School is going well, thank you for asking. It comes with its challenges, but for the most part has been rewarding and, without wanting to sound too up myself, quite a breeze. I expect that to change.
I have more important things to talk about, though. Or at least things that pertain more directly to my writing. I've come across the Writers of the Future competition, and have decided I want to enter. There's 4 'quarters' of it every year, with first, second and third receiving prizes in each of these quarters. There is also a grand winner every year, who receives $5,000. I can't say I feel good about my chances, but maybe I'll surprise myself. If nothing else, I'll get a chance to see how well I stand up to other as-of-yet unpublished authors.
The story I plan on submitting is a bit of an ambitious one. Divided into three parts, it tells a single story by telling the stories around it. Each part focuses on a different character or set of characters, which poses the greatest challenge to me as a writer. In each part, I need to get the reader invested in different people with very few words. I've always struggled writing short stories, which I feel comes from the fact that I struggle to read them, so creating these condensed expositions will be difficult, to say the least.
I won't leave you hanging altogether, so here's the opening of the first part of this currently unnamed entry. Keep in mind that this is simply the first draft, and will be changed and tighened many times before being entered.
PART 1
The Nature of Cities
There are two kinds of cities. Some start out small, a few huts around a coal seam, or a lone mill by a river powerful enough to turn a wheel. From there they grow, like any organism that finds a vital resource. The streets sprawl out like veins, spiderwebbing away from that mill or mine as more come to share in the wealth. Eventually they become thrumming and thriving centres of power. Empires spring up with those cities at their hearts, and they push the world forward through history.
The other kind spring up overnight. If the first kind of city is a railway station then the second kind is a crucial bridge along the line. They appear where they are needed, as struts to support a long road of wealth. The streets are straight and wide, and they span outward from a port or a market. The winding alleys and tumbling suburbs are kept to the outskirts, where the poor come in hoping to find themselves a slice of fortune. Moving inward these people pass through the strata of the city, first through the food markets where the farmers sell to the grocers, then through the lavish suburbs of the bankers and bureaucrats. At last they arrive at the bustling streets of their city's vital organ, where the merchants build their houses so the time spent between home and work is at a minimum.
Ambervale was the second kind, and it was the fifth city Jaxon had lived in. Despite his young age, Jaxon knew the ways of things. He knew how to sneak aboard a ship or caravan to move about the world, he knew the ways to get work in any city, and he knew who and what to avoid. At 14 years of age, Jaxon had long since decided that this knowledge was something he was born with. Every time he left a city, he left behind a dozen friends and two dozen enemies that didn't know these things as well as him.
The sun rose on his third day in Ambervale, and today was the day to make some money lest the soles of his shoes fall out from underneath him. This was only the second time he had been in a city like Ambervale, but he had learned well from his time in Hudson and knew there was only one place he needed to go today: the docks.
Ambervale was a special kind of city, and it was by no coincidence that Jaxon had travelled here. The second kind of city was always new, and Ambervale was the newest. The new flying ships had brought about a new kind of trade. These cities didn't appear down rivers or along coasts anymore, they appeared at the source of the rare and luxurious. If the wealthy were paying hundreds for silk, a city would appear by a silk weaver. If they craved a certain food, a city would be made by the only farm producing it. When they decided they wanted fleets of airships, someone built Ambervale.
The trees hung low over the boulevard as Jaxon made his way to the docks. Anywhere else red leaves would be found underfoot, but in Ambervale they stayed on the trees all year round, stirred loose only by the wind. These leaves let through small shards of sunlight, dappling the white stone streets as morning grew stronger. After the frozen deckplates of Champlain Falls, the warm sun was a welcome change for Jaxon. He ran a hand through his long black hair, sweeping it over his scalp so it hung around the back of his neck. It was the only way he could pass off as anything more than an urchin, and in his time on the streets of many a city he had learned how to play a dozen parts. Today, he was the son of a farmer out to make his own way in the world.
As his steps carried him further down the main street, more people began to join him. At first, it was a few early risers. Real farmers who were coming to town to buy things like new trucks or another acre of land. After them came the crews-for-hire, spilling out of the taverns and inns that lay down side streets. The buzz of business reached his ears, beckoning him toward the end of the road. Docks for airships lacked the smells of those by the water, but they sounded almost exactly the same. All they lacked was the slap of lanyards against masts and the groaning of ropes being strained. Instead was the hum of idling engines, punctuated by the clunk of clamps locking as ships touched down. There was no rhythm or rhyme to it, but to Jaxon's ears it was music. It was the glorious song of a city's heart beating.
He carried on walking until the noise of it surrounded him like a mother embracing a child. In a strange way, this place was safety for him. Nowhere else did he feel more confident that he would end the day with money in his pocket and a warm meal in his belly. Jaxon pricked up his ears, scanning for the crucial words that signalled work. As he listened, he idled his way down the rows of airships. When he saw one approaching, he'd hurry toward the docking bay it was about to land in. Each time he hoped there would be some cargo they'd want unloading, but each time he was too late or just plain unlucky. Still, the day was long and Jaxon was, if nothing else, persistent.
He carried on this way for a good many hours, eventually finding the odd job unloading a box or sending a message to a merchant somewhere. It wasn't enough to make his purse heavy, but by noon he'd earned enough pennies for the night's meal and bed. Not wanting to spend any of it, he pressed on through the encroaching lunchtime hunger. The docks quietened ever so slightly for the hour, but his hard work paid off and he added another two pennies to his stash. When the men came back from lunch he found a few more jobs, earning him another 4 pennies. At 3, a ship came in with passengers. Ferrying someone's luggage uptown to a lavish inn earned Jaxon a further 3 pennies, bringing his total up to 17.
With his luck fully turned, Jaxon afforded himself the luxury of an afternoon off. Instead of scurrying about, hoping to be in the right place when someone yelled 'you boy, come grab this crate', he changed his tactics. Now, he hung back against the stalls on the far side of the docks. It was risky, but if it paid at all it would pay big. You see, from here Jaxon could spot out the traders who came to speak with the shop owners in low, hushed voices. These traders had something important on them, and wanted as few people as possible to know about it. If you could get in the know, you gave them no choice but to include you in their business dealings. The cut might be small, but 8 pennies for one job was still a lot to someone like Jaxon.
With his eyes scanning the long row of stalls, he tuned his ears in to a different kind of conversation. If a trader wandered up to a stall, Jaxon would slink over and slip into the shadows between stalls to eavesdrop. In a few hours the traders would be turning in for the night, waiting till morning to carry on their business. Jaxon's time was short. But he was smart, he knew who might be having a clandestine conversation. Maybe they carried a dagger just under their shirt, or maybe their trousers were just a little too big. Something always gave away who was in for some shady dealing.
Again Jaxon's persistence paid off when he saw a man with a blue band of fabric tied around his cuff. You see, every city has its underbelly, and every underbelly has its factions all vying for control of whatever illegal goods are in demand. These factions didn't like treading on each other's toes, so they marked themselves. Jaxon was too new to Ambervale to know who wore what, but that tiny scrap of blue in that peculiar location marked this trader clearer than if he wore a sign on his front. Whatever this man was here for, it wasn't the selling of fur.
Jaxon slipped through the shadows, ducking through the thinning crowd as he made his way to what he hoped was the trader's destination. At one point, a large greengrocer stumbled into Jaxon's way knocking him over and causing him to lose sight of his mark. After a few panicked moments and an exchange of passing apologies, Jaxon caught the flash of blue in the crowd again. He hurried toward it, seeing the man head for a jeweller's stall a few metres away.
All of a sudden, the man stopped, looking as though he was searching for a friend that wasn't where he was supposed to be. Jaxon stopped, hesitated. Was the man here to meet someone? Perhaps it was wise to back away. Pre-arranged meetings meant crime of a deeper sort, and Jaxon had no wish to get tangled in anything dangerous...
