Tuesday, October 18, 2016

MMC #13

Yay!  At long last, here is a new MMC.  I actually wrote this about two months ago but yesterday I finally received the results.  Anyway...Here 'tis!

“Remember what I told you, Mary,” he had said to her one tender spring morning. He gave her his hand, his gentle gaze searching hers for confirmation; “I know you are a clever girl.” he was silent for so long she thought he was finished. Suddenly, his eyes sprung back open. He stared at her, his expression laced with urgency, “Here” With this final word, the old man closed his tired eyes and opened them no more.
She bent down towards him and rested her head on his chest. The smell of his old-spice tickled her nose and she could still feel the warmth of his embrace. After a moment of silence broken only by her gentle cries, she pushed herself away.
There he was, helping her to her feet. “Shh,” he soothed, turning her to face him, “It’s going to be okay.”
She took a quivering breath, “Oh, Steven. Are you sure?”
He reached over, gently brushing away her tears, “I’m sure,” he stepped back for a moment and peered over her shoulders to her grandfather’s resting form. “Are you positive he’s gone?”
She nodded, confused, “Of course.”
“Good,” he smiled, but it was a stranger’s smile, “This has worked out beautifully.”
“Steven,” she stepped back, “What’s happening?”
“Oh, Darling,” he reached over to the nightstand, retrieving John’s weathered journal.
“You should have headed your grandfather’s words long ago.” In one swift movement, he smacked her across the head. She was flung across the room and landed against the mirror on the wall, shattering its clear glass. 
“I’m glad we got married,” he sneered, “after today, the fortune is mine.” 
A single tattered leaf floated down beside her. She now understood her grandfather when he said: "The saddest thing about betrayal is that it never comes from your enemies."

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Literature and Classics--What Sets Them Apart?

Literature is more than the average, everyday flow of writing.  Literature is an articulate work of art from artists who possess both impressive intellect and pure, unadulterated talent.  Literature is difficult; the beautiful words with which they are painted are from a time so different from our own.  These works were composed in a world where language was more than purely a means of communication, it was a form of art.   Literature leaves a certain impression of greatness. Anyone can write and it doesn’t take a well learned author to pen a young adult fiction, but literature sets itself apart in both the breathtaking wording and profound, well-grounded morals. 

A classic piece of writing is a work that has stood the test of time.  Sometimes one can tell by simply reading such a story that it is one that will continue to live on in the hearts of men because they themselves know that it will live on in theirs.

For example, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll displays a sense of the new and bizarre that seems so peculiar and yet, strangely familiar to its reader.  Wonderland is a world that one only travels to in dreams; in this it is far from relatable to our everyday lives.  Alice is in many ways like the average reader.  She touches the part of us from when we too were young and imaginative.  In this way we are entirely able to relate to her as a person.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (Arthur Conan Doyle), as another example, depicts the life of a man with intelligence so great it seems to make him more than a man.  This in itself sets it apart from other detective novels as king of the genre.  Along with supremely plotted storylines, plenty of action, and interesting dialogue, Sherlock’s character is so well crafted it displays the sense of the incomprehensible and the unattainable.  Through the eyes of his colleague, Dr. John Watson, a man to whom many of us can relate, we see a man so completely extraordinary it’s almost as if he is a god on earth, and yet he is but a man like you and me.  Readers of these stories find themselves striving to gain knowledge and become more aware of the world around them.

There are many examples of classic works that could prove this point.  If one takes the time to
carefully examine each piece of literature that is deemed a classic, they will discover the same basic ingredients.  These are often, but not limited to firstly, a brilliantly well thought-out but natural storyline.  Secondly, a classic contains intricate, relatable characters and situations alongside those that defy all levels of grasping.  Lastly, a classic holds an ending that leaves you a different person.  A classic makes you ponder the world around you and question your own place in it.  A classic’s morals bleed out through its pages so that its reader cannot help but be affected by it.  But a classic isn’t easy.  A classic takes a journey through your mind, plaguing you with never-ending questions and tearing down the walls you have built around yourself.  In the end, if you really have devoted yourself to it, you feel violated for you have just looked into the mind of a genius from long ago and found yourself inadequate to the task they have set before you.  If words have power then great works are magic and you have just been put under a spell. 

Classics are dangerous and they will change you.  It may be hard and it may be painful, but in the end, you will emerge a new person, stronger than you were before.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

MMC #12

Summer is finally here, (yay!)  I'm itching to get back to writing.  So to warm up, I'm doing another Monday Minute Challenge (MMC).  Author Tessa Emily Hall hosts them on her blog.  (You should really check it out!)----> Christ is Write
It is 302 words long.  (a little over!) I used the picture prompt.

As they sat there in silence, she could sense there was something he wanted to convey, but didn’t know how to begin.  There was a nervous excitement in his overall presence. Anticipation started to fill her own self as she studied him. 
“Sarah,” he finally said, turning sharply to face her full on.  He clenched and unclenched his fists. 
“Yes, Kay?”
“I think you’re ready now.”  He didn’t say anything further for a moment.  She felt an urging to know more, not just out of curiosity, but out of a feeling of longing.  This feeling nearly consumed her and it was all she could do not to shake the information out of him.
At last he took a deep breath, and brought his gaze to hers.  “Come with me.”  And just like that, he reached down and grabbed her hand. 
“Where are we going?”  She gasped, trying desperately to keep from tripping.
“For a swim!” he called over his shoulder.  At last they ceased their pace at the rocky cleft of an ocean. 
“Climb in!” Kay instructed, gesturing to a ladder leading down into the water.
“What?”  She screamed, her voice barely heard above the crashing of the waves.  “The water is dangerous, we can’t!”
“Sarah, trust me.”
She peered into his eyes.  The feeling of longing once again consumed her and she found herself grasping onto the ladder rungs.  She descended into the waves, paused for a moment, and finally submerged.  But instead of being greeted by frigid water, she was met with warm, gentle sunshine.  When she looked back up, she could see Kay appearing as if in a mirror.  “Kay,” she breathed, her feet touching the ground, “what is this place?
“Don’t you know by now?” he smiled “it’s your home.”  He jumped down and kneeled.  “Welcome home…Queen Sarah.


Tuesday, March 15, 2016

MMC #11

I haven't written and MMC for a long time now, but I thought I'd try it again! :)

MMC (Monday's Minute Challenge) is a quick writing exercise to get those writer's juices flowing.  You can find out more about them here: http://christiswrite.blogspot.com/2016/03/mondays-minute-challenge-writing-prompt.html

I used the picture prompt.

Word count: 278

A man donned in a grey cloak, his brow drawn, stared down upon a boy dressed in a black hood.  His old eyes studied the young eyes of the boy.  The youth's expression, however, was unreadable.
“Pray tell,” said the elder, “What makes you think you are the one that was called for?”
The boy’s expression never changed.  “My mother told me.”
The man’s wrinkled, solemn demeanor gave way to a slight chortle “Ah, but it is every mother’s dream that her son be the one to change the tide and break the curse.”  The mockery in his tone gave way to that of despondency.  “Go on home, boy,” he sighed, “A mother’s dream can’t end the war.”
“I am he.”  The boy insisted.  “And I can prove this to you.”  He slowly lifted his right hand forward, spreading his fingers apart. A single spark kindled from the center of his palm.
The elder’s dark eyes opened wide.  The corners of his mouth lifted and he shook grey head in awe.  “You are the one—you are the one who is to save us!” 
The fire died and the boy bowed his head.  “I am he.”  He tilted his head up; his stoic expression began to change.  A strange sort of expression twisted his young features, causing the elder to feel unsettled in a way he could not describe.  “I am he.”  The boy continued “My mother—she died of agony in this knowledge.”  He stood up straighter, all at once not seeming the innocent boy he was, but so much more than that.  He grinned, his green eyes peering down upon the man.  “And so shall you.”

Sunday, February 7, 2016

The Tale of Katan D.


How is everyone doing?  I thought I would try writing something a little different than usual. 
 I hope you like it!


The Tale of Katan D.

To begin this tale, I want to clarify that this story isn’t about me.  In fact, I’m not at all quite sure it’s about any one singular person.  For all I knew, it might involve perhaps two or four or even a hundred different persons.  But how was I to know?  And as I didn’t know, you all shall know no more than I.  So I guess you could say that at the commencement, this story was quite a bit about my own self. 

So I’ll begin by stating that I (who was the only being present at this time) didn’t know how or why, but I woke to find myself in the interior of some strange mansion.

I will attempt as best I can to paint a word picture of this mansion.  I was in the corridors, as mentioned before.  It was extremely dark so offering a description might prove to be a challenging task.  The walls were red.  Not red like the cheerful color of holly, but more of a dark and menacing red, closer to the color of black cherries.  There seemed to be an assortment of chairs and furniture about me but, as was the case with many of them, I couldn’t make out which piece might be a settee and which was a table as they were covered in white sheets.  The floor on which I was pacing was covered in a thick rug that was the same black cherry red but with looping patterns of gold entwined.  As I waited in this place, the idea to remove the sheets and take a seat upon one of the surely sumptuous pieces of furniture was, of course, a definite desire to any person exhausted from pacing and anxiety.  However, as I looked about me, I felt they were too fine and too shut away from the likes of someone as I.  Even though, as I’ve said before, I knew as little as to why I was where I was as an infant might know when born into this dark and insane world. 

To continue on with my story:  somehow, despite the enormous uncertainty of my predicament, I knew I was where I was for a reason.  I was also quite certain that the reason was not one of the pleasant nature.  But I had absolutely nothing for which to aid me in deciphering who I was or what my mission was in my being in this mysterious, ornate room.

 I ceased pacing and reached into my pockets in an act of frustration.  Once doing, I felt my fingers brush against a piece of paper.  I quickly dug the parchment out and studied it for a moment as if struck with a certain pang of something I could not comprehend.  This lasted only a moment and after but a single breath, I unfolded the letter and surveyed its contents.  There was a short sentence scrawled hastily.  But despite the speed in which it was apparently written, I could deduce it was penned by the graceful hand of a female.  But once I read the message, I began to give more care as to its author. 

“Meet me at midnight,” it said “your life may depend on it.” 

I impulsively shoved the note back into my pocket, as if afraid of someone seeing it.  What did it mean: my “life may depend on it”?  Was I to die?  Why?  Why was this happening?  These questions, and a million more beside, whirled around inside me like a hurricane, along with a strange and horrible feeling I simply could not dismiss. 

 The grandfather clock against the wall clanged back and forth in the distance, droning on and on as the time dragged.  I stopped my pacing (which I had since picked up again) to glance out of the window.  The night was black, nearly intense, but the wind and rain were fierce in equal measure.

“What am I doing here?”  I at last gave a voice to the all-empowering question. 
For all I knew or felt or understood, was that I was in some sort of strange dream from which I longed to wake.  Or maybe I was locked away in some alternate universe with no chance of ever escaping.  I did not know.  And not knowing is torment in itself.

I could not explain it.  Not if I had a thousand years in which to relay the weight of my predicament.  But here I was, and here I was to wait, as the mysterious letter instructed, until the hour of midnight made its arrival. 

Just when I thought I was to remain alone with only the ticking of the clock and the torment of my ceaseless anxiety and thoughts, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming from the hallway directly to the front of me.   But when I lifted my eyes to see who was there, I saw nothing.

“Hello.”  A voice behind me uttered.  I whirled around quickly.  My heart felt as if it were nearly to pound out of my chest from the unexpected meeting, but I felt myself begin to relax as I realized who now stood before me.  It was a young woman.  She was beautiful; short and slender with dark hair, lips as red as rubies, and skin like milk.  Her features were solemn and her lips drawn.  Her brow was arched downwards, in a way I could not quite decipher what she was feeling.  Perhaps, determination, perhaps sorrow, but I could not detect fear as I for some reason expected to.  But maybe it was my own fear that I expected to see mirrored in her visage.  All in all, I found myself speechless for a moment as I observed her.

At last when I found my tongue I seemed unable to withhold a multitude of questions from escaping me.  “Who are you?  Who am I?  Where am I?  How long have I been here?  Why am I here?”

“Please.”  She interrupted my slew of inquiries.  I stopped my ramblings as quickly as I began them.  The silent urgency in the simple word she spoke struck panic throughout me.

“Please,” she repeated with hardly the slightest intonation in her steady voice, “there is no time.”

At this moment, something began to change in me.  I could not explain it, not if I had my whole life in which to express the feelings swirling through me.  I knew I needed to do something, but I had no idea the course of action I was to take.

I looked into the face of the beautiful and strange young woman before me and felt a sudden desperation in a way I had never experienced.  “What am I to do?”  I asked—nay, begged…pleaded.  “Please, tell me what I need to do.”

She smiled at me, softly, gently, and, if I didn’t know better, tenderly.  “You already have.”

What did she mean that I “already have”?  What did I do?  I felt as if a thousand and one years of guilt were throwing their dark shadow upon me.  I had the all empowering urge to scream.

The grief within me grew with such intensity; I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.  “What am I to do?  Oh, please, what am I to do?”  I realized then that I was crying.  I seemed to find some sort of sense with this realization, if not the slightest hint of relief.  I slowly relaxed my grip on her shoulders.  “Why am I crying?”  I asked.

“Please…I-I don’t know..”

“Yes you do.”  I replied, lifting my gaze, I looked deeply into her eyes.  The blueness of them was all so enchanting and eerily familiar to me.  I searched through them desperately, as if certain I was to find the answers to all of my questions within them.  “Tell me.”  I gasped, sliding my hands away and leaning forward.  I was suddenly exhausted, as if looking into her eyes had drained me of every ounce of energy.

She said nothing for a moment, but finally, she gently lifted my chin so I was forced to look into her piercing gaze once more.  “I think you already know.”

I somehow managed to bring my gaze back to her face, despite the feeling that there was the weight of a thousand deaths buried within her soul’s window.  A thousand deaths of people I knew, that I had experienced, and a thousand deaths I had caused.

I reached frantically into my pocket and retrieved the note that had been burning a hole in my pocket ever since I knew of its existence.  “Meet me at midnight; your life may depend on it.”

Shakily, as a man drunk with fear and trepidation, I crumpled the letter and let it fall to the ground. 

“I remember.”  I said. 

The shame I felt in this moment haunts me to this day.  If I could go back to where I stood that wretched day, I would scream and tear at the invisible chains that bound me.  I would try as hard as I might to end the sorrow—to end the pain that I had caused.  Oh, that I could change the past!  Oh, that I could change the fate of that horrid day!  Let all who read this beware of cowardice.  It creeps upon you, quiet and harmless.  It seems like light and joy and freedom from pain and sorrow.  But once accepted into your life, it no longer becomes a safe haven, but a living hell.  It offers salvation, but ends only in misery and self hatred.  I write this narrative to warn you of its danger.

As I gazed into this young woman’s eyes, I saw the heart of everything I should have been.  All that was courageous and dutiful and good seemed to be embodied in her.  For I will tell you, bravery is the not like cowardice.  It shows not light and freedom in its wake.  For when one chooses bravery, there are two paths—one of success and one of failure.  But what I did not know then, is that both paths reap a reward far beyond that of safety.  As I looked into her eyes, I saw the joy that came with bravery.  Long have I wished for that joy, and long have I wished to see her again.  For she was the one I loved and the one I could never be like.

As I shook and sobbed with all the guilt and pain within me, she gently lifted my head.  “If I could do this for you a thousand times over, I would.”  She said.

I simply sat there, like the cowering fool that I was.  “Is there no other way?”

She shook her head.  “Do not worry, dear Katan, I forgive you.” 

In the distance, the clock struck the twelfth hour.

“Remember,” my love whispered, “You are a good man, you have only to realize that.”

Slowly, yet all too quickly, she began to fade.  The wind from the storm outside swirled through and around her, lifting her raven hair into the air and soon, the rest of her lifted with it.  I simply watched her awestruck.  A black mist appeared to be clouding around her, but I could not see its source, until I looked down.  The source, revered reader, was me.  I tried to grasp on to the blackness escaping from me.  I struggled at it, pushed at it, fought it, but it was to no avail.  As the blackness fully left me, I looked up at my love, she was enshrouded with it.  But unlike me, when it reached her, it turned into something, not so terrible and disgusting, but beautiful.  Before I had a chance to understand what I was seeing, the mist was overcoming her and the wind was sweeping her away from me.  From above, she looked down at me, her eyes searching through me.  It is an image I never have forgotten.  It is an image I see when I close my eyes at night and it is the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning.  It is a memory that has haunted me for the rest of my days. 

The mist was all about her now.  The wind and rain gave one more turbulent blow, and then, she was gone.

Looking back to the years gone by, I see what could have been, I see what I could have been.  If you have felt any hint of compassion towards me throughout the length of this discourse, I am sure to snuff it out now.  You see, in my cowardice, this young woman was not the only one who suffered.  Oh no.  She suffered the price for all of my other sins I have committed in the name of self preservation.  I will say it now, as I should have long ago:  I have hurt and I have killed in my desperation and my fear.  This is not to say that I do not love, for I have loved fiercely for my fellow kind, specifically for the raven-haired hero.  But, I am ashamed to say, that despite my deep devotion to her, the fear of death and the love of safety tore me away from her.  This whole narrative is to paint a picture of my life.  The house I found myself in was the house I made for myself.  Beautiful, ornate, but shielded from me.  It was there for me, but I found not peace there, but discontentment.  I found not love, but loneliness.  I found not joy, but sorrow.

Someone had to pay the price for my cowardice, but I was too much of a fool to do so myself.  And so she—the most courageous being that ever drew breath, answered the request for a soul.  She traded her life in return for the many lives I have ruined in my attempt to save my own life.  She saved me and in doing so, I allowed another death to be taken in my name.

And now I am prepared to end my wretched life of cowardice.  I intend to make one last act out of fear and shame.  And you, dear reader, you shall be the last to know of this.  Let this be my final testament.  You know how I died, and we shall leave it at that.  If you ever find yourself in my mansion of doom—my prison of self-worth, perhaps you will take my advice, and escape from this place as soon as you can.

May every piece of this discord be taken word for word.



Sunday, November 1, 2015

MMC #10

Here's my Monday Minute Challenge for this week.  If writing is something you are interested in but you just need something to get the creative juices flowing, then I highly recommend participating! :)
Here is the link: http://christiswrite.blogspot.com/

301 words and I used the sentence prompt :)

He was almost there.  He could feel it in his bones.  The rolling water and crashing waves no longer had any effect on him.  He leaned forward against the stern of the boat, his azure eyes straining to see through the dark and misty haze.
A little whimper from a small bundle next to him revealed that he was not alone.  “Mannie,” whispered a frail girl that shared the same blue eyes as him. “I’m c-cold.”
The young man turned around and held her tiny hand in his.  “It will be okay, little Jess.  We’re nearly there.  You will be warm and well.”  But even as he said it, he worried that this little wisp of a child would not be able to withstand the last leg of the journey.  He leaned forward towards his little sister and stroked her tangled hair gently.  “Do you remember, little Jess, the One who commands the sea?”
The sorrow in her pale face was replaced with a peaceful expression.  “Jesus.”
He smiled.  “That’s right.  If he is so very mighty, would he want us to be afraid or untrusting?”
She shook her head.  “No.”  In a fit of coughing, she ducked her head down beneath the damp wool blanket. 
The brother patted his sister’s head once more before taking ore in hand and turning back towards the sea. 
Let the little one sleep while she can.
 The young man, through the coming waves ahead, beheld the future.  The horizon was growing dark and dismal, as if the sun had all but disappeared forever and night and mist were declaring their reign of terror. 
Before it happened, the young man clasped his trembling sister in his arms one last time.  Gently, softly, the killing wind tossed the boat over the edge and into Heaven’s embrace.

Monday, October 19, 2015

MMC #9

Here is my MMC for this week.  You can find out more about MMC's here: http://christiswrite.blogspot.com/2015/10/mondays-minute-challenge-writing-prompt.html  Also, if you are an aspiring author, she herself is young writer who has already published a book.  She has many helpful tips and suggestions and such on her blog, so check it out! :)

My MMC is 303 words long (couldn't quite get it down to 300) and I used the word prompts and the sentence prompt.

Danielle let loose an exasperated sigh and fingered a fading leaf from a passing tree.  “Days and days we have traveled and yet our destination does not get any closer!  It’s all your fault, you miserable, scattered-brained boy.”
Elion grinned widely and dipped his head forward so that his hazelnut curls fell over his face.  “I do believe,” he teased “that you are beginning to like me.”
“You are full of delusions.” 
No sooner had she said this, and Elion had produced a bow and was drawing back a silver arrow. 
“What is it?”  Danielle asked.
The smile on his face did not diminish, but increased.  “Ah, it is my arch-foe, Sir Koen.  One might say that we have a…interesting relationship.”
“Is it thee, my accursed Elion?”  Came a nasally voice from behind the bushes.  “Oh, how I have been longing not to see you!”  Following this voice there came a tall man with coal black hair and sharp eyes.
“And I you, Sir Koen.”  Elion replied.  All this was said as cheerfully as the sunshine might greet the blue sky.
“Who’s this?”  Sir Koen asked, glancing in Danielle’s direction.  “What a pretty thing!  Do you fancy jousting?”
“Our discussion?”  Elion questioned as if wishing the attention back on him.
“Hush boy!  Never interrupt your enemy while he’s making a fool of himself.”
“Excuse me!”  Danielle imputed.  “But will one of you please tell me why you are enemies?”
A rustling noise came through the trees and out bounded a silver wolf.  The creature was of such beauty and majesty that it seemed to Danielle that all the kings and magistrates in the world combined all but paled in comparison.
“He stole Wolf from me.”  Elion said, his voice no longer insouciant, but filled with determination.  “And I’m going to get him back.”