Setting Sail

Welcome, all, to the first post of the blog! I hope you’ll find what you’ve come looking for. There is treasure here, after all. I’ll be posting, as the blog states if you hadn’t noticed yet, original prose, poetry, and photography, along with some reviews of books I finish. My currently reading Goodreads shelf can be found below, so there’s somewhat of a map to follow.

I’m just getting things started, so please be patient. I’m a crew of one, as are most seaworthy authors, and content takes time. I will, however, keep things updated as often as possible.

There’s not much else to say besides “Beckon amid-mast and ahoy.” Everyone grab a bottle, smash it against this here ship, and let’s be off.

A note on criticism: I am keen to hear any and all criticism, but if it’s out of ill-spirit or will, the words will be taken much less seriously than out of an eagerness to help. I will have no troll mutinies aboard my ships or these waters.

Now then. “Hrmph.” Here’s a little something I’m working on at the moment: a bit of a novella that’s shaping nicely, though it’s still rough draft form. I finished this passage this morning–a meager biding of time by our protagonist. He hasn’t much choice but to wait:

           

            The bulk of his youth passed miserably for Lowry. At the closest city, a port on the eastern side of King Davos’s recently acquired lands, his captors relinquished him to an ambassador for the state, who had, in his turn, sold him at auction. A ship’s captain bought him and Lowry spent a short season on the waves, where his pudgy body, mutated hand, and his constant sickness proved him more than useless. After letting slip he had a fondness for the kitchen, the captain appointed him ship’s cook, though the young boy’s constant vomiting steered most of the crew’s appetite toward the fresh fruit bulked on board. The captain sold him at the next port.

            They traveled into the wet, northern lands, where a farmer bought him to harvest his crop, though Lowry couldn’t fathom where he might have gotten enough gold to afford a slave. Two hours among the opium fields drove all doubt out of his mind.

            At harvest, Lowry had some experience. His limited knowledge made him somewhat useful in the field, and through that autumn and the following winter, he contented himself with the reserve existence his new life presented. He had hay and a blanket in the barn, food enough to keep him fed—even if it were the meagerest of scraps available—, and work enough to keep him busy. After a particularly good haul in the field, his master, a stern but gentle man, congratulated him and asked him if there were anything he wanted.

            “A book to pass the time, if it’s possible,” Lowry responded. His eyes were lowered. The utmost submission, for Lowry missed reading almost as much as he missed his family. The farmer had laughed a hearty laugh and tossed Lowry a fresh apple.

            “That’ll have to do,” the farmer had replied, still chuckling.

             Lowry’s body underwent a constant change through these seasons. Not once growing up did he go to bed hungry. His mother had been kind in that regard. But his new life didn’t offer him the same luxuries that having a loving mother does, and as each day passed, he became more lean. Exasperating work in the field rounded his arms and buffed his chest. His hand, while unfamiliar at first, fell back into its natural ways, and as a musician must learn to play with one less string at the worst of times, his hand surmised that a finger is just a finger. And as in poker, four can still make a hand. His mind, however, had more trouble with his surroundings.

            Lowry was grief-stricken; even after long days of bowing his head to gather the plant processed to ruin so many lives, his eyes still stuck to the ground, seemingly unwilling to comprehend most of their surroundings. Geoff, his parents, Doan and Lyra. His heart lurched. Mom. He knew nothing of what might have happened to his little sister, Lyrica. Yenna’s own angel, his mother used to call her. Though Lowry had sometimes grown bitter at the constant tears of the weeping angel, he missed them now, terribly. He missed everything, terribly.

            A four-fingered hand swatted fleas from his face as Lowry drew small figures in the dirt of the barn floor. He was nearly numb to the moisture in his eyes or the sound of the rain on the roof, giving life to the drugged fields he had lost hope of escaping. The only thing his mind did pay notice to aside from his grief were the coals of anger his circumstances were slowly breathing to life.

And here we are, companions! Our first day of travel is complete. We’ll talk soon.

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