So I'm working on a story in the little free time I find myself with. I'm really excited to get it going because I already have a strong plot line and so many sub plots that I'd love to bring to life. I kind of struggled to come up with unique character names but overall I don't have any problems with them so far.
This is an adventure at heart, with a dash of fantasy.
Without further ado, here's chapter one. Critique is very welcome, I'm no novelist by any means but that doesn't mean I don't want to be.
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Mark awoke to the sun clipping through his torn shades. The light bounced off the walls and illuminated the fibers on the sheets which he lay wrapped in. Still weary, he turned from his left shoulder and onto to his back, he rubbed his eyes. Hoping to catch a few more minutes of rest, he pulled the sheets over his head, the action uncovering his feet slightly. He turned once more; now lying on his right shoulder he curled up toward the pillow and began to drift back into a deep sleep.
Not five minutes later, the bells sounded. Vigorous at first, jarring Mark from his sleep and causing him to shoot up in his bed. Was it that time already? He threw his legs over the side of his bed, pressing his feet down on the sun-warmed wooden floors. The bells had stopped now, their sharp resonation now reduced to a dull moan, as the deepest frequencies seeped slowly through the air.
Mark rose from his bed. Forgetting about his stiff back from the day before he flinched as he began to straighten up and fell back onto the bed. Now prepared, he arose and stretched. “Take it easy today” he said to himself. Mark lived alone in this small house, unlike the rest of the workers here, who shared their cottages with two other people. Not that it mattered much, he never had any reason to stay inside other than to sleep. On days when the weather chose to interrupt, he retired to the central lodge, a large building with food and billiards, where he met with his fellow workers and exchanged smalltalk.
After throwing on yesterday's basically clean jeans and a fresh shirt, he walked toward the only door in the house. The knob was broken. The budget for these cottages had run out before they had even finished being built. Most were in a poor state, Mark's included. He turned the knob all the way to the left, then all the way to the right, it was a necessary step to open the door.
The middle of summer was making itself known on the farm. Durson's Farm to be specific. The sun was blaring down on the dry roads, so intensely that Mark was beginning to regret leaving his shoes at the lodge. He jump-walked to get them, passing four other cottages on his way, two on the left, two on the right. Passing the second-last, he caught a glimpse of Clive, a dark man with a very broad build, and Taeza, with a similar build and complexion to Mark, but with a pointed jaw and lively blonde hair which stood up of it's own accord. Mark had gotten to know both of these men well over his four year stay at the farm. Clive had been working there several months before Mark, and Taeza was brought on almost two years ago, though no one tried to keep track of those things except Luke, the foreman.
“Morning”, shrugged Mark, as he passed them, still searing his feet on the cracking dirt roads. They nodded, sharing his sleepy demeanor. He stepped up onto the raised walkway that led into the lodge. After opening the heavy doors, he stopped on the cool stone floors and allowed them to refreshingly absorb the scorching heat from his now numb feet. He turned to his right, sliding open a thick wooden panel to reveal the boot storage closet. The closet was filled with stinky, muddy boots, many of which had been there since he had started at the farm. He began tossing the stinky boots to the side, as though digging through soil for his treasure, a pair of leather-strapped sandals which, even given his good health, he believed would outlive him, for they had put up with rigorous, daily abuse in both blazing heat and torrential downpours.
He had thrown all of the shoes off the rack, but still couldn't find his own. Straightening up carefully, he looked left and right, but didn't see them anywhere.. Frustrated, he began tossing the other shoes back in to the now empty closet, keeping a close eye, thinking maybe he had missed them when he was throwing the others out. Unfortunately, he was not so lucky, so with no boots he walked up to the bar where Owen was standing, packing iced water into thermoses. Owen was responsible for keeping the forty or so employees hydrated and quenched while they toiled in the fields all day.
“Eh, Owen. Did you see my shoes? Leather sandals, red buckles?”
“Uh, no, can't say I have. If ya need you can borrow mine, they're just on the top of the closet over there.”
Being late for his shift, Mark was in no position to decline “Thanks man, I owe you. I'll have 'em back by sundown, cleaned and everything.”
“Make sure you do.” Owen called back, as Mark headed out the main doors, grabbing the sandals as he went. “See you tonight buddy. Catch!” He hurled a heavy thermos of water at Mark, who twisted around to catch it and almost tripped over his own feet.
“Perfect. Later O'.” He called back, stepping out the doors and again being assaulted by the sun, which now loomed higher than before, reminding Mark that he was late.
“I know, I know” he said. Arriving at the tool shed to see Luke, the farm's foreman standing, waiting and looking self-satisfied.
“We dock you pay every time Mark, you know that.” He said, watching Mark grab the old rusted spades and shears from the wall. The ones that everyone came early to avoid having to use. He smirked.
“Laugh it up.” Mark snapped back playfully “Least I don't have to train the new arrivals. You know, I almost pity you.”
“Don't be so cocky, Mark. You've been assigned.”
“The hell?! Why would they assign me a newbie and no one else? I don't have time for this.”
“Boss thinks you're a good worker. Of course, he doesn't punch your time cards. Either way, you're training Timas.” He stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Mark cringed as the high pitched squeal cut across the farm. A scrawny kid, probably no older than sixteen ran up with a laughably 'fresh out of the bag' set of work clothes on, bright blue denim with sharp creases everywhere. Mark pointed it out as soon as he got the chance.
“Alright, Timas?” The boy nodded and shook Mark's extended hand, “We'll fix that before you know what hit you kid” Mark said, pointing at the brand-new jeans, jutting out like they were made of wood. “Lets go.”
“You're on three, four and five, Mark, easy stuff for a training shift. See, it's not as bad as you think.”
“Grab two buckets kid” Mark said to Timas, pointing to a bin of metal buckets.
“Later Luke.” Mark called, walking away. Luke nodded and he too walked away. Most of the people on the farm felt a nod was the right answer for fifty percent of life's questions. They were usually right.
Not bad at all for someone who says they're not really a writer.
Also, for an intro its a tad bit slow (the whole production about him sleeping in, etc). Again, thats bound to be the case in some books/stories but if you're ever thinking of submitting this book to a publisher one day that's the kiss of death (as far as my research for literary agents and publishing houses as shown me). You want to hit the action as quickly as possible so I hope to see things speed up in Chapter two.
