Hour Two - The Nutcracker

It’s 1:30 – time to start writing for an hour.
THE NUTCRACKER
The sun brinked on the eastern side of the world, casting silver rays through the morning dressing of sheer cloud wisps and sleeping pine trees. The rays lit a small clearing where two young men were collecting nuts.
“Just break it open with a rock,” one suggested.
“Nay, we’re civilized people, Tay.” the other mocked half-seriously. “We must use our jaws.”
“A rock is a tool,” Tay countered. “Civilized people use tools.”
“Would you rather die as a result of having a stone thrown at you versus someone’s hands around your neck? I mean, think about the respect we’re paying the nut here, by using our own person, our jaws, to crack it. It creates the feeling within the neck that it is a worthy foe, and that we’re paying it respect by fighting it ourselves. Kind of like the king fighting the victorious gladiator, which, of course, must die before being let loose. The king respects the warrior, and so must fight him himself. See what I mean?”
Tay’s face still showed signs of doubt. “It’s a hazelnut, Will. Just smash it with a rock.”
“You and your tools.” Will shook his head disdainfully. “Why use tools when you have a perfectly good set of tools in your head, man? Use your jaws, man.”
“Why not make a tool that works like jaws?”
“Haha! You mean I could create a little wood manikin with a set of jaws and use those jaws to crack the nut?”
“Well, that’s not really what I was getting at, but sure, that’s an idea. I can even paint it to look like a man, if that eases your conscience about paying the nut respect and all that.”
“Yes! And dress it like a nobleman, to make it even more so respectful.”
Tay shook his head. “You’re crazy, man. But OK.”
Two hours later, they have a small wooden man with a lever to work his jaws. It’s painted to look like a german nobleman.
“What shall we call him?”
“Nutcracker Tool.”
“Sire Nut Cracker it is.”
THE END

It is the year of the Fire Star. It has been since the sudden appearance of the New Moon after the Cataclysm. I, Catham, am Wizard of the New Moon. At the time of this writing, I am in exile from the Great Conclave, which contrary to its name, is all-inclusive (except for dissidents such as myself).

Hour One

Okay, I have to write for an hour now. It’s 1:41, and I will stop at 2:45 or 3:00… or longer than that, if that’s what it takes, and if I have time. Perhaps I’ll do some character sketches. I was tempted to do them on some people I know, but then I decided that that wasn’t entirely fair to those people, since I don’t know them very well. I never know real people as well as I know the people I create, the people who are in my head. The people in my head have been very quiet for the past couple of months, with occasional knockings about inside my skull. Perhaps my head has been a comfortable place for them lately. I should shake it up a bit… make them want to come out to live in their permanent home on paper. Of course, this paper may very well change – we’ll call this their home remodeling. I would like to create and submit, and have published, a story for the Fantasy magazine I receive. I read a really good one in there earlier this week. I should say, started, for I did not finish it. I have been appreciating good metaphors and visual writing more and more lately. “The banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a candle.” This quote caught my attention in a big way. Love it. I’ve also been appreciating poetry more and more… as long it makes sense and can evoke emotion – that is to say, good poetry.

I tried to inspire myself today… to get myself in the mood for writing. When I woke up this morning, I really wanted to write something beautiful and whimsical. But I knew that I needed to get some things done – that getting a job at this point is more important than writing, because I need to pay my bills. And I also needed to clean up my closet and bathroom, since I just moved in with Aaron – today is my second day here in Ohio with him. So, I got up, showered, did some job-searching, cleaned the bathroom and closet, and just now finished. I put on the classical music channel, feeling satisfied that my work was all done. The Christmas tree lights are reflecting in the sliding glass door like so many sparkling fairies. But when I was done with all my work, with the classical music ( I like to call it ‘story music’ because each piece tells a story – a different story every time), I really wasn’t feeling creative. Maybe I’m just too tired to be creative. And I know I need to improve my vocabulary - good words create good metaphors.

Tonight, Aaron and I are going out to dinner with Brad and his wife Alex. Brad is Aaron’s boss, but not really. They’re both independent insurance salesmen, and Aaron reports to Brad, but is really his own boss, and boss to other agents as well. Brad just gets overwrites on Aaron’s agency’s business. Anyway, we both know them pretty well, and I was going to do a character sketch on Brad, but I think it would be better to do a character sketch on someone LIKE Brad. But Brad is so complicated, and it’s better, well easier to write a character sketch on someone you don’t know at all. Besides, a Brad-type person isn’t knocking around in my head to get out on paper. Although I’m sure, if he was, he’d be very insistent about being let out, since that’s the way he is.

So maybe I’ll just try to write something else. After all, it’s only 1:55.

The morning path was misted over from the night’s rain. Tendrils of foggy gray stuff lay over the road, swirling in a puff of morning breeze which ruffled the spring’s dawning tree leaves, just beginning to unfurl. Tall pine trees climbed sporadically throughout the forest, piercing through the topmost layer of dreary cloud to the sun above. The valley lay below, in a similar state, and the traveler stood and watched from a rock promontory on the edge of the rim. The traveler wasn’t remarkable on this path which saw many visitors. He wasn’t very tall, not very thin, not very well dressed. He didn’t stand out in any way. If one were to look closer, he would see wary brown eyes, black-haired arms and a brow wrinkled with doubt. A patched and hooded cloak covered his head. At his side, a mottled black and brown dog stood, also watching the valley below. A low whine sounded in his throat, and the man absently reached down to pat the dog, who looked up at him in appreciation before turning his attention back to the valley. It isn’t known what they were looking for, but look they did, before deciding that they didn’t like the look of the road, and melted soundlessly into the black muddy shadows of the forest.

Maybe I am not inspired because I’m hungry and somewhat thirsty. Hhmm. Maybe because I’m distracted by many things today. It’s Wednesday and I am not at work. I am jobless. Jobless by choice, but still jobless. I have about $2,500 to my name, not counting my 401k, which I don’t want to dip into. My bills are considerably less now however, since I don’t have to pay electricity, cable or rent. However, I still have car payments , car insurance, and phone services to pay for. And I want to help out with Aaron’s rent, but not until I get a job. Because that would be foolish. And that could be why I’m distracted. Also, this is my first time forcing myself to write for an hour. I write pretty fast – can you imagine the breadth of work I could create if I did this every single day?

Let me see if I can make a short poem.

The white Christmas tree,
which aaron made for me
is sparse and yet free.

Its red and green balls
are spread among its boughs
as if they’re fearful to fall.

While not very true,
it gave me something to do,
at least they’re green, not blue.

Hmm… that was absolutely horrible, which is what you get when you make a poem in three minutes.

I still have half an hour to go. Should I stop now since it’s only my first time? But no… if I want to be writer (and a writer I shall be), I must train myself to write for several hours a day, whereas only one hour today, is quite a good, short-enough start. Perhaps I’ll start writing for 2 hours a day! Perhaps tomorrow I’ll actually write a story or scenario or something that flows together instead of frantic finger-rambling… but they say that if you can’t write, just WRITE. So that’s what I’m doing – writing my thoughts down on electronic paper.

I am starting to get sore from hauling boxes and unpacking and organizing, but I am so happy that it’s done now - at least for a while. Aaron is looking for a house to rent or buy, and once he finds one, we’re moving from here to there, and we’ll have to pack everything back up yet again, and unload and unpack and organize it all over again.

It’s been a long time since I lived with someone. It’s been a long time since I told someone I loved them, or had them say it back (family doesn’t count). It feels strange. Like an awkward kind of fuzzy feeling as you wonder if it’s really true because it feels so new, and you blush and feel so out of place and different. But then you get this wonderful, not awkward, fuzzy feeling when you think about it later… and you think, “This might be it! This could be it.” And you wonder what he thinks about all your stuff being in his place… taking up all of his space. You wonder if he really is ready to give up bachelorhood, even though it WAS him who asked you to move into his place, and not just his place, but his place on the other side of the United States, and he came to get you and load your truck and drive it two thousand miles from Phoenix to Ohio, and you wonder if he appreciates so much the fact that you gave up your job and benefits and security for him, and the wonderful Phoenix weather and friends for him. And you wonder if he knows how much you appreciate his personality and consideration and friendliness. If he knows how much you respect his ability and motivation and drive to succeed. How much you appreciate the similarities the two of you share… and then you think, of course he knows. He’s the one who asked you to move in with him. It’s a vicious circle, it really is. All of the wondering, the tension, the awkwardness and fuzziness – it’s all part of a new relationship… one you really hope works out…

Why did I start typing all of that in second person? Is it because I feel better distancing myself from those feelings? Because I can analyze them better that way? Could possibly be. There are some interesting emotions which I have, which could be used in writing, but it feels weird writing them about me; it’s easier and more fluid to write them about, or TO someone.

Well, it’s been very nearly an hour. I am going to say that it was, indeed, an hour, and get this all posted into my writing blog.

Lonely People

She wondered where they all went to when they went home. She, well, she was just here. And she watched. While juggling orders of Bud Light and Buffalo wings, she overheard snippets from some, and none from the others who just stared straight ahead, looking at, but not watching, the newscasters on the television screens over the bar. Some talked too loudly, too fast, trying to disguise the emptiness inside with witty banter and desperately eager laughs. But she saw it. The emptiness, that is. Saw it when they finally shut up and sat silently, gazing down to the bottom of their foam-streaked glass. Saw the loneliness, the desperation.

She had the feeling t hat if she just smiled at them it would make their night so much better, leave a warm glow to remember later. But then they would notice her. She preferred to stay hidden. Hidden in this corner bar, known only as ‘the server’. So she did not smile, and they received no warm glow to remember later. It was a grim place, a grim state of mind.

She wondered what they did when they went home. If they, like her, went home to a dark empty house and stared at their reflections in a gritty mirror, wondering what had happened, how they had ended up here with no one to love, to be loved by. Did they sometimes, maybe, deep down, wonder about ending it all? Wonder who would notice, maybe care?

Maybe if she smiled, they wouldn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t. But she couldn’t. So she didn’t. And they had no warm glow to think about when they finally went home.

Culera: Brother.

I have to write a story for my final exam due on Saturday. I have already written a story based on the character of a girl who was stolen from her family and village by a band of raiders, and sold to be a slave on a ship. Now I'm thinking about writing the story from the viewpoint of her older brother, who was also captured at the same time. He should feel agony that he, as the oldest, allowed this to happen and couldn't do anything about it. He should be full of anger and full of raw edges.

Possibly storyline: He is captured and sold in Culera (capital city)... he somehow escapes and makes it back to his old village, which is in ruins. Some people have escaped and have been living in hiding. He gathers them all together and creates a band of rebels - a type of guerrilla, if you see it from the side of the enemy. They raid the 'enemy' and generally make their outrage known. Then his sister returns... somehow. The story shouldn't be conclusive, but end with him having emotional closure that his sister is back, and leave room for any future raids and the satisfactory ending that the story demands (regaining of rights and village; justice dealt to the raiders).

Catacombs

Last night I dreamt that I was a either 1) a modern-day Jew or 2) somehow connected to modern-day Jews, and I was hiding in the city of Rome. People kept hunting for me, but there was a whole network of people who spirited me away into the catacombs of Rome - now refurbished into a bunch of space-age underground hubs connected by the original dirt catacombs which we had to run through on our way back from raiding the farmer's market in disguise.

The most memorable part of my dream - well, there were two. The first one was before I found the catacombs and I was put into safekeeping in this really huge house with a field across the road. The front of the house was all window-doors that had locks. I was frantically trying to lock all of the complicated locks while a mob of about 20 guys gathered outside. One of them found a door I hadn't locked, and they all trooped in. I dont' remember how I escaped that scene. The second memorable thing was when I was in the catacombs and I got into a utility elevator. There was a hidden door along the bottom of the elevator, which led into another (also descending) elevator. I squeezed through that one and ended up in a different elevator on a different floor than I had punched into the original elevator. I thought that might throw off the pursuers... and I was right!

The Dark Trail

The torchlight wavered as the guide stumbled. “sorry,” he mumbled. ‘Must’ve stepped into a hole”. She knew that he hadn’t stumbled, regardless of the roughness of the trail. She rather attributed it to his liberal use of the wineskin. Ahead of the, inky black darkness spread into the distance, prohibiting one from seeing past the glare of the torch. The narrow dirt trail they followed led down a shallow hill for about a mile, then around the edges of the dense wet-forest, which had been hacked back to allow travelers an easy passage. Tendrils reached out through the dark as if to grab the unwary and drag them away into the murk. She shivered and quickened her step. Closer to the guide, she peered ahead. Nothing could be seen. “how much further?” she asked. “’bout a mile’” You said that half an hour ago,” she accused. “we’ll get there when we get there.” Was his laconic reply. She bit back a retort, and made sure that the handle to her dagger was in easy access. Casting frequent glances behind, they made their way along the forests edge to where the smell of salt and fish was strong in her nostrils. “Almost there”. Sure enough, around the next bend, there was the sea. Bathed in the light of the moon, the sandy beach spread an open 20 yards in front of them. She knew where the boat was. Digging in her leather-bound pouch, she found a silver piece. “Thank you, I know my way from here”. He took the piece, examined it in the torchlight, and smiled. “Thankee, kind lady”. A quick head bob later, he vanished into the darkness.

Terrok-har

Deep in the forests of the remote island Terrok-har, above the sheer, rugged cliffs which presided over the turbulent sea like an impenetrable fortress wall, there dwelt in that quiet solitude a mystery which was never fully explained by the mainland villagers. The island was separated from the mainland by a wide channel, nearly a mile across, yet was so large and high as to be clearly visible even on the foggiest sea morning, when the tops of the gray mountains in the eastern corner of the isle raised their heads through the mists of the early sunrise like victorious conquerors over the night.

Those who ventured near the island’s base oft reported strange sounds and tremors, and the occasional glimpses of a leaping beast – one who soared through the treetops far above with huge lunges. It must be tremendous, this beast, they said, in order to create such tremblings with the mere fall of its feet. And on infrequent nights, a curious sound threaded its way through the murky evening breeze. The more practical listeners said that it was an unknown bird with great vocal prowess, but local legend decreed it the sound of a fey’s ghost flute; others, a mother’s keening cry of loss.

Adventure-seeking lads and fool-hardy men sometimes sought out the island, in hopes of finding a means to gain the upper land, but none had yet found a single passable way through the unforgiving sea cliffs.

Dover never thought that it was a bird. It was too melancholy, too melodic, mighty and mournful. Even now as he sat in the shadow of the craggy, overhanging cliffs, he thought that he could listen to it forever, if only the creator of such beautiful music were able. He tossed another piece of driftwood onto the small fire he had built and stared out over the sea. Small waves lapped against the pebbles a few feet away. The sea was calm tonight, he thought. As calm as if it was a baby being rocked to sleep with the music of this night. The mournful song faded to an end, leaving the black air above heavy with silent promise.

Fiery World

A world which was split apart by a fiery cosmic collision. A small part detached, and very few people lived through it. It basically became as a small moon. Perhaps there is a portal made by an evil wizard on the large planetary land so that he could establish a base on the small one – only to find that the remaining people there had evolved into a race of their own.

Small planet chunk would be difficult to live on – tough farms, few animals – lots of pestilent, hardy plants. Cave houses?

Larger, original 'mainland' would be a wealthier, rich land inhabited by fair and educated people with a very civilized, prominent government. Astrologers there knew about the part that detached, but it was assumed that there were no survivors.

so... was the collision was caused by evil magic?... and now, hundred of years
later, this wizard is trying to make it his base. The 'good' magic (religious government?) has decided to destroy this base with a modified form of the same (evil) magic. But the 'savage' people of this world don't want to be blown up by magic... they must escape to the mainland, or accept the powers of the 'evil wizard'. Do they actually reach it, or do they end up somewhere else?

Is this entire story just a question of what makes good 'good' and what makes 'evil' bad?

“we all watch the same moon and stars.”

Chiatha

This is all I have for this one...

"it was the time of long summer, and the town of chiatha lay silent in a gritty haze of red dust."

I remember that when this idea came to me, the 'long summer' was actually a *very* long summer of the duration of about twelve years. Eventually the seasons would change...

The Sea Man

Legend has it that a great sea-giant haunts the open depths, forever and ever doomed to wander. A great black swan accompanies him, floating just behind or to the side, wherever he may be. Rumor tells that he has dealt some terrible crime and is therefore doomed – to work his own penance.

We don’t believe in legend, we folk of the sea. Of surety, there have been times when a frightened sailor on the river spoke of a shadowy man and swan-like shape floating across the top of the waves – more than likely it was just a floating log, and when pressed about it further, they are inclined to agree.

The shadows never make a sound, ever, in all their sightings. They never cause a ripple. Sailors and fish-men speak of great black eyes that bore into theirs, searching for something – something never found.

Brownsword Piper

"Brownsword". Is this a name of person, or an artifact upon which a story revolves?

Story (or back story) idea:
Piper on a hill, warned that enemy is coming so takes his listening group of children beneath the hill in tunnels. No survivors are left, so no one tells them it's safe to leave. They are left to legend. Eventually a castle is built on the hill,... it degenerates and becomes ruins... but flute melodies are still sometimes heard.

Speaking of Dreams...

These are a few dreams I had over the course of two nights' restless sleep. I thought I might be able to use them at some point.

1) Climbing through a narrow 5 or 6 story house full to the brim with antiques that were too broken or dirty to sell, but they all had stupidly insane price tags on them. And there was someone always one floor above me, slapping on the tags and picking out his own things before I got there.

2) A holy bull that was to be given to Attilla the Hun - apparently this poor boy hated Attilla the Hun but was required to present him with the holy bull. But the holy bull had a daughter - a magnificent mare, which the boy determined to tame and use to defeat Attilla.

3) I was at this huge touristy gas station in Georgia and was stocking up on souvenirs. But at the counter, the gas station service lady told me that my dad died last night - she had seen it on the news.