Painting

Susan picked her paintbrush up as she walked out to the deck. The sun was shining brightly, and she had a blank canvas prepared for the day. It had been sitting there for as long as she could remember. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy painting, or that she didn't paint everyday. It wasn't even that she didn't paint on this canvas everyday. It was just always made ready for her by the time she came back to it.

Susan sat down in front of the canvas, twirling the paintbrush between her fingers as she thought about what to paint. She watched the skyline, spotted with trees, and tried to imagine what kinds of wonderful things she would wish to see among them. She liked to paint wondrous things. Things of great beauty and imagination, that one would love to see, but knew they never would. That was what she wanted to fill her life with. Incredible, beautiful things.

As she set to paint, brief thoughts about her life flitted through her mind. She had a wonderful house, out on her own, with plenty of space for her to be. But she had no one else to live with her. She was an only child, and her parents had passed away a long time ago, and she had never found a husband. She didn't mind being alone. She remembered back when she bought the house, how people questioned why she needed so much space for her self. But she just smiled and did as she pleased. She knew what would make her happy, and she worked towards that.

Her brush danced across the page before her in long, graceful strokes, hardly needing her attention. She had been painting for as long as she could remember. She could hardly remember a time when she had had to focus on her art. She knew there was a time when she had. But now a days, she could practically have her eyes close, and she knew that her art would shine through. It was a part of her that could never be removed.

She knew to an on looker, her art would appear strange. Not the images themselves, but simply the way in which she created it. Her brush glided along the canvas, never leaving a mark behind, as she never dipped the brush in paint. And yet she could see the image so clearly. In the distance, far beyond her canvas on her deck, light twisted and turned in the air, stretching and contorting to her will. Her painting came to life, in more ways then one, as she commanded the colors themselves to do her bidding.

She looked up from her canvas and watched the skyline once more. She saw the images in her mind more clearly now. Birds climbed from the trees to meet great and powerful beasts of the sky. Mythical creatures danced along the treetops, leaping easily from branch to branch. The stars themselves began to swirl together to form bodies that moved and talked, and came to interact with the other beings that Susan created. She smiled to herself as she watched them dance together, knowing that she was the one who created these things.

As her brush came to rest, slowly the things she created faded away, though she could still see them in her mind's eye. She had painted the day away yet again without even realizing it. She stood up and stretched, only just realizing how hungry she was.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she whispered to her canvas, and walked inside to get dinner.

Brother

"You ever look in the mirror and not like what you see?"

Jack chuckled at the question as Johann stared into the mirror on the wall. The two had long been criminals, scouring the roads and taking what they wanted. They broke what needed to be broken in order to do that. They left people beside the beaten path, left to be saved... or not. They didn't need the help of any foolish man, woman, or child. Just their belongings.

"Every day," Jack replied. "Just as you do. We both know the answer to that question."

"You ever think about doing something about it?"

"I do. That's why I try to get better clothes."

Johann spit at Jack. "You know what I mean, you ugly bastard."

"That's no kind thing for you to call your twin."

Johann waved the statement off. He sat in his chair with a loud thump, tossing his legs casually up and onto the table. The things that they owned, if they could call it that, were of an assorted quality. Their home was a mish mash of furniture and vanity items. Things of bronze, steel, gold and silver. Simple trinkets and precious antiques. They had more than enough to survive and comfort for a generation. Had for a long while, in fact. And yet they kept at their work, strong and steady.

"One of these days we're going to get caught, Jack."

"And when that day comes, Johann, what do you suppose we'll do?"

"Attempt to steal our freedom back and be killed in the process."

"Yes, I suppose you're probably right."

Jack leaned against the wall, and the two sat in silence for a long moment, each looking at their own corner of the room. It was a conversation they had had many times.

"I don't want to die, Jack."

"Neither do I, Johann. But it's a bit late for that decision, don't you think?"

"What if we turned ourselves in?"

"I hardly think that would change a thing."

"You're probably right."

Jack sighed and walked to the table, putting both hands on it as he leaned over to look at Johann. His brother looked back at him, his eyes as cold and dead as ever. It had been a long time since Jack had seen anything but fear in his brother's eyes. The thrill of the fight had long passed. Jack supposed his own eyes must look similar. He didn't look in the mirror as Johann did.

"Why are you still here, brother?" he asked. "Why are you still with me? You don't enjoy this life. You fear the consequences it brings. So why do you stay? Why not leave, and forge a new life? Where of which you can be proud, and feel that you have a future to you."

"Because, brother," Johann replied. "That would mean leaving you behind to rot."

Jack smiled coyly. "That's what we do for a living, brother."

"It is," Johann replied, his face and tone as flat as ever. "But doing so on the way out would be defeating the point, don't you think?"

"Yes, brother... You're probably right."

Looking back

We've all looked back on something we've done in the past, something we were proud of at the time, and think to ourselves "...Really? I was proud of that?" We feel ashamed, or embarassed, and we try to hide that something in our past. We don't want others to see where we came from, where we failed. We want them to see where we are, or where we're going. And there's nothing wrong with wanting that. It's human. But we shouldn't be ashamed of where we came from. It is our past that we grow from, that teaches us the vital lessons that allow us to move forward.

For instance. I've written a lot, and I mean a lot of absolutely terrible stories. They make me cringe just thinking about them, and reading them... Damn. It's painful. But I do it anyway. Not often, hell no. But I do it. Because I understand that at some point those stories seemed good to me, and I want to know why. If I thought they were good, for any reason, then there must be some nugget of goodness to them. Even if it's just the idea itself behind the writing, there is something in them that influenced my writing, and shaped my trade. Hell, I may even find that there is something in there that I still want to use. 

It's easy to look at the old flaws and simply disregard the whole as useless. But think about some of your favorite things. Chances are, they aren't the newest and shiniest. You hold nostalgia for the things that have passed, and when new things come out, despite their improvements, we can't help but look back at the things that they came from. Perhaps because they are simpler, perhaps because the new versions are missing some function that we appreciated. But we long for the days of old.

We forget these things when the old isn't immediately seen as good. I'm not saying that there aren't old things that are just plain bad. Of course there are. But even those can be learned from. If you can see and understand why things are bad, then you can avoid making those mistakes.

I once wrote a story about a conflict between two nations, one of light and one of darkness. My main character, the leading fighter of the dark nation, was an angry, bitter man, who viciously slaughtered any who stood in his way. He was a fun character to write for his power alone, but I made some very strange decisions with him. It's been a while, so I don't remember the exact phrasing, but in an attempt to distract his opponents with confusion, I had him say something along the lives of, "I can't go to Ohio. It's Missouri in there!"

I was young. At the time, it was hilarious. Now, it's just weird. It doesn't make any sense, it doesn't fit the character, and it's just not funny. But the fact remains that I did it. I'm not going to hide that. It's stupid and terrible, but it also is a reminder of exactly what I shouldn't do when I'm writing. And in that way, it's important to remember.

A loss of will

Suffice to say, I'm not the academic type. I never have been, and while I enjoy learning, I probably never will be. There's just something about school that takes the fun and enjoyment out of things. I don't know what it is. The time limit, the judgements. There's just something about it that takes the things you enjoy, and wrings the fun out of them.

For me, one of the most obvious examples of this has always been English class. I'm a writer. I love writing. And I love reading. These are things that just come with the territory. But damn, if reading books for English classes didn't always drive me crazy. It probably didn't help that, to me, the books they had us reading were always boring and the kinds of books that I would never have an interest in in the first place. But even some books that I would have otherwise found enjoyable, I had no interest in reading while I was in school. Perhaps it was the attitude of trying to dig deeper into the meaning of a book that I simply didn't agree with. Or maybe it was just that we were being told to do it.

That's the thing. Being told that you have to do something always makes it worse. No matter how much you enjoy doing something, if someone tells you that you have to do it, you are going to enjoy it less. I don't know why that is, but it is. We all want to be in control of our own lives, and it can be hard to accept that at times we have to let other people be the leader. We fight it, try to avoid those moments, or try to twist them so that we can be the ones in control. It's just nature. But the fact of the matter is, we can't always be in control.

That loss of control doesn't just affect that one aspect of our lives, though. It starts to trickle into the other parts where we still do have control. It becomes harder to enjoy the things we do for fun when we feel like we don't have as much time for them as we want, because someone is telling us that we have to do other things.

I know that feeling all too well. I almost didn't write this blog post tonight, because I have written well over 2000 words already today in papers that I have to write for school. And the worst part is, I'm not even done writing them. So thinking about writing this post was not an enticing one. I considered just not doing it. I've written well over my 500 word daily goal. Why should I keep writing?

Because I have to remind myself that there are things out there that I enjoy, and writing is top among them. Just not academic writing. "But no one likes academic writing," I hear you say. Well, someone has to. Otherwise there wouldn't be so many damn things that I have to make citations of.

Choosing what to write 2

It hasn't been all that long since I last wrote about choosing what to write about. But really, it's always worth talking about. No matter how long you write, you're never going to stop asking yourself "what do I write next?" It's a real issue, one that I find non-writers have a hard time understanding. It's what we do for a living, right? So why should it be hard to come up with new ideas? You've had ideas in the past that you haven't used, or haven't used fully. Why not just use one of those? Surely you have plenty of those!

Well, yeah. I do. But it's really not that easy. The thing about writing is that you can't just go out and do it. I mean, you have to. But you can't. It's hard to explain, and it doesn't make any sense, I know. But it's true. You have to be struck by a mood. You have to let the words carry you. So chances are, what each day is suited for as far as writing goes changes.

But the thing that I think a lot of writers forget is that there is inspiration all around you. It can be hard to see, I understand, but it's always there. Think about the things you talk about with your friends, the things you enjoy reading about, the things that you want to do. Then think about the things you hate to talk about, or read, or do. Both of those are important. Writing isn't just about finding the good things, as much as I wish it were. Because the good things wouldn't be nearly as good without the bad.

Because of this, writing can be an emotional roller coaster. You feel what your characters feel. You see what they see. Because, like it or not, they are you. And so you're biggest arsenal of writing prompts are your life.

I've said it many times throughout my life, and I'll say it again. If you are a writer, every thing is a valuable resource to you. No matter how much you may not enjoy something, it is worth learning. The fact that you don't enjoy it is even a valuable thing worth learning. The more you know, the more you can write about, and the more you understand your emotions towards the things that you learn, the more your characters will be able to react to things organically.

That last bit is especially important. Organic characters are hard to come across, and there's a reason for that. We all want our characters to be ideal. We want them to be what we wish we could be. And there's nothing wrong with that. But there's a good chance that in writing that, we will take it too far. We make our characters all powerful, completely unstoppable. I'm not saying you should make your characters lose the fight. In fact, I would argue that you should never do that. But you should make them struggle to do so.

No one goes through life without pain. If you think you can, you're either delusional, or too young. So why write a character that does that? It makes a reader bitter, because this character is so much better than they are. You may want them to wish they could be that character, and that's fine. But remember that if that's your goal, make it possible. It may take years of training, years of hardship, but it should be possible. And if a person would have to do that, shouldn't your character?

So learn. Learn what feels good and learn what feels good. Internalize that. Be willing to ask people for help, and in doing so, remember that sometimes your character will have to do the same. You can't make it entirely on your own, and neither can your character.

See the world. Experience it. And put it on paper. No matter what the inspiration, no matter what the story, you can make it work. Just keep yourself open to the possibilities, and you'll get there.

Glitched

Robin paused on his walk down the street when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Looking down the alleyway he was passing, it seemed to him as though there was something sticking out of the ground that shouldn't be there. Curious, he approached it. He had only just caught it out of his eye, as it was a small thing, just barely poking out of the ground. As he came towards it and kneeled down, it seemed to shift in color, making it even harder to see. It also seemed to make the smallest of twitching motions seemingly at random.

Robin looked at the object, trying to determine what it was, and suddenly it occurred to him that the color of it had seemed to change because it had become shaded as he grew close. But that didn't make any sense. The angle of the sun hadn't changed, and there were no other sources of light that could reach it where it was. In fact, it was in direct view of the sun. Robin scratched his head, confused. It was almost as though its shadows had been inverted from what they were supposed to do.

He reached out a hand and tried to pick it up, but it was steadfastly stuck. The texture was flat and smooth, impossibly so. It made it hard for Robin to get a grip on it. It was also ice cold to the touch, making his hand feel as though it were frozen, and yet when he pulled away from it, instantly his hand's temperature returned to normal.

Robin sat down, looking at the object, trying to determine what was happening. The only thing that he could think of were the glitches that occasionally happened in video games when an object collided with another in a way that wasn't accounted for. But that couldn't be possible, could it? This was the real world.

He reached out once again, and this time tried to push on the object. Immediately it sunk down further into the ground, and this time pulled his hand with it. Panicked, he tried to pull his hand out of the ground, but it was steadfastly stuck. His eyes widened in fear, and he looked back towards the street where he had come from, but could see no one. He didn't know how they would help him, anyway. It seemed to him that the only possibility was to amputate his hand, and he'd rather not have to do that.

Seeing no other option, he slowly and gently pushed his hand deeper into the ground. It went in easily, meeting no resistance, all the way up to his shoulder. Giving in, he kept going, and a moment later his head was completely submerged. However, he wasn't surrounded in stone. He could see a thick layer of pitch black beneath him, seemingly made of the same material which he had seen poking out of the ground.

It wasn't long before he feel beneath the solid ground he had been standing on only moments before, and Robin found himself standing on the smooth, icy substance that he couldn't explain. He looked back up at the space where he had come from, and he could see up through the ground easily, as if it wasn't there. Carefully, he walked back towards the street, and before long he found another person. They seemed to be floating above him, walking on nothing.

"Hello!" he called out.

But the person didn't hear him.

He reached his hand up, and though he couldn't see the ground, he could feel it. It was solid again, and he wasn't going to be able to make it back up to the surface. He had glitched himself out of the world. And unfortunately for him, Robin had no reset button.

Saving lives

I took a deep breath as I watched the train approach. My mind had been made up, but that didn't mean that this would be easy. In about twenty seconds it would arrive where I was. It wouldn't have enough time to stop. That's what I was counting on. My legs moved almost automatically, taking me towards the edge of the platform as the horn of the train blared loudly.

Just as I reached the edge, with about ten seconds before the train's arrival, and my foot left the solidity of ground, a hand wrapped roughly around my arm, and I felt myself fall back and hit the ground hard. The air rushed from my lungs, and I saw the train rush by in front of me. I had missed my chance.

My vision of the train was blocked as the man who had pulled me away from the edge dropped on my chest, knocking the little air I had gotten back into my lungs back out of my chest. His eyes burned with anger, and he had one hand raised in a fist behind his head. "The hell's wrong with you, you stupid fuck?" he called out to me. I blinked, confused. "Did you really think you were gonna just step out there in front of the train? Let it run you over? Were you gonna just throw your life away like that idiot?"

I tried to push myself away from the man, but he used his other hand to push me down against the pavement. "What's it to you?" I asked him in return. "Why the hell should you care? It's not like anyone else does."

I felt his fist make contact with my face. It stung, and and combined impact of his fist and the ground beneath my head made me dizzy. "Don't you give me that shit, fucker," he spit bitterly at me. "Just because no one says it to your face doesn't mean people don't care. When you die, people will cry. People will be pained. They may even follow in your footsteps. Do you really want to be responsible for that?"

I tried to push him off, but he pinned my arm to the ground. "No one will cry for me. No one ever even talks to me! How can someone cry over someone they've never known?"

"Because they will never have the chance to get to know that person!"

For some reason, those words hit me. From somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I remembered when my mother died when I was a child. I had hardly ever seen her, because she had been in the hospital so much, and yet I cried at her funeral. I hadn't thought about her in a long time.

Almost immediately, the man stood up off of my chest and held a hand out to me. Hesitantly I took it, and he lifted me back up to my feet. "Promise me you aren't going to attempt some stupid shit like that again." I nodded silently at him. "Good boy. Don't ever let me catch you even thinking about something like that. I'll get back on you and beat the ever loving shit out of you."

With that, the man simply walked away. I watched him, unsure of what had happened, but was distracted when I heard the train's horn blow again as it pulled away from the station. When I looked back, the man was gone.