I was looking for one of my other finished pieces but I couldn't find it (a whole box of backups is still in my closet; I still haven't unpacked everything from my move last April so they have to be in there). However, I did come across this on one of the disks I do have out.It's not finished (the whole fragment is only 228 words); it's presumably fantasy, from the interior clues in the text; I have no idea who the character is; I have no idea what's going on; I have no idea what the conflict is, or any other contextual stuff. I've completely forgotten it (Windows says it was last modified on May 16, 1998, so that's probably why, lol) and it's written in a style (slightly pretentious) and in a tense I usually never even attempt to use, although I do remember coming up with the second sentence when driving home from work on one very early morning. I assume that's where the story sprang from.
And for some reason I like it, even though it's nothing more than a skeleton, really. I'm thinking I could use this for something. (Yes, nothing happens, and it's not a good first scene. I know that.) What I want to know is whether or not this might be a good source for material; it'll probably end up at least partially rewritten if this bit survives at all so line-by-line critiquing isn't as important (I'll read it, it might be helpful, but it's not the primary reason I'm posting this).
Enough of this rambling preamble.
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I remember, even now.
A ghost song, a shadowplay...
I remember that night because it is a part of me. I can not and will not rid myself
of it; it's there, like a third arm I haven't any use for, but I love it just the same.
I was not yet a young woman then. I was a girl. Still on the ignorant side of life's
little mysteries. The plan was to marry me off, if I remember it correctly.
But the Fair came first.
Festival night. Everyone came down from the ochre hills to celebrate it, the crops
having grown, King Harvest had visited our limited fields to bless the mother earth well.
I lived well that night, but I didn’t know it; I felt it, to be sure, but my mind was all unawares, as it should be, I think sometimes.
Once you learn how to be aware of yourself, you know little else, your mind is a
whirlwind confusion of your appearance and diction and style.
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Hmm--I thought 135 words would about do it for 13 lines, I guess not, even with a 12pt. font. (Stupid outmoded MS Works.)
[This message has been edited by ScottMiller (edited March 08, 2005).]
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