“Hello, yes, my name is Geire Lockart,” Geire began, using his best diplomatic I’m-a-responsible-young-person voice, “I was a passenger on a ship that docked in Summer Port not two nights ago. Under the leadership of Valian Proce, I was to be the personal assistant to Prince Kalratt. However, I was… delayed, somewhat, but I return now in hopes I may reclaim that position. I apologize for my tardiness.” Geire chose not to say anything about being kidnapped or losing Sekall. They would think he was lying, or making wild excuses. Better to just give vague details and feign apologies.
While he had been talking, the man he recognized came to listen. The man was dark-featured and stern, and listened with his arms crossed, though he seemed to be considering all Geire said. After a moment the older man said a bit sadly, “The prince has chosen a new assistant in your delay, I’m afraid.”
“A young man named Sekall Alkarium, if I’m correct,” the dark man added.
Geire froze in mid-thought. Sekall. Sekall stole his job. He couldn’t believe it. Not only had Sekall managed to get back to the Middle Building before him, but he also moved up in rank somehow… how he managed such a feat was beyond Geire’s comprehension.
“But, that—that’s impossible, he was going to be calendar boy, he wasn’t even on the list, I…” Geire stammered, losing hope with every word he said. His eyes drifted to the floor in horror.
“I’m sorry, son, Sekall had shown a spectacular effort to make something of himself and was rightly rewarded,” the dark-featured man stated.
“Are there any positions to fill? I can do it, I can learn! Anything at all, please,” Geire pleaded, leaning on the desk heavily, eyes wide with a deep-set panic. He was grasping for a lifeline in a storm, be it a thread or even a hair.
The older man sighed and leaned back in his chair, taking off his glasses to rub the lenses on his sleeve absently. “You said your name was Lockart, correct?”
“Yes, Geire Lockart, son of Alberhim Lockart.”
The old man thumbed through a pile of papers at hand. Shaking his head and pursing his lips he said finally, “it says here you’ve been dismissed.”
For a moment, silence prevailed. Then Geire spoke: “Permanently?” His voice was tiny.
“I’m afraid so, son. Valian Proce has deemed you neglectful of your role, and you’ve been dismissed indefinitely. You may catch the next ship back to the homelands setting sail in two months,” the old man said, nodding and speaking as if Geire had simply taken a wrong turn on a street. He didn’t realize the volume of this tragedy.
Geire looked down, cringed, tensed his hand into a fist, sighed, but looked up and said as calm as he could, “Thank you,” and he hurriedly left the building. Once outside the sun made his eyes throb, and he groaned. That groan turned into angry mutterings, and then to held-back violent body language. He wanted to scream, he wanted to throw and break things, he wanted to let off the steam—but in such a strange, public place, all he could do was make frustrated, stifled noises and plant himself on the corner of the stairs, staring at cracks in the stone. He pulled at his hair, gritted his teeth, shut his eyes as tight as he could.
It's not often I have time to work on my novel anymore. But as my boyfriend lays sleeping in my tiny bed beside me, I can't find it in me to wake him up so I might go to bed in his place. So I opened Word, pumped out a couple essays for school, and then pulled up my book. I greeted the characters and apologized for my unkind absence, then got to work. A little bit of work at a time, here and there, and I'll have this book done by the time I'm 30. Haha.
I hope this little snippet has whet your appetite for more. ;)
Now goodnight. Goodnight bed-claiming boyfriend, goodnight yellow full moon, goodnight bubbly bottle of water, goodnight pile of finished math homework. See you all in the morrow.
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