The lovely Tori has posted about an awesome writing meme called First Page Friday, encouraging people to post the first page of a WIP [or something similar].
SO because I’ve been so terrible about blogging lately I figured this was a great way to distract myself from work.
This is the first page of the book I started for NaNoWriMo last year. I hit the 50k mark, but it wasn’t finished yet. I am itching to get back to working on it, and getting it in a much better place, but my focus is on my more completed book right now. SO THE CAVEAT because I am someone terrified of sharing anything, is that this is a zero draft, WIP. For serious.
It’s tentatively called The Olympian. This story slapped me in the face when I visited ancient Olympia last year.
All he ever wanted, was to win the Olympic wreath.
Rilaos thought these words as he jumped off the horse, feeling sore after the long ride to Elis. It was crowded, dusty, and hot, and he quickly removed the cloak he had been wearing and stuffed into the sack he carried with him. Looking around at all the other men and boys, he held his head up a little higher, running a quick hand through his curly hair to try to pin it behind his ears.
“Rilaos, stop staring, we need to get you to your trainer.” His father had already handed off the horses to some stable boy, watching with narrowed eyes, fearful the horses would be sold no doubt. His father had a terrible habit to not trust anyone who couldn’t own a horse themselves.
He shrugged his pack onto his shoulder better as he followed, trying not to cringe at the weight being placed on the sore muscles. The past ten months had been grueling, training with his father’s friend at the gymnasium nearly every day. He didn’t know that running in the Olympics could be so hard to train for.
As they made their way through the crowd, Rilaos noticed all the different dialects being spoken around him, and how varied the looks of the men were. Having never attended the games himself, he suddenly realized that maybe he didn’t know what he was exactly getting himself into. Finally they walked into a large gymnasium with a high ceiling, and a long line of people. Peeking around his father, he could see that they were all waiting to walk past a line of older men, all wearing the same white robes, looking extremely serious for the business at hand.
“Who are they, Father?”
“They are the hellanodika. The judges that you need to impress over the next month so that you don’t get yourself kicked out before the games even start.” His father spoke these words barely looking over his shoulder. Rilaos held back the retort in his throat. He knew his father, nor anyone he knew really, expected him to make it far. He wasn’t built to be a soldier – he was built to be a scholar, they told him. But he wanted to prove them wrong. He was only glad that his family felt that they should humor him, as they would say it, by paying his way.