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The process begins. Shit!

The process begins. Shit!

Yeah that’s right. The name of my novel is currently “TBC”. I can’t even think of a decent working title yet.

Some of my recent posts (The Shark, The Boy: Extract 1-3) have contained short passages of writing which I aim to build upon and write a short story/novel. I haven’t got very far. At a guess I’ve written about 5000 words. Recently though I had a bit of a breakthrough in regards to the world I was trying to create and describe. It was heading towards a very generic apocalyptic setting, when in reality the changes to the ‘world-as-we-know-it’ are subtle, but can still affect my characters in tremendous ways.

I’m having ideas all the time whether it be scenes or characters or dialogue. Something might come to me as I’m falling asleep, in the shower, driving to work, taking a piss. But generally, progress has been slow. I try to dedicate a few hours a week to purely write, but it can be difficult to stick to that.

I’m finding the use of my Pinterest pretty helpful. I surf through hundreds of photos, and if one stands out, I’ll save it to pin boards that are based on certain aspects of the story. For example, the boy himself, or the warehouse, or the suburbs, or abandoned buildings. I’m building up a library of images to help bring the story to life in front of me, and in turn I hope this can aid and inspire my writing.

What I’ve discovered is that every new book I read, I learn something more about my own writing. I know what I like reading, which methods are advantageous in certain situations. So while I have perhaps the first 10% of the book written (as I’ve said, in a very rough first draft form) I’m almost holding back, wanting to read as many books as I can in the coming months. This isn’t because I’m lacking ideas or looking for inspiration for certain characters; I want my writing to be the best it can be and learning from other great writers is one step to achieving that.

This month I finished Ready Player One, Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep and Lord Of The Flies. Next on my list for the end of March and April are Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five and McCarthy’s The Road. I can’t wait.

I’m not under the impression (or delusional enough) that this first novel I write will be a huge hit. I’ve seen and heard comments and opinions stating that the first major piece of writing you do will be a piece of shit. I may look back in ten years and be completely embarrassed by this. But I want to give this my all. I think the basis of the story I want to tell has the makings of a good book. If I can write it in a way that does justice to myself and my ideas, I’ll be happy.

So while it’s daunting to think that at the end of the year I could have a finished story, I know it’s a long way off. I’m eager and enthusiastic to achieve this, a goal I wasn’t aware I wanted a few months ago has become a huge ambition that I’m determined to finish – regardless of the final outcome.

I’m very new to this. I haven’t written stories since I was in school, and at university the only extended writing I’ve done recently was a handful of essays and a dissertation. But while they have a more rigid structure, I can be afforded a lot more freedom here. And that’s both liberating and terrifying, to be able to go in literally any direction I want.

the boy

He had heard some people refer to it as the nether zone, others named it the grey belt. Some simply called it the wasteland. There was so much space in the nether zone, but so few to occupy it. The boy didn’t mind this. Surrounding him were landscapes that stretched as far as the eye could see, with no human interaction for days. But there were some people out here.

As the boy would keep clear of any large communities and the motorways that linked them, his interactions came with stragglers that were in a similar predicament to him, albeit usually much older. They might range from sole vagabonds, with nothing but the clothes on their back and their small collection of belongings within their rucksacks, to scavengers groups, travelling in packs of two to twenty. Some would be friendly, others would taunt him or attempt to chase him. Most people didn’t even notice him and often were completely unaware of his presence. He had become adept at keeping himself out of sight, moving quickly but quietly. He had learned to become a ghost. A pale white ghoul silently traversing a graveyard of ruined and abandoned architecture.

The boy thought back to when he was in the city and found it strange (but was also immensely grateful) that so many people chose to live in that crowded hell. He had been right to move out. It was still dangerous out here, but for a child on his own, everywhere had its dangers and it was safer here than within the city. He would not have survived for long in the city. It still attracted those from near and far, despite the failed attempt of growth. Expansion had been rapid and quick, the boom in the economy meant there was plenty of work. People starting new ventures, creating new housing, factories. Nothing was finished but the sprawl continued. London began to take over the south of England and when the city got to the coasts, it looked back and saw a half finished desert of buildings and cranes. So the people fled back to the centre and left a ring of rural urbanity. The countryside had been decimated but it had not been killed and slowly it started to grow back, over stacks of raw materials and articulated trucks and steel columns that housed unfinished dreams.

Building sites that had stopped construction midflow. Cement mixers filled with powdery mortar and portacabins containing scattered polysterine cups and calendars detailing worker shifts. Doors had been left open, flapping in the wind. Factories with high ceilings and stretching walls, vacant rooms which were never occupied. Large industrial machinery still in unopened packaging sat unused and forgotten. Housing blocks with floor slabs but no walls. No enclosed, habitable rooms but a staircase and empty lift shafts that rose to the top. Cranes stood erect beside them, holding swaying pallets of concrete swinging gently in the breeze.

There was plenty of shelter. Some areas had clumped together to create small communities in the unfinished shells, and while some continued to construct, many left it as it was. There were strong thoughts from most out here that these dwellings would be temporary. The city would become too top heavy, too dense and reach the ceiling of the sky above London, and be forced to continue the outward spread again. When that happened, everything would be demolished and land would be fought over. It seemed inevitable.

One morning he awoke in a small upstairs room of a semi detached house he had barricaded himself within the night prior. As he took down the sheets of corrugated iron from the windows he stood there and saw a warehouse surrounded by a vast carpark, and behind stood the bright lights and impossible heights of the city. It was several miles away but he was drawn to it. It was a grand building, unlike any of the new creations that had been built in the last twenty years. It had been here before the grey belt had begun to take over the south. He started towards it, and it was dark by the time he reached the fence. Once inside the boy was disappointed. It was the same as anywhere else in the grey belt; empty, dark, quiet. Except for two vehicles right at the back. They were clean, relatively new, and had not been in this place for long. It was around this time that he was filled with an unexplainable nauseating fear, that only increased as he heard the low hum of a car approaching, soon followed by another. Fighting the urge to run, he crept towards a set of broken windows and looked out to witness a confrontation.

From the shadows of the warehouse, the young boy with dirt on his face and rags on his bony shoulders watches, bright eyes transfixed on the violence.

the boy

He never stayed in one area for too long. If too many people saw his face, he was worried police or care workers would be called, and he’d be taken into a home or locked away. He didn’t know what would happen to him as he’d never been caught. But from what he had experienced of people, he thought he was better off on his own. He could look after himself as he had done throughout his short life. He was only a boy, unsure of his own age but he had survived this long. He didn’t want to be forced into contact with people, not after what he had seen. For every person who had showed him kindness, ten more had been cruel or violent. He ran and hid at the sight or sound of humans, as a deer bolts from a snapping twig.

Sometimes he would get lucky and find abandoned flats or detached houses that had some items of worth hidden within. Most of them had been raided long ago, with cupboards open and newspapers strewn across the floor. If there was nothing of value to take, he would stay there for a few hours to stare at the pictures in the old newspapers. Or he might go into one of the bedrooms upstairs with its dusty toys and faded wallpaper, and shut himself inside for an hour and pretend this was home. If he couldn’t physically take something useful, he would try to visualise what it might have been to live in a house when it was home to others. That way it felt like he had learnt or experienced something in each place he went to and the visit would not have been a waste.

He didn’t like breaking into people’s houses – there was the risk of being caught or worse. But when times were desperate and he had not eaten for days it was a necessary risk. The feeling of dread as he approached when attempting to enter a house was one he tried to avoid, never sure if he would come into contact with people within. He once came across a row of terraced houses, and all but one was uninhabitable; one house he entered was flanked on either side by charred ruins. He had to climb through a roof window as the ground floor doors and windows were heavily barred, and slowly made his way down to the ground floor to find the kitchen. He filled his pack with various tins and cans, and as he passed through the living room he noticed an elderly woman, sunk so low into her chair that her head was level with the arm rests. She was skeletal and grey and so scared that she trembled and could say nothing. Her eyes were wide and frightfully fixed on the boy, they shone in a horrible fear that couldn’t help but reduce the boy to tears, and he slowly approached and put the bag with all the woman’s food in down at her feet. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t want to hurt her, that he was sorry for disturbing her and it would all be okay. He stood there, staying with her in silence until it began to get dark outside, at which point he backed away up the stairs, climbed out the window and left.

There was a constant internal conflict within him, raging silently. He feared everything but he longed for something. He had watched a group of children in a field late one afternoon throwing stones at a collapsed farmhouse. The front of the house still stood proudly into the air, its porch and front windows pointing out across the dead soil and ruined sheds, but behind it the two floors of furniture and memories had long given up the fight. The chaos of rubble behind the house front kept the façade standing. With it were several glass windows that had defied time and weather and were still intact. The children were shouting and screaming and laughing gleefully as each pebble they launched caused shattering glass to echo across a landscape forgotten. The boy watched with a fierce intensity, wanting to run away as fast as he could but at the same time desperate to take a stone himself and smash glass and laugh with them.

the boy abandoned

TEN YEARS AGO THE BOY had been born to a drug addicted mother, the father unknown. They would have lived together on one of the lower levels of the old ruined brick housing estates that still haunt the west side, but the mother discarded the boy after four days in a bid to escape the crying and the burden of responsibility which she could not bare. She died not long after, presumably from an overdose – it is unknown whether this was intentional or happened by chance. The boy was found clinging to life after over two days on the cold wet streets by a tramp, who took him to the local hospital with a knife to the child’s throat demanding cash in return for this innocent life. Police were called eventually and nurses and bystanders alike looked on indifferently. The vagrant could barely stand, yet was rather impressively managing to drink a foul smelling spirit out a dirty bottle whilst clutching the baby and a pocketknife against his soft fleshy skin. The juggling act lasted no longer than thirty minutes and he was shot dead on the hospital steps by police, who had grown impatient and tiresome in the cold. The knife had caught the boy’s windpipe and was bleeding profusely, and so he spent the next twelve months in an incubator within the very hospital he had been brought to.

He eventually recovered, but due to his grave injuries there had been little hope for survival and thus the nurses had not given him a name. There was serious damage done to his neck and vocal chords, and despite numerous attempts it was damaged beyond repair. Along with some scarring that ran across his chin and lower neck, he would never be able to speak.

Nor could he cry like a normal baby would cry, or make any noises that were vaguely human. Instead, when upset he would let out a high pitched screech. It was piercing and unnatural and the nurses despised it. Otherwise he was silent. Child therapists who interacted with him were unsure of his mental state; as he developed to one and two years old they could see intelligence with no sign of disability but the boy remained distant from anybody. A social disorder, or perhaps a latent memory of his early attack caused him to keep himself isolated and hidden. Even if he had the full use of his vocal chords there was some doubt whether they would have been used much at all.

SOME TIME PRIOR to turning the three, the boy was given to a children’s care home. Little is know of the conditions he faced at the orphanage but he spent several years there until he was adopted at the age of seven. A wealthy, middle aged couple with marital troubles who could not conceive naturally. The woman was captivated by the boy’s deep blue eyes and the fact he couldn’t talk made him a strange prize. They lived in a minimal high rise flat in the centre of the city, with sparse furniture and drab colours. A box consisting of three white walls and a panoramic window, spreading from the floor to the ceiling and overlooking the city.Here the boy lacked nothing but love and attention. A foreign nanny spent more time with him than his foster parents, and their idea of education was her harsh thick accent and daytime television. But the boy did not watch. There were always people on the screen, and he preferred to be alone. He took to spending day after day at the window.

Out of that vast glass barrier, that spanned wall to wall and from his feet to far above his small head, the programme was the same yet it never got boring. He saw thousands of lights flick on and off in adjacent towers, birds gliding freely upon waves of wind and the clouds form and precipitate onto the city below. The people were as small as ants, and ants didn’t scare the boy. Sometimes they couldn’t be seen at all. When the smog was bad enough, he couldn’t even see the city streets under that protective grey blanket. This was peace, he liked this. He liked to pretend he was in a bubble, high above everyone else where nobody could see or hear him. And even when the smog did dissolve away and the streets and those ants reappeared, he was too far away for anybody to notice him and he could just smile and continue watching them for hours.

This was his first memory.

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This is a short extract following on from a post I made a few weeks ago called The Shark. The homeless boy I am writing about here was the same boy who witnessed the violence documented in that short story, and I felt like a larger tale could be told involving these two characters.