The clock tower outside town has terrified Simon all his short life, but when Eliza, convinced the tower is harmless, forces him to climb it with her, he must face all his nameless terrors.
This short story percolated in my brain for several years and finally made its way onto the page. It’s a mystical journey from a boy’s bedroom to the top of the clock tower that has haunted him all his life.
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Last week, I dug out my ten-year-old, hand-drawn map of the world of The Unremarkable Squire. The book takes place on the Isle, which is split into 40 nations after the Splitting of Rael (see footnote). I have a decent map of those 40 nations, in pencil. The book’s plot takes place in just one of those nations.
I’m not usually a world-builder, but I did a fair amount (for me) for The Unremarkable Squire, probably more than for any other project but Children of the Wells, which is multi-author, and the unwritten Twilight Dawn, which was co-created with a high school friend.
What I noticed about the map is how much it doesn’t matter to the novel. In a notebook somewhere I have a creation myth and the origin of demimen and Nephilim. I have an idea how the world ends. I have thoughts for sequels and unconnected novels. I know why the colors in the sky exist.
And it doesn’t matter. Nor should it.
That’s what I really enjoyed about looking at my old notes and maps. They reminded me how focused the novel is. The world is decoration. It’s called The Unremarkable Squire because it’s about Obed Kainos. And even though there are lots of characters running around, they’re all supporting characters.
I had trouble figuring out where to end the story. I initially planned an epilogue to wrap up loose ends for all the characters. But that wasn’t true to the book. There was only one story I needed to wrap up. Everything else was extra.
I’m sure this concept of narrow focus isn’t new to lots of writers, but I’ve written novels in multiple ways. Trouble on the Horizon and its sequels, for instance, are written in such a way that they spiral outward. They expand. The Unremarkable Squire only expands at the fringes and only as far as the character of Obed Kainos expands. There are advantages to both methods.
In any case, it’s been interesting to resurrect all those nooks and crannies I never explored, which are alluded to obliquely in the novel or not at all.
Perhaps I can explore a few someday.
FOOTNOTE – I’m sorry for throwing terms The Splitting of Rael around, but this blog entry would be ridiculously long and wretchedly boring if I had to explain all the references to the plot of the novel. Perhaps it’ll just pique your interest.
After a month of dragging my feet, I finally have my first book signing for The Unremarkable Squire scheduled for 5-7pm this Friday the 13th. (Lucky, huh?)
I’m starting close to home at Summer’s Stories/Joanna’s Dealicious Treats in my hometown of Kendallville, IN. It’s the perfect opportunity for any of you locals to come and get a signed copy of the best witty fantasy you haven’t read by a guy named Nick Hayden. (Unless, of course, you already bought a copy, then it’s just a possibly witty fantasy by a guy named Nick Hayden.)
As an extra bonus, if you come, I’m sure you can see me looking uncomfortable and pretending I’m not the center of attention.
And if you can’t come, well, I’m sure there are other places one might be able to find a copy of The Unremarkable Squire. Like that electronic monstrosity named after mythological warrior women.
Or after a rain forest. Yeah. That probably makes more sense. Since it uses up so much paper….
See you there!
Rob. via Compfight
Josiah hunched over his table, etching out his thoughts in thick, straight, penciled lines. The dim fluorescent lent the page a sickly white that obscured rather than illuminated the words. The crank-powered radio choked static and strained gasps of music.
The heavy scratch of No. 2 lead counted the seconds, the rustle of paper the quarter hour.
He wrote: “…the technological hubris of the corporate-political machine…” and “…the Icarus of genetic modification of these men without conscience or soul has sent us plummeting into the primordial sea from which all things came…” and “I do not know if we shall survive as tortured mutations or lobotomized pygmies or the wretched dregs of our own wrath.”
He had filled 13 other notebooks in the last month.
He kept precise track of the days in a separate journal worn out for the purpose. In it he inventoried food supply, water purification, sleep habits, weight loss. He did not shave or wash his clothes, except on the fortnight. The first was useless repetition, the second a waste of water.
Outside, the world was burning. In here, in his self-contained existence, in the three rooms that defined his reality, he survived. Above, wickedness and aberrations and horrors. Below, abnegation, asceticism, sterility, and order. He woke and wrote and ate and read and slept. He did his daily exercises. Sometimes he played solitaire. He cleaned obsessively. He survived.
The radio ran down. He did not bother to crank it back to life. He set down his pencil and considered the ladder.
Today was the second anniversary of his exile from what men called civilization. Last year, he had allowed himself five minutes above. He had witnessed the change a year made. He did not know if he wanted a second look.
He distracted himself with lunch, a few stunted carrots from his hydroponic and rice. His rice would hold out for years.
He touched the ladder. It was dangerous to visit above. Even after a year, he still found himself reliving those few minutes above. He climbed. He opened the portal with heaving breaths and strained muscles. The sky engulfed him. He hesitated; slowly, he climbed one more rung and raised his head above ground.He had buried his bunker in a field purchased for that purpose.
Green grass grew high about the entrance, wildflowers splashed haphazardly like paint by a careless artist. The wind rippled through the field, presenting a thousand impressionist variations a minute. The sky stretched upward and outward, a Pacific map dotted with a scattering of white islands. To the west, a coast of trees rose up insignificantly against the everlasting blue. To the south, the farm house still stood, solitary but not lonely, a mother waiting for her children. A tractor rumbled quietly nearby.
He blinked in the light and in the colors that reflected the light. Wind, cool and fresh, moved his stiff hair.
Josiah looked and studied. He shut the hatch and locked it. It took some time to re-acclimate himself to the stale air below. He wandered unsteadily to his bed, sat on the edge, and waited for his sight.
In his journal, he wrote: “I visited Above today. It still waits unknowingly for judgment. The Masonic order or the Jews or whatever current evil God has unleashed upon the world has blinded them completely to their fate. They are a soulless people trampled upon day by day. They do not even complain when their bones are broken! Wrath is soon revealed, but they are ignorant, idiotic, moronic.”
And he added, fiercely, “They actually believe it is spring! Lies, lies! It is all lies!”
NASA HQ PHOTO via Compfight
For all the tests and needles, all the frantic whispered exchanges and phone calls, what it came down to was this: Richard was old, and he was dying of it.
He protested little against all the useless activity rushing about him. He let himself be shuttled by car and wheelchair, showered with flowers and cards, drowned in vague well-wishing. He knew he was dying and would soon be dead. He felt it in his lungs, in his eyelids, in the slow, plodding beat of his heart.
One day, he woke and knew he would not wake again in this world. He had his daughter, who worried her way into the room day after day, call the pastor.
Pastor Aldrich came, bearded and stately, a rather fine man considering the boy Richard remembered him being. “May I read a few verses?” Pastor Aldrich asked.
Richard listened, eyes half-shut, thin hands grasping his sheet. He smiled feebly at the words. He nodded with exaggerated slowness as Scripture murmured in reassuring tones.
“Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that he has redeemed you from death through the forgiveness of your sins by his death and resurrection?”
Richard had believed for many, many years. He spoke with finality: “Yes.”
Pastor Aldrich took hold of Richard’s hand and with bright eyes said, “Soon there will be no more tears or sorrow or sickness.”
Richard released his hand and turned away.
“What’s the matter?” Pastor Aldrich asked.
Richard’s thin body trembled. It shook the words out with gentle proddings. “I must tell you something.” Pastor Aldrich waited. “I’ve never told anyone before.”
“Don’t be afraid. Your past sins are forgiven.”
“And present sins?”
“Confess, and God is faithful to forgive.”
Richard’s lungs filled with air. His hospital sheet rose and fell. “I am afraid to die.”
“Be assured. By faith through Jesus, God will bring you safely to heaven.”
“I mean, I don’t want to go to heaven.”
Richard’s eyes, sunken into his skull, flashed fiercely.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” the Pastor said politely, to buy time.
“My aunt is there. I know she is. She’s a boastful, horrible woman, but she always told me how much she loved Jesus, so she must be there. First thing she’ll say when I see her is how she reached 95, and I’m only 92, and that it’s because she prayed three times a day and sang hymns at night in her bed, and I never prayed that she saw and always fell asleep early. She had exact hours she prayed. She set her clock for it. That’s how much I love the Lord, she told me whenever I decided to go play with my friends instead of joining her when I was a kid.”
Richard struggled to sit up, wriggling like a fish, and Pastor Aldrich moved to soothe him and opened his mouth to encourage him, but the floodgates had been opened.
“And I don’t like to sing. I can stand a little, but even the good hymns, why do they need six verses? And the bad hymns! How many verses will there be in heaven? Seven? Seventy times seven! Hours of tortured voices struggling against the shrill organ. I don’t think I can do it.”
He closed his eyes against the horror. “And even if we get to stop singing sometimes, what then? I like to play euchre. Does God like euchre? And if he does, we’re all perfect, so we’ll know exactly what card to lay each time. Is that fun? Where’s the risk?
“I suppose we’ll have to sit and stare at the sunset and the waterfalls and the stars and everything. It’ll be very nice. Maybe for a hundred years, even. But after that? I can only look for so long. Send me to a museum, and I’ll read ever plaque, that’s fine, but then what?”
Richard pressed his hands against his face. “I’m so tired here. But to rest…forever…? I might die of boredom–if I could die.”
Richard became very quiet. Pastor Aldrich waited a moment before beginning to–
“And those eye-things,” Richard said. “What are they called, cherubim? Eyes all over their bodies? I don’t want to see that. It’s disgusting! Unnatural! It’s exactly what Paul said we shouldn’t be, all eyes! It’s like having spiders in heaven, but worse!”
“Richard!”
The old man jumped, and the Pastor himself seemed rather surprised by his outburst. “Richard, what do you want in heaven?”
“Well, now, it’s not really my place to tell God….” He saw the Pastor’s skeptical look and relented. “I don’t know. My wife, certainly. Young again. And me too. When we didn’t care about exercise or weight or money or politics.”
“Like on your honeymoon.”
Richard gave a stern look. “That’s not proper talk from a pastor, Pastor.”
“How about meeting someone better than your wife? Someone who knows your deepest desire, who has always known it, and who has sought after you day in and day out?”
“My wife and I were married 71 years, Pastor. None of this talk of another. It’s indecent, simply indecent.”
“I don’t mean–” He shook his head. “You’ve missed the point, Richard, a rather important point.” Pastor Aldrich stood. “I think you’ll find heaven a little better than you expect. I look forward to meeting you there someday.”
Richard watched him leave, dumbfounded. He expected Pastor Aldrich to pop back in with some lame excuse about it being a joke. He did not. That was an even worse joke.
He called his daughter in. “Heidi, I’d like a hymnal.” Richard sighed. “Might as well pick out the best, in case they’re taking requests.”
After much delay and two blog posts to kill the time until I was finally ready, “The Clock Tower” is now available for download!
The quick and dirty summary is this: Simon has been terrified of the clock tower outside town all his short life, but when Eliza, convinced the tower is harmless, forces him to climb it with her, he must face all his nameless terrors.
During a livestream broadcast of Derailed Trains of Thought, the podcast about storytelling I co-host, last night, I mentioned that it’s not an action-oriented story, unlike some of the influences I mentioned in an earlier blog. It really is more of an exploration.
Anyway, download it, read it, enjoy it, share it! It’s absolutely free. (Well, pay-what-you-want, technically, but everyone wants to pay $0–I know I do.) Click the button below or go here.
Yep, just a short story.
I’m not a particularly artistic person and I’m not a particularly visual writer. If you asked me to draw one of my characters, I’d stare at you blankly and excuse myself, saying I needed to refold my socks. If you asked to draw one of my characters and started asking details about the face, I’d mumble a few nonspecific answers and insist that the cat sand needed emptied right now, sorry, you’re on your own.
So, when it comes to creating covers for my self-published stories, I tend toward the simple. Find a nice royalty-free photo that gives the sense I want, throw on a nice title, and voila!
I really lucked out for my upcoming short story “The Clock Tower.”
A year or so ago, I had some free credits at fotolia.com and started grabbing images I thought I might use in the future. The cool clock image was originally meant for an unfinished serial called “Out of Time,” but since it’s likely to stay unfinished for a long, long time, I decided to use it for “The Clock Tower.”
But here’s the problem: I’m pretty sure the cover’s cooler than the story.
I started writing “The Clock Tower” probably two years ago. I finally finished it a few weeks ago. (Some stories are just like that. You have a great idea–but no idea how to write it.) Now that it’s done, it seems like a big deal to me. I mean, it’s been rumbling around in my skull for years.
Question: But can it live up to the Chrono-Trigger-meets-Phillip-K-Dick vibe of the cover?
Answer: Since the story has to do with neither time travel nor anything associated with Philip K. Dick, absolutely not.
But, hey, it’s a good short story, regardless, and if you like my stuff, you’re almost certain to enjoy it. That’s enough for me. (Coming soon!)
magro_kr via Compfight
I’ve been fascinated with clock towers in stories for a long time.
It started with Puss ‘n Boots Travels Around The World, a cartoon no one has seen but which is the first film to leave a deep impression on me.
Based loosely on Around the World in 80 Days, the cartoon has Puss ‘n Boots racing against time to circumnavigate the world and finally reach the top of the clock tower in his city within 80 days. He’s pursued by villains and waylaid by distractions and so forth. Just in time, he reaches home but must escape the villains trying to keep him from reaching the top of the tower.
The bell begins to chime 12. Crazy action ensues. And there he is, hanging on the rope of the bell when the last toll rings out.
Exciting, exciting stuff for a little boy.
Many years later, enter The Castle of Cagilostro, another cartoon too few people have seen, with a fabulous climax in a clock tower. They even fight upon the hands of the clock!
How wonderful for a much older boy!
With the approach of the hour, the moving gears, the intricacies and the heights and the sense of time running out, a clock tower is an exquisite place for a climax. They show up in such varied movies as The Great Mouse Detective, Shanghai Knights, and Hugo.
It was only a matter of time until I wrote my own version.
I started the short story probably two years ago, and it sat unfinished, but certainly not forgotten. Again and again it returned as my mind puzzled out how to construct it.
It’s a different beast than the movies mentioned above. It has much more in common with Bradbury than with Miyasaki.
But it’s just as fascinating to me. And, I hope it will be fascinating to you as well.
Coming soon.
A squire’s oath is to be of service… but to whom?
In the kingdom of Basileon, an unremarkable and emotionally detached young man named Obed Kainos is about to stumble into adventure—quite against his will. When the knights of the realm gather in a quest to search for the lost Armor of Arkelon, Obed is chosen at random to replace the recently deceased squire of Sir Lance Valentino. While trying to perform his menial tasks faithfully, the young squire becomes entangled in the plots of mages, thieves, and kings.
And that’s just his first week on the job.
Unfortunately for Obed, his indifference cannot save him from his new oath. For despite his enigmatic personality (or perhaps because of it), he manages to attract a band of misfits to his cause— the ugly, the arrogant, the clumsy, and the cowardly—putting the legendary armor within the grasp of one who never wanted anything at all.
Purchase: Currently out-of-print due the publisher shutting down. It’s on my to-do list to re-issue this in the near future.
Creative Commons License Eric Wüstenhagen via Compfight
I live by my city’s high school. This morning, I heard cars and kids making their way to their first day of the 2013-2014 school year.
Most years, I’m getting ready to head back myself. I teach middle school writing at the school my church runs. I stop in a couple hours a week, assign essays and short stories, and generally wear out my red pen.
This year, however, for a variety of reasons, I’m taking a sabbatical. I plan to use my streamlined schedule to do more writing. Particularly, to finish up some projects that have been left untouched for too long.
I have two short stories coming out soon. I’ll keep promoting The Unremarkable Squire. I’ll probably have flash fictions pop out here and there, because that’s how they work. And the big project is…
Well, perhaps I shouldn’t even mention what the big project is. Because I’ve claimed I was going to work on it numerous times, and I have a habit of getting sidetracked. You can only cry wolf so often before people get skeptical. My long-time readers know what I mean. They’ve been waiting for it a long, long time.
So, if you know what I mean, bug me.
If you don’t, well, I’ll tell you more once I’ve actually immersed myself back in that world.
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