Decided to try and become a novelist
I have published short stories and poems in magazines and anthologies. I posted a serial story on a website and got a lot of comments that I was a good story teller and that I should write a book. With my prolonged unemployment I went and took a test that is supposed to help you determine what you'd be happiest doing. Of the several careers the test indicated for me writer of fiction was one. I wonder if anyone here likes to read fiction. If so would you like to read an excerpt from a chapter I have already finished and give me a critique?
Here's my style of writing
Many persons have written of their lives and happenings, with a view of seeing only their lives and not the lives of those around them. I must confess that in part that is also my motive, but I do wish to testify to the readers of my life’s journal, the care and protection of the Creator in bringing me through my trials and tribulations.The early passages of my life are nothing remarkable in mine own eyes, so I shall therefore not take notice of them until later in my life, during what the white man has termed the French & Indian War in the so called New World along the colonial frontier of North America. And so without further adieu, I begin the journal of my memoirs and adventures as a Ghost Walker in the Lenni Lenape Tribe.It was now that I found myself outside the fort town of Oswego in the northern part of the colony the English call New York. Here I am with my companions, my family, after finding no entry was being given to the fort this night I made my way through town until I espied what I was looking for. I looked at my two companions, handed one my flintlock rifle and made a sign in the air, the younger of the two nodding no, so I just pointed across the road sternly and the young man bowed his head and caught up with the other.I came here years ago, from the east, from Pennsylvania on the east side of Triple Creek in the wilderness miles above Philadelphia up the Schuylkill River. I came to this place on foot, leading the two others that always followed me. It was early in the evening and the, blacksmith’s, tanners, coopers, and tradesmen were already closed for the night and the street was empty except for a few colonials moving about. It was a hot summer night in mid August but I had a linen open front hunting frock tossed over my shoulders, and I drew stares. I had stopped in front of the Gilded Pony Tavern, stood for a long moment listening to the patrons within, as was to be expected at this hour it was full of people laughing and joking, singing and dancing.I did not enter the tavern but walked forty yards further down the dusty street to another tavern, a smaller one, called “The Long Knife.” I knew it didn’t have the best of reputations and it would be almost empty.As I entered, the door opened with an eerie creaking and the barkeep raised his head from a bowl of steaming, bad smelling stew that permeated the air and he measured me with his eyes. I, still in my linen frock, walked up and stood stiffly in front of the aged wooden counter, motionless and quiet.“What’s it you want?” “Ale,” I said in an unpleasant tone.The barkeep wiped his mouth on the back of his dirty sleeve and filled a pewter mug from a wooden keg. I am no Indian but my hair is cut into a scalplock with turkey feathers tied in the back. Beneath my frock I wore a white linen shirt. As I took off my frock those around me noticed that I carried a tomahawk and large knife, not something unusual in itself, nearly every man on the frontier carried a weapon, but no one carried a knife like mine and strapped horizontally in the small of their back.I did not sit at the table with the few other men in the tavern, I remained standing at the counter, piercing the barkeep with an icy cold stare, a stare that he said looked like that of one of the great gray wolves he had seen prowling in the forests. I took a sip from the mug and lowered it to the counter. “I need a room.”“There’s none to be had.” The barkeep grumbled, looking at my well worn and dusty moccasins and leggings over the counter. “Try the Gilded Pony down the road.” “I would stay here.”“There is no rooms to be had.” The barkeep grumbled, finally he recognized my accent and weapons. I am a Tschipey-uxwe; it is Lanapi for Spirit Hunter. “I’ll pay good coin,” I repeated, a scar faced thick set man who, from the time I had entered the tavern had not taken his glassy drunken eyes from me, got up and walked to the counter. Two of his drinking companions arose behind him by not more than two steps.“There’s no room to be had, you injun loving Tschipey-uxwe savage,” growled the scar faced man, standing right next to me. “We don’t need or want trash like you at Oswego. We hold our own here!” I took my mug and moved away, startling the trio of men. I glanced at the barkeep, who avoided my gaze, it didn’t even occur to him to defend me, after all, who liked Indian lovers?”“All you injun’s is scum and thieves,” the scar faced man said, his breath smelling most rank and foul, and angered. “Do you hear me, injun lover?” “He ain’t hear you, his ears is full of ****e,” said one of his ale strengthened friends laughing.“Pay and leave!” Yelled the scar faced man. Only now did I look at him, eyes calm and cool, voice relaxed. “I’m having a drink.” “You’ll leave,” the scar faced man growled and slapped the mug from my hand and grabbed my collarbone gripping it tightly. One of the men behind him raised his balled fist to strike, I rolled to the opposite side throwing the scar faced man off balance as the other swung his fist and hit the scar faced man in the side of the head who reeled in pain and turned to his friend. “Idiot buckskinner!”And my knife flashed from its sheath and my tomahawk slid from my belt, the silver knife glinted briefly in the dim light, I was a quick blur and a woman screamed, and one of the few remaining customers tumbled quickly towards the door. A chair fell with a crash and wooden bowls and plates thudded hollowly against the floor. The barkeep, trembling, looked on in terror as the scar faced man, who was clinging to the counter, held his gashed throat and slowly slid from sight. The other two were lying on the floor, one motionless in a pool of spreading blood, the other in a heap as I pulled my tomahawk from the man’s clavicle. A woman’s scream ripped through the air again, piercing the ears of everyone, the barkeep shuddered, heaved and then vomited. I moved to place my back to the wall, tense and alert, holding my knife and tomahawk in my hands and circled them in the air, no one moved. Cold terror streaked their faces, paralyzing them and stopping their breath. Three of the British soldiers, from the 51st of Foot by their uniform markings, and no doubt on guard, rushed into the tavern with the clinking and clanging of equipment, they must have been on rounds walking by. They had their flintlocks crossed in front of them, but at the sight of the dead men they leveled them at me, I pressed my back to the wall and brought my weapons up crossed in front of me in a guard position.“Drop those, now!” One of the guards yelled with a trembling voice. “Throw them down, murderer! You’re under arrest!”A second guard tossed aside a table between himself and me.“Get the men, Pettis!” He shouted to the third soldier, who stayed closer to the door. “No need for them,” I said, lowering my weapons. “I’ll come with you myself.”“You’ll go to the gallows, you murdering savage!” Yelled the frightened soldier. “Throw down your knife and hatchet! Or I’ll blow a hole in your chest!”I tried not to smile at the man’s bravado, so I straightened and quickly sheathed my knife and made a gesture of signs in the air, light flashed between us and the soldiers tried to shield their eyes from its brightness, drew back and one of the customers darted for the door and the woman screamed again. “I’ll come by myself,” said I, in a husky growling voice. “And you’ll lead me, take me to Fort Oswego and Colonel Pepperell, I have urgent news.”“Yes, sir,” mumbled the guard, dropping his head and turning for the door, the other two walked out quickly in front of him. I followed behind them placing my tomahawk back in my belt, as we passed the other customers they hid their faces or turned away from this most dangerous savage.
