Giovanni
03-04-2006, 05:18 PM
Ok guys, this is my own original fiction. It is short (only 830 words) and I wrote it in the span of about an hour, and I am turning it in for my creative writing class. I was wondering what you guys thought of it... What area's should I fix up, and where should I expand it or cut it? It is a part of one of the larger stories (read books) that I am writing, and I am hoping to expand it to cover a chapter from this. But tell me what you guys think of it.
From The Malebolge
Jacques was a member of the 3rd estate. He was not poor mind you; in fact, he was quite well off, even when compared to Aristocratic standards. A member of the bourgeoning bourgeoisie class, he owned several factories in and around Paris, and his wife, children, and servants were all particularly well educated. Or at least that is what he told himself, though if he were honest in his assessment of them, he suspected that one or two of those servants were not quite as intelligent as his wife, Marie, thought them to be.
Today, he was walking home from a rather enlightening conversation he had at a tiny little coffee shop just off of Rue de Antithèse; where another man, just like himself, was at first quietly sitting seemingly lecturing another small group of men who also appeared to be just like him. Jacques, intrigued wondered what gave this man the authority to hold captive an audience of such gentlemen. Why he saw several of his fellow factory owners silently sitting, staring at the man with expressions of rapt attention plastered upon their fascinated faces. Their eye’s bright, captured in the moment, as the man began to gain momentum he gesticulated wildly, his voice rhythmically rising and then falling back down, passionately pulling the listeners from the outlying exterior of his sphere of speech into the center of the concisely woven web that formed the foundations of his argument.
‘From the Malebolge these men were pulled.’ Jacques reflected as the speaker drew from Dante the image of the current Estates system in France. A system where men like Jacques paid taxes, yet had no voice. A system where Jacques had suspected until today that the Aristocracy paid none of those taxes. Now Jacques knew that fact for certain. Yet he was forced by those friendless entities of falsehood to work his way to the top of a class that had no voice. A top that was for all representative reasons a wasteland of wealthy men considered peasants in the eye’s of those who governed. A class that made up a silent, suppressed, and much maligned, majority. Jacques now realized that he had been one of those entrenched in the Malebolge, and he had not even known it.
He now moved to a new table near the man, drawn in by his deft descriptions of the deadly sins committed against the bourgeoisie of Paris. By none other than their so-said Enlightened nobility. Those very same nobles overtly oppressing men like Jacques, men who had built by their own blood the industry of France. Jacques knew the system was flawed, for he saw his workers everyday, and they had to pay the same tax he did. A tax to make up for the decadence of the aristocratic elite. Those very same workers, Jacques knew, had not enough money to pay their taxes, and feed their families. Yet if Jacques paid them more it would aid them none because of the amount they were forced to pay. He listened in as the man said
“. . . . And how do you think the peasants pay their taille? Does money fall from the hands of those nefarious nobles into their poor hungry hands. Hands which toil to grow food each day yet eat none of it because they are compelled to sell it or face prison. They farm the land and they starve on the land, although they are no longer serfs in name, they are serfs in deed. The time has come, we must rise to replace this system that reigns over us, like Lucifer on his icy throne this system seeks to enslave us all.”
And with that the nameless man concluded his speech to cheers. Before he left Jacques approached the man. He asked, “What caused you to conclude this? You are like me, I can see that from your clothes. I will admit that my conscience bears concern for my workers, but even though I know what you say is true, why should I help them? Can they not help themselves? Surely they have the numbers.”
The man turned with a sad expression on his face; Jacques noticed the fire in his eyes nearly extinguished, now reduced to anguished embers. The lines previously hidden in the man’s face now became obvious as he replied; “And what will happen if they do help themselves as you suggest? Violent vengeance will be wrought, forged from within the white-hot searing flame of righteous revolution, a new colossus shall come and conquer us all. Wiping away what we have gained this day, and replacing it with our severed heads upon pikes. For do not forget, we live like the very Nobility and corrupted Clergy whom I have just described. You must realize this good Sir.” The nameless man then turned and walked from the shop, turning towards the Church down the street, stopping briefly to buy a loaf of freshly baked bread for a beggar before continuing on his way. Jacques watched him walk as the sun set, contrasting the man’s straight back with the orange abyss.
From The Malebolge
Jacques was a member of the 3rd estate. He was not poor mind you; in fact, he was quite well off, even when compared to Aristocratic standards. A member of the bourgeoning bourgeoisie class, he owned several factories in and around Paris, and his wife, children, and servants were all particularly well educated. Or at least that is what he told himself, though if he were honest in his assessment of them, he suspected that one or two of those servants were not quite as intelligent as his wife, Marie, thought them to be.
Today, he was walking home from a rather enlightening conversation he had at a tiny little coffee shop just off of Rue de Antithèse; where another man, just like himself, was at first quietly sitting seemingly lecturing another small group of men who also appeared to be just like him. Jacques, intrigued wondered what gave this man the authority to hold captive an audience of such gentlemen. Why he saw several of his fellow factory owners silently sitting, staring at the man with expressions of rapt attention plastered upon their fascinated faces. Their eye’s bright, captured in the moment, as the man began to gain momentum he gesticulated wildly, his voice rhythmically rising and then falling back down, passionately pulling the listeners from the outlying exterior of his sphere of speech into the center of the concisely woven web that formed the foundations of his argument.
‘From the Malebolge these men were pulled.’ Jacques reflected as the speaker drew from Dante the image of the current Estates system in France. A system where men like Jacques paid taxes, yet had no voice. A system where Jacques had suspected until today that the Aristocracy paid none of those taxes. Now Jacques knew that fact for certain. Yet he was forced by those friendless entities of falsehood to work his way to the top of a class that had no voice. A top that was for all representative reasons a wasteland of wealthy men considered peasants in the eye’s of those who governed. A class that made up a silent, suppressed, and much maligned, majority. Jacques now realized that he had been one of those entrenched in the Malebolge, and he had not even known it.
He now moved to a new table near the man, drawn in by his deft descriptions of the deadly sins committed against the bourgeoisie of Paris. By none other than their so-said Enlightened nobility. Those very same nobles overtly oppressing men like Jacques, men who had built by their own blood the industry of France. Jacques knew the system was flawed, for he saw his workers everyday, and they had to pay the same tax he did. A tax to make up for the decadence of the aristocratic elite. Those very same workers, Jacques knew, had not enough money to pay their taxes, and feed their families. Yet if Jacques paid them more it would aid them none because of the amount they were forced to pay. He listened in as the man said
“. . . . And how do you think the peasants pay their taille? Does money fall from the hands of those nefarious nobles into their poor hungry hands. Hands which toil to grow food each day yet eat none of it because they are compelled to sell it or face prison. They farm the land and they starve on the land, although they are no longer serfs in name, they are serfs in deed. The time has come, we must rise to replace this system that reigns over us, like Lucifer on his icy throne this system seeks to enslave us all.”
And with that the nameless man concluded his speech to cheers. Before he left Jacques approached the man. He asked, “What caused you to conclude this? You are like me, I can see that from your clothes. I will admit that my conscience bears concern for my workers, but even though I know what you say is true, why should I help them? Can they not help themselves? Surely they have the numbers.”
The man turned with a sad expression on his face; Jacques noticed the fire in his eyes nearly extinguished, now reduced to anguished embers. The lines previously hidden in the man’s face now became obvious as he replied; “And what will happen if they do help themselves as you suggest? Violent vengeance will be wrought, forged from within the white-hot searing flame of righteous revolution, a new colossus shall come and conquer us all. Wiping away what we have gained this day, and replacing it with our severed heads upon pikes. For do not forget, we live like the very Nobility and corrupted Clergy whom I have just described. You must realize this good Sir.” The nameless man then turned and walked from the shop, turning towards the Church down the street, stopping briefly to buy a loaf of freshly baked bread for a beggar before continuing on his way. Jacques watched him walk as the sun set, contrasting the man’s straight back with the orange abyss.