For writers and others alike!

Simple instructions that will enhance your reading pleasure!

Greetings!

I am about to post the 1rst part of my short Halloween story.

I just wanted to give you simple instructions that will enhance your reading pleasure as you go through it.




That's it I guess. Oh, one more thing :

I was told to give warnings for younger viewers and all that stuff.

Well, the movie, hum, story is "R18" rated for extreme violence, contains coarse language and other crap that makes it not suitable for everybody...
Therefore, viewer discretion is strongly advised.

Well, here it goes!!!

Halloween Story : Part one.


The sun was slowly setting in the eastern horizon of an ancient forest. A great lake resided in its middle, reflecting the last rays of the dying sun. Small ripples stirred on the surface, as fish moved close to its edge, ready to catch various insects unware to the underwater predator.

The air was gradually getting cooler as the night slowly took over, breathing to life a thin mist that appeared throughout the forest and all over the nearby creek. A calm breeze added to the chillness of the night air. With it came the draft of fallen leaves and the scent of humid soil.

The cacophonious symphony of nocturnal dwellers was taking over the calm atmosphere of the peaceful day that had just ended. In the distance, wolves were crying for some unknown reason. Woe clearly permeating their minds. Owls were hooting in harmony, adding to the chaotic chirpings of the nightly critters. Suddenly, the cracking of twigs broke the steady rhythm of the night’s hymn.

Someone, or something, was approaching the lake from the forest, very gingerly. It was now pitch black. The full moon was now the only source of the much needed light available in this forsaken environment. Nevertheless, what was moving had to keep on going weither it could see or not.

It was indeed a human beeing coming from the wilderness. It was wearing a dark blue worker’s clothing wearing a dirty white chipped hockey mask. On his back was tied what looked like a machete. He was looking at the GPS unit that he was holding in his left hand. The individual was quite large, maybe about six feet and five inches in height and weigh around 250 pounds. He was almost there. He was heading for a tree that had a glowing number on the lower part of its bark. It was the number 3, glowing in an pale shade of white and green.

When he arrived at the tree, he kneeled down, looked around for a few moments then speed-dialed a phone numer that was on the GPS unit. Shortly after, he received a text message that said the following :

“- So, you’ve actually came through with your decision. That’s good! You’re ready to go through what you’ve been planning on doing for a long time but never had the guts to do so until now. Tonight, you’ll face life threatening situations that will test your desire to live or to let go of your pathetic life. You might get help in doing it or you mightl have the opportunity to unleash the anger that’s been building inside of your dirty self on whatever comes your way. You might even cross my path. By the way, I’m the Clown who delivered your things. I’ll be the one with the chainsaw. I’m ready for you piece of shit!

At this point, the individual remembered what happened the day that he was delivered the equipment that he ordered for the event.

A little before the package was delivered, he was in his room, looking at his mirror, crying like a baby. He was looking at himself punching his head and calling himself degrading names. He hated everything about him. He was a young blond man, early 20s, with blue eyes and pale rosy chubby cheeks. He wasn’t that bad looking. Might’ve been a little overweight but it was nothing that couldn’t be taken care of in time. Then, the doorbell rang. He quickly wiped his face dry and walked down from the second floor to the entrance door.

A man, dressed as a clown and as tall and big as he was, was holding a package and waiting for him. After the young chubby blond man had opened the door , the clown spoke to him :

“-Hello. May I speak to Daniel please?
- That would be me, answered the youngling.
- I have a package for you from ‘Blood and Gore Inc.’, said the man as he handed over Daniel the package.
- Hum, thanks?, was the only thing he found the courage to say.

Before he had the time to close the door, the Clown took a step back, raised his right fist and punched him squarely on the nose as hard as he could.

-No, thank YOU!”, said the deranged freak as he walked away, whistling.

Daniel fell flat on the ground and muttered : “What the fuck is his problem?”

Blood was oozing out of his nose and pain flashed through his head. Then he got up, locked the door and walkded up to his room. He anxiously opened the box and put on the clothes that he so eagerly waited for. As he fumbled inside through what remainded, he found what he thought was the coolest thing in the world and held it up in the air and giggled insanely.

Movement nearby, in the eerie forest, brought him back from his reverie to the actual occuring events. Sensing and seeing nothing, he pursued reading the message :

Here are the rules :

The Game starts at 22:00 hrs sharp. Not before.
You cannot quit.
To “win”, you must collect bracelets such as the one that you’re wearing on your right wrist. The magic number is “5”.
Do not take off the bracelet.
Break any of there rules and you will be terminated, litterally.

P.S.: Leave the GPS unit in the plastic case attached to the tree under your number. I don’t want you to taint it with you filth more than you have too you distusting bastard.


Thus ended the disturbing message. The guy looked at the time indicated on the device he was holding. It was a quarter to ten. Daniel’s heart was pounding. He really wanted to get that mother fucking clown’s head. He got up, his knees were hurting, and looked around him.

He couldn’t see much through the haze and the darkness that smothered his vision. Close to him, maybe at a hundred yards to his left, lied the silent shore of the peaceful lake. Through the trees, north easternely from where he stood, he saw what he thought to be a yonder blinking light. He stuck the GPS unit in his back pocket thinking : “Fuck him, I’m keeping this!”. Then, he unsheathed his machete and slowly headed toward the spec that glistened feebly throught the thick wilderness surrounding the agitated man...

As he moved away toward the light, a camera, placed high on the numbered tree, turned on and oriented itself toward the man.

Greetings!

I won't be adding to this short story, the Halloween one, until December.

I am currently busy with the Nanowrimo.

Here is the excerpt to my story :


“- I often wonder, as I gaze mindlessly over the empty watery landscapes of Khreshgol lake, how I manage to play all these wonderful melodies with this Flute I found when I don’t even know how to play any instruments.

Not only that, now more then when I first found it, I “see” things, visions of an ancient past, battles that occured and were fought valiantly. I hear men screaming in pain and agony. I also “hear and feel” their fears, their despair, as they fought these desperate battles to the death. I hear them begging for mercy, trying to parley with an unseen assailant.

It gives me goosebumps thinking about these images but I cannot help myself from playing this Flute for when I do, I feel much better. It clears my thoughts for they are filled with woe.

Sometimes, I think that this Flute is trying to talk to me. Indeed, as the years go on, I hear more and more songs that, when put together, form some kind of conversation. And not only that, I feel like this Flute is alive or that maybe someone’s Soul is trapped inside of it.

I am still young and naive. I might be imagining all these things but I don’t care if I am right or wrong. What I do know is that when I play this wonderful Flute, I feel better and that is all that matters...” ----- Aerdrich Oliver Feldwhym.

ffbj said:

It's just that I don't feel any pressing need to write, no book inside me trying to get out is all.

Click to expand...

Oh, now I understand.

I'm having a totally opposite reaction.
Stories are ripping my soul apart.
I must get them the hell out of my mind.
They obsess my thoughts.

I'm consequently, an insomniac.

It's now 01:00 a.m. where I live.
I'll try and go grab some ZZZzzzzz.
Goodnight.

Hmm somewhat similar to something I wrote recently. I think you need to work on voice somewhat. Also mixing metaphors, like smothered vision, don't really cut it in my opinion, also calm breeze. It's either calm or not, maybe a slight breeze, and for the vision I would say obscured vision.

Here is the intro I was referring too:

Mission to Askalon'
Chapter 1.

'A Warning in the Waning Light.'

Trudging up the last hill to your uncle Will's house, you stop for a moment. You sit down on nearby bench overlooking the hamlet of Benton. As you pull out your journal, you remark to yourself, that not much has changed here, since you were a child.

Then, as now, the old the lamplighter is beginning to make his rounds in the failing light. A few crows, perched on the peaked roofs,caw, preen, and stretch out their wings as they prepare to take flight for their nightly haunts.

Mothers are calling too. Calling out to their wayward offspring calling them inside where it's safe. Tommy,Sally, Munchkin, Beniel. Off to the South the sound is returned by a faint echoing chorus of howls which float up towards the settlement along with the greenish mist of the Moaning Moors. Moor wolves.

No, things haven't changed much.

The shouts of the last mother calling for the last child are now more frantic, and other's voices join in....Beniel, Beniel.., Ah! He is found.

'That drama has ended...as this one is about to begin' you muse sliding out your journal,..oh, and..the pipe before the funeral, always a must...

Loud 'Cawing' erupts from the roof of your dead uncle's house, as some crows, startled by the commotion below, fly off towards the
tendril like fingers of greenish mists, now shot through with the violet rays of the fast fading sun. More cawing begins as the crows fellows, from the surrounds of the hamlet, add their voices. Pen in hand you mark the date as light begins to stream down from the just lit street-lamp above you.

July 20, 863 Year of the Bird:

'Arrived back in Benton. Not much has changed here since I was a child. It's drearier here now, the wind has gone out from the West and it's less peaceful...

'Aie it's a Murder a Crows, alright...You look up from your writing and nod up knowingly in response to the lamplighter's exclamation. He stops and leans in towards you, putting his weight on his lighting pole. Silently closing your journal you slide your leg over and sit astride the bench as he slowly guides his lantern toward your face. A flash of recognition lights up his one good eye. A half-toothed grin reveals itself as he beams down at you.

'It's Ole Tom, you member me of course'?
'Certainly I do, Old Tom', you say, standing up to give to give the massive man a gentle pat on the shoulder.

'Come for the funeral, 'ave yah?..Well a course you 'ave.'

'Yes,' you begin...
'He was a strange, sort a bird, your uncle I mean..but a good un,' says old Tom.

'But I mus be off,' says he turning away. A haunting tune slips from his lips. It's a queer old tune that you recall but had not heard since you were a child. Oh, so long ago, it seems. Old Tom's whistling stops abruptly, and you watch, as he halts in mid stride, almost as if stunned by the appearance of a hunched over figure which is slowly emerging from the doorway of your departed uncle's home. You watch, almost as if transfixed as an old crone in mourners weeds slowly picks her way down the front steps. One by one tapping her cane rhythmically three taps to each step, she descends. The two forms nod silently to each-other, as you gather your things and head towards the door.

The lamplighter turns to the side to allow the figure of the old woman to pass and glances back to you.
'Mind wat I say, bout them murderous, thieving crows,' Croaks Old Tom, motioning his lamp towards the scarred over socket where his left eye once was.

'They took that one, and they ain't given it back yet.' He snorts as he moves off on his mission and once again takes up his haunting tune. Part of the chorus comes back to you:

'Crows, Crows, a Murder of Crows...
O! No one knows just where they goes..
Some goes high, an some goes low...
The something, something..Murder of Crows.

You notice the old woman staring up at you, her torturous progress down the cobblestone lane briefly arrested... Swaying slightly she points her gnarled cane up at you and softly hisses something. She then turns and hobbles quickly away glancing nervously upwards, a few times, at the waning sun, as she goes.

You take the steps up to the still open door of your uncle Will and May's house.
The cry of a crow or a parrot of some sort squawks loudly from the foyer. You step across the threshold as you mull over the insistently hissed warning of the old woman.

'Beware the Crowmasters!'

Hello!

Very intriguing. Well set mood.
I felt like I was there.
I wonder what will happen now that the sun has set.

To come back at what I wrote about my first Nanowrimo chapter.
You have to know this :

During the whole month, until november 30th at 23:59:59 seconds,
we de not edit our texts. We do that in december.
I wrote the Memories of the past intro in around something like 5 minutes.
A spur of the moment.
I did not edit it. I will do so in december.

But thanks for the tips. I will keep them in mind.
And you must also know that I am French canadian. I know, it can sound like a silly excuse but it's a damned good one from my point of view. Therefore, some words will make no sense from your point of view, like smothered visions...
But now that you made me realise it, a vision cannot in fact be smothered.
A voice yes, a sound, but no a vision. Indeed.

Now that I've read your text, I also realise that I am not as good as I thought. It's like a blow, an uppercut to the chin. I have one knee on the canvas...
I can also ad that in my whole life, when it concerns my writing as a Fantasy author, I have not written more than 40 pages...
I am still but an apprentice.
I feel like an idiot writing this.

Back at what you wrote : Wondering if the guy will lose an eye now...

Anyway, I'll talk to you later.

I shall ponder about what you said.

Hey Ho! Yes, that was well done for not editing. It's true also that while writing is a craft, you get better at it as you go along, innate talent, and passion are equally important, as with most things. If I were to just to take an overall view, my assessment would be that you can write. You turned a few nice phrases in your piece.

What I showed above was re-written several times, and could be punched up a bit and smoothed out. I offer it as an example of setting a scene. Initially it took me about an hour to write it. Actually it also contains clues to a riddle, and various references to the module.

I read some writing a friend of mine, who is an excellent artist, did and was at first a bit disheartened, as I always considered myself a decent writer. This was because his writing was so good. We all want to really good at something. After my initial shock I wrote the above piece as a sort of re-affirmation to myself that I can still write. We humans are such egoists. Point is: there is always going to be someone better, just do your best. Sounds platitudinous, but it's true. So don't throw in the towel. (Flagrantly extending the boxing allusion).

I thought about smothering and considered that you could use it with a light source which might be interesting, like smothering a lantern. Especially in your story as it may be a precursor of events:

'The moon's feeble light was further smothered by the mists rising from the steaming swamp.' So it works in that sense. It's a bit daring but I think it flies.

I should also mention that writing, regarding tastes, is very personal. It involves so many variables: setting, subject matter, style, character development, and story of course. We all tend to emphasize differing elements.

You may also want to take into account that I am a writing hobbyist and have probably written around 1000 pages of text. So I should be halfway decent at it.

Hello again ffbj!

Thanks for the words of encouragement!
I know that I have the passion. The innate talent, not sure.
I guess I'll just have to practice then.

I might continue the Halloween story after all in November.
I'll just have to find a way to write my head off.

Until next time.

*Bows humbly and dissapears...*

Here you are my virtual friends, the next part of my Nanowrimo novel...

It was well past midday when he finally decided to open his eyes. “ – Another day...”, he mumbled. This was the part of the day that he dreaded the most. He never wanted his days to begin nor did he ever want them to end. He yawned as he stretched his limbs then gazed mindlessly around his room.

It only took a few moments for him to smell food nearby. Looking on the floor to his left, he saw a plate that his mother had brought him earlier today. Feeling very hungry, he eagerly picked it up and gobbled everything that was on it. In his haste to eat, he didn’t notice a little piece of paper lying on the floor, next to where the plate was, that said : “ – I love you.” When he was done eating, he put on the clothes he had worn the day before, not giving much thought to his hygiene.

He looked around his room for something to do. The floor cracked where he stood. A few sunrays made their way through the old rag the young man used to cover his window over his bed. The light that filtered through was just enough to properly see. His room was dirty and unkempt. There was clothes everywhere on the floor and thick dust was beginning to gather in the corners. He didn’t care about that. It was a small room, roughly ten square feet in width and a dozen feet high. Not inspired by what he saw, the young adult decided to lay on his bed once more.

He helplessly gazed at the cobwebbed ceiling for a long period of time. Long enough for the sun to shift place in the sky. After some time, he couldn’t help himself from crying. Tears slowly poured from his woefilled burning eyes. He didn’t even bother to wipe them because he knew that he would cry for some time. On and of, he wiped his snoty nose with the sleeve of his shirt. As he was lost in his smothering thoughts, he didn’t notice the door to his room open slowly.

His mother looked at him, her head halfway in the room. She stood there looking at her distressed son for a few moments then entered.

“ – I thought you were up!”, said the concerned mother as she approached him. As he heard her gentle voice, he tried his best to hide his sobs and looked at her as she came closer and wiped his eyes.
“ - What do you want?”, he asked her, between sobs, as she sat beside him on his bed.
“ - You shouldn’t stay inside on a beautiful day like this!”, said she with a comferting smile. There was no reply. Sighing, she added : “ – You know, it pains me to see you like this. Staying inside won’t help you get any better.
- Leave me alone”, he answered angrily through clenched teeth and closed eyes.

Knowing very well that it was useless to pursue the conversation, she gingerly got up, picked up the empty plate and kissed her son on the forehead saying another affectionate “I love you Aerdrich” to her beloved progeniture then walked away, leaving him alone to deal with his inner torments.

He was feeling so tired. He always felt that way. Crying so often was tiresome he thought. It was getting warmer in his room. Feeling hot, he impatiently took of his clothes and tried to fall asleep. He tried to empty his mind of all thoughts and sounds but to no avail. He kept thinking of the same pattern of thoughts he had developed at a very early age. He reminded himself of how stupid and useless he was, no beeing able to do anything worthwhile. He also saw visions of his childhood, of when his father yelled at him that he was an “accident”, that he was never going to do anything meaningful in his life. His careless father also added comments like : “ – You’ll never understand the teachings of the great Hörmghrulm!”. He was the wise man of Hilldergoth, the nearby village. What his father meant is that his son was never going to understand the basics of understanding life, in whole or in part.

As he was hurting himself with these degrading memories of the past, he heard a soothing song, a sweet melody coming from afar. At first, it was barely perceptible but it didn’t take much time to impose its presence in the youth’s distressed thoughts. The rythm of the song was a joyous one. The music was composed of a Flute and the vocals of a middle aged man. When the song started, it swept away Aerdrich’s sorrow :




As the song ended, the music gently faded away, echoing until it was completely gone. Its effects had been beneficial to the boy. He had fallen asleep.

More coming soon!!

The night had rised when he opened his eyes. The house was silent. He looked to his left and right and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes again and took many deep slow breaths. After a few moments, he realized that he felt very good. For once. He looked around his room. It was dark. Small feeble rays of moonlight lit the room. He gazed at them, watching the small particles of dust floating around in their spectrum. As he was getting used to the calmness of the house, he started to hear the sounds of the night critters outside. The annoying chirps of the crickets made their way inside the peaceful abode. He yawned once more then decided to get up.

“ – Damn! Another wasted day.”, he muttered. He waited until his eyes got used to the night then put on his clothes and headed downstairs. He walked through the living room on his way to the kitchen. He tried his best not make any sound. His lived in a very old house. It had been handed down from his father’s parents. Nonetheless, it was still in a relatively good condition even though it needed some work done on the foundation and in a few other places. Aerdrich was given the task to find help to fix what needed to be done. It had already been a year since he was asked to do so by his mother. She had often reminded him during this time but he did nothing about it. She couldn’t ask for help because no one would talk to her, having been accused of heresy by the community. This, because of the fact that she had been thaught different religious beliefs in her youth and had pursued doing so in her older years. Somehow, the nearby residents didn’t dislike the young Aerdrich because of this. He didn’t apply the same beliefs his mother preached because they weren’t in accord in what he believed. Furthermore, he was always trying to make the people understand why she thought differently than others, spiritually speaking, and was very nice to everyone. Remembering this, he made a mental note to act upon this tomorrow. He made his way to the kitchen.

There, he looked for bread and fruits. He didn’t find anything fresh. Some apples were beginning to rot. The oranges weren’t any better. He only found one edible apple and a small loaf of bread. He sighed then leaned his back on the counter slowly chewing on a piece of apple. He looked at the floor absently. Between bites, he ate a piece of bread. A few moments later, he gazed once more at the kitchen’s appearance and slowly walked to the living room. After a few moments, he wondered why he never realized that everything was in such a bad shape. It was as if he had just awakened from a long dream. He didn’t remember it beeing so bad. The floor had splintered boards here and there. His mother had tried to cover them with many rugs. The ground wasn’t even leveled anymore. It was inclined. As he walked around, he noticed that he did walk in a way to compensate for this fact. He had to tip himself to one side not to fall forwad the other. He scratched his head and thought : “ – What happened? Where have I been?” And all this time, his beloved and caring mother had not once yelled at him for doing nothing about this sad situation. She kept doing house work, caring for her heard of cows and sheep and took care of the garden while her son spent the last years of his life in his room doing nothing but crying his woe away. He couldn’t believe what he was realizing. What was more intruiguing was why he was aware of this now? The more he pondered about the sad situation, the more things cought up with his senses. The house reeked. It wasn’t that bad but it was enough to bother anyone. Where was it coming from? He could not tell...

He had to find a way make it up to his mom, for she had gone through much ordeal in the past few years. One of the worst was the departure of her husband.

The man left her for a common wench, a barmaid of a local Pub for whom he had become very attracted too. He “played” with the horny women almost every time he whent at her Pub, the Drunken Seer. When she learned of the unfaithful man’s activities, she cried for many days. Before that moment, she thought that she had finally found her soulmate, the one that would take care of her until the end of time. As a departing “gift”, he offered her to keep the house and the unwanted child. She was grateful to keep the boy. He was her pride and joy. Somehow, all these thoughts made their way in Aerdrich’s thoughts very clearly. He closed his eyes and listened.

Now that he was living the moment, he could hear the noise all around him. The house creaked from all over. Even the gentle night breeze was enough to make the foundations of the home suffer the weight of time on its joints. Every minor shift of the house made its walls moan eerily. He was pretty sure that he could hear crickets under the boards of the living room and even in the kitchen. They were very poor. He understood that now. The young man looked at himselft. He raised both of his arms in front of him. They were thin from malnutrition. He was underweight. He was hungry. He was always hungry. And he was weak. Very weak. Unable to bear these unpleasant thoughts anymore, he headed for the front door, looking for salvation.

The cool breeze of the spring night was a welcome sensation. It refreshed him, almost sweeping away the dust that had stuck to his skin. And the smell of the outside world was so envigorating. Cleaning his lungs of the filth that lay in his house. He couldn’t tell exactly what time it was but he could guess that it was before the mid of the night. The cacophonious symphony of the nocturnal dwellers wasn’t as annoying as he thought it was when he was inside. He almost thought that is was funny now that he was in the front seats. He understood that they were talking to their neighbours about this and that. He was grinning. He felt good. He hadn’t felt this way for ages. Suddenly, he felt the desire to go somewhere.
He walked down the front porch then casually walked on the dirt path that lead toward Khreshgol lake. A passing zephyr caressed the young man’s wild hair. Closing his eyes, he took in another deep breath and held it for as long as he could. Then, he slowly exaled. After, he looked at the trees around him. He was happy to be alive. He felt that he had been cought in a semi-concious state, a dreamlike world, that kept him from indulging in the simple pleasures of his existence. Now that he was experiencing all these emotions, it felt awkward. He felt that he didn’t deserve to exist. That he was an usurper of life. Then, like it happened earlier that same day, he heard something, something out of this world.

Part 4 of Chap. I​

He wasn’t sure at first. There was so much noise : the calm wind made the branches of the old trees whisper, the chaotic high pitched chirps of the frantic conversing insects and the overwhelming emotions that enlightened his senses made it difficult for him to concentrate. His senses had been numbed by his hermitage. Nevertheless, he walked in the direction he tought he had heard the unusual and disctinct sound. It was dark. Forests dominated his surroundings. His home was located between to stretches of ancient forests. The northern one was named Silverpeaks and the southern one, a mile away to the south, was called Khilgarhem’s Wake. It was so called because of the myths and folklore of the region. It said that this man had been granted a vision that enabled him to prevent the invasion of the northern part of this country, Thunder Plains, many centuries ago.

Indeed, an army of smelly creatures that looked like a blend of humans and bears had ravaged the land, accompanied by other and uglier otherworldly evil beasts that only had death in mind. His homeland had sought the aid of neighbouring countries and other numerous allies thus enabling them to come up with a resistance powerful enough to victoriously repel the deadly assault. Many stories arose from these past events, recounted many times in songs of past witnesses, and their sibblings, who where akin to music.

He didn’t remember what these people were called but he remembered that they always wore an unusual attirement : They wore oversized hats that often had a big colorful feather stuck on their left or right of it. Their shirt was of a flashy color, red or blue, he forget. Their pants were also of a unusual set of colors, of a different one from the shirt. What was special about them was that they always had an instrument that they gracefully carried during their journeys. The little else he remembered of these individuals was that they mesmerised the crowd, whenever they passed through his community. He didn’t understand why but it was a fact. When they arrived in town, it only took a few hours for the townsfolk to gather around them, whether it be in the townsquare or in the pubs late a night. After introducing themselves casually, they would gracefully sing the wondrous tales of long past heroes. The crowds were fascinated by these gentlemen. They had a way of politly conversing with everyone, especially the ladies. Thus, they were quick to make friends where they had none before. He knew all this because he had met such a person. His name was Dhylamir Hesoulghen. He was a wonderful man. He looked as if he was in his late forty’s. Had a line of grey hair forming on the sides of his head. Had a few scars on his chin, under his right eye and probably somewhere else. Beside all of this, he remembered his awkward attire. You could easely spot him in a thick crow. He didn’t know the man much but this cought his attention. He only talked a few moments with him, congratulating him on his performance when, out of the blue, the man told him : “ – If you want people to remember you, be nice to them. Be kind and lovable. Then, you will win their trust and their heart.” He wasn’t sure that he understood what that meant. As he was walking in the thick forest, he heard the unusual sound again. This brought him out of his revery.

Now, he was sure that he definitely heard something. He concentrated hard to catch the sound again but it was to no avail. Nevertheless, it came from the north, the direction in which he was going too. He tried to look around him through the thick darkness. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light. He was lucky that the moon was out this night for otherwise, it would be pitch black. In the forest, the racket of the nocturnal insects was bothersome. As hastened his pace, hoping it would enable him to forget about them. Beside the annoying chirpings, the forest was calm. No animals of prey seemed about but that could change any moment and he knew it. He told himself how careless he was for leaving the house without his hunting knife. Even though he was in a precarious situation, he didn’t let fear take control of his emotions. He felt good and, somehow, expected that nothing bad would befallen him. And there it was again!

He heard the sound of a flute but what is really that? It could’ve been the smothered sound of someone whistling from afar. He hastened his pace again. Not beeing sure about what he heard made him impatient. He wished that the chirpings would stop so that he could be sure that there was indeed a sound that was out of place right now. He was walking on a dirt path that was getting a little steeper now as he walked upwards, heading to the nearby lake. The walk seemed to take its toll on the unhealthy boy. He was loosing his breath. Needing to rest a little, he decided to stop at the peak of the hill. There, he had an unusual view of his surroundings.

He was in a clearing. The path continued northward. Someone had brought a wooden table and a couple of chairs. They rested near the edge of a cliff where he had a clear view of his home and the nearby country. The feeble illumination provided by the nocturnal sphere of light helped him distinguish just enough details to appreciate the midnight view. As he was sitting on one of the cold and hard chairs, slowly regaining his strengh, he noticed an unusual source of light in the bushes, a few hundred feet to his right.

End of Chap. I

Having done enough sighseeing, he gladly walked over there, greatly curious about its source. The lights were blinking. They were small specs that lit for a few moments then when dark for a few more. But there were so many of them that it seemed as if they were small fireworks that made a barely audible buzzing sound. The lights were sort of pale yellow and blue or green. He couldn’t how many there were but he guessed that there could be around a houndred of them flying around and blinking. He thought that they were talking to themselves having fun doing so.

They were in thick bushes, a few yards of the edge of the cliff, and a few yards away from the path that he seemed to have forgotten about, hidden by the blackened shadows cast from the ancient elder trees that dwelled in Silver Peaks. Filled with wonder, Aerdrich couldn’t help himself from jumping in the crowd of Fireflies bursting out in childish laughter, chaoticly flailing his arms in the air. The crowd of flying insects drove away from him, surprised by his intrusion but soon gathered closer, sensing that he was harmless. Some of them even dared to come about a foot from him, almost letting him catch one. Enthrawled by their existence, the young man started to speak to them, certain that they were sentient beeings.

“ Where have you been all of my life?”, he asked with an oustreched opened hand.
“ I don’t remember ever seeing you here. Maybe it’s because you only come out at night. That’s probably it. I’ve never came here after sunset. Are you afraid of the sun?”

As he spoke, a few of them came close to his hand. His eyes opended wide as they approached and landed on it. They buzzed, lit and tickled his hand. They were a little warm and that surprised him. He giggled gleafully. He never felt so happy and alive. In his revery, he had forgotten about the reason of his presence here. He remembered soon enough. Some of the critters slowly flew away, heading to the concealed dirt path, guide by something that the youth didn’t hear, fascinated by the tiny lifeforms on his hand. Out of the corner of the eyes, he noticed the large cloud of light move away from their refuge, heading toward his initial destination. That’s when he heard, and very clearly.

An easely discernable music could be heard not that far away. Toward the blackened path through the forest. It was the same sound of the Flute that had put him to sleep earlier today. The melody wasn’t the same. It was much slower and had less rythm. Almost a sad air. Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist its calling. Now, it didn’t stop when he noticed it. It grew even louder at every step he took as he walked toward it. As he lowered his hand, the insects flew away, joining their friends, lighting the path ahead of the human.

He was getting close to Khreshgol Lake. He thought that it was there that the music was coming from. The Fireflies feeble light cast eery shadows behind the trees on either side of the path. The boy didn’t dare look afar in the blackness beyond for he was starting to realise that he could be attacked by some unknown hungry beast. Keeping his eyes ahead of him, he wondered why the critters had left their abode and if they could hear the music. Further ahead, probably a few hundred yards away, he could see the stars glinting in the sky. He could also see the yonder pier, where he often spent countless hours gazing at the sea. The music was getting louder. Even though the melody was still sad, it was still soothing to the human’s ears. When he reached the boundries of the ancient forest of Silver Peaks, the Fireflies remained on its edge, looking at Aerdirch walk away. He turned around and waved them goodbye. They remained there. Buzzing and blinking.

The boy looked around, trying to identify the source of the melody. The music was quite loud now. He headed to the pier, where a few boats were tied near the shore. He gazed at the sea, where a thin mist had formed over its surface, trying to wonder why he had come here and if it was a stupid idea to listen to that Flute. Was it the same one he heard before he fell asleep? He couldn’t say. He wasn’t very good at music. To the best of his knowledge, it could be. As he was asking himself all these questions, something that will change his life happened.

A voice, he was sure, the same one that spoke to him earlier, sung to him. As before, the Flute accompanied it :



The voice ceased to speak but the melody became more lively and envigorating once more. Aerdrich looked at the sea. He wasn’t sure at first. He thought he saw a small portion of the mist “move away” from the floating cloud. It was approaching him, very slowly. Then, he heard the voice once more :


At these last words, the voice and the music faded. The boy looked at the moving mist, unsure what to expect, friend of foe.

So it's over.

My first attempt at mass production writing...

Unofficial word count : 16 000 words.
I wrote most of them in 3 days!
My first boost was a 3000 word day.
My second was a 4000 one and the last was a 5000.
The rest of the days were of 900 to 2000.
Before my computer crashed on me, I had written 19 000.
Lost something like 8 pages. Had backuped 38 pages on a floppy disk.

Good experience. In all, I wrote 46 pages in a week or two. I forget.
I'll keep on writing this novel because I think that it has a good drive and I like the vibes I'm getting from the ideas that I generated during this crazy event.

I realized something. Writing so much is tiresome.
After I was done with the 5000 word day, I was tired! Almost as if I had physically worked all day. Yet, I wrote these words in maybe 3 or 4 hours.

And something else that I'm really proud of :

I wrote everything on the spot. No notes or whatever.
I just sat down and typed and typed and typed.

It's not the best method out there but it is the only way that can get me writing for the moment. Otherwise, I'll just edit edit and edit.
The Nanowrimo helped very much to kill the inner editor.

A week or so after the event, I wrote 3 pages.
The drive is slowing down but the desire is still there.
I have around 40 pages. I want the book to be around 300.
One page at a time. One day at a time. Eventually, I'll be there.

Lastly, well rested and well fed, writing 1667 words in a day is a piece of cake!
Seriously, it was really really easy for me. I enjoyed the experience.
Next year, I will go out of my way to succeed!

Well done. Many people don't realise that concentrated mental effort/exercise is just as tiring as physical effort/exercise. Try doing BOTH for awhile!!

Writer's have a particular type of insanity. After his mother's death, Marcel Proust, shut himself up in his rooms for the rest of his life around 30 years and wrote the 6 or so volume work, 'Remembrance of Things Past.' Basically a recapitulation of of the first 30 years of life with his mother, who was the primary influence in his life. He is also considered one of the greatest of literary genius's. I have only read a few passages of his work, but his descriptive powers are second to none.

Corwin said:

Well done. Many people don't realise that concentrated mental effort/exercise is just as tiring as physical effort/exercise. Try doing BOTH for awhile!!

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I think the difference is that you keep on thinking on your work when you do a mental efffort, it's lees easy to leave it behind. That's for me the reason why in general the one with a mental effort gets better paid (an hour).

Corwin said:

Try doing BOTH for awhile!!

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Thanks!

Indeed, that would be suicidal!

So, Mr Corwin, when will you ship your novel to Jaz so some of us here can read it???

Like you, we're not getting any younger!!

I was hoping you'd forgotten about that!!

No Corwin,we arestill abit too young tostart forgetting, that is yours and CM's age category who suffers from that
especially CM is good at that.Why do you think she needs those list

Corwin said:

I was hoping you'd forgotten about that!!

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Hahahahah!

I knew it!

Please Mr Corwin!

Between writing a page of this and that, reading a chapter of this and that book, after finishing 10 sudokus, and a lot of other stuff, I'd like to read your novel.

I'm not asking for much.
And you're the one who offered!!

That could be your christmas gift to me!

One day, I shall do the same to you!