The air itself seemed green. Vines hung heavy from the towering moss covered trees and water dripped steadily down from the canopy overhead. Rich loamy soil was black underfoot; a multitude of plant life springing up from the ground. Brightly colored lizards and frogs slithered along the ground. The air was alive with the calls of exotic birds.
Kevin pushed his way through thick vegetation, clearing a narrow path with his machete. Sweat poured down his face in the thick heat of the afternoon. His clothes were damp from a passing rain storm that only added to his discomfort.
Kevin paused his efforts to mop his face. Twigs snapped nearby and Kevin dropped to the ground, seeking shelter behind a large fern. Peeking out between fronds, Kevin saw black fur passing by. A large panther was dragging the carcass of a small deer like animal. Kevin watched the panther scale a tree, wedging its prey between some branches.
Once he was sure that the predator was occupied with its meal Kevin rose from his place and quietly slunk away.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
In the Valley
“Do you want it or not?” the little girl asked. She was dressed like Little Bo Peep in an old-fashioned, full-skirted pink monstrosity of a dress, but instead of a shepherd’s crook she held a pitch fork.
Annie certainly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “Yes, I do want it.” She had no idea what it was, but so far everyone she’d seen while wandering through this fairytale valley had asked if she wanted it, and if she said yes, she was given directions forward. She was glad she’d made it to the valley, which was mostly full of flowers and girls weeping and the occasional charge of the light brigade. The forest had been less pleasant, with lost children wandering, cottages made of candy, little girls in red cloaks talking to anthropomorphic wolves, and seven little men who brandished their pickaxes at her.
The little girl beamed and twirled the pitchfork like an expert spear fighter. She traced a complicated pattern in the air that ended with the pitchfork pointed over her shoulder along the valley floor.
“If you can find the yellow brick road - it’s a little hidden under Aurora’s thorns, because Prince Philip was a little rushed during the most recent rescue - then follow it until you reach a trail of bread crumbs. Those should take you past the Two Brothers’ houses, and from there you should follow the raven to the gates of horn and ivory. Tell the Wyvern you seek audience with the Dream King, and he’ll give you what you want.”
Annie nodded, trying not to snicker at the thought of Prince Philip thundering down the Yellow, and suddenly it hit her, full-force between the eyes. The entire valley stretched out before her, and yet she could see it all, every blade of grass, every brick in the road, each tangle of thorns that choked at the path, a pair of houses - one neat, the other cluttered - and then it all ended at a gate.
The gate.
Of ivory and horn.
Annie took the first step forward.
(344 words)
Annie certainly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. “Yes, I do want it.” She had no idea what it was, but so far everyone she’d seen while wandering through this fairytale valley had asked if she wanted it, and if she said yes, she was given directions forward. She was glad she’d made it to the valley, which was mostly full of flowers and girls weeping and the occasional charge of the light brigade. The forest had been less pleasant, with lost children wandering, cottages made of candy, little girls in red cloaks talking to anthropomorphic wolves, and seven little men who brandished their pickaxes at her.
The little girl beamed and twirled the pitchfork like an expert spear fighter. She traced a complicated pattern in the air that ended with the pitchfork pointed over her shoulder along the valley floor.
“If you can find the yellow brick road - it’s a little hidden under Aurora’s thorns, because Prince Philip was a little rushed during the most recent rescue - then follow it until you reach a trail of bread crumbs. Those should take you past the Two Brothers’ houses, and from there you should follow the raven to the gates of horn and ivory. Tell the Wyvern you seek audience with the Dream King, and he’ll give you what you want.”
Annie nodded, trying not to snicker at the thought of Prince Philip thundering down the Yellow, and suddenly it hit her, full-force between the eyes. The entire valley stretched out before her, and yet she could see it all, every blade of grass, every brick in the road, each tangle of thorns that choked at the path, a pair of houses - one neat, the other cluttered - and then it all ended at a gate.
The gate.
Of ivory and horn.
Annie took the first step forward.
(344 words)
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
On the Wind
The engine of The Beast was knocking, but Clay couldn’t really complain. He’d tried to, once, when they’d stopped to get gas a few hours ago, but the wordless glare Bob had sent him was enough to fell most men. Clay had endured that glare most of his life and supposed his brotherly immunity had to be worth something.
The engine of The Beast always knocked whenever they drove it over sixty-five, and it had been knocking for - well, the past few days. Clay didn’t know Carolyn well enough to really judge her relationship with his brother. All Clay knew was that when it was Bob-and-Carolyn, Bob was over-the-moon happy. And when it suddenly ended - Bob acknowledged that it was his fault - Bob was miserable.
Clay glanced at his brother where he lay in the passenger seat. It was hard to be angry when Bob looked so frail. The shadows around his eyes were darker than ever before, and he’d lost weight - more than he could afford. Clay was sure he’d seen Bob take his meds that morning, but with so many pills it was hard to tell if he took them all, or if he was taking the right ones. Bob’s arms were marred with bruises, too, because he was tired, and being tired made him clumsy, and now he bruised so easily. His skin was pale, stretched tight over his bones, like thin paper.
Clay sighed and stared at the road ahead. Another green road sign flashed past the windshield, a morass of letters and numbers. To Clay, it was further evidence of their madness as they got further and further from home. All Bob probably saw was Carolyn’s name, etched on the sign in place of the towns and cities they weren’t heading toward.
The knocking became worse, and Clay was forced to shut off the AC, which meant cracking a window. The howling was awful, but the radio was too weak to play over it. Bob just closed his eyes and tipped his head back, uncaring of the way the wind whipped his hair into his face.
“Can you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Clay shot back. The slow death of The Beast’s engine? His own insanity draining out his ears?
“Her name,” Bob said. “On the wind.” He was smiling.
Clay wondered if his brother was already gone, and they hadn’t even gotten to where they were going.
(inspired by this video)
(409 words)
The engine of The Beast always knocked whenever they drove it over sixty-five, and it had been knocking for - well, the past few days. Clay didn’t know Carolyn well enough to really judge her relationship with his brother. All Clay knew was that when it was Bob-and-Carolyn, Bob was over-the-moon happy. And when it suddenly ended - Bob acknowledged that it was his fault - Bob was miserable.
Clay glanced at his brother where he lay in the passenger seat. It was hard to be angry when Bob looked so frail. The shadows around his eyes were darker than ever before, and he’d lost weight - more than he could afford. Clay was sure he’d seen Bob take his meds that morning, but with so many pills it was hard to tell if he took them all, or if he was taking the right ones. Bob’s arms were marred with bruises, too, because he was tired, and being tired made him clumsy, and now he bruised so easily. His skin was pale, stretched tight over his bones, like thin paper.
Clay sighed and stared at the road ahead. Another green road sign flashed past the windshield, a morass of letters and numbers. To Clay, it was further evidence of their madness as they got further and further from home. All Bob probably saw was Carolyn’s name, etched on the sign in place of the towns and cities they weren’t heading toward.
The knocking became worse, and Clay was forced to shut off the AC, which meant cracking a window. The howling was awful, but the radio was too weak to play over it. Bob just closed his eyes and tipped his head back, uncaring of the way the wind whipped his hair into his face.
“Can you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Clay shot back. The slow death of The Beast’s engine? His own insanity draining out his ears?
“Her name,” Bob said. “On the wind.” He was smiling.
Clay wondered if his brother was already gone, and they hadn’t even gotten to where they were going.
(inspired by this video)
(409 words)
Another Memory
Rain misted out the the gray sky, soaking into the green countryside. Narrow roads followed stone walls that partitioned tracts of land. Cows and sheep chewed quietly in the fields, paying no attention to the passing world. The scent of wild onions drifted on the breeze, mixing with the tangible breath of life from the growing plants. The air was crisp and clear.
Kyle stood, leaning against a low stone wall beneath a tree, watching the blossoms of flowers bend gently in the wind. His brown hair was matted to his head; a curious smile gracing his mouth. His wiry body was encased in a old leather jacket and blue jeans, the rain making rivulets down the leather. His sturdy boots were encrusted with mud. A small pack rested on the ground next to him, filled with dried fruit and jerky, a small map covered in dots, a small bound journal and a sketchbook. He had just left a small town behind him, his destination, another small town. He didn't stay long in any one area. There was another dot added to his map as he left the town. He didn't mind sleeping out of doors.
The rain let up and Kyle looked up at they sky. The sun seemed as if it would make an appearance, and so he decided to continue to the next town. Shouldering his pack, Kyle stepped out from under the tree and hummed a tune as he walked down the country road. Another town, another memory.
Kyle stood, leaning against a low stone wall beneath a tree, watching the blossoms of flowers bend gently in the wind. His brown hair was matted to his head; a curious smile gracing his mouth. His wiry body was encased in a old leather jacket and blue jeans, the rain making rivulets down the leather. His sturdy boots were encrusted with mud. A small pack rested on the ground next to him, filled with dried fruit and jerky, a small map covered in dots, a small bound journal and a sketchbook. He had just left a small town behind him, his destination, another small town. He didn't stay long in any one area. There was another dot added to his map as he left the town. He didn't mind sleeping out of doors.
The rain let up and Kyle looked up at they sky. The sun seemed as if it would make an appearance, and so he decided to continue to the next town. Shouldering his pack, Kyle stepped out from under the tree and hummed a tune as he walked down the country road. Another town, another memory.
A New Path
Samantha stepped out of her hotel into the bright Mediterranean light. The light here felt more palpable her than at home, as if she could reach out and touch it. The air was warm, but not hot yet, it was still morning.
Sam placed her feet carefully on the uneven cobblestones, walking down the old village street, her camera out to capture the essence of her travels. Old men and women sit at small cafes that have been there for hundreds of years. The peacefulness of the town broken by the chatter of people on cell phones and the buzzing of scooters. Tradition meeting modern convenience.
Sam looked up at the sun, shading her eyes, as the bells from a church down the road tolled the hour. Sam crossed the street and entered the market. Merchants calling out their wares in a language that Sam barely understood. The air was heavy with ripe scents. Piquant spices, heady smelling cheeses, sweet tomatoes and fresh herbs. Money changed hands as Sam bought a small loaf of fresh bread and walked on.
A flock of pidgins took flight as Sam approached the canals. The water flowed by at a leisurely pace, as if matching the speed of life. Painters had set up their easels near the crossroads of the canals, some painting while others were displaying their wares.
Sam approached a line of boats moored in the canal, considering each in turn as she waled by, many of the boatmen calling to her. Sam finally stopped near the end when she heard a soft, gentle voice call out to her in accented English. "Scusi Signorina, you would like a ride? It is a beautiful day for one."
Sam looked up at the young man. He had black hair and a deep olive complexion. His smile showed even white teeth and dimples in his cheeks. Curiously, he had bright blue eyes instead of the black eyes of his countrymen. He leaned against his pole that would propel his craft through the canal.
"Si," Sam said stepping towards the small boat. The young man stepped forward and offered her his hand to climb aboard. Sam grasped his warm calloused hand and stepped easily into the boat. She was steered to a cushioned seat in the middle of the boat; and the man took his place at the front.
"Where would you like to go Signorina?" The man asked as he steered the boat away from the dock.
"I wish to see something beautiful. Where would you go?" Sam asked.
His dimples returned as he flashed a smile. "I know the best spot Signorina." He pushed off in a new direction towards a quiet canal, lined with hanging gardens and ancient churches.
(I am still working on the modifiers...)
Sam placed her feet carefully on the uneven cobblestones, walking down the old village street, her camera out to capture the essence of her travels. Old men and women sit at small cafes that have been there for hundreds of years. The peacefulness of the town broken by the chatter of people on cell phones and the buzzing of scooters. Tradition meeting modern convenience.
Sam looked up at the sun, shading her eyes, as the bells from a church down the road tolled the hour. Sam crossed the street and entered the market. Merchants calling out their wares in a language that Sam barely understood. The air was heavy with ripe scents. Piquant spices, heady smelling cheeses, sweet tomatoes and fresh herbs. Money changed hands as Sam bought a small loaf of fresh bread and walked on.
A flock of pidgins took flight as Sam approached the canals. The water flowed by at a leisurely pace, as if matching the speed of life. Painters had set up their easels near the crossroads of the canals, some painting while others were displaying their wares.
Sam approached a line of boats moored in the canal, considering each in turn as she waled by, many of the boatmen calling to her. Sam finally stopped near the end when she heard a soft, gentle voice call out to her in accented English. "Scusi Signorina, you would like a ride? It is a beautiful day for one."
Sam looked up at the young man. He had black hair and a deep olive complexion. His smile showed even white teeth and dimples in his cheeks. Curiously, he had bright blue eyes instead of the black eyes of his countrymen. He leaned against his pole that would propel his craft through the canal.
"Si," Sam said stepping towards the small boat. The young man stepped forward and offered her his hand to climb aboard. Sam grasped his warm calloused hand and stepped easily into the boat. She was steered to a cushioned seat in the middle of the boat; and the man took his place at the front.
"Where would you like to go Signorina?" The man asked as he steered the boat away from the dock.
"I wish to see something beautiful. Where would you go?" Sam asked.
His dimples returned as he flashed a smile. "I know the best spot Signorina." He pushed off in a new direction towards a quiet canal, lined with hanging gardens and ancient churches.
(I am still working on the modifiers...)
Sight in Blindness
Garain circled the world, skipping across oceans and fast fields of grain. She skidded to a halt on a small island in the East, music catching her ear. Smiling, Garain headed towards the music, following a twisting dirt path through thick stands of trees. The trees were tall and thin; having few leaves on them. There were flowers growing everywhere and she could hear a waterfall in the near distance. At last she found a young human man playing a pipe made out of reeds. He was situated in a small wooded area near the waterfall. There was a heavy and heady aroma drifting on the wind.
On silent feet Garain ghosted into the clearing and seated herself of the verdant grass. She listened with wonder at the music that this human man made. It was a slow and gentle song, sweet and poignant. Garain drew the music into her body as if it were air, savoring it.
"Who's there?" the man asked, stopping his music. He looked around with clouded eyes. His voice was almost as sweet as the music had been. The man listened to the world around him.
The man took up his pipe again after a few moments and began to play again. Garain hummed a counterpoint, twining her voice with that of the pipe. The man continued to play, listening to the voice that was like none he had ever heard. At the end of the song he removed the pipe from his lips.
"I see," the man said. "Would it please you to hear more Great One?"
Garain smiled. She would come here again.
On silent feet Garain ghosted into the clearing and seated herself of the verdant grass. She listened with wonder at the music that this human man made. It was a slow and gentle song, sweet and poignant. Garain drew the music into her body as if it were air, savoring it.
"Who's there?" the man asked, stopping his music. He looked around with clouded eyes. His voice was almost as sweet as the music had been. The man listened to the world around him.
The man took up his pipe again after a few moments and began to play again. Garain hummed a counterpoint, twining her voice with that of the pipe. The man continued to play, listening to the voice that was like none he had ever heard. At the end of the song he removed the pipe from his lips.
"I see," the man said. "Would it please you to hear more Great One?"
Garain smiled. She would come here again.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Car Trouble
David's car flew down the highway, the pitch blackness outside making the night a monotonous one. He had gone on auto-pilot hours ago, his only aim was to put miles behind him. He was at mile marker 318 but didn't know or care what state he was in. The only clues to his whereabouts was the heavy scent of pine in the air, the trees were deeper patches of blackness against the night.
The sun was just making a showing on the horizon when David came out of his half trance, noticing his gas light was flashing. David's camero started to stutter and heave. Growling in frustration David pulled off the narrow mountain pass and turned off his car. Fishing his cell phone out of his jacket pocket he glanced at the screen and snapped it closed when it said there was no service. Looking around all David could see were the towering trees above him and a patch of sky high above. The rough asphalt road curved away in either direction, the paint faded and worn. He could hear birds in the trees and the air was pure, like the air in his memories.
David leaned against his car and took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. He hoped that another car would come along, but he didn't hope very hard, he had not passed many people on this old highway; most people preferred to take the interstate.
Shrugging, David started to walk down the highway, hands in the pockets of his jacket, not so much in a hurry anymore. At the moment he was hard pressed to care if he ever got to where he was going. Drawing another deep breath he started to whistle as he walked down the road.
The sun was just making a showing on the horizon when David came out of his half trance, noticing his gas light was flashing. David's camero started to stutter and heave. Growling in frustration David pulled off the narrow mountain pass and turned off his car. Fishing his cell phone out of his jacket pocket he glanced at the screen and snapped it closed when it said there was no service. Looking around all David could see were the towering trees above him and a patch of sky high above. The rough asphalt road curved away in either direction, the paint faded and worn. He could hear birds in the trees and the air was pure, like the air in his memories.
David leaned against his car and took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. He hoped that another car would come along, but he didn't hope very hard, he had not passed many people on this old highway; most people preferred to take the interstate.
Shrugging, David started to walk down the highway, hands in the pockets of his jacket, not so much in a hurry anymore. At the moment he was hard pressed to care if he ever got to where he was going. Drawing another deep breath he started to whistle as he walked down the road.
Pay The Man
They stood on the banks of the river, waiting for the boat to approach. Jason had his hands in his pockets and was whistling a merry tune, seemingly oblivious to the soul-sucking gray-scale into which the world had reverted.
Harry studied the boatman as he approached. The man wore a striped shirt that was patchy at the elbows and dark overalls of some unidentifiable color, darker with spray from the river. He guided the boat with a single long pole, like a gondolier. If the bank and arching cave ceilings weren’t so morbid, Harry might have expected the man to break into La Traviata or something equally operatic.
The boat reached the bank, creaking against the little wooden dock someone had cobbled together with rough-hewn logs and hand-woven rope. Jason didn’t move.
Harry stared at him. The boatman stared at both of them.
Eventually Jason stopped whistling. “Well, pay the man,” he said.
Harry arched one eyebrow. “Pay the man? What for? With what?”
Jason’s smile was enigmatic and utterly maddening. “Check your pockets, lad.”
Harry was quite sure he’d had nothing in his pockets with Jason approached, but he jammed a hand into one of his pockets to appease the man all the same. And his fingers met cool metal. Harry drew out two coins made of some unidentifiable metal, so worn with age the the faces on them were barely human.
Jason said, “Pay the man.”
Harry dropped the coins into the boatman’s outstretched hand, then stepped onto the boat. It wobbled beneath his weight, but then he steadied himself.
Jason didn’t move.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“My journey is not yours,” Jason said. “Be careful when the Styx crosses Lethe. Keep your mouth shut, don’t swallow the spray - wouldn’t want you to be an amnesiac bore before you reach His Infernal Highness, hm?” And he stuck his hands into his pockets and sauntered away, whistling once more.
(323 words)
Harry studied the boatman as he approached. The man wore a striped shirt that was patchy at the elbows and dark overalls of some unidentifiable color, darker with spray from the river. He guided the boat with a single long pole, like a gondolier. If the bank and arching cave ceilings weren’t so morbid, Harry might have expected the man to break into La Traviata or something equally operatic.
The boat reached the bank, creaking against the little wooden dock someone had cobbled together with rough-hewn logs and hand-woven rope. Jason didn’t move.
Harry stared at him. The boatman stared at both of them.
Eventually Jason stopped whistling. “Well, pay the man,” he said.
Harry arched one eyebrow. “Pay the man? What for? With what?”
Jason’s smile was enigmatic and utterly maddening. “Check your pockets, lad.”
Harry was quite sure he’d had nothing in his pockets with Jason approached, but he jammed a hand into one of his pockets to appease the man all the same. And his fingers met cool metal. Harry drew out two coins made of some unidentifiable metal, so worn with age the the faces on them were barely human.
Jason said, “Pay the man.”
Harry dropped the coins into the boatman’s outstretched hand, then stepped onto the boat. It wobbled beneath his weight, but then he steadied himself.
Jason didn’t move.
“Aren’t you coming?”
“My journey is not yours,” Jason said. “Be careful when the Styx crosses Lethe. Keep your mouth shut, don’t swallow the spray - wouldn’t want you to be an amnesiac bore before you reach His Infernal Highness, hm?” And he stuck his hands into his pockets and sauntered away, whistling once more.
(323 words)
Monday, March 30, 2009
Hurtling Through Space on the Millenium Falcon
Daniel was sure he’d been in the ambulance for an eternity. He couldn’t even hear the sirens anymore, his ears had been registering them for so long. The cot wasn’t lumpy beneath his back anymore, and the EMTs no longer looked so red-faced and frantic. That was probably the drugs talking.
Daniel wondered how epic this journey would be, from the street corner to the hospital, to face his colleagues and see the sympathy on their faces when they learned that a surgeon had lost a hand.
The ride was smooth and unhurried, and he thought he could hear the driver laughing, but that might have been a radio DJ or someone he was talking to on the CB. There were too many turns to count, though Daniel suspected that the ambulance was really driving in a maze and in the center they would find a minotaur but he wouldn’t be able to slay it because his sword hand was gone.
Daniel tried to watch the world flash by through the windows, but all he saw were shining lights, rushing cars of indeterminate colors, and the night sky above. It was like hurtling through space on the Millenium Falcon.
And then the ambulance had stopped and the EMTs were red-faced and frantic again, and Daniel thought maybe the medicine was wearing off, because he could feel the burning agony at his wrist where his hand used to be, and then someone said,
“It’s Dr. Thomas.”
Daniel wondered how epic this journey would be, from the street corner to the hospital, to face his colleagues and see the sympathy on their faces when they learned that a surgeon had lost a hand.
The ride was smooth and unhurried, and he thought he could hear the driver laughing, but that might have been a radio DJ or someone he was talking to on the CB. There were too many turns to count, though Daniel suspected that the ambulance was really driving in a maze and in the center they would find a minotaur but he wouldn’t be able to slay it because his sword hand was gone.
Daniel tried to watch the world flash by through the windows, but all he saw were shining lights, rushing cars of indeterminate colors, and the night sky above. It was like hurtling through space on the Millenium Falcon.
And then the ambulance had stopped and the EMTs were red-faced and frantic again, and Daniel thought maybe the medicine was wearing off, because he could feel the burning agony at his wrist where his hand used to be, and then someone said,
“It’s Dr. Thomas.”
Marching to the House
“March,” Angel said.
DJ closed his eyes and bit back a retort. He was on edge enough as it was already, but if that man prodded him in the back with that monk staff one more time, he was going to lose it. Tobias, Keith, and Gabriel had already used up their quota of snappy comments and were sullenly silent.
DJ opened his eyes and cast his gaze across the landscape once more, hoping the internal serenity of his artist’s eye would stop him from picking a fight with a general who was millenia old and knew all the killing techniques in the world.
Not that DJ could be killed.
The path along the mountain was steep and winding, switchbacks to keep walking steady - and possibly torture students who had to walk down to the village for supplies. The valley was verdant and lush, with a silver river snaking its way through the green trees. A few bamboo huts dotted the mountainside, but they were lower down in the shelter of the trees. The further the path went, the more sparse the flora became. At the very top of the mountain loomed the House of Shang. DJ and the others would spend the next five years there becoming proficient in the art of assassination and murder with their bare hands and every weapon imaginable.
DJ had trained in kung fu for almost all his life, but this would be beyond anything the Shao Lin monks had taught him.
The House of Shang was jagged and grey, as if it had grown out of the rock of the mountain itself, and it cast most of the peak and plateau in dark grey shadow. Every step further made DJ feel as though someone had added a pound of lead to his legs. Dirt and gravel had wormed their way into his sandals, and it turned out that immortals could still get blisters. The scent of ginger was overwhelming.
“Can we rest?” Keith asked.
“Do you need to rest?” Angel asked.
“Need? No. Want? Yes.”
“Then keep walking.”
DJ gazed at the graveled path and wondered if it would ever stop, or if they would reach the top.
(365 words)
DJ closed his eyes and bit back a retort. He was on edge enough as it was already, but if that man prodded him in the back with that monk staff one more time, he was going to lose it. Tobias, Keith, and Gabriel had already used up their quota of snappy comments and were sullenly silent.
DJ opened his eyes and cast his gaze across the landscape once more, hoping the internal serenity of his artist’s eye would stop him from picking a fight with a general who was millenia old and knew all the killing techniques in the world.
Not that DJ could be killed.
The path along the mountain was steep and winding, switchbacks to keep walking steady - and possibly torture students who had to walk down to the village for supplies. The valley was verdant and lush, with a silver river snaking its way through the green trees. A few bamboo huts dotted the mountainside, but they were lower down in the shelter of the trees. The further the path went, the more sparse the flora became. At the very top of the mountain loomed the House of Shang. DJ and the others would spend the next five years there becoming proficient in the art of assassination and murder with their bare hands and every weapon imaginable.
DJ had trained in kung fu for almost all his life, but this would be beyond anything the Shao Lin monks had taught him.
The House of Shang was jagged and grey, as if it had grown out of the rock of the mountain itself, and it cast most of the peak and plateau in dark grey shadow. Every step further made DJ feel as though someone had added a pound of lead to his legs. Dirt and gravel had wormed their way into his sandals, and it turned out that immortals could still get blisters. The scent of ginger was overwhelming.
“Can we rest?” Keith asked.
“Do you need to rest?” Angel asked.
“Need? No. Want? Yes.”
“Then keep walking.”
DJ gazed at the graveled path and wondered if it would ever stop, or if they would reach the top.
(365 words)
Project Assignment # 22 - Travels
This week you should take a character on a journey. Either to a place you have been or to a place you want to go or to a place that doesn't even exist. Detail their travels. It can be any character. Describe this place in detail. Let's limit words to 500
Overview # 21 Epistolary
I know that I have been slackerish this week but I hope to do better this next week. The letter writing was interesting. I found that if I don't think about it to hard then dialogue comes more naturally, but if I tired to think about it, everything seemed to stop up in my mind.
Overview #21 - Epistolary
So I think I did all right. Sometimes there was some non-epistolary narration thrown in, but for the most part I did all right. I don't know that I captured the different writers' voices as fully as I'd've liked, but then there was a word restriction, and if I want to improve I should be able to make writing vivid even in a short space. I tried to use different methods of epistolary communication - the dorm-style exchange on the communal whiteboard, text messages, actual letters, notes, and other random things. There are so many reasons why people write to each other, and I tried to think of them all. I was especially proud of the exchange of letters over the kidnapping and possible killing - that was good times. Writing a novel purely in letter form would be wicked hard, though.
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