Halifaxius
01-02-2014, 06:29 PM
Just the first bit of a novella I may write--would like some feedback before embarking on the whole thing though.
Criticism is welcomed; thanks for simply reading it.
It's written in a diary format with a (probably) insane narrator. I could really go a couple different ways with it, but I need some critiques of the opening. No title as of yet:
December 8th, 2010:
After sixty-five years of this earthbound life, I—Katarodon Jacobus Vynderlyn, Speaker for Mankind, Ambassador of Humanity, the Great Communicator Across the Stars, ordained by myself and assuming the weight of ages upon my back—lifted above the common lot of our material existence, exulted as a seer and a priest of higher beings than us—I, in an ordinary suburb of America in the early twenty-first century—I, as I want to say, built my first spaceship.
My Agnos—that was her name: So be a gentleman and introduce yourself—was a roughshod, old paint type of ship, made and kept up by a mix of nails, planks, and clever improvisation. In the clear light of the sun, I would sit in the street outside my home and marvel at her. On top is the beacon. A modified radio from which I send out messages to the void in every major language of our planet and several of others near in our solar system. The whole contraption rises like man himself vindicated, like a Tower of Babel given engines, a Titanic for the inky ocean of the sky. Passersby would amuse me with the looks they gave her; the flat-out, unconcealed stare of those new to her majesty, the concealed little glances of those jaded to the glory of my achievement.
Let me slow down, and describe it plainly. She was a tall, rocket-shaped ship, with none of that claptrap about saucers affecting her. Her cracked blue paint (Note: repaint ship) with white and silver markings runs across the surface like flowing streams, and, down the side, the name—Agnos—is emblazoned in flowing script. A joy to look at, a sight for the ages. Suffice it to say that I swell with greater pride at her than I ever did at my children’s success. My own children, those ungrateful hypocrites, those spite-filled spiritual parricides. They thought me mad—mad and dangerous. Well, I thought them mad too, and you probably think me mad as well. So let’s just keep going on and not get mad about our madness.
As I was saying, I would sit out there, and watch my legacy loom like infinite destiny. Every night I’d keep my vigil over her as the moon climbed in the sky, and every night I’d eventually fall asleep in my old lawn chair, waking cramped and joyful the next morning, wet with dew and electric with happiness.
This morning started out just like this, no different at first. I saw my neighbors—they thought me mad too, and I them—as they shuffled like the toads they were to get their newspapers. Philistines. Idiots. Mrs. Henderson, that shrew skeptic of a woman, gave me that pitying look of hers, like I was some toddler making castles in the mud. I returned it, and threw in a little bit of the spice of contempt for her digestion to chew over.
This is where things got different. She got her newspaper, as always. But then she walked over across the street to me. I traced her with one eye, but was otherwise indifferent. I was interested though. My neighbors—God knows why—hardly ever talk with me, hardly ever look at me if they can help it. Her mouth, eternally slack jawed like a cow’s, didn’t need to open for what she wanted to say:
“James,”— these people still use my given name—“James,” she said, “did you notice those noises and lights last night?”
I paused a moment and considered. “The only noises I heard, woman, and the only lights I saw were those I dreamed of, those of the infinite, celestial messengers that even now speed down to me from star to space to sky—down, down to me.”
“Well,” she sighed like a frustrated parent; how I hate their condescension, “I was woken up by something. And John thinks you may’ve been behind it.”
“Me?” I gave her an innocent look. “The only thing I’ll wake you from is the slumber of your cosmic ignorance.” Confusion confuses in its turn; she gave me a frustrated look.
“Whatever it was, I’m hoping it won’t happen again.”
I smiled as she walked off. “Soon I’ll ascend, and be out of your way.”
What an ironic smile. A painted thing, that smile. An ironic painted thing. Inside, hers words made my glow with hope. I’ll be frank with you dear reader: Could stupid little Mrs. Henderson be the prophetess that first sees my aliens coming over the ridge? Could those creatures from up there had heard my message? If they arrived soon—although I know they will arrive in time—my life will be not changed, but fulfilled. I’ve been fooled before: faithful readers of local newspapers, those cesspools of lies and idiocy, will no doubt remember the debacle of ’04 that too clever critics and blind skeptics always hammer on about.
The conversation gave me the idea to write this, however, so I suppose it has already helped me. I’m going to take keep this journal from today in any case—immanent celestial contact or not. It’ll help for practice when the real thing comes. Perhaps it will help some with my constant fear: Loneliness.
December 9th, 2010:
I think that I’ve rush ahead of my story a bit. Perhaps you want some history, some biography, a bit of science. The details, that is, of my life’s work. I’m happy to provide, dear reader; I hope this short summary will manage.
My quest—no, my rebirth—began some 10 years ago. Before then, I lived the complacent existence of the everyday man, the half-awake shambling that passes for life these days. The University caged me, the prison of academia had me as its slave: I was a professor, a teacher of physics and engineering at a nearby college. If anything, this served me in the end, when I turned my knowledge to building my craft.
I hear you asking: “What happened to you, you poor, poor man? What,” you shudder and drop your voice to a whisper, “made you snap?” Time makes vague the precise moment I took up my goal, but I remember that I’ve always held the belief that there were beings other than us, other civilizations among the lighted stars. 10 years ago, though, my wife—I will not write her name—was taken, stolen from me by cancer. The disease carried her off within the year, and I was left alone. I still keep her ashes, you know. Maybe the aliens have some scientific necromancy hidden on their planet. I’ve never confessed to that hope before. I’m not sure I ever knew I hoped it. If you’re looking for a reason for all this, hyena-toothed psychoanalysts, then take it there. But know that I’ve always thought human beings too complex to be reduced to complexes.
But it started after she died, I know that. I found myself lost, despondent, with no purpose in my life and no reason to keep living. I quit my job, retreated into my hole. And then, like a flash of light, the idea.
And why not? You call me crazy, you shake your head and pity me. But why? My spacecraft is perfectly suited for travel; my radio can cast my plea across space with ease. There remains only one thing: For them to arrive, and give lift to my craft.
That’s the thing, you see. Making something that could survive space was easy; making something that could get there—beyond my reach, unfortunately. So I wait. I wait for them to come, for them to shuttle down and find me, an able first diplomat for mankind. I’ve got the ship, I’ve got the know-how: They’ll be positively glad to let me join them. And stop smirking at me like that. You’ll be left behind no matter what you do. In any case, let’s get along with the story. I’m working, as you’ll see, on a limited time frame.
I’m not sure I can describe how pathetic I was in those early days. My wife dead, my job quit, my children pushing me away as I responded to what I knew was the truth—and now I am soon to be confirmed. I hope those fickle ‘sons’ read this. But I was, as I was saying, in something of an existential crisis. The spaceship, the elegant engineering, the bold feats of physics and thought that held it together, was the one thing that kept me sane. I was fevered in those days, fevered with my truth, fevered with my quest, always working to build up my vessel, always crafting my ship. You don’t understand; you can’t understand. The only people, I think, who know anywhere near of what I felt are religious fanatics or mad artists. I had the same ecstasy as a saint, the same ionic glow as an artist inspired.
Criticism is welcomed; thanks for simply reading it.
It's written in a diary format with a (probably) insane narrator. I could really go a couple different ways with it, but I need some critiques of the opening. No title as of yet:
December 8th, 2010:
After sixty-five years of this earthbound life, I—Katarodon Jacobus Vynderlyn, Speaker for Mankind, Ambassador of Humanity, the Great Communicator Across the Stars, ordained by myself and assuming the weight of ages upon my back—lifted above the common lot of our material existence, exulted as a seer and a priest of higher beings than us—I, in an ordinary suburb of America in the early twenty-first century—I, as I want to say, built my first spaceship.
My Agnos—that was her name: So be a gentleman and introduce yourself—was a roughshod, old paint type of ship, made and kept up by a mix of nails, planks, and clever improvisation. In the clear light of the sun, I would sit in the street outside my home and marvel at her. On top is the beacon. A modified radio from which I send out messages to the void in every major language of our planet and several of others near in our solar system. The whole contraption rises like man himself vindicated, like a Tower of Babel given engines, a Titanic for the inky ocean of the sky. Passersby would amuse me with the looks they gave her; the flat-out, unconcealed stare of those new to her majesty, the concealed little glances of those jaded to the glory of my achievement.
Let me slow down, and describe it plainly. She was a tall, rocket-shaped ship, with none of that claptrap about saucers affecting her. Her cracked blue paint (Note: repaint ship) with white and silver markings runs across the surface like flowing streams, and, down the side, the name—Agnos—is emblazoned in flowing script. A joy to look at, a sight for the ages. Suffice it to say that I swell with greater pride at her than I ever did at my children’s success. My own children, those ungrateful hypocrites, those spite-filled spiritual parricides. They thought me mad—mad and dangerous. Well, I thought them mad too, and you probably think me mad as well. So let’s just keep going on and not get mad about our madness.
As I was saying, I would sit out there, and watch my legacy loom like infinite destiny. Every night I’d keep my vigil over her as the moon climbed in the sky, and every night I’d eventually fall asleep in my old lawn chair, waking cramped and joyful the next morning, wet with dew and electric with happiness.
This morning started out just like this, no different at first. I saw my neighbors—they thought me mad too, and I them—as they shuffled like the toads they were to get their newspapers. Philistines. Idiots. Mrs. Henderson, that shrew skeptic of a woman, gave me that pitying look of hers, like I was some toddler making castles in the mud. I returned it, and threw in a little bit of the spice of contempt for her digestion to chew over.
This is where things got different. She got her newspaper, as always. But then she walked over across the street to me. I traced her with one eye, but was otherwise indifferent. I was interested though. My neighbors—God knows why—hardly ever talk with me, hardly ever look at me if they can help it. Her mouth, eternally slack jawed like a cow’s, didn’t need to open for what she wanted to say:
“James,”— these people still use my given name—“James,” she said, “did you notice those noises and lights last night?”
I paused a moment and considered. “The only noises I heard, woman, and the only lights I saw were those I dreamed of, those of the infinite, celestial messengers that even now speed down to me from star to space to sky—down, down to me.”
“Well,” she sighed like a frustrated parent; how I hate their condescension, “I was woken up by something. And John thinks you may’ve been behind it.”
“Me?” I gave her an innocent look. “The only thing I’ll wake you from is the slumber of your cosmic ignorance.” Confusion confuses in its turn; she gave me a frustrated look.
“Whatever it was, I’m hoping it won’t happen again.”
I smiled as she walked off. “Soon I’ll ascend, and be out of your way.”
What an ironic smile. A painted thing, that smile. An ironic painted thing. Inside, hers words made my glow with hope. I’ll be frank with you dear reader: Could stupid little Mrs. Henderson be the prophetess that first sees my aliens coming over the ridge? Could those creatures from up there had heard my message? If they arrived soon—although I know they will arrive in time—my life will be not changed, but fulfilled. I’ve been fooled before: faithful readers of local newspapers, those cesspools of lies and idiocy, will no doubt remember the debacle of ’04 that too clever critics and blind skeptics always hammer on about.
The conversation gave me the idea to write this, however, so I suppose it has already helped me. I’m going to take keep this journal from today in any case—immanent celestial contact or not. It’ll help for practice when the real thing comes. Perhaps it will help some with my constant fear: Loneliness.
December 9th, 2010:
I think that I’ve rush ahead of my story a bit. Perhaps you want some history, some biography, a bit of science. The details, that is, of my life’s work. I’m happy to provide, dear reader; I hope this short summary will manage.
My quest—no, my rebirth—began some 10 years ago. Before then, I lived the complacent existence of the everyday man, the half-awake shambling that passes for life these days. The University caged me, the prison of academia had me as its slave: I was a professor, a teacher of physics and engineering at a nearby college. If anything, this served me in the end, when I turned my knowledge to building my craft.
I hear you asking: “What happened to you, you poor, poor man? What,” you shudder and drop your voice to a whisper, “made you snap?” Time makes vague the precise moment I took up my goal, but I remember that I’ve always held the belief that there were beings other than us, other civilizations among the lighted stars. 10 years ago, though, my wife—I will not write her name—was taken, stolen from me by cancer. The disease carried her off within the year, and I was left alone. I still keep her ashes, you know. Maybe the aliens have some scientific necromancy hidden on their planet. I’ve never confessed to that hope before. I’m not sure I ever knew I hoped it. If you’re looking for a reason for all this, hyena-toothed psychoanalysts, then take it there. But know that I’ve always thought human beings too complex to be reduced to complexes.
But it started after she died, I know that. I found myself lost, despondent, with no purpose in my life and no reason to keep living. I quit my job, retreated into my hole. And then, like a flash of light, the idea.
And why not? You call me crazy, you shake your head and pity me. But why? My spacecraft is perfectly suited for travel; my radio can cast my plea across space with ease. There remains only one thing: For them to arrive, and give lift to my craft.
That’s the thing, you see. Making something that could survive space was easy; making something that could get there—beyond my reach, unfortunately. So I wait. I wait for them to come, for them to shuttle down and find me, an able first diplomat for mankind. I’ve got the ship, I’ve got the know-how: They’ll be positively glad to let me join them. And stop smirking at me like that. You’ll be left behind no matter what you do. In any case, let’s get along with the story. I’m working, as you’ll see, on a limited time frame.
I’m not sure I can describe how pathetic I was in those early days. My wife dead, my job quit, my children pushing me away as I responded to what I knew was the truth—and now I am soon to be confirmed. I hope those fickle ‘sons’ read this. But I was, as I was saying, in something of an existential crisis. The spaceship, the elegant engineering, the bold feats of physics and thought that held it together, was the one thing that kept me sane. I was fevered in those days, fevered with my truth, fevered with my quest, always working to build up my vessel, always crafting my ship. You don’t understand; you can’t understand. The only people, I think, who know anywhere near of what I felt are religious fanatics or mad artists. I had the same ecstasy as a saint, the same ionic glow as an artist inspired.