May 7

Time worked:  :50

Work done:  Finished rewriting the very beginning of the story. It’s stronger now, though could probably still benefit from some editing. I also wrote a number of notes for a gap of time I’ve always avoided thinking about. I don’t even know if there’ll be a story there, but I was hit with some ideas today, so I wrote them down.

Writing practice from a few days ago follows. Again remember it’s raw material and may not be entirely clear what’s going on. Also from the perspective of Evan Thossan.

My great-grandfather was 110 years old when I was sent to live with him. Think about that for a second. One hundred ten years old. That’s not unusual, I know, but it’s still old. Now think about how old I was when my parents sent me to take care of him. I was ten. That’s an age difference of one hundred years. I’ll never understand why it fell to me to take care of the old man.

Great-grandpa liked to be called Roba. That’s what he said he had called his great-grandfather when he was younger. I think it’s from some old language that our ancestors used to speak, but I couldn’t even tell you what that was. “Roba” never really cared to share his reasoning with me. He only insisted I call him that…when I wasn’t calling him “sir.”

Roba and I didn’t get along at all. I guess it’s because I was never good at what I did. I was supposed to help him with everyday stuff, like making meals and going to the bathroom. It was boring and sometimes disgusting, so no, I didn’t put my heart into it. I was still going to school, too, not that he cared. He complained about my absence during the day, even when I reminded him that my parents had said they wanted me to finish school.

Every day I wished he would just die already. I mean, he was old anyway. He’d lived long enough, and he was keeping me from having a life too. When I first went to live with him, I remember wondering how many stories he’d tell me, how many skills he could teach me. But he never wanted to talk about anything like that. He just wanted to yell at me for burning supper, or ask me why I wasn’t strong enough to chop the wood right.

Even after I left to join the militia, he lived a few more years. Long enough to see me become a respected Swordsman, even if he couldn’t admit it. Not long enough to notice his sword was missing though.

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