The Dark Word

Other blog

2011-09-13T21:50:00.000+10:00

Oh wow. I haven't been here in a year. Probably because the settings on this one are absolutely horrible - I tried white writing on dark background, but when posting prose, all I got was dark on dark. And I remember trying to undo this and nothing sticking, so I gave up on here and went to Wordpress (which I love).

So here's the address for that.

http://thedarkword.wordpress.com/

A sample piece of Shades of the Magi

2010-01-12T14:54:00.000+10:00

Balen Roth, wanderer and until recently a rising priest of Vigil the Protector, was hiking along the Delbrano Highway, backpack bundled onto his shoulders, when he heard the Etherwind coming. Thinking the rush of movement might be a monster approaching, he turned; it was a monster, but one made of wood and sails, a monster of the skies – a ship that floated in the air, an aberration, an airship.

His feet felt like they were bathed in fire, they were so sore. Taking a major gamble, he thumbed for a ride… and as the ship passed over him, not too far overhead, it began to slow.

A few hundred feet ahead, the airship halted horizontal and forward direction, and began to sink towards the ground as Balen dashed closer. The sound of latches being undone issued from within the lower section of the hull and then a section of wooden wall swung down and revealed the innards of the airship’s cargo hold – and the large, extremely muscular, long-haired man in brown leathers standing in the doorway with a greatsword strapped to his back.

“Hail!” the large man called out in a voice as strong as a lion’s roar.

“Greetings,” Balen said, above the sound of two propeller blades on the side of the vessel as he approached. “Thank you for stopping! As you can see, I am a weary traveler, and I notice you have use of an airship!”

The long-haired man’s face lit up with a quick smile. “Indeed I do! Draden Winter, second-in-command of the Etherwind. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Balen Roth. I’m a priest on a journey.” Balen took the man’s hand and was astounded at the sheer power of the grip and the way it crushed his significantly less muscular hand. But Balen had been shaking bosses’ hands, namely that of his father’s, since he was ten years old.

“If you wish passage, come and talk to our captain, Kale Trelthanis. You’ll find he is a very reasonable man.”

“Thank you for stopping for me,” Balen said.

“Not at all,” Draden replied. “A man of the faith is a very important person.” They made their way up two flights of stairs onto the deck, passing a trio of people – two young men, one in brown monk robes, one in a black coat, and a young lady in plate armour with a long red scarf around her neck and lustrous long tendrils of gold hair – on the way up.

“Those fellows are Acerin Thala and Telro Vaniden,” Draden explained. The monk bowed. The other man looked right at Balen, but otherwise didn’t react.

“The young lady is Alina Kennard, a knight-sister.” The woman smiled.

“It is an honour,” she said.

“Likewise,” Balen greeted.

The trio were gathered around a section of the middle floor where there was a square section missing, through which several oiled ropes travelled. The hole was girdled by a pine railing, and positioned directly below a pair of angled cargo doors.

“Above us is the cargo crank. Because of the design, the cargo is on the bottom floor and the personal quarters are all on the middle floor. Therefore we have to put cargo on a pulley-operated platform system and hoist it up onto the deck by hand.

“Of course, our engineer built us a nice crank to make it easier - because she loves us so much,” Draden said, and Balen wasn’t sure if he was being serious or sarcastic.

Draden Winter directed Balen Roth to the pilot box, where two young men were currently engaged in conversation. He waved to the young men, and one of them came out of the pilot’s box to greet the stranger on the ship.

He wore a lute strapped over his shoulder, and underneath that a blue embroidered shirt and black vest. His hair was a mess of black curls and his eyes were a mischievous dark blue while his grin said that he was a perpetually joyful character.

“Sir, this is the man we picked up,” Draden said.

Balen Roth offered his name and his hand to shake.

“The name’s Kale Trelthanis,” the young man with the cocksure smile said, “though what you call me doesn’t worry me. And this is my ship, the Etherwind. Now… what pray tell brings a man of the divine robes this far between cities without transport?”

“Truth is, I’m not entirely sure where I’m going. I was thinking of heading north, though.”

“Ah!” Kale exclaimed. “Would this journey involve some soul-searching by any chance?”

“I’d say so,” Balen replied. “Why do you ask?

“If you have the kind of soul that seeks to find answers abroad, then we’re the ship for you! You are welcome here, as long as you have need of our services, and without charge, no less! I just have to ask that you don’t go into the Propulsion System room, nor the cargo hold without supervision. Beyond that, make yourself at home. We’ll arrive in Serinth within three hours if the wind holds.”

“Thank you,” Balen said. “It’s most appreciated.”

“Your feet must be killing you,” the larger man said.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Balen replied.

“Draden should be able to find you something for that.”

“Come with me,” Draden said, and Balen followed the giant as he headed for the stairwell.

The Etherwind rose, knowing not the kind of trouble it had just picked up.

Chapter 1

2009-11-07T20:54:00.000+10:00

Brisbane, Australia

It was about to rain bullets.

A woman stood wrapped in a thick coat as the wind blew tresses of her shoulder-length dark-brown hair across a face turned almost white from the biting wind that carried with it a slightly acidic tinge.

“Come on, you can make it,” the woman whispered – even prayed. Jessica Mirani squinted at the brown-haired, coat-clad figure running down the pavement outside the old gaming arcade as it sped past the bookstore and then across the road.

A vicious fork of lightning tore through the sky, and even though it didn’t seem to hit anything, it felt close; thunder shook the city and rattled the ground under the feet of the people seeking shelter. Jarred Seifner dashed up the still, broken escalator to join his friend on the upper-ground floor of the mall, and just in time – his feet had barely hit the escalator before white bullets of hail began pelting the sidewalk like automatic weapon’s fire.

“Did you get it?” Jessica asked eagerly when he was safely inside the mall entrance.

“Yeah,” Jarred said, handing over the package. “It took some creative negotiating, but the guy gave it to me in the end. By the way, you owe him your hand in marriage.”

“That’s not funny,” she replied.

“Okay, that was a fib,” Jarred conceded, his joviality deflated. “But you do need to look at his car for him.”

“Well that’s something I can do – emotionally and actually.”

“You’ll make a great wife one day,” Jarred said.

“Bite me.”

Jarred let sweat-drenched tendrils of brown hair fall across his face as he watched Jessica unwrap the package he’d raced from one side of the city to the other – literally – and evaded three packs of wyverns to bring back.

With an expression of trepidation mixed with utter awe, Jessica opened the cardboard packet and carefully took the small device out. Archaic writing was barely visible in the darkness of the burnt-out mall lighting.

“Need some light?” Jarred asked, a small ball of electricity crackling in his hand.

“Yes… this is perfect,” she responded, absorbed in the technological artefact in her hands.

“Thank you,” she said to Jarred when she was satisfied with the device. She put it securely in a pocket of the bag she’d brought with her. “I reckon we’ll be back on the air within a day, now.”

“I did what needed to be done,” Jarred replied. “No thanks necessary.”

David returned from his hunting expedition – there were often any variety of animals wandering the mall from any level to another; there could be anything from a pack of dogs to a flock of bats – a Remington 1100 tactical shotgun in hand. His eyes were worried.

"Find something?" Jarred asked.

"We have a problem."

...

The three gathered around the cluster of strange, purple eggs nestled in a bed of filthy clothes and paper within one of the checkout stations inside a department store, the name of which had worn off – but the logo, a red-and-white target, was still visible – and peered at them by torchlight, two of the faces perplexed.

"What are they?"

"That's what I wanted to know, myself," David said. "I thought they might be lizard eggs, but lizards - even magically mutated ones - don't lay purple eggs. I looked around, and didn't find anything for a bit - until I saw this." He led them to a hole in the floor further in, the torchlight touching on a purple-black winged, reptilian corpse with a barbed tail, lying twisted and bloated on the tiles below. Next to it was a pair of hissing young, who scattered in the torchlight.

David let the implication sink in.

"Oh shit," Jarred said.

"Yeah."

"There's a Wyvern infestation in the mall. And we've found where they've been nesting."

“I thought they’d gotten rid of the wyvern problem in here,” Jarred said.

“Looks like they missed some eggs, or something,” David replied.

A moment passed, and it was like hands around their throats.

Jessica spoke up. “Okay, serious question – what do we do about it?”

“I think we have to take care of this,” Jarred said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“But how do we?”

“If there’s adults, then our regular ammo won’t do a whole lot of damage to their armoured skin,” David responded, “so there’s really only one way we can effectively exterminate any of them.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jarred groaned.

“We have to wait for the hail to stop anyway. Now, I can go home – through the hail – and get the flamethrower if you want. But ultimately, even if we smash all the eggs and shoot all the young, one of us will have to use something else than bullets on the adults – and you’re the one with the lightning powers.”

“I’m not going down there by myself.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going too. But I can’t really do any damage to the adults, unless I get them while I raise the floor up with my power. And there’s no guarantee I’ll get them in the raised zone. So I need your help while I’m down there.”

Jarred considered his friend’s assessment.

“Ok, fine,” he conceded. “But you’re doing my chores for a day.”

“What? Okay, fine – deal. I’ll take the shotgun.”

“Jess, you mind guarding the rope?”

“Guess I’ll have to.”

Jessica unzipped the black sports bag, and after checking the ammo clip, handed Jarred the sleek black M16 automatic rifle inside. She then handed him a spare clip – no point taking chances.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she reminded him. “You guys get in trouble, come back up immediately.”

“I know.”

“Good hunting, boys,” she said, checking the clip on a pistol.

David turned his attention to the hole in the floor. He could have used a rope – tied it off at a support pillar and then jump down, take care of the wyvern problem and climb back up. But in doing so, he’d be defenseless if he missed one and it attacked. Further, there were the two of them – himself and Jarred – which could mean one or the other may not make it back up. He could pile a whole load of objects, say boxes and chairs, down the hole; but if they went with that tactic, the pile might not be stable – one or both of them could fall and be easy prey for the wyverns.

Instead, David chose a different method, one that would be both more permanent and still easy enough to remove after the deed was done. Crouching, he placed his free hand on the floor of the store and concentrated on the gap between floors – specifically, the materials in the concrete and stone in the floor.

Five years ago, David discovered he was one of few very special children. He had what other kids his age lacked, and would probably lack for the rest of their lives. He had something special, of which no one else, save maybe Jarred and Jessica, had any ability to understand the gift he had been bestowed – or the way in which it made him an outsider. He’d been given a very special, unique power; that much he was sure of. Few could do the things he could with his spirit; few could tap into a sort of life energy and bring up the core of their power like he could. And his power, the thing that made him the most different, was creation and control of earth and stone.

The familiar tingling sensation went up his spine as his power awoke within him, and he could feel it emanating out from the core of his spirit, charging down into the ground at his feet through the tiles and concrete, gently calling them to action. It took a while, the energy needing to find an alternate route, but David was patient, and after a few moments, his patience was rewarded.

Even though the floor of the store was man-made, it was made using natural resources. David felt the stone in the building answer to his power and willingly sink a thread of stone down to the lower floor, then felt the lower floor creep up the thread from below, growing rapidly upwards at his command. It was as if thousands of years of growth sped up to a few minutes, the stone in the floor rising in a spike which created a ramp for him.

David stood and admired his work with a quick grin, then cocked the shotgun and, crouching, ventured down into the depths of the department store. Jarred followed a step behind, the two spots of light making orbital rotations around the pair as they scanned the area for signs of hostile wyverns.

For the first few minutes of searching they found nothing beyond that first corpse. But then David’s light played off something purple on the ground, in a bed of clothes.

“Over here,” he whispered. The pair crept closer to the objects, which were in fact wyvern eggs, and David quietly stomped on them, slowly crushing them into a thick, green-and-purple goo.

“That’s one,” Jarred said, before his light fell on another. “Another one over here!” He dashed over and smashed that nest too. They smashed three more nests without incident. But when they came to the sixth nest, they found it empty.

“Shit,” David whispered. Then he heard the hissing. With the shotgun aimed at the ground, he spun, aimed the shotgun slightly higher – enough to target the small, foot-high baby wyverns hissing at him from their nest – and pulled the trigger. A mighty boom erupted from the barrel; the first wyvern exploded in a messy gout of purple-black. He fired again; the second exploded likewise.

A shadow swooped. Up came the shotgun and the blast took the flying adult soaring straight for him dead in the chest – but didn’t stop it; in fact the force of the impact, as strong as it was, did almost nothing to deter the snarling barbed monster. It crashed into David, and the two tumbled to the ground in a ball of arms and talons, flesh and scale.

Talons clamped around David’s arms, and the flying monster lifted off into the air… or would have, had David not encased his feet in stone… and his whole body. He had become a statue, a human gargoyle, and he was now impossible to lift. The wyvern hit the roof, hard, and fell back in a confused tumble of claws, scales, wings and tail.

The wyvern, angered, thrust its tail towards David, but the poisoned barb struck rock and bounced off. David loosed another shot, this time aiming for the neck. Green blood sprayed his chest and face. A shotgun to a wyvern’s tough, plate-like scales would have probably just bounced off under normal circumstances. But he’d aimed for the neck, and gotten lucky. With a horrible death-roar, the wyvern collided into David, knocking him down – making his layer of rock skin vanish with the impact – and lay still. His gamble had paid off; but now he had a new problem.

“Crap,” David grunted. He heaved, and the body rose – but just barely. He saw two blue flashes; Jarred was fighting off another one. David had to take care of his own problem himself. He couldn’t push the body off him – but another thought entered his mind. It worked with the hole; it ought to work here too.

Concentrating, even with the body squeezing the air out of him, he willed the floor on either side of him to rise up. Slowly – but immediately this time – it began to morph on either side of his body, and two rows of tile were pushed aside as the stone in the floor supports expanded upwards, pushing the wyvern body with them both. David gratefully crawled out of the gap, and once he was up followed the telltale electrical flashes to where Jarred was fighting for his life.

...

Wings flapped in the dark and the air sizzled as electrical arcs lanced out in every direction. A pair of wyverns had Jarred surrounded as he tried to blast them out of the air with his electrical power, but so far, they were proving to be far too elusive, too skilled at flying and dipping, dodging and weaving out of the way of his powerful arcs. The problem was, they were used to the dark, knew how to fly, and were predators used to fending off the attacks of creatures on the ground which they preyed on. Jarred on the other hand was not used to fending off flying creatures, nor was he able to see as well without the flashes from his attacks.

And if he got stung just once…

He moved, and the wyverns swooped; he ducked, and it flew overhead to glide across the dvd section before it doubled back to sweep at him again. But this time, he was ready for it. In front of him, it was in perfect position. Jarred called up his power a fourth time, but instead of shooting it out from his hands, he kept it stored. The wyvern’s wickedly curved claws reached for him… and he reached for them.

The effect was so violent he wanted to let go the whole time; but he just held on as the wyvern writhed and convulsed violently, flapping crazily and letting out a higher shriek than any other so far. It flapped and it twisted and it tried to break free, but its insides were on fire and Jarred wasn’t letting go.

Jarred felt the stinger – he couldn’t tell from which creature – thrust into his side and he finally let go of the thrashing, electrocuted wyvern which fell to the floor in a drooling, frothing heap. Fire exploded through his body as the barb struck his ribs, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his side in pain.

From somewhere beside him he heard a scream of rage; through the tears he could just make out David charging at the remaining wyvern and leaping onto its back, stone armour-skin in place. David punched it several times in the head, then he wrapped his arms around its long neck and squeezed with every bit of strength in his body. The wyvern struggled fiercely, but then there was a sickening crack, and the creature fell to the ground as David leapt off it. Its body slammed into the ground so hard its neck twisted, but by then it was already dead.

David de-armoured and knelt next to Jarred.

“Shit. Shitshitshit…” David pulled back Jarred’s cloak and lifted up the shirt where the wyvern had stung him. The wound was an angry red gash, but there was already a hint of purple in the skin around it. Jarred’s face was screwed up, his brow wrinkled, and he gasped in agony.

“It stings…” were all the words David got from him before Jarred’s eyes rolled up into his head and his body fell limp.

Funny collective nouns

2009-10-07T13:30:00.001+10:00

http://idiocrasiesoflanguages.blogspot.com/2007/11/collective-nouns-humorous-outlook.html

Found this interesting

2009-09-29T10:58:00.001+10:00

http://www.shirky.com/herecomeseverybody/2008/04/looking-for-the-mouse.html

Writing advice notes from GenCon

2009-09-26T16:59:00.000+10:00

GEN CON WRITING SEMINARS

Ideas online

One good idea = a short story; in a game, 1 paragraph (16 paragraphs a page)
1000 ideas are needed for a game supplement or book

-Serendipitous research
-Twist things into weird ideas
-Such as the Dragon Tree…
-Arrange ideas so a river flows through your life
-Focus reading into idea-generation
-‘Novelist’ at libraries is a matching service, and causes yours to look less plagarised
-Non-fiction approach: bring the peripheral of what the fans know back into the core understanding of the setting
-Fans are competent.
-Audio books: listening to the radio could be research, and so using that time to listen to audio books instead can also be research
-‘Overdrive’ – get it from the library, burn it to cd to counter the licence
-‘Libravox’ – out of copyright books on audio file
-Project Guttenburg – adds randomness
-Go to 2nd-hand bookstores, buy indiscriminately, stuff for $5 average

Factual Research
-Google Books/Scholar
-British amazon.com
-Libraries Australia – libraries that cooperate; all of australia’s resources in one site
-A librarian trick – don’t ignore footnotes; the precursor to the hyperlink
-Early academics were fun to read, if not completely factual; King John; Montague Summers (example for werewolf info)
-Bibliographies
-Archive.org
-Project Gutteburg (though it’s not on the first 10 or so search results)
-Key classic texts have plenty of stealable stuff!
-Inter-library lending and electronic sources
-Info online is clustered in a galaxy type of structure
-‘The Spire Project’
-Google actually hides a lot of information

Use Humans
-Ask a Librarian
-Project Wombat has 100’s of Reference Librarians worldwide
-Story Games
-Community groups for the social issues you are using in your work
-The Living Library is a great source for interviewing experts
-Layer metaphor over issues
-Write more verbose (detailed) notes
-Phone photos
-Del.ic.io.us
-Google Maps, push pins
-Evernote (like hotmail/window live’s skydrive?)
-www.GCbooks/wordpress/books.org
-Gen Con Forum

Writing Tips

-Try plenty of different media for you work
-Network
-Successful writers are in love with stories
-Identify the weaknesses in others works (via critique groups); trains you to know differences between good and bad writing
-Grow some balls; get over yourself.
-Write more
-Read more – especially anthologies by publishers
-Be curious – what’s going on in short stories, genres, etc
-Be professional
-3-4 hours writing a day is great
-Write short stories!
-Biggest newbie mistake is putting too much energy into the how (how to get published, how to break into the market etc) not into the book itself (making it shine); you NEED quality; spend you energy on that. Putting your energy towards getting into the market, without a strong product to have published, is useless action.
-Short story and novel are different creatures, as different as a marathon is to a 100 sprint – skills in one often do not translate well into skills in the other
-Take every opportunity!
-Originality: you have to find it for yourself
-Don’t put your passion aside
-Do you want to be a clone? Or do you want to write and publish something that is your own? Something you can be proud of?
-Networking – ideas, relationships, collaboration, working relations, people in the know
-Publishers: they need to keep a roof over their head
-Go to author panels, get their card (if approachable)
-Remember: mistakes happen
- search: No, I will not read your ******* script!
-Mistake: “I’ll never get in because it’s elite/closed etc” (magical/mystical thinking is crap)
-Act like a professional; keep your word: “I’m going to x hrs/week…” What does a professional do and say?
-Don’t be rude, arrogant, a dick, a prick, stupid about guidelines (and find out about what the publisher publishes)
-Get those obstacles out of the way of writing your story
-DO WHAT IT TAKES (even if that means rewriting on the plane over)
-It’s a small, close world. Be polite.
-It isn’t just about you.
-We are not limited by geography any more.
-www.dwtrope.com
-www.ralan.com
-Build a portfolio
-Kill description in your prose!

fantasy novel cliches part 2

2009-09-26T15:44:00.000+10:00

PLOTS

Little people come from a country resembling England to defeat the evil wizard/king/complete the quest/save the world/etc.

No little people. No country resembling England.

Hero has a wise old teacher who turns out to be his grandfather or mother.

Not related. Heck, let’s just ditch the whole wise old mentor thing!

Hero falls in love with someone he knows he can't have, but gets her in the end anyway.

Finds someone else because, let’s face it, it doesn’t work like that.

The quest is for a jewel/sword/ring/box or other artifact that can destroy/save the world.

Finding another artifact, one that hasn’t been done to death. Give it some other power.

Retelling of Arthurian legends or the Robin Hood story.

Tell another legend. Make your own.

A rag-tag band of adventurers who don't get along have to team up to save the world and along the way discover that they really do like each other.

Dynamics that mostly work. Dynamics that don’t work, and when they’re done, they hate each other and are glad to be rid of one another, like in 1988.

Untrained/untried novice goes up against a battle-hardened veteran and wins.

Novice gets his ass handed to him. Novice gets the hell away from veteran.

Modern human, usually an American, gets pulled into a fantasy world, usually a pseudo-medieval one, and manages to save the day without dying of disease or ignorance.

Not-so-modern person, definitely not American, from a fantasy world gets pulled into ours and searches for a way back. Modern human, not American, saves the day the hard way – with lots of mistakes and learning experiences. This person catches a disease and dies from it. Non-medieval setting.

Virtual reality used to create a game environment that becomes real, trapping the players in that created world.

No game environments. except if it serves a purpose other than being real and a trap, ie: a Fortress of Solitude.

The people the hero thinks are his parents really aren't--he's actually the son of a king/wizard/famous warrior.

Why can’t parents just be parents?

Villain is hero’s father.

Mother. Unrelated. Really, it’s not that hard.

Twins separated at birth meet accidentally and fulfill a destiny.

They meet via the plan. They were never separated. They went their own ways but keep in touch. No prophecy.

One twin is good the other is evil.

No.

Hero goes to dwarves to get magical gifts.

Go to someone else, pay for the services.

Hero falls in love with heroine at first sight.

Falling in love with someone else – especially if they’re bad. Not at first sight.

Hero becomes ruler of the land and all is good and peaceful, even though he spent his formative years as a swineherd.

Nope, doesn’t seem even remotely possible.

Woman is raped, becomes an adventurer to avenge herself. Child sees family killed, becomes adventurer to revenge him/herself. Revenge as a motivator.

How about political unrest? Corrupt official who goes too far with a new law, for example.

CHARACTERS:

Evil guy wants to take over the world just because he is evil.

Purpose is to search for something, or make something, but not so as to take over the world – just for some other purpose. They want to change their form, collect a prized monster specimen, or are in it purely for money/fame/chicks/prestige, or something.

Heroes who are utterly selfless and only think of the Greater Good.

Types of person: LG, NG, CG, LN, N, CN, LE, NE, CE. Even being good, most people won’t be PURE – they’ll still have shortcomings, impulses, urges, desires and needs. Fantasy is about realistic people doing amazing things… but they’re still PEOPLE! Possible dichotomies: selfish/selfless, taking/giving, nice/cruel, charitable/prudish, humble/vain or conceited, etc.

Evil rulers/wizards in general.

Ditch the whole good/evil thing. Military generals?

Girls who disguise themselves as boys in order to adventure.

Boys who disguise themselves as girls to get out of adventuring. Girls disguised for some other purpose – escaping the school nerd, getting privileges only boys get, fitting in, etc. Girls don’t have to disguise themselves. Heroine is a woman.

Spunky/feisty/spirited heroines.

Range of other personalities.

Handsome/rugged/dashing heroes.

Just regular Joes. Ugly dudes.

The wise old wizard/hag/witch/herbalist/shaman/healer/etc.

Naïve young version. Old knight.

Hero saves the world to win the heart of a woman.

Just saves a city. Does it because the villain’s actions affect him to the degree that action needs to be taken. In other words, cause-and-effect. Or, nothing personal – someone just has to do it.

Hero is identified as the one true heir by a birthmark/ring/sword/other artifact.

No ‘one true heir’ business. No birthmark, ring, sword, etc.

A loyal servant who knows the true heir’s identity lives with him/her as a guardian/protector/teacher/etc

Servant doesn’t know. Or again, no ‘one true heir’.

Priests who go adventuring.

Really now!

Hero is too humble for his own good.

There are a range of people in the world. Heroes aren’t always humble.

Novice hero is too competent and/or never makes a mistake.

Mistakes happen. Frequently.

Hero and heroine have constant sex and she never gets pregnant.

She gets pregnant. They don’t have constant sex.

Evil men who are pedophiles/homosexuals/male chauvinists or any combination of the above for no other reason than to make them more distasteful.

They are the above because of their past, their family (like father like son) or through actions that culminate in them becoming this way (a teacher who becomes a pedophile, a chauvinist who hates women for the constant run of bad treatment/luck with them, etc). Bad guys who aren’t any of the above. Good guys who are. Either way, there needs to be a reason.

Evil = ugly, stupid and mean while Good = beautiful/handsome, wise and kind.

No good and evil dichotomy. If there is, then evil - ugly, stupid but nice; ugly, but smart and nice; beautiful, but dumb and mean; beautiful, smart, mean; beautiful, dumb, nice. Good = ugly, but wise and kind; ugly, unwise, but king; ugly, wise but unkind; beautiful but unwise and unkind; beautiful and unwise but kind. Again, people have individuality – distinct traits that separate them from the stereotypes and clichés.

Mages who use their powers indiscriminately and to ridiculous excess.

Discriminately, with careful consideration.

Mages who are also master swordsmen.

No, no, no!

SETTINGS/WORLD ELEMENTS:

Doomsday weapons.

Can’t do a lot about that… except tone it down.

Totally good/evil races.

Races that are half as complex as humans.

Someone has a cute pet.

Aesthetics aren’t as important in a dangerous world.

Lots of apostrophes in fantasy languages without good linguistic reasons.

Research.

Fantasy names beginning with X, Z, G, K, or any other hard consonant.

Research.

Fantasy names/words with a lack of vowels.

Not being a dumbass who writes names lacking vowels.

Fantasy names with too many vowels.

Not being a dumbass who writes names with too many vowels.

Names that are too suggestive of a character’s personality, i.e. someone named Cipher is an enigma.

A person’s name is generally what their parents named them at birth. (Who would call their children suggestive words anyway?)

Person sacrifices life to save others, but is resurrected later.

Obviously, that person shouldn’t be resurrected. No one is supposed to be able to come back from the dead anyway. Only Jesus did that.

Evil villain is physically scarred in some way.

Either that or they’re very beautiful. You rarely have anyone is just normal.

Evil villain must always kill at least one henchman no matter how loyal he is.

That’s just silly. They’d have no henchmen if they did that. What happened to regular, non-lethal punishment?

Slightest infraction/failure is punished by death.

Again, non-lethal?

Big dark castle/tower/fortress/keep, usually impenetrable except for the secret passage only the hero's guide knows about.

Villain lives somewhere else – village house, hotel…

Dark minions are idiots.

Are there no smart minions around? Surely a villain would want a few competent people in his employ.

Parents of hero are dead. (Or, in the Disney variation: mother is dead, father is loveable buffoon.)

Why can’t they have living parents? Typically, people whose parents are dead believe the world hates them, resents their parents leaving them/the world, etc.

Fight breaks out in a bar.

Well, not much you can do about that… Fights can break out elsewhere, too.

Innocent people rescued from nasty death/fate worse than death just in the nick of time.

Obviously, every so often, they won’t be.

Secret passages are never booby-trapped.

There’s an obvious solution to that…

Sidekicks/flunkies who are mindlessly loyal/devoted.

3 types of sidekick; it’s hard to deviate: absolutely loyal, treacherous, and neutral.

Deformed man with a heart of gold/Handsome villain with a heart of darkest evil.

Deformed man: wouldn’t he be a bit callous? Villain: only works in a “backstabber” way.

Fantasy societies based off of the Celts or Norsemen.

Let’s see some variety, please.

Fantasy empires based off the Romans.

See above.

Warrior cultures based off of the Samurai or Spartans.

What about African societies? Aboriginal? South American?

Elves, orcs, dwarves, trolls, dragons, unicorns and any other race that has appeared in Dungeons and Dragons.

Make up your own. Or failing that, use stuff that HASN’T appeared much in D&D.

Amazons/stoic women warriors.

Statistically men make better warriors. There could be female warriors, but it wouldn’t be a common thing.

Large-breasted Amazons in tiny brassiers who have no trouble keeping their clothes on, let alone their balance.

They would still be scantily clad, but it’d be in practical clothes. Regarding chain-mail bikinis: that’s the one place you don’t want to have chain-mail!

Artifacts of power.

Heroes can make their own. Just not deal in artifacts of power – artifacts of secrets, information, technology, etc. World-destroying powers are a lazy idea.

Pseudo-medieval societies with 1990s liberal sensibilities about things like womens' rights and homosexuality.

We all know medieval was not sensible about that stuff. If yours embraces these things, you should make it a non-medieval influenced society – more ‘exotic’, or just a better mix of cultures. Enlightenment about those issues comes from progress, and medieval ages were not seen as the pinnacle of enlightenment.

Hero's culture has no brothels, no bars and everyone smokes a pipe but nothing stronger.

They’d need something stronger than a pipe, let me tell you. Multiple wives?

Black magic vs. White magic.

Green vs Red. Blue vs Orange. Why does it have to be good/evil, white/black? “Selfish vs Selfless”?

Magic systems that follow laws too much like modern physics.

A lot of modern mathematics is from Pythagoras, an ancient Greek. Bowmen had a sound understanding of cause and effect as it related to their actions; cause and effect is the basis for modern physics. New Age stuff is actually very ancient in principle.

Magic systems that follow no discernable rules at all.

There are always rules.

Magic systems that change when its plot-convenient.

No, it just doesn’t happen that way.

Virgin sacrifices.

This is an angle so poorly understood that you could do anything with it. For example: 14 year old virgins not accepting the role of an adult, and justice must be served.

Human/animal psychic bonds, especially with dogs/wolves/cats/horses/dragons/eagles etc.

Alternative animals – the types you don’t see every day. Lizard. Rabbit. Cow/Bull. Hyena. Frog. Scorpion. Camel (for desert nomads?). Penguin. Rhino. Raccoon/Squirrel. Elephant. Ocelot. Octopus.

Characters speaking in 1990s flavored English.

Less clichéd than medieval English, though… Ideally, come up with your own original dialect!

Churches based on the medieval Catholic Church but that have a history totally unlike the Catholic Church.

You can’t have your cake and eat it… Most people probably have a temple instead. Congregational area would be more like the Romans – amphitheatre. Ultimately you can design your church(es) and religious practice(es) how you want.

Matriarchal religions/societies are good while patriarchal ones are bad. (Ditto for polytheism vs. monotheism.)

Everybody in the world worships the same god/pantheon of gods.

Heck no, they do not.

Noble savages/barbarians/etc.

They’d be the one in a million. “Noble savage” is an oxymoron.

Everybody in the world speaks the same language.

Have different languages. Duh.

City dwellers are automatically corrupt and weak.

Have a holy city.

Female warriors who’ll only surrender to a man if he defeats them in battle.

You wish.

Cities in the middle of the desert with no water or food supply that somehow survive.

They wouldn’t survive, obviously.

Women as prizes/booty for barbarian (or even civilized) heroes.

Women are people too. Gender reversal? – be careful of erotic fantasy. No emotional attachment?

Societies where no one seems to do anything but adventure.

Occupations, hobbies, interests, commitments… you know. Human stuff.

True feudal societies where the king holds absolute power.

Other types of societies.

Shops called Adventurers' Supply or the like.

Yeah… how about camping gear/wilderness survival/exploration gear? Equivalent of Boys Scouts and their gear-shops.

Village taverns, especially those populated with saucy tavern wenches (and jolly bartenders).

Bartenders – we don’t have that in our modern day venues. Unfriendly wenches. Monsters as bar stuff: the Necromancer’s Tavern (zombies serve you, ghouls are bouncers, and the band is a monster screamo/goth band.)

Worlds that read as though they were created by a really bad Dungeon Master.

Understand societal structure, culture, law, etc. Weird laws? Ie: Holy day = if you were born on it, you can’t break the law. Non-typical worlds, basically.

50-pound broadswords.

Do they REALLY weigh that much? That would be Cloud Strife’s sword. Swords typically only up to 20 pounds (big, two-handed sword with massive handle).

Swords that shoot lightning, glow, etc.

Swords that don’t. Non-typical magical weapons.

Fur loincloths and chainmail bikinis in winter.

This one is just absolutely ridiculous! I don’t care how ‘hot’ it looks, it’s just stupid.

Worlds where morals are strictly black and white.

No one’s morals are strictly one way or the other. If you have really strict morals, no one else will, and you’ll be in situations where you will have to go against one to uphold another.

Societies where the morals are exactly the same as ours.

Have different morals.

Slavery.

First, understand the definition and social context of slavery. Slavery is actually often voluntary to pay off a debt. It’s a way to get the essentials. Don’t confuse prisoners with slaves.

Boy slaves get released after 5-7 years of service; girl slaves do not.

See above about slavery’s definition.

Worlds where the nobility are all corrupt and/or perverted.

Nobility are varied in their personalities, morals, ethics, etc. Corruption is human nature, but it doesn’t have to be the backbone of power.

Prostitutes/brothels.

As long as there’s sexual desires and limitations, there will be brothels.

City neighborhoods where you can get anything anytime for any amount of money.

Limitations, unavailability etc.

Healing potions work instantly, so death is never a real threat.

Slower working potions.

Zombies, vampires, werewolves, shape-changers, etc.

No stock monsters. Make your own.

Vampires as tragic, romantic figures.

Again, no stock monsters.

Vampires/werewolves/the fey exist among modern humans without detection despite there being a whole lot of them.

See above. If present, they would be perfectly discernible.

Pantheons based directly off of Greek, Norse or Egyptian religions.

Make your own. Use other religions – Japanese, Chinese, Indian, African…

Elite guards who aren't.

Obviously, they’d be elite for a reason.

Worlds where the fairies are always good and the witches are always evil.

Good witches and evil fairies, for starters.

Perfectly balanced parties of adventurers.

The cliché is that they all have equal powers etc that compliment each other. Simple solution: Paladin. Divides the group every time. Also, monsters and stuff that are overwhelmingly more powerful, for example.

Fantasy worlds populated entirely by sentient animals.

Various levels of sentience. This only really works well if the gods are like that, ie: Egyptian. Stargate (the movie) did this well.

Worlds where all the humans look alike, regardless of geographic location.

Yeah, right.

Animals who raise human children.

Also, yeah right.

Riding dragonback.

Is that even possible?

Friendly dragons.

No.

Animals who act like humans.

No.

Someone goes to the underworld, either spiritually or physically

Magic users/psionics harassed and persecuted for their powers.

Rockstar status?

Horses treated like cars with legs.

Have bicycles.

Men and women have different sets of psychic/magic powers.

The idea is probably that men = combat, women = charms/enchantments. Magic is not sexist, for starters. Or, you could reverse the types. One gender magical, the other isn’t.

Brutality is excused so long as the good guys are the ones doing it.

Cause and effect/action and consequence, simple as that.

Thieves having organized guilds and public meeting places that are known to the general populace.

That’s just stupid. They would be put in jail immediately. Thieves have small or no groups (not guilds).

Medieval cities with immaculate streets.

Medieval streets were dirty, filthy streets. There’d be horse shit everywhere.

Grid-pattern streets in medieval cities.

Nope, not buying it.

Plucky young beggar boys/girls.

Magic shops that appear and disappear at whim.

Magic shops stay in one place, thank you very much. In fact, they might actually have sympathetic resonance/whatever with the spot if they’ve been their long enough…

No drug except alcohol exists in the world.

There would be drugs, fetishes, etc.

People running around after dark without lanterns and not falling down or getting hurt, especially in wooded areas.

Amp up that terror angle!

Elaborate tests to determine if a woman is a virgin, no such test for men.

SIMPLE test, scientific or spell; both sexes. No such test.

Heroines who always remain pure no matter what, even if all the other women around them are defiled.

How could they hold on to their innocence in that scenario without being crazy?

No such thing as an atheist in the world; everybody believes in a god/gods (the exception being worlds where the gods are a real physical presence.)

Have atheists. Or agnostics.

Societies that never evolve.

Change that society!

The language has been the same for the last 10,000 years; there is only one Olde Language and no intermediate languages.

Several languages!

No bathrooms anywhere.

That’s just unrealistic. It would be a pretty disgusting society without them. There’d be sewage systems of SOME sort.

Societies with no discernable economic structure.

That’s pretty obvious to fix.

Fantasy cliches part 1

2009-09-26T15:43:00.001+10:00

Fantasy novel clichés (and what to do about them)

http://www.geocities.com/area51/labyrinth/8584/stuff/cliche.html

http://www.kaila.pl/rpg/books.htm

Rules for Writing a Fantasy Novel

1. The heroes will lose every battle, but win the war.

They win some, they lose some. They win every battle but the most important one.

2. It will only rain when the heroes are exhausted and running out of food.

Rain when they’re itching to go. Rain when they need to get somewhere. Rain early, rain often.

3. The heroes will only have horses if they are going to climb a mountain, where they won't be able to ride the horses anyway.

Horses can only be used for getting quickly across planes or for ‘horse chases’. Duh.

4. The enemies will be killed by the slightest mishap, but the heroes will live through anything.

Heroes (or at least minor characters) can be killed off along the way. Enemies shouldn’t be killed by minor things.

5. The hero and heroine will fall in love on the last three pages.

Fall in love at the start, middle, ¾ parts. Don’t fall in love. Wait till next book. Also, breakups like the romance movies.

6. Magic (if available) will be used intelligently by the heroes, but will be wasted by the enemies.

Intelligently by both. Dumbly by both. Dumbly by heroes, intelligently by enemy.

7. You will annoy the reader by placing numerous re-hashings of prior events in the first four chapters of the second and following books of a series.

Wait till page 20. Do it once per book.

8. Start off occasional chapters with a description of one of the main characters engaged in some activity, without using their name. The reader will feel exceptionally smart when they figure out who it is before you reveal it.

Simply don’t start chapters this way. The only reason the reader shouldn’t be given the main character’s name when said main character is in the scene, is if it’s from someone minor’s point of view. That person will likely have to become a semi-main or main character, anyway.

9. Racial prejudices will be ignored by the heroes, but will be a factor in the downfall of the enemy.

Not all heroes are so accepting. King Breunor doesn’t like King Obould, for instance. One of the best villains I’ve seen is the Druid chick in the High Druid of Shannara trilogy – she only cares about the freak assassin’s skills, not what he looks like.

10. The enemy will be able to predict all of the heroes actions, but will be powerless to stop them; the heroes will foil all of the enemies plans through sheer dumb luck.

The heroes do something the enemy doesn’t predict. The enemy is able to predict them but stop them. The enemy doesn’t predict them BUT stops them anyway. The heroes need to be smart about their actions. If the heroes go for the dumb approach, they fail (or it’s a set-up for a surprise tactic).

11. The heroes will be able to survive for weeks without feeling the call of nature, unless they are in a cell.

Nature calls. Simple as that. If in a cell, maybe they only stay a short time and thus have no need to go. But nature calls is the best strategy.

12. Should the heroes be captured, the enemy will gloat and reveal all of their plans.

Err, no. What kind of moron does that?

13. Should the heroes be captured, they will be kept in a small cell with a bit of straw but no windows, and will only be fed bread and water at irregular intervals. Despite this, they will be able to tell how much time has passed.

They can’t tell. Simple as that. Alternatively, the villain could be really nice to them… yeah ok, that’s a stupid idea.

14. Magic swords do not glow except when the heroes have no other source of light, or if it is dark, and they need to be captured for the plot to advance properly.

It may need coaxing to glow. It may glow on command. It may not glow at all. It may glow when it wants to. It may just glow all the time and require being concealed. It may glow in battle. Under no circumstances should it glow just because it is dark/there’s no other light, or so that it leads to capture.

15. The heroes, after making a noise when trying to remain silent, will stand perfectly still for several minutes. The enemy will not, however, have heard it. (Alternate scenario: the enemy will hear it and search the area immediately (rather than guessing the action of the heroes, and waiting for them to move again, thereby giving themselves away). The heroes will quickly hide, their sounds masked by the noise of the enemy's search.)

The heroes make a noise, and so stand still, but the enemy heard them! They can’t move silently AND quickly – they have to choose one or the other. Alternative: the enemy instead waits and listens to the heroes, tricking them into thinking the enemy haven’t heard them.

16. Only describe a monster you have created once; call it by name any other time it appears, even if the character it is spotted by did not see it the first time or have it described since.

If the POV is someone who knows about it, then use the name. Otherwise, describe monsters you’ve created each time.

17. At least one of the heroes will be the second best in the world at something. The only person better will be one of the enemy, but they will nonetheless be defeated by the hero at the climax.

It’s perfectly alright for heroes to be just good at something, and there’s a few people around better than they. What happens in a group of the heroes superiors are killed? If battle, the heroes will need to run (or get better in the course of the investigation/plan for vengeance). And sometimes, the enemy just plain sucks at xyz skill (and so flees, creates a distraction, nullifies, uses another skill (or wits) has help, etc). Sometimes the two are on par and it comes down to pure luck, or timely intervention of a second or more capable opponent, by chance or design.

18. Everyone in a position of power is corrupt, and is subject to bribes.

Well that’s just reality… but seriously, honest guards, anyone? (they might be evil and bloodthirsty and hope someone resists arrest, but still, it’s nice to know SOME guards and officials are good or at least lawful people).

19. Rulers of any large territory (eg. Kings, Emporers, etc.) are either terminally stupid or insane, and could not suppress a rebellion if their life depended on it (which it usually does).

Smart/wise rulers once in a while. Not THAT hard, is it? Or else they’re smart enough to at least suppress a rebellion if their life depended on it.

On Thud and Blunder - an article by Poul Anderson

2009-09-26T01:12:00.000+10:00

I'm not sure entirely where this originated from, but it's very hard to find despite being so very useful. Tsk tsk, internet. This is copied for you benefit and for archiving purposes, free of charge and probably without permission. But I'm sure no one will mind, so long as credit is given. You can find more useful stuff on this site: http://www.sfwa.org/category/information-center/craft-of-writing/

and the link itself is: http://www.sfwa.org/2005/01/on-thud-and-blunder/

On Thud and Blunder

Written by Poul Anderson

[This essay was published some years ago and is very difficult to find now, which is why I asked Poul to let me publish it on the Web. He points out that a few things have changed since he wrote it — the essay mentions the Soviet Union, for example, but does not mention navigation satellites — and that he has had some arguments from a few readers about one detail or another. But "there isn't time now to go into all that," he says, "and anyway, I never claimed infallibility. It seems to me that most of the points made are still valid."

It seems to me, too, that they are valid, and that some of them at least have a wider application than just to heroic fantasy. Thinking things through is a good plan in any genre, and research hardly ever hurts one's prose. — mm]

With one stroke of his fifty-pound sword, Gnorts the Barbarian lopped off the head of Nialliv the Wizard. It flew through the air, still sneering, while Gnorts clove two royal guardsmen from vizor through breasplate to steel jockstrap. As he whirled to escape, an arrow glanced off his own chainmail. Then he was gone from the room, into the midnight city. Easily outrunning pursuit, he took a few sentries at the gate by surprise. For a moment, arms and legs hailed around him through showers of blood; then he had opened the gate and was free. A caravan of merchants, waiting to enter at dawn, was camped nearby. Seeing a magnificent stallion tethered, Gnorts released it, twisted the rope into a bridle, and rode it off bareback. After galloping several miles, he encountered a mounted patrol that challenged him. Immediately he plunged into the thick of the cavalrymen, swinging his blade right and left with deadly effect, rearing up his steed to bring its forefeet against one knight who dared to confront him directly. Then it was only to gallop onward. Winter winds lashed his body, attired in nothing more than a bearskin kilt, but he ignored the cold. Sunrise revealed the shore and his waiting longship. He knew the swift-sailing craft could bring him across five hundred leagues of monster-infested ocean in time for him to snatch the maiden princess Elamef away from evil Baron Rehcel while she remained a maiden — not that he intended to leave her in that condition … .

Exaggerated? Of course. But, unfortunately, not much, where some stories are concerned.

Today’s rising popularity of heroic fantasy, or sword-and-sorcery as it is also called, is certainly a Good Thing for those of us who enjoy it. Probably this is part of a larger movement back toward old-fashioned storytelling, with colorful backgrounds, events, and characters, tales wherein people do take arms against a sea of troubles and usually win. Such literature is not inherently superior to the introspective or symbolic kinds, but neither is it inherently inferior; Homer and James Joyce were both great artists.

Yet every kind of writing is prone to special faults. For example, while no one expects heroic fantasy (hf) to be of ultimate psychological profundity, it is often simple to the point of being simplistic. This is not necessary, as such fine practitioners as de Camp, Leiber, and Tolkien have proven.

Worse, because it is still more obvious and still less excusable, is a frequent lack of elementary knowledge or plain common sense on the part of an author. A small minority of hf stories are set in real historical milieus, where the facts provide a degree of control — though howling errors remain all too easy to make. Most members of the genre, however, take place in an imaginary world. It may be a pre-glacial civilization like Howard’s, an altered time-line like Kurtz’s, another planet like Eddison’s, a remote future like Vance’s, a completely invented universe like Dunsany’s, or what have you; the point is, nobody pretends this is aught but a Never-Never Land, wherein the author is free to arrange geography, history, theology, and the laws of nature to suit himself. Given that freedom, far too many writers nowadays have supposed that anything whatsoever goes, that practical day-to-day details are of no importance and hence they, the writers, have no homework to do before they start spinning their yarns.

Not so! The consequence of making that assumption is, inevitably, a sleazy product. It may be bought by an editor hard up for material, but it will carry none of the conviction, the illusion of reality, which helps make the work of the people mentioned above, and other good writers, memorable. At best, it will drop into oblivion; at worst, it will stand as an awful example. If our field becomes swamped with this kind of garbage, readers are going to go elsewhere for entertainment and there will be no more hf.

Beneath the magic, derring-do, and other glamour, an imaginary world has to work right. In particular, a pre-industrial society, which is what virtually all hf uses for a setting, differs from ours today in countless ways. A writer need not be a walking encyclopedia to get most of these straight. A reasonable amount of research, or sometimes merely a reasonable amount of logical thinking, will do it for him. Let’s consider a few points. A proper discussion would require a book, but we can make a start.

First, some remarks on those societies. Most cultures in hf are based on the European, often as a mishmash of Roman Empire, Dark Ages, and high Middle Ages with a bit of Pharaonic Egypt, Asian nomadism, and so forth on the fringes. This is not bad in itself. Howard succeeded with it. And indeed, the western end of the Eurasian continent was a rather similar potpourri during the Volkerwanderung period (if you regard the Byzantine Empire as the civilized core of Christendom). I do think the time is overpast for drawing inspiration from other milieus — Oriental, Near Eastern, North and Black African, Amerindian, Polynesian, an entire world — and am happy to see that several writers have begun doing so. However, in this essay I’ll stick close to home.

Even the writers I have cited say little about the producing classes in their worlds, with the notable exception of de Camp. Yet the fact is that it takes a lot of peasants, artisans, and such-like humble people to support one noble or, for that matter, one bandit or roving barbarian. We tend to forget this in our mechanized modern Western civilization, where only a small percentage of the work force is occupied with the necessities of life. Right up till the early part of the twentieth century, though, most of our own population was rural, as most of it still is elsewhere on Earth. In town, the typical worker was not one of the kind we know, putting in forty comparatively easy hours a week, owning a house and car and the other customary amenities. No, he was a dirt-poor hod carrier or ditch digger or something like that, laboring almost till he dropped of exhaustion and glad to get the job. While unions doubtless helped improve his lot, they could not have done so without the increased productivity which advancing technology made possible.

Thus our creator of hf can gain verisimilitude and interesting detail by paying some attention to the lower classes, the vast majority of his world’s population. Besides, their situation affects what his hero can do. For example, in many medieval countries the peasants were subject to a military draft; the king could summon them to fight his wars for him. However, the time of year at which he could do so was strictly circumscribed by law. He couldn’t call them up before the crops were in, nor keep them till harvest, lest everybody starve. Harold of England faced this problem in 1066. William of Normandy, commanding mostly mercenaries and adventurers, did not to the same degree.

Incidentally, mercenaries are not always reliable. They tend to make trouble if they don’t get paid — and medieval monarchs were chronically short of money. Early in the fourteenth century, a troop of Catalans practically took the Byzantine Empire apart on that account. Mercenaries are also likely to be more interested in their own survival and prerogatives, especially loot, than in furthering the interests of their employers. The backbone of Rome was the yeoman farmer class, from which the legions were recruited; when this was destroyed by the Punic Wars and their aftermath, and Rome must gradually go more and more to hirelings, her doom was sealed. Surely a number of good hf stories lie in this motif.

Returning to peasants, laborers, merchants, and the rest, these words are too general. How well off are such people, how leisured, how independent? That has varied tremendously throughout history. Free landholders in Scandinavia would originally get together to make their own laws, try their own cases, accept a new king and then depose him later if they didn’t like him. Their descendants became wretched tenants and, in Denmark, outright serfs. In contrast, though by our standards workers in cities put in long, hard hours and were under many restrictions: still, after the Black Death had furnished a convenient labor shortage, they were comparatively well off. In fact, for some centuries they enjoyed more leisure, in the form of frequent holidays, than we do now.

Thus the status of ordinary people has depended on social conditions as much as technological. If taxes and other governmental demands on them were moderate, they had plenty of spare time and energy, in between bouts of toil that would kill many of us today. As those demands grew, so did their misery. Of course, in either case they were subject to famines and pestilences — another detail unmentioned in most hf, yet potent narrative matter.

A medieval city was curiously divided. On the one hand, the respectable part of it was highly structured, with guilds controlling much of the private lives as well as the work of members. On the other hand, the poor sector was chaotic and dangerous, as we may read in the poems of Villon. Between Internal Revenue and welfare, we seem to be re-approaching this dichotomy. We do still have fairly sharp geographical separation of urban classes. In an ancient or medieval town, any districts there were were usually along occupational lines. A rich merchant would live near the appropriate street, but his house would be apt to stand like an island in the middle of poverty, vice, and savagery. This could make our hero’s abrupt exit from it more interesting than he intended.

If he left after dark, he would scarcely run as trippingly as we have shown Gnorts the Barbarian doing. People who have experienced blackouts will tell you that a nighted city without the modern invention of lights is black. With walls shutting off most of the sky — especially along narrow medieval streets — it is far gloomier that any open field. You’d grope your way, unless you had a torch or lantern (and then you’d better have an armed guard). Furthermore, those lanes were open sewers; in many places, stepping stones went down the middle because of that. Despite sanitary measures, metropolitan streets as late as about 1900 were often uncrossable simply because of horse droppings. Graveyards stank too: one reason why incense was used in church services.

This brings up again the prevalence of diseases such as cholera, typhoid, smallpox, and bubonic plague. They struck especially hard at cities. The fear of them was ever-present in everybody’s mind. That detail could be worked into a story to telling effect.

Darkness and crime did call forth partial answers. For instance, professional escorts carrying lights were available. The Byzantines in their heyday had a regular police force, while in many Western cities of a later date each able-bodied man must help patrol his own neighborhood. I should think a wandering warrior might quickly get a job as a cop, and thereby come upon strange situations.

Or he might not. Travel could be extremely difficult, not merely because of physical problems and robbers, but because of official wariness. Fire being another hazard very much in the public awareness, you could not get into a Danish town around 1500 without convincing documentation; the fear of foreign arsonists was that great. (Doubtless it was unfounded, but we’ve seen enough popular paranoia in our own age, haven’t we?) Elsewhere, the mayoralty might suppose you were a spy, or the guilds might not want to admit a new worker. (Again, this sounds not unfamiliar.) Contretemps like these could add depth, color, and perhaps humor to the adventures of our hero.

In fact, the whole relationship between a city and the rest of its society can be fascinating. It need not be borrowed from Western history, either — “city air is free air,” the rise of the bourgeoisie, and so on. Ancient Russia, for instance, followed a course almost the reverse of ours: beginning with cities and capitalism, which stimulated agricultural development of the hinterlands.

Politics in general is much neglected in hf. Usually its governments are absolute monarchies, whether of kings or emperors, though the real world has known many different arrangements. If the monarch is tyrannical, our hero may lead a revolt and find himself the next ruler. Little or nothing is said about the infinitely intricate mechanics of organizing a rebellion or, for that matter, about the legal questions involved. Can Gnorts truly seize the throne? He’ll have to have an acquiescent majority, at the very least; else his regime won’t last an hour. Now Odoacer the Scyrrian could push the legitimate Roman Emperor out in 476 — but he hastened to offer homage to Constantinople, and at that, his power was shaky and soon overthrown. No outsider could have won such a title in the Eastern Empire, whose lord had to be a citizen and of the Orthodox faith. The crusaders did impose a Latin reign in 1204, but it was loathed and the Byzantines got rid of it as fast as they were able.

Howard could make Conan’s accession reasonably plausible. The rest of us might do better to make our hero the power behind the throne. In fact, why must he be a barbarian? A civilized man influencing an uncivilized conqueror, as Ye Liu Chutsai did Genghis Khan, may give a far more intriguing story, in either sense of the word.

In any event, the monarchy or oligarchy won’t be the sole mover of society. It never has been, not even in the contemporary Soviet Union and slave China. There are always other interests and groups whose leaders must be conciliated. An obvious example is the late J. Edgar Hoover; theoretically, any President could summarily have dismissed him, but in practice that was a political impossibility. More to the hf point, perhaps, are the consequences to Henry II of England when he had Thomas a Becket assassinated. Indeed, the ever-changing interrelationships of kings, nobles, and Church form a major part of the medieval European tapestry. One can go on to power groups in more distant lands, such as the Janissaries in Turkey or the Shogunate in Japan, to find endless complications which are the stuff of exciting tales.

(One hf novel which handles politics superbly well, and is a fine story in every other respect too, is The Well of the Unicorn by Fletcher Pratt. If you haven’t already read it, do.)

The Church raises the subject of religion in general, which is little used in our field. Oh, yes, we may get a hero swearing by his particular gods and perhaps carrying through a small rite, equivalent to stroking a rabbit’s foot. We certainly got plenty of obscene ceremonies in honor of assorted toad-like beings. Both of these do have their historical counterparts. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to see an imaginary society which was pervaded by its faith, as many real ones have been.

One way or another, religion is usually the well-spring of literacy. If Never-Never Land has no printing press or public schools, how many people can read? How did they learn? How common is paper or some equally cheap, convenient material to write upon? Who produces and who sells it, under what conditions? How do letters travel? Questions like these could well be crucial to our hero.

The available transportation positively is. Now we are so accustomed to reasonably reliable and well-sprung automobiles on smooth roads, when we don’t fly, that we have almost forgotten how hard and slow it once was to get from here to there. Most people in the past spent their entire lives in walking distance of wherever they were born. This must deeply have affected their personalities, even as mobility has affected ours.

The Romans, improving on the example of the Persians, knit their empire together with excellent paved highways. These were for armies and imperial messengers. Ordinary people could use them, but that wasn’t the main idea, and doubtless most civilian traffic continued to be over dirt tracks. Anyone who has hiked or marched through mud will appreciate the importance of a proper military road. When Rome had fallen and commerce shrank down to local trading, most of this network was quarried. In the Middle Ages, a landholder could help guarantee his salvation — and collect tolls — by building and maintaining a road or bridge. It was that important to everyone. Not just mud, but wilderness impeded travel. Huge areas of Europe were covered by forest that, because of underbrush, was literally impassable; some coastal communities could be reached only by sea. If given a reasonable surface to roll on, chariots, wagons, and coaches remained exhausting things in which to ride. After a day of such vibration, the passenger would feel as if he’d been through a meat grinder. The brutality of it is epitomized by the fact that, in the nineteenth century, the working life of a coach horse was reckoned at four years.

Thus our hero will usually do better to go pedestrian or equestrian. As for the latter choice, writers who’ve had no personal experience with horses tend to think of them as a kind of sports car. ‘Tain’t so.

You cannot gallop them for hours. They’ll collapse. The best way to make time in the saddle is to alternate paces, and have a remount or two trailing behind, and allow the animals reasonable rest. Don’t let your steed eat or drink indiscriminately; it’s likely to bloat and become helpless. In fact, it’s a rather fragile creature, requiring close attention — for example, rubdowns after hard exertion — if it isn’t to fall sick and perhaps die on you. It’s also lazy, stupid, and sometimes malicious. All of these tendencies the rider must keep under control.

You cannot grab any old horse and go to battle on it. It’ll instantly become unmanageable. Several of us in the Society for Creative Anachronism tried a little harmless jousting, and soon gave up … and this was with beasts whose owners were already practicing the more pacific equestrian arts, such as tilting at a ring. War horses had to be raised to it from colthood. The best cavalrymen were, too. For lack of that tradition, the vikings, for instance, never fought mounted. Upon landing in a victim country, they’d steal themselves four-legged transportation, but having reached a scene of action, they’d get down.

Cavalry was of no particular importance in Europe until about the sixth century, when stirrups were introduced from the East. Before then, combatants were too likely to fall off. Earlier, the chief military use of the horse had been with chariots: until the Greek hoplite and Roman legionary learned how to cope with these. Later, nobody riding bareback stood a chance against an enemy who had a proper saddle.

Frequently in hf, and for that matter in h’f and Wf (historical and Western fantasy), the hero cavorts around on a snorting stallion. Now this has been done in reality, but seldom, and that for good reason. A stallion is notoriously hard to control, and, by the way, is not safe to have around a menstruating woman. (Of course, hf heroines never seem to menstruate, which may account for the fact that they don’t get pregnant, no matter how active in bed.) A mare or, better, gelding is preferable.

In short, our hero is going to face practical problems in getting around on land. The same will apply if he goes by sea. I’ll say nothing about pirates, though in most eras they posed a considerable hazard. I will mention that, even under the Roman Empire, more often than not it paid to travel across the water; terrestrial transportation was that bad. Nevertheless —

Ships in hf normally have sails but act as if they had Diesel engines. They take the lead character where he wants to go, fast, effortlessly, and comfortably. They are never becalmed and they never meet weeks of foul weather. In spite of being square-rigged, they can go as close to the wind as the captain chooses. (Ah, many’s the time I’ve wished I could make a well-designed sloop do that. But it took most of a morning, for instance, to work out of one quite small bay. In the nineteenth century, ships would sometimes lie in Honolulu harbor for months, waiting for the right wind to blow them across the Pacific.) These same vessels have abundant elbow room for everybody; food and water are always palatable; there are no special housekeeping problems. (In actuality the First Law of the Sea, as formulated by Jerry Pournelle and myself, is: “It’s in the bilge!”) Sometimes, in both hf and h’f, we have galley slaves. Again, authors are inclined to treat them as if they were engines; they don’t get tired, they don’t get sick, they don’t stink, you don’t have to keep a guard on them lest they revolt. In real history, rowers were only used on naval vessels, and for the most part were free men, well paid. Galley slaves were not a Roman but a late medieval invention, brought about by the need to bring cannon to bear on short notice.

The average hf sailor has no navigation woes. Yet this problem wasn’t solved till the eighteenth century, with the development of the chronometer — and the story of that R & D effort is a complex one, full of human bitchiness. To this day, the solution is not perfect. Ask a seaman to tell you what it’s like, using a modern sextant, to get a decent sight on a star. Nor has electronics made locating yourself automatic and infallible, short of the most highly advanced inertial systems. So imagine an early Norseman bound from Oslo to Greenland. He has a knowledge of landmarks and the heavens when these are visible; a peg will help him estimate his latitude of a clear day allows it to cast a shadow, and the natural polarizing filter he calls a “sunstone” will help him locate the solar orb in cloudy weather; but these aids give him only the crudest approximations, while longitutde is a matter of sheer dead reckoning or guesswork. Seaweed, bird fights, and similar indications are probably more helpful; indeed, he may well carry some birds in a cage, release them one at a time when he thinks he may be near a shore, and watch which way they go. Chances are that he’ll make landfall a goodly distance from his goal and have to work along the coast to find it.

Compass, astrolabe, and a few other advantages improved matters as the Middle Ages wore on, but not greatly. If his story is to be convincing, our itinerant barbarian will not travel without lots of difficulty, discomfort, and delay.

Presumably he’s bound for someplace where he can fight. After he arrives on the battlefield, he will still face a host of complications. Let me merely observe in passing that, right up until World War Two, far more soldiers died of disease than did in action; that the outcome of a siege was frequently determined by whether the attackers took sick faster than the defenders starved; and that germs were sometimes the arbiters of entire wars. Let me suggest that this, too, is a realistic motif which hf writers could occasionally use to advantage. Now let’s get on to actual combat.

First, consider again the sociology of it. Incomparably drilled and disciplined, the Roman legionary almost always made hash of his foes, until the society which had produced him rotted away. In medieval England, every yeoman of military age was required by law to have a longbow and spend a set number of hours per week practicing with it. As a result, the English archers during the Hundred Years’ War were the terror of the French, who tried to raise a similar corps but failed because they hadn’t institutionalized the training. In general, the civil background of an army is the most important element in its long-range success or failure, with its own organization and morale a close second. Half-trained barbarians may win a fluke victory over civilized troops once in a while, but that won’t count for much. They can only prevail over a civilization after it has ruined itself.

Technology counts too, of course, though sometimes in paradoxical ways. The longbow was driven off the field by the crossbow and later the crossbow by the musket, not because these weapons were successively superior — they weren’t — but because it was successively quicker and easier to teach a man their use. The hf writer ought to visualize just what kind of arms his characters employ, and think through the military implications.

As for hand-to-hand fights, it would doubtless be unfair to demand that he belong to the SCA or go in for fencing or javelin throwing or archery. We’ll have to bear with heroes’ occasional ignorance of technique. That would soon prove fatal in real life; luckily, fictional villains share the ignorance.

However, can’t the author do a little reading in encyclopedias, under headings like “Fencing”? And is it too much trouble to delve further than that? Any reasonably sized public or college library must contain some relevant books. If nothing else, can’t he take half a minute to visualize before he writes?

If he does, he’ll instantly see that nobody in his right mind would grab a sword two-handed, raise it over his head, and chop straight down, exposing his belly all that while. The use of those huge Reformation-period two-handers was a highly developed art whose practitioners were specialists.

Carrying a shield, you’re as apt to work around its edge as over the top. By the way, the purpose of that shield is to stay between you and your enemy’s weapon, not act as a counterweight to a roundhouse swing. There are tricks you can play with it, such as using its edge to lever your opponent’s shield out of your way; but I’ve rarely seen fantasy warriors do anything so skillful.

Artists tend to be still worse offenders than authors — for instance, depicting a man wielding a dagger overhand, and, while they’re at it, dressing the poor guy in nothing but a bearskin kilt in a winter landscape or on a horse. (For a human male, the latter placement is much the worse.)

Nobody can wield a fifty-pound sword; he’d wear his arm out in short order. An ax or mace, large dependent on sheer mass for beating through an enemy’s guard, is nowhere near that heavy either. A replicated ax, Battle of Hastings type, in my possession, weighs a bit under five pounds. Nevertheless, it takes muscle to swing any edged weapon. Therefore I suspect that a woman-at-arms would look less like Dejah Thoris than Rosie the Riveter. In fact, we have no reliable records of female warriors. Joan of Arc commanded, she did not engage in combat.

True, primary sources can’t always be trusted. Thus, in the generally realistic Icelandic sagas, you find a few references to somebody cutting a head or limb off somebody else with a single stroke. Try this on a pork roast, suspended without a chopping block, and see how far you get.

It could be done with the best of the classic Japanese swords, which are marvels of metallurgy. However, one of these must be treated very carefully if it isn’t to be ruined. The mere touch of a finger can induce corrosion.

The cruder blades of Europe demanded still closer attention. Edged weapons are more fragile than one might think, especially if they are bronze or medieval-type steel. Those quickly go blunt and become simple clubs; ofttimes they bend and must be more or less straightened with a foot and an oath; they can break. Not even with a samurai sword do you cut through armor.

At the same time, armor does have its vulnerabilities. These are not so much to the thrust of the cleaving blow. I have witnessed SCA experiments in which chain mail made from coat hanger wire, backed by a hay bale, could not be penetrated by sword, ax, or spear. Obviously only repeated impacts on the same spot could fatigue the metal enough to let a weapon through. Plate armor should be still hardier. Bear in mind that, in both cases, padding was worn beneath. Still, if a man was getting hit hour after hour, eventually it might prove too much for his body to endure, if heat prostration didn’t get him first.

Armor of either kind could be pierced by a hard-driven arrow, from longbow or crossbow. These devices had their own limitations. I have already mentioned how much training was necessary to make the former effective. Though not an archer myself, I am skeptical about hundred-pound draws; it seems to me that, for accuracy and rate of fire, seventy-five might be a more reasonable figure. As for crossbows, though their bolts struck equally hard, they were considerably slower than longbows. As said, their decisive advantage was that they were easier to learn to use.

If armor is not involved, then ordinarily in fiction, a single blow, thrust, or arrow suffices to drop a man or a horse dead on the spot. Actually, so large an animal is quite hard to kill. The .45 caliber pistol was developed specifically as a man-stopper, and still men hit from one have been known to keep on coming. Hf swordsmen generally run their foes right through the heart. Well, not only is the heart a fairly small target whose exact location is hard to identify, but it’s pretty protected by the rib cage. Personally, I’d go for the throat — the larynx is highly vulnerable, not to speak of the jugular vein or carotid arteries — or the abdomen, where I might slash another big artery or have a chance of skewering the liver — or the legs, in hopes of crippling my opponent.

The back of the neck is another weak point, if you can get at it, as with a hefty rabbit punch. The skull is stronger, though it can be smashed with a heavy weapon and a lighter blow may render the victim unconscious. Here hf and mf (mystery fantasy) writers make man out to be more durable than he is. Their heroes get knocked out, awaken after a while as if from a nap, and plunge right back into action. The truth is, a mild concussion is disabling for periods ranging from hours to days, and as for a severe one, the consequences are not pleasant to watch.

If you wish further possibilities for mayhem, I refer you to experts in karate. Techniques of this kind seldom occur in hf, but surely they could enliven some stories.

We have less scope where poisons are concerned, common though they are in fiction. Medieval and Renaissance princes lived in terror of these, but the fact is that prior to modern chemistry, there were virtually no quick-acting toxins you could slip to somebody unbeknownst, or on the point of a weapon. Curare is about all that comes to mind, and that’s South American. Indeed, I’ve seen a couple of Renaissance recipes for poisons to feed dinner guests, and the main question about them is how anybody ever imagined anybody else could ever gag down enough of that awful stuff to suffer serious damage.

Arsenic was about the deadliest substance readily available, with a few competitors like hemlock, toadstools, and ground glass. The problem was usually to disguise the taste. In any event, while a person could occasionally be given a lethal dose, he would hardly drop dead at once. He’d be a considerable and messy time about his demise. I rather imagine that quite a few deaths which were attributed to deliberate poisoning were actually caused by botulism or the like.

Lest the foregoing seem bloodthirsty, let me add that another flaw in most hf is the glossing over of pain, mangling, and the ordinarily grim process of dying. True, we don’t want to get sadistic. And as a rule, we presume an era less sensitive than ours; most have been. And we’re writing and reading for fun, not to preach moral lessons or harrow emotions. Still, a bit more realism in this respect too would lend convincingness.

We can then swing back to cheerful matters, such as harvest festivals, drunken evenings in taverns, and fertility rites where sympathetic magic gets totally sympathetic. We can let our hero have all kinds of adventures, buckle all kinds of swashes. I merely submit that he ought to do so in a world which, however thaumaturgical, makes sense. The more it does, the more the reader will enjoy — and the more he will come back for more.

Tags: Anderson, Intermediate, Poul Anderson, writing

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 4th, 2005 at 2:00 am and is filed under Information Center, The Craft of Writing, Writing Technique. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.

Something from Uni

2009-07-31T23:10:00.001+10:00

Not really any of my writing, and so not quite 'professional' as such, but I thought I should share this excercise response I did for class. The questions were something along the lines of what habits you have as a writer, and how technology affects your writing:

1. I spend time planning the points I want to make and how I might approach a writing task; a structure is crucial to making my writing meaningful. I rarely ‘just write’ – I always plan, even if it only involves dot points. I never leave writing till the last minute, if I can avoid it. I enjoy writing and do it regularly (though not regularly enough!) I do become engrossed in my writing to the point where I forget about the reader, though. I write more than just emails and text messages (I write short stories, novellas, novels, essays…) I am lazy when it comes to checking and editing my writing – I tend to simply run spellchecker in my word processor, however I am thorough in my editing.

2. Technology makes it easier to write a lot of words in quick succession – I took to typing like I was born to do it, but handwriting was always tougher to achieve. The negative aspect of technology is that it makes it easier to skim over mistakes, hurting one’s credibility. A hand-written first draft has the tactile advantage as well as the visual advantage, and I tend to write notes on paper before I start typing. Lately my habits have changed to include notebooks in my writing process; I’ve discovered a love for pen and paper I didn’t know I had. I tend to revise on-screen, however I’ve found on-paper to be much more effective, as well as pleasurable to see and feel. Paper drafts and edits have a unique shape and feel that typing on a keyboard – as strongly beneficial as it can be for speed – lacks.

Write Or Die

2009-07-28T21:07:00.000+10:00

http://lab.drwicked.com/writeordie.html - A writer's site that puts the 'prod' in productivity.

The News Makes You Stupid

2009-07-28T21:05:00.000+10:00

Does the news make you mad? Groan? Laugh innappropriately?

http://www.thenewsmakesyoustupid.com/

Contributers wanted. I may even become one myself. Maybe.

COF chapter 1 - draft 2

2009-05-20T16:35:00.000+10:00

***This is post-critique.***

* * * * *

Chapter 1

A dark clothed figure stood within a copse of dark poisoned trees overlooking the desolate hillside that had once been an inner-city garden and saw everything the city had had once been, everything it could have been, destroyed. He knew that once, before the Event, the city had been a wonderful place to live, but that was another time. Now, it was a husk, a skeleton of a city, its buildings like the exposed bones of a corpse on a battlefield, home partially to a few brave souls but mostly, to monsters.

Another defender died. The man on the hill removed a pair of binoculars from his emerald eyes and put them back in the metal safe box, and covered it over with netting thick with leaves and sticks. His brother could probably have done better, but he didn’t have his brother’s training. It was only good enough to make it look vaguely like a small mound, maybe some creature’s nest, but it would have to do.

He was a shadow amongst the trees, dressed in black, carrying only the bare essentials for this mission. He adjusted a pair of black, fingerless gloves and checked he had everything vital in its designated pocket. He made sure the laces of his boots were double-tied.

Jarred Seifner was tall and lean, muscular from battle. His dark green eyes gazed upon the ruins of the fallen city below him. A trail of debris – gutted car bodies and broken glass, cardboard boxes, old newspapers that no one had cleaned up – stretched down the street to his left. The dead Roma Street parkland, once lush and vibrant, was now a dry brown blanket of earth descending to the scarred city below him.

The skin on the back of his left hand, a hand marked with a symbol of death, tickled. It happened when there was magic about. The whole central business district was a playground for all manner of things – things that were the reason you didn’t go out at night.

His other hand went to his sword, thrust into the ground, and he was not surprised to find the feel of the hard, leather-clad grip comforting as he thought about what he was going down there to do. His rough, stubble-covered jaw tightened. He was about to do what he did best.

. . .

The sound of battle reverberated everywhere, as all manner of dark things ravaged the inner-city block like some nightmare come to life. By contrast, the sounds of Jarred’s footsteps were almost nonexistent as he sprinted along Ann Street, heading towards where he’d seen the telltale tornados that signified the activity of Air Elementals – living beings made of the primal forces of the wind itself.

He approached the Anzac Memorial, and slowed to a walk. No use charging in without taking stock of the situation. He scanned the rooftops of the bracketing buildings from behind a circular stone pergola, only two sections with any remaining iron fence, where a remembrance fire once would have burnt. A lock of hair got in his eye. He reached up and sliced it off with his sword in one clean, swift slice.

Then, he surveyed the battle below.

Here, half a dozen smaller Fire Elementals tore through the square at the command of their leader, a being that was the primal embodiment of flame and destruction. There, defenders emptied clips from semi-automatics into a gravely Earth Elemental, but to no effect. Above it all, Air Elementals swarmed around a Blackhawk helicopter, which fired ineffectually into the chaotic winds they generated, engulfing the aircraft in a whirlwind and smashing it to the ground.

It was chaos. Human defenders fought bravely, but Elementals were tough creatures, made out of the raw forces of nature – air, earth, fire, water usually – and thus much harder to wound than creatures made of flesh and bone. Still, the human defenders fought with all their fury. They had everything to lose – their homes, families and spirits – and it was this determination that made them dangerous.

He spotted a collection of figures standing on the roof of the Rendezvous Hotel. They were Mages, most likely; probably Summoners, a sort of Mage that specialised in calling upon monsters to do their bidding, most notably Elementals. They were likely aware of the defenders’ predicament as they pressed the attack, mentally directing their various summoned Elementals on the ground. Jarred pushed his way past the flimsy barricade at the hotel doors, and moved swiftly but stealthily through the foyer towards the stairwell.

. . .

“I was promised a swift victory,” one of the Summoners, a short, broad-shouldered woman, said.

“The resistance are proving harder to put down than we originally calculated,” a taller, heavier-set man responded.

“If the resistance manages to overcome our Elementals, it will be my head on the pike,” said the woman Summoner. “And it will be covered in your blood.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve still got my strongest Elemental yet to be summoned,” the man replied with a hint of excitement in his cold, hard voice.

A shadow slipped through the door unnoticed behind them.

The man began chanting a spell, but he was interrupted quite unexpectedly as a force hit him from behind and sent him tumbling into the ledge of the rooftop, his concentration broken due to the sudden burning sensation all through his body, the words of the spell turning into a startled cry as the roof’s ledge met his face.

The other Summoner Mages spun on Jarred, spells quickly forming at their fingertips. Before they could complete them though, pain exploded in their arms as their hands were suddenly and violently slashed open, red blossoming on their outstretched palms like some stigmata. Screams of pain erupted from their mouths.

One swipe of Jarred’s sword, back to the left, cleaved off the hand of the Mage on the right. Jarred brought the sword up again, grabbing onto it with both hands, while the woman Mage took a step backwards. But that wasn’t his attack. His attack was when he took a step forward to compensate and brought it slashing down, the blade sinking deep through her left eye and check and down her front. Blood sprayed. Some of it touched Jarred’s clothes and face, but mostly, it followed her as her body crumpled.

One Mage remained. His eyes opened wide. The last thing he saw was a green-eyed demon charge at him, and he experienced immense sickness as he the sky was suddenly in front of him and quickly retreating.

. . .

Automatic fire mixed with screams of rage from the defenders as they unloaded entire clips into Elementals and barely killed any of them. The battle was going badly, and they knew it.

The leader of the resistance movement – father of the Lord Mayor, coordinator of over thirty radical renegade strikes against the Mages who ruled the surface through their mastery of supernatural power – knew that the resistance were screwed. Thirteen men were dead already, and they’d barely inflicted any serious damage against the Mages’ army of summoned Elementals. There were only eighteen members of the resistance still alive, and of them, only eleven were combat-capable.

A member of the resistance, a boy barely old enough to fight – not that anyone was making distinctions where the able-bodied were concerned – raced into the food court that had been converted into a makeshift base of operations in a flurry of activity. His voice came out as a cracked, breathless ramble.

“Sir! We’re losing the battle – there’s no way we can win. Another seven are down; we have to shut the doors!”

The leader – a large, grizzled, half-mad fifty-something year old fighting man – took a last drag of a hand-rolled cigarette as he considered the implications of closing the doors.

Anzac Square was the stretch of inner-city greenery from the entrance to the Shrine of Memories and Central Station underground passage. The Shrine was now home to a family of trolls who had moved in from somewhere else, forcing the resistance out.

Now, the resistance occupied the food court across the road from the other end of Anzac Square, between an old Angus & Robertson bookstore and a Coffee Club on Elizabeth Street at ground level, and the steps leading up to Queen Street. The roof over these steps had been strategically collapsed. They’d similarly cemented up the Anzac Square side of the under-the-street entrance to the carpark, and made metal doors from the melted-down food court tables for the other entrance. That way, they could delve into the cavernous underground car park, and they controlled the entrance. The other car park entrances were blocked as well. The elevators no longer worked, but they made sure the tubes were heavily trapped in case something decided to crawl into them. The doors were guarded with rotating sentries, twin chain guns poised behind pill boxes.

All in all, the food court had been a decent choice for the new HQ. Now, though, the battle with the Mages was turning against them. It was possible that they’d soon have to shut the doors and seal them. Then, they’d know if it was still a good position. But at least this kid was smart. He knew when things were going from bad to worse.

He was just about to tell the kid to sound the retreat, when something fell from the sky – something human-shaped and wearing a flame-red robe. Based on the trajectory, he guessed the body had been thrown off of the Rendezvous Hotel. It landed on the street in front of the coffee shop.

The Elementals, bound only by the powerful magic that summoned them, dissipated. Fire Elementals turned to ash. Water Elementals became harmless puddles. Earth Elementals crumbled. Wind Elementals came apart like gouts of steam in the wind.

“What just happened?!” the resistance leader asked, speaking to anyone in ear shot – it didn’t matter who, just whoever could tell him what was going on.

“I have no idea,” the kid said, clearly awestruck.

“Sir!” someone shouted, sprinting up to the door from the battlefield.

“Report.”

“We’ve taken heavy casualties, and many of us are injured. The rest of us… we thought we were going to bite it, but then the Elementals… they just disappeared.”

The Elementals were unbound. That was probably the best term for what happened when their Summoner was killed. If distracted, an Elemental could break the mental bond the Mage had over it and attack its summoner. If the Mage was killed, the Elemental was un-summoned. That much, the resistance knew.

But the Mages had taken the resistance by surprise. They were pinned in the square, cut off from the base, trapped like herded cattle in moments. They didn’t even know where the Mages were let alone how to get to them. So who had taken them out?

They had their answer a few moments later.

A stranger appeared, making his way across the battlefield, surveying the carnage and destruction with absorbed detachment.

The stranger reached the food court, and they were able to take in his full measure – slightly-curly timber-coloured hair, emerald-green eyes glimmering in the light of a dozen burning vehicles, in a face that could have been set in stone, it was so grim and pale save for a hint of scratchy stubble; a tall, lean yet muscular figure wrapped in a black waist coat and under that a dark green shirt, and a pair of black jeans and dark brown combat boots. Finally, there was a fierce ease about his stance that was hard to disguise and an air to him that said he wasn’t supposed to.

He carried a sword in plain view. But possibly the most dangerous thing about him was the mark. Some said it was the mark of the Reaper – of Death himself. Certainly, there were strong claims for that theory’s validation. Wherever his kind went, death always followed, for good or ill. His kind were always marked with what some thought was a tattoo, some a birthmark, but all agreed was a sign that the person was more than they appeared; something not entirely human.

The leader bravely called out to the stranger.

“Is that your doing?” he asked, indicating the puddles of water, piles of dust and smears of ash around the Square.

“It is,” the stranger replied. He held his sword out in front of him, and the leader tensed, ready to pull his gun on the stranger if he had to. Instead, the sword vanished in a shimmer of blue mist.

“Well, we owe you our thanks – without you, the resistance would be dead.” The stranger nodded curtly. “But are you?”

“Just a man chasing a ghost.”

Children of Fire prologue

2009-05-03T22:53:00.000+10:00

The monster is there, in the dark, a phantom shadow, a haunting presence that she can feel but not touch. She wants it to go away, she wills it to leave her alone.

Rachel, it whispers. It's in her closet now, or suspended from the ceiling. It changes constantly. It's an intangible thing, something existing just beyond the veil of reality, something that can be seen in one’s nightmares. All she has to do is draw back the barrier and the monster will exist properly, will come into the real world. The world in which it can hurt her. It is a being of essence, not of blood. But it can be that, too. It can be anything she desires. Anything she fears.

And this time, it’s brought others of its kind. They crowd around her, stare at her, not with eyes, she knows, because they have none – but they stare at her all the same and it makes her skin crawl. It’s like a dagger in her mind.
She shuts her eyes and forces her will outward, wishing, praying, for them to go away. She doesn’t know if it’ll make any difference but she just wants to be left alone.

They leave. Vanish.

Sunlight cracks through the morning’s grey and a little girl finally ventures to stretch her legs out from their position against her chest with her arms around her knees. She stops rocking. She goes to sleep now only because she can’t stay awake any longer. The night is gone, and with it, the little laughing devil under her bed. Sweat glistens on her back, her eyes burn, she shivers; but for now, she can rest.

The sun rises. A demon vanishes; a sorceress sleeps.

Children of Fire chapter 3

2009-04-29T14:52:00.002+10:00

The girl’s name was Rachel Valentine. Her eyes were purple. They didn’t impede her vision in any way; they were just an odd colour. But she often got persecuted because of it. She had tried many times to find somewhere that accepted her despite her difference, but it was tough when the attitude of anywhere she went to anyone different was distrustful, grudging tolerance at best. In the end she usually just moved from one isolationist community to another. She had no roots to speak of. All her former connections were cut; all her bridges burnt behind her.

Then she met Sarah.

Rachel had been wandering through an abandoned city, looking for somewhere to sleep for the coming night, when a faint, mournful whisper made her spin around in fright. At first she saw nothing, but then a shadow detached itself from the shade of a blasted skyscraper… then another and another. She’d never seen anything like them before. A whole mass of shadows had suddenly just taken form, stepped out of a shade and taken on human form, and were dancing gleefully around her. And they screeched – oh how they screeched! It was like a million souls tormented in hell, and the sound reached out to her and held her paralysed, unable to move.

‘Move,’ she told herself. ‘Move! Move! MOVE!’

She ran. She didn’t get far; she was in unfamiliar territory littered with debris, tired; they were somehow not solid, and they flitted from shadow to shadow, leaping faster than she could run. They were toying with her. Rachel eventually tripped and fell, whether it was from tripping over something on the ground or being tripped by those long, cold hands she wasn’t entirely sure. But she fell, scraping her hands and knees as her duffel bag of meager possessions flew from her grip. Her hands were cut on rough bitumen and broken glass. She was shaking; hot tears flowed like lava down her dirt-covered face as she realized she was going to die.

Then, something happened. There was a brilliant, eye-hurting flash of light, and a thousand tormented screams as the shadows were suddenly vaporized. They were torn apart like smoke in the wind. When the light faded, there was a woman standing there, golden strands of hair whistling in the breeze.

That was how Sarah had saved Rachel’s life.

While they spoke, Jarred led Sarah and Rachel up the rubble-encrusted suburban hill, the once-quaint family dwellings now discarded husks home only to rats and squatters. They passed a trio of aboriginal children on bikes, lips swollen, bits missing from their faces and hands. The kids paid them little attention; they were three white adults, and even these kids knew to stay away from those who were marked. If they even knew what white people had done to the world, they didn’t show it. There was no scorn on their faces, only an emptiness where meaning had been removed.

He hadn’t seen Sarah in six years, but she looked like the same fifteen year old he knew; only a few changes had occurred. She merely looked like the adult version of the compassionate, intelligent, artistic blonde girl he’d grown up with and fallen in love with. She’d grown up fast. Naivety and the shelter of youthful bliss were concepts of the past that got people in trouble, even killed. When there were marauding bandits and savage monsters at your door, you learned quickly how to survive.

They walked quickly; it would be problematic at the very least to be outside at night, even in a group. There were things that roamed the streets in the dark. Things he didn’t want to run into, especially with two women with him. If he was just looking out for himself, it might be different. But either way, he didn’t want to take that chance.

The radio station’s dish loomed into view moments before the old radio station became visible. Until then, it was a suspended piece of antique technology, a relic of another time. Jarred sometimes thought of it not as a simple radio transmitter, beaming a signal through the air, but rather as something that transmitted its’ signal through time itself. He wondered how it worked, what having a steady supply of electricity would have been like. He’d heard that someone could transmit music, speech, news, announcements, anything really, through the airwaves.

All that was legend and myth told to him by word of mouth, and from his earliest experiences before the palaces appeared in the skies. There were no more radio shows, no more music channels, no news broadcasts or weather forecasts. They had all stopped years ago. Then Jarred had found the place, abandoned and looted of anything valuable. With David and Jessica’s help, they’d made it livable. Surprisingly, no one had been using it at the time, nor had anyone ever tried to take it from them.

Now it was home to three Ultima Warriors and a car that didn’t work. Sometimes, there was the occasional animal, a stray dog or cat seeking shelter before moving on, never tamed, always free to come and go on their own terms. The place was falling apart when they found it and fixed it as best they could. But their best wasn’t enough to fix something that was broken like so much shattered glass.

“Hold on,” Jarred said suddenly when they were almost ten meters from the building; separated, it appeared, only by a chain-link fence and a Keep Out sign painted on the back of a stop sign and tied to the fence with wire. Now they could smell a faint scent of oil in the air, coming from somewhere near their feet. He knelt down and dug up a small patch of ground with his hand. He did something, then stood up again and continued across the old, weed-covered car park. When they were across, he crouched down again, lifted a loose concrete tile adjacent to the side wall of the building, and repeated the process. This time, when Sarah and Rachel strained their ears, they could make out a faint, barely-audible click from beneath the tarmac.

He said, “Don’t tell anyone about the perimeter and car park traps. Then I’ll have to kill you.” The two women didn’t ask questions. They understood implicitly that he meant every word.

He knocked on the door – a code – and a moment later a panel slid aside to reveal a pair of bark brown eyes behind the barrel of a Remington 1100. The panel slid back into place and the door parted. A young man equally Jarred’s age stood there in the doorway, shotgun held casually by the barrel, the butt resting on the ground. The man wore a pair of cargo pants with several pockets in or on them, with a pair of old sneakers that had certainly seen better days; he had a faded old jacket zipped halfway up over a purple shirt, and his hair hung down well past his shoulders in a great long waterfall.

He asked, “How’d it go?”

“I killed thirteen today,” Jarred replied. “And I brought guests.”

The man in the doorway scanned the women intently, curiously, trying to place where he’d seen them before.

“Sarah?” he asked.

“In the flesh,” Sarah replied with a twinkling smile and a flourish. “Wow, look at you, David. Are you ever going to cut your hair?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question.”

“It’s good to see you again… all of you. Even…” Sarah paused, reconsidering. “Is Jess still with you guys?”

“Yeah, she’s out the back,” David replied. “I’ll go get her. You may as well come in. Just make sure no vampires followed you.”

“In the day? Come on!”

Jarred, Sarah and Rachel stepped through to a scene of strange cleanliness, partially considering that in the outside world, you couldn’t go ten metres without tripping over a burning car, a crater in the middle of the road, or a skeleton… but mostly, it was strange that the place was clean because David wasn’t.

Jessica had made him clean up, then.

David returned from the old delivery bay side-by-side to Jessica Mirani – possibly the single most gorgeous raven-haired beauty he’d ever known. Her generous black tresses flowed down her neck and onto her grease-stained white-and-mauve shirt, framing a glowing face set with two bright, creative eyes that one could see were actually different colours – one blue, one green – up close; it was those eyes that captured the very soul and drenched it with a hint of passions both physical and creative, mature yet childish at the same time. She had two rings, one depicting a dragon, the other a wolf, and a pair of black leather bands on top of which were tied a pair of miniature Japanese katanas. She also held herself with a warrior’s easy strength and graceful power. Jessica Mirani was a katana-wielding, story-telling, violence-loving affectionate soldier of chaos and art.

“Good, you didn’t die,” she called out.

“I told you I could handle it myself,” Jarred replied.

“He says, being macho,” she countered. “Luckily he was telling the truth, or else his brain would be spilt on the pavement…” – she evocated elaborately – “and I wasn’t going to clean it up.”

“Clearly, you love me,” Jarred said with a smirk.

“And you,” Jessica said to Sarah, her expression suddenly pensive, a good look for her especially with her hand on her hip like that. “What are you doing back here? What’s it been, three years?”

“Four.”

“Well then, that just means there’s another year to catch up on.” She led Sarah over to the kitchen, where something was frying on the wood stove Jessica and David had built. Jarred turned to Rachel.

“How about you settle in for a bit? Do you need a drink?”

“I’m good, thanks,” she replied.

“Sorry, you’ll just have to wait a bit – Sarah’s an old friend of ours. We haven’t seen her in about four years, and well, they’re women. They have to do this.”

“Don’t worry, I understand.”

“If you want, you can tell us about it.”

“I’ll wait till everyone’s around to hear it, if you don’t mind. Would over dinner be alright?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s books in the other hall,” Jarred said, motioning with his head around the corner ahead and to the left. “Why don’t you see if there’s anything you like in my collection?”

She nodded and danced down the hall to do just that, he presumed.

“So, Sarah’s back,” David said as Rachel crouched to look at books.

“Yeah.”

“That must make your head spin.”

“You have no idea…” was all that Jarred would say.

Children of Fire chapter 2

2009-04-29T14:52:00.001+10:00

Jarred Seifner was partway through a generous meal – the freshest bread they had and some drinkable water – when the kids sat right in front of him and started asking questions. They were noisy and annoying, and they asked about the details of his missions, of the strategies he’d used and the monsters he’d fought, and especially about the mark on his left hand – a script-style, angled W with a line intersecting the left side, the end of it curling back around itself to form what could be loosely considered a U, while the rest of the ‘W’ was angled to look like a lightning bolt – and if that meant he had any powers.

He sighed. There was no helping it. Kids were curious, and everywhere he went, there were kids. He wondered if he’d been this aggravating as a kid; probably not, as he was always the quiet kind, but there was every possibility something he did annoyed people. He certainly got in the way of those Mages’ plans for city-wide destruction, although thwarting their schemes couldn’t reverse the damage already done or bring back those already killed. Fighting monsters was one thing. Monsters were usually after only one thing, food, and by and large, they acted like animals – albeit most animals didn’t cast spells or breathe fire or regenerate. Most animals didn’t take sadistic pleasure in the pain of others, either.

Human enemies, though, they were less two-dimensional, and one of their better defences was just that. Human foes created a moral dilemma – to subdue or kill, for one thing. Sometimes they pleaded for mercy, and he had to decide whether they deserved it. It was never an easy decision. Sometimes they made good on their promises, but often they were just buying time. Out of necessity he’d learnt to tell lie from truth, and that gut instinct had served him well so far. At least with humans you could be reasonably sure whether they were telling the truth or not – monsters, when they parlayed, were harder to read. Fighting both had its benefits and drawbacks. It never got easier though, no matter what he thought in the beginning.

Then, there were Mages. Mages he’d learned to identify by sub-classes: Necromancers, who could animate the dead in a wicked parody of functioning life, except that there was no soul there, only death magic at work; Evokers, who could manipulate the primal forces and rain fire and lightning down upon foes – they were usually straightforward and although deadly powerful, often fatally egotistic; Illusionists, who were smart and deceptive by nature, as they could change how things looked and turn themselves invisible; Summoners, who could create something out of nothing or call forth Elementals, typically such unimaginative and clichéd – yet still powerful and dangerous – varieties like those that he’d fought today; Diviners, a particularly rare breed who could see the future like prophets because they could tap into a fraction of a psychic’s ability – a creepy kind of person Jarred had met thankfully few of; and, of course, Sorcerers, who didn’t need to chant or use hand gestures to cast their spells, but could instead mentally call up the power of any other Mage and mimic their spells without lifting a finger or saying a word. He’d met one sorcerer in his entire time as an Ultima Warrior, and in fact, his entire life. It hadn’t been a pleasant exchange. Jarred’s family was dead because of it.

But he’d met very few Ultima Warriors. He wouldn’t even have known what one was if not for that Sorcerer who’d come into his house that night and, after several attempts to coerce him peacefully, murdered his parents, demanding Jarred join him and his master in their plan for world domination. Jarred didn’t remember much of what happened after that – the next few years of his life were like a black spot on his memory, filled with rage and power as his ability to manipulate electricity grew. As his power grew, his sense of self became shrouded in battle – he’d become something primal, elemental. All he was, all that he did, was for the power it gave him.

Then one day he collapsed. He found himself outside the smouldering ruins of an evil place, somewhere that he knew had been wrong to become involved in, somewhere that had to burn for its sins. He suddenly found himself cold and alone with a feeling that he had lost his humanity, had given up everything that made him human. He sank to his knees, unable to cry, unable to feel, unable to connect with anything human about himself.

He’d heard a voice singing. He shivered, for he knew that voice. But it couldn’t have been her! He rushed to where the sound was coming from, but there was no one there. He looked everywhere, searching in and around the ruins of the complex he’d escaped from – the laboratory he’d burnt to the ground – but found nothing save for a sword. That sword had been by his side ever since.

His thoughts snapped back to the present. The kids had been driven off by the woman who’d given Jarred food and water – he’d slipped into a daydream, his thoughts wandering back to that dark time despite his best efforts; it happened sometimes.

“Do you want anything else?” the woman asked.

“I’m good, thank you.”

“Well, if you need anything else, let me know,” she went on. “Anything at all, for a hero,” she added with a wink.

“Thanks, but I better get going,” he said to her as he sat up from the table, the cold metal chair scraping across the floor.

Jarred took one last look at the building – it was one of a handful in the vicinity that had been fortified, barricaded, and converted to serve a specific purpose, as frequently happened when survivors started planning for the long term – taking in the utilitarian look and feel, the stains and grime of the place, before wrapping his coat around his shoulders.

He left the town like the phantom he appeared as.

. . .

The road winded lazily through residential areas, at one time a clean and vibrant community. Now though, every street was pocked with signs of skirmishes – skid marks, craters, places where explosions had scorched the bitumen, and red stains, some with bodies collapsed over them still. Every house had bars on the windows, though the glass in most cases had long since been smashed in and half the wall would be missing. Doors lay on their sides or swung back and forth in two pieces where a breeze rustled past. Some were the basis of a bonfire. Sirens could be heard in the distance in amongst bursts of gunfire. There was a lot of shouting. Stray animals chased other stray animals. Everywhere, someone was fighting to survive in a world killed by greed and violence.

To think, some people had to hold on, had to live here, had to defend their homes with guns and armaments and when those broke swords and knives, because they had nowhere else to go.
Jarred approached a T intersection, but had to jump to one side of the road as an open-back ute came screeching down the road towards him, a street gang firing rounds at a cop car chasing it. A bullet hit the driver and the car swerved, crashing into the front wall of a house. The ute continued on, unmolested, the wild youths shouting obscenities. All was silent for a brief moment after the noise of the gang receded into the background.

But he wasn’t out of danger. An explosion threw him forwards, and he had to skip in order to land safely on the brown, weed-covered lawn on the opposite side of the road. He landed and turned, sword drawn, in time to react to a bombardment of glowing green arrows. Instead of dodging, he threw his left hand out wide, and in its wake, several arcs of electricity leaped out and consumed the arrows like a snake catching a rodent.

He could see his attackers now – four cowled, grey cloaked figures had emerged from hiding and had him surrounded, one in the doorway of a house opposite the tail of the T intersection, the three others on the road behind and to either side of him.

“Exceptional!” the figure in the doorway called out as Jarred placed his left hand on the sword handle. “Just what I’d expect, from an Ultima Warrior!”

“I was wondering when you guys would show up,” Jarred returned.

At some mutual understanding, the three figures behind him drew weapons – katanas – from underneath their robes and slowly, purposefully advanced. Jarred sighed.

The one behind him lunged, and Jarred whirled to meet the attack at just the right time to knock the katana to the side. With the element of surprise his, he quickly jabbed at his attacker – but this person was faster than he thought and managed to parry the blade, deflecting it at a wide angle back towards Jarred’s chest; just what Jarred wanted him to do. With a burst of strength Jarred pushed forward, and sent his attacker backwards a couple of feet with a tear in the front of their grey robe.

A red line appeared on the skin.

But Jarred had no time to celebrate the minor victory, as the other two robed swordsmen were already moving. The one to his right swung down, and as Jarred raised his sword to block, the other thought to strike at Jarred’s exposed back. Jarred had a shock in store for him… literally. Then the third was back in the fray, charging while Jarred was distracted. Jarred got his sword lined up to deflect it in time, but just barely – the tip nicked his forehead and drew a small red line down towards his eyebrow.

Jarred increased the tempo of his strikes then, slashing blinding fast, first the front man then the other attackers on his sides, striking again and again with lightning speed until at last they fell to the ground with bright red gashes across their chests, arms, faces, everywhere. He now stood alone with free dying assassins at his feet.

“Enough!” the fourth man shouted, leaping up from where he was sitting on the garden stairs in front of the house overlooking the intersection. His hands retreated into his robes and returned with four objects; Jarred saw they were very small felt bags in assorted colours tied with similarly assorted-coloured strings. Jarred knew what was coming next.

“Oh alright, go on then,” he said, as if indulging a child.

The mage spoke in a clear, loud voice, “Akasha… Prana… Elemental!” With that he threw the four bags, painted with pagan elemental symbols, at the ground. One bag spontaneously combusted, one sunk into the earth, one caused a spray of water to fountain into the air, and the last floated around in a circle.

From the bag that burned, the fire took on humanoid form, a child-like flame with two blue dots flickering in its head.

From the bag that sunk, a head, then shoulders, chest, torso and legs rose up out of the ground, taking on human form as dirt and grass fell away. Caves hollowed out in its head.

From the bag that caused a fountain, the water filled a human shape. Tiny fish gave the impression of eyes.

From the bag that whirled and twirled, a cloud formed, dark patches coalescing in the head as it took a womanly shape.

Jarred was unfazed by the show of magic energy.

“Yesterday I killed twenty-one different elementals,” he stated, matter-of-fact.

“I noticed,” the Mage replied. “Which is why I’m doing THIS!” With a complex hand movement performed at a speed Jarred was surprised anyone other than he could perform, and uttering an arcane word he hadn’t heard before, the mage gave the elementals a command. Jarred wasn’t sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t what happened next.

The four beings dissolved. Then, the dust, flame, air and water they became started to swirl around in a storm of elements – and it grew bigger and bigger, until it was the size of a large car. With a primal roar, the four elements merged into one roiling, churning mass, and that mass grew arms, legs and a head. When the new creature bellowed, it was with four voices chorused as one.

“Shit!” Jarred cried out. The omni-elemental pulled back one massive, four-element fist and slammed it into the ground where Jarred would have been if he’d jumped out of the way just a moment too late. The ground exploded sending a shower of dirt, grass and road everywhere.

Jarred landed in a crouch, sword held defensively in front of him with one hand as the other maintained his balance. He got to his feet, and was about to unleash an answering bolt of lightning from his left hand when the omni-elemental turned and swung at him with the other cudgel-sized fist. Jarred sprang back and let the newly created compound being have it. Four prongs of electricity arced from his fist and slammed into the mass of chaos with lightning strike force. However, if the omni-elemental was hurt by the attack, it didn’t show any pain. His eyes widened and then like a car had hit him he was sent flying by the thing’s fist.

He was able to control his roll so that he only spun three times, and ended up crouched and facing the elemental, sword pointed at it. Lightning didn’t affect it; that was a bad sign. Jarred crossed that off in his head. Changing tactics, he charged the elemental. The right fist came hurtling at his face, and the moment it moved he dodged to the left, then ducked as the left fist followed up with enough force to pulverise his head had it connected. His sword, Silverflame, slashed out at its legs. A horizontal cleft appeared across its thighs; then, its massive knee appeared in Jarred’s view.

His breath exploded out of his body as the knee connected with his face. The elemental’s arms wrapped around him, and he felt his whole body burn from the flames that lashed at his clothes and skin. He tensed, then unleashed a surge of electricity – this time he aimed specifically at the bits of flowing water he could see between gouts of flame and chunks of rock. He staggered back when it let go of him, his nose bleeding, his head reeling.

Jarred considered his options.

Elementals were creatures created, as the name implied, from the elements; generally the usual elements like earth, fire, wind and water, but every so often he encountered a Mage who was actually creative with their choice in elemental, or if not creative, just using the materials available in the setting. But he’d never heard of anyone actually combining multiple elements, let alone elemental creatures. This was something unusual. The usual tactics wouldn’t work.

Perhaps he’d have to break it down element-by-element. Jarred’s head hurt, but he wasn’t completely sure it was from the injury. Then, an inner shift coursed through his body. He knew then that he’d have to do it; there was not going to be an easier way. He braced himself for what he was about to do.

Curved, flame-like script ran up the first few inches of blade on either side, embossed into the silvered metal as if burned in. That writing, he’d eventually learned, translated to Silverflame – a blade of silver that burned like a flame of judgement.

“Argama Fiam’del,” he said, calling the magical sword’s true name.

“Argama Fiam’del,” he repeated, focusing an effort of will into waking up the power sleeping within.

“ARGAMA FIAM’DEL!” he shouted, lofting the blade above his head. His eyes shone like a wolf’s and in an instant, as if suddenly struck by lightning, there was an explosion of light as the blade of his sword erupted into a tongue of angry red flame. It was a sight like that of an avenging Angel sent down from Heaven to punish the wicked with a sword that burnt with holy judgement.

“Well, this is new,” the Mage said to himself, not sure what to make of the sight. His face did nothing to betray his thoughts though. It was a carefully tight blank mask, except for a faint smirk on cruel, cracked lips.

The elemental, knowing no fear, gathered parts of itself in its fist and threw a boulder of elemental chaos at Jarred. Jarred swung down. The ball was cleaved in two; that much it managed to grasp easily enough. It was the way in which its arm then exploded in a hail of energy that truly shocked it.

The last thing the elemental saw, before it was splayed into its component elements and disrupted into an afterimage of itself, was Jarred’s eyes blazing like a demon’s.

The Mage screamed. With a roar of willpower an emerald blade sprung into being from the palm of his hand, a shard suddenly growing into a full-sized sword to contest with Jarred’s own. The Mage, elemental protection already in place, charged at Jarred howling in rage, his plain, forgettable face beneath the hood now a twisted mask of anger and hate. With a roar, he slashed at Jarred, again and again.

Jarred calmly sidestepped and parried each demented swipe, slash and thrust with professional ease and unclouded judgement. He waited until the Mage, getting desperate, made his most critical mistake – lunging with everything behind the attack, his anger dulling his reflexes. Jarred was a creature of reflex; the battle was a no-contest. When the Mage thrust with all his might, Jarred expertly stepped to the left and with barely a flick of the wrist caused blood to spray from the Mage’s stomach, as the flames ate through the magic defences like they were kindling, allowing the inflammable blade beneath to slash through the instantly defenceless skin below.

The Mage’s eyes widened in shock. Then, he staggered drunkenly for a moment and finally fell to his knees as his life gushed out of the wound. As the Mage toppled, Jarred turned and flicked the blade to the side. The flame winked out; it was simply a silvered sheen of metal once more without a trace of ever being on fire, not a single mark marring the blade.

Someone clapped. He almost jumped, spinning in the direction of the sound. But there was no-one there – at first, anyway. Slowly though a figure appeared, their form filling in like a candle’s first light chasing away the dark of night. He relaxed when he saw it was a female figure, not cloaked, and not threatening. And besides, the image before him was familiar, except for a few slight changes that the long-term tended to make to someone. Her thin figure disguised a warrior’s muscle. Her long strands of sunshine hair rustled in the light breeze that wafted past. But it was her crystalline turquoise eyes that drew him in, the same way they did all those years ago.

She said, “Jarred Seifner… so you’re the Storm Scion.”

“And you’re the one who’s been following me,” Jarred replied. “I suspected there was someone behind me for, what, two days now?”

“You’ve been aware of my presence for two days, but me, I’ve been looking for you for the last two weeks.”

“Sarah Arilon – spying on me?”

The woman smiled. “That, and there’s someone I want you to meet.”

She turned to someone hidden from view. “It’s ok, you can come out now.”

This time, the appearing trick was immediate; no slowly filling into the visual spectrum like a candle. The person just… appeared.

Suddenly a young woman was standing there, wearing a long emerald skirt that probably whirled around her tantalizingly while dancing, comfortable and probably practical to a degree. Her black, lace-less slip-on shoes complimented the outfit, as did the long tresses of midnight black hair that draped down to the chest of her petite ballerina figure.

But it was her eyes that had truly caught his attention. He wasn’t sure if it was just a trick of the light, but he could have sworn her eyes weren’t part of any normal range – not blue, brown, green or anything else that one might expect.

They were purple.

Children of Fire chapter 1

2009-04-29T14:42:00.000+10:00

Chapter 1

Stones crunched lightly underfoot as a dark-clad figured made its way purposefully towards the pitched sounds of battle, a sliver of moonlight the only guidance in the dark of the night. That moonlight revealed a trail of destruction winding its way through the ruins of a city that, once, might have been called a gleaming metropolis. Now it was only ruin; what was left of it fortified – as best as anywhere could be – against them.

The harsh smell of something burning wafted into the figure’s nose from the direction he was heading. He was close now, very close. Close… yet so very, very far removed. His hand went to his sword, and he was not surprised to find the feel of the hard, leather-clad grip comforting as he thought about what he was about to do.

. . .

The sound of battle reverberated everywhere, as all manner of dark things ravaged the city like some nightmare come to life. Here, half a dozen smaller fire Elementals tore through the botanic gardens at the command of their leader, a being that was the primal embodiment of flame and destruction. There, several wind Elementals picked vehicles up off the road, from combat cycles to tanks weighing several tonnes, and threw them around like toys.

A Blackhawk helicopter roared overhead, trying to keep clear of the air Elementals while still providing air support for the token resistance on the ground. But just as it seemed to be gaining an advantage on the various fiendish red-eyed versions of animals on the ground – demonic-looking wolves, bulls, big cats, bears, apes, even swarms of screeching red-eyed bats – the biggest of the air Elementals latched onto it with both hands and swung it by the tail, right into the waiting cluster of its own kind. There it was buffeted to and fro by gale-force winds, before its Kevlar-reinforced hull was ripped to shreds by several whirlwinds descending on it, disappearing in a spray of metal parts and bloody limbs. To horrified onlookers, the darker vapours that suggested a face seemed to actually laugh.

Roaring up one street towards an intersection where a rock-encrusted earth elemental was terrorising a squadron of infantry, came a tank, soldiers firing off the side at anything in their way.

“Hurry up! We’re losing ground here!” one of them shouted. Seconds later, he was ripped from his perch by a pair of black, furry hands belonging to some kind of monstrous ape with a collar of spikes and blood red eyes above a line of dagger-like teeth. The ape lifted the struggling soldier above its head, and although he emptied the clip into its chest, his spine was still snapped in the process.

Finally, the tank fired. A deafening roar issued from the cannon’s mouth, and a split second later there was a mighty blast of fire in the earth Elemental’s back as chunks went flying. The thing threw away the two soldiers it had grabbed as another blast hit it in the back of the leg. It turned, and walked right into the second shot. If it was hurt, it didn’t show any sign. Instead, it crouched down and sank back into the ground from which it was born.

There was a panicked silence as the soldiers wondered what was going on. Then, chaos as the tank began to rise, two of the soldiers falling off, the remaining one clinging desperately onto a handhold before the tank was sent flying, smashing into the side of a battle-torn skyscraper. Glass rained down on the pavement, before the husk of the vehicle slowly fell out of the tank-sized indentation in the building’s already-naked support structures, crashing onto the ground with an almighty thud, all the while shards of glass followed its fall and poured down onto the commander inside. The elemental inspected its handiwork for survivors, but the commander was long-since dead.

. . .

The defenders were quickly losing ground and they knew it. When the attack had started, the city’s population, so used to a system of law and order, had erupted into chaos. These few, who had taken up whatever arms they could find – a few rifles but mostly steel pipes, sports equipment and gardening tools – were the only ones in any condition to fight.

It was the war all over again, but instead of fighting their fellow man, they were being exterminated by an eruption of monsters, from demonic versions of animals to Elementals – beings of pure natural forces, fire and wind, earth and water, and others they couldn’t even fathom – they all came pouring out of the holes in reality they seemed to have originated from. And those that controlled them…

The leader, a city planner who had some idea of what parts of the central business district would hold the best defensive positions, shuddered at the thought. Those creepy mage bastards – wizards, sorcerers, whatever you wanted to call them – could manipulate some strange energy that hadn’t been present in the war, but was now being used in the wholesale slaughter of every man, woman and child fighting to survive in this world gone to hell. And they’d come here, where the citizens thought they were safe with the nation’s largest militia force looking over them. The mages proved otherwise.

They had three choppers, a tank, a few rocket launchers and a handful of machine guns. The enemy had fiendish animals, Elementals and more… and they knew more about this ‘magic’ than normal people could even hope to grasp.

It was pure, complete anarchy. It was hell. The city was dead in the middle of it all… and pretty soon, they would all just be dead.

The remaining Elementals – three fire ones; five of the water kind; four- no, five- of the wind kind and that one massive earth type – had now surrounded the defenders in a circle. The plan had been to retreat to the building where the food was stored and try to hold the fort, but the earth elemental, guided by the Mage controlling it, had disappeared into the ground and risen up behind them, blocking their escape and catching one unfortunate defender’s leg in its’ mouth. He still had the blood on his face.

There was a tensely still moment as the Elementals, seeming to sense the defenders’ fear, took their time in advancing slowly, deliberately. Though they didn’t seem to have eyes as such, the desperate group of defenders knew the Elementals were looking at them the way a pride of hungry lions look at a herd of frightened antelope. Any second now, they were going to attack. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, the leader gripped the sawn-off shotgun in his hands tighter, waiting for the attack to come.
A shadow flickered. All at once, the water Elementals broke apart in miniature waterfalls, their cries of surprise eerily like the sound of someone drowning. The giant spiked boulder that was the lead earth elemental gave a gravel-on-gravel roar, and there was pandemonium as every creature raced to kill as many as it could before its vessel body dissolved and its spirit, so keen to lay waste to a world that was so different, alien, and ripe with opportunity, all of it promised to it if it would just answer the yearning in its veins to heed the magic that called it, was sent back to the plane from which it was lured.

. . .

The blade withdrew from the Mage’s chest, and he crumpled, lifeless, to the rooftop surface. Someone cried his name, but there would be no response, only darkness.

The other three, masters of the arcane, highly skilled in wrapping the forces of the elements around their little fingers as the expression went, backed away from the dangerous figure in front of them, its sword blade dripping crimson as it was extracted from their team mate. This was something they knew little about. And he or she had already killed one of them. They weren’t going to take chances.

Two of the Mages, both men, stood between the silent killer and the third, a short-haired woman with a fierce and haughty demeanour, whose eyes flicked occasionally to the Elementals she controlled.

“Who the hell are you?” one of them asked. The stranger’s dark, shining green eyes peered back at them from under a fringe of longish, wavy brown hair. There were no scars, nor any hint of fear, on his expressionless face. Either he was very young and naïve – or else very experienced.

The woman, thinking to take this silent killer by surprise, carefully retracted her hands into the long sleeves of her trench coat. The fact that the other two were in front of her somewhat, positioned well enough maybe to hide her movements, would work in her favour. She began what she could of the deliberate hand gestures needed to cast a spell.

She didn’t get the chance. In a blur of movement, the stranger shot forth his left hand, and from the fingertips leapt a powerful arc of electricity that slammed into all three Mages, crackling and spitting like an angry snake and sent them flying in different directions – one slamming into the stairwell door, one into the air vent, and the woman, the unluckiest of the three, straight back – and over the edge of the building. Her last thoughts were that her Elementals, busy on the far end of the street with the defenders, were too far away to help her. Seconds later her body hit the pavement.

. . .

With their master dead, the bits of rock and soil that comprised the earth Elementals, created by the magical energy that attracted its spirit to the world, died with her. All that was left were several piles of dirt, rock and grass. Even the gigantic leader wasn’t immune, and it too stopped dead in its tracks and dissolved. Seconds later, the walking infernos of the fire elementals, and howling clouds of the air Elementals, blinked out of existence too. All of them, gone in moments, before anyone had any idea what had happened.

But the defenders had no time to relax. At some command, the remainder of the feral, possessed animals turned as one on the ragged group of survivors. There were several cries of alarm as about a dozen frenzied animals suddenly broke into a sprint, and the seconds didn’t stretch horribly long like they were supposed to in the movies. There was little time to act, only to point whatever weapons they had left at the horde and, basically, pray.

They needn’t have bothered, though. Before the frightened and weary defenders could be mauled to bits by tooth and claw, there was a loud crackling accompanied by a bright flash. When the afterimage cleared, there were only bodies with charred fur… and a man, his back turned to them, cloaked in darkness with a sword in his hand. In a cloud of shimmering blue mist the sword disappeared and clutched in his hand was some kind of pendant. The members of the crowd whispered apprehensively to one another. Finally, one of them spoke up.

“Guess we owe you our thanks. But… who are you?”

The stranger turned to face the crowd, so that they were able to take in his full measure – slightly-curly timber-coloured hair, emerald-green eyes glimmering in the light of a dozen burning vehicles, in a face that could have been set in stone, it was so grim and pale save for a hint of scratchy stubble; a tall, lean yet muscular figure wrapped in a black waist coat and under that a dark green shirt, and a pair of black jeans and dark brown combat boots. Finally, there was a fierce ease about his stance that was hard to disguise and an air to him that said he wasn’t supposed to.

But possibly the most dangerous thing about him was the mark. Some said it was the mark of the Reaper – of Death himself. Certainly, there were strong claims for that theory’s validation. Wherever his kind went, death always followed, for good or ill. His kind were always marked with what some thought was a tattoo, some a birthmark, but all agreed was a sign that the person was more than they appeared; something not entirely human.

His answer was short and simple.

“Just a man chasing a ghost.”

Winter Wisdom

2009-04-23T23:32:00.002+10:00

In a world of
Wayward winters
Wails a wind of wisdom
Wide and wild
It grants wishes
While I wonder
What has become
Of our love

Vacant Voices

2009-04-23T23:32:00.001+10:00

Vacant voices
And vanishing villains
Volume varies
On the verge
Of various venoms
And clouded vision

Urban Umbrella

2009-04-23T23:31:00.002+10:00

Under an urban umbrella
You will find updates
On your favourite units
Unique but uncertain
They may be used
But unless you’re picky
They can still unite

To Finish The Kill

2009-04-23T23:31:00.001+10:00

To finish the kill

“Thanks for the lift,” I said as I closed the car door with my good foot. Just because I have one broken leg I can’t use, doesn’t mean I can’t use the other one. I crutch-walk a few steps and pivot around to watch Kristy back out of the driveway, blowing me a kiss once she’s made sure it’s clear, and drive off. If my arms weren’t preoccupied with holding the crutches, I’d have done a mock-salute the way I used to – half salute, half just waving hello or goodbye. I can’t really describe it much better than that.

I hobbled up to the front door, fished around in my pocket for my keys, and used them for exactly what they’re designed for. Kristy’s always asking if she can help me out, opening the door for me, giving me a hand getting out of the car, that sort of thing. Really, I’m fine. She’s just concerned simply because of my broken leg, as if it makes everything too hard to do. I’ve learned to work around it somehow, finding creative ways of doing stuff to substitute the use of that foot, but it’s nice that she offers anyway. I really appreciate the way she’s always ready to help me at a moments notice. That’s real dedication for you.

I locked the screen door behind me, and went straight to the fridge to grab some food. Something went off in my deep subconscious, something not quite right. But that always happened ever since the motorbike accident. I think the shock of breaking my leg has affected me ever since, in a subtle way. As if the memory was to keep haunting me with or without my being aware of it. I did tend to be a little twitchy in the first year since, and only now have I managed to control my nerves. Trauma can do that to you. Me, I’m just strong. It has nothing to do with my girlfriend, who has stuck beside me since before the accident, the person I feel safe around, who I can trust with my life. Okay, maybe it has a little to do with her.

I took out some bread, cheese and ham from the fridge and put them on the table, then went to the cupboard and requisitioned from it a knife, plus the salt and pepper. I turned back to the bench and cut up the cheese and ham, then, leaving one crutch leaning against the kitchen bench, I headed over to the TV to watch some DVDs I bought yesterday but hadn’t gotten to watch yet.

Flicking the TV on with the remote and crashing on the couch, I realised I actually had to put the DVD’s in the player to watch them, and I couldn’t do that sitting on the lounge – oddly enough because the TV and DVD player are on the other side of the lounge room.

No one else was home. While I regretted at that moment not having Kristy in the house so I could ask her to put a DVD in for me now that I’d sat down, I did enjoy the me-time this arrangement of everyone’s schedule gave me. The guys who also lived here as well wouldn’t be home till past five, and the owner only came over on Fridays. Kristy really had to get going to a dentist’s appointment, so it was just me, all by myself.

Sometimes I wished these people would get a pet, but they were never home enough anyway. It was a relief that they didn’t expect me to make dinner for them, although I usually would make enough for three when I made pizza or spaghetti. People always underestimate what someone with a disability can really do when they are determined not to let the impediment subtract from their usefulness. I just have a lot to fight for. Simple things, but I couldn’t die if I knew they were in danger, even if I contracted some sort of super-virus like in the movies that always killed everyone until the cure was found.

Where was I? That’s right, I was about to get up again and put the DVD in the player this time, when a Breaking News headline – a term that had become hauntingly ironic now – came up in the ad break during Passions or whatever damn soap opera was on now.

“Ahead on Seven Nightly News… three women have escaped from a psychological rehabilitation centre in Red Hill today. Reports state that two were captured almost immediately, however the ring-leader is still at large. Police have yet to give out details, as they not confirmed the identity of the woman still at large. However, they are told that this person is dangerously unstable, and if anyone sees her, do not try to stop her – just call the police and stay out of her way. In other news…”

My heart stopped beating. Those nerves I mentioned earlier? Every one of them started twitching. That was the place I put her in – her being my ex-wife Sandi. She was a good girl, a sweet, perfect little angel. Whose father pushed her too far. That father I’d met, but not until after I married her. He was an abusing alcoholic who openly prided himself on beating her when she was younger – not just smacking, like any good parent should to discipline their child, but full on punching, and for no reason I might add. Yeah, that type. I thought I saw something in her eyes, some bad memory, but I thought she was just shy and quirky that way. Besides, whatever I was, I told her often that she needn’t worry about anything, that I would be there for her to protect her from harm.

Too bad she eventually lashed out at me one night over a romantic dinner with a fork, screaming at me and calling me names, lunging at me with the intent to kill. I paid for psychiatric treatment for a year, but when they analysed her behaviour, the verdict was reached that she be taken away and put in a secure yet friendly environment where she could fight her demons and bury them.

That was three years ago. Sure, I lay around for a while afterwards, drinking myself blind, trying to bury my own pain in the bottle. If only that stuff worked like I used to think it did when I was a kid. If only it really was a miracle potion, an elixir for the mind that washed away all the problems. Damn, Earth would be so much better if that was true. But I realised that alcohol just made the problem worse in my case, and so I threw it out. I was thinking one day when I was out ‘a-walkin and a-drinkin’, and I stopped, deep in thought, near the local refuse tip. I wasn’t close enough to really smell the waste, but the scent brought back memories of when my parents took me out to grandma’s to mow the lawn on the acreage she owns, and how we came back with a trailer full of cut-down trees to dispose of.
Right then and there, I connected my problematic frame of mind at the time with the alcohol, and realised what it was doing to me. So I threw the bottle in my hand as hard and as far as I could, and I think it actually landed in the glass pile.

Little less than a year later, I met Kristy, and we hit it off, despite my hesitancy to start a new relationship, knowing that my ex was in a mental hospital trying to recover from the abuse of her life. She was okay with that, and told me that if I loved either one of them, I would do what Sandi would have wanted me to do, had she been sane.

Had she been sane? I would never think again so after that night.

So I started going out, making a new life for myself, picking myself up off my sorry, lazy ass and getting back to reality. I visit time to time, but not often. Sandi just smiles, and says that she’s getting better, that she’s learning to distinguish between the good and the bad, and only fight the latter. When I told her of what I had become soon after the incident, she told me to get on with my life and not worry about her. She said she would be fine, and that when she’d gotten everything out of her, that she would go somewhere nice and start a new life. And that was that. Then I quit drinking, met Kristy, started a new job, and made a new life, even despite the broken leg. Especially despite the broken leg.

But that was the last three years, as muddled as I’ve made it. Today, this day, sitting on my couch watching DVD’s and thinking how I was going to propose this time, I remembered something about the day I was on my bike with Sandi during a leisurely cruise up the mountains. Hearing the news report about three women breaking out of a mental hospital and one still at large, brought back a certain demon that I thought I had successfully banished. It would have been fine – scary, but fine for me – if it had been any other mental hospital in any other part of the country. But no, it had to be that one.

Then I knew what had made me uneasy in the first place when I entered the house. I could smell Sandi’s perfume. Just a hint of it, mind you, but it was enough to set something going deep down in my mind. And when the news report stated that one woman was still at large, I knew immediately that it was Sandi – and that she had come to get revenge. Not on me, but on her father. But to her, we were one and the same.

Oh, and the motorbike accident? Happened because she went crazy and in a fit of fury, pushed me over.

Deliberately.

The Hunter

2009-04-23T23:30:00.000+10:00

The hunter reaches into his quiver
His arrows full and made of silver
As he tracks the vampire to its lair
Trying not to capture its stare.

Into its domain he stalks
Denying it its chance to talk
And render himself helpless
Against a foe that is souless.

Knock. Draw. Release.
"Take this, you beast!"

2009-04-23T23:21:00.002+10:00

So they shoved me in here with nothing but a chair, a table, and a magic ring. No, it was not the One Ring, to Rule Them All. Unfortunate, really. With that I could definitely make them pay. But alas, when I test the power of the ring, I find that it is not the One Ring after all, but rather something that gives way to my thoughts like a flock of sheep. Pushover.

They tell me I'm not coming out until I write something. I don't know what they expect me to write with, at first, but wearing the ring, I soon begin to notice something... appearing... on the wall in front of me. I peer closer, and it begins to take shape. It's a memory. A moving, real-time, presentation. That's the best way I can describe it. The picture on the wall shows a memory of mine, and the ring glows. My mind picks up on this. Oh, it sure does.

I see my one true love, frolicking on the beach, splashing around as she dances in the ankle-high water where the waves meet the sand. How I miss her, I realise. But that memory is dead and buried, just like she is.

I see my childhood, myself as a child and all the little children teasing me and bullying me. I show them what I'm made of. That they can't do this to me and expect to get away with it. Oh yes, I made a reputation for myself that day. I became Number One. They didn't try that again. They never succeeded in overthrowing me, but oh how they tried. I simply proved to be the stronger.

I see scenes of war, of slavery, of suffering, of pain and death. Most of all, I see torture. I don't know if it's my mind, or the ring, but the effect thereof is a salivating sense of power and supremacy. The feeling I get is exhilarating. And I see that the one causing the chaos in the world is me. Oh, how I have waited for this day.

As my captors race in to subdue me, I fight them with every ounce of strength I have. The hits start coming more often, the tranquillising touch of their "Discipline Sticks" eat away at my conscience more and more each hit, but I know that I am destined to be victorious. They win this battle, but the war is just beginning. My last sounds are pure, unbridled laughter, and I’m giddy with the feeling of such power. I go down laughing.

Sin Street

2009-04-23T23:21:00.001+10:00

I walk these sin filled streets, the only one of my kind. I am a justice-bringer; I kill, murder and pillage - but only those who deserve it. Never the innocent, never. If you commit a crime, but repent, I will see it and say thanks. Thanks for not making me have to do what I have to do. If you've done something bad, and have no intention of repenting, then I'm coming for you. Run all you like; there's nowhere you can go to escape me if your crimes are foul and your intentions sick. Cross the line, and you'll meet me. I am the angel of death, and I have come for you. You better watch your back. Gotta take care of your wings. After all, I need $7.50 lunch money each day. So do me a favour. Please. Buy me a sandwich, won't you? Maybe then I won't have to clip your wings.

Gone

2009-04-23T23:19:00.002+10:00

I dream of things
Sacred and pure
While the world
Around me is dying

I dream that
We will stop
Dividing, fighting
And killing each other

I dream I am
A hero, born of fire
I dream that I
Can make a difference

I dream...
And yet I know
This will be gone
Come morning

Enough

2009-04-23T23:19:00.001+10:00

Enough was enough. The place I was staying was literally falling apart, and not one person living there seemed to mind. Of course, not one person living there was truly living, or sane for that matter. I began packing everything I owned into a large travel bag, my life's worth of worldly possessions crammed into a single tiny space. Shirts, pants, undies, spare shoes, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a handful of CDs, another handful of burnt mp3s on dvd, about six books and some pens. If it didn't fit in the travel back or the backpack, it wasn't going with me. That really got me thinking about what was important. This was all I had. It wasn't much, but these things were mine and mine alone, not something borrowed.

Stepping out of my room, I noticed one guy running around in a pair of boxers with green paint all over him and on his head, one of those things you strain spaghetti with to let the water down the sink. Another guy was chasing him around the house, wielding a cricket bat like a sword, roaring and red-faced as if the person he was chasing had slept with his daughter. Actually, that might not have been that far from the truth. I couldn't remember. It wasn't important.

There was a woman lying on the couch in slinky semi-clothing, one breast hanging out of her boob tube, her hair a mess, her face even worse, and a bottle of vodka slipping from her hand. The hand lost the tug-of-war contest with the floor, and the bottle shattered. No one moved. The guy sleeping on top of her, drooling, moved his leg like a dog when you scratch him on the belly, but that didn't count.

A chunk of pizza fell from the roof, right into the path of the guy being chased around the house. He slipped and fell. Hard. Just like the cartoons, only this was pizza and not a banana peel. Oh well, same difference.

I spoke up.

"Anyone who wants out, come with me. I'm leaving this hole."

"I might join ya when I'm done teaching this gigolo not to sleep with my daughter," said Frank, the guy who owned the building, before giving spaghetti-head a series of pummellings with the edge of the cricket bat. The Landlord; that's what they called such people.

"See ya Frank," I said. His response was another application of the cricket bat to spaghetti's head.

I secured the bags on my shoulders, and stepped out the door. I turned around for one last look at the place where I'd wasted my life for the last two years. The door fell off its hinges. It was time to leave this dump.

I was an exile, but that was perfectly fine by me. It was about time I left anyway.

Cheating Is The New Loyal

2009-04-23T23:16:00.000+10:00

“Cheating is the new loyal,”
This is what she told me
When I found her in bed
Giving some guy head.
That may be so, in this
Sexually charged age -
The new fashioned way,
Of mindlessly cheating days.
As I shot her I said,
“Guess I’m just an old-fashioned guy.”

Bottles

2009-04-23T23:10:00.000+10:00

Buddy, you have got to get out of that slavework you call a job. It's ruined you already, and it'll just make things worse and worse. I can see it in your eyes, I can tell you don't want to go to work today or any day - the way you hold yourself, or rather the lack thereof. You don't care about your shaving anymore, do you? No, only men who have the energy of youth tend to shave. You've lost even that, haven't you? 10 years of the job, grinding meaningless numbers all day long, waking up before the sun, going to sleep just after it, and eating somewhere between all that. Maybe. How can you live like that? You do realise, don't you, that you'll turn out just like I did. Have you talked to your wife lately? I bet you grumble a few words when you get home, eat, and go to sleep, don't you? Do you sleep all weekend? I know I used to. Dude, seriously, you're copying me. At this rate, your wife will be telling you that she needs to find satisfaction in other ways. Your kids will complain that they aren't getting any attention, that they don't have the father that they need. They'll be cutting their wrists one day. They'll turn into goths or punks or 'emos'. Conforming to a trenchcoat-wearing, hair-dying race of 'non conformists'. Get out now. I have an island with your name on it. Come on, you know you need a vacation. Grab the car, the kids, the wife and the dog, and haul it over here. We'll spend the days exploring the rainforest, or building castles in the sand, or waterskiing - the list goes on. It's all family-oriented, so it's a great way to get back in touch with your family - and your soul. If you think you need to find that thing again, i'll be waiting here buddy. I'll save you a beer. You look like you could use one.

First Blog

2009-04-23T23:03:00.000+10:00

Well, I finally caved in to peer pressure. Except there wasn't any. Just advice from a professional-in-training. Should I always take her advice? With a name like Space Fairy, I don't know.

And now, some random but awesome links to writer stuffs.

http://seventhsanctum.com/ - a site for writers to <3 when they're stuck

http://nine.frenchboys.net/ - also good for stuck writers

http://www.writersdigest.com/GeneralMenu/ - great for tips, not as brilliant for prompts at least speculative fiction-wise (SF, fantasy, horror, etc)

http://visionwriters.org/ - for the hardcore serious writer

http://www.gozzys.com/ - for the hardcore serious Dungeon Master

http://www.d20srd.org/ - for the hardcore serious 'Rules Laywer' DM

http://originald.deviantart.com/ - where I occassionally post literature and drawings, but mainly just whinge. It has a journal, after all.

http://www.editred.com/DansomeDan - writing stuff, also.