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Dianne over at In High Spirits gave me this and I apologize it's taken me this long to come up with a proper post. I'll start with seven blogs I recently discovered that you might enjoy, too.

1. Inksplattered
2. Weaving a Tale or Two
3. The Last Word
4. Paper Mountain
5. My Voice My View
6. Laughing Ferret
7. Isis Rushdan

As for the 7 posts, for now I think I'll just offer you one that I liked, to keep it short.

moving day

The sign was stark white, bleached and faded by the long summer, the grass beneath it dry and brown. It reminded him of a flag, the sort someone who wished to surrender might wave frantically at the approaching enemy.
   He would've liked to surrender, if such a thing was possible. He would've liked to say, thank-you, yes, I give up. Perhaps then someone would pull the knife from his chest.
   But it wasn't the house he would miss most. Eventually he would forget the pattern of the kitchen tiles and the loose board in the pantry. He would cease to wonder why they never changed the wallpaper in the dining room. The comforting creaks of the place would become a distant memory. All these things would cease to mean much given time.
   It was the barn.
   He had loved the barn.
   He had loved the way it smelled, of hay and oats and cow and manure. Sometimes he liked to step inside for no other reason than to smell the barn, breathing in the deep, rich fragrance of it. And sometimes he caught just a whiff of it walking by. It was a comforting smell, a familiar smell that said home.
   He loved the way it looked, both inside and out. The oldness of it, the way it had been made by the hands of his ancestors, the ripple in one particular row of shingles. Inside the long boards spoke of age and experience and the dust that lay over things he'd forgotten reminded him of how many before him had simply left a part of themselves behind, in the barn.
   The stalls were empty now, the line of cows a ghostly image in his mind's eye. Like the vision of himself hunched over a milk pail, just the two of them in the dark of the morning.
   If he could just grasp back one of those days, see one of those sleepy smiles again, feel the soft touch of a hand half the size of his own, just once more...
   He shook his head.
   It was done, he thought, pulling up the sign, turning away, closing his mind to the sight of the barn sitting there with the doors wide open and welcoming.
   He could not look at it without feeling his heart break.

Christmas Blogfest

From Ellie Garratt comes this Christmas blogfest: post your Christmas related tales or poetry(try to keep the tales under 700 words, though we won't tell you off if you go a little over). Your tale can be any genre and can be non-fiction if you want. It can be happy, sad, scary, or whatever you choose. But it must feature some element of Christmas. To read other people's tales or sign up for the blogfest go visit Ellie.


Here's my little Christmas tale:  

Christmas Eve

It was a dark and stormy night.

The wind had been blowing most of the day and the snow had made driving nearly impossible, drifting over the roads, bringing traffic to a standstill, and stranding holiday travelers. She had shoveled the porch three times since dark and still the snow fell, blanketing everything in a dense layer of sparkling white that now reached the top step.

Inside her house was warm and cozy, candles flickering on the mantle, and the pine scent of the tree wafting about to mingle with the smell of the wood burning in the hearth. The tree was decorated now, all the ornaments hung, the colored lights sparkling, and the star at the top a bright beacon.

He wasn’t coming, she thought. Stranded no doubt, like everyone else.

Her dark eyes went to the gifts she had so carefully wrapped that afternoon. She had used the special glitter tissue paper she’d been saving. She sighed.

The champagne should be put away, and the shrimp cocktail, and the lovely salad with the pine nuts and cranberries that had taken forever to make. The chocolate mousse was still chilling in the refrigerator but the whipped cream had probably fallen a bit by this time.

The dog looked over at her from the matt by the door, his eyes sad. He gave a huge sigh and began to settle, reluctantly.

Then his eyes popped open and his ears perked up.

He jumped to his feet and barked at the glass.

Not a warning bark but an excited bark.

She ran to the door and opened it, peering out into the snowy night and her heart skipped a beat.

He was coming up the drive, covered in snow.

She ran out to meet him, not caring how cold it was or that her boots would get wet. He opened his arms wide and she flew into them, wrapping herself around him. He held her tight, kissing her hair, her face. She walked him inside and took his heavy overcoat, laying it over the sofa, smoothing his damp hair back away from his blue eyes.

She got the champagne out and they drank before the fire.

“Are you hungry?’” she asked, “I’ve got…”

“No food,” he said with a smile, “Just you.”

How to write a story - Alignment (part 3)

Lawful Evil is referred to as the "Dominator" or "Diabolic" alignment. Characters of this alignment see a well-ordered system as being easier to exploit, and show a combination of desirable and undesirable traits; while they usually obey their superiors and keep their word, they care nothing for the rights and freedoms of other individuals and are not averse to twisting the rules to work in their favor. Examples of this alignment include tyrants, devils, undiscriminating mercenary types who have a strict code of conduct, and loyal soldiers who enjoy the act of killing. X-Men's Magneto is a Lawful Evil character.


Neutral Evil is called the "Malefactor" alignment. Characters of this alignment are typically selfish and have no qualms about turning on their allies-of-the-moment. They have no compunctions about harming others to get what they want, but neither will they go out of their way to cause carnage or mayhem when they see no direct benefit to it. They abide by laws for only as long as it is convenient for them. A villain of this alignment can be more dangerous than either Lawful or Chaotic Evil characters, since he is neither bound by any sort of honor or tradition nor disorganized and pointlessly violent. X-Men's Mystique, and Sawyer of the early seasons of Lost are examples of Neutral Evil characters.

Chaotic Evil is referred to as the "Destroyer" or "Demonic" alignment. Characters of this alignment tend to have no respect for rules, other people's lives, or anything but their own desires, which are typically selfish and cruel. They set a high value on personal freedom, but do not have any regard for the lives or freedom of other people. They do not work well in a group, as they resent being given orders, and usually behave themselves only out of fear of punishment. Chaotic Evil characters enjoy the suffering of others, and view honor and self-discipline as weaknesses. Serial killers and monsters of limited intelligence are typically Chaotic Evil. Riddick from Pitch Black is Chaotic Evil.*

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alignment_(Dungeons_%26_Dragons)



I enjoyed reading about alignment again and I hope you did, too, but I don't think Riddick was entirely chaotic evil. After all, he did go back in the end and help save those last few survivors, remember? What do you think?

How to write a story - Alignment (part 2)

Lawful Neutral is called the "Judge" or "Disciplined" alignment. A Lawful Neutral character typically believes strongly in Lawful concepts such as honor, order, rules and tradition, and often follows a personal code. A Lawful Neutral society would typically enforce strict laws to maintain social order, and place a high value on traditions and historical precedent. Examples of Lawful Neutral characters might include a soldier who always follows orders, a judge or enforcer that adheres mercilessly to the word of the law, and a disciplined monk.

Characters of this alignment are neutral with regard to good and evil. This does not mean that Lawful Neutral characters are amoral or immoral, or do not have a moral compass; but simply that their moral considerations come a distant second to what their code, tradition or law dictates. They typically have a strong ethical code, but it is primarily guided by their system of belief, not by a commitment to good or evil. James Bond is an example of a Lawful Neutral character.

Neutral alignment, also referred to as True Neutral or Neutral Neutral, is called the "Undecided" or "Nature's" alignment. This alignment represents Neutral on both axes, and tends not to feel strongly towards any alignment. A farmer whose primary overriding concern is to feed his family is of this alignment. Most animals, lacking the capacity for moral judgment, are of this alignment. Many roguish characters who play all sides to suit themselves are also of this alignment. Lara Croft, and Han Solo in his early Star Wars appearance are neutral.

Chaotic Neutral is called the "Anarchist" or "Free Spirit" alignment. A character of this alignment is an individualist who follows his or her own heart, and generally shirks rules and traditions. Although they promote the ideals of freedom, it is their own freedom that comes first. Good and Evil come second to their need to be free, and the only reliable thing about them is how totally unreliable they are. Chaotic Neutral characters are free-spirited and do not enjoy the unnecessary suffering of others, but if they join a team, it is because that team's goals coincide with their own. They invariably resent taking orders and can be very selfish in their pursuit of personal goals. Captain Jack Sparrow, and Al Swearengen from the TV series Deadwood are examples of chaotic neutral characters. *

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alignment_(Dungeons_%26_Dragons)


next: alignment part 3 - evil
previous: alignment part 1 - good

How to write a story - Alignment (part 1)

Before wicked fun games like Oblivion and Fallout existed, my brothers and I used to play Dungeons & Dragons. And before any of us could go dungeoning we had to create our character, and one of the most important aspects of the creation was deciding alignment:

Lawful Good is known as the "Saintly" or "Crusader" alignment. A Lawful Good character typically acts with compassion, and always with honor and a sense of duty. A Lawful Good nation would consist of a well-organized government that works for the benefit of its citizens. Lawful Good characters may sometimes find themselves faced with the dilemma of whether to obey law or good when the two conflict - for example, upholding a sworn oath when it would lead innocents to come to harm - or conflicts between two orders, such as between their religious law and the law of the local ruler. Indiana Jones is a lawful good character.

Neutral Good is known as the "Benefactor" alignment. A Neutral Good character is guided by his conscience and typically acts altruistically, without regard for or against Lawful precepts such as rules or tradition. A Neutral Good character has no problems with co-operating with lawful officials, but does not feel beholden to them. In the event that doing the right thing requires the bending or breaking of rules, they do not suffer the same inner conflict that a Lawful Good character would. Spiderman is a neutral good character.

Chaotic Good is known as the "Beatific," "Rebel," or "Cynic" alignment. A Chaotic Good character favors change for a greater good, disdains bureaucratic organizations that get in the way of social improvement, and places a high value on personal freedom, not only for oneself, but for others as well. They always intend to do the right thing, but their methods are generally disorganised and often out of alignment with the rest of society. They may create conflict in a team if they feel they are being pushed around, and often view extensive organisation and planning as pointless, preferring to improvise. Starbuck from Battlestar Galactica is a chaotic good character as is Robin Hood.*

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alignment_(Dungeons_%26_Dragons

tomorrow: alignment - part 2 - neutral

And now for your reading pleasure...

I almost wasn’t going to go running. I was going to be a lazy ass piker and sit on my duff. But my dog hadn’t done a thing all day except wait patiently for me so I thought, ok, a walk around the field. But then I got outside and it was all quiet and grey, still humid but cooler thanks to not-a-hurricane-now Earl. Merely a tropical storm or depression, or whatever they heck they called it. Anyway, it was perfect running weather so I went, thinking, a short run. But then I came around to the power lines where I always get my second wind and it wasn’t really that much farther so…I ran. And while I ran it occurred to me I might offer an excerpt, something fun. Hopefully, you’ll like it.

[The Stage: it is January 1806 and Arlen, the heroine of our tale, has recently arrived in London, having accepted the fact that she is a witch. She has just returned home from her first ball when the imp she conjured returns from the task she sent him on...]

“The hour was closer to dawn than dusk when Arlen returned to her room. She was completely exhausted. Her feet hurt from dancing, her stomach was full from indulging in too many lemon tarts, and she had a bit of a headache from all the champagne. She was glad Darcy hadn’t chosen this night to make another attempt on her life. She wouldn’t have been able to stop him; she was too tired to do anything except sleep.

But no sooner had she closed the door when Vathek popped into existence, glaring at her from her desk in the corner, his amber eyes looking very feline and very predatory. She didn’t even have time to be surprised by his sudden appearance.

“You didn’t tell me there was an Adept involved,” he hissed.

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” Arlen said, backing up a step, the door at her back,“I don’t even know what an adept is.”

“How could you possibly not know?” Vathek asked, looking at her as if she were the dullest of persons.

“I didn’t even know I was a witch until a ghost told me,” Arlen said, “This is all new to me. Remember?”

He narrowed his eyes at her until they were mere slivers, tipping his nose upwards and sniffing in her direction.

“Hmm,” he said after a moment, “Sit then, take those ugly shoes off. They’re pinching your feet.”

“How do you…”

He grinned that grin, making her shudder. “I can smell intent, remember? And the intent of those shoes is not comfort, it’s style.”

Arlen sat down gratefully on her bed, pulling the shoes off and then the stockings, rubbing her feet until the soreness began to abate.

“Lord Wyndham wishes to make a bargain with me.”

“What kind of bargain?”

“One in which we both tell each other the truth.”

“That could be dangerous.”

“I know,” Arlen said, “But he said you would vouch for him.”

Vathek grimaced.

“Well? Would you?”

“He doesn’t mean you any harm,” Vathek said reluctantly.

“Does that mean I can trust him?”

“You might,” the imp allowed.

“And what about Cato? He said Cato was his advantage.”

“He was correct,” Vathek said darkly, his gaze narrowing again.

“How is he an advantage?”

“I told you, he’s an Adept.”

“Yes, but I don’t know what that means,” Arlen reminded him.

“It means he has been trained by a master and is now a master himself.”

“A master of what?”

“Who knows?” Vathek answered crossly, “But he found me out before I had a chance to look about.”

“Is he a witch then?”

“Not exactly. Your power is inherited, like the color of your hair and eyes. His power was trained through study and discipline. Witches make mistakes; Adepts seldom do.”

“How were you discovered?”

“I don’t think I care to speak of it,” Vathek said with a wounded sniff.

“Surely it can’t have been that bad,” Arlen said, pulling the pins from her hair, “After all, you’re still here.”

“No, not bad at all – unless, of course, you enjoy being caught by your tail like a rodent and held up as if you were some specimen your captor was thinking of pinning under glass. No, not bad at all, in fact, I’m sure I must’ve enjoyed it.”

His amber eyes narrowed to angry slits and Arlen stifled a laugh, forcing herself to sound contrite. “I’m very sorry you were subjected to such…manhandling.”

He glared at her again.

“Really, I am,” she said with as much sincerity as she could find. “If I’d had any idea I wouldn’t have sent you.”

He sniffed one more time before settling back on his haunches. “I would be careful of those two; they are up to something and I am not sure it is good.”

“I thought you said I could trust Lord Wyndham.”

“That doesn’t preclude the two of them from having their own agenda. And Cato could easily have cast a MisKnowing. I’m afraid I’m not powerful enough to overcome something like that, not coming from an Adept.”

“Then what should I do?”

“Go fishing,” Vathek said with an evil smile, “Who knows? Perhaps you’ll catch something interesting.”


Next up: A Review of Dianne Salerni's We Hear The Dead.

moving day

   The sign was stark white, bleached and faded by the long summer, the grass beneath it dry and brown. Sitting there in front of the porch it reminded him of a flag, the sort someone who wished to surrender might wave frantically at the appraoching enemy.
   He would've liked to surrender, if such a thing was possible. He would've liked to say, thank-you, yes, I give up. Perhaps then someone would pull the knife from his chest.
   But it wasn't the house he would miss most. Eventually he would forget the pattern of the kitchen tiles and the loose board in the pantry. He would not wonder why they had never changed the wallpaper in the dining room. The comforting creaks of the place would become a distant memory. All these things would cease to mean much given time.
   It was the barn he would miss.
   He had loved the barn.
   He had loved the way it smelled, of hay and oats and cow and manure. Sometimes he liked to step inside for no other reason than to smell the barn, breathing in the deep, rich smell of it. Sometimes he caught just a whiff of it walking by. It was a comforting smell, a familiar smell that said home.
   He loved the way it looked, both inside and out. The oldness of it, the way it had been made by the hands of his ancestors, the ripple in one particular row of shingles. Inside the creaking boards spoke of age and experience, and the dust that lay over things he had forgotten reminded him of how many had simply left a part of themselves behind, in the barn.
   The stalls were empty now, the line of cows a ghostly image in his mind's eye. Like the vision of himself hunched over a milk pail, just the two of them in the dark of the morning.
   If he could just grasp back one of those days, see one of those sleepy smiles again, feel the soft touch of a hand half the size of his own, just once more...
   He shook his head.
   It was done, he thought, pulling the sign up from the ground, turning away, closing his mind to the sight of the barn sitting there with the doors wide open and welcoming.
   He could not look at it without feeling his heart break.

Sorcerer scheduled to be executed...

Imagine a man. He is standing in a six foot by six foot cell. He knows there are dozens of other identical cells at either side of him, each with an inhabitant. At night he hears them tapping against the walls with their metal bowls. It is some sort of language but he hasn't been able to figure it out. He is a stranger to this land. He barely speaks the language.


He has in his pockets a few items, trinkets and such, a few matchsticks, a tissue. He wonders what he might do with them. Something, he thinks, remembering, seeing in his mind's eye a book his master made him memorize, a book of spells.

Of course, that was exactly how he'd ended up where he was in the first place; by casting spells. It didn't matter that they were harmless. And it didn't matter that he didn't know. But since they'd already sentenced him to death it didn't matter if he had another go, did it? After all, there couldn't be anything worse than death, right?



So that's the beginning of my tale of the sorcerer - let's hear yours.

Black & White

   Here are thick forests and mountains that rise up into snow and mist, perpetually shrouded. Roads wind and twist over rock and dale, steep and treacherous, insisting on caution. Deep valleys lie hidden in the crags, green and lush, fragrant with the scent of pine and amber. Here are deep pools near the high groves, sweet fields and streets strewn with summer blossoms all the year long. Ribbons are hung in the trees, fluttering from the branches, pale gauzy things that shudder in shades of lavender and saffron and vermilion.


   Here the White Queen sits in her bower, pale and cold, with eyes like storm clouds, white hair bound into tiny braids. Her robe is the color of the dawn, shimmering and bright. She wears rings on all her fingers; glittering diamonds, rubies that glow like fire, and opals as luminous as the moon.


   From her bower she can see across the Great Chasm, see clear across to the other side and the black tower that mocks her from afar.


   There are trees lining the road, tall trees that shade the lanes all the day long. There are flowers in the fields: tall flocks, blue lupines, and sunflowers as tall as a man. There are quarries deep and wide and the sound of the great hammers and machinery echoing against the stone, black stone that has made the tower.


   It is a precarious thing, all spires and darkness, glistening in the moonlight like black glass. In the tallest spire the Black King paces in his hall, a place of marble floors and smooth walls and candles flickering. Wood and incense burn in the braziers, scenting the air with musk and smoke.


   He moves like a cat, all stealth and caution. His eyes are like the night, dark and shadowed, his hair black as pitch, and his dress of days gone by. His tunic falls to his knees in velvet folds. His leggings are of quilted fleece and his boots are trimmed in ermine. He wears rings on his fingers; silver and white gold, and a band about his head etched in archaic runes.


   He can see her in his mind’s eye, imagines her white hair and pale eyes. She sees him in her dreams, a shadow, beckoning. They think of little else but each other. For they are bound and crossed, lovers and enemies, promised and betrayed.

4th July 2007

So there we are, the Academy Hill crowd, too lazy to walk the rest of the way into town. We gather by the old gym, waiting for the fireworks. The kids all have sparklers, and they go running out into the field, raising them high. Almost you can’t see them, for the light is nearly gone, and the sparklers could almost be flying around the field by themselves – except for the laughter, that perfect sound that comes from kids sometimes when they’re having a really good time. And then they begin, great, deep booms and then the display:  showers of stars, circles, bursts, fizzlers, and shooters. And I think, anyone watching this from space would know there is something good here, why else go to the trouble of putting on such a display if not for the simple pleasure of enjoying it? As for the grand finale, it was spectacular.

The Pearl Mouse

[my very first original story - written when I was in 6th grade with the help of my best friend Dawn]

     Carmen was in bed. It was late at night. She could hear a scratching noise. She slipped out of bed. Her hand shook as she opened the door. A small pearly white mouse sat on the floor.
     "Come with me!" It said.
     Carmen's eyes opened wide. Had it actually spoken?
     She followed the mouse outside and onto the street. It was very dark, but she followed it anyway. It led her along the sidewalk. When it stopped, the sidewalk opened and a marble stairway was visible. It was very shiny and steep.It went down. Carmen could not see the bottom.
     The mouse hopped down and Carmen followed.
     They went down and down and down and down and down.
     "Oh let's stop and rest. Just for a minute," Carmen begged, "I'm so tired."
     "Come on! Hurry up!" The mouse said, "If I get to the bottom before you, you'll never get out."
     Carmen hurried after the mouse who was disappearing down the stairs but still leaving a faintish glow behind him.
     They finally reached the bottom and a wall opened before them. Carmen stepped out and found the mouse nowhere in sight. She looked around. A Chinese girl who looked her age came over to her.
     "Hello, I'm Lo-Tsen."
     "Where am I?" Carmen asked.
     "In Peking, China."
     "Ohmygosh! I live in the USA!"Carmen exclaimed.
     "The Pearl Mouse must have brought you here. He is bad. If you hurry you might make it before the door closes."
     Carmen thanked the girl and slipped back into the stairway. She hurried up the stairs and hoped the door at the top wouldn't close. She went up and up and up and up and up.
     She looked ahead. She could see the top. The door was starting to shut. She tried to go faster. The door was shut.
     "They tricked me," she cried, "They all tricked me! Now I'll never get out. I'm stuck in here forever."
     Carmen cried.