WinterLight
In the marshes
Hi All,
I've been underground and off Chrons for a while now, having been set upon by one of life's distractions - this strange little strawberry eating creature..
Hehe.
Yes, being kept busy but there is always a niggling to write that seems impossible to ignore. I've been lurking here recently so picking up my pen again here is a further excerpt from the yarn I'm unravelling.
I'm really unsure about POV while I write this, although I want it be be fluid I feel like I'm flitting around people's heads willy nilly, to the story's detriment. Perhaps you guys can tell me. All opinions are welcome, big or small!
Thanks
-----
“Jonsen Spar. You are late.” The voice of Jonsen’s teacher, Merstril Brin, was tinged with disgust.
The man did not follow his announcement, instead leaving the entire class to stare at the child stood in the doorway to the classroom, sweat mingling with the dirt that he could not wash away, looking very much like he had just run two miles to school in the dust.
Jonsen looked around at his peers, some a couple of years younger, some slightly older, a mixture of amusement and abhorrence on their faces. Only Ms. Firken’s daughter, Una, who was sat off to the side of the class, did not share the reproachful stares of the other children. Instead Jonsen saw a flash of the pitiful look her mother would give him, but coupled with something else, concern maybe.
His instinct was to withdraw, he felt his shoulders cramp and his eyes pull to the ground. He found himself thinking of co-piloting The Worm again. Seeing the controls in front of him, feeling the surges of energy which he could guide and divert. And he thought of Herger’s words, something that no-one had said to him before. You did good today, boy. He felt his mood stir, the same sensation as when The Worm’s engine had starting its firing program. A notion that this was what he was supposed to do. A confidence. It rose within him, straightening his back with it and drawing his face up to look directly at his teacher.
Jonsen realised then how small Brin was, not just physically, but in spirit. He had not seen it before. The man's years on the dusty planet had dried his skin, pulled bags down from his eyes and hunched his back over. A sour demeanour painted his whole stature. Like a dune-bug that landed in his hand for an instant and then was gone, Jonsen felt for a moment that he knew the man. His position as the children's teacher was in capitulation. Jonsen could see clearly in his eyes the disdain Brin harboured at a wasted life, and how deeply the resentment was buried for who he was and could have been but was not.
“I apologise, Sir. We were behind on quota so I stayed to make it up.”
It was a fitting response. Everyone knew the cataclys quota was the most important thing to the colony. Not schooling; mining. It was why the children worked in the morning, when they had the most energy, and schooling afterwards. If the colony did not hit quota their resource supply for the next eleven years would be stripped back to a minimum, meaning rationing for everyone. But to make quota meant a bounty of food and materials to sustain a colony twice the size. That was the deal.
Not expecting the usually reticent child’s boldness, Brin faltered for an instant, searching for a response to quash the light in the child’s eye. How ridiculous, it was a child, it was not even a battle. “How very noble of you, Master Spar. May I ask on whose authorisation?” The sarcasm leeched from his mouth like dribble.
“I made the decision myself.” Jonsen let the words come.
“Really? Well, seeing as you seem to forget your position in the world as a minor, and a very minor one at that, you can make up the time after class to remind yourself. Plus an hour more." His tongue was like a snake, writhing in enjoyment over every word. "Perhaps you will not make the same mistake as others before you and know what your priorities are."
Jonsen was not sure it was himself speaking then, his heart rate accelerating in anticipation of what he would say next.
"You speak of my father." It was a challenge, not a question and they both knew it.
The room had grown quiet, the children silenced in surprise at the stranger stood in the doorway.
"I speak in general, child. You will watch your tone," hissed Brin.
"My father is too injured to work. He did not choose to stay at home."
Jonsen's look confirmed the meaning of the comment, his icy-blue irises crystallising before Brin's very eyes. It was a knowing and direct insult to the shape of Brin's existence, and the man felt the bite of the blade. Brin had always thought he should of made the trip to Novus Orsa when he had the chance, while youth and opportunity was still ahead of him, but it was his fear of the unknown that had held him back. Now he was stuck on the dusty planet, too old to make the trip. His dominion withered around him then, in the only room in his world that he had a small grasp of power, the child had made him feel helpless. He thought of his life and felt shame, then hatred, welling up inside him.
"Your father is a useless excuse for a man and a murderer," he spat, venomously. "And you -"
Before Brin could continue a crash sounded from the side of the class, interrupting the tirade and turning all heads to see the source. Una Firken was stood up, her chair and desk tipped over on the floor at her feet.
"I'm sorry, Mr Brin. I don't know what happened. I just slipped." The little girl stood there timidly, looking desperately helpless at the mess before her.
Brin glared at the girl, annoyed at the interruption, his temper still flaring. "Well don't just stand there, child - pick it up!"
A moment passed as Una gathered up her things. With his rebuke checked, Brin used a handkerchief to wipe his brow, taking hold of himself before turning back to Jonsen.
"Spar - sit down."
I've been underground and off Chrons for a while now, having been set upon by one of life's distractions - this strange little strawberry eating creature..
Hehe.
Yes, being kept busy but there is always a niggling to write that seems impossible to ignore. I've been lurking here recently so picking up my pen again here is a further excerpt from the yarn I'm unravelling.
I'm really unsure about POV while I write this, although I want it be be fluid I feel like I'm flitting around people's heads willy nilly, to the story's detriment. Perhaps you guys can tell me. All opinions are welcome, big or small!
Thanks
-----
“Jonsen Spar. You are late.” The voice of Jonsen’s teacher, Merstril Brin, was tinged with disgust.
The man did not follow his announcement, instead leaving the entire class to stare at the child stood in the doorway to the classroom, sweat mingling with the dirt that he could not wash away, looking very much like he had just run two miles to school in the dust.
Jonsen looked around at his peers, some a couple of years younger, some slightly older, a mixture of amusement and abhorrence on their faces. Only Ms. Firken’s daughter, Una, who was sat off to the side of the class, did not share the reproachful stares of the other children. Instead Jonsen saw a flash of the pitiful look her mother would give him, but coupled with something else, concern maybe.
His instinct was to withdraw, he felt his shoulders cramp and his eyes pull to the ground. He found himself thinking of co-piloting The Worm again. Seeing the controls in front of him, feeling the surges of energy which he could guide and divert. And he thought of Herger’s words, something that no-one had said to him before. You did good today, boy. He felt his mood stir, the same sensation as when The Worm’s engine had starting its firing program. A notion that this was what he was supposed to do. A confidence. It rose within him, straightening his back with it and drawing his face up to look directly at his teacher.
Jonsen realised then how small Brin was, not just physically, but in spirit. He had not seen it before. The man's years on the dusty planet had dried his skin, pulled bags down from his eyes and hunched his back over. A sour demeanour painted his whole stature. Like a dune-bug that landed in his hand for an instant and then was gone, Jonsen felt for a moment that he knew the man. His position as the children's teacher was in capitulation. Jonsen could see clearly in his eyes the disdain Brin harboured at a wasted life, and how deeply the resentment was buried for who he was and could have been but was not.
“I apologise, Sir. We were behind on quota so I stayed to make it up.”
It was a fitting response. Everyone knew the cataclys quota was the most important thing to the colony. Not schooling; mining. It was why the children worked in the morning, when they had the most energy, and schooling afterwards. If the colony did not hit quota their resource supply for the next eleven years would be stripped back to a minimum, meaning rationing for everyone. But to make quota meant a bounty of food and materials to sustain a colony twice the size. That was the deal.
Not expecting the usually reticent child’s boldness, Brin faltered for an instant, searching for a response to quash the light in the child’s eye. How ridiculous, it was a child, it was not even a battle. “How very noble of you, Master Spar. May I ask on whose authorisation?” The sarcasm leeched from his mouth like dribble.
“I made the decision myself.” Jonsen let the words come.
“Really? Well, seeing as you seem to forget your position in the world as a minor, and a very minor one at that, you can make up the time after class to remind yourself. Plus an hour more." His tongue was like a snake, writhing in enjoyment over every word. "Perhaps you will not make the same mistake as others before you and know what your priorities are."
Jonsen was not sure it was himself speaking then, his heart rate accelerating in anticipation of what he would say next.
"You speak of my father." It was a challenge, not a question and they both knew it.
The room had grown quiet, the children silenced in surprise at the stranger stood in the doorway.
"I speak in general, child. You will watch your tone," hissed Brin.
"My father is too injured to work. He did not choose to stay at home."
Jonsen's look confirmed the meaning of the comment, his icy-blue irises crystallising before Brin's very eyes. It was a knowing and direct insult to the shape of Brin's existence, and the man felt the bite of the blade. Brin had always thought he should of made the trip to Novus Orsa when he had the chance, while youth and opportunity was still ahead of him, but it was his fear of the unknown that had held him back. Now he was stuck on the dusty planet, too old to make the trip. His dominion withered around him then, in the only room in his world that he had a small grasp of power, the child had made him feel helpless. He thought of his life and felt shame, then hatred, welling up inside him.
"Your father is a useless excuse for a man and a murderer," he spat, venomously. "And you -"
Before Brin could continue a crash sounded from the side of the class, interrupting the tirade and turning all heads to see the source. Una Firken was stood up, her chair and desk tipped over on the floor at her feet.
"I'm sorry, Mr Brin. I don't know what happened. I just slipped." The little girl stood there timidly, looking desperately helpless at the mess before her.
Brin glared at the girl, annoyed at the interruption, his temper still flaring. "Well don't just stand there, child - pick it up!"
A moment passed as Una gathered up her things. With his rebuke checked, Brin used a handkerchief to wipe his brow, taking hold of himself before turning back to Jonsen.
"Spar - sit down."
