This excerpt is not a stand-alonescene. However, I haven’t shared anything in nearly two-weeks, so, I thought, why not share today’s work, raw and unedited.Read the story from the beginning by reading this post first:
“You won’t need the Gods or anyone else once we’re done. You will have servants to wait on your wives, horses for your sons, and hunger only a bad dream.”
Ishaq panted against the wall. The men screamed their prayers.
He shouted,“SILENT.”
They collected themselves, their breathing relaxed, and with unexplainable death, now, no longer imminent, the party started scanning the room. The air was thin, and their torches were barely embers. Ishaq scraped forward in the dark. The men were transformed into floating mouths. Their eyes veiled beyond their torches’ reach. Then he crashed into onyx eyes. Inches from his face, suddenly, out of the black, he snagged himself and his head found stone.
Everyone squeeled at plates made of gold and bronze plates tumbling to the floor. The event relit fires-of-greed in the diggers’ eyes because any proper robber knows the clanks of treasure.
“Was that gold or silver?” A dizzy Ishaq heard someone shout.
“A leopard,” he said.
—End of Chapter—
Ishaq walked through the first-opened-gate back in Thebes. Bes avoided eye contact with the guards. An elderly tax collector appeared to brood over ordering them searched. They had filled their wagon with sand, and that, Ishaq did not forsee, would attract attention. There is plenty of sand on both sides of the wall. The thought, Ishaq could see, was painted on the man’s brow. They were fortunate when the old-man started to raise his hand, a dispute, further down the line, interrupted him, and saved them.
The days passed slow. Four walls become cells of madness for those in hiding. Ishaq emerged the evening of the fifth day. His supplies wore out, followed by his spirit, and he went to market as if he had been there every day. He confused many shopkeepers with inventions of old-conversations whenever a guard was near. He considered this the right decision when, buying tobacco, he heard a temple priest tell a guard captain to follow anyone purchasing with gold or bartering jewels, plates and Ishaq quit listening when Nefari tugged his arm.
“Oh, where have you been hiding?” she said. “I just left our magistrate’s house, I told him to put out the word to find you.”
“Why would you do that?” he said.
“Why? It isn’t like you to disappear. I thought,” Nefari hesitated. “I feared you were hurt.”
That night he dug up the gold he hid, in the earth, under his pillow. He sneaked through his city’s quarter’s shadows. Hidden under the rampart’s shadow, Ishaq spotted the priest he eavesdropped from earlier. Two men emerged into moonlight. Their daggers shined. These men weren’t temple guards.
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Most writers will face the existential crises of writer’s block. It is, perhaps, the most painful and draining season in our lives. The words won’t come; the blank page taunts you. Writer’s block is demoralizing, and, if like me, you already battle mental health issues, like depression, O.C.D., and anxiety, the struggle is ten-fold. I know, I know, there are writers out there, very successful ones, who claim writer’s block is a made-up-excuse. For example, Stephen King argues he has never struggled to concoct a sentence. I call bull sh!t!
For me, writer’s block often appears when I am in a season of performance anxiety. I live in the United States, and, here, the culture is toxic for creatives: if you are not producing, you are failing. I think anyone who discounts how hard it can be to write through these struggles are certainly not writers themselves. So, one way, and it may not be for you, I crawl out of writer’s block is to disregard the end goal; I focus on the process and not the ambition. In other words, ignore the noise.
This is a fact: stress kills art. Sure, there are those who are exceptions to this rule, but, again, focus on your process and stop comparing yourself to what others can do. Some writers will write and publish fifty-books, and some, probably me, will only publish five-or-six, but who knows the future? When you stress volume, you are actually inviting that little devil who goes by the name Capitalism to handcuff your creativity. No real artist, regarding any medium, goes in it for material success—yes, even though, it is natural to day dream money and fame. We do what we do, because it is who we are. There is no plan B option for those called to entertain or educate readers.
Truly, I tell you, you can easily spend a whole-life feeling behind everyone else or below their expectations, or you can embrace who you are and accept your whole self and not just what others accept about you.
So, I want to encourage you, dear follower, to remember why you write. Maybe write down a note about why you love writing and stick it to your computer or desk. Remind yourself that, first-and-foremost, the number one goal is to have fun. Leave your bitter haters to themselves, and cut from your life anyone who tries, even those who love you, to get you to compromise who you are. Art demands sacrifices.
You can do this; you can write today. Now, sit down, set a half-hour timer and force something—anything—onto the page. Trust me, if you do life “their” way, you’ll fail to write, and, ultimately, you will fail to live your true self. You are created to do this; your gifts are part of your identity, and don’t put yourself—and your art—second to anything.
I pray all of you, even the non-writers, have the courage to be yourselves. Truly, I tell you, you can easily spend a whole-life feeling behind everyone else or below their expectations, or you can embrace who you are and accept your whole self and not just what others accept about you. Now, write!
“You won’t need the Gods or anyone else once we’re done. You will have servants to wait on your wives, horses for your sons, and hunger only a bad dream.”
Below, my friends is a sample excerpt from my stories midpoint. Originally, I was going to keep this scene in my new novella, but I decided to cut it—I think—and write something different. As always, I want to share my hard work with all of you. Enjoy!
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Ishaq ordered the diggers to work by moonlight, shovels scraped, hammers smashed, and picks stabbed stone. The work was difficult. The men were soaked; sweat and sand clung to their skin. Halfway up the northside of the tomb, above the crew’s silhouettes, Ishaq studied the valley. The night performed tricks; phantoms prowled the desert, lizards transformed into soldiers, and gusts became chariots. If pursued, he knew, the soldiers would stealth in the shadows until, at last, on top of his party. Four-vigilant hours passed, and by the time the men were spent, he heard rocks fall.
At the bottom, he found the diggers on the ground, their chests heaving, their eyes anxious. Bes was occupied with distributing each man his ration of water.
“It’s hollow there,” Bes said.
“We’re too exposed,” Ishaq replied. “We must hurry.”
Ishaq ordered the crew to build a fire and shield it with a thief’s chimney. Each man linked their sleeping blankets together and encircled the flames. Bes erected a fire inside the improvised wall. He warned if the faintest ember could be seen they risked discovery. Others retrieved the pots of water they carried from Thebes. They worked fast; one-by-one, the pots boiled, and then two diggers, juxtaposed on each side of a blanket, dragged the water. Ishaq helped them leverage each pot between two beams of cedar above the dig site and carefully tilt it over. The limestone absorbed each douse and hardened. They repeated the process until, at last, the stone cracked. One digger swinged his hammer in wide vertical arcs and smashed the stone where it split. His blows thundered across the desert before the wall collapsed, and a hole big enough for one man at-a-time to crawl through, appeared.
Ishaq ordered their cart and what supplies could not be carried into the tomb to be buried. They discovered soft ground west of the tomb, and there, beneath a sand dune, the crew hid their supplies and marked the spot with a pattern of rocks. One man started petitioning the Gods to not hide their marker before they had a chance to recover their belongings.
“Stop praying,” Ishaq said. “The attention of the Gods is the last thing we need.”
The diggers shared, between them, that rare conversation reduced to a glance which suggests each man is all the other one has left in the world. Ishaq knew that look well; he saw it often in the war.
“You won’t need the Gods or anyone else once we’re done. You will have servants to wait on your wives, horses for your sons, and hunger only a bad dream.”
Ishaq, as he spoke, wrestled with images of his father. The old man grew weaker with every sunrise, and, worst, the God’s his father loved, the very ones he faithfully fed their sacrifices, the ones he taught his children to fear, returned his faithfulness by removing his sight and with it, hope. He cursed how cruel the Gods were and vowed to hire a physician with his share.
They were ready to enter at the blue hour; that in-between time where it is no longer dark, but not yet morning, when the desert holds its breath. The crew paused, and their eyes leveled on the stars; each committed the heavens to memory in case they’ve seen it for the last. One-by-one the diggers crawled through the hole; Ishaq went last. He wouldn’t risk one of the men not entering and alerting a nearby patrol, so to collect an easy ransom.
“it felt like those moments in life where we sense magic; those days where every bone in your body feels good, and there is laughter and love overflowing, and you know how great that feels. I feel that.”
Hello, and welcome my readers, followers, subscribers, cyber stalkers, Russian hackers, and anyone else who finds themselves reading my blurb. Like you, and every other humanoid, I’m just as self-obsessed and self-consumed with my life and reality, and, like you, I steady my aim toward that-ever-close-or-distant American, white-boy success, dream. So, engage and celebrate with me and forgive my little boast. For, I request a toast.
Above, a rare photo of me wearing the latest in I have yard work to do fashion: work boots, Star Trek: Next Generation socks—out of laundry, sweat soaked old-man-polo and, of course, featuring accents of grass. My hobo looking ass is sitting where my driveway meets the street. Seconds before my wife captured this moment, I grabbed the mail and read a package-slip from the publisher. My heart stopped. To hell with the yard, I thought to myself. I sat down and tore through packaging. Inside it was my poem. Well, the poem is on page 15, but it is not about the poem, it’s more than that: it’s my first writing ever published in a book and people can buy this book. Is this some grand accomplishment? No, but damnit I feel grand, and I want to enjoy it, and I want to share this moment with you—yes, You! It’s no small feat to trust that people really want to hear my voice.
I set a goal in January that I would be published twice before 2022; I am halfway there. So, go ahead and imagine Bon Jovi level excitement at my house. I feel gratified, even relieved.
Trying to publish, so far, feels like dating. Shew! So, please, help me give myself a bathroom-mirror-thumps-up. My publishing virginity is taken. Big Moments Count.
Now, I promise not to annoy you any longer, but a major part of accomplishing something is to bask in it with your friends. I lack those, but I have readers and that is sort of the same thing but better. Thank you for allowing me, and helping me make possible this giant, little step in my career as a writer. This blog is, after all, about my writing journey.
—W. Alexander. I wrote this high—on life, lol.
P.S: I just don’t know how to explain the feeling I felt when I first read my name, my words, on a physical, published book. The best I can do is say it felt like those moments in life where we sense magic; those days where every bone in your body feels good, and there is laughter and love overflowing, and you know how great that feels. I feel that.
You’re welcome to subscribe and follow me if you haven’t yet. I’m not always charming, but I like to think I share interesting things.
W. Alexander Dunford I will never forget the television’s blue light that night fifteen years ago. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Blood Diamond played. Outside, beneath black skies, rain pelted our windows and the house’s bones braced against high winds. Thunder shook the walls. It was Father’s idea to watch the movie. He loved violence, and I loved…
“…in that moment my fear retreated. I discovered I hated him and his kind. I hated his affluence, his expensive clothes, his chiseled looks, and the arrogance he was born to. But most of all, I hated the power he held over me, his assumption of authority, and the truth of his superiority.”
I wrote this story in February, 2021. I consider it one of my best pieces, artistically. I talk a lot about writing, and I want to share my own short story. Here, is an example of my passion for fiction. Share with me what you think.
This story is my intellectual property, and I provide no provisions for anyone to copy or download my data.
Worlds Apart
By W. Alexander Dunford
The long, thin esplanade snakes between the brackish waters of the Charles and the city—Boston. Here, under a dogwood tree, Chris wrestled back and forth with his future. The late morning sun transformed these muddy waters into polished glass.
The parkgoers beetled away, jogging and walking, stretching and splashing with the occasional laugh. Next to Chris, two dozen college students executed in solidarity a yoga class as couples passed with hands held, and others went about engaged in lively conversation.
Chris noted an exception to all the commotion: an elderly man feeding a flock of geese. The old man laughed as he spread breadcrumbs in all directions over their honks, delighting in their greedy squabbles over his generosity. One bird chased a crumb to where a girl was posed upside-down, and inches from her mat, it hissed. The old man chortled when the girl screamed and chased away the goose by hitting it with her blue tin water bottle.
It seemed months since Chris, too, laughed so hard. Today was a sunny Sunday morning and two white clouds snailed high above the skyline where a plane towed a banner advertising tickets for the Federal Theatre. Chris, for once, had nowhere to go and nothing he had to do this morning. Tomorrow, everything would change, and he may never see these waters again, or hear the city buzz behind him; he would begin his new life in Wyoming. It was God’s Will; the church declared this, but he doubted it. Watching the old man incite the geese, for a moment, gave him respite from the pain of losing his city, his identity, his normal. He closed his eyes, sat up straight, and let the sun touch his face. He began to pray. If only I could hear your thoughts, Lord.
Chris remained unmoved until something nipped his heel; he was alarmed to find several geese had, in fact, swarmed him—honking and hissing, prodding and squabbling, while he heard the old man laugh.
“All right, all right, leave the man alone,” the old man said and waved off the geese. He placed his bag of breadcrumbs in his coat pocket and joined Chris on the bench.
Chris shrugged his shoulders and willed his gaze on the river. His jaw was tight, his face flushed. He wanted to think; he needed to relay over and over how he got to this place. But no matter how hard he traced, he could not figure out why he felt punished. He wanted to be left alone.
“Sorry about your coffee, young man.”
Chris looked down and discovered his latte spattered over his shoes. He sighed and glanced between the old man and the geese that watched them both from a close distance. The old man offered him a napkin. Chris flung the napkin over his shoulder, stood up, looked around, and focused on each breath. He was in no mood to be grateful, so he started to walk off. When he stepped onto the esplanade’s path, a squadron of agitated geese confronted him. His face turned pale, and he slowly stepped backward before he bumped against the bench.
“You’ll want to sit awhile longer,” the old man said. “Those birds won’t bother me, but they will make a sport out of you.”
“Make them move.”
The old man shook his head, “I’m not going to do that.”
Chris turned to the old man; his mouth opened. He squeezed his fists and inhaled a deep breath. Lord, please don’t let me hurt this old man.
“Now, that’s no way to pray.”
“Do I know you?” Chris asked scratching his head.
“You do most days, but I’m here all the same.”
Chris would have walked away that instant if it were not for the, now, encirclement of waterfowl that restrained him. He glanced back-and-forth between the geese and the old man. He marveled how this man marshaled these birds; how they halted their honking and hissing and remained standing and guarding like sentries.
“Sit,” the old man said.
He wanted to go as far as his legs could carry him. The old man made a clicking sound, and the circle tightened. Chris obeyed. The old man smiled, pulled a pipe out of his jacket, and sparked a match; the smoke smelled citrusy and sweet. Chris’s body relaxed as the smoke filled his lungs: his stress, his fear, his anger all vanished. The troop of geese fluttered in formation and disappeared behind the trees.
“It’s frankincense,” the old man said.
“Who are you?”
The old man dragged on his pipe, producing a glowing ember, and inhaled more smoke; he smacked his lips, smiled, and still holding the pipe between his teeth, he wiped the ash from his fingertips. The smell reminded Chris of Mass, and his delight when this scent filled the parish: children’s noses crinkled, eyes watered, and all the faithful kneeled. Then he remembered that this morning’s 7am Mass was his last. He had announced his reassignment as tears cascaded down his and the congregation’s cheeks. He had spent ten years serving and leading, teaching and learning, and he winced at the thought of restarting.
“I am here to help.”
“I don’t need any help.”
“You did wish to hear my thoughts about Wyoming, did you not?”
Chris felt like a statue; he found it impossible to speak. He ran his hands through his hair. I’m crazy, he thought. Wake up, wake up, wake up. But every time he opened his eyes, he found the old man smoking and smiling, as if reading and listening to his thoughts.
“This is no dream.”
“But that would make you God,” Chris said.
“Nothing gets past you,” replied the old man.
He noted to himself to later look into medication. The God of Abraham doesn’t just show up in Boston. The old man laughed again, delighted with himself. This is some kind of joke, Lord. Help.
“What do you want?”
“I already told you. To help you.”
Chris resigned himself to playing this through and composed himself. He peeled his gaze from the old man’s face—blotted by blemishes, moles, and yellow teeth—and turned toward the river. Chris spotted a fleet of sailboats pilot the current, racing toward the ocean. Laughter and joyful shouts carried over the water. Scents of gasoline, saltwater and frankincense hung in the air.
“Okay, why do I have to leave?” Chris asked. “If you’re God, help me understand why I have to leave a life that makes me happy.”
“I am! And I don’t consider your happiness when I call. You are needed, and you are able, therefore you must go.”
Chris let these words sink to the dark depths of his heart. He knew them to be true, but as he closed his eyes images of his friends, his congregation, and his accomplishments permeated his thoughts. How was he any better than the martyrs of yesteryear? They gave up everything. I’m afraid I will fail there, and I will hate it, he thought.
“Worrying over the future costs real people the help they need today. My plan is mine alone, and Wyoming is where I want you,” the old man said, and inhaled another drag of his pipe.
“Why?”
“Because when you trust me to send you there, others will trust me to invite them to paradise. And besides,” he chuckled. “I said so.”
The sun beat down on Chris as he mulled over the old man’s words. When he opened his eyes, he saw the old man had vanished; and above the trees, he watched the troop of geese fly east toward the risen sun. He exhaled. Amen.
This story is my intellectual property, and I provide no provisions for anyone to copy or download my data.
Originally, I submitted for class discussion introductions, and I thought I’d like to have this on my blog too.
Fiction is devoted to exploring the complex drama of human experiences. The writer’s canvas is the human psyche, and we, the wordsmiths—creative writers, microscope the human condition; our job, first-and-foremost, is probing the everyday reality of human situations, regardless of how weird or superfluous, or sad, or hilarious, or frightening. I write to touch my readers’ hearts by writing truth.
My process is simple: I wrestle, before coffee, every morning to deposit onto the page, at a minimum, six-hundred words of prose, and, at some point in the day, I read fiction for a minimum of an hour a day—I do this five days a week. Creativity, I believe, is a muscle, and, like all muscles, routine exercise builds strength. Now, I confess, inspiration does not often come easy; prompt books are helpful when my creativity sleeps past the alarm. The most important thing a writer can do is write, but the second most important thing a writer must do is read. I read seventy-five, or more, books a year. The six-hundred words every morning, before my kids wake up, helps warm up my creative process; usually, once Scrivener, my software of choice, flashes the green check mark, which indicates I met my goal, I find myself unwilling to stop.
My Hogwarts Pride
I write both literary fiction and poetry, but my preference, my passion, my ambition, my purpose is writing prose—fiction. Like all art, the artist, in my case the writer, tattoos themself into their work. All good writing comes from writing what we know, and my truth, the nucleus of my identity is my Christian faith. However, I rarely write anything perceived as Christian, but rather my work, my characters and themes, wrestle with spirituality and ethical dilemmas—a footprint or commentary regarding my own wrestling with God. I embed this insight in nearly all of my work: truth is rarely, if ever, black-and-white, because a character’s circumstances are the brushes that paint their lives. I fancy myself a modern apprentice of Stephen Crane and Victor Hugo; albeit, my style mirrors Madeline Miller and Bernard Cornwell—I write tight.
I fear, after probing and articulating the human condition, my writing will go unread. My heart is in my work, and, like many of you reading this, I fear rejection; and I accept this fear may never go away; I cringe when rejection letters hit my inbox. However, my confidence holds firm, because without rejections, I would have never learned and ultimately published, and I would have gone on wondering if I was living a pipedream—my head stuck in the clouds.
Despite personal challenges, my obsession with routine writing and reading has provided me the tools to be good at theme and tension. I love paralleling themes with the physical world in my stories and with my characters’ situations—layering. Nothing arouses me more than when a reader, as if hoodwinked by a magician, thinks I have talent. The trick to writing well, I have found, is to make it easy for your reader to turn the page. My greatest strength in writing is my eye for the reader.
