Rainfall

     A path in the shadow of mountains. Dirt paved by feet unseen for many years, blackened as the sun dipped low behind the stone wall to end the day. The road stretched on for many miles from north to south. A wind picked up in the east, bringing with it a wall of clouds, too arrogant in posture to yet release their flood upon the earth and turn the path to slick mud.

     The gale whipped through the trees to the east of the road, turning their boughs into a sea that flashed different shades of green as the leaves were twisted this way and that. The foliage rustled, coming alive as the wind tore at it. Thunder rumbled as the clouds drew nearer to the mountain range, to the inevitable clash of nature.

     The warrior quickened his pace along the road south, south to home. The wind buffeted his weary footsteps, and the heavy chainmail in his backpack weighted him oddly. He sniffed the air as the smell of rain grew.

     Lightning flashed from the clouds to the forest, illuminated the darkening landscape and stretched the warrior’s pupils. With a hand to the hilt at his side, he continued along, his worn boots beating out a steady pace. Blood and dirt stained what had once been a lighter shade of hide, but had now become a dark and ugly shade. The warrior looked at the clouds again, almost overhead now, the darkness almost complete as the last rays of sun poked over a peak to the west.

     The wind increased, howling, tearing at his face and hair, pulling him and pushing him. The warrior kept his pace, fleeing from the north, hurrying towards the south.

     The clouds reached mountain range. Sheet lighting cracked in the sky. Thunder boomed, echoed off the mountains and swept across the path and into the forest with a deafening roar. The warrior halted for a moment and peered at the sky, waiting. A droplet smacked against his nose, splashed into his open eye. He blinked and rubbed at his face as more rain followed. The path looked black now, the surface had turned to mud.

     The rainfall turned into a torrent, and a torrent into a deluge, streams racing off the cured leather of the warrior’s pack. His hair clung to his head and his clothes to his body as he set off again, hand ever on the hilt of his sword, head down to focus on keeping his balance as the ground grew ever slicker.

     The lone survivor of the Slaughter at Dumhaven continued through the night, and the storm did not stop.

The Bleak

     Winter turned the blackness of night to a hazy blue and clothed the cabin in a mantle of pure white. A light emanated from the single window, a lamp flickering there. The glow pierced the darkness of the cold night, a tear in the cloak of darkness. It only let one know how alone you truly were in the Bleak. The wind howled, tearing at the senses like brambles at fine clothing, blinding wanderers with ice and snow. The stars could not be seen overhead as the storm began to unleash its fury.

     The blizzard swirled around the hut, all but obscuring the glow of the lamp from whoever may have seen it. One did. The half-mile distance to the cabin may as well have been twenty leagues. The Traveler’s hands were frozen stiff, his thick cloak almost board-like from the ice. Foot after foot he managed to trudge through the snow, his eyes locked on the faint light to the north.

     He had long given up on using knowledge to escape the Bleak. Only years upon years of gathered instincts drove him forward, a whisper in his ear that he was not walking in a circle.

     The light grew.

     The Traveler wanted to spit, but the thought of another icicle dripping from his bearded chin kept his saliva in his mouth. He wanted to wipe his nose, but he kept his hands huddled underneath his cloak, wrapped tight around his body. Only the faintest sensation of cold and wetness came from his reddened face.

     Perhaps only a quarter mile remained. His mind knew the pace he kept, his body did not. The steady beat of his boots into the icy powder ticked away in his head. Another foot, another yard, another span. His mind kept the rhythm. His body grew numb. The light grew in strength. He thought he could see the outline of the cabin now. His mind told him only a hundred yards were left.

     The wind pushed him around, set his course to a stumble. His hands came out form his cloak, he flailed for balance. When he found it, he could not see the cabin. With a desperate slowness, he turned in a circle, looking for the light. He could not see it. Instinct told him north, north, but he could not see north. The stars refused to be revealed, even for the tiniest moment.

     The Traveler spat and another icicle formed on his beard, white as an old man’s from the snow. And then, sure that he could not see the light, the Traveler gave up and sat down to await his death. The blizzard raged and froze him solid.

     When the light of morning brought respite from the storm, he was revealed to be only fifty feet away from safety, yet he would never be found. He would remain one of the many objects hidden under the mantle of snow that draped the Bleak and made it the most dangerous environment in all of Andul.

     That night, another blizzard came, and the cabin was also lost to the world.

Slaughter at Dumhaven

     And the din of war died with one final sweep of blade. One last man fell headless to the earth, blood spewed forth from his neck, spear clenched in a death grip. Years later, legend would call it the Slaughter at Dumhaven. The wind keened like a woman given a stillborn after hours of painful labor. The lone warrior sank to his knees, neither relief nor depression yet able to wash over him, only pure exhaustion. His coat of mail shifted underneath a hard leather cuirass. Both were ripped and stained with the blood of fellow man.

     The field of Dumhaven extended for miles in every direction, stained with the crimson blood of fallen armies. The warrior let out a long breath, his eyes closed. The wind obscured the noise of his lungs as bloody mud wetted his knees. The corpse in front of him still emptied through the neck.

     All around him, corpses lay, twisted and bent like childhood toys thrown into the garbage once the child outgrew them. Bones poked out of limbs like a worm out of the earth, faces were frozen into expressions of agony, horror, despair. Blood pervaded all. Its metallic stench rose to the wind and swept southwards to let all know that the fell deeds were done.

     He could already hear the first crows beginning to descend. In a matter of minutes, this field would become as black as oil, the dead a feast for the living, their eyes the dessert. The knights would be lucky. Covered from head to toe in plates of steel or frost metal, their families would have a face to look upon at the funeral. The warrior saw one such knight two feet from him. The visor of his helm was open. The warrior took a weary hand and slid it shut.

     “I am sorry, my friend,” he whispered.

     The warrior looked at the sky. It grew blacker by the moment, the chorus of the death feast growing louder and louder. Thunder clapped somewhere in the distance and the wind continued to howl. The warrior gathered his last reserves of energy and forced himself to his feast, the hundred pounds of mail and leather dragging on his weary shoulders. Step by step, he moved south, the lone survivor of the Slaughter at Dumhaven.

     The crows feasted.

By No Eye

     Mankind is the race of endurance, for there is no event which they cannot survive. They survived what was called by some the First True War. They survived the Scattering, the day the Earth shattered. Their seed was sown among the stars, among the races of the inky blackness. And still mankind survived, even the pure strain. The universe expanded, light-years upon light-years. Stars died, galaxies were swallowed up. And still mankind endured.

     Mankind endured to the point where the arc of civilization inevitably turned downwards. The great gates between worlds died, cities burned, forests became deserts, and pinpricks of humanity were separated, knowing each other only as alien legend. Life was at its end, and man was clinging to the last bit of hope as one holds to a lover going away on a long trip. Mankind dwindled.

     Great cities on these separated worlds became towns, towns became villages, villages a lone hut in the shade of a mountain. Even wildlife became scarce, on its last legs from the wave of overpopulation’s hunger.

     Then mankind truly lost the will to live. Worlds that had once been a scattering of hermits now only were home to ghost-echoes and rushing winds, empty biospheres in the mantle of space. Even more was forgotten by those that still lived. No one knew the world they lived on was round any longer, no one even knew why winter came and why the spring always followed. No one remembered a newborn’s cry.

     Still they lingered. Their spirits broken, their bloodlines ceased, they continued to exist. Somehow. A man sighting another man was as rare as diamonds supposedly were, but no one knew what a diamond was anymore. There were no children, for they had all grown up the moment they found the urge to kill, yet there was no one to kill.

     And finally, billions of years from when their story had begun, mankind died out. The last of them gave his last breath and laid back to stare at the stars, the stars which had defeated all life.

     And the universe continued to expand. Soon, the shadows between worlds became the worlds themselves. The stars winked out, one by one, turning in on themselves and pulling at the threads of space. Asteroids bounced aimlessly about space, nothing to alter their course where once had been gravity. Now there was only void. There was only darkness.

     The darkness would endure far longer than man ever did. Far longer than the stars, far longer than the planets, far longer than the black holes. The darkness would sit. The darkness would wait. The darkness would exist until what was unknown to any mortal mind came and replaced it.

     The void ebbed. It is the nature of the universe to spiral ever downwards, but what happens when the bottom has been reached? None were living to witness it; none know what happened the moment that light was glimpsed by no eye for the first time in time unsearchable. Perhaps it had been millennia, perhaps a single day.

     And the Light was seen by no eye.

Go For It

I want you close your eyes.

Not now, you dolt. You wouldn't be able to read the rest of this. I'm going to give you some instructions and then I want you to follow them. Start by closing your eyes. Think of something you want to do. Not something like skydiving, but something you want to do and can do within the next 12-24 hours. Think hard. Just one thing. Got it?

Go for it.

Too many of us live in fear of failure. Too many of us live in fear of rejection. Too many of us would rather do nothing than to try.

It's time to step out. It's time to change. Whether that thing is telling someone something you've been hiding from them, whether it's asking that girl out, signing up for a gym, sharing something you wrote...

Go for it.

You have to grab your fate from Fate's grasp, for Fate will never give it to you of his own free will.

Go for it.

Guest Post by Sydney Schwager

My good friend and fellow writer Sydney did me the favor of writing a guest post. You can find her blog here: Let's Be Adventurers. The following prose is written by her and most excellent, in my humble opinion.


“When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.” - William Shakespeare

If the above statement is true, then if words are plentiful, then can they be made and used and wasted? Or is that dreams… Either way, words.

I believe words are the support of humanity. Every word has a meaning. They express how we feel and think. They communicate ideas and emotions. Words are pure expression that you can see and hear and, best of all, write! Ah yes, writing. As Matt has already mentioned, writers are insane. I believe it’s because, writers are lovers of words. And look how many words exist in the English language alone! There’s just too many to remember. But, that is what makes the writer crazy. Though there are too many words, and most people are satisfied with just using enough to get their point across, writers try and squeeze every possible word they can into their memories. Especially large interesting words, those are always the hardest to use, and yet the ones we always want to remember. Why are writers so infatuated with words? Well really, writers are obsessed equally with words and people. To a writer, the two are synonymous. See, if words are the support of humanity, then being obsessed with words leads to an obsession with people. You discover that certain people can be described by certain words, or that a word reminds you of a person. You start writing just because you like words but then you start making people out of your words. You begin to create worlds and life and… you can manipulate and sculpt things with your words. And then, you begin to discover new words! You realize the words you’ve been using are rubbish in comparison with these new ones and the power they hold. These new words are more expressive. They communicate the meaning of your old words, but on a whole different level! And eventually you end up with so many words in your vocabulary that you just love to use that whenever you write or talk you end up rambling because you want to fit in as many words as possible… It’s true. I tend to ramble anyways, and since I make a point of expanding my vocabulary, I ramble every time I talk it seems.

If you can ignore the above rambling, this is where it gets serious. I really do believe that words are the support of humanity, but I also believe they could be humanity’s downfall. Words are expression and meaning, right? Well, not all words have a good meaning. And not all words are used kindly. Words can build people up, or they can tear them down. Words can be used to lie. They can hurt people or infuriate them. But the good and bad thing about words is that they stick with you. You can give someone a compliment, and they may remember the words you spoke for forever. Or you could tear them down with your words, and they may end up in therapy because they never really got over what you said. Words always carry meaning and power, whether you think they do or not. So, be careful of what you say. Sometimes this is hard. I know I struggle with it. I’m a communicator (it’s my top strength) so when something comes into my mind, I just say it. I don’t think about what I’m saying or how it will sound, it’ just comes out. I have to be very careful most times, and oftentimes end up apologizing for things that I say.

Writers are infatuated with words. And if they’re smart, writers are also very careful people, because they understand that words are powerful. But let’s face it, most of us are not all that smart either that or we don’t care. So if you ever find yourself talking to someone who either, A) makes animated facial expressions as if talking to themselves, B) consistently contradicts themselves, C) uses words you’ve never heard before and probably never will again (also consistently) or D) who has no problem dropping whatever they’re doing to write down an idea, chances are good that yes they’re insane because they’re a writer! Insane because, with a head full of so much meaning and power that is words, you sacrifice your sanity for the sake of your obsession: words.

Beginnings and Guest Posts

First off. My friend Sydney is going to be doing a guest post for my blog in the near-ish future the 13th or the 14th of October to be exact. You should subscribe to her blog: Let's Be Adventurers. She's got some good stuff there. I certainly enjoy reading it. You probably will, too.

So be expecting that sometime in the next handful of days or so. Known her, I'm willing to bet there's going to be a poem involved.

So, beginnings. What makes 'em good? Quite a few things actually. A beginning needs to accomplish several things to qualify as 'good'.

1. Hook you into the story.
2. Entertain.
3. Set the tone/pace.

I just started on the Dark Tower series by Stephen King. Book one, The Gunslinger opens with this line:

"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."

One way to hook the reader is by raising questions. Who is the man in black? Who is the gunslinger? Why is the gunslinger following him, why is the man in black fleeing? If you're trying to raise questions, make the first sentence as loaded as possible. The first line of dialogue in my book Traveler's Chronicles: Book One is:

"Ahoy, human!"

Raises a few questions, that's for sure. Questions make the reader want to keep reading or the watcher to keep watching. And there's your explanation for why you put up with season five of Lost.

The beginning should entertain. Even if there is no action going on, such as a man in black fleeing across a desert, something should happen the the reader's mind can grasp, the imagination can use. Sometimes this will come from the very first line, as in my book.

"All was quiet. The wintry air settled itself upon a mantle of snow that glistened under the starry sky. The stone wall of nighttime silence on the Illaria-Asiderkrauk border was pierced by a hailing."

A description which can capture the imagination of the reader, but isn't too terribly long, is a great way to get them interested, to make the first scene more vivid. Stephen King's descriptions that follow the first line of The Gunslinger certainly do that.

"The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what looked like eternity in all directions."

If that doesn't get something vivid in your head, you might be dead. Or left-brained.

Sorry, I tease.

Onwards, Traveler. Another important job of a good beginning is to set the tone and/or pace. I have not read that far into The Gunslinger at the time of writing this, but I can use another book I have read all the way through to exemplify what I am talking about. Ever read The Hunger Games? The beginning sets the tone pretty well.

"When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold."

The sentences that follow, follow in the same tone. Stark. To the point. Very quickly, a bleak picture of the local world is set up, as is the quick but intimate pacing of the novel.

Hook 'em. Entertain 'em. Let 'em know how your story will flow.

Do these three things, and your beginning might just be good.

My Relationship With My Characters

Readers, be warned. You're about to have a glimpse into the mind of a writer.

It's a scary place. Writing is just a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia.

My characters and I have an interesting--some would call it abusive--relationship. They are all wonderful people. Or elves. Or goblins. They all have hopes and dreams, a few of them have lovers, a few are tough as nails, and some are pansies. They sometimes enjoy the worlds I create for them.

Right now they're all pissed off at me. See, as a writer, it is my job to put my characters through emotional, physical, and mental hell so that you, dear reader, might have good book to read. My characters do not like this. In fact, there's talk of unionization. I think it already happened with the last incident.

So I'm working on edits, right? Making the book as polished as possible before I send it off to any editor. In the middle, there's a section that feels like something is missing. Can't place my finger on it. Then one of my characters says: "Oh, yeah, there's a civil war going on in this section of the country, because that's the only way to flesh this part of the book out to what you need it to be."

I pimp-slapped him.

But he was right. 10000 words of right. That's what I'm doing right now, adding in about 10000 words to my story in order to flesh out part of the midsection. All because Emakar couldn't keep his dang mouth shut!

The main character hates me with a fiery passion. The crap I put him through is, to me, hilarious. To him it just sucks. I mean really sucks. I tell him it's to entertain you guys, but he never seems to accept that as motivation for pushing through the stuff I throw at him. Instead he moans about lost love or some such nonsense. Pansy.

So there's your glimpse into the mind of a writer. Yes. I am insane. It's the only possible defense against reality.