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Mentor's Award

Pam Kock, a student in the John D. MacDonald study group, is the winner of the November/December Fiction 99 Mentors' Award contest. Her Writopia story was judged the best by the Mentors of that session.

Pam is from Cincinnati, Ohio. She has written personal essays and non-fiction articles but prefers to write short stories in the mainstream contemporary genre.

Since completing Fiction 99, Pam has had an essay published online, and her Drabble appeared in T-zero Xpandizine's December/January issue. She has written for Epinions.com and Wordarchive.com, and continues to write short stories.

WVU salutes Pam on her fine work.

The candle's flame flickered and threatened to die, its fuel burned to nearly nothing. Joseph reluctantly pulled himself away from his writing, rubbed his red rimmed eyes and surveyed his work. The graceful blue curves of ink that had flowed all night from his quill seemed to come alive and dance before him in the failing light.

He was a lonely man, forced in to solitude by his imprisonment by King George II. Far away from his former life as a scholar and professor of literature, he had learned that the only way to retain his sanity was to write. He would release his thoughts and create new worlds in which his life could continue. Joseph obtained his writing supplies and candles from one of the prison guards, who found himself in need of poetry to seduce the ladies of his acquaintance.

"What got you chained up in this rat hole?" the guard asked him, after negotiating their first trade.
Joseph replied, "I'd written a treatise on the inhumanity suffered in Scotland, following the Jacobite rebellion. The King did not seem to appreciate my fine insight and wit."
"I would think not," snorted the guard. "A fool you must be, though you do write pretty verse."

Aye, I am a fool, Joseph thought as the flame devoured the last of the wax and expired. Maybe that is the curse of the writer, to be a slave to the truth in his heart.

Joseph dared not write during the daytime hours, for fear of being discovered by a spy among the guards. If an informant were to catch sight of his manuscripts, many of which were far from innocent verse, he might be sentenced to death. Worse yet, he might remain in the prison without his precious pen and ink. As night fell, however, a hush descended on the gloomy depths of the prison and Joseph would once again light a candle and write. Enveloped in the rancid stench of the cheap tallow candle and the sharp tang of the ink, his life once again found meaning.

One night, he was startled by a soft knocking against the iron bars that marked his boundary. Making no effort to hide the paper, he raised his head proudly to meet the gaze of the guard who sought his attention.
"I hear you're a writer," the guard said softly.
"Yes, I am that," Joseph replied, thinking it rather obvious.
"What are you writing about?"
Was this a trick? He'd seen this guard before, many nights, but they had never spoken. Was he one of the King's spies?
"Well," Joseph answered, "At this time I am writing a poem about the moonlight on a field of fresh snow, as best I remember it after these many years." No harm in that, surely.
"I am a writer too," whispered the guard.
"A noble calling," said Joseph. "Do have a care when choosing your subject matter, however," he added, raising an eyebrow.
"True, very true," the guard answered, smiling.
"My name is Thomas," he continued. "Do you think you could read something I have written, and tell me if I may have some promise?"

Joseph considered this, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Quite possibly this Thomas fellow would place an incriminating document in his possession, to be discovered shortly by the King's informants. Then again, he could not imagine a purpose in doing so, unless the King found himself short on victims for public execution. The idea of sharing another writer's inspiration intrigued him, and he found himself reluctantly agreeing.
"Thank you," said Thomas. He scanned the hallway in both directions, and passed him the roll of parchment. "I will be back tomorrow night." He left quickly, and the stealth with which he conducted himself caused Joseph to think that perhaps the lad might be genuine after all.

He found himself quite anxious to see what the young guard had brought him. He had not read the work of another writer for five years. Though he tried to remember those masterful works in which he had immersed himself for most of his life, they had faded and he found the space in his head growing stale with only his own words in residence. How many times he had been asked to read a young writer's work in the past, and shrugged off the eager request, saying he had no time for such matters! Yet now he found himself hungry for it.

"A young man seeking to become a writer, having the misfortune to be of common birth, has few roads open to meet this goal. In a world where literacy itself is a luxury few can attain, it is impossible to find a teacher of literature. It is with ridicule we enter into this path and with more ridicule we leave it. Will we ever know that what we put down on the page is well said, or even if it is worth saying?"

It continued for three pages, a lengthy ramble about the guard's dream of becoming a writer and his frustration at longing for the education he had been denied. A plea, it seemed, for instruction and the hope that Joseph would find his talent worthy of his trouble. Though it was awkwardly written, he enjoyed reading it. Had he become so thirsty during his years of imprisonment that a taste from any well would satisfy so fully?

It did not matter, he decided. For these five years he had written for his own pleasure, knowing that his work would die with him. It had been enough, until now. When Thomas returned, he agreed to help him on his path in exchange for a promise to deliver his work to a friend who would publish Joseph's work under a pseudonym. If only his words could get out, he would feel the taste of freedom once again.

Several months passed in which Joseph looked forward to nightfall with growing interest, watching his new friend's writing improve dramatically. Thomas would occasionally report that Joseph's work had been published and that the King George was going mad trying to find who had authored the pieces.

"Thomas, surely there are other writers who seek the same guidance," said Joseph one night. "You are a much better writer now, and I doubt much of it is due to my scholarship and credentials."
"Thank you, sir, I am greatly honored," answered Thomas.
"Go out among your peers, and form a group. A writing society, of sorts, and share your work and ambitions with each other."
"My peers, sir? But they have no more education than I do. How will that be of benefit?"
"Can they read? Perhaps that is enough to start. Read great works. Then write, and keep writing. Above all, you shall give each other the will to continue. Perhaps you can form a community of your own, similar to that which I once enjoyed at University." Joseph laughed. "Writopia, you can call it."
"Writopia," Thomas answered. "I like the sound of that."

Thomas reported in the following months that he had indeed found others who shared the dream, and would meet weekly with them.
"Joseph, it is a grand time, I tell you. I wish you could be there, you would laugh to see us. We call ourselves 'The Writopians' and we read aloud, both published works and what we have composed. Of course we follow with a visit to the pub, and after a few rounds the poetry we compose is quite far from literature, I assure you. But in seriousness, we are benefiting very much from each other's opinions and advice."
"I am glad to be such an inspiration," Joseph answered. He had been privileged to count many distinguished authors among his acquaintance, but the notion of communing with a group such as Thomas's Writopians appealed to him greatly. "I do wish I could be there, too."
"Of course," Thomas whispered, sadly. "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend."
"You did not offend me," said Joseph. "I am content. You've seen that my work will not die with me in this cell, and I have helped to ignite the interest of the common man toward the art of writing." He sighed deeply. "No, Thomas, it is not that I simply wish to get out. It is the community of Writopia that you have begun that I envy."

Joseph had a dream that night. Writopia would not only survive, but it would thrive, and grow to such a point that writers all over the world would join together. He did not understand the entire vision, which involved a luminous box in which the words would be entered and travel to all parts of the world, but he did understand that a great thing was born during those discussions with young Thomas. Joseph could die a happy man, despite his unfortunate circumstances. In his own way, he had helped to change the world.