The Demon

I read somewhere (please, don't ask for source, because I couldn't tell you now) that when one encounters writers' block, one is to write about why they can't come up with an idea.

I have a deadline for a short story. I've never written one before. But I thought it would be an amazing way to flesh out a side character for my main story. I think this is a great chance to really breathe life into a person who, as my "big story" goes, is just as "real" as the main characters, but has much less "screen time".

My first method of preparation was to research HOW to write a short story, and to that end I found a trove of information. I found a method that I'd like to try, and now, I'm sitting down with this character in my mind ...

...and I have no idea what her trouble will be.

She's part traditional D&D rogue and part Indiana Jones. Someone who goes after rare artifacts and ruthlessly sells them to the highest bidder. She's not evil, persay, but her ethics are questionable.

But I don't know what trouble to get her buried in over her head. Suggestions?

"Reality"

Somewhere in her mind, she was back at home. She was at peace. Her brain blocked out the pain and heat, and she was laying in the pastures of the west field, enjoying the mild breezes and easy sunlight of the springtime of her homeland. She could hear the sheep on the hill, grazing and moving through the plains grass with the lazy practice of years of visits. In the back of her mind, she knew they'd need to be shorn soon, and she knew that there were several with lambs due. She could smell the sweetness of the grasses surrounding her, making a bed that was slightly itchy, but still cool to the touch for her to lay on, in the shade of the largest cottonwood for at least two rôst in all directions. She could tell her hair was laying around her head, creating a little extra cushion for her head in addition to the grasses under her. Her body was relaxed and she could feel the grass on her ankles and bare feet where her skirts left them bare. She was pretty sure her father would come looking for her eventually, chastising her for not being more diligent, but she'd never had a problem with the sheep. They had never run off with her at watch before. They knew her scent and trusted her, and actually wanted to be near her. It made her smile slightly.

“Hey!”

The yell confused her, and she furrowed her brow slightly, not wanting to open her eyes yet, not wanting to find out who was yelling at her. It wasn't a voice she recognized, so she didn't really want to address it.

Something poked her in the ribs on one side. Not terribly painfully, but what was more distressing was the shifting of her realization of gravity. She thought she was laying on her back, but as she became more aware of the poke to her ribs, she also became aware that her weight was such that she was actually laying on her stomach. She moaned as she realized there was something washing over her, an insidious, almost evil sensation. It made her breath come in shorter gasps, and her muscles tense. She was in pain.

She felt a hand grasp her arm firmly, and roll her over, and then the illusion was shattered. She was so hot, and everything felt so dry. Her eyes wouldn't open, but she wasn't sure she wanted them to. Sand was everywhere. On her face, in her hair, on her skin. And the layers of clothing were caked with it. Sand and blood. She could smell it. The awful aching in her abdomen reminded her of that cause. She was so beyond grief that she couldn't even cry anymore.

She could feel something wiping at her face, a cloth of some kind getting the worst of the sand off her features. She couldn't help but wince as the rag touched her more swollen and wounded features. Still, she didn't dare open her eyes with all the sand in the crevasses of her skin. She'd never felt this close to dead. Never before this amount of discomfort combined with pain and dryness. As her reality came back to her, she realized she should have been dead. A person doesn't just run through the desert while wounded and without water and survive. Part of her wished she was. If the dream of her lying in the pasture with her sheep all around her, back home before all of the changes had occurred, she would have died happy.

Something touched her face and her chin, and she discovered she couldn't even lift her hand, let alone push away whatever was touching her. It became obvious that it was a hand, and it opened her mouth slightly, and she felt even more parched as it did. There was so little moisture in her mouth that her tongue felt swollen and leathery.

When the water hit the back of her throat, she choked, involuntarily, her coughing wracking her body as she did. There was a long pause as she got her breath back, and then more water, slowly, in her mouth. The relief she felt at having the moisture reintroduced to her mouth would have made her eyes water if she'd had tears left. It was slow, deliberate, and she wondered if that was what she'd heard in her dream, this person's voice.

She wasn't sure when she stopped drinking, but after awhile, the water stopped coming to her mouth and she relaxed, much more hydrated, and realized there was a hand behind her head when it laid her head back down on the sand gently.

“Hey.” It was a man's voice. She felt an immediate apprehension. Reality meant being afraid of men. They were stronger, and in the sands, usually mean and cruel. Nothing like her father or brother. Her throat threatened to cut off her words with how tight it became.

“Hello?” she managed to choke out. Her voice was scratchy from lack of water and disuse.

“Are you of the tribes?” He asked quietly.

She couldn't help but get a small smile of triumph on her face, feeling her lips crack, “Not anymore. But … I'm 'fraid you've wasted your water.”

“Excommunicated? I should have let you die?” He asked both with a slightly disapproving tone that made her nervous. He sounded older than her.

“I can't walk. I'll die anyway.” She explained simply. She had been in the sands long enough to know how survival worked.

“Are your legs broken?” She heard him ask, simply.

She shook her head, still unable to open her eyes, “They stopped working.”

“Sand Exhaustion.” His statement was simple, yet again. She heard the water again, and was hopeful until she felt the rag, damp now, wiping the blood and sand from her face. While one eye remained too swollen for her to open, the other allowed her to, and she was able to blink and clear her vision enough to see the person who'd stumbled across her.

In the moonlight she could see light, almost icy eyes and carefully tended facial hair accompanying a strong chin and balanced nose. His lips were full, but not too much so. He wore his hair back and had a covering over his head to keep the heat off during the day. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, though she had always been terrible at judging age.

“I would happily die away from them.” She said softly.

He raised an eyebrow, tucking his rag away, “Should we save your story for later?”

She gave a small smile, “If at all. Are you leaving the sands?”

He nodded his answer, “When did you last have food or water?”

She watched as he broke apart a simple ration of jerkey and offered it. She tried lifting her arm, but could only wince apologetically as it didn't obey her, “I might have to wait...” She said sheepishly.

He shook his head and tore off a piece that was smaller and pressed it to her mouth enough for her to take it. The taste of food made her feel more alive than dead. Several minutes passed with him giving her food, until finally, he simply said, “I am Gowan.”

“Kalyssa.” She replied, chewing.

“Well met.”

She couldn't help but to smile slightly, “Agreed. Thank you.”

After swallowing the last of the rations she was given, she continued, “I'm from a village near Arlond.”

He looked thoughtful, “Aurel. Not as far north as you. I'm heading home. North. But not as far north as your home.”

“I have flexible goals,” She said while looking up at him, “I wanted away from the tribes before I died, and I got that far. If I could get to the edge of the sands, that would be nice.”

“I can take you with me.” He offered.

She could feel her expression get a guilty tinge, “I know it's dangerous to take on added burdens in the sands, Gowan.”

He shook his head, “My daughter would give me too much grief if I told her I left you. I'm doing this for her, and my sanity from her, not for you.”

Her reply was a sharp, humorless chuckle, “You could simply not tell her about me at all.”

There was no trace of humor on his face, “I don't keep things from her.”

Her own smile faded slowly, and she cleared her throat, nervously. “If this if your goal, I will do my best not to slow you down.”

His reply was all business, “We're wasting precious moonlight. Are you ready?”

She nodded, but knew it was a lie. But she was determined to try. She began working to sit up, and immediately felt like her insides were on fire, making her wince and wrap her arm around her stomach. Her breath came out in pants as a response.

“What happened?” He asked, shrewdly.

“My … husband was angry with me. It wasn't a new thing.” She kept trying to get her legs to cooperate with her attempt to eventually stand.

“So, he beat you?” He sounded mildly incredulous.

“Yeah. We fight … fought … a lot.” She paused to breathe, “It's complicated.” Her tone clearly told him that she'd rather not revisit the idea.

“Alright. Well, you can't move. That's obvious.”

“That's what I was trying to tell you. It would be stupid to try and help me.”

“Yeah.” He said flatly, watching her without expression.

“This place, it makes you have to think about the really important things,” her voice was more defeated than she wanted it to be. She was hoping to sound stoic, so that he wouldn't feel bad for leaving her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod in agreement right before bending down to pick her up out of the sand.

With a mixture of surprise and pain, she could only manage to get out, “Gowan … wait … you shouldn't....” before she had to stop talking entirely.

“You've told me that once before, already.” He said as he stood with her.

The stronger of her two arms was enough to get her to hold onto his shoulder as he began to turn around.

“I have a woorpak. She can carry us both.”

Kalyssa couldn't think of what to say except, “Oh.” She felt both relieved and sheepish as he carried her across the sand like she weighed nothing. She knew that was not the case, but didn't make an issue of it. Her focus quickly was consumed with her trying to keep from wincing or crying out as she was moved.

“Have you ridden a woorpak before?” He asked quietly.

She shook her head, “No, but I've seen them before.”

“We'll know right away whether she likes you and whether you'll ride one for the first time or not.”

She could feel herself pale slightly, “I saw one bite a tribesman who was trying to become a handler.” She said nervously.

“They're like huge three year olds, except they're pickier.” Gowan advised.

She swallowed, worried, “If she doesn't like me, will she bite me?” She could hear her voice betray her concern.

“Yes.” He said bluntly. “And there will be no riding her.”

“Um … don't put me too close to her … at first?” Kalyssa could feel her heart beginning to race a little in fear. Woorpaks were huge beasts, covered in long shaggy fur meant to keep the sand from their skin. Often, a full grown woorpak could easily kill a full grown tribesman. They were known for being particular to only a few people, and easily irritated and angry.

“Either it's gonna happen, or it won't.” Gowan said without elaboration, and then whistled, “Bertie!”

On the nearest dune, the large female woopak flicked her ears in response to his call, stubbornly staring down a sage brush.

“I got you lunch! C'mon!” He yelled at the beast.

“Wait!” Kalyssa stammered, “I'd … I'd rather not be bit!” She strained to see the animal from her vantage point, panicked, and unable to move far without pain. Thoughts of how badly she'd been tricked by this man just so that he could feed her to his beast raced through her mind.

“I'm joking.” He stated simply, and she looked over to see that, while his expression remained unreadable, his eyes betrayed his amusement at her panic.

“You … you are?” She watched his face closely, wary.

“Yes.” He held her up so that the animal could sniff her, the beast's nose at the end of it's massive head was enough to let Bertie smell her without having to lean down too far.

Bertie sniffed deeply into Kalyssa's clothing, leaving traces of drool that the girl couldn't help but grimace at, disgusted.

“Alright, we're good to go.” Gowan said as the girl was looking at him, stricken.

She heard him make an odd clicking noise, “Get down, Bertie. Don't make this harder than it has to be.” He chastised.

The stubborn woopak sighed dejectedly, and knelt down at the command, looking irritable and bored. Carefully, Gowan set Kalyssa on Berie's back. Kalyssa couldn't help but close her eyes to keep from showing how much pain she was in at being moved. Once on the furry creature, she had to keep herself sitting upright, and it felt like her abdomen was ripping open. She clenched her teeth to make it so that she wouldn't cry out.

Kalyssa could see him go back over to grab his waterskin, but didn't pay too much attention. Her being able to stay upright stole her entire focus. Before she knew it, he was mounting behind her on the beast's back, and having the woopak stand. He gave the furry creature's command to begin traveling. The movement was murder, and she could feel her arm beginning to shake as she was holding herself upright. Clearly, he could tell as well.

“Lean back. It'll be easier on you.” He said with a tone that was somewhere between command and suggestion. Kalyssa nodded, and did so, apprehensively at first. Once she'd done so, though, and realized that he wasn't going to move so that she'd lose her balance, she found herself to be surprisingly comfortable. She didn't want to be vulnerable to someone she didn't know, but her body had other plans, and before she knew it, she was being gently roused awake by Gowan. Bertie was stopped, and Kalyssa looked around, disoriented.

Nearest her was an inn, small, but clean looking. It was daytime, mid morning, perhaps, and around Bertie was the bustling village. She didn't know which one, but it was clearly not the desert.

“Hey,” she heard Gowan say gently.

“Gowan.” She said it simply, trying to orient herself.

“Hold yourself up, I have to get off.”

She nodded and pulled herself to sitting with a pained expression. Once he was on the ground, he reached up to help her down, “Come on down.”

Kalyssa was careful to keep her expression guarded from betraying how badly she was hurting as she got down off of Bertie, but he still kept a hold on her once she was off the beast.

“Can you walk?”

All she could manage was a nod, but she was able to step away slightly while holding his arm for support. She turned to him, then, “Thank you,” she said simply.

He nodded. “You're sure you're alright?”

“I will be,” she promised. “Travel safely.”

“I will.” he stated emotionlessly.

Musical Inspiration

So, what triggered this post is actually the fact that I've been listening to the same song on repeat now for a couple of days. Thank the gods for headphones, or I think my family might have already slaughtered me by now without them.

While writing what I'm hoping will be an epic story (epic in my own mind due to simply the driving pressure from the characters in my story to get their lives told), I'm driven to epic music. More important than WHAT I'm listening to is the fact that I am. I haven't done any research about others being inspired while obsessively listening to a single song, but I'm fairly certain I can't be the only one.

Music is an incredible thing to me. It has a way, like math, to transcend language and pull at the soul. This is well known, written in history throughout time, quoted about (something about soothing savage beasts? :) ). I feel like it tells a story while I'm working to tell the story of my own that's inside me.

I think maybe that's why there's such a draw to good music while creating. Creating is a process that's telling the story of the muse or genius that is flowing through you, and is essentially expressing a story. The music is doing the same. It's as though you're walking a journey with another soul, walking the story telling path with company. It's inspirational and encouraging at the same time. Helps to make the lulls easier to work through.

Of course, my OCD mind probably likes the soothing repetition of the song on repeat, too. But I'm not 100% positive on that.

The Village of Skye

      The only sight of entrance into the village of Skye was the main gate. From there, one could see the main street, lined on either side with shops. All of the buildings were made one story, and squat, flat roofs and made of sand brick, a mixture that was mostly solidified forms of the dunes themselves. Because of this, the buildings blended into the sand that had hardened under the feet of the villagers and their livestock over the centuries to form the village's roads. It blended in with the dunes that abutted the wall on the north side, always one step away from consuming the town if not for the Watchers going out to move the sands using the Ancient Way. It blended with the expanse of sand that one could see in all directions, making the village seem like a pearl lost in a sea of nearly white waves. If one looked hard enough, he could see the gleam of sunlight off of metal findings that had long been polished by sand and wind into a sharp shine, or off the windows made of thick, dust streaked glass. Within the walls of the village, where the cliffs were not imposing their shadow, nor the dunes threatening to overtake the people, you could see side streets branching off the main street, where homes and shops began to take shape. The sand brick buildings had their own individual touches. Signs above shop doors, desert flowers growing in window boxes, laundry lines hung for the rare days without sand storms.

      The streets were narrow in places, making artificial shadows within the blazing, ceaseless sunlight, however, in other places, they were wide enough for two carts to pass side by side. Throughout the village, in places where the roads intersected, there would be the occasional water well. Guarded and precious beyond imagining, the well houses were made of the strongest brick, and what little stone could be found. Inside was the smell and soothing feeling of dampness and cool shade. It created the pervasive feeling that one was in a haven of life, a place where all things began and ended. The wells were each nearly a sacred place. People timed their lives by when they went to the wells for water. They met their friends there, and had long conversations while waiting in line, or after having pulled up water and covered their buckets with cloth to keep it from evaporating.

The village was blessed, it was said, by water hidden under the ground. It allowed for the food caves that were another blessing. No one knew quite how the village found them, or the water under their feet, but they certainly knew they were there now. Inside the vast cliffs were long expanses of open caverns with openings carefully cut into the ceiling to allow just enough sunlight in to grow food, but not enough to kill it. Here, the water had been brought with diligence and consistence until things would grow and as they did the livestock were fed. This, in turn, created soil to mix with the sand, and allowed for the raising of chickens, which added even more soil, and through a process spanning back as long as anyone in the village new, the people had managed to scratch out the existence of food for the village within the caverns.

      In this way, the people lived for centuries, losing their origins in the folds of time around them. Losing their knowledge of the past, allowing them to be consumed with the smell of the dust in the air that permeated everything. Or the sight of the sun setting on the dunes creating streaks of gold, red, purple, and pink before allowing the sky to return to the blackness that revealed nightfall. The past was lost in the feeling of the grit on everything, the relief of water to wash once a week, the taste of the dirt in their food and water, and the occasional smells of desert flowers. The day to day survival was infused with the sweat of the people and the dusty musk of the animals. Those who lived here were the desert. And for some reason they lived well, and no one thought to question why.

       Here, the wind and sand shaped creation. It was a never ending torment of particles against whatever the particles met that seemed to create something from an original form that was much softer, much less efficient, and didn't know it had previously been flawed. Once one was in the dunes, immersed in the sand and the village, they became shaped. Scoured clean of their vulnerabilities and made bare of all things that were anything other than essential. People used smaller sentences, drank less water, tended only to what tasks they needed. It was land of minimalism under the heat and glaring sun. The desert shaped the man, not the other way around, and all things that came to the village were recreated in the village's image, and those born there were born into the shadow of what the village had already created. Stark landscapes, brutal sand storms, crisp mornings and frigid nights were the instruments of that transformation, and there was no way to fight it. The people of the village knew this, and while they might not embrace it, there was a sense of inevitability that hung in the air like a cloud of smoke or dust. The knowledge settled on everything, infusing the idea into all it touched, coating it, and permeating all that was left out. This was the truth that simply was. It was the never spoken, but always known undercurrent of the people in the village.

Stepping Back Into Frame

It has been nearly two years since my last post. After posting about my family emergency, I had to live through it. My father passed away in January 2013. I write that not as a way to evoke sympathy, but more as a way to mark the time that I was away. Sympathy is something you need right after the event of losing someone. Not neccessarily this long afterward. Yes, I still have days where I miss him, and especially poignant are the days when I really wish I could debate something with him, or talk about music or politics. But mostly, I live my life, and hope that, if there is a continuation of the sentience that was my dad, that he's happy, or content, or even better, at peace.

I moved to Washington after he passed, using money from my 401k (so long retirement) and from his life insurance. I dabbled at starting a freelance art business, and realized that people don't really have that much money for art nowadays. I had a blog during that time, but it's long gone, now. My web hosting expired, and I never renewed it.

I got a full time job with a retailer that I quickly came to dispise, and eventually got my own place, and moved my mom to Washington, along with my brother. I quit my piece of shit job in the full expectation that a place that I did very well at during an interview would be calling me back in no time. It never happened.

I'm currently three weeks unemployed, but I have a great prospect coming up. In the meantime, I've decided to start working on the endeavors that I wanted to and that drove me to quit my awful last employer: writing and art. To that end, I've returned to my blog.