Nog is writing again. Hide the typewriters!

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noghiri
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Nog is writing again. Hide the typewriters!

Post#1 » 20 Feb 2017 18:58

I desire to share with you all a sample of my craft, a prologue for a thing I just started writing and may never finish.



It was a bright fall morning, the deep red leaves waving from maple branches among a forest of evergreen. The air was pleasantly nippy as I climbed the auburn steps to the cottage. It was a day for remembering, for relaxing; the harvest had been brought in, and I had been taken by a wistful nostalgia for childhood.

I had no real reason to be there, I suppose. The cottage and the elderly man within were not of family. Yet he was like a second father to me, in a way, the mentor that taught me how to drive, to shoot, to fight, to hunt. He taught me the wonders of electricity, just as my own father taught me the joys of working with one’s hands. You see, when I first met him, we didn’t have many of the things you take for granted today. They existed in the stories, in the rebuilding cities, but not in this small haven in the mountains, not in those days before the trade caravans once more rode over Cascadia Pass.

The man of the house didn’t have any family. I guess that’s why I went to him. He had been feeling ill, and deep down, I knew nobody would check on him. But he was always a tough one. Once he broke his leg in two places, set it himself, built a crutch, and walked back to his home in the dead of winter. I found him in his library, a fire on his hearth, an empty chair beside him. He didn’t read much, anymore, his vision fading from years of detailed craftsmanship, long nights, and hardship. Still, he kept his library where most keep their family rooms, surrounded by books now closed from his grasp forever.

He motioned to the chair beside him, his hand shaking. A smile slowly crinkled a tanned, lined face, a wordless greeting from a trusted mentor and old friend. We sat together in silence for a time, his breathing slow and rough, punctuated by a cough that had plagued him sporadically as long as I’d known him. As the sun broke full over the tops of the trees, in broken sentences, he began to talk.

This is the story he told.
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Obiwanabi

Nog is writing again. Hide the typewriters!

Post#2 » 21 Feb 2017 05:31

Now I'm intrigued.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

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redghostboy

Nog is writing again. Hide the typewriters!

Post#3 » 03 Mar 2017 18:11

Now, I'll start this off by saying I'm not much of a reader. It's really hard for me to sit down and concentrate on something long enough for it to paint pictures in my head vividly enough for me to be interested; but this is good. I love this. Nog, wherever you post or publish this to, I want to read it!
"One thing led to another, Jarod threw some butter, and now we're in a hot tub eating oatmeal that tastes like a sweaty armpit."
-Me

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noghiri
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Nog is writing again. Hide the typewriters!

Post#4 » 21 May 2017 05:04

That project has gotten somewhat lost in the far corners of my mind. Have a new one.

...Eventually, I'll finish something.

The captain gazed out into the inky abyss. A dark hand raised an even darker liquid to thin lips. He did not, could not cry, yet the handful of surviving observers could see immeasurable grief in his posture. As he was briefly silhouetted by the cold, silent flash of the loss of a drive core, his right hand could be seen making a gesture. At the wordless command, switches were thrown, explosive bolts fired, and the room began to vibrate with the thrum of generators.

One of the crew stepped to the edge of the command balcony, her head barely at the level of the captain’s scarred chest. Looking down, she raised her hands to the heavens before them. “In Requiescat Pascem,” she intoned. Those crew in the engineering pit who had not bowed their heads in respect saw a terrible figure, a Valkyrie swathed in the torn and bloodied blue form-fit of a Medical skinsuit, lit from below by the reds and blues of those few readouts still functional, her short hair forming a black halo about a hard-set face wearing both the grief and indomitable spirit held by those who remained. In those moments, a face plain by human standards was endowed with an ephemeral beauty, a beauty born of the soul, known before this moment only by those few closest to the girl – nay, woman, for despite her youth, she possessed a certain command born of crisis and of tragedy.

“Separation is complete. Godspeed,” the sharp voice of the Engineering Commander spoke, robbed of its usual stridency. The rockspider raised itself to its four rear legs, its front appendages falling into precise and correct salute. It seemed appropriate, somehow.

The twenty survivors observed a moment of silence in respect and in the immortal sadness of the loss slipping slowly behind them towards the system’s star. As the memorial ended and systems cried out in the silent language of flashing warnings and queries, EngCom fingered the red crowbar hanging from its belt, a prescient gift from a subordinate now lost forever to space. On a whim, it pulled a molecular scalpel from its belt, and carefully inscribed a name upon the simple steel bar. Over the following days, it added more. By the time they made port, it was covered in entirety with the small, precisely engraved names of the ones who never made it home.
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