I've written the "Angels and Kitsune" opening bit a couple of times now, and it's an idea I go back to fairly regularly in my head - which, as it often times is, is because I love the character in it. But before I go into that, it's worth noting that this isn't a straight original idea that I've had. I mean, there's no such thing as originality in writing, but that's beside the point. This was an rp that I had written with one of my best friends, and while I'm sure that if I reread it today I would hate the way it's written, I have always loved some of the ideas behind it, and particularly the character that I controlled - who, of the two options, was the angel.
I know it's an incredibly cliche writing technique, but my angel, Erasmus, suffered heavily from amnesia. And when I say heavily, I mean heavily. I mean, he didn't understand how doors worked. There was literally a scene where he was given a key to a door, and he looked at it, went to the door, and just pushed the key against it and couldn't figure out how it worked. I loved that. He was one of the most clueless, inept characters I have ever written, at least when it comes to how the world works, and it was some of the most fun I have had writing.
And the things that he could do - strictly fighting - was tied to his background, and in such a way that I felt made sense. Eventually it would be revealed that Erasmus was one of the leading generals in heaven's army, and that through unforeseen circumstances, he was banished from heaven and sent to Earth to attempt to redeem himself. I felt that while his mind might not be able to remember things, that didn't mean that his muscles wouldn't, and so fighting would be able to come naturally to him, even if he didn't fully understand why. Meanwhile, things like the door still don't apply, because that wasn't something that he ever had to do or deal with while he was in heaven. It made sense for him to act the way that he did as more of his character was revealed.
I'm sure that it wasn't executed as well as I remember it being. And there are some things that, while I loved and thought were hilarious at the time, I would probably cut out if I were to go back an edit it. One in particular off the top of my head is a scene where he fights a bear. I mean, there was a purpose to it, and with his skill level as a general in heaven's army, the fact that he could do so makes sense. But perhaps the thrill that he experienced in doing so, or his desire to fight a bear, were misplaced and unconstituted.
Some day I hope I can fully return to that story, or at least that character. I wouldn't want to step on the toes of the person who wrote the part of the kitsune, though I concede that it would be hard to tell a story using Erasmus without his kitsune friend, given how tightly interwoven the two are in my head. But we'll see. One day.
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Friday, May 13, 2016
Dirt surfing
The roar of the engine was loud, but was muted by the bandana tied around Mike's head, pulled down over his nose and mouth to keep the dust out of his lungs, partially held in place by the sunglasses that hugged his face to do the same for his eyes. He sat in his UTV atop the mountain, looking over the paths that he had available to him, looking not for which one was going to be the easiest, but which would be the most fun. Boulders, sharp turns, thin roads. Those were the things that caught his eye. All with the backdrop of dozens of mountains of multi-colored stone, covered in trees and shrubberies that accentuated the hard lines of the stone's history.
With a kick of the gas pedal, and a kick of the engine, he was off. By all accounts, he wasn't moving all that fast. Twenty-five, thirty miles an hour tops, his speed was nothing compared to that of the cars down on the highway miles away. When he topped the hills, he could see them in the distance, small moving dots on straight lines. They couldn't feel the wind like he could, blowing in his face, and in his hair. They might even call him crazy for loving the way the dirt he knocked loose was ripped up by the wind and his engine, whipping around his head and chest and arms. The way that it reminded him he was alive, and not just a machine telling another machine to move.
He flew over the rocks, the impact of his wheels hitting the ground hard when he least expected it rocking him to his core. It tested his core and his arms, his ability to keep control of both himself and of his vehicle. He watched the road, felt the way it bucked his wheels, and at times he let go of the wheel completely. At times, he had brought a few friends up to ride the trails along with him. They had screamed when he let go of the wheel, and the fact that he had regained complete control of the wheel only a few seconds later had not consoled them. They couldn't understand that it was a necessity. That holding on in those moments could break his fingers or arms as a rock underneath grabbed his tire and yanked it in the opposite direction.
He was well accustomed to traveling by himself because of that. So the excited scream of his passenger - a cute girl he had picked up a few weeks ago - was something he was unaccustomed to. She didn't seem to mind in the slightest as he flew, as he rocked, and as the glass of his half windshield and the closed top roof rattled the way that he knew his bones were. She called out for him to go faster, to fly higher, to hit harder. She was a freak, just like he was.
He could get used to having a passenger like that.
With a kick of the gas pedal, and a kick of the engine, he was off. By all accounts, he wasn't moving all that fast. Twenty-five, thirty miles an hour tops, his speed was nothing compared to that of the cars down on the highway miles away. When he topped the hills, he could see them in the distance, small moving dots on straight lines. They couldn't feel the wind like he could, blowing in his face, and in his hair. They might even call him crazy for loving the way the dirt he knocked loose was ripped up by the wind and his engine, whipping around his head and chest and arms. The way that it reminded him he was alive, and not just a machine telling another machine to move.
He flew over the rocks, the impact of his wheels hitting the ground hard when he least expected it rocking him to his core. It tested his core and his arms, his ability to keep control of both himself and of his vehicle. He watched the road, felt the way it bucked his wheels, and at times he let go of the wheel completely. At times, he had brought a few friends up to ride the trails along with him. They had screamed when he let go of the wheel, and the fact that he had regained complete control of the wheel only a few seconds later had not consoled them. They couldn't understand that it was a necessity. That holding on in those moments could break his fingers or arms as a rock underneath grabbed his tire and yanked it in the opposite direction.
He was well accustomed to traveling by himself because of that. So the excited scream of his passenger - a cute girl he had picked up a few weeks ago - was something he was unaccustomed to. She didn't seem to mind in the slightest as he flew, as he rocked, and as the glass of his half windshield and the closed top roof rattled the way that he knew his bones were. She called out for him to go faster, to fly higher, to hit harder. She was a freak, just like he was.
He could get used to having a passenger like that.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
Goals
This is a somewhat counter productive post, as you will see once I get into it, but it's something that I think about a lot while I'm writing, and seeing as how I'm coming up blank with anything else to write about, it seems a good time to talk about it. I'm not exactly sure how long ago it started - maybe after around one hundred blog posts - but for a very long time I have had a goal of having twice as many fiction posts as real talk posts. The problem with that being, of course, that every time I write a real talk post, I have to write two fiction posts, and there are stretches of time where I find great difficulty in trying to come up with new fiction to write. And that happens more than I'd like to think about.
I've never really been all that far off, though I have certainly been closer at some times than others. At the moment, with the addition of this particular post, I will be twenty-one fiction posts behind my goal. In theory, that's not that bad. After all, I've been writing this for some time, and have surpassed five hundred blog posts only a short while ago. Twenty one in the grand scheme of things is not that many. But when you look at it in a more short-term light, that's three straight weeks of fiction, and as much as I would love to be able to do something like that, with my tendencies, it seems unlikely. However, I do get into my long stretches of fiction, for instance having written eight fictional pieces between this real talk and the previous. That's a pretty good ratio, eight to two. And I'd really only have to keep up a ratio of five fictions to two real talks in order to keep gaining. Write fiction throughout the week, and real talks on the weekends.
If only it were so simple. As some of my friends are well aware, my creativity is not something that can be controlled. It comes and goes, and some days I can latch onto an idea quite quickly and easily, while others it can take up to hours of searching for inspiration. Which is just as painful for the people trying to help me as it is to myself.
For as long as I can remember, however, I have been behind on that goal. I have gotten extremely close - I believe at one point I was only about four pieces behind. But it only takes a few days of lack of inspiration to really mess with that, and I can have that for all too long.
There are certainly things that I want to write. I need to work more on the Wings story that I wrote in November, and I have been wanting to write my elemental instruments story for a few years now. Just yesterday I had a new idea for that that became yesterday's blog post. But I try not to write those all too frequently on the blog, because those are things that I want to become full books, and if you can find all of the content online for free, there doesn't seem to be all that much purpose to buying the book, other than to have it in the intended order. Not that I want to nickel and dime anyone who would want to read my writings, but someday I would like to be able to make a living off of them. Which is another goal all in itself.
I've never really been all that far off, though I have certainly been closer at some times than others. At the moment, with the addition of this particular post, I will be twenty-one fiction posts behind my goal. In theory, that's not that bad. After all, I've been writing this for some time, and have surpassed five hundred blog posts only a short while ago. Twenty one in the grand scheme of things is not that many. But when you look at it in a more short-term light, that's three straight weeks of fiction, and as much as I would love to be able to do something like that, with my tendencies, it seems unlikely. However, I do get into my long stretches of fiction, for instance having written eight fictional pieces between this real talk and the previous. That's a pretty good ratio, eight to two. And I'd really only have to keep up a ratio of five fictions to two real talks in order to keep gaining. Write fiction throughout the week, and real talks on the weekends.
If only it were so simple. As some of my friends are well aware, my creativity is not something that can be controlled. It comes and goes, and some days I can latch onto an idea quite quickly and easily, while others it can take up to hours of searching for inspiration. Which is just as painful for the people trying to help me as it is to myself.
For as long as I can remember, however, I have been behind on that goal. I have gotten extremely close - I believe at one point I was only about four pieces behind. But it only takes a few days of lack of inspiration to really mess with that, and I can have that for all too long.
There are certainly things that I want to write. I need to work more on the Wings story that I wrote in November, and I have been wanting to write my elemental instruments story for a few years now. Just yesterday I had a new idea for that that became yesterday's blog post. But I try not to write those all too frequently on the blog, because those are things that I want to become full books, and if you can find all of the content online for free, there doesn't seem to be all that much purpose to buying the book, other than to have it in the intended order. Not that I want to nickel and dime anyone who would want to read my writings, but someday I would like to be able to make a living off of them. Which is another goal all in itself.
Water show
A large crowd gathered around the pond just outside of the school to watch the dancing water show. It had been being organized, planned, and advertised for a number of months, and nearly every student had heard about it. It was the third night's preformance, and the crowd was the largest it had been yet. People weren't sure what to expect, and the initial outcome had been small, but those who had been there had been blown away. Many were back for the third time.
Lisa stood in front of the pond, her violin clutched tightly in her hands. Even with the mass of people smiling at her, practically cheering for what she was about to do, knowing that they were all there for her and what she was about to do, even if they didn't complete understand what that was, she was nervous. The only real sources of comfort she felt were the gentle hand of her friend and partner Alexandra on her back, and the bright and loving smile of her boyfriend, Ramses, sitting front and center in the crowd. With the two of them there, she knew that she could do almost anything. But with so many people, she still couldn't help but feel nervous.
As the sun began to set and the light of the sky dimmed, the murmuring of the crowd began to die down. They had all been informed that it was preferred if they could keep their volume down during the show, and that the show would begin at sunset. The people who had been previously were shushing those who were new, and didn't fully know. It was nice to see how much respect she had gained, Lisa thought to herself. That was a nice, new experience for her.
As silence fully fell over the crowd, Lisa lifted her bow to her strings and pulled out the long, slow first note. Many in the crowd gasped as, in the same instant, spouts of water began to rise into the air in response. As Lisa began to play, the water began to dance, and she could hear it rise and fall in time to her song behind her. She tried not to look, but she could see the mesmerized looks on the faces before her. It was strangely empowering.
And then beside her, Alexandra's voice emerged, singing to the music Lisa was providing, and the area around them lit up. Though she couldn't see it, she knew that the lights were emerging from beneath the water, emphasizing every movement of the water as it danced in line with the music, and their audience was having a hard time keeping their voices down. Most of them had never seen anything like it. Especially not with live preformers.
It was a fifteen minute show, with five songs. By the end of it, Lisa and Alexandra were exhausted, but the standing ovation they received was more than worth the pain.
The students began to file out, and Ramses rushed up to grab Lisa in a tight bear hug, which sent both of the girls into a giggling fit. They stood together and watched as everyone left, listening to them talk about the show. There were a number of them who talked about how they didn't even know that the pond had water jets or floodlights, which only sent the three into more giggling fits.
It had been a good night. A good three nights. Lisa had never been so open and free about who she was. It still scared her, but she was starting to get the appeal.
It had been a good night. A good three nights. Lisa had never been so open and free about who she was. It still scared her, but she was starting to get the appeal.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Gambling
The smell of smoke and alcohol was thick in the air, only overshadowed by the sound of ringing bells, spinning wheels, and card dealers calling out what was occurring at their tables. People were packed tight, all spending their life savings in a wild attempt to win back even more than they had arrived with, though less than a single percentage of them were lucky enough to do so. Most left with a deficit, and a select few who dove too deep could hardly call it leaving at all, having accrued a debt that they could only pray to god they could pay off. A good number of those would keep gambling, hoping to win enough to pay it off. They weren't playing the odds. They were playing against them.
Gorgeous women in equally gorgeous gowns stalked the halls, serving drinks and collecting more cash than those drinks were worth, stuffing the surplus between their breasts in a seductive manner that only called forth higher prices and higher tips. They tended to stick closer to the winners than the losers in the games of chance and fortune. After all, they couldn't let people walk away with too much of a profit. The men could hardly pull their eyes away to look at their games, causing them to dig too deep and lose an easy win. The women grumbled at how low some would stoop whilst they threw their money away, hoping that if they could win the fortune, maybe the men would look at them that way.
And over it all, a single man presided, a wry smile on his face as he traced a finger along the rim of his whiskey glass and watched the money fly. He watched man and woman alike throw their money at a chance to gain more, and hardly any of them stuck. In the meanwhile, all of their money that fell to the floor disappeared, only to end up in his pockets. There was no gamble that he made. His was a carefully concocted contraption, in which the patrons who arrived at his establishment would gladly fork over their hard earned money and never once demand that he treat them in any special way. They were here to play the odds, and odds he would gladly provide them.
It amazed him at times that more people didn't do this. That they were too blinded by the constantly skyrocketing numbers that could potentially fall in their pockets. They couldn't see that the chance of that actually occurring was less than one in a million. And even if they could, the thought that they might be that one in a million was too brilliant for them to turn away from. Meanwhile, his own pockets were lined with even more than they were playing to win. He could afford to give those winnings to those ones in millions. It was barely a dent in his own winnings.
What fools, he thought to himself. To think that people could be so dumb. It made him wonder what else he could get them to do. Now that was a gamble that sounded worth taking.
Gorgeous women in equally gorgeous gowns stalked the halls, serving drinks and collecting more cash than those drinks were worth, stuffing the surplus between their breasts in a seductive manner that only called forth higher prices and higher tips. They tended to stick closer to the winners than the losers in the games of chance and fortune. After all, they couldn't let people walk away with too much of a profit. The men could hardly pull their eyes away to look at their games, causing them to dig too deep and lose an easy win. The women grumbled at how low some would stoop whilst they threw their money away, hoping that if they could win the fortune, maybe the men would look at them that way.
And over it all, a single man presided, a wry smile on his face as he traced a finger along the rim of his whiskey glass and watched the money fly. He watched man and woman alike throw their money at a chance to gain more, and hardly any of them stuck. In the meanwhile, all of their money that fell to the floor disappeared, only to end up in his pockets. There was no gamble that he made. His was a carefully concocted contraption, in which the patrons who arrived at his establishment would gladly fork over their hard earned money and never once demand that he treat them in any special way. They were here to play the odds, and odds he would gladly provide them.
It amazed him at times that more people didn't do this. That they were too blinded by the constantly skyrocketing numbers that could potentially fall in their pockets. They couldn't see that the chance of that actually occurring was less than one in a million. And even if they could, the thought that they might be that one in a million was too brilliant for them to turn away from. Meanwhile, his own pockets were lined with even more than they were playing to win. He could afford to give those winnings to those ones in millions. It was barely a dent in his own winnings.
What fools, he thought to himself. To think that people could be so dumb. It made him wonder what else he could get them to do. Now that was a gamble that sounded worth taking.
Historical crossing
The party was banging, a few dozen people talking, dancing, and drinking, the sound of their voices and the music nearly deafening. Melissa had gathered all of her friends - and her friends' friends - together for one hell of a good time for Christmas. They were all college kids, too busy with their majors to go home or not having any home to speak of to go home to, but with some free time that they needed to burn in a different way than just more studying. A tree was tucked into a back corner of the large gathering hall, a myriad of presents pushed under the branches of green, each addressed to one of the many students who had gathered there that night. Melissa had the fortune of parents with just a tad too much wealth, and the heart of a saint. There was much excited guessing at what the patrons might be receiving, but there was really no telling until it was time to open presents.
But even over all of the commotion, the distinctive clicking of tipped boots was easily recognizable. Regnaut glanced up from his lonely seat at one of the dining tables, where he had been contentedly drinking a bit too much and watching the people interact with each other, at the sound. A woman was approaching him, eyes showing her dead-set decision to greet him, and he took her in. It was hard to deny her beauty, even when struck with the abruptness of her odd apparel - she was dressed from head to toe in the full attire of a saloon girl, and clearly utterly comfortable with it. Not that he should have been one to criticize. Regnaut himself was dressed in the formal dress of a medieval noble, complete with a dress sword slung at his hip - though Melissa had insisted that he tie it with a peace knot at the opening of the sheath, regardless of his lack of intent to wield the blade.
The girl sat down across from him at the table, a mischievous and determined grin plastered across her face. "People watching?" she asked, the tease clear in her voice.
Regnaut looked her up and down, deciding how best to approach her. He wasn't much of one for conversation - not that he didn't enjoy conversing, he just wasn't great at it, and his particular manner of doing so wasn't exactly common by any means. He had lost many a potential acquaintance thanks to his blunt and side-stepping manner of speech. But those who stuck around long enough to get accustomed to it were some of the best friends a man could ask for.
"Gwynneth," he finally stated. "Though I mostly hear people call you by Gwyn. A historian, who prioritizes herself in the Wild West. Open. Fun. Beautiful. Always looking to have a good time, and not having much trouble getting it. The boys always look on you with desire, and some of the girls too. And you are more than willing to flirt back, regardless of whether or not it gets you anything in return."
The grin never left her face, though he could see the surprise briefly flash in her eyes. "And quite the people watcher at that," she stated. "But if I ever hear you call me Gwynneth again, I assure you it will be the last time you get to brag about how good you are at it, since you won't have a tongue anymore." The curve of her lips showed she was only half joking. "And you are?"
Regnaut only smiled and skipped over her question. "I wonder just how the wild west caught your fancy."
An unimpressed look flashed over her eyes. "I hardly think it polite to ask questions without supplying any answers."
"You're asking the wrong questions." Her eyes showed a combination of irritation and curiosity. She might actually stick around. The edge of Regnaut's lips curved up in a grin. This might be an interesting night after all.
But even over all of the commotion, the distinctive clicking of tipped boots was easily recognizable. Regnaut glanced up from his lonely seat at one of the dining tables, where he had been contentedly drinking a bit too much and watching the people interact with each other, at the sound. A woman was approaching him, eyes showing her dead-set decision to greet him, and he took her in. It was hard to deny her beauty, even when struck with the abruptness of her odd apparel - she was dressed from head to toe in the full attire of a saloon girl, and clearly utterly comfortable with it. Not that he should have been one to criticize. Regnaut himself was dressed in the formal dress of a medieval noble, complete with a dress sword slung at his hip - though Melissa had insisted that he tie it with a peace knot at the opening of the sheath, regardless of his lack of intent to wield the blade.
The girl sat down across from him at the table, a mischievous and determined grin plastered across her face. "People watching?" she asked, the tease clear in her voice.
Regnaut looked her up and down, deciding how best to approach her. He wasn't much of one for conversation - not that he didn't enjoy conversing, he just wasn't great at it, and his particular manner of doing so wasn't exactly common by any means. He had lost many a potential acquaintance thanks to his blunt and side-stepping manner of speech. But those who stuck around long enough to get accustomed to it were some of the best friends a man could ask for.
"Gwynneth," he finally stated. "Though I mostly hear people call you by Gwyn. A historian, who prioritizes herself in the Wild West. Open. Fun. Beautiful. Always looking to have a good time, and not having much trouble getting it. The boys always look on you with desire, and some of the girls too. And you are more than willing to flirt back, regardless of whether or not it gets you anything in return."
The grin never left her face, though he could see the surprise briefly flash in her eyes. "And quite the people watcher at that," she stated. "But if I ever hear you call me Gwynneth again, I assure you it will be the last time you get to brag about how good you are at it, since you won't have a tongue anymore." The curve of her lips showed she was only half joking. "And you are?"
Regnaut only smiled and skipped over her question. "I wonder just how the wild west caught your fancy."
An unimpressed look flashed over her eyes. "I hardly think it polite to ask questions without supplying any answers."
"You're asking the wrong questions." Her eyes showed a combination of irritation and curiosity. She might actually stick around. The edge of Regnaut's lips curved up in a grin. This might be an interesting night after all.
Sunday, May 8, 2016
Dislodged
The wind was blowing hard and cold, but Arianna could barely feel it, as sweat ran over her body and she tried hard to catch her breath. She had a few minutes at best before the group of brigands chasing her would catch up and begin searching the area for her, and she needed her energy if she was going to have any chance of getting away with her life. Poor circumstances and bad timing had gotten her in trouble - she could not have been in a worse place at a worse time if she had actively tried. She seemed to have a knack for that.
She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing, having forgotten what they looked like. Her mind was all over the place. Thick, dark green cotton that hung loosely off of her shoulders, tied around her waist with coarse rope, and a simple white skirt around her legs, also made of cotton. No wonder she was sweating so hard. Such old, hardly refined materials, almost hastily thrown together because some kind of clothes were necessary. But it was strange, she could have sworn she was wearing something lighter, more colorful...
That must have been in the other place.
The sound of horse steps getting louder reached her ears, and she knew that it was time to go. She forced herself up onto her feet, acknowledging in passing that her knees were wobbling but not having the time to do anything more. She slipped into the trees of the forest that she had reached the edge of and just started running. She had a shortsword bouncing on her hip, and she wasn't exactly non-proficient with it, but it could only carry her so far in a fight, and even then, that was only against one opponent. There were at least a dozen men chasing her.
Her legs hit her harder than she expected, though. Only a couple dozen trees in, her knee gave way, and she fell hard onto the ground, face first. Pain shot through her, and she involuntarily cried out in agony, immediately wishing she hadn't. She heard the whinnies of horses as they were abruptly steered in her direction. She had given herself away, and there was nothing she could do about it. The sweat on her skin turned cold, and she could practically feel the icy grip of death reaching out for her.
"Hey, Arianna, are you feeling ok? You look like you just saw a ghost?"
She was pulled back into the conversation with her friends with a jolt. Her head was pounding, and without thinking she grabbed the glass of ice water in front of her and downed it quickly. How long had they been sitting there talking again? She glanced down at her thin but stylish layers of shirts, which hugged her figure and showed off her best features. Hadn't there been something about cotton...?
That must have been in the other place.
She glanced down at the clothes she was wearing, having forgotten what they looked like. Her mind was all over the place. Thick, dark green cotton that hung loosely off of her shoulders, tied around her waist with coarse rope, and a simple white skirt around her legs, also made of cotton. No wonder she was sweating so hard. Such old, hardly refined materials, almost hastily thrown together because some kind of clothes were necessary. But it was strange, she could have sworn she was wearing something lighter, more colorful...
That must have been in the other place.
The sound of horse steps getting louder reached her ears, and she knew that it was time to go. She forced herself up onto her feet, acknowledging in passing that her knees were wobbling but not having the time to do anything more. She slipped into the trees of the forest that she had reached the edge of and just started running. She had a shortsword bouncing on her hip, and she wasn't exactly non-proficient with it, but it could only carry her so far in a fight, and even then, that was only against one opponent. There were at least a dozen men chasing her.
Her legs hit her harder than she expected, though. Only a couple dozen trees in, her knee gave way, and she fell hard onto the ground, face first. Pain shot through her, and she involuntarily cried out in agony, immediately wishing she hadn't. She heard the whinnies of horses as they were abruptly steered in her direction. She had given herself away, and there was nothing she could do about it. The sweat on her skin turned cold, and she could practically feel the icy grip of death reaching out for her.
"Hey, Arianna, are you feeling ok? You look like you just saw a ghost?"
She was pulled back into the conversation with her friends with a jolt. Her head was pounding, and without thinking she grabbed the glass of ice water in front of her and downed it quickly. How long had they been sitting there talking again? She glanced down at her thin but stylish layers of shirts, which hugged her figure and showed off her best features. Hadn't there been something about cotton...?
That must have been in the other place.
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