Right, I know it's been a while. And, yes, I know this place needs a little TLC. I'm trying to make some time to get some new stuff written and maybe get some stuff drawn to make it look a little more professional around here, but it's… taking time.
Please, bear with me.
Okay, so here's a little exercise I did for a writing workshop. It's two scenes: one from the start of a story, one from the end.
I haven't written any of the in-between parts (I have outlined something of a plot though), it's more about trying to kick myself out of this slump and get going again.
As always, comments and critiques welcome.
Scene 1
At one time, by the looks of things, this place used to be a factory. Now, it’s a training room for the local militia. Despite having been repurposed for years, there are still the shadows of machinery where sheared bolts have been ground flat on the concrete floor. Above them now, there is a square, makeshift, boxing ring surrounded by a fence of mismatched ropes. Along the far wall, there are bags hanging from chains patched together from old clothing and animal hide.
Everything smells long-term damp; like rat-piss and sweat, old engine oil and burning metal, all in a place where generations of teeth have been loosened and noses bloodied.
Footprints circling footprints scratch welts into the dust.
The light comes mostly from windows way up high. One of the panes has been broken and surrounding it are the brown stains of rainwater and stray feathers of roosting pigeons.
A padded slap to the side of the head gently reminds me I’m supposed to be learning.
Serena shakes her head, “Brix,” she says, “What did I tell you? Pivot on the ball of your foot.” Giving a demonstration, she says, “Make sure you're protecting your knees.”
My self-appointed coach, she’s taken it upon herself to teach me to fight.
I hadn’t asked.
I am not a fighter.
She’s taken the time to wrap my hands to protect my wrists so now I feel obligated.
Opposite me, Serena’s holding pads for me to try to punch and kick. She wears old gloves and shin guards with cracked surfaces held together with blue tape. Gear so old that it predates the Starfall.
Each kick landed pinches the skin of my shins and ankles. My legs look gnawed. Like I have an allergy.
I’m panting with my hands on my knees, taking in lungfuls of gym-stink air.
Barely sweating, Serena says, “How are you supposed to defend this place if you can’t fight?”
I can almost stand upright now. If I was wearing a t-shirt, it’d be drenched.
“I’m a farmer,” I say, “Not a soldier.”
She says, “Why can’t you be both?”
“Creation,” I say trying to raise a finger, “Beats destruction any day.” With my hands beside my face, fingers clenched into fists guarding my head, I say, “Enough has been destroyed already.”
“It’s not destruction,” she says, “It’s defence.”
I drop my hands, “We already have guards.” I say, “You don’t need me.”
Serena makes a dismissive little raspberry noise. I don’t know whether it’s for my philosophy or for my faith in people. Maybe both.
“Not confident in your colleagues?” I ask.
She says, “I’m never confident in people who can be bought for beer money.”
Her attention is drawn away and her face is suddenly feral-sharp. There is screaming outside, panicked animal noises coming from human mouths. An alarm sounds, low and high at the same time, wailing along with the voices.
She gestures at the window and I brace myself against the wall.
With my hands together like a stirrup, she hops up, balancing on one foot to peer though the glass.
My head pressed against her thigh, fingers trembling under her weight, I ask, “What can you see?”
I imagine her eyes moving across the landscape, her breath held, looking for movement.
I can feel her diaphragm move against my temple before she says, “They’re through the tunnel.”
I hear the little intake of breath and can feel the tension falter in her leg. I almost ask again but, with her face pressed to the glass, she whispers, “Firemen.”
Scene 2
Every noise is amplified by the comparative silence. After the gunfire, after the wailing, there is now only the steady crackle of fire burning low and the stretched-rope creak of bodies hung from balcony railings.
There are bullet holes in almost all the walls.
I don’t know who else survived, but as far I can tell, we’re the last ones standing. At least the only ones I can see.
“Why did so many have to die?” I ask.
Tor stands opposite, his hands to his sides. He looks at the ground. He says, “The blood of the martyrs will water the wheat fields.” Blinking sweat from his eyes, he says, “The grains will grow rose-red and will taste of the steel that killed them. We will remember their sacrifice through what we create.”
I am so tired of his pseudo-saviour rhetoric.
“You aren’t a martyr,” I say, rubbing my face with my free hand, “You don’t have a cause to fight for. You’re a thief, and a murderer.”
He shakes his head, he says, “The land will be cleansed through fire once again. It is a process not to be muddied by petty ethics.”
“It was already clean; it was already working.” I squeeze my eyes shut. I say, “You fucked it.”
“We will rid the world of the relics of the past.” Tor in full flow. He says, “We need to start from scratch; without the old science; without the old ways. A blank slate.”
I let out a long sigh. “Things have gotten out of control.” I say, “Something has to change.”
His eyes light up. “You finally see? We can build it together.” Almost giddy, he says, “We don’t need to repeat the mistakes. We don’t need the old ways.” Scooping up dirt, gesturing with his hands as it sprinkles between his fingers, he says, “From this we can grow.”
I nod to myself. “From this we can grow.”
Beaming now, he says, “We can teach the lessons we have learned. We don’t need...”
I shoot him.
I shoot him in the head, mid-sentence. I’m just so tired of the noise. Of the bullshit.
For a split second his eyes register what’s happened, and at the accusation, I’m almost sorry.
Part of his jaw is missing.
His legs buckle and he falls face down in the dirt, his breathing ragged; bubbles blowing from holes that could be a mouth or a nose or an eye socket. The noise, it is the rattle of blood pooling in lungs. The sound of the end.
I shoot his still body as it lays on the ground. In the back. Just to be sure.
Another body to add to the pile.
I take a moment to just watch him before I wander out of the settlement, in the silence, along the bloodied pathways amid crumbling plaster. Back to my tool-shed with the big ledger on the wonky table. I run my fingers over the pages, each listing something else that now doesn’t exist.
Something must be salvageable.
I walk outside and rake my fingers over the ground.
Beside me a sparrow picks at tufts of grass, turning over clumps and stones; looking for spiders or seed.
I lie in the smouldering fields beside once edible food supplies. Beside the moths and the slugs and the burning horses. With the dead. With the waste of it all.
You can’t grow in poor soil. Nutrients provide nutrients; you need the compost. You need the cycle to start again.
The dead, they’ll all disappear into the mud.
The next harvest will be bountiful.
Hey Matt!
Cool story you've got going on here. And a good exercise, the beginning only and end only! For sure makes me wonder what happened in the middle!!!
I take it Serena didn't make it. There was some sort of war and only the narrator and this Tor guy the narrator doesn't like survived!
I want to know more about the narrator and Serena's relationship. I hope that comes up in the middle. I'm always rooting for some type of love story, I just can't help myself. :)
Your descriptions of this factory are super vivid! One new trick that might make them even stronger is try to have characters (either the narrator or others) physically interact with the setting. So you're not just describing the sight of it, but there is some type of effect it is having on the narrator. Like you did here: "I lie in the smouldering fields beside once edible food supplies. Beside the moths and the slugs and the burning horses." I would say with Kris, yes, go ahead and make those foods more concrete, but for me, I like the physical interaction with it.
Keep going!
Glad you're back! I really like this piece, particularly the first section. It's so clearly depicted. The sentences so clean and crisp. Love it.
Couple of observations on the second part:
1. I'd really like to "see" the narrator shooting him. Instead of just, "I shoot him", I want to see the pistol being pointed or pulled out of a holster or whatever.
2. I'm having trouble picturing the "once edible food supplies". Would like to see what that looks like / consists of.
Other than that, really liking this draft. Good work! And thanks for posting, mate. Been a while.