Bill00
Member
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2009
- Messages
- 10
Hello to all from a first time poster. I have been hanging around here for some time, building the courage to post, so please nothing too harsh just yet. The piece below is the beginning of chapter one of my most recent project (there are many previous efforts too awful to see the light of day).
To me the below seems to lack that immediate hook to draw the reader in deeper and keep those pages turning. All opinions on grammar/content welcomed.
‘Drunk again, former sergeant?’ a voice demanded, dragging Palm from a deep sleep. Harsh light flooded the tent through the open flap causing Palm to screw his eyes in discomfort.
‘Not drunk, Sarmius,’ Palm corrected groggily, lifting his head from the thin bedroll and glaring at the intruder through eyes that struggled to focus. ‘Hung-over.’ His throat was dry and his head pounding.
Palm’s commanding officer stood framed in bright sunlight, his upper body leaning inside the tent. His slack, open mouth and beardless chin made him look even less like a man than usual. ‘Why do you keep doing this?’ He said finally.
‘Doing what?’
‘You do well and receive a promotion. Then you do something stupid and get yourself demoted straight back to the ranks.’
‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘Sir,’ Sarmius added.
‘What?’
‘You should call me sir.’
Palm thought he sounded nothing more than petulant child. ‘Whatever,’ he dismissed as he sat up. He slowly rose to a hunched-over kneeling position, taking care not to move his head too quickly. Two heavily muscled arms supported his weight on his thighs while he breathed deeply. He slowly lifted a shaking hand and ran calloused fingers through the thick ebony hair tumbled across his face, pushing back the long fringe. His head felt as though someone was squeezing it between powerful hands and his dark eyes were squinted almost shut against the piercing light. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and the absence of saliva made swallowing difficult.
‘How long has your promotion lasted this time?’
‘Twelve days,’ Palm replied shortly, reaching for the flagon of water he had left at his bedside the previous night. He drank noisily for some moments, not caring that water dribbled down his chin. His stomach churned as the cool liquid filled him and he prayed he would not show weakness in front of Sarmius and vomit it all straight back up.
‘You could be in my position if you stopped acting like a fool.’
‘What, hated by everyone?’ he quipped between mouthfuls.
Sarmius shook his head, a deep frown creasing his brow. He suddenly smiled smugly. ‘You will be pleased to hear it is latrine duty as punishment. You and Torbia get yourselves over there now.’
‘At least I wont have far to go to be sick.’
Sarmius glared in disgust at Palm for a few moments more before leaving the legionnaire to his obvious suffering.
Noises from the other half of the small tent announced the waking of Palm’s friend and tent-mate. ‘Who was that?’ Torbira asked, not even bothering to open his eyes as he spoke.
‘Sarmius.’
‘What did he want?’ Torbia rasped. His voice sounded even rougher than Palm’s own.
‘To tell me I am not a sergeant anymore.’
‘Again?’
Torbia opened just one bloodshot eye and Palm shrugged. ‘Wasn’t going to last anyway.’
Torbia groaned as he sat upright, his head hanging below his shoulders, his elbows on his knees. ‘Did we do anything stupid last night?’
‘Nothing worse than usual.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I think I had a bet with that soldier from the Ninth I could take him with a sword using my left hand.’
Torbia cursed. ‘How much did we bet?’
‘Everything I had on me at the time I think.’
Torbia cursed again, this time using even more robust language. ‘Can you beat him?’
‘Probably,’ Palm answered confidently.
‘I know you haven’t lost in competition for years, but everyone is beatable, Palm.’
‘Have faith. Gods, my head is killing me.’
Torbia staggered slightly as he stood up, his head bowed in the shallow tent. ‘So what’s our punishment then?’
‘Latrine duty.’
‘Great. Shovelling other men’s crap.’
‘We do it all the time anyway,’ Palm pointed out dryly.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I was being metaphorical.’
‘What is that supposed to mean? Remember it is a peasant you are talking to, not one of your old noble born friends.’
Palm also rose from his bedroll, bumping shoulders with Tor as he did. He did not have the energy to explain himself and let the comment pass unanswered, all his focus on the difficult task of staying upright without staggering. The tent smelt of sweat and alcohol and was making Palm’s stomach heave. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
Palm pushed open the tent flap, grimacing as his head pulsed painfully. He then winced as bright sunlight stabbed his eyes like sharp knives, increasing his discomfort and further souring his mood. Even this early in the morning, the heat was oppressive and a cloudless blue sky promised it was only going to get worse. Bird song surrounded them, though today it sounded shrill rather than musical, cutting through him and making his very bones protest. Just the quietest of voices sent a thrumming through his head and even the whisper of a breeze was an irritant. He swore under his breath, hawking and spitting to clear his mouth.
Most of the camp was already awake, men going efficiently about their duties, quietly and with purpose. Palm could smell that the mess tent was nearly ready to serve breakfast, the aroma of bread and meat and porridge hanging thick in the morning air. The clatter of great metal serving pans shattered the stillness and further grated on his nerves. This sound was a clearer indication to the experienced soldiers than a bugle call that they were soon to be fed. Food, however, was the last thing on his mind and he ignored the sounds and heavy scent.
After only one day at this site, the man made paths between the ordered rows of tents were already worn down to backed earth, the long grass being trampled away by the repeated step of many hundreds. Palm led the way along these recently created highways, threading between sun-bleached tents and blackened and dead campfires.
To me the below seems to lack that immediate hook to draw the reader in deeper and keep those pages turning. All opinions on grammar/content welcomed.
‘Drunk again, former sergeant?’ a voice demanded, dragging Palm from a deep sleep. Harsh light flooded the tent through the open flap causing Palm to screw his eyes in discomfort.
‘Not drunk, Sarmius,’ Palm corrected groggily, lifting his head from the thin bedroll and glaring at the intruder through eyes that struggled to focus. ‘Hung-over.’ His throat was dry and his head pounding.
Palm’s commanding officer stood framed in bright sunlight, his upper body leaning inside the tent. His slack, open mouth and beardless chin made him look even less like a man than usual. ‘Why do you keep doing this?’ He said finally.
‘Doing what?’
‘You do well and receive a promotion. Then you do something stupid and get yourself demoted straight back to the ranks.’
‘Seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘Sir,’ Sarmius added.
‘What?’
‘You should call me sir.’
Palm thought he sounded nothing more than petulant child. ‘Whatever,’ he dismissed as he sat up. He slowly rose to a hunched-over kneeling position, taking care not to move his head too quickly. Two heavily muscled arms supported his weight on his thighs while he breathed deeply. He slowly lifted a shaking hand and ran calloused fingers through the thick ebony hair tumbled across his face, pushing back the long fringe. His head felt as though someone was squeezing it between powerful hands and his dark eyes were squinted almost shut against the piercing light. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth and the absence of saliva made swallowing difficult.
‘How long has your promotion lasted this time?’
‘Twelve days,’ Palm replied shortly, reaching for the flagon of water he had left at his bedside the previous night. He drank noisily for some moments, not caring that water dribbled down his chin. His stomach churned as the cool liquid filled him and he prayed he would not show weakness in front of Sarmius and vomit it all straight back up.
‘You could be in my position if you stopped acting like a fool.’
‘What, hated by everyone?’ he quipped between mouthfuls.
Sarmius shook his head, a deep frown creasing his brow. He suddenly smiled smugly. ‘You will be pleased to hear it is latrine duty as punishment. You and Torbia get yourselves over there now.’
‘At least I wont have far to go to be sick.’
Sarmius glared in disgust at Palm for a few moments more before leaving the legionnaire to his obvious suffering.
Noises from the other half of the small tent announced the waking of Palm’s friend and tent-mate. ‘Who was that?’ Torbira asked, not even bothering to open his eyes as he spoke.
‘Sarmius.’
‘What did he want?’ Torbia rasped. His voice sounded even rougher than Palm’s own.
‘To tell me I am not a sergeant anymore.’
‘Again?’
Torbia opened just one bloodshot eye and Palm shrugged. ‘Wasn’t going to last anyway.’
Torbia groaned as he sat upright, his head hanging below his shoulders, his elbows on his knees. ‘Did we do anything stupid last night?’
‘Nothing worse than usual.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I think I had a bet with that soldier from the Ninth I could take him with a sword using my left hand.’
Torbia cursed. ‘How much did we bet?’
‘Everything I had on me at the time I think.’
Torbia cursed again, this time using even more robust language. ‘Can you beat him?’
‘Probably,’ Palm answered confidently.
‘I know you haven’t lost in competition for years, but everyone is beatable, Palm.’
‘Have faith. Gods, my head is killing me.’
Torbia staggered slightly as he stood up, his head bowed in the shallow tent. ‘So what’s our punishment then?’
‘Latrine duty.’
‘Great. Shovelling other men’s crap.’
‘We do it all the time anyway,’ Palm pointed out dryly.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I was being metaphorical.’
‘What is that supposed to mean? Remember it is a peasant you are talking to, not one of your old noble born friends.’
Palm also rose from his bedroll, bumping shoulders with Tor as he did. He did not have the energy to explain himself and let the comment pass unanswered, all his focus on the difficult task of staying upright without staggering. The tent smelt of sweat and alcohol and was making Palm’s stomach heave. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’
Palm pushed open the tent flap, grimacing as his head pulsed painfully. He then winced as bright sunlight stabbed his eyes like sharp knives, increasing his discomfort and further souring his mood. Even this early in the morning, the heat was oppressive and a cloudless blue sky promised it was only going to get worse. Bird song surrounded them, though today it sounded shrill rather than musical, cutting through him and making his very bones protest. Just the quietest of voices sent a thrumming through his head and even the whisper of a breeze was an irritant. He swore under his breath, hawking and spitting to clear his mouth.
Most of the camp was already awake, men going efficiently about their duties, quietly and with purpose. Palm could smell that the mess tent was nearly ready to serve breakfast, the aroma of bread and meat and porridge hanging thick in the morning air. The clatter of great metal serving pans shattered the stillness and further grated on his nerves. This sound was a clearer indication to the experienced soldiers than a bugle call that they were soon to be fed. Food, however, was the last thing on his mind and he ignored the sounds and heavy scent.
After only one day at this site, the man made paths between the ordered rows of tents were already worn down to backed earth, the long grass being trampled away by the repeated step of many hundreds. Palm led the way along these recently created highways, threading between sun-bleached tents and blackened and dead campfires.
)
