Sleepwalking my way through life: "Seven"


Possibly easy day?

Double period of nothingness is awaiting me. Gary, coming in to hide from his history teacher whose class he's missing, he didn't even show up for Physics because he was tired. And now he's sitting just behind me, a pen in hand and an idea in his head.

"I just thought of the best thing ever."

"Does it involve cheese?"

"You know how Ted (Kirstie) doesn't want me to get her anything for Christmas? Well she said last night that she would only accept something of sentimental value. And then it hit me! I'm going to write a novel!"

I paused in reading Ctrl+Alt+Del and turned to face him. "By Christmas?"

"Yeah! Well, it's not going to be a novel really, more of a..."

"Short-story. Yeah, I get it. But what about?"

"All about me and her and what's going to happen and stuff. Like my blog, except in third person."


"And I'd get you to check it over," he continued, "'cause you're the writing person."

Very interesting.

In short, Gary is achieving what I've been striving to do for the past five years. Write a full and proper story. It makes me think back to my younger days, the days of Alexander and Kao in the land of Ocshore. When everything was so much simpler, even in an apocalyptic scale.

"The army was large, but Alexander feared that it would not be large enough to tackle the soldiers of darkness, the forms of pure evil that plagued the land of Oschore, always present as though a shadow of the earth. Alexander stirred uneasily in his bed, sweat on his brow not from the choking warmth, but from fear of what lies over the horizon. Of what waits deep within the enemies lair.
He presently drifted off to sleep, traveling far into the world of dreams where things do not appear as they seem, where the imagination takes shape to form fluid paintings of wonder and, at times, terror. He landed firmly on his feet, totally naked with the exception of the silver chain hanging loosely from his neck. He stood high upon the mountain tops of Lealan, drinking in the wondrous view or sunshine and rolling green hills.
An invisible hand gripped his wrist and gently pulled, leading him down the side of the mountain, through great towns and cities towards a forest of beautiful green with flowers blooming into view. The leading hand loosened his grip and stopped upon a hill that overlooked the entire forest which Alexander took in and all it's glory.
Alexander's head shot up. Clouds ran over the sky, blackening the scenery in front of him. There was a thunderous roaring sound as the trees flattened themselves against the ground and hissed into the heaving mud. A wind blew by the chilled Alexander to his bones. The roar of trees fell silent and there was no sound to be heard. It was as though Alexander stood upon that hill for a long time, waiting for the ages to pass and for some light to pass through the clouds and bring hope, for some sound to bring salvation from such a devastating sight.
There was a sound eventually. A dull, monotonous beat of drums that echoed from the horizon. This sound did not bring the hope that Alexander's heart desperately seeked, but brought forth more dread that writhed in his gut. The soldiers of darkness marched into view, hundreds of thousands stood before him, emanating fear and hatred.
The grip tightened round Alexander's wrist, and he found himself weighted down in his commanding armor. He felt the breathing of a hundred troops behind him, their last breaths before he led them to doom.
He drew his sword and raised it high, light glinting off of it despite the looming darkness. From his throat he uttered a deep and fearless roar before charging into the darkness.
He woke with a start, a sheen of cold sweat covering his forehead. His hand whipped to his knife as he held it to the throat of a shaman, clad in the shamanic gear of old. The shaman had a vice-like grip on Alexander's wrist, causing pain as he squatted down, a smile behind the demon mask.

"That is what awaits you." He whispered and drifted away in a cloud of smoke before Alexander could slice his throat.

Alexander lay on his bed, his hurting wrist being the only evidence of the truth that had happened. Staggering out of bed he pulled on his clothes and went to tell the general. His men's lives were counting on it.

That piece has been stewing in my head for the past few years, and I know it isn't all too good, but it's a start.

Gary's determination in writing this novel is stirring my old desire to write. I might just find a new way to fill my free periods now.

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At 2:47 pm, Anonymous Anonymous said...

What are the numbers for? Are you counting down to something?

At 6:00 pm, Blogger Joe said...

True dat.


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