{"id":1231,"date":"2011-11-13T16:44:05","date_gmt":"2011-11-13T22:44:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/?p=1231"},"modified":"2026-07-01T12:37:38","modified_gmt":"2026-07-01T18:37:38","slug":"dark-spots-my-nanowrimo-contribution","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/dark-spots-my-nanowrimo-contribution\/","title":{"rendered":"Dark Spots – My NaNoWriMo Contribution"},"content":{"rendered":"

According to Patrick Rothfus<\/a>s, author of the masterful The Name of the Wind<\/em> and the less masterful The Wise Man’s Fear<\/em> – the most helpful customer review at Amazon for that one has it right on the money<\/a> – November is Na<\/strong>tional No<\/strong>vel Wri<\/strong>ting Mo<\/strong>nth, where novelists both approved and aspiring struggle to write 50,000 words of their latest opus in thirty short days. <\/p>\n

My novel that I shared with you some years back <\/a>has been completed, revised, and repeatedly submitted for publication. I even got close once, but, alas, it was not to be. Still, that hasn’t stopped me from continuing to write even more stuff that probably won’t ever hit the printed page. I’ve outlined a sequel to that previous novel, but, currently, I’m adapting my unproduced musical Neverland<\/em><\/a> into a book. I’m quite happy with the first chapter, and I’ve decided to take the NaNoWriMo challenge to heart and write a full 50,000 words this month. <\/p>\n

I’m up to 3,593. <\/p>\n

Just for kicks, I thought I’d share the first chapter with you and get your honest, unbridled opinions, which were really and truly helpful the last time I tried this. Don’t worry – I won’t inflict all 50,000 words on you, but I also won’t write the other 46,407 that I haven’t written yet if you guys hate the first 1,568, which is precisely how many words you will find in the chapter below. <\/p>\n

________________<\/p>\n

NEVERLAND<\/em><\/strong>
\nA Novel by Stallion Cornell<\/p>\n

Chapter One:<\/em>
\nDark Spots<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

As the twilight sky turned from grey to black, young Peter stood at the edge of the cliff and stared out over the angry sea.<\/p>\n

Directly behind him, in the lighthouse in which he lived, a beacon flickered to life and began its nightly vigil, renewing its efforts to save any soul unfortunate enough to find itself on those treacherous waters. The murky pitch below was where two fierce ocean currents had been battling each other since time began. Peter often marveled at how neither side relented even for a moment, despite no hope for victory. He knew that any vessel foolish enough to wander into the melee would find itself dashed against the jagged, towering rocks that marked the northern edge of the British mainland.<\/p>\n

\u201cPeter!\u201d called a scratchy, deep voice that barely cut through dull roar of the night wind and the relentless waves. <\/p>\n

His father. <\/p>\n

Of course it was his father. Who else would it be? Their nearest neighbor was at least two miles down a one-lane road. No one else was foolish enough to live in this damp-yet-desolate waste at the end of the world.<\/p>\n

And that was the point. His home in London had been destroyed months before in the German bombing raids that had hit the city every day and night for three and a half months. On rare occasions, Peter was almost grateful that he remembered none of the horrors that scarred his father\u2019s dreams, waking him with fits of terror that would force him to sob himself back to sleep. But most of the time, Peter was sure he would give his right arm to recall a single moment with the brother, the two sisters, and the lovely, forever absent mother that had been taken both from his life and from his memory in one hot, loud, brilliant flash of light, which was both the first thing he could remember from his new life and the last thing he could remember from his old one. <\/p>\n

\u201cPeter!\u201d His father\u2019s voice was closer now, close enough to expect an answer. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m here, sir,\u201d Peter called back, not turning to watch the approaching figure silhouetted by the bright crescent moon. <\/p>\n

\u201cNo need to shout. I\u2019m right beside you now,\u201d said Peter\u2019s father. And so he was. He was a tall, lopey, odd-looking sort of fellow with a nose and a pair of ears that were too large for his narrow, sharp face. His hair was just a bit too thin and his belly just a bit too large, but there was a kindness in his eyes that made it easy for even strangers to trust him, which had been a good thing for Peter, who now lived in a world where he had to become reacquainted with everyone he had known since the day he was born. <\/p>\n

\u201cCome inside, Peter,\u201d his father said gently. \u201cYour tea\u2019s been sitting on the table for ages, and it\u2019s no use once it isn\u2019t warm anymore. Not even a dog wants to eat a cold potato.\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter smiled. \u201cI\u2019ll be right in, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, you could call me Father. Or Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know.\u201d <\/p>\n

The wind seemed to grow louder as both of them stared out toward the blank horizon, but it wasn\u2019t loud enough to drown out the silence of the unfinished sentence. Peter knew he should have said, \u201cI know, Father,\u201d but he couldn\u2019t quite get there. At least he dropped the \u201csir.\u201d That was something, anyway. <\/p>\n

But it wasn\u2019t enough to keep his father from talking. \u201cNot enough light to see the whirlpool,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n

\u201cThere was just a minute ago.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know why that whirlpool is there, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter sighed. Yes, he did, but the right answer wasn\u2019t the one his father was looking for. <\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s the old viking sea-king. Fellow by the name of Mysing, if I\u2019m not mistaken. He had this right massive grain mill that was so heavy, it sank his island straight down into the tide. So he\u2019s still down there, grinding away, making the ocean salty, churning everything up like mad.\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter cracked a grim smile. \u201cDoesn\u2019t he get bored?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMysing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes Mysing get bored?\u201d Peter\u2019s father pursed his lips as he considered the question before finally answering, \u201cOf course not.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI would.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, you would. But you live in our world.\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter turned his head to look at his father. \u201cWhat world does this Mysing live in, then?\u201d<\/p>\n

His father shrugged his shoulders. \u201cHis world.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d Peter smirked. \u201cWell said.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t think of any other way to explain it,\u201d said Peter\u2019s father. \u201cIt\u2019s not that different than this one, really. They just\u2026 don\u2019t have time there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo time? Days don\u2019t pass?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, days pass.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, that\u2019s time, then, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, it\u2019s not like that,\u201d said Peter\u2019s father, rubbing his chin. \u201cThe days, they pass, but \u2013 the days don\u2019t count against you. One day is like the next. And like the day before and the day after. It\u2019s all sort of \u2013 the same day, really.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust like the Lost Boys you\u2019re always on about,\u201d said Peter. \u201cAnd Peter Pan, too? Nobody grows up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot exactly,\u201d said Peter\u2019s father. \u201cBut you\u2019re close.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI love how you act like he\u2019s a real person. And that he comes from a real place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho says he doesn\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d said Peter, \u201cI\u2019m sure he\u2019s real. And you know how I know that?\u201d<\/p>\n

His father\u2019s eyes brightened. \u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt seems time doesn\u2019t count here either. Because you told me that story two days ago.\u201d Peter had meant it as a gentle, teasing sort of remark, but it came out sharper than he had intended, and suddenly the mood darkened. <\/p>\n

His father furrowed his brow. \u201cI did, then, did I,\u201d he said, and Peter wasn\u2019t sure if it was a question or a confession. <\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t mean anything by it,\u201d Peter said with a pained smile. <\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you\u2019re right,\u201d his father said, still sounding guilty. \u201cI think I\u2019ve told you more about stories and legends than I have about the real world. You probably know more about Mysing and Peter Pan and all that rubbish than you do your own mother.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease don\u2019t take it that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh,\u201d said his father. \u201cYes, well,\u201d he began, as if to explain something, but then he trailed off awkwardly, adding to the clumsy silence from the moment before. <\/p>\n

So, in a bid to get things on a better footing, he returned to familiar ground. \u201cYour tea\u2019s getting cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, you told me that one, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo I did,\u201d replied Peter\u2019s father with a playful grin. \u201cCome inside, then. I\u2019ll help you with your cane. Where did you put it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t bring my cane.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Peter\u2019s father burst into a huge smile. \u201cWalked out here all by yourself, did you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter nodded. \u201cLimped quite a bit, though.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA limp?\u201d Peter\u2019s father laughed. \u201cWhat\u2019s a limp? This is brilliant! It means you\u2019re getting stronger! Don\u2019t you see, Peter? You\u2019re healing!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. Amazing,\u201d Peter muttered in a tone that said it was anything but. <\/p>\n

\u201cOh, don\u2019t be like that,\u201d his father chided gently. \u201cOne step a time, that\u2019s all it is. We need to celebrate the progress as it happens.\u201d<\/p>\n

Peter didn\u2019t feel much like celebrating. In fact, he often thought that he\u2019d trade both of his legs for a chance to remember anything from before the bombing. Yet he knew that saying that out loud would spoil the mood, and he\u2019d done enough damage already. <\/p>\n

He turned to go inside when something caught his eye and set his heart racing. \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d Peter asked. <\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat! There!\u201d Peter pointed up into the sky, where the beam from the lighthouse hit the clouds. <\/p>\n

Four small, dark blots along the horizon were hurtling toward them, slicing through the light with too much speed and intensity for them to be anything natural.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre those German night fighters?\u201d Peter asked. <\/p>\n

\u201cInside!\u201d his father barked. \u201cNow!\u201d It wasn\u2019t a request.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut what are they coming to Dunnet? What could they possibly-\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the basement. Hurry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAren\u2019t you coming?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo as you\u2019re told, boy!\u201d<\/p>\n

The dark spots were getting bigger. And closer. But Peter couldn\u2019t hear the engines. Weren\u2019t planes supposed to be loud? <\/p>\n

His father grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him forward. \u201cMove!\u201d he yelled. <\/p>\n

Peter almost fell over, but he caught himself and used the momentum to run as fast as his limping body would carry him. He scrambled through the front door, ran to the base of the basement stairs, and then he stopped. <\/p>\n

All he could hear was the night wind whistling through the open door. <\/p>\n

This was all wrong. Why would the Germans attack an old lighthouse up in the middle of nowhere? Why hadn\u2019t his father followed him inside? <\/p>\n

And why on earth weren\u2019t the planes making any noise?<\/p>\n

Peter turned and walked up the other flight of stairs that led to his bedroom. He ran to his window that looked out directly over the Pentland Firth, so he\u2019d be able to see for himself what the strange, silent spots were. If his father wasn\u2019t scared enough to come inside, then there must be a reason for it. <\/p>\n

That was the last thought that crossed his mind before he was smacked in the face by two bare feet that shattered the glass directly in front of him.
\n\u2003<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"According to Patrick Rothfus<\/a>s, author of the masterful The Name of the Wind<\/em> and the less masterful The Wise Man's Fear<\/em> - the most helpful customer review at Amazon for that one has it right on the money<\/a> - November is Na<\/strong>tional No<\/strong>vel Wri<\/strong>ting Mo<\/strong>nth, where novelists both approved and ... Read more<\/a>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1231","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1231","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1231"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1231\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5028,"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1231\/revisions\/5028"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1231"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1231"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stallioncornell.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1231"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}