Second Person

Now and then, I get slightly off track with my revision, so I write something peripherally related. In this instance, I wrote a short story about one of the main characters in _Wizard Storm_. Nailo Thamior is a character cloaked in mystery as much as he is in darkness. He's a mean son of a gun, but why? This short story illuminates that question a little, while stretching my second person point-of-view muscles a bit.
Enjoy!

“My name is Nailo Thamior, and I will have my revenge.” With that, the hooded patron next to you slams down his mug and storms out into the slashing rain.
You take a long draught of your stout, savoring the warmth the beer brings. A female Halfling skitters out the door after the hooded stranger muttering, “I wish he hadn’t done that.” The door swings shut, leaving the rain out in the cold. The tavern resumes the normal hustle and bustle. You hear crockery clank in the backroom. Here and there, patrons call out for another round of the surprisingly good house stout or a platter of stewed meat. You sigh and focus on shaking off the cold. Your mantle drips steadily around the barstool. Why did bar counters always have to be so far from the fireplace? You look into your empty mug, grab your now-missing neighbor’s mug, and walk over to the fire place. A Tiefling looks up at you and scoots over so you can sit. You shrug off your mantle, sling it over the drying line before the fire, and sit. The Tiefling nods at you and resumes polishing his flute.
You gaze into the fire and absentmindedly sip your stolen stout as the Tiefling begins to play. The flames dance to the jig. For a moment, the flames are a woman. She twirls once, blows you a kiss of flame, and then disappears. You blink and turn to the Tiefling. He winks overtly at you. “Tricks o’ the trade, mate.”
You scoot away from the Tiefling slightly and look into your mug. By Olidimarra! This mug is almost empty. You squint. Something floats near the surface. You reach in and pull out a crumpled piece of parchment. You read: “Slam down your mug as you say ‘I am Nailo Thamior, and I will have my revenge.’ Your money is payment is under the tree by the well east of town.”
You look around, crumple the note into your pocket, and grab your mantle. The slashing rain makes your progress to the well soggy and bitterly cold. A strike of lightning illuminates a small lump against the base of the tree. A sack! Perhaps filled with coins? You look around furtively and grab the sack. The sack jingles as you heft it. You grin. It’s your lucky day.
As you open the sack, gold coins sparkle in the lightning. A piece of wood seems to be in the middle of your gains. You gingerly try to pull the wood out, but it threatens to spill your gold into the ankle-deep mud. You set the sack down and scoop gold into your pockets. After a few handfuls, you touch something sticky.
Suddenly, a twig snaps behind you. You bolt, instinctively protecting your gains. As you look over your should you see three torches surround the tree where you got your booty. Thank Olidimarra for the rain! It will take ages for them to follow you through the muck. You look ahead again. A flash of lightning illuminates a body hanging from the tree in front of you. You freeze.
“You really ought to stick to your own mug.” A gravelly voice says behind you. After that you remember only blinding pain and distant shouts.
* * *
You awake with a pounding headache. The smell of filth cloys the air. You push yourself to your feet and look out of the cell.
“Glad to see you’re awake.” The Halfling from the tavern says. “I was afraid the people would be robbed of their hanging.” She paces in front of your cell. “I have to admit, that little ruse of yours back at the Three Horse Tavern really distracted me.”
You blabber something incoherent.
“Ah, yes. The healer said it might take some time for you to regain speech. Got quite a nice bump on the head from a lumberjack, what got lost in the storm. Says he caught you with a pouchful of coin and blood on your hands.” She strikes a match against the stone wall. “Pretty clever altering your appearance to look like a human, Thamior. Advantage of your dubious heritage, I suppose.” She lights an hour candle. “Seeing the judge in two hours. Not much of a trial, just keeping appearances. What with those murders across three territories, and the bard what says you got all acting strange, avoiding talking like. I suppose that gives you about three hours to live.” She cuts a notch at the third line on the candle. “The Gaoler is preparing your last meal as we speak. With extra spit.” She walks out and closes the door, leaving you with only the candle that marks the approach of death as light.
You stalk your cell for almost one notch on the candle. In an effort to slow the approach of death, you kneel and blow out the candle. As you try to get up, a foot pushes you flat. A gravelly voice speaks. “I apologize, kid.” Silence. “If you had known her – my wife,” the voice pause reverently, softly, “you would understand.”
Rages pounds in your ears, loosens your tongue. “Who are you?!” You shout.

“I am Nailo Thamior, and I will have my revenge.”

Reading List Update 2

Well, I finished Sex and Dating, so now I'm reading _Das Schloss_ (slow going) and _The Irregulars/Roald Dahl and the Wartime British Spy ring in America_. It's a great book. I don't normally have much interest in non-fiction pieces, but this is superbly written and quite interesting. I highly suggest it.

Also in the interim of updates I have read a multitude of short stories. If you get a chance to pick up a few short stories from Thomas Mann (e.g. "Der kleine Herr Friedemann," "Tod in Venedigt," etc.) or Franz Kafka ("Before the door of Justice," "Das Urteil," etc. I would highly suggest it. Or if poetry is what you're gunning for, I would suggest Rainer Maria Rilke or Bertolt Brecht.

Reading List Update (the first one ever)

Since I promised you all a reading list, here it is:

I'm currently working on
_Das Schloss_ by Franz Kafka (in original German)
_Dragonwing_ by Margaret Weiss and Tracy Hickman (in English, two of the best Fantasy novelists ever)
_Sex and Dating: Questions you wish you had answers to_ by Mindy Meier (English, great book about relationships)

and that's it for now.

New Revision!

Hey all,

Sorry for the irregular updates. I'm sure you all know how finals weeks go. I'm happy to announce that I'm back in action starting yesterday. Unfortunately, I'm also only in the handwriting stage of things right now. This means it will be a while before you all get to see the shiny new draft of Wizard Storm! However, I assure you that bits of this draft will find themselves posted in a few weeks time. In the meantime, I ask you all to enjoy a few bits of poetry.

God's blessings
-Heydon


The Grey Everday

Clanking dishes replace dreams
of lingual proficiency. Patrons
coming and going without ado.
Without “Thank You”s.

A TV blares in the only language
they speak.

“Oxi-Clean! Cleans with the power of Oxygen!”
You think, what will we breathe?

It’s closing time. You turn the TV off,
let the people scurry into the grey evening.
An old patron once said she remembered the sun.
“Sunsets,” she said, “were fucking beautiful.
Even for us beneath Towers of Industry.”


It would have been nice to see some reds, oranges
and blues streaking across the sky like the news
banners, that spout nameless tragedies.

You shrug as you
heft the shears
for shearing
the largest stacks of Letterhead.
You measure once.
Cut twice.
Put your name on documents
of Shame:
XJ1309
Names are for those who make them.


You turn off the lights,
lock the doors,
slide fast the grates,
go back to where you came from –


Chauffeur to Venus

What? No! distance – it’s fine.
We can handle it.
Besides, it’s only 100 miles.
Less than two hours.
Not far at all.

Besides,
I like to drive. (with-
I mean alone.
I like to drive alone.
What? No. I don't miss your cheek,
warm against my arm while you doze.
Really! I enjoy driving. -you)
Alone. Yeah.

I do.

Oh? I'm
glad you like it.
Maybe I'll leave my arm with you.
(Maybe I'll start leaving bits of myself
A Hand to open pickle jars,
so
Lips to dry your tears
I never really have to –
My chest to lay on
- Alone?)


Go back
Sleep

Sorry for the Hiatus

Hello to all the wonderful who put up with the mad and intermittent ravings if this humble (almost) madman. As you all can imagine, school gets in the way sometimes. I have actually done quite a bit of writing, but most of it has been in German. However in the past two days I have spent around 8 hours pounding out a semi-skaldic epic. I hope you all enjoy it.

Epic of the Blinded One


Lo in the days of old,
of Arthur and the Helm
of Blinding Faith, Guard’ans
of the Balance arose
to face the dreadful Plight. 5
‘Twas said that a man tipped
Balance ‘twixt Good and Ill.
This man awoke the Dead,
wrested the immortals
from their slumber. 10

So it was in the days of Old.
All was lost, the sun grew cold.
He wandered the wind whipped
wastes of white. Trees adorned:
Armor of dross and ice. 15
A Man of Pride did rise.
He sought the artifacts,
those godly gifts of Grace.

That man of Ice-sharp eyes,
wintered breath. His will froze
the tide so that he might
break the crashing waves of
that Usurper –Waker 20
of those that Slumber. Ice
Eyes rode upon c’rrupted
Knights of Arthur, in those
days when already lost.
He fought bedeviled knights; 25
round table he did toss.
Winter breath set captive
souls free. He claimed the Blade
of Lore – sword of Arthur.
Ice Eyes chased the Waker. 30
He was entranced by the curséd
gaze o’ he who challenged gods.
Many times did As-disk
rise before the Winter
breath’d warrior awoke, 35
hands deep in the blood of
innocence. Crumpling
to the ground, the Wielder
of Arthur’s honor pled
his penance to the gods: 40
Balance and Good and Ill.
Tyr, that old Judge, deemed what
all found acceptable.
The god of the hand struck
the sockets of Ice-Sharp 45
Eyes blind. Poetry-Tyr
gifted the Blinded One
with a helm. The Helm of
Blinding Faith. “He who can
not see in Darkness is 50
truly blinded.”

So it was in the days of Old,
when all was lost and nights were cold.
He wandered through thicket
and glazed glass glade. To face 55
the Tigermen – Rakshasa -
on Steeds of Flame, melting
swaths through the air and plain.

The Blinded One faced brave
the enemy, e’en struck 60
with poison arrows. He
fell to Hrym’s Brow, his arm
lame as Maiméd-Odin.
The Nightmare Rider bore
death down on him, flowing 65
fire following behind.
Wintered Breath extended
his bloodied blade, gave gods
his mind. Blaze of As-fire
spewed from his shining sword, 70
skewered the steed, stopping
the slayer. Slowly his
salvation struck him.
Strength-Odin renewed him,
standing him aright. 80
Serpent-gift slithered ‘way.

So it was in the days of Old
All was lost and the Sun grown cold.
He wandered through dangers,
drifted through whiteroads. 85
Rumors of the Waker’s Ill
spread to the stout statured.
Demons assailed the Chain.

The Wielder of that Sword
of Light shone in the deep. 90
He found those stout hearted
folk slain by slavering
Loki-spawn, their sin to
succeed. The few dwarves that
survived, slaved at simm’ring 95
mines. Their chin-pride singed ‘way.
Scorchéd pride spawns searing
justice. Sword-wielder offered
a chance to claim honor.
They clamored for conflict. 100
They cast off their chains to
defend Chain of Being.
They fought the demons and
destroyed. Demise deigned turn
none away. Dwarves 105
dedicated to th’Deep.
That Shining Light recovered
the Chain. He secured it
to the safe Book-Thor’s
Reliquary. Book-Thor 110
bequeathed the Blinded One
a boon for’his brave battle
of Balance. The Book of
Blood, a cursed artifact
written to grant a last 115
chance to who must rebuild
Balance. Winter Breathéd
Warrior would wage war
against that evil Wizard,
Waker of Slumberer. 120

So it was in the days of Old
All were lost and the sun was cold
He wandered through dangers,
drifted upon whiteroads
Demons of dross dying 125
destroyed for the Balance.
The Sword slashed a swath so
that all might be re-found.

Lo, did he chase Waker
of the Slumberer, to 130
a Keep of Cauldrons and
Cicatrices. Usurper
of the Balance had prepared
himself for the Wielder –
that Bringer of Light. 135
Warriors of Wrath waited
for the watchful Winter
breath’d Blinded One. He fought
with honor, he the Hail
of Holy blows. His Blade 140
bowed only for Balance.
No warrior waited
long beneath his wrath-blade.
The warriors were cleaved
in twain. 145

So it was in the Days of Old,
The As-disk lost, hearts grew cold.
He watched for Warriors,
Shining Sword of Salvation
shone in the Deep. Justice 150
to the unjust. Just his
duty to Balance.
And still he descended

He descended the Deep
Stair to th’darkness beyond
blindness, but he could see. 155
His title the Wearer
of the Helm of Blinding
Faith. “He who cannot see
in darkness is truly
blind.” The Wielder of that 160
hopeful Sword said. Long years
did the Dark-sighted one
descend, dipping, drooping
‘neath Time’s dilapidated
hand. At long last, he reached 165
the bottom, an aged man.
His sight was no less sharp,
for he saw true – a gift
from shining god – Odin.
His muscles were weakened 170
by the weathering and
withering of wasteful
Time. He could no longer
heft the Blade, heavy as
it was with hope. Then the 175
Slumberer – that old Dragon –
did speak. “You have traveled
an age to find my servant,
the Waker. He is gone.
Time is past. His era 180
has ended, as has yours.
Mine has begun. I am
the Slumberer of Souls.
You cannot see me, servant,
but I survey your shallow 185
sockets, sagged with sorrow
and strain. Sliced from sockets
for your sins. Surrender
yourself to Solace. Give
up the Ghost.” 190

So it was in the days of Old
the Wielder lost, the sun grown cold
He who wandered the wastes,
now descends to denounce
Usurper of Balance. 195
Demise deigns to turn none
away. The Wielder grown
old must too his debt pay.

The Hero – that Blinded
One – surrendered no thing. 200
He brought out the Book of
Blood, read the pages with
his hand. Strength-Odin him
again renewed. Hefting
his hope, he heaved it at 205
Slumberer. Blood blasted
from the blest arm. The Blade
burrowed into the bone
of that Ancient Dragon.
A roar of rage resounded 210
through the death-thick air.
“Balance must be restored.”
The Book of Blood flew in
the air, as the Dragon
came crashing towards the bleeding 215
battler for Balance. The
Holy Blade of Arthur
was wrested from the Slumb’rer’s
side. Streams of sun shot from the
Blinded One’s eyes. The Light 220
lanced that old Dragon, life
leaked from the Slumberer.
The Hero and Dragon
latched together, light with dark.
The Balance was maintained. 225
Good for Ill. Ill for Good.

So it was in the days of Old,
all was lost and the sun grew cold.
The Blind One saw, his aim
was true. He slew that Old 230
Dragon with that Hope:
The Sword of Arthur. Book
of Blood claimed the Balance.
Both were embraced by Death.

So it was in the Days of Old. 235

Poetry

Well what I've been writing recently has been poetry mostly. Here are a couple Samples

Sometimes

We put on the brave face
because
our own isn't good enough.

Mars To Venus

What? No, distance is fine.
We can handle it. Besides,
to us it's only 100 miles.
Less than two hours.
Not far at all.

Besides,
I like to drive (with-
I mean alone.
I like to drive alone.
What? No. I don't miss your cheek,
warm against my arm while you doze.
Really. I enjoy driving - you)
Alone. Yeah.

I do.

Oh? I'm comfortable to nap on?
I'm glad you like it.
Maybe I'll leave my arm with you.
(Maybe I'll start leaving bits of myself in your world so I never really have to leave)
Oh sorry. Talking to myself.
Go back to sleep.
Maybe I can handle the distance.

I like driving alone.

A Glimpse of God

Hey all, this is my second essay which I wrote on my excellent new-to-me ancient manual typewriter which rocks socks. (The first essay was "America, A Christian Nation?" which really didn't address that question at all. Truth in advertising rarely lines up these days, I'm afraid.) Today, however, my essay does actually talk about God. So saddle up!

It is my almost humble, definitely deeply held belief that writing, in a way, gives us an insight into the eyes of God. When we write, we create these characters that live and breathe and grow throughout our stories. These characters quickly take on traits of their own - traits which we did not give them. Our characters start doing and saying things that we neither expected nor particularly wanted them to say or do.

This is when writing gets interesting.

We have to start running through forests of words to discover why this character acted in such a way. We have to minimize collateral damage to the people around this character. Then these characters start reacting to the first rampant character, and pretty soon we have a real story cooking. It's not the story we planned, but perhaps even we find it more exciting than the original story. If we decide we don't like it, we can sanitize the characters in the second draft, but odds are that the characters will do a few unexpected things that we don't want to lose.

Writing is like looking through the eyes of God. We make people, they take off in unexpected directions, and some of them will break our hearts. Others however will benefit the world and draw strength from the healthy connections around them. We can watch and enjoy their antics. We step in and intervene, straighten out crooked paths. Sometimes we even destroy the world and keep only a couple characters for later.

Unlike God, we don't love our characters perfectly. We don't really want our main villain to be redeemed. He wronged our favorite character after all. Justice must be meted out. Plus ending a bad guy butt-whooping story with Redemption is Cliche. But God wants even the worst of humanity to be redeemed. Does that mean we shouldn't mete out some justice in our stories now and then? No. But it is something to chew on.

-Heydon