Wrong, wrong

Ok, I was wrong. Programming rawks, I love it, end of story. It'd still be interesting being an English teacher tho...

Here we go. I'll write the stories AND the programming for video/computer games. That'd be sick. So very sick that it makes me cry at the awesomeness...it's a plan.

Lack of direction, so here are the options

I don't know what I want to do with my life right now, but I think I'm leaning towards teaching Highschool/College english perhaps, since I'm not a good enough writer to really make it in that area. Perhaps that could be a sideshow thing going on. All I know is that I wouldn';t like to be a programmer for a living. It's just not fun, even though it would eventually get me almost close to my dreams...that's the problem, though. Almost close. I want to create worlds, and the technicalities of programming would really get in the way. I'll be satisfied with playing games for now instead of making them :).

Ideas, stuff...

Lauren's going to have my head for thinking in such a worldly fashion (the dreamer part comes when I write it, young one ;) ), but I think that the ideas that I'm coming up with will help my plotlines be more touching emotionally and more powerful to the reader.

Ok, my idea is that there are several emotions that generally affect the human mind strongly. These are emotions that cause us to be happy, sad, rejoiceful, emotions that fill us up or sink us down. Really good writing can have that effect on someone, and many writers try their whole lives to convey strong senses of how their audiences feel, so taht they can manipulate(I hate to say it, but it fits) their audience and use the emotions conveyed in the writing to further strengthen the emotions felt by the reader.

These emotions can include feelings of loss, of love, of revenge, of justice, of hope, of friendship and companionship. I think that I will have to use my plotlines to effectively surround at least three or four of these ideas in order to really get my audience to feel the writing. Many popular stories have done this, stories such as Lord of the Rings (companionship, love, despair, hope, etc.) really encompass many of these strong emotions. The ancient playwright Sophocles used this same sort of idea to really create amazing storylines, and his works still can't be touched to this day.

Well, there it is...I'll have to use that idea somehow...

New fantasy idea, thanks to Erica

Well, Erica said that she was considering starting her fourth novel, so she gave me the opening sentence. I proceeded to predict the rest of the novel, and of course I was totally wrong. However, I don't think that my ideas were that bad...and I may be writing something later on, to be posted here.

Church

The cold air hits me like icy fingers, reaching down my throat. I pull my coat closer around me, but the sleeves are still too short. Cramming my hands in my pockets, I make for the car, keys in hand. The snow crunches under my feet. I climb into the driver’s seat of my mother’s red Windstar and shut the door quickly. It’s still cold. Quickly I stuff the key into the ignition, quickly I turn it. The van starts, but I know that it will take about ten minutes to warm up to the point that warm air ventilates through the car instead of this chilly breeze. I quickly turn the fans off. My little sister jumps into the back seat, neglecting to close the sliding side door. I tell her briskly to close it, shivering. She whines and closes the door, only to have it flung open again by my two brothers. My mom kicks me out of the driver's seat and I climb into the back.
It’s dark, but I can still see a little purple on the horizon through the windows. However, turning back to see it would mean looking at my stupid little sister, so I sacrifice the view to keep myself from arguing with her. I think about confession as I stare out the window, moving uncomfortably in my coat. It’s still cold. Mom seems to be putting on her saintly airs as she drives, telling us to behave in church and griping about how late we are. Maybe she’s right. I prime myself for confession. What else did I do wrong?
The car finally starts to warm up as we pull into the parking lot. I step out, leaving the door open behind me for my other brothers and sister. I hurry up the steps of the church and open the front door carefully. This door has a habit of opening quietly and closing with a bang that would send everyone’s head, from the lowliest monk to the sternest Matushka, spinning around to glare in my direction. I carefully close the door and check to see what part of the service I’ve arrived at. OK, priest outside the royal doors, lights are out. The church is situated so that the faithful stand in the narthex and church, the altar and choir-enclaves are on a raised part of the church. The raised part in front of the royal doors is called the Ambo, while the choir enclave is the Cleros.
Matushka Drovat sits in the corner, her bad leg up on the heater. She smiles warmly to us as we file in. I make my bows, bow to the altar, and hurry across the church to the men's side of the church, slowing as a harsh whisper from Fr. Ignatious comes across the church.
"Shhh!"
Fr. Ignatious directs a long hard stare at my brothers. They shrink into the high necks of their coats and walk slowly to the coat hooks. Taking off my coat, I hang it amongst the others, each hook holding about four coats as usual. I push the collar of my coat over top of the other’s already hung. My sister tries to squeeze between me and the coat hooks, only to stuff her coat under the bench like a lazy slob. After the coats are on the small hooks, we all creep up to the front of the church, being careful to tread on the central carpet runner so that our steps don't echo off of the wood floor. The deacon is calling out the petitions,
"Paki ee paki meerom gospoda pomolimsya."
The choir responds with the usual
"Gospodi Pomeeloi."
I take my place at the end of the line for confession. A small old woman with white hair and a crooked white scarf stands in front of me. I tap her on the shoulder and point to the confession corner inquiringly. She smiles and nods. I smile back and settle into my standing position behind her. The smell of incense and the dim glow of the candles sets an atmosphere perfect for sleeping, but if anyone is ever found dozing off in church, Fr. Ignatious will be at their necks.
I peer over the old woman in front of me to see whether or not Fr. Mark is taking confessions. He’s the Abbot of the monastery, and many of the faithful go to him for confession. On any normal day you can find him in his office, always packing in hours of work for the monastery, and when he isn't working he's either praying, eating, or sleeping.
The Six Psalms begin, one reader in the middle of the church with no lights and no sound other than his ringing voice. I struggle to stand still in line and try to keep my sister from swaying back and forth. She shrugs my hands off of her shoulders and keeps on swinging. I’ll have to talk to Mom about that. Before I know it the Six Psalms are over and the deacon comes out. After the deacon's petitions, the choir begins to sing more of the readings to the saints of the day. Fr. George, the choir director, is quite the man for this job. In addition to teaching in the seminary, Fr. George leads an award winning choir at the monastery. His seminarians travel all over the place, attending choir conferences and seminars in parishes all over the East Coast. When my friend John was a child, he had the misfortune of meeting him when he was in one of his strange Fr. George moods. After introductions, the child John was promptly flipped upside down and shook for change.
The old woman in front of me enters the confession room. The canons have ended and the deacon comes out again to say another Ektenia. The deacon, Fr. Kyril, was only ordained last month, and his chanting is still a little unsteady. He hasn’t quite memorized the petitions well enough to read in the dark. Fr. George whispers cues to him in Russian. He nervously looks over to the choir enclave, then chants on. Fr. Kyril hurriedly leaves the ambo after the last petition. The priest says the concluding prayer. I listen to his voice and conclude that Fr. Theophilact is serving tonight. No bishop’s shroud is on the staff on the ambo, so the Metropolitan must be away at another conference. The Metropolitan is busy trying to reconcile things with the Russian church. His efforts may just bring the American parishes and the Russian cathedrals together. I turn my gaze to the ceiling, listening to the drone of Fr. Theophilact’s chant echoing through the church.
Every surface of the church is covered in ornate paintings, either of the events surrounding the life of Christ or the lives of the saints. Inside the dome on the ceiling, Christ blesses the faithful with two hands. On the left, he is rising from the dead and opening the gates of Hades. On the right Christ weeps at the death of his mother, the Theotokos. When you stand in front of the doors at the front of the church and look towards the back of the church, the wall you see portrays the two paths of all souls: Heaven and Hell. This is to remind the faithful of the Last Judgment as they come back from Holy Communion.
The old woman who was in front of me steps out of the confession room, still beaming. I step into the darkness of the little room. Fr. Mark faces the wall as I venerate the cross and the gospel book on the stand in front of him. I rummage around in my pocket, past the leather wallet and the inhaler chamber in my pocket, trying to find my list of sins. I read my confession off of a little scrap of printer paper and he grunts as each sin reaches his ears. Inwardly I sigh. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood for lectures. He prays the Prayer of Absolution over my head, and I venerate the icons again. He gives his blessing and I walk out of the confession room quietly.
Slowly I walk towards the back of the church. Taking my place, I glance up towards the front of the church. Fr. Ignatious is berating a small boy for laughing too loudly. He stands behind the boy and holds him by the shoulders. Judging from the boy’s squirming, I guessed that he was holding him pretty tightly. Good old Fr. Ignatious. He is the translator for the English prayer books sold by the monastery printing press. I think that he finds some sort of strange pleasure in making the text particularly difficult both to read and to understand. He seems to enjoy his job as disciplinarian in church, as is apparent by the still squirming boy in front of him.
The Kathismas begin, a part in the service in which everyone either sits down or leaves the church to grab a drink at the well. I grab my coat and head towards the doors. Matushka Drovat is still sitting there, reading the service with her leg still up. She smiles as I cross myself at the doors, carrying out the traditional church -leaving reverences.
It’s still cold outside, and my breath catches in my lungs. It’s going to be a long night.

Nature's Kisses

We walk onward, carefully, cautiously. I follow our young leader, conscious of the path she takes. Brother behind, I feel an intoxicating rush as we pass under the canopy of trees, single file. Maybe it's the smell, the feel of the earth beneath my feet. I begin to sprint through the foliage. But it's not sprinting. It's a hurdling skip, something that entails a wolf's bound, a horse's gallop, and the deer's agile leap. Each passing branch, bush, and twig leaves it's rough kisses on my arms and fae. They are mother nature's blessing, leaving her mark and asking me to return to this paradise. They are a reminder, not a pain, not a scar, as it may seem. A reminder that I must cure my softness by visiting again, that her kisses may cure and clean me.

WPP and the mafia and something else

IDEAS


Opposing sides of a witness protection program meet by pure chance. The result is a fire-fight between the opposing sides.

I think that the two opposing sides of the case will have to be from opposing mafia-type organizations, or maybe corporations…but how will they be located in the same area? The firefight will have to take place in a different country altogether from where the original disturbance occurred, making the chances of them meeting in the first place (in close proximity nonetheless) even slimmer.

I think that the two young boys of both families will have to meet at some point.
I think that the result of the initial encounter will be something like an entrenched position on either side of an abandoned street (abandoned because of the earlier firefight). The local government officials cannot interfere, since this will trigger a war pact from both mafias/corporations that are involved in the case.

Maybe I should be concentrating more on the case, rather than thinking out the logistics.

Whatever. I’ll get to that eventually.

The two entrenched families, both experienced fighters, will both be unaware of the empty sewers underneath their own homes that both of their boys play in. The boys will meet (they are boys, because if it were to be girl and boy, it would be Romeo and Juliet, and if they were to be girls, then it would result in either a catfight right off or a ditzy show of doll collections and THEN a catfight). The boys forget their differences for lack of any other playmate options and become close friends. Both hide their encounters from their parents, obviously. They should create a world together, something beautiful. Something that they will look back on when they are older, when they have to face each other as enemies opposing on an age-old argument.

Perscription for the Broken-Hearted

{Continued from a larger document that I haven't written yet :) . This was written a looong time ago}

-has to be loud, or else you might as well be listening to nothing at all. I don't mean "can't-hear-the-conversation" loud, I mean eyelid pulsing, breath-bated, finger-tingling, head-pounding LOUD. Loud. Like, so loud that it feels wrong to breathe outside of the beat. Bass-bouncing-around-between-your-ears loud. The hum of the overblown amp gives life to the iner self. The tap of the snare guides the heartbeats of the man under the inlfuence of music. The voice sends the soul out of body and into a world where none of this matters. A world of forgetting, a world away. no more pain, no more agony, no more remembrance. Only the beat. The electricity. The drums. The bass. The sticcato tremors, the legato strands. And loud. It has to be loud.

Forest

You get tired of the same old places, the same old people. Then you enter that place where dreams occur, where fantasy meets fact, where heaven meets earth. No one else can appreciate that really, because it's different for everyone. Everyone else has their place of comfort and protection. Mine is the forest.
A walk in the forest is like meeting with old friends, communing in their company. Friends that shelter and protect their own. They beckon you to stay and rest under their beautiful veils, to sit and stay with them for a while. They whisper their joy as the wind rushes through their branches. They sing softly as the rain meets their outstretched arms. All is peace and comfort, beauty and radiance. I have realized that, compared to the forest, I live in a place of ugliness and despair. The forest is my real home. Maybe that is why I don't care for winter as much as I care for spring. Winter is when my friends sleep sleep and rest, when they recede into themselves and stand dark and tall against the cold. They seem to be just empty husks, but underneath the dead-looking shell is life that awaits for spring. They wait for their time to awake, and I await as well, waiting for when my friends will come back to me.

The Prayer of the Spiritual Warrior

2/9/04, originally written at an earlier, unknown date

A vision of purity was given to the race of man. From the beginning of time man was given the chance to prove himself worthy of God’s grace. However, the weakness of man disrupted the vision. Now, man has lost that vision, and all that is left is the bickering races groping for what they had once, but will never achieve again.

But there is still hope.

And now I call on this hope. I place my trust in the purity that once governed the race of man. And I ask to be delivered from the torment that previous generations have brought down on us. Knowing my unworthiness, acknowledging my impurity, I ask that the mercy that was once granted so freely to man be granted to me in this troubled hour. Not because I have earned or deserved this endless gift, but because I have yearned for it, and am willing to devote my entire being to this purpose. I ask to take part in the ever-cleansing fire, for I know that by doing so my soul will be bettered, and I will come closer to the perfection that is you. I know that wanting this gift is not enough to achieve it, so I am willing also to fight the eternal war against myself, against the ways of man today. I know that this war will be long and hard, but the reward is worth the risk of death, the risk of a thousand deaths.

Character Profiles

Begun on November 3rd, 2003

He is strong, practical, clever, artistic, a perfectionist, good with his hands, brave but not stupid, honorable but not uppity. Loyal to friends, but not a committer, he stays with one objective, always the achiever, and certainly not one to give up in a tight spot when someone is in trouble. He has the power to forgive, but is wise enough not to forget in some cases. He knows when to deal a blow, when someone is wrong enough to be told so. He may not be the brightest, but he certainly isn’t the dullest blade in the cabinet. He knows his faults. He also knows his strengths, but knows not to overstretch them. He has a sense of justice, a sense of the right, the wrong, and the actual center of things. He looks for the truth. He is not one to talk much, but he knows how to and when to.


He has a way with words that no other man does, a turn of phrase that makes you turn your head just to acknowledge his superiority, but instead of an expression of loftiness, you see a twinkle in his eye, and a laugh that comes easily to his lips. Somehow, you cannot picture him in a foul mood. His glee is never ending and he rejoices in life, happiness, and truth. He is older, but if it weren’t for his wrinkled face, you wouldn’t be able to tell it for an instant. He is nimble and strong, a very athletic man for his age. He is known for the way he can pick a fight with any man, and more for the fact that he always wins. However, he does not flaunt his strength if he does not have to. He knows when his strength will be needed, and he applies it accordingly.


He is shy. He shrinks away from sociability. He cannot bear to express the feelings bursting to come out of him. His emotions are felt much more than any others, because of their pent up energy. His thoughts are a rage of despair, because he is afraid of the expression of the thoughts that long ago should have been let out, but now tumble over and over again in his mind. However, he is afraid of people, afraid of their disapproval and their dislike. There may come a time, however, when a person comes along who may set his feelings free. When that time comes, the world will see that he has something special to bring to it. His intelligence may be recognized by many to be far beyond the current time. He has special abilities that no one person has seen before, and because of this, he will be acknowledged above any other. This will encourage him to grow out of this awareness of self despair, and release the true self hiding under the cringing mask.


He is pompous and proud. He believes because he is part of a special order, that he is beyond the intelligence and strength of any other. In some ways he is right, but in time others will come to take his place with more ease than he could ever imagine. Because of his pride, he is susceptible to the discouragement that others who are greater may bring to him. When his humiliation comes, he will be a great person, because his pride is one of the only things that drag him down.


She is intelligent and reserved. She takes all things into account when ever she makes decisions. However, she is not biased or stereotypical. She can see straight through the outward appearance of a man and see his heart and soul. She is a desirable person, but no man is stupid enough to try to catch her fancy. Her true love has not come, and there may never be one that is worthy of her.


She is a fighter, but she is not like other violent people who walk blindly into battle. She is very cool about her work. She is calm and careful. She is very intelligent, and knows how to strike and when to strike. She never takes insults, but she does know how to take blame. She may never forgive herself for not saving a friend in need. She uses her power only for good, and she can use her power well. She has an influence on other people that not many other women have. She is the fighter for justice.


She is the mother figure. She cares for other people the way only mothers may care for other people. She knows how to run a household, and when the time requires it, she knows how to whip people into shape. She knows how to cook, clean, and she has ways of finding a part for everyone in chores. Her part in the group is constant encouragement and trust, and a morale support that may cause some people to change their ways in order to please her.


These twins are very intelligent. Their combined knowledge is great because of their joined minds. They do not have to speak to each other, and it was a while before they realized that people could not understand them when they tried to speak the way they did. They are great readers, and this has brought them to philosophy. They enjoy deceiving, just to test their theories about the human mind. They may seem to be stupid, but this is a great mistake, because they can tell almost what you are thinking. With a turn of phrase they may give you a hint as to what they may be plotting next, but it is more likely that it is part of their plans to study the human psyche.

"Weird World"

Maybe if I just concentrate harder, it will move. Move! Hmm. This is stupid. Do I need a talisman? Do I need to practice? Or do I need some miracle child that will touch me and give me weird and inexplicable powers? Maybe I just need coffee. Or breakfast. Mmm. Breakfast. A nice pair of butter coated pieces of toast. Omelet, Mexican style with sour cream. Mmm. OJ. Coffee. I’ll probably need to use the plastic forks in the silverware drawer. I forgot to wash the dishes last night. Oh, and a paper plate. At least I won’t have to clean up all that much. I wish they made disposable pans. That would be convenient. And expensive. OK, back to work. Move! Mooooove! Move? I feel like an idiot.
The man sat in his living room, hair a mess, still in his boxers, shirtless, trying to move this little toy figure of Saruman without touching him. The man looks to be in his early 20’s, with short, messy brown hair.

Beren and Luthien

1.
A man runs through the trees, alone
Through forest groves, past leaf and stone
Passing through the Hidden Land
Still caressed by Nature’s hand
He wanders, still hopelessly lost
Feet shining with morning frost
Strong but alone in the world

He comes upon a pretty clearing
Rays of sun say midday is nearing
He is just about to enter, bold
When he hears a sound, he stops cold
What is this he sees?
Dancing beautifully among the trees
And singing a song in the chill air

He pulls back, scared to be seen
Wondering if she was the Queen
To whom he would have to answer
How would he get past her?
So then he takes a closer look to see
If Queen she is of these trees
But instead he is stopped again

For she is more beautiful than the star
That glimmers brightly from afar
He sees in her step a sweet grace
Which he has only seen in the race
Of Elves, whom he had never paid mind
But she, she is not like their kind
For she is fairer than any he has ever seen

He stays awhile, beholding her dance
When he is suddenly pulled from his trance
She has seen him, she jumps to go
Through the forest, like a doe
Fleeing from the hunter on the chase,
But Beren only wanted to see her face
One last time

He wandered the forest, trying to find her
Struck speechless for long after
In his mind he called her Tinuviel
To him, the sweetest Nightingale
That ever sang among the trees
With a voice that could melt the freeze
Of heavy heart in the forest

And then one day, the Eve of Spring
He beholds a wonderful thing
On a green hill she was singing
An early spring she was bringing
Her voice chasing away the snow
Flowers springing wherever she’d go
As she welcomed springtime in the forest

Beren approached her, his sorrow fading
He climbed to where she sat waiting
Bringing forth such beautiful tones
That he was reminded of the Ancient ones
Departed from this life into the next
Sailing the sea into the West
As his people sang for their continuation

And then he spoke with gentle phrase
Giving her his solemn praise
For she was fairest he said to her
And she did not say a word
They sat well into the dusk
Until, finally, leave she must
To go to her father’s hall in the wilderness

2.
Beren fell to the ground as if in a swoon
For with him Luthien shared a Doom
Of love eternal, by luck or fate
He was anguished greatly, but not in hate.
Because he fell in love with Luthien
Forsaken was he, for no mortal man
Had loved so deeply an Elven maiden

Luthien stayed with him in the wood
She comforted him best she could
Luthien too was in deep anguish
But to love was not against her wish
Her suffering was greater than any
Of the Elves, of which there were many
But none had ever loved a mortal

They talked together for quite some time
Voices lingering, hands intertwined.
They met through the spring and summer
For Beren had not seen any other
More beautiful than Luthien before.
They stayed together for a fortnight, for
No one could disturb them in their bliss

But bliss they did not have for long…

Now Luthien’s father, Thingol, had
A minstrel named Daeron, very sad,
For he too loved Luthien of late.
His hate for Beren was very great
So to the grand king he went
And to him a dark message sent
To tell him of Beren and Luthien

The king sent servants throughout the land
So was the power of Thingol’s hand
To the king’s throne they were brought
No arguments made, no battles fought.
And before the king was brought Beren
Who silently stood before Thingol, when
The king rose from his throne in anger.

The king asked what the purpose was
For his presence here, because
No man had ever walked a path
Through or near the Hidden Land.
He asked him why, like a thief
He had stolen through the wood and leaf.
Beren sat and responded with silence.

The king was about to speak once more
When Beren with his eyes implored.
He stole a glance at Luthien
The king protested harshly, when
Beren responded in a loud voice
Giving Thingol his brave choice
Of Luthien Tinuviel’s hand.

The king was about to protest again
When hatched in his mind an awful plan.
He gave to brave Beren the dreadful task
Of bringing to him the jewel at last.
But not just any jewel, mind.
A Silmaril, the mighty kind
Which was forged by Gods in the ancient past.

At first Beren answered with a laugh
Saying that elves would trade a craft
For the hands of beautiful daughters.
But Luthien looked at her grand father
Knowing the task was impossible at best
More difficult then all the rest
For no Elf could perform it.

The House: Prologue

Dad stepped into the empty dining room, taking long strides like a giant observing his surroundings. He was a giant to me in those days. At 6 foot 2 inches, and me only around 4 and a half feet, he towered over everyone in his day. He surveyed his surroundings from a different angle from everyone else. Now he looked around the room, and I knew that he was trying to ignore the bare sheetrock with paste so thick on the walls it could have been a decoration unto itself. A solitary old couch, musty and moldy, torn, by who knows what, in half sat in the little window corner.
"Good, solid oak floors," Dad commented, stamping his shoe on the floor. A stray spider scrambled up its string. I watched it, trying to keep my mind off of the despair this place was emanating. This wasn't a place to live in. This wasn't home. I might have been young, but I knew there was something wrong from the minute I stepped into that dining room.
"What's the foundation like? Did I hear you say something about that?" Dad looked at the realtor guy, head tilted as if exaggerating the realtor's small stature.
"Ah, well, yes. The man who looked at it the other day said that there was some damage that could seriously inhibit the construction of the house, but it isn't a problem yet. That is why we call these fixer-uppers." The man laughed.
"And the roof?"
The man lost his smile. "That, too is in need of repairs. But that isn't very urgent either. Remember, all of these problems will help to lower the value of the house. The mortgage rate will also be lower. With time, you could raise the value of this house by triple." The man looked at Dad hopefully. Dad nodded.
"All right. We'll get back to you." The man nodded. We followed him out of one of the double set of doors that led out of the front of the house. I breathed a sigh of relief. My parents and the realtor man talked about specifics for the better part of the hour, while I took the chance to explore the property a little more. I asked them for permission to leave, and Dad nodded absently, listening to the guy list off numbers.
The grass was wildly overgrown. It came up to my hips as I tried to wade through it as I made my way around to the rear of the house. The backyard dropped off the hill that the house stood on, and beyond where the property ended you could see the patches of cattails where the swamp was.
I tried to make my way down the little decline, tripping over something in the grass. A little chicken wire fence had surrounded the side porch, but now the grass was so overgrown that it was hidden from view. This fence really made the backyard look ratty, an untidy feeling gave me an itch in the side. I got up, and my gaze rose to view the house. It was just as intimidating from this side as it was from the front. Whoever constructed it must have been trying to give the impression that the house just loomed over you. The white paint on the sides was starting to peel, and in some places the wood was bare. The walls just went up and up, leaving a little gable up on top to remind you of how tall it was. The black shutters were scary to me then. It made the house look like it was from an old picture. The house didn't feel as big on the inside as it did on the outside. Probably only about 40 x 60 feet. The height gave it an inhuman look that sent my head spinning. As I looked up, I saw the chimney on the rear end of the house, bricks missing with a tilt that reminded me of pictures I had seen of the leaning tower of Pisa.
I circled around to the back. An old barn stood there, looking like it was just going to fall over with the next sneeze. I tried to keep my distance, worried that my allergies would act up again. Looking through the crooked front doors I could see heaps of trash. it looked like ordinary garbage to me, but I knew that there would be treasures in there, waiting for discovering. There was an open loft, with old pieces of iron machinery sticking out. I'll come back to you later, I thought to myself.
A line of trees followed across the yard, each one a little younger than the one preceding it. There was a little wooden swing tied to the second last of the trees. It swayed in the wind, ominous in the afternoon light. I sat down on it, but it was a little too small for me. That was strange. I had never before found something that was too small for me, being so scrawny that I earned the name "Sticks".
Having failed on the swing I worked my way to the rear side of the barn. a small wooden shack that I suspected to be a chicken coop sat on the side of the barn. I looked inside, but it was too small to be of any use as a fort or hideout. The other building connected to it on the rear side of the barn did have some promise though. There was a lot of junk in there, all abandoned by the owner.
His wife was sick, and he couldn't afford to clean all of this out. At least that was what the realtor said. The owner just left it "as is", and the sale would go to his wife’s hospital bills. He was dirt poor by the time he decided to sell the house. I remember the realtor's look of sadness as he portrayed the situation to us. Dad had hurried to change the subject to lighter matters, but we all remembered. Maybe that was why this place brought all of these feelings of despair.
I made my way back up from the backyard to where my parents had been standing. The realtor had left, and I found my parents looking at the foundation on the other side of the house. To me it looked all right, and I would have commented on it if I hadn’t caught that distasteful look in my Dad’s eyes.
“This is going to cost a lot. Maybe too much. It may not be worth it.” He looked at my mother. She was looking at the house. I knew that she liked it. She really appreciated the old Victorian houses that gave me the creeps.
“It’ll be our home with a few months of work,” she said, looking up at Dad with a smile that begged him to keep the house she found. He looked at her with a perplexed look.
“if you want a house that threatens to fall over every time a good wind comes through, it’s fine with me.”

Long time, no post

I know, I still haven’t written anything real here. In fact, I haven’t updated this blog in ages. I am still trying to stumble upon the perfect idea I guess. Maybe I should go back to writing poetry and stuff. I think I’ll post some of my older works on here for scrutiny.

Psalters inspiration

I think that the Psalters are a good inspiration for a story. I mean, come on. A group that lives in a bus and makes money by driving around the nation and just playing music. They made a call out to everyone who wanted to joinn the group, any young musicians who were interested. It seems like such a romantic lifestyle, just driving around and singing, playing awesome music, seeing the fans, and doing it all for the glory of God. Haha, they have this awesome line from they're website, it is quite classic:

"We are the cry of exodus. There is no home for us here. We are a nomadic tribe of psalters walking in the footsteps of ancients past to the far corners of the present; united as one voice against the oppression within and without. One more echo in the eternal Song of our First Love, our Hope, our Pillar of Fire. "

Ohh, that is soo awesome. I can't think of anything else to write, so I'm signing off.

More ideas

I have a feeling that the story that I'm starting with will take place in the present time rather than most fantasy stories, which usually take place in no time in particular. This will give more of a sense of a seperate reality which might get some people's attention... I'll write more later.

Comments Welcome!

That's right! Any and all comments are now welcome! Please, I need critical advice from anyone who has the capacity to give it! And even if you don't have advice, comment anyway! Please! Thank you!

Old Drawing Board (2)

Well, after you have set down the basic laws (such as the three that I specified), you can begin to get mroe specific. I usually try to decide now how much different from our world the fantasy world that you write about is. Do we use powers? Can we, through purity and salvation and prayer, work wonders regularly? And are the powers of evil just as plain to see as the powers of good (and vice versa)? I think that I would like the miracles and powers shown by the "saints" (or those people who are close enough to God to work his wonders) to be quite straigtforward and open. Obvioulsy, certain feats take certain amounts of spiritual strength, and certain deeds cannot be accomplished without the help of certain blessed items (relics, holy water, etc.). {Ben's note: Hmm... this is turning out to be something that no one has ever done before. This could be QUITE interesting. I'll have to tread carefully so that I don't mess it up} So, there are the tools used to work God's wonders, there is the faith of the saints. Now, the evil side must perform certain rituals of evil in order to make themselves stronger, encompassed around with demons and writhing in the painful glory of Satan (hmmm. Kinda darkly poetic, eh?). Their powers won't be as strong, obviously, but they will come in numbers, because those that embrace Satan come in larger numbers than those who embrace Christ. I'll have to think more about this and write more later...

Thoughts and the Old Drawing Board

This is the first entry into my new notebook that I found a few days ago:

I have decided that every fantasy author, in order to write a compelling and full story, must not only create a history behind everything (as suggested by a fellow author {Thanks Lauren!}), but also fashion the natural and supernatural laws behind the universe in which the story takes place. Tolkien did this in a small way, and he wrote that story in the Silmarillion. In his universe, there was Iluvatar, who created everything. He began with the Valar, his personal disciples. To them he taught the music, and they rejoiced in it. But one, Morgoth, fell away to make his own music. His music was ugly and discordant with the others. These beginnings shaped the world and the beings there, affecting and eventually causing the conflicts that became the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Once you know the beginning, combined with the laws, you can see where the events therein will lead, if the beginning and the laws are solid enough. So, we begin with the laws:
1) "There is a supreme being."
There always has to be some sort of direct or indirect manifestation of God, or else there wouldn't be any purpose to the story. Some sort of supreme being (preferably a greater good)must guide the hero(es) through the quest.
2) "There has to be an evil."
If you have God, you have to have Anti-God or else there wouldn't be a conflict.
2a) If there are good and evil, then there are certain properties inherent in the preconceptions of both. Evil has certain qualities that cannot be denied. At the base of these qualities are deception, temptation, and corruption. At the head of this is pride of course, but that is the source. Through all of these, evil tries to win the good to it's side.
3)"There is creation."
This is where the battleground between good and evil takes place.

These are the basic laws that govern fantasy worlds. After these are set down, others are set in place. You can show how that evil came to be, why it came to be, how the good came about a solution to the evil, how evil rose again, etc. You can get my drift, and I've spoken enough. I'll probably expand a little on these ideas later, probably more specific towards my story that I want to write.

Now I have time!( No subject though...)

Yes, now I have time to think up ideas about writing (see my other blog if you're clueless), but I haven't thought up anything yet... I guess the ideas will be flowing a little later.

Lost

I seem to have lost inspiration as of late. I can't find anything to write about. I have a feeling I just need to get back to a regular schedule, maybe then I will be able to find something to write about. There is something about everyday life that makes me question and look and observe, so that I may find a deeper meaning behind the things that I see every day and deal with every day. Haha, maybe THAT is why I enjoy helping people out so much; so that they may see that there is something behind their everyday experiences, and also see that there are good ways too deal with those experiences. Hopefully I have been some help to those that ask me, because sometimes I wonder. I am flattered that they come to me for help, and I am sorry when my help does nothing, and is even detrimental. I don't know if that is the case, I certainly hope not. I like to think that certain things can't be avoided, but that is relieving myself of blame that I should just accept. Oh look! I seem to have found something to write about after all, even if it is kind of short... I guess I'll think more later.

Other Ideas

I just got this idea for a short comedy clip. It came from something I watched alex do, and it was quite amusing. Well, last night, his mom called on the phone while he was at our house. She was telling him about something that his brother wanted them to do for him, something about a surfboard. Anyway, they're chatting along, and suddenly his cell phone rings. Alex answeres it and it's his brother. He's talking on both phones now, in Russian-English-Portuguese, and telling each one what the other said, occasionally putting in his input. I guessed that I could escalate the situation in the storyline, and make it so that all three are on two phones, they're home phone and a cell phone. I could start out by showing one, then splitting the screen when one called, and then splitting again when the third called. Then, they begin to call each other, and that's when the fun starts! It still in development, and I haven't really got a subject, so it may be awhile before you see this idea again...

Ideas 2

Maybe I'll have to create a different civilization...this sounds good. I could create a farce in which it seems like a civilization apart, but it actually isn't. Then, ideas will emerge, legends will come from a supernatural fear, and a person will come, a "stranger", who will have to disprove the legends....and will find the truth and the untruth behind them....Hmmm, where to start? Perhaps ancient times...I'll study the myths of old, Atlantis, Greek myths...It should begin a long time ago. The study of the legend should become legendary for the character as he/she explores the legend itself. haha. That's kinda confusing. My, I should go to bed....

Ideas

Well, lessee, the legendary creature has to be supernatural, or else it wouldn't be anything to talk about. No talk, no legend. Sooo, it has to be, perhaps big, perhaps toothy, and maybe muscular. Perhaps humanoid....perhaps pure animal. Maybe alien. Maybe bacterial. Maybe I'm thinking too much about this...comments welcome!!!

About Vampires

Hmm. I seem to have found a premise from which to build from. Vampires! What are vampires? They are mythical and legendary creatures. Stories have been passed around about them for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. Because of this, there are all sorts of little myths that surround the big myth. Garlic, crosses, holy water, silver, stakes, and sunlight are all part of the lgends behind vampires. So, I was thinking, if one creature could so thoroughly be studied and classified, with so many little details that stand out, then wouldn't it be cool to create a legend of your own? To make a creature with legends and prophecies, myths and secrets, little details about weaknesses and strengths. This would be quite awesome. One could, with enough depth, create an entire series that was based upon the interactions between humans and the creature. I mean, there is a whole collection just on the subject of vampires. LOADS of books on a creature that was created over hundreds of years. I shall think some more later...