Bit late, but lets see how bad my writing's gotten
:/ Bit late, but lets see how bad my writing's gotten. I started writing this a few weeks ago, but then deleted the whole thing and started again- so don't expect it to be great. But I think it's alright ^^' Again, you might recognise the black haired boy, he's one of my favorite characters from my Nano. The other boy is a character under development, this helped a lot.
At the bottom of the village, past the willow tree and through the apple orchard, there sat two boys on the dry riverbank, under the dappled shade of the canopy of rich emerald above them. The deep azure river lay still and silent, a small sandy cloud of mayflies swarming over the water. One of the boys had a fishing pole in one hand, his neatly cropped hair framing his sharp features, a stony but relaxed expression on his face as he adjusted the pole, tugging it back slightly as ripples pulsated across the glassy surface of the water. The other boy was startlingly different, with longer black flyaway hair nearly covering his bright silver eyes and a mischievous grin seemingly permanently etched onto his casually handsome face, a cigarette held indifferently in slender fingers.
The two boys were universes apart, but in the same world.
They enjoyed the atmosphere of early spring, with the forests echoing with nightingale ad lark calls, the light cooling breeze whispering in the trees. A flash of blue and gold- a kingfisher darting across the river. The boy with the fishing pole glanced over at the other boy, who was sprawled out on the grass next to him.
“Sorry, I forgot.” the dark haired boy said in German, flashed him a grin and took one last puff of his cigarette before lightly dropping it and patting it out with his boot. He then folded his hands and put them behind his head, gazing up into the huge clear dome of eggshell blue sky.
Grey knew full well that Stoermer had not forgotten that he hated it when he smoked. He scowled and irritably twitched his fishing rod with a flick of his wrist, the line making a cut through the smooth water as he pulled it slightly closer to the bank.
“You know your father wanted you in the stables earlier, I forgot to tell you,” yawned Grey, his moss green eyes focused firmly on the river.
“Yeah, and I got a ‘gram this morning from the British, saying the Wall’s come down.” Stoermer answered promptly, casting a dark but somehow wistful look over to the opposite bank.
Grey made a sceptical snort, following Stoermer’s gaze to the dark cement structure looming over the water on the other side of the river.
Philippsthal was a small town in West Germany, just north from the Fulda Gap. The Berlin Wall, or Berliner Mauer, ran straight through the village, splitting it in two, laced with barbed wire and studded with watch towers along its length until it snaked out of the village and into Berlin beyond the hills.
The residents of the village had learned to live with it. They compared it with the evil in the world- you can’t pretend it doesn’t exist, nor can you get rid of it completely, so you must learn to live with it. And that was exactly what they did.
Grey scowled again, deeper this time, glaring at the foreboding, dismal wall of concrete opposite them across the water. It cast a giant shadow on the forest beyond it; or at least on the tips of the trees that were visible. Suddenly the bird calls sounded less vibrant, the river less beautiful, the sunlight darker. Gritting his teeth, Grey had a sudden urge to hurl something across the river- a stone, his shoe, his fishing pole; anything that would make a mark on the barrier between him and the rest of the world.
“Stoermer, what do you want to do with your life?” Grey hissed, unable to keep the fury from his voice.
His friend propped himself up on his elbows, looking at him warily, his silver eyes glinting in the sunlight. “Live fast, die old?” he suggested with a casual shrug.
“Seriously,” Grey tutted, fingers tightening on the fishing pole in his hand, his eyes still frowning at the Wall.
There was a few heartbeats of silence. “I don’t know. Something useful,” Stoermer murmured eventually. He was oddly solemn; his silver eyes were slightly confused but thoughtful. Another pause. “What about you?”
“I am going to be the first over that Wall,” Grey spat.
The hint of a smile was back on Stoermer’s features. “Bit late, mate. You mean the first one over the Wall alive?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” Stoermer picked a blade of grass from the earth and twirled it between his fingers.
There was another minute of silence, in which Grey twitched his wrist, drawing the fishing line a little closer to their bank, as if he didn’t want it any closer to the Wall.
“D’you miss her?” he enquired.
“Miss who?” Stoermer looked up.
“Arianna.”
For a moment Grey wondered if he’d gone a little too far in mentioning her name, even though they had both known who he was talking about before he’d said it. But Stoermer’s handsome features lit up with a grin.
“Of course. But she can look after herself, she doesn’t need me.” he gave a bark-like laugh.
“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Grey enquired quietly.
“The last time she could cross. Before they closed the borders.” Stoermer answered vaguely. Grey knew he wouldn’t go into it any more.
Another silence.
Stoermer folded one leg over the other and put his head back again.
“Do you think we’ll get out of here one day?” Grey mused thoughtfully, his anger slowly dissipating. He still gazed darkly at the Wall opposite them.
Stoermer rolled his eyes, and Grey breathed a sigh of relief. “You’ve always been a dreamer, Turin, but do you honestly think we’ll stay in this dump forever?”
Grey scowled- hardly anyone called him by his first name.
“But do you want to leave?” he shrugged, gripping the fishing pole between his knees and putting the fly catch in between his teeth.
“Duh.” Stoermer laughed again. “There’s not really much here for me anymore.”
“Where would you go?” Grey frowned down at the fishing pole, concentrating. “Not to Berlin?”
“Out of Germany, if I could.” his friend answered vaguely. He glanced over to Grey, his bright silver eyes laughing. “But of course, you’d already be in America, wouldn’t you?”
Grey couldn’t help but snort with laughter. If he ignored the concrete Wall on the opposite bank, the scene was still beautiful. A light spring breeze rippled the crisp air and the kingfisher streaked along the glassy water with another blaze of fiery ochre and sapphire.
“I’ll go and see what the my father wanted from me, then.” Stoermer ran a hand through his handsome black hair, rolling his mischievous eyes and grinning his usual grin. “And I’ll go and get that ‘gram from the British. Then you won’t have to die.”
With that, Stoermer stood and ambled back up the bank into the apple orchard, leaving Grey alone with his fishing rod.
Within a few minutes of silence he had caught his third fish of the morning- a small gleaming salmon, the pinkish tinge to its belly reflecting the sun, silver scales acting like a mirror.
Grey sighed, laying the dead fish aside after he’d removed the hook from its jaw. He liked fishing. But like his friend had said, there wasn’t really much here for him anymore.
He sent another dark glare at the Berlin Wall on the opposite bank, casting its great shadow on the glassy waters of the river. He hated it. Hated it with every fibre of his bones.
Would he indeed get over it someday? Alive?
He would have to wait and see, he thought, sighing again.
Recent fave.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwGgaBjoL3E
And some more Einaudi! Quite a different one.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScC9K1A8mAQ
Aston Martin Need to Get In There
Ludovico Einaudi
| "In general I don't like definitions, but 'Minimalist' is a term that means elegance and openness, so I would prefer to be called a Minimalist than something else." |
| Ludovico Einaudi |
The Joys of Writing
I had, unforgivably and astoundingly, temporarily forgotten the joys of writing. In the good old days when we didn't have coursework, housework and every other type of work, we could frolic in the fields of 'Omfg-just-thought-of-a-new-story-plot-I'm-gonna-write-it-right-now' and plonk ourselves right in front of our computers and simply start to write this magical-one-of-a-kind story that would proceed to bore us by the seventeenth page but would have at least provided us with a few day/weeks worth of entertainment and practice.
However with the current circumstances (multitudes of mock exams and aliens to fend off with Nerf guns. gotta buy the Nerf guns first though) I haven't actually opened a brand new White Blank Page (The Sons, luff them <3)> again. I'm not admitting that failed- it didn't fail, it just...petered out? However I managed to get a few interesting characters and plotlines out of Dustland Fairytale, so that was worth while- Lady Labyrinth for one and Grey for another.
But yesterday, as my friend mentioned a dialog line he'd had in his mind for a while and wrote a little extract, I reminded myself that I was probably far too out of practice with creative writing and decided to have another shot.
It wasn't exactly one of those omfg-new-amazing-plot ideas that I knew would sustain me for a few dozen pages then I would undoubtedly give up, but it was something. I'd had a few general vague ideas floating around my mind for a while but never tried to put them down onto paper; but here was my chance! However, in this moment of staring at the newly opened White Blank Page in front of me, I conveniently forgot all of those vague ideas and started anew. Not completely anew- it's based on a character you might know pretty well by now if I've frequently irritated you with extracts of him from my NaNo and other adventurous little plotlines, and a new character whose personality I continue to be fascinated by and excited to add small details to him here and there. (:
So I started to write and was pleased to see I had retained at least a fraction of my addiction to writing- by the tenth line I couldn't stop, which I usually take as a good sign. However, as the dialog began to weave it's way into the document I slowly hit The Wall- my writing had slowly began to collapse into itself and would implode any minute if I didn't save it. Ironically, saving it meant deleting the last page or two- but I shrugged it off and continued to write.
However the Winter Olympics was calling- the snowboarding double giant slalom final was on and it was Russia against Austria so I obviously had to watch it. So I saved my no longer White Blank Page and went to watch the tense final that awaited me, knowing in satisfaction that I had temporarily forgotten the joys of writing.
~Illusionist xx
p.s. Expect an extract of this future-novel-writing-material-thing soon.
End of a Road
Well.
Home Stretch... Oh and Snow Patrol
Yes, now on the home stretch of NaNoWriMo. Only 9k left. Can't quite believe it yet. The last 30k has been a massive struggle at times, but a brilliant experience at others, mostly brilliant experience. Sure it's hard when you reach huge plot gaps, or recognise you have numerous holes in your previously thought of full-proof plot, but those times pass when you slave over the keyboard for a few hours or so. (: Then it's back to the good times again, when your writing flows more easily. My inner editor is causing me hell, however. It will go mad next month, perhaps self combust.
Stoermer was beginning to be rather startled by the two children, which was extremely unusual for an SS agent like himself.
He had already been relatively surprised as he had followed Lorelie and her friend almost half way across the city of Berlin in a single day, before it even got dark. Where on earth were they going? Were they just walking randomly, trying to confuse the SS perhaps? Did they think Stoermer was following them?
Still far too many questions and few little answers.
Stoermer would just have to listen.
He could remember his lessons well.
He had been temporarily transferred to New York, America.
Stoermer had never had much experience with the Americas; nor the people who lived there. After three days in the city of New York, he decided that he didn’t like Americans.
SS agents were taught to judge quickly but rationally.
Saved a lot of time in the field.
Of course, the Americans didn’t know he was from SS; neither did they know he was even from Germany. They didn’t know he was here in New York for a rather special training course.
He was here on the MN Ausbildung, S7.
An assassin’s course.
Of course, being an agent in the SS didn’t mean you could choose what you wanted to be. You couldn’t just be an assassin; couldn’t just be an officer. You had a duty to be all these things; and more.
But because Stoermer had been specially commended, he came to New York with only one course in mind.
Stoermer was not surprised that the multitude of the training was to be spent sat in a lecture theatre, watching one of the SS Generals instructed at the front, writing with white chalk on a black board.
The instructor was not a typical SS General, however. Stoermer found him more engaging than any other instructor he’d ever had before, which was certainly saying something, knowing the SS’s reputation for teaching. He found him easier to listen to, easier to learn from; and certainly fascinating to watch him deal with certain aspects of the class.
The class was very small; which was usually good news for an assassin’s training course. Less people to deal with, less people to get in your way. But their instructor, Kosov, had narrowed his dark blue eyes and gazed at us criticisingly as they’d filed for the first time into his lecture theatre, tapping his pen seemingly absently on the side of the front desk.
The first question he asked was an odd one. And not just because it was in English.
“How do you listen?”
Stoermer’s class of five was instantly silent. They were seated on the front row of the theatre, looking straight ahead. Stoermer narrowed his eyes, mirroring his new instructor, and evaluated his appearance. After a few quick heartbeats he decided to wait before making any assumptions.
Stoermer could speak perfect fluent English- it had been one of his requirements for himself once he had joined the SS Youth, the Jugend. The Commanders hadn’t put it down on his form that he had to speak English; but he found it extremely beneficial.
He could also speak fluent Russian, French, Icelandic and could just about understand Czechoslovakian.
He was sat at the end of the row of five students. Stoermer glanced quickly down the aisle, assessing each of the other SS agents swiftly. None of them looked very dangerous; but once again, he decided to wait before making any kind of assumptions.
He did, however, evaluate their facial expressions and body language as Kosov asked this first fundamental question.
The three students next to him didn’t look very confused- one frowned ever so slightly, another tightened their jaw, and the other drew their lips together into a tight line.
However, the student on the other end of the row looked bemused.
“Sprechen Sie Englisch?” Kosov said kindly, focusing his gentle gaze on the end row student.
They shook their head very, very slowly.
“Then you do not belong here. You have no future in the SS unless you can listen.” Kosov continued coldly, his eyes abruptly turning icy, knowing this student couldn’t understand a word he was saying. “You are lucky that I do not shoot you with the pistol I sure have in my pocket. You are very lucky to be alive.”
The student continued to stare at Kosov with a terrified but still confused expression. Stoermer drew in his breath sharply, but only watched the student at the end of the row out of the corner of his silver eyes. The other students didn’t dare turn their heads either.
“The simplicity of it is that you cannot understand what I am saying. And therefore fail to listen.” Kosov spoke with a dark kind of finality.
There was a tense moment of silence, and the student opened his mouth to speak. Stoermer willed him to shut up, but of course he didn’t.
“Ich lernen kann.” he pleaded desperately. Stoermer did not feel any kind of sympathy for him- why should he? This student had no idea that Kosov had just saved him a very messy death. He had no idea that Kosov had dismissed him in the first minute of the first class.
I can learn.
“No, you cannot learn.” their instructor continued icily. “You cannot learn to listen. You either can listen or you cannot listen. You cannot listen. Therefore you are dismissed.”
There was another moment of tense silence. Stoermer could see the student’s hands gripping the side of his seat, knuckles turning white. Stoermer wondered whether the student had gotten the message yet.
“Bitte, ich verstehe das nicht.” he pleaded.
Obviously not. What a shame.
Please, I don’t understand.
Stoermer saw Kosov sigh deeply through his nostrils. It was a heavy, resigned sigh.
“You brought this upon yourself.” he said, sounding bored. “I did not want to do this to you.” he paused, looking with his head slightly tilted at the single student, who sat trembling in his seat, having now idea of what was going on. Stoermer swallowed.
“You could have been useful. It’s always the good ones.” Kosov sighed.
In a swift movement, before any of the students had time to react, their instructor drew a dark black pistol and a single shot was fired, echoing off the walls of the large lecture theatre.
Stoermer still did not look to the left, but he felt a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face.
“Look, now I’ll have to call the cleanup crew.” Kosov said, almost exasperatedly.
The situation was humorous for half a heartbeat. Then it wasn’t, all of a sudden.
Stoermer had no doubt that the student who couldn’t speak English was dead. Shot in cold blood.
That gave him some idea of what the course was going to be like.
None of the other three students moved their heads to look at the slumped body of the student who had been shot.
Kosov had already put his pistol back into his SS issue trench coat pocket with another small sigh through his nose. “How do you listen?” he repeated, as if nothing had happened.
Stoermer was beginning to like him.
There was one of those moments of silence. A new air of respect had entered the room.
One of the other students hesitantly raised a hand.
“Yes?”
“You listen by learning other languages so you can hear everyone.” the student said nervously.
Another tense silence.
Stoermer could see the student’s hands tense anxiously.
“Good answer.” Kosov replied mildly. The whole class seemed to hold its breath, hardly daring to believe it.
“But definitely wrong.” he added.
The student’s eyes widened slightly.
“Dismissed.” Kosov said coldly.
This time the student understood him. He swiftly stood and left the room.
Stoermer didn’t watch him leave. His eyes were locked with Kosov’s. He didn’t shrink under the hawk-like gaze.
“How do you listen?” Kosov asked casually once again.
Stoermer didn’t hesitate in replying. “You listen once you have watched and waited. You listen by knowing. You listen by asking. You listen by trusting yourself. If you can listen you can know yourself.”
There was the longest tense silence yet, and Stoermer kept his calm silver gaze on Kosov’s cold dark blue eyes.
“What is your name?” Kosov asked suddenly.
“Vonich. Stoermer Vonich, sir.” Stoermer replied evenly.
The two students who were left turned their heads simultaneously to look at Stoermer.
Kosov looked at him thoughtfully. “Have you done an assassin’s course before?”
“No, sir.”
“Hm.” Kosov scrutinised him. “I think you will do well.”
Stoermer didn’t reply to the praise, just kept his gaze steady. The two other students, a male and a female, were staring at him.
Stoermer sighed through his nose. He could tell this was going to be a long course.
About Me
- Illusionist
- Aims to squeeze the whole world onto a single page. Or maybe little more than one page. Loves physics, photography and Private Eye.