Sunday, May 25, 2014


After much consideration, and my concerns preying on me for the last couple of years, I have decided to delete the majority of my posts.  The reasons for this are many, but the largest worry was this: I wish to publish my work as I get it finished, and I constantly fret someone with unpleasant motives will come along and steal my work, claiming it's theirs.

My stories are my children.  I have nurtured and developed them for years--many since I was in middle school (some even earlier).  I care for them and their characters deeply, and it would be unbearable for me to see them taken from me.  I just have too much invested in them and too much at stake for the risk to seem acceptable.  I thought that back when I started posting them, and I still do today.  A conversation this weekend cemented those worries, so I have pulled my work.

I doubt many people will notice (or even care) since I wasn't getting many hits on my blog, but the majority of those I was were from foreign sites.  Whether spam sites or not, I don't know, but I'm familiar with an artist from Canada whose work was stolen and claimed by a certain now-deceased dictator from the Middle East for a novel he'd written (not sure if he also stole the novel, but he certainly stole the artwork; the artist had photos of the book).

I may, if I attempt Camp NaNoWriMo or the official National Novel Writing Month in November again, post as I go as proof that I'm doing it and to keep myself accountable, but I'm not sure yet.

I apologize to anyone who was actually reading my work.  I hope you understand.

Saturday, December 21, 2013

Brink book two information

I haven't touched my first National Novel Writing Month story in years--not since I didn't get very far beyond the original 50k words for the challenge.  I wrote it back in November, 2011, completely from scratch.  New characters, new world, new everything.  I'd hoped it would be a way back into the writing I'd done during college and before, but, like I said, it didn't get very far.  It proved to me I could still write, however.
I started printing it off for a family member to read since he was incarcerated back in 2012, and recently received a letter from him (and a friend of his he'd been sharing it with) saying how much he liked reading my stories.  I hadn't sent him story pieces in a while because of my move and my printer refuses to be on speaking terms with my new computer.  I went home this week to do laundry in anticipation of bad weather, and borrowed my parents' printer to get the boys some more.
That led to me re-reading Brink as a whole.  I still feel it is definitely not my finest work (really, really not my best writing), but there's decent storyline there.  I got to looking around, and noticed I'd only posted the NaNoWriMo parts here, not the bit I'd written beyond (I actually have some of the ending written...somewhere...too).  I knew I'd posted the first part of book two somewhere, and found it on my LiveJournal.  Given I locked all of my LiveJournal posts due to someone telling me they were going to take my ideas for their classwork for examples, with or without my permission, no one is able to see them but me.
Given the guys' interest--interest and excitement over my work from readers is a huge part of inspiring me to continue to write, even on pieces I haven't touched in years or don't particularly like--I've been debating picking it up again.  So I've decided to post what little I still had from the original attempt.  To understand it, a reader will have to go back through the archives to the earlier posts (each is labeled) and read Book One, but it's a good way for me to keep tabs on my progress.  This way, too, if I get a system crash that takes out computer, thumb drive (it's on at least two), and external hard drive, I still have a copy.

Sunday, December 1, 2013

100 Words Challenge reminiscent review

Today I was feeling a touch nostalgic, and found an older file folder on my external of a challenge project I was doing with a friend and three of her friends back shortly after I graduated from college.  We started it November 2007 (I graduated in 2006).  My last addition was in June, 2011.  I was up to 82.  I have part of 83, Smoke, written somewhere, but never finished, as enthusiasm for the project had pretty much died off by then.  The challenge was: we came up with a list of 100 words, then had to write short story clips that embodied each of those particular words--100 total.  What we wound up with was a list of 102, as other words suggested themselves as we went along.  I did 82, and the next-nearest was my friend at just over 50.  On a whim tonight I decided to amble through my contributions; I had some good stuff in there, turns out.  It's been fun to go back.
Some of my stories were inspired by music, or games, or even events earlier in my life.  Some I used from other writing I'd done, because they just fit too well.
The project was great exercise, and I may eventually finish the list--only spirit, agony, war, strike, blindness, evil, psychotic, ancient, frustration, pity, soft, window, heaven, oppression, smoke, light, loss, differences, ripples, and natural to go.
I'm thinking of posting some of those old pieces here. Haven't decided which ones.  I will probably leave out the fan fiction ones...I love Transformers, and was writing a Generation One-loyal and -accurate story based on that old original '80s cartoon series.  I did a lot of fun little blurbs from it as words, but to enjoy them, you really had to be a Transformers geek like me.  Others ranged from my entire gamut of stories--science fiction and fantasy works I've been working on my entire life, and some that were spur-of-the-moment created just from the impressions a particular word left me.
I guess we'll see what comes of it.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Untitled Pre-NaNoWriMo 2012 fantasy prologue excerpt

     So I was rummaging about on my newest thumb drive to figure out what was on it, and I stumbled across something I began right before National Novel Writing Month last year (November 2012), as kind of the prologue to the story I intended to write for it.  I actually remember sitting in the upstairs break room at the greenhouse where I worked, on my last fifteen minute break of the day, toward the end of the season--the longest I'd ever worked there--and scribbling this down on a seed company's notepad.  Given they wound up keeping me into November, I didn't wind up actually taking part in NaNoWriMo 2012.  But this still remains, and I may eventually do something with it.  It's not even a complete scene, because that was all I could write in fifteen minutes by hand.  Had it been on computer, I would've been faster and gotten more down.

         He woke to darkness and the sounds of unbridled chaos around him.  The darkness he knew; those possessing magic of any strength were born blind.  Chaos, too, had become intimately familiar over the span of…how long now?  Days?  Weeks?  It had become a companion following his abduction by mage hunters in Nordren, along with their palpable hatred and the abuses they eagerly supplied.  He’d never caused trouble, nor had he heard of the fanatics who had taken him.  Judging from the agonized screams he had heard over the span of his imprisonment, he wasn’t their first victim.
         The chaos he heard now was of a different sort, one that told him he was one of their last.
         The sounds were not of torture or beatings or misery, but of the sharp clash of steel on steel, arrows thudding, and battle cries.  His captors had become the victims of someone else.
         And it appeared they were just as helpless against this sudden threat as he and his fellows were against them.  He almost felt sorry for them.
         He had become familiar with the sounds of combat from time spent on Fort Nordren’s practice fields.  As a boy, he’d been drawn to the Guard as they ran through drills.  He knew from sound alone the skill of a combatant.  This group—there were too many, friend and foe, to distinguish the number of the attacking party—were not battle masters, but they were certainly well-trained and worked as a cohesive unit.
         The din abruptly died down, the lull filled with heavy breathing and the shifting of weight.  He could smell the thick coppery tang of spilled blood, and the sharp taint of ozone that suggested at least one of the newcomers was a mage.
         “That’s the last of them,” one of them said into the quiet—a male.  His statement was followed by the sound of a blade being flicked clean of blood and homed.
         “Anyone hurt?”  The second speaker was a woman.
         A chorus of noncommittal grunts and denials answered her as more weapons were sheathed.  He counted no more than six.
         “Dorr, Ranvel, check the cells for survivors,” the first voice said.  “Find any more of these fools” the sound of a boot striking flesh “—kill them.”
         “None deserve it more,” another voice, another male, answered.  His tone was deeper and held gravel compared to the first’s.
         “Just be quick and clean,” the first said with a heavy sigh of familiarity of the second male’s habits.  “We’re not like them.  Don’t string it out.”
         “Should,” the second male stated.  “Only fitting.”
         “Eye for an eye and everyone would be blind,” the woman spoke again.  “Or, in your case, Dorr, dead.”
         The second male, Dorr, grunted and tromped away; from his heavy tread, he had to be a big man.  He was followed by a lighter but still heavy series of footfalls.
         The woman sighed.  “Should I go with him and talk him down?”
         “No.  He may like warmongering, but he’ll obey orders.”
         “He’s right, you know, peace-keeper,” a new voice, another male, stated.  His voice was as grating as the one called Dorr’s.  “Don’t pretend you believe otherwise.”
         She did not reply to his barb.
         “What about that one?” the first male asked.  “He dead too?”
         Fingers touched his throat; surprised, he flinched.  He’d not heard anyone approach.
         “No.”  The voice belonged to the one who called the woman a peace-keeper.  “That can be remedied, if you wish.”
         “Galen, stop.”  The woman, again, this time with steel in her voice.  “Look at him—he’s shivering.”
         “He’s a mage,” the first said.  “Probably one of those taken from Nordren or Galar.”
         “Not a good sign,” the woman agreed.  “Doesn’t bode well if the cult has spread this far.”
         “Cult?” he could barely rasp out the word through the rawness of his throat; he hadn’t been able to scream in a long time.  The voice that came out couldn’t be his own.
         “Galen, check him over.  Make sure they didn’t do something irreversible.”
         Galen grunted and he felt strong hands run over him, expertly checking for broken bones and internal injuries.
         “Got a name?” Galen asked while he worked.
         “What kind of a name is that?  Sounds like a sneeze.”
         He tried again.  “Jason…Vash.”
         Galen snorted.  “Still sounds ugly.”
         “Galen!”  The woman didn’t sound amused.

Saturday, August 31, 2013

Sorry about the long time away.

That should change now--new living arrangements, new job, new computer...lots of fresh things.  Now that I've got my life somewhat in better order and status, an internet-attached computer, and access to my music, I believe I can start writing again.  Most of my work was on my beast of an external hard drive, inaccessible for about two years.

Hopefully inspiration will take over and I can start posting bits and pieces of things here again.

Stay tuned!

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Tales from Ferelden; stories based on the DragonAge RPG series and computer games, part one

I decided to start GMing a DragonAge RPG this month, and am having such a good time I decided, being a writer, and, as GM, essentially narrator of the game, to storyline the characters' adventures for the fun of it.  The games, campaign arcs, and world copyright the makers of DragonAge; characters copyright their respective owners.

            Late spring had fallen on Ferelden in the form of late, icy drizzle that worked its way under the armor to chafe massive sores where it rubbed and chill to the bone.  It had muddied the Northern Road to the point everything that traversed it was covered in thick sludge.
            For Arden, it was just one straw closer to breaking the metaphorical camel’s back.  First, he’d been sent halfway across the continent in search of new and exotic materials for his forgemaster, the legendary armorer Wade of Denerim.  Sure, Arden had wanted to travel, but this time of year the weather was fickle and he hadn’t known what to prepare for.  Second, given Wade’s…finicky tastes in armoring materials, it had been nigh impossible finding enough variety to justify the price of the trip.
            At least, finally, he was on his way back to Denerim with his small supply caravan.  The weather was making travel difficult; he and his escort had been forced to push a loaded wagon out of deep mud.
            Arden was exhausted and irritable when the small city of West Hill came into sight through the misty rain.  Evening was starting to fall, and he was looking forward to getting his precious materials out of the elements so he could sit down and get a hot meal.  And sleep.  Sleep would be nice after far too many hours on the road.
            The apprentice weaponsmith got the horses stabled, rubbed down, and the carts packed away, then all but drug himself to the inn.  The warmth of the place made his cold, damp skin immediately start to sweat, but he had no complaints.
            There were few patrons; Arden noticed a slim redhaired Dalish Elf woman sitting at a table near the fireplace with a Circle Mage eating what looked to be bread and thick stew.  Both, he noted jealously, were dry, though the woman’s hair still looked damp.  The two were talking quietly and barely spared him a glance.
He also saw a giant of a man in heavy leather armor with an axe and a huge “bastard” sword strapped to his back—a shield, short bow and quiver of arrows, too!—headed up the narrow stairs to the second floor, followed by an anxious-looking robed mage and a very small boy who couldn’t have been more than seven.  Other than that, there didn’t appear to be any guests despite the weather.
            Good.  That means I’ll get a room.
            Arden went to the bar and waved at the serving girl at the far end.  She came over and regarded him with what he figured she thought was a sultry come-hither look.
            “A meal, a room for the night, and a hot bath,” he told her.
            The serving girl sized him up, then brought him a brass key, leaning carefully on the bar so he had ample view of her cleavage.
            “Would you like your bath hot, ser?” she asked.
            Arden kept his attention on his pouch of money while he counted out his coins.  “Not in the way you’re thinking, sorry.  Thank you for the offer nonetheless.”
            She pouted and straightened, crossed her arms over her bosom.  “No company, no bath,” she told him flatly.  “Or dinner.”
            Irritation flared.  He was wet, hungry, tired, and sore.  He didn’t need a rude barmaid to add to his list of today’s grievances.
            “Fine.  Forget the bath, then.  And the meal.  I’ll just take a room and haul in my own water.”
            She slapped a room key down on the counter in front of him, then huffed off to the kitchen.
            Arden sighed and heaved himself up off his stool, grumbled his way upstairs.  At least he’d have peace and quiet the rest of the night.

             From the table by the fire, the Dalish Elf woman watched the soggy newcomer head upstairs.  She knew she and her companion, the mage Rylan, had looked much the same upon their arrival that afternoon, but several hours of warmth and dry clothing had improved their spirits immensely.
           Riari had been hired by the Mages’ Circle to escort Rylan from the Tower on Lake Calanhad to the Great Library in Denerim so he could do research on the Primal and Creation branches of magic.  Usually, Riari didn’t deal with mages.  She was more accustom to acting the guide to traveling merchants or the occasional band of adventurers throughout the wilds of Ferelden.  It wasn’t common for a mage to leave the Tower, let alone without a Templar escort.  Most mages were decent enough, but the Chantry—and its Templars—seemed to think all of them would be possessed by demons without church supervision, and they took great pains to convince the world—mages included—this was the case.  Riari didn’t believe them, but had heard stories of the occasional mage losing a fight with a demon, but she’d also heard stories of that happening to normal people, who let ambition or greed or vengeance blind them, too.  Either way, it was extremely rare, and quickly dealt with.  Riari was more concerned of a spell being miscast and being on the receiving end.
            So far, though, Rylan had been the perfect gentleman.  A bit nosy in his attempts to be friendly during their long trip by foot to Denerim, perhaps, but polite and helpful.
            With the worsening weather, they had agreed a dry night at an inn would do them both good after days on the road.  They had made good time reaching West Hill, and made arrangements shortly after noon, which had given them time to dry out and relax.
            She almost pittied the newcomer.  Almost.
            The evening had brought another interesting arrival as well.  About an hour before the latest traveler, a big man Riari recognized as an Avvarian Hillsman, had come in and settled at the bar, his heavy leather armor and weapons dripping with water.  He had eaten three plates of stew and secured a room by the time a young apostate mage had come in with a young boy in a state of shock.
            The Avvar warrior had gone about his meal while the runaway mage and the innkeeper spoke in hushed tones.  Even with Riari’s remarkable hearing, she couldn’t hear what was said over the sounds of the locals who had gathered for ale to ward off the day’s chill, but was able to gather the apostate wanted to leave the child at the inn before the Templars hunting him came sniffing around.  The innkeeper seemed concerned as to the boy’s welfare, but didn’t appear to want to be saddled with him.  There had been some arguing, then the giant had shifted and added himself to the conversation.
            The innkeeper left shortly after, and the Avvar offered to share his room with the apostate and the boy for the night as protection.  Riari had heard rumors of bandits during the trip here, and assumed they were the reason the apostate had a child in tow.
            “Are you finished?” Rylan suddenly asked her.
            Riari became aware she’d been toying with her food for the last few minutes.  She nodded, and the mage took both their plates to the bar.  She got up and headed upstairs to the room they’d procured earlier.  She didn’t like sharing a room, but until they reached Denerim she was short on funds, and, since she was supposed to keep an eye on the mage, sharing a room was more feasible.

             Solel gestured to the bed in the corner of his room as he stripped off his pack and set it against the opposite wall.
            “You and the young one may share the bed.  I have no need of it.”
            The renegade mage eyed him dubiously, so the big Avvar ignored him and unpacked his bedroll.  He didn’t particularly want to be stuck with this Anders fellow, but Solel had a soft spot for children.  The moment the apostate had told the innkeeper he’d saved the boy following a bandit attack that had seen the boy’s mother and older sister raped and murdered, and his father murdered for trying to stop them, Solel had known he would involve himself regardless of what the innkeeper said.
            And regardless that Solel was on his way back to his Hold in the Frostback Mountains, having been delayed with guarding a caravan for the past two weeks.  West Hill was the last civilized place he intended to see for a while.
            The innkeeper had seemed a decent sort—he’d run out to gather a group of locals to help hunt down the bandits, leaving Solel to offer his protection for the night.  The apostate, who introduced himself as Anders, was a bit reluctant to take him up on his offer, but Solel was a difficult man with whom to argue.  His size alone intimidated most people into agreeing with him.
            While Anders got the boy settled, Solel removed his armor, cleaned and dried it as best he could, tended his weapons, and went about setting a rather nasty surprise for anyone who might try to enter the room unannounced.
            “What’re you doing?” Anders asked, coming to peer over the giant’s shoulder.
            “Leg trap.”
            Anders made a face, impressed.  “That’s nasty.”
            “Supposed to be.  I told you I’d protect you and the boy for the night.  I keep my promises.”
            Solel grunted and continued his work.
            “Just one question, though, Avvar.  If we need to get up in the middle of the night to use the…facilities…how do you propose we do that without risking an important limb?”
            Solel nodded in the direction of the window.
            “That, or I’m sure there’s a chamber pot under the bed.”
            “Oh, right.”
            Solel finished with his trap and settled on his bedroll.  “When you’re ready, turn down the lamp, but don’t put it out.”
            “Smart idea.”
           Solel snorted.  “I’m just full of them.”

             Riari, too, set a couple of traps before climbing into bed in full armor.  At Rylen’s raised eyebrow, she shrugged.
            “Call me paranoid.  My kind aren’t exactly welcome most places as anything but slaves, and your kind are feared throughout Ferelden because of what you can turn into.”
            Rylan studied the door.  Riari had laid a pair of tripwires in close succession; one appeared to be just that—a thin line meant only to trip an intruder—the other attached to a small pouch.
            “What’s that?” he asked, indicating the pouch.
            Riari pulled the blanket up, laid her short sword beside her.  “Sneeze powder.”
            Rylan winced.  “Cruel woman.”
            “Just thorough.”
            The mage got settled in the room’s other bed; Riari was impressed to notice he had the sense to keep his wand with him.  She reached over and turned the lamp down so it barely gave off any light.
            “The nightlight’s charming,” Rylan commented.
            “Another necessity.”
            “Scared of the dark?”
            She shot him a glare.
           “All right, all right!  Sorry.”

             Arden sighed as he settled into bed.  It was good to be out of his wet, chafing armor.  He had taken the time to clean it and his weapons—Master Wade wouldn’t have taken him on as an apprentice had he not known to care for his gear—and laid them out to dry as best they could overnight.
            He still wished he’d been able to get a warm bath—he hadn’t had a way to warm the water he’d drawn from the pump, but he was warm now and—mostly—dry, and that made a world of difference.  He’d made a meal out of a few travel rations he’d still had in his pack; not much, but filling.  Now that he felt better, he also felt far more exhausted.
            He crawled gratefully into bed, oblivious to the scratchy straw mattress and the stiff blanket.  It still beat sleeping in the back of a wagon or on the hard or muddy ground.
           He was so eager to get to sleep he forgot to bolt the door or turn out the light.

             Arden was awakened at a freakishly early hour to the sound of a sword clattering to the floorboards out in the hall and quiet swearing.  The lamp on the nightstand had nearly burned itself out, but he could see enough to grope for his sword and scramble to his feet before the door was kicked in and he found himself face-to-face with a beefy local man wielding a longsword.
            Arden dimly heard shouts from the other rooms before he was forced to scramble to defend himself.  The intruder swung at him with a powerful two-handed strike he barely managed to block.  He and his opponent circled, trading blows, but neither could break the other’s defense.  Arden knew some basic combat training thanks to Wade’s coaching—“One must know how to use the weapons and armor one makes!  One can’t be an artist without the knowledge!”—and it seemed like the lout he was fighting had similar experience.
            The apprentice weaponsmith suddenly lunged in and caught his attacker across the arm, drawing blood, but received a slash across his chest in return.  Swords rang again, then the enemy was backing out the door, holding an arm to a nasty belly wound.
           Arden let him go—scrambling instead for his armor and shield.  He didn’t care if it chafed anymore.

             Riari cranked the lantern up in the same movement she unsheathed her short sword and leapt at the pair of bandits to come stumbling into her and Rylan’s room.  One of them hit the tripwire and sprawled flat on his face; the Dalish woman was on him immediately with a strike that laid open his shoulder.
            The other got a faceful of sneeze powder and wobbled unsteadily into Rylan’s path as the mage unleashed a surprisingly potent Arcane Lance spell.  Bright white lightning lit up the small room and the intruder, and set Riari’s hair on end from her proximity as she dodged a swing from the other man.
            “Rylan!” she barked, throwing him a glare as the mage’s opponent dropped hard to the floorboards, unconscious.  Her attacker, having met her brutal offense and seeing his friend sprawled on the grounds, made the sensible choice and fled.
            “Sorry!” the mage shouted back over the noise of the dissipating energy, though he looked far too smug over the success of his spell.  “Rather a good hit, if I do say so myself.”
            “It’ll be your last, you idiot!” Riari snapped, slapping at the resultant flames licking the doorframe.
           “But it worked…”

             Solel’s leg trap caught itself a rather unfortunate victim as well—the last of the bandits, intent in sneaking into the room to deal with the apostate and the boy.  What he hadn’t been counting on was the Avvar.
            Solel closed with him and in two quick blows it was over—the man fell head-over-heels down the stairs into the common room, practically on top of the stunned innkeeper before hobbling as fast as he could for the door after his companions.
            “Hey!” Anders said, looking after him, “that was one of the men that attacked the caravan!  These weren’t local bandit catchers!”
            Solel gave him a glance as he flicked the blood from his battle axe.  “Apparently not.  Someone must have told them you were here.”
            Anders looked utterly befuddled.  “That can’t be right—the innkeeper said the bandits were staying here and he was gathering a group to catch them.”
            Solel scowled.  “They attacked us.  Were we supposed to be the bandits?”
            Anders started pacing.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know.”
           The Avvar gestured him back toward the bed, where the boy was sitting up, wild-eyed.  “Stay put.  There might be more of them.”

             The shouting down the hall was getting louder.  Arden heard the sounds of fighting, then the loud, receding crash of a body falling down stairs, then more shouting.
           Realizing there might be more bandits attacking other guests, the young weaponsmith ran down the hall—barefoot but armored and armed with sword and shielf—to help.

             Solel heard running footsteps approaching from further up the hall and stepped into the doorway, throwing his arm out just as the man approaching reached him.
            The unfortunate Arden found himself effectively clotheslined by the massive Avvar’s arm, then was staring up at the giant in pure terror as the big man stood over him.
            “Hey, you got another one!”
            Arden had just a split second to see the mage from downstairs with the elf woman coming from down the hall, then he was hit by the potent zap of the mage’s Arcane Bolt spell.
            He had enough time to think, Well, this is the perfect ending to a horrible day… before blackness swept over him in a ripple of white-hot electricity.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Finally got some time to post an update.
Yes, I successfully finished Camp NaNoWriMo in June.  I absolutely didn't like what I'd written, so I'm not going to post the rest of it...that and it was sporadic sections of scenes that wouldn't make sense unless someone had read a great deal of my older Immortal works.
No, I'm not going to do the Camp NaNoWriMo for August.  Work, lack of inspiration, and a funeral at the beginning of this month showed me it wasn't a good idea.
I'll try my best to tackle the true NaNoWriMo in November, but no promises.  Things have been complicated and I need to sort a few things out.