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Well, I started writing a little something here in the little time that I actually have nowadays. So, here is the first chapter. I just sorta had a burst of inspiration here, so I don't know how long it will last, and I have tons of work coming up next week, so I don't know when I'll be able to continue... So, consider this a teaser of sorts. 
I'd like feedback, though, more than anything, as it has been a while since I wrote anything creative last, and, while writing this, I thought I was getting rusty.
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Frost covered the land as far as the eye could see. The snow was touched only by a set of footprints going down towards the river. There, a boy was breaking the ice. A bucket stood beside him. With every swing of the shovel, the boy exhaled a large cloud of vapour and grinned – it was always fun to watch one’s breath. He also liked to break the ice. Although the shovel he used was ill fit for this task, the process nonetheless brought the boy great enjoyment. He was doing something important. No house could do without water at the town, and here, upriver from it, the water was best to collect, for it was still clean.
The boy’s name was Alexander. His father, a poor worker, whose parents were released from slavery, worked from dusk till dawn every day toiling for the government. The man built roads, helped with the construction in the town, dug mines – in a word, did everything he was instructed to do – and barely made enough money to feed his family. For the past month or so, he had been working on something new – planting a forest. The idea seemed ridiculous – there were plenty of trees around as it were, and it was quite a daunting task to even plant anything in this glacier, for the ground was frozen and hard to dig, not to speak of keeping a tree alive.
Alexander turned around to look at the large pines across the hill from him – the ones that had been here for a few hundred years at least – and smiled: he wondered when the trees his father was planting now would grow as tall. The boy turned back towards the river and resumed his work. With each hit of the shovel, larger and larger chunks of ice broke off, and, in some places, it was becoming really thin. At one such hit, an almost perfectly cubic piece broke off. The boy looked at it and smiled at the thought of telling his friends at the town how he was able to make perfectly shaped pieces of ice with such a crude instrument as a shovel. He took off his mitten, and took the cube. The boy brought it close to his face, and felt the cold against his cheek. He breathed at the ice and watched it change its shape under the hot air. It always fascinated Alexander to watch the ice melt. He never quite understood why this substance would suddenly turn to water at his touch or breath, but he always enjoyed melting ice, because it gave him a certain feeling of satisfaction. Power almost. To control nature. To change something solid into water.
When the cube finally melted, and Alexander’s right arm was wet from wrist to the elbow, he put in the mitten, took the shovel and resumed work. After a while, he finally made a hole large enough for the bucket to fit in and without looking, stretched his hand out to get it. Just as he grabbed the handle, something cold gripped his wrist. The boy turned around, but before he could tell what was going on, he felt a strong push in the chest, and fell on his back. He sat up and saw a large man, covered in an animal skin.
The skin did not look like it was even made for being worn – more like just ripped off of some animal in a hurry, and scraped clean of flesh. If did not have any shape, but was sitting oddly on the man’s shoulders. He was holding a large sword in his right hand. Blood was dripping from the sword onto the snow, making little round holes in it. The man’s expression did not promise any good, ether – his face looked like that of an animal – twisted with rage, and unspoiled by any sign of intellect. He was grinning wildly staring blankly at the boy in front of him.
Alexander started to retreat slowly, never taking his eyes off the man’s face. But as he got a certain distance away, it was as if something suddenly clicked in the barbarian’s brain: he roared something, which Alexander could not quite understand, grabbed the boy by the hair and yanked him to his feet. Alexander brushed his hair with his hand quickly, with disgust – the man’s hand was bloodstained, and the boy suddenly felt sick at the thought that there was someone’s blood on his head. The warrior suddenly laughed, and Alexander almost thought that he saw the man wink at him. But he must have been mistaken, as the barbarian continued speaking in rather harsh voice, and now his mouth began twisting into that animal grin of his again. The warrior stopped speaking just as suddenly as he had begun and looked questioningly at Alexander. The boy hadn’t the least clue as to what was enquired of him, so he just shook his head wildly. At that, the barbarian grabbed him by his clothes, lifted off the ground, took the bucket in the other hand and started across the river.
I'd like feedback, though, more than anything, as it has been a while since I wrote anything creative last, and, while writing this, I thought I was getting rusty.----------------------------------------
Frost covered the land as far as the eye could see. The snow was touched only by a set of footprints going down towards the river. There, a boy was breaking the ice. A bucket stood beside him. With every swing of the shovel, the boy exhaled a large cloud of vapour and grinned – it was always fun to watch one’s breath. He also liked to break the ice. Although the shovel he used was ill fit for this task, the process nonetheless brought the boy great enjoyment. He was doing something important. No house could do without water at the town, and here, upriver from it, the water was best to collect, for it was still clean.
The boy’s name was Alexander. His father, a poor worker, whose parents were released from slavery, worked from dusk till dawn every day toiling for the government. The man built roads, helped with the construction in the town, dug mines – in a word, did everything he was instructed to do – and barely made enough money to feed his family. For the past month or so, he had been working on something new – planting a forest. The idea seemed ridiculous – there were plenty of trees around as it were, and it was quite a daunting task to even plant anything in this glacier, for the ground was frozen and hard to dig, not to speak of keeping a tree alive.
Alexander turned around to look at the large pines across the hill from him – the ones that had been here for a few hundred years at least – and smiled: he wondered when the trees his father was planting now would grow as tall. The boy turned back towards the river and resumed his work. With each hit of the shovel, larger and larger chunks of ice broke off, and, in some places, it was becoming really thin. At one such hit, an almost perfectly cubic piece broke off. The boy looked at it and smiled at the thought of telling his friends at the town how he was able to make perfectly shaped pieces of ice with such a crude instrument as a shovel. He took off his mitten, and took the cube. The boy brought it close to his face, and felt the cold against his cheek. He breathed at the ice and watched it change its shape under the hot air. It always fascinated Alexander to watch the ice melt. He never quite understood why this substance would suddenly turn to water at his touch or breath, but he always enjoyed melting ice, because it gave him a certain feeling of satisfaction. Power almost. To control nature. To change something solid into water.
When the cube finally melted, and Alexander’s right arm was wet from wrist to the elbow, he put in the mitten, took the shovel and resumed work. After a while, he finally made a hole large enough for the bucket to fit in and without looking, stretched his hand out to get it. Just as he grabbed the handle, something cold gripped his wrist. The boy turned around, but before he could tell what was going on, he felt a strong push in the chest, and fell on his back. He sat up and saw a large man, covered in an animal skin.
The skin did not look like it was even made for being worn – more like just ripped off of some animal in a hurry, and scraped clean of flesh. If did not have any shape, but was sitting oddly on the man’s shoulders. He was holding a large sword in his right hand. Blood was dripping from the sword onto the snow, making little round holes in it. The man’s expression did not promise any good, ether – his face looked like that of an animal – twisted with rage, and unspoiled by any sign of intellect. He was grinning wildly staring blankly at the boy in front of him.
Alexander started to retreat slowly, never taking his eyes off the man’s face. But as he got a certain distance away, it was as if something suddenly clicked in the barbarian’s brain: he roared something, which Alexander could not quite understand, grabbed the boy by the hair and yanked him to his feet. Alexander brushed his hair with his hand quickly, with disgust – the man’s hand was bloodstained, and the boy suddenly felt sick at the thought that there was someone’s blood on his head. The warrior suddenly laughed, and Alexander almost thought that he saw the man wink at him. But he must have been mistaken, as the barbarian continued speaking in rather harsh voice, and now his mouth began twisting into that animal grin of his again. The warrior stopped speaking just as suddenly as he had begun and looked questioningly at Alexander. The boy hadn’t the least clue as to what was enquired of him, so he just shook his head wildly. At that, the barbarian grabbed him by his clothes, lifted off the ground, took the bucket in the other hand and started across the river.
I just love to slap Persia around myself 
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