She who is

Storming as a thundercloud,

bitter smile to match,

shadow of the vaunted halls,

wake of ember and in ash

This is not your glory, no,

though fierce you oft may be,

huntress with a heart of gold,

that they will never see

Stirred chaos is no home to you,

some day will surely show,

the light that flares beneath the skin,

in burning afterglow

One day you'll blossom, screaming skald,

as every secret does,

and on that day know then as now,

that you are my beloved.

---

So the original version of this was quite different (or rather the final original), but I thought I'd include it anyway. A little more prosaic perhaps (and certainly less prophetic!), but although the end turned to romance it was more about seeing beneath the skin of a regular person and...wanting to tell them that they are seen.

Stalking like a thundercloud,

your scowl schooled to match,

you storm along the corridors,

cleaning up all the ash

But that is not your story, no,

though quiet you seem to be,

a huntress with a heart of gold,

is what they fail to see

For what you do is not all you are,

as some day will surely show,

the light that shines beneath the skin,

and leaves you all aglow

One day you'll blossom, pale and proud,

as every lady does,

and on that day know then as now,

that you will have my love.

The problem with being part human

I started late. Really I did. At least by society's standards.

I stumbled into my first relationship at the age of twenty-seven, if I recall correctly, and after that there was my most serious relationship and since then, nothing really serious. It takes a while to heal, to regroup, to re-align. That's natural.

But the problem with being part human is that that piece is the part that usually gets you into trouble. Well, scientifically speaking, 99.1% of the time. Really, that's a fact. And what I haven't been prepared for is, after realising that I can actually be in a relationship with someone, how seductive that idea really is.

For me, it's always been about finding the one. Finding the mate that I wish to wake up next to for the rest of my days. The one that will understand the depths of my heart and soul, and be with me through all the trials and fun ahead. But now I find myself faced with a different human problem; desire.

I can be alone, really, I can. And I am no stranger to desire, having gone many years desiring the company of many different women. The problem now is that although I have the same desires at times, I no longer feel the same limitations. Both companionship and romantic relationships are now within my reach. And although there's no guarantee my ardor would be returned, I still find myself reaching to begin relationships.

And I probably shouldn't.

The problem really manifests when I see someone I want. Someone I want, but not where the world is shattered and I need to be with that person. Just someone I would like to be romantically engaged with. Someone who it would be nice to while away the time with, talk with, explore and be attracted to, seductive with.

But not someone I'd smash through the boundary between worlds to be with.

And that's just not my kind of thing. I want the earth-shattering, lightning-struck, time-stopping love. I want that bolt of recognition, and steaming, jittery excitement. I want to feel magic coursing through my body from my feet to my fingertips. I want to step into a dream of a world that I never thought I could reach, and find her there. Most likely on her own adventure.

I don't want in the mean time, I want the all time.

But the problem with being part human is...in the mean time if I can reach out and hold something, I probably will. Not because I should, but because I can.

So I sleep, and count the minutes, hours, and days until I do something that will send me hurtling through the abyss. Hoping beyond hope that she will somehow show up to save me.

I can wait, but as the seconds tick by I realise every second I am without her is an eternity too long.

And in the mean time...

Recipe for Disaster

"You're not coming back," he said. His voice rippled out among the crowd and they looked at each other in confusion.

"That's what I said. You're not coming back, and neither am I," he told them. His voice was a nearly a whisper but the microphones relayed his words throughout the crowd, hundreds of thousands strong. "This will be the last time we see this world again. This is the last time we will breathe the air as we know it. This is the last time we will see our loved ones. In this world." His words died out and here and there from the older of the soldiers, there was nodding.

That was it. That was the point of the speech. That was what he thought. Not to lie to them, but to tell them the truth, that this would be the last time any of them would be alive. But now he was there he knew it wasn't enough. Oh they would fight and die, sure enough, to secure tomorrow, but somehow that wasn't enough. Not now.

As the officer walked forward to relieve him, he suddenly spoke up. "If that's what you want," he said.

There was a confused murmur among the crowd and as the seconds ticked by it turned angry. "What's that supposed to mean?" someone yelled from the front row.

"If you want, we can fight, and win. If that's all you want, our children will be safe, and perhaps even their children," he said.

"Aye, that's what we want," the soldier from the front yelled back.

"Is it?" he asked. "Is what you want just for your children to be safe? For your country to be safe for a time? For the survivors to be old and decrepit by the time the next war arrives?"

"What else is there?" another soldier at the front called.

"Seventy-five years ago world war two ended. Seventy-five years is all it took for us to repeat our mistakes. They said there would never be a war as terrible, that we would never let it happen again. Seventy-five years ago to this day our forefathers swore never again." His words were powerful as they washed over the crowd, but he wasn't really talking to them he realised, but himself. "When is it going to end?" he called. "This is the largest group of people ever in the history of mankind to work together, the largest movement that the world has ever seen. And tomorrow we just go home? Who's home? Where?"

"I don't know about you mate, but I'm going to my own bloody home," someone called and a laugh followed.

"Exactly." He snapped his fingers and pointed at the man. "We go our own separate ways and leave the world to fend for itself. The same world, repeating the same mistakes over and over. No one ever thought a nuclear deterrent wouldn't be enough, but now we know different. How many hundreds of years will our cities be uninhabitable? How many holes are we going to make in mother earth before we realise?"

"What are you getting at, lad?" An older soldier called out.

"Humanity lost hope long ago. Long before this war started, we had lost direction. We had lost faith in our future. We had lost our dreams. And what I want to say is a dream, and I'm sure you'll all laugh at me for having it, but if there was ever a time for dreams it is today. The day before our long sleep."

"Say your piece then, boy, I've no plans tomorrow." Another veteran, tough and grizzled, told him.

He bowed his head. "This may be the last time we gather. The last chance in our lifetimes to really try to change the world for the better. And it is a good thing we are doing, a noble thing, finally for the right reasons. But is it enough?" He sighed, the breath rushing from his body as he panted. His heart felt tight, as though he was about to say something forbidden. The crowd hung on his words unsure, as he was, as to what he would say.

He opened his mouth, and somehow the words poured out of him as though he were merely a conduit. "Why can't we change the world? Why can't we make it better? Why can't we make it different instead of fighting the same battles? Why can't we come home tomorrow to not the same world, but a new one? One where the old distinctions do not exist, black, white, brown, bronze, we are all in this crowd, together. Old and young, rich and poor, knowledgeable and ignorant, the bombs didn't care. European, American, Asian, African, we all stand together here." He took a deep breath.

"And who says we can't change the world again? We had peace before and will again, but the world hasn't changed, we are still the same, the same hate, the same divisions. We never really learned to embrace our differences. We never saw ourselves as a world." He spread his arms. "But if this isn't the world, I'm not sure what is. All people fighting as one." He laughed. "Aye, and fighting another one people." He shook his head. "The only thing we ever agree on is killing people. Can't that end? Can't we just say enough is enough, and when all is said and done we're all...human?"

He took another deep breath, but his voice was quiet when he spoke. "A long time ago, Christmas came. Soldiers crawled out of the trenches and realised the truth. They laughed, drank, and shared gifts with each other. And then the next day, cried as they shot each other."

"They cried because they took a human life. They cried because they realised it was wrong, but the only thing any of us understand is a bullet, is a gun. They realised that that sometimes doing the right thing requires doing the worst thing. And they knew it was the worst, because it hurt, inside. These weren't their lovers, their loved ones, they pals, mates, or countrymen. These were the enemy. They only had two things in common; they were human, and they were there to kill each other."

"Today, we re-enact that war a thousand-fold." He looked across the crowd as the tears streaked down his face. "Shouldn't it be the last time?" he asked. "Don't we owe it to our children and our dead, to try to do things a different way?"

A gruff soldier removed his had and sighed. "The words are good, but how would we do that? In practice it's impossible, the world just doesn't work like that." Many heads in the crowd nodded at his words.

The speaker sighed in an echo of the soldier, then he blinked. "We do it the hard way," he said. "We don't leave it to the politicians, to the leaders, to the orators." Here he pointed to himself, then his hand spread across the crowd. "You do it. You all take charge. You vote on everything. You run the world just as you would run the countries, each and every one of you. You be responsible. You take the burden on your backs. You lift the world on your shoulders. You join hands with every other human on the planet, and piece by piece you come to decisions together."

He laughed, it was ridiculous as he said it, but somehow he couldn't help believing it was possible. "Who cares whether there is a god in heaven or not? That's your business. Your individuality doesn't end if we work together, it will always be what makes you unique. But instead of joining all these tiny clubs across the globe, you'd be part of the biggest community from birth. Not just in name, this time Human will mean something."

"This time Human will mean everything."

Negotiations

A little excerpt from my Nano "Filler" (wip title! :-p) that I had fun writing...reaaally slowly, because I'm behind again. As always.

The door swung open violently and Swansong slid through, two flintlock pistols trained on the warrior. "As a rule, I don't like people getting shot on my boat, so kindly put down your weapon before my cabin gets dirty," she said coolly.

The warrior looked around quickly, searching for a way to escape. Finally she sighed and uncocked her pistol, handing it to Ceres. "It's not loaded anyway, I lost my powder pouch on the way down."

Swan nudged her head in the direction of the bed and the warrior reluctantly moved over and sat down on it. "So what now?" she asked.

Swansong shrugged. "I don't have a small boat for you, so you're just going to wait until we hit a place for repairs. Then you get off."

"That's it?" the warrior asked.

Swansong shook her head. "That's the easy way. The other way is I shoot you in the foot and have the boy lying there like a plank bind it, and then we drop you off somewhere you won't make any noise for a while." She smiled. "Your choice, of course."

"I think I'll take the former," the warrior said wryly.

"Good, because these aren't loaded either," Swansong said, uncocking her pistols and holstering them.

The warrior raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You just expect me to stay here and play nice?"

"Hell no!" Swansong dismissed that idea with a wave of her hand. "This is my cabin."

Combusto!

It's very cool how things work out sometimes. I'm writing a steampunk fantasy for Nano, and my airship features sails, levitation magic, and a combustion engine, instead of the more traditional balloon and propellers model.

Just now I'm writing them passing through storm clouds. Their engines are spent, their sails are shredded and they're moving on inertia alone. I decide to make the craft have some kind of lightning channel to direct the damage away from the ship, and possibly stored as energy for later.

Debating what role that much electricity would play on the ship, I realised that generally speaking a jet engine needs a charge to jump start it. The kind of charge my combustion engine (which makes up part of a jet engine - if I got this right) could well make use of.

All of a sudden I realise that the situation feeds perfectly into the circumstances of the story. And while I couldn't understand quite as much as I wanted in my engine research, it sounds close enough to fudge. After all, although I have magic for buoyancy, I still want some things to be grounded in reality. I mean, I can't pretend a ley line is a superconductor, can I?

Can I?

Bumble

Phobias are weird.

When I was younger I was always afraid of the dark. Now that I'm older that has lessened a fair bit, but I still sometimes find it just a little bit frightening. To me, though, that's not unreasonable. It's not the dark that's frightening, after all, but what could be inside the dark, and of course with this overactive imagination, anything I conjure up could be.

It's not often a hot date, sadly.

Insects on the other hand, I know don't make a whole lot of sense. Oh having them in your face or near your ears or being worried some might bite or sting you is understandable, but...I actually like bumble bees. I mean, they're big and fuzzy and don't bother anyone, not really. Not like wasps, evil buggers those.

It's funny then as, after a particularly amusing incident, I was reminded by my brother of a time long ago where they didn't bother me at all. Where indeed, I used to save bees with flowers. More interesting indeed is the setting he described, a place with dorm like beds and wooden balconies that connected the rooms. I have scant recollection of that place...

It gets me thinking, though, of all the half-dreams and remembered imaginings. Of places long forgotten or never been and dreamt of. How much is real, how much is a dream?

I read a book called "Pawn's Dream" when I was young. I remember finding it absolutely fascinating, having featured a protagonist who would awake in his dream in another world. By day he was in the 'mundane' (absolutely beautiful) world we know and by night he was in another, strange and new place.

I always think I won't forget that first scene in the book, where the protagonist wakes up in something like a monastery, overlooking an impressive and alien city. The only problem is that the scene bears next to no resemblance to my memory. Oh sure the salient points are similar, but the details are completely different. And then I remember...

Dusty and windswept, I walk along the outer rim of the mountain, my companion and mentor by my side. The oval openings in the sandstone wall to my right overlook a landscape turned red with sand. I can see little past the gusts, but my mind has little time for remembrance as I struggle to keep my footing as the wall ends.

The path continues, now not a corridor but a most desperate ledge following along the rough and rocky outskirts of a stronghold raised far above the land. A mis-step would undoubtedly be fatal. Why am I here?

My mentor is telling me something. A change is coming, and I must prepare for a journey. To what, neither of us know, but I must go swiftly lest I be blocked. We are on this perilous ledge to reach some sort of sanctum where he will gift me...something...to aid me. My mind fills with a blue glow, an indistinct round object, exotic and mysterious...but no knowledge fills me at the recollection.

The rippling sandstorm threatens to tear me from the cliff face, but my mentor's steps seem steady even as I fight against the wind. How can that be so? Something streams to me then, as I shift in my bed. You are not he. But it feels real, and I desperately scream in my mind to stay. I want the adventure, the excitement, even the danger. I can feel an epic journey spinning from my grasp and I struggle, scratching and clawing against it.

You are being selfish. The thought ripples out to me. You are not he. Those are the last words I hear in my mind before the sandstorm picks me up like a child's toy and rips my consciousness from that world.

And I awaken. The years pass. The dream folds into my mind and is lost like a long forgotten treasure.

Except when I think of Pawn's Dream.

And my mind asks...what is that other me doing? And a little part of me wants to smash through the fabric of the 'verse just to have another chance at that moment.

And the largest part of me says...this is why I write. This is what I should be writing. Every fractured dream of another life. Every adventure I imagined as a child. Every passionate desire I long ago folded away.

And a part of me wakes up and says...it never was a dream.

Talky Marks

And here we join our writer to find...he's still really no good at English :p

Apparently I've been doing speech tags wrong for a long time. At an age where I should know better, my punctuation is apparently off, and instead of using commas to end the speech and using lower case 'he said/she said', I've been taking that as another sentence.

So instead of: “Shall we?” he asked, turning to Keruni.

 I still have: “Shall we?” He asked, turning to Keruni.

This is a big deal for me, because up until now I thought my punctuation was largely correct, though my grammar has always been touch-and-go at best. I'm going to have to go through all my stories and edit these corrections in now. Though as a side effect, some of those more glaring "said" moments have softened a little.

Well, better late than never. I'm not really sure if I should be chagrined or glad that I'm still learning at this phase.

I guess I'll settle for neither, and just get my act together.

Oh, and side note, the dreaded Nanz0rd or legend is coming up soon. What will I do...

All About You

Writing is really a selfish practice.

While many may dream of changing the world, of changing hearts and minds through it, it really is selfish. You put yourself in a room and lock everything else out of your mind except what you want to say, the one time when you can say exactly what you want and have people hear you. Make sure it's your voice they hear. Keep it selfish, because writing is really one of the more selfless selfish things out there.