leckert
New Member
Hey, I was going through a footlocker I have full of papers, and I found a bunch of yellow sheets from a legal pad that I had scribbled on in high school.
I have started transcribing, and here is what I have so far. I don't know, kind of a fantasy thing. Not what I have been writing lately, but, we'll see...
1.
King Rupert Xavier Satchus V cracked his eyelids as the first grey light of dawn sputtered over the crooked teeth of the Black Mountains. He held a breath for a moment, running the day’s agenda through his head, searching for a snag. Not finding one, he relaxed his diaphram and grabbed a handful of his Ilisia’s meaty thigh and sat up. He stood facing the window at the headboard, and stretched his arms, tickling the underneath of the rough-hewn beams with his fingernails, and began his morning. He laid the palms of his giant hands on the floor, and felt the sinews stretch from his knees to his buttocks. He relaxed there, folded in half, allowing the blood to circulate through his brain, and enjoyed the coolness of the teak floor on his palms. As his feet rose behind him and glided to the beams, his joints complained in popping thuds. He remembered diving into the clear, healing waters of Lake Dwardle years ago, when he had time for such foolishness. Lingering inverted, he closed his eyes and breathed. He dipped his arms, touched his forehead once to the floor, and folded his knees to his chest. Upright, he grabbed two brown rolls from his nightstand and tucked them into his loin cloth.
The stone and wooden structures of the castle were quiet in the mornings. The kitchen help was just rising, and he could smell the aged hickories being kindled in the stove.
“G’morn’ yer Majesty” the kitchen missy bowed deeply.
“Mornin’, Melissa” Rupert answered, and stepped out into the courtyard through the back entrance of the windowless pantry. The King slid the stone wall back into place, hiding this passage as his father had taught him. The grass was cool and moist on his wide, square feet. He began to trot as he approached the back gate of the compound.
“G’Morn M’Lord” greeted Glenfeld at the gate. His master-at-arms was up and about. Rupert swelled inside at the man’s loyalty and dedication to his King. Glenfeld represented the fifth generation pugilist, marksman and armorer to serve the Satchus coat of arms. Young Wendell, number six, stood beside his father, smiling, and waved as Rupert passed. The king drew an imaginary crossbow, licked his thumb across the sight, and fired at the boy. Wendell clutched his chest and twisted to the ground as his father opened the portcullis. The King of Cyprus jogged through the archway, and into the woods.
I have started transcribing, and here is what I have so far. I don't know, kind of a fantasy thing. Not what I have been writing lately, but, we'll see...
CYPRUS
1.
King Rupert Xavier Satchus V cracked his eyelids as the first grey light of dawn sputtered over the crooked teeth of the Black Mountains. He held a breath for a moment, running the day’s agenda through his head, searching for a snag. Not finding one, he relaxed his diaphram and grabbed a handful of his Ilisia’s meaty thigh and sat up. He stood facing the window at the headboard, and stretched his arms, tickling the underneath of the rough-hewn beams with his fingernails, and began his morning. He laid the palms of his giant hands on the floor, and felt the sinews stretch from his knees to his buttocks. He relaxed there, folded in half, allowing the blood to circulate through his brain, and enjoyed the coolness of the teak floor on his palms. As his feet rose behind him and glided to the beams, his joints complained in popping thuds. He remembered diving into the clear, healing waters of Lake Dwardle years ago, when he had time for such foolishness. Lingering inverted, he closed his eyes and breathed. He dipped his arms, touched his forehead once to the floor, and folded his knees to his chest. Upright, he grabbed two brown rolls from his nightstand and tucked them into his loin cloth.
The stone and wooden structures of the castle were quiet in the mornings. The kitchen help was just rising, and he could smell the aged hickories being kindled in the stove.
“G’morn’ yer Majesty” the kitchen missy bowed deeply.
“Mornin’, Melissa” Rupert answered, and stepped out into the courtyard through the back entrance of the windowless pantry. The King slid the stone wall back into place, hiding this passage as his father had taught him. The grass was cool and moist on his wide, square feet. He began to trot as he approached the back gate of the compound.
“G’Morn M’Lord” greeted Glenfeld at the gate. His master-at-arms was up and about. Rupert swelled inside at the man’s loyalty and dedication to his King. Glenfeld represented the fifth generation pugilist, marksman and armorer to serve the Satchus coat of arms. Young Wendell, number six, stood beside his father, smiling, and waved as Rupert passed. The king drew an imaginary crossbow, licked his thumb across the sight, and fired at the boy. Wendell clutched his chest and twisted to the ground as his father opened the portcullis. The King of Cyprus jogged through the archway, and into the woods.