Flash Fiction - Finish Line

The neon lights flashed and flickered, giving the crowd surrounding the starting line the look of a rave. They were loud and staring, staring at the two machines crouched just behind the white line that had been hurriedly sprayed across the street. A light drizzle fell on the whole scene, making the dark pavement reflect the lights and faces, distorting them as the water trembled in time with the deafening music.

Laach gripped the steering wheel as his vehicle rumbled beneath him. Though the night was cool, sweat beaded his forehead and he nervously glanced to his left, to the vehicle sitting next to his, to the driver inside. The other driver caught his glance and smiled at him, a mocking, arrogant smile.

Kurt looked confident. Of course he did; he’d won every single ’scraper race he’d ever competed in. Laach jerked his head back around to face the front, nervously twisting his hands where they gripped the wheel. He had to win this match. If he did, the money he’d win would pay his sister’s trip up the gravity well to the habitats. There, she’d be able to go to school and have a better life.

If he lost, he’d lose his machine. His machine was everything to him. He had to win this match.

The flagger stepped out in front of them, tight vinyl suit hugging his every curve. Flag went up. Flag went down.

Laach stomped on the accelerator and grunted as he was slammed back into his seat. His machine’s engine growled, then whined as the RPMs shot up and it leaped forward. He held on for dear life, keeping the wheel straight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Kurt was right there, right next to him, his own machine howling as he kept pace. Laach gritted his teeth in frustration, an angry, desperate growl escaping his lips. The low buildings flanking either side of the street flashed by, a stream of multicolored neon lights that blended into a rainbow as they reached 150 kph.

Suddenly, there it was, the end of the road. Laach pushed harder on the accelerator, trying to coax just a little more power from his machine as they both flashed to the edge. Then, both vehicles shot out over the side of the skyscraper, leaving the support of the solid street and entering the floating mag-lane. The mag-generators at the front and rear of his machine flared and buzzed with arcing energy as they created the vehicle’s magnetic field to latch onto the mag-lane.

 His mag-gens had a little more lag than Kurt’s, and the other driver’s vehicle shot forward into the empty between scrapers. Laach watched Kurt pull away and something like panic bubbled up inside him, stealing his breath even as he wanted to scream and rail at Kurt, at his vehicle, at the mag-gens.

But, there wasn’t time for that. This was just the start; he still had time to catch Kurt, to pass him up. He focused on the arcing mag-gens at the back of Kurt’s machine. They arced with purple light, reaching out and snapping back as the vehicle screamed past the mag-buoys.

Laach’s own mag-gens crackled with blue light. The were slower to generate the field, but they were supposed to have a higher top speed. That might not matter so much, now, he thought, as Kurt’s vehicle started to pull away from his in the mag-lane. Not if I can’t catch him, anyway! With that thought, he stomped on the accelerator again, coaxing all the power he could from the reactor. He reached down and flipped a switch, turning off the restrictor built into the reactor, letting it run free.

His vehicle surged forward, his mag-gens flared and crackled blindingly, and the scream the vehicle had been making took on a note of agony. Laach gritted his teeth as he held onto the steering wheel, keeping the vehicle in the mag-lane, and swooping past Kurt.

“Hold together,” he prayed, glancing down at the displays on his dash. Most of them showed red or flashed warnings. “Hold together!”

He passed Kurt’s vehicle in a blink and rocketed towards the next skyscraper, where the race would end. With a grin, he flicked the restrictor back on, sighing with relief.

Nothing happened. The indicator next to the restrictor flashed yellow, then back to red. He flicked it off, then back on again. Again, the indicator flashed yellow, then back to red. It wouldn’t re-engage, and the agonized scream his vehicle made was turning desperate.

A mag-gen in the back of his vehicle exploded with a crack and bucked him to the side, sending his vehicle swerving down the mag-lane. “No. No!” he screamed as he fought the wheel for control. He could see the ’scraper approaching, he could see the last few mag-buoys between him and the edge. He had to make it!

The neon warning lights of the buoys flashed past him, one, then two as he fought for control. Another mag-gen sparked and arced and kicked him to the other side of the mag-lane, and he fought against that, too.

Third buoy. Fourth. The edge!

His vehicle crashed to the top of the ’scraper and slid across the spray-painted finish line just before Kurt’s vehicle flashed past him in a desperate attempt to win.

Laach climbed shakily out of his vehicle to the screams of the crowd. He’d done it. He’d beaten Kurt! And won the money to give his sister a new life. The crowd lifted him up, bouncing him on their shoulders as the organizer reached out and handed him his winnings.

As the crowd carried him around, he spotted Kurt, who was leaning against his own vehicle, watching. The other driver gave him a half-smile and saluted with one finger touching his brow. The arrogance was gone, replaced by an expression of grudging respect.

A laugh bubbled up from Laach’s chest and leaped out of his mouth.

“I did it!”

In Search of a System - Orpheus

Chances are, if you’re reading this, you know I’m a big fan of table top role playing games. You might have listened to my old podcast, Shark Bone, or you follow me on Twitter. Most of my online presence has to do with table top RPGs. Initially, this blog was supposed to be apart from them, but they are such a huge part of what I like, I found that trying to separate them was short-sighted, and not very true to who I am.

Besides, they are stories. And if this blog is about anything, it’s about stories.

In my gaming group, there is one story that is something of a white whale: Orpheus. I’m talking about the role playing game published by White Wolf in the early 2000s about ghosts. It is a story that spans 6 books and is rather epic in scale. I had the opportunity to play in a game, almost from start to finish, near to the beginning of my gaming career. It was intense and amazing. I created and played two characters for the game, experiencing their tragedies, learning about myself, and working through personal issues through their eyes and actions in the story.

As far as I’m aware, that’s the only complete run-through we’ve had in my circle of friends. Actually, I do believe there was one more, but I was not part of it. The other attempts have all fizzled, for one reason or another.

I have committed to run Orpheus for my game group. Two of them have played through it once. The other two have heard all the stories we tell and are excited to experience it for themselves. Honestly, I’m not sure I can do it justice. That may just be personal insecurities popping up, at least I hope it is, but it’s a very real concern and one I’ll have to resolve if I want the game to be the most fun I can make it.

A big part of my issue is the system. It’s an old game, and uses an old system. This system, the Storyteller System (as opposed to the Storytelling system), is not one I particularly love or am even very versed in. When my friend ran it for us, he modified it heavily, updating it with newer system design ideas (from the New World of Darkness Storytelling System) and making it run smoother for him, and us. That was fine, then.

I don’t think I want to do that. At least, not exactly how he did it. I know that I don’t really want to run it with the original system. I know that I do want to run it with a system that fits my Game Mastering style, and has the tools needed to tell its story. And, what kind of story is it?

• Horror: It has ghosts and the characters explore a new world, with new rules, scary baddies and enemies on all sides. Parts of the story features helplessness and being on the run.
• Power Fantasy: The characters get super-special, magical ghost powers they can use when they are out of their body. They’re cool and the players love using them.
• Intrigue: There are many factions who are working towards their own ends, and they may be friends, enemies, or both, of the characters during the story.

I’m not an expert on Orpheus, so there are probably (definitely) additional themes. But, these are the big ones I remember from my playthrough. With those being the main themes I want to concentrate on with my run-through of the story, the question becomes this: What system will support those themes, while giving me the ease of running that I want? I have played around with porting the game to the Fate RPG in the past, as well as the Cypher System. Both of those would work, but my group doesn’t like Fate much, and I’ve realized I don’t want to put Orpheus into a level-based system. I thought about trying Modern AGE, but ultimately abandoned it, as I didn’t want to put any work into a hack I was never going to use, and it uses levels.

Recently, I’ve begun running Scion 2e for my online group and I think I like the system. We’ve only had three real sessions, so we’re still muddling through the rules, but it has quite a few things going for it. The Storypath system is a fork of the Storyteller system. The Antagonist templates are easy to use, and the whole system for enemies makes it easy to create baddies on the fly. Because the bones of the systems are similar, it would probably not take overly-much work to convert things into Storypath. The system has a nice mix of rules and fiction support.

It has Powers. It has Intrigue. Can it do Horror? I think it can. When I think of horror, I think of dealing with the unknown. The unknown is scary. The game has rules for investigations, that it calls Procedurals, so we can play through finding the unknown and working to understand it. I also think of big scary baddies, things that are tough to deal with. The game has a rule for Scale, which gives bonuses to something that’s larger than the characters. That could make those baddies harder, or even impossible for the characters to deal with. So, like I said, I think it can handle the horror.

Those are my three themes, and my concern for ease-of-use, as far as running the game goes, taken care of. So, what else holds me back? I’m really not very good at game design. I really wish I was, because tabletop role playing games are so much fun. I love playing them, I love running them more, and I love thinking about different stories to run at the table. But, customizing a system to run a story is not my strong suit. I wish I was better at it, but… The big issue is honestly, probably, me getting too much into my head and wanting to get it “right” the first time, instead of making something and tweaking, changing or iterating the rules as the story goes.

That process is something that drove me absolutely nuts in my early gaming career. The system is there for a reason, the rules are there for a reason, for us all to agree on their use, and for us all to understand how things work. But, many times, the rules didn’t work. Which is why they got changed or tweaked by my friend who ran so many of the games we played, back then. Having a rule change between weekly sessions made me feel like I never had a sure understanding of how things worked, and that was very frustrating.

I’ve come to the point where I understand this need on more than an intellectual level. I’m open to it, I am eager for it. But, I don’t know how to do it. Again, I think I already know the answer: Just do it, then iterate. But, finding the motivation to start, then continue, then test it, is hard. Of course, it’s doable. Of course it is.

And, doable by me.

I wouldn’t be doing it alone, of course. In the initial stages, I’d likely be leaning heavily on my friend who ran the original Orpheus game. He’s got more than a decade of experience in tweaking systems, and he has a mind for them. His feedback will be invaluable. And, of course, the players at the table would be the ones using the system I put together, so their opinions will be extremely informative.

And, throughout it all, I’ll have to keep in mind that, this is for fun. The point is to entertain and be entertained by the wonderful story we all are making together. So, maybe I will start working on a Storypath hack of Orpheus. Or, maybe after I think about it more, I’ll use something else. I’m a huge fan of Burning Wheel, especially the Mouse Guard 2e simplified version. I’m just not sure it can satisfy my themes.

It’s hard to find the perfect way to tell an individual story, at the gaming table. There are so many systems, so many different likes and dislikes, so many things that could go wrong and need to be fixed. I do believe, though, that it could be very satisfying, in the end. Even if it doesn’t work the first time, I’ll just have to try, try again.

Writing Focus + Dragon Rider's Bond Intro

"Hello, Stranger!" you say to me, as I sit at your table and pull the pitcher of beer towards me. "It's been quite awhile since you've been around here, telling your tales." I grab a mug from a neighboring table and toss the dregs onto the straw-strewn floor and wipe it out roughly with the bottom of my shirt before filling it from your pitcher. I meet your gaze and down all of it before slamming the mug down with a satisfied sigh.

"Indeed it has," I answer. "But, I'm back!" I grin and chuckle to myself before adding, "For a time, anyway."

--//--

So much time has gone by since I've updated this space! It's hard to believe; it feels like it's been forever, and at the same time, like no time has passed at all. But, here I am! With more to share! More words to write and thoughts to give shape!

I've been writing up a storm since my last update and have jumped from one project to another, at least twice. In that time, I've learned a lot about who I am as a writer and have realized what it is I want to write.

Romance.

"But, Devon," you say, disbelief in your voice, "you don't strike me as someone who would be into that!"

I totally am. Really. I love reading romance. I love the discussions, the interactions, the tension, the arousal, the release, the betrayal, the hurt, the drama, the emotions! Yes, I read a lot of different things, but I'm always happiest and get invested the most in the stories that focus on relationships and love. And sex, of course. Yes, I want to write sex, but I don't want that to be the focus of my writing. I'm going to be writing steamy scenes and hot love and desperate desire and all of that, but the focus has to be the romance.

And, realizing that, I've been much happier with my writing projects. I even abandoned one after hitting more than ten thousand words to start it over as a romance, as opposed to a science fiction adventure. Then, I put that one on hold to indulge in a burning need to write a fantasy story. So, in finding my focus, I guess I sort of lost focus, a bit.

But, that's okay! Any endeavor involves learning and exploring and finding the path to follow, or the path to blaze. That's what I hope I'm doing and I hope that it will lead me to the happiness and fulfillment I seek.

Now, because I really, really want to share my writing, even if it's not in very good form, what follows is the start of my fantasy romance, Dragon Rider's Bond.

--//--

Fall’s teeth rattled as the fireball exploded in the air nearby. The heat washed over her in a powerful wave and made her dragon mount surge up in the air column. In the back of her mind, she heard the dragon hiss in pain.

Trix, are you all right? she called out, mentally, even as she scanned the ground for the source of the fireball. The two of them were on their way to an outpost at the edge of their king’s realm and it seemed that whoever had thrown that fireball wanted to stop them from arriving.

Or, they just hated dragons.

Trixahlbegn, or Trix for short, snarled audibly, but answered Fall through their mind-link, I am hurt, but I do not believe it is a grave injury!

Fall grinned as the wind whipped at her short hair. Good, she thought back. We owe this wizard some payback! Trix’s angry scream agreed with her.

The dragon banked to the left, tilting Fall enough so she could see straight down onto the ground. The wizard was down there somewhere, likely preparing another spell to throw at the two of them. Fall didn’t want to get hit with another fireball, for sure, and even though Trix said she was good enough to keep fighting, she worried for her friend.

A flash appeared on the ground: another spell! Image and emotion flashed through the mind-link and Trix banked away from the tiny ball of light rising from the ground, and dove down. The sunlight glinted off of Trix’s bronze scales as she swept down through the air towards the ground. Fall’s heart leaped up into her throat as they fell, but her grin told the true story of her ecstasy. The fireball exploded harmlessly above them.

Quickly, she grabbed up her bow from the hooks that held it to the dragon saddle and drew an arrow. With speed born of intense training, she nocked, drew, and released the arrow in the blink of an eye. The arrow soared through the air towards the wizard, striking the figure in the shoulder.

The impact caused the wizard to stumble, and the magical energies he’d been gathering between his hands flashed and dissipated. The figure looked up at the glorious terror falling down on him as Trix opened her mouth and screamed her rage down on him. The wizard threw his arms up over his head, as if trying to protect himself, then Trix’s lightning breath washed over him.

Trix wheeled around and quickly slammed down to the ground, facing the ruined corpse that had been their attacker. Fall slid down from the saddle and rolled when she hit the ground, and rushed towards the body, drawing her sword. The wizard was obviously dead, but she’d never known a wizard to travel alone before. She had to be ready for his party members, wherever they might be.

But, there was no one. Fall stood over the corpse, sword drawn, and watched the nearby tree line until she was satisfied that no one was coming. Returning her sword to its sheath, she examined the wizard’s body.

He had obviously been of orcish descent, though those traits were faded from mingling with other humanoid bloodlines. Small canines jutted out from his bottom lip and his jaw was very square. His shoulders were much wider than most wizards she’d seen. They tended to be thin, sickly individuals, who spent their lives hunched over books and rare spell components. He had dressed in the thick furs of the Northern kingdom.

She frowned at that. They were hundreds of miles away from the border with the Northern kingdom. What was he doing all the way down here? And, attacking one of the King’s Riders? She set about the distasteful task of rifling through his pockets, needing to see if he carried any kind of letter, orders or something to explain his presence.

Dimly, she became aware of Trix’s heavy breathing behind her. Then, she felt emotion through the mind-link, pain and fear.

Fall, I– Trix began, then the ground trembled as Trix collapsed.

Fall turned in panic, forgetting about the corpse, and rushed over to see her friend. “Trix!” she shouted. The bronze dragon lay on the ground in a haphazard heap, limbs and wings splayed out, eyes closed. Fall rushed over, desperate to find what was wrong with her mount.

The injury was easily found; a burned and blistered swatch of skin and scales across Trix’s belly and feet. It oozed blood and other clear fluids. Dirt, leaves and sticks stuck to the wound where Trix had fallen to the ground. The wound was nasty, and would have made Fall a little sick to her stomach if she weren’t so preoccupied with being afraid for her friend’s life.

Even though they were new to the King’s Dragon Riders, they had spent months training together and she knew exactly what to do. They carried medicines, potions and salves to deal with injuries. She just had to get them. Fall scampered up Trix’s foreleg, careful to avoid all of the burns, and worked her way up to the dragon saddle. One of the bags was full of healing potions, magically brewed to heal injury and restore consciousness to both dragon and rider.

Fall yanked one out of the leather bag, careful to fasten the buttons that would keep the lid closed and its contents from falling out during aerial maneuvers. She clamped the bottle between her teeth and started to make her way back down her friend’s flank, but paused.

The potions, saddle and other supplied in the saddle bags wouldn’t survive if Trix thrashed around while injured. The potion would heal her, a little, but they tasted vile. She couldn’t know how Trix would react when she administered the potion, so she scurried back up to the saddle and yanked on the quick release. The fastenings all popped open and the saddle slid down Trix’s back to fall on the ground.

There, that was as safe as she could make their supplies. Trix needed her help!

Fall turned and slid down the dragon’s neck, bumping into Trix’s large jaw. The step up from neck to jaw was large, almost more than Fall could navigate, but, with the potion in her teeth, she could use both her feet and hands to get to where she needed to be. Soon, she was sitting on Trix’s cheek, staring into her large mouth through her razor sharp teeth.

“Okay, Trix, don’t bite off my arm,” she muttered as she pulled the stopper from the potion bottle, and reached through the razors to pour the potion into the dragon’s mouth.

She yanked her arm back just in time as Trix’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes flew open. The dragon reared up, dumping Fall to the ground, and shook its head with a mighty growl.

“Yeeuch!” she cried, smacking her scaly lips around her black tongue. She blinked, then looked down at her wounds, which were itching like crazy. Fall watched as the blood seeped back into her skin and scales and the clear ooze dried up. The sticks and leaves that had stuck to Trix’s body fell away, though the dirt was left smeared on.

Trix looked over at Fall, and Fall felt Trix’s gratitude through their mind-link. Thank you, friend, she said.

Fall smiled and nodded, and blew out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad the potion helped. Part of me was afraid that they wouldn’t do anything and you’d–“ she herself off with a shake of her head. She felt understanding flow through the -link and smiled up at the dragon.

I believe we can continue, Trix said, as she tried to stand up. The action obviously took great effort, as her muscles trembled underneath her metallic scales and her breathing huffed and puffed. She managed to get to her feet and tried to stretch her wings out, when she recoiled with a loud groan and collapsed back to her side.

Perhaps I need some rest, she admitted. Fall smiled at her and pushed hair up off of her own forehead.

“You definitely need some rest,” Fall said. The dragon nodded sagely.

Fall stepped closer to Trix’s supine body and looked at the wounds. They no longer weeped any fluids, but the skin was still red, raw and puckered around burned scales. “I’m no healer,” she began.

I know, Trix answered, sending Fall her memory of their Healer training, in which Fall had failed to properly apply a bandage to a fake wound on Trix’s ankle. No matter how many times she’d tried, the old tutor had shook his head and told her to do it over again. After the greater part of an hour of failed attempts, the old man had finally sent them away, telling Fall to always stay close to a Roost, where Dragon Riders gathered when not on missions, because if she had to apply a bandage in the field, they would both die.

Fall rolled her eyes dramatically and softly backhanded Trix’s massive foreleg. “You stop,” she laughed. They shared a moment of levity before Fall continued what she’d been saying before. “Like I said, I’m not a healer, but I think your wound still needs some treatment.” She paused, giving Trix an opening for a sarcastic comment, which the dragon did not take.

“So, I’m going to have to look around. Surely there are herbs around here that I can use to make an ointment.” Fall looked up at Trix, her eyes asking the question, “Agreed?”

Trix again nodded her giant head. A pause drew out as they stared at one another, then Trix asked the small woman, Would you like me to tell you what to look for?

Fall burst out laughing. “Yes, please! I am horrible at herbs,” she chuckled. Mirth flooded Fall’s mind through the link as Trix’s body rumbled with the draconic equivalent.

Yes, I know, Trix answered.

Images flooded Fall’s mind from Trix, as the dragon showed her what herbs and other substances she needed to collect to make a proper ointment to treat the burns. Fall walked into the woods and went about the time-consuming process of finding the necessary ingredients.

An hour later, she was spreading her attempt at medicine on Trix’s body. The mixture stank and made the dragon hiss as she applied it, which she was pretty sure wasn’t supposed to be the case. “Is it that bad?” she asked.

The dragon shook it’s massive head. While I do think there’s much room for improvement in your healing skills, this does appear to be working. After the initial sting, it is numbing the pain.

Fall wanted to believe her, but part of her, no small part, if she was being honest, had trouble believing anything that smelled of praise. But, she needed Trix better, so she kept wiping the ointment on the burns, wincing every time her friend hissed in pain.

Later, she sat on the cold ground next to the small fire she’d built for warmth, and to cook her small dinner. Trix lay just outside the firelight, breathing slowly and deeply in a healing rest. The wood crackled softly, lulling Fall to relax. She looked over at her friend. The dancing yellow light just caught the edge of Trix’s hip. Fall admired the lines of her body, and the way the scales reflected the light. The reflections seemed to be brighter than the fire, but she knew that couldn’t be true. That’s not how light worked; the reflections only seemed brighter because of the curved surface of the scales.

Fall thought about how the scales felt under her hands while she rode Trix as they flew through the air. They were smooth and hard, but warm. When the two had first met, she’d expected the metallic dragon to feel like metal, but Trix was the warmest person she’d ever met. It was no surprise that she’d kindled warm feelings in her rider.

Riders had, in the past, fallen in love with their dragons. It wasn’t all that rare, but it was looked down on. Both Rider and Dragon were supposed to put King and Kingdom first, and the leadership felt that wasn’t possible when the two were bound by love. Still, there wasn’t much they could do about it. And, bonded pairs rode and fought better than unbonded pairs. So, when it did happen, everyone turned a blind eye to it.

Would she and Trix bond? She smiled at the thought. She found that she was very attracted to her dragon, especially when Trix morphed into humanoid shape. Granted, the dragon could choose any shape she wanted, so it wasn’t a specific humanoid form that Fall found so appealing. It was her mind, her personality. They flew well together, fought well together. They understood each other and didn’t fight when they were off duty. They enjoyed each others’ presence.

And, she enjoyed fighting at Trix’s side.

She looked over at the dragon again and smiled. If Trix weren’t wounded and in a healing sleep, she might have invited her to share her bed roll. The thought brought an inner warmth and the tickle of need, but she pushed it away and lay down. Sleep came quickly.

My Own Story

It looks like it's time for another blog post! Despite my desires to post more frequently, I've only been able to get about one post up per month. Perhaps in the future, I'll be able to post more frequently.

I'm currently writing a short story about a group of young adults who have fallen into monster hunting. The story was inspired by the role-playing game and novels of #iHunt, which are fantastic by the way, but I wanted to approach that subject matter my own way. It's been a fun ride, so far, and I'm really enjoying the characters I've created and the story that's unfolding. I started writing it with only the vaguest of plans, so the events that I end up adding to the story surprise me, more often than not.

The act of writing this story, of sitting in front of my laptop and typing out words, is extremely enjoyable. While I've known for quite awhile that I like to write, this project has brought that home. And, it helped me realize another thing: I love to journal.

I've kept a journal off and on ever since I was a child. It's something that my mother made me do on Sundays and it's something I've done on my own as an adult. When I was young, it was torture. What do I write? Most often, I wrote about how angry I was with Mom that she made me journal. Or how I was hungry. Or how much I didn't want to go to school anymore. You know, quality stuff.

--//--

I just went to the garage to hunt down my childhood journal. I flipped through the entries and, surprisingly, they are more descriptive than I remember. Though, here's a gem that fits the previous description:

July 9, 1995

Today is Sunday. I hate Sundays. We half to write a whole page in our journal. I half to work on Citezenship in the Nation. I hate scouts. They're boring. [Name Excluded] is merit badge counsolor for Citezenship in the Nation. I'm friends with [Name Excluded] & [Name Excluded] now. They like me. I think we will turn out to be good friends. I hate dad. He yells at us all the time. I wish he wouldn't yell at us all the time. 😄

Yeah, lots of spelling errors and teen angst.

That brings me to the point of this post: telling my own story. Perhaps it's because of how much my mother emphasized journaling, but for a long time I've felt compelled to journal. Journaling is documenting my life, telling my own story. At times, though, this all feels pointless. I don't share my journal with anyone else and I don't go back and read my journals. I'm too busy living my life; I don't have time.

So, I ask the question: What is the point?

I can't tell you the point, other than to say I feel compelled to do it. I like to write these things down. I like to keep a record of the events I live through and the things that happen to me as I go through my life. I think that the act of writing these things down helps me to remember them, but I can't say for sure. Since I have never really sat down to re-read my journals, I can't tell you if I've forgotten anything that I thought would be solidified in my memory upon writing it down. I can't tell you if I experienced epiphanies that I thought would change the way I viewed life to later either realize I was wrong or forget the lesson learned.

What is the point of journaling? Perhaps I am doing it wrong by not reviewing them. Perhaps I would be leading a more successful life if I had only clung to some nugget of wisdom I discovered and wrote down.

Or, maybe, these journals are not for me at all. Maybe they're for my family after I'm gone. I have struggled with my mortality quite a bit, over the years. I grew up in a religious environment where the focus was on just making it through life. "This is all temporary and doesn't really matter. Just make it through, to the end, doing the right things, and you'll have everything you ever wanted!"

I ceased believing in that, and shifting my paradigm took several years. My thoughts and feelings got written down occasionally as I fought through the depression and confusion that brought with it. Maybe those thoughts and feelings will help someone else down the line, as they struggle to find their place in the world, too.

Whatever the reason, journaling is a form of writing, a form that I enjoy. And, those documents tell my story, right from the horse's mouth.

My story is the most important one, to me. It's the one I'm living. It's the one that affects me, every day, at the beginning and at the end. It's a story that only I know inside and out.

To be honest, that's a little scary. Do I want to be the only one that knows the ins and outs of my story? I can answer that one right now:

No!

I don't want to be the only one. I know that one day, I won't grace this world with my illuminating presence. 😏 I don't want to be forgotten. I realize that my name is not going to go into the history books. The world at large will not know me; I am insignificant. But, someone who reads my journals will know me. They will read my story. And, I think, that's enough.

The Stone Figurine

The statue sat on the glass display case, uncaring as the man and woman standing on either side of it argued. They bumped the case with their gestures, rocking the small figurine on its uneven base, as their words grew more and more heated.

"We had a deal!" the woman yelled. "I have emails, from you, agreeing to $500 for this piece!" She waved her phone at the man as if it wielded some kind of magic.

The man growled in response. "That was before I learned its history. Its worth!" the man yelled. "It's worth ten times what we agreed, which you obviously knew! You were trying to rob me!" The case rocked a bit more as the man's belly bumped against it while he jabbed an accusing finger her way.

"Me?" the woman shrieked, "rob you? You're the one committing robbery here, and..." she began to dig in her purse, then raised a small revolver from it and pointed it at the man, "I don't have to take it!"

The man barely had time to raise his hands, palms out, to try and placate the woman before the small space exploded with the sound of a gun shot. Then another. The bullets slammed into him like the worst punches he'd ever felt and he gasped for breath, then his body went limp and he fell to the ground.

The woman grabbed the figurine from the case and shoved it into her dark purse, where it nestled up against a key fob and an old, forgotten lipstick.

Hours passed before the figurine saw the light again, a brief moment in which a latex gloved hand transferred it to a clear bag marked 'Evidence', the placed the bag in a cardboard box.

Much more time passed, so much that, had the little stone figure been able to tell time it would have lost track. Then, suddenly, its box jostled with movement and it opened. Light streamed in and illuminated the contents, which were then removed and sorted into separate bins. The one that received the figurine was marked 'Auction'.

The auction itself was a whirlwind of movement and sound which surrounded the little uncaring statuette until it was placed on a pedestal and sold for a surprising amount of money. The old man who collected it handled it carefully and rested it on his lap while his driver took him home.

Once there, he placed it under a glass display on a red velvet pillow. A young woman bounded down the stairs just as the man finished locking the display.

"Is that it, Daddy? Is that the statue?" she asked in an excited voice. Her red curls bounced around her bright and round face. The rich man looked down at her and smiled his small, reserved smile, though his eyes lit up with joy.

"Yes, my dear," he said. His voice was quiet and strong and he rested a hand on his daughter's shoulder as she bent down to peer through the glass. "That is indeed the statue. Can you believe this tiny thing has caused so much grief in its existence?" He allowed himself a disbelieving sigh and continued, "Death has always followed it, wherever it goes..."

"Well, it's here now, Daddy. Did it bring Death with it?" She asked, peering up at him with her bright green eyes.

The rich man chuckled at her question, his eyes warm, and patted her on the head. "No, dear one. It did not bring Death with it." He pulled her towards him and kissed her forehead, then walked away with another small chuckle. He shook his head, marveling at how his little girl could always bring light to his life.

The young woman pressed her face close to the glass and stared at the little stone figure. The glass fogged with her breath, expanding and contracting as she spent minutes admiring the piece. Finally she smiled.

"You're going to be mine, someday," she whispered. "All mine."

Armor

Today, I decided to write something inspired by my favorite book, Armor by John Steakley. I'd love to say that the first time I read this book I was struck by the characters and the storytelling and, I suppose I was, but I honestly can't remember my first time. This is an amazing book that I have read so many times over the years and one I try to read once every year.

While I'd love to talk about how much I enjoy the book and why, what I really want to do is talk about what I find so intriguing about it: The story is told in two parts and the only character that takes constant part in both parts is a suit of armor. Armor. This isn't just any suit of armor, but an advanced scout power suit that's capable of running for days without any support and tearing through hordes of enemy bugs. That's damn impressive, but nothing compared to the pilot of the suit of whom the first part is about. He. Just. Will. Not. Die.

And then, his part of the story ends and we follow a completely different group of characters through their own story, farther along in the Bug War. Only the suit ties them together. The second half tells the story of how the suit and the records it holds affects these new characters and their own problems.

It's fantastic.

To get to what I find intriguing, I love the idea of telling a story where an inanimate object is one of the main characters, if not the principle character. That brings some challenges because an inanimate object cannot act. It can't make decisions. It can't feel. If it can't do any of that, how can it be a character? It can change. And, an important pillar of storytelling is change, isn't it?

At this point, I'm just going to throw questions and ideas around to see if they stick: How could an object change? It could change if other characters acted on it. It could change with the passage of time. In the book, the titular armor changes as more of its history is revealed. How can the object affect the story? By affecting other characters who can act and make decisions. If the object in question were powerful enough, it could affect the environment, too, which would then affect the other characters. At that point, the object might be considered a force of nature more than an inanimate object.

I'm going to take an object and play with some of those ideas and see where they take me. How about a sword? Swords are in lots of stories. Every story needs a cast of characters, so I'll bring in a few more: The sword's owner, that woman's husband and their son. We have four characters, at this point. To begin the story, I think the son and husband are working on a farm or in a tavern and the sword is returned with the body of the woman, who was slain in battle. The sword, then, is a constant reminder that the wife and mother is not there. But, she was probably a hero, and sacrificed herself to win the day, or something like that. So, the sword is also a reminder of her hero status. I think the sword would also serve as a focus for daydreams and memories for both the other characters, which brings the woman in as an active character. I can see the husband getting lost in a memory of times he shared with his wife as he stares at the sword, and the son losing himself in imaginings of his heroic mother on the field of battle.

I think there's a great story to tell of the husband and son overcoming their grief and coming to terms with their loss in the immediate present. Advancing the timeline a little, however, brings out more possibilities. What if the sword becomes a beacon for people who worship the woman as a hero? Pilgrims from all over the land would flock to their farm to see the sword. That affects the lives of the husband and son because they are never alone and are always forced to speak with those pilgrims of their wife and mother who is long gone. Maybe the son comes to resent it and that resentment turns to a more active target, his father.

Later, if the sword leaves their hands somehow and is found or rescued by someone else, how does it affect that new character's life? What if that sword becomes a reminder of something the nation would rather forget, so it becomes an outlawed artifact and people are forced to hide it away?

With this example, it looks like I've come up with a story of loss, sacrifice, remembrance, resentment, worship and rebellion. That's a lot of potential.

But also, is the sword the main character? I don't know; I think that would depend on how the story is written. I don't feel educated enough in creative writing or storytelling to discuss the how of writing it as the main character, so I'll leave that question without an answer.

I know this is not a brand-new idea; there are no new ideas under the sun. I'm just one person who is stumbling through this on my own, playing with stories because I love stories. This was a fun idea and I think I'll play around with it and write a bit of fiction. In fact, I may use that as a posting schedule here: Playing with ideas one week and then executing those ideas for the next.

That's all for this week! I hope it was a fun read and I hope it inspires something in you. Thank you for reading.

Epiphany

This past weekend, I experience an epiphany. My family and I went to an outdoor concert of The Desert Winds, led by my son's band teacher. That man is so passionate about music. He shared his passion with the audience through introductions and history snippets of each piece the band played. He shared his feelings about a couple of the pieces, and explained why one of the pieces was so important to him, having been a favorite of an old teacher of his who passed away a couple years prior.

I wanted to feel that same passion about something in my life. I want my life to have that same color, that same rhythm, that same passion that he showed. I thought about it a lot, and I realized that I do feel that in a small way, for the written word, for stories. I figured that If I can learn to experience that same fire for the written word and the stories that I love, I can experience that same excitement for life that he showed.

The written word has fascinated me for a very long time. It's a complex construction; a bunch of squiggly lines that combine to form combinations of shapes we recognize that convey concepts and information. These tiny little lines can put my thoughts into your head! And not only that.

It can put your thoughts into my head!

Yes, it's communication. Yes, there are many mediums we use to share information: conversation, visual art, performance, audio, TV, movies. It's all wonderful and really blows my mind, but the written word is what really moves me.

That's why I've decided to create my own blog. I love to read. I love sharing stories. I love to write, through I don't do it as much as I want, or feel like I should.

I'm passionate about written stories, and I want to grow that passion, develop it. I want to study it in my own way. I want to think about it deeply and learn more as I do. I want to talk about it with other people and learn why they're passionate about written stories.

That is my mission statement for this project, I guess: Talk about writing and stories to share and grow my passion for both. Am I an expert? No. Am I good at it? I don't think so, but hopefully some day! Will it be an educating and entertaining read? I certainly hope so. Are there any more questions? Not that I can think of at the moment.

So, there we have it, the purpose of this blogging project, and the story of why I started it. Thank you for reading.