Workings on the Ark

Hail readers!

Though I have, alas, not written recently here on the Magical Realm—and of what I have written, much has been concerned with politics—I shall now rectify this with a piece on (drum roll please…) the Ark.

In particular, I will release a hitherto unseen chapter of the Ark. It is actually the beginning to part two; nevertheless it requires little context to understand, and a great deal may be said about it. So without further ado…

Chapter Eleven: Words and Analysis

You can read the PDF here. That is perhaps easiest, but you can also read it here on the Magical Realm—along with my commentary:

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kaylin

Wings. Dark against the sky; whispering in a wind that brings the faint odour of death and immolation. Wings, everywhere. A terrible sound they make; a sound beyond words, a sound beyond sound. They make a terrible absence of sound, as if the very ether of being were torn into nothingness.

The world is bleak. The ruins of civilisation lie scattered: a burning
house there, or the faint ruins of a city. He lies there. Him, and his lover. They hold hands; they look around, lost and forlorn. And then, suddenly, a great laugh echoes across the world.

It seems to have no place, and yet it is everywhere. It is in the
corpses that lie strewn across their feet, the final rebellion of humanity. It is in the corpses long buried and forgotten in some timeless struggle. It is in the very dust of the Earth, the very air we breathe; and it is in that terrible emptiness. From there it originates.

Then gold-white light erupts, and the vision is over.

Now! Some context. As the first chapter in part two, chapter eleven introduces us to the raison d’être of the Ark: the cause of the Earth’s demise, and the struggle of our two protagonists to escape.

What we read here is a vision of Kaylin’s. I shan’t say too much of her, except to say that she is a prophet. By this I mean not a charlatan and purveyor of fanciful lies, but a person genuinely capable of seeing into the future. Her visions are remarkably accurate, but ultimately contingent; they can and do change.

Kaylin also knows the two protagonists by acquaintance (though the protagonists themselves know nothing of her true nature) and happens to be on a quest to save the world. I guess I should have mentioned that earlier, eh?

Anyway: the vision details the destruction of the Earth. But there is more to this chapter…

I BLINK. The boy in front—the boy from the vision—looks faintly perplexed. Casey, was his name? He looks at me with dark blue eyes, concerned. I plaster I smile; bright it is, brighter than the sun that streams in through the windows.

I’ve gotten very good at concealing my visions. I had to be: no one trusted a mad woman who saw things. Not unless they knew how my visions always came true. Not unless they knew of how I had won the lottery twice, and then a third pseudonymously. If they did, they would fear me; and rightly so.

We talked of idle things, then. The boy seemed happy enough to help, but he was taciturn, all in all. I didn’t blame him. I’d seen those dinosaurs—I didn’t want to get caught by them without my armour and weaponry. And I’ve been trained.

Eventually, he leaves. I look at him, and my mind is filled with worry.

I did not know when the vision would come true—I’d had a sense of it, but no more. It could be in ten years. It could be in one; but it would be soon, relatively speaking. Silently, I cursed.

I passed through the rest of the day, dealing with the teachers—God, they could be such fools—before walking out of New Aloysius. Being a headteacher could occasionally prove to be some work, but, well: a good cover was necessary. And being an ordinary teacher would have taken up even more of my time.

The sky above is blue and bright. I see the remnants of that darkness, and feel the faintest hint of cold fear.

I needed to plan.

This scene is concerned primarily with introductions into Kaylin and her character. It is also, of course, important in that our dear Kaylin actually meets one of the protagonists for the first time. It is one of those moments which neither consider particularly noteworthy or important, but which fundamentally alters their lives in ways neither can foresee.

MY MERCEDES responds smoothly and silently. It is a modest thing, really. It has leather seats, autopilot, climate control—hardly luxuries, in the general scheme of things. There were Ferraris that could reach a hundred miles an hour faster than an ordinary car might reach thirty. This? This was just a modestly sized, modestly priced, modest car for a modest lady.

I pull into the driveway, the gravel protesting faintly underneath. Located in a small patch of woods, my house appears unremarkable: it is built with a flat zinc roof, cedar cladding, and dark steel windows. Modernistic, yes; but not the playpad of a billionaire.

And I was a billionaire. I’d won the lottery three times, and never made a mistake in the stock market. Seeing the future is a burden I’d want few to bear, but it’s not without its perks.

Inside, the furniture was plush leather; a fireplace lay cold, surrounded by finely cut glass and stone. I’d designed it myself; and I’d been lying if I said I wasn’t proud.

Still, I had more to worry about than my décor.

I walk to my living room, remove the rug—an elegant bear is sewn across the face—and pop open a trapdoor. Down the rabbit hole I go. The stairs are sheer and vertical, the metal hard and cold. When I reach steady ground, white-blue lights spring to life.

I keep a number of things here. Firstly, there’s a suit of armour—they’re worth a small fortune, but they can stop quite a few bullets, shrapnel and ex-plosions—along with a spare. There are weapons. A few rifles, a hand-held rocket launcher, and some grenades. I even keep a few knives around; their use was more aesthetic than practical, but then I’ve always been fond of a good show.

Then there’s the cash. I keep a million here, but no more. I wasn’t stupid.

Finally, the place is home to a computer.

It is unremarkable: three monitors, a keyboard and mouse. I was very traditional. You wouldn’t find me with tablets and holograms; a good 8K monitor did the trick for me. Although, I did have one or two extra tricks.

I had a projector, and of course: my tactical table. It was a substantial table, all covered by an enormous screen. I place my iris above the scanner, and then my finger over the fingerprint scanner. The screen bursts to life.

A world map is shown; my operations are highlighted by green dots. I have quite a number, in most of the world. I was nothing if not thorough.

I make my way to the computer, enter a password (interesting fact: I could usually discern a password just by standing in front the screen) and pull up my contacts. I had access to senior diplomats, generals, programmers, and even a few politicians. I had access to some of the greatest scientific minds the world has seen; I knew engineers, chemists, physicists—you name it.

But right now, I needed some information. I needed to know when the bastards thought the damn ship would set sail.

I needed to know, because those two kids had to be on it. When the Ark left, it would take them; away from Earth, and away from Armageddon.

The thought brought a grim smile to my face.

The rest of the chapter provides fascinating details about Kaylin, and a certain dash of excitement. The world will come to an end—unless she can stop it.

If you care to read more, keep following. I’ll be releasing more posts on a similar vein. But now, I must leave you; the Ark, after all, does not write itself.

On the Ark, and a Poem

Hail readers!

Hitherto, I have mentioned my progress regarding the Ark (my upcoming scifi novel come romance, for those of you who managed to miss my numerous posts so far). I promised that part I, entitled Love, is to be complete; and I can indeed confirm that my promise has been fulfilled. Part I is finished, and I have a few words that need be said.

Firstly, I have decided to precede the section with an epigraph; this shall be a poem entitled A Fool’s Hope. You may consider it appropriate once you have read it:

In the warm whispers
Of timeless summer zephyrs
A message; a word, is carried
By its caressing touch.
A word named love.

Through the bright summer sky
Across the golden light of that
Eternal cosmic giant; across willows and oaks
And pools of perfect blue-green water
The word makes its way.

Who can know where it may go?
Will it find me, alone in the forest
Whose name is a thorn
To all those foolish?
For it would be a foolish thing, indeed!

To believe in that warm promise;
To hope: of nights spent in your embrace
Alive with your awesome temptation.
A fool’s hope, a trinket for peddlers!
Or is it, in truth, what I have always desired?

The word—a whisper in the wind, a rustle in the leaves
A bird, bright red in that green world—settles on my shoulder.
It sings a beautiful song; the forest sighs
Released from its dark thoughts.
You have come.

(A PDF of this poem shall also soon be posted to the Poems page, if you are wondering.)

Aside from this, allow me to address certain ideas about this part in the book and the wider plot in general.

Part I, and its Place

Part I is, as you may be able to infer, about our darling protagonists’ love affair. It is chiefly concerned with bringing about that strange sequence of events; that which leaves two young men smitten one with another, and their lives hopelessly entangled.

In some ways, Conall and Casey’s connection is surprising. It is true: they share a thing or two in common. Both are really rather keen intellectuals—for Conall this generally means politics, and its brethren, economics; and for Casey this means computers and the universe. The two are not nearly so disparate, however; for they find that in discussing their interests, they begin to see both sciences as being absolutely fascinating.

Anyway: let’s leave their intellectual pursuits aside. They do have substantial differences. Conall is the son of the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and his mother is a multimillionaire. Casey is the son of deceased parents, and is taken care of by his academic Uncle. While both suffer from the pursuit of the intellect, there are substantial differences in their economic means that I take pains to explore.

Part I, however, is not only about their love affair. It also serves as an introduction. It details the situation of Cork, in 2120; it speaks of the Plague, and how it can turn night into day and summer into winter (quite literally!) It speaks of the technology, much of it already extant—as I explain here—but more developed, and more mainstream. It also addresses everything from how nature has adapted to such circumstances (phosphorescent grass being a particularly obvious example) to the style of the architecture.

And in the broader plot, part I sets the scene. It hints of the dark reason for the Plague’s inception. It hints also of the troubles that our protagonists will face; for, of course, no tale is complete without hardship. (Indeed, to misappropriate the great C.S Lewis: if God had made the world, he would be a cosmic sadist.)

‘Alex!’ you cry; ‘this is all fine and good, but why don’t you show us the damn book?’ That, alas, I cannot do. But if you have not already done so, you may take a look at the first two chapters.

Now, I must leave you. I shall write more on the Magical Realm, when time permits. But I am of course concerned with the Ark, for not only am I consorting with an English teacher with regards to what changes I may make to part I; but also, I must think of part II: Life. For that, dark omens lie in wait…

The Ark: A Beginning

Mr Stargazer is pleased to announce that a prologue—beginning in medias res, for the purpose of drawing inquisitive minds—along with the first chapter have now been written. This, as you can discern, is significant; for not only do the greatest of journeys begin with the smallest of steps, but so too is this a taste of things to come.

Before Mr Stargazer elaborates on the specifics (concerning writing style, character voice, world-building and so on), it is recommended that you, dear reader, ought take a look...

Read The Ark

Once you’ve done so, please consider giving Mr Stargazer some feedback. The latter is valuable for the still burgeoning writer—as even the more arrogant souls will admit—and it may allow him to improve upon his creation. Additionally, allow Mr Stargazer to delve into the specifics; he is ever so vain, is monsieur Stargazer, and you may learn a thing or two besides.

Okay, Al: What Am I Looking At?

You are looking at the beginning of the Ark. This may change; such is the fickle heart of a writer. Regardless, it is an important step. And it begins with a prologue, set towards the end of this grand tale.

I shan’t hint too much of it, for there is yet much unknown and much that ought remain unknown. What I will say: it is indeed what it appears to be. Our protagonists—one Conall Danann and another Casey Kearney—are at Ground Zero: a facility where the Ark hovers directly above, on the edge of space.

The exact means by which it is kept there are complex; ordinarily, such an object would be in a rapid free fall (likely exceeding 20,000mph) and would soon crash into some unfortunate corner of the world. Thankfully, the Ark’s ‘engines’—which are in fact powerful generators of an artificial gravity, and warp space to keep it stationary—prevent this.

Regardless, our protagonists are there to fulfil a simple goal: getting on the Ark. I shan’t say how they achieve this, of course—that would be much too simple.

What I will say: the writing style is a formal one, as befits both the nature of the character (a charming young poet) and the inclinations of its creator. Nevertheless, it is not devoid of informality, even slang; ‘bajanxed’ is one such example. I attempt to carry both fluency (a point on which the Necromancer was criticised, owing to its tendency to sudden expositionism and superfluousness) but also detail. Do I succeed? That will be for my readers to decide.

I will also admit to being disused to first-person narration; the matter being made particularly difficult due to Conall’s disturbing similarites with my own nature. He, a poet, and yet an erudite reader, presents a number of challenges: his vocabulary is remarkably vivid, complex, and vast; and yet he is young, not yet embroiled in archaisms, nor immune to informal expression. Combining the two is easier said than done, alas.

What About The World?

In the first chapter, I concern myself firstly with introducing to you the peculiarities and wonders of this New World. Some aspects are really quite extraordinary: the Earth is constantly in a state of summer over the northern hemisphere, for example, but in a state of winter over the southern equivalent. Moreover, night and day can become off-kilter—days can last ages; nights can grip the world for long stretches, bringing all manner of troubles.

Other aspects intend to be humorous. The Sunshine! lamps, and their peculiarities—the yellow light, the incredible brightness, but also their tendency to vary in output unpredictably—are one such example. The latter is caused by a still developing production process, which results in substantial variation between the exact quantity and quality of the materials in use.

Whether this is indeed humorous is not within my ability to determine; hence my call for feedback.

With the various fascinating history, and detail, aside, I must address the most important matter of them all: Conall, and Casey.

A Question of Chemistry

Conall meets Casey in a twist of Fate, by fortuitous happenstance. And yet, there is an ease of communication between them; they seem to know one another’s mind, to mirror subtle messages of body language, and to achieve a kind of symbiosis.

That, at least, is the theory.

Aside from that, I do not neglect the physical aspects of attraction. Though the matter itself merits complex discussion concerning human sexuality, and various philosophical deliberations on normative versus descriptive elements of sexuality—on construed paragons, inherent desires, and so forth—I will bypass it all to present one simple message: they are teenagers. Sex is awesome. What’s not to love?

Most of all, I aim to instil a sense of desire—of hope, of wonder at human existence. Do I succeed? Once more, a question beyond my remit.

Parting Words

The Ark is as yet inchoate. I have a great deal more yet to write; and numerous difficulties of plot, narration, and characterisation are yet to be addressed. But, for all that, I hope you are as drawn to this tale as I am. I sense potential, excitement, possibility. Do you?