Waist deep

Matt used the long pole he had fashioned some time ago from a fallen tree branch to prod the water's floor beneath his feet, making sure that he wasn't about to disappear into the depths, never to be heard from again. He did so carefully, making quick and repeated jabs over and over again, proceeding forward only in small steps when he knew that the ground was safe. The water was well above his hips, making his shirt float slightly around his midsection, but he was well accustomed to it by this point. The flood had occurred years ago - as one of the survivors, water was hardly even a concern to him anymore.

He used the pole with his offhand, holding a pistol of some kind in his dominant hand. To be honest, he had no idea what caliber it was, or brand, or anything of the sort. He had found it on the body of another a few days prior, and had quickly scooped it up. He wasn't overly fond of using guns - he had been terrified of them before the flood, truth be told - but there was a certain necessity to them now a days. Perhaps even a sense of comfort. Despite the practice, he still wasn't any good at firing the damn things. He had been through so many of them, he was never sure how much recoil to expect when he pulled the trigger, and his hand was usually shaking when he did so. Meant that he could mostly only use them to fire warning shots, or for point blank kills. So he had had to gain proficiency at taking people by surprise.

The blockage on one of the old bridges had recently washed away, which meant that Matt now had access to whatever goodies may be underneath. He made his way below, barely registering the way that the wildlife had overgrown the man made structure. The traces of man were slowly disappearing with time, being replaced by what they had once sought to conquer. It wouldn't be long before man was only a memory of what had been on the planet. Many had realized that early on, and in the ensuing madness, taken their own lives, not wanting to lose in a battle with nature. Others, like Matt, had recognized that they may never even be another generation after themselves, but refused to go down so easily. After all, if a flood had wiped them out without warning, no one knew if something might be able to bring them back just as blindingly.

He felt an irregularity under the water with his pole and came to a stop. He prodded it a few times, gently at first to make sure it wasn't a fish or other aquatic animal that might attack if he reached down for it, than began to search its parameters, looking for a way to pry it loose. He was searching blind, but he was much better at that than at firing a gun.

It didn't take long before the pressure on the ground was gone, and only a few seconds later a moss covered something rose to the surface. Without hesitation, Matt scooped it up and dumped it into the pack on his back, not even bothering to check what it was. He was slow moving, and there was only so much daylight. He had a lot of ground to cover.

Dragon queen

Eileen sat on her throne and watched coolly as foreign men broke in the door to her chambers, tossing the large battering ram to the ground as they entered, completely surrounding her, steel brandished and anger clear on their faces. The queen had received word weeks prior of the invasion that was being planned on her castle. If they had been paying any attention, they might have questioned why they did not encounter any resistance as they stormed the castle, or that the doors to her throne chambers were not actually locked or boarded. They could have merely used it like normal people instead of busting through with a massive battering ram. And perhaps they would have thought it odd that it took only a single blow to blow the doors open, but they were too busy reveling in their manliness to notice.

The first began hurling words at her, but she looked at him, not understanding. She had never bothered to learn their language. She knew what he was saying regardless. Accusing and insulting her for her actions, those that were draining his people and their land, taking their resources and their power. He had no idea what it meant to rule a kingdom, what kind of things were needed to rule so many people under a singular rule. He was mad over things that no other kingdom would blink at. Things like taxes and a regulation of economy. It seemed as though every primitive culture she took under wing was so callous and rude. But they would learn.

She did not flinch as the man pointed his sword in her face, threatening to take her life if she were not to free them from the shackles and bonds that she had placed on them without their consent. Never mind that they had signed the treaties stating that they agreed to join her kingdom, or that they had more food than they had ever had before. They would claim not to have been told the full truth about her rule. But they had been informed.

Eileen lifted the staff that had been in her lap with one hand, staring the man in the eyes as she did so, his sword pointing directly between her eyes and hovering only a few inches away from her face. Every eye in the room was directed on her, watching her every movement. They were prepared to stop her if she chose to fight back. To rip her life away from her body and reclaim their home as their own.

They would not be fast enough. No one ever was.

The man lunged forward the instant he saw her staff begin to glow, but his sword couldn't pierce the shell that was before her face. As if in slow motion, he looked up to see the massive dragon that had simply appeared in the room, encircling Eileen and staring down at him with death in his eyes. Fear drained everything else from his body, and his sword clattered to the ground.

If only they knew how many were in the air around them at all times. How they watched the people in their homes, waiting for them to falter and fall. She was merely trying to protect them. But they always had to fight back.

Arcanist

Mirai waited, attempting to be patient but afraid that his tepidness was shining through in his face. He had never had any interest in becoming an arcanist - but Mr. Temran had insisted that he had the blood for it and was suited to it. So Mirai sat and watched as Temran silently wrote at his desk, his walking cane resting against the wood, and his bird dozing quietly in an open cage in the corner. Books were piled around the room, a few open - though Mirai had been strictly instructed not to read any of their contents - and a few bits of odds and ends scattered all over the floor in what appeared to be the result of a careless and anger-prone owner, though Temran insisted that they were arranged with the utmost of care and were not to be tampered with.

The only noises in the small, cramped room were the constant tick-tocking of the grandfather clock in the corner, and the scritching of Temran's feather pen on paper, pausing only long enough to permit the shuffling of papers before continuing on. Mirai didn't even know what he was writing about. He only knew that it had kept Temran occupied for well over an hour, and that Mirai had been instructed to wait silently and motionlessly until the task was completed. He was growing fidgety. If he wasn't allowed to move or make a noise much longer, he was going to lose his mind.

The soft setting down of Temran's pen was like a crashing iron in contrast to the constant sound of before. The scooting back of his chair nails on a chalkboard, just allowing for Mirai's ears to adjust in time for the two pounds of Temran's walking stick on the floor, summoning his raven from its cage and onto his shoulder. Mirai stared at the man, wide-eyed, as though he were seeing a ghost. He had almost forgot that he could do anything other than write.

Temran's bright blue eyes were piercing under his long locks of silver hair, his lips flat as he stared through Mirai. It made the apprentice incredibly uncomfortable, and it took everything he had not to bolt from the room, much less not squirm under the hot gaze of his master. It felt like an eternity that he was under the microscope, being analyzed and mentally torn apart, though it was only under a minute.

"It seems like you are much more capable than you think you are," Temran said, an unexpected smile breaking out onto his face. "Most apprentices have to practice that for at least a month before they can sit so still and so quiet for that long. And even then they are losing their minds by the end of it, as I'm sure you are now. I told you you were born for this. You will learn much faster than you expect."

Master

The sounds of students practicing echoed through the hall, as Master Vince strode the pathways, watching his apprentices practice the strokes of their blades, dancing back and forth with the least of grace. It was still early on in their training, but the off tempo steps and off key strikes were grating on his ears. This happened every year as the students filed in through the door, ready to learn but unwilling to be taught. They needed discipline, and that was what he was there for. But it grated on him ceaselessly year after year.

Precision. Power. Timing. Everything that they needed to fight, exemplified in the simple act of clapping his hands, shooting a booming explosion of noise throughout the hall, overshadowing the noises of all of the students. They came to an abrupt halt, thrown off by the interruption, and a few who were in the middle of a poorly executed swing lost their balance and fell haphazardly onto the ground. All eyes were on him. It felt good.

Master Vince pointed wordlessly to a nearby student, who shuffled forward and took their stance as they had been instructed. Vince pointed out with one hand, aiming directly between the students eyes, his fingers loose as they traced the boy's face. His back clamped and tightened as his sword arm drew back behind his head, raising his rapier and pointing it directly down his fingers, his arms forming a perfect line from fingertip to elbow, and the tip of his blade pointed at the exact spot his finger directed it to. He took one step back, solidifying his stance an guard, legs tight and clenched to absorb the impact of a bow. His students adopted the stance. He lived it.

With a gesture, the student lunged forward, attempting to strike. Vince danced his fingers back, legs unmoving, and pulled the strike into his own blade, which diverted the power and angle, sending the blow harmlessly to the side. He could feel every eye in the room glued to him, intensely desiring to learn of his skill. Again the student lunged, and again he diverted it, letting the straight stab slide across his blade to bounce off of the pommel, dragging the student toward him and into his own deadly range.

His own blade rushed forward, just dodging to the left of the student's head, allowing his guarded fist to slam into the boy's cranium. He stumbled back as Vince drew forward now, striking again with his hand wrapped around the handle to the other side of the head. Each blow, quickly following in rapid succession, drove the boy over and back, until his feet could no longer support him and he crumpled to the ground.

Without missing a beat, Vince turned toward his captive audience, pose unbroken, and hurdled the rapier like a javelin. It flung through the air, catching a blade that a student was lifting to attempt what he had witnessed unprovoked, ripping it from the student's hand and pinning it to the far wall. Every eye watched the blade fly. They had all witnessed what had happened, and to whom.

"Now that you have all seen what a master can do," Vince shouted, authority running heavy in his voice, "why don't you all try a little bit harder to get there? I want this room to be filled with music! Not the clinkering clattering of a bunch of apes discovering metal for the first time!"

Lipogram

If you've never heard of a lipogram, permit me to inform you of one of the most subtle, interesting ways of testing your abilities as a writer. In short, the rules of writing a lipogram are very simple - you take a single letter from the alphabet, and eliminate from what you are writing. A small thing, perhaps, and one that the vast majority of readers would probably never even see, but it demands an exhaustive ability to not only pay attention to your own writing, but to utilize synonyms to their maximum potential.

Now, it should go without saying that there are a myriad of letters that are far more taxing to avoid than others. Vowels are by far the hardest - and amongst them, the letter E is the hardest. E is the single most reappearing letter in the English language. Insanely simple words are removed - the, he, she, they, be. Hell, the entirety of the name of my blog would be unusable. And yet, there are both poems and novels that are written in just this very way.

Personally, I've only attempted to write a lipogram a few times, and never without the letter E. I feel that I would need far more skill than is in my possession in order to take something like that on. And furthermore, the things that I have written in this style have not been overly long - probably no more than three pages, if I remember rightly. And to be honest, I tend to forget that lipograms exist from time to time, thereby making it somewhat impossible to keep attempting them. But every time I remember that they exist, I feel urged to at least talk about them.

Unfortunately, the list of words that are in my head as available to be summoned at any given moment is far fewer than I would prefer it to be. I generally have a good sense of the meaning of most words, and am able to string some kind of explanation of what I'm trying to get out. Using smaller words to explain bigger ideas is something that I'm pretty good at - or at least, I'd like to think that I am. And that works out at times. But I am definitely short on the synonyms that you really need to write a lipogram, and write it well.

But that doesn't mean that I won't try to do it anyway. And I'll pull it off, even if it doesn't sound all that great. Like this, for example. You didn't think I'd explain what a lipogram was without writing one myself, did you? There are probably some letters that I left out without meaning too. It's not easy, after all, to offhandedly mention that quirky xylophones are zeroing in on how to jump. But I think that just about handles every letter, sans one. Feel free to take a guess. Try not to gyp the system by using find in your browser, first. More fun that way.

Decisions

She was just one woman. One woman, in an old suit of armor, which was clearly made more for decoration than for protection. One woman, wielding a sword in a gold encrusted scabbard, refusing to pull it free from its sheath. One woman, who elected to discard her helmet for the choice of a red cloak instead. She should not have been any trouble at all to eliminate.

Yet she stood over a field of bodies, which she had cut down without effort, looking quite impressive with her blood red cloak fluttering in the wind, if Gerald had anything to say about it.

He stared up at the female knight, his eyes wide. He had served as her page for more than a year, and yet the feats that she could accomplish were still far beyond what he could comprehend. He would watch her fight, try to understand what she was doing and how - but all that he could see was a blur from her sword hand, a wave of gold flashing through the air, before her opponent was cut down, falling dead to the ground, blood spurting through the air.

He dreamed of learning to fight the way she did. Of being able to cut down his opponents in an instant, making it as though they never came to attack him in the first place. He wanted to be as strong, as fast, as enigmatic as Lady Eline. She was everything he could ever dream that a knight would be, and he couldn't have asked for a better knight to be a page for. His only qualm was that he couldn't figure out as much as he wanted of how she managed to do it.

She turned to look at him, and on cue, he rushed up to her, ready to start cleaning her sword. She waved him off though, her hand firmly grasped around the base of the sheathed blade. He looked up at her, surprised, wordlessly asking what was going on. She pointed down the hill that they had perched atop and waited for the attacking forces to climb and attack from. Looking down, Gerald saw a figure in the distance, lumbering towards them. It was slow moving, but it was much larger than any man he had ever seen.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The stuff of legends," Eline replied matter of factly. "A giant. Not sure how they got it on their side. Perhaps they led it over here, and it can smell all the spilled blood. But we can't leave our position now. We'll have no choice but to fight it."

"Have you ever fought a giant before?"

"No." The certainty of her voice surprised Gerald. It was unlike her not to be confident in her victory. "I have not. And so I doubt I will be able to defeat it quite so easily as I normally do."

"So what will you do?"

"That is the wrong question."

Gerald was taken aback by that. He didn't understand what she meant. He racked his brain, trying to think of what other question there was to ask, but he couldn't think of one. Eline waited patiently, staring down at the giant as it made its approach.

"I don't understand," he finally, humbly admitted.

"The correct question is what are we going to do."

Gerald sputtered. "B-but I don't know how to fight," he spit. "I-I'd only slow you down."

"Yes," she agreed, "and sometimes that is exactly what needs to happen." She slipped her sword out of its sheath, the bright polish that Gerald had so meticulously shined onto the blade ever present in the sunlight, and offered it to him. "So what will it be? Are you going to remain a page, or is today the day you become a squire?"

Of Balls

I've talked about it briefly a couple of times, but as I was considering a prompt a friend of mine gave me today for writing, I started realizing how grossly similar it was to a story I wrote a very long time - my first story, titled "The Power of the Balls." I mention that title every time I talk about it, because good lord, even at ten years old I knew it was an innuendo, and I stuck with it anyway. No one's going to read a story about the power of balls, past me. Not in any serious capacity.

I was obsessed with this story for a couple of years. It was my story. I had made it, and it was unlike anything that I had made before. It had a certain level of depth that I had never been able to achieve before, and I could share it with my friends and get them into it, after they laughed relentlessly at me for my dumb ass title. I played make believe games within the universe of my story, and my friends and I would go and fight giant imaginary monsters of all the different elements so that we could get their power balls (because I had never heard of an orb before apparently, which doesn't sound that much better, but is still better). And some of my friends would get mad at me for really stupid crap that really shouldn't have outraged them as much as it did, especially because it wan't even an original thing I was making and they ignored everything about what it was - but that's a different story.

I very distinctly remember what the document I wrote it on looked like. Not the story. But the document. My font was way too big, way too fancy, and way too green. I don't know why I made those decisions - probably because I was ten - but it was vomit inducing. And worse than that, the major conflicts of the story that I prided myself so much on - the large number of monsters and power balls that were threatening the world - were hardly conflicts at all. Multiple of them were defeated per page, and that was with how massive I made the text. In fact, I think multiple monsters were defeated per sentence, and that was before any of the main characters even had power balls to, you know, gain power.

I honestly can't write any more about it, because there wasn't anything more to it. It was a garbage story, with garbage pacing, and garbage ideas. I seem to recall the characters falling into some kind of hellscape where the monsters were from while trying to protect the world from them. What about the ones already in their own world? How did they get there? How were they going to get back? All excellent questions. None of which were answered. And I think that pretty much explains the whole problem.