The girl crouched low to the ground, masking herself in the tall grass, her bow already drawn and an arrow already notched onto the string. She watched the massive creatures move about the land calmly, knowing that they had very few predators and that they had little to fear. But the girl also knew that she had mouths to feed, and that if she wanted to keep her people alive, she had to be the top of the food chain. It would take a great amount of power and precision to take down creatures such as these, but the supplies she could attain by doing so could keep the village going for a week off of one beast alone. And she had the element of surprise on her side.
Sensing her thoughts, the small metallic piece attached to her forehead sparked to life, a vivid digital field springing to life before her eyes. It pulled up long and detailed information about those she was hunting, highlighting their vitals and where best to aim to pierce them, causing either massive damage or, hopefully, killing them outright. She knew how low the odds were of the latter happening - it was not her first hunt, nor her first using this technology - but she also knew that the slightest variation in her aim could cause drastically different events to unfold. That was why she continued to carry the spear on her back. Should things go from bad to worse, it was much easier to cause serious damage with something so thick and heavy.
The string of the bow drew back in a smooth and fluid motion as she pointed the arrow at the beast's heart. A precise shot between the ribs would be able to dig just deep enough to pierce it, and even if it did not, penetration that close to bone and muscle in the chest would be difficult to simply walk off. It would stagger the beast without question, and hopefully she would have enough time to get off a second shot before it began to bolt. It would be harder to get a good shot off, but if she aimed for the throat on the second shot rather than the chest, she would be less likely to kill, but more likely to keep it from escaping. After all - if one could not breath, they could not run.
There was a thin, light thwip as she let go of the bowstring and the arrow let fly. She could see its probably arc in the digital vision she had of the world, but she let it fade just before the arrow struck true. It was a good analysis tool, but once combat had begun, she preferred to rely on her own eyes. The arrow dug deep, but she could see in the way it staggered that it's heart was still beating.
It was time to really being the hunt.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Coat
Elric lifted the girl onto his back, draping her weight over her shoulder and wrapping her legs around his waist, grunting as her horns bashed into the back of his skull. She wasn't particularly heavy, thankfully. But it wasn't exactly comfortable all the same. And whatever had been throwing those swords at the two of them was likely still nearby, so he didn't particularly want to go back the way he had come. But whatever was ahead of them probably wasn't going to be much better - there wasn't much promise that they would be able to find an alternate path out, but it may still be a safer bet than turning back.
As he began to move onward, there was an abrupt force wrapping around his wrist that pulled him back, nearly making him fall. When he turned around, the skeleton that had been sitting in the chair moments before was up and behind him, not quite grabbing him but making motions to. But rather than the skeleton's bones, it was as if the jacket itself that it had been wearing was the one attempting to grab him. The sleeve was wrapped around his wrist, and he could feel it tugging, as though it were trying to use him to pull itself off of the skeleton. Slowly, carefully, he reached out a hand to loosen the limbs of the skeleton, letting the coat slide free.
It flipped through the air, moving of its own volition, then snapped towards him once more, swinging around him and forcing its way onto his back and arms. The fit was surprisingly good, not feeling restrictive in any way. However, as it touched his skin, it felt as though it was burning him - a cold, freezing burn, that sent shivers up his spine and touched him to the core. But underneath the jacket, he could see the shirt he had been wearing searing and burning. He tore it away from his skin and discarded the burnt cloth - it was oddly relieving.
He had had to drop the girl in the process, and he could feel the coat tugging against him to retrieve her again. As he leaned down, a light came from within the sleeves and washed over her. Within moments, her breath was returning to her, and her eyes opened once more.
It had a mind of its own, it hurt him, and it could heal people. Now this was going to be an experience.
As he began to move onward, there was an abrupt force wrapping around his wrist that pulled him back, nearly making him fall. When he turned around, the skeleton that had been sitting in the chair moments before was up and behind him, not quite grabbing him but making motions to. But rather than the skeleton's bones, it was as if the jacket itself that it had been wearing was the one attempting to grab him. The sleeve was wrapped around his wrist, and he could feel it tugging, as though it were trying to use him to pull itself off of the skeleton. Slowly, carefully, he reached out a hand to loosen the limbs of the skeleton, letting the coat slide free.
It flipped through the air, moving of its own volition, then snapped towards him once more, swinging around him and forcing its way onto his back and arms. The fit was surprisingly good, not feeling restrictive in any way. However, as it touched his skin, it felt as though it was burning him - a cold, freezing burn, that sent shivers up his spine and touched him to the core. But underneath the jacket, he could see the shirt he had been wearing searing and burning. He tore it away from his skin and discarded the burnt cloth - it was oddly relieving.
He had had to drop the girl in the process, and he could feel the coat tugging against him to retrieve her again. As he leaned down, a light came from within the sleeves and washed over her. Within moments, her breath was returning to her, and her eyes opened once more.
It had a mind of its own, it hurt him, and it could heal people. Now this was going to be an experience.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Wand
Meran was surprised as he walked in to the wandmakers shop to see not dozens of wooden beams flying in every direction, shedding layers away as they became the new devices for future magicians, but a few men working meticulously and manually away at a series of work stations, carving down wood, sanding them to shape, carefully examining them for mistakes and weaknesses that would lead them to breaking before their time. If it weren't for the final station, in which the head of the shop was installing them with the feathers of magical creatures which he plucked from the air around him using the newly forged wands, sucking them in through the pores of the oak and willow as though it were only natural for the two substances to become one and the same.
"Expected more magic?" came a voice from behind Meran's shoulder. It made the boy jump, and he quickly turned towards the source of the voice. It was a smaller man, his back slightly hunched over, with a lazy eye that made him look unsettling, though the smile on his face was genuine and kind. "Everyone does. In a place that makes the source of everyone's magic, one would expect much more. But if we were to use our own magic to forge them, it would interfere with their natural buoyancy, so to speak, and weaken their ties to the next plane. It has been tried. It leads to mistakes, mishaps, and misspeech. People get injured. And we prefer for that not to happen."
"But..." Meran was struggling to take in the information. Everything was just so different than what he had expected. He didn't have that many expectations to begin with - he was still coming to terms with his magical powers - and yet this had still caught him off guard. "But what about the feathers?" he asked. "That's being done magically. That doesn't interfere?"
The man smiled and nodded, more so to himself than in response to the question. "A good question," he said, looking over at the final station. "But it's not our magic that's doing it. It's the feather itself, imbued with its own magic, which inserts itself into the wood. It chooses its shape, its material, its home. And when it finds it, it makes its way in on its own. We merely present them and give them the opportunity."
"How do I know which wand to choose?"
That made the man laugh. "I tell you that those feathers choose their homes for their magic, and you think you're going to be the one to choose your wand?"
"Expected more magic?" came a voice from behind Meran's shoulder. It made the boy jump, and he quickly turned towards the source of the voice. It was a smaller man, his back slightly hunched over, with a lazy eye that made him look unsettling, though the smile on his face was genuine and kind. "Everyone does. In a place that makes the source of everyone's magic, one would expect much more. But if we were to use our own magic to forge them, it would interfere with their natural buoyancy, so to speak, and weaken their ties to the next plane. It has been tried. It leads to mistakes, mishaps, and misspeech. People get injured. And we prefer for that not to happen."
"But..." Meran was struggling to take in the information. Everything was just so different than what he had expected. He didn't have that many expectations to begin with - he was still coming to terms with his magical powers - and yet this had still caught him off guard. "But what about the feathers?" he asked. "That's being done magically. That doesn't interfere?"
The man smiled and nodded, more so to himself than in response to the question. "A good question," he said, looking over at the final station. "But it's not our magic that's doing it. It's the feather itself, imbued with its own magic, which inserts itself into the wood. It chooses its shape, its material, its home. And when it finds it, it makes its way in on its own. We merely present them and give them the opportunity."
"How do I know which wand to choose?"
That made the man laugh. "I tell you that those feathers choose their homes for their magic, and you think you're going to be the one to choose your wand?"
Friday, February 24, 2017
Puzzle box
Derrick fingered the small box that he carried in his off-hand, feeling the subtle dips in the wooden construction that gave away where the tricks were in the lock. The person who had made it for him had been a master woodworker, so the lines were nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the shape. But he was well familiar with it, and had opened and closed the box countless times since he had obtained it. He could find the lines and unlock the box in his sleep by now.
They were a series of sliding pieces, all of which served to lock one another in place, only able to move one in a direction at a time, and only in a very precise order. Some of the pieces were even only permitted to be moved at a certain distance, so if they were pushed all the way to their end, the next lock would be unable to move in the proper direction. It took a very intricate knowledge of the box to be able to complete the twenty necessary movements to open the box entirely - something that Derrick had memorized quite some time before, and that very few other people in the world knew. It meant that whatever he put in the box would be incredibly safe.
Of course, most people wouldn't be particularly comfortable knowing what he kept in the box as it was. After all, it certainly wasn't a very normal thing to be carrying around with him, and especially not in such a safe and secure container. But he carried with him ten very particular fingernails which he had acquired over his journey, each of which were very important to him for different reasons - reasons which he chose not to divulge to any who asked. They weren't magic, as some tried to guess, nor were they his own. They were not those of his victims, or those of people who had been particularly close to him.
In fact, he had no idea who they belonged to. He had found them, discarded, consistently over time as he stayed in inns. They were always in the center of his pillow when he entered the room, sitting there and waiting for him. The consistency of them suggested to him that they were all from a single person, and that thy were either insane or knew that he would be there the next night and were specifically leaving them for him. Either way, he wanted to know who they were, and why they were going exactly where he was.
They were a series of sliding pieces, all of which served to lock one another in place, only able to move one in a direction at a time, and only in a very precise order. Some of the pieces were even only permitted to be moved at a certain distance, so if they were pushed all the way to their end, the next lock would be unable to move in the proper direction. It took a very intricate knowledge of the box to be able to complete the twenty necessary movements to open the box entirely - something that Derrick had memorized quite some time before, and that very few other people in the world knew. It meant that whatever he put in the box would be incredibly safe.
Of course, most people wouldn't be particularly comfortable knowing what he kept in the box as it was. After all, it certainly wasn't a very normal thing to be carrying around with him, and especially not in such a safe and secure container. But he carried with him ten very particular fingernails which he had acquired over his journey, each of which were very important to him for different reasons - reasons which he chose not to divulge to any who asked. They weren't magic, as some tried to guess, nor were they his own. They were not those of his victims, or those of people who had been particularly close to him.
In fact, he had no idea who they belonged to. He had found them, discarded, consistently over time as he stayed in inns. They were always in the center of his pillow when he entered the room, sitting there and waiting for him. The consistency of them suggested to him that they were all from a single person, and that thy were either insane or knew that he would be there the next night and were specifically leaving them for him. Either way, he wanted to know who they were, and why they were going exactly where he was.
Thursday, February 23, 2017
Sniffbox
Max sat down on his bed, grabbing the small box off of his bedside table. It had showed up one night as he was sleeping, and he had no particular idea where it had come from. But he had found no particular reason not to carry it with him, and he suspected that in doing so, he might one day find the person who had left it with him. Then he might at least find out why it had been left with him, if not be able to return it entirely.
It was clear what its original intention had been. The box was just the right size to fit in the palm of one's hand, and had an easily openable lid. It was some kind of a sniffbox, having contained some kind of material inside to be smelled, presumably to help one fall asleep if the "Dreams" label on the lid was anything to go by. By the time it had come into Max's hands, however, the box was empty, and there was no remnant of the original smell remaining inside. But he often checked it before he went to sleep, wondering if there was something about it he had missed, or if he could think of any reason that it would have been left with him.
It was true that he had difficulty sleeping, and that his dreams were infrequent, and usually nightmares. But it wasn't something that he talked about very often, so he wasn't sure how anyone would have learned about it. And even then, giving him an empty sniffbox wasn't really a way to actually help him out with that. Having it in his possession hadn't changed anything about his sleeping habits, and he continued to dream very rarely and wake up frequently. If anything, it affected him far more often when he was awake than when he was asleep, just because it made him so curious.
He set the box down as he laid back into the bed. It had been some time since his last nightmare - he anticipated another in the coming nights. It had been longer still since he had had a good dream, that that was also expected. If the sniffbox truly had once contained some kind of material that would have gifted him with dreams, he would have gladly used it. That was something that he did not feel he got to experience nearly often enough. But such a gift was not to be, and so he would continue on with his usual, sleepless nights.
It was clear what its original intention had been. The box was just the right size to fit in the palm of one's hand, and had an easily openable lid. It was some kind of a sniffbox, having contained some kind of material inside to be smelled, presumably to help one fall asleep if the "Dreams" label on the lid was anything to go by. By the time it had come into Max's hands, however, the box was empty, and there was no remnant of the original smell remaining inside. But he often checked it before he went to sleep, wondering if there was something about it he had missed, or if he could think of any reason that it would have been left with him.
It was true that he had difficulty sleeping, and that his dreams were infrequent, and usually nightmares. But it wasn't something that he talked about very often, so he wasn't sure how anyone would have learned about it. And even then, giving him an empty sniffbox wasn't really a way to actually help him out with that. Having it in his possession hadn't changed anything about his sleeping habits, and he continued to dream very rarely and wake up frequently. If anything, it affected him far more often when he was awake than when he was asleep, just because it made him so curious.
He set the box down as he laid back into the bed. It had been some time since his last nightmare - he anticipated another in the coming nights. It had been longer still since he had had a good dream, that that was also expected. If the sniffbox truly had once contained some kind of material that would have gifted him with dreams, he would have gladly used it. That was something that he did not feel he got to experience nearly often enough. But such a gift was not to be, and so he would continue on with his usual, sleepless nights.
Back
Melanie was curled up in the corner of the room, her back pressed up against the wall, head buried between her knees. It had been a rough day. There had just been a lot going on, and a lot of little things that didn't go her way, and her discomfort being in the environment she was had just all piled up to nearly break her. Her breaths were heavy but slow as she tried less than successfully to calm herself down. She wanted desperately to tear the shirt off her back and feel freed, but she also knew that Jacob would be home any minute. She really didn't feel comfortable letting herself loose with him around. Even if they were dating.
She heard the door open as he arrived and felt a shiver run down her spine. She didn't want him to see her like this. Not in this much pain. Not this weak. She could hear his footsteps getting closer, and she pulled her knees closer to her chest in response. He didn't say a word when he saw her. She heard him grow close and kneel beside her, and then his arms were around her, pulling her close to his chest and simply holding him. The motion hit her hard, and she melted into him, beginning to cry into his shoulder, continuously trying to stop herself and only causing her body to be rocked by her sobs in the process.
She wasn't sure how long it had been when she finally heard his voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he whispered quietly into her hair. "Is there anything I can get you? Can I make you some hot chocolate or anything?"
Melanie shook her head, trying to get her breathing under control. "I just want loose," she mumbled between stifled breaths. "I feel so constricted. My back is killing me. I so desperately want out of this shirt, but I just can't..." The words were just spilling out of her mouth, she had lost track of them completely.
Jacob's hands were on her back, gently slipping them under her shirt. "I promise I won't look if you don't want me to."
"W-wait..."
Before she could protest the back of her shirt was lifting, and she could feel the wings unfurling off of her back. They tore the rest of her shirt open as they expanded, beautiful green feathers flying in every direction. She turned herself to face Jacob, caring less about her bare chest than her wings. "W-what is...?" Jacob began to ask.
Melanie was blushing hard. "Y-you weren't ready for this..."
She heard the door open as he arrived and felt a shiver run down her spine. She didn't want him to see her like this. Not in this much pain. Not this weak. She could hear his footsteps getting closer, and she pulled her knees closer to her chest in response. He didn't say a word when he saw her. She heard him grow close and kneel beside her, and then his arms were around her, pulling her close to his chest and simply holding him. The motion hit her hard, and she melted into him, beginning to cry into his shoulder, continuously trying to stop herself and only causing her body to be rocked by her sobs in the process.
She wasn't sure how long it had been when she finally heard his voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he whispered quietly into her hair. "Is there anything I can get you? Can I make you some hot chocolate or anything?"
Melanie shook her head, trying to get her breathing under control. "I just want loose," she mumbled between stifled breaths. "I feel so constricted. My back is killing me. I so desperately want out of this shirt, but I just can't..." The words were just spilling out of her mouth, she had lost track of them completely.
Jacob's hands were on her back, gently slipping them under her shirt. "I promise I won't look if you don't want me to."
"W-wait..."
Before she could protest the back of her shirt was lifting, and she could feel the wings unfurling off of her back. They tore the rest of her shirt open as they expanded, beautiful green feathers flying in every direction. She turned herself to face Jacob, caring less about her bare chest than her wings. "W-what is...?" Jacob began to ask.
Melanie was blushing hard. "Y-you weren't ready for this..."
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Desire
If it hasn't been apparent from some of the writings I've done recently, I've been dealing with depression as of late. And by dealing with it, I mean facing it head on after having it in my life for an excessively long time - I'm in a position where it's affecting me more than it has at other times, but I'm also actually attempting to take steps to do something about it. Unfortunately, that can be incredibly difficult to do, because one of the things that depression does is just sap you entirely of your desire and motivation to do anything, regardless of how much you love it. For me, writing is one of those things. I want to do it, I know I should be writing, but there are days with increasing frequency that I simply don't want to do any writing. And a lot of the time, on those days, like today, I write real talk posts.
It's not just writing, of course. I have a lot of things that I want to do, that I think about doing almost every day, but it can be hard to convince myself to actually do them. It can take a lot of effort just to get out of bed. Some things are easier to do - probably because I can combine them with other things that I do normally. That's part of why I've been enjoying the building stuff so much as of late - I have a need to do physical things and to create, but I'm very much a person who can lay around and watch youtube videos all day. The building allows me to kind of space out and do all of those at once. I listen to podcasts while slowly and methodically grinding away excess material, gluing things together and painting them over. Changing one shape into another. It's easier to do something productive when I can do it with some kind of noise in the background.
It just has to be something that I have the desire to listen to, but not necessarily watch. That's why the podcast works so well. There's nothing visual to it - I can do literally anything else as long as it's going. Most of the time I watch youtube videos, and there are a few that I can space out to, but for the most part I have a desire to actually watch them and pay attention to them. It makes it very easy to get distracted from other things that I should be doing while watching them.
And of course there's also the problem that part of what I desire is to lay around and play video games. And that's not always a bad thing, because we all need to wind down some times. But I think that's part of my problem - I'm always wound up. I can wind down during something, like gaming or building, but as soon as that something ends I immediately wind back up. And it's not intentional - I would never choose to be like that. But I am. And it's hard to desire to do something I know will wind me up when I already am.
It's not just writing, of course. I have a lot of things that I want to do, that I think about doing almost every day, but it can be hard to convince myself to actually do them. It can take a lot of effort just to get out of bed. Some things are easier to do - probably because I can combine them with other things that I do normally. That's part of why I've been enjoying the building stuff so much as of late - I have a need to do physical things and to create, but I'm very much a person who can lay around and watch youtube videos all day. The building allows me to kind of space out and do all of those at once. I listen to podcasts while slowly and methodically grinding away excess material, gluing things together and painting them over. Changing one shape into another. It's easier to do something productive when I can do it with some kind of noise in the background.
It just has to be something that I have the desire to listen to, but not necessarily watch. That's why the podcast works so well. There's nothing visual to it - I can do literally anything else as long as it's going. Most of the time I watch youtube videos, and there are a few that I can space out to, but for the most part I have a desire to actually watch them and pay attention to them. It makes it very easy to get distracted from other things that I should be doing while watching them.
And of course there's also the problem that part of what I desire is to lay around and play video games. And that's not always a bad thing, because we all need to wind down some times. But I think that's part of my problem - I'm always wound up. I can wind down during something, like gaming or building, but as soon as that something ends I immediately wind back up. And it's not intentional - I would never choose to be like that. But I am. And it's hard to desire to do something I know will wind me up when I already am.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Train station
Jeremiah was sitting in his seat, watching the world out the window of the train as it blurred by, the sun setting in the distance. He didn't have much to entertain him with - he had underestimated his phone's battery life, the amount he had left in his book, and even the amount of work he had to do over the weekend. All of it had run short a few stops back, leaving him with just enough time not to be able to fall asleep, but more than enough to ponder his existence and start to become a wear of just how sore his rear end had gotten from sitting so long.
It had been a long time since he'd been back home. He'd been going to college for a while now, living on campus, and his car had broken down months back. It was hard to afford to get it fixed when he was spending so much already on classes and textbooks - if it wasn't for the food plan he was on, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to afford to eat. Fortunately his job was on campus as well, so he didn't have to worry about getting to and from work - that much he could walk. But it was a six hour train ride to get back to his hometown, and as much as he missed his friends and family there, it was hard to justify that kind of time commitment most of the time. But it was finally break time, and he was heading home.
The warning that they were pulling close to his stop was a welcome break from staring out the window, and while his legs felt vaguely like jelly when he stood up, he was more than happy to grab his bags and head down the stairs to the car doors. There was still time until they got there, of course, but even the small change in scenery was good. He wished he could text Sarah, let her know that he was close. He trusted that she was there and waiting, obviously, but she would probably be waiting in her car, not sure which train was the one he was on.
He could feel the shift under his feet as the train began to slow. There was about a minute left before he would be getting off the train. He actually found he liked riding the train - it was just that he really wanted to be home. His fingers tapped quickly on the handle of his bag, but he was first in line as the doors opened, and he swept out of the car.
The sky was red as the sun was just about gone under the horizon, making it harder to see, but her form was apparent just on the other side of the fence. He smiled at her and saw her coming closer as he made his way around, and the moment he was clear she started running. She leapt into his arms and buried her face in his neck as he spun her around. She was warm against him, and the scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils.
"I missed you," she whispered against his skin.
"I missed you too."
It had been a long time since he'd been back home. He'd been going to college for a while now, living on campus, and his car had broken down months back. It was hard to afford to get it fixed when he was spending so much already on classes and textbooks - if it wasn't for the food plan he was on, he wasn't sure he'd even be able to afford to eat. Fortunately his job was on campus as well, so he didn't have to worry about getting to and from work - that much he could walk. But it was a six hour train ride to get back to his hometown, and as much as he missed his friends and family there, it was hard to justify that kind of time commitment most of the time. But it was finally break time, and he was heading home.
The warning that they were pulling close to his stop was a welcome break from staring out the window, and while his legs felt vaguely like jelly when he stood up, he was more than happy to grab his bags and head down the stairs to the car doors. There was still time until they got there, of course, but even the small change in scenery was good. He wished he could text Sarah, let her know that he was close. He trusted that she was there and waiting, obviously, but she would probably be waiting in her car, not sure which train was the one he was on.
He could feel the shift under his feet as the train began to slow. There was about a minute left before he would be getting off the train. He actually found he liked riding the train - it was just that he really wanted to be home. His fingers tapped quickly on the handle of his bag, but he was first in line as the doors opened, and he swept out of the car.
The sky was red as the sun was just about gone under the horizon, making it harder to see, but her form was apparent just on the other side of the fence. He smiled at her and saw her coming closer as he made his way around, and the moment he was clear she started running. She leapt into his arms and buried her face in his neck as he spun her around. She was warm against him, and the scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils.
"I missed you," she whispered against his skin.
"I missed you too."
Sunday, February 19, 2017
Forbidden
Robert was sitting on the couch in Mark's living room, trying not to squirm as he felt the nervousness washing over him. He had hoped that coming over and spending some time together before the prom would help him to calm down and distract his mind from thoughts of what was coming, but it had seemed to only do the opposite. He felt increasingly uncomfortable as the time dragged on. The suit in his bag was a weight on his mind, and every time his eyes glanced over it he saw himself in those clothes, standing beside his date, everyone's eyes on them as they walked in to the hall. It sent shivers down his spine - but he had already come this far. There was no turning back now.
"You wanna throw up?" Mark asked. His voice caught Robert off guard - Mark had gone to the bathroom a few minutes earlier, and he hadn't heard him coming back. He looked over to see Robert leaning against the door frame of the living room, looking down at Mark with an apparent look of concern. Mark must have failed at trying not to squirm. "Should definitely brush your teeth afterwards, but I can understand the need. It's definitely not gonna be an easy night. But it will be worth it, right?"
"Will it though?" Robert asked back quietly. He had been thinking it for a while, but he was afraid to actually say it. "I mean, is this really going to help anything? I'm happy with how things are going. I don't... feel the need to make it public. Yes, it kinda sucks always feeling like I need to hide, but is putting it out there really going to change anything? I'm afraid that it will just make things worse."
Mark sat down next to him and rested one hand reassuringly on Robert's knee. "I know you're scared," he said. "So am I. This could very easily go poorly for us. We can't control how other people look at us - we may be mocked for the rest of our school lives. But me? I'd rather be mocked for what I am than accepted for what I'm not. And the people who do accept us after tonight are the people we know that we can trust."
Robert nodded, not saying a word, trying to feel ok with what was going to happen. "I know," he said quietly. "But you at least know that your parents accept this. Mine won't know until we walk out the door."
"And if they can't accept us, you know that you're welcome here. We'll give you your own space, you can't just immediately move into my room. But we'll find our way forward. Together."
"I love you, Mark."
"I love you too, Rob."
"You wanna throw up?" Mark asked. His voice caught Robert off guard - Mark had gone to the bathroom a few minutes earlier, and he hadn't heard him coming back. He looked over to see Robert leaning against the door frame of the living room, looking down at Mark with an apparent look of concern. Mark must have failed at trying not to squirm. "Should definitely brush your teeth afterwards, but I can understand the need. It's definitely not gonna be an easy night. But it will be worth it, right?"
"Will it though?" Robert asked back quietly. He had been thinking it for a while, but he was afraid to actually say it. "I mean, is this really going to help anything? I'm happy with how things are going. I don't... feel the need to make it public. Yes, it kinda sucks always feeling like I need to hide, but is putting it out there really going to change anything? I'm afraid that it will just make things worse."
Mark sat down next to him and rested one hand reassuringly on Robert's knee. "I know you're scared," he said. "So am I. This could very easily go poorly for us. We can't control how other people look at us - we may be mocked for the rest of our school lives. But me? I'd rather be mocked for what I am than accepted for what I'm not. And the people who do accept us after tonight are the people we know that we can trust."
Robert nodded, not saying a word, trying to feel ok with what was going to happen. "I know," he said quietly. "But you at least know that your parents accept this. Mine won't know until we walk out the door."
"And if they can't accept us, you know that you're welcome here. We'll give you your own space, you can't just immediately move into my room. But we'll find our way forward. Together."
"I love you, Mark."
"I love you too, Rob."
Silence
Marcus awoke slowly, feeling the warmth on his face as the sun shone in through the window. It was quiet in his room, but the warmth was something he didn't feel very often - something must have happened in the night that had prevented his alarm clock from going off. As he drifted awake, it became clear to him that he was very late for work, and that he had likely missed a number of calls because of it. How had he managed to sleep through those as well? Had his phone died in the night?
He could see it on his bedside table as he opened his eyes, and he reached groggily for it to pull it to his face. He clicked it on, and it was still powered, but there was only a single message, despite the fact that he was three hours late for work. And even then, the message had only come through within the last hour. He set it to play the message, but as he pushed the phone to his ear, he didn't hear anything. There was no static as it began to play, there was no voice. Nothing. And as he checked to see if everything was alright, he could see that the message was only a few seconds long. Surely this late into the day he should have expected at least a couple minutes of being yelled at. Something was definitely not right.
He pushed the sheets off of him and got up, making his way out to the kitchen. He wanted to check the clocks out there, see if there had been some kind of power outage in the night that might explain part of what was happening. And he noticed as he moved out that the usual ticking of said clock was missing. Surely that was some kind of sign that something had broken. But when he was able to see it, he could see that it was still functioning as normal, and that the time corresponded to what he had seen on his phone.
Everything was just too quiet. The alarm, the phone, the message, the clock. He couldn't hear the sound of cars driving by outside, or even the sound of his own footsteps as he walked around his house. He checked his ears, but as far as he could tell they weren't plugged in any way. He couldn't even hear the sound of his fingers scrapping against the canals.
The world was draped completely and perfectly in silence. There was nothing to be heard.
He prayed to god this was only a dream. Or, at the very least, that he wasn't the only one.
He could see it on his bedside table as he opened his eyes, and he reached groggily for it to pull it to his face. He clicked it on, and it was still powered, but there was only a single message, despite the fact that he was three hours late for work. And even then, the message had only come through within the last hour. He set it to play the message, but as he pushed the phone to his ear, he didn't hear anything. There was no static as it began to play, there was no voice. Nothing. And as he checked to see if everything was alright, he could see that the message was only a few seconds long. Surely this late into the day he should have expected at least a couple minutes of being yelled at. Something was definitely not right.
He pushed the sheets off of him and got up, making his way out to the kitchen. He wanted to check the clocks out there, see if there had been some kind of power outage in the night that might explain part of what was happening. And he noticed as he moved out that the usual ticking of said clock was missing. Surely that was some kind of sign that something had broken. But when he was able to see it, he could see that it was still functioning as normal, and that the time corresponded to what he had seen on his phone.
Everything was just too quiet. The alarm, the phone, the message, the clock. He couldn't hear the sound of cars driving by outside, or even the sound of his own footsteps as he walked around his house. He checked his ears, but as far as he could tell they weren't plugged in any way. He couldn't even hear the sound of his fingers scrapping against the canals.
The world was draped completely and perfectly in silence. There was nothing to be heard.
He prayed to god this was only a dream. Or, at the very least, that he wasn't the only one.
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Varnish
John pulled the mask over his face as he picked up the flathead screwdriver and walked to his work bench, where his cans of paint were awaiting him. It wasn't the main varnish he was using that he was concerned about so much as the mineral spirits that he was mixing them with - the smell was powerful, and he would be in close proximity to it for the next hour or so. Though it wasn't necessarily dangerous to intake those fumes, doing so for that long would surely not be a wise decision. Better safe than sorry.
Honestly, he was still kind of weirded out by the idea that the first layer was made by mixing the varnish with a paint thinner. He understood the idea - it allowed the varnish to sink into the pores of the wood, creating a better seal that would last longer. Which was good, because the tools and instruments he created were meant to last for a long time. It was just such a strange concept, and one that he certainly wouldn't have ever come up with on his own. From time to time, he wondered who the first person to come up with that technique was. To think of mixing paint with paint thinner - who would even think of that? Or perhaps it was simply a mistake that worked out. Who knew.
He took the painting slow. It wasn't particularly hard or precise work, but he preferred to have to fix as few mistakes as possible. It wasn't like more traditional paint, which could be covered over by secondary layers and be more or less alright. Every untended to mistake would be evident through subsequent layers. Granted, the varnish could be sanded, and should be between every layer regardless. But the further down he had to sand to correct a mistake, the more layers of painting he would have to do. And that only served to invite more mistakes.
It was a good thing he wasn't overly artistic - he was much better at the slow grinding of building than he was a the precise movements of painting. He managed with the varnish because it was just a flat covering, and anywhere it wasn't supposed to go he could cover with tape. And it was a nice thing that he could work at slowly over time - as he finished layering the paint, he set aside his tools and cleaned up what he could, then went about his day. It would be hours before it had dried off, and another couple after that before he felt comfortable with putting the next layer on. One in the morning, to last for the day - one in the evening, to dry as he slept. It was a good system. And it made him feel satisfied when all was said and done.
Honestly, he was still kind of weirded out by the idea that the first layer was made by mixing the varnish with a paint thinner. He understood the idea - it allowed the varnish to sink into the pores of the wood, creating a better seal that would last longer. Which was good, because the tools and instruments he created were meant to last for a long time. It was just such a strange concept, and one that he certainly wouldn't have ever come up with on his own. From time to time, he wondered who the first person to come up with that technique was. To think of mixing paint with paint thinner - who would even think of that? Or perhaps it was simply a mistake that worked out. Who knew.
He took the painting slow. It wasn't particularly hard or precise work, but he preferred to have to fix as few mistakes as possible. It wasn't like more traditional paint, which could be covered over by secondary layers and be more or less alright. Every untended to mistake would be evident through subsequent layers. Granted, the varnish could be sanded, and should be between every layer regardless. But the further down he had to sand to correct a mistake, the more layers of painting he would have to do. And that only served to invite more mistakes.
It was a good thing he wasn't overly artistic - he was much better at the slow grinding of building than he was a the precise movements of painting. He managed with the varnish because it was just a flat covering, and anywhere it wasn't supposed to go he could cover with tape. And it was a nice thing that he could work at slowly over time - as he finished layering the paint, he set aside his tools and cleaned up what he could, then went about his day. It would be hours before it had dried off, and another couple after that before he felt comfortable with putting the next layer on. One in the morning, to last for the day - one in the evening, to dry as he slept. It was a good system. And it made him feel satisfied when all was said and done.
Friday, February 17, 2017
Loss of control
It was apparent the moment I walked out of the hotel that things weren't right. It had been midday when I had gone inside only moments before, and the skies had been clearly. But as I stepped outside, clouds were sweeping at high speeds across the sky, falling down into the town like fog and making it impossible to see, though I felt no wind. Then they were gone, and the sky was black and dotted with stars, street lamps already on as though it were only the natural progression of things. For a brief moment, I wondered if I had simply never seen the transition from day to night before - but this was most certainly not natural.
I felt a shiver run down my spine, pushing me forward, and I broke into a sprint. I had the distinct feeling that I was being followed, and the faster I got away from that the better. My legs moved faster and faster, pushing me forward as quickly as possible, until it felt as though I wasn't even touching the ground. My feet made contact with nothing. And when I looked down, I realized it wasn't just a feeling. I was floating above the ground, rocketing forward at intense speeds, completely unable to control my velocity. I tried to scream, but the air was forcing its way into my lungs, choking the sound out of me.
Then I came to an abrupt stop, frozen in place in the middle of the night air, unable to do anything but flail my limbs and turn my head. The landscape before me was wholly unfamiliar, though I could barely see it at first in the dark of night. But the invisible force grabbed me again, whipped me around, and then it was day time once more and I could see in perfect clarity the fields before me. But before I could try and establish where I was, I was being flung again, directly up and into the clouds.
The force whipped me around at impossible speeds, and I could swear I could feel every bone in my body breaking with the force of the motion starting and stopping. I called out again and again, hoping beyond hope for anything to make the pain stop.
The feeling of a hand around my wrist was abrupt, and the sensation of flying stopped immediately. Without warning my entire body went limp as the world around me faded, and I felt my body collapse to the ground. Voices calling out my name, though I could barely hear them through the haze in my brain.
I had no explanation for what had happened. But it had finally stopped.
I felt a shiver run down my spine, pushing me forward, and I broke into a sprint. I had the distinct feeling that I was being followed, and the faster I got away from that the better. My legs moved faster and faster, pushing me forward as quickly as possible, until it felt as though I wasn't even touching the ground. My feet made contact with nothing. And when I looked down, I realized it wasn't just a feeling. I was floating above the ground, rocketing forward at intense speeds, completely unable to control my velocity. I tried to scream, but the air was forcing its way into my lungs, choking the sound out of me.
Then I came to an abrupt stop, frozen in place in the middle of the night air, unable to do anything but flail my limbs and turn my head. The landscape before me was wholly unfamiliar, though I could barely see it at first in the dark of night. But the invisible force grabbed me again, whipped me around, and then it was day time once more and I could see in perfect clarity the fields before me. But before I could try and establish where I was, I was being flung again, directly up and into the clouds.
The force whipped me around at impossible speeds, and I could swear I could feel every bone in my body breaking with the force of the motion starting and stopping. I called out again and again, hoping beyond hope for anything to make the pain stop.
The feeling of a hand around my wrist was abrupt, and the sensation of flying stopped immediately. Without warning my entire body went limp as the world around me faded, and I felt my body collapse to the ground. Voices calling out my name, though I could barely hear them through the haze in my brain.
I had no explanation for what had happened. But it had finally stopped.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Eyepatch
It had been some months since the decision had been made for Arand and Fleur to be engaged, and while the two spent much of their time together, it was not until their wedding night that Fleur finally saw her newly made husband remove the eyepatch from his head. His uncovered eye had always seemed off, having a faint scar below it and being nearly as pale as the white around the iris. But she supposed she wasn't one to talk - she and her people were famous for their blood red eyes. But as he uncovered the other eye, she was stunned to find it a beautiful shining gold, and the pupil far more active and sharp then she would have suspected from a covered eye. It turned and focused on her, and the intensity with which it stared at her nearly took her breath away.
"I am sorry," Arand said quietly, taking the eyepatch which she had made for him as a wedding present and going to place it over my head. "I know it is..."
His voice ceased as she placed her hands on his own, stopping him from replacing the patch. "It's beautiful," she said quietly, focusing both of her eyes on his one. "I've never seen it before. I never thought..." She frowned. "But I don't understand. Why hide it?"
Arand looked back at her, his golden eye far more focused upon her than the white. She felt as though it were peeling away her clothes, her skin, seeing the abomination that was hidden just below. No one had ever looked at her like that before. It made her uncomfortable, but at the same time it didn't stop. It didn't feel as though it were judging. It was simply there, seeing, observing. "If it's all the same to you," he said, his voice still low, "I'd prefer to put the eyepatch on before I answer that. It is a bit distracting to see both of you."
She could feel the blush flush across her face and gave a small nod. The way that he had said that, she knew exactly what he was talking about - she didn't know how it could be true, but she understood. Carefully, Arand placed the new patch over his eye, adjusting it in place, once more fully covering the golden shine. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "The eyepatch makes it easier to function. It softens the sight, makes everything easier to take in. Keeps me looking at the front layer, instead of what's beneath."
"Is it magic?" she asked.
"I suppose magic is about the only way a blind infant can be made to see."
"I am sorry," Arand said quietly, taking the eyepatch which she had made for him as a wedding present and going to place it over my head. "I know it is..."
His voice ceased as she placed her hands on his own, stopping him from replacing the patch. "It's beautiful," she said quietly, focusing both of her eyes on his one. "I've never seen it before. I never thought..." She frowned. "But I don't understand. Why hide it?"
Arand looked back at her, his golden eye far more focused upon her than the white. She felt as though it were peeling away her clothes, her skin, seeing the abomination that was hidden just below. No one had ever looked at her like that before. It made her uncomfortable, but at the same time it didn't stop. It didn't feel as though it were judging. It was simply there, seeing, observing. "If it's all the same to you," he said, his voice still low, "I'd prefer to put the eyepatch on before I answer that. It is a bit distracting to see both of you."
She could feel the blush flush across her face and gave a small nod. The way that he had said that, she knew exactly what he was talking about - she didn't know how it could be true, but she understood. Carefully, Arand placed the new patch over his eye, adjusting it in place, once more fully covering the golden shine. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "The eyepatch makes it easier to function. It softens the sight, makes everything easier to take in. Keeps me looking at the front layer, instead of what's beneath."
"Is it magic?" she asked.
"I suppose magic is about the only way a blind infant can be made to see."
Tuesday, February 14, 2017
Barrier
The group approached the edge of what had once been a lake, and paused for a moment to take in the sight before them. The water had been collected up into a magical sphere in the middle of the remaining hole in the earth, creating a thick barrier preventing entry to the villain's lair. The water was moving at rapid speeds, and had carried a large number of stones and boulders up with it - it was apparent that not only could you swim straight through it, if you tried you would be bashed to pieces. And that, of course, was assuming you could even reach it - the empty lakebed had severe drops in it only a few feet out, and the ground below was uneven, rocky, and covered in trash and the bodies of dead fish.
The mage stepped forward, and with a wave of his hand the larger stones lifted from the lakebed and lined up, one after another, creating a pathway for the group to traverse. The pathway was solid and even, magically held in place and as stable as though they were walking on earth itself. And yet, as they proceeded over it, the pathway fell away behind them, stopping anyone from either side from following them. This was to be a dangerous battle - it was best if they were the only ones involved. They were sure that there would be enough forces to fight just on the other side of the barrier, and it was best if they weren't taken from behind as well, or had anyone else injured by their actions.
It was the monk who stepped forward as they reached the barrier, simply clothed and wielding no weapons. He took a strong stance just in front of the rushing water, gathering his ki in his body before throwing an open palm against its surface. There was a moment of relative silence as the waters continued to swirl. Then they came to an abrupt halt, the cessation of movement spreading like a shockwave. For a moment they were still, and the placement of the rocks was apparent, and they could see faintly the fortress that was on the other side. And then the water shook and fell back into the lakebed, returning the lake to normal and revealing the newly constructed fortress in the center of the lake.
It didn't take long for forces to pile out of the openings in the fortress, moving towards the small group of invaders who had already eliminated the first line of defense. The numbers were impossible to withstand - but they were gods among men. And they were ready to set things right.
The mage stepped forward, and with a wave of his hand the larger stones lifted from the lakebed and lined up, one after another, creating a pathway for the group to traverse. The pathway was solid and even, magically held in place and as stable as though they were walking on earth itself. And yet, as they proceeded over it, the pathway fell away behind them, stopping anyone from either side from following them. This was to be a dangerous battle - it was best if they were the only ones involved. They were sure that there would be enough forces to fight just on the other side of the barrier, and it was best if they weren't taken from behind as well, or had anyone else injured by their actions.
It was the monk who stepped forward as they reached the barrier, simply clothed and wielding no weapons. He took a strong stance just in front of the rushing water, gathering his ki in his body before throwing an open palm against its surface. There was a moment of relative silence as the waters continued to swirl. Then they came to an abrupt halt, the cessation of movement spreading like a shockwave. For a moment they were still, and the placement of the rocks was apparent, and they could see faintly the fortress that was on the other side. And then the water shook and fell back into the lakebed, returning the lake to normal and revealing the newly constructed fortress in the center of the lake.
It didn't take long for forces to pile out of the openings in the fortress, moving towards the small group of invaders who had already eliminated the first line of defense. The numbers were impossible to withstand - but they were gods among men. And they were ready to set things right.
Free Write 19
As we get slowly closer to actually being able to play Dungeons and Dragons, I'm getting more and more excited - I have thoroughly enjoyed the character creation process, which I do not recall doing as much the one other time that I attempted to play. It's hard to say if that's because I'm older or because the system for it has changed, though I'm inclined to believe it has more to do with the second, seeing as I have been a writer for as long as I can remember. There are so many games that I've played that take it's form of stat distribution, and I have never enjoyed them. But this is more than just stat distribution - you are encouraged to create a history and a purpose for your character, and the more you play to those stylistic choices, the more you are rewarded. I wish that kind of system was used more often, though it would admittedly be hard to pull off most of the time.
I want to find a way to combine that with all of the woodworking I have been doing lately. I've actually considered making my own set of dice from wood, which would be very cool, though it presents a number of problems. First of all, the sheer number of dice I would have to create - I would like to have at least four six sided dice, and that would be the easiest starting point. It says nothing of the twenty sided dice I would have to make - and while I can find instructions on how to do so online, they are somewhat confusing and precise, and I only have so much skill. Then there is the fact that I don't know what kind of wood would be best suited for the work, or how big of a piece to start off with, along with a great many other things. I don't want to abandon the idea, but it will likely be a long while until I get there.
I am continuing to love Nioh as we make steady progress through it. The level design has yet to disappoint, and while the enemies aren't incredibly varied, I don't really mind because they're simply fun to fight, and there is enough variety to them to make each new enemy encounter intense and exciting. I have read some complaints, and while I can't disagree with them, I don't find anything in the game thus far to be a deal breaker. Granted, I'm not entirely sure how far into the game we are, as complete walkthroughs have yet to be created, but I am enjoying the steady and none too slow progress as we have managed to find nearly everything without any sort of a guide. I have read a number of hints online, mostly about good skills or weapon attacks, but occassionally about how to find hidden items. But it has definitely not been like some games where it was nearly impossible to progress without some kind of guide. And I certainly don't feel like we are playing inefficiently, considering how quickly we can plow through most enemies. It has yet to stop being fun - can't ask for much more.
I want to find a way to combine that with all of the woodworking I have been doing lately. I've actually considered making my own set of dice from wood, which would be very cool, though it presents a number of problems. First of all, the sheer number of dice I would have to create - I would like to have at least four six sided dice, and that would be the easiest starting point. It says nothing of the twenty sided dice I would have to make - and while I can find instructions on how to do so online, they are somewhat confusing and precise, and I only have so much skill. Then there is the fact that I don't know what kind of wood would be best suited for the work, or how big of a piece to start off with, along with a great many other things. I don't want to abandon the idea, but it will likely be a long while until I get there.
I am continuing to love Nioh as we make steady progress through it. The level design has yet to disappoint, and while the enemies aren't incredibly varied, I don't really mind because they're simply fun to fight, and there is enough variety to them to make each new enemy encounter intense and exciting. I have read some complaints, and while I can't disagree with them, I don't find anything in the game thus far to be a deal breaker. Granted, I'm not entirely sure how far into the game we are, as complete walkthroughs have yet to be created, but I am enjoying the steady and none too slow progress as we have managed to find nearly everything without any sort of a guide. I have read a number of hints online, mostly about good skills or weapon attacks, but occassionally about how to find hidden items. But it has definitely not been like some games where it was nearly impossible to progress without some kind of guide. And I certainly don't feel like we are playing inefficiently, considering how quickly we can plow through most enemies. It has yet to stop being fun - can't ask for much more.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
Wrong side
The doors burst open as the hero strode into the room, his companions at his back, making sure that they weren't followed into the hall. The mad king sat on his throne, a disinterested look on his face, watching as it happened - he had already been warned that the group was entering the castle, and he had no doubt that they would make it to his throne room. There had been much talk of this so called hero, and the deeds he had accomplished. The strength which he possessed. The ferocity with which he had stamped out the so called evil that was 'plaguing' the land.
"It's time we bring this to an end," the hero proclaimed, his chest puffed out and sword pointed strikingly in the king's direction. What a show off. He was following every stereotype in the book. The king wondered if he actually had accomplished anything that they had heard about - his companions seemed far more capable than he did, though that then begged the question of why they permitted him to be their leader. Was it money? Fame? Did he possess some excess of charisma? Or was the cliche appearance a front for something deeper beneath?
"Yes, I suppose it is," the king said, not budging from his chair. He rested his chin on his fist, looking the group over, knowing that they could not even approach him. The barrier that was placed around the throne was a more powerful magic than even he could penetrate - he had been trapped in the castle for some time now. And people wondered why he was 'mad.' "But before you come and strike me down, I do believe I get a final, evil monologue."
The hero didn't move, as though silently acknowledging the king's words. "This land wants nothing to do with itself," the king said, feeling somewhat bored and not being afraid to let it seep into his voice. "You may have noticed as you were stomping out the evil in the land that, truthfully, I had very little to do with it. I have imposed my rule, yes, but I have done so in order to try and stop the people from killing themselves. They are content to run themselves high and dry, and blame it on those around them. But I suppose you would not believe that. My words, after all, are only words. They mean precious little in the face of your mighty truth."
There was a long moment of silence as the hero glared at the king, hatred and contempt evident in his eyes. His group silently and slowly turned towards him, sufficiently confident that they had not been followed into the throne room. And then, unexpectedly, the hero lowered his sword.
"Yes," he said, almost too quietly to be heard. "I do suppose you are right."
"It's time we bring this to an end," the hero proclaimed, his chest puffed out and sword pointed strikingly in the king's direction. What a show off. He was following every stereotype in the book. The king wondered if he actually had accomplished anything that they had heard about - his companions seemed far more capable than he did, though that then begged the question of why they permitted him to be their leader. Was it money? Fame? Did he possess some excess of charisma? Or was the cliche appearance a front for something deeper beneath?
"Yes, I suppose it is," the king said, not budging from his chair. He rested his chin on his fist, looking the group over, knowing that they could not even approach him. The barrier that was placed around the throne was a more powerful magic than even he could penetrate - he had been trapped in the castle for some time now. And people wondered why he was 'mad.' "But before you come and strike me down, I do believe I get a final, evil monologue."
The hero didn't move, as though silently acknowledging the king's words. "This land wants nothing to do with itself," the king said, feeling somewhat bored and not being afraid to let it seep into his voice. "You may have noticed as you were stomping out the evil in the land that, truthfully, I had very little to do with it. I have imposed my rule, yes, but I have done so in order to try and stop the people from killing themselves. They are content to run themselves high and dry, and blame it on those around them. But I suppose you would not believe that. My words, after all, are only words. They mean precious little in the face of your mighty truth."
There was a long moment of silence as the hero glared at the king, hatred and contempt evident in his eyes. His group silently and slowly turned towards him, sufficiently confident that they had not been followed into the throne room. And then, unexpectedly, the hero lowered his sword.
"Yes," he said, almost too quietly to be heard. "I do suppose you are right."
Elric
The cool air of the night was refreshing as Elric approached the bar, smelling the alcohol and meat coming from within. Almost against his will, he could feel the saliva building in his mouth - how many years had it been since he had eaten anything other than the basic grime of the monastery? He had stood idly by as travelers and guests spoke of the food and drink of the outside world, which he had never had the chance to partake of. He only hoped that the few pieces of gold he had brought with him would be enough to pay.
His parents would be ashamed of him, he was sure. They had given him willingly to the monastery so that he might train as a monk, and give himself to the gods whom they had believed had given them purpose and meaning in life. He had appreciated, truly, many of the lessons which he had learned in the monastery, but after several hundred years, he had begun to doubt some of the more vague and holy of their teachings. He agreed that one should strive for physical and mental perfection, to purify one's self of impurities in all things and to constantly work to improve. He did not agree that one should do so to satisfy some almighty being that didn't deign to reveal itself to him, much less speak or reward his work.
It was these disagreements that had led him to be banished from the monastery, though by the time that decision had been made, he was well ready to leave. He didn't have much to take with him, but by then, there wasn't much that he needed. One of his few concerns was food - both because he needed it, but because he felt that if he was to truly act in his own interest as he wished to do, he should treat himself with these earthly pleasures, rather than restrain them as he had done for so long.
He had never tasted something so delicious in his life as the food that was placed in front of him in the tavern. It didn't take much mead to make his head dizzy, to make the room dance around him and the lights blur. In the back of his mind, he couldn't decide if he enjoyed this or not - but in the present, he couldn't deny the flavor of the liquid pouring down his throat.
To hell with the gods who had tried to dictate his life without purpose or reward. His mind and his body were his own, and he would do with them as he pleased. Without doubt, that was the true power of being alive - to control one's own destiny and carve their own path. And his fists were all the tools he needed to do that.
His parents would be ashamed of him, he was sure. They had given him willingly to the monastery so that he might train as a monk, and give himself to the gods whom they had believed had given them purpose and meaning in life. He had appreciated, truly, many of the lessons which he had learned in the monastery, but after several hundred years, he had begun to doubt some of the more vague and holy of their teachings. He agreed that one should strive for physical and mental perfection, to purify one's self of impurities in all things and to constantly work to improve. He did not agree that one should do so to satisfy some almighty being that didn't deign to reveal itself to him, much less speak or reward his work.
It was these disagreements that had led him to be banished from the monastery, though by the time that decision had been made, he was well ready to leave. He didn't have much to take with him, but by then, there wasn't much that he needed. One of his few concerns was food - both because he needed it, but because he felt that if he was to truly act in his own interest as he wished to do, he should treat himself with these earthly pleasures, rather than restrain them as he had done for so long.
He had never tasted something so delicious in his life as the food that was placed in front of him in the tavern. It didn't take much mead to make his head dizzy, to make the room dance around him and the lights blur. In the back of his mind, he couldn't decide if he enjoyed this or not - but in the present, he couldn't deny the flavor of the liquid pouring down his throat.
To hell with the gods who had tried to dictate his life without purpose or reward. His mind and his body were his own, and he would do with them as he pleased. Without doubt, that was the true power of being alive - to control one's own destiny and carve their own path. And his fists were all the tools he needed to do that.
Saturday, February 11, 2017
Background
Originally I was going to actually write a fiction piece for this today, but it required more research than I had time for. But it's still in my head, so I want to talk about it, and I'll probably end up writing the fiction tomorrow.
I've never particularly put a lot of thought into the background of my characters - at least not until I've been with them for a while. Trying to decide where a character came from and how they got where they are isn't something that I really try to figure out before the story starts. Occasionally I'll delve into the background of a character and really flesh out how they got to where they are, but it honestly isn't something that I do a lot. The story takes place in itself, and they prove who they are through their actions - more often than not, their past is irrelevant to the present.
Which is pretty counter-intuitive to the way a lot of people think. I imagine this isn't the way people expect a writer to work, and I would be surprised if there were a ton of other writers who designed their characters this way. But it's just kind of how my brain works. The past is written to bolster or explain the present, rather than to be an actual starting point. Trying to do it the other way is very strange for me, because I'm trying to make a basis for a character who doesn't exist yet.
But I want to try and challenge myself to do that. To know more about my characters before I actually start writing the story. To have a place to base their actions and behaviors on, so that they can consistently be a certain way. And when so much of what I love about a character is their growth, it only makes sense to give them a place to grow from.
It doesn't help that I'm not particularly good at coming up with names. A character doesn't really have solidity in my mind until they're named. They're more of just ideas floating around in the same general area - the name is the glue that holds them together. And in my mind, the background starts with their name. "Such and such was..." or "Such and such did..." And maybe that's not a good way of going about it, but it's what comes naturally in my brain. And you can't get better without starting somewhere.
I've never particularly put a lot of thought into the background of my characters - at least not until I've been with them for a while. Trying to decide where a character came from and how they got where they are isn't something that I really try to figure out before the story starts. Occasionally I'll delve into the background of a character and really flesh out how they got to where they are, but it honestly isn't something that I do a lot. The story takes place in itself, and they prove who they are through their actions - more often than not, their past is irrelevant to the present.
Which is pretty counter-intuitive to the way a lot of people think. I imagine this isn't the way people expect a writer to work, and I would be surprised if there were a ton of other writers who designed their characters this way. But it's just kind of how my brain works. The past is written to bolster or explain the present, rather than to be an actual starting point. Trying to do it the other way is very strange for me, because I'm trying to make a basis for a character who doesn't exist yet.
But I want to try and challenge myself to do that. To know more about my characters before I actually start writing the story. To have a place to base their actions and behaviors on, so that they can consistently be a certain way. And when so much of what I love about a character is their growth, it only makes sense to give them a place to grow from.
It doesn't help that I'm not particularly good at coming up with names. A character doesn't really have solidity in my mind until they're named. They're more of just ideas floating around in the same general area - the name is the glue that holds them together. And in my mind, the background starts with their name. "Such and such was..." or "Such and such did..." And maybe that's not a good way of going about it, but it's what comes naturally in my brain. And you can't get better without starting somewhere.
Friday, February 10, 2017
Scars
Ian sat in the doctor's office, leaning forward in his chair to keep his back from making contact with it. He knew what was causing the pain in his back, and he wasn't even overly concerned with how to care for it. He was mostly just concerned with whether or not there would be any complications with the injuries.
The doctor smiled at him as he came into the room, striding quickly to the computer in the corner and sitting down, signing into his account and grabbing the necessary information. "So your back is bothering you?" he asked calmly as he typed away.
"Well, yes," he said, "but it's not so much the bothering that... bothers me."
The doctor chuckled. "Why don't you explain what exactly your here for, then?" he asked.
"My back is scarred to hell and back," Ian explained. "My wife is just very... excitable. And I don't mind it in the slightest. But I just want to make sure that there's no permanent damage or infestations or anything like that."
The doctor turned his attention away from his computer to eye Ian, taking in his words. Ian had always been very straightforward, and he wasn't particularly shy about his life, though he did try to be careful about his words when he was around people he didn't know as well. Especially talking to a doctor, he had no reason to lie or hide the truth about how he had been injured. After all, that would merely lead to a less accurate evaluation. "Very well," the doctor said, pushing away from the computer. "Take your shirt off and let's take a look."
Ian stood up and turned around, gingerly pulling the shirt over his head and away from his back to reveal the scars. There were some marks that were still fairly fresh, and that he had already cleaned and covered.
"Jesus. You're ok with this?"
"I mean, it hurts, sure. But I think it's kinda hot."
The doctor smiled at him as he came into the room, striding quickly to the computer in the corner and sitting down, signing into his account and grabbing the necessary information. "So your back is bothering you?" he asked calmly as he typed away.
"Well, yes," he said, "but it's not so much the bothering that... bothers me."
The doctor chuckled. "Why don't you explain what exactly your here for, then?" he asked.
"My back is scarred to hell and back," Ian explained. "My wife is just very... excitable. And I don't mind it in the slightest. But I just want to make sure that there's no permanent damage or infestations or anything like that."
The doctor turned his attention away from his computer to eye Ian, taking in his words. Ian had always been very straightforward, and he wasn't particularly shy about his life, though he did try to be careful about his words when he was around people he didn't know as well. Especially talking to a doctor, he had no reason to lie or hide the truth about how he had been injured. After all, that would merely lead to a less accurate evaluation. "Very well," the doctor said, pushing away from the computer. "Take your shirt off and let's take a look."
Ian stood up and turned around, gingerly pulling the shirt over his head and away from his back to reveal the scars. There were some marks that were still fairly fresh, and that he had already cleaned and covered.
"Jesus. You're ok with this?"
"I mean, it hurts, sure. But I think it's kinda hot."
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
Editting
The second time I participated in Nano, I finished a story for quite possibly the first time in my life. I was extremely excited about it - I had always loved to write, but I'd always ran out of steam before the end of the story. Sure, there were a few small pieces that finished in twenty to thirty pages, but those were always smaller than I wanted, and intended to be parts of something bigger, which of course was never finished. So when I finished From the Sleeping Valley, I couldn't have been happier. Especially because I knew that I would be getting free proof copies as part of the deal of winning Nano.
My original plan was to get my five free copies one at a time, and use each one to continuously refine the story, editing as I went. As it turned out you had to get all five at once, so that plan went out the window, but I still designated one of them as being my editing copy, labeling the inside cover as such. Of course, in my infinite wisdom, I managed to misspell "Editing" as "Editting" which was very much not intentional and wasn't pointed out to me until much later, at which I laughed because it only seemed appropriate.
I have never been very good at editing, which is something I have written about before. It's not quite something that clicks in my brain, and worse yet, I find it painfully dull. I have been trying, ever so slowly, to edit my novel from Nano 2015, and while I like my story and recognize that it desperately needs editing, it's just so painfully difficult to get myself to actually do it. Not to mention I hardly know what to do. I understand fixing typos and correcting grammar and things like that, but taking a sentence that sounds awkward and making it sound better? Or even taking a sentence that sounds alright and making it sound great? That just doesn't really work with my brain. I still try, but I'm not entirely convinced that I'm not making things worse in my attempts to do so.
And I'm still doing the first sweep. By the time I finish, I will have forgotten ever single edit I have made. And I may very well go through a second sweep and unintentionally put things back to the way they were in the first place - that is not something I would put past myself. I'm not exactly sure how to get any better at it, either, other than to keep doing it.
But it's so boring.
My original plan was to get my five free copies one at a time, and use each one to continuously refine the story, editing as I went. As it turned out you had to get all five at once, so that plan went out the window, but I still designated one of them as being my editing copy, labeling the inside cover as such. Of course, in my infinite wisdom, I managed to misspell "Editing" as "Editting" which was very much not intentional and wasn't pointed out to me until much later, at which I laughed because it only seemed appropriate.
I have never been very good at editing, which is something I have written about before. It's not quite something that clicks in my brain, and worse yet, I find it painfully dull. I have been trying, ever so slowly, to edit my novel from Nano 2015, and while I like my story and recognize that it desperately needs editing, it's just so painfully difficult to get myself to actually do it. Not to mention I hardly know what to do. I understand fixing typos and correcting grammar and things like that, but taking a sentence that sounds awkward and making it sound better? Or even taking a sentence that sounds alright and making it sound great? That just doesn't really work with my brain. I still try, but I'm not entirely convinced that I'm not making things worse in my attempts to do so.
And I'm still doing the first sweep. By the time I finish, I will have forgotten ever single edit I have made. And I may very well go through a second sweep and unintentionally put things back to the way they were in the first place - that is not something I would put past myself. I'm not exactly sure how to get any better at it, either, other than to keep doing it.
But it's so boring.
Free Write 18
I've been talking with one of my friends lately about starting to play Dungeons and Dragons. We're both really into the idea, and doing a fair amount of research into how we would go about it - the problem is finding other people to play with us. We know a few people, but some of those people are why I haven't played up until now, so it would be ideal to find others. Unfortunately we're not exactly social people - as you may have guessed by us wanting to play Dungeons and Dragons.
In the meantime we've been listening to a podcast of people playing it, which is kind of why we want to do it so much. It's just a few friends being silly and having a good time doing it, and it's really enjoyable to listen to. I've tried a few other times to watch people play, and a lot of the time there's just too much shit going on or they're trying to hard to get into it all, and I just lose interest. The smaller group laughing and making an effort to include each other - and especially because so many of them are new to the game - makes it a lot easier to keep up with and enjoy. Which, in turn, makes it more appealing.
I've talked several times about the Dark Souls game series, and the games that are like them. Why I like them and why I don't. A new similar game came out today, called Nioh, and I would venture to say that it is one of the best instances of these types of games. It is very hard, but in a very fair manner. It gives you everything you need to succeed, in many different ways. There are tons of options, and the more you learn to use them, the easier the game becomes. And, unlike so many others in the genre, it actually has a story. And not just a story, but an interesting one. It takes place in the real world, and the more I see of what's going on, the more I want to learn. It doesn't give all the details right off the bat, and you still have to dig around for some of the details, but it pulls this off in a much more charming and rewarding matter. I'm not very far, but at this rate it could very well become my favorite.
It's been pretty hard to actually think of things I want to write lately. Hard to say if that's because of depression or because I've just written so many things already. I'll keep pushing - always pushing. So we'll see where we end up tomorrow.
In the meantime we've been listening to a podcast of people playing it, which is kind of why we want to do it so much. It's just a few friends being silly and having a good time doing it, and it's really enjoyable to listen to. I've tried a few other times to watch people play, and a lot of the time there's just too much shit going on or they're trying to hard to get into it all, and I just lose interest. The smaller group laughing and making an effort to include each other - and especially because so many of them are new to the game - makes it a lot easier to keep up with and enjoy. Which, in turn, makes it more appealing.
I've talked several times about the Dark Souls game series, and the games that are like them. Why I like them and why I don't. A new similar game came out today, called Nioh, and I would venture to say that it is one of the best instances of these types of games. It is very hard, but in a very fair manner. It gives you everything you need to succeed, in many different ways. There are tons of options, and the more you learn to use them, the easier the game becomes. And, unlike so many others in the genre, it actually has a story. And not just a story, but an interesting one. It takes place in the real world, and the more I see of what's going on, the more I want to learn. It doesn't give all the details right off the bat, and you still have to dig around for some of the details, but it pulls this off in a much more charming and rewarding matter. I'm not very far, but at this rate it could very well become my favorite.
It's been pretty hard to actually think of things I want to write lately. Hard to say if that's because of depression or because I've just written so many things already. I'll keep pushing - always pushing. So we'll see where we end up tomorrow.
Monday, February 6, 2017
Revival
He wasn't sure when the pain had ended and the endless darkness had overtaken him. There was nothing but the darkness. No sound, no sights, no smells, no feeling. No thoughts. No sense of the passage of time. The void was everlasting and ever powerful. If he had even been aware enough to recognize it, he wasn't sure if it would have been a blessing or a curse after the tremendous pain that his death had been. A knife directly into his heart, twisted and torn free from his body, which collapsed to the ground. There were only a few brief moments of consciousness between that and the life draining from his body. But those moments had been excruciating.
The air rushing back into his lungs was almost as painful. Almost, but not quite. His body had forgotten what exactly to do with the air, and he choked on it, sputtering, trying to force himself to properly use the air. As he breathed heavily and awkwardly, he forced his eyes to open, but the light and the colors were so intensely different from what the darkness had been he couldn't keep them open. He tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but his limbs were heavy and unresponsive, and he felt them slamming into his face like a hard slap. That certainly wasn't helping.
The sounds around him were deafening. Even his own breath was hard to hear, so incredibly loud where once it had been indistinguishable from the rest of the world around him. And then there was the shouting. It could have been a hundred, a thousand people standing around him for all he knew, yelling at one another to do this or to do that, that they needed to know something, that they needed something. He couldn't follow the voices. They were too loud, too frantic.
And then their hands were all over him. Moving his limbs, pushing him down, trying to attach some things and detach others. He had no idea what was going on. He tried multiple times to open his eyes and look at them to see what was happening, but he it was just too much for him. He couldn't comprehend it, and it was too painful.
Was this what hell was like? Was that what awaited him in the afterlife?
"We've done it!" The first clear words. "He's back!"
The air rushing back into his lungs was almost as painful. Almost, but not quite. His body had forgotten what exactly to do with the air, and he choked on it, sputtering, trying to force himself to properly use the air. As he breathed heavily and awkwardly, he forced his eyes to open, but the light and the colors were so intensely different from what the darkness had been he couldn't keep them open. He tried to cover his eyes with his hands, but his limbs were heavy and unresponsive, and he felt them slamming into his face like a hard slap. That certainly wasn't helping.
The sounds around him were deafening. Even his own breath was hard to hear, so incredibly loud where once it had been indistinguishable from the rest of the world around him. And then there was the shouting. It could have been a hundred, a thousand people standing around him for all he knew, yelling at one another to do this or to do that, that they needed to know something, that they needed something. He couldn't follow the voices. They were too loud, too frantic.
And then their hands were all over him. Moving his limbs, pushing him down, trying to attach some things and detach others. He had no idea what was going on. He tried multiple times to open his eyes and look at them to see what was happening, but he it was just too much for him. He couldn't comprehend it, and it was too painful.
Was this what hell was like? Was that what awaited him in the afterlife?
"We've done it!" The first clear words. "He's back!"
Sunday, February 5, 2017
Random encounter
Stan walked down the dirt road connecting the villages, trying his best to ignore the base instinct in his gut to go off the trail and walk in the grass. He was well aware of the consequences of doing such, and while he was prepared to handle them, he knew that the chances of danger were considerably lower as long as he stayed on the man made road. And yet the grass continued to call to him.
He was merely a trader. He was being sent between the villages, trading precious resources that one had but not the other, and pocketing the profit that he made between them. He sold the resources for more than he bought them for in both towns, and while it wasn't a huge margin, it was more than enough to have a living from. And because the margin was reasonable, no one ever questioned him on his prices or attempted to bargain with him. They were more than willing to pay his prices - they would gladly pay more, in fact, but the lower prices he provided had earned him their trust.
It was, however, a somewhat dangerous life. Wild animals and bandits were frequent along the road, which was why he carried with him a spear at all times. He was well versed in its use, and while he was no martial artist flying through the air and destroying everything in his path, he was more than skilled enough to keep things away from him and down them before he could be injured. From time to time he was even able to slay something with valuable skin, and push a high profit. Those were the few things that he sold at a higher mark up, purely because he had put his life in danger in order to obtain it. On the outside it may have seemed like an easy profit, because there was no monetary price he put in to obtain the skin. But it took work to prepare, and he had more than once been injured in the process. After all, he wasn't a hunter. He was just protecting himself.
His eyes continued to be drawn irresistibly to the grass. He knew he shouldn't. But his feet deviated from the path, and then he was looking down at green beneath his toes.
It wasn't long before the world seemed to melt before his eyes. It lasted only a moment before reality rushed back into his sight, and the massive panther was standing before him, its hair raised and teeth barred. His spear was swinging into his hands before he even fully registered what was happening. A practiced motion as his instincts were taking over.
It looked like this would be another profitable trip.
He was merely a trader. He was being sent between the villages, trading precious resources that one had but not the other, and pocketing the profit that he made between them. He sold the resources for more than he bought them for in both towns, and while it wasn't a huge margin, it was more than enough to have a living from. And because the margin was reasonable, no one ever questioned him on his prices or attempted to bargain with him. They were more than willing to pay his prices - they would gladly pay more, in fact, but the lower prices he provided had earned him their trust.
It was, however, a somewhat dangerous life. Wild animals and bandits were frequent along the road, which was why he carried with him a spear at all times. He was well versed in its use, and while he was no martial artist flying through the air and destroying everything in his path, he was more than skilled enough to keep things away from him and down them before he could be injured. From time to time he was even able to slay something with valuable skin, and push a high profit. Those were the few things that he sold at a higher mark up, purely because he had put his life in danger in order to obtain it. On the outside it may have seemed like an easy profit, because there was no monetary price he put in to obtain the skin. But it took work to prepare, and he had more than once been injured in the process. After all, he wasn't a hunter. He was just protecting himself.
His eyes continued to be drawn irresistibly to the grass. He knew he shouldn't. But his feet deviated from the path, and then he was looking down at green beneath his toes.
It wasn't long before the world seemed to melt before his eyes. It lasted only a moment before reality rushed back into his sight, and the massive panther was standing before him, its hair raised and teeth barred. His spear was swinging into his hands before he even fully registered what was happening. A practiced motion as his instincts were taking over.
It looked like this would be another profitable trip.
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Siege
The van pulled up to the museum in a hurry, and as soon as it came to a halt the rear doors were bursting open as fully armed police forces piled out, moving around the museum's doors and windows. There was a moment of silence as the forces were listening through the walls, attempting to pinpoint where the invaded terrorists were holing themselves up. Barricaded doors and windows at every turn, though it was nothing that they had not faced before.
A singular shout, and then shotgun blasts at short range blowing through the barricades before bodies were barreling into the building. Quick, calculated movements on all sides pushed inward, peeking around corners and eliminating terrorists with quick shots between the eyes or bursts to the chests. They were unconcerned with leaving behind bullet holes, bodies, and blood. The only thing that they were concerned with was eliminating the bad guys and saving the lives of the good guys.
As the insertion team made their way through the building, a defense team rappelled up the building on the outside, breaking through the upper barricades and quickly firing on any in sight down the hallways. They were thinning the upper floors for the insertion team, and creating escape routes if anything were to happen. Plus, if any terrorists were to attempt to escape the building, they would have the tactical advantage to eliminate them before they could get away.
It was inevitable that some of the police would be taken out as they advanced through the building. They didn't expect any different when they signed up for the job, and they certainly didn't expect any different when they entered the building. Those who were still alive continued to push forward, moving past the bodies of their fallen comrades. When things were over, and there was no longer any fear of attack, then they would move through the building once more and gather up the bodies. Until then, they were merely another obstacle to pass over.
The museum was massive, and though they had a good team working through the building, it took them well over an hour to establish that the parameters were now safe. Bodies were strewn all over the place from both sides. The terrorists had been completely annihilated, while half of the police force had died as well. It took them several more hours to remove all of the bodies, and it would take weeks to process them all.
But the people were safe. And that was what mattered.
A singular shout, and then shotgun blasts at short range blowing through the barricades before bodies were barreling into the building. Quick, calculated movements on all sides pushed inward, peeking around corners and eliminating terrorists with quick shots between the eyes or bursts to the chests. They were unconcerned with leaving behind bullet holes, bodies, and blood. The only thing that they were concerned with was eliminating the bad guys and saving the lives of the good guys.
As the insertion team made their way through the building, a defense team rappelled up the building on the outside, breaking through the upper barricades and quickly firing on any in sight down the hallways. They were thinning the upper floors for the insertion team, and creating escape routes if anything were to happen. Plus, if any terrorists were to attempt to escape the building, they would have the tactical advantage to eliminate them before they could get away.
It was inevitable that some of the police would be taken out as they advanced through the building. They didn't expect any different when they signed up for the job, and they certainly didn't expect any different when they entered the building. Those who were still alive continued to push forward, moving past the bodies of their fallen comrades. When things were over, and there was no longer any fear of attack, then they would move through the building once more and gather up the bodies. Until then, they were merely another obstacle to pass over.
The museum was massive, and though they had a good team working through the building, it took them well over an hour to establish that the parameters were now safe. Bodies were strewn all over the place from both sides. The terrorists had been completely annihilated, while half of the police force had died as well. It took them several more hours to remove all of the bodies, and it would take weeks to process them all.
But the people were safe. And that was what mattered.
Friday, February 3, 2017
Free Write 17
I've been really into building things lately. That knife I was working on, now another, and a couple instruments. Going to take a blacksmithing class, finally, after entirely too long. I've never really considered my writing to be an artistic expression for me, because there's nothing visual about it, which I know is inaccurate but that's just how I think of it. It feels like building these things is my form of doing art, though. Which works out well, because it incorporates my constant desire to be doing something physical and doing things with my hands. I wish I had continued building instruments years ago - perhaps it is one of those things that is greater because I held off. Hard to say.
I miss playing Monster Hunter, especially with my friends. That game is just straight fun once you get into the mechanics of it and really start to understand it. It's probably one of the only things where I've actually experienced the feeling of improving upon every failure. Plus, even though every player fights the same monsters, the amount of variety between playstyles and how each weapon works means that it is incredibly rare for two players to have the same experience. I feel like there are very few games where that is true - even in a game like Dark Souls, which is theoretically built in the same way, everyone is going to spam the one good attack on their preferred weapon, and everyone is going to die repeatedly on their first playthrough. That isn't necessarily true in Monster Hunter.
Of course, I probably still won't pick it up again any time soon. Not because I don't want to play it or because it's bad, but just because there are so many other good games coming out that I want to play. Continuously playing Overwatch, and recently having started Dragon Quest 8 now that it's on 3DS. I played it originally years ago, back when it first came out on PS2. It was my first exposure to the Dragon Quest series - I just saw the word dragon, a sword, I was in. Good thing, too - I love that game. But I never beat it. Now, years later, after having lost my copy of it a very long time ago, I finally get to play it again. And it's a much better version of it, too, with added content and quality of life improvements. Moving slow, but I am loving this game all over again.
I'm also making an effort to try and actually decorate my room, which is something I've never really done before. I dunno, I guess I just never really felt like I needed to? I don't really know how to explain it. It's just not something that I've done. But I'm going to, and we'll see if that changes how I feel about anything. I kinda doubt it, but it's worth a shot. Who knows.
I miss playing Monster Hunter, especially with my friends. That game is just straight fun once you get into the mechanics of it and really start to understand it. It's probably one of the only things where I've actually experienced the feeling of improving upon every failure. Plus, even though every player fights the same monsters, the amount of variety between playstyles and how each weapon works means that it is incredibly rare for two players to have the same experience. I feel like there are very few games where that is true - even in a game like Dark Souls, which is theoretically built in the same way, everyone is going to spam the one good attack on their preferred weapon, and everyone is going to die repeatedly on their first playthrough. That isn't necessarily true in Monster Hunter.
Of course, I probably still won't pick it up again any time soon. Not because I don't want to play it or because it's bad, but just because there are so many other good games coming out that I want to play. Continuously playing Overwatch, and recently having started Dragon Quest 8 now that it's on 3DS. I played it originally years ago, back when it first came out on PS2. It was my first exposure to the Dragon Quest series - I just saw the word dragon, a sword, I was in. Good thing, too - I love that game. But I never beat it. Now, years later, after having lost my copy of it a very long time ago, I finally get to play it again. And it's a much better version of it, too, with added content and quality of life improvements. Moving slow, but I am loving this game all over again.
I'm also making an effort to try and actually decorate my room, which is something I've never really done before. I dunno, I guess I just never really felt like I needed to? I don't really know how to explain it. It's just not something that I've done. But I'm going to, and we'll see if that changes how I feel about anything. I kinda doubt it, but it's worth a shot. Who knows.
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Stuck
Phil woke up to the familiar sound of music as the borrowed alarm clock went off, the morning radio show having just started. He pushed the sheets of his bed aside and got up in a practiced, fluid motion that he had practiced more times than he cared to recall. The words to the song had been so repeated that they had all but lost their meaning god only knew how long ago. Always the same song. Always the same verse. Always the same DJs.
He already knew that the water in the pipes would be freezing cold, both in the sink and in the shower. It had been that way for a very long time. No matter how many times he had tried, he had just never been able to get used to the cold water first thing in the morning. He'd given it up... months ago, if not longer. It wasn't like it made a difference anyway. He always smelled the same. His hair was always the same level of messiness. And his clothes were never any more wrinkled than they were the day before. Which was especially good, because he never had any more than just the couple pairs of shirts and pants.
He still checked out the window every now and then. Just to make sure. To see if the fresh snow had yet fallen, or if the crowds heading out to the central park had finally yielded. They hadn't, of course. It always looked exactly the same as he looked out the window. And he knew that that meant he had to get to work. Or, at least, he was supposed to. He'd spent a while skipping out on it. It didn't make a difference whether or not he was going to be there, but in recent times he had found that singular consistency to be a blessing. It kept him grounded in a way, in a long passed dream that had once seemed like reality.
He passed through he sea of faces like he was in a trance. He knew them all. Each and every face, the name that went with them, the life story that had brought them to where they were today. How long had it been since he'd memorized them? How many times had he spoken with each of them individually in order to learn it all? How many times had he saved some of their lives? How many times had he ended them?
And that was to say nothing of his own life, which he had taken in every way imaginable.
How many lifetimes ago had it been when he stopped the passage of time? When one day had ceased to pass into the next. One day continuously repeating over and over for the rest of eternity. And why had it started? When would it end?
He knew every answer. Except for those.
He already knew that the water in the pipes would be freezing cold, both in the sink and in the shower. It had been that way for a very long time. No matter how many times he had tried, he had just never been able to get used to the cold water first thing in the morning. He'd given it up... months ago, if not longer. It wasn't like it made a difference anyway. He always smelled the same. His hair was always the same level of messiness. And his clothes were never any more wrinkled than they were the day before. Which was especially good, because he never had any more than just the couple pairs of shirts and pants.
He still checked out the window every now and then. Just to make sure. To see if the fresh snow had yet fallen, or if the crowds heading out to the central park had finally yielded. They hadn't, of course. It always looked exactly the same as he looked out the window. And he knew that that meant he had to get to work. Or, at least, he was supposed to. He'd spent a while skipping out on it. It didn't make a difference whether or not he was going to be there, but in recent times he had found that singular consistency to be a blessing. It kept him grounded in a way, in a long passed dream that had once seemed like reality.
He passed through he sea of faces like he was in a trance. He knew them all. Each and every face, the name that went with them, the life story that had brought them to where they were today. How long had it been since he'd memorized them? How many times had he spoken with each of them individually in order to learn it all? How many times had he saved some of their lives? How many times had he ended them?
And that was to say nothing of his own life, which he had taken in every way imaginable.
How many lifetimes ago had it been when he stopped the passage of time? When one day had ceased to pass into the next. One day continuously repeating over and over for the rest of eternity. And why had it started? When would it end?
He knew every answer. Except for those.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Night sky
Megan pulled her car up to the gate and put it in park as the sun was setting behind the horizon. It had been a long, backwoods road with virtually no people on it, so she wasn't too worried about anyone coming up behind her looking to go through the gate - especially at this time of day. And it wasn't like this was the first time she had done this, anyway. No, this was something that she did on a regular basis. It helped her to have a feeling of peace and placement.
She got out of the car and could immediately feel the wind on her skin, just cool enough to start the series of goosebumps running along her chest and arms. That was a feeling she never got tired of - it made her feel alive. She took in the smell of the fresh air, carrying the scents of the trees and flowers into her nose. It was a wholly different experience from being home in her house, where everything was controllable and safe. She had no power over this - and it was invigorating.
It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do, but she made her way up onto the roof of her car, carefully stepping to distribute her weight and ensure that she didn't damage anything. The area she was in was just shy of the hills, which made the horizon much more interesting and exciting. The car gave her that extra little bit of height to see everything over as well, allowing her to see the very top of the sun behind the hills.
She watched the sky as it dimmed, and the colors shifted through their reds and oranges until they returned to a much darker blue than had been present earlier in the day. In the process, the stars began to fade into existence, forming their constellations and giving light and beauty to the sky even as it grew darker and darker into the night. The stars were unchanging and everlasting - they were one of the few constants in a world of ever changing variables.
Being out here like this was something that she had never shared with anyone else. She wasn't sure if she ever would. To be alone with her thoughts in the silence was calming, and knowing that there was no one else whose schedule she had to adhere to was refreshing. If she ever was going to share this with someone, it would have to be someone exceedingly special. And even then, it was a toss up.
She got out of the car and could immediately feel the wind on her skin, just cool enough to start the series of goosebumps running along her chest and arms. That was a feeling she never got tired of - it made her feel alive. She took in the smell of the fresh air, carrying the scents of the trees and flowers into her nose. It was a wholly different experience from being home in her house, where everything was controllable and safe. She had no power over this - and it was invigorating.
It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do, but she made her way up onto the roof of her car, carefully stepping to distribute her weight and ensure that she didn't damage anything. The area she was in was just shy of the hills, which made the horizon much more interesting and exciting. The car gave her that extra little bit of height to see everything over as well, allowing her to see the very top of the sun behind the hills.
She watched the sky as it dimmed, and the colors shifted through their reds and oranges until they returned to a much darker blue than had been present earlier in the day. In the process, the stars began to fade into existence, forming their constellations and giving light and beauty to the sky even as it grew darker and darker into the night. The stars were unchanging and everlasting - they were one of the few constants in a world of ever changing variables.
Being out here like this was something that she had never shared with anyone else. She wasn't sure if she ever would. To be alone with her thoughts in the silence was calming, and knowing that there was no one else whose schedule she had to adhere to was refreshing. If she ever was going to share this with someone, it would have to be someone exceedingly special. And even then, it was a toss up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)