Something to Nibble On

{v.i.a.}

Hello, blog-world friends! Exciting news!
 I finally have something for you guys to read which, for once, is the product of my very own sweat, tears, blood and insanity. SUCCESS! 'Tis very sweet.

This is chapter one of a book I've been plotting all year for my graphic novel class. I'm really pleased with where it's at right now, even though I have just over three chapters done and we're going to bind our books in two weeks. Noooo stress.
But anyway, this is chapter one of The Thirteen Tales of Solomon Wise (yes, that random book with a title totally unrelated to the subject matter). Hope you enjoy!

Chapter One: Solomon



I am cold and shivering, lying in a puddle of light with my face upturned to the sky and my hands clenched to my chest. I feel perplexed and exposed, as if I am a newborn child just meeting the world for the first time. There is blood; I can taste it on my tongue and smell it on my skin. Is it mine? Slowly, very slowly, I raise a trembling finger and dip it into the fresh blood trickling down my forehead.

            I sit up. I can see the blood on my hand, on my legs, on my chest. My heartbeat—a painful pounding in my ears—begins to quicken. The blood continues flowing; it drips down my forehead and splashes on my motionless hand.

            Funny, I think. I don’t know if I’m dying or coming to life.

            I blink through the blood, tearing my eyes away from my hand and trying to peer into the darkness around me. There is nothing but black shapes, silent and untouched by the light which engulfs me. Is the light my protection or my prison? I reach out my hand and watch it as it slowly fades into the dark beyond me. When I pull it back, it is unharmed, save for the numerous cuts and scrapes I notice running up its length. The blood from these wounds has dried, leaving my arm stiff and tender. I look at my other arm; my legs; my chest and torso. My clothes are shredded and my entire body is bruised and aching.

            What could have happened? I wonder.

            And then I realize it.

            I can’t remember.

            The terror which takes me is sudden. At first I try to remember my name. That is easy; I am Solomon; Solomon Wise. My age is harder to find—I am either twenty-three or twenty-four. After that, there is nothing; no snatches of memory, no remnants of my life save for an overwhelming sensation of light, heat, and a feeling of empty sorrow. I am a hollow being, devoid of any memories, robbed of any remembrance of the world I seem to know so well. I reach up to my forehead and touch the wound again; the blood slowly stopped, and I can now feel that the cut is both wide and deep. Have my memories somehow escaped through this crack in my consciousness? Did they flee while I was asleep, leaving me to wake up empty?

            Calm down, I tell myself—whoever I may be. You have to be someone. It wouldn’t make any sense if you were nobody.

            I begin to search; I search my clothes, the boundaries of the light still shining down on me and, finally, I begin to search the darkness. I find leaves and thorns and thistles; I feel trees and smell whiffs of smoke when the wind shifts in through the branches. It has grown warmer, and the pale light which is my first and only memory begins to spread through the trees, becoming rosy as it goes. Birds begin to sing; I can see their tiny bodies flitting over me as they observe me from their perches. I keep looking, though. What for I don’t know. But somehow I know that I will find it, and eventually I do.

            It’s a piece of paper—no more than a scrap, really. It is singed and blackened and badly creased, but I can read a section of it. Frantically I lift it up to the light and drink in the words:

Indiana 1910-1930

1910 Francis Miller Warlock

1912 John Evans Jamestown

1913 Helena Weiss Kingsbury

1914 Frederick Maple Thatcher Bend

1915 Gregory Mills Hopetown

1916 Eugenia Dill Quincy

1917 Elizabeth Jones Fairfield

1918 Theodore Schwarz Blackwood

1919 Elmer Dae Gilmore

1920 Josephine Grey Mercer

Names and numbers. There is nothing else. I read the list over and over again; I say the names out loud until my voice is hoarse. None of the numbers make any sense; none of the names sound familiar. This is no code or clue. I don’t even know if it belongs to me. Dejected, I fold it and slip it into what is left of my shirt pocket. It may be nothing, but it is still my only possession; my only means of identification. I will keep it.

The light has become warm. The black shapes around me have become trees, tall and grand and ancient. It is morning.

I begin to find my way back to the place where I first awoke. Perhaps I missed something in the weak light of last night or in my haste to find an object of mine to anchor me to reality. It isn’t much, but right now, it’s the only thing I can do. As I walk I notice that I am limping, and my first sensation of pain stuns me as my right leg begins to buckle.

Funny, I think again, this time with gritted teeth. I didn’t notice this before.

I struggle on until I recognize the spot where I lay; the leaves are compressed and there is a slick coating of blood on the ground. I feel the warmth of the sun on my back, and I look up.

And I stop, astonished.

The trees above me have been demolished, their branches broken and hanging loosely or lying on the ground. And the ground… The leaves around the spot where I first awoke have been blown away, and the ground is scorched and crisscrossed by ruts.

I stare, unbelieving. This is what I failed to see last night.  This is how the other half of my paper was almost burned out of existence. I look down at my arms; at the scratches and bruises which bear an uncanny resemblance to the furrowed earth. Could it be that this is how I came to be here?

I look around, peering through the dense forest.

And where exactly am I?

Eventually the forest has to end and something else has to begin.

Slowly, I begin to walk.