Here's the beginning of a nice fiction story I'm working on called "Solomon's Crown." I actually started it (and wrote it) during last year's National Novel Writing Month, but it's a huge work in progress. The only reason I'm going to polish it up is because I shared it with some people who liked it enough that they still bug me about it today, and I'd like them to quiet up.
I actually don't write beginnings first; I tend to always write the end of the story and the middle before I figure out how to start it. So this is my working beginning. I didn't edit it (and can't be bothered to now) but I figured that you guys wouldn't mind. So here you go!
Spoiler:
It is difficult to know when, exactly, the story of Solomon Helmsenski really begins.
Some can say that it was at his birth, which took place on a warm summer night in a place of no particular importance to two happy but otherwise quite ordinary parents. It was here, surrounded by doting aunts and uncles, that his parents bestowed upon him the name of their choosing. There were questions, of course, about how and why – it was an unusual name, they said; hardly becoming of the modern century, they said – but the universe seemed to share in the parents’ delight. The story goes that they stood there discussing the name when Mr. Helmsenski realized that, somewhere outside the hospital window, hidden in the trees upon the perfectly manicured lawn, a lone nightingale was singing a low and sweet song.
“Listen, listen,” said the father, hushing everyone in the room. “Do you hear that? The birds are talking to you, little one. They’re welcoming you into this world, just like they spoke with King Solomon in the gardens. Do you hear that?”
No one knew whether or not Solomon had heard, yet alone had the same God-granted ability of his namesake, which needless to say was a stretch of any imagination present except for the blissful parents. But they each recount with tenderness that the newborn cooed and shifted in his mother’s arms, and everyone joyously decided that there couldn’t be a more appropriate name.
The universe, it seems, always gets its way.
Some will say that it was on that grey colored day in late autumn, when Solomon and Mr. Helmsenski stood side by side, cold and wet and strangely empty, with dirt under their fingernails and roses beneath their feet as the priest lowered the beautiful pine box holding Mrs. Helmsenski into the earth with a few short words that would never do her justice. That was the kind of person she had been, even when the illness came: too majestic and grand for words. She had lived a life transcending them. Now, as it always would be, they would transcend her.
“When I die,” the bald priest recited from the book Mr. Helmsenski gave him, “when my coffin is being taken out, you must never think I am missing this world. Don’t shed any tears, don’t lament or feel sorry…”
And when Solomon went home that night, somehow or the other, he didn’t.
Yet no one really wants to believe in bitter beginnings, the same as most people would say that there could not be a more fitting beginning to a man’s story than his birth. But most people are simpletons with a strictly linear understanding of time who decided somewhere that all events needed barriers like “beginning” and “end.” In fact, there is only one beginning; everything else is a mere extension of that single moment in time when time itself began. No one knows when this grand one beginning was, or how, or where, and in any case it is less confusing and more appropriate to create simpler, manmade ideas of where each person’s life begins and ends.
If anyone had bothered to ask Solomon, he would say that starting at his birth is an outrageous idea, since not remembering anything about the event he could not really consider it a proper beginning. Nor could he consider that autumn day a beginning, since there was little he remembered from beyond the hazy daze of poetic numbness that had filled that week with forgettable details. He always had been of the opinion that life is a strange series of beginnings and ends – and sometimes it isn’t clear which is which until they have long passed out of memory.
So it is safe to say that as far as Solomon is concerned, his story began many years later with the phone ringing in his ears.
It took some time to penetrate the barriers of his dream world and the layer of thick blankets he had thrown over his head. At first he thought it was just an extension of his dream, so instead of answering he lifted one brown eye from his pillow and sleepily observed the blurry hues of his bedroom as sleep retreated and consciousness trickled in. Bold ribbons of sunlight poured through the blinds hanging over his window, as sure an indication as any that the weatherman had indeed been right about the snowstorm moving in from the north. There were two types of sunlight, Solomon had decided: the gentle shimmer of a cloudless day, and the loud, bright shimmer that happened when everything was coated with snow and reflected the sun in every which way like a large blood diamond. The latter was clearly quite presently washing over the pile of clothes that lay neatly folded on top of his dresser next to the portrait of a man and a violin, and creeping ever closer to his bed not far away.
Realizing that he was quite conscious and not dreaming, and that the phone was still ringing in his ears, Solomon turned his head in the other direction to lift the opposite eye from his pillow. In one swift swoop he extended his hand, snatched the phone from the receiver on the nightstand, and pressed it to his ear.
“Good morning,” he murmured in a tone that suggested that he didn’t really mean it – which he didn’t.
“Why, good morning, Mr. Helmsenski,” came a voice from the other side, whose tone suggested that he might possibly mean it – which he didn’t. “Did you sleep well?”
Solomon lifted his head from the pillow, blinking furiously at the clock across the room. Its face blinked “9:38” furiously back. Son of a [&@%!] is what he thought, but instead he said, “Well, actually, Mr. Anderson – ”
“Don’t answer that, you idiot,” responded Mr. Anderson with a heavy hint of agitation. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
He blinked again. “Nine thirty nine.”
“And what time does work begin?”
“I can be right – ”
“Oh no, Mr. Helmsenski, by all means, don’t trouble yourself with getting out of bed on a frightful day like this.”
Solomon, who hadn’t moved from his position in bed and hadn’t been planning on it anyway, planted his cheek back down upon the pillow.
“In fact, if you had bothered to show up for work today, you would have noticed that I let everyone go early on account of the snow. But since you clearly had better things to do, Mr. Helmsenski, I decided to call you to tell you to take some time off.”
The young man hoisted the comforted back over his head. “That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Yes, well, my mercy knows no bounds,” retorted Mr. Anderson loftily, and Solomon suspected that he didn’t really mean that either. “I’m going to be very straightforward with you, Mr. Helmsenski. I might be a friend of your father’s, but that doesn’t mean I feel the same way about you. You’re my employee, not my friend. And you’re a God awful employee. Do you know why?”
“Well, Mr. Anderson – ”
“Because you’re lazy. And you’re a smart ass to boot, which doesn’t help your case. So why don’t you take a nice vacation for the rest of the week, and when it’s over you can come to the office and clean out your desk. Hmmm?”
Solomon, who had since closed his eyes, responded, “Is that all, Mr. Anderson?”
“That’s all, Mr. Helmsenski. Now you have a nice day.”
Solomon pressed the CALL button and grimaced into the pillow with a dull grunt of displeasure. He thought fleetingly of sleep, but it was a useless endeavor at this point. Instead the young man rolled over onto his back, inhaled deeply, and sat up to shiver as his warm cocoon of blankets collapsed around him, leaving him with only a T-shirt and a heavy dusting of goosebumps to fend off the cold. He sat there for a long moment, blinking languidly into the sun until spots formed on the horizon of his vision. With one last look at the phone in his hands he leaned over, dropped it unceremoniously onto the receiver at his bedside, and rubbed his callused palms over cheeks thick with dark stubble.
“Son of a [&@%!] ,” he thought again, except this time he said it out loud.
And that is precisely where the story began.
Some can say that it was at his birth, which took place on a warm summer night in a place of no particular importance to two happy but otherwise quite ordinary parents. It was here, surrounded by doting aunts and uncles, that his parents bestowed upon him the name of their choosing. There were questions, of course, about how and why – it was an unusual name, they said; hardly becoming of the modern century, they said – but the universe seemed to share in the parents’ delight. The story goes that they stood there discussing the name when Mr. Helmsenski realized that, somewhere outside the hospital window, hidden in the trees upon the perfectly manicured lawn, a lone nightingale was singing a low and sweet song.
“Listen, listen,” said the father, hushing everyone in the room. “Do you hear that? The birds are talking to you, little one. They’re welcoming you into this world, just like they spoke with King Solomon in the gardens. Do you hear that?”
No one knew whether or not Solomon had heard, yet alone had the same God-granted ability of his namesake, which needless to say was a stretch of any imagination present except for the blissful parents. But they each recount with tenderness that the newborn cooed and shifted in his mother’s arms, and everyone joyously decided that there couldn’t be a more appropriate name.
The universe, it seems, always gets its way.
Some will say that it was on that grey colored day in late autumn, when Solomon and Mr. Helmsenski stood side by side, cold and wet and strangely empty, with dirt under their fingernails and roses beneath their feet as the priest lowered the beautiful pine box holding Mrs. Helmsenski into the earth with a few short words that would never do her justice. That was the kind of person she had been, even when the illness came: too majestic and grand for words. She had lived a life transcending them. Now, as it always would be, they would transcend her.
“When I die,” the bald priest recited from the book Mr. Helmsenski gave him, “when my coffin is being taken out, you must never think I am missing this world. Don’t shed any tears, don’t lament or feel sorry…”
And when Solomon went home that night, somehow or the other, he didn’t.
Yet no one really wants to believe in bitter beginnings, the same as most people would say that there could not be a more fitting beginning to a man’s story than his birth. But most people are simpletons with a strictly linear understanding of time who decided somewhere that all events needed barriers like “beginning” and “end.” In fact, there is only one beginning; everything else is a mere extension of that single moment in time when time itself began. No one knows when this grand one beginning was, or how, or where, and in any case it is less confusing and more appropriate to create simpler, manmade ideas of where each person’s life begins and ends.
If anyone had bothered to ask Solomon, he would say that starting at his birth is an outrageous idea, since not remembering anything about the event he could not really consider it a proper beginning. Nor could he consider that autumn day a beginning, since there was little he remembered from beyond the hazy daze of poetic numbness that had filled that week with forgettable details. He always had been of the opinion that life is a strange series of beginnings and ends – and sometimes it isn’t clear which is which until they have long passed out of memory.
So it is safe to say that as far as Solomon is concerned, his story began many years later with the phone ringing in his ears.
It took some time to penetrate the barriers of his dream world and the layer of thick blankets he had thrown over his head. At first he thought it was just an extension of his dream, so instead of answering he lifted one brown eye from his pillow and sleepily observed the blurry hues of his bedroom as sleep retreated and consciousness trickled in. Bold ribbons of sunlight poured through the blinds hanging over his window, as sure an indication as any that the weatherman had indeed been right about the snowstorm moving in from the north. There were two types of sunlight, Solomon had decided: the gentle shimmer of a cloudless day, and the loud, bright shimmer that happened when everything was coated with snow and reflected the sun in every which way like a large blood diamond. The latter was clearly quite presently washing over the pile of clothes that lay neatly folded on top of his dresser next to the portrait of a man and a violin, and creeping ever closer to his bed not far away.
Realizing that he was quite conscious and not dreaming, and that the phone was still ringing in his ears, Solomon turned his head in the other direction to lift the opposite eye from his pillow. In one swift swoop he extended his hand, snatched the phone from the receiver on the nightstand, and pressed it to his ear.
“Good morning,” he murmured in a tone that suggested that he didn’t really mean it – which he didn’t.
“Why, good morning, Mr. Helmsenski,” came a voice from the other side, whose tone suggested that he might possibly mean it – which he didn’t. “Did you sleep well?”
Solomon lifted his head from the pillow, blinking furiously at the clock across the room. Its face blinked “9:38” furiously back. Son of a [&@%!] is what he thought, but instead he said, “Well, actually, Mr. Anderson – ”
“Don’t answer that, you idiot,” responded Mr. Anderson with a heavy hint of agitation. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what time it is?”
He blinked again. “Nine thirty nine.”
“And what time does work begin?”
“I can be right – ”
“Oh no, Mr. Helmsenski, by all means, don’t trouble yourself with getting out of bed on a frightful day like this.”
Solomon, who hadn’t moved from his position in bed and hadn’t been planning on it anyway, planted his cheek back down upon the pillow.
“In fact, if you had bothered to show up for work today, you would have noticed that I let everyone go early on account of the snow. But since you clearly had better things to do, Mr. Helmsenski, I decided to call you to tell you to take some time off.”
The young man hoisted the comforted back over his head. “That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Yes, well, my mercy knows no bounds,” retorted Mr. Anderson loftily, and Solomon suspected that he didn’t really mean that either. “I’m going to be very straightforward with you, Mr. Helmsenski. I might be a friend of your father’s, but that doesn’t mean I feel the same way about you. You’re my employee, not my friend. And you’re a God awful employee. Do you know why?”
“Well, Mr. Anderson – ”
“Because you’re lazy. And you’re a smart ass to boot, which doesn’t help your case. So why don’t you take a nice vacation for the rest of the week, and when it’s over you can come to the office and clean out your desk. Hmmm?”
Solomon, who had since closed his eyes, responded, “Is that all, Mr. Anderson?”
“That’s all, Mr. Helmsenski. Now you have a nice day.”
Solomon pressed the CALL button and grimaced into the pillow with a dull grunt of displeasure. He thought fleetingly of sleep, but it was a useless endeavor at this point. Instead the young man rolled over onto his back, inhaled deeply, and sat up to shiver as his warm cocoon of blankets collapsed around him, leaving him with only a T-shirt and a heavy dusting of goosebumps to fend off the cold. He sat there for a long moment, blinking languidly into the sun until spots formed on the horizon of his vision. With one last look at the phone in his hands he leaned over, dropped it unceremoniously onto the receiver at his bedside, and rubbed his callused palms over cheeks thick with dark stubble.
“Son of a [&@%!] ,” he thought again, except this time he said it out loud.
And that is precisely where the story began.
