The Fire Within
I have a secret...a dirty, dirty secret that has lain dormant for long enough. It wriggles and grasps and yearns for the light. Very well, you shall have it, my humility be damned. I am designing a novel. I am laying the plans, doing the research, creating the foundation. I've set a project and a date for myself. November. remember, remember the 5th of November. Or in my case the first. This year, I shall participate in National Novel Writing Month. And to make myself look even sillier, I shall publish my installments on this blog (So that my stupidity may be public and openly mocked as opposed to private and secretly humiliating). For those of you who don't think that I'm a nincompoop, I thank you for your confidence and your camaraderie. I offer a taste of sorts...
General Grigory Germanicus Blucher VI, Lord of the Black, Primate of the Tertiary Empire, the Butcher of Boston, the Chief Minister, was brought forward on his bier. We all offered him due obsequies. He was a man unique, he had achieved so much over his long life. I thought on this with a certain rueful satisfaction, rubbing the wound on my left arm that would never heal. That too was a souvenir from dear Lord Blucher. I gazed along the funerary procession, noting with grim satisfaction the sheer paucity of genuine mourners. Even better, I could count on both hands the number of dignitaries who were actually containing snickers.
You see, we had the secret, we were in on it. We knew the truth about the great and fearsome war hero. I looked over my shoulder at old Sergeant Weyrauther, looking severe even for his own standards. I knew that he was containing his sneers and laughter, as were we all. This was quite a suitable charade. Peter caught my eye. He blasted me an intemperate look. I knew perfectly well that he was struggling as hard as I was against laughter. I decided that the prudent cource was demure compliance.
But, I could see their looks. Those guilty, filthy looks. They knew as well as I did what had happened. I smirked. I might as well have, I'd likely be dead by morning.
More to come...
General Grigory Germanicus Blucher VI, Lord of the Black, Primate of the Tertiary Empire, the Butcher of Boston, the Chief Minister, was brought forward on his bier. We all offered him due obsequies. He was a man unique, he had achieved so much over his long life. I thought on this with a certain rueful satisfaction, rubbing the wound on my left arm that would never heal. That too was a souvenir from dear Lord Blucher. I gazed along the funerary procession, noting with grim satisfaction the sheer paucity of genuine mourners. Even better, I could count on both hands the number of dignitaries who were actually containing snickers.
You see, we had the secret, we were in on it. We knew the truth about the great and fearsome war hero. I looked over my shoulder at old Sergeant Weyrauther, looking severe even for his own standards. I knew that he was containing his sneers and laughter, as were we all. This was quite a suitable charade. Peter caught my eye. He blasted me an intemperate look. I knew perfectly well that he was struggling as hard as I was against laughter. I decided that the prudent cource was demure compliance.
But, I could see their looks. Those guilty, filthy looks. They knew as well as I did what had happened. I smirked. I might as well have, I'd likely be dead by morning.
More to come...