Chapter 1- The Wasteland

There is much speculation about The Winter. I only know what my father told me, and what his father told him. Colossal cities said to cover horizons, food ordered to your door, and even a sense of security. But from what I see, even now peeking through my window, it does not resemble these vague depictions. Grey skies, constant blizzards lay waste to the land, and The Winter; now ancient as the desolate cities themselves. 

I linger out of my room to where my father is. The heat from the fire instantly comforts me, and I sit down beside him while he struggles to pry off the top of a can with his knife. Tools and utensils are strewn across the table, as well as an old map. I know we're in Samara, but I struggle to read the map. Dad turns slightly to look at me, "Nadya! Did you sleep well?" my father asks. I nod my head in reply, but not looking away from the map, "Yes, I kept warm." 

"Do you see Samara?" he asks. I sigh, "No. I can't really read it." Dad comes a little closer to me and points with his finger, "That's Samara." I put my finger under the word and spell it out slowly. He points out another place on the chart, across a river, "Here, on the other side of the river." I begin to see it now. I read the word that labels the river. Small and simple enough of a word for me to understand, it says, The Volga. 

"Are you hungry?" My father asks, smiling. I nod my head and look at the can, struggling to read what the text says on the faded label. 

"Yes, I am. What is that?" I ask. He finally breaks off the lid and hands me the can. 

"It's ravioli," he replies. I take a bite, "Rava-What?" I say, stuffing my mouth with the imploding pockets. My father laughs, and I smile back, cheeks puffed. 

"What about you? Are you going to eat anything?" I ask, after noticing I was eating alone. He takes a long pause, during this time, I refuse to eat the remainder of the can. 

"We just don't have much left at the moment," he admits. I lean my head down and offer the rest of the food, "We can share it if you want?" 

"No, you can eat that. I'll be fine," he says. "We need to go hunting though I'm afraid." 

I nod my head, in agreement, "Or go to Samara?" I suggest, but Dad shakes his head. 

"No, it's too dangerous. Slavers have been trafficking there," he warns. "But they won't come across the river." 

I slurp down the rest of whatever was in the can and stand up from my seat, "I'll get ready then." 

"It's very windy out, make sure you're wrapped up completely," he reminds me. I keep that in the back of my head and enter my room to change. The majority of my clothes are laid out over my backpack. 

 

I take off my shirt to replace it with a drier one. The bitter cold never forgets to breathe on my bare skin, so I swiftly pull it over my head, and drag it down my soft skin. Now I put on my "snow-pants" as my father would say. I think it's funny, aren't they all snow pants? I've tried having this discussion with my Dad before, but he seems to think I wouldn't get it. I sit down, put on an extra pair of socks, and strap on my boots; Lacing them as far up as I can go, until the broken eyelets at the top. I take a soft, thin blanket, and use it as another layer. It has a small hole in the center for my head. I peek through and let the blanket drape over myself. I never used to do this, but I realized my jacket isn't good enough sometimes. It is thick, warm fur, but another underlayer never hurts. I put on my coat, buttoning it up, and fastening it close to my waist with the little string. I feel much warmer, almost too hot; but I'll be outside soon, wishing I was back inside by a fire. I quickly fix my brown hair in a loose braid, wrap my brown headscarf around my head, and tuck it under my collar. I finally throw my hood over it all, grab my thin gloves, and mittens. 

The scarf feels soft, grazing my hand across it, as I approach my father. He is fully dressed; Only his eyes stare back at me. 

"What is it?" I ask. I feel I already know the answer to my question; I can see it in his eyes. He fixes himself and approaches me, bending over slightly to my height, and wrapping his arms around me. He holds the end of my brown scarf, softly tightening it around my head, "I love you, Nadi!" he exclaims. 

"Do you miss Mama?" I ask. He subtly nods his head and peers at the scarf once again. 

"You look like your Mother with that scarf." He says, smiling, gracefully at me, but quickly changes the subject, "Are you ready?" 

I smile back at him, nodding my head in affirmation, "Yes." I brace myself for the cold. He picks up my bow from in the corner and hands it to me, "You're better at this than me." He slips his pistol into his pocket and opens the door. I put on my thin gloves and wear mittens over them; So, I can shoot when the time comes. Snow falls from the dark skies, but the wind is calm. This will make it difficult to track animals, but at least it isn't' windy. We continue walking to a nearby dead forest. Animals come to live here frequently, inside trees, or buried under the snow. The snow is rooted deep in the woods, going past my knees in some parts. I struggle to lift my legs up and get stuck in the snow. "Pa!" I call to my father. He turns around, no trouble trekking through the snow with his height. He takes my hands and pulls me out, while I kick the snow off my feet, "We should've brought snow-shoes," I say laughing, embarrassingly at my problem.  

"Maybe just snow-shoes for you," my father jokes. "It isn't so deep up here." He points ahead, where the snow begins to dip. 

The snow is shallow here, Father notices some tracks, "The other animals must lurk here for shelter," he suggests, shrewdly. "Let's stay here, Nadya." 

I loosen my gloves and hold my bow, ready to shoot. Dad seems to trust me with the bow, genuinely. I just hope my aim is true when the time comes. After nearly thirty minutes of waiting, Dad wants to start moving again, quietly. I begin to stand up slowly, noticing something moving in the distance, behind the trees, "Wait," I whisper to my Dad. I see the Musk Deer, trotting into view. Thankfully there's no wind; Otherwise, it would've smelled us by now. It's not too far away to shoot. I knock the arrow, pull back on the string; All the way to my cheek.  

I look down the arrow; The Musk at the point of my arrow-head, it grazes obliviously. I let the arrow loose, it soars into the deer's neck, and the Musk drops, kicking snow, helplessly to flee. We approach the deer. It is a good size, but we won't need a sled to bring it back. Dad pulls out his knife to finish the job. "That was perfect, Nadi!" He compliments. It feels good to know that we'll be eating well for the next few days. He stabs the knife into the deer's heart. It finally lay limp and lifeless in the snow. He picks up the deer, slumping it over his shoulder. We begin to return home. I'm surprised how well the hunt went today. It isn't often you see a Musk hiking around. 

"I'm proud of you, I knew you had a good eye for that bow," he compliments again. 

"It helps that it wasn't so windy," I add.  

Dad approaches the house, beginning to open the door. Glancing through the window, I briefly see the reflection of someone, but he swings open the door before I can warn him. My suspicions are confirmed when we are halted by three hooded men standing around the entrance while two more, quietly, flank from around the house behind us. Half of them are armed with rifles, while the rest hold clubs or knives. I cling to my father; they'll shoot me before I could knock an arrow. 

"What do you want!" Father demands. 

"The both of you are coming with us," one of the armed men says, and they begin to step closer. Dad moves in front and pushing me behind him to protect me. I tuck myself in the corner, eyes wide, waiting for an escape.  

"You'd best stay away from her!" he warns, carefully observing each of them. They continue to inch closer and closer, and one of the men behind us tries to snatch me by the collar. I yelp, alerting my father, and he instantly turns around with the pistol in his hand, gutting the man with the barrel, and firing. I quickly duck to avoid the inevitable retaliation. The other bandits hold up their weapons to fire, but Dad immediately returns fire with his pistol already aimed. Two of the bandits fall, hit by the shooting, but he's eventually clubbed over the head from the other man behind. The rest of the bandits shoot him, finishing him off when he falls. I attempt to run through the door and punch one of the bandits, but he sees my blatant attack and grabs my arms, throwing me to the ground. 

"You're a tough one," He mocks, laughing 

I lunge for the pistol, but one of the men kicks me in the chest, and I fall on the floor; Coughing and gasping. I reach out for the gun one more time, but he stomps my hand with his boot and kicks me in the face. I give up, beaten on the floor next to my father, who now lays motionless. One of them holds a gun to my head while they argue among themselves, "What do we do with this b***h!" they yell. "It wasn't supposed to go like that!" 

"He just started shooting," another yells. This might be my time to just run. I try to make a dash to the door, when I am met with another man, holding a pistol; His rifle strapped on his back. He tosses me back into the room. All the arguing men stand up straight and quieting themselves, humbly responding to the man's gnarled face. He approaches me, holding the pistol. I worry he will pull the trigger, but he grips the barrel and clubs me over the head. Collapsing, my knees buckle, and my vision is painted by darkness. 

 

*** 

I awake slowly, laying in a sled, beside a fire. My hands are bound in front of me, and I bring them to my head. It pulsates from a headache, the side of my head throbbing. A bloodied bandage sits loosely over the gash in my temple, and slowly, I begin to remember what happened. Dizzily, looking around the small camp I notice the bandits chattering among themselves and questions engulf my mind. Why did they kidnap me? Where are they taking me? Where are these bandits from? My dry throat clenches with thirst, and I reach out to one of the bandits. 

I try to speak, "Water?" I ask, though it’s difficult to plead. The bandit ignores me. I give up, drop my head, and lay in the sled. Nobody will come looking for me. I have nowhere to go. Grief suddenly hits me, and I begin to sob. A strange sense of abandonment sets in befeore I notice a boy sitting nearby. Brown hair like mine, and his hands bound. He must've been taken too. I see more people like us. Maybe they were kidnapped by the bandits as well? Whole groups of twenty to thirty people huddled around the fires. I look away from the brown-haired boy when he meets my gaze, and I continue to cry. He crawls toward me, sitting beside the sled, but I almost wish he’d not had noticed me.  

"Hey, you're awake," he greets politely. "You should have some water," he says, handing me a canteen. I look at him, wiping some of my tears. His kind blue eyes spell no harm. Surprised by his generosity, I humbly receive the water and sit up to drink from the cold container. I hand it back to him with plenty left inside, but he stops me with his hand, “Drink more, please," he says. I am slightly distrustful at the moment, but I can’t imagine much worse could happen, drinking more from his bottle. I look around at the other bandits, to see if they're listening. I speak to the boy in a hushed tone, "Where are they taking us?" I ask, desperate to seek information. 

"They're taking us as slaves, to Volgograd," says the boy. 

"Slaves? To Volgograd?" I ask, confused. "Where is that?" 

The boy looks as puzzled as me, "I don't know..." he trails off. "I've been told there's an unfrozen river there; What's your name?"  

"I'm Nadya," I reply. "I was taken from Samara; I don't know how long it's been since though." 

"I saw them bring you here yesterday, you were unconscious in the sled until now," he states. "I'm Makar." 

"Alright Makar, how did you end up here?" I ask. He looks at me sadly; Slowly sighing, he begins to speak, sipping from our shared canteen, "I was taken from Tolyatti," He says, bringing his head closer to my ear.  

"My brother, Artyom, should be looking for me," he whispers. Suddenly one of the bandits pushes Makar to the side, I recognize him. He's the one who knocked me unconscious. He must be a bandit leader. 

"Let's move, we'll make camp in the village!" he commands the crowd. 

The bandits obey his orders and begin to pack quickly. It's almost dark, we will need shelter from the cold soon. The bandit leader drags me up off the sled, "You can walk now," he says. I stagger up, and a bandit loops a rope around my binds, holding the end of it; like a lead for an animal. We travel to shelter nearby, fixing up camp once again, with tents, and more fires. One of the bandits unties the lead from my hands, and I sit inside a ruined building by the fire, where the men watch me closely. Makar finds me, sitting beside me at the campfire. There is a long silence between us, I bother to ask him, "Do you have any food?" 

"No, I don't. I'm sorry, I'm hungry too," Makar says, shaking his head. "Maybe tomorrow." I lay down in the snow, and tuck my arms into my coat, through the sleeves. I've never been more grateful to have a blanket under my jacket, but I wish there were one for Makar too. 

"I wish there were a blanket," I say. "You must be cold Makar." 

"I'm actually doing alright," he states. I squirm a little closer to him, for what little warmth it gives. I wish I could go into one of the tents, but I'm sure the bandits would toss me out. Makar lays down behind me, and I stare at the fire, dozing off to the ambient crackling. 

Author's Note

Please tell me what you think! I have more draft chapters to this short novel, and I'm still writing. E-Mail me if you have any questions. Lastly, please send some reviews! I love hearing feedback and I live off it. Everyone needs help getting outside the box.

Reviews

[Rana]

Favorite bit: "It has a small hole in the center for my head. I peek through and let the blanket drape over myself." clear and cute imagery, i smiled at it. The vibes from this cold, scanty scarce world of hunters and the hunted, through a little girl's eyes- are somehow comforting and there's a balance between good and bad events, like when Makar comes in. A suggestion, (“Are you ready?” I smile back at him, nodding my head in approval, “Yes.”)- in here, in place of "approval" a better word may be agreement, consent or affirmation. It was clever to hint at the girl's age by the parts about her reading skills. "It feels good to know that we'll be eating well for the next few days. "- important line, kind of like the theme of the whole story! Uncertainty and suspense, neat work.

[Joey K]

I like your suggestion! I think I'm going to go over a majority of the dialogue in this chapter. However, as I'm going to explain a little greater in the prologue, Nadya is more illiterate than too young to read. However she's by no means an adult at the beginning of the story. I really like your comments! I'll have a chapter two up soon.

[Joey K]

Let me know if there's anything else you'd change! I love your suggestions

[Rana]

Oh there are!
- He points out another place on the map, across a river, “This is where we are; Across the river, North West of the old city.” (suggest the dialogue be "This is where we are; on the other side of the river is the old city"- because it's simpler to understand this way)

- the spacing between the theme of food feels small, the character finishes a can of food and goes hunting for more food- maybe talk about how it was the last can of food there was or maybe what feels awry is the fact that she doesn't know ravioli so she hasn't had it before but then how did it get there, how does her father know it and obtain it and why have they never talked about it before.

-“She stays,” Dad pulls out his pistol, holding it at his side. (the dialogue doesn't feel intuitive because he has to stay with her, if she stays how is she gonna survive alone?)

that's all!
-PS: i apologize i took some days to get back, i wasn't well, had some mental issues, but i had this interaction at the back of my mind. Well, keep writing! Yay

[Joey K]

No need to worry! And I've taken just about all of your advice and suggestions. Especially the food theme, i certainly lacked on that in the beginning. It definitely can feel rushed. And i'm big on dialogue, most of it is pretty good from what I've been told, but you caught a great way of simplifying it.

[Rana]

Yayyy :) i do like the dialogues too, and the names.

[Joey K]

I edited some of the story according to your comments. I think that this sounds better overall.

[Rana]

That's good!

[JayG]

Well, you did ask... And since you hope to be a successful writer, I thought you might want to know the things that would jump out at an acquiring editor, were this a submission. It may sting though, so take a deep breath—though in fairness, it doesn’t relate to how well you write, or your talent and potential as a writer.

The first thing a reader notices is that this is a transcription of an unknown someone talking to the reader as if in person. But that cannot work because in person, or on stage, the act of presenting any story is a performance, where how you tell the story—your performance—matters as much as what you say because it’s the primary conduit for the emotional component of the story. And given that the reader comes to us for an emotional, not an informational experience, trying to use the skills of verbal storytelling in a medium that reproduces neither sound nor vision is, in effect, shooting yourself in the foot. The way you vary cadence and intensity, your whispers and shouts? Reduced to a text-to speech presentation, where the only emotion in the narrator’s voice is what’s suggested by punctuation. Have your computer read the story aloud to hear what the reader gets—which is a useful editing trick, in any case.

And those gestures you use so expressively, as visual punctuation? Gone, along with eye-contact, changes in facial-expression, and body-language.

Added to that, your foreknowledge of the characters, the setting, and the plot-points causes you to miss the things that are automatically called to mind as you read, so they never make it to the page.

Remember, the reader has no access to your intent for how to read and react to the prose, or what the words are supposed to call up in their mind. They have only what your words suggest to THEM, based on their background and experience, not yours. And with that in mind, look at a few lines from the opening as an acquiring editor must:

• There is much speculation about The Winter.

“The Winter? What can that title mean to a reader who just arrived? The words are familiar, but they lack context to link them to an unspecified event.

And who is the one doing so much speculation? Unknown. So from a reader’s viewpoint the first line is, literally, meaningless. And given that the reader has no assurance that you will clarify, and that any clarification can’t retroactively remove the “huh?” this line generates, why would they WANT to read on?

• I only know what my father told me, and what his father told him

Then, obviously, as an unreliable source, the reader should seek someone who knows what they’re talking about. Not what you intended, of course, but it is what you just told the reader.

Here’s the deal: With this opening you’re trying to generate a mood. And perhaps in person, as you lean conspiratorially toward the listener, and place the proper emotion into your voice, it might work. But on the page? A voice in the dark is talking about things for which the reader has no context.

You don’t see it because for you, who CAN hear that performance, it works. For you the necessary context is there, because for you, every line points to images, background, and more, all residing in your mind.

But the reader lacks that. So for them, every line points to images, background, and more, all residing in *YOUR* mind. But without you there to explain…

Like so many hopeful writers you’re using first person to try to make the words more personal. But saying, “I went to the garage to get the car,” is no more personal, from a reader’s viewpoint, than, “Jack went to the garage to get the car.” And using present tense to make it, “I go to the garage to get the car,” adds nothing. In all cases the same person does the same thing, for the same reason.

The thing to remember is that in life, it is always first person present tense because we’re living it. And in a story, no matter the tense and person the narrator may use for THEIR words, for the one who lives the story it’s first person, present tense. Your characters hear and respond with zero delay, reading their lines like animatronic robots. But real people rephrase, hesitate, stutter, and in general, behave like people. They use all five senses, not just sight and hearing.

Take yourself. Were someone to run into the room where you are and say, “I just heard the news. You won the million dollar lottery.” Would you immediately respond? Or would you first wonder if you heard right, then if it’s a joke. Would you speak, or stand there with your mouth open. Would your first response be measured and intelligent, or would it be instinctive, to shake your head in disbelief brows lowered, as you shout, “What? Are you…are you…who in the hell told you that?”

At the moment, you’re mentally viewing the film version of the film, and telling the reader what’s happening on the screen, in the form, “This happened…then that happened…and after that…” But that’s a chronicle of events. We learn what happens, yes, but learn nothing about the protagonist’s reason for one course of action, or choice of words, over another. So while we have a focus character, we have no avatar.

E. L. Doctorow put it well when he said, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader, not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

So while you’re facing the problems I mentioned, because of a common misunderstanding of the realities of creating a scene on the page, you’re telling the reader a story as a narrator whose voice can’t be heard, and whose performance can’t be witnessed.

The misunderstanding I mentioned is that we leave our school days believing that writing-is-writing, and that we use the same techniques for all purposes. Somehow, though we realize that we need more knowledge to successfully write a screenplay, or to be a journalist, we never apply that knowledge to writing fiction, or remember that all professional knowledge is acquired after we perfect, The Three R’s, in our schooldays.

In short, all those reports and essays we wrote in school readied us to write reports and essays. But did even a single teacher explain why a scene ends in disaster for the protagonist, and must? Did they discuss the huge difference between a scene on the page and one on stage/screen, and why they must differ so? I ask because if we don’t know what a scene truly is, the elements that make it up, and how to end it, how can we write one? After all, everyone we know has chosen professionally written and prepared fiction since they began to read. They expect to see the results of that professional knowledge, and to be made to “feel the rain,” not know it’s raining. So doesn’t it make sense to spend a bit of time, and perhaps a few coins on acquiring our writer’s education?

The library’s fiction-writing section can be a gold-mine of useful information. You’ll find the views of pros in publishing, teaching, and writing there for the taking.

My personal suggestion, though, is an older book, one that may not be there: Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer. It’s the best I’ve found to date, is the reason behind whatever success I’ve had, and has over 200 five star reviews on Amazon. It’s not an easy read, and can be a bit dry when he goes into great detail on a point. But while the book won’t make a pro of you (that’s your job), it will give you the tools and the knowledge needed.

In fact, most of the writing articles in my blog are based on Swain’s teachings.

So…was this what you were hoping to hear after all the work you put into writing this? Of course not. But on the other hand, you now know what well over 90% of hopeful writers never learn. In fact, publishers view 97% of what’s submitted as amateur, and most of that as unreadable. In other words, if you’re not in that top three percent you’re not even in the game. And since you can’t fix the problem you don’t see as being one…

So have at it. Dig into the tricks of the trade. You’ll be glad you did. And while you do, hang in there and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/