I've been working on this since August 2nd. Today, I finally got my first 500 words down. And then I hit a wall. Maybe the opening isn't coming out the way and I need to go back and redo it all. I think it could be a plotting issue, or a character issue. Probably a character issue. I'm not a fan of Basil's voice or the narrator, at all. They make me want to put a cigarette out on my eyelid....
What do y'all think? Do I keep it and move on, or scrap and go back to the drawing board? It's the first 800 words...so it should hopefully accomplish its goal of asking questions that need to be answered and make you want to know the answers.
Spoiler:
Rising acrid smoke blotted out the waning rays of an autumn sun. A balloon floated off somewhere in the distance, its bright red and blue striping were a sharp contrast to the gray and black of smoldering ruins. Above the sharpened point of the colorful spy craft flew a small flock of geese, whose forms were slowly fading out towards the south lands and eternal summer beyond the hills.
Basil Thime sat below the canopy of an ancient live oak. Deep green leaves spread out far beyond the trunk of the old tree. Shade was hard to come by in Rolle, most of the trees had burned away a long time ago during the cleansing fires set to fix the heathen savages of the southern cross. He leaned against the thick wood, scribbling in a cracked leather notebook, hardly paying attention to the soft breeze that sent tiny flakes of ash his way.
The machines had been dancing in his head for days now. The waning shadows weren’t much of an inspiration, nor were the people milling around the town square. But, it was better than his house. Anything was better than there. It’s hard to work when people don’t understand, can’t get it, and don’t even want to make an effort. Basil was close. So close. He could just about see the gears twisting below the hollow shell of the monster within. One more calculation, maybe a tweak here or there; he would have it by nightfall. He was certain. And then they’d respect him.
The laughing would stop. The talking would quiet, his father would be proud, the thought made him smile. And then maybe he’d save the world. In his own way, he could be a hero. Maybe she’d notice him then.
Who was he kidding? Everything else had gone up in smoke, prototypes and plans, gears and sprockets, they all broke. They always broke. He couldn’t go on like this, his father was already on his last pint of patience. Basil couldn’t keep lying. Sure, he had a job. Yeah, he’d join the service. There was a war to fight. He would have to rise up, be a hero like the old man.
Lies piled on top of lies.
But it made the old man happy. He’d do anything to make him smile.
Ink dried, he shook the pages and stood up from the shade tree. Sun broke from the haze above, casting its amber light down on the browned grass. The drawing was crude, but the image was clear. A man made of metal, weapons at the ready. If he could only get the punch codes right.
But there was logic flawed. The numbers wouldn’t line up, no matter how many times he played the figures through his head. What good’s a machine without the cards to run it? All that left him was a metal thing that belched smoke. Great party entertainment, not much for a weapon of mass destruction.
The crowds began to gather, herding together like sheep, they stood shivering in ratty shawls and tattered blankets. Soot covered the faces of the closest he could see, Basil blinked back his own tears as he watched them streak down the blackened faces of the war widows and their shattered spouses. An old man wheeled past, his chair squeaking an awful sound as the tires rattled along cracked cobblestones.
A young woman walked beside the crippled man, she couldn’t be any older than Basil, but she wore the face of a broken man. Gaunt, hollow eyes stared unblinking at the table covered in crisp white linen. She scratched absently at scabs that covered her arms, large festering things that oozed a faint yellow puss. Skin flecked off, dancing to the ground. Basil shuddered in revulsion.
A hacking cough shattered the silence as a soldier marched slowly towards the table. Gold medals clinked softly against the chain armor he wore over the blue and green uniform. The soldier adjusted his hat and stroked absently at his long black mustaches.
“Forgive the wait.” The soldier was speaking. “But I assure you, the Government has not forgotten your sacrifice. Without the people of the Southern Cross, the world would be a whole different place. We are committed to protecting your integrity, restoring your lands, and providing you with the finest provisions we can supply. You will eat soon. I promise.”
“But I’m hungry now.” The girl with the scabs spoke, her voice cracking. “It’s been two weeks. My brother’s going to die. I don’t know how long I can keep going.”
“The caravan is on its way.”
“You told us that last week.”
“We’re still at war, my lady. They’ve shut down the trains. There are still some rebels that have chosen to ally with our enemies. We’re doing the best we can.”
“Bravo, Sergeant.” Heads turned at the new voice. “Now, why don’t you tell them the truth?”