The Dry Season

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13th of Octobra, 740AP

It had been an impressively mild winter. Two months in and only now had the season released its first snowfall. The flakes fell thick outside the window, the pane frosting around the edges. Jary Miggon watched in fascinated distaste. He pulled the blanket closed around his torso, tight around the neck, and eased back from the window. Closed as it was, the chill seeped in slowly. He threw another log in the fire and watched it catch.

Jary truly hated the cold. He’d never been able to stomach it since his family had moved up from Brambletang when he was very young. He had hoped this winter would be different. And it had. But now it seemed to need to compensate for its absence.

The flames licked around the log and Jary sat back satisfied. He pulled in his writing station and dipped the pen in ink. He had nothing. The paper would go out three days hence and he had nothing to show for it. The paper heading had been calligraphed in earlier that week. VELUNDANE PERIODICAL stretched out atop the top left portion of the paper. It would be folded four ways after it had been written and sent to the press.

Perhaps I could attempt to allocate a section of the piece to my interview with lordling Brite…‘ The prospect was a drudgery. Jary contacted the minor lord at his estate in Eastings during a pretentious fundraising event only yesterday. ‘While it was still warm out,‘ he noted. Brite opined that Eastings was an advantageous location for real estate in the city, situated snug against the carved out cliff face, because water flowed straight from River Atlúm to their doorstep. He proposed they build a duct system that carried the water directly from Atlúm to the center of Velundane.

Naturally this brought a huge round of applause from the sycophants and fawners in attendance, but Jary was a far more practical man. This project wouldn’t happen any time soon. The money needed just couldn’t be obtained. And as selfless an idea as it was, Jary hardly suspected Brite’s motives wholly altruistic.

Jary’s father Bart Miggon passed away nearly 5 years prior, leaving him the reins to the fortnightly periodical. And on occasion, now particularly, Jary felt it more of a burden than a blessing. But most days he relished the idea of writing articles for the VP. It was in his blood, and since the paper became his, its readership too seemed to escalate. He took pride in that. This was, after all, the very first periodical in existence, dating back over 50 years.

But now, just after its half-century anniversary, the creativity well began to dry up, along with any worthy news.

A knock at the door preceded the door’s slow opening. A woman shuffled in. Beautiful. Short blonde curly hair. Very pregnant. She carried with her a tray with kettle and tea. Brambletang black. ‘She knows me too well.‘ “Perfect timing. I’m freezing.”

Her face soured at the empty page, but she poured out two cups regardless. “You’ve still not come up with anything?” Her tone was equal parts annoyance and pity. She took a generous helping of milk and sugar. Jary took it straight.

“I’m sorry Lyla. Give me a bit more time. I’ll be sure to have it out by deadline. Thank you for the tea, though. You’re my favorite.”

“Yeah, yeah. I better be.” She gave him a devilish grin and shuffled off to the window. The phrase “you’re my favorite” was a small nothing they’d repeated to each other since they were young and had begun courting. Jary knew it would continue to bring a smile to her face for many years to come.

He went back to his notes. ‘There’s always the lifespan conundrum.‘ This was a new theory being thrown around by supposed intellectuals based on data they’d been collecting over hundreds of years. ‘Akarianites,‘ he thought with more than a tinge of prejudice. The theory explains that the average lifespan of humans on Atelinor had drastically decreased in the past century, from about 150 years to as low as 120.

This was published as a factual piece in The Strand, known best in the community for their questionable sources, or lack thereof. The theory is believed by some however. It goes on to propose that there might be some basis to believe that those who passed through the Purge could have had a lifespan closer to 200 years. However nobody, including the propagators of the theories, have any definitive proof, or an answer as to why the lifespan would be diminishing…

Jary rubbed his eyes, jotted down both the idea of including a section for lordling Brite’s water duct system, and addressing the validity of the lifespan conundrum. Both were alarmingly hypothetical topics. One might never happen and the other might be simply unprovable for years to come. And hypothetical topics like these were something he and the Velundane Periodical stayed far away from, if only to distinguish itself and its quality from its competitors. Perhaps the day had arrived when he’d need to rely more heavily on articles of a hypothetical nature.

He pushed his writing station aside and stood to stretch. Getting the blood flowing was an integral part of his work. He paced in front of the fireplace, still quite chilled to his bones. His wife ignored his movements, sitting on the stool by the window. “Where do you think she’s off to?”

Jary braced himself for the cold as he left the warmth of his hearth behind. In the street, bundled tight in cloak and shawl was a young woman, wading slowly but confidently through the snow. “Who do you think it is?” asked Jary.

“I can’t tell just yet.” The figure got closer, her footprints small but heavy in the powder beneath her. The wind blew in her hood, the flakes attaching themselves to her hair. Brown hair. Her nose was pointy and her features long and pale. “I think it’s… Aelin. Where could she possibly be going in this weather, you think?”

“Aelin,” Jary pondered. “Aelin the butcher’s daughter?”

“Well she can’t stay ‘the butcher’s daughter’ forever. She’s training for bardship, see.” Lyla pointed to the brick building Aelin was entering. A stylized harp carved into a plank hung above the door.

“Terrible weather for practice,” Jary said incredulously. He went back to the warm spot on his chair, by the fire. There had to be a story in there. ‘Bardship. I had no idea.

An entertainment column might not be a bad idea, come to think on it.‘ Jary scribbled down the name of the traveling group he had seen pass through Velundane a week past. ‘A Journey of Storms‘ they called themselves. Odd name, but they put on a marvelous show. The man and woman who led the troupe were likely surnamed Storm or other. The troupe themselves weren’t particularly pleasant on the eyes, and Jary wouldn’t have been surprised had they also been unpleasant to the nose, but he hadn’t gotten that close.

A Journey of Storms boasted their ability to play by memory a hundred shows, and three times as many songs. They played a game of song naming, where they had the audience take turns telling them to play certain songs, and if they weren’t familiar with one, they’d buy the individual a drink. They knew their art well. Afterwards they put on a show of Carus and Carrion, a dark comedy.

Music began to play then. It took Jary out of his concentration. The sound came from outside – no. From across the street. It must be from the music tavern Aelin had entered. He closed his eyes and let himself relax. Harp? It sounded like a harp. But it also sounded more or less like a lute. ‘Ah I see. Two instruments in tandem.‘ It was a slow melody. Just gentle plucking of strings in truth, but in the right order… The harp faltered. A short pause followed and then it started up once more. ‘I guess she is getting a lesson.

Lyla hummed along, as she tidied up the study. Books were lain out on the table in stacks, and she placed these back on the shelf. Jary took a sip of his tea. He’d nearly forgotten it was there. ‘Still warm enough to drink,‘ he thought happily. The dulcet melody was oddly fitting for an afternoon as bitter chill as this.

Lyla made a startled exclamation, breaking the mystique of the song. “Jary! Jary, come look!” She stood by the window looking upon the snowy street below. Her voice was urgent. And frightened.

A body lay in the snow, facing the oncoming blizzard. A young woman, Aelin. The butcher’s daughter. Red stained the white around her. Lyla screamed as Jary threw his cloak on. The music continued unabated.

———

Writing prompt/exercise taken from the Writing Excuses podcast episode 10.1.

Writing Prompt: Write down five different story ideas in 150 words or less. Generate these ideas from these five sources:

From an interview or conversation you’ve had
From research you’ve done (reading science news, military history, etc)
From observation (go for a walk!)
From a piece of media (watch a movie)
From a piece of music (with or without lyrics)

I’d like feedback if you have any, critical or other.

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2 thoughts on “The Dry Season

  1. This is beautiful writing [4 star, as I’m a little stingy with stars so as to not run out]. The contemplative nothingness that is happening is reminiscent of Rothfuss’ Slow Regard for Silent Things. Auri has OCD [among other things], whereas Jary is a distracted writer with block that is trying to notice everything in order to write, but notices every distraction instead. It’s a lovely set-up. The pacing and world-building is appropriate giving a bit of social structure [in thinking about Brite] and history [in thinking about dubious scientific claims on lifespans] and culture [in thinking about musicians]. Kudos.

    That said–WTF, man?! You cannot end a story that way. Give back a couple of those stars and slap yourself for good measure. You need to read Scott Lynch yesterday. He absolutely would end a chapterlet there only launch into a chapterlet that takes place 2-20 years earlier. Then, the scene following that would be outside with the body. It’s an anxious and frustrating way to hear a story, but it pays off amply in that we know he will get back to the body in some pages. Your world also resembles Lynch’s in the Gentlemen Bastards series in that it seems a middle ages society on the remnants of a great, unknown prior society.

    On my blog, I’ve never reviewed a short story from another blog. But I would with this if you agreed [with links and credit, of course. I’d want to use your name that you’d eventually want to get publish under. Dakota Lopez?] This comment would largely be the review. . . .

    On a different note, you must finish this story! Or, indicate that you are coming back to this storyline in short order. You’ve left us/me nothing. Even if there’s a story in between which takes us into Lyla past, in order to enrich the current scene. I know this was only based on a prompt, but you cannot throw a wrench through a window and say The End.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Geekritique

      This is excellent praise. Being compared to Rothfuss and Lynch is mind-numbing. I’ll take every star I can get. To be honest I was expecting much worse when I got the notification you got around to it.

      I’d love to be considered for a review on your blog. And yes, Dakota Lopez works. I’ve been looking for a pen name for years. Can’t come up with anything that sticks better.

      I do plan to finish this short, don’t worry. Or at least a sequel short. I loved this story too much not to go further. And I totally need to find out what happens next myself to be honest, cause I don’t even know. The purpose of these weekly shorts were to explore a different corner of my world with each prompt. And I’ve learned so much with this one. I’d hate to leave it hanging. Expect this to be completed in one form or another sooner rather than later.

      Thank you so much for taking the time.

      Liked by 1 person

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