Freshman Works

My freshman year of high-school was my first introduction to publishing writing online for others to read. To celebrate one year of The Silent Page lets look back on some of the better examples of my work from nearly five whole years ago.

The first is this story that I thought was very clever when I wrote it. Not entirely sure what I was shooting for but I titled it "A Peculiar Dream". I think you can see some of the dances with the strange that have continued to feature in my works as time has gone on.

He woke up. The glow from the computer bathed the room in a blue glow. To the left of him the door stood like a monolith to a forgotten realm. He wished to never know what hid behind the door as he looked out the one open wall into the purple void. The void looked friendly. He stood up. The computer was speaking in a foreign language. He understood it. It told him of a time of heroes and legends. He listened. Then sat down. The door was watching and he wished not to anger it. The computer told him of a boat. The boat had come to take him to a land from which he could never return. He got on the boat. The door was annoyed. He looked back as the boat floated on and saw only his room in the void. The red purple clouds were swirling in the distance. The door starred on with unbridled glee. The reckoning had come. The boat continued until it hit a cloud. He got off and began to walk towards the man who stood watching him. The man had the face of a book and began to speak. The man told a story of heroes who had fought a great battle. The door was intently listening. He turned to see the door. The door was watching him from the boat. He told the door a story of myths and legends. The door began to smile and then creaked open. Inside of the door was a land of myths and legends. He ran into the door and looked behind him. The door closed and stared on. He sat next to a river that was running through the land. He saw the glow. It spoke to him of a time when men travelled the stars. He listened intently. The door looked at the river with a longing. He thought of the time when men travelled the stars. He stood and walked through the river. He looked down and saw a miniature castle. The castle seemed to speak. It spoke to him of a time when men travelled the stars. He picked the castle up and examined it’s immaculate marble surface. It was marked with the stamp of an artisan from long ago. He thought of the flavor of marble. He bit into the castle and a large egg fell out. The egg was made of gold and echoed a long forgotten chant that spoke of a long forgotten land. He picked up the egg and held it in his head. The door spoke softly to him. The door had known the artisan in a time before time. It told him of the artisans store and so He walked in. The artisan stood behind a counter. His face was blurred. He inquired as to his business. The artisan told him of his craft. The artisan made sculptures out of stone and wood. The artisan told of the difficulty of gathering enough beetles to make the stone to craft with. He had never heard of such a thing.

Light streamed in through the one window in Sean’s bedroom. How long had he been asleep for? He looked out and saw the road in front of his apartment building. Sean walked into his kitchen and poured some milk into a glass. He thought back to what he had dreamt but couldn’t remember much more than a computer. He looked to his right and saw the marble castle that he had received from his grandfather who had carved it for many years. Suddenly the dream came back. Sean took his glass and sat down in front of his computer and began to write the tale of the dream with the door. He stared at his screen. The first sentence was complete. “He woke up”

I remember writing this next one. I was sitting in church and decided to take the time to create something. Its short, not particularly clever, but it addresses the idea of legacies which has interested me for a long time. It is titled "The River".

I sit on the banks of the dried out river.

Water hasn't graced this land in eons

yet the remains of a river still exist,

the remains of a hard life's work continuing.

Will I have that same effect?

Will my life's works continue,

like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond?

I can only hope that they will.

Perhaps that is the hope of all men.

To live forever, even if only in memory.

Will these words leave ripples?

Or will they sink without a trace?

I look out into the distance

and see the sun setting far away.

I wish I could have seen this river

when the waters still flowed.

This next one is one of many prose pieces that I wrote on stack of note cards I would keep in my jacket. Again, another dance with the strange, twisted, and deranged. It is titled "The Valley of Faces".

The traveler speaks of a valley far away.

A valley carved in stone.

A valley that rarely sees the light of day.

A valley he walked alone.

The ground is made of faces

carved into the stone itself.

The faces have the same calm expression

staring into the sky above.

Their calm expression is fixed forever,

their countenance never swaying.

Faces created with unknown purpose,

forever watching the sky.

Strange rumors are spread about the valley

Where the faces are as far as the eye can see.

Rumors of their speaking have spread far and wide.

What do they say? Who knows except the gods themselves?

Let's do another one off the cards. This was the first in the series and was titled "Land of the Broken". There used to be a pencil sketch that went before it to illustrate what this world looked like but it is long gone. 

Staring off into the distance

The land of the faded star

Rises like a tombstone

garnishing the land.

Where once there was life

there is now sand

and the faded echoes of strife

like the distant playing of a band.

Upon the distant horizon

rises the dome

a monument of a land forgotten

by time and the ages.

The great pillars of eternity remain.

Sentinels guarding the land forever

until their creator returns

bearing the gift of destruction.

Yet even with all the dilapidation

some still call it home.

A fire here.

A cabin there.

Markers of life continuing

Ad infinitum.

Even if forgotten.

Amen.

It was kind of cool to see these old works again. I can see elements of them that have carried over into other things I've written over the years. Especially the stories off the cards. They were largely inspired by Adam Poots' Kingdom Death universe and T.S. Elliot's The Waste Land. Here's to another five years of writing! Hopefully I can look back on what I've written on this page with the same nostalgia some day!