Another beginning
This is the other thing I wrote in Eilat. A beginning inspired by smoke I saw from afar while my father was driving me to the airport.
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A column of black smoke punctured the serenity of the dawn. It rose, curving, until at last it broke and became a straight line across the sky, like a hand outstretched into the distance. It was an eerie contrast against the merry orange of the early sun.
At the base of that dark, curled vortex, there was a house. Though perhaps "there had been a house" would've been a more accurate wording; by now there was naught left of it but ashes and broken pillars. A grimy-faced boy was watching this sight from a distance, the sun shining warm and bright atop the hill he was standing on. He was vaguely aware of how beautiful the sunrise was. His old teacher, he knew, would have called it "a common miracle".
All goodbyes said, the boy turned to face the mountains on the other side of his hill. A creek, he knew, was running down its slope. There he may quench his thirst and gulp down his grief. He walked slowly, the landscapes of his homeland dazzling him, etching themselves painfully into his memories, He was alone now in this land.
The boy's name was Alistair. He was 12 years old, and an aspiring master in the art of carpentry, which he had learned from his father. Of course, now that his father was dead, his dream of becoming a champion of carpenters like his father was forfeit. For his future there was little hope, if any. Nevertheless he held his head high. A carpenter's son is no less proud in a time of need than an heir to an empire.
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That's that, another story that will come to nothing. I like it, partly. For a while I even thought that there, here's the story I can carry on. But no - Alistair doesn't matter to me. I don't care a fig about him, so how can I make him a hero?
Someday there'll be the right character, the right person to tell a story about. But not yet.
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A column of black smoke punctured the serenity of the dawn. It rose, curving, until at last it broke and became a straight line across the sky, like a hand outstretched into the distance. It was an eerie contrast against the merry orange of the early sun.
At the base of that dark, curled vortex, there was a house. Though perhaps "there had been a house" would've been a more accurate wording; by now there was naught left of it but ashes and broken pillars. A grimy-faced boy was watching this sight from a distance, the sun shining warm and bright atop the hill he was standing on. He was vaguely aware of how beautiful the sunrise was. His old teacher, he knew, would have called it "a common miracle".
All goodbyes said, the boy turned to face the mountains on the other side of his hill. A creek, he knew, was running down its slope. There he may quench his thirst and gulp down his grief. He walked slowly, the landscapes of his homeland dazzling him, etching themselves painfully into his memories, He was alone now in this land.
The boy's name was Alistair. He was 12 years old, and an aspiring master in the art of carpentry, which he had learned from his father. Of course, now that his father was dead, his dream of becoming a champion of carpenters like his father was forfeit. For his future there was little hope, if any. Nevertheless he held his head high. A carpenter's son is no less proud in a time of need than an heir to an empire.
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That's that, another story that will come to nothing. I like it, partly. For a while I even thought that there, here's the story I can carry on. But no - Alistair doesn't matter to me. I don't care a fig about him, so how can I make him a hero?
Someday there'll be the right character, the right person to tell a story about. But not yet.