The Inheritance

This week I would like to post the beginning of what I think will be my ten page short story. I say "think" because I have yet to decide what exactly I would like to present as my final work of fiction for this advanced creative writing class. If any of my previous or current works have interested you, the reader and viewer of The Mind of Eldon, please feel free to comment on this post to give me an idea of what I may focus on for my final paper.

With that being said, I present to you the first page of The Inheritance, a short story sparked by a prompt.

The Inheritance

Some would indeed say that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Those people would also declare that I have never had to work for anything in my 21 years of existence. That I believe that my, quote un-quote, bourgeoisie social class and formal upbringings constitutes some kind of authority over the lower class or working individuals of New York, hence making me some sort of a…a rich, spoiled brat; an arrogant, self centered, narcissistic Bruce Wayne.

They would deem me irresponsible, inconsistent, un-ambitious, and unworthy of heading a multi-billion dollar company. A company, I might add, that was started by my late father, God rest his soul, Alexander Fidias. They would hold my youth against me, stating that if I was not so pre-occupied with wasting my inheritance on designer clothing, fancy cars, expensive yachts, and gorgeous women, I could focus on the immense responsibilities that come with running a global enterprise.

I will tell you all, and you can now quote me correctly, when I say that these pretentious accusations are bullshit.

You, whom my father trusted, loved, and respected for 25 years, would like to overthrow his only son whom he rightfully put in charge. You would like to see him crumble. You would like to see him on his feet—begging for you to take his 51% share of the company. I’m sure that the overwhelming majority of the 15 of you assembled at this table feels quite justified in your meticulous and self-righteous acts of sabotage and blackmail.

Oh don’t…don’t you look at me like I don’t know what I’m talking about Mr. Finn. Like I’m some sort of naïve child unaware of the danger that lies ahead. Please don’t insult my intelligence. I’ll have you know that I have a significant amount of evidence against each and every despicable one of you showing that, not only are you conspiring to take over my company, yes….my company, but you also had a hand in my father’s murder.

To Be Continued...

Landon's Run

This week we were asked to present a work of fiction sparked by a prompt. I won't waist much time in saying what a prompt means to me or whether it is helpful or not as I have done that in a previous post entitled "Poetry Prompts." What I would like to say, however is that I found this assignment to be rather enjoyable.

I am currently working on a large project, a fictional novel, and I have taken any opportunity that I could in order to get deeper into the minds of my characters and the world in which they live in. With that being said, I found a prompt last month and it read as followed:

Write about a race--running race, rat race, a race to the hospital--any race.

This prompt gave me the advantage to write a scene in my novel that I thought was not ready to be written yet. Sure enough, I found that it was, and it was so much fun to write the first draft. The main character's name is Landon Pierce and here is his run.

Landon’s Run

I ran, I ran faster than I have ever ran before. I was a track star in high school—finishing first place in every race but my speed was never as high as it was now. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t worrying about those things back there. Whatever they were, they weren’t gonna catch up with me—not for a while at least. At the rate I was going not even God could catch up with me. My only concern was to reach her—I had to reach Eva. I knew Jude could take care of himself and I knew that he wouldn’t let anyone or anything get to Eva but I just had to be sure; it was my responsibility.

I pushed on; I felt the sweat pour on the sides of my face, down my cheeks, in between my ears, off my nose, around my neck, stinging my eyes like mosquito bites on the surface of your skin on a hot day. The sweat didn’t matter and neither did I, all that mattered to me right now was reaching her, my love, the one that trusts me, who believes in me, and expects me to be there in her darkest moments. This was a dark moment indeed, but I wasn’t there, I wasn’t with her. I would just kill my…I would just die if…if anything happened to her. If those things were to reach her before I did.

I jumped over the Honda parked on 7^th Avenue as if I was some sort of Olympic star. I flew pass the horde of screaming people—terrified and in utter confusion. The sirens on the fire engine trucks in the distance were loud. They became ear-piercing as our paths crossed. The police cars were speeding, coming straight in my direction, heading toward the insanity that I left a few avenues behind. I swiftly turned on 23^rd Street, near missing the head of the police car. I heard a crash and turned around for a second to see the police cars head that nearly crippled me, wrapped around a cable pole. I didn’t stop though; I pushed random people out of my way as I sprinted. Those people, they stood around, watching the police cars and fire engines race by, unapparent of the massacre that was rising further downtown. My legs were starting to give in but I refused to give up. Not until I reach the school, not until I reach Eva. That’s all that I could think to myself as my heart pounded beats faster than a humming bird.

The Frog King

Rapunzel, the story of a girl with long beautiful hair; Cinderella, a stepdaughter with an enchanting fairy godmother; Snow White, a beautiful princess with seven dwarfs; and Hansel and Gretel, siblings trapped in the woods by a wicked witch.

These are just a few highly recognized fairy tales by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, or the Brothers Grimm--who are among the best known story tellers of the 20th Century. Funny enough, they are not the authors of the tales but the collectors and publishers of them. Regardless of that fact, these German brothers are greatly responsible for the first sparks of an awesome array of imagination to children who, after being told these "bed-time stories" by mom and dad, seek to express themselves creatively through art and drama.

The assignment this week was to read The Frog King. I must admit that this was the first time that I have read this tale--that I can remember, that is. Reading this The Frog King brought me back to my childhood and a state of unbelievable imagination where anything is possible--even a prince turned into a frog by a wicked witch. Because of this, I thoroughly enjoyed this week's read. Indeed, I am inspired to write my own fairy tale.

Click here to read The Brothers Grimm, The Frog King, and other tales.