The March Assignment, Week 4

[Kaez]

Scoreboard:
1. James (73)
2. Jason (48)
2. Blood (31)
4. Ian (17)
5. Joe (14)
6. Schro ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
7. Alex (13)
8. Ink (12)
9. Sawyer (10)

WEEK 4 DEADLINE: Friday, March 31st @11:59pm PST

For Week 1, you wrestled with narrative. Week 2, originality. For Week 3, you wrestled with genre.

Something crucial is still left. Something that AWR struggles with, on the whole, perhaps more than anything else: character.

Characters are what make stories worth reading. Characters are the subjects, the experiencers. We may read about it, but the stories happen to them. A rich, complex, dynamic, multifaceted, sympathetic, believable character is all any story needs to hook the reader, to keep them interested - characters imply stories, they imply narrative, they imply originality. A good character is a unique perceiver, they lend validity and reality to the stories that happen to them. No matter how unoriginal or uneventful or mundane the setting and the events are, a single character with the depth and reality of a real, living person will imbue the rest of the story with qualia and with life.

You know the drill by now. 50% of your stories will be judged on the general quality of your writing. This week, the other 50% will be judged on the strength of your characters. You're open to telling whatever kind of story you want in whatever way you want to tell it. You can have many characters or just a few, lots of dialogue or hardly any, first-person or third or anything else that suits you. Just breathe life into your characters. Create authentic, nuanced personalities. Get into their heads and their hearts. Make them breathe.

I know this one's daunting for some of you. Characters and dialogue have been regular hang-ups for several members on AWR. This is an excuse to experiment, to dive head-first into creating a character without need to worry so much about the rest of the story. Have fun with it. Be indulgent. Challenge yourself. You'll never write better characters if you don't actively try, and this is a chance to not just do that, but to get feedback from me and at the post-March Inklings.

You've got the rest of the month!

[James]

<At the Underground Workshop>

[J.O.N ((Dragonwing))]

They came to arrest him at Coolibah Station, some two hundred miles out from Daly Waters. Two white coppers rode in on thoroughbreds to grab Billy as he was coming in from droving. Billy and the station owner caught sight of them as they came in on exhausted horses of their own. It was rare to see coppers so far out from the towns.

“What's this here about, Billy?” Questioned the station owner. It was unheard of for Billy to grab the attention of the police.

“I dunno boss...”

Billy's face was caked in red dirt and mud, a sign of the hard ride from Wiluna. Sweat rolled from his hair line cutting trails through the muck and letting his burnt black skin show through. Unlike the station owner he had forgone the wide brim hat common amongst the stockman, instead he just wore a simple white shirt and moleskin trousers.

His people were the Gurindji from around Victoria river. Since he was a child his family had good relations with the station. However one day he came into the station, beaten by the bush and half dead of thirst. No one could find his family and eventually he was adopted into the Coolibah station family. As he grew into a man it was easy to find work at Coolibah as a stockman.

Almost as soon as he had started work, a crippling drought had set in on the region and his abilities to find water sources along the punishing stock routes through the dry interior won him the head position amongst the stockman. From Wiluna, all up the Canning Stock Route even to Darwin; Billy was said to be able to read the land like it was map. Countless times he had guided herds from hidden water hole to hidden water hole, or he would lead a rescue party straight to whomever was stranded out in the bush.

For seventeen years he lived and worked at Coolibah station, but never had he attracted the attention of the police.

“Billy Coolibah?” The coppers voice was relaxed and confident they had their man. Not many other Aboriginals worked at the station.

“That's me boss, hope I haven't caused any trouble.”

“Sure have, got orders to bring you into Darwin, you got an appointment in front of the magistrate,” The copper talking had black hair, well enough groomed even after a what would have been a long trip from Kimberly.

The station owner threw Billy a confused glance, his eyebrows furrowed. Billy merely shrugged in response.

“On what charges?” He asked.

“Indecent assault and murder,” The well groomed policeman stated grimly.

“Here hang on!” Shouted the station owner, manoeuvring his horse around to face the coppers and to place him between them and Billy. “Billy here has spent almost a month travelling from here Perth driving two thousand heads of cattle, you can't expect me to believe he found time to kill someone!”

At the owners outburst the air began to get tense and Billy saw the policemen’s hands drop to the guns they had resting across their saddle. Seeing the anger in the owners eyes, he held his hand out to the infuriated man before dismounting.

“Don't worry boss, I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding, I'll go with these here men and get it all cleared up. I'll be back before the Wet, easy.”

The mounted man didn't move for a couple seconds before his shoulders deflated.

“If you are so sure, I won't stop you Billy, but you take care of yourself, you hear?”

Flashing the older man a grin, his white teeth flashing in the Sun, he gave a nod.

“Sure thing boss.”

***

The iron shackles weighed down Billy's hands, their constant pressure a reminder that he was no longer a free man. They had left mid morning and even with the quick pace they set, they had barely left the land of the station. Already he could see the sun beginning to slip behind a ridge, a dusky orange glow the only light to guide their way through the bush.

“We'll make camp at the crossing,” The well groomed policeman said. He was referring to the crossing at the now dry Victoria river.

Billy had learnt that his name was Harry. His partner was a more dishevelled man with messy brown hair and a leathery wrinkled skin gained from long decades in the Sun. His age and looks seemed to suggest the man was more a veteran then the younger one. He went by the name of George. He was the one that held the leash that connected to Billy's shackles. He had a strange glint to his eyes, seemed to carry himself with an air of amusement. As if he knew some great joke at Billy's expense.

Trudging along the dust covered trail, Billy felt a sudden jerk on the chain that acted as the leash and he almost fell backwards mid stride. Looking back shocked and stunned he saw George grinning down at him.

“Did you hear that boy? You get to have a rest soon, bet those feet are sore,” Mocking him from the comfort of his saddle. Where Harry was more professional, George seemed to enjoy taunting Billy.

“I dunno Gubba, but I bet those horses will be relieved.”

George scoffed at Billy but quietened down and stopped harassing him until they reached a spot to make camp. Sitting on the ground as Harry built a camp fire, Billy stared at the shackles on his hands.

“Never been in trouble huh? That's surprising, never met a black man that had never been brought before a magistrate.”

George had found his tongue again.

“Never been around enough white fellas I guess,” The fake smile from Billy was a bright red, reflecting the dancing flames of the fire.

“You don't know what's gonna happen to ya, do you?” George chuckled with a sadistic glee, he seemed giddy at the information he seemed to know that Billy did not.

“Drop it George, no point in spooking the man.”

Harry had chimed in now, he was stirring the pot of soup they were having for dinner. The warm savoury smell of beef making all their stomachs growl in anticipation.

“Come on Harry, he should at least know the fate that will meet him in Darwin,” As he said that he glanced at Billy and grinned again. He gave him a wink at the mention of the city.

“You're dead black boy. No Abo gets away from the law once you're in a white man's court house.”

“I didn't do anything, a fair trial will show that,” Billy almost growled, but even he was beginning to doubt the outcome.

“Hah! You're naive if you think we care,” George's laugh cutting into the night air, strange and alien amongst the peaceful sounds of insects and the fire. “Doesn't matter if we kill the wrong Abo, just need to make an example of you blacks.”

Harry interrupted him before he could continue, thrusting a bowl of the soup in his hands and growling at him to shut up.

“He gets a fair trial, I want have you speak any more of this -Bush Justice-!”

The two men seemed to reliving an old argument, Harry had kept his gun near him and was eyeing George who had turned his glare on the younger policeman. Billy fell into a sullen silence, finding it hard to eat his own meal. Eventually the fire started to die and he drifted to sleep.

His dreams were chaotic and strange. Black stick figures seemed to stretch above him and warp and change. He felt he was a child once more, chasing a goanna that led him amongst the trees of his people. Behind him he felt some force chasing him, bearing down on him.

It was malevolent. An evil he had never felt that bore down on him like a sand storm. When he looked back all he could see was the jerking actions of a white figure racing towards him across black sands. He felt cold, alone and desperate. Running over rocks and through scrub he could never lose his pursuer.

Closer it got, the fear gripped Billy's heart and like talons of a giant bird he felt his soul ripped from his body and carried high above amongst the stars. Left open and struggling the white beast stood over him, the sky behind it brewing into a great storm.

Crack.

The thunder roared around him and echoed in his ears. He struggled to block it out, to ignore it, but it only grew louder before ceasing entirely. In its place there were voices, the chants of his family.

Get up.

Run.

Run.

Get up!

The blow caught him in the ribs and broke him from his nightmare. Rolling in the dirt from the force of the kick, he roused from his sleep to see George standing over him. It was still dark, no stars or moon seemed to sit in the sky and the chill air told him it was early in the morning. Only the glow of the embers that lit the excited face of George.

Glancing around, Billy saw a figure sprawled out on the ground. Harry's body, unmoving. Dark stains seemed to seep out from it into the red dirt. Looking back to George he saw the man holding a pistol in left hand. The air still held the acidic stench of gunpowder.

“Wakey, wakey boy,” Georges voice was deep and excited, almost a growl. There was a drunken slur to it. Shivers ran through Billy's bones and he cautiously rose to his feet.

He suddenly realised that his hands were free from their chains. They lay discarded near the drunken man, who held an empty grog bottle in his free hand.

“That's right, you're free to run now. So why don't you take those long legs of yours and scurry out into the bush,” he kicked the chains aside, the noise of metal stark in the night. “Oh don't worry, the fun isn't ending tonight. But I think it's only fair you get a head start, right? A fair trail!”

Raising the gun and pointing it at Billy, the policeman's eyes blazed with fire. A passion like a dog lusting to chase its prey. Billy slowly started to back away from the camp site, George keeping pace, gun held straight.

“Run!” He roared at Billy, and Billy fled in to the bush.

The cackle of George followed the fleeing Aboriginal all through the dark of the morning and well past the rise of the Sun. Scrambling over rocks and through the cutting tufts of Mitchell grass. He bounded across the land, fear his only driving force. The chill of morning gave way to the heat of midday. He was punished with each step, the sand hot enough to leave burning welts on his feet and hands. His trouser had been cut to shreds below the knees, mere scraps.

But he didn't slow or let up. Like his dream he could feel it. The white man just past the shimmer of the heats mirage, a figure steadily gaining on him. Just the day earlier he had been getting ready to settle back in as a stockman at the station. Already he could see the owners wife taking the children out for a picnic amongst the wattles. The men still hungover from drinking the night before.

It would be a peaceful day on the station.

A stone slipped from under him and he took the fall in his stride ducking into a roll. He was exhausted though and he struggled to get back to his feet. His chest felt crushed as if a snake had wrapped itself around him, sapping him of air each breath. He thoughts were wild and desperate.

Why run? It was all he could do though. A mad man was out to kill him, but who could he go to get help? If he doubled around he might get back to the station.

But would he? Should he?

They weren't fighters. Sure the owner carried a rifle, but the children, his mates? Could he lead the jaws of a madman to them?

“Reliable Billy, that's what they call you right?”

The voice echoed around the dunes and stones, a old voice. It was in a language he hadn't spoken in a long time.

His language.

“Your language? You are no Gurindji. Just a white fellas mutt,” Billy had stopped moving, now he just whirled around in place seeking out the source of the voice. “You think we don't remember? You ran from us just like you now run from the white man.”

“Show yourself!” Billy called out, gasping for breath as he stood in place. The voice was impossible to pin down, it drifted from shadow to shadow.

“Nothing to show you here Billy,” It seemed to pause for a moment as if thinking before continuing. “Do you remember your name?”

“My name is Billy, Billy Cool-”

“No!” The voice interrupted in a fury, the air electric with anger. “Your -real- name, the name of your skin and kin. The one sang to you by mother and country!”

Billy searched his mind for the memories of his name. Each twist and turn of his thoughts pushed through a fog; glimpses of yelling, pain, fire and smoke. Hurried feet and screams of words that had lost their meaning to time. All he could remember was that he ran, from his family, from his land.

All his life he had been running from that moment.

The crack of the rifle dashed the voice and his mind to the winds and pain unlike any he had felt before burned through his side. He felt his legs give out under him and icy coldness spread from his guts. Darkness took him as he saw the ground rush towards him.

***

The smell of smoke and blood stirred him from the dark of unconsciousness. Pain pulsing all along his right side. Eyes fluttering open, he found himself staring up at the sky, the bright spikes of light from the Sun stabbing him in the face. He raised a hand to shade himself and almost cried in pain at the movement.

“Ah finally woken up boy? I was hoping you wouldn't die so easily on me.”

It was the unmistakable amused gravely voice of George. He had caught him. Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him up against the dead stump of a tree. Tears welled in his eyes as the fire in his side roared to life.

“Hurts doesn't it?” George smirked as his grizzled face came in to Billy's view. The man brushed away Billy's hand from his gunshot wound and gave it a once over before giving a satisfied nod. Billy watched him walk away, sauntering as he whistled a cheery tune.

Now sitting up he could see that George managed to set up a small camp. A horse tied off to a stake and a bedroll laid out with a small fire going, it looked like he had started cooking his tucker. The sun was past its zenith and long shadows had began to grow.

“You're probably wondering why I let you escape,” George called back, taking a bite from his meal. “Why would some white copper let a black man run only to hunt him down?”

Billy stared at him, careful to test his strength. His right leg was barely responsive but biting his teeth through the pain he figured he would be able to stand. There was no getting away though, not now.

“Do you know how easy it is to convince people that it was some Abo that killed a white woman? Even one well respected as you?” George spat a bit of gristle to the ground and started laughing. “You don't even know why I'm doing this to you.”

There was a silence while Billy waited for him to continue. He tried to think of some offence he had committed upon the man, some action for him to have such a grudge. No matter how hard he thought he could not even picture the aged man's face in his mind.

“I had hoped you would be a challenge, I knew it was a fools dream,” George finished off a scrap of meat and threw the remains back in his cooking pot. Standing up he pulled a hunting knife from his belt and checked its edge. “Your father was the best chase I ever had. For two days he led me on walkabout through the desert. After that... After that I couldn't just go back to hunting pigs or buffalo.”

Billy's mind raced. Father? What was this man talking about. His first thought was the station owner that raised him but the memories of the fire and smoke -the running and screaming- they came flooding back. Like in his dreams he could never place a voice or remember any detail, but with the aged face in front of him he saw it grow younger, the tan and wrinkles fade. There in the remains of his childhood was the thing he ran from.

“You killed them? My family?” He whispered, choking and trying to hold back tears he never thought to shed.

Georges face shone with triumph.

“You remember now, bloody well done!” He watched as Billy used the stump behind him to struggle to his feet, rubbing the tears in his eyes away. “Oh I had hoped you would remember, the blank look you gave me when I rode in to that station left me disappointed.”

“Why? What did we do to you?” Billy growled, anger mixing with the shock.

“Oh I never bothered to memorise those details, probably one of you spear-chuckers attacked a farm or white man. Or maybe we just had to cull you out, like when you cull Dingos, can't have too many scavengers about.”

He looked introspective for a moment as if recalling a far off memory he cherished.

“But that chase across the bush, the thrill once I managed to put that old man down. Never had I felt it before. I had hoped you would match your father, maybe even give me a better chase, being young and all. But I guess you were the runt, hah!”

As George relished his chance to disparage Billy and his family, Billy heard the voices that spoke to him earlier. It echoed from beyond the veil in his mind, much more familiar but still without a face. His sight warped and the light began to fade, but the madman shone bright as always. He took a stumbled step forward and almost cried out in pain.

“Remember your name! Remember who you are!”

Another step, this time he managed to ignore the agony of walking. George arched a brow but didn't drop his deriding smile, he brought the gun to bear on Billy's chest. Billy saw Georges mouth move but sounds were being drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in his ears, the beat of his heart. The gun flashed and he jerked, a cut opening on his upper arm. No pain though, no more pain.

A second shot hit him in the chest. He stopped and teetered but managed to move forward, shambling unstoppably towards the policeman. George began to look worried and fired again, but the gun jammed, the gunpowder exploding it in his hand. He let out a silent scream and clutched at it, dropping his knife. Billy dove forward, his vision almost black except for the glint of the blade. Clutching it in his hands he felt George grapple him for it. Even with just one hand Billy could barely keep him away.

He heard the the voices of his lost family, the distant humming of his mother and the calm deep voice of his father. But other voices began to filter in; the boisterous and motherly tone of the station owners wife, and the rough loud voice of the station owner, ever protective of him. In a crescendo they shouted out for him, a dam broke and memories flooded in. Recollections of being taught how to read the stars in the sky, which ones were his ancestors. The songs of his people. The memories of his people mixed with those of his time with the station family.

With a roar he drove the knife up and into Georges throat.

The struggling stopped and a gasping choking escaped the man's mouth before the life in his shocked eyes faded. Billy wished he could have shared stations wife's lemon cakes with his maternal mother.

Letting the knife slip from his fingers he collapsed into the dirt, as red as his chest and face. All he could see was the sky, dark except for the glittering stars. He didn't feel alone, but he ached for someone to come a hold him. From the edges of his vision he saw the dark figures from his dream crowd in around him.

“My name is Jakamara...” He breathed with a smile.

Unable to lift his arms or stand, he felt them reach down and lift him as one up in to the night.

[Kaez]

James

Things I can critique about your story:
• There’s like 5 typos.
• 2 or 3 jokes fell a little flat in comparison to the rest and could easily be nixed.
• It’s not entirely clear how the escape is feasible at the end if she’s in a ship “entirely drained of power”. That wouldn’t be hard to fix.

Things I like about your story:
• Literally everything else.

This is easily one of my favorite things written by you and on AWR in general, if not my very favorite. It’s as funny as Sex Cult and it has the same level of writing quality and characterization as Glassblower’s Peace. What more can you ask for? I could just sit here and list off praises for my favorite parts (like Stephen ‘blushing’ via the walls and the ramble about ‘post-lokies’), but really the whole thing, from a great beginning to a great ending, rocks.

Writing: 10/10
Prompt: 10/10

***

Jason

So, read this thing you wrote:

“His people were the Gurindji from around Victoria river. Since he was a child his family had good relations with the station. However one day he came into the station, beaten by the bush and half dead of thirst.”

Then read this:
“His people were the Gurindji from around Victoria River. Since he was a child his family had had good relations with the station, but then one day he came staggering in, beaten by the bush and half dead of thirst.”

Two things there. 1: Starting a clause with ‘however’ is the biggest flow-breaker there is, and 2: One of the easiest and most overlooked ways to give writing flavor is to use colorful verbs. Something like ‘staggering’ or ‘stumbling’ instead of just ‘came into’ gives us an immediate visual of the scene and gives the reader more sensory hooks to grab onto. I’d take a good verb choice over adding extra adverbs or adjectives any day.

You did great work with the piece before the first “***”. We’ve got a strong sense of Billy, from childhood to now, but we’ve also got two huge mysteries: what the hell happened to his family and why is he so chill about these murder charges that seem to have come from nowhere? You’ve got me hooked to keep going.

Now read this thing you wrote:

“He went by the name of George. He was the one that held the leash that connected to Billy's shackles. He had a strange glint to his eyes, seemed to carry himself with an air of amusement. As if he knew some great joke at Billy's expense.”

Sentence structure is important. Short sentences are nice. Medium length sentences are nice too. And then you can alternate by bringing in some much longer sentences. And go back. And then return to the middle again. < Like I’ve just done. These here are all about the same length, all start with ‘He went’, ‘he was’, ‘he had’, ‘as if he’. Watch out for that.

“Looking back shocked and stunned he saw George grinning down at him.”

Going back to the first point, this was a great opportunity to drop some colorful sensory details. Describe him kicking up the dust, wobbling to his feet, whipping his head around, his expression growing sterner, etc.

A fair bit of the non-Billy dialogue feels a little stiff. “Spooking the man” would probably be, “Spookin him.” “If you are so sure,” would probably be, “Well if you’re so sure.” “The fate that will meet him in Darwin,” to, “The fate he’s headed for in Darwin,” etc. Things like ‘you are’, ‘that will’, etc. are rigid and formal and very rarely do people actually speak with them.

“Looking back to George he saw the man holding a pistol in left hand.” That’s a good example of when something could’ve been fast-paced, intense, and action-y… but you gave it a very passive tone. In action scenes, you just need to give us the action itself. “Standing over him was George, a dark silhouette in the red morning light, a pistol clasped in his left hand.” All the ‘looking back’ and ‘he saw’ stuff just bogs you down.

“George began to look worried,” is the same way. That’s a moment when so much is building up, such a climactic point… and he just ‘began to look worried’? Panic overcomes him. He flushes white. He stammers and starts smacking the gun. His eyes grow wide. This is no time for the passive voice.

The decision to immediately follow the moment of murder… with a mention of lemon cakes… I can’t tell if I love that or hate that. It’s a very weird decision and I don’t know how I feel about it.

I do think you did quite a good job with the prompt. It’s a character piece through and through and the protagonist is… perhaps a little reserved and a little quiet, we don’t really get as much of his actions as we do his thoughts, and that’s a little unfortunate. But he’s sympathetic and interesting and he’s in a crazy situation that the reader is pulled along for willingly. You did a better job here than you’ve done in the past with getting the reader hooked and keeping them interested. Posing interesting questions and keeping the answers just out of reach.

I’m not sure about the moral or political implications of ending a story in which the villain thinks Aboriginals are all easily pinned as murderers… by having the Aboriginal protagonist kill someone. And his remembering his name at the end there, since we’d never heard or seen the name before, didn’t pack the punch it could’ve. Maybe a few opening paragraphs, like a prologue, that featured him with his family as a child could’ve been a strong way to bind the whole thing together.

Anyway, it was quite well done. My major critiques are all sort of writing-specific, as discussed above, not story or character related. You’re getting better every time you write.

Writing: 8/10
Prompt: 9/10