Beautiful

The explosion hit hard, sending a shock through their cores, the bones of their chests rattling against their skin, hearts threatening to pound out of their chests and onto the ground. It was well in the air above them, far from being dangerous to them in any way, but it still rocked them and made their minds go blank for a moment. All they could witness was the vivid lights of the flame expanding, separating, and becoming a million tiny flickers of candle light, floating down without a wick and fading before they could ever touch the ground.

Daniel was the first to turn his head, and see the girl laying beside him. He was taken in by her appearance as the gentle flickers fell around her, illuminating and darkening her face in a thousand ways, changing with every moment, allowing him to see every bit of her face in the best light at one point or another. She glowed in the embers, vividly illuminated, as if the gods themselves were presenting her to him. For a moment, he forgot that he knew this face. He forgot her name, or where she had come from, or why on earth she was laying beside him.

Michelle turned her head next to see a boy staring at her. Who was the boy? she asked herself. And why did his eyes shine so brilliantly in the flames? The way he looked at her with those flickering eyes was like two infinitely deep pools of water, the sun reflecting on their surfaces as if they were calling her to dive in and explore their depths. Without a word, compelled, she reached out a hand to those pools, and found it laying gently upon the boy's face. But before she even had time to process the thought, she felt the caress of his own hand on her face. She had no idea where she was or why. The thought of the explosion was even melting away from her mind. All she could focus on were his eyes.

The warmth of the falling flames was quite abruptly not enough. Without words, the two scooted closer together, gently pulling their faces closer together, their hands sliding across skin and into one another's hair. Their breath was warm on each other's skin. They blushed as they realized what they could feel, but they couldn't stop. The flames fell around them, as if urging them closer.

Michelle closed her eyes first, but Daniel felt it first. Their lips as they met. The explosion of heat running through his system, like a flip turned on that pushed him further. He gripped her hair firmly and pulled her closer, his lips pressed tight against her own. She didn't fight. She clung to him, desperate for the warmth he was shooting through her.

When they pulled apart, and saw the last of the flames die out, their faces turning to darkness, they remembered what was happening.

And they kissed again.

Harpoon

The massive leviathan breached the water, sending off waves of frigid water in every direction that would easily crush a great battleship before it would ever have a chance to be flipped. Its scales shone brightly in the moonlight - brighter even than the water that it was surfacing from. Its eyes burned red, attention turned on to the gryphon hovering in the air above it, staring down at the beast below it without fear. The gryphon was but a speck of dirt compared to the leviathan, but it was his rider that gave him his fearless gaze.

Angelo stood on the back of his gryphon, precariously perched on the creature's back without a saddle, a massive spear held firmly in his left hand. It was easily as long as he was tall, steel forged with flames burning so bright it tainted the edges blue. He glared down at the sea beast which had taken his family and home from him so many years ago. The creature had surfaced just off the edge of his village. They had thought they would be safe, living up on the plateau, but the waves had risen higher than anyone thought possible. The leviathan had only deigned fit to apathetically washed as they were all washed away.

But Angelo had been out, learning to fly with his gryphon that day. Even from so many miles away, the two had heard the heart wrenching sound of the crashing waves. By the time they arrived, they had only time to watch as the leviathan sank below the water, their home wiped away as if it had never been in the first place. Everything they had ever known and loved, vanished without a trace, and the cause leaving without so much as a fond farewell.

They had trained for years after that in order to take revenge. Trained to fly, trained to hunt, and trained to fight. Angelo had learned how to wield a spear with unadulterated accuracy, able to pierce a pheasant in the heart as it dove to the ground in free fall. His gryphon learned to catch those speared pheasants before they ever hit the ground, and how to fly with free mobility without unseating his unsaddled rider. They moved as a single unit, and only pulled apart from one another when absolutely necessary.

The leviathan roared up at them, as if acknowledging that they had become a threat to it. It showed them its teeth, sharp and jagged like the stones of the sea that tore so many ships asunder, and without hesitation, Angelo leaped from his friend's back.

He drove his way down threw the air, gripping his spear with both hands and watching as he approached the impossibly tough skin of his foe. He was falling from more than a mile before the creature's head, which was now rising up to meet him. A mere few moments behind him, his gryphon dove too, prepared to tear those scales free as Angelo pierced them and lifted them from the beast with his spear.

The impact was hard, rocking Angelo's powerful body and nearly crushing his bones. But his spear drove in harder, not only piercing the first scale, but completely shattering it. Less than a second later, his gryphon's talons were driving into the exposed flesh, pushing the spear deeper and penetrating the creature's muscles. It screamed out in rage, and then they were gone, once more pulled away into the air as Angelo steadied himself on his friend's back and flicked the blood from his weapon.

It would be a long battle. And they would relish its every moment.

Of Eyes

If you haven't noticed, characters are probably the part of writing that I excel at - or at the very least, what I am most fond of. So when I tell you that this idea for a story centers around an idea for a character, you shouldn't find it surprising.

I love Alice in Wonderland, though why exactly that is I struggle a bit to explain. There is a lot of insanity and craziness in the story, but it actually follows a set of rules, with a purpose, an expectable outcome, and definable characters and characteristics. It seems impossible to understand the first time, but the more attention you pay, the clearer the events become. My favorite example of which being the Mad Hatter. I won't get into him too much, but suffice to say that he's interesting not because of the questions he asks, but why he asks them. Real world consequences in a world of fantasy - pretty interesting if you ask me.

The hatter is the inspiration behind this character of mine. His perceived insanity - no less real, but defined by a set of laws. Whether or not he was the one who set those rules or another is hard to say, but they are incredibly important to him, if to no one else. But between those rules, how does he act? It's hard to say. In one instance he may think and act in a certain way, but in the next it may be entirely different.

What if there was a pattern? An observable one, one that could be learned, but couldn't be predicted. One that you have only to know and react to, like knowing how to talk to one friend over another.

My hatter has an unknown cause for his insanity, but has eyes that give away his patterns. A man with  multiple personality disorder that changes at the flip of a switch with no discernible reason or consistency between switches. But with each personality, the color of his eyes change, and each personality is directly tied to one of the different colors.

But as an author, this presents a lot of opportunities. Perhaps too many. How many personalities does he have? Just how different are they all? Do the personalities know about each other, and if so, how thoroughly? If not, why? How did this condition occur upon him, and is there anything that can be done about it?

These are the questions I want to answer. The deeper I get into it, the harder it becomes to write. But it also makes it more interesting. I can only hope that I can somehow do it justice.

Of Randomness

When I was younger, for a very short time I played an online trading card game whose name I have long since forgotten. In a similar vein to Magic the Gathering, different cards were based upon varying elements, but it was unique in just how many elements there were. One in particular always struck with me - the element of entropy.

If you're out of the know, and couldn't guess by the title of this post, entropy is the element of randomness - in a sense. It's an actual scientific principal, and it effectively accounts for randomness in variables in mathematical equations. More or less. It's been a while.

I was definitely one of those "lol teh rando" kids, I will freely admit, and there is certainly a lot of that still in my brain. But for whatever reason, the concept of entropy hit me in a very different way - my best guess being because it was the concept of controlling it. Some time later, a friend of mine wanted to write a story with all of her friends as characters, and her better friends being the special main characters. I was fortunate enough to be one of those particular friends.

She asked me to pick an element that I wanted to control. Other friends had chosen theirs first, so more obvious choices were already gone, but I didn't have to think twice. I told her I wanted my character to control entropy. We talked for a long time about what that meant, and what that allowed my character to do, and what the downsides of it were. It wasn't that he could effect chance, so to speak. Rather, he could call upon it.

That character became a favorite of both of us. His power was quick to decide - at the snap of his fingers, a random event occurred. It could happen to him, around him, inside him, or absolutely nowhere near by. It could kill people, bring them back to life, change their appearance or mindset, or turn their head completely around. He couldn't choose what would happen or where or to whom - he just had to pray. It would even be possible to reverse what he had already done, but who knew what kinds of things he would cause in the process.

We all see patterns in nature, created by random chance. So the things that his powers did would follow some sort of pattern. But as soon as he figured out what that pattern was, whether he wanted to or not, the pattern would change.

An incredibly inconvenient power, and yet an incredibly powerful one. One that would lead to a character who was incredibly happy, incredibly funny, but also incredibly sad. All of which would be amplified by his cultural upbringings.

It's such a good character, with such a good balance and so many possibilities, and I can't help but want to take it for myself. Which is kind of ironic to say, given that it's literally based on me. Even events in the character's life, as my friend writes it, are based on events in my own life. It would be hard for me to ever write a character in that style without it coming out very similarly to what she would write.

One day, if she ever finishes that tall tale, I would love to not only read it, but write my own expanded story of it. To write fanfiction of myself. How crazy would that be?

Stats

I've made it no secret how much I enjoy RPGs, though I perhaps haven't talked much about my preference for JRPGs over WRPGs. That kind of statement makes absolutely no sense to someone who doesn't know much about video game RPGs. To put is simply, a Western Role Playing Game is, appropriately, what people in the US are more like to think of - games like Dungeons and Dragons or the Elder Scrolls series. Japanese Role Playing Games are things like Final Fantasy.

The main difference is in how leveling up works. In JRPGs, leveling up gives you a pre-determined set of stats - your health goes up in generally the same way, your attack and defense go up in generally the same way. It's all dependent on the character and what their set levels are going to be. WRPGs, on the other hand, leave the stats entirely up to the player. A level up gives the player character a certain number of points that can then be distributed among their stats as desired, and frequently characters are additionally given some form of reimbursement - if they mess up their stat distribution, or decide later on they want to play in a new way, they can retract all of the points they have spent from their level ups and do it all over again without having to start over from the beginning.

Either way, in both the levels and the stats you gain from them are incredibly important, and because of that your stats are always easily accessible. A page full of numbers which may not mean much at first glance, but defines how a character acts, how it plays, what it's capable of, and what situations it is able to get in and out of. The skills they have, the skills they're capable of having, be it for combat or conversation. Everything is determined by that sheet of numbers.

I may not be a big fan of the way WRPGs play - never being sure of if I'm leveling my characters correctly is a big turn off for me - but I love the concept of that stat sheet. At times, I consider trying to make such sheets for my characters in stories. Having something in front of me to refer to on just how good my character is at different things would be supremely useful. Determining as the story goes when they have accomplished something worthy of a level, and where the points from that level are going to go. And it might not mean much to most people, but to be able to show someone how that character progressed through their levels and stats - I think -  would be a very cool and interesting way of viewing a character.

Unfortunately, doing that would also require knowing what a single point in a stat would mean. What is a single point in strength? What does it change? What does it allow? There's nothing about that that is consistent from game to game, nor even from person to person. After all, a person may have great strength in their arms, but very little in their legs. How would that equate on a stat sheet? Poorly, probably. You could try to equate that difference through the use of endurance instead, but they might still have incredible muscular endurance - just in the top half. But maybe that goes into willpower. What else can willpower do? What else does it effect?

It's a complicated matter, and the more complicated you make a stat sheet, the harder it is to read. You have to find a good balance. Kind of like when you're writing a character in the first place.

Odd couple

Ran climbed out of the hunk of junk that was now his spaceship. He had had to leave in a rush thanks to the invading forces of the Florans, and with little fuel he was lucky he had made it just through the warp jump. The fact that his once beautiful ship was even close to remaining in one piece was a miracle, and one that he thanked his gills for. As he saw the surface of this foreign planet rushing up to meet him, he was certain that he was never to see the light of day again.

But the planet seemed remarkably peaceful. At least that much was like his home. If he had landed on a world already ravaged by the Floran... There were too many variables that were out of his control. He had to stop thinking of them, and focus on the more immediate issues. Like food. Surely somewhere near by there would some sort of fruit or vegetation growing, and he would not have to lower himself to the disgusting level of hunting. He was much too fragile for that.

As he walked the planet's surface, being careful to observe his surroundings and create a mental map of where he had been, he prayed that he had not been the only one to escape. He did not see any shooting stars in the skies, or hear the sounds of other ships crashing, so it seemed that he was to be alone on this planet. There were few creatures even that inhabited the forest, which meant that he had little competition when he finally came across a grove of wild plants.

Large, multicolored fruits grew on curving, twisting vines, and popped easily loose from their home and into Ran's mouth. He could feel the skin and juices flowing down into his stomach - he hadn't fully appreciated just how hungry he had become. He reached out and tore the food loose with a vigor, blind to what he was doing until a face appeared from behind one of the plants.

The instant he laid his eyes on it, Ran leaped back in terror, brandishing the last fruit he had picked like a knife as though it might offer some measly form of protection. The green skinned Floran had been hiding amongst the greenery, and was staring at Ran as he backed himself into a tree.

"D-don't come any closer!" he yelled out at it fruitlessly. The Floran was already approaching him, head cocked to one side. "I won't let me take you like you took my home!"

"Hylotl is acting ssstrange," said the Floran, her voice giving away her gender. "Floran hasss not ssseen life in many cyclesss. Floran hasss been alone."

Ran didn't know that he believed her. Her face and her body language seemed innocent enough, but he knew how the Floran were - cruel and evil, ready to devour any in their way. "I won't be eaten by you!" he called out once more.

"Nazoma doesss not eat Hylotl. Met Glitch lady. Ssshe taught Nazoma how to live on outssside. Nazoma now only eatsss mindlesss beassst."

Ran hesitated, unsure. He had heard that the Floran and Glitch got along because the Floran could not consume the Glitch's metal body. But did that kindness extend out any further? He doubted it. "And what constitutes a mindless beast?" he asked, his voice still shaking.

The Floran giggled abruptly. Ran had never seen a Floran laugh innocently before. "Hylotl isss cute. What Hylotl'sss name?"

There was a long pause. "...Ran," he finally offered.

"Nazoma like Ran. Nazoma travel with Ran?" She looked down at the plants around her and grabbed a larger fruit, pulling it away from the vines and offering it like a peace treaty.

Slowly Ran took the fruit from her hands. He was surprised to see her smile as he did. There was something different about this one. He wasn't sure what had happened... But he was going to find out.

"Yeah," he said. "Alright. Let's travel together."

Competition

I don't enjoy being put into competitive positions. It's not that I'm a competitive person - it's that I'm too competitive, and I'm too angry. And not just the yelling, crying, rage quitting kind of angry, but the violent kind of angry. It sounds weird and almost kind of disturbing, but I can feel it in my muscles when they scream for me to strike out, and to fight. I want desperately to get into a fight - it's not enough just to punch, but to be punched as well. I can't accurately describe it, but it's like a pulling my muscles that can't possibly be ignored.

When I get mad, that second part that wants to be hit back goes away, draining into the need to punch. When I get mad, I want to destroy whatever - or whoever - it is that's making me angry. It took me years to be able to control that urge and to stifle it down when it comes up. But the thing that brings it out of me more than anything else is playing video games - and, unfortunately, some of my favorite games and the ones that are most popular among my friends. Fighting games, like Super Smash Brothers, or party games, like Monopoly. To say I want to flip tables is to seriously understate the feeling.

A younger me would have quite literally walked up behind my friend's head while we were playing and violently punch them in the back of the head. Even before I started training in martial arts, I was stronger and faster than most of my friends, so even if they tried to fight back, as much as I hate to say it, I was usually the winner. I honestly don't know how I managed to have friends at the time in the first place, and I especially don't know how some of those friends continue to hang out with me today.

In sports it's not quite as bad, mostly because that anger can be focused into the game itself. When I played lacrosse, getting angry meant that I played a better defense, that I threw the ball harder and faster, and I became a lot more aggressive in my attempts to gain control of the ball. All of which are the exact kinds of things you want in a lacrosse player - especially a middie.

But games... Getting angry just makes you play dumb, and play sloppy. You hit the buttons harder, which means you're hitting them slower, so you usually don't get the hits in that you want, which only serves to make you angrier. And that, of course, leads to worse gameplay, which makes you angrier, ad infinitum.

So I have to take breaks from playing. Do things like, I dunno... write about how angry I get while playing games with my friends.

Natural muscles

Matthew had been exercising for the first time in his life for the past few months, and he was finally starting to see the results for it. Losing a little bit of weight, gaining a little bit of muscle - for the most part, he felt fantastic. But lately his back and shoulders had begun to feel incredibly sore and painful. He figured it was just because he was working them out too much, so he took a week off from training. The pain, however, wasn't going away, and he decided to visit a doctor for a professional opinion.

He was in the doctor's office for much longer than he anticipated. His doctor had started off the encounter as Matthew might have expected, with the doctor feeling the muscles in his back as he laid face down on the table. But evidently the doctor had felt something he had not anticipated in Matthew's back. Matthew had to spend over an hour moving between offices and work rooms as he was x-rayed and thoroughly examined. The various doctors that looked him over all looked concerned and confused, yet not a one of them deemed to give him any information. They simply passed him on to the next professional, wanting verification of what they witnessed.

He became increasingly more frustrated with each wordless encounter, passing him off like a baton in a relay race. Each reading of x-rays, each looking over his papers, each typing furiously away on their computers and reading some kind of files that Matthew couldn't see. He wanted desperately to know what the hell was going on, and why no one would tell him anything. He had never been treated like this before.

The sixth doctor was when he snapped. He screamed to be allowed to know what was going on - to sit down with one doctor and be told what the hell was going on. All he wanted to know was how to relieve the pain in his back so that he could keep exercising. These doctors had been telling him his entire life that he needed to be more active, and now that he was trying to and coming to them for help, they were silent. It was infuriating.

The doctor sighed and slumped in his seat, losing all pretenses of professionalism as he looked at Matthew, the debate in his eyes clear as to whether or not he would forfeit any information. "Look, Matthew," he finally said quietly, "this isn't easy to explain. In fact, it really doesn't even make any sense. No one in the hospital wants to admit what we're seeing is even a possibility, much less a... a very real reality for you."

"What the hell are you talking about? Just tell me already, please!"

Another long pause as the doctor took deep breaths and glanced down at his notes. "There is a plant growing in the center of your spine," he explained, his voice notably flat. "It's extending out in four directions - two vines growing up each of your traps, and two down your lats. It appears as though it has an almost human like knowledge, and is slowly attempting to take over your system. It's hard to say how long it's been growing. Months? Years? And we don't know if there's anything we can do about it."

Fighting styles

I've talked before about my writing fight scenes, and how my own personal experience affects how I write those scenes, and how I can potentially write those scenes. But there is more to it than just my own personal experiences - I studied a very small amount of martial arts, but there are hundreds of others, and they all have their own laws, specialties, and abilities. Some of those fighting styles I have heavy interest in, both as a possible participant, and as a possible source of design for a character that I wish to write. I can think of a couple in particular that apply to both, and that I have used on the blog before, and likely will again.

The first is the idea of "drunk fu." I'm pretty sure there's a real name for that style of martial art, but it's been a long time since I did any real research into it, and I honestly don't remember. Besides, you're far more likely to understand what I'm talking about by calling it drunk fu than you would be if I could remember the real name. In storytelling, drunk fu is the hidden martial art of a person that only comes out when they are drunk. It's movements are hard to predict and unpractical, which makes it perfect for catching an opponent off guard and utterly destroying them.

In reality, you would never be drunk fighting in this style. It takes an incredible amount of focus and core control in order to fight in this style, as you are swaying from impractical position to impractical position, moving your way out of the way of where more traditional arts would be able to hit you, while never being unable to hit them. You may appear drunk, but a master of drunk fu would be far more aware than another man could ever dream to be.

The second is Iaido. Most people have never heard the name, but I'd be willing to bet you've seen it in a movie or tv show at one point or another. If you've ever seen a man who can move so quickly that he draws his sword and slices his opponent before resheathing it, while you as a viewer never see the sword leave its sheath, then you've seen Iaido.

The idea behind Iaido in the real world is similar. To draw your sword from its sheath, cut your opponent down, and return your sword to its sheath in one smooth movement. By extension, there is also Iaijutsu, in which your opponent should already be dead by the time your sword returns to its sheath.

It's somewhat ironic that both of these in the real world require extreme amounts of concentration, self control, and coordination. Things that I lack. But that's what makes them so interesting, and so perfect for story writing. They are incredible to watch, and they show the skill that a person has in a single scene. Even a single strike. To land a punch to the chin while hobbling to the side and leaning over backwards, or slicing down a threat in the blink of an eye. You know immediately that someone like that is not someone to be trifled with.

I love how much you can learn about a person just from the way they fight. I think that's part of what draws me to writing fight scenes, and exploring the way a person handles taking and giving blows.

You know. That and cause I'm a guy and fighting is cool.

Boss fight

Ventrick towered over the small man who had come before him, each with a sword in hand, breathing hard and covered in sweat and blood. The man had come seeking Ventrick's throne and power, thirsting for money and power, and had found it just out of reach. Ventrick, after all, was an old and powerful king, and had defended his title more times than his attacker had taken breath.

The king's sword raised into the air, his eyes never straying from those of the man who had come to take his life. Without words, he thanked the man for giving him a challenge, and prayed he would have safe passage into the next life that remained out of his reach. The sword came down fast and hard, blood splattering on the floor and walls, and the body collapsed, head split in two, and the one arm raised to protect himself rolling away into the corner.

With a flick of his wrist, Ventrick discarded the blood from his blade, specially designed to easily cleanse itself of the blood of his enemies. He had defended his life one too many times, with each coming more quickly than the last, and his sword had been rusted and worn by blood far too quickly for him to care for carefully cleaning and maintaining the steel. That was when he had commissioned the blade with sleek bloodletting lines to drain the blood to its tip to be quickly swiped away.

He took a seat, catching his breath, and staring at the torn and maimed body of the man who had been his opponents only moments before. So many men had come to send him to the grave, and so many had found themselves there in his stead. Ventrick was long since tired of life, and yet the curse that had been placed on him long ago by the power of the flames prevented him from dying so easily. He would only be sent on by the blade of another, and he would never allow himself to be killed without a fight.

That was some three thousand years prior.

But Ventrick would find himself faced with a new opponent. It was only a matter of minutes before his last battle before another arrived. But as Ventrick raised from his seat and gazed down at his opponent, he was struck by a certain similarity. A red dragon tattoo over the left eye, eyebrow gone in its stead, and vivid blue eyes that glowed with determination.

Ventrick's eyes glanced at the discarded body of his previous opponent. The two were unquestionably the same person.

"So you've returned," he mused under his breath, lifting his sword into position. "It should seem that you have also some curse that keeps you going. Let us see which will be permitted to move on."

Massage

Jeremiah came into the house with a sigh of relief, rolling his neck and shoulders and dumping the contents of his pockets onto the table in the entryway. It had been a long day at work, with lots of heavy lifting and moving, and his muscles were killing him. They were protesting the hard work - he was more than capable of moving heavy objects, but he had never been particularly good with endurance, and so the length at which he had been working today was what was taking its toll on him. His muscles were inflamed, and in desperate need of rest.

His girlfriend, Sierra, smiled at him as he walked into the kitchen. "How was work today?" she asked, leaning against the table. She had been working from home that day, still wearing the thin shirt and comfy pants that she slept in, using her computer from the comfort of her own home.

"Stressful," Jeremiah replied, pouring himself a drink. "Lots of heavy moving. My shoulders are killing me."

Sierra chuckled and shut her laptop. "Would you like to massage them?" she asked.

He smiled at her and nodded. "I would love that," he replied. Without a word, she smiled at him and stood up, gesturing towards the couch.

His shirt slid off and fell to the floor as Jeremiah walked to the couch and laid down, face down. He knew that she enjoyed massaging his back, getting to feel his muscles and help him to relax them, and he also knew that she found it easier to do so if she didn't have to do it through his shirt. He felt the weight of her on him as she sat down on him, her butt on his. It was only half a second later that her hands were on his back, working away at the kinks and knots that plagued him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, letting her work away at the pain. It had been a few years now since she had first done this - she wasn't very good at the time. But with repeated practice, she had learned what to do, and what worked on him, and she had become quite proficient at relieving his tension. He loved the way her hand felt on his skin, digging in to him to push on his muscles and unwind them. Occasionally, without warning, he could feel her leaning in and kissing the skin on the back of his neck and upper shoulders, raising goosebumps and sending delightful shivers down his spine.

When she was done, she laid down on top of him, and he could feel the bare skin of her chest pressed against his back. He could feel his face flare up at the feeling. He hadn't heard her remove her shirt. The sensation sent a fire burning through him - a pleasant, wonderful fire, unlike the one that she had just spent the last several minutes pushing away.

Without a word, she nipped gently at his ear, and he could feel the smile in the way she breathed on him.

"I love you, Sierra," he whispered up at her.

She giggled and kissed his ear where she had bitten it. "I love you too."

Sexuality in writing

I feel like this is a topic that can easily be taken the wrong way, so let me start out by saying that I have absolutely nothing wrong with gays, bis, queers, pans, whatever you want to call it. Who you like is your problem, not mine, as is what kind of relationships you prefer to hear about. Personally, I couldn't care less about who is who and what side does what. My only concern, both in my daily life and when I'm reading and writing, is whether or not that couple works well together and is healthy in their relationship.

All that being said, a topic that I hear about frequently is how straight relationships are over represented in writing. Ignoring statistics on how many straight couples there are and how much they are represented in books - because honestly I don't know, and I doubt anyone else does either - if you're reading a book to try and see a specific coupling in it, then you may be reading that book for the wrong reasons. We all have our preferences, of course, and personally I like that there are so many straight couples in writing, because as a straight male, I can relate. But if you're not in that boat, certainly it can be somewhat hard to put yourself in the shoes of the characters you are reading about.

But trying to push for the characters to change their preferences based on your own... And there are people who will argue that they don't want to change the characters that have already been made. They just want that change to be made in the future. But if you're trying to write a character a specific way because that's what you think they should be, you'll quickly find that that character becomes flat and lifeless. It's a problem that all writers have, and that they have to learn to deal with in their own ways. But most commonly, they realize that it's not up to them to determine how their character will grow - it is up to the character themselves. It's a weird thing to think about, but it's just how it goes.

That, of course, will be determined in part by who the writer is. Personally, the vast majority of my characters are straight, will end up finding love, and will become both romantically and sexually interested in whoever it is that they come across. That's just what's in my head and in my bones, because it's how I am. Sure, once in a while I write something different, and it may be awkward because of my lack of experience, but in a way that's a good thing. Maybe it's their first experience too, and so it's just as awkward for them as it is for me.

The point is that these are the kinds of things that you can't just force. There's very little in writing that can be forced, truthfully. There's a reason the word forced has a negative connotation when used in those circumstances, after all. If you're the kind of person that feels there should be more representation, then by all means, get in the game. It may be terrible at first, and it may make you feel like you're just making things worse. But you keep at it, and you get better, and eventually you find yourself writing something worth reading.

That's all I'm doing.

Bar fight

It wasn't uncommon to be hearing the sounds of fist on skin as you walked past the Riverside Saloon in the late summertime. Wooden chairs and tables being broken and thrown against walls, shouting and cheering as the patrons excitedly clamored over each other to get the best view of the fight. Glass breaking, beer spilling, and every once in a while there was the loud and final bang of a gunshot, ending the fight with a certain certainty that couldn't be matched by any other sound.

But what it was not common to hear was screaming, as the patrons clamored over each other not to see, but to flee. It was not only uncommon, but unheard of, to see the patrons piling out of the swinging doors to the bar, running as hard as they could in a desperate attempt to get away. Even the barkeeper was among them, discarding his own place of business in his terror of what was going on inside of the small building that was so frequently home to fights.

Arnor approached the building as the others were running away, unsure of what was going on inside. That there was something that might occur that would be so terrifying to people... He had to know what it was. He approached the door as the last of the patrons walked out, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip. He paused for just a moment - not afraid, but listening. Listening to the pounding of fists on the inside. Hearing how it just wasn't quite right.

He pushed the door open slowly with his off hand to see what was inside. On broken tables, up against blood spattered walls, and all over the counter, broken and battered bodies were piled up, torn apart and spilling all over the floor. In the center of the bar was a massive black form, hardly able to be described as remotely human like. One arm was massively out of proportion to the other, and in it the creature was hoisting a screaming body up, before crushing the man's midsection between its teeth.

The pistol was out of its holster and in Arnor's hand within an instant, and the trigger was pulled before he knew what he was doing. The monster's head snapped with how quickly it turned to face him, the bullet falling uselessly to the ground. It was abruptly obvious why the people had been running so quickly away. This was no fight that a human could win.

Arnor turned hard on his heel and sprinted for the day. He heard only two steps behind him before his feet were no longer touching the ground. That giant fist was wrapped around his waist, lifting him up towards the monstrous face with razor sharp teeth that so easily tore flesh from bone. It turned him, making him look it in the face. He watched its eyes fixate on him, staring through him as though it were to tear him apart with just a glance. He felt his soul trying to run from his body, like it couldn't stand to be a part of him.

And then he saw the massive jaw open.

Desert

Jeremy came to a reluctant stop, surrounded by sand as far as the eye could see, and generally no idea where he was or where he was going. It had been hours since he had first entered the desert, tempted by he close looking ends of the sand, but he had quickly learned just how unwelcome he was in the sands. Even on easy mode, he suspected that if he came face to face with one of the creatures lurking in the sands unexpectedly, than he unquestionably would have been sent to the bathroom to clean up the results of the terror running down his cheek at the full panic of what just happened as he came near.

He wasn't sure if this was how all deserts were, but it certainly scared him to have to fight across. The sun was beating down on him, drawing out the sweat from Jeremy's body and quickly evaporating it, to keep him from being able to draw any benefits from it. There was nothing but heat and dryness in the air around Jeremy, sapping his strength and fortitude, and making him deeply regret having ever stepped foot on the sands.

The sand was no kinder to Jeremy then the air was. It was hot to the touch, which Jeremy could feel through his shoes, but that was only a small problem compared to the other thing that the sand was doing. The sand was thick and deep, shifting under Jeremy's feet, forcing him to slow down, which was good for little more than preventing you from getting where you needed to go. The muscles in his legs were working on full throttle, trying desperately to get David where he needed to be, but being unable to progress more than a couple feet at a time.

And something else must have been beneath the sand, swimming along like a fish in the water, causing ripples in the sand and preventing progress along the way. The way it displaced sand cause small slides, which plugged up what was left of small holes that might have been able to be used as landmarks or hints to shortcuts through the desert. They pushed up against Jeremy's legs as he walked, giving him small panic attacks or forcing him to freeze in place for extended periods of time, making him all the more vulnerable to the heat.

Jeremy could not remember why he had stepped foot into the desert in the first place - much less the positions of the items that he would have used as waymarkers along the way. The endless sands seemed to be swallowing him whole, an he felt like he was slowly wasting away into the brink.

He was beginning to seriously despise sand.

Resting by the fire

Adrien slipped into the small room, locking the door behind her with a heavy sigh and heaving shoulders. She could barely steady her breath. She had been running at full sprint for a long time, layered in heavy armor that had helped save her life on more than one occasion, and a halberd with a metal blade at the end as heavy as she was. She had been swinging it with every fiber of her being in order to tear apart waves of undead monsters endlessly falling upon her, desperate to steal her precious human soul.

She waited a long time, resting her back against the locked door, breathing hard but waiting and listening for any footsteps on the other side. It was ten minutes before she decided she was safe. Her halberd fell hard to the ground, though she wasn't afraid of it being damaged - she had reinforced it countless times with magic and steel, and the only thing that could break it by now was dragon scale. Which, unfortunately, was a very real concern for her outside of this room. But the stone floor? That would do nothing.

She stripped herself out of her armor, each piece clanging heavily on the ground, but she was unafraid of the sound attracting any foes. She had long since learned that it was not sight or sound or smell that her foes could detect her by - it was the very human soul that she still possessed that they searched for. She was still unsure of how, but they could sense it in some way, and were irresistibly attracted to it. They needed that soul. Somewhere deep down, they knew that it was the only thing that could return them to their sanity. But Adrien was determined not to give it to them.

In the center of the spartan room, Adrien tossed down a small collection of wood, and pierced them with a withered and ashen knife, all of which she carried under her heavy armor. With a snap of her fingers, the magic in her knife scoured through the wood, igniting it in a burst of rejuvenating flame. She sat down, bare as the day she was born, and rested before the fire. It gave her peace to know that it was here, to feel its warmth, so unlike the frigidity of the undead hands that clamored for her skin, to tear her apart and rip her soul from her body.

Her mind wandered to far off memories of where she had been. To the peace of other bonfires, and to the rage in her eardrums as she had fought massive enemies that could crush her in a single movement. Their souls were no longer human, but they held more than many of the worthless creatures she had slaughtered. And she needed those partial souls. She needed them to build the passage to her final destination, where she could finally end the curse of the undead. And so she slaughtered everything in her way, taking their souls as they wished to do of her, so that she might bring peace to this land.

Skinny

Michael sat down to dinner with some friends of friends, a smile on his face as he tried to play a good host. The truth was, he wasn't a big fan of these people, but they were good friends of his good friends, and he wanted to be able to get along with them. He was willing to put himself out there in order to please the people around him. But there was one in particular...

Rochelle was a skinny girl. Unhealthily skinny. She was little more than skin and bones, and that was not enough for her. It was quite apparent to Michael that she had some kind of eating disorder, and she made it clear whenever she spoke that it was because she was not attractive enough, and needed to be skinnier. He tried not to talk about it, especially not with her, but it thoroughly bothered him that she acted the way she did.

He wasn't a health buff, per say, but he was a big and tough guy. He worked out regularly, he kept an eye on what he ate, and his body reflected it. He was proud of what he had sculpted out of himself, and he knew well how to maintain it. He didn't want or think that everyone should follow in his footsteps, but he had become familiar with what it meant to be healthy. And looking at someone who so clearly had tossed that aside while claiming to be healthier and smarter than the people around her...

It was irritating. She would even go so far as to taunt him about what he was eating, because he would get somewhat larger meal, with plenty of meat, and yet he deigned to choose to get vegetables as his side. She had utterly no concept of what constituted an actually healthy meal, and she avoided proteins all together. Salads were virtually all that she consumed, and only those with the blandest ingredients.

He couldn't tell if the others with her when genuinely jealous of her figure, or if they just wanted to feed her ego for fear of what might happen if they went against the grain. But Michael had no such attachment to Rochelle. His only reason for satisfying her was because other friends - who weren't even at his dinner party - had requested that he do so.

Patience was growing thin, however, as her voice continued to prattle on. She complained about how weak she felt and how poorly she slept, blaming it on eating too much food, while Michael silently raged in his mind, knowing that it was because she was not eating enough. She was starving herself into her own grave, and encouraging the people around her to do the same. It wasn't hard to see his form and see that he was the wise one, and yet the people around him seemed ignorant of that.

When he finally couldn't take anymore, he excused himself to the bathroom. He strode immediately to the waitress, paid his section of the tab, and left. It truly was not worth the struggle.

Magical items

In fantasy, one of the most common goals that characters have to achieve is to collect some kind of magical, mystical weapon or armor that will ultimately give them the power they need to overcome the evil that they are standing against. A spell, a sword, a shield, a chest plate, or even a ring - whatever it is, you can guarantee it's behind age old traps and protections that will only ever open for the chosen main character, who will of course be immediately followed by the villain, ready to swoop in and steal the mystical item from under the hero's nose.

Which, of course, will lead to the hero realizing he never needed the magical item in the first place, and that they had the power inside of them all along. Which will in turn beg the question of why the hero ever needed to go on such a journey in the first place.

It's a valid question, and one that you have to ask yourself when you are writing this kind of story. Do you want to have some kind of legendary item that your character wants to collect? Why do they want to collect it? Is it something that they will eventually be able to get, or will it slip from their grasp at the last second? What kind of consequences will that have on them, both internally and from the point of view as their quest as a whole?

Personally, I'm of the view point that if you want to have them need to collect something, then they should be able to collect it. It's alright if it ends up in enemy hands at one point or another, but ultimately it should end the story in the hero's hands. Or perhaps it is something that they only need temporarily. Something that will keep something about them in check until they can learn how to control it on their own. Some great power - perhaps the ability, or rather curse, to take the form of a dragon? This, also, would be acceptable.

But I'm also the kind of person who isn't big on the collection of these, at least in my own stories. I don't mind seeing it in other books, movies, or games, but it's just not something that I would really think of using. I'd rather see my character grow then see them collect something that makes them stronger. What good is strength if it is not your own, after all?

I suppose that it is simply a matter of preference in story telling. I would not wish to use it as a device because it does not fit with the kind of story that I want to tell. For me, it is not about the destination, but the journey, if I may use cliches. Personal growth rather than what you do with that growth. And that's not something you can just get from an all powerful weapon.

Free Write 4

Man, I really didn't want to do another of these, but...

Well, that's the first thing I want to talk about. To be honest, as of late, I really haven't wanted to write. Not, like, in general. I don't want to give up being an author - though at times, whether or not I can get by as one is a very real and very disturbing concern of mine. But I just feel burnt out. Yesterday was the 450th post on this blog, which is just... wow. I never thought I would get that far. But god damn, man, I feel so dry. My creativity pools are just draining. And if that's been showing through in my writing, I apologize.

It's been four months since I've finished it, and I still haven't gone back to my novel from Nano. It's not that I don't like the story or anything. It just doesn't feel like I wrote a satisfactory ending to it - there's a lot of things left in it that I want to do. If anything, it's only half done. But because I want to finish that fifty thousand word mark, I kind of just pushed myself into a corner to get the word count done, and I'm not sure what I want to do about it. Lately I've been considering just erasing that whole part of it; it's not really well written, the explanations I gave for things are pretty dumb, and it's been holding me off. But that's a lot of effort to be wasted. I just don't know.

I've also been finding in my writing lately I've been moving away somewhat from the medieval setting. It's not that I don't enjoy it any more - I've always loved everything medieval, and I probably always will. I just get so excited even thinking about knights and castles and swords. But I guess I've just felt lately that trying to push myself into that setting all the time is limiting me. Plus it's a lot easier to find inspiration for modern day pieces - sort of like I'm constantly surrounded by it or something. I feel like in longer pieces I might still be more inclined to do medieval writings, but in these short little tidbits... Who knows.

Sometimes I wonder if I should update the way the blog looks. I just kind of picked generic templates that were available to me on the backend and rolled with it. To be honest, I don't ever really see it - the back end of the blog looks very different from the site itself, and I almost never go onto the site itself. But I remember what I picked. I question whether it might be a little bit over the top for a guy just writing fictional pieces at random every day. But I know absolutely nothing about site design, and I don't want it to look bland and boring. Plus, orange is my favorite color.

I also sometimes dream about the future, and what I want to have happen as a writer. I don't ever want to stop this blog. The dream is that one day, when I'm a big time writer, people can come here and get tastes of what might be coming, or if they want to read more things by me they'll all be here, or even look back at where I came from and get inspired by how bad I used to be at writing, and how good I will be. I even dream about getting fan art of what I write, and being able to feature it here on the blog - that, honestly, I thought of very early on when I saw that you could add pictures to your blog posts. I'd love to be able to inspire people to create with my words like that. But sometimes it feels more like a far off imagination rather than an attainable dream.

New guy in town

Jeremiah stepped off of the train, bag over his shoulders filled with the few belongings he had, and a suitcase in hand with a few sets of clothes. It was the start of a new life, and he should have been excited for that. Instead, he was terrified. He didn't know how to live on his own, and he didn't have anything he could sell himself on. He was taking a big risk, throwing himself into a new world, and he didn't think he was going to make it.

A girl around his age was waiting at the train station, a smile on her face, and a sign with his name on it in her hands. At least my welcoming band is cute, Jeremiah thought to himself as he approached her and forced a smile on his face. The smile on her face grew brighter as she realized that the one she had come to welcome to her town had arrived. "You must be Jeremiah!" she exclaimed, putting down her sign to hold out a hand. Jeremiah nodded and took her hand, shaking it firmly. "It's not often we get new neighbors around here. It's so exciting!"

Jeremiah followed the girl into town, his eyes glancing around, taking in his new surroundings. He didn't even register when she offered her own name to him. He was too preoccupied with trying to memorize his way around. He had a feeling his first night would involve him getting lost on his way home from dinner, and anything he could to mitigate that possibility was worth doing.

"And this is your home." The girl's voice slapped Jeremiah back to attention. He didn't even realize they had come upon his home so quickly. That fact was going to erase any progress he might have made with trying to remember his way home. "It's a little small, and I'm sure you'll want to get right to work making it feel more like your own, but it's homely. It should be more than enough to get you by for the time being. If you need any help, everyone around town will be more than happy to help point you in the right direction or lend a hand."

Poking his head in the door, Jeremiah took in his new home. She was right. It was small. A bathroom, a combination living room and kitchen, and a small bedroom just large enough to take a couple steps around the bed, and that was about all there was to it. There was a chair, a bed, a table, a stove, and a sink, and that was it. The bath was small, just barely large enough for him to clean up in, and if he wanted to wash his hands after using the toilet, he'd have to do it in the kitchen sink.

"I hope it's not too disappointing." She had a knack for snapping him back to attention with her words, cutting him like a knife. He looked at her and could tell she could read the disappointment on his face. He tried to pull it back.

"It's fine," he half lied. "I can make this work. It'll just take a little getting used to." He couldn't help but feel relieved when the smile returned to her face. She left her number and headed out, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

This was going to be an interesting new life. That was for sure.

Scope

I think the hardest part to really wrap your brain around when you start writing is the scope of your story. Everyone wants to tell something amazing, to have an immersive world with lovable characters and a deep background with mature and hard hitting messages that will change the world as we know it. And it's not that having all of those things in your story is impossible - many of the great novels known around the world incorporate all of these things, and even some of the obscurer ones that only a select few have heard of.

The problem that arises with this is that, in most of those instances, all of these things that we as writers so desperately want to have in our stories weren't done in a single book. I mean, I've heard people say that they want to write the next Harry Potter, but what they tend to forget is that Harry Potter was seven books long. I mean sure, it was popular when even just the first book came out, but the further we get from that time, the more I hear people talk about wanting to write the successor, and the less they recall how much was covered past the first book.

This was certainly a problem for me when I started writing. The first "book" I ever wrote - embarrassingly titled "The Power of the Balls" - besides being terribly written and not really making any sense, tried to have way too much content to it. As you may be able to guess by the title, the point was to go around and collect a series of orbs, each emblazoned with and granting some kind of power, from fire and ice to telekinesis and necromancy. Every orb was obtained by fighting and defeating a monster, which was the embodiment of that power.

If that all sounds really boring and cliche to you, well, that's because it was. But that's perfectly excusable - I was seven or so. No, the real problem with that story was just how many orbs of power there were. I never got around to them all - probably because no one in their right mind could have feasibly come up with enough of them - but in my head, there were at least a hundred of the damn things. Most of which I blatantly stole from the tv shows and games I watched and played as a kid. One in particular I can recall quite clearly is heart, which should sound pretty familiar if you ever watched Captain Planet like I did.

Most of the power orbs had some kind of crap message to them, usually about how you should have and believe in your friends, and that they will give you power, which isn't necessarily a bad message in and of itself, but it's been way over done. And imagine if that was the message a hundred times over in a single story. You'd get tired of it pretty fucking quick.

But these are steps that you have to go through. There are a lot of things that you can feasibly teach about writing - what tense to write in, or point of view, what makes a character good or bad, grammar - but understanding the scope of your writing is really something you can only get through experience. Unfortunately, gaining any insight from that writing isn't going to happen immediately.

And that's how you end up with "The Power of the Balls 2."

Returning

King Geoffery sat on his throne, tapping his fingers against the arm of his seat, waiting impatiently for his advisor to arrive. The castle was preparing for war, with invading forces on the march coming from the East, estimated to arrive within the next three days. While the generals were giving their men final orders, and castle servants were preparing food for the soldier's and royals to last for several days during potential trade blockages, Geoffery was coming down to one of his most difficult duties as a king. The decision of what to tell the people, and how soon.

He desperately needed the help of his advisor, Willam. He had found Willam in the streets, masterfully working them and both leading some people while manipulating others. He understood the thoughts and desires of the people, and how to use those both to his own needs and the needs of those around him. Geoffery lacked that capacity, but he could see it plain as day in the man's face at every waking moment. Without hesitation he had hired the man as his personal advisor, swiftly booting out Willam's predecessor without a second thought or regret.

But Willam was late, which was unlike him. Fifteen minutes after he was supposed to arrive, Geoffery heard the creak of the door to his throne room opening, and he watched as Willam shuffled in quickly. "I am sorry, your highness," Willam called out as he rushed to the throne. "Things are becoming quite packed in this castle, and there is much going on in the hallways. It took much longer than anticipated to arrive."

Geoffery eyed his assistant, thinking and not saying a word. He knew Willam well. This was very unlike him. He would have planned well in advance for what would be occurring at such times, and he would not have had any difficulty arriving at the throne room. There was either something very unwell rushing amongst the people, or...

Geoffery slowly rose from his throne, keeping his eyes glued on his assistant. "Your highness?" Willam asked, his eyes quickly showing concern. "What's wrong? I know I am late, but please, I would beg you for forgiveness."

The sword was out of the king's sheath and into Willam's chest in the blink of an eye. The advisor's eyes widened and faded to white, and his king did not pull his own eyes away for a moment. His pupil's faded away, draining out of him like the blood from his wound, but the blood quickly turned black.

It rose like smoke from the wound in Willam's body, and it was only then that Geoffery turned away from the eyes of his friend. The smoke billowed out into the air before taking the shape of a man. It towered over the king, staring down at him, but Geoffery was not one to be so easily frightened.

"You will fall, old King Geoffery," the smoke spoke clearly.

"We shall see about that."

Choose your own adventure

I've never really gotten in to them, but I've always loved the idea of choose your own adventure books. The concept of a book with a chance at victory or failure is fascinating. That's usually something that you can only get from video games, and we all know how much I love video games. A book that you can retry, and get different results from, and learn as you go, until you finally reach the desired ending - or, for some people, you see all of the endings. That's just such a cool idea.

I don't know if it's something that I would every really write, however. For one, I think that has a very unique style of creativity behind it, and I'm not sure that that is my kind of creativity. To create multiple pathways through a story, splitting the options and creating full stories based off of those choices that continuously split, again and again, changing the story with each choice. Creating a dozen different realities not just for a character, but for you, the reader. Choose your own adventure novels are the only way - at least that I know of - to write a book in the second person. That's a question that people always ask. Why can't you write in the second person? You're always taught to write in either the first or third. But here is your answer.

They're incredibly unique ways of writing, and full of potential, but you don't see them used very often. I suppose because most of the people with that kind of creativity are more inclined to go into story writing for video games, where they're more likely to get an audience, and have more potential use out of their writing. And yet there are so few games that handle choice well. At least from what I've seen. Choice is all too frequently used as a right or wrong option, and with right or wrong endings, and most of the time in games, you already know as soon as they come up which is which. There's no moral ambiguity. The choice isn't about seeing what happens - it's about deciding what happens.

And there's nothing necessarily wrong with that. But in choose your own books, most of the time you never quite know what to expect. You have to make your choices based off a gut instinct, and it will ultimately lead to your downfall or success, sure, but you don't know how. And there's almost never just the two endings. There are endings with mystery, endings with answers, endings that don't even feel like they quite fit the events. Endings where it's clear whether you succeeded or failed, and endings where you're not sure where you landed on the spectrum.

Of course, a lot of that is based on how well the book is written, but that's true with any story of any kind. But there's no point in talking about anything generally if you assume that it's written badly.

I hope some day that these become more prevalent. That some author out there finds a way to really explore and exemplify them. I can guarantee it won't be me, but I will love whoever manages to pull it off. It's just too cool of an idea to pass up.

Reflections

Hunter leaned against the hoe, wiping the sweat from his brow with one hand as he checked the position of the sun, seeing how much time there was left in the day. It had been six months since he had reawoken. He had spent a few days getting reacquainted with being alive, so to speak - he had been desperately hungry and thirsty, and while his body had not decomposed or shrunk, it was certainly without fuel. Whether he had been fully turned to stone or simply trapped within it was still unclear, but the stone had regardless preserved him in the exact state he had been in when he had entered it. That being: exhausted, empty, and alone.

The people of this new town of Havenwood were kind enough to take him under their wings, to give him work to do to keep him busy during the day, and he did his best not to disappoint them. His twisted, pitch black arm was powerful, he found, and useful for working the land. It had scared many people for a long time - himself included - but there wasn't much anyone could do about it. It had assuredly been some kind of magic that had replaced his arm, and without any magic left in the world, there was no way of reverting the damage done.

He still wasn't sure what to make of that. In his own time, magic had been an abundantly available resource, and Hunter himself had been a magical knight, skilled in both swordplay and offensive magic. He had been bred to fight, and he had fought well. There were few things he remembered with any clarity, but he could picture quite vividly the forces of monsters that he had faced. He and his small army had fought valiantly against them as they marched on the human strongholds, and they had cut the invaders down decidedly.

But these were times of peace, that he and his beloved Sage had so long dreamed of.

Hunter's heart ached with yearning whenever his thoughts fell on Sage. She had always been a good friend of his, but it was when they had travelled together in the war that he had fallen for her. And miraculously, when she had fallen for him.

But all of those events had happened centuries prior to the days of Hunter working on the farmlands of Havenwood. He still wasn't sure what role he now had to play in life, but he knew that reflecting on the past would only bring more pain to his heart. And when he did, as it did now, shivers ran down his spine, and the hairs of his skin stood on the ends of goosebumps, as if a cold presence was washing over him.

As if someone - or something - was watching him.

Radio

Mark blinked in confusion when he flipped to his secondary radio channel in the car. He maintained two channels that were his main source of music, so that he could switch from one to the other when commercials or songs he didn't enjoy popped up, as well as a few extras for the rare occasion both of his other options failed him. But when the focus swapped over, the music was very clearly not the genre that he was expecting. He couldn't even understand the lyrics - he wasn't sure what language they were in, but it wasn't English.

When he came to a red light, he quickly pulled out his phone and did a quick search online. The station had evidently failed to upkeep its contract with the program he wanted, and had switched over to something vastly different. Mark growled in frustration as he hit the gas again with the green light, and began scanning through the channels, hoping to find a new replacement. He couldn't believe they had so drastically changed their programming - and without any warning, as well. It was rude how abrupt and unwarranted it was - not to mention, he couldn't imagine it would be good for their listener count.

He cycled through every station available a number of times, trying to find a new station to listen to, with little luck. He didn't linger long on stations playing ads. He knew that he might be passing up on something he would like, but he also knew that if he didn't find anything, he would just end up passing over them again when he cycled through everything again.

He stopped on a song he wouldn't have expected to. He was well familiar with the tune - he even knew most of the words - but, to be honest, he really didn't like it. It really was just not his kind of music. And yet, when he heard it, he couldn't help but stop. He was so familiar with it because his girlfriend loved the song, and always insisted on listening to it and cranking up the volume when it would come on. As much as he might not like it, he couldn't say no to her, and seeing her get so excited made him happy. It was worth the couple of minutes of music outside of his tastes.

She had moved away for school months ago, and they didn't get to see each other very often anymore because of it. Circumstances of late in particular had kept them apart for even longer than usual. The music hit him harder than he expected, touching his heart as it might were she sitting right beside him, cranking it up and starting to dance in her seat. Without even thinking, he turned the volume up just as she would, and he could hear her voice in his head singing along.

He didn't notice the tear forming in his eye until it slid down over his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, surprised that it had even come. A part of him was saddened, knowing that she wasn't sitting beside him as she should be. But another part was happy that he could at least be reminded of part of what it was like to have her there. Even as another tear rolled down, he smiled, and he heard the song out.

Frozen truth

The light from the moon shone in through the broken roof of the cave, hitting the frozen pools in the floor left behind by the winter, the light diffusing and reflecting to illuminate the cave in the dark of night. Frigid air circulated the cave, practically shimmering in the reflected moonlight, as though crystals were suspended on every breeze flowing in and out of the damp stone enclosure. But, most beautifully of all, a massive crescent shaped block of ice stood in the center in the cave, light bouncing through its inner workings like a puzzle being solved, before refracting on its way out to shine like an elegant chandelier, crafted by expert craftsman for the richest of the aristocrats.

This frozen crescent was the object which James was searching for as he stepped into the frigid air of the cave, which sent shivers down his spine even within his thick overcoat and many layers. He was a philosophy student - and an extremely superstitious one at that - and he had heard tale of a frozen wonder that, when it shone in the moonlight, could depart wisdom on those who came to seek it. He could hardly resist the challenge. He had searched for the cave for more than three years, believing at first that it could only appear in the winter. But now he approached in the late spring eve, bundled up beyond belief. Outside, he had been sweating to the bone, but now inside the cave he was freezing, and glad of it. Unnatural occurrences like this were a good sign of things to come, as far as he as concerned.

He stepped carefully over the icy floor, trying very hard not to slip and fall before he could make it to the structure which he had so long agonized over. There was almost no friction on the floor, though outside of the pools, the ice was extremely thin. Though the cave itself wasn't particularly large, it took James a good ten minutes of carefully planned steps - several of which had to be taken back, as the floor was not so stable as it appeared - in order to get within arm's reach of the massive block of ice.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply the icy breeze that surrounded the beautiful frozen crystal. He wondered how many hundred of generations the ice might have stood through and witnessed, if only from the confines of such a cave. What kinds of truths of the world it may have seen and retained, stored away within its maze like crystalline structure.

Slowly an carefully, James removed the thick wool lined gloves which had kept his hands warm. He reached out gingerly to the ice, knowing how painful it would be if it was as cold as it looked, but having heard no other story on how to receive its wisdom. He had practiced for some time, holding cubes of ice in his hand until they melted, conditioning himself to handle the cold.

But none of his training could have prepared him for the soul stealing frigidity of the ice as he placed his hand upon it, which rushed not only through the palm of his hand, but coursing through his veins, all the way to his brain, carrying a message with it.

The ocean bridge

The carriage came to a stop at the foot of the bridge, where they were to take a short break before continuing on their journey, to stretch their legs, go to the bathroom, and admire the view. Roshel stepped out onto the stone road, her long and elegant dress sliding around her legs as she made her way to the edge of the bridge. She looked out over the water that extended into the horizon, a bright and shimmering surface that was beyond her comprehension. And yet she lived in a world where people had conquered that mysterious surface. The newly constructed bridge spanned the entire length of the ocean to the next continent - a three day's journey.

The soft steps of her companion came up beside her, and a soft hand rested on her bare shoulder. She looked back to see Jasmine looking out over the waters. "It is quite amazing, isn't it, your highness?" Jasmine asked quietly. She was dressed in her own country's attire for the first time in years, now that she was finally heading home. The smooth, form fitting cloths were highly desirable in the desert heat of her home, and they certainly showed off how beautiful she was. Roshel wished she had a body like that.

"It's certainly something," she remarked, looking back over the water. "What's really amazing is that we managed to make a bridge like this. Even with how long it took to build, it's hard to believe what I'm looking at right now."

"That is the power of your people," Jasmine replied. "You look at a hardship and overcome it."

"You are one to talk. I imagine when we arrive at your home, I will not be able to stand as confidently in the heat and sand as you will."

Jasmine chuckled and shook her head. "Do not think so low of yourself, your highness. You have great power within you. We stand tall because we are able to internalize that hardship until we are tougher than it is. We do not surpass it in the same way you do."

"Can you tell me how I can surpass your appearance?"

Jasmine chuckled and took Roshel's hand in her own. "You are beautiful, your highness. I pale in comparison. I am the mountain range, rough and unseemly on the landscape, while you are the water, smooth and incredible in every situation."

Roshel rolled her eyes, but smiled. "And yet the mountains are also majestic and awe-inspiring heights, whereas the water is muddied and unfit for mankind."

Jasmine laughed out loud at that. "Always, you must make yourself feel down. One of these days you will simply have to accept the truth, your highness."

Roshel smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe once we see if this bridge really can cross an entire ocean, I'll consider it."

Sex in writing

I've talked before about why I try to refrain from writing sexual content on my blog, and so you may be questioning why I'm writing this now. The reason being that I don't intend on going into explicit detail about sex. No scenes, no descriptions. If that disappoints you, well... I don't know why you're here. But we're still talking sex, so if that's not your thing, well... Come back tomorrow.

I've noticed that there are quite a few movies and tv shows especially that seem to believe that adding sex in will make the show somehow more... I don't know. Mature? Deep? And I don't mean implied sex, I mean straight up sex. Full blown scenes thrown awkwardly into the middle of interactions, sometimes with narration going over them to explain what's going on in the greater arc of the show. They don't add anything, or give any context to the the greater scheme of what's happening. They're just filler with an excuse of being "sexy."

I don't see this happening as frequently in books, though admittedly part of that might be just because of what kinds of books I read. I know that there's an entire genre of erotic novels, but that's not the same as taking just an otherwise regular plotline and adding in sex for the sake of fan service. I really can't understand the purpose - but I suppose I'm just not the kind of guy who gets in to stuff like that in general, so maybe it's just a personal problem.

And the thing is, you can use sex effectively. It's totally within the realm of possiblity to use sex as a plot point, and to gain information or depth from that kind of scene. Generally speaking, you're not fully in control of your mind at times like that like you are during your normal day. Holding on to a mask, or keeping secrets - the walls that make that possible are more easily weakened in sex. It takes a strong will to maintain those during such sensitive times, which can be utilized to show the difference between two people who may even be at odds.

But that doesn't happen all that often, and when it does, a lot of the time it's by a side character and in the background. Any sex that a main character has is more likely just to show how attractive and powerful they are. But is it really all that great to be having sex for sex sake? It doesn't make you any stronger or sexier. It just shows what kind of person you are, and if you met that person in real life, you wouldn't think of them as being cool - you'd think of them as being a tool.

I think that's the real disconnection people make between characters in stories and people in the real world. For some reason, things that make people annoying in our lives makes them cool on screens. I would love to understand why that is, but I don't. To me, there's no difference between the two when it comes to making a "character" great. Which is why when it comes to sex I want there to be meaning behind it.

But I guess that just makes me a romantic.

Graveyard

Remma could feel her heart pounding in her chest, slamming against her ribcage, threatening with each beat to break out of her chest and abandon her body all together. Her mind was a sea of white, stretching out into the distance, nothing but dull blankness with the sound of static ringing in her ears, consuming all of her thoughts and memories. She felt as though she was dead inside. Were it not for the beating of her heart, she would be convinced that there was nothing left of her inside. That she was empty and already dead, and that this was merely what it meant to be going beyond this world.

But each painful pump of blood wracking her body was a horrible, terrifying reminder that she was, in fact, alive. And that she was the only one left alive.

She had fallen back to base camp some hours ago, as the fighting was dying down, numb with pain, her ears ringing with the sound of explosions coming in every direction, and her eyes half-blinded by the constant flash of muzzles. It was a dull haze now, but she knew that she had pulled a bullet out of her leg after she had arrived there, before curling up in a ball and waiting for the other survivors of the battle to return. But no one had.

If they had lost the battle, the enemy would have surely come to their base to raid it and steal their supplies. And finding her there, they would have killed her without a second thought. She was no one important. Taking her as hostage would do no one any good. She would fetch no sweet ransom, or be able to be tactically abused to gain the upper hand in the war. She was useless.

But no one came. Not enemy, not friend. She was alone. The sounds of battle had long since subsided, and if she had made it back with a bum leg, surely any other survivors would have been able to get back by then.

She didn't notice when her feet touched the floor, or when her hand pushed on the doorframe as she left the building. She didn't realize she was back on the battlefield until she was already there, surrounded by corpses that had not yet had enough time to begin to reek. But the smell of iron was strong in the air, and the moment it struck her consciousness she gagged and nearly vomited. She was no longer on a battlefield. She stood atop the middle of a graveyard.

Lessons

Sheena sat in her living room, several books laid out in front of her as she studied, cross-referencing information between them all, frequently losing track of her place as she tried to bounce around them, and the notes she was hastily writing and rereading weren't helping. The words and images were swimming through her brain, and as much as she grasped for them, they refused to become solid, and repeatedly swam away from her before she could utilize them. She could feel her face starting to burn, the blood rushing to her cheeks as she got angrier with her lack of progress. How was she going to pass her test if she couldn't learn?

After over two hours of attempts, she shoved the books off of her table in frustration and went to take a shower. She tried to relax under the heated water, but the hazy recollections of her failed attempts at studying were still fresh in her mind. It bothered her how much she was struggling with this, when in the past it hadn't been such a pain. She was feeling pressure weighing down on her shoulders unlike anything that she had ever experienced before. This was her final test, and one that she would no longer have help with. She would be entirely alone for the first time in her life.

She looked at the scattered books and pages of inane notes on the floor as she came back out, and judiciously decided to ignore them, stepping over them on her way into the kitchen. As she started a kettle to make some tea in hopes of calming her mind, she pushed her way into a small side room, spartanly decorated, with a single candle, a paintbrush, and a single small pot of red paint in the corner. She knelt down to dip the brush in the paint, and began to paint a circle on the floor. It was second hand to her now, she had drawn it so many times. Figures on the inside with long forgotten meaning, which spoke of other worlds and missed opportunities.

The kettle hissed with steam just as she was finishing up, and she backed out of the room to finish her tea. Cup in hand she returned to her summoning circle, and knelt down once more to light the candle. The flame burst to life in the center of the circle, its smoke rising quickly, but not fading. It rose and billowed on itself, taking the form of a young human girl. Sheena looked calmly up at her sister as she formed, sipping away at her tea.

"Sheena," her sister chastised the moment her lips had formed. "We have been over this a dozen times. You must do this on your own."

Sheena sighed and set down her tea. "I know, Ciral. Please, I'm not asking you to help me with my test right now. I know that I can not be the next sage unless I prove my own powers. But my head hurts, and I am tired. For once, can't you just be here to help me relax?"

Ciral rolled her eyes and turned away, but did not fade. "Fine. But after this, it's back to your studies."

Dragon's armor

Caedus entered the cave which so many from the kingdom were afraid to go near, shedding his armor as he did so, leaving behind a trail of protective metal. He left his sword and shield on a stone shelf as the large entrance narrowed slightly and began to twist and turn, heading deep into the mountains to the massive beasts that it housed. The kingdom's greatest knights feared what Caedus was heading towards. Yet he was relaxed, a calm smile planted on his face.

The path ahead of him brightened abruptly, a roar echoing through the halls, and a burst of heat rushing the air and drawing forth his sweat in an instant. He hesitated for only a moment, letting the distant flames die down before he continued onward. He was well familiar with the dragons - plural, despite what the kingdom's people believed - but even he was still a human. He could not withstand their power or their flames, and he knew that they would burn him to a crisp if he was not careful.

But he knew that they would not do so intentionally. The dragons had their preferences, their desires, their impulses, and their instincts. They preferred their homes hot, and frequently breathed flame into the stones to make them radiate heat for extended periods of time. The cave pathways were much too small for them to navigate, but allowed the heat to circulate and last for longer periods of time. Instead, they tore massive holes in the stone above their heads, allowing them entry and exit, as well as letting the light of the sun pour into their home, as they liked.

The dragons lifted their heads as Caedus approached, reaching out with their long necks to nuzzle him lovingly. Their scales were hard and rough, but he had long since toughened his skin so that they would no longer tear at his flesh as they showed their affection for him. He could not recall what had first brought him to this cave, or what life had been like before that day - it had been many years since then, and life had been better as a child of dragons. He had little he could ask for.

The head of their family, Drazlin, looked down at Caedus, wishing to speak with him. Caedus nodded in response, and placed his hand on the dragon's snout, closing his eyes and opening his mind to the beast.

Drazlin told Caedus of a gift he wished to impart upon the human. A gift of scales, shed early so as to retain their solidity and strength. Scales which could be sewn together into a new set of armor, to replace the feeble steel of human craftsmanship. Armor which no other human could compare with. Armor that would protect him as he went throughout the land, so that even when he was far away, his dragon family would always be with him.

Caedus smiled as he opened his eyes and looked up at the monster which he looked to as a father. He hugged the dragon's snout tightly and thanked him profusely. With dragon scale armor, he would be invincible. He would never again have to fear whether or not he could return home to them.

Appearances

I've never been particularly good at writing descriptions of appearances, be they for people or places. Or rather, I suppose, I should say that I've never really tried that hard to be any good at it. I feel awkward writing descriptions - I don't really understand how to make them flow with the rest of the story, or give a description that feels natural and not forced or over-detailed.

I've attempted before on here to write descriptions of people's appearance. Long, drawn out analysis of the way a person dresses, and does their hair, the colors of their hair and eyes, the way they carry themselves and what it says about them, and they way their appearances is viewed by the people around them. Trying to get as much about a person out from just the way that they look as I possibly can. And they are some of the worse pieces of writing on my blog. Not necessarily because I did a poor job describing them, but because it's just plain awkward.

Worlds are similar. Trying to describe the trees and the mountains, the rivers and the people and their affect on the land. It just all sounds extremely same-y. You can only say those kinds of things so many times, and unless you are some kind of master of allegory or the like, it's not going to sound that good to begin with. There are authors that are famed for their abilities to vividly and beautifully describe landscapes - I am not one of those authors.

I rely on my descriptions of personality to give an idea of how a person would look. I'm relying on stereotypes - there's nothing inherently wrong with that, as someone people may like you to believe. They exist in the first place for a reason, after all. They let us recognize things and people quickly on the fly, and make judgements about them. Is that necessarily a bad thing? No. It can be, and especially as our world changes and we are no longer a people designed around being fearful and making quick judgements to avoid danger, but it's certainly not a bad place to start as long as we do not allow ourselves to be completely controlled by these judgements and be unwilling to let actions change our minds.

But that's getting off topic.

The point I was originally trying to make on that is that, in my head, characters look certain ways and are in certain places. And I try to make the way they act describe those things in a natural way, so that you reflexively picture them the way I do. To my understanding, for some people that works, though I'm sure that for other people it does not. Which is why I need to work more on describing worlds. Though I must say, it's not a particularly fun thing for me to write.

Working out

When I was younger, I was a very active person, involved heavily in both Boy Scouts and Martial Arts, going on long backpacking trips every other weekend, and attending black belt classes twice a week. I was never a big guy, but I was strong and capable, even if I didn't look like it. I was a solid kid, and for some reason, I was incredibly resistant to pain, which made being active as I was easier for me to do. But as I got older, it became time consuming and difficult for me to keep up with these kinds of things, and I slowly moved away from them.

Unfortunately, as I came to learn, being less active means becoming less capable. Moving away from the things that kept me moving meant becoming less able to move. And so for the first time in my life, I began actively looking into what it meant to work out. Because of my history, I knew that I wanted to look more into bodyweight training rather than free weights. Things like push ups and squats as opposed to lifting weights. I did not and do not want to be a huge hulking mass of muscle. I want to be compact and mobile, strong but able to move. Nothing against weightlifters, but that's just not my way of life.

But despite having lived such an active life, working out has not been an easy thing to fit into my life. It is a monotonous task, and one that benefits you slowly over time. You don't get immediate satisfaction from doing these kinds of things. In fact, the first thing that you're going to feel is pain and frustration and exhaustion. Your body isn't going to be used to doing these kinds of things if it isn't something that you already do, and trying to adapt to them and increase the number and difficulty or weight of them will shock and confuse your muscles.

But that's the exact kind of thing you want your muscles to feel. Confusing your muscles forces them to adapt, meaning that they grow and harden, strengthening them and making you a tougher and more capable person. It makes you larger and more solid, more intimidating in appearance, and in some ways, more attractive.

It's not something that appeals to everyone. Many people wish that they could have the benefits of working out without having to do so, and I am included. But I do find some kind of twisted enjoyment in pushing my body to its limits, becoming pained by reaching them and slowly pushing them forward, until I can do all kinds of new things.

I just have to keep it up. It's easier than you might think to lose all of that progress, and getting it back again will be twice as hard. If only I hadn't learned that the hard way.