Choosing a weapon

Daniel stood in front of the heavily decorated wall, looking at all of the choices before him, unsure of where to even begin. He had always wanted to become a hunter - to be able to go out into the wild, to be able to sustain himself on the fruit of the land and the strength in his own arms. But now that he was facing the ability, he didn't know where to begin. He had always heard stories about the feats of the hunters, able to fight off beasts ten times their own size, carve their hides, making clothing, weapons, and meals out of every part of them. But he needed to start somewhere. He needed to start with a weapon.

But standing there, looking at the options, at a variety of blades, hammers, axes, bows, blowdarts, maces, polearms, lances, and primitive firearms, he couldn't decide which hunting path he would take. He had dreamed often about each of them. Truth be told, he wanted to try all of them. He wanted to feel the weight of each of them in his hands, to know what they felt like to swing, and how they felt as they tore through flesh and bone. But to try and conquer them all, to become skilled enough to survive, was impractical. Not to mention they were so large and heavy, carrying more than one anywhere he went was suicidal.

He couldn't just pick one, though. He had been standing in front of them for more than fifteen minutes, unmoving, unable to make a decision. Did he want to be the classic hunter, using a long sword with which to nimbly and deftly mince monsters to pieces? Did he want to crush their skulls in with the blunt and heavy hammer? Did he want to fight them from a distance, and put a stop to them before they could even draw close?

There were benefits and disadvantages to each of them. Some were incredible simple to use, and he could be out in the field much sooner than others. But he risked growing tired of the same, dull, repetitive motions. But to have something that could be utilized more diversely, to have more freedom in how he hunted, also meant significantly more time spent just learning the ropes.

Jacob's hand fell on Daniel's shoulder, pulling him from his trance and turning his head away from the wall. "It's pretty overwhelming, huh?" Jacob asked. Daniel could only nod in response. "Well, I wouldn't much recommend trying to get too adept at them all, as tempting as it may be... But it can't hurt to just start from the left and go down the list, trying them all, to see what you like. Doesn't matter how good you are at fighting if you don't enjoy it, after all."

Daniel blinked and looked back at the wall. He hadn't even thought about that. This seemed like such a life-defining choice, and one that he couldn't take back. But Jacob was right. There was time. He could afford to give in to a little bit of joviality. He grabbed the first weapon - a massive, two handed sword that looked like a giant cleaver. "Let's get started."

Anger

I've written before on fear, and why it can be used as a good motivational tool, but I wanted to take a minute to talk about how anger can be used in the same way. While I do believe that fear can and should be used motivationally, I feel like anger is a much more effective and easy to utilize tool for that purpose. Maybe I'm just saying that because I'm an angry person, and rather than learning to control my anger, I've learned to focus it. But honestly, I feel like that is the better way to go.

When I was younger and heavily active in martial arts, I used anger not only as a learning tool, but a teaching tool as well. I had a number of sparring partners who were... less than stellar. Their kicks were wild and unfocused, which made them weak, inaccurate, and easy to counter. It was something that I had noticed in myself for some time - this was around the time of going through brown belt and black belt, so I had plenty of experience under my belt, pun intended. So I told them to do exactly what I did. Think of someone you hate. Plaster their face over mine. And beat the shit out of me.

That sounds like bad advice, I know. It sounds like it would only make the wildness worse. But I know from experience that that's not true. When you have a goal in mind - in this case, beating up someone you hate - you become precise. Mechanical. It's not about kicking that person. It's about kicking that person in the face. Kicking that person so hard in the stomach that they double over and puke their brains out. And when that's what you want, that's what you get.

Of course, sometimes people didn't have that kind of anger. They didn't have someone that they could just think about and become precise. So in that case, I became that person for them. I wouldn't shut up as we sparred, telling them what they were doing wrong and moving faster than they could anticipate, landing blows on them that they could not on me. Without fail they would become angry. And then they would become better. And when all was said and done, I couldn't be prouder of them.

Recently, I've had a resurgence of this understanding. I've been unhappy with my weight for a long time now, and though I recognize that it is nothing in comparison to some, it irritates me to no end. And it has finally made me angry. Angry enough to swear of some of the foods that I love, but know are bad for me. Angry enough to up my workout schedule, adding in more cardio, which I hate doing. Angry enough to finally, hopefully, make a difference.

Don't misunderstand me, I don't like being angry. I'm not a good person to be around when I'm angry. But sometimes, that anger is the quick in the pants you need to set you in motion.

I just wouldn't recommend trying to be the catalyst for someone else's anger. I did it, but I was also in a position where that was a plausible thing for me to do. My goal was to get kicked. If you don't want to get kicked, well... Maybe shut your mouth before it gets shut for you.

Digital blade

Seth carried a compact baton on him at all times, which hung openly on his belt in a small sheath. Shortened as it normally was, it measured only eight inches long, and weighed a solid three pounds. It had a soft, plush lining on the handle, but the bar itself was steel, and snapped to its full length of two feet with a flick of the wrist, locking solidly in place by no means other than the tight pressure of its well fitted parts. He was well trained in its use, as well as that of a few other weapons, though he didn't get into fights very often. He wore it more so as a sign - don't mess with me if you value your wellbeing. It was effective.

When his country had been overtaken by a revolutionary war, he had been lucky not to be drafted, and he wanted nothing to do with the revolutionaries. He wanted only to be left alone - he cared not for which side won, as long as he was permitted to live his life. He was a law abiding citizen, and a hard worker. He just happened to be a martial artist as well. It gave him a good outlet for his energy, and when he felt the urge in his muscles to get up and move, he knew exactly where to turn to do so. He found the feeling of a friendly sparring match to be relieving in a way. The bruises never bothered him.

Unfortunately, the revolutionaries weren't very happy with his attitude, and had frequently confronted him while he was winding down after a good day's work in the bars. They'd try to get physical with him, to push him over the edge to fight, but a couple quick whacks from his baton generally sent them scurrying. The bartender never called him out on its use. It kept things quiet. They could appreciate that.

But the revolutionaries were growing increasingly irritated with Seth. One night, as he was leaving the bar, one in particular cornered him in an alleyway. He swore up and down, calling out Seth on his inaction, threatening his life if he didn't choose a side, saying he was just as bad as the government's lapdogs trying to take away their freedom. The man didn't seem to realize the irony of his words, as he stopped Seth from returning home.

The man took a step forward, and the baton was in Seth's hand, swinging out into position with a metallic slide. The man glared but did not step down, continuing to inch forward, never ceasing his verbal assault. As he drew into striking distance, Seth moved quickly, the baton flicking through the air and hitting the man's arm hard. The arm immediately dropped, the nerves temporarily shot, which was when Seth saw what the arm was doing. A pistol had suddenly appeared in it, finger on the trigger, and he just barely turned his body in time to minimize his surface area and dodge the bullet. It had clearly been aimed at his ribcage.

The revolutionary had stopped talking, his eyes cold as he glared at Seth. "I see you won't step down so easily," Seth muttered under his breath. He didn't lower his baton, pointing it directly between the man's eyes from a lowered position, as he slipped his hand into his coat and its inner pocket. He had practiced the move a number of times, his fingers stretching into the open latex laying in wait for him.

There was a loud bang as the revolutionary fired again. His bullet was aimed directly at Seth's forehead this time, but the bullet's trajectory changed abruptly in midair, flying off to the side and impaling itself in the wall. The look of shock was apparent in his eyes. Seth drew his hand from the pocket, a white glove now covering it, which sparked twice with a blue electricity. Moments later, like pixels falling in place on a computer screen, the baton in his hand was enveloped by a large electric blade, extending forward, placing itself directly between the man's gun and Seth's forehead. Its presence had deflected the bullet.

The revolutionary clearly didn't know what to make of it. His eyes were wide, and the gun in his hand was shaking. He wouldn't be able to take another clear shot in that condition, regardless of whether or not Seth could deflect another bullet. "Let's dance," Seth spat.

Polishing

There was a constant flux of noise in the studio - not so loud that you couldn't hear yourself, but loud enough to drown out your thoughts. It was a good working environment. It kept Matt focused on the task at hand. He had spent several days planning out the shape of both the metal and the stone he was using in his ring before forging the frame and carving the rough shape of the stone. He had set out the day to taking that stone and polishing it into shape.

He set up shop in front of the stone polishing machines - a series of spinning wheels covered in diamond encrusted sandpaper, with water splashing over them to keep the paper from getting too hot as he grinded the stone against it. He had been working at the stone for well over two hours already, having reached the middle wheel and working on eliminating the edges around form and giving it its fully rounded shape. The next wheel would finish that process, making it perfectly rounded, and the final wheel would make it shine like glass.

His fingers, however, were becoming numb. The water running over them, and the rubbing of the sandpaper against his skin was taking its toll. He wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to keep control of the stone. It was small enough to make it hard to control when his fingers were still tactile, but it was beginning to slip as he sanded. Fortunately that would not damage the stone in any way, but it didn't make the work more frustrating and slower.

The whirr of the machine slowed to a halt as he flipped the switch. He took a deep breath and lifted the stone, looking it over carefully. It was coming well to the shape he desired, but there was still work to be done. But he needed a break. He grabbed the prepared towel and dried his hands and stone, taking it over to his desk where the ring and frame were waiting. He slipped the stone into its frame, just to be sure that he had not taken it to small. But it fit well.

Taking a seat, he rubbed his hands together, trying to warm the tips of his fingers. It would take at most half an hour before they were tactile enough to get back to work. In the mean time, he pulled out his phone and flipped through the pictures he had taken of his blueprints.

He drew them on a small whiteboard, taking pictures as he went so that he could keep a record of what he had drawn. He had special ordered thinner markers in order to get the level of detail he desired, and being able to erase and start anew without losing his drawings helped to save space. Otherwise he'd hardly be able to move around all of the papers. He preferred not to throw out even his older works, as he could build off of them or repeat them if ever a customer desired.

On the center of his desk was a single, plain looking ring. It was one of the first he had ever made, and the only one he still wore. It was a part of a matching pair, though the other was a couple sizes smaller. Simple and elegant. He picked it up and slowly spun it between his fingers, looking it over. He wore it daily, and so the shine was fading.

"I'll have to get the missus' as well," he muttered to himself. "These are going to need polishing, too."

Platforming

Josh landed hard on the outcropping of stone, collapsing to his knees and his hands smacking into the rock, splitting skin and sending shockwaves through his bones. His wrists were screaming in agony more than anything else, but he didn't have time to think about it. The shaking wasn't stopping. It wasn't just in his bones.

He looked up at the mountainside above him, which the rock was an outcropping of, to see it shifting. The path he had been traversing was broken. To advance, he had had to jump. But his rough landing had doomed him. The rocks were beginning to shift and fall beneath him, and if he didn't start moving, they were going to send him to his death. The pain in his arms and legs would be irrelevant then - as would everything else he had ever done. He fought through the pain to stand up, the shaking of the rock only making it even more difficult. He wasn't the only rock sliding, though. If he moved quickly, and properly timed...

There was no time to think about it. The path would only exist for the briefest of moments. Only room for one step before making the leap, Josh put all of the strength he had into it. For a split second, he was suspended in air, aiming for a moving target with only one chance for success. Then his foot was making contact. Too hard. He had miscalculated the speed at which the second boulder was dropping, and hit it wrong, at the wrong angle. He could feel his ankle cracking and breaking, any support it would have provided him vanishing in a moment. Then his second foot landed, and he immediately transferred all of the strength he had from that foot into pushing off again. No time for calculations. No time for hesitation. He was flying again.

It was four rocks to reach the opposite side where there was still solid ground. He was half way. He landed again, once more on his broken ankle, feeling it break further. He screamed in agony, but he couldn't stop. One more step into a leaping push. That fourth rock was lower though. He gained speed on the way down, landing harder than the previous two on the shattered ankle. If his foot would ever function again it would be a miracle. It no longer supported him, and he crumpled into the final stone, just barely holding himself onto it by gripping wildly with his hands. But they had begun to bleed, which was interfering with his grip.

He looked toward the solid ground. Just one more jump. If he could make it to his feet...

His weight caused the stone he landed on to shift faster, though, and he was losing altitude. There was no time for this. He dug the tips of his fingers into the stone and pulled his good leg forward, planting it as solidly as he could on the stone. He pushed hard, first to get him to his feet. The rock shifted more beneath him. Then he pushed again, and he flew forward. But not as far or as fast as he wanted.

His gut hit the edge of the ground hard. His hands grasped wildly for anything that could stop him, nails digging into the dirt and gravel, trying to kick himself up with his good foot. He slipped, but just as he did his fingers wrapped around the root of a tree. With all of his strength he pulled on it, lifting himself up and over the edge. He lay there, as behind him he heard the sounds of the stones he had traversed collapsing away down the hillside behind him.

"I think I'm just gonna rest here," he muttered to no one in particular. "Maybe for a day or two."

Farmer

Fassat swiped the scythe in long, curving motions in front of him, mowing down the field of wheat that was that day's harvest. Behind him, a group of collectors with large baskets followed him, scooping the mowed down wheat into their baskets as he moved forward, tearing through the stalks like a hot knife through butter. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, as the sun beat down on his back, and the weight of his pole and blade continually grew heavier with each swing, his muscles aching, though he knew that would assuredly carry him through the day. They always did.

The work started in the early morning, and continued through for most of the day. It was highly physically demanding, and underneath his loose fitting and thin clothing were tightly packed and rippling muscles, built over years of the hard work in order to carry him. In truth, the harvesting season was much easier than the planting season. To destroy what he had worked so hard to grow was much easier than to actually grow it. In a way, it made the task relaxing. Though his collectors would certainly have disagreed with such a sentiment.

The group was preparing to head back in to the farm for the night time work as the sun began to set, when they heard the approaching sound of horses' footsteps. They turned to see a small number of mounted men inviting themselves into the farm, disdainfully and irreverently stomping through the crops. The farmers needed not say a word. Bandits.

Fassat moved forward towards them, still holding onto his scythe, but now using it as a walking stick, rather than a tool, the blade pointed out towards the bandits. "Hello!" he called out to them, acting as though he did not already know what they had come for. "It seems as though you are perhaps lost? Is there anything I can help you with?"

One of the bandit's - whose horse was noticeably more well-fed - moved toward him, separating himself by a few feet from his group. "My apologies," he returned, the sarcasm ever so subtly dripping in his tone. "My men and I have been traveling for some time. We and our animals are hungry. Might you have any food to spare?"

"I'm afraid we are still in the beginning of the harvest season. We are still relying on our reserves, which are running thin. Were you to have arrived in a week's time, I might have been able to help you, but at the moment..."

The sword was in the bandit's hand in a moment, pointed down at Fassat's throat. "I'm afraid that's not an option."

But Fassat was prepared as well. His scythe was already swinging hard, and he sliced through the legs of the bandit's horse, toppling it forward with a cry and dropping it's master over its head. The bandit was caught off guard, and his blade missed Fassat entirely. But Fassat was still moving. His swing was already coming back, and as the bandit landed at his feet, the scythe struck true a second time, and the bandit's head fell uselessly to the ground.

The others had no desire to avenge him. Their own lives were their only concern. They bolted, horses whinnying loudly, as Fassat sighed to himself. He had protected his men and his land. But the two bodies before him were one more thing he would have to take care of that night.

End of the war

The sun was setting over the dry and broken battlefield, covered in the dead bodies of both man and monster. The dragons had encroached on man's land for hundreds of years, and under new leadership, the human race had decided to do something about it. Though only a hundred years prior they had fought amongst themselves for control of land and resources, the threat of the dragons was enough of a common problem for them to band together.

For thirty years the war had gone on, the balance of power barely shifting from one side to the other. The dragons were massive creatures with incredible power, but the human mages had developed magic that could turn the dragon's scales to stone. They would become heavier, stiffer, and more fragile as the mages cast their spells, until they could no longer protect themselves and the magic seeped past their scales to their inner organs, killing them from the inside out. But the spells took time and resources, and the mages could not protect themselves while casting it. Their warriors and archers did their best to protect them, but there was only so much they could do about the claws, fangs, and fire breath.

That was, until they were able to enlist the assistance of the gryphons. The gryphons had stayed mostly uninvolved in the war, preferring not to take sides and remain neutral so as to be able to negotiate with whoever won. However, as the dragons found it ore difficult to take what they wanted from the human lands, they turned next to the gryphons lands instead. Which, naturally, made the decision for the gryphons on whose side to take.

The gryphons were a two-pronged advantage for the humans. They were fast and agile, and while their strength was nothing compared to the dragons, they could still dive in and attack and get out before the dragons could do much about it. But they could also be mounts for the humans. That meant that the human warriors could get in at the dragons much more safely, and with the combined force, the mages could be much safer in their casting.

And they were. Over a prolonged month of battle, the dragons were gone. Piled atop one another in a mountain of stone, non-degradable corpses that would forever serve as a reminder of what happened. Gryphons and humans were carted away from the field, some to be cared for, and others to be burned or buried. They had fought hard for the right to keep their own lands. And the had succeeded.

Calm

It was a bright day, with clear blue skies, marred only by a couple puffs of white, and a few blimps moving in and out of the sky harbor. Harris and Melissa walked down the road and away from port, having only just arrived and looking forward to a nice relaxing weekend for once. They had earned this vacation. It wasn't long - only a couple of days. They knew they couldn't afford to rest any longer than that. But they also couldn't afford not to take a couple days off.

Melissa was all kinds of dressed up, a lacy white dress with red frills and a matching umbrella over her shoulder, and her long bouncy hair freshly dyed white to match, too. Her face was bright and bubbly, and her step as well, as hard as that was in her high heels. Harris walked with her, his blade carried loosely over his shoulder. He never went anywhere without it. It was balanced so as to allow him to heft the hilt just over his shoulder and lazily throw his arm over it to keep it comfortably in place. His dress wasn't exactly battle gear, but it was comfortable, sleek, and flexible. If he needed to move, he could, and he would.

"Can't you ever relax, Harris?" Melissa asked, taking big, exaggerated steps, looking for all intents and purposes like a child in an adult's body. "You're always like this. Always have to be ready for a fight. You know we get in more because of that, don't you? Punks thinking they can show you who's the tough guy."

Harris rolled his eyes. "Somehow I don't think that's the only reason. I think it might have something to do with you flirting with guys for drinks, and once you've gotten what you want from them, you immediately move on to the next one."

"You don't expect me to get my own drinks, do you?"

"I expect you to handle yourself like an adult."

Melissa just giggled at that. "I'm too cute to act like an adult. Look at me, Harris. No one can resist me and my feminine wiles."

"I do. On a regular basis."

"Yeah, well. You're not normal."

Harris shrugged. "I feel pretty relaxed, all things considered. Gonna be a nice weekend for a change. I feel it in the wind."

"You and the wind."

"It's calming."

"Whatever."

Starting point

One interesting question when it comes to writing that I don't think a lot of people don't really think about is how to start. Not like how to start writing in general, but how to start each piece. What's the first line of your story? How is your world introduced? Maybe it seems like a simple question, but there are so many ways to go about it, and what works for one story may not work for another, even when written by the same author. After all, when the essence and soul of your story is not the same as it is in another, why should your intro be?

I find that I take my approaches to the beginnings of my short stories and long stories quite differently. In shorter stories, I being almost immediately before or leading up to the action. A fight, a confrontation, a conversation. The story begins only a few moments before it, giving just enough context as to why it's happening and who is involved. And admittedly part of that is because I'm on a budget with my words.

But when I write a long story, I start in the middle of the action. A brief moment's pause in the action, whether it be because the opponent's have been knocked apart, or because they have each other locked in place. Something shocking in conversation has already occurred, and the main character is already reeling back from it. Or they're even in the middle of a task that they do everyday of their life when something comes along. There is no before time. There is only immediately what is happening. No time to learn in advance - only as things happen.

I can't entirely explain why it is that I do that. I've tried to write intros for books that are more slow paced and informative, and I just don't like the way it comes out. Maybe it's just because I end up retreading all of the ground as the characters themselves experience it. Maybe it's because I feel like I'm changing the way that I tell the story when I do it that way.

I think the big thing, though, is that I want my characters to learn as the story goes on, and I want the reader to be taken along on that journey. After all, what's the point of having the characters having revelations and learning about the world around them if it's things that the reader already knows and is intimately familiar with?

And that's not to say that all slow beginnings have to be deeply informative. They absolutely do not. However, when I try to do it, that's the way they end up for me. I guess I just don't really understand how to tell a story slowly. It's not something that really meshes with the ay that I think.

Which I suppose means I should work on that here in the blog. I'll have to give that some thought.

Long distance

Barbara could practically feel her stomach lurching as the plane came to a rough and bumpy landing. She wasn't all that used to flying in the first place, having only done it a few times in her life, but this landing seemed rougher than usual. She couldn't tell if it was actually the plane's fault or her own nerves. Honestly, she wasn't all the comfortable flying. Being cramped into a metal tube with so many people, none of whom she knew, and seemingly all of whom were excessively loud, and then launching that tube at hundreds of miles an hour through the air... It was not the most desirable situation to be placed in. But it was a necessity if she wanted to see him, which was only making her stomach churn more now that she was so close.

She had started dating Brandon over two years prior, having met him online through a few mutual friends. It was a bit of a long story how they had managed to become friends with a boy on the other side of the planet. But they had, and so had she, and then she'd taken it a step further, and now she was flying to meet him. As her family was so fond of reminding her, most girls in her situation would be most afraid that they were about to meet an old pervert or something - clearly everyone on the internet was nothing more than a liar and a con artist, after all. She was mostly worried that she would make a fool of herself somehow.

The slow pull-in to the airport seemed to drag on for hours. She fidgeted in her seat, pulling her backpack into her lap and putting it down, just to pick it back up again. She had been fortunate enough to have no one sitting next to her to see her squirming around, trying to push down the burning sensation sitting in the pit of her stomach. She was excited beyond belief, but she was always afraid. What if when they met in person he wouldn't like her anymore? She had always described herself as a klutz, but what if he hadn't believed her? What else might he have not believed?

She had been so busy fidgeting and fearing she had hardly noticed the train of people moving off the plane, or that she herself had gotten into it. She shuffled forward, sandwiched between two other patrons, trying to be quiet as she attempted to catch her breath. It would be ok, she told herself. It would be ok. Everything would be ok. They'd made it two years. He still liked her after that. And he had agreed to meet her. He was waiting in the lobby. Surely nothing could go wrong after this point.

Well. That wasn't entirely true, and she knew it from experience. But now was not a good time to be thinking about that.

It took a long time to get through customs. She thought about texting Brandon that she had landed, but she wasn't entirely sure how long distance texting worked in this situation. They were in the same country now, but her phone was still from a different one. She knew if she tried to text home it would charge her, but him? She really had no idea.

Customs took an extra half an hour. Then the passageways through the terminal were very strange to her, and she managed to take a few wrong turns along the way. She was completely lost. She was fortunate to have a security guard point her in the right direction, though it was because she was going backwards.

And then she saw him. He was checking his phone - probably wondering what was happening - but when he looked up and smiled at her, all of the fear that she had felt the past few days melted away. She almost ditched her bag as she ran up to him and wrapped his arms tight around him, practically tackling him into the ground. He stumbled, but his arms were around her just as fast. He felt warm and safe.

"Hey you," he whispered into her ear.

Barbara smiled. "Hey. I know this is really unromantic and not how we're supposed to meet, but I really need to pee."

Brandon laughed hard, and it was like music to her ears. "Come on," he said, pulling away, but keeping one arm around her waist. "Let's find you a toilet."

Slinger

Marcus set down his cards, face up, and pulled the stack of coins toward himself without bothering waiting for the rest of the players to show their own hands. After several hours of playing, the pot had become more than a man could need in life for the next several years, and many men had backed out a long time prior, so as to save themselves from bankruptcy as the values raised and they could no longer afford to play. With only three players left, he had goaded the others into going all-in - a final move to end the game once and for all. The most dangerous bet, but one that he had no doubt his undefeatable royal flush could win.

There was silence from the other two as he thanked them for their time, slipping the coins into his bag to be taken to the front and exchanged for cash. And to no one's surprise, as he stood and turned away, there was the abrupt noise of a chair being kicked over, and the click of a gun ready to fire. Marcus stood his ground, but did not turn to look at his assailant. He had expected as much to occur. After all, the chances of pulling that hand were less than one in five hundred thousand. A mere fraction of a percentile.

"The hell do you think you're going, you cheating son of a whore?" The voice was that of the man who had been sitting on Marcus's right - a nervous looking fellow who, though he had started the game with the most cash, had become continuously more irritable as his measurable wealth become increasingly modest. He had had all the confidence in the world at the beginning of the night. Just not the cards to back it up. "You're going to sit back down and play another hand."

"And what, pray tell," Marcus asked without turning around, "are you going to bet? If you haven't noticed, you just lost the rest of your money. All-in is called that for a reason, you know."

"You owe me another game."

"I owe you nothing. If you have something to bet, then you owe me something."

The shot rang loud and clear through the mostly empty hall, accompanied by a bright flash of light. The man was most certainly less than a foot behind Marcus - an impossible distance to miss from, even with the way his hands were shaking. Yet the bullet had penetrated the wall across from them a good two feet to the left of where Marcus stood, a fading blue light tracing its path through the air after it curved away from his body.

Marcus was pushing a cigar into his mouth as he finally glanced over his shoulder at the man, who stood stock still, his eyes wide, the gun still smoking in his hand. With a snap of his fingers, Marcus summoned a spark of flame into the air, with which he lit his cigar. He took a long drag, and puffed the smoke out into the air. "For what it's worth," he murmured, "the only magic I used during that game was to see through the barmaid's dress. Much fresher a sight than your sorry ass. Winning was nothing more than a matter of counting."

And with that, he slipped away.

Promises

The mine shaft had been long abandoned, but well maintained. Master Irana had instructed that his treasure be kept away within the stony interior, beyond twists and turns and branching pathways, with not a sign of which way to go to find it. His pupil, Mirn, had done just that, but had also made sure to memorize the passageway to reach it. And though he knew he should not, he traversed the narrow cavern to find the opening in which Irana's blade was embedded into the stony floor.

With Irana's passing, Mirn had taken the title of Master, and all of the responsibilities and possessions thereof. He dressed in fine clothings, and wore the empty sheath of his deceased master's blade on his waist at all times. He kept his appearance tidy and straight, and was not to show unnecessary emotion to the students which now studied under his rule. He had not been fully trained himself, however, and found that it took him far more effort than it had appeared to take Irana to continue with his daily routines. He frequently wondered if these were the struggles which his master had had to go through, or if he had been more practiced and skilled and had managed as easily as he appeared.

This was the reason that Mirn had ensured that he knew the path to Irana's sword. In the evenings, when his duties were completed and the student's had gone home, Mirn frequently passed through the thrice locked doorway to the mine's rocky passages. Swiftly, he made his way through the caverns, down the twists and turns, taking his choices at each fork without a moment's hesitation. It took him an hour before he reached the cavernous room, empty save for the sole sword sitting in the center. It had been five years. There were cobwebs stretching up and down its length, but the blade itself was untouched by rust or age.

Mirn's hand instinctively rested on the sheath on his hip as he stared at the sword. He felt as though he could see his master's spirit sitting there beside it, his eyes closed and his legs crossed, meditating the way he used to do when Mirn would come to him with questions after hours. He could practically hear Irana's voice calling out to him expectantly, almost but not quite impatiently, knowing already the questions that would be coming his way.

The questions flowed freely off of Mirn's tongue as he stood alone in the room, listening to his own words bouncing off of the walls and coming back to him, not an answer in sight. He knew that he would find no answers in the dank and dirty space. But it was relieving to voice his concerns, knowing that the only one who would hear him was himself. His student's could not know of the internal struggles he was facing. He needed to a strong foundation for them all.

Another hour passed before Mirn finally turned away from the blade and back the way he had come. The sheath by his side felt incomplete without a blade in it, and he often considered taking the blade and putting it back in its old home. But he had made a promise. And if he was going to be a master, than that was where he was going to start. By keeping his promises.

And so he walked away.

Floating city

Mason broke through the clouds and found on the other side the floating city of Mansaic, the home of the council which he had been newly appointed to. He stroked the back of Ollen's head, his bird. A massive creature, its wingspan twice the length of Mason's entire body, and his best friend. It carried him through the skies as though he were weightless, soaring on the updrafts and producing more than enough momentum on his own with each flap of his wings to carry him when there was no wind. Mason had raised the bird since it was an egg, which he had had to carry in both arms due to its already remarkable size.

They landed on an outcropping of the city, and Mason quickly and easily dismounted, patting Ollen's head and sending him off to the stable area to be fed and groomed. Mason quickly shuffled his way down the bridge to the main island, which was bustling with people going about their business in the market's and on their way home. In the center of the island was the government building, with dozens of carriers going to and from, carrying messages and proclamations and news. It was one such carrier that had delivered to him the announcement that he was to be a member of the council, and to report as soon as possible. It was hard to believe that he might have been so lucky. He had never considered himself one of great importance. But things had changed, and he had been in the right place at the right time, and sometimes, that was all it took.

He knew he should have been in a rush, but for all the times which Mason had visited Mansaic, he could never quite get over its beauty. The architecture of the buildings and landscaping was simple, yet elegant, with straight forms leading up to arcing tops. The edges of each section were made to the exact edge of the islands themselves, making it appear as though the man created structures grew directly from the ground. And plants grew from that earth and up the man made city, as if embracing it and making it apart of its own wild nature. Mason had never seen another place which had combined the two so seamlessly.

Of course, no one was quite sure of why the city floated. The grounds had simply been discovered one day after the taming of Ollen's kind. There were sparse few collections of the floating islands, and while a small number of them had been set to be untampered with, the islands of Mansaic had been transformed into something incredible. In their new world, it had become one of the most centralized spaces for mankind. Trade, law, and people were constantly coming in and out of Mansaic.

And now, somehow, miraculously, Mason was to be a central part of it.

Shadow

Arthur crouched on the cliffside, over looking the army as it marched through the valley, only a small number of torches lit and clearly exhausted, but being pushed onward by their commanding officers. They were marching in the late night, the full moon hanging high in the air above them to show the way. Their plan was clear - they wished to advance while Arthur's kingdom had their guard lowered, and take them out before they could fight back. Perhaps if this army was not half asleep themselves, they might have had the upper hand with that plan. And perhaps, if Arthur wasn't their enemy.

The horses were his first target. He knew that only the commanders, captains, and other officials would be permitted to ride them, and that they would be spread strategically through the ranks, in order to keep the foot soldiers in sight and under control. Despite the lack of light or audience, they were forcing a very formal march - much to Arthur's advantage. He slipped the knife from his waist in his off hand, and the sword off his back in the other, and dropped from his perch.

There was a solid eight seconds of falling, dropping nearly a thousand feet. More than far enough to kill a man. He could hear the hard flickering of his cloak flapping in the wind behind him, and in the last second before he landed, so could the people below him. He saw the first officer turn his head to look up at him, and then he was on top of him, his knife stabbing through the officer's neck and killing him instantaneously, the horse crumbling under the force of his weight slamming into its body. Half a second later, his other arm was slamming down, cutting two men in half who had been marching behind the officer's horse.

As he stood up, tearing his weapons free of their gory sheaths, the second landing occurred behind him. The shadow that had stretched out from his body in the full moon's rays, pulling away from him as he dropped down to his foes. Arthur glanced toward it, seeing the form it had taken as it grew. A massive beast, with muscular form. Claws as sharp as blades, with teeth to match, and where Arthur wore a cloak, this monster had wings. It was black as night, just visible in the moon's glow, and its landing sent an unclear number of bloody limbs and heads flying into the air.

Horses were rearing in terror, swords were being pulled, but it was too late. The beast was already on its rampage, throwing bodies against the stony walls, and Arthur was leaping around the death fields, decapitating the heads of the army before they could bark out any retaliation orders. Any survivors would surely be considered mad, spitting tales of a man who fell from the sky accompanied by a hellish shadow monster that slaughtered an entire army.

But they'd be right.

Free Write 8

I've been sick for the last couple days, as you might have been able to guess by yesterday's post, which honestly makes it pretty hard to focus on anything other than the fact that I'm sick. Even if I'm doing anything else, I'm constantly aware of my throat or my nose or my head, all of which are doing things that they really shouldn't be doing under normal circumstances. Coincidentally, I'm also constantly making mistakes while I'm typing. Not to say that I don't normally, but some of the mistakes that I make...

The worst part about it is that it's not super consistent. I'll spend a couple hours with a runny nose and excessive sneezes, and then it will have changed to a very dry nose and throat, and then out of nowhere I'll have a headache. I feel like I'm just in this constant flux of discomfort, and as much as I'd love to just sleep it off, it keeps me awake at night.

And even once I'm asleep, I have these really weird dreams. Like, weirder than the dreams that I normally have. My dreams are normally some kind of fantasy or weird twist on the real world, taking the things that I know and do and stopping them with something insane. But when I'm sick, it's like you take those dreams, put them on an impervious tv in an earthquake, and hand a five year old on energy drinks the remote. Everything is flipping around, speeds are changing, focus flips from one place to another with no continuity or logic. By the time I wake up, I can't remember anything that happened, but I know it wasn't right.

But honestly, worse than how I feel, I hate how being sick prevents me from doing things. I had to call out sick at work yesterday, and as nice as that may sound, it irritated me. I haven't been able to work out. It's hard to focus on any games I try to play. I can't even sing if I drive somewhere, because my throat is constricted and keeping the air out, so I get short of breath from a single line in a song. I can't sleep - not that I ever could in the first place.

Instead I just pop cough drops into my mouth constantly and hope that they can tide me over for a time until I have to pop another one. Sometimes they help, and sometimes they don't. But nothing else will do anything, because my body just refuses to be affected by medicine. Advil, dayquil, whatever. I could probably overdose on them and be unaffected. And good lord, do I hate it. Even when I'm put under by some heavy duty knock out gas, I wake up before doctors expect me to and can move just fine almost immediately. And I say that from experience.

Sick

Layton woke up abruptly from a dream that was quickly fading from his memory, thanks to the throbbing pain in his stomach. It was a hot, burning pain, trying to force its way upwards. It took him a moment of drowsy, painful confusion to realize he felt as though he was going to vomit. But when he went to move out of bed, the pain only throbbed harder, making him curl up tighter into a ball and forcing him to stay put in bed. He willed the pain to stay down with everything he had, and slowly it subsided, fading away like the intensity of one's heartbeat after a long, hard run.

It was only when the pain in his stomach was gone that he began to recognize that there was pain in his throat as well. It, too, burned, feeling utterly dry and almost as though it were swelling, shrinking the size of the passageway and making it difficult to breathe. He was still struggling to move with the pain in his stomach, and groped wildly in the darkness for the cough drops he knew he was keeping on the bedside table. He heard a few scatter to the ground before he managed to wrap his fingers around one, tearing the wrapper away and shoving it into his mouth. He laid there, curled up, sucking on the small candy until its soothing coolness coated his throat.

He laid in bed for a long time, just trying to regather his breath and his mind. The grogginess hanging over him was only getting worse, and it was difficult to think straight about what he should be doing. This was the third time in one night that he had awoken like this. The moon was still in the air, and when it finally occurred to him to check the time on his phone, it was only two in the morning. The last time had been only an hour and a half earlier. And he had only been in bed for a few more hours past that. The plan to rest the sickness away was definitely not going to work with how little rest he was getting.

It took him a solid twenty minutes before he was able to fall back asleep, and he awoke in the same manner twice more before he gave up on sleeping. Once the pain in his stomach and throat had subsided on that, his fifth time, he crawled out of bed and got dressed and called his work to let them know he couldn't come in. He knew that they needed him, but he was definitely not going to be any use to them. He could barely think straight, and even just standing was aggravating. He was not going to do work.

He moved out to his couch and collapsed into it, pulling his computer to his chest and setting his bag of cough drops beside him. The internet would keep him entertained at least. Until he passed out again.

Translation

It's E3 season, which if you don't know, means there are a lot of video game announcements and trailers and the like coming into the wild at the moment, and good lord am I excited about it. There have been so many new games I've been introduced to in the past couple games, and while not all of them, there are so many that I want to play. Unfortunately, most of them won't be coming out for months, and some of them may not even come out for years. So while I'm incredibly hyped right now, by the time they come around, I may not be nearly as excited, and it may be revealed that they aren't nearly as good as I thought they would be. But for the time being, I am super excited for all the new games I'll get to play.

Which makes it kinda funny that I've been spending a good deal of time recently playing old games. Older rpgs, of course, because that's how I roll. And funnily enough, older rpgs - even from just about ten years ago - are vastly different than rpgs today. From the way they play, to the themes they cover, and even to the very words they use. There was a fascination back then with writing dialogue with characters in the accents that they would give. Westerns used a lot of a-apostrophes, like "Ma' an' Pa' were gonna tell ya'll 'bout da' dog." Fantasies would talk about "Yonder hills will lead ye to thee." Things that, while cool at the time, make it painful to read now.

But frankly, if you got that kind of translation, you were lucky. More often than not, rpgs were made in Japan, and the translators who worked on bringing the games to America were... less than stellar. Even for some of the most popular games of all time, like Final Fantasy 7. People love the story in that game, but good lord, is it translated terribly. "This guy are sick," is a literal, word for word line from the game. And of course, the infamous "All right, everyone, let's mosey." Which, out of context, may not seem that bad of a line. Except, in context, that's being said by a genetically altered ex-military soldier as he is leading his companions into the core of the planet as the cave is collapsing around them, so that they might fight an alien-fused super soldier with the power to destroy the entire planet. "Mosey" is perhaps not the ideal word.

Translations like that were sadly pretty common and accepted, though why exactly that was I'm not entirely sure. I suppose the language barrier just wasn't quite as broken down at the time, which goes to show how much progress we've made in just a few years. Now a days, if games aren't translated to the exact word, people throw hissy fits, as has happened in many recent Nintendo games. Of course, sometimes that's warranted, while others... Not so much.

But I'm not here to point any fingers.

At Fire Emblem.

Punch

Matt was lifted off of his feet by his collar and suspended momentarily in the air, though he made no motion to fight back against it, his arms falling limply by his sides and his feet dangling weakly. The stranger holding him glared into his eyes, but Matt simply maintained his flat gaze in return. "You think you're some tough guy?" the man asked him. "Like you can walk around and do whatever you want like you own the damn place?" The question was followed by a ball of spit landing on Matt's cheek. The man didn't really want an answer. He just wanted to make a point.

"I'd really rather not have to go through with this," Matt replied, his voice as flat as the look on his face. "How about you let me go and I can finish my walk? I'm just passing through. Not here to interrupt."

That only served to make the man angrier, and suddenly Matt's back was slammed up against a brick wall with a loud bang. Matt had just been out walking, feeling the fresh air on his face. But he had evidently set foot in the wrong neighborhood. He hadn't had any particular destination in mind - he was letting his feet carry him, take him where they wanted to go. Turning down alleys, making a few loops, just putting himself in motion. But some people weren't so ok with that.

"I'mma show you why you don't mess with me, tough guy," the man whispered vehemently. "Show you why you don't set foot on my turf. This ain't your home. It's mine. And I don't take kindly to intruders."

"Technically this is public property." The man pushed hard against Matt's throat, trying to crush his windpipes. In truth it wasn't doing much, but Matt was making him angry enough as it was, so he decided against letting him know that.

The man let go of Matt's collar, letting him drop to the ground, and slipped a large switchblade out of his pocket, flicking the knife open. It was shiny and sharp. Well cared for, unlike seemingly anything else the man had on him. Matt eyed it for a moment, judging its dimensions, before he raised his hands up to his face in a defensive motion. "Now you're gonna fight?" the man sneered. "Now you're gonna die."

The man slashed once, but his blow fell short, catching him off guard. Matt was already anticipating it, and had slapped the stranger's hand further along, causing its trajectory to change and miss. But before the man could even process what had happened, Matt's fist was already flying, crunching into the man's nose and crushing it back into his skull.

The man dropped from the single blow. Matt pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping away the blood on his knuckles that had spurted from the man's nose. "Maybe consider buying some actual property," Matt muttered, turning away. "That way you have something to defend."

Morals and messages

I've read lots of stories, watched lots of movies and tv shows, and played lots of video games which tried to teach a moral or spread a message, with varying degrees of success. Some of them make it a part of their story, while others seemingly arbitrarily shove them in under a pretense of character growth or actualization. And some of those messages are universally accepted, while others are a bit... less so. I have seen my fair share of love and friendship messages, as we all have, but I have also seen a number of stories about the environment, religion, and even some darker subjects like Stockholm syndrome and terrorism.

Now, to some extent, the author's opinions on a number of topics are inevitably going to bleed into their writing. After all, an author writes what they know, what they think, and what they believe, even if they don't mean to. Through the ideologies of their main characters, to the insanity of their villains, they're making some kind of statement about what is good and what is bad. You have to in order to give those characters and their actions any sort of credence. After all, there is no action without motive, even if that motive is not immediately obvious. And I am no exception to these things. I certainly have my beliefs on what is right and what is wrong, how to act in a number of situations, and what is better for people and for the world. And a great number of those beliefs translate into my writings.

But I think that there is a point where you go too far in it. A good example of that is a series which, for a time, I thoroughly enjoyed called Maximum Ride. It was a mixture of ideas from a number of the author's stories, which mixed together to create a very intriguing tale. The main character, Max, was just a girl who had had wings fused on to her back, and her story was about finding a place in the world, and trying to get back at those who had committed the experimentations upon her to make her into the half human, half creature that she was.

Unfortunately, I lost interest when Max learned about Global Warming, and began to speak directly to the reader about how they needed to go out immediately and do everything they could to stop it. Max literally lectures you about how terrible of a person you are if you are not fighting right now to be stopping it. Regardless of your stance on global warming, I think we can agree that we don't need a fictional bird woman going out of her way, disrupting her own story, to lecture us on it. It's not that she didn't acknowledge the fourth wall in the rest of the story, but this was blatantly breaking it.

I think, if you really want to tell a message, there are ways to do it. Subtle ways, even. Ways that make the reader think and acknowledge what you are trying to tell them. That's what the old folktales did. That's why they had morals, instead of messages. They made their moral be what resolves the story, rather than just a point along the way. I hope that's not a lost art.

Cataclysm

The sky was bright and blue, with birds chirping in the air, a couple of fluffy clouds lazily drifting by, and a gentle breeze blowing through Tana's hair. It was a beautiful day out, and it brought a smile to Tana's face. One of the birds that was flying looked down at him curiously and flew down to land on his shoulder. It was one of those little moments in nature that only happened in movies, and Tana smiled and reached up to run a finger gently across its brow. The bird chirped brightly once before its already cold corpse fell to the ground.

These were Tana's favorite kinds of days. The bright and beautiful ones that made people happy. He loved to wipe them away. To rip that happiness away from people, see the terror and pain in their eyes in their final moments. There was something just so thrilling about seeing the life extinguished out of a person's eyes, like putting out the light of a candle between one's fingers. The satisfaction of controlling a person's life, and them being unable to do anything about it. It was intoxicating.

Suitable that this day would be such a one. Tana had grown tired of going after individuals, snuffing them out one by one. It was still enjoyable, surely, but the thrill of it all was fading. He needed something bigger. Something grander. To wipe out life faster than ever before, and to feel that rush as more lives than he could count were gone in an instant. And that need, that desire, had lead him to a land untouched by the likes of man. It had been no small feat to travel to this land, though for him, it had perhaps not been so much a struggle as it would have been for a lesser.

He looked out over the grass covered hills at the massive tree in the distance. The stuff of legends. A massive tree called Yggdrasil by some, whose roots extended out through the entirety of the earth to form its crust. On its branches and from its bark, all life drew breath, and its very existence was enough to inspire songs for generations. This was his target now. If taking the lives of man was not, he would take the lives of an entire planet in a single instance.

On black wings he soared over the land, leaving a harshly burning scar behind him. There was nothing but death in his wake, just the way he liked it. And soon there would be nothing but death. He would slowly drain the tree of life of it's life, and watch as everything that had ever been on this planet went with it. He would glee in its suffering.

And there was nothing and no one who could stop him.

Urges

James hadn't been driving for more than thirty seconds when he could feel that tautness in his muscles pulling him, begging for him to put them to use. It was a feeling that came over him from time to time - a soreness primarily in his arms that came seemingly from nowhere, and was not relieved by relaxation, but by action. It wasn't painful, persay, but it was pretty distracting from anything that he had to do when it arrived. He gripped the steering wheel as he drove down to the store, pushing against it, trying to will the feeling away. But it did not fade.

Nor did it fade as he made his way around the store, picking up supplies and groceries that he would need for the week. As he gathered them all into his cart, he had a hard time shaking the urge to throw them down as hard as he could, or to launch them across the store and see how far they would fly. He never did, of course, because he had years of experience dealing with and controlling these urges, but the thoughts were in his mind. His muscles were desperately calling. At times, they were far more aggressive than others, and this was one of them. They were demanding of his attention, and he knew that when he got home, he would have to do something about them.

The drive home was just as bad as the drive to the store. He wondered briefly if putting the pedal to the metal and zooming over the road would do anything to ease the yearning, but at the same time he'd rather not find out. There were a number of speedbumps along the road home, and he didn't want to risk injury to himself, his car, or his groceries by literally flying over them. So he continued to push with his hands rather than his feet, and bottle up the need he felt.

His arms were shaking as he carried everything into the house when he got home. His roommate, Sam, didn't seem to notice. He was playing video games on the couch, not paying much mind as the groceries were brought in, piled onto the kitchen table, and slowly filtered through and put away. It was, after all, James' turn to do the shopping. Sam had done it the week before. But what did catch Sam's attention was the boxing gloves that landed in his lap after James was done.

"Happening again?" Sam asked.

James nodded, already pulling on his own boxing gloves. The urge was primarily in his arms, tightening and compressing the muscles one used when throwing punches. But it wasn't just the urge to throw punches, or even to feel a punch land. It was the urge to be punched, as well. It was an urge to not only fight, but to be in a fight. Punching bags had never done the trick, because it was a one sided conversation. James needed a dialogue of blows - one that didn't necessarily have a winner at the end of a debate.

Sam was good for that. He wasn't the best fighter: he was sloppy, a little slow, and had a big wind up. But he hit hard. Every blow he threw, James could feel rocking through him, even as he blocked them and retaliated. It was the exact kind of feeling he needed to relieve the urge in his body. They only sparred for about five minutes. It may not have seemed like much, but the two didn't hold back on each other. And at the end of those five minutes, if James could even lift his arms to swing he was lucky. And that was just what he needed.

Addiction

It was a quiet night, and Jared was calmly an relaxedly plowing away at some reading that he had been working on for some time, while his wife Shannon laid with her head in his lap, looking at things on her phone. It was a familiar, comfortable weight to Jared - one which reminded him she was there, which brought a smile to his face. There was a time when that weight would have made him uncomfortable and unable to focus, as his legs fell asleep while he couldn't muster up the courage to say anything about it. But that time had long passed, and his legs had simply gotten used to the extra weight.

They had been resting like that for quite some time when Shannon sat up and stretched, letting out a stifled yawn. Jared tucked a bookmark between the pages he was on and glanced at her. They had been married for fifteen years, and yet at times, even so simple a sight as this one reminded him of how incredibly beautiful she was. He could never quite explain why. Just something about the way she moved, her form, the way her hair hung around her face and her clothes clung to her body. It was utterly mesmerizing.

She could see the look in his eyes that so clear as day stated, "I love you," and got a coy little grin on her face. She crawled forward toward him over the couch, pushed his book down gently with one hand, and pressed her lips against his. Without a moment's hesitation, Jared's eyes were closed as he felt himself melting into her kiss. The warmth of her face against his, and her lips locked tightly with his. The gentle blow of her breath on his skin. The way she moved to press herself against him.

Almost unconsciously, his hand moved to run through her hair, cupping the back of her head and holding her to him. She pressed harder against him, deepening their kiss for only a moment before pulling away. They looked at each other, small and involuntary pants coming from their mouths, before they pulled back in to one another.

Before either one of them knew it, they were in bed, a messy tangle of limbs and blankets, smiling at one another between passionate kisses. They couldn't stop, even if they wanted to - which they most certainly did not. They were addicted to one another. To the feel, the taste, the smell. Everything about one another was entrancing to them.

They awoke the next morning in much the same way. They were groggy and still half asleep, but seeing each other still there in bed with them made them smile. And so they kissed once more, starting another day.

Change

I've been thinking a lot about change recently - though to say that this is a new thought is untrue. I've thought about change for a very long time. Most of my life, in fact. I've never been overly pleased with myself, though when I was younger that was a much more subconscious thought. I was never popular, or strong, or even very fast. I was that one kid who a lot of people knew, but not many people wanted to be around. The ones who did were a bit weird and nerdy, but they didn't all stay that way. I saw a lot of kids go from being the kind of person I was, to the popular kid that I could never be. And I never really understood how that happened, and although I never would have admitted it, I really wanted to know.

Part of the problem was probably that I was angry. I was very quick to anger, and even quicker to throw a punch, though I definitely didn't have the capability to win a fight. But fights were kind of how I started to learn things about me. I might not have been fast, but I did have a good eye. There was a time that a kid in elementary school brandished a knife at me - plastic, admittedly, but still terrifying to little seven year old me - and when he swung it at me, I saw how his arm was moving, and was able to not only dodge the swing, but take the knife out of his hand mid-swing. I didn't know what to do with it after that, though, so I dropped it and ran. Which was when I learned how to be fast.

There were a lot of angry kids when I was little, though. Most of them just didn't resort to violence when they got angry. Most of the screamed, or cried, or told lies. And as they got older, they learned that those things didn't work, and they learned to forgive. And so did I. Sort of. But the problem for me was that I didn't just get angry at other people. I got angry at me, too. I'd make mistakes, and I'd get pissed off at me, and I only knew violence as a solution. So I would punch walls, or trees, or other people.

I needed somewhere to focus my anger, which is why my Dad decided to put me into martial arts. It was violent, sure. But it was controlled. And I learned how to use my anger, to focus it in such a way to better myself. I learned to punch bags instead of people. Although, admittedly, I often pictured the faces of people who annoyed me on those bags - but that improved my aim, so I took it in stride. And for a long time, that was the end of it.

But it's been a long time since I was an active martial artist. I remember a lot, and I'm a lot better at controlling my anger because of it. But lately I've been getting angry again. At me, specifically. And I think about how in the past I used that anger to better myself. At least once I was pointed in the right direction.

I know the right directions to point myself in nowadays. And I know how to control my anger. Which, interestingly, in a way, is the problem. My anger with myself is still frequent, but it's not as long lasting. It makes me focus on what is making me angry about myself, but not long enough for any of the changes I try to make to take hold. Things like eating better, for a day at most.

So I've been trying to find new motivations for change. And in the past couple months, I've found myself focusing on a new area of my life. One that, while I was never happy about it, I never really bothered to do something about. I don't know if it's really going to change anything, honestly. And it probably doesn't seem like much to people on the outside. But it's a really weird and surprising change for me, and one that I want to follow through. Because it feels like the first change that can be the basis for something in a long time. The first change that really says "This is something that takes time and commitment, so if I follow through with it, I can't really turn back."

Kinda weird how wanting to change your appearance can do that.

Guardians

Virginia walked up the steps to the fifth altar, which had previously been unaccessible to her small band of drifters. She wasn't entirely sure which of the four idols in her possession would be the one to activate this altar, summoning the guardian of - she hoped - love. That was their plan. They had a much better idea of what they were getting into this time around, though that didn't stop her from being a little bit nervous. Sure, they had already collected eight different guardian mediums, but they'd only had to fight four of those like they would now, and those four had been significantly weaker than those they faced now. These were the legendary guardians which compromised the qualities of man, that separated man from beast and gave them strength.

She glanced at Gallows beside her, who smiled and nodded reassuringly. He was the one among them who knew the most about the guardians - though truthfully, that wasn't saying much - and he had been the one to recognize the idols as the keys to reawakening the four legendary guardians. But he hadn't paid enough attention as a student to know which idol corresponded to which guardian, nor even to which altar. So it was a bit of a guessing game moving forward. Ideally, they would take on Love, then Desire, then Courage, and finally Hope. But that may have been a bit of hopeful thinking, now that they were in place to move forward.

Clive sat in the back of the pack, his sniper rifle trained on the altar, four bullets prepared to be fired in rapid succession. Gallows held his shotgun loftily in one hand, more so as a back up than anything else. He was by far the most skilled in wielding the magical powers given to them by the guardians, and would use them to pound against the guardians barriers to allow Clive clear shots. Meanwhile, Jet was posed off to the side, his machine gun gripped tightly in both hands, though he wasn't going to rely much on that either. The magic gifted to him was of a supporting nature, and his job was to keep Clive as powerful as possible. And Virginia...

Virginia did her best to guess which idol to place, but it still took her a couple of tries to get it right. But when she did, the idol simply vanished into thin air, and the group could feel the air shifting around them, as the guardian stepped forth from another world into their own. A massive dragon appeared before them, decked in gold with glorious purple frills and wings.

Gallows cursed under his breath. "Of course we'd get Hope first," he muttered angrily.

"Maybe you should have studied more," Virginia hissed back, lifting her dual pistols and firing off in a pair before the guardian could even get a full grasp of what he was facing. It turned immediately upon her.

Virginia was the bait to hold his attention.

Boat

Alex pulled the oars into his small rowboat and moved carefully to the edge, peering over the side and into the water. He had been rowing down the river for most of the day, and as much as he may enjoy the burn in his back and shoulders that resulted from it, he needed a break. The water was clear, and dipping his hand in, it was cold and refreshing as well. He'd love to take a swim, though if he couldn't dock, he wasn't sure that he could get back in without tipping and losing the supplies he had brought with him.

Instead, he scooped some water in his hands and splashed into his face. He opened his eyes afterwards to see a set of paws beside his hands, and he smiled over at his dog, Leandro. The dog wagged his tail as he smiled back at Alex, and barked once excitedly. He could tell that Leandro wanted to go for a swim just as badly as he did. Leandro may not have been rowing the boat all day, but the water had been calling to him, even though he knew better than to go in without his owner's permission. "Alright, buddy," he conceded. "Get in."

There wasn't a moment of hesitation before the dog was flying through the air and diving into the water, splashing his master, who just laughed. He couldn't help but smile, seeing the excitement in that dog's face as he paddled around in the river, whipping his fur all over the place and chasing fish that he had no hope of keeping up with.

It was their third day out on the river, traveling downstream towards the ocean. Near the end of the river, they knew that they would find a port town, where Alex would hopefully be able to get a job. It would be the start of a new life for him - one that he had dreamed of for a long time. He had always loved the water, and the thought of being able to live and work on it filled his heart. But his parents had never been big on the thought.

Living on the water wasn't a great way to live. Alex had heard it many times throughout his life. The water workers had some of the highest death rates, and they were hardly paid enough to compensate for that. Alex understood that. It didn't change his mind.

After some time, Leandro came back up to the boat, and Alex reached over to pull him back into the boat. The water was flying off of his fur the moment his feet touched the boards of the boat, which just made Alex laugh more.

The sun was shining. The water was cool. The air was fresh.

This was worth dying for.

Reliving

Sandra was exceedingly careful as she strapped the man to the table and began attaching wires to his head, chest, and arms. It was a very delicate process to begin with, and trying to act it out upon a dead body was another matter entirely. Not that this was her first time doing so, of course, but experience only took you so far when it came to touching the icy cold and fragile skin of a corpse. It still made her uncomfortable, and she still hesitated every time she had to do it. But at least she didn't break them as often anymore.

It took a few minutes to get the body fully wired, but once it was, Sandra rushed to the sink and washed her hands in warm water. She couldn't wash away the memory, but at least she could wash away the clammy feeling on the tips of her fingers. With clean hands, she moved back to the lab, where her assistant, Mica, was waiting patiently against the secondary table next to the body's. Without a word, Mica laid on the fresh table, and allowed herself to be strapped down and wired up, just as the man's body was. She no longer had the nervous, shifty eyes which she had had when they had first attempted this procedure. Sandra found that relieving. She didn't have to stress as much about what she was about to do.

With two bodies wired up to the larger machine in the center of the room, Sandra moved over to the computer which was the head of this mechanical nervous system they had created. She watched the screen as she began the simulation, observing what would be found, and ensuring that Mica's brain wasn't overloaded.

A series of electrical pulses shocked through the man's body, designed to reinitiate the mental process for a short period. The heart was forced to pump, blood rushing through the upper body to feed the brain. As its own functions restored, the data that the brain transmitted was sent not through the man's bodies, but out of the body, through the transitionary machine, and into Mica. A minute after the process began, Mica let out a small gasp, and Sandra knew that they made it past the first step.

On her screen, she watched Mica's brainwaves, as they were distorted by the interference, until they were readjusted to accept the new input. Then there was data flying across her screen - a series of numbers that, when studied later, the two would be able to translate into memories. But this was only a backup.

On the table, Mica's eyes were wide as she relived the final moments of the man's life. The final two minutes and three seconds, precisely, as that was the length of time that they could keep his body functional to study. And they only had one shot, so those two minutes and three seconds had to be studied intensely. Fortunately, Mica had a picture perfect memory, which is why she was the one on the table. She would experience the patient's final moments, so that the truth of their death, what experiences were had, and what they were thinking could be attained.

It wasn't exactly legal. But the investigations bureau could hardly argue their results.

Eye

Ever the people watcher, Bernard sat in the dining area of the state building, watching the officials and hopefuls moving around in the crowd. It wasn't hard to tell which were which. The officials were frustrated, distracted, quick moving. Those who wanted to be officials were nervous and kept their heads down, as if they didn't want to be noticed for not being as important as the rest of those there. It was almost funny, the way they acted. They didn't seem to realize that all of the people above them in the building had once been just like them. That the only difference between any of them was a piece of paper, and if they were better at punching or taking a punch.

He saw the woman approaching him long before she had even decided to sit at his table. He could see the look in her face as she processed him, decided she had a question to ask him, and adjusted her path to do so. It wasn't the first time he had witnessed it, and he doubted it would be the last. Though he had to admit, she was one of the more attractive ladies to do so. She clearly took good care of her body, maintaining a shapely form while also having the power to move and to fight. If she didn't run away after her question, maybe she would be worth pursuing.

She slid into her seat across from him with a smile on her face, which he returned. "This seat isn't taken in it?" she asked, settling herself in anyway.

"It appears to be now," he responded. "Which is perfectly fine."

She flashed another smile at him. "Why, thank you. My name is Janice. Yours?"

"Bernard."

She nodded politely. "It is nice to meet you," she said, before turning to her food.

Bernard turned back to the crowd, continuing to watch. She did not want to seem rude, clearly, and would wait for a time to ask her question. It wasn't the first time, but it was a nice change of pace from the last few. He had only been recently accepted as an official at the state, and throughout his interviews and testings, he had frequently been interrogating about it. He understood why, of course, but to be allowed space before asking was appreciated.

It was a good ten minutes before it came. "May I ask a question, Bernard?" Janice asked.

"By all means."

"I apologize if this is a bit rude or personal, but... I can tell you're watching everyone here. Isn't that hard with one eye?"

Bernard turned to her and smiled before running a hand over the long scar that extended from his scalp, over his eye, and just short of his mouth, feeling the tautness of the skin around it. "I suppose it was once," he responded. "But nowadays I can see all kinds of things that I couldn't before. It just took a little practice."

So bad it's good

I hear the phrase "so bad it's good" all the time, but I've never really seen anything that I really felt it applied to. Until I finally watched The Room. The most famously terrible movie of all time. I knew way too much about the movie going in as it was, but if you've never seen it, let me assure you that you really just need to experience it. It is the very definition of so bad its good, and I can't help but love it.

It makes me wonder how much effort goes into making something like that, you know what I'm saying? Like, I know how much effort goes into writing your own story, and I can only imagine how many times over that's multiplied by some of the great writers, trying to make sure that their next novel lives up to the expectations both that have been thrust upon them, and that they place on themselves. How much of that effort goes into making something so utterly terrible? Though it may not be true for The Room, I know in most instances they don't intentionally make it so bad. How hard did they struggle to try and stop the inevitable?

And it has to hurt after you've released your product, to see all of the horrible reviews coming, repeatedly hearing about how your life's work is a sin against man. It has to dig into your soul, to hear about how that effort you made is becoming the butt of people's jokes. But then there are the people who begin to love it because of how terrible it is. Who sing that work's praises for its entertaining value, because they love to laugh at how bad it is. Do you hate those people, or do you love them? They are, after all, your only fans, if you can really call them fans.

I also wonder if there are people who strive to create something that would fall into this category. To create a cult classic, horribly made, horribly written, horribly constructed masterpiece that scares people and yet calls to them. Are there people who dream about that kind of thing? Who crave to be remembered for creating something so horrifying that you just can't resist them?

I know I wouldn't want to. That kind of thought scares me. I would hate to be that kind of person, whose known because of how bad his writing is, and lovingly mocked to the ends of the earth. I don't need to be the next great american novelist, but I would love to have true fans, who want to experience the stories I write, and become attached to the characters that I make. I want to make good. I do not want to make bad.

Even if bad is really, really funny.

Shooter

John's heart was pounding hard as he reached the empty looking house in the back corner of the court. It was the middle of the day, so most people were out at work, but his head whipped back and forth, looking for any sign of life. He couldn't afford to keep running, but he couldn't afford to be seen, either. The police had moved much faster than he had anticipated, setting up a barricade in the three mile area around where the incident had gone down before he could grab his supplies and leave. In the back of his mind, he berated himself for thinking he would have the time to do anything but get the hell out of the city, but he had more important things to worry about now. He had to hide.

He ran to the front door of the least suspicious house he could find - it was an older one, probably belonging to an older couple. It had no garage, so the fact that there was no car out in front suggested that the owners were out shopping or something of that nature. But he had to be sure, so he knocked three times on the door and waited, listening. His heart was pounding in his ears, but he did his best to focus on any sounds of footsteps, tvs, or radios that might be coming from inside. No dogs or parrots. The house was silent. So after only a few moments of waiting and listening, John stepped back, pulled the gun he had shot the officers with out from the band of his pants, and shot the lock off of the door.

He was in the house as quick as he could move, grabbing a nearby table and throwing it against the front door to hold it shut, tossing anything on top of it to the ground without a second thought. He was too deep to be concerned about any of the belongings of whoever lived here. It was his house now, as far as he was concerned.

Windows closed. Doors locked. Anything that could be moved to barricade any possible entrance into the house was. John had no idea how long it would be until the police came around, searching for him, but he had to make sure that when they did come, they weren't getting in. As soon as the work was done, he collapsed on a couch in the living room, exhausted. How long would he have to wait it out? How long before they decided he had escaped, and that he could go home?

A number of hours passed. He decided as long as he was there, he would enjoy the house's kitchen. If he was going to go out, he wasn't going to go out hungry. He ate like a king, unconcerned about cost or supply. He didn't dare turn on a tv, though. He would not give himself away. The inevitable knock on the door came while he was on the toilet, and the sound scared what was left out of him. He could hear the sound of the police shouting for him. He didn't even dare flush.

An hour passed, during which John couldn't even tell if the police had left or not, when the phone rang. He should have cut the wire. He stared at it, unsure, but grabbed it just before the final ring.

"We know you're in there." It was the same police officer as the one who had been shouting through the door. "If you come out now, you won't be hurt." He slammed the phone down without a word.

They called out to him a number of times, but John would not respond. They were bluffing. If he called it, they would leave. They'd have to.

The night passed by, and they did not leave. In the early morning, the police called that they would gas him. Another bluff. It had to be. Then the windows were shattering, and canisters were flying in around him. John bolted for one of the back bedrooms he had noticed earlier to not have windows. He could hear the gas releasing behind him, chasing him down. He rushed into a closet, slamming the door open and closed behind him, hearing a crash following him. He didn't know what it was. He didn't care.

Until, a few moments later, he heard the sound of sparks taking hold, and a small fire beginning to burn. He must have knocked over something electrical and broken it. It only took a few moments after the sound began for the gas to reach the flame, fueling it, spreading it. It was just a matter of time before the house was engulfed in flame. John was trapped with nowhere to go. The police would put out the flames, right? They couldn't just let him die. Right?

The fire burned for a long time. The metal door of the closet kept the fire out, but he was sweating hard, and he could feel the heat. His oxygen wouldn't last much longer. He looked down at the gun still in his hand, his knuckles white as he gripped it.

Which would hurt less? The fire? Or the bullet?

Free Write 7

I've been kind of all over the place today, thanks to a few things that have been going on. In the last couple hours or so in particular, my mind has just been bouncing, and I've been struggling to keep any one thought going. Seems like the perfect time for another free write, as much as I hate them.

In the city where I live - which, for the record, is usually extremely peaceful and uneventful - two police officers were shot today. As of the time of my writing this, It's been ten hours since that occurred, and I can still hear a helicopter flying overhead outside, searching for the guy that did it. It's a tad disconcerting, especially considering how very unusual it is for the city. It's not even known at the moment if the local schools will be open tomorrow morning, just because of how relatively close the shooting was to them, and the need to close off the streets. To be honest, I don't think the guy's here anymore, but I can't blame the police for searching so hard. It's not exactly a calming thought that there is a shooter loose. I just hope things manage to resolve themselves in the coming hours, and that the shot officers can recover. They didn't die, though one is in critical condition at the moment, so here's hoping.

I'm a pretty big advocator for exercise, and over the past couple years I've become a pretty big nerd about it. That's not to say I'm good at it - I'm better at fitness now than I was when I was younger, but I struggle constantly with food intake. I eat way too much garbage, which makes me frustrated with my weight. But I love exercising, and I love pushing my limits, and I love the way my muscles build and what they allow me to do. Most guys would want to show that off using tank tops. I hate tank tops. I don't like the way they look on other guys, I don't like the way they look on me, and I don't like the way it feels to wear them. I'm stupidly picky about it, and I recognize it, but that doesn't change the fact that that's how I feel about it.

I'm weird about clothing like that in general, but trying to explain that usually either confuses or irritates people. A lot of my opinions are like that. I don't overly want to get into it, partially because it would take too long, and partially because I know I won't explain it very well and I'll miss some of the points that I want to make, and it won't make a ton of sense, because that's just how it always goes. I'm kind of hypocritical about a lot of them, which I recognize, but it's hard for me to really do anything about it. There's a certain amount of logic to how I feel about things, but that doesn't necessarily mean that it's logical. I can't always follow it myself, I just have to feel it out as I go. Which isn't really helpful for those around me.