I Remember My First Time by Dylan Doose

Author:Dylan Doose [Doose, Dylan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B01J6J24EK
Publisher: Dylan Doose
Published: 2016-07-25T23:00:00+00:00

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Sample chapter

Fire and Sword

T he candle flickered, fighting the darkness and the damp of the stone basement where Aldous Weaver hunched over a scarred desk, quill in hand. His fingertips were stained black, black like the sucking mire of woe in the stone basement of his mind. Memories of the darkest kind clawed at the cellar door. He dipped the quill back into the ink, his eyes straining to focus as he wrote.

An honest writer is the most virtuous of heroes; one who lies is the most deplorable of all villains.

Again he dipped the quill.

Those were the most important words I had ever been told. Words that would whisper in the wind as I lay awake and wept in those long nights at the beginning, and from the shadows of my soul the words would echo back. They were the sustenance that I sipped from under the boundless burden of the truth. To write lies that cloak the veracity of what dwells in the abysmal catacombs of the soul of man is a task for politicians and rogues of equivalent wickedness. A task that is tempting with its tantalizing lure to power and control, a task the weaker man will always prefer. To write the truth, to with no more than the oil lamp of one’s own honest intent crawl ever deeper into the black abyss that is humanity, is the gravest of tasks.

These words belonged to my father. He gave them to me the night before they burned him alive.

Aldous paused for a moment to steady his trembling hand. He took a breath and blinked his burning, tired eyes. Then he returned his sword to his foe, returned the quill to the page for the thousandth time, knowing that he would have to do so a thousand times more. Frustration surged.

“Words. They are my only tool, my only weapon, yet they betray me.” Aldous tossed down his quill. “Forever they betray me. This is not honesty.” He glared at the parchment. “This is nothing more than a flowery illusion, masking the scent of the truth. Miserable. Bloody miserable attempt.”

He needed this book, the book he would dedicate to his father, to be perfect. The whole book had to be perfect, yet after a thousand tries, the first page was still nothing.

The fire that gave him light to write his pages was the same fire that could burn them to ash and dust. When he put the edge of the parchment to the candle it caught and burned quickly. He got a glimpse of the last words—they burned him alive— as the flames devoured the sheet.

He remembered as a small child watching men come from far and wide, men who called his father magnificent, brilliant, a writer unsurpassed.

After they burned him, the bastards burned his books. The priests said they were the words of sorcery, and so they must be burned along with the man who wrote them .

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