tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89833523403218495812024-02-19T15:39:40.604+00:00The Poet's NotebookA selection of literary-related content including poems, short fiction, and reviews.
All work © H. Cutts 2014Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-20862614140455880422014-07-28T13:00:00.000+01:002014-07-28T13:00:38.601+01:00Mysteries of the Manifold ManRecently, I entered a writing competition on <a href="http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/">The Cult of Me blog</a>, hosted by Michael Brookes. The competition was to produce 500 words based around this photograph:<br />
<img height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHjpyojUzC1SvreXATb3jbNNWchLNsiy6cXKC_yVYqL6B80YBFWM6BNFZc7SZnhMc5EXk13lnikjKT_2eljt4R32ELb2LwHe1GuosMZuUL3XIvnKy4_ZsW3TZ954665oizE0PvSFHs9cY/s400/20238019_m.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
The winning entries for the competition, including my own, can be seen <a href="http://thecultofme.blogspot.co.uk/2014/07/july-short-fiction-contest-winners.html">here</a>, and I have also posted my entry below. As always, notes on the piece are at the bottom of this post. My thanks go to Michael for hosting the competition, and congratulations to the other winners. And now, the story itself. Enjoy.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i><u>Mysteries of the Manifold Man/Sitting And
Watching The World Going By<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i>‘You don’t understand the Manifold Man;<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Don’t know what he sees with those eyes made
of glass.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i>He’s sitting and watching the world going by<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i>And watching the long ages pass.’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<i>21<sup>st</sup> Century Proverb<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Sometimes, they snigger in corners, the huddled masses,
laughing at the Manifold Man, out in the cold. Sometimes, they pity his glassy
eyes that can never smile; they wonder, in their quieter moments, if that
gaping mouth has ever spoken the simplest of words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“I love you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Nice day, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Where were you when the bombs came down?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The urchins in ragged scraps of cloth swarm about him
when the winter subsides; they wipe his glassy eyes of their icicle tears and their
small white hands free the snows from the thick folds of his own clothes. He is
a friend to some, always there; he always listens as they pour out their
troubles to his motionless form. He never judges them, never speaks, but they
know he listens. He is a terror to others, and they sit by their bedsides as
the fires die, watching him watching them; if they can’t see him in the street,
he’s under their beds, in the dark of their corners, coming to get them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Don’t stay out tonight,” their tired mothers say, “the
Manifold Man will get you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“But he never moves,” they say back. Hoping they’re
right. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And as they watch him from shattered windows, or throng
around firelights that keep the night at bay, they do not understand the
Manifold Man. What he has seen. What he has done. Who he is, and what he was.
It does not matter to them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
To them, he is a symbol, a grim reminder of the day the
bombs came and the fire fell from the sky. He is an icon, proof that all can
stand the test of time. A comfort by day to one lonely child, a terror at night
to another. The older ones remember; he was there before they were, he will be
there long after they’re gone. Has he always been there? They close the
shutters, some afraid, some inspired. He is eternal; whether he brings fear or
faith, he will always do so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
What does he see through those reflecting eyes, in the
glare of the flames and the cool of the moon? The man who never moves, never
speaks, does he see at all? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And the days come and go, and winters and summers blend
into one. Stars move in the sky, new constellations rise and fall. Rock turns
to dust turns to sand in the wind, and a thousand, a million, new faces flash
past the Manifold Man. Still, he sits, motionless. Sitting and watching the
world going by.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
With long-dead eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p> ***</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>Author's Notes: </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>- The idea for this one came to me almost instantly on seeing the picture. I knew immediately I wanted to both play on the post-apocalyptic themes and also do something more relevant to today's world. The focus of the piece can really be synonymous with any kind of common belief or ideal; everyone has their own interpretation of that. Some fear what others love, some hate what others have faith in. This manner of playing with perceptions against realities is something that can be seen in a lot of my other works, but this is by far the most overt example. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>That's all for today. As ever, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a comment. </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-26348175569057304302014-07-10T15:40:00.000+01:002014-07-10T15:57:55.287+01:00The Survivor's Curse/Falling IdolWell, it has been a long time since my last post here, and even longer since I posted any actual writing; I have been distracted for the last few weeks by editing a novel. Now, however, that process is complete, and I have found time to write something. Today's piece is another in the 'snapshot' series that began with The Dragon Awakens from a few weeks ago, and is a sequel of sorts, although it could well work as a standalone. As always, the notes on this piece are added below, so for now, enjoy!<br />
<br />
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<b><i><u>The Survivor’s Curse/Falling
Idol<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“And so there I was, this
bloody great scaly thing bearing down on me, and I bring up the trusty old iron
and put a ball right in the bugger’s eye!” He finished, and allowed himself to
be momentarily absorbed in the tide of adulation that rose from every corner of
the inn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Six men offered him a drink
on the house, two maidens and one woman he knew for sure was married called out
for him to sweep them away on his next <i>adventure</i>,
a dozen children who shouldn’t have even been there cheered for more. Mouths hung
open and eyes stared and hands clapped furiously as he concluded the tale. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Someone he didn’t recognise
passed him another tankard and a hand seized his pipe to refill if from some
other man’s supply of tobacco. It was every bit the hero’s welcome he’d expected
and come to dread as he rode with the three unburdened horses and his own
faithful steed from the furious Dragon’s rage. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He could tell them all that
part of the tale; eager ears would lap up every word. He could embellish the
story with deeds worthy of legend. He could watch them listen with baited
breath as he imagined Dragonfire coming down mere yards from him, how he could
have heard the roar as the great beast descended from the heavens. It would
make a good story, at least. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
But he could not tell them
how he had lumbered, barely conscious, from the rocky crags, stumbled down the
mountainside and slumped over his steed. He could never tell them of the tears
that fell by the dozen as he tied together the three riderless horses that
would never be mounted again. He could not ever tell anyone of the fear that
gripped him at any moment that he too would be taken and devoured and lost to
the ages. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He drained the tankard in one
gulp, no longer feeling refreshed by the contents, and sighed. All these faces
would expect something more from him. Another tale told, perhaps, or even a new
one made. Yes, they would expect him to go forth once again to fight some other
great evil, and he simply could not do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Abruptly, he stood, and
forced his way through the crowd, feeling the ripple of disappointment spread
as he made for the exit. Through the pike smoke and the press of unwashed
bodies he fought, not meeting a single disappointed gaze, nor heeding a single
pleading word. He stumbled out onto the wooden walkway and slammed the door
shut behind him, bracing it with his weight before eager observers could force
it open.</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Slowly, he sank to the
ground, and cast off his dented and pitted armour. The bracers and helmet he
set at his side, and then unclasped the cuirass, letting it fall away at the
front before shifting and allowing the rear plate to slide down behind him. He
reached round and cast it aside, completing the pile of worn metal. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
In the night air, sounds from
inside barely seemed to reach him; a few steps had altogether separated him
from their world. A honed warrior’s sense told him a scuffle had broken out
within the inn, and that it was safe to move away from the door; anyone inside
would be too busy not getting battered to pursue him. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He rested his hands on the
wooden fencing that stood between him and the black water below, and stared
into it, seeing the rippling reflections gaze back. A mirror of the stars above
was so far distant from its heavenly origin, and the lights that shone in the
water were lesser than those in the air. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
His own face, too, was
something different; the mirror-him did not have the tears on his cheeks, or
old scars on his brow, or a permanent frown etched on his visage. It did not
carry the burden of lost comrades on a foolish errand, or the expectation of
greater victories born from a single lucky escape. It was another him, and
maybe, it was the him he used to be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Maybe, that was why the
followed him, even into the dragon’s lair, that most ancient of terrors. Yes,
they followed that younger, stronger, better man. The man not yet a hero. They
followed him, and he hated them for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The two brothers who had
fallen as the others tried to escape, barely more than boys. They could still
be brawling in the desert dust if they hadn’t seen something in him that made
them follow. <span style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">That brave shield-maiden from
the north that stood by him until the very last, until she too was torn apart
could be with her tribe, none the wiser but safe, so safe. The toff’s boy, out
for adventure, could still be with his father, pestering him for the coin to
travel the land, bored but alive.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<span style="text-indent: 11.35pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
But no, they had all followed
him blindly, as so many men had before, and now they too were dead. Dead like
the band that stood with him at the Grey Pass against the Orcen, or the army he
led in retreat at the Fields of Fire. All those men and women and boys that
would haunt his dreams, all following that man that stared back from the calm
waters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The reflection was shattered,
the mirror cracked by the point of his sword as he hurled it down into the
depths of the water. He didn’t even realise he had drawn the blade, and now it
was gone, sunk to the depths of that stilling lake, lost. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Next to fall were the gauntlets,
cast from his wrists into the dark water, and piece by piece, the rest of the
armour was similarly discarded. Piece by piece, he stepped away from that life
that had seen so much death, and stared aimlessly into the night for something
new. The sounds from behind him subsided, and soon, all was silent, cold and
still. The water settled, the dark closed in, and he was left to wonder. What
now? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The boy watched from the
shadows as this hero of heroes stared, mad-eyed and motionless, into the dark.
He was unarmoured now, and there was no sword at his side. For a moment, the boy
did not understand; the stories of the bold Dragonslayer and the broken figured
before him trying desperately to reconcile themselves in his fevered
imagination.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
How could this man, so bold
and proud and might, be reduced to something so mortal, so fragile? In the
moonlight, the boy thought he saw tears on the old warrior’s face, and this too
he did not understand. Brave warriors did not cry. Little boys, scared of their
schoolmasters, cried. Mothers watching their sons leave for glorious battle
cried. But warriors did not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Seized by a concoction of
boyish intrigue and a slight fear, not for himself but for the man before him, he
stepped out onto the walkway, out of the shadow of in inn, and stood quite
visible in the moonlight. The warrior did not turn. He took another step, and
another and another.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Loud, so loud, a plank creaked
under his foot, and in a flash the warrior turned, suddenly alert, hands going
for a blade that was not as hit side. Then, frozen as if bewitched, he seemed
to wither a dozen years, and collapsed to his knees, eyes fixed with horror on
the boy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The boy didn’t step back, or
run away, or do any of the cowardly things that the voice in the back of his
head commanded, and nor did he heed the imagined warnings of his mother about
talking to strangers at night. This was no stranger; this man was a hero, and
he knew it. There was nothing else to do, in that childhood mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“’Scuse me, Sir. Yer all
right, en’t ya?” he asked, taking another tentative step forward. The man made
no reply. “I asked if you was all right.” He repeated. Still nothing but the
look of terror on the warrior’s face. The boy laughed in the moonlight. “Ha, ‘course
yer all right, yer a man, and a hero, and you’s killed dragons, en’t ya? ‘Course
yer all right. Just a bit too much o’ the ale, then?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He turn cheerily to go,
leaving the warrior to his silent madness. What more could he do? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Before he could take a step,
an icy cold hand closed around his trailing wrist, and the boy turned again, to
stare into those incensed eyes that were only inches from his own. He slowly
withdrew his arm, and it slipped through suddenly relaxed fingers. He could
almost feel the strength of this greatest of men ebbing away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Yer all right, Sir?” he
asked for the third time, this time unable to hide the tremor in his voice that
existed somewhere between fright and awe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“No, lad, I’m not, and I shan’t
imagine I will be.” He replied sullenly, and the boy felt his heart beating
faster. The Dragonslayer, the legend himself, was deigning to talk to him. It
took him too long to find words, and the warrior spoke again. “Not all right.
There’s good men and a good woman dead because of me, and I come back, and they
call me a hero.” At this point, the boy had no choice but to interject; he
would not be lied to. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Buy y’are a hero!” he
insisted. “Who else’d creep inta a Dragon’s lair and face the beast? Who else’d
beat it? You gotta be, sir, ‘cos all them folks in there think y’are. Yer an ‘ero
to them, sir. Yer an ‘ero to me.” His voice trailed off. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“A hero to you? Tell me, boy,
you ever lifted a sword? Fired a gun? Course you haven’t, and mark my words,
you die having done none of them things, you’ll die an old and lucky man.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“But what about the glory,
sir? The adventure? Surely that’s worth it, en’t it?” He gave a hollow bark,
shattering the night quiet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Glory? What do we know of
glory, we warriors? We make our living in other men’s death, and taking what
don’t below to us, and we come back and you think us good men for it. There’s
no glory in the killing, boy, and even less in the deaths.” He wiped a tear
from his unblinking eye, and the boy could tell he was nearly sobbing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Ya lost someone, sir?” he
asked, and the man nodded, nearly whimpering, so far apart from the bold, brash
and confident façade he had worn inside. Without knowing quite why, the boy
placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’m sorry, sir, for yer loss. But grieving
won’t bring ‘em back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“You think I don’t know that,
boy?” the man shook his hand away, and rose to his full height. He glared down,
a shadow against the moon, and almost snarled. “They’re not coming back, boy,
and neither am I. You’ve had your hero, you’ve watched him, now you’ve met him.
Tell me, boy,” he went on, leaning in closer, “am I what you expected? Eh? EH?
Is this the man you think of as a hero?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The boy stepped back,
uncertain, and for the first time realising he had been scared the whole time,
but too proud in front of this man he praised so highly to admit it. His breaths
became shallower, his hands got clammy. It was all he could do not to run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Nnn…no, sir. It en’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“And what was it you did
expect? Tell me, boy!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Just a few more moments. A
few more moments, and the guards would come, and they’d take this mad man away.
Just a few more moments. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“To tell the truth, sir, I
expected something… better.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
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“Better, sir.” The boy
laughed, and then laughed at the fact he was laughing. It was a brittle,
shaking laugh, but it was a laugh. “’Cos all them things ya did; I thought all
of ’em was for us, and I thought that ya’d know that, and that that was why ya did
them in the first place. But no. No, you did them for yerself, and yer gonna
stop doing them now, for yerself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I have that right, boy.” he seethed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“No, you don’t. ‘Cos when you
picked up that sword, and killed them men and orcs and whatnots, we was safe,
and we trusted in ya to keep us that way. And now yer walking away and ya don’t
get it. You got a duty to us, sir, and if you don’t do it, all of us is gonna
die someday.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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There was no answer, and by
the time the boy had finished looking around, even the sound of boot steps was
fading into the night, leaving him there to cry like he had been wanting to
ever since he saw that man, staring into the dark. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He cried for that man he knew
he’d never see again, and his friends that he’d never see, and cried for
himself for the lie he’d believed. But most of all, he cried for those people,
safe and snug in their beds, that had no one now to defend them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And in that moment, he knew
what he would do, and the world seems to fall away to let him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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*** <o:p></o:p></div>
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A boy’s hand plunges into icy
midnight water, sending ripples across the surface, smudging reflections out of
existence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Thin fingers fumble in the
dark, groping for something they had lost, desperately trying to hold on to
nothingness<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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After an age of wandering
they find their prize, seize it, and pull, five fingers on cold metal, and soon
they are joined by five more in that struggle to pull from the depths a memory
and a ghost and a shadow. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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And then it is done, and the
hands rise, and a blade pulls free from the silt, soaring upwards and glinting
in the moonlight. The metal reflected a smile; it had a purpose again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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***</div>
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Author's Notes: </div>
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- For this piece, I've adopted two rather different and idiosyncratic narrative viewpoints, in an effort to create contrast between young and old, reality and expectation, despair and hope and experience and innocence. Interestingly, though, by the end of the piece the young boy ends up claiming a moral high ground over his former hero, in many ways growing as a character just through his 1000 or so words of involvement. He's certainly not the same at the start as at the end. </div>
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<br /></div>
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- The other thing I inadvertently found myself doing with this one was fulfilling a brief I read months ago in which one character teaches another, but in turn learns something profound through the process. However, in this case, that comes through the presentation of the learner rather than the teacher, so it's left to the imagination to decide what exactly was learned by the elder 'teacher'. It also highlights the fine line between wisdom and naivety; the boy may seem to be idealistic and childish, but above all he's right, which is part of what triggers the reaction. </div>
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<br /></div>
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- The last section is really groundwork for expanding the story rather than this piece itself, but I thought I'd leave it in for the sake of it. Perhaps unfortunately, I now envision a much larger work growing from this, so I shall see where this leads... </div>
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As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a comment below. </div>
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Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-70357775699848892862014-06-24T15:42:00.000+01:002014-06-24T15:42:04.711+01:00CILIP Carnegie Winner 2014 announced:Reassessing The Bunker Diary (again...)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Yesterday afternoon, the winner of the UK's most prestigious book prizes
was announced, and my utter disbelief, that winner was none other than the
novel I reviewed back in March as being the most disturbing, distressing and
utterly unsuitable book I have yet to encounter on the Carnegie Shortlist:
Kevin Brooks' The Bunker Diary.<br />
<br />
<b>So why did it win? </b><br />
<br />
Setting aside my own personal opinions of the novel itself for just a moment, I
want to consider some of the reasons why this book has been selected as the winner,
despite being surrounded in controversy and regarded with disgust by several
readers, both those I have read online and those I have encountered
personally.<br />
<br />
'The Carnegie Medal panel can’t resist a controversy,' </span><a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/10920101/The-Bunker-Diary-why-wish-this-book-on-a-child.html"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The Telegraph's Lorna
Bradbury writes</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">, and I cannot help but wonder if this is the case. Certainly, there has
been no attempt to shy away from controversial subjects, and the majority of
the shortlists in recent years have included a deliberately contentious novel,
thrown in among innocent children's books to place a cat firmly among the
pigeons. In 2011, it was Jason Wallace's Out Of Shadows, which deals with
racism, violence and class oppression in Zimbabwe, in 2012 it was Ruta
Sepetys's Between Shades of Grey, which presented a harrowing presentation of
life as a minority in the Stalinist regime. In light of this, it can't be
denied that the judges are no strangers to putting books on the shortlist that
pull no punches. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">But even considering their track record, The Bunker Diary stands apart
from such novels. There is no lesson to be learned from the book. There is no
theme to be presented. There is nothing to take away of any meaning. As I
discuss in </span><a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/03/the-bunker-diary-what-is-it-all-about.html"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">this article</span></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">, there are themes
that <i>could </i>be detected, such as the overriding atheist
nihilist perspective on life, but only after extensive analysis of the plot,
character and content. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The upshot of the victory is an upsurge in publicity for both the medal
and its winner, which will, of course, lead to greater book sales and awareness
for both. Whether it is the journalists that are praising the win as marking a
'new direction' in children's literature, or those like myself lambasting the
choice, it's all more publicity for the writer (who has produced several
similarly disturbing reads) and the medal (which presents itself as the
foremost prize for children's writing. While this is no bad thing, I find it a
worrying prospect that this most depraved of books will soon be being placed
into the hands of unwary children. Is the publicity gained by CILIP worth those
many nightmares, I wonder? </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">More to the point, are such themes as do exist in the novel right to be
presented to children? (They are, after all, the target age group of the
Carnegie medal, as much as 'Young Adult' is the word of the day). Of course
they are not. But maybe, the judges and most of the readers remain, by dint of
age and outlook, blind to this. I was lucky enough to join a discussion group
on the book before the winner was announced, and found that I alone was
horrified by it; none of the other adults or children in the group shared my
opinions. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The adults suggested they were less shocked as they were perfectly aware
of the horrors of life, and of the issues around violence and drug use
presented in the novel. The children, on the other hand, seemed to miss the
point in several cases. Some remarked that the book was 'boring and
repetitive', citing horrifying scenes such as the suicide of a character using
his own glass eye as a knife and the attack of a rabid dog as 'exciting'
highlights in an otherwise boring novel. So perhaps, it is nothing more than
ignorance that has taken this novel to the top of the list; the adults already
know what it's going to say, the children self-censor it to the point where
they are blissfully unaware of the bleakness and depravity. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">There is also the argument that children and teen literature is taking a
turn towards presenting more adult themes through dystopia that renders the
Bunker Diary nothing more than a natural extension of such a trend. What this
argument fails to consider is the context within which Brooks and other authors
present their chosen subject matter. Themes of murder, drug use and cannibalism
are just as common in Michael Grant's bestselling Gone series as in The Bunker
Diary, but presented in an altogether different environment. Grant's works are
set in a town surrounded by an impenetrable forcefield, in which mutations are
triggering young people to exhibit strange powers. In other words, the whole
thing is a science-fiction fantasy, and while every bit as well-written and
-presented as Brook's novel, it is ultimately far-removed from what life
'really' is. Brooks, on the other hand, has a habit of writing far too close to
reality in this and other novels, making the content all the more vivid and relatable.
While I don't deny that as a purely literary feat, it is a great achievement to
present such matters so vividly, it is not something that should be being
pressed into the hands of children. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">The only other answer I can think is that the novel was selected as a
winner was purely for its literary value, and having not read the remainder of
the competition, I can't pass judgement in that regard other than to say that
The Bunker Diary is, for what it is, well-written, but as I point out above,
rather too well-written. I also don't think the value of that outweighs the
potentially damaging effect that the novel may have on a reader that is no
thoroughly prepared for what awaits. Given that the book will now be being
presented in bookshops worldwide as what is essentially the 'children's book of
the year' without any kind of warning or alert about the content is a thought
that is alarming in itself. As adults who read (and presumably understood) the
book, do the Carnegie judges not have a duty of care to ensure that, if this
book is to be plastered across bookstores, it is done so in a way that makes it
quite clear the journey to the final pages will not be at all pleasant? </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This, then, is my real issue with the book: it <i>should not </i>be
presented to children in the way that a Carnegie medal winner </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">inevitably</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"> will, and to
me, selecting it as a winner is at best misguided, and at worst, irresponsible
and dangerous. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">So what is it about? Is this time to reconsider?</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">One question that has been playing on my mind, aside from why the novel
was successful in winning the prize, is precisely what Brooks aimed to achieve
with it, and there are some clues in his reaction to receiving the award. In
his acceptance speech, Brooks suggested an interest in challenging the 'ingrained'
attitude that books must offer some hope, or reach a satisfying conclusion, and
also stated that 'teenagers do not want' to be presented with what he termed
'artificial hope' in novels. He concluded that it would be 'patronising' to
reward the readers who survived his harrowing novel with something even close
to a happy ending. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have to take issue with this; if anything, an ending that provides a
hint of positivity or hope acts to make the previous events more poignant.
While it is a harsh fact of reality that happy endings are largely the realms
of fairy tales, that doesn't mean that such depraved reality and utter nihilism
that is seen in The Bunker Diary needs pressing into the hands of children
that, in many cases, are largely unexposed (or so I would like to think) to the
events and situations presented within. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">Brooks puts a lot of focus on how the number of young people 'reading
for pleasure' is dropping and becoming a minority, but then produces a book
that is impossible to enjoy, which seems something of a dichotomy to me. To me,
reading for pleasure is something synonymous with escapism, and escapism is not
in any way compatible with depravity, cannibalism, insanity or extreme and
undiluted violence of character. There seems to be a thread within Brooks' work
of moral ambiguity, and that reaches a head in The Bunker Diary. His comment
about it being 'patronising' to provide all the facts or answer questions or
offer hope strikes me as a sign he is out of touch with readers. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">This may perhaps be a less innocent age than the heyday of The
Chronicles of Narnia or The Famous Five, but sometimes, we as readers <i>want </i>a
sense of justice. We <i>want </i>the Good Guys to win and the Bad
Guys to get their comeuppance. We <i>want</i> the hero to escape and
be rewarded in some way for his endurance of the unendurable. Leave the grim
realism to the newspapers; it's impossible to escape the sometimes horrible
real world if we are only presented with the same in fiction. There is a line
between fiction and reality that Brooks does cross expertly well, but it's
arguable as to whether he does so in a way that warrants being given to
unprepared, unsuspecting children. There is no education to be had from The
Bunker Diary; even the obvious 'don't talk to strangers' that one would expect
to result from the capture of the bunker's inhabitants does not exist. They
were all powerless to prevent their capture. The only moral is that 'as flies
to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport', or in the
case of The Bunker Diary, abandon us and let us kill ourselves. Not really a
message we want to be presenting to children, is it? </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;">So the Carnegie medal is over for another year, and a novel that is
unprecedented among the winners for its sheer and devastating bleakness has
been blindly selected as a winner. I remain convinced that it even being
selected for the shortlist was a mistake, and appalled that it won. Feel free
to leave a comment about anything in the article, and as always, thanks for
reading. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-26424317823329610612014-06-20T18:26:00.000+01:002014-06-20T21:50:42.919+01:00And Now For Something Completely Different...As the title suggests, I've taken something of a departure from my recent work with today's piece. History has been cast aside for Fantasy, something I've written a fair bit of but not really given much time to on this blog. Anyway, as always, the story is below, and the notes follow. Enjoy.<br />
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<i><u>Scale, Tooth and
Claw<o:p></o:p></u></i></div>
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They stumbled along on two legs two few, these stunted
creatures that had dared end His aeons-long slumber. Their high pitched cries
echoes around the gantries high above and swooped to assail its ears, ears unused
to sound after so long in silence. The interlopers scurried into the shadows
once again, and well they might. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For long ages of the world, he had waited in this deep
place, guarded by a darkness that was more than the absence of light. No one
had dared approach from the worlds of men, and those worlds had faded from
memory; nothing more to Him than dreams of empires He had laid low, cities in
flames and those endless droves of two-legged cattle that could sate even His
mighty hunger. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And now, that age was over; silence was now noise,
stillness was motion, and so many things He had forgotten were remembered.
Surprise soon fell away to a long-dormant thrill of the hunt; the subtle tang
of fear in the air was a sensation so long gone, but so sublime. He snarled a
gloating warning; He would take his time with these ones, as was His will. <o:p></o:p></div>
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First, He recalled, came the wait. The wait that would
pass in the blink of a heavy-lidded eye, for these creatures had not the
patience of His kind. An age for them was one beat of His iron heart. Soon
enough, they would show themselves, betray themselves to his majesty, offer
their frail forms for the taking. It would be a spasm of movement or the
slightest sound that gave him away. And there it was, as close as it always was
to one of His immense stature. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A noise he recalled from so long ago, the high-pitched
and quivering sound of fear made manifest. It was so very familiar, that sound,
and it awoke something deep inside him. The furnace of his breath that had been
cold for centuries suddenly burst again into flame, burning up from within and
waited to be unleashed. But not yet. First, he would chase them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As one, the huddled group stepped into the lighter
darkness, believing themselves hidden, no doubt. The shadows no impediment to
His sight, and he saw their spindly forms slinking away, fumbling across mounds
of hoarded gold. One, He noted, dared even pocket a single coin. The theft was
unforgivable<o:p></o:p></div>
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The distance between them was swallowed up in a single
stride, buoyed by a beat of gigantic wings, and for a moment, he was before
them, the fire of his eyes bathing them in a ruddy glow, and then came the
chase. They would run, and he would let them, for the valiant deserved a
glimmer of hope, and they were bold indeed to end his sleep. So He would test
them, and watch them fail. And then He would kill them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The group scattered and reformed between mountains of
treasure, a fluid, moving flock that would offer a worthy pursuit. He toyed
with them, as was his habit, allowing them brief moments of peace and refuge,
moments of before plunging down from on high or bursting from beneath the piled
gold, scattering it and them to the shadows. It was entertaining, this game
they played, and he would let it go on for as long as he chose. What was left
of their life was his to control; what was made of it was their own to decide.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Move for move He matched them, a hundred of their tiny
steps made redundant by one of his, and the rush of air as the backdraft of His
great wings sucked the very air from the chamber would throw them from their
feet. Shakily they would rise, marvelling at their continued existence, and
keep running, still refusing to accept the inevitable: that they were nothing
more than prey. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He was fully alive now, muscles and flesh and sinew that
had not moved in millennia now flexed in elated anticipation; they would make
no more than a morsel, but revenge and this re-found exhilaration would sate
Him for now. And then out, out into the world where new empires would have
risen from the ashes of the old, ripened by time and now fresh and tender; a
feast waiting for Him that none could deny. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A pair of intruders halted while the others fled, and
turned to face Him, and raised sticks that breathed fire. So, it was a warrior’s
death they sought. Then he would grant it. A swipe of a claw sent them left, a
slicing wing right, and then a darting mouth agape forced them stumbling
back, sprawling at His feet. At His
mercy. They raised the fire-sticks again, and something new happened.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The sensation was strange to Him. Sharp, small objects slid
from his scales, a minor annoyance but one he relished. An acrid taste that was
not quite smoke pricked at His nostrils. There was even the kind of pain he had
not felt in centuries, a dull ache behind each impact. But it was no matter; what
weapons they had conjured in the long centuries of His negligence would be no
match for iron scales and ivory claws and the flames that came from so deep
within.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Flames that now burst forth from that place, and filled
this marble cavern he had made his own, a temple to his might, turning gold
undisturbed for centuries to molten flows and charring white stone black. How
could any hope to resist? But still they did, darting this way and that, scattering
where the flames took root and cowering where they thought he could not reach. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One of the fire-stick-bearing trespassers fell to the
cascade of fire, burnt to cinders in a flash and snapped up in a burning maw. A
mouthful, but the first of many. Two more were pinioned by razor claws, their
bodies rent and torn and consumed moments later. The chase was over, the feast
was begun. Only one more remained. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
And where could it be, this most elusive of creatures? It
mattered now; let it cling to its last few moments, cowering in the dark and
savour them. He would savour its terror. The strong kill the weak, and He was
the strongest. This last creature, this petty blight on his magnificence, would
soon be as cold and dead as the corners he trembled in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Again, that dull ache came, and with it, a sound like the
crackling of timber in a forest fire or the crack of a claw on stone. A second
sound, and this time he caught sight of a flash, like lighting but brighter. This
new weapon was strange, fascinating. Valuable, and he would have it. A scaled
head turned to face the light where, again, the lone figure was illuminated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He would be shown some respect in death, for it was no
small thing to face a Dragon and stand his ground. His death would be fast, but
honourable. One limb at a time, He turned to face this bold prey, and inclined
His head, His serpentine neck reaching out in a salute that was not mocking or
cruel. A warrior this man had lived, and a warrior he would die. He prepared
Himself for the final blow, a single bite that would end- <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The pain was unbearable, an angry biting burning stinging
stabbing flailing fiery pain. A pain he had never felt before, and something
hot and red fell onto the gold below. Every piece of His being screamed in
abject agony and in that moment the world was darker; the vision of the warrior
vanished and was replaced by blackness. How? Why? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
By the time the pain subsided and His eye stopped burning,
the scent of flesh had long gone; only the acrid smoke and metallic tang of
spilt blood remained heavy in the air. Slowly, sluggishly, He became aware it
was his blood that had fallen in drop and spread in thick pools across the
cavern floor. The thought of that red liquid outside his thick hide was
alarming. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Tentatively, he dipped a claw in the pools and brought it
to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste it on instinct and recoiling at
the metallic sharpness. He lifted the claw higher, and watched the liquid drip
to the floor where it splashed and rippled out in neat circles. He shifted His
head again, and then stopped. Where he had once seen, there was now darkness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Gently, his tongue flicked up and probed the eye, met
with the same taste of shed blood. Blinded. Blind. A roar of rage escaped
unbidden, causing tremors in the rock. A hide armoured thick that had defended
him from a thousand shafts and blades, and this new weapon had found His one
point of weakness. He was drowned in respect for this warrior, and something
else, something he only knew by instinct. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Fear. He was afraid. Not so invincible as He had once believed,
and where one had succeeded, now many more would follow. They would come in
their hundreds as news spread of a Dragon laid low, a Dragon spited, and they
would bring more of those fire-sticks. Enough, maybe, to hurt Him further. Enough,
maybe, to slay him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
No, that would not do, for He was greatest among
creatures, and he would not be cowed. Revenge would be had; a warrior’s fate
had been offered and spurned, and this time He would not snow mercy. Cities
would burn before His honour was restored, His vengeance had. It was time, once
more, for Him to emerge and remind the peoples of all the lands why they left
in slumbering in peace. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
One beat of his wings carried him into the air, another
set Him sailing across the cavern and up, up to the mountain’s spire, where
long ages ago he had sundered stone and descended into the dark. Now, at last,
He would return, and the worlds would again know the terror that came with
every beat of His wings and each gout of flame that issued forth from between
razor teeth. The light was in sight now, and He flew towards it, out, out into
the world, heralded by flames. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Smoke rose slowly
through the mountaintop and blackened the sky, and with that smoke, carried in
the shadows, came a darker shadow, and a roar of a new age dawning. Wings
spread to blot the sun, and cataracts of flame harboured in the stomach of this
most ancient of creatures replaced its light; for miles, all was bathed in fiery
light, a forewarning of something so old and so new. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Somewhere in that roiling mass of smoke and flame,
reptilian lips parted in a cruel smile, and the slits of a single dome-like eye
scoured this new land he did not know. Hurricane wingbeats would carry him to
where the cattle was richest, and steely talons would prepare the prey. Fiery
breath would cleanse His kingdom, and once all this was done, colossal jaws
would feast as they had aeons before. The world was changing, and the dragon
would take His place as its master. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br />
***</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Author's notes: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- The idea for this one came to me when considering the
nature of Dragons in various fantasy settings; they're mostly shown as either
intelligent but subservient to other races, willingly or otherwise, or they're
portrayed as mindless beasts. So at some level this was my attempt to restore
balance to the Force, and represent the dragon in a way one rarely sees<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- The character of the Dragon in this one is something
that I've left deliberately ambiguous. I've tried not to make him a force for
good, because he's not, but I don't think he reads as inherently evil either.
He's doing what he does because, as far as he is concerned, he is the strongest
creature alive, and has that right to do as he pleases. There's an arrogance to
him, but only because he's better and he knows it. So maybe he's evil, or maybe
he's just doing what he thinks is natural. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- In the style of writing style itself, I've tried to
straddle the line between archaic and melodramatic, to add to the impression of
the dragon being an ancient force, slightly out of touch but also convinced of
his own power; he's not being over the top, just revelling in his own power.
Again, I aim for this to add to the ambiguity of the narrator. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- So what is this all for? Well, it may be just a one
off, but on the other hand, I've got a few other ideas kicking around that
would entail a degree in world-building. Several characters could easily fit
this setting, and I quite like the idea of it becoming a series of sorts, but
with no real plot other than some very overarching themes, simply exercises in
character and style. I've chosen the fantasy setting as it allows me to be far
more idiosyncratic in writing than any other kind of world, and gives a lot of creative
freedom, a blank canvas so to speak. So there may well be more in this series of 'snapshots' in the near future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
As always, thanks for reading, any comments are welcome<o:p></o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-63812632061546359322014-06-18T10:53:00.000+01:002014-06-18T10:54:52.809+01:00After The FactAnother instalment in The Poet's War today, and again, this one is a direct sequel to the last.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<b><i><u>After The Fact<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<b><i><u>20<sup>th</sup> February 1915<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Everything had gone wrong,
and the words had stopped. The blood that splashed across the trench wall was
just blood, the look of dawning comprehension on the young boy’s face before
the knife fell and froze it was simply that. He understood, and he died. Smith
always wished he had been the one to do it; unlike Johnson he would not have
relished the deed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The mission had, according to
the papers at his fingertips, gone off without a hitch. Two maps and a sheaf of
probably useless papers had been recovered, only one man had been killed (a
hero’s death, the letter he had yet to sign assured the bereaved family) and
there were two less Germans in the world. In his more lucid moments, Smith
couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere just a few hundred yards away, another
man was sitting in this same place, papers waiting on another desk to tell half
the story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
And somewhere, he knew that
three men lay face-down in the mud, blood joining that of a thousand others,
all red, red, red. Private A. (Alan? Adrian? Anthony?) Carter, the letter told him, and all he could
do was sign it. That was the closest he’d come to ever knowing the man, this
same letter that he’d sent too many times before. And two other men, who to all
intents nothing more than numbers on a report, neatly filled out and filed and
forgotten. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He reached for the whiskey,
trying to recall if it was his second or third of the night. It didn’t matter; he
didn’t do this often. But there were days like this that merited something a
little stronger than coffee. From the corner of his eye, Smith noticed Johnson
giving him a suspicious glare, but ignored it and slammed the glass back to the
desk. He would not be condemned by the man he had seen smile as he took a life.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He folded the papers away and
placed them in the prepared envelopes, and paused for a moment before placing
the lid on the pen. There was so much more to write, but where to write it. How
could he tell some far-off mother that her little Alan (he <i>looked</i> like an Alan) had died a hero’s death, how he screamed as
the bullet tore into his back as he tried to run, crying, for a home he could
never reach?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
How could he write the names
of the men he never knew in that tiny box that asked only for a number? No one
would ask, and no one would expect him to tell. This was now a war of
paperwork, and names didn’t matter. Only numbers, and the simple addition and
subtraction of human life. The glass came to his lips again, disappointingly
empty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Sir,” said Robson for the
third time, the words finally penetrating the haze of barbed-wire thoughts and
land-mine nightmares. “The van’s arrived for HQ, sir. Those forms, the letter.
You want me to run them up there, sir?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Smith struggled to his feet,
straightened his uniform into some semblance of order, and shook his head. “No,
Robson, it’s all right. I’ll do it. I could do with a walk.” He paused for a
second, catching Robson’s face fall in that way it always did when told to wait
behind. Maybe he was being a little harsh on the boy, but he needed to get out
of the dugout. “You can join me if you want, lad. Christ knows no one likes
sitting around here.” He shot a pointed glance at Johnson, who did not look up
from polishing his knife. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He would never wash the
stains away, Smith thought, thinking of Macbeth and that terrible butchery of
it the dramatics society had put on in 1912. The mad man, huddling in the
middle of the stage, backlit and howling, soaking his hands in red paint that
would not wash off. Melodrama at its worst, and yet oddly appropriate in this
emphasised, vivid hell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Robson left the dugout in
Smith’s shadow, the light momentarily obscured and then splintered around the corporal’s
form. He noted the revolver at his waist as the handle caught the light, and
for a second, envied the fact it had been used so recently, while his own rifle
lay unfired by his bunk. The corporal had been given the chance he had not; why
did he look so broken and haunted in the early morning glare? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He struggled to keep pace
through the mud, and all too often slipped from the soaked duckboards, saving
himself only by a hand shoved against the trench wall. Smith did not once look
back to help him or reprimand him. It was as if he were in another place
entirely. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Even when they passed Anders,
cheerily heading back towards the dugout with his latest culinary ammunition,
Smith didn’t return the greeting of the only man he seemed a friend with,
staring resolutely ahead and barely even breaking his step to let the batman
past. Robson nodded a good morning, but was similarly ignored. Everyone seemed to
be in their own world this morning, and as always, he was an outsider to all of
them. Quite what he had been expecting he had almost forgotten, but it was not
this half-silence and muttered curses and constant fear and anger. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The corporal had his own
problems; every day the whiskey bottle he kept on his desk was emptier, and
every night he was the last one to sleep, sitting up into the long hours of the
morning with nothing but a glass and that bloody ever-present notebook. Robson
found himself unable to care what he disclosed to those pages. It didn’t
matter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Johnson, he was out just for
revenge. There was only one reason he spent hours cleaning an re-cleaning his
rifle and bayonet, and it wasn’t for inspection; his boots went unpolished, his
uniform unpatched. He lived only to deny others that state. Robson could
understand that; it was the most base and inexplicable aspect of human nature
he knew all too well. Those that cannot have do what they must to deny others
the same. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Anders, well, he was just the
cook. And the cleaner. And whenever there was something to be done, he’d do it.
He kept the dugout running while Johnson and the corporal tore themselves apart
with their demons. But where was the glory in that? Did the ageing man sometimes
wonder what it would be like to rise up over that flimsy barricade, into the
wasteland and wait for something new to come? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
And Robson, what was he? An
outsider to all of these, a stranger they refused to come to know. He was a
hero-to-be that would never get to claim that right. He was betrayed, victim of
so many promises not delivered on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
No, he was a soldier, and he
would do his duty while these other, lesser men fought themselves. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
*** </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
- This one is very much a character piece; you get a very introspective view of the inner workings of Smith's mind and how's it's changing, and then the complete opposite of that in Robson's deliberately flawed analysis of each character in turn. Obviously, Robson's thoughts are too idiosyncratic to be reliable, but one also has to question whether Smith has kept enough of a grip on reality to be a trustworthy narrator. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
- The change in narrator is meant to add to that effect, and work to create an impression that it's impossible to understand this situation. Smith and Robson both have such diametrically opposed views that they can't both be right, but the question is, are either of them? Well, I shan't spoil it here, but there's going to be a lot more of that going forward, and I may even re-write some of the narratively later pieces to begun to tie all of this together a little more. It's rather strange to see how far this story has come from its beginning that was the end, and how it really has taken on a life of its own. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Thanks for reading, and as always, feel free to leave a comment. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-34269872512198732132014-06-12T21:42:00.003+01:002014-06-18T10:46:54.475+01:00The SentryIt's been a while since I've had time to write anything decent, but I've finally managed to put together the next piece in the Poet's War series. It's taken me a long time to decide where I wanted to take this one, but in hindsight I'm actually rather happy with the direction it's taken. Without further ado...<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<b><i><u>The Sentry<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<b>19<sup>th</sup> February 1915, France<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
In the dark, the party were
almost invisible as they crawled across the emptiness of no-man's-land; their
presence was only betrayed by the tiniest movements and shifts in the blackness
to a deeper shade. Shadows in the dark, silent and deadly. Ghosts in the night.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<i>‘Ghosts in the night?’ Where
did that come from?</i> Robson thought as he watched from afar, casually peering
through the gap between the sandbags, fighting for a glimpse of Smith and the
others before they vanished from sight. <i>Must be the corporal's blasted poems</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He kicked the dirt at his
feet and stared up at the stars and tried to think about anything but where
they were going and where he was not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
‘All this way for this, and
the bastards beat me to it. Typical.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Smith eased forward another
inch, all too aware of the scraping thudding sound his rifle was making against
the dirt, and the glint of moonlight at the point of his bayonet, and the
creeping, crawling sensation as some unseen, multi-legged insect tap-danced
across the back of his motionless hand. He resisted the urge to swat it away;
any move could mean death for him, or worse, for his comrades lying in the dirt
just feet from him, faces staring down, maybe wondering if the faces of their own
fallen brothers in arms were staring back up from the blackness of this
graveyard of the nameless, nationless dead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
What did it matter from where
the bone came that crunched under his shifting boot? Why did he suddenly care
about the name of the corpse whose foetid odour forced him to silence Johnson’s
gagging with a sharp nudge? Who these men were that lay in the mud with him,
living and dead, from worlds apart, were? Where they came from? None of it
mattered. And yet, it did. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Robson folded the photograph
back into his chest pocket, feeling his heart beat slightly faster against it,
and drew the letter from his pack, five days old and creased beyond
recognition. So many times he’d read and reread the meaningless words, and now
he was reading it again. It was too dark to see, but he knew it by heart now.
He sneered when she talked of an ‘afterwards’, when they could be together
again. He laughed when she promised him she’d wait for him; he wished she
wouldn’t. It would give him a reason to leave. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
His fingers tore
absent-mindedly at the corner of the crumpled paper, not quite ready to
complete the motion on and down and rip the hollow words apart, scatter them on
the still breeze that barely stirred the clouds above. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Robson tore his eyes from the
words he couldn’t read and scanned the grey-black yet again, but there was
nothing to see. Black sky showed through sheets of cloud, and white stars
through that, but nothing moved. Grey hills rolled away to the south and a sea
of mud stretched out before him, but nothing moved. Not a man or a beast or a
light or a sound in that terrible, terrible darkness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He knew that somewhere in
that dark, a thousand rifles lay ready to be taken up and bring the starlight
to this Earth. A thousand pairs of boots waited to be called to march forward,
into the open night, and bring it to life. A thousand eyes, or maybe just two,
watched this wasteland and waited for the call to arms, where drowned memories
and empty, unlooked-for promises could finally be forgotten in clashes of fire
and lead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Maybe it was just him, he
pondered. Maybe he alone was waiting for that moment; others had already had
their honour satisfied. Certainly Smith and Johnson had seen battle, even
Anders, the cook, bore scars along his cheek that twitched and narrated a
history of battle. ‘The Sudan’, he would say, ‘when I was in the Sudan…’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Yes. All of them were heroes
but him, and even now, Smith was crawling once more into the valleys of death
with his very own Light Brigade, men different from Robson only in that they
had been chosen while he was left aside. Did they not trust him? Had he not yet
proved himself? How could he, when all the duty he was given was to watch, and
wait, and wonder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Just yards from the trench
now, and once again, the words were building to a crescendo in Smith’s head.
The dirt was not dirt but <i>a brown river,
streaked with red, frozen with the weight of untold dead. </i>The moonlight was
not simply silver but <i>beams of day
pouring down, casting shadows on this darkening ground, where men and ghosts
must surely drown. </i>The wire he eased himself under was <i>a million barbs of purest spite, murderers in the still of the night. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He shook his head; this was
no good. The poetry could wait. He had a job to do. The others drew closer
around him, and on his signal, moved forward again, with more intent than
before. In Johnson’s eyes, the moonlight betrayed a pallid hunger for revenge
and death that would only be sated if everything went wrong. They would go in,
silent and deadly, and get out with a prisoner, leaving no trace. Ghosts in the
night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Smith peered over the edge of
the trench, drawing his rifle up beside him, and detached the bayonet, readying
it like a knife. He lodged the rifle against a fallen sandbag; in the confines
of the trench it would only slow him down. He gave the next signal, and as one,
they moved up and over the trench’s narrow walls, sliding down in an avalanche
of dirt and wood. Carefully as he could, he stifled the clattering planks, and
got to his feet. Ten minutes, and they would be gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<i>A pale face come round the corner, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<i>Aghast with fear, agape with wonder, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<i>And screaming with that final breath as-<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Everything went wrong. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
The night came to life, a
single flash and a million echoes of that flash, and fire rising up in bursts
from the distance. Screams began to cascade down, friend and foe
indistinguishable in the chaos, united only in pain and suffering. And with every
scream and rifle’s flash, someone was made a hero, in death or victory
immortalised. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Everyone except him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>***</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>Author's Notes: </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>- As noted in this post's introduction, this chapter posed something of a dilemma in direction in that it was my first chance to really depict Robson 'on the front' as it were, but at the same time, there is still a lot unresolved from the last chapter to feature Smith and Johnson. While the latter issues are only really hinted at in this piece, I wanted to make sure they were still there. Both threads of the story will be developed more, and hopefully brought together. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>I'm not yet at a point where I want Robson and Smith to be directly interacting, but at the same time, they both needed to feature in this story to exacerbate the difference between them. I'd already done that a bit in 'Shellshock' (chronologically after this piece) but by including the two perspectives on this same event, it threw up some interesting contrasts that almost wrote themselves. To Smith, the war is starting to become unimportant; the only thing he is fighting for is to save lives, it's no longer about flags and nations. Robson, on the other hand, is eager to be a part of the war but can't be for reasons that will become apparent later on. For him, the promise of glory is elusive, for Smith it has been proven to be a lie (in his first appearance, 'When the Clock Strikes Ten', Smith is not unlike the idealistic Robson seen here). </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>- Robson himself is a very interesting character to write, because there's so much contrast within him. He doesn't want to die, but longs for the chance to prove he can survive. He's pining after a woman who doesn't love him, while mocking a woman who feels that way about him (See 'The Making of the Man if you've lost track of what I'm on about). He's bored with the lack of action, but totally unprepared when it does come. So he is a fascinating character, although not a 'good' one; he holds double standards, longs for bloodshed but only to pursue innocent childhood dreams, and as such, he makes a very nice counterpoint for Smith's principles and sense of 'rightness'. I look forward to playing with that further down the line. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p>- Again, there's the lexical difference</o:p> between Smith and Robson; Smith describes things, Robson narrates them. There's some overlap, in an attempt to almost connect the two characters (but not quite), but Smith is certainly the more passive of the two, Robson the more active. In this piece, that contrasts a lot with the roles they find themselves in. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That's all for now. As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a comment. All the chapters I mentioned above can be found in the Ongoing Works tab in narrative order. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-19863741134656162912014-05-20T18:04:00.002+01:002014-05-20T18:04:42.497+01:00The Making of the ManToday, I have another piece of the First World War series, and it's an interesting reasons. In the larger narrative, it's the first introduction of a character that will feature heavily later on, and much like Smith's first and last chapter, there's a lot of symmetry with his own end.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<b><i><u>The Making of the Man<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Five years old, and summer,
and the children are playing, their whooping calls and laughs grating against
Robson’s ears as he stands apart from the crowd. He would never be one of them,
free to cavort and caper across the green fields, and to cheer in the warm air.
How could he hoot and be merry with those words in the back of his head? <i>Father isn’t coming home. </i>He could never
smile with them, and they hated him for it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Older now, and in a darker
place, and a fist slamming into his gut. He doubles over and splutters red on
the cobbles, and does nothing to stop the hands that begin to rifle through his
pockets. He has nothing to take anyway, but that won’t stop them. This isn’t about money, it’s about who he is,
and what he isn’t, and he isn’t one of them. He’s a target, nothing more, and
it’s all he can do to hide the tears as the fists come down again and again and
again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
She presses the soaked cloth
to his face, trying to wipe away the worst of the blood, but it’s no good. The
split lip has turned his chin red, and each cheek is an angry welt, scars from
a battle he has already lost and will lose again. There will be no hiding this
time, only mocking apathy and worse scorn. He looks up, into her diamond blue eyes,
and she smiles somehow. With him here bleeding and sore, she actually <i>smiles</i> as she takes his hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“A soldier,” she laughs. ”A hero.”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Everything stops hurting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Smile.” Comes the command,
and Robson forces his face into something like a grin, hand tightly gripping
hers, perhaps too tightly. He doesn’t want this moment to end; he wants more
than the photograph to be frozen in time. He could stay here forever. All too
soon, the flash comes, and she steps away slightly, leaving his smile to fade
with the receding glare on his retinas. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="display: none; mso-hide: all;">e could stahe
here foreer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Older still, lost in the smog
of London streets, another day at the factory stretching out endlessly before
him. Footstep by lethargic footstep he treads the cobbles, through the fog and
bustling crowds, no one sight lingering for more than a second. An old beggar
becomes a drunken youth that falls away and transforms again into a smart,
clean-shaven soldier smiling giddily at the world. The figured seems to
transfix Robson, a picture of another life, his father’s life; adventure and
glory awaits this man, worth the risk. This, Robson decides, is real freedom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Later, and the day has ebbed
away, second by second. He lifts the tankard to his lips and drowns his
exhaustion in the foaming beer, the world distorted by the emptying glass,
blurring shapes becoming solid once more. And those shapes, khaki and red and
diamond blue, entwined in the smoky corner of the bar. She stands there,
laughing, with a soldier and a hero and not him. Someone tugs at Robson’s
sleeve, waving a formless limb at the door and escape. He doesn’t even think
twice as he takes the hand of the girl he never loved and slips into the
oblivion of her arms. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
War. Britain is at war, and
every face in those serried ranks of khaki marching off reminded him of that
night where he lost everything to a faceless soldier. He looks away as the
crowd passes, as women throw themselves towards the green-brown line and are
thrown back, a cascade of flowers their parting gesture. Wherever these men are
going, they leave as heroes, and the men they leave behind are cowards. No one
will give him a second glance now. There is nothing left for him here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Name?” says the officer, and Robson stammers something unintelligible,
trying not to wither under his stare. “Name?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Robson. Ian Robson.” He says again, clearer this time, and
the officer nods. Robson wrings his hands as the next question comes, the one
that will decide his future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Age?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sixteen.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Eighteen.” He says. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Very good.” The officer frowns, but hands him the papers.
What is that in his face? Anger at being lied to? Jealousy that Robson has the
courage to fight while he sits here doling out forms? No, it’s pity, but he
doesn’t know why. He had lied, and the officer knows it, but what did it matter
now? Robson was going to war… <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The style for this piece is a very different one to a lot of this series, in several ways. First of all, it is written in a very 'instant' manner, and by that, I mean that it should hopefully be a bombardment of moments, an entire life on the page. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The other decision I made here was to narrate it in the present tense. I think this adds to the immediacy of the various scenes, and to the idea that everything is happening in a flash, as opposed to having already been and gone. I also wanted a direct contrast with Smith's sections- where Smith is slow and often poetic in his descriptions, Robson is very much more sudden in his way of looking at the world. If it doesn't 'happen', he loses interest, hence why this piece is so jumpy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- This piece also represents the start of Part 2 of the series, set in 1915, and should both contrast with the last chapter of Part 1 and lead nicely into the next few chapters. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- As a final note, I've edited Robson's first-written last-chronologically piece, Back To Life, to better reflect the themes and ideas that came to me in forming the character here. Check it out <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/as-mentioned-yesterday-here-is-next.html">here</a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's all for today. As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to comment. </div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-86120022490067195272014-05-08T18:35:00.000+01:002014-05-08T18:35:08.268+01:00A New Dawn?Today's piece is another instalment of the ongoing World War One series, The Poet's War, and follows on directly from the previous piece. As usual, newcomers can check where it fits in relation to the other pieces on the Ongoing Works page, and notes are below.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i><u>A New Dawn?<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<b>14<sup>th</sup> November 1914<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Stephens’ face stared blankly
back at nothingness as they lowered him silently into the shallow grave, in
truth little more than one of the less-flooded shell holes that littered what
was left of the trench amidst the craters, shattered structures and littered
detritus of battle. The eyes, unmoving and still, were what captivated Smith
the most, some morbid fascination preventing him from looking away. The rest of
Stephens’ face was a torn and bloody mess, ripped ragged by a single bullet,
but the eyes were untouched. He could be watching a play, or a game of cricket
on a summer’s afternoon with those staring, round, peaceful eyes, and they
would still look the same, so real, so alive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Alive in what Smith was
rapidly beginning to accept was a dead and dying world. Too many corpses lay
unrecovered in the chaotic ruins of what had once been a trench, too many
sights hinted almost casually at the scale of the death surrounding them.
Across that wasteland, nothing moved, nothing grew, and nothing lived. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Through the smoke that still
hung over the vacated battlefield, the odd flare or cry would go up, the
searchers and survivors locked in an ever-shorter game of Hide-And-Seek,
counting the seconds, not until they were found, but until that was immaterial.
A single tear rolled gently down his cheek, a gesture that seemed altogether
too insignificant for the sheer hell he found himself in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Just as suddenly as the world had burst into vivid live
as he had approached the front lines, every sight and sound and smell a
fusillade of words and lines, falling together and gone in seconds, it had
become quite dead equally quickly. Somewhere in the last four blood-soaked
days, the illusion had been shattered, the reality had become a nightmare, and
what had once seemed a wide open world had transformed in an instant into
something confined, trapped and claustrophobic.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
He couldn’t yet tell entirely
when the sudden transformation had occurred, only that it had. Maybe when
Stephens’ face, that same face he now looked down at, had been split red by the
first shot fired in anger. Maybe it was when the grey lines had moved across
the grey field, puppets jerking in haphazard motion ever closer. Maybe it was
when that grey met his khaki and both were made red, bayonets plunging in
riflelight. Or maybe, it was when he had stopped after days of alert readiness
and near-constant bloodshed, and finally slept, as dead to the world as the
corpses around him. Maybe that new dawn was what had finally tipped him
headlong into this nightmare. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“We should say something. You
should, sir.” Johnson muttered, the first words Smith had heard him offer since
the fighting had stopped. There was something new in his voice, but also
something gone, as if scorn had been relieved by a shattered pride. He had not
seen much of Johnson in the battle, but the giant man seemed somewhat
diminished by the ordeal, stooped over this shallow grave and looking as solemn
as if it were his own opened up before him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
“Aye.” Smith began, and then
paused as the words caught in his throat, which seemed to tighten around them
and force them back, intent on preserving the silence. He tried again. “Our
Father, who art… who art…” He could not bring himself to say Heaven in this
complete hell. “Ah, bugger it. Goodbye, Stephens. Goodbye, little Lenny
Stephens. Goodbye.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Smith pressed the shovel into
Johnson’s reluctant hands and turned away without another word, not meeting the
eyes that were deader than those of the corpse in the shallow pit. Some
detached fragment of his mind wondered what his own would reveal should he dare
to look. Ghosts in firelight of fallen men? Empty, dark spaces, a door to the
soul that had just departed? The same fixed stare that he couldn’t shake from
his mind? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
With every step away from the
open grace, the wet ground underfoot seemed more reluctant to let him leave,
grasping and clinging at his boots. Smith was tempted to let it keep him. Somehow,
what meagre ceremony had been held did no justice to their fallen friend; he
deserved something more. But then, others were still out there in the wasteland
and the gunsmoke mist, dead and dying and so alone. He should be grateful they
were able to give Stephens a send-off at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
After an age, another tear
fell, and this time it was one among many, a single tear for a dead friend
amidst a torrent for nameless others. Through blurred eyes he looked back at
the grave. Johnson had planted a makeshift cross of charred timber, and fallen
to his knees before it, occasionally wracked by silent sobs. Smith left him to
his grief; he would at least allow the man some dignity as he diminished. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Somehow, Smith was certain it
was over for now. Over for Christmas. Whether it was the first hints of snow in
the air, or the first silence of the relentless guns, or the complete lack of
anything left to fight for he did not know, but he knew another attack would
not come, at least until the new year. A winter, then, to grieve for the fallen
and rebuild the trenches that would be their only monument, and welcome with
open arms and forced smiles the men that would doubtless be sent to replace
them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
And then what? They could do
it all again when the winter ceased, or even before if they chose, and for
what? For the foreign soil that clung to his boots, unremarkable, worthless,
but urging him to stay with every step away? For the flag that hung in tatters
over a burned-down ruin where so many men had already given their lives? For the
hope that maybe, one day, far away, some other generation would not have to
face the same? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Without knowing how it got there,
Smith found the diary in his hand, miraculously unscathed despite the fighting,
and opened it to a fresh page, letting the blood and mud on his hands stain the
crisp whiteness; there was no purity here. Perched on an overturned barrel, pen
in hand, he began to try and put some meaning to all of this madness. For
minutes, maybe hours, nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
When, at last, the words
came, there were only two. It was enough. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="tab-stops: 68.65pt; text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<i>What Now? </i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
- The first thing I had in mind with this piece was to really bring to the fore something that has been a constant, if subtle, feature of this series from its inception, namely that what I really intend to focus on is not the actual fighting of the war but the myriad effect that it has on the men who took part. While it's tempting to write an out-and-out battle scene (and one may well be forthcoming further along), I think in this particular context, it's better to only hint at the real fighting rather than present it directly. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
-The other advantage of this is that it leaves the exact reality to the imagination, which no doubt does a far better job of presenting the sheer insanity and hell of the fighting than words could ever hope to. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
- This piece possibly the first one which really functions better as part of the narrative than as a standalone piece. Not only does it herald a complete change in both Smith and Johnson and their perceptions of the war, but it also occupies the position of a turning point in the tale as a whole. It is only now that the promise of being 'home for Christmas' (hinted at towards the end of the piece) becomes an impossibility and the true nature of the war is revealed. This will also contrast nicely with the introduction of a new character to present 'part 2' of the story, but that'll have to wait for now. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
That's all. As ever, thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment, and I hope you enjoyed the piece. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: 11.35pt;">
<br /></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-32175967386448227042014-05-06T20:52:00.001+01:002014-05-06T20:53:19.625+01:00Words for the Living, Words for the DeadTime for another piece of fiction, and another piece in the ongoing First World War serial. To see where this one slots into the narrative, see <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/p/ongoing-works.html">here</a>. From now on, the works in this series will be broadly in narrative order as I've just about managed to fit it all together. Without further ado:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>Words for the Living, Words for the Dead<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>10<sup>th</sup> November 1914<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>At last the marching
days have ended,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And step by step we
reach this place, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The end of one world<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The start of the next.
<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Tonight, assembled,
think on our sins, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>For tomorrow at dawn a
new war begins. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smith put the pen aside, and watched the ink dry, soaking
into the paper, drowning its white, unmarked youth in blackened wetness, before
that too faded away leaving only an echo. It was the fifth entry in as many days,
and he knew now that the sharp lines would be visible through the thick paper,
shadows and ghosts on the next page. The days were quite literally blurring
into one, an endless slog of <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Marching, marching,
step by step, a war to fight and then forget. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ever since his encounter with the dead man, that unnamed and
unforgettable walking corpse, with his parting gift, nothing more than a scrap
of paper, the world he now existed in had seemed so much more real and vivid to
Smith. New words and lines of verse teemed in his head, entering unbidden and
departing without warning, an endless cycle of forgetting and remembering. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By keeping the words alive, he kept his memory alive. By
keeping his memory alive, he kept the dead alive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The light flickered,
and already Smith was familiar enough with the dugout to realise who had moved
and where. There wasn’t much to notice, just a few bunks in the far wall, the
short passage along to the kitchen, and only varying shades of brown dirt, wood
and canvas to set the shapes apart.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Evening, Johnson.” He said without looking up from the
paper, still mesmerised with the drying ink. The shadow came closer and
darkened the desk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oi, Stephens, get your arse on duty.” The new arrival
called down the tunnel, and almost immediately, the small man scurried out, the
emergence of his pale, bare face instantly reminding Smith of a rat, poking its
head out into the daylight and looking immediately guilty. Stephens’ protruding
nose and wide eyes did little to help the impression. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stephens darted quickly from the dugout and out into the
sunset, and flitted back in just as fast to grab his rifle. It was a schoolboy
error, and Smith instantly felt the urge to admonish him for it, before
remembering that Stephens was, in fact, still a schoolboy, barely sixteen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Too young to fight,
too young to die<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>In evening’s light he
lives his lie. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before he could stop himself, Smith had committed the words
to the page, separate from his earlier thoughts. Johnson gave a disapproving
snort, and at last, Smith looked up at him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Still playing around with that bloody poetry, then,
Smithy?” Almost as an afterthought, he added “Evening.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am indeed, Johnson, and I’ll continue to do so until the
Boche decide to make things a little more interesting for us. Christ knows we
all need something to keep us sane around here.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whatever you say. Anything good?” Johnson peered over his
shoulder, his glare seeming to scrutinise every line and dot on the paper, as
if expecting something revelatory to be hidden within the depths of black on
white. Smith was not quite sorry to disappoint him. A dirt-encrusted hand
viciously seized the page and turned it over, to where an altogether different
verse was inscribed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Johnson’s eyes scanned the page, taking in every word, and
Smith could do nothing but brace himself for the forthcoming scorn. When Johnson
began his inevitable recital, it was in a voice laden with as much snobbish
mocking as he could muster, and the sheer contempt for the art was all but
tangible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The wet grey mud and red-stained dead” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And every shade between <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are good men dying, mothers crying<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For what their sons have seen <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When they followed colours flying <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To distant shores where blue turned green<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turned red.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyes returned to Smith. “Bloody depressing is all I can
say. Don’t you lot ever write anything cheerful? How’re you staying sane with
this tragic rot in your head?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Barely. </i>Smith
wanted to reply, but restrained himself, instead simply closing the book and
tucking in under his arm, making for the exit before Johnson could make another
mocking comment. The temptation to pull rank and assign Johnson all manner of
unpleasant duties nagged at the back of his mind, but he resisted it; better to
be the butt of a few jokes than make enemies out of men he would too- soon be
relying on in battle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smith stepped into the trench just as the last sunlight
reached an incandescent barrage over the piled silhouettes of sandbags, flames
lapping at mounds of bodies. The ground underfoot was slick with water that ran
too red in places, lifeblood draining away into some worse hell. What had once
been an effective fortification was now a grim mockery of order and solidity. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Men passed, ashen-faced, nodding silent greetings to absent
friends. Slowly, a bird made its way across the pale dome above them, the only
living thing free to leave this endless stalemate. Smith watched it fade with a
ghost of a smile still amazed by how easily the poetic descriptions came to
him. Seized by some sudden fixation with the not-quite-silence, he stepped back
from the path and closed his eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sounds that made it through the noiseless air were just
as alive and vivid. A whistle sounding from across the undulating void was a
summons to battle, and heads looked up in alert expectation. Somewhere, a sentry gave a call in some other
tongue from half a world away, the aggressive syllables reaching out into the
stillness. Closers, now, a more familiar voice raised in furtive alarm, a rat
calling to its horde. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A rat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stephens. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instantly, Smith was running, snaring a discarded rifle from
somewhere he didn’t look, feet pounding across mud that sought to cling and
drag him down into its murky depths. Frantic moments later, he reached the
sentry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sentry, slumped against the wall, mouth open in a
wordless scream, filling with still-pouring blood from an empty, red wound,
hand outstretched; a final warning to the doomed. Smith prized his gaze away
and up onto the sea of mud. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sea of mud, across which moved grim marionettes,
stumbling through the twilight, flashes of light and pinpricks of sound louder
than any cannon, a creeping wall of death. Smith’s thoughts stopped, dead as
the sentry beside him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were no words for this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Keen-eyed regulars (if you exist) will notice similarities between this piece and <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.com/2014/02/no-mans-landthe-poets-war.html">No Man's Land</a>, most notably the frequent intermixing of poetry into the prose. This is quite deliberate, and if anything, this piece adds context to that, explaining the genesis of Smith's rather idiosyncratic thought process. It's also just an excuse to indulge in some poetry. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's it for today. As always, thanks for reading and feel free to leave a comment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-56419618946661700072014-05-02T19:49:00.000+01:002014-05-02T22:29:45.044+01:00A Poem: Sunset StarlightTime for another poem from my back catalogue. Most of my writing time has been spent on editing a longer novel recently, so I haven't produced anything new in a while. To keep things ticking over here, I've dug up this poem I wrote a few months back which is probably one of my favourites.<br />
<br />
<div class="Standard">
<b><i><u>Sunset Starlight<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
Last rays of Sunset and the first star of Night,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
Between them a poet, who hides in the light,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
Counting the seconds as time slips away,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
And counting down time till the end of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
Fire so red and a Blackness so blue,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
The Sun and the Stars just remind him of You.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
The light in your eyes was the light of his life,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
And now that you're gone, his world's full of strife.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
A face in the sunset or a word in the dark,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
He knows it's not You but it still brings a spark,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
A memory trying and dying like suns,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
And leaving this poet with
nowhere to run. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
So he waits for the dawn and the first light of day,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
Hoping your light keeps the darkness at bay,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
Waiting for sunlight but not knowing why,</div>
<div class="Standard">
And knowing the light is the light in your eyes.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
***</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
Not an awful lot to say about this one, so thanks for reading and feel free to leave a comment. </div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-53463841219470025672014-04-20T15:15:00.000+01:002014-04-20T15:15:28.741+01:00First ImpressionsFirst of all, apologies for the lapse into inactivity that this blog has suffered over the last couple of weeks; I have found myself with too little time to really write or post anything. That said, I've got a few ideas and new bits and pieces to post now, so time-permitting there will be more coming over the next few weeks.<br />
<br />
For today's piece, a direct follow-up to my last World War One piece, although very much a contrast to it. Enjoy:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>First Impressions<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>4<sup>th</sup> November 1914 <o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The journey through France had
been long, too long, and Smith had found that, despite day after day with
nothing to do but sit, march he and think, was still unable to really
understand why he was here. These rolling fields, small woods and the huge
European sky showed no signs of a war being fought; everything was as tranquil
as it had been back home, the landscape unscarred, the people acting just the
same, the very <i>feeling </i>of the place
no different. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On reflection, he wondered what
precisely he had been expecting. Ranks of soldiers rallied around a flag,
fluttering in the French breeze? Fortifications manned by grizzled veterans
already tired of the war? Fields and
fields of bloody corpses? It didn’t matter, those sights that haunted his
dreams. They weren’t real.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The mud underfoot was different,
somehow wetter than that of home, and the air was cleaner, at least on this
remote road to nowhere. The sky, when not clouded, was bluer, the grass
greener, every colour more vibrant and alive. It would have been ironic, if not
for the grim and ever-approaching reality. He might not be there yet, but he
was marching to a war. That was not something easily forgotten. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the ninth day, the column came
across the first signs of what they were moving inexorably towards. They had
reached a small town scarcely twenty miles west of the front, and while the
officers organised transport for the next leg of the journey, the men were
given two hours’ rest. Smith had initially tried to maintain some kind of
order, but it was hopeless. After ten minutes of barking whatever orders he
could, he relented, and simply hoped the troops would not get too inebriated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He eventually found a quiet spot,
in the corner of the square, and unwrapped his carefully-concealed diary.
Finding the first crisp, white page, he paused for a moment, wondering exactly
what was worth noting. He hadn’t paid attention to the name of the town, nor
the last, and no one really knew where he was going next. The weather had been
unremarkable, if a little windy, and there had been nothing to do but march and
halt. And that, he reflected, did not make compelling reading. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten long, slow minutes passed as
the nib of his pen hovered over the page, searching for something noteworthy,
and around him, Smith could feel a change in the atmosphere. A quiet had
descended, the bustling market slowed and fell still, and all eyes turned to
the eastward road. Smith stood, pressing through the crowd, and craned his neck
for a better view the impending scene. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The unearthly quiet became even
more silent, to the point at which sound seemed almost impossible. A pin
dropping would be a gunshot. A sharply-drawn breath would shatter the world
around him. Nothing moved. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually, a green blur appeared
at the head of the road, and instantly, Smith understood. He had been
surrounded by nothing but that green for a month. The troops were withdrawing,
possibly even the very troops his men were supposed to be relieving. Had they
been too slow? Was this a retreat, or just a routine operation? Who were these
men? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the lines of khaki approached,
these thoughts fell dead, replaced instantly by a morbid curiosity, a paradox
of vision. At once, he wanted nothing more than to see everything he could, and
to turn away. Dreams died as they drew nearer; the reality was becoming
all-too-clear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eyes, unseeing, on staring faces.
Gashes, still bleeding, sewn with cord and wire. Limbs flailing in a bizarre
parody of motion. Steps, marching but out of time, one after another after
another after another. These were not men, but ghosts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every detail was sharp in the
midday sun; the men appeared to draw in the light, absorb it, darken it. Smith
made out names, numbers, insignia and decorations, pointless shapes that meant
nothing. He could see the bloody stubble clinging to the chin of a man too
young to shave, and the limp of an old soldier, too old to fight. He could see
a hand with a finger missing, the pattern tapped by its remaining companions
somehow lacking, incorporeal. He could see the twitch at the corner of an eye,
replaying the same look of utter horror again and again and again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything here was so real and
yet so distant; the silent crowd seemed to vanish, the buildings became simple
shapes, every focus was on these poor shells of men, marching step by step to
some other place, be it a haven, a sanctuary, or just another hell. At the head
of the column, a bugler, one arm hanging dead and useless by his side, pressed
his instrument to his lips and blew, but there was no sound. Something within
the man was broken, unable to bring forth a sound. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One figure, ghostlier than the rest,
with a blood-flecked face and madman’s eyes, suddenly leapt from the column. He
fell to his knees, and then, with effort enough to move the world, stood
shakily, and began staggering towards the crowd. His comrades, too tired,
broken and confused to care, just kept walking ever onwards. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smith’s eyes locked with this mad
spectre’s, and the stumbling man started to claw his way through the crowd, who
parted before him. Inch by inch, the ghost lurched and then crawled towards
Smith. He was unable to move, transfixed as this monster of man, this
blood-coughing, scrabbling corpse moved closer and closer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He fell at Smith’s feet, another
cough spraying blood, too red, too real, across his shoes, mingling with the
mud. A hand closed around his leg, the fingers suddenly gripping too tight. Too
real. Smith knelt down to this obviously dying man, and placed a hand on his
shoulder. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their eyes met again, so close
now, and Smith could finally understand this man. What he’d seen, what he’d
done, where he’d been suddenly became clear; a portrait in a stare that he knew
he would never forget. The grip on his ankle released, and the man fell
suddenly limp, lying down in the mud at the roadside and fumbling for something
at his breast pocket. Gently, Smith reached down and undid the button, and the
contorted hand closed around something inside, pulling it out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A simple pocketwatch, quite
unadorned, brass somehow untarnished amidst the mud and blood a chaos. The
soldier pressed it into Smith’s hand, gibbering madly but making no sound.
Smith took it, and the dying man reached again for his pocket. This time, there
was no grip, and Smith moved his hand aside, his own feeling in the pocket for
whatever the soldier wanted. His hand closed around a scrunched ball of paper,
which he withdrew. Immediately, the man started nodding, and Smith pocketed the
paper. There was nothing to do now but wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 117.8pt; text-indent: 0cm;">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took two hours for the unknown soldier
to finally die, and Smith remained with him the whole time, listening to
the insane mutterings and watching his life slowly ebb away. Eventually, the
crowd had parted and the troops moved away, and the two of them were left
alone, a scene from a battlefield in the town square, a scene he could never forget.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, Smith gathered the
courage to unfold the paper the dead man had been so intent on handing over to
him, and found on it only a few words, shakily scrawled on the crumpled page. A
dead man’s last words. At last, he had found something to write in the pristine
diary, marring it forever, its white innocence annihilated at the stroke of a
pen. The watch ticked on as he painstakingly copied out each word, ink draining
slowly out from the nib, life leaving an old soldier too young to die. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When all is burnt and
all is dead<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When all the world is
blood-stained red, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When all our wars come
to an end<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then will Death be
called our friend. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>***</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Author's Notes: </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>- Much like my last piece, there is a strong emphasise on body language in this one, although this time it was more a quirk of the context and content rather than a deliberately used device. I felt the 'silence' was important to this piece, as both Smith and the reader are held in a a grim illusion that direct speech would shatter. A similar effect can be seen in my piece Countdown, where speech <i>is </i>used in exactly that matter, to shatter the relative calm of the moment. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>- This piece also introduces a lot of motifs that have and will feature heavily in the continuing narrative, such as the watch, the use of poetry, the ideas of words being linked so closely with memory. As such, it lends context to a lot later pieces that I've already posted, or sets up these themes and idea for those reading in order. </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>That's all for now. As always, thanks for reading and feel free to comment. </o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-73434189162205789752014-04-02T20:48:00.000+01:002014-04-02T20:48:09.762+01:00When The Clock Strikes TenAs promised yesterday, here is another instalment in my ongoing First World War series (working title: The Poet's War). This one really occupies the position of either a prequel or first chapter, for reasons that should be obvious. That said, anyone who has seen the chronologically 'later' pieces will also get something from this, and it becomes a reflection rather than an introduction. The rest of the pieces, for those who haven't seen them, can be found by clicking the 'Ongoing Works' tab at the top of this page.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>When the Clock Strikes Ten<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>King’s Cross Station, 18th August 1914<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anthony’s gaze was fixed on his boots, reflected eyes in the
polished black leather staring back at him, a portrait of the man he had
become. Clean-shaven chin, bushy but neat moustache, the officers’ cap balanced
perfectly straight on his short-cropped hair. His khaki collar was pristinely
sharp, ironed only hours before, his brass buttons polished to perfection.
Every inch an officer of the British army. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The steam whistle snapped him out of the reverie, and he
looked up at the great clock. Five minutes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All along the platform, families jostled for position,
mothers hiding tears, fathers shaking hands, young girls flinging flowers at
the departing youth. Line after line of khaki made its way onto the train, a
green-brown exodus for who-knew-where.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the crowd, he made out his own parents, standing twenty
feet to his right. In the middle of the throng, they were somehow detached, an
island standing firm in the chaos. A last memory of home. For a second, he was
about to take a step in their direction, and another and another, but he knew
it was impossible. Improper. The men behind him were waiting for his lead; he
couldn’t desert them now. His goodbyes were already said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Behind him, the troops muttered to themselves, some breaking
ranks to wish last goodbyes, others shedding silent tears. <i>I’ll be back soon, mum. </i>He heard one say, <i>Back for Christmas, eh? </i>He shook his head. The jingoism would be no
good in the face of rifle fire and artillery. There was a good chance none of
them would be coming back at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyes searched the crowd, eyes not lingering on any one
face to see the torment there. Back to his men. Up to the clock. Down into the
grieving mass. Back to the clock. Impossibly, he could hear the mechanism
working. Tick tock. Tick tock. Counting down. Three minutes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He took a step, and as one the platoon formed behind him, snapping
to attention and marching forward. He led them across the platform, step by
step, and onto the waiting train, greeted in silence by a grey-faced conductor. Anthony could tell he was an
old soldier, with his upright stance and alert eyes, and a stare that had seen
too much. He gave a quick nod as he boarded the carriage, a flash of
understanding between generations.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Still silent, he found a seat and sank into it, pretences
abandoned out of the public eye. It was five hours to Dover, given the extra
stops, and with any luck he could get some sleep between now and then. The
noise around him was loud, but somehow soothing. He was not as alone as he had
feared he might be. Comrades in arms were his family now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick tock. Tick tock. The unheard clock moved on, and he
caught it just as the larger hand moved, in that moment where a second takes an
age. 09:59. One minute. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back on the platform, he could see his father fighting
through the crowd, decorum and sense thrown aside. His mother trailed behind,
so fragile, her tears unhidden. Had the train not started moving at that
moment, he imagined her face would be pressed against the glass, imploring him
to come home. Too late, he thought, as the wheels began to grind along the
tracks, carrying him away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick tock. Away from home. Away from everyone he knew. Away
from the green fields and little rivers and the apple tree at the bottom of the
garden. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick tock. Tick tock. Towards a new world. Towards a new
life. Towards fire and blood and mud and slaughter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tick tock tick tock tick tock. Stop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In one moment, reality was clearer than ever, a flash of
frozen lightning that made everything so very very real. In one moment, he
wanted to claw open the window and jump from the train and to curl in a ball
and cry and to scream and scream and scream and-</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cacophony burst forth at 10 o’clock precisely, as the
train whistled its white noise when the deep clock bell tolled and the wheels
began to screech and Corporal Antony Smith’s thoughts were drowned in a torrent
of blasting sound. There was no need to think now. No need to scream. No need to do anything but wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- For those who have followed this story from its inception, this piece will feel familiar. The very first piece in the series featured a countdown to going 'over the top', into the unknown, and that's something I've attempted to recreate here. I think that, in the context of a longer work, it adds a nice sense of reflection, the first chapter mirroring the last. What that means is up to you, but I think it works nicely. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Similarly, the aforementioned piece made a lot of use of body language and positioning in place of speech, and again this is a direct mirror to that, right down to some exact movement being copied. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's all for now. As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to leave a comment. </div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-86240011634028555082014-04-01T16:56:00.000+01:002014-04-01T16:56:08.626+01:00ShellshockTime for another bit of writing, but before that, just a quick note about a new feature on this blog. You can now find a tab titled 'Ongoing Works' at the top of the page, which has a list of all the serial work I've posted on here, in narrative order. It should save you having to trawl through posts to find previous works if you want to revisit it, and also help keep things in order.<br />
<br />
Now for the main event, another entry into my ongoing First World War series. Without further ado...<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<b><i><u>Shellshock<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
In the near silence, Robson was almost calm. It was the
quietest quiet he could remember since England, and for once, Smith wasn’t
barking orders. It wasn’t that he disliked the corporal, but he wasn’t overly
fond of him, either. Something about the man seemed to be shouting at any
moment, always shouting. Orders. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
It could be worse, he imagined, and Smith hardly
overworked his men, but he was simply so <i>different</i>,
somehow, from this place. As much as he had tried to drum into Robson that
class didn’t matter in their unit, that he wouldn’t be treated any differently
just because he ‘wasn’t landed’, it still seemed to make its presence felt.
Smith’s bunk and desk were always pristinely tidy, Robson’s own bunk a mess, a
place to sleep at night and store his meagre belongings in the day. Smith
always took duties himself, and Robson was always last to be picked. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i>Class doesn’t
matter? </i>He thought bitterly. <i>Yes it
bloody well does. Why else am I the one sitting round with nothing to do while
all you rich boys get the real action? Why else are you always ‘volunteering’
for whatever you can get your privileged hands on? Why else am I always on the
godforsaken morning watch where NOTHING EVER HAPPENS? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Smith sipped the tea, and immediately spat, subtly as he
could. Cold, tasteless and somehow <i>dry</i>.
Anders could make a better cup. Even Johnson, and he avoided the stuff like the
plague. For an officer’s mess, this was appalling. His eyes flicked back up to
the Major. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“So, Smithy, how’s it going with the lads down at the
front, eh?” the moustached officer asked, his multiple chins beginning to
wobble as he spoke. It was only the difference in rank that kept Smith from
laughing to himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Smith, please, if you don’t mind, sir. And there’s
nothing to report. Still the same mess as last week, still underequipped, still
outnumbered, and still running low on biscuits. What the men haven’t eaten, the
rats have. Maybe you’d like to see for yourself?” he concluded, the hostility
he was trying so hard to suppress creeping into his last words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He knew the Major would never accept the offer, but he
always made it. Every week, every meeting, he would always ask. If ever he <i>did </i>come down to the front, and spend a
few days in the trenches, Smith couldn’t help but feel they would find several
of their more pressing problems relieved. He hid a smile as he imagined the
Major cramming himself into a too-small bunk, petrified of the rat that circled
his feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Oh, no, we couldn’t do that. Not at all proper, you see,
Smithy?” Smith clenched and unclenched his fist, noting the Major’s use of the
epithet. Clearly, they were both playing mind games. He was determined not to
lose. “How about that new chap we sent down last week? He’s a keen one, isn’t
he? Roberts, or something like that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“Robson, sir, and yes he is. A little <i>too</i> keen, if you ask me. I’ve tried to
keep him off-duty, otherwise I’m afraid he might try and storm the German front
himself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“So he’s not seen action yet?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“No, sir, not a shell, not a bullet, not a bayonet, so
long as I can help it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
There was something unfamiliar in the air, Robson noted.
Too high-pitched and whining to be a bird, too loud to be the wind, and too
distant to be a whistling passer-by. On and on it droned, higher and higher,
and then lower, lower, lower, lower-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The muddy bank behind him erupted, a spewing geyser of
mud and fire and a deafening sound and a searing heat and a sudden force that
threw him back against the sandbags. Blind, deaf, and winded, Robson fell to
the floor, limbs suddenly shuddering in a bizarre parody of motion. His heart
hammered, machinegun-fast, and the blood that pulsed beat by beat around his
shaking body boiled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Another <i>whine</i>-BOOM,
and more dirt sprang up, further away, covering the sun. As his hearing
returned, Robson heard screaming, and only after two more explosions shook the
world did he realise it was his own. He still didn’t know what was happening,
or why, or how he was alive or what was happening. Every inch of his body cold
feel how real this was, but his brain had not yet caught up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Slowly, as more gaping holes opened up and the screaming
went on, Robson climbed to his feet, juddering hands hauling himself up on
split sandbags. A searing pain in his left arm refused to subside, but it faded
to a dull, shrill blaring too painful to ignore or acknowledge. It was just <i>there. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He had been trained, he realised, to react to shelling.
He had been trained to be shot at, hunkered in a muddy hole and powerless. He
had been trained to storm a trench through a hail of bullets. But nothing and
no one had trained him for this sheer <i>insanity</i>.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Step by step, with the world falling apart around him,
Robson staggered down the trench, too blind to step on duckboards and wading
his way through the ankle-deep mud. The only sounds were screaming explosions
and exploding screams, red and white and fiery screams. There was no sky, only
sharper pain on unshielded too-wide eyes, and no ground, only a shaking,
shattering world tearing itself apart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He was somewhere, and nowhere. Too real and not real
enough. Yelling and silent. Loudquiet, runningwalking, deadalive, he inched
along what reality he could see, no purpose other than to live. To escape. To
end this madness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
After a minute day week year lifetime, he felt something
give way beneath him. The ground fell away and left him suspended, for an
instant, in nothingness. Something hurt and something else didn’t and he didn’t
know which was which. Vision became sound became pain became thought, and he
plummeted, down into the cold hot water mud below. The last thing he remembered
was something gripping, snatching at his arms, one more pain in the torment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“He’s coming around, sir.” Johnson whispered, and Smith
looked up from the papers he wasn’t reading, at Robson’s shaking, wide-eyed
shell. <i>Not a shell, not a bullet, not a
bayonet, so long as I can help it.</i> The shame of failure was a deep wound
that had constantly gnawing at him, every second since he had returned to the
dugout to see Robson, gibbering and shaking in the bunk. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Robson’s eyes were too open, the blank stare of a madman.
His fingers danced an insane jig against his thighs, his foot tapped out of
rhythm, a bizarre, dissonant tempo. The flesh wound in his left arm, a deep
gouge of frayed skin and torn muscle, was the least of his worries, already
treated as best they could. It could scar, but he would live. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“W…wh…whereamI?” Robson muttered, lips barely parting,
jaw trembling. “D…d…de...dead.” His mouth split, forced apart. “Deeeaaaaaaad!
Deeeeeeeaaaaaaaaad!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
“No, not dead yet, lad.” Johnson replied, steadying his
shaking arms. “Not dead yet.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
He could still hear the screaming, a distant wail that he
somehow knew was still his own. The colours faded into one, the bright vista
replaced with a muddy haze. There was
another noise creeping under the yells, a paler, smoother noise, and a shape face moved in the blur, lighter than the surrounding mass of brownredgreen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Something moved, an arm, his own, and a sharp pain
followed as it hit something else. His fingers were fire, flickering flames,
tapping shell bursts on the wall. His breath was exploding, every shallow
inhalation was shrapnel down his throat. His eyes could not close, blasted
open, split sandbags spilling tears. Taste was blood and ash in his mouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
The noises in waves rose and fell, sometimes loudquiet,
sometimes quietloud. Once, the blurs turned sharp, stabbing lights in the dark,
and then the soft shapes returned and he slept with open eyes. Slept and
dreamed and prayed, and in the brief respite between nightmares, he thought he
understood. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- This piece was written with no brief other than the initial concept, but it does revisit some themes of earlier posts. I've made heavy use of the sensory bombardment that is synaesthesia in this piece, in an altogether more active way than the last time it featured heavily. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- I've played with language a lot here, blending words and in places throwing punctuation and syntax aside. This is intentional, to add to the sense of sheer confusion I want to convey. </div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
- In terms of structure, I'm not entirely sure whether this piece is better with or without the interludes featuring Smith. On one hand, it breaks up the three phases of the main narrative nicely and also ties it in with the ongoing story, and also foreshadows the conclusion and adds context. However, I feel the piece may have ended up too longer and cumbersome, and would work just as well without it. As part of an ongoing narrative, I'll certainly keep it, but I have a feeling it may detract from the individual impact of this piece. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
That's all for today, I have another WW1 piece to post tomorrow that, in a way, brings an element of this story full circle. There's plenty more to come, though. </div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-53241873784683502392014-03-26T21:26:00.000+00:002014-03-26T21:26:26.690+00:00Review: Black Rabbit Summer, Kevin Brooks<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>Review: Black Rabbit Summer, Kevin Brooks</u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u><br /></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having recently read Kevin Brooks’ The Bunker Diary, I was
directed towards more of his work, and particularly Black Rabbit Summer.
Altogether more conventional that The Bunker Diary, this novel is a
murder-mystery that becomes a character-drama, not something I would normally
read. Nevertheless, I was intrigued by Brooks’ style and manner of writing, so
carried on regardless. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In it’s opening, Black Rabbit Summer is deceptively simple.
The premise of 5 teenagers, about to go their separate ways, is not anything particularly
groundbreaking, or indeed anything <i>that</i>
intriguing. One night at a funfair, and everything has gone wrong- two missing
teens and one dead rabbit. On the while, fairly unremarkable given the genre. And
yet, this book draws you in. Regardless of my expectations before approaching
this novel (which were not high after being sickened by The Bunker Diary), I
cannot deny that Brooks is an exceptionally talented writer. Rather than the
plot, which is at first a little unremarkable, it is the strength of character
that make this novel work. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no real sympathetic character in this novel, and
every member of the cast is layered and flawed, some displaying tolerable
foibles, others more extreme shortcomings. There are drug users, liars,
manipulators, thieves and violent aggressors. As a narrator, Pete is incredibly
unstable and unreliable, his clearly-illustrated thought processes constantly
in flux. Repeated questionings by the police allow this constantly altering perspective
to become apparent, emphasising the change that characterises this novel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As in The Bunker Diary, Brooks seems unwilling to condemn
any of the crimes or immoralities in his characters. There is no questioning
that Pete is increasingly aware of the layers to his fellows (this in fact
becomes the focus of the plot, overshadowing the crime-drama aspect) but he rarely
admonishes them, instead leaving that to the parents and police. Pete’s own
parents would be seen as particularly overbearing and judgemental, if it were
not for the fact that they have been rendered just as human and fallible as the
teenage cast. Pete is not afraid to question them, almost undermining their
authority, and proving them to be just as accessible as characters as his
peers. Similarly, the reader is unable to really come to hate any character-
they are simply too ‘real’ to easily categorise. There is no good or bad, right
or wrong, only shades of humanness. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The plot itself is perhaps the most mediocre aspect of the
book, and certainly takes a back seat to the ever-evolving presentation of
characters. Through Pete, the reader is never supplied with all the facts, but
at the same time, enough hints are dropped for one to begin to put two and two
together, and sometimes arrive at the right conclusion. There is never enough
to make it boring and obvious, but also enough to reward the reader for actively
thinking. However, it is a little inconsequential in the end; while some twists
are entirely unforeseen and some brutally shocking, one almost gets the feeling
they don’t matter. As much as it might pretend to be, this is not a crime
drama, and the only place where the plot really seems important is when it’s
directly changing Pete’s views of his fellow characters. Without giving
anything away, every member of the ensemble are viewed entirely differently at
the start and end of the novel, as old wounds are opened, new ones develop and entirely
unforeseen events change Pete’s worldview in a major way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One character I’ve omitted to mention until this point is Raymond,
the apparent ‘fifth wheel’ of the initial group. The one who talks to his
rabbit. The one who thinks the rabbit talks back. If anything, he is the most
sympathetic character, and certainly the most innocent and scrupulous. Despite
this, he is the first one to go, vanishing without a trace and ignored for a
large part of the novel by a police force commenting on another, higher-profile
disappearance. The reader really doesn’t get to know Raymond that well while he
is present, and it is only in the response from the other members of the cast
that his nature becomes clear. To some, he’s a threat, to some, an outcast, and
only to Pete is he a friend. As much as he dominates Pete’s thoughts throughout
the novel, though, he very quickly fades out of focus, particularly in the last
third to quarter of the novel. A metaphor for his outcast nature? Perhaps, or
possibly just another aspect of reality- not everyone can be the Most Important Thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Where I feel this novel perhaps flounders is in its
presentation of the supernatural and the almost-real. Brooks’ grasp on creating
a very vivid and real world is almost undermined by an element of the unreal
that is never truly explained. Some elements are simply drug-induced
hallucinations, but other aspects remain unanswered. Does Raymond really hear
his rabbit speak? Does Pete then hear this same voice? If so, how? Although
these points are obviously deliberately unresolved, I can’t help but feel they
didn’t add to that much to either plot or character, and are simply a
distraction to more important matters. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Overall, then, this novel gets a thumbs up, simply on the
basis that it paints a vivid, vibrant picture of modern life, and while some
aspects are more extreme than we’ve encountered, there’s something here that
everyone can identify with. The characters are living and breathing on the
page, the setting is everywhere, and while there is no real message or judgement,
this is a novel where the process of change in environment, in interactions and
in mindsets is genuinely interesting. Not a crime drama, but a drama based
around crimes, this is a solid book that, while not completely inspiring, is
very well-written and constructed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing: 8/10<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plot: 6.5/10<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Character: 8/10<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Average: 7.5/10 <o:p></o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-67850972048065012822014-03-24T19:31:00.000+00:002014-03-25T07:52:17.728+00:00The Bunker Diary: What is it All About? <div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
Three days from finishing it, and
Kevin Brooks’ The Bunker Diary still has me perplexed. While I cannot honestly
encourage anyone to read it, I am equally unable to dismiss it as the pointless
or powerless novel it initially seemed. Or maybe I am. For the last three days
I have been almost constantly contemplating what, if anything, Brooks is trying
to convey through the novel. Perhaps I was right in my initial assessment that
the message of the book was ultimately nothing, but I can’t stop myself trying to
find a meaning to it; the harrowing content needs to be justified in some way
for the unsatisfactory ending to be at all worthwhile. Be aware, if you are
wanting to read this, that there are several large spoilers below; this is very
much a retrospective analysis that requires reference to the text itself. Some
of the theories I presented in my previous review, but they are examined in
more depth here, others are new and very much a work-in-progress. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most obvious of
the potential overtones to the novel is its nihilist perspective on life.
Regardless of meaning, one has to accept that the Bunker itself is a microcosm
for the ‘real world’, with the diversity of the characters representing
snapshot of a larger society. In the final third of the novel, the mysterious
kidnapper, who until this point controls every aspect of the prisoners’ lives,
disappears. Whether he dies, or simply grows tired of his imprisoned playthings
remains unknown, but what is obvious is how, from this point on, life for the
protagonists becomes entirely futile. There is no way out of the bunker, even when
it is unguarded, and as the lights go out and the supplies dwindle, survival
becomes increasingly impossible. For the three characters alive at this point,
it is only a matter of time, and every entry in the diary is only a sign that
the inevitable is delayed a day longer. Death can be the only end for the
novel, and going back to the idea of the Bunker as a microcosm, it is clear to
see the nihilist perspective here; life is ultimately pointless. There can be
no escape and nothing matters. The conclusion is inevitable, a happy ending is
impossible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The nihilist overtones are also evident in the way Brooks
handles what could otherwise be relevant social issues. While he does present
drug abuse, alcoholism, homosexuality and terminal illness, these themes are
not at all developed, becoming little more than plot points and character
traits. It may well be that Brooks simply chose not to expand upon these
themes, but given the context and the above theory, it is perhaps another
element of the nihilism. The lack of development relegates these themes to
insignificance, suggesting once again the ultimate worthlessness of life. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally on that point, the fact that no motive is presented
for the kidnappings also implies a degree of nihilism. Arguably, the reason
doesn’t matter, only the events, but no conclusion is ever reached regarding
precisely why the victims are imprisoned. While it may not matter to them in
the end, the reader is left wondering, and never answered. Death is, in the
end, the only concern for the protagonists, but for the reader, the need to
know <i>why </i>and the lack of an answer
again highlights the sheer pointlessness of the events for those of us on the
outside as well as those on the inside. Perhaps there was no reason, simply the old
Shakespearean statement that ‘as flies to wanton boys are we to the Gods, they
kill us for their sport.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which leads me nicely to the next point: the atheist
overtones of the novel. There are some very obvious allusions to unnamed
kidnapper as a kind of deity (or false deity). The lift provides a channel of
communication through which his will is done, the notes taken back up are akin
to prayer. He becomes omniscient in this microcosm, able to see, hear and know
everything about the inmates. They come to depend on him for their very
survival. Linus refers to Him (always capitalised) as an omnipotent being,
sometimes even the direct reader of the Diary, and at one point suggest that
only the perception and not the reality of the kidnapper/god matters. He is
very much a deified persona. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So how is this seemingly obvious godlike being representative
of an atheist undertone? Because he is, in reality only a man, his power
entirely manufactured (perhaps allegorical to religious control?). Because when,
in the last section, they are abandoned by this godlike figure, the prisoners’
experience becomes far more dangerous but far more real than before; survival
is the only instinct and only driving force, and ultimately the most powerful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another theory that crossed my mind was that the novel was
an attack on voyeurism. The microcosm supplied in the Bunker is in many ways
similar to any number of television shows that give insight into very real
events from a perspective so detached that misfortune becomes entertainment.
Through the diary, the reader is drawn into watching as, one-by-one, the
protagonists fall slowly into insanity and destruction, and by the point things
turn exceedingly nasty, one is already too invested to easily look away. By
making his characters so real and layered prior to the true trauma, the reader
feels almost guilty when they keep reading. I think this could easily suggest
that Brooks is attacking the society in which schadenfreude is the norm; we
look at the televised misfortune of unknown strangers and laugh, but when we ‘know’
the characters in the same (albeit more extreme) situation, we are appalled. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another suggestion, similar to the above, is that the
manufactured world in which the protagonists exist in is potentially a mocking
of our own. Time is controlled by the kidnapper, sped up and slowed down on a
whim. They are entirely dependent on him to provide their food and to keep
conditions at a point at which they can keep a grip on sanity. They are
mercilessly punished for every transgression. Is Brooks trying to warn us
against the dangers of a controlled society? Or is he suggesting that control is
imperative for modern life, as the characters descend into madness as soon as
the control is lifted? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real question is, am I just clutching at straws? The
answer is undoubtedly yes. I’ve spent the last few days desperately trying to
derive some kind of meaning or explanation from this harrowing novel, simply because
to read through such a level of insanity and hopelessness without some kind of
reasoning or statement to be taken from it is, to me, just plain wrong. I
imagine every answer I’ve attempted to come up with is simply a wild theory to justify
the novel I was appalled by. That said, I hope you found this interesting. <o:p></o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-6749019664911582182014-03-22T22:32:00.000+00:002014-03-26T17:23:49.557+00:00A Review: The Bunker Diary, Kevin BrooksUnfortunately, the first review on this blog is for a book I cannot possibly recommend. If you are looking for suggestions on something to read, then this is not the review you're looking for. Instead, it's a hybrid of analysis and a warning. For one who does want to read the book, be aware that this review will contain some potential spoilers.<br />
<br />
The basic premise of The Bunker Diary involves the kidnapping of 6 characters, who are placed in a blank, white-walled building with no way in or out. Every day, a lift delivers food, and their every movement observed by their unseen kidnapper. The novel is presented as a diary for the most part, although in places switches to brief script, and some poetry.<br />
<br />
The warning I referred to is this: The Bunker Diary is simply too traumatic, harrowing and utterly bleak for anyone to enjoy reading. It charts nothing more than a descent into madness and depravity, offering no hope, redemption or consolation. The content is not at all enjoyable or pleasant for any reader, let alone for a book that is marketed as suitable for children, given its inclusion in the CILIP Carnegie shortlist for this year. Expect more on this particular matter over the next couple of days.<br />
<br />
Undoubtedly, there are elements of this book that are good, if not great. The writing is of a high standard, and the voice of the narrator, Linus, comes across very strongly. Similarly, the presentation of his fellow prisoners is equally effective. Each of them are incredibly idiosyncratic without really being stereotyped, with character as strong as Linus's. For the first half of the novel, the plot is intriguing, and moves along at a good pace. Interactions between the characters is exceptionally natural and believable.<br />
<br />
Where The Bunker Diary falls down is that it includes huge levels of traumatic, even sickening content (especially in the final third of the novel). While this is not unusual or even a fault in itself, other novels that include similar content generally have some kind of point to prove, debate to encourage, or event to highlight. As examples, Ruta Septys' Between Shades of Grey, which details the life of a victim of Stalin's horrific labour camps, or Jason Wallace's Out Of Shadows, which relates a story racism and intolerance in Zimbabwe both contain similarly violent content, but do so with the intent of raising awareness of those very real events. Brooks, on the other hand, offers no such agenda, making this tale at best pointless and at worst sadistic, serving only to present a harrowing tale of utter futility.<br />
<br />
So, what is it all about then? This book was described to me as 'Atheist Nihilist.', and that does seem to be an accurate assessment. The ever-unnamed kidnapper, who observes the life of the prisoners, taking direct control over their lives, appears to occupy a position close to godliness. He supplies their quite literal 'daily bread' through the lift, the notes sent via the lift to him, demanding various food and commodities, are akin to prayers, and he responds only to a kind of reverence from the prisoners. Linus at one point refers to how the real nature of the kidnapper doesn't matter, only his perception, again a potentially allusion to his godlike nature.<br />
<br />
This would seem to contradict the notion that it's an atheist nature behind this text. However, as, in the final parts of the novel (the most traumatic and impacting), this omnipotent being vanishes, his motives and nature remaining a mystery. The protagonists exist in abject terror of their kidnapper, only to have him cease to exist, leaving them literally in the dark, without hope or purpose. the god-character, if he ever existed, abandons the protagonists in the their microcosm, a godless setting. As such, it's no great leap to assume that there are distinct atheist undertones here.<br />
<br />
The nihilism comes in slowly throughout the novel, with several layers leading to the impression of the ultimate futility and hopelessness of life. Apart from the completely bleak ending (if one can call it that), another element that adds to this feel is the characters themselves. Brooks proves he is willing to present some very real issues in this surreal tale, such as alcoholism, drugs, homosexuality and mental illness, but at the same time, these are merely character traits. They are not so much confronted as discarded in the face of the hopeless and futile plot, to the point at which they become insignificant. By the time the conclusion is reached, the nature, flaws and issues present in the characters become largely irrelevant. Nothing and no one matters in the plot as it draws to a close.<br />
<br />
Furthermore, there is no motive presented for the kidnapping. Every death becomes pointless, as does the imprisonment itself. There is no kind of resolution to the plot, no close, and no <i>point</i>. It simply leaves too many questions unanswered to be a satisfying conclusion, and unlike some other novels with similarly unresolved endings (Patrick Ness's More Than This springs to mind), The Bunker Diary is brutally clear in its ending. You know it's coming, and it is a foregone conclusion. Death, worthless and pointless, is the only end possible to this story.<br />
<br />
There can be no denying that this novel prompted a very strong response on reading it, but unfortunately, that response was neither insightful nor enjoyable. It left me feeling physically sick at the sheer depravity of the last few entries into the Diary, and at points I had to actually leave the book for a while, too appalled to continue. Unless you want a similar experience, I really recommend avoiding this novel.<br />
<br />
To conclude, I won't say don't read this book, but do not expect to a) enjoy it or b) take anything meaningful from it. It is unsatisfying, horrifying, appalling and traumatic. While aspects might be intriguing, and the real trauma doesn't set in until the final third, I wouldn't say it's worth reading at all. There are better books that deal with similar themes, and will leave you less shaken at the end. It's impossible to rate or score, as there is such a dissonance between the quality of the writing and the unpleasant content. I am almost considering reading more of Brooks' work, as his style and skill are obvious, but this particular novel is one of the few books that I genuinely regret reading. There is simply nothing to take from it but utter hopelessness.<br />
<br />Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-78290896274094531322014-03-13T20:28:00.000+00:002014-03-13T20:34:23.669+00:00A Poem: WordsUnfortunately I've been too busy this week to work on any of my various writing projects, but I have just about found time to throw together a poem. As always, notes are below, and here's the poem:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>Words<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I send out words, mercurial messengers<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Into the silence on paper wings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To tell you so many things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hear your words, leaves on the breeze, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blowing to places new,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Memories of you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I send out words, an army ‘gainst the world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the field of battle; a page so white<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Arrayed and ready to fight. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see their words, a wall of derision, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blank and faceless, unquestioning glares, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Accusing strangers’ stares. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I send out words, a ship to the stars, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To travel a world away <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And say what I can’t say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The words come back, a dream to far, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Echoes from across the dark<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Too cold to hold a spark. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I send out words, a part of myself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To show you what I cannot be,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lying portrait of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words to a mirror<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words to a wall<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words for my own world</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And words for us all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Poet's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- There's not an awful lot to say about this one; only that the stanza structure is something a little unusual for me, being far shorter than I'm usually happy with. However, I think it works, especially with the first 6 stanzas essentially functions as pairs, a call-and-answer of words spoken and returned. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to comment. </div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-88598295568243883362014-03-04T19:16:00.000+00:002014-03-04T19:16:02.228+00:00DutyFor the first time in a while, I've written something without any kind of brief, as I'm still hooked into the story of Corporal Smith's journey across the Western front to the Somme. To my mind, this chapter pre-dates the other World War One work I've written, all of which can be found <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/World%20War%20One">here</a>. I think it speaks for itself, so I'll leave the introduction here and get to the story. As always, notes below:<br />
<br />
<b><i><u>Duty</u></i></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cell was a cold grey, the evening light casting long
shadows of the bars that stood between the condemned and their final sunset.
Too high to reach or see out of, all one could do was stare at that fading
glimmer. The floor of the cell was a hard concrete, the grey stained by all
manner of horrors. In the far corner, there was a puddle of still-drying blood,
the stench of which filled the room; a final reminder of why he was here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smith’s shoes made a sharp <i>click-clack, click-clack, </i>shattering the silence and making every
step a gunshot, echoing off the white walls, a never-ending cascade of noise.
From somewhere nearby, he heard a voice raised in pitiful cries. The screeching
and clicking folded together, the entirety of this place summed up in a few
simple sounds. Madness, suddenness, silence. Even when Smith stood still, the
noise circled round and round in his head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Searching for something, anything to take his mind off the
cacophony, he found his gaze irresistibly drawn to the deranged scrawlings that
littered the wall. Some were indecipherable, some other language real or
imagined, some were purely illegible, the tortured minds that produced them
unable to remain sane long enough to form words. But a few were all too real, a
name here, a prayer there, a date and a place and another date and here; the
only testament these men would have, their own eulogy spilled across the walls,
written in chipped plaster or red blood. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ah, you’ve arrived early, Smith.” Smith whirled, the voice
that knifed through the silent echo chilling him to the bone, the upbeat tone
at odds with the severity of its surrounding. Smith regained his composure
without missing a beat, saluting crisply. “Well then, let’s not waste any time.
I’m afraid we’re a little short of staff here, so you’ll be guarding the
prisoner tonight, if you wouldn’t mind. No chance of escape, of course, but
they tend to go a bit mad on the last night. Understandable, I suppose.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smith let the sergeant continue the monologue, feeling his
fists clench and something in his stomach squirm. Everything about this man was
jarring with this place; he was smartly dressed amidst the untidy scribbling,
he stood straight where so many were broken, his voice rose crisply over the
screaming from the other cells. After some time, the speech ended, and Smith
was shown to the door of the cell, where he began the long, slow wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was midnight where the sobbing started. The walls muffled
the sounds just enough that Smith could still hear them, each wracking moan and
wordless cry came to him, as if from far away. Occasionally, he could decipher
whole words. Home. Mother. Die. Why. Names broke through to him, meaning
nothing, only echoes of people he never knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After an hour or maybe two, in which there had been no
peace, the noise finally stopped, the silence just as haunting. There was a dim
shuffling from inside the cell, and Smith knew it was coming closer. He felt
the inevitable knock on the wall behind him, and moments later, the voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Come on. I know ye’re there. Wouldn’t leave me wit’out a
guard, would they? Just talk to me. Just talk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Smith was paralysed, unable even to breath. If he remained
still, silent, then perhaps the prisoner would give up. Perhaps he would forget
who he was calling out to, or slink back into the silence, and Smith could go
back to pretending he didn’t know why he was here. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just talk.” Came the voice again, hollow and cutting,
reaching down to the very fibre of Smith’s being. How could he ignore a dying
man’s wish? Was he that inhuman? He knew it was stupid; in six hours he would
be killing this man. But somehow, he just couldn’t ignore him. He couldn’t
speak, either. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“D’ya know why I’m in ‘ere?” the walls whispered to him. He
gave no answer, but the prisoner somehow knew he was curious. “Disobeyed
orders, didn’t I? Mad ‘McLellan, not doin’ as ‘e’s told. Mad, mad McLellan.”
The voice gave way to a high-pitched laugh, which seemed to tear out Smith’s
insides and rearrange them in a grim parody of a human. Every word, every
syllable, and both of them became closer to being animals. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Told ‘em their war was bloody stupid, din’t I? Wouldn’t go over,
would I? And they called me a coward. Hahhahahaha! Me, a bloody coward! And yet
‘ere I am, facin’ death with no way out. So when you’re out there, tomorrow
mornin’, linen’ up yer shot, just ask yerself: Who’s the bloody coward now?
Who, eh? Who?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last word was screamed out, shattering whatever was left
of Smith’s resolve. The madman knew his piece was done, and slunk back to the
silence, his scream becoming a mutter as the night wore on. Mad McLellan’s
words went marching through his head for hours, and eventually, only one
thought remained. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mad, mad McLellan, the man who wouldn’t fight, was the only
sane man he’d seen since London. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The morning light was cold and harsh, the rain becoming ice
and making the footing treacherous. Smith picked up the rifle and marched into
the courtyard, where McLellan stood upright, tied to the wooden pole in front
of the stained grey walls. Smith didn’t need to see through the bag to know
he’d be grinning, knowing that he had the last laugh over his executioners, who
now formed a line and stood ready. Smith noted with some sickness that, apart
from his own, no hand trembled on the rifle. These men were executioners, cold
and ruthless. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Firing squad. Ready.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rifles came to shoulders, Smith moving as one with the rest
of the men, doing his best to do anything but think. It was no good. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Aim.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The air was silent, their breaths wisps of cloud taken on
the wind, the gentle breeze ruffling the king’s flag that Smith could not take
his eyes off. The seasoned executioners adjusted their aim, turning this brutal
business to an art form. Smith’s own weapon wavered, pulled left and right by
the burning desire to miss. McLellan stood a little straighter, defiance incarnate.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Who’s the coward now?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fire.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Author's notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- This piece is based on a very real place and setting; on my visits to Belgium I've seen a prison cell and execution range very similar to the ones described here, and it was genuinely a chilling experience. If the description of this setting is at all like I think it is, I hope there is a real sense of that in this piece. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- One idea I was playing with when writing this was that Smith took on this role of executioner to 'save' Robson from it. In the narrative I'm developing here, there's an interesting dynamic between those two characters, with Smith doing what he can to protect Robson's innocence in the hell of war, while Robson is constantly trying to achieve the 'glory' he signed up for. I'll leave that there, as it's something I want to play with in another piece coming up soon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's all for today. As always, thanks for reading and feel free to comment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-46615443486357305152014-03-02T10:47:00.000+00:002014-03-02T10:47:01.102+00:00Who Art In Heaven?I've completed another writing exercise, based around a character who finds themselves entirely loveless and alone.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>Who Art In Heaven?<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He awoke in total darkness, something cold in his hand,
something heavy across his face, something sharp at his throat. Unable to move,
he simply waited for enough of the feeling to return, aware only of the soft
drip, drip, drip of the rain at the window and the howling of the wind through
the bell tower’s open windows. Somewhere, a clock struck midnight. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Midnight. It had been no later than eight when he had
relented, had conceded the sermon unwritable and reached all-too-eagerly for
the bottle that now weighed his hand to the floor, and whose contents rendered
him unable to think. The sin, so small, had been so easy. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Slowly, in time measured only by the raindrops, he regained
feeling through his body and was able to reach up and paw desperately at the
thing that lay across his face. His free hand reached it, clawed at it, felt
the leather cover and instantly muttering a prayer for forgiveness,
irreverently shoving the Bible’s dry pages from his face before his tears could
wet them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His hand then went down, seemingly of its own accord, and
seized at the cold, sharp metal on his throat. The four limbs of the crucifix
all seemed to spear him, each a reminder of a vice too distant to recall. He
had wronged, and this was all he knew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Climbing slowly to his feet, leaning to the oak desk for
support, he allowed the chilled midnight air to blow through him, awakening,
energising, bracing. All the while, prayers flew from his lips, prayers of
forgiveness and protection and confession. Words uttered silently and carried
away on that same wind that blasted through the church. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After he had recovered enough to walk, or rather stumble, he
found himself drawn to the wooden door that opened to the tower, and then on
and on up the narrow winding stairs that looped upwards for what seemed like
for ever. He stumbled on the seventy-fifth step as he remembered doing before,
steadying himself on the stone wall for a minute before going on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The steps slowly became steeper and eventually spilled him
out onto the belfry, into the full force of the midnight storm. Through a break
in the clouds a narrow band of stars peered through, but it was a pebble
against the tide, and all-too-soon swallowed up. Below him, the town lights
were a sparkling vista; the soft yellows of muffled houselights, the orange
glow of streetlamps, even the blue flash of a siren tearing the night apart was
strangely captivating. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked out over this view, and only after an age did it
become apparent why he stood there, soaked to the bone, storm-tossed and
unthinking. <i>This</i> was what he had
dedicated his life to. His eyes traced the path of the siren, as it chased down
one street and through the next, before coming to halt at the scene of an
unseen but ear-shatteringly loud altercation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Closer still, he could see two late-night partygoers,
staggering back home, faces beneath hoods illuminated and fading in the
cigarette glow. A car swerved dangerously towards them, the icy road taking
control, and a withering fusillade of abuse was returned. The driver merely
dimmed his lights and continued, but not before countering with a curse of his
own. He recognised the voice from the Sunday congregation, he would sit on the
front left of the hall, his lips barely parted in song. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These people, who could stand before him and say their
prayers and beg forgiveness leniently granted, were godless. Every time he
looked deeper, he became more convinced. The two walkers passed a man begging
change on the street corner, and only a still-burning butt was casually thrown
his way. The voices near the siren raised, and again he knew them, their words
transplanted into hymns in the back of his mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if they were so lost, what purpose did he serve? To
grant them the true forgiveness they would squander daily? No, that was The
Lord’s role. To provide a channel for them to be heard? No, their voices
raised, whether in prayer or blasphemy, would accomplish that. To turn a blind
eye that their sins might be forgotten? No, for God saw all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All he could do was give them what they begged and wasted,
for there was no other way. He had no choice but to forgive them that they
might one day repent; he had no choice but to hear their lies, pretend they
were sincere, and bless them in the name of a God that would surely not. He
turned his face up at the storm, and began to call out, louder than the wind
and rain, that he would be heard above it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh Father, have I not been your faithful servant? Have I
not loved as you taught, and taught to love as you did?” He paused for breath,
the wind snatching the air from him, and resumed. “Oh Father, have I not
forgiven those who ask it, though they repeat their sins? Have I not prayed
forgiveness myself that my sins may be absolved? Am I not your true servant?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was no answer, only the wind rushing through the
belfry that threatened to take him, hurl him from the edge and down and down to
the ground so far below. Rain became tears that fell in droves, and without
thinking, his hand reached for the crucifix, the points digging deep into his
palm and drawing blood. A second later he had torn it away and flung it from
the edge, out into oblivion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The silence, he concluded, was answer enough, and in that
second, the terrible truth became apparent. It was him, not them, that had
chosen the wrong path, and if God would not answer now, everything he taught
and had been taught was a lie. And after that, there was no point to any of it.
No God, no Heaven, no Hell. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some reason, the thought was comforting. Because it
meant what he was about to do was no sin, what he had done was not either, and
that the only certainty was annihilation and an eternity of nothingness. With
that thought etched into his mind like the Commandments on the tablets, he
placed first one foot then the other on the edge, and waited that long wait for
the whistling wind to whisk him away…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Author's notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The first thing to be said about this piece, that also applies to everything I write, is that there is no agenda to it beyond telling a compelling story. I do not mean to criticise the concept of religion nor argue against it, simply to capture this scene in writing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The brief with this one was to create a character who is without love, despite being loving themselves. While at first glance this appears to be the priest, I suppose it could also refer to God depending on which way you take the ending. Quite a lot of this piece, including the title, is deliberately ambiguous, so I will avoid explaining it too much; I'd rather you draw your own conclusions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As always, thanks for reading.and feel free to leave a comment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-54869052292989116512014-02-26T19:00:00.000+00:002014-02-27T07:51:40.908+00:00Absent FriendsAs I mentioned yesterday, I have another of the writing exercises complete, and where yesterday's was a prequel to my other World War One work, today's is a conclusion, to these stories at least. I shall be revisiting these characters at some point, but this piece certainly marks the end of their collective story. It is set a few days after <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/body-language.html">this</a> piece.<br />
<br />
The piece is based on creating absent characters. Again it's over the word limit, and I've taken a bit of liberty with the brief, focusing more on the effect of the absence on a character present. The first 500 words or so do work on building the non-present characters, but after that it really is the story of the protagonist himself. Here it is:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>Absent Friends/After the End<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Somme, France, 3<sup>rd</sup>
July 1916<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dugout was silent, Robson’s reverberating full-belly
laugh conspicuous by absence. The pile of papers on Smith’s makeshift desk
uncharacteristically scattered, July snow fallen in sheets on the surface. Next
to them, neatly perched on the edge, a parcel that had arrived too late,
unopened. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anders lit the candle as night fell, and turned for a moment
to ask what time the lads wanted waking. The words were halfway from his lips
when they stumbled and slid to a halt. The sound seemed to echo for an age before
fading, as if waiting for a reply that would never come. He forced out a choked
cough, shattering the spell before it could fully take effect. Too long in this
ghostly silence and he’d start hearing voices. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, that wasn’t it. He would never stop hearing them. Smith
barking orders, a compassion behind the barbed commands. Johnson would never
stop complaining about the way the lintel hung too low on the left or the
constant but gradual trickle of water from the leaking roof of the dugout. As
the watch hit nine, he almost heard Robson’s cheery daily announcement he was
heading off for duty. Anders turned to wish him good luck before he could stop
himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After an eternity of the echoing voice calling back, the
silence gathered and stalked back in, the ticking of the old watch the only
noise keeping it at bay. Anders pulled out the watch, the brass case glinting
in the candlelight, and watched the hand tick round, seeming not to count
seconds but hours in the never-silent half-light. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the thousandth time, Anders heard Smith telling that
same story, how this watch had been pressed into his hands as a comrade lay
dying in the mud, how he had kept it safe across the breadth of France, and when
home on leave, had paid a small fortune to have engraved into the polished
brass casing, a dead man’s words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When all is burnt and
all is dead<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When all the world is
blood-stained red, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>When all our wars come
to an end<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Then will Death be
called our friend. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An epitaph, he’d called it. An epitaph to a good man. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Bloody poets,’ Johnson didn’t say as Anders traced the tiny
words with a finger, ‘if they’d spend as much time with a rifle as a pen we’d
be a damn sight closer to winning this damned war.’ The tirade continued for
some time, silently writhing in Anders’ head, over and over and over and over
and…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He stopped still, frozen but for his eyes, darting from
place to place, looking for any sign of life. Had the plates moved from the
table where they had taken a last supper? Had a shadow passed over the door as
an old friend returned? No. There was no one and nothing, Anders reminded
himself, all those lives were stilled, those pulses dead, those laughs, cut off
mid-stream and lying decaying in mud. Nothing in here but him and the ghosts. All
night, he sat there, not sleeping, not moving, just him and the ghosts, the
candle becoming a puddle of wax, until the first lights of day dispelled the
thoughts for another brief respite. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In that instant, he could take it no longer. There was
nothing to be done but sit and grow old, and he wasn’t meant for that. He was
without purpose. As menial as his tasks had been, Anders had always performed
them to the best of his ability, not out of a sense of forced duty or pride,
but because every meal, every mud-filled mug of tea, every almost-clean uniform
he laid out for them could be their last. Everything he did, he did out of
respect for these better, braver men who would surely die, and now they all
had, there was nothing left. No service or small favour freely given could help
them now. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then the thought came to him, a flash of clarity that
would haunt him for the rest of his life. Hurriedly, he grabbed a pencil and
paper, and scrawled a brief message onto it, childlike enthusiasm infecting his
ageing frame. He placed the watch in the paper, folding it twice, and left it on
the desk, before climbing to his feet with more vigour than he had felt in a
long while, and walking slowly towards the early morning sunlight and beyond. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He passed through the trench unnoticed, just another batman
on an errand, until he found a space filled only with the dead that had been
cut down before they could leave the muddy slit.one hand after another, he
clawed his way up the latter and over, and out into the wasteland that
stretched for miles, a world of the dead where nothing grew. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He did not know how long he walked among the dead, and the
almost-dead, who reached out and called for home and family, or uttered streams
of curses and unintelligible babblings. Across mountains and valleys of that
scarred land he walked, waiting for the bullet that only came when every last
drop of his sanity was torn away. Silhouetted against the rising sun, Anders
slumped to the sniper’s welcome bullet, and died, staring into the clear blue
sky. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Epilogue: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
The watch now sits, quite lost,
among thousands of other artefacts recovered from those hellish places. The
face is cracked, the mechanism muddied and jammed up, the time frozen at some
moment from another age. The inscription is barely readable, only a few thin
lines on the battered case. You might see it one day, small and insignificant,
a piece of useless metal amidst a sea of others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
What you will not see is the paper
it was wrapped in, an unassuming white sheet with a few lines of scribbled
text. It has decayed, fallen apart, become scattered on the wind. Words that
were forgotten. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<i>Better
men that me have died. I go to join them. Remember us. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
Author's notes:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- This is very much a tragedy, a story of loss and madness and ultimately suicide. As always, I hope not to have mistreated the context or content. It is also undoubtedly the end of the story of these men, although as I said before there are many tales still untold. I do hope this provides a sense of conclusion, though. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- The last part I'm not sure on. Part of me wants to spend more time on the conclusion, but I feel with the previous piece I have done all I can on No-Man's-Land without needless repetition, given that I eventually intend to combine them all into a single longer piece. I do like the almost desensitised feeling of the last couple of paragraphs, but I also feel the need to redo them. In my head, I had a scene from Sebastian Faulks' novel Birdsong (a great book, by the way) in which a character goes 'over the top' and experiences a moment of outstanding clarity, seeing the world as almost beautiful for a split-second before all hell breaks loose. I wasn't intending to copy this, but there were a couple of bits I wanted to try and convey. I may well re-read that scene and then re-draft this ending, as I really do like the contrast he manages to achieve. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As always, thanks for reading, and feel free to comment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-28971834687700554822014-02-25T20:22:00.001+00:002014-02-25T20:32:18.028+00:00No Man's Land/The Poet's War<span style="font-family: inherit;">This blog has been lapsing into inactivity for a week or so, but now I'm back into the swing of writing, and have continued progressing with the Writing Exercises with two more completed in the last couple of days. It's a prequel to the stories found <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/as-mentioned-yesterday-here-is-next.html">here</a> and <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/body-language.html">here</a>, set in the trenches of France in World War One. This piece, unlike the others, has no specific setting, but is pre-Somme given its position in the story. </span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">No Man’s Land/ The Poet’s War (Ways of Seeing) </span></b></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nine o’clock. Smith clicked shut the freshly-cleaned watch and climbed to his feet, noting with sudden alarm the chaotic mess his desk had become as he worked. Hastily, he shuffled the papers into some kind of order, and gave a dissatisfied grunt. It would do for now, he concluded. Grabbing his rifle from where it lay by the narrow exit, he made his way up into the trench. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At this late hour, the trench was all but deserted, only a few stragglers and the watchmen not at liberty to return to their dugouts where they would huddle for cover as the night dragged on. The setting sun cast long shadows, plunging the entirety of the trench into darkness, broken only by flashes of blinding light where the last rays pierced gaps in the sandbags. Smith noted the major openings as he walked, and decided he would place a detail on repairs as soon as it was light enough to work. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Smith reached the watchman’s post and tapped the current guard on the shoulder three times, a routine they had perfected over the long months of service together. Johnson turned on the third tap, saluted and marched back to the dugout, breaking step as soon as he was out of sight. Smith stepped up into the alcove and put his eye to the periscope, surveying the wasteland that was set out before him. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every day it was the same, and yet different. New shelling had created a barren landscape entirely different from what he had seen only yesterday; mounds stood where there were craters, craters where there had been a rare patch of level earth. Rivers of rainwater, unable to seep into the saturated ground, that had run away to the left yesterday now wound their way to his right, dripping slowly down into the ever-filling-and-draining trench. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The words came to Smith unbidden, as they did every night, and again he fought the urge to prise his eyes away from the glass lens to commit them to paper. Instead, he let them dance in his head like so many fireflies. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today’s world is falling dead; tomorrow’s unborn, </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Greyness yet to find a form, </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">These hills and gullies, crested with the sunset </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Will stand, will die, and we will forget. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As his eyes became more accustomed to the light, the sharp shadows and glaring lights adopting more mellow tones, Smith was greeted with the same horrors he saw every day and dreamed of every night. Men lay in the mud, dead, their uniforms rotting away, their faces grey and pale, their flesh eaten away by the maggots and rats that paid no heed to allegiance. All these dead men, so far from home, were meals to those things that crawled in the dark and were consumed with ravenous hunger. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dead among the dying they sit, these pale husks of men </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Who cannot fight or die again </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Their too-young bodies rent and torn </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Will disappear before the dawn. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Smith’s vision became clearer, this vision of a daily hell, and the more he looked, the more he saw. Morbid curiosity drew him in, calling seductively, ordering him to look closer, and closer, and closer until… </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">A man still moves in this too-still world </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Face scarred, eyes bloodshot, lips curled </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">In a cry for home </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">To the crows and the sky </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Above </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The ghostly figure crawled, inch by inch, across the wasteland, driven by some desperate force that defied injury and reason. He was bloody all over, shot several times in the chest, and his left arm hung useless, handless at his side. Smith could not look away. For a moment, he considered ordering out a party of men to retrieve this moving cadaver from the field, but he knew it would be a futile effort. The man’s groans, coming to him now through the sunset, belied what little time he had left, his ever smaller and weaker movements were a death warrant. At the very least, Smith could end his misery, but he was somehow paralysed, unable to move until this ghastly play had its final act. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">He cries for death, this dying man </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">That sweet relief that ends us all; </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">And cries not tears but floods </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">To drown himself in mud and blood </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">If none will answer his fatal call. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The sun set, and the crawling corpse groaned on and on into the night, Smith charting his progress and losing sight as darkness fell. Flares, sent up intermittently, would give him another brief chance, a glimpse as this horrible visage came closer, and then it would fade, those ghostly eyes and torn face haunting Smith in the dark between them. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why does he crawl? Why does he call </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">For home, when he is alone </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">So alone among the dead? </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">What thoughts, what promises, </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">What secrets never told are pounding, </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Marching round inside his head? </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At two o’clock, a flare was again sent up and Smith realised with some horror that the creature -for he was no longer a man with those howls and that grimace- was moving ever towards him, now only a dozen yards from the edge of the trench. Another fifteen minutes at most, and he would reach that precipice, and tumble down to lie among the sandbags or be consumed by the muddy water. </span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Come home, old soldier, </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Come back to your ranks and be seen. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Be seen that they might know who you are </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">What you are and where you have been. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tell your tale now, or a hundred years hence, </span></i></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">It make no difference till the warlords relent. </span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Author's Notes:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- First off, a confession: on this piece I've gone well over the word count, but I've found that these characters have just run away with me somewhat. I feel I'd rather take a little longer and do the setting/character/message justice rather than truncate it just to meet the word count. As always, I hope to have treated the subject well and respectfully. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- The brief for this task asked for a character to have a unique way of seeing a traumatic event, and the focus for this was the poetry in this piece. I've always been fascinated by the War Poets, (Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Rupert Brooke et al) and in poetry in general, so this was very interesting to write and experiment with mixing in poetry with prose. If anyone reading this is a poet, then I imagine you'll know what it can be like when words just spring into you head and change the way you see the world. I hope that's worked in this piece. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- The poem itself I think works as a standalone piece, although I do feel the context of this piece improves it. It lacks a coherent rhyme, structure or style, but that is intentional as it highlights the confusion and lack of surety from the narrator. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- At the end of the day, this piece is about character, so I hope to have made that the focus of it. With any luck, this piece and the other WW1 bits will give you a good sense of Smith's character and those of his comrades. I'm pretty sure I'm not yet done with this cast, and will almost certainly return to them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As always, feel free to leave a comment, and thanks for reading. </span><br />
<br />Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-81251850440874480852014-02-05T18:57:00.000+00:002014-02-05T19:01:14.332+00:00HomecomingHere's another of the writing exercises I completed a few days ago. It's a direct sequel to the second exercise, Deja Vu, found <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/as-promised-second-instalment-in-series.html">here</a>. Enjoy:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i><u>Homecoming /2117 part II<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At last, he was home. Miles and miles and miles over the
broken wasteland that was once England, past towns still burning and villages
already razed to the ground in an effort to stave off the cold and the dark.
The horizons had glittered every night with the embers that now consumed the
planet, and on the third day, after the great ship had lifted off and begun the
voyage into the long dark of space, fire seemed to consume everything. Every
house, every office block, every shop and bank. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
London had been the greatest of the bonfires, a never-ending
cascade of flames that, from close-by, seemed to span the entire world. Every
so often, over the roar of the flames, he could hear screams and cries as one
of the hopeless, deluded or just careless survivors caught alight. Some
relished it, the final burning escape, and some would roar and howl at the
pain. Humanity was now united in only one thing- that ancient desire to fight
off the dying of the light. Now, as they had centuries and millennia before,
the last surviving men and women would sit, huddled around glowing embers in
the cold of night, throwing ever more kindling into the flames. Books and
boxes, cabinets and cars, anything that could be burned was slowly turning to
ashes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And after the horror and heat that was London, came the
long, slow walk across the southern counties, where woods and fields sheltered
the cowering remnants of a once-mighty species. Every night, they would look to
the stars, and the mad would laugh and the lost would cry. Every day, they
would spend searching for more fuel for this greatest of fire, humanity’s
funeral pyre. Every man and woman he passed would beg him to stay, to join the
relative safety of their various groups and gatherings, but he refused them
all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through it all he had walked, and finally, after an age, he
was home. As he drew closer, he began imagining the scene with an ever-growing
anticipation working its way through him. He would walk down the street he had
crossed so many times before, still glancing out of habit though no car would
come. He would give a friendly nod to anyone he passed, though there would be
no one there. And finally, he would open that old oak door and he would see her
again and everything would be well. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He would sit down at that table like he hadn’t done for
years, he would eat from the finest plates and bowls they had, and he would
clear it away like he never did. His apology would come in the arch of the
living room door, the explanation would wait until he was settled in that plump
leather chair. After that, it all depended on her. He tapped the ring in his
pocket, then clutched it tighter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, at last, he came to that street. The burnt-out remains
of cars littered the roadway, covered in ash, and more fell constantly, the
dusty snow that would provide the shroud for mankind’s cremation. Windows had
long-since been smashed, houses emptied of their now-worthless contents. Gold,
silver, jewels. None of them mattered now. They couldn’t burn. Not a single
building stood intact, all since stripped of anything that would ward off the
cold. He didn’t look too closely at the old school or the bank, or any of the
shop windows. All that mattered was that he got home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He rounded the corner and turned onto his old street, again
greeted by a vista of burning detritus, and as he made out the shape of his
house through the ash cloud, a timid hopeful joy began to blossom inside him.
Kicking up yet more dust, he ran towards the building, not bothered by the
choking ash or the stinging heat or the blinding light. He only cared about
home and her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there she was, silhouetted against the flames, walking
towards him, crying in the heat and throwing her arms around him. Trying to
hold him back, almost dragging him away from the home he had spent so long
coming back to. Dragging him away from the safety he so longed for. And then he
realised, understood the words she cried in his ears, and stopped dead, cursing
himself for being so foolish. Because this was the end. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And at the end, everything burned to stave off the cold and
the dark. Everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*** </div>
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<br /></div>
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Author's Notes: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The brief for this one specified the piece be centred on 'home' as a concept and what that means, and I've taken a little artistic license with it to be honest. I've stuck to it in terms of making the setting at large a key part of the
story, hopefully laying hints for the ending throughout if you're reading
carefully, and I've also focused on what 'home' means, but to a lesser extent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- I almost feel this needs another sequel to properly tie it up. That, and 'The
2117 trilogy' has a nice ring to it. I think it merits a sequel that is far
more focused on character, which took something of a sideline in this section. At some point soon I will certainly round off this story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- I hope the ending wasn't too obvious, but at the same time
I hope there's enough clues in the rest of the text to give you a nagging sense
of doubt throughout, so that when the ending reveal comes, you almost feel
annoyed for not seeing it coming, or pleased at having guessed it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
As always, thanks for reading, and I welcome any comments or criticism. There's another piece I have ready to post, so that will be up later tonight or tomorrow.<br />
<br />Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-59934021128057652392014-02-04T19:43:00.001+00:002014-02-04T19:43:41.895+00:00A Poem: Memory Four WaysAnother Day, another poem.<br />
<br />
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<b><i><u>Memory Four Ways<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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An echo, a word from some other world, <o:p></o:p></div>
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Calling across the voids and heard,<o:p></o:p></div>
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An echo, a legend that tells me the truth,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An echo, a voice that reminds me of you. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Those memories, too few)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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A ghost of a smile on your face as you pass, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A hammer to shatter this old heart of glass, <o:p></o:p></div>
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A ghost of a smile that will tear me apart, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The point of that smile like the tip of a dart. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Scarring my heart) <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A shadow of doubt that is soon thrown away, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A shadow that brightens the darkest of days, <o:p></o:p></div>
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The shadow of you is all that I see, <o:p></o:p></div>
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That shadow of you that can’t set me free. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(What does that make me?)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Reflections of dreams that I see in your eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In dreams, the reflection is nothing but lies, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lies that I cling to like everything’s new, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lies that I call the reflections of you </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(My friend, of you)</div>
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<br /></div>
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*** <o:p></o:p></div>
Poet's notes:<br />
- This is a continuation of my experiment with unusual (for me, at least) use of structure. While the verse tends to hold true to the fairly simple AABB rhyming pattern, I've played around with adding an 'afterthought' to each stanza, separate from the main part of the verse, deliberately echoing the last rhyme. I think this fits quite well with the theme of memory and recurring thoughts, as it drags out the verse a little longer, purposefully jarring with the rhythm but extending the rhyme.<br />
<br />
As always, any comments are welcome and thanks for reading.<br />
<br />Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-23814868348234879802014-02-03T19:18:00.001+00:002014-02-03T19:18:49.088+00:00A Poem: Ways of SeeingWhat's a poet without any poems,<br />
A notebook that's empty of rhyme?<br />
A blankness that's worthless is all that it is,<br />
So I'll fix that and now is the time...<br />
<br />
As noted, there is really a distinct lack of actual poetry on here, largely due to my recent focus on short fiction, but today I finally got around to writing some more verse. This one is still only a first draft, so may well evolve (in which case I shall post again for comparison), but for now, enjoy:<br />
<br />
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<b><i><u>Ways of Seeing<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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I see the world through the eyes of a child, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not one so mild<o:p></o:p></div>
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As raging and torn, too old for my time<o:p></o:p></div>
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Seeing the rhyme <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But not knowing why. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I reach out and touch with a tentative hand,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So strange in this land,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A frozen hand that cannot feel<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this is real<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This heart that can’t heal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You see the world through eyes looking back, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not fearing attack <o:p></o:p></div>
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But searching and lost, between two worlds, not alone,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both worlds your own<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But neither quite home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You hear my promise, a part of the world,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A flag unfurled,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A word too clear but it’s better this way, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I might run away;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll be back some day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They see us both through the eyes of the world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Snarling lips curled <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At me for being and you for seeing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not fleeing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world that I call my own. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I cannot see is what you are to me, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What we could be<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If the eyes of the world turned their gaze,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lost in the haze</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of numberless childhood days. </div>
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<br /></div>
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*** </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Poet's notes:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- This poem is something of an experiment and a departure from my usual, somewhat more structured work, with the shortened second and fourth lines of each stanza being particularly atypical. I can't quite decide whether they help or hinder the flow of the poem, as I've not yet recited it aloud. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- The rhyme an rhythm are deliberately broken in places, and the format purposefully a little looser than usual. I'm not sure precisely what this adds, but I did feel right when writing. I'm interested to hear thoughts on that if anyone would like to comment. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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The next few of writing exercises should be complete within the next couple of days, as soon as I have time to write. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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That's all for now, thanks for reading, and any comments are welcome as always. </div>
Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8983352340321849581.post-78479567486823959682014-01-29T20:49:00.000+00:002014-05-20T18:02:20.326+01:00A Backwards StoryAs mentioned yesterday, here is the next exercise in the series I am slowly but surely getting through. This one goes back to the First World War, featuring a character mentioned in <a href="http://poets-notebook.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/body-language.html">this</a> piece, and as per the brief, told backwards. Writing a story in reverse was certainly interesting, but I think it works rather well in this case, and is something I may well experiment more with in future.<br />
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Here goes:<br />
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<b><i><u>Back to Life (A Backwards Story)<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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Robson is dying, he knows that. In the mud and the blood and
the fire of the field so far from home. Killed in someone else’s war. He gropes
at cavity where the bullet has punched through his chest; he’s no doctor, there
is no chance of survival; the wound is ragged and torn, blood already running
dry. Breathing was impossible, even without the thick gunsmoke. He had run
across that muddy, ravaged field and it had hit him, and he had fallen and he
had stayed down. His last thought as he lay there, dying in the foreign mud, is
how it had come to this…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He bursts from the trench, not yet daring to run, rifle in
hand and cold. There is no clarity to the cacophonous sound and his vision is a
blur, wave after wave of inexplicable sensations bombarding him, one after
another after another. From somewhere there comes a rat-tat-tat-tat-tat that is
followed immediately by blood-curdling screams, from somewhere else there is an
explosion of blinding light that assaults his eyes. And then there is pain,
that burning, searing pain as his chest is torn apart…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Another battlefield, and he was sitting in a different
trench, German this time, smoking the last of the cigarettes he’d picked up on
leave. His face was dirty but not bloody, and his rifle rested casually against
the parapet. In his free hand was that faded photograph, a girl he could
scarcely remember. She was just a name and a face now, but he still held on to
that. A last token of home. What was home now? One day, when the war was over,
he would find her again. He would find himself, too. When the war was over… <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Robson steps down into the trench, making sure to tread on
the duckboards that are themselves sinking. Making his way along the muddy
ravine, the world comes apart, and everything he knows is wrong. This mud and
squalor is not at all what he had been told to expect, nor are the constant
sounds of distant guns and the screams from somewhere too far away to matter.
But had he expected the cheerful smiles that greet him from every face, even if
just to hide the pain and pity. There is something not right about those
smiles, but it doesn’t matter. Maybe here, he’ll be one of them at last… <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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His first view of France is a grey line on the horizon,
unremarkable and plain. Closer, he sees a green tinge to the coast, and makes
out hills and trees and a place where a river meets the sea. Closer still, his
first real glimpse of what they will be fighting for. A small postcard village,
picturesque fields that roll over hills and down into the morning haze, the
smiling faces as they come ashore. A hundred other men see what he sees, and he
is certain every one of them is feeling the same thing; this isn’t too bad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As fields roll by past the windows of the train, England
slowly leaving him behind, a swarm of bees buzz through his head. He is leaving
those he never loved, but also one he did. One who a man, dressed in khaki,
like him, youthful and free, like him, took away. If she could see him now,
what would she say? It doesn’t matter. He unfolds the photograph from so long
ago, that moment frozen in time, and for a moment, forgets. Maybe, at long
last, he has made her proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Robson takes one last look back at the three of them as he
steps on the train. The father who was not his Father, beaming and saluting,
Jeanette’s face glowing with admiration for her very own soldier that never
loved her, and Mother, crying and making no effort to hide it. He wishes she
would stop; it’s spoiling the moment, some last pang of loneliness holding on
with those tears. At the very least, she could pretend to be a little proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
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‘Come back to us.” He hears her call as the train moved off.
I will, he promises himself. I will, he lies. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Name?” says the officer, and Robson stammers something unintelligible,
trying not to wither under his stare. “Name?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Robson. Ian Robson.” He says again, clearer this time, and
the officer nods. Robson wrings his hands as the next question comes, the one
that will decide his future. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Age?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Sixteen.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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“Eighteen.” He says. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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“Very good.” The officer frowns, but hands him the papers.
What is that in his face? Anger at being lied to? Jealousy that Robson has the
courage to fight while he sits here doling out forms? No, it’s pity, but he
doesn’t know why. He had lied, and the officer knows it, but what did it matter
now? Robson was going to war… <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p>*** </o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
I hope you found the piece interesting and thought-provoking, or at least vaguely engaging. As always, any comments or criticism are welcome, and once more, thanks for reading.Paradigmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375261776276801480noreply@blogger.com0