What Comes Next

Life's little mysteries keep me awake at night
Staring at my bed
Because the ceiling is too far away
And I'm not ready to go there yet
So I turn off my alarm clock
And wrap myself up a little tighter
And pray to God that should I slip away as I wake
To keep my eyes staring into the pillow
So that I can't see the vast gulf of emptiness
Between everything



                                                                                                                And me



As I travel to my ceiling

Legends Begin Small: Intro, Chapter 1 "Cold Beginnings"

Hello everybody! Sorry it's been a little while since I've last written anything. College life gets a little ridiculous, sometimes. However, hopefully what comes next you'll find a real treat!
As hopefully everybody knows, this month is National November Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and many wannabe authors (like myself) are wearing their fingers to the bone trying to write 50k+ words of a continuous story by the end of the month. I was a little bit a lot late to the game, thanks to being an active participant in two performances that went into high gear this month, but I plan to catch up, eventually. Also, due to the nature of the NaNoWriMo contest, I just decided to work completely from scratch and just start this story off winging it.
I have no idea how this experiment will turn out. It's unlikely that I'll be the next Christopher Paolini (although I'd kill to be the next Christopher Paolini), and there's the entire possibility that as I post chapters or sections of this story to my blog that things will get wildly out of control or incredibly weird, but that's part of the fun! If you enjoy it, please continue to read, it's all out there for whomever wants it. As for everyone else... I don't plan this to be the only thing I put on here, although hopefully my site will get flooded with novel over the course of this month. That's the goal.
Anyways, here's the experiment!
(Also, small warning, it's likely to be rough, as the main purpose of a NaNoWriMo is to just get the story out on paper, polish is an afterthought)

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“It has been said that all great legends have small beginnings.”

Yanbar stomped his feet softly to help keep blood flow up in the frigid morning air. When he saw the world outside his window coated in white snow and off-blue ice, he couldn’t help but take to the forest for an early morning adventure. Now, with his stomach empty and his mind all confused, Yanbar decided that this perhaps wasn’t the wisest decision he had made in some time.

“Hah! You can’t fool me.” Yanbar said to a pine as he passed it. “I’ve seen you before. I’m going in circles, aren’t I? But where are my footprints? Curse this blasted wind, and curse you for not doing a better job of holding it back.” The tree leaned forlornly to the right, its tip dipped as if the tree were burdened with all the cares in the world. Yanbar stopped in front of the tree and sat. “All right, I’m sorry. I can’t blame you for any of this, you’re just some tree. But I’m in a real tizzy right now and wouldn’t mind some help, if your good tree self could drum some up.”

Yanbar knew it was only in fairy tales that wise old trees communicated with those knowledged in the language of the forest, but at this point he was willing to believe anything to get out of the forest and into his warm house, where no doubt breakfast was getting cold and his mother was about ready to throw a fit.

It was about this point that Yanbar heard a very nasally laugh come from directly above his head.

“Eeh hee hee! Eeh hee! What a foolish boy.” The voice said, a chuckle very evident in his tone. “Off on his own, and not even a trail of acorns to bring him home. Eeh hee hee!”

At this point Yanbar was already on his feet and staring up into the tree, but couldn’t see much farther than the first branch, given the thickness of the tree’s boughs and the amount of snow coating and ice coating absolutely everything. “Sir, please! I’m in need of help!” Yanbar shouted to the trees, hoping he was a friendly (if strange… what’s he doing in a tree?) man, perhaps a fur trapper, rather than a mischievous sprite of some sort his mother had warned him about to keep him away from the forest.

“AAAAGH!” The nasally voice barked, and the tree began to rustle a bit, shaking snow off onto the ground. Yanbar heard a series of oofs and dull thumping noises, before a small and clearly distressed figure dropped from the tree onto the ground. While the man lay shocked and lightly stunned, Yanbar observed that he was a very slight, appearing to be almost literally bone thin in his long fingers and hands. His nose was hook-like and crooked, swerving to the right as it reached towards his chin. The man was covered in excessively decorated furs, with trimming and painted symbols and bones and feathers woven in here and there, and finally he had an enormous hump right in the middle of his skinny back, so much so that he almost looked to be sitting up as he lay in the snow. Yanbar couldn’t decide if the hump or the nose was more distracting.

Presently, the little man stood up and dusted himself off, carefully eyeing Yanbar and the area around him. Despite the hump on his back, he stood hunched, knees bent, standing on the balls of his feet, as if perpetually ready to jump or run away. He then yelled, “BEAR! LOOK OVER THERE!” pointed behind Yanbar’s head, and took off in the opposite direction while the startled Yanbar jumped and did exactly that. The entire episode took only a couple seconds.

Fortunately for Yanbar, the man seemed ill-equipped for snow travel, and wasn’t moving very quickly. Yanbar easily caught up with the man and stood in front of him, arms folded. “I need help escaping the forest. I’m sorry for startling you, but you really shouldn’t have been hiding out in that tree. Can you help me?”

The little man glared. “How on earth can ye still see me?”

Yanbar was puzzled. “What do you mean, how can I see you? There you are, standing in front of me. You have a long crooked nose, and decorated furs, and a large hump on your back. It’s as plain as day.”

“Hmmf.” The man sniffed, appearing to himself. “Must be a little hiccup on Ugg’s part. Appears he be getting smart.”

“Who is… Ugg?” Yanbar asked.

The little man’s eyes bugged out. “It be rude to listen to a man when he be talking to himself to make a plan! For your bad tendencies to quell, I cast a frog-making spell!” He wiggled his fingers energetically at Yanbar, and then took off back in the direction of the tree. Once again, Yanbar easily overtook him and stopped him, causing the man to nasally squeak and turn white. “Ack! Sorcerer!”

“Sorcerer? I’m no sorcerer.” Yanbar replied, confused and strongly wondering if he needed to take this man back to his village to get him some help.

The little man narrowed his eyes and wiggled his fingers again. He did a little dance, hopping from foot to foot, and waived his arms, before pointing at Yanbar again. Nothing happened. Growling, the little man held his hand up so that it faced the sky, and with a resounding crack! a bolt of lightning fell from the overcast heavens and into his upturned palm. Yanbar yelped and fell on his hind end.

“Hmm, no, that’s not it.” The man shuffled towards Yanbar, and leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched. Oddly enough, his breath smelled like cinnamon. “Who be ye master, little lad?”

‘”Thurmgood, the village blacksmith.” Yanbar said.

“No, no, ye daft… I mean ye real master, the one who be protectin’ ye.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” At this point, given that the little man had originally seemed completely crazy but then summoned lightning from the sky, Yanbar decided it was in his best interests to disengage and get out of the forest by himself. “Um, good day to you, sir.” This time Yanbar was the one to get up from the snow, dust himself off, and quickly retreat.

“Wait, wait!” The little man cried as he struggled to catch up with Yanbar. “I be sorry! I haven’t seen another magician in so long, I thought I was by meself out here.”

“I’m not a magician!” Yanbar replied, still moving. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and now it’s time for me to go home. If I’m lucky, I’ll still be healthy enough to survive the good beating I’m going to get when I make it back.”

The little man stopped. “Not a mag- Lad don’t ye be lyin’ to me! No body that ain’t a magician can brush off one of me spells like that!”

Yanbar stopped and turned to face the man. “You mean your little finger trick and then that thing with the lightning?”

“That was no finger trick, lad, I was going to turn ye into a frog.” The man growled.

“No he wasn’t!” A little voice piped out. Suddenly, the little man looked panicked.

“What on earth was that?” Yanbar asked.

“Ack, nothing, nothing…” The little man patted himself all over, eventually punching a small bag attached to his belt. Yanbar thought he heard a little oof when it happened, from the new voice, a high one that sounded like reed pipes, not the nasally one of the small man. The little man straightened himself as best he could with his hump and smiled. “I be Manu-ehl Montgumphry, royal magician to the king.”

Yanbar crossed his arms again. “Sure you are. Because the king’s royal magician would be out in the middle of nowhere, in an icy tundra just outside of Myshka, a backwards nothing town. Good for you, sir.” Yanbar gave an exaggerated bow.

Manu-ehl deflated. “Well… maybe I be not in the same grace I once been, but the position still holds until the king finds another to fill it. And he’ll find none so good as ME!” Manu-ehl pointed a proud thumb at his chest.

“’E’s a complete and utter loon!” Yanbar heard the new voice again, and again heard a little oof when Manu-ehl punched the bag at his side.

“What’s in your bag there, that keeps talking to you?” Yanbar pointed.

“Absolutely nothing of any importance whatsoever.”

“The most important person ‘e ever received in ‘is life! Me name’s Ugg!” The little voice piped up once again.

“Shut up, ye.”

“No I won’t!”

Yanbar broke in. “Is there a little elf in there or something? No person is small enough to fit in a pocket. Also, I don’t think you should be hitting him.”

Manu-ehl glared at Yanbar, and a little voice piped out of the bag, “Yeah!” The bag shook a bit, the dark leather undulating as if muscle still rippled underneath, before a little ball of light popped out of the bag and flew around Manu-ehl’s head. It was slightly oval-shaped, and a short tail followed behind it like a comet. The light shifted slowly between warm colors, reds and oranges and yellows.

Yanbar stared at the light. “Honestly, after the lightning, this doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Manu-ehl swiped at the light. “Get back in there!”

“Where is ‘e?” the light (Ugg, apparently) piped as it flew around Manu-ehl’s head. “I can’t see ‘im!”

At this, Manu-ehl just frowned and gave Yanbar a hard look. “You really can’t see him?”

“Is this some sort of trick, Manny? ‘Cause I don’t like it! Where is ‘e?” Ugg turned a deep red and began to vibrate up and down next to Manu-ehl’s droopy ear.

“I’m right here.” Yanbar said, trying to be helpful. Ugg yipped and zipped towards Yanbar, missing his head by an entire foot and slamming into a nearby tree. Yanbar shook his head as he watched the little light fall into the snow, leaving a tiny indent, before going up and right back to Manu-ehl, where it hovered behind his head. Manu-ehl, for his part, just observed Yanbar.

“Where’s yours?” Manu-ehl said.

“My what?” Yanbar replied.

“Yer werelight.” Manu-ehl said. “One of these useless gits.” He jabbed a thumb at Ugg, who gave a little huff. “It’s only polite to invite yer own out if another chooses to reveal his self.”

Yanbar shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

Manu-ehl hummed and began walking around in lazy circles, Ugg floating above his head in the center. Eventually, he tromped in front of Yanbar, struggling through the snow, and planted himself. “What say ye about being a magician?” A very sly smile tugged the right have off his mouth.

From the Master: Kurt Vonnegut's 8 Basic Rules of Creative Writing

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Two-Parter: Seven Pieces of Pantalones, English Metaphor

Seven Pieces of Pantalones

Or, My Pants Have Personality

MOST of the pants in my dresser are… acquaintances. We know each other well enough that I’m willing to spend a certain amount of time with them, but that doesn't mean we know or care about each other very well. These are the generic blue jeans, the single pair of pants that near every human on earth seems to own but couldn't care less about, and the feeling is mutual. Like an acquaintance, my blue jeans are used when I need them, but we have no further relation beyond that. When wearing them they do their job, but occasionally I have to check up on them, make sure my butt is still covered. Perhaps someday something real or something serious could develop here, but that would only occur if anyone cared enough to make any changes in our situation. Until then, they are my blue jeans, and I am their human legs. We use each other, we get what we need, we get out, and then we generally ignore the fact that the other exists. Perhaps what’s most sad about this situation is the pure number of blue jean acquaintances which I have; it’s almost pathetic, really, our mutual failure to make any connection whatsoever in all the time we've sort of known each other. In most cases, still I don’t even know their name!

THE next personality type comes from my Irish jeans. I call them my “Lucky” pants for two reasons: the inside of the zipper proudly displays a four-leaf clover and the text “LUCKY YOU” when opened (no suggestion there, wink wink), and the button that formally closes the pants randomly pops off with no warning, meaning sometimes when I really need my butt covered, I feel draft coming in, if you catch my meaning. These pants, in part because of their bagginess, but also because they are very worn hand-me-downs that’s thread is showing more white than blue, are some of the most gorgeously comfortable pants I own, and I love spending time with them. However, these “Lucky” jeans are infamously unreliable, and as a result my time with them is almost exclusively spent in private. Whenever I do, for some unfortunate reason, deign to take them out into the world, it’s always necessary to make sure a very close watch is kept on them. Even so, I can always trust these pants to do their job, as situationally useful as it is, meaning if I ever find myself in just the right circumstance that I know I’ll need a pair of pants that can be shed at a moment’s notice, these pants are always on-call. However, as nice as it is in theory that they are always “on the job,” so to speak, the fact that I have yet to ever use them is probably a greater testament to how situational they really are!

EVERYONE alive has that one “friend” that tries too hard, and that you just can’t bring yourself to love no matter how hard you try. Enter the “Clinger.” These thin-fabricked light blue jeans are a little bit of the opposite of my acquaintance jeans; where acquaintance jeans slowly fall down or slip away, these guys climb all the way up and silently scream LOVE ME AS MUCH AS I WORSHIP YOU. The benefit to this is I know they’ll never leave me uncovered, so as much as I try to avoid them, I still have to call on them for aide occasionally (much to their unhealthy delight). The unfortunate fact of the “Clinger” is all of their enthusiasm and overabundance of energy does nothing to make then endearing, as hard as I try to like them. Instead, I find myself sharing a room with a creature that I find small and pitiable, one that I feel guilty for calling on, because I know they’ll do whatever I ask when I ask for it. It’s like I’m taking advantage of them, and it kind of hurts to know that I’m that kind of person, even once. Or twice. Or anytime I need something done that they have the unique skill for. To all the “Clingers” of the world, I apologize on behalf of everyone. We really want to like you. You just make it really, really hard, and it’s probably completely unintentionally on your part.

DECEASED pants are the hardest pants to speak of, as I don’t believe in sugarcoating the dead but representing them how they are, where others prefer blind respect for filling the prerequisite “has died,” something that happens to everyone at some point in time. My slacks and I were tight; not only did they cover me, but damn, they made my butt look good. These pants are the friend that I love because they never fail to look good, and by extension they never fail to make me look good, regardless of whatever I happen to be doing at the moment. The unfortunate problem these pants had was that they were tight. I’m saying Jimmy Fallon would have been extremely uncomfortable to perform the “Tight Pants Song” in these things, and it was a real issue! The honeymoon was fantastic, and as they are just tan slacks I felt they were casual enough to wear a little bit more often, but the marriage afterwards was a disaster. I felt myself slipping away, farther and farther from their tight-fisted grasp. The more removed I was, the tighter they felt when I did wear them, causing me to become even more removed. And it got worse and worse until one day, they did, split down the back from waistband to the back of my knee. I probably should shed a tear, but honestly I’m just relieved they’re finally gone!

SUIT PANTS are very similar to my deceased friend, the slacks. They’re a bit tight. They look really good. But my suit pants know when to be demanding, and when not. Perhaps the issue with slacks was that they could be used in too many situations, leading to resentment over how controlling they could be. Perhaps the benefit of suit pants is that whenever I do wear them, I usually know everyone else is being controlled just as strongly by their iron-fisted suits and dresses as well, but we’re all having fun anyways, so who cares? Whatever the explanation, suit pants do tight right, and slacks need to tone it down a bit. It’s ok to ask for a little bit on a formal occasion, but asking for everything at a high school PTA meeting? Get over yourself, slacks, because Mr. Fancy Suit Pants knows when the right time to demand is, and when the right time to softly coerce is.

WITHOUT a doubt, my second most favorite pairs of pants are my cargos and my khakis. If these guys were human beings, they’d be the type of individual that you might accidentally run into while grabbing groceries or cashing a check, causing you to strike up a conversation and find out that you two just seem to be among the fastest and most natural of friends. Everything is just perfect from the beginning, and any negatives in your relationship are so overshadowed by the positives that you forget they even exist. That’s what these pants are. Covering, they never fall down on the job, not too warm, not too cold, and there’s always enough room to breathe. I imagine the only time I’d ever be disappointed with my cargos/khakis would be some fictional world where everything, absolutely everything, was so incredibly terrible and oppressive that if Zeus himself condescended out of the heavens and gave me a handful of ambrosia and a swig of nectar, I’d find the food of the gods lacking, and send him on his way. In such a case, my issue wouldn’t really be with my pants, but with the state of things in general, so some malignance transfers over unjustly. I deeply apologize, perfect pants, perfect people, if this ever happens to you, and makes you feel less than what you truly are. You never deserved it.

FIRST favorite, however belongs to a very special pair of soft blue pants (I really need to get to know more colors) that I sleep with: my scrubs. This pair of pants is perfect in nearly every sense of the word, and as such I enjoy a lot of long, comfortable, lazy Sundays with a book in hand and scrubs on my loins. We’re even so comfortable together that despite our intimacy, occasionally we take to the streets, proclaiming out extreme comfort to the world! Alas, such a relationship is a rare and special thing with a pair of pants, and it will be a sorry day when I outgrow them. But don’t think of that. What we have is now, and that’s all that matters; let the future come as it will, and hold strong.

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A Short Metaphor

"Darling, English is an art form, and you happen to practice graffiti."