The Map, All But Laid Out...

I've been toying with a statement that's been running through my head for the better part of two years. I know it's an original statement only because I've googled the first half of it numerous times and have never gotten a hit. I have a specific purpose for this statement, one I'm not willing to divulge at this point except to say I intend to use it as an introduction to something much, much larger.....

"Muhammad shook the world, Islam made it bitter"

When googling the second half of this statement the only hit you'll get is a post at this very blog, one year ago; but with Allah injected as shaker. I find it interesting that, either way, the statement is nonetheless true. But judging from my own notes on the project in question, "Muhammad" is the original thought; and this project has been brewing since early 2001-- pre 9/11, albeit without the 'Islam' element.

I will undoubtedly wrestle with my choice of the two until I actually begin writing. There's still some research to do, as well as ferreting out any blatant inconsistencies; fiction after all requires the reader to suspend at least a modicum of disbelief, and in this respect, I'm not out to reinvent the wheel.

But how's this for a question/premise?

"How does one blend the colorful dialects of Appalachian hillbillies with Islam as a conquering force?"

NOTE: to anyone interested...

Every story that's truly good relies on conversation; the verbal and physical interaction between characters. Without communication there's no story. Except in cases where the story was completed in one or two sittings, I've always approached storytelling in terms of conversations. By this, I mean I tend to always write conversations first. This is how I know where the characters are going, what they're thinking, and why they would say or do this, and not that.

Mina and Tel are two such Appalachian hillbillies with thick dialects. Tel is short for Telemachus, and Mina is short for Willamina. Here's a sample of dialog...

Mina: They’ll kill ye

Tel: Mayhap they will, but I ain't got no choice. Now, you can run if ye want, but if Elias is as good as you say it won't make no dif'rince, and it'd prolly go easier on ya if ye stay. But if ye run an' I don't git kilt, I cain't very well take them chains off ye. I cain't go huntin' ye... I got t' git my pa down the mountain. But do as ye like. I gotta go.

M: Wait! Ye got t'git Marty first. He's a crack with that cross bow 'a his. But it's a crank; once he's fired, it's got t'be cranked back to fire again, and 'e cain't do it 'a layin' down. He's got t'stand, 'n by the looks of things, they ain't much t'hide behind. How good a shot're ye?

T: Fair

M: Good Lord! Fair? How far was ye when ye shot at Jacks?

T: Eighty paces'r so

M: What were ye aimin' at?

T: His chest.

M: I reckon thet's good enough.

[she's being sarcastic here, Tel killed Jacks with a single shot to the chest, ala Burt Reynolds from "Deliverance"]

M: If'n all ye can do is hurt 'is ass, keep 'im from crankin' fer another shot, ye'll be safe enough from 'im. He ain't nuttin' hand t'hand, and e's chickenshit through an' through. He'll hide b'hine the women. Ye ain't neer hurt a woman?

T: No

M: Ye gonna hafta t'day. Thair meaner'n snakes with fire up t'ass. Mayhap ye won't hafta kill em out-right, but be careful; if they kin move, they's dange'russ.

T: And Elias?

M: Cain't really say, I ain't neer sen 'im do nuttin' but shout'n bully t'others.

T: Marty first, then the women?

M: That'd probly be best

T: How long they had ye?

M: Bout' two weeks... don’t rightly know

T: They buy or take ye?

M: Took. After killin' m'Ma 'n Pa. 'lias kilt m’baby sister when she wounn't stay quiet.

T: You want 'em dead?

M: I reckon I do