortnight, perigree after perigree. And finally, when we could take no more of the almost torturous displays that they put on for us, the same ones that attempted to stem our likely noticeable lust for conquest, but instead nourished it like a rearing mare, the Waveborn was to, once more, receive a new name. It would be similar in sound to his original one, though that would be the only way it was to bear resemblance.


    He was to become the Ironlord.
    Last edited by Dave Strider; August 04, 2013 at 06:58 PM.
    when the union's inspiration through the worker's blood shall run,
    there can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun,
    yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one?
    but the union makes us strong.

  9. #9
    EmperorBatman999's Avatar I say, what, what?
    Join Date
    May 2009
    Location
    Why do you want to know?
    Posts
    11,891

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    This a forward exerpt from my Viking saga. Currently the plot has not advanced up to this stage, but I was inspired to write this section ahead and patch it into the main piece. I hope you like it.

    Bjorn Ulfsen and His Trip to the Lands of the Sami People:
    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The ship was now nearing the coast of Finnmark. The white-clothed pines splattered the rocky coast. Bjorn was gazing at the majesty of the pines as the small ship gently plodded on. Bjorn looked around the ship, its small white sail flapping along trying to fight eastward. Then Bjorn caught Erik curiously kneeling by the bow, the only other man on the ship. He stepped closer, and heard his friend praying to the Christian god.
    “Please God, allow mercy and spare me from any Pagan Sami we may encounter! If I survive, I will live every single day in your grace, praising your glory. Just please be my shield and my sword against these barbarians!”
    Erik was previously an observer of the Old Norse beliefs of Thor and Odin and the other such gods of the Germanic pantheon. Suddenly, however, he had lost his faith in his old deities and decided instead to put all his faith into this foreign, distant god. Bjorn, an ardent Pagan, had considered Erik a friend…until now.
    “Thank you, God. I shall try my hardest to be a good Christian, I will. I will become a humble man, a simple man. I will go to church every Sunday; I will farm my land like a good sheep of the flock…”
    Before Erik could finish, Bjorn had taken out his axe. He swung it into Erik’s neck. Still Erik used his prayer to cling onto life, his lips trying to utter out words as his hands grasped even tighter as if trying to prevent his liquefied life from spilling out. Bjorn then put a hand on Erik’s torso, and pushed away, simultaneously pulling the axe out. The blade came out, and Bjorn then pushed Erik overboard. He watched as his body splashed about in the white and blue ocean, a little bit now made red. Erik’s head jerked and hinged with each wake and wave, until finally it sunk down to the bottom. Erik would be left to the mercy of Aegir and his daughters now.
    Bjorn had watched all this, and then afterwards turned his attention to the coastline. His eyes scanned the cold, misty realm. He thought he found what he was looking for with a small bay and gravel beach. Bjorn took the steering rudder and cut it left, turning the ship to the right and into the bay. Bjorn took to steering the ship, still pushed by the wind until he entered the bay. He then moved to hastily close the sail and then allowed the waves to push the ship onto the pebbled shore. It shuddered when the low keel hit the ground, but the waves continued to push the ship on, on, on. Bjorn took a rope from the front of the ship and ran off as the boat still moved. He then started to pull the ship securely inland with his great arms. It was not a large ship, and more like a boat with a sail in the middle, but it was still quite heavy and seaworthy. The waves pushing and Bjorn’s arms pulling, finally the ship was completely beached and placed away from the tide. Bjorn then proceeded to secure the ship down, and he took more ropes and some wooden pegs. Bjorn strolled around the small ship, and satisfied that it was safe from high-tide he began planting the pegs deep into the beach to secure the ship. He had forgotten a hammer, and instead used the poll of his bloody hand-axe to peg in the pieces. Bjorn tested the rope, and with the knowledge that his vessel was completely secure, he decided to rest for a moment.
    Bjorn had to remember this bay and what it looked like. He walked a few paces eastward and glanced around the bay. It was a majestic spot, and also well-hidden. Right off the pebble beach was a grove of pines, green under their cover of snow. They smelt fresh in combination with the ocean’s salty scent. A ringlet of rocks circled around the bay. The stinging cold wind blew around Bjorn, but he was wrapped in furs which kept his body insulated. Bjorn tried to form a picture of the spot in his mind, knowing that his life could depend on whether or not he remembered where his ship was. And so, he continued resting, taking in the sights. After Bjorn felt satisfied, he stood up and took some meat from his pouch and nibbled on it.
    Bjorn then set off eastwards where he was meant to go. It was only October, but still the area was freezing cold and barren. As Bjorn walked, he gazed out to an empty white land, haunting and joyful at the same time. The sky was colored in pinks and blues, and only a few wispy clouds soared above, dancing. One of the things Bjorn had first thought of in this arctic land was how it resembled a place that existed in men’s dreams. It was a vacant place, but not soulless. Indeed, Bjorn still felt spirits in the air, nipping at his fingertips, ears, and nose. It was ethereal. All what surrounded him was the seemingly-endless plain of snow and the pine trees. Bjorn thought he had seen some caribou, but as soon as he did a drifting of snow shielded them from view. It was a strange, dizzying feeling to be at the roof of this mortal plain – man’s great world. He felt, at times, as if he floated, and as if he was actually dreaming. Yet there always was that cold touch to assure him he was not. Every step made a soft crunch. Bjorn thought back to his childhood, and those glorious moments when his uncle took him to his first winter solstice festival.
    He was still dizzied at the thought of this strange place, but perhaps it was the cold air. Bjorn was a Norseman, and he was no stranger to winter. Yet this place though, this place, was colder than anything Bjorn had ever lived through. It was made colder still by unpeopled wilderness. No huts were erected here, huddled around a large fire pit to ward away the white ghosts of frostbite. Even the animals had gone to ground, hiding from this lone human, and hiding from the great frozen maw that loomed over the world here. Again the thoughts came back, the endless wonder that pranced around with the great overbearing threat of death. Bjorn was a stranger, a fragile foreigner in a strange land that had lured him here by its beauty, but awaited him with open white deathly teeth ready to blacken and freeze his body. He hadn’t even met the people yet, but he could no longer imagine the Sami that lived here. When he arrived, he thought he had a clear idea of a people still clinging to their old beliefs as the world west and beyond them converted. They were, like Bjorn, still Pagans.
    Bjorn had come for inspiration. For a time, he thought he nearly abandoned his cause and conformed. He was isolated from his community, now dulled by their new faith. He had no idea what to do. So we went to go find these wild Sami. They believed in a completely different pantheon than that of Bjorn, but still Bjorn needed an example. These people, for as foreign to Bjorn as they used to be considered, now seemed more familiar than Bjorn’s own neighbors.
    But Bjorn had to find them. He knew that at this time of year the Sami would be having their final celebrations in preparation for winter. There was a sacred island somewhere that Bjorn was to find, and there the Sami would congregate.
    And so he trudged on, yet even still mystified by the glory of it all. He marked anything that stood-out, looking back to ensure he was walking in a straight line. The ocean was never too distant. Bjorn still thought, and thought, and thought. He could not believe he still walked on the world’s roof, and that he trotted along the top of humanity’s branch of Yggdrasil. Bjorn was a strong man, a tough man, but even he felt delicate up here. There was no mercy up here, especially for strangers. Bjorn was prepared, but he wondered if he truly was. Bjorn knew that this land could kill anybody, even its locals who called it “home.”
    The sky still floated beautifully on. Bjorn’s legs were growing tired, and he had marched for miles in the thick snow. He knew he could not stop, for if he did, he was dead. Still he was in utter rapture with this great whiteness, and the purity, death, birth, and everything else associated with it. He observed the dunes, slowly moving as the winds pushed the flimsy ethereal spirits of the snow about. His mind still was not completely present, drifting about thoughts and notions about this land as if it had been taken to join the other strange floating spirits. This place was lonely. All that existed here was the wind. Bjorn walked onwards. Bjorn looked in front of him, and there was a row of pines on a slope. He stopped and looked around, for this new obstacle blocked his path along the coast. He looked behind him, and saw his footsteps behind him and thought of what his entire life had led up to – then abandoned the silly thought. He looked at the white emptiness south and the blue vastness north and decided to climb over this hill and see what to do from there.
    He had reached the crest of the hill. By now his legs were aching and sore and all the walking, his feet cold yet blistered. However, he looked down and saw for the first time other life. Below him he saw a settlement built out of tall, conical tents. The Sami called such houses a lavvu. There were short figures on the ground herding great masses of reindeer. Fires were smoking around what appeared to be a very large encampment. Bjorn’s eyes gazed northwards to the sea and saw the large island he was told about. Bjorn walked towards these strange people, not knowing a word of their language, hoping that they would greet him. Bjorn made his descent, and towards these strangers he walked.


    Otherwise the rest of the story is at 15,000 words. It is about a Norwegian man who in the late 900's refuses to Christianize during the reign of King Olaf I Tryggvason. Currently I am still on his childhood phase, but that should soon be over as he enters his teenage years serving as a Svein.

  10. #10
    Dan the Man's Avatar S A M U R A I F O O L
    Content Emeritus

    Join Date
    Jan 2010
    Location
    Penn's Woods
    Posts
    11,557

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Strange, I've also been working in my spare time on my own sort of fantasy universe. I have a little work done, but I won't post it until it's complete. There must be something in the air around here.

    Anybody finish reading Lazarus? Anybody start? Opinions are fantastic.
    Proudly under the patronage of The Holy Pilgrim, the holiest of pilgrims.


  11. #11

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Clears throat.

    Adjusts glasses.

    Unfurls scroll.



    There once was an abbot from Athos
    In his sermons he utilized pathos
    To his monks' chagrin
    He recognized their sin
    And in confession he was not lax...os.

    Unfortunately I do not have the writing talent of our literary geniuses here in IH.
    Quote Originally Posted by Dan the Man
    obviously I'm a large angry black woman and you're a hot blonde!

  12. #12
    EmperorBatman999's Avatar I say, what, what?
    Join Date
    May 2009
    Location
    Why do you want to know?
    Posts
    11,891

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Although you do have the writing competition medallion.

    How hard are these writing competitions?

  13. #13

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Quote Originally Posted by EmperorBatman999 View Post
    Although you do have the writing competition medallion.
    Sheer luck.
    Quote Originally Posted by Dan the Man
    obviously I'm a large angry black woman and you're a hot blonde!

  14. #14
    Kip's Avatar Idea missing.
    Join Date
    Apr 2005
    Location
    United States
    Posts
    8,422

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Mine was sheer TALENT

  15. #15

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Silver talent ... golden luck.

    Quote Originally Posted by Dan the Man
    obviously I'm a large angry black woman and you're a hot blonde!

  16. #16
    Kip's Avatar Idea missing.
    Join Date
    Apr 2005
    Location
    United States
    Posts
    8,422

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013


  17. #17
    EmperorBatman999's Avatar I say, what, what?
    Join Date
    May 2009
    Location
    Why do you want to know?
    Posts
    11,891

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    So...uh...how was mine?

  18. #18
    Kip's Avatar Idea missing.
    Join Date
    Apr 2005
    Location
    United States
    Posts
    8,422

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    My internship has just ended, so now I finally have a week and a half's worth of free time. Time to write, and to pat myself on the back after every sentence!


  19. #19
    Dan the Man's Avatar S A M U R A I F O O L
    Content Emeritus

    Join Date
    Jan 2010
    Location
    Penn's Woods
    Posts
    11,557

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    Quote Originally Posted by EmperorBatman999 View Post
    So...uh...how was mine?
    My best advice to you is to watch your exposition technique. You're doing everything really suddenly and without a lot of characterization to space things out. For example, you don't have to flat out tell the reader that Erik was once a pagan and then converted to Christianity. Let the story unfold itself as you write by telling us about who he is as a character. Actions speak louder than words in writing as they do in life. Don't tell the reader about the change in Erik's character, show us. At the same time, you can't really expect a reader to be able to sympathize with Bjorn, even as a main character, after he chops a man's head off - a man who had been his friend no less - because the way he was praying irritated him. If there is supposed to be some kind of a religious conflict between these two characters why not develop it a little? All it can do is enrich the story all the more. Also, as a language geek - especially in the area of the Germanic languages - I have to tell you that your main character's name means literally 'Bear, son of Wolf.' There's nothing really wrong with that, but it's a bit too stereotypically 'ultra-badass' for my own taste.
    Proudly under the patronage of The Holy Pilgrim, the holiest of pilgrims.


  20. #20
    Dave Strider's Avatar Dux Limitis
    Join Date
    Nov 2009
    Location
    Maine
    Posts
    17,465

    Default Re: IH NaNoWriMo - 2013

    How about mine?
    when the union's inspiration through the worker's blood shall run,
    there can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun,
    yet what force on earth is weaker than the feeble strength of one?
    but the union makes us strong.

Page 1 of 2 12 LastLast

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •