Prompt: The Fire
Writing Exercise #32
Continuing August, the month of the Blackpage! See previous entries in this universe here. This is the setting for a fantasy story that I am trying to flesh out, so documenting these short stories is helping me to give life to this world before I undertake a story proper!
This was supposed to be a stretch but it grew legs so it’s a prompt now!
If you have ideas for Prompts, Crunches, Sprints, Relays, Stretches, or other writing exercises in the future, please leave them in the comments! If you would like to write your own take for this exercise, please comment with a link so that I can see what you wrote and support your work, maybe even share your version with my subscribers. Please let me know if you have any thoughts, comments, or constructive criticisms as well!
Enjoy!
Prompt: Re-introduce Byron the Blackpage
“Byron,” the Superior held the bridge of his nose in his fingers, “Not only is it forbidden for you to write a world which has creatures in it, but it is impossible. The Brother Inquisitor and myself have both inspected your world and found nothing deeply amiss. Yet—one of your brothers entered your world and that brother died in your world.”
Byron opened his mouth to speak, and the Superior held up a hand to silence him— “Frankly, Brother Byron, I am not interested in anything you have to say right now except for your response to the proposal I am going to present to you. You insist that there is a created being in your world that was created with the world and not intentionally by you. Very well—show us. If the Brother Inquisitor and myself can be shown this…creature…you suggest, we will accept your story that it is what killed Brother Amos, and you will be excommunicated from the order for a forbidden act of creation. If you cannot show us this creature, we will try you for the murder of Brother Amos, and you will be penalized according to the Ordinances of Justice. Or, you may bypass both of these options and choose simple exile from the order.”
A tense silence descended over the room. Byron weighed his options while the Superior glared at him from across the desk.
Byron said, finally: “I will prove it to you.”
The Superior sighed. “Very well. I will discuss this with the Brother Inquisitor. You are dismissed.”
= = =
“Superior, respectfully, but that is the worst idea I have ever heard. Brother Amos of blessed memory is murdered by that madman and you propose to let him live? Amos was our friend! That’s not justice!” Brother Manheim was more angry than the Superior had ever seen him, and he didn’t like that he had brought a gang of friends.
“Brothers, it is not for you to decide what justice is or isn’t. Authority over this matter has been charged to me!” He spoke and gestured with a ferocity that stunned the other Brothers but not Manheim. “I am responsible for your safety, for the execution of justice in compliance with the Ordinances, and for numerous other matters of which you are scarcely aware!” his voice had risen to a shout. He continued more softly: “And I tell you this! I don’t appreciate being accosted by this discourteous rabble.”
“What are you going to do to make this right, Superior? Brother Amos is dead. His blood will be on your hands if you let Brother Byron go.”
“I will do what I feel is good and right, and you will abide by it. Do you understand me?” He glared at Brother Manheim for a tense moment, before proceeding casually: “Clearly you don’t have enough work to do, if you’ve got time to gossip and confront me in the hallway. You’ll be working in the quarry tomorrow, Brothers! Good day!”
The Superior turned and walked away, his hands tingling with adrenaline.
= = =
Byron was in the library, he had placed his book on the stone lectern in the center. It was a large book—Byron knew every page like he knew the streets of his home town. In the leather cover, Byron’s sigil had been engraved. The sigil glistened in the evening light, it seemed to emit a light of it’s own, barely perceptible yet it gave the sigil an unearthly feel. He put his hands on either side of the book, and closed his eyes. I have to be sure. He opened to the front page, and placed his hand in the circle of runes, chanted the ancient tongue—
It felt like he fell through the book—the page no longer supporting his weight, it gave way and he tumbled, a great wind rushing past him and through him. He landed on his feet, as if he had jumped from a high place.
He looked around—it was night. Two moons glowed full in the sky. Byron had been working on writing a monastery around this spot—it was still in progress. He walked out of the facility, away from the lectern and book in the center of that circular room, and looked out at the untamed wilderness. A forest of evergreen trees to his left, to his right a small dirt path led away to a town in the distance—dark, and uninhabited.
Where is it?
The hair on the back of his neck stood up—Byron felt eyes on him. He looked around—there, there in the woods, two glowing eyes, menacing, locked on to him.
Byron became tense—ready to run at any moment back to the lectern and book, just a few paces behind him.
The eyes fell low, and the creature—impossible to see except for it’s eyes in the darkness—began crawling, slowly, towards him. Byron’s heart pounded in his chest—face to face, again, with this beast. What are you?
The creature stopped—looked up and away, as if hearing some sound—and it turned and ran back into the forest.
Orange embers floated past—was there a fire? Byron looked around, turned behind him—there, in the sky, an orange, burning circle, and within was…nothing. Not that it was dark, or black—it was nothingness. Burning circles began to appear in the air around him, the masonry of the monastery began to glow orange. It was as if reality itself was on fire. They are burning the book!
Byron rushed back to the lectern, flipped open to the runes, and muttered the incantation. He waited a moment that felt like ages, and finally fell through.
He landed in a fire, and lost his footing and fell into the flames. He screamed as the embers seared his hands, and he rolled out the fire—instinctively, like a father rescuing a fallen child, he reached back in to save his book, pages already turning black, and threw it on the dirt. He hit the book with his robes to put out the flames. He grit his teeth through the pain of his burning clothes and hands and hair—at the pain of his life’s work being tossed into a fire.
He finally looked up, and saw Brother Manheim smugly looking down at him, surrounded by his gang of Brothers. Rage boiled inside him.
(1073 words)
The Promptee Has Become The Promptor
Your feedback helps to improve my writing. I would really appreciate a comment on your thoughts on this writing exercise. Consider telling me your thoughts about:
Have you ever played Myst? Asking for no reason.
Do you feel sometimes as if your writing was less invention and more discovery?
What is your favorite brain-food?
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy! Come back next week for another writing exercise!
Hey, before you go—have you read my recently published Serial, SANDBOX EARTH yet? You can buy a hardcopy too! Check it out at the link!
God bless!
YAY BACKSTORY! This absolutely reminded me of Myst! I love the idea that he created a world and something went rogue but - THE DRAMA - our traditions must be upheld! Can’t wait to see what happens next.
Are you familiar with a book called A Canticle For Leibowitz? Not anything like Myst, but it has post-apocalyptic Brothers arguing about The Way The World Should Be, and their discussion here reminded me of it.
This is a marvellous world you're revealing to us. While I am tentatively siding with Byron I am also understanding of the Brothers' worries. If Byron has indeed created a creature, impossibly, then he has innovated or broken some metaphysical barrier that was much stronger in the past, or something like that. The power these monks (?) have also seems incredibly dangerous that I wonder why they do it? Hopefully this and more will be investigated in past and future stories :) Great stuff so far!
I have not played Myst, though I think I my dad had a copy or where he worked did. Just remember a big box with lots of floppies, a domed building and MYST on the front.
I would say writing is equal parts creation and discovery. Depends on the setting, depends on my aims, but generally there is time for one and time for the other. I used to feel more like a conduit connecting some Platonic world of fiction to our world but the more I learned to write the more that fell away and I realised my control over the worlds I create. Though letting go is good sometimes too.
History. I have said it before but I will steal from history quite freely as it is often madder than fiction.