The Writer by Isaac Wilde

The Writer

by Isaac Wilde

Screams filled Aedon Palace that night, the pained screams of the dying and the anguished screams of the assorted Family, and the shouts of befuddled servants running around in the dark. The screams emanated from an extravagantly furnished bedroom at the very top of the massive, white marble castle keep.

      Lying on his bed was decrepit form of King Markom, his wrinkled and sunken eyes closed. He was close to dying, and his voice was horse from crying out as pain passed through him. But his nerves were spent, and his body couldn’t even feel itself failing.

      Suddenly, the King’s eyes flashed open, revealing electric blue irises, and with a raspy whisper he said:

      The writer paused, reflecting for a minute on what the King would say. The next sentence would establish his story, and he wanted to make it spectacular. He looked out the window of the small secluded cabin he lived in, and watched the silt-filled waters of Lake Rust lap against the shores of his island.

      He looked up, an idea bouncing around his head. He turned and placed his fingers on the keyboard of his laptop, one of two modern appliances in the cabin. The other was a dilapidated phone, which lay lopsided in its cradle.

      He began to tap out the first letters of the Kings last words. - And with a raspy whisper he said, “The power, oh, the power burns. It’s made me older, older than I am. Make sure… Make sure that They don’t get it, and warn my son. Warn him that it hurts.”

      Suddenly, the area around the King’s heart began to glow warmly. His eyes began to lose their fervor, his face began to calm. The light shot up from his chest, refracting and bending to create a small, diamond-shaped object. A small hum echoed throughout the bedchamber. Then, the strange illumination dulled, and a small crystal appeared on the King’s chest. The King let out a horrible, shuddery sigh, and lay still.

      The noblemen and women surrounding King Markom’s bed gasped as they realized that their beloved King was dead. A tall man with brown hair and an expansive beard stepped forward. His name was Askel Danilo, the leader of the Northern Tribes. He snatched up the mysterious diamond that had formed over the King’s heart.

      “The King is dead. His claim over the Northern Tribes has died with him. My people need my presence,”  Askel said, a little louder than necessary. The small crowd parted around him as he made to step out of the door.

       Erik Anton, the King’s son, no more than seventeen or eighteen, placed himself in front of the hulking Northman. “The King is not dead. I am now King, and the Northern Tribes and the diamond in your hand are mine.”

      “Step aside, boy.” Askel said, walking past Erik. Erik stopped him with a hand, which was, although less so than Askel, very muscular.

      “Obey your King, Danilo. I am the rightful ruler.” Erik said, defiantly.

      “I will not kneel to a child.” Askel said, and shoved Erik aside. Askel walked out of the oaken door, slamming it with a resounding crash behind him.

      Erik angrily whipped a tear of frustration, guilt and sadness from his eye. His beloved father was dead, the nobles refused to obey him, and the diamond, obviously meant for him, had been stolen by Askel.

      Quissa Autria, the old King’s wrinkled advisor, rested an ancient hand on Erik’s shoulder. “My lord, I still have many years left to my name. I can help you reclaim your birthright, your throne. We will take back the Northern Tribes again.”

      The writer stopped, satisfied with the start of his story. He saved it, and decided to stop writing for the day. He would let the story continue in his head, and spend tomorrow writing vigorously. He snapped down the lid of his laptop, a new model that he had ordered a week ago, and had only just finished transferring the files to yesterday. The ad for the laptop had said it would help make your writing come real, and the writer had bought it instantly. The writer stepped over to the coat rack, and began to prepare for a hike.

      But, before he could even zipper his down jacket, the phone rang. He checked the caller I.D. Emergency Number. He picked it up, worriedly. A machine began playing, and he almost put it down. But then the words the machine was saying registered.

      “Attention all American citizens. The President of the United States has died.  The vice president, Tonan Riek,  has taken control. As our government was in momentary confusion, the northern states of the U.S. have formed their own country, called the United Northern States. The revolt was led by Kelsa Linoad, who is now the president of the United Northern States.” The computer voice whirred and clicked, and the message repeated itself again.

      It was an impossible happening, the writer thought. Half of the U.S. doesn’t just get up and leave! And why on earth would they have any cause to? The writer hadn’t heard anything about discontent in the northern states. But then, something in his brain clicked together, and with a jolt he unscrambled the letters in Kelsa Linoad. Askel Danilo. And then, he unscrambled the letters in the vice president’s name. Erik Anton.

     The incredulity of it all was dazzling. He turned towards his computer, where the opening words of his story were sitting, innocent. How could his words have done so much damage to the country he loved so much? It was impossible. It had to be a coincidence.

      But he still flipped up the screen of the computer. Before he rashly deleted his story, hopefully undoing the disaster, he wanted to experiment. The writer typed up a quick paragraph about rain, wondering if it would start to rain outside.

      The rain pelted the small cabin, the bloated shores of the Lake lapped at the wooden planks. Lightning strikes shone far in the distance, the roar of the thunder deafened the man inside the cabin.

      The water seeped inside.

      The writer stopped as water began to lap at his feet, and onslaughts of water rushed through the door. The door crashed inwards, and the writer became smothered in water. Caught without air in his lungs, he soon found himself short of breath. Desperately, he flailed at the keyboard of his computer. He pressed a button, and watched as all of his writing; stories of creation, destruction, governments, history, the future, all get deleted.

      As each story goes, so goes what it was about. First the water left, without a trace of it ever having been there. The writer sucked in a grateful breath, but then his cabin disappeared, and he saw that the lake has dried up as well. Then the trees disappeared, and then the sun and the crescent moon, and then the now-visible stars begin to wink out. The ground beneath his feet disappeared, and the writer floated in nothing, with only his laptop. But the computer deleted the last file, and then the writer vanished.

Untitled by Isaac Wilde

Here’s how Isaac Wilde describes his imaginative, as-yet-untitled novel.

Two teenagers, a half wolf called Seff and a boy named Salmon, escape an orphanage, eluding capture by a police force called the Legion.

Along the way, they are unknowingly helped by a mystical creature called The Watcher, who finally captures them. Salmon manages to escape, and rallies a ragtag army to rescue Seff.

The action takes place on a foreign world in a time similar to Earth’s Middle Ages.

Untitled

An excerpt by Isaac Wilde

Chapter One

The Watcher, so dark that the midnight sky was pale in comparison, looked down upon the empty cityscape below. The scene was quiet, and the roads far below were lit only by the silver wands of moonlight. Even the puddles of murky water that littered the streets were strung in stasis.

Then two youngsters, a half wolf and an athletic but frightened teenager, burst from one of the main alleyways and crossed the frozen nighttime road, their feet splashing through puddles and clattering on the cracked cobblestones. From behind them came a tremendous clatter, and the thunderous shouting of the Legion’s soldiers. The Watcher looked on, an evil smile contorting its way around his face.

Down below, on the damp street, the half wolf turned to his partner. “Can’t you hurry, Salmon? The Legion is getting closer.”

“Bugger the Legion,” muttered Salmon. “My feet are all wet. You do realize that this is your fault, Seff.”

“My fault?” cried Seff. “I rescued you from life in that orphanage, eating that abhorred gruel!”

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with the orphanage oatmeal,” Salmon muttered sullenly, but resigned himself to follow Seff.  They broke out of a narrow side street and onto a dockyard next to the main canal that ran through the city of Asgard.

Salmon looked around, and with a cry of dismay said, “This is hopeless Seff, we’re trapped. The Legion will get us for certain!”

Seff grinned mischievously, revealing his massive canines. Salmon recoiled at the sight, not yet used to having a half wolf for a friend. “We ain’t doomed yet, Fishy-boy. There’s always the canal.”

           

Salmon looked appalled. “You want me to jump into that thing? I’ve seen with my own two eyes people crapping in it. It’s practically a solid with all the pollution dumped into it!”

           

“What choice do you have, Salmon? It’s that or jail,” Seff said with cruel logic.

Salmon sighed. “You’re always pushing me around. This is the last time, you hear me?”

Seff grew tired of his friend’s rambling lamentations and, urged on by the clatter of the Legion, grabbed Salmon and jumped. As they crashed into the water, Salmon panicked. Struggling against Seff, he frantically tried to get to the surface, but instead sank like a stone into untold depths.

The Watcher silently growled. The boy was supposed to swim. He raised a long black arm and began an incantation. He would not disappoint his master.

Seff, his heart pounding and head dizzy from lack of air, strained to find his friend in the murky water. Behind him, he could hear a splash as the first of the Legion troops hit the water. Seff swam deeper, delving into a predatory strength to keep him moving.

The Watcher snapped his fingers and neatly closed the incantation with a word of power. Salmon was filled with sudden buoyancy that floated him into Seff’s arms. Together they pushed up into the night sky.

The Legion had filed into the water. Kar fighters with grappling hooks swinging over their heads were positioned on the banks, poised to throw. They were caught, with no way out.

The Watcher was exhausted from his expenditure of magic, but he needed to save his master’s sacrifices. He snapped his fingers.

Sewage poured out from pipes imbedded in the nearest houses in a humungous rush, sweeping away Seff and Salmon on a dirty wave. There was a clatter of shutters as tired citizens closed their windows and sealed their house off from the ruckus. The Legion, shocked for a second, quickly sprang into action. It was too late to catch their quarry, however. They had been swept away by a tide of rubbish.

The Watcher smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done, and disappeared in a flash of smoke.

Away from the borders of Asgard, a dirty rivulet of sewage water sliced neatly through the clear waters of the crater lake that surrounded the city. It coughed up two groaning runaways, covered in filth and unmentionables.
           

Salmon jumped away from the mountain of muck that had deposited them on the grassy lakeside plain, and began jumping as if possessed, swiping at his body to purge himself of grime. Gagging and hacking in an exaggerated and unnecessary manner, he glowered at Seff.

Seff was looking around, however, utterly awestruck at the scene surrounding the dirty duo. Far in the distance, Asgard stood like a proud sentinel. Surrounding it was the Great Lake, a volcanic crater that was filled with the purest of waters. The lake nurtured countless plants into fruition, spawning a luscious countryside that sprawled down the sides of the goliath mountain for miles. The small swath of dirty sewage freshly deposited there only slightly marred the magnificent view.

Salmon wasn’t going to be kept content for long by looking at scenery. He stormed on Seff, swiping his arms back and shouting angrily, “Sewage, Seff. Sewage! You planned for that, didn’t you? I would have thought even a foolish daredevil like you wouldn’t be brash enough to pull a stunt like that! But boy! I was so wrong!”

Seff lost his tough look and broke down under the onslaught. “Salmon, please. That wasn’t me. All I wanted was freedom, for once in my life. I don’t get that privilege often. I’m so sorry I made you come, I thought you would appreciate being free from the tediousness of everyday life.”

Salmon quieted, holding his hands sheepishly behind his back. “Sorry, Seff, I didn’t mean to shout.” Seff snorted at this, but didn’t interrupt Salmon in his apology. “I want to come with you, to freedom. Really I do.”

“Alright then. To freedom,” Seff said, holding his hand out for Salmon to shake. Salmon took it and shook it vigorously.

“Where is freedom, exactly?” Salmon asked after a brief pause, a confused expression on his tilted face.

“Dunmafest, the wild lands,” Seff replied in a reverent tone.

Salmon paled. Dunmafest was an island nation so harsh that even the Legion couldn’t conquer it. The island was riddled with as many jungles as cheese has holes, and filled with unimaginable horrors and deadly terrors. Salmon couldn’t help but picture their gruesome end at the jaws of some gargantuan beast. But, the expedition in the sewage had changed him, just slightly.

“All right, Seff. If I’m going to get dragged someplace, I’d rather you did the dragging. But this is the last time, you hear me? The last time.”

About the Author

Isaac Wilde plans to continue writing stories, in which he wants to develop interesting plots that reveal fantasy worlds and eras of his own creation.

Isaac is 13-years-old (12 when he wrote the above chapter), and his favorite authors are Ray Bradbury and J.R.R. Tolkien.