Once again I am writing out of a sense of obligation. It's hard maintaining a blog. It takes a great deal of effort to find relevant things to say, and once you do, you have to fight off all the other things that take up time to actually write about them. But, this isn't an impossible task, and I could be doing better than I have been. Still, I guess in the big picture I am not doing so bad. There are a good many bloggers (yes you!) who blog less than I do. So there!
Anyway, I know it's kind of late to do an end-of-year/beginning-of-year blog. But that's what I am going to do.
In short last year ended on a high note. The reason for this was because I think I actually started figuring things out with ladies. (A surprise as much to me as it is to you). The crazy thing is that for the last month or two of the semester I actually had a plethora of girls in my dating pool which has never before been the case. (Because I have been clueless, doh!). There's nothing like a couple of solid dates to put a positive spin on things*. On top of this strange phenomenon, I passed all of my classes and aced all of my finals even though I am the laziest student in the world! So that made me happy too.
My break was good as well. I admit, that at times it was boring and I lacked things to do. But spending more time with my niece and four nephews made everything worth it (and I guess my siblings were fun too, kind of). Plus I went on a couple more hot dates. Holy crap! I am turning into a dating machine!
For the new year I hope to continue this trend. Things are looking a little sketchy as far as classes go--I have to rely on the mercy of a few teachers to get into the classes that I need, which is never that safe--but other than that I expect this to be an awesome semester. It will be my last, possibly.
Since graduation is looming so close, one thing I really need to work on is finishing my book. In a happy scenario, I would finish before the end of the semester, edit it through the summer, and submit if for publication towards the end of the year. Then, of course, I will get offered a big contract, I'll get paid a lot of money, I'll buy a house, and then I shall live in it as a successful writer. Naturally I shall continue to produce marvelous blatherings in various subjects and genres. In my career I hope to become successful in these genres: fantasy, sci-fi, normal fiction, historical fiction, western, narrative, drama/film, and in the words of a friend, "real." With all that dreaming out of the way, I have committed to work on writing more. I think I shall take my laptop to campus a lot more this semster so I can force myself to write. The last time I did this I cruised through 150 pages in one semester. Good luck.
To put it succinctly here are the three things I am working on for this year: Dating, Writing, School. I don't know if they are in order or not. Probably so.
*Lest you should get the wrong idea, I went on six dates this semester. A personal record (triple my previous semester record), but some people do that in a week.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Friday, December 11, 2009
A Short Story
I wrote this for my creative writing class the other night. Hopefully you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it.
The Raven
When I woke the bounty hunter was sitting next to the fire frying a couple sausages in a pan. He was a big man, not tall so much as broad, with a few days growth of beard.
“Don’t bother trying to escape,” he said without even looking in my direction. “I took the liberty of securing you while you were sleeping.”
“That’s not possible,” I mumbled. I rolled over and the sound of a rattling chain confirmed his words. My head was swimming, and I wasn’t quite sure if I was feeling all of my appendages correctly.
“Your provisions were drugged. I’m on good terms with a few of the merchants back in town.” He laughed. “You’ll feel better in the morning, just in time for the beginning of our journey to the Crown Seat.”
I shook my head, but regretted it as the world seemed to tip under me. When things settled down again I said, “You’ve got the wrong man. I’ve done nothing.”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a yellowed parchment and shook it in my face. It was too dark to see, but I knew well enough what was on it. A fair likeness of my face, a brief description, and a promised reward.
“Don’t bother denying it. This is you,” he held the parchment close to the light of the fire and began to read. “Wanted: the Black Messenger,” he looked over at me and chuckled at my alias, “for crimes against the Crown. Reward: 10,000 in gold.” He leaned over, shook his pan of sausages a bit, and then turned back to me. “That’s a hefty sum. You must be a first class bastard for the Crown to be willing to pay that much for you.”
I tried to act nonchalant through the drugs. “I’m worth more than that.”
He laughed.
“So who are you,” I asked.
“The Raven,” he said.
This time I laughed, and I didn’t care what it did to my head. He got up and kicked me a couple times in the ribs for it, but I barely felt it, thanks to his drugs.
“You’re the Raven,” I asked when my laughter subsided, “You’re the most wanted, the most feared assassin in the world?”
“Yes,” he said. “How do you know I’m not?”
“You’re a little too portly to be the Raven. Stories say that he can be found anywhere a rodent can go. Somehow I don’t see you slipping through mouse holes.”
He shrugged. “You can’t believe everything you hear. Stories get blown out of proportion.”
“OK,” I said, “I can agree with that. But I still don’t believe you are the Raven.”
“Believe what you will,” he said as he reached for a sausage and began to eat.
“Did you make one of those for me?” I asked.
He snorted in derision and continued to eat. I fell asleep soon after.
Predictably I woke in the morning with a bucket of water in the face. “That’s original,” I said as I wiped the water away with my sleeve. Thankfully the world was more stable now that the drugs were out of my system.
“Get up,” he said. There was no humor in his voice, and I could tell it was lesson time. I’d done it enough myself to know what was coming.
I stood, curious to see how he would react to compliance.
“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he said, and he punched me upside the head with a fist the size of a small boulder.
I hit the dust, with pinpricks of light in my head. Maybe those drugs from last night were still in effect after all. Before my head could clear he picked me up only to punch me down again. I hit the ground and came up fighting. Or at least that was my intent, but what really happened was that I came up floundering with the chains that bound my arms and legs.
“That’s the spirit,” he said before he leveled me again.
He left it at that, and while I lay with my ears ringing and face in the dirt, I was forced to reassess this man. There was a power in him that belied his soft and portly appearance.
After a brief moment he lifted me up again and tied my hands behind my back, and then with thick secure knots he looped a rope around my waist and fastened it to the horn of his saddle. My weapons were tied in front of him, safely out of my reach, but the rest of my gear, including my boots, was tied onto my own horse.
“Your belongings are going to make some peasant very happy,” the man said before he slapped my horse on the rump and sent it galloping away in a panic.
“I‘ll milk your blood for that,” I said. “That was a valuable beast.”
“True, but I can’t afford the risk of watching it,” and then he said something very intelligent, “because you’re a more valuable beast.”
Maybe intelligent was a little generous.
He spurred his horse forward and I was forced to step quickly to keep up.
The day passed as well as could be expected. He traveled at a rapid pace, my bare feet were torn to shreds, and I tried a couple token escapes which he quickly and effectively stopped with violence. For my first attempt I gathered some speed and then, using a large rock to gain height, jumped him from behind. It was a tricky plan, requiring that he fall off the horse, while I remained on it. But the man sat in the saddle like he was built into it. I bounced off of him and fell to the ground where he was sure to drag me for a good distance.
I can’t even remember what my second attempt was, but I do remember the image of one of his big fists, wrapped around what I can only describe as a log, coming towards my face. When I woke up with him looming over me, I said, “You don’t know how much I want to kill you, but I’m not going to.”
He laughed, slapped me across the face, and then climbed back into the saddle.
In short, the result was that by the time we camped for the night I was a bloody mess.
After tying me to a large tree he tossed a canteen and a sausage in the dirt in front of me. “Enjoy,” he said. And I did, because the water was divine.
Later he brought long strips of cloth and tossed them at me. “Sorry about your feet, but escape won’t be so easy now will it?”
I snorted and began to wrap my feet. It was a painful process so I made conversation to distract from the waves of fire rising through my legs.
“Today went well,” I said. “How many days until the Crown Seat?”
He lifted a bushy eyebrow. “The day after tomorrow,” he finally said.
“How long have you been doing this,” I asked.
He smiled. “Longer than you’ve been hearing stories about the Raven.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m good with weapons, strong, and I have a knack for sniffing out wanted men, so it suits me.”
He sipped from a tin cup full of a thick brewed tea and watched me.
“How’s the pay,” I asked.
He took a long sip before he said, “It’s a living.”
I waited and eventually he began to elaborate. “From seeing the wanted posters you would think the pay would be good, but you have to realize that there aren’t that many criminals in the world. And I am sure as hell not the only bounty hunter. It tends to be a long wait from one bounty to the next.”
I chuckled to myself. “So on the side you work as an assassin, or is it the other way around?”
He laughed but didn’t answer the question.
I was about to egg him on a little more when I heard the soft swish of wings in the tree above me. I looked up to find a pair of black ravens peering down at us with dark beady eyes.
The bounty hunter didn’t miss a beat. “They’re drawn to the smell of your blood. Don’t sleep too well tonight or you may wake up missing an eye, or a kidney.”
He laughed, splashed the dregs of his drink onto the fire, and then rolled up into his blankets.
I fell asleep soon after.
The ravens were still above us in the morning and they stayed with us throughout the day. The bounty hunter took special pleasure in pointing them out to me almost incessantly.
“Shut up about the god-forsaken ravens!” I shouted at one point. My outburst earned me a boot to the face. I didn’t care about the ravens, really, I was just testy because my feet were burning like the wrath of hell. The boot print in my face distracted me from my feet and the ravens, briefly.
When we made camp for the night, there were more, six in total. They fluttered about in the tree, like feathered ghosts. They never called out, which was strange. My captor noticed it too, and he watched the ravens almost as much as he did me, though he grinned wickedly at me when he caught me watching.
“So what made you choose to call yourself Black Messenger,” he asked.
I shrugged. “What made you call yourself the Raven?”
He pointed into the tree and smiled. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Somebody I killed once named me the Black Messenger. I thought it was fairly clever on his part seeing as he had a knife in his gut, so I just went with it.”
“Hey, that works,” he said.
“Yep.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “We’ll be at the Crown Seat tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“I hate to turn you over to them, I know what they do to people, and you seem like a decent fellow.”
“I appreciate your sentiments,” I said. “I understand that you’re just trying to make a living.”
He nodded. “Good.” And then he rolled out his bedroll and went to sleep. He didn’t even wake when I got up in the middle of the night, chains rattling, to take a piss.
When morning came the ravens were gone. The bounty hunter gave me a larger portion than usual for breakfast.
When I was finished he mounted his horse and tied me to his saddle. He seemed resigned. “Let’s go,” he said.
I motioned, graciously, for him to lead the way.
We soon reached the Crown Seat, this year the city of Brylyrd, and made our way through the crowded cobblestone streets towards the palace.
The soldiers at the gates were familiar with bounty hunters and the whole process of bringing in prisoners, so we were soon well within the castle walls escorted by a pair of burly guards, on our way to the throne room where my execution would be ordered and my bounty hunter would receive his payment.
We paused at the door of the throne room while one of our guards announced us. Within moments the normal petitioners were ushered out and we were ushered in. The room was still rather full of nobles and guards.
“Majesty, a bounty hunter is here claiming his bounty.”
My bounty hunter stepped forward and pushed me to the floor, at the same time he bowed to reverence the king.
“I just want to let you know that I’m not really the Raven,” he whispered. “I just tell people that so they’ll be more docile.”
“I know,” I said.
“At ease,” said the king. “Let me see your claim.”
The bounty hunter straightened and held out his parchment with my picture on it. A servant took it from his hand and gave it to the king.
“The Black Messenger,” the king said in confusion. “Who the hell is that? I never ordered this.”
Understanding dawned in the bounty hunter’s eyes, as he heard the click of my manacles opening.
“I wrote the bounty,” I said, as I stood, ignoring the pain in my feet and my aching muscles.
Chains are good weapons, and chains with big heavy steel weights on the end are even better, in short, I made short work of the two burly guards next to me using the manacles provided by my bounty hunter. Then I took their various weapons and embedded them in the various guards stationed throughout the room. It was quick, and bloody work, though in truth I could have done it better if my feet hadn’t been turned into sausages. The nobles, of course, ran like cowards so I ignored them. Soon, only the bounty hunter, the King, and the Queen were left in the room with me, alive.
“I should have known,” muttered the bounty hunter. “I should have known when I saw those bloody ravens.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I needed you to bring me here, so I won’t kill you, today.”
“Majesty,” I said to the whimpering king, “you really are the lowest of despots, you’ve been petty, violent, and ineffective and I’ve been hired to remove you. In short, your rule here is over. Your life too.”
He ran from me then, naturally, and I chased him. And I’ll be damned if the fool coward ran outside and jumped off the wall to escape me. The result was the same, but not as noble with his guts splattered about him and all. I watched for a moment, just to make sure he wasn’t shamming. After a few moments ravens began to swoop in and pick at his corpse. I knew he was dead then.
I walked back inside, hobbled really, and picked up the bounty that had fallen to the floor. It wouldn’t do to leave my picture lying around.
“Lady,” I bowed to the queen, this was my first time seeing her in person and she was quite nice looking, “the kingdom is yours.”
She smiled, very faintly, as she pulled a bag from the folds of her robe and tossed it to me. It clinked with heavy metal.
I motioned to the bounty hunter who was nervously pulling a black feather from his shoulder. “Pay this man his bounty,” I said.
And then I was gone.
~J. A. Devenport
The Raven
When I woke the bounty hunter was sitting next to the fire frying a couple sausages in a pan. He was a big man, not tall so much as broad, with a few days growth of beard.
“Don’t bother trying to escape,” he said without even looking in my direction. “I took the liberty of securing you while you were sleeping.”
“That’s not possible,” I mumbled. I rolled over and the sound of a rattling chain confirmed his words. My head was swimming, and I wasn’t quite sure if I was feeling all of my appendages correctly.
“Your provisions were drugged. I’m on good terms with a few of the merchants back in town.” He laughed. “You’ll feel better in the morning, just in time for the beginning of our journey to the Crown Seat.”
I shook my head, but regretted it as the world seemed to tip under me. When things settled down again I said, “You’ve got the wrong man. I’ve done nothing.”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a yellowed parchment and shook it in my face. It was too dark to see, but I knew well enough what was on it. A fair likeness of my face, a brief description, and a promised reward.
“Don’t bother denying it. This is you,” he held the parchment close to the light of the fire and began to read. “Wanted: the Black Messenger,” he looked over at me and chuckled at my alias, “for crimes against the Crown. Reward: 10,000 in gold.” He leaned over, shook his pan of sausages a bit, and then turned back to me. “That’s a hefty sum. You must be a first class bastard for the Crown to be willing to pay that much for you.”
I tried to act nonchalant through the drugs. “I’m worth more than that.”
He laughed.
“So who are you,” I asked.
“The Raven,” he said.
This time I laughed, and I didn’t care what it did to my head. He got up and kicked me a couple times in the ribs for it, but I barely felt it, thanks to his drugs.
“You’re the Raven,” I asked when my laughter subsided, “You’re the most wanted, the most feared assassin in the world?”
“Yes,” he said. “How do you know I’m not?”
“You’re a little too portly to be the Raven. Stories say that he can be found anywhere a rodent can go. Somehow I don’t see you slipping through mouse holes.”
He shrugged. “You can’t believe everything you hear. Stories get blown out of proportion.”
“OK,” I said, “I can agree with that. But I still don’t believe you are the Raven.”
“Believe what you will,” he said as he reached for a sausage and began to eat.
“Did you make one of those for me?” I asked.
He snorted in derision and continued to eat. I fell asleep soon after.
Predictably I woke in the morning with a bucket of water in the face. “That’s original,” I said as I wiped the water away with my sleeve. Thankfully the world was more stable now that the drugs were out of my system.
“Get up,” he said. There was no humor in his voice, and I could tell it was lesson time. I’d done it enough myself to know what was coming.
I stood, curious to see how he would react to compliance.
“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he said, and he punched me upside the head with a fist the size of a small boulder.
I hit the dust, with pinpricks of light in my head. Maybe those drugs from last night were still in effect after all. Before my head could clear he picked me up only to punch me down again. I hit the ground and came up fighting. Or at least that was my intent, but what really happened was that I came up floundering with the chains that bound my arms and legs.
“That’s the spirit,” he said before he leveled me again.
He left it at that, and while I lay with my ears ringing and face in the dirt, I was forced to reassess this man. There was a power in him that belied his soft and portly appearance.
After a brief moment he lifted me up again and tied my hands behind my back, and then with thick secure knots he looped a rope around my waist and fastened it to the horn of his saddle. My weapons were tied in front of him, safely out of my reach, but the rest of my gear, including my boots, was tied onto my own horse.
“Your belongings are going to make some peasant very happy,” the man said before he slapped my horse on the rump and sent it galloping away in a panic.
“I‘ll milk your blood for that,” I said. “That was a valuable beast.”
“True, but I can’t afford the risk of watching it,” and then he said something very intelligent, “because you’re a more valuable beast.”
Maybe intelligent was a little generous.
He spurred his horse forward and I was forced to step quickly to keep up.
The day passed as well as could be expected. He traveled at a rapid pace, my bare feet were torn to shreds, and I tried a couple token escapes which he quickly and effectively stopped with violence. For my first attempt I gathered some speed and then, using a large rock to gain height, jumped him from behind. It was a tricky plan, requiring that he fall off the horse, while I remained on it. But the man sat in the saddle like he was built into it. I bounced off of him and fell to the ground where he was sure to drag me for a good distance.
I can’t even remember what my second attempt was, but I do remember the image of one of his big fists, wrapped around what I can only describe as a log, coming towards my face. When I woke up with him looming over me, I said, “You don’t know how much I want to kill you, but I’m not going to.”
He laughed, slapped me across the face, and then climbed back into the saddle.
In short, the result was that by the time we camped for the night I was a bloody mess.
After tying me to a large tree he tossed a canteen and a sausage in the dirt in front of me. “Enjoy,” he said. And I did, because the water was divine.
Later he brought long strips of cloth and tossed them at me. “Sorry about your feet, but escape won’t be so easy now will it?”
I snorted and began to wrap my feet. It was a painful process so I made conversation to distract from the waves of fire rising through my legs.
“Today went well,” I said. “How many days until the Crown Seat?”
He lifted a bushy eyebrow. “The day after tomorrow,” he finally said.
“How long have you been doing this,” I asked.
He smiled. “Longer than you’ve been hearing stories about the Raven.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m good with weapons, strong, and I have a knack for sniffing out wanted men, so it suits me.”
He sipped from a tin cup full of a thick brewed tea and watched me.
“How’s the pay,” I asked.
He took a long sip before he said, “It’s a living.”
I waited and eventually he began to elaborate. “From seeing the wanted posters you would think the pay would be good, but you have to realize that there aren’t that many criminals in the world. And I am sure as hell not the only bounty hunter. It tends to be a long wait from one bounty to the next.”
I chuckled to myself. “So on the side you work as an assassin, or is it the other way around?”
He laughed but didn’t answer the question.
I was about to egg him on a little more when I heard the soft swish of wings in the tree above me. I looked up to find a pair of black ravens peering down at us with dark beady eyes.
The bounty hunter didn’t miss a beat. “They’re drawn to the smell of your blood. Don’t sleep too well tonight or you may wake up missing an eye, or a kidney.”
He laughed, splashed the dregs of his drink onto the fire, and then rolled up into his blankets.
I fell asleep soon after.
The ravens were still above us in the morning and they stayed with us throughout the day. The bounty hunter took special pleasure in pointing them out to me almost incessantly.
“Shut up about the god-forsaken ravens!” I shouted at one point. My outburst earned me a boot to the face. I didn’t care about the ravens, really, I was just testy because my feet were burning like the wrath of hell. The boot print in my face distracted me from my feet and the ravens, briefly.
When we made camp for the night, there were more, six in total. They fluttered about in the tree, like feathered ghosts. They never called out, which was strange. My captor noticed it too, and he watched the ravens almost as much as he did me, though he grinned wickedly at me when he caught me watching.
“So what made you choose to call yourself Black Messenger,” he asked.
I shrugged. “What made you call yourself the Raven?”
He pointed into the tree and smiled. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Somebody I killed once named me the Black Messenger. I thought it was fairly clever on his part seeing as he had a knife in his gut, so I just went with it.”
“Hey, that works,” he said.
“Yep.”
He was silent for a moment before he said, “We’ll be at the Crown Seat tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“I hate to turn you over to them, I know what they do to people, and you seem like a decent fellow.”
“I appreciate your sentiments,” I said. “I understand that you’re just trying to make a living.”
He nodded. “Good.” And then he rolled out his bedroll and went to sleep. He didn’t even wake when I got up in the middle of the night, chains rattling, to take a piss.
When morning came the ravens were gone. The bounty hunter gave me a larger portion than usual for breakfast.
When I was finished he mounted his horse and tied me to his saddle. He seemed resigned. “Let’s go,” he said.
I motioned, graciously, for him to lead the way.
We soon reached the Crown Seat, this year the city of Brylyrd, and made our way through the crowded cobblestone streets towards the palace.
The soldiers at the gates were familiar with bounty hunters and the whole process of bringing in prisoners, so we were soon well within the castle walls escorted by a pair of burly guards, on our way to the throne room where my execution would be ordered and my bounty hunter would receive his payment.
We paused at the door of the throne room while one of our guards announced us. Within moments the normal petitioners were ushered out and we were ushered in. The room was still rather full of nobles and guards.
“Majesty, a bounty hunter is here claiming his bounty.”
My bounty hunter stepped forward and pushed me to the floor, at the same time he bowed to reverence the king.
“I just want to let you know that I’m not really the Raven,” he whispered. “I just tell people that so they’ll be more docile.”
“I know,” I said.
“At ease,” said the king. “Let me see your claim.”
The bounty hunter straightened and held out his parchment with my picture on it. A servant took it from his hand and gave it to the king.
“The Black Messenger,” the king said in confusion. “Who the hell is that? I never ordered this.”
Understanding dawned in the bounty hunter’s eyes, as he heard the click of my manacles opening.
“I wrote the bounty,” I said, as I stood, ignoring the pain in my feet and my aching muscles.
Chains are good weapons, and chains with big heavy steel weights on the end are even better, in short, I made short work of the two burly guards next to me using the manacles provided by my bounty hunter. Then I took their various weapons and embedded them in the various guards stationed throughout the room. It was quick, and bloody work, though in truth I could have done it better if my feet hadn’t been turned into sausages. The nobles, of course, ran like cowards so I ignored them. Soon, only the bounty hunter, the King, and the Queen were left in the room with me, alive.
“I should have known,” muttered the bounty hunter. “I should have known when I saw those bloody ravens.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I needed you to bring me here, so I won’t kill you, today.”
“Majesty,” I said to the whimpering king, “you really are the lowest of despots, you’ve been petty, violent, and ineffective and I’ve been hired to remove you. In short, your rule here is over. Your life too.”
He ran from me then, naturally, and I chased him. And I’ll be damned if the fool coward ran outside and jumped off the wall to escape me. The result was the same, but not as noble with his guts splattered about him and all. I watched for a moment, just to make sure he wasn’t shamming. After a few moments ravens began to swoop in and pick at his corpse. I knew he was dead then.
I walked back inside, hobbled really, and picked up the bounty that had fallen to the floor. It wouldn’t do to leave my picture lying around.
“Lady,” I bowed to the queen, this was my first time seeing her in person and she was quite nice looking, “the kingdom is yours.”
She smiled, very faintly, as she pulled a bag from the folds of her robe and tossed it to me. It clinked with heavy metal.
I motioned to the bounty hunter who was nervously pulling a black feather from his shoulder. “Pay this man his bounty,” I said.
And then I was gone.
~J. A. Devenport
Sunday, December 06, 2009
A short-short on Love
And just for fun, I wrote this short-short late last night.
A Short-Short on Love
When Candace walked into the restaurant I was prepared. I’d been waiting for her all day. She strolled up to the bar, confident and sexy, a mortal Aphrodite. She slid onto a stool, and began pulling her long hair into a pony-tail. It took me a moment to close my mouth and remember that I was there for more than admiring her.
“A vanilla milkshake, please,” she said as I drew near.
I nodded and made my way over to the machine and began to make an extra special vanilla shake. When it was finished I presented it to her with a flourish.
“Hey Candace,” I said.
She looked up, and my carefully prepared speech disappeared into the vision of her clear green eyes. My next few words came out in an unintelligible jumble of sounds as my tongue and lips somehow just seemed to stop working.
But she nodded politely.
I mentally cursed myself as I walked away, and was once again forced to admire this vision of beauty from afar.
When Candace finally left, I turned to Mary, the other serving staff on duty and said, “How come I can never speak to beautiful women. Words just go right out of my head.”
She pursed her lips, shrugged dismissively and then walked away.
From this experience I can deduce a few hypotheses: 1) Men can never say what is really in their heads in regards to love and romance. 2) That when men can transmit words from brain to tongue successfully, it somehow comes out all wrong. 3) Women are marvelous communicators, so when they don’t choose to communicate something is seriously wrong. 3b) That something is usually something that was uttered from the lips of a man.
A Short-Short on Love
When Candace walked into the restaurant I was prepared. I’d been waiting for her all day. She strolled up to the bar, confident and sexy, a mortal Aphrodite. She slid onto a stool, and began pulling her long hair into a pony-tail. It took me a moment to close my mouth and remember that I was there for more than admiring her.
“A vanilla milkshake, please,” she said as I drew near.
I nodded and made my way over to the machine and began to make an extra special vanilla shake. When it was finished I presented it to her with a flourish.
“Hey Candace,” I said.
She looked up, and my carefully prepared speech disappeared into the vision of her clear green eyes. My next few words came out in an unintelligible jumble of sounds as my tongue and lips somehow just seemed to stop working.
But she nodded politely.
I mentally cursed myself as I walked away, and was once again forced to admire this vision of beauty from afar.
When Candace finally left, I turned to Mary, the other serving staff on duty and said, “How come I can never speak to beautiful women. Words just go right out of my head.”
She pursed her lips, shrugged dismissively and then walked away.
From this experience I can deduce a few hypotheses: 1) Men can never say what is really in their heads in regards to love and romance. 2) That when men can transmit words from brain to tongue successfully, it somehow comes out all wrong. 3) Women are marvelous communicators, so when they don’t choose to communicate something is seriously wrong. 3b) That something is usually something that was uttered from the lips of a man.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Another Gem from the Onion
Monday, May 18, 2009
Rehab. . .
I've been thinking, now that I've gone home for the summer and have much more time on my hands at the end of the day, but thinking is about as far as I have gotten. I have a myriad of ideas swirling around in my head, but every time I try to sit down and put them to paper I encounter a severe lack of energy and ability to do so. This isn't something new, but I've only now been able to analyze it. This isn't a normal case of writer's block. It's something deeper; not case of not being able to find the right words, but the lack of ability to even reach the source for words. I've lost my creative energy. I pick up my guitar, maybe with the intent to find something, a little solace perhaps, but after a few cursory pickings I find that I have no feeling for the music and I can't go on. I put the guitar down. The same happens at the keyboard and anywhere else that I used to find a creative outlet.
I happened upon what I think is the problem while listening to "Rehab" by Rihanna. This is a line from the chorus, "It's like I've checked into rehab, and baby you're my disease." The idea here, obviously, is that love is like a drug. And somehow, for a brief moment in time, all the connections fell into place. . . I'm craving this "drug." It doesn't make as much sense now, as I'm musing about how to express things on a public forum, but it made at least somewhat of an impact. The problem is that I'm drug free--I don't have Rihanna's disease, and I've never had it.
I think what it comes down to is that I'm a bit of a romantic--which might come as a surprise to some. All through high school and early college the source of my creative inspiration was the idea of being in love. And there were a lot of girls who crossed my path who were beautiful enough to provide me with the illusion of just that. My creativity was fueled by the color of their expressive eyes, the slight hint of a smile, or an honest laugh.
But that energy source has faded. I have not been enthralled, for lack of a better word, in quite some time. I'm growing older, more bitter and jaded, discouraged even, because my illusion of romantic love is fading. And that is the source of my creative woes. I have no muse.
All the great artists and writers, that I can think of, made some form of tribute to their "muse." That means that if I want to be a great artist/writer, then I need to find one, and soon.
. . .Of course, the Phantom had a good muse, and he got really creepy.
Here's (not a link) Rihanna's music video for "Rehab" which I think is pretty cool*.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWqvMtSga8M
*It's a typical music video with a scantily clad woman (Rihanna), motorcycles, a classic car, Justin Timberlake, and lots of PDA.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
How Could Anybody Write This?
When my Modern Drama teacher mentioned at the end of class yesterday that she "almost had to apologize" for the play we were reading next, I knew it was going to be bad. It was.
The play is The Homecoming, by Harold Pinter.
And here is my breakdown of the plot: Basically, a son returns to his family with his wife of six years. Then he calmly stands by as his three brothers and father plan on turning her into the family prostitute. She accepts this idea and demands certain business accommodations. The husband returns home to his three young sons. The end.
Obviously I have expedited a lot of the information of the plot, but essentially every core element has been included.
So I ask, what is the point? Why did Harold Pinter feel the need to "shock" me in such a way?
These aren't rhetorical questions, I seriously don't understand why I just read this crappy play.
I'm not one to be easily offended by literature. I claim to be a writer myself and I firmly believe in presenting realistic characters and situations. Any book (play, film, picture, etc. . .) that seeks to have cathartic power must portray darkness to truly demonstrate light. Sometimes those scenes of darkness can be offensive, but they are necessary for a true portrayal of redemption.
There is no attempt at redemption in Pinter's play, only darkness.
Here's a picture from one of the play's productions. This is around 12 hours after Teddy returns home with his wife, Ruth. That's not Teddy rolling around on the floor with Ruth either. And it only gets worse. . .
It just doesn't make sense.
The play is The Homecoming, by Harold Pinter.
And here is my breakdown of the plot: Basically, a son returns to his family with his wife of six years. Then he calmly stands by as his three brothers and father plan on turning her into the family prostitute. She accepts this idea and demands certain business accommodations. The husband returns home to his three young sons. The end.
Obviously I have expedited a lot of the information of the plot, but essentially every core element has been included.
So I ask, what is the point? Why did Harold Pinter feel the need to "shock" me in such a way?
These aren't rhetorical questions, I seriously don't understand why I just read this crappy play.
I'm not one to be easily offended by literature. I claim to be a writer myself and I firmly believe in presenting realistic characters and situations. Any book (play, film, picture, etc. . .) that seeks to have cathartic power must portray darkness to truly demonstrate light. Sometimes those scenes of darkness can be offensive, but they are necessary for a true portrayal of redemption.
There is no attempt at redemption in Pinter's play, only darkness.
Here's a picture from one of the play's productions. This is around 12 hours after Teddy returns home with his wife, Ruth. That's not Teddy rolling around on the floor with Ruth either. And it only gets worse. . . It just doesn't make sense.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Bald Soprano
Here is an excerpt from Eugene Ionesco's The Bald Sorprano. It's a poem.
The Fire
The polypoids were burning in the wood
A stone caught fire
The castle caught fire
The forest caught fire
The men caught fire
The women caught fire
The birds caught fire
The fish caught fire
The water caught fire
The sky caught fire
The ashes caught fire
The smoke caught fire
The fire caught fire
Everything caught fire
Caught fire, caught fire
MRS. MARTIN: That sent chills up my spine. . .
MR. MARTIN: And yet there's a certain warmth in those lines. . .
FIRE CHIEF: I thought it was marvelous.
You can't get writing better than that.
The Fire
The polypoids were burning in the wood
A stone caught fire
The castle caught fire
The forest caught fire
The men caught fire
The women caught fire
The birds caught fire
The fish caught fire
The water caught fire
The sky caught fire
The ashes caught fire
The smoke caught fire
The fire caught fire
Everything caught fire
Caught fire, caught fire
MRS. MARTIN: That sent chills up my spine. . .
MR. MARTIN: And yet there's a certain warmth in those lines. . .
FIRE CHIEF: I thought it was marvelous.
You can't get writing better than that.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Fall Into Dust
So my blog is supposed to be at least partly about writing, but all the writing I've put on here are poetry samples, which aren't really my thing. So here's some prose. I wrote this a couple years ago in a creative writing class. . .building on something that I had started in my sister's writing group. It's long, sorry, and the format came out weird--no paragraph breaks--so it's not the easiest to read. Oh, and it's from a first-person-present POV. Kudos if you read all of it:)
A single, solitary drum rips the silence of the new dawn and echoes across the shadowed valley, resonating between the painted cliffs until it fades away into silence.
Tension fills the air as I wait, hardly daring to breathe.
Across the valley another drum responds, and then another, and another, until the whole of the world seems to rumble to their rhythm, as if the very mountains will crumble into dust around us.
The commanding drums threaten to still my heart with fear but I dare not succumb to the terror. I look around at my comrades, fear is written on their faces.
“Steady!” I cry. “Hold fast!”
My voice is faint compared to the crushing beat of the drums but the fear fades. Many of them glance to the banner that flies above us, held by our stalwart banner-man. The sun has bathed it in a golden glow, a good omen. The men take heart and clutch their spears in defiance of the drums that mock our existence.
I make several rounds among the men on duty, giving encouragement when I can.
“Remember what we stand for,” I tell them. “Remember that you defend your wives, your sons and daughters, and your people. Remember that you defend your country.” They nod their heads with determination.
One young soldier stops me as I approach. “Are we going to be alive when the sun falls?”
I smile. “Are you married?”
“No,” he says, “but I am promised to a woman whom I love.”
“Then think not of our survival, think only of her. You are fighting to give her another moment, another day. When the sun falls tonight, we may not be alive, but she will be.” I don’t know what else to say. I wish to tell him that all will be well, that none of us will leave this life today. But it would be a lie.
He is silent for a moment and as I turn to resume my rounds he salutes me.
For hours the incessant pounding continues. Thousands of drums throbbing in unison, spelling our doom. As the hours pass bitterness fills me. Each drum represents at least one hundred of the savages. I curse those who sent us here and then withheld the promised reinforcements. They knew what we would face, they had been informed of the mobilization of the enemy army. But they sent hundreds when they should have sent hundreds of thousands. It was no secret that the king of the invaders had declared that he would soak the earth with our blood.
My lieutenant puts his hand on my shoulder. I find that my fists are clenched, and with effort I force myself to relax. “Thanks,” I mutter. Gently I touch the talisman that hangs from my neck, a small hoop with an intricate weaving of catgut in the middle and the feathers of a red-tailed hawk hanging from the sides. My wife had given it to me almost a month ago.
I turn to find the Lieutenant watching me from his shrewd old eyes.
“She said it would bring me home,” I explain.
He shrugs. Lieutenant Benarieh is older than I, his long wild hair and beard streaked with gray, a veteran of almost a thousand battles to my hundred. Facing possible death is nothing new to him. He motions to the jungle below us, a thick wall of trees and vines that waits, dark and alive. “It’s a pity we couldn’t clear more for a longer field of fire.”
I nod, though I’d much rather have a thick stone wall between us and them. “We’ve done the best that we can with the time that we were given,” I tell him. “Wishing for more is the game of fools.”
He grunts. “Words of wisdom indeed.” His gaze travels out over the valley below us which is now fully bathed in the midmorning sunlight. The drums continue, as fierce as ever.
Benarieh turns towards me. By the look in his eyes I can tell that he is about to impart some of the wise advice for which he is well known. “Commander, you’ve had what, three? Maybe four hours of sleep in the last two and a half days? I suggest you get some rest. You know as well as I that they won’t attack until the drums are silent.”
I almost protest, but the logic of what he says wins me over. Of all the men here, it is I who need to think the clearest. “Very well then, but give me your word that you will notify me if anything happens.” After his nod I turn towards the command tent, but I can not sleep. After a brief moment of thought I retrieve a roll of parchment and begin to scribe the words of my heart.
An hour passes before I roll up the parchment, seal it with wax, and place it inside a leather bag that already holds several other documents—scouting reports from our campaign.
I fall asleep then, still sitting at my small writing table, but moments later a commotion outside arouses me.
A soldier pokes his head through the tent flap. “A messenger, Commander, from the capital.”
“Show him in, and summon Lieutenant Benarieh as well.”
I glance down at my armor with some thought of making myself more presentable but am disabused of the idea as I notice, not for the first time, the caked mud and dried blood. My entire force has been living in our armor for the last month.
The messenger enters followed immediately by Lieutenant Benarieh. Both give an appropriate salute, and after my response I motion them to sit down.
Before they are even settled I ask my first question. “Do you have any messages for me from the Chief Captain?”
“Yes, the Chief Captain said that your request has been denied. You are to retain your command and Lieutenant Benarieh will remain as your second.”
I ignore Benarieh’s raised eyebrow. “What else? Where are my replacements? I was promised at least ten thousand over a month ago.”
“They’re not coming,” Benarieh growls.
The messenger nods his head. “There was an uprising in the capital by a group known as the Kingmen. Your reinforcements were called there to help quell the rebellion.”
It is a struggle to maintain my composure. “Without those reinforcements our position is no longer tenable. Do we have authorization to retreat?”
“No. You are to hold this pass at all costs.”
“What? Why?” My temper breaks lose. “Do you hear those drums? Do you have any idea what they mean? My men have been in this region for a month delaying the advance of the enemy. An enemy that is innumerable. We’ve been engaged in pitched battles since we got here. The last real rest we had was over a week ago. If we stay here we will be annihilated. All of us. Either way this pass is lost.” I struggle for more to say, but my temper is waning and so I fall silent.
“I’m sorry,” the messenger says as he rises to his feet, “but those are the orders. Do you have any messages to send?”
Numb to any feeling I hand him the leather bag. “You are dismissed,” I tell him.
He ducks out of the tent.
“What was all that about you retaining your command?” Lieutenant Benarieh asks. “Because it would be very foolish if you wanted me to assume command of your men. I know for a fact that they would follow you through the fires of Hell.”
“I’m not going to lead them there.”
“What?”
“We are retreating, Lieutenant. We’ll fall back to the plains and then continue to harry them from the flanks like we’ve been doing. We’ll do more good that way.”
He grunts and then chuckles. “And that is why young soldiers and grizzled old men like me follow you. Because you make smart tactical decisions and you care about your men. Of course it will be your hide once all this settles down.”
“It’s my hide now. And the hides of nine hundred men.”
Benarieh nods. “If it is a retreat you want, then it best be done now. As tired as the men are we wouldn’t make it after the drums stop. The savages would be scalping our asses.”
I begin to laugh and he joins in. It is the first levity I have had in weeks. When our laughter stops it is silent. Completely silent.
Both Benarieh and I rush outside.
“Form ranks! Form ranks!” I shout as I rush to my position. The banner-man blows the appropriate signal on his horn, and within moments the men are lined up in formation ready for battle. According to preconceived plan they form into two companies, A and B.
“So much for a safe retreat,” Benarieh mutters as we reach our post. “They’d run us down in moments. Retreat was the smart idea, but it looks as if we get to hold the pass.”
Already we can see the enemy emerging from the tangle of jungle below us. Painted with blood and carrying their weapons in hand they appear as demons driven from hell.
I nod to the banner-man, and he raises his horn to his lips. The note he blows is long and pure. It is a challenge, a call to battle.
The enemy responds in kind, shouting their challenge from thousands of throats. At the same time they break into a run, slamming the earth with their feet.
I raise my spear into the air. “Archers ready!”
As soon as the savages are halfway to us I drop my spear. “Release!”
The flight of arrows swarms into the enemy. Hundreds fall and die, but there are more, thousands more, that drive towards us. They trample their own dead and wounded into the dust in their eagerness to smite us, their enemies, to the earth.
I motion to the banner-man and again he blows the signal on his horn. This time a series of staccato notes. At his signal a barrier of wooden stakes is raised from the ground. The leading ranks of the enemy try to slow themselves, but the sheer weight of their comrades carries them forward and they slam into the barrier. Their bodies jerk with the impact, forward and back, like limp dolls. Immediately the men of Company A are there, thrusting with their spears to force the savages back. The charge stalls, but gains momentum again as they tear their way through our flimsy barrier. For a moment there is fierce hand-to-hand combat as my men stand and fight.
The drums have started again, further down the valley. I can barely hear them over the pounding feet and furious cries of thousands of men.
I again motion to the banner-man. “Signal a retreat.”
At the sound of his horn Company A wheels away from the savages to my left. Their retreat is quick and disciplined and the savages charge after them, mad with bloodlust.
“Perfect,” Benarieh mumbles at my side. “They’ve spread themselves out.”
As the horn sounds again Company B charges from the right, raking across the flanks of the savages in a wide arcing motion that follows the path of their comrades, who have formed a new front line a hundred yards back. The attack has a deadly effect and completely halts the enemy advance.
“Call them back before they overextend themselves,” Benarieh advises after a moment. At my command the horn sounds again and Company B retreats behind the new line.
The space between the two forces is littered with the dead and dying. The vast majority are savages, but a third of my own men also lie on the blood-soaked ground.
After a moment the enemy begins their charge again. This time there is no barrier of stakes to slow their advance, and they slam into Company A like a buffalo stampede. The entire front line is carried back almost fifty yards before the charge stalls.
Benarieh curses at my side. “The line is falling apart!”
At my command the horn sounds and Company B charges into the fray, filling the gaps that are opening in the line. For a moment they are able to drive the savages back, but then their momentum is lost. My force of nine hundred has now been reduced by half. It is obvious that the battle is lost, as the enemy counters and swarms around them.
I turn to face Benarieh. “You are a good man Lieutenant. Your wisdom has been invaluable.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “It has been my pleasure, commander.”
I nod and turn to face the enemy. “Banner-man, sound the final charge.”
The banner-man plants the flag in the ground and raises his horn to his lips. The note he sounds sends chills down my spine as I break towards the heat of battle. Benarieh and the banner-man flank me on my sides and with us charge my last few reserves. We match our feet to the rhythm of the drums of our enemy.
I lower my spear and raise my voice as we slam into the mass of writhing bodies. I find myself face to face with a young man, his eyes wide with fear, and then my spear plunges into his chest. A look of surprise crosses his face and he falls to the ground. I wrench my spear free, and ignore the blood that gushes across my foot.
Something glances across my scalp and blood begins to trickle down the side of my face.
Behind me the banner-man falls to the ground, his horn flying from his outstretched hand, his other hand grasps at his stomach to stanch the rapid flow of blood.
Benarieh is still by my side, screaming like a madman. He is covered with numerous cuts, but he ignores them all.
Behind us our men are dropping rapidly. And the swathe that we cut into the enemy formation is collapsing. Soon we will be surrounded. I take all this in as I dodge and twist, stab and thrust.
A gigantic savage, almost twice my size, swings a club toward me. My spear breaks as I block the blow, and I am thrust to the ground with my head ringing. I find myself lying across several dead soldiers, their eyes glazed over with death and their faces masked with blood. I roll over in time to see Benarieh impale the giant who clubbed me. I grab a sword from one of the dead and surge to my feet.
I am no longer thinking coherently; fighting only on instinct. My veins feel as if they are filled with hot lead. Even calm Benarieh, at my back, is fighting like an animal.
It seems we are alone in a sea of savages; none of our soldiers are visible. It is likely they are dead.
“No!” Benarieh screams, and I am shoved to the ground. Seconds later he falls beside me, with the javelin intended for me protruding from his chest.
Grief fills me. Ignoring the savages I drop my sword and cradle Benarieh’s head in my lap.
Around me the battle is over. It is strangely silent after the previous chaos, even though the air is filled with the sounds of the dead and dying. Even the drums have stopped. The savages begin to go through the bodies, searching for any living comrades. They see the black armbands on my wrists that mark me as Captain and leave me alone, to them the dishonor of defeat is worse than death. They effectively kill any other survivors from my army.
After several hours they march off in an almost never-ending stream. Some of them watch me and laugh as they pass by, but none bother me. They are gone by nightfall.
All the night I remain there, unmoving and numb to the world. Even the sounds of wild animals fighting over the bodies of my friends don’t bother me.
Dawn reveals the stark vision of the dead spread out around me. Ravens, vultures, wolves, and other eaters of the dead feast upon the cold carcasses, though they have not bothered me. As the sun paints the mountains in a pink glow, and then colors the leaves of the jungle a golden green, I come back to myself.
I leave Benarieh’s side, and with the aid of a spear, stripped from an unresisting hand, I make my way across the battlefield. The going is slow and there is a constant wave of black feathers around me as I disturb the birds with my passage. At one point I come across the young soldier with whom I spoke the day before. An arrow protrudes from his shoulder and the left side of his head is crushed. His right eye is missing, and his body shows other marks of scavengers.
“I hope your death wasn’t in vain,” I mumble through parched lips. As I walk away I pause to look back. “But she’ll most likely die anyway.”
Within hours I have left the battlefield behind. My wanderings have taken me up the side of a mountain where the heat of the sun is almost unbearable. I haven’t had water since before the battle. My mouth feels like leather.
Suddenly I find my path cut off by a cliff. The valley stretches out bellow me filled with the green of forests and the blue of rivers and lakes. It is beautiful. But all I can see is the dead, their eyes open and staring.
“It was all a lie,” I say touching the talisman from my wife. “I can’t return to you after this. I couldn’t look into your eyes. Farewell.”
I step forward into space and the ground rushes up to meet me.
Far to the north she stands in the door of her home waiting for the running man to reach her. As he draws closer she can see that he is a soldier with the stripes on his armor that mark him as a scout. Small puffs of dust rise under his feet as they strike the worn path.
In moments he reaches her. Sweat drips down his dust-marked face, but his breathing is easy. In his hand he holds a small roll of parchment. “Lady, I regret to inform you that the southern passage, where your husband was Captain, has been overrun. As far as we know there are no survivors. We received this missive before he died.” His words are clipped, short, and businesslike. “It is for you.”
She takes the extended roll slowly, carefully, trying not to let her hands shake in front of this hardened warrior. She breathes and begins to speak, but it is some time before the words come out. “Thank-you. May I offer some water?”
“No need; my waterskin is full.” He smiles, a sad smile. “I must go, the Chief Captain has raised his banner in the capital and all the armies are mobilizing. Be well.” He offers a short bow and then jogs back down the path. In moments he is gone.
She sags to the floor and leans her head against the doorframe. Her hands begin to tremble as she opens the roll and begins to read.
I do not know if I can explain the feelings of my heart in the time that I have left to me. Even now the enemy is sounding the drums. Though I hope otherwise, I fear that our small band of soldiers will be destroyed in moments. Should I live, I will soon look into your eyes and hold you in my arms. Should I die, this is to be my final farewell to you, whom I have loved. Even as I write words fail me. There are no words that can encompass the depths of my feelings towards you. Should my mortal body fall into the dust this day, know that if it is in my power I shall wrest my spirit away from the paradise to which it is sent and wander at your side, for even Paradise, without you, would be Hell. And so, with these words I say farewell until we meet again at the feet of our God. You have brought peace to my heart and I am not afraid.
A single, solitary drum rips the silence of the new dawn and echoes across the shadowed valley, resonating between the painted cliffs until it fades away into silence.
Tension fills the air as I wait, hardly daring to breathe.
Across the valley another drum responds, and then another, and another, until the whole of the world seems to rumble to their rhythm, as if the very mountains will crumble into dust around us.
The commanding drums threaten to still my heart with fear but I dare not succumb to the terror. I look around at my comrades, fear is written on their faces.
“Steady!” I cry. “Hold fast!”
My voice is faint compared to the crushing beat of the drums but the fear fades. Many of them glance to the banner that flies above us, held by our stalwart banner-man. The sun has bathed it in a golden glow, a good omen. The men take heart and clutch their spears in defiance of the drums that mock our existence.
I make several rounds among the men on duty, giving encouragement when I can.
“Remember what we stand for,” I tell them. “Remember that you defend your wives, your sons and daughters, and your people. Remember that you defend your country.” They nod their heads with determination.
One young soldier stops me as I approach. “Are we going to be alive when the sun falls?”
I smile. “Are you married?”
“No,” he says, “but I am promised to a woman whom I love.”
“Then think not of our survival, think only of her. You are fighting to give her another moment, another day. When the sun falls tonight, we may not be alive, but she will be.” I don’t know what else to say. I wish to tell him that all will be well, that none of us will leave this life today. But it would be a lie.
He is silent for a moment and as I turn to resume my rounds he salutes me.
For hours the incessant pounding continues. Thousands of drums throbbing in unison, spelling our doom. As the hours pass bitterness fills me. Each drum represents at least one hundred of the savages. I curse those who sent us here and then withheld the promised reinforcements. They knew what we would face, they had been informed of the mobilization of the enemy army. But they sent hundreds when they should have sent hundreds of thousands. It was no secret that the king of the invaders had declared that he would soak the earth with our blood.
My lieutenant puts his hand on my shoulder. I find that my fists are clenched, and with effort I force myself to relax. “Thanks,” I mutter. Gently I touch the talisman that hangs from my neck, a small hoop with an intricate weaving of catgut in the middle and the feathers of a red-tailed hawk hanging from the sides. My wife had given it to me almost a month ago.
I turn to find the Lieutenant watching me from his shrewd old eyes.
“She said it would bring me home,” I explain.
He shrugs. Lieutenant Benarieh is older than I, his long wild hair and beard streaked with gray, a veteran of almost a thousand battles to my hundred. Facing possible death is nothing new to him. He motions to the jungle below us, a thick wall of trees and vines that waits, dark and alive. “It’s a pity we couldn’t clear more for a longer field of fire.”
I nod, though I’d much rather have a thick stone wall between us and them. “We’ve done the best that we can with the time that we were given,” I tell him. “Wishing for more is the game of fools.”
He grunts. “Words of wisdom indeed.” His gaze travels out over the valley below us which is now fully bathed in the midmorning sunlight. The drums continue, as fierce as ever.
Benarieh turns towards me. By the look in his eyes I can tell that he is about to impart some of the wise advice for which he is well known. “Commander, you’ve had what, three? Maybe four hours of sleep in the last two and a half days? I suggest you get some rest. You know as well as I that they won’t attack until the drums are silent.”
I almost protest, but the logic of what he says wins me over. Of all the men here, it is I who need to think the clearest. “Very well then, but give me your word that you will notify me if anything happens.” After his nod I turn towards the command tent, but I can not sleep. After a brief moment of thought I retrieve a roll of parchment and begin to scribe the words of my heart.
An hour passes before I roll up the parchment, seal it with wax, and place it inside a leather bag that already holds several other documents—scouting reports from our campaign.
I fall asleep then, still sitting at my small writing table, but moments later a commotion outside arouses me.
A soldier pokes his head through the tent flap. “A messenger, Commander, from the capital.”
“Show him in, and summon Lieutenant Benarieh as well.”
I glance down at my armor with some thought of making myself more presentable but am disabused of the idea as I notice, not for the first time, the caked mud and dried blood. My entire force has been living in our armor for the last month.
The messenger enters followed immediately by Lieutenant Benarieh. Both give an appropriate salute, and after my response I motion them to sit down.
Before they are even settled I ask my first question. “Do you have any messages for me from the Chief Captain?”
“Yes, the Chief Captain said that your request has been denied. You are to retain your command and Lieutenant Benarieh will remain as your second.”
I ignore Benarieh’s raised eyebrow. “What else? Where are my replacements? I was promised at least ten thousand over a month ago.”
“They’re not coming,” Benarieh growls.
The messenger nods his head. “There was an uprising in the capital by a group known as the Kingmen. Your reinforcements were called there to help quell the rebellion.”
It is a struggle to maintain my composure. “Without those reinforcements our position is no longer tenable. Do we have authorization to retreat?”
“No. You are to hold this pass at all costs.”
“What? Why?” My temper breaks lose. “Do you hear those drums? Do you have any idea what they mean? My men have been in this region for a month delaying the advance of the enemy. An enemy that is innumerable. We’ve been engaged in pitched battles since we got here. The last real rest we had was over a week ago. If we stay here we will be annihilated. All of us. Either way this pass is lost.” I struggle for more to say, but my temper is waning and so I fall silent.
“I’m sorry,” the messenger says as he rises to his feet, “but those are the orders. Do you have any messages to send?”
Numb to any feeling I hand him the leather bag. “You are dismissed,” I tell him.
He ducks out of the tent.
“What was all that about you retaining your command?” Lieutenant Benarieh asks. “Because it would be very foolish if you wanted me to assume command of your men. I know for a fact that they would follow you through the fires of Hell.”
“I’m not going to lead them there.”
“What?”
“We are retreating, Lieutenant. We’ll fall back to the plains and then continue to harry them from the flanks like we’ve been doing. We’ll do more good that way.”
He grunts and then chuckles. “And that is why young soldiers and grizzled old men like me follow you. Because you make smart tactical decisions and you care about your men. Of course it will be your hide once all this settles down.”
“It’s my hide now. And the hides of nine hundred men.”
Benarieh nods. “If it is a retreat you want, then it best be done now. As tired as the men are we wouldn’t make it after the drums stop. The savages would be scalping our asses.”
I begin to laugh and he joins in. It is the first levity I have had in weeks. When our laughter stops it is silent. Completely silent.
Both Benarieh and I rush outside.
“Form ranks! Form ranks!” I shout as I rush to my position. The banner-man blows the appropriate signal on his horn, and within moments the men are lined up in formation ready for battle. According to preconceived plan they form into two companies, A and B.
“So much for a safe retreat,” Benarieh mutters as we reach our post. “They’d run us down in moments. Retreat was the smart idea, but it looks as if we get to hold the pass.”
Already we can see the enemy emerging from the tangle of jungle below us. Painted with blood and carrying their weapons in hand they appear as demons driven from hell.
I nod to the banner-man, and he raises his horn to his lips. The note he blows is long and pure. It is a challenge, a call to battle.
The enemy responds in kind, shouting their challenge from thousands of throats. At the same time they break into a run, slamming the earth with their feet.
I raise my spear into the air. “Archers ready!”
As soon as the savages are halfway to us I drop my spear. “Release!”
The flight of arrows swarms into the enemy. Hundreds fall and die, but there are more, thousands more, that drive towards us. They trample their own dead and wounded into the dust in their eagerness to smite us, their enemies, to the earth.
I motion to the banner-man and again he blows the signal on his horn. This time a series of staccato notes. At his signal a barrier of wooden stakes is raised from the ground. The leading ranks of the enemy try to slow themselves, but the sheer weight of their comrades carries them forward and they slam into the barrier. Their bodies jerk with the impact, forward and back, like limp dolls. Immediately the men of Company A are there, thrusting with their spears to force the savages back. The charge stalls, but gains momentum again as they tear their way through our flimsy barrier. For a moment there is fierce hand-to-hand combat as my men stand and fight.
The drums have started again, further down the valley. I can barely hear them over the pounding feet and furious cries of thousands of men.
I again motion to the banner-man. “Signal a retreat.”
At the sound of his horn Company A wheels away from the savages to my left. Their retreat is quick and disciplined and the savages charge after them, mad with bloodlust.
“Perfect,” Benarieh mumbles at my side. “They’ve spread themselves out.”
As the horn sounds again Company B charges from the right, raking across the flanks of the savages in a wide arcing motion that follows the path of their comrades, who have formed a new front line a hundred yards back. The attack has a deadly effect and completely halts the enemy advance.
“Call them back before they overextend themselves,” Benarieh advises after a moment. At my command the horn sounds again and Company B retreats behind the new line.
The space between the two forces is littered with the dead and dying. The vast majority are savages, but a third of my own men also lie on the blood-soaked ground.
After a moment the enemy begins their charge again. This time there is no barrier of stakes to slow their advance, and they slam into Company A like a buffalo stampede. The entire front line is carried back almost fifty yards before the charge stalls.
Benarieh curses at my side. “The line is falling apart!”
At my command the horn sounds and Company B charges into the fray, filling the gaps that are opening in the line. For a moment they are able to drive the savages back, but then their momentum is lost. My force of nine hundred has now been reduced by half. It is obvious that the battle is lost, as the enemy counters and swarms around them.
I turn to face Benarieh. “You are a good man Lieutenant. Your wisdom has been invaluable.”
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “It has been my pleasure, commander.”
I nod and turn to face the enemy. “Banner-man, sound the final charge.”
The banner-man plants the flag in the ground and raises his horn to his lips. The note he sounds sends chills down my spine as I break towards the heat of battle. Benarieh and the banner-man flank me on my sides and with us charge my last few reserves. We match our feet to the rhythm of the drums of our enemy.
I lower my spear and raise my voice as we slam into the mass of writhing bodies. I find myself face to face with a young man, his eyes wide with fear, and then my spear plunges into his chest. A look of surprise crosses his face and he falls to the ground. I wrench my spear free, and ignore the blood that gushes across my foot.
Something glances across my scalp and blood begins to trickle down the side of my face.
Behind me the banner-man falls to the ground, his horn flying from his outstretched hand, his other hand grasps at his stomach to stanch the rapid flow of blood.
Benarieh is still by my side, screaming like a madman. He is covered with numerous cuts, but he ignores them all.
Behind us our men are dropping rapidly. And the swathe that we cut into the enemy formation is collapsing. Soon we will be surrounded. I take all this in as I dodge and twist, stab and thrust.
A gigantic savage, almost twice my size, swings a club toward me. My spear breaks as I block the blow, and I am thrust to the ground with my head ringing. I find myself lying across several dead soldiers, their eyes glazed over with death and their faces masked with blood. I roll over in time to see Benarieh impale the giant who clubbed me. I grab a sword from one of the dead and surge to my feet.
I am no longer thinking coherently; fighting only on instinct. My veins feel as if they are filled with hot lead. Even calm Benarieh, at my back, is fighting like an animal.
It seems we are alone in a sea of savages; none of our soldiers are visible. It is likely they are dead.
“No!” Benarieh screams, and I am shoved to the ground. Seconds later he falls beside me, with the javelin intended for me protruding from his chest.
Grief fills me. Ignoring the savages I drop my sword and cradle Benarieh’s head in my lap.
Around me the battle is over. It is strangely silent after the previous chaos, even though the air is filled with the sounds of the dead and dying. Even the drums have stopped. The savages begin to go through the bodies, searching for any living comrades. They see the black armbands on my wrists that mark me as Captain and leave me alone, to them the dishonor of defeat is worse than death. They effectively kill any other survivors from my army.
After several hours they march off in an almost never-ending stream. Some of them watch me and laugh as they pass by, but none bother me. They are gone by nightfall.
All the night I remain there, unmoving and numb to the world. Even the sounds of wild animals fighting over the bodies of my friends don’t bother me.
Dawn reveals the stark vision of the dead spread out around me. Ravens, vultures, wolves, and other eaters of the dead feast upon the cold carcasses, though they have not bothered me. As the sun paints the mountains in a pink glow, and then colors the leaves of the jungle a golden green, I come back to myself.
I leave Benarieh’s side, and with the aid of a spear, stripped from an unresisting hand, I make my way across the battlefield. The going is slow and there is a constant wave of black feathers around me as I disturb the birds with my passage. At one point I come across the young soldier with whom I spoke the day before. An arrow protrudes from his shoulder and the left side of his head is crushed. His right eye is missing, and his body shows other marks of scavengers.
“I hope your death wasn’t in vain,” I mumble through parched lips. As I walk away I pause to look back. “But she’ll most likely die anyway.”
Within hours I have left the battlefield behind. My wanderings have taken me up the side of a mountain where the heat of the sun is almost unbearable. I haven’t had water since before the battle. My mouth feels like leather.
Suddenly I find my path cut off by a cliff. The valley stretches out bellow me filled with the green of forests and the blue of rivers and lakes. It is beautiful. But all I can see is the dead, their eyes open and staring.
“It was all a lie,” I say touching the talisman from my wife. “I can’t return to you after this. I couldn’t look into your eyes. Farewell.”
I step forward into space and the ground rushes up to meet me.
Far to the north she stands in the door of her home waiting for the running man to reach her. As he draws closer she can see that he is a soldier with the stripes on his armor that mark him as a scout. Small puffs of dust rise under his feet as they strike the worn path.
In moments he reaches her. Sweat drips down his dust-marked face, but his breathing is easy. In his hand he holds a small roll of parchment. “Lady, I regret to inform you that the southern passage, where your husband was Captain, has been overrun. As far as we know there are no survivors. We received this missive before he died.” His words are clipped, short, and businesslike. “It is for you.”
She takes the extended roll slowly, carefully, trying not to let her hands shake in front of this hardened warrior. She breathes and begins to speak, but it is some time before the words come out. “Thank-you. May I offer some water?”
“No need; my waterskin is full.” He smiles, a sad smile. “I must go, the Chief Captain has raised his banner in the capital and all the armies are mobilizing. Be well.” He offers a short bow and then jogs back down the path. In moments he is gone.
She sags to the floor and leans her head against the doorframe. Her hands begin to tremble as she opens the roll and begins to read.
I do not know if I can explain the feelings of my heart in the time that I have left to me. Even now the enemy is sounding the drums. Though I hope otherwise, I fear that our small band of soldiers will be destroyed in moments. Should I live, I will soon look into your eyes and hold you in my arms. Should I die, this is to be my final farewell to you, whom I have loved. Even as I write words fail me. There are no words that can encompass the depths of my feelings towards you. Should my mortal body fall into the dust this day, know that if it is in my power I shall wrest my spirit away from the paradise to which it is sent and wander at your side, for even Paradise, without you, would be Hell. And so, with these words I say farewell until we meet again at the feet of our God. You have brought peace to my heart and I am not afraid.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Twilight
This isn't a review of the movie, which I haven't seen and probably won't for quite some time; this is a review of the books, or perhaps, more of a review of Stephanie Meyer as a storyteller.
It may surprise those of you who know me that I have read these books, they aren't something that I would typically read, but I figured that since Stephanie Meyer is a product of BYU, that I should acquaint myself with her work (scout the competition). Anyway, the first day of Thanksgiving break, I read the forth book at my sister's house which is what prompted this post.
So, my thoughts. Hmmmm. Being a man, it's hard to get past the bodice ripper approach to the vampire genre. The Twilight series is more of a romance with the vampire approach added as an interesting twist rather than a vampire story that includes romance. Every page literally drips with drivel like, "he was as beautiful as a Greek god. I just wanted to reach out and caress his perfect marble cheeks, but he was out of reach. I felt the tears forming in my eyes. . ." And while that wasn't a direct quote (best I could come up with, sorry), it gives you the idea. While this type of writing might be interesting to many girls, as a man, it makes the story a bit cumbersome.
Which is what is so frustrating about Meyer's writing. She certainly adds interesting approaches to the vampire genre, and, every once in a while, she decides to toss the more adrenaline oriented audience a bone, but it isn't enough to make the story completely engaging. She has, at times, marvelously brilliant ideas, yet they are clouded by shameless romance.
Unfortunately, I think this romance approach alienates a large potential audience. Not that Meyer is hurting, with her legions of emotional teenage girl fans, but it's quite possible she could have doubled her fan base with a little more attention paid to the interests of the opposite gender (a little more action please).
My sisters and I were talking about these books the other day, and one of the things that they complained about was that they did not like the characters of Edward, Jacob, and Bella. It isn't a good sign when the three main characters are disliked by members of the target audience. I myself could have cared less for Edward or Jacob, both of them were a bit off from a masculine perspective, but it would take another thorough reading of the series for me to decide why. Initially I want to say that they are written too much through a woman's eyes, but that may not be it. I did like Bella's character, probably because her narrative voice sounds accurate to what I expect from a 18-19 year old girl. That could be a disastrous assumption though. And, I'm not gonna lie, Bella became cool in the end. I think I'm in love.
The support characters (mainly the Cullen family) are all considered to be pretty awesome, and Meyer does an excellent job making the reader like them. I doubt there has ever been a cooler group of vampires created than the Cullen family. But that is a rather general claim that I have no right making because, honestly, I'm not that well versed in vampire literature.
I think I may be coming off here as giving these books a quite negative review, and yes, much of what I have said has been focused on the flaws of Meyer's approach to her novels. But on the other hand, I, a 26 year old American male, read these books straight through. It really says something that I was able to slog through all that romance just for the few tidbits of vampire story that Meyer tossed in there. At its core, the essence of Twilight is a very cool story. You just have to struggle to find it amidst all the mushy, emotional writing.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Writing Constipation
So many times, recently, I have sat down with my fingers perched over my keyboard, with an overflow of thoughts and ideas ready to spill upon the page. . . and yet, I stall, because the meager words that I am able to express are so inadequate, so empty. Ah! the torment of the writer!
Sunday, October 26, 2008
A Strange Dream
Let me tell you about the dream that I had last night. It won't sound as cool or complex as it really was when I try to put it into words, partly because I only remember the barest of details. Anyway, I'll warn you now; it was rather odd.
I dreamt I was a ghost, and I'm not talking about any of your run of the mill passive spirits, I was a full-blown-all-out-haunting-spirit; rattling chains, causing floors to creak, and doors to mysteriously open, I did it all. The funny thing about all this was that I was unaware of the creepiness of what I was doing. To me, I was just behaving in a way that was natural and expected; having a good time, not a care in the world.
I lived in a large old mansion, or a castle, with a family (and this is where the details get fuzzy, because I can't remember, specifically, the people who lived there with me. I want to say there were a couple girls, damsels in distress and all, but here I might really be dreaming). There was also an old wizard that lived there, unrelated to the others, and he was kind of scary.
Anyway, here I was living the good life in my castle (and I got the sense that I had been doing this for a long time), when I suddenly began to notice that people were catching glimpses of me as I was going about my daily haunting. It wasn't anything big, just a flicker of the eyes when I ghosted through a room, small things. But it was enough to make me worried because nothing like that had ever happened before. It was unnatural for people to see me; I was a ghost! So I began to be very cautious; I would hide when people entered the rooms that I happened to be in, diving behind the closest chair or whatever.
One day, the evil wizard walked in with several other people, and as I had been doing, I dived behind a large orange leather recliner. But as I did so, I noticed the wizards eyes dart my direction and then away again, as if he had made unwanted eye contact. As I watched him talking with the other people I knew that he could see me, he knew I was there, and that scared me.
There is a missing fragment here; I can't remember what happened in the interim period, maybe nothing, but the next thing that I can remember is that the wizard captured me. I don't know how he did it, but his plan was to use me to augment his power and that was really scary.
That's all that I can remember. I don't think I woke up at this point, there was much more to this dream than what I can remember. It was one of those dreams that makes you resist waking up because you don't want to leave. . .and when you do, all you can think is, "that was freakin' AWESOME!!!!"
Interesting, eh? When I tried telling my roommate in the morning it really sounded like I had been tripping on drugs all night long (I swear, all I did was eat at Carls Jr.).
The cool thing is that I can add this to my writing projects list. I can make a good story out of this. Which leaves me with about three multiple book projects that I need to finish. . . Doesn't that just suck?
Saturday, October 25, 2008
The Method of Creation
First of all, I have to apologize for my last post. It has a faint hint of bitterness to it which is just lame. Girls, and the association therewith, is a complicated subject for me, filled with high expectations, dashed hopes, and only imaginary success. So, it's hard for me to hear my ecclesiastical leader tell me that I need to subject myself to more of the same; that it is my duty to do so. I am in the wrong for my current lack of initiative, and hopefully, I will be able to regain my. . .nerve.
With that said, I want to talk a little bit about the process of writing stories.
I've been searching for a long time for a solution to the mythology and religion for my current work in progress. I want to include religion in my book, inspirational morals that will help my adoring public go through a cathartic process. However, I want it to be subtle; so much of what I read from religious authors (especially Mormons writing for a Mormon audience) is just blatant preaching, almost painful to read. The worst example of this was a book called Tathea by Anne Perry. . .I'll admit that I quit reading, so maybe I missed out on the book's redeeming qualities, but what I did read (around half), was horrid. The book was supposed to be allegorical in nature, but it was so obvious and clumsily delivered that it came across as some sort of extended sermon, by a really boring orator, disguised as a fantasy. Anyway, I don't want to fall into that same trap; I don't want to be any sort of talking head or anything in my books. That's the trick though, isn't it? To include religion as part of the story, but not to force that religion upon the reader. Orson Scott Card ran into the same problem with his Ender's Game books. I love Card, and Ender's Game will probably always be one of the best books that I have ever read, but the main series, Speaker for the Dead, took Ender's character and pretty much killed the series. It was a bit. . .boring. I am being overly harsh on Card, who is a magnificent writer, but I had such high expectations after Ender's Game that the rest of the series came across more like, "blah, blah, blah." It felt like Card set the hook, and then just held us on the line a preached for a while.
Of course, the other problem is to not include any sort of ideals at all, then your writing becomes dark. . .without real redemption.
This is going in a whole different direction than I intended. Suffice it to say, I think I found a way to include religion in my book, that will feel authentic, that will still be in line with Biblical mythology (and I use mythology here in the academic sense of the word), but it won't come across as being preachy or anything like that.
I figured out how to do it while I was reading the mythology of the Virgin birth in ancient American cultures. Namely, I was reading the mythology of Quetzalcoatl, whose name I already understood to be translated as "the feathered serpent." However, there is another translation that helped me to have one of those magnificent and sudden moments of intense brain activity. . .an epiphany if you will. Anyway, problem solved.
The moral of the story is, always be ready because inspiration for your writing can come from anywhere! That is what I was originally going to say before I started ranting on authors and their preaching. The End.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Sometimes the Magic Works
I stole that title, I think from Terry Brooks, but I'm not sure. Suffice it to say, that I am "borrowing" from somebody else, hehehe.
I've been writing since I was in junior high. I'd like to think that it was because I was a highly intelligent and introspective young man, but it probably comes down more to the fact that I was pretty much a loser, without any sort of social life, and the only way I could get one was to invent one. It worked for me, and I turned out normal. Somewhat.
My first "book" was pretty much a failure. A story with no real purpose, a meandering plot line, a couple cool ideas, and an uncommon similarity to the Dragonlance books---which is what I was reading at the time. I'm not sure if that story ever got finished; I have a few of the original chapters, but somehow the first three and the last ??? have vanished. Oh well, it's no great loss. Perhaps one day I'll pull out what I have, dust it off, and re-energize that which is worth saving.
My second attempt at a novel has consumed my life. As near as I can figure, I began writing it sometime around my freshman year of high school---while burrowing into my segment of our one room, ten person cabin, and listening to Alien by the British grunge band, Bush. The work continued slowly throughout high school and beyond, and the story grew, matured, and evolved. I typed the final page the summer before I left on my mission. I had been writing it for almost five years. Of course, the story had changed so much, that nothing matched all the way through. The story was even more convoluted and warped than the story that I had written in my early teens!
Fortunately, I then had a two year reprieve from the tedious writing process. Two years for me to wander the mazes of my story in my mind's eye, to analyze the weaknesses, the strengths, everything. . . and the story began to evolve even more. It became harder, darker, more relevant, and brighter, and more inspiring.
A funny side note: During this time, my finished manuscript was lost/stolen by a woman who had convinced me to let her read it. I still haven't figured out exactly how I let that happen, dumbness I guess. Luckily, the story is nothing like it was before. It has evolved into something completely different from what I wrote before my mission. So the chances of plagiarism, from the original manuscript, are zero.
When I came home, I tried to start writing again, but after a couple attempts at rewriting, I could get no further than 24 pages. I was stuck on the same beginning for three years, and it was so frustrating. To view the myriads of thoughts, ideas, and visions in my mind, but not to be able to capture them on paper. Now, I think I know why. The story was not complete.
And now, here I am, writing about writing, because I want to say that writing is good. And a good story creates itself. It may take 10 years or more, but eventually all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The history, the people, the magic, everything, all come together to make something magnificent; something that is beyond a man but ever so much a part of it's creator.
Ah, the feeling of satisfaction that comes as I visit the world that his sprung into existence in the pages of my mind. It is complete, and all the questions that I have so long pondered provide answers to themselves.
Sometimes, my friends, the magic works.
I've been writing since I was in junior high. I'd like to think that it was because I was a highly intelligent and introspective young man, but it probably comes down more to the fact that I was pretty much a loser, without any sort of social life, and the only way I could get one was to invent one. It worked for me, and I turned out normal. Somewhat.
My first "book" was pretty much a failure. A story with no real purpose, a meandering plot line, a couple cool ideas, and an uncommon similarity to the Dragonlance books---which is what I was reading at the time. I'm not sure if that story ever got finished; I have a few of the original chapters, but somehow the first three and the last ??? have vanished. Oh well, it's no great loss. Perhaps one day I'll pull out what I have, dust it off, and re-energize that which is worth saving.
My second attempt at a novel has consumed my life. As near as I can figure, I began writing it sometime around my freshman year of high school---while burrowing into my segment of our one room, ten person cabin, and listening to Alien by the British grunge band, Bush. The work continued slowly throughout high school and beyond, and the story grew, matured, and evolved. I typed the final page the summer before I left on my mission. I had been writing it for almost five years. Of course, the story had changed so much, that nothing matched all the way through. The story was even more convoluted and warped than the story that I had written in my early teens!
Fortunately, I then had a two year reprieve from the tedious writing process. Two years for me to wander the mazes of my story in my mind's eye, to analyze the weaknesses, the strengths, everything. . . and the story began to evolve even more. It became harder, darker, more relevant, and brighter, and more inspiring.
A funny side note: During this time, my finished manuscript was lost/stolen by a woman who had convinced me to let her read it. I still haven't figured out exactly how I let that happen, dumbness I guess. Luckily, the story is nothing like it was before. It has evolved into something completely different from what I wrote before my mission. So the chances of plagiarism, from the original manuscript, are zero.
When I came home, I tried to start writing again, but after a couple attempts at rewriting, I could get no further than 24 pages. I was stuck on the same beginning for three years, and it was so frustrating. To view the myriads of thoughts, ideas, and visions in my mind, but not to be able to capture them on paper. Now, I think I know why. The story was not complete.
And now, here I am, writing about writing, because I want to say that writing is good. And a good story creates itself. It may take 10 years or more, but eventually all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. The history, the people, the magic, everything, all come together to make something magnificent; something that is beyond a man but ever so much a part of it's creator.
Ah, the feeling of satisfaction that comes as I visit the world that his sprung into existence in the pages of my mind. It is complete, and all the questions that I have so long pondered provide answers to themselves.
Sometimes, my friends, the magic works.
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