Freewriting not in WNB, Apologies

Motor Vehicle Accidents & Historical Fiction Freewriting

Note: This single topic spans many entries as it’s quite a long story all-told, and I couldn’t write all of this in one ‘free-writing’ sitting, and I can never seem to finish a thought once I’ve started it. I hope that’s acceptable.

Entry 1

As my most famous (or infamous?) episode in Croatia still is my “run-in” with a car, I thought I would describe the general feeling of being in an accident of any kind (and the aftermath).

Well, to start off, it was a pretty miserable day to be outside at all, much less hit by anything, it was pouring rain, freezing cold, and of course walking to school in said conditions was even less fun than just looking at the pervasively gray atmosphere. On my way, I pass a tram station between two one-way roads (each having two lanes), and on any normal day it takes a good deal of awareness to cross the roads (of course the normal Croatian could do it with his eyes closed, his hands tied behind his back, walking sideways while texting). On that day, unfortunately, my vision of oncoming traffic was blocked somewhat by the asinine parking of a car in the middle of the street, and as I (eager as always) to get to school ran across, I was broadsided by a car in the middle of the street.

To this day, I still have no idea what exact acrobatical figure I did after being hit, I know for certain that I cracked the car’s windshield, and then landed (almost!) face first on the road in one single motion. How I accomplished this would, I believe, stump many a physics professor or Olympic gymnast. But anyway, after I had recovered from the immediate shock of nearly spilling the contents of my head on a Croatian roadway, my first thought was, extremely ironically, that I hoped I hadn’t broken my umbrella.

Interestingly enough, the incident sounds (and probably will sound) a lot worse than it actually was experiencing it.

Entry 2

I thought I’d continue in the same vein as I did last free-writing session and continue describing the events that occurred after I was hit by the car.

Anyway, immediately after my concern for my umbrella came concern for the rest of my possessions, including a poster and my sweatshirt, and of course, concern for unimportant things like broken bones and how I would get to the hospital.

Ironically, that was solved for me, as the couple that had been driving the car (they probably looked more pale than I did, to be honest) were already on their way to the hospital, and after a few sentences of broken English were able to relay that to me. Still quite a bit stunned, I proceeded to get into their car and we were off at the breakneck pace of morning traffic (about an inch per minute). During this, I was able to collect myself and realize that, as I had very recently moved from the United States I didn’t know my home phone number, address, or any Croatian whatsoever. This, quite clearly, was a fairly large problem. And of course, in the one circumstance that I actually needed my diplomatic ID, I had left it at home.

Entry 3

Once again, I thought I’d continue in the same vein as the last two entries (though it’s rather dull and unoriginal, I have a lot to say about this topic, obviously, and want to finish up the absolutely riveting story of lost in translation).

Anyway, by the time we actually arrived at the hospital I had been able to take stock and see that indeed, I was completely alive and still had most of my body parts attached to my body. I went inside, and I was fairly nervous, not about the obvious, but about how exactly I would communicate with the various officials and doctors that would doubtlessly harry me for the next few hours. I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that they didn’t seem to require any sort of proof of health insurance before seeing patients, as I had expected much grief on that account. But to first access a doctor, I had to give a blank-faced policeman (he looked as if he interviewed non-native, English-speaking, underage, car-accident victims every hour, and by the end of the interview he seemed impatient enough so that I wondered if he was due for his next appointment) my various details, of which I remembered absolutely and completely nothing, and he seemed to be irritated by the fact that I couldn’t even say “hello” in Croatian, much less give my name, place of residence and telephone number (if I could remember them). The next hour or so passed quite a bit faster than I thought it would, mostly spend waiting for X-rays and walking back and forth between the X-ray wing of the hospital and the inspection room wing (one seemingly located in Australia, the other on some foreign planet). This was of course exacerbated by the fact I had just noticed the fact that I had a burning pain in my left leg, right elbow and left arm. This did not concern me as much as the fact that I had broken my umbrella, strangely enough, but it does turn out that in the end I escaped with just a broken elbow and sprained arm, instead of the possible complete destruction of my face and the spillage of my brain onto the Croatian pavement.

Entry 4

This will be my attempt at some sort of historical fiction, as we did quite a bit of fiction last year and I wanted to try my hand at it again. This will also quite possibly be in multiple parts, because of the aforementioned long-windedness when writing.

As he trudged across the dunes toward his dwelling, Kemet felt the shadow of the pyramid loom over him. He and countless thousands had been laboring over it for years, a testament to the greatness of the current Pharaoh. When the time came, Kemet thought, it would serve as not only the Pharaoh’s tomb, but his; as the chief laborer, it was his task to be buried with the sacred Pharaoh. It was a great honor, but made him nervous all the same. He reached his small sandstone dwelling, part way down a dirt road connecting dozens of worker huts, made out of mud and thatch. As the chief laborer, he was able to afford a sandstone dwelling, a fact which made him proud every time he looked at it. He stared down at his sandaled feet as he walked through the threshold into the cool shadows of his dwelling, remembering how the house used to sound with the chatter of his relatives. They were gone now, however, his wife to plague, his uncles and parents to Nile floods, and his children to bandits.

Entry 5

Exhausted from his labors that day, he lay down on his cot and almost immediately fell asleep. As the sun dawned over the dunes outside his dwelling, he was already up and prepared for another grueling day constructing the ultimate testament to the glory of the Pharaoh, and the glory of the Pharaoh’s god. As Kemet trudged his well-walked path toward the building site, he considered the Pharaoh; Kemet had only seen him once, on a grand parade. The current Pharaoh, Akhenaten, was thought by most to be a heretic, and Kemet shared that sentiment. “What sort of man, even if he is the son of a God, appoints a new chief god, himself the new prophet, and then moves the capitol into the desert”, thought Kemet. He found these thoughts especially relevant, as when he arrived in the vicinity of the Pyramid’s base, he was informed by a runner that Akhenaten himself was to visit his burial site, and speak with the chief laborer. He felt nervous about the visit, though he knew he had nothing to fear. The construction was going completely as planned, ahead of schedule. There had been no undue death of slaves, the marble and sandstone from quarries had been floated down the Nile with more than enough time to finish the building this year. The building rapidly rose, construction ramps circling its girth for the monstrous sandstone blocks being hauled up to the top.

Entry 6

The building looked impressive, but it was nothing compared to the Pharaoh and his entourage. They rode up in chariots plated with Sumerian gold, worth more than Kemet would ever dream of making in his entire life; in fact, the Pharaoh’s headdress was probably worth more than his life. The Pharaoh’s physical presence alone was intimidating, he towered well above Kemet and had many scars from his many wars of conquest in both the south and north. Kemet bowed low, touching the ground with his nose, as was only correct when addressing the son of a god. The Pharaoh stated “You have done well, Kemet, son of Hemes, in the building of my tomb. It is honorable you should be entombed as well. I commend you.” The Pharaoh spoke formally, and all Kemet could say was “Thank you, your greatness”. As fast as that, the Pharaoh was off to inspect the pyramid itself, meet with the architects, and review the various offerings to be set off on the death journey with the Pharaoh. This was all numb to Kemet, as all he had to offer to this was himself, a wiry and muscular man of average height and a sandy complexion. Nothing special, he thought to himself, as he had no education, no money saved up, and no family to leave it to anyway. But he must supervise one final project before being buried alive inside it to honor the Pharaoh, and he went about it judiciously. He walked the lines of men hauling stone blocks, administering his whip with great vigor, inspiring lines of profanity from the men. As he was doing this task mindlessly, he pondered the continuation of his line, as would any man in his position. “Who will remember me when I am gone?” he thought. He was not particularly friendly with any man, and his empty house was a daily reminder of his dead family. He would leave no legacy and no memory.