Craig: the first NaNo experience

[Craig]

Thanks Carrie! Not sure if anyone else wants to read this in its entirety, but I'll post the remainder of the beginning here anyway.

SPOILER: Click to show

Ward was in the northern section of the building, although none of the four parts were any different from the others. All of them contained the same confounding maze of rooms, each filled with several paintings of every variety, none of which were pleasing to Ward whatsoever. He passed through the rooms slowly, bored out of his mind, and scarcely glanced at the art on the dark walls. Ward merely drifted like a ghost, taking the doors with the silver doorknobs and hoping that someone would be lost so that he could lead them back to the center room and see the light of day once more.
After walking through several empty rooms, the boy finally found an elderly man standing in front of a painting of a tree, and he asked, “Do you need any assistance getting back to the center of the museum?”
The man turned and stared at Ward. He was very tall, so that the boy had to lift his chin to look into the man’s pale blue eyes. His face was pleasantly wrinkled, as though the lines came from smiling and laugher rather than age. His white hair poked out from under a small hat that struck Ward as exactly the type of round hat that an artist would wear. The old man’s expression was unreadable, and Ward wondered how long he had been wandering in the darkness of the museum.
“No, thank you,” said the man in a quiet voice that still somehow sounded quite strong. “I find that knowing exactly where you are going takes a bit of pleasure out of the experience.”
“You’re like my parents,” said Ward, frowning.
“And you are unlike them?” questioned the man with a smile. He turned from the painting that he had been looking at and faced Ward.
“They own the place,” said Ward. “They’re all for art, but I prefer reading.”
“A fine hobby,” said the man with a nod. “But, of course, a painter writes not with words, but with pictures. In fact, you could say that I am quite the reader myself; just a reader of paintings, not of books.”
Ward stared curiously at the old man as he turned back to look at the painting on the wall. The dim light that was trained on the canvas reflected the colors in the man’s eyes, and Ward watched him in silence for a moment. “So are you an art critic?” he asked. They came to Windows quite often, and he had to occasionally escort them back to the domed room in the center of the building.
“I am a painter,” said the man without taking his eyes from the painted tree.
“Did you paint that?” asked Ward. For the first time, he took a closer look at the painting. It was of a large fruit tree in the middle of a sprawling garden. Countless shades of green were brushed together, melting together in the leafy shadows of the picture. It was nice, but to Ward it had no real significance. It was a tree in a garden; that was all.
“No,” said the man. “None of the works in the museum are mine. I have been commissioned to paint a mural for the walls in the center hall.”
“So what are you doing looking around in here?” asked Ward. “Shouldn’t you be painting?”
The man smiled. “You said you prefer books to art. You are a writer, are you not?”
Ward shrugged. “I write a little bit.”
“Now, tell me: in order to write a brilliant story, what must you first learn to do?”
Ward shrugged again. “Read, I suppose,” he answered.
“Exactly,” said the man. “The same applies to painting. I can never hope to be a brilliant painter until I have first seen many paintings. I cannot create an ending to a story of which I have not seen the beginning and middle.”
“What do you mean, ‘an ending’?” asked Ward. “What kind of painting were you asked to do?”
The painter was silent for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the tree. “The paintings here, in the museum,” he said slowly, “are like the beginning. Everything has been laid out like an empty canvas, except that the characters have already been painted. Each work in this building is the beginning of a story. All the pieces have been set, and they are on their own to do as they will.”
“They’re people in paintings,” said Ward. “How can they do anything?”
The painter smiled once more. “Perhaps to you they are only people in paintings, but in reality they each have a story of their own. They are all connected, just like the rooms in this building all connect to the bright room in the center. While you may not see it, they are all a part of the one painting, the painting for which I have been commissioned.”
“I see,” said Ward, although in reality he did not see. This old painter was an interesting man, but like all painters in Ward’s eyes, he was a little ways out of the box.
At Ward’s comment, the painter turned to look at him. “You may think you see, but you do not understand.” He smiled, a kind, wise, knowing smile. “If you truly wish to understand, you have to see things for yourself. It is like reading a book: you would understand the story much better if you were actually there.”
“Well that’s impossible,” said Ward, but the man continued.
“I think that you would be much enriched if you saw the people and places in these paintings for yourself,” he said. Ward looked at him strangely. The man for the first time left his place in front of the painting of the tree, and walked across the room to one of a woman holding a child. “I have been through each of the chambers in this museum many times,” he said as Ward followed him over.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” said the boy.
“And I have observed,” the painter continued, “that there is one way to find your way into the heart of a painting, and that is by finding your way into the heart of someone who has been painted into it.”
Ward followed the painter’s gaze to the face of the young woman in the picture. Her eyes were on her child, and her soft skin was pale in the dim light. “Finding the heart of a person can be difficult, especially from the outside,” he said. “I have found, however, that one way to truly see a person’s heart is in the gifts that they give. When someone gives something to another, they are giving away a piece of their heart.”
Ward did not disagree, but he wondered what the painter’s purpose was in telling him this. “Of course, a gift must be something that is special, yet can be parted with,” said the painter. His finger reached out toward the painting, but did not touch it. “Like a precious stone.”
Ward’s eyes followed the man’s finger to a silver necklace that was painted around the woman’s neck. A tiny diamond shone from the canvas in the pale light. The two were silent for a while, both staring at the tiny brushstroke that seemed to give off a light of its own.
“Surely you would like to find out what the people in these paintings are like,” said the man with a smile, turning his face away from the picture to face Ward once more.
“I suppose,” replied Ward.
“Good,” said the painter, “because I need your help. For me to paint the one final painting, I must be able to learn what the hearts of those in the other paintings are like. We have been provided with the beginnings, but we cannot reach the end unless you find out what happens in the middle.”
“Me?” asked Ward. “Why me?”
“Why not?” smiled the painter. “I’m too old to be doing all of this, and you seem bright enough for the task. I only ask you to find four people. Just any four people in any four paintings. Get them to give you a piece of their heart, a single gift, and bring it back.”
“Back from where?” Ward asked, but the painter had turned away and headed for the door.
“I’ll be around,” said the painter, reaching for a silver doorknob. “Find me when you have something to give me.” And with that, he closed the door behind him, and was gone.

[Craig]

2327 words, and I've already hit a brick wall.

But it shouldn't be too hard to get over. My problem is that Ward is about to travel into the first painting, and I don't know what world it's going to take him to yet. I promised myself I'd write with no plan (and it's working so far) but I'd like to know where I'm sending him at least, so I can describe it.

*thinks* My first hurdle of my first NaNo! I must cross it with grace!

[Craig]

*excited* OK, last night I was feeling like giving up. After one day. But today on the way home from school, I was granted new inspiration, and I'm back in the writing mood once more. ^_^

Ward has just entered the first painting. I've decided not to plan ahead, but I at least mapped out the scenario of the world into which he enters first. It's basically that Ward find himself in a forest where a boy has been given the quest to travel to the center of a mazelike garden and retrieve a healing plant. It's the ritual of adulthood for his homeland, and he has been told that the truly worthy will be helped along their quest.

So this boy sees Ward climbing out of a window of a ruined stone building (all the paintings he travels through are going to be windows in another world, I decided). And he asks if Ward is there to help him, thinking he's a spirit or something. So Ward says yes, and they travel through the garden together, facing many magical beasts and challenges.

*goes to write*

[Craig]

3958 words!

OK, Ward has officially entered his first painting. It was very difficult to write his meeting with Enwe, the boy in the painting, but now that I got that established the story should flow more smoothly. It was a little awkward, and I'm sure it could be better, but I'm sticking with the spirit of NaNoWriMo and just leaving it how it is. It actually feels good!

[Craig]

SPOILER: Click to show

Chapter Two
Ward did not know what to do. The painter had seemed sincere, but the idea of traveling into a world in a painting was so ridiculous that it nearly discredited everything that the man had said. Nearly.

Ward was a reader at heart, and every reader has that spark inside that wishes that the stories they read could be true. And while the painter was not offering Ward the chance to jump into the world of a book, he was offering an opportunity that was nearly as good, and, of course, much easier to picture.

Any other boy would have decided that the man was crazy, but Ward had that imaginative touch that was just enough to give him a grain of belief. Like a single brushstroke on an empty canvas, Ward had a tiny feeling that perhaps the painter had spoken the truth. And that was what made him stare a little longer at the paintings as he walked by them each day during his journeys through the museum, what made him pause every time he passed by a picture of someone wearing a jade necklace or a garnet ring.

And so it happened that one day, a week or so after he had talked with the painter, Ward found himself alone in a small, dark chamber staring at a painting of a dark forest. The canvas was nearly all black, with splashes of dark green outlining the shadows of trees and undergrowth, except for a single figure in the corner. There was a young man there, painted small but precise, standing upright and looking straight out just past the wooden picture frame. He appeared to be about the same age as Ward, and although he was not large he appeared very vivid in the painting, perhaps because the background was so dark. He wore rough looking pants and a loose shirt and had scruffy dark hair, but Ward scarcely noticed these features because his gaze was drawn directly to the boy’s eyes.

Each eye was merely a tiny dot of paint on the canvas, but they were such a brilliant green that they stood out from the rest of his tan face. The boy looked apprehensive and cautious, his eyes keen and sharply fixed on something in the distance. Ward felt an odd sensation which he had often experienced while reading an especially good book, like a tingling in his scalp. He had never felt this way looking at a piece of art, but the smallness of the boy against the looming dark background coupled with his intense gaze made Ward feel a sudden curiosity. He wanted to know who this person was; he wanted to know more of the story.

The painter’s words had lingered in the back of his mind for days, but for the first time Ward gave them proper acknowledgment. Get them to give you a piece of their heart, a single gift. Ward could see that the young man was clutching a dagger in his lowered hand. He wanted to know more. He wanted to learn the boy’s story, and just like opening a book to the first page, Ward reached out and touched the tip of the painted silver knife.

Like reaching through a thin sheet of falling water, Ward’s hand went right through the canvas with a cold sensation. He could no longer see his fingers, and it looked like part of his appendage had been severed. Ward paused.

Then, with the unbridled curiosity that only a true reader could possess, Ward clenched his teeth and reached through the canvas with his other arm and thrust his head and shoulders into the unknown.

He was greeted by a dark scene. Tall trees stretched high in every direction, blocking out all light from above and casting dark green shadows over everything. The air was cool and still, and it was silent, except for the occasional rustle of a leaf in the breeze that swept over the top of the canopy.

Ward was leaning out of a building of some sort, because he could see a crumbling stone wall below and to each side. Looking down at his body, everything below his chest was gone; he was still halfway in the dark room at Windows.

Reaching out with his hands to press against the cool stone, Ward gently pushed himself out of the space, swinging his legs up and landing a few feet below on the damp forest floor. Still wearing jeans and a sweater, he rubbed his arms in the brisk air.

It was a surreal moment. Ward did not question where he was; it was clear that he had traveled into the painting. He did not feel afraid or worried, because he knew that just behind him were the picture frame and the familiar dark chamber in the museum. Now that he was inside the painting, however, Ward realized that he was in a new world, and he did not know what to expect.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness immediately, for he had merely stepped from one dark place to another. Therefore, the first thing he saw after glancing at his surroundings was the form of a young man standing a ways off.

Ward had completely forgotten about the boy in the picture. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the boy standing with dagger in hand, staring off into the distance behind Ward. Apparently he was so keen on something that he had not even noticed Ward appear out of nowhere.

Turning to look behind him, Ward could see why.

There was a massive ruin spread out amidst the towering trees. Stone walls rose out of the ground in uneven patterns, all very aged, crumbling and broken in many places. Ward now realized that he had climbed out of a square window in what appeared to be a very old, dilapidated building. Some of the stone walls further on remained partially intact, blocking the view of what lay beyond. They all seemed to curve slightly, giving the illusion of a round maze of some sort, and odd plants and vines covered the entire area. It was a strange sight.

“Who are you?” Ward turned around at the sound of the young man’s voice. The boy had finally noticed him, and was staring at him from a distance. His voice sounded cautious yet unafraid.

Ward did not quite know how to answer the question. The original purpose of his entering the painting was merely to see what it was like, but the instructions of the painter came to his mind in a flash. He needed a gift: a piece of someone’s heart.

But how could he convince this boy to give him something so dear? Ward knew that the truth would be impossible to communicate, and yet he felt that earning a gift through a lie would somehow not be valid. He had to speak honestly, yet still allay any suspicion.

“Are you here to help me?” asked the boy. It struck Ward as an odd question, but he knew nothing of his present situation and decided that it would be best to feel his way around and try to get his bearings.

“Yes,” Ward answered truthfully. At least, he thought that he was speaking the truth. He was here to help, wasn’t he?

“Are you a good spirit?” asked the young man, still not approaching Ward.

“I am not a spirit,” he answered, still standing in front of the ruined building. “My name is Edward Hartford, but you may call me Ward.”

“Ward,” said the boy, still rooted to the ground. His deep green eyes gave him a very earthy quality, and he almost seemed to blend in with the rest of the forest. “I am Enwe.”

Ward took a step toward the boy, who had relaxed slightly. Ward wanted to ask him more, but he knew that he was in a position of power, because the boy did not know him and thought that he was some sort of spirit, and he did not want to lose that edge quite yet.

“Are you here to help me on my quest?” asked Enwe again.

Ward could not imagine what sort of quest Enwe was on, but he answered, “Yes. I will help you if I can.”

“I was told,” said Enwe as Ward drew near to him, “that if I was worthy I would have help on my journey.”

“I will do what I can,” said Ward, and at last the two were standing face to face. Enwe’s features were slightly more rough than Ward was accustomed to, his skin a bit ruddy, his dark hair not long but scruffy, and his eyes keen and sharp, their heavy green gaze boring into Ward as each took the other in.

Eventually Enwe decided that Ward was neither armed nor threatening, and he let down his guard. “I am on my quest to adulthood,” he said, “and I must travel through the Ruined Labyrinth to the inner garden. There, I must find a seed and bring it back to my home.”

“You’re alone?” asked Ward.

Enwe nodded. “I have traveled for two days through the forest to arrive here. I was about to enter the labyrinth when you appeared. I was told that I would face many challenges passing through the corridors of stone, but that if I was worthy of manhood I would not be alone.”

Ward was feeling a bit overwhelmed, but as Enwe explained his story he was starting to put the pieces together. Still unsure of what to say, he answered, “You will not be alone. I will help you on your quest, though in the end you must rely on your own strength.” It seemed like a safe enough statement, and Enwe simply nodded, so Ward felt confident that he had been accepted.

There was a pause, and the silence of the forest pressed down on the two young men as they stood facing each other. “How long have you been waiting here, just outside of the maze?” asked Ward.

Enwe hung his head. “The better part of a day,” he answered. “I have not felt ready to face the challenges that lay inside the Ruined Labyrinth. I do not know what to expect.”

“Neither do I,” admitted Ward. “But I don’t think you should be afraid.” He had no basis for these words whatsoever, but under the circumstances he felt that Enwe needed a little bit of encouragement.

Enwe smiled, still looking down. “Thank you,” he said. He lifted his eyes to the building from which Ward had entered the forest. “Once we pass the gate house, the labyrinth begins. I must travel until I find the garden.”

Ward turned to look at the massive maze of stone walls and crawling plant life. “You are ready,” he said.

Enwe took a deep breath. “I am ready,” he said, and with that the boy moved for the first time from the spot where he had stood in the painting, and began to walk toward the looming walls of the Ruined Labyrinth.

[Craig]

SPOILER: Click to show

The two passed by the crumbling gate house, its lone window dark in the shadows of the forest. Ward made a mental note if its location relative to the rest of the walls; he would not want to get lost on his way back to Windows.

As soon as they entered the first ring of the labyrinth, Ward felt a prickle go down his neck. The looming stone walls curved off into the distance, and he could see the many layers of the maze descending into the darkness beyond, where the garden lay in the center. It was eerily silent, and the boys did not speak as they walked down the mossy path, searching for any sign of a route that would lead them closer to the middle of the many rings.

The prickle remained on Ward’s skin, and by Enwe’s tense stride he could tell that his companion felt the same. The dagger was clutched tightly in his hand, the knuckles white as they gripped the handle.

At last they came to an arched doorway carved into the tall stone wall. Ward and Enwe passed through it into the next ring of the labyrinth, and immediately they noticed a change in the atmosphere. Ward, who spent most of his time in the library and rarely took nature hikes, could not put his finger on it at first. It was only when Enwe said, “Listen,” did he become more alert.

For the first time since he had entered the world of the painting, Ward could hear a noise in the distance. It was a dim, rumbling noise, like thousands of bubbles popping far away. Enwe continued walking, his deep green eyes staring straight ahead down the wide passage between the two walls. Ward followed, his ears straining to recognize the odd noise that was steadily getting louder. “What is that?” he whispered, wondering if Enwe would know if the sound was something commonly heard in the strange forest.

Enwe shook his head, but said nothing. The sound grew louder, and now it seemed to Ward more like thousands of short shrieks, brief and piercing individually yet rumbling as one like an earthquake. The two came to a sudden curve in the maze, and after they passed around the corner of the crumbling barrier they could hear much more clearly.

Birds. Though the path curved away into the darkness, Ward could clearly hear what must have been a massive flock of birds chirping and cawing in frenzy. There were so many of them that their voices melted together in a cacophony of sound, like a wave crashing between the walls of the pathway.

Enwe’s eyes were wide now, and Ward knew that he too had identified the sound. They wordlessly quickened their pace, with nowhere to turn and only one route back. And Ward knew that as a part of Enwe’s journey to adulthood, he would not be permitted to retreat.

The walls curved once more, and Ward at last could see the source of the noise. They had turned the corner to face a long straight stretch of ground between the partitions, and at the far end a mass of pulsating blackness blended in with the dark shadows of the trees. Not one individual bird could be distinguished; rather they flew as one body, soaring toward Enwe and Ward like a stormcloud.

“Look,” hissed Enwe, pointing to the stone on one side. The ruin had crumbled in many places, and there was one section of the wall that had collapsed, leaving a pile of rubble that blocked the way into the next ring of the labyrinth. With the next arched doorway far too close to the flock of black creatures, Ward realized that they would have to climb the loose stones and hope for an escape route.

“Come on!” he said, and the boys broke into a run. With the wild caws of the birds approaching fast, Enwe and Ward leapt onto the fallen grey stones and began to scurry up the collapsed section. Enwe hurriedly clenched his dagger in his teeth, climbing like a cat while Ward struggled to follow. His sweater snagged on a sharp stone and ripped, but he continued to fight his way up the pile of rubble.

Just as the boys reached the peak, the screeching of the birds reached a crescendo, and a glance back told Ward that they would be upon him in seconds. Enwe was sliding down the rocks in a cloud of dust, and Ward, without thinking, threw himself down the slope in pursuit just as the massive black cloud burst past the straightaway behind him. Ward hurtled down the craggy rocks and landed on the dirt in the next layer in, hoping that some form of magic would bind the squawking birds to the outer ring, but it was not so. As the frontrunners of the pack rocketed past the gap in the wall with incredible speed, others poured over the rubble like a wave, chirping wildly as they crossed the barrier.

“Ward!” cried Enwe, who had removed the dagger from his mouth. Ward was bruised and laying on the ground, but at the sight of the winged demons he felt a surge of adrenalin. Seeing them for the first time up close, Ward noticed that the birds were tiny with needlelike beaks and cold black eyes, swarming towards him with an inescapable speed. “Ward!” yelled Enwe, and Ward sprang into action.

He pushed himself up off the ground and followed Enwe, sprinting toward a bend in the maze just as the cloud of birds came to the bottom of the stone pile. The boys were just about to round the nearby turn when Ward felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, and a panic rushed up his spine. Without a single moment to think, Enwe grabbed Ward’s hand and yanked him forward as Ward closed his eyes.

The sea of blackness overtook them, and Ward felt countless needles piercing him on every inch of his body. It was all he could do not to scream in pain as Enwe dragged him forward, and with a sudden lurch he was pulled off to the side.

[Craig]

Passed the 6k mark! Yay!

SPOILER: Click to show

With a slamming noise, the barrage was over.

Ward opened his eyes to see that Enwe had dragged him into a pitch black space somewhere. The pounding of countless birds sounded right next to him, and Ward slowly realized that the two had jumped inside a building and Enwe had closed the wooden door. As the black creatures drummed against the thick wood, Enwe released Ward’s hand. “That was close.”

“I’ll say,” agreed Ward, rubbing his arms, which were punctured in many places. “We could have died back there. Where are we?”

Their voices sounded small compared to the continued din of the birds outside, but they had at least stopped trying to force their way into the sealed building. “As soon as we rounded the bend, I saw this building and pulled us inside. I don’t know what it is, but it couldn’t have been in a better place,” said Enwe.

Ward nodded, and then spoke realizing that he could not be seen. “That’s for sure. Is there a door on the other side? I don’t see light coming in from anywhere.” It was true that the blackness was complete; Ward’s eyes did not adjust even as the time wore on. “How big is it? Did you see from outside?”

“No,” replied Enwe. “It was just a part of the wall. I’m surprised that the sides of the building are even intact.”

“Yeah, that’s lucky,” said Ward, and as soon as the words left his mouth he realized that their luck had been great indeed. Perhaps, even, it had been too great to be luck at all. As the noise from outside faded, Ward noticed that there was another sound coming from inside the building. “Do you hear that?” he asked Enwe.

His companion was silent for a moment, and Ward could distinguish the sound of gurgling water somewhere nearby. “Yes,” replied Enwe. “I hear it.”

Ward stepped closer to the sound, his shoes pressing down on the cold ground. With his hands stretched out in front of him as if he were blind, Ward walked toward the source of the odd noise. He could hear Enwe move to follow him. The sounds of the birds had faded away into the distance, and Ward could now hear the bubbling water clearly. It was close.

After a few more steps, his foot knocked against something hard, although his hands were still reaching forward into the emptiness. “Here,” said Ward, his voice echoing slightly. He bent down to feel what his foot had touched.

It was a layer of cold stone, curved slightly and raised only a little bit off the ground. His fingers ran forward across its cool surface toward the gurgling noise, but before they traveled far Enwe said, “Wait.”

Ward heard his friend walk quickly back to where they had entered the building, and with a scraping sound Enwe pushed open the door. Dim light from outside flooded into the room, and Ward could at last see where he was.

The room was not large, but it was fairly wide, the far stone walls to his left and right covered in moss and vines. The space opposite the door was an identical wall, curved slightly, and Ward realized that it was probably another layer of the ringed maze. But as his eyes traveled down to his feet, Ward forgot everything else.

He was standing at the edge of a pool of water, round and raised off the ground in two layers. It was not large, but in diameter it was about as long as he was tall, and the water gurgled down from the upper layer to the bottom in an even flow on all parts of the fountain. The lower and larger circle of stone surrounded a basin into which the water fell, and the smaller ring of stone that was mounted above, still only at waist level, overflowed like water being poured into a glass and coming out on all sides.

Ward leaned forward to peer into the upper pool. The water did not spray upward like a normal fountain, but merely flowed over the edges of the ring and into the lower basin like a thin, curved sheet of glass. Though he could not see any pump or way in which the upper basin was filled or the lower emptied, Ward did see something that disturbed him greatly.

As Enwe approached from the doorway, he said, “Those creatures seem to have gone,” but Ward was not listening. He was staring into the center of the raised basin of water, and Enwe stepped up beside him to peer into it as well.

A red heart lay at the bottom of the shallow pool. It pumped in a slow rhythm, and Ward at last realized how the fountain was filled with water. The severed veins and arteries of the heart pumped the clear liquid into the basin, causing it to overflow into the lower pool in the thin cascade. It was a sight like Ward had never seen before, and he reached out slowly to dip his hand into the water.

“Don’t,” said Enwe, and Ward realized how foolish he had been acting. It would indeed be unwise to touch water pumped from such a hideous fountain. “We should leave.”

Ward looked up from the pool and noticed that there was an identical wooden door on the opposite side of the room. “Do you think we should continue into the labyrinth?” he asked, eying the closed door with a mixture of fear and hope.

Enwe nodded. “We should leave whatever we find here alone.” He looked at the heart in disgust. “I am here for one mission only. Let’s get out of here. We are nearing the garden.”

Ward took a last glance at the strange fountain before following his companion to the other end of the room. Both boys were still cut in many places from the beaks of the birds, but the blood had stopped flowing from the tiny wounds, and they had suffered no serious harm. Enwe reached for the door, which had no handle, and pushed gently against the wood.

With a dull sound as it scraped against the mossy ground, the door opened, and Ward and Enwe found themselves in yet another identical layer of the maze. They stepped out into the dim light, and Ward could see a stone wall rising ahead of him, the wall which contained the building behind him curving away into the distance in either direction.

“Come on,” said Enwe, and he began walking down the path to the left.

[Craig]

My story is really starting to get momentum!! I've decided to stop posting it all on this board, but I'll give summaries if anyone happens to be reading.

Ward and Enwe knock on a lone door that stands alone in the Ruined Labyrinth, and a beautiful woman comes out. She tells them that to pass by the giant black flower, they either have to give it infinite water or stab it with a thorn of the earth. I'm getting some great ideas for other obstacles in the maze, so it's all working out well.

The world inside the painting is getting cooler all the time! And I had sudden inspiration today for what happens when Ward enters the second painting. It will be drastically different from the first one.

Keep writing, all! ;D

[Craig]

Recap

Thought I'd post this now that I'm past 10k.

- Ward, the son of two art museum owners, likes to read and hates art.

- He meets a painter who tells him that to learn the beauty of art, he should meet the characters and places. He asks Ward to bring him gifts from four paintings.

- Ward touches one intriguing painting of a boy in a forest, and he is transported to that place.

- Ward meets Enwe, who is a young man his age who must travel through a Ruined Labyrinth in order to retrieve a seed as part of his aging ritual.

- They meet many obstacles in the maze, including:

-- A huge flock of tiny, wild birds.
-- A disembodied heart that pumps water instead of blood.
-- An enormous black flower with no stem or leaves.
-- Two women who resemble a rose and a lily.
-- Large mushrooms that are very bouncy.
-- A bottomless pond.
-- Lily pads that can support a lot of weight.

...and more! ;D I'm liking this story a lot so far, although the other 3 paintings are going to have totally different worlds.

[Deleted]

Wow, that's an insanely cool plot. Seriously, I'd totally read it.

[Craig]

Continued Recap

Since I don't think anyone would actually go through and read everything I've written, I'll continue to post recaps here! ^_^ Then, if you really want to read the story, I'll post it at the end. Or maybe halfway.

- So Ward and Enwe learn that to kill the black blooms (giant flowers) they have to water it or stab it with a thorn.

- To get past the first one, they use a heart that pumps water that they find in a fountain, not knowing that it is the heart of a woman called Lily of the Outer Lake.

- They also find a thorn in an underwater shrine, and take it, but then they realize it belongs to a woman they've met called Rose of the Outer Garden.

- Enwe stays near the end of the maze and waits while Ward goes back through the labyrinth to find these two ladies in hopes of getting their help.

- He gives the thorn to Rose (who has a gash on her arm where it was removed) and.... that's where I am right now.

[Craig]

Recap

The first painting is finished! Ward has returned to the museum, and will embark on a brand new journey into another painting. And it will be very different from the first one.

- The Rose and the Lily were made whole once more, the Lily getting her heart and the Rose getting the thorn.

- The two ladies go to the room where Enwe has been waiting, and they destroy the black blooms that block the doorways.

- Enwe and Ward reach a golden door that leads to the inner garden.

- They say goodbye...

SPOILER: Click to show

Enwe let out a sigh. “You have helped me so much,” he said. “I was so afraid standing there outside of the maze. I didn’t know what to expect. But when you appeared out of nowhere… I knew that you were sent to help me. You were a gift when I most needed it, and what you have done for me will not be forgotten.” Enwe pulled the dagger out of its place on his belt. “I don’t think I’ll be needing this anymore,” he said. “I have nearly completed my journey, and this is a weapon of my past. I have moved on, and I no longer have a use for it.” Enwe handed the slender dagger to Ward, who took it.
“Thank you,” said Ward. “My mission is also accomplished.” He gave Enwe a smile. “Goodbye, Enwe.”
“Goodbye, Ward,” said Enwe, and he pushed open the golden door.
Ward did not try to catch a glimpse into the inner garden. Instead, he turned around and walked back down the path, through the round room, through the curtain of vines, across the trail of lily pads, down through the underwater door, through the Outer Lake and Outer Garden, which were empty, through the second door, past the now-dry fountain in the dark room, over the pile of rubble from the collapsed wall, through the final pathway of the maze, and out of the Ruined Labyrinth.
The dilapidated gate house stood alone in the forest, with the huge maze behind it and the endless trees in front of it. Ward looked around one last time, clutching the gift Enwe had given him tightly in his hand. After all that he had been through, soon it would all be over, and he would be back in Windows. It was surreal.
Ward walked slowly up to the window in the stone building. With a final, deep breath of the cool forest air, he reached through and pulled himself up over the ledge. He swung his legs into the other side, and at last slid down through the window and found himself once more in the small, dark room in the museum.
Ward’s clothes were still wet and dirty, he had cuts from the birds’ beaks, and he was exhausted. But he had done what he needed to, and he had made a friend in the process.
Ward turned around and looked at the painting. It was empty now, just a landscape of a dark forest with tall trees looming in every direction. Ward wondered if he would ever see Enwe again.
Ward reached for a gold doorknob.