bbgun

This was the first chapter to a novel that never quiet made it, I sent it to Tate Publishing, but I couldn't put up enough to have it published.


Chronicles of Fantazia


A Story of Stories
~1~
A baby cried from a window seal, an old man preached madness from a
street corner, a dog barked at a passing taxi which was further polluting our
ecosystem on the streets of New York City, children my age enjoyed the great out
doors while swimming and I sat with my back to a sun-lit window pouring over
scrambled; papers, glossaries, encyclopedias, atlases and notebooks, trying to
somehow find a way to pull my story together.
I had been writing it for many months and with little success, for every time
it started to sound good I noticed that its stile sounded resoundingly like that of
another author and I immediately had to begin rewriting the entire story, (that’s how
annul I was). I remember I couldn’t understand why I was unable to coin my own
style? Little did I know of what true writing meant then and little did I know that I
was soon to find out. And it happened something like this:
“Benjamin” Interrupted the librarian with an incredibly long nose “Benjamin
the library closed five minuets ago, wrap it up if you will.”
“Okay, if you could just help me with some of these books so that I can
nozzy...I mean mossy on out of here” I mocked and she obviously didn’t get it.
She helped me gather the books that I needed and store them in my back
before wishing me farewell and showing me the door. I reluctantly cursed and
started the long walk home.
That summer I had grown accustom to a schedule that most my age would
never do. Upon waking I would slam down a piece of toast and a gulp of orange
juice before departing and walking all of the way to down town from where I lived
on the outskirts of NYC. I would then proceed to the library which meant passing all
of my friends, I felt odd telling them that I had work to do in the middle of summer
break, but even odder I had to pass by the strange old man outside of the library
who always seemed to be staring at me.
As I passed the old man today on my way home today for the first time ever
he said something to me, and this is how my writing truly began:
“How’s it coming?” he asked, for once I gazed back at him. He had green
eyes and mangled dark brown hair, his beard looked rough and course and
connected to his mustache, his build was robust, but not disgustingly so. Most of all
what I remember when I first laid eyes upon him is that he looked playful and
almost scarily so at the time.
“How’s what coming?” I asked to break the awkward silence.
“You know, your story that you’ve been writing for the last three weeks,
how’s it coming?”
How did he know? How could he know? Did any of my friends know? These
questions raced through my head simultaneously, each one was impossible to
answer.
“I’ve meet few authors who write as well as you do” this was to much. He
seemed to know every thing that I had been doing for the last few weeks, then I had
a horrible idea...He was a stocker, a fat perverted stocker, my face cringed and I
turned and walked on without saying another word.
“I’m not some street weirdo” he called to me indignantly.
“Yeah, and I’m Michael Jordan!” I called back before I broke into my girlie
run. I ran as fast as my skinny legs could carry me, I had heard stories on the news
about stokers and how they killed there victims and all I could think was how I
didn’t want to become a mangled corpse on the side of some street.
I ran passed my friends who where all looking at me like I had lost my mind,
I jumped into the street and J-walked across it while the taxi’s honked there horns at
me furiously I ran past the window of my apartment and saw my niece screaming in
the window seal.
I reached my apartment pulled out my key and entered. “Ben, why are you
breathing so fast? Do you need your inhaler? Nicole hurry go get Ben’s inhaler!”
Shrieked my mother when she saw me.
“No mom I’m fine I just went for a walk and got a bit winded!” I looked up
and saw that she was almost as winded as I was, I decided then not to tell her about
the stockor, it would only freakier out more then she already was about my asthma
attacks.
“Are you sure honey, I don’t want you to go into an asthma attack” asked my
mother flipping back her deep brown hair, which matched mine in a motherly way.
“I’m sure, I just have some work to do in my room.”
“Okay just be sure to be ready for dinner in a few minuets.” said my mother
still sounding worried.
I walked down our hallway, (hardly worthy to be called a hallway more like a
small corner that connected the three bedrooms of the apartment) and entered my
room. It was a small room only large enough to fit a desk and a bed. I did what little
productive writing I could before being called to sup and sent of to bed, wondering
if I should visit the library and risk an encounter with the stocker tomorrow.

In the long run I decided that at any rate I had to return the books that I had
borrowed, so I started of earlier then usual hoping that he wouldn’t be up this early.
I walked the blocks fast then I ever had, even faster the day before when I
had been running for my life. I continually looked over my back in my unhesitant
paranoia, I felt as if I was being watched... the felling of being stocked again didn’t
come my nerves to say the lest, I was now walking backwards, every fellow citizen
on the streets simply stared at me as if I were mad.
I walked almost a block in this fashion, until I reached the library and to my
relieve, the stocker was nowhere to be seen, I looked behind me, once again
nothing, but an extremely annoyed looking mother cradling a baby. Relieve swelled
through my viands, there was no danger here, I was completely stocker safe. I
turned my head back to the doorway, I hesitated so greatly, I almost dropped myself
:
“Oh Crap” I exclaimed staring my stocker strait in the face, “I’ll call the
cops, I mean it!”
“You truly are crazed” said my raggedy faced stocker returning a gaze on me
“Every time that you see me you shrivel like a coward, not even Robert Jordan was
this paranoid when we first meet!” said the shaggy faced stocker with a grin on he’s
face.
I didn’t know if I’d heard right, “Did you just say that you know Robert
Jordan?” I asked incredulously
“Who Robert” he asked “Yeah he was a good kid, I wasn’t surprised at all to
see that he made it as well as he did” he said indifferently
I gazed at him once again, he was either very wise, or extremely crazy, the
second one seemed more likely to me right then.
“Well nice to meet you Stranger Danger, I guess that I’m going to run now
because your a fricken’ psycho, later’”
“Do what you wish, but its your loss of authorship, not mine” with that he
turned and walked down the ally dividing the library from the thrift store. I
pondered on weather to follow him or not, but I figured at any rate I could out run
him if he proved dangerous, what harm could he do? If I knew then about him, even
half as much as I do now, I could guaranty that I would have turned and walked
away.
I Followed him through the narrow alleyway, it was rather damp and dark,
but seemingly welcoming, as I found my way across the first corner of the ally. This
continued for quiet few minuets, I followed my stalker throughout the alleyway,
turning where he turned, climbing where he climbed, stepping where he stepped.
Until we reached the center of all of the buildings in the area, no windows gaze
upon it, there was only one way in and out, it was completely remote, remote
and....perfect. Perfect for somebody how wanted to go unnoticed. It was hidden...In
plan sight.
I marveled at it for several minuets until I noticed that my stocker was staring
at me. Slightly embarrassed I stopped my staring.
“So do you like my, humble home?” he asked, for the first time I noticed that
he had built a makeshift shack on atop a Platte over looking the alleyway paradise.
“Yes, its rather,....... attractive for somebody who has lived in the big city all
of his life.” I said felling awkward. He smile, obviously amused, on the point of
laughing, before I shoot him an angry glare.
“I think I’ll go home now” I said to him, this was the test, If he was a psycho,
he would want him to stay, but if he didn’t, he must be a true enigma.
“Okay” he smiled at me, “Perhaps another visit tomorrow? he asked me.
“Sure” I replied back, I turned to leave, but before I could I remember
something, I didn’t even know his name, “Excuse me, but what’s your name?”
“Ah, something that they always ask” He said with a grin “Its Orian, Orian of
Fantazia” I smiled and left, true he was a bit nutty in the head, but he’s company
was welcomed, for I had hardly any.

-Ben

demonic_harmonic

it does sound like it is a younger person's writing....mind you it's not terrible;and yet...

...i don't know. the whole aspect of a story about someone writing a story is a bit of a turn of for me. perhaps if you kicked it up a notch with a more exciting plot line. make it have more of a point rather than just some writer writing. you know what i mean?


and by the way, what is a window seal? lol. it should be sill. unless you have an aquatic mammal there.

Rob

Not sure what you mean by 'put up enough'. Do you mean money? You shouldn't be paying money to get published, they pay you.

Anyhow, there's a lot wrong with what you have here, too much to comment on really, but the bottom line is simply that you're still inexperienced and have much to learn (as do many of us).

In my opinion, you're a long way from being ready to write a novel yet, as you still need to learn many of the basics of writing stories. I would suggest you consider starting with something smaller, some short stories perhaps, maybe just 1000 to 3000 words or so, and submit them here for feedback. The comments you'll receive should help you to develop some of the necessary skills. I would also invest in one or two good writing books. If you can, consider getting onto a creative writing course.

Keep writing, and good luck,

Omni