Hearts All of Glass 2: Day One

Part two of many more, Enjoy:

“When presented with a great opportunity, when faced with a brave new challenge, are we -- the mightiest empire the world has yet seen -- not obligated to meet it with valor? Each brave young person in this nation is bound by their birth to become a force of history! I urge all of you to face the future with fervent resolve. Victory flows through your very veins! In this crucial moment in our empire’s march to glory, you are all champions of the national spirit. Go, make your homeland proud by what you choose! The path to glory is paved in bold actions and virtuous courage! All of you, promise yourselves one thing. Promise to take every step towards victory, no matter the cost or apprehension! The sons and daughters of Deltora do not hesitate to take what they want and overstep fear’s grasp!”

-Queen Elaine Glasskard, Youth day Imperial decree, Siphrobion 30th, 6011

I took her advice to heart. I had my own radio in my room at my uncle's flat, and used it to acquaint myself with the music and slang of the city. Many stations played new genres of music I was astounded to learn existed. I never once heard swing or electronica in my hometown growing up, and in fact I'd heard very little music aside from the live performances of old ballads and harvest dance songs from the old army band which resided at the tavern most of a turn. To have so much music readily available to me was overwhelming, I must have spend hours listening to the radio at first, while I leisurely read the old leather bound books my grandfather lent me when I left.

As you may have guessed by my authorship, I have always been quite bookish, to the extent that I often neglected to participate in public sports or the any athletic teams. I didn’t make me unfit, as I was still bound to the compulsory physical education at school, and did a great deal of walking myself, but when it came to my ability to throw balls or kick them, my performance was lackluster to say the least. Now in my hometown I had come to pace myself in reading so much, as I knew my grandparent’s collection was limited and I wasn’t often able to visit the library in the neighboring town. One day, before my uncle took me to the academy offices to enroll me, I wandered several miles away from the aerodrome, to a huge glass-domed temple; practically a palace of literature. The West End library was supposedly the smallest of the city’s five libraries but as I reverently crossed through the doorway I felt as if I could spend a lifetime there.

When I came home, my uncle showed his first sign of irritation at me.

“Where were you?” He growled in a stern voice I had not heard yet.

“I walked to the library. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“You missed dinner. Give me that book.” He tore the thin adventure novel from my hands and examined it. He gave me a suspicious look and broke out in his usual jovial laughter. Shoving the book back in my hands he took Mei by the waist and swaggered away. “Very well, light out now, and no radio, you have school tomorrow!”

I was perplexed by his attitude towards me. Distinctly more indifferent than my father’s, but somehow more hostile too. I didn’t think much of it at first and simply took a discarded muffin from the table and ate it in my room. I could hardly sleep that night, I could hardly sleep any night at first, the city’s constant murmur and glow just beyond the window pane was enough to keep me alert all night as I tried to guess what was in store for me at my new school. I never could have guessed I’d meet her there.

I asked my uncle why we walked to the Blackheart Academy’s high walled campus instead of taking his steam-car, but he gave a dismissive grunt and held open the iron gates of the school grounds. The entire campus was contained in an enclosed city block, with a large looming centralized hall full of classrooms with an office and the gymnasium contained in the building’s two wings. The quad was deserted, as it was early in the morning when we arrived to register, and I saw no students on the grassy field out front of the hall or seated at the many tables scattered here and there.

“Name, birth date, and identity card.” A rather impersonal clerical witch had me enrolled within minutes and informed us that my father had taken care of my tuition there in advance, I had only to get my uniform and return when school started that day. The tailor down the street was done with me quickly and before I knew it I was dressed up in a typical student’s blazer, dark blue, of course, with matching trousers and a tan knit vest. I admired the spiral crest emblazoned on the left breast of my jacket and began my habit of rubbing it for good luck as I crossed the street again. I wished my uncle goodbye, and entered through the gates, just as the morning bells sounded. I was accustomed to many students at the academy in my hometown, as they all came from the entire county to be educated, but the sheer density of this school was stunning. I meekly shuffled to class that first day admiring every aspect of the hulking modern school hall, and the first day flew by without very much conversation to any of my fellow students.

The second day, though, was a different story. My class schedule was boring routine of Deltoran literature, history, maths, physical sciences, and gym class, livened only by the random elective I was placed in. I had desperately hoped I would land in alchemy or creative writing, but it was in theatre arts I was assigned. I had nearly fallen asleep in there the first day, the over-enthusiastic golden haired man onstage flaunted himself about with a passion for acting I did not share. My uncle crudely commented that night that it was the class all the future courtesans took, and I should help myself to the plethora of easily swayed girls in there. Mei playfully slapped him with her long white glove and dinner continued in silence.

I did notice the imbalance of the sexes the next day, however, as we had been instructed to sit in a circle onstage and envision shapes out of cut scraps of paper we had been given. Beside me were two girls who giggled and chatted across me as if I did not exist, and snatched the colored pencils I had been using to color in their own scraps of paper. We had to illustrate what we envisioned those scraps of paper to be by coloring in the white space to clarify. I sat idle for a few minutes, discreetly spying for the colors I wanted, feeling amused by the elementary level of this assignment. I took to scoping out the girls in the class, and found them all surprisingly young, maybe only a grade below me but looking fresh out of middle school either way.

A couple of the ladies did catch my attention, either through meaningful glances across the circle of students, or by virtue of their figures. These city girls, I had noticed, had a habit of being graciously endowed and it came as a shock how openly they flaunted their assets. That is to say, it was startling at the time, though even the most radical Blackheart fashion of back then would come across as fairly conservative today. A lone redhead in the shadows peaked my interest the most, partially because she looked so very engulfed in shading in her scrap of paper, and somewhat because of her long auburn veil of hair covering her face, but mostly due to how she sat. Most indecorously hunched over her paper, she sat on the stage with her legs bent at opposite angles to her body as if she has just fallen from the sky and broken both her legs. I was tempted to ask if that hurt, but then I was startled to realize I was already walking over to her for reasons unknown.

I’m glad I didn’t ask how it felt to sit that way, but what came out of my mouth was less than inspirational. The Queen’s speech had possessed me for certain.

“Can I use that red pencil, when you’re done?”

School Days

"Never let your schooling interfere with your education." -Mark Twain

   It's times likes these that I appreciate the words of the great American authors. While nobody ever said writing was easy, it's playing the servant of two masters between the monsters of school and storytelling. School demands a certain amount of analytical thinking and very few novel ideas, but make no mistake, the volume of work demanded is taxing indeed, for both my fingers, and the poor helpless trees doomed have my endless essays and notes printed out on. This of course would be fine, as it's what's expected of all students in classes of the same level. But in my case, I'm afflicted with the need to go above and beyond this call for prose. It's my dear keyboard that must suffer the most, though, nearly all the keys are worn down and twice replaced, and the entire searing laptop's virtually burning a hole into my lap as I write the nights away, weaving story after story, even after homework is long past due.
      That being said, somewhere while writing Shaar I found time to write a short story set in the same universe, an adorably naive tale of high school romance and drama set amidst the chaos of the Shaarian backdrop. Look forward to weekly installments of: Hearts All of Glass, the story of a boy and a girl, young and innocent in the face of global war. 

Fragments

It comes in small pieces, night by night, leaking into my dreams from the place beyond sleep. Yes, I'm talking about inspiration. In the downtime between lengthy random exposition I see my self posting a great deal about the various things that inspire me and all artists in general. At one point in my life I would probably have attributed every interesting thought of mine to a single individual, and even gone so far as to discredit myself for all my creative accomplishments. In reality I've been able to carry on writing and drawing without excessively turbulent emotion or ridiculous self deprecating notions, so I'm lead to believe otherwise in regards to my theory about a singular female inspiration. 

  Trust me, I'm well beyond that. I hope. So where do I draw my imagery, plot and passion for writing? Your guess is as good as mine. A good starting point is music, although I'd say it acts as more of a catalyst for creative prowess rather than a wellspring. I'm sure at least  some of you involuntarily envision touching stories in conjunction with the music, oftentimes tragic, ironic, surreal love stories?  No? What about framing an appropriate music video to coincide with the lyrics? That's a more common practice, So I've heard. When I write, I stick to music without lyrics for the most part, but when I think about writing it's with almost euphoric delight that I soak in the words to every song I can absorb. Although I am partial to a few sub-genres in particular, I  strive to take in as much of the world's repertoire as possible. 

  Now, a few of you may recognize that not all music is created equal, and you're entirely right. But without fail, in one way or another, all music shares or expresses a human story, even if it's not explicitly about an interpersonal struggle. It all shares a bit more perspective,  and for now that's what passes for inspiration in my mind- Peek or hints at how other living beings perceive the world. All of this is subject to sudden drastic changes of heart, so feel free to point out how my rants about inspiration and the attainment of inspiration evolve. 

Overture

    The first work released will be appropriately titled Overture, seeing as it is indeed a prelude to a much more dramatic and exciting piece, although not a musical one. (yet?) All four books will follow an alternating viewpoint structure, with each chapter outlining events as seen through the eye of various characters. There's a consistent set of main characters you'll get to know and love(or hate, fine by me) and I will be detailing their appearances and personalities within the next few weeks.
   On top of that, there's the hints of plot and universe details to be unveiled bit by bit. No, I am not just making this up as I go along, feel free to ask as many questions about the great mystery that is Shaar, since it's all stupidly obvious to me I feel a bit lost as to where to start when explaining what's going on here.
   Most of all, it's an experience, for both you, the victims, and I, the author. I feel I will enjoy this ordeal tremendously regardless of the outcome, and probably gradually gain sanity as I obtain a regular fanbase. Or at least one would hope. So ask away, here on via email or carrier pigeon, it's all the same to me. Ask about anything.

ANYTHING.

-No. 55

It’s Like a Devblog... but for a book.

TL;DR: Just a field day for grammar Nazis. If reading's not your thing though why are you on a book blog?

I can’t believe I didn't keep notes until now. That’s okay, better late than never. So... Without Further ado: “Once upon a time...” That’s what I’m thinking for a start. That’s how fairy tales are supposed to start, right? I want it to be known that this is above all, a steampunk fairy tale, a dark evolution of the vague mysterious worlds we grew up hearing about, not a tolkienesque fantasy world with dozens of races and supernatural beings. Actually, picture the way medieval Europeans viewed the world. the cryptic xenophobic aura of judeo-christian mythology, replete with demons, curses, and distant, almost absentee benevolent forces.

But of course shaar has it’s own flavor with touches of whatever cultures I see fit. Overall the books can only hold so many themes and alternating moods, so I’d like to condense or even polarize the character’s perspectives to reflect different cultural styles of mythical story telling.

These are human stories, love stories, war stories, and tragic tales, but all beheld in the face of a mysterious force nobody quite understands. In the instance of the European style fairy tales i think the brothers Grimm set the standard and it’s right in their names. Grim. Dark and blunt, unapologetic about the vague atmosphere and brutally straightforward about twists and turns in the threads of fate. there can be other styles to counterpoint this, and look no further than real mythology and epics to see this. I want every unique perspective to be reminiscent of a different culture's traditional simplified mythology, mostly meaning their (sentiment?) unique take on the fantastical implications of the world. Whether it’s Homer, Shikibu, Shakespeare, Pierce, or Valencia, it’s all different takes on the same expressions of the human spirit we witness in everyday life.

I largely want Shaar to be a new planet because I love fictional histories and making my own homemade mythologies. But I also think it’s important to spell out the dark fairy tales aspect. remember all those kingdoms with princes and princesses with resident dragons or angry spirits from all the fairy tales ghost stories? They grew up, but not old. If those generic vague fables are juvenile, then this is their turbulent adolescence. A dark clouded time, fraught with uncertainty and inadequacy. it’s hard to compare an entire human civilization to the the teenage experience, but isn't it just that? maybe its wrong to compare the course of civilization to a human being’s life, since as far as we know human lives only end in death eventually.

Either way, if the course of human civilization is a human life, then the past two centuries are only are awkward puberty and violent teenage rebellion. But I digress, Shaar is Industrializing, yes, and it brings about a planet wide question of purpose and value, which is ultimately disregarded in favor of outward expression. I’ll have to fill in my own psychological blanks for the most part here, and I’m always second guessing myself about the history of shaar every time I come to another big revelation about human nature. Would this affect Shaar’s history?

Maybe I should focus on individuals, since personally that’s all I’ve ever been. of course from the bottom up it’s no easier to see the big picture, but there’s certainly moments when it comes. And just like that I think I see how I’ll get the big picture for Shaar. Seeing it from each character’s perspective, every wildly different style and view, that makes up a truly rich and developed world. In short, I want something better than a two dimensional fairy tale world plus some gore and mature themes, I want a familiar, yet amazingly striking new world where we watch the mistakes and struggles of humans come to life against yet another fascinating setting.

Really, that’s all I feel I can control. If writers are gods, I’m a rather powerless one. All I can do is create the world and man in my image,  but I’m doomed to watch all creation play out the same song or dance that we all can relate to. I can’t claim to have full control over my own characters if that makes sense. So I do what I can, to set the stage as logically as possible, and record what my children see accurately while still capturing the essence of their personas. Comments welcome but distrusted.

Deliver us from evil,
No. 55