Continuing on with the introduction to our quest. I will be using the time today to push through the scene and make some headway to the next.
The brothers just snuck outside to see what "collection" the stranger is showing their father outside at night.
A faint ticking sound grew stronger as they reached the object. Danos moved around the side of it and stared up toward the top. Makos followed, wondering what the noise was about. When he reached his brother's side, he could clearly see the glass front of a grandfather clock.
It was much like the one in the train station, with a pendulum that swung back and forth to the rhythm of tick-tocking. He recognized the clock face with all twelve hours marked, like any clock. The golden fish designs in the clock face were unique, however. The several metal fish were placed about the face like it was a pool in which they swam. A fish near the number three had splash drops of the white backing material of the clock face onto numbers four and five.
Danos tugged Makos' sleeve. When Makos turned and looked where his brother pointed, his eyes opened wide. The entire yard was full of grandfather clocks, none farther than ten feet from another, and they were all happily ticking and tocking away in the moonlight.
From the faces he could see, Makos realized each was unique. Where one had a round face, another had a square instead. Where one had number-engraved coins for hours, another had strange symbols that reminded him of the shopfronts of traveling merchants from the southern countries.
As he glanced about, Makos caught sight of two figures that were not clocks, nearer to the road that ran along the front of their property. They were standing in the midst of a few closely gathered clocks and a large wooden container with a brass handle at one side. He pointed it out to Danos and both snuck closer, making sure to stay behind clocks on the way.
They came to hide behind one that had a kitten-shaped handle with a bit of actual red yard dangling down from one paw which ended in a yarn ball. Makos stopped and tapped Danos when he heard voices from just beyond the next set of clocks.
"As you can see, I collect clocks." It was the voice of the stranger. Neither boy dared to look around the side of their cover for fear of being caught. "It is not an unusual hobby, but I have taken it a step further than others. You see, these clocks are all very special. Each one has memories and a story of its own, yet all of the stories share the same ending."
"Very interesting." Their father's voice sounded bored, but polite. "There is something I am more curious about, however. How did you manage to get these clocks all here so quickly. Our last visitor left not more than five minutes before your arrival."
The stranger ignored the question. "Yes. The same ending. Each story is portrayed by the markings on their faces, and engraved in their woodworking. For example, this one. How interesting it is that the life of a farmer cultivates into a clock adorned with a glorious image of the moon marked with owls and loons.
"Most spectacular is its pendulum. See how it is shaped like a mysterious woman? There is nothing to indicate crops or herds or anything farm-related of any sort. Obviously, the farmer wished for another life."
"It is a nice clock, very masterfully made, but I'm afraid I fail to see your point." Mr. Highwhistle admitted. "What are you getting at, sir? Why show me all of these clocks?"
There was a moment of silence, then the stranger responded. "Not all of these clocks. Only one."
"Very well. Which is it?"
There was sound of walking and of that like a cabinet door opening. "Look." The stranger ordered.
Makos heard feet shuffling in the grass followed by a gasp. His father's voice whispered. "It's beautiful..."
"I'm sure." The stranger said in an agreeable manner, then continued with hints of eagerness. "Tell me, what about it do you find so intriguing?"
"So many kinds of horses." The words came forth slowly and thoughtfully as though it was a distraction just to speak. A sudden burst of excitement. "Is that a hlambrin? I've heard so much about them. By their description I can tell right off, though it does little justice! What a marvelous beast..."
"I thought so." The old voice said with a low chuckle. "All of your dreams and hopes and what you value dearly. Are they not all displayed?"
There was no response except for the sounds of muffled crying.
"Ah," the old man continued, "and now we come to the dearest."
Makos wanted to see what had made his father cry. He slowly edged his way to sneak just one eye beyond the edge of the clock, but Danos pulled him back, shaking his head with a look that said 'You're going to get us in trouble!'
Before Makos could pantomime back an argument, he heard walking through grass and the sound of a cabinet door closing.
Well, that's all the time I have for now. Check back tomorrow for more!
Monday, April 13, 2015
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Review Day!
Wednesdays and Saturdays are going to be review days, unless I feel like pushing to finish a scene faster. These days I will go over some of the techniques employed and discuss how they were implemented, and how I might be able to tweak things to work out better.
This week's review:
On Tuesday, the blog was created. Yeah! Definitely an achievement there!
Seriously, though, I guess we better move on to the actual post...
We began discussing the qualities of character. This is very important. The plot is driven by the characters, but to drive the characters, we need a problem to come crashing down on them. Choosing the personality and opinions of your characters will provide an excellent set of buttons you can push all the way to the end. One or more of these challenges will become addressed as the major change the character will have to go through in order to conquer the plot quest.
Remember, however, that characters are people, too, and what they think they need to do and what they believe they will need to become may be far from the truth. When the final resolution is presented, it is then that they will have to make the ultimate choice.
This testing of moral fiber needs to be where the suspense and drama all cultivate. There are other techniques I will go over in later posts about how to make whatever that is impossible to see coming, yet believable, getting the readers to say, "I should have seen that! It's so obvious now!"
I'll continue the story on Monday, but for now, here's an unrelated bit of writing, just so I can get my creativity in for the day.
Rain kept falling. With each drop, Sare felt a searing pinch. The cost was great, but it would be worth it for her family.
The winds picked up, blowing her shoulder-length, brown hair about wildly. She turned her silver eyes to look up at the sky while hundreds of flashes of pain swept across her skin.
Was this what her mother had felt that day? No. It would have been much worse.
A ray of sunlight struck where she stood just as the pain began to reach unbearable levels. The warm light didn't stop the rain, but it did comfort her with waves of radiant energy that made the pain almost dismissive.
Sare walked across the plateau tentatively, unsure of the footing. She finally reached the edge of it and closed her eyes. Adrenaline burst into her bloodstream at the thought of toppling off the side.
The pain returned full force, and she fell to her knees, grasping at the edge and gasping as the rocks gave a few inches under her hands. Her eyes opened wide and she fought back the sensation of fire that was covering her. She managed to regain her composure and looked all around for the sunlight. It had moved a few feet to the other side of the plateau.
Getting to her feet, she hurried over to the light just in time for it to begin diminishing. Trying to stay in the largest patches, she soon realized it would soon disappear. Thinking back, she recalled her mother's words. 'The sun will want to play games with you, so be quick. Gather up the treasure he spills. It will buy you time.'
Sare grabbed a handful of dust still bathed in the sun's rays, which shone gold under its brilliance. She held it tightly in her fist. She stayed in the fading patch until it was almost too small, then opened her hand slightly and shook a bit of dust out in front of her. Where it fell, a new patch of light opened up, and she dashed into it.
The original bit of light disappeared as soon as she abandoned it. She was safe now, until the light faded. As she stood in the glow, she recalled the time when she had asked her mother about the golden dust. Her mother had explained how the sun shed much of its old light at the end of every year. It felt to the mountain and changed the dust there, allowing it to retain light as long as it was covered.
The glowing earth beneath her was shrinking fast. She waited until it was almost too small again, then tossed another bit out and ran into the new sanctuary.
'New rays will eventually fall, but often where you least expect them. Don't think. Feel.'
Sare's eyes jumped about regardless of the wisdom she was recalling. She would run out of dust soon. Calming her nerves, she focused on her mother's teachings, recited to her over and over again. She closed her eyes once more and reached out with her heart toward the sun. She could feel it hiding behind the clouds, deciding where to next strike. She could also feel the dim presence of the light around her fading quickly.
On a whim, she tossed a handful far from herself, then felt the light from its dust burst into life. She opened her eyes and dashed toward the spot, but nearly tripped over her feet when she felt the sun become aware of it, too. Sare turned to see it strike a far section of the plateau. The sun had outmaneuvered her.
'Be cunning. The sun is fast. He is also proud.'
Sare smiled and ran to the patch the last rays had touched. She leaped for a handful of golden dust before it faded back to brown, and scattered a bit around her. She sat in the center and felt out to the sun again. She could almost feel the sun's mocking laughter. She wondered how she could use the sun's pride against it.
She didn't have long to wonder before the rain began to burn her again. Hopping to her feet, she dashed out and ran from the spot where she had been. Using all her strength, she threw half of her gold dust a long way out. It settled and began to glow. Sensing the sun's awareness of it, she ran back the other direction, hoping desperately that she was right.
Just as she reached the spot where the sun had last cast its power, new rays enveloped her. This time she was laughing. She could feel the scorn from the sun and its frustration.
Sare gathered up as much of the gold dust as she could, making a pouch out of the bottom of her shirt, and held it tightly concealed.
The game went on for an hour more and Sare was beginning to see a pattern. The sun avoided patches of rocks, preferring areas covered in dust. The sun was getting harder to predict now, almost seeming to choose randomly where it would strike.
Sare realized that the storm would be coming to an end soon. This was wonderful news to her, but a terrible fear gripped her heart as well. The storm always grew darker toward the end. If she didn't prepare sufficiently, she would go minutes at a time without any light. She knew she could not survive that long without it. With what time remained before the darker clouds arrived, she focused on a plan.
Every time the sun appeared near the edge of rocks, Sare would kick as much dust out of the way and toward the center of the plateau. Every time it fell in the middle, she would deposit a shirt full of dust she had gathered from the edges. The minutes wore on and soon, the stretch of dust grew smaller and smaller, and the light landed closer to the center each time.
Sare could feel the sun's anger as it began to see her plan. She smiled, even when dashing out to gather extra dust in the dark regions. Her fortress of sunlight was almost finished.
Just as her latest patch of gold died away, the sun broke through the clouds and barraged the entire pile of dust with an enormous burst of light. Sare's jaw dropped. It wasn't supposed to do that yet. The storm hadn't gained its full strength. Scrambling furiously, she began to cover the gold patch with layers of brown dust. She only managed to cover a third of it by the time the rays faded completely.
The rain beat down on her, turning the dust into mud. Without the light, it would dry up instantly, but now, the dark layer thickened. When she could no longer stand the pain, she kicked a portion of mud away and golden light sprang forth from the ground, more powerful than normal.
Sare continued the process again and again, but when the sun finally came, several minutes later, it enveloped the entire area, drying up all of the mud covering her reserves back into glowing dust. As the sun rays faded, they scattered about all across the dust, undoing any work she had done to stockpile it. Everywhere the mud was turned back into gold dust, light shone briefly, then died.
Refusing to give in to her fears, Sare gathered all of the dust up into one large pile, pushing off parts of mud here and there, just enough to keep the rain at a bearable level. Soon, she had it all gathered together, and she tore her sleeve off, held one end to her face and the other at the surface of the pile as she buried herself in it so she could breath.
The sections of dust that still shone soon died and her wet form continued to burn where it had not touched that light-infused dust. She bore with the pain almost to the point of losing consciousness, but was saved when the sun's full power was forced once again down on the dust, making it all dry.
She could sense the sun's confusion, and relief flooded her. She had finally outsmarted the sun. If she lay like this, surely she would be safe until the storm subsided. The sun seemed to scan all about to find her, but could not penetrate the shadows where it did not shine. As it died away, she felt it laugh once, smugly.
'Do not ever think you have won until it is over and you are home. The sun has had many seasons to outwit each of us eventually.'
The words nagged at her, but she refused to give up on her last hope. Sare lay there until the sun returned several times. Its comforting glow warmed her each time, yet she was feeling an odd emotion from it now. It was waiting eagerly.
Sare was confused. What hadn't she seen? What could the sun do, but land where it must. She had won, surely.
'Don't ever think you have won...'
The powerful gust slammed into the pile of dirt, throwing most of it upwards. Her sleeve was carried away with it and she stared in horror as the dust blew away and off the edge of the plateau.
Panicking, Sare rolled to her feet and gathered as much golden dust as she could into a small pile, then realized the pointlessness of it. Her victory had spelled her defeat. The storm had killed her mother and it would now kill her on her first trial, before she even had a child to carry on the rites.
Drenching rain poured down on her in large splashes whenever a powerful gust pummeled into her. The agony of it searing her skin was too much and she went in and out of consciousness while still on her feet. A sense of doom overtook her and she desperately reached out to feel where the sun would shine, but only felt its malicious rejoicing.
Desperate for help, her thoughts were turned to her mother's advice again. 'In the worst of the storm, you will find the most danger and the most safety.'
She couldn't imagine what that could mean, but in between buffetings, it became obvious. The rain was not constant. there were long moments where the winds divided it up and in those moments, she could avoid it. In her drenched state, however, she would still succumb to the pain. She needed light.
Stumbling about, taking hits from the wind and rain, she forced herself on by pure focus and willpower. It was killing her, but she wouldn't give in until it finished her. She noticed a section out in the rockiest part of the plateau where taller rocks stood. She had never ventured there, for the sun never went there. She ran to those rocks and was partly relieved to find that the winds could barely enter between them, and the rain even less as it was driven sideways more than downward.
It still wasn't enough. The burning sensation on her soaked body was becoming too much. She was losing focus. It was then Sare realized she was still grasping two small handfuls of gold dust. Without any hesitation, she cast down both handfuls and stood in the glorious warmth that dried her completely.
The light was fading fast, but she quickly regained her senses. She laughed despite herself. She had found safety, but what about when the storm died down and the rain became more constant. It would finish her. She was sure of it.
Looking out over the edge of the plateau, she recognized the plains where her people would be waiting, watching for the storm to die and hoping to see her returning from the mountain. The new year's crops would never have a chance in the wasteland if she did not bring back the sun. It was the only thing keeping any plants alive for thousands of miles, other than poisonous weeds that seemed to thrive in shadow. If she did not succeed, her people would starve.
It was then, just before the last of the gold dust faded away that it came to her. She could still save them. Snatching up the pinch of gold dust remaining, Sare dashed out of her cover and ran for the edge of the plateau.
Reaching the edge at full speed, she leaped-
-out into nothing. The air whipped around her body as she plummeted. The sides of the cliffs blurred past her. Her head spun as she fell, but she forced her head up and twisted her body to watch the plateau. She could see the sun pierce down to the edge where she had been. She felt its disappointment. It would not see her die on the mountain today.
As she fell, Sare closed her eyes and remembered her mother's embrace that night when she left for the last time. She remembered crying like she always did when her mother went to the mountain.
Her mother's last words echoed in her thoughts, "Never be afraid, child. Even in the darkest of storms, know that the sun only struggles against what he fears. He fears mankind for forcing him to come down to the earth every year, taking him from his lofty realm."
She had seen her mother return glowing with the sun's radiance after the storm subsided each year. She had not been able to endure, but she didn't care anymore. Soon, it would no longer matter.
Giving in to her defiance at last, Sare looked toward the ground as it flew up to meet her. The ground was brown everywhere. Empty of life. Just before she reached it, she flung her handful of golden dust toward it. In the moment before she collided, the ground burst into golden light, spreading out for miles and miles in an instant.
In the split second that remained, she hoped her people would realize the opportun-
Torin helped his father and sister gather up jarfuls of the golden dust and cover them with earthen lids. His brother took the full containers from each of them and bound them shut with cloth wrappings. It was a miracle. There would be sun for years, and the best thing was, if the stories were true, on the rare moments when the sun showed its face, its broad rays would reach the dust lands and make more gold dust for them to gather.
Torin thought aloud, "How did Sare do it?"
His younger sister replied, "I don't know, but look!"
They all gazed up to where she pointed. A golden sun peeked behind the storm above the mountain, but rising before it, a silvery sun appeared, glowing down upon them. It hovered for a moment, then shot into the sky and disappeared.
"Another sun?" Torin wondered.
"Huh." Torin's father said. "A new sun going to find a world of its own."
This week's review:
On Tuesday, the blog was created. Yeah! Definitely an achievement there!
BAM! Oh yeah! That's worthy of a post by itself, I'd say.
Seriously, though, I guess we better move on to the actual post...
We began discussing the qualities of character. This is very important. The plot is driven by the characters, but to drive the characters, we need a problem to come crashing down on them. Choosing the personality and opinions of your characters will provide an excellent set of buttons you can push all the way to the end. One or more of these challenges will become addressed as the major change the character will have to go through in order to conquer the plot quest.
Remember, however, that characters are people, too, and what they think they need to do and what they believe they will need to become may be far from the truth. When the final resolution is presented, it is then that they will have to make the ultimate choice.
This testing of moral fiber needs to be where the suspense and drama all cultivate. There are other techniques I will go over in later posts about how to make whatever that is impossible to see coming, yet believable, getting the readers to say, "I should have seen that! It's so obvious now!"
I'll continue the story on Monday, but for now, here's an unrelated bit of writing, just so I can get my creativity in for the day.
Rain kept falling. With each drop, Sare felt a searing pinch. The cost was great, but it would be worth it for her family.
The winds picked up, blowing her shoulder-length, brown hair about wildly. She turned her silver eyes to look up at the sky while hundreds of flashes of pain swept across her skin.
Was this what her mother had felt that day? No. It would have been much worse.
A ray of sunlight struck where she stood just as the pain began to reach unbearable levels. The warm light didn't stop the rain, but it did comfort her with waves of radiant energy that made the pain almost dismissive.
Sare walked across the plateau tentatively, unsure of the footing. She finally reached the edge of it and closed her eyes. Adrenaline burst into her bloodstream at the thought of toppling off the side.
The pain returned full force, and she fell to her knees, grasping at the edge and gasping as the rocks gave a few inches under her hands. Her eyes opened wide and she fought back the sensation of fire that was covering her. She managed to regain her composure and looked all around for the sunlight. It had moved a few feet to the other side of the plateau.
Getting to her feet, she hurried over to the light just in time for it to begin diminishing. Trying to stay in the largest patches, she soon realized it would soon disappear. Thinking back, she recalled her mother's words. 'The sun will want to play games with you, so be quick. Gather up the treasure he spills. It will buy you time.'
Sare grabbed a handful of dust still bathed in the sun's rays, which shone gold under its brilliance. She held it tightly in her fist. She stayed in the fading patch until it was almost too small, then opened her hand slightly and shook a bit of dust out in front of her. Where it fell, a new patch of light opened up, and she dashed into it.
The original bit of light disappeared as soon as she abandoned it. She was safe now, until the light faded. As she stood in the glow, she recalled the time when she had asked her mother about the golden dust. Her mother had explained how the sun shed much of its old light at the end of every year. It felt to the mountain and changed the dust there, allowing it to retain light as long as it was covered.
The glowing earth beneath her was shrinking fast. She waited until it was almost too small again, then tossed another bit out and ran into the new sanctuary.
'New rays will eventually fall, but often where you least expect them. Don't think. Feel.'
Sare's eyes jumped about regardless of the wisdom she was recalling. She would run out of dust soon. Calming her nerves, she focused on her mother's teachings, recited to her over and over again. She closed her eyes once more and reached out with her heart toward the sun. She could feel it hiding behind the clouds, deciding where to next strike. She could also feel the dim presence of the light around her fading quickly.
On a whim, she tossed a handful far from herself, then felt the light from its dust burst into life. She opened her eyes and dashed toward the spot, but nearly tripped over her feet when she felt the sun become aware of it, too. Sare turned to see it strike a far section of the plateau. The sun had outmaneuvered her.
'Be cunning. The sun is fast. He is also proud.'
Sare smiled and ran to the patch the last rays had touched. She leaped for a handful of golden dust before it faded back to brown, and scattered a bit around her. She sat in the center and felt out to the sun again. She could almost feel the sun's mocking laughter. She wondered how she could use the sun's pride against it.
She didn't have long to wonder before the rain began to burn her again. Hopping to her feet, she dashed out and ran from the spot where she had been. Using all her strength, she threw half of her gold dust a long way out. It settled and began to glow. Sensing the sun's awareness of it, she ran back the other direction, hoping desperately that she was right.
Just as she reached the spot where the sun had last cast its power, new rays enveloped her. This time she was laughing. She could feel the scorn from the sun and its frustration.
Sare gathered up as much of the gold dust as she could, making a pouch out of the bottom of her shirt, and held it tightly concealed.
The game went on for an hour more and Sare was beginning to see a pattern. The sun avoided patches of rocks, preferring areas covered in dust. The sun was getting harder to predict now, almost seeming to choose randomly where it would strike.
Sare realized that the storm would be coming to an end soon. This was wonderful news to her, but a terrible fear gripped her heart as well. The storm always grew darker toward the end. If she didn't prepare sufficiently, she would go minutes at a time without any light. She knew she could not survive that long without it. With what time remained before the darker clouds arrived, she focused on a plan.
Every time the sun appeared near the edge of rocks, Sare would kick as much dust out of the way and toward the center of the plateau. Every time it fell in the middle, she would deposit a shirt full of dust she had gathered from the edges. The minutes wore on and soon, the stretch of dust grew smaller and smaller, and the light landed closer to the center each time.
Sare could feel the sun's anger as it began to see her plan. She smiled, even when dashing out to gather extra dust in the dark regions. Her fortress of sunlight was almost finished.
Just as her latest patch of gold died away, the sun broke through the clouds and barraged the entire pile of dust with an enormous burst of light. Sare's jaw dropped. It wasn't supposed to do that yet. The storm hadn't gained its full strength. Scrambling furiously, she began to cover the gold patch with layers of brown dust. She only managed to cover a third of it by the time the rays faded completely.
The rain beat down on her, turning the dust into mud. Without the light, it would dry up instantly, but now, the dark layer thickened. When she could no longer stand the pain, she kicked a portion of mud away and golden light sprang forth from the ground, more powerful than normal.
Sare continued the process again and again, but when the sun finally came, several minutes later, it enveloped the entire area, drying up all of the mud covering her reserves back into glowing dust. As the sun rays faded, they scattered about all across the dust, undoing any work she had done to stockpile it. Everywhere the mud was turned back into gold dust, light shone briefly, then died.
Refusing to give in to her fears, Sare gathered all of the dust up into one large pile, pushing off parts of mud here and there, just enough to keep the rain at a bearable level. Soon, she had it all gathered together, and she tore her sleeve off, held one end to her face and the other at the surface of the pile as she buried herself in it so she could breath.
The sections of dust that still shone soon died and her wet form continued to burn where it had not touched that light-infused dust. She bore with the pain almost to the point of losing consciousness, but was saved when the sun's full power was forced once again down on the dust, making it all dry.
She could sense the sun's confusion, and relief flooded her. She had finally outsmarted the sun. If she lay like this, surely she would be safe until the storm subsided. The sun seemed to scan all about to find her, but could not penetrate the shadows where it did not shine. As it died away, she felt it laugh once, smugly.
'Do not ever think you have won until it is over and you are home. The sun has had many seasons to outwit each of us eventually.'
The words nagged at her, but she refused to give up on her last hope. Sare lay there until the sun returned several times. Its comforting glow warmed her each time, yet she was feeling an odd emotion from it now. It was waiting eagerly.
Sare was confused. What hadn't she seen? What could the sun do, but land where it must. She had won, surely.
'Don't ever think you have won...'
The powerful gust slammed into the pile of dirt, throwing most of it upwards. Her sleeve was carried away with it and she stared in horror as the dust blew away and off the edge of the plateau.
Panicking, Sare rolled to her feet and gathered as much golden dust as she could into a small pile, then realized the pointlessness of it. Her victory had spelled her defeat. The storm had killed her mother and it would now kill her on her first trial, before she even had a child to carry on the rites.
Drenching rain poured down on her in large splashes whenever a powerful gust pummeled into her. The agony of it searing her skin was too much and she went in and out of consciousness while still on her feet. A sense of doom overtook her and she desperately reached out to feel where the sun would shine, but only felt its malicious rejoicing.
Desperate for help, her thoughts were turned to her mother's advice again. 'In the worst of the storm, you will find the most danger and the most safety.'
She couldn't imagine what that could mean, but in between buffetings, it became obvious. The rain was not constant. there were long moments where the winds divided it up and in those moments, she could avoid it. In her drenched state, however, she would still succumb to the pain. She needed light.
Stumbling about, taking hits from the wind and rain, she forced herself on by pure focus and willpower. It was killing her, but she wouldn't give in until it finished her. She noticed a section out in the rockiest part of the plateau where taller rocks stood. She had never ventured there, for the sun never went there. She ran to those rocks and was partly relieved to find that the winds could barely enter between them, and the rain even less as it was driven sideways more than downward.
It still wasn't enough. The burning sensation on her soaked body was becoming too much. She was losing focus. It was then Sare realized she was still grasping two small handfuls of gold dust. Without any hesitation, she cast down both handfuls and stood in the glorious warmth that dried her completely.
The light was fading fast, but she quickly regained her senses. She laughed despite herself. She had found safety, but what about when the storm died down and the rain became more constant. It would finish her. She was sure of it.
Looking out over the edge of the plateau, she recognized the plains where her people would be waiting, watching for the storm to die and hoping to see her returning from the mountain. The new year's crops would never have a chance in the wasteland if she did not bring back the sun. It was the only thing keeping any plants alive for thousands of miles, other than poisonous weeds that seemed to thrive in shadow. If she did not succeed, her people would starve.
It was then, just before the last of the gold dust faded away that it came to her. She could still save them. Snatching up the pinch of gold dust remaining, Sare dashed out of her cover and ran for the edge of the plateau.
Reaching the edge at full speed, she leaped-
-out into nothing. The air whipped around her body as she plummeted. The sides of the cliffs blurred past her. Her head spun as she fell, but she forced her head up and twisted her body to watch the plateau. She could see the sun pierce down to the edge where she had been. She felt its disappointment. It would not see her die on the mountain today.
As she fell, Sare closed her eyes and remembered her mother's embrace that night when she left for the last time. She remembered crying like she always did when her mother went to the mountain.
Her mother's last words echoed in her thoughts, "Never be afraid, child. Even in the darkest of storms, know that the sun only struggles against what he fears. He fears mankind for forcing him to come down to the earth every year, taking him from his lofty realm."
She had seen her mother return glowing with the sun's radiance after the storm subsided each year. She had not been able to endure, but she didn't care anymore. Soon, it would no longer matter.
Giving in to her defiance at last, Sare looked toward the ground as it flew up to meet her. The ground was brown everywhere. Empty of life. Just before she reached it, she flung her handful of golden dust toward it. In the moment before she collided, the ground burst into golden light, spreading out for miles and miles in an instant.
In the split second that remained, she hoped her people would realize the opportun-
Torin helped his father and sister gather up jarfuls of the golden dust and cover them with earthen lids. His brother took the full containers from each of them and bound them shut with cloth wrappings. It was a miracle. There would be sun for years, and the best thing was, if the stories were true, on the rare moments when the sun showed its face, its broad rays would reach the dust lands and make more gold dust for them to gather.
Torin thought aloud, "How did Sare do it?"
His younger sister replied, "I don't know, but look!"
They all gazed up to where she pointed. A golden sun peeked behind the storm above the mountain, but rising before it, a silvery sun appeared, glowing down upon them. It hovered for a moment, then shot into the sky and disappeared.
"Another sun?" Torin wondered.
"Huh." Torin's father said. "A new sun going to find a world of its own."
The Quest: Part III
After the banker orders full repayment by the third day, Makos' and Danos' father is desperate. Mere minutes after the banker departs, a mysterious man comes by with a suspicious offer to help them in their crisis.
"Help me?" Denan asked.
"Help you!" The voice replied. "You do need help, don't you?"
"Ah..." Denan began.
"Of course you need help." The voice elaborated. "We all need help sometimes."
"I-"
"A lost dog found."
"Well-"
"A broken heart mended."
"Actually-"
Makos could hear his father trying to get a word in, but we was interrupted each time by the mysterious stranger who didn't sound like he much cared for multi-directional conversation. "But you!" The man shouted, startling the brothers, who bonked their heads together. "You. You don't need frivolous things. You need money."
Denan let out his held breath, then asked, "Who, exactly, are you?"
Makos could almost hear the stranger's smile stretch to his ears. "I! I am the clockmaker." Silence followed in which Makos could imagine him standing tall, chest puffed out, thumbs hooked behind suspenders and head pivoted at just the right angle for admiration. His scraggly-bearded, crooked-spined concept for the man made the image hilarious.
"You... make clocks?" Denan asked.
"No no!" The clockmaker replied. "I make deals. The clocks make themselves."
Makos looked at Danos, who looked back with an 'I don't have a clue. He must be crazy.' kind of face.
The man continued. "I have a deal for you, Mr. Whistle."
"Highwhistle." Denan corrected.
"Yes, right. I have a deal that will solve your problem." The clockmaker said smoothly.
"What kind of deal?" Denan asked.
The clockmaker answered with traces of a chuckle in his voice. "I will see to it your debt is resolved. In exchange, you do me a favor."
"What kind of favor?"
"Nothing much." The clockmaker explained. "I have a collection I'd like you to look at. I very much love to show off my collection, and it would be worth paying off a measly loan to have your opinion."
A moment of silence later, Denan asked, "I don't know how you found out about my loan, but do you even realize how much it is? Did the banker send you? Is this some kind of joke?"
"No joke." The voice said darkly. "This is an opportunity you will only receive once. Take it now or say goodbye to your only chance of avoiding prison. And trust me, I can afford it."
Denan finally responded. "Fine. I will look at your collection, then." He didn't sound too convinced to Makos.
"Great! But first, I must uphold my end of the deal." Makos heard a loud clunk hit the floor. "Three thousand silver pieces, exactly your debt."
Denan gasped. Makos wanted so badly to peek out the door to see this strange man and his bag of money, but he worried what Danos would say if he tried.
"I can't believe it..." Denan's voice trailed off.
"Believe it." The clockmaker said. "Now, for your end of the bargain." Makos heard the front door swing open. "This way, if you would."
Footsteps thudded on the front porch. The boys glanced at each other, then both of them climbed off the bed and peered out the window. The sun had gone down completely, leaving no trace of daylight, but the moon was out and shining enough for them to make out several shapes spread out across the front yard.
"What are those?" Makos asked.
"I don't know. It looks like they all have glass on one side, though." Danos answered. "I guess it would be best if we made certain." He hesitated a moment, then moved to the door and whispered. "Come on. It wouldn't hurt if we took a closer look, right?"
"Yeah." Makos agreed.
They left their room and Makos began to head for the front door. Danos stopped him, whispering, "The side door."
He led the way back around the stairs. He slowly opened the door and stopped it just before it could creak on its hinges, then motioned Makos through. Once both were outside and the door was closed again, the boys slowly walked around to the front yard, making sure to crouch down low.
Makos had to suppress several laughs as the long grass ran between his toes. Eventually Danos slowed to a stop and held out his arm in front of Makos, then pointed at the open field in front of their house.
Makos couldn't see his father, or anyone else, but there were several tall shapes looming in the darkness. He shivered, blaming it on the cold night air to himself, then followed his brother who moved closer to one of the objects.
Continued tomorrow!
"Help me?" Denan asked.
"Help you!" The voice replied. "You do need help, don't you?"
"Ah..." Denan began.
"Of course you need help." The voice elaborated. "We all need help sometimes."
"I-"
"A lost dog found."
"Well-"
"A broken heart mended."
"Actually-"
Makos could hear his father trying to get a word in, but we was interrupted each time by the mysterious stranger who didn't sound like he much cared for multi-directional conversation. "But you!" The man shouted, startling the brothers, who bonked their heads together. "You. You don't need frivolous things. You need money."
Denan let out his held breath, then asked, "Who, exactly, are you?"
Makos could almost hear the stranger's smile stretch to his ears. "I! I am the clockmaker." Silence followed in which Makos could imagine him standing tall, chest puffed out, thumbs hooked behind suspenders and head pivoted at just the right angle for admiration. His scraggly-bearded, crooked-spined concept for the man made the image hilarious.
"You... make clocks?" Denan asked.
"No no!" The clockmaker replied. "I make deals. The clocks make themselves."
Makos looked at Danos, who looked back with an 'I don't have a clue. He must be crazy.' kind of face.
The man continued. "I have a deal for you, Mr. Whistle."
"Highwhistle." Denan corrected.
"Yes, right. I have a deal that will solve your problem." The clockmaker said smoothly.
"What kind of deal?" Denan asked.
The clockmaker answered with traces of a chuckle in his voice. "I will see to it your debt is resolved. In exchange, you do me a favor."
"What kind of favor?"
"Nothing much." The clockmaker explained. "I have a collection I'd like you to look at. I very much love to show off my collection, and it would be worth paying off a measly loan to have your opinion."
A moment of silence later, Denan asked, "I don't know how you found out about my loan, but do you even realize how much it is? Did the banker send you? Is this some kind of joke?"
"No joke." The voice said darkly. "This is an opportunity you will only receive once. Take it now or say goodbye to your only chance of avoiding prison. And trust me, I can afford it."
Denan finally responded. "Fine. I will look at your collection, then." He didn't sound too convinced to Makos.
"Great! But first, I must uphold my end of the deal." Makos heard a loud clunk hit the floor. "Three thousand silver pieces, exactly your debt."
Denan gasped. Makos wanted so badly to peek out the door to see this strange man and his bag of money, but he worried what Danos would say if he tried.
"I can't believe it..." Denan's voice trailed off.
"Believe it." The clockmaker said. "Now, for your end of the bargain." Makos heard the front door swing open. "This way, if you would."
Footsteps thudded on the front porch. The boys glanced at each other, then both of them climbed off the bed and peered out the window. The sun had gone down completely, leaving no trace of daylight, but the moon was out and shining enough for them to make out several shapes spread out across the front yard.
"What are those?" Makos asked.
"I don't know. It looks like they all have glass on one side, though." Danos answered. "I guess it would be best if we made certain." He hesitated a moment, then moved to the door and whispered. "Come on. It wouldn't hurt if we took a closer look, right?"
"Yeah." Makos agreed.
They left their room and Makos began to head for the front door. Danos stopped him, whispering, "The side door."
He led the way back around the stairs. He slowly opened the door and stopped it just before it could creak on its hinges, then motioned Makos through. Once both were outside and the door was closed again, the boys slowly walked around to the front yard, making sure to crouch down low.
Makos had to suppress several laughs as the long grass ran between his toes. Eventually Danos slowed to a stop and held out his arm in front of Makos, then pointed at the open field in front of their house.
Makos couldn't see his father, or anyone else, but there were several tall shapes looming in the darkness. He shivered, blaming it on the cold night air to himself, then followed his brother who moved closer to one of the objects.
Continued tomorrow!
Thursday, April 9, 2015
The Quest: Part II
Danos
and his little brother Makos are just about to learn what is upsetting
their father. Tension is building. Things are about to be problematic
for the little family. Their father owes a large debt and they have an
impossibly limited amount of time to repay.
It still isn't quite enough. The problem is good, but what is great is it is enough of a problem to push their father to accept a proposition he would normally never consider, thus creating a much larger problem, one worth questing over! It is time to introduce the antagonist.
Makos let out a loud sigh. He hated seeing his father sad. His father, Denan Highwhistle, was a very hard worker. He raised horses for the royal family. His skill was sufficient to tame even wild horses from the distant plains of the Feuli Empire. This made other nobility envious of the king's horses, and the king, loving the attention, would offer Denan's services to all of his friends. This meant more work for Makos' father. Unfortunately, it was unheard of to pay a horse tender more than any other servant, regardless of increased workload.
Makos couldn't always make sense of why adults thought the way they did. He figured they should worry less and try to have more fun.
Letting out another sigh at his father's sorrow, he looked up at Danos' bed and whispered loudly, "What does 'free days' mean?"
Danos mumbled back, "'Three days,' not 'free days.'"
"Oh." Makos said, then his eyes popped open wide. "You were eavesdropping, too!"
"I wasn't eavesdropping." Danos responded. "There's a little hole in the wall up here. It's not eavesdropping if I can't help hearing it."
"You mean you heard it all?" Makos scrambled up to look over the edge of his brother's bed.
Danos was sitting up, but slumped forward. He looked depressed, like how Makos figured their father must look right then. Danos answered slowly. "It... It sounds like... well." He turned his head to look at Makos out of the corner of his eye. "Do you promise you won't cry?"
Makos nodded quickly.
"Well..." Danos' voice had that edge to it that made him sound like he was regretting bringing anything up.
"I promise." Makos said in his most reassuring way. His small hands gripped the bed frame tightly and he started at his brother's eyes intently. Danos didn't share secrets very often, and Makos wasn't about to let him back down now.
It still isn't quite enough. The problem is good, but what is great is it is enough of a problem to push their father to accept a proposition he would normally never consider, thus creating a much larger problem, one worth questing over! It is time to introduce the antagonist.
Makos let out a loud sigh. He hated seeing his father sad. His father, Denan Highwhistle, was a very hard worker. He raised horses for the royal family. His skill was sufficient to tame even wild horses from the distant plains of the Feuli Empire. This made other nobility envious of the king's horses, and the king, loving the attention, would offer Denan's services to all of his friends. This meant more work for Makos' father. Unfortunately, it was unheard of to pay a horse tender more than any other servant, regardless of increased workload.
Makos couldn't always make sense of why adults thought the way they did. He figured they should worry less and try to have more fun.
Letting out another sigh at his father's sorrow, he looked up at Danos' bed and whispered loudly, "What does 'free days' mean?"
Danos mumbled back, "'Three days,' not 'free days.'"
"Oh." Makos said, then his eyes popped open wide. "You were eavesdropping, too!"
"I wasn't eavesdropping." Danos responded. "There's a little hole in the wall up here. It's not eavesdropping if I can't help hearing it."
"You mean you heard it all?" Makos scrambled up to look over the edge of his brother's bed.
Danos was sitting up, but slumped forward. He looked depressed, like how Makos figured their father must look right then. Danos answered slowly. "It... It sounds like... well." He turned his head to look at Makos out of the corner of his eye. "Do you promise you won't cry?"
Makos nodded quickly.
"Well..." Danos' voice had that edge to it that made him sound like he was regretting bringing anything up.
"I promise." Makos said in his most reassuring way. His small hands gripped the bed frame tightly and he started at his brother's eyes intently. Danos didn't share secrets very often, and Makos wasn't about to let him back down now.
Danos gave in. "That was the banker. Father has to pay off his entire debt all at once now."
"What does that mean?" Makos prodded.
Danos sighed. "I think it means if he can't pay him soon, the bank will take away our home."
"They can't do that!" Makos hissed.
Danos shook his head. "I heard father. He didn't argue against it. He only asked for more time."
"What did the banker say?" Makos asked.
"The days." Danos' words sounded hollow, like people did when offering condolences to their family at their mother's funeral.
Makos furrowed his brow and stood up on the edge of his own bed straighter. "Then he just needs to pay him back."
"He can't." Danos said.
"Why not?"
Danos sighed. "Because he spends all of his money taking care of us. I think the bankers gave him years to pay it off at first, but now it sounds like they changed their mind all of a sudden." Danos shook himself out of his mood suddenly. His eyes widened and stared into Makos'. "Don't go feeling lousy because of it. Father would feel terrible if he thought you felt like you were a burden. He loves us and wants us to be happy, so don't get all mopey about it and spoil his sacrifice."
Makos rested his chin on his folded arms and replied. "I already said I wouldn't cry."
After a moment of silence, Makos asked, "What are we gonna do?"
Before his brother could answer, a very loud banging shook the front door. Both brothers jumped and stared at the wall separating them from the entryway.
The banging continued, louder this time. Makos was sure the hinges would snap if someone didn't answer it soon. He wondered if a hungry bear had found their house. 'The bear will be disappointed.' He thought, glumly. 'All we have left is oatmeal.'
Both boys turned their heads in unison toward the sound of the upstairs door squeaking open, then along the wall as footsteps thudded down the stairs and reached the door.
Makos and Danos stared at each other, wide-eyed, then Makos clambered up onto the top bunk and both pushed their ears close to the tiny hole in the wall.
The door whined as it was opened, and their father's voice greeted someone. "Hello? How can I help you?"
A mirthful, old voice, as creaky as the door hinges, answered. "I heard you were in a bit of a.. predicament, Mr. Highwhistle." The voice sounded like whoever owned it was trying very hard to sound consoling, but couldn't keep the chuckle out of his throat. "I do not come for help, but to help you."
At last, the real problem begins! Continued tomorrow...
"What does that mean?" Makos prodded.
Danos sighed. "I think it means if he can't pay him soon, the bank will take away our home."
"They can't do that!" Makos hissed.
Danos shook his head. "I heard father. He didn't argue against it. He only asked for more time."
"What did the banker say?" Makos asked.
"The days." Danos' words sounded hollow, like people did when offering condolences to their family at their mother's funeral.
Makos furrowed his brow and stood up on the edge of his own bed straighter. "Then he just needs to pay him back."
"He can't." Danos said.
"Why not?"
Danos sighed. "Because he spends all of his money taking care of us. I think the bankers gave him years to pay it off at first, but now it sounds like they changed their mind all of a sudden." Danos shook himself out of his mood suddenly. His eyes widened and stared into Makos'. "Don't go feeling lousy because of it. Father would feel terrible if he thought you felt like you were a burden. He loves us and wants us to be happy, so don't get all mopey about it and spoil his sacrifice."
Makos rested his chin on his folded arms and replied. "I already said I wouldn't cry."
After a moment of silence, Makos asked, "What are we gonna do?"
Before his brother could answer, a very loud banging shook the front door. Both brothers jumped and stared at the wall separating them from the entryway.
The banging continued, louder this time. Makos was sure the hinges would snap if someone didn't answer it soon. He wondered if a hungry bear had found their house. 'The bear will be disappointed.' He thought, glumly. 'All we have left is oatmeal.'
Both boys turned their heads in unison toward the sound of the upstairs door squeaking open, then along the wall as footsteps thudded down the stairs and reached the door.
Makos and Danos stared at each other, wide-eyed, then Makos clambered up onto the top bunk and both pushed their ears close to the tiny hole in the wall.
The door whined as it was opened, and their father's voice greeted someone. "Hello? How can I help you?"
A mirthful, old voice, as creaky as the door hinges, answered. "I heard you were in a bit of a.. predicament, Mr. Highwhistle." The voice sounded like whoever owned it was trying very hard to sound consoling, but couldn't keep the chuckle out of his throat. "I do not come for help, but to help you."
At last, the real problem begins! Continued tomorrow...
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
The Quest: Part I
Every hero needs a challenge. Every runner needs a road. Today, let's talk about choosing a quest for your protagonist!
In the last post, I introduced two characters, Makos and Danos. These brothers have very different opinions and judge the world around them in different ways. Potential waiting to be released. How do we release it? Did you say throw in some conflict? I'm pretty sure you did, and you are correct.
Conflict by itself is great, bringing up concerns and making protagonists uncomfortable, but a lot of conflict can be overcome quickly and with ease. To spice things up and keep things interesting for a long journey, we need a main problem. This problem will offer our heroes a chance to decide what they are going to do about it. How will they react?
Let's review the brothers, shall we? Danos is a young man, the older brother by a few years. He is maturing and is realizing how much his father sacrifices for their family. He takes his duties seriously and puts work before play.
Makos is younger than Danos. He loves his family, but his older brother, Danos, hasn't played with him for a while, and Makos is all about goofing off and doing exciting things. A kind-hearted kid, he still suffers from a lack of experience and often upsets people with his rambunctiousness.
What sort of conflict can we bring about that will turn these brothers' world upside down? We might as well be efficient here and choose one problem that will put both in a bind. Let's get rid of their mother. We can say she died at some point, putting an extra workload on the father, thus inspiring Danos to want to help out as much as he can and put his own childhood behind him.
Makos, on the other hand, will miss his mother especially. We'll say he was six years old when she passed away from illness. No need for feelings of revenge to taint things yet, but plenty of sadness at the loss. The lack of mom leaves him missing out on all of the love and attention she gave him. He tries to make up for this by being a clown. If he can get others to notice him and think he is funny, his loss doesn't hurt so much.
A sad story, isn't it? Let's be really mean and nix the father, too. Why? Haven't we done enough to hurt the poor little guys? Maybe, but there is nothing they can do about it but grieve, and the majority of that ended years ago. They have a life again, however sad. If we want to introduce some interesting growth, let's say their father is abducted. The next step? Time to be nice by giving a lead to where they can find him.
Before explaining the rest of their ordeal, please enjoy part one of the opening scene:
The night was dark, like most nights, really. Nobody ever came to threaten the Highwhistle property, certainly not after most people had gone to bed. Yet that is exactly what happened this night.
Makos laid in his bed, listening. The walls weren't especially thick, and his bed was right alongside the wall that separated the bedroom from the entryway of the humble house. If he held his head a few inches above the nightstand and angled his ear just right, voices became interpretable if you filled in the odd word here and there.
"You shouldn't eavesdrop." His brother said, startling him.
Makos turned his head away and looked up at his brother who was peeking down from the top bunk, and replied, "Don't scare me like that!" He whispered in a hiss.
Danos scowled back. "If you weren't eavesdropping, it wouldn't have been scary."
Makos stuck out his tongue. "You're no fun. I'm not eavesdropping, anyway. I'm listening to what father is saying to the grumpy man." He turned his ear back to the wall and resumed his listening.
"That's the definition of eavesdropping."
Makos ignored his brother mostly, muttering something like 'I'll defnishun you.'
A few seconds after he made out what sounded like an argument about payments and time, Danos interrupted him again. "Father won't like you eavesdropping when you aren't invited."
Makos spun around and stuck his tongue out even farther this time, making sure to flare his nostrils. It was the ultimate tongue-face. He had invented it himself last week.
The tongue-face was wasted on empty air. Makos glared up at the bed above him. "Aren't you curious about payments and time?" He asked, huffing.
A curiously long moment of silence was finally broken by a quiet response, "No."
"Sure you aren't." Makos agreed, putting extra emphasis on the word 'sure.' He then hurried back to the wall.
The mumbling had stopped while he was distracted. The creaking sound was the front door opening. Some short, unrecognizable words rose in volume until he could make out 'free days!' The door slammed shut and Makos listened just a moment or two longer. A shuffling of feet and squeaking of floorboards trailed around the wall and up the stairs behind the wall near Makos' feet.
The steps groaned under his father's climbing one at a time. Makos had learned that his father always paused partway up the staircase. He had noticed that if the pause came before the sixth step, he father would try to hide feelings of disappointment or sadness that next morning, the sooner the pause, the worse he would hide it.
One, two. Pause.
'Oh no.' Makos thought. 'It's a bad one.'
Three, four. Pause.
'A second pause?' Makos worried. 'He must be feeling really horrible.'
Five. Pause.
Makos' jaw dropped.
Six, seven, eight. A moment longer of hesitation before the door to the upstairs bedroom creaked open and then closed softly.
Check back tomorrow for part two and the rest of the details!
In the last post, I introduced two characters, Makos and Danos. These brothers have very different opinions and judge the world around them in different ways. Potential waiting to be released. How do we release it? Did you say throw in some conflict? I'm pretty sure you did, and you are correct.
Conflict by itself is great, bringing up concerns and making protagonists uncomfortable, but a lot of conflict can be overcome quickly and with ease. To spice things up and keep things interesting for a long journey, we need a main problem. This problem will offer our heroes a chance to decide what they are going to do about it. How will they react?
Let's review the brothers, shall we? Danos is a young man, the older brother by a few years. He is maturing and is realizing how much his father sacrifices for their family. He takes his duties seriously and puts work before play.
Makos is younger than Danos. He loves his family, but his older brother, Danos, hasn't played with him for a while, and Makos is all about goofing off and doing exciting things. A kind-hearted kid, he still suffers from a lack of experience and often upsets people with his rambunctiousness.
What sort of conflict can we bring about that will turn these brothers' world upside down? We might as well be efficient here and choose one problem that will put both in a bind. Let's get rid of their mother. We can say she died at some point, putting an extra workload on the father, thus inspiring Danos to want to help out as much as he can and put his own childhood behind him.
Makos, on the other hand, will miss his mother especially. We'll say he was six years old when she passed away from illness. No need for feelings of revenge to taint things yet, but plenty of sadness at the loss. The lack of mom leaves him missing out on all of the love and attention she gave him. He tries to make up for this by being a clown. If he can get others to notice him and think he is funny, his loss doesn't hurt so much.
A sad story, isn't it? Let's be really mean and nix the father, too. Why? Haven't we done enough to hurt the poor little guys? Maybe, but there is nothing they can do about it but grieve, and the majority of that ended years ago. They have a life again, however sad. If we want to introduce some interesting growth, let's say their father is abducted. The next step? Time to be nice by giving a lead to where they can find him.
Before explaining the rest of their ordeal, please enjoy part one of the opening scene:
The night was dark, like most nights, really. Nobody ever came to threaten the Highwhistle property, certainly not after most people had gone to bed. Yet that is exactly what happened this night.
Makos laid in his bed, listening. The walls weren't especially thick, and his bed was right alongside the wall that separated the bedroom from the entryway of the humble house. If he held his head a few inches above the nightstand and angled his ear just right, voices became interpretable if you filled in the odd word here and there.
"You shouldn't eavesdrop." His brother said, startling him.
Makos turned his head away and looked up at his brother who was peeking down from the top bunk, and replied, "Don't scare me like that!" He whispered in a hiss.
Danos scowled back. "If you weren't eavesdropping, it wouldn't have been scary."
Makos stuck out his tongue. "You're no fun. I'm not eavesdropping, anyway. I'm listening to what father is saying to the grumpy man." He turned his ear back to the wall and resumed his listening.
"That's the definition of eavesdropping."
Makos ignored his brother mostly, muttering something like 'I'll defnishun you.'
A few seconds after he made out what sounded like an argument about payments and time, Danos interrupted him again. "Father won't like you eavesdropping when you aren't invited."
Makos spun around and stuck his tongue out even farther this time, making sure to flare his nostrils. It was the ultimate tongue-face. He had invented it himself last week.
The tongue-face was wasted on empty air. Makos glared up at the bed above him. "Aren't you curious about payments and time?" He asked, huffing.
A curiously long moment of silence was finally broken by a quiet response, "No."
"Sure you aren't." Makos agreed, putting extra emphasis on the word 'sure.' He then hurried back to the wall.
The mumbling had stopped while he was distracted. The creaking sound was the front door opening. Some short, unrecognizable words rose in volume until he could make out 'free days!' The door slammed shut and Makos listened just a moment or two longer. A shuffling of feet and squeaking of floorboards trailed around the wall and up the stairs behind the wall near Makos' feet.
The steps groaned under his father's climbing one at a time. Makos had learned that his father always paused partway up the staircase. He had noticed that if the pause came before the sixth step, he father would try to hide feelings of disappointment or sadness that next morning, the sooner the pause, the worse he would hide it.
One, two. Pause.
'Oh no.' Makos thought. 'It's a bad one.'
Three, four. Pause.
'A second pause?' Makos worried. 'He must be feeling really horrible.'
Five. Pause.
Makos' jaw dropped.
Six, seven, eight. A moment longer of hesitation before the door to the upstairs bedroom creaked open and then closed softly.
Check back tomorrow for part two and the rest of the details!
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
I React, Therefore You Care
A story needs plot, setting, and especially characters. Characters are what drive the story. Why do we enjoy a series so much? Why do we keep waiting for the next book so eagerly? Why do we wish the stories could go on and on and never end? We get attached to the characters.
What is a character? A person or animal or alien or whimsical spirit. All of these can be characters, but in a story, a character has personality. Of course people have personality, but it isn't until the passersby react to what is happening in the story that they actually become characters.
The car drove down the street. Its pitch black windows matched its onyx paint. The car pulled onto a busy street and slowly made its way through the throng of shoppers. It was the marketplace.
As the car reached an intersection, it rolled to a stop. In the opposite lane, facing the black car, was a behemoth of metal: a tank. The military vehicle turned its barrel toward the car... and fired.
The black car exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The flying debris hit several bystanders, who were thrown to the ground.
Here's a short scene involving conflict. Conflict is what good stories are made from. Conflict messes with the dreams of our heroes and causes them to question what they really think and why they are forging onward to the end of the story when it means horrible problems can sprout out of nowhere and catch them completely off guard. Conflict forces the character to do what we all hate to have to do: Change; Stretch; Grow. Growing pains hurt. Is the goal really worth the effort?
This scene has no real characters yet. There are people and there's a mysterious car driving about and another mysterious war machine. Something happens that should shake things up. What if no one reacts to the conflict?
The black car exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The flying debris hit several bystanders, who were thrown to the ground.
The tank rolls into the intersection and turns to the right, making its cumbersome way through the throngs of people looking for things in a sea of shops.
Pretty boring, eh? Nobody reacted. They might as well be robots. There were no characters in this scene. Characters aren't simply what they do. Characters are what they react to and how they react. Even the protagonists of popular fiction are only made into real characters when we see them take action in response to some other action.
Now I need to pick some characters for my story this week. I have decided on a couple of brothers. Let me introduce you to them!
Makos is the younger brother. He is funny and likes to make people laugh. He avoids serious matters like healthy vegetables. He has trouble staying focused. Makos feels like he is not appreciated like his older brother. He wants to be praised for being helpful.
Danos is the older brother. He is growing into a young man and tries to help his father tend to the chores. He takes his duties very seriously. He thinks his younger brother is hilarious, but doesn't laugh at his jokes anymore. Danos wants to be respected like his father.
A pretty contrastive pair, don't you think? Each has things they are hopeful for and as a result have fears of not achieving those hopes. These hopes and fears will provide outlets for their personality to shine through as ways they will react to conflict that is doomed to confront them.
Each brother also has traits that don't mesh well with the other brother. These interactive difficulties will open up plenty of more conflict and thus reactions from one and then the other, and likely back and forth again and again. What good is all this expression of character? Why make these brothers fight and argue? Why can't they just get along? If nothing ever challenged a character's opinions and feelings, they would never have a reason to change. If they never change, they never grow. There goes any value in bothering to read the book.
We read stories because we want to experience that change. We want to be sad and disappointed when the characters are sad and disappointed. We want to be angry and envious, or happy and excited when they are experiencing these feelings. But what we want most of all is to run into the walls they run into and cheer them on and urge them to see what they need to do to get past the obstacle so they can finally make their hope come true.
When the character finally sees what needs to be sacrificed, and takes those giant steps to giving up on a weakness in order to become strong, we cry tears of joy and run around telling everyone who doesn't care how awesome it was that the book has magic or treasure or monsters, when what really makes us so happy and moved is the growth our heroes have gone through, and this is what we hope our friends will read so they can experience the same joys.
Now I've named my heroes. Tomorrow, I will present their quest.
Oh yes. I suppose I should fix the scene without characters. Here it is:
The car drove down the street. Its pitch black windows matched its onyx paint. The car pulled onto a busy street and slowly made its way through the throng of shoppers. It was the marketplace.
As the car reached an intersection, it rolled to a stop. In the opposite lane, facing the black car, was a behemoth of metal: a tank. The military vehicle turned its barrel toward the car... and fired.
The black car exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The flying debris hit several bystanders, who were thrown to the ground.
Screams of pure terror broke out from the crowds and shocked families and loners all stared in horror at the massive war machine with smoke pouring from its muzzle.
Time seems to stop when a clacking sound queued the tank reloading its cannon. The top of the machine turned slowly to the right and stopped, pointing an accusatory metal finger of death at a group of orphans who were unlucky enough to have been out on a tour of the market for the first time that very day. The youngest of the children cried uncontrollably while gripping his little bear.
A deafening boom shook the marketplace. Flames spewed out of the tank's barrel in slow motion, heralding an impending projectile. Through the billowing smoke, a tiny silhouette sprang forward, fist extending, leaping straight toward the tank gun.
A torrent of gusts were drawn from all corners of the intersection as the explosion was forced back in on itself. Even the sound of twisting iron was muffled. When the dust settled, people stood up carefully and looked around them. Eventually, all eyes turned to stare at the mass of metal wrapped up into a giant ball where the tank had been.
The injured shoppers woke up and got to their feet. Wounds were inspected but no trace of damage was found. Families and loners asked after each other. Some said they were sure they saw a hero. Others claimed it was too fast to tell. All hearts quietly thanked whoever it was for protecting them.
The orphans gathered together as their host checked them all for injuries. None were hurt. The youngest one gazed after the giant metal ball once more before an older orphan pulled him aside to wipe soot from his face.
Before they were herded away, the little boy pulled his hand free and rushed out into the street, stooping down to grab a little toy bear that hadn't been singed too badly.
What is a character? A person or animal or alien or whimsical spirit. All of these can be characters, but in a story, a character has personality. Of course people have personality, but it isn't until the passersby react to what is happening in the story that they actually become characters.
The car drove down the street. Its pitch black windows matched its onyx paint. The car pulled onto a busy street and slowly made its way through the throng of shoppers. It was the marketplace.
As the car reached an intersection, it rolled to a stop. In the opposite lane, facing the black car, was a behemoth of metal: a tank. The military vehicle turned its barrel toward the car... and fired.
The black car exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The flying debris hit several bystanders, who were thrown to the ground.
Here's a short scene involving conflict. Conflict is what good stories are made from. Conflict messes with the dreams of our heroes and causes them to question what they really think and why they are forging onward to the end of the story when it means horrible problems can sprout out of nowhere and catch them completely off guard. Conflict forces the character to do what we all hate to have to do: Change; Stretch; Grow. Growing pains hurt. Is the goal really worth the effort?
This scene has no real characters yet. There are people and there's a mysterious car driving about and another mysterious war machine. Something happens that should shake things up. What if no one reacts to the conflict?
The black car exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The flying debris hit several bystanders, who were thrown to the ground.
The tank rolls into the intersection and turns to the right, making its cumbersome way through the throngs of people looking for things in a sea of shops.
Pretty boring, eh? Nobody reacted. They might as well be robots. There were no characters in this scene. Characters aren't simply what they do. Characters are what they react to and how they react. Even the protagonists of popular fiction are only made into real characters when we see them take action in response to some other action.
Now I need to pick some characters for my story this week. I have decided on a couple of brothers. Let me introduce you to them!
Makos is the younger brother. He is funny and likes to make people laugh. He avoids serious matters like healthy vegetables. He has trouble staying focused. Makos feels like he is not appreciated like his older brother. He wants to be praised for being helpful.
Danos is the older brother. He is growing into a young man and tries to help his father tend to the chores. He takes his duties very seriously. He thinks his younger brother is hilarious, but doesn't laugh at his jokes anymore. Danos wants to be respected like his father.
A pretty contrastive pair, don't you think? Each has things they are hopeful for and as a result have fears of not achieving those hopes. These hopes and fears will provide outlets for their personality to shine through as ways they will react to conflict that is doomed to confront them.
Each brother also has traits that don't mesh well with the other brother. These interactive difficulties will open up plenty of more conflict and thus reactions from one and then the other, and likely back and forth again and again. What good is all this expression of character? Why make these brothers fight and argue? Why can't they just get along? If nothing ever challenged a character's opinions and feelings, they would never have a reason to change. If they never change, they never grow. There goes any value in bothering to read the book.
We read stories because we want to experience that change. We want to be sad and disappointed when the characters are sad and disappointed. We want to be angry and envious, or happy and excited when they are experiencing these feelings. But what we want most of all is to run into the walls they run into and cheer them on and urge them to see what they need to do to get past the obstacle so they can finally make their hope come true.
When the character finally sees what needs to be sacrificed, and takes those giant steps to giving up on a weakness in order to become strong, we cry tears of joy and run around telling everyone who doesn't care how awesome it was that the book has magic or treasure or monsters, when what really makes us so happy and moved is the growth our heroes have gone through, and this is what we hope our friends will read so they can experience the same joys.
Now I've named my heroes. Tomorrow, I will present their quest.
Oh yes. I suppose I should fix the scene without characters. Here it is:
The car drove down the street. Its pitch black windows matched its onyx paint. The car pulled onto a busy street and slowly made its way through the throng of shoppers. It was the marketplace.
As the car reached an intersection, it rolled to a stop. In the opposite lane, facing the black car, was a behemoth of metal: a tank. The military vehicle turned its barrel toward the car... and fired.
The black car exploded in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The flying debris hit several bystanders, who were thrown to the ground.
Screams of pure terror broke out from the crowds and shocked families and loners all stared in horror at the massive war machine with smoke pouring from its muzzle.
Time seems to stop when a clacking sound queued the tank reloading its cannon. The top of the machine turned slowly to the right and stopped, pointing an accusatory metal finger of death at a group of orphans who were unlucky enough to have been out on a tour of the market for the first time that very day. The youngest of the children cried uncontrollably while gripping his little bear.
A deafening boom shook the marketplace. Flames spewed out of the tank's barrel in slow motion, heralding an impending projectile. Through the billowing smoke, a tiny silhouette sprang forward, fist extending, leaping straight toward the tank gun.
A torrent of gusts were drawn from all corners of the intersection as the explosion was forced back in on itself. Even the sound of twisting iron was muffled. When the dust settled, people stood up carefully and looked around them. Eventually, all eyes turned to stare at the mass of metal wrapped up into a giant ball where the tank had been.
The injured shoppers woke up and got to their feet. Wounds were inspected but no trace of damage was found. Families and loners asked after each other. Some said they were sure they saw a hero. Others claimed it was too fast to tell. All hearts quietly thanked whoever it was for protecting them.
The orphans gathered together as their host checked them all for injuries. None were hurt. The youngest one gazed after the giant metal ball once more before an older orphan pulled him aside to wipe soot from his face.
Before they were herded away, the little boy pulled his hand free and rushed out into the street, stooping down to grab a little toy bear that hadn't been singed too badly.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Sink or Float
I've dreamed of writing stories for a living since I was a kid.
Years of dabbling in the writing arts showed me how difficult it can be to force a pen to a piece of paper. There's this natural reaction of pen-to-paper resistance that becomes stronger in proportion to the ambitious quality of what I am trying to get the ink to portray. This phenomenon of opposing force can be so powerful, it causes the pen to fly out of my hand and behind the bookcase.
Persevering through the struggle by trying to psyche out the pen, telling it that I only want to jot down some boring notes for Math class, I have been able to get a few sentences in before the universe realizes what is going on. The sudden surge of opposing force compels the pen to scribble furiously over the meager word count. The paper then implodes into a tiny wad and flies out of my hand and behind the bookcase.
The lesson I've learned from this? The dark, narrow space behind a bookcase is a natural balancing zone for the universe. It doesn't matter how narrow that space is, either. Things will end up succumbing to its vacuum-like nature.
After years of repeated revivals of my desire to become an author of something really powerful and inspiring and entertaining, I finally came across a quote that is helping me understand what is really going on:
Years of dabbling in the writing arts showed me how difficult it can be to force a pen to a piece of paper. There's this natural reaction of pen-to-paper resistance that becomes stronger in proportion to the ambitious quality of what I am trying to get the ink to portray. This phenomenon of opposing force can be so powerful, it causes the pen to fly out of my hand and behind the bookcase.
Persevering through the struggle by trying to psyche out the pen, telling it that I only want to jot down some boring notes for Math class, I have been able to get a few sentences in before the universe realizes what is going on. The sudden surge of opposing force compels the pen to scribble furiously over the meager word count. The paper then implodes into a tiny wad and flies out of my hand and behind the bookcase.
The lesson I've learned from this? The dark, narrow space behind a bookcase is a natural balancing zone for the universe. It doesn't matter how narrow that space is, either. Things will end up succumbing to its vacuum-like nature.
After years of repeated revivals of my desire to become an author of something really powerful and inspiring and entertaining, I finally came across a quote that is helping me understand what is really going on:
“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I
wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it
because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple
years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good,
it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you
into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work
disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit.
Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years
of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want
it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or
you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most
important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a
deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by
going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your
work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out
how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s
normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.” -Ira Glass
When I read that, everything turned around. Well, actually, nothing changed. It's still very hard to get those creative ideas flowing. What's different, you ask? Now I know why it's so hard to do, and with understanding that others have faced the same challenges and pulled through instead of just being gifted or endowed with pen-to-paper-resistance-nullifying magic powers, I truly believe at last that I can actually get to the other side of the ominous chasm where creativity turns into art.
Why Practice Raft? Well, I see it this way. I need to bridge the gap. The problem is, I know as soon as I build my bridge and start inching my way across it, it's bound to flip under my feet and tumble with me to the bottom of the chasm. This isn't as easy as crossing a bridge. As Mr. Glass has pointed out, a lot of work must be involved here. It's a game of trial and failure, over and over.
When I build my bridge, I'm making something that will float so that when I crash into the water at the bottom, I can start paddling to the other side. When storms of self-doubt and lack of ability come along, I'll keep paddling. All that rain is eventually going to fill up the chasm and I will at last climb onto the distant shore.
So let's start this thing! I'll post everything I write, one story a week, until my weakness improves and there will be no way to fit it into a seven-day period. Any words of wisdom, advice and encouragement are appreciated. One way or another, I'm going to make it!
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