The Overlook
Recently, I was struggling with adjusting some margins on a new document. We’ve all been there. I was attempting to set up a template for future use, and what would seem pretty straight forward was far less intuitive than it probably should have been. I also needed some sample writing and paragraphs from which to work with to verify that my adjustments were what I wanted.
I could have copied and pasted text from any previous documents to use as a test sample, but for whatever reason I thought, where is the fun in that? So to amuse myself I went ahead and typed up another document of a few pages using the default 8.5 x 11 defaults, and then set about attempting to manipulate the settings to bend to my liking. I was successful, and pleased with the final result of both the margins and the prose.
However, the process to exercise the mind over the holiday break by writing nonsense seems wasteful to leave abandoned on a hard drive, and so I’ve decided to share the text here. The general imagery and idea came when I saw someone cross-country skiing in a park not far from my office. Don’t expect much, and good luck reading until the end.
(Updated 7/25/2025)
This initial exercise became more evolved than I expected, and what had been solely an endeavor working on document formatting and stimulating my mind over holiday break turned into a full 103,000+ word manuscript. This is my first attempt at fiction. I’m not sure if it is any good — that is for the public to decide, but I do have a sense of accomplishment that I have completed it. So, for better or worse, I have updated this post to include the revised version of what is now Chapter 1 of Into The Shadows. Comments are welcome.
Chapter 1: The Overlook
The solitary figure stood at the end of a long pier that stretched out into the choppy and icy lake. The wind, barely noticeable on land, was more malicious on the exposed appendage that reached out into deeper water. In the summer it would be filled with signs of life: emerald algae, various insects, and fish cracking the surface. Now it all appeared rather foamy and ominous. Dirty gray mud churned from up-welling showing signs of pollution; turbulent winter wear caused by rough seas – broken up by begrudgingly random ice sheets that rode defiant among the waves.
Looking out across the rolling scene, Ritter held mixed feelings of exhilarating freshness that comes from crisp winter sea breezes with a pang of lonely isolation. There was no one around. In spite of warming afternoon temperatures, and the crunchy snow melt that produced sharp imprints marking his footsteps, the immense lake stretching out in front of him held the aura of violent freezing gunmetal that is commonly associated with the danger of hypothermia. It would only take one false step on hidden ice under the snow patches to send him uncontrollably into the icy water. For that reason he kept a couple feet between himself and the end of the dock.
It is always important to remember the past, Ritter thought. Sometimes to pay homage and respect for the treasures of today, and sometimes with more trepidation to avoid the repetition of past sins. Ritter inwardly smirked at the passing thought. Too often human arrogance failed to grasp that second part, and the proof of that could be seen in the daily news headlines – heaven knows each day had their own depressing collection of them.
Ritter noted the passing shadow of a large shipping vessel hanging at the horizon’s edge – appearing motionless – where the choppy waves appeared to slap the gray leaden sky. Mother Nature had eased back the winter throttle just a bit – perhaps out of mercy? – after assaulting the region with a harsh mixture of sleet and snow over the previous few days, but the wind remained potent after the passing front. Ritter had in fact originally planned making this private excursion some forty eight hours prior, but out of an abundance of caution and respect for narrow serpentine roads through forested areas and black ice he had postponed the drive. There was no deadline after all. He had made the trek to close a chapter; nothing more, and certainly not to be an annotation to it laying inside a SUV in some ditch.
Ritter glanced at his watch – a battered Russian Командирские ‘tank’ on a thin black leather strap he had once purchased in Moscow. 2.00. With good roads and weather he’d be back home by five, and that estimate included stopping at a hidden roadside diner he had once discovered on one of his initial pilgrimages into these deep woods. It was one of those wonderful places that he remembered from his youth with generally three or four pick-up trucks parked out front, strong coffee, and soft scrambled eggs – usually served with freshly baked rye bread, by the owner. The thought of this now tantalized Ritter as another gust of wind swept by, and he re-gripped the small burlap bag he held in his right hand in an involuntary reflex.
Nothing is going to happen if I keep standing here, Ritter thought. He shook the bag a couple more times to gauge that he had provided enough weight – a handful of rustic fishing sinkers from an old tackle box in the basement, threaded by string through the metal eye-holes at the top of the bag. Ritter thought about the contents one final time, and from the end of the pier cocked his arm and flung the burlap towards the foam crests made by the five foot swells. At its apex a narrow beam of sunlight that had broken through the cloud cover glinted once off one of the sinkers before hitting the water. The momentary twinkle seemed symbolic – a final goodbye. For a few seconds, which seemed a lifetime to Ritter, the bag rode the waves and he thought it wouldn’t sink. He panicked, but then slowly the bag sank below the water line. A few additional seconds passed and it was gone completely, and the anxiety that had at once constricted his chest began to subside, but far more gradual than the initial onslaught.
After he recovered Ritter took in a deep breath of cold wet air that stabbed at his lungs. If the temperature is rising it certainly isn’t noticeable standing next to the water. He then turned on his heel and looked back down the vacant dock; his eyes once again scanned the surrounding shoreline to verify he hadn’t been seen. Nothing immediately stood out. Good. He didn’t want to have to provide awkward explanations for his presence on the dock by nosy townsfolk, worse yet a bored sheriff, wondering what he had tossed into the lake? An excuse for writing him a littering ticket. A contribution to the town’s general fund.
With his hands in the pockets of his brown leather jacket, he began walking back down the dock in the direction of his black SUV parked on the overlook high above the shoreline. The past was behind him, or rather more accurately, on the lake bed, and now his thoughts were only of the hot coffee and scrambled eggs that lay ahead.
From the sanctuary of the driver’s seat, and out of the wind, Ritter pressed the starter button and the vehicle roared to life. He tossed his black gloves on the passenger seat, and slowly pulled
out of the overlook parking area onto the state highway that would take him back to the main route south, and the small roadside diner.
A few minutes later a white pick-up truck, with noticeable rust around the wheel wells, which had been parked deep in the adjacent yacht club next to the large white storage shed; with an unobstructed view of the pier, scratched at the loose gravel of the parking area; pulled out heading in the same direction.
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