Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 48.1: October 7th, 2011
This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue.
However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.
Have fun.
Untitled: Chapter Eight
by Belinda Roddie
The studio I was able to get was not a bad one. Due to the summer coming to a close, several cheaper places to stay were opening up, and despite the man in the starched shirt and vest closely observing me after looking at my identification card I was able to settle into the place rather quickly. It was a small place, one room with an adjacent shower, but it was good enough for me, at least for a week or so. Besides, the rate that the manager had kindly offered me was fifty pounds a night, and four nights staying there would completely remove me of any of my remaining savings. At once an extreme sense of urgency overcame me, and using spare pence, I called Calvin in a phone booth near to the Oxford Apartments where I stayed.
My rational side would have asked Calvin to pick me up in his car and take me back to Purley-on-Thames. It would claim I was stupid to attempt to survive in this sort of city, searching for an identity that I now saw came at a financial price as well as a metaphorical price. Instead, I found myself asking him for a bit more money, and as he spoke in a hushed voice on the other end, I imagined Edna’s shadow over him, demanding what the Devil he could be up to now.
Another point for my adventurous side. My conscience could sign its death certificate any day now.
Still, I was comfortable, and where I was situated allowed me to travel to the Thames daily with enormous ease. In order to save money, I ate little, being sure to store up any free concessions the people running the apartments had to offer. Calvin was able to send one hundred more pounds in the mail, and it arrived on the third day in a white envelope with a lovely note included. Any more funding, he said, and he’d surely get in trouble for it.
I didn’t mind. I was grateful for it, and grateful that he continued to support me in my ridiculous exploits around this chaotic tangle of buildings and roads. Still, I had plans formed in a mad web in the back of my mind, for if my attempts to get any information about my past were fruitless here, they may not have been fruitless in a city south of there. I put aside money for two or so train tickets, in case I would have to travel again.
For all six days I spent in the studio, I traveled up and down the Thames. The first two days along the river brought nothing substantial in my search; of the people who were even willing to answer my questions, no one knew of anything involving my situation (or more accurately, what bare facts I would give them about my situation). I also got my fair share of false hopes, including when I questioned a fisherman who had made a habit of going to the Thames every morning for about seven years.
“This place is the best for old fishers like meself,” he had said in a rough Irish accent. The fisherman was middle-aged, orange skinned, and gray-haired, his jeans and T-shirt a stained conglomeration of blue and white. “I’ve never fished anywhere else. Other spots are a mite spare of any biters.”
“Did you happen to see anything strange on the river at all?” I had asked him. “Like maybe about five years ago?”
The man had contemplated it, and I could feel my heartbeat quicken as I anticipated his response. But as a runner tires in a marathon, so my heart slowed in my chest as he responded. “Can’t say I do. Me memory’s a bit weary these days. What sort of strange thing would you be talking ‘bout, anyway?”
“Just anything out of the ordinary. Flotsam and jetsam in the river, you know.”
“Oh, I’ve seen plenty of rubbish, missy. But nothin’ substantial. Awful sorry.”
It was the closest I ever got to finding out if anyone had seen something as bizarre as a coffin going down the river. But I kept on with my endeavor, with my logic trailing behind on a frayed leash.
Now the end of my first week in Oxford was drawing near, and I still had one hundred and twenty pounds to spare apart from what I was hoarding. I would only have a couple days left to explore – then I’d have to keep moving with twenty pounds in my pocket. I was growing desperate in the few days I had wandered, but in this deep cove, I had excavated no treasure. I was a digger scooping up mud looking for gold dust, something that could have drifted away over the years before I could get close.
Still, I found solace in that murky river. When I had wrapped up my daily interrogations, scouting out any new faces I could talk to, I would wind up on the river bank, my ankles submerged in the sludge and the mess of plant life growing like teeth from a man’s dirty mouth. By the end of the week, I had grown a habit of wading into the Thames, the water clinging to my trousers as it lapped at my knees. It was as deep as I would go, no deeper. The memory of nearly drowning in Purley would not leave me too quickly.
Sunday morning, and I was back, nearly out of money and even thinner than usual. I couldn’t afford to lose weight just as much as I couldn’t afford to waste time – literally and figuratively. It was a quieter time at the Thames than usual – no one but the regular boatmen were around, working on their private vessels or rowing along the glassy surface of the water. I rolled up my trousers and waded out again, feeling the chill roll up my thighs and into my lower back. I shuddered, but I was happy with it. It was a good, sharp feeling, waking me up before the sun had to.
Being knee-deep in the Thames made me think a lot more than I usually did, and today’s topic was an interesting one. As I scanned the river, I couldn’t help but wonder just how grandiose my voyage could have really been. I thought of the stories I had learned in school, the grand tales of great heroes and what their tribes did to them after their deaths. I remembered Beowulf being buried in his ship in the deep waves of the Atlantic, his treasure submerged with him as the saltwater bit into the golden rivulets of his bounty. I thought of kings who were lain on rafts, their arms folded across their chests as if they were shielding themselves from the weather or any outside harm, and as they drifted from shore a fiery arrow was set free into the atmosphere until it made the raft a funeral pyre. To think that perhaps my trip in that coffin down the Thames, on its humble vessel of logs and branches, could be reminiscent of the times of old. I imagined all eyes watching my casket somberly, dabbing at their eyes, and leading the funeral procession along the riverbanks until my calm corpse faded into the night. A tribute to a historical figure, and yet I was most likely one of the most insignificant of the presumed dead. I was at least lucky I wasn’t set alight.
I was helpless here. A figment of something that should’ve died. What could I do but stand in the ripples of the river that was meant to swallow me whole? And yet, I knew nothing of what should have been, only that I had been left in the ruins of whoever’s plan it was to set me on this watery course. I found myself picturing the night I saw the casket, my fingers brushing against the surface of my vessel. I, an unknown girl who could not even call myself by name, not even by Joan. I tried to clear my mind. The water bit into my legs, tried to calm my racing thoughts with its frigid currents. Not even autumn yet, and the cold was coming down upon England like judgment.
However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it.
Have fun.
Untitled: Chapter Eight
by Belinda Roddie
The studio I was able to get was not a bad one. Due to the summer coming to a close, several cheaper places to stay were opening up, and despite the man in the starched shirt and vest closely observing me after looking at my identification card I was able to settle into the place rather quickly. It was a small place, one room with an adjacent shower, but it was good enough for me, at least for a week or so. Besides, the rate that the manager had kindly offered me was fifty pounds a night, and four nights staying there would completely remove me of any of my remaining savings. At once an extreme sense of urgency overcame me, and using spare pence, I called Calvin in a phone booth near to the Oxford Apartments where I stayed.
My rational side would have asked Calvin to pick me up in his car and take me back to Purley-on-Thames. It would claim I was stupid to attempt to survive in this sort of city, searching for an identity that I now saw came at a financial price as well as a metaphorical price. Instead, I found myself asking him for a bit more money, and as he spoke in a hushed voice on the other end, I imagined Edna’s shadow over him, demanding what the Devil he could be up to now.
Another point for my adventurous side. My conscience could sign its death certificate any day now.
Still, I was comfortable, and where I was situated allowed me to travel to the Thames daily with enormous ease. In order to save money, I ate little, being sure to store up any free concessions the people running the apartments had to offer. Calvin was able to send one hundred more pounds in the mail, and it arrived on the third day in a white envelope with a lovely note included. Any more funding, he said, and he’d surely get in trouble for it.
I didn’t mind. I was grateful for it, and grateful that he continued to support me in my ridiculous exploits around this chaotic tangle of buildings and roads. Still, I had plans formed in a mad web in the back of my mind, for if my attempts to get any information about my past were fruitless here, they may not have been fruitless in a city south of there. I put aside money for two or so train tickets, in case I would have to travel again.
For all six days I spent in the studio, I traveled up and down the Thames. The first two days along the river brought nothing substantial in my search; of the people who were even willing to answer my questions, no one knew of anything involving my situation (or more accurately, what bare facts I would give them about my situation). I also got my fair share of false hopes, including when I questioned a fisherman who had made a habit of going to the Thames every morning for about seven years.
“This place is the best for old fishers like meself,” he had said in a rough Irish accent. The fisherman was middle-aged, orange skinned, and gray-haired, his jeans and T-shirt a stained conglomeration of blue and white. “I’ve never fished anywhere else. Other spots are a mite spare of any biters.”
“Did you happen to see anything strange on the river at all?” I had asked him. “Like maybe about five years ago?”
The man had contemplated it, and I could feel my heartbeat quicken as I anticipated his response. But as a runner tires in a marathon, so my heart slowed in my chest as he responded. “Can’t say I do. Me memory’s a bit weary these days. What sort of strange thing would you be talking ‘bout, anyway?”
“Just anything out of the ordinary. Flotsam and jetsam in the river, you know.”
“Oh, I’ve seen plenty of rubbish, missy. But nothin’ substantial. Awful sorry.”
It was the closest I ever got to finding out if anyone had seen something as bizarre as a coffin going down the river. But I kept on with my endeavor, with my logic trailing behind on a frayed leash.
Now the end of my first week in Oxford was drawing near, and I still had one hundred and twenty pounds to spare apart from what I was hoarding. I would only have a couple days left to explore – then I’d have to keep moving with twenty pounds in my pocket. I was growing desperate in the few days I had wandered, but in this deep cove, I had excavated no treasure. I was a digger scooping up mud looking for gold dust, something that could have drifted away over the years before I could get close.
Still, I found solace in that murky river. When I had wrapped up my daily interrogations, scouting out any new faces I could talk to, I would wind up on the river bank, my ankles submerged in the sludge and the mess of plant life growing like teeth from a man’s dirty mouth. By the end of the week, I had grown a habit of wading into the Thames, the water clinging to my trousers as it lapped at my knees. It was as deep as I would go, no deeper. The memory of nearly drowning in Purley would not leave me too quickly.
Sunday morning, and I was back, nearly out of money and even thinner than usual. I couldn’t afford to lose weight just as much as I couldn’t afford to waste time – literally and figuratively. It was a quieter time at the Thames than usual – no one but the regular boatmen were around, working on their private vessels or rowing along the glassy surface of the water. I rolled up my trousers and waded out again, feeling the chill roll up my thighs and into my lower back. I shuddered, but I was happy with it. It was a good, sharp feeling, waking me up before the sun had to.
Being knee-deep in the Thames made me think a lot more than I usually did, and today’s topic was an interesting one. As I scanned the river, I couldn’t help but wonder just how grandiose my voyage could have really been. I thought of the stories I had learned in school, the grand tales of great heroes and what their tribes did to them after their deaths. I remembered Beowulf being buried in his ship in the deep waves of the Atlantic, his treasure submerged with him as the saltwater bit into the golden rivulets of his bounty. I thought of kings who were lain on rafts, their arms folded across their chests as if they were shielding themselves from the weather or any outside harm, and as they drifted from shore a fiery arrow was set free into the atmosphere until it made the raft a funeral pyre. To think that perhaps my trip in that coffin down the Thames, on its humble vessel of logs and branches, could be reminiscent of the times of old. I imagined all eyes watching my casket somberly, dabbing at their eyes, and leading the funeral procession along the riverbanks until my calm corpse faded into the night. A tribute to a historical figure, and yet I was most likely one of the most insignificant of the presumed dead. I was at least lucky I wasn’t set alight.
I was helpless here. A figment of something that should’ve died. What could I do but stand in the ripples of the river that was meant to swallow me whole? And yet, I knew nothing of what should have been, only that I had been left in the ruins of whoever’s plan it was to set me on this watery course. I found myself picturing the night I saw the casket, my fingers brushing against the surface of my vessel. I, an unknown girl who could not even call myself by name, not even by Joan. I tried to clear my mind. The water bit into my legs, tried to calm my racing thoughts with its frigid currents. Not even autumn yet, and the cold was coming down upon England like judgment.
The novel ends here.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since October 7th, 2011.
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