This is an excerpt from a little over halfway through my Nanowrimo novel. The novel is written in stream of consciousness, largely influenced by the overwhelming amounts of Virginia Woolf and James Joyce I have read in the past year. However, I have my own twist to the stream of consciousness narrative voices. I put it together like Woolf, going between the thoughts of many people, but their interactions with one another is what sparks a perspective shift. To the modern reader, I think this will be easier to read.
The story is about a soldier who remains nameless throughout the novel. It starts pre-Vietnam War and shows the soldier as his family and friends see him. In typical Woolfian fashion, we see little to nothing about the war itself, other than the faint echoes it has with the Mrs. Dalloway/Mrs. Ramsay character, Mrs. Thompson. She is the mother of the soldier and expects far too much from the man who comes back from the war. The novel continues with the way people see his inability to come back to normal life and his mother is the only one who takes him in despite his (obvious to the reader) mental incapabilities due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. When his mother dies of cancer, soldier has no choice but to find his existence on the street. The first time we hear anything from his point-of-view is in the following excerpt, near the end.
And for all you Virginia Woolf fans, yes, this soldier is based off of Septimus... I lovingly called him "Septimus Prime" in my working draft (this still is a working draft, I guess). And yes, he does have problems with communication. Afterall, this is the first time we hear from him.
Without any further ado, here is an excerpt from my yet-to-be-named nanowrimo piece.
“What a beautifully horrific sight. I have never seen anything like this place during my entire existence. My desire is to penetrate the curtain the fog creates, to plunge my hand, then my legs, and thrust my body into the unknown behind the white-reflecting particles. Yet I know that, when I do, I will find myself not found. I will see nothing, only the glow of more particles bouncing off the mysterious white light. Where does that light come from? From the glow of a creator? The earth radiates green, but the fog reflects white. Perhaps when I find myself in this mist, I will find myself in the presence of a creator.
My body trembles at the idea, at the mere thought. I should sit until I can collect myself, sit here on this bench where the curves of my legs find their home. Husband always scolds me so for leaving early in the morn, but I cannot help but find a thrill while filling my being with this place. It is my secret, the only thing that follows me here are my own footprints. A haven, yet a treasure cove.
The morning sun slowly burns away the mystique of this place. Every morning, I see a new image appear from the encircling fog. Yesterday I saw the birdhouse the grave keeper (although I hear he is just a groundskeeper, I like to think of him as keeping graves) created and erected. I hate the sight of the thing. The grounds are sacred, hallowed. Silence pervades the area until even a caterpillar can be heard in a nearby tree. It is part of the horrific beauty, part of the dead. The grave keeper himself must be in fear of losing his own life. Perhaps he already has, perhaps he is already dead and deceased, merely breathing. Oh grave keeper, keep your tired attempts at joy away from this mourning.
Alas, the first figure to grace my eyes is none other than a beautifully ornate statue, the first stop on my journey through the fading mist. I know I have seen this stone before, yet with the wind coming up to carry the fog away from it, it looks somehow different. The details are softened, the face of the man is attractive, entrancing. I cannot look away from his pupil-less eyes- he has the eyes of a warrior. A strong man, passionate, bewitching.”
“What the hell does that woman think she’s doing? This is my fracking bench, I lay here until the grave keeper calls me in every day. I don’t want to be disturbed, not even by the sight of a person. No shit the statue is crumbling, what did you expect? It’s old, years of service have made it into nothing but rock formed loosely together to create something that resembles a man.”
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