​AFTER MIDNIGHT: 1037
 
Jones wondered if his fingers had stuck to the enamel mug. He’d kept them wrapped around the heat of the steaming hot tea until he’d sucked all the heat from it. Now there was nothing left in the cup and he was freezing again. He’d heard of frost bite and wondered if he had it by now. The White Sisters that had led him to this cave never mentioned when they’d return. Or if they would return. They’d given him the mug of tea and told him to drink every drop and then they’d left him. He had been too cold to think of anything beyond getting out of the blizzard, but he possibly should have asked them a couple of questions. Like, where was he? And why were they helping him? And would they be back? And what should he do now? He barely took in his surroundings; he didn’t want to move out of the frozen trance he seemed to be in, for fear that his body would fully go into shock. He was pretty sure he was already half dead and he mused idly about who would find him frozen and lifeless, sitting on a low rock staring into an empty mug. It wasn’t a very heroic position to be found in, but then Jones didn’t consider himself a hero. He just wasn’t that kind of man. Michael was that kind of man. And that actor, Lorcan, he was the hero type. But it was Jones who had been chosen to go by the Mayor - a decision that many questioned, including Jones himself. And they had been right; here he was, with the message undelivered and dying in a most undignified way. He wondered if he would ever be found at all. Who would find him? They had the opportunity for one ‘jump’ as they called it and now that he thought about it, perhaps the Mayor knew what she was doing, since it was always going to be a one-way trip. Who would actually miss him? What world would crumble if he never came back? Eva had promised to take over the care of the animals and he knew both she and Michael would stay with Mother as long as she needed them. Diana was strong and her husband’s death had been expected - or so she said. Jones had been caught off guard, though. Father told him he was feeling well all the time and Jones had believed him. His heart suddenly warmed at the idea that he would see Father again in the Glorious After. He felt his lips crack as he smiled at the thought of it and he resolved to sit up a little straighter so Father wouldn’t know he had suffered any pain at all. He closed his eyes and waited for death to come. He welcomed it now. 

​Before the Great Darkness
 
DALSTON: 1035 (two years earlier)
 
“Well, I don’t see why you can’t.”
“I just don’t…need to, I suppose.”
“Everyone needs an education, Jones. Even pig farmers.”
Jones was looking at his dirty finger nails. He’d meant to have a wash before coming out to meet Eva. Something told him those kinds of things were important, that it would please Eva, although she didn’t seem to mind. She often said the smell of pigs reminded her that he was a man of the earth and she liked that. 
“I know you’re clean underneath.” She said the first time they kissed. “You’re a diamond in the rough, and that’s more important to me.” 
Right now, she wasn’t looking at him at all; she was turned away, scowling for want of a better word, but honestly, Jones considered her far too pretty to wear a scowl properly. Certainly, she was upset and he was the cause of that. He put a hand awkwardly on her shoulder; they were both still fairly new at this love game, and he wasn’t sure of the rules yet. Plus, father was forever telling him that women were difficult creatures and to tread very carefully around them, especially if they seemed upset. 
“Eva, I don’t even want to go back to school. I’ve learned enough.”
“But you could master your skills; learn husbandry.” 
“I’ve been mastering my husbandry skills since I was old enough to walk the walls of the sty, Eva.”
“You could learn to do it more effectively.”
Eva turned her sad little face towards him and Jones wondered if this was the wrong time to plant a kiss on her downturned mouth. There was a pinprick of blood on her lower lip, from where she kept biting it, a habit she had, he noticed, when she was genuinely upset. 
“You could be the richest pig farmer in the Lower Lands! Think of that.”
He touched her lip to wipe away the tiny globule of blood and she took hold of his hand quite earnestly with both of hers. 
“Don’t you want to be rich, Jones? Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Rich?”
“Yes. Wouldn’t you like to live in a nicer, bigger house than your father’s, and have others to do the work for you?”
Jones wasn’t sure how he was supposed to answer but it sounded like a lonely existence. 
“I like working with the pigs.”
“Of course, but if you had qualifications you could learn to expand your farm and then you’d have to employ farm hands and you could tell them what to do. All day long if you like.”
“I wouldn’t think much of them if they didn’t already know what to do.” 
Eva pushed his hands away impatiently. Jones worried that his chances of a kiss were dwindling fast. 
“But…perhaps, I could tell them to do the work faster.”
“Yes, yes you could, Jones. And then you’d get rich faster.”
Jones tried not to frown; he wasn’t as pretty as Eva and he probably didn’t look good with a frown or a scowl. 
“The thing is, Eva, I don’t know what I’d spend money on, even if I did have it. You’ve cut your lip; would you like me to kiss it better for you?” 
That was what the other boys called ‘flirting’ and he felt quite pleased with himself. He would definitely wash himself next time. Eva however, did not look so pleased.
“You don’t know what you’d spend it on?”
“Well…no; I sort of have everything I need already on the farm. We’re very self-sufficient, you know.”
Eva’s eyes were beginning to well up with what he hoped weren’t tears, though she did look quite upset.
“Wouldn’t you ever like to buy some…silver bangles, or…pretty dresses?” 
Jones laughed heartily at that.
“Can you see me wearing bangles and pretty dresses around the pigsty? No, I’d have no use of dresses or anything pretty to be honest.”
And for that, Jones got a good hard slap across his face, before Eva’s tears finally spilled out over her cheeks and she ran away from him, back towards the town and away from the border wall where they usually met. With his father’s words ringing in his ears, Jones felt it was a little unfair; he didn’t know what he had done, he had barely moved never mind tread carelessly around her. His face stung and Jones inwardly admired Eva’s ability to deliver such a strong hit. They had been together since their Cutting, almost three months since they returned, and for the first time, Jones thought about taking a wife. Someone just like Eva. Maybe even Eva. He grinned from ear to ear at that, the idea that he had found himself a woman, and he was still only sixteen. When Eva calmed down over whatever it was that was bothering her, he might suggest it to her. Then she wouldn’t need to bother going back to school either. They could live happily ever after on the little farm. Him and Eva, Mother and Father, and the pigs. 
 
...If you enjoyed reading this, sign up to my newsletter where I share chapters from the novel I'm working on, short stories, essays, scripts, musings and where I will also read chapters from my recently published book, Jane Noodle and the Universe Belt. The novel these chapters are from is called Golden Acorns (working title). Let me know what you think!

Monday morning, around 7am. I've just read over the chapters I wrote yesterday. They're brilliant. I visualise myself chatting to Oprah about the book that changed the world. The publisher that finds me is one lucky bugger. I've always known this was inside me, it's been there my whole life, waiting until I was older and wise enough to create it. 
Monday afternoon, around lunchtime. I'm a fraud, an untalented fool; this whole book is nonsense. I'm fifty four. If I haven't managed to do it yet, I'll never do it. There's a reason for everything. I visualise the rejection letters and my cheeks burn with shame. I will definitely be eating bread for lunch. 

I believe this is what makes me a writer: I'm one hundred percent confident about fifty percent of the time. What is it going to take to get me to finish this book? It's like the universe - ever expanding and I feel like it's been in creation since the beginning of time. There's an online community of writers I dip in and out of but won't participate in their chats because:
a) Their young adult fantasy book ideas sound obvious and immature.
b) Their young adult fantasy book ideas sound very like mine. 
c) They haven't attained the life experiences I have, so we can have nothing in common.
d) They are all younger than me, and most of them have already finished their fantasy novels.
I wish it were easy to slap myself across the face. 

The thing is, the book is sort of writing itself. It started life as a twenty minute play for young teenage drama students, all of whom had contributed to it by way of inspiring me. The hero wasn't even an original character; he was a twelve year old Spanish boy who started class when we were already weeks into rehearsals. I wrote his part hastily, a character without any dimension, who carries the bags of two old women in a desert (these two evolving out of my disappointment with my older youth theatre who had rejected a Beckett play - they thought it was absurd *sigh*). Because he was struggling a little with English, his lines were written simply. I told him that all ideas were welcome, and to speak up if he wanted to add something to his character. He nodded his head and said,
"Can I have a pig?" 
I asked if anyone happened to have a toy pig and it turned out someone did, and so, with no explanation of any kind, his character carried around a pig as well as the bags.

In my novel, he is a delightful innocent boy, the son of a pig farmer and just ten per cent less intelligent than his teenage sweetheart would like. The book, as I mentioned, is expanding at an alarming rate - I already know it's part of a trilogy - and the story is almost entirely different from the original play. The characters bully me, demanding back stories and layers of depth. What upsets me is that it was a very funny play, but the book is getting darker every day. Don't get me wrong, the ideas that come to me are exciting, but I wonder if the end will ever be nigh? One time, I had written over 70,000 words. I ripped that to half during a difficult bout of non-confidence but I think it was the right thing to do. If I don't cringe the next day, it stays. 

The boy - I called him Jones in the play, because he carried the bags you see, and I've kept the name. I smile when I write his story; when I realised where his arc would end, I almost cried with the warm feeling it gave me inside. But I've said too much already, and I'm assuming you will want to read the book. When it's written. To date, I've written 41,187 words that I can stand over. I shall have many more yet.