Lucy A. McLaren

I recently did a poll on Twitter mentioning an old short story from 2002 that I’d been meaning to write up for some time. I was thinking of simply re-writing it and publishing it *but* I thought I’d ask for some opinions (and thanks to the 3 people who gave me theirs haha). The more I thought about it, the more I felt I’d enjoy writing up the old version and then polishing it up to how I’d write it now, giving a comparison of the two.

I wrote this when I was about 13 as an English assignment at school – we had to write a story with a dual narrative. There was no pre-planning with this so I’m impressed with my 13-year-old self’s ability to pants a short story at very short notice. Plus, I was really proud of this story at the time – I got an 8/10 for it and positive feedback from my teacher. It’s the only old story of mine that I’ve kept, having got rid of everything else out of shame or complete lack of self-belief. I’m glad I kept this one. It’s not perfect, but it’s part of my writing journey.

So here it is, complete and unedited from 2002:

            Can you change a man? It is possible, of course, but how should you go about it? I was a poor man once, a wizard, and I lived in Fogmoore, a mud-hole excuse for a town, with the most selfish king ever to rule any kingdom.

            King Lanelle was known all around for his uncaring nature. His only want and desire was gold. The people of Fogmoore, my friends and neighbours, lived in poverty while the king held balls and parties. Anybody who dared to enter Lanelle’s royal palace would get no pity from the selfish king; they would simply be thrown into the dungeons, but it was our only chance, and so more and more people were lost.

            As I sat one day, comforting a woman who had lost her husband, and looking out on the muddy streets of Fogmoore, an idea stuck me, like a piece of wood hitting me on the head. I immediately sat up and knew that I had the answer.

            I let go of the woman’s arm and left her quietly sobbing on the hard wooden bench by the hole in my wall, which was my excuse for a window, and walked over to my bookshelf. Rummaging through the piles of dust old books, I found the book that I was looking for: an aged and battered book called ‘The Advanced Book of Spells III’.

            I took the book over to the table next to the sobbing woman and lit a candle. Then I opened it and skimmed down the contents page until I came to what I needed. I smiled to myself and turned to the page, and there stood my answer.

            ‘How to put a ruler or person of high authority into your shoes for a day!’ I had known then that there was a risk, after all King Lanelle was said to be a heartless king, but I was willing to take it.

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            I had gone to bed in my own room, at my palace, as far as I could remember, but I knew that something was wrong when I awoke in a grubby old sack on the streets of what appeared to be some kind of giant mudhole attempting to be a town.

            Looking around, it was clear that it was very early in the morning, although it was bright and the sun reflected from the muddy puddles on the floor. Opposite me was a small house with a hole in the wall, next to a piece of rotten wood which appeared to be acting as a door.

            “Please let this be a dream,” I said to myself as I slowly got up and stretched, and then walked over to the house.

            “Hello?” I shouted through the hole, not wanting to knock on the door for fear of it falling off of its hinges entirely. “Hello? Is anybody there?” I shouted again.

            Suddenly, there came a bang from behind me, and I swivelled around quickly, losing my footing and landing in the middle of a massive puddle.

            “Did you enjoy that?” asked a voice from above me. I looked up to see an old man with a muddy face, a long grey beard and cold blue eyes. He appeared to be wearing a sack, much like the one I had woken up in.

            “Excuse me?” I said to him, attempting to stand up, only to slip once more.

            “Did you enjoy that?” said the man once more, his voice weak but clear. I grunted and sneered at him.

            “Enjoy what?” I asked, trying to stand up only to fail once more.

            “Waking up in a sack? Being covered with mud? Experiencing what is everyday life for us, the people of Fogmoore?” said the old man, his eyes seeming to get colder and his voice becoming a fierce whisper.

            “Fogmoore? This is not Fogmoore!” I said. “You dare to a king, old man?” I was sitting in the mud now, as I had realised that getting up was an impossible task without help.

            “Ah yes, King Lanelle! You do not think this is your kingdom? The kingdom whose people you let live in filth? And whose people you throw into the dungeons for asking for what they need?” whispered the old man, holding out a wrinkly hand. “Stand up,” he said. I did as I was told and took his hand, fearing what he was capable of.

            “Look over there,” he said, pointing north, to a small golden turret which gleamed in the sun. “What do you see?”

            “I see my palance…” I gulped; how could this filthy rathole be my kingdom? “Please, let me go back!” The old man turned to me, and then walked into the house which I had been shouting into.

            “Sit,” he said, signalling towards a wooden bench by the hole in his wall. “There is a way you can return.”

            “What is it?” I said, becoming impatient.

            “You must swear to help the people of Fogmoore. Give us money and food so that we may prosper!” replied the old man, his voice filled with passion. “However, if you swear to do this but do not feel it in your heart, you will remain here.”

            I gulped. My precious gold! How dare this man try and make me give it up? As if reading my thoughts, the old man looked at me sharply.

            “Well? Are you to return to your precious palace? Or stay here?”

            Suddenly, I came up with a plan. I plan would tell this man that I would change, but (as I had been told I am heartless many times before) I would not feel it.

            I nodded. “Okay,” I said, looking up to see a light flicker into the old man’s eyes. “But first, what is your name?”

            “Nicholas. I am a wizard,” replied the old man, clearly wanting to get rid of me as soon as possible. I sighed and nodded, closing my eyes.

            “I swear I will no longer ignore the pleas of Fogmoore, but I will help them…” I said, not daring to open my eyes.

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            It has now been a month since that day. That day when I had come up with the answer, and now, as I sit here, a damp and moss-covered dungeon wall before me, hay as my bed, I know that you can never change a man, if that man has no heart.