[insert witty title here]

 I am struggling with depression again. It is a never ending merry-go-round of suck. Start to feel ok and then I drop into depression because of situational bullshit. Or, start to feel ok and then I drop into depression because my brain chemistry is fucked. Either way, it's bullshit.

Book five of my fantasy series is out. The paperback got approved yesterday. I have yet to slap up links to it on social media and such. Honestly, I feel like I am going nowhere fast with my fantasy series. I am not going to give up, I'm just very frustrated that I can't seem to manage to find my audience. (Hence the dog pic.)

I'm going to shut down the adult fiction blog I have going and start actually publishing it under a pen name. I don't know if I am going to have to keep a blog for that pen name to keep readers interested or what. I just don't know. I don't have a solid plan in mind. I'm making shit up as I go along. I've been hesitant about attempting to sell adult fiction because I was convinced that I was real bad at writing it. But, upon consideration, I am a decent author whose narrative style is pretty dynamic (or so I've been told). And I've been doing research into this for about three years, maybe five. There's some really awful stuff on the market that sells fairly well. If I set my price low and focus on writing quality short stories, maybe I can make a few bucks like those people writing the bad stuff.

Because I keep struggling with mental health issues, I have been struggling to write pretty much anything. It's not helping me any. Some of the low confidence issues that I am having right now are due to a three year project falling apart. Some of the low confidence issues are because I keep having flashbacks and intrusive memories of my parents telling me that I wasn't ever going to be successful as an author. C-PTSD sucks.

My computer is acting suspicious. It isn't charging. I don't know if it is because I have been using it as a laptop and this is how it is conserving the battery or what's going on. Windows is pushing real hard for me to upgrade to Win 11 and get Windows360, their office suite. It's really annoying. I was ok with my Win 8 machine until it literally started having mechanical failure issues. I'm kinda concerned that this computer, which isn't a year old and is 3 days away from having the warranty lapse, is mechanically fucked up some how. Planned obsolescence is a thing. It makes me miss the clunky, big desktop computer that we had running for almost a decade.

I don't know what I'm going to do with this machine. I'm considering reupping the warranty. I'm considering taking it to the local computer fix-it shop and having them figure out why in hell this thing isn't charging. I know one thing, I'm not upgrading to Win 11 and I'm not getting their office suite. They're working on forcing everyone's data off their boxes and into the cloud, where they can hold it hostage for money. Fuck that noise. I will switch to a different operating system before I let those assholes have more of  my data than they already got. 

I mean, the system is still trying to get me to use a pic of myself to unlock the computer. I refuse to do it. Passwords are a thing. They're useful. And I don't trust Microsoft Corp. They've done enough shady things in the past, I am suspicious of the whole 'unlock your computer with a smile'. Also, it's creepy as fuck to have Friend Computer demand that I smile.

Friday Fiction: LotR scene rewrite (fanfiction)

 The shield was heavy on her arm as she marched forward. The sword felt equally heavy despite the fact it was lighter just because she had been hewing into limbs and bodies for what felt like forever. Eowyn saw a small body, perhaps almost the size of a child darting about her on the battlefield. She knew the hobbit was doing his best, despite he wasn't trained to fight. The horse had died some time back, she managed to leap clear and then all was chaos.

A great crashing came from before her. She raised her gaze and saw the Witch King wading into the fray. As she watched, he crushed a kinsman's skull beneath his mace. It was an enormous, terrifying thing. For a moment, Eowyn felt fear. Then she heard the ghost of her mother whispering in her ear, "It's now or never, we've come to far to die." 

Another man died as she made her way forward. The Witch King had cleared a space about himself with his deadly mace. As she stepped into it, he laughed. "No man can kill me," he spat at her. He swung his mace. Eowyn brought up her shield. The mace hit it with a glancing blow, splintering it and knocking her back several paces. She cast it aside. The helm was ill fitting and obscured her view of the enormous Witch King before her.

She pulled it off her head as the hobbit stared in horror. "I am no man," Eowyn said before charging forward. She moved inside the range of the mace and thrust her sword into the one place where there was no armor, the face area of the Witch King's helm. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I'm not pleased with how it came out, but whatever. It was one of my favorite parts of the story.

Phyllis & The Visitor

Phyllis sipped her tea and listened to the children arguing behind her. It had been a long day. She simply had run out of energy and just let the boys argue. As she turned on her soothing New Age music, the 35 year old mother tried to refocus her mind on the soaring aria that was being sung over a cloudy mashup of sythesizer and cello. Phyllis looked at her book and tried for the fifth time to read the beginning line of the page. Shrill shrieks replaced the bickering.

With a sigh, Phyllis, she put the book down and turned to face her boys. Aaron, age five, was wrapped around a toy fire truck as Edgar, age seven, tried to pry the truck out of his brother's arms. Phyllis got up out of her chair and walked over to the fighting boys. She leaned down and firmly took Edgar by the arm. She lead him away as Aaron stopped shrieking. "Edgar," Phyllis said for what felt to be the millionth time that afternoon, "You need to share with your brother." Edgar glared down at his feet.

"It's not fair," Edgar muttered, "I wish I didn't have a brother. I hate him." Phyllis sighed. This had been Edgar's refrain for the past week. She suspected that it had something to do with his brother starting school and riding the bus with him. Phyllis knelt down beside Edgar to look him in the eye.

"Now, Eddie," she said gently, "You don't mean that. You love your little brother...."

Edgar's head whipped up. He put his hands on his hips in a gesture that mimiced the one Phyllis took when she caught them in the midst of trouble. Edgar narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me Eddie," he snapped, "And I do mean it. I hate him. I wish he never was born." Before Phyllis could do anything, Edgar turned on his heel and bolted from the room. As he pounded up the stairs, Phyllis looked over at Aaron. Aaron looked at her with a deeply wounded look.

"Aaron," she said with the same gentle tone of earlier, "Eddie didn't mean that. He was just angry." Aaron's lower lip quivered as his eyes brightened with tears. Phyllis inwardly growled with frustration and caught herself starting to grind her teeth as she walked over to her son. "Aaron," she continued in her best soothing voice, "Don't let what Eddie said bother you. He just gets mad and says things he doesn't mean."

"Why are you lying to the boy?" a deep male voice said from the doorway to the hall. Phyllis's head whipped over and there before her, she saw a tall, red haired man dressed in a dark grey pinstriped suit. His green eyes seemed to be alight with some emotion that Phyllis couldn't define, though his facial expression was solemn. He stepped into the living room and walked towards Aaron, who was caught somewhere between tears and shock at this strange man appearing in his living room.

The man crouched down beside Aaron and pushed the forgotten firetruck towards the lad. As the siren wailed and the lights flashed, Aaron looked down at it. Phyllis felt a cold tingle of fear run down her spine. The firetruck had the batteries taken out of it last week. "I don't know who you are, but you should get out of here," she said with more conviction then she felt.

The red haired man smirked at Phyllis. She could see scars over and on his lips. Phyllis wondered if they were from some sort of drug use. She seized upon the idea and straightened up. "I will not have a drug dealer in my home," she declared, pointing out to the hallway and the front door at the end of it, "You will leave or I will call the police." At her vigorous statement, the red haired man stood up, chuckling.

"I do not deal in drugs. That is beneath me, Phyllis," he said, sounding as though he was on the verge of full throated laughter at the concept. "I am here because you asked me here," he explained, gesturing towards the door and then towards Phyllis.

"I have no idea who you are," she spat venemously.

Her strange guest smiled and pulled out a pristine white business card. He held it out to her as he gave a small bow. "Allow me to introduce myself," he said as he did so, "I am Loptr Naalson." Phyllis hesitantly took the card and looked at it. Embossed in elegant script was the name that her strange guest gave and nothing more. "As you were making your tea, you asked for help," Loptr said, smiling, "I was in the neighborhood and decided I would do so."

Phyllis looked at the card and struggled to figure out what Loptr was speaking of. Then her eyes widened. "I said god help me," she replied, "You are obviously not a god. You're standing right here infront of me." Loptr laughed. "Get out," she insisted, "Get out right now, or I will call the cops."

Loptr straightened and walked towards the stairs that Edgar and fled up. "I presume that the problem is Edgar," he said, "I will deal with him straight away and then go on my way." Phyllis darted between the lean man and the stairs. Loptr arched an eyebrow. "Do you want help or not, woman? The boy is on an evil path. The fights and the cat is proof of it," Loptr said with no trace of humor, "Your insistance upon scripture readings and corporal discipline has done nothing for the child. I can show him what road he is treading and give him the chance to choose the correct one."

Phyllis shivered with fear. This strange man knew, somehow, about the fights that Edgar got in and the cat he almost lit on fire. It was a secret she did her best to keep from the community, and yet this man knew. "How do I know you're not the devil?" she whispered as Loptr mounted the first step. He looked over his shoulder at the fearful woman and smiled, "How do you know that I am?" Phyllis stared as Loptr climbed the stairs. Soon, Loptr came to a narrow hallway that lead off to his left. The door at the top of the stairs was closed and he could hear something being thrown at the wall. Loptr gave a rueful smile and shook his head. He walked into the room and caught the lacross ball as it came flying at his head. Edgar stared at the interloper in dumbfounded amazement. "You and I need to have a chat, son," the tall man in the suit said as he shut the door behind him, "You're mother is going to pieces over you."

"She's always blowing up over something. It doesn't make a difference if I do something right or not," Edgar muttered as he sat down on his bed. He crossed his arms and glared at the man who tossed the ball between his hands. "Why're you here? Are you some minister to pray over me?" the boy asked suspiciously. Loptr laughed.

"Oh no," he assured Edgar, "I'm much worse."

"You're not a cop, are you?" the boy said, "You can't take me to jail. I'm too young." Loptr grinned and Edgar couldn't help feeling a little disgusted at how the scars on his lips twisted. Loptr shook his head. "If you're not a cop and not a minister, what are you?" Edgar demanded, refusing to be cowed by this stranger.

Loptr held the ball tightly in his hands. "Who I am is not important," Loptr said, crouching beside Edgar, who leaned away from him. Loptr brought his hands up, with the ball covered by his long fingers. "What is important is what I'm going to show you. After that, you decide."

"What," Edgar sneered sarcastically, "A ball?"

"More then that," Loptr retorted, and he opened his hands. Where a scuffed, white rubber ball had been, there was now a crystal ball. Edgar's eyes went wide with amazement. "Look in there," Loptr said, "That's how this works. You look into the ball and then you make up your mind." Edgar leaned forward to peer at the ball and then gasped in shock to see a miniature version of himself sitting on his bed with the suited man beside him. Edgar waved his right arm and in the image he saw the same thing. "Cool," he said in a whisper. Loptr passed his left hand over the ball and Edgar saw an older version of himself. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit in a small room. "What's that?" Edgar asked. "Keep looking and it will be revealed," Loptr said. Just as the red haired man had said, the image shifted, the minature, older version of Edgar had his hands cuffed by a policeman. He walked out of the small room and into a much larger room. Edgar, who had seen enough court dramas on television, recognized the location as a court room.

"But I'm going to go free," Edgar said, "I..." Loptr shook his head.

"No, son," he said solemnly, "You're not there for breaking somebody's window. You murdered your little brother." Young Edgar's face blanched. "You can change this," Loptr said, "Not many people get the chance to change things like this. Tolerate your brother and channel your desire to break things into more... appropriate directions." As Loptr spoke, the image in the ball grew cloudy and then showed adult Edgar on a construction site. The image of Edgar was at the controls of a crane with a wrecking ball. "This can be your future," Loptr said quietly, "All you need to do is choose."

"But what about Aaron," Edgar said petulantly, "He's always in the way. He's always getting into my stuff and bugging me." Loptr gave Edgar a wry smile.

"What does your mother say about that?" he asked, his tone rich with amusement.

"That he'll grow out of it. That I should treat him how I want to be treated," Edgar replied glumly.

"A few years isn't that long to put up with him being annoying," Loptr said, "It's better then not having him for the rest of your life. As much as he irritates you, you'd miss him. And on that path, he would never forgive you or come to see you. You would lose him just as surely as you lose your mother."

Edgar sighed. "I just want him to leave me alone," he said.

Loptr patted him on the shoulder. "I feel that way about my brother sometimes," he said, "There will be times where you will want him around too."

Edgar looked at the crystal ball with an expression of disappointment. "You don't need to act on the impuses to break things," Loptr said, "Just wait until it is the right time and the right thing. It will come. I promise you." Edgar looked over at Loptr's solemn face.

"How will I know?" Edgar asked. Loptr smiled.

"You'll just know," he answered and set the ball into Edgar's hand. As soon as the ball touched the boy's fingertips it turned into his lacross ball. Edgar's eyes went wide with wonder. He looked up at Loptr as he stood.

"How did you do that?" Edgar asked. Loptr smiled wider.

"Magic, of course," he answered, "now come down stairs so that your mother doesn't think I've eaten you or something." Edgar dropped the ball onto his bed and walked down the stairs ahead of Loptr. When he got to the bottom step, his mother flung her arms around him. She looked up the steps to see if the strange man was going to come down.

After a long moment, Phyllis went upstairs. She looked in Edgar's room and found nothing but a falcon feather sitting on the bed. She searched the rest of the upstairs and found she was the only one there. Again, Phyllis shivered with dread. As she walked back into Edgar's room, she picked up the feather. "Perhaps he was an angel," she whispered.

Friday Fiction: The Time Machine Is Broken

I wound the key on the mechanism. The quaint sounds of a music box played with the whirring of gears and uncoiling of springs as counterpoint to it. Then the music skipped and began to play again from the beginning as the key twisted backwards. Father did not tell me what to do if this happened. I watched with some curiosity as the music than began to play backwards. The music skipped and the mechanism whirred somewhat louder than before.

I tapped upon the brass back plate wherein the key fitted. Something within rattled. The key began to turn in the proper direction but the music was silent. And then I looked up and saw something most curiously disturbing. Everyone in the station around me had stopped moving. A child hung in midair suspended by possibly some gossamer thread I could not see but of incredible strength. I moved to get up and discovered that my body did not obey my will. I cast my gaze down to my right hand resting beside the device.

It felt as though an incredible weight was upon me, thrusting my hand down into the very wood of the counter it sat upon. Though my limbs could not obey me, my eyes could. I looked over at the device. The key turned slower as that crushing weight became unbearable. My vision began to blur and become spotted. Desperately, I tried to lift my hand to wind the key back to its proper position.

If it were possible, I believe that sweat would have been profuse upon my brow. Instead, everything became cool and colors grew dim. Oh, Father, what should I do? As the key's turning came to a stop, silence and a terrible cold overcame the whole of reality. All was dark. I had no voice with which to cry out for help. I had no body to move. Only one thing remained, my awareness and memories. But even the memories are faded.

Fiction Friday: Random Scene - Insomnia

Sarah stared up at the ceiling. The projection display of her alarm clock said it was 0200 and 56 seconds. She was exhausted. This was the third night that she just couldn't sleep. Work wasn't much of a problem, aside from being painfully boring. Thus, staying awake was the problem. Somewhere in the apartment below, she heard the noise of the neighbors having an argument, or possibly sex. It was hard to tell. In the bathroom off across the hallway, the sink dripped into the basin at 3/4 time. It took Sarah about 6 seconds to realize it. She almost laughed, her music lessons way back in middle school were actually still there somehow inside her brain.

The heater kicked on with a rattling sound in the vent. As the warm air blew up, a bit of paper slapped and rustled against the vent itself. The sound was annoying. Sarah put her pillow over her head as she rolled onto her right side. She wondered if it was possible to smother yourself trying to block out the noise of other people and her irritating heating duct problem. Then she realized that she could hear the muted noise of the neighbors below through the mattress with some weird echo quality due to the springs. With a sigh, the tired woman rolled over to her back and thumped the pillow down on the side of the bed. Sarah stared at the clock's display. 0201 and 43 seconds.

Music listening to: The Last Bison Sleep off of their album VA
Time to write scene: 10 minutes approx.

Fiction Friday: The Friendzone

i have this vision of the guy chained in some kind of dark basement type place that was once a fun center for kids and has all of the dopey signs for 'FRIENDZONE' everywhere complete with some kind of cheezy/disturbing mascot wearing a fedora. (i may have to write a horror short featuring this concept now...)

Derek was pleased. Not only had he successfully managed to get the number for the hottest woman at the party, but she agreed to go on a date. His buddy Chad was mildly insulted but chose to sit and work on trying to make a girl that was almost as pretty cry with his backhanded comments as he drank his craft brew. Derek gave Chad a thumbs up as the blond woman he had his date arranged with came over to him and took him by the hand to lead him off elsewhere. Chad flipped him the bird with a smirk.

Sheila was pleased. Her mark was textbook perfect. He had the cheap tanning booth look, over priced sun glasses, and all the charm of the plastic doll he was desperately attempting to imitate with out knowing it. His hair was cut in the latest style and his clothes were top shelf brands. Derek, as he called himself, was an utter boor with a penchant for pick up lines. Sheila did her best to play coy until he decided to be persistent. Then she let him decide that she was interested and plan to go on a date.

She gave him the number for the last mark. He was excited, impulsive, and thinking entirely with his gonads. Now, usually, Sheila would have waited for the date. Derek, however, was repulsive enough that he decided agreement to a date was consent to spike her drink and do whatever he wished later when she was drugged. This annoyed Sheila, so she moved her time table up the same time she switched drinks with him when was distracted by someone calling his name.

They had gotten their coats and Derek was showing signs of the drug/alcohol combination taking effect. He tried to say that he was good to drive. Sheila changed his mind with a suggestive comment about a woman taking control as she steered him towards the sidewalk. She raised a hand and hailed a cab. Derek was stumbling as she helped him into the car. He was rambling about something but Sheila ignored him. The cab stopped at the shopping center. Sheila paid the fare and helped Derek out of the vehicle. They walked towards a shelter where she claimed an associate was going to meet them. The cab drove off thinking nothing of it.

Sheila let Derek rest for a minute as they sat in the shelter. He said something about lewd plans involving Sheila and her 'girlfriend' and she laughed. Feeling encouraged by her laughter, he spewed something more vulgar in a drunken slur. Sheila helped him up to his feet and they walked past the entrance into the main shopping area. With her hood up, Sheila's face was well hidden as they walked along.  Derek liked the idea of an adventure and tried to take the lead. When they reached the place she was planning to take him, Derek looked around.

Taking her key out of her pocket, Sheila opened the door and motioned Derek in. He peered in the gloom, trying to figure out what about the place seemed so wrong aside from the dark. Sheila laughed at his discomfort and said it was nothing to worry about. As she popped on her flash light and lead him through a maze of dust covered tables, Derek's sense that something was absolutely wrong with the scenario grew stronger. Sheila looked at him with a manic smile and told him "This is a happy, fun place. You'll love it here." Derek tried to lurch away from here but Sheila moved with him, backing him up against a pillar.

"Oh hush," she cooed, "You were the one looking for a little adventure." As she rubbed her body against him, Derek groaned a little. That was his last clear memory.

Eight hours later, he woke up. A giant donkey wearing a fedora cocked jauntily on its head was sitting before him. Derek screamed. The donkey didn't move. That was when he realized that it was Dick the Donkey, mascot of the failed chain of arcade and entertainment restaurants known as the Friendzone. There were a few other mascots, like Willy the Worm and Mr. Happy the Smiling Snake. Derek came to the Friendzone for a few birthday parties when he was in his single digits. The donkey disturbed him greatly, he had nightmares.

"Ok, this isn't funny," he said to the person wearing the plush costume. There was no answer. There was no noise at all. For a moment, the old fear that the smiling Dick the Donkey was going to hack him to death with a machete came to mind. As he began to think more clearly, Derek realized his left ankle felt like there was something on it. He looked down and discovered he had one end of a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs strapped around his ankle. The other was fixed to what was once a tie down for a faux tent in that 'party' section. Derek reached down to try to pull the cuff off. That was when he realized there was good old fashioned American made steel underneath that neon pink fluff.

Derek looked up. Dick the Donkey didn't move. Derek looked around and saw a hacksaw sitting on the table beside him, just in reach. He picked it up. He leaned down to saw at the chain between the cuffs and realized he couldn't get the right angle. His only way out was mutilation. And Dick the Donkey didn't move. Derek looked around again, realizing that he couldn't see the front of the building. He couldn't hear the sounds of traffic or anyone in the other buildings. He forgot that the Friendzone was built like an impenetrable bunker so that none could hear kiddies screaming with glee. Derek looked at Dick the Donkey.

"You don't have the key, do you, Dick?" The donkey's head drooped forward. "Hey, asshole!" Derek screamed, "Do you have the key to get me out of this?" There was no response. With his free leg, Derek kicked out and managed to catch the costumed figure in the knee. The plush over sized head tumbled off. A dessicated male corpse stared emptily ahead. Derek screamed. He slapped his pockets as he awkwardly found his feet. No phone, no keys, nothing. He flopped back into the chair, wrenching his ankle, and sobbed. He was trapped.

Friday Fiction: Reign Tenné et Or

The story I tell you now is false. It is pure fiction. An invented bit of fluff to entertain you for a moment while you pause in your viewing of the destruction of other things, unsure if said destruction is entertainment or threats. I cannot say if the destruction is either. It is not my place to do so. Nor would I wish to, for I am but the teller of simple tales. I lay before you the tale of a kingdom once known for peace but now is bedlam. No, no. This kingdom is not an analog for Nova Roma. Do not think such a thing. Nova Roma is a Republic, hale and strong. This kingdom is but the fruit of an idle mind, as all such stories would be. And it is proper, I suppose, for only idle minds would dare such a thing, yes?

Once, in a land most distant in geography and time, there lived a king. This king had a great voice that could be heard in all the halls of his land. He would speak and his servants went among the populace to spread his wisdom. Liveried in or, tenné, and argent, they were a people who were feared. They bore with them white wands tipped with gules, the ensign of the king borne upon a device of a noble cockrel, that bird of great courage in battle. What, you ask, is the ensign of the king that the gules cockrel bears? This, my dear friend, is one that indicated great humility in this king of a thousand tongues. The humble ass in argent lays lodged sinister upon the tenné field. a band of or chief upon it. The arms of this king, this famed king known in many lands, spoke of one who was humble and slow to anger. The tenné field bespoke of his storied travels through out the known world, for the color of the field was exotic to his lands where only the colors of gules, argent, and azure were known. The band of or denoted his noble head, where upon the crown of rulership rested on his glossy, brazen colored locks.

The king was a man of great wealth. As all men of great wealth, he feared that enemies would come to steal it away. Daily, he sent his servants among the people. Part of the reason for this was to make known that this king cared for his populace and part of the reason was to quell any speech that spoke against this king. Thus did the early days of his reign pass. His grand proclamations that were designed to quiet the troubled hearts of the people were spoken daily. Each day, the proclamation was greater than that of the day before. He set many to work upon ventures that he insisted would strengthen the coffers of the kingdom, that would bring prosperity to the land. He called for a great wall to be built upon the kingdom's southern border, where the lands he decried as lawless lay. He spoke of raising up the clergy to higher stature, so that they might guide the people into greater wisdom.

At the same time, however, the king raged when his servants spoke of the people who mocked him. He flew into blind wrath when he learned of troubadours who sang popular songs that disdained him. His rage was terrific to see and his servants feared him greatly. All but for one. Behind the king, there stood a man with a long, sharp knife. A blade that cut in more ways than through flesh. Even as the king sent this man hither and yon to quiet the dissent, the man plotted in the shadows. He laid quiet seeds to drive the king into greater frenzy, to push him into madness. As this man, the king's closest counselor, waged his quiet political war to undermine his benefactor only enough to allow him to keep the king as a puppet, the servants of the king feared him and did not speak against him. They hurried to do as the counselor commanded, thinking it was the word of the king himself.

The king's situation, however, was not one plagued by but one man's evil. For, the king had stolen the throne from the one who was chosen by the high council. The petty kings of the land came together to choose their overlord. This king, who held but small lands despite his vast wealth and cadre of loyal servants, fought bitterly with the petty kings. They who labored beneath the other petty kings found themselves deceived by the honeyed words of the servants. Thus, they began to rise up in protest when the other kings tried to put forth a queen to reign above them. In some of the petty kingdoms, there were those who were devoted to the queen whose arms were azure and had an argent tear upon the field. There were also those who had put their hearts behind a grey bearded king of a small land who was known for his devotion to his people. The queen, however, pointed to the wizened old king of the north and stated how his experience was only with his small kingdom, where as she had stood shield-side to the overlord who had brought great prosperity into the land.

The king that sits upon the throne contemplated banishing the azure queen. Instead, he called upon the age old mistrust that was held against women of some power. Thus, the petty kings, save the grey bearded one of the north, turned their faces towards him. The seeds of discontent, however, were sown and as the king in tenné and or tried to root out his opposition, for each one removed ten more arose. The azure queen spoke to her kinsmen and the moderate voices of the council. The grey bearded king spoke to his kinsmen and they who supported him. The king in or became progressively angrier as it became clear that his hold over the high council was not absolute.

Thus, as his chief adviser suggested increasingly outlandish things to him, the king in or followed along those paths of madness. The people of the entire land suffered. The troubadours' voices were silenced, many of the famed ones having had their tongues cut out. The small folk of the kingdoms all found themselves in greater states of distraught as the king in or's servants went about to divest them of their goods, claiming it was needed for the service of the land. As mothers cried out for their children's suffering, fathers were conscripted into his army as the king in or set to engaging they who had been staunch allies, insisting that they were enemies.

Fearful whispers suggested that the king was mad. The only thing known was that the king with his richly embroidered clothes and jeweled hands had convinced himself that all sought his ruin, thus he set out to destroy any who disagreed with him. So did it begin that the kingdom of Pax Columbia fell into ruin so great that its name was forgotten.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Something that was just rattling around in my head. Posting it early, because why not.

Friday Fiction: Silence.

They called me a monster. Their children screamed when my name was mentioned. Their stylized images that were but vaguely based upon my appearance were frequently waved about as indications of evil. Indeed, one place made viewing my erstaz icons a part of the punishment and torture regime they practiced.

Did I deserve this spewing of vitrol? I don't think so. I only did what was necessary for the continuance of their ... species. They were on the road to utter ruin. They lifted their hands to the skies and begged their cold, distant god for deliverance from the horrors they had created. I came to them. When I walked through their number, they did not know me. They merely thought me odd, perhaps even quaint. Some, however, did recognize that I was far older than they. Those who did so could have been divided into two camps.

One camp was filled with fear of me that reached towards some measure of holy awe. The other regarded me with fascination. Fascination is not always safe. Still, I suppose the ones who gazed on me in fascination rather than terror were perhaps the ones who were always going to be the harbingers of change. I almost pity them for their ill fate.

Let no one tell you otherwise, for it was truly fate. I may be ancient. But not even myself or my elders, or the gods in their high halls, can evade fate. It is a perverse humor that guides such things. The mad weaver throws her shuttle. The drunken spider spins her webs. And I, I walk along them with something like chaos in my wake.

They had become stagnant. They had become calcified in their destructive behaviors and their work to rend the world until it fit their strange vision of order. I had no choice but to come. I was called to them by it. That hard, brittle crystalline structure of a world they had fashioned needed to be broken. It was something that had to happen so that life may progress.

Thus, I took them into my hands. I did not snap them like twigs. Not immediately. I started with a subtle shift, a few bends and twist to it all. When things started to come apart and entropy enter into the system, they blamed the unfortunates and the people whom they hated that week. Those who saw me, they spread word that I had come as the hand of judgment or as their liberator. One camp turned into penitent ascetics who cursed the world around them with one hand even as they plucked the fruits of its labor with the other. The other camp turned into wild revels and hedonists. Some did so with merry abandon and insisting that the essence of life was vivid experience. Others did so with the keen awareness that they were witnessing the beginning of the end of all things.

I had no joy in my doing. It was work. It was work that I was fated for and hated for regardless of the necessity that drove me to it.

Still, I did the deeds required of me. I broke the fetters and bonds. I crumbled the walls and loosed raging rivers o'er the fields of squalor. In the end, they started to see me as I moved among them. Not the ones of insight, but the most mundane of them. They looked on in horror. Some tried to rise against me and strike blows to push me away. They fell as grass before the scythe. They always have and always shall.

Now? Now I rest. My work is, for a time, done. All about me lays ashes and ruin. I did not want to bring it to them. They were so beautiful in their cleverness. Charming children who had such great potential. But, they created for themselves a trap. They cried for freedom. Thus, I came and rescued them. I do not think they wanted me to liberate them. Not how I did, but to have it in some fashion where they had the comforts of their creation and the freedom as well. Silly children, I mourn your foolishness.

Who among you stands now, wise? You are scattered about the world. You have reached the stars. On other worlds, I have yet to go and do my work. But, you do not listen to your breathren when they warn you of the necessity of wild things and open spaces. That is alright, though, I shall come and teach you. I shall come and break your chains and free you.

But now, let me abide in the silence. Midgard has been abandoned. Let me sit in the silence, reaching into the earth to feel the sleeping seeds. Yggdrasil shall put forth new leaves soon. Perhaps I shall sleep in the shade of those green branches and watch the deer walk along them in search of tender leaves.

(This is what happens when a certain red headed deity says 'let's write a story.' Sorry this is a little late.)

Fiction Friday: Unsheathed.

They told me that I had to stay behind lines. They told me that I had to remain safe. They told me that I couldn't fight.

Then the front line failed. Then the route started. People were pelting through the camp with naked terror in their faces. Generals gave up on the rally before it was even attempted. Support wasn't happening. It was every soul for themselves as the wave of death came forward.

I could have ran, but where was I going to run. I did what any person with blood in their veins would, I stood.

I am not sure where it began. I don't even remember how I got the sword. Somehow I went from standing at the cook fire with a pot to throwing a burning branch into a man's face as he grasped at me while I was opening another's guts with three feet of cold steel. I had the fire at my back and a screaming horde before me.

The world turned red. A scream like the fury of all the gods came from somewhere, I didn't realize until later it was my own voice. As I was in the battle madness, bodies fell before me and men began to come to my call, following me forward. I came out of the madness when my own man's face came before me. The sword in my hand was slick with blood and jagged where the edge had chipped on shields. Pieces of flesh and hair was stuck in those broken pieces that I didn't remember where they came from.

But, my man stood before me, the noise of war behind him. The foe was in flight, our own after them. And I knew in that moment, I was born to the sword. Thus, I earned my names, red brand and shield breaker. My man, he gave me honors due to me and now I stand at his right hand. The others of the village are wary but they listen when I speak now.

I was given my own insignia by the earl. A red sword. My man wears my ensign. I hear whispers that I am the Falcon come again. I know not if it is true. I only know that I am feared when I bear a blade unsheathed.

It is power that is my due.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Written while listening to The Glitch Mob's cover of Seven Nation Army.

Fiction Friday: Fight with Fire.

Harker walked down the alley, pulling the collar of his jacket up to ward off the cold.His wiry black hair was tousled by the wind and managed to catch enough of the vapor in the air from the mist to send a few drops down the back of his neck. Ahead of him, the man he was supposed to meet stood next to an exceptionally well restored nineteen sixty five muscle car. The man's face was turned away from the light.

The light from the streetlamp near by gleamed orange off of the man's black leather drover's coat, making it look like a vertical oil slick. "You're early," the man standing by the car said, pulling a steel lighter out of the depths of his coat. He flicked it once. Despite the wind, the lighter flared to life. The man with the lighter had a face that someone may have described angelic once, if it wasn't for the scars about his mouth. His hair was the color of hammered copper in sunlight, or maybe sparks. Harker wasn't sure. All he knew was that this man had a job for him.

"My mother taught me it was important to be prompt for business meetings. My father taught me that meant five minutes early if you're running late and ten if you're on time," Harker answered. The other man took a pull off of his cigarette. The end thrust into the flame flared brightly. There was a faint blue flicker around the edge of it. Then the brief flash of light died down to a dull glow. In that brief moment, however, Harker saw eyes that were green as glass and as cold as the harbor's winter waters a mere quarter of a mile away.

"You're a man of business, then?" the other said with his words in a decidedly dragonesque puff of smoke.

"That's why you called me, isn't it?" Harker answered. Something at the back of his mind said that he was on treacherously thin ice in dealing with this man, but the pay promised was enough that Harker was pretty sure he could just leave the game. Harker was getting tired of being a hatchet man for the highest bidder.

"So it is," the smoker answered, turning towards the back door of the bar just beside him, "Come, have a drink with me. I will give you one last chance to walk away from this job."

"Brandt doesn't let people smoke in his bar," Harker said. The red haired man looked over his shoulder at Harker. He smirked. It was a look that made Harker decidedly uncomfortable.

"Brandt will make an exception for me. He's been expecting me." As the smoking man walked into the bar, a wall of noise came out the door with a waft of hot air. For a moment, Harker could have sworn that the red haired man looked to be over seven feet tall. The hit man shook his head, deciding it had to be a trick of the light. He followed his prospective employer through the establishment to the end of the bar that was closest to the side they came in from.

Brandt turned, waving a big hand at the slender man in the black leather coat. "Put that damn thing ..." His words died on his lips when he looked at the scarred man sitting at the end of his bar. Elegant hands were folded primly before him and resting on the stained hickory bar. His features were sharp, elfin almost. A ragged series of scars were over his mouth, crossing his lips as though someone had cut through them. Brandt, who was already pretty pale because of his Norwegian blood, blanched as the scarred man gave a smirk. There was something cruel in his expression that made Brandt, who was a fairly big man, look like he was about to beg the school bully to just take his lunch money rather than kicking him in the stones.

Brandt bent over and pulled out a bottle from the hidden depths of his cupboard. He put three shot glasses down before the scarred man. As he poured out the shots, his hand shook. Brandt left the bottle beside the shot glasses. The scarred man looked over at Harker. "That one is for you," he said, pointing at the third shot glass. Harker glanced at the bottle and blinked in surprise. Sitting on the counter where just anyone could walk off with it was a bottle of scotch older than his father. "Drink," his prospective employer ordered. The scarred man had finished his shot in the time that Harker was looking at the bottle and seemed to have finished the other as well. Now, he looked at Harker with those emotionless eyes. Feeling as though he was being watched by something like a snake, Harker threw back the shot. He swallowed reflexively. Then he started coughing and his eyes watered almost instantaneously.

"You are a man of business," the other said as he turned his attention back to the bottle, "My business is change. I have need of a man like you. Someone who will do the job and not worry about little details like what opinions people would have of it." He filled up the empty shot glass to the right of his hand, the one before him, and then Harker's. "Brandt needs a reminder why he should not ask me to do ... petty things," the green eyed man said.

"Then why don't you tell him?" Harker said, gesturing towards Brandt, who was at the other end of the bar paying a great deal of attention to a drunk woman's breasts that were propped up just before him on the polished hickory.

"Because Brandt has a bad memory," the other replied, "You are going to make his memory more effective."

Harker looked over. The green eyed man pulled the lighter out of his pocket. The steel looked more like silver. On one side there was the head of a howling wolf. On the other, a female grim reaper with a serpent wrapped around her. He put it in front of Harker. 

"Finish your drink. Then, put this to use," the green eyed man said. Harker looked over at him in surprise.

"This place is full of people," he hissed at the green eyed man. The other nodded.

"Better pull the alarm on the way out then," he said, "Brandt's bullshit killed at least double this number in Serbia. His name isn't even Brandt. He came here and changed his name. Underneath that shirt, he's got himself a swastika and a valknut. My name is tattooed into his left shoulder. He said that I was going to keep his business pure of those dykes, fags, and queers." The word 'pure' was sneered and turned into an insult that even Harker couldn't help but feel uncomfortable with.

Harker looked down at the lighter. The man at his right leaned closer and muttered in his ear, "They're my people. He killed them. Tonight, he pays. And you, Aleksander Harker, were looking for a way to do justice. You know that Tyr scorns you. He spits on your name for what you've done. You and me, we're a like. We do what gets the job done. Damn what they think is proper. Sometimes, eggs, skulls, and rules need broken. Finish your drink and then do your fucking job."

Harker looked over as the other stood up and walked out the way he had entered into the building. Brandt looked at Harker as though he was a bomb waiting to go off. He thought about his brother, Jan. Jan who was beaten to death for being gay. Jan who insisted that the world was a better place because he was finally able to go off to college, to Russia where his husband's second cousin lived.

Harker drank his scotch. He picked up the bottle of fifty year old scotch and walked away from the bar. He passed by a closet between the restrooms. There was a hum of electrical equipment in there. Harker shoulder checked the door and it swung inward. He looked around the room. Wiring was exposed. Even to his untrained eye, it was a fire trap waiting to happen. The brown paper of the fiberglass packaging was sticking out between the support braces of the small room. He thought about Jan. He leaned forward, holding the bottle near his hips. Someone walking by simply thought he was urinating. After pouring about half of the bottle on the floor beside the nearest bit of exposed insulation, Harker touched the lit flame of the lighter to the brown paper. He snapped the lighter shut and stuck it into his pocket as the tiny spark soon was a little burning flame almost the size of a quarter. 

As he rolled around the door, he put the bottle to his mouth and did a passable imitation of a drunkard's stagger. He reeled past a fire alarm. Seemingly stumbling into the wall, he pulled down on it. The alarm blared as the faint scent of smoke came from the closet. Harker emerged from the building to find his employer standing beside the car. "That the first part of your job, Aleksander," he said, "Now, you're going to come with me. We have work to do."

Fiction - Bad Day.

She reached up and took of the helmet. The man standing before her glared at her with a look of outrage. "How dare you challenge my orders!" he roared. Thyra dropped the helped. The man's expression turned to puzzlement. "You are not my wife," he said in a tone of disgust.

"No, I am not," she answered. She dropped the helmet out of her right hand as her left reached around behind her back to the pistol secured there. "And you are about to have a very bad day, Maxwell Colliers, unless you can answer this question," Thyra continued. Maxwell's haughty expression of offended pride returned.

"You, woman, do not have the capacity to know what you are saying," he said, "Leave my office."

"Where is Zanzibar?" Thyra demanded. Maxwell scoffed and made a shooing gesture.

"You've wasted enough of my time with your games," he said, "Go back to the security officer's suite. Eliot Zanzibar is of no concern to you. Continue and you'll be sent off world on your next assignment." Thyra drew her pistol as Maxwell leaned to the side and moved to push the silent panic button under his desk.

"Eliot Zanzibar is the chemist who can reverse this plague," Thyra retorted, "You had him kidnapped. Release him and you'll live." Maxwell pushed the button. Thyra fired her pistol. It wasn't the elegant, high energy weapons that were issued to the Xenogen security agents. It was actually rather primative with its gunpowder propelled projectile. It did its job magnificently, however, as it punched through the wood verneer of the desktop and the electronics of the call button. As a result, the button was rendered useless and Maxwell had a bullet lodge itself in his hand.

Maxwell screamed. "The fuck is wrong with you?" Maxwell shouted. Thyra readied to fire the next round.

"Zanzibar," Thyra demanded.

Maxwell knew that his screaming and the gunshot wasn't going to be heard by anyone else. His office suite took up an entire floor and everything was automated for convenience. Thus, he was alone with this woman and her dangerously crude weapon. He gripped his left wrist as hard as he could to slow the flow of blood. With great effort, he resisted the urge to continue screaming. His face was pale and a fine sheen of sweat arose, but he managed to speak in something that resembled a calm tone, "Zanzibar is on his way to Anchorport. His lab has been removed," Maxwell said, "I expect he will be reaching his destination in the hour. His work was unauthorized. He has been reassigned."

Thyra fired off a second shot. It slammed into Maxwell's left shoulder, hitting him hard enough that he rocked back in his chair. "You're lying to me, Colliers. Now where is Eliot?" Thyra demanded. Maxwell looked at Thyra's face. Her complexion betrayed her sub-Saharan heritage but he could see something of a European lineage in her ice blue eyes. Thyra's expression was something like that of an avenging goddess, filled with wrath but also curiously serene. For a moment, he wondered if he should offer her a position within the Enyo program. Even though she was on Xenogen property, she managed to make her way through at least five levels of security to reach his office. It meant she had a terrible talent for doing very bad things.

Thyra's third shot hit him in his right shoulder. He screamed. The queer distance from the pain that came with shock was ripped away from him at the insult of the third shot. He felt as though someone had plunged a red hot poker into his left hand and shoulders. His ears rang with the noise of the gunfire. "I have already killed your wife," Thyra said, "Which you should have figured out by the fact that I am in her uniform. I have killed three of your security agents on the level immediately below us. I expect that they are running around looking for someone else at the moment, though, because of the image scrambler I used on your cameras when I hacked the system through her uplink." Thyra raised her right arm, turning it so that he could see that the touch pad had been forced open with wires plugged into it. It was an inelegant mess but Maxwell couldn't really focus on that.

His pain was too great for that. The dull realization that the angry black woman standing before him might actually kill him somehow made its way through the pain. Maxwell tried to reject it but when Thyra walked up closer and moved her pistol so that it was pointed squarely between his eyes, he couldn't. "Where is my brother?" Thyra demanded, "Answer me and you'll die quick. Don't and I'm just going to hurt you, really badly. And then I'll let you bleed out while I rifle through your console."

"You can't do that," Maxwell said, smiling despite his pain, "It's keyed to my bio markers. You can't get into the system with out me."

Thyra squeezed the trigger. As the top of Maxwell's head blew off, she said, "I don't need you alive for that, fucker."

Fiction: Fairy Tale

The ground rose steadily to the north. As the path moved from the open ground under the cover of the bare, late autumn trees, the hiker shifted the pack on their shoulders. Leaves crunched beneath their feet upon the packed gravel. The sun slowly sank in the west, bringing rich colors and a chill to the evening. A sense of urgency pushed them to press onward.

Clouds were gathering and the air held the threat of cold rain. Still, the hiker did not pause to build a shelter. They merely flipped the hood of their coat up over their head and moved faster. When the first fat drops of water fell from the sky, the traveler was growing near the summit of the hill. Rain had turned into a steady pelting of icy cold water, mixing into something like sleet. A clearing was on the north side of the hill, just a few hundred yards below where the trees were regularly smited with with the wrath of the sky.

As the traveler moved into the clearing, they pulled a glowstick from in their right pocket. As they snapped the thing and shook it, there was a moment of worry that the chill of the evening was going to render the chemicals useless. The lurid green light that came almost immediately after they stopped shaking the sealed plastic tube should have reassured the one holding it. Instead, they remained agitated. The pack on their back felt heavy. The exhaustion from their quick march up the hill was catching up with them.

A fear pressed them onward. As they came to the end of the path, they found the standing stones. It was nothing like the fabled henge off in an English field. It was barely a ring, to be honest. Jagged stones of granite stood up like they had been cast to the ground by some giant. By the light of day, they seemed some queer combination of orange and pink with dark veins of feldspar through them. In the queer half light of the glowstick, they looked to be the color of the hiker's flesh, if not more lurid- in short, like the flesh of the zombies from the cheap paperback that was buried in the bottom of the heavy pack.

They stopped at the edge of the circle. Carefully, the swung the pack off their shoulder and set it on the ground outside of the circle. Holding the glowstick in their teeth, they opened the pack and began to dig through its contents. With a shaky hand, they pulled out a leather sack that bulged awkwardly but in an organic fashion. Soon a second sack was found. It was longer than the first and seemed heavier. The items in the sack clattered slightly as the hiker was setting them down.

The hiker's face paled at the noise. They looked from the bags they had carried up the hill to the ring they were beside with a fearful expression. With a swallow, they pushed the lump of terror back down their throat before pulling out a canteen and a crushed loaf of bread. The glowstick faded as they dropped the flap over the opening of the sack. They took the glowstick out of their teeth and held it awkwardly in their right hand, shaking it in a quick desperate motion.

The glowstick went dark the moment the tip of an end crossed over the perimeter of the circle. Alone in the darkness, caught in a rainstorm that was closer to hail than sleet, the hiker gave an unconscious whimper of fear. Within the circle, a light seemed to rise. It was like a faint mist, a trick of the eye against the dark. Slowly, the light grew brighter. The hiker tore their eyes away from the light and cast the loaf of bread into the circle. The cord of the canteen tangled on their wrist as it swung away from them.

The canteen abruptly stopped midswing, as though someone had taken hold of it. The hiker looked over. A man stood across the grassy demarcation of the circle's edge. The canteen had swung half into the circle and the man had taken hold of it. He looked at the hiker and then down at the two bags laying at their feet. "You return what is ours?" the man asked.

The hiker nodded, awkwardly attempting to untangle their wrist from the canteen's strap. The man pulled on the canteen, dragging the tangled wrist closer to the edge of the circle. "And the price?" he said. A chill washed down the hiker's spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

"I have nothing to give, my Lord," the hiker wailed, "I have given you all that I have."

The man in the circle tipped his head slightly to the left and regarded his unwitting prisoner. The traveler stooped and picked up the sacks at their feet. They held them out to the man, unable to still the anxious tremors that made the things within give a quiet noise, as though dry, fragile things were jostled together. "Take them," the hiker said. Hysteria had entered into their voice. The man before the frightened traveler smiled.

The tips of the fingers of the hand holding the bags had crossed over the grassy line marking the end of the path. When the man in the circle closed their own large hand over the wrist attached to that hand, the possessor's eyes went wide. A scream echoed in the dark as all light vanished and the hiker lurched forward.

Three days later, a search party found the pack and the glowstick laying at the trailhead. Within the ring of stones, a notable number of mushrooms were present. One of the members of the party from out of town commented on this. The head of the search team, an older man, said that it was due to the previous rain. They then went back down the trail, fanning the search to go through the cold wood.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Wrote this whilst listening to:

Trollabundin from Eivor

I can feel it humming  from The Flashbulb

Flash Fiction: untitled

"Oh ye of so little faith," the voice said with a tone of disappointment.

She closed her eyes and struggled to breathe. Her head throbbed and had a measure of dizziness. She was fairly sure that the blow had given her a mild concussion. Waves of nausea came and went as the fighter worked to gather her strength. Her body hurt so much that it seemed to be nothing but a mass of pain.

Laying on the concrete, the fighter was tempted to just let herself sink into unconsciousness. Her opponent drew back a foot to kick her again. Acting on instinct, she rolled away as the foot came towards her head. She pushed up onto her hands and knees. The man before her moved to punch her in the head again.

She twisted, grabbing hold of his wrist and pulling him off his feet with the sudden force of her motion. As he hit the ground, she wrapped her legs around his chest. Her fists fell on his head with enough force to make the big man cry out in pain. He tried to knock her off of him but she continued to hold on and strike at his face. Somehow, he managed to maneuver himself so that she was pressed down to the ground beneath him.

His large hands gripped her around the throat. Her right hand struck his throat. As she closed her fist, her nails bit into his flesh and her fingers wrapped partially around his coratid artery. His eyes went wide a heartbeat before she pulled with all the strength she could muster. He almost screamed as she ripped his throat open. He collapsed as she pushed him aside, his hands flailing to stem the spray of bright red blood.

She made her way to her feet. Though she swayed, she began to walk towards the ladder out of the pit. Above her, stunned silence reigned. The voice that spoke to her on the edge of unconsciousness seemed to echo in the silence. "Stand," it said, though no one else could hear it. She stumbled and the world swam before her. Still, she pushed herself forward. She reached the ladder and gripped it hard with her blood slicked hand. People above her moved away from the ladder as the master of ceremonies walked to it.

He looked down at her. He was the image of genteel sophistication. His dove grey suit was spotless. An ice blue eye peered down at her, its mate lost in some conflict that the man never spoke of. His expression was one of approval. "Bring her up," he said to no one in particular before turning and walking away. Her knees were growing weak as her vision began to go grey. A person began climbing down. She watched them. Hands slipped under her arms and bore her up as the extent of her injuries caught up with her.

"You're the first one to survive," the person supporting her said as another lowered a backboard.

"I don't die," she said as unconsciousness claimed her.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I don't feel pleased with this. But whatever, I wrote something.

Flipping out.

There's been an accidental theme over the last two days. As I have been handling stuff, things have fallen over or flipped off of the table. It has been very vexing and resulted in much cursing, despite my efforts not to. I don't know if it is a case of my being extra clumsy or what. All I know is that last night, I had my dinner flip off the table twice as I was dishing myself more food. And today, I had a drink fall over when I wasn't even touching it.

I am glad that my cake this evening didn't go flying. I was concerned for a second that it was going to happen. In other news, I have started feeling motivation on the writing front. It hits me at the end of the day, but it is starting to happen again. I have begun the process of building up another writing playlist. Fortunately, Spotify has been turning up all kinds of really nifty cinematic like music. I think between that and my Youtube videos, I may have a good collection of tracks to motivate me. And by the time I get tired of that, I will be ready to cycle back to the playlist I have out of the music library we have at home.

Considering shorts.

Earlier this week, I read an erotica short that was kicking around on the Kindle that Beloved gave me a while back. As I read this thing, I was struck by two things. The first that hit me was how the writing wasn't all that great (mediocre at best) and yet they still got paid. The second thing that hit me was how short the thing was. It was a lot like reading one of the scenes I was writing on my other blog. It has been on the back burner for months now.

It isn't that I was embarrassed by what I was writing. It wasn't that I was burned out. The problem was I had no idea what to do next or where to go with that project. The lack of feedback that happens with my blogging makes it hard to keep posting material. It gets to a point where I wonder if I should just resume putting everything into notebooks. Still, seeing this bit of erotica Sunday afternoon got me to thinking.

I can write better material than that. I do on a regular basis with my rough drafts. It doesn't look like it would be too difficult to produce material for it and self-publishing is pretty easy with e-books. I think the real challenge would be covers. I don't have a budget for snazzy covers. A part of me toys with the idea of using some of my sketches for it but then I question if the quality of my sketches is strong enough for that. The other thought is to start doing abstract pieces to go with the stuff I'm writing and use a little digital manipulation to make the cover.

That, however, is going into territory that I literally have no idea what I would be doing. Still, the thought of producing something on a semi-regular basis that would not just get me readers but possibly a bit of cash is interesting to me. It is appealing and I guess that is a good sign. As things are getting settled and the school year is about to start soon, I know I am going to have time to resume writing my scenes. I have a few story lines that I really need to finish but I'm not sure how to get from point A to point B still. My attempts to just let my subconscious come up with it are not exactly bearing fruit.

I think I'm just going to have to sit down and do what I've done with larger works. Make myself a plot map and diagram how the whole thing is going to work. The initial idea of just writing the serial stories off the cuff is hindering me and making production very difficult.

Challenges and chances.

I wish I could report that my lack of posting was due to something fun. Unfortunately, I had been struggling over the last three months with depression. It seems that one of my medications stopped working properly and I wound up in the hospital for a bout a week as the good doctors and nurses sorted that out. I have been home for a few days busily trying to catch up on all the things that got missed or forgotten in that fog of depression. Writing pretty much anything was a struggle, let alone regularly blogging.

On my new medication regimen, I am feeling much better. I have had some ups and downs over the last few days but nothing like what it was before I went into the hospital. I am somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of things that I let slip by. Fortunately, Beloved has been totally awesome and caught things like the car insurance bill that I forgot while I was away. I am still trying not to over do it, but it is frustrating. A part of me wants to say that since I am no longer as horribly depressed, I obviously am well enough to jump right back into my usual routine.

I try that and then I come away exhausted, upset, and generally disheartened. FLYLady's methods have been helpful to me. I didn't realize how much I had moved away from using them during my more serious period of illness until I looked at my little journal and noticed that none of the appointments of the last two and a half months had been written in there. It rather shook me to see that. I am, however, recommitting myself to the program.

A strict bedtime has become a necessity. With my new medication regimen, I find that I need to be in bed by 9:30 or 9:45 at the latest or I have a very hard time waking up in the morning. The nurses at the hospital said that the side effects that cause such morning sluggishness will wear off as I acclimate to the new medicine I'm on. I am optimistic, however, that I will find myself able to go through life with less extreme ups and downs now because of it. The other antidepressants that I have been on are not typically prescribed for someone with bipolar (which is one diagnosis among many that I have now). This one, however, is one of the most frequently prescribed ones for people like me.

I have returned to reading some every day. During the hardest portion of my latest severe depressive episode, I had a hard time concentrating to read a paragraph, let alone a page. It may sound silly, but I missed reading books while I was ill. I knew that I was on the mend when I sat down and read the rather cheezy romance novel that was kicking around the hospital wing I was in and finished it in an afternoon. I was more then a little bit amused by the nurses' general expressions of shock.

I'm currently reading the first book in the Harry Potter series. I'm about halfway through it. I have come to the conclusion that the thing which would cure Draco Malfoy's snottiness would be a spanking and getting grounded. I'm told that this character becomes more tolerable as the series continues. I hope so, because I wouldn't want to start throwing books at the wall. I've seen two of the movies. I can say in all honesty, the movie portrayal that Alan Rickman did of Professor Snape is dead on target.

I have started work on my gardening projects for the spring/summer. While I'm not one hundred percent convinced that we're past the danger of frost, I still sowed some seed yesterday. I planted seeds for lettuce, nasturtium, a day lily variant, and a few other things that I can't recall right now. I have a box of shade seed mix to spread out front where there is a big barren spot beside the front steps. On the box, it says that it is good for places that get one to four hours of sunlight in the day. I think this particular spot gets one hour of sunlight, two at most.

My reclaimed firepit that is getting turned into a circular-ish bed is currently a bit stalled. I have some gardening fabric that I put down to block weeds. I need to cover it with soil before I can even begin to think about planting anything there. My plan is to put down the old soil from a few big pots over the fabric. I want to then put a layer of mulch over it before covering with fresh bagged soil. That spot gets a lot of sunlight.

I don't think a rose bush will do well in that spot because it doesn't get quite enough sun to call it full sun. I will, however, plant things like marigold, phlox, and a few other things that tolerate that kind of lighting. I have a tiny little shepherd's crook in the middle of the bed. My plan is to take a twig and make a little set of windchimes to hang there with the remains of two broken windchimes. If by some wild chance I can somehow afford that lantern styled stand for in the middle of that spot, I will replace the shepherd crook with that and make it into something of an outdoor little shrine for me to pray at while I garden.

I am picking up the non-fiction manuscript that I was working on in April. My goal is to finish it by the end of the summer. I think I can accomplish it within that time frame. Right now, I'm approximately a quarter of the way done. When I am finished writing the prose for the manuscript, I will be breaking out my art supplies to draw some illustrations for it. Because I don't want to go through the expense of color printing, I think they're going to be just basic black pen and ink.

When I'm not working on the non-fiction manuscript, I will be doing some background work on book three of the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar. I wanted to have this book have more 'light' in it but true to the themes of the story-lines, the story just gets progressively darker. I felt badly about this at first but then I realized that it really was necessary within the larger story arc of the series. The first trilogy of the series talks about how the heroine of the series is orphaned and a failed attempt to restore her to her rightful place. The second trilogy talks about life under the rule of the usurper and how the heroine grows into womanhood as a Robin Hood-esque outlaw. While aware of her birthright, the heroine is more focused on the needs of the people around her and struggles with her identity, trying to determine as all young people do, just who she is.

The third trilogy is the first to really focus on the heroine's actions as an adult. This trio of books talks about how she embarks on a war to reclaim her throne, the sacrifices that are made to do so, and the actions of the gods in the characters' lives. After this comes the fourth trilogy that describes the remainder of this war, as well as the beginnings of a larger war between the gods. It ends with the heroine winning her victory and a suggestion that perhaps all shall be well, though dark things are brooding in the periphery that speaks of the next part of the series.

I haven't decided what I'm going to call that collection of books, because they will not take place within the kingdom of Evandar. I want to keep the suggestion of shadows, darkness, and nightfall in place. The greater story arc of the series, including the prequel trilogy that is named the Penumbral Chronicle of Evandar, speaks of a war between the gods. The god of evil, suffering, and sorrow seeks to reclaim the goddess of life as his own. In a previous time, the first great war happened and the demigods, who are children of the god of evil and the god of honor, storms, and good by the goddess of life, fought this war and dragged humanity into it. The forces of good triumphed over those of evil and the demigods of evil were banished in to the 'outer darkness' or 'the void' as some would call it. The god of evil was bound but his followers eventually found a way to remove those bindings.

With the removal of the bindings, the god of evil plotted how to bring down the god of good and reclaim the goddess of life. Thus, the events of the Penumbral Chronicle and the Umbrel Chronicles of Evandar have their foundation in the machinations of the god of evil. There is, however, hope that is embodied within the heroine of the Umbrel Chronicles, who is the last begotten child of the god of good, though even she doesn't fully comprehend what this means until the latter portion of the series unfolds. The second great war arises from the ashes of the heroine's war to reclaim her birthright.

Actions of those who supported the usurper, who is a follower of the god of evil, work to unleash the demigods who are the children of the god of evil. Then, the heroine must hold her kingdom together as her husband embarks in a divinely appointed quest to summon the reclusive demigods of good back into the world. That quest takes a heavy toll on the heros of that story but in the end, the succeed in bringing the good demigods back. Then the story of the war between the gods unfurls. It ends with the forces of good triumphing at a steep price, an almost Pyrrhic victory of sorts.

I have all of the books outlined in a notebook. There's 21 books in the series. And I have ideas for other stories to write within that world. At times, I get intimidated by the daunting task of writing these stories down. But then I realize that if I don't write them, nothing will come of them and I will still be left with the need to write them. Writing these books is less of a matter of trying to reach fame, though it'd be nice, and more of getting the story out of my head so that I can move on to other things.

As I am working on my non-fiction writing, I keep feeling the pull to write the fiction. I try to scratch that itch by writing in different genres. It make work for a temporary fix but I keep coming back to this truly epic story. I have been attempting to write this series for 20 years. I have a massive pile of notebooks of background material. I have sketchbooks with maps and similar details drawn out. For each thing I write down, three more reveal themselves as needing to be written. All of this stuff started out as a little story that I lived in my head as a child. So, in some manifestations, I have been working on this series for thirty years.

I honestly don't know if I'm going to manage to write it all down. It is, something, however, that I'm going to attempt to do over the years. Writing two books a year is a good start. Who knows, maybe somewhere I'll stumble onto an professional editor who will help me polish these things up and I'll get a publication contract or something.

NaBloPoMo Post #19

And now for a bit of fiction...

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The Priestess walked the halls of the temple beyond the partition of the sanctuary. Cradling a hot cup of tea with honey in it, she proceeded at a stately pace, meditating on her role as head of the order. It was unprecedented that she dropped part of her title during informal interactions. It was equally unprecedented that the High Priestess of the order would work intimately with her junior priestesses. It had earned her the informal title of "Blessed Mother".

On this morning, she was tired and watching the honey colored light slid through the archways to glow in vibrant pools on the marble flagstones. She walked through these pools, half expecting to feel its warmth catch upon her voluminous skirts like water. From one end of the colonnade to the other, she walked. A pair of acolytes knelt near the midpoint of the passage, scrubbing the stones with wide, soft bristled brushes beside a bucket of cold water. The priestess knew they were watching her from the corners of their eyes.

The dark haired woman stopped near the two younger women. The pair remained steadfastly focused on their task despite the silent presence behind them. "Rise and come with me," she said quietly. The acolytes looked at each other. "Floors always need cleaning. It will keep. Now, come with me," the High Priestess of Yulara prompted gently. The pair kneeling before her looked at each other. One resumed scrubbing as the other stood.

With a small gesture of benediction, the priestess turned and began walking again. "Your sister is still too troubled by the world," the priestess said to her young shadow, "Come, walk by my side, not behind me. We are sisters in our service to the gods." Reluctantly, the acolyte walked to the left of the head of her order. The young woman's short hair shone like spun gold in the morning's light as they walked out into the courtyard.

"My dear, do you know why your sister failed to accept my invitation?" the black clad woman asked. The acolyte chewed her lower lip, unsure what the correct answer was and thus remained silent. The Blessed Mother looked over and smiled indulgently. "The wise choose silence when unsure how to respond, you have done well," she said before taking a sip of her tea.

The pair walked to a bench sheltered by a pair of thin trees with silvery green leaves. The brilliant sunlight bathed the courtyard with blinding beauty. It caught in the tresses of the Blessed Mother and made the touch of gray in her hair silver. "Sit, my child," she said, gesturing beside herself on the bench. Obediently, the young woman sat with her hands folded in her lap. The Blessed Mother looked over at the younger woman.

Her blond hair had been cut short as a sign that she was reborn upon her entry into the order. Unlike other maidens under her care, the Blessed Mother noted this young woman maintained the short hairstyle. Her white robes were pristine beneath her dingy gray work smock. The Blessed Mother remembered herself as a maiden of the order, struggling to maintain the pure white of her own robes.

"Tell me, my Daughter," she said, "What is your heart's dearest wish?" The maiden looked over, surprise in her eyes. "You've not taken the vow of silence," the priestess said with a rich chuckle, "So speak, child." The young woman looked at her hands.

"I wish to serve the gods," answered the acolyte, "As you do, Blessed Mother." The priestess smiled, hearing the undertones of the young woman's answer.

"That requires a great deal of study and sacrifice," she said.

"I know. I am willing to do what I must," the acolyte.

The priestess nodded. "Very well. Return to your chores. Take the vow of silence for one year. Then we shall speak again of this," the older woman said, "If you are truly ready for the sacrifices you must make, a year of silence will be a simple thing."