Wrote yet another chapter one.
"The night is eccentric," I begin as I address my classmates. "Much like the author, Loristar, who presented himself to society one way during the day and then completely different at night. Described by others as slow in his movements to a graceful fault, they were nonetheless impressed by how his mind operated. It was the kind of brilliance reflected in a writing style none have been able to imitate to this day.
"The central theme of his writing is the darkness, both literal and metaphorical. How it provides cover for certain bohemian activities. How its more unsavory influence can be discovered hiding in broad daylight, within the unlikeliest of people."
Pausing to scan their empty eyes, I can see that I have lost them. But it is not just me. They will stare vacantly at anyone who has to provide an oral report. As they do the same throughout the year when the teachers lecture. Wanting to be engaged by their phones instead, they are experts at resembling mindless zombies.
We are screwed if they are our future. Aware that I am imitating sentiments of my elders, I also understand that these thoughts are not entirely wrong.
Returning to my report, I continue, "Loristar lends existence to the night in a way that dares the reader to defy becoming infatuated with it. Being the single recurring character in his books, the darkness always shows more depth than the people who never manage to rise above mundanity.
"Some critics focus solely on what they describe as unsatisfactory human personalities. They become so wrapped up in thinking all novels must adhere to a similar formula that they entirely miss Loristar's unique genius.
"To possess the kind of talent that resists conventional order is, from my perspective, the ultimate attribute of style as well as artistic license."
Even the teacher is not paying attention. Shaking my head, I return to my seat. After a prolonged silence, she looks at the spot where a student should be orating. Then she looks toward us and inquires as to who is next. Certain that no one has bothered to do a report on a worthy author, I lower my eyes to a book I have read numerous times.
Partially listening while I read Loristar's final book before his untimely death, the spoken words moon and wolf gain my attention. Two important aspects of my culture are naturally going to pique my interest, yet a part of me seems to know the book and author being spoken of will most likely be the latest supernatural content.
There is a new writer on the young adult scene. It is not my favorite genre, because I prefer adult literature, but a writer is still a writer and writing is an art form. However a writer chooses to reach his or her audience is not for me to judge. Even if I personally find no interest in the content, respect for the art takes priority over opinion.
Most of my fellow students get their book reports from online cheat sites. A fact that either goes unnoticed or is ignored by the teachers. The current speaker possesses a tone of passion in his voice. It is obvious he truly cares about the book. Each time he refers to the word werewolf, there is an emphasis of endearment in accompaniment.
He looks at me as he progresses with the report, and he says, "Unlike the modern interpretation of lycanthropy being a gift, Slade takes us back to its origins as a pure curse. In the book, humanity is reserved for the human population while the werewolves are the traditional monsters."
Having misconstrued the intent behind his tone, I see the truth in his eyes. The passion is not for the supernatural creature, but rather for its slaying by the hunter. His is the kind of abhorrence for that which is different, yet he perceives himself as the hero. Slade's protagonist resonates with him, fills him with a false sense of superiority.
Allowing him to look away first, droning on about the hunter's bravery, I bring my attention to a different kind of darkness. Outside, the daylight is quickly waning. Storms in this area have a tendency to move in rather fast. Most times they bring good, gentle rains and other times they bring bad, severe winds.
The fading of the light is the only part of the storm that I like. Rain does not interest me. It is too wet, and water is barely tolerable when it is streaming from a shower head. The wind always seems like an assertive bully. Worse still are the thunder and lightning. One is a loud rumble as though the sky is hungry for something, and the other is a bright flash as though the sky paparazzi are craving photos of our dysfunctional lives.
An advantage to living in the city is that the tall buildings are a sort of buffer between people and the storm. But unlike most schools, closer to the ground where they are probably safer, this private institution is three quarters of the way up a skyscraper. Then, being the greedy corporation it is, a great deal of money has been put into bracing this part of the building against formidable weather.
New Placidair was not always the storm capital of the world. According to my parents, the major shift in weather patterns happened when my mother became pregnant with me. Almost as though I am somehow responsible for the storms that visit the area. Which, of course, is an absurd thing to think. I am no one special, after all. Maybe I am the last of our tribe, but that does not add significance to my existence.
A movement in the dark clouds makes me squint my eyes as though I will see better. I am uncertain what it is I think that I might have seen, but all I do see is rolling clouds and small sparks of heat lightning. Keeping my eyes on the gathering storm, I continue to see nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe this one will stick. Already working on chapter two.
"The night is eccentric," I begin as I address my classmates. "Much like the author, Loristar, who presented himself to society one way during the day and then completely different at night. Described by others as slow in his movements to a graceful fault, they were nonetheless impressed by how his mind operated. It was the kind of brilliance reflected in a writing style none have been able to imitate to this day.
"The central theme of his writing is the darkness, both literal and metaphorical. How it provides cover for certain bohemian activities. How its more unsavory influence can be discovered hiding in broad daylight, within the unlikeliest of people."
Pausing to scan their empty eyes, I can see that I have lost them. But it is not just me. They will stare vacantly at anyone who has to provide an oral report. As they do the same throughout the year when the teachers lecture. Wanting to be engaged by their phones instead, they are experts at resembling mindless zombies.
We are screwed if they are our future. Aware that I am imitating sentiments of my elders, I also understand that these thoughts are not entirely wrong.
Returning to my report, I continue, "Loristar lends existence to the night in a way that dares the reader to defy becoming infatuated with it. Being the single recurring character in his books, the darkness always shows more depth than the people who never manage to rise above mundanity.
"Some critics focus solely on what they describe as unsatisfactory human personalities. They become so wrapped up in thinking all novels must adhere to a similar formula that they entirely miss Loristar's unique genius.
"To possess the kind of talent that resists conventional order is, from my perspective, the ultimate attribute of style as well as artistic license."
Even the teacher is not paying attention. Shaking my head, I return to my seat. After a prolonged silence, she looks at the spot where a student should be orating. Then she looks toward us and inquires as to who is next. Certain that no one has bothered to do a report on a worthy author, I lower my eyes to a book I have read numerous times.
Partially listening while I read Loristar's final book before his untimely death, the spoken words moon and wolf gain my attention. Two important aspects of my culture are naturally going to pique my interest, yet a part of me seems to know the book and author being spoken of will most likely be the latest supernatural content.
There is a new writer on the young adult scene. It is not my favorite genre, because I prefer adult literature, but a writer is still a writer and writing is an art form. However a writer chooses to reach his or her audience is not for me to judge. Even if I personally find no interest in the content, respect for the art takes priority over opinion.
Most of my fellow students get their book reports from online cheat sites. A fact that either goes unnoticed or is ignored by the teachers. The current speaker possesses a tone of passion in his voice. It is obvious he truly cares about the book. Each time he refers to the word werewolf, there is an emphasis of endearment in accompaniment.
He looks at me as he progresses with the report, and he says, "Unlike the modern interpretation of lycanthropy being a gift, Slade takes us back to its origins as a pure curse. In the book, humanity is reserved for the human population while the werewolves are the traditional monsters."
Having misconstrued the intent behind his tone, I see the truth in his eyes. The passion is not for the supernatural creature, but rather for its slaying by the hunter. His is the kind of abhorrence for that which is different, yet he perceives himself as the hero. Slade's protagonist resonates with him, fills him with a false sense of superiority.
Allowing him to look away first, droning on about the hunter's bravery, I bring my attention to a different kind of darkness. Outside, the daylight is quickly waning. Storms in this area have a tendency to move in rather fast. Most times they bring good, gentle rains and other times they bring bad, severe winds.
The fading of the light is the only part of the storm that I like. Rain does not interest me. It is too wet, and water is barely tolerable when it is streaming from a shower head. The wind always seems like an assertive bully. Worse still are the thunder and lightning. One is a loud rumble as though the sky is hungry for something, and the other is a bright flash as though the sky paparazzi are craving photos of our dysfunctional lives.
An advantage to living in the city is that the tall buildings are a sort of buffer between people and the storm. But unlike most schools, closer to the ground where they are probably safer, this private institution is three quarters of the way up a skyscraper. Then, being the greedy corporation it is, a great deal of money has been put into bracing this part of the building against formidable weather.
New Placidair was not always the storm capital of the world. According to my parents, the major shift in weather patterns happened when my mother became pregnant with me. Almost as though I am somehow responsible for the storms that visit the area. Which, of course, is an absurd thing to think. I am no one special, after all. Maybe I am the last of our tribe, but that does not add significance to my existence.
A movement in the dark clouds makes me squint my eyes as though I will see better. I am uncertain what it is I think that I might have seen, but all I do see is rolling clouds and small sparks of heat lightning. Keeping my eyes on the gathering storm, I continue to see nothing out of the ordinary.
Maybe this one will stick. Already working on chapter two.
"Never trust a fox. Looks like a dog, behaves like a cat."
~ Erin Hunter
~ Erin Hunter