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When January Calls
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When January Calls
When January Calls (working title)
I have wanted to do this for a while, and being bored I shall begin.
This is not an RRR, mind, but a story that I will write and post in segments on here, a bit like the Books in Progress thread. Critique is welcome and encouraged, blatant praise will be reluctantly excepted, flaming will probably be deleted by the Admin anyway.
*******
On cold, blustery winter days when the snow falls thickly down in wet, wide flakes and the wind stirs across the ground like a snake in the dessert, and the streets are lit by a dim blue-gray light that emanates from the shadows, a sleepy town in the middle of nowhere is visited by a young man with frosty breath and icy fingers.
He is a good-tempered young man, mild-mannered and prone to stretches of contemplative silence. He speaks with his hands as often as he speaks with his voice, and is known to spend long hours in pastures with horses and sheep.
This man is tall, and very thin, and the tips of his fingers hang almost to his knees. He has a long, pointed face and a mess of blue-white hair that grows like a thistle on the top of his head. His eyes are large and blue like the sea; his skin is pale and blue like glacial ice. He has long pointed ears and a long pointed nose and an even longer pointed chin. His lips are turned up in pleasant smile and his teeth are straight and white.
He's a clever fellow, this man. He speaks softly and infrequently. His voice is rough but pleasant, like the sound of wind blowing gently through autum leaves.
To strangers he is courteous but distant and vague; to the few he counts as friends he is only slightly less distant and just as corteous.
He has no job, choosing instead to wander from town to town, beginning his lonely patrol when the leaves begin to brown and ending it when the first flowers bloom.
It is in the harshest month of winter that he visits Montaview.
*******
Like? No like?
submitted by TNÖ, age 15, Deep Space
(March 7, 2009 - 12:19 am)
(March 7, 2009 - 12:19 am)
It's AWESOME!
(March 7, 2009 - 4:41 pm)
I lookee, I likey. :)
(March 7, 2009 - 6:08 pm)
LIKE.
(March 7, 2009 - 6:49 pm)
Definitely like.
(March 7, 2009 - 10:26 pm)
Thanks, guys. I don't usually write in present tense so I had fun writing it.
*******
January storms are often the worst storms. It is the darkest time of winter, when the sun is at its most reluctant to show its face through the clouds and the snow. Thick white powder lays heavily on the ground, on rooftops, smothering the land in a soft warm blanket. In the early hours of the morning there is complete silence. Nothing dares to disturb the pristine silence as light mists waft gently over the snowbanks.
The man makes no sound as he bounds lightly over the surface. He leaves only the faintest of footprints, and behind him trails a fleet of heavy gray clouds ready to relinquish their load of fat, sloppy flakes. A sigh of wind stirs the loose snow and obliterates the trail.
The man leaps easily onto a tall boulder, and kneels. He peers with concentrated eyes towards the cluster of houses that stands in the valley below him. The houses appear small from this distance, as if built for mice rather than people.
With a faint laugh like the crunch of ice underfoot the man leaps from his perch and continues his journey downward.
(March 8, 2009 - 1:31 am)
Like like like like LIKE! Whenever you write something, TNO, your discription is always mind-blowingly good, and this is no exception! I can picture the man and scene almost like I was there!
(March 8, 2009 - 10:19 am)
LIKE! DEFINITELY!
When you describe the young man, he sounds like how I've always pictured Jack Frost.
PLEASE keep posting!
(March 8, 2009 - 4:40 pm)
That might be because he IS Jack Frost. *grin* Glad I got the description right, anyway.
(March 9, 2009 - 8:33 am)
The storm that follows the man and his laughter begins to brew in earnest. A dark rumble of thunder rolls across the land and shakes the small houses slightly. Flakes of snow begin to fall around the man, slowly at first but picking up speed with the wind. They are not the pleasant, sleepy flakes of early winter but small, compact spheres that threaten to become hail if the temperature drops. They are thrown up by the wind and drive into the faces of careless bystanders.
The man arrives in town, the blizzard raging around him. He does not flinch as stinging bits of ice are hurled into his face by the wind. He does not blink, even as his eyelashes turn to frosty white.
He is almost invisible in the storm, standing in the center of a swirling vortex of ice.
(March 8, 2009 - 2:53 pm)
The way you use words and language is really good. Like, how you say 'He does not blink' instead of 'He doesn't blink.' It sets the mood and tone.
(March 9, 2009 - 11:08 am)
Me like!!!!!!!! It's great!!!!! Parts of it even sound kinda like poems. :):):):):)
(March 9, 2009 - 11:48 am)
I think that's because it's present tense. A lot of poems seem to be written in present tense where most prose is written in past. *shrug*
(March 9, 2009 - 9:27 pm)
Next installment: in which we have dialogue and a new character, also possibly a plot:
*******
Early on Saturday morning, Mountainview wakes up to three feet of fresh snow and the news that a young girl, Jenny by name, had been lost in the storm. The news is met with dismay and a sense of hopelessness. An eight-year-old girl stands no chance against a January storm. She is almost certainly frozen in a snowbank and will not be found until next August, the people say. Even if she is not dead she will be dead before we find her...
OoOoO
"Jack... Fancy meeting you here."
"Good morning, Poe," Jack says warily, tracing patterns in the snow with a long finger.
"Quite a storm you had going last night."
"I try," says Jack, glancing up at the blue sky.
"Jack... I've kept your secret for all these years, and never said a word." The old man shifts and his gnarled hands fumble with a thick wood cane.
"For which I am grateful, Poe."
"But there was a girl out there last night." Jack merely turns away, his face expressionless. "A child, Jack!" says the old man.
"People die. You were the one to teach me that," Jack says coldly.
"People yes, Jack, we die. But a young girl..." The old man spreads his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. Jack does not turn.
"Her parents should have called her in," says Jack flatly. He turns at last with no emotion on his face. "I seem to recall that that is a specialty of parents."
"You're very bitter."
"That's hardly my fault, though, is it?" asks Jack, a manic smile suddenly appearing on his face.
"Perhaps," murmurs the old man. "But in the end, Jack, the fault lies with you."
"The girl isn't dead," says Jack suddenly. He frowns. "She isn't quite alive, either."
"Undead?" asks the old man in surprise and quiet fear.
"No," murmurs Jack with distant eyes. "Not that either. You're certain that she is a girl? A mortal child?"
"Jack... I was there when she was born eight years ago."
"She's a changeling," Jack says withstdden firmness.
"What?" asks the old man, startled.
Jack does not answer, but strides off without a word. The snow stirs in his wake and the old man heaves a sigh, staring after the tall young man.
(March 9, 2009 - 9:34 pm)
Like. This is my favorite paragraph. :)
(March 10, 2009 - 6:32 pm)
WOW!! I agree, my favorite installment as well. :)
(March 11, 2009 - 4:54 pm)