Novatore's 100

[novatore]

Considerations Please understand: 1) My writing is to be looked at as an attempt toward exploration, not a reflection of selfhood. 2) The work here maybe too dark for some and not dark enough for others. 3) Feel free to leave criticism along with a link to your own work, so I know whether or not it is productive for me to follow it. I am not saying that I need to think your work is better than mine, I need to see where you are coming from.

[novatore]

Introduction

Tucked in a bed of hay and corn, the village of Old Hollow stood in a time when nature decided evil to be true and sickness demanded panic and payment, it was a place where penitence sowed crops. While children sang rhymes, a gaggle of villagers craned their necks to get a look at the execution; in this place, public displays of pleasure only came from fire. As the frozen rain had come the week before so did the farmer’s fate. Out came a man broken by the Absolute’s love. His hair was matted and his flesh was torn, the torment rendered him the appearance of madness. He was flanked by priestly men with swine-eyes which were dead to mercy. After the highest of men surveyed the crowd, he cleared his throat and started to preach.

“Our village has suffered at the hands of the most degenerate evil. The Unfathomable has requested justice, and we, the highest servants, have answered the call. Stedelen of Old Hollow, you have confessed to poisoning every seed in the village, from soil to womb. And you have admitted to congregating with darkness and keeping company of those of like-mind. May the flames carry you below the underworld and cleanse our good town.”

[novatore]

warning Warning: The hint at suicide in this sketch should not be taken as an answer for anything. Suicide is never the answer. This is fiction and should remain fiction.

Love

In the village of Old Hollow, love was the enemy of necessity. Mr. and Mrs. Stedelen’s relationship was planned by the flock to fill a certain need for the village: to produce offspring for toil and harvest. They were chosen because they had the gift for cultivation and the council hoped their children would express such talent. It had been said that the Stedelens could grow barley in ice, yes this brought suspicion; but, until the blight, their talents overlooked the accusation of heresy. Those who knew them could not say the couple was in love nor did they desire one another, it was possible they hid their affection to avoid punishment, for this reason, no one in Old Hollow seemed to love.

Mrs. Stedelen never looked up from her work, she never disobeyed orders, and, more importantly, she was devout and pious, so much so, her prayer pulled envy from all. Till the forlorn days after her husband departed, Mrs. Stedelen had never understood why she prayed. Her words and thoughts went to a being that was not present and she imagined how lonely it must be to look down on this world without a way to share the little happiness this place could afford.

Next morning, the sunrise was met with gasps and whispers filled with gossip. The council in their righteous whites looked upon the biggest tree in Old Hollow with disgust, Mrs. Stedelen was one sacrifice they could not control. As the villagers left to start their day, one villager stopped and said, “It looks as though Mr. Stedelen will be alone no more.”

[novatore]

Light

The bell signaled the end of work and the beginning of prayer. Still fresh from the fields, dirty hands and heads down, the villagers waddled to a moss-covered church that resembled a school house. Every parishioner, though reserved, were fervent in nature to be blessed by Lucis Rex, the highest of men. They sat down on rows of aged wood and looked to the front. The council, adorned in white and all the riches the village could afford, shuffled out on the pulpit with judgement in their eyes. Lucis Rex took center stage. He was a balding old man and his full frame showed no lack of desire. He raised his hands. “Let the Absolute’s light blind us with his love and leave us with our faith; for, faith is the truth, and the enemy of light is the enemy of mine.”

A young child yelled out, “How can there be light if we’re blind?” The crowd gasped.

“Come my child,” said the King of Light.

The mother of the child lowered her head as the father wailed, “No, he’s just a child. He knows nothing of this world.”

“You say he knows nothing, but you are his father. Isn’t it the father’s duty to teach all things practical and spiritual?” After an instant of silence, the council separated the father and child, and removed them from the house of prayer; all the while, the mother, in her devout posture, repeated the prayer of light.

[novatore]

Dark

The child was brought back to her family. The door gave way to his daughter with dried maroon rags stiff on her once glinty eyes. The father prostrated at her feet and the mother stayed in prayer. Apoplectic with fury, he reached to pry apart his wife’s hands in order to stop the service to the light that had brought darkness upon their family.

“I’m tired,” the daughter said.

The father stopped himself. “Of course, let’s wash up and get you to bed.” As they left, the daughter touched her mother’s shoulder and walked away.

Changing his daughter’s rags was almost impossible. The father was shaking in sadness and denouncing the Unfathomable and the council, knowing very well if his wife had heard such heresy, it could be his eyes next. The daughter sat stoic, not crying, not smiling, she was mute.

The father reached down to carry the girl to bed, but she turned and walked away. He watched her go to her room for the first time by herself. He followed her to turn on the lamp at her bedside, as she was afraid of the dark. The girl laid down and said, “Turn off the lamp, everything is fine now.” He paused, but did what she asked.

Early dawn came, the man awoke to his wife speaking in tongues. She cried out, “I can’t remember the words.” He sat up and saw a small bruised hand print on her shoulder.

[novatore]

Seeking Solace

Neutral orange announced the arrival of dusk. Everyone in town headed to their glowing homes for a hot meal and rest. On the edge of a farm, the blind girl stood facing the forest that encircled the town. Her father, with his back turned, unhitched the oxen for the evening. When he turned, she was gone. The father ran to the edge of the field, but stopped right at the torchlight. All inhabitants of Old Hollow had to stay inside the light. No one knew what would happen if they failed to heed this warning, for, none had ever returned from the darkness. He yelled out for her.

The girl approached a tree with a deep hole at its base, darker than the gloom of the forest, it was black. The girl reached toward the tree. She felt its contours; the rough bark spoke to her and she smiled. A pallid hand reached out and startled her but did not frighten her.

“Mrs. Stedelen, thank you for being there for me. We can make the town better now. I have to go. Father is worried.”

[novatore]

warning Warning: While the content here may be considered graphic, I do not feel it is detailed enough to cross into shock, nevertheless, please be mindful of your own boundaries.

Break Away

The sun carved through the mute sky and a ray of toneless light crossed the main road. The father and daughter walked hand in hand to the butcher to trade some grains for meat. Along the way, the father noticed a different shuffle of daily life; the average lordly hum had been disrupted, their gaits were off, less purposeful. The girl titled her head up to where her father could see the scar tissue under the rags that covered her eyes. “It’s a nice day.”

The father looked around. “Yes, it is.”

Mr. Parsons, a usually jovial butcher, stood with his back toward them. “Sir, we’ve got some grain; we’ll be needing some meat, if you have any, of course.” The butcher responded with an ictal twitch. The father began to inquire, “Mr. Parsons, are you —” His daughter interrupted him with a tug on his sleeve and a smile. “He’s nice. He left us some meat.”

On the way back, the father noticed the torches in the distant were sputtering. He started to trot.

“Father, why are we walking so fast?”

He squeezed her hand. “Never mind that.”

When they arrived home, the father heard a distant giggle near the edge of the field. He hurried his daughter into her bedroom. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.” The father closed and locked the shutters. As he left, the daughter turned to him and said, “We’re free now.” He replied, “Mind your father.”

The father walked across the field. It was his wife. Bubbling with misplaced extasy, she flopped like a puppet missing half its strings. He closed in to touch her. Her eyes were crows’ milk and her clothes were torn around her humility. The father backed away and saw the darkness split the torches causing them to flicker. He moved the torches back and the fire swelled. Before he could run to do the same with the others, his wife grabbed him, it was almost the same feeling of the first day they held hands, which forced him to pause before leaving her laughter behind.

After moving a few torches, he realized he couldn’t get them all. The church bell rang, it was time for the prayer of light. The father got to the entrance and heard howling and fluids falling. Lucis Rex lifted his eyeless face to toward his flock and with outstretch arms he smiled as the villagers were tearing each other apart and dancing with the arms and legs of the council.

[novatore]

Heaven

The wood in the chapel sighed like a sinking ship. Darkness poured through the windows; it crept towards the father’s feet and his mouth felt as though he had been eating chalk. And then, he heard his daughters voice and the darkness receded. Taking this opportunity, he ran home while the darkness covered the town like a time elapsed sunset. On the road back, the father picked up as many torches as he could.

Bleats and laughter pushed through the growing shadow. He encircled his home with the torches and lit them at the moment the darkness arrived, it was just enough light to keep it at bay. Inside the home there were a few oil lamps flickering. His daughter was singing in her bedroom, the song was theirs, they used to sing it in the fields together, at a time when he still played the violin and the daughter would carry the notes the rest of the way. The daughter walked out. “Sit father, you look hungry.” He sat down and stared at the violin in the corner across the room. A short time later, she placed a hot bowl of stew on the table. He reached in his pocket and pulled out some sweets.

“I got these for you. I was waiting for a special time, but it never came.” His eyelids shook. The daughter took the candy and smiled; she was happy for the first time since she returned.

“Father?”

“Yes.”

“Could you play for me?”

He finished his stew, got up from the table, and took the violin. He hadn’t had a reason to play. After some tuning and a shaky start, he began to play. The daughter sung and danced — No other moment was as perfect as this.

[novatore]

Innocence

The father started a new song and sealed his eyes. The daughter stopped.

“You think mama’s happy now?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was she like when I was a baby?”

“When she smiled her teeth shined in the sun. Her eyes were warm. She didn’t know much about this world, but she cared a lot. And she’d giggle at the simplest things.”

“She sounds better now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because she’s laughing.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Could you play another song?”

“It’s time for bed.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.”

He returned the violin and cleaned up the table. The house creaked under the pressure of darkness; it was a warm family huddled together in winter with death outside. He went to a small shelf above the fireplace and looked at the only two pictures they had. His wife was smiling before they came to Old Hollow, a distance impossible to cross, the days that went extinct to memory with an impression left. He picked up the second picture, his wife had a pious furl while holding their smiling child in her arms, with guilt, he laid it down and went to the door.

[novatore]

Drive

The man stood on his porch. The darkness pressed against the torchlight, every decision weighed this moment, to arrive wasn’t fate, but a deliberate aim, a better life. Looking into the past, he jumped into Old Scratch’s maw. He coughed black dust.

Years before, the young couple settled in a mining town called Little Pleasant. It was a forlorn town where hope and dignity were bought and sold. The cleanest and only proper road led to the mine, where the most ambitious men were sent, saddled and blinded; they emerged filled with coal, every breath given to the mine. On the left side of the road, corrugated steel and scrap wood shacks prostrated to a large brick house. Like a panopticon, the home watched over all the working souls in town. On the right side, there was a graveyard with coffinless bodies laid beneath the soil under dead trees — Funerals in Little Pleasant were the best the people got.

The rooster acted on its own and the men woke. They couldn’t escape the mine. On days of rest and hymn the coal dust was there, and couldn’t be washed away. The townsfolks’ skin had a dark rough finish, it was their sacrifice buried in their being. Men left to work with hardhats and their lives while the women watched angle browed in worry. When they arrived, the mouth of the mine, frozen open, yawning, air not to be found. The men, heads down, ignored the peril as they went to work with the thought of getting out one day.

A heave of air shot out of the rubble. With the pressure of the town pulling the man to his death, he fought. He fumbled for his headlamp, light, breath, anything alive. After the second breath, his mind went to the surface and his wife. He heard clatter and movement. A hand pushed through, “You alive?” The question was the canary.

“Maybe.”

“That’s good enough."

The opening gave way to dim lamps. There was a young man, half crushed, while the last of his life left his mouth. The man kneeled down. “He was no more than seventeen. How are we going to tell his mother?”

“Soon, we might not be speaking no more.”

The man ignored the comment and covered the boy. “Let’s use one lamp at a time. It’s going to be a long day.”

Silence met their stares until one of the men broke. “Since we don’t talk much down here and we’re too tired to do much else up top.” The men lifted their eyes.

“How about you? What got you down here?”

“Same as you, I’m a miner and I need money.”

“Ain’t that right.”

“But that’s about to stop. If I get out of here, I’m done.”

“By looks of you, you don’t know nothing but mining.”

“A farmer.”

“What do you know about farmin’?”

Wife and I heard about this town, Old Hollow, on the other side of the mountains. A place where good folk can be good people and have something of their own.”

“Sounds nice, but me, I might as well die down here ‘cause I can’t do nothing else.”

[novatore]

Breathe Again

The last lamp extinguished. All fell still. Muffled cries and commotion pried the man’s eyes open. His body laid on the side of the road. With blurred sight, he made out women and children searching for answers.

“Where’s my son?”

The mother’s face broke the earth. The man reached up and touched her arm. She dropped to her knees and squeezed the hard soil until her nails split. People rushed around her like she was another stone along the road. They stepped over and through her sorrow. The man let go. It started to rain. Nature knew.

Days passed and many uneaten plates. The wife stared out the window, though her eyes struggled to reach past the smudged glass. The neighbors were preparing a funeral for the boy. The mother still wore the same stained work dress with a flowered print that was desperate to be beautiful, but twenty’s years from the mine wouldn’t bring youth back into her eyes. Her kin helped her walk after her son as the men carried him on a piece of repurposed wood and a sheet with the same flower print. The mother stopped to look in the window. The wife turned to their bed. Her husband laid wounded and absent.

“He never had a chance.”

The wife turned and rushed to the kitchen to retrieve a drinking tin. The grit in the water sanded his teeth.

“We’re leaving.”

“What about our script? They won’t let us.”

“We got some saved.”

“But that’s all we got. How are we going to get by? We can’t just leave.”

“I heard there’s good people in Old Hollow. Maybe we can work off some land." The man pressed his back against the wall and coughed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

[novatore]

Update I am not sure if I will continue Old Hollow. I wrote something for the next prompt, but it felt too Brother's Grimm to me, and I probably should have stopped after "innocence", or maybe not. At any rate, I'm going to let this story idea breathe for a bit. Also I changed the rhythm of the prose on purpose as I'm experimenting and I'm a novice. I think next I might try some typical fantasy stuff over the next 10 prompts or so. Thank you for your patience.