Concerning my novel. [17 Jun 2006|05:25pm] [ mood | geeky ] [ music | "redemption song" by bob marley ] I may have mentioned somewhere that I am writing a novel, I don't know. But I am. And to prove it, I am posting the first chapter of my novel for your reading pleasure. If it makes you hunger for more, have no fear, because it will be forthcoming, just as soon as a publisher picks it up. And one will sooner or later. I mean, they'll print anything these days... * * * Chapter 1: A King’s Ring     Soro Loshek ran for his life, navigating through the darkened forest with a speed urged on by fear. He looked back over his shoulder, wildly searching the shadows behind him for his unrelenting hunters. He heard their movements echoing through the twilit woods, frighteningly close. By Zhor, but they were fast! And persistent. None had slowed in their pursuit of him, nor gave any sign of tiring. He only wished he could say the same of himself. He ran harder still, pushing himself to his limits, leaping over fallen logs and rotting vegetation, careening over shallow ravines that the rain had washed out. The exposed roots of trees threatened to trip him, but he did not dare slow his strides or take the time to watch his steps. His feet were fleet enough, at least he hoped, and he knew the Gaevoth Woods as well as his own name.     Behind him, he heard one of his pursuers trip on something, and the loud wet crack of bone breaking followed immediately by a scream of pain, but still the man’s fellows chased after him, doggedly following his trail.     Soro had no idea how long he had been running, but by the landmarks he knew he had been chased through roughly ten miles of forest, and judging by the persistence of the soldiers following him, he knew they would not give up, and he would tire out before they would. His only chance would be to lose them in the forest he knew so well, and hope to escape on some unseen path. But he first had to disappear.     Dodging under a leaning tree, he took off into a thicket of brush, feeling the sharp briars and thorns tearing at his clothes and skin. He heard the soldiers shouting to each other, pointing out his change in direction, but he paid them no mind and tried to concentrate on keeping his balance and not falling on his face. He ran with his eyes tightly shut, fearing they might be put out, with only his outstretched hand to guide his way. His goal was a small stream, small and narrow yet deceptively deep, but exactly how far to the steep embankment he was, he was not sure. He could not open his eyes or slow his pace, but he knew the stream was ahead of him, and he took a chance. He dove to his knees, pulling his legs under him and rolling beneath the line of short, bushy featherleaf trees that edged the bank of the stream. He felt the tickle of the soft leaves on his skin and opened his eyes just in time to wrap an arm around one of the slim trunks and stop himself from splashing into the stream. He took a second to catch his breath then slowly and silently lowered his body into the cold water, immersing himself up to his head. Zhor, the water was cold!     Soro had forgotten how strong the current was in the little stream, but he dug his heels into the sandy bottom, and listened to the racket the soldiers made in the forest above him. They still hunted him, but they had lost his trail. The noises of men calling to each other died out, replaced by the eerie sounds of brush and branches being moved aside and men combing the area for him. Though a good distance away, they were still close enough that he dared not risk moving from his hiding place in the water. The sound of heavy footfalls came closer and closer to the stream, gripping his heart with dread. Silently, straining his hearing to its limits, he waited and listened as the steps came closer, the crunch of dead leaves and the snap of an occasional twig echoing in his head. Taking a deep breath, he soundlessly slipped the rest of the way beneath the dark waters of the stream. Positioning himself so he could look up at the edge of the embankment, he kept his body as still as he could, hoping he could wait out the soldier who surely must be coming to the stream. The dark outline of the burly soldier appeared, the man’s head turning left and right as he searched. Soro kept perfectly still, pressing his body closer to the stream bottom, his lungs already starting to burn from lack of air. As Soro watched the soldier, he noticed the armor the man wore was unlike any he had seen before, with a winged helmet and pauldrons studded with short, evil-looking blades.     The man’s gaze swept over him, moving past, and then again, before he stared at the bottom of the stream, his face in shadows. Soro’s heart clinched within his chest as he stared right back up at the soldier, able to do nothing else. Finally, the solider looked up and left the stream, passing out of Soro’s view. He waited for a count of thirty, an eternity to his air-starved lungs, before breaching the surface of the water, breathing in the blessed fresh air. He pressed himself against the bank and listened to the sounds of the soldiers receding back into the forest, away from him, talking softly among themselves, but their voices carried in the cold air and echoed through the trees. They had lost him. He shivered in the night air, his body chilled to the core, but he breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted to climb out of the stream, take off his wet things and dry himself, but the soldiers still were close enough that trying it would be foolhardy, and besides, tramping through a forest in nothing but your skin was a sure way to leave your scent behind for predators to find you. No, as much as he hated the idea of staying in the cold water for any longer, the stream flowed into the River Garosh, which led to his village on the shores of Fasalas Lake. And the sooner he put distance between himself and the soldiers the better. As long as he was quite and remained in the shadow of the embankment, they’d never find him.     As he swam fluidly with the current of the stream, he reflected back on the events of the day, attempting to make some semblance of sense in his mind. He had been out on a hunting trip in the east-most parts of the Gaevoth Woods, gone two days from his village of Berlesht. The hunting had been poor, the game scarce, strange for the time of year, and so he traveled farther and farther west, out of the woods of the Gaevoth, into the forests belonging to the Empire, forbidden to him and his kind. But he had roamed into the Emperor’s Forest before, and he had even been caught once or twice. Never had he been attacked without any apparent reason, without just cause or even a word spoken to him at all. It had been odd. They had acted like no Imperial soldiers he had ever encountered, not asking any questions or taking any prisoners. And their armor had been so strange. It hadn’t looked like any armor he had seen an Imperial soldier wear, even though it did bear a certain resemblance to something he had seen once before, in an old book his teacher had let him peruse. But who were they?     At least his skin was still in one piece. Zhor had been on his side in that regard. But he was damned if it didn’t rankle that his hunting trip had been a failure. Not one animal brought down, and to top it off, during the escape from the soldiers, he had lost his bow and hunting knife, and the tooled-leather quiver his teacher had given to him, all of fine Immortal make. That was not to say that he wasn't satisfied with the outcome; he still lived, after all.     After a few hours of swimming, with the sun still hours from dawning over the horizon, Soro felt a cramp beginning to assert itself in his leg. Zhor, but that would not do if he had to move quickly. Pulling himself to a place where the stream bank was wider, but that still offered a shadow to hide in, he clambered out of the water. He pulled his calf-length black leather softboots off and sat shivering in the cold night air, rubbing his calf muscles. Sitting on the muddy bank, drenched, he suddenly felt the growing pangs of hunger, and realized he had not eaten anything of any substance in two days. He had intended to cook some of what he caught while out in the forest and bring the rest back with him, so he had only brought some dried fruit and flat bread. Hoping to find some scrap of food left, he rummaged in his coat pockets, feeling for even a few loose pieces of bread or a berry. Unexpectedly, his finger touched something cold and smooth, and he closed his hand around it. It was freezing cold at one moment and then hotter than a furnace the next, yet somehow it was bearable to touch, and he drew it out of his pocket. It was heavy to hold, very heavy for its size in his hand, and he wondered how he had not noticed it in his pocket all this time. He opened his hand and gasped; there, nestled in his palm, lay a ring. It was the single most beautiful ring he had ever laid eyes on, forged of one piece of what looked to be the purest silver. It consisted of a wide, thick band, inscribed with characters in an old tongue that Soro’s teacher had told him few men knew. Crowning the ring was a thick triangle of solid silver, like the band, and engraved in the center of the triangle was a strange symbol, the like of which he had never seen: a circle within a triangle, within another circle. The ring gleamed in his hand, seeming to project its own inner luminance, and it commanded his attention. Staring at the ring, he knew it was precious, somehow, even beyond its weight in silver; more precious than any amount of gold or jewels. It was a king’s ring, the ring of a ruler.     He held the ring in his hand for a while longer, just staring at it, tracing its curves and angles with his eyes, admiring its perfect craftsmanship, its utter smoothness. But how would it look on his finger? He would never be a king or anyone of import, but the ring could give him a taste. He slowly brought the ring to his finger, anticipating the feel of the cold metal on his skin. His fingertip touched the silver band and then—     The rain beat down on him as he scaled the high wall of the Imperial retreat at Bel Sala, and the dark Alastroch sky above him offered no end in sight, but he paid it little mind. The rain was a blessing, a cover that would shield his movements from unwanted eyes.     The stones of the wall were rough beneath his hands; rough enough that the handholds were close together and easily reached, so he paid little attention to his ascent and let his hands and feet work of their accord, in whatever kind of unison they could achieve. His mind focused solely on his goal, on the one item that had demanded his attentions for so long. The thing was so close he could feel it, in his bones and in his blood.     He pulled himself up over the top of the wall and dropped gracefully to the ground of the estate, landing silently, and he immediately hid himself behind one of the manicured bushes of the garden. He crept closer to the manor itself, moving quickly, eager to be done and gone from the place. He snuck past beautifully carven stone fountains and ornate sculptures hailing from all over the world, but he paid them no heed; the treasure he sought caused all else to pale in comparison. Then he was at the trellis, with heavily-thorned nightlilies crawling up, all the way to the balcony three stories high. He climbed it quickly, mindless of the thorns biting into his skin, and then he stepped lightly onto the marble stones of the balcony, his softboots making no sound as he walked towards the glass-paned doors leading into the manor proper. He had come so far, and was so close, now; so close that he could see the object of his search in his mind’s eye, beckoning to him, calling. Only the door now stood between him and his prize. It was his; he would reclaim what was his by right.     He pressed his head against the door, listening for movement, and then slowly, quietly, disengaged the latch, and eased open the door. He slipped inside, silent as a shadow, seeing nothing but the gilded table upon which his precious treasure set, still calling for him to claim it. He strode up to the table—nothing else mattered now—and plucked the silver ring up, savoring its weight and its feel. He slid it home upon his finger, relished the surge of power that flowed through him, and for the first time in ages, he felt whole.     The young, comely man, little more than a boy, who had been sleeping in the huge, richly-gilded bed, leapt at him, throwing him to the ground, catching him by surprise, but he grappled with the young man with all his strength; his ring, his right, would not be taken from him again. He kicked the young man in the face, hearing bone crack beneath his blow, and he jumped to his feet, leaving the slack-bodied boy lying on the floor.     He bolted through the doors, leaping from the balcony, and dropped onto the ground, rolling on his shoulder to soften his landing. And then he was up, up and running, towards the tall, weathered trees that grew along the wall of the estate. Soldiers started running after him, hearing the commotion he made and reacting to it. But they would not catch him, they could not; the ring was his. He bounded up one of the tree trunks, his hands finding branches to pull himself up, his boots easily finding traction on the rough bark. Higher and higher he climbed, moving at a breakneck speed, until he breached the top branches, right near the lip of the wall. He vaulted himself over, sailing through the air, and then landed softly on a bed of wild clover growing along the wall. And then he was off running again, the soldiers slowed but still pursuing.     He ran on, straight into the depths of the thick forest surrounding the clearing in which Bel Sala had been settled. The soldiers would follow him, he knew, following the trail he left while wearing the ring. They were bound to the ring, bound to see it returned to its owner. Only, he was the ring’s true owner, not the thieving upstarts who played at ruling the Empire.     He dreaded removing the ring, dreaded the feeling of being dried out that would follow taking it from his finger, but then he could lose them. Still, with the power flowing through him, with the feeling on invigoration coursing through his body, a run would hurt nothing, and the soldiers would never catch him. Wearing the ring a little longer would hurt nothing—     Soro’s head hit a root sticking out of the sandy bank, and he saw the ring tumble from his grasp and land in the mud. He sat himself back up, rubbing the knot on his temple with one hand, and he groped for the ring with the other. He stared at it incredulously, felt the weight of it in his palm even more now than before. More than ever, he needed to be back home. He stood up, returning the ring gingerly to his coat pocket, and pulled his softboots back onto his feet, before wading back into the cold water of the stream. It would be a long swim. * * * out. Alex post comment

A new beginning of sorts. [14 Jun 2006|11:33pm] [ mood | productive ] [ music | "timothy" by kevin browne. ] Yo, folks. It's been a while. *dusts off the scenery* I think it's about time I put this place to use. I've accumulated a few short stories in between my own personal writing and writing for classes, so I'm going to use this place to post them for the world (or at least the people who read this thing) to read. First off, I think, is a story that I wrote a week or so ago, for my advanced fiction class. It's still in revision, but I'll post the first draft of it anyhow. So, without further ado, here is "Non-Negotiable." * * * A gun pointed in his face certainly was a first for Dr. Maxwell Conner. And a last too, if he had anything to say about it; he hadn’t been very keen on the idea before he’d experienced it, but now that he was here and now, he was quite sure if he somehow walked away, he would try his very best never to be on the business end of a gun again. The bastard on the opposite end of the gun, a tall, gangly, acne-riddled student of Dr. Conner, still shouted in the professor’s face, screaming obscenities and spouting threats. Maxwell tried to keep as still and calm as possible, and he was a little more than moderately successful, considering the circumstances; after all, before his teaching career had he not been a wildly successful psychologist, with years of experience at dealing with just such disturbed individuals? Still, that barrel shaking in his face wasn’t doing much for his nerves. The kid was starting to calm down a little bit, only, it wasn’t a logical, reasonable calm; it was more like a cold fury, a grim resolution that he’d do what he’d come to do. Maxwell had seen that look of desperation before, in suicide victims before they took that leap off the edge of the roof, in criminals who knew they had passed the point of no return. This kid wasn’t trying to get his grade changed; he had moved past that motivation ten minutes of screaming ago; now he wanted blood. “Kevin, I’ve told you already, I can’t change your grade; you knew the policy about missed tests.” Kevin pressed the gun into Maxwell’s forehead, that cold fury keeping his voice tight and his muscles strained. “Don’t you fucking tell me that, Conner. You ruined me! My mother was in the hospital, I had to be with her. Why can’t you get that through your thick head?” Maxwell grimaced at the pressure of the gun against his skin, but he managed to keep his voice even and calm. “Kevin, missing the final exam and not submitting your final paper is unacceptable. You’re in college; so you should act like it.” Kevin pressed the gun harder into Maxwell’s head. “Those are tough words, Professor. You’re on the wrong side of the gun to be talking like that.” The boy’s finger tightened on the trigger, and he made sure Maxwell saw. Maxwell certainly was not as spry as he once was, and he knew overpowering the boy was out of the question. Hoping that someone else would come to his office was also improbable; no one was even supposed to be in the building, and Maxwell had only come in to the office to grade papers. How the boy had gotten inside, or even knew he was there disturbed him. Maxwell was indeed on his own. He licked his dry lips, trying to work some moisture into his cottonmouth. “Kevin, listen to me, I’m sure we can work out something-“ “I’m done listening to you! You’re going to listen to me. I’m going to lose my fucking scholarship, all because of your fucking policy.” The boy slammed the butt of the gun into Maxwell’s temple, sending him sprawling. Maxwell sat up, rubbing blood out of his eyes. He knew speaking to the boy again was only going to further goad him into doing the inevitable, but he couldn’t quite contain himself; perhaps the adrenalin coursing through his body was affecting his inhibitions in a way he had not anticipated. “Kevin, if you lost your scholarship because of just one class, maybe the scholarship wasn’t right for you.” The cold fury in the boy’s eyes, the resolute, the desperation flared once more, and then the gun discharged. After the paramedics arrived, two bodies were taken away: one on a stretcher bound for the hospital the other in a body bag bound for the morgue. As he rode in the ambulance, Maxwell thought to himself that having a bullet in his chest must be one of the most surreal feelings he had ever known. He tried to stay as still as possible, accommodating the EMT as much as he could. It was a pity about the boy, but the policy was in the syllabus, plain as day. The boy just hadn’t been college material. A pity, but policy was non-negotiable. * * * out. Alex post comment

Just a post for the helluvit. [28 Nov 2005|12:06am] [ mood | listless ] [ music | "the garden meeting" by John Williams ] I honestly don't know why I'm posting now. I really have nothing to say. But damnit, I'm going to share with the world the nothing that I have to say. I'm tired. I don't know why I'm still up. Oh, wait, yes I do. Because I'm still writing. I've written a lot this past month. Hopefully it will pay off. Ok, so I'm not writing at this exact moment, but I'm just taking a little bit of a break. But I've got a question. I've wanted to short fiction recently, because that's a weak point of mine, so I thought I might use this as a forum for that. If I wrote some short stories and posted them here, would anyone read them? Does anyone read this anyway? Well, I've been thinking of doing that, so, if anyone would read them, comment please, and I will post them. Anyway, I've run out of things to say, so I'm going to go back to writing, and then get in bed. out. Alex post comment

Thanksgiving. [24 Nov 2005|09:00pm] [ mood | contemplative ] [ music | "the breaking of the fellowship" by Howard Shore ] I went over to Bree's for Thanksgiving, and it was a lot of fun. Good food and quality time with Bree and her folks, it's what the holidays are all about. Holidays make me think, though. Even moreso than usual. It makes think about what's really important in life. People spend a whole bunch of time and energy fretting about the Holidays, cooking, preparing the house for company, shopping, etc., etc. And for what? Is the day important? How is today any different from yesterday? Or how is Christmas any different from any other day? If we didn't keep track of the days, if we didn't make the day important, no one would notice it at all. People make a big deal about days, too big a deal as far as I'm concerned. There's nothing about any day that makes it more special than any other day. Now, don't get me wrong, I have nothing against any holiday or holy day that anyone wants to celebrate. It's just that I think every day is a holiday, a holy day. Every day that we are alive is a gift, a special day. I think if people realized that, if people took the time to give thanks each and every day, to think about family and friends and other people every day, I think this world would be a better place. And then, just maybe, if people were thankful year round, we might not need the holidays to make us feel better. It could be Thanksgiving year round. Just my two cents. Now I have to go outside and chase down the cat. out. Alex post comment

This is a journal entry. On the Internet. Oh my yes. [21 Nov 2005|10:34pm] [ mood | restless ] [ music | "heaven on their minds" from Jesus Christ Superstar ] I'm not very good at updating things. Meh. Not that anyone reads this. Not much went on today. I took Bree out to eat at Caffe Chocolat. And then I helped her with Astronomy homework. I learned that red dwarfs are the most common stars in the sky. Really useful information, that is. Man, I cannot wait for this year to be over. Not that it's been a bad year, or anything. I mean, a lot of good things happened this year. A lot of really cruddy things too, but a lot of good things as well. But I'm just tired of 2005. I'm ready for 2006 to start. A new year, a new beginning. I know, it's not even Thanksgiving yet and I'm looking to the end of the year, but hey, I can't help the way I feel. Maybe it's because I'm looking forward to moving on with my schooling. That could be. But who knows. Anyway, I've subjected you to enough of my ranting. out. Alex 1 comment|post comment

Bagels and donuts and the people who buy them. [10 Nov 2005|10:14am] [ mood | indifferent ] [ music | nothing but the endless hum of the computers all around me. ] I'm at work right now. Unfortunately, there's not a lot to do at the moment. Which is why I have time to update this. I should have brought my laptop, as my book is on there, and I ought to be working on my book. Instead, I'm sitting in the Cyber Cafe, at one of the public computers. I keep looking over towards my cafe, to see if there is anyone there. But alas, there is no one. Oh well. Breakfast is always slow. Lunch generally picks up. Except on Thursday, which it is, in which case the whole day is usually slow. Oh well. Such is life, I suppose. I'm just rambling on endlessly, so I suppose I'll stop and spare you anymore inanity. out. Alex post comment

There's a First Time for Everything. [09 Nov 2005|04:15pm] [ mood | tired ] [ music | nothin' ] I've never had a livejournal before. So why did I start one? You got me. I think it's just a place for me to put some of my thoughts and ramblings online for people to read. Again you might ask, Why? To that I say, Why not? Anyway, I really don't have to much to say at the moment. I'm actually kind of tired. I'm at school right now, just hanging out before my night class. I'll think I'll get off and write for a bit. out. Alex post comment

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