Fragment (1)
I am currently working on a diploma in creative writing at Oxford* and am churning out an unprecedented amount of words, some of which I hope to share here.
Recently, I needed to write the introduction to a novel guided by some mad lib-esque prompts. Here is an (spins the wheel) epistolary novel about (spins wheel) a young man growing up gay in a small community set in (spins wheel one last time) England during the reign of Alfred the Great.
So, without further ado, enjoy!
Two oblates fall in love as they grow up together in monastic care but the lovers are separated after a viking raid on their monastery. Years later, they discover they have both survived the raid and embark on simultaneous journeys to reunite that are chronicled beside their memories in a series of letters.
Abbey of Saint-Sauveur, Redon, Kingdom of Brittany
September, 871
Dear Cerdic,
I have written this letter more times than I dare confess, with every version being more inadequate than its predecessor. I do not doubt I could still write it a hundred times more and not be satisfied but I know I must hurry or risk your moving on and the loss of you once more. Even now, I scarcely believe that these words will reach you. How can I, when I have mourned your passing so thoroughly that the grief for you has become my dearest friend---a constant companion in the way you once were.
In one of my first letters, I began by assuring you that I am also not dead or captured as you likely fear of me the way I feared of you. Though you have undoubtedly already gathered this assurance, I will write it plainly, in case your disbelief is as intense as mine. I am both alive and uncaptured, staying near my mother’s family in Brittany at Redon Abbey. The story of how I arrived here from Croyland deserves a missive of its own, so for now I will only reveal that my journey was long and arduous, made more so by your absence and the torment I imagined you to be suffering at the hands of the Danes. The last sight I had of you was of you being taken captive. I have not, nor do I think I ever shall, forgiven myself for my cowardice in fleeing at the sight of your distress. I would never expect your forgiveness for it either, though I pray as ecstatically as I ever have that it will not prejudice you against me forever.
In a later version of this letter, I began by recounting how I heard of your survival from a trader who stayed in the guesthouse here and told me of another displaced Mercian he met on his travels, a youngish man, he said, living among the Britons. In the first instance, I was somewhat offended by the flamboyant Lotharingian’s (perhaps you now remember this trader of whom I write?) supposal that I should know every Mercian monk there ever was, but as his fanciful tale went on that rare spark of hope in me that only you had ever managed to light began to flicker. Still, I do not entirely believe that you could be the subject of his long-winded tale, but I do dare to hope once more, hope enough that upon your reply I will be prepared to travel to Cantref Maelienydd at a moment’s notice. I have only not set out at once to avoid a second death should I not find you there or that I should miss your reply and we pass each other somewhere over the sea, ill-fated as ever we were.
Already, I feel myself going mad at the possibilities before us. Who knows what state you will find me in if or when we ever do meet again. Perhaps the end of Croyland and all our previous world is a blessing from our loving God, and not a punishment from our vindictive God as the abbot here would have me believe. Perhaps it is his permission, that our dream of retiring away together is indeed holy and righteous in his eyes.
…
*I won’t write a whole post on this just yet but, in light of ongoing d i s c o u r s e, I will just say that while formal writing education is by no means a requirement for authorship, I, personally, have gained a lot from this programme.
