The Siege of Glorian – Part One

Tags

commander, Fantasy, Master Class, short story, war, wizard, writing prompt

Victory was nigh. The army amassed outside the walls of Glorian had suffered countless casualties and were no closer to breaching the stronghold than they were a fortnight ago. The loss of morale among the troops outside the walls was causing them to break out into skirmishes among their own ranks. The chaos out there delighted First Commander Ryko. Surely this lopsided victory would bring about a promotion.

He slapped the shoulder of an archer as he passed along the ramparts, the taste of success stamping a smirk on his face that erased years from his face. He made small talk with his men, noting many of them looking bleary-eyed from the long night. He was certain that his own hazel eyes mirrored that exhaustion. He had been running almost nonstop for two weeks, as the growth of his new peppered beard showed. They would soon be rewarded with an afternoon off-duty. The surrender would be coming soon.

Or a retreat. Either way, this battle was done.

A commotion across the wall caught his attention. Some of his own men looked unsettled, quarreling with a shadowed figure. Ryko let out a sigh and started toward the scene, determined to break the argument before his foes caught wind of the conflict. The lack of cohesion might inspire them to renew their own fractured assault.

As he drew near, Ryko was able to distinguish the shadowy figure cloaked in gray. He cursed under his breath. Why was that damned wizard always showing up and stirring up trouble at the most inopportune times? And why didn’t he wave his wand over the wall and turn their opponents into charred ash, or something wizardly like that? All he ever did was run his mouth and cause problems for Ryko and his master.

“Commander Ryko,” the wizard said, taking a step back while bowing his head slightly. The men arguing with him spun around, their faces reddening at being caught unaware by their commander.

“Wizard Hollinder,” Ryko uttered, “what form of mischief brings you to Glorian?” His men smirked at the icy accusation.

“No mischief at all,” the wizard replied with another deferential bow of his head, his white beard reaching down below his knees, “I was merely instructing your men that the battle is far from over.”

Ryko’s jaw dropped for a moment at those words, but he quickly recovered his composure. “It would appear, Wizard Hollinder, that you are as unskilled in the strategies of war as you appear to be in the business of being a wizard. Their armies fight amongst themselves, a large portion of their force has fallen, and they are no closer to breaching our walls than they were in the beginning. Only a great fool would continue to wage a pointless campaign, and that fool would quickly lose his entire army to casualties and desertion.”

“If that were the only information I was basing my decision on, commander, then I would heartily agree with you. You fail to consider alternative ways in which these walls may be breached, and my unskilled wizardly arts have divined the method of their next attempt.”

“And what exactly have you learned?”

“He claims they are going to attack the west wall at sunset,” one of the soldiers blurted out.

“That is the thickest wall along the perimeter!” Ryko exclaimed, shaking his head. “There is no way that your boasts of clairvoyance are accurate. No bomb can penetrate that stone.”

“You underestimate your enemy,” the wizard said. “A mistake that even a novice would avoid.”

Ryko spun on his heels and marched away from the wizard, hatred bubbling through his veins. In a few hours they would all see who was right when the army surrendered. This war was over, even if a crazy old wizard thought otherwise.

The thundering of drums echoed in the air when the sun began to set a few hours later. A puzzled frown creased Ryko’s face as he peered out at the rallying army below. The men rushed toward the front gate, armed with siege equipment and an array of weaponry. Ryko signaled for his archers to take aim, his skilled eye watching for the proper moment to unleash a torrent of arrows upon the masses below. The gap closes quickly and he gives the signal, smiling at the familiar twang of a thousand bows loosing their arrow in unison. The cries of a hundred wounded men fills the air and the smell of fresh blood reaches his nostrils. To Ryko, it was the smell of success.

During the third volley a cry of alarm was raised along the western wall. Ryko’s face creased with a frown as he dashed along the wall, crouching low to avoid the stray arrow fired over the wall. The wizard was waiting for him at the post, a smug smile on his face. He waved his gnarled stick toward something distant along the horizon. Ryko turned toward it, squinting as he tried to make out the moving object as it moved up a hill.

The sunset struck so brilliantly into the traveling carriage when it gained the hilltop, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. Ryko cursed when he recognized the contents of the carriage, all color draining from his face. He shouted commands to his men, directing everyone to take aim for the carriage.

The sunlight reflected off the carriage again, displaying a dozen barrels of explosive black powder for everyone to see. Ryko grabbed a bow himself, taking aim with his men as they launched a volley of arrows.

To be continued…

*   *   *   *  *

I used to love the choose your own adventure stories when I was growing up. It made me feel like I was part of the outcome, even though it was all scripted beforehand. So today I thought I would let my readers have that same power. The story will have one of two things happen at this point:

Option#1 – The archers manage to hit the barrels of powder with flaming arrows, causing it to explode far from the walls.

Option#2 – The archers are unsuccessful in their attempt to prevent the explosion, causing severe damage to the west wall of the stronghold.

It is up to you, readers, to determine which outcome will play out when the story continues. Leave a comment below stating which option you would like to see. Either way, expect to see some more action playing out in the second half of this story!

This comes from the weekly Master Class writing prompt. For this week I chose a line out of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, and we were free to use it anywhere in the post. I hope you enjoyed it, and be sure to check out some of the other excellent writing that is turned in this week!

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Hunted

Tags

Christian, fear, hunted, lawless, Master Class, short story, writing prompt

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. Dirt and sweat coated our bodies, our clothes were torn, and most of us suffered from intense hunger pangs. It had been weeks since we ate a decent meal. Groups of us huddled together, seeking warmth from the collective gathering of our bodies. We were still alive, although we are starting to feel like the walking dead. Every siren, every gun shot, and every loud cry placed our senses on alert.

We were condemned to die by those in power. They have corrupted those around us, turning them against us. We have wept while families and friends were shot or stabbed in front of us. Those were the lucky ones. Others were burned alive, the stench of melting flesh mixing with the acrid sulfur aroma of the raging inferno. A select few have been crucified, dying slow and torturous deaths to send a message to the rest of us.

In the face of adversity we have come together, strengthened by a common bond. We have been forced to take cover, to flee across rugged terrain, being hunted and tormented by a nation we love. Our sanctuaries have been torn down or converted into pagan temples. The great structures and achievements of this civilized nation have crumbled under the weight of lawlessness and the self-gratification embraced by our peers. The justice system has become a mockery, used to parade us in front of the public eye while remaining oblivious to the corruption rampant in the cities.

They blame us for all their troubles. They believe that exterminating us will solve all of their problems, and for too long we have sat idle. We watched as they eroded the sanctity of our core principles, eventually eliminating them completely from society. We remained passive while they removed our weapons of defense from our homes, leaving them only in the hands of criminals who obtain them through the black market. We enabled them to encourage the majority to believe they were entitled to have their needs met by others, placing the burden on those laboring to make a living.

We have sat by through it all and done nothing to change it. Instead of fighting back we have fled, choosing to be hunted and slaughtered like animals. Our right to live has been revoked by our society. We are dead men and women, even though we still breathe.

We are not sinners, we are Samaritans.

We are not the godless, but the godly.

We are not hunted because we are criminals, but because we are Christians.

And it is time we take a stand and reclaim our right to live our lives.

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This post came from the Master Class prompt this week, which was the first line from Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale: We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. Even though I didn’t get the post done in time to link up for the week, I figured I would allow the idea I had to be written anyway. As always, feedback is welcomed and encouraged.

Rites of Passage

Tags

earth killer, forest, hunter, rite of passage, short story, tracking, wizard, writing prompt

Nanuk moved like a shadow through the forest, weaving between trees and shrubs as he tracked his prey. His eyes scanned the ground beneath his muddy feet, searching for signs that his quarry had come this way. Nanuk’s muscles tensed every time he saw movement to the side, his bow coming up instinctively. Each time the weapon lowered he exhaled, the tension departing from his body.

Nanuk had been on the trail for a few hours. He was getting closer, moving across the terrain with greater ease than his quarry. Today he would complete his rite of passage and become a full-fledged Juichun tribe member.

This was not his first hunt, but this time he would be successful in bringing the trophy home to his tribe. Three times he had attempted to complete the rite of passage, each time narrowly escaping with his own life. Nanuk’s father reassured him after every failure that it had taken him five hunts before he found success. He knew he was lucky to still be alive after three hunts, but the pressure was rising. Already the other boys his age had either completed the rite or died trying. Two younger boys had surpassed him, too. Another failure was not an option.

The sweat running down Nanuk’s face caused his warpaint to smear, leaving red and white streaks trailing down his cheek. He gnawed on a piece of dried meat while he ran, savoring the smoked flavor mingled with choice herbs. A stream cut across the ground ahead, the tracks leading straight into the water. He frowned as he slowed, surveying the bank of the water carefully for signs of travel on the other side. He had to be sure his prey didn’t continue down the stream to mask its scent and trail. He didn’t have the time to try and rediscover a new trail.

Nanuk knew that luck was on his side today when he found a wet print on the surface of a large stone. It had kept running straight ahead, leaping over the soft sand to attempt to throw him off its track. Not good enough, he thought as he sprinted into the trees beyond the stream.

He ran without sound, skirting around twigs and leaves on the ground that would give away his pursuit. Nanuk’s breathing was calm and rhythmic as he dashed through the woods. His ears were alert for the slightest sound that would indicate danger. He held the string taut, an arrow notched at all times as he traveled. A clearing opened ahead of him, revealing a large pond where animals had gathered to drink. He had a feeling this was where his hunt would come to an end.

Nanuk slowed his pace, walking upon his toes in a low crouch. A sound came from the bushes to his left. He spun to the sound, bow raised at the source, and watched a squirrel leap from the bushes into a tree. He lowered his weapon and turned back toward the clearing, creeping along once more.

A loud crack echoed in the air, scattering the animals around the water. It was there and had given itself away. Nanuk wondered what had provoked it to attack so suddenly. Could one of the other young men from the tribe have reached it first? He frowned, saying a silent prayer for protection.

He pulled a small pouch from his belt and dumped a handful of the crushed herbs into his palm. He sniffed the herbs, allowing the aromatic vapors to sooth his mind and calm his spirit. He tucked the pouch back in his belt and then took a pinch of the herbs, releasing it into the wind in front of him. He then stuck the rest of the herbs into his mouth and started to chew them. The bitter juices filled his mouth, causing him to retch involuntarily. This was the part that he would never get used to, the worst part about the entire hunt. He would rather track for weeks through snow and ice than suffer the herbs, but he know that they were necessary for his survival. He had seen enough of his peers die because they trusted themselves to be safe without the herbs.

Nanuk allowed his stomach a few minutes to settle from the herbs before pressing on. Everything had become silent up ahead. His quarry had scared everything away. Perhaps he would catch it bathing in the water or stooping for a drink, unaware of the danger he presented.

He stopped behind a tree at the edge of the clearing, glancing around the trunk. Several deer were huddled together, taking deep drinks of the water. Several birds were perched in the trees above, waiting and watching. Off to one side lay the body of Quidel, one of the younger boys from the tribe. Quidel’s head was turned toward him, the glassy eyes staring at him in warning.

Down by the lake was his prey. His white hair was frazzled in disarray, bits of twigs and grass tangled in the unruly mess. Brown robes covered his body, dragging along the ground as he walked. In one frail hand he held a gnarled staff that absorbed the light from his surroundings. The grass around his feet had become withered and brown, signs that he had used his magic to slay Quidel. The earth killer would pay.

Nanuk inhaled deeply and took aim. He watched the earth killer standing across the clearing, unaware of the danger he was in. A life for a life. He prayed to God that his arrow would avenge Quidel’s death and find its mark. He shifted his weight slightly, bending to get a better angle, when a twig snapped under his foot.

The old man’s head snapped up immediately, looking directly at Nanuk. He slammed the butt of his staff into the ground and a golden aura roped its way around the gnarled wood. Nanuk dove to the ground behind the tree as a flash of blinding light was released by the wizard, cutting through the trunk of the trees in its path. The tree began to topple and Nanuk scrambled away, narrowly escaping its crushing weight. He got to his feet and spun in time to see half a dozen deer charging toward him, fleeing from the wizard.

Nanuk dove aside, rolling along the ground. He dropped his arrow in the process and quickly drew another. He popped to his feet and fired off a hasty shot toward the wizard. The gold glow surrounded the wizard now, sucking the life from the earth around him. A raging inferno flew from the tip of the old man’s staff, the flames crackling and hissing as it crossed through the air. Nanuk ducked, able to feel the heat from the fireball as it passed over his head and exploded into the forest behind him.

Nanuk knew that he needed to end this quickly, before the wizard killed him and the earth surrounding them. The herb he took was supposed to protect him from the earth killer’s magic. He had never believed in that myth, which is how the other three earth killers had escaped him on past hunts. They distracted him with their powerful magic, keeping him distant and hidden. He needed to have faith.

Better to die than to go back without succeeding this time.

Nanuk notched another arrow and darted into the clearing. The wizard’s white eyes focused on Nanuk. A bolt of lightning burst from his staff, sparks flying in every direction as it raced toward the hunter. Nanuk dropped to one knee and fired his arrow as the lightning pierced his chest. His eyes closed in anticipation of pain but instead felt warmth channeling into his body.

He opened his eyes to see his arrow arcing through the lightning, speeding toward the wizard. He pulled his dagger and got to his feet, walking into the magical storm. Bolts of light flared and crackled around him and he could feel the heat from its presence, but there was no pain. The wizard’s eyes grew wide as the arrow pierced his heart. The lightning and the glow around the wizard ceased as the old man fell to the ground.

Nanuk knelt before his fallen body, staring into the milky eyes of his fallen adversary as he gave thanks in his prayers for the protection granted and for a successful hunt. His rites of passage were now complete. He would finally become a full member of the Juichun tribe and a defender of the land.

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This is a story from the Scriptic writing prompt exchange. It turned out this week that SAM and I were the only ones who signed up, so we ended up trading prompts. The image referenced as my writing prompt can be seen at the beginning of this post.

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, SAM at http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: This picture: http://heirloomartist.tumblr.com/post/37151614476/0rient-express-summer-fairytale-by-alex

I gave SAM at http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com this prompt: The magic was gone.

The Call of Magic

Tags

A Dark Matter, adventure, crush, magic, Master Class, revelation, Trifecta, writing prompt

The great revelations of my adult life began with the shouts of a lost soul in my neighborhood breakfast joint. At first I wrote off his proclamations as the ravings of a deranged lunatic, just like everyone else. But as time went on I couldn’t get his words out of my mind. As crazy as it was, I was starting to believe him.

When I showed up at his house a week later he showed no signs of surprise. Instead he urged me up the creaky stairs and into his rustic home. Odd artifacts cluttered shelves and covered patches of the floor, many of them looking like they belonged in the Middle Ages. Meticulously drawn maps were stacked upon a lopsided table. He gestured to a small stool in the center of the room and sat down on an antique chair that resembled a throne. I looked around without success for a free spot to set down my bag and then sat down with it in my lap.

“You want to know more, I presume,” he said after I situated myself on the hard stool. His face had a hint of a smile that erased years from his appearance.

“I didn’t believe you,” I said.

“No one ever does at first,” he replied.

“But I couldn’t drive the idea from my mind.”

He sat in silence, his gray eyes studying me. He ran a wrinkled hand through his disheveled beard and began to nod his head. “Yes, there is always one that it calls to. Wait here.” He stood up and disappeared into another room. When he returned he held a stone bowl and a pestle in his hands. He grabbed a pouch from a shelf and sat down across from me. He dumped the contents of the pouch into the bowl and began to crush the stones into a fine powder.

“Magic is real, lad. So are elves and other folk. The real question is if you’re brave enough for an adventure.”

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This marks the beginning of a story, fulfilling the writing prompt for both Trifecta and Master Class. This one has strong potential to be continued beyond this, and we’ll see if I can juggle this one in with the Monster Hunter series. I’ve already got some grand ideas for what happens next.

For the Master Class we were to use the first line from Peter Straubs’ A Dark Matter as the beginning of our post. The line was “The great revelations of my adult life began with the shouts of a lost soul in my neighborhood breakfast joint.”

For Trifecta we were to use the third definition of the word CRUSH in a post that is 33-333 words long.

CRUSH (transitive verb)

1a : to squeeze or force by pressure so as to alter or destroy structure <crush grapes>
b : to squeeze together into a mass
2   : hug, embrace
3   : to reduce to particles by pounding or grinding <crush rock>

 

The House of Failure

Tags

distraction, failure, perfection, pessimism, scripture, short story, Writing, writing prompt

The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village, its exterior warm and inviting with bright colors and a meticulously maintained landscape. A cobblestone path wove between twin beds of blooming flowers. Three stained wood steps led up onto a large porch that stretched across the front of the house. A vacancy sign sat in the ground at the bottom of the steps. I set down my luggage on the porch and banged the brass knocker three times, its hollow sound echoing.

The door swung open and a tall, lanky man was standing in the doorway, smirking down at me. His black hair was slicked back and his gaunt eyes watched me with a scrutinizing gaze. He wore a crisp pinstripe suit and extended his hand.

“Welcome, Mr. Wiley,” he said as he shook my hand, “I’ve been expecting you here for quite some time.”

He beckoned me to step inside and I entered into the house. The main lobby was filled with computer terminals, hordes of people crowding around each computer. As a person finished on the computer they got up and then moved to the back of the crowd, waiting to get back on the computer. I looked over at my host and he smiled at me.

“This is the Social Media Center,” he gestured toward the crowds of people around the computers, “where our residents gather to spend precious time on websites like Facebook and Twitter.”

“Why do they get back in line when they are finished?” I asked.

“They feel compelled to check them constantly, fearing that if they don’t they will miss a vital status update or tweet. Others tend their farm or mafia as soon as they have enough energy to do another action.”

I frowned, watching the mass of people continuously cycling through the computers. “This seems a bit ridiculous to me,” I finally brought myself to say.

“Haven’t you ever checked a website repeatedly throughout a day?” he asked, licking his lips. When I shrugged his smile faded a bit. “Clearly not the place for you,” he said, turning toward the hallway. “Follow me. We’ll find somewhere to your liking. People always fit in somewhere.”

The walls of the hall were lined with hundreds of nameless pictures, some faded and others recent. My host stopped me in front of a vacant spot, gesturing toward the space. “We have a place for you here, Mr. Wiley. Your picture shall be enshrined forever in this hall.”

“What are all of these pictures here for?” I asked, unable to suppress my curiosity.

“This is the Hall of Could Haves,” he said, watching at me with his beady black eyes. “All of the people here could have achieved their dreams but chose to accept failure instead.” He walked along, motioning to various pictures on the wall as he spoke. “This one could have written a bestselling novel. This one could have cured cancer. She could have become president. He could have traveled to Mars.”

“I get the idea,” I said. He turned down another corridor, leading me away from the Hall of Could Haves. The wallpaper on the wall ended abruptly in the middle of the corridor, being replaced by large black stones that lined the walls, floor, and ceiling.

“Ah, here we are,” he said with a smirk as we stepped into a chamber with many doors. “I think you will feel more at home here, in the Writer’s Block Wing of my house.”

“There is a whole wing?” I said.

“There are a lot of writers that reside here,” he said with a wink, “so you’ll never lack company during your stay. Each stone in this wing is a genuine writer’s block, guaranteed to stop the writing process before it starts.” He turned to the left and opened up a door. An overweight man sat in a computer chair, surrounded by three computer screens and two televisions. Empty pizza boxes and Mountain Dew cans littered the area around him. My host turned to me and smiled, beckoning me inside. “I think you will feel quite at home here with Distraction.

“All the video games, television, movies, and internet surfing you could ever desire can be enjoyed here. You’ll never have to worry about writing again with all of these things to occupy your time. We have a whole network of computers set up in the back for your MMORPG pleasures, where most people spend their time playing World of Warcraft. But you, I believe, had a different preference: Final Fantasy XI, yes?”

I looked at the multitude of people in the room with Distraction, absorbed in reruns of Family Guy or playing video games for day after day. I shook my head, saying, “Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.”

Then he beckoned me to follow him out of the room, frowning at his failure to seduce me with the pleasures of Distraction. He ushered me into a new room filled with people looking depressed and dejected. “Perhaps staying with Pessimism might be more to your liking? Spend your time here allowing your thoughts to dwell upon your shortcomings as a writer, comparing your own works to those who are better than yours.” He gestured to a massive doorway in the back, saying, “Back there is the Room of Rejection, where you can have your stories and poems rejected. Of course, there is the standard 2-4 month wait for that privilege.

“Would these accommodations be more to your liking?” he concluded with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. I looked around the room at the despondent faces all around and the stacks of rejection letters littering the space. I witnessed everyone passing each other without a word, their gazes always cast downward. I shook my head again, looking at my host with my response.

“Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.”

My host looked dejected himself as he led me out of the room and hurried me through the largest door of them all. Dozens of people sat behind desks, working meticulously on writing papers. A tall, balding man wandered about the room, wielding a red pen that he used frequently as he passed by the papers. Each time he made a mark the person set the paper aside and started anew on a fresh sheet.

“This is the room of Perfection,” my host said to me as we watched the red pen mark up another paper. “Here you can hone your writing skills by writing and rewriting until your draft reaches the point of perfection.” He points to a pair of people near the back, both with stacks of discarded papers reaching above them. “Those two have been working here the longest. She has been writing the first three chapters of her novel, carefully revising it over and over. He has almost finished the first sentence of his story, having eliminated a comma and placed it back in repeatedly for months. When they finish, they will have the first flawless novels in history.”

He turned to me, eyebrows raised while awaiting a nod of approval. The appeal of Perfection drew me in enough to give it consideration, but finally I shook my head once more and said, “I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me.That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

My host’s face became disfigured and wrought with anger and frustration. His failure to win me over a third time was more than he could handle. He lifted a hand to lash out at me when the house and its inhabitants disappeared. I stood in an open meadow where the House of Failure had been, the sun shining radiantly down upon my face. The sights and sounds of God’s handiwork surrounded me, filling me with an inspiration to write once more. So I sat in the green grass, pen and paper in hand, and began to write.

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This in another entry into the Master Class. This idea came to mind earlier in the week and pretty much demanded to be written. It is a bit of a departure from my normal writing, but I hope you found it to be an interesting venture.

Packing Up My Dinosaurs

Tags

Helvetica, love of writing, Modern Day Publishing, rejection, short story, writing prompt

The harsh wind whipped through the desolate streets as I walked along the sidewalk, sending chills coursing through my body as it cut through my layers of protection. My shoes crunched the snow beneath my feet with every step I took. My gloved hand grasped the black handle of a briefcase that held my most precious documents. Today was the day when I would face my destiny and become a published author.

I walked into the lobby of Modern Day Publishing and looked around. Every tile and pillar and panel had been painstakingly polished causing the reflected fluorescent light to be blinding. Potted plants were meticulously maintained, trimmed into decorative designs. A young woman, her blond hair framing her face, sat behind an oak desk. She tapped her pen on the desktop and cleared her throat as she stared at me through her gold horn-rimmed glasses. I walked over to her and set my briefcase down.

“Do you have an appointment?” she said, stifling a yawn with a manicured hand.

“David Wiley here to see Mr. Helvetica,” I answered, handing her a business card. She set it aside without glancing at the card and then motioned for me to sit down in one of the luxurious brown leather recliners.

She made no indication of alerting anyone to my presence. Five minutes passed and I stood up, but she motioned for me to sit and reassured me that Mr. Helvetica would see me shortly. Another ten passed and my foot began to fidget, tapping the floor repeatedly. She peered at me from behind her spectacles and shushed me and I begrudgingly complied.

A restless hour was spent in the lobby, waiting as patiently as possible. No one else entered or left the building or any of the offices behind the receptionist’s desk. At long last she stood up and motioned for me to follow her. She pulled open a large mahogany door and I stepped into Mr. Helvetica’s office.

Stacks of loose papers covered his desk, most of them stacked as high as my chest. A paperweight rested atop each pile, marked with either the word “Slush” or “Reject”. A small pile sat in the far corner with a paper weight marked “Accepted”.

The man behind the desk rose to his feet as I approached. His face looked to have been permanently sunburned and his black hair was peppered with streaks of gray. The sleeves of his white shirt left several inches of his forearm exposed as he extended a hand. I shook it and sat down, noting he was completely concealed behind the papers.

“Mr. Wiley,” he said as he shuffled enough papers aside to allow eye contact, “I hear you want to become a published writer.”

“Yes sir,” I said.

“I’ve looked over the samples you sent me from your blog,” he said, frowning with the last word, “And I think you have potential.”

“Thank you,” I said before being cut off by the publisher.

“But there is one major problem with what you are writing: I can’t sell this stuff,” he said, shuffling through some papers. He holds up a printed story and slides it across. “For example, what on earth is this thing?”

I glanced at the story and shook my head. “Don’t you recognize an Omnidirectional Symetricum when you see it?”

“I can’t even pronounce that,” he said with a scowl, “and neither could a reader. This story isn’t marketable, nor is this one about the paradox thingamajig.”

“Problematic Paradox?” I asked and he nodded. “What is the problem with that story?”

“This theory of compoststability or whatever you call it. No one will know what that is.”

“They can Google the Theory of Compossibility, or even look on Wikipedia if they had to,” I said. “It is a real theory about a possible side-effect from time travel.”

“It doesn’t happen to Doctor Who,” he replied, “and people would read a story based on Doctor Who. They won’t read this.” He pulled out another paper and slid it across the desk. “This one won’t do, either.”

“What is wrong with The Unobliging Princess?”

“Don Quixote lost its popularity centuries ago. The old man should be diagnosed with dementia or something and restrained in a nursing home, not parading around on farcical adventures with his grandchildren.

“I need something that people will want to read, like a love story. Those are popular right now.”

“I can write love stories. Did you not read Brief Chance Interaction? Sunrise Revelation? Those have love.”

“Not the kind of love these people want to read about. It needs to either have whips and chains or else humans loving werewolves and vampires. Not this PG garbage.”

“Okay, what about my novel-in-progress, The Curse of Fierabras?”

Mr. Helvetica sighed and shook his head in frustration. “Robert Jordan is dead now, and with him the demand for the epic fantasy book series. They don’t want tales of war and the hero’s journey to overcome evil. Besides, we don’t want something ‘in-progress’. We need a finished product.

“You blogger types go and parade incomplete works in miniature installments and think people are going to want to read it. Well they won’t read it, and if they do they won’t pay for something they have already read.”

I could tell that I was wasting my time with this guy. He had no interest in publishing anything I had written, but had instead brought me in to discredit everything I had labored over. I still had one last story to pitch.”

“Monster Hunter,” I blurted out. I could read in his eyes that I wasn’t going to like his response.

“Who is the main antagonist?” he started in, his face turning a brighter shade of red. “You made her walk away from the dinosaur-”

“Dragon,” I corrected.

“Whatever. You made her leave behind a possible nemesis and head off to find some dinglegang-”

“Doppelganger.”

“Whatever,” he said as he slammed his fist on the desk, shifting a multitude of papers in the process. “Not only is there a lack of a major villain, but you also chose to write a strong female lead. People won’t read stories with female leads, especially not in fantasy.

“If you made Ava into a young male knight who was tragically in love with a vampiric princess, I might be able to sell it. What you have here has no chance of being on the New York Times bestseller list, much less the bookshelf of a Barnes and Noble store. You will never make a living as a writer with these.”

I stood up, fists clenched as I looked Mr. Helvetica in the eye and replied, “If my writing isn’t marketable with the stories I enjoy writing, then I don’t want to make a living as a writer. I wake up every day to ideas swirling in my mind and love sitting down to put these stories down on paper.

“I don’t need your stamp of approval, nor a spot on a bestsellers list, to be a writer. I want to be published to allow a greater number of people to read and enjoy them, but if you can’t take them as they are then I will pack up my paradoxes, robots, ogres, heroes, and dragons and take them somewhere else.”

“No one else will-” he cut in but I refused to let him interject his entire thought.

“If no one else will, then I will do it myself. I will remain in my corner of the blogging world, sharing a million stories without being paid a penny. Because I am doing what I love and no sum of money could make me write anything that I don’t enjoy.”

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Tonight’s post was courtesy of a writing prompt, as well as inspiration from one of the Ray Bradbury quotes I shared the other day. I tried to have some fun with this, yet at the same time sharing my love for writing. Even if I never “make it” as an author, I still enjoy writing the things I like for this blog. And I hope you enjoy reading some of them, too.

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Eric Storch at http://sinistralscribblings.com gave me this prompt: “Don’t you recognize an Omnidirectional Symetricum when you see one?”

I gave Lance at http://lancemyblogcanbeatupyourblog.wordpress.com this prompt: He closed his eyes, hoping to wake up suddenly from this nightmare.

Team Nine: Whispatory and Scholarly Scribe – Part 2

Tags

apprentice, magic, master, partner, short story, Trifecta, Whispatory, writing prompt

Tonight I’ll begin with an announcement: I have entered Ogre Hunt into the America’s Next Author contest. So go there and grab a copy, read it, review it, and vote for it!

This week Trifecta is having their anniversary challenge, randomly pairing us with a partner for the prompt. My partner is Jennifer from Whispatory, who completed the first portion of the challenge earlier this week. Today I will pick up where she left off and finish the story in my allotted 33-100 words.

The bold paragraph was the initial start to the story given to her. The italics are what Jennifer added to it, and then we’ll transition into the conclusion that I’m adding.

Charts and optimal dates and preferential temperatures. One line or two. As if she could summon whatever it is that makes up the human soul as easily as she could a cab on a busy New York avenue.

She can’t but her mentor can. Her lips press into a grim line, sweat pops on her forehead as she pumps harder straining her quads and calves, weaving in and out of traffic. It’s dangerous she knows, a door could open any second and send her slamming down on asphalt only to be crushed under relentless rubber wheels. But she is far less afraid of that fate than not retrieving the package her mentor sent her to collect in time.

She skids to a halt, teetering on her toes, just in time to avoid being cut off by a red convertible. She sprints down the street, worried that she might be late. She hurdles a door that opens in front of her, thinking that this would be easier if he taught her to fly.

Twelve years as his apprentice and she was still learning basics.

She rounds a corner and cuts into an alley, taking the fire escape into an abandoned apartment. She enters into the room through a broken window.

“Congratulations,” her master says, “today you become a master.”

The Doctor

Tags

Brotherhood of Mutants, comic, doctor, healing, Kitty Pryde, mutant, short story, superhero, writing prompt, X-Men

The doctor woke up afraid. He was fairly certain that he had nearly died this time, yet he knew that would not stop him from doing it again. People were coming from around the world to seek him out, praying for him to heal them. They called him a miracle worker. Some whispered among themselves that he was some sort of messiah, come to save them all from the depravity and degeneration of the world. If only they knew the truth: he wasn’t a messiah, he was a mutant.

Of course he had been watching the news for years and knew all about the conflict raging between the Brotherhood and the X-Men. About the widespread chaos and destruction that their battles often generated. He had no place among those mutants. He was a healer of illnesses, not a leveler of buildings. And he had far too much work to do to chase childish notions of donning a costume and parading around as some farcical superhero.

He struggled to his feet, his knees shaky. Perspiration dripped from his forehead as he shuffled across the room, cautious not to overexert himself. It was always like this for a while after he healed someone. It drained his body to absorb their illness or injury, and even with his accelerated healing it took time for his body to fight the disease or heal the trauma.

They would consider him crazy if they knew what he endured to heal complete strangers. Sometimes it caused him to black out as the pain overwhelmed his senses. Last night he had blacked out when he healed the little girl. She had broken a few ribs during a fall and it had punctured her aorta. Her elderly father had come to stand in line, like all the others crowded outside his office, hoping for a chance to be seen. He had sensed the little girl’s suffering and called them in. He didn’t know at the time if his body could come back from that, but he knew he had to try.

And he knew, when he woke up, that it had almost killed him. But the girl lived, and to him that was the important thing. He felt a great responsibility to use his power for the good of others. Where modern medicine failed, he did not. It was his gift, and at the same time his curse. The crowd outside would never let him leave until they were all healed, and he could only heal a limited number before he needed to recover.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door slammed open. He turned to rebuke Virginia for bothering him so soon, but it was not Virginia standing in the doorway. It was one of those mutants that he had seen on the news lately. He racked his memory for her name, trying to recall which side she fought on.

Not that it mattered. He knew he would heal her, like he had healed so many others. She looked up at him, her eyes imploring assistance before she collapsed onto the floor. And in that moment he remembered who it was. Katherine Anne Pryde had come to him for help.

To be continued…

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This is a response to the fourth Master Class writing prompt, which came from Anne Rice’s novel, The Witching Hour. We had to begin with the line “The doctor woke up afraid”, which stumped me for a while. And then yesterday I went for a run after work and hammered out the basic idea for this story.

I’ve been a huge X-Men fan for a long time. While I never collected the comic books, I did watch a lot of the cartoon series when it was televised. I thought it would be fun to finally write a superhero story, since I’ve been wanting to do that for months. At this point in time it seems likely that there will be a total of three parts to this, although it all depends on how in-depth I start to get with the story.

So, between this and Monster Hunter, check back often for some continuing stories!

Burning Away The Past

Tags

burning, candle, fiction, letting go, old boyfriend, past, photos, scriptic, short story, Trifecta, writing prompt

She never seemed to be able to get away from him, no matter what she tried. Every time she thought she had forgotten him, he popped back into her life. It has been years since they had been together, yet he still dominated her thoughts. He would smile if he knew that he still could control her, even after all this time. She knew it was time to change things.

After all, if he still controlled her now then he might control her still in the year 2019, ten years after he left her. Did she want to end up on her deathbed, decades from now, looking back at a life that was never truly her own after she met him?

She lit a candle, watching the flame flicker to life, the aroma of apples and cinnamon filling the air. She hated the smell of cinnamon, but he had insisted on getting these candles. She wondered if it was only because he knew she couldn’t stand the smell. But even now she couldn’t bring herself to buy anything but apple cinnamon because of him.

Blue and green smoke trailed into the air as the flame devoured old pictures of him. She burned every picture she owned from when they were together. She knew she needed to purge him from her life, but now she needed to add the real fuel to the fire.

She grabbed her box of mementos, which once had been small enough to fit in her dresser drawer but now had to be kept in her closet, and pulled out the memories of him. His old sweatshirt that he always wore, a half-eaten box of milk duds from their first date, and the toenail clippers he kept by the bed were among the casualties of the night. As she watched them engulfed in the raging fire she smiled, feeling free for the first time in years. By burning away the past, she finally found a way to let go.

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I blame this post on watching too much Friends lately. When I was given my Scriptic prompt for this week, I immediately thought of the episode where they burn things from their old boyfriends. What else was I supposed to do with a candle, toenail clippers, and a box of milk duds!?

This post actually fulfills two prompts: Scriptic and Trifecta.

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Barb Black at http://blackinkpad.blogspot.com gave me this prompt: a candle, toenail clippers, and a box of milkduds

I gave Jester Queen at http://jesterqueen.com this prompt: He finally did it. After years of failure he…

For Trifecta we needed a post between 33 and 333 words that used the third definition of Year:

YEAR (noun)

1: the period of about 3651/4 solar days required for one revolution of the earth around the sun
2: a cycle in the Gregorian calendar of 365 or 366 days divided into 12 months beginning with January and ending with December

3 : a calendar year specified usually by a number <died in the year 1900>

The Adventure

Tags

adventure, character, essence of life, story, why I write, words, writer, Writing, writing prompt

Each carefully crafted story taking both reader and writer on an exciting adventure, creating bonds with the characters through their trials and their triumphs and capturing an essence of life within the words.

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Tonight’s post was in response to the Trifexta prompt which asked for 33 words on why we write. It still amazes me how often a story or character takes on a life of its own while being written, leading things in an unexpected direction.