Each Tuesday, rather than a POSSIBLY
IRRITATING ESSAY, I'd like to both challenge you and lend a helping hand. I
generate more speculative and teen story ideas than I can ever use. My family
rolls its collective eyes when I say, "Hang on a second! I just have to
write down this idea..." Here, I'll include the initial inspiration
(quote, website, podcast, etc.) and then a thought or two that came to mind.
These will simply be seeds -- plant, nurture, fertilize, chemically treat,
irradiate, test or stress them as you see fit. I only ask if you let me know if
anything comes of them. Regarding
Fantasy, this insight was startling: “I see the fantasy genre as an
ever-shifting metaphor for life in this world, an innocuous medium that allows
the author to examine difficult, even controversial, subjects with impunity.
Honor, religion, politics, nobility, integrity, greed—we’ve an endless list of
ideals to be dissected and explored. And maybe learned from.” – Melissa
McPhail.
F Trope:
government bans art; group uses it to restore…
Current Event: http://www.dailystar.com.lb/Culture/Art/2012/Jan-13/159678-uk-unveils-restored-rare-roman-helmet-mistaken-for-bucket.ashx#axzz1oOPYDSZF
Hector Blaine has
lived his entire life on a ranch in central Kansas. When his family is killed
in a tornado while he’s on a mission trip, he’s shipped off to a wealthy,
elderly aunt and uncle who live in Minneapolis, not far from the Walker Art
Museum in a huge house. He has a room of his own, but he never sees them – only
the housekeeper and a cook.
He’s been in
Minnesota for three months and he hates it, but the school year is starting and
instead of taking his aunt and uncle’s suggestion to attend an exclusive
private school, he opts for a public one, figuring he’ll have a better chance
surviving among the poor and rough rather than among the rich and snotty.
They comply and
he’s set to start Southwest Minneapolis High School. But he just doesn’t want
to be there at ALL. He’s trapped. He can’t escape. It’s like he’s been
captured, enslaved and totally out of control of his life.
NOT that he ever
felt like he had any control when he lived in Kansas – his two older brothers
and older sister pretty much used him as a dumping ground for the chores and
work they didn’t want to do. The kids in Brownell think of him as a country
hick. The kids in Salina, Kansas (the nearest “big city”) – the one time he’d
been there – had looked at him like he was from another planet. But at least
they’d been from Kansas. He’s certain he’s going to DIE at Southwest.
So he runs away.
Sort of. To the Museum, which is the only place he’s felt at home since he came
to this Northern Nightmare. He wanders most of Sunday, ending up at a new
exhibit of Roman artifacts. He has no desire to leave and hides, studying one
of the things – a bucket of some sort – when a group of five people come in.
They’re talking, and he hears them say clearly, “It’s not a bucket. It’s a
helmet. A Roman helmet in a Briton dig.”
“What would a Briton
be doing with a Roman helmet? Was he insane? A collector of war memorabilia?
What?”
A softer, woman’s
voice, with a clear British accent, speaks up then, “I think that instead of
inventing fantastic excuses why a Briton couldn’t have a helmet, we accept
instead the simplest answer – that during the First Century AD, the Britons and
the Romans weren’t all about hating each other. Some Brits were accepted into
the Legion as soldiers.”
“He’d have been a
pariah among his own people!” one man exclaimed.
“Hated above all
others!” a woman cried.
The soft-spoken
woman remained silent until the others had finished then said, “A man set apart
whether by choice or circumstance is still a man set apart – and he might have
been set apart for greatness.”
Hector didn’t hear
the rest of the argument, he reached up and touched the Plexiglas cube covering
the “bucket”. For a moment, the people break into chaotic shouting, but the
sound fades as does the room around him…
Names: ♀ Greece, Scotland (Gaelic)
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