The fire within

Ryoul stood in the midst of the barren room, wearing the uniform which he had been instructed, which was little more than a loose fitting pair of cloth pants. Though the stone walls and floor were cold, feeling like ice to the touch, the air was blistering hot, and Ryoul was sweating heavily. Though he wasn't wearing anything on his upper body, he felt as though he were wrapped in heavy chains, weighing him down, keeping him from moving. His breath was heavy, and the air felt as though it sat in his lungs, unable to escape. 

"Put your back into it, scum!"

From the entryway, Ryoul's master, Spyre, watched as Ryoul stood still in the center of the room. Spyre stood fully clothed, arms crossed, seemingly unaffected by the strange properties of the room. He leaned down and lifted a large rock from the ground, turning it effortlessly in his hands, examining it. Without warning, he launched the rock through the air, directly towards his pupil. Ryoul took the blow, the rock impacting his gut, forcing the air out of him. But he did not fall. 

"You think you can get by just standing there, scum?" Spyre called out. "You think just because you can withstand, because you can endure, that younwill succeed?" Ryoul did not answer. He could not. "You are wrong! You must fight, boy! You must give more than you are capable if you wish to be worthy of my lessons! If you are anything less, do not expect to escape with your life."

Ryoul stared at his master, but said nothing in return. He knew what the consequences of his actions were. He could feel the heat of the room. It seeped into his blood, and into his lungs. His heart beat fast and hard, pounding against his chest, ready to burst through his skin at any moment. But he would not let himself die. He would not fail.

Spyre once again lifted a rock from the ground, his eyes without emotion. "I won't mind," he said flatly. "Frankly I don't expect you to succeed. I never did. You will die soon, scum. And I will go back to my life without regrets."

Again the rock flew through the air. Ryoul watched it soar, clearly aimed at his head. If he didn't move, he knew he would not be able to withstand the blow. But he couldn't. His skin was too heavy, his lungs too hot, his muscles too sore. He could barely stand.

But he couldn't die. He couldn't let himself. A roar bubbled up in his throat, burning it from the inside out. His hands felt as though they were melting, his skin felt as though it would simply fall away. The scream tore his lips apart, and fire leaped from deep within him, engulfing the rock in an instant. 

For a while, the student and madter stood in silence, watching each other. 

"Well then," Spyre mused. "Perhaps you have a little fire in your belly after all."

The blade

Ryan pounded at the heated blade he had placed on his anvil. He had been working on the piece for a few weeks now, honing the steel into the long shape of a sword, folding the metal repeatedly and re-melting it to increase the strength. It would be complete soon, and ready to be handed over to the man who had ordered it to be custom made. Normally Ryan wasn't one to take custom orders, but the man had offered a large payment, which Ryan really couldn't refuse.

His hammer fell in rhythm, the loud clang of steel on steel ringing out with each strike. Every blow was carefully aimed, placed so as to give the blade it's distinct shape, and to have the strength to withstand a thousand blows. It was no secret that this blade was made not only to fight, but to kill. However, Ryan would not be deterred from his work over such a tiny detail. He did not live in an age in which killing was something to be afraid of. Perhaps when he had been a child, but no longer. If anything were to come from the future, some men would have to forfeit their lives, first.

As the heat of the metal began to fade, and the steel would no longer be shaped by his hammer, Ryan lifted the sword from his forge and examined it closely. It would not do to have imperfections that would weaken this blade. The center had been designed to draw blood, and anything that prevented such an act would be highly detrimental. But his work was true, and the blade was finally prepared for the sharpening stone.

He made his way to the wheel and sat down to his work. He knew he had only a few hours before his client would arrive, awaiting his weapon, and sharpening was not a process to be rushed. He began to pump the pedal on the ground, which started the gears which set the wheel to motion. His foot pulsed slowly and steadily as the wheel gained speed until it reached the pace it needed to be. Only then did Ryan put on his leather gloves and put the steel to the stone.

Sparks flew as the very edge of the sword began to sharpen and hone. Ryan was careful to methodically sharpen the blade all the way around, first one face, and then the other. It needed to be sharp, but too thin as to create weakness. It was a delicate process, but one that he had practiced many times, and that he felt he had mastered.

As the hours dragged on, the blade slowly came to its desired sharpness. Just as he was lifting the blade from the stone to give it one last run down, he heard the door to his shop opening. He looked up to see the man from before walking inside, dressed in dark clothing, a sheath already attached to his belt and awaiting the blade.

"Is it ready?" the man called out.

"One moment, "Ryan replied, "I'm just finishing up with the sharpening."

He heard nothing in reply, and looked back at the weapon he had created. There was no question in his mind that this would be lethal. Men would fall to it, and it would stain red with blood. The sharpness was just where he wanted it, and the design was without flaw.

He was proud of what he had made.

He came out to the front, where the man was waiting, a bag of gold already placed on the counter. Without a word, Ryan handed over the sword. The man took it, looked it over and, satisfied, slipped it effortlessly into his sheath, leaving in silence. Ryan watched the man leave and then picked up the bag, feeling its weight, and pulling a couple coins to examine them.

He would live well for quite some time off of this.

Papers

Jason sighed and stretched, leaning back in his chair after a hard day's work. He had spent the last several hours finishing an assignment for class, and had turned it on online with an hour to spare, much better than he usually did. He had stressed himself out while writing the paper, and while the time left over was small, it was oddly relaxing to have finished easily on time for once. He supposed this was how one was supposed to feel after turning in an assignment. He would need to remember that for next time. Perhaps if he could remember this feeling, he could make himself work harder.

He looked around his room, unsure of what to do. He often distracted himself from working by playing games, or reading, watching videos online, anything really that wasn't what he was actually supposed to be doing. But as he sat at his desk, now with an hour free, he found that he didn't much want to do any of them. It was a strange feeling. He so often was willing to do anything other than work, but now that he actually had time to, they didn't seem nearly as appealing.

Jason briefly wondered to himself why that was, but decided to set it aside. There was really no point in wasting the hour thinking about what he would do with it. He would much rather just pick one of his options and sit down to it. His hand passed over the keyboard of his computer, a stack of games, and some books he had been working on as he pondered which to set himself into.

But none of them reached out to him. He simply wasn't interested enough in them at the moment to get to work on them. He wanted to do something different, he realized. Something he didn't do very often. Something he often thought about when he couldn't do it, but rarely did when he actually had what he needed in front of him to do it.

Jason grabbed his laptop and pulled it towards him, immediately going around to the various windows he had open and closing them all. He didn't need to watch any videos, or play any games, or mindlessly surf. For once, he knew exactly what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it.

A word document opened up on his computer. It had only been a few minutes since the last one had closed, the one that had held the assignment he had been working on. He hadn't anticipated using the program again anytime soon, but now it was calling to him. This document was blank, however. He didn't have anything previously set to work on. This one would have to be from scratch.

He thought for a minute about what to write. Something creative. Something different. Something that wouldn't be graded or judged on its content. Soon, something came to him, slowly at first, but quickly growing. He smiled to himself and let his fingers gently fall on the keyboard as it came to him. All he needed to start was a name. Letters ran through his mind until he latched on to one, and then the letter stretched out to become a suitable name. When it arrived, his fingers flowed easily.

"Aaron sighed and stretched, leaning back in his chair after a hard day's work."

The promised day

Jared passed back and forth nervously as he waited for his girlfriend, Sarah, to come home. They had been living together for two years, and dating for six years before that. Friends and family had pestered them for ages about when they were going to get married, and they had always agreed that they wouldn't until they were financially better off. But Jared had recently gotten a pay raise at work, and had gotten his first big paycheck that afternoon. With the extra money, he had gone out and bought a ring. For the past month, he had said nothing to Sarah about the raise, and had spent his time planning out how he wanted to finally propose.

Jared repeatedly went to the window, checking to see if Sarah had arrived yet. He knew her schedule, and knew that she would have left work nearly half an hour prior, but traffic was unpredictable. He knew it was getting to be within the range of times that she could be arriving, and the longer it took her to arrive, the more frequently he checked if she was there yet.

He had prepared dinner for her already. He wasn't normally home before she was, but he had requested the day off, and having explained his reasons to his boss, the higher ups had gladly accommodated him. So Jared had used the day preparing. Dinner was a nice beef lasagna that he knew Sarah loved. Accompanying it was home made strawberry lemonade. The entire house had been cleaned, the laundry was done, the dishes had been put through the wash. He wanted her to come home and feel relaxed and welcomed.

As he paced, he suddenly heard the sound of a car pulling in to the driveway, and he looked out quickly, seeing Sarah's car pulling in. He rushed to the door and watched through the peep hole. As Sarah came to the door, fumbling for her keys, Jared pulled the door open for him, a smile on his face.

"Oh!" Sarah exclaimed involuntarily. "Jared! What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Sarah," Jared replied, "I have some good news for you."

Sarah grinned, wonder clearly in her eyes, and walked past her boyfriend into the house. "Mmm," she hummed as Jared closed the door behind her. "It smells good in here. What have you been up to?"

"I've been up to a lot of things. Go and put your things away and join me for dinner, would you?"

"God, you have dinner ready? You're the best. I'm starving."

Jared smiled and watched as Sarah went to their room and set down her bags, taking her coat off and letting her hair loose. She came back and saw him watching her, and grinned coyly at him. "Enjoying yourself?" she asked, giving him a quick kiss on the lips.

"Not nearly as much as I'm going to."

"Is that a promise?"

Jared just smiled at that. Sarah walked past him into the dining room and gave an exaggerated, but happy sigh. Then she turned quickly, ready to accuse Jared playfully of doing something wrong and trying to cover up for it.

But Jared was already on his knee, one hand in his pocket. Sarah gasped, tears forming at the edges of her eyes. "No..." she whispered into her hand.

Jared smiled up at her, knowing what she meant. "Yes," he replied. He lifted the small box out of his pocket and opened it, revealing to Sarah the ring. "Sarah, will you marry me?"

Sarah squealed as she threw herself down into his arms. "Of course I will!" she cried into his shoulder. Jared wrapped his arms tight around her and held her to his body. "Oh my god, of course I will. But you..."

"I got a promotion," he explained. "And this was the first thing I did with it."

Sarah half cried and half laughed. "But you..." She pulled back and playfully hit her fiance in the shoulder. "You jerk! You have so much explaining to do!"

Jared laughed. "I know. Over dinner. I promise."

Disconnect

I have a friend whose mom was utterly shocked when I told her that I have a great interest in writing romance stories. To her, this made absolutely no sense. In real life, I'm a guy who spends a large amount of time playing rpg/adventure video games, doing martial arts, backpacking, stuff like that. I have a dark sense of humor, and I'm generally not a nice person. The fact that I wrote romance stories, or at least stories with a heavy romance overtone, was simply unbelievable. It didn't fit my person at all.

I think most people can agree that there is a kind of disconnect between the person they are in public, and the person they are in private. Even with close friends, the person you are when you're alone doesn't always fully come out. Best friends and significant others probably know about that person, just because they spend so much time around you, but very few others do.

For writers, it can be hard to remove that private person from your writing. After all, it's not very often that writing is public event. The end product may be shared publicly, but the process is so incredibly personal because it comes from deep within you. So putting a story out there is effectively the same as putting your private person out there. People may not realize that when they're reading it, but the author is often acutely aware of this fact, and that's part of the reason so many people are afraid to make their writing public. They don't want to be judged for the person they are when they're alone. There's a reason they have a public persona, after all.

This isn't to say, of course, that what a writer writes and who they actually are can't be disconnected. I've talked before about how we shouldn't judge a person too heavily on what it is they write, because they may be pulling from other inspirations, like friends, family, or other characters they have seen. But it is certainly difficult to fully remove one's self from a story. In some way, in everything you write, you are putting a piece of yourself down in ink.

That kind of thinking can be scary. To think that you are putting yourself on the line. That someone might read what you write and make a decision about what kind of person you are because of it. We've all seen that happen to our idols. Fans think they're something they're not because of what they have or haven't done. Whether we want to admit it or not, we've probably done it ourselves. I certainly know I have.

But at the same time, we have a potential in our work. That piece of ourselves that we put down can do so many things. It can reach out and touch a person. Make them see, or feel, or remember. Whatever you do, in whatever field, you have that ability. To affect a person. And maybe, just maybe, you'll affect two. Or three. Or a hundred. Or a thousand. Maybe you will touch the entire world.

So it can be tempting to disconnect yourself from what you do. Say, "it was just a spur of the moment" or "I don't know where that came from." But you know it's not true. Deep down, you know it came from you, that it is you, in some small way, and that it can never not be you. And while it is scary, you shouldn't be afraid of it. Because it has a power within it, that exists because you put it there.

One day, the things you create may light up a person's world.

And do you really want to disconnect yourself from that light?

Choosing what to write

One of the hardest things for me, and I would imagine many other authors, is choosing what it is I want to write. It's part of the reason I have a tendency to write these blog posts at night before I go to bed. It's not that I don't want to write, or that I don't have time. It's just that when I sit down to write, I find myself staring at a blank document, unsure of where to start. You'd think it would be simple, but unless you sit down to do it yourself, you'll never truly understand the frustration of trying to decide what to write.

For my entire life, I have always told people that I want to write medieval fantasy. And that's true. Medieval fantasy stories are the ones that most easily draw me in, they're what I'm most familiar with, and they're what I think about the most. They're the reason I became interested in both reading and writing, and in fact, the middle ages were the first thing in my life that I showed true interest in, and even to today, they are my favorite thing to learn about. But truth be told, I still don't know all that much about the medieval period, and I find enjoyment in writing all genres. Well, at least all fictional genres.

I sometimes find that medieval fantasy is the hardest genre for me to write, and I can't fully explain why. I know a lot of the material that I need to know to write a fictional story in the genre. I know lots about different medieval weapons, how they are used, and I have general ideas of different occupations, building styles, and the like. Not a lot of specifics, but you can get away without specifics a lot of the time. And yet, when I write them, the story gets out of hand for me. It spirals out of my control. I'm not one to try and control my stories, as I want them to be as organic as possible, but I do have my limitations.

I think my biggest problem is the list of characters. It's not that I don't have an interest in them. I love archers, knights, blacksmiths, kings and queens, all of them. But that's kind of the problem. I'm the kind of person who can't keep track of a lot of people in my mind at once. I get things muddled and confused. And for some reason, by nature, medieval fantasy stories have an extensive list of characters. Even knowing that this is a problem for me, it becomes difficult to try and slim down the list. Somehow, it's just unavoidable.

So, despite my love for the genre, I find myself oft writing pieces in different areas. Admittedly, however, it's difficult for me to shake the fantasy aspect. Fantasy works for me. You don't need extensive explanations for things. Why does something happen? Because magic. It just works. And you can still place limits on things. Logical limits, depending on the source and power of the magic. Magic is fascinating because it can be anything you want it to be. Without getting too into it, I don't feel like science fiction gives that same kind of freedom. You can still have freedom, but it requires more explanation, more intricate knowledge of what you're trying to do. There's nothing wrong with that, it's just not my thing.

One of my favorite pieces, and one of my few completed stories, is a fairly generic western. I'm not going to pretend that it was some breakthrough in story telling, or that I somehow made it particularly unique. It wasn't. But I was able to focus on the characters, try and develop them, make them have an interesting backstory and growth, at least in my eyes. I've tried to do that in medieval fantasy, and my story just drags on and never gets finished.

I suppose the answer to this is to try more things. Keep coming around and back, do things over and over until I can make them work. I need to practice more. And that's what I'm here to do. That's why I'm writing this blog everyday.

But damn. If it ain't hard finding what to practice each day.

The missed day

I missed my first day yesterday. Honestly, I have some reasonable excuses. Sickness, scheduling stuff, yada yada. But it's all kind of irrelevant. I missed a day. I messed up. And I feel bad about it.

The important thing from here is to not let myself do it again. I can't let myself get discouraged by missing one day, and let myself miss another day, and then another, and then another. I've done it before. I've done it so many times. And I just can't let myself do it. I've fallen behind on things, and become discouraged, and never picked them back up again. Things that I throughly enjoyed, and to this day wish that I still did.

It's not that everything I've stopped doing I regret stopping. There are things that I know I just shouldn't be doing. And getting discouraged and stopping something isn't necessarily a bad thing, given that it prompts you to go out and do something new and different and better. But that's not what I'm talking about here.

I love writing. That should probably be fairly obvious at this point. Making this blog and trying to upkeep it is frankly one of the best decisions I have ever made. God damn is it hard, and some days I hate trying to think of new things to write. But that's the challenge. It's the challenge that I need to face, have needed to face, and will continue to face for the rest of my life, because I will never be able to stop writing. It is too far engrained into my person. And forcing myself to finally face this challenge, getting myself to write like I've wanted to for so long. It feels so good.

Missing that day hurt. It hurt really bad. But I can't let it stop me. I have to keep going. I don't know how I'm going to keep it going. I don't know how to make myself do it everyday. They say if you do something every day for thirty days, you make a habit. Clearly that hasn't happened for me yet, and I had hit over 60 days. So I guess I have to go further and longer. But god dammit, I'm going to try. I have to try.

If there's anyone out there reading this, and especially if you find yourself in a similar situation, work with me. I know I've said a lot of this stuff before, but it's important. We all need to find that thing that we're passionate about, that we love, that we can do for the rest of our lives without stopping or regretting. You may not know what that thing is right now, but don't think that you'll never find it. It's never too late for you to find your passion.

I've been lucky a lot in my life. I've known where my passions lay for nearly my entire life. I've survived a lot of shit that I probably shouldn't have. But I can't run on luck forever, and frankly, I'm tired of being lucky. It's made me complacent. It's made me weak. And all of this writing is helping me see that. See more clearly my weaknesses, and making me want to fix them.

I don't know how, but if you are anything like me, then join me. Challenge yourself. Find what you love, and make yourself do it, every single day. If you want to, put it out there for people to see. It's scary. You may not get noticed. God knows I almost never get any views on this blog. But it doesn't matter. If you love what you are doing, and if there is even just one person out there who enjoys your work, and keeps coming back to see it, then what you are doing is worth it.

I have to keep going. We all do. And so while I won't simply forget the day that I missed, I won't let it stop me. Someday, somewhere down the line, I will hit a full year of writing every single day. And then two years. And I'll keep going until the day that I die. Because that's what I need to do.

Dreams

"What's up with him?" Rachel asked. She pointed to her friend's brother, Andrew, who was laying asleep on the floor. His face was crunched up, eyes shut so tight it looked painful. Small groans escaped his lips, and his body was was curled into a ball, twitching occasionally. He looked like a pained dog having a nightmare. "He looks like... like he's dying or something."

Angela looked down at her brother and sighed. "He gets like that sometimes," she said. "His dreams... He says they get strange. Realer than real, he says. I can make him stop, but he gets mad at me when I do, and... Well, I don't particularly like doing it either."

Rachel blinked, looking at the sleeping boy. "How can something be realer than real?" she asked. "Doesn't that kind of... defeat the purpose of reality?"

"Yeah, I don't really get what he's talking about. But he stands by it firmly."

"He looks like he must be terrified."

Angela shrugged her shoulders. "He says sometimes he is. But sometimes it's better than the real world. Hard to believe, though. He never looks any different lying there."

Rachel hummed to herself, thinking. "So what do you have to do to wake him up?"

Angela sighed. "Please, let's not go there."

"Oh come on. You're only making me more curious."

Angela groaned and rubbed her face, but thought about it. "Fine," she grunted. "But you asked for it." She walked over to her brother and sat down at his head. "We're... It's complicated.  Our family isn't exactly normal, you know?"

Rachel nodded. "I know. I've seen the way you lose it."

Angela nodded again. "Well, we can all sort of interact with those things." Angela put her hands on her brother's head, steadying it from shaking, which made the rest of his body stop as well. "It all comes from his head. So you have to start there. Keep him calm. Make him find a center."

"Find a center?"

"Look, just... you asked. I can't explain it any better than that. That's what you have to do. Then I kind of have to reach in..."

A bright flash of light came from Andrew's body, and as Rachel got her vision back, she could see that bright images were leaping out of his wide open, empty eyes. Angela sat at his head, her eyes wide, seemingly staring into the distance. Rachel tried to focus on the images coming out of Andrew's eyes, but they moved too fast, too erratically. They seemed to evolve and change faster than she could blink. And yet, as she watched them, she felt that they were trying to tell some kind of story.

But before she could understand what that story was, it all stopped, just as abruptly as it had happened. Angela stood up and dusted herself off, though no dust had accumulated on her. Her eyes took a moment to refocus. "He'll be up in ten minutes," she explained. "I don't want to be here and get yelled at. Can we go?"

Rachel looked at her, trying to take in everything that had just happened. "Yeah..." she said slowly. "Yeah, ok. But you have to tell me more about this crap."

Angela sighed. "Alright."

The road most traveled

The doors of the bar swung open quietly as a weary adventurer stepped through. He made his way to the bar tender, ordered his drink, and slumped down into a chair.

"You look tired there, bub," said the tender. "Like perhaps you have a story to tell. Something you need to get off your bones?"

The man said nothing, waiting for his drink. The bar tender didn't think anything of it. He knew the man wasn't ignoring him. Just tired, and needing of fuel. He'd seen many another adventurer like this come through his bar. Some were bursting with energy, needing their story to be told. Others, like this man before him now, were tired, at the end of a long road, and though they may not always know it, they needed to tell their stories too.

Only a minute passed before the glass reached this man's lips, and he drank heartily. He chugged away at the liquid held within, wetting his dry throat, until the glass had been fully emptied. Then he set it aside and rubbed his eyes and looked around the bar, as if seeing it for the first time. "It's been a long journey," he mumbled, half to himself.

"Tell me about it," said the tender, taking his glass and beginning to clean it. "It's always good to tell a story. It's like setting down a heavy pack. It will make you feel lighter."

The man looked up at the tender, eyes scrunched together, as if not only trying to see him, but through him. It lasted only a moment, however. As it usually did. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I suppose you're right. But... Where to begin."

The tender smiled gently at the man. "I find it's generally helpful to start at the beginning," he advised.

And so the man began to speak, telling his story. He had been through dark forests and over high hills. Crossed powerful rivers, and entered dangerous towns. He had seen many a thing that he had never dreamed he would see, and many a thing he never wished to see again.

To tell the truth, it was a tale the tender was most familiar with.

But he let the man speak regardless. He needed to get it off of his chest, and the tender was perfectly willing to let him do that. It was part of his job. To serve, and to listen, and to advise. That's what his master had taught him. And someday, that was what he would teach his pupil.

As the man's story came to a close, he realized that the tender had placed another drink before him. He lifted it up, and drank once more, this time more easily and less heavy. He did not need to wet his throat. He simply wanted to drink. He was beginning to realize that his journey was over, and that he could now rest.

"You want my advice, son?" the tender asked him. The man looked up at him, and said nothing, but his eyes said enough. "Kick back. Enjoy the end of the road. You did a lot of work to get here. Don't look back on what you've done too fondly. It was a good thing, but you don't want to go back and do it all again. Take it from someone who's been there. It will always look better in retrospect than it did along the way."

The man nodded, pondering the tender's words. "I'll try to remember that," he voiced. "Thanks for the tip."

"Any time, old friend. Any time."

Among the stars

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to live among the stars? I used to. Then I grew up, and I learned things about space, and I didn't have to wonder anymore. I learned a lot of really important things that you have to remember when it comes to living among the stars.

First of all, among the stars is a really general, unhelpfully vague term. There is really no "among the stars." Space is a vast emptiness, with the stars being unbelievably far apart, so at no point are you truly among them as we might think of being among something on Earth. To think of it on a scale that would apply to stars in space, you'd realize that on Earth you are already among the stars.

Secondly, space is not very conducive to allowing people to live. It's cold beyond belief, meaning that without specially designed, rather uncomfortable clothing, you would near instantly freeze to death. Not only that, but there is no air to breath, and so you have to carry all of your own oxygen with you, meaning that you can only be out there for a limited time. And beyond even that, there is no food or drink that we can sustain ourselves off of, meaning that you have to bring your own, limiting your time there even further.

Past those things, you'd have to find a suitable place to settle down. You can't really live as we think of it if you are simply drifting aimlessly in space. Therefore, you have to find some kind of planet or asteroid to call home. But no planet is anything like our Earth. At least none that we can reasonably find. So it's kind of akin to buying a fixer upper home. Sure, you can do it. But chances are you wouldn't really want to.

Unfortunately for me, I learned all of these things a little too late. So I'm writing this, floating around in space, running short on air, and food, and water. I thought I could live among the stars. But it didn't really work out in my favor. I'm probably not gonna make it much longer, seeing as I don't have any way of getting back to Earth. I don't even particularly know why I'm writing this. Chances are no one will ever see it. But I figure perhaps someone else will attempt my mistake, and perhaps by some crazy chance they will find this before they do, and save themselves the heartache.

But hey. At least I can say, to some extent, I lived the last of my days the way I had always wanted to. Among the stars.

Angels and Kitsune

Erasmus hit the ground hard, and felt several bones in his back shattering as he screamed in agony. He lay on the ground for a good long while, unable to move, and in too much pain to think. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that he had to get up, to get out of wherever he was, and to find help. He felt his fingers curl around something in his hand, something thin and heavy, and he pulled it close to his body. He hadn't even realized that his eyes were closed, but as he opened them and the world slowly came in to focus, he could see that he was holding some sort of weapon on a pole. He wasn't sure where it came from, or why it felt familiar under his fingers, but he knew almost instinctively that he could use it to get up and move.

Using all the strength he could muster, he lifted the polearm up and stuck the butt of it into the ground, pushing himself up and onto his feet. Although the pain in his back was searing, he found that it didn't paralyze him. The rest of him was sore, but he could move at the very least.

Using the polearm as a cane, Erasmus made his way through the unfamiliar forest that he found himself in. As he walked, he tried to remember what had happened, but he found that he couldn't. He had no memories of anything that had occurred before he hit the ground. The only thing that he could surface from his mind was his name. He could remember no history, no family or friends. So not only did he need to find someone to help him with the pain in his back, but he had to find someone who could help him with his memory. He had a strange feeling that that would be harder.

After a while, he heard a faint cry for help in the distance. Something inside of him stirred, and without thinking he turned to make his way towards the sound. Something in his mind told him that he needed to help. He didn't know why, and he didn't know how he would help, but he knew that he had to.

Eventually he came to a clearing, in which he found a young girl with fox ears and a tail. She was suspended in the air, a rope tied around her ankle and hanging her from a tree. She squealed as he approached, trying to push her skirt up unsuccessfully.

"Are you the one who called for help?" Erasmus asked. His voice was higher than he had suspected, and it sounded very weak. But that part may have been because of the pain.

"Y-yes," the girl responded. "I-I got caught up here... Do you think you can get me down?" Erasmus could see the girl eyeing his polearm, but he didn't know why.

"I can try," he responded, "but I'm not really sure how."

The girl looked at him and blinked, clearly confused. "J-Just... Just cut the rope holding me up here."

Erasmus looked up at his polearm and noticed how sharp the blade on the end of it appeared. That must have been why she was eyeing it. He smiled and lifted it up, swinging it surprisingly easily and cutting through the rope effortlessly. The girl fell to the ground, but caught herself, rolling forward and popping up on to her feet in front of Erasmus.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed happily. She seemed to be much more comfortable now that she was on the ground again. "My name is Kyra. What's yours?"

"Erasmus, I think."

"You think?"

"I don't really remember much."

"Aw, you poor thing. Well, we'll get you all fixed-"

As Kyra spoke, she swung her arm around Erasmus to slap him friendlily on the back, and the moment she made contact Erasmus cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground.

"Oh my god!" Kyra shouted. "I'm so sorry! I didn't know your wing was hurt!"

Erasmus looked shakily up at Kyra. "W-wing?" he asked. "What wing?"

Taking the next step

Jacob closed the door behind him, doing his best to remain silent. He tried not to speak much when he was away from home. Lately, though, those periods of time had begun to stretch out longer and longer, and it was getting to the point where he often couldn't remember the sound of his own voice.

He sat down on his bed and unloaded his backpack, rolling his shoulder to relieve the tension that had begun to build up in it. He wasn't sure why he was so tense lately, but it was beginning to be a problem. His shoulder was in pain, and it was difficult to move it, meaning that he couldn't very well lift his hand above his head. His other arm was fine, but it was still problematic.

Jacob closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, audibly sighing. He wondered to himself why he had so much trouble dealing with where he was in his life. The people around him would kill to have the opportunities that came easily to him, but he was uninterested. He found no joy in the life that so many others dreamed of. He found, instead, little more than pain, emotionally and mentally.

Just then, a knock came on his door. Jacob stood up, confused. No one ever knocked on his door. Slowly he went to it, and pushed it open. On the other side stood Kate, a childhood friend of his, whom he had liked for years but never had the courage to tell.

"Hi, Jacob," Kate said awkwardly. "Look, I just... I was in the neighborhood, and... Well that's not really true, I was..."

Jacob stood aside and pushed the door wider open, silently inviting her into his room. She smiled somewhat nervously at him and stepped inside, and Jacob closed the door behind her. "Can I help you?" he asked quietly.

"Well, I..." began Kate. As Jacob looked at her, he could see the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks, and wondered why that was. "Truth be told, I saw you walking up here," Kate finally blurted out. "I was kind of... I wasn't following you, at least not at first, I just kind of spotted you from a ways away by happenstance, but then you looked so unhappy, so I just, I had to, and I ended up here, and..." Kate drifted off, unsure of what to say next.

"I'm fine," Jacob lied. He was used to doing it. "I'm just kind of tired, I guess. Rough night, you know? It happens."

"Oh... Well, I was wondering..." Kate drifted off again, this time her head moving away, as if she didn't want to look him in the face.

"Wondering what?"

"...If I could help."

Jacob blinked, surprised. "You want to help me?"

"Of course I do, Jacob!" Kate exclaimed. "I'm your friend. I want to be here for you. You don't seem happy, and I hate that, and I want to be able to make you smile, and..." Kate stopped abruptly, realizing that she was saying more than she wanted to.

Jacob looked at her, contemplating. "...You're right," he said after a while. "I haven't been happy. I don't know that you can really help, though."

"Please, Jacob. Let me try."

"I don't really know that I want to talk about it."

"You don't have to."

Jacob looked at Kate, surprised. "If I don't tell you, though, how are you going to help?"

Kate moved forward, abruptly wrapping her arms around Jacob and pulling his body to hers. "Let me hold you, Jacob," she whispered. "Let me give you comfort."

Jacob's arms slowly slinked up and around Kate's waist. "Alright," he whispered back. "I can do that."

To the beach

"Come on, Betty, it's only a little bit further until we get to the beach!"

Betty looked up to her brother, Josh, and nodded her head before looking back down at her feet. The log in front of her was fairly wide, and it had looked stable enough when Josh crossed it, but it still made her nervous. Her balance was certainly not the best, and she was more conscious about that fact then she tended to let on. She was deathly afraid of heights, partially because of just how bad her balance was, and even though the creek that this log served as a bridge for was only a few feet below, seeing that gap in the air between the two made her uneasy.

"Come on, Betty, don't look at your feet. You know that only makes it worse. Look up at me, come towards me."

Betty slowly lifted her head and looked at her brother, his arms outstretched towards her. She tried her best to focus on him, but her eyes kept flitting back towards the log. Slowly, gingerly, she placed her left foot out on to the log. It didn't move underneath her, and she let out a sigh of relief. But that was only the beginning. She lifted her right foot and moved it forward, shaking ever so slightly as she moved fully on to the log. It held easily, not making so much as a creak. Slowly she began to cross.

Josh smiled at her and called out encouragingly. "See?" he said. "It's not so bad, is it? You just gotta have faith in yourself, sis. You can do this."

Betty looked up at Josh again, her eyes having glanced down at her feet again as she walked, and smiled. Just then, however, her foot slipped on a damp part of the log, and she felt her balance faltering. A gasp escaped her lips, and she closed her eyes, as she felt herself careening towards the side, where there was nothing but air.

But the falling sensation lasted only for a moment. In the distance, behind the sound of her beating heart and the air rushing around her, came the sound of hard footsteps. She left a hand grip her arm roughly, and her momentum came to an abrupt stop. She breathed hard, her eyes held firmly shut, unwilling to open them. She didn't want to see that this feeling was wrong. She didn't want to se that she was still falling.

"It's ok," came her brother's voice. "It's ok, Betty. Deep breaths. Josh's got you. I'm not gonna let you get hurt."

Slowly she opened her eyes, and saw her brother Josh up on the log with her, hand wrapped tight around her arm, body leaned over the log in the opposite direction, counter balancing her fall to keep her on the log. Her one foot had slipped off, and was dangling in the air, but the other had caught on a branch of the log and was firmly in place. After a moment his words broke through to her, and she took a long, deep breath.

"Thatta girl," Josh called out softly. "You trust me, don't you?" Betty nodded silently. "Good. Grab on to my arm." Josh reached out his other hand, and his sister did as she was commanded. "On three, I want you to pull, and we're both going to stand up right. One... Two... Three!"

Betty pulled like her life depended on it, and she found herself colliding into her brother as they both came upright. As she hit him, his arm wrapped quickly around her waist, letting go of the arm he had been holding on to.

"That's it, sis, deep breaths. Everything's alright now." Carefully, Josh walked backwards, leading Betty off of the log and on to the far side where they had been headed. "Look, sis. You made it. No more bridges to cross. It's just past a few trees, and we'll be at the beach."

Betty looked up at her brother, and gave him a small smile. "Yeah," she said. "Let's go to the beach."

That special day

"What do you mean you don't have any plans for Valentine's Day?"

Robert sighed. His dad did this every year, ever since he had first gotten a girlfriend. Robert simply didn't understand why this had to be an issue, and furthermore why he had to explain himself year after year.

"Look, Dad," he said tiredly. "We go over this every year. I don't treat Valentine's Day as anything special because I don't believe that I should need an excuse to plan something special to do with my wife. I would rather our special dates be spontaneous rather than scheduled."

His father sighed, clearly just as tired of hearing it as Robert was of saying it. "But that's not the point, son," he retorted. "Just because something is planned doesn't mean it's any less special. It's not about trying to plan out love. It's about knowing that there is something to look forward to doing together."

"I look forward to every moment we have together," Robert replied. "I don't need flowers and chocolates to make me look forward to being with the person I love. And as hard as it may be for you to believe, she doesn't need that either. If she was the kind of person who relied on these sorts of things, it's highly unlikely that I would have dated her in the first place, much less married her."

"But year after year and you never plan anything..."

"You're right, dad. I don't. And year after year, come Valentine's Day, we enjoy ourselves, because we don't plan anything. We just be together. We relax. We don't worry about going out and doing something alongside the thousands of other couples who feel compelled to go out and do something. We stay inside, and we have special little moments together, just the two of us, untampered with by the presence of other people."

Robert's dad smiled at that. "So you're saying your plan is to stay in together and just enjoy each other's company?" he asked.

Robert sighed. "Yes, dad," he replied, "that's exactly what our plan is. That's what our plan is every year. That is what are plan always has been, and probably what it always will be. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"

His dad shook his head. "I think you're the one misunderstanding here, son," he said calmly. "You do have a plan for Valentine's Day. And a very good one at that. And if you had just told me that that's what your plan was to begin with, we wouldn't have needed to have this argument."

Robert opened his mouth to reply, but then paused, thinking over his father's words. He was right. They did have a Valentine's Day plan. It just wasn't the grandiose thing that he was so used to hearing about. But it was a plan. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Our plan is to just stay in and enjoy each other's company."

"Sounds like a wonderful plan to me."

Time

Time constraints are simultaneously one of the best and worst things that we can have placed upon us. On the one hand, having a time limit in which to do something forces us to think on our feet, to move quickly, and to adapt to what is happening in order to push out the work that we need to complete. On the other hand, having a limited amount of time means that we can't spend as much time as we otherwise would on editing and fine tuning. This means that the over all end product is of a lower quality that that of something that we could have otherwise had more time working on. However, a focus on perfection means that the work process to get there never ends, as there is always something to improve upon.

This is the struggle that we all face. While a time limit can be painful, it can also be necessary. We may not have the time required to work as well as we would like to, but with infinite time we would not get infinite work done. Instead, we would put infinite effort into a single piece of work that would never actually get done.

This sucks. There's no two ways around this. It just straight up sucks. But that's just how it has to be. God knows how much I hate working under a time limit. But I also know that I am a huge procrastinator. I will put off work until the last possible minute. And if there is no last minute, then I will continue to put it off forever, never starting and never finishing anything of value.

That's why sometimes we have to set our own time limits. We have to sit ourselves down, look ourselves straight in the eye, and tell ourselves that we are going to get this done by this time or so help me I will fire me. And it is hard to keep with that. We can convince ourselves that more time is required, that the time limit needs to be pushed back for various reasons. But short of a real life emergency, we simply can't afford to let ourselves get away with that. We have to set our limits and stick to them. Otherwise all will be for naught.

Looking at time, evaluating it, and utilizing it well is quite possibly one of the hardest things that we can ever do. We look at time so differently in so many situations. Some days it appears to fly by, and yet other days it slows to a crawl slower than a snail. But we must learn to understand it, adapt to it, and make it a tool that is ours to command.

Lord knows that this is something I struggle with. This isn't the first time I've made my writing close to the wire, and it certainly won't be the last time I do it either. But I am trying to learn. It's one of the many, many challenges that I face in making this blog. But I know I have to, and I am trying.

If you find that you have trouble understanding the importance of time, I invite you to take a similar challenge, and make yourself do something of a particular value to your life every day. Something that you want to do, but as yet have not made a daily habit. Try and find time in your every day life to do it. Do your best to never fail and miss a day. It will be harder than you think it will be. It will suck. But it will help.

Schools

Master: Welcome to the world of Meerana! What is your name?

Player: Asheera.

Master: Asheera, are you a boy or a girl?

Player: sigh I am a boy.

Master: Excellent! Meerana is a world of might and magic. Here, you may forge your own destiny, create a path moving forward to be whatever you wish. You can be anything you want to be. What race would you like to be as you enter our world? We have ajeerans, elves, orcs, gnomes...

Player: A human will be fine, thank you.

Master: ...Of course. In Meerana, humans are the most basic race, capable of doing many things, though they are not as specialized as the other races. Still, you will have many opportunities going forth as a human. Would you like to be a fighter, a mage, an archer, or an assassin?

Player: I'd like to be a bard, actually.

Master: A... bard? I'm afraid the schools of Meerana do not specifically teach the art of bardery. I suppose we could accommodate you in the school of wizardry. You could use an instrument as a tool with which to control your magic...

Player: I don't want to control the elements with my music. If anything, I would wish only for my music to encourage and boost morale among other players.

Master: Well, you could go in to the healing branch of the wizardry school. There you could learn boosting spells and channel them through your music. Would that do you well?

Player: I suppose.

Master: Great. I will inform the wizarding school of your arrival. Welcome to our world...

<Player Asheera has entered into the wizarding school>

<A new player approaches!>

Master: <out of console> Hopefully this one will go smoother... <in console> Welcome to the world of Meerana! What is your name?

Player: Giranas

Master: Giranas, what is your gender?

Player: im a girl

Master: Excellent! Meerana is a world of might and magic. Here, you may forge your own destiny, create a path moving forward to be whatever you wish. You can be anything you want to be. What race would you like to be as you enter our world? We have ajeerans, elves, orcs...

Player: my frend Asheera said he was gonna be human so ill do that

Master: <out of console> Great, she's with him. This will go well I'm sure. <in console> Of course. In Meerana, humans are the most basic race, capable of doing many things, though they are not as specialized as the other races. Still, you will have many opportunities going forth as a human. Would you like to be a fighter, a mage, an archer, or an assassin?

Player: i just want to be a blacksmith

Master: I'm afraid that the art of blacksmithing is an ability that one only achieves after a certain amount of time training in one of our schools. You will first have to choose a school in which to enter.

Player: im not relly that interested in fighting i just want to make stuf

Master: I... Might I suggest the fighter school? You may find the things you learn there to be conducive to what you will need to become a blacksmith.

Player: well i gues if thats what i have to do

Master: Very well. I will inform the fighting school of your arrival. Welcome to our world...

<Player Giranas has entered into the fighting school.>

Master: <out of console> We are getting the strangest players lately... But it can't get worse at least.

<A new player approaches!>

Player: y0 beyootch i wan7z 2 ply yr gam!

Master: <out of console> I take it back. I prefer the last two.

Sleep deprived

Jason woke up slowly, confused as he often was upon waking up. He routinely slept poorly, and thus kept a clock nearby his bedside, so that he could easily check whether or not he could go back to sleep or if he had to get up and start the day. He could see the sun streaming in through the window, and figured it must be somewhat close to his wake up time, which was around seven in the morning.

Looking at the clock, however, he could clearly read that it was 4:30. He rubbed his eyes, thinking that perhaps he had read it wrong. But no, it was most certainly only 4:30 in the morning. But that couldn't be. The sun was definitely out, and his room was brightly lit by it. Something wasn't adding up, but Jason was much too tired to understand what was happening.

Perhaps something had happened in the night, and his clock had become desynchronized. That made sense. He reached around his bed for his phone, which he also kept nearby for similar purposes to the clock, but he couldn't find it. He groaned out loud, groggy and slow, and attempted to kick his covers off of his body so that he could stand up. It took him several tries, but eventually he got them off and stood up.

He walked over to his desk to pick up his glasses, but realized half way over that he could already see clearly. His hand clumsily grasped at his face, pushing his glasses painfully into his nose. Somehow he had gone to sleep without taking his glasses off. Jason was only more confused by that, but as his hand slid back away from his face, he also noticed that he was still in his normal clothes. He slept in his underwear.

Frustrated and confused, Jason turned back to his bed and grabbed his covers, throwing them roughly back and forth in an attempt to find his phone. After a few attempts it dropped to the floor, and he picked it up, checking the time. By that point, three minutes had passed, and his phone clearly read 4:33.

Jason looked back to the window, more confused then ever. Only as his eyes drifted back to the bed, trying to understand, did he notice his laptop resting by his pillow. He always put his laptop on his desk before going to bed.

Abruptly he understood what had happened. Sleep deprived for too long, He had passed out on his computer a mere half an hour beforehand. It wasn't 4 in the morning, but 4 in the afternoon. Jason groaned and sat back down on his bed, rubbing his eyes.

He really needed to get more sleep.

A day

The sun shines brightly in the peaceful blue sky, while a few clouds mingle about. The breeze is soft, caressing the faces of those who are out, taking advantage of the day. A creek runs by the quiet town, in which animals and children alike delight in playing in. It has been a long time since the town has seen any trouble, and it will be a long time yet before it does.

A pair of dogs run down the street, barking and playing together, their owners some yards behind them, holding a light conversation. They don't have the dogs on leashes, but they know that they've done a good enough job training them. Neither dog will run away, and they won't hurt anyone. They don't have to worry about any cars coming down the road, either. There are very few people with cars in town, and those who do very rarely drive them around, anyway.

In front of one house, parents are setting up the sprinkler while their children watch in anticipation, long since dressed in their swim suits. They've been waiting for weeks to get this chance, and their parents have finally caved in to their demands. The sound of the sprinkler squirting to life is accompanied by the children's delighted cries as they dash forward into the water. The parents watch on from the sidelines, laughing to themselves, secretly jealous of the fun that they have so long been without. Their kids call to them to join them, and as much as they want to, they shake their heads. But they're ok. Seeing the smiles on their children's faces is good enough for them.

A bird flies by overhead, carried in by the overhead winds. It lands on a tree nearby the playing children, and tilts its head, watching them. It can't understand what they are doing, but it recognizes the sound of joy in their voices. Soon it joins them, tweeting happily away, letting its song join their cries in the air.

An older man, living on his own, looks up from his book that he has been reading on his front porch as he hears the bird sing. He smiles to himself, remembering a far off memory of happy times. He looks down and sees the children playing, and thinks of his grandchildren in another town. He wonders to himself if they are doing the same. He can feel his phone in his pocket, and he makes a plan in his head to call them later. It always brightens his day to hear his family's voices, especially at how excited the children get at hearing that grandpa is calling.

A young girl slips out of her house, painting supplies in hand, and runs down to the creek where she knows no one will be playing. She likes to go there on days like this, so that she can practice her painting in peace. It's not that people discourage her from painting. It's simply that she finds it easier when it is quiet, and she is alone. When she gets home, she will probably take her painting and hang it on the fridge or give it to her mom as a present.

The sun has only reached the halfway mark in the sky, but it is already a good day, and it's not going to stop any time soon.

The fear of writing

I don't think it's any surprise to anyone who has read up to this point in my blog, but I want to be a writer. I want to be able to make a living off of my writing. Writing is the thing I love in life more than anything else. Being able to create worlds is what makes me happy. And there are thousands of people out there who know that feeling, who want that same thing. And in theory, we can all do it, because we all have an audience, and any one person in the world can love a dozen different authors at once.

But theory and practice are two very different things.

Not every writer is going to make it. It's unfortunate, and I wish that weren't the truth, but that's just how it's going to be. And every writer who hasn't already made it is deeply, deeply afraid of being just another number in the statistic of those who never make it.

Some of us place all are cards on the table, go all in, do or die. Some of us hedge our bets, try to play it safe, and either watch as the bets get higher and higher, and we either start to fall behind or pull ahead. But regardless of how you play, you still fear. You fear both not making it, and not trying. You don't know what will hurt more - trying to make it and failing, or giving up and doing something else.

I find myself in this position often. I don't know what the future holds for me. I see two pathways ahead of me, and they're both laced with unavoidable and hidden danger. I don't know which is safer, which will bring me happiness. I don't know where they will end. And I don't have time to weigh my options. I'm being pushed from all sides to make a choice.

I can't blame any of the forces that are pushing me. I hold no ill will towards any of them. How can I, when one of them is me? But that doesn't mean that they don't scare me at times, don't hurt me without meaning to.

I look around, to the past, present, and future, and I see so many people who have experienced the same thing. I look to those who made it, and I can't help but be filled with both hope and envy. If they made it, that means I can too, right? But look at them. They're so much better than I am. How am I supposed to get there? How could I?

I try to look forward with optimism. I tell everyone I come across that I'm going to be an author. I believe with every fiber of my being that that's what I want, that that's what I'm going to push for. But it's not easy. Neither making it, nor being optimistic.

If you're reading this, and you find yourself in a similar position to me - I don't have the answers for you. Even if I do make it, I won't be able to give you the answers that you need or look for. But I will say this. You're going to hurt. You're going to feel weak. You're going to be afraid. But for both of our sakes, keep pushing. If I make it, prove to me that you can too. And if I don't, prove that you're my better. Show the world that you mean business, that you can make your decisions and find a way to be happy even in the face of the deepest adversity. Because if we can't, then the pain wins. And no one should have to live like that.

Alone

Raine strided across the rooftops of the school, hardly noticeable to the people below her. She could probably drop down amongst them, and no one would notice her. Or at least, most people wouldn't. She had come across a rare few who were naturally aware of her presence, but most had to be taught and trained to really turn an eye towards her. She had never fully understood why she was this way, a virtual member of the shadows. But she had learned to accommodate.

Raine had learned to enjoy watching people, as well. She was stricken when she found people who, like her, appeared not to belong in the world that they were presented. And today she seemed to find another.

Behind the school, in a somewhat closed off area that required the jumping off fences to reach, there was a boy. The boy was dressed in deep greens, with his sleeves pulled back, and headphones pulled over his ears. Raine dropped from the roof to land behind him, but he wasn't paying any attention to her. His eyes were closed, drum sticks clenched tightly in his hands, swinging away at an imaginary drum set, lost in his own world of music.

Raine reached around her back and swung the bass guitar strapped there down in to her arms. She rarely traveled anywhere without it. It gave her comfort, made her feel in control of the shadows that seemed to entrap her. Though it was electric and had no amp through which to play, as she fingered the strings, she could swear she could hear the notes regardless. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that she could feel them. She could never decide.

It only took a few measures before she find a groove within the boy's drum beats. Though they had no sound, much as her bass did not, she could feel them too. It seemed to be a pattern among those like her. As she played, she moved around the boy, not in front of him, but enough so that if he opened his eyes she would be in his line of sight. For a time, they played together in silence, lost in their own worlds that were beginning to meld.

As the boy's music faded away in his headphones and he slowed down to wait for the next song to begin to play, he opened his eyes and saw Raine following in suit. He didn't say anything, just smiled, and they made eye contact. Then the next song began, and his eyes closed once again, and they continued to play.

They stayed like that, playing together in silence, until the bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch period. The boy moved his sticks to one hand and slipped his headphones off before opening his eyes to greet Raine and ask her name.

But she had already slipped away.

Darkness

I wrote yesterday in passing about depth in a story, and I wanted to touch on that again today. Throughout my life, I have met many, many people who have it in their minds that, in order to create depth in a story, that story must have darkness. By this, I mean that the story must had sadness, anger, fear. For these people, unless a story has these things within it, the story is shallow and pointless.

This is a thing I don't agree with, and don't really understand. That's not to say that darkness in a story is bad, or that it does not create depth. Far from it. However, it is not the only, nor even the best way of adding depth to your story.

A great example of this is Game of Thrones. I know this is going to step on the toes of people who love the series, but here's the deal. I hate Game of Thrones. I hate it with a passion. And the reason is because the series is too damn dark. The writing is fantastic, the characters are interesting, but all the interest in the world doesn't mean much when you can practically be guaranteed that that character won't be alive for long. Yet somehow people love it.

I'm not gonna say that people shouldn't like it, and I'm not going to judge anyone for liking it. But I don't, and I frankly can't understand why anyone would. Obviously it's for some people, and that's fine. But I think too many people look at the series as a sign post for how to tell a good story. We don't need to fill the world with stories of death with no visible happy ending.

I'm big on happy stories. A lot of times in today's world, I feel like I'm one of the few people left who feels that way. I'm weird in a lot of ways, and I accept and understand that this is one of those ways. I don't have problems with cheese and cliches, as long as they are used well. A lot of people look on these things and consider them to be a mask that people use when they can't think of any decent story to tell, and want to hide that fact. But I feel like darkness is used in this way far more than any cliche could be.

I hear so often, from people talking games, movies, books, any kind of media, "That one was great, but this one was better. It had a darker, more serious story." I don't see what's wrong with an upbeat, silly story. And the weirdest thing about a lot of the stories this argument tends to be applied to, the less serious, dark one is itself dark and serious. It's just not as dark and serious.

I read stories to get away. I play games to get away. I watch movies to get away. I fail to understand why, in doing that, I would choose something darker and more depressing than what my life already is. I get that a lot of people want to experience something that's relatable to how they feel. What I don't understand is how that's supposed to be enjoyable. I would rather make myself feel better than keep myself in the same spot any day of the week.

So maybe, when looking to add depth to a story, we shouldn't turn immediately to darkness. It has its places, and even I use darkness in my stories from time to time. But it's not my go to answer, and I think we should learn to appreciate what other options there are, and when to use them.

Romance

It may or may not be apparent from reading my stuff I've put on here, but I'm a big sucker for romance in stories. Can't help it, it's just a part of who I am. It would probably be impossible for me to write a full story without and aspect of love to it. There are a lot of people who don't agree with that, who think that love can sully a story's plot and depth. I don't necessarily disagree with that, but I certainly don't think that a little bit of love is a bad thing. You can't go through life and expect there not to be any love in it, after all.

That being said, I don't think that every story should have romance in it, and love certainly shouldn't be the main focus of every story. Just because my stories will likely invariably have love as a factor in them doesn't mean that every story ever written should. There are many, many stories out there where love is misplaced, misused, and misrepresented, and those stories would likely be better off if love had never been a part of them, or at the very least, less used.

But I also don't think a story should be looked down upon for utilizing romance as a plot point. Love changes a person. I've seen it happen a dozen times, and I've experienced it myself on a constant basis. Is it the only way a person can change? Of course not. But it's a fantastic way of helping a character evolve. It gives them a reason to keep going, to better themselves, gives them something to fight for. And if you're anything like me, seeing a character grow and evolve over the course of a story is your favorite thing to see happen.

Depth in a story is when there are multiple things happening at once, and they're not all necessarily apparent. At least, that's how I look at it. And love done right is the same way. Therefore, who's to say that a well written romance story can't have a good amount of depth to it?

Like I said, this is not always done well. But nothing is. We've all seen stories ruined by underused, overused, and straight up misused plot elements. But for some reason, I see romance called out for this so much more often than other things. Maybe it's just because it's a thing I enjoy, so it's something that I pay attention to. But I don't see how a love story is somehow weaker than any other. Sure, it may have less to work with, but that's why I enjoy mixing love with adventure. Personally, I think the two go hand in hand.

Now, I don't care who is loving who. People can argue all they like over what kind of love is over and under represented. I don't really care. I'm more concerned personally with love written well. Love should never feel forced, just as no other element of a story ever should. The more organic a story feels, the more naturally it flows from one moment to the next, the better. We don't like being thrown into unnatural environments in our everyday life, where we don't know what to expect, and nothing feels the way it's supposed to. So why should we enjoy it in our stories?

Of course, I grant that some stories are intentionally written that way, but that's another story entirely.

Denial

"What do you mean you're sold out?" Johnny demanded.

The clerk sighed and pushed the kid's money back towards him. "Look, son," he repeated himself, "I know you really want one of these new games. But so do a lot of other people. A lot of other people who, coincidentally, knew they wanted this game before you did. So either they pre-ordered it, or they came early to snag the few extra copies we had. We're sold out now. End of story."

Johnny huffed and stood his ground, refusing to accept the man's words. "But this is a hugely popular game!" he exclaimed. "You must have known lots of people would want it and got tons of copies!"

"Yeah," the clerk responded. "We did. And they all sold out. It's like you just said. It's a hugely popular game. A lot of people wanted it. So much so that they already managed to buy all the copies that we had come in. Now, can you please go home. You're holding up the line."

Johnny harrumphed for what must have been the tenth time, grabbing his money and shoving it into his pocket. He had been saving up to buy this game for what felt like months. He had watched the trailers and sneak peak videos a thousand times. And now that it was finally out, he had been robbed of his opportunity to play it.

He walked out of the store, barely registering the sighs of relief he heard from the people who had formed a line behind him. He was so mad and upset over the fact that he had come slow close that he barely registered anything else. He was only broken out of his trance when, out of the corner of his eyes he saw something laying on the ground.

He knelt down to pick it up and found, to his amazement, that it was the game he had come to purchase, brand new and still wrapped. He felt his whole body shake with excitement, and he scooped the game off of the ground, letting out a yelp of success. Visions of getting home and pulling it out of its case, finally playing it after waiting for so long danced through his head. And best of all, he hadn't even needed to use the money that he had been saving up for so long. He could use it on something else.

But then he heard something. In the distance, he heard a faint crying. Confused, holding his new game tight to his side, he turned and walked towards the sound. Turning a corner, he saw a child a few years younger than himself crying, rubbing his eyes, as his mother searched through the many bags she was holding on to.

"I'm sorry dear," Johnny heard the mother say. "I don't know where your game went."

Johnny looked down at the game in his hands. It was suddenly so clear to him. It didn't make sense for there to just be a pristine game like this to be laying on the ground, discarded. It had to come from somewhere. And this child had lost his copy.

He stared at the game, conflicted. He could keep it, walk away. The child and mother hadn't seen him, and they couldn't possibly know that the copy of the game he was holding was the one they had lost. He could enjoy it, probably more than the kid would. But it wasn't his. He hadn't paid for it. He hadn't made it on time. They had.

Johnny made up his mind, reluctantly. He walked out from around the corner, and coughed, catching the mother's attention. She looked at him, confused, until he held out the game. "I found this on the ground," he said, his voice quiet. "I think this is yours."

The mother smiled at him, relieved. "Thank you so much," she said, gently taking it from him. She kneeled down and placed the game into her son's hands. The child wiped his eyes so he could see the game between his tears and, realizing what it was, let out a slightly strangled cry of joy. She picked the boy up and turned back to thank Johnny again.

But he was already gone. He walked back towards his home, feeling a little empty, but surprisingly happy.

Secrets

Alicia giggled as she took Jared's hands in her own. "Your hands are so soft," she said, practically bubbling. "You don't look like someone whose hands would be so soft."

Jared sighed and pulled his hands away from Alicia and scratched the back of his head. He didn't like to talk about his hands. They were a weak point for him, so he tended to keep them in his pockets as much as possible. He was a big guy, both tall and powerful. A lot of people were intimidated by him, and he generally preferred it that way. His voice was low and rough to match his appearance. Most people didn't know what he did for a living, or even for a hobby, and he heard lots of rumors that he was a fighter of some kind, or some other rough and tumble thing. He never bothered correcting them.

Alicia pouted as Jared pulled his hands away. She was of a fairly average height and build, and very openly girly. She kept her light brown hair and curls, and was often seen bouncing around, excited about whatever new thing or rumor caught her ear. She wasn't shy of the kind of person she was, even though she was often teased about it. She loved to wear skirts and colorful tops, and her nails almost always had cute little polish designs on them. "You're my new friend," she stated, matter of factly. "And you're going to tell me why your hands are so soft."

Jared shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked away from the girl. "Who says I'm your friend?" he asked, skirting the question.

"I do. And there's nothing you can do about it."

Jared stammered, taken aback by her statement. They had only just met, at least officially, and she was so brash. He wasn't used to that. A part of him wished she had just tried to stay out of his way like so many others had before her. "I just... I spend a lot of time with my hands in water, ok? It's not a big deal."

"If it wasn't a big deal," Alicia countered, "you wouldn't be hiding them. Why are they in water all the time?"

"If I tell you, you're just going to go around telling people," Jared said accusingly.

"How could you?" Alicia responded, clearly hurt. "I would never go and tell my friend's secrets. Just because I enjoy gossip doesn't mean I can't keep a secret when it's important."

"I'm pretty sure that's exactly what it means."

"I only spread gossip that I can't confirm as being true."

Jared stared at her. He couldn't deny that that would mean she could keep true secrets, but he wasn't sure that what she was saying was really any better. After a moment, he sighed and nodded. "Fine," he said. "I'll tell you. But you can't tell anyone, you understand?"

Alicia giggled and bounced up and down, nodding her head. "I promise, I swear!" she replied excitedly.

Jared sighed and slowly lifted his hands out of his pockets. "My mom's a silversmith," he explained. "I help her out. I really enjoy making the stones she places in her jewelry. So I spend most of my time outside of school and exercise shaping and polishing stones."

Alicia stared at him, wide eyed. He couldn't tell if she believed him or not. "That's so cool!" she exploded, making him jump back in surprise. "Can you show me?"

Space

Jason sat at the window, looking out at the pitch black space that lay around the ship, dotted with the light of stars millions of miles away. They had been traveling between planets for a little over four months, and Jason had spent little time talking to anyone outside of his work on the ship. He had been hired for the job solely on his prowess. He didn't have anything against that, and this was the experience of a lifetime. But living on his own, in space, for a year long contract, knowing no one else on board, was not the easiest thing he had ever done. He knew it would happen, and the pay was more than worth it. But that didn't make it easy.

He leaned back in his chair, listening to the music that was playing in the bar, and lifted his glass to drink. He wasn't a heavy drinker, but small amounts of alcohol did allow him to unwind at the end of a day and get his mind to wander, allowing him to forget about how lonely he was. It wasn't that he desperately needed people to talk to, but it certainly would be nice.

As he set down his drink, he heard the sound of the chair opposite him sliding out as another person sat down at his table. He turned away from the window to see who it was, and found a woman whom he had occasionally seen around the ship. He had no idea what her name was, and he wasn't sure that she would have known his either. He had no idea why she would decide to sit with him, but he smiled and nodded his head to her anyway.

"You're the engineer, right?" she asked. Jason raised his eyebrow, surprised that she would know that about him. He didn't think he had made much of a name for himself on the ship.

"I'm an engineer, yeah," he responded. "Name's Jason. Yours?"

"Hayley," she replied, offering her hand. Jason took it and shook it firmly. "I work in the hospital sector. I hear you were the one who fixed my equipment."

It was then that Jason understood why she knew him. He had completely forgotten he had been sent to the medical ward to fix some faulty equipment. It hadn't taken him very long, though now that he thought about it, if he hadn't fixed the problems a lot of things could have gone wrong. "Yeah, that was me. I'm sorry, I kind of forgot I had done that. A lot of my work tends to mix together in my head."

"I wanted to thank you personally for doing that," she continued. "I could have hurt a lot of people with faulty equipment. My work is very dear to me, and you enabled me to do it. Thank you."

Jason smiled. "It was nothing, really. I'm just doing my job."

"Is there anything I can do to thank you?"

Jason blinked, surprised once again. "It's fine," he responded. "Really. You don't need to do anything for me."

"I know, but I want to." Hayley's eyes were staring at him, making him realize just how serious she was being. "Tell me what I can do for you."

"There's really not much that I need. I get by just fine up here. The only thing I don't really have is someone to talk to."

Hayley grinned and sat back in her chair. "I can do that," she said. Jason raised his eyebrow again, but this time he smiled at her. "I can be the best damn friend you've ever had," she continued. Jason laughed at that. "And I will be. Deal?"

Jason chuckled as he watched her extend her hand out to him once again. "Deal," he said, and shook it once more.

Thoughts

"What the hell am I doing with my life?" Alex muttered to himself, pacing back and forth in his room. His fingers were linked together, hands behind his back, and his head was down, looking at his feet as he walked. All he could think about was the girl he had seen on the bus home from school. She had been dressed in rough-used, but fitting clothes that showed off her body well. He had never seen her before, but the moment she stepped onto the bus, he couldn't look away from her. He didn't know why, but he was immediately encapsulated by her.

She hadn't seemed to take any mind of him, however. He couldn't blame her. There was nothing special about him. He was just some nerd who couldn't stop staring, likely like so many before him, and so many after him. He didn't have anything to offer her. He wasn't anything special. If only he could stop thinking about her so much. He knew that nothing was going to come of it, so why couldn't he just stop?

Alex sighed and plopped himself down in a chair. He was supposed to have started his homework half an hour ago, but he just couldn't focus on it. That girl was too prominent in his mind for him to focus on anything else. Rubbing his forehead, he tried to settle down to it again, but he could barely even make out the questions sitting in front of him.

Alex looked out his window, inadvertently beginning to daydream. He could practically see the girl, scaling the wall of his house to appear in his window, knocking on the glass, asking if she could come in. Absentmindedly he nodded in response to the question this daydream was asking, and saw her smile at him, hooking her fingers under the glass to lift it up, opening the window so she could call through. Only when she thumped onto his floor did he realize she wasn't a dream.

"What the hell?" he cried out, jumping back in his chair and hitting his back against the desk. "What are you doing here? Why did you want to come into my room?"

The girl looked up at him, her head tilted, eyes clearly confused. "You said I could come in," she said. "Besides, you wanted me to come here. I could here it."

"Here it?" Alex asked. "But I... I didn't say anything. E-especially not to you." His voice began to stutter as the reality that this girl was in front of him started to settle in. "I-I couldn't. You... I... I mean, I just..."

The girl giggled and stood up, dusting herself off. "You're cute, Alex," she said, matter of factly.

"H-how do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things about you, Alex. Your thoughts are very loud and clear. Not like a lot of other people."

"M-my thoughts? W-what are you talking about?" Alex could feel his face beginning to burn with a blush.

"Oh?" The girl asked, tilting her head again. "Oh, I thought you knew. I thought that was why you were thinking about me so much. I can hear your thoughts, Alex. I can hear everyone's thoughts. But yours are loud and clear. So much different from everyone else's. And I want to know why."

Alex couldn't find the words to respond to her with. He didn't know if he was more or less attracted to her now. "W-what's your name?" he asked.

The girl giggled and pushed her hair behind her ear. "I'm Alex."

Turning 21

"Come on, man, it's your twenty-first birthday. What the hell do you mean you're not gonna drink?"

I sighed and rubbed my face. I probably shouldn't have been surprised that this was going to be an issue, but I thought my friends would have known me better than this by now. "I don't want to drink," I explained. "I have no interest in drinking. Above all, I don't want to find out what kind of drunk I am."

Ryan sighed and shook his head. "You don't have to get drunk, man," he said, pushing the glass towards me. Some of the beer sloshed over the edge, a gross looking liquid that splashed on the ground, making a mess. I sighed to myself, knowing that I should clean it up before it stained the floor and created a sticky spot that would take ages to get out, but that no one here would give me the opportunity. "Just take a drink, dude. You're legal now. It's like a right of passage. It's just something you have to do."

"If it's something I have to do to become a man," I countered, "then I would rather stay a child. Get that shit out of my face." Ryan practically glared at me and held his hand firmly where it was, beer glass perhaps a foot from my face. "Don't make me do this, Ryan. Today is a good day for me. Don't make me ruin it with alcohol."

"Alcohol doesn't ruin good times, moron," he replied hotly. "It enhances them. It makes you feel light and fuzzy. Makes you feel like you can fly. It's not a thing you should be opposed to."

I rolled my eyes at him. "One glass leads to another, and another yet, and before you know it you have no control over yourself, and you start doing things you'd regret in the morning if you could ever remember them."

"That only happens to people who are weak willed and can't control their drinking."

"And I'd rather not find out if I'm one of those people. Is that such a hard thing for you to understand? I don't know what kind of drunk I will be, and I don't want to find out. I'm enough of a piece of garbage sober, I'd rather not ruin what little stability I have in my life by getting drunk. Now for the last time, get that disgusting shit out of my face."

Ryan angrily through the glass aside, letting it crack and spill all over the floor. I sighed. Clearly he had been drinking before he had arrived, thinking that I would join him. I had a feeling that after this, I wouldn't be seeing him around much any more. He was clearly becoming someone I didn't want to be around. Funny how alcohol reveals these kinds of things.

I moved past him and carefully picked up the glass, moving it into a sink to worry about later. Now that there was a bigger mess, at least I would be able to get away with cleaning up. I heard Ryan walk away as I got to work. "Good riddance," I mumbled. "I don't need that kind of shit in my life. I got enough problems as it is."