Re: Angels and Kitsune

Erasmus' eyes opened as the wind rushed across his face. He didn't particularly remember falling asleep, although clearly he must have. The blue sky above him suggested that he had fallen asleep outside, which seemed like something that he would do. That also explained why the wind was on his face, though it must have been a particularly windy morning, as the wind was rushing in circles around him, blowing his hair wildly in his eyes. The rush roared in his ears, making it difficult to hear anything nearby, and a dull pain in his shoulder discouraged him from rolling over and trying to stand up. He seemed only to want to stay in his place and go back to sleep.

The searing pain that exploded inside him as he hit the ground made that difficult however. He had been falling from high in the air, gaining speeds far beyond any that any person should have been able to withstand before slamming into a tree, his speed and weight causing it to crack and fall beneath him. The impact felt as though it shattered his spine, but the shoulder opposite that which had hurt before was by far the most painful spot on his body. It felt as though something had stabbed into it, and he could feel every broken inch of that which was stabbing him, compounding the pain. He had never experienced anything like it before.

His vision, only a few moments before restored by his awakening, began to fade at the edges because of the pain. He fought with every fiber of his being to stay awake, unsure of what would happen should he fail but certain that it was less than desirable, and forced himself to sit upright despite the pain. A short ways away, on the other side of the broken stump of tree that remained after his fall, Erasmus could see a long pole with some kind of metallic end piece sticking out of the ground. He crawled his way over to it, and curled his fingers around it, intending to use it as a crutch so that he could get up on to his feet. He was surprised to find the cold feel of its shaft to feel familiar in his hand, shaped to a size that his hand fit perfectly around. With a painful tug, he removed it form the dirt, flipping it over to stick the butt of the pole in the ground before he fell over.

Now able to get on his feet and begin walking, Erasmus looked around to try and determine where he was and where he should go next. Nothing looked familiar. He had no idea where he was. Struggling to think, he realized that there were a great many things he did not know. The only thing he could remember was his name, and the short few events that had occurred since his awakening in the sky. He had no idea why or how he could have been so high in the air. Why he had fallen. Who he even was, other than Erasmus.

He didn't even notice that he had begun moving. His feet had simply picked a direction and started moving, and lacking any direction or clues, he really didn't have any choice but to go with that. He wandered the forest that he had landed in, looking around for any sign of life that might be able to help him, when he heard another's cry for help. He was weak and broken, but something inside him urged him to help so powerfully that he simply could not ignore its call. As fast as he could manage, which was quite slow, he made his way to the voice.

Arriving in a clearing, he was presented with quite a scene. A young woman with fox ears and tail hung by a rope around her ankles from a tree. She looked frustrated and pained, her face begin to turn a light shade of pink. When she saw him, she let out a panicked squeal and pushed her hands up to lift her skirt so that it was covering the front of her lower body.

"Are you the one who was calling for help?" Erasmus asked. He was surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. He supposed that it was the first time he had ever heard it.

"I, uh..." The fox girl was clearly torn between something, but Erasmus wasn't sure what. "Yes, I am," she finally said. "I'm stuck. Do you think you can get me down?"

Erasmus looked up at her, at the rope around her ankle, and how it connected to the tree she was being suspended from. He thought about the best way to get her down, but he didn't know much about these kinds of traps. Or any kinds of traps. He looked at the polearm he was using as a cane, and particularly at the metallic end piece. It was triangular in shape, and one edge of it appeared to be sharpened. He thought that if he moved fast enough, perhaps he could swing this at the rope and get the pole back on the ground before he fell over.

His muscles, tired as they may be, took over immediately. As if by second nature, Erasmus lifted the weapon off of the ground and swung it around his head, severing the rope in a smooth motion. The moment the girl began to fall, the butt of his weapon swept into the back of her shirt, catching her as the head stuck into the ground, preventing them both from falling. Slowly he lowered the girl to the ground, her eyes wide, trying to comprehend what had happened in that split moment.

Erasmus shifted his polearm back into a more comfortable position as a crutch once she was on the ground. "Better?" he asked.

The girl turned to face him, face flat for a moment as she took him in right-side up, then smiled brightly and lunged toward him, grabbing him in a hug. "Thank-!"

Her words were cut off the moment her arms went around Erasmus, a howl of pain escaping his lips. She jumped back, landing on all fours, and watched him as he lurched in pain for a moment. "I'm so sorry!" she called out. "I didn't know you were hurt! Oh god..." her eyes widened once more as her eyes focused on the area where the protrusion from Erasmus' shoulder would have been. "Oh my god, your wing..."

Erasmus looked at her through half open eyes, trying to catch his breath. "Wing?" he asked. "What wing?"

The trashcan

Randall had been trying for nearly an hour to get the stupid printer to function. Out of nowhere it had jammed, refusing to print a single thing, and he had cleared it out a dozen times trying to get it running again. He was sick of the damn thing. Always crushing paper for no reason, always beeping, always flashing. This wasn't the first time it had happened, either. It worked fine most of the time, but whenever something big had to go through, it would just seemingly die. It infuriated him to no end.

In a seething rage, he lifted the printer off of the desk it rested on and carried it to the trashcan, prepared to throw it in. But as he went to do so, he noticed something strange. The trashcan was empty, as it always was. But he had spent the last hour throwing crumpled paper after crumpled paper into the can in blind anger. He knew he had. And it had to be this can, because it was the closest one. He set the printer aside and examined the can.

There was no hole in the bottom for the paper to escape through, not as though it would have had anywhere to go from there regardless. It wasn't particularly large or unwieldy, so there wasn't anywhere inside the can that it could have gone. And no one had come by during the time that he had been working on the printer, at least not as far as he saw, so it couldn't have been emptied out.

He pulled yet another scrap of ruined paper from the printer and threw it into the can. He stared long and hard at it, but it didn't move. It just sat in the can like any crumpled piece of paper would. Randall felt like it was mocking him. He turned in anger to grab the printer once more, and when he turned back to throw it away the paper was gone.

Now he knew something was wrong. He tossed the printer aside with a crash, unconcerned about whether or not it broke, and stuck his hand deep into the trash can. His hand hit the bottom, which was not what he was expecting, and he yelped in pain at the sudden and abrupt contact with the metallic bottom. He clenched his eyes in pain, and in doing so he felt the bottom of the can give.

With his eyes still closed, now thinking he understood what was happening, he pushed himself into the can. Unlike before, he reached no bottom of the can. He kept moving down, until he could feel his legs swaying in the air for a brief moment before he fell, landing on top of a large pile of crumpled up papers.

He opened his eyes to look around. He was in a place unlike any he had ever seen before. The sky was a deep purple, and there was a grass underneath the pile of papers that was crimson red. He got up, his feet unsteady on the papers. He made his way off and looked up towards where he had dropped from, but saw no hole or trashcan.

He had made it through whatever strange portal was there. But now he didn't know where he was, or how to get back.

Asking her out

Nick's heart pounded in his chest as he got out of his car. He had been thinking about tonight for weeks, planning and re-planning and re-planning again, trying to decide how he wanted to go about asking Michelle out. He had had a crush on her since they went to elementary school together, but he didn't understand what that meant at the time. As they grew up, and they learned about the opposite gender, they had sometimes talked about what kind of people they might like to go out with. Nick was always uncomfortable in those discussions, not wanting to give away that he had eyes only for her, while she went on about the kinds of guys she was into. They seemed to change every year. Michelle was a much more outgoing person than Nick was. She had been in a dozen relationships, but she always came back to him as her best friend. More than one guy had been dumped for saying the wrong thing about her lifelong friend.

Nick had never been sure of what to say when she was dating. He was jealous, there was no denying that, but somewhere inside him, he knew that he cared more about her being happy than whether or not she was dating him. He only ever spoke out against her boyfriends if he could see that they were bad for her. It had only happened a couple of times, and he always seemed to have to go through more pain because of it than she did. Physical pain. They would beat him up when they found out he was the cause of their break up.

That was a good sign that he had been right.

They had graduated from high school together only a few days prior. He had long ago decided that the summer before college he would own up to his feelings for her. She had left her previous boyfriend about a week before graduation, and she was prone to waiting some time before moving on to the next guy. Plus he was always the first to know about it. The timing was good. They would have the summer together and, even though they were going to different colleges, he thought that their long standing friendship would give him an edge. They had already agreed to keep in contact regardless. It was kind of a no brainer.

His only hope was that asking her out wouldn't somehow ruin their friendship. He valued her in his life too much. Not just because he liked her, but because she had always been there for him. She was his strength when he had none. His wall to steady himself upon when he thought that he might fall. He liked to think he was the same for her, and it seemed that way. He was always there for her when she asked him to be. Even sometimes when she didn't. He didn't want that to go away.

The door opened as soon as he went to knock. He could feel his palms sweating, and his heart leapt into his chest. He should have known she would see him walking up. "Hey Nick!" she said happily. Her smile. The way her hair framed her face. Her bright eyes, the relaxed way she stood as if inviting him in for a hug. He could feel himself freezing. "You wanna come in?"

"I... No, I... I mean..." His words caught in his throat. Michelle looked at him, her head tilted to one side, clearly confused. He never turned down an invitation into the house. "I mean, I do, but I didn't come here for..." Nick felt as though he could barely breath.

"Are you ok, Nick?" Michelle's voice quickly became concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I... I just... I love you!" Nick's eyes flew open wide and his hands slapped over his mouth. He couldn't believe the words that had come out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that. Had never even thought the words before. They just happened.

Michelle stood there, stunned, not knowing what to say in return. They stood in silence for a long moment before she stepped outside and closed the door behind her. Without a word, she motioned for him to follow her, and he did so. She lead him to a spot behind her house they had found years before where they couldn't be seen from the house or the road. They squeezes into their safe space and sat down, facing each other. Nick could feel his face burning with embarrassment. This was going even worse than he had anticipated.

"You love me?" she finally asked.

For a moment, Nick didn't know what to say. He could only nod, dumbfounded by his own actions.

"Not, like, a sisterly love. Like, love love."

Nick nodded again.

Michelle leaned back against the wall on her side, thinking. "How long?"

Nick grasped wildly for an answer, but he couldn't say. It was as if the love had always been there. It had simply grown slowly over the years.

Michelle seemed to understand, despite his silence. "And how long were you going to wait before you told me?"

Nick was so confused. He didn't know what was happening anymore. Everything had become so wildly out of hand. Every plan he had attempted to make had fallen apart.

Her hand hit his face before he could even react. The slap burned, although he couldn't tell if it was that or the blush that burned more. "That's for hiding from me," Michelle said stubbornly. And again, before he could react, her hand was on his face, in the same spot. But gentle now, caressing. Suddenly her lips were pressed against his, and a mixture of cool serenity and hot joy rushed through his body as they kissed for a brief, fleeting moment.

"And that's for finally telling me," she whispered.

Floating

Renard drifted along amongst the shoppers, minding his own business as he looked around at the wares on sale. As usual, people stared at him, off put by something he was doing or some way that he looked that he didn't understand. It had been like that for as long as he could remember. People just didn't want to talk to him. They always stared at him, but then when he tried to talk to them they would run away. He simply didn't understand.

He smiled down at a child who stopped to stare at him, eyes wide and mouth agape. The children were much more prone to upfront acts of confusion. He could often hear their sounds of wonder and amusement as he passed them. A parent or guardian was always quick to shoo them away, however, quickly and quietly instructing them not to stare. He could never get enough time with them to figure out what was so confusing about himself. He knew that the children would be more likely to say something about it, but he just never had time.

"Hello, little one," he said to the boy, dropping down to get closer to them. "Can I help you today?"

The child looked up at him in amazement. "How do you do that?" they asked.

Renard blinked, confused. "Do what?" he asked back.

Before the child could respond, however, their parent grabbed onto their arm and pulled them away, reprimanding them for sticking their nose in someone else's business. "But his feet..." he heard just barely as the child disappeared into the crowd. Renard lifted back up, scratching his head as he pondered what that was supposed to mean. What was so strange about his feet? They looked pretty normal to him.

He moved on until he found a small store that was selling some antiques. He ducked his head to enter, then glided from item to item, scanning through what they had for anything that might catch his eye.

"Excuse me," came a voice from the back. "Can I help you?"

Renard looked up to see who he assumed was the owner of the store. He smiled and shook his head. "Just browsing," he explained.

The owner didn't smile at him. "Then would you mind getting out?"

Renard frowned. "Why?"

"You're disturbing me and my other customers."

"What? How? What am I doing?"

"Are you kidding me? Either stop or get out."

"Honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Your feet are a foot off the ground, how can you claim to not know what you're doing?"

Point of view

One of the most important questions you can ask yourself while writing a story is what point of view it's going to be in. Do you want to speak through the main character in the first person? Have a limited third person to speak about the main character? What about an omnipotent third person who knows the thoughts and feelings and motivations of every single character in the story? You'd probably know long beforehand if you were going to do this, but you could even use the second person to create a choose your own adventure style book, or perhaps a very artsy and trippy experience.

I don't remember where exactly I heard it, but someone once told me that the easiest way to decide is to decide whether or not you want someone to feel something while they are reading your story. If you want them to experience the story, to feel the emotions and fears of the main character and the things happening around them, then you use the first person. If you want the reader to simply experience the story, to see events unfolding and experience the world, then you use the third person.

That's certainly a good way to think about it. If you're not sure which you want to use, that's a really good rule of thumb, and I don't think there's anyone in the world who would fault you for following it. But it is of course not the only way of going about it. Quite simply, if you are predisposed to one or the other, following it is perfectly alright. Me personally, I love first person. Seeing things through the eyes of a single person is really natural writing for me, which is admittedly probably due to my love of shorter character lists, but the point remains.

I would say that the more difficult decision to make is a limited versus an omnipotent third person. A limited perspective keeps things a surprise or suspenseful, because the reader doesn't know everything that is going on at all times or what ever single character is thinking at every moment. However, writing a limited third person perspective is surprisingly difficult. Being the omnipotent narrator means that you always know what's happening. You can describe the thoughts and motivations behind every action as it happens. There's never a moment where you have to wonder what is happening. Which, depending on what you're writing, is perfectly viable. But for a murder mystery, for instance, you couldn't possibly choose a worse perspective.

And of course, like I said, second person narratives are used almost exclusively for choose your own adventure novels. I suppose it would be possible to intentionally use it in a more standard novel, perhaps a dystopian future story, that is intentionally written to confuse the reader, to make them feel strange and uncomfortable and leave them with a very drugged out feeling by the end of the story. I'm not sure I would ever write anything like that, or read it for that matter, but it would certainly be an interesting idea, if it hasn't been done already.

I don't write a whole lot of first person stories on this blog, partially because I write so frequently posts like these, that are legitimately me talking about things. But I also don't like to do it because of how short the things I write are. If I'm going to write in first person, I want the reader to have the time they need to get to know the person talking. To really understand the ways they think, their biases, their world views. That's difficult to do in five hundred words. Not impossible, of course, but difficult. And so I frequently choose to write in the third person.

Either way you do it, just remember to be consistent. Especially with those two different third persons. Any change in point of view is incredibly disorienting, which can be used to your advantage, but it must be intentional. Any accidental change can ruin the flow of the entire story. But just rereading the story once through should be able to fix that kind of problem.

In theory.

Fantasy

It's no secret that I love fantasy. I love most genres, but I have a special soft spot for fantasy. There's just something so magical (heh) about the idea of magic flowing through your veins like blood, melting out of your pores, able to manifest into innumerable different forms at the flick of the wrist or a curse from your lips. You put on top of that the magnificence of a knight in shining armor riding atop his noble steed, crossing the wilds of the land in order to fight creatures with powers untold to save the lives of an entire kingdom. 

It's not just the medieval fantasy that I love, though. I mean, it would be hard to argue that it's not my main interest, but there's more to fantasy then knights and dragons. A story that I've had in my head for years, and one that I've written pieces of many times in many places is a modern fantasy. Musicians who can control the elements with their songs in modern day, trying to learn both how to control their powers and exist in a world which has long since discarded the idea of such powers as anything more than fiction.

In many ways, there are future stories which are highly influenced by fantasy as well. Certainly when speaking of the future, science fiction is the genre of choice, but there are some things which science simply cannot manage. The ability to fly without aid. To control the ebb and flow of the tides on a whim. To place your hand on another's head, reach into their mind and take their thoughts and memories, rearrange them and shape them to fit your every purpose. These can all be done to some extent of course, but not with the ease or simplicity of fantasy. 

But fantasy can also be complex. To complicate the source of magic, or how it flows, or what it can do. To make it detrimental to use, or to make it draw on the very life force of its user. To say that if you are to conjure one thing, then it must disappear from elsewhere in the world in some shape or form. Magic quickly becomes dangerous, and those who use it a threat. 

Fantasy can be as simple or complex as you want it. And that's part of why I love it so much. It's not limited to a strict formula the way romances or comedies are. It can use those formulas, making a fantasy adventure story or a fantasy drama, or it can be something on its own entirely. It is so incredibly flexible, and yet it can put in place rules so strict that, should they be broken, the only certainty left is death. 

Yet for some reason, so many people I come across seem to view fantasy as childish. They think that such a world that permits for the existence of magic can only be comprehended and enjoyed by minds which have not yet reached their full capacity. 

Fantasy can be childish. I don't deny this. And it's probably easier for fantasy to be childish then many other genres. But even ignoring that this isn't always true, what's so wrong with that? Sometimes, being childlike can be a relief from the stresses of everyday life. I don't see the problem, as long as the story is enjoyable.

Fantasy can be and do so many things, and I love it. It adds such an interesting element to the world when anything can be possible. You don't know what's going to come next, and there's no obvious solution to the problem when that's the case. So much can happen. What's not to love?

Gravity

The guard drew his sword from its sheath as he saw a silhouette approaching in the moonlight. "Halt!" he called out to the person. "Entrance to the castle is prohibited at this time of night. Unless you have something of extreme importance, I suggest you turn away!"

The person however did not cease. They continued to approach, and in doing so, the guard was given a clearer view of who the person approaching was. She was perhaps in her mid to late thirties, dressed in a long and old cloak, pulled tight around her shoulders so that its blackness might help to confine her in the night. Her face was drawn and flat, staring past the guard as though he were irrelevant.

The guard pointed his sword at the woman's chest, though he didn't particularly desire to have to hurt her. "I highly recommend you turn back now," he called out once more. "Or else I'm going to have to make you stop your approach."

"You will do nothing against me," the woman called back. She did not look in his direction. Did not make any movement to show that she in anyway recognized his presence. Merely spoke in response to him.

"By order of the king, I must stop any who approach the castle without permission, at whatever costs I deem necessary. If you push my hand, I will kill you to prevent you from entering the castle."

"I said you will do nothing against me."

The guard lunged forward to strike at the woman as she came within range, but was surprised to find that his sword missed her entirely. He stepped forward to strike again, but his foot made no purchase. He couldn't move at all. He looked down to find himself floating several inches off of the ground. He hadn't felt the movement at all. And as he watched, he was drifting further away. A noise of surprise escaped from his lips as the woman walked underneath him.

"I told you that you would do nothing against me," she repeated. Her hand was outstretched, palms up, as if she were holding him up by the foot. "You should know better than to oppose strange old women who come dressed in black in the middle of night. They often aren't good news."

"I must protect the king."

"I think you will find that difficult in the coming moments."

The guard hit the ground hard, as if he had been hammered down by a thousand weights piled on top of him. It felt as though every bone in his body shattered as he slammed into the ground, breaking the stone and being pushed down and in, like falling on foam. Even if he had the strength and the stability, he could feel that he would not be able to move. He felt heavy. Too heavy. Heavier than he had ever felt.

The woman stepped over his stone grave. "I'll be on my way now, if you don't mind."

Darkness 2

I wrote several months ago on darkness in stories, and I've been thinking about that topic again today. As I said then, and many times since, I'm not big on darkness. I don't think it gives a story depth just by being dark. I like to be happy, and so I read and write happy stories. I understand that's not for everyone, and that's perfectly alright.

However, there are a few dark stories I have read that I thoroughly enjoyed. Stories with death, murder, plague, fear, desperation, and lies. Stories that make my skin crawl and my stomach lurch and my mind try to shut it all out. And I enjoyed these stories. So for someone who doesn't like darkness in stories, who wants to be happy and make other people happy, why is it that I enjoy these stories?

Because they have hope. To be able to see the tiny flicker of candle light at the end of a long, dark hallway, and to know that if you keep pushing eventually you'll be able to get to it and experience its light and warmth after a terrible suffering of frigid cold and black. That is what makes me enjoy dark stories. When I can believe that somehow there is a chance of happiness at the end of the tunnel. That things will get sorted out, even some things are lost along the way.

When I talked about darkness last, I mentioned my distaste for Game of Thrones. This was one of the reasons for that. At the end of the first book, there was only one character who had any hope in her future, and it was only after having everything she knew in life torn away from her. It was a hope that meant little to me, because I felt that it meant little to her. It was a stretch, a belief in something that had little to no basis in reality, and she was far away from the events of the rest of the characters and plot.

I understand that this doesn't bother some people. Perhaps a lot of people. But it bothers me, because why would I want to hear about the downfall of people? Why would I want to experience an extended story of nothing but pain and frustrations? If I wanted to do that, I could much easier pick up a newsletter, or turn on the news.

That candle at the end of the hallway doesn't have to be bright. It can be as dim as you want it, as far away as you can imagine, as seemingly unattainable as the stars. It just has to be there. That's all I ask for. I don't know if I could ever personally write an excessively dark story, but you can know for sure that if I did, there would be hope in there. Hope that things will get better, and that they will be worth it. You may question if that hope will ever get there. But it will always linger, somewhere in the background.

Sunrise

Rogan groaned as his father tossed a fresh set of clothes on top of him in his bed. "Time to get up, son," he father's voice rang out as he pulled the curtains open, letting the sun burst into the room, bathing it and bright light where only a few moments prior it had been virtually pure darkness. "It's time to be on the move. There are things to see this morning. Things that can only be seen before the hustle and bustle of the day begin."

Slowly Rogan sat up in his bed, his arms moving automatically to remove his sleeping shirt to place on the riding clothes he had been provided. "Why must we be up so early?" he questioned groggily. "Even with my eyes closed, I can see that the sun is only just above the horizon. The day has only just barely started. Surely whatever it is you want me to see can wait."

"A prince should not complain so much," his father replied. "You'll be a man soon. And as a man, you will have to work hard and be active far before the rest of the city is." Rogan's father was already fully dressed to ride, his clothes functional yet still regal. Rogan suspected that the man had been up since before the sun had begun to rise. He didn't know how the old man did it. He was far younger than his old man, often praised for his sprightliness, yet he could never compete with the energy the man had first thing in the morning.

A bag was tossed in Rogan's direction the moment he finished dressing and got out of bed. Without a word he haphazardly slung it around his shoulders, too tired to properly carry it. He was rushed out of his room, down a flight of stairs, and across the castle to the stables. Though they crossed paths with no one along the way, Rogan could hear the murmurings of the servants beginning to rise, preparing to do their duties before the rest of the people awoke.

Before he knew it, he was mounted on his horse and being led by his father out of the gates. The sun was still low on the horizon, and Rogan had to shield his eye's from its light. "I don't know how you expect me to see whatever it is you want me to if I can hardly see anything at all," he complained.

"Quit being such a sore sport," his father replied. "You'll be up in a bit, ready for action. I suggest you work on speeding that process up. You may miss the wonder's of the early morn."

Rogan rubbed his eyes, attempting to get the sleep out of them as his father advised, letting his muscles adjust to the swaying motions of his horse to keep him upright. Even when he was tired, he had done enough riding in his time to be able to stay on his horse in the worst of conditions. As he pulled his hands away from his eyes, blinking them back into focus, he realized that his father was leading him up a hillside on the far side of the castle, overlooking the town. "Where are you taking me?" he asked. "There's not much up this way."

"Perhaps there hasn't been the times you have been here," came the reply, "but I assure you that there is much to see."

As they peaked over the hill, Rogan looked around. The morning air was fresher up here, filling his lungs with a light feeling that quickly finished waking him. The morning dew had not yet evaporated, and looking out over the hill as it fell away towards the city, it shined and rippled in the wind like waves on the ocean. As greenery turned to stone, the smoke of homes and business had not yet begun to rise, and there was a clarity unlike that which Rogan had witnessed before.  It was a peaceful view. It was as though he were looking onto a place entirely foreign to that which he called home.

"You see, son?" his father asked, sitting proudly atop his horse. "This is as much our kingdom as that which you are so accustomed to. You do not rule over only the bustling people and the stark contours of civilization. You rule too over the shining city on the sea of nature that sings for those brave enough to visit it." As if on command, the songs of the morning birds arose from the trees, floating down on the breeze to Rogan's ears. "This is our kingdom, my child," his father continued. "And one day, you alone shall rule over it."

Returning home

Adam sheathed his sword as he approached the old, worn down house. Some would call it abandoned and in need of repair. Adam knew better, and called it well loved. It had been many years since he had left his old home in pursuit of becoming a knight, against his father's wishes, and he had sworn never to return unless he succeeded in his ventures. He returned today, proud of his accomplishments, and with the clear signs of his success. He did not expect his father to be happy or proud to see him, however. He expected his old man to never want to see his face after what he had done. Adam held no blame in his heart for this expectation. He planned on returning regardless.

He pounded on the old wooden door, the resounding thuds echoing through the house and back out to him. His fist hit the wood only twice, knowing that the architecture of the house would carry that sound more than sufficiently to his father. He had made sure to keep tabs on his family over the years, to make sure that they would still be there for him to return to. His mother had passed on, and he had been there to mourn for her from a distance, but he knew that he would not have been welcome as she was buried. His father remained, however, and he waited patiently for the man to answer the door.

A minute passed before the soft sound of footsteps escaped the hole-ridden door. Adam waited, standing at attention as he had long since grown accustomed of, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword at his side, and his shield side straight on the opposite side. The old and familiar creak of the door sounded as it swung slowly inward, revealing the aged face of Adam's father. The man looked up at his now adult son, at first not recognizing who stood before him.

"Can I help you?" the father asked. His voice was old now, rough and low, and it lacked the emotion that it once held. It was clear that he had long ago lost that which gave him full joy.

"It has been some time since last we spoke," Adam replied. His father tilted his head to the side in confusion, not fully understanding what it was the young man before him was speaking of.

"If we have met before, I'm afraid I don't recall."

"It was quite some time. I believe my face has changed much since then, among other things. There were no passing words of good will upon my departure. No words at all, in fact. And there has been much I have missed because of it."

His father, gripped the door, prepared to close it at a moment's notice. "If you are here to collect some kind of tax on the king's behalf, sir knight," he said bitterly, "then I am afraid I have nothing to give you. I am old now, and have little wealth to my name. You are better of taking my life. Not that it has much value to it."

Adam gently placed his hand on the door, keeping it open. "I believe you misunderstand my intentions," he explained. "Though once you understand, I imagine you will not be any happier. It has been some time, father."

The bitterness drained from his father's face an instant as he recognized his son. His skin turned pale, and his eyes wide, as if a dead man stood before him whom he himself had slain. "My son left a long time ago," he whispered.

"Aye, I did. And against your orders, I became a knight, as I dreamed to do. And now that I have done such, I have returned, as I swore myself to do, so that you would see my accomplishments from which you attempted to stop me."

Before he could say anything else, his father's arms were around him, squeezing him with what little strength the old man still had. "I am sorry, my child," he whispered between tears. "I was wrong. I have missed you so."

Adam slowly put his arms around his father, surprised by the action. "I have missed you too," he whispered back.

Waxing philosophical

"Do you ever think that there might be a day that we, as a race, will be greater than God?"

"It's a bit of an odd time to be waxing philosophical, don't you think?"

Andrew knocked aside an incoming blade, using the momentum to pull in the soldier and ram his own shoulder into the soldier's jaw, dislocating it with the raw strength of the steel pauldron he wore. The soldier stumbled back, knocking into the chest of another incoming opponent, stunning him just long enough for Andrew's sword to pierce both of their chest's in one smooth cut, their now lifeless bodies collapsing to the ground.

Michael's heel drove into the knee of his own opponent, forcing him to the ground so that he would be trampled by the next oncoming foe, whose head was quickly dispatched from his shoulders. The two partners fought with their backs against one another, so that they would not be caught off guard by an opponent approaching from behind.

"I'm just saying," Michael explained, flicking the blood left on his blade into an oncomer's eyes so as to momentarily blind him. "We as a race are becoming more powerful by the day. We are discovering new resources that we can use to create more powerful weapons and armor, and we are building weapons that can destroy entire castles in a matter of hours."

"And you think that will place us above God?" Andrew cut down hard, sinking his blade into a soldier's shoulder, thus making him drop his own sword. As the man cried out in pain and struggled, Andrew placed his foot on the man's chest and kicked hard, sending him flying back and knocking over a dozen others with him. "God was as much a creator as he was a destroyer. Do you think us capable of creating an entire world, capable of growing and populating with thousands of plants and animals?"

"Perhaps not now," Michael replied, knocking an incoming sword out of its owner's hands, flying through the air before lodging itself in another man's chest. Only a moment later, Michael's sword was fully through the first man's face. "But in the future, who is to say? We may be able to do unbelievable things at some point in time. Perhaps we will be able to create our own worlds."

Andrew pulled his sword out of their final opponent. The two took a moment to clean their equipment, though it was difficult given the thickness of the blood on the ground around them. As they left the area they had been fighting, they sheathed their swords, planning to clean them better later.

"Somehow," Andrew said, "I find that unlikely."

"You're just a sourpuss."

"Perhaps. I still find it unlikely."

The second day

For the second time, I have missed a day of writing. The first time, I had the excuses of sickness and a friend's birthday, and I chose to ignore those things, because I knew that I should have planned better and written at times where there was less to distract me. Yesterday, I had no such excuses. I simply did not write, and it did not occur to me that I had let this happen until I dreamed about it over the night. I woke up far too late to do anything about it, and it frustrated me to no end. I should have written, and I did not. That, to me, is unacceptable.

They say that if you do something for something like three months straight than it becomes a habit. I have written blog posts for that twice over, and I still manage to forget about my writing. This last streak lasted me for over a hundred days, and I still managed to forget about my writing. I'm inclined to blame this on the fact that I all too often write late at night, which means that when things happen at night, it becomes more difficult for me to write.

My situation has changed recently, however, and now that this has happened I feel more compelled than ever to do something about it. I don't want to feel this kind of frustration again, and it is fortunately the kind of frustration that I can do something about. I plan to make myself write earlier in the day, preferably as early as I can, though the fact that I have been up for more than three hours before writing this particular post shows that even with some determination it will take a good deal of work.

Though no one will see it for some time, this also has made me more compelled to work on writing outside of this blog. The entire purpose of the blog was to make me practice my writing so that I would be better for writing books. Though it has been a slow progress, I would like to believe in some way that this has been successful, but I also have not worked on writing a book in a long time. This frustration I am feeling after having failed to write makes me not only frustrated but angry that I have done the same to my book writing. I have put it off for far too long. It is well past time for me to get back to work on that which got me into writing in the first place, and that which is my ultimate goal.

Unlike my blog, book writing is something that you can't put a numerical value on. It's not something I can say "I'm going to write this much of it each day" about. Each scene has to be treated on its own. Each scene can last from anywhere to a hundred words to well over a thousand. Even on the blog, there have been some posts that I have made short because I felt that trying to stretch them any farther would be taking away from that story. Others have gone on far past my five hundred word goal, and I felt that I could have taken them farther still.

I don't know how long it will take me to finish a book. Not even the rough draft. By the time I get to the end of one draft of it, I may not like how it started any more. This may lead to rewrites after rewrites after rewrites. And that's ok. I've only done one rewrite here on the blog, but I feel that the second version was definitely better than the first. And that's all that I can hope for. That I get better. Because the better I get, and the more I write, the closer I get to having a full product that I can be proud of. And that's something that I have dreamed about ever since I learned to write in the first place.

So I have to start my count over. Alright. It'll take a while, but I'll get back to 100 blog posts without stopping. And hopefully I'll get even farther. Maybe I'll only get to 150, but I'll keep going. And hopefully in that time I will get better yet. And maybe I'll be able to get some solid work in on a book in that time. Maybe this frustration is just what I needed to get myself kickstarted on the things that are really important.

I know these are the kinds of posts people probably aren't interested in. I know I wouldn't be. I'd be here for the fiction. I am here for the fiction. But sometimes it pays off to take a look at what it is I'm doing. To state my goals, so they aren't just things that are in my head, but things that someone can turn to me and say, "Hey, how has that thing you're working towards been going?" That was half the reason I started this, after all.

If you've read anything that I've written, than I thank you. Lord knows that nothing I've put on here has been amazing, but it's been something I've made, so if you've enjoyed any of it to any capacity, than that's all I can hope for. Here's hoping there isn't a third missed day.

The flow of time

"What would you do if you could change the flow of time?"

The prince took the dagger in his hands, and a flood of visions passed before his eyes. Images moving quickly flickered in his mind's eye. He could see the faces of people he had never seen before, both friends and enemies, though how he knew he could not tell. Some of the faces were twisted beyond recognition, as though they had died and been brought back to life by some evil, black magic. Those faces were gravely, dry, broken up, looking as though they were barely held together.

One face appeared repeatedly, at first angry, then slowly beginning to smile. A woman's face, though he knew not who. Her face became dirtier and more pained as she began to smile, and he yearned to reach out and help her, but she was gone too quickly. There was a darkness behind her that he could not recognize, but it seeped into his heart and filled him with regret, sadness, and fear.

He could see himself, running through unfamiliar lands, jumping and climbing up structures to reach some kind of destination that he appeared to know, but that the real him could not comprehend. He entered large pools of light, that lifted him into the air, as though it were somehow possessing him. His clothes deteriorated over time, falling away from him to reveal scars that he did not currently have. It was as though he were watching a man entirely foreign to himself.

Before the visions faded, he saw himself one final time, a look of deep pain and sorrow pasted on his face, and determination in his eyes. It was in this moment he saw himself holding the very dagger he had been handed, his hand curled around it in a death grip, his knuckles white as bone. There was something so incredibly important about that dagger. As if only it could save him.

And then he was back. He looked at the vizier, who had handed him the dagger only a moment prior, his face still as fresh as it had been. He looked around him. All faces were on him, awaiting his response to the gift. They had seen nothing. Nothing had changed. He looked back once more at the vizier. He could hardly remember the man's question. "Thank you." His voice sounded dry and rough to him, as though his throat had been coated in sand.

The vizier opened his mouth, and as though on reflex, the prince's hand gripped the dagger tightly. A button under his thumb pressed inward, and suddenly the world around him moved as though in reverse. It lasted only a moment, for as the dagger left his hand to return to the vizier, time resumed as normal.

"What would you do if you could change the flow of time?"

Simplicity

I have a problem with simplicity in my writing. That being that I have too much of it. I recognize this fact. A lot of my stories are very simple, very straightforward, and very easy to follow. I'm not really any good at making branching storylines that tie back together, or having multiple things going on at once. I know this. To some extent I can argue that it's a stylistic choice, but that can only go so far, and that is far beyond what it is that I do.

The problem is that I struggle with keeping up with complicated stories. I'm not all that bright, so I quickly forget things that are happening, and if a character disappears for an extended time, I can forget that they exist entirely. Time in a story stretches out much longer when you are writing it, and so I forget things far more frequently than a person who is reading the story might. Therefore, I pull things back, make it simpler so that I can keep track of what is happening. The story becomes one track, and there's not a whole lot of substance to it.

In theory, this is something that might be able to solved in the editing stages, but as I've mentioned before, I've never been particularly good at that. I struggle with knowing where things can be added and where things can be cut. In some ways, it would probably be worth attempting to edit every day the way I write everyday, except that I would have even less of an idea of where to start than I already do.

There is also something to say about spending more time in the writing stage. The more you write, after all, the more you get ideas of what to write, and the more you attempt to add things into your story. This can be rearranged, reappropriated, whatever. Point is, just by writing more the story can in theory become more complicated. With my habits of writing quickly, becoming frustrated when I have to slow down for any particular reason, this can be problematic. There are even times where I get to a point in the story when I simply do not know what else I can do with it because I have progressed through it too quickly. This happens at times when writing these blog points, which either results in a short post or a post with a story that seems disconnected. Which is pretty sad when you consider how short these posts are to begin with.

These are all things that are often pointed out to me by people, either directly or indirectly. I often become defensive and try to explain myself, generally with the reasons I've listed above, but I know inside of me that they're right. My stories are too simple for the interests of most people. I want to be able to write stories that people of all ages can enjoy, not just middle schoolers, which I have sometimes been told my stories remind them of. There's nothing wrong with writing for that age group if that's what you want to do, of course, and in part I do want to. But I don't want them to be the only people who enjoy those stories, is the problem.

Getting a product that a wide range of people can enjoy is no easy feat, however, and takes years of practice. Which, obviously, is what I'm trying to do. But I have to try and challenge myself to do things differently. Too often I feel that I write in the same style of story that I always have. I try to improve myself, but it can be hard to do that. This is work for me, after all, and it can be easy to just want to get it done so I can move on to other things. But I need to be more conscious about the choice that I'm making.

Nothing is simple. So neither should my stories.

---

A quick note. I was out camping this weekend, and thus did not have a consistent access to the internet. I did have my phone, however, and I did write for the blog every day as I have. So, despite what the blog may say date-wise, I have not missed a day. So there.

Mom

The frigid air shocked her system as she pushed forward through the roaring wind. The blizzard had struck unexpectedly midday, and though she knew it was dangerous to continue on, she also knew that there was no way of knowing when it would end. She had a child waiting for her at home. She had no intentions of leaving it alone. 

However, in the twisting onslaught of snow, it was quickly becoming difficult to maintain her path, or have any inkling of an idea of where she was going. She did her best to keep her feet going straight, knowing that if she did she would hit home eventually. But she could only pray that she was successful in that venture. If she wasn't she didn't know that she would ever manage to hit home. And she didn't want to think about what would happen to her child in that scenario. 

Her clothes had become soaked through and frozen nearly the instant she had set out. She could barely feel her body anymore. Everything was stiff and cold, and her feet hardly felt as though they were even still attached to her legs. Her strength was sapped from her body, her throat was dry, and her eyelids were heavy. Her determination to see to her child was the only thing that pushed her forward. 

She prayed deeply that she be allowed to reach her home. There was little reason for her to be cast aside, she thought, though she had also hardly gone out of her way to act in good will. She swore that if only she could make it home, she would give her everything to bettering the world in any way she possibly could.

As she pressed onward, thoughts of her child, alone and afraid filled her mind. If she didn't return home, she could only imagine the panic that would soon encapsulate him. He was far too young to be alone in the world.

She could feel the tears forming in her eyes, and desperately tried to blink them away before they could freeze. In the distance, she could see the dull shapes of houses beginning to come into form. She could only hope that they were the correct houses. She dragged her legs forward, one after the other, only barely managing to stay on her feet. 

And then, suddenly, she was on her porch. She could only assume that she had blacked out and continued onward, blind and unthinking. She fumbled in her pockets, and struggled to get the key in the lock. The moment she opened the door, a large gust of winf slammed into her back, pushing her indoors and closing the door behind her. 

The silence after so long in the storm was abrupt and deafening. There was suddenly calm and peaceful ess where previously there had been none. She considered laying there for some time, letting her body relax after all that had happened. 

And then. 

"Mommy!"

Camping

Jim sat out in his camping chair, letting the serenity of the surrounding woods sink in as he sipped at his coffee. In the early morning it was easier to relax, as the birds were just waking up to sing their songs for the first time that day, and dew still rested on everything the eye could see. Supplies still sat in their containers, packed safely away in the provided bear box, except for the jetboil he had pulled out to make his coffee.

Around an hour passed before he heard shuffling coming from the tent behind him. A few minutes later, the zip of the fly opening and closing. "Morning," he called out. Melanie grunted in return. She was not much of a morning person. Jim had long since finished his coffee, and was content to lean back in his chair and watch the gentle sway of the trees in the breeze as his wife groggily started the jetboil to make her own beverage. A calmness fell once more in the brief time it took for the water to boil and her drink to prepare. Then the pouring, and the long and steady chugging of the first drink before she poured a second.

Finally she came beside him and took her own seat. "So," she said between sips, "what's the plan for today?" She leaned back in her chair and stared up at the sky as she tried not to fall back asleep before the caffeine kicked in.

"There's some trails around here, really nice views. Not too long or strenuous. Wouldn't want too late too long to get going on those, though. I imagine there will be quite a few people on the paths by midday."

Melanie groaned at the mention of people, which caused Jim to laugh. "I'd rather a oid people on this trip as much as possible," she said. "But I'm also far too tired to get going any time soon."

"I figured as much," Jim replied. "Which would also eliminate heading out to the lake and renting a boat, I assume." Melanie nodded in agreement, continuing to drink her coffee. "So we could take one of the tougher back trails that people would be less likely to be on."

"We did a big hike yesterday, and my legs need a rest," Melanie bemoaned. "Besides, you were the one who said the point of this trip was to relax. Doing such big activites everyday isn't exactly relaxing."

"Which pretty much leaves us with staying here in camp and doing just that. Relaxing."

They sat in silence for a while as Melanie continued to sip at her coffee, slowly beginning to feel it take effect, and Jim watched the birds fly amongst the trees. 

"Yeah, Melanie finally said. "That sounds nice."

The afterlife

Marcus awoke with his head pounding, and his memories of the moments before falling asleep hazy. He tried to reach up to his head, to cradle it in an attempt to ease the pain, but he felt that he couldn't reach it for some reason. His eyes were tightly shut with the thudding pain, trying in vain to shut it out. He could feel his arm moving toward his head, could feel the pull in his muscles as his fingers tried to claw at the pain, but he felt no contact being made, as though his hand was somehow being held back from him.

"Welcome," came an icy voice. It sent shivers down his spine, making him feel as though his skin was trying to pull away from his body. He tried to move away from it, but he became abruptly aware of the thickness of the air around him. It felt as though he were floating in water, but deep underneath, far from the surface. "I hope you had a good sleep," the voice continued. "Because it's going to be the last peaceful sleep that you have for a while."

Marcus finally opened his eyes, though he could hardly tell that he had. He was in pitch blackness, unable to see anything in any direction. He, however, was perfectly clear. His feet stood on nothing, his shoes covered in dark mud. His pants were torn, the skin underneath bruised and shallowly cut. His shirt was half covered in blood, sprayed out as if coming from his sleeve. That was when he saw that his arm had been completely severed. It was simply gone.

"What happened?" The words escaped his lips without him even realizing he had opened his mouth. His voice was dry and rugged. It hardly sounded like his own. "Where am I?"

"The memories will come back to you shortly," the voice came again. "Although you may find that you would rather they did not."

As soon as he heard the words, Marcus' memories came flooding back to him. He had been running. Why? The gunshot. He hadn't known where it came from, but it terrified him. He had felt the rush of the bullet grazing his face. His legs had pumped as hard as they could, but that had only been his downfall. He had tripped as he reached the road. Hit his head hard on the cold asphalt. The car had been moving too fast to stop. His arm had been ripped away from him. And then the sound of a gunshot again. Silence.

His head pounded harder with the return of his memories. He curled up in pain. "You should avoid asking questions you do not want the answers to," the voice said. From nowhere a robed figure appeared in front of him. He could barely distinguish the black of the robe from the black of the space around him. There was no face in the robe. No body. It floated on nothing. From within the floating cloak came the distinct shape of the reaper's scythe.

"What are you going to do with me?" Marcus asked.

The scythe slashed before his face, narrowly missing him. The pain disappeared in an instant, as if it had been a thread attached to him, now severed. "I am here to collect you," the figure said. Every word continued to carry an icy shiver with it, running through Marcus' entire body. "To prepare you."

"Prepare me for what?"

"The games, of course. You must compete for placement. You want to get into heaven, don't you?"

"I thought that was determined by my actions in life."

The robe shook, as though it were shaking its head. "Your actions in life determine your entry level array. It gives you a better chance of entry, sure, but only that. You are not done working. And without an arm, you will have to try much harder from here on out."

"What if I don't want to play?"

"Then I can return you to your suffering. Leave you here in limbo. You will become merely another lost figure, never to be anything more than a scream in the darkness."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"I'd rather compete."

"I thought so."

E-112

E-112 wandered the junkyards that remained, scanning the piles for objects that would be useful to itself for maintenance purposes. It had attempted to build a reserve of supplies so that when it took damage it could repair itself, but there were some parts that were more difficult to scavenge than others. At the moment, it was short an arm. The shoulder joint had become week some weeks back and, while digging in its search, the arm had come off completely. That was two days prior.

Its left eye scanned the piles of debris, able to analyze the materials, going layer by layer inwards and determining what was there, what its worth was, and what it could be used for. The function had been somewhat damaged several months back, removing its ability to determine colors, size, or durability. These functions were not able to be resolved simply through new pieces, however, nor were they vital to E-112's continuation, and so it elected to push forward as it was. It meant a lot more digging, and much shorter periods of usefulness for found materials, but it was able to continue on this way.

With time, it was able to find a suitable arm replacement, a few meters in to its pile. With its one arm, E-112 began to dig. It had to be careful of which pieces it choose to move, as with only one arm it could not reliably maintain the stability of the pile. It took several hours for it to make its way to the arm replacement, and another hour for him to get it out with collapsing the path he had made into the pile or damage the arm as it came out.

It was late into the night before E-112 managed to get the arm attached. It was too large for its body, but it was workable. However, getting it connected and getting it to be functional were two different stories. It had created new fingers on its right hand specifically for the purpose of attaching pieces to itself. Able to reach inside its own mechanical body, it could work with its inner skeleton to rework its pieces as necessary.

By sunrise the arm was fully functional. It hardly looked to be in place with the rest of his body, but at that point hardly any of the pieces did. As long as it could be used, E-112 didn't particularly care. At this point in time, the only thing that mattered was that it was able to survive. It didn't know how long it would be able to continue on, because eventually the main circuit that it was functioning on would fail. But it preferred the idea of falling to that failure than to falling apart slowly over time.

Now that it had a new arm, E-112 continued its search. It didn't know when the next piece of it would fall off, and it preferred to have a replacement on hand, rather than to have to find a new while crippled once more.

Moving forward

"So," his sister asked him, "What comes next?"

Lars turned to look at her. They were laying on the roof of their house, looking up at the stars of the late night sky. He had just finished his time at school, and it was his first day back at home. "I don't know," he replied. "I'm just rolling with the punches at this point. Letting what happens happen."

Sheela rolled over on her side so she could prop herself up to look at her brother. Her face was not that of one amused. "That's it?" She asked bitterly. "You don't have any grand plans? Wasn't the point of what you've been doing the past four years to decide what you were going to do with your life? And you're telling me you failed to do that."

Lars rolled his eyes. "Life changes," he said. "I had plans, but just because I made them doesn't mean that they were going to just magically work out. A lot of things have happened while I was in college."

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have been working on stuff for your future."

"You're right. And I have been. But I'm still dependant on chance. I don't know what job I'm going to end up taking. Even if I get in the field that I've been aiming for, I don't know if I'll enjoy the work that I have to do. I may find out that I'm better off in a place I never even considered going before. I have no way of knowing what's going to happen."

"So you're just going to passively let it come to you?"

"No, I'll still work towards things. But if it fails, I'll try not to get too broken up about it. The failures may be the guiding lights to a brighter future."

Sheela rolled back onto her back and stared up at the sky. For a while they laid in silence, watching the twinkling of the stars and letting the cool night breeze pass over them. 

"Getting old sounds scary," she finally said, half a whisper. 

"Yeah," Lars said. "It is."

"How are you so calm about it?"

Lars turned once more to look at his sister. She was still staring up at the stars, as if she had hardly realized the question had left her lips. He looked back up and thought for a while before he answered. 

"I'm not," he said. "Inside, I'm terrified. More terrified of what's coming than I have ever been of anything before. I don't know if it's ever going to be okay. But I have to keep going. Because somewhere out there might be joys for me beyond anything I have ever experienced before. And that's worth the fear. So I can't let that fear hold me back."

Again they sat for a long while in silence, Lars' words floating in the air between them. 

"You're really brave, bro."

Lars chuckled. "I don't know about that," he said. "But thanks."

Non-enjoyable reading

I was looking back recently on a book that I enjoyed when I was younger. I'll refrain from naming it, but suffice to say that it was pretty popular at the time with several groups that I have no part in, was made into a series of movies, and is pretty widely laughed at today. At the time I really enjoyed the books, or at least some of them, but I've since realized just how wrong I was about that. When I was looking through the books again, I was struck with just how irritating parts of the books were. And unfortunately, those parts made the majority of the story.

So the question I have to ask myself is why I enjoyed them at the time. And, for that matter, why a lot of people enjoyed them. I think that, more than anything, they were easy to consume. They weren't particularly long, they didn't have a lot of complicated words, and the story was simple enough to follow. There weren't a lot of side stories, and when there were, they tied back to the main story pretty quick and easy.

Unfortunately, that was about all those stories had going for them. There were few redeemable characters, what little story there was was frankly quite bland, and I don't think a single character managed to get any development by the end of the series. The things that made the story different from other stories hadn't been done before because they were really dumb decisions. If I tried to read them now, I don't think I'd be able to make it halfway through the first book before I had to put it down.

However, having read them when I was young, I wonder if anything that made them enjoyable at the time has sat with me. If I've internalized any of the writing style from those books without realizing it, and I don't even recognize it now as I write. I'd like to think that I can write something better than those books, but no one can deny that they sold well. I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell a story that sells nearly that well. And I'm not saying that selling copies is the end all goal, but it would certainly be nice, and it has to say something about you're writing, after all.

I don't think I'd be able to recognize if I had in fact taken in any of the writing style of those books without carefully rereading them, and comparing them to my own writing. Which would not be easy as, like I said, I don't think I could ever make it through a single one of those books again. Even for the purpose of bettering my writing, I just don't think I could do that to myself. I'd probably be more likely to discourage myself from ever reading anything again than to improve my own writing.

I'm better off reading other things that I actually enjoy and consciously trying to emulate the parts of those books that I enjoy. Not storywise, of course, but style. I want to have my own writing style, as I'm sure all writers do, but I think that part I more or less have down. The next step is refining, and adding on, and improving, and to do that I need to see what other options there are out there, and how to make those options my own.

And if I ever come across something like those books that I enjoyed when I was younger, at least now I know what to do with them.

Use them as the example for what not to do.

The Professor

Professor Gerald sat in the dead silence of the hall as his students took their test. Somehow not even the scratching of pencils on paper managed to reach his ears. He couldn't hear the sniffling of paranoid students whose minds were blanking on their answers. He couldn't hear the sighs as the realization that students dreams were failing before their eyes. The hall was massive, and the few students who remained at the end of the testing period were seated in the back seats. Gerald imagined that this fact wasn't a coincidence. 

There was a dull thud that came from the hallway, similar to the sounds of a  man walking by, but much heavier and slower. The students hardly seemed to take notice of it, but it shot like thunder through Gerald's ears in the deafening silence. His eyes were drawn to the door as the thuds grew closer and louder. His heart began to race, pounding against his chest, and sweat poured out of his forehead in a rush. He knew what was in the hall. He didn't want to know, but he did. It was incredibly poor timing. He wished his students were finished. In a few moments, they would be caught in the crossfire.

Gerald stood up abruptly, knocking the pens and papers on his desk haphazardly to the ground, drawing his students attention. He couldn't take his eyes away from the door, nor open his mouth to warn his students of what was coming. His body stood rigid, every muscle tensing in preparation.

In only a brief moment, the door exploded inward, large planks and tiny splinters shooting through the hall like shrapnel from a shotgun. A hulking beast of a man crouched through the doorway, his fist still extended from punching his way in, as the few remaining students began to scream. The man was looking for something - or someone - but his eyes appeared to be failing him, for they were dull and lifeless. It was likely for this reason that he had broken through the door, rather than attempt to find the handle, which for his large size was placed at an awkward angle. 

Gerald's body exploded into action, his legs pushing hard against the floor to throw him forward through the debris of the door towards the man. His arm pulled back as he soared, and ripped forward just as the man turned to face him, his fist making contact with the bridge of the man's nose between his eyes. The blow rippled through the man's skin, his muscles taking the impact and dispersing it through his face. Before Gerald's feet even touched the ground, the man's hand wrapped around his face and suspended him in the air. The students had fallen silent, scared and shocked by what was happening front of them. That only lasted for a moment, because in the next instant, Gerald had slammed into the wall behind them, thrown by the strange man. 

"Professor!" they exclaimed. "What's happening? Who is this man? Why are you fighting him?"

Gerald pushed himself back onto his feet, shaking the dust from the broken wall off of his back. "Get out," he rasped. "Just run. If you make it out, I promise you'll all pass. Now go."

There was little hesitation to follow his instructions.

The World Road

"How long is this thing anyway?" Hakim asked. They had been walking for hours along the dirt road, just wide enough for two people to traverse. They carried with them weapons and a few supplies so that they could hunt and cook the food that they needed, and purify the water that they came across so that they could drink it.

Spike sighed and stretched, looking out over the view. They could see the world curving out in front of them, a long series of connected continents, and this path stretched out along them all. It was called the world road, and was the path of choice for world traversal. It passed through every major city on the planet - or rather, every major city on the planet had been built on it. If one wanted to travel, they took the road. And if one wanted to make a lot off of tourists, they set up shop on the road. "You know it goes all the way across the world," he replied. "Did you really think the world was so small?"

"Well, no," Hakim answered, "but people take this road all the time, right? We haven't seen anyone, and I had assumed that if people took the road so often, then it couldn't be all that long."

Spike chuckled to himself. "Hakim, we haven't even been on the road one day yet. We've barely been anywhere. There was a reason we set up to travel so far and so long. I mean, really man. What did you think you were getting yourself in for getting on the world road?"

Hakim sighed and sulked, continuing to walk along the path regardless. "You were the one who talked me into going on this trip with you, Spike. I didn't know what I was getting myself into."

"You should try thinking a little more before heading out of your house then, mate. You're likely to meet a lot of trouble going around thinking like that. Or rather, not thinking."

They continued along in silence for a while after that. Though they never said it aloud, they could both agree on one thing at least.

The view was incredible.

On the roof

I sat on the edge of the building's roof, my legs dangling in the air high above the ground. I watched below as dozens after dozens of car lights flashed past, people rushing to get to or from one thing or another. I wondered what it was that was going through their minds. Were they focusing on where they had to go? Were their minds wandering to other things, or different worlds? Were they happy, or sad, or afraid? There were a lot of questions to be asked, but there were few answers to be had. I was ok with that.

A gust of wind breezed passed, and I felt my legs sway along with it. I looked up at the night's sky to be met with another myriad of lights, but these were still, as the stars were much too far away to be seen as moving like the cars, even though they surely traveled far faster. Thousands of lightyears away they burned, or at least so I assumed, and unlike the people below, they had no thoughts. It was odd to think that something that appeared so bright, and so beautiful, was in a sense empty.

And in between them, sitting on a construct of concrete and steel, was me. I supposed that some might find some kind of meaning in that. Something symbolic. But I didn't worry much about it. There wasn't much to say about me. I found these things on either side of me, moving far faster than I, curious wonders which I could never fully understand, to be far more interesting.

I felt the wind caressing my face as I laid back, cold concrete making a rough and solid surface for me to relax on. I didn't mind it. I had fallen asleep on things much less comfortable in the past. Running my fingers over the uneven surface, I thought about the work that must have been put into creating such a large structure. How much planning had to be put into making sure that it would be a stable structure, that it would have to space needed to fulfill its purpose. How many hands had to be put in to follow those plans and make a dream a reality.

It was pretty incredible to consider how the world had come together. So many people working together, whether they even realized it or not, creating things that would change the course of history in both incredible and subtle ways. The smallest things in the world could snowball out to make more of an impact than one could ever hope to do. No one could consciously control it.

I stood up and dusted myself off before glancing back down at the cars in the streets below. It was getting late, and the number of cars passing through was quickly decreasing. It wouldn't be long before there was hardly a single one passing. This late at night, the world was a different place than it was during the day. A lot quieter, a lot more mysterious, and in some cases, a lot more dangerous.

And I wanted to see it.

The forest knight

The woods were dimly lit, with the trees climbing high into the air, branches interlocking high above to let light through only in small patches that barely managed to touch the ground. The air was thick and moist, and Leena felt as though she could hardly breath because of it. She had long since lost track of how long she had been traveling amongst the trees, trying to find her way. She had wandered in on a dare by her friends, but... Well, she could hardly find her way out now.

The way plants grew was very strange to her. They seemed to be crawling towards one another, intertwining as though they were attempting to grow in ways that supported each other. It was as though the forest was alive, a biome full of creations that would only be capable of existing were they to rely upon one another. She felt nervous as she attempted to find her way, as though when she reached out to the trees to support herself on, the trees pushed back against her, telling her to leave.

Leena sat down somewhat roughly, pulling the bag off of her back and reaching in to grab the last of the food that she had been carrying with her. It would give her a few more hours of energy, and she could only hope that she would be able to find her way out before that time ran out. She looked around and found a small stream of clean water, which she was able to drink from. It seemed as though every time she stopped there was water ready for her.

"You seem to be lost," came a voice from behind her. It was low and rough, as though it were coming from a man who had been around for far too long, and it startled Leena. She stumbled to her feet and turned to see something that she couldn't quite explain. It was as though a man were trapped within a near by tree, nearly camouflaged within it, as his face was half covered with tree bark, and his clothes were green and leafy. "You shouldn't have come into these woods, dear," he whispered. His voice felt as though it were all around her, coming from every plant in the forest.

"I... I'm sorry," Leena replied, her voice weak with fear. "My friends... They dared me to, and I thought... I didn't know..."

The man stepped out of the tree, plants moving freely out of his way so he might escape. He had a thick green cape draped around his shoulders, and Leena realized that his barky appearance was a set of armor. A rusted steel broadsword hung at his hip, dragging along the ground. His eyes were old and dull, and they barely moved, as though he were blind. "Let me show you out of these woods," his voice came again.

Leena stepped toward him in earnest surprise. "You'll help me out?" she asked. "Please, sir, I'm so frightened being here."

"Well, there's your fault," he said. "You must not be afeared of these trees. They'll feel it."

Leena blinked. "They'll feel it? How?"

"These are ancient woods, my dear. They know more than you ever could. Accept them. They will set you free."

Leena frowned and looked around. She didn't know what to think, but at this point she could hardly see as she had a choice. She closed her eyes and kept thinking to herself the same thing: "I'm not afraid of the trees. I'm not afraid of the trees."

"Are you gonna go or what, Leena?"

Leena opened her eyes in a jolt, to find herself back out of the forest, her friends surrounding her as they had before she had entered. "Don't tell me your pussying out, Leena," Brandon taunted.

She looked towards the woods, remembering what had happened. She remembered the man she had seen. She remembered the fear and the hunger and the darkness. "No," she said slowly. "I don't think I'm going to go."

Summoning

Brianna reached into the pocket on the inside of her cloak and pulled from within it a small piece of red chalk. The group of people in front of her watched on in quiet interest, unsure entirely of what it was she was going to do. She had gathered them together with the promise of showing them the entrance into a world unlike any that they had seen before. With recent rumors of supernatural powers appearing in the blood of of people as mutations, they were willing to see what it was she had to offer, with the hope that it would somehow awaken in them that which had been awoken in others.

She was only partially lying.

With her chalk, Brianna drew a circle in the air, which appeared in midair as though she were drawing on a piece of glass. She could see the look of surprise and intrigue on the crowd before her, and smiled coyly to herself. She created a sigil in the air, keeping an eye on the crowd, making sure that everyone was paying attention and not trying to leave. It would be less than desirable for any among them to change their minds about seeing what she had to show them at the last minute, for many reasons. But to her fortune, everyone was too mystified by the magic that was occurring before them.

The crowd that she had gathered was quite large, numbering at one hundred, and she was able to see in each of them a small light of the flame which was appearing among the population. That small spark, if properly nurtured, would ignite the powers that they so desired, though calling them mutations was less than accurate. The truth was that magic had slept within their souls for generations, having been backed away and hidden as society lost belief in it, and waited to be revealed.

"Prepare yourselves, friends," Brianna called out to the crowd as she finished her sigil. "For it is time that you are shown the world which you so desire to become a part of, and that you are so rightfully meant to be in. Please, do not turn your eyes away, or else you may find yourself having missed the opportunity of a lifetime."

The crowd muttered amongst themselves, but as she had hoped, not a one moved away. A grin spread across her face, and the mark on the back of her hand began to shine as she felt the heat of magic begin to burn. She curled her hand into a fist and smashed it through the sigil, which shattered like glass, and immediately a silhouette began to form. The silhouette grew, becoming larger than any of them, gaining limbs that no person could hold. In a bright flash of light it gained form, and a demon stood before them.

Screams came from the crowd, and those who screamed first were the first to be devoured. The demon surged among the crowd as they tried to leave, but they found themselves trapped within an invisible box which the demon had formed to entrap them. It tore them apart, blood splashing and painting the grown deep red. In only a few moments, they were gone.

The demon turned back to Brianna, who bowed deeply before it. "Your sacrifice was well," the demon spoke into her mind, its lips unmoving. "What is your wish?"

Brianna smiled wickedly. All had gone according to plan.

"Only that I continue to serve you," she said, "and that you might protect your accolade."

Roleplaying 2

It's been a long time since I last talked about roleplaying. When I first brought it up, I talked about how it provides a good challenge for a writer, to work within a story where they are not the sole prognosticator, to have to react to characters that they do not control, and to have to understand how their own characters would react to things that are not fully planned in advance. It's a magnificent way for someone to learn to better write, though there are of course problems associated with it, such as not being the one who plans the majority of the plot and letting yourself be carried from scene to scene.

However, what I do not believe I talked on as much was how roleplaying can be a fantastic way to learn about a person. I've talked a few times about how writing can be both a good and a bad way to learn about the person who is doing the writing, and while I will continue to say that you should not judge a person solely on the things that they write, I will also say that there are few better or more interesting ways to learn about someone. The way that a person writes a character, or describes a scene, or creates tension can explain a lot about the ways that they think. The ways that they react to the things that you write can also say a lot.

I have seen in many personal experiences the ways that people insert themselves into the characters that they write in a roleplay, sometimes without even thinking about it. Sometimes they will even write about the people around them, also without thinking, and the relationships that they create with these characters and the ways that they have one character talk about another says a lot about how they think about the people around them.

The specific details that they choose to respond to in each and every reply speaks to the things that give more value to over others, or things that understand better than others. I know that in many ways I am much better at dialogue than most other sections of writing, and so what a character says is something that I much more likely to respond to than, say, how they are dressed.

Much of this all is subconscious, and may not even be something that the person wants to admit to when confronted about it. Especially because, as I have said multiple times, they may not even realize they are doing it. It's something I've seen people get embarassed about, try to play off as not being their intent or not even being what happened, but there's nothing wrong with writing what you know. It's what many people say you should do, and not something that I would disagree with. If anything, if someone were to point these things out to me, I would think more about it, and thus hopefully improve myself as a writer.

But perhaps this is something that I simply notice more because of the fact that I am a writer. In the same ways that people notice the way music rises and falls and take things from it, or looks at a painting and is able to discern more from it than simply what is being shown. But it's certainly something worth considering, and if you like to write and have never tried roleplaying, I highly encourage it. You can learn a lot about both yourself and whoever you do it with.

Power and threats

I feel like a lot of these real talk posts are me repeating the same message under different banners, but the fact is that that's kind of what writing is all about. So, spoiler alert: the end result of this all is that balance is important.

One of the things that you have to think about in a series of stories is where things are going to end up. With one story it's not quite as much of an issue, though of course the ending is important, but what I mean is: how powerful are your characters going to be by the end, and how powerful is the threat that they have to overcome?

With a lot of stories, this isn't necessarily an actual physical presence. Many stories are about internal struggles, and learning, rather than full on fighting. But I'm the kind of person who really enjoys a good fantasy setting, with swords clashing and arrows flying, and perhaps some fireballs falling from the skies. So when physical combat (or magical, whatever) is one of the main driving points of your story, you have to consider just how strong your characters are. They have to grow throughout the story, of course, or find tricky ways around their problems that aren't immediately obvious, because otherwise there's no tension. So, in someway, the enemy is going to at least start off as even stronger than the main character.

But when one story goes into the next, this can become problematic. If, at the end of the first story, your character saves the world from an all-encompassing danger, what is there left for them to do in the next one? After all, anything less than what was there in the first story can now be easily defeated. Therefore, what comes next must logically be stronger and more dangerous yet. But this quickly becomes problematic.

A lot of movies and tv shows face this problem, and some games, though perhaps to a lesser extent. How often have you walked away from a sequel to something you really enjoyed and said to yourself, "Man, they really jumped the shark on that one"? If you're anything like me, probably a lot. If you start at saving the world, you have to move onto the galaxy, and then to the universe, and then what is there left?

And aside from that, if your character is so powerful that they can stop someone with the power to destroy the universe, what is stopping them from doing the same? Their morals and beliefs are there, sure, but those can be corrupted, not to mention that if action pictures have taught us anything, it's that there's going to be some massive collateral damage in the big fight. Not to mention what they might do on accident.

Hell, what kind of place would someone that strong even have in society? They would be a danger to everyone around them. Everyone would know exactly who they were, and everyone in their right mind would be afraid of them. That's why superheroes hide their identities. Well, that's one reason anyway, but I digress. Someone who can benchpress a planet hardly has many places that they can fit in.

Actually, you know what? That could be an interesting story. Someone is so powerful after having saved the universe that they themselves could destroy it easily, and the next story is entirely about them just trying to figure out what the hell to do with themselves now that they're the only reasonable threat there is. No threats, no massive fights. Just trying to fit in. I like that.

Where to write

I think we all know the stereotype of the writer sitting at his laptop in the local coffee shop, sipping on his caffeinated beverage as he types away a storm for long hours of the day, finishing his great masterpiece that will probably receive all kinds of criticisms but sell millions in the end regardless because it was secretly amazing, or some load of junk like that. I know plenty of people who have tried to follow this model, taking out their preferred method of writing to Starbucks, or some non-brand deal place, and trying to write. Hell, I've done it too. For some people, it may even work - you're surrounded by people talking about all kinds of things, and you can grab snippets of their conversations for inspiration, and you have a constant stream of caffeine to keep you awake and focused. But it's not for everyone.

Like me. I tried it for... I don't know, maybe half an hour to an hour? Small period, I know, but if I sit down and make myself write, I can get a lot of words down in that amount of time. But sitting in that coffee shop, I simply couldn't focus. Maybe it's just because I'm not a coffee guy, or because I don't like people all that much, but there was just too much going on. Too much noise, too many smells, too many unfamiliar things. I couldn't concentrate. I got maybe a hundred words down in that span of time, and I hated every word I put down.

I think the biggest part to choosing where you want to write is being comfortable wherever you are. Personally, I'm not comfortable many places outside of my own home, so that's where I write best. I don't have to worry about what's going on around me, because I know how everything is supposed to be, and I'll know if something happens without having to focus on it. I can tune out everything around me, and engulf myself in the world that I'm creating.

It's interesting to think about why this is, though. When you're comfortable where you are, most people choose to do less, I think. They don't feel pressured by what's around them to get work done, and so they choose to push that work off, instead doing things that help them relax - like nothing. In a work environment, they feel a need to get things done, because that's what everyone around them is doing, and they don't want to fall behind the crowd.

But, at least for me, writing isn't like that. Writing, though I consider it to be my work, and I try to work hard at it, is also the thing that I use to relax. When I am writing, I feel like I have purpose, like I am doing something that is worthwhile. But writing is not something that looks productive. From the outside, the act of writing is monotonous, and it doesn't produce much outside of words on a piece of paper, or a computer screen. No one can see the work that you put into it, because what you are making may never even make it to the surface. Writing is an act of putting down, reworking, erasing, and doing over again. You can't just pump something out. You have to make it shine. But all the while, though what you are doing changes constantly, it never looks any different.

I think for me that's the thing that keeps me from working in public. I try not to let perceptions of me affect me, but it's difficult to do that all of the time. When I am alone, I can feel that my writing is productive. But in public, that becomes a much more difficult task. But that doesn't apply to everyone. For some people, the exact opposite is true.

So I suppose that coffee drinking author stereotype isn't going to go away anytime soon.

Cool characters

I recognize that this is more of an issue in tv shows, movies, and games than it is in written stories, but I feel like the points that I make will still stand. There's nothing wrong with wanting to write a cool character. If you want to write a character that is the epitome of cool, that makes your reader go, "Wow, I wish I were that cool," when they read them, that's fine. That is totally your prerogative. However, as with many things, you have to have some sort of balance in that badassery, or else it just goes over the top and stops being cool and just becomes silly.

Unfortunately, this is totally a subjective thing. What I think is the coolest thing in the world, someone else might find to be incredibly lame and try-hard, or vice versa. And even more unfortunate, one of us may be in the majority opinion, and the other in the vast minority. And in my case, very frequently I am in the vast minority when it comes to opinions on what is cool.

I can try and write my own versions of cool, and I might think they're cool characters, and you might think they're cool, but lots of others might not. And further still, what is cool is not necessarily a consistent thing. Many ideas of what is cool is based on current culture, which may change at any moment, and there's no way to predict what will last and what won't. This is easily seen looking back. There are thousands of things that we can look back on, and think, "Why did we ever think that was cool?"

But when you're trying to write a cool character, those are the factors that we have to draw on. The very act of trying to make something cool is effectively putting a date on it, showing when it was made and when it was actually considered cool. And with the long amounts of time that it takes to produce a story, by the time you're finished, the things that made your characters cool may not even be cool anymore. That means rewriting them. But that takes time. And by the time you're finished...

You get the point.

Many of our opinions of cool are based on what used to be cool, as well. By trying to pull on these things, we are alienating people who never experienced those things as being cool. But we probably don't even realize that we're doing that, because to us they never stopped being cool.

It boils down to a simple fact: a character can be cool, but chances are that coolness won't last. Which may not be a bad thing. We can leave a mark in our writings to say what things used to be, and that's perfectly alright. We may even choose to write intentionally in ways that used to be cool but are no longer, in order to date the characters themselves and set them on a page in history. Perhaps this can be used to hold them back in the story, or give them something to work towards in the future.

Personally, I wouldn't want a character of mine to be defined as being cool. But I suppose, in a way, I'm not the person who gets to decide that anyway.