Update Time
So I'll keep this part of this update short: Life is pretty good. I'm sick, but enjoying myself. Dealing with some shit, but dealing with it well, and I finally got a chance to go to the movies yesterday. Awesome. And, and this is the part that sets up the rest of my posts for a bit, I'm doing National Write a Novel Month, in which you write a 50,000 word novel in one month. Obviously, this isn't something I've done, nor is it something that I think is possible.
But I am writing a story, and it's going to be fairly long. So, I'll be posting it here in chunks. Probably around 500 words at a time, maybe a bit less. Here's the first bit, and after you read it, if you have corrections or commentary, feel free. And have a nice day.
There once was a young man who smelled strongly of a South American spice that had been extinct for hundreds of years. His friends, few in number, called him Atlas, though he had no known name.
Atlas could, like hundreds of others, manipulate an element. For reasons modern science had yet to determine, each of these ‘Pushers’ could manipulate only one element, and, perhaps entirely randomly, Atlas had grown up with the ability to manipulate the dirt, rocks and earth.
When he was only an infant, an old man found him in the mountains, cooing quietly, laying on a pile of moss and leaves. Perhaps left for dead, the old man saw his finding the child as a sign from the Gods and took it upon himself to raise and nurture the young boy. The old man lived alone, and, over the decades spent without any consistent human contact, had long ago lost track of exactly what his own name was. The infant didn’t seem to prefer any particular title and, used to a life free of the weight of a forename, the old man saw no particular reason to bother endowing the child with such a superfluous item.
As the boy grew, his rapid physical and mental development surprised the old man. By age 3, young Atlas (though still unnamed) could fully articulate his feelings, and was beginning to consider the implications of morality, and the function of consciousness. His body developed on par, and though still small, as all 3-year-olds are wont to be, he harbored considerable strength. The old man, who had long passed his physical peak, tried his best to train the child’s strength, but soon found himself unable to keep up with the lad’s vigor.
Atlas was happy, in those early years, but as he grew, he witnessed the gradual decay of his makeshift-father. At times, he imagined the source of his growth was the old man’s destruction; as he grew stronger and more agile, the old man grew increasingly feeble and soon, was unable to stand. It was in Atlas’s sixth winter that the old man finally passed, and, as far as Atlas could remember, that was the coldest and most unforgiving night.
you've read: 369 words
total written: 2805 words
But I am writing a story, and it's going to be fairly long. So, I'll be posting it here in chunks. Probably around 500 words at a time, maybe a bit less. Here's the first bit, and after you read it, if you have corrections or commentary, feel free. And have a nice day.
There once was a young man who smelled strongly of a South American spice that had been extinct for hundreds of years. His friends, few in number, called him Atlas, though he had no known name.
Atlas could, like hundreds of others, manipulate an element. For reasons modern science had yet to determine, each of these ‘Pushers’ could manipulate only one element, and, perhaps entirely randomly, Atlas had grown up with the ability to manipulate the dirt, rocks and earth.
When he was only an infant, an old man found him in the mountains, cooing quietly, laying on a pile of moss and leaves. Perhaps left for dead, the old man saw his finding the child as a sign from the Gods and took it upon himself to raise and nurture the young boy. The old man lived alone, and, over the decades spent without any consistent human contact, had long ago lost track of exactly what his own name was. The infant didn’t seem to prefer any particular title and, used to a life free of the weight of a forename, the old man saw no particular reason to bother endowing the child with such a superfluous item.
As the boy grew, his rapid physical and mental development surprised the old man. By age 3, young Atlas (though still unnamed) could fully articulate his feelings, and was beginning to consider the implications of morality, and the function of consciousness. His body developed on par, and though still small, as all 3-year-olds are wont to be, he harbored considerable strength. The old man, who had long passed his physical peak, tried his best to train the child’s strength, but soon found himself unable to keep up with the lad’s vigor.
Atlas was happy, in those early years, but as he grew, he witnessed the gradual decay of his makeshift-father. At times, he imagined the source of his growth was the old man’s destruction; as he grew stronger and more agile, the old man grew increasingly feeble and soon, was unable to stand. It was in Atlas’s sixth winter that the old man finally passed, and, as far as Atlas could remember, that was the coldest and most unforgiving night.
you've read: 369 words
total written: 2805 words