Good idea to resurrect this project. In my opinion this project is one of the top three ever launched here. Since the task is fairly limited (writing or rewiewing) I will definitely be able to do my part so count me in too 
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OK folks - I am back. It looks as though this thread has garnered some interest so let's see if we can't test the waters for a time and see if it will work for the group.
Here is the lowdown:
The Purpose: It's called "Guess-the-Author" but it is really more about the critique. Because so many of us like to try and work on the craft itself, this project allows us to submit without a "name" attached. That way, the critique is not burdoned by potential offense to a specific writer. Of course, one should keep their critique tasteful (NO NASTINESS WILL BE ACCEPTED!) but that does not mean you cannot be honest. The critique should serve to assist the writer in bettering his/her work here and elsewhere.
If you wish to try and guess the author as well, go for it. It does provide a certain fun on top of the primary goal. There has been some question about whether or not to announce who the specific writers were before hand, but I like to keep it completely anonymous. Let me know if you disagree. We can certainly alter the thing to make as many people happy as possible.
The Guidelines: My e-mail address is coz1 at bellsouth.net (of course, you substitute the "at" with an @ symbol.) My PM is above through the Paradox function. We will run the first set of this new revival next Sunday (the 4th of Sept.) Four entries will be accepted (submissions accepted beginning right now) - that is the first four to PM with interest. I will give a topic and once I have four, I will notify the group that we are ready. You will then have a week (or whatever time is left) to write and submit your piece to me via e-mail and I will post all four of them in succession.
I would suggest trying to keep your work to around three pages (in MS Word) for ease of reading. But like so many things in writing, the general rule should be as such - just like a woman's skirt - long enough to cover the subject but short enough to make it interesting (apologies to any woman who might take offense...letters of hate can be sent to...oh, you pick - I get enough mail already. )
And for critiques - once the four submissions are up, you will then post offering your critiques of the submitted pieces any way you wish - one post per critique, or placing them all in one. It matters not to me (unless the mods have any objectons.)
The Caveat: This project will only work if we continue to get a full slate of writers each week (and each week will work the same - topic given, submit work, and posted the following Sunday) and a full slate of people willing to offer critique. Once we slow down - i.e. only two people offering submissions or only one or two critiques, we will have to shut down again. It just is not worth it for people to work on something that will not get a critique, or for only one person to submit for critique. The nice thing is that since this project has been going on for so long, we can deal with a slowdown. But, let's try and make it work for a time. I promise you, it will be enjoyable.
Other Thoughts: Any time someone wishes to take the conversation on a more broad subject, please move up to the SolAARium, doing so in order to keep this thread specific to the thread topic. We love that type of conversation, but it belongs above.
And the first post of this thread details these rules as well as I have above, so feel free to head back that way for further clarification, or to contact me with any questions.
The First Topic: As we go forward, I shall try to make the topics to write upon as generic as I can so anyone might write about them in their own style and from any of the games (feel free to offer suggestions if you have them.)
For the first one, let us go with something ultimately generic: A declaration of war.
Let me know if you have any questions, either here or by way of PM. And once you have been cleared, write on and send it to the e-mail address listed above.
Let's make this work, gang. Looking forward to the results!
Here is the lowdown:
The Purpose: It's called "Guess-the-Author" but it is really more about the critique. Because so many of us like to try and work on the craft itself, this project allows us to submit without a "name" attached. That way, the critique is not burdoned by potential offense to a specific writer. Of course, one should keep their critique tasteful (NO NASTINESS WILL BE ACCEPTED!) but that does not mean you cannot be honest. The critique should serve to assist the writer in bettering his/her work here and elsewhere.
If you wish to try and guess the author as well, go for it. It does provide a certain fun on top of the primary goal. There has been some question about whether or not to announce who the specific writers were before hand, but I like to keep it completely anonymous. Let me know if you disagree. We can certainly alter the thing to make as many people happy as possible.
The Guidelines: My e-mail address is coz1 at bellsouth.net (of course, you substitute the "at" with an @ symbol.) My PM is above through the Paradox function. We will run the first set of this new revival next Sunday (the 4th of Sept.) Four entries will be accepted (submissions accepted beginning right now) - that is the first four to PM with interest. I will give a topic and once I have four, I will notify the group that we are ready. You will then have a week (or whatever time is left) to write and submit your piece to me via e-mail and I will post all four of them in succession.
I would suggest trying to keep your work to around three pages (in MS Word) for ease of reading. But like so many things in writing, the general rule should be as such - just like a woman's skirt - long enough to cover the subject but short enough to make it interesting (apologies to any woman who might take offense...letters of hate can be sent to...oh, you pick - I get enough mail already.
)And for critiques - once the four submissions are up, you will then post offering your critiques of the submitted pieces any way you wish - one post per critique, or placing them all in one. It matters not to me (unless the mods have any objectons.)
The Caveat: This project will only work if we continue to get a full slate of writers each week (and each week will work the same - topic given, submit work, and posted the following Sunday) and a full slate of people willing to offer critique. Once we slow down - i.e. only two people offering submissions or only one or two critiques, we will have to shut down again. It just is not worth it for people to work on something that will not get a critique, or for only one person to submit for critique. The nice thing is that since this project has been going on for so long, we can deal with a slowdown. But, let's try and make it work for a time. I promise you, it will be enjoyable.
Other Thoughts: Any time someone wishes to take the conversation on a more broad subject, please move up to the SolAARium, doing so in order to keep this thread specific to the thread topic. We love that type of conversation, but it belongs above.
And the first post of this thread details these rules as well as I have above, so feel free to head back that way for further clarification, or to contact me with any questions.
The First Topic: As we go forward, I shall try to make the topics to write upon as generic as I can so anyone might write about them in their own style and from any of the games (feel free to offer suggestions if you have them.)
For the first one, let us go with something ultimately generic: A declaration of war.
Let me know if you have any questions, either here or by way of PM. And once you have been cleared, write on and send it to the e-mail address listed above.
Let's make this work, gang. Looking forward to the results!
Well that was quick. The first four slots are now filled. Submissions will be accepted by those authors already contacted through next Friday (Sept. 2) and posted by me in this thread the following Sunday. At such time, you will be able to critique said submissions and I will offer another subject to write on for the next week.
If you wished to write for this project and did not make the cut this week, fear not. There will be many more chances, depending on how well this project works this go around. I look forward to both what is produced and what you good folks have to say about the submissions. And thanks so much for being so quick about replying!
If you wished to write for this project and did not make the cut this week, fear not. There will be many more chances, depending on how well this project works this go around. I look forward to both what is produced and what you good folks have to say about the submissions. And thanks so much for being so quick about replying!
Ah damn. I only just noticed your last post. Ah well, I look forward to the pieces.
It'll slow down a bit, Fiftypence. I assure you. You should be able to make it in the next round. But you had better make another post quick. You are sitting on #666.
Will writers be limited to a certain number of submissions? Or if you get picked one week, you can't go for a few weeks kinda thing?
This may sound silly, but is there a word limit or recommended length (say with a 10% either side)?
I don't know that we have ever run into a situation where someone wanted to submit every week, but if that happened (and they make the cut in time - that is get in as one of the first four to contact me), I see no reason why they should not be able to submit as many times as they like.
And SH - There is not really a word limit, but as suggested above, I'd keep the submissions to around 3 MS Word pages or less just for ease of reading. Again - long enough to cover the subject but short enough to make it interesting.
And SH - There is not really a word limit, but as suggested above, I'd keep the submissions to around 3 MS Word pages or less just for ease of reading. Again - long enough to cover the subject but short enough to make it interesting.
Nice to see this initiative get ressurrected. Nice subject selection, coz1. Good luck to the participants.
LD
LD
Thanks LD. Let's see if it'll work for a time. It has always been one of my favorites.
And JP - I was just thinking of that. I already have one submitted. If the rest of the participants can get them to me by tomorrow, I'd be perfectly fine posting them tomorrow rather than waiting a week. I wanted to make sure everyone had enough time to write their pieces without too much rush, but if the submissions are ready to go, there's no reason to wait, I say. It's up to you guys if you can get them to me.
And JP - I was just thinking of that. I already have one submitted. If the rest of the participants can get them to me by tomorrow, I'd be perfectly fine posting them tomorrow rather than waiting a week. I wanted to make sure everyone had enough time to write their pieces without too much rush, but if the submissions are ready to go, there's no reason to wait, I say. It's up to you guys if you can get them to me.
We've had one submission drop out so if there is another that wants to get in, let me know ASAP. I'd love to try and get these up tomorrow if possible so we can go ahead and get started, but I don't want to rush anyone. Plus, one of the original four still might not be ready by then. But if you think you can put something together on short notice, let me know.
EDIT - The fourth slot is now taken once again and we are working to try and get this strated tomorrow if possible. But once again - I don't want people's work to suffer due to quickness so if those that have yet to submit their work need more time, feel free to take it.
EDIT - The fourth slot is now taken once again and we are working to try and get this strated tomorrow if possible. But once again - I don't want people's work to suffer due to quickness so if those that have yet to submit their work need more time, feel free to take it.
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Yeah, the movie started while I was still getting drinks!Fiftypence said:Ah damn. I only just noticed your last post. Ah well, I look forward to the pieces.
I'll just sneak into another theatre.
I'm impressed and encouraged that we have four authors within three hours of the offer being open! Looking forward to the games beginning.
Renss
OK folks - we are off to the races! Before I post the selections, I just want to make sure to run through the idea once more.
I will post all four submissions back to back in anonymous fashion and then you, AARland, will give them your critique. As suggested, nastiness and hurtful comment will NOT be accepted (and will be deleted as soon as a mod gets a chance) but that does not mean honesty is not available to you. Please give each submission a full reading and honest critique. This project is based on the idea of helping writers perfect their craft, and perhaps even assist in framing one specific post (one of the reasons I like to do it.)
If you wish to try and guess the author in the process, please feel free. I can't imagine that such is easy to do with so many writers inhabiting the forum of late, but if a style hints at someone, you are more than welcome to offer your thoughts there as well. But please make that a secondary gesture, saving the critique for your first.
In the past, I have tried to critique every submission because I love this project so much, but as I am now running the endeavor (and thus know who is writing) I do not feel that it is fair for me to do so, so apologies already for not offering my two ducats towards the submissions. I just don't think it would be right.
But with that said, I do hope the rest of you will be generous with your ideas on what people have written and I hope we can make this a valuable tool for AARland. Once enough time has passed, I will let you know who has written what, giving some recommended reading along side that, as well as letting you know the new assignment and deadlines.
And thanks so much for the speedy submissions and excitement. It's good to know that there are folks interested in these types of endeavors in AARland. Let's make this work!
EDIT - Oh, and recall that the assignment was (for those who may not recall) A Declaration of War.
I will post all four submissions back to back in anonymous fashion and then you, AARland, will give them your critique. As suggested, nastiness and hurtful comment will NOT be accepted (and will be deleted as soon as a mod gets a chance) but that does not mean honesty is not available to you. Please give each submission a full reading and honest critique. This project is based on the idea of helping writers perfect their craft, and perhaps even assist in framing one specific post (one of the reasons I like to do it.)
If you wish to try and guess the author in the process, please feel free. I can't imagine that such is easy to do with so many writers inhabiting the forum of late, but if a style hints at someone, you are more than welcome to offer your thoughts there as well. But please make that a secondary gesture, saving the critique for your first.
In the past, I have tried to critique every submission because I love this project so much, but as I am now running the endeavor (and thus know who is writing) I do not feel that it is fair for me to do so, so apologies already for not offering my two ducats towards the submissions. I just don't think it would be right.
But with that said, I do hope the rest of you will be generous with your ideas on what people have written and I hope we can make this a valuable tool for AARland. Once enough time has passed, I will let you know who has written what, giving some recommended reading along side that, as well as letting you know the new assignment and deadlines.
And thanks so much for the speedy submissions and excitement. It's good to know that there are folks interested in these types of endeavors in AARland. Let's make this work!
EDIT - Oh, and recall that the assignment was (for those who may not recall) A Declaration of War.
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Author #1
Cale gracefully dismounted the weary grey palfrey by sliding one leg over the well-oiled saddle. He stroked the horse’s mane reassuringly and patted down its soft fur to in order to calm the beast. He took up the reins and led the horse along the rock-strewn path a ways before stopping and allowed it to graze as he knelt and peered out into the gathering dusk.
There was an ugly haze smeared across the southern horizon like wine-red stain. The ominous glow of thousands of cook fires reflected on the low hanging clouds that clung to the earth and cast a hellish aura over the night sky in that direction. It was the camp of the Duke of York, he knew. There was a pale mist rising across the moor, and there were those who said the spirits of the dead rose with it on nights such as this, only to melt away in the morning as the sun’s pink rays burned away their lingering presence.
Cale did not believe that. Of course, there was little he believed in anymore, in these dark times. It was a long way from his training as a youth in the cathedral at Edinburgh, where the priests had taught him his letters and medicines and prayers. Those days were long gone, indeed.
To the west, was a smaller red glow. He could not see the flames from here for they were concealed by the pine covered ridgeline that sheltered the small village beyond, the village he had grown up in whose name was as unimportant as the folk who lived there.
Home. He thought there would be something more, some sort of feeling once he had returened. He led the horse along the old cart-path the woodcutters used to haul in their timber to the little saw mill outside town. The hour was late, and the sun had set beyond the rugged hills in the west nearly an hour ago, but folk were about. He saw some wagons loaded up to the rim with furniture and supplies and children. Families were packing away their goods and leaving the village as quickly as they could. Men and their sons carried out what would fit, while the women rounded up children and animals. A small herd of goats was being rushed across the muddy street by a dirty-faced girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve.
Of course there were those who wanted to stay. They were in the streets as well, cursing their neighbors for their cowardice. Two men were arguing before a boarded up storefront, their voices echoing through the night. The small, cobble-stoned church with its thatch roof was the scene of a crowd of villagers, all seeking the priest’s guidance. For his part, the balding father was motioning for the people to be calm, but his efforts did little good. Dogs were barking on the other side of town, and children were crying in their mothers’ arms for it was all they could do.
A solemn faced sentry met Cale as he led his horse into the little village. The man was young but pudgy, his clothing dirty and ragged and the way he carried the short spear was more like a shepard’s staff than a weapon. He wore an old pot helm on his head and his crude badge on his jerkin clearly marked him as a sort of constable.
“What’s your business here, stranger?” He asked as the horseman approached. And a stranger he was. Cale did not blame the poor man for the suspicious look he gave, for he presented a very suspicious appearance to be certain.
He was tall and lean, but broad shouldered and well formed. His hair was sleek and black, his beard short and neatly trimmed. His features were Norman, but his accent, his manner, and his rugged look marked him clearly as a Scotsman. Wrapped up in skinned animal hides and dark leathers, he looked more a furrier or trapper than anything. A short, Roman sword hung at his side, its wide pommel studded with a gem of purest aquamarine. A long knife protruded from his studded belt, and from a curious leather thong over his arm hung a short, curved hatchet. Clearly he was a hunter of sorts, but the guard could tell his prey was more likely to be man than beast.
“My business is mine,” Cale replied, shooting the fat youth a baleful gaze that made him retreat a step. “What happened to the sawmill?” He asked.
“English raiders. Rode through town before sunset, and fired the mill they did. Strung up the miller and his wife, sayin they was spies. They said people as was wantin’ to leave had ‘til mornin’ to be making themselves gone.”
Cale walked past the man without another word, and made his direction toward the little stone church in the center of the village.
The priest was in the midst of an argument with a large man who carried a pitchfork in one hand and carried a large sack stuffed with household goods in the other. The man was shouting for people to leave with him, to go to the hills and hide away there until relief came from the local lord. Others, only a few really, wanted to stay and fight. These were the fools, Cale thought with a smirk. Let them die if they wanted.
He stopped just outside the circle of villagers that formed the crowd, and was slowly drawing attention as the common folk began to realize the dark stranger was among them. He looked up at the priest and shouted. “Father!”
Others turned to his commanding voice, and the priest looked around to see whom called for him.
“Father!” Cale shouted again, louder.
“Cale?” The priest squinted and looked into the crowd. He came down from the steps of the church and pushed through the crowd until he stood before him and placed his wrinkled hands on his broad shoulders.
“Cale, my son! You have returned to me. From where? Are you alright? Why have--”
“Father, I’m taking you away from here.” Cale said sternly, grabbing the older man’s hands and removing them from his shoulders. The crowd was murmuring and some began to shout.
“Away? I cannot leave Cale this is my flock”
“The English will be here in the morning, and this entire village will be burned to the ground. Don’t spit that prattle about your flock.”
This drew gasps from the crowd. The Men grumbled and the women wailed their grief. Amongst the chaotic discourse Cale sighted a young boy, perhaps six years of age, petting a dog with a smile, oblivious to the woes of the world and the suffering of the innocent.
“You should all leave!” Cale shouted to the general audience. “Unless you want to do the rope dance, like those two,” He continued, pointing at the old tree where the bodies of the miller and his wife hung limply and swung with the breeze.
“The English always raid, they won’t destroy the town. They only want cattle and gold.” The large man with the pitchfork shouted.
“This is different. King Henry’s agents have drafted a declaration of war. You understand that? War! King Malcom’s power here is meaningless. He cannot oppose the English when they march across the border until the nobles rally. Your village will die tomorrow, and any who remain here will as well.”
More mutterings from the crowd. The leader of the resistors, as the pitchfork wielding man clearly was, shook his head angrily. “Then we should fight them!” This drew some approval from a few of the younger men, who nodded their heads or shook their fists.
Cale shook his head and pointed to the south. “The glow you see there is the army of the Duke of York. It is some eight thousand strong. There are over eight thousand men there, hard men, who want to kill you. They will be clad in mail and helms, and wielding the finest castle steel in England. There are the archers. They will shower you with barbed points before you even see them. And God help you if you meet an English knight. No, any of you who stay here will be butchered. That’s what they call him, the Duke of York. The Butcher. Did you know that? I give a damn wether you live or die. But my father and I are leaving. Now.”
“Cale, no.” Said the priest. “I will not leave them without guidance. Sir Edmure’s castle is only a few miles away. You are right, they are as good as dead here. So you and I must guide them to the keep and warn Sir Edmure. Please, son.”
Cale looked over the crowd. He did not care about these people. But if leading them across the moor for a few miles was the price to save his father’s life, so be it. For war had been declared, the English were marching, and hell had been set loose.
Cale gracefully dismounted the weary grey palfrey by sliding one leg over the well-oiled saddle. He stroked the horse’s mane reassuringly and patted down its soft fur to in order to calm the beast. He took up the reins and led the horse along the rock-strewn path a ways before stopping and allowed it to graze as he knelt and peered out into the gathering dusk.
There was an ugly haze smeared across the southern horizon like wine-red stain. The ominous glow of thousands of cook fires reflected on the low hanging clouds that clung to the earth and cast a hellish aura over the night sky in that direction. It was the camp of the Duke of York, he knew. There was a pale mist rising across the moor, and there were those who said the spirits of the dead rose with it on nights such as this, only to melt away in the morning as the sun’s pink rays burned away their lingering presence.
Cale did not believe that. Of course, there was little he believed in anymore, in these dark times. It was a long way from his training as a youth in the cathedral at Edinburgh, where the priests had taught him his letters and medicines and prayers. Those days were long gone, indeed.
To the west, was a smaller red glow. He could not see the flames from here for they were concealed by the pine covered ridgeline that sheltered the small village beyond, the village he had grown up in whose name was as unimportant as the folk who lived there.
Home. He thought there would be something more, some sort of feeling once he had returened. He led the horse along the old cart-path the woodcutters used to haul in their timber to the little saw mill outside town. The hour was late, and the sun had set beyond the rugged hills in the west nearly an hour ago, but folk were about. He saw some wagons loaded up to the rim with furniture and supplies and children. Families were packing away their goods and leaving the village as quickly as they could. Men and their sons carried out what would fit, while the women rounded up children and animals. A small herd of goats was being rushed across the muddy street by a dirty-faced girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve.
Of course there were those who wanted to stay. They were in the streets as well, cursing their neighbors for their cowardice. Two men were arguing before a boarded up storefront, their voices echoing through the night. The small, cobble-stoned church with its thatch roof was the scene of a crowd of villagers, all seeking the priest’s guidance. For his part, the balding father was motioning for the people to be calm, but his efforts did little good. Dogs were barking on the other side of town, and children were crying in their mothers’ arms for it was all they could do.
A solemn faced sentry met Cale as he led his horse into the little village. The man was young but pudgy, his clothing dirty and ragged and the way he carried the short spear was more like a shepard’s staff than a weapon. He wore an old pot helm on his head and his crude badge on his jerkin clearly marked him as a sort of constable.
“What’s your business here, stranger?” He asked as the horseman approached. And a stranger he was. Cale did not blame the poor man for the suspicious look he gave, for he presented a very suspicious appearance to be certain.
He was tall and lean, but broad shouldered and well formed. His hair was sleek and black, his beard short and neatly trimmed. His features were Norman, but his accent, his manner, and his rugged look marked him clearly as a Scotsman. Wrapped up in skinned animal hides and dark leathers, he looked more a furrier or trapper than anything. A short, Roman sword hung at his side, its wide pommel studded with a gem of purest aquamarine. A long knife protruded from his studded belt, and from a curious leather thong over his arm hung a short, curved hatchet. Clearly he was a hunter of sorts, but the guard could tell his prey was more likely to be man than beast.
“My business is mine,” Cale replied, shooting the fat youth a baleful gaze that made him retreat a step. “What happened to the sawmill?” He asked.
“English raiders. Rode through town before sunset, and fired the mill they did. Strung up the miller and his wife, sayin they was spies. They said people as was wantin’ to leave had ‘til mornin’ to be making themselves gone.”
Cale walked past the man without another word, and made his direction toward the little stone church in the center of the village.
The priest was in the midst of an argument with a large man who carried a pitchfork in one hand and carried a large sack stuffed with household goods in the other. The man was shouting for people to leave with him, to go to the hills and hide away there until relief came from the local lord. Others, only a few really, wanted to stay and fight. These were the fools, Cale thought with a smirk. Let them die if they wanted.
He stopped just outside the circle of villagers that formed the crowd, and was slowly drawing attention as the common folk began to realize the dark stranger was among them. He looked up at the priest and shouted. “Father!”
Others turned to his commanding voice, and the priest looked around to see whom called for him.
“Father!” Cale shouted again, louder.
“Cale?” The priest squinted and looked into the crowd. He came down from the steps of the church and pushed through the crowd until he stood before him and placed his wrinkled hands on his broad shoulders.
“Cale, my son! You have returned to me. From where? Are you alright? Why have--”
“Father, I’m taking you away from here.” Cale said sternly, grabbing the older man’s hands and removing them from his shoulders. The crowd was murmuring and some began to shout.
“Away? I cannot leave Cale this is my flock”
“The English will be here in the morning, and this entire village will be burned to the ground. Don’t spit that prattle about your flock.”
This drew gasps from the crowd. The Men grumbled and the women wailed their grief. Amongst the chaotic discourse Cale sighted a young boy, perhaps six years of age, petting a dog with a smile, oblivious to the woes of the world and the suffering of the innocent.
“You should all leave!” Cale shouted to the general audience. “Unless you want to do the rope dance, like those two,” He continued, pointing at the old tree where the bodies of the miller and his wife hung limply and swung with the breeze.
“The English always raid, they won’t destroy the town. They only want cattle and gold.” The large man with the pitchfork shouted.
“This is different. King Henry’s agents have drafted a declaration of war. You understand that? War! King Malcom’s power here is meaningless. He cannot oppose the English when they march across the border until the nobles rally. Your village will die tomorrow, and any who remain here will as well.”
More mutterings from the crowd. The leader of the resistors, as the pitchfork wielding man clearly was, shook his head angrily. “Then we should fight them!” This drew some approval from a few of the younger men, who nodded their heads or shook their fists.
Cale shook his head and pointed to the south. “The glow you see there is the army of the Duke of York. It is some eight thousand strong. There are over eight thousand men there, hard men, who want to kill you. They will be clad in mail and helms, and wielding the finest castle steel in England. There are the archers. They will shower you with barbed points before you even see them. And God help you if you meet an English knight. No, any of you who stay here will be butchered. That’s what they call him, the Duke of York. The Butcher. Did you know that? I give a damn wether you live or die. But my father and I are leaving. Now.”
“Cale, no.” Said the priest. “I will not leave them without guidance. Sir Edmure’s castle is only a few miles away. You are right, they are as good as dead here. So you and I must guide them to the keep and warn Sir Edmure. Please, son.”
Cale looked over the crowd. He did not care about these people. But if leading them across the moor for a few miles was the price to save his father’s life, so be it. For war had been declared, the English were marching, and hell had been set loose.
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Author #2
It was a warm night, quite calm, quite starry. There was not a moon, but this was no matter. Jean had walked along this path many a time, and knew it too well to get lost. Besides, the stars did offer a small amount of light.
He had left for his destination some time ago, and was now approaching the palace. It was well lit, and not even a blind man could have gone astray now. He came to a door and banged. "For the love of God, open the door!" He suddenly realised that it had been arranged that the door would be left open, and after a moment's pause, let himself in. No one was inside the door, but that was to be expected. Jean strode down the hallway, looking for an indication as to where the Grand Duke was. The place seemed deserted, and Jean recalled that the lights had mainly been in the upper windows. The ground floor was usually deserted by nightfall, with people retiring to their bedrooms, to a private parlour, to one of the many places there were intended for the luxurious use of only a few friends at any time. But the Grand Duke always waited for Jean downstairs, in either one of some rooms that no one ever went in.
"Jean." He was startled, for the Grand Duke was standing several feet behind him, by a door to a room already passed. "I am here tonight." Jean followed him into a relatively bare room, only containing three chairs, a table, and an unlit fireplace. "I have arranged for some wine and cheese while we talk. Are you thirsty?"
"Very," said Jean, "And, if you don't mind, could I have a glass of water? I will have wine later, but these bottles are not entirely suitable for quenching thirst. Spicier than the average grape."
"You know your own wine well. There is some water in the barrel. Use a wine glass for it, I won't mind."
Jean looked around for the barrel, and realised he should look under the table. The Grand Duke spoke as Jean filled his glass. "So, I imagine the huns have had their final straw and it has started?"
"Yes. I got back to my home some time ago with the news, and I came straight here. The war has started. We have not been involved as yet, but after what the Huns did in the east, it was impossible that Paris and London wouldn't react. They declared war early this morning, and, naturally the 'Glorious Fatherland' and his Italian allies have responded in kind."
"What does this mean for us? Have we been named in any of these declarations?"
"We have not. Although I am sure both sides are going to begin paying attention to us sooner or later. Of course, you and I know we can't get into the war or we will be stomped to pieces. But it has been a mere fiction that we have no sympathy for the Huns. They are not likely to respect our neutrality if they can get anything out of it, and the other side will be pressuring us to help them. I really don't know how we can toe the line easily. All I can say is that if we can't toe it, that we come out of this all right."
Jean had finished his water, and turned to the wine. "You have excellent taste in wine, sir. I couldn't select better wines myself. Even if I didn't make wine."
"There's another thing, isn't there. Even if we don't get involved, people like you are going to have a bit of a cut in sales abroad. The only thing they want to buy in warzones is weaponry, and food and drink, especially the fine kind, comes second. You are dependant on the local market now, Jean."
"Indeed. But I don't care. There are bigger things to worry about, and I can survive on the local market. I am more concerned with something else."
"And that is?"
"People have been ignoring something major about the German government. I don't know if you recall, but many years ago, a book was published. By a very prominent German. It laid out very clearly his opinion on non-German races. He categorically declared it his intention to do some very nasty things to the non-German races should he ever attain a position of power. He has gained power, and we have been discussing his war. I have reason to believe that the Jews in Germany are currently in the most dire situation they have been in, and it has been getting worse since '33. I want permission to allow refugees into Luxembourg. I know you want to be firmly neutral, but I am wealthy enough to afford what I am planning, and I can do to without getting your government officially involved."
The Grand Duke thought for a few moments. "I... shall not involve myself in your business. Do as you please."
Jean looked at the clock. "My wife thinks I am at the offices. I probably ought to get back now."
"Good bye."
Jean bowed and left. He strolled down the same path he had come on. It was midnight. Little did he or his liege know that a certain servant of the Grand Duke was a German spy or that this spy was now sending certain pieces of information to Adolf Hitler. When Jean and his wife arose for breakfast that morning, a German army had entered Luxembourg.
It was a warm night, quite calm, quite starry. There was not a moon, but this was no matter. Jean had walked along this path many a time, and knew it too well to get lost. Besides, the stars did offer a small amount of light.
He had left for his destination some time ago, and was now approaching the palace. It was well lit, and not even a blind man could have gone astray now. He came to a door and banged. "For the love of God, open the door!" He suddenly realised that it had been arranged that the door would be left open, and after a moment's pause, let himself in. No one was inside the door, but that was to be expected. Jean strode down the hallway, looking for an indication as to where the Grand Duke was. The place seemed deserted, and Jean recalled that the lights had mainly been in the upper windows. The ground floor was usually deserted by nightfall, with people retiring to their bedrooms, to a private parlour, to one of the many places there were intended for the luxurious use of only a few friends at any time. But the Grand Duke always waited for Jean downstairs, in either one of some rooms that no one ever went in.
"Jean." He was startled, for the Grand Duke was standing several feet behind him, by a door to a room already passed. "I am here tonight." Jean followed him into a relatively bare room, only containing three chairs, a table, and an unlit fireplace. "I have arranged for some wine and cheese while we talk. Are you thirsty?"
"Very," said Jean, "And, if you don't mind, could I have a glass of water? I will have wine later, but these bottles are not entirely suitable for quenching thirst. Spicier than the average grape."
"You know your own wine well. There is some water in the barrel. Use a wine glass for it, I won't mind."
Jean looked around for the barrel, and realised he should look under the table. The Grand Duke spoke as Jean filled his glass. "So, I imagine the huns have had their final straw and it has started?"
"Yes. I got back to my home some time ago with the news, and I came straight here. The war has started. We have not been involved as yet, but after what the Huns did in the east, it was impossible that Paris and London wouldn't react. They declared war early this morning, and, naturally the 'Glorious Fatherland' and his Italian allies have responded in kind."
"What does this mean for us? Have we been named in any of these declarations?"
"We have not. Although I am sure both sides are going to begin paying attention to us sooner or later. Of course, you and I know we can't get into the war or we will be stomped to pieces. But it has been a mere fiction that we have no sympathy for the Huns. They are not likely to respect our neutrality if they can get anything out of it, and the other side will be pressuring us to help them. I really don't know how we can toe the line easily. All I can say is that if we can't toe it, that we come out of this all right."
Jean had finished his water, and turned to the wine. "You have excellent taste in wine, sir. I couldn't select better wines myself. Even if I didn't make wine."
"There's another thing, isn't there. Even if we don't get involved, people like you are going to have a bit of a cut in sales abroad. The only thing they want to buy in warzones is weaponry, and food and drink, especially the fine kind, comes second. You are dependant on the local market now, Jean."
"Indeed. But I don't care. There are bigger things to worry about, and I can survive on the local market. I am more concerned with something else."
"And that is?"
"People have been ignoring something major about the German government. I don't know if you recall, but many years ago, a book was published. By a very prominent German. It laid out very clearly his opinion on non-German races. He categorically declared it his intention to do some very nasty things to the non-German races should he ever attain a position of power. He has gained power, and we have been discussing his war. I have reason to believe that the Jews in Germany are currently in the most dire situation they have been in, and it has been getting worse since '33. I want permission to allow refugees into Luxembourg. I know you want to be firmly neutral, but I am wealthy enough to afford what I am planning, and I can do to without getting your government officially involved."
The Grand Duke thought for a few moments. "I... shall not involve myself in your business. Do as you please."
Jean looked at the clock. "My wife thinks I am at the offices. I probably ought to get back now."
"Good bye."
Jean bowed and left. He strolled down the same path he had come on. It was midnight. Little did he or his liege know that a certain servant of the Grand Duke was a German spy or that this spy was now sending certain pieces of information to Adolf Hitler. When Jean and his wife arose for breakfast that morning, a German army had entered Luxembourg.
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Author #3
Bjorn had been told to look for a bottle. He did not know why, nor did he know if a beach was a particularly good place to find one, but those had been the orders, and as a servant of His Majesty the King, he had learned that whenever he asked questions he always seemed to end up with one fewer finger.
Bjorn combed the beach for hours. He saw no bottles. Only shells and sand and seawead as far as his old eyes could see. Could I, Bjorn thought, possibly trick the king into thinking this pile of seaweed is a bottle? No, this would not work, surely the king had some logical reason for seeking the glass bottle he had so vividly described that morning, and Bjorn quivered at the thought of what the king might do in the event that he was not satisfied with a false bottle. But by this time, Bjorn's legs were weary and he realised at last his true sentiments... he could not hope to find any bottle. Bjorn sat down in despair.
To add to Bjorn's annoyance, some glittering object at sea was shining right in the poor man's eyes. He squinted.
"A bottle!" Bjorn exclaimed, "There's a bottle out there!" Bjorn rushed down the beach straight into the cold salty waves. It was coming straight toward him. He could see it clearly now, a corked glass bottle with a scroll of parchment safe stuffed inside it. Only a few seconds later it was within Bjorn's reach. Bjorn grabbed it with his left hand, the only one with any fingers left, leapt for joy, turned around, shook the water from his rags, and made haste towards his liege's palace.
The Chief Minister rushed into the throne room. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty," he yelled, "We have found the bottle."
The king looked up. And beside the king's throne his little terrier also perked up from his dormancy with interest. The king looked at the dog. "Bring it here, General." Immediately, the dog leapt up from his bedding and dashed out of the room. There was a bit of barking, and, Bjorn would testify, biting, and a moment later the dog reëntered the room with a bottle clutched between his jaws.
"Good boy," said the king, and he took the bottle in his hands and uncorked it. He drew out the scroll of parchment, unrolled it to its full length, and read.
There was a pause.
"General," the king said slowly, as the dog once again perked its ears, "Fetch me my spectacles."
When the king had on his spectacles, he reëxamined the parchment. His eyes passed back and forth repeatedly. When it was clear he was done reading, he continued only to stare blankly at the paper. Moments passed. The dog looked at his master and thumped his tail cautiously against the stone floor. At last, the king turned his eyes away from the parchment and closed them. He began to laugh. And laugh harder. And laugh until the throne shook violently beneath him. The dog thumped his tail with greater frequency.
"ATJEH HAS DECLARED WAR!" the king roared. "ATJEH!"
At last, the other occupants of the room knew it was safe to laugh as well. And they did. They laughed for minutes and minutes. The king was so amused that he stood up from his throne, a rare occurence considering his age. Suddenly, there was a shatter of glass. The laughter stopped.
"BJORN! SWEEP UP THIS BOTTLE!"
Bjorn had been told to look for a bottle. He did not know why, nor did he know if a beach was a particularly good place to find one, but those had been the orders, and as a servant of His Majesty the King, he had learned that whenever he asked questions he always seemed to end up with one fewer finger.
Bjorn combed the beach for hours. He saw no bottles. Only shells and sand and seawead as far as his old eyes could see. Could I, Bjorn thought, possibly trick the king into thinking this pile of seaweed is a bottle? No, this would not work, surely the king had some logical reason for seeking the glass bottle he had so vividly described that morning, and Bjorn quivered at the thought of what the king might do in the event that he was not satisfied with a false bottle. But by this time, Bjorn's legs were weary and he realised at last his true sentiments... he could not hope to find any bottle. Bjorn sat down in despair.
To add to Bjorn's annoyance, some glittering object at sea was shining right in the poor man's eyes. He squinted.
"A bottle!" Bjorn exclaimed, "There's a bottle out there!" Bjorn rushed down the beach straight into the cold salty waves. It was coming straight toward him. He could see it clearly now, a corked glass bottle with a scroll of parchment safe stuffed inside it. Only a few seconds later it was within Bjorn's reach. Bjorn grabbed it with his left hand, the only one with any fingers left, leapt for joy, turned around, shook the water from his rags, and made haste towards his liege's palace.
--- --- ---
The Chief Minister rushed into the throne room. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty," he yelled, "We have found the bottle."
The king looked up. And beside the king's throne his little terrier also perked up from his dormancy with interest. The king looked at the dog. "Bring it here, General." Immediately, the dog leapt up from his bedding and dashed out of the room. There was a bit of barking, and, Bjorn would testify, biting, and a moment later the dog reëntered the room with a bottle clutched between his jaws.
"Good boy," said the king, and he took the bottle in his hands and uncorked it. He drew out the scroll of parchment, unrolled it to its full length, and read.
There was a pause.
"General," the king said slowly, as the dog once again perked its ears, "Fetch me my spectacles."
When the king had on his spectacles, he reëxamined the parchment. His eyes passed back and forth repeatedly. When it was clear he was done reading, he continued only to stare blankly at the paper. Moments passed. The dog looked at his master and thumped his tail cautiously against the stone floor. At last, the king turned his eyes away from the parchment and closed them. He began to laugh. And laugh harder. And laugh until the throne shook violently beneath him. The dog thumped his tail with greater frequency.
"ATJEH HAS DECLARED WAR!" the king roared. "ATJEH!"
At last, the other occupants of the room knew it was safe to laugh as well. And they did. They laughed for minutes and minutes. The king was so amused that he stood up from his throne, a rare occurence considering his age. Suddenly, there was a shatter of glass. The laughter stopped.
"BJORN! SWEEP UP THIS BOTTLE!"
Author #4
I wonder if this is what a condemned man feels as he is being led to his place of execution. I think I know, in general, what will happen when those beautiful white doors open. There is only room for a certain amount of variation.
The waiting is the worst of it. I have been waiting for this moment for nearly three months now, ever since the news arrived in Madrid of the fiasco that has taken place half a world away. Even then, when I hoped I could salvage something that might save the land I love, I knew deep within my heart my cause was hopeless. You would think that having waited for the moment for so long I could stand a few more minutes, but I find myself impatient. I think of the colossal prick himself back in Paris. On my desk his latest letter. The Spanish are weak and womanly he wrote. They do not have the stomach for you. You shall not agree to a single concession. They will bluster and blow like a north wind, soon gone and even more quickly forgotten. To be fair it is a fantasy Louis shares with all too many of my countrymen, but a King should know better.
Here comes the equerry. He sketches a quick bow, though there is no discourtesy. He says, “You are asked to forgive the delay. You presence is requested.” I nod back. In truth one could hardly call these few moments a delay, just the merest interval to establish that I am the one being summoned. A motion that has to be followed through. A foretaste.
The equerry moves to the doors, and they open outward to greet him. It is a smooth trick, even when one knows there is a pageboy inside squinting through a peephole in the wall. The Audience Hall is a small chamber, much smaller than those used in other countries. It has a disarming, comfortable feeling to it. Even the banners strewn all about the ceiling and the tapestries hanging idly on the walls seem to be worn and gentle. These sights are familiar to me, as is the raised throne at the back, decorated with the wealth of an Empire than spans this Earth. It is empty.
Clearly my thoughts were awry. I had never expected this. I had expected to meet at least two people this night, but there is only one in the Hall, and he is standing a little way away from the throne, not sitting in it. In spite of myself I remain still for a moment as I try to encompass that absence. There is a rush of anger, gone faster than it came, as I force myself to move. I walk to the appointed place and make the traditional obeisance to the symbols of Imperial Authority. As I kneel I hear the doors behind me close, and become aware that we are alone in this room, just this man and I.
“Jean,” he says, and there is a note of compassion in his voice, “I am truly sorry.”
I get up, my obedience done, and turn to him. “Have I fallen so far, so fast?” My voice sounds as though it comes from very far away, and only then do I realise that I spoke in French, as did he.
“What insult is offered here is directed at those whom you serve.” He takes a step towards me, to face me more properly. “It was done against my advice.”
Were the matter not so grave I would have smiled at that. “In my experience Kings have a tendency to ignore advice.”
However he did smile, just a little. It is, of course, the theme of many of our private jokes. It is the bond between us, the common element that bridged the chasm of our heritage. “They also can ruin dreams.”
To that I nodded. That was no joke, just an accurate summation of the current situation, from my point of view. “Or turn that dream into a reality.”
We have hid little between us in the years I have served here. I am one of the few French nobles who knows Spanish well, since most refuse to learn it – a ridiculous conceit in the world today. At times it seems like I have spent most of my life in Madrid, which in fact is simple truth, as I have striven to keep my country free. Strangely, the man before me was the first Spaniard I met when I arrived here for the first time, all those years ago.
“Jean, I cannot deny it. I am sorry for you – I think you know that. It would have been better if you had died back when you had that fall, so that you would not have had to live to see such times as these.”
“Was this disaster one of your creations?” A dangerous question perhaps, but I have been asking myself that for three months now, and I no longer have cause to be cautious.
He does not answer for a time. If my question was dangerous his reply would be perilous. Safer to stay silent, but he is no coward. He is many things, but never that. Old Louis has never really understood how he was thwarted all those years ago, and why a Hapsburg, not a Bourbon, now rules half the world.
“In the main part, no, though I will confess I helped to keep the thing afloat when it looked like it might sink. Jean, the chance was offered and I took it. Do you blame me for that?”
I shake my head. “No Carlos. Would that I could hate you.” An unexpectedly large sigh escapes me. “Do we have to draw this out any longer?” My voice is raw now, as a bitterness wells up within me.
There is another pause. Carlos looks at me with that enigmatic gaze. He has bewitched so many. They say the floors of this palace are kept washed by the tears of those who have been reduced by those baleful eyes. To me though they are orbs of pity, for had a certain guard failed to be bribed …
I dash the thought away, determined not to chase such indulgent fancies. I raise my head, and stare straight back. I have waited three months. I can wait a little longer.
“Of course,” he says, and from somewhere within those robes takes out two scrolls. He draws himself up, and in Latin that would have done Virgil proud he intones, “It is my solemn duty to inform you that His Majesty, with the agreement of the Cortes, has decided that our grievances are sufficiently serious to demand satisfaction. We have determined this will not be forthcoming in negotiation. We consider that our cause is sufficiently just, and that our injury is suitably grave, for us to enter into hostilities with the Kingdom of France. However, in a final effort for peace we have prepared an ultimatum, the particulars of which are within this scroll. Should the government of France acquiesce within one month there shall be peace. If not, then we are at war.”
His carefully contrived speech over Carlos seems to deflate. He takes a further step towards me, and then in French explains, “The second scroll is a safe-passage for you, or whomever you send.” He proffers me the two deadly documents.
This then, is the moment. My right arm seems curiously reluctant to rise, as if all on its own it might prevent this terrible thing from happening. Frustrated, I give orders to my left, and with a sharp movement I take the scrolls from Carlos.
For a moment we are frozen, my left hand grasping those miserable missives, his right arm still held out. It lasts an age, but the wheel of time turns, and he lets his arm fall. Carefully I ask, “I do not at all suppose those particulars you mentioned have a chance of being met?”
He shakes his head slowly. “No.”
An incredible anger starts to consume me. I feel myself begin to shake. My voice cracks, and is made harsh. “Congratulations. You have won.” I spin on my heel; turning so rapidly my cloak whirls out from behind me and buffets his knees. I make three swift steps.
“Jean.”
I stop.
“Jean.” There is a soft insistence, a pleading I have never heard before.
I turn again. Carlos has not moved.
“Jean. Do not die in this war. When the dust is settled, your countrymen will need you even more than they have done so in the past.” He surprises me again – he is good at surprising me – and goes down on one knee. “I beg of you.”
The dams on my anger finally burst. “Do not presume that I will fight in this war of yours!” I am shouting now. I am sure they can here us in the corridor. I no longer care. “I have served the King of France my whole life, and at every turn he has dishonoured me!” Now I am panting, so more quietly, though no less fiercely I continue. “There is one final duty I must do, which will be discharged when I have dispatch these two scrolls to Paris.” Carlos looks genuinely shocked. I turn a final time, and draw another breath. I look over my shoulder. “Thereafter, if you still wish to speak to me, seek me out. I will not be difficult to find.”
I storm out of that hall, violently ramming the doors open in an empty gesture. As I march I realise that at last, after thirty years, I have finally managed to surprise that bastard.
I wonder if this is what a condemned man feels as he is being led to his place of execution. I think I know, in general, what will happen when those beautiful white doors open. There is only room for a certain amount of variation.
The waiting is the worst of it. I have been waiting for this moment for nearly three months now, ever since the news arrived in Madrid of the fiasco that has taken place half a world away. Even then, when I hoped I could salvage something that might save the land I love, I knew deep within my heart my cause was hopeless. You would think that having waited for the moment for so long I could stand a few more minutes, but I find myself impatient. I think of the colossal prick himself back in Paris. On my desk his latest letter. The Spanish are weak and womanly he wrote. They do not have the stomach for you. You shall not agree to a single concession. They will bluster and blow like a north wind, soon gone and even more quickly forgotten. To be fair it is a fantasy Louis shares with all too many of my countrymen, but a King should know better.
Here comes the equerry. He sketches a quick bow, though there is no discourtesy. He says, “You are asked to forgive the delay. You presence is requested.” I nod back. In truth one could hardly call these few moments a delay, just the merest interval to establish that I am the one being summoned. A motion that has to be followed through. A foretaste.
The equerry moves to the doors, and they open outward to greet him. It is a smooth trick, even when one knows there is a pageboy inside squinting through a peephole in the wall. The Audience Hall is a small chamber, much smaller than those used in other countries. It has a disarming, comfortable feeling to it. Even the banners strewn all about the ceiling and the tapestries hanging idly on the walls seem to be worn and gentle. These sights are familiar to me, as is the raised throne at the back, decorated with the wealth of an Empire than spans this Earth. It is empty.
Clearly my thoughts were awry. I had never expected this. I had expected to meet at least two people this night, but there is only one in the Hall, and he is standing a little way away from the throne, not sitting in it. In spite of myself I remain still for a moment as I try to encompass that absence. There is a rush of anger, gone faster than it came, as I force myself to move. I walk to the appointed place and make the traditional obeisance to the symbols of Imperial Authority. As I kneel I hear the doors behind me close, and become aware that we are alone in this room, just this man and I.
“Jean,” he says, and there is a note of compassion in his voice, “I am truly sorry.”
I get up, my obedience done, and turn to him. “Have I fallen so far, so fast?” My voice sounds as though it comes from very far away, and only then do I realise that I spoke in French, as did he.
“What insult is offered here is directed at those whom you serve.” He takes a step towards me, to face me more properly. “It was done against my advice.”
Were the matter not so grave I would have smiled at that. “In my experience Kings have a tendency to ignore advice.”
However he did smile, just a little. It is, of course, the theme of many of our private jokes. It is the bond between us, the common element that bridged the chasm of our heritage. “They also can ruin dreams.”
To that I nodded. That was no joke, just an accurate summation of the current situation, from my point of view. “Or turn that dream into a reality.”
We have hid little between us in the years I have served here. I am one of the few French nobles who knows Spanish well, since most refuse to learn it – a ridiculous conceit in the world today. At times it seems like I have spent most of my life in Madrid, which in fact is simple truth, as I have striven to keep my country free. Strangely, the man before me was the first Spaniard I met when I arrived here for the first time, all those years ago.
“Jean, I cannot deny it. I am sorry for you – I think you know that. It would have been better if you had died back when you had that fall, so that you would not have had to live to see such times as these.”
“Was this disaster one of your creations?” A dangerous question perhaps, but I have been asking myself that for three months now, and I no longer have cause to be cautious.
He does not answer for a time. If my question was dangerous his reply would be perilous. Safer to stay silent, but he is no coward. He is many things, but never that. Old Louis has never really understood how he was thwarted all those years ago, and why a Hapsburg, not a Bourbon, now rules half the world.
“In the main part, no, though I will confess I helped to keep the thing afloat when it looked like it might sink. Jean, the chance was offered and I took it. Do you blame me for that?”
I shake my head. “No Carlos. Would that I could hate you.” An unexpectedly large sigh escapes me. “Do we have to draw this out any longer?” My voice is raw now, as a bitterness wells up within me.
There is another pause. Carlos looks at me with that enigmatic gaze. He has bewitched so many. They say the floors of this palace are kept washed by the tears of those who have been reduced by those baleful eyes. To me though they are orbs of pity, for had a certain guard failed to be bribed …
I dash the thought away, determined not to chase such indulgent fancies. I raise my head, and stare straight back. I have waited three months. I can wait a little longer.
“Of course,” he says, and from somewhere within those robes takes out two scrolls. He draws himself up, and in Latin that would have done Virgil proud he intones, “It is my solemn duty to inform you that His Majesty, with the agreement of the Cortes, has decided that our grievances are sufficiently serious to demand satisfaction. We have determined this will not be forthcoming in negotiation. We consider that our cause is sufficiently just, and that our injury is suitably grave, for us to enter into hostilities with the Kingdom of France. However, in a final effort for peace we have prepared an ultimatum, the particulars of which are within this scroll. Should the government of France acquiesce within one month there shall be peace. If not, then we are at war.”
His carefully contrived speech over Carlos seems to deflate. He takes a further step towards me, and then in French explains, “The second scroll is a safe-passage for you, or whomever you send.” He proffers me the two deadly documents.
This then, is the moment. My right arm seems curiously reluctant to rise, as if all on its own it might prevent this terrible thing from happening. Frustrated, I give orders to my left, and with a sharp movement I take the scrolls from Carlos.
For a moment we are frozen, my left hand grasping those miserable missives, his right arm still held out. It lasts an age, but the wheel of time turns, and he lets his arm fall. Carefully I ask, “I do not at all suppose those particulars you mentioned have a chance of being met?”
He shakes his head slowly. “No.”
An incredible anger starts to consume me. I feel myself begin to shake. My voice cracks, and is made harsh. “Congratulations. You have won.” I spin on my heel; turning so rapidly my cloak whirls out from behind me and buffets his knees. I make three swift steps.
“Jean.”
I stop.
“Jean.” There is a soft insistence, a pleading I have never heard before.
I turn again. Carlos has not moved.
“Jean. Do not die in this war. When the dust is settled, your countrymen will need you even more than they have done so in the past.” He surprises me again – he is good at surprising me – and goes down on one knee. “I beg of you.”
The dams on my anger finally burst. “Do not presume that I will fight in this war of yours!” I am shouting now. I am sure they can here us in the corridor. I no longer care. “I have served the King of France my whole life, and at every turn he has dishonoured me!” Now I am panting, so more quietly, though no less fiercely I continue. “There is one final duty I must do, which will be discharged when I have dispatch these two scrolls to Paris.” Carlos looks genuinely shocked. I turn a final time, and draw another breath. I look over my shoulder. “Thereafter, if you still wish to speak to me, seek me out. I will not be difficult to find.”
I storm out of that hall, violently ramming the doors open in an empty gesture. As I march I realise that at last, after thirty years, I have finally managed to surprise that bastard.
First of all, may I offer my congratulations to all the writers for having the courage to subject their work for scrutiny. I hope my vague attempts at critique are useful in some way at least.
Author #1
I was particularly impressed with this piece. The descriptive elements are espcially strong, and the use of elegant and vivid imagery does it no harm at all. As a whole the piece does what it sets out to do; it draws the reader in. It creates an atmosphere of doom and coming pandemonium, and really makes you care what happens to the villagers, to Cale and to his father. The characters are well drawn, although one criticism concerns the description of Cale himself. The author devotes a single paragraph to describing Cale, and in this respect breaks the rule of "show, don't tell." It would work better if the description of Cale is worked into the text, rather than a stand alone paragraph. Other than this it, for me at least, works well. As for the author, I will guess at Alhazen.
Author #2
I found this interesting. I liked how Jean seemed to get distracted by the wine, and the twist at the end was a nice touch. The dialogue flowed well, although the piece could possibly have used a little extra description of the two characters involved. For the author, I really don't know. I will take a stab in the dark and say Sir Humphrey.
Author #3
This made me laugh, especially the idea of Bjorn trying to pass off some seaweed as a bottle. It was short and sweet, maybe a bit too short in fact. There seemed to be an excessive use of umlauts over certain words (such as reëntered and reëxamined), which for some reason made me think that the author was Judas Maccabeus. The end was amusing, as was the idea behind the piece, so I think from that angle it worked.
Author #4
This piece uses the first person in the present tense, which I found to be a refreshingly different style to use. It was well written and the beginning was intriguing and made the reader wish to read on so as to understand what was happening and who the people involved in the scene were. I thought that the characters and how they interacted was the strength of this piece. There was clearly a history between them, and this made their current situation all the more interesting. The ending, like the beginning, was superb, and I particularly liked the last line. I will guess that the author here is Rensslaer, but I'm really not sure.
Author #1
I was particularly impressed with this piece. The descriptive elements are espcially strong, and the use of elegant and vivid imagery does it no harm at all. As a whole the piece does what it sets out to do; it draws the reader in. It creates an atmosphere of doom and coming pandemonium, and really makes you care what happens to the villagers, to Cale and to his father. The characters are well drawn, although one criticism concerns the description of Cale himself. The author devotes a single paragraph to describing Cale, and in this respect breaks the rule of "show, don't tell." It would work better if the description of Cale is worked into the text, rather than a stand alone paragraph. Other than this it, for me at least, works well. As for the author, I will guess at Alhazen.
Author #2
I found this interesting. I liked how Jean seemed to get distracted by the wine, and the twist at the end was a nice touch. The dialogue flowed well, although the piece could possibly have used a little extra description of the two characters involved. For the author, I really don't know. I will take a stab in the dark and say Sir Humphrey.
Author #3
This made me laugh, especially the idea of Bjorn trying to pass off some seaweed as a bottle. It was short and sweet, maybe a bit too short in fact. There seemed to be an excessive use of umlauts over certain words (such as reëntered and reëxamined), which for some reason made me think that the author was Judas Maccabeus. The end was amusing, as was the idea behind the piece, so I think from that angle it worked.
Author #4
This piece uses the first person in the present tense, which I found to be a refreshingly different style to use. It was well written and the beginning was intriguing and made the reader wish to read on so as to understand what was happening and who the people involved in the scene were. I thought that the characters and how they interacted was the strength of this piece. There was clearly a history between them, and this made their current situation all the more interesting. The ending, like the beginning, was superb, and I particularly liked the last line. I will guess that the author here is Rensslaer, but I'm really not sure.