by Gordon Zany
This is the opening of my first chapter, a sample of sorts, please review candidly.
|Chapter one, Years later|
This lone room sits relatively quiet, a building by itself. Its open windows allow the stuffiness that accumulates in small spaces to escape, whilst letting the pleasant spring breeze in, accompanied by the gentle warble of courting birds. The sing song voices not so disturb the quiet, but in their own way enhance it, bringing energy into its tight confines. This room is hardly small despite its cramped feel; it might be better described as simply being full. Filled with many assortment of various leather bound books and tomes, manuscripts and transcriptions. And of course, the assorted dictations and memoirs of the lord Gabriel Silverton, who so fastidiously collects and even hordes, what he feels is history in the making. His own to be precise. It is for this reason that he has built this room, this building, and hired to work and live in it, a scribe. It is this scribe, a gentle old man named Geoffrey Matterson, who has collected so much of this wealth, having in fact written at least a third of it himself. And though the other two thirds were largely bought by Geoffrey from others, a small yet not entirely indistinct portion is owed to the scribe's apprentice. The young John Morgan. Who is at this very moment, hard at work on yet another of the many documents his proud teacher has left him to. Carefully, painstakingly, he copies the words on each parchment for the sake of posterity. That is after all, one of the most important things his teacher has taught him, that we are the keepers of record, and the stewards of history.