It's alway neat to run across one of those old notebooks stashed in a box in my parents' basement, or in mine. I've kept them all, because each and every one has treasures hidden somewhere between the pages. The poems almost always stir memories of their inspiration.
Yesterday, while digging out some small shelves for my son to use for his books, I found two such spiral-bound troves. While one had poetry and random musings, the other held a much more precious gem. . . the beginning of a story.
I was, quite frankly, amazed at this discovery. I don't remember writing it, but it is most certainly my handwriting, my style. And it's in my notebook from school, though which class I can't remember now. So I must have written it in a moment of fantastic inspiration.
And it's good. Don't get me wrong. I'm not setting off fireworks that write my name in the sky. But the story has considerable potential. It is clear is some ways that I was in my infantile state of my writing when this story was born. (Poems scrawled on the pages after it are dated 2001.) There are aspects that bug my now more educated mind when I read it, but with polishing and development, it could go somewhere.
So, since I have been suffering from a block with Church Hill, I wanted to do some writing exercises, starting with this tidbit. Below, I will copy the story exactly as I found it, and in my next post I will show corrections and other edits. I think this will be good for me, good for Church Hill, and therefore good for you, my readers who long for the conclusion.
The foot was swollen, a purplish-red from the blood flooding the vessels. So swollen, in fact, that the toes were beginning to look like they were adhering to one another, becoming one giant toe, and eventually a long pointed foot with no toes at all. The laceration from the bite was clearly visible at the angle of joint connecting the foot to the poor creature's leg. It was a fairly deep slice--the result of a razor-edged jawbone. Above the site of the attack the lower leg was also beginning to swell and movement of the entire limb was quickly being restricted. Injectable antibiotics were necessary, and it was clearly evident that the foot would eventually fall off. The price would have to be marked down, naturally. After all, who wants to pay $175 for a dragon with a missing foot? It truely was a shame. It was such a beautiful dragon. Not that it isn't still, but then we come back to the asthetic value of the animal. Who wants a dragon with a missing foot? I guess there are those people in the world who have a soft spot for such unfortunate creatures. I myself am one of them. But they are so few and far between.