Boneman
Well-Known Member
So here's my prologue. It's entitled 'possible' because it's the third one I've written...
Essentially, as you can see, it's a narrator who is writing to someone, and he's going to tell them the whole story. (Chapter one, straight after this, opens in the summer of 1962, but is told in third person.)
I will be running it past my writing group, but one small problem for them, is that they know the whole story, and can see where this piece relates to. I'd like opinions of others, who don't. Does it interest? Is it too woolly? Is it so obtuse that you're not interested? Am I trying to be too clever? Have I given you enough to make you read on? Any critique/comment is welcome - grammar/prose/misunderstandings...
William Wordsworth
I’m not sure you’ll get this, but I’m hoping. It will seem unbelievable. Beyond rationality, literally out of this world. Looking back, after all that’s happened, I’m not sure I believe it myself. But I know, because I lived it, and it’s not long now until the time of my passing, and your beginning. I will tell you everything, because you deserve to understand it all.
Because of you, thousands lived, who would have died. Fathers, mothers, children. Because of you, the good guys won, and the bad guys lost. Because of you, those who loved you unconditionally were saved. Except for one. The one you would have given your life for. The one who gave meaning to your emptiness. The one who filled your life with purpose. Even as I write these words, there’s a dragging, churning feeling in my chest, and I have to put down the pen as it’s hard to take.
Look at the poem above – I know you loathe poetry, but the essence of your life is encompassed within those words, though you may never truly experience them in the way they spoke to me. A rainbow may just be a rainbow to you – a beautiful flourish to a rainy day. Or it may be the end of a drought, the beginning of hope, as the rains fall once more. Life may be lived in plenty, with little worry, and still have meaning. Life may be lived as the drought. But when the rainbow comes, it brings rain, and life begins anew. That life will be more meaningful if the drought is remembered.
So it is, that I write this to you. That you know of the drought, the times when hopes were shattered on hard rocks. So that the life you lead will know where it sprang from, and give thanks.
But you will also know what you lost. What you gave up, so that the thousands could live. You did it willingly, but you lost what was most dear to you, and you will never see her again in this life.
By telling you, I hope to make some sense of those feelings you experience in your life. Why the howl of a wolf never raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Why you’re drawn to the reservation Indians. Why Ancient Egypt fascinates you. And mostly, why you always picture Angels with long brown hair and dark eyes, carrying a sword.
It all started in the hot summer of 1962. Back when your Dad was Sheriff...
Essentially, as you can see, it's a narrator who is writing to someone, and he's going to tell them the whole story. (Chapter one, straight after this, opens in the summer of 1962, but is told in third person.)
I will be running it past my writing group, but one small problem for them, is that they know the whole story, and can see where this piece relates to. I'd like opinions of others, who don't. Does it interest? Is it too woolly? Is it so obtuse that you're not interested? Am I trying to be too clever? Have I given you enough to make you read on? Any critique/comment is welcome - grammar/prose/misunderstandings...
PROLOGUE
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety
William Wordsworth
I’m not sure you’ll get this, but I’m hoping. It will seem unbelievable. Beyond rationality, literally out of this world. Looking back, after all that’s happened, I’m not sure I believe it myself. But I know, because I lived it, and it’s not long now until the time of my passing, and your beginning. I will tell you everything, because you deserve to understand it all.
Because of you, thousands lived, who would have died. Fathers, mothers, children. Because of you, the good guys won, and the bad guys lost. Because of you, those who loved you unconditionally were saved. Except for one. The one you would have given your life for. The one who gave meaning to your emptiness. The one who filled your life with purpose. Even as I write these words, there’s a dragging, churning feeling in my chest, and I have to put down the pen as it’s hard to take.
Look at the poem above – I know you loathe poetry, but the essence of your life is encompassed within those words, though you may never truly experience them in the way they spoke to me. A rainbow may just be a rainbow to you – a beautiful flourish to a rainy day. Or it may be the end of a drought, the beginning of hope, as the rains fall once more. Life may be lived in plenty, with little worry, and still have meaning. Life may be lived as the drought. But when the rainbow comes, it brings rain, and life begins anew. That life will be more meaningful if the drought is remembered.
So it is, that I write this to you. That you know of the drought, the times when hopes were shattered on hard rocks. So that the life you lead will know where it sprang from, and give thanks.
But you will also know what you lost. What you gave up, so that the thousands could live. You did it willingly, but you lost what was most dear to you, and you will never see her again in this life.
By telling you, I hope to make some sense of those feelings you experience in your life. Why the howl of a wolf never raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Why you’re drawn to the reservation Indians. Why Ancient Egypt fascinates you. And mostly, why you always picture Angels with long brown hair and dark eyes, carrying a sword.
It all started in the hot summer of 1962. Back when your Dad was Sheriff...
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