Patria Mori, Chapter 3 (An Original Work)

[Duxwing]

This is an ongoing drama about three children growing up in an Absurd landscape of universalism, nationalism, and bigotry and their reactions, both personal and philosophical, to the same. To understand what is occurring now, please read the following first:

1. Chapter 1 and Synopsis
2. Chapter 2

As always, criticism and interpretation are welcome!

Chapter Three – Treegazer

Warm dawn breaks over the countryside, and Artnoc exhales in liberation. His body, once stiff in fear, now moves with ease; he turns upon the branch on which he once wept with fear to face the rising sun, and his cheeks, but moments ago pale with dread, are now ruddy in with expectant joy. Swinging back and forth, thoughts of Illian all but fall from his mind. He snuggles the trunk and decides to take a midmorning nap.

“Life is good.”

The ground— if so it can be called— is soft and spongy. Artnoc carefully treads upon it, and its warmth envelops him completely. In the distance, he sees a village. Intrigued, he walks toward it to find its people in the midst of a feast.

"M-mister, is it OK if I sit down?" Artnoc asks a man holding an entire bottle of wine.

"Of course, here in paradise there is always more for everyone!"

"Paradise?"

"Well, we call it that. Its real name is Aipotsyd, which lies in your-- our glorious nation of Suticnemmoc."

"But isn't there fam--"

"--No, the food supply has recently been increased to forty bushels a day"

"Who says so?"

"Retraf Sungam, lord of us all."

Artnoc gently tips the bottle in the man's hand to his nose.

"Gah! Well there's your problem! You've been drinking too much of this Suticnemmocian Gin!"

"No, it's the holy spirit."

"You know what? If you're right, then I'm not surprised."

Artnoc leaves the perplexing man behind to take a seat at the table, where Artnoc’s jug overflows with sweet-smelling swill and the crispy skin of roast boar crackles under his bite. Yet the meat is as salty as it is savory: the beverage calls his name.

“Sir! Am I old enough to drink this?” Artnoc asks a hefty, hairy, snaggle-toothed witch of a woman sitting beside him as she gorks down plate after plate of boar's eyeballs.

“There’s only one way to really know” returns her reply between quick, squishing, spraying bites.

And so Artnoc brings the heady tankard to his lips, tilts his head back, and sips the sweet but suddenly harsh liquid within. As it pours into him, it burns hotter and hotter. His body screams for mercy.

“Ack! Euuugh… I feel ti— hic!— psy. It must have been mead. Ohhhh, my head. If coffee is the devil’s drink, then alcohol is the devil’s blood.”

“Oh, poor boy! He’s drunk! He’s roaring drunk and only nine! Somebody, help him!”

“Let him alone, it’ll teach him a lesson.”

“You can’t just leave someone to learn like that! Sure, he might stop drinking, but he also might start burning every tavern with a keg.”

“You’re just a bleeding heart!”

“My heart bleeds because it isn’t covered in callouses!”

“My parents taught me like that, and I turned out fine. Are you going to insult them, now, too?”

“Fine? Fine? How can you say that you’re fine? You’re anything but fine: you’re a mean old man who’d let a little boy drink himself to death because he can’t tell compassion from smothering.”

“And what are you, then, O man of the high horse? Where are your tales of giving money to the poor— evidence of your grand compassion?”

“I’m only thirteen, how could I have done anything yet?”

“Exactly: children should be seen and not heard.”

“Especially when they cry for help?”

“There you go again, with your moralistic ranting. You try being an adult! Then we can all follow the example of your high holiness into the sunny uplands. Reality is harsh and cold; either shape up or ship out.”

“Good grief! People like you need the very help that you deny to others.”

A slap rings out, and the boy falls.

“People like you should learn to keep their traps shut.”

Artnoc staggers over, clutching his mouth and stomach.
“H— baaaaarf— elp me, help— baaaarf— me. Oh why ca—baaarf—n’t you just help me!”

He falls with a thud and an ”Oof!”

“It’s people like you whom I can’t stand. You say you need help, but what you really need is a kick in the pants.”

Artnoc wakes with a start, gasping, he barely catches its trunk. Shaking with mortal fright, he hangs on for dear life, desperately trying to ignore the three story fall below him. Yet in his efforts to control his fear, he releases the demon of Illian’s memory: The image of his taking hammers relentlessly upon his gentle mind as his body creaks and groans in heaving itself upward. Once well-seated, his stomach churns, his head pounds, and his soft hands wipe away the tears. He clutches his thighs, squints, and bites his lip until he can bear the pain no longer. Shuddering, he sobs.

Artnoc’s gaze, now blurry from crying, stretches out into the horizon, dotted with tiny villages. Owls hoot, coyotes howl, and roosters crow as nature awakens itself. Within the plain hamlets of mud-huts, emaciated goats, and old, grey garments hanging out on the wash lines, a plump bear trundles down the street, breaks down the door to a hut, and munches the food inside. Rolling down from a nearby mountain, several large boulders follow the bear and obliterate a building. None awaken.

However, upon the bare whisper of the national anthem of Suicitnemnoc from a monolithic, gold-and-diamond plated tower in the center of town, out from the mud-huts, emerge the people. With grins of electric pleasure that seem ill-designed for their cheeks, in unison, the adult individuals grip their offspring’s’ bodies and apply their lips to the skin on the fronts of their skulls while, in stereo writ large, the national anthem of Suicitnemnoc escapes their mouths. Then with the song’s end, their jaws snap shut, and all take perfectly measured strides to their respective places: home, work, or school.

“Roses are red, violets are blue. Love of your country, it’s good for you”

Thus speaks little Artnoc. His spine tingles as the automated morning plays out before him. Everywhere at once: For thousands of miles and yet so close, with thousands of others— only one he knows. Suticnemmoc, the well-oiled machine of civilization, stands before him: hard and empty as the teacups of high society. Its heavy walls stand as bulwarks against the wild without, and, to it, Mussac was anything but a civilization unto itself. Indeed, from an early age, each child of Suicitnemnoc learns that their country was all of civilization. The bark crackles as he slides from the tree while shaking his head.

“Suticnemmnoc and I have reached an impasse.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------End Chapter 3-------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading!

-Duxwing

 

[tikru]

wow. great stuff, man. Thought it was interesting how the one man preached personal responsibility while at the same time taking part in the illusion of the collective state.

“Exactly: children should be seen and not heard.”

“Especially when they cry for help?”

“There you go again, with your moralistic ranting. You try being an adult! Then we can all follow the example of your high holiness into the sunny uplands. Reality is harsh and cold; either shape up or ship out.”

“Good grief! People like you need the very help that you deny to others.”

good lines. Your dialogue is interesting, but at times I had trouble following which character was talking. with the line "Let him alone, it'll teach him a lesson", there's the beginning of a disembodied voice instead of a solid character which is actually kind of cool if that's what you're going for, like he's a sort of generic person sitting at the table, with no thoughts of his own other than the owns that were bestowed upon him by authority figures.

 

[Duxwing]

You guys like it! Awesome! I like your interpretation, not least because I don't mention who is speaking simply as a matter of style. It certainly makes sense here, though, because Artnoc is delirious with drink.

-Duxwing

 

[Radiant Shadow]

@Duxwing

I am rushing, but here is a rough read. Each comment pertains to particular bulks of action, not necessarily what they are attached to.

This is an ongoing drama about three children growing up in an Absurd landscape of universalism, nationalism, and bigotry and their reactions, both personal and philosophical, to the same. To understand what is occurring now, please read the following first:

1. Chapter 1 and Synopsis
2. Chapter 2

As always, criticism and interpretation are welcome!

Chapter Three – Treegazer

Warm dawn breaks over the countryside, and Artnoc exhales in liberation. His body, once stiff in fear, now moves with ease; he turns upon the branch on which he once wept with fear to face the rising sun, and his cheeks, but moments ago pale with dread, are now ruddy in with expectant joy. Swinging back and forth, thoughts of Illian all but fall from his mind. He snuggles the trunk and decides to take a midmorning nap.

“Life is good.”

The ground— if so it can be called— is soft and spongy. Artnoc carefully treads upon it, and its warmth envelops him completely. In the distance, he sees a village. Intrigued, he walks toward it to find its people in the midst of a feast.

"M-mister, is it OK if I sit down?" Artnoc asks a man holding an entire bottle of wine.

"Of course, here in paradise there is always more for everyone!"

"Paradise?"

"Well, we call it that. Its real name is Aipotsyd, which lies in your-- our glorious nation of Suticnemmoc."

"But isn't there fam--"

"--No, the food supply has recently been increased to forty bushels a day"

"Who says so?"

"Retraf Sungam, lord of us all." You may benefit from watching the movie Fido; it deals with propaganda, willing yet ignorant obedience, normalcy, and (ironic) existential undeath all in one broad stroke. The state of affairs you have described so far, in my opinion, runs theoretically parallel to The Hunger Games: rancid transitions of power, or lack thereof, produce highly dubious circumstances made more maddening it serves mere walking dust. (Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow from Macbeth, etc.) Nicely done so far.

Artnoc gently tips the bottle in the man's hand to his nose.

"Gah! Well there's your problem! You've been drinking too much of this Suticnemmocian Gin!"

"No, it's the holy spirit."

"You know what? If you're right, then I'm not surprised."

Artnoc leaves the perplexing man behind to take a seat at the table, where Artnoc’s jug overflows with sweet-smelling swill and the crispy skin of roast boar crackles under his bite. Yet the meat is as salty as it is savory: the beverage calls his name.

“Sir! Am I old enough to drink this?” Artnoc asks a hefty, hairy, snaggle-toothed witch of a woman sitting beside him as she gorks down plate after plate of boar's eyeballs.

“There’s only one way to really know” returns her reply between quick, squishing, spraying bites.

And so Artnoc brings the heady tankard to his lips, tilts his head back, and sips the sweet but suddenly harsh liquid within. As it pours into him, it burns hotter and hotter. His body screams for mercy.

“Ack! Euuugh… I feel ti— hic!— psy. It must have been mead. Ohhhh, my head. If coffee is the devil’s drink, then alcohol is the devil’s blood.”

“Oh, poor boy! He’s drunk! He’s roaring drunk and only nine! Somebody, help him!”

“Let him alone, it’ll teach him a lesson.”

“You can’t just leave someone to learn like that! Sure, he might stop drinking, but he also might start burning every tavern with a keg.”

“You’re just a bleeding heart!”

“My heart bleeds because it isn’t covered in callouses!”

“My parents taught me like that, and I turned out fine. Are you going to insult them, now, too?”

“Fine? Fine? How can you say that you’re fine? You’re anything but fine: you’re a mean old man who’d let a little boy drink himself to death because he can’t tell compassion from smothering.” Jagged, bleeding psychological cycles are among the worst, especially when denied, and keenly penetrative. It makes one wonder what the victims-turned-aggressors run from, and why, and to what extent, the cycles are permitted and encouraged by one's culture. Well done.

“And what are you, then, O man of the high horse? Where are your tales of giving money to the poor— evidence of your grand compassion?”

“I’m only thirteen, how could I have done anything yet?”

“Exactly: children should be seen and not heard.”

“Especially when they cry for help?”

“There you go again, with your moralistic ranting. You try being an adult! Then we can all follow the example of your high holiness into the sunny uplands. Reality is harsh and cold; either shape up or ship out.”

“Good grief! People like you need the very help that you deny to others.”

A slap rings out, and the boy falls.

“People like you should learn to keep their traps shut.”

Artnoc staggers over, clutching his mouth and stomach.
“H— baaaaarf— elp me, help— baaaarf— me. Oh why ca—baaarf—n’t you just help me!”

He falls with a thud and an ”Oof!”

“It’s people like you whom I can’t stand. You say you need help, but what you really need is a kick in the pants.”

Artnoc wakes with a start, gasping, he barely catches its trunk. Shaking with mortal fright, he hangs on for dear life, desperately trying to ignore the three story fall below him. Yet in his efforts to control his fear, he releases the demon of Illian’s memory: The image of his taking hammers relentlessly upon his gentle mind as his body creaks and groans in heaving itself upward. Once well-seated, his stomach churns, his head pounds, and his soft hands wipe away the tears. He clutches his thighs, squints, and bites his lip until he can bear the pain no longer. Shuddering, he sobs.

Artnoc’s gaze, now blurry from crying, stretches out into the horizon, dotted with tiny villages. Owls hoot, coyotes howl, and roosters crow as nature awakens itself. Within the plain hamlets of mud-huts, emaciated goats, and old, grey garments hanging out on the wash lines, a plump bear trundles down the street, breaks down the door to a hut, and munches the food inside. Rolling down from a nearby mountain, several large boulders follow the bear and obliterate a building. None awaken.

However, upon the bare whisper of the national anthem of Suicitnemnoc from a monolithic, gold-and-diamond plated tower in the center of town, out from the mud-huts, emerge the people. With grins of electric pleasure that seem ill-designed for their cheeks, in unison, the adult individuals grip their offspring’s’ bodies and apply their lips to the skin on the fronts of their skulls while, in stereo writ large, the national anthem of Suicitnemnoc escapes their mouths. Then with the song’s end, their jaws snap shut, and all take perfectly measured strides to their respective places: home, work, or school.

“Roses are red, violets are blue. Love of your country, it’s good for you”

Thus speaks little Artnoc. His spine tingles as the automated morning plays out before him. Everywhere at once: For thousands of miles and yet so close, with thousands of others— only one he knows. Suticnemmoc, the well-oiled machine of civilization, stands before him: hard and empty as the teacups of high society. Its heavy walls stand as bulwarks against the wild without, and, to it, Mussac was anything but a civilization unto itself. Indeed, from an early age, each child of Suicitnemnoc learns that their country was all of civilization. The bark crackles as he slides from the tree while shaking his head. Here, I re-endorse Fido.

“Suticnemmnoc and I have reached an impasse.” Poor lad, he's bound to be a stranger. The beast I remember grappling with is whether it's worth the fight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------End Chapter 3-------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks for reading!

-Duxwing

Well-written, to say the least. More will be forthcoming later.

 

[Duxwing]

@Duxwing

I am rushing, but here is a rough read. Each comment pertains to particular bulks of action, not necessarily what they are attached to.



Well-written, to say the least. More will be forthcoming later.

Amazing criticism Radiant, thanks! I never knew that my work had so much punch. I'll look into Fido, too, it seems like a good work.

-Duxwing

 

[Radiant Shadow]

@Duxwing

You have a good mind and an urgent pen, by my estimation. Both are excellent qualities.

As for the punch, I am an INFJ: everything I experience is interconnected, nothing about human nature stands alone. Hence, reading is a very visceral thing because of how all aspects work together to form a holism. It is easy to delve through actions into worldviews and spot mechanical flaws. Give me a piece of twine and I will give you back a life raft, so to speak.

You have left great room for interpretation, which is both blessing and curse. It allows the reader to imprint their reality on the characters and become more vested, more universal, while the other is a sense of vacancy and anorexia. Each has uses, and I am curious to see how you use it in developing the characters.

It is probably much too soon but, while reading, I do not feel a distinct mark to place it into reality - no anchoring context, essentially. It floats, adrift, from one time-bubble to the next. Some of this is an inherent part of Absurdity, akin to Camus' The Stranger, and the rest may be the unresolved conflict within yourself, as I suspect, and please forgive me if I am wrong, you are undergoing or have undergone the related problems yourself. Authors write about what they know, after all.

You may enjoy reading Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad; it details the effects of supremacy on the human psyche, and on the planet in general, which is related to patriotism, universalism, and bigotry. More subtlety, it is a psychological analysis of survival, particularly relevant to Absurdism/nihilism. I could write pages on any of these topics as they could, potentially, maybe relate to your drama, so I will stop there lest I derail the creative process

Keep up the good work!

 

[Duxwing]

@Duxwing

You have a good mind and an urgent pen, by my estimation. Both are excellent qualities.

As for the punch, I am an INFJ: everything I experience is interconnected, nothing about human nature stands alone. Hence, reading is a very visceral thing because of how all aspects work together to form a holism. It is easy to delve through actions into worldviews and spot mechanical flaws. Give me a piece of twine and I will give you back a life raft, so to speak.

You have left great room for interpretation, which is both blessing and curse. It allows the reader to imprint their reality on the characters and become more vested, more universal, while the other is a sense of vacancy and anorexia. Each has uses, and I am curious to see how you use it in developing the characters.

It is probably much too soon but, while reading, I do not feel a distinct mark to place it into reality - no anchoring context, essentially. It floats, adrift, from one time-bubble to the next. Some of this is an inherent part of Absurdity, akin to Camus' The Stranger, and the rest may be the unresolved conflict within yourself, as I suspect, and please forgive me if I am wrong, you are undergoing or have undergone the related problems yourself. Authors write about what they know, after all.

You may enjoy reading Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad; it details the effects of supremacy on the human psyche, and on the planet in general, which is related to patriotism, universalism, and bigotry. More subtlety, it is a psychological analysis of survival, particularly relevant to Absurdism/nihilism. I could write pages on any of these topics as they could, potentially, maybe relate to your drama, so I will stop there lest I derail the creative process

Keep up the good work!

The reality is far less interesting. Much of the inspiration for this work's plot comes from a series of most interesting dreams, which, by nature have little regard for logic or continuity. Moreover, I didn't focus on consistency too much because I both didn't feel like grounding Patria Mori in reality, and because I wanted a universal story: in other words, I wanted to have the reach of Aesop's Fables. Moreover, the lack of a solid background also stems largely from the fact that I'd originally written Patria Mori for the silver screen, and have adapted the screenplay to text and hopefully soon, to the stage.

As for Heart of Darkness, I've read it and thoroughly enjoyed it (as much as one suffering from existential despair can enjoy something). I intend to work with its themes later, but for now, I'm focusing on the themes of bigotry, supremacy, and patriotism. If Camus has covered them already, then I guess that I'll have to cover them better, for I dread that there's no sense in writing a second-rate story about such passionate emotions and everpresent themes.

Regarding existential crisis, Patria Mori was and is my coping mechanism. It provides a fixed set of characters and plot elements by which I can untie-- instead of cut (by illogic)-- the Gordian-Godellian knot of nihilism as it relates to the question of "Why Bother Doing Anything?". In doing so, I've been better able to separate myself from universalism and find more peace in nihilism.

I've also revised this chapter, take a look!

Spoiler

Chapter Three – Treegazer
Warm dawn breaks over the countryside, and Artnoc exhales in liberation. His body, once stiff in fear, now moves with ease; his little feet glide over the branch to face the sunrise. Cheeks, but moments ago pale with dread, are now ruddy in with joy. Swinging back and forth, thoughts of Illian all but fall from his mind. He snuggles the trunk and decides to take a midmorning nap.
“Life is good.”
The ground— if so it can be called— is soft and spongy. Artnoc carefully treads upon it, and the warmth envelops him completely. In the distance, he sees a village. In the midst of a feast, the people therein offer him food, drink, and a place to sit.
"M-mister, is it OK if I sit down?" Artnoc asks a man holding an entire bottle of wine.

"Of course, here in paradise there is always more for everyone!"

"Paradise?"

"Well, we call it that. Its real name is Aipotsyd, which lies in your-- our glorious nation of Suticnemmoc."

"But isn't there fam--"

"--No, the food supply has recently been increased to forty bushels a day"

"Who says so?"

"Retraf Sungam, lord of us all."

Gently, Artnoc tips the man’s bottle toward his own nose.

“Gah! Well there’s your problem! You’ve been drinking too much of this Suticnemmocian Gin!”

“No, boy, it’s the holy spirit.”

“You know what? If you’re right, then I’m not surprised.”

Artnoc rests his laurels upon one of the rough-hewn wooden chairs beside the great oak-slab table. In an eyeblink, Artnoc’s jug overflows with sweet-smelling swill and the crispy skin of roast boar crackles under his bite. Yet the meat is as salty as it is savory: the beverage calls his name. And so he brings the heady tankard to his lips, tilts his head back, and sips the sweet but suddenly harsh liquid within. As it pours into him, it burns hotter and hotter. His body screams for mercy.

“Ack! Euuugh… I feel ti— hic!— psy. It must have been mead. Ohhhh, my head. If coffee is the devil’s drink, then alcohol is the devil’s blood.”

“Oh, poor boy! He’s drunk! He’s roaring drunk and only nine! Somebody, help him!”

“Let him alone, it’ll teach him a lesson.”

“You can’t just leave someone to learn like that! Sure, he might stop drinking, but he also might start burning every tavern with a keg.”

“You’re just a bleeding heart!”

“My heart bleeds because it isn’t covered in callouses!”

“My parents taught me like that, and I turned out fine. Are you going to insult them, now, too?”

“Fine? Fine? How can you say that you’re fine? You’re anything but fine: you’re a mean old man who’d let a little boy drink himself to death because he can’t tell compassion from smothering.”

“And what are you, then, O man of the high horse? Where are your tales of giving money to the poor— evidence of your grand compassion?”

“I’m only thirteen, how could I have done anything yet?”

“Exactly: children should be seen and not heard.”

“Especially when they cry for help?”

“There you go again, with your moralistic ranting. You try being an adult! Then we can all follow the example of your high holiness into the sunny uplands. Reality is harsh and cold; either shape up or ship out.”

“Good grief! People like you need the very help that you deny to others.”
A slap rings out, and the boy falls.

“People like you should learn to keep their traps shut.”

Artnoc staggers over, clutching his mouth and stomach.

“H— baaaaarf— elp me, help— baaaarf— me. Oh why ca—baaarf—n’t you just help me!”

He falls with a thud and an ”Oof!”

“It’s people like you whom I can’t stand. You say you need help, but what you really need is a kick in the pants.”

Artnoc wakes with a start, gasping, he barely catches the tree’s trunk. Shaking with mortal fright, he hangs on for dear life, pushing the three story fall below him far from his mind. As the notion recedes into the chasms of his mind, his hands become steady once more; sweat no longer pours from his brow; the wild beating of his heart melts back into an imperceptible thumping in his chest. Yet in trying to control his fear, he unleashes the horror of Illian’s memory! The image of his best friend’s taking hammers relentlessly upon his tender mind as his body creaks and groans in heaving itself upward. Even once seated, his stomach churns, his head pounds, and his soft hands wipe away those first revealing tears. He clutches his thighs to strangle his guilty conscience and shuts tight his eyes to from them hide the weakness in his action. But he can bear the pain no longer.

Shuddering with the pain of friendship’s duty unfulfilled, he sobs. Once more the floodwaters of grief burst forth in rushing, roaring, rivers, whose surface his screams of anguish rend into a storm of burning will within his breast.
Teeth slammed tight in sorrow, Artnoc shifts his tear-blurred, shuddering gaze to the horizon. Owls hoot, coyotes howl, and roosters crow as nature awakens itself, holding in its earthy arms the empire of Suticnemmoc: the country of Artnoc’s home. Tiny villages dot the horizon of rolling steppe, within which lie timeworn, weather-beaten mud-huts, ancient, emaciated goats, and hoary, threadbare, grey garments hanging out to dry. A plump auburn bear trundles down the street, breaks down the door to a hut, and munches the food inside. Rolling down from a nearby mountain, several large boulders follow the bear and obliterate a dusty, desolate artifice of a feudalism now all but forgotten. An army of ants marches across a newborn’s face and eat the crumbs from the corners of its lips. None awaken.

A whisper, the bare shadow of a sound, treads softly over the grassy knolls and beneath the steam-grey skies; its origin, a hard, gold-plated monolith looming eternal over the village square’s tender earth. But upon this bare murmur, this feeble muttering of that unyielding tower, out from the mud-huts, emerge the people. Wearing grins of electric pleasure that strain at their cheeks, in unison the adult villagers grip their offspring’s’ bodies and apply their lips to the skin on the fronts of their skulls while, in stereo writ large, the national anthem of Suicitnemnoc escapes their mouths. Then, with the song’s end, their jaws snap shut, and all take perfectly measured strides to their respective places: home, work, or school.

“Roses are red, violets are blue. Love of your country, it’s good for you”

Thus speaks little Artnoc. His spine tingles as the automated morning plays out before him. Everywhere at once: For thousands of miles and yet so close, with thousands of others— yet only one he knows. Suicitnemnoc, the well-oiled machine of civilization, stands before him: hard and empty as the teacups of high society. Its heavy walls stand as bulwarks against the wild without, and, to it, Illian’s nation of Mussac was anything but civilized. Indeed, from an early age, each child of Suicitnemnoc learns that their country was all of civilization. The bark crackles as Artnoc slides from the tree while shaking his head.
“Suicitnemnoc and I have reached an impasse.”

-Duxwing

 

[Radiant Shadow]

@Duxwing

It is interesting to read a creative work whose style differs so greatly from my own. I will be following this, if you don't mind.

The reality is far less interesting. Much of the inspiration for this work's plot comes from a series of most interesting dreams, which, by nature have little regard for logic or continuity. Moreover, I didn't focus on consistency too much because I both didn't feel like grounding Patria Mori in reality, and because I wanted a universal story: in other words, I wanted to have the reach of Aesop's Fables. Moreover, the lack of a solid background also stems largely from the fact that I'd originally written Patria Mori for the silver screen, and have adapted the screenplay to text and hopefully soon, to the stage. That clears a few questions up. Understanding intent will focus my attention.

As for Heart of Darkness, I've read it and thoroughly enjoyed it (as much as one suffering from existential despair can enjoy something). I intend to work with its themes later, but for now, I'm focusing on the themes of bigotry, supremacy, and patriotism. If Camus has covered them already, then I guess that I'll have to cover them better, for I dread that there's no sense in writing a second-rate story about such passionate emotions and everpresent themes. It has been a few years since I've read him, but I do not believe Camus dealt with pride at all. I referenced him as a stepping stone for (de)constructing one's world-view, nothing more, and certainly not as an usurper; his work is fairly juvenile.

Regarding existential crisis, Patria Mori was and is my coping mechanism. It provides a fixed set of characters and plot elements by which I can untie-- instead of cut (by illogic)-- the Gordian-Godellian knot of nihilism as it relates to the question of "Why Bother Doing Anything?". In doing so, I've been better able to separate myself from universalism and find more peace in nihilism. Good for you! Nihilism is a delicate tipping point between angst and freedom; everything there is bathed in shades of twilight. From ashes to ashes (Void to grave), metamorphosis rises with the fall of broken systems.

In my eyes, we 'do' because it is more psychologically beneficial than apathy. Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs rests on action and can be considered from a singular and global perspective. Inheriting a cold universe does not exclude lighting candles. Once the rubble of expectation has been cleared away, reality is at our fingertips, ready to be explored properly. We may all die with the Sun, but ours will be one hell of a trip 'til then!

I've also revised this chapter, take a look!

It is late and I am tired; the sparsity and density of my comments will likely increase.

Spoiler

Chapter Three – Treegazer
Warm dawn breaks over the countryside, and Artnoc exhales in liberation. His body, once stiff in fear, now moves with ease; his little feet glide over the branch to face the sunrise. Cheeks, but moments ago pale with dread, are now ruddy in with joy. Swinging back and forth, thoughts of Illian all but fall from his mind. He snuggles the trunk and decides to take a midmorning nap.
“Life is good.”
The ground— if so it can be called— is soft and spongy. Artnoc carefully treads upon it, and the warmth envelops him completely. In the distance, he sees a village. In the midst of a feast, the people therein offer him food, drink, and a place to sit.
"M-mister, is it OK if I sit down?" Artnoc asks a man holding an entire bottle of wine.

"Of course, here in paradise there is always more for everyone!"

"Paradise?"

"Well, we call it that. Its real name is Aipotsyd, which lies in your-- our glorious nation of Suticnemmoc."

"But isn't there fam--"

"--No, the food supply has recently been increased to forty bushels a day"

"Who says so?"

"Retraf Sungam, lord of us all."

Gently, Artnoc tips the man’s bottle toward his own nose.

“Gah! Well there’s your problem! You’ve been drinking too much of this Suticnemmocian Gin!”

“No, boy, it’s the holy spirit.”

“You know what? If you’re right, then I’m not surprised.”

Artnoc rests his laurels upon one of the rough-hewn wooden chairs beside the great oak-slab table. In an eyeblink, Artnoc’s jug overflows with sweet-smelling swill and the crispy skin of roast boar crackles under his bite. Yet the meat is as salty as it is savory: the beverage calls his name. And so he brings the heady tankard to his lips, tilts his head back, and sips the sweet but suddenly harsh liquid within. As it pours into him, it burns hotter and hotter. His body screams for mercy.

“Ack! Euuugh… I feel ti— hic!— psy. It must have been mead. Ohhhh, my head. If coffee is the devil’s drink, then alcohol is the devil’s blood.”

“Oh, poor boy! He’s drunk! He’s roaring drunk and only nine! Somebody, help him!”

“Let him alone, it’ll teach him a lesson.”

“You can’t just leave someone to learn like that! Sure, he might stop drinking, but he also might start burning every tavern with a keg.”

“You’re just a bleeding heart!”

“My heart bleeds because it isn’t covered in callouses!”

“My parents taught me like that, and I turned out fine. Are you going to insult them, now, too?”

“Fine? Fine? How can you say that you’re fine? You’re anything but fine: you’re a mean old man who’d let a little boy drink himself to death because he can’t tell compassion from smothering.”

“And what are you, then, O man of the high horse? Where are your tales of giving money to the poor— evidence of your grand compassion?”

“I’m only thirteen, how could I have done anything yet?”

“Exactly: children should be seen and not heard.”

“Especially when they cry for help?”

“There you go again, with your moralistic ranting. You try being an adult! Then we can all follow the example of your high holiness into the sunny uplands. Reality is harsh and cold; either shape up or ship out.”

“Good grief! People like you need the very help that you deny to others.”
A slap rings out, and the boy falls.

“People like you should learn to keep their traps shut.”

Artnoc staggers over, clutching his mouth and stomach.

“H— baaaaarf— elp me, help— baaaarf— me. Oh why ca—baaarf—n’t you just help me!”

He falls with a thud and an ”Oof!”

“It’s people like you whom I can’t stand. You say you need help, but what you really need is a kick in the pants.”

Artnoc wakes with a start, gasping, he barely catches the tree’s trunk. Shaking with mortal fright, he hangs on for dear life, pushing the three story fall below him far from his mind. As the notion recedes into the chasms of his mind, his hands become steady once more; sweat no longer pours from his brow; the wild beating of his heart melts back into an imperceptible thumping in his chest. Yet in trying to control his fear, he unleashes the horror of Illian’s memory! The image of his best friend’s taking hammers relentlessly upon his tender mind as his body creaks and groans in heaving itself upward. Even once seated, his stomach churns, his head pounds, and his soft hands wipe away those first revealing tears. He clutches his thighs to strangle his guilty conscience and shuts tight his eyes to from them hide ("to hide from them"?) the weakness in his action. But he can bear the pain no longer.

Shuddering with the pain of friendship’s duty unfulfilled, he sobs. Why? Once more the floodwaters of grief burst forth in rushing, roaring, rivers, whose surface his screams of anguish rend into a storm of burning will within his breast.
Teeth slammed tight in sorrow, Artnoc shifts his tear-blurred, shuddering gaze to the horizon. Owls hoot, coyotes howl, and roosters crow as nature awakens itself, holding in its earthy arms the empire of Suticnemmoc: the country of Artnoc’s home. Tiny villages dot the horizon of rolling steppe, within which lie timeworn, weather-beaten mud-huts, ancient, emaciated goats, and hoary, threadbare, grey garments hanging out to dry. A plump auburn bear trundles down the street, breaks down the door to a hut, and munches the food inside. Rolling down from a nearby mountain, several large boulders follow the bear and obliterate a dusty, desolate artifice of a feudalism now all but forgotten. An army of ants marches across a newborn’s face and eat the crumbs from the corners of its lips. None awaken.

A whisper, the bare shadow of a sound, treads softly over the grassy knolls and beneath the steam-grey skies; its origin, a hard, gold-plated monolith looming eternal over the village square’s tender earth. But upon this bare murmur, this feeble muttering of that unyielding tower, out from the mud-huts, emerge the people. Wearing grins of electric pleasure that strain at their cheeks, in unison the adult villagers grip their offspring’s’ bodies and apply their lips to the skin on the fronts of their skulls while, in stereo writ large, the national anthem of Suicitnemnoc escapes their mouths. Then, with the song’s end, their jaws snap shut, and all take perfectly measured strides to their respective places: home, work, or school.

“Roses are red, violets are blue. Love of your country, it’s good for you”

Thus speaks little Artnoc. His spine tingles as the automated morning plays out before him. Everywhere at once: For thousands of miles and yet so close, with thousands of others— yet only one he knows. Suicitnemnoc, the well-oiled machine of civilization, stands before him: hard and empty as the teacups of high society. Its heavy walls stand as bulwarks against the wild without, and, to it, Illian’s nation of Mussac was anything but civilized. Indeed, from an early age, each child of Suicitnemnoc learns that their country was all of civilization. The bark crackles as Artnoc slides from the tree while shaking his head.
“Suicitnemnoc and I have reached an impasse.”

-Duxwing

 

[Duxwing]

@Duxwing

It is interesting to read a creative work whose style differs so greatly from my own. I will be following this, if you don't mind.

Please, do follow it.

Artnoc cries because he’d sat idly by while Ocseiuq pummeled Illian in Chapter One – Flutes at Dawn; therefore, I mentioned “friendship’s duty [to aid] unfulfilled”. However, since Ocseiuq has godly strength, Artnoc’s grief may be illogical. Ergo, I consider changing the plot: in the revised version, Ocseiuq’s attacks would hinge upon Artnoc not jumping into the fray. Were it so, Artnoc’s guilt would be reasonable, but otherwise, his would be a battle against Jove, king of the Gods. ·

Also, did his show of emotion go ‘over the top,’ so to speak? I tried to give as much detail as I could, but I know that there is a fine line between pathos and hilarity: the audience weeps for the man who falls into existential crisis after losing his job, but laughs at the man who does so after losing his ice cream cone. Nevertheless, in both cases the crisis, regardless of its nature, supplies the character with a great deal of emotional energy in its resolution; hence, I threw Artnoc into a crisis of grief so that he would be angry enough to sever his bond with Suticnemmoc upon seeing the mechanical morning. In turn, this detachment fuels other elements of the plot, which then ignite further conflict; all in all, the effect is one of an unyielding plot.

-Duxwing

 

[Radiant Shadow]

Please, do follow it.

Artnoc cries because he’d sat idly by while Ocseiuq pummeled Illian in Chapter One – Flutes at Dawn; therefore, I mentioned “friendship’s duty [to aid] unfulfilled”. However, since Ocseiuq has godly strength, Artnoc’s grief may be illogical. Ergo, I consider changing the plot: in the revised version, Ocseiuq’s attacks would hinge upon Artnoc not jumping into the fray. Were it so, Artnoc’s guilt would be reasonable, but otherwise, his would be a battle against Jove, king of the Gods. ·

Also, did his show of emotion go ‘over the top,’ so to speak? I tried to give as much detail as I could, but I know that there is a fine line between pathos and hilarity: the audience weeps for the man who falls into existential crisis after losing his job, but laughs at the man who does so after losing his ice cream cone. Nevertheless, in both cases the crisis, regardless of its nature, supplies the character with a great deal of emotional energy in its resolution; hence, I threw Artnoc into a crisis of grief so that he would be angry enough to sever his bond with Suticnemmoc upon seeing the mechanical morning. In turn, this detachment fuels other elements of the plot, which then ignite further conflict; all in all, the effect is one of an unyielding plot.

Ah, thank you for clarifying. I initially thought he wept because his friend was turned away due to bigoted patriotism ("his best friend's taking"), lamenting a needless loss, possibly wondering why something so stupid should cost so much. The eyes of children, innocents, see furthest at times. Given that interpretation, it struck me as odd he would feel such heavy grief for something completely beyond his control; that delineation usually comes later in life, so perhaps I am too harsh.

I think guilt as an aspect of (dormant) activism would be great. It would add a realistic flavor, especially for one entering the throes of doubt and separation. There are some things innately recognizable as "bad", especially to the damning eyes of youth.

However, it's hard to gauge proper emotional intensity, given the short length and wide breadth of what you are conveying from chapter to chapter. Pacing is essential, though you seem to have a good grasp on it. Psychologically, he is only nine years old - tight emotional regulation at losing his best friend would be deeply concerning (although the cultural backdrop certainly enables it, which could go in many directions). However, I'd personally say his outpour is flowery and romanticized, just a little too large for his frame. (Note: this is a stylistic difference; my characters are clinical under the thumb of absurdity before flying from it, unchained.) Most children, in my admittedly limited experience, simply are not invested enough such that loss consumes most of their being. Which brings me to ask:

Who are you writing this for? Parables, while universal in theme, are often not so in content. Some mental flexibility and personal relatability will be needed. As observers, intelligent adults will understand perfectly what Artnoc is enduring, while he himself may not quite yet (emotions can be pesky like that). In other words, I'm trying to get inside your head and get a holistic view.

 

[Duxwing]

Ah, thank you for clarifying. I initially thought he wept because his friend was turned away due to bigoted patriotism ("his best friend's taking"), lamenting a needless loss, possibly wondering why something so stupid should cost so much. The eyes of children, innocents, see furthest at times. Given that interpretation, it struck me as odd he would feel such heavy grief for something completely beyond his control; that delineation usually comes later in life, so perhaps I am too harsh.

I think guilt as an aspect of (dormant) activism would be great. It would add a realistic flavor, especially for one entering the throes of doubt and separation. There are some things innately recognizable as "bad", especially to the damning eyes of youth.

However, it's hard to gauge proper emotional intensity, given the short length and wide breadth of what you are conveying from chapter to chapter. Pacing is essential, though you seem to have a good grasp on it. Psychologically, he is only nine years old - tight emotional regulation at losing his best friend would be deeply concerning (although the cultural backdrop certainly enables it, which could go in many directions). However, I'd personally say his outpour is flowery and romanticized, just a little too large for his frame. (Note: this is a stylistic difference; my characters are clinical under the thumb of absurdity before flying from it, unchained.)

Most children, in my admittedly limited experience, simply are not invested enough such that loss consumes most of their being. Which brings me to ask:

Here is the new passage, with revisions marked in red:

Artnoc wakes with a start, gasping, he barely catches its trunk. Shaking with mortal fright, he hangs on for dear life, desperately trying to ignore the three story fall below him. Yet in his efforts to control his fear, he releases the memory of Illian's death: The image of the grisly scene hammers relentlessly upon his gentle mind as his body creaks and groans in heaving itself upward. Once well-seated, his stomach churns, his head pounds, and his soft hands wipe away the tears. He clutches his thighs, squints, and bites his lip until he can bear the pain no longer. Shuddering, he sobs.

Who are you writing this for? Parables, while universal in theme, are often not so in content. Some mental flexibility and personal relatability will be needed. As observers, intelligent adults will understand perfectly what Artnoc is enduring, while he himself may not quite yet (emotions can be pesky like that). In other words, I'm trying to get inside your head and get a holistic view.[/FONT][/SIZE]

Originally, I wrote Patria Mori for myself, then, in adaptation to the screen, for the students and faculty of my high school, and after that, in adaptation to text, for people like you: the critics. Oh, and I neglected to mention an important detail in my description of Artnoc's grief: Artnoc believes Illian to be dead by Ocseiuq's hand. Hence, my use of the word "taking" simply betrays that this story has an author; I know that Illian lives, but not Artnoc.

-Duxwing