Young Writers Society

The supposedly short story has, on its own accord, become a novella. Fine by me. Even though the story is of course Historical Fiction, it's more of a character piece, more than anything. Specifically, "Garrick's Christmas" is an experimental piece to further develop Garrick himself.

I usually don't have trouble defining my character's traits but Garrick I've found is different, and one of the most challenging characters I've ever encountered in my work. Special...

Below the my cover of the Granary Burial Grounds in Boston, my main setting. In the background you will see the Old South Meeting House where the notion of the Tea Party first began before actually being set in motion.

I've completed a fair amount of work in the last few days but there isn't a lovely and flowerly finish line, at least not yet.

On the whole, I am anticipating where I'll be able to leave Samuel. As fun as he is, I am growing antsy. I want to explore Garrick's home life, despite the terribly grim atmosphere I'll enter.

In short, completion is slow but I sure am having a blast!

Key:
Italics are in past tense.

An excerpt:

So, Mister Soutwick, how are you on this glorious evening?”

“Garrick,” he corrected.

“Quite. Apologies, sir,” I said. I rolled over on my side in hopes to engage in decent conversation with Samuel’s friend. He is content in not wearing shirts, and even with the soft glow of the campfires, there is a most ghastly scar by his shoulder. Poor fellow. With an incision as deep as I would presume it to be, the bleeding, likely intense as well as the sheer discomfort. Nevertheless, with my line of profession, I witnessed worse, especially during the wee hours of the Bloody Massacre the following morning.

The man, Garrick, changed his position and preferred sitting erect. Unfortunately, the motion allowed a most melancholy view of the many, many jagged lines strewn in an abundance of angles, much similar to the cobwebs of a spider. I can foresee the reasoning for Samuel to befriend him. This fellow has suffered some catastrophe early on in his years.

“I like Sam.”

“As I do. I cannot understand how he is able to function every single day.”

“I told him, I love him.”

“So that is why he ran off abruptly,” I grinned. “Tell me Garrick, what is your reason for enlistment?”

“Revenge,” he deadpanned.

“Oh?” I scooted a few inches closer to his body, wanting to study his face for any noticeable signs of deception. I glanced at the terrain, looking for anything to defend myself. Though, I highly doubt Garrick was sent into our camp as a spy after a near week and a half, but trust is not to be taken lightly as of now. My body tensed. Surely, my poor shoulders ached by the strain. Ready to strike if need be.

Garrick nodded.

I relaxed a little, taking note how the corners of his lips sagged. “Would you be able to further elaborate? Please?”

“My wuf - wife - was murdered.”

“My word! My goodness, who would dare?”

“Soldier.”

“Was he dressed in red clad?” I breathed.

“Clad?”

“Redcoat.”

Garrick nodded. “Ya - uh, yes.

I thought over Garrick’s revelation for a moment before asking the one question dripping off my tongue. “Has Samuel mentioned the terms of his enlistment?”

“No.”

“I see,” I nodded. “If I may be so forward, I should think it would be nice to tell him the reason of your enlistment, Garrick. If you are as fond of him as you say.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I asked in some confusion. “We do not keep things from each other if such a thing is causing grief or a grim atmosphere.”

“Why?” Garrick asked once more.

“Because. It is just not done.”

“Oh.”

“We march to battle tomorrow. I am turning in. And yourself?”

“Stay up longer.”

“As you wish. By the way.”

“Hmm?”

“You are bleeding,” and then I rolled over, attempting rest, if I shall be allowed a few hours, I would be most grateful.

Except I was not granted my desired wish. In the depths of blackness, firstly, I thought of Samuel’s friend, whom is breathing rather, well, obnoxiously. I do hope to dear God, Garrick is not a snorer. Why, what a cruel trick. If I surely am destined to die in combat, I shall depart this life well rested and knowing I served a righteous cause, not die sleep-deprived. How unpleasant would that be?

However, in all due respect, I should not complain. That fellow, Soutwick; his wife, murdered. He carries himself well, or seems too. I cannot foresee or comprehend the reasoning for how on Earth he is able to function, well able to function t’all.

What is this? I sat up. My left hand was behind me to support the weight. Yawning and opening my eyes, I discover there is a frock coat on top of my legs.

“For you.”

“Thanks. Who does it belong to?” I yawned.

“Sam.”

“And how about yourself? Why, you are not even wearing a shirt.”

“I dun’t like wearing them.”

“Oh, how- I yawned - …unusual. May I ask why?”

“So they can see.”

“Agreed. To see,” and I fell back onto the grass. “Too warm in here. I do not need a coat or blanket any longer. Good night.”




Once, twice, thrice - skull collides into wall. Fall. Head bangs against hard wood - then, once, twice, thrice, skull hits wood floor. Tears. Pleading. Constant shouting in ear to answer. Confusion- stubbornness. Will not answer under cruelty. Deciding to remain mute, to spite- get some satisfaction. Footsteps leave. Alone. An anger that cannot be quenched.




Mother pressed against wall. Glass smashes. Red liquid drips- seeps along the walls, Mother’s cheeks and shoulders. Bottom lip trembles. No talk. Papa moves in on his prey. I drop to my knees- bite- like a wild animal. Papa yelps. Kicks me. I fall back. Watch. Helpless. Too small- too weak- just a boy. Tummy hurts where I was kicked.




“No!” And Garrick sprang forward, wide-eyed. He felt sweat. Most of his body was covered in it, especially dripping off his chest hairs. Wiping his forehead, he breathed in, and then out, slowly, trying to regain control. It was only after several shaky minutes, when the dream-world finally dissolved, that Garrick realized he was alone. He curled himself into a human ball. With a free hand, he fiddled with his chest hairs, coiling them into knots. Rocking back and forth, he mumbled, “Not me, not me.”

Before the wee hours of dawn, Samuel and Doctor Warren returned, knocking on the tent. Garrick remained in his ball-shaped form, never catching another wink of sleep, nor did he want or dare to open, in which that could hurt him evermore.