An Interesting Find…

For any of you who read SailorSun.org (a webcomic about webcomics) I found this interesting image that looked a lot like Bay, the main-ish character.

A memories of a man I never new

What is grief? Some will say a sadness if you ask them. A nagging pain. Sorrow. and it is true.  Their is an association. But my definition is a bit more.

Grief is the absence of influences. The stronger the influence, the stronger the grief. Sometimes grief can be crippling, other times it can be so slight people act as if they didn’t suffer at all.

Do I grieve to Granddad Ken? No. Not as much as anyone else his family.  I have but a few memories, so if you will bear with me as I share the memories of a man I never new.

Storys to writ

So I have a couple of stories, as i mentioned before. Here is the basic down and dirty on a few of them.

The Book of Colors: The tale of blanche, a White in a world where none of his House exist, he fights for equal rights and the acceptance of him as house leader

Linear: Time move forward. Characters do not. This tale is the linear chronicles of a time traveler

 

Those are most of it

not so hot

So apparently I didin’t have enough posts, though I did a pretty good job. Anyone have any requests? no? good. I have a few storys orbiting my head and I’ll get them out eventually.

BOOK!

http://www.curledup.com/medalon.htm

Medalon (Hythrun Chronicles, Book 1)
Jennifer Fallon

So I FINALLY found out this authors name and the exact title of this book. I had been trying to for years, but it just wasn’t working. But today? BAM!

Avaliable at Minot High Library(Which is where I read it….)

History in the Making:~Day 33

Today, I held the controls as Thomas Edison was looking for a material to use as a lightbulb. For some reason, he ket wanting to use bits of metal. But with careful application of circumstance, he tried a thread.

And the glow was pretty for that split second.

It took all of my after noon to get him to carbonize the thread so it would last.

I signed off the system exhausted, only to have a cheer raised as I entered the lounge. I had revolutionized electronics and brought about the faint whispering start of the digital age.

Yeah me. But man, was it exhausting! Several of the others sat me down and showed me a few new ways to influence people. Each person is slightly different. With the right technique, my next cases should be shorter.

 

(Happy Birthday to JARED!!!!)

A dream story, Part 4

      I saw him the night my father died. The Marauders were invading. They had come in the night, creeping past the distance watches, then overpowering the short guard and forcing their way into the castle. I was up in a flash. I held a rapier in one hand and was lighting torches with the one lit in my other. With the light so bright, it turned the advantage from the Marauders to our side, but not by enough. One by one, my people were taken down, and suddenly, I was cornered on top of a table in the middle of the room. I tried to keep my defense even, but they had encircled me. I thought the end was near but my father, my brave, brave, father, had broken away from his assailents and swung down. He grabbed me as he swooped past, all the way through the window on the East Wall.

 

My father and I fell. We fell for ages. I must have fallen unconcious, for I remember waking up as my father limped, me in his arms, into the forest. I tried to walk, but he wouldn’t let me. I could see him wince in pain as he took each step. He left a trail of blood and the occasional shard of glass. It made my scrapes and bruises seem insignifigent. After we reached the outskirts of the forest, he let me out of his grasp enough for me to support him. As we crept deeper and deeper into the woods, I could feel him getting weaker and weaker. Obstacles he had once carried me over easily, without thought, now seemed to envoke dispair as they appeared.

 

As we cleared a rocky patch, I felt my father shift and then collapse. I caught him before he hit the ground, but only just. I can’t remember if I spoke. My emotions most likely prevented it. I sat there holding him for what felt like hours. He died in my arms. I cried so long and hard, tears wouldn’t come. I had none left. Then He came, disturbing me from my mourning.

 

“I have him, Lad.” He said, his voice thick with thinly concealed anguish. “I have him. You stay here while I-I bear him to the Grove.” His tears freely fell as he lifted my father out of my arms. “Stay here. I will return for you.”

 

With a final glance my way, He disappeared into the brush, taking a path only he could know.

 

And then I was alone.

A challenge

• Write me eight sentances
• They must be exactly eight words long.
• They must tell a story
• As in, have a start, conflict and finish
• Don’t go into detail.

A dream story, Part 3

  The Watcher is as close to a bogeyman as I ever had. I have only really seen him seven times, though I’ve lost count of the times I’ve seen him out of the corner of my eye.

    The first time was when I was young. My father took the neatly wrapped bundles that were my family, one by one. It took him most of the day. Finally, he picked me up. Mother followed behind as we made our way to the grove. The Watcher was already there, the graves dug, their little bodies lain. The Watcher said a few words about trees in bright sunshine. My mother wept, her sobs causing her entire body to shake uncontrollably. The Watcher took here in his arms and held her as my father carefully placed each tree in the fertile soil. My mother cried over each tree, speaking names I have long since forgotten. I do remember The Watcher, as he approached me, his voice husky with unvoiced emotion, refusing to let his tears flow. “Well, boy. You’re the last of the brood. Worry not and stay strong, I have the rest. I’ll keep them safe.”

   And again, soon after, when my mother had left and I slowly followed father, her long white shroud brushing the ground as we followed a path that has always seemed familiar, we met again.  I helped him clear the hole, and heard his words, though I could never recall them, no matter how I try or how often I attempt to replay the events of that day. I do recall something of the beautiful rest of fall and the rebirth of spring. I carefully patted down the warm, moist earth and her tree was lain.

    Time flew, as it tends to do, and I never spoke with him. I saw him, as I mentioned earlier, as a flash of brown and a glint of gray. He let me know he was watching. I never resented it and I believe, as a young lad, I took actually took pride in him, this sentinel of the woods, who “WOULD HAVE WORDS WITH ME”, as my father put it, whenever I misstepped my duties, watching over me. 

A dream story, Part 2

    At the start, the world seemed to know I was destined for big things. I was the pick of the litter and my father was proud. He taught me all he knew, and then some, arranging for tutors as fast as I could learn. A winter chill killed my brothers and sisters early in life, so it fell upon me to prepare myself to follow in my father’s footsteps.

    I learned everything, from swordplay to sewing, from the movements of heavenly objects to the navigation of the swamp. I was a rambunctious little lad and loved to climb, inside or out, wood or stone, the higher the better.

    I remember my mother as a frail creature. The winter chill that killed of my siblings had left her drained. i was too young to remember much of them, but I can recall sitting at my mother’s feet as she read in a soft hoarse voice from the Tomb of History, an accounting of the inhabitants of Swamp Tower and of my family. I can also recall the day she died. Even now, her rooms in the castle seem dark and gray, cold and damp. So much so that even as a child, given free run of the grounds, I avoided them like the plague.

    Not that I did not remember her. My mother lived on, not in the drafty rooms that killed her and her children, but in the secret grove, where, hidden deep in the forest, in the deepest part of the swamp, my family lay, where each who passed on slept, ready for the day when they would awake again.

    My father showed me the path, telling me of the sacred nature of the trees, how each tree was planted in remembrance of the fallen and how the grove was to be kept hidden from the world. I spent many warm summer days there, frolicking in the grass.

    But never climbing. Funny, after so long, so much time spent reflecting on those golden days, I never knew how well I revered those trees.

    The way to the grove is tricky. The trail loops and turns, crossing over itself, leading up and down, around patches of bog and even, at one point, under a stone outcropping only to go over an incredibly similar one a few minutes later. Even experienced travelers can get lost. I’ve had to start over from the beginning several times.

    The path out is clearly marked. It’s easy to get out, though the trail is just as winding. The nature, however, of the woods makes it impossible to follow the trail out, in, and vice-versa.

    My father told me the path was as sacred as the grove. Following the curve of the path puts one in the right mind set to visit. I was to never attempt to find an easier path and was to never show anyone the way in. and I never tried, I knew the Watcher would find me out If I did.