This is the first chapter of my first novel. I don't have much of a plot going so far but I'm writing as it comes to me. Please leave constructive criticism and ask me if I've got a good thing going so far. I'm not going to post any more chapters unless people enjoy this. And I won't post any more until I get to around chapter ten. Thanks! BENEATH THE ROSES: CHAPTER ONE Today was like any other Autumn day; the air was crisp and smelled like Winter, though the season was nearly a month off. The wind seemed to nip at the end of my nose, and my eyes wouldn’t stop watering. I’d come out to the cemetery today to visit my grandfather’s tombstone. He passed away the day before I turned thirteen. I’d made a promise to myself that I’d go see his tombstone every year. But I hadn’t been able to make it the past few years. This was the first time I’d gotten to see him in almost three years. I sneezed and wiped my nose with my sleeve. I could barely see through the tears in my eyes. I hate windy days. I knelt down in front of my grandfather’s tombstone and touched the engraved image of his face across the top. The tombstone read: In loving memory of Alexander James Richardson: a father, a brother, a husband, a friend, taken from us on this day, 13 November 2003. God rest his soul, and may he rest in peace. I once debated with myself over the significance of the fact that my grandfather passed away on the thirteenth, the day before I was supposed to celebrate my thirteenth birthday. “It’s just a coincidence,” my father used to tell me. “It doesn’t mean anything. You know how sick he was.” It was true. My grandfather had battled cancer for the better part of a decade. He’d pushed the envelope and survived years longer than he should’ve survived, even after some doctors had given up on him. My grandfather was a fighter; if I’d learned anything from him, it was to never give up. Looking at the engraved image of his face brought back so many memories of when he was alive. I can remember my seventh birthday; he had just been diagnosed with leukemia, and I didn’t understand. My grandfather told me it was a special kind of love for me that would eventually take his life. I didn’t understand, but he told me that God needed angels by his side who loved people to death. In a way, he was right. My grandfather loved me endlessly. He’d always buy me random odds and ends, and would always give me a couple extra bucks to go out to the movies with my friends. I had a job, but he knew my family was hard-pressed for money, and that I always gave them my paychecks. He’d always watch out for me, and keep my secrets. When I’d get in trouble, he’d tell me what I did wrong, and lecture me about how what I did was wrong. And if my parents didn’t know about it, he wouldn’t tell them. It was always our little secret. So when he was taken from me the day before I turned thirteen, I remembered him telling me: “Leukemia is a special kind of love, Alex. It’s when someone loves someone else to death, and God comes down and takes the person who did all that loving, so he can have another angel with him to love everyone to death.” It’s been ten years since he passed away. It doesn’t seem like it’s been that long. But I’m turning 23 tomorrow, and my family’s throwing a party for me to celebrate my turning 23 and my grandfather’s life. But something inside me is telling me not to go. I know I should, but I’ve got a gut feeling that’s telling me not to. I guess I’ll just have to debate with the voices in my head again. Suddenly, I heard a voice: “Alex!” It was female. “Alex! Are you ready to go yet? I’m freezing!” It was my friend, Aimee. I’d known her since I was seven. We’d done everything together. She was there for me the night my grandfather died. But sometimes she just didn’t understand the bond I had with my grandfather. “I’m coming,” I said. “I love you, grandpa. I’ll see you again some day.” I stood up and brushed the dirt off my knees. I sneezed again and wiped my nose with my sleeve. My eyes watered even more with the breeze that passed through. “Damn it,” I said. I wiped my eyes and walked back to the truck. “Oh,” Aimee said. “I’m sorry. Were you crying?” “No,” I said. It was almost the truth. “Is everything alright? Do you want to talk about it?” “No, Aimee, it’s okay. I’ll be okay, I promise.” She nodded and I put the truck in gear. It shifted, and we started driving. A few seconds later, when we came to the entrance of the cemetery, I turned and looked at her: “Sometimes, Aimee,” I said. I choked back tears. “Sometimes I wonder if you understand the bond I had with my grandpa.” “What are you talking about?” she asked. She seemed genuinely upset that I’d even bring that up. “It’s just that you’ve always been there for me,” I said. “But when ever I come out to see my grandpa, you always seem in such a hurry to leave.” “I’m sorry, Alex. I just don’t like graveyards. You know that.” “It’s not,” I started to yell. “It’s not a graveyard, Aimee. It’s a cemetery.” “What’s the difference?” she asked. I couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not. The last car of a funeral precession passed by, and I pulled the truck onto Eastwood Street. “Aimee, cemeteries are where people are buried to be remembered by their family members.” “Yeah,” she said. She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t that what a graveyard is?” Ever since my grandfather had died, I’d always been offended by people who’d call cemeteries “graveyards.” It seemed disrespectful, but I didn’t know how to explain it. So I tried the next best thing I knew: I tried to be humorous about the situation. “Graveyards,” I started. I thought about the cheesiest horror movie I’d ever seen. “Graveyards are where zombies rise from in those terrible movies. Cemeteries are where people go to rest.” “I guess so,” she said. I didn’t pursue the argument any further. I knew what I meant, and I didn’t want my grandfather’s resting site to be disrespected. We passed by the football field, where the team was winning 21-20 with seconds left to play. “Wow,” I said. “What happened to the football team? They’re actually winning.” “Well, they’re not the same team they were ten years ago when we went to school.” “I guess you’re right,” I said. “The new coach sure has turned things around.” I turned left onto – on second thought, I’d never known the name of that street. I’d lived in Geneva all my life and never knew the name of that street. I brought the truck to a stop at the intersection. “Do you remember when that used to be a barber shop?” I asked. “Yeah,” Aimee said. “They used to totally mess up my hair.” “Yeah. It’s so weird how much this small town’s changed in just ten years.” “You make it seem like nothing’s the same,” Aimee said. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the man behind me started honking his horn at me. “Whoops,” I said. “I guess I zoned out.” I turned left onto Highway 534 and we started heading south. I didn’t live in the city when I was younger, and my parents had never moved out of the house like they said they would when I went off to college. I suppose it was for the best: why leave a perfectly good house? You wouldn’t give away a puppy for no reason, so why move out of a house your father built with his own two hands? Then again, that might be why my dad didn’t want to move. “Remember when you used to work there?” Aimee said. “I used to get so much stuff for free.” “Yeah,” I said as we passed by the convenience store. “It’s too bad they shut it down before I went to school.” “I’m surprised they haven’t had anyone new buy the place,” she said. “Yeah.” All the reminiscing about my grandfather and downtown Geneva was making me sad. As much as I hated the town when I was a kid, I missed it when I left. And now that I was 23, and about to move on with my life, I debated on whether I wanted to stay in Geneva or not. “Do you want anything before we head back home?” I asked Aimee. “No, that’s okay. I’ve still got my Pepsi from earlier.” “Okay,” I said. We stopped at the intersection of highways 534 and 84. Each corner of the intersection was empty: all the buildings that had been there were gone, replaced by tiny forests of trees. It was part of a community park initiative to bring more trees and recreational areas to the city. But it also meant the ousting of several local businesses. “I can’t believe how much this town’s changed,” I said. We continued on our way home, passing through the “restaurant district,” as we’d liked to call it. Ten years ago, there were only a handful of restaurants and three or four gas stations. Now, there were close to twenty restaurants and eight or nine gas stations. The competition was sort of ridiculous. We passed over Interstate 90. The overpass had been dedicated to a schoolmate of mine, Jake Palmer. He was killed in a car accident under the overpass by a drunk driver whose care careened off the overpass and landed on top of his car. It was a freak accident, and something that rocked the community. And it happened when I was only fifteen. You could just imagine what kind of an impact that had on me. We finally got out of the city and made our way into Geneva Township, where there were less businesses and more houses; well, almost more houses. Several of the larger houses were turned into wineries, and there were vineyards as far as the eye could see. I’d never seen so many grapes. It must have been a good season. We passed through the intersection at Highway 307 and went on our way home. “I can’t believe how much the town’s changed,” I said. Aimee was asleep.
Thanks for the comment. I'm just sort of writing as it comes to me. So there are probably going to be a lot of inconsistencies once I get going. But I'm not going to proofread or anything until I've got at least five chapters down. And a solid plotline. Or at least a direction.
That's pretty great, Will. You should definetely keep up the writing because you're good at it. The story seems real in some way. There's a lot of sadness in there, the character seems to have been through a lot. I like the way Aimee keeps remembering things and all Alex can say is that the town has changed. It seems like Alex actually misses the time he spend in living there even with everything that happened. I'd say this could become a brilliant novel, certainly if you find a right plotline for it.
Hope you dont end up like me i started writing a novel i got up to like the tenth chapter and then i got so sick of the story I had no choice but to give it up. So now i just stick to short stories. But i have to say thats good stuff up there, with good patience and strong will power i hope you see a finished novel.
I think this is brilliant, Will. If you find yourself coming down with writer's block, keep working on it, this doesn't seem like something that should be abandoned. It has great promise.
Thanks for the comments! I'll probably post the new chapter tonight. But I don't know if I should do a new post or post it in here. It depends on if it'll get more comments.